₊˚ෆ SUNA RINTAROU is a generally expressionless guy. It’s gotten him into trouble more times than he can count.

When he sprained his ankle in middle school, he barely winced. When his little sister was born, he yawned. When he landed his first spike as a professional athlete, he hummed.

No matter the scenario, a disinterested look is permanently etched into his features. (The only exception is the upturn of his lips when he sees his friends doing something particularly idiotic.) 

It’s not that he doesn’t care– it’s just how he is. This is a truth that all those close to Rintarou have come to understand. 

This truth is why, when he introduces you to his loved ones for the first time, they’re stunned. They’re shocked when they see the bright red his face burns after you give him a kiss on the cheek. They’re floored by the smile that possesses his lips as he steals glances at you from across the room. They’re surprised by the look of absolute adoration in his eyes whenever you do really anything. 

Rintarou’s always been difficult to read, but for you, he’s feelings are entirely transparent.  

₊˚ෆ HINATA SHOYO always stays late to practice. Being the dedicated player that he is, he will train until his legs shake and his breath gives out. His teammates know never to approach him when he’s in his groove; otherwise, he’ll find a way to coax them into another round of drills. He’s an immovable force, immune to persuasion, and entirely impossible to convince to slow down.

“Leaving early” is not in his vocabulary. 

So when, one day, his teammates see him trek into the locker room before the sun has even set, they worry he’s gone ill. 

But when Shoyo reassures them, with a bright smile, that he’s just leaving early to meet with you, the new person he’s been seeing, for dinner– his teammates think he’s lost his mind. Their expressions of concern morph into ones of complete disbelief. 

What curse have you placed on the rigid player to compel him to act in such an uncharacteristic way? Have you threatened his family? Are you blackmailing him? 

The answer is none of the above. 

Shoyo doesn’t stay late to practice out of obligation. He does it because he adores what he does. There’s nowhere else he’d rather be than on the court.

But recently, he’s come to discover that there’s one place he loves being just a smidge more. 

With you. 

–a/n: just smth quick i wrote to procrastinate studying! LMAO

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Really?"

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

"That's so cool!"

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Why do you do it, then?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Just another reason to see you again, he supposes.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"I — where did you get that?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"What can I get for you, Hinata?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Excuse me?!”

"I'm being honest!"

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

"Yeah? Like who?"

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

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

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

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

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

The sound of cicadas fills your ears as you eat.

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Because you've never been?"

"Because I don't know anyone!"

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

"Sure, but — "

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

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

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

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

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

"Yeah? Were they always busy?"

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

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

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

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

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

He might as well have shanked you between the ribs.

"Gee. I had no idea, thanks."

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

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

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

"To be normal?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Shut up, Shō."

He doesn't for the entire walk home.

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

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

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

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

"Okay. I wouldn't go that far — "

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

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

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

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

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

"Did I miss something?"

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

"Nope."

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Did you see that?!"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You hum amusedly. "Yeah?"

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

The offer sits in your stomach like an overripe fruit.

"No, thanks. If I apply — "

"When you apply."

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

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

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

The thought settles into you like an anchor.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Shōyō!"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Why do you cook?

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

It's a start.

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

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

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

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

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

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

“No. Although the answer is five.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Nicotine patches? Are you serious, Shō?”

“What? They were on sale!”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Yeah?”

You nod like a broken bobble head.

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

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

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

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

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

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

You nod. “Thank you, Shō.”

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

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

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

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

"Is it okay if I...?"

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

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

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

He nods. "Yes. Please."

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

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

"Are you sure?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"But I'm agreeing to it!"

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

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

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

"Nobody thinks that of me!"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Yes."

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

She stops short once she sees your pallid face.

"Skies, Junie. Ya look like shit."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"But I didn't pay for — "

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

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

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

"So how has your — ?"

"I just wanted to — "

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

"You first," Hinata insists.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Yes. "Not really."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"We should watch it together before you leave."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Skies. Where the fuck are you going with this?

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

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

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

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

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

"Did you sleep at all last night?"

"No."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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