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The first time Atsumu walked into the little corner café, he had no idea it would change his life—and wreck his digestive system.
He just wanted caffeine. And the place looked cute. Kind of rustic, with plants in hanging pots and little chalkboard menus that tried to look casual but were clearly the work of someone with way too much Pinterest inspiration. The barista behind the counter was bent over a milk frother, back turned, short red-orange hair catching the morning sun.
Atsumu cleared his throat. “Heya. One large caramel latte, extra shot, extra hot.”
The barista looked up.
And Atsumu swore the air conditioning broke.
Orange. Freckles. Bright brown eyes. A smile that nearly cracked the sun in half.
“Coming right up!” the barista chirped. “Name for the cup?”
Atsumu blinked. “Uh… ‘Your future boyfriend’.”
The barista laughed. “Nice try, but I’m just gonna write Atsumu, okay?”
He had read the name from Atsumu’s varsity jacket.
Cheeky.
It was the first time Atsumu tried the coffee.
It was also the first time he barely made it home before his body turned against him.
---
He should have known better. Caffeine and his stomach were not friends. Coffee from vending machines? Tolerable. But real, freshly ground espresso with rich milk and actual quality? That was a straight-up declaration of war.
But he came back the next day.
And the day after that.
The same barista. The same smile. The same pick-up line routine.
“Are you the milk in my latte? ‘Cause you make my heart foam.”
“Did it hurt? When you fell into this café and stole my morning?”
“Are you an espresso? Because you’ve been running through my mind at double speed.”
The barista—Shoyo, Atsumu learned from the tiny gold pin on his apron—rolled his eyes every time. But he never looked annoyed. In fact, he smiled. Every single time.
That smile was why Atsumu kept coming back.
Not because he liked pooping in public. That part was awful. He would rather miss a serve in front of thousands. But after thirty minutes of sipping that magical nightmare drink, his stomach started twisting like a haunted amusement park ride.
He started choosing a seat strategically close to the restroom. Just in case.
He thought no one noticed.
He was wrong.
But only partially.
---
Shoyo Hinata noticed a lot of things.
He noticed that Atsumu Miya was clearly bad at flirting, and clearly didn’t care.
He noticed that Atsumu only drank half the coffee most days, sometimes less.
He noticed that Atsumu always stayed around twenty to thirty minutes before “getting an urgent call” or “having volleyball practice early” or “suddenly remembering a dentist appointment.”
But what Hinata didn’t know was the true reason behind the time limit.
Because Atsumu had pride. Pride and shame in equal measure.
And no matter how many times his stomach felt like it was doing backflips, he told himself it was worth it. All just to hear Shoyo laugh. Or to see the way his eyes sparkled when he focused on latte art. Or when he squinted at customers pretending to read their energy.
One time, Hinata had drawn a little smiley face on Atsumu’s coffee lid.
Atsumu screenshot it. Saved it to his phone. Set it as his lock screen.
That night, he spent forty-five minutes in the bathroom.
Totally worth it.
---
One Thursday morning, Atsumu walked in looking like death. Hoodie again. Pale. Sleep-deprived.
Hinata tilted his head. “Rough night?”
“Coffee withdrawals,” Atsumu mumbled. “Yesterday I tried quitting. But then I had dreams you were running a coffee shop in Paris and married to someone else.”
Hinata blinked. “That’s oddly specific.”
“I know,” Atsumu groaned. “It hurt.”
Hinata shook his head, already making the usual drink. “Maybe your body’s trying to tell you something.”
“Oh it tells me things,” Atsumu muttered, then cleared his throat. “Can I get a slice of banana bread too? Just for, y’know, balance.”
“Sure. Food is good. Especially if you’re drinking so much coffee every day.”
Atsumu gave a fake laugh. “Ha-ha. Right. Like a normal person. Definitely no issues here.”
Hinata handed him the coffee. “Hey… real question. You don’t hate coffee, do you?”
