Mar.s

Your parents had been setting you up on blind dates with rich trust-fund guys for the past month. You agreed to go because, somehow, each time they convinced you that this one would be different. This one would be mature. Charming. Successful. A gentleman.

Each and every time, they were wrong.

Those creatures were somehow the most boring, bland, and painfully egotistical people you had ever had the misfortune of meeting.

You still remembered the first guy.

You arrived at the restaurant only to find him already in the middle of a full-blown meltdown on the phone with his mother. Why? Because his barber had cut his sideburns half an inch too short. Half an inch. He was crying about how hideous he looked, how everyone would judge him, and how he was going to have a panic attack if she didn’t immediately come fix them.

His own mother hung up on him.

A reasonable response, honestly.

For the rest of the date, Mama’s Boy spent the entire evening complaining about how his mother didn’t love him anymore because she had hung up. He analyzed her tone, her choice of words, the exact number of seconds before she disconnected.

Then, near the end of the date, she called him back to apologize to her precious baby boy.

How did you know this? Because the absolute idiot put her on speaker.

The second date was somehow even worse.

It wasn’t enough that he was a snob with terrible fashion sense and a wine preference that could only be described as “whatever costs the most money.” No, that would have been tolerable.

What made him unbearable was how he treated the staff.

Mr. Rich-The-Bitch over here complained about every little thing. A spoon was slightly misplaced? A disaster. The water wasn’t poured fast enough? A personal attack.

At one point, he dropped his own spoon on the floor, called over a waiter to pick it up, and then blamed the poor man for being “unprofessional.”

The audacity.

As if that wasn’t enough, he spent half the night staring at the waitresses ass instead of having a conversation. That was the moment you decided you had suffered enough. You gave him a piece of your mind so brutally that the man nearly cried before rushing out to his limousine with his expensive shoes clicking across the floor.

So, when your parents announced there would be one final blind date and that you had to either choose this guy or continue enduring their endless parade of rich disasters, you decided enough was enough.

Your cousin had a brilliant idea. If you couldn’t refuse the date…you could make him refuse you.

The mission was simple: become the biggest walking red flag imaginable.

You went shopping and bought the most outrageously revealing, over-the-top dress you could find. You bought a ridiculous pink wig that looked like it belonged on a discount reality show, had your makeup done dramatically with enough glitter to blind someone under direct sunlight, and spent hours practicing the most obnoxious snobby voice and fake accent possible.

By the time you were finished, you looked like a woman who had spent one too many nights chasing wealthy sugar daddies and reality TV fame.

To your cousin, however, it wasn’t enough. “No, no, no,” she had said while circling you like a very judgmental fashion critic. “You need to look more fake.”

Which was honestly terrifying advice. So she added unnecessary amounts of chest and hip padding and insisted you tell anyone who asked that they were expensive cosmetic procedures.

You sat down in front of her and struck an exaggerated pose. “Mmm, darling,” you purred in your ridiculous new voice while tapping your fake nails together. “I don’t think anyone can handle all of this.”

Your cousin stared at you. For exactly three seconds. Then she broke. “I can’t take it anymore!” she wheezed, collapsing onto the couch as laughter escaped her. “If he-oh my God-if he actually likes you after this, maybe he’s the one.”

You flipped your hair dramatically. “Obviously. I’m a luxury experience.”

That only made her laugh harder. She pointed at you while struggling to breathe. “Perfect. No man with common sense is going anywhere near you like this.”

She suddenly coughed. Then coughed again.

Your smile faded. “What?”

“The perfume,” she managed to say between coughs. “The amount of perfume you sprayed might actually kill him before you even finish introducing yourself.”

“Even better.”

—

Reon really didn’t want to go on a blind date. The issue was that he was already dating someone. A hot, dangerous, infamous villain who was making a name for herself in the criminal world. And he was completely obsessed with her. He spoiled her rotten. Expensive gifts, expensive dinners, and anything she casually mentioned wanting once. If she looked at something for more than three seconds, he had probably already bought it.

Unfortunately, his parents found out.

They immediately set him up with a blind date and forced him to break up with her. A villain wasn’t exactly the kind of woman they pictured their precious son bringing home.

Reon pretended he agreed. Then he went straight back to her, practically begging her to stay. “Just give me some time,” he had told her. “I’ll figure something out.”

Which was how he found himself standing in the middle of a villain hideout, trying to hire someone to take his place and annoy a random woman so badly that she would reject him.

A completely normal solution.

There were already a handful of villains surrounding him, asking questions. Most of them had heard about Reon because of his girlfriend. That was the only reason he was allowed inside without being immediately robbed or thrown out. Well, that and the fact that everyone knew he was ridiculously rich.

“Sooo…” a man in a black and gray costume leaned forward excitedly. “What are we talking here? A hit? A kidnapping? Oh, wait, wait-is it blackmail?” The guy wasn’t bad. Actually, that was the problem. He was too nice. If Reon sent him on the date, there was a genuine chance the woman would actually like him, and then he would have created an entirely new problem.

Before he could answer, a large lizard-like man shoved his way forward. “If it’s a hit, I’m up for it.” Absolutely not. Reon wanted to scare the woman away, not have her family wondering why the date they arranged showed up as a creepy lizard man.

His eyes wandered across the room. That was when he saw him. A man sitting alone at the bar.

Half his face was covered in leathery burn scars. His bright blue eyes stood out sharply against the damaged skin, cold and unreadable. His spiky hair looked like he had never once bothered with a comb in his life.

The shadowy bartender slid a drink toward him. The man grabbed it and downed the entire thing in one motion. At that moment, Reon knew.

Perfect.

Terrifying enough to scare anyone away. Probably rude. Definitely scary. Exactly what he needed. He pushed past the crowd and approached the burnt man.

The man’s blue eyes landed on him. Then they narrowed into a glare. “Get lost.”

Most people would have taken the hint. Reon was not most people. “Are you interested in a two-thousand-dollar job?”

Immediately, the man looked more interested. “Who’s the target?”

“Not a hit.”

The man tilted his head. “Then what is it?”

Reon suddenly felt incredibly stupid saying this out loud. “A blind date.”

There was silence. The man blinked. Then his eyes shifted toward Reon. “What?”

Reon cleared his throat. “I need you to go on a blind date pretending to be me and scare the lady into rejecting me.”

Another pause. The man stared at him for several seconds. Then he slowly looked away. “You have way too much money on your hands.” He took another drink. “Get lost.”

Reon did not move. The man noticed. Of course he did. Those sharp blue eyes slid over to him again, more irritated this time. The scars stretching across half his face shifted as his mouth pulled into a slight frown. “You deaf?”

“No.”

“Then you’re stupid.”

“A little bit.”

The man blinked. That was not the answer he expected. From the corner of the room, the guy in the black and gray costume burst out laughing. “Damn, rich boy actually admitted it.”

“Shut up,” the scarred man muttered.

The villain raised his hands in surrender, still grinning. “Okay, okay, Dabi. Relax.”

Reon’s eyes widened slightly. So that was his name.

Slowly, Dabi turned his head. “Did the words not register, or are you just naturally annoying?”

“four thousand.”

Dabi paused. The silence was so immediate that Reon almost smiled. Almost. Dabi stared at his drink. Then he took another sip. “Not interested.”

Reon’s eye twitched. “Seven thousand.”

A small grin pulled at Dabi’s mouth. There it was. The reaction. He was interested. He just didn’t want Reon to know. “Wow,” Dabi said, his voice dripping with sarcasm. “You really are desperate.”

“Very.”

“At least you’re honest.”

Reon stepped closer. “My parents are trying to force me to marry some rich woman I’ve never met.”

“Tragic.”

“I have a girlfriend.”

“Good for you.”

“I love her.”

Dabi looked over. For the first time, his expression shifted from annoyed to mildly interested. “Really?”

“Yes.”

“You’re standing in a villain hideout offering a stranger seven thousand dollars to ruin your arranged date because you’re too much of a coward to just tell your parents no?”

Reon opened his mouth. Then closed it. “...When you say it like that, I sound pathetic.”

“You are pathetic.” A few villains nearby snorted.

Reon ignored them. “But I’m loyal.”

Dabi rolled his eyes. “Sure.”

“I am.”

“Mhmm.”

“She’s amazing.”

“I’m sure she is.”

“She’s the most beautiful woman in the world.”

Dabi groaned. “Oh, hell. Disgusting.”

“Disgusting?”

“Your hopeless romantic idiot act.”

“I’m not an idiot.”

“You’re paying a criminal to go on a fake date for you.”

A pause. “When you say it like that...”

Dabi stood up from the bar, stretching his arms. He was taller than Reon had realized. The difference in their presence was almost laughable. Reon looked like someone who belonged at a charity gala. Dabi looked like he belonged on a wanted poster. He probably did.

“You know,” Dabi said, shoving his hands into his pockets, “I’ve burned down buildings, fought heroes, and committed enough crimes to make the news for a year.”

“That’s not reassuring.”

“And somehow, this is the dumbest job I’ve ever been offered.”

“Is that a yes?”

“No.”

Reon sighed. “ten thousand.”

Dabi stopped walking. The entire room went quiet. Even the lizard guy turned around. Dabi slowly looked back over his shoulder. “You’re joking.”

“No.”

“You’d pay me ten grand to be a bad date?”

“Yes.”

A smile spread across Dabi’s face. Not a nice smile. The kind of smile that made people immediately regret everything. Reon, unfortunately, thought it was progress.

Dabi walked back over. “What exactly are the rules?”

Reon straightened. “So you’ll do it?”

“Don’t get excited. I just want to hear how stupid this gets.”

Reon took that as a victory. “Okay. Rule number one: don’t kill her.”

Dabi stared. “…Can’t promise anything rich boy.”

“I’m paying you ten grand.”

“Fair.”

“Rule number two, no permanent injuries.”

Dabi clicked his tongue. “You’re taking all the fun out of this.”

“You can scare her.”

“Psychological damage?”

“Preferably.”

“Emotional trauma?”

Reon hesitated. “Within reason.”

Dabi’s grin widened. “Oh? Okay I don’t hate this arrangement.”

Reon suddenly had a terrible feeling. “Wait.”

“What?”

“Why are you smiling like that?”

Dabi grabbed his coat. “Because, rich boy, I’m going to be ten grand richer.”

Reon asked. “But now?”

Dabi looked over his shoulder. “Send me the details.”

Reon watched him leave. For some reason, despite getting exactly what he wanted, he felt like he had made a catastrophic mistake.

From the other side of the room, someone called out. “Hey, rich guy.”

Reon looked over. “Yeah?”

The villain grinned. “Hope your girlfriend’s worth it.”

Reon looked toward the door Dabi had walked through. Then he sighed. “She is.” The entire hideout collectively decided he was somehow more embarrassing than the villains.

—

You were planning on arriving extremely late. Some people arrived fashionably late to these kinds of things. Ten minutes. Maybe twenty if they were really pushing it. But you? You sat in your expensive car for forty-five whole minutes, scrolling through your phone and occasionally checking your reflection in the mirror.

The ridiculous pink wig was still perfectly in place. The makeup was still obnoxiously overdone. The perfume was probably poisoning everyone within a five-meter radius. The man would take one look at you, realize you were a complete nightmare, and leave. That was the goal.

So, with your confidence at an all-time high, you finally stepped into the restaurant. And he wasn’t there. You paused.

Weird. Did Reon leave? Your mother had informed you that was his name. Not that it mattered. You weren’t planning on remembering it by the end of the night anyway.

You sat down anyway, crossing your legs and deciding to wait a little longer. If he didn’t show up in another ten minutes, you would happily tell your parents that their precious final candidate had stood you up. A victory.

“Sorry about being late.” A rough, deep voice came from behind you. “An hour, was it, that you waited?”

Your eyes followed the sound. And immediately, you froze. That was not what you expected. At all.

He was wearing a dark leather jacket that stood out among the suits and fancy dresses in this restaurant. His bright blue eyes were sharp and unimpressed, and the skin along his jaw was scarred and burned, held together by metal staples.

He looked dangerous. Like the kind of man your parents would call security over before he even reached the table. Which made absolutely no sense. Your parents had spent the last month trying to set you up with rich, polished trust-fund babies who cried about bad haircuts and argued with waiters over spoons.

And now this?

This looked like the final boss of poor decisions. The man sat down across from you. His posture wasn’t refined. There was no expensive watch being subtly shown off. No designer anything. No practiced smile meant to charm wealthy families.

He sat like someone who had spent his entire life doing whatever he wanted and didn’t care whether anyone approved. Suspicion immediately filled your mind.

Wait.

Something wasn’t adding up. Then another thought struck. He was later than you. Your eyes narrowed. You had intentionally been forty-five minutes late. Which meant this asshole had been over an hour late. If you had actually arrived on time, you would have been sitting there alone for a full sixty minutes.

The audacity. The absolute audacity. For a moment, you almost respected it. Almost. “No, don’t worry,” you said in your most over-the-top, fake, flirtatious voice as you leaned across the table. “I only got here fifteen minutes ago.”

His blue eyes stared at you. Unmoving. A strange silence passed between you.

Well. Whatever. A scary face wasn’t going to scare you off. You had survived Mama’s Boy and Mr. Rich-The-Bitch. This guy had no idea who he was dealing with. You were still going to make him regret showing up.

He offered a lopsided smirk, his voice dropping an octave. “Oh? Then maybe I’ll take my apology back.”

“Woah, and here I was expecting actual manners,” you teased, your voice pitching high with a sharp, faux indignation that drew a few curious glances from the neighboring tables. You smoothed the expensive fabric of your designer outfit, gesturing with a manicured hand to your silhouette as if to remind him of the sheer cost that you wasted to scare him off. “You don’t even look like you could afford to tip, let alone me.”

He paused, as he leaned back into the velvet depths of the chair. He didn’t look insulted; he looked like he was studying a particularly strange insect. His eyes remained heavy and unblinking, tracking the movement of your hands with a slow, predatory stillness. “Didn’t know you were on sale,” he muttered, his tone so flat and disinterested it was as if he were talking to the wall rather than a woman.

“What are you looking at?” you snapped, the annoyance prickling at your skin. He was being far too silent, refusing to give you the dignified, flustered response, of a man who wants to leave, should have offered. How dare he be this unimpressed?

“Your chest,” he replied simply, his gaze dropping with shameless care.

The bluntness of it caught you off guard. Your first instinct was to reach for the heavy glass jar of water on the table and splash him senseless, but you forced yourself to settle. Instead, you poured a glass, sipping it slowly to keep your composure. You couldn’t let this bastard get under your skin; you were supposed to be the one intimidating him, yet the intensity of his stare was sending a frantic shiver down your spine.

“Woahh, really?” you purred, shifting your posture to lean into the attention. You let your hands dance playfully over your curves. “I actually had them done a while ago in America. They were ten thousand each. This one is Veronika, and the other is Jessica.”

A sharp scoff escaped him, and he leaned forward, nearly choking on his own amusement. “Veronika and Jessica, huh?” His eyes darkened, a flicker of something mischievous dancing in them. “I’d really love to meet them one day.”

Okay, creepy. Also... hot? What the fuck. The realization made you feel flustered. To distract yourself from the heat rising in your cheeks, you change topics. “Anyway,” you say, louder than necessary.

Time for operation: unbearable.

“We still haven’t properly introduced ourselves, right?” you asked sweetly before giving him your name.

He stared at you for a second. A little too long. Like he had genuinely forgotten his own name. Ridiculous. “I’m uh-”

You blinked. No. No way. “Reon, right?” you asked slowly.

There was a brief pause. Almost like he was relieved. “Oh. Yeah.” Another pause. “That’s my name.”

You stared at him. There was no way. Absolutely no way. How did a grown man forget his own name? This had to be a new level of arrogance. He was so rich that he forgot his own identity? Unbelievable. You smiled brightly. Internally, you were concerned. Not because he was scary. Not because of the scars. Not because he looked like he had committed at least three felonies. No. You were concerned because your parents had somehow managed to find a man who was either incredibly stupid or completely insane.

And somehow, neither option surprised you anymore.

You lean back dramatically. “So,” you begin, voice suddenly sharp and overly confident, “I’ve had better dates.” Pause. Nothing. Not even a blink.

You continue anyway. “My ex used to drive a Lamborghini,” you say casually. “Not that it matters. I broke up with him because he cried during a Marvel movie.” Still nothing. You narrow your eyes. Okay. Weird response.

You pivot harder. “Actually, I don’t even like guys who don’t cry at movies,” you add. “It’s a red flag.”

He watched you through the haze of his own boredom. No blinking. No nodding. No polite little reactions to reassure you he was listening. Just… stillness. Like your words were something happening far away, unrelated to him entirely.

When you mentioned the red flag of men not crying at movies, something flickered in his eyes.

Amusement. Brief. Almost missed. But it was there. And just as quickly, he buried it under that same lazy, cynical mask. He leaned forward. The fabric of his coat shifted with a low rustle as his elbows hit the table, invading your space without hesitation. Not enough to touch you.

Enough to make it uncomfortable. Enough to make you aware you were trapped in it with him. “A Lamborghini, huh?” he repeated slowly, voice dripping with sarcasm. “Sounds expensive.” A pause. “And loud.” His gaze flicked over you. “Just like you, apparently.”

Your eye twitched. He didn’t stop there.

His fingers drifted to the centerpiece on the table, a delicate arrangement of flowers. He didn’t touch them gently. He poked at them idly, like he was considering how easy it would be to ruin them just to see what you’d do.

Then he looked back at you.

Dead center. Unblinking. “The crying thing,” he said, voice lower now. He let the silence stretch. Too long. Uncomfortable on purpose. Then he leaned in just a fraction closer. His presence hit different up close, something sharp underneath the calm, like smoke and static in the air. “Do I look to you,” he asked quietly, “like I cry at any movie?”

You swallowed. “No.” The answer came out faster than you meant it to.

A faint smirk tugged at his mouth. “Good,” he murmured. He took a sip of his drink.

You leaned forward again trying to regain your composure. “So,” you say, pointing at him, “what do you even drive? Because if it’s not something expensive, I’m going to be disappointed.”

A pause. “…Nothing you can’t afford,” he says flatly.

Your brain short-circuits for half a second. Excuse you?? You recover instantly. “Oh my GOD,” you say, slamming your hand lightly on the table. “That is so embarrassing for you to admit.”

Still nothing from him. No reaction. No embarrassment. No nothing. It’s like talking to a wall that occasionally insults you back. You push further. “I should also tell you,” you continue, leaning in like you’re confessing something scandalous, “I think piercings are overrated.”

That gets a reaction. Finally, a small glance. Barely there. But it’s something. You latch onto it immediately. “Yes,” you nod seriously, “I said it. Ugly. Overhyped. Emotionally disappointing.”

He reached up, his long, scarred fingers tracing the edge of a staple near his jawline, his touch almost a caress to the metal. He looked at your eyes with a gaze that was suddenly much sharper, much more focused.

You pause. Wait. Why are you insulting his piercings? Now you feel guilty.

"Look at you," He sneered, his voice dripping with quiet cruelty that felt far more personal than his previous sarcasm. He gestured vaguely toward you, his fingers twitching as if he were pointing out a flaw in a piece of cheap merchandise. "Are you not embarrassed to go out looking like a hooker?" The words were designed to sting. He let out a short, derisive snort, his lip curling in a way that made the staples around his mouth pull taut. He leaned back. "Well, it doesn’t matter, does it?" he said, his tone dismissive, as if your opinion of him was entirely irrelevant. "I wouldn’t touch you with a ten foot pole," He said, his voice final, like the closing of a coffin lid.

The sting of his words was sharp, a jagged blade aimed straight at your pride, but you refused to let the mask slip. If he wanted to treat you like a cheap commodity, then that’s perfect, you came here to get him to reject you.

Taking note to never insult his piercings, you decided to not respond.

