your friendly neighborhood romantic 🧸

The wind upended your hair the moment you stepped out of the café and onto the busy sidewalk.

"You know, you caught me at a good time," Yachi confessed over the sound of office workers, self-driving cars, and drivers honking at self-driving cars. "I'm actually going back to school in a couple weeks.”

"Hitoka!" Your jaw went slack, furious she hadn't told you sooner. “That's amazing! What for?"

"Typography classes." She shrugged, although her lips tugged into a giddy smile. "It's just an evening course at my local community college, but it'll probably take up all my free time.”

"You know, Osamu has been wanting to go back to school for the longest time. Do they have a website or something?"

"Oh, for sure!" Yachi frowned, already reaching for her phone. "I actually think they're having an open house in a couple of weeks. He should totally look into it.”

The link appeared in your inbox not a moment later.

"You know," she began, sliding her phone back into her work slacks. "You're doing an awful lot for this guy who's just your friend."

"Please. I'm just making up for all the times he's fed me," you breathed. It didn't exactly help, given the way Yachi’s smile turned saccharine. "I'm serious!"

"Whatever you say,” she half-sang, turning back in the direction of the Yajakudo Designers office. "Let me know if you need a wedding invitation, okay? My treat!"

You didn't remember her being so brazen, you thought, fishing for your parking validation at the bottom of your work bag. Then again, I guess I've changed, too.

The thought clung to you like a piece of chewing gum as you sped-walked toward the parking garage and spent the next fifteen minutes trying to find your car.

On the other side of town, Osamu was actively trying not to crash out. Lunch hour was the busiest it had ever been; he was down two whole crates of avocados. The toilet in the family bathroom had been clogged since this morning, and Itsuki had just called out sick with mono.

"You know they call it the kissing disease?" he shared over the phone. "She was like a siren, boss. Beautiful on the outside, lethal on the inside."

"Alright." Osamu rolled his eyes from where he'd locked himself inside the freezer room. "Just drink lots of fluids. And stop stickin' yer tongue down everyone's throat."

"You're tellin' me," the eighteen-year-old sighed. "I think I’m a changed man now."

Before Osamu could open his mouth to respond, his phone rang with another call. It was Miss Yuki.

"Shit," he murmured under his breath. "I gotta take this. Lemme know if ya need anything, alright?"

He always figured there would come a time Kina wound up in the principal's office. He just didn't think it'd be today.

"I can't believe ya got into a fight," he grumbled after twenty-five minutes of traffic and a stern talking to by the head-of-school. "The hell happened?"

Kina hung her head low and dragged her feet across the asphalt, really exercising her right to remain silent.

"I don't wanna talk about it," she said, a repeat of what she'd told Miss Yuki and the head-of-school ten minutes ago.

"And here I thought ya got along with Yui..." Osamu muttered, unlocking his truck and tossing Kina's backpack into the backseat. "The hell am I gonna do with ya for the rest of the day?"

The drive back to the restaurant was silent save for the sound of Kina's legs swinging against her booster seat. Maybe he could set her up in a booth. Ask one of his employees to walk her through the puzzles on the back of the kid's menu.

"...she called me weird because I don't have a mommy," Kina murmured at a red light. Voice small. Knees turned protectively toward the window. "She called me weird because I don't have a mommy, and I punched her in the eye.”

Now, Osamu knew his daughter was unpredictable. Half the time, it aged him. The other half made him laugh so hard his sides hurt. This, though?

All he felt was his stomach drop, his insides twist. He wanted nothing more than to unbuckle his seatbelt and wrap her into a big hug.

Before he could, though, the light turned green.

"Oh, sweetheart," he said. Voice strained. Knuckles turning white as he drove through the intersection. "Yer not. Even though mommy ain’t livin’ with us, yer not any less than those girls at school. Ya hear me?"

“I know.” Kina nodded in the rearview mirror, although her bottom lip still trembled. "That's what Misa said, too.”

"Good." Osamu swallowed, the thought of you easing his nerves like a balm. "That's...that's good."

He'd been so distracted lately. By missing ingredients. By sick employees. By his foolish, painful crush on you — which wasn't your fault. He knew that. Maybe if he hadn't been so absentminded, he would've picked up on Kina and Yui sooner. Maybe if he were a little less selfish, his daughter wouldn't be crying in the back seat right now.

The thought stuck with him the entire afternoon, rotting like a fruit in the back of his mind.

"Did your phone die or something?" The front door to the restaurant jingled open as you stepped inside and fixed your hair. "I've been calling you for the past hour."

"Shit." Osamu adjusted his backwards baseball cap and checked the digital clock above the register. Sure enough, it was already five. "Sorry. I've had a crap day."

"Tell me about it. I'm so behind on work, I had Kuroo pick up Misa from school." You massaged the inner corners of your eyes and laughed. "I bet all my life savings he feeds her ice cream before jiu-jitsu."

You walked inside the mostly empty dining room and blinked at the child napping in a nearby booth — limbs splayed, mouth wide open.

"You picked her up early today?"

"Long story." Osamu winced. Luckily, you didn’t push. Merely snorted before sliding into an empty barstool. "How'd yer meetin' with the designer go?"

"Oh, great. She saves my ass at the JVA more times than I can count, so I'm on a mission to give her as much business as possible."

You reached for your work bag to show him the designs, but stopped abruptly.

"I need to tell you something first, though."

"Oh?" He paused. Tossed the towel he'd been using to wipe the counter over a shoulder. "I'm listenin'."

"Remember when you told me you were considering going back to school?"

Osamu nodded. He was pretty sure you were sitting in that same exact spot, too.

"Well...my designer sent me the website of a community college she's attending in the spring, and I may or may not have signed you up for their last open house in a few weeks."

Osamu blinked at your words. The slight guilt beneath them.

"And before you come at me!" Your eyes grew panicked. "I checked your Google Calendar backwards and forwards; I made sure I was free to babysit. They have this incredible scholarship for business owners wanting to finish their degree, and I think if you just looked into it — "

"I can't."

It was out before he could stop it. Osamu swallowed, stunned by the bite in his own voice. "I appreciate the offer, but...I can't."

"...oh." You clamped your mouth shut. Furrowed your brow in confusion. "Are you busy that day? Do you have a catering gig?"

“No." He shrugged, brushing a pile of imaginary crumbs off the countertop. "I just don't think I got the time. Between Kina and the restaurant, things are already crazy as-is."

"Well, lots of people make it work," you offered. "Plus, you've got a great support system. You have your mom, your brother. I can even take Kina to Misa's Tiger Tots program on the days you have class."

"What? No." He blanched, having already witnessed his daughter's appetite for violence. "I couldn't ask ya to do that. Plus, Tsumu's trainin' for the Emperor's Cup in December. It'd be too much."

"Osamu." You frowned at him from across the bar. "I know it'd be hard, but...I wouldn't want you to give up on something you clearly want."

He scoffed, gesturing for one of his employees to take over the register. "Think I gave up my right to do whatever I wanted a long time ago."

You narrowed your eyes at him, then. As if looking for subtitles to help explain wherever the hell this was coming from.

“Are you okay?" you pressed, following Osamu as he retreated into his office. Between the tall stacks of paperwork to the dust bunnies behind the computer monitor, you had no idea how he got any work done back here. "Did something happen with Kina at school?"

"When doesn't somethin' happen with Kina at school?" he snorted.

“That’s fine. You're not obligated to tell me," you huffed, leaning against the aging doorframe. "I just don’t think you should be making such sweeping decisions when you’re like this.”

“Like what?”

“Snippy." You gestured to the old shoebox you were standing in. "Clearly auditioning for the latest season of Hoarders."

"I make it work." He plopped into his broken desk chair, tufts of memory foam puffing out the cracked leather with a wheeze.

"You don't even have any windows!" you cried. "Seriously, Osamu. When's the last time you did anything for yourself?"

"Are ya seriously askin' me that right now?" he balked. "When's the last time ya took somethin' off of yer plate? Or went to sleep at a decent hour?"

"Hey. I take vitamins for that and you know it."

He rolled his eyes. "Face it. Ya can't berate me for not takin' care of myself because, at the end of the day, yer the same way."

"At least I don't act like a martyr about it," you muttered. Osamu arched an eyebrow at that. You sighed through your nose.

"Look. I get that you're busy. Hell, I get that a program like this is a huge expense. But don't use those as excuses for not going after what you want when I actually think you're just scared."

Your accusation hung in the air like a pungent smell. Osamu slid his eyes away from yours, although the blush creeping up the side of his neck told you that he'd heard you. Loud and clear.

"Daddy?" Kina interrupted after several long, agonizing seconds. She popped her head inside the office and frowned. As if she could smell the tension off the both of you. "What's the password for the potty?"

Osamu recited it to her. "Will you go in with her?" he asked apologetically. "Last time I let her in there by herself, she fell into the toilet."

Despite everything, you snorted.

"Roger that. C'mon, Kina."

"…were you and my daddy having a lover's quarrel?" he heard his daughter ask as you walked with her to the bathroom.

You didn’t answer right away. Kina asked again, just in case you didn’t hear her the first time. Meanwhile, Osamu's forehead hit his desk with a soft thunk.

"Wow..." Atsumu's thumbs flew across his controller at record speed. "For once in my life, I'm not the idiot twin."

Osamu cursed as his brother sent Captain Falcon flying straight into Ike's chest. "The hell ya mean by that?"

The apartment was quiet save for the low rumble of Super Smash Bros on the television, the occasional snore floating in from Kina's ajar bedroom door. The scent of fried salmon still lingered in the air — and while there were dishes in the sink and leftovers on the stove, Osamu couldn't bring himself to take care of it.

"What I mean is that Y/N went out of her way to sign ya up for somethin' you've been talkin' about for ages — and ya went and shot her down for no reason!"

"No reason? Did ya hear anythin' I just said?" Osamu spat, trying to regain offense. "Tsumu, I'm drownin' over here! I've got the restaurant and my kid — "

"Eh, you've been sayin' that for years now," Atsumu scoffed. "Find a better excuse. Or at least sound more convincin' when ya say it."

A muscle feathered in Osamu's jaw as Ike was blasted off screen, Atsumu's Falcon Punch delivering the final blow of the match. "GAME!"

Sighing, Osamu let the controller fall into his lap. "Kina got into a fight at school the other day."

"Really?" Atsumu pushed out his bottom lip. "Did she win?"

"That ain't the point!" Osamu snapped. "It's just...one of her classmates bullied her for not havin' a mom, and I've been pissed off ever since."

"Damn." His brother frowned, watching as Captain Falcon flexed his muscles in victory on the television. "Kids are real assholes."

"Yer tellin' me," Osamu grumbled, picking at a loose thread on one of Kina's plushies she hadn't put away yet. "I know Y/N meant well by what she did, it’s just...how the hell am I supposed to think about finishin' school when my kid needs me to be two people at once?"

