Crisis

——————————————————————————

That summer morning began like any other. You were elbow-deep in calendula, gently separating the blossoms from their stems, when the sound of frantic hooves shattered the calm.

You looked up sharply, standing just in time to see a horse gallop past the shop. It was riderless, lathered with sweat. Behind it, distant shouts echoed up the path from the forest's edge.

You dropped your shears.

The woods beyond the village weren’t hostile. They were simply wild and dense with pine, root-woven paths, the shimmer of foxglove in shadow. But something had happened there.

You followed instinct more than thought, your apron still tied around your waist, a small satchel of bandages and salves thrown hastily over your shoulder.

You didn’t know you were walking toward him. He was half-hidden in the underbrush when you found him. Slumped against the base of a tree, cloak torn, blood trailing down one side of his face. One leg twisted awkwardly beneath him, his breathing shallow but even. A sword lay discarded nearby, its blade nicked.

You hesitated. Not out of fear, he was clearly wounded, but because something about him felt… enormous. Like a boulder in the path of a stream. Still. Steady. Unmoved.

He turned his head slowly as you stepped closer. Dark eyes met yours. Unreadable. Unshaken.

“Are you hurt?” You asked gently.

A pause. Then, quietly. “Not badly.”

You moved toward him regardless, kneeling to examine the gash above his brow. It had already clotted some, but the skin was split. The bruising at his temple worried you more.

He didn’t flinch as your fingers brushed his skin.

“I’m going to clean this. It might sting.”

He nodded once.

You soaked a linen square in a bitter-smelling tincture and pressed it to the wound. A quiet inhale from him, nothing more.

“How did this happen?” You asked, dabbing carefully.

“An ambush…” He said after a beat. “The carriage. Bandits, I think. We were separated.”

“We?”

“My guards.”

You blinked at the calm in his voice. It wasn’t arrogance. Just… detachment. Like he wasn’t surprised to be bleeding alone in a forest.

“Were you a merchant?” You asked, eyeing the fine weave of his ruined cloak. “You don’t look like one.”

He was quiet.

“Something like that…” He said finally.

——————————————————————————

You didn’t press him.

Not because you didn’t suspect the truth, there was something unmistakably noble in his posture, even injured. But because he didn’t seem ready to say it, and you weren’t the kind of woman who pulled secrets from people’s teeth.

You offered your hand instead. “Can you stand?”

He took your hand without hesitation. His palm was rougher than you expected, calloused. A soldier’s hand. You braced your legs and pulled as he rose, watching pain flicker briefly across his face. The injury to his leg made his stance unstable, so you slipped under one arm, steadying him as best you could.

He didn’t thank you, but he didn’t resist either.

——————————————————————————

It took time to get him back to the shop.

You led him by the less-traveled paths, away from curious eyes and open windows. You were used to helping injured men, you knew the rhythm of their breath when they pushed too hard, the way they leaned against pride until it faltered.

He was quiet. Always quiet, but he watched you.

You could feel it each time your hand found his wrist to check his pulse, or when you shifted under his weight, or when you murmured something low about the slope ahead. His gaze stayed with you.

——————————————————————————

Back at the shop, you guided him onto the low cot you used for patients. He didn’t complain. Just exhaled once and let you peel back the tattered fabric around his leg.

The wound was shallow but long. Clean, at least. No signs of rot or poison. You cleaned it in silence, working by habit.

“Your hands are steady.” He said suddenly.

You blinked. It was the first unsolicited thing he’d said.

“I’ve had practice.” You replied, not looking up.

He said nothing more, but the space between you had changed. Slightly. Like a breeze shifting direction.

——————————————————————————

You wrapped his thigh with care and offered him tea while the salve soaked in.

He took the cup but didn’t drink.

Instead, he looked around. Slowly. As if taking inventory of your little shop, every jar, every string of herbs drying on the wall, every bottle labeled in careful script.

“This is yours?” He asked.

You nodded.

“You live alone?”

“I do.”

He was quiet again. Then, “It’s peaceful here.”

You smiled faintly. “Most days.”

And then, for a fleeting moment, something passed over his face. Not a smile. But not nothing either.

Almost… wonder.

——————————————————————————

You didn’t ask his name that night. He slept on the cot, and you sat near the fire, grinding valerian root with the mortar and pestle. Outside, the wind shifted.

In the morning, he was gone. He left without a word. No note. No name. Just a single gold coin beside the teacup.

You turned it over in your fingers. Thinking about the stoic merchant and the lonely look in his eyes.

——————————————————————————

It was three days before you saw him again.

You were hanging bunches of feverfew in the back garden when the quiet crunch of boots on gravel drew your attention. You turned, expecting old man Hiro or perhaps a neighbor’s child but instead, there he stood.

The stranger. The not-quite-merchant with the sword-callused hands.

He looked… cleaner this time. Less torn. His wound had begun to heal, and though he still limped slightly, he moved with the same quiet, self-possessed strength.

You blinked at him. “You left without a word.”

He gave a short nod. “I didn’t want to trouble you.”

You tilted your head. “You were bleeding.”

He looked away, eyes following the curling vines of ivy across the shop’s stone walls.

“Still.” A pause as he looked at the ground, the broad man before you looking unsure. “I brought this.”

He held out a wrapped cloth bundle. Inside was a loaf of honey-oat bread, clearly from the castle’s bakery. You recognized the delicate scoring on top. No one in the village made bread like that.

You raised an eyebrow. “You’re not from around here.”

He didn’t deny it. “I was raised near the court.”

A partial truth. A carefully chosen one.

You smiled faintly and stepped aside. “Well, court or not, you’re welcome back, but only if you ever decide to leave your name this time.”

His gaze lingered on you. Then he murmured “Toshi.”

You didn’t know why the name felt important then. You only nodded.

“All right, Toshi. Nice to meet you.” You smiled warmly at him, making something inside his chest stir.

——————————————————————————

He came back again. And again.

Never on a pattern. Sometimes in the morning, sometimes at dusk. Never in the rain. Always walking alone.

You noticed he never brought anything to be healed after the first few times. Just small excuses. “I thought you might have a remedy for fatigue.” “Do you sell anything for dreamless sleep?” “My leg aches when it storms.”

He wasn’t good at lying.

But he was good at watching.

——————————————————————————

You would often find him outside the shop before you opened, silently helping carry bundles of fresh-cut herbs, or refilling the heavy water jugs from the well. He didn’t speak much, and when he did, it was always simply, directly.

You learned to speak around the quiet.

Sometimes he helped you sort dried roots into jars. Other times, you’d hand him a knife and a bowl of wild ginger to peel, and he’d sit at your small table, his large hands surprisingly precise in their work.

It became routine. Not daily. Not expected. But… welcome. And fragile. Like a bird who kept returning to your window, unsure if the glass would hold.

——————————————————————————

“I used to think people like you didn’t exist.” He said once.

It was evening. You were drying your hands on a towel, having finished tending to an old woman’s twisted ankle. He’d helped her into a chair and said almost nothing the whole time. Now, he sat with his hands folded in his lap, watching you move about the room.

“People like me?” You echoed.

He didn’t meet your gaze. “People who care. Quietly. All the time.”

You blinked. Then smiled faintly.

“Most people care.” You said gently. “They just forget how loud the world is.”

That night, when he left, he touched the doorframe as he passed through it.

A small thing. But something in you wondered if he needed the grounding.

——————————————————————————

He never told you much about himself. But you began to learn the shape of him in pieces.

He preferred bitter herbs. He slept little. He looked at storm clouds like they were old friends. He flinched but not outwardly, it was only in breath when he heard children cry. He always checked the edges of the room when he walked in.

He never relaxed. Not fully. But when he sat with you, sometimes peeling bark, sometimes watching the kettle steam his eyes softened just enough to change their color.

One afternoon, while you packed salves for a neighboring village, you asked without thinking. “Toshi, were you a soldier?”

He paused mid-reach. “I trained as one.”

You nodded. “That explains the sword.”

He tilted his head slightly. “And the silence?”

You glanced at him. Smiled. “That too.”

——————————————————————————

One morning, a child burst into your shop with a bloodied knee and a shaking chin. You crouched instantly, cooing softly, and began to clean it with lavender water.

Toshi was there, as he often was by then, sweeping fallen herbs into a pile. He knelt beside you without a word, holding the boy’s small hands gently between his own as you worked.

The boy sniffled. Toshi didn’t speak. He just held his hands firm, steady.

When you finished and wrapped the wound, the child glanced up.

“You’re strong.” He mumbled to Toshi, almost in awe. “Like a knight.”

Something flickered across Toshi’s face. A shadow of a frown. But he only nodded once.

After the boy left, you said quietly, “You don’t like being called that.”

“I’m not.” He said.

You studied him. “Not anymore?”

“Maybe not ever.”

But your heart tugged at that. Because you didn’t know what he meant, but the ache in his voice told you it had once mattered.

——————————————————————————

One evening, you were watering the potted sage near the shop window when he spoke again softly, almost like a confession.

“Do you believe people can change?”

You didn’t look up right away.

“I believe people can choose.” You said finally. “Change comes after that.”

He was quiet. Then he whispered, “I never had the chance to choose. Until I came here.”

You turned, then. Slowly. He was standing near the doorway, a shadow in the golden slant of dusk.

“Toshi…”

He shook his head once. “It’s nothing.”

But it wasn’t nothing. Not to you.

——————————————————————————

You didn’t know when it had started to feel like this, like something delicate was building between you, even if neither of you dared touch it.

It lived in small things.

How he held the basket when you gathered rosemary. How you set aside extra tea for him before you even knew he’d visit. How he said your name softly, always just once. Like it mattered.

You weren’t foolish. You knew he wasn’t a simple man. His bearing, his silences, his hands, all told you he came from a world you didn’t know.

But he looked at you like your world rested him. Like he came here to breathe.

——————————————————————————

One night, he stayed later than usual.

You had lit the lanterns early. A storm was approaching the clouds thick and low, thunder grumbling in the distance. Toshi lingered at the window, watching the rain begin to fall in curtains.

“You can stay here.” You said gently. “Until it passes.”

He didn’t answer right away.

Then he sat on the bench by the fire, his profile limned by firelight. You noticed then, his hands were trembling slightly.

“I haven’t felt safe in a storm since I was a child.” He said.

You paused. “Why not?”

He looked into the flames. The silence stretched. “Because everything I love disappears in them.”

Your heart cracked, just a little. You knelt beside him, reached for his hands.

“I’m not going anywhere.” You said softly.

And something in him unraveled.

He slept on the cot that night. You left tea by his bedside and shut the door gently. You didn’t sleep much.

The storm passed quietly, by dawn. And when you woke, he was still there. Not gone. Not hidden.

Still there.

——————————————————————————

The sickness arrived slowly. Like rot under a floorboard, hidden at first, but spreading.

You noticed it in small ways.

A child who hadn’t come for cough syrup in days. A man in the market who looked pale despite the heat. Your neighbor, who stopped tending her garden and stayed inside, the windows dark.

Then, one by one, they began to knock at your door.

——————————————————————————

“Toshi, I need more yarrow. Can you grind it?”

“Boil this bark until the water turns dark red. Stir slowly, don’t let it burn.”

“Help me carry her, she’s burning up.”

“Don’t let that one touch the others, it’s spreading.”

You worked until your fingers went numb. You couldn’t stop. Not when old Mrs. Ota couldn’t breathe through the fever. Not when the Kobayashi twins cried from their mother’s bedside. Not when you were the only one in the valley who knew what tincture even meant.

And Toshi, gods, Toshi was there for all of it. He didn’t leave your side for days. Not once.

He ground herbs until his hands blistered. Carried feverish villagers in his arms like they weighed nothing. Learned the names of every root you handed him. Fetched water and wood and wrapped bandages when your hands shook too hard to finish the knot.

But he also watched you.

Every moment. Eyes constantly on you, quiet, tracking the way your shoulders slumped, the way your breath caught, the way you sometimes stood still for just a second too long.

“You need to rest.” He said once, voice low.

You shook your head. “Later.”

“There might not be a later.” He said.

You smiled weak, but kind. “Then I’ll make sure there’s a now.”

He didn’t argue but he looked like he wanted to.

——————————————————————————

Three more days passed.

You stopped counting how many fevers you treated. How many cloths you changed. How many prayers you whispered between clenched teeth.

And then, on the fourth day, you made a mistake.

You hadn’t eaten. You hadn’t slept.

You were leaning over a child’s bed, checking her breathing, when the room tilted. You blinked. Once. Twice. The air narrowed to a tunnel. Your knees went soft and the last thing you saw before your world tipped sideways was Toshi’s face turning toward you, eyes wide, hand reaching out…

Then everything went black.

——————————————————————————

You woke to cool linen against your forehead and a voice low, rough with panic.

“Don’t do that again.”

Your eyes fluttered open.

You were on your own cot. A faint breeze moved through the window. The smell of willow bark tea and rosewater floated in the air.

Toshi was sitting beside you. His eyes always so unreadable, were raw now. His hand was clenched tight around a cloth he was using to dab at your neck.

“You fainted.” He said quietly. “Your pulse was shallow. You weren’t responding.”

You tried to speak, but your throat was dry.

He handed you a cup before you could ask. Helped you sit up slowly. His arm around your back was steady. Solid.

“Did I…?” You whispered, voice hoarse. “Has anyone- ?”

“Everyone’s stable.” He said. “You did more than enough.”

You closed your eyes. Relief washed through you and shame.

“I’m sorry.” You murmured.

He stiffened beside you. “Don’t say that.”

“I was careless.”

“You were exhausted.”

Your eyes met his. “You were scared.” You whispered.

He didn’t answer. But the silence howled with truth.

“I’ve seen people die.” He said finally. His voice was quiet, but his jaw clenched. “I’ve held men as they bled out. I’ve stood in battlefields, I’ve seen sickness take entire villages. But I’ve never-”

He broke off. Looked away. Then whispered, barely audible. “I’ve never felt what I felt when I saw you fall.”

You blinked. Heat rose to your cheeks, but something inside you ached, because his voice didn’t tremble like love. It trembled like fear.

“Toshi…” You started.

“I thought I was too late.” He turned back to you, eyes dark and burning. “And I couldn’t- I couldn’t do anything.”

You reached out, slowly, and took his hand. He let you.

You felt the tension in his shoulders, the way his breath hitched once before leveling out. He looked down at your joined hands, his thumb brushing lightly over your skin.

“I don’t know what this is.” He said, “but I know it’s the first thing I’ve ever wanted that wasn’t given to me.”

You swallowed hard and, for a moment, you forgot to breathe.

——————————————————————————

That night, the two of you sat outside the shop under the stars. The village was quiet again. Tired, but healing.

He didn’t let go of your hand for hours.

And when you leaned your head against his shoulder, he exhaled slowly, like something in his chest had finally begun to loosen.

But he still didn’t tell you his full name. And you still didn’t ask. Because something told you, if he spoke it aloud, the magic between you might fracture.

So you said nothing. Not yet.

——————————————————————————

The days after your collapse blurred into warmth and quiet.

The village was recovering. Slowly. You still made house visits, still crushed herbs and folded bandages, but now Toshi watched you with a closer eye. Every time your hands trembled, his would steady them. Every time you swayed, he was already there.

But more than that, something had changed between you. He no longer looked away when you caught him staring. You no longer hid the way your breath caught when he reached for you.

It wasn’t spoken. It didn’t need to be.

——————————————————————————

One evening, the air smelled of chamomile and soft wind. The last of the sunset spilled golden across the hills. You and Toshi sat outside, side by side, hands brushing but not quite touching.

He turned to you his face shadowed, solemn, but open in a way you had never seen.