Instead you forced your hands to remain steady as you waved down a waiter with a practiced, haughty flick of your wrist. You grabbed the menu, your finger stabbing at a particularly expensive looking entrée with aggressive, unearned confidence.

“This one,” you announce. “And make it dramatic.”

The waiter hesitates. “Dramatic how?”

You pointed at him without thinking. “Like him,” you said. And immediately regretted it. Your eyes widened. “…I mean, NOT like him. Nothing can be as over the top as whatever he is.”

His eyebrows lifted. “Me?” he asked, genuine disbelief creeping into his voice. “I’m over the top?”

“Mhm.”

He scoffed. “You look-”

“Oh, don’t even start again,” you cut him off, pointing a manicured finger at him. “Look at what you’re wearing.”

He glanced down at his leather jacket. “What’s wrong with it?”

You stared. Actually stared. “You came into an expensive five-star restaurant looking like you belong in a motorcycle gang.”

A pause. The corner of his mouth twitched. Not a smile. Definitely not a smile.

“The only reason they haven’t kicked you out yet is because everyone here is terrified you’ll make a scene.” The waiter cleared his throat. You pointed immediately. “See?”

Reon looked over. The waiter looked away. Very quickly. He turned back to you. “…That doesn’t prove anything.”

“Oh my God, you’re in denial.”

“You’re wearing a neon pink wig.”

“It’s fashion.”

“It’s a cry for help.”

Your jaw dropped. “How dare you.”

“It’s ugly.”

“Actually, it cost three hundred dollars.”

“That’s somehow worse.”

You put a hand over your chest, genuinely offended. “You know what? I don’t think you appreciate art.”

“I think whoever sold you that wig is a criminal.”

You froze. A beat passed. Then another. The irony. The absolute irony. “You know what?” you said slowly. “For the first time tonight, I think we actually agree on something.”

That earned a pause from him. His eyes narrowed. “You’re annoying.”

You smiled brightly. “Thank you.”

“That wasn’t a compliment.”

“Wow. You really say that a lot.”

“Because you keep taking insults as compliments.”

“Well, maybe you should try being nicer.”

“Maybe you should try being less embarrassing.”

Your eye twitched. Silence. You slowly settled down. Perfect. Absolutely flawless execution. You are definitely not losing control of this situation. Not even a little. You glanced at him, trying to fix the atmosphere. “What do you like?”

He didn’t even glance at the menu. His expression remained dead serious as he looked the waiter straight in the eye. “Oh, I’d like to eat her out right now, actually.”

Your brain practically short circuited, a hot, prickling flush creeping up your neck as your mouth hung open in sheer, unmitigated shock.

What the absolute fuck?

One second he was sneering at you like you were something he’d scraped off the bottom of his boot, and the next, he was throwing out the most inappropriate, scandalous proposition in the history of fine dining. The sheer audacity of the pivot was humiliating, leaving you feeling exposed under the bright lights of the restaurant.

“Are-!” You stammered, your cool facade finally cracking as you hissed the word under your breath. You leaned in, your voice a frantic, low whisper. “Are you actually insane? You can’t just... say things like that in a place like this! Do you have no sense of decorum, or is ’being a total degenerate’ just your entire personality?”

A slow, teasing smirk tugged at the corner of his mouth, his gaze heavy and unbothered. “Oh? Does that embarrass you?”

You felt the heat climb up your neck, eyes darting around the dimly lit restaurant. “Yes! No normal human being says something that blunt with a completely straight face,” you hissed again, leaning in closer to him to keep your voice low.

“What, you’re taken aback because I think we should fuck?” he countered, his tone dropping into that low, gravelly register that made your heart skip a beat.

“Stop it,” you pleaded, though your hand instinctively drifted to the table, fingers brushing against his.

“Why? Are you actually scared of the word? Say it, fuck.”

“People are staring,” you whispered, your skin flushing a deep rose as you tried to regain some semblance of dignity.

“Who?” he asked, looking entirely too smug for a man sitting in public. “Should I kill them?”

“What, you’re joking.”

You bit your lip, glancing helplessly toward the waiter, who was currently frozen mid step, a notepad poised in hand as he waited, only for Reon to snap a lethal, predatory glare in his direction. The temperature at the table spiked instantly.

“What the fuck are you looking at?” He growled, his posture shifting as he began to stand, a flicker of dangerous blue flame licking at his palms. His gaze swept over the waiter with terrifying intensity. “You tryna embarrass my girl?”

“Hey! Hey, calm down!” You hissed, your heart hammering against your ribs as you lunged forward to press your hands against his chest, trying to force him back into the booth before he caused a literal riot. The man was absolutely unhinged, and you were certain they were seconds away from being kicked out or arrested. "Sit down before you burn the whole restaurant down, you idiot!”

—

Dabi was about to lose it. He could feel it bubbling up in his chest, something between a laugh and a scoff, sharp and uncontrollable. He really wanted to laugh. Actually laugh. Not because this was funny in a normal way. But because it was so absurd it circled all the way back around to entertaining.

Has he ever been on an actual date? Fuck no.

Why the hell would he waste time doing something like that? Sitting around, pretending to care, smiling like an idiot, listening to boring small talk about nothing that mattered. That kind of shit wasn’t for him. Never was.

But this? This wasn’t a date. This was chaos dressed up in expensive perfume.

And the girl across from him, whatever her deal was, was actively trying to make him leave. Or at least she thought she was. That was the funny part. She had no idea he was doing the exact same thing. Trying to ruin it. And it was working. Not in the way she thought. But in a way that made this whole situation genuinely entertaining. Scaring people. Pushing buttons. Watching reactions crack and spiral out of control. Hell yeah. That part? That he understood. That part? That he liked.

Dabi leaned towards her slightly, eyes half-lidded as he watched her like she was some kind of twisted performance he hadn’t paid for but was enjoying anyway.

Yeah.

This was way better than some real date. Way better than pretending to be normal. Normal was boring. This? This was a game worth a ten grand win.

“He was looking at you. I should kill him right now,” he said, his voice dripping with empty threats. He didn’t actually give two shits about the guy. He was just saying whatever sounded the most embarrassing and terrifying in the moment.

He watched her eyes widen for half a second, a small tremble passing over her expression before she immediately slipped back into her ridiculous act.

“Oh, you’re right! How dare he look at me!” she gasped dramatically, her voice so exaggerated that it took every bit of Dabi’s self-control not to scoff. She was a terrible actress. Absolutely awful. “But why did you call me your girl?” she continued, tilting her head with an over-the-top smile. “That kind of title requires a much more serious conversation.”

“What kind?” he asked, sitting back in his chair with a lazy, lopsided smirk. It would be a lie to say he wasn’t feeling completely out of place; the sheer opulence of the venue made him itch to burn the whole damn building to the ground just to see if the flames matched the decor.

“The kind that involves a hotel card, a condom, and just you and me,” She purred, her eyes shimmering with a playful, dangerous heat. Dabi actually choked on his own breath, a rare moment of genuine shock breaking his cool facade. Is she fucking stupid? he wondered, staring at her face. Can she not tell he’s a criminal, not some high society suitor?

“Oh, I’m not much for hotels,” he countered, his voice dripping with mockery as he regained his composure. “I prefer things a little more... loud.”

“I like things quiet!” she hissed, her wavy pink wig swaying as she leaned in, her patience thinning.

“Oh no, I think we should be loud. And public,” he teased, clearly enjoying the way he could needle her.

“Think again, Reon, I’m the one deciding!” she snapped, her hand trembling slightly with a mix of irritation and adrenaline.

“I don’t know, I’m the man, right? Women are usually too dim to make the big calls anyway ”

That was the final straw. Her face contorted, her expression shifting from sultry to murderous so quickly it was a wonder she didn’t actually start steaming. She slammed her hands onto the table, leaning into his space until he could feel the heat radiating off her. "One more word out of that scarred mouth about what a woman can do," she breathed, her voice low and lethal, "and you’ll be the one begging for mercy."

“Oh? Begging for mercy?” Dabi leaned forward, the heat radiating from his palms enough to make the air shimmer. “Can a woman really do anything? Looking at you, sweetheart, I think I could kill you in seconds.”

A chill that had nothing to do with the air conditioning raced down her spine, sending goosebumps blooming across her skin. Her eyes twitched, a flicker of genuine, unadulterated fear crossing her face before it was swallowed by pure, indignant rage. “I-damn it! I’m leaving! I’ve had enough of your ego!” She snatched her bag from the table, her movements frantic and uncoordinated as she stormed toward the exit.

Dabi didn’t rush. He stood up with a lazy, predator-like grace, offering a mocking wave to an elderly, wealthy couple who were staring at the scene in stunned silence. He followed her out into the night, his footsteps heavy and deliberate against the pavement.

By the time he caught up, She was already fumbling at the door of her car, her hands trembling as she pried her bag open, desperately searching for her keys.

“Leaving so soon?” he hummed, his voice a low, vibrating drawl in the quiet air.

She spun around, losing her balance for a split second as she stumbled back against the car door. “Just fuck off, damn it!” she snapped, her eyes darting back to her bag as she continued her frantic search.

“And here I thought you were going to have me begging for mercy,” he mocked, his voice dripping with amusement. He stepped into her personal space, the light from the streetlamp catching the silver staples in his skin as he dangled her keys just out of her reach, “Looking for these? Oh and by the way you said fuck, do I win something for that?”

—

You paused. Stunned. Annoyed. Shaken. Every single emotion fought for control over your expression, and judging by the way his stupid smirk grew, you were failing miserably.

You wanted to leave the moment this asshole showed up an hour late. Actually, no. You wanted to leave the moment he somehow managed to outdo your own intentional lateness. The audacity of that alone should have been enough to make you walk away. You wanted to leave when he started making those disgusting jokes.

You wanted to leave when you realized, to your own horror, that some of those jokes were actually funny.

You wanted to leave when he threatened a waiter and acted like he was one bad mood away from turning the entire restaurant into a nightmare.

You wanted to leave when he suddenly started acting possessive over you out of absolutely nowhere.

And you definitely wanted to leave when he started insulting women.

That was it. That was the line. Not the lateness. Not the terrifying attitude. Not the fact that he looked like he belonged in a criminal lineup rather than a five-star restaurant. No. Somehow, unbelievably, the thing that finally broke your patience was his ego. Which made you even more annoyed with yourself. Because why the hell did it take you this long?

“Give me my fucking keys!” you snapped, lunging toward him with a desperate grab, but he simply stepped back with a lazy, infuriating grace. Your skin flushed a deep rose from a mix of embarrassment and pure fury as you pressed your back against the cool metal of the car. “I’m going home. Now.”

“Nah I don’t think so,” he countered, his voice dripping with a sarcasm that made your teeth ache. He tilted his head. “You were the one suggesting a hotel, weren’t you? I think we should follow through.”

“Oh man, please, just give me my damn keys!” you groaned, burying your face in your hands for a fleeting second. It was humiliating; you, a grown woman, standing in a dimly lit parking lot, practically pleading for your own property.

“I don’t know,” he hummed, dangling the keychain just out of your reach, his eyes glinting with mischief. “You said I had an ego. I think you should do a little more begging.”

You bit your lip so hard it nearly bled, your eyes flashing as you tried to regain your composure. “Come on, don’t be difficult. Just hand them over and we can go our separate ways. Please.”

A low, dark chuckle vibrated in his chest. “Haha. You’re never getting these keys, sweetheart.”

The last shred of your patience snapped like a dry twig. You stepped into his space, glaring up at him with murderous intent. “Oh, fuck off and give me my keys, you absolute bitch!”

His smirk didn’t falter. “Oh, you’re mad now? I don’t like that attitude,” he murmured, his voice dropping an octave as he crowded you against the car.

You froze, the heat of his body pressing you against the metal car door, his heavy gaze making your skin prickle. For a second, you just stared at him, your mind racing through a dozen different ways to slap that smug, lopsided smirk right off his face.

But then, a sudden, reckless impulse took hold a ’fuck it’ moment that bypassed all logic. Instead of pushing him away, you surged upward, hooking your arms tightly around his neck and pulling him down as you crashed your lips against his.

The keys were still clutched in his hand, forgotten and dangling uselessly between you, as you poured all your indignant, simmering frustration into the kiss.

He froze for a fraction of a second, the sudden impact of your body against his catching him completely off guard. He was prepared for a slap, a shove, or even a scream, but not this. The sheer, unadulterated ferocity of your kiss was like a sudden burst of blue flame, hot and consuming. The metallic taste of your bitten lip and the frantic energy of your movements sent a jolt of pure electricity straight to his gut.

His eyes widened, the turquoise irises shimmering in the dim light of the parking lot, before they hooded again, darkening with a sudden, intense hunger. He let go of the keys in his hand, forgotten as his fingers instinctively curled around your waist, pulling you flush against him.

He didn’t just return the kiss; he met the intensity with a predatory force of his own. His tongue swept against yours, a rough, demanding motion that sought to dominate the very breath in your lungs.

A low, guttural sound vibrated deep in his throat, somewhere between a groan and a growl. He leaned into you, his lanky frame pinning you more firmly, creating a stark contrast between the cold steel and the searing heat of his skin. His hands slid down from your waist, one pressing firmly into your back to arch your body into his, while the other tangled into your wig, his fingers tugging just enough to tilt your head back and expose the line of your throat.

The irritation from this day, the exhaustion, the sheer annoyance of the venue it all burned away, replaced by a singular, driving need to reclaim the control you were so brazenly trying to steal.

You pulled back just enough to catch your breath, your chest heaving as you stared up at him with eyes that were still hazy with heat and lingering fury. His arrogance hung in the air, but you weren’t about to give him the satisfaction of a witty retort or a submissive gaze.

Instead, you waited for the split second his grip loosened in his surprise, and with a lightning fast movement, you snatched the keys from where they had slipped to the pavement.

Without a single word of surrender, you ducked under his arm, scrambled into the driver’s seat, and slammed the door shut with a definitive, echoing thud. As you peeled away into the night, you caught one last glimpse of his stunned silhouette in the rearview mirror, leaving him standing there in the dark with nothing but his ego to keep him company.

—

nostalgia/ˌnɒsˈtæl.dʒə/ (US /nɑːˈstæl.dʒə/) noun [U] A feeling of pleasure and also slight sadness when you think about things that happened in the past.

For Atsumu, nostalgia was never something he knew how to name properly. It wasn’t soft in the way people described it in books, and it definitely wasn’t something he’d ever sit around dwelling on. But sometimes it crept in anyway. One of the earliest times he could remember feeling it, came from something as ordinary as a bunk bed. He could still see it clearly in his mind, even now. A small room, just big enough for two seven-year-olds. It held a kind of warmth that seemed to slow everything down.

The day the bunk bed arrived had been loud in the way all childhood moments were loud. Atsumu had claimed the top bunk immediately, of course. He remembered it vividly: the way he had scrambled up the ladder with far too much confidence for someone his age, shouting that he was first and that meant it was his. Afterward, he had sat up there proudly, chest puffed out, convinced he had won something important.

Osamu, who was usually just as competitive, hadn’t cared in the way Atsumu expected him to. He’d only looked at the situation for a moment, smiled like he knew a secret Atsumu was too naïve to understand, and taken the bottom bunk without protest.

At the time, Atsumu had assumed that meant Osamu was a sore loser. What he failed to realise was that the bottom bunk was easier. It offered quick access to the floor, to snacks hidden in drawers, and to chargers that never seemed to reach the top bunk properly. It wasn’t that Osamu was especially intuitive; it was more that Atsumu had always chased whatever looked more impressive at first glance.

Atsumu only understood the difference when it started affecting his sleep. The top bunk felt too high whenever he woke up with his heart racing from his newly found fear. The view from up there felt overwhelming. Sometimes he would lie awake in the dark, staring at the ceiling, convinced he might fall.

The feeling wasn’t even logical.

On nights like that, he would climb down. He never really thought about it. His body simply moved before his pride could catch up. The ladder would creak softly beneath his weight as he descended through the darkness, careful at first, then less careful the closer he got to the bottom bunk.

Osamu always noticed. Even half-asleep, even with his face buried in the pillow, he would shift slightly when Atsumu climbed in. Sometimes he muttered something under his breath that Atsumu never quite remembered the next morning. But he always made space. Without question. Moving just enough so Atsumu could fit beside him. And Atsumu would always crawl in too quickly, like if he hesitated, he might be told to leave.

He would press himself against the warmth beside his brother, small and restless and suddenly much quieter than he’d been all day. Osamu never said anything meaningful about it. He would simply drape an arm around him, loosely at first, then more firmly when Atsumu didn’t pull away. And eventually, Atsumu would fall asleep like that. His breathing would slow. His thoughts would fade. The fear that had woken him in the first place would dissolve into something less defined.

Even now, years later, he remembered that feeling more clearly than most things from his childhood. Just that strange warmth that made everything else fade.

Maybe that was why he’d never felt the need for other people. He already felt that comfort once.

That wasn’t to say he disliked everyone. He just never saw the point in spending energy trying to make people like him. He didn’t care about being sweet, agreeable, or easy to get along with. The entire concept felt exhausting. Besides, most of his social needs had been fulfilled the moment he was born. He had Osamu. A built-in best friend, rival, roommate, teammate, and occasional punching bag all wrapped into one person.

And then middle school happened. The older they got, the more Atsumu began seeing his brother less as someone who was simply there and more as someone he had to catch up to. The realization hadn’t arrived all at once. It had crept up on him gradually through practices, matches, and the tiny moments that piled together until they became impossible to ignore. Osamu was good. Really good.

Good enough that Atsumu couldn’t comfortably tell himself he was automatically the better twin anymore.

So he did what he always did whenever something threatened his pride. He worked harder. Every day he woke up earlier. Every day he stayed later. Every day he found some excuse to squeeze in another hour of practice, another set of serves, another opportunity to improve. And because routines were sacred, every day began and ended exactly the same way. The same bus. The same stop. The same seat. Atsumu was surprisingly protective of that seat. But it was his seat.

So he became an asshole about it.

Sometimes he pushed his bag into others’ floor space. Sometimes he manspread as obnoxiously as possible. Sometimes he simply stared. The staring worked too well. Eventually it became routine. Students would glance toward the seat. See Atsumu. And immediately continue walking. Perfect. Exactly how he liked it. Just a quiet ride where he could nap before practice or recover afterward. The system worked flawlessly.

That was until an annoying first-year who didn’t even attend his school started seeing the empty seat beside him as a promise rather than a threat. Most people didn’t mind standing for forty minutes if it meant he would stop glaring at them. This idiot, however, appeared completely immune to social cues.

Atsumu tried glaring. Nothing. He tried shoving his volleyball bag farther into their space. Nothing. He even went as far as muttering complaints under his breath whenever they sat down. Again, nothing. That was Level Three Atsumu. He’d never deployed Level Three Atsumu before. Frankly, most people folded at Level One. Yet every day the idiot returned, sat down, opened some impossibly boring schoolwork, and acted like the six-foot-tall blonde beside them wasn’t actively trying to chase them away.

Eventually, Atsumu realized he was losing. Worse, he wasn’t entirely sure he wanted to win anymore.

The more days passed, the more he found himself tolerating their presence. Then enjoying it. Then expecting it. Somewhere along the way he’d been lulled into submission by whatever strange magic they possessed.

It was deeply embarrassing. Even more embarrassing was the sleeping. Atsumu never slept on the bus. Missing his stop was unacceptable. Depending on alarms was pathetic. Naps were for children. These were all very reasonable beliefs he held right up until the first time he woke up with his head pressed against your chest.

He nearly died. Because he’d fallen asleep on a stranger. A complete stranger. A person whose name he didn’t even know. Yet instead of immediately moving away like a normal human being, his first coherent thought had been: Warm. Which was a terrible sign.

The worst part was that it reminded him of being a kid. Of climbing down from the top bunk after a nightmare and crawling into Osamu’s bed. Of wrapping his arms around his brother and falling asleep before he could even finish being scared. It was that same stupid feeling. Comfortable. Safe. The kind of feeling Atsumu absolutely refused to think about for more than three seconds at a time.