Atsumu considered his brother's question for a long while. Arms folded, feet kicked up on the coffee table. Osamu almost thought he'd fallen asleep before —

"Well, unless ya suddenly grow a pair of tits, I don't think you'll ever be her mom."

“For fuck's sake, Tsumu,” Osamu swore, sinking deeper into the couch cushions. "I thought ya were gonna say somethin' profound.”

"Think about it, though! Kina's mom is the way she is. It sucks and it's unfair, but...it's also out of your control. So why would ya spend all yer wakin' hours pretendin' that it's not?"

Atsumu reached for his controller to start the next game. "Kina doesn't need ya to be anyone else but her dad. And given the fact that you've managed to keep her alive this long, I'd say yer doin' just fine."

Osamu didn't say a word. Merely sniffed back his exhaustion. Regained his own controller once it came time to pick the next stage. Stuff like this wasn’t intuitive to him anymore. Playing games instead of tidying up. Going to college open houses instead of watching Kina. It all felt backwards. Too indulgent. If everyone around him was well-fed and happy, why should anything else matter?

I wouldn't want you to give up on something you clearly want.

He didn't need to think too hard about what he wanted. Actually getting it, though...

"Do ya think it'd be crazy if I asked her out on a date?" he asked quietly.

"No," Atsumu said without missing a beat. "But if ya fuck things up, I will run ya over with my car and ask her out myself."

"Fuck you," Osamu snorted. Then, because he still had some pride left in his body, "Ya ain't even her type."

"And yer somehow better? Yer hobby is brooding."

Osamu's jaw tightened. "Can't argue with that."

He proceeded to lose the next three games before shutting the television off entirely.

The following day, Osamu stood in the lobby of your office building. Bento box in one hand. Cell phone in the other. He'd been scrolling through the website of the community college whose open house you'd signed him up for — and while he'd only intended to glance at it for formality's sake, he'd be lying if he said he wasn't interested.

To your credit, they did seem pretty flexible with their evening business program — offering scholarships, online course options. They even had an on-campus daycare at no additional cost to parents. The more he scrolled, the more he could picture himself being there. Learning there.

The idea excited him, if only for a second.

"Osamu?" An unfamiliar voice called out to him from across the lobby. The stranger wore a loose tie and a blue button-down, and his hair looked like it hadn't been brushed in days. "I don't think we've met! Tetsurō Kuroo."

"I — pleasure to meet ya," Osamu managed, pocketing his cell phone before taking the young man's hand for a shake. "How did ya know it was me?"

"I know a Miya when I see one," he drawled, gesturing to Osamu's face. He pointed toward the bento box. "You treating Y/N to lunch today?"

"More like offerin' her an apology meal," Osamu admitted. "She said she'd come down once she was out of her meetin'."

"Ah.” Kuroo nodded. “So you're in the doghouse."

Did Osamu even have the right to be in the doghouse? That felt like something reserved for people in relationships. Not...whatever the two of you were.

"Well, we're not — "

"I'm just shittin’ you, man. That food smells delicious,” Kuroo enthused, ever the portrait of attention deficit. He clapped Osamu on the back before stalking off toward the exit. "Good luck on your apology! I'm sure she'll be down any second now."

Sure enough, after minutes of hovering around and making unwanted eye-contact with your security guard, Osamu spotted you. Heels clacking against the tile. Work badge swinging from your belt loop. You always walked like that, he realized. Like you were going somewhere important.

"Sorry to make you wait!" you apologized, picking up speed as you approached. "Everyone and their mother was in the elevator today. Someone let it rip in there, too. It was bad."

"Yer good." Osamu grinned, relieved by how easy things felt despite your previous conversation. "Why don't we take a walk? Get ya some fresh air?"

"I'd love nothing more," you chirped, already heading for the exit. Your expression faltered once you spotted the bento box in his hand. "You didn't have to bring me lunch. I would've been happy just to see you."

"Eh." Osamu shrugged, popping open the box as you pushed your way out of the building and onto the busy sidewalk. "I wanted to do it.”

You began your slow, easy walk around the block — Osamu offering you small bites of hot dog and rice, you folding them into your cheeks like a squirrel.

"Even though I'm the one who owes you an apology?" you asked eventually.

"I — " Osamu blinked. "I didn't think ya did."

"I do, though." You swallowed, eyes glossing over with an emotion Osamu couldn't place. "I was way out of line the other day. I got excited and I overstepped, and...I should have asked before signing you up for the open house. I'm sorry."

Osamu soaked in your words. The tenderness beneath them. All this time, he'd been mulling over how to apologize to you. He didn't consider the fact that you might be doing the same.

"Well, I appreciate that, but ya were just bein' thoughtful," he offered gently. "Besides, ya weren't wrong. I was scared. I was scared and pissed and hypoglycemic, and...I was just lookin' for excuses to say no to ya. So I'm sorry, too."

You accepted his apology with a soft smile, eyes drifting down to your shoes.

"Do you want to talk about it? What was bothering you the other day?"

“Yeah…” Osamu sucked in a sharp breath and rubbed the back of his neck with his free hand. "Kina got into a fight with Yui at recess."

You fought back a sheepish look and confessed, "I know. Misa told me when she got back from jiu-jitsu."

Then, because you couldn't help yourself, "Did she win?"

“Why is everyone askin’ me that?” Osamu griped. He plucked a cherry tomato from the bento box and popped it into his mouth. "Yui told Kina she was weird for not havin’ a mom, so Kina…gave her a black eye.”

"Sounds like a win to me," you hummed. "And honestly? I would’ve done the same."

"No."

"Absolutely! You should’ve seen me when a Levi’s sales associate told me I couldn't fit my postpartum hips into any of their jeans. Misa gave me the stink-eye at a ripe three months of age.”

Osamu was full-on laughing now. "Well, despite yer appetite for violence, I think ya raised a good egg."

"You did, too," you reminded him with a light shove. "At least Kina can defend herself in a fight.”

"Yeah. I've got myself and Tsumu to blame for that," Osamu drawled. "It's just...Kina's my whole world. How am I supposed to focus on anythin' else?"

"Well, how's that saying go?” You weaved around a throng of office workers on their way to lunch — grabbed Osamu by the arm so you wouldn't lose him. “You can't pour from an empty cup?"

"Yeah. Suppose yer right," he sighed, squeezing your hand with his bicep. "It's just not in my nature to do that. To be selfish.”

"It's not selfish, Osamu. It's self-preserving."

"Yeah?" The corners of his lips tilted into a smirk. "And have you self-preserved at all in the past year?"

You shoved him again, a little harder this time. "Do as I say, Osamu. Not as I do."

His chuckle, low and teasing, rumbled right through you. "So full of wisdom today..."

You eventually found your way back to your office. Bento box empty. Hand still tucked into Osamu's arm. You tried not to think too deeply about how warm he felt, pressed into your side like that. But as you both pulled away from each other, you couldn't help but notice the difference.

“If I go to that open house in a couple weeks, will ya promise to take a day off?” he asked, snapping the lid back on. "I can take Misa for the day."

"Really?" The expression you gave him was touched. "You’d do that?”

"Course I would! I’ll take her and Kina to a volleyball game or somethin'. I'm sure Atsumu could spare us the free tickets.”

"Well...yeah, okay. I'd like that." You blinked, suddenly overwhelmed by the idea. "God. What am I gonna do with all that free time?"

"Well, ya could craft. Book that nail appointment you've been puttin’ off — "

"Oh!" You snapped your fingers. "I could read the smutty novel that's been sitting on my nightstand!”

"I — that, too," he chortled. It didn't escape you, the way his ears turned bright pink at the suggestion. Before you could tease him about it, though, he held his pinky out to you. "To takin' care of ourselves?"

You rolled your eyes slightly before hooking your pinky around his. "To taking care of ourselves."

Osamu still had a ways to go before he could fully want things like he used to. After all, his circle of happiness might as well have been drawn in permanent marker.

But as he waved you goodbye and walked back to his truck, he found himself scrolling through the community college website again. Reading up on the classes. Doing the tuition expenses in his head.

He'd be open to having this, he thought.

Then maybe, once he worked up the courage to ask, he'd be open to having you, too.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Really?"

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

"That's so cool!"

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Why do you do it, then?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Just another reason to see you again, he supposes.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"I — where did you get that?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"What can I get for you, Hinata?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Excuse me?!”

"I'm being honest!"

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

"Yeah? Like who?"

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

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

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

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

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

The sound of cicadas fills your ears as you eat.

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Because you've never been?"

"Because I don't know anyone!"

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

"Sure, but — "

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

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

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

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

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

"Yeah? Were they always busy?"

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

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

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

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

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

He might as well have shanked you between the ribs.

"Gee. I had no idea, thanks."

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

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

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

"To be normal?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Shut up, Shō."

He doesn't for the entire walk home.

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

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

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

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

"Okay. I wouldn't go that far — "

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

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

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

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

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

"Did I miss something?"

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

"Nope."

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Did you see that?!"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You hum amusedly. "Yeah?"

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

The offer sits in your stomach like an overripe fruit.

"No, thanks. If I apply — "

"When you apply."

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

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

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

The thought settles into you like an anchor.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Shōyō!"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Why do you cook?

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

It's a start.

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

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

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

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

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

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

“No. Although the answer is five.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Nicotine patches? Are you serious, Shō?”

“What? They were on sale!”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Yeah?”

You nod like a broken bobble head.

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

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

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

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

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

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

You nod. “Thank you, Shō.”

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

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

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

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

"Is it okay if I...?"

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

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

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

He nods. "Yes. Please."

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

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

"Are you sure?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"But I'm agreeing to it!"

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

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

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

"Nobody thinks that of me!"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Yes."

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

She stops short once she sees your pallid face.

"Skies, Junie. Ya look like shit."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"But I didn't pay for — "

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

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

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

"So how has your — ?"

"I just wanted to — "

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

"You first," Hinata insists.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Yes. "Not really."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"We should watch it together before you leave."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Skies. Where the fuck are you going with this?

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

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

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

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

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

"Did you sleep at all last night?"

"No."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"How do I fix this? What do I need to do?"

"Easy. You do what every well-meaning parent has done in the history of the world," you told him, folding your arms across your business casual. "You lie."

Osamu looked like he would rather eat a spoiled fish. "Really?"

"Really! As much as I want Misa to be a sensible adult, I don't mind stretching the truth every now and again before she gets there."

"Yeah? Like for what?"

"Oh, tons of things — Santa Claus. The tooth fairy. How positively wonderful her father is."

A cocktail of shock, amusement, and retroactive anger flashed across Osamu's eyes.

"Too soon?" you laughed, scratching the back of your head with your manicure. "What I mean to say is...there's no harm in preserving the magic for Kina a little while longer. The world is already shitty as-is. But she doesn't need to know that now."

Osamu's shoulders sank as he considered your words. The fierce protectiveness behind them.

"...fine. I see yer point," he conceded. "How do ya suggest we make it up to her, then?"

"Leave that to me," you reassured him, squeezing his bicep like you did your favorite stress ball. "All I need is some cardstock, a glitter pen, and my good ribbon. None of that cheap shit. Oh! And a little jar to memorialize the tooth."

