"Ten years and counting. Though, we were more like rivals for the first three. We've been going on these beach volleyball retreats since we were teenagers. Been to Brazil, The Philippines...now here."

"Beach volleyball?" You raise your eyebrows. "Like, for fun?"

"For fun," he half-agrees, shrugging. "But also not."

At your confused stare, he grins. "I play professionally for a Division 1 indoor team back in Osaka."

"Oh, excuse me," you tease, positively tickled by this. "I didn't realize you were such a big-shot."

He shrugs. Not confirming. Not denying it, either.

"What about you?" he asks, brown eyes bright with curiosity. "Are you also visiting for the summer?"

"Would it surprise you to know that I grew up here?"

"Really?"

You nod. "My adoptive grandma owns the mahi-mahi joint down the street. I've been working there since high school."

"That's so cool!"

"It really isn't," you snort, taking another drag of your cigarette. "But I appreciate the enthusiasm."

A strong gust of ocean wind rips through the alleyway, bringing with it the smell of salt, alcohol, and garbage. You fish out a half-crushed box of Marlboro Reds from your purse and hold it out to him.

"Oh, no thanks," he says with a wave of his hand. "Those things are terrible for you."

At the amused glint in your eye, he blurts, "Not like I'm judging you or anything! It's just — "

"It's okay. I get it," you laugh, sliding one out of the box. The flame of your hot pink lighter unfurls with a crisp flick. "They are pretty terrible for you."

Something like confusion passes over his eyes, although his smile never breaks.

"Why do you do it, then?"

"Oh, I dunno..." you exhale. There's something comforting about the smell. "You know that saying? Here for a good time, not a long time?"

Before the athlete can open his mouth to respond, the sound of yelling reverberates down the alleyway. You recognize Mika's voice almost immediately.

"Fuck you!" she shouts at the bouncer escorting her out the main entrance by the elbow. "We weren't even doing anything!"

"Doesn't matter. Rules are rules — no more than one person in a bathroom stall at a time."

"Well, that's a silly rule," Oikawa retorts haughtily. "What if I was holding her hair back to puke?"

"Didn't seem like that to me," the bouncer deadpans.

You and your new smoke buddy eavesdrop the entire conversation from the shadows. You exchange half-amused, half-exasperated expressions like a blunt.

"Guess that's our cue." You flick the butt of your cigarette onto the concrete and stamp it out with your boot.

"Guess so," he murmurs back with a frown. "Can I get your name before we leave?"

"Y/N," you supply, extending your hand out for a shake. "Nice to meet you."

"Hinata Shōyō." His thousand-watt smile blinds you as he takes your hand and shakes it firmly. "Guess I'll see you around this summer?"

"From the way Mika was grinding up on your friend back there? I'd bet money on it."

Ever the gentleman, Hinata gestures for you to walk ahead of him. Your lips pull into a touched smile as you stalk off to fetch Mika — who, by the looks of it, is seconds away from tearing into the bouncer with her nails.

Hinata watches you go with a grin, glad to have made another friend in a new place. He starts following you out — that is, until he steps on a folded piece of paper. It must've fallen out of your purse.

Onigiri Miya Culinary Fellowship: Where Passion Meets the Plate, it reads when he unfolds it. Apply by August 9!

"Y/N, is this yours?" he asks, eyes widening in recognition. "I think you dropped it — !"

But you're already halfway down the street, bearing the weight of your lightweight friend and her inability to stay out of trouble. Hinata furrows his brow, wondering how on earth you managed to get there so fast.

He glances down at the flyer — it seems important, by the looks of it — and makes a mental note to return it to you sometime this week.

Just another reason to see you again, he supposes.

The Onigiri Miya fellowship is originally your grandma's idea. When she slides you the flyer across the bar during your lunch break, you stare at it like a body that’s surfaced to shore.

"Yeah. I'm not doing that," you say, burping. Your grandma's dirty bar towel smacks you upside the head. "Ow!"

"Watch yer manners." She tucks the towel back into her apron. Mumbles something about yer generation and ungrateful brats. "And at least read it!”

"I don't need to read it to know that it's expensive and a thousand miles away! Programs like that are just cash grabs to get more people to move to the city. They're a waste of time."

"Yeah? And ya don't think goin' to bars until two in the mornin' is a waste of yer time?"

At that, your nostrils flare. Your grandmother holds your stare. She may be frail and wrinkled from the sun, but her eyes are still sharp as a knife.

"Osamu's a good man,” she says. "Remember the summer he spent beggin' to help out in the kitchen? Sat in that very bar stool every day 'til I had no other choice."

"Oh, I remember." He was practically foaming at the mouth for the ceviche recipe. It was pathetic.

"I just...I'm not ambitious like that, okay?" you huff, scarfing down the last of your burger. "And I don't think I want to be."

Your words dampen the fire in your grandma's eyes. She looks at you like you’re young and don’t know any better. Which is probably true, but pisses you off anyway.

"Ambition doesn't make ya a bad person." Her towel is back out again, this time to wipe the mess you made on her bar. "Yer not yer parents."

For the rest of that shift, her words cling to you like seaweed. It's infuriating — how close your parents feel despite the thousands of miles and handful of years between you.

Even on this island, it isn't far enough.

"Junebug!" your grandma hollers at you from out front the next day. The deep-fryer bubbles with the crinkle-cut fries you just threw in. "There's someone here to see ya at table ten!"

You ask someone to watch your batch and grab your order pad on the way out. The ocean breeze smacks you in the face when you push past the kitchen door, and the dock is already teeming with families, drunk friend groups, and eager out-of-towners.

Hinata Shōyō is one of them. You blink back at his ridiculous smile — the way his sunscreen leaves a white sheen across his tan skin.

"I didn't know you knew Miya Osamu!" he says by way of greeting, holding up your flyer. "Are you applying for his fellowship in Osaka?"

"I — where did you get that?"

"You dropped it in the alleyway the other night." He tilts his head. "Did all that nicotine wipe your memory or something?"

You would glower at him, but he seems like he's genuinely asking. You instead reach across the table and pluck the flyer from his hand.

"Thanks for returning it," you say, tucking it into the back pocket of your shorts. "Is Oikawa joining you?"

"Nope! Just me. I'm meeting up with him afterwards to play beach volleyball, though. Wanna join?"

"I would, but..." You glance around at the tens of customers waiting to be fed. "I'm a little busy here."

"...right! Of course!" Hinata reels back, as if he's only just realized. "Maybe another time, then?"

You can't tell if Hinata has attention deficit issues or just a lack of normal work experience. Either way, it eases a soft chuckle from deep within your chest.

"What can I get for you, Hinata?"

"Please, call me Shōyō," he guffaws, eyes scanning his sticky laminated menu. "I'll take an Arnold Palmer and a mahi burger, please.”

"Funny." You purse your lips to one side and scribble his order on your pad. "That's my order, too."

"Really?" His eyes sparkle. You didn't know boys' eyes could sparkle. "Great minds think alike, then!"

Great minds is a bit of a stretch, but you hesitate to call him out on it. Instead, you dive head-first into preparing his plate — firing up the grill, blackening the mahi. Slathering tangy sauce onto the sourdough bun topped with fresh tomato, lettuce, and red onion.

There's an ebb and flow to cooking that carries you through each shift. Periods of speed. Periods of waiting. It reminds you of the waves on your favorite stretch of beach — stuck in a constant push and pull.

By the time you slide Hinata's plate across the table, his eyes bulge out of his head.

"This is huge!" he exclaims. "Are you sure I'll be able to finish all this?"

"I'm sure whatever you don't finish will go to the seagulls," you say with a shrug. "I should warn you, though, they're pretty aggressive."

You watch him as he takes his first bite. His shoulders slack, his eyes roll back. A deep, unabashed moan slips past his lips.

"My god," you balk. "Could you be any louder?"

"What?" There's sauce on his lips. "It’s good!"

The images that flood through your mind are filthy. You squash them down like mosquitos.

"You're totally getting that Onigiri Miya fellowship," he adds, yanking a napkin from its dispenser. "Have you submitted your application yet?"

You're thinking of using the flyer to wrap your chewing gum, actually. But something tells you Hinata won’t like that, and you don't feel like defending yourself.

"Anything else I can get for you, Shōyō?"

"Nope." His smile wraps around the straw of his Arnold Palmer. "Thanks, Junebug."

"I — " You blink. "Don't call me that."

The way his eyes glint already tells you that he won't listen.

Hinata starts coming over to your grandma's restaurant more. To eat. To talk. To make friends with the elders. They ruffle his hair and pinch his cheeks and promise to introduce him to their granddaughters, and you wonder how he has the energy to entertain them all.

"Want me to walk you home?" he offers one night. The sun has long since dipped past the horizon, and you're stuck behind the bar, polishing glasses. "There's this soft serve place down the street I've been wanting to try. We can go after your shift!"

"You sure?" You frown, inspecting a margarita glass beneath the orange patio lights. "We don't close for another thirty minutes."

"Don't worry! I can wait." His fingers drum atop the bar for all of five seconds. "Do you need any help, actually?"

Your grandma is quick to put him to work — stacking chairs, closing umbrellas. His back muscles flex beneath his cotton tank top as he hauls trash bag after trash bag into the dumpster, and you catch yourself staring longer than you need to.

"Thanks for the help, ya two!" your grandma hollers from the window of her pickup truck. Hinata waves as she speeds off onto the main road.

"You know," you say, lit cigarette already between your lips. The gravel crunches beneath your flip-flops as you walk. "If you keep showing up to the restaurant during my shift, people are going to think you're my boyfriend."

"Really?" Hinata blinks. "Why would they think that? They don't even know what kind of people I like.”

"Okay," you snort. "What kind of people do you like?"

"Oh, tons of people! Kind people, funny people..." An impish smile tugs at his lips. "I don't date people who smoke, though."

At your incredulous expression, he laughs. "What? Don't take it personally. What about you?"

"Oh, you know." A billow of smoke escapes your mouth, your nose. "Someone fun. Someone who doesn't take themselves too seriously."

Then, against your better judgement, "Someone tall."

"Excuse me?!”

"I'm being honest!"

"Tch. You shouldn't be so picky, Junebug!" Hinata scolds you. "You might miss out on someone great!"

"Yeah? Like who?"

The tips of his ears turn pink. “Like...Daniel Radcliffe. Sabrina Carpenter. Bruno Mars."

“Bruno Mars?” You’re cackling now. “Whatever planet you’re on, Shōyō, come home.”

There's a short line at the soft serve stand when you arrive. You and Hinata end up splitting a small scoop of strawberry — with rainbow sprinkles, per his request.

"I haven't had rainbow sprinkles since I was five," you snort, easing into a picnic table. Hinata slides in beside you. "How much was it?”

"Oh, don’t worry about it!" He hands you a napkin and spoon. “Money isn’t really an issue for me.”

The sound of cicadas fills your ears as you eat.

"Has anyone ever told you that you're too honest?"

"All the time," he laughs. "Has anyone ever told you that you like to dodge questions?"

When you don't answer, he adds, "You haven't answered a single one of my questions about Onigiri Miya. Is it because you don’t want to jinx it?”

"No. I just...don't think I'm going to apply."

"But why?" He's genuinely confused. "You're so talented!”

"I know how to make fish five ways. That's hardly talented," you retort. "Besides, I'm not really a big fan of Osaka. Or big cities in general."

"Because you've never been?"

"Because I don't know anyone!"

"Well, I'm from Osaka." He grins. "So you'd know me."

"Sure, but — "

"And I can introduce you to all my friends!"

Your shoulders sag. "It isn't that simple, Shō."