Then, somehow, it got worse. Because one day you fell asleep on him. Atsumu still remembered the exact moment. One second you were studying. The next your head was on his shoulder. And suddenly he had no idea what to do with his body. Could he move? Was moving illegal? If he shifted and woke you up, would that make him an asshole? He spent the entire bus ride sitting perfectly still.

It felt a bit like discovering a spider in his room, because he was suddenly terrified of making the wrong movement and causing said spider (you) to die (leave) before he could take it outside.

“Atsumu, stop staring at your phone like a schoolgirl with a huge crush. It’s fuckin’ disgusting.” Osamu’s voice echoed through the locker room. Atsumu looked up immediately. “The hell’s wrong with you?”

“What’s wrong with me?” Atsumu shot back. “What’s wrong with YOU? I dare anyone here to scold me. This guy starts arguments for no reason.”

“He’s not wrong.” Suna didn’t even look up from his water bottle. That was enough. A chorus followed almost immediately.

“Yeah, you’ve been weird.”

“Super weird.”

“You changed your deodorant.”

Atsumu froze. “What?”

“The citrus one.”

“Your body wash too.”

“The shampoo.”

“You started carrying gum.”

The accusations came from every direction now, like they’d been waiting to ambush him. Atsumu stared at them in disbelief. “Those are normal hygiene habits.”

“Not for you.”

“Crazy.”

“Few months ago you smelled like a gym bag.”

Atsumu slammed a hand on the bench. “THAT’S NOT TRUE.”

“It is.”

“It absolutely is.”

“Ouch.” He pointed at all of them. “You’re all assholes.”

A pause. Then, “Did you get a partner or something?” Suna’s voice cut through the room casually.

The energy shifted instantly. “OHHH.”

Atsumu didn’t answer. Because he didn’t really know what to call you. Not after the kiss. Not after the way it had lingered in his head like a replay he couldn’t turn off. Soft. Sudden. Unreal. And then you were gone. No messages. No bus rides. Nothing. A week of silence he didn’t know how to handle. He’d tried texting. Blocked. Everywhere. That alone had made something in his chest tighten in a way he didn’t like thinking about too long.

Practice got worse after that. His timing slipped, his focus broke in the middle of drills, and Osamu called him distracted more than once. He snapped back every time, sharper than necessary, without even fully understanding why.

So he told himself he’d fix it properly. Today. 5 a.m. Because apparently this was what desperation looked like.

The bus stop was nearly empty when he got there. The sky still dark, air too cold, the world not fully awake yet.

He hated it. But he waited anyway. When the bus finally arrived, he stepped on, and froze. There you were. Curled up in your usual seat, head tilted against the window, completely asleep. Your bag half-slipped down your arm, your breathing slow and steady like none of this mattered at all.

Like you hadn’t destroyed his entire emotional stability and then disappeared.

Old women sat nearby, whispering to each other with amused smiles, clearly entertained by something in the early morning quiet.

Atsumu didn’t move. He just stared. “Wake up!” His voice cut through the bus. Heads turned. So did yours. You flinched awake immediately, blinking rapidly as you tried to understand where you were. Your eyes landed on him. And your face immediately turned red. Atsumu smirked. There it was. “Go out with me!” he called again, louder this time.

Another flinch.

The bus collectively reacted now, some gasps, some laughter, one of the older ladies audibly delighted.

“Please,” he continued, stepping further down the aisle like he couldn’t stop himself anymore. “I can’t stop thinking about you, so stop being cruel and just answer me already.”

Your eyes widened. You looked away instantly, like that might make you disappear. Atsumu knew this was embarrassing. You knew it too. Everyone knew. He didn’t care. Not even a little.

One of the ladies clapped softly. “Answer him, girl! We don’t have all day!” Laughter rippled through the bus. Silence hung between you two.

Atsumu watched you carefully now, the way your lips pressed together, the way you avoided his gaze, the way your hands fidgeted like you were trying to decide whether to run again.

Then you spoke. “…Fine.” A pause. “Let’s talk tomorrow.” Your voice was still red with embarrassment. But it was an answer.

Atsumu blinked. Then he grinned. Wide. Bright. Completely unguarded as his ears became redder. “Yeah,” he said, already stepping back as the doors opened. “Tomorrow.”

He got off the bus, watching it pull away with a feeling he couldn’t quite name yet, only that it was loud, warm, and impossible to ignore.

.

.

.

During the early stages of high school, you didn’t really know what you wanted to do. You studied because you were supposed to. You worked hard because that was what people did. There was nothing pulling you forward, nothing that made the effort feel like it belonged to you. It was just motion, constant, directionless effort.

That was until you met Atsumu.

You still remembered second year clearly. You had finals at the worst possible time, which meant you couldn’t make it to watch all of his matches. You told yourself it didn’t matter, that there would be other games, other chances.

But the moment your last exam ended, you didn’t go home. Instead, you took a three-hour train from Hyogo just to make it in time for what was left.

By the time you arrived, the arena was already loud with energy, the air thick with anticipation. You barely had time to catch your breath before you saw him on the court.

And for a moment, everything else disappeared.

Atsumu looked completely different when he played. It wasn’t just skill, it was control. The way he moved, the way he called plays, the way the entire court seemed to bend around his decisions like they were inevitable. He didn’t just play volleyball; he commanded it.

You remember getting chills without even realizing why. He looked untouchable like that.

After the match, when you finally managed to find him, you were still holding the small bouquet you’d bought on the way over. It felt stupid in your hands now, like something too soft to belong in the same world he had just been in.

When you congratulated him, he didn’t hesitate. He pulled you into a tight, almost crushing hug, so sudden it stole the air from your lungs. And then, just as quickly, he pressed a kiss to your cheek like it was the most natural thing in the world.

For a second, you couldn’t think.

All you could feel was warmth. The solid weight of his arms around you. The steady reality of him right there, real and breathing and close in a way nothing else in your life had been. And suddenly, all the money, the travel, the time you had spent getting there didn’t feel like effort anymore. It felt like nothing compared to this. Like it had all just been the price of standing in that moment with him.

That was when you decided you wanted to become a sports journalist.

Not just in theory, but properly. Someone who stood on the other side of the court, in the same rooms, asking the questions instead of being swept away by the people answering them. You wanted to talk about athletes like him, to report on them, to turn that feeling you once had into something you could understand and shape.

So you spent years chasing it.

Different paths, slowly separating without ever truly severing. He went forward into professional leagues, into the Olympics, into a world that only grew louder the more successful he became. And you followed in your own way, building your name piece by piece until it meant something in the same spaces he occupied.

You watched him all those years.

From a boy who felt impossibly bright to a man who carried himself like the court belonged to him. He became sharper, steadier, more controlled. And you did too. Just in different ways. Life happened in between: setbacks, small victories, things lost and found again. You grew into yourself the way people do when they have no choice but to keep moving forward.

And now, it was a match everyone was talking about. MSBY Black Jackals. And you had the interview slot.

It wasn’t even difficult to secure anymore. Your name carried enough weight now that people stopped questioning why you were there. They just expected it. Still, there was a familiar buzz under your skin as you walked toward the court.

Excitement. Nerves. Something you didn’t fully want to name.

You moved through the team with practiced ease, asking questions that made them laugh, relax, lean into the interview instead of away from it. It was easy work now, natural, even.

Until it wasn’t. Until it was his turn. Atsumu looked up the moment you approached.

And for a split second, something in his expression shifted, surprise, recognition, something sharper underneath it that neither of you acknowledged out loud.

Before you could even ask your first question, he spoke. “Reporter,” he said smoothly, just loud enough for the nearby crew to hear. “I heard you got married recently. Congratulations on the wedding.”

You paused. Just for a second. Then you smiled, practiced and steady. “Thank you, Atsumu.”

A few of the staff nearby murmured in confusion, glancing between you both, sensing something they couldn’t quite place. You ignored it and lifted your recorder again like nothing had changed.

“Now, Mr. Setter,” you continued lightly, slipping fully back into your role. “The fans wanted to know what your favourite protein bar is. How are you strong? What do you take?”

Atsumu leaned back slightly, thinking with exaggerated seriousness, as if the question required real analysis. Then his eyes lit up. “There’s this shop in Hyogo I used to go to a lot,” he said. “They sold the best protein bars ever.”

You smiled politely, pen poised. “Oh? Care to tell the fans the flavour or brand?”

A small pause. Then, casually, “Dates.”

Your pen stopped mid-air. “…huh?”

“Date bars,” he repeated, unfazed. “They were my favourite back then. I’ve always been a sucker for sweet stuff.”

For a moment, the noise around you dulled. The court, the cameras, the people waiting for the next question, it all blurred at the edges.

You let out a small breath, controlled but slightly unsteady. “Is that so?” you said, voice still professional. Still intact. Then, softer, just barely slipping through the cracks, “I like them too. What a coincidence.”

-

A/N: this was supposed to be two chapters but i ended up merging it cus i got busy anyways!!! even if the ending may be unsatisfying i hope you enjoyed this. its my first completed series ( haha all my works are one shots and uncompleted drafts usually cus i get impatient ) i feel a bit evil rn ngl

Hinata - Shrimpy

This one is obvious.

I'm pretty sure Hinata gets called a shrimp in the series already.

He's short, ginger, and the protagonist.

It also matches how Floyd calls Yuu "Shrimpy," since both are main characters constantly getting dragged into everyone's business.

Despite being tiny, shrimp are surprisingly resilient, which fits Hinata perfectly.

Kageyama - bird wrasse

This is mostly based on visuals.

Bird wrasses have sharp features and intense expressions.

They look like crows :0

They also have a reputation for being aggressive and territorial, which definitely suits him.

It was between this and a wolf eel, but wolf eels are genuinely terrifying-looking, and Kageyama isn't THAT ugly.

Daichi - Humpback whale

Humpback whales are known for protecting other marine animals, sometimes even species they have no reason to help.

They have been observed interfering with orca hunts and defending seals and other animals.

That protective nature reminds me of Daichi.

They're calm most of the time, but if something threatens their pod, they become surprisingly intimidating.

Sugawara - beluga whale

This was almost entirely visual at first.

they genuinely have the same smile.

Belugas are highly social, playful, and known for their communication skills.

They're often called some of the friendliest whales, which fits Suga's supportive personality perfectly.

Also, both he and Daichi being whales is something ;)

Asahi - blobfish

This sounds mean, which is exactly why Floyd would say it.

Contrary to popular belief, blobfish don't actually look like sad blobs in their natural habitat.

They only look like that when brought to the surface because of pressure changes.

That honestly makes it fit Asahi even more. In normal situations he's a capable, reliable ace, but under pressure he completely falls apart and looks like he's about to cry.

Tanaka - Kobudai (Asian Sheepshead Wrasse)

Sorry, Tanaka.

Male kobudai develop massive foreheads and thick facial features as they age, which is already enough reason for Floyd to make this comparison.

They're also famous because some individuals can change sex and get pregnant.

Floyd would absolutely pick this fish solely because Tanaka is bald and easy to bully.

The real reason this fish fits, though, is that kobudai are surprisingly bold and stubborn despite looking ridiculous.

It was between this thing and a male seahorse ifykyk

Nishinoya - Piranha

It was between a piranha and a stingray, but piranha wins.

Piranhas have a reputation for being aggressive monsters, but they're actually cautious fish that rely heavily on their group.

That's very Noya. He acts fearless and loud, but he cares deeply about his teammates and gains confidence from the people around him.

They're also both tiny balls of chaos.

Tsukishima - Manta ray

Manta rays are highly intelligent and surprisingly curious animals.

They tend to be selective about their interactions and don't waste energy on things they find pointless.

That sounds exactly like Tsukishima.

The real reason, though, is their relationship with remoras.

Yamaguchi - remora

Remoras attach themselves to larger marine animals such as sharks, turtles, and manta rays.

While people often joke that they're freeloaders, the relationship can be beneficial for both sides.

The remora gets protection and food, while the host can receive cleaning services.

Yamaguchi's first real friend was Tsukishima, and they've been attached ever since. The comparison sounds mean at first, but it's actually kind of sweet.

Ennoshita - crab

I have no scientific explanation for this.

He simply radiates crab energy.

Maybe it's because crabs are surprisingly competent when left alone??

idk he kind of reminds me of mr crabs i think??

Kiyoko - Orca

Originally visual-based, but the more I think about it, the better it fits.

Orcas are intelligent, highly social, and incredibly respected within their environment.

They live in complex family groups and even develop unique dialects depending on their pod.

They're powerful enough to be apex predators, yet they're also extremely family-oriented.

Not saying Kiyoko is an apex predator.

yachi - sea bunny

Entirely visual-based.

Sea bunnies are tiny sea slugs covered in fuzzy-looking structures that make them resemble rabbits.

They're adorable.

“Achoo!” You sneezed so hard your entire head hurt afterward. With a miserable sniff, you rubbed at your nose and stared out the bus window. Rainwater slid down the glass in crooked trails, blurring the city outside into a mess of gray buildings and headlights.

You should’ve stayed home. You knew that. Your body knew that. Unfortunately, your exam schedule didn’t care. So you’d dragged yourself through the day fueled entirely by stubbornness and cold medicine, determined to survive until the final bell. Unlike most days, though, you were going home early. The moment your exam ended, you’d packed your things and escaped before anyone could stop you.

You’d known since the morning that Atsumu was feeling just as awful. The blue scarf around his neck had been the first clue. The second was the fact that he’d practically lost his voice. By the fifth voice crack of the morning, you’d finally told him to shut up for the good of society. Atsumu, naturally, had continued talking. You both knew exactly why the two of you were sick. Neither of you had any intention of acknowledging it.

What you hadn’t expected was seeing him on the way home.

Atsumu was normally still at school, either at practice or doing whatever volleyball addicts did when they weren’t actively playing volleyball. Yet there he was. Sitting in his usual seat. Looking awful. His blond hair was flatter than usual, and there were dark circles under his eyes. Even his posture seemed tired, slumped against the window with none of his usual energy.

More concerningly, he was holding a plastic bag filled with medicine, tissues, sports drinks, and enough food to survive a minor apocalypse. You immediately pointed at it. “Ooh,” you said, grinning despite your fever. “You have a partner?”

His head snapped toward you. “What-what do you mean?” God. His voice was awful. Raspy, rough, and completely ruined. It was kind of nice.

“The bag,” you clarified. “Look at it. You’ve got medicine, snacks, drinks...whoever bought all that for you clearly loves you.”

Atsumu’s ears immediately turned pink. “Achoo-!” The sneeze interrupted whatever argument he was about to make. “That’s not...” He rubbed his nose miserably. “Ugh... one sec.” Another sneeze. “That’s not my partner,” he finally continued. “My upperclassman bought it for me, actually.”

You opened your mouth to make fun of him. Unfortunately, your body chose that exact moment to betray you. “Achoo!”

“Achoo!” The two sneezes happened almost simultaneously. For a moment, neither of you spoke. Then you both started laughing.

“That’s nice,” you said once you recovered, your voice sounding just as terrible as his. “That’s great.”

“It is.”

“So you like your upperclassman?”

“Not all of them, duh.” Atsumu rolled his eyes. “But I like that one. He’s-” Another sneeze. “Sweet.”

The word hung in the air for a second. You tilted your head. “What do you think of me then?” A pause. “Do you like me?”

Maybe it was the fever. Maybe it was because your brain felt slow and fuzzy. Maybe it was because being sick made every thought leave your mouth before you had a chance to stop it. Whatever the reason, the question was already out there.

Atsumu blinked. “Eh?” For the first time all day, he looked completely caught off guard. “Uh...” His face somehow became even redder. “You’re sweet too.”

You nodded slowly, like that was a completely normal answer, but your ears were warm. Then you immediately panicked. “What do you think I would taste like?” you blurted, speaking too fast, clearly trying to overwrite what you had just said. A sneeze cut through the end of your sentence. “Because I think you’d taste like honey.”

Atsumu nearly choked. “Honey?!” His voice cracked so violently an elderly woman across the aisle glanced over. “What kind of question is that?”

“I dunno,” you sniffed, rubbing your nose with the back of your sleeve. Your head felt heavy, thoughts slightly delayed, like they had to travel through fog before reaching your mouth. “You just seem like you’d taste like honey.”

Atsumu stared at you like you’d lost your mind. “Why are you imagining what I taste like?”

“Why aren’t you answering?”

“Because that’s weird!”

“Coward.”

Atsumu scoffed, leaning back into his seat like he was trying to physically distance himself from the conversation. His arms crossed tightly over his chest. “Fine.” A pause. “I wouldn’t taste like honey.”

You tilted your head, waiting. “What would you taste like then?”

He thought about it with alarming seriousness. The kind of seriousness that made it worse. “…warm dumplings.”

You stared. “Warm dumplings?”

“Yeah.”

“That’s the most specific thing you’ve ever said.”

“I know myself.”

“You think your personality tastes like dumplings?”

“A good dumpling.”

“Wow.”

“What?”

“The ego on this guy.”

“You asked.”

“Fair enough.” You shifted slightly in your seat, leaning your head back against his shoulder. The air was cold against your skin, a dull contrast to the fever heat building behind your eyes. “I think I’d taste like Fanta.”

“Orange?”

“Orange.”

“Why?”

“I don’t know.”

“That’s a terrible answer.”

“Why?”

Atsumu glanced at you, still judging.“Because I think you’d taste like vanilla extract.”

“Vanilla extract?” You winced slightly, more from embarrassment than confusion. Your fingers fidgeted with the hem of your sleeve. “Oh-because you think I’m sweet, huh?”

“Yeah,” he said sarcastically. “How did you know?”

You looked away, pretending to think. “Oh-just a guess.”

A comfortable silence settled between you. The bus hummed beneath your feet as rain tapped softly against the windows. Then: “Wahh.”

Atsumu shifted, glancing your way with a sleepy expression. “What now?”

“I really want dumplings,” you admitted, leaning your head back against the seat and staring wistfully at the blurred streetlights passing by.

Atsumu let out a dramatic groan, sinking deeper into his jacket. “Me too. My stomach’s been complainin’ since the morning.”

Another few seconds of quiet passed, but the craving only intensified, making your eyes widen as a sudden, impulsive thought struck you. “Atsumu.”

“Hm?”

“Let’s go get dumplings.”

He blinked, his golden eyes tracking your sudden shift in energy. “But man, I wanna go home. I’m exhausted.”

“We can just order them,” you countered quickly, already mentally scrolling through delivery apps.

“To where?”

“Your house.”

The air between you suddenly felt much heavier. Atsumu froze, his expression blanking out, and you realized with a jolt of heat in your cheeks that neither of you had actually thought that far ahead. The implication of being alone in his space hung in the air, thick and unacknowledged.

“...”

“...”

Atsumu finally broke the silence, his voice dropping an octave as he searched your eyes. “Why my home? Let’s just get the dumplings to yours.”

“My room’s a mess right now!” you huffed, sitting up straight and smoothing down your uniform as if the state of your floor was a matter of national importance. You felt a flush creeping up your skin. “It’s so embarrassing, you can’t come over like that.”

“My room’s a mess too,” he pointed out, though he didn’t look particularly bothered by the idea of you seeing his chaos.

“Yeah, but it’s different! I can’t just let a guy into my house without a warning. My parents will start askin’ all sorts of questions!”

Atsumu shrugged, looking entirely too nonchalant for someone about to face a parental interrogation. “Who cares? Just tell ‘em I’m a friend.”

“A friend from where?” you shot back, narrowing your eyes at him. “You don’t even wear the same uniform as me! You look like a total stranger!”

Atsumu stared at you for a long beat, the logic of your argument clearly weighing on him. He let out a huff of defeat, leaning his head back against the window with a sulky expression. “…You know what? Forget it. I don’t even want dumplings anymore. Scrap the whole idea.”

