Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

You met Iwaizumi in your second year of college. You had flown all the way from Japan to California for school—because why not make life harder by throwing jet lag and culture shock into the academic mix? Your first year was spent studying, bonding with your extroverted housemates (thank God for them), and doing extrovert things like touching grass and attending social events. Without them, your introverted self would’ve been mistaken for a ghost haunting the library and your bedroom.

Your first class of the new semester was anatomy at 9 AM sharp. You showed up just in time, internally screaming but externally calm. You’d woken up early to get dressed in your signature “cute but casual” look and spent a ridiculous amount of time rehearsing your introduction like it was a TED Talk. Your English was good, but social anxiety? That beast didn’t care. You were determined not to let your voice betray you.

Introductions began from the other side of the room, students slowly filing to the front one by one. Thankfully and unfortunately, it was a large class, so you had time to mentally rehearse for the 472nd time. Then, one particular student got up, and your brain immediately blue-screened. He was handsome. Not in a soft boyband way, but in a “has definitely punched a wall and felt nothing” way. His serious face had just the tiniest flicker of nervousness, which honestly made him even more attractive. And then he spoke—and dear God, his voice. It was like hot butter on warm toast.

“Good morning, my name is Hajime Iwaizumi. I’m from Japan, and I’m in my second year studying sports medicine and athletic training. I also play on the school’s secondary volleyball team. I look forward to learning with all of you.”

Your soul did a cartwheel. A Japanese student? In the same class?? Could it really be that easy?! You knew there were probably other Japanese students at this oversized college town disguised as a university, but none had popped up in your program. This felt like fate—anime-style.

Iwaizumi gave a polite nod and returned to his seat, and somehow, that single moment deactivated 50% of your nerves. When your turn finally came, your hands were icy and traitorous, but you weren’t having a full mental breakdown anymore, so that was progress. You stood, found Iwaizumi’s eyes, and offered a small smile.

“My name is Fuyou Ozaki. I’m also from Japan—”

Then, like a polite little robot, you remembered to acknowledge the rest of the class. “This is my second year of my dual degree in biology and computer science.”

…AND THAT WAS IT. Anxiety brain struck again. You had this poetic, witty, charming intro lined up in your mind like a runway show, and instead you delivered… the clearance rack. All those mirror rehearsals? For nothing. In your mild panic, you looked at Iwaizumi again—and he was already looking at you. With a wide, encouraging smile that made it feel like maybe, just maybe, you didn’t sound like a malfunctioning toaster. You gave a polite bow and returned to your seat, wishing the floor would open and consume you out of sheer secondhand embarrassment.

But it really was that simple. At the end of class, Iwaizumi came over to talk. You walked out together, chatting in Japanese and bonding instantly over how good it felt to find someone from back home. That moment, awkward introductions and all, was the beginning of a friendship that would shape some of the best, brightest, and funniest memories of your college years.

Chapter Text

Things started changing on Iwaizumi’s birthday. You’d met last fall, and after a year of classes, awkward conversations, and mutual bitching in Japanese, you were officially Friends™. You only had one class together that semester, but his dorm was on your route, so you developed a solid little routine: morning walks to campus if your schedules aligned, library study sessions, and shared suffering. The next semester had your schedules going in totally different directions, but you still made time for each other—because let’s be real, he was the only person who felt like “home” in this foreign land. Your friendship ran on sarcasm, snacks, and weaponized Japanese. You spoke in your native tongue like it was a CIA code language, especially when you needed to roast someone without consequences.

Outside school, food was your love language. You tried new restaurants, swapped stories from back home, and talked about your futures like you weren’t both mentally fried noodles from studying and internships. Over the past year, you’d learned a lot about Iwaizumi: He loved volleyball, his best friends were sacred, his birthday was in three days, and his favorite food was agedashi tofu—because apparently, he’s classy like that. It was summer break, which for you meant a horrifying combo of summer classes and an internship, and for him, a full-time internship that ate up his evenings. A big birthday celebration was impossible. But you still wanted to do something special, so you planned a lunch picnic and decided to cook agedashi tofu yourself. He deserved it, and anyway, homemade tofu > takeout tofu. Science.

On the big day, you showed up with your lovingly prepared bento boxes and sunshine-level enthusiasm. Iwaizumi? He was late. Not in a “five minutes late” kind of way. In a “sprinting through the park like a drama protagonist” kind of way. He reached you, panting like a man who’d just outrun his GPA.

“I’m so sorry! Today’s been insane—I can’t stay long, everything’s a mess.”

“Iwa-kun, chill. You showed up. That’s more than most people do on group projects. I’m not mad.”

“I just—ugh. I thought I could finish everything in time. I feel bad making you waste your lunch break.”

“You’re not wasting anything. Here—” You handed him the bento like you were passing off a sacred artifact. “Take it. Eat it when you can. And hey, if you're free this weekend, maybe we can actually celebrate then.”

He looked like a kicked puppy holding your lunch box, but before he could spiral further into his guilt pit, his phone buzzed. Work called. You saved him the agony with a quick, strategic hug—more of a stealth hug, really. Blink and you’d miss it. Before he could react, you stepped back, grabbed his shoulders and said, “Happy birthday, Hajime.”

Time froze. Like, literally. He stared at you with wide eyes like you’d just proposed marriage or announced the apocalypse. You didn’t give him time to reboot—just spun him around and gave him a gentle push toward his workplace.

“Go. We’ll talk later. Bye!”

What followed was a masterclass in overthinking. The rest of your day was spent in a fog of "what ifs." What if he didn’t like hugs? What if he wasn’t ready for first-name basis? What if you had just emotionally drop-kicked him with affection he wasn’t prepared for? Your brain, ever the drama queen, spiraled like it was auditioning for a soap opera. The hug. The name. The *hug and the name*. Truly a bold combo move.

You zoned out so hard in class you don’t even remember leaving the building. You were practically possessed, wandering through campus on autopilot. Until—

“Fuyou!”

Your entire body tensed like someone had shouted “FIRE.” It was after 8:30 PM and campus was creepily empty. You spun around, ready to karate chop a raccoon or something, only to see… Iwaizumi. In his internship outfit. Looking ridiculously good and somehow even more tired.

“I thought you’d be at your dorm by now. Or passed out at your desk.” You smiled, but concern snuck into your voice like an uninvited guest. “What are you doing here?”

“I wanted to walk you home.” Straight-faced. Like this was a perfectly normal thing to say.

“Wait—you came straight here from work? What was today, a war zone?”

“Basically. But we finally made progress. Things should calm down now, and the internship ends soon.”

“Okay, well we’ll pass your dorm before my place, so I’m walking you home. You look like you’ve fought three deadlines and a patient with anger issues.”

“Nope. I insist. What kind of friend would I be if I didn’t make sure you got home safely?”

“Stubborn creature.” You muttered, but his smirk said he heard you. You both walked in comfortable silence for a while, until he broke it softly:

“Thank you. For lunch. It was amazing. How’d you know agedashi tofu was my favorite?”

You raised an eyebrow and grinned. “You told me! Remember our first dinner out? You went on a full-on rant about how everyone thinks Japanese food is just sushi and ramen, and how you were dying for decent agedashi tofu.”

You even mimicked his grumpy voice: “‘Have these people never heard of anything else?!’”

He laughed, clearly impressed you remembered. The truth was, he hadn’t had proper home-cooked Japanese food in two years. Dorms didn’t allow for much culinary creativity, and takeout was expensive. Meanwhile, your off-campus setup meant you had a kitchen, but almost no time to actually use it. This was the first time you’d cooked for him. The first time he’d eaten his favorite food in forever. And it clearly meant something.

You chatted about school and work until—surprise—you were suddenly a block away from your house. Oops. Time flies when you’re emotionally bonding.

“Do you have plans this weekend?” he blurted, clearly trying to beat his own hesitation to the punch.

“Not really. Just finishing up some reading and pretending to be productive. Why?”

“We’ve got a match this weekend—co-ed intramural volleyball. Nothing fancy. But we go out for food after. Want to come? You can skip the match if you’re busy and just join us for dinner.”

You were quiet for a moment, and he immediately panicked inside. *Oh no, she’s gonna say no, I pushed too hard, abort mission—*

“I’d love to. It’s been forever since I watched a game. Do I need a ticket or anything?”

He blinked. “O-oh, no! It’s super casual. No tickets. Just show up.”

“Perfect. Text me the details.”

He nodded, somehow looking like both a smug volleyball captain and a flustered puppy. Finally at your doorstep, you turned to him.

“Thanks for walking me home, Iwa-kun.”

He smiled. “It’s nothing. And... please, call me Hajime.”

Then—plot twist—*he hugged you.* Not a quick “friend hug.” A proper, warm, soul-hug. Your face smooshed against his chest, and suddenly the tofu wasn’t the softest thing involved today.

“Thank you, Fuyou-chan.”

No fancy speech. Just the name. Just the hug. But it said everything: thanks for remembering, for caring, for being the person he could count on. He pulled away way too soon for your liking, wished you a good night, and headed off toward the dorms—walking back the way you’d both just come.

He’d called you by your first name and asked you to do the same. A small shift. But it felt like a big step forward. And you couldn’t help but wonder—what was this going to mean for your future with Iwaizumi Hajime?

Chapter Text

Done. Finally finished with the assignments due next week. And ahead of schedule too—it was only Friday night. Iwaizumi’s game was tomorrow evening at 6 sharp. He’d already texted you the gym location and mentioned he’d be there by 4 to warm up and go over strategy with his team. You told him you'd be using Sunday for required reading, and tomorrow morning you'd knock out some chores before getting ready. But for now: shower, skincare, and sleep. In that order. So off you go, moving fast because your housemate always showered at night, and you weren’t in the mood to argue over bathroom rights. Back in your room, you set up your desk (also your vanity table), fired up your laptop to catch up on your favorite show, and started your routine. Pore strip: on. Episode: loaded. Hair: damp. You grabbed the blow dryer and got to work, not even hearing the frantic pinging of your phone thanks to the roar of hot air and the mediocre theme song playing in the background. Only when your hair was halfway dry and you reached for your rollers did you notice the glow of your phone screen.

It was Kuroo. Of course it was Kuroo.

Oi kittie kat
I’m visiting Kenma for the weekend and we miss you.
FaceTime us.
Tell Kenma to stop ignoring me. He’s playing one of your favorite games.
It’s Friday night right? Are you at home?
Are you partying??? BE CAREFUL KITTIE
Seriously tho you alive??
Chibi-chan
Chibi
KITTIE KAT
KITTEN
ANSWER ME
CHIBI-CHAN

You giggled at his absurdity before pausing your show and starting a FaceTime call on your laptop. Kenma answered. His expression said, *I regret every life choice that led to befriending this man.* You'd only ever seen that face aimed at Kuroo.

“KYANMAAAA!!! SHE’S DEAD! WE’VE LOST OUR SWEET KITTIE TO THE BURGER ENTHUSIASTS!!! I KNEW IT!!! WE NEVER SHOULD HAVE LET HER GOOOOO!!!”

You burst out laughing. His voice kept going higher and higher, rivaling Bokuto's dramatics. Your laugh finally cut through the chaos, and even Kenma cracked a smile. He shifted the phone so both of them were in frame, now squeezed side by side on the couch.

“KITTIE I WAS SO WORRIED I THOUGHT—”

“Stop yelling in my ear. She can hear you just fine.” Kenma shoved Kuroo’s face away like he was swatting a fly, then turned back to you with an eye roll. You smiled fondly at the both of them. Kenma’s hair was longer now—less pudding, more Kenma. Kuroo looked the same… at least through a screen. God, you missed them.

“You keep calling me *chibi*, but I’m literally taller than Kenma. That nickname is for Shoyo. Speaking of whom, how’d the last practice match go?” You grabbed a roller and started sectioning your hair.

“Really? We haven’t seen each other in months and *Chibi-chan* here is asking about Shoyo first? Don’t you love us anymore?”

“We text and send voice notes all the time Tetsu. Besides, I’m asking *Kenma* about the match. Wait your turn, brat. Go on, Kenma.”

Kenma, unfazed, launched into a detailed match rundown—how Karasuno’s first years were shaping up, Yamamoto’s development as captain, Lev and Inuoka’s continued chaos, and more. Then it was Kuroo’s turn. He gave you updates about college, extracurriculars, Bokuto’s latest antics, and how Akaashi was doing as Fukurodani’s new captain. Meanwhile, you peeled off your pore mask with the kind of dramatic suffering that rivaled *The Princess Diaries*.

You thought back to the day you met Kenma. You’d just moved into the neighborhood, and his parents had welcomed you and your dad. He’d shyly waved hello before hiding behind his dad. Not much of a talker—until you noticed his twitching thumbs.

“You play video games?”

That was all it took. He’d lit up and you bonded instantly over gaming and tech, helped by your dad’s job in IT. Two years later, Kuroo moved in across the street. He started tagging along, dragging Kenma to volleyball, trying to rope you in too. You preferred cheering from the sidelines or geeking out in the computer lab. When you all graduated, you knew you’d miss them. But you didn’t expect to miss them *this* much.

“So what are your weekend plans?” Kuroo asked, suddenly all business. “And don’t lie. I know I asked if you were partying, but are you just hermitting?”

“No, mom, I’m not hermitting,” you said, rolling your eyes. “I finished my work tonight and wanted to chill, but I’m going to a volleyball game tomorrow evening. Then out for food with the team.”

“You have friends on the volleyball team? Since when? Kenma, the betrayal. She replaced us.”

Kenma nodded solemnly. He was already plotting how to use this information for maximum mischief.

“I didn’t replace anyone!” you protested. “It’s not the main team. It’s co-ed, intramural, just-for-fun type stuff. I’m friends with one guy—he invited me. That’s it.”

“Oya oya? Does our Kittie Kat have a *crush*?” Kuroo asked, wiggling his eyebrows.

“Excuse you—where did *that* come from? He’s just a friend. From Japan. Miyagi, actually. We had a class together last semester, got close, and now we meet for food sometimes. He invited me to the game after he had to cancel plans on his birthday.”

You paused, suddenly aware of the *look* they were giving you. Matching smirks. Oh no. Not this. Even Kenma looked like he’d just opened a fresh can of gossip.

“I do *not* have a crush,” you said firmly.

“You were smiling when you talked about him,” Kuroo pointed out.

“You always sound like you’re smiling when you mention him,” Kenma added.

“That’s because he’s my friend!” you protested. “We speak Japanese together, we both miss home—God, stop making it weird!”

“Mmmhm. So what did you do for his birthday?” Kuroo asked, already too smug for his own good. “You always did something for us. What about your special ‘friend’?”

“…I made him a bento.”

“A *bento*?”

“Like… a normal lunchbox?”

“Yeah, because nothing says ‘just friends’ like a lovingly packed birthday lunch,” Kenma said, deadpan.

You groaned. “I’ve made you guys lunchboxes a million times! This was nothing special.”

“Right, because nothing says ‘totally casual’ like feeding someone on their birthday *after* they had to leave early for work.”

“And then he walked you home?” Kenma added. “Cute. Very cute. Did you two hold hands, or keep it PG?”

“It was a hug. That’s it!”

“Ah. A hug,” Kuroo said mockingly. “Classic start-of-rom-com behavior. Very subtle.”

“We’re just friends, okay? Can you *not* make it a thing?”

“We’ll stop making it a thing,” Kenma replied, “when you stop acting like it’s not a thing.”

“Is the roller thing new?” Kuroo asked. “You prepping for your first date already?”

“It’s just my hair. I do this when I have the time!”

“Sure. Just like every chill, platonic friend gets glammed up to watch someone play intramural volleyball.”

“You guys are *so* annoying. This is why I’m replacing you with new volleyball dorks.”

“As if,” Kuroo smirked. “Besides, if he doesn’t realize how lucky he is after that bento, he’s an idiot.”

“Or he’s playing it cool,” Kenma said softly. “But I’m calling it now—you’re getting invited to something more romantic next. Watch.”

“You two are ridiculous. Also, I forgot how *gossipy* you bitches are. You sound like girls.”

“Yeah, and that’s why you never needed girl friends,” Kuroo shot back. “You’ve got us.”

“Alright, I’m done with my skincare, it’s too late to watch anything, and I need sleep or this face mask was for nothing. *And don’t say anything about tomorrow.*” You pointed at the screen, narrowing your eyes.

They grinned but, thankfully, let it go. After saying goodnight and promising to FaceTime the next time Kuroo was in town, you ended the call and sighed. You missed your dummy friends so much. They were loud (at least Kuroo was) and nosy, but they were also your biggest blessing—and you were grateful every day that they loved you enough to keep in touch like this.

But they were wrong about Iwaizumi. You *did not* have a crush. No sir. Not at all.

…You just thought it was important to look presentable, that’s all. You weren’t a glam queen by any means, but you liked to take care of your skin. You got dressed up for outings. Minimal effort. Just… a step above the sleep-deprived caffeine zombies that stalked the library at 2 a.m. You considered picking out an outfit for tomorrow, but figured you'd have time in the morning. Besides, that tickle in your tummy? Just anticipation. Definitely not butterflies. Absolutely not.

Chapter Text

Kuroo and Kenma were wrong — you weren’t dressing up because of a crush on Iwaizumi. He’d invited you as a friend to watch the game and hang out with the team, which meant meeting new people and stepping into a more personal part of his life. You’d think your volleyball dummies would get that, but of course they couldn’t resist trolling you.

Anyway, back to the real issue: what to wear. You told your friends it wasn’t a big deal, so why were you overthinking it? You tried on high-waisted army green shorts and an off-white crochet top — cute, but maybe better for a beach day. It showed a bit too much for your vibe, so you swapped it for a loose white tank top. Perfect. You did a side braid, left a few strands out, and debated makeup. Since the girls wouldn’t be too dolled up and you rarely wore any anyway, you settled on mascara and tinted lip balm. One spritz of perfume, your usual braided bracelet, and you were ready.

Almost 5 o’clock now — time to go. You grabbed your go-to light brown crossbody, made sure your wallet, keys, and phone were inside, and headed for the door. But first: selfie time. Shoes on, bag over the shoulder, pose in the mirror, snap. You sent it to the group chat with the caption: “Volley vibes on point.” On the way out, you grabbed a quick bite — finishing the berry and granola parfait from this morning — just as the replies to your selfie started rolling in. It was around 9am in Japan tomorrow so no surprise there.

“Kitten is game day ready”

“You said this guy played volleyball in Miyagi? You never told us his name and if you’re going to be hanging out with him more then we need to know who he is. And his school.” Kenma could be surprisingly protective. He was probably thinking about all the times boys from your school — or other schools during matches — had tried hitting on you. Back then, Kuroo and the Nekoma guys would step in, and Kenma would quietly usher you away if someone got too pushy. But this time, he couldn’t be there to do that.

“His name is Iwaizumi Hajime, he went to Aoba Johsai and he was a wing spiker.”

“Serving looks and aces I see” You can hear the teasing lilt in Kuroo’s voice and see the wiggle of his brows.

“???”

“We’ve heard of him, he was the ace of his team. I’ll talk to Shoyo and see if we should be worried.”

It was time to go, so you texted the group chat a quick goodbye. Their replies came almost instantly— “Have fun!” “Don’t get scouted 😏” —and with a smile, you slipped out the door.

The evening heat hit you immediately, warm and lingering even though the sun had begun to dip. You were glad you’d gone with the white tank and shorts; the light fabric let the breeze through just enough to keep you comfortable. The air smelled faintly of grass and hot pavement, and cicadas buzzed in the distance as you made your way toward campus. It wasn’t a long walk—fifteen minutes, maybe—but enough to let your mind wander. You were curious. Would Iwaizumi play like he used to in high school? All intense and sharp, focused version of him that came alive on the court?

You realized, suddenly, that you were excited—not just for the game, but to see this part of his life. It meant something that he’d invited you.

Reaching campus, you pulled up the map on your phone. You vaguely remembered the gym from the campus tour during freshman orientation, but that felt like ages ago. After a few wrong turns and checking your location three separate times, you headed toward a large brick building you hoped was the gym. As you got closer, the familiar sound of squeaking sneakers on polished hardwood floors drifted through the open windows.

The sound made you pause.

It brought back a rush of memories—of high school match days, of taping fingers, filling water bottles, shouting encouragement from the sidelines. You’d helped out the boys’ team sometimes, since they didn’t have a proper manager. Those were good days.

With a small smile, you moved closer. Just as you reached the doors, you caught the tail end of a conversation inside.

"—on your angel friend,” someone said in a teasing voice.

“I will crush your face if you don’t shut up.” That was unmistakably Iwaizumi and you were a bit alarmed by how ready your friend sounded to commit a felony. Then immediately feel weird for hovering by the gym doors like some accidental hallway goblin. Okay. No eavesdropping. You weren’t raised like that. You adjusted your bag on your shoulder and made your footsteps intentionally louder on the concrete floor, announcing your presence the way any respectable not-sneaky person would. Then you rounded the corner and pushed open the gym doors with your most innocent hey-I-definitely-didn’t-hear-anything-weird face.
"Hey!" you chirped, maybe a little too brightly.

Three heads turned toward you. One of the guys—tall, curly hair, absolutely guilty expression—was mid-sip from a water bottle and nearly choked. Iwaizumi stood off to the side, arms crossed, jaw tight. He looked like he was about to launch someone into orbit. Probably Curly.

“Perfect timing,” Iwaizumi said, voice flat. He was trying not to look as annoyed as he clearly was, but he still looked like someone had just told him pineapple belongs on ramen. His eyes softened when he saw you, though only slightly.

“Oh? Did I interrupt something?” you asked, pretending not to know a thing, but letting just enough suspicion into your tone to keep them sweating.

“Nope,” Curly said, coughing a little. “Just talking strategy.”

“Strategy for what, exactly?” you asked sweetly, eyes narrowing in mock interest. “Crushing someone’s face?”

Iwaizumi shot the guy a murderous glare. “Ignore them. I’m already regretting this,” he muttered, though the corner of his mouth twitched in a betrayed almost-smile.

“Too late. You invited me and I’m here. I'm part of this chaos now.” And with that, you stepped fully into the gym, pretending not to feel numerous sets of eyes on you—some curious, some impressed, one clearly terrified for his own face.

Honestly? Not a bad start to the night.

But you wanted to break the tension so you said, “Wasn’t totally sure I’d find this place, but the smell of gym socks and floor polish really guided me home.”

Iwaizumi snorted. “That’s the smell of greatness, thank you.”

“Mm, greatness smells a lot like teenage sweat and questionable life choices,” you quipped, then took a moment to look around. The court looked freshly waxed, a few people were already warming up, and the rest were giving you curious glances—some subtle, others not even trying to hide it.

You leaned toward Iwaizumi and said under your breath, “Should I be worried? Or is the staring part of the welcome package?”

“They’re just weird,” he said simply.

“That’s comforting.”

“Want to sit on the bench during warm-ups? I promise no one will make you run laps.”

You grinned. “What an honor.”

As you walked with him toward the court, you passed by the guy who’d definitely said something earlier. He gave you a polite nod, but you didn’t think much of it. You returned the gesture with a smile, completely oblivious to the fact that he’d just called you Iwaizumi’s angel friend five minutes ago—or that your arrival at the exact moment had nearly started a brawl.
But that was probably for the best.

You waved and said a collective hello to the other players that they returned, and then took a good look around after taking a seat. The gymnasium wasn’t nearly as full or lively as it used to be back in high school tournaments. The bleachers were half-pulled out, maybe only two or three spectators scattered across them—likely other students waiting for their friends to finish or just passing time before dinner. A couple of referees stood near the net, chatting idly, clipboards in hand. The gym lights buzzed faintly overhead, the kind of sound you stop hearing after a few minutes but notice immediately when you first walk in.

The air smelled of clean wood floors, old sports tape, and the lingering hint of muscle spray. A few volleyballs rolled lazily across the floor during warm-ups, and the energy was more casual pick-up game than cutthroat competition. If you didn’t know before, it would be obvious now: this was not the main team. This was the backup crew—the side team. Co-ed, under-coached, probably under-practiced, but undeniably full of personality.

The team needed to finish their warmups so you assumed that you’d be properly introduced to them at the end of the game. There were seven players total, and they looked like a walking collage of vibes:

Iwaizumi – Even in a more relaxed setting, he still carried himself like a pro. His warm-up was all business: focused, efficient, and slightly intimidating. Despite the team’s casual nature, he clearly couldn’t turn off the part of him that used to be the ace. He tied his shoes with the intensity of someone preparing for war, not rec league volleyball.

Curly-Haired Guy (Liam) – The one who’d been teasing Iwaizumi earlier. About 6 feet tall, lean, with perpetual “chaotic good” energy. His warm-up mostly involved laughing too hard at his own jokes and spiking the ball a little too dramatically in drills. Absolutely the team clown, and probably the reason they stretch for so long—because he won’t shut up. His looks aside, he reminded you of Lev.

Short Libero Girl (Mina) – A whirlwind of speed and sass. Maybe 5’3” on a tall day, rocking neon athletic tape on both knees. She seemed like the type to talk back to the ref and still somehow charm her way out of a penalty.

Tall Outside Hitter (Bea) – A quiet powerhouse. Long legs, soft face, absolute cannon of a spike. She looked like she spent half her time playing and the other half politely apologizing for hitting too hard. Bea had a resting kind expression that didn’t match the violence of her attacks.

Buzzcut Guy (Dev) – Built like a rugby player, always yelling "Mine!" three seconds too early. Not the most coordinated, but he gave everything 110%, which occasionally caused chaos but was always entertaining. Might be on the team purely because no one had the heart to say no.

Redhead Girl (Callie) – Mid-set warm-up, she was already chewing gum and somehow dancing. Had a loud, bright laugh and zero volume control. She joked with everyone—even the refs—and probably called Iwaizumi “coach” just to see him twitch. Her serve was wicked, though.

The Last Guy (Jun) – The designated chill. Hoodie half-off one shoulder, hands in pockets until the very last second before warm-up drills. Didn’t say much, but when he moved, it was smooth and precise. Low-key athletic with “mystery man” vibes. Probably always shows up late but knows exactly what he’s doing as the setter.

Together, the group looked like they had wandered in from seven separate volleyball anime subplots. But somehow, it worked.

And standing there on the sidelines, watching them all warm up and banter with each other like they’d been doing this for years, you couldn’t help but smile. It wasn’t the main team. It wasn’t meant to be serious.
But it felt real.
And maybe even a little fun.

As warmups wrapped and the other team filtered in through the side entrance, Iwaizumi grabbed a towel from the bench and wiped the sweat from his face, pretending he was just cooling off—but really, he needed something to do. Something that didn’t involve glancing toward the bench every five seconds where she sat, chatting casually with Liam and Mina.

He told himself he was glad she came. Of course, he was. He’d invited her. But now that she was actually here, standing just off the court with strands of her hair falling perfectly around her face and that easy smile like this wasn’t even a big deal—

Yeah. He was feeling it.

And not the usual pre-game nerves. He’d played in packed gyms before. He’d stood under pressure, under lights, with people shouting and the shrill squealing of Oikawa’s loud fangirls. None of that ever made his palms sweat. But her standing ten feet away, in that simple white tank and army green shorts like it was just another casual Tuesday? That was making his heart do annoying, unnecessary things.

You’ve seen her a hundred times. Get it together you moron.

He didn’t even know why he was this keyed up. Maybe because this wasn’t high school anymore, and this wasn’t just some random friend stopping by. This was her—someone who had gotten to know him outside of volleyball—and now she was getting a look inside it. A version of him that was quieter, rougher around the edges, more intense. She wasn’t here cheering for Shittykawa, she was here to cheer him on. When they talked about volleyball she had told him she had friends in high school who played on the team and she loved watching them so he knew she would appreciate it even if he wasn’t playing.

He rubbed the back of his neck and tried not to stare. Meanwhile, she was laughing at something Mina said. Then she waved off Liam’s dramatic bow and said something that made both of them pause. Mina turned to her with raised brows.

“You helped manage a team before?” Mina asked, tilting her head. “Wait, like actually managed?”

“Not officially, I wasn’t part of the club because I had my own,” she replied with a shrug. “But yeah, my high school team didn’t have a manager, and I helped out when I could. Tape, water, towels, schedules, emergency hair ties—you name it.”

“No way,” Liam said, clearly impressed. “That’s like, a whole skill set.”

She smiled sheepishly. “If you guys need help, I don’t mind at all. That way you guys can actually rest and catch your breath during breaks.”

Mina turned to Liam. “She’s hired.”

Liam gave a mock salute. “Welcome to the team, Coach Assistant Honorary Manager.”

From where he stood, Iwaizumi could barely hear what they were saying, but when he saw Mina hand her a clipboard and a roll of athletic tape, he blinked in disbelief.

Oh no. No no no no—

Now she was involved.

Which, sure, was cool, and yeah, it was really great she was comfortable enough to jump in—but also?? She was going to be right there. On the bench. The whole game. Sitting five feet from him. Possibly watching him yell at Dev for missing another block or getting overly competitive during a casual co-ed game. he wasn’t used to having a girl’s attention on him during games. If any girl ever came for him, he didn’t know of it, and he never had strong enough feelings for any girl at school to feel nervous about being watched. The girls usually came for Oikawa, and as much as it pissed him off when he jokingly pointed it out, it was true that the girls’ attention was not on Iwaizumi. No more than for any other player that wasn’t the Great King.

He groaned softly into his towel.

He could already picture her teasing him about it later. Maybe repeating something he said on the court in a mocking voice. No, she would definitely do that because she had done it before. Maybe laughing at the fact that he still got fired up over something that didn’t even count for anything.

This was a mistake. I should’ve told her to come after. Or just meet for dinner. Or—

Then he looked up—and caught her making a neat pile of extra knee pads and water bottles, already settling into the manager role like it was second nature. She was talking with Bea now, nodding thoughtfully, all business.

Iwaizumi’s stomach twisted in a way that wasn’t entirely unpleasant. Okay… maybe it wasn’t a mistake.
But he was definitely not making it through this game without accidentally falling a little harder in love.

The game had only just started, and already chaos was well underway.

Dev nearly collided with Bea during the first serve receive—both of them yelling “Mine!” at the same time and then mutually deciding it was no one’s ball. Mina screamed “What are we, a middle school team?” while dramatically diving for it anyway and somehow keeping it in play.

Liam tried to finesse a float serve and ended up lobbing a gentle balloon straight into the net. “It was a distraction tactic,” he shouted. “They’ll never expect the second one!”

Jun, as usual, played like he was bored and ethereal, casually saving every shanked pass with a level of ease that made everyone else look like they were playing a different sport.

From the bench, you jotted something down on the clipboard, suppressing a grin as Callie ran by and shouted, “Please don’t write down my mistakes. I have a fragile ego.”

“I’m only tracking hydration,” you said.

“Liar!”

Still, despite the chaos, the team had decent chemistry—and they were doing better than the scoreboard showed. Everyone was holding their own.

Well. Almost everyone. Iwaizumi was... off.

Not in a completely falling apart way, but in a "why is Seijoh's former ace shanking serve receives and mistiming blocks by half a second?" kind of way. His spikes were too strong, too flat, or just plain mistimed. His serves weren’t landing like they usually did. And his reaction time—normally laser-sharp—felt dulled by hesitation.