"Explain it to me, then," he says, leaning forward. His brown eyes press into yours. "Pretty please?”

You're not used to people looking at you like this. So intently. So directly. You feel like a contestant on a game show. I'll take vulnerability for 500, please.

"I don't have the personality for a place like that," you explain, hoping it's enough to satiate his curiosity. "My parents also job-hopped between cities all the time. It put a real strain on our relationship."

"Yeah? Were they always busy?"

"So busy. I'd sit alone in my classroom during family picnic days. It was miserable."

Your eyes avert to the pack of cigarettes in your purse. You really want another one, given the embarrassment now searing your stomach.

"I don't want my parents influencing my life like that," you finish quickly. "And an opportunity like this is just...it's too much. I won't do it."

Hinata, surprisingly, stays quiet. Simply leans back, folds his arms across his chest. Your nerves prickle at his contemplative expression.

"Well, that's kinda silly," he eventually blurts. "You don't even have kids."

He might as well have shanked you between the ribs.

"Gee. I had no idea, thanks."

"No! I didn't mean it like that! I just — " He tilts his head again. "By going against your parents' values, aren't you letting them influence your life anyway?"

"Skies," you mutter. "You really are too honest, Shō."

"Am I?” His smile is apologetic. "I just...I spent my whole life chasing after a volleyball career. So I don't really know what that's like."

"To be normal?"

"To not want things! Don't you want it? At least a little bit?"

There was a time in your life when you thought you did. A receptionist job. A studio apartment in the city. Someone to share it with, maybe.

But then came the grades. The required reading, the detention slips. The mind-numbing amounts of shutting up and sitting still. After barely graduating high school, you knew college wasn't for you. Your parents believe you don't amount to much without it.

So you keep things simple. Count your cigarettes. Burn off energy at the restaurant. Swim and lounge and fuck around to your heart's content. It's enough for you. Really.

"You don't have to answer that if you don't want to," Hinata says, pushing the cup toward you. "Just...think on it. And come by the beach tomorrow! Oikawa and I are playing with some friends around three."

You push your spoon into the last of the soft serve, grateful for the change in topic. "You're not gonna make me participate, are you?"

"Not unless you want to." He smiles. "I want you to watch me.”

Something about his words, the breezy confidence in which he says them, stirs something within you.

"Alright. I can swing by with some food. I have to leave by five, though. I've got a date."

"Deal," Hinata agrees, grinning ear-to-ear. "Who's the guy? Victor Wembanyama?"

You take your crumpled napkin and toss it at his face.

"Shut up, Shō."

He doesn't for the entire walk home.

You end up going a bit overboard on the food. Mahi tacos wrapped in foil. Fresh watermelon cut into cubes. A giant tub of homemade salsa you hope doesn't leak. You squeeze everything into your Yeti cooler alongside a twelve-pack of hard lemonade — it's so heavy, you make Mika carry it with you to the beach. Not that she minds.

"Wait. I remember you!" Oikawa Tōru exclaims the second he sees you. "You're that chick who picked up Mika from the club!”

You lay your blanket down on the sand and yank the cooler open. "Picked her up? I was there the entire time..."

"Would you have some manners, Oikawa?" Hinata glowers, hands on both hips. "Junebug isn't just some chick. She happens to be the best chef on the entire island!"

"Okay. I wouldn't go that far — "

"The entire island, huh?" Oikawa grins. He tosses an arm over Mika's shoulders. "That true?"

Your friend betrays you by nodding. "BuzzFeed Tasty did a video on her grandma's restaurant back in 2019. You were so cute in it, Junie."

Now Hinata looks betrayed. "I didn't know that! I wanna see!"

Against your will, you become the center of conversation for the next thirty minutes. Mika passes your YouTube video around like a bong. Oikawa deems your mahi tacos not bad. Hinata drinks your salsa straight out the tub, which makes you want to scream. By the time their friends pull up for the volleyball game, the cooler is nearly empty.

"Eyes on me! Okay, Junie?" Hinata calls from the baseline. He grins at you, spins the ball in his hands, and serves it clean over the net. Each side of the court bursts into motion as Mika shoots you a baffled look.

"Did I miss something?"

You slide your cheap sunglasses on and twist the cap off your lemonade. It fizzles as you lift it to your lips.

"Nope."

Now, you're not a total stranger to this sport. You're used to putting the game on the television behind your grandma's bar, sitting on this very sideline with Mika to cheer on different men. But none of them move quite as passionately as the one before you.

In fact, as Hinata dives into the sand to receive the ball — core tight, arm outstretched, eyes hungry in a way you’ve never seen before — you find yourself paying more attention. Sitting up a little straighter. Sucking in sharp breaths at his every move.

It's different. Exhilarating. It adds color to your conversation from the other night.

Don't you want it? At least a little bit?

"Skies," Mika breathes as Hinata spikes one of Oikawa's serves over the net. The ball shoots straight into an empty pocket, securing the point. "They really are professionals, aren't they?"

You watch Hinata as doubles over in triumph — fists clenched, shouts barreling down the beach. He turns to you and beams like he’s just won the lottery.

"Did you see that?!"

You suddenly understand where all of Hinata's energy goes — and why he just assumed you were applying for that fellowship.

You end up canceling your date over text, just to watch him play another game.

"What's Miya Osamu like?" you ask Hinata one afternoon.

You're splayed across your paddleboard — one arm thrown over your eyes, gentle waves lapping at the ankle you have dipped beneath the surface of the water. "You two know each other, right?"

The question has him sitting upright. Hair tousled. Eyes alert. He's practically a human exclamation point.

"Why? Are you finally working on your application?"

"Relax," you laugh, lifting your disposable vape to your lips. "I just want to know."

It's been a few weeks since you watched Hinata play at the beach. Since then, you've developed a steady rhythm of serving him food, stopping for soft serve, and waving him goodnight from the stoop of your grandma's old house. Renting paddleboards is a nice bonus. A consequence of your rare day off.

"I'm teammates with Osamu's brother, so I actually see him pretty often,” Hinata thinks. “He's cool. A little scary when he cooks. But cool."

You imagine a Japanese version of Carmy from The Bear. "Do you think I could handle criticism from a guy like that?”

"Oh, totally." Hinata frowns. "I mean, haven’t you two met?"

"Yeah, when we were teenagers…" You turn onto your side. The paddleboard rocks dangerously beneath you. "He has a whole Michelin Star restaurant now.”

"That doesn't make him unapproachable or anything. I actually think you'd get along really well!"

You hum amusedly. "Yeah?"

"Yeah! If you want, I can introduce you to him again."

The offer sits in your stomach like an overripe fruit.

"No, thanks. If I apply — "

"When you apply."

You roll your eyes. "If I apply, I'd want to get it because I deserved it. Not because I knew someone."

"Alright.” Hinata's smile turns hopeful. “That's fair."

You ask him about life in Osaka — what restaurants he enjoys, if he has any pre-game rituals. His answers paint a rich, vibrant life full of friends, discipline, and purpose, and you slowly realize this town is but a small slice of his much larger world. Your summer with him here is temporary. An approaching expiration date.

The thought settles into you like an anchor.

"I know you don't think you have the personality for it," Hinata murmurs. Back against his board. Hands folded atop his chest. "But I think you'd really like Osaka. We could bar-hop. Go thrifting in Amemura."

Grinning, he adds, "You could come to all my games..."

"Please," you scoff. "You're just convincing me to move there so you can impress me with all your freak volleyball moves."

"Yeah..." Hinata laughs, rubbing the back of his neck. "Is it working?"

You feel your breath shallow, your face turn warm. Hinata's eyes glint in amusement when he notices. It's so overwhelming, you reach for your paddle and use it to push him off the other side of his board.

“I — hey!” he sputters, emerging from the water like a drenched orange cat. He flings his hair out of his eyes in disbelief. “What was that for?!”

“That’s for calling me by my childhood nickname all summer!” you call out over a shoulder, already paddling away. “And for drinking my salsa out the tub!”

You suddenly remember Hinata is a professional athlete as he swims toward you — breaths steady, form annoyingly precise. Before you know it, his calloused fingers wrap around your ankle, yanking you in.

You're a thrashing tangle of limbs for all of five seconds before you resurface.

"Shōyō!"

"Yes, Junie?" he says. Voice sweet. Hands splayed across each of your hips, keeping you afloat. His bright hair clings to his forehead, and his dimples are on full display.

You rip yourself from his grip and splash him vehemently in the face.

"I thought I told you to stop calling me that!"

"Why not?" he laughs, albeit while gasping for air. "It's cute!"

You submerge your entire face in the water to keep him from seeing how red you are.

Later that evening, you sit at the creaky wooden desk tucked into the corner of your childhood bedroom. A warm breeze rustles the frilly curtains you don't bother to change, and your laptop casts a ghastly white hue across the otherwise orange space. An empty application to Miya Osamu’s coveted culinary fellowship stares back at you, waiting to be filled.

You answer all the basic questions — your name, your pronouns. Your email address and phone number. It's the second half of the application that has you squirming.

Describe a dish that means something to you. Not what it is — why it is.

Where do you see yourself in five years? Be specific.

Why do you cook?

That last question has you slamming your laptop shut — not because it's hard, but because Osamu might as well have asked for your social security number. You go back to check that the rest of your application is saved before slamming it again.

It's a start.

Despite Mika's growing suspicion that you're catching feelings, you still go on dates with other people. You climb into the backs of fraternity boys' golf carts for a night on the town — push your tongue past their girlfriends' glossy lip filler after one too many tequila shots. It's fun. You're fun. You have been for years now.

You don’t consider Hinata to be part of your roster, though. Even when he’s the person you see the most.

“What do you mean you haven’t been out since?!”

He perks up from his second Arnold Palmer of the night. “It’s exactly as you said. The day we met is the last time I went to the club.”

“That’s criminal.” You blink at him from behind your grandma’s bar, hands stuck polishing an IPA glass. “We gotta change that.”

“Why?” He smirks. “So I can see how many numbers you get in one night?”

“No. Although the answer is five.”

You set your glass aside and lean over, smiling sweetly.

“I want you to teach me how to salsa and bachata like you did in Brazil!” You bat your eyelashes at him for good measure. “Please, Shōyō?”

Hinata is normally the one to make you blush. But as you stare up at him — lips pulled into a pout, bar-top lifting your chest like a push-up bra — he looks tense. Flustered, even. The payback sends a delicious thrill of satisfaction through you.

That night, you apply your mascara in the mirror of your old vanity — boobs shoved into a lacy top, thighs squeezed into your go-to skirt. You're just about done when the doorbell rings. Your grandma's the one to answer it.

"Hello, ma'am!" Hinata's bright, boyish voice echoes through the house. "I'm here to pick up your granddaughter!”

"Well, ain't that fresh?" Your grandma cackles as she lets him inside. "Normally, they don't even come to the door. Junebug! Yer regular's here!"

Hinata's footsteps creak up the staircase, and his sunny face pokes through your open bedroom door.

"Wow. You look beautiful!" he says, back to his usual, buoyant self. "You ready to go?"

"Almost." You reach for your lipgloss. "Gimme five?"

Hinata steps inside and looks around — at your floral wallpaper, the antique dolls lined up on your dresser.

“I can’t tell if you’re a girly girl or just a…really old lady.”

“Neither,” you snort, swiping the applicator across your lips. “I’ve outgrown most of this stuff.”

“Well, I like it.” He eases onto your queen-sized mattress with an abrasive squeak. “Oh! I also got you something!”

He pulls a crushed box from the back pocket of his jeans and hands it to you. Your face falls once you realize what it is.

“Nicotine patches? Are you serious, Shō?”

“What? They were on sale!”