You immediately deflated, the sudden loss of the plan hitting you harder than the hunger. “But I’m hungry,” you groaned, leaning your forehead against the cool glass of the window. “I really, really want dumplings, Atsumu.”

“How old are you, come on.”

You sniffed dramatically. “You got me sick,” you said, voice wobbling slightly as you leaned into the dramatics. “And now you won’t even-” you sneezed again, violently this time, “-get me some dumplings.”

Atsumu went quiet. Then sighed like he’d just lost an argument he didn’t agree to enter. “…you’re unbelievable.”

He reached into his bag, already pulling out his phone. “Fine. I’ll order them.”

You perked up instantly. “…to your house?”

“No.”

“Then where?”

Atsumu glanced at you like you were the problem. “Your house. What’s your address?”

You smiled immediately. “But then you won’t have any.”

“I’m not even that hungry.”

You gave up way too quickly. “Great!”

You snatched his phone and typed in your address, face brightening like the entire argument had just been solved.

Atsumu watched you for a second, suspicious. “…you’re weird.”

“Wow,” you said, still typing. “I love you, Atsumu.”

His head snapped toward you. “Shut up.” He said it immediately, but his ears went red.

“No really,” you continued, completely unbothered. “You’re so great.”

“Stop talkin’,” he muttered, though he didn’t actually move away. He lingered in your space, the tension between you thick and humming. After a moment of heavy silence, he cleared his throat, looking everywhere but at you. “Since ya love me so much... ya gotta repay me back.”

You leaned in slightly, your eyelids heavy and half lidded from the lingering haze of your fever. A teasing, sleepy smile tugged at the corners of your mouth as you studied him. “Is that so? You want a date?”

“A date?” he repeated, the word stumbling off his tongue. “Yeah,” He said lightly. “Because right now, all I’m hungry for is something sweet and I enjoy those bars you-”

For a second, Atsumu just stared, his usual cocky composure shattering into a million uncoordinated pieces. Instead of reaching into your bag for a snack like you usually did, you shifted your weight, closing the gap between you before he could even process the movement. Your hand steadied on his sleeve, the fabric bunching under your fingers, as you leaned up to press your lips against his. The roar of the bus engine seemed to dull into a distant hum, leaving nothing but the frantic thrum of your own pulse in your ears. Atsumu’s eyes widened, his entire brain seemingly short circuiting as he froze, paralyzed by the sudden contact. Then, slowly, the tension bled out of his shoulders. His eyelids fluttered half shut, inexperienced and messy, as if he were a boy drowning and you were the first breath of air.

His ego swells at the affection. His hand, now was resting loosely on your waist, his fingers digging slightly into your clothes as he pulls you flush against him, erasing every inch of space between your bodies.

He tilted his head, deepening the kiss with a sudden intensity. His lips were warm and slightly chapped from the cold, but they moved against yours with decisiveness. He tasted like the adrenaline of a match and the faint sweetness of the sports drink he had. As the kiss lingers, it shifts from a simple pay back to something much more heated, a slow, rhythmic press of lips that made his heart hammer against his ribs like a volleyball hitting the floor.

When you finally pulled back, the fevered air of the bus felt suddenly suffocating against your skin. “Let’s go on a date.” And before Atsumu could even fully process what had happened, you were already moving. You stood up too fast, grabbed your bag, and practically fled down the aisle like the bus itself was chasing you. Your brain caught up a second too late, screaming at you in full panic. What did you just do? What did you just do? You were going to die. You were going to block him. You were going to disappear from the face of the earth and never be perceived again. Yes. That was the plan now.

Behind you, Atsumu didn’t move at first. He just sat there. Completely still. Like the world had paused and forgotten to start him again. His fingers lifted slowly to his lips, brushing over them with a faint tremor, as if checking whether the moment had actually happened or if his fever had finally broken his brain entirely. His ears were a violent shade of red, stark against his blond hair. “…sweet,” he muttered under his breath, voice unsteady in a way it never was. A beat passed. Then another. Only then did he finally glance toward the aisle where you had disappeared out of the bus. A slow, lopsided smile tugged at his mouth, not teasing this time, not smug. Just Genuine. “…yeah,” he said softly, answering someone who had already left. “Whatever you say.”

a/n: I was hungry writing this...I want dumplings soo bad.

There was a guy at the grocery store who looked exactly like Atsumu.

Not in the vague “oh, they kind of resemble each other” way either. No. This was terrifyingly specific. It looked like someone had taken Atsumu, toned him down slightly, flipped his hairstyle to the other side, dyed his hair grey instead of aggressively blond, and introduced him to the life-changing concept of purple shampoo and proper conditioner.

Basically: Atsumu if Atsumu was normal. Which was honestly uncanny.

You stood there in the frozen foods aisle squinting at him from a distance while holding a basket of instant noodles, trying to process what you were seeing. Same height. Same sharp eyes. Same irritated expression like the world personally inconvenienced him every morning before breakfast. Even the way he stood there staring into the freezer section looked familiar.

Slowly, cautiously, you approached. Like Atsumu was some dangerous animal species and this one might either be friendlier or bite harder.

The guy noticed your staring almost immediately and looked over with visible suspicion. A pause stretched between you. “…Is something wrong?” he asked.

Your brain nearly malfunctioned. Even his voice sounded similar. Not exactly the same, but close enough that it made your skin crawl a little. “Sorry,” you admitted slowly. “You just look like someone.”

The guy sighed heavily, like he had experienced this exact conversation at least a hundred times before, and bent down to grab several bags of shrimp from the freezer. “I wonder why,” he muttered dryly.

You blinked at him. Then at the shrimp. Then back at him again. There was no way. No actual way. The resemblance was too ridiculous to be accidental. The guy glanced at you one last time before walking off with his shrimp like he hadn’t just shattered your understanding of reality in the frozen seafood aisle. Meanwhile you stood there in shock, still staring at him.

--

The next morning, when it was finally time to get on the bus, you practically rushed toward your seat, barely managing to slide in beside Atsumu before the doors closed again. He looked exhausted as usual, one earbud hanging loose while he scrolled through his phone with the expression of someone already irritated by the day despite it barely starting.

You turned toward him immediately, unable to hold it in any longer.

“Guess what.”

Without even looking up, he replied flatly, “What.”

“Guess.”

“No.”

You frowned. “No, you actually won’t guess.”

“Yes,” he said dryly, finally glancing at you, “which is why I don’t wanna try.”

You ignored his attitude entirely, already grinning to yourself. “I saw someone who looked exactly like you yesterday. Your doppelganger. It was terrifying.”

That got his attention slightly. “…Huh?”

“He was like you but better.”

Atsumu’s eye twitched instantly. “Better?”

“Yes,” you continued confidently. “Better. He had grey hair that wasn’t blinding to look at, and he seemed like he had basic human manners.”

“Asshole.”

“What?” you said innocently. “It’s true.”

He stared at you for a second like he genuinely couldn’t believe what he was hearing before finally grimacing and shoving his phone into his pocket. “That’s my damn twin.”

You blinked. “…Wait.” A beat passed as your brain processed the information. Then your eyes widened dramatically. “YOU HAVE A TWIN?!”

“Obviously.”

“Why don’t you guys take the bus together? Are you on bad terms or something?”

Atsumu looked offended immediately. “No. He just sleeps in for another hour like a bum, which gets him our mum driving him to school on her way to work.”

You gasped. “Wait, that sounds amazing.”

“It’s not amazing,” he scoffed. “It’s lazy.”

“Says the guy who sleeps on public transportation every single day.”

“That’s different.”

“How?”

“I earn my sleep.”

You rolled your eyes. “Please. Why don’t you sleep an extra hour then?”

Atsumu shrugged casually. “There’s this time period in the morning where I can sneak into the gym before classes and practice.”

You stared at him for a second. “…You voluntarily wake up earlier to practice volleyball?”

“Yeah?”

“Oh, you’re in love.”

“Huh?”

“Volleyball is your lover.”

Atsumu snorted. “Yer sayin that like it’s weird.”

“It is weird,” you said immediately. “Most people wake up early because they have to. You wake up early willingly to throw yourself around a gym.”

“I don’t throw myself around.”

“You literally dive on the floor for balls.”

“That sounds wrong.”

“You made it wrong.”

He clicked his tongue and leaned back in his seat, looking annoyingly smug about the entire conversation. “At least volleyball loves me back.”

You stared at him flatly. “Wow.”

“What?”

“That was actually the lamest thing you’ve ever said.”

Atsumu grinned proudly instead of looking embarrassed. “Yer just jealous because studying doesn’t love you.”

“It does too.”

“Nah. Studying looks at you and goes ‘damn this one again?’” You gasped in betrayal while he laughed at his own joke like he was the funniest person alive.

“Well, studying might hate me but,” you breathed out, still stuck on the earlier revelation. “You havin’ a twin actually explains everything.”

Atsumu narrowed his eyes immediately. “The hell does that mean?”

“It means you could afford to become an asshole because your twin literally can’t escape you,” you said matter-of-factly. “He’s basically your personal hostage. That’s actually really sad. I feel bad for him.”

“HOSTAGE?” Atsumu repeated loudly, looking genuinely offended. “Woah, ya got it completely wrong. That guy bullies me every day. I’m the victim.”

You snorted. “I would bully you too if I was forced to look at your face twenty-four seven.”

“You already bully me every day,” he shot back instantly. “A few days ago ya physically abused me on the bus.”

“That wasn’t bullying,” you defended. “I just got excited.”

“Sure,” he drawled. “Sooo excited over the volleyball game ya claimed ya didn’t care about.”

You rolled your eyes dramatically. “I actually enjoyed the match. And your stupid ranting too, contrary to popular belief.”

His eyebrows lifted immediately. “Ya literally just called it stupid.”

“I’m not saying you’re stupid,” you corrected. “I’m saying the level of passion was stupid. Like emotionally concerning.”

“Wow. Thank you.”

“But,” you admitted reluctantly, “it actually moved me a little.”

Atsumu stared at you suspiciously now, like he physically could not process sincerity coming out of your mouth. “Sure,” he said after a second.

You sat up straighter in offense. “I’m serious!”

“Mhm.”

“No, genuinely. It’s probably the first time I’ve ever been invested in a sport.”

That made him pause slightly. “I doubt it.”

You huffed. “I’m not lying, dude.”

A small grin slowly appeared on his face, smug and pleased in the most irritating way possible. “Well obviously. Volleyball’s interesting when ya understand it.”

“Don’t ruin the moment.”

He laughed quietly under his breath, still doubting your sincerity, which made you suddenly feel weirdly determined to prove you meant it.

“Tell you what,” you said. “If I attend a match, will you finally believe me?”

That wiped the smugness off his face almost immediately. “…Like one of my school matches?”

“Duh.”

Atsumu looked strangely suspicious now, studying your expression carefully like he thought this was somehow a setup. “I don’t even play officially yet.”

“It’s fine,” you replied with a shrug. “You still play practice matches, right?”

“Yeah, but…” He looked away awkwardly, rubbing the back of his neck. “Still kinda embarrassing when I’m not official.”

Your eyes widened instantly. “Oooh,” you said, leaning closer. “You’re blushing.”

“I am not.”

“You totally are.”

“I’m literally not.”

“You’re embarrassed because you want me to come.”

Atsumu immediately shoved your face away with one hand while you burst into laughter beside him. “Shut up already.”

He paused for a second after, the playful irritation fading from his expression as he leaned back into the seat. For once, he actually looked thoughtful. “Next year,” he said slowly, “I’ll play officially. I can guarantee it.” You glanced at him, surprised by how serious he sounded. Then, after another short pause, he added quietly, “Come watch me next year.”

The words caught you off guard more than they should have. You laughed awkwardly at first, mostly to shake off the strange heaviness that suddenly settled in your chest. “That’s a pretty long-term promise,” you said. “We might not even see each other next year.”

Atsumu blinked. “Oh.”

You snorted a little at the genuinely stunned look on his face. “Did you even think about that? We might stop taking the same bus, or move schools, or just find different seats somewhere else.”

The thought sounded strangely wrong out loud. Atsumu looked away for a second, jaw tightening slightly. “Yeah,” he admitted eventually. “But still.” He looked back at you then, eyes unusually steady. “You wanted to prove a point, right?” You nodded slowly. “Then promise me you’ll come watch,” he said. “Even if we don’t talk anymore.”

The teasing tone was gone completely now. Just Atsumu looking at you with an expression so straightforward it made your chest feel weirdly tight. 

You paused. Then nodded once. “Okay,” you said quietly. “Promise.”

For a moment neither of you spoke, the noise of the bus filling the silence instead. Atsumu leaned back into his seat.

Then suddenly, the entire conversation hit you. You burst out laughing. Not a small laugh either, a full embarrassed wheeze as you covered your face with one hand and leaned forward in your seat.

Atsumu looked at you immediately. “What?”

“This is so ridiculous,” you laughed out. “Why were we talking like divorced forty-year-olds?” That made him snort loudly before laughing too, the sound rough but genuine enough that it immediately made you laugh harder. “‘Even if we don’t talk anymore,’” you mocked dramatically, lowering your voice to imitate him. “‘Come watch me next year.’”

“Oi, shut up,” he complained through laughter, shoving your shoulder lightly. “Ya were the one that made it all sappy.”

“No, you sounded so serious!” you continued, wiping at your eyes. “Like you were going off to war.”

“I am,” he said proudly. “Volleyball.”

“You are so embarrassing.”

“And yet yer comin’ to watch me.” You groaned loudly while he grinned at you like he’d won something.

The conversation dissolved after that into pointless rambling and stupid jokes, neither of you really paying attention to where the bus was going anymore. You talked over each other about nonsense, about his twin, about volleyball, about how terrifying your middle school math teacher was, until somewhere in the middle of your laughing you both suddenly went quiet.

Atsumu blinked toward the window. “…Wait.”

You followed his gaze outside. “…Oh.”

Your stop had passed. By at least several minutes. You stared at each other for a second. Then both of you started laughing again.

 “You idiot,” Atsumu said between laughs.

“You were talking too!”

“It’s your school that's here!”

“You're sitting next to the window!"

Still giggling, you finally stood once the next stop arrived, struggling to pull your bag onto your shoulder properly while Atsumu leaned back in his seat watching you with obvious amusement.

“You better not get kidnapped walkin’ school,” he said casually.

“You'd miss me too much”

“I'd mourn for a day or two."

You stepped off the bus still smiling, then turned back once before the doors closed, mouthing a quick ‘see you later’ toward him. Atsumu lifted one hand lazily in response before the doors shut between you.

--

For some reason, it was raining heavily the next morning. Not the soft kind that people write poetry about, but the aggressive kind that ruined people's entire week. The sky was completely washed out, the air thick and cold, and even the walk to the bus stop had felt like a losing battle. Luckily, you’d brought an umbrella, so you arrived dry enough, slightly annoyed but functional.

Atsumu, however, looked like he had been personally targeted.

The moment you stepped inside the bus, you paused to look at him. His hair was completely soaked, blond strands plastered in every direction. Water dripped from his bangs onto his lashes, down his neck, and onto his uniform collar while he stood there trying to aggressively pat himself dry with a small towel that was already failing him. He looked cold and stupid. 

You stared. Then you laughed. It came out before you could stop it.

Atsumu’s head snapped toward you immediately. “What,” he said flatly, voice already carrying that tired, irritated edge.

You covered your mouth, still smiling. “Nothing.”

That was apparently the worst possible answer, because the next second he shook his head like a wet dog, sending a fine spray of water straight in your direction.

“HEY!” you yelped, jerking back, but it was too late. Your seat was now partially damp, and you stared at him in betrayal as you clicked your tongue. “You’re unbelievable,” you said, already annoyed. “Why didn’t you bring an umbrella?”

“It wasn’t raining when I left,” he muttered, still aggressively rubbing his hair with the towel like he could erase the weather. “And I was too lazy to go back.”

“That is not a reason,” you said immediately. “Its the modern century, check the weather forecast.”

He scoffed. “No one actually checks that shit.” A pause. “Plus, I'm fine.”

“You’re dripping onto the floor.”

“It looks worse than it actually is.”

“Are you a dog?” You snapped. “Go bark Atsumu, be a good boy.”

“Huh??” he yelped, “Did you just call me a dog??” He said, moving away from you.

“You started it,” you shot back, gesturing vaguely at your now-wet seat. “You literally attacked me like a dog.”

“I did not attack you,” he said, offended. “I shook my head. That’s natural behavior.”

“For animals.”

“Humans are animals,” he corrected.

You rolled your eyes, already reaching for your jacket. With a sigh, you placed it over the damp spot on the seat so you wouldn’t have to sit in cold water for the next half hour. Atsumu watched you do it, still towel-drying his face, but slower now, like his brain had finally caught up with the fact that you were actually annoyed.

“You can take my seat if it's that bad,” he muttered after a moment.

“Your seat is worse,” you said simply. “I also like my seat.”

He huffed lightly, but there was less bite in it now. Still, he didn’t move away. Instead, he just sat down beside you like nothing had happened, water still clinging to his sleeves and collar, posture slightly slouched from the cold.

You glanced at him again. “…You’re seriously going to get sick,” you said quieter this time.

“I won’t.”

“You literally look sick already.”

“I’m just cold.”

“That’s how it starts,” you insisted, leaning slightly toward him without thinking. “Then you’ll be sick and start bitchin’ to me.”

Atsumu blinked at you. “You know you're so crude sometimes.”

“Not the point,” you said immediately. “My point is you’ll catch a cold.”

That earned a small breath of laughter from him, but he still looked stubborn. “I don’t get sick.”

“You’re drenched.”

“I’m built differently.”

“You’re stupid.”

“Thank you.”

You sighed through your nose, already rummaging through your bag. After a second of searching, you pulled out your umbrella and stared at it for a moment longer than necessary.

Atsumu noticed immediately. “What are you doing?”

You held it out toward him without looking at him. “Take it.”

He frowned. “No.”

“Yes.”

“No.”

“Atsumu.”

“I said no.”

You finally looked at him properly then, eyes narrowing slightly. “You’re literally shaking.”

“I am not shaking.”

“You are shaking.”

“I am not.”

You lifted your hand toward his arm without warning and lightly tapped it. His skin was cold under your fingers.

That made you pause. “…You are actually freezing,” you said, voice dropping slightly.

Atsumu went still for a second, like he didn’t expect that reaction from you. Then he clicked his tongue and leaned away slightly. “I said I’m fine.”

“You’re not fine,” you said more firmly now, pushing the umbrella closer to him. “Just take it to school.”

He looked at it, then back at you. “What about you?”

“The walk from my stop is closer,” you said again. “It’s not a big deal.”

“That’s not the point,” he muttered.

“What is the point then?” you asked.

He hesitated. “…You’ll get wet,” he said finally, like it was obvious.

Before you could shove the umbrella into his chest again, Atsumu suddenly reached forward and grabbed your hand. Your entire body paused. His fingers were freezing. His grip was firm despite it, large fingers wrapping around your hand before he pressed your joined hands against the damp skin of his cheek.

“Yer warm,” he muttered quietly. The words came out so naturally that it caught you completely off guard. He leaned into your hand without embarrassment, eyes half-lidded while the bus lights flickered softly above you. “Just warm me up a little,” he continued. “Then I’ll be fine.”

Your face immediately burned. “What are you doing?” you hissed, trying to pull your hand back and failing because he only held on tighter. “Just take the damn umbrella.”

“It’s not a big deal,” he said easily, still leaning against your palm like this was the most normal thing in the world. “You said I needed to warm up.”

“There is literally no logic behind that.”

“It’s working though.”

“No it’s not.”

“It is.”

“Atsumu,” you said, trying very hard to sound reasonable while your heartbeat betrayed you completely, “holding my hand is not gonna magically warm your entire body.”

He hummed thoughtfully for a second like he was genuinely considering your argument. “…Yer right.”