“I don’t know what kind of life you imagined for yourself.” He said. “But if there is space in it… I want to stand in that space.”

Your chest ached.

“I never imagined much of anything.” You said. “But somehow, you’re in all of it now.”

He reached for you then. Not with urgency, but reverence. And when his hand touched your face rough, warm, careful you leaned into it like you’d been waiting all your life.

——————————————————————————

You don’t remember how your feet carried you inside, only the hush between breaths and the trembling gentleness of his hands as he followed.

His touch was unhurried, unpracticed, almost shy. As though he feared he might shatter you if he moved too quickly. You guided him with soft touches, with murmured reassurances. With the truth your body had longed to speak.

When his lips finally met yours, it wasn’t a kiss, it was a vow.

That night, you shed years of loneliness together. You memorized each other in quiet gasps and lingering glances, in the slow brush of fingertips across bare skin, in the ache of holding and being held.

Toshi made love like a man discovering softness for the first time.

Like someone who had never been allowed to want, and now finally could.

After, he lay with you tucked against him, his breath steady against your hair, his arm around your waist like he’d never let go.

And he whispered so softly you almost missed it. “I’ve never been more myself than when I’m with you.”

You smiled against his chest. “Then stay.”

He kissed the top of your head. “I will.”

You believed him.

Until the knight came.

——————————————————————————

It was two days later. You were returning from the river path when you saw the royal crest on the stranger’s cloak, a deep green with silver embroidery. His stallion was war-trained, his armor too pristine for a simple guard.

He was speaking to the baker, brows furrowed. Toshi wasn’t anywhere in sight.

Your chest tightened. You slipped quietly behind the bakery wall and listened.

“…spotted near the border during the ambush. He’s not just missing, he’s avoiding the castle. There’s talk he’s hiding in the southern villages. Have you seen any unfamiliar men?”

The baker mumbled something. The knight frowned.

“He may be using a false name. He’s tall. Broad-shouldered. Scar over his left brow.”

Your breath caught.

A scar.

You stepped back, before turning and running.

——————————————————————————

You found him by the river, just outside the village. He was crouched low, filling a basket with smooth stones, a habit he’d picked up from you. He looked peaceful.

You didn’t feel peaceful.

“Toshi.”

He looked up. Saw your face and stilled.

You dropped the basket in your hands.

“Who are you?”

He stood slowly. “I- ”

“Don’t lie to me.”

Silence.

“My name is Wakatoshi Ushijima.” He breathed out and your world blurred.

You shook your head. “That’s the prince’s name.”

He looked at you and said nothing. As if silence would soften the truth.

“You lied to me.”

“I didn’t mean to.”

“Everything you told me was a lie.”

“No.” He said, voice sharp. “Everything I felt was real.”

Your hands curled into fists. “You let me fall for someone who doesn’t exist.”

He stepped forward. You stepped back.

“You don’t understand.” He said, voice strained. “I came here wounded, hiding. But I stayed because of you. Not because of who I was, but because you saw who I could be.”

“I saw what you let me see.” You whispered. “And I trusted you.”

He said your name and you broke.

“You made love to me while lying to my face.”

That stopped him. Like a blow to the chest.

You turned before he could see the tears fall. “Don’t follow me.”

You left him standing in the riverlight, the wind pulling at his cloak, the prince who was never supposed to be yours.

——————————————————————————

The days after the truth fell apart were hollow.

You moved through them like a ghost, hands still grinding herbs, lips still forming words of comfort, but the warmth was gone. Where once your work had been lit by something bright, now it felt like tending wounds in the dark.

You didn’t speak his name. You couldn’t.

The villagers noticed your quietness, of course. Old Mrs. Ota reached for your hand once and said, “Even healers need healing.” You smiled, small and brittle, but you didn’t answer.

At night, when you lay in your cot, your body still remembered him. The shape of his hand at your waist, the way his breath had steadied when you leaned against his chest. You shut your eyes against the memory, but it pressed in anyway.

He had been yours. And yet, not.

——————————————————————————

Far away, in the castle that loomed over the hills, the prince walked its halls with steps that sounded too loud in the silence.

The palace was colder than he remembered. The walls were lined with tapestries, the air thick with incense, but to him, it felt like stone and emptiness. Every bow from a servant, every formal report from a knight, every polite nod from a courtier scraped against him.

He had spent his life being the “Stone Prince.” The man with no feelings. The one who could not be shaken. And yet, now when he stood in the great hall, when he trained in the yard, when he sat at the king’s table he felt only one thing.

Loss.

Your face lingered in every shadow. Your voice threaded through every silence. And for the first time in his life, he hated himself for not being brave enough to give you the truth sooner.

But duty held him. Or maybe it was cowardice. He truly didn’t even know anymore.

He returned to his role, the prince with iron eyes. But inside, his heart bled still.

——————————————————————————

It was nearly a month later when the news reached him.

A messenger arrived breathless at dawn, dust streaking his cloak. Rebels, he said. Armed men from the neighboring kingdom, slipping across the border to raid. The valley had been hit. Villages burned.

Wakatoshi didn’t wait for orders. He didn’t wait for a council meeting or his father’s decree.

The moment he heard your village’s name, something inside him snapped.

He left the castle that night with only his sword and his horse, his fury so sharp it silenced every knight who tried to stop him.

The “Stone Prince” was gone.

This was just a man wild with fear.

——————————————————————————

The village was smoke and ruin when he arrived. The air stank of fire and iron, of fear and broken things. He cut down two rebels on the path before he even dismounted, their blades still red.

“Where is she?” He demanded of every villager he found, grabbing shoulders, scanning faces. “Where is she?”

No one had seen you.

His chest tightened. His hands shook.

Until he heard your voice.

It was faint, strained, coming from behind the wreckage of the old blacksmith’s shop.

You were crouched there, clutching a wounded child to your chest, blood smeared across your face where a rebel had struck you. And even then, even shaking, exhausted, covered in ash you were still fighting to keep someone else alive.

“(Y/n)!”

You looked up. And the world seemed to stop.

He was there. Bloodied, furious, alive.

“Wakatoshi?” Your voice cracked.

You didn’t have time to say more. A rebel lunged from the shadows behind you.

Wakatoshi moved faster than thought. His sword cut clean through the man’s strike, steel clanging, sparks flying. The rebel fell at his feet, and Wakatoshi stood over you, chest heaving.

“I found you.” He whispered, almost desperate. “I found you.”

—

But it wasn’t over. The fighting surged around you both once again. Shouts, steel, fire. Wakatoshi fought like a storm, cutting down every enemy that drew near. He shielded you with his own body, his eyes burning.

But then, one blade slipped through. You saw it before he did.

“Wakatoshi!”

The rebel’s spear caught his side. The impact sent him staggering. He gritted his teeth, tore it free, and felled the man in one brutal strike, but when he turned, blood poured down his ribs.

You scrambled to him, hands catching his shoulders.

“No, no, no- stay with me.” You pleaded, forcing him down before he collapsed.

His eyes found yours. Steady, even now.

“If this is the price.” He murmured, voice rough. “I’ll pay it. To keep you safe.”

“Don’t you dare.” You snapped, tears blurring your sight. “Don’t you dare leave me now.”

You pressed your hands against the wound, herbs and bandages spilling from your satchel as you worked with frantic precision. Your mind spun with remedies, with every scrap of healing knowledge you had. But your heart, your heart screamed, because this was him.

The man who had lied. The prince who had broken you. The only person you still wanted to live.

——————————————————————————

The battle waned. The rebels fled. Villagers began to gather, but you saw none of it. All you saw was Wakatoshi’s pale face, his heavy breath, the weight of his blood on your hands.

“Stay awake.” You begged. “Please, Toshi, please.”

His eyes fluttered. His hand caught yours, holding it tight against his chest.

“You called me Toshi.” He whispered.

“I don’t care who you are.” You cried, pressing your forehead to his. “Prince, knight, liar whatever name you want- I don’t care. Just stay. Please stay. You promised you’d stay with me.”

And in that moment, he smiled. Small. Pained. But real.

“For you.” He said. “Always.”

——————————————————————————

You kept him alive. Through the night, through the fever, through the hours where every breath seemed like it might be his last, you kept him tethered to this world with your hands and your will.

And when dawn came, he opened his eyes again.

You wept into his shoulder. He held you weakly, but held you all the same.

——————————————————————————

The villagers believed the prince had fallen in the raid. Whispers spread that the Stone Prince had been slain defending innocents, that his body had been carried off by the enemy.

But the truth was quieter. Softer.

In the little shop by the hillside, you tended his wounds. You nursed him back to health. And for the first time, he was not a prince, nor a soldier, nor a stone figure for the world to look upon.

He was just a man.

Yours.

——————————————————————————

Weeks later, when he was strong enough to stand again, you walked together through the village fields, hand in hand. The lavender had begun to bloom, and the hills smelled of summer.

“You’ll be missed.” You said softly.

He nodded. “Perhaps. But they will move on.”

“And you?” You asked, glancing at him. “Do you regret it?”

His hand tightened around yours.

“Leaving the crown is not a loss.” He said. “Losing you would have been.”

Your chest ached with love so sharp it almost hurt.

“I thought you had no heart.” You teased gently.

He looked down at you, his expression quiet but certain.

“You are my heart.” He said simply.

And for once, you believed it.

The Stone Prince was gone. But the man he left behind was everything you had ever wanted.

And when the lavender bloomed that summer, he was there to see it with you.

Always.

Tags: @pizzitamia

The TV hummed quietly across the room, the opening theme of some drama you hadn’t even been paying attention to anymore looping as the next episode auto-played.

It was one of those rare weekends where neither of you had anywhere to be, no practices, no meetings, no errands. You’d started the day meaning to clean up the apartment or maybe go out for lunch. But somehow you’d ended up here instead, half-buried under a throw blanket, curled together on the couch while afternoon sunlight streamed lazily through the curtains.

You didn’t even bother checking the time anymore. Suna made a soft noise , something like a sigh and you felt his chest rise and fall beneath you.

“You awake?” You murmured, your lips brushing his shirt.

A long pause. Then, he spoke, voice low and thick with sleep. “Mm. Barely.”

You smiled against him, feeling the vibration of his voice through his ribcage. “Wanna move? Or…?”

He cracked one eye open to glance at you, lids heavy, expression unreadable but fond in that quiet, understated way of his. “Why would I move when I’m already comfortable?”

“Fair point.”

You adjusted just enough to rest your chin on his chest, looking up at him. His hair was a little messy from his nap, falling into his eyes. You reached up to brush it away absently and caught sight of the ink curling down his forearm.

It wasn’t the first time you’d seen his tattoos, you’d watched him get a few of them over the past couple years but something about the way the light hit them now, black and intricate against his skin, made your fingers itch to trace them.

So you did.

Starting at his wrist, you let your fingertip follow the line of one design.

Suna glanced down at you, an eyebrow quirked lazily. “What are you doing?”

“Nothing.” You said, though your finger kept moving.

He snorted quietly, but didn’t stop you. Instead, he let his head fall back against the couch cushion, eyes fluttering shut again.

You took that as permission to continue.

The tattoos were beautiful and very him. A blend of sharp angles and flowing curves, subtle enough to peek out from under his sleeves without screaming for attention. You’d always thought they suited him: understated, intriguing, and a little mysterious.

“Did this one hurt?” You asked softly, dragging your fingertip over a section of geometric shapes that wrapped around his elbow.

“Not really.” He murmured.

You huffed a little laugh. “You always say that. ‘Not really.’”

He cracked an eye open again to smirk at you. “That’s because it didn’t.”

“Mmhm.” You poked at his bicep playfully. “Tough guy.”

“Exactly.”

Still, his arm twitched under your touch, not in discomfort, but more like it tickled.

You shifted so you were half-sitting now, legs folded beside him, and kept tracing higher, to where a delicate line of ink disappeared under the sleeve of his t-shirt.

He watched you silently for a moment, then tilted his head.

“What?” You asked, self-conscious under his gaze.

“Nothing.” He replied simply, closing his eyes again. “Just don’t stop.”

You felt your heart do a strange little flip at that, but you obeyed, dragging your fingers back down the inside of his forearm.

Then an idea struck you, one that made your lips curve into a mischievous smile.

“Hey, Rin.” You said, voice light.

“Mm?”

“Can I…” You hesitated, then continued, “…color them in?”

That earned you a pause. His eyes opened fully this time, sharp green-gold meeting yours.

“Color them?”

You held up a pack of pastel highlighters from the coffee table, left over from some studying you’d been doing earlier in the week. “Just temporarily. You know. Like a coloring book.”

Suna blinked at you.

Then, with the most blasé shrug in the world. “If it keeps you entertained, go ahead.”

You grinned, triumphant, and grabbed the markers.

He settled back against the cushions like nothing out of the ordinary was happening, one arm draped over his stomach, the other stretched out for you to work on.

And so you began.

It was slow, careful work and you were determined to do it justice. You started with the angular shapes near his wrist, filling them in with soft lavender. Then you chose a mint green for the swooping curves along his forearm, blending it where it met the black ink.

Suna glanced at you every now and then, but otherwise stayed quiet, letting the sounds of the TV and the faint scratch of marker on skin fill the room.

When you finished one section and moved on to another, you heard him murmur under his breath:

“You missed a spot.”

You froze, then laughed softly. “Oh, so you are paying attention.”

“Didn’t say I wasn’t.” He replied, eyes still half-lidded.

You continued diligently, switching colors and occasionally blowing gently on his skin when the marker threatened to smudge.

Somewhere along the way, the afternoon sun dipped lower, painting the room in warm golds and soft shadows.

By the time you leaned back, finally satisfied, his entire left arm was a pastel masterpiece, a muted rainbow of pinks and blues and greens nestled within the dark outlines of his tattoos.

“Done.” You announced, setting the markers down and admiring your work.

Suna lazily tilted his head to inspect his arm, eyes sliding over the colors.

“Cute.” He murmured finally.

“You mean impressive.” You corrected, grinning.

“That too.”

You started to shift away to grab your phone and snap a picture, but before you could fully pull back, his hand shot out and caught your wrist.

“Where are you going?” He asked, his tone still casual, but there was a faint, almost petulant edge to it.

You blinked down at him. “I was just- ”

“Don’t.”

His fingers wrapped around your wrist more firmly as he tugged you back down, and you found yourself settling against him again, your knees tucked beside his thigh.

“I’ve already finished your arm.” You pointed out, amused.

“Doesn’t mean you should stop.” He murmured, letting his eyes fall closed again.

Your chest ached with something soft and fond as you stared at him, this six-foot-something professional athlete, all sleepy-eyed and stubborn, asking you wordlessly not to move.

So you didn’t.

You picked up another marker and found a new section of ink on his shoulder, pretending not to notice the tiny smirk tugging at the corner of his lips.

For a while, neither of you spoke. The only sounds were the quiet dialogue from the TV, the whisper of marker on skin, and the occasional sigh from him whenever you hit a particularly sensitive spot.

“You’re gonna make me fall asleep.” He murmured after a long stretch of silence.

“That’s fine.” You said.

“You’ll still color me in if I do?”

“Of course.”

“Good.”

You glanced up at him, at the way his lashes cast faint shadows on his cheeks, at the way his lips curved faintly even in repose, and felt that strange, quiet ache in your chest again.

“Rin.” You said softly.

“Mm?”

“You’re really spoiled, you know that?”

His mouth twitched, but he didn’t open his eyes. “You’re the one spoiling me.” He murmured, voice low and warm.

You flushed at that and ducked your head back down, focusing on the next section of his tattoo.

Minutes blurred into more minutes, and eventually the highlighters ran dry or faded out, leaving only a faint haze of color over his ink.

You finally capped the last marker and set it aside, brushing your thumb over the now rainbow-splashed designs.