"Memorialize the tooth? We're not just gonna toss it?"

"Toss it?" You looked as if you'd been slapped. "You mean to tell me that your baby's first tooth doesn't mean anything to you?"

"...yes? No? What on earth am I gonna do with — ya know what? Nevermind." Osamu frowned, recognizing this was an argument he could not win.

Instead, he merely reached out, squeezed your shoulders twice, and said, "I appreciate ya tryin' so hard. I'll take care of the tiny jar."

"Thank you." You smiled at him sweetly, unlocking your car with two sharp beeps. "I'll text you the details later!"

"What on earth are you doing?" Kuroo asked on his way back from the copy room. He blinked back at your assortment of scrapbook paper and glitter pens — the way your posture curved over your desk like a prawn's.

"What does it look like I'm doing?" you retorted, trimming the edges of the fairy illustration you'd licensed off Adobe Stock Images. "I'm crafting."

"...as a stress response?"

You frowned. "I'm decorating a money envelope from the tooth fairy, but I don't want Misa to know it's me."

"Ah." Kuroo pulled over his desk chair and eased into it with a chuckle. "Kiddo finally losing her baby teeth?”

"...no." You busied yourself trying to find a recycling bin. "It's uh...it's Kina, actually."

At that, your co-worker raised his eyebrows.

"Osamu's kid?"

"Yeah.” You shrugged. Briefly explained to him the situation. "She was heartbroken when he told her. I'm just trying to help him out."

"You've been 'helping him out' a lot lately."

Kuroo hooked an ankle over one knee and frowned, although you couldn't take his accusation seriously with those ridiculous socks of his. (Today's pair had a flock of ducks on them. Or were they geese?)

"The bake sale. His kid's school project. A new sign for his restaurant..." When you rolled your eyes, he added, "Don't think I haven't noticed you working on it between meetings!”

"So? I get all my other work done on time!”

"Not the point." Kuroo grinned. "You like him."

"I like a lot of things. Strong coffee, cheap manicures..."

"You like cheap manicures? Romantically? Intimately?"

"Intimately?" you hissed, whipping your head around the office floor. Mercifully, most people were out to lunch. "Are you asking me to report you to HR?"

Kuroo hummed behind his warm stack of copies and leaned back in his chair. You half-wished the cylinder would snap into two.

"When did you realize?"

His question caught you off-guard. Your eyes retreated to your desk. This silly art project that had consumed your entire lunch break.

"...it was the day of Misa's violin recital. I think."

The words, far too vulnerable for your liking, lingered in the air like a bad smell. Your face turned a deep shade of red.

"Why?"

You blew a raspberry. What could you possibly say to that?

“He makes my daughter laugh,” you eventually decided on. "He's there, but he doesn't have to be. He takes every single shitty thing I've ever thought about fatherhood and just...refutes it."

You folded your arms across your chest and glowered. "There. Happy now?"

"...wow.” Kuroo pushed his bottom lip out. “I think that's the nicest thing you've ever said about a man."

You picked up your stack of scrapbook paper and smacked him with it.

"Will you let me craft in peace now?” you begged. “Save the invasive questions for happy hour. Please."

"Whatever you say, Miss Tooth Fairy," Kuroo cackled, easing himself out of his chair and flipping through his stack of papers. "Also, I believe this is yours. I saw it on the printer when I went to make copies."

You took the paper into your hands. Relaxed once you realized what it was.

"Thank you."

"No problem." He waggled his eyebrows before returning to his desk. "I'm holding you to that happy hour, by the way!"

The photo Osamu had taken of Misa at the sculpture garden was a new favorite of yours. It was by no means perfect — his thumb was in the bottom lefthand corner of the shot, and Misa had a bad habit of looking like a stiff Victorian child when photographed.

Regardless, a soft smile worked its way onto your face as you trimmed the photo to size, grabbed a thumbtack, and pinned it above your desk.

You found yourself staring at it the rest of the day.

The day after Kina lost her tooth, you stood outside Osamu's door. Misa on one hip. Pillow and blanket on the other. You'd packed your entire apartment into the overnight bag slung across your shoulders, and you briefly wondered if insurance would cover the chiropractor you now needed after hauling everything up three flights of stairs.

"Oh," you breathed at who answered the door. "I didn't realize you'd be here, too."

Atsumu's lips pulled into an offended frown.

"I know I'm not yer preferred twin, but ya don't need to sound so disappointed." He opened the door wider and hollered, "They're here!"

The smell of spices and freshly cooked rice filled your nose as you entered the apartment and kicked off your shoes. "You here to crash the girls' Tinker Bell marathon?"

"More like raid my fridge!" Osamu huffed from the kitchen. You snorted as Misa wiggled out of your grip and made a beeline for Kina's room. "Work treat ya well this week?"

Your conversation with Kuroo immediately flooded your memory. The tips of your ears turned pink as you found Osamu preparing dinner by the stove.

"Sure," you drawled as you approached. Took a peek at the potatoes, carrots, and chicken he stirred into the rich curry sauce. "Didn't get nearly as much done as I wanted to, though."

"Ya always say that," Osamu drawled. He met your gaze over his shoulder and smiled. "It's Friday. You've earned yer rest."

"I think I've earned three bowls of this delicious curry."

"That, too," he chuckled. His voice dipped beneath the roar of the exhaust hood. "Sorry about Tsumu, by the way. He heard I was makin' dinner and decided to crash."

"No, no! I don't mind. The more the merrier."

And, for a split-second, you meant it. The plan you'd pitched to Osamu was simple: have Misa over for a sleepover. Watch a couple nostalgic movies to set the tone. Swap out Kina's tooth for the money envelope you'd spent at least two hours of company time on, and voilà. Childhood magic restored.

You hadn't considered the fact that you'd basically invited yourself over. In fact, when Osamu texted you that the guest room was all set up and ready to go, you’d nearly evaporated from embarrassment.

Maybe it was better to have another adult in the room.

Across the apartment, the adult-in-question now frowned at the tooth Kina insisted on showing him. Osamu had given her a sample jam jar for her to put it in, and not a second passed without her brandishing it like a championship ring.

"Wow," Atsumu drawled, dark brows pulled into a concerned line. "That's...disgusting."

"Disgusting?" Kina squawked. She turned to your daughter for a second opinion. “Misa, do you think my tooth is disgusting?”

"I..." Your daughter's eyes locked onto yours in a blind panic.

You leaned over Osamu's kitchen counter and smiled. You can be honest.

"...maybe?"

"Maybe?!"

"It is!" Atsumu cried, gesturing to the tooth like it was a severed limb. "It's all bloody and shit!"

"Language!" Osamu ground out.

"You're just jealous the tooth fairy isn't coming to give you money," Kina told Atsumu, cradling the jar to her chest.

"And yer just lucky ya didn't swallow that damn tooth of yours in yer sleep,” her uncle retorted. He leaned in, a grin tugging on the corners of his lips. "Ya know what happens to kids who swallow their teeth in the night?"

Kina stumbled backwards a step, equal parts scared and defiant.

"What?"

"They turn into skeletaurs!" Atsumu cried. Kina's petrified shrieks rattled the apartment as he chased her around the living room, leaving a trail of discarded pillows and couch cushions in their wake.

"Alright, alright! Quit traumatizin' her," Osamu drawled after a while. He balanced a warm plate of food in one hand and yanked Atsumu back by the hood with the other. The athlete wheezed like a harmonica.

"If y'all want dinner and money from the tooth fairy," he warned — tone firm. Eyes sharp. "Then I suggest ya both clean up yer mess and sit the hell down."

They didn't need to be told twice.

Dinner proceeded just as chaotically — Kina demanding everyone apologize to her tooth. Atsumu asking your daughter one judgmental question after another ("Is this really who ya chose to be yer best friend?"). Misa stuffed her cheeks with a spoonful of curry and shrugged, as if she couldn't decide whether to be entertained or overstimulated.

"Is your family always this crazy?" she later asked Osamu during Tinker Bell and the Lost Treasure.

Atsumu and Kina were curled up on the air mattress at the foot of the couch, debating whether he'd be a tinker fairy or a fast-flying one. Meanwhile, Misa was tucked between you and Osamu on the sectional, sharing the blanket he'd warmed up in the dryer.

"Unfortunately," Osamu grumbled. He tossed a handful of movie-butter popcorn into his mouth and asked, "Why? Are they bein' too loud?"

"No!" Misa pursed her lips to one side. "I mean, yes, but...it's just mommy and me at home, so I don't mind."

Your expression crumpled beneath the faint glow of the television. Osamu reached over the back of the couch and squeezed your shoulder with his free hand.

You found yourself reaching for it a moment later. Appreciating its warmth. Quietly asking him not to move.

He didn't.

"Okay team," you stage-whispered in the kitchen later that night. You pinched open the money envelope and held it out to the twins. "Pay up."

Osamu counted eight thousand yen from his worn leather wallet and slid it into the envelope. Atsumu, after some protest ("What? She ain't my kid.”), forked over eight thousand as well. You licked the envelope closed and secured it with a ribbon, the fairyland scenery you'd decoupaged on the front sticking slightly to your fingertips as you worked.

"Will we have to do this whole song-and-dance for the rest of Kina's teeth?" Atsumu grumbled.

"Oh, hush," you said. "Don't you remember how fun it was to lose a tooth as a kid?"

"Not really. All I remember was Samu chasin' me around with floss and the world's largest Nerf gun."

"Yeah..." Osamu rubbed the back of his neck with a sheepish grin. "That was pretty fun."

The sound of the girls' quiet snores filled the bedroom as you and the twins tiptoed inside — plastic toys scattered across the carpet. An orange nightlight plugged into its socket. Kina had already contorted herself into a position that couldn't have been comfortable, and Misa looked like she belonged in an ancient sarcophagus.

"Why does yer daughter sleep like a corpse?" Osamu murmured, frowning at her supine position.

"At least her foot isn't in anyone's face," you hissed, gesturing to the tiny heel pressed into Misa's cheek. "Can someone please move her?"

Atsumu slid both hands beneath his niece's sleeping frame and tried his best to roll her over. She wouldn't budge.

"I can't."

"You can."

"She's heavy."

"She's five!"

"Oh, for god's sake," Osamu grumbled, gathering his daughter into his arms and lifting her like a sack of flour. "We're fine. The girl sleeps like a goddamn log."

After you and Atsumu replaced Kina's tooth with the money envelope, Osamu practically swaddled her back into the blankets so she wouldn't move. The moment you all crept back outside and closed the door with a soft click, a collective sigh unfurled into the air.

"I never wanna do that again," Atsumu complained, handing Osamu the jar with a shudder. "The hell ya gonna do with a bloody tooth?"

"Dunno," his brother hummed, holding it up to the light. You swore a wistful shadow crossed his eyes in that moment. "Put it in a drawer somewhere?"

Atsumu shook his head before walking away. "Y'all are weird."