“Whatever.” You shuck the box into your purse and toss it over a shoulder. “I wouldn’t be caught dead wearing one of those fugly things.”

Hinata frowns as he follows you back downstairs. “Well, with the amount you smoke, you might be caught dead anyways.”

The club is busy when you arrive. The line to get in wraps around the block, and the bass thrums beneath your faux leather boots. You grab Hinata by the elbow and drag him with you to the end of the line, the stress of that day’s shift already unfurling into the crisp ocean air.

“Y/N!” The bouncer high-fives you when you approach. “Who's the tiny tangerine?”

“Makoa, this is Hinata. Hinata, this is Makoa,” you supply brightly. “Makoa was the one who busted me for having a fake ID back in high school.”

“And she’s been a thorn in my side ever since…” he drawls, verifying both of your IDs. “Better treat her well, twerp. This girl’s royalty around here.”

Hinata watches with a smile on his face as you enter the club — greeting locals left-and-right, waving to the disc jockey like he’s your long-lost cousin. ("He DJ'ed my prom!") The bartender even offers you a free round of shots, and Hinata nearly gags after downing his. You grab a lime wedge from the cup on the counter and shove it between his lips.

“I like seeing you like this,” he murmurs after two more shots, pressed up against you on the dance floor.

“Drunk?” You wrap both arms around his neck, emboldened by the liquor now searing your stomach.

“Yourself.” He smiles at you lazily. “I can tell why you like this place.”

“Well…” You lean in close and smile right back. “Everyone I like has stepped foot in this place at least once. Yourself included.”

“Yeah?”

You nod like a broken bobble head.

“Yessir. Now dance with me, Shōyō! You promised!”

“So whiny,” Hinata tsks, wrapping an arm around your waist and pulling you close. You nearly yelp from the contact. The heat of his breath against yours.

The music vibrates in your bones as you dance — sweat clinging to your skin, Hinata's hands splayed across your hips. At one point, you actually turn around and grind your ass against him, which will definitely send you into cardiac arrest tomorrow. For now, you both just enjoy the music and each other. It's nice. The most fun you've ever had in here, you think.

Your night ends with Hinata walking you home — arms thrown around each other, drunk giggles echoing into the night. Your grandma is fast asleep when you return, and you’re lucky she sleeps like a log as you sneak Hinata up the stairs like a teenager.

“Will you put a patch on me, Shōyō?” You pout, shaking the box at him. “Pwetty pwease?”

“I thought that was my line.” He plops down on the carpet beside you and plucks the box from your hand. Fingers grazing your shoulder, he asks, “Here okay?”

You nod. “Thank you, Shō.”

He chuckles as he rips open the packaging. “You’re welcome, Junie.”

The room is quiet save for the sound of crickets outside, the occasional creak of the aging house. Hinata applies the nicotine patch gently to your deltoid — breath hitched, eyes weighted with concentration. He touches you like he's afraid of something. Of you. Of himself. Of making the wrong move.

By the way your breath shallows, though, you don't think that's possible.

He massages you, then, hands kneading the flesh of your bicep, your forearm. He lowers his lips to your skin, casting a welcome chill down your every nerve.

"Is it okay if I...?"

"Mhm..." You stare down at him — chest rising and falling, eyes heavy and half-lidded. They flutter shut as he drags his lips across your skin. Slowly, achingly. Skies.

He works his mouth into your shoulder, your collarbone. Up the column of your neck. You tilt your head back to give him more access, and the second he presses his lips against that spot behind your ear —

"Shōyō..." you whine, fingers curling into the carpet. Heat collecting in your lower belly. "Can I, too?"

He nods. "Yes. Please."

You're not kissing. Not exactly touching, either. Instead, you're doing this secret third thing. Mapping your lips across his jaw. Pressing your nose into his cheek. Grazing his earlobe with your teeth and grinning when he moans. God. You want him. You’ve never wanted anyone more.

"Do you want to move to the bed?" you ask breathlessly. "I've got condoms in the drawer."

"Are you sure?"

You nod, shifting into his lap. "We don't have to label it. We can just have fun. Enjoy each other before you go.”

Hinata stills at your words. The casualness in which you say them. He squeezes his eyes shut, lets his long hair fall into his eyes. He knocks his temple gently, frustratingly, against yours. As if that was the last thing he wanted to hear.

"Junie..." he breathes. His voice a mere croak. "You know I can't."

His refusal hits you like cold water, sobering you immediately.

"But why?" You blink back. Scan his face for any signs you may have missed. "We both want it, don't we?"

"No." He shakes his head, hands finding the flesh of your hips. "At least, not like this."

"I — " You blanch as he lifts you off of him. "Shōyō — "

"I can't just sleep with you and have that be the end of it, okay?" he breathes. "I refuse to treat you like that!"

"But I'm agreeing to it!"

"Why, though?" Anger flashes across his eyes. "Why would you want something like that? Why would I want you halfway?"

"I don't know! Because you don't live here?" Because I'm only here for a good time. Because I'm not the kind of person people stay for.

"Y/N." His expression falls. "I don't think that little of you."

"Nobody thinks that of me!"

You wrap your arms around yourself, then, red hot shame frying your every nerve. Your legs are cold. Your mascara's running. The lacy top you wore so confidently earlier now feels too tight. Too exposed. You feel stupider the longer you wear it.

Hinata finds your laundry basket and grabs the first shirt on top. Yanking it over your head, he says, "If I'm going to do this, Y/N, it can't just be casual. That's not me. And, frankly, I like you too much for that."

He drags both hands down his tired face and laughs miserably.

"Do you know how much I hate the fact that you spend time with other people?"

The question has you reeling. This is too much for you.

"I'm sorry I even suggested it," is all you can manage, shoving both arms into sleeves.

Your stomach growls. You hate that it does. Hinata offers to run and get you some food; you instead ask him to go home. Part of you doesn't actually want him to — part of you wants him to read your mind and push back. But this is Hinata you're talking about. He, annoyingly, listens to you when it counts.

The smell of his sunscreen lingers long after he retreats down the staircase and slips out your front door.

The next few weeks pass by in a haze. Hinata keeps his distance from you and the restaurant. Your application to the Onigiri Miya fellowship grows stale in a bookmarked tab. You blow through a brand new box of cigarettes, the patches Hinata gave you shoved deep into your vanity drawer.

The island sports festival is the first time you see him in weeks. You're so nervous, you start to dry heave.

"You okay, Junie?" Mika asks, brushing the hair out of your eyes. "You look ill."

"I feel ill," you groan, leaning out the window of the food truck that took you twenty-two minutes to park. "Who knew seeing the guy that rejected me would make me want to hurl?"

"Hinata didn't reject you, though," your friend reminds you gently. Teasingly. "Quite the opposite, actually."

You dig the heels of your palms into your eyes. “Do you think it’s stupid to take a Dramamine two hours before a full-day event?”

"Yes."

"Alright, ladies!" Your grandma throws open the side door and bounds inside, rocking the entire truck. "I need help firin' up the grill — "

She stops short once she sees your pallid face.

"Skies, Junie. Ya look like shit."

"She's lovesick." Mika pouts, patting you on the back like a dog. You smack her hand away while your grandma barks out in laughter.

"I had a feelin' you'd get like this once shorty's time here was up," she says, cracking open a Gatorade from the fridge. You yelp as she presses the cold bottle to your neck. "Just don't let it affect yer cookin’, alright?"

You're grateful the volleyball courts are on the other end of the beach as you fire up the grill, chop enough limes and cilantro and onion to make your eyes water. Mika handles the register once customers start lining up, and your grandma oversees the entire operation — buttering up tourists, yelling out orders. It's the same thing every year. Except this time, you're antsy.

"Good afternoon, gorgeous!" Oikawa's voice eventually floats over the roar of the exhaust fan. "I didn't know you'd be here today."

"Guess that's what happens when you don't text me back," Mika teases, although you can tell she doesn't really care. "What can I get for you?"

She slides his order onto the ticket rack a moment later. "Don't worry," she says before returning to the window. "Yours didn't show."

The anticipation in your chest deflates like a balloon. It leaves you exhausted. Disappointed, actually.

So much so, you end up making Hinata's order anyway once rush hour is over.

"Cover for me while I'm gone?" you ask your grandma, plastic bag swinging from your elbow as you push out the side door. "And don't let that saucepan sit out for too long! I'm trying something new — "

The words die on your lips the moment you turn, Hinata's tan, stupidly athletic build hovering in front of your grandma's food truck. His eyes widen. The door slams. You grieve the fact that your fifteen minutes of overthinking between here and the sand volleyball courts are now gone.

"Hi," Hinata says. His face is a warm shade of pink.

"Hi." Your eyes flit between him and the food. You hold it out to him like a biohazard bag. "I made you lunch."

"But I didn't pay for — "

"It's on the house." You shove it into his arms. He accepts it with a breathless oof. "I also made the fries a little crispier. You like them that way, right?"

"...I do. Thanks." Like the sun on a cloudy day, Hinata's dimpled smile breaks through the tension. He reaches into the bag and peeks inside the to-go box. "And here I thought you hated my guts."

I don't. The opposite, actually. But you can't bring yourself to say that. Instead, you watch him fold fry after fry into his cheeks like a little kid. Or a squirrel.

"So how has your — ?"

"I just wanted to — "

The messy overlap of your voices competes against the sharp ocean breeze.

"You first," Hinata insists.

Your eyes avert to your sneakers. "I just wanted to say that I owe you an apology. An actual one, this time."

His gaze softens. "You don't need to apologize to me."

"I do, though. I asked you for sex and got butthurt when you said no, and I couldn't even accept the fact that your reasons for doing so were...were..."

“Hey,” he murmurs when you grow visibly frustrated. He crosses the distance between you and draws you to his chest. "It's okay. We're okay.”

He has no idea how relieved you are to hear that.

You stay there for a moment. Breaths shallow, bodies holding back. The last time you were this close, you were drunk out of your collective mind. This time, you hold each other better. More carefully.

"How much longer are you here for?" you ask.

"About a week." Hinata pauses. "Have you given any more thought to your plans after the summer?"

Yes. "Not really."

"Okay." He nods, voice surprisingly free of judgement. "It's okay. I get it."

Your bottom lip wobbles as you pull back. "Do you hate me for it?"

"Hate you? No!" Hinata blurts, free hand cradling the back of your head. The contact shocks you just as much as it soothes you.

"At the end of the day, Junie, I just want you to be happy. And if being here makes you happy, then that’s enough for me." His small smile makes your chest ache. "Pinky swear!”

You smile back, although it doesn't reach your eyes.

"And the volleyball tournament? It’s going well?”

"Oh, right! Oikawa and I made it to the semi-finals. Some twelve-year-old in the other bracket is killing everyone, though."

"Yamamura's kid? Yeah, she's scary."

"So scary." You both start laughing. Hinata rubs the back of his neck. "Think you'll be able to watch me?”

"I would, but my grandma's got me chained to that stove." She already gave me an earful for wanting to bring you food. "Let's hang out before you leave, though! If you want to, that is.”

"Of course I want to!" It’s like he's been waiting for you to ask. "I'll text you after my last game, okay?"

You watch him jog back to the volleyball courts. Mahi burger tucked into an elbow. Hand outstretched in a sunny, boyish wave. He doesn’t turn around until the last possible second, and it takes every ounce of your self-restraint not to run after him.

You’ll see him later, you think, embarrassed by how childish you feel. There’s still time.

Unlike all the other tourists you’ve met this summer, though, it doesn’t feel like enough.