You watched, confused. He wasn’t playing terribly, just... not like himself. You’d never seen him in high school, but you had heard back then that Seijoh was a strong team, and to be their ace, he would’ve been excellent at almost everything. Right now, he looked distracted. Tense in a way that didn’t make sense. Was he tired? Injured? During the timeout halfway through the set, the team jogged back to the bench for water. Most of them were still joking and jostling each other.

“You okay?” Mina asked Iwaizumi, handing him a towel. “You look like you're trying to fight invisible ghosts out there.”

“I’m fine,” he muttered, avoiding eye contact.

You handed him a water bottle. “Oi, Iwaizumi,” you said, casually but loud enough for a few teammates to hear. “I didn’t give up my Saturday evening to watch you suck. I came to see Seijoh’s famous ace.”

That got a few chuckles from the bench.

You smirked. “Now get it together and show them what you’ve got.”

For a split second, Iwaizumi blinked at you like you’d short-circuited his brain. Then—slowly—he exhaled through his nose, half a laugh slipping out. The corners of his mouth lifted.

“Got it, Manager-san,” he said, shaking out his arms and nodding to himself as he stepped back onto the court.

“Good. Or I’m revoking your water privileges.”

Liam gasped. “Brutal. I like her.”

Back on court, Iwaizumi squared his shoulders. His hands flexed, loosening up. His jaw unclenched. Somehow, her calling him out in front of the team had made it worse—but also better. The pressure wasn’t gone, but it felt different now. Lighter. Familiar. Like it used to be in high school when his teammates would call each other out when they messed up for whatever reason.

Yeah. This? This he could work with.

The next rally started—and Iwaizumi nailed the timing on a textbook-perfect block, slamming the ball straight down at the net with a satisfying thwack that echoed off the gym walls.

“That’s more like it!” Mina shouted.

From the bench, you held up a thumbs-up and gave him a mock-serious nod. “Acceptable.”

His ears turned slightly pink. But for the first time all evening, he grinned. With Iwaizumi back on form, the team hit their stride.

The next few rallies were clean, or at least clean enough by the standards of a co-ed rec team where half the players fueled themselves with cafeteria chicken nuggets and iced coffee. Bea landed a powerful cross shot that made even the other team’s front row flinch. Mina pulled off a pancake save so dramatic the referee actually clapped under his breath. Dev got one solid block and then immediately celebrated like he’d just won the Olympics, nearly clotheslining Liam in the process.

“Bro, it was one block,” Liam wheezed, ducking a flying arm.

“One glorious block!” Dev shouted back.

Meanwhile, you’d slipped comfortably into your impromptu manager role—handing out water, keeping track of rotation subs, and reminding Callie not to flirt with the opposing libero in the middle of the set.

“Sorry! He looks like a cinnamon roll!” she protested.

“No excuses,” you said. “You’ve got a serve in ten.”

By the last few points, the team had pulled ahead, and Iwaizumi was fully dialed in. The sharpness was back—his timing, his reads, even that signature slam-a-spike-like-he’s-got-something-to-prove energy. The final point came with a satisfying block at the net between him and Bea, and as the ball hit the floor, the whole team erupted into a chorus of chaotic victory noises.

Not quite polished. Not exactly dignified. But definitely triumphant.

“Let’s GOOOO!” Liam howled, throwing a high five in the air and spinning in a circle until he got dizzy and sat down on the floor.

“That was actually fun,” Jun said, almost smiling. “Weird.”

“I need five liters of water and a nap,” Mina muttered, collapsing onto the bench.

Callie made finger guns at the losing team’s libero. “Good game, cinnamon roll!”

The opposing team gave a few half-hearted claps and started packing up. No hard feelings—it was clear no one was taking this match too seriously. Which was probably why it had been so much fun. You helped collect stray balls, tossing them into the bin while the rest of the team slouched around, catching their breath and unstrapping knee pads. Iwaizumi came over, towel around his neck, still slightly flushed from the game. “Thanks for helping out,” he said, a little quieter than usual.

You glanced over, still scribbling down a few stats Mina asked for. “Anytime. You got your act together in the end, so I guess I won’t write you up.”

He snorted. “Generous.”

You nudged him with your elbow. “Nice block at the end. Seijoh would’ve been proud.”

That made him pause, just for a second. Then he gave a small, sincere nod. “Means a lot. Coming from you.”

Before that could linger too long and turn into a moment, Liam jogged by shirtless and yelled, “Let’s go, sweaty people! We’re gonna be late for dinner if we don’t rinse the gym smell off!”

That broke the spell. Everyone started moving, collecting their bags and bottles and making their way toward the locker rooms. Callie chucked a towel at Dev, who yelped and accused her of assault. Mina tried to organize them into pairs for speed-changing. Bea just sighed and trudged toward the door like someone used to this level of chaos.

As the team filtered toward the changing rooms, you trailed behind, laughing to yourself and brushing a stray piece of hair behind your ear. Iwaizumi slowed to match your pace.

“We’re grabbing food at that Korean place near campus,” he said. “You still coming?”

“Of course,” you replied. “I didn’t manage you guys through that circus to just go home.”

He smirked. “Just checking.”

“Though fair warning,” you added, “if anyone starts dancing on tables, I’m totally joining.”

“You assume someone won’t,” he muttered, eyeing Liam ahead of them.

You both reached the locker room hallway—his to the left, yours just a bit further down the right. Iwaizumi lingered for a second, then said, “Thanks again. Really.”

“Anytime, ace,” you said with a wink.

He turned away quickly, but you didn’t miss the small, crooked smile on his face as he disappeared into the guys’ room. You didn’t need to change so you just leaned back against the wall, exhaling quietly.

Yeah. That had been a good game.

And maybe… the night was only going to get better.

Chapter Text

As you were leaning against the wall outside the restrooms waiting for the team to come back out after freshening up, you checked your phone to find texts in your groupchat:

Kuroo:
“So? Did he trip and fall into love yet? Did you trip and fall into a bench?”

Kenma:
“Was it fun? Did you survive being around people for more than 90 minutes?”

You grinned down at your phone and typed out a quick reply to both:

“Game was fun. Team is chaos. Liam reminds me of Lev—tall, loud, mildly feral. Tell him when you see him.”
“Also no, I didn’t trip into anything. But Iwaizumi blocked a ball so hard I think the floor filed a complaint.”

Kenma replied with a thumbs-up emoji. Kuroo sent back:
"Send pics. Of the team. Not your weird crush."

You didn’t dignify that one with a response.

Once everyone was no longer drenched in sweat and in fresh clothes, they regrouped where you were waiting. The vibe was light and buzzing with post-win energy—plus the promise of food.

“Alright,” Mina said, clapping her hands once, “since we’ve been operating like a gremlin horde all evening, let’s do formal intros so our guest doesn’t think we’re just names shouted mid-rally.”

“Speak for yourself,” Liam added. “I’m a delight.”

“You tripped over the ball cart,” Bea pointed out.

“Still counts as charming.”

They formed a loose semi-circle around you, clearly waiting. You straightened up, laughing.

“I’m Fuyou. Iwaizumi invited me, so blame him if I’m weird.”

“I take full responsibility,” Iwaizumi said dryly from behind you.

“My best friends were on the school volleyball team and I used to help manage them sometimes,” you continued, “so this was right in my comfort zone. All that chaos felt like home.”

That earned a few chuckles.

Mina stepped forward first. “Mina. Libero. Height doesn’t matter when you have attitude and caffeine. My superpower is yelling loud enough to shame people into better defense.”

Next was Liam, of course, giving a two-handed wave like you were on a talk show. “Liam. Outside hitter. Comic relief. Probably the reason we need a team therapist.”

Bea raised a hand with a calm smile. “Bea. Outside. I don’t say much, but I hit hard. I apologize a lot. I’m trying.”

“I’m Dev. Middle blocker,” said a broad-shouldered guy with a buzzcut and a Band-Aid already peeling off his elbow. “I yell a lot but it’s mostly passion, not volume control issues. Probably.”

“Callie. I’m the one with the good hair and better jokes,” she said with a wink. “Also a server from hell, thank you very much.”

“Jun,” said the last one, hoodie sleeves pulled over his hands. “Setter. Don’t ask me questions.”

“Can I ask why you always look like you’re about to drop the hottest indie album of the year?” Callie asked sweetly.

Jun stared at her. “No.”

You laughed as Mina gestured toward the street. “Alright, introductions done. Let’s walk. Dinner awaits, and my blood sugar is personally attacking me.”

The restaurant wasn’t far—just a few blocks off campus—but the walk took longer than it should’ve, mostly because Liam tried to reenact dramatic volleyball slow-motion moments using street signs and garbage cans.

“Jun, set me! I’m going to spike this trash can lid into greatness!”

“I will end you,” Jun replied.

“Guys,” Mina said, exasperated, “if we get kicked out of a public sidewalk before we even reach the restaurant, I’m quitting this team.”

“Can’t quit,” Callie said. “You’re team mom.”

“I’m team dad.”

“Nope. Iwaizumi’s the dad. Bea’s the mom. You’re the weird wine aunt.”

Mina stopped walking. “I accept that.”

Through all the chaos, Iwaizumi had somehow ended up walking beside you, bag slung over one shoulder, his expression somewhere between tired and amused.

“Is this always how it is?” you asked.

“This is them trying to behave,” he replied. “Dev once tried to block a bird mid-flight.”

“…Did he succeed?”

“Sadly, yes.”

You let out a laugh at that and then walked in quiet companionship with Iwaizumi for a minute before asking him, “Makes you miss your team, doesn’t it?”
You’d kept your voice soft but Iwaizumi flinched as if you’d pinched him. He relaxed in a second before a sheepish look took over his expression. “Is my face that easy to read?”

“Not at all, I wasn’t even looking at you. It’s just that they remind me of my team and boys’ teams are usually chaotic. So I thought maybe you were missing yours too.”

“I do miss them, yeah. When I joined the team, we didn’t have a setter, and when Jun first set the ball for me… I just wanted to go home. And by the way, I don’t remember telling you I was an ace. Did your volleyball friends tell you?”

“Yeah. I was talking to them yesterday and mentioned that I was coming to watch your game and that’s when they asked who you were. When I told them, they recognized you.”

Iwaizumi never struck you as the type to be openly emotional or physically affectionate—especially with people he wasn’t particularly close to so the immediate change in subject was not surprising to you. And while the two of you were growing into good friends, you hadn’t quite reached the point where that kind of vulnerability felt natural. Still, he’d said enough. Just enough to acknowledge the quiet, mutual understanding between you—an unspoken bond of shared pain. The rest of the walk passed in silence, the two of you watching the rest of the team act like goofballs ahead of you.

The Korean BBQ place was packed just enough to be lively, but not so full you had to shout to be heard. You guys managed to snag a corner booth and two extra chairs, forming a squished semi-circle. You made the mistake of pausing to figure out where to sit—only to be steered (not gently) by Mina and Callie directly into the seat next to Iwaizumi.

Totally subtle.

Totally not planned.

You, of course, noticed none of this.

Iwaizumi sat down next to you, jaw tight with forced indifference. His teammates, however, did not let him off easy.

“So,” Liam said, dramatically pouring water into your glass like a fancy waiter, “are you two dating or are we all just watching the slowest mutual pining in recorded history?”

You blinked. “I—what?”

Iwaizumi deadpanned, “He’s not allowed near knives.”

“I’m just asking! For the vibe.”

“You’ll catch these vibes with a chair to the face,” Mina muttered.

Once food was ordered, the table came alive. Grills hissed, meat sizzled, and banter flew fast and furious. You found yourself laughing more than eating, though you managed both.

At one point, Liam said something dumb—again—and Mina responded with:

“Don’t just assume that when I’m angry, I’m hormonal. Otherwise, when you’re sleeping, I’ll just assume you’re dead and bury you in the backyard.”

Callie gasped. “Put that on a shirt.”

“That is a shirt,” Bea said. “Somewhere. In hell.”

Later, when Dev tried to say something serious, lay out a plan of sorts, Liam cut in towards the end with wide eyes and a disbelieving, “You’re mad.”

Dev didn’t miss a beat. “Thank goodness. If I wasn’t, this’d probably never work.”

You almost choked on your rice. This man did not just quote Captain Jack Sparrow out of the blue.

Somewhere in the meal there was a lull with everyone bringing their attention to the food they’d neglected for conversation, when Jun finally broke his silence by staring across the room at a couple mid-argument. He whispered under his breath: “From the look on her face? Some pretty dissatisfying sex. That looks like six minutes of under-the-covers missionary disappointment.”

He was probably talking to himself but half the table shrieked. Bea, who had been mid-sip, was now coughing spluttering with water coming out of her nose.

Iwaizumi looked up from his food. “Jun, what the hell?” while you patted Bea on the back and grabbed her some tissues trying to control your laughter.

Jun shrugged and took a sip of his soda. “Just an observation.”

Amidst all the table noise, you found a few quiet moments with Iwaizumi. Conversations where the world fell away a bit.

“How long have you known these guys?” you asked during a lull.

“Only since joining the team,” he said. “But it’s like living with an entire sitcom cast.”

“They seem to really like you Team Dad.”

He gave you a side glance. “I’m the only one who remembers to bring snacks and ibuprofen.”

You leaned a little closer, smirking. “That’s it? Not your winning personality?”

“Unclear.”

You nudged his knee under the table—casual, thoughtless—and he looked like he briefly forgot how to breathe.

Later, when Mina asked if you were coming to their next game, you nodded. “If you’ll have me as manager again. Even if you don’t, I’ll still be there.”

“Oh, absolutely,” she said. “You’re already better than Liam, and he’s been here for three semesters.”

“Rude,” Liam said, his voice dripping with mock offense. “I’m the backbone of this team’s comedic timing. You’ve been trying my patience like an unpaid intern all night woman.”

Mina looked him right in the eyes with a deadpan expression and replied with a deep and dramatic voice, “I have licked the fire and danced in the ashes of every bridge I ever burned, I fear no hell from you, you sycophantic imbecile.”

“Wow,” Bea said. “Write that on my tombstone.”

Before the conversation could go further, Iwaizumi glanced at you and asked, “Are you sure it won’t be too much? You’ve already got enough on your plate as it is.” Ah, ever the responsible one, that man.

Mina blinked. “What do you mean?”

Iwaizumi sighed. “She’s a double major, with classes, work-study, and an internship. When the fall semester starts, it’ll be just as crazy, if not more.”

“Double major?!” Liam’s voice trailed off, half in awe, half in panic. “That’s awesome—and awful at the same time! Wha—”

“What are you majoring in?” Callie cut him off before his rambling went any further.

“Comp Sci and Bio,” you answered casually. “And don’t worry, I can make time for the games. It’s not like you guys play every week.”

Callie’s eyes lit up, a grin spreading across her face. “Yeah! If Miss Manager says she can do it, she can do it! If she can handle all that extra work, she can definitely handle whatever you throw at her!”

And somewhere before dessert, when the grill flared a bit too high and Liam jumped back yelling, “WHAT from the bottom of my heart THE FUCK—” you added, perfectly deadpan:

“Hey guys, does anyone know what the fuck?”

The table fell apart laughing, even Jun cracked a smile, and Iwaizumi chuckled, shaking his head.

“Does anyone want dessert? Or should we call it a night?”
Everyone murmured or shook their heads to signal they were done. You glanced at the dessert menu, tempted but hesitant—no one else seemed interested, so you didn’t want to say anything. But the options looked too good to resist. So, with a slight blush, you raised your hand—just up to your shoulder, part of you hoping it would go unnoticed. Of course, it didn’t.

Liam and Dev both shot their hands into the air, shouting in unison, “DESSERT FOR THE LADY!!”

The waitress came over to them, raising an eyebrow at their enthusiasm. “Hey, keep it down,” she said, but Iwaizumi, ever the calm one, simply nodded and asked, “Could we see the dessert menu, please?”

The mood settled back into easy chatter, and you couldn’t help but smile. It was a night off well spent.

After dinner, they split off in pairs or groups to head home or hit the nearby karaoke bar. Iwaizumi offered to walk you back, and you didn’t hesitate to accept. The night was warm and surprisingly quiet for a Saturday night in a college town. Streetlamps hummed above. Your feet tapped in soft rhythm with his as you strolled side by side.

“You good?” you asked.

He nodded. “It was a good night.”

“Even with the teasing?”

He glanced sideways at you, a corner of his mouth lifting. “They’ll live. I’m used to it.”

You smiled. “Thanks for inviting me. This was so much fun.”

“Thanks for showing up.”

You walked in silence for a bit more. Then, as you reached your front door, you stopped.

“Next time,” you said, “I want to see you block a bird.”

He laughed, low and warm. “Deal.”

You lingered there a second longer than necessary with the door already unlocked.

“Goodnight, Hajime.”

“Night.”

And with one last glance—one that seemed like he wanted to say something else but didn’t—he turned and started down the steps of your house. When he was at the sidewalk he turned around to make sure you got inside before starting his walk home. Now you were part of a group, you’d been welcomed as a friend and manager to a group kind, albeit eccentric, group of volleyball players. Experiences with Iwaizumi were starting to feel more and more like home.

Chapter Text

Liam:
Okay but for real, I'm still alive right? Iwaizumi didn't kill me after everyone left, right?
unless this is the afterlife group chat… in which case, can ghosts add new members? Asking for a friend.

Dev:
bro if this is the afterlife I want ghost pizza
and ur definitely dead he just hasn't admitted it yet. You’re texting from the shadow realm

Mina:
Liam’s ghost is haunting the group chat like: “i just wanted to toast the new manager 😔”

Callie:
Imagine your last words being "Let’s toast to our new manager 😎"
Gone but never forgotten

Bea:
Liam I’m making your grave aesthetic. Moss, fairy lights, tasteful plaque that says “Killed by Love (and Iwaizumi’s fist)”

Liam:
you guys are so supportive 🥲
if I am dead, someone please make sure she knows I was rooting for them. I’ll be haunting their wedding and want credit

Dev:
LMAOOO
"Iwaizumi and Miss Manager, sponsored by the spiritual endorsement of Liam's ghost"

Mina:
wait wait I can see it now:
"Do you, Hajime Iwaizumi, take this woman to be your lawfully wedded—"
"I DO—AND LIAM WOULD HAVE WANTED THIS"

Callie:
STOPPP 😂
he's gonna snap soon, I can feel it
but also
coach man
do it. add her
let’s see how fast your tough guy act crumbles when she’s in the chat

Bea:
Bet he changes his profile pic to a sunset selfie of them within 3 business days

Dev:
Nah, 2 business days if she calls him "Haji" in here once

Iwaizumi:
…

Iwaizumi:
Shut up.
I’m adding her now so behave.

Jun:
wait

Iwaizumi:
what now?

Dev:
OH MY
IM SCARED NOW
COACH MAN R U SCARED TOO
JUN HAS ENTERED THE CHAT

Jun:
[📷 sent one image]
you’re welcome

The photo made Iwaizumi pause mid-brush, toothbrush hanging from his mouth. One glance, and—Pfft!
A full-on spit take. Toothpaste foam splattered across the bathroom mirror like some tragic comedy skit.

The image was simple, but it hit him like a sucker punch. It was of you and him during the break, caught in a candid moment. You had that teasing smile—the one that always made his pulse do something stupid—your amber eyes wide and focused entirely on him. He was mid-laugh, head dipped slightly, eyes shut. Relaxed. Happy.
Jun had clearly edited it—softened the background, blurred out the chaos—but somehow, miraculously, none of the others had photobombed. It looked… intimate.

Too intimate.

He stared for longer than he’d admit, chest tight and jaw clenched. Then, as if he were sneaking contraband, he saved it to his phone. Quick. Quiet. Like he was doing something he shouldn’t be.

Bea:
JUN
JUNNNNNN
YOU DID NOT JUST DROP THIS CASUALLY—

Dev:
OH MY GOD THIS PHOTO
you enhanced the soft couple vibes

Callie:
jun. sweet quiet jun. you are the biggest agent of chaos i’ve ever met
IWAIZUMI LOOKS LIKE HE’S IN LOVE 😭

Liam:
she’s looking at him like he hung the stars
and he’s just out here smiling like a man who doesn’t know he’s already married

Mina:
I’m sorry but this is not just a “friendship” pic
this is the cover photo for a “how we fell in love during training camp” documentary

Dev:
this is the moment in the movie where the best friend starts crying because they realize the leads are soulmates and they’ve been blind the whole time

Bea:
zoom in on the way he’s looking down
zoom in on her smile
tell me they’re “just friends” again. I dare you.

Callie:
nah he SAVED that photo i just know it
that’s not a “haha funny team moment” save
that’s a lockscreen save

Liam:
it’s over for him. he’s IN IT
he’s past the point of no return

Iwaizumi:
This is harassment.

Jun:
this is art

Iwaizumi:
I expected better from you Jun

Mina:
this is proof you’re in denial
go ask her out before we all explode

Iwaizumi:
that’s enough, I’m adding her now

Callie:
EHEHEHEHE

[New Chat Member Added: Fuyou]

Liam:
*rises from the ghost realm*
Welcome… to the chaos Miss Manager 😌

Manager Girl:
uhhhh
hi? 👀
i just got a notif saying I’ve been added to “Team Squad (Chaos Edition)” and now I’m scared??

Callie:
NOOO DON’T BE SCARED
WE’RE NORMAL
mostly

Liam:
Hiiiiii 👋 I’m the one who almost died tonight (emotionally and nearly physically). Welcome 😇

Dev:
He toasted to you and Coach Man almost buried him under the table. It was almost romantic, in a Shakespearean tragedy kinda way.

Manager Girl:
omg what did I just walk into 😂
also “Coach Man”? Is that a nickname or an alter ego I don’t know about?

Mina:
It’s both.
He becomes Coach Man when the volley players are involved.

Bea:
Welcome welcome! You're already cooler than all of us, but you’ll have to survive the group chat to truly earn your stripes 💪

Manager Girl:
So hazing is still a thing. Got it.
Also, Hajime… you didn’t warn me this was a cult.

Iwaizumi:
I tried.
You just ignored the “they’re a menace” warning.

Manager Girl:
Well now I’m here. Can’t back out now.
Let the chaos begin 😌

Chapter Text

After being added to the group chat last night, you woke up to a wave of follow requests from everyone on the team. Even Jun. You hadn’t expected that. He was so reserved, you figured it would take weeks—maybe months—before he let you anywhere near his fortress of solitude.

But he followed you without hesitation. And somehow, that simple gesture made you emotional.

You’d always thrived in small groups. Being part of a volleyball team again felt like slipping into your old self, like stepping into a familiar rhythm. It reminded you of your days with Nekoma: chaotic, comforting, real. Iwaizumi and volleyball were your comfort zone. Meeting new people? That was the edge of it. And this team was the perfect balance. You could focus on your studies, enjoy the sport you loved, and finally start to socialize in a way that didn’t feel forced or exhausting.

You liked your classmates. You liked your two housemates. But you weren’t especially close to any of them. Your housemates were great when your paths crossed—usually in the kitchen or while tackling chores—but you were all on different schedules and majors, and they were barely home anymore.

Except for Phoebe.

Phoebe was a 33-year-old PhD candidate who somehow made stress look stylish. You adored her. She was the kind of person you hoped to grow into—funny, grounded, brutally realistic, and still somehow nurturing. You loved calling her "Pheebs" like in Friends , which cracked you up every time because she was the absolute opposite of the show's bubbly, eccentric character. Phoebe had a calming presence. Always asked how you were doing. Always noticed when something was off. She had slowly, unintentionally become an older sister figure. A very busy, slightly unavailable one—but a sister nonetheless.

Tonight, the two of you were cleaning up the house together when the conversation took a familiar turn.

“I want to ask you something personal,” you said, looking over from the living room. “But you can totally tell me to shut up if it’s too much.”

She looked up from the kitchen floor. “Go ahead.”

“You and Eli have been together for over a year but don’t live together. Is he always traveling or…?”

She smiled, not bothered by the question. “Nah, it’s okay. We actually did live together when I first started my PhD. We’d been dating for a few months by then. It worked, even with our schedules being hell. But last year he got a long-term project a few hours away. We made the decision to live separately until it’s done. He comes back whenever he can. We’ve been together almost four years now, and I’ll graduate in a year, so... we’ll be fine.”

You grinned. “You’re an inspiration. Long distance is harder than cracking nuts.”

She laughed, soft and airy, and returned to scrubbing. “So, how’re you doing? We haven’t had a proper talk in a while. Still terribly homesick? You seem like you’ve settled in, but really—how are you spending your time? Do you have any friends now?”

“Yeah. I’ve been friendly with classmates, but the closest person I’ve gotten to know is this guy from my anatomy class last year. He’s Japanese too, so the homesickness has been easier to deal with. We hang out, complain about life. He’s awesome—I wish I’d known him back in Tokyo too, just so I could’ve spent more time with him.”

Phoebe raised a brow but said nothing. You didn’t see it so you kept talking.

“He invited me to one of his volleyball games. That’s how I met the team. They asked me to be their manager. Everyone’s a little chaotic, but honestly? They feel like a found family. It reminds me of high school again. We had dinner after the game and... he walked me home.”

“You sound like you’re close,” she said carefully.

You nodded. “We’ve been friends for about a year, but we’ve gotten closer these past few weeks. Ever since his birthday... it’s like we’re doing the same things we always did, but it feels... different.”

“Different how?”

You hesitated.

“Do you like him?” she asked gently.

“Well yeah, of course I like him. He’s great, and he’s my friend—”

“No, baby.” She turned, giving you a knowing look. “I mean do you like him. As in... want to jump his bones, then gaze into his eyes, then jump him again.”

You groaned, dropping onto the couch dramatically. “Not you too!”

Phoebe grinned.

“Why does everyone keep saying that? Can’t a girl and a guy just be good friends? We’re both far from home, of course we’d get close. My two best friends back home are both boys and no one ever said anything like this about them.”

“The fact that everyone keeps saying it is a sign.”

“My best friends say it. That’s all.” Of course you didn’t know the teasing Iwaizumi had to endure from his teammates.

“So… two people is now ‘everyone’?” she teased. “Also, you’re 19, right? You told me you’ve never dated anyone. I know a crush when I see one. I was in high school mastering French kissing when you were still in diapers.”

You sighed dramatically. “Yeah, and I respect your ancient wisdom, O Wise One, but I’m telling you—this isn’t like that.”

Phoebe laughed. “Fine, fine. I’ll drop it. But while we’re being honest... is there anyone you are interested in? Anyone you’d even want to get to know that way? Or are you planning to remain a college-era virgin who avoids parties like they’re cursed?”

“I don’t like parties. They’re loud, full of horny drunk people, and no one’s actually fun to talk to.” You leaned back with a shrug. “As for the rest... my virginity goes to a boyfriend worth remembering. Doesn’t have to be ‘The One,’ but definitely someone worth the time. And no one’s caught my attention.”

She gave you a sly look. “Except for your new friend. What’s his name?”

“Iwaizumi,” you mumbled. “And he’s... serious, but goofy when he wants to be. He cares about his friends. He’s incredibly responsible. He’s just... great.”

“Is he hot?”

You paused. “...Very.”

“Sounds like he checks all your boxes.”

“It doesn’t matter. It can’t be him.”

“Why not?” she asked, genuinely curious. “College isn’t forever. If it doesn’t work out, you go your separate ways. You already have different housing and majors. You won’t be stuck running into him forever.”

“But that’s the problem!” you said, frustrated with yourself. “I don’t want to lose him. Not in any way, his friendship is precious to me.” Your voice softened. “Losing a friend hurts worse than a breakup. And I don’t think he feels the same. So none of this matters anyway.”

Phoebe was quiet for a beat, focused on the counter. Then, gently:

“I get it. I really do. And you don’t have to do anything you’re not ready for. I just didn’t want you to close the door on something real just because you're scared of a ‘what if.’ You're doing great—with school, and now with your social life. But if you ever do want something more... I just hope you’re not using your schedule as an excuse to avoid it.”

You exhaled. “Iwaizumi will make someone really happy one day. But it won’t be me. And... I think that’s how it should be. We’re both busy, and I think we like it that way. Dating just isn’t on the table for either of us.”

“Alright,” Phoebe said, letting it go with a small nod. “Just promise me you’ll keep your heart open, not locked up. That’s all.”

You didn’t reply. You just nodded back.

“Anyway,” she said, changing gears. “Aaliyah’s moving out next year too, before I am in fact, so we need to start hunting for new housemates unless you want to pay triple rent. I was thinking of posting on the forums...”

The rest of the conversation shifted toward logistics—bills, forums, weird roommate stories from her undergrad days—but her words stuck with you. You knew that Iwaizumi held a special place in your heart. He was your comfort in a foreign place. But it felt too precious to risk. Too important.

Because if something did happen—if it fell apart—you’d lose more than just some silly temporary crush.
You’d lose your home away from home.

And that just wasn’t a risk you were ready to take.

Chapter Text

The end of the semester smelled like burnt coffee, dry erase markers, and stress.

The library was always too full, the kitchen was always out of clean mugs, and your group chat had shifted from chaotic memes and volleyball jokes to full-on study war cries.

Dev:
WHO TF INVENTED 8AM EXAMS I JUST WANNA TALK

Liam:
i haven’t seen the sun in 2 days
also pretty sure i forgot how to spell "muscle" halfway through bio

Bea:
You mean you ever knew how to spell it???

Callie:
SHUT UP AND SEND ME YOUR ANATOMY NOTES

It had become a running joke that no one on the team was okay—and that included you.

You were currently half-buried under a pile of textbooks and flashcards in the common room of the athletic center, surrounded by the sound of scribbling pens and the occasional frustrated sighs of fellow overachievers. Someone had brought snacks, someone else had brought a portable speaker (which got banned after ten minutes), and someone had definitely cried at least once.

But you liked being in the middle of the mayhem.

Even when you weren’t managing the team, you were around—helping with prep, organizing schedules, occasionally being the one to run and grab lunch orders when practice ran long. Somehow, your role as "manager" had expanded beyond volleyball logistics.

You were the emotional support gremlin now. Apparently, every team needed one. You weren’t close to everyone in the exact same way. Dev and Liam treated you like a sibling. Callie had declared you her “study rival” and refused to let you work without sending at least three memes per hour. Mina had roped you into co-running a secret playlist war for the warm-ups.

And Iwaizumi?

Well, Iwaizumi just... was.

Solid. Constant. Grumbly, sleep-deprived, and still the most dependable person you’d ever met.

He didn’t talk much during study sessions unless he had something useful to say. But he always brought enough food for two. You never asked if the extra banana bread was for you, but it always ended up on your side of the table.

“You need to drink water,” he muttered one afternoon, nudging a bottle toward you without looking up from his notes.

“I did,” you lied, definitely dehydrated.

He glanced up, unamused. “That was yesterday.”

“I drink some water every day.”

“Coffee doesn’t count.”

“I knew you were going to say that.”

Still, you took the bottle and drank it.

That was the thing about Iwaizumi. He didn’t hover, he didn’t nag. But somehow, he was always there, just enough to keep you from running on fumes.

The others noticed it too, of course.

Callie had once whispered, “Is this your shared custody arrangement or what?” after Iwaizumi had handed you a granola bar mid-conversation without even breaking stride. You’d rolled your eyes and thrown the wrapper at her.

But it wasn’t like that.
You were just... comfortable with each other.

It had taken months to get here—months of showing up, helping out, checking in. You were proud of that. You hadn’t expected to find a community again, not so far from Tokyo. But you had.