“There.” You whispered. “Masterpiece complete.”

“Mm…” He hummed, eyes still closed.

“You’re not even gonna look at it, are you?” You teased, poking his side lightly.

“Doesn’t matter.” He replied, voice thick with drowsiness now. “Feels nice.”

You rolled your eyes affectionately but didn’t argue, leaning forward to press a quick kiss to the inside of his wrist.

When you tried to shift away again, this time to grab a drink, his arm wrapped around your waist, pulling you flush against him before you could even get your feet on the floor.

You let out a surprised little laugh. “Rin- ”

“Mm-mm.” He murmured, eyes still closed. “Stay.”

“You’re clingy today.” You accused softly, though you were already settling back into him, your head resting against his shoulder.

“Not today.” He corrected, lips curving faintly. “Always.”

You went quiet at that, feeling your face grow warm as his fingers traced absent little circles on your side.

Neither of you spoke after that.

You let the quiet fill the room, let his warmth seep into you, let the steady beat of his heart beneath your ear lull you into that dreamy, content haze that only he could make you feel.

Eventually, his breathing evened out, and you felt him slip fully into sleep, his hold on you never loosening.

You stayed right where you were, your fingers still ghosting over the colorful patterns you’d drawn on his skin, and thought that maybe, just maybe, you could stay like this forever.

After all, Suna Rintarou had already decided he wasn’t letting you go anytime soon.

And honestly? You didn’t mind one bit.

“I’m not.” You said, lips wobbling even though you were trying to sound tough.

He tilted his head. “You kind of are.”

You crossed your arms. “You’re mean.”

“I’m Daichi.” He corrected instead, then stepped into the sandbox like he belonged there. “Can I help?”

You stared at him for a long second, then nodded slowly. His smile was wide and toothy, and you didn’t know it yet, but that smile would become one of your favorite things in the world.

“I’m building a castle.” You explained seriously, gesturing to the sad pile in front of you.

Daichi sat cross-legged beside you and squinted down at it. “It looks more like a mountain.”

You pouted.

“Okay, okay! Castle. Right.” He started scooping up handfuls of sand and packing them into lumpy towers. They were terrible, worse than yours and he kept knocking them over with his elbows. But he made you laugh.

When he managed to accidentally collapse one of your towers for the third time, he dropped his chin into his hands and sighed dramatically. “I’m really bad at this.”

“You’re terrible.” You agreed through a giggle, and that only made him grin harder.

“You know what would make it better?” He asked suddenly. “A moat. Castles always have moats.”

Together, you spent the next twenty minutes digging a crooked, shallow circle around your “castle” Daichi got sand in his socks and down the back of his shirt. You both ended up dirty and sun-warmed and happy.

When Koushi came running over to tell Daichi you were going home soon, you felt a little pang in your chest.

“Bye!” You said, waving your sandy hand.

“Bye!” He said, then paused. “You build really good castles.”

Your face lit up.

That was the very first time Daichi Sawamura made your heart feel a little bit bigger.

——————————————————————————

Skinned knees (ages 6 and 7)

“TAG! You’re it!”

“No fair, I wasn’t ready!”

Daichi bolted across the grass, arms pumping, sneakers kicking up dirt. He was fast, always had been, but the older kids had longer legs, and that meant he had to try harder to keep up. He liked that. It made him feel strong. Grown-up.

Until, of course, he didn’t see the root sticking up in the grass. His foot caught. His body pitched forward, and he hit the ground hard.

“DAICHI!” Koushi yelled.

“I’m fine!” He called back instantly, sitting up fast even though his knees burned and stung. His palms were scraped too, small pebbles sticking to the torn skin. It hurt.

But boys didn’t cry, right?

Still, his lip was trembling a little as he brushed at his knee. There was blood. Not a lot, but enough to make his stomach feel weird. He looked up and saw Sugawara running toward him, panic written all over his face.

And then he saw you, a small blur of pink and pigtails breaking into a run across the grass, your little shoes thudding hard. Daichi quickly looked down again.

“Daichi!” You called, breathless by the time you dropped to your knees beside him. “You’re bleeding!”

“‘M okay.” He mumbled.

But you were already digging into the tiny pink Hello Kitty pouch you carried everywhere. Out came a tissue, slightly crumpled but clean, and a bandaid decorated with sparkly stars.

You dabbed carefully at his knee, tongue peeking out in concentration. “You’re not okay.” You said matter-of-factly. “But it’s okay to cry, you know.”

He looked at you, wide-eyed.

“You’re allowed to cry.” You repeated gently, and then, without warning, you blew softly on his scraped knee.

Daichi blinked fast. He didn’t cry, not really, but his shoulders dropped, the tight knot in his chest loosening just a bit.

You peeled the bandaid and smoothed it over the cut with gentle fingers.

“There!” You said beaming up at him. “All better.”

And he looked at you like you’d just fixed the world.

——————————————————————————

The recital (ages 10 and 11)

Your heart was beating too fast.

You stood just off-stage, fingers twitching with nerves. The recital hall was bigger than you remembered. The polished black piano sat center stage like a challenge, and the rows of folding chairs were filled with strangers. Parents. Teachers. Judges.

Not your parents, though.

They wanted to come. They really did. But Koushi had a fever over 102, and your mom couldn’t leave his side. Your dad stayed too, and though you told them it was okay, your voice had cracked on the word.

You knew it wasn’t their fault but your stomach still twisted with disappointment as your name was called.

The walk to the piano felt miles long. You sat on the bench, placed your hands on the keys, and took a shaky breath.

You started to play. The first few notes were hesitant, your fingers stumbling, but muscle memory took over. You got lost in the melody, pouring your heart into the piece you’d practiced for weeks. It wasn’t perfect, but it was yours. When the final note faded, there was polite applause.

You stood, bowed, and left the stage with your hands trembling. Your throat burned. You weren’t going to cry, not here, not in front of everyone but it was close.

You stepped out into the hallway, wiping at your eyes before they could spill over.

“Hey.”

You jumped.

Daichi stood there, awkward in a button-up shirt that didn’t fit him quite right and jeans a little too long. His hair was combed for once. He held a crumpled bouquet of flowers, yellow daisies and baby’s breath tied together with a string.

Your mouth dropped open. “What are you doing here?”

He shrugged one shoulder. “Koushi said you had your recital. Your parents couldn’t come, so I… figured someone should.”

Your hands curled around the bouquet automatically. “You came?”

“I was a little late.” He admitted, rubbing the back of his neck. “But I saw the whole thing. You were amazing.”

You blinked fast. “I messed up at the start.”

“But you kept going. And you didn’t run offstage crying or throw the piano stool or anything. So, yeah. Amazing.”

You laughed, half-choked and half-sniffled. “That’s a bit dumb.”

“Maybe.” He grinned. “But I brought flowers.”

You stared at the yellow petals, heart warm and aching. The hallway was quiet now, just the two of you. You didn’t say anything for a moment. “Thank you.”

Daichi looked at you, softer than usual. “Anytime.”

And somehow you knew he meant it.

——————————————————————————

Fever (ages 11 and 12)

It was supposed to be just a quick errand.

Koushi was stuck finishing an assignment, and Daichi had come home from the overnight school camp sick, like really sick. Fever, sore throat, barely-talking kind of sick. His mom called in to say he’d be home for at least two days. And with the teachers sending over homework, someone had to drop it off.

So, Koushi looked at you. "Please?"

You grumbled a little, but truthfully? You didn’t mind.

You arrived at the Sawamuras’ place after school, your backpack heavier than usual and the plastic folder of assignments crumpling slightly in your grip. Daichi’s mom answered the door, soft-eyed and frazzled, thanking you a little too many times as she let you in.

“He’s upstairs.” She said. “Been sleeping most of the day, but maybe hearing a friend’s voice will help.”

You didn’t correct her. You weren’t sure what to call it friendship didn’t feel like enough anymore. But it was easier that way. Koushi surely was Daichi’s friend but you weren’t exactly sure what you were to him.

Daichi’s room was warm and dim when you pushed the door open gently.

He looked… awful. His face was flushed, dark hair stuck to his forehead, mouth slightly parted as he breathed raggedly through a stuffed-up nose. A cold cloth lay half-slid off his head, and the blanket was tangled around his legs.

You set your bag down quietly and crossed over to the bed. “Hey.” You whispered. “It’s me.”

No response.

You bit your lip, then climbed into the chair by his bedside. You picked up the fallen cloth and stood to re-wet it from the bowl on the nightstand, wringing it out and gently placing it back across his forehead.

Still nothing.

You sighed, then leaned your chin into your hand and began to talk. About school. About your teachers. About how Koushi nearly got detention for talking back to the gym coach. You told him about the vending machine that swallowed your money and about how your lunch had tasted weird but not bad, and how the clouds looked like mashed potatoes that day.

At some point, you looked down and realized he’d turned his face slightly toward your voice.

You reached for his hand. It was warm too warm, but he didn’t let go.

You stayed there, fingers wrapped around his and words spilling quietly into the air. You didn’t even realize how much time had passed until Daichi muttered something under his breath.

You froze.

“What was that?”

He twitched slightly. A soft, strained sound left him. “...’m sorry…”

You frowned, leaning closer. “Daichi?”

His eyes stayed closed, breath shallow. Then, barely above a whisper,your name. Just your name, drifting out like an anchor in a fever dream. Your heart climbed right into your throat.

“I’m here.” You whispered back instinctively. “I’ve got you.”

He didn’t reply again. But his hand never let go and you swore he held on tighter for a moment.

——————————————————————————

The quiet thread (quiet moments over the years)

You weren’t quite sure when it started to feel like something more.

There wasn’t a single moment, but a series of them, threaded together like tiny lights on a string, warm and blinking and easy to miss unless you really looked.

At his matches, you were always in the front row. Screaming his name when he served, clapping until your palms stung. You learned the game slowly, enough to keep up. Enough to see the way his eyes found you first when he landed a good spike. Always you.

At movie nights with the team, he always saved you a seat. Never said it outright, but it was always there, the spot beside him, the bowl of popcorn between you, the way he’d tilt the box of juice toward you first before taking one himself.

Once, Nishinoya tried to take your usual seat as a joke. Daichi didn’t even say anything, just gave him a look. That was all it took.

Noya grinned. “Okay, okay, got it. ‘Princess’ seat.’”

You rolled your eyes.

Daichi didn’t say a word.

But he smiled when you sat beside him anyway.

On rainy days, he’d offer his umbrella before you could ask. “You can give it back tomorrow.” He’d say, rubbing the back of his neck while the rain soaked his shoulders. You gave it back the next day every time. And somehow… it always smelled like him after.

When your cat died, he walked three blocks to your house even though it was a school night. Said he brought homework from Koushi but he never opened the folder. He just sat with you, quiet, legs crossed on your bedroom floor as you cried. When he finally left that night, your pillow smelled like his hoodie.

There was nothing romantic about it. Not yet. It wasn’t flirting. It was more. It was trust, built soft and slow. It was knowing that you could fall asleep in the middle of a movie night and wake up with a blanket over your shoulders and Daichi’s jacket folded beneath your head. It was brushing hands accidentally in the popcorn bowl and not pulling away. It was watching him laugh and not knowing why it made your chest ache.

It was all the things neither of you had words for. Not yet, but something was coming.

And somewhere in the space between childhood and whatever came next, the two of you had become each other’s safest place.

——————————————————————————

What it feels like (ages 15 and 16)

You never knew that watching someone get confessed to could hurt.

It was spring, and the hallways smelled like too many flowers and teenage hope. First-years were already rushing to get their chocolates ready for Valentine’s Day, and second-years were just starting to get bold with handwritten letters and awkward hallway meetups.

Daichi was tall and broad-shouldered by then Captain material, dependable and easy to talk to, with a smile that made even the teachers melt.

You saw it happen again and again: a girl standing with her hands clenched around a ribbon-tied box, red-cheeked and trembling. And Daichi, polite as ever, bowing his head with that apologetic smile that never quite reached his eyes.

“I’m really sorry. Thank you, though.”

And the girl would wilt a little, whisper it was okay, then rush away.

He never accepted. Not once.

And you didn’t know why it twisted your stomach the way it did. Why your heart sped up every time someone even looked at him like that. Why you caught yourself searching his face for a reaction he never gave. Why part of you felt strangely relieved when he turned them all down.

It made no sense. He wasn’t yours. He never had been. Still, every time he smiled at someone else, even just to say “no”, something inside you clenched like a fist.

You didn’t have a word for it back then. But it lived in you, quiet and constant. A dull, aching gravity.

——————————————————————————

The fight (ages 16 and 17)

It started with a name you’d gotten tired of hearing. Kento Takagi. He was a second-year, he was tall, annoying, way too smug. The first time he asked you out, you were polite. The second time, you were firm.

The third time, you ignored him completely. By the sixth time, you were one deep breath away from shoving your school shoe directly into his face.

You were standing just outside the school gates, trying to pack your books into your bag, when he approached again. “Come on, just one date.” He said, reaching for your wrist when you turned away. “You’re not even giving me a chance-”

“Let go.” You snapped.

That’s when you heard the sharp voice from behind you.

“She said let go.”

You turned. Sugawara got there first, stepping between you and Kento like a calm wall of sunshine and thinly veiled menace. “You’ve asked her enough times. She’s not interested. Take the hint.”

You could’ve hugged him.

But it was Daichi who arrived seconds later, face unreadable, steps deliberate.

Kento scoffed. “Seriously? You’ve got two bodyguards now?”

And that was when he grabbed your arm again. That was his mistake.

Daichi shoved between you before you could react, his hand closing around Kento’s wrist like steel. “Are you deaf?” His voice low and cold, “She told you to let go.”

Kento sneered. “What’s it to you? You her boyfriend or something?”

It happened too fast. Daichi’s fist swung clean and hard - crack - straight into Kento’s jaw. The other boy stumbled backward, clutching his face, spitting curses and blood.

“DAICHI!” Sugawara shouted.

Your heart dropped. “What- ?!”

And then the teachers were there, and everything blurred, raised voices, hands pulling them apart, Kento wailing about “assault” and Daichi just standing there, jaw clenched, breathing hard, knuckles bleeding.

——————————————————————————

The walk home (later that day)

Daichi got detention. Of course he did.

One week. After school. Report filed, parents notified.

You waited for him anyway.

You sat on the stone steps just outside the gym, watching the sun dip low behind the school roof. You weren’t sure if he’d even want you there after what happened, but your legs stayed glued to the steps.

He came out just as the light started to fade.

“Hey.” You said.

He paused. “You waited?”

“Duh.” You muttered, standing. “Who else is gonna yell at you for punching a guy like an idiot?”

A smile tugged at his mouth, tired and faint. He didn’t say anything else.

You walked side by side in silence for a while, the wind tugging at your sleeves, leaves skittering across the sidewalk. His hand hovered just a few inches from yours, close enough to feel the warmth radiating off of it.

You didn’t move away.

When you finally reached your street, you caught the way he flexed his fingers, bruised and red, still split at the knuckles.

“Come here.” You said quietly, turning into your driveway instead. “Let me clean that.”

He didn’t argue. You sat him down at the kitchen counter and pulled out the first aid box. He sat obediently, arm resting on the table, watching as you opened the kit with practiced hands.

The light in the kitchen was soft, gold and humming. You dipped a cotton ball into antiseptic, glancing at him before pressing it gently to the raw skin. “This is probably going to sting.”

“I’ve had worse.” He muttered.

You didn’t ask when. You didn’t like thinking about him getting hurt. You worked slowly, carefully, dabbing at the scrapes and cuts, the silence between you thick with things unsaid.

“You didn’t have to do that.” You said finally, voice too soft. “I could’ve handled it.”