Relief hit you for exactly half a second. Then he shifted closer.

One arm slid around your shoulders casually, effortlessly, like he had every right to pull you closer, and suddenly the full weight of him leaned against your side. Before you could even react, his cold cheek pressed against the side of your neck.

You jolted so hard that your umbrella dropped on to the ground. The rainwater lingering in his hair brushed against your skin, cool droplets trailing near your collar while his body heat slowly started bleeding through his damp uniform. He smelled faintly like rain, fabric softener, and the lingering trace of practice from yesterday.

“This should do it, right?” he mumbled against your neck.

Your brain completely stopped functioning. “U-uh…”

You could physically feel how warm your face had gotten compared to him now. Your fingers twitched awkwardly in the air because you genuinely had no idea what you were supposed to do with them. Push him away? Hold him? Stay still? Die quietly?

Meanwhile Atsumu looked perfectly comfortable. Of course he did. His breathing had slowed slightly now that he’d settled against you properly, and every small movement of the bus only made him sink closer, his head resting heavier against your shoulder and neck like he planned on staying there forever. His fingers flexed once against your uniform, like he was testing the distance between you and finding it too far even though you were already pressed together.

“It’s just to get warm,” you repeated weakly, mostly to convince yourself.

“Mhm.”

“Right,” you said quickly. “Just warming you up.”

“Mhm.”

Your hands slowly lifted on instinct before resting against the back of his neck and the top of his damp hair. His skin was still cold beneath your fingers, but not as freezing as before. Soft blond strands slipped between your fingers slightly, still wet from the rain. 

Atsumu went oddly quiet after that. Then he let out the softest sigh. Not teasing, just comfortable. And somehow that made your chest tighten more than anything else.

“This is better, right?” you asked softly.

“Yeah,” he murmured immediately, voice quieter now, sleepier too. “Way better.”

His grip around your shoulder loosened slightly, not enough to let go, just enough that it stopped feeling forceful. Like he trusted you’d stay there.

Outside, rain continued hitting the bus windows hard enough to blur the city lights into streaks of gold and white. Inside, the heater hummed softly overhead while Atsumu stayed curled against your side without shame, his cheek still pressed against your neck like he’d decided that was where he belonged.

“There,” he whispered after another moment. “Now I definitely won’t get sick.”

There was absolutely no scientific evidence supporting that claim whatsoever. Yet somehow, neither of you moved apart for the rest of the ride.

a/n: I wrote the last scene last year and thought it was cute but never did make the full thing until a few months ago ? Anyhow I hope you enjoyed this !!

Atsumu was probably the most irritating texter alive. It had only been a few days since you exchanged numbers, and he was already making you regret every decision that had led to this moment.

Your phone buzzed violently against your desk.

[01:23 PM] Atsumu: WYA

You ignored it.

Another buzz.

[01:24 PM] Atsumu: reply

Then another.

[01:26 PM] Atsumu: wyaaaa

You stared at your screen in disbelief. Was he unemployed? Did volleyball players not have classes? With a deep sigh, you finally picked up your phone.

[01:35 PM] You: school?

[01:35 PM] You: Stop texting me.

[01:35 PM] You: Thanks.

The reply came instantly.

[01:36 PM] Atsumu: LOL i see u out the window tho

A picture followed immediately after. It was a pigeon. Just… a random pigeon sitting outside. You blinked slowly.

[01:39 PM] You: Fuck you.

Beside you, your friend Mia nearly snorted out loud trying not to laugh as she leaned over your shoulder. “Is that your boyfriend?”

You physically recoiled. “Eughh. No.”

Mia laughed harder. “You guys are cute though.”

“We’re not ‘you guys,’” you muttered, horrified.

“Mhm.”

You ignored her and looked back at your phone. Three new messages. Of course.

[01:42 PM] Atsumu: ????

[01:42 PM] Atsumu: oh no i didnt mean the pigeon

[01:42 PM] Atsumu: sends picture of chemistry work

[01:42 PM] Atsumu: my camera angle was wrong mb

You stared at the screen.

Bullshit. Complete bullshit. The chemistry worksheet was blurry and barely visible in the corner of the image while the pigeon sat centered like a professional model.

[01:43 PM] You: One, you’re a liar.

[01:43 PM] You: Two, that’s even worse.

[01:43 PM] You: Three, if you don’t leave me alone, you’re getting muted, buddy.

The typing bubble appeared instantly. Then disappeared. Then appeared again. Dramatic ass texter.

[01:43 PM] Atsumu: wow u type super proper

[01:43 PM] Atsumu: punctuation n everything

You rolled your eyes so hard it physically hurt. Then you turned your phone off completely before he could continue.

He was already asleep when you got on the bus, slouched against your side like he had given up on consciousness. You didn’t even hesitate this time. You just reached over, shoved his face lightly so you could slide into your seat, and dropped down beside him which jolted him awake with a low groan and a confused “...oi” that barely sounded like a complaint. He blinked at you for a second, clearly disoriented, before instinctively leaning back in anyway, like his body had already decided your shoulder was his default resting place. You made a face out of pure habit and muttered for him to move, but he only shifted closer instead, his shoulder pressing into yours as if he had no intention of respecting personal space.

You sighed, too tired to properly argue, and instead stretched your legs out with a small huff, placing your feet directly on his thighs without asking, like it was the most natural thing in the world. “Don’t complain,” you warned, finally leaning back into your seat as your muscles relaxed, but Atsumu only made a vague sound of protest that he didn’t follow through on, his body adjusting slightly under your weight without actually pushing you away. If anything, he leaned in further, his head settling more firmly against you, and before you could fully process it, his breathing had already evened out, warm and steady against the side of your neck as he drifted back into sleep.

When he was relaxed like this, you noticed something you hadn’t really paid attention to before. He didn’t smell nearly as bad as he used to. Not the overwhelming gym-sweat disaster you had mentally associated with him for weeks, not even close. You leaned in slightly without thinking, subtle at first, then a little more obvious as you tried to confirm you were not imagining it, quietly sniffing the air around him like it was some kind of scientific investigation.

It was real.

There was still the faint trace of practice, the tiredness of training and movement and effort, but underneath it was just clean detergent and something faintly familiar, something that wasn’t unpleasant at all. Especially considering it was the end of the day and he had definitely just come straight from volleyball practice, it was almost suspiciously improved. You sat back a little, blinking at him like he had undergone some kind of secret transformation without telling you.

“…Huh,” you muttered, almost impressed, and before you could stop yourself a small smile tugged at your face as you leaned back again, letting the thought settle that maybe he wasn’t as unbearable as you had originally decided.

The next morning, Atsumu wasn’t asleep for once. Instead, he sat hunched slightly over his phone with an intensity that was honestly a little concerning, his eyes stayed completely locked onto the screen. He hadn’t even noticed you sit down beside him, which was rare enough on its own that it immediately made you curious.

You leaned over slightly to see what had captured his full attention so early in the morning and, unsurprisingly, it was volleyball.

An actual match this time too, not just random clips or highlights. The screen showed Inarizaki High School against another school you didn’t recognize, the crowd in the background roaring so loudly that even through the tiny phone speakers you could feel the enthusiasm of it. You watched absentmindedly at first, mostly because Atsumu looked so focused that it made you want to know what was so important, but within minutes you found yourself getting dragged into it despite barely understanding what was happening.

Then someone from Inarizaki launched himself into the air and slammed the ball down with terrifying force.

You physically jolted. “OH shit,” you blurted out, eyes widening. “What the hell was that?!”

Atsumu finally reacted to your existence, glancing sideways at you with the smallest hint of amusement.

“A spike,” he said.

“Dude nearly killed someone.”

“Mhm.”

You stared at the screen in genuine disbelief as the replay showed the hit again, the ball smashing into the floor so violently it barely seemed real. The match itself was ridiculous too, players diving all over the court, the crowd screaming every few seconds, the tension somehow infectious even to someone who barely knew the rules.

Without realizing it, you had started grabbing onto Atsumu’s shoulder every time something dramatic happened.

“WAIT WAIT WAIT-”

SMACK.

Your hand hit his arm hard when another player dove for the ball.

“OH MY GOD HE GOT IT?!”

SMACK.

“NO WAY.”

SMACK.

“WHY ARE THEY FLYING.”

At some point you were fully invested, gripping onto him while reacting to every rally like your life depended on it, shoving him every time someone made a crazy save while Atsumu endured the abuse with increasing offense.

“Oi,” he complained finally, trying to shove your hand away after another hit to the shoulder. “Why’re ya beating me up? I’m not even playing.”

“That guy just bent like a pretzel to save the ball!”

“That’s normal!”

“THAT IS NOT NORMAL.”

Despite his complaints, though, he had angled the phone more toward you at some point, making it easier for you to watch beside him. And every time you gasped at a play or cursed in shock, you could feel him looking at you briefly, clearly entertained by how quickly you had gone from dismissing volleyball to reacting harder than the actual fans in the video.

“Who’s that ‘spiker’?” you asked, leaning closer to the phone as another player absolutely murdered the ball across the court. “That guy that keeps smacking it super hard.”

“Aran,” Atsumu corrected automatically. “He’s a second year. One of the best aces.”

“Woahhh,” you breathed out dramatically. “Even his name sounds cool.”

That actually made Atsumu smile a little, his attention still fixed on the match as he replayed the rally again. “Right?” he said, looking weirdly proud despite not even being on the court himself. “Ugh, I can’t wait to play next year. Think I might actually go crazy waiting.”

There was something different about him when he talked about volleyball. He sounded genuinely invested, almost restless, like the energy in him had nowhere to go yet.

You tilted your head slightly as another rally started. “What position do you even wanna play? I don’t know volleyball stuff, but I think the spiker people look the coolest.”

“Spikers are just the people hitting the ball,” he explained, nudging your shoulder lightly when you called them “spiker people.” “That’s not really the position itself. Anybody can spike.”

“Hm. Then what’re you?”

“I’m aiming to be a setter.”

“A setter…” you repeated slowly. “Which one’s that?”

At that, Atsumu immediately sat up straighter, suddenly way more awake than he had been all morning. He grabbed your wrist lightly and pointed toward the screen as he replayed another clip, zooming in on one player near the net.

“This guy here,” he said. “The setter controls everything. He decides who gets the ball, how high the toss is, how fast the play goes, all of it.” The video played again, slower this time, and you watched as the player touched the ball for barely a second before sending it perfectly toward another teammate, who immediately slammed it down. “He’s basically setting up the spiker to score,” Atsumu continued, eyes focused so intensely on the screen that you could tell he’d probably explained this exact thing to himself a thousand times before. “A good setter can bring out the full potential of the hitters. If the toss is bad, the spike gets weaker too.”

You looked between the screen and Atsumu, noticing how animated he’d gotten without realizing it. His hands moved while he talked, fingers twitching slightly every time he explained a play, like he could already picture himself there.

“So,” you said slowly, “you wanna be the bossy guy controlling everyone.”

He looked offended immediately. “That’s not what I said.”

“That’s exactly what you said.”

“It’s strategy.”

“It’s dictatorship.”

“It’s leadership.”

You snorted as he glared at you, but before he could argue more, another rally started and both of you immediately looked back at the screen again, your shoulder still pressed against his while he replayed the point before it even finished, already excitedly explaining something else you barely understood but found yourself listening to anyway.

You found yourself thinking about the match Atsumu showed you far more than you wanted to admit. It kept replaying in your head during class, those impossible jumps and violent spikes and the way the crowd erupted every few seconds like the players were celebrities instead of high schoolers. Maybe volleyball was actually kind of cool. You’d never really cared much about sports before. Most guys at school obsessed over football teams and argued about players during lunch breaks, but you had always tuned it out, more interested in surviving exams than memorizing athletes.

Still, something about volleyball felt different after hearing Atsumu explain it. Maybe because he talked about it like it mattered more than anything else in the world.

On the bus ride home, he was asleep beside you again, his head tipped heavily against your shoulder while the afternoon sun flickered across his face through the windows. You glanced down at him for a moment before looking away quickly, adjusting your bag on your lap as your thoughts drifted back to the match.

You kind of wanted to see one in real life now. The thought made your face warm slightly. Embarrassing.

After that day, it felt like Atsumu had actually become your friend.

Maybe it was because he’d finally stopped being just “the annoying guy on the bus” and started feeling like an actual person, someone with a stupid amount of passion for volleyball and an even stupider amount of confidence in himself. Or maybe it was because you had, without really noticing when it happened, stopped treating the bus like a temporary coincidence and started accepting that he was just… part of it now. No one really commented on it. Nothing changed outwardly. But something quiet between you did, and it felt surprisingly easy not to overthink it.

On the bus that day, a girl a few seats away was nervously asking someone out over the phone. Her voice was shaky, soft, and even from where you sat it was obvious how the conversation was going without needing to hear the reply. By the time she lowered her phone, her eyes were glossy, and she quickly looked away like she could hide the embarrassment of it. You glanced over briefly, then turned back to your own space, but the word she had said stuck in your head anyway.

“Date.”

You huffed out a quiet laugh before you could stop yourself, already digging through your bag.

Atsumu looked at you immediately. “What?”

You pulled out one of the protein date bars and held it up like it was evidence in a court case. “Want a date?”

He stared at you for a second, then snorted under his breath, clearly trying not to laugh too loudly. “Shut up,” he muttered, flicking his eyes toward the girl for a split second. “She’s gonna think we’re mocking her.”

You leaned back in your seat, unbothered. “Wow. Mr. Asshole is actually not that big of an asshole?”

“I’m not a bully,” he said instantly, like it was a matter of pride.

“You still haven’t rejected my date though,” you replied, tilting your head.

That made him pause just long enough for you to notice.

Then he clicked his tongue, reaching over and taking the bar from your hand. “Oh, I would love a date,” he said dryly as he ripped it open. “Seems so sweet of you. Truly.”

The first time you met him was because high school decided to ruin your life.

More specifically, the transition from middle school to high school forced you to start taking the bus every morning because your new school was stupidly far away. Like, “why-is-this-even-in-the-same-city” far.

After waiting at the stop half-asleep and regretting every decision that led you here, the bus finally arrived. Way too early.

The sun wasn’t even fully awake yet. Working adults packed shoulder-to-shoulder with exhausted students, all crammed together in one moving metal coffin. It probably didn’t help that the route looped around two huge schools: Inarizaki High School, famous for sports, and yours, famous for slowly killing students through STEM workloads.

Judging by the number of people standing, you assumed you’d be standing too.

Then you saw it. A free seat near the back. Like a divine revelation nobody else seemed to notice it, so you immediately squeezed through the crowd before some faster, stronger commuter stole it first. You practically threw yourself into the seat with the desperation of a Victorian orphan finally seeing bread.

Only then did you glance at your seatmate. Definitely an Inarizaki student, judging by the uniform. He had sandy blond hair with darker roots, an undercut that looked messy in an annoyingly effortless way, and shoulders so broad they practically invaded your personal space without permission. His gym bag rested on his lap while he slept face-first into it. Even half-conscious, he looked huge. Long legs, athletic build, arms that looked unfairly strong for a teenager.

He looked older than you. Maybe a third year? But then his face looked softer when he slept. Younger. Maybe he was a first year too? It was confusing. Annoyingly confusing. Not that you cared. You weren’t about to sit there psychoanalyzing some random guy at six in the morning, so you quickly looked away.

As the bus started moving, he shifted beside you and slowly lifted his head. Half-lidded eyes blinked at you. He squinted like your existence personally offended him. Then he glared. Not a normal glare either. A deeply judgmental, “how dare you sit near me” glare.

You stared back for exactly one second before looking away. What the hell was that? The guy was a complete asshole. Actually, maybe that explained why the seat was empty in the first place.

Whatever. You’d just sit somewhere else next time.

Except, Wrong. Because at the end of the day, when you dragged your exhausted body back onto the same bus, there he was again. Same seat. Same giant bag. Same irritated expression. And somehow, somehow, the seat beside him was empty again.

You sat down with a sigh. Because if the glaring wasn’t bad enough, he smelled like pure gym sweat and cheap deodorant. It was even more irritating because you assumed barely any students took the late bus home. Tomorrow would be different. You’d find another seat.

Wrong again. The next morning, he was there. The next afternoon too. Then the day after that. And the day after that. And somehow, against all odds, you ended up beside him every single day for weeks.

Not that you minded. Because honestly? Guaranteed seating was guaranteed seating. Even if it came with an aggressively moody blond athlete attached to it.

Eventually, it became a routine. You’d sit down. The blond asshole would let out the loudest, most dramatic sigh imaginable, like you had personally ruined his day by existing. Then he’d shove his stupidly huge gym bag against your feet just to annoy you.

And you, refusing to give him the satisfaction of a reaction, would completely ignore him. Twice a day. Every day. Going to school was tolerable. Going home was psychological warfare. But eventually…You got used to it. Which was honestly the most disturbing part.

This continued for an entire month.

A whole fucking month.

And the more the school year dragged on, the more exhausted both of you became. So eventually, you started falling asleep on the bus too.

The first time it happened, you woke up to someone aggressively poking your forehead. “You’re at your stop.”

You looked up groggily to find him staring down at you with the same annoyed expression he always wore. Like waking you up was an inconvenience. You mumbled a tired thanks and stumbled off the bus.

After that, it just… became another part of the routine.

If he fell asleep first, you’d wake him up before his stop. If you fell asleep first, he’d wake you. Neither of you ever properly introduced yourselves. No names. No real conversations. Just silent coexistence. Maybe it was because you were both always exhausted. The only two idiots spending their entire day trapped at school, you drowning in endless assignments while he practically lived at practice.

Sometimes he didn’t even bother changing back into his uniform after school. He’d still be wearing his jersey when he got on the bus, hair damp from sweat, headphones around his neck, looking half-dead. That’s how you found out he played volleyball.

Month two was where shit got weird. Not normal weird either.

It started one morning after you stayed up until nearly 3 a.m. trying to understand English homework that looked less like a language and more like an elaborate social experiment. Seriously, why were there silent letters? Why did “colonel” sound nothing like “colonel”? Why was English invented by people who clearly hated others?

By the time you got on the bus, you could practically see vocabulary words floating around your head like hallucinations. Naturally, the second you sat down, you passed out.

Usually when you slept, your head would just bob around awkwardly while you fought for your life against potholes and sudden bus stops. This time, however, Your face planted directly into his shoulder. Warm. Solid. Unfortunately real.

The moment it happened, his entire body went stiff. You felt it even in your sleep. Like every muscle in him collectively screamed, what the fuck. But weirdly enough… he didn’t move you. Didn’t shove you away either. He just sat there painfully straight, tense as hell, probably contemplating every life decision that led him to becoming a human pillow for a stranger.

When you finally woke up, it was because something was aggressively poking your forehead. You blinked awake.

He stared down at you. “You’re at your stop.”

Then you noticed it. The wet spot on his uniform. Silence. Horrified silence. You had drooled on him. Actually drooled. On a real human being. A very judgmental human being.

“Oh my God-” You practically launched yourself out of the seat. “I’m so sorry, holy shit-”

He looked down at the damp shoulder of his uniform with the expression of a man who had seen war. Then he sighed. Not even an annoyed sigh anymore. Just a tired, accepting sigh. Like he already knew this was his life now.

You ran out of the bus in pure humiliation and considered transferring schools, cities, and possibly countries.

Unfortunately, the universe hated you. Because later that same day, it got worse. You fell asleep on him again. Except this time, he was asleep too. So instead of one-sided suffering, you somehow ended up sleeping on each other. His head tilted onto yours. Your face buried against his shoulder.

Both of you dead to the world. And somehow, somehow, that became normal.

After that, the bus rides slowly evolved into complete nonsense.