It didn’t erase the homesickness, but it softened it.

As the first snow fell outside and the countdown to winter break began, you found yourself more embedded in this group than you’d ever planned to be. There were inside jokes now. Shared playlists. Nicknames.

A new little home inside a campus you used to feel lost in.

And sure, there were moments—quiet, in-between ones—when you’d catch yourself watching Iwaizumi from across the gym or study hall, wondering what made him so easy to trust.

But then he’d shove a protein bar at you without looking and mutter, “You skipped lunch again,” and the moment would pass.

Just like that.

It was nearly 9PM by the time practice wrapped. The gym had emptied slowly, the rest of the team peeling off into the night with waves and half-hearted complaints about exams, essays, and frostbite. Tonight was the last practice until after winter break. You lingered behind, gathering stray cones and folding the extra towels while Iwaizumi reset the net for tomorrow morning.

Neither of you spoke much—never needed to. The silence was familiar by now. Comfortable.

You walked over to the benches and noticed his bag was still open, gear spilling out like it always did. He was weirdly meticulous about training drills and schedules, but his gym bag looked like a laundry basket that had survived a small explosion.

You crouched and started packing it properly—shoes in a separate mesh pouch, water bottle tightened and zipped, towel rolled instead of crammed. The little things. You didn’t even think about it anymore.

“I was gonna do that,” came his voice, casual, from behind you.

“I know,” you said, not looking up. “But we both know you wouldn’t do it right.”

He huffed a soft laugh. “Unbelievable.”

You zipped the bag closed and stood up to find him watching you, one brow raised, arms crossed. He didn’t look tired, exactly, but there was a faint sag to his shoulders. The kind that came with long days and longer weeks.

“You’ve been staying late every night,” you said. “Studying, training, helping people.”

“Yeah,” he replied, like that explained everything.

You tilted your head. “Have you been sleeping?”

He didn’t answer immediately. Just looked away for a second and scratched the back of his neck. “… Enough.”

“So no, then.”

You reached into your own bag and pulled out a small container—Tupperware, cracked at one corner, steam still faintly clinging to the lid.

“Here,” you said, holding it out. “From dinner. You didn’t eat earlier.”

He stared at it for a second, like it was a math problem. “You made this?”

You nodded. “Leftovers. Chicken karaage and rice. And don’t look at me like I poisoned it, Iwaizumi.”

He gave a quiet, breathy laugh but didn’t move to take it just yet. “You didn’t have to.”

“I know.”

Another pause. Then he took it, not roughly but not gently either—just a little too quick, like it made him uncomfortable.

“You always look after everyone, I wanted to take care of you.”

You watched as he sat down on the bench and opened the lid, steam puffing out. The smell of garlic and ginger hit the air. He didn’t say thank you, just put his hands together saying a quiet ‘thanks for the food’ and started eating slowly. Thoughtfully. Like a homecooked meal it meant a lot to him. You sat down next to him and leaned against the wall, pulling your hoodie tighter as the gym’s heating system clicked off for the night. For a while, the only sounds were the soft thump of the chopsticks against plastic and the hum of the vending machine near the locker rooms.

Then, finally:

“I’m flying back to Japan the day after exams.”

You turned your head to look at him.

“Oh?”

He nodded, still chewing. “Just for a few weeks. Back before the semester starts.”

Something in your chest twitched. Not pain, not panic. Just… that quiet ache that reminded you this wasn’t permanent. That this—this team, this place—was borrowed time.

“That’s nice,” you said, voice light. “You’ll get real food again.”

He gave a small nod. “Yeah. Looking forward to it.”

You didn’t ask if he’d miss any of this. You didn’t say you’d miss him either. But you sat there a little longer than necessary. Didn’t move until he finished the food and handed the container back, silently.

You tucked it away and stood, brushing invisible dust from your legs.

“You need to sleep,” you said, nudging his knee with your shoe. “Don’t make me start leaving chamomile tea on your doorstep.”

He grumbled something that might’ve been “I’m fine,” but you were already walking toward the exit.

“Text me when you get back,” you said, over your shoulder.

“I will.”

He didn’t say goodbye. You didn’t either. But the echo of the empty gym followed you both out into the night.

By the time you got home, the house smelled like something cozy—lavender tea and vanilla candles—and the low hum of a movie played softly from the living room. You toed off your shoes at the door, letting the warmth settle around your shoulders. Your limbs felt heavy from the long day, but your brain was still buzzing—volleyball schedules, finals flashcards, Iwaizumi’s offhand “I’m going home.”

You padded softly down the hall and peeked into the living room.

Phoebe was curled into the corner of the couch, blanket over her legs, her hair tied up in a lazy bun. Her laptop sat open beside her, but her eyes were on the screen—some old movie with muted colors and dramatic violins. Next to her was someone you instantly recognized, though you’d never officially met him.

Eli.

Tall, broad-shouldered, still in a work shirt with the sleeves rolled to his elbows. He had that casual-but-polished look about him—someone who probably said things like "circle back" and "touch base" all day but somehow didn’t make it sound annoying.

He glanced up when he saw you and paused the movie.

“Oh hey,” Phoebe said, perking up. “You’re back.”

“Yeah,” you said softly. “Practice ran late. Didn’t mean to interrupt.”

“You’re not interrupting.” She patted the arm of the couch beside her. “Come say hi properly.”

You stepped a little further into the room, self-conscious in your oversized hoodie and scuffed sneakers.

“This is Eli,” Phoebe said, giving his knee a light tap. “Eli, this is my youngest and most emotionally well-adjusted roommate.”

Eli smiled, warm but a little guarded. “Finally, good to meet you. I’ve heard a lot.”

“Uh oh,” you said, giving a small, polite laugh. “Hopefully not too much.”

“She talks about you like you’re a little sister,” Eli replied. “But the competent kind.”

Phoebe rolled her eyes. “It’s true. She runs the volleyball team like a ninja secretary.”

“I don’t know what that means,” you said, smiling, “but I’ll take it.”

Eli leaned forward slightly, elbows on his knees. “You play?”

You shook your head. “I’m the manager. Used to help manage the team in high school, but now I mostly wrangle college students and hand out towels.”

“That’s a full-time job on its own,” he said. “Respect.”

You nodded once, a bit awkwardly. “Thanks. Anyway, I’ll leave you two to it. Just wanted to say hi.”

“You sure?” Phoebe asked. “We’re just watching The English Patient and mocking how unnecessarily long it is.”

You hesitated, then smiled. “Tempting, but I should shower before I permanently become part of this hoodie.”

“You’re welcome to be gross here,” she called as you retreated toward the stairs.

You waved over your shoulder, still smiling. “Night.”

“Night, kiddo.”

“Goodnight,” Eli added.

You climbed the stairs slowly, the sounds of the movie resuming behind you. There was something nice about the quiet domesticity of it—Phoebe curled on the couch, Eli next to her, the world outside dim and cold, but the inside glowing warm.

You closed your bedroom door and exhaled.

Tomorrow would be another long day. More classes, more studying, more stress. But for now, the house was quiet, your legs were sore, and you had nowhere to be but here. You peeled off your hoodie and sat on the edge of your bed, rubbing your hands together to warm them.

Just a few more weeks until the semester ended.
Just a few more weeks until winter.
Just a few more weeks of this rhythm you were starting to love.

And somehow, that felt like enough.

For now.

Chapter Text

Winter break came quietly.

No parties, no flight home, no mad dash to the airport.

Just a Tuesday morning where the campus emptied out like water down a drain. The dorms thinned, the library cleared, and suddenly, the cafeteria staff knew you by name again.

You’d had your meeting with your academic advisor two days earlier, tucked in just before the break. Nothing dramatic, just a cold office and an even colder cup of coffee. But the news had surprised you: All the internships, lab hours, extracurriculars, and transfer credits from Tokyo were adding up faster than expected. You were on track to finish early—at least in terms of coursework.

“Your fifth year could be mostly electives, or even just part-time,” your advisor had said. “Use it wisely. You’ve earned it.”

You hadn’t decided how you felt about that yet.

More time for research? For travel? For volleyball? For… life?

You didn’t know.
But you knew you wouldn’t be going home this winter.

It was slow in the break. The sidewalks were wet but not white. It was California after all, no snow. Your roommates had left a week ago—Aaliyah to visit her parents, Phoebe to spend New Year's with Eli’s family. The house was yours now. Quiet and lonely. You fell into a strange rhythm: sleep in, study a little and think of what to do with the extra time your advisor said you’d have, cook real meals, walk without rushing. You even finished two novels you’d been "definitely about to read" since last spring.

You met up with Callie once for bubble tea and Bea for a walk around the frozen pond near campus. Dev had texted about a “movie night or cry night or both,” and you still hadn’t answered yet. Maybe you’ll tell him to plan after New Year when the rest of the team would be back.

But mostly, you kept to yourself. You didn’t mind the solitude. Not really. Except for sometimes—just a flicker—when your phone buzzed and you hoped it was someone in particular.

Iwaizumi [Dec 24, 8:42 PM]:
Hope you’re not freezing out there.
Japan’s unusually warm this year. 15 degrees today.

This was the first text he’d sent you since he went back to Miyagi. Not including the text he sent you to let you know he’d landed safely.

You:
Lucky. I saw the sun once this week and I think I hallucinated it.
Have a good Christmas!

Iwaizumi [Dec 25]:
You too. Thanks again for the food before I left.
Let me know if you need anything from here.

You didn’t need anything, exactly. But you still texted him a few days later when you saw a clip of a volleyball match from Tokyo that reminded you of his form.
He replied quickly.
He always did.

December 25th
2:12 PM

The idea started with a message in the team chat, but the real plan was born in a private side conversation.

Callie:
ok but real talk
why are we NOT all crashing your place for Christmas
you literally have a whole house to yourself and no supervision 😭

You:
I have two empty bedrooms, a fridge full of leftover Japanese snacks, and zero other plans
bring waffles and chaos

By 3PM, your quiet house had transformed.

The living room smelled like burnt sugar and something vaguely spicy (thanks to Dev experimenting with chili powder in hot chocolate). Callie had kicked off her boots the second she entered and was now wrapped in one of Phoebe’s throw blankets like she owned the place. Bea had taken over the playlist and alternated between lo-fi Christmas remixes and chaotic trap carols.

You wore fuzzy socks and sweatpants. Callie wore a “Slay Belle” sweater and glitter under her eyes. Dev was still in his coat, apron over it, armed with a waffle iron and a deep distrust of your kitchen. Bea had brought nothing but her phone, which she kept using to document “the downfall of festive society” for Instagram.

It wasn’t traditional. But it was so… them.

In the kitchen, you and Dev managed to make waffles without starting a fire, though it was close.
“You need a new spatula,” he muttered, trying to flip one without tearing it in half.

“You’re using it wrong,” you said, reaching over to help. “You have to—wait, no—don’t—”

Splatter.

“Yep,” he said, deadpan. “That’s on you now.”

You both burst out laughing as Bea shouted from the living room, “Y’all better not burn down the house, this is rent-controlled!”

Once the food was made and the drinks were poured (sparkling cider in Phoebe’s stolen wine glasses), you all piled into the living room. Callie insisted on a couch pillow fort. You dragged out every blanket in the house. Dev took over the corner near the heater like an old man settling into retirement. There were sugar cookies shaped like volleyballs, one cookie vaguely resembling Iwaizumi’s scowl, and one very suspiciously shaped one that Bea refused to explain. You played Heads Up, Uno Flip, and eventually devolved into a five-minute debate about whether The Grinch was a misunderstood millennial icon or just emotionally repressed.

“We should do this every year,” Callie declared, balancing her sparkling cider on her head and immediately regretting it.

“You mean crash my house while everyone else is gone?” you said, amused.

“Yes,” Bea replied, stealing your blanket and wrapping herself tighter. “Exactly that.”

Later, with your playlist low and the room warm from too many bodies and too much sugar, someone brought up the team group chat.

“Pics or it didn’t happen,” Callie said, already holding up her phone.

You took group selfies—one serious, one blurry, one where Dev had cookie frosting on his cheek and Bea was pointing at it like she was announcing the discovery of a new planet.

Then the videos:

🎥 Callie dancing with your coat rack like it owed her money.
🎥 Dev narrating the process of making “disaster waffles” like a Food Network host in emotional crisis.
🎥 You and Bea harmonizing badly to All I Want for Christmas Is You while trying not to drop a mug of cider.

The messages were instant.

Liam:
dev looks one domestic breakdown away from being my new wife

Mina:
IWAIZUMI EYEBROW COOKIE 😭😭😭

Iwaizumi:
…what the hell is that

Callie:
that’s YOU, king 😌 edible and judgmental

Bea:
you’re welcome for the blessed content
merry chaosmas

Manager Girl:
next year we’ll livestream it
donations will go toward group therapy

The notifications kept lighting up your phone long after the waffles were cold and the music had stopped. And even though it wasn’t the Christmas you used to know—no snow, no Tokyo lights, no noisy Kuroo—it felt… warm. Right. Like something new was taking root.

As Bea dozed off on your couch, Callie scrolled through your fridge like she paid rent here, and Dev quietly washed dishes in the kitchen without being asked, you realized: You weren’t just managing a volleyball team. You were becoming part of something that mattered.

January 1st
10:47 AM in Tokyo | 5:47 PM in California

The apartment was quiet, except for the kettle beginning to hiss on the stove.
You were still in your pajamas—flannel pants and Kenma’s faded Nekoma hoodie—curled up on the couch with your laptop balanced on your knees. Outside, the sky was already darkening, but the screen in front of you was bright with two familiar faces.

Kuroo, messy-haired and grinning, holding a cup of tea.

Kenma, barely awake, blanket around his shoulders and a cat tail flicking somewhere in the corner of his screen.

“I was gonna say ‘Happy New Year,’” you said, smiling, “but it looks like Kenma hasn’t made it into the new year yet.”

“I’m here,” Kenma mumbled, eyes only half open. “Barely.”

“He’s been horizontal all day,” Kuroo added, smirking. “I think this is the most vertical he’s been since midnight.”

Kenma flicked him off with the enthusiasm of someone who did not care enough to aim properly. You laughed, the sound echoing softly through your empty living room.

“How was your New Year’s?” Kuroo asked. “Did you do anything?”

“Not really,” you said, tucking your legs under you. “Made noodles. Watched a fireworks livestream. Had a drink. Just… quiet.”

“That’s so tragic,” Kuroo replied, mock-offended. “You should’ve at least called us at midnight your time. I would’ve lit sparklers in my pajamas.”

“She didn’t want to interrupt your romantic New Year’s Eve dinner,” Kenma deadpanned.

“Oh right,” you said, teasing. “How’s the girlfriend?”

Kuroo made a face. “She’s with her parents for the weekend. So it was just me and Kenma, like old times.”

“Old times meaning—what—us in middle school, eating too many rice crackers and watching the countdown with our faces two inches from the screen?”

Kenma gave the tiniest smile, barely visible through the haze of blanket and hair.

“I still remember the one year we tried to make our own toshikoshi soba,” you added.

Kuroo barked out a laugh. “Disaster. We almost set the stove on fire.”

“You put the seaweed in too early,” Kenma said.

“You were the one who dropped soy sauce on the cat!”

“It was a tiny splash.”

“You screamed like you were being chased by a ghost,” Kuroo said, nearly wheezing.

The memory hit you suddenly and vividly—
Three kids crowded around a too-small stove in Kuroo’s kitchen, steam curling into the air, Kenma’s cat darting between your legs, someone knocking over a water bottle and someone else yelling “get the ladle, get the LADLE—”
It had smelled like home. Soy sauce and winter air. The warm sound of laughter bouncing off wooden floors and glass windows fogged up from the cold.

You felt it in your chest even now, like muscle memory.

“God, I miss that,” you said quietly, more to yourself than them.

“I do too,” Kuroo replied, his voice softer now. “It’s not the same without you.”

You nodded, blinking hard once. “I know.”

A pause settled over the call—comfortable, but weighty. The kind of silence you could only have with people who had known you since you were small and strange and still figuring things out.

“I’m proud of you, you know,” Kuroo said suddenly.

You looked up. “For what?”

“For everything,” he shrugged. “Going out there. Sticking with it. Becoming a terrifying volleyball manager in your free time.”

“I heard you’ve started bossing around tall men,” Kenma added.

You snorted. “Lies…but they deserve it.”

Kuroo smiled. “Still. You’re doing good. I’m glad.”

You looked at them both—your oldest friends, your constants. “I miss you guys.”

“We’ll see each other soon,” Kenma said. “We always do.”

You nodded, biting your cheek to keep from getting too sentimental.

“Okay,” Kuroo said, sitting up straighter. “One last thing before we go.”

“Oh no,” you groaned. “Is this the thing where you make me yell the New Year’s chant even though no one else can hear me?”

“Tradition,” he said, grinning. “You’re not skipping it just because you’re across the ocean.”

“Kenma doesn’t do it anymore,” you pointed out.

Kenma was already lowering his screen. “Exactly.”

“Too bad,” Kuroo said. “On the count of three…”

You sighed dramatically, but your smile tugged at the corners of your mouth anyway.

“…One, two, three—”

“AKEMASHITE OMEDETOU!”

Kuroo shouted it. You half-mumbled it through laughter. Kenma groaned offscreen. And for just a second, it felt like you were home again. You closed your laptop slowly, the ghost of a smile still lingering on your lips.

The house was quiet again, but it didn’t feel quite so empty this time. Your tea had gone cold. The candles had burned low. Outside, a neighbor somewhere set off a single late firework, the sound sharp and sudden in the night. You took your mug of tea and settled on the couch in your living room, pulling your knees up to your chest, blanket around your shoulders, letting the silence settle. It was strange—how something as simple as a video call could make you feel full and a little hollow at the same time. Like opening a box of memories you didn’t know you still carried so close to the surface.

You missed them. You always would.

But tonight, it didn’t ache.

Tonight, it just reminded you of where you’d come from. And how far you’d managed to go.

Break was half over already. The next semester loomed. But for the first time in a while, you didn’t feel behind. Or out of place. Or desperate to prove something. You were here. You had your space. You had people waiting for you on the other side of winter.
That was enough.

Chapter Text

There was a knock on the door—two sharp raps followed by a hesitant one, like whoever was on the other side wasn’t sure if they were early or just forgot the rhythm.

You opened the door to find Iwaizumi standing there, the winter wind still clinging to his jacket. A large, very stuffed duffel bag was slung over one shoulder, a small suitcase next to his leg and a plastic convenience store bag hung from his wrist, the hand stuffed in his coat pocket. His usually spiky hair was a little tousled, cheeks and nose tinged red from the cold, and his breath curled in front of him in soft puffs.

“Hey,” he said, a little out of breath, a little smile tugging at his mouth. “I brought snacks. And something dumb.”

He looked annoyingly good—like he had no right showing up at your door with that hopeful, puppy-dog expression and that adorable smile. His eyes were warm and bright despite the cold, and even though he looked a bit travel-worn, he still somehow managed to make a wind-chapped face look like a deliberate aesthetic choice.

Your lips pulled into a smile without your permission and you breathed out an involuntary, “Hajime?” before you snapped out of it and blinked completely stunned. “Wait—what? I thought you were just heading back to campus?”

“I was. Took a detour.”

“A detour to my house?”

He shrugged like it was the most natural thing in the world. “Yeah. What, you busy?”

You looked down at yourself and winced. The ratty shorts, the old sweatshirt with a suspicious curry stain near the collar, your greasy hair in a tight bun that made you resemble Gollum. Fantastic.

“Uh,” you said, stepping aside. “No—just doing one last clean before the roommates come back and judge my existence.”

He stepped in with a grunt of thanks, immediately kicking off his shoes. “You clean?”

“I know. Scary,” you said, shutting the door behind him. “It’s not like, deep cleaning. Just hiding evidence that I ate cookies for dinner three nights in a row and haven’t taken the recycling out since December.”

“Impressive,” he deadpanned. “Truly heroic.”

You led him toward the living room, waving at the half-folded blanket on the couch and a mug that had long-since cooled on the coffee table. “Make yourself at home. Sorry the place smells like microwaved leftovers.”

He dropped his duffel and parked his suitcase beside the couch and set the plastic bag carefully on the table. “You kidding? After a week of my aunt’s endless osechi and Shittykawa’s sad attempt at mulled wine, this is heaven.”

You snorted. “Wait– mulled wine?”

“Oh yeah,” Iwaizumi said, flopping onto the couch like he belonged there. “My friend got it in his head that he was going to host some kind of grown-up holiday dinner. Said it was ‘continental’ or something. It was literally just him burning cloves in a pot and pouring red wine into it like he was summoning a demon.”

You laughed, already picturing it.

“He also forgot to check if the wine was dry or sweet,” Iwaizumi added, looking pained. “So we ended up drinking grape juice with spice water. Makki nearly spit it on my mom’s rug.”

“Oh my God.”

“Mattsun drank the whole thing anyway and told Shittykawa it was ‘soul-cleansing.’ Which made him cry. Twice.”

You clutched your stomach as you dropped onto the armchair opposite him. “Why do I feel like I missed the most archaic gathering of the year?”

“Because you did,” he said.

Iwaizumi then reached into the convenience store bag and pulled out a few brightly packaged snacks. Pocky, senbei, matcha KitKats and something in a tin with cartoon peaches on it.

“I wasn’t sure what you liked,” he said, setting the haul on the table, “so I went with ‘things I like and hope you do too.’”

“I do love KitKats, of all kinds. So much that Kuroo started calling me KittieKat when we were kids. Still does.” You picked up the peach tin, inspecting it. “This one looks dangerously cute.”

“It is. And stupid sweet. You’ll hate it,” he said, though he looked quietly pleased when you smiled anyway.

“And this,” he added, digging into the duffel bag, “was supposed to be a surprise but I can’t carry it around anymore.”

He pulled out a soft bundle packed in plastic and tossed it into your lap. It was squishy, warm, and as you unfolded it, you realized what it was. A blanket hoodie. Absolutely massive, absurdly soft, and covered in tiny cartoon onigiri with blushing smiling faces and dramatic anime sparkles.

You stared at it, mouth handing open and sparkles in your eyes. “Is this… from you?”

He scratched the back of his neck. “Kind of. Technically, it’s from the guys too. Group effort. Shittykawa said it was the ‘essence of comfort and friendship,’ whatever that means. He made me pack it even though it took up half my suitcase. And my mom approved of it, especially after I told her about you cooking for me.”

You held it up in front of you, already snorting at the ridiculous design trying to ignore the loud thumping of your heart at him telling his mom and friends about you. “They really saw this and thought of me?”

“I said it looked dumb. Makki said you’d live in it. Mattsun said—and I quote—‘If she doesn’t wear it, I will.’ So, majority vote. I didn’t stand a chance when mom butted in too.”

You stood up, already pulling it over your head. Dirty clothes be damned, you could wash it later. It was huge—hanging past your knees, sleeves too long, and warm enough to make you immediately consider turning off the heat. Your face was the happiest Iwaizumi had ever seen you, with sparkles in your eyes, smile so wide it crinkled your eyes and showed your teeth.

“You love it,” he said.

“I do,” you admitted. “I almost hate how much I do. It’s like being hugged by a riceball.”

“Don’t let them hear you say that. They’ll try to brand it and start a company.”

You laughed, settling back into the chair tucking your legs inside the hoodie, now ten times cozier and looking like a blanket mountain. Iwaizumi leaned back against the couch like he was starting to relax, legs stretched out in front of him, hands loosely clasped in his lap.

“So…” you said, tugging the sleeve down over your hand. “Was the trip good? Besides the chaos of your friends?”

He shrugged. “Yeah. It was nice. Lots of family. My mom kept asking if I was eating enough so I told her about you and she looked ready to cry with relief. My cousin asked if I was dating anyone. My grandma asked if I’d gotten taller.”

You raised a brow. “Have you?”

“Not since high school. But I lied and said yes.”

“Bold.”

He gave a small smile. “Alright, your turn to spill. How was your winter break?”

“There’s not much to tell, it was pretty quiet. Phoebe went home early so I had the place to myself. You already saw the pictures from the impromptu Christmas with the volleyball soldiers left behind. Tried to bake something from TikTok. Burned it, and then ate it anyway.”

“And you didn’t save me any?”

“It was a lump of charcoal and regret, Iwaizumi.”

He laughed at that. “We lit a cake on fire, too. But that one was intentional.”

You opened your mouth to ask, but stopped. “Actually, no. I don’t need the details. I’m choosing peace today.”

He smirked. “Coward.”

You raised your pointer finger like a philosopher and corrected him: “Survivor.”

He laughed—a real one, low and genuine—and for a moment, the room felt lighter. “You’re braver than me. My family had me bouncing between like, five different New Year’s visits. Everyone wanted to interrogate me like I was the last sushi on earth.”

“Sounds like a marathon.”

“More like a triathlon with dumb hurdles.” He threw a pillow at you. “Speaking of idiots—Shittykawa got kicked out of one of the gatherings.”

You frowned, curious. “Wait, who’s Shittykawa? You already mentioned him and I refuse to believe that’s his actual name.”

Iwaizumi smirked, clearly amused. “That’s what I call him.” He gave you a sideways glance and shrugged. “You don’t know his real name. Guess you’ll never know.”

You rolled your eyes. “Come on, tell meeee.” You whined, incessantly poking his bicep through his hoodie.

“Not a chance.” He laughed. “Anyway, Shittykawa thought it’d be a brilliant idea to start an indoor snowball fight. Inside someone’s grandmother’s house.”

You blinked, imagining the chaos. “No way.”

“Oh, way.” Iwaizumi shook his head. “People were in fancy clothes, decorations everywhere, and here he is, flinging snowballs like a maniac. They finally kicked him out before he turned the fancy tea set into target practice.”

You chuckled. “Sounds like a disaster.”

“Classic Shittykawa.” He rolled his eyes and grinned. “Then we have Mattsun.”

You raised an eyebrow. Another friend

Iwaizumi’s smirk softened a little. “He slept through half the day, missed the whole mess. But the rest of the time? Loud, chaotic, and full of bad decisions.”

You smiled, watching him shake his head. “Sounds exhausting.”

“It was.” He ran a hand through his hair. “Honestly, it was weird not seeing you for a couple weeks.”

Your heart skipped a beat, caught off guard by the sudden change in his tone. He glanced up quickly, like he didn’t want to admit it.

“I mean—you’re quieter than the rest of them. And more fun.” He gave you a small smile, eyes flicking your way. “My ears are just grateful.”

You looked at him, warmth blooming in your chest, the kind that settled low and slow—like something unspoken had finally brushed the surface.

For a second, neither of you said anything.

Then, Iwaizumi blinked, cleared his throat lightly, was about to say something when the front door creaked open.
“I’m back!” a voice called. “Please tell me someone took the trash out—”

Phoebe stepped in, one boot halfway off, scarf lopsided, and then she paused mid-step.

Her eyes landed on Iwaizumi.

“Uh. Hi?”

“Hello,” he offered.

“You must be Iwaizumi,” she said, eyes narrowing just a little. “The friend.”

He glanced at you, amused. “You told her about me?”

You grinned. “Not everything.”

“Great,” he muttered. “Off to a fantastic start.”

“Welcome home Pheebs!”

Phoebe slowly nodded, lips twitching like she was deciding whether or not to mess with him further.

Then: “Do you want tea, or are you also judging the state of the kitchen?” oh right, you’d gotten right down to talking and forgotten your manners and hadn’t offered him anything.

“The kitchen is intact and very clean thank you very much!” you exclaimed dramatically.

“I’d love some tea,” he said, sitting up straighter, like this was a diplomatic mission now.

Phoebe pointed to the blanket hoodie. “Nice riceballs.”

You held up your arm like you were showing off designer couture. “Courtesy of Hajime’s mom and his favorite idiots.”

Iwaizumi sighed, fond but exasperated. “It’s gonna be a long semester.”

“Your friend just came back straight from the airport I’m assuming,” Phoebe said, pointing at his suitcase, “brings you presents, and you haven’t offered him anything?”

Your smile dropped immediately. You gasped like a scandalized southern belle.

Oh no.

What would your mother think?! You were raised with better manners than this! And he—he brought snacks, thoughtful gifts, a hoodie with riceballs on it—and you hadn’t even offered him water?? Or tea? Or a chair? Okay, he made himself comfortable on the couch, but still!

“Oh my god,” you muttered, already scrambling off the couch. “Oh my god, Hajime—I’m so sorry—do you want something? I have tea, and, uh—coffee? Snacks? Did you eat? I can heat something up. Or make something. Unless you’re allergic. Are you allergic? Wait, sit down, you’re probably freezing—why didn’t I get you a —?”

“Whoa, hey—” Iwaizumi reached out and gently grabbed your wrist before you could make a full-blown dash to the kitchen. “Breathe.”

You stared at him, wide-eyed, frozen halfway between panic and guilt. He was trying not to laugh. His shaking shoulders and twitching lips indicating he was failing miserably, but trying. Your arms were flailing during your panic which made you look more ridiculous with the way the long hoodie sleeves were flapping.

“I’m fine,” he said, calm and amused. “Seriously. I’m not dying. I’ve been here like… twenty minutes. You offered me your blanket, which honestly, was very generous.”

You narrowed your eyes. “Don’t make fun of me. I’m spiraling.”

“I can see that.” His grip on your wrist eased, but his hand lingered, warm and steady. “You’re good. Really. Just being here was enough.”

You blinked. “That’s a really corny thing to say.”

“I know. You were just that excited to see me.” He smirked, finally letting go. “But you didn’t offer me tea, so I figured I had to emotionally manipulate you somehow.”

“Wow.”

Phoebe, still standing in the hallway, asked, “Is he always this smooth?”

“He is not, ” you and Iwaizumi said at the same time.

That finally made both of you laugh—sharp and breathy, your nerves deflating all at once.
“I’ll make tea,” you said, heading to the kitchen with renewed purpose. “And maybe a snack. Or five.”

Iwaizumi leaned back on the couch, watching you go with the smallest smile tugging at his lips.
“I’m not picky,” he called after you. “But I’m emotionally fragile, so… bring good snacks.”

Phoebe disappeared behind you into her bedroom with a dramatic sigh, muttering something you didn’t catch. The thump of dropping her bag followed. You and Iwaizumi were left in the quiet of the kitchen, still warmed by laughter but now softer, a little slower. He was leaning against the counter, watching you—eyes flicking briefly to the sleeves of the hoodie still draped over your hands, then back to your face. You didn’t say anything at first. Neither did he. Then, finally:

“I missed this,” he said, not quite looking at you.

You glanced over. “The riceball couture? Or the part where my roommate started her version of a background check on you?”

A small smile pulled at the corner of his mouth, but he didn’t bite at the joke. “Nah,” he said. “Just… being here.”

That made your chest pull a little tighter.

“Miyagi was good,” he went on. “But everything was so loud and fast paced. Family, food, friends—I don’t know. It’s a lot sometimes.” He rubbed the back of his neck. “It was nice. But not calm and quiet like this.”

You didn’t know what to say to that, not right away. So instead, you leaned into the silence, letting it settle comfortably between you. “I’m glad you came over,” you said finally, quieter than you meant to. “You could’ve gone straight back to your place.”

“I know.”

You looked up at him. “But you didn’t.”

His gaze met yours then, steady. “Didn’t want to.”

And there it was—something small and unspoken, heavier than the conversation had started, but not uncomfortable.