Daichi didn’t look away from you. “He shouldn’t have touched you.”

Your chest tightened. “Still…”

He shook his head slightly. “I don’t care if I got detention. I’d do it again.”

Your fingers paused over the edge of a bandage. The weight of the moment pressed between you. You wrapped the gauze slowly, smoothing it flat over his knuckles. Your hands lingered on his, thumbs grazing gently across his skin.

He wasn’t looking away. Neither were you. You could feel his breath, short and uneven. His hand turned slightly, palm brushing yours.

“Daichi…” You whispered.

His eyes dropped to your lips. Your heart stopped. He leaned in-

-and then pulled back, sharp and sudden.

His chair scraped softly against the tile. “Thanks.” He said, voice too stiff. “For… patching me up.”

You sat frozen, heart pounding, mouth still parted like a question. He didn’t look at you again as he stood to leave.

And just like that, the moment passed, too big, too heavy, too much for two people still pretending they didn’t already belong to each other.

——————————————————————————

Realization (ages 16 and 17)

You didn’t realize it all at once.

It crept in slowly, quietly, like a song you’d heard too many times to really hear until one day, it cracked you wide open.

It was in the way he laughed, full and real, the kind of laugh that made your stomach flutter.

It was the way he always noticed when something was off. The way he handed you your favorite drink without being asked. The way he texted you before every exam: You’ve got this. I believe in you.

It was the way he looked at you after matches, chest still heaving, sweat dripping down his temple but his eyes always found you in the crowd first. Always you.

It was in the small things. Because that’s where Daichi always lived.

And one night, alone in your room, scrolling through the blurry picture Suga had taken of you and Daichi at the last team festival, him smiling wide, your cheeks flushed from laughing too hard, you felt it all at once.

You loved him.

It wasn’t loud or dramatic. It just was. And it hurt. Because he had never said anything. He had pulled away from you that night with bruised knuckles and trembling silence. And despite everything you thought you saw in his eyes, he had never crossed the line.

Not once.

So maybe… he really did just see you as Koushi’s little sister. Someone he’d always protected. Someone who had always been around. Familiar. Comfortable.

You told yourself it was fine. That you understood. But the ache in your chest said otherwise.

——————————————————————————

The confession (and it’s not his)

His name was Riku Yamamoto.

He was sweet. Polite. Sat next to you in art class and smelled like peppermint and clean laundry. He made you laugh with his bad puns, and once stayed behind to help you carry paints back to the storage room.

And then one day, after class, heart in his hands, he confessed.

You blinked at him for a long second. “Wait, me?”

Riku flushed. “Yeah. I know it’s kind of sudden, and you probably don’t see me that way, but I just… I thought I’d try. One date. That’s all I’m asking.”

You hesitated. Then you said yes. Not because you didn’t love Daichi. But because he didn’t love you back and, maybe, if someone else looked at you like that, like you were the one they’d been hoping for, maybe it would be enough to forget the feeling of being invisible to the only boy who had ever mattered.

Daichi didn’t find out from you. He found out from Koushi.

It was after practice, the sun beginning to dip below the horizon, everyone sprawled out in the gym, sweat and laughter hanging thick in the air. Koushi was chatting absentmindedly about weekend plans, tossing his water bottle from hand to hand.

“Yeah, I think [Y/N]’s got a date with that Yamamoto kid.” He said casually, wiping his forehead.

Daichi froze. “What?”

Koushi looked up. “Huh? Oh, Riku. You know, from Class 2-C? She said he asked her out and she figured, why not.”

The air shifted. Daichi’s grip on his towel tightened.

“Oh.” He said, flat and hollow.

Koushi paused, brows furrowing. “You okay?”

“Yeah.” Daichi lied. “Fine.”

But he wasn’t. Something cold and sick settled deep in his chest, and it didn’t move.

You didn’t hear from him for two days. No texts. No calls. Not even a glance when you passed in the hallway. At first, you thought you were imagining it. But by the second day, your chest was too tight to ignore it anymore.

You cornered him after practice, outside the locker room, where the hallway was dim and empty.

“Daichi.” You said, breathless. “Why are you avoiding me?”

He turned, slowly, sweat still clinging to his hairline. “I’m not.”

“You are. You haven’t talked to me in two days.”

He shrugged, expression unreadable. “Been busy.”

“With what? Pretending I don’t exist?”

He flinched,just barely, but you caught it.

“You’re mad.” You said. “Why?”

“I’m not mad.”

“Then what is it?”

He looked away. “It doesn’t matter.”

“Yes, it does!” Your voice cracked. “Just say it, Daichi! If you’re upset, then say it! Why have you been avoiding me since Koushi told you that I was going on a date?!”

And then it hit like thunder, loud and raw, shoving out of him before he could stop it. “Because I- ”

But he stopped.

Your breath hitched. “Because you what?”

Daichi stared at you, chest rising and falling. And then- Nothing. Silence. He looked down, jaw tight, fists clenched at his sides.

You laughed, bitter and broken. “Right. That’s what I thought.”

He reached for you instinctively. “Wait- ”

You stepped back. “No.” You said. “You don’t get to do this. You don’t get to get jealous and act like you care and then say nothing.”

Tears stung your eyes.

“I’ve spent years loving you, Daichi.” You whispered. “And I thought… maybe you felt something too. But you never said anything. You just left me hanging. And now I finally say yes to someone else, and now you care?”

He looked shattered.

You shook your head, blinking hard. “I’m not doing this anymore.” You said as you turned and walked away.

Daichi stood frozen in the hallway long after you were gone, gutted and ghost-silent, realizing too late that maybe the biggest mistake he’d ever made was thinking silence would keep you safe.

——————————————————————————

The fallout (ages 16 and 17)

Daichi was a mess.

He went through practice like a ghost, movements tight, eyes distant. He forgot to bring his lunch two days in a row. He barely spoke unless someone asked him a direct question. When he did speak, it was flat, empty, like someone else had taken up residence in his chest.

He still couldn’t believe it. He’d hurt you. You, the one person he’d sworn to never hurt. And he’d done it not with his fists, not with his voice, but with his silence. It was almost worse.

“Okay, I’ve had enough.” Sugawara said, finally slamming his bento box down during lunch break.

Daichi blinked across the bench. “Huh?”

“You’re miserable. [Y/N]’s miserable. Everyone within a 10-meter radius of you two is miserable. And I’m tired of being the only emotionally functioning person in this hellhole.”

“I- ” Daichi started.

“No. Shut up and listen to me.”

Sugawara leaned forward, voice dropping low, expression dead serious.

“I’ve known you my whole life. You’ve been my best friend since we were basically in diapers. And I knew. I knew you were in love with her before you did.”

Daichi stared, color draining from his face.

“You used to look at her like she was the whole damn world. Still do, honestly. But the second someone else looked at her that way? You freaked. You got scared. And instead of saying something, you broke her heart.”

Daichi swallowed hard. “I didn’t mean to- ”

“I know.” Sugawara said gently. “That’s the problem.”

A beat of silence.

Then Suga sighed, raking a hand through his hair before adding with brutal softness, “You’re my best friend, Daichi. I trust you. But if you make her cry again…” He leaned in, all warmth gone. “I’ll make sure you never have kids.”

Daichi choked. “Jesus- ”

“I mean it.”

“I know, that’s what makes it worse.”

“Now go fix it.” Suga said, softening again. “Before someone else does.”

——————————————————————————

Not him

Riku was kind. He held your hand when you let him. He smiled when he looked at you. He paid attention. He didn’t try to be anything other than himself. He was… safe

But he wasn’t Daichi. He didn’t notice the way you only ever half-laughed. He didn’t know that you hated sour candy but kept a pack in your bag because Daichi liked it.

He didn’t know that the piano pieces you played the most were the ones Daichi had once said made him feel like flying.

And it wasn’t fair to either of you.

So one quiet afternoon after class, you sat on the bleachers behind the school and looked at Riku’s warm, patient face and whispered. “I’m sorry.”

He smiled, sad but understanding. “I figured.”

“No hard feelings?”

He shook his head. “You don’t forget someone like him. I wouldn’t want to compete with that either.”

You laughed, choked and wet and when he hugged you goodbye, you didn’t cry. Because the only person who could make you cry like that… was the one who already had.

——————————————————————————

The doorstep

It was three days after you ended things with Riku when the knock came at your door. You opened it and froze.

Daichi stood there on your porch, rain misting through his hair, his hoodie clinging slightly to his shoulders like he’d run here even though the walk wasn’t far.

His eyes were wide. Nervous. He looked wrecked.

“Hey….” He said, breathless. “Can I… talk to you?”

You nodded, heart pounding. He stepped in, water dripping from his sleeves. He didn’t sit. Just stood there, shifting like he couldn’t figure out how to stand still.

“I heard you broke up with Riku.”

You blinked. “How- ?”

“Suga.” He admitted. Of course.

You wrapped your arms around yourself. “If you came to say I shouldn’t have- ”

“No.” He said immediately, almost desperately. “No. That’s not why I came.” He inhaled like it hurt. “I came because I should’ve said something. A long time ago. And I’m scared if I don’t say it now, I’ll never get another chance.”

You froze. He looked at you then, all soft vulnerability and breaking open.

“I’ve been in love with you since I was eight and you made me those stupid flower crowns at the park.” He said, voice cracking. “I didn’t even know what that meant back then, I just knew that when you smiled at me, I felt like the sun was coming up inside my chest.”

Your breath caught.

“You’ve always been more than just Suga’s little sister to me. You’ve been my best friend, my safe place, my home. And I was an idiot for thinking that staying quiet was somehow protecting you. I thought if I kept things the same, if I stayed in that ‘safe’ space, you’d never leave. But I hurt you instead.”

You didn’t move. Couldn’t even breathe.

He shifted, eyes wide and panicked. “I- I don’t know if you can forgive me. I get it if you’re done. I just- ” He ran a hand through his hair. “I just had to tell you. Because I meant it. Every time I looked at you I couldn’t pull my eyes away because you’re the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen. And I didn’t know how to say it then, but I do now, and- ”

“Daichi.” You whispered.

He froze mid-ramble. “What- ?”

“Just shut up.” You stepped forward and kissed him.

Soft. Slow. Certain. And he melted.

Your hands slid up to cup his jaw, his cheeks cold from the rain. His fingers trembled as they touched your waist, like he still couldn’t believe you were real.

When you finally pulled back, your forehead resting against his, you smiled.

“Welcome home.” You whispered.

He let out a breath that sounded like a laugh and a sob at once and held you like he’d never let go again.

Later that night, curled up beside him on the couch, the soft glow of the TV washing over your skin, Daichi whispered. “I was so scared you’d moved on.”

“I tried.” You murmured into his shoulder. “Didn’t work.”

He chuckled. “Good.”

You tilted your head to look at him. “What about Suga?”

“I already got the threat.” He said, deadpan. “Something about not having kids?”

You grinned. “Sounds like him.”

Daichi leaned down, pressing a kiss to your forehead. “Worth it.”

You sighed into his chest. It had taken you years but you were here now. No more almosts. No more silence. Just the two of you, finally.

—————————————————————————

When Suga finds out

The moment you told Koushi, you were terrified. Not because you thought he’d be mad. You knew your brother, he’d probably suspected it for years.

But because Daichi, the captain of Karasuno’s volleyball team, defender of justice and protector of your heart, had gone completely pale.

“Okay, okay.” You whispered, gripping his hand. “He’s not going to kill you.”

“I don’t know.” Daichi muttered. “He did threaten to neuter me.”

“Okay, valid.”

So naturally, when you finally told him one evening after dinner, it went exactly as expected and also, somehow, worse.

You sat him down in the living room. Daichi looked like he was preparing for a firing squad. You reached for his hand and took a deep breath.

“Koushi.” You said gently. “We have something to tell you.”

He blinked.

Daichi cleared his throat. “I… I’m dating your sister.”

A beat. Koushi saw the opportunity of his life and he was going to milk it. His eyes narrowed, slowly, like a cat sensing prey.

“My best friend.” He said. “My lifelong best friend.”

Daichi nodded, bracing. “Yes.”

“My sister.” Koushi added. “Who I have known since she was a literal embryo.”

“Correct.”

He gasped, clutching his chest dramatically. “Betrayal. My blood. My captain. You’ve conspired under my very nose!”

“Oh my god.” You groaned. “Koushi, please.”

“I leave you two alone for five seconds and suddenly there’s hand holding in my house? Kissing under my roof?”

Daichi was already hiding behind a throw pillow. But then Koushi dropped the act, grinning so wide it made your eyes sting.

“Took you long enough.” He said, eyes kind. “God. You’ve been making heart eyes at each other since grade school.”

You blinked. “You’re not… mad?”

“Please.” He scoffed. “You think I’d have let just anyone get close to you like that? I’ve been waiting for you idiots to figure it out.”

You exhaled, relief slumping your shoulders.

Then he added with a smirk, “But I swear, if I walk in on you making out, I will bleach my eyeballs.”

He did in in fact, end up walking in on you making out.

To be fair, you thought he was out with the team. And Daichi thought the coast was clear.

So when he kissed you against the kitchen counter, slow and thorough you tugged at the hem of his shirt, and he whispered something that made your knees weak-

“OH MY GOD- ”

You both leapt apart like guilty teenagers caught red-handed.

Koushi’s face was scarlet. “I eat there! The counter!”

Daichi was already halfway behind the fridge door.

You covered your face. “Koushi, we weren’t- ”

“You had your tongue in his soul, [Y/N]!”

“Koushi!”

Daichi wheezed. “I’m sorry-”

“You’re dead to me, Sawamura! Dead!”

——————————————————————————

Graduation day (ages 17 and 18)

Karasuno’s gym was buzzing with laughter and soft music, the crowd a sea of uniforms and proud parents. You were practically vibrating with excitement, your camera hanging from your neck, phone fully charged.

You spotted them immediately.

Daichi, sharp in his black gakuran, shoulders broad, smile wide and Koushi, looking radiant as ever, waving his arms dramatically from a distance.

You ran toward them and threw your arms around Daichi first, nearly knocking the wind out of him. “You did it!”

He laughed, wrapping you up tight. “We did it.”

You pulled back only to be immediately seized by your brother.

“Betrayed.” Koushi said, loud and overdramatic. “I’m also graduating, and yet you run to him first? My own kin? Have you no shame?”

You rolled your eyes, grinning. “You’ll live.”

“Will I?”

“You got three flower bouquets, and I saw someone slip you their number.”

“Okay, I’ll live.”

Daichi chuckled, eyes fond as he watched the two of you bicker. Then he slipped his hand into yours, just like he always had. Only now, it meant something.

You leaned your head on his shoulder. You didn’t say it, but he felt it anyway. I’m proud of you.

That night, you sat together on the roof of Daichi’s house, a blanket wrapped around your shoulders, the stars just starting to peek out. He was quiet beside you, his hand warm over yours.

“So….” You said softly. “What now?”

He smiled. “Police academy starts in a few weeks.”

You nodded. “You’re going to be amazing.”

“What about you?”

“I’ve got one more year.” You said. “And then… music school, maybe. I want to teach. Or compose. Maybe both.”

He looked at you like the stars were in your skin.

“I’ll be cheering for you.” He said.

You glanced sideways. “Long-distance okay with you?”

“Only if you promise to send me songs.” He said. “And let me visit you on weekends.”

“Deal.”

You were quiet for a while, the breeze soft around you.

Then Daichi added, voice barely above a whisper. “I want a future with you, you know.”

You looked at him, heart stuttering.

“Not just dating. I mean… life. You. Me. Someday.” He kissed your temple. “I already wasted years of our lives because I was too scared to say something, I plan on spending the rest with you.”