The rest of the festival passes painfully. Afternoon is slow; dinner rush almost kills you. The food truck feels more like an oven the longer you stay in it, and Mika dumps cups of ice down your bra every hour. By the time you pull into the parking lot of your grandma’s restaurant after midnight, you never want to see or smell or even think about another taco in your life.

"So did ya patch things up with shorty?" your grandma asks, unprompted, after you kill the engine. She smacks her gum in the passenger seat and blinks at your exhausted stare.

"What?" she cries. "Ya didn't think I noticed when he disappeared off the face of the earth? I thought ya broke the poor kid's heart!"

"No." You lean your temple against the window and sniff the ends of your hair. It smells like fish. "I didn't break his heart. I just...things got weird between us."

Your grandma snorts. "Things never get weird between you and tourists. Must be heaven-sent, if he's got ya all worked up like this."

You don't know what sets you off — the late hour, the smelly hair, or your grandma's unminced way of describing your love life — but your bottom lip starts to tremble. The tears spill soon after.

"Oh, Junebug..." Your grandma reaches over the console to wrap an arm around your shaking figure. You cry into her shirt while she runs her fingers through your hair. "It's alright. You're alright."

"I'm not, though!" you manage between sobs. When was the last time she held you like this? Eighth, ninth grade? "All I do is work and smoke and feel sad all the time, and the one tourist I actually give a shit about is leaving, and I...I..."

Skies. The ache you've tapped into feels bottomless. Like a faucet that won't shut off.

"...I want more, grandma. I want him." You sniffle, pressing the heels of your palms into your eyes. "Is that selfish of me?"

Your grandma's eyes soften. "No, Junie. It's not."

She hands you a wrinkled napkin from the glove compartment. "Ya know, I remember when yer parents first dropped ya off. Ya were so scrawny and rude. Ya wanted nothin' to do with 'em."

"Still don't," you mumble into your snotty napkin. Your grandma chortles.

"They thought they were washin' their hands of ya, but...I knew I was gettin' a good one." Her eyes crinkle as she smiles. "Any person, any city, any kitchen, Junie, would be lucky to have ya. Got that?"

You don't. In fact, the mere idea of claiming space anywhere but here makes you nauseous. But your grandma's words are enough. Enough to soften your sobs, fuel your short drive from the restaurant to the house — this time in your grandma's pickup. You kiss her on the cheek before heading upstairs, changing into pajamas, and cracking open your laptop. Your application greets you the moment you enter your password.

Okay, Junie. You frown at the three unfinished questions at the bottom of your screen. Time to lock the fuck in.

You don't exactly have a way with words — your high school teachers told you as much. Unsurprisingly, though, writing about food is a hell of a lot easier than writing about dead authors and their cryptic gibberish. You pull your hair up. You cry through some of your answers. When you feel antsy, you reach for your nicotine patches and slap one on your forehead. The process is fulfilling. Cathartic, almost.

At 6:53 AM, you reread your answers for a third time before clicking submit.

You slam your laptop shut, sit back in your chair. The sunrise filters through your curtains, and all you want is to wash your hair and crawl into bed. But there's still one more thing you need to do.

The ocean breeze rips your hair from its updo as you run — fueled by adrenaline, Vitamin D, and the urge to see Shōyō as much as possible before he leaves. As promised, he texted you after his last game, and you made plans to see each other later this week. But it isn't enough. No amount of Shōyō will ever be enough for you, you think.

The Airbnb that he splits with Oikawa appears the moment you divert from the beach and into the neighborhood. It's a dingy, unassuming thing — a coat of pink paint peels off the battered stucco, and vines snake up the side of it like mold on a shower wall. You've only been here once, after watching Shōyō play. He raised an eyebrow when you said you had time to stop by.

"Really? But what about your date with Wembanyama?"

"Eh." You shrugged your shoulders and smiled at him from your beach blanket. "I can climb a tree any day of the week."

You bound onto the front porch and sink your elbow into the doorbell. You stupidly realize that it's seven in the morning only after the sound echoes throughout the entire house. You freeze. Feel your face start to burn. You half-consider turning on your heel and bolting away before —

"Junie?" Hinata says, cracking open the door. His voice is husky. He's wearing an old t-shirt. You want to press your nose into the collar and inhale him like you did the other night. But you digress. "What are you — ?"

"I didn't know you liked My Hero." You blink at the design on his shirt.

"Oh, yeah." He glances down. "It's my favorite show."

"We should watch it together before you leave."

"Yeah! We should." He frowns. "Did you come all the way over here just to tell me that?"

"Oh! No, I — " You squeeze your eyes shut. The exhaustion is kicking in. "I finished my application to the Onigiri Miya fellowship."

"You did?" His eyes brighten. The door is fully open now. "That's great!"

"I don't know if I'm going to get it," you ramble on. "Hell, I probably won't. But I just thought you should know."

"Well, thank you for telling me." He smiles. "And at seven in the morning, too."

"I know. I'm sorry." You wince. "I just — I submitted the application and I couldn't wait to tell you, and I also realized that...even if I didn't get it, I'd still want to be with you. In Osaka, I mean."

His expression is stunned. "I — you do?" You nod. "As in...?" You nod again.

"I don't mind that you're short." The words are out before you know what to do with them. "Actually, it's one of my favorite things about you. I like that you're bright and funny without trying to be. I like that you get rainbow sprinkles on your soft serve and jump over every fire hydrant you see.”

Skies. Where the fuck are you going with this?

"What I mean to say is...I like you Shō. I want you more than anything. And I get it if you don't want me anymore after that stupid question I asked you the other night — "

He closes the distance and presses his lips to yours before you can even finish. And honestly, you're relieved. The whole confession thing was wearing you out.

Your and Shōyō's first kiss isn't perfect. Between his morning breath and your unwashed hair, it's actually pretty unglamorous. But as you explore each other gently — him squeezing the back of your neck, you pushing your tongue past his lips — all you can think of is more. More closeness. More warmth. More of the person you spent the entire summer learning to like. Learning to want.

"...is that a nicotine patch on your forehead?" He laughs as he grazes his fingers over it. "I don't think you're supposed to put one there."

"Just be happy it's there, Shōyō," you breathe. He hums amusedly.

"Did you sleep at all last night?"

"No."

"Junie..." That husky voice of his again. "That's not good."

"I know, I know." You purse your lips to one side innocently. "Can I maybe crash here with you for a bit? I’ll treat you to brunch afterwards."

The lazy tilt of his smile has you dizzy. "Was this all a part of your plan to get into bed with me today?"

You snort. "Bold of you to think I'm that smart."

"You are, though." He frowns. "It's one of my favorite things about you.”

You can't come up with a good argument for that — especially now that every blink feels heavier than the last. Instead, you set aside the thought for after you wake up. You'll likely refute it. Likely remember all the times you felt the opposite of how Shōyō describes you. Maybe one day, you'll learn to see yourself the way he does.

But for now, you let him pull you inside. Like the boats you grew up watching, you let him pull you out to sea.

It's not as scary as you thought it would be.

He squeezes you again, and then lets you go. You take a step back. "I got fuckin' shitfaced after my game Friday and came looking for ya, but Mori said he kicked ya out for spitin' in some dude's face." 

Atsumu talks, and you stand on your toes to look over his shoulder, because it's Sunday night, and you know that whever Atsumu goes, the other one is sure to follow. You fall back on your heels. "Yeah, I definitely did that." 

"Asshole probably deserved it," Atsumu says, and somehow, his arm finds its way over your shoulder again. He's like that. Touchy and needy and clingy. It doesn't bother you as much as it used to. You rest your head on his shoulder. "Y'know, Bokuto got kicked out a club that night too. Called me all drunk and whiny thinkin' I was his damn boyfriend." 

Atsumu keeps rambling. You half-listen, eyes closing, occasionally humming in response. It's easy being around Atsumu, easy to like him like you do. He doesn't really expect anything from you. You nuzzle your forehead against the crook of his neck. He smells like spicy cologne and sweat. You can feel his words vibrate in his throat. 

"-and I tell 'im, 'Bokkun, this is like the third time ya sent me yer dick. I'm startin' to think it's not an accident,'" Atsumu continues, and you're swaying to the sound of his voice. You could fall asleep right here in the alley behind your favorite bar.

"Oi, Tsumu! Keep yer hands to yerself. Ya don't know where she's been." 

And there it is. 

As easy as it is to like Atsumu, it's about ten times easier to hate his brother. Osamu is, and always has been, a fucking dick. At least to you. You turn away from Atsumu's hold to glare at him as he approaches. 

Osamu saunters up from behind with this look of disgust and annoyance that he really only seems to have for you. It makes your spine straighten out. You drop your cigarette to the ground and stomp it out. 

"I'd take my chances with her before you," Atsumu shoots back, nose crinkling. "Ya smell like fish and garbage." 

If you weren't too busy glaring at Osamu, you would've noticed the unsure way Atsumu's arm twitches towards you. 

Osamu's hard stare is on you when he says, "Are ya sure? Cause I could smell the chain-smoking alcoholism from the bar."

"Miya, I'm so happy to see you I could kill myself," you bite at him. "Did you have another good day of giving all your customers listeria?" 

"Yer wit is unbelievable, y'know that?" Osamu bites back. Something that feels like hatred bubbles in your blood. 

The first time you met Osamu, Atsumu had drunkenly introduced the two of you with slurred words and hands clasped over each of your shoulders. And all you had ever heard from anyone was about how fucking great Osamu was. That if you liked Atsumu, you would love his brother. 

But Osamu had given you a once-over with narrowed, harsh eyes, and turned to his brother to say, "This is her?" 

Atsumu gave him a wide-eyed, panicked look and quickly nodded. He tried to sound as sober as possible when he said, in a higher octave than usual, "Yeah, Samu, this is her." 

Osamu just scoffed and turned away, and he didn't bother to say anything to you, then or for the rest of the night. So you hated him. You hated him because he was rude and fucking nasty and the exact opposite of everything anyone had ever told you about him. 

And ever since then, every interaction with him has been nothing more than snide remarks and outright disdain. Atsumu has asked you, more than once, to try to get along with his brother, and every time, you scrunch up your face in disgust. You aren't about to beg for kidness from someone who has no intention of giving it to you. 

You could go on hating Osamu for as long as he hates you. You don't really mind. 

Atsumu breaks the tension by clapping his brother on the back. "Let's get a drink, yeah? I'd kill for a fuckin' dirty Shirley right now." 

Osamu snorts, and turns to return to the bar, but you remain where you are. "Actually, I think I'm gonna head home." 

Atsumu pouts. "What? I didn't even get to spend any time with ya." 

"Just let her go. I didn't wanna put up with her all night, anyways," Osamu calls back, looking over his shoulder. 

You shoot Osamu a look. "Kill yourself." You turn to Atsumu, and soften. "I'll talk to you later, kay?" 

You won't. Atsumu will text you at least five times and you will respond maybe once. You will not see him again until he has enough free time to return to this same bar you're at almost every night. It's cyclical. 

His eyes glisten. "Okay. Yeah. I'll see ya later." 

Atsumu reaches out like he's going to touch you again, but he stops himself. Osamu has already returned to the bar. 

You wake up to your phone buzzing. Your head hurts and it's annoying. With closed eyes, you slap your hand against your nightstand until it finds your phone. You're not surprised at the name that pops up. 

Miya Atsumu (10:11AM): sorry I didn't get to see you that much last night Miya Atsumu (10:11AM): also sorry samu is a dick. I'll make him apologize too  Miya Atsumu (10:12AM): he won't mean it but I'll still make him  Miya Atsumu (10:12AM): but still I miss you. hang out with me soon

You're not stupid. You know Atsumu is in love with you. 