You felt your heart skip once, stupidly.

He shifted his weight, tried to smooth it over with a more casual tone. “Besides, someone had to deliver the world’s ugliest hoodie.”

“I will throw my Pocky at you.”

“You’d never,” he said, confidently.

You opened your mouth to argue, but Phoebe sauntered into the kitchen before you could. “Okay, who wants chamomile and who wants my unholy peppermint-ginger hybrid?”

You struck a pose, blanket hoodie swishing dramatically. “I’ll take the unholy one.”

Iwaizumi raised an eyebrow. “Bold.”

“You’re just scared.”

He watched you with something like a smirk, but his eyes were softer than before—like he was still holding on to the quiet part of the conversation, even if he wouldn’t say it again.

Tea with Phoebe turned out better than expected—surprisingly smooth, considering her talent for grilling people like she was hosting a daytime talk show. She poked at Iwaizumi with pointed questions and thinly veiled sarcasm, clearly testing him, but he met every jab with calm, deadpan responses that only made her and you grin wider. The banter between them settled into something oddly natural, the kind of rhythm that only happens when two personalities collide just right. You mostly sat back and watched, letting their dynamic play out with amusement, heart tugging a little at how easily Iwaizumi fit into the space that usually felt so lived-in and familiar. Something about Iwaizumi seemed different. He seemed a little more… open? Free? Maybe he was just relaxed in a way that you hadn’t seen because you met him during college.

Eventually, he stood to leave, tugging his coat on with a reluctant sigh and grabbing his bag. “I’ll have to tell the guys I delivered the hoodie,” he said, adjusting the strap on his duffel. “And that you didn’t burn it immediately.”

You laughed and followed him to the door, pulling it open just enough to let in the sharp cold and not enough to lose the heat inside. He hesitated, just for a second.

“I’ll see you soon,” he said.

You nodded. “Don’t wait until your next international flight to drop by.”

“I won’t.” He looked like he wanted to say something else, but didn’t. Instead, he gave a short wave and stepped into the night, beginning the short walk back to his dorm building.

You closed the door slowly behind him, your hand lingering on the knob. The silence that followed was full of something. Not quite longing, but close. That strange ache that comes when someone leaves and somehow takes the warmth of the room with them. But your heart felt full, knowing he’s come to see you literally as soon as he possibly could. And that he was back now. Finally.

“You like him,” Phoebe said from behind you, her voice maddeningly casual.

You turned, deadpan. “Wow Pheebs. Real subtle.”

She was leaning against the kitchen doorway, holding her mug and smirking like a knowing little gremlin. “I approve, by the way. Guy’s got a good ‘emotionally constipated but loyal’ vibe. And he is very hot. Just like you said”

You rolled your eyes and walked past her. “Thank you for the analysis, Dr. Phil.”

“Anytime.”

Up in your room you took off the blanket hoodie and went to take a shower and change into fresh pajamas, then you put the hoodie back on and collapsed on your bed still wearing the hoodie, the sleeves flopping uselessly over your hands. You arranged the snacks on the beside and above your head, then grabbed your phone.

The lighting was awful, your wet hair slipping out of the hoodie looked tragic, and you were pretty sure your face was still flushed from secondhand embarrassment and your shower—but you snapped a selfie anyway: hoodie front and center, snacks arranged around your head like a halo, peace sign raised in front of your face to hide the lower half and your eyes closed from smiling wide.

[sent to: kitten mafia 🐈‍⬛😼☠️ (kuroo, kenma)]
📸 proof of life. i'm now a riceball.

Kuroo:
🔥🔥🔥

Kenma:
do you think it comes in black
Asking for myself

You smiled to yourself, set your phone down, and finally let your body sink fully into the bed—warm, soft, and a little more full than it had been an hour ago.

Kuroo:
you’ve ascended

You:
it probably does but you’d hate how soft it is
like wearing a hug
he also brought snacks from home, so i win today

Kuroo:
iwaizumi spoiling you? damn.
kenma you ever bring me snacks?

Kenma:
i told you once that you looked tired. that counts.

You:
it really doesn’t

You smiled, setting your phone down on the nightstand. The hoodie was warm, the matcha Kit-Kat already halfway unwrapped, and for the first time in weeks, even though you were still alone, your room felt less empty.

Outside, the winter wind scraped along the windows. Inside, you were full of sugar, wrapped in a riceball hug, and surrounded—if only by text—by the people who knew you best.

Chapter Text

His dorm room was still exactly how he left it—slightly stale, a little too quiet, and carrying that faint, unfamiliar echo of post-travel emptiness. Iwaizumi dropped his duffel and suitcase near the door, toed off his shoes, and rolled his shoulders taking off his coat as he made his way to the bed. Unpacking could wait. He needed five minutes to just exist without the need to do anything.

He flopped down with a low grunt, pulled out his phone, and idly opened his messages.

There it was.

Fuyou 🌼🌸:

📸 proof of life + hoodie delivery complete. i'm now a riceball.
You can send this to your friends and tell them I feel spiritually bonded to a riceball.
Also tell them thanks a bunch, I love it more than anything I own.

Iwaizumi stared at the attached photo—a slightly blurry shot of her in the blanket hoodie, she looked like she’d been swallowed by a cartoon onigiri, oversized sleeves dangling as she made a peace sign. Her eyes were closed with her wide-toothed smile with Pocky stuck between her teeth.

He huffed out a laugh, rubbing a hand over his face.

“Great,” he muttered. “Now they’ll never shut up.”

Still grinning, he forwarded the message to the groupchat:

📲 Seijoh4 🏐💪
(Iwaizumi, Oikawa, Mattsukawa, Hanamaki)

Iwaizumi:

📸 proof of life + hoodie delivery complete. i'm now a riceball.

You can send this to your friends and tell them I feel spiritually bonded to a riceball
Also tell them thanks a bunch, I love it more than anything I own

Iwaizumi:

There. She said she loves it. You can all shut up now.

Makki:

OH MY GOD SHE ACTUALLY WORE IT????

Mattsun:

Spiritually bonded to a riceball is the highest compliment I've ever received

Shittykawa:

Excuse me why does she look cute in it?? I wore that once and I looked like a soggy burrito

Makki:

Because you are a soggy burrito

Shittykawa:

Wait wait Iwa-chan do you like her

Makki:

He delivered the hoodie in person after a transpacific flight. He’s in LOVE

Mattsun:

Can confirm. Love. Deep. Tragic. Endgame.

Iwaizumi:

I swear to god—

Mattsun:

Swearing = deflection = confirmed feelings

Shittykawa:

Did you tell her your real name yet or are you still making her call you "Shittykawa’s Handler"

Makki:

LMFAOOO she probably thinks his name is just "Hey, asshole"

Iwaizumi:

I hate all of you.

Shittykawa:

You love us. But not like you love her 💖

Mattsun:

Get some sleep, loverboy.

Iwaizumi set his phone down on his chest and stared at the ceiling, the smirk from earlier still ghosting at the edge of his mouth.

Idiots. Every last one of them. But they weren’t wrong.

~ Flashback ~

It had started during the Christmas break, a couple days after the actual holiday. Iwaizumi had been lounging on the couch back home, groupchat notifications from the college team lighting up his phone—photos and videos pouring in from the impromptu hangout at your place. Callie had recorded Bea struggling to cut through a frozen pie with a butter knife. Dev was in the background trying to untangle a string of lights from your ceiling fan. And in the middle of it all: you, blurry and laughing, wearing reindeer antlers.

He hadn’t meant to smile, but he did. Quietly. That kind of half-laugh that slips out when you're not thinking. Just watching the way everyone looked so at ease in your space—how you looked like the calm at the center of the storm. He hadn’t even realized he was smiling like a fool at his screen until Oikawa leaned over and said way too loudly,

“Awww, Iwa-chan’s in love.”

The others pounced instantly. And he never should’ve let them scroll through the pictures.

“You’re smiling, that’s not normal.”
“Hold on, who’s that? And that? And that moron on the ceiling looks fun.”
“You’ve been hiding her?”
“That’s not your cousin, right?”

He’d grumbled something noncommittal, tried to change the subject, but it was over. They’d caught the name. Got the details out of him—piece by piece, in the same way they’d worn him down during practice drills for years. Not with force, but with sheer persistence.

And then came the real talk. The quieter stuff.
“You light up when she texts you, man.”
“You’re not usually like this with people.”
“Don’t overthink it. Just don’t shut her out.”
“This girl fed you home food in the land of the BigMacs, she’s not just another teammate. If she matters, let her know.”

At the time, he’d grunted, rolled his eyes, and pretended to fall asleep. But now, lying here in the quiet of his dorm room, warm from the tea and the hoodie photo and the faint echo of her laugh, it hit differently.

She had looked happy to see him. Like really happy. Not polite-happy or classmate-happy—just… glad. And he’d felt it too. That click, that ease. Like something soft and familiar slotting back into place.

He let out a breath, one hand tucked behind his head, the other still resting over his chest where his phone had been. Whatever this thing was between them—this friendship, this slow, steady pull—he didn’t want to mess it up. Not by being guarded. Not by acting like she was just one of the guys.

She wasn’t. She was… something different. A white flower in a field of noise. 🌸 Special.

He smiled to himself, eyes fluttering shut.

Yeah. He’d let the walls down. A little. For her.

The first day of the new semester always felt weird—like life was hitting the restart button but forgot to give anyone instructions.

Iwaizumi tugged on his jacket, slung his backpack over one shoulder, and gave himself a quick once-over in the mirror. Nothing fancy—just jeans, a hoodie layered under his coat, and the usual sleep-deprived look college gifted everyone for free. And his hair was the usual. He swiped up his phone and checked the time.

She’ll be arriving soon soon.

He double-checked the contents of his bag—not because he was nervous or anything, just… making sure. Pens, laptop, charger, water bottle, notebook. Okay. No reason to stall.

Outside, the morning air was crisp but not biting, the kind of cold that woke you up gently instead of smacking you in the face. Students were already starting to trickle onto the sidewalks in small, yawning clusters.

And there she was.

Waiting just outside his building, hands stuffed into the pockets of her coat, eyes scanning the path ahead like she was people-watching but not really seeing anyone. Her hair was always tied one way or the other and today it was pulled back loosely, flyaways catching the morning light. Oversized sweatshirt layered under her jacket. Sneakers that had seen better days, and no makeup.

She wasn’t dressed up, not even close.

But somehow, she still looked cute as hell.

He watched her for a second longer than he meant to, something easing in his chest. Then he cleared his throat and stepped out to meet her. “Morning,” he said, sliding up beside her.

She turned, smiling like she hadn’t just made his morning better by existing. “Good morning, Hajime.”

“Morning. You sleep okay?”

“I mean, if you count anxiety dreams about forgetting how to read? Totally fine.”

He huffed a laugh. “Solid start to the semester.”

“Right? You?”

“I slept like a rock.”

“Ugh. Athletic privilege.”

He glanced at her sideways, smirking. “You ready?”

“Not even a little.”

He tilted his head toward the sidewalk. “Too bad. Let’s go.”

And just like that, they fell into step like they always did—shoulders almost brushing, their pace naturally synced, even without trying.

“So,” you said, adjusting your backpack strap, “what’s your schedule look like this semester?”

Iwaizumi exhaled through his nose. “Pain.”

“That’s not a class.”

“It might as well be.” He reached into his jacket pocket, pulled out his phone, and opened his calendar. “Three science courses, and a professor who hates joy.”

“Sounds like a party.”

“Only if the party ends in tears and caffeine addiction.”

You let out a laugh and nudged his arm with your elbow. “Okay, but what times?”

“Most of my classes are morning or early afternoon. Mondays and Thursdays are the worst. I’ve got back-to-back lectures from 9 to 4.”

“Brutal.”

“I brought this on myself,” he muttered. “What about you?”

You tilted your head, already pulling up your own schedule. “Not awful. Two morning lectures, one evening class on Tuesdays, and my bio lab on Wednesdays.”

He looked over at you. “Oh yeah? Which building?”

“East Hall, third floor.” You sighed dramatically. “I’ll be the one in the goggles, looking like she regrets every life decision.”

He snorted. “I can picture it now. A tragic science goblin in her natural habitat.”

“Excuse you—I will be a knight in shining goggles. I’ll have you know I’m very heroic when handling pipettes.”

“Oh, my mistake.” He looked unreasonably amused. “A true lab warrior.”

You grinned. “I fight for the weak and under-labeled test tubes.”

There was a beat of silence after that—quiet, but comfortable. Footsteps echoing on the sidewalk, the occasional hum of a car passing by, early morning sunlight stretching long shadows between buildings.

Then you added, more casually, “So I had a talk with my advisor before winter break.”

He gave you a side glance, urging you to continue.

“He said that my credits are piling up nicely, with the classes, internships, work study and transfer credits from Tokyo. And that if I increase my pace, I can graduate a year early.”

“You’d graduate in three years instead of four?”

“No, I’d graduate in four instead of five or five and a half. Dual major, remember, its gonna take a bit longer. But I could also just keep my pace and I’d have more time on my hands. During the week and weekends. More time for other things like research or extra curriculars.”

“That sounds like a nice change, you wont be driving yourself up a wall for another two and a half years. Or you could be done a whole year sooner and finally go home. That’s a tough choice. Any idea what you’re going to do?”

“I’ve given it some thought and I’m gonna take my time with the degree. With the spare time I have I think I’ll enjoy what college has to offer. You know I haven’t explored this place? I’m not talking about the campus, I mean the town here and the surrounding areas. I’d be able to cook more often, which is also advantageous for you and no you cant object, and maybe go to more events. I can also decide exactly what career path I want to take and see if I need to do anything else for it.”

“Sounds like you’ve got the whole thing figured out.”

“I’ve had all winter to think about it. Just me and my thoughts and the patterns on the ceiling. I just have to tell my advisor now and we’ll come up with a plan. There’s also the roommate search.”

“Roommate search?”

“Phoebe and Aaliyah are both graduating in the spring and I need to find new people to take over their rooms. I called dibs on the master bedroom downstairs so that’s a win. But I need to find two people now. They’ve posted on forums and started spreading the word but I’ll have to do interviews to decide. There will also be a fresh batch of freshmen coming so I’m sure there will be plenty of options. I’m hopeful but I’m also scared–don’t want to end up with nightmare roommates.”

“Yeah, no offense,” he said, “but you’d absolutely be the one who ends up living with a pyramid-scheme crystal dealer and a guy who brings his unlicensed emotional support raccoon to the kitchen at 3 a.m.”

You stared at him. “That feels… uncomfortably specific.”

He shrugged. “College is wild.”

You huffed a laugh and leaned your head briefly against his arm before walking again. “Well, if that does happen, I’ll be crashing on your couch for the rest of the semester.”

There was a beat of silence, soft and easy. Then—

“…Or,” he said slowly, almost casually, “I could save you the trouble. Also I don’t have a couch.”

You glanced up at him. “What do you mean?”

He didn’t look at you right away—just kept his eyes ahead, hands deep in his jacket pockets, like the words had come out without him planning them.

“I mean…” He cleared his throat. “I’ve got one more year after this too. And you have to let university housing know if you’ll be living in the dorms or off campus every semester.”

You blinked. “Okay…”

He finally looked over at you, expression unreadable but not tense. Just… careful.

“I’m just saying,” he continued, tone light, “if the raccoon guy doesn’t work out, and you’re okay with it, maybe I could put in an application. I’m going to be working full time during the summer at the training center and I’ll continue working there till graduation so money won’t be an issue.”

Your steps faltered just enough for him to notice. You stared.

“Wait. Are you saying—”

“I’ll bring my own dishes,” he added, still suspiciously neutral. “And I don’t leave hair in the drain.”

You narrowed your eyes, a slow grin pulling at your lips. “This is your way of asking to move in?”

He shrugged, noncommittal. “Depends. Would I pass the interview?”

You pretended to consider it, tapping your chin trying to lighten the mood. “Hmm… Do you play the bongos?”

“No.”

“Do you reheat fish in the microwave?”

“Absolutely not.”

“Do you practice monologues in the mirror at 2 a.m.?”

“…Only to maintain the dramatic tension in my life.”

You snorted, then smiled—warm, real. “You’d pass.”

He smiled back, a little softer than before.

“Well,” he said, nudging you with his elbow, “keep me in mind. In case the freshmen all turn out to be terrifying.”

“Deal,” you said. And maybe your chest felt a little tight again, but not in a bad way.

Maybe… in a hopeful way.

By the time you got home, your hoodie smelled faintly like gym sweat, floor polish, and whatever weird cologne Dev had decided to wear to practice. Your feet hurt, your water bottle was almost empty, and the contents of your tote bag looked like a paper tornado had blown through.

Practice had been chaotic as expected.

Trying to get a team of seven volleyball players to focus on drills after winter break was like trying to herd caffeinated toddlers. Everyone was talking over each other, swapping break stories, asking who kissed who on New Year’s Eve. You’d gotten maybe 45 minutes of actual practice out of a two-hour session.

Honestly, you deserved a raise. And a nap. You tossed your bag by the door and flopped down onto the couch face-first with a groan.

“Rough day, champ?” Phoebe’s voice floated in from the kitchen.

You grunted into the couch cushion. “I hate all athletes.”

“Sure you do.”

There was the sound of mugs clinking and water boiling. A few minutes later, Phoebe wandered into the living room and set a steaming mug of tea on the coffee table next to you. You sat up with a grateful sigh, pulling your legs under you.

She flopped into the armchair across from you, one leg tossed lazily over the other. “Okay. Spill it.”

You blinked at her. “What?”

“You’ve had that I’m emotionally constipated but trying to be casual about it look all week. What’s going on?”

You snorted into your tea. “I do not.”

“You do,” she said, not missing a beat. “So. Who is it? Is it Kuroo again? Did he dye his hair a new cursed color?”

“No, thank god.” You hesitated. “It’s… Iwaizumi.”

Phoebe raised a brow but didn’t say anything.

You swirled your tea, watching the steam rise. “We were talking earlier this morning—just walking to class together—and I mentioned how you and Aaliyah are graduating and that I’m starting to look for new roommates.”

“And?”

“And he… kind of hinted that he might want to move in.”

Phoebe blinked. Then leaned forward. “Wait—what?”

You lifted a hand, defensive. “He wasn’t weird about it! He didn’t like, demand a room. It was subtle. He just said that he could move out of the dorms at the end of any semester and if I end up with nightmare freshmen, maybe I could consider him. He will graduate summer of next year.”

Phoebe narrowed her eyes. “That sounds a lot like 'I want to move in but I’m trying not to scare you.'”

“I know.”

You pressed your hands to your cheeks, still warm from the memory of it. “And the thing is… I don’t hate the idea. I mean, I like being around him. He’s clean, responsible, non-threatening. He doesn't play the bongos or hoard bones or talk to mirrors—”

“You almost dated a theatre major once, that was your own fault.”

“Dark times,” you muttered.

Phoebe tapped a finger against her mug. “So what’s holding you back?”

You hesitated. “I don’t know. I guess I’m wondering if it’s too comfortable, you know? Like… what if it gets weird? Or worse—what if he starts dating someone and then I’m just the sad roommate who stocks the fridge and pretends she’s cool with it?”

Phoebe was quiet for a moment, then said, “Let me ask you something.”

You looked up.

“Do you like living with people who don’t care about you?”

You blinked. “What?”

“Because that’s what most roommates are. You’re lucky if they clean the sink or refill the Brita. You and me and Aaliyah are different. Yes we are closer with each other than with her but she’s a good roommate. But Iwaizumi? He actually gives a shit. He brings you riceball hoodies and remembers your tea preferences and shows up just to be around you. That’s rare, even with friends.”

You swallowed.

“And yeah,” she added, “maybe it could get weird. Or maybe it won’t. Maybe it turns out to be the most functional living situation you’ve ever had.”

You were quiet for a beat.

Then you whispered, “What if I like him too much?”

Phoebe gave you a knowing look. “Then maybe that’s not a bad thing either.”

Phoebe didn’t push, just waited with her tea cradled in both hands like she had all night. She knew you weren’t in denial, you were too smart for that. The reasons you’d given her for not dating Iwaizumi were the same reasons you wouldn’t even admit liking him out loud. And that fear was now fueling your hesitation to let him move in with you.

You exhaled slowly. “I’ve heard stories, you know? About friends moving in together and things falling apart. It even happens with couples.”

“Mm,” she hummed. “That’s fair. Happens.”

“And Iwaizumi is… important to me.” You glanced down at your tea. “I don’t want to mess that up.”

There. You’d said it.

Phoebe raised an eyebrow. “Because you like him.”

You hesitated. “I mean, yeah. But I just–.” You flopped back against the couch, staring at the ceiling. “He’s… Iwaizumi. He’s one of the first people I actually feel like I can just be around. No filter. No effort. People like him don’t grow on trees, they’re so rare. We walk together in the morning and text at night and I tell him things I don’t even say to you—no offense.”

“None taken. I’ve seen you crying over his hoodie. I get it.”

You groaned into a pillow. “Shut up.”

Phoebe grinned, but she quieted again as you continued.

“I just—yes, I’d have the master bedroom. I’d have my own space and bathroom and all that. But the kitchen? The living room? The fridge? That’s still shared space—with him. And another person I haven’t even met yet.”

“And that freaks you out?”

“It does. What if it makes things weird? What if we get on each other’s nerves? Or I see a side of him I don’t like? What if he sees one in me?”

You paused, voice softening.

“What if living together ruins everything?”

Phoebe studied you for a moment, thoughtful.

“Okay,” she said eventually. “But hear me out. What if it doesn’t?”

You looked at her.

“What if you’re both actually great at coexisting? What if it makes your friendship stronger? Or makes things… clearer?”

You bit your lip.

Phoebe leaned forward, resting her arms on her knees. “Look, I can’t promise it’ll go perfectly. Nobody can. But I do think the way you two are? You communicate. You make space for each other. You actually like being around him—which, honestly, is more than most people can say about their roommates.”

She gave you a small, dry smile.

“And if it gets messy? If it doesn’t work out? You’ll deal with it. You’re not a helpless child. And he’s not heartless. You’re both mature enough to navigate such a situation.”

You didn’t answer right away. You just sat there, holding your now-lukewarm mug, feeling the full weight of it—how much this person mattered to you. How scared you were to risk that. How selfish it felt to want more, but how scary it was to get more.

Phoebe stood, stretched, and patted your shoulder.

“Just think about it. You don’t have to decide tonight. You have a few months to make your decision. But if you’re this worried about losing him… maybe that’s because you’ve already let him in more than you realized.”

And with that, she wandered off to bed, leaving you alone with your thoughts in the quiet hum of the house. You sat there a little longer, staring at your tea. The hoodie you were wearing bunched around your sleeves. You didn’t feel ready to decide. But you were definitely thinking about it.

Chapter Text

Early March
Winter never fully left.
It just… softened.

The bitter cold had ebbed into something almost pleasant. Your breath still clouded in the air, but your scarf was more of an accessory now than a necessity. Somewhere between midterms and March, life had slipped into a rhythm that felt—if not perfect—then at least right.

You were still juggling classes and your ever-growing to-do list as team manager, but in the spaces between all that, you’d started making more time for yourself. Not in a productivity-hustle-self-care way. Just… small joys. Quiet, deliberate ones.

Afternoon walks before practice or lab, wrapped in a too-big coat, earbuds in, then tucked into the corner of that off-campus café with the crooked tables and honey-lavender tea. New habits: a running list of little bookstores and thrift shops to visit. A collection of oddly shaped mugs you had your eye on. A growing album on your phone labeled “things I don’t want to forget.” Sometimes you took the longer route home just to pass the pond trail. Sometimes you paused outside a bakery just to smell the sugar in the air. Once, you bought a giant iced matcha and sat in the middle of a grassy hill on campus, sunglasses on, earbuds in, pretending you were in a coming-of-age movie montage.
You texted Phoebe a selfie captioned: “Main character moment. The soundtrack is Lana Del Rey and I am absolutely too powerful.”
You also sent it to the kitten mafia groupchat but didn’t post it anywhere.
You didn’t need to.

Iwaizumi was around, of course. Still steady, still a little gruff, still chronically responsible. You’d both fallen into a pattern so natural that you didn’t even think about it anymore.

He’d show up outside your house some mornings with a second coffee in hand—always your usual, always slightly too hot. You’d sit on the gym bleachers after practice and go over notes, stats, and whatever nonsense the team had pulled that day. You’d walk back from campus together sometimes, your boots scuffing the sidewalk, arguing about the best granola bar flavors or which of the teammates had the worst form that week.
(“It’s Dev,” he said once, deadpan. “He spikes like he’s asking the ball for permission.”)

The volleyball team had returned to its usual self. Practice was less about drills now and more about polishing plays and rebuilding trust. The group was tighter than before, bonded by winter break shenanigans and new inside jokes. Dev had invented a victory dance so embarrassing, you considered banning celebrations entirely. Somehow, through it all, Iwaizumi had become the unofficial glue. Not that he’d admit it. But the others listened when he spoke. They looked to him when things got tense. And every time he stayed late after practice to help clean up cones or refill water bottles, you noticed. Even if you never said anything.

You were both busy. You had different schedules, different circles. But you always found your way back to each other. A text. A walk. A laugh in passing. His hoodie still hung from your desk chair. You still carried an extra granola bar.
It wasn’t dramatic or grand. But it was constant. And it was in that quiet, just before spring fully arrived, that you started to realize how different things would feel if that constancy suddenly vanished.

~

You kicked your boots off at the door, flinching at how soaked your socks were underneath. The walk home from practice hadn’t looked so bad until you hit the sidewalk puddle that had disguised itself as solid ground.

The house was quiet.

The light was on in the kitchen, Phoebe’s Spotify playlist drifting out softly — something acoustic and a little moody, as usual. The smell of garlic and something buttery filled the space, and for a second, you just stood there in the entryway, fogging up the front mirror.

“I smell carbs,” you called out, tugging off your damp scarf.

“You smell magic,” Phoebe replied. “It’s a butter miso pasta thing. You want some?”

“Always.”

You padded into the kitchen, hoodie sleeves pushed halfway up. Phoebe was stirring something in a pan with one hand and texting with the other. You watched her for a moment, listening to the soft sizzle of pasta in the pan, the gentle clink of a spatula against a pot.

It was peaceful. Familiar.

But… quiet. Too quiet.

You crossed your arms over your chest and leaned against the counter. “Is it weird that I miss the noise?”

Phoebe blinked over at you. “Noise?”

“Like… practice noise. Or team chaos. Or...”
You hesitated. “Iwaizumi sarcasm.”

Phoebe snorted. “You mean stability wrapped in muscle?”

You rolled your eyes, but didn’t deny it. Instead, you picked at a frayed string on your sleeve. “He’s just… around. A lot. And now today he wasn’t.”

Phoebe tilted her head, eyeing you.

You cleared your throat. “He had an interview or something. I think. I dunno. It’s not a big deal.”

“Mmm. Totally not a big deal,” she said, already reaching for a second plate. “So tell me why you’re making that face.”

“What face?”

“The I’m overthinking and maybe emotionally spiralling but also possibly hungry face.”

You hesitated. Then, finally, you pulled out a chair and sat. “I passed the bulletin board outside the dining hall today,” you said slowly. “There were roommate flyers. A bunch of them.”

Phoebe paused mid-scoop. “…And?”

“And I felt sick.”

She set the spoon down. Turned fully toward you.

“I want to offer him the room,” you admitted. “I really, really do. But what if it’s a terrible idea? I like our rhythm. I don’t want to break it.”

Phoebe slid a plate in front of you, then leaned against the counter with her arms crossed. “Okay. Let me ask you something.”

You looked up at her.

“If he didn’t move in,” she said, “and someone else took that room—some random freshman, or worse, a dude who microwaves fish—how would you feel?”

You opened your mouth. Closed it. “…I’d hate it.”

Phoebe gave a slow nod. “Yeah. That’s what I thought.”

You stared at your plate, appetite suddenly a little unsteady.

“I just don’t want to mess this up,” you said softly. “He’s—he’s important to me.”

“I know,” Phoebe said gently. “And he knows, too. You don’t have to have it all figured out yet. Just… don’t make a decision out of fear.”

You swallowed hard.

Outside, a breeze rattled the window. The last bits of snow clung to the edges of the porch.
And in your pocket, your phone buzzed—
📲 Hajime:
Granola thief alert. Bring backup snacks tomorrow.

You smiled despite yourself.

The next day passed in a blur of lectures and lab goggles and lunch eaten half-warm between classes. You kept telling yourself you weren’t nervous, but your phone said otherwise: four almost-texts to Iwaizumi in your drafts, none of which you sent.

You didn’t want to have the conversation over text.
You didn’t want to spring it on him.
You didn’t want to make it weird.

But the deadline was looming. And he had to decide. And you needed to be brave.
He met you outside your building, as usual — hoodie half-zipped, earbuds slung around his neck, expression unreadable in the afternoon sun.
“Survived lab?” he asked.

“Barely. I almost knighted someone in the chest with my pipette.”

“Chivalry’s not dead, then.”

You snorted and fell into step beside him.

It was a quiet walk. Familiar. And you kept staring at the sidewalk like it might rearrange into words for you. But finally, as you turned the corner toward the park path, you said—
“I’ve been thinking about something.”

He glanced sideways. “Sounds serious.”

“It’s not. I mean—it is. A little.” You blew out a breath. “You remember how Phoebe and Aaliyah are graduating?”

“Yeah. You still looking for roommates?”

You nodded. “Technically. But… only kind of.”

His brow furrowed, just a bit.

You forced yourself to keep talking. “I was scared to say it before. Like—really scared. Because you’re important to me, and the last thing I want is to make things weird or mess anything up. But…”

You glanced over, heart thudding. “If you still want to move in… the room’s yours.”

Iwaizumi stopped walking.

Not like, dramatically—but enough that you almost kept going without realizing it. You turned, pulse skittering, and found him watching you with something unreadable in his expression.

Then—quietly—
“I still want to.”

Your shoulders dropped in relief so fast, you almost laughed.

“I mean, unless you’re planning to ban granola bars or install pastel throw pillows everywhere,” he added, lips twitching.

“I make no promises,” you said, grinning now.

He looked at you a moment longer, then nodded once, sharp and certain. “Then yeah. Let’s do it.”

~

The email pinged just after dinner.
Subject: Spring Semester Move-Out Deadline – March 31.

Iwaizumi stared at it longer than necessary.
Move out.
He set his phone down. Picked it up again. Thought of her.

Of the way she handed him coffee in the mornings without asking.
Of the riceball blanket hoodie she still wore half the week.
Of her laughing as she "taxed" his granola bar after practice like it was tradition.
And then, quietly, undeniably:
I want to stay with you.

He stood in his dorm, phone still in hand, staring at the confirmation email he'd just sent in: Spring Move-Out Request – Approved.

His room looked different already. Or maybe he just saw it differently now. The bed he hadn’t made in two days. The desk with a half-finished protein shake. His lifting gloves tossed over the back of the chair.

All of it temporary.

He was leaving.
And not just anywhere—to your house.

He sat down on the edge of the bed, exhaled, and let himself think what he hadn’t said out loud.

He’d wanted this since winter break.

Since before that, maybe. When he got back from Japan, and she was standing at her front door in mismatched clothes with a curry stain on her sweatshirt, grinning like she didn’t even realize how much he’d missed her—

Yeah. That’s when he knew.