Your throat tightened.

“Good.” You whispered, squeezing his hand. “Because I do too.”

He leaned in, kissed you slow and sweet and everything, the years of near misses, quiet heartbreak, ache and waiting,clicked into place.

So here you were, curled up on his couch in his apartment on a rainy Saturday afternoon, half-watching some volleyball match he had recorded while scrolling through your phone.

Bokuto sat beside you, legs spread, one of your thighs slung over his lap as if he couldn’t stand not being touching you somehow. Every so often he’d glance down at you and grin, that big, sunbeam smile that made you feel like the luckiest girl alive and mutter something like, “God, you’re cute,” or “How’d I get so lucky, huh?” and your stomach would flutter, as always.

So when the next commercial break rolled around, he leaned back on the couch, stretched, and tugged your phone right out of your hands.

“Hey!” You protested, reaching for it, but he just laughed and tucked it in his hoodie pocket.

“You’re not even watching the game.” He pouted, nuzzling his face into your neck, his hair tickling your jaw. “You’d rather stare at your little screen than me?”

“You are insufferable.” You muttered, though you couldn’t help laughing as you ran your fingers through his hair and he let out a content sigh.

He pressed a loud, exaggerated kiss to your cheek. “But you love me anyway.”

And here was your chance.

You swallowed a smirk and looked back at the screen instead of him. “Hm.”

Bokuto froze against you.

It took a second, but you felt it: his head lifted slightly, his shoulders stiffened, his hands loosened around your waist as if unsure whether they were still welcome.

“Hm?”

You kept your face neutral and adverted your gaze towards the TV screen, pretending to look distracted. “Yeah.”

He blinked at you, brows furrowed. “You didn’t say it back.”

Your pulse quickened, this was already more effective than you thought it’d be. Still, you kept your tone even. “Didn’t say what back?”

“The thing.” He said, waving vaguely at you. “I said I love you. And you said… ‘hm.’”

You finally looked at him and nearly cracked. His golden eyes were wide, a little wounded, like you’d just kicked a puppy.

“Oh.” You said lightly, hiding a smile. “Right. Sorry. Hm.”

His mouth fell open. “Hm?!”

You bit the inside of your cheek and stood up under the pretense of grabbing water from the kitchen. Behind you, you could hear him scramble up from the couch.

“Wait! Hold on!”

You turned halfway, feigning confusion. “What?”

He stood there, arms out like he didn’t know what to do with them, his expression somewhere between panic and offense. “You- you always say it back. You- you say ‘I love you too,’ or ‘I love you more,’ or- or something! Not- ” He mimicked you poorly. “‘Hm!’”

You opened the fridge, ducking your head to hide your grin. “We’ve been together a long time, Koutarou. Do I really have to say it every single time?”

“Yes?!” He cried, voice cracking on the word.

Oh, God. You had to press your lips together to keep from laughing outright.

When you closed the fridge and turned back, he was still standing there looking completely flabbergasted.

“Wait…” He said slowly. His eyes narrowed. “You’re not mad at me, are you? Did I- did I do something? Are you mad?”

You sipped your water and gave a little shrug. “Don’t think so.”

He just… stared at you. You could practically see his brain short-circuiting. Then, with sudden determination, he marched up to you and put his hands on your shoulders, bending slightly to peer into your face.

“Okay.” He declared, “I don’t know what I did, but whatever it was, I’m sorry.”

You raised a brow. “For what?”

“For… whatever I did!” His hands dropped to his sides, helpless. “Was it last night? Did I steal all the blankets? Or, um, this morning. Oh! Was it because I finished the last of the cereal?! I’ll go buy more right now- ”

You shook your head, utterly deadpan. “Nope.”

He gasped quietly. “Oh my god. Is there someone else?”

That one made you actually snort. “Koutarou!”

“Well you didn’t say it back!” He defended, throwing his hands up. “That’s like- that’s like- rule number one of dating! Say it back!”

You bit your lip. “Maybe I just don’t feel like saying it right now?”

His jaw dropped, his eyes growing even wider. “Don’t… feel like saying it…?” He repeated, voice faint.

You set your water down and walked back to the couch, settling back down casually. “Mhm.”

For a long moment, he didn’t move. “Okay. Okay. No big deal. You’re just- you’re just messing with me. That’s it. You’re kidding. You’re- you’re pranking me. Ha. Ha-ha.”

You only hummed in reply.

He stared at you for a full ten seconds before dramatically flopping onto the couch, draping himself across your lap like a dying man.

“Baby.” He groaned, burying his face in your stomach. “Don’t do this to me. You can’t just- you can’t just not say it back. It’s cruel. It’s torture. You know I’ll die.”

You idly played with his hair, still keeping your face carefully blank.

“Baby.” He tried again, peeking up at you with big, pitiful eyes. “Please? Just say it? Once? And then you can go back to ignoring me or whatever.”

You gave him a tiny smile and said nothing.

He gasped again, clutching his chest like you’d stabbed him there. “Oh my god. I’m being punished. This is what hell feels like. You don’t love me anymore.”

At that, you finally let yourself laugh softly. But Bokuto didn’t even notice. He sat up suddenly, his hair sticking out in all directions, and pointed at you.

“Don’t laugh!” He accused. “This is serious! You can’t just- ” He broke off with another groan and flopped backward dramatically, throwing an arm over his face. “You don’t love me anymore and now I have to become a lonely hermit who lives in the mountains and befriends squirrels because no one else will ever love me again.”

You cracked, at that. You absolutely lost it, doubling over in laughter. Bokuto sat up again, eyes narrowing.

“Wait.”

You tried, and failed, to stop laughing as he stared at you.

“Wait a second….” He said slowly.

You ducked your head, still giggling.

“You little- !” He lunged at you, tackling you back into the couch cushions. You shrieked and laughed as he buried his face in your neck and started tickling your sides mercilessly.

“You’re pranking me?!” He demanded between tickles. “You think this is funny?!”

“Yes!” You gasped out through laughter, squirming under him. “Yes- okay! Stop, stop!”

He finally relented, pulling back just enough to scowl at you, though it was undermined by the faint grin tugging at his lips.

“You’re evil.” He informed you gravely.

Still breathless, you cupped his cheeks and smiled up at him. “But you love me anyway.”

He made a noise of indignation but then leaned down to kiss you hard. all messy affection and dramatic flair.

When he finally pulled back, he glared at you half-heartedly. “You’re lucky you’re cute.” He muttered, pressing another quick kiss to your nose.

You bit back a smile. “You were really about to move to the mountains and befriend squirrels?”

“Yes!” He said indignantly, sitting up and crossing his arms. “What was I supposed to think?! You always say it back! And then you just- didn’t! I thought my world was ending!”

You sat up as well and wrapped your arms around his middle, resting your head against his chest. His heartbeat was still fast and his arms instinctively came up to hold you tight.

“I’m sorry.” You murmured, looking up at him sweetly. “You forgive me?”

He looked down at you, still pouting slightly, but you could see the affection in his eyes.

“Say it.” He demanded.

You tilted your head. “Say what?”

“You know what!”

You smiled softly. “I love you, Koutarou.”

His whole face lit up like someone had flipped a switch and all the light came pouring back in.

“I love you too!!” He practically yelled, scooping you up and spinning you around before dropping back onto the couch with you in his lap.

You couldn’t stop laughing as he peppered your face with kisses, mumbling, “Don’t ever scare me like that again.” Between each one.

“Okay, okay.” You giggled, kissing his cheek. “I promise.”

But when he finally settled back, arms wrapped tight around you and chin on your shoulder, you could still hear him muttering under his breath.

“‘Hm,’ she says. Unbelievable. Gonna give me a heart attack before I’m thirty…”

You just buried your face in his hoodie and smiled.

Mission accomplished.

“It needs a moat.” She said seriously, tracing a circle around the edge with her finger.

Osamu nodded, equally focused. “I can make a tunnel for water.”

She grinned in response, bright and beaming. “Like a real castle! With a bridge, too?”

“Of course. A drawbridge.”

They giggled together, heads bent, both covered in specks of sand and pride.

Across the yard, Atsumu Miya stood with a red ball in his hands, kicking pebbles with his shoe and scowling. His twin brother was supposed to play dodgeball with him. Instead, Osamu was over there in the sandbox. With her.

Atsumu's gaze narrowed on the girl in the pink hair ribbons. She laughed at something Osamu said, and her smile went wide, soft and bright. Her voice, even from a distance, was gentle and light, like the breeze on a summer afternoon.

She looked like a ray of sunshine, Atsumu thought, warm and glowing, the kind of happy that made your chest feel funny and your ears go red.

He didn’t like her. Not like that. Ew. Gross. Of course he didn’t.

But for some reason he wanted her to look at him. Not at Osamu. Not like that.

So, in his brilliant six-year-old brain, he came up with the best idea he could think of.

Drop the ball. March over. Pull her hair.

And he did. He stomped right over to the sandbox, ignoring the way his sneakers filled with sand, and yanked one of her pigtails.

“Hey!” She squeaked, turning around so fast she almost toppled the castle wall. She blinked up at him, startled. “What was that for?!”

Atsumu puffed his chest, not really sure what to say now that he’d done it. “Your hair was in the way.” He said smugly, even though it definitely wasn’t.

Her jaw dropped. “You’re such a meanie!”

Atsumu grinned, triumphant. She was looking at him now. Her attention was on him and even though she wasn’t smiling like she did just moments ago with his brother, just the fact that she was looking at him made it feel as if he had gotten what he wanted.

Osamu groaned loudly behind them. “Can we build one castle without a disaster for once?”

“No.” They both said at the same time.

And that was the beginning.

From that day on, the pattern was set: [Y/N] with her soft voice and fiery glare, Atsumu with his smug teasing and constant interruptions, and Osamu, forever in the middle, sighing into his rice balls and wondering why he had to be born a twin.

——————————————————————————

Four years passed, and they were ten now.

Things had changed, sure. Osamu was a bit taller, Atsumu louder, and [Y/N] wore her hair in a braid now instead of pigtails. Especially after a certain boy pulled them one too many times.

But the essentials remained: she still brought her markers to school and drew at recess, Osamu still snacked all the time, and Atsumu still annoyed her every chance he got.

Today, the classroom buzzed with the end-of-day hum, papers shuffling, chairs scraping, kids packing up bags.

[Y/N] had drawn something that afternoon, something she was actually proud of. A little fox curled up under a tree, its fur shaded with orange and gold and bits of red leaf detailing. She had used every warm marker she had.

She kept it tucked carefully inside her notebook as she walked out into the hallway, clutching it tight.

Unfortunately, she wasn’t alone.

“Hey, what’s that?” One of the boys from class, Kenta, grabbed the edge of her notebook and yanked it open before she could stop him.

“Don’t!” She cried, reaching for it.

He held it out of reach. “Aw, what’s this? You still draw little animals like a baby?”

A couple of his friends gathered around. One of them snorted. “Is it sleeping under a tree? That’s so dumb and childish.”

“She probably talks to them too. Like, ‘Oh, Mr. Fox, would you like some tea?’” They mocked, laughing.

[Y/N] felt her cheeks burn. “Give it back!”

They didn’t. One of them mimicked her voice in a high-pitched squeak. “Do you wanna cuddle, Mr. Fox?”

“Stop it!” Her eyes stung before she could stop it. “Just stop!”

And of course, that made it worse.

“Aww, crybaby’s gonna cry?” Kenta grinned. “Maybe your fox will cheer you up!”

“Crybaby!” They all chanted, snickering, as they finally tossed the drawing to the ground and ran off.

[Y/N] stood frozen for a moment, fists clenched, blinking away the blur in her vision as she knelt down to pick up the crumpled drawing.

She didn’t know that someone else had heard everything.

——————————————————————————

Atsumu didn’t mean to hear it.

He was just turning the corner on his way to grab a juice box when he heard them shouting.

He stopped when he recognized her voice. Heard the word “crybaby.” Heard the laughter. By the time he peeked around the corner, it was already over. The boys were running off. She was kneeling on the floor, shoulders stiff.

Atsumu’s blood boiled. He clenched his fists, stared after the boys, and turned on his heel.

——————————————————————————

The fight happened at recess.

Kenta never saw it coming.

Atsumu charged him by the tree near the fence and socked him right in the mouth.

“OW! What the heck!?”

“You’re the crybaby!” Atsumu yelled, tackling him to the ground.

They rolled and punched and kicked, and it was two-on-one after that because Kenta’s friend jumped in, but Atsumu didn’t care. He was furious. He didn’t even know what he was yelling anymore.

Eventually, a teacher pulled them apart. Atsumu’s lip was busted, his eye was swelling, and his fists were scraped and dirty.

He got sent straight to the nurse’s office and scolded all the way there.

——————————————————————————

“Honestly, Atsumu. What is wrong with you?” The nurse muttered, dabbing at his lip with antiseptic.

He hissed. “Nothin’.”

“Do you want to explain why you were in a fight with two boys?”

“Nope.”

The nurse sighed. “You’re lucky your brother’s not in trouble too.”

“Osamu didn’t do nothin’. Leave ‘im out of it.”

She left to grab a bandage for his hand. A few minutes later, the door creaked open again, but it wasn’t the nurse. Atsumu turned his head and froze.

[Y/N] stood in the doorway, frowning, a folded handkerchief in one hand. Her braid was a little messy, and her cheeks were still pink from earlier. But her voice was calm.

“You’re so stupid.”

Atsumu blinked. “You’re welcome.”

“I didn’t ask you to fight them.”

“I didn’t ask ‘em to be jerks to you.”

“You’re mean to me all the time.” She huffed and crossed the room, hopping onto the stool beside the cot where he sat. “You’re also bleeding.”

“I know, thanks.”

She gave him a look. “Let me see.”

He started to protest, but she was already tilting his chin with two fingers and gently dabbing at his lip with her cloth.

He winced but not because of the sting from the cut.

“Oh, don’t be a baby.” She muttered, even though her touch was gentle.

“You’re the baby.” He grumbled. “Cryin’ over a dumb fox.”

“It wasn’t dumb.” She snapped, eyes flashing.

Atsumu looked at her and didn’t tease her again. They sat like that for a moment, quiet. She folded the cloth again and kept working.

“You didn’t have to do that.” She said eventually, softer.

“Yeah, I did.”

“Why?”

He shrugged. “’Cause it made me mad. That’s all. I never liked that idiot, this just happened to be a good excuse to beat him up.”

She frowned, like she didn’t believe him.

She stayed beside him until the nurse returned and said he was cleared to go home. When he slid off the cot, she handed him the cloth.

“Keep it.” She mumbled.

“I don’t want your crybaby handkerchief.”

She glared. “Then give it back.”

He shoved it in his pocket. “Too late.”

She rolled her eyes, he expected her to get up from the chair and leave him there after throwing one last passive-aggressive comment at him. She didn’t.

“I still think you’re an idiot.” She said as she folded her legs underneath her, no intention of leaving his side. “And just for the record I don’t want to be here.”

Atsumu grinned, lip still bleeding.

“Yeah? You’re still a pain in the butt.”

Osamu met them outside the nurse’s office, arms crossed.

“You’re both ridiculous.”

They looked at each other and, just for a second, smiled.

——————————————————————————

Middle school was... weird.

Everyone was growing too fast or not fast enough, the desks were too small, and people started caring about who liked who and who passed notes in class. It was the start of confusing feelings and bad haircuts and awkward silences in the hallway.

But some things hadn’t changed. Osamu and [Y/N] still got along like peanut butter and jelly. They were lab partners, shared snacks during lunch, and could communicate in shrugs and eyerolls with the kind of ease that only came from years of friendship.

Meanwhile, Atsumu was still a menace.