He hasn't exactly been subtle about it. You could see it in his eyes the first time you met him - wide and wet and practically sparkling. Atsumu stared at you like you had breathed new life into him. When he asked you for his number, his hands were shaking. You witnessed his heart shatter when you told him that you'd like to be friends, really. 

You thought it might fade, his little crush. Thought that maybe the more he saw of you, the more boring and uninteresting you would become, and that shine in his eyes when he looked at you would dull. But Atsumu never grew bored of you. It seemed he always wanted more of you, asking constantly to see you and showing up at that goddamn bar and sending you tickets to his matches. Atsumu's not afraid to beg for what he wants. 

Vision still blurry from sleep, you quickly type out, I'll always be at the bar, and hit send. Then, you silence all notifications. 

You mostly pretend not to notice. You turn your gaze away when his expression goes too soft and you ignore the brush of his knuckles against yours. You never address touches that last too long or a possessive arm over your shoulder. Atsumu probably thinks you're shy. He also probably thinks you care more than you do. 

It's just too easy, letting it happen. Letting him think that there might be something there. Letting him get closer and closer. You like Atsumu, you like his attention and you like the way he looks at you. And if Atsumu doesn't mind giving and giving without getting anything in return, then you don't mind taking. 

Your head throbs as you rise out of bed. You're tired and already in a bad mood and you have work in an hour. As you waddle from your bedroom to the shower, you check your phone and see that Atsumu has already texted you twice more. You toss your phone on the kitchen counter as you pass. You can deal with it later. 

You still haven't dealt with it when you're three hours into your shift, leaning over the counter and looking out onto a mostly empty coffee shop. You're on your third shift drink. Your coworker Kiyoko cleans the already-clean espresso machine while you do nothing. 

"Any plans for the weekend?" Kiyoko asks you while she runs a clean rag over the milk steamer for the sixth time.

You shrug. "I dunno. Probably go to The Lucky Cat and get drunk." 

Kiyoko gives you a look - the same bored and unimpressed one she always gives you. "You do that every night." 

"At least I'm consistent," you mumble. "What about you? Any big plans?" 

She hums. "My boyfriend is coming up for the weekend. Going to stay over and go to the MSBY match." 

You almost mention Atsumu, but you hold back. "When are you two going to just move in together?" 

Kiyoko pauses. "I don't know. I guess when the time feels right. Maybe when we get married. I don't know." 

"Married," you repeat back to her, "that's a big commitment." 

Someone on the sidewalk stops and looks through the shop's windows. They frown, and keep walking. "We've talked about it before," Kiyoko says, abandoning the espresso machinen and tossing the rag over her shoulder. "There's still things we want to do, but it's definitely in our plans," she looks at you. "What about you? You ever want to get married?" 

You snort. "No," you say, surely and succinctly. You've never imagined yourself as anything other than what you are now - completely on your own and completely independent. When you picture it now, being someone's loyal little wife, it makes you nauseous. 

You try to be happy for Kiyoko, but there is a part of you that thinks she's fucking stupid for wanting it. 

Kiyoko looks out over the bar, searching for something else she can busy herself with. "Well, to each their own." 

You have a feeling that she feels bad for you. 

You like your life. You like being on your own and yeah maybe you hate your shitty, boring job, and maybe your apartment could be nicer and cleaner, but you figure it's worth it to be your own person. It's worth it to never feel weighed down or held back and it's worth it to do whatever the fuck you want to do. 

Whatever the fuck you want to do being drinking every night at The Lucky Cat. 

You know the bartenders by name. Mori rolls eyes his at the sight of you and cracks open a Sapporo before you even sit down at the bar. "Thank you!" you call out to him as he turns his back to you. He flips you off. 

You like it here. You like the music that plays and how comfortable the bar seats are and you like that everyone here knows you. You've been coming here since college, when you stumbled in after spending a long, cold night alone. It started out as a few times every month, which spiraled into every week, which quickly became every night. Most nights you just have a beer or two. Some nights you get so drunk Mori has to put you in a cab. 

It's dead tonight, which is fine. You don't mind being one of the only people in here. You take a sip of your beer and lean back into your seat. You feel at ease here. Relaxed. 

Of course, it doesn't last very long. 

You tense up on instinct when Miya Osamu slides into the bar seat next to you. You drop your head behind your shoulders and groan. "Oh my god, what the fuck are you doing here?" 

Osamu's mouth curls up in disgust. "What, I can't get a fucking drink?" 

You grab your beer, and slide off the bar stool. "Go somehere else and leave me the fuck alone." 

You're ready to make a beeline for a dark corner to drink in, but Osamu follows you. "Wait," he says, "I wanted to talk to you." 

Osamu keeps following you as you move through the bar, like an annoying little gnat. "I don't want to talk to you." 

"Well, that's too fucking bad, because I need to talk to you, so can you just stop?" 

You do, turning on your heel to glare at him. "I'll tell Mori to kick you out." 

Osamu flinches. "Mori likes me better than you." 

"What the fuck do you want, Miya?" you snap at him, hoping that if he gets to his goddamn point, he'll leave you alone sooner. 

His stare is hard and unforgiving. His voice is flat and harsh when he speaks. "If you care about Atsumu at all, you'll go to his game this weekend." 

You frown. "What the fuck are you talking about?" 

"The game he's been begging you to go to?" Osamu drawls out slowly, like you're too stupid to understand. You raise your eyebrows at him. "The one he's been texting you about all day?" Nothing. Osamu blinks. "Fuck, you're not even reading his texts, are you?" 

"Fuck off, okay?" you grumble, pulling your phone out from your back pocket. "I've been at work all day." 

It's hardly an excuse, considering you spent nearly half of your shift mindlessly scrolling on your phone. You never did clear out your silenced notifications, though, and when you look now you see that you have plenty. 

Miya Atsumu (10:14AM): you should come to my game this weekend if you can  Miya Atsumu (10:15AM): we're playing against the red falcons which is cool because I played with their outside hitter in high school Miya Atsumu (10:39AM): it would mean a lot to me if you came  Miya Atsumu (11:53AM): I set aside a ticket for you  Miya Atsumu (1:04PM): just text me if you can't make it 

You almost feel bad. You close your phone and toss it between your hands. "Oh." 

"Yeah, oh," Osamu repeats. "Look, I don't know why Atsumu bothers with you, but clearly you're important to him, so show up at the fucking game or just stop pretending to be his friend. It's just painful at this point," he says, and his voice is calm and monotone but his harsh words poke at you. It's irritating. 

"Can you fuck off?" you snap. "Atsumu is my friend. Just because I'm not on my goddamn phone all day-" 

"Cut the bullshit, okay?" Osamu cuts you off. "All you do is treat him like shit. I'm sick of it." 

Your face twists up in anger. If Atsumu has any issues with the way you treat him, he would've said something to you instead of just taking it. He's an adult. You tell Osamu as much. "Atsumu can tell me himself if he has a problem. Until then just mind your fucking business." 

Osamu stares. "Atsumu is my business." 

Everything about Osamu irks you. His dull affectation and his strange, overbearing protectiveness. He treats his brother like some tiny dog he has to look after and treats you like you're a great hindrance to this task. You hate his smug, satisfied smirk and the way he crosses his thick arms over his chest. Miya Osamu is irritating in every possible way he can be. 

Without breaking eye contact with Osamu, you raise the bottle of beer to your lips and swallow a mouthful. Osamu scoffs at you. "Y'know," you start when the beer hits your belly, "I think I'm too sober to deal with you. Get out of my face." 

You push past Osamu, brushing your shoulder against his arm as you do, and move to return to your bar stool. After you, Osamu calls out, "Just go to his goddamn game!" 

You don't look back. Osamu makes no move to follow you. You flip him off for good measure. 

As you settle back into your usual seat, Mori gives you a grave look and shakes his head, like some disappointed father. "Oh, fuck off," you quip. 

Your phone's almost dead when you pull it out again. You use one hand to kill the rest of your beer and the other to write back to Atsumu, "I'll be there, can't wait." 

Fuck, you hate Osamu. 

Osamu has a problem, and it's you.

If it's not Atsumu gushing about everything you do - the way you laugh, the joke you told at the bar two weeks ago, how you start to look at him when you get too drunk - it's all about the tiny ways you break his heart. Never texting him back, blowing him off to go to that same fucking bar, flat out ignoring him for straight days.

When Atsumu first introduced you to him, Osamu thought it was a joke. He didn't believe that you were the girl his brother had been waxing poetic about for months. You were nothing like the bright, bubbly girls who loved fun and sex and life that Atsumu usually liked to bring home. You looked moody and mean and you had this sneer on your face that looked permanent. Osamu thought Atsumu was fucking with him, because you looked like the type of girl that he would want.

But Atsumu was dead serious about you.

Atsumu told him one night, watching as you drunkenly fell into a cab, "Fuck man, I think I wanna marry that girl."

Osamu felt something strange pull at his chest when he said that. He didn't like it.

He doesn't like you. He doesn't like your attitude or the way you treat his brother and he certainly doesn't like this special kind of hatred he seems to only feel for you.

And he doesn't think you're right for Atsumu. You're too miserable, too static. Osamu get the distinct impression that you could stay in one place for the rest of your life and be completely satisfied in your own stagnation. Atsumu doesn't need that. He needs growth, movement, change. Atsumu doesn't need you.

Osamu thinks about you more than he would like to. He'll be working in his kitchen and suddenly notice that his grip around his knife is too tight or that his expression is pulled down into a scowl and he'll realize it's because your face is in his mind. He hates thinking about you, but does it often - worrying about what you're going to do to his brother next or dreading the next time he'll have to see you. 

Osamu is aware that it's sort of not normal. 

He's looking for you now, poking his head out of the Onigiri Miya stall every couple of minute to see if can spot you in the crowd. You're supposed to be here - Atsumu said you would be here - but he wouldn't put it past you to bail. That's exactly the kind of thing you would do. Osamu chews on the inside of his cheek as he watches crowds of red and black jerseys pass. There's this anxious pit in his stomach he would love to get rid of. 

It gets worse when he does see you. 

He notices you halfway through the first set, when most people are in their seats actually watching the game they paid to see. But here you are, walking right up to his onigiri stand. 

Osamu eyes you as you approach. You're wearing loose jeans that are covered in bleach stains and a sweatshirt that has a tear in the neckline and holes in the sleeves. You look like you didn't even try. 

A lot of the time, Osamu finds himself wondering if you feel the same way about Atsumu as he does you. He thinks not, most of the time. There are some moments, though, when your gaze lingers on Atsumu a little too long, or you touch his arm as you laugh. But now, you show up to his game looking like you threw on whatever clothes were on top of your dirty laundry pile, and Osamu has a hard time believing that you care what Atsumu thinks of you. Or anyone, for that matter. 

You give him this look when your eyes meet Osamu's. For some reason, it makes him nervous. He never knows what you're going to say. 

"Miya," you greet, sounding too smug for his liking. 

He wears his favorite expression for you - a nasty, straight-on glare. "Yer supposed to be watchin' the game." 

You shrug. "Got hungry. Gimme a salmon." 

"No," Osamu says, "ya can fuck off." 

A smirk grows on your face. Osamu doesn't want to give you the satisfaction of being visibly irritated, but he just can't help himself. You're just so fucking irritating. "What, you're too good for my money, or something? I'm a paying customer here. Gimme a fucking salmon." 

Osamu grinds his teeth together as he looks at you, torn between denying you the joy of his food and ending the interaction quicker. "No," he settles on. "Go watch the game and quit fuckin' buggin' me." 

"God, you're such a dick, you know that?" you tell him. 

Osamu chuckles mirthlessly. "Oh, I'm the dick?" 

"Yes," you nod, "you're the dick, Miya." 

