#misunderstanding resolved

but when your phone buzzes, it’s koganegawa sounding frantic.

“i forgot my kneepads,” he blurts. “i’m so sorry, i swear i packed them, could you maybe—”

you don’t even think. you just say sure, grab them, and drive to the gym.

you walk in quietly, hand them to him, and leave without a word.

not because you’re mad.

but because you’re one inconvenience away from crying and you want to go home before the dam breaks.

you don’t see his face as you walk out.

you don’t see the way he freezes.

or the way his eyes widen like you’ve just handed him a death sentence.

and you definitely don’t hear the panicked thoughts immediately detonating in his head.

the rest of his practice is a mess. he can't focus, can't time his jumps, keeps missing receives because he’s too busy reliving the moment you walked in, silent and exhausted, handed him his kneepads without a smile, and left.

in his brain, it becomes: you’re mad. you’re disappointed. you’re upset because he asked you for help. you hate him. you’re done with him. he ruined everything. you're breaking up with him.

by the time practice ends, he is spiraling so hard he’s practically vibrating.

he runs to a takeout place. gets your favorite meal. then he stops at the store next door and grabs your favorite dessert. then flowers. then—because his anxiety is doing cartwheels—he calls a bakery on his way home and asks if they can rush a small cake with “i’m sorry please forgive me” written in pink frosting.

the person on the phone pauses for a long time but agrees.

he feels marginally better until he gets home and sees you on the couch under a blanket, looking small and tired.

his heart drops all over again.

he walks in with all the food and flowers, nearly drops the bag twice, and then sets everything down on the coffee table in one chaotic pile.

then he drops to his knees on the carpet.

you stare at him, stunned. “kanji…?”

he clasps his hands together like he’s praying. “please don’t be mad at me.”

you blink. “mad at you for what?”

“the kneepads,” he says immediately, voice cracking. “i’m so sorry i forgot them, i didn’t mean to make you drive over here, you looked so upset when you gave them to me and then you left and you didn’t say anything and i thought—” he inhales sharply, “—i thought you hated me.”

you just… stare at him.

because what?

“kanji,” you say slowly, “i wasn’t mad.”

he blinks. “…you weren’t?”

“no,” you sigh. “i was exhausted. today sucked. i barely slept, i dropped my lunch, work was awful. i just wanted to go home and lie down. it had nothing to do with you.”

he goes completely still.

processing.

then—

he visibly deflates, shoulders sagging as the fear leaves his body all at once.

“oh thank god,” he breathes, almost collapsing forward. “i thought i messed everything up.”

you reach out, touching his cheek gently. “no, babe. you didn’t.”

he lifts his head, eyes wide and relieved, and without warning he lunges forward and hugs you so hard he lifts you right off the couch. you yelp, arms flying around his shoulders as he squeezes you tight, burying his face against your neck.

“don’t do that again,” he mumbles, voice small. “i thought you were so mad.”

“i promise,” you murmur back. “i wasn’t mad. just tired.”

he finally sets you down, still holding onto your waist like you might disappear.

there’s a long, warm pause before he says, sheepish as hell:

“so… i guess i should call the bakery and cancel the cake that says ‘please forgive me’ on it.”

you stare at him.

“you ordered a cake?”

he nods miserably. “with pink frosting.”

and you dissolve into laughter right there on the couch while he hides his face in his hands, muttering dramatic complaints as your heart fills to the brim with affection for this sweet, anxious, overreacting man you love.

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