“You forgot your pen again, didn’t ya?” Osamu muttered one morning in science as they settled in for lab work.

“No.” [Y/N] said.

“Yes.” Atsumu called from the next table over, spinning around in his chair. “She always forgets. Princess over there’s helpless without Osamu savin’ her.”

[Y/N] narrowed her eyes. “Call me princess one more time and I swear I’ll dump hydrochloric acid in your shoes.”

“Ooh, scary.” Atsumu said, dramatically clutching his chest. “You gonna cry if I take your pen too?”

He reached out and snatched it from her desk.

“Give it back!”

“C’mon, share with your favorite twin.”

“I’m gonna strangle you with your own shoelaces!”

Osamu didn’t even look up. “Please don’t. I don’t wanna have to explain a murder in my lab report.”

It was always like that. Constant bickering. Paper balls tossed at her head during lectures. Sarcastic pet names. Sassy comebacks. Everyone around them thought they hated each other.

Even [Y/N] and Atsumu had half-convinced themselves that was true but then there were the in-between moments.

Like how he always sat behind her in class, even though there were open seats up front. Or how he’d pretend to steal her erasers just to give them back when she pouted. Or the way he’d go strangely quiet when she talked about someone else.

Especially when she started crushing on Daiki.

Daiki wasn’t in their class, but he played soccer and was tall and charming and always said hi when he passed her in the hallway.

Osamu rolled his eyes whenever she brought him up. Atsumu on the other hand? He made fun of her mercilessly.

“You’re doodlin’ his name in your notebook now?” Atsumu said one day, snatching the paper from under her elbow at lunch.

“It was one heart!” She snapped, trying to grab it back.

He held it high. “You want me to sign it as him? Dear [Y/N], I think you’re super cute and your eyes are like, what is this? Sunlit puddles?”

“That’s not what I wrote!” She shrieked, face flaming.

Osamu sighed. “Stop being an idiot, Atsumu.”

Atsumu ignored him. “[Y/N], if you like someone that cheesy, you’ve officially lost all taste.”

She finally got the paper back and shoved it in her bag.

“Jealous?” She said before she could stop herself.

Atsumu’s grin dropped for half a second. “Why would I be jealous of him?”

But he didn’t tease her about it again.

——————————————————————————

It all fell apart a week later.

It had taken her everything to finally gather the courage. [Y/N] wrote Daiki a short note and slipped it in his locker. She didn’t expect a yes really, but she didn’t expect him to laugh either.

He’d read it with two of his friends and started snickering immediately.

“She thinks you’d date her?” One of them said. “Isn’t she that weird girl with the markers?”

“She hangs out with those volleyball twins, right?” Daiki added, not even trying to lower his voice. “Kinda loud. She’s like a little sister or something.”

His friends laughed. “Ouch. You broke the poor girl’s heart.”

“I didn’t even answer her yet.”

“You don’t have to.” She said, geez fixed on the ground.

[Y/N] had been around the corner, just out of sight, close enough to hear everything. She ran. Behind the gym, where no one ever went during lunch.

She wiped her eyes roughly, furious that she even cared. Furious at herself. She wasn’t loud. She wasn’t clingy. She just... liked someone. But apparently, that was hilarious.

So she sat down behind the school building, pulled her knees to her chest, and tried to breathe.

——————————————————————————

Atsumu had been looking for her.

He’d noticed she wasn’t at her usual lunch spot with Osamu. He told himself it was just because she still owed him a pen but when he checked the classroom, the courtyard, and finally spotted the edge of her shoe behind the gym, he knew something was wrong.

She didn’t look up when he approached. He didn’t say anything either. He sat beside her slowly, folding his long legs under him, and dug into his pocket. A slightly smushed, but still warm, milk bread roll appeared in his hand. He held it out silently. She stared at it.

“I didn’t ask you to sit here.” She mumbled.

“Good.” He said, tearing the plastic open with his teeth. “’Cause I didn’t ask ya if I could.”

She didn’t move. He placed the roll gently beside her on the pavement and leaned back on his elbows, eyes closed like he wasn’t paying attention to her at all.

The silence stretched between them.

“I hate middle school.” She whispered.

“I hate Daiki.”

She startled a little, turning toward him.

He peeked one eye open. “He’s a prick.”

“You don’t even know what happened.”

“Don’t need to.”

[Y/N] looked down at the milk bread. It was a little flat from being in his pocket, but it smelled sweet and soft. She picked it up.

“Thanks.” She said quietly.

“Don’t get used to it.” Atsumu said. “I just did it because my brother would be upset if he saw you like this so get over it quickly.”

She almost smiled.

He didn’t ask what Daiki said. He didn’t need the details. All he knew was that her eyes were red, her voice was tight, and her sleeves were damp from wiping her cheeks.

So he stayed there until the bell rang, kicking pebbles and making dumb comments about ants. When she finally stood up, she glanced back at him.

“You’re still a jerk.”

He smirked. “You’re still a princess.”

And for the first time, she didn’t throw something at him for saying it.

——————————————————————————

Inarizaki High School had no shortage of noise. But few things were louder than the crowd that followed Atsumu Miya wherever he went.

Star setter. Flirt. Loudmouth. Ego the size of the gym. Girls slipped him notes between classes. Fans squealed at tournaments. Even teachers groaned when he walked into class with that lazy swagger and messy hair, five minutes late and grinning like the world owed him something.

[Y/N] was not impressed.

“You’re like a walking ego.” She told him one afternoon, arms crossed, as she watched yet another girl press a folded letter into his hand. “You’ve got a fan club, Atsumu. An actual fan club.”

He grinned, cocky and unbothered. “What can I say? I’m lovable.”

She rolled her eyes so hard it hurt. “You’re impossible.”

“And yet,” He said, leaning against her locker, “you still talk to me every day. What’s that say about you, princess?”

“That I have no self-preservation instincts.”

Osamu walked by and deadpanned. “None. Zero.”

——————————————————————————

When the team’s first big tournament of the season rolled around, Inarizaki’s volleyball team packed up early for the bus. Their school was hosting, which meant they had to arrive first and, since [Y/N] had somehow ended up on event staff through sheer bad luck and one “volunteer” sheet signed without reading, she was stuck riding with the team.

As the last few seats filled, she looked up from her clipboard only to freeze in horror.

“Wait. No. Anyone but him.”

Atsumu was already grinning, tossing his bag into the seat beside hers. “Looks like we’re seat buddies, princess.”

“There are ten other seats.”

“All full” Osamu said from behind her. “Sorry. I already called dibs on the aisle with Aran.”

[Y/N] groaned. “Why do bad things happen to good people?”

“I’m sittin’ right here.” Atsumu said, dropping into the seat. “Guess that answers that question.”

She shoved her bag down beside her legs with a sigh and crossed her arms. “Don’t talk to me.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it.”

He didn’t, surprisingly. For the first thirty minutes of the ride, he just leaned against the window, one earbud in, nodding along to something on his phone.

[Y/N] leaned away from him at first, but the bus was stuffy and warm, and her clipboard was heavy in her lap, and the sun through the window was just right...

By the time they hit the highway, she was fast asleep, cheek pressed to Atsumu’s shoulder.

He looked down the moment he felt the weight. She didn’t snore. Her lips were parted slightly, hair falling across her forehead, and her brow furrowed just a little like she was having a dream she couldn’t catch.

Atsumu didn’t move.

Carefully he shifted his arm to make her more comfortable, adjusting so her head rested in the crook of his shoulder. He reached up without thinking and gently brushed a strand of hair away from her face.

Then he just sat there. Still. Quiet. Watching her like she was the only thing in the world that wasn’t moving too fast.

——————————————————————————

At the tournament, everything was chaos.

The gym was packed with teams, staff, fans, and noise. [Y/N] had a clipboard in hand and her event badge hanging around her neck. She flitted between tables, updated match scores, and passed out water bottles like her life depended on it.

Somehow, even in the mess, she ended up in a conversation with Kita Shinsuke, Inarizaki’s composed, respected, mildly terrifying captain and somehow... they hit it off.

He was kind. Blunt, but thoughtful. Quiet, but funny when he wanted to be.

They chatted between matches. About the game, about her ridiculous volunteer hours, about how she managed to keep Atsumu from getting himself banned from school. Shinsuke even smiled at one of her jokes.

Atsumu noticed. He noticed everything. From the way Kita leaned in to hear her better to the way [Y/N] laughed, softer than usual, almost shy.

By the third time Atsumu found them talking, he stomped over, holding out an empty water bottle like it was urgent.

“Oi, princess. Water me.”

She stared. “Are you... serious?”

“I’m dyin’.”

“You’re fine.”

“I’ve got heatstroke.”

“We’re inside.”

Kita raised a brow. “You’re interrupting.”

“I noticed.” Atsumu said flatly.

[Y/N] rolled her eyes and turned back to Kita. “Sorry, he does this.”

“It’s fine.” Kita said calmly. “He’s just jealous.” There was no I’ll tone behind his words, he just said it like it was a fact that everyone but the two people before him knew.

Atsumu choked on air. “Wha- jealous!? Of what?!”

——————————————————————————

Later that night, after a long loss and a close score that came down to a missed serve and a broken rhythm, Atsumu didn’t speak to anyone.

The team went back to the school to change and clean up before dinner.

[Y/N] knew where he’d be before anyone else even realized he was gone.

The outdoor stairwell behind the gym, right where the vending machines buzzed and the shadows crept long in the afternoon light.

He sat on the lowest step, arms draped over his knees, head tilted back.

“You didn’t go to dinner.” She said, walking over.

“Wasn’t hungry.”

“You always say that when you’re mad.”

“I’m not mad.” He muttered.

“You are.”

He didn’t look at her. So she sat beside him. Silence stretched for a few seconds.

“I missed that serve.” He said eventually. “It was my fault.”

“It was one point.”

“One point matters.”

She glanced at him. “You’ve won games with worse odds.”

“Not the point.”

“No,” She said gently, “but it’s still true.”

He finally turned to her. “Do you ever get tired of knowin’ exactly what to say?”

She smiled, a little smug. “Only when you’re too stubborn to hear it.”

He huffed a laugh, eyes falling to the space between them. “They expect me to be perfect, you know? I mess up once and it’s like... like I broke somethin’ important.”

“You didn’t.”

“It feels like I did.”

She was quiet for a moment. Then, spoke softer. “You’re allowed to mess up.”

He didn’t respond.

She bumped his shoulder with hers. “Even if you are an insufferable, arrogant pain in my ass.”

He finally smiled.

“Thanks, princess.”

“Anytime, drama queen.”

——————————————————————————

By the last day of the tournament, Atsumu had started to feel like something was shifting. Like maybe the way her voice softened around him meant something. Like maybe her bumping his shoulder and staying behind with him meant more than just old habits.

He hadn’t even teased her when she fell asleep on him again during the bus ride back to the venue. Maybe she’d finally see he wasn’t just a walking ego.

So when he came looking for her before the final exhibition match, planning to tell her something real for once, he didn’t expect to see what he did.

Behind the gym, again. Her and Kita. Close. Talking. Laughing. Kita handed her something. Her fingers brushed his. She smiled, soft and unguarded.

Atsumu stopped in his tracks. His stomach twisted. He felt something sharp and ugly bloom in his chest. He wasn’t thinking when he walked over.

He wasn’t thinking at all.

“Hope I’m not interruptin’ your date.” He said, voice louder than it needed to be.

[Y/N] jumped, startled. “What? It’s not- ”

“Oh, please.” Atsumu snapped. “You’ve been followin’ him around like a lost puppy all weekend.”

Kita stood slowly, eyes narrowing. “Watch it, Miya.”

“Why? You two already makin’ plans for next weekend? Gonna braid each other’s hair too?”

“Atsumu!” [Y/N] hissed.

He turned to her fully now, anger blooming too fast for him to stop. “You know what? Go ahead. Flirt with him. At least he won’t be stupid enough to think you’re special when you’re not.”

The words hung in the air like a slap. Her face fell. Everything stilled.

He saw it immediately, the change in her eyes, the way her mouth parted slightly, stunned. Like he’d actually hurt her. For real. Not just irritated. Not just teased.

He had hurt her.

She stepped back. Once. Twice.

“Right.” She said softly. “Thanks for clearing that up.”

And then she turned and walked away. He wanted to run after her, tell her that he didn’t mean it but his muscles refused to move so he stood there frozen in place like a statue as he watched her slipping through his fingers.

——————————————————————————

It had been four days since the tournament. Four days since the words flew out of Atsumu’s mouth like knives. Four days since he saw the way [Y/N] flinched like she didn’t even recognize him anymore.

And now… she didn’t look at him. Not once.

She came into class, greeted Osamu, smiled at her friends, laughed at something Kita said when he passed by, but when Atsumu threw a comment in her direction?

Silence.

“Oi, princess.” He said that morning, leaning back in his seat, tone casual. “Got a new hair routine or somethin’? Looks shinier than usual.”

No answer. Not even a roll of her eyes. Not even a groan. Just silence as she scribbled something in her notebook, ignoring him completely.

Atsumu felt something cold bloom behind his ribs.

This was worse than yelling. Worse than insults. Worse than all their back-and-forth.

This… nothing was unbearable so he tried again at lunch.

“Ya know, I heard people who spend too much time with Kita start developin’ a stick up their ass.”

Osamu gave him a flat look. “[Y/N], you gonna let him get away with that one?”

She glanced at them, expression unreadable. Then went right back to her food and said nothing.

——————————————————————————

By the end of the week, Atsumu was unraveling. Truly losing his mind.

Every room felt louder without her voice snapping back at him. Every moment felt slower. Every hallway he passed her in felt like a missed chance he was too scared to grab.

He hated himself for what he said. He hadn’t even meant it, not the way it came out. “You’re not special.” He could still hear the echo of it.

She was special. She always had been and now she wouldn’t even look at him.

——————————————————————————

Osamu noticed the change almost immediately.

He wasn’t blind. He saw the way [Y/N] stiffened anytime Atsumu walked into a room. Saw the forced, polite smile she gave him when she couldn’t avoid him. Saw the way Atsumu’s teasing got quieter, sloppier, more desperate each time.

Until one day, in the locker room after practice, Osamu dropped his bag hard on the bench and said:

“What the hell did you do to her?”

Atsumu didn’t look up from tying his shoes. “What are you talkin’ about?”

“You know what I’m talkin’ about.” His voice was cold now. “She’s not lookin’ at you. She’s not talkin’ to you. I’ve never seen her act like this, not even when you pulled that stunt with the glitter glue in eighth grade.”

Atsumu winced. “I just…” He muttered. “I said something I didn’t mean. I messed it up.”

Osamu crossed his arms. “What’d you say?”

Silence. Then, quietly spoke. “That she wasn’t special.”

Osamu’s jaw clenched. “You what?”

“I didn’t mean it. I was mad. I saw her with Kita, and- ” He stopped himself.

Osamu stared at him, exasperated. “You’ve been in love with her since we were six, dumbass.”

Atsumu’s head snapped up.

“I’m not stupid, Atsumu. I saw the way you looked at her when she was buildin’ that sandcastle with me. The way you’d steal her markers just so she’d yell at you. The way you shut up when she cried behind the school. This has always been about her. And you’ve always been too much of a coward to admit it.”

Atsumu ran a hand through his hair, voice low and rough. “I don’t know if I can fix it this time.”

“Then don’t.” Osamu snapped. “Let her go. Let her move on. Let her be with someone who doesn’t hurt her just because he’s scared.”

Atsumu froze. Osamu took a breath, a little softer now.

“But if you’re not gonna let her go? If you’re not gonna spend the rest of your life kickin’ yourself for blowin’ this? Then grow a damn pair and tell her how you feel.”