His skin feels tight. Osamu puts his hands on the edge of his stall and leans in towards you. "If I'm a dick, then I don't even know what ya are. Yer genuinely the worst, most selfish, inconsiderate-" 

"Excuse me? Can I order?" 

Osamu's face burns bright in humiliation at the realization that you're not alone. Standing behind you is a man who looks like he might just be as embarrassed as Osamu feels. 

Osamu swallows a lump in his throat. "Oh, yeah, of course I can take yer order," he says, shaking his head, trying to rid it of thoughts of you. 

"Don't eat here," you say to the man as you look directly at Osamu one last time, "this place gave me food poisoning." 

Osamu watches as you go, and thinks I hate you, I hate you, I hate you. 

Maybe you ignore Atsumu so often because you have such a hard time saying no to him. When he actually corners you, and with those big fucking eyes, asks if you'll go out with him and his team to celebrate their win, the word no is on the tip of your tongue. But he takes a hold of your hand and squeezes, and what actually comes out is, "I'd love to." 

Now, you're sandwiched between a drunk Atsumu and an even drunker Bokuto and everyone's talking over each other so loudly you can't think. Meian spilled soju on your pants as he passed it over you to get to Thomas. Atsumu has a casual hand on your thigh that he's trying to play off as accidental. Your head hurts. 

Osamu's there, because of course he would be, seated directly opposite you, nursing his one beer. And every time your eyes start to drift over towards him, you find Osamu is already looking at you. 

It's making you feel almost ill. 

Atsumu's thumb starts to move against the fabric of your jeans, back and forth, slowly and smoothly. Maybe you should find it nicer than you do, but it sets you on edge, makes your shoulders tense up. You find Atsumu's touch to be so overwhelming it's almost painful. You stare straight ahead at Osamu, and for some reason, he stares back, expression blank. 

"Hey," Atsumu whispers in your ear, and you jump. He's too close, breath hot on your neck. "Ya okay?" 

You give him a curt nod, and swallow the spit in your mouth. "Yeah," you say unconvincingly. "Actually, I think I just need a smoke right now." 

Atsumu perks up. "Do ya want me to come with ya?" 

"Nah," you say, "stay here and keep getting drunk. I'll be back in ten." 

He nods, and squeezes your thigh before you stand. You try not to think about it as you walk towards the back alley. 

It's misting rain when you get outside. It takes three flicks of your lighter to get your cigarette lit, but once it does, smoke floods your lungs and your shoulders start to relax. Atsumu's getting bolder, and you don't know what to do about it. 

Maybe you'd be his girlfriend, if he asked. It's not like you have anything better to do. 

You don't have very much time to think about it, though, because the restaurant's back door bursts open, and Osamu is there to ruin your peace. 

The door slams shut behind him. He takes two long steps towards you. "What the fuck are ya doin' out here?" he questions immediately. 

You blink. "Smoking a cigarette." 

Osamu's eyes fall to your hand and the cherried cigarette between your fingers. He takes a deep breath. "Yer not runnin' out on him, then?" 

And now you're annoyed, because it's always the same shit with him. "Fucking hell, Miya, are you his fucking chaperone or something? Are you just gonna be around babysitting us for the rest of your life?" 

His jaw hardens. "I'm hopin' ya won't be around for that long." 

You're not sure why, but that one hurts, cuts right through your chest. You try not to let it show on your face, but it definitely rattles in your voice when you say, "What is even your problem with me? All you ever do is give me shit and that's all you've ever done from the second you met me. What the fuck did I ever even do to you?" 

"Ya didn't have to do anything to me," Osamu is quick to reply. "Yer just not good enough for my brother." 

"And what the fuck does that have to do with you?" you argue. "If Atsumu wants to be my friend-" 

"Stop it," Osamu interrupts. 

"Stop what?" 

"Stop being dense. Ya know that's not what he wants." 

You hold your breath. The air between you and Osamu is thick and you don't want it in your lungs. You don't know what to say - you just bite down on your tongue. 

"That's what I don't like about ya," Osamu says, his voice cutting through the silence, taking another step closer to you. "Ya just fuckin' bulldoze yer way through people's lives and ya don't give a shit about the consequences. Yer leadin' him on." 

"I'm not," you protest, but it's pointless. You both know that you are. 

"Yeah, ya are," Osamu insists. "Ya are and ya don't even give a shit about him." 

You can hear your blood rushing past your ears. You take a step in his direction. "You don't know shit, Miya. Stop acting like you know me. You know your brother, but you don't know me, so don't say I don't care." 

Osamu leans in closer to you. "I know you," he says, voice lower. 

He smells like salt and soap. His eyes burn into yours. "You don't know shit." 

He does it, then. Osamu grabs you by the back of your head, and pulls your mouth in to meet his. 

It repulses you, at first, makes you sick. But Osamu tastes sweeter than you thought he would. When you raise your hand, you think it's going to be to push him off of you. But your hand finds his hair and roots in it, pulling him as close to you as he can be. 

It's almost ugly, the way he kisses you. There's spit between your lips and his teeth knock against yours more than once. But when Osamu kisses you in that dark, wet alley, something starts to brew in you, starts to claw at your chest. You lean into him more, mouth open for him. It occurs to you there, his tongue slipping against yours, that you want him. 

Osamu backs you into a brick wall, pressing you against it when his teeth bite at your bottom lip. A little noise makes its way out of the back of your throat. Osamu's hands find the back of your thighs, and he lifts them over his hips, your legs wrapping around his back. You drop your cigarette to run your hands over his chest. 

You don't have time to wonder what he's thinking or what the fuck he's doing. You're only concerned with the feeling of his tongue in your mouth and his hands burning against your thighs. 

And then the door clicks open. 

Osamu drops you so fast it makes you dizzy. You blink, and he's five feet away from you, holding his breath, looking at Atsumu. 

You glance between the two of them and try your hardest to keep your expression neutral and your breathing even. Atsumu looks too drunk to notice anyways. He leans against the doorway. "Whaddya two doin'?" Atsumu asks. 

You look to Osamu, waiting for him to say something, but he doesn't say anything, just stands there with his eyes fixed on the ground. You shake your head. "Nothing," you tell Atsumu without meeting his eyes. "Your brother's just yelling at me again." 

Atsumu's saying something, but you don't really hear. You're sure it's something disparaging about Osamu. You look up to see Atsumu is holding his arm out towards you. You walk to him, falling into his side without looking at Osamu again, and you're left with a wetness between your jeans and the taste of him on your tongue. 

Osamu hopes he he can solve the problem by ignoring it. 

It's not hard to avoid you, considering you're only ever at one place. When Atsumu wants to make his weekly Sunday night trip to the Lucky Cat, Osamu feigns exhaustion and opts to stay home instead. Atsumu goes on his own, and Osamu spends the whole night imagining you pulling him into a corner, and telling him what Osamu did. He doesn't get very much sleep that night. 

He doesn't know why he did it. Osamu just remembers looking at you and the hatred in your eyes and feeling like his skin was burning, and touching you was the only remedy. He remembers the taste of strawberry soju. He remembers the way your flesh felt between his fingers. It makes him bite down on his lip and palm the growing ache between his legs. 

Osamu's not sure which is worse, what he did or how badly he wants to do it again. 

Atsumu notices that something's wrong. He comes into Onigiri Miya one afternoon, hair still wet from his shower after training, and watches Osamu with skeptical eyes. "What's with ya?" Atsumu asks. "Yer all jumpy and weird." 

Osamu is stuffing his onigiri, shoulders practically up to his ears. He forces them down. "Dunno what ya mean." 

Atsumu stares. "Yeah, sure." 

It's brutal, lying to him. It's not something Osamu has a lot of practice in. It makes his skin itch and he can't get rid of this constant nauseousness no matter what he does. Osamu keeps picturing Atsumu's face when he finds out what happened, can't stop imagining that wide-eyed look of betrayal. He's just sort of hoping that all of this guilt will fade away with time, because he certainly can't tell him the truth. 

Which is why Osamu can't see you again. He doesn't ever want to feel what he felt before he kisses you. He's afraid of what he'll do. 

Whenever Osamu isn't lamenting about how he betrayed Atsumu, he finds himself thinking of you. He wonders what you're doing and what you think of him kissing you. 

Osamu settles on the thought that you must think he's a fucking freak. What else could you think? He went from yelling at you about not being good enough for his brother to kissing you without asking. Not just kissing you, devouring you. Grabbing at you and biting at you and trying to get closer and closer. 

It's not like you thought highly of him before. 

Osamu's closing the restaurant, and thinking about you again. It's been about a week and a half since he's seen you, lips swollen and out of breath, returning to his brother's side. He wouldn't say that he misses you, exactly, but it does feel like something is missing. He feels this ache without you around, and he's not sure how much of it is the guilt. 

Everyone else went home, and Osamu is dragging his feet while he closes, mopping twice and deep cleaning his fridges. If he goes home, either he will sit alone with his thoughts, or Atsumu will show up and bug him about what's wrong. Cleaning is better. 

He's about elbow deep in his display case when there's a knock at the door. He pauses and listens, thinking he must have misheard. But when he resumes his cleaning, the knocking comes again, louder and more forceful. He groans, ripping off his gloves and preparing his customer service voice to say the obvious sorry, we're closed. 

But when Osamu opens the door, it's you on the other side. His heart beats irregularly and his gut lurches. His mouth is suddenly too dry to say anything. 

So you talk for him. "What the fuck is your problem?" you ask, pushing past him and making your way into his restaurant. 

Osamu closes the door, somewhat dumbfounded. He thought if he just avoided the bar and the coffee shop where you work, he'd never see you again. He never imagined you would seek him out. Not like this. 

He looks at you, standing in the middle of his restaurant with your arms crossed over your chest. Osamu notices you look cuter than he's used to seeing you, wearing a skirt that cuts off at the top of your thighs and a pretty color flushed across your cheeks. Osamu can't help but wonder if that's for him.

Osamu doesn't say anything. He feels like he can't; he just looks down at the floor. You don't take this. "Hey, Miya, I'm asking you a question. What the fuck is your problem? Why have you been avoiding me?" 

Not why did you kiss me, but, why have you been avoiding me. Osamu looks up at you to find you glaring at him. You look pissed. And then, Osamu feels it again. His skin starts to prick. 

He becomes aware, then, of the floor to ceiling windows that encase the restaurant. Anyone on the street could look in and see you two. He steps towards you and grabs you by the wrist, leading you towards the kitchen in the back where no one can see. Osamu is hyper aware of every inch of his skin that has contact with yours. 

You follow him without word, and when the kitchen door closes behind you, Osamu releases your wrist and steps away, running his hands through his hair. "Fuck," he says, "why'd ya come here?" 

"Because you kissed me and then went out of your way to avoid me," you tell him. "Did you think I was too stupid to notice?" 

He was hoping you hated him too much to care. Osamu shakes his head. "I can't see ya again." 

You frown. "Why the fuck not?" 

"I can't do this to Tsumu," Osamu says. "Ya know he's fuckin' in love with ya." 

"Atsumu is not my boyfriend," you assert. "I don't owe him loyalty." 

"Yeah, but I do," Osamu snaps. "That's the very least I owe him." 

"He doesn't have a claim over me," you argue. "He doesn't own me, or you either." 

Osamu's self control is already hanging by a thread, and every time he looks at you, that feeling grows. And here you are what? Arguing that it was okay for him to betray his brother? Making a case for him to do it again? Osamu ignores the urge to step closer to you. 

He looks pained. "It's not right." 

"Why?" you press. "I'm not going to marry Atsumu. He knows that." 