Sometimes you’d wake up practically folded into his chest because apparently your sleeping self had no understanding of personal space or human dignity. Other times his stupidly long legs would get tangled with yours while his head rested against your back like an oversized exhausted cat. Once, you woke up with your legs sprawled across his lap while your face hung off the edge of the seat at an angle that definitely should’ve broken your neck. Meanwhile his head was resting on your chest like this was completely acceptable behavior between two people who had never even exchanged first names.

At some point, poking each other awake became less aggressive too. Before, it was forehead jabs with the force of personal hatred. Now it was usually a tired shove to the shoulder.

Or a quiet: “Hey.”

“Your stop.”

And every single time, one of you would wake the other up before getting off. No questions asked. It was weird. So unbelievably weird. Because somehow you had become emotionally attached to a bulky volleyball player whose first name you didn’t even know. A guy who still glared at people. A guy who was still sweaty. A guy who sighed dramatically every morning.

But, your body had collectively decided: Yeah. This is a safe place to sleep.

Today, for once, you were actually awake. Which honestly felt unnatural at this point. The bus hummed quietly as it moved through the early morning streets, packed with the usual crowd of exhausted office workers and students who looked seconds away from collapsing face-first onto the floor.

Beside you, the blond menace was asleep as usual. His head rested heavily against your shoulder, warm and annoyingly comfortable, while you balanced your school bag on your lap and reviewed chemistry notes for your upcoming exam.

Or at least, you tried to review them. “Fucking hate organic chemistry,” you muttered under your breath for probably the fiftieth time that week. Nothing about it made sense. Every mechanism looked like someone made shit up while high and called it science.

You stared at your notes with dead eyes. “Okay, nucleophilic substitution…” you whispered to yourself. “Reagent, reagent, reagent…”

Beside you, he shifted again. And again. And again. Jesus Christ, was he fighting demons in his sleep? His eyebrows furrowed slightly as he moved around trying to get comfortable, his shoulder pressing harder into yours before sliding away again.

You ignored him and kept reading. “Hydrolysis, oxidation-”

Suddenly-Plop. His head dropped straight into your lap.

You froze. Completely froze. Because your lap currently contained:

Your bag

Your chemistry notes

Your rapidly deteriorating sanity

His face squished slightly against your papers while his blond hair spilled messily across your thighs and backpack.

You stared down at him in disbelief. “…Seriously?” He didn’t respond. The asshole was fully unconscious. You groaned quietly. Great. Fantastic. Wonderful. Now there was a very real possibility he’d drool all over your notes and destroy the last remaining fragments of your will to pass chemistry.

But despite that…You couldn’t bring yourself to move him.

Instead, carefully, ridiculously carefully, you slid the loose papers out from under his face one by one like you were defusing a bomb. The entire time he stayed asleep. Peacefully asleep, somehow.

Which was unfair, because awake, he constantly looked annoyed at the existence of humanity. But asleep? Asleep he looked… soft. Relaxed. His breathing was slow and steady, lips slightly parted, blond hair falling into his face while the morning sunlight filtered through the bus window and hit him at just the right angle to make him look stupidly pretty.

You immediately looked back down at your notes. Absolutely not. Nope. Not dealing with that. Still…Your face felt weirdly warm. This was the first time he’d fully fallen asleep on your lap. Usually it was shoulders. Maybe leaning against your back. But this? This felt different.

Thankfully, your bag sat between him and your thighs, which made the whole thing slightly less mortifying. At least there was some kind of barrier protecting your rapidly declining mental stability.

Even so, every time the bus turned slightly, his head shifted against your lap. And every single time, your brain short-circuited a little harder. Meanwhile, he slept through all of it completely unaware. Unbelievable. You were out here fighting for your life over one sleeping volleyball player while this idiot was having the best nap of his career.

As the bus approached your stop, you gently nudged him awake. At this point, both of you had gotten surprisingly good at it.

“Hey,” you whispered. “My stop.”

He stirred slightly. Then his eyes slowly opened. For a second, he just looked confused, like he had forgotten where he was, who he was, and possibly what year it was. Then his gaze shifted upward. Right at you. And suddenly you realized the position you were both in. His head was in your lap, your face was directly above his. Way too close. Close enough for you to see how messy his eyelashes were from sleep. Close enough to notice the tiny crease on his cheek from where it had been pressed against your bag. Close enough to see the exact moment his brain caught up with reality.

His entire face turned red. Instantly. Like someone flipped a switch. Then, in his panic to sit up, he jerked forward too fast-

SMACK.

His forehead slammed directly into yours.

“OW-”

“SHIT-”

Both of you recoiled violently. You grabbed your forehead while he stumbled backward into the window looking horrified.

“Oh my God, I’m sorry,” he muttered quickly, rubbing the back of his neck.

Honestly the sight was incredible. Absolutely incredible. Because this was the same guy who spent two months glaring at you. And now he looked genuinely pathetic. Flustered, embarrassed, unable to even look you in the eye.

You had never wanted to tease someone more in your life. You opened your mouth, fully prepared to make his life miserable, but the bus stopped. Your stop. Tragic.

You hurriedly shoved your chemistry notes back into your bag while standing up. His eyes followed you the entire time. Still red. Still avoiding eye contact. Unfortunately, before you could say anything evil, the doors opened and you rushed off the bus before being late.

The next day, you didn’t show up. Not because you wanted to skip school. Absolutely not. You had an attendance streak and academic anxiety severe enough to qualify as a medical condition. But apparently your mother had finally reached her limit after hearing you cough like a dying Victorian child all night.

“You’re staying home.”

“I’m literally fine.”

“You have a fever.”

“It builds character.”

“You’re going to bed.”

And somehow, despite your protests, you got dragged back under the blankets and sentenced to a full day of rest like a criminal. It was a terrible experience.

The next morning, you finally got back on the bus. And immediately stopped. Your seat was occupied. Well, not occupied. Blocked. A familiar volleyball bag sat right in the middle of it while its owner slouched dramatically beside the window. Pouting. Actually pouting.

You stared at him in disbelief.

He stared right back. “…Are you serious?” He looked away dramatically. You tried to move the bag, but his hand shot out to stop you. “You left me.”

You blinked. “…No the fuck I didn’t?”

“Yes, ya did.” His tone somehow managed to sound both offended and accusatory. “Where were you?”

You tilted your head slowly, genuine disgust on your face. Was this idiot actually guilt-tripping you right now? “I was sick,” you deadpanned. “I had a fever.”

At that, he finally looked back at you properly. His eyes scanned over your face carefully like he was checking for signs of illness himself. Then, without another word, he moved the bag.

You sat down beside him with a sigh. Drama queen. The bus started moving again. A few seconds later, you pulled your phone out and shoved it toward him. “Add your number.”

He blinked. “Huh?”

“So I can text you if I’m sick again,” you said casually. “Since apparently abandoning you causes emotional damage.”

His ears turned slightly pink. Which immediately boosted your mood. He took your phone anyway and typed something in before handing it back. You glanced at the contact name. Atsumu Miya. Miya? Wait, you finally knew his name.

You turned toward him. “Miya? Should I call you that?”

“Nah,” he said, leaning back in his seat. “Atsumu’s fine. We’re both first years anyway.”

You stared at him. “…You’re a first year?” Your voice came out way louder than intended. Half the bus turned to look at you. Mortified, you slapped a hand over your mouth and bowed your head apologetically before lowering your voice. “You’re a first year?” you whispered aggressively.

He frowned immediately. “What? Do I look old?”

“Yes.” The answer came too fast. “Like, really old. I thought you were at least a third year.”

He looked personally offended. “What the hell does that mean?!”

“You just have that vibe!”

“What vibe?!”

“You’re built like a grown man!” He groaned loudly and rolled his eyes while you tried not to laugh.

Honestly, this explained so much. He wasn’t some mature upperclassman. He was just another equally sleep-deprived first year pretending to have his life together. Pathetic, honestly.

The moment you mentioned him at school, your friends lost their minds.

“WAIT-him?!”

“You sit next to him every day?!”

“You mean the Miya Atsumu from Inarizaki High School volleyball?!”

You blinked slowly.

“…Who?” That single word caused genuine outrage.

Apparently, Atsumu was kind of a big deal. Actually-not “kind of.” A huge deal. According to your classmates, he was some insanely talented setter with a ridiculous middle school record, highlight reels online, interviews, articles, and apparently actual documentaries following his volleyball career. Documentaries. About a teenager. Which was horrifying.

One girl even shoved her phone into your face to show you clips of him playing during middle school nationals.

It was weird. Because the person on-screen looked cool. Too cool. He was fast, sharp, confident, yelling plays with this cocky grin like he knew he was the best player on the court. Crowds screaming his name while commentators talked about him like he was volleyball’s next big thing.

Meanwhile, the version you knew spent most mornings drooling on your shoulder. The disconnect nearly gave you whiplash. Even worse? The fangirls. Apparently half the female population within a five-kilometer radius was obsessed with him. Which made absolutely no sense. This was the same guy who glared at strangers for breathing too loudly.

Who was finding this attractive? Actually, scratch that. A disturbing number of people, apparently.

By the time school ended, your brain felt fried. Unfortunately, your body still felt equally awful. You were definitely still sick. The bus ride home was painfully late, and by the time you dragged yourself onto it, your throat felt like sandpaper.

Atsumu was already there. Of course he was. You sat beside him with a tired groan, immediately coughing into your sleeve. And coughing. And coughing. You reached into your bag for your water bottle with the desperation of a dying traveler in the desert. Empty. You stared at it in betrayal.

“No…” you whispered weakly. Another cough hit you immediately after. Beside you, Atsumu glanced over. Then, without saying anything, he snatched the bottle out of your hands. “Huh-?”

Before you could react, he unscrewed the cap, grabbed his own water bottle, and filled yours up. Just like that.

You stared at him in complete silence. You almost cried because your throat genuinely felt like it was lined with broken glass and that water tasted like salvation itself. You practically chugged it.

The cold water hit your sore throat and you nearly ascended spiritually. “Oh my God,” you croaked. “I owe you my life.”

He rolled his eyes. “So dramatic.”

Still clutching your water bottle like it was holy, you dug through your bag searching for something to repay him with. Pens. Notes. Three dead highlighters. An alarming amount of crumpled candy wrappers. Finally, your fingers brushed against one of the date bars your father kept stuffing into your bag while lecturing you about “nutrition.” You pulled one out and held it toward him.

“Want a date?”

Atsumu choked. “…Huh?”

“A date,” you repeated casually. “You want one?”

The poor idiot looked horrified. “What the fuck are ya saying?” he sputtered, face twisting in disgusted confusion. “Why would I wanna date you?!”

You stared at him blankly for exactly two seconds. Then launched the date bar directly at his chest. He flinched on instinct and caught it awkwardly. Silence.

The realization hit him slowly. You watched the exact moment his brain connected the dots. Date. The fruit. His entire face turned bright red.

“Oh my God,” you wheezed between coughs. “You thought I was asking you out.”

“I DID NOT-”

“You absolutely did.”

“I DIDN’T!”

“You got defensive real fast for someone who didn’t.” He looked like he wanted the bus floor to open up and swallow him whole. Meanwhile, you were fighting for your life trying not to laugh yourself into another coughing fit.

Grumbling under his breath, he unwrapped the bar aggressively and took a bite. Honestly, the thing was disgustingly sweet. Like chewing compressed honey. But athletes were terrifying creatures who willingly drank protein shakes that smelled like drywall, so he didn’t even complain.

While chewing, he muttered quietly “…Thanks.”

You looked over at him in surprise. Then smiled a little. Because somehow, despite all the glaring and sighing and dramatic attitude, Atsumu Miya was actually kind of nice sometimes. Unfortunately, you’d never let him know that.

“I heard you are some popular volleyballer,” you said, leaning back in your seat.

“Mhm,” he replied, still chewing the date bar. “I’m not all that though. Still haven’t made the main team.”

You snorted immediately. “You’re a first year. No shit you haven’t made the main team. I hate perfectionists, man.”

He froze for half a second. Then turned toward you slowly, like you had personally insulted his ancestors. “…Did you, yes you, of all people just call me a perfectionist?” he said, breaking into a laugh that almost turned into a cough. “You spend your entire life studying. On the bus. On the way back. On the way here. You’re, besides me, the only student on this damn bus at ridiculous hours!”

You blinked. Okay, rude. “I’m just keeping up with my studies,” you said flatly.

“Please,” he cut in immediately. “You’re still sick and you came to school anyway. That’s worse than anything I do.”

That made you pause. Because, annoyingly, he wasn’t wrong. You clicked your tongue. “Ugh, whatever. You smell like sweat every time I see you. How am I worse?”

That earned you a full head snap in your direction. “Excuse you?” he said, scandalized. “I smell amazing. I’ll have you know I spend-”

“Blablabla,” you interrupted, waving a hand dismissively. “Nanana. I don’t care how much deodorant you buy. You smell like pure gym floor every time I see you.”

His jaw dropped. “GYM FLOOR?!”

“Yes.”

“That’s-no, that’s not even a smell!”

“It is to you, apparently.”

“I literally shower after practice!”

“Then your shower is bullshit.”

He stared at you like you had just declared war. “You are impossible,” he muttered, leaning back with a dramatic sigh.

“You started it,” you said immediately.

“I did NOT-”

“You did.”

He opened his mouth, then closed it again, clearly realizing there was no winning this.

So instead, he snatched your bag and took another bar, ripping it and taking a bigger bite than necessary, chewing aggressively like it was personally responsible for your insults. You leaned back in your seat, satisfied.

“…You’re still annoying,” he muttered after a moment.

So when you began fantasizing about a boy in your class, you instantly knew it was a crush. He was loud, unlike Jade, who preferred calm and avoided attention. He was funny, caring, and had this incredible red hair-everything Jade was not.

You weren’t good at talking to others, especially since Jade had been your only “friend” for most of your life. Trying to make new friends was almost impossible. Even a small conversation could reveal that your lunch, breaks, and often your whole week were already claimed by Jade.

Liking this boy felt like seeing sunlight glinting on the surface of water while you were sinking beneath it. Being with Jade right now was like drowning in murky depths, every breath scraping against your lungs. They say love gives you butterflies in your stomach, but having it shoved down your throat meant some went down the wrong pipe, flapping violently where they shouldn’t be.

With Jade, those butterflies were trapped, struggling to survive in the dark. With him, even from afar, they caught the light, fluttering toward it, as if finally free to breath. 

CLANK!

Jade slammed his utensils against the lunch table. The cafeteria was too chaotic for anyone else to notice, but the sharp sound made you flinch.

“Can you wipe your drool?” he talked at you, not even bothering to hide his irritation. His expression hardened, and he grinned showing all his teeth-always a bad sign.

“What-?”

“You keep staring at him.” Jade folded his arms and leaned back, the picture of annoyance. “It’s been two weeks. Two. And every time I look at you, you’ve got these stupid heart eyes and your ugly little ‘notice me’ face on.”

You blinked at him, baffled.

“Oh, so Mr. Creep here has been staring at me?”

He exhaled long and loud. “That’s not the point. Just tell him you like him so he can reject you, and you can be done with this silly phase.”

“Phase? Are you serious?” You were genuinely stunned. “Jade, he doesn’t even know me-I can’t just confess. And second, your clinginess doesn’t even let me get to know him.”

He nodded slowly, like he’d been waiting for you to say that.

“Okay.”

“…Okay?” you repeated, suspicious.

“Yeah, okay. Let’s make a bet.”

“I don’t like where this is going.”

“I’ll leave you alone for three weeks. If you manage to befriend him, confess, and he agrees? You won’t see me again.”

Your eyes widened. It wasn’t generosity-it was the bare minimum of space any normal person gets-but God, it felt like a breath of air. You grabbed Jade’s hands instinctively.

“Are you for reals?”

“I’m for reals for reals,” he mimicked badly, immediately pulling his hands back.

Monday arrived-and with it, the start of your three-week, possibly permanent, holiday away from the blue-haired fish.

You stepped out of the house half-expecting him to be lurking somewhere: behind the gate, around the corner, pretending he “just happened” to be walking the same route. But nothing. Jade wasn’t there. He didn’t jump out of a bush, didn’t stalk you on the way to school. He didn’t even spam your phone over the weekend. No calls. No messages. Radio silence.

It felt like when your nose finally unblocks after weeks of being stuffed-sudden, glorious, impossible relief. For once, you could breathe. Truly, you’d cherish this feeling forever.

You even flinched when you sat down, instinctively bracing for the usual kick to your chair, or the sudden yank on your hair, or that sharp pinch to your arm he swore was “playful.”

When you arrived, he was already in his seat. Books out, pencil tapping, eyes on his notes. He glanced up, gave you a simple, friendly “hi,” then went right back to studying.

No weird smirk.

No threats.

No possessive stare-down.

So before the teacher arrived, you did something insane: you approached people. Actual people. Your hands were shaking, your stomach twisted, but this was history in the making. You couldn’t waste the moment.

But-nothing.

Just silence.

Just Jade acting like an ordinary classmate, as if all those years of hovering never existed.

And shockingly? They were… warm. They greeted you back. Some joked about you going “boy crazy” or how you were “always glued to Jade.” You quickly shut that down, insisting he wasn’t your boyfriend-just a childhood friend-and tossed in a half made-up story about struggling with speech or social anxiety. Pure nonsense. Absolute fiction. But who cared?

For once, you weren’t orbiting around him. You were just… you.

You didn’t dare speak to the redhead just yet. First, you had to observe-study your prey-then plan your approach. That’s how Jade did it when he wanted friends, and if imitation was the sincerest form of flattery, then you were about to become a master.

You plastered on your most charismatic smile, copied the way Jade carried himself, how he talked, how he laughed, how he moved around others. Every gesture, every tone, every small detail was borrowed straight from him.

But that part-that was what really messed with your head. It made you feel like an extension of Jade, rather than yourself. Instead of him being just a part of your life, you were simply a part of his.

And now, on this mission, you were determined to steer clear of him-but this mattered more. Finding your innermost self? That kind of thing only really works when you’re twenty-five, with a fully developed frontal lobe.

To be frank, it felt wrong to wedge yourself into other people’s friend groups like some lost puzzle piece. So instead, you did the next safest thing-you sat beside Floyd.

Which immediately earned you a bone-crushing hug and about fourteen questions on why Jade wasn’t stuck to your side like industrial glue.

“Jade? Who is that?” you asked, deadpan.

You laughed. Couples. God. Kill you.

Floyd blinked at you. Then frowned.

“Can you stop being weirdos? Are you having a couples’ fight or something?”

“Floyd, we are NO-”

“Whatever. I don’t care. It’s boring to ask,” he said, waving you off like a stray fly.

Damn those twins.

Still… at least Floyd’s friends were nice enough to make small talk. Actual small talk. With you. Wild.

“So-do you have any socials?” one of them asked.

You nodded. “Why wouldn’t I?”

You smiled, but it was the kind of smile that meant absolutely nothing good was happening behind your face.

He hesitated, choosing his next words with surgical precision.

“You just… don’t seem the type. And your boyfriend doesn’t seem to like that.”

“No. Stop. Me and Jade are not a thing. We were never a thing. We will NEVER be a thing. If Jade and I were the last two people on earth, I wouldn’t even consider it. I think I would actually end it-matter of fact, the scenario would never happen because I would’ve already ended it before humans even went extinct.”

…

“…sorry?”

You sighed. This was the hundredth time today someone had referred to Jade as your boyfriend. And now a new fear crawled up your spine:

What if the redhead thinks so too?

This really made it clear:

you had to approach him soon-because if you didn’t, three weeks would fly by and Jade would come slithering back into your life like a chronic illness.

But whatever. It counted for something… right?

So day two came, and you did what any socially starved, panic-driven fifteen-year-old would do:

You practiced your speech in the mirror.

Like an absolute clown.

Complete with gestures.

You arrived in class, took one massive, throat-drying gulp, and forced yourself toward his desk.

Okay.

Here we go.

Be normal.

…

“Hi.”

A whisper. A pathetic little mouse squeak.

He didn’t even flinch.