Silence. “I don’t know if she’ll forgive me.” He said quietly.

“Then you apologize anyway.” Osamu said. “And maybe, for once, stop hidin’ behind sarcasm and say what you actually mean.”

——————————————————————————

The next few days crawled. Atsumu hovered on the edge of every room she was in. He watched her laugh with Osamu, passing notes during class. Watched her hand Kita a sports drink after practice, smile small but real. Watched the way her eyes slid right past him like he wasn’t even there.

It was a new kind of punishment. Not yelling. Not anger. Just being invisible to the one person he’d been trying to get to look at him his whole life.

He caught himself remembering things in flashes. Her sleeping on his shoulder, her smile behind the gym lights, the way she had gently cleaned his lip with her handkerchief years ago, pretending she didn’t care while her fingers trembled.

Now he felt as if he’dbroken it. He’d broken her and he wasn’t sure if he deserved to fix it.

——————————————————————————

The gym was mostly dark by the time [Y/N] stepped outside, her duffel slung over one shoulder, hair still damp from a quick shower. She sighed, rubbing at her neck, exhaustion creeping into her bones after a long afternoon of cleaning up after practice and managing the volleyball team’s logistics.

The last thing she expected was to find Atsumu Miya leaning against the wall just outside the main doors.

She stopped in her tracks.

“What do you want?” She asked, deliberately trying to keep her tone flat.

Atsumu straightened immediately, hands shoved into his pockets like he didn’t know what to do with them.

“I… just wanted to talk.”

She rolled her eyes and walked past him. “Not in the mood.”

He followed. “Just for a second.”

“Miya- ”

“Please.” He said, and it came out quieter than she expected. “I... I need to say somethin’. Just once. You don’t even have to say anythin’ back. I just- let me talk.”

Something in his voice made her stop. Not the usual sarcasm. Not teasing. No smugness, no stupid grin. Just... him. Real and raw.

She turned to face him, arms crossed. “You have exactly two minutes.”

He looked like he was trying to wrestle the words into shape. Like he hadn’t practiced this half as much as he’d claimed he would.

“I was lookin’ for you that day.” He said. “The last day of the tournament.”

She blinked. “What?”

“That morning. Before I saw you with Kita. I wasn’t plannin’ to fight. Wasn’t plannin’ to ruin everythin’. I was... gonna tell you. How I felt.”

Silence. He kept going, voice low and thick with everything he’d kept buried for years.

“It started when we were six, okay? You were sittin’ in the sandbox with Osamu and you were smilin’ and buildin’ that stupid castle like it was the most important thing in the world. And you looked so happy. So... bright. Like a sunbeam or somethin’. And all I could think was- I wanted that smile pointed at me. Not Osamu. Me.”

He took a breath. She stood there with an unreadable expression on her face but he kept going.

“So I did the dumbest thing I could think of. Pulled your pigtails. Got yelled at. Called a meanie. And it still felt better than bein’ ignored.”

She stayed silent, her eyes on his, unmoving.

“And it never stopped.” He said. “Every time I teased you, every time I said somethin’ stupid, it was just ‘cause I didn’t know how else to make you look at me. I was scared if I didn’t get under your skin, I’d disappear.”

His voice cracked a little.

“You looked at Osamu like he was the only person who understood you. Then you got older, and you started lookin’ at other people like that. And every single time I saw it, I wanted to tear my own goddamn hair out because I wanted it to be me.”

Atsumu swallowed.

“That day behind the gym. I saw you with Kita and... I don’t know. I lost it. I thought I missed my shot. I thought I was too late. So I said the one thing that would push you away for good. And I regretted it the second it left my mouth.”

He looked at her now, no longer hiding behind anything.

“I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. You are special, [Y/N]. You always were and I’ve been in love with you for as long as I can remember. Even when I didn’t know what that meant.”

A beat of silence. And another. And another. [Y/N] didn’t move. Didn’t blink. Didn’t say a word. Atsumu’s chest tightened. The silence clawed at his throat.

“I- I get it if you don’t wanna talk to me ever again,” he rushed out. “I mean, after everything, I’d hate me too. I’m a loudmouth. I don’t think before I speak. I ruin everythin’. And I get it if you’re into someone like Kita ‘cause he’s mature and quiet and- God, I’m makin’ this worse, aren’t I- ”

“Shut up.”

He blinked. She was suddenly in front of him, close. Too close and, before he could process the way her eyes were shining or how her lips parted or how her hands grabbed the front of his jacket. She kissed him.

Hard. Like she’d been waiting years. Like all that time she’d been biting her tongue and pushing him away had been holding back this single, explosive moment.

He froze for a second. Then kissed her back like he might never get the chance again.

Her hands curled into his collar. His found her waist. She was warm and real and right there in his arms and he couldn’t stop tasting the apology between their mouths.

When they pulled apart, barely an inch between them, her breath hitched.

“I really hate you.” She whispered.

His lips quirked up. “You kiss all the people you hate like that?”

“Only the ones who pull my pigtails and get into fights over me.”

He laughed, the sound soft and disbelieving. “Does that mean you’re not gonna pretend I don’t exist anymore?”

“No promises.”

He grinned wider. “Still a princess, huh?”

She raised an eyebrow. “Still a meanie?”

They stood like that, foreheads almost touching, breath mingling in the cool air outside the gym.

Then, like it had always been this simple, like the whole world had just clicked back into place, she leaned into him again.

And this time, he didn’t have to pull her pigtails to make her look at him.

Tags: @stanwallpapers

——————————————————————————

The prognosis came in harsh and sterile, in a room that smelled like antiseptic and dread.

"A full tear of the Achilles tendon."

Surgery. Recovery. Three to six months minimum before rehab. Closer to a year before he could even think of spiking a ball again.

The doctors gave him comforting smiles. The team’s manager offered words of reassurance. Fans flooded social media with hashtags, edits, tributes, well-wishes.

None of it touched him.

Wakatoshi found himself sitting alone in his apartment in Sendai, his leg immobilized in a boot, staring at the wall as if willing it to become something else, something useful. Something moving and not broken.

He hated stillness.

——————————————————————————

Two weeks passed in the haze of forced rest and ice packs. Then four. The more his body stagnated, the more his thoughts grew wild, unrecognizable. He had built his world around control, around the sharp edge of purpose that volleyball gave him. Now, everything felt dulled.

That’s when he made the decision. One morning, with no plan except the aching emptiness he couldn't shake, he packed a bag, informed his manager he needed some time away, and booked a train to Yamagata.

——————————————————————————

The old roads were unchanged. The farmland rolled out under a soft spring sky, gentle and wide. Wakatoshi hadn’t visited in years, not since his parents sold the family home and moved closer to the coast. But the town hadn’t forgotten him.

Even walking down the main street with a hoodie pulled low, heads turned. People still recognized him, somehow. Tall as ever. Stoic. Broken now, though they couldn’t see it.

He stayed in a quiet inn on the outskirts, a simple place with tatami mats and a view of the rice fields. He didn’t do much. Didn’t want to be recognized, didn’t want to talk. Mostly he limped through memories, haunted by the sound of his own breath.

Until he ran into you.

——————————————————————————

You were standing outside the local café, arguing with the barista about the new seasonal drink. Something about how coffee shouldn't taste like strawberry.

“Just because you can make it doesn’t mean you should.” You huffed, spinning on your heel and nearly walked straight into a wall of muscle and fleece.

You stepped back instinctively. Then your eyes narrowed.

“Wakatoshi?”

His shoulders went stiff. He turned.

Your face lit up like summer. “Oh my god. It is you!”

He opened his mouth. Nothing came out.

You filled the silence. “You probably don’t remember me [Y/N], from Shiratorizawa? I was in Class 3, used to talk your ear off during lunch. You always stared like I was speaking a different language.”

His brow creased a little, like he was digging through dusty memory files. And then, you saw it the flicker of recognition.

“You liked strawberry milk.” He said.

You blinked.

“I… did, yeah.” A laugh escaped you. “That’s what you remember?”

He nodded slowly. “You said it was the superior drink. I disagreed.”

You looked up at him. The Ushijima Wakatosh you knew, now a famous, national-level athlete but he still stood like a fortress. Still had that calm, unreadable expression. But now there was something else underneath it. Something frayed.

“I’m glad you remember.” You said softly. “Hey… are you okay?”

——————————————————————————

You didn’t ask him to join you for coffee.

You just started talking again, like years hadn’t passed. Like he hadn’t disappeared into the world of professional sports, and you hadn’t grown into your own life, working remotely now from your childhood home, helping your aging aunt run her flower shop.

Somehow, you both ended up walking down the street together. You talked about the town, how things had changed, who had moved, who hadn’t. You told him about the café’s new obsession with flavored drinks. About your dog. About how the sakura festival was coming soon.

He barely said a word. But he didn’t leave either.

——————————————————————————

The next day, you saw him again. This time sitting alone on a park bench, leg propped up, staring into the lake like it might give him answers. You sat beside him with a box of taiyaki.

“You look hungry.” You said simply offering the box to him.

He took it. Ate in silence. You swung your legs off the edge of the bench and let the sun warm your skin.

“Still hate strawberry?”

He chewed slowly, nodded.

You grinned. “Some things never change.”

The words didn’t really mean anything but for some reason they sounded almost like comfort to him.

——————————————————————————

The days after followed a rhythm.

You bumped into each other “by accident” again. Then not by accident.

You invited him to your aunt’s shop to see the garden you’d been working on. He stood among the lilies and said nothing, but his eyes didn’t wander. He watched you kneel in the dirt, brush pollen off your fingers, talk about soil PH like it was sacred.

You brought him books you thought he might like. He read them. You could tell by the way he handed them back without creases but with little post it annotations places on the margins with calculated care.

When you were with him, you didn’t expect words. You filled the quiet with stories, with small kindnesses. And slowly, he started to talk, not much, just enough. But when he did, it always mattered.

——————————————————————————

One evening, as the sky turned lavender, he admitted:

“I can’t play.”

You looked up from where you were adjusting the garden’s irrigation pipe. “Right now?”

He hesitated. “Maybe not again. Not at the same level.”

You stood, wiped your hands on your pants, and looked at him. Really looked.

“Does that scare you?”

He didn’t answer for a long time. Then, “Yes.” Another pause filled with a deep breath. “I don’t know who I am without it.”

Your voice was soft. “I do.”

His eyes flickered to you.

“You’re still Wakatoshi.” You said. “You’re still kind of intimidating, loyal and a little weird about vegetables.”

A beat passed.

“I’m not weird about vegetables, broccoli just tastes like grass objectively.”

You laughed.

And for the first time in weeks, he smiled.

——————————————————————————

You weren’t supposed to become his routine. Or at least that’s what he told himself at first.

But one day turned into two. Then into a week. Then more.

You started seeing Wakatoshi every day without even planning it. At the park, the shop, the café. Sometimes he limped along beside you while you rambled about your latest dream something along the lines of “There were three ferrets in a trench coat pretending to be my landlord. Don’t ask”, or told him the entire plot of a romance drama in excruciating detail while he nodded once, maybe twice, with solemn confusion.

And he… didn’t mind. In fact, he started waiting for you.

Not obviously. No, never that. But he’d be in the places you might show up, sitting on the same bench, outside the same shop, buying the exact coffee you liked so you wouldn’t have to wait in line. It wasn’t that he needed you there.

But when you were, the silence in his chest didn’t ache as badly.

——————————————————————————

You were light. Loud and quick and always moving. You talked with your hands, with your whole face. You had this thing where you’d lean in close when you were excited, as if your joy couldn’t be contained in just your voice.

Wakatoshi had never met anyone like you. Not really.

On the court, everything was angles. Force. Timing. Discipline. He was good at that. Better than anyone. But off the court?

He didn’t know what to do with the messiness of people.

Yet somehow, your messiness didn’t feel like chaos. It felt like sun through the leaves.

——————————————————————————

One afternoon, it rained.

You showed up at the inn he was staying at, dripping and barefoot, holding two bags of convenience store snacks and a half-wilted daisy you’d stuffed behind your ear.

“Surprise!” You beamed. “Rain check on the flower beds, literally. Thought we could hang out here. Unless you don’t want company, in which case I will melt dramatically into the road.”

He stared at you for a long moment, almost as if he was trying to convince himself of the sight before him. Then stepped aside.

You took that as a yes.

——————————————————————————

That night, you both sat cross-legged on the floor of his room, watching a movie on your tablet. You kept shoving snacks into his hand without asking. He never refused. You talked through most of the film.

“Okay, but if the ghost is her dead twin, how did she not know the entire time?!”

“I’m just saying, if I die tragically, you *better* make it a dramatic haunt.”

“Do you think ghosts get bored?”

“Do you believe in ghosts?”

Wakatoshi didn’t speak much. But he watched you like you were more compelling than the screen.

After the credits rolled, the thunder outside softened to a distant rumble. You glanced at him.

“Hey” You said, quieter now. “How are you holding up?”

He didn’t answer right away. “I really don’t know. Badly I think.”

The word fell heavy between you. Honest. Plain. But weighted. You nodded gently, inching closer so your knees brushed.

“I figured.”

He looked down at his hands. “Everything I’ve worked for… all the time, the years. I don’t know if I’ll get it back. I don’t know who I’m supposed to be now.”

You reached over and touched his wrist, light as rain.

“You don’t have to know yet.” You whispered. “It’s okay to not be okay, Toshi.”

He didn’t move. But he didn’t pull away either. The nickname falling from your lips made a weird feeling spread through his chest and he found himself wanting to believe you.

——————————————————————————

The next day, you made him a makeshift rehabilitation chart. It was full of sparkles, doodles, and completely inaccurate medical advice.

“Goal: stop walking like Frankenstein.” You grinned, pointing to the top.

Wakatoshi blinked. “This isn’t a real program.”

“Correct.” You said proudly. “But it made you stop brooding for five seconds, didn’t it?”

He exhaled through his nose. Not quite a laugh. But close enough. A smile tugging at his lips.

You considered it a win.

——————————————————————————

The more time you spent together, the more you learned his rhythms.

He was blunt but not unkind. He hated loud music. He preferred savory to sweet. He didn’t like when people asked him how he was unless they actually wanted to know.

He also had a strange fondness for animals. You caught him once, crouching awkwardly to pet a neighborhood cat that had hissed at you five minutes earlier.

“You’re a traitor.” Uou accused playfully.

He blinked. “I didn’t say I disliked cats.”

“She tried to bite me!”

“She likes me.” He said simply.

You gawked as the cat curled into his palm.

“Okay, Snow White.”

——————————————————————————

Sometimes, though, he shut down.

There were days he didn’t come out of the inn. Didn’t answer your texts. Days when you knew he wasn’t hurt, just hollow. You didn’t push him on those days.

You dropped off fresh onigiri with a note taped to the lid:

It’s okay. I’m here when you’re ready.

He never replied. But the containers were always returned, empty. The notes were kept on his nightstand, to reread when he felt like loneliness was about to swallow him.

——————————————————————————

One evening, he joined you on the roof of your house.

You’d invited him there once before, told him the view was better than therapy.

Now you both sat with your feet hanging off the edge, the stars bright above, the air filled with the chirp of summer bugs. You handed him a cold beer and didn’t say anything for a while.

Then, quietly. “I used to think you were scary, you know.”

His brow twitched. “Why?”

“You never smiled. You had that whole murdery volleyball thing going on.”

He stared straight ahead. “I wasn’t trying to be scary.”

“I know that now. You’re just… intense.” A pause. Then you spoke again. “You’re still kind of intense but you’re kind, too. And steady. I like that about you.”

He didn’t speak. But you saw his knuckles tighten around the bottle.

Your voice softened. “You know, you don’t have to go back to who you were before. You’re allowed to change. To figure out what you want.”