He doesn't, Osamu wants to say. Atsumu looks at you, and sees his wife. Osamu's chest feels like it's going to split in two. 

Osamu doesn't move, but you take a step forward. "Why did you kiss me?" you ask him, softer now. 

He swallows. "Because I couldn't help myself." 

You move closer. "You want me," you say, rubbing salt in his wound. "So why shouldn't you have me?" 

Osamu stares as you get closer and closer until your hand is on his chest and he can't breathe. "This just proves my point. Yer not good enough for Atsumu." 

You look up at him. "But am I good enough for you?" 

Osamu kisses you then, takes a hold of your face and leans down to press his lips against yours, and he thinks yes. 

It's gentle at first, lips moving softly and molding against each other. But once Osamu starts with you, he has trouble controlling himself. His tongue slides against yours, and something rumbles in his chest. Osamu grabs you by the waist, and lifts you until you're sitting on the edge of his meticulously cleaned prep table. He can clean it again. 

Your chest is flushed against his, and it's not close enough. His hands reach down to the tops of your bare thighs, and he squeezes. Your back arches and you press into him further. It's not enough. 

His head is empty now, the only thoughts he has are of you and how you move against him. He slides his hands behind you and pulls you closer until your legs are on either side of him, and your core is pressed against the growing bulge in his pants. You moan. He loses it. 

"Fuck," he mumbles against your lips. "Please let me fuck you." 

He wants to feel you on his tongue and on his fingers, but he reasons in the moment that there will be time for that later. The need he feels for you is urgent. You pull away to nip at his ear. "Yeah," you tell him, breathy and low. "Fuck me, Miya." 

It's all he needs. 

His hands are under your skirt in an instant, grabbing at your underwear and pulling them down with such force that the table shakes. Your hands are fumbling with his belt buckle. Not quick enough. He removes your hands and does it himself. 

"You're desperate, Miy-oh fuck." 

Osamu silences you by pressing into you. Your arms go around his shoulders, and your lips attach to his neck, He needs more. 

Being inside of you isn't close enough. Osamu wants to be closer; he needs more of you. He drops his head down to the crook of your neck and bites down, his molars leaving imprints on your skin. His hips stutter into you. It's not enough. His hands grip at the soft flesh of your hips. It's not enough. 

When Osamu fucks you on that table, your skirt bunched up at your hips and soft moans in his ear, he can only think of what a piece of shit he is. When you open your mouth and a desperate and warm, "Osamu," falls out, he finishes. 

Osamu watches as you pull your underwear up under your skirt. "This can't happen again," he tells you, trying to sound firm, but it comes out as more of a plea. 

You scoff. "Yeah, sure." 

It does happen again. You expected it to. 

You're sitting in your usual bar stool with your second Sapporo in your hand. When Osamu takes the empty seat besides you, you look at him and laugh. He's got a hat pulled down over his eyes and he's keeping his face pointed down to his lap. He looks fucking ridiculous. "You look like you're here to meet your drug dealer." 

"Fuck off," Osamu quips half-heatedly. "I had to see ya again." 

You don't look at him again. "Thought Mori wouldn't recognize you in your little disguise and we would what? Fuck in the bathroom?" 

Osamu's voice is strained when he says, "I just wanted to talk to ya." 

You hum. "Yeah, I'm sure you did." 

"Look," he says, ripping his hat off his head and turning towards you. "I'm really fuckin' tryin' to y'know, not be a shitty person here." 

"But what?" you cut him off, turning to meet his gaze. "You want me too bad to do the right thing?" 

Osamu glares. "I hate ya." 

"It doesn't feel like you hate me, Miya," you tell him. "It actually feels like you like me so much, you'll sneak out to a bar when you know your brother's at the gym, just so you can see me without him knowing." 

"Ya have to tell him," Osamu pleads. "Ya have to tell him ya don't have any feelings for him." 

You look away. "Don't tell me what to do." 

He has a point, though. It is kind of scummy to lead on Atsumu while fucking his brother. But you try to imagine life after rejecting Atsumu, and you just picture him further away from you. No more resting on his shoulder or waking up to texts from him and no more casual comfort. No more Atsumu at the tip of your fingers. You think that maybe, you would miss your friend too much. You raise your beer to your lips and take a swig. You can be scummy, you figure. You don't really mind it that much. 

"Ya can't have us both," Osamu tells you. 

"And who the fuck says I want you?" you snap at him. "You kissed me. You begged to fuck me." 

It's no use playing pretend with Osamu. He felt the way you kissed him, felt the wetness between your legs. He knows. "I'm not fuckin' stupid," Osamu says, and you know it. 

"Whatever," you grumble, and kill your beer. Osamu watches as you slap cash down on the bar. "Tell him yourself, if you feel that bad." 

You move to leave, but before you can get very far, Osamu grabs you by the arm and holds you in place. You look him in the eye. "Wait," he says. His fingers move against your bicep. Your face gets hot. 

He fucks you in a storage closet, using one hand to hold your leg up over his hip and the other to cover your mouth to muffle any sounds you make. His fingernails dig into your skin. "Fuck," he grunts. "Ya feel like yer made for me." 

Osamu's stuffing himself back in his jeans when you ask, "Are you gonna say this is the last time again?" 

He shakes his head. "No point." 

"You look different" Kiyoko says, leaning against the coffee bar. "Happier, I think." 

You're making yourself a drink, filling the cup up to the top with ice and pouring cold brew over it. You drink it black. "You think?" 

Kiyoko nods. "Definitely. It's in the eyes." 

You've been fucking Osamu for three weeks now. He never texts you, never calls, just shows up at The Lucky Cat before you can get too drunk and takes you back to his apartment. He doesn't make you breakfast or kiss you goodbye when you leave in the morning, but he's different now. Fights with you less. Holds onto you tighter, kisses you more while he's bottomed out. Tells you that you look so pretty split open on his dick. Runs his hands through your hair and tells you what a good job you did. 

It's nice, you think. You like what you have with Osamu, like the way he feels inside of you and how big his hands feel against you. It's nice not arguing with him, too. Actually, it's just kind of nice to be around him. You don't talk about much when you're not having sex. You both just sort of move in silence until you fall asleep in his bed and he's waking you up the next morning to tell you he has to go to work. Turns out, if you're not at each other's throats, you don't have very much to talk about. 

And you definitely don't talk about Atsumu. 

You still see him, mostly on Sundays, when he comes to spend time with you at the bar. Osamu doesn't accompany him anymore, so it's just you and Atsumu, drinking until the early morning. 

Ironically, fucking his brother made you like Atsumu more. He's funnier now, better to be around. Or maybe you're just in a better mood. You lean on him while he talks and listen to his stories with eager eyes and when he texts you in the morning, you actually reply. 

You only feel a little bad. 

"I've been sleeping better," you tell Kiyoko, which is kind of true. You're definitely sleeping less, but the sleep you do get on Osamu's bed, when you're fucked out and exhausted, is blissful. 

"Well, you look great," Kiyoko says. "Keep it up." 

The bell above the door rings as it opens. You groan quietly, ready to let Kiyoko handle any customer interaction while you make the drinks. But it's Atsumu that walks through that door, already grinning when he does. 

You smile at the sight of him. "Hey, Tsumu." 

He walks up to the counter with a gym bag thrown over his shoulder. "Miss me?" he questions. 

Kiyoko rolls her eyes, and makes herself busy somewhere else. You take her place behind the register, across from Atsumu. "To death. What are you doing here? I thought you'd be at the gym all day." 

He shrugs. "Conditioning day, got off early. Thought I'd have a coffee and come see ya." 

"Whaddya want?" you ask. "On the house." 

Atsumu looks you in the eye and smiles so warmly you think you might die from the heat. "Vanilla latte, extra shot, since yer buyin'." 

You wink at him. "Anything for you." 

You should feel worse than you do. 

Atsumu watches as you make his drink, though his eyes never really leave your face. "Whaddya doin' tonight?" 

You shrug. "Dunno. Been trying to see some friends from college lately. Might hang out with them. You?" 

"Hinata wants to do a karaoke room tonight. Says it'll be good bonding, but I think he just wants to get drunk and sing Perfume," Atsumu says, and then pauses. "Wanna come?" 

You try to draw a dick in his latter with the milk, but it just comes out as random swirls. "Dunno," you tell him. "How about I text you?" 

Atsumu smiles, and takes the latte from you. "Yeah, text me." 

You don't tell him that you real plans for the night are to hang around The Lucky Cat like you always do, and see if Osamu shows up to hook up or not. You're weighing the pros and cons of each when Atsumu leaves you with a wave and one last longing look. 

When your shift ends, you end up at that same goddamn bar. 

You're looking down at your phone, reading a text from Atsumu that says, are you sure you don't wanna come out tonight?

You look up and around you. It might not be terrible to spend a night with Atsumu. You don't mind the excuse to get drunk and Hinata is fun enough to convince you, and when you start to think about it more, you don't feel great about blowing him off. 

Maybe it wouldn't hurt to give him one more night. 

Your thumbs hover over your keyboard, about ready to tell him that your plans changed, and yeah, sure why can't you go out? But then the front door of the bar opens, and in walks Osamu. 

Osamu, with his tight black work shirt and stupid little hat. From across the bar, you lock eyes with him, and wonder what exactly you were thinking. 

You look down and type, sorry catch me next time, before pocketing your phone, ready to dedicate one more long night to Osamu. 

Osamu feels differently about you now. Softer, warmer. Maybe he can't have this much sex with someone without feeling like he's in love. Maybe he always sort of felt this way. 

You're by his side, walking down the street, taking the familiar path from The Lucky Cat back to his apartment. You're looking ahead, and he's looking at you. Osamu wonders what he should say. He's always wondering what he should say with you. 

"You're staring again," you remark. You kick a rock up the street. You don't look at him. 

Osamu won't look away from you. "Am I?" he asks, even though he knows he is. "Didn't notice." 

You don't say anything back, but Osamu sees the way the corner of your lip twitches. 

Maybe it was the third or fourth time you fucked, or the first time, or when he first kissed you, but Osamu has not been able to get you out of his head. Actually, it was probably before that. It was probably the first time he met you that Osamu was cursed with thoughts of you. He just doesn't mind it as much anymore. 

He likes fucking you. He likes hold you, too. He likes poking your side in the morning until you wake up and he's the first thing you see. 

He likes being near you. He likes you. 

Osamu doesn't feel as guilty anymore, either. The better it feels being around you, the less he thinks about Atsumu, the less he imagines his heartbreak. You're a good enough distraction. 

As you walk by his side, he thinks about taking your hand. It's right there, hanging by your side, and Osamu looks down at it, wondering nervously what your reaction might be, wondering if you'd let him cross that line. 

He wonders when it got this bad, when he got this desperate for you. It didn't happen all at once, or maybe it did, and he was just too enamored with you to notice. 

He was supposed to hate you, supposed to despise you for the way you treat his brother. But the more time Osamu spends around you, the more he understands why his brother puts up with it. Osamu can see himself sending lovelorn texts that never get answered, can see himself being just as desperate and pathetic. He already might be. 

There's just something in the way you move, something in the sound of your voice. Osamu feels like he's addicted to it. 

"Hey," Osamu says, stopping in the middle of the street. You stop and turn to look at him. "I wanna try something." 

You raise an eyebrow at him. "Here?" 

"Yeah," he nods. "Here. Don't move, okay?" 

You laugh, unsure. "Okay." 

Osamu takes a step, and closes the distance between you. He reaches down, and grabs one of your hands in his. It's soft and warm and when he traces his thumb over your skin, his heart flutters in his chest. 

"Osamu," you say, and it sounds heavy. 

"Just wanna see," he mumbles, and leans down to kiss you. 