His friends had teased him relentlessly over break. Oikawa had nearly dropped his phone when Iwaizumi admitted he had a friend in college he actually liked.
“Oh my god,” Oikawa had gasped. “Does she know you’re emotionally constipated, or is that a surprise for later?”

Makki and Mattsun had just looked at each other and gone, “He’s so doomed.”

He was. He knew it.

But still—he hadn’t pushed. Hadn’t said a word. Because she hadn’t offered. And he wasn’t going to risk what they had by asking for more than she was ready to give.

But today… she had offered.
And he’d said yes. Without hesitation.

Because the truth was, he liked their rhythm. He liked her voice echoing from the kitchen when she was ranting about lab. He liked that she texted him when she found a weird new mug. He liked that she knew when he was tired without asking.
He liked her.
More than he knew how to say.
He leaned back on his bed, phone still resting on his chest. And after weeks, he felt like he could breathe easier.

~

May arrived faster than you expected.

Volleyball practice had wound down again, this time because of finals and deadlines that seemed to spring up overnight. Iwaizumi had cut back his hours at the athletic center to make room for studying, and between that and the part-time work he’d done over the past few months, he’d saved up a decent cushion.

But now the real countdown had begun: graduation was right around the corner.

The house had become a warzone of cardboard boxes and packing tape. Every shared space—living room, kitchen, hallway—was in disorder. Only your room had managed to maintain some semblance of control, and even that was a paper-strewn battlefield of textbooks, highlighters, and half-finished to-do lists. Aaliyah would move out the day after the ceremony. Phoebe would stay through the end of May before moving in with Eli completely. And right after that, Iwaizumi would be moving in.

After you'd both agreed on the idea, you'd invited him to come see the two rooms that would be available—yours and Aaliyah’s. He’d picked yours almost immediately. It was a little bigger, had two windows that filled the space with soft natural light, and came with a double closet that had “no-nonsense organization” written all over it. A perfect fit.
He'd also helped with the roommate search. You agreed to make decisions together, but ultimately, the final say was his—since he’d be the one sharing the first floor (and the bathroom) with whoever moved in. Eventually, you found someone. A second-year named Cal, who desperately needed to escape his current nightmare of a roommate. He was soft-spoken, kind, and pinged so hard on your gaydar that you didn’t even need to clock the way his ears turned red every time Iwaizumi spoke. Or looked at him. Or simply existed.
Near the end of the interview, Iwaizumi had to leave for work, so you asked Cal to stick around for a few final questions. He looked nervous until you clarified: you just wanted to make sure he was comfortable living with someone like Iwaizumi—someone a little intense, very private, and very easy to admire from across a shared kitchen.
You hadn’t talked much to Iwaizumi about his dating history, so you couldn’t say with absolute certainty which way he leaned. Quiet people had a way of flying under the radar. But Cal had been relieved. He smiled and assured you that he wasn’t harboring any hopes.

“He’s very... straight,” he’d said, a little sheepishly. “And very... sharp-jawed.”

Fair points, and you supposed his gaydar was more accurate than yours. You let out a breathy, “He is indeed,” before giving him a secretive smile and wink. His responding smile told you you’d be good friends if he moved in.

Later, when you asked Iwaizumi if he was okay with Cal, he’d simply nodded and said, “He’s respectful. I like that.”

And that was that. Roommates confirmed. The countdown began.
Your fourth year was shaping up to be… interesting.

Chapter Text

You didn’t go to the ceremony.

Phoebe had insisted you didn’t have to — said sitting through speeches in the sun wasn’t your thing anyway (sitting in the sun wasn’t your thing at all), and that she’d rather save the real celebration for later. Still, you helped her get ready in the morning, zipping up her dress, then her gown and pinning her cap to her curls while she grumbled about the whole “academic theater” of it all.

“I feel like I’m in a graduation-themed musical,” she muttered, squinting at herself in the mirror.

“You’d kill it in a musical,” you said, handing her her favorite lipstick. “But this is more of a ‘curtain call to the chaos’ vibe.”

“Oh god, don’t make me cry before I leave the house.” She blinked up at you, tearing up anyway.

You pulled her into a hug, careful of the cap. “You’re going to be so good out there.”

“I better be.” Her voice cracked a little. “I have a mortgage now.”

You both laughed, and Eli honked from the driveway, yelling something about being late.

She turned at the door and gave you one last look. “Don’t forget to feed my basil plant.”

“I’m renaming it in your honor.”

“If it dies, I’ll haunt you.”

~

The day passed in a blur, and it wasn’t until later that evening that you found yourself at Eli’s apartment with both of them — post-ceremony and post-dinner with Phoebe’s family — sitting on the floor eating leftover cake with spoons and drinking juice from mismatched mugs.

Eli had printed out one of her graduation photos and taped it to the fridge under a paper banner that read THE BREADWINNER HAS ENTERED THE CHAT.

Phoebe looked exhausted but radiant, legs stretched out in leggings and her gown now draped across a chair. She was still wearing her tassel like an earring. You snapped a photo and sent it to Iwaizumi and Aaliyah separately.

📸 queen behavior, in her post-doc era.

Aaliyah texted back a string of clapping emojis. Iwaizumi replied:
Make sure she hydrates. She’s been yelling about capitalism all day.

“Iwaizumi sends his love,” you said aloud, smirking.

Phoebe rolled her eyes. “Tell him to send a gift basket.”

“He is the gift basket.”

Eli coughed and dramatically looked away.
You didn’t deny it.

~

Back at the house, you wandered into Phoebe’s room later that night while she packed the last of her books. The bed was stripped, posters taken down, walls looking bare in a way that made your chest hurt.

She caught your expression and smiled softly.

“It’s weird, huh?”

You nodded. “The house won’t be the same.”

“It’s not supposed to be.” She sat on the edge of her desk, hands in her lap. “But you’re gonna be okay. You and Iwaizumi — you’ve built something stable.”

“That’s terrifying.”

“I know. But it’s true.” She tilted her head. “You’ll keep things steady. And he’ll be the grumpy backbone. It’ll work.”

You hesitated. “What if it doesn’t?”

“Then you’ll figure it out.” She reached forward and took your hand. “But I think it will. I’ve watched you both for months now. You make room for each other. That’s rare.”

You swallowed hard, blinking quickly. “You’re not allowed to be so wise now that you’re leaving.”

Phoebe gave you a watery smile. “Too late. I'm a college graduate now. I have wisdom and debt.”

You laughed, then hugged her tightly.

“Come visit whenever. If I’m gonna live with Iwaizumi and a cute homosexual hunk then I’ll need to see you often,” you whispered.

“Duh. I have to make sure Cal hasn’t turned the kitchen into a Pinterest shrine.”

You stayed there a little longer, just the two of you, the house creaking softly around you. The end of an era — but the beginning of something else, too.

Chapter Text

Iwaizumi didn’t bring much when he moved in—at least, not by volume. Just two sturdy suitcases, a couple of boxes filled with neatly packed books, and a stack of protein bars that made you raise an eyebrow. Did this guy ever eat actual food?

“That’s a little serial killer of you,” you said, watching him line them up inside the pantry with military precision. “No furniture?”

He shrugged, “Dorm rooms come with furniture, and you’re not supposed to take that. Besides, you left the room furnished, so I figured if it ain’t broke, don’t break my back moving more.”

You smiled. The truth was, you had left your old room furnished, mostly because you were upgrading. Phoebe’s room—soon to be yours—was partially furnished when she’d moved in and was still in good shape. It came with a wide desk built into the wall, a dresser, a mirror, and the most comfortable bed frame in the house (something you had tested extensively before committing). All you'd brought in were your linens, decorations, books, and the storage bins full of your organized chaos. Still, Iwaizumi’s arrival marked the real shift—Phoebe hadn’t even left yet, but the future felt a little more solid now that he was here. The house buzzed with that just-moved-in energy: open boxes, music playing from your phone speaker in the corner, and the smell of old dust getting stirred up with every shift of furniture.

You helped him unpack, shelving his books while he sorted clothes into the closet with laser focus. “Put those muscles to good use, would you?” you said at one point, gesturing toward a stack of your own boxes that you needed moved downstairs.

He snorted. “You’re lucky I like you.”

“I know,” you replied sweetly, already dragging a tote of winter blankets across the floor. “You’d never lift this much cardboard for just anyone.”

“You’d be surprised,” he muttered, hoisting your box like it weighed nothing. That was mighty attractive. It’s a good thing you couldn’t see any of his muscles or you would’ve had to dramatically fling yourself onto the nearest surface like a Victorian maiden overcome with the scandal of it all. Probably with one hand pressed to your forehead and one fanning yourself. Honestly, the fact that he made lifting a 30-pound box look like a minor inconvenience was rude. Downright disrespectful.

Downstairs, the two of you started arranging your new room—Phoebe’s old one—together. You pulled things off walls, carefully removing old command hooks and faded Polaroids that had curled at the edges. The scent of Phoebe’s favorite linen spray still lingered faintly, mingling with the dust kicked up from shifting furniture. The house was definitely in need of a deep clean again. You wiped down surfaces, swept beneath the bed frame, and peeled off the remnants of posters that had long since lost their hold.

Your desk found a new home beside the window where the light came in soft and golden in the afternoons. You spent a few minutes testing angles—deciding where the sun wouldn’t hit your screen directly—and finally settled on a corner that gave you a view of the yard. Your bookshelf was restocked next, lined with worn paperbacks, colorful notebooks, and a few small trinkets from back home.

Iwaizumi helped move the heavier things. The mattress was adjusted. A new rug laid down. Blankets were refolded at the foot of the bed. Slowly, the room changed—Phoebe’s personality peeled away in layers until it was yours again. Familiar things settled into new spaces. Your water bottle back on the nightstand. A tote of fuzzy socks shoved under the bed. Your favorite hoodie draped over the back of your chair.

Outside the open window, a breeze blew in, rustling the curtains just enough to make the room feel alive. And with the sound of boxes being shuffled and the creak of old floorboards under Iwaizumi’s steps, the space that once felt like someone else's started to feel like the beginning of something new—something entirely yours.

~

A few days later, Cal arrived—arms full of cardboard boxes and nerves.
“This box is heavier than my student debt,” Cal groaned, dragging it over the threshold.

“That’s because you packed it like Jenga with trauma,” you said, collapsing onto the couch.

Iwaizumi walked past, shirt sticking to his back, muttering, “This is why I own three things total.”

Hours later, surrounded by a wasteland of boxes, all three of you sprawled on the living room rug with greasy takeout cartons and no motivation to move. Phoebe was gone now. Her room was empty, save for the last traces of her—scuff marks on the wall where she’d hung picture frames, a stubborn bit of washi tape clinging to the inside of the closet, the ghost of her perfume still lingering in the hallway. The house felt different without her presence, a little quieter, a little emptier—but not for long.

You and Iwaizumi were already settled in by then. Phoebe’s room was fully yours now, soft with your favorite lighting and cluttered in the way that made it feel lived-in. His room was clean and warm and orderly—books lined neatly, laundry basket always exactly where it should be. The fridge was shared chaos, the hallway now lined with shoes that didn’t match, and your mornings had slowly found their rhythm again.

And now, you were making space for one more.

Cal’s move-in wasn’t smooth—his roommate had packed a few of his things by accident, so half his stuff was still in limbo. But the three of you made the best of it. You dragged suitcases and boxes through the door, played an upbeat playlist through the house speakers, and took turns deciding where furniture should go. Iwaizumi helped assemble a shelf with the kind of focused intensity that made you and Cal exchange a few amused looks. You, in turn, helped fold and stack clothes, unwrapped kitchenware, and reorganized the shared bathroom for the third time.

By the time everything was in—more or less—the sun had already dipped low, painting the living room in streaks of gold and pink. The three of you collapsed on the floor, backs leaning against the couch or walls, surrounded by leftover bubble wrap and opened boxes. Takeout containers littered the coffee table. Cal had ordered for everyone as a thank-you, and you’d all eaten too much too quickly to realize how hungry you were. It was quiet in that post-move haze, the kind of silence that came with satisfied exhaustion and the warmth of something new settling into place.

There was laughter, too—Cal cracking dry jokes in between bites of curry, Iwaizumi sharing an absolutely unhinged story about someone getting stuck in the net during volleyball drills that week, you half-asleep but trying to keep up. And somewhere in the middle of that comfort and conversation, the topic of summer came up.

“So, Cal,” Iwaizumi asked, poking at his noodles. “Any big summer plans?”

“Avoiding heatstroke and pretending I don’t have summer classes.”

“Relatable,” you said. You mentioned work-study—again. And how you had no intention of suffering through the peak of California heat.

“Actually, wait.” Cal sat up. “Have either of you been to the beach lately?”

“I live at the beach when I’m not working,” Iwaizumi replied.

You paused. “I haven’t gone. Like… ever.” You’d said it like a joke, casual and offhanded, but both Cal and Iwaizumi froze at your confession.

Silence. In the three years you’d lived here, you’d never once gone to the beach.

Their reactions were immediate and identical: shocked outrage. Both men turned to you, expressions caught between horror and disbelief.

“You’ve lived here for three years,” Cal said.

“And the beach is twenty minutes away,” Iwaizumi added.

You shrugged. “I’m like a winter fruit—I rot in the sun. That’s why I sign up for more work-study. I need the cold.” Which was fair. And true. And apparently not good enough for either of them.

“This is a tragedy,” Cal muttered.

“We’re going,” Iwaizumi said, already reaching for his phone. “You don’t get to live in California and not touch the ocean.”

Plans were made right there on the floor—half-sarcastic, half-enthusiastic. Something about sunscreen, umbrellas, “real” California experiences. Iwaizumi even pulled out his phone and sent a message to the volleyball team group chat to rally backup for a beach day.

You watched him out of the corner of your eye, your stomach doing an uncomfortable little flip. Because of course you weren’t worried about the heat. You were worried about him ! And more specifically: him shirtless, in all his tan, muscular, post-volleyball glory, surrounded by sunlight and sea breeze and the threat of you making a complete fool of yourself by tripping over your own feet and falling straight into the Pacific Ocean.

Great.

Just fantastic.

~

🏐 Spikes & Shenanigans 🏖️

Iwaizumi:
Beach day. This weekend. You’re all coming.

Dev:
👀 Are we kidnapping someone or is this recreational?

Callie:
I smell a story.

Iwaizumi:
[Fuyou’s "I’m like a winter fruit" quote]
She’s never been to the beach here. Fixing that.

Bea:
WHAT

Callie:
This is a crime against nature.

Dev:
I volunteer to bring sunscreen and emotional support popsicles

Bea:
If anyone doesn’t cannonball into the ocean I will scream

Manager Girl:
i haven’t even agreed to this yet

Callie:
Too late. We’re dragging your pale winter-fruit self to the shore

Manager Girl:
god help me

Dev:
He will not. But Iwaizumi will. With his Big Beach Dad energy. 🏖️💪

Iwaizumi:
I’m not a beach dad.

Bea:
Sir. You bring emergency water bottles everywhere. You are.

Mina:
Wait, does this mean he’s gonna wear the bucket hat? 😭

Liam:
Oh my god. He totally owns a bucket hat.

Jun:
Bet it’s olive green and he calls it “practical.”

Callie:
This man is gonna build a SHADE FORT and yell at us to stay hydrated like we’re on a survival show.

Iwaizumi:
Hydration is important.

Manager Girl:
and you said you basically live at the beach when you're not working

Dev:
This man is gonna show up with SPF 100 and a whistle.

Bea:
He’s gonna blow it every time someone forgets to reapply sunscreen. “That’s a sunburn waiting to happen, Liam!”

Liam:
Respectfully, Iwaizumi yelling at me to take care of myself might fix my entire life.

Mina:
Can we get him a “Beach Dad” shirt??? With like… embroidered text. Classy. Navy blue.

Jun:
No, no—get one that says “Cooler Captain.”

Callie:
STOP. He’s definitely gonna bring a cooler. I know it.

Iwaizumi:
It’s going to be hot. We’ll need snacks and drinks.

Manager Girl:
you just proved everyone’s point.

Dev:
Don’t forget the aloe vera. Or the waterproof band-aids. Or the electrolyte packets.

Bea:
He’s probably got a checklist already.

Iwaizumi:
I hate this groupchat.

Manager Girl:
you’ve said that three times just this month. you’re still here.

Callie:
Because he LOVES US

Liam:
And we love our overly prepared Beach Dad.

Mina:
Okay but genuinely, I feel safer already knowing he’s gonna be in charge.

Jun:
Can’t wait for the part where he grills everyone a protein-packed lunch and says, “Gotta refuel.”

Dev:
I’m gonna cry. Can we go tomorrow??

Manager Girl:
no pls i need to emotionally prepare for the fact that I will melt

Bea:
Let’s not ignore the real concern here though.

Bea:
Miss Manager, you are literally going to evaporate in the sun.

Liam:
She’s going to step onto the sand, hiss like a vampire, and burst into flames.

Mina:
I give her 7 minutes before she starts bargaining for someone’s towel as a makeshift sun tent.

Manager Girl:
I NEED a shady spot or I will perish. do you want my ghost haunting the volleyball court next season??

Jun:
You’d be the most dramatic ghost ever. “ooOoOo it’s too hot, oooOoO someone left a sticky Gatorade bottle in the gym oOoOo.”

Dev:
You’d haunt the hydration station and reorganize it from beyond the grave.

Callie:
Or possess the scoreboard to spell out passive-aggressive reminders. “CLEAN UP AFTER YOURSELVES.”

Manager Girl:
all of this is valid. so someone better bring an umbrella or a beach tent or you’ll be dragging my corpse back to campus.

Iwaizumi:
Cal and I’ll bring both.

Mina:
😭😭😭 Beach Dad to the rescue.

Dev:
You spoil her too much, Iwaizumi.

Bea:
That’s because she has main character allergies. The sun, cardio, surprise group activities…

Liam:
She only thrives in 65°F and below with tea in hand and a book within reach.

Manager Girl:
EXACTLY. thank you. someone gets it.

Jun:
And yet you voluntarily signed up to be the manager of the sweatiest sport known to mankind.

Manager Girl:
no one ever said I made good life choices.

~

That next night, while folding laundry and trying not to hyperventilate, you ended up sprawled across your bed, face buried in one of your clean t-shirts.

“He’s gonna be shirtless,” you groaned.

Phoebe, perched by the mirror and fussing with her hair, paused. “Sorry, what?”

“Shirtless,” you repeated dramatically. “Topless. Torso out. Tan. Muscles. In the sun. Near me. In public.”

Phoebe burst into laughter so loud it startled Eli in the next room. “You’ve managed to avoid this for almost an entire school year and now your worst nightmare is coming true?” she teased, leaning forward on her elbows. “What are you gonna do? Wear blinders?”

“I might. I should. Or sunglasses so dark I can’t see his biceps.”

“You’re the most dramatic person alive,” Phoebe said gleefully. “Also, this is hilarious. You’re having an actual meltdown over your friend existing with shoulders.”

“His shoulders are unfair,” you muttered, still face-down. “It’s so rude.”

Phoebe just cackled again. “You’re going to combust. I can’t wait. Please take pictures. I need to frame your downfall.”

You groaned again and rolled over. “I hate you.”

“You absolutely do not.”

You didn’t. But you do feel mildly doomed.

Because as much as you adored winter, and shade, and being wrapped in hoodies and comfort... you’re was going to the beach. With Iwaizumi. And no matter how much sunscreen or emotional preparation you applied, there was no SPF strong enough to protect you from that.

The group chat may have started as a joke, but by the next afternoon, logistics were in full swing. Iwaizumi, efficient as always, blocked off a weekend day based on everyone’s availability and sent a detailed message with arrival time, carpool plans, sunscreen reminders, and a warning that if anyone showed up without water, he was prepared to parent them into the ocean.

You, Cal, and Iwaizumi would drive down together. Cal offered to borrow a cooler from a friend, and Iwaizumi promised to prep the snacks, and you were in charge of bringing the speaker, towels, and a playlist that wouldn’t make anyone’s ears bleed. A few quick runs to the grocery store, a borrowed beach umbrella from Eli, and a half-hearted argument over who was sitting where in Cal’s car later—everything was set.

~

Two days before the beach trip, Cal dragged you out of the house under the guise of “errands,” which turned out to be code for “forcing you to find a swimsuit and outfit you don’t hate.” You hit three stores before finding anything worth considering, and Cal treated each dressing room pit stop like he was personally producing a runway show. He waited outside the stall, offering fashion advice with the conviction of a Project Runway finalist and absolutely zero shame.

“Nope. That color is doing you dirty.”
“Okay, I know you hate this cut but look at your legs? I’d kill for your legs.”
“Now that one makes you look like you own a yacht and have emotional stability. That’s the one.”

He didn’t pressure. He didn’t let you spiral. He just stood guard with his iced tea, kept things light, and made you laugh every time you started getting self-conscious. This was an excellent bonding experience for the both of you and it definitely eased your nerves a bit. If you had a cute outfit and swimsuit then that was one less thing to worry about. Eventually, you found something—simple but flattering, something that made you feel cute and not like you’re being pushed into someone else’s body. It wasn’t flashy. It didn’t try too hard. But it was you. Paired with a big sun hat, a light linen cover-up, and oversized sunglasses, you started to feel like maybe you wouldn’t combust the moment your toes touched the sand.

“Well,” Cal said as they headed to checkout, “if Iwaizumi doesn’t short-circuit when he sees you, I’ll personally throw him in the ocean.”

You elbowed him. “I’m not trying to short-circuit him.”

“You’re trying to live. I respect that. But a little accidental short-circuiting wouldn’t kill anyone. Besides, he’s gonna be doing that to you, so don’t you think its fair play?”

~

Later that night, flopped on your bed with the new outfit folded neatly nearby and anxiety crawling up your spine, you texted Phoebe.

You:
i’m going to make such a fool of myself at the beach i can feel it in my bones

Phoebe 😈💋:
okay explain. is this about ur coordination? your aversion to heat? your scandalous amount of exposed skin???

You:
yes
all of the above
and also iwaizumi is going to be shirtless and what if i walk into the ocean on purpose and never come back

Phoebe 😈💋:
so what i’m hearing is: you are experiencing completely normal thirst and also being painfully hot in every way. congrats.

You:
phoebe i’m serious

Phoebe 😈💋:
so am i. you’re hot. he’s hot. go be hot together on the beach.

You:
what if i trip in the sand and die

Phoebe 😈💋:
then you’ll die as a legend
an icon
a girl who looked fantastic and collapsed under the weight of her own drama*
i’ll put it on your tombstone

You:
you’re the worst

Phoebe 😈💋:
and yet you come to me every time you need comfort. you’re welcome.

You:
i hate that you’re right

Phoebe 😈💋:
wear the damn outfit. let the boy look. it’s summer, baby.

Chapter Text

The sun was already climbing higher by the time you all arrived at the beach, the breeze rolling in soft and salty, tugging at loose hair and hems. You’d picked a spot near a cluster of dunes, just far enough from the crowds but close enough to the bathrooms—Cal’s request, which everyone had later applauded for like he was a genius.

There were coolers dragged through the sand, bags of snacks and sunscreen, and a patchy quilt of towels and blankets that would later be claimed like territory. You were still pulling your sunglasses on when the first of the volleyball crew arrived, calling greetings before they were even within range.

“Miss Manager!” Callie was the first to rush over, dropping her bag and launching herself into a half-tackle hug. “You made it!”

“I was forced.”

“Semantics.”

Behind her came Bea, Dev, Liam, Jun, and Mina, all in various states of beach-readiness—sunglasses on, drinks in hand, flip-flops already full of sand.

Then the introductions started.

“This is Cal,” you said, gesturing to your new roommate, who was already halfway hiding behind Iwaizumi. “He’s not on the team, but he lives with us now, so—adjacent?”

“Honorary benchwarmer,” Bea said, sticking her hand out with a wide grin.

“Beachwarmer,” Dev corrected. “Since this is a test of loyalty.”

“Test of survival,” Cal muttered, squinting at the sun like it had personally offended him.

“You’ll fit right in,” Jun said approvingly.

Mina gave him a once-over and smiled. “Welcome to the circus.”

Iwaizumi just patted Cal on the back once, as if to say brace yourself , then moved to help set up the umbrella he’d insisted on bringing (“for shade,” he said, shooting you a knowing look). You pretended not to notice. Cal looked over at you as towels were claimed and snacks were debated. “Are they always like this?”

You snorted. “This is them dialed down. You haven’t seen post-practice hunger yet.”

“Terrifying.”

“Accurate. But they’re really great. You’ll love them.”

He was still a little wide-eyed, but you could tell he wasn’t overwhelmed. Just taking it all in, as everyone started settling in like it was just another day in their chaotic, sunscreen-scented lives.

And so began the day.

~

The volleyball net went up with the usual amount of arguing with the addition of sand-kicking, half the team bickering over rules before they even picked sides. You opted out of the first game, claiming sun fatigue, and Cal did the same under the excuse of sunscreen logistics (“SPF 100 does not apply itself”). The two of you set up under the umbrella Iwaizumi brought—your shady throne—armed with drinks, snacks, and sunglasses you hadn’t planned on taking off for the next four hours. You had your sunglasses on. You were shaded, hydrated, and—if you were being generous—emotionally stable. That all lasted exactly five seconds.

Because then Iwaizumi took off his shirt.

It wasn’t a dramatic moment. No slow-motion scene out of a teen drama. He just tugged it off like it was nothing, shoved it into his bag, and jogged over to the makeshift court. But it didn’t matter how casual it was—you still went absolutely, internally, feral . He wasn’t even doing anything yet. He was just standing there. Existing . With the kind of back that should be studied in art history classes. With those shoulders —broad and golden in the light, shifting slightly as he stretched one arm across his chest, and what the hell , was he ripped under that hoodie all winter?! Did he just carry around that body like it was casual? Like it wasn’t an act of war?
You forgot how to drink for a second and had to very calmly set your cup down before you choked on iced tea and died tragically in front of the whole team.

“Oh no,” you muttered under your breath.

Cal raised an eyebrow, barely turning his head from where he was adjusting his beach towel. “What?”

You didn’t take your eyes off the war crime happening across the sand. “It’s worse than I thought.”

Cal followed your gaze—and immediately let out a low whistle. “ Ohhh. ”

“Right?! I’ve been living with that. In close quarters .”

“You’ve been living with that in hoodies and joggers. That’s a betrayal.”

“He just whipped it off . Like that. Like it was nothing.” You turned to call with wide eyes, but because they were hidden by your sunglasses, you just looked deadpan to him.
“I cannot die until I sink my teeth into those shoulders.”

Cal cackled, nearly spitting out his drink. The two of you leaned back under the umbrella like old gossiping aunties, you sent out a few texts to Phoebe to update her, watching Iwaizumi spike a volleyball hard enough to make Dev throw himself into the sand in defeat. It was like a National Geographic documentary. And then the locals began to circle. Its not that Iwaizumi was the only attractive person in your group. Dev and Liam and Jun were rocking their athletic builds too, but the tan, sexy foreigner vibes dominated the makeshift court and attracted plastic princesses.

Girls. Plural. Three of them at first, walking by in their teeny bikinis with their ponytails high and their intentions higher. One lingered just a bit too long when she asked if she could “borrow” the volleyball. Another outright complimented his arm veins.

"Arm veins," you said flatly.

“To be fair,” Cal said, “they are impressive.”

You sighed. “I feel like I’m watching a mating ritual.”

One of the girls giggled loudly. “Do you work out, or do you just, like, look like that?”

Cal gave you a look. “She cannot be serious.”

“Oh, she’s very serious. She's ready to die about those forearms.”

Meanwhile, across the beach, one of the volleyball girls from another group had walked up to Iwaizumi—grinning wide, twisting a strand of hair around her finger, and very clearly not interested in volleyball. You watched her lean in as she talked to him. He scratched the back of his neck, clearly awkward, but he didn’t look away.

“She’s trying to flirt,” you said flatly.

“Godspeed,” Cal muttered, sipping his drink. “That’s the face of a man who can bench-press a fridge but cannot emotionally process compliments.”

“I hate how accurate that is.”

And while Iwaizumi didn’t entertain them exactly—he was polite, borderline awkward, if anything—he didn’t stop the game to tell them to scram either. It wasn’t like he could help it. He just looked like that .

But karma, as always, played fair.

Because not long after, it was hot enough that you finally took off your linen cover-up, revealing the swimsuit Cal had convinced you to buy after an exhausting shopping trip full of mirror pep talks and dramatic twirls. It wasn’t skimpy. It was flattering, comfortable, and fit like a glove. You felt good in it.

Apparently, so did everyone else.

Two guys came up—definitely not from your group—and complimented you as you were walking back from the cooler. One of them made a (bad) joke about “needing sunblock help,” and the other asked your name a little too smoothly. Cal was standing next to you when it happened. His eyebrow raised, and he whispered out the corner of his mouth, “Wow. The himbos are out today.”

You kept a straight face, barely. “They think I’m helpless because I’m wearing jewelry on the beach.”

“You are wearing jewelry on the beach.”

“It’s just a necklace, it’s not like I’m wearing giant hoop earrings.”

Meanwhile, you could feel a few eyes from the volleyball game drift toward you. You didn’t look back. Instead, you brushed off the guys gently, casually walked back toward your towel like nothing happened, and muttered to Cal, “Do I look like I need sunblock help?”

“No,” he said. “You look like the final boss of beachcore.”

“Good.”

You settled back under the umbrella. He tossed you a frozen grape like it was a reward. The game went on. The sun got higher. The sand got hotter. But underneath the layers of teasing and sunscreen, something quiet hummed.

Maybe it was the way Iwaizumi kept glancing your way to check on you. Or the way your heart did something stupid every time he smiled—soft and crooked and golden in the sun.

~

You had just come back from rinsing sand off your hands when you heard your name called over the sound of seagulls and crashing waves.

“Fuyou! Hey! I didn’t know you were coming out here today!”

You turned and immediately grinned. “No way—Eero?”

Your lab partner from first year—Eero—stood a few feet away in bright board shorts, sandals, and a smug grin. His coppery hair was still damp from a swim making it almost dark brown, and he looked genuinely surprised to see you. You hadn't realized how tall he was until now, standing there like the human embodiment of sunshine and extra credit.

“What are the odds?” he asked, walking over and giving you a quick side-hug before stepping back, but still standing fairly close. “You always turned down beach invites and avoided the sun like it personally offended you.”

“It has. Deeply,” you said, deadpan. “But my friends staged a full intervention. There were threats. And snacks.”

He laughed. “Fair enough. You look sexy as hell, by the way. Love the suit.”

You blushed and your hand twitched at the hem of your linen cover-up—which was still off, heaven help you—and you gave a sheepish smile. “Thanks. You look like someone who doesn’t burn.”

“I’m biracial and genetically smug about it.”

You snorted, and the two of you slipped easily into conversation, catching up about classes, summer courses, and whether the new professor actually enjoyed grading or just derived power from it. He was warm and funny as ever and had been one of your best academic partners without ever making things weird. A true gem.

Across the sand, however, someone else was absolutely not chill.

Iwaizumi had been playing beach volleyball—shirtless, of course, and effortlessly powerful—but his usual laser focus had started to wobble. First, he’d mistimed a pass. Then he missed a dig. Then came the long, slow head-turn toward where you were talking with Eero, standing too close, smiling and laughing and looking like you didn’t have a care in the world.