He turned to you then. There was something raw in his expression, something that cracked just enough to show what was underneath.

“I don’t know what I want.” He said.

You smiled at him, tired but warm.

“Well… until you do, you’ve got me.” You said as you nudged your shoulder against his softly. Bright eyes shining as you looked at him.

For the first time he found himself that maybe tomorrow didn’t sound so terrifying anymore.

——————————————————————————

You didn’t realize it yet, but something was shifting inside him. Slowly. Like spring thawing frozen ground. Every time you said his name, it softened him. Every time you smiled at him like he wasn’t broken, it pieced him back together.

But cracks let the light in.

And the light hurt.

——————————————————————————

One night, he snapped.

It was the first time he raised his voice at you.

You’d brought him a flyer for a local festival. They were holding a charity volleyball event. You thought it might cheer him up.

“It’s just a small thing.” You said. “You wouldn’t have to play. Just be around people. Might feel good.”

He stared at the paper. Then his jaw clenched.

“I said I can’t play.” He barked harshly.

You blinked. “I didn’t mean- ”

“I’m not a mascot.” He cut in, voice low but sharp. “I’m not interested in pretending I still belong there.”

You stood, holding the flyer like it had burned you.

“I wasn’t pitying you, Wakatoshi. I thought maybe it’d help to be near the thing you love.”

“I don’t need help.”

Your chest tightened.

“Yeah, well…” You said, voice cracking. “You’re doing a hell of a job proving it.”

You turned and walked away.

He didn’t stop you.

——————————————————————————

He didn’t sleep that night.

The room felt like it was closing in. The air too heavy. The silence too loud.

He hadn’t meant to yell. He hadn’t even known the anger was there until it boiled over. But it wasn’t you he was mad at.

It was himself.

His body. His failure. His fear.

He didn’t know how to say any of that. So instead, he said nothing.

Which meant he had to live with the echo of your hurt expression. The way you walked away like you couldn’t fix him anymore.

And maybe that’s what scared him most.

That he was pushing away the only person who saw him as more than an athlete. The only one who didn’t flinch when he broke down.

——————————————————————————

Two days passed.

You didn’t show up at the café. Or the park. Or the bench.

He stared at your last text:

Take care of yourself Wakatoshi.

Neutral. Kind. But distant. Full last name instead of the nickname he had quietly grown fond of.

He hated it. God, how he hated it.

——————————————————————————

The morning of the festival came.

He didn’t plan on going. Of course not. But his feet took him there anyway.

You were working a booth when you saw him.

The crowd parted like it knew. Like the story was unfolding just for you.

Ushijima Wakatoshi. Standing still in the middle of the street, in a sea of movement. No crutches. Just a limp. In a plain black shirt that clung to the curve of his shoulders, eyes scanning every stall until they landed on you.

You froze.

He walked toward you, slow, deliberate.

“I was wrong.” He said, stopping in front of your table. “The other day.”

You raised an eyebrow. He looked down. Swallowed hard.

“I was scared.” He said. “I still am. Everything I am. Everything I’ve worked for was built around being the best. And now I don’t know if I’ll ever get that back.”

Your expression softened. “I wasn’t trying to take that from you.” You whispered.

“I know.” He said. “But I didn’t want you to see me like this.”

You stepped around the booth, closer now. Close enough to feel the heat of his skin.

“Toshi” You said quietly, “I’ve only ever seen you like this. And I’ve never once thought less of you.”

He looked at you like you’d just said something in a language he couldn’t translate. Like the words didn’t make sense, because no one had ever spoken them before.

You lifted your hand slowly, touched his chest just over his heart.

“You don’t have to be strong with me.”

His breath hitched and in that moment, he leaned his forehead against yours.

Not a kiss but something closer. Something deeper.

——————————————————————————

After the festival, he stayed by your side the entire day.

You didn’t ask for it but he handed you water when your voice got hoarse. Kept kids from knocking over the display. Sat on a crate in the back of your booth like a silent bodyguard, expression unreadable but his eyes never strayed from you.

When the crowd thinned and your feet ached, he offered his arm. You took it without question. He felt… steady again. Not because he was healed. But because you were there.

Later that night, you brought him to the lake.

Same bench. Same spot. This time, you leaned into his side. He didn’t move away.

“I’m sorry for being a brat.” You said quietly.

“You weren’t.”

You turned your head against his shoulder.

“You sure?”

He glanced down at you. “You were right to be upset.”

You smiled. “Wow. Did Ushijima Wakatoshi just admit I was right?”

A long pause.

“Yes.” A reluctant smile on his lips

You grinned, poking his ribs gently. “Growth.”

It was silent for a while. But it wasn’t empty.

Then you said, “Do you ever think about what you’d do if you didn’t play?”

His hand twitched beside yours.

“I don’t know.” He said finally. “I’ve never let myself think about it.”

You looked up at him. “Well. Maybe you don’t have to figure it out alone.”

He met your gaze. And something softened. “Okay.”

Just one word. But when he took your hand in his it it felt like a beginning.

——————————————————————————

The lake was quiet when you brought him there again.

A week had passed since the festival. Since he let his forehead touch yours like it meant something. Since he started showing up without needing a reason.

Now, he came because he wanted to.

He still didn’t talk much. Still didn’t smile often. But the way he looked at you had changed.

He watched you like he was trying to memorize something fragile. Like he was afraid of blinking and losing it.

Tonight, you sat side-by-side on the grass, the stars reflecting in the still water.

And you told him, soft and sure. “You don’t have to prove anything to me.”

Wakatoshi swallowed thickly. “Sometimes I feel like… if I’m not playing, I’m nothing.”

You turned, eyes warm and fierce. “You’re so much more than that.”

He met your gaze, slow and aching.

“You’re the first person who’s ever said that to me.”

Your heart broke a little at that.

But it bloomed too. Because it meant you could be the first and maybe the only.

This time you were the one that reaches for his hand. He took it without hesitation.

——————————————————————————

The walk home was quiet.

The kind of quiet that buzzed under the skin. Every brush of his arm sent a pulse down your spine. Every glance felt like a tether pulling tighter between you.

When you got to your door, you turned to him.

“Do you want to come in?”

He hesitated, just for a breath then nodded.

Inside, the lights were low. You kicked off your shoes and walked into the kitchen, nerves fluttering. He stood near the entry like he didn’t know where he was allowed to go.

“Make yourself comfortable.” You said gently, setting your keys down. “You’re safe here.”

Something in his face shifted. He stepped closer.

“You always say that.”

“Because it’s true.”

You turned to him. He was closer than before. His eyes dark in the soft light, jaw tense.

“I don’t know how to do this.” He said quietly. “But I want to.”

Your chest swelled. “You don’t have to know how.” You whispered. “Just stay with me.”

He reached out, brushed a strand of hair behind your ear.

And then he kissed you.

——————————————————————————

It was slow. Careful.

Like he was afraid of shattering something he didn’t know how to hold.

But when you kissed him back. When you leaned in and let your lips open under his, he deepened it with a groan that vibrated through your chest.

Your fingers tangled in his shirt. His hands cupped your waist like he didn’t know where to touch, only that he needed to.

You pulled back, breathing heavy, and looked into his eyes.

“You can touch me.” You said. “However you want.”

He blinked. Like the permission stunned him.

You took his hand and guided it to your cheek. Then lower, to your chest, over your heart. His breath caught.

“I want you.” You whispered. “But only if you want this too.”

His voice cracked. “I do.”

——————————————————————————

You led him to your room.

He sat on the edge of your bed while you stepped between his knees, hands at his jaw.

“Tell me if anything feels wrong. Or too much.”

He nodded once. Silent. A storm behind his eyes.

You kissed him again, longer this time. Slower.

And then you knelt between his legs. Wakatoshi tensed.

“Wait- ” He started, but your fingers worked open the button of his jeans with calm precision.

“Let me.” You said. “I want to.”

He swallowed. Adam’s apple bobbing. “I don’t usually… let people do this.”

“I know.”

You kissed the inside of his knee. Then the scar.

It was thick, pale, a little raised. You ran your thumb over it, then pressed your lips to the center. Slow, reverent.

His breath hitched. His hands fisted in the sheets.

“I hate it.” He murmured. “It’s horrible”

You immediately know what he was referring to. The scar that reminded him of what he might lose. You looked up at him.

“It’s part of you.” You said in between kisses as your lips trailed up along his inner thigh.

He stared down at you like you weren’t real. Like he was dreaming.

Then you leaned in and took him into your mouth.

He was big. Of course he was. But that wasn’t what made him lose control. It was the way you looked at him.

The way you held him in your mouth. Slow, unhurried, every pass of your tongue deliberate. Your hands resting on his thighs, fingers stroking gently, grounding him.

You didn’t rush.

You let him feel everything. Every inch. Every second.

He groaned your name once. Rough and low like it punched the air out of him. His hips twitched, but he held himself back, muscles trembling with restraint.

You pulled off with a soft pop, lips swollen, eyes full of heat.

“Lie back.” You said, standing to undress.

He obeyed without question. Watching you undress. His gaze didn’t devour you. It honored you. Like he was witnessing something sacred.

You climbed into his lap, straddling him, and ran your fingers through his hair.

“You okay?”

He nodded.

But his voice was hoarse. “I don’t deserve this.”

Your heart ached. “You deserve everything.”

You guided him to your entrance, bodies flushed and warm, and sank down onto him slowly.

His hands clutched your waist like a lifeline. His mouth fell open. Low grunts and moans filling the room as he looked at you as if he was scared you’d slip through his fingers if he didn’t.

You rocked against him, slow and tender. Your bodies fit like you’d been made for this. Every movement dragged another broken breath from his throat.

You kissed his jaw. His neck. His shoulder. You caressed the scar again, when you shifted his legs spreading wider under yours.

And when he came. He was shuddering, breathless, his arms wrapped around you like he’d fall apart otherwise. You held his face in your hands.

“You’re not broken.”

He came down slowly, blinking up at you like he didn’t know what world he was in.

You brushed a hand through his sweat-damp hair.

“You’re safe.”

——————————————————————————

You lay together after, tangled in the sheets, your head resting on his chest.

His arm was around you. Tight. Protective. His fingers trailing up and down your spine. But not out of fear. Out of need. Out of something new and fragile blooming between you.

He whispered, after a long while. “Thank you.”

You smiled against his skin.

“You don’t have to thank me. I want you.”

He swallowed.

“I don’t think I’ve ever felt this… wanted. Not like this.”

You kissed his shoulder.“Get used to it.”

He didn’t answer. But you felt the way his body relaxed. The way his fingers curled into yours and he held you closer to him before kissing your lips once more.

——————————————————————————

The morning after was silent. Not because anything was wrong, but because everything was finally right.

You woke first. The sun filtered in soft and golden through the curtains. Ushijima lay beside you, broad chest rising and falling with the steady rhythm of sleep, one arm still draped around your waist like his body refused to let you go, even unconscious.

You reached up and brushed his hair back from his face.

He looked… peaceful. Like the war inside him had quieted for the first time in a long, long time.

He woke slowly. Brows furrowing at first like the sunlight confused him. Then his eyes opened, and he looked at you. Like he knew exactly where he was. Like he’d been hoping this wasn’t a dream.

You smiled, soft and sleepy. “Hey.”

He didn’t smile.

But he reached up and touched your cheek, callused fingers grazing your skin like you might disappear if he wasn’t careful.

“I’m still here.” You whispered.

He exhaled. A shaky breath. Like he’d been holding it all night. “I don’t know if I want to go back.”

You curled into his side. “You don’t have to. Not yet.”

“But I will, eventually.”

You looked up. “Are you scared?”

He was quiet for a long time. “Yes.” He exhaled as he tucked a loose strand of hair behind your ear.

You didn’t offer empty encouragement. No false hope. Just your arms, and your warmth, and the solid truth of your presence beside him.

“You’re not alone this time.” You said simply. “I’ll be there for you.”

He nodded and, finally he smiled.

——————————————————————————

The weeks passed slowly, and for once, neither of you minded. He stayed longer than he planned.

Sometimes he helped your elderly neighbor carry groceries. Sometimes he sat in the sun with you and read, barely turning the pages, just listening to the sound of your voice as you rambled.

He limped less. The stiffness faded.

But what changed most wasn’t his body, it was the way he carried himself. Like he wasn’t rushing to prove anything anymore. Like he knew that, even if he never played again, someone still saw worth in him.

You did.

And that changed everything.

——————————————————————————

One morning, you found him at the bench by the lake. Same one you always went to. This time, he was alone.

You approached quietly, but he didn’t look up. Just held out a hand as you came near, like he felt you before he saw you.

You took it without hesitation and sat beside him.

“I’ve been talking to my trainer.” He said softly. “They think I can start light drills next month.”

You felt your heart leap but didn’t let it show too much.

Instead, you squeezed his hand. “That’s great, Toshi.”

He looked at you then, eyes quiet but steady.

“I want to go back.”

You nodded. “Then you should.”

“But not because I need to prove I’m still strong.” He said. “Not to anyone. I just… I want to feel the court again.”

You leaned your head on his shoulder. “That’s the best reason.”

He exhaled through his nose. “And I want to take you with me.”

You blinked, startled.

He turned slightly toward you. “You don’t have to answer now. But… if I go back to playing, to traveling. I want you to be part of that world. However you can be.”

“Toshi.” You whispered.

He squeezed your hand. “You make it quiet. In my head. Like I can breathe.”

Tears pricked the corners of your eyes. You leaned up and kissed him, slow and full, pressing your heart into every touch.

“I’m already yours.” You said.

——————————————————————————

That night, he laid you down again.

Not rushed. Not broken. Just full of love he didn’t know how to put into words.

He kissed your body like he was learning you all over again. Touched you with reverence.

When you made love, it was less about need and more about being known.

He whispered your name into your neck as you moved together.

And for the first time, he let go completely.

——————————————————————————

You saw him off a few weeks later.

His rehab was scheduled to continue back in the city. There were evaluations, contracts, trials. But this time, when he stepped on the train, he didn’t look hollow.

He kissed you softly and promised he’d call every night.

And he did. Every time.

——————————————————————————

Months passed.

You visited when you could. He sent you photos of his practices. His scar faded, but not entirely and he never hid it.

You never stopped telling him how proud you were.

And when the first game came, and he stood on the court again stronger, slower, more deliberate. You watched from the stands.

He spotted you right after the final point. They’d won. But the look on his face wasn’t victory. It was peace.

——————————————————————————

Later that night, in the quiet of the locker room, a teammate asked him. “Hey Ushiwaka what changed? You play different now.”

He paused. “I found something that matters even when the game ends.”

——————————————————————————

As time passed the lake was quiet again. You sat on the bench, older now. Still just as in love.

He came up behind you, arms wrapping around your waist. You tilted your head to look up at him, grinning.

“You’re early.”

“I missed you.”

You beamed.

And he did something he only did for you. He smiled.

You lived together now, in a small home near the city but close enough to visit his hometown. He still played, but more balanced. Not like it was life or death because now, he had a life outside of it.

A life that included you. Warm meals. Early morning cuddles. Your voice reading out loud while he rested. He talked more now, always honest. Always tender. And always yours.

Sometimes, you’d trace the scar on his knee before bed. Kiss it. And every time, he’d close his eyes and breathe a little deeper. Because you never saw it as a wound. You saw it as a part of him like his silence, his strength, his love.

And slowly, he started to see it that way too.

“I love you.” He’d whisper every night as he held you close to him.

“This would be quite awkward if you didn’t.” You laughed, caressing his face softly, the metal of the ring on your hand that matched his felt warm against his skin. “I love you too.”

He kissed you slowly and tenderly because now he had the rest of his life to do so.