It's different than all the other times. It's slow and soft and Osamu doesn't kiss you like someone's there trying to tear you away from him, but like he'll have you for the rest of his life. One hand rises to your face, fingertips gingerly resting on your cheek. You kiss him back with as much care and softness as he's ever felt from you. 

It feels good. It feels right. 

Osamu pulls away, but his face hovers over yours, noses almost touching. "Okay," he says quietly, "just had to see. Let's go." 

When he leads you back to his apartment, he takes you by the hand, and does not let go. 

The sun hasn't completely risen yet. The sky is a dusty sort of blue that hangs all the way down to the street. Osamu yawns as he walks along the sidewalk towards Onigiri Miya. He's too tired to be awake, too tired for prep work. He thinks of you, laying in his bed where he left you, and his body starts to ache. He doesn't want to be here.

He reaches his hand down to his sweatpants pockets to fish out the keys that are weighing down his waistband. They get stuck in his pocket. He wiggles them around. There is a strong force ramming into Osamu's side, and knocking him onto his back.

Osamu's back is against the hard pavement, and there is no more air left in his lungs. He tries to breathe, gasping for air, but there is a hand pushing his face against the sidewalk. It takes him a second to realize that it's Atsumu hovering over him, holding him down, pushing him into the ground.

Osamu tries to lurch forward, but fuck, Atsumu's gotten stronger. He reaches his hands up to grab at Atsumu's collar, trying to pull him away or push him off or something. "What the fuck are ya doin'?" he yells, loud and forceful.

"Ya fuck her?" Atsumu yells back, red in the face and it's now that Osamu notices his wet eyes. Osamu's stomach drops. He doesn't say anything; his hands release Atsumu and fall back. Atsumu looks like he's too full of air. "Did ya fuck her, Samu?"

Osamu uses his legs to kick Atsumu off of him. He stumbles back a few steps, and Osamu lurches to his feet. Pieces of the pavement stick to his cheek. "Who told I did?" he questions, not sounding as innocent as he would like to.

"Doesn't fuckin' matter who told me what," Atsumu says, "all that matters is yer answer. So did ya fuck her?"

Osamu says nothing, and he's sure that's an answer enough in itself.

Atsumu takes one heavy breath, shoulders rise, and he holds it. Osamu watches. His fingers flex and curl nervously by his side. And any guilt Osamu felt when he kissed you for the first time or fucked you in the back of his restaurant doesn't come close to what he feels right now. He looks at his brother and feels like he took the world from him. He can see Atsumu's heart shatter in every shuddering breath he takes and even still, in that moment, Osamu is not sure he would take it all back.

It makes him feel like fucking scum.

"Do ya love her?" Atsumu asks, after a while of nothing. He's quieter now.

Osamu's not sure he knows the answer or the right thing to say so what he does say, with his heart pumping in his ears, is, "No."

Atsumu lunges forward again, hands finding Osamu's shoulders and pushing him backwards. "So ya took her for fuckin' nothing!" Atsumu yells. "Don't even fuckin' like her like I do, and ya fucked her just because, what? Just because ya could?"

Osamu stumbles back, and straightens out only to reach back out and shove Atsumu back. "I didn't take her, Tsumu, she didn't fuckin' belong to ya."

"She was my girl," Atsumu insists, pointing a finger towards his chest. He wipes his eyes with the back of his other hand. "Mine. And ya fuckin' knew it, Samu. Ya know I love her. Ya know it. Why the fuck would ya do this to me?" 

Osamu doesn't say anything, because Atsumu is right. Atsumu told him that one day, he was going to marry you, and he turned around and fucked you, over and over again. So often that he started to not even feel bad about it. You're in his bed now, and here Atsumu is, crying over you. 

There's a heavy weight on his chest. "Look, Tsumu, I'm sorry, okay? I just, I dunno, I just couldn't stop myself with her. I just- I dunno. I know it's fucked up, alright? I fucked up. I'm sorry." 

Atsumu's stare is hard. "How long?" 

"About a month." 

Atsumu lunges forward, and punches Osamu in the face. 

Osamu stumbles back, hand clutching at his cheek and it fucking hurts. "Fuck," he spits out under his breath, and tries to straighten out, but his equilibriums been thrown off. He falls backwards to the ground. 

He looks up at Atsumu and wants to say something, wants him to say something. But Atsumu stays silent. Atsumu looks at him, shaking out his knuckles, and doesn't say anything at all. 

He just walks away. And that's it. 

You're at The Lucky Cat again, smoking out in the back, leaning up against the back wall. You're expecting Osamu to show up, he usually would've by now, but it's Atsumu that appears before you. He plops up against the wall beside you without saying a word. His eyes are rimmed red. You put a hand on his arm. "Hey, Tsumu, you okay?" you ask gently. 

"I know," is all he says, looking straight forward at the ground before him. His voice is raw and hoarse. 

You know at once what he means. You take away your hand. "Oh," you let out. "So he told you then." 

Atsumu scoffs. "Samu didn't tell me fuckin' anything. Omi saw him kiss ya last night. Called me and told me right fuckin' then." 

You nod, and flick the end of your cigarette. You're not sure what to make of it, but there's this hard block of dread in your stomach, because you think you know what's coming next. It's hard to imagine Atsumu not hating you after this. You think his days of softness for you are over. The thought of it makes tears prick in your eyes. "So," you say, voice tight. 

"So?" Atsumu repeats back. 

"You hate me now?" you question, looking up at him with wet eyes. You didn't think it would bother you as much as it does, especially considering that you kind of deserve it. 

Atsumu stares back at you, brow furrowed. He shakes his head. "Nah, I don't hate ya," he admits. "I don't hate ya at all." 

A tear falls from your eye. You suddenly want him to take your hand. "'M sorry," you say, and you mean it. 

"I just don't know," he starts, and his eyes drop from yours to your lips, "why it couldn't've been me." 

You don't know why either, you just know that it never was. As much as you leaned on him and indulged in him, it was never Atsumu. You figured you should've told him that from the start. 

You're expecting it when it happens. Atsumu leans forward, presses his forehead against yours, and tilts your head up. He leans in, and kisses you. 

It's not anything like Osamu. When Atsumu kisses you, it is languid and wet. You do not kiss him back. His lips move slowly against yours, like he's waiting for you to catch up. When he realizes you are not going to, he stops, and pulls away. 

"Atsumu," you start, but he stops you. 

"No, I know," he says. "I just had to try." 

Osamu stops coming to The Lucky Cat. It's only when you stop seeing him that you realize that you don't have his number. You do the only thing you can think to do, and you show up at Onigiri Miya, like you did before. You knock on the locked door for six minutes, but no one answers. It makes you wonder if you were being ignored, or knocking on the door to an empty restaurant. 

You try three more times with the same result. 

You realize, with an ache in your chest, that you don't know how else to find him. You were just left alone, drifting, nothing to hold onto. 

The last time you saw Osamu, he was brushing his teeth. You were lying in his bed, and he had wandered back into the bedroom to grab a shirt. It was too early in the morning for you, and you knew he'd leave for work and you'd be left to see yourself out of his apartment. You didn't say anything to him, because you thought you'd get to later. You didn't even think about it. You wonder now what you'd say to him, if you had known. 

Part of you still holds out hope that he'll show up to The Lucky Cat, because he knows you'll be there. You are there, every night, waiting for him, the bar stool next to you always empty. 

You just want to talk to him. Tell him that it's not his fault, what happened, at least not really. You want to tell him that you still want him, if he still wants you. That you can make it work. Atsumu won't be mad forever - he'll get over it and you. 

You want to yell at him, too. Get mad at him for disappearing on you without saying anything. For kissing you the way he did and then not even giving you the dignity of saying goodbye. You want to ask him if he's punishing you, or himself. 

You want to tell him how you feel, too, because you realize you never got to. You want to tell him everything, and make him deal with it, once and for all. 

So you sit at the bar and drink your Sapporo's and you wait for him, but he never comes. The door keeps opening, and it's never Osamu. 

Tonight, he fucks you languidly, thrusts lazy and slow. He holds onto the back of your head and cradles you to his chest as you sit in his lap. He feels like he hasn't seen your face. "You feel so good, baby," he says into your ear, and places a quick, sloppy kiss onto the curve of your neck. "Feel so good." 

Your hips move with his. One hand grabs at the hair on the back of his neck. He thinks he can almost hear you say his name, like a breath. 

When he showers, he realizes you didn't kiss him. He lathers your body wash on, and thinks it means nothing. 

You're still awake in the dark bedroom when he emerges from the bathroom, towel around his waist. You're usually not. He sniffs the air, and frowns. "Are you smoking?" 

You lazily raise a hand, and in the dark, Hinata can see the red tip of a cigarette. He flicks on the bedroom light. You're not looking in his direction. He takes a step towards you. "You know I don't like it when you smoke. Especially not in the house." 

He watches you bring the cigarette to your lips and inhale. "You know, Sho," you say, smoke billowing from your lips as you speak, "I don't really care what you like anymore." 

Hinata blinks. "That's mean. Why are you being mean?" 

The smoke makes him want to cough. You don't say anything, you just keep smoking. The windows are closed, and Hinata gets annoyed, because the least you could do is open a window. 

He takes long strides across the room and does it himself. The fresh air is welcome, but the stale smell of cigarettes still dominates the room. "What's up with you tonight?" he grumbles, mostly to himself, and doesn't expect an answer. 

But you give him one. "I don't think I love you anymore, Sho." 

It doesn't really register to him, what you said. He's slipping on a pair of boxers, back to you, and he hears the words, but not really the meaning. "What?" he says. 

"I said I don't think I love you anymore," you repeat, and Hinata hears it this time. He turns to face you. You're still not looking at him. "Hard to love what's not there." 

Hinata stares. He doesn't really know what emotion washes over him, exactly. Maybe anger, irritation. He just knows it's not the way he's supposed to feel. "What are you talking about? I'm with you every day. I'm always here with you." 

You don't say anything. It irritates him further. "I'm with you every day," he insists again. "We live together. How is that not enough for you to love me? You're not-you're not making any sense." 

Hinata is aware of how the anger and sudden panic bleed into his voice, how his sentences get faster as he speaks. His hands clench into fists by his wide. He suddenly feels small and exposed, his hard stare fixed on you. 

You sit up in the bed you share together, legs dangling over the side, cigarette still in your hand. Hinata thinks briefly of how the sheets will smell, and wonders how he's supposed to get enough sleep for his morning practice. "Sho," you say, and your voice sounds softer than it did before, "I don't think you love me very much either." 

His voice feels caught in his throat. "Of course I love you," he says. He feels almost desperate, and sort of like he wants to cry. "I love you," he says again. 

It's clear to him then, everything he's done wrong. It didn't feel wrong when it did it. When he let you slip out of his life and into his own world. It felt normal, natural, like how things were supposed to progress. Like he was getting too tired to call you during his breaks and he felt like he knew you too much to get excited when he saw you at his matches. Hinata felt like you'd become too engrained in his life to be special anymore, and that's just how things were supposed to be. 

So it makes sense when you say, "I don't believe you." 

You sleep on the couch. He feels like he should argue with you, but he doesn't, and he sleeps in the bed, the smell of cigarette smoke in the sheets keeping him up all night, and you sleep on the couch. You're still there in the morning, and he kisses your head before he leaves. He texts you that he'll talk to you more, when he gets home. 

He gets back when he normally does, tired and sweaty and achy. He's tired and his chest feels like it's been hollowed out. For the first time in years, Hinata thought about you all day, and all the things he should've done. When he drops his gym bag on the floor and wonders through the apartment, he's not surprised to find you're not there.