He heard someone whistle next to him.

“Eyes on the ball, Iwaizumi,” Dev teased, raising a brow.

“I’m fine,” he muttered, barely registering that the serve had already gone out.

Liam jogged past him to retrieve the ball and clapped him on the shoulder. “Relax, man. She’s allowed to have friends.”

“She’s been managing for a year,” Jun added from the net. “Of course she knows other people. You’re not the only orbit she moves in.”

“I know that,” Iwaizumi muttered again, watching from the corner of his eye as you laughed at something Eero said. He couldn't even hear what, but the way your eyes crinkled at the corners got him right in the chest.
Dev let out a long, exaggerated sigh. “Bro. You’re gonna sprain something if you keep clenching like that.”

“Shut up,” Iwaizumi said, too tired to sound convincing.

They let the moment pass, and eventually, Bea called from the shade, holding up a cooler and a box of takeout. “Lunch break! We’ve got sandwiches, rolls, rice, and everyone’s preferred level of hydration!”

“No spicy rolls for Liam,” Mina added helpfully. “He cried last time.”

“I did not cry—”

“You wheezed, dude.”

While the team started migrating toward the food and umbrellas, Iwaizumi lingered near the net for a moment, hands on his hips, breathing slow and heavy. He glanced back across the sand. You were still talking to Eero, animated, bright. And while he knew— he knew —he had no right to be irritated, it didn’t stop the heat curling under his skin.

He wasn’t mad. Not really.

But he also wasn’t neutral.

Still, when he saw you wave goodbye to Eero as the guy returned to his own friends, Iwaizumi finally relaxed. Just a little. Just enough to follow the others to where lunch was being set out.

The game was over for now. But whatever he was feeling?

It definitely wasn’t.

~

You returned to the group just as the coolers were being cracked open and the smell of sesame oil, soy sauce, and ocean salt hit you all at once. The little campsite under the umbrellas had grown into a colorful sprawl of towels, lunch boxes, folding chairs, and at least three different types of sunscreen scattered across a shared mat. Cal sat on the edge of a striped towel, legs stretched out and slightly sunburnt, already peeling open a container of watermelon slices. He looked up at your arrival and grinned.

“Welcome back, sun-charmed one.”

You dropped next to him, still drying your hands on your cover-up. “It was only like fifteen minutes.”

“That’s fifteen minutes more than you’ve spent voluntarily near UV rays since we’ve met you.” Mina chimed in.

“She's evolving,” Bea called from across the circle. “Beach day has changed her.”

“I’m monitoring her for heatstroke,” Dev added, twisting the cap off a water bottle dramatically. “She’s pale, sarcastic, and suspicious of fun. It’s like watching a bat learn to sunbathe.”

“Shut up,” you muttered, nudging Cal’s knee as he handed you a sandwich from the pile.

Liam, sprawled on a faded towel in his tank top and shorts, squinted at you from under his cap. “So. Who’s your friend?”

You blinked. “What?”

“Back there. You and that guy talking near the showers.”

“Oh that’s Eero. He’s just my old lab partner from first year.”

Jun tilted his head. “Lab partner who looks like that? And you’re just friends ?”

You glanced at Iwaizumi, instinctively. He was seated on the other side of the circle, towel slung low on his hips, sunglasses pushed into his hair, arms resting along his knees. Calm. Casual.

Too casual.

He wasn’t looking at you—but he wasn’t looking at his food either.

“Eero’s really nice,” you said softly after a beat, trying to ignore the heat crawling up your neck. “We worked together a lot. He was the first person I talked to in my class when school started and he was really sweet. One of my first college friends.”

“Is he single?” Mina asked innocently, leaning over a fruit container.

You snorted. “Doesn’t matter. He’s not my type.”

“Oh?” Bea grinned. “What is your type, then?”

“Introverts who cook,” you deadpanned. “And who don’t ask invasive questions over lunch.”

That got a wave of laughter around the circle—even Cal chuckled, mouth full of chicken and rice.

“I dunno,” Dev said, mock-pondering. “He was smiling at you kind of a lot.”

“And you were smiling back,” Mina added.

“You’re all so annoying.” you muttered, sipping your drink.

“You love it,” Jun said.

“I tolerate it.”

From the side, Cal leaned closer and whispered, “They always do this?”

“Only when they sense gossip,” you muttered back. “They’re like bloodhounds.”

He snorted and nudged your elbow. “Well, for the record, you handled that well.”

You smiled, a little crooked. “Thanks.”

But across the circle, someone else wasn’t smiling.

Iwaizumi’s jaw was a little too tight now. He hadn’t said anything—hadn’t joined in on the teasing, hadn’t laughed. But his grip on his chopsticks had stiffened. You weren’t looking at him anymore, but he was definitely looking at you. At you and Cal. At your heads close together. At the easy rhythm of your side conversation.

“She’s got friends outside the team, you know,” Dev said lightly, elbowing Iwaizumi in the ribs, catching his line of sight.

“I know,” Iwaizumi muttered.

“You always get that look when she talks to someone who isn’t you.”

“I do not.”

Dev raised an eyebrow. “You absolutely do. Only its worse right now than ever before since she was talking to that other guy.”

Bea leaned over and offered him a bite of her spicy shrimp roll. “Just eat something, Beach Dad.” She said loud enough to get the others’ attention to indicate a change in subject.

“I’m not—”

“You literally reminded all of us to reapply sunscreen,” Liam said.

“You carry wet wipes in your bag,” Jun added.

“You own a cooler,” Mina chimed in.

“Two coolers,” Dev corrected.

Iwaizumi groaned under his breath that he didn’t own any coolers and took a bite of rice like it was punishment.

Across the circle, you caught the tail end of the exchange but didn’t press. You passed Cal a slice of watermelon and took one for yourself, watching the ocean glint beyond the tents. The light hit just right—like the world had stopped trying to be perfect, and was just soft and alive instead.

You didn’t know Iwaizumi was watching that moment, too. Didn’t see the way his gaze drifted over your shoulders, still damp with ocean spray. How it paused at the soft curve of your smile. Or the way he sighed—very quietly—before setting his food down and pushing up to his feet.

“Game break’s over,” he said, tossing the volleyball lightly in his hands. “Let’s play one more.”

As the sun dipped lower in the sky, the beach shifted from gold to bronze, soft light spilling like syrup across the sand. Shadows stretched behind umbrellas and folding chairs, and the edges of the towels began to curl where the breeze caught them. The volleyball game picked up again—laughter rising over the rhythmic thump of the ball, feet skimming over warm, packed sand.

There were moments of chaos—mistimed jumps, exaggerated dives, mock groans of defeat—but also stretches of easy coordination, the kind that only came from familiarity. The team moved like parts of the same machine, attuned to each other’s pacing, unspoken calls, and preferred angles. Still, now and then, eyes lingered longer than necessary. Feet slowed at the edges of the circle. Glances were exchanged, then carefully ignored. Eventually, the ball was left to rest beside the cooler. Someone started collecting trash, someone else began folding towels, and the once-chaotic sprawl of the campsite slowly began to shrink. The scent of the sea grew cooler, saltier, carried on a rising breeze as evening fell. Music drifted from someone’s speaker—low, nostalgic, more background than soundtrack.

You helped fold a chair, brushing sand from the hinges with quiet focus. Mina looped her arms around Bea’s waist for a moment before they turned toward the path, bare feet kicking up little clouds of sand as they went. Jun offered a silent peace sign from behind his sunglasses, and Dev responded with a lazy salute. Liam was the last to gather his things, pausing to watch the tide pull at the edges of the shore like it didn’t want to leave either. Iwaizumi stood nearby, still and unreadable, a towel draped across his neck. He didn’t speak. He didn’t need to.

As the group trickled away—some in pairs, others alone—the beach returned to stillness. Only footprints remained in the sand, already beginning to fade with the tide. A cooler handle clicked into place. A final glance was cast over the empty stretch of shore.

Then, silence.

The sky had gone lavender. The sun dipped fully behind the horizon. And the beach was left only with the hush of waves and the memory of a day well-spent.

~

The house was quiet except for the low hum of the fridge and the occasional creak of pipes as Cal showered upstairs. The scent of the ocean still clung faintly to your skin, mingling oddly with the leftover fruit you and Iwaizumi were putting away. You moved around the kitchen with easy familiarity, barefoot and a little sun-tired, sorting containers, wiping down the counter. Iwaizumi was next to you, silent and focused—too focused—on drying a clean lid that didn’t really need that much attention. He hadn’t said much since the drive home. Not in a way that seemed angry or annoyed—just… quiet.

You slid the last fruit container across the counter toward him, watching him out of the corner of your eye. He didn’t move to take it.

“You okay?” you asked, lightly.

His eyes flicked up. “Yeah. Just tired.”

You nodded once, wiping your hands on a dish towel. “Long day.”

“Yeah.”

A pause stretched between you. Not uncomfortable, but noticeable. He still hadn’t put the container away.

“You didn’t eat much,” you said, voice low.

He shrugged. “Wasn’t hungry.”

“That’s not like you.” He’s usually just as starved as the others after volleyball, but today he ate like he was sick.

“I guess I was distracted.”

You turned to face him now, arms folded casually. “I didn’t want to say anything earlier, but… you weren’t just quiet. You were frowning all through lunch, afterwards too. And it wasn’t the sun.”

He sighed—quiet, controlled. Not defensive.

“I’m fine.”

You watched him for a moment, then reached over to take the container and tuck it into the fridge yourself. “Alright, you don’t have to talk about it if you don’t want to,” you said softly. “I’m not trying to pry. I just… I noticed. That’s all.”

For a beat, it was silent again—just the low hum of the fridge and the soft clink of the dish you set in the sink. Then:

“It’s not you,” he said, low.

You blinked. “I didn’t think it was.”

He hesitated again, rubbing the back of his neck. “It’s not anything serious, really. Just... stuff. People.”

You tilted your head, but didn’t speak.

He glanced at you, then looked away. “Didn’t love how some people were acting at the beach.”

That caught your attention. “You mean—like Cal?”

“No,” he said quickly. “Not Cal.” You’re so confused.

He paused. “Just—some of the people around you.”

You frowned, confused. “Like...?”

“Eero,” he muttered, reluctantly. “And the other strangers. It’s not a big deal.”

You leaned against the counter. “You mean people flirting?”

His silence said enough.

Something in your chest warmed—gentle, teasing. “You jealous, Hajime?”

“I’m saying I didn’t like it,” he said flatly, not meeting your eyes. “I’m not used to that kind of thing getting to me. It usually doesn’t.” He even looked genuinely annoyed at himself for admitting it.

You didn’t tease him for it—not really. “I don’t think that’s weird,” you said instead. “Sometimes people just rub you the wrong way.”

He let out a soft breath. “It’s not that deep.”

You nodded once. “Okay.” You didn’t press. You just turned to rinse off a fork, giving him space to breathe. After a second, he picked up the fruit container and slid it into the fridge next to the rest, closing the door with a soft click.

“I didn’t mean to make you worry,” he said finally. “You always notice when I’m off, don’t you?”

You shrugged. “You do the same for me.”

That got the faintest twitch of a smile.

“Just let me know if you want to talk next time. Or vent. Or just… frown at the wall while I throw snacks at you.”

He let out a short breath—half a laugh. “Noted.”

You smiled and handed him the last empty container. “For future reference, you don’t have to tell me what’s bothering you, but I would like to know if there’s something I can do to help. Besides, you can die of bottled emotions and I refuse to clean that mess off the tile.”

“Thanks. That’s comforting.”

He didn’t open up any more than that—but he didn’t retreat either. And when your fingers brushed his as you passed the last dish to him, he didn’t pull away.

That was enough.

Chapter Text

Fuyou[4:02 PM] :
“IS THIS WHAT A RAGING BONER FEELS LIKE?!?!?!”

Phoebe threw her head back and cackled louder than she ever had before–a full-bodied laugh that shook her shoulders and made Eli peek around the fridge door with a raised eyebrow. Eli was wondered whether or not he should be concerned, but his love was laughing and enjoying her friend’s antics so he supposed he should be happy. Phoebe had told him numerous times in the last two years how you had become something of a younger sister to her which was the only reason he had made the effort to get to know you in the few times he had met you.

“Fuyou again?” he asked from the kitchen where he was plating up lunch for them. Phoebe usually laughed so hard at your dramatic reactions or responses.

“Yeah,” she breathed out, trying to calm her laughs. “She went to the beach today with the volleyball team and her new roommates and she FINALLY saw Iwaizumi shirtless. And she’s losing it. Profoundly.”

“She likes him?”

“Yeah and she’s only recently let herself admit it and even then it was only to me as a hypothetical question. She doesn’t want to screw anything up, and she has limited dating experience so its understandable. But its equal parts frustrating and amusing watching them dance around each other. She’s young and I don’t think she’s ever felt this way about someone so this is new territory.”

“And how does he feel about her?” Taking a seat at the dining table he started asking her questions, now fully invested in the drama. This was good drama, there wasn’t any screaming or fighting or Phoebe stressing. It was harmless and entertaining and if you and Phoebe were going to stay close friends then maybe he should at least be aware of what’s going on. Especially if Phoebe was so involved. Also, he loved listening to gossip. It was his guilty pleasure.

“I’m 90% sure he feels the same but I don’t know what his history or reasons are for not pursuing her. He seems the stoic, rough around the edges type so maybe he needs to process his emotions a bit longer before he can do something. So far he’s become her best friend here and moved in. which is good but it doesn’t help the uncertainty for their future.”

“Aren’t you going to answer her?” he gestured towards Phoebe’s phone since she hadn’t touched it since reading your text in the notifications bar. Just as he asked, her phone pinged again.

“I will, later. I want her to get her initial freakout done and then try and enjoy her time there, not spend it sat in some corner texting me about how dehydrated she is because of the sun and the drool she’s let out because of his unfair physique.”

Eli let out a few chuckles in response. You were only 21, and while you were very intelligent and mature enough for your age, he supposes that first love or at least first serious feelings definitely would bring out a teenage giddiness. Especially inexperienced and sweet girls like you.

Later that evening, as Phoebe finished loading the dishwasher, she finally paid attention to her phone and immediately started giggling at the string of texts you had sent her. She poured herself a glass of wine and went to the bedroom, ready to enjoy this fully before turning in for the night.

Fuyou [4:04 PM]:
I HAVE MY FIRST LADY BONER
OMG IGNORE I SAID THAT
FUYOU.EXE. HAS STOPPED WORKING
I WANNA DIE
BUT I ALSO CANNOT DIE UNTIL I SINK MY TEETH INTO THOSE SHOULDERS OH GOD HELP ME

Fuyou [6:04 PM]:
I literally saw Heaven today
Except it was shirtless
And glaring at me
From under mirrored sunglasses
While holding a volleyball like he wanted to spike it directly into my soul

Fuyou [6:06 PM]:
Okay but like. Before lunch he was still HIM
He gave me that dumb crooked half-smile when I came back from the showers
like the one where he tilts his head a little??
I think I short-circuited
I forgot how to sip from my straw for 3.5 seconds

Fuyou [6:08 PM]:
BUT THEN
Lunchtime hit
and he just got... quiet
super quiet
and his jaw was all tense and he barely ate anything

Fuyou [7:23 PM]:
I asked him about it later and he was like
“I don’t like how strange guys kept bothering you”
and like.
???
Sir. Are you… mad-protective now???

Fuyou [7:27 PM]:
Also
I ran into Eero
REMEMBER EERO??? From freshman year?
We caught up for like ten minutes, nothing flirty or anything
and everyone started grilling me???
and Iwaizumi got... extra frowny

Fuyou [8:12 PM]:
Phoebe.
Am I dying.
Is this what dying in confusion feels like.
I’ve never had this many butterflies.
They’re unionizing and punching my tummy.

Phoebe [8:40 PM]:
as you should
this is exactly the kind of unhinged energy I was waiting for
please continue
I’m drinking wine and enjoying this like it’s a Netflix original

Fuyou [8:42 PM]:
Not Netflix
HBO
High budget
Emotional depth
Slow burn
Tension you could cut with a beach umbrella pole

Phoebe [8:43 PM]:
YES.
HBO limited series. 8 episodes.
Season 2 optional if the chemistry is too good to waste.
Iwaizumi is 100% that broody male lead who says like 3 words per episode but they hit you like a truck

Fuyou [8:45 PM]:
STOP
WHY IS THAT SO ACCURATE
he didn’t even SAY anything during lunch
he just sat there
and brooded
and glared
OOF

Phoebe [8:46 PM]:
you said he glared at you
but also smiled earlier
like that’s range
that’s romantic drama RANGE
also I told you to SEND PICS??
I want visual evidence of your descent into thirst

Fuyou [8:47 PM]:
ugh fine

[1 image sent]
[1 image sent]
[1 image sent]
[1 image sent]
[1 video sent – 7 seconds: Liam yelling, volleyball soaring, and you screaming in the background]

Phoebe [8:49 PM]:
HELLOOOOO BEACH BABE???
this lighting? the hair?? the side profile???
bestie you look like a coming-of-age drama protagonist who just learned to feel joy for the first time
I’m so proud
also that suit is doing unspeakable things for your legs

Fuyou [8:50 PM]:
omg STOP
I’m shy now. Cal is my hero for the clothes and pics

Phoebe [8:54 PM]:
god I love love
also just so you know
you’re handling this very well
you’re allowed to freak out a little but you’re not spiraling
and he clearly notices you
don’t let the silence fool you
he’s watching
and thinking

Fuyou [8:56 PM]:
…do you think he likes me?

Phoebe [8:57 PM]
I think
he doesn’t know how to not like you
and I think that scares him a little

Fuyou [8:59 PM]:
ok well
I’m gonna cry into my stuffed owl now
Thanx

Phoebe [9:00 PM]:
that’s what she’s there for
her name is Susan and she supports healthy emotional development

Fuyou [9:00 PM]:
her name is Biscuit and she’s a queen, thanx

Phoebe [9:01 PM]:
my apologies to Biscuit
may she guard your heart and also your thirst

Fuyou [9:17 PM]:
she does both
also
thank you
I feel better

Phoebe [9:22 PM]:
always, baby
text me tomorrow if he says a single word to you
I don’t care if it’s “hey”
I want the transcript

Fuyou [9:35 PM]:
noted
goodnight, chaos witch

Phoebe [9:40 PM]:
goodnight, pining disaster
sweet dreams of volleyball thighs

~

Phoebe finally locked her phone and set it on the nightstand. Eli was already tucked beneath the sheets beside her, eyes closed, one arm behind his head.

“She okay?” he murmured, voice low with sleep.

“She’s okay,” Phoebe said, settling down against his side. “She had a full-on meltdown about tan lines and emotional repression.”

“So, Tuesday,” Eli said, smiling softly.

“She’s so in it, Eli. Like, first-real-crush-love kind of in it. It’s adorable and painful.”

“And Iwaizumi? Any development there?”

Phoebe tilted her head, thinking back to the half-smiles, the quiet tension in Fuyou’s texts. “He’s in it too. He just hasn’t admitted it yet. But he will.”

“Mm. Then good,” Eli said, pulling her a little closer. “You love her like a little sister. I trust your radar.”

Phoebe exhaled, content. “She’s got a good heart. She’s just not used to giving it away yet.”

Outside, the city lights blinked quietly. Inside, everything was warm and still. And somewhere else, across campus, a stuffed owl named Biscuit stood noble and proud on a pillow, watching over the beginnings of something that hadn’t quite become love—but was definitely on its way.

~

You cuddled with your little owl plushie for a few minutes, simply enjoying its softness in your arms. But it made you miss the person that gifted it to you in the first place. You buried your face in it hoping to catch a whiff of him on it but it was of no use. It had been three years since he gave it to you so the scent of his cologne had obviously faded. Still, you felt comforted in a way only one of his hugs could. So you decided to tell him. You hadn’t properly talked to him since the last time he came to see you, a few days before you left Tokyo. Your communication hadn’t ceased entirely, but had dwindled down to liking social media posts, birthday wishes and sharing memes.

Picking up your phone again, you took a selfie with the owl plushie, face still smooshed in it, and sent it to him. With a short message of how you missed him a lot, and the owl was doing exactly what he’d said it would do: comfort you the way his hugs did. It would take a while for him to respond, it always did with how little he checked his phone and how busy he was, but he would. So for now, you put your phone away, turned off your bedside lamp, and let yourself drift off to sleep.

Chapter Text

Iwaizumi opened the front door to the faint crackle of oil still hissing in the kitchen. The air was warm with the scent of dashi broth, soy, and fried tofu—light and earthy, comforting in a way that hit straight in the chest.

He didn’t have to guess.

You were cooking it again. The same dish from last year. Agedashi tofu. His favorite.

He stood in the doorway for a moment longer than necessary, fingers still on the doorknob, duffel bag slung over one shoulder. The athletic center had been loud and busy today, the birthday wishes from coworkers well-meaning but exhausting. But here—here, in the dim light of the house that smelled like care—everything was quiet.

He exhaled slowly.

There were no decorations. No card. No candles. Just a small pot on the stove, and you were humming something under your breath as you carefully spooned broth in a deep plate on the counter. Nothing flashy. Just... consistent. Quiet and thoughtful. Like you .

He dropped his bag by the wall and toed off his shoes without a word. The food was already plated when he stepped into the kitchen, steam curling upward from the bowl. The tofu was golden, crisp-edged and soft in the center, floating in warm broth with daikon and a few sprigs of scallion, exactly how he liked it. You turned, still in your sweatpants and t-shirt, still damp-haired from a recent shower. You smiled when you saw him.

He almost smiled back but then felt it land. All at once.

You remembered.

You had remembered again. Not because he reminded you. Not because anyone told you. But because you cared. Because you wanted to take care of him. Wanted him to know that he mattered to you and to enjoy his birthday that he was spending far from home and his closest friends and family.

And that was when the thought hit. He didn’t know your birthday.

His stomach dropped. His head spun and he couldn’t breathe. He sat down too quickly, too heavily. The chair creaked under him. His hands were suddenly too warm, too large. He rested them on his thighs to keep them still, but his fingers twitched anyway.
When was it?

He tried to think back. Remember. But there was no memory of cake or candles. No decorations, no offhanded mention of a party, no texts with emojis. No dinner plans. No pictures on your door. No—

Nothing.

And that meant—

It already happened. It had come and gone. Without a word.

You had cooked for him. Twice now. Delicious, perfect, meaningful meals. And he had... missed yours. Completely.

No acknowledgment. No gift. No card. Not even a goddamn "Happy Birthday."

How could he not have asked? How could he have gone a full year without asking?
His throat went tight. Embarrassment bloomed hard in his chest, sharper than guilt, heavier than shame. It made his hands curl slowly into fists in his lap.

And you had said nothing.

Of course you hadn’t! You wouldn’t. You didn’t like being the center of attention. You always deflected when things turned personal. Gave truthful answers but always vague, rarely ever in-depth. Only sometimes with him when you were alone or talking of home. He should’ve seen it. Should’ve noticed.
The thought of you quietly celebrating alone—or worse, not celebrating at all—while still doing this for him made something in his chest twist violently.

You’d cared enough to cook. To remember.

And he—

He looked down at the plate in front of him. His vision blurred for half a second, not from tears, but from the weight. So much so that he didn’t even register something warm on his face.

He didn't deserve this.

“Hajime?” your voice broke through the spiral, light with concern.

He looked up. You were leaning over him slightly with your hands cupping his face, brows knit, eyes sharp. Worry creeping into your voice.

“You’re pale,” you said gently. “You’re not about to pass out, right? Did something happen?”

And for a second, he almost lied. Almost brushed it off. But the guilt had lodged in his ribs now, immovable and heavy. He swallowed hard, looked at you—really looked at you—and forced the words out.

“I... I don’t know your birthday.”

He hated how shaky it sounded. Stupid. Flat. Hollow compared to the way it echoed in his chest.

You blinked, surprised.

He went on before you could answer. “I—I never asked when it was. And now it’s been a year. You made this again. You remembered. And I...” His voice caught. He clenched his jaw.

“I didn’t even know it passed.”

Silence. The worst kind. The heavy, open-ended kind that lets guilt fester.

“I’m sorry,” he said finally, throat dry. “I’m really—shit, I’m really sorry. You do this for me, and I didn’t even think to ask. That’s—”

His voice cracked, just barely. “That’s not okay.”

He stared at the bowl, shame wrapping cold fingers around the back of his neck. For all his quietness, for all the ways he’d tried to show up—carrying your groceries, walking you home, remembering the way you liked your tea—he’d missed this. Something so important. Something that mattered. He knew he was a bit socially awkward, especially around girls, but had he not even had enough sense, enough decency, to ask you about your birthday? When he’d walked you home last year on his birthday there had been a lull in conversation. More than once, he could’ve asked that one simple question.

The knowledge of his mistake sank deeper than anything you could say next. But you didn’t say anything just yet. You sat in the seat next to him. The table was small and round, so you sat close without letting go of his face. He didn’t know what to expect from you. What you would say or do next but your gentle touch was reassuring.

You let out a breath, your shoulders dropping in relief that he wasn’t sick or in serious trouble. “Hajime.” You said so softly, it felt like a punch to his heart. Why were you so kind? He might feel better if you were a little upset or if you teased him for it the way he had when you had once forgotten to offer him tea when he got back from Japan. That was different though, both of you had been excited to see each other and catch up but this was bigger.

He still wouldn’t look at you, keeping his eyes on the plate of tofu in front of him. But you repeated his name and your hands gentle, but firm, guided his face to the side to look at you. When he finally worked up the courage to lift his eyes to yours, what he saw was your usual kind eyes and gentle smile, with the very unexpected addition of amusement. What on earth…?

“Please breathe, I spent my birthday with you so please don’t be so hard on yourself.” You were full smiling now, still gentle and no longer worried.

Wait, what?

“I don’t remember that.” He was still hesitating but the cold sweat of panic was starting to wear off.

“I’ll tell you all about it, but first take a deep breath for me.”

So he did. Then he took another. And another until his shoulders were no longer tense. All the while your hands stayed on his cheeks, grounding him and letting him know that you weren’t angry with him. It helped even more that your thumbs were softly rubbing his cheekbones.

When you were convinced he was no longer on the verge of hyperventilating you removed your hands from his face and handed him his chopsticks. Both of you putting your hands together and saying a quiet thanks for the food before digging in. The good thing about his freakout was that it gave the food enough time to cool down to the perfect temperature. It was still hot but not to the point where you need to blow on it and still burn your tongue. It was, of course, delicious—made just the way he liked it, with quiet care and steady hands, from someone who meant more to him than he could admit.

After a few bites, you got up to fetch drinks. Water for him and melon soda for you. You even knew his dietary preferences, that he stayed away from unhealthy or artificially processed or sugary things (most of the time, at least). Then you spoke, very casually as if he hadn’t just been having the beginning of a meltdown over your birthday.

“First of all, as a fellow college student, I recommend you keep your meltdowns and breakdowns reserved for deadlines, exams and job interviews.” Your eyes flicked up to him, expectant, with cheeks full of tofu and it managed to make his lips twitch into a small smile without his permission.
“Secondly, my birthday was that one Sunday in January that we spent together in town.”

Now he remembered it.

The two of you had spent a lot of time together the last year but never a full day. It was quiet study sessions in the library, volleyball practice and walking home afterwards. Group dinners and groupchats, getting food together, trying new restaurants just the two of you. But never a whole day. Except that one day. It was a cold, cold Sunday. Cloudy but not gloomy, a surprisingly bright day for when the sun wasn’t out.
He’d woken up with nothing on his agenda. He didn’t have to work and was all caught up on his assignments and there was no volleyball practice. A whole day to himself. Those were so rare that he had no idea what to do with himself, so he did the first thing that came to his mind: he texted you, asking you what your plans were for the day. With any luck, he could join you, or get some ideas for what he could do.

Coincidentally, you also had nothing to do that day but you had already decided to stay home, in bed, wearing the riceball blanket hoodie and watching rom-coms while finishing off the last of the matcha KitKats he’d brought you. He’d suggested you both go out, even if it was just to walk around campus or town. He didn’t have to convince you, you loved walking around outside in the cold but you didn’t like doing it alone. So when a friend offered to go with you without complaining about the weather you snatched up the opportunity and told him you’d meet him outside his dorm at noon. You’d looked sad when he came down to join you, eyes were sleepy and red rimmed. Happy to see him and excited to spend the day together but there was a muted sadness surrounding you. When you both got to the café, he couldn’t help himself and asked if you were alright, if something had happened to upset you. The expression on your face immediately went a bit tight and you quickly forced a small smile before opening your mouth to brush him off. To tell him you were fine, just sleep deprived or any other excuse.

But you hesitated. Looked him in the eyes and dropped the act. With a sigh and your hands wrapped around your coffee cup, you told him. Once that dam broke, it all came spilling out. You didn’t cry but he could understand that your tears were dried up and you were homesick in a way even he couldn’t help with. You’d told him that you missed Kuroo and Kenma, and it bothered you how you had missed Kenma’s last year in high school, his volleyball matches, his graduation. You wondered how the rest of your juniors were doing and how much you missed them. Your friends from other schools that you’d see during training camps and during holidays. How your video calls with both of them were even more infrequent and separate because Kuroo was busier in his later years of college and with his girlfriend, Kenma settling in to early college life.

Now he had even more going on and it was a miracle he even had the time to answer your texts let alone call you for your birthday the night before. You didn’t tell Iwaizumi it was your birthday, just that you’d video called both your friends separately. It wasn’t the first time the realization had dawned on you how you’d all gone your own ways, but it was the first time it hit you so hard that it made you cry. The homesickness after that call had suffocated you and brought tears to your eyes with such force you couldn’t stop the sobs that followed.

Never one to easily share your fears and insecurities–even with your two best friends– it had surprised you when you had confided in Iwaizumi that you were afraid this was how you would lose your friends. You’d grown up with those boys and then the rest of the volleyball team, and one of the best things about being friends with boys was that they always remained your friends even if you lost touch for a while but you were scared. What if by the time you went back home, even for a break, you wouldn’t get to see them. Or worse, what if they wouldn’t want to see you even if they had the time or what if–

He’d cut off your ramblings by reaching across the table and placing his hands on yours. Even though your hands were wrapped around your warm mug they were still shaking a bit. The soft reassurance in his eyes grounded you and helped you breathe again. Iwaizumi was a man of few words, but when he was sure you were done sharing, he’d comforted you. Telling you that friends like that never truly abandon you. They had called you despite their busy schedules, that this was just a few years of your life when you needed to be in different places but you’ll be home one day, back in Tokyo and you’ll get to see them again. All the while his hands didn’t leave yours, his eyes boring into yours, which made his words even more impactful.

He knew how you felt. With him in California, Oikawa in Argentina, and both Mattsun and Makki still in Miyagi, he knew how it felt to miss your friends and especially miss seeing them every day. To wonder how your juniors were doing and not being able to go and check on them. When he was done, he was proud to see that he had managed to bring a smile to your face. It was small but genuine. He’d pat himself on the back later for cheering you up. “This too shall pass,” he’d said, with the quiet certainty of someone who carried an old soul in a young body.
“Yeah but what the fuck.” And with that you’d broken the tension and moved past the topic. Now you were both laughing and searching the menu for what to order for lunch. Which he had insisted on paying for, and the rest of the day had been spent walking around town, buying yourself one of the big weird mugs you had your eye on, and just enjoying each other’s company until it started getting dark. You’d gotten takeout and walked home, but it was late enough that he didn’t stay. He’d given you a long, warm hug, arms wrapped tight around you and told you everything was going to be fine. And in his embrace, you’d felt it down to your bones that, yes, everything will be alright.