You exchanged soft, tired smiles with Osamu outside his daughter's bedroom door.

"Wanna watch a movie?" he suggested, tilting his head in the direction of the living room. "I'm logged in on all of Tsumu's accounts."

You blinked back at the question. "Are you sure? It's getting late."

"It's ten-thirty," Osamu huffed, gently nudging you in the ribs. "When's the last time you've watched a movie that wasn't rated PG?"

The pensive look on your face told him you couldn't remember. Osamu chuckled before padding back towards the couch in his socks.

"Come on," he teased, Atsumu already shoveling another handful of popcorn into his mouth. "The sleepover was yer idea, wasn't it?"

You'd become so fixated on preserving Kina's sense of childhood magic. But as you took in this apartment — the discarded toys on the floor, the leftover curry on the stove, the two grown men already bickering over which genre to watch — you realized her life was already full of it.

The thought made your chest flood with that same swell of emotion Kuroo had accused you of harboring just days before. But before you could fully succumb to it, you instead double-checked Kina's door, tucked your hair behind your ears, and went to go join the twins on the couch.

It would be another twenty minutes before you finally decided on a movie to watch.

"Tsumu," Osamu drawls. He reaches out, yanks the towel from his brother’s hands, and shucks it into the trash bin. "You've been datin' the girl for two years now. If she gave a shit about yer face, you'd know."

"Sure, but..." Atsumu rakes his hair out in frustration. "...most of our relationship’s been over FaceTime. Her shitty wi-fi does my skin a favor."

"Well, how's that sayin' go? It's what's on the inside that counts?" Osamu muses, padding back into the kitchen. He's preparing some type of sandwich, judging by the smell. "I mean, I think yer personality's no better. But she must've seen somethin' in ya."

It takes every ounce of Atsumu's self-restraint not to shuck the box of towels at his brother's head.

Three hours later, you stand outside the arrivals terminal of the airport. Hair tousled from the flight. Fingers drumming against the handle of your carry-on. You'd flown in to support Atsumu for his first game of the postseason, and while you're excited to reunite with him after three months apart, there's always something...nerve-wracking about it. Almost as if you're meeting each other for the first time.

Those nerves subside, however, the moment your boyfriend's Jeep rounds the corner of the terminal.

"You're here!" you exclaim, burying your face into his sweatshirt once he climbs out of the car. "You wouldn't believe the flight I just had. This couple kept arguing beside me, and I'm pretty sure the little kid kicking the back of my seat gave me sciatica, but — wait, why are you wearing all that?"

Atsumu's arms flinch around you at the question. You blink up at his disposable mask, the large hoodie shielding his face from your view.

"I'm...cold?"

"It's the middle of May," you say flatly.

"I dunno." He averts your gaze. "Maybe Sakusa's rubbin' off on me."

"Bullshit," you seethe, squeezing him so hard that he yelps. "I know for a fact you licked the ground as a child. What's going on?"

"Alright, alright!" Atsumu concedes, practically wheezing beneath your iron grip. He taps your shoulder like a defeated UFC fighter and confesses, "If ya want me to be honest...I broke out pretty badly last night, and I don't want ya lookin' at me up close."

"Oh." Your expression softens at his words. The quiet vulnerability beneath them. "Is that all? Tsumu, you know I don't care about that kind of stuff."

"I know, but..." You spot the red hot blush creeping out from underneath his mask. "I wanna look good for ya, ya know?"

Your shoulders sink, a bemused smile tugging at your lips. You gently reach into his hoodie and brush back the hair that's fallen into his eyes.

"You always look good to me, okay?" you reassure him, voice firm. Eyes earnest. "It's impossible for you not to. But if you're looking for a quick skincare hack before your game tomorrow...I might have something that'll help you out."

"…stickers?"

"They're not just stickers, silly." You swat your boyfriend's shoulder in the bathroom. "They're pimple patches! They drain all the fluid from any surface-level breakouts, and they even come in different colors and sizes. See?"

"I dunno, babe," Atsumu murmurs as you peel a yellow star off the sheet with your tweezers and gently apply it along your jawline. "They look awfully cute on you, but...I just don't think I can pull 'em off."

"I think you can pull anything off with the right attitude," you argue, sitting him down on the chair you'd dragged over from the kitchen. "You don't even need to wear them in public if you don't want to. Just try them on overnight and see how you feel."

You push Atsumu's hair back with your fluffy headband and proceed to pamper him for the next twenty minutes — cleansing his textured skin, massaging every nook and cranny with the moisturizer you'd sweet-talked past TSA. Even as you apply a yellow star to each of his spots, your movements are soft. Kind. A far cry from the vehement scrubbing Atsumu's used to.

"There. All done." You reach down and press a quick kiss to his lips. "Wanna see?"

"...huh." Atsumu blinks back, inspecting his face from different angles in the mirror. "They don't look half-bad, actually."

"See?" You yank the zipper across the top of your toiletries bag with a smile. "Told ya they were cute."

Your boyfriend ends up liking the patches a lot more than you thought he would. He orders a couple boxes for himself, stares at his reflection longer than he normally does.

And when he pulls up to the game the next day wearing them like a badge of honor? The social media headlines go crazy.

This professional volleyball player just made acne cool again.

This rookie setter's skincare routine just dropped — and dermatologists are obsessed.

Why Miya Atsumu's starry face matters in a world obsessed with perfect skin.

He feels a little less self-conscious about his skin after that. None of which would’ve been possible if not for you — holding him gently. Loving every part of him, no matter how close.

Maybe it's time you reconsider this whole long-distance thing.

“Hm?” You blinked back at his concerned expression. Felt your eyes wander to the plaid flannel that stretched across his forearms, his chest. “Oh, yeah.”

He frowned. “Ya look like ya haven’t slept a wink.”

“Yeah, well…” You scratched your scalp. Awkwardly accepted the thermos. “I’ve got a lot on my mind.”

“Yeah? Wanna talk about it?”

“What? Here?” You gestured to the chilly parking lot. The eighteen squirmy kindergarteners waiting to be let on the school bus. “Miss Yuki will be back any second.”

“Miss Yuki is currently hunting down the custodian to unclog the toilet in her classroom,” Osamu chuckled. “I think we got time.”

You folded your arms across your chest. Took a sip of the coffee Osamu had prepared. Two creamers and one Stevia, just how you liked it.

"Fine," you grumbled, lowering your voice so no one else could hear. "It's Misa's father."

"Oh?" Osamu nodded, feigning ignorance as best he could.

You frowned. “Please don’t look at me like that.”

“Like what?”

“Like you didn’t already meet him!” you hissed. You averted your gaze, a blush rising into your cheeks. "Go ahead, judge all you want."

"No, no! He looked...smart. Accomplished."

"He's fake and conniving, is what he is," you sighed. "Anyway, he just asked me something super insensitive, but I don't think I'm entirely in a position to say no."

"Yeah?" Osamu’s brows pinched together. “I’m sorry.”

“Why are you sorry? You’re not the one who asked me."

You squirmed beneath Osamu's gaze, then — that grey, glassy-eyed stare he'd give you whenever you confessed to skipping lunch or working late nights. He looked at you like one might an elderly person. Or a malnourished cat.

Either way, you were relieved to hear the sound of Miss Yuki's orthopedic shoes smacking against the loose gravel not a moment later.

"Alright!" your daughter's teacher chirped — hair frazzled. Sweater slightly askew. "Fortunately for us, an entire roll of toilet paper is no match for me and Mr. Watanabe. Unfortunately for us, we're running about twenty minutes behind."

She smacked a stack of name tags, Sharpie pens, and a seating chart into your and Osamu's hands.

"I need to grab the first aid bag from the front office before we go," she said. "You know what to do!"

You and Osamu busied yourself for the next half hour — wrangling girls into seats, sticking name tags onto polo shirts. (You had to peel Kina's off her forehead at least twice.) By the time Miss Yuki had returned, you both had resigned yourselves to your own assigned seating. You in the front. Osamu in the very back.

You okay? he mouthed when you spared a glance over your shoulder.

You gave him a bleak thumbs up before collapsing into your seat, the sound of high-pitched laughter reverberating in your ears as the bus lurched into motion.

As childish as it was, you almost wished you were sitting next to him.

Osamu had never been to the sculpture garden before. Just thirty minutes outside the city, the fourteen-acre property was home to twenty outdoor art installations, a two-story villa for rotating exhibits, and a koi pond teeming with peacocks. (Misa nearly ripped his arm off when one approached her in the parking lot.)

It was quaint. Quirky. The perfect outdoor wedding venue, according to their tour guide. Not like he was paying much attention, anyway.

The class had split up thirty minutes ago for a guided walkthrough of the premises — and while he'd more or less expected to be separated from you, he couldn't help the uneasiness now seeping into his stomach. Just what exactly had Jun asked of you? And why weren’t you in a position to say no?

He knew he had no right to ask. Knew you, of all people, were capable of handling conniving men on your own. But that didn't mean you had to.

"Osamu-san," Misa murmured, trailing behind the rest of their assigned group.

She tugged on his flannel with a bunched fist and pointed at an art installation just beyond the trees. "Can you take a picture of me and Miffy-san?"

He trained his phone camera on your daughter's sun-warmed face, felt a chuckle rumble from his chest as she stood beside the ten-foot-tall bunny sculpture like a soldier recruited for battle.

"Don't worry," Misa said when she caught him staring at the photo a little too wistfully. "We'll be back with mommy soon."

At that, Osamu’s face turned beet red.

"Yeah?" he chuckled, pocketing his phone. Playing it off. "I just hope Kina ain't givin' her a hard time."

Misa merely hummed. As if she couldn’t reassure him on that one.

The entire class reunited for lunch outside the villa — picnic blankets sprawled across the grass, the smell of katsu sandwiches, ketchup, and cold milk thick in the air. He spotted you handing out bagged lunches from a soft cooler hung over your shoulder, and something in his chest shifted when your eyes caught his across the lawn.

“How’d it go?” he asked as you approached.

“Good! Nobody got lost, and Kina only serenaded the group twice." You frowned. "She knows a surprising amount of Kendrick Lamar, though."

"Are ya serious?"

"Don't worry. I don't think she actually knows any of the words."

"I told Atsumu to stop listenin' to his game day playlist in front of her..."

You smiled at him for a half-second. "Well, if you're not sitting with anyone for lunch..."

"Daddy!" Kina interjected, voice barreling across the lawn. She waved him over from the picnic blanket she was sharing with another girl from her group. Yuta. Or was it Yui? "We saved you a spot!”

"Go," you reassured Osamu with a laugh, sweeping your gaze across the lawn. "I’m gonna find my own spawn. I'll...I'll catch up with you later?"

At a ripe twenty-eight years-old, Osamu had never felt more childish as he accepted a bagged lunch from you, stalked across the grass, and plopped himself down on the blanket next to Kina.

He was halfway through his pork katsu sandwich when Yui (he'd read her name tag) asked, "So is Y/N-san, like, your girlfriend or something?"