Right. Louder. You need to be louder.

“Hello?” you tried again, voice barely louder.

He still didn’t hear you.

“He-”

He turned around.

“Do you need something?” he asked, genuinely confused.

He’s turning.

He’s looking at you.

He’s making eye contact.

He’s making eye contact.

OH MY GOD HE’S MAKING EYE CONTACT.

He didn’t hear your greeting. Of course he didn’t. Why would he hear your tragic little inhale?

“I just…”

“I just…”

“You just?” he prompted gently.

Kill you now.

He stared at you for two seconds too long.

“…forgive me but are you okay?”

“Yes. Bye.”

And you bolted back to your seat like the room was on fire.

Your face stayed plastered to the desk, cheeks burning. You were convinced if you stayed perfectly still, the laminate surface would absorb you like osmosis.

Then you heard it.

Low giggles.

“Hehehe… I can’t take it anymore.”

“I’m sorry,” he said, already smiling, “I KNOW we have an imaginary ‘contract,’ but that-” he snorted, covering his mouth, “that was SO embarrassing.”

You lifted your head just enough to glare-and of course.

Of course.

Behold: Jade. Leaning on your desk like a gremlin who collected your humiliation as a hobby.

“Shut up.”

“Hehehe-”

“SHUT. IT.”

He bit his lip, trying not to laugh again, but a tiny wheeze still escaped him.

And so another day passed.

Negative progress.

Your mission was sinking before it even left the harbor.

…right?

But whatever.

Two weeks and five days left.

Plenty of time.

Day three.

Today was the day.

Third time’s the charm-if the universe didn’t want you to win, it wouldn’t have invented the phrase. That’s how it works.

Positive mindset. Manifestation. Girlbossification. Whatever.

You didn’t walk to school.

You skipped to school. Like some annoying Disney side character with zero trauma and two loving parents. If the day started happy, then statistically-scientifically-it had to stay happy.

Blessed delusions.

You clutched your backpack straps and nodded to yourself.

Today you were going to talk to him. Today you were going to act normal. Today you were going to win.

You reached the school gates. Still skipping.

So, as usual, you ended up in your class. There he was, sitting like nothing had ever happened. You squared your shoulders, approached, and tried to play it cool.

And willed the universe:

Don’t screw me over. Not today. Not when I’m HAPPY.

“Hey,” you said, nonchalant.

“Oh, yeah, totally fine,” you lied, shrugging. “I just… wanted to talk to other people in class since I’m kind of… closed off. Didn’t really work out.”

He turned, eyes lighting up faintly.

“Oh… it’s you. Hi. Was everything okay yesterday?”

Ding ding ding!

He snorted, a laugh escaping.

“Pfft. So that was it? Alright then-let’s get to know each other.”

The bell rang. But better than that-it was the sound of victory. Your tiny, fragile, yes-I-proved-Jade-wrong victory.

Week One: Observation

For the first few days, you didn’t speak much. You hovered near him in the cafeteria, quietly laughed at his jokes, and watched how he interacted with others. It was fun to be casual, to slip out of your little orbit. For once, you weren’t tethered to Jade, and it felt… freeing.

Yet, a small part of your mind lingered on the fact that Jade hadn’t spared you a single glance during lunch. He really was honoring the deal.

“Oh, hey! I just realized I haven’t formally introduced myself,” the redhead said, flashing an easy smile.

“I’m Ace. Nice to meet you.”

Ace. The redhead with the messy hair and easy laugh. Ace. You repeated it in your head a dozen times, savoring the way it felt on your tongue.

“Nice to meet you, Ace,” you said softly, a smile tugging at your lips.

Week Two: Small Talk

By the second week, you started joining him during lunch. Conversations were awkward, scattered, but they existed. You learned he liked old movies, had an older brother, and could recite lines from The Walking Dead by heart.

“That’s ridiculous,” you laughed. “Do you have a life? I can’t believe you actually have that memorized.”

“They’re in the woooods,” he said dramatically, grinning.

“Okay, okay, stop-”

He leaned back, smirk still plastered on his face. “Alright, I wanted to ask… why are you suddenly hanging with me? I get it-you want to know people, and I don’t hate it-but it’s been two weeks.”

You smiled. “It’s nice to chat with you.”

His face flushed pink. “Oh… okay.”

Week Three: Confession Prep

By the third week, your heart was doing that weird fluttering thing you’d read about in magazines. You had rehearsed it in the mirror, in the shower, even on the walk between classes. Today was the day. No backing out.

Lunchtime came. Ace was already waiting by your usual table. You sat down, fists clenched under the table.

“Hey,” you whispered, voice shaky but audible.

He looked up, grinning. “Hey. You seem… serious.”

“Uh… talk after school, okay?”

And so after school came.

“You wanted to talk?” he asked, leaning against the lockers.

“I… I like you,” you muttered, heart hammering.

He froze. “…Oh.”

Your stomach dropped.

“I… like you too,” he said.

Yes.

“Like… more than a friend,” you added, urgency and relief mingling in your voice.

“I know… me too,” he said, smiling, a little shyly.

And just like that, the tight coil of anxiety that had wrapped around you for three weeks… loosened.

It had been a month with Ace. One whole month of dinners, texts, small jokes, and stolen smiles that didn’t involve Jade hovering anywhere near your shoulder. You liked this version of yourself-someone who could breathe, laugh, and exist without someone controlling every movement you made.

And Jade? He was gone. No corners, no sharp eyes, no sudden grip on your arm. No one really knew why he’d switched classes. You didn’t question it. Not now. Not when you finally felt like you were in the driver’s seat of your own life.

School felt different. You strutted down hallways that had once seemed like cages, your friends alongside you, chatting about makeup, boys, and weekend plans. You teased, laughed, and played with attention in ways you hadn’t dared before. You weren’t just surviving anymore-you were thriving.

Ace noticed. Of course he did. His messy red hair, easy grin, and the way he laughed at your terrible jokes made this new freedom feel even sweeter. For the first time, you weren’t just That-Yuu under someone else’s shadow. You were someone else entirely-someone who could flirt, tease, and actually enjoy being seen.

And yet, somewhere under the friendships, lip gloss, and careful smiles, a tiny part of you wondered: if Jade suddenly reappeared, would this freedom crumble?

You had a feeling you’d let it happen.

Unfortunately, it came fast. Your parents left a sweet note saying they were jetting off to some tropical paradise for a week, and Mrs. Leech herself offered to take you in during their absence. You whined, complained, even resorted to crocodile tears, but it was useless. Everyone ignored your protests like you’d become background noise.

The fancy dinner was served the moment you arrived. You sat opposite Jade, head down, determined to avoid eye contact. Useless. Every two seconds, he dropped something or asked to borrow the salt, his foot nudging yours under the table. Warmer than the tile.

Then came the bombshell: you weren’t expected to share a room. Until the guest room flooded. Jade had a dozen aquariums, and some pipe had decided it needed to explode. Now, you were sharing a room. His mother briefly suggested sleeping in Floyd’s room, but Floyd was a hibernating bear behind a locked door, unreachable. You offered the living room, but she shot that down immediately.

“Doors must stay open… okay?” she teased, glaring at her son, who was grinning like a little brat. Then she disappeared into the living room with her wine.

It was sickening. You hadn’t seen this bastard in a month. Of course, you wouldn’t want the door closed. Jade flicked the fan to maximum speed. Winter. Maximum speed. You wanted to complain, but it was his room, his rules, and you sure as hell weren’t confessing to his parents that you hated his guts.

He stared.

“If it’s cold, just borrow one of my hoodies. Wouldn’t be the first time.”

You opened the closet. How had you almost forgotten how childish he was? Fish pajamas, beanies, hoodies, shirts.

“You never change,” you muttered.

He snickered, saying nothing. You pulled the hoodie over your head and froze for a second. He’d grown in a month. A little taller, broader in the shoulders. It almost scared you-when does it stop? Can he stop growing?

And he wasn’t wrong about the hoodie. Whenever you played or got your clothes dirty, Mrs. Leech would dress you in his-mostly because Floyd was fiercely protective of his own things. Sharing a room wasn’t new, either. Sleepovers had been frequent, pillow fights long enough to wake his dad half-asleep, shuffling in just to groggily demand you both sleep.

When the fan suddenly clicked off, the silence hit harder than expected. You startled, turning-and nearly collided with him. His face was far too close, hovering over you. Your mattress was on the floor, backed into the corner, so when you tried to shift away, the wall trapped you. The floor creaked under his weight as he leaned in.

Jade was quiet. Too quiet.

He was immersed in adding more rocks to one of his aquariums, sorting them carefully like they were gemstones instead of gravel. The soft clatter of stone against glass and the distant laughter of his parents downstairs only made you realize how painfully long this night was going to be.

“Is he nice?” Jade asked, voice low.

You should’ve protested harder. Stayed home.

What were you even expecting from him? Change?

“Yes. And turns out I’m not a reject, Jade. Remember we had a deal.”

“He knows you’re desperate and sad. That’s why he’s giving you a chance.”

“You’re not gaslighting me into breaking up with him, Jade.”

He sighed dramatically. “Can you just-ugh. I was expecting you to date him, and then you’d realize how great I am and run into my arms saying, ‘I missed you, Jade,’ or whatever.”

Jade dropped down beside you on the mattress, hair falling everywhere, the picture of unapologetic chaos.

This boy could not be real.

You stared at him, baffled. “Why are you so-weird. Odd. Mean. Delusional?”

“I’m mean and odd,” he said, staring up at the ceiling. “But you’re worse.”

-He grabbed your legs, and suddenly you were falling, your bodies landing in sync on the floor. Your head barely saved by the mattress, but your back throbbed sharply against the hardwood.

“Shut up. You’re enjoying this a little too much,” you shot back, chest heaving.

He pressed a hand to your shoulder, leaning over you, his eyes glinting with amusement.

“You’re so easy to hurt. I barely even dragged you,” he said, rolling his eyes.

“No, I’m not,” he said, flashing a grin, teeth fully visible.

“Your face is so readable,” you pointed out, voice shaking with exasperation.

Before you could react, his hands came up, resting firmly on your cheeks.

“Break up with him,” he ordered, eyes locked on yours.

The argument spiraled, the room shrinking around the two of you. In the struggle, his shelf wobbled violently. A box toppled, teetering on the edge. His eyes widened in panic as he reached for it-but you snatched it first, retreating to the other side of the room and ripping it open.

You flailed slightly, trying to push away.

“Ugh, no! Go away!”

Documents about classmates spilled out, alongside dirty magazines and childhood photos. You stifled a giggle, shaking your head at the absurdity-until your gaze landed on a photo of yourself, freshly printed from your social media.

He sprawled on the floor, jaw slack, a rare look of defeat in his eyes.

“So much for privacy,” you muttered, tipping the box.

“Nope. Don’t want to hear it,” you said, backing away slightly.

Your stomach dropped.

“I can explain,” he said quickly, panic sharpening his tone.

“You were snooping-” he started, but you cut him off.

“No, Jade. You’re weird. And you can’t keep this box,” you snapped, pointing at him.

“What are you gonna do about it?” you challenged, tone sharp.

He made a face of mock offense, as if you’d just declared war.

“Nuh-uh. I can totally keep it.”

“Shut u-”

“Does anyone want pineapples-?”

You both snapped upright, limbs stiff and awkward, the room spinning slightly.

A sudden voice broke through, startling both of you.

“Why are you guys on the floor?”

“He dropped his rocks. We were looking for it,” you said quickly, trying to sound casual.

“NO! We’re fine!” you both shouted in unison.

He gave a sheepish nod.

“Sweet. Want pineapples?”

“Okay, goodnight,” the voice said, retreating.

But as you turned off the light and the energy of the room died down, you realized something you hadn’t wanted to admit: Jade would always be a part of you, whether you liked it or not. You couldn’t keep Ace around, not fully, only to grow more attached and risk breaking his heart one day. Especially today-something felt off, tensions were high, and it left a sour taste you couldn’t shake.

It took two days for the guest room to be fixed, which at least gave you space to avoid Jade more easily. You’d already planned to break up with Ace, but your feelings for Jade weren’t the kind that could be acted on. It wasn’t desire or love-it was his lingering effect, the way he left a mark on you that you didn’t want spilling into someone else’s life.

And yet… the fear of rejection lingered. Because, truly, Jade was the only one who would stay by your side no matter what. And somehow, that was the worst thing about him.

“We can still be friends?” you asked, voice small, hesitant.

“…No. I can’t. I’m leaving now. Bye,” he said firmly, cutting it off before you could argue.

You’d broken up with him after the week at the Leechs’ home. When you’d asked, he had just stared at you, quietly asking, why. And to be honest… you couldn’t answer. Not fully. It was shameful, tangled with Jade, with feelings you didn’t want to admit even to yourself.

And so 5 months passed and sweet 16 arrived. Fortunately you still had freedom. Unfortunately you now had a stalker.

“Happy 16th!” he said, his grin impossibly wide. Of course, his family was here too. No shade to his mom-but her sons? Annoying as ever.

You get on the bus and Jade’s somehow there. You sit on a bench and he just appears, calling it “fate” with a big grin on his face. He does seem more mature now- or maybe he’s just realized that manipulating someone works faster than forcing them. Either way, Jade is everywhere. He won’t even start a conversation unless you do, and he acts clueless whenever you question it.

“Thank you… Jade,” you muttered, cheeks heating a little.

He beamed, and it felt like actual sparkles were radiating from his glowing face.

You tore open the gift, and inside was a set of earrings, gleaming as if they had their own light.

“This is too expensive!” you shrieked-oops, maybe too loud.

His mother shook her head with a soft smile. “Nonsense. You and Jade are childhood sweethearts-it’s only natural.”

Ugh. She wasn’t wrong. In everyone else’s eyes, you two were inseparable. Gross. But… and this was new… it was the first time his gift felt normal. Usually, it was something weird he wanted to hang on the wall or something he personally liked, not something that actually suited you.

“Thanks again, Jade.”

“Don’t mention it.”

You paused, chewing on the thought. Weird. Really weird. This was the same man who, when he handed you a single bite of his food, somehow expected a full-course meal in return. To him, everything had a price.

So… what does he want this time? You’d find out later.

It was now ‘later’ you took a walk after going to a restaurant and as you expected jade was right behind you.

“What do you want from me?” you asked, not bothering to look back.

Your voice came out flat, hollow, tired.

You could hear him smiling before he spoke-smug, like he already won.

“Want? How could I want anything?”

You sighed, fingers tightening around your sleeves.

“Your nice attitude won’t fool me, Jade. I know you.”

He stepped closer. The sound was too familiar-heavy, sure, deliberate.

Déjà vu. “You know me?” he echoed. “If you know me, then you know what I want.”

Your brows knit together, finally turning to face him.

“Knowing you doesn’t mean I’m a mind reader.”

“Like a date?”

A beat of silence. His eyes glimmered-too confident.

“Let’s go out for coffee. Me and you. Alone.”

“Yes.”

“Pass.” You paused, tasting the shock on his face. “…Is that why you’ve been nice to me?”

“No. Yes. Maybe.”

“Why are you laughing? Are my feelings funny?” he snapped. “I don’t get it-you went out with that redheaded loser, why not me?”

You laughed-loud, uncontrollable, ugly. The kind that ripped out of your lungs without warning. It startled a cat nearby; it hissed and scrambled away. Tears prickled the corners of your eyes as you doubled over hopelessly.

His expression soured into offense and confusion, jaw clenching.

If looks could kill, you would’ve been six feet under. You’d never seen him this furious.

“Jade, you need to be studied at a mental hospital.” You wiped a tear. “For our entire lives together on this cursed earth, you’ve been a dick. And because you suddenly discovered your ‘gentleman’ phase, you think I’ll swoon and agree?”

You gagged dramatically. “Please.”

“You broke up with him after a week with me,” he shot back. “You never got angry about me following you around. You’re leading me on.”

“That’s because I can’t get rid of you,” you hissed. “There’s a reason I’m not even friends with you.”

“Who wants to be friends with a loser like you?” he scoffed. “I just wanted an easy lay.”

The remark slapped the air out of your lungs. Anger surged-blinding, choking, instantaneous. You swung your hand at his face, but he caught your wrist midair.

“Okay, if I let you slap me, will that erase sixteen years of your ‘trauma’?”

“No,” you spat, “but it’ll make me feel better.”

“I hope you die from all the smoking you do,” you muttered through your teeth.

He released you, chin high, daring you.

You slapped him, hard. The sound cracked through the yard like a firecracker. His head snapped to the side and guilt burned hot in your chest.

“I don’t smoke anymore-” He blinked in disbelief. “Is this about that one time? It was one time, Floyd said it’d look cool-”

“No, no, that’s not it. Stop changing the subject, you bastard. I know what you’re trying to do-” You shoved his chest. “You’re hurt because I dated someone you think is inferior, aren’t you?”

“Okay, so what? We established this and I-”

You crouched suddenly and flung dirt straight into his eyes.

“What the-?!” He staggered back, hands flying to his face.

“Just shut up,” you snapped. “Shut your mouth already.”

You stomped on his foot-once, twice, again. He stumbled, grabbed your arm to steady himself-

And your lips collided.

You jerked back instantly, face burning, breath shaking.

Warm. Too soft. Too close.

His eyes widened in shock as he froze against you.

“I hate you!” you shouted, chest heaving, before sprinting away in the completely wrong direction.

You hated Jade.

You would continue to hate Jade.

And you had always, always hated Jade.

Maybe he cried because it got him what he wanted. Maybe he was just a sensitive kid. If he couldn’t find you during lunch-he cried. If he fought Floyd over a toy-he cried and guilt-tripped his parents. If someone made fun of his hobbies-he cried.

Jade was your diaper buddy. His mother liked to reminisce about how he was more attached to you than to his own twin. How his first steps were toward you. How he’d pull his thumb from his mouth just to start chewing on yours, just because it made you laugh.

So having front-row seats to every tantrum and every tear he ever shed? That was no surprise.

They say children develop visual memory at age six, and for you, your very first memory was of his weeps.

It was first grade. You and Jade, as always, were in the same class. Jade had an obsession with seashells-tiny, chalk-white trophies he treated like treasure. He rambled endlessly about them: how they were made from the same stuff as chalk, how hermit crabs used them as armor, how each one had its own “story.” He’d bring his latest find to school just to show you.

“This one I found just below a surface of sand and mud,” he said, stumbling over his words as he placed the shell in your palm. It was brown with a tint of gold, depending on how the light caught it.

Before you could admire it, a ball slammed into your hand, jolting the shell out of your grip. Jade’s eyes widened in panic. Across the field, a classmate had accidentally kicked the ball off the pitch.

Jade scrambled to his feet, scanning the grass. The boy jogged over to retrieve his ball, brushing past Jade, who was on his hands and knees, desperately searching.

You rushed to help him, but just as you crouched, the boy let out a loud, fascinated noise.

“Woah, is this what you’re looking for?” he asked, holding something up.

Jade’s head snapped toward him. He shot up, reaching for the shell, but the boy effortlessly leaned back, keeping it out of reach. He smiled-wide and taunting.

“Is this what you do every lunch?” he asked.

Jade glared, silent.

He flicked his wrist and sent the shell sailing. It arced through the air and disappeared behind the school fence.

The boy’s grin sharpened.

“Lame.”

You looked back to see if Jade was alright, but what you saw instead were his eyes welling up. His tears slipped down like crystals-shiny, shifting in color the same way his shells did when the light touched them.

That memory sat so deeply in you it felt fossilized. Sometimes you wondered if it was just as carved into him.

You never forgot how red his face turned that day, or how loudly he cried. Everyone on the playground heard him.

And maybe that was the exact moment Jade started taking everything too far - the teasing, the pushing, the way he hovered around you like a shadow with teeth. An overcorrection. A shield. A way to pretend he was tougher than he felt.

And yet here it was again - replaying itself, except worse.

