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Look, I ain't the type to get worked up over candy.
I mean, I like sweet stuff well enough—who doesn’t? But I ain’t obsessed with it. I don’t carry around a pouch of caramels or have a secret chocolate stash in my gym bag like Bokuto does (don’t ask how I know). So, if ya told me a year ago that a single piece of candy handed to me every morning would come to consume my thoughts more than any game strategy or training drill?
I’d call ya crazy.
But that’s what happens when Hinata Shouyo’s involved.
It started outta nowhere.
No explanation, no words, no smug build-up like I’d expect from someone like Sakusa trying to prank me or Kita trying to teach me a lesson.
One morning, post-practice, sweaty and starving, I was toweling off my hair when I felt a tap on my elbow.
Turn around.
Hinata. Bright-eyed, sunshine-grinned Hinata.
He just held out his hand like it was no big deal.
In it? A single wrapped piece of candy.
“Uh… thanks?” I said, confused but not ungrateful. I peeled it open—some weird strawberry milk flavor I’d never pick myself—and popped it into my mouth.
Then he ran off. No explanation. Just waved over his shoulder and vanished into the locker room like a ginger phantom.
Weird, but whatever.
Only, he kept doin’ it.
Next day. Same deal. Candy. Smile. Gone.
Third day. Repeat.
Fourth day, he actually winked.
By the fifth, I was lookin’ for him. Scan the gym after practice, nudge my teammates outta the way, wait for that flash of orange hair. He’d come up, no words, hand me the candy like we were dealin’ in black-market sweets, and vanish.
I didn’t even like all the flavors. Some were sour. One tasted like bubblegum and regret. But it didn’t matter.
I ate every one.
At first, it was funny. Weird, yeah, but funny. He even started handing it to me in the stupidest ways imaginable.
One time, I opened my shoe and there it was, tucked inside like a cursed offering.
Another time, he straight-up slapped it on my forehead like a sticker.
“I’m markin’ my territory,” he said cheerfully, running away before I could throw my towel at him.
Another day, I was halfway through warm-ups when he lobbed a candy from across the gym and it landed perfectly in my palm. No look pass. The smug grin on his face when I caught it? Criminal.
It became our thing, though no one would’ve guessed it was mutual. I didn’t say anything. He didn’t explain anything. But that candy always came.
Even during a match once, when we were warming up courtside, he jogged past, brushed his shoulder against mine, and I felt something slip into my hand. I looked down. A tiny green-wrapped mint.
“How’d you even—?” I started, but he was already halfway across the court, bouncing on his heels like the innocent chaos gremlin he is.
After a while, I noticed how my mood shifted around it.
Like, one morning I was kinda in a slump. Rained all night, my neck was stiff, didn’t sleep great. Walked into practice ready to be cranky all day.
Then—bam. Candy. Orange flavor. Sharp and sweet. He handed it over with a simple, “You looked like you needed a boost,” and was gone before I could respond.
It worked.
I smiled the whole warm-up.
Even Omi-kun noticed one day. “Why’s Hinata feeding you like a parrot?”
I nearly choked.
“It ain’t like that!” I defended, but honestly? It kinda was.
Omi-kun said nothing, just watched me unwrap another mystery-flavored hard candy and gave me one of those looks that meant he was mentally filing it away for blackmail. I ignored him.
I tried to beat Hinata to the game once—show up earlier than him, hide before he arrived, catch him in the act. But the little gremlin was always one step ahead. I found a piece of toffee already tucked inside my hoodie pocket before I even changed.
Was he sneaking into my stuff now??
“I’m not scared,” I muttered to myself one day after finding three fruit drops arranged neatly on top of my shoes like tiny jelly-soldiers. “I just think this is weirdly consistent behavior and someone should be worried.”
But deep down?
I loved it.
Hinata didn’t give anyone else candy. Not Bokuto. Not Kageyama. Not even the nice guy from staff who always fixed the net. Just me.
And I didn’t know why.
That question? It ate me more than the candy did.
But I didn’t ask. Part of me didn’t want to ruin it. Another part was kinda scared it’d stop.
He even started to time it weird. Sometimes it’d be right after practice, sometimes before. Sometimes I’d find a little candy tucked into my shoe, or on top of my water bottle like it just grew there.
And he’d always grin from a distance, like a gremlin magician.