"What?" he balked around a mouthful of food. He reached for a paper napkin and swiped the corner of his mouth. "What makes ya think that?"

The child shrugged. "You look at her like my dad looks at wagyu beef."

"You're so silly, Yui," Kina giggled into her sandwich. "My daddy doesn't have a girlfriend."

She met her father's eyes, then. Noticed the way they drifted to your and Misa's picnic blanket across the lawn.

"See? There it is again!" Yui cried.

"Oh my gosh," Kina said, wide-eyed. "Do you have a girlfriend?"

"No!"

"Oh." She sagged her shoulders. Took another bite of her sandwich. "Well, maybe you should."

They continued to giggle about his lack of a love life for what felt like ages. Osamu's face didn't return to its normal color until lunch was well over.

The field trip concluded with a free-draw period by the koi pond. Students were given a sketchbook and pencil and told to recreate whatever they wanted, provided they didn't disturb any of the animals. ("We do not touch the peacocks. Okay? We respect the peacocks' boundaries.") The energy of the group had since taken a dip — some girls crouched protectively over their drawings, others still circled the pond in search of inspiration. It was nice. Tranquil, even.

"Why don't you two take a break?" Miss Yuki suggested. "There's a walking trail not too far from here. I hear it's beautiful this time of year."

"Are you sure?" you asked, eyes flitting toward the pond. You half-expected a child to tumble in at any second.

"I'm sure," your daughter's teacher reassured you with a smile, practically ushering you and Osamu in the direction of the trailhead. "Just don't wander too far!"

The warm buzz of cicadas now filled your ears as you walked side-by-side with Osamu — the sun hitting you sporadically through the trees, the crunch of gravel sharp beneath your feet. You'd subconsciously hoped for a moment alone with him the entire day, but now that you had it, you didn't quite know what to say.

"You know, I never got the chance to — "

"So how was the rest of yer — ?"

You both clamped your mouths shut. Exchanged shy, sheepish smiles flanked by matching pink expressions.

"You first," Osamu insisted.

"I was just going to thank you for making me coffee this morning," you said. "I got pretty crap sleep last night, so..."

"Yeah?"

You nodded. "What with work and Misa's father coming into town, it's just...it's been hard to fall asleep."

You began to feel it, then. The dull circles pooling beneath your eyes, your unwashed hair clinging to your face. Even your usual button-up shirt seemed a little more wrinkled than usual.

"Ya can always call me, ya know," Osamu murmured. "If yer goin' through somethin'. Ya don't need to wait until ya see me."

"I know." You nodded, painfully aware of how guarded you were and how wonderful he was. You just couldn't find the right words to tell him. Didn't know if they existed anywhere beyond the deep, gaping void in your chest. "I will."

Farther along the trail, a bridal party stood taking photographs amid the trees. It was a small group — you could count on one hand the amount of bridesmaids and groomsmen, and they were all dressed in the same sage-green satin.

"Did I ever tell you that Jun and I were engaged?"

Osamu blinked back at the question. The sudden force in which you'd asked it.

"No."

"It wasn't for very long," you added quickly. "I actually think it lasted about nineteen days."

Your eyes drifted to the happy couple. The untouched joy in their expressions, the way their shoulders shook in nervous, pre-ceremony jitters.

"He came into town to tell me he was engaged to someone else," you said suddenly. "And to ask if Misa would be his flower girl."

Osamu stopped walking. You followed suit. His eyes — sharper than you'd expected — bore into yours.

"Ya serious?"

You nodded. His shoulders sank.

"Shit, Y/N." He ran a hand down his face. "How long have ya been holdin' that in?"

"I dunno." You shrugged. It didn't stop your expression from crumbling. The tears from prickling the corners of your eyes. "About a week?"

Osamu didn't hesitate. Simply grabbed your wrist, pulled you flush against his chest, and held you. You squeezed your eyes shut as an onslaught of tears threatened to ruin your mascara, and your whole body tensed as the scent of Osamu's detergent fried your every nerve.

"I don't know why I'm crying," you scoffed, clenching your jaw in protest. "I'm over him."

"I know."

"For fuck's sake, I don't even like him. He just..." You shuddered, hot tears dribbling down your face and onto Osamu's shirt. "He shows up whenever he wants. Leaves at a moment’s notice. He gets to decide that now's a good time to get his act together, and I..."

"...don't?" Osamu guessed after a while.

A weak laugh slipped past your lips.

"I don't regret having Misa." You buried your face into his shoulder. Relaxed ever-so-slightly into him. "And I love the life we've built together. I just...I wish I wasn't the only one who had to take responsibility for it, you know?"

"Yeah," Osamu exhaled. He pressed his cheek against the top of your head and frowned. "Yeah. I understand ya completely."

You stayed like that for a while. Osamu's arms holding you firmly in place. The sounds of laughter and camera shutters lifting your spirits slightly.

He was warmer than you expected. Like a patch of sun on a cloudy day.

"Have ya told Misa yet?" Osamu asked once you'd stopped crying.

"No," you muttered. "I'm afraid her excitement might blind me."

"Yeah..." Osamu's chuckle rumbled through your whole body. "She was so happy to see him the other day. I'll give him that."

"I know," you groaned. "God, what am I going to do?"

"Well, whatever you decide," he murmured, hands rubbing gentle circles into your back. "I'll be here for ya."

"...thank you," you breathed. You pulled away from Osamu's arms. Gestured miserably toward your swollen face. "Does my mascara look bad?"

You tried not to squirm as his calloused hands cupped either side of your face, thumbs swiping firmly beneath your eyes.

"Crap," he admitted after a moment. "I think I'm makin' it worse."

"Forget about it," you told him, a shaky laugh working its way out of your chest. "Just walk with me."

You continued hiking side-by-side toward the end of the trail. Congratulated the newlyweds as you overtook them. When a lone peacock wobbled onto the path beside you, you nearly ripped Osamu's arm off in terror.

The whole situation was absurd. Hilarious, too, if you weren't so goddamn petrified. Distracting enough to make you forget about fiancés and flower girls and seemingly incurable fatigue. If only for a moment.

And right now? You'd take any of those moments you could get.

The ringing stopped. Your shoulders sank in relief. Then — just when you thought you were in the clear — he called again.

"For Christ's sake," you muttered, snatching your phone and ID badge before storming off toward the nearest exit. "I'll be back in ten!"

"Grab me an iced coffee before you get back?" Kuroo called toward your retreating figure.

You shot him the middle finger before slamming your body into the push bar of the door and exiting out into the hallway.

"Jun," you said into the phone, voice polite. Borderline annoyed. "What is it? What do you need?"

"My — is that how we're greeting each other now? No hello? How are you?"

"Hello," you conceded, albeit through gritted teeth. "How are you?"

"See? Was that so hard?" You could practically hear the lazy grin in his voice. "I'm well, Y/N. Just wanted to check in on my two favorite girls."

That’s a lie if I’ve ever heard one. "We're fine. Misa started kindergarten a few months back."

"That's great! Public school, I'm assuming? How's she adjusting?"

"Actually, I put her in private,” you said, folding your free arm across your chest and squeezing hard. “The Kimori School for Girls? It's a K-through-8."

"No, yeah. I've heard of it. That's a good school," Jun hummed, almost impressed. "How'd you swing that?"

You clenched your jaw. “I manage just fine."

“Well, for what it’s worth, I think you made the right call. Public school would’ve eaten that girl alive.”

Perhaps pacing the length of the hallway would ease the blood now boiling in your ears. “What do you need, Jun? I’m at work.”

"Would you relax? I just wanted to let you know that I'll be in town this week on my way back from Singapore. Figured I could stop by, see my daughter." He made it sound like it was his birthright. Like it was a book he could pick up and read whenever he wanted. "Maybe we can get dinner one night, too. Just the two of us."

You would've rather stabbed yourself in the eye with a fork. But before you could voice this, Jun added, "There's something I've been wanting to ask you."

At that, your eyes narrowed in suspicion. "What about?"

"I think it's best I tell you in person," was all he said. "I'll send you a reservation on Google Calendar. Your email still the same?"

Now, it took every ounce of your self-restraint not to snap at this man. To end the call, block his number, and extract him surgically from your memory.

But you'd long since accepted the fact that the most important person in your life also belonged to someone else. And if there was any chance of him partaking in even a sliver of Misa's life — you would take it. Even if you had to hold out.

Even if holding out hurt.

"I have to check my schedule and find someone to look after Misa," you managed, massaging the inner corners of your eyes. "But yes. My email's the same."

Ten minutes later, you slammed two cans of iced coffee on the desk in front of Kuroo so hard that he flinched.

"Call went well, then?" he asked, raising an eyebrow.

A muscle feathered in your jaw. "Is that discount for your jiu-jitsu gym still on the table?"

Misa's gonna hate me, you thought as you signed her up for the Tiger Tots membership and input your credit card information. You'd figure out how to pitch it to her later — and explain to her why her father was suddenly coming into town.

A question you couldn’t even answer yourself, you realized the moment Jun’s calendar invite hit your inbox.

Later that week, Osamu waited for his daughter outside the school gate, squinting at his TikTok feed like a senior citizen.

He'd updated the app so he could watch the hundreds of videos you sent him a week, and while he'd only been scrolling for fifteen minutes, he was floored by how quickly his algorithm had inferred his interests. Reviews of mom-and-pop boba shops in the area. Parenting hacks for excitable children. A sponsored post for a new handroll bar downtown — he saved that one for later. Wondered briefly if you'd ever be down to go with him.

He caught himself doing that these days. Catching wind of new restaurants. Wanting to take you. Maybe he'd make a reservation on OpenTable, have Atsumu look after the girls. Maybe he'd pull out that baby blue button-up you liked so much, spritz on the cologne that'd been sitting on his bathroom counter since Christmas...

The idea sat half-baked in his brain as the bell rang sharply overhead.

"Daddy!" Kina yelled, the sound of her light-up sneakers reverberating off the pavement. "Can we get Totino's Pizza Rolls?"

"Can we get what now?" Osamu asked as the five-year-old approached, Misa not too far behind.

"Pizza rolls!" Kina repeated, flinging her arms around her father's legs and grinning up at him like he hung the moon. "Y/N-san gets them all the time from the frozen foods aisle."

Like a forensic scientist presenting evidence from a crime scene, Misa dug inside her ladybug backpack and held out to him a plastic baggy. Sure enough, a singular pizza roll lay inside, it's blistered crust and burnt edges enough to make Osamu's nose crinkle.

"Looks like a nicotine pouch," he drawled, taking the baggy and frowning at its contents. Out of all the home-cooked meals he made for these girls, this is what they preferred?

"We saved the last one for you," Misa supplied.

"Ya did? Oh, ya shouldn't have." Osamu gave the girls a bemused smile. "I guess I could ask Y/N-san where she gets these. Looks like somethin' she'd whip up in the air fryer..."

He briefly wondered how he could make them himself before sliding the baggy into his back pocket. "Where is she, by the way? I haven't seen much of her this week."