“What? No! I love it!” Atsumu said, way too quickly. “I, uh, love your coffee especially. It’s... strong. Like you.”
Hinata frowned. “What?”
“Like your arms. From lifting milk jugs. Probably.”
Hinata stared at him.
Atsumu turned pink and bolted to his usual seat. Near the restroom. Again.
---
By week four, it became a routine.
Atsumu would flirt. Hinata would roll his eyes but secretly enjoy it. Atsumu would drink half the coffee. Then disappear for a suspicious ten minutes. Then come back looking slightly traumatized, pretend everything was fine, and leave with another pick-up line.
“You’re like a macchiato,” he said once, dragging a hand through his hair. “A little bitter, a lot sweet, and now I’m addicted.”
Hinata snorted. “Okay, that one was smooth.”
“Wanna go out with me?”
“I said the line was smooth. Not your timing.”
Atsumu groaned. But kept smiling.
---
One fateful morning, the line at the café was long. Atsumu waited twenty minutes, barely making it to the counter.
Hinata looked up, concerned. “You okay? You’re sweating.”
“Just excited to see you,” Atsumu lied, nearly trembling. “Same order.”
Hinata hesitated. “You sure? You’re looking a little pale.”
“I always look pale under these lights,” Atsumu said, waving it off. “They’re unflattering. You're the only pretty thing in here.”
Hinata made the drink with extra foam.
Atsumu sipped it like it was liquid gold.
Five minutes later, the restroom was occupied.
Seven minutes later, so was the women's restroom.
Atsumu was panicking.
He paced outside, holding his stomach, whispering apologies to every food decision he had ever made. It was the worst it had ever been. And this time, there was no escape.
He made it outside. Barely. Hid behind the café. And… well.
Let’s just say his pride did not survive that day.
---
Hinata found out in the most unexpected way.
The next day, the café’s usual bathroom sign was flipped to “out of order.” A plumber was inside.
Hinata didn’t think much of it—until he overheard the repair guy grumbling to the manager.
“Someone’s been destroying the pipes,” he said. “Too much stress on the system. Like clockwork. Every morning. Around the same time.”
Hinata froze.
Around the same time?
Every day?
He turned to the customer list.
Atsumu Miya. Large caramel latte. Extra shot. Extra hot. Every day. At 9:45.
Hinata blinked.
Wait.
No.
It couldn’t be.
He looked over at Atsumu, who was trying to look cool by leaning on the windowsill while quietly sweating through his hoodie.
Hinata walked over, arms crossed.
“Hey,” he said casually. “Do you actually like coffee?”
Atsumu’s smile twitched. “Wha—what kind of question is that?”
“Because the pipes are breaking. The plumber says someone’s been causing chaos in the restroom.”
Atsumu paled. Visibly.
Hinata narrowed his eyes. “It’s you, isn’t it?”
Atsumu opened his mouth. Then closed it. Then opened it again.
“I can explain.”
Hinata raised one eyebrow.
Atsumu sighed, defeated. “Okay, fine. I can’t handle coffee. I love it. But my body doesn’t. I get—uh—explosive side effects. Like, biblical. But I kept coming because… I like seeing you.”
Silence.
Hinata’s face turned red.
“Even if it ruins your stomach?” he asked quietly.
Atsumu scratched his neck. “Yeah. I figured pain is temporary. Your smile is forever.”
Hinata snorted. “That’s the worst pick-up line yet.”
“But did it work?”
Hinata rolled his eyes.
“Maybe.”
---
The next day, Atsumu walked in and found a drink already waiting for him.
He blinked. “This isn’t my usual.”
“It’s steamed oat milk,” Hinata said with a smirk. “With a dash of cinnamon and vanilla. No coffee. No explosions.”
Atsumu took a sip.
Delicious.
His stomach made no noise.
His heart, however, wouldn’t shut up.
“Thanks,” he said, softly.
Hinata smiled. “Next time, ask me out without risking internal damage.”
Atsumu grinned.
“Deal.”