I wasn’t just hooked—I was invested.
One morning, he caught me off guard by tossing it across the gym mid-stretch. I wasn’t ready, and the candy beaned me in the forehead. I grunted and glared at him while he cackled like a goblin.
a cute—no, hot sun kissed goblin.
“Was that necessary?!” I yelled, rubbing my head.
“You gotta stay alert, Atsumu-san!” he shouted back. “Elite athletes are candy-reactive!”
What does that even mean?!
Still ate it, though.
Eventually, it got to the point where my day didn’t feel right without it. Like I’d forget my towel or my knee pads—just something missing.
I didn’t even realize how deep in I was until the day it didn’t happen.
That morning, I waited. We finished our drills. I took longer changin’, loitering by the benches.
No Hinata.
No candy.
No wave, no smile, no nothing.
Just... gone.
I tried to play it cool. Maybe he forgot? Maybe he ran out of candy? I mean, it was a dumb routine anyway, right? I wasn’t a dog. I wasn’t expecting it.
Okay, maybe I was.
Next day—still nothing.
Day after that? Nada.
I even opened my bag to check if he left one sneakily like he used to. I actually stared down into my duffel like a fool, hoping some raspberry taffy would magically materialize.
A week later, I was full-on distracted at practice. Missed two serves. Omi made a face at me. Coach yelled. I barely heard any of it.
I caught a glimpse of Hinata across the court, all bouncing energy and golden limbs, laughing at something Bokuto said. Like nothing was wrong.
So that night, I caved.
I cornered him by the vending machines.
“Alright, spill.”
Hinata blinked. “Spill what?”
“You stopped givin’ me candy,” I said, like it was the most serious accusation ever. “What happened? Did I fail some test? Are ya mad at me? Did I—”
Hinata laughed. Like really laughed. Pretty.
“I knew you’d come lookin’ for me,” he said, grinning like the fox he absolutely is. “Took you long enough.”
“Wha—?! What does that mean?!”
He held up his hands in mock surrender. “Okay, okay. I’ll tell you. But promise not to get all weird about it.”
“I am weird. That ship’s sailed.”
“True,” he nodded. Then he looked up at me with this shy, almost sheepish little smile I wasn’t used to seeing on him. “I was training you.”
“…Training me? For what? The Candy Olympics?”
“No! Like… Pavlov-style,” he said, clearly proud of himself. “You know, like a dog? I give you candy every day, and you start to associate seeing me with something good. Then one day I stop, and BAM—you're suddenly wondering why. Thinking about me. Missing me.”
I blinked. “So… ya trained me to… crave your presence?”
“Yup.”
“And the candy was… what? Bait?”
“Exactly!”
“That’s messed up.”
“But it worked, didn’t it?”
…Crap.
It did.
I’d gone from mild confusion to full-blown Hinata Withdrawal in a matter of days. I had it bad.
“So… what now?” I asked, folding my arms, trying not to let my ears go red. “You win or somethin’?”
Hinata stepped closer. His grin softened. “Only if you want me to.”
“…And what if I do?” I muttered.
He tilted his head, like he was pretending to think real hard. “Then maybe… I’ll give you candy and a kiss next time.”
My brain short-circuited.
“Wait, hold on—was that the endgame this whole time?!”
Hinata winked. “You tell me, Pavlov.”
And then—then—he leaned in, real casual, and kissed me right there beside the vending machine like it was the most natural thing in the world. It was short, sweet, and just a little sticky from the sports drink I’d just finished.
And I swear it tasted like strawberry milk.
—
Now? We’re in what I’d call the “post-candy” era.
Not that the candy stopped altogether. He still brings it sometimes. Tapes it to my locker with dumb notes like “Don’t forget to stretch, or I’m stealing your snacks,” or “Winner gets a kiss. Loser gets TWO.” One time he gave me a handful of grape-flavored hard candies and said, “So you won’t whine while I’m gone this weekend.”
He was right. I whined anyway.
Sometimes, we trade. I started sneaking stuff into his hoodie pockets—soft chews, caramels, even a mini protein bar wrapped like a joke gift. Once I gave him a single jellybean before a match. He scored three back-to-back aces and declared it “magic.”
We’re ridiculous. I know.
But damn if it ain’t the best thing that’s ever happened to me