At that, Misa shrugged. "Mommy's been working really hard. But she's not picking me up today."

"Oh?" Osamu asked, blinking back. "How ya plan on gettin' home, then?"

"I..." The sound of another parent approaching the school gate pulled her attention like a loose thread. Osamu watched, then, as your daughter's face broke out into a bright smile.

"Daddy!"

Now, Osamu didn't know much about the father of your child. He knew you'd met the guy in business school. Knew the way your voice grew wan any time he came up. Like he was a joke you were constantly trying to find the humor in.

Yet nothing quite prepared Osamu for the man that stood before him now. From his neatly cropped hair to his expensive watch to the Patagonia vest he kept zipped up to the quarter, he looked nothing like the kind of man you'd get along with today.

How the hell would you know? Osamu chided himself as the man picked up Misa by the armpits and swung her onto his hip.

"Hey, squirt! How's my favorite girl?"

"Good!" Misa giggled, latching her arms around his neck and squeezing tight. "Better now that you're here."

"Aw, shucks. You flatter me, kiddo," he said, setting her back down. Osamu's breath stilled as the man sized him up from across the courtyard. Kina shrank behind her father's legs as he approached.

"Yamada Jun," the businessman said by way of introduction, extending his hand out. "You must be Miya Osamu."

"Yes, sir." The scent of cologne, sharp and amber, filled Osamu's nose as he went in for the shake. "It's a pleasure to meet ya."

Jun's eyebrows ticked up in amusement. "That a Kansai accent I hear?”

"Sure is. Familiar with the area?"

"Oh, hardly," he scoffed. "My parents do business out there, tried convincing me to run the branch of their electronics company just outside Kyoto. Pace of life just didn't suit me, though."

A bemused hum escaped Osamu's lips. "It ain't for folks who can't stay still, that's for sure."

Jun sniffed, as if he couldn't quite gauge what Osamu meant by that.

"Y/N said I might run into you here," he went with instead.

"Did she now?"

"Oh, yeah. Said our girls are thick as thieves." Jun leaned in to smile at Kina like she was a pet. "This one yours?"

Osamu winced as Kina's nails dug into his straight-leg chinos. Afraid she might bare teeth, he placed a steady hand on the back of her shoulder and squeezed gently.

"Her name's Kinami," he ground out. Then, because his leg was really starting to hurt, "She's normally a lot chattier than this."

"Hey, I get it," Jun chuckled, lifting his hands. "It isn't often I get to fly into town to see my daughter, so I'm just grateful to you both for looking after her while I'm gone."

While Osamu didn't know the exact details of your parenting arrangement, something about Jun's choice of words — get to, grateful, while I'm gone — irked him more than it should've. But before he could let it show, he clamped a firm hand on that part of his brain and told it to pipe the fuck down.

"No need to thank me," he said instead, meaning every word. "Misa and Y/N are good friends. They...they make it easy to be there."

Jun's easy expression flickered for a split-second at that. Eyes narrowed. Nostrils flared. He cleared his throat before Osamu could even register it and checked the watch on his wrist.

"Right. Well, I think it's about time Misa and I got going." He nodded back toward the parking lot, extended his hand out toward your daughter. She blinked up at him before taking it, as if to confirm he was actually there. "It was nice meeting you, Osamu."

"...so that's Misa's daddy," Kina mused, watching as they walked hand-in-hand toward the electric car parked in a spot marked off for teachers and staff.

Osamu blew out a sharp breath and rubbed the back of his neck. "Guess so."

Kina pushed her bottom lip out and said, "I don't like him."

"Yeah?" he huffed, trying to be the mature one here. "We don't know him, though."

"Yeah. That's why," Kina murmured. Osamu merely chuckled at that, wondering how on earth you were holding up. Why Jun was here in the first place. What he was going to do about the tension now wedged somewhere behind his ribs.

As if she could sense it, too, Kina reached into the back pocket of his chinos, slid the pizza roll out, and held it out to him.

Osamu ate it without another word.

The restaurant Jun picked was nice. So nice that when you'd arrived in your oversized button-up and kitten heels, you felt marginally underdressed.

"You couldn't have bothered to change?" Jun tsked, looking around. He unbuttoned his sports coat as the waiter placed a pair of leather-bound menus atop the table setting.

You thumbed through each page with an unbothered expression, debating whether or not to whip out your phone flashlight so you could see better. "Didn't realize this was a date."

"I had dinner here with a partner from the firm several years back," he explained, examining the wine menu through a pair of reading glasses. "Their Cabernet Sauvignon is a must-have. Would highly recommend."

Somehow, that only made you want it less. "I think I'll just stick with water."

"Oh, come on, Y/N." The dim candlelight bent around the tilt of his smile. "Let's cheers to our daughter starting kindergarten."

"Do you think she looked okay?" you interjected instead, ignoring the way his words pin-pricked your gut. "You know, when we dropped her off at Tiger Tots this afternoon?"

"I dunno." Jun lifted his shoulder. "She looked fine to me."

As if on cue, your phone lit up with a text from Kuroo. It was a selfie of him and Misa at the jiu-jitsu gym. Her uniform was a size too big, and your co-worker's forehead took up nearly sixty percent of the shot, but...she looked good. She looked okay. He'd even gotten her to throw a peace sign at the camera.

All geared up and ready to go!

You hearted both messages immediately. Felt your pulse slow as you saved the photo to your camera roll, zoomed in on your daughter's brave, dimple-clad face.

"I met your friend today at pick-up," Jun hummed once the waiters took your menus away. He leaned back in his seat, swirled his glass of Cabernet Sauvignon with a steady hand. "Osamu, was it?"

The mere mention of Osamu's name on Jun's lips made your stomach twist. Between the stress of Jun's arrival and your late afternoons in the office, you hadn't had the chance to catch him up. It wasn't exactly something you could disclose to him over text, either.

Hey! My ex-fiancé and the father of my child just parachuted into town unexpectedly, so don't be alarmed! I'm trying not to be!

Jun's smile turned saccharine across the table. "He works at a restaurant, right?"

"He's the owner," you corrected him, fists clenching beneath the table. "And an incredible one at that."

"Where'd he go to school?"

You told him. He pushed out his bottom lip and asked, "Did he finish?"

"No." Your jaw tightened. "He dropped out to take care of Kina."

"Hm." Jun stared at his wine glass down the slope of his nose. "Wonder how he scrapes together the tuition every month. Do you think his kid's on a scholarship?"

"Does that matter?" you snapped, voice cracking the air like a whip. "What matters is that he does it. What matters is that he's there. What matters is that he’s shown up to every PTA meeting and music concert and school project show-and-tell, and I become a better mother and person every second that I'm in his company."

“Alright. Calm down,” Jun chuckled. Your blood roared in your ears as he lifted his hands to pacify you. “Just doesn’t seem like the type of guy you’d get along with, is all.”

Your eyes narrowed. “And how would you know the type of guy I’d get along with?”

“Well. That’s easy.” Jun scoffed. “I was one of ‘em. Wasn’t I?”

Now, you'd built a tolerance for Jun's shit over the years. His half-baked commitments, his backhanded compliments. His inane ability to take credit for the person that you raised. And you'd swallowed your pride for the most part. Promised yourself that so long as he made Misa smile — which he did, he really did — you would play nice.

But there was something inherently different about the way you felt when he talked about Osamu. Something sharper, more volatile. It pained you to think that they talked earlier that afternoon. This absent, performative excuse of a man and the best father you'd ever really known. They should've never even met. Never even breathed the same air.

"Why are you here, Jun?" you asked, keeping your voice low. Steady. "I imagine you have much better things to do than to sit there, insulting people you barely know."

"Well, apologies for asking about the new people in your life," Jun drawled, downing the rest of his wine. "Especially since I'm making such an effort to introduce the new people in mine."

"What?" You blinked. "What are you talking about?"

Jun reached into his sports coat and retrieved from it a slim white envelope. You took it into your hands, slid a manicured nail beneath the seal, and popped it open.

It was a save-the-date.

"I'm engaged," Jun said, his words clamoring in your ears as your eyes pored over the textured cardstock, the black-and-white engagement photo of your ex-fiancé and his wife-to-be. "I'm engaged, I'm ready to start a life with her, and we...we want Misa to be the flower girl at our wedding ceremony."

Now, there were only two other times in your life when you felt this way. The first was when you learned you were pregnant. The second was when you learned you'd be doing it alone. You'd spent every consecutive second withstanding the fact that you and Misa would never be enough to capture Jun's full attention. Which was fine. You didn't love him. Didn't want him the same way you did at twenty-one.

But as you stared at this photo — at this beautiful woman with her straight teeth and long hair and easy, infatuated expression — you immediately felt your stomach drop. Your hands grow cold. That familiar, red-hot flush of shame flood the space behind your ribs.

Except this time, it was far worse than when you were twenty-one.

And you had absolutely no idea why.

a/n: and the plot thickens! 😝 osamu and y/n will most definitely talk about this in the next chapter, but not without some lovely tension first... 🙈

You walked side-by-side toward the small gymnasium tucked into the heart of campus, where a throng of parents, grandparents, and family friends stood waiting to be let inside.

"For what it's worth, ya spruce up nicely yerself," Osamu added, gesturing his own bouquet to the patterned dress that hugged your curves, the dainty pearl necklace you'd worn to match. "Is that new?"

"What, this old thing?" You ran your palm down the red chiffon fabric and laughed. "Honestly, I feel a little silly. I haven't dressed up like this since before Misa was born."

His grey eyes scanned the sheepishness on your face. The slight tenderness there.

"Well, silly's the last word I'd use to describe ya right now."

"Okay," you snorted, although it didn't stop the heat from rising into your cheeks. "Did that shirt come with your brother's pick-up lines, too?"

Osamu chuckled as the crowd shuffled into the gymnasium, the scent of floor wax, air conditioning, and expensive bouquets rushing to greet you.

As part of Kimori's dedication to the performing arts, all students were required to participate in a semesterly strings recital as directed by the school's music instructor. The man himself, a composer by the name of Jules Bonneau, had been touted as Kimori's best-of-the-best, having sent multiple students to both national and international-level competitions. He was a prodigy, you'd heard from the mothers at the PTA. A modern-day Niccolò Paganini.

Osamu crinkled his nose. "Who the hell is that?"

"I have no idea," you said with a shrug. "Sounds impressive, though."

"I dunno," he drawled, filing into a vacant row toward the front of the room. "I don't doubt the guy's talented, but Misa and Kina just started school. What good's a couple months of lessons gonna do?"

"Who knows?" You plucked the program from your seat and eased in beside him. "Maybe one of our daughters will surprise us. Maybe we have a future prodigy on our hands."

"Well, I'd bet all my money that it's yours. I love Kina to death, but she can't sit still for five seconds without burstin' into flames."

"Yeah, well, I'm about to burst into flames if these people don't move their bouquets." You glared at the forty pounds of azaleas currently blocking your view of the stage. "Can a five-year-old even lift that thing?"