“I remember that but why didn’t you tell me it was your birthday? We could’ve done something more fun like bowling or a movie.”

You looked at him like you knew he was going to say something like that. “If you remember that day then you’ll recall that I wasn’t exactly in the mood for anything too fun.” It was true, the food and company were what you had needed for the day you were having then. “Besides, we did what I always do on my birthday. I spent it with my friends, enjoy their company and good food. Even got a cool new mug.”

You put down your chopsticks and took his hand in both of yours and gave him an earnest look. The emotion in your eyes so raw it made him want to look away.
“I didn’t tell you it was my birthday because I knew you’d try to do something more that day or another day and I never really celebrate my birthday. I was going to spend my 21st birthday in bed, homesick, depressed and alone. Even Phoebe wasn’t around. But you were there for me and not just for my birthday. You took care of me, cheered me up and paid for lunch . And just a few days before that you brought me gifts and snacks from home. It was a great birthday and I couldn’t have asked for anything better. You always take such good care of me Hajime.”

The words hit him like warm water over frozen skin—slow, steady, and almost too much to bear. He could tell you didn’t say it just to make him feel better. There was no performance in your voice or pity. Just truth. And something softer that he’d barely let himself hope for. He had been enough. That knowledge sank into him with a weight that nearly buckled him.

The coil of guilt in his chest loosened completely. Even the ache in his jaw—the one he hadn’t noticed from how hard he’d been clenching it—eased as your words settled in. It had been eating him alive, the thought that he’d missed something important. That he’d let you feel alone on a day that should’ve mattered. But you weren’t blaming him. You hadn’t felt let down. If anything, you were remembering that day as something kind. Something good.

Something that could have been hard for you but he had helped made bearable. You hadn’t needed a big gesture. Just needed his company and care. And without knowing it, he’d shown up for you in all the quiet ways he always tried to. Just being there. Relief bloomed slowly in his chest, heavy and overwhelming.

He wanted to close his eyes. To sit in the warmth of it, to let the storm of shame and self-reproach pass quietly now that it had nowhere left to go. He’d done right by you, even if he hadn’t known it at the time.

And you’d said his name so softly, like it belonged to someone worth trusting. He wasn’t used to that. And God, did it undo him.

Without thinking about it, he got halfway out of his chair, leaned over to you and pressed his lips to your forehead. He missed the way your eyes widened, and he whispered, “Happy belated birthday, Fuyou-chan.” He sat back down and saw your eyes were a bit misty but you had the big smile on your face. Letting out a little laugh, you wiped your eyes before looking back at him and saying a soft, “Happy birthday, Hajime.”

Both of you smiled at each other before you heard the front door open and in came Cal looking like he ran all the way home being chased by hellhounds. After exchanging greetings you invited him to dinner and told him it was a special occasion before he could turn you down for any reason. He wished Iwaizumi a happy birthday and patted him on the back before settling in with you guys digging into the tofu you brought out for him.

The three of you ate together, laughter gradually replacing the heavy quiet that had filled the room earlier. Cal cracked jokes between bites, and you matched his energy with playful jabs, both of you trying to outdo each other like usual. Iwaizumi didn’t say much. He sat back, letting the sound of your voices wash over him, the warmth of the meal and the company sinking deep into his bones.

The tofu was soft. The broth was rich. The moment simple. But to him, it felt like something he’d keep tucked away forever.
Later, after the dishes were cleaned and Cal had gone up to his room, the house settled into quiet again. You moved around the kitchen with practiced ease, humming under your breath, your back to him as you wiped down the counter. He watched you for a moment longer than he meant to, heart steady now, full in a way he didn’t fully understand yet.

“Hey,” he said softly.

You turned. He didn’t say anything else—just met your eyes and gave you a small nod.

Thank you.

You smiled. And just like that, the last of the weight he’d been carrying lifted.

Chapter Text

The end of summer tasted like old coffee and new nerves.

Classes were done. Grades posted. Your schedule for fall was finalized, color-coded, and staring at you from the fridge like it knew something you didn’t. Campus had gone quiet again—just for a breath—like the world was holding its shoulders up, waiting for the weight to drop. You’d even caught Cal staring at the calendar like it had betrayed him, whispering “already?” under his breath like summer had personally skipped him. He hadn’t had many classes but between the beach and school, time had flown. He’d also frequent the volleyball court with you or join for team activities. For you and Iwaizumi it had been busier considering he had a full-time job and volleyball, and you had a full class schedule.

You weren’t ready.

None of you were, really.

Least of all Iwaizumi, who stood in the doorway of the kitchen holding an orange, and muttered, “God help me, they want me to go to a party.”

You blinked from where you were sitting on the couch, legs tucked under you, iced tea sweating on the table beside you. “Who does?”

“The team,” he said. “Dev. Mina. Jun. All of them. I was cornered after class like I owed someone money.” He took a place at the counter and Cal perked up like he was going to say something. “No.”

Cal dropped into a chair across from him, ignoring the tone completely. “C’mon. It’s not just any party. It’s the first frat party of the semester.”

“I said no,” Iwaizumi repeated, calm but resolute.

“You can say that all you want,” Cal said cheerfully, “but they’re expecting us. I’m expected. I’m basically one of them now.”

You narrowed your eyes. “You’re not even on the volleyball team.”

“Honorary benchwarmer,” he said proudly. “Dev said it. It’s canon now.”

Iwaizumi finally looked up. “Then you go.”

Cal tossed him a sly look, “I’ll be driving.”

You glared. “You weaponized the Honda.”

“I incentivized it,” he corrected, waving the spoon in this hand. “Big difference. Look—this way, we can leave whenever. No Uber roulette. No stranded goodbyes. No social hangovers. If it sucks, we’re out. I won’t even be drinking so you don’t have to worry.”

“Or,” Iwaizumi said slowly, “we could just not go.”

“But if you don’t go,” Cal said, dramatically pointing his spoon at him, “you’re going to hear about it all semester. Group chat. Practice. Game nights. The passive-aggressive guilt will be relentless.”

You hated how much sense he made. Iwaizumi clearly hated it more.

You sighed, propping your chin on your hand. “I don’t even know what I’d wear to a party anymore.”

“I’ll help you,” Cal said immediately. “We’ll pregame with fashion chaos. I have an outfit planned. You’re welcome.”

“You planned an outfit?” Iwaizumi asked, like it was a war crime.

“I’m making up for the rest of your anti-social personalities,” Cal said, smug. “It’s a heavy burden, but someone has to be the team extrovert.”

“Jun and Iwa are the only anti social ones on the team…”

“You’re not even on the team,” Iwaizumi muttered.

“Honorary,” Cal reminded him, grinning. “And as your designated driver and social ambassador, I’ll be expecting you both ready by seven. Wear shoes you can run in.”

“Why would we need to run?” you asked warily.

He just winked. “College parties are unpredictable.”

~

The house was too quiet in the hour before the party.

You sat on the edge of your bed, bare feet brushing the floor, a faint breeze pushing against the sheer curtains. Outside, dusk had barely settled, but inside your chest there was already a low thrum of regret. The kind that starts as a whisper. You hadn’t even left yet.

Upstairs, right above your room, music played softly—Cal’s pregame playlist, something upbeat and bass-heavy, humming from his speaker like it was trying to hype up the silence. He was probably almost ready. You weren’t even dressed. But fifteen minutes later, he was leaning against your doorframe with his shirt tucked, his rings on, and a grin that was half excitement, half trouble.

“I come bearing fashion wisdom,” he said. “Let’s get you out of that existential dread and into something slutty-adjacent.”

You rolled your eyes, but stood anyway.

He was gentler than you expected—pulling options from your closet, tossing a few back without judgment, holding up a black top against your frame like a stylist preparing a mannequin. In the end, it was simple. Black jeans. That square-neck shirt you always forgot you owned. A layered necklace. Boots with the faintest heel. Running shoes indeed .

“I feel like I’m going to be eaten alive,” you muttered at your reflection.

Cal, from behind you, uncapped a small tube of mascara. “Not if you look like the one doing the eating.”

You blinked at him through the mirror.

He swiped on a bit of color to your lips, ran his fingers through your hair until it looked intentional. Not glamorous. Not overdone. Just… effortless, if a little sharp around the edges. You didn’t look like you were going to a party. You looked like someone who was going to survive one.

And still—you didn’t feel ready. College type parties were never your thing. You preferred the parties you’d attended in high school with the volleyball teams and managers. Loud and crowded, sure, but not so much you couldn’t socialize with everyone. This was different, and you were not looking forward to it even though you knew you would have your friends there.

The party was already in full swing when you got there.

Not in the fun way—no warm welcome, no time to ease in. Just full. Music bleeding through the walls like it had teeth, porch packed with people smoking and drinking and laughing too loudly. The windows glowed orange from within, like the house itself was overheated.

Cal barely parked before someone spotted him.

“Cal!” Mina’s voice cut through the noise as she waved him over, drink already in hand, glitter on her cheeks like she'd never even left summer behind.

The rest of the volleyball team followed quickly—Dev with the signature red solo cup, Bea with a wrist full of bracelets and a grin that meant trouble. They clustered around Cal like he belonged there. Like he always had. You hung back a little, hovering on the sidewalk as strangers spilled past. Iwaizumi stood next to you, quiet and steady, eyes sweeping over the crowd with the same low-level suspicion you felt in your chest.

“Why are we here again?” you asked softly.

“Cal said we could leave whenever,” Iwaizumi muttered, but his jaw was already tense. Like he didn’t believe it either.

Inside, it was worse.

The house was packed shoulder-to-shoulder, music pounding through the floorboards, every surface sticky with heat and humidity. People moved like a current—laughing, shouting, grinding past one another as if personal space had been outlawed. You barely made it to the kitchen before someone bumped into your shoulder, muttered a half-sorry, and disappeared into the rush. You clung to Cal long enough to see him dragged off into another room by Mina and Dev. The team was splitting already—old friends, new drinks, a thousand little conversations blooming and fading like fireworks.

Iwaizumi was next to you one moment. Then gone the next.

It wasn’t dramatic. It was just crowded. Someone stepped between you, then another. A group of girls brushed past you with high-pitched laughter and glittered cups. When you turned, he was across the room, half-cornered by two girls—both pretty, both leaning a little too close, one of them touching his arm as she spoke.

You stopped breathing for a moment. It wasn’t the flirting. It was the look on his face—blank, unreadable. Like he didn’t want to be there, but didn’t know how to step away. You couldn’t get to him. The crowd was too thick. The music was too loud.

Then someone grabbed your wrist.

You flinched.

It wasn’t Cal. It wasn’t anyone you knew.

Just a guy—drunk, grinning, too confident. He reeked of something cheap and sugary, and his eyes were glassy with drink.

“Hey—hey, you’re gorgeous. You here alone?”

You tried to tug your arm back, polite but firm. “I’m with friends.”

He laughed. “Not with me, though. You should be.”

You took a step back, but he followed, too close, too fast. His hand slid up your arm, fingers pressing just a little too tight, breath warm and sour as he leaned in. this was bad. You were alone and this guy was rather sturdy looking, with broad shoulders and a full physique.

“Don’t be shy, baby—”

“Let go of me.”

You didn’t raise your voice. Didn’t scream. But your tone dropped like a knife, low and sharp enough to draw blood. Still, it only made him grin wider. It was the kind of moment you’d always assumed you’d handle better. But your heart was pounding now. Your breath catching. The room too hot. Your skin crawling. You couldn’t even see Iwaizumi anymore. Couldn’t think. You tried to tug your arm back again—firmer, sharper this time—but the guy’s grip only tightened.

“C’mon, don’t be like that,” he slurred. His words were syrupy, slow, wrong. “You came out lookin’ like that and don’t wanna talk to anyone? What’s the point?”

Your heart thudded louder in your chest. Too loud. Too fast.

“I said let go.”

You locked eyes with him, and for a moment, you thought he might listen.

Then—

“Hey.”

A different voice. Low. Cold. Steady enough to cut through the chaos.

Iwaizumi.

He was standing a few steps behind the guy now—still as stone, but coiled, like something barely holding back.

“Let go of her,” he said.

The guy didn’t turn right away. Just laughed, breath hot and wet with alcohol, still looking at you like you were a challenge to win. “Or what?”

Now he turned, slow and sloppy, releasing your arm with a flick like he wasn’t impressed. “You her boyfriend or something?”

“No,” Iwaizumi said, jaw tight. “But she told you to back off.”

You could feel the shift in the room—how tension prickled through the air like static. A few people nearby turned, sensing something beginning. It was still too loud for anyone to notice but they must have been sober enough to watch the scene unfold.

“Relax, man,” the guy said, lifting his hands with an exaggerated shrug. “Just tryna be friendly.”

“That’s not what you were doing,” Iwaizumi said evenly.

The guy stepped closer, off-balance but trying to look tough. “You got a problem with me?”

Iwaizumi didn’t blink. “Yeah. You.”

The punch came fast—but drunk.

A wild, swinging mess of poor coordination and worse judgment. Iwaizumi ducked it easily, barely shifting his stance. But the guy stumbled forward with the failed momentum and collided into you hard, shoving you sideways into the wall.

Your head hit something—drywall, maybe the edge of a doorframe—and the jolt lit up your vision for a split second. Dull, sudden pain bloomed at the side of your face, and your knees buckled slightly under you. You didn’t hit the ground—but you staggered. Hard.

“Fuck—” you muttered, hand going instinctively to your head, the noise around you dropping to a blur.

And then—

Iwaizumi snapped.

Not with a yell. Not with chaos. But with brutal, surgical clarity.

He shoved the guy back—not recklessly, but hard enough to send him stumbling. Then, before the guy could reorient, Iwaizumi stepped between you and him, placing his body squarely in front of yours like a wall.

The drunk swung again, and this time Iwaizumi caught his wrist. Yanked it downward, and twisted.

The guy yelled.

Another shove—this time into the corner of the doorway. Not enough to break anything. Just enough to end it. People shouted now. Voices rose. Someone pulled the drunk away, stumbling and cursing and nursing his wrist. Another person stepped between them. Dev’s voice rang out in the distance—“Everyone chill the fuck out!”

But Iwaizumi didn’t move. Didn’t take his eyes off the guy. He stood planted in front of you, chest heaving slightly, fists still clenched like it took everything in him not to go further.

You moved and stood in front of him. He still wouldn’t look at you, so you placed your hands on his shoulders gently but firm enough to shake him out of his anger and get him to look at you. “Hey,” you said, voice shaking more than you wanted it to. “I’m okay.” The moment he saw your face—saw the way your hand touched the back of your head, the disoriented wince—his expression changed. All the fight drained out of him in one breath. His eyes flicked over you in full-body assessment: hands, shoulders, posture, the way you swayed a little too much when you tried to straighten up.

He moved toward you slowly, one hand hovering near your elbow without touching. “Did you hit your head?”

You nodded once. “I’m fine. It’s just—”

“You’re not fine,” he said, gently now. “We’re leaving.”

He didn’t wait for the crowd to disperse, didn’t care who was still watching. With one hand pressed to the small of your back he guided you out, steady and quiet. Through the thrum of music and the buzz of curious eyes. Out the door and into the night.

~

Outside, the air hit cooler than expected, sharp with the smell of spilled beer and cut grass. The thud of bass faded slightly as the door shut behind you, but it was still too close. You didn’t realize you were still gripping Iwaizumi’s sleeve until he gently coaxed your hand away to wrap his arm around your shoulders instead, anchoring you against his side.

You let him.

Around the corner of the house, behind a cluster of parked cars and the glow of a half-dead porch light, you heard laughter—familiar voices, looser with drink, mid-conversation. The volleyball team. Cal’s was the loudest, something bright and teasing, a beer can cracking open in the dark.

Iwaizumi didn’t speak. He just walked you over, steady and quiet, then stopped a few steps away and let you lean against the side of the car while he approached Cal.

He leaned in close and said something too low for you to hear.

But whatever it was, it cut through Cal’s mood like a wire. His expression changed in an instant. The laughter drained from his eyes, shoulders tensing like he’d just been doused in ice water. He didn’t argue. Didn’t ask questions. Just nodded once, sharp and silent, then turned to the others and said something quick before jogging back toward the car.

“I’m taking them home,” he said, unlocking the doors with a beep that felt too loud in the quiet.

No one stopped him.

You slid into the backseat without speaking. Iwaizumi followed wordlessly, and as the engine started and Cal pulled away from the curb, you felt his arms slide around you again—slow and solid. He didn’t say anything. Didn’t ask. Just gathered you close like it was the most natural thing in the world. You didn’t need protecting right now, but you didn’t move. You sat tucked against his chest in the dark backseat, wrapped in quiet warmth, your pulse still a little too fast and your head still aching faintly from the impact. His hand rested gently over your arm. Not gripping. Just holding. Outside, the city passed in shadows and headlights, and no one spoke the entire ride home.

~

The bathroom light buzzed softly overhead, bright and unkind after the dark.

You sat on the closed toilet lid in silence, fingers braced on the edge of the sink while Iwaizumi crouched in front of you, brows drawn, hands steady. He didn’t speak as he tilted your chin slightly, brushing your hair back to get a better look at the side of your head. His fingers were careful—so gentle you barely felt them—but the look on his face was the same as it had been when he stepped in front of that guy.

Worried.

Tense.

Protective in a way he hadn’t figured out how to put into words yet.

“It’s not bad,” he said finally, voice low. “Swelling’s already going down. Might bruise, but you’ll be okay.”

You nodded, quiet.

He met your eyes again. “Does it hurt?”

“Not as much as my pride,” you tried to joke, but your voice came out thinner than you wanted.

He didn’t laugh.

Instead, he reached behind him and held up a cool gel pack—fished from the freezer and wrapped in a soft dish towel. You didn’t even see him grab it. He pressed it gently to the side of your head, fingers brushing yours as he guided your hand to hold it in place.

“Thanks,” you whispered.

He nodded once. “You scared me.”

The words slipped out before he could stop them. Quiet. Unguarded.

You looked at him.

And for a second—just a breath—you saw everything he hadn’t said yet. In his jaw. In the lines of his shoulders. In the fire he hadn't let burn completely out. You held the ice to your head and let him stay there with you, knees on the tile, anger cooling beside the ache.

You reached out your hand, intertwining your fingers with his, and for the first time that night, you let yourself breathe.

“Thank you for protecting me, Hajime.”

“I should’ve stayed closer,” he murmured, voice barely audible. “I should’ve been paying more attention.”

Your hand tightened over his. “You were there when it mattered.”

His eyes lifted to meet yours again—and there it was. Not just guilt, but something older. Heavier. The kind of protectiveness that didn't stop at fists or shouted words. The kind that made a person carry someone else’s fear like it was their own. And under it—just barely—a tremor of vulnerability.

“I don't want you to get hurt,” he said, like it was a secret. Like it cost him something to admit.

“I know,” you whispered.

You set the ice pack down carefully on the edge of the sink. Then, without thinking too hard about it, you leaned in—just a little—until your forehead rested lightly against his.

His breath hitched but he didn’t pull away.

You stayed like that for a moment. When you finally pulled back, his eyes were darker than before. Not angry. Just—focused. Like you were the only thing in the room that made sense.

“You should sit back down,” he said softly, almost gruff, as if he needed to break the tension before it swallowed him whole. “You might be a little concussed.”

You let out a shaky laugh. “Still bossy, even after a fight.”

“Just shut up and let me take care of you,” he muttered.

~

The TV was already cued up to some mindless comedy none of them really cared about, volume low, subtitles on. The kind of background noise that made silence feel less heavy. You were curled up on one side of the couch, wrapped in a fleece throw Cal had thrown at you earlier with no small amount of guilt in his eyes. Your head still ached a little—not sharp, just dull and lingering—but it was manageable now. Familiar. Like the hum of tired muscles after a long day.

Cal came back from the kitchen balancing three water bottles in his arms, dramatically tossing one at Iwaizumi and handing the other to you with a quiet, "Don’t hate me."

“I don’t hate you,” you said, cracking the seal. “But I might weaponize this guilt later.”

He let out a groan and collapsed next to you onto the couch, rubbing his face. “I seriously didn’t think it’d be like that. I thought—” He sighed. “I just thought it would be something stupid and easy. A drink or two. A little dancing. I didn’t think people would be—”

“Drunk and awful?” you offered.

“Yeah.” He looked up. “I’m really sorry.”

You met his eyes and softened. “You didn’t know. And honestly, it’s not like the idea was totally out of character. I mean—college, summer, party. It sounds harmless on paper.”

“Next time we throw our own party,” Cal muttered, “with board games, better lighting, and a no-creeps-allowed sign taped to the door.”

Iwaizumi, sitting beside you on the couch, snorted. “And no loud music.”

“Obviously,” Cal said. “We’re elderly now.”

You smiled faintly, nudging Iwaizumi with your shoulder. He didn’t say much—he hadn’t since you’d gotten home—but his arm stayed around you, quiet and warm, his thumb brushing a slow arc against your arm without really thinking about it. Protective, but no longer on edge.

You leaned into it, grateful for the steadiness of it all. But you wanted to break the remaining tension. Of Cal’s guilt and Iwaizumi’s stress.

“You know, not all frat parties are bad.” Both boys turned to look at you with incredulous looks on their face. You were against parties in the first place and especially after tonight, how could you say something like that?

“I mean I was conceived at one.” They kept staring at you for a beat longer before Iwaizumi cracked a smile and Cal huffed out a laugh. “Oh really?” he asked with slight skepticism.

“Yeah, and for the first three years of my life, I was raised in a frat house by a bunch of college boys. My first word was boobie.”

“You’re making this up,” Cal said, but both were laughing now—full-bodied, unfiltered.

“I wish I was. But my dad was in college when I was born, and he couldn’t do it alone. His friends stepped up. Helped him raise me between classes and keg stands. They scheduled their parties for the weekends I was with my mom. And interestingly enough…” You smirked, pulling out your phone and unlocking it. “My toys were scattered all over the house. In every room. Apparently, they always remembered to use a condom after tripping over a baby rattle.”

Cal was already wheezing as you scrolled to a folder in your photo album titled Frat Daddies and passed your phone over.

“These are just some of the pictures they took while I was growing up in that house. They digitized everything last year and sent them to me after they called on my birthday. I haven’t seen them in person since my high school graduation party, but they still check in. They’re proud. Rooting for me.”

Cal swiped through the album, expression softening with each photo. When he passed the phone to Iwaizumi, the laughter quieted. A new kind of silence fell between the three of you—one shaped like warmth and wonder.

The first photo was full of sunlight. Two figures—one large, one small—stood in matching pastel shirts. His barely fit, the sleeves pulled tight around his biceps. But he wore it anyway. The little girl beside him was all cheeks and joy, oversized sunglasses sliding down her nose as she clutched his pinky like it was the only thing tethering her to the Earth.

Swipe.

A tea party—plastic set, carpeted floor. A different man sat cross-legged in a tiara and a pink feather boa, holding a tiny teacup with an absurd level of dignity. Across from him, the toddler version of you offered a stuffed bear like it was a royal decree. A plastic donut, clearly bitten, lay next to the tea set.

Swipe.

A high chair scene gone wrong. Applesauce mid-air. The man looked horrified, frozen mid-wince as you—an infant—sneezed. In the next photo, he was paying for a lost bet, trying not to gag as he tasted some kind of baby food, while you looked on with gleeful curiosity, completely unaware of what was happening.

Swipe.

A toddler-led dance party. Your tiny hands were thrown into the air, mid-spin, while the frat boys danced around you like it was the best night of their lives. One attempted an overly dramatic robot. Another wore a bib on his head. In one blurry shot, you were falling—but a set of arms caught you just before you hit the ground. His face was serious. Yours, carefree.

Swipe.

A blanket fort, chaotic and proud. Snack wrappers, stuffed animals, every cushion in the house sacrificed to architecture. One boy knelt, being knighted with a spatula while you sat on a throne made from a shoebox and glitter paper. Your crown sat crooked on your head. A handful of Cheerios rested regally in your lap.

Swipe.

A moment of peace. Everyone asleep—slumped across beanbags, sprawled across couches. You curled up on someone’s chest, swaddled in an oversized hoodie. Your foot peeked out from under the hem, tiny and warm. A sock dangled from your hand like a forgotten treasure.

And then came the final photos.

Your dad in his cap and gown, beaming, crouched down so you could wear the cap too. His friends were there—arms over shoulders, mid-cheer, holding you like you were theirs too. The last picture was taken back at the house. The walls were the same—tattered banners and cluttered shelves—but the feeling was different. Everyone was gathered around your dad, who was kneeling beside a toddler-you standing proudly in the center. Every face wore the kind of smile that doesn’t fade with time.

A snapshot of the end of an era. The closing chapter of your time as a frat baby.

Cal exhaled slowly, the weight of it settling into him. “Holy crap,” he muttered. “You’re like… the origin story of every wholesome viral video I’ve ever seen.”

You smiled faintly, pocketing your phone that Iwaizumi handed back to you carefully, a thoughtful look lingering in his eyes.

There was a pause—quiet, but not uncomfortable.

Then Cal stood and clapped his hands. “Alright, that’s it. Movie night. We’ve emotionally bonded, I’ve learned something profound about child-rearing, and I am now deeply aware of how unqualified I am to babysit anything that breathes.”

You laughed, and the tension in the room lifted.

Takeout was ordered. Pajamas replaced the remnants of the day. Iwaizumi spread out the blankets and threw pillows down while Cal argued with the TV over which streaming service had The Mummy. By the time the food arrived, all three of you were curled up on the couch, laughter layered over the sounds of action scenes and cheesy late-’90s effects. You rested your head on Iwaizumi’s shoulder, his arm around you again. Cal threw popcorn at the screen. And somewhere between Brendan Fraser’s one-liners and the warm buzz of the night, you let yourself feel okay again.

No frat house. No fight. Just this—your found family, your small piece of peace.

On screen, the movie characters shouted something ridiculous. None of you reacted. Too tired. Too full. Too wrapped in the comfort of just being safe. Eventually, Cal yawned mid-chew. “Okay. I’m gonna crash after this scene. If either of you need anything, I’m your guy. Except I will not be applying more ice packs unless it’s a life-or-death situation. Or unless you bribe me with dessert.”

“Duly noted,” you mumbled.

He glanced at Iwaizumi, who nodded once, like: I got it from here.

And he did.

As Cal wandered upstairs, Iwaizumi stayed right where he was, his arm still loosely around you, quiet but present. The weight of the night was still there, tucked between the lines of what wasn’t said—but it didn’t feel crushing anymore. Just… real.

The kind of night you’d remember.

Not just because of the party. But because of who made it okay afterward. Because of who stayed. Because of who never let go.

Chapter Text

The heat hadn’t quite let up, but the energy on campus had already changed.

The start of the fall semester moved like a quiet tide—one that didn’t crash in so much as creep, slowly swelling until suddenly everything felt full again. Dorm halls echoed with returning voices, campus sidewalks teemed with bicycles and caffeine-fueled ambition, and bulletin boards bloomed overnight with flyers for clubs, concerts, and questionable study groups. Schedules were adjusted, syllabi skimmed but not read, and alarm clocks began to matter again.

By now, the three of you had found a rhythm. Morning routines overlapped with casual ease—Cal always up too early, Iwaizumi steady and efficient, and you somewhere in the middle, surviving on autopilot and iced coffee.

It was a good kind of normal.

“Should we grab the cheap granola bars or the ones that don’t taste like cardboard?” you asked, nudging your shopping cart gently into Iwaizumi’s side.

He barely looked up from the list in his hand. “Cheap ones. Cal eats them like a wild animal. No point wasting money.”

You smirked and tossed two boxes into the cart. “Good point.”

The grocery store was quiet for a Sunday—just enough white noise from murmuring shoppers and wheeled baskets to keep the pace easy. The two of you moved through the aisles like you’d done all summer, a practiced ease to it now. You grabbed the dry goods, Iwaizumi checked for deals, occasionally glancing at your shared shopping list stored in his notes app like it was gospel.

He was steady like that. Predictable in a way you had come to rely on.

By the time you made it to produce, you were arguing over the number of sweet potatoes needed for the week.

“I’m telling you—Cal’s going to eat at least three.”

“Three sweet potatoes? In one sitting?”

“He’s bulking again. He said it yesterday while he was crying over his third protein shake.”

You both burst into laughter, the kind that drew a curious look from a woman nearby holding a bag of spinach.

Back at the house, the kitchen was already humming with early evening light, windows cracked open just enough to let in the smell of someone grilling next door. Iwaizumi started the rice while you unpacked groceries, sliding around him in the kitchen like second nature. Music played low from your phone—an easy playlist neither of you had to think about.

Soon, Tupperware was lined across the counter like a quiet army. Chicken cooling on the stove, vegetables roasted and portioned, sauces stored in jars Cal kept forgetting were not for protein powder. Iwaizumi wiped his hands on a dish towel and leaned against the counter, looking over the spread with a small nod.

“This’ll hold us,” he said.

You took a sip of water and gave a mock salute. “We survive another week.”

He looked at you, and something in his gaze softened—not in any obvious way, just a brief flicker, like he was remembering the feel of your weight curled against him on the couch that night, or the way you’d whispered thank you like it meant more than protection. You hadn’t noticed and turned to start stacking lids on the containers.

This was what comfort looked like now. Not dramatic or loud. Just quiet consistency. Routines built without planning. Shared space and silence.

Fall was here. Everything was changing again.

But this—you and him, shoulder to shoulder in the kitchen—this felt like the part worth keeping.

~

Campus came alive during match nights — lights flooding the gymnasium, bleachers packed, energy pulsing like static in the air. The team had played hard and won harder, and now they were all gathered at their usual post-game dinner spot. A casual place off-campus where the food was greasy, the fries were endless, and no one cared how loud the table got.

You were squeezed into a booth between Callie and Bea, the three of you half-shouting over Liam and Dev’s retelling of the final point.

“I’m just saying,” Dev said, holding up a fry for emphasis, “Jun’s set was too perfect. Like suspiciously perfect. Are you using performance enhancers?”

“If caffeine counts, then yes,” Jun replied, taking a dramatic sip of his soda like it was champagne. “I’ve been juiced since 7 a.m.”

“Don’t say ‘juiced,’” Mina groaned from across the table.

Callie leaned in toward you, grinning. “It’s nice to have everyone in one place again.”

It was. Even Iwaizumi, who sat just slightly removed on the corner of the booth, was more relaxed than usual, one arm resting behind you along the top of the booth like it belonged there. Not touching, just close. The kind of proximity that had gone unspoken since summer.

Everyone was full by the time dessert menus were passed around and mostly ignored. You all filtered out into the warm night in pairs and clusters, laughter still echoing as you stood outside the restaurant waiting for Cal to finish arguing with Dev over whether he could drive or not.

You were mid-laugh at something Mina said when you heard your name from behind you.

“Hey Fuyou! Wait—sorry, is this a bad time?”

You turned, smile slightly fading.

Eero.

He jogged a few steps closer, one hand on his backpack, the other pushing his hair out of his face. His eyes flicked briefly to the group behind you before settling back on yours.