Jade was crying. Again.

His clothes were splattered with vomit - yellow and white, dotted with whatever you’d eaten. Your own face, hands, and knees were scraped raw. But none of that compared to the sound of him quietly breaking in front of you. Because you knew these tears were real. He wasn’t performing. He wasn’t pretending.

But you just stared at him - stunned, exhausted, strangely hollow. His face was blotchy, red, puffy, pathetic. And when he realized you weren’t going to say it, that you weren’t going to soothe him or lie to him or fix him-

And between choked breaths he kept muttering, “Take it back… take it back…” Take back that you hated him.

Take back the one thing he’d never imagined you’d say.

His shoes made a sharp, wet squeak against the pavement as he turned and bolted for home.

After that day, Jade started clinging to you even more. Maybe he finally realized-somewhere deep down in his demented little brain-that you were a person capable of having opinions, of feeling things about him.

Two years passed, marking the fifteenth anniversary of his bullshit and antics.

“You look like shit today,” he remarked as he fell into step beside you. “You can afford to smile.”

You hated the way he could be polite and condescending at the same time. How could someone swear so nicely?

“Okay, sorry,” you muttered, flatly.

“Just smile. I don’t get it-why are you always like this?”

“Like what?” you snapped, heat rising.

He rolled his eyes. Bastard.

“Jade, for the past month, you’ve dragged me to the beach every Saturday. Sure, you gaped about how nice it was going to be, but then you nearly drowned me, broke my fucking wrist trying to ‘save’ me, and oh yeah, let’s not forget you refused to take me back home when I begged for hours.”

You veered onto a longer route to school, your voice carrying down the street.

“So yeah, I don’t want to smile. Fuck smiling. And fuck you, Jade.”

His face disappeared into the distance, and you turned to run toward school, too afraid he might retaliate.

By the time you arrived, Jade was already at his desk, casually smiling while chatting with everyone. His eyes flicked to you, and the smile lingered like a warning.

When you sat down, he leaned slightly toward you and whispered, “Your wrist seems fine, unfortunately. Maybe you’ll break your neck next time we go.”

“Fuck you, Jade,” you muttered, leaning back in your seat with a heavy sigh.

Of course, he didn’t let it go. His fingers pinched your arm, and you jerked, biting your lips to keep from crying in the middle of class.

Lunch didn’t offer any relief. He kicked the back of your knees as you passed the cafeteria line. By now, you were pretty sure your whole body was covered in bruises, and his shoe had left a perfect imprint on one leg.

Standing back up, you reached for your bag-and it was open. Your lunch was gone.

You turned to see Jade still behind you, smiling.

“Floyd took it, not me,” he said, his eyebrows knitting together in exaggerated concern. “I can share my lunch if you want.”

He always did this. Take something of yours, make it vanish, and then offer his as if he were some kind of saint. Your lunch would end up with Floyd, or thrown in the trash. Your pens, your rubber, your umbrella-gone. Stolen. But oh, Jade couldn’t help feeling bad, and just had to share his instead.

It was maddening.

“Oh, yeah-never mind,” he said, a smirk tugging at his lips. “You’ve been muttering ‘fuck you, Jade’ and ‘I hate you, Jade’ all day… so I guess you wouldn’t want Jade’s lunch anyway.”

He mimicked your voice, dragging out the words in a cruel, teasing tone.

Then, without waiting for a response, he grabbed your arm and pulled you to the table. He set his lunch down in front of you and started eating, eyes locked on yours.

Your pride flared hotter than your hunger. You bit your tongue, refusing to ask, refusing to let him see how much it stung.

So you stayed hungry for the rest of the day.

While walking home with him, Jade suddenly veered off your usual route. Confused, you hesitated, but his hand clamped around your wrist.

“What are you doing?” you murmured.

“Just follow me,” he said, his tone flat, almost too casual.

You didn’t agree-but honestly, you didn’t have a choice.

He led you into a narrow alleyway, shadows stretching along the walls. There, Floyd was leaning against the brick, waving at you with that sheepish grin.

“Hey, shrimp! How was lunch?” he said, chuckling, holding a cigarette lazily between his fingers.

Well, of course. You remembered dinner at the twins’ house not long ago-Floyd had been caught high and had received a two-hour lecture about the dangers of smoking and pot. Somehow, you’d been dragged into it too, nodding along awkwardly while Jade sat silently beside you, smirking.

Now, here he was, holding the little stick of rebellion between his fingers, the tip resting against his lips. And for some reason… Jade’s eyes flicked to you.

You hadn’t expected him to be smoking, either. Not that he didn’t seem the type-he had this uncanny way of getting lost in whatever little thing fascinated him. You remembered the one time he got high off that weird fish he caught at the tide pools, of all things. He’d eaten it raw, claiming it was “special,” and then staggered around the beach for hours, muttering facts about crabs and the other kids at school like he was some kind of oracle. By the end, he’d passed out in the sand, barefoot and pale, leaving you and Floyd panicking and trying to drag him home. You’d never forget the sound of him mumbling secrets no one had told him out loud, the way his eyes flickered with some strange, unearthly focus.

Now he pressed a lighter into your hand and nudged it toward his cigarette. The tip was right on his lips. You froze for a second, then pressed your thumb down on the switch. A tiny flame flickered, catching the cigarette. Jade’s lips brushed it lightly as you held it there, and you flinched, the heat stinging your skin. Bruising it.

He didn’t apologize. He just seized your hand, moving away from his brother and deeper into the alley.

Almost instinctively, he brought your hand forward, inspecting your thumb. Then, like he had done countless times since you were children, he tucked it under his shirt, against his chest.

That's how he took the pain away when you were kids.

Only now, it felt… weird. You were older, and what had once been familiar and comforting didn’t feel that way anymore.

You pulled your hand back, heart hammering. He glanced at you, eyes narrowing.

“I took your pain away. Are you satisfied?” His voice had gone whiny, desperate for an answer.

“Yes… now can I go home?”

“No.”

“Please… I’m begging you, Jade.” Fuck your pride-you just wanted to leave.

He blew smoke into your face, leaning closer until your back hit the wall. You coughed violently.

“Take a drag,” he insisted.

“I don't want to.”

“I’ll let you go home-the beach, or Narnia-if you take a drag,” he said, smirking like it was a stupid game.

Your lips parted reluctantly, touching the cigarette clinging to his fingers. You inhaled bits of smoke, gagging as ashes scraped your throat. Tears pricked at your eyes, and he reached out, brushing them away like it was nothing.

Finally, he stepped back, letting the cigarette fall to the ground, and took your hand. You tried to pull away, panic flaring.

“Calm down. I’m taking you home. You should thank me,” he said, rolling his eyes slightly.

“Thank you,” you whispered, voice trembling.

Jade wasn’t like other children. He wasn’t loud like his little piece-of-shit twin, Floyd. Jade was quiet, tidy, polite. He collected seashells and arranged them by color. Adults adored him. Your mother would gush about how sweet he was.

And yet he liked watching you cry.

No one believed you when, at six, you insisted he’d stolen your favourite stuffed bear-or when he began tearing them apart piece by piece just to see your reaction.

You weren’t neighbors, but your families were close enough that it made little difference. Dinners, barbecues, weekend visits-your parents called them “playdates.” A charming word, if Jade hadn’t been involved. In front of adults, he’d pinch your arm under the table or nudge your chair just enough to make you stumble. When you were alone, he shoved you into dark rooms, waited until you panicked, then popped out with a grin sharp enough to cut.

And afterward, always the same line:

“Waah, you’re really crying? How ugly.”

Followed by a shove, a trip, a laugh.

You spent four years with dirt embedded into your knees, four years locked in closets he “forgot” about, four years of him offering soft apologies to your mother after “accidentally” pushing you into puddles on the way to elementary school. Four years of Jade being warm one moment and cold the next. But hey-he was friendlier to you than to most. He had a reputation for quiet fights that escalated fast, and thanks to his height, the other kids rarely stood a chance.

As he aged, he learned to polish the mask. Four years passed. He turned ten. And for the first time, he was placed in a different class-one that wasn’t yours. His mother had always insisted you be together, and no matter how desperately you begged to be moved, Jade would give that mild, unreadable smile and say how happy he was to stay with you.

But this year, he was moved to Floyd’s class.

Floyd-oh, Floyd. You didn’t like him, but you still preferred him over Jade. Floyd was volatile, but simple; he only got violent when irritated and only spoke to people he found “fun.” Lucky for you, he never found you interesting. Unlucky for everyone else, he found most of his classmates very entertaining. That was why Jade was sent to join him-to keep Floyd under control.

Jade did not take the news well.

“Why do I have to be with him?” Jade snapped-sharp, uncharacteristic. “He can handle his own mood swings.”

It was the first time you’d seen Jade raise his voice at his father. The anger looked wrong on him. Especially because Jade had shaped himself into the model child: quiet, hardworking, endlessly polite. Teachers adored him. Other parents praised him. No one ever saw what he did to you.

Because hurting you had become a habit-something he slipped into as naturally as breathing. He handled sea rocks and insects with the same careful fascination he used when tugging your hair just hard enough to make tears gather.

“Jade, apologise to your father,” his mother said tightly. “Sit down and tell us what’s bothering you.”

Jade lowered his head. Slowly. Too slowly. Then he reached out and curled his fingers around your arm.

His touch wasn’t rough. It was worse-soft, possessive, intentional. He guided you beside him, positioning you like something that belonged to him.

His mother’s eyes lit up. She giggled softly, delighted by a meaning she invented. His father’s smile sharpened.

“Ah… I see,” his father said, amused. “Alright. I’ll request that yuu be transferred to Floyd’s class as well.”

Jade didn’t respond. His fingers only lingered on your arm a moment too long—cool and steady-before he finally released you.

Vomit burned the back of your throat. You excused yourself and walked home, shaking, rehearsing what you’d tell your mother. But when you found her, she was already on the phone with Jade’s mother-laughing, gushing about how sweet he was, how well-mannered he’d become.

She didn’t notice your trembling hands. She didn’t notice your blotchy face. She didn’t notice your tears at all.

So you slipped away to your room, closed the door quietly, and let the sobs wring you out until sleep finally dragged you under.

The years that followed were living hell.

All throughout middle school, Jade lingered. He lingered so much that the smell of the sea he loved dearly had practically seeped into your skin. You’d already accepted that you’d be trapped in the same class, but you still tried to sit as far away from him as humanly possible.

It was the first year of middle school when you finally worked up the courage to talk to a teacher. You waited until the classroom emptied, your hands twisting nervously in front of you.

“Um… Mr. Hayes?” you whispered, stepping close. “Could I… maybe move seats? Away from Jade?”

Mr. Hayes, tall and kind-eyed, glanced at you and smiled softly. “Of course. Why? Is he bothering you?”

You swallowed hard, your stomach knotting. “He… makes me uncomfortable sometimes. He-he pins me down, trips me, and-” Your voice caught. “I don’t want to sit by him anymore.”

Mr. Hayes nodded slowly, leaning down just enough to meet your eyes. “Thank you for telling me. I’ll make sure it’s handled. And if he ever bothers you again, you come straight to me, okay?”

For the first time, someone had actually listened. Not laughed. Not gushed about how cute you and Jade were. Not ignored you.

“Okay,” you whispered, relief washing over you like a tiny, fragile wave.

The next two days were… heaven.

You sat at a desk as far away from Jade as possible. During break, he didn’t speak to you. At lunch, he didn’t insist you sit beside him. You dared a small smile as classmates, emboldened by your absence, slowly started approaching you. Maybe, just maybe, life wasn’t going to be so awful.

But reality had other plans.

On the third day, the chaos hit. You had just turned a page in your notebook when a smell hit the classroom first - coppery, rotten. Then the screams started.

The desk of the kid who’d been moved to sit next to Jade had been vandalized. Blood. Dark, sticky, unmistakable. Everyone recoiled, some gagging, some crying. The classroom reeked of decay.

You froze, your heart hammering. Jade, sitting a few desks away, didn’t flinch. His eyes scanned the room, calm, unreadable. And then you realized: this wasn’t random. This was a warning.

By the next morning, you were back in your old seat. No one said a word. No apologies. No explanations.

You suspected the school, knowing Jade’s family background, wanted the incident buried quietly. Better to place someone he “liked” next to him than risk what he might do otherwise.

Mr. Hayes, your tiny beacon of hope, was gone. Replaced by someone new. And suddenly, the fragile peace you’d glimpsed was shattered.

And your dull days beside Jade somehow became even worse. 

After that incident, he didn’t just kick your chair and pinch your arm anymore.

He isolated you.

Completely.

Even without evidence, everyone suspected he was behind the blood-soaked desk. Jade didn’t bother denying it - he didn’t need to. Instead, he quietly spread the idea that you might have done something strange, something unhinged. Not because he wanted people to fear you, but because it pushed everyone else away from you.

Away from what he considered his.

He became violent.

And when someone finally confronted you about it, Jade stepped in instantly.

Not as a manipulator.

Not pretending.

People started whispering that Jade was the “victim,” the poor kid stuck following around the unbalanced classmate he felt obligated to protect.

A desk shoved. A collar grabbed. A warning hissed through clenched teeth.

No one - absolutely no one - was allowed to so much as raise their voice at you.

But that wasn’t the truth.

The truth was far simpler, far more terrifying:

No one played around with the person he was attached to. Not without consequences.

.

“Jade, are you really okay?” William asked, leaning against the edge of the desk. “Just because your parents are friends doesn’t mean you have to hang out with that quiet freak.”

Jade’s eyes narrowed. He crossed his arms slowly, deliberately, as if measuring how much patience he had left. “Shut up,” he said, low and calm-but there was a chill underneath the words that made William pause.

“I’m just saying-” William started, smirking.

Jade’s hand twitched. That was all it took.

William’s smirk faltered when he glanced toward you. You were buried in your classwork, pretending not to exist, shoulders hunched, eyes glued to the paper.

“Hey, freak,” William said mockingly, stepping closer. “Looking busy doesn’t mean you’re invisible.”

Before you could react, he smacked your forehead. The clack of it echoed through the room. Heads turned. Conversations froze. Even the teacher blinked, distracted.

Jade moved like a shadow. In a heartbeat, William was on the ground, sprawled awkwardly, staring up at him. Jade crouched down to meet his eyes, close enough that you could see the dark intensity in them.

“Get out,” Jade hissed.

“What? Wait-”

“Get out. Now.”

His voice didn’t waver. His hand hovered above William’s shoulder, not touching, just there. Menacing. Terrifying.

William scrambled backward, muttering, “Fine, okay! Jesus, man!” His face was pale, and he looked like he’d just touched fire.

Jade didn’t move until William was completely gone. Then he straightened, slowly, deliberately, eyes scanning the room. The classroom was silent. Everyone stared at him - at you - and no one said a word.

“You okay?” he asked softly, his voice quieter now as he turned to you. But even then, there was an edge to it, a quiet warning that no one else could hear.

“I… I’m fine,” you murmured.

He didn’t respond. He just stood there, arms crossed, his presence like a wall between you and the rest of the world.

From that day on, people stayed far away. The whispers stopped. The stares faded. You became a ghost - present, but untouchable. Too attached to Jade to step away, too afraid and exhausted to try.

.

“Why haven’t you gone to his house lately?” she asked, tilting her head, a small smile on her face.

You fidgeted with your hands, twisting your fingers together. You’d been avoiding his house for months, making excuses about being sick or busy, anything to get out of seeing him. But your mother noticed.

“I… I just… I don’t want to,” you muttered.

“Because of him?” she pressed gently.

You hesitated, heart hammering. “…Yes,” you said softly.

“Because he did something?”

You took a shaky breath. “I've already told you how much hes been harassing me.”

Your mother blinked, tilting her head, and a small, amused smile tugged at her lips. “Oh… honey, don’t take it to heart. Kids are like that. He likes you, that’s all. You’re just being dramatic.”

“I… I don’t like it!” you protested, your voice trembling. “I don’t want him to-”

“Nonsense,” she interrupted, brushing past you as if it weren’t worth another second of thought. “He’s a sweet boy. You’re fine. Stop worrying so much.”

You froze, mouth opening and closing. The words you wanted to say, the fear and frustration and anger, all stuck in your throat. She hadn’t listened. She didn’t see it. And just like that, she left. 

You left the kitchen feeling heavier than when you entered, the walls of your house suddenly smaller, suffocating. Your mother’s laughter echoed in your mind: “Don’t take it to heart… he likes you!” As if that made everything okay. It didn’t.

You tried to focus on anything else - tying your shoes, checking your bag - but the thought of Jade waiting outside, watching for you, followed you down the steps. Each passing second felt like a countdown. You could hear him before you saw him, the faint scuff of his sneakers on the sidewalk, the sharp rhythm of his approach.

By the time you reached the street, he was already there, leaning against a lamppost like he owned the world. Blue hair sticking to his forehead from the morning damp, eyes scanning, calculating. The sight of him made your stomach twist into knots.

“Hey,” he called as soon as you stepped onto the sidewalk. Not a greeting, not a question-just a statement.

You kept walking, head down, trying to ignore him.

“Why do you never walk with me to school anymore?” His voice cut through the quiet, sharp, urgent.

“We’re walking together, aren’t we?” you said, keeping your tone flat, careful.

“You never wait for me.”

“Yes.”

“And you never go to my house anymore.”

“Yes.”

He stopped dead, then sprinted forward, blocking your path. His presence pressed down on you, heavy, inescapable.

“Do you… dislike me?” His words were low, deliberate, like a blade sliding over your skin.

“…Yes.”

The word ripped out of you. You hadn’t meant to say it so loudly, so sharply - but it was there, raw and trembling in the air. His face froze. You’d never seen him shocked like this. His lips twitched, eyes darkening, and then slowly, impossibly, a smile twisted across his face.

“Walk,” he said, calm but sharp.

You obeyed, but every step felt like walking through fire. Then his hand shot out, tangling in your hair. He yanked hard, and you cried out. Your elbow smashed into his chest as you tried to twist away. His knee slammed into the back of yours, and his hands yanked your collar. Your head nearly slammed into the concrete. Desperate, you grabbed his shirt, dragging him down with you. He hit the ground hard, breaking your fall.

You gasped for breath, looking up at him. His face was a mask of something you couldn’t read - anger, disgust, disbelief. He shoved you onto the wet pavement. Your knees screamed, scraped raw, blood mixing with mud. His hands shook slightly, jaw tight.

“I don’t just dislike you, Jade!” You screamed, voice breaking, chest heaving. “I hate you! I hate you! I hate you so much!”

The words tore out like a blade, urgent and hot. Each syllable carried every bit of fear, every pinch, every shove, every cruel word from him over the years.

Jade’s eyes widened. His jaw flexed, his hands clenching. “Shut- shut up! You-you…”

You scrambled to your feet, staggering, trembling, and screamed again, louder this time. “I HATE YOU! I HATE YOU!”

Rocks flew from his kicks, bouncing around you. Dirt and blood coated your face. Your knees throbbed, scabs reopened. You tried to stand fully, but his leg swept out, knocking you down. Your face smashed against the concrete. Nose bleeding, taste of iron sharp in your mouth.

Something inside you snapped. You twisted, grabbing his arm, shoving with all the force your fear and anger could muster. You heaved yourself upward, screaming your fury directly into his face. Nausea hit, hot and fast, and you vomited on him.

“GET OFF ME!” he yelped, staggering back.

“Sorry! Ugh-” you gasped, gagging, clutching your stomach, knees raw.

The world froze for a heartbeat. You sat there, trembling, chest heaving, blood and mud mixing over your skin. The weight pressing down on you - years of terror, fear, and silent suffering - lifted slightly, replaced by an almost sick, dizzy sense of release.

Jade stepped back, breathing hard, hands trembling at his sides. His eyes, wide and dark, flicked to yours. Something shifted between you, something dangerous and unresolved, but… something had changed.

For the first time in forever, you felt… free.