Before Osamu could open his mouth to respond, someone cleared their throat beside you.

"Excuse me, madame?" The elderly man greeted you with a bow. "Pleasure to meet you. I am Monsieur Bonneau, Misa's music instructor. You are her mother, yes?"

"I am!" You scanned his tense expression — the kind all teachers used when they were about to deliver bad news. "Is everything okay?"

“Yes! Just wanted to pop in and say what a joy it has been to have Misa in my class. She is wonderfully attentive, and I am excited for you to see all the hard work she’s put into the class performance.”

He kept that same, cheerful smile plastered to his face as he crouched down and looked you dead in the eye.

“That said, she’s currently undergoing a case of…how you say? Stage fright?”

“I see. Is she stuck under a desk or something?”

“Like a piece of chewing gum.”

“Say less. I’ll go talk to her.”

“Thank you,” Monsieur Bonneau sighed, bowing again. "We cannot start without her, I'm afraid."

You set your bouquet and program on the chair beneath you, flung your purse over a shoulder with all the determination you could muster. Meanwhile, Osamu stared at you with those steely eyes of his and asked, "Want me to go with ya?"

You blinked back at the question, the half-kind, half-blasé way in which he'd said it.

"I've got it."

"I know." He frowned. "That's not why I asked."

It wasn't often people accompanied you in situations like this. And if it were anyone else, you'd probably tell them not to worry. You'd spent the past five years of your life calming your daughter's storms, no father, grandparents, or hired help in sight.

But as you sank into Osamu's words — pictured him standing outside the classroom doing virtually nothing except being there — you felt your posture relax for a fraction of a second.

"...okay." You nodded, beckoning him out of his chair before you could think about it too deeply. "Come on, then."

It was all Osamu needed to hear before he set his own bouquet down and followed you out.

"Hey, kiddo." You crouched beneath your daughter's desk in the middle of her empty classroom, the scent of crayon shavings and Lysol already clinging to your clothes. "Mind if I join you?”

Misa reminded you of an armadillo when she was nervous — knees tucked against her chest, chin pressed into her sternum. You found her like this whenever thunderstorms rolled through your neighborhood, or dentists called for her biannual cleaning. Stage fright, however, was new territory for the both of you.

"There isn't enough room," she murmured.

"That's okay! I'll just stay here, then." You kicked off your glossy black pumps, laid belly-down beside her desk, and tried not to think about all the norovirus that lived on these floors. "I met Monsieur Bonneau this afternoon.”

"You did?"

You nodded. “Apparently, he’s a modern-day Niccolò Paganini.”

Your daughter frowned. “Who’s that?”

"Couldn't tell you."

She remained silent for a moment. Pensive.

"Is he mad at me?"

"Not at all. He just wants to know if you're okay. He said you put a lot of hard work into today's performance. Is that true?"

Nodding, she said, "Monsieur Bonneau lets me play violin in the music room at recess. When it’s quiet."

"Really? That’s kind of him." Your heart swelled at this newfound piece of information — this small glimpse into Misa's world that grew more colorful by the day. "Going from a quiet classroom to a big stage must feel pretty scary, then, huh?"

She buried her face between her knees.

"I don't wanna go up there, mommy. I wanna stay here with you."

"Oh, love." You reached out and gently tucked her hair behind her ears. "I get it. If you decide you don't want to do this, I won't force you. We can chill, take a half day. Go get ice cream sandwiches at the konbini."

A small smile worked its way onto your face as you nudged her under the chin.

"I think you've got what it takes to get up there, though,” you told her honestly. “Scaries and all."

Misa merely rolled her eyes, as if that was the biggest lie she'd ever been told.

Outside the classroom, Osamu sat on the wooden bench closest to the door. Eyes closed. Head laid back against the wall. He'd poured you and Misa two cups of water from the nurse's office, and he tried not to think about how presumptuous he looked, hovering around like a member of the secret service.

He hoped you didn't take offense to him being here. After all, you were plenty capable of handling Misa on your own, and the last thing he wanted was to suggest otherwise. He just found himself...clinging to you these days. Wanting to stay in your orbit, even if he wasn't explicitly needed.

He told himself it was because you were his friend. Because he'd rather sit here in silence than engage in small talk with other parents about where he vacationed. (Which was nowhere.)

But when he pictured you — with your patterned dress and dainty jewelry and the way your lipstick smudged when you laughed — another part of his brain wholeheartedly disagreed.

Osamu squashed the dispute like a bug as you pushed open the door to the classroom.

"How's she doin'?" he asked as you stepped outside and eased onto the bench.

You blew a raspberry. "She's stubborn, that's for sure."

Osamu handed you your water, eyes tracing the curve of your neck as you gulped it down. He averted his gaze once he realized what he was doing.

"She's convinced that I don't understand her." You hiccuped. "That I don't know what it feels like to be scared."

"I thought only teenagers said stuff like that," he chuckled. "Makes sense, though. Yer practically her superhero."

"Doesn't make situations like this any easier. I’m this close to shaking a box of Cheez-Its in her face."

Osamu snorted. "She ain't a cat.”

You winced. "Wouldn't be the first time."

"Well, maybe she'd respond to someone more neutral," he suggested, taking your paper cup and folding it into his palm. "Someone she doesn't have all these preconceived notions about."

You pushed your bottom lip out.

"Wanna try talking to her?"

He blinked. "Oh, no. I didn’t mean — "

"It's okay," you reassured him, the warmth of your smile easing the worry etched onto Osamu’s face. "I trust you."

He tried not to react to those words, the easy conviction in which you'd said them. But as he nodded in your direction and lifted himself off the bench, he couldn't help the emotion that flickered in his chest. Like he'd just been handed something fragile and was determined not to drop it.

"Misa?" He knocked on the door frame before stepping inside. "It's Osamu-san. I got ya some water."

A second passed. Two. Then, a small voice piped up from under a desk in the far corner.

"Did my mommy tell you to come get me?"

"No." He frowned. "Not directly, anyway."

At that, Misa sighed. "I am thirsty."

"Well, we can't have that now, can we?" Osamu drawled, propping open the door. "Just sit tight. I'll come to ya."

His joints popped the moment he crouched onto the floor beside her desk. Misa's eyes — the same color as yours — widened to saucers at the noise.

"Are you okay?" she asked.

"Yeah," Osamu grunted, forcing himself into a criss-cross position. When was the last time he worked out? "My pride's a lil' wounded, but I'll survive."

She took the cup with both hands and drank in several, hearty gulps.

"Nice place ya got here," Osamu mused, admiring her tiny desk like one might a home in Architectural Digest. "Ya always hide under tables when yer nervous?"

"Yeah," Misa confessed, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand. "I hide in my pantry at home, too."

"Yer pantry? I like the way ya think," Osamu chuckled. "Ya might not believe this, but I also hid in my pantry once upon a time."

"You did?"

"Yes, ma'am. It was the openin' night of my restaurant, and I was so scared that I would mess up someone's order — or worse — no one would show. So I locked myself in the pantry of the kitchen and yakked into a mop bucket."

"Ew!" Misa giggled, the gleam in her eyes making Osamu's heart swell. "What did you do next?"

"Well." He rubbed the back of his neck. "My brother gave me a water, we talked, and then...I decided to do it scared."

Your daughter softened at his words. Stared into her own cup of water for a long while.

"I'm not sayin' ya have to do it exactly like me," he said. "I'm just sayin' that if I can do it scared, ya sure as hell can, too."

Misa pursed her lips to one side. "Isn't that a bad word?"

Osamu's ears turned bright pink before he burst out laughing.

You watched silently from the doorway as they spoke — Misa's cheeks tinged pink from laughter, Osamu's eyes saturated in amusement. You had no doubt he was incredible at being a parent. But seeing him here, handling the literal extension of your heart with more gentleness than you ever thought possible...

It filled your chest with a feeling so old you didn't recognize it.

And when Misa crawled out from under her desk, prompting Osamu to waggle his eyebrows at you from across the classroom, you knew that feeling wasn't going anywhere.

"Good afternoon!" Monsieur Bonneau said into the mic just as you and Osamu slid back into your seats. "I am Monsieur Jules Bonneau, and it is my utmost pleasure to welcome you to Kimori's first music recital of the school year."

An enthusiastic applause ricocheted through the gymnasium.

"These students have been working incredibly hard at their craft this semester, and it warms me to see so many parents here in support." The lines on his face deepened as he smiled. "Now, without further ado, please welcome our kindergarten class to the stage!"

You watched as Miss Yuki corralled her kindergarten class onto the stage — violins knocking into one another, footsteps clamoring onto the carpeted plywood. Kina's face broke out into a wide grin when she spotted Osamu, and she nearly smacked Misa in the face with her bow when she waved.

"Jesus Christ," Osamu muttered through his smile as he waved back. "She's a walkin' hazard."

"At least she didn't hold up the entire show," you huffed back, sliding your phone out of your purse to record.

Now, you didn't know what you'd expected. A simple rendition of Hot Crossed Buns. Something you could at least show Kuroo once you got back to the office.

But as Monsieur Bonneau lifted his conductor's baton and cued everyone in, you quickly realized two things: (1) the man was a prodigy, not a miracle worker, and (2) you actually hated the sound of the violin.

"Dear lord," Osamu breathed, staring at the stage in horror. "What are they even playin'? Wheels on the Bus?"

You struggled to think straight as the sound of eighteen screeching violins pierced the inside of your skull. "No, no I think it's Twinkle Twinkle Little Star..."

Squinting, he said, "Kina ain't even holdin' the bow right."

"At least she's making noise!" you hissed back. "Misa's bow isn't even touching her violin."

Osamu choked on his laughter, which only made you choke in response.

"Jesus." He hid his face in his hands. "I feel like an asshole."

Your shoulders shook as you sputtered out, "First one to break buys lunch?"

"Oh, yer on," he drawled, immediately schooling his expression. "I'll have a pork katsu curry from that new place down the street. Extra pickled veggies."

It was hard to glare at someone while actively trying not to laugh. "What makes you think you'll lose, asshole?"

In that moment, Kina actually did manage to smack Misa in the face with her bow.

You ended up paying for each other's meals that afternoon.

Your face grew warm at the words — at this stranger whose face you knew but otherwise couldn't recognize. You knew Osamu had a twin, had filed it away with all the other arbitrary facts you'd collected about him. You just never considered the fact that you might actually meet the guy, what with his tapered joggers and MSBY t-shirt and brand-deal athletic shoes.

Amused by the fact that you were very evidently weirded out, Atsumu asked, "This yer first time meetin' twins, or what?”

Frowning, you said, "Feels like I'm staring at an optical illusion."

His laugh was louder than Osamu's. More garish.

"That's a new one," he told you, shucking his empty cup into the nearest trash can before extending his hand out. "The name's Atsumu."

"Y/N. My daughter is in Kina's class," you supplied, taking his hand and shaking it firmly. "Osamu's told me a lot about you."

"Yeah?" The corner of his lips tilted into an easy smile you'd only ever seen on Disney princes. "Hopefully all good things?"

"Eh." You shrugged. "He may have mentioned wanting to eat you in the womb once or twice."

"Ha!" Atsumu's brown eyes glinted as he laughed. "Ya know, when Osamu told me he'd made a new friend at Kina's school, yer not exactly what I had in mind."

"Oh, yeah?" you asked, folding your arms across your chest. "And what did you have in mind?"

"I dunno. Someone borin'. Pushin' fifty."

"Well." You gestured down to your business casual, the glossy work heels that hurt like hell to walk in. "Sorry to disappoint."

The sound of antsy parents and their electric cars filled the silence between you.

"So how does all this work?" Atsumu asked, gesturing toward the school gates like they might fly open at any second. "Do I need to sign her out or somethin'?"

"Osamu should have put you on Kina's pickup form. Though I'm sure your face is confirmation enough," you joked. "Their teacher will bring them out here once the bell rings. You can check in with her then."

"Got it."

You studied his expression — the slight concentration there.

"Trust me, you've done way more complicated things as a D1 athlete. I'm sure you'll be just fine."

"Oh?" He looked pleased. "Ya know who I am, then?"

You hummed. "I work with Kuroo Tetsurō at the JVA. So I've watched a couple of your games."

"Well, would ya look at that." Atsumu folded his hands behind his neck and smirked. "Always a pleasure, meetin' a fan."

You shrugged. "I root for the Adlers, personally."

Before Atsumu could open his mouth to retort, the bell rang.

"UNCLE TSUM TSUM!" Kina bellowed, having escaped the single-file line now teetering from Miss Yuki's classroom. She ran up to the gate and pushed her face through the bars. "Ya remembered to pick me up!”

You bit the inside of your cheek to keep from smiling as another parent shot Atsumu a disapproving glare.

“I — of course I did, ya spawn!” He palmed her face back through the gate so that she wouldn't get stuck. “And what is that on yer shirt — is that blood?”

“It’s ketchup."

“Of course it is,” Atsumu breathed. You reached into your work bag, retrieved a packet of baby wipes, and held it out to him.

"Ya know," he began, fishing out a handful with his fingers. "If you've got any free time tonight, ya should stop by this charity thing we're hostin' at the stadium."

You shucked the packet of baby wipes back into your purse and watched it disappear into the abyss of receipts, hair ties, and Chipotle napkins.

"I would! But then I wouldn't have anyone to watch my daughter."

"Right. Right," Atsumu chuckled, shaking his head. "Kinda a full-time job, huh?"

You smiled at him politely. "Afraid so.”

"Well." Atsumu lifted the wipes in thanks and glanced at the teacher now beckoning Kina to get back in line, please. "Suppose I'll have to convince ya to root for MSBY some other time, then.”

Between the bars, Kina shot her uncle a suspicious frown as you chuckled.

"I'll see you around, Atsumu."

"Oh, I'm countin' on it."

You watched Atsumu jog toward the entrance to the gate, surname and jersey number flexing across his back like a badge of honor. Meanwhile, you made a mental note to text Osamu good luck on the catering gig. You hoped he wasn't too stressed about it.

"Mommy, who was that?" Misa asked, brow scrunched in confusion as you crossed the parking lot hand-in-hand.

You fished for your car keys in your bag but were only met with another handful of Chipotle napkins. "That was Osamu-san's twin brother."

"Twin brother?"

You nodded. "Their mommy gave birth to them at the same time. Can you believe that?"

Misa's face twisted in thought as you unlocked the car, flung her backpack into the trunk, and hoisted her into her carseat.

"Is that why they're the same?"

You carefully considered your daughter's question as you buckled her in, the clicks and zips of her carseat filling the otherwise quiet vehicle.

"That's why they look the same, yes," you told her, tucking a strand of loose hair behind her ear. "But as for their personalities, they couldn't be more different."

Misa's expression bloomed with fascination as you kissed her forehead, closed her car door, and climbed into the driver's seat.

"Ya didn't tell me she was hot!"

Osamu rolled his eyes from the industrial-sized refrigerator he'd been organizing for the past hour. "Could ya not resort to callin' women hot? Pick another adjective."

"Fine. Beautiful, gorgeous. Distractingly pretty — "

"Who are ya even talkin' about?"

"Yer friend, dumbass." The stadium’s kitchen door swung closed as Atsumu stormed inside, leaned against the stainless steel worktable, and grinned. "The one from Kina's school? I tried invitin' her here tonight, but she looked at me like I was stupid."

"Yeah, probably because she has a child."

"You have a child!”

"Yeah, and I've got dumbasses like you who can pick her up when I get busy!” Osamu snapped. "Not everyone gets that privilege."

He shut the refrigerator door and began flipping through his inventory lists for that evening's event, agitation etched into every crease on his face. Atsumu merely frowned at him from across the kitchen, fingers working at the bow tie his publicist had forced him to wear.

"Someone's prickly today."

Osamu dragged a hand down his face. "Yeah, well, I didn't get much sleep last night, I've got staff comin' in thirty, and I’m pretty sure I’m down five pounds of onions. So sorry if I’m not in a more chipper mood.”

"Ya know what ya need?"

"Five pounds of onions?”

"Someone to calm ya the fuck down," Atsumu answered. He adjusted the knot of his bow tie and huffed. "When's the last time you've been on a date?"

“I dunno,” Osamu grumbled, the question alone making his ears turn red. “Since before Kina was born, maybe?”

“Seriously?” Atsumu’s eyes bulged out of his head. “Ya mean to tell me the last time ya got laid, it resulted in Satan’s spawn?”

“Would ya quit referrin’ to my daughter as Satan’s spawn?”

“No wonder yer so wound up!” Atsumu cackled. He rounded the worktable and clapped his hands on his brother’s shoulders. “Don’t worry, Samu. After tonight, I won’t spring any more last-minute gigs on ya.”

“Is that so?” Osamu winced as his brother shook him back and forth like a vending machine.

“I’ll even set ya up with one of my friends.” Atsumu waggled his eyebrows. “Or better yet, ya can ask out yer pretty friend over at Kina’s school!”

“Okay,” Osamu drawled, writhing out of his brother’s grip. “Relax. She’s just a friend.”

“I dunno. She seemed pretty disappointed when I showed up today.”

Osamu shot his brother a flat stare. “I think that’s just yer effect on people.”

Atsumu’s face split into a cheeky grin — the same, scheming kind he wore when they were kids.

“Lemme call Kita and tell him about the missin’ produce. In the meantime…just think about it, okay?” Atsumu poked his twin brother in the ribs. “Ya deserve to be happy, too.”

Osamu could write a laundry list of reasons as to why he couldn't do that. His five-year-old daughter. This catering gig from hell. The way his skin crawled whenever he thought about meeting someone new.

Hi, I'm Osamu. Business school dropout. Twin brother to Miya Atsumu. Oh, and did I mention I have a kid?

He loved being Kina's dad. Loved learning her humor, what fruits she liked and didn't like. He loved showing her things she'd never seen before and watching her grow into herself, little-by-little.

But he also didn't expect anyone else to understand that — much less sign up for an entire lifetime of it. Why choose him when there was an easier, blonder, childless version of himself walking around?

Ya deserve to be happy, Atsumu had said.

But as Osamu watched him pace outside the door to the kitchen — phone pressed to his ear, tux glinting beneath the stadium lights — he figured this could be his version of happy. Seeing his daughter grow up, his brother succeed. It was enough. It had to be.

His phone pinged in his pocket before he could think about it too deeply.

Good luck on the catering gig today! you'd texted. Manifesting for you the biggest donations and the best sleep of your life. Lmk if you need anything.

Osamu blinked back at the messages. The series of motivational gifs you'd sent along with them. Some of them were so absurd, he found himself laughing at his phone like an idiot.

"Yer in a better mood," Atsumu drawled when he returned from the hallway.

"Am I?" Osamu hummed, pocketing his cell phone. A hint of a smile grazed his lips. "Just saw somethin' funny, is all."

The first of his catering staff walked into the kitchen before Atsumu could question him further.

"You're back." You smiled at Osamu as you approached the school gate the following day.

"Yes, ma'am," Osamu drawled, holding out a plastic bag of leftovers he'd prepared for you the previous night. "Who else did ya expect?"

"Honestly, I was half-expecting a secret third triplet to appear," you joked, taking the bag into your hands without objection. "How was the event last night? Did you raise a trillion yen?"

"Maybe not a trillion, but enough to make the lack of sleep worth it," he chuckled. "I, uh...I packed some extra short rib as a thank ya for wishin’ me well last night. Really boosted my morale."

"Well, I know how much you wanted to do right by Atsumu.” You hugged the bag close to your chest, the scent of caramelized vegetables and freshly made rice filling your nose. "It was the least I could do."

You tilted your neck toward the sky as a gentle breeze swept across the parking lot, the afternoon sun on your skin only amplifying the warmth in your chest.

"...he didn't bother ya too much yesterday, did he?"

You paused at Osamu's expression. The slight unease there.

"Who? Atsumu?"

"Yeah." Osamu shrugged, rubbing the back of his neck. "I know he can be kinda a flirt. Unless yer into that, I mean — "

You laughed as a blush rose into Osamu's cheeks.

"Don't worry. I've met athletes like him before, so they don't faze me." You nudged him in the side with your elbow. "Besides, I'm glad to have you back."

He raised an eyebrow in surprise. "Yeah?"

"Of course! I can't gossip about the kinder group chat with your doppelgänger. It's not the same."

Osamu's shoulders shook with laughter. "I guess not."

The sound of the bell cleaved your conversation in half as students flooded into the courtyard.

"Oh! I almost forgot," you blurted, reaching into your work bag. "I meant to give this to you yesterday."

You shoved a manila folder into his hands and hoped to God it wasn't too wrinkled.

"Misa has an eye doctor's appointment at four, so I gotta run to beat traffic. But take a look and let me know what you think!"

Before Osamu could open his mouth to respond, you were already jogging toward the school gate in your high heels. How you managed to do that, he had no idea.

"We'll catch up more tomorrow!” you promised him, waving the plastic bag. “And thank you for the food!"

Blinking back in confusion, Osamu peeled back the flap to the envelope and slid out the papers you'd tucked safely inside. His jaw slackened once he realized what they were.

Several mockups you'd designed of a new sign for Onigiri Miya — plus contact information for a signage company you worked with at the JVA.

He thought you were kidding when you'd offered to make one several weeks back.

A small gift for all the hard work you've put in, you'd written into the margins with a felt-tip pen. And a thank you for feeding me and Misa.

Osamu had long since accepted his version of happy. Had drawn a neat circle around all he permitted himself to feel, to want.

But as he stood there in the courtyard of Kina’s school — holding this kind, thoughtful gift you'd spent hours working on — he felt that circle widen, if only for a moment.

The feeling was enough to make his head spin as he tucked the envelope beneath his arm and went looking for his daughter.