“I didn’t mean to interrupt,” he said quickly, then held up his hands. “This is gonna sound weird but… I think we’re in the same major? I’m taking that writing-intensive psych class this semester — the one with Dr. Lewis — and I remembered you said you took it last spring?”

You nodded slowly. “Yeah… it was brutal.”

He exhaled in relief. “Right? I’m already behind. I was wondering if you’d maybe be willing to help me out? Just explain a few of the assignments or walk me through how you organized your notes or something. I’ll treat you to dinner or a movie or—whatever you’re into. I’ll make it worth your time, I promise.”

His tone was casual and innocently pleading, but the team behind you went completely quiet.

Cal, Mina, Bea, Callie, Liam, Jun, Dev — all standing in loose formation near the sidewalk, now visibly invested in the exchange. Not one of them said a word, but not one of them looked away either. Iwaizumi hadn’t moved, but you could feel him behind you — posture still, like the moment was a held breath.

You blinked at Eero.

“I… uhm, sure? I could show you my notes,” you offered slowly. “And maybe talk through the main projects?”

He perked up. “That would be amazing. I’ll text you?”

You gave a vague nod, and with one final grin, he left — melting into the crowd of students on the street like nothing had happened.

The silence that followed didn’t last long.

Jun cleared his throat. “So… dinner or a movie, huh?”

Bea made a noncommittal noise. “Sounds educational.”

“Stop it. No one said it was a date,” you muttered, already regretting not just lying about being busy for the rest of the semester.

“I mean…” Callie said lightly, “He didn’t not say that either.”

“Shut up,” you said, but there was no real heat in it.

You finally looked at Iwaizumi.

He met your gaze steadily, his expression carefully neutral. Calm. But his jaw was tight in that way it got when he was holding something back — when he didn’t trust himself to speak. He didn’t say anything. Just turned toward the sidewalk and started walking toward the car with the rest of the group slowly following.

You weren’t sure which unsettled you more: Eero’s timing… or the way Iwaizumi had gone completely silent.

~

He kept walking like nothing was wrong.

The team was still buzzing from the win, jostling shoulders and swapping jokes, high on victory and greasy appetizers. Laughter echoed somewhere behind him. The night was warm. The streets were loud with other students.

But he didn’t hear any of it.

All he could think about was how easily Eero had slipped into your orbit. Like it was natural. Like it was allowed. The casual confidence in his voice. The promise of dinner. Of a movie. Of time she hadn’t even agreed to give him yet.

And how she hadn’t shut it down. She hadn’t said yes either—but she hadn’t said no. That alone tightened something in his chest.

Not jealousy. He wasn’t foolish enough to think he had a claim on her. But something had shifted. Something in the silence between them. A line he’d been toeing for months felt suddenly razor-sharp. A reminder that just because he’d stayed close didn’t mean he had the right to stay.

He hated the way Eero looked at her. Not because it was crude or obvious. But because it wasn’t. It was smooth. Strategic. A smile that wasn’t really a smile. Charm wrapped around calculation. He knew that look too well—it was the kind guys wore when they wanted something but didn’t want to earn it. He’d seen it numerous times, even on Oikawa.

And still, he said nothing. Did nothing.

She walked beside him, completely unaware of the storm gathering behind his eyes. Calm. Unbothered. Like it hadn’t meant anything. Maybe it didn’t. Maybe it was just help with a class. A harmless offer.

But that didn’t stop his thoughts from spiraling.

Would she say yes? If Eero were to hint at wanting more?
Would she enjoy it?
Would she laugh at his jokes the way she laughed at his?

He didn’t want to be this person—bitter, wound tight with what-ifs and worst-case scenarios. But he couldn’t stop the loop from playing. Couldn’t stop the quiet truth settling in the pit of his stomach:
He’d waited too long. Stayed safe too long. And now someone else had stepped into a space he’d been afraid to fill. He was still scared, but he had no idea what to do about it. Every time he thought of doing something, or saying something to take a step forward into the direction of what he wanted, he became paralyzed with the fear of the worst possible outcomes. At least when he played it safe, she stayed with him, she cared for him and let him care for her. Things were good, they didn’t need to change.

He was quiet the whole way home, lost in his thoughts. When they got home, he didn’t speak. Just moved through the motions—keys on the hook, shoes by the door. He watched her pull her hoodie off and disappear down the hall like it was any other night.

Like something hadn’t just cracked inside him.

He stood in the kitchen long after she left, gripping the counter with both hands, shoulders tense.

He wasn't angry at her.

He was angry at himself.

Because he knew exactly what he wanted. And no matter how many games he played with his own silence, the clock wouldn’t wait.

Not forever.

~

The library was quieter than usual.

Not empty—never empty during the first month of the semester—but quieter. Tucked in a corner by the windows, they’d managed to claim one of the older study tables, the kind with deep grooves carved into the wood from years of anxious undergrads. Your notebook was already open, highlighters and pens scattered in an organized mess, and Eero had just sat down across from you.

You got straight to it. No banter. No small talk. Just the course outline, the weekly assignments, and a blunt summary of what it would take to pass.

He listened.

To his credit, he didn’t make it weird. Didn’t talk over you or pretend he knew more than he did. He asked thoughtful questions. Took notes. Genuinely tried. There was a quiet sort of determination in him—not the kind that beat its chest for attention, but the kind that paid attention. Focused. Disciplined.

At some point, the afternoon light turned gold and the ache in your back reminded you of how long you’d been there. Stretching your arms up and glancing at the clock, you realized you’d been studying for nearly three hours.

“You must be starving,” Eero said, packing his notes into a neat stack. “Let me buy you dinner. There’s that burger place a block down—cheap, greasy, and delicious. Perfect for a post study meal.”

You hesitated. Just a second. Just enough time for the offer to hang in the air like a question with more than one meaning. But he didn’t press.

So you smiled. “Sure.”

The burger joint was exactly as advertised—cheap, greasy, and somehow already half full despite the early hour. They found a booth in the back, and you ordered something safe while he rattled off his usual, clearly a regular. The food came fast and you both ate like people who’d earned it—quiet, hungry, tired in a good way. Eero kept things light, steering the conversation toward the professor’s quirks, funny classroom stories, weird group projects. You laughed a little. Not too much. Just enough to feel like you wasn’t on edge.

Still, something lingered.

A subtle shift in energy. Not bad. Just... noticeable.

Maybe it was the way he looked at you when you weren’t speaking. Or how his posture leaned just enough forward to be intentional. Maybe it was the fact that he hadn’t touched his phone once since you sat down.
Whatever it was, you didn’t name it. Just filed it away.

By the time you both walked out, the sky had turned a soft navy and the breeze had cooled. He offered to walk you home, but you politely declined.

He didn’t argue. Just grinned and nodded, casual and friendly.

“Thanks again for the help,” he said.

She nodded. “Good luck with the class.”

And that was it.

No promises. No awkward tension. Just two students walking away from a study session and a burger.

The walk home had become something of a ritual.

Headphones in, volume low, just enough music to keep you company without dulling your senses. The sun had dipped below the horizon an hour ago, leaving behind that blue-grey haze that made everything feel a little softer. You liked walking this route. Past the old trees. Along the worn path by the pond. Especially when you were alone—it made the world feel quieter. Tonight, the air had cooled. The heat from the day still clung to the pavement in places, but a breeze teased at the edge of your sleeves, brushing past your skin.

You were halfway around the pond when you saw them.

Just two silhouettes at first. Tucked into the grass near the edge, barely illuminated by the path lights behind them. It wasn’t unusual to see people here this time of night—couples, mostly. The pond had a reputation for a quiet kind of romance. The kind spoken in laughter muffled by hands and fingers brushing against shoulders.

They look cozy, you thought, your steps unbroken.

But something about the curve of his shoulder. The way his hand moved when he gestured. It tugged at you.

You slowed.

Turned.

And then your heart stopped.

You saw him. Not just anyone.

Him.

And someone else—close. So close you could barely see where one ended and the other began. Their faces were turned towards each other. His body leaned in, like gravity had chosen them over everything else.

It was— oh.

It was intimate.

Romantic.

Oh my God

You didn’t realize you’d stopped walking until the breeze died and the silence screamed. A quiet gasp slipped out, uninvited. You clamped your mouth shut, as if you could force your heartbeat to calm down by holding your breath.

They didn’t notice.

Too lost in whatever conversation they weren’t having. In whatever almost-moment you’d intruded on. And maybe they would’ve seen you if they’d looked up—across the pond, just barely hidden by trees. But they didn’t.

And you didn’t want them to.

Your feet moved before your brain did.

One step. Then another. And then the pounding of your heart was matched only by the sound of it echoing in your ears as you ran. You didn’t stop until you were home. Even then, your breath stayed uneven.

Chapter Text

A single desk lamp casts a golden pool of light across his laptop and the few notebooks scattered around it. The rest of the room is dim. The glow from his screen lights up his face, shadows curling under his eyes.

The video call has been going for a while—full of the usual back-and-forth: Mattsun’s new apartment, Makki’s chaotic coworker stories, Oikawa being too smug about his latest match overseas. They’re all grinning, laughing, the bond between them stretching easily across time zones.

But eventually, the rhythm slows. And Oikawa squints at his screen.
“Okay, wait—why is Iwa-chan being suspiciously quiet tonight?”

Mattsun raises a brow.
“Yeah. Usually you’re at least roasting Oikawa by now.”

Makki leans forward, peering dramatically into the camera.
“You good, man?”

Iwaizumi shifts in his chair. He exhales a little through his nose—noncommittal, tired. “Just a long day,” he says. “Not a big deal.”

But the pause is a beat too long, and they’ve known him too long to let that slide.

“Work?” Oikawa asks, softer now. “Or something else?”

There’s another pause. Iwaizumi glances at his phone lying next to his keyboard. When he speaks, his voice is lower.

“She’s out.”

Mattsun, perceptive as ever, puts it together instantly.
“Fuyou?”

Iwaizumi nods. “Yeah. Study session.”

Makki gives a half-smile. “With that guy you mentioned last time?”

Iwaizumi shrugs, not looking at the screen. “Yeah. Eero. Apparently he needed help with a class she already took. They’ve been studying since the afternoon. Might turn into dinner or something.”

A long silence follows. Not uncomfortable, but loaded.

“Well,” Oikawa says slowly, “sounds a little like a date.”

Iwaizumi doesn’t answer.

Makki leans back in his chair. “So… are you cool with that?”

He doesn’t answer that either. Just leans forward, resting his forearms on the desk, gaze fixed somewhere just below the camera.

Mattsun speaks up after a beat. “Look, man… if you’re not gonna tell her how you feel, maybe it’s time to, I don’t know… play the field a little? Put yourself out there. Go on a date.”

Iwaizumi frowns. “It’s not that simple.”

“We know it’s not,” Oikawa says. “But you’ve been doing this dance for… what, more than a year now? And if you’re not going to do anything about it, you’re just going to keep hurting like this.”

Makki adds, “You don’t have to force anything. But maybe talking to someone new wouldn’t be the worst idea. Even if it’s just a reminder that you have options.”

There’s a long pause again. Iwaizumi leans back in his chair, runs a hand through his hair. The weight in his chest doesn’t lift. If anything, it settles more heavily.

“She’s not mine,” he says finally, quietly. “She can date whoever she wants, and I don’t have the right to be mad about it.”

His friends don’t argue. They just sit with him in the quiet for a moment.

Then, Mattsun says, “Maybe not. But you still feel what you feel.”

Oikawa tilts his head. “And the longer you pretend you don’t, the more it’s gonna eat at you.”

Iwaizumi looks back at his phone. The screen is still dark. No texts. No updates.

He sighs.

“I just want her to be happy.”

Makki’s voice is gentle. “You sure that doesn’t include you?”

Iwaizumi doesn’t answer that either. This was one of the few occasions that his friends would shut up and listen. Offer good advice instead of mindless teasing. They knew when light ribbing would push him forward, or when he just needed them to listen. It made sense. It was logical. Reasonable. And yet—

He sat there for a minute, elbows on his desk, staring at nothing. The idea of reaching out to someone new felt more exhausting than exciting. The thought of sitting across from a stranger, pretending to care, pretending he wasn’t still tangled in the sound of her laughter, in the way she chewed on her pen when she was thinking, in the way she looked at him when she thought he wasn’t watching…

He rubbed a hand over his face. There had been others before. Short-lived attempts to distract himself. But none of them felt right. None of them made his chest tighten when they walked into the room the way she did—like gravity had shifted and he’d forgotten how to breathe. He knew what his friends were trying to say. He knew they were right, in theory. But she was the variable none of them had accounted for.

And no matter how much sense it made to try—

He just… couldn’t.

“HAJIME! WHERE ARE YOU?!” Came Fuyou’s voice from downstairs. Loud enough that even his friends’ heads perked up at the sound. The same expression on everyone’s face: fear and worry. Why had you burst into the house and immediately yelled for him like this?

“I’m in my room! Are you okay?” he yelled out, glad he left his door open. You didn’t answer, but he heard you thundering up the stairs like you were running for your life. A moment later you burst through his door looking like you truly had run for your life with your headphones dangling around your neck as if you’d ripped them off of your ears. You were holding on to the doorknob with one hand and the other on your waist, bent forward trying to catch your breath.

“Are you ok? Why were you running?” Immediately he was on his feet, video chat forgotten, wheeling his desk chair over to you for you to sit. He flicked the switch and turned on his room’s light, and pushed you back over to the desk before pulling out the other chair to sit next to you, and grabbed his water bottle to let you drink.

After a few sips, and a few deep breaths, you finally calmed down enough to wheeze out, “You…will not… believe … what I just…saw.”

His worried expression immediately dropped to an incredulous one. “Wait. You ran up a flight of stairs like the house was on fire… to tell me gossip?” His tone dripped with exasperation. “Are you serious right now, woman? I thought you were being chased!”

You shook your head and said, “Actually I ran from the pond, but trust me, you must hear this.” You were still catching your breath but no longer wheezing. Your hair was windswept and messy, your cheeks flushed and your forehead shining with sweat but your eyes were wide with excitement and by God he couldn’t bring himself to be even the slightest bit annoyed with you. His expression softened, and even though he wanted to look irritated, his lips twitched up into a very small smile.

“Alright, then.” He sighed, not quite able to wipe away the hint of a smile. “What was so urgent you nearly died trying to deliver it?”

“I think you should be flattered I thought of you first,” you shot back, indignant. “I didn’t even hesitate—I bolted straight here! And I never run, unless I’m being chased with a weapon.”

“I’m honored,” he deadpanned. “Now, please, enlighten me before you pass out.”

“Well, if that’s the level of enthusiasm you’re offering, maybe I’ll just go tell Phoebe instead, you ungrateful toad.” You slowly turned in your chair, eyes fluttering shut as you prepared to exit with the grace of a silent film actress.

But you didn’t make it far.

Just as expected—right on cue—he grabbed the arm of the wheely chair and pulled you back with a dramatic sigh. “Okay, okay—I’m sorry. Tell me what happened, you absolute menace.”

He was fully smiling now. Genuine. Curious.

You beamed.

“So! I was walking home after dinner, right? Did my usual loop past the pond. It’s after sunset. Gorgeous breeze. Picture perfect. And then—bam!”

“Bam what?”

“Cal.”

He blinked. “Cal… was at the pond. Of the college he attends. That’s the story?” The sarcasm was so thick you had to stop your dramatic reenactment just to roll your eyes. “No, you dolt, he wasn’t alone.”

That got his attention. “…Okay,” he said, slowly. Still skeptical, but now listening.

“He was sitting on the grass. Close to someone. Real close.”

“So? He’s friendly. Maybe it was a classmate, or—”

“Oh please,” you cut in. “Let me paint a picture. Imagine you and I sitting by the pond at sunset, this close—” You grabbed the chair arm again and pulled forward until your noses were touching. “—smiling, whispering. Just talking, right Hajime? Think that’s completely platonic?”

He froze.

Your voice had dropped a full octave. His name still hung in the air. And there you were, nose to nose, heat rolling off your skin, eyes bright with teasing challenge. He couldn’t think anything right now not when your face was so close. How was he supposed to think anything at all when he couldn’t even breathe?! But you had asked him a question and were waiting for an answer so with great difficulty he croaked out, “no”.

The universe seemed to take mercy on him and you pulled back to the acceptable distance and reiterated, “Exactly!” Letting him breathe again. “Which is why you are not ready for who he was with.”

“…Tell me.”

“I’m giving you a chance to guess.”

“You’re killing me.”

You leaned in again. A beat passed. Then another. And finally, with the satisfaction of a magician revealing a trick, you said, “Jun.”

His entire face changed. Eyes widened, mouth dropped open like you’d hit him with a brick. “No.”

“Yes.”

“No way! How?! I don’t think I’ve even seen them speak to each other!”

“Exactly! They’ve been hiding it in plain sight! Like geniuses!”

“I can’t believe this. Are you sure it was them?”

“I knew you’d doubt me. Which is why I took this—” You shoved your phone into his face with the glee of a tabloid reporter revealing royal scandal.

He snatched it from your hands, squinting at the dim photo. It was dark, yes, but unmistakable: Cal and Jun, side by side, faces soft with quiet conversation. Jun’s expression was the most damning evidence—relaxed and smiling. Not the ghost of a smirk he usually offered when amused, but something open. Genuine.

“You see it now, don’t you?”

He nodded slowly, still staring at the photo. “That’s not just hanging out.”

“Exactly. that is love love.”

And then, under your breath, you added, “I told you it was worth running for.”

“You took a picture of them? Isn’t that an invasion of privacy?”

“Oh please, this is as much privacy they’re going to get when they make goo-goo eyes at each other in public. And I only took this to prove to you that it happened.”

Just as he was about to say something—something smart or sarcastic or maybe just exasperated—his screen flickered slightly, pulling his attention for the first time in nearly ten minutes. And then it hit him. He was still on the video call. The window had been minimized, but the green dot in the corner glared back at him like a beacon of betrayal. Shit. The call wasn’t muted. The call wasn’t ended.

And sure enough—

“Wow,” Mattsun’s voice crackled through the speakers, dry as bone. “Should we hang up, or…?”

“Kind of feels like we’re intruding on something,” Makki added, clearly enjoying himself.

“You forgot we were still here, didn’t you?” Oikawa sounded way too smug. “That’s fine. Don’t mind us. We’re just enjoying the free entertainment.”

Iwaizumi’s face went still. Then a slow, resigned sigh left his lungs as he dragged a hand down his face.

Behind him, you blinked. “Wait… were you—?”

His laptop screen lit back up fully. Three very amused faces stared back.

“Oh my god,” you whispered, mortified.

Oikawa gave a little wave. “Hi.”

“Oh my God why didn’t you tell me you were busy?! I’m so sorry I intruded–” you were very flustered and started rambling your apologies immediately getting out of your seat and heading for the door before–

“No no no Fuyou come back!” Hajime grabbed your wrist before you could get too far. You were still mortified and wanted nothing more than to run to your room and bury yourself in your pillow and wait for death to take you. “It’s okay, come meet the guys.”
You didn’t move from your spot, only turned your head to look at him, still mortified. But he was smiling, the invitation genuine and it tugged at your heart that he wanted to introduce you to his friends even though it seemed a little out of character for him. You still hesitated for another moment and he said, “They’re the ones that sent you the riceball blanket hoodie.”

That convinced you. You gingerly sat back down and smiled sheepishly at the three faces staring very amusedly at you. You waved at them, “Hi guys, I’m Ozaki Fuyou, Hajime’s friend and housemate. I’m sorry I interrupted you.”

“I’m Matsukawa Issei, nice to finally meet you.” said a guy with curly hair, short but thick eyebrows, and a devious smirk that promised trouble and teasing. “And don’t worry about it doll, this was hilarious.”

The next guy had pinkish hair and a distinct lack of eyebrows, or very thin brows, it was hard to tell with the low light of his room. His smirk was also thoroughly amused. “I’m Hanamaki Takahiro, we’ve heard a lot about you from Hajime.”

“Good things, I hope,” you said with a sly glance toward Iwaizumi. Then your eyes flicked back to the laptop screen—and a spark of mischief lit up behind them.

“Wait a second…” You leaned in a little closer, squinting like you were solving a puzzle. “So if you’re Mattsun,” you said, pointing at one with mock-seriousness, “and you’re Makki,” you continued, jabbing a finger at the next—“then you must be…”
You paused dramatically, eyes locking onto the third face on the screen. “…Shittykawa.”

Oikawa’s mouth dropped open in scandalized horror, while Iwaizumi, Mattsun and Makki immediately burst out laughing.

“She knows already,” Mattsun wheezed.

“Truly a woman of culture,” Makki added, wiping a fake tear from his eye. “We approve.”

Oikawa, meanwhile, clutched his imaginary pearls. “Excuse me?! Iwa-chan, are you letting people slander me in your presence now?”

Beside you, Iwaizumi was still chuckling as he leaned back in his chair, completely unbothered. “She’s not wrong.”

You grinned, leaning a little closer to the screen. “He told me about you guys when he came back from winter break, but here’s the thing,” you began, gesturing with your hands like you were laying out a conspiracy. “He’s always called you ‘Shittykawa.’ And when I asked him your actual name, he just laughed. Like—laughed in my face. Wouldn’t tell me.”

“So mean, Iwa-chan!” Oikawa gasped, betrayed.

Iwaizumi just shrugged again, as if the hilarity of that situation spoke for itself. You turned back to the screen with mock solemnity. “Can you tell me your name, please? I can’t go around calling you that. I’m much nicer than he is.”

Oikawa straightened up, pleased. “I am Oikawa Tooru. It’s nice to see that Iwa-chan’s lack of manners hasn’t rubbed off on you.”

You nodded politely. “Lovely to meet you. Though… to be fair, you did answer to ‘Shittykawa’ suspiciously fast.”

Makki choked on his water. Mattsun wheezed, “She’s got you pegged, man.”

Oikawa’s face fell into his hands with a dramatic groan. “Iwa-chan, why are all your friends like this?!”

Iwaizumi, completely unfazed, just muttered, “Because they’re the only ones who can handle you.”

“Okay but are we ignoring what Fuyou-chan just said? You guys are housemates?? When did that happen?”

The question snapped everyone’s attention back to you and Iwaizumi—who suddenly looked like he regretted ever letting his friends meet you.

Mattsun leaned in toward his camera, grinning wide. “Wait, hold on. Back up. Are you telling me Iwaizumi ‘No Time for Nonsense’ Hajime lives with a girl now?”

Makki gasped. “A pretty girl?”

“I knew he was hiding something!” Oikawa shouted, pointing at the screen like he’d just uncovered a national scandal. “This explains why he never answers his phone after 9 p.m. anymore. I thought it was just bedtime for grandpas, but no—it’s because he’s shacking up with a girl!”

Iwaizumi groaned and ran a hand down his face. “It’s not like that. Fuyou, tell them its not like that.” He looked at you pleadingly.

You, however, were absolutely not going to save him. So with a wicked look in your eye, you turned back to the laptop.

“Oh, but it is,” you said, deadpan. “We grocery shop together, meal prep and split chores. Sometimes he even brings me snacks when I’m studying. It’s a very domestic arrangement.”

Oikawa was on the brink of short-circuiting. “Iwa-chan. Iwa-chan. Are you in a relationship and just forgot to tell your best friends?”

“I’m not in a relationship.”

“With each other,” you added sweetly. “We’re not in a relationship with each other. Just housemates.”

Iwaizumi shot you a sidelong glare like he was debating whether kicking you under the desk would be subtle enough.

Makki narrowed his eyes. “So, when did this ‘just roommates’ thing start?”

You shrugged. “June.”

“Wow,” Mattsun said, voice full of faux awe. “That’s like…four months of repressed tension. I bet the air in that apartment crackles.”

“It does, but mostly because Cal forgets to turn off the stove,” you replied, unfazed.

Oikawa practically slumped in his chair, muttering, “Unbelievable. I leave him unsupervised and he becomes the lead in a slow burn.”

Iwaizumi pointed a warning finger at the screen. “Don’t start.”

“You can’t silence the truth, Iwa-chan!” Oikawa declared, triumphant.

“Don’t you guys have jobs?” Iwaizumi grumbled.

“Don’t deflect,” Mattsun said, waggling his brows. “We’re emotionally invested now.”

“I want to know why you kept me like a dirty little secret! Your best friends had no idea you moved in with me. Am I not good enough for you, Iwa-chan ?” you teased, clutching your chest in mock offense.

Iwaizumi muttered something about regretting his life choices under his breath, but the three grinning idiots on the screen only leaned in closer, clearly enjoying the show.

“But seriously,” Makki said, tilting his head. “How did the two of you end up living together?”

“My other housemates graduated and moved out so now we’re just…stuck with each other, I guess. Us and Cal.”

“Wow,” Oikawa said, clearly delighted. “So you’ve survived a whole summer with Iwa-chan? Honestly impressive. That alone qualifies you for sainthood.”

“Tell me about it,” you said dramatically. “Do you know he wipes down the remote with disinfectant wipes?”

“I don’t like fingerprints,” Iwaizumi muttered.

“It’s a TV remote, not a surgical tool.”

“He’s always been like that,” Makki grinned. “Once spilled protein powder in the gym and looked like he was going to cry. We’re pretty sure he scrubbed the mats with a toothbrush afterward.”

“Good hygiene is important,” Iwaizumi muttered again, crossing his arms but failing to hide the small twitch of amusement at the corner of his mouth.

You couldn’t help but laugh. “He warned me about you guys, you know.”

“Warned you?” Oikawa gasped. “Rude! We’re charming and wholesome!”

“Maybe not wholesome,” Mattsun said thoughtfully, “but definitely entertaining.”

“Okay, I have to ask,” you said, sitting forward in your chair. “You all played volleyball together? Like on the same team?”

“Back in high school,” Mattsun confirmed, eyes softening with nostalgia.

“Yep. Third-years at Aoba Johsai. The dream team,” Makki added, puffing his chest a little.

“And Iwa-chan was our ace,” Oikawa said proudly. “I mean, I was captain, obviously. And the brains. But he was the power.”

“Brains is a strong word,” Iwaizumi muttered.

“I was literally the setter! The position of strategy!”

You grinned at their banter but then something clicked in your head.
“Wait,” you squinted at Oikawa, tilting your head. “You were Seijoh’s setter?”

He gave you a mock-glorious nod, hair flopping a bit with the motion.

“Wait wait wait,” your eyes widened. “Were you the Great King?”

Oikawa gasped, both hands flying to his chest. “The Great King?” he echoed, clearly delighted. “You’ve heard of me?”

“I think I heard about you from Shoyo and Tobio,” you nodded, leaning forward. “I never heard your actual name, and Hajime only ever called you Shittykawa, so I didn’t put the pieces together.”

“Of course he did,” Oikawa muttered, shooting Iwaizumi a betrayed look.

“You knew those two?” Mattsun asked, eyes a bit more curious now.

“Oh yeah. Karasuno and Nekoma have been volleyball rivals since our coaches were on the school teams back in the day. So they came over for training camps and practice matches. They were great guys—and Tobio was adorable. He always helped me carry equipment when the rest of the guys were cooling down or talking.”

“Kageyama had manners ?” Oikawa looked like someone had told him dogs could speak French. “I thought he was just a rude, grumpy seaweed with a jump serve.”

You frowned. “Don’t you talk about my little Tobio-kun like that. He was a sweetheart.”

That earned a collective oh-ho-hooo from the screen, but you powered through it.

“Anyway, I asked him once why he was so hellbent on beating this so-called Great King. He got all serious and said something like, ‘I just need to prove I can surpass him.’”

Oikawa’s smug smile faltered slightly. You continued.

“I thought you must’ve been a real demon of a senpai for both Tobio and Shoyo to want to beat you that badly. But then I started thinking… if you weren’t Tobio’s type of genius, then you must’ve been the strategic kind. Using your team’s full potential, weaponizing their strengths, patching their weaknesses. Like a conductor orchestrating chaos.”

“She's not wrong,” Makki murmured.

“Now I really wish I could’ve seen Seijoh vs Nekoma,” you said with a wistful sigh. “Our setter was a genius too, not like Tobio—but he didn’t just build up his own team. He dismantled the opponents’ while doing it. He used your own plays against you. He’d lull you into thinking you were in control, then flip the game on its head.”
You leaned back with a grin, satisfied. “I hate to say it, but Kenma would’ve beaten you in a setter’s war. No matter how well your team played, you’d still leave the court wondering how the hell you didn’t score.”

There was a beat of silence before all three boys burst into reactions.

“Ohhh burn!” Mattsun whooped.

“I like her,” Makki declared.

Oikawa’s mouth opened and closed a few times before he finally narrowed his eyes at the screen like he was personally offended by your alternate timeline volleyball fanfiction. “Iwa-chan… how dare you keep this woman away from us?”

“I didn’t,” Iwaizumi said, smirking now, arms crossed. “You’re just late to the party.”

“She’s a Nekoma fan and still more polite than you,” Oikawa huffed.

You just smiled sweetly. “I’m a Nekoma girl, was literally their manager. And I haven’t known you long enough to be mean yet.”

Makki snorted. “Give it a week.”

The teasing had finally simmered down into a comfortable lull. You sat back in Iwaizumi’s desk chair, legs curled under you, and the screen full of boys who once dominated their high school court now looked more like overgrown kids in mismatched pajamas. There was something oddly nostalgic about it—like you'd been let into a living memory.

“By the way…” you started, voice quieter now, “thanks for the hoodie.”

“Ohhh yeah!” Makki grinned. “You got it, huh?”

“I wear it way too often, in the winter” you said with a small smile. “It’s become my emotional support outfit. I’m convinced it can ward off evil.”

“Well,” Mattsun leaned back dramatically, “consider it enchanted. Sewn with the ancient power of three washed-up volleyball players and one emotionally constipated roommate.”

Iwaizumi huffed. “I’m literally right here.”

“And I am not washed up! I’m literally a pro!”

“No but really,” you continued, sincerity softening your voice, “thank you. That was… one of the kindest things anyone’s ever done for me. You didn’t even know me, and you still sent something so thoughtful.”

There was a pause—surprised maybe, or just struck by how earnestly you said it.

“We might not have known you,” Mattsun said, his usual teasing edge gentled, “but we’ve known him for a few years. Oikawa’s known him for a decade. And he doesn’t let just anyone get close.”

Makki nodded. “If you were important to Hajime, you were important to us. That was all we needed.”

You blinked, caught off guard by how quickly that warmth pressed into your chest.

“And besides,” Oikawa added, surprisingly sincere as well, “you’re taking care of our Iwa-chan now.”

You glanced sideways at Iwaizumi—who looked like he wanted to melt into the floorboards. Arms crossed, jaw tight, clearly bracing himself.

“I’m not babysitting him, you know,” you teased, trying to keep the mood light again. “He’s very self-sufficient. Makes a great beef curry.”

“You’re looking after more than you think,” Mattsun said gently. “He’s lighter these days. We noticed.”

Iwaizumi’s expression shifted slightly at that—surprised, maybe even a little touched—but he didn’t say anything. Just looked down like he was hoping none of them would push further.

“I don’t know what kind of magic you’ve got going on over there,” Makki added, grinning again, “but it’s working. So… thanks.”

You smiled, fingers tightening a little on the edge of the desk.

“You’re welcome,” you said, and this time, you meant more than just for the hoodie. “And… thank you for trusting me with him.”

That earned a collective, theatrical groan from the trio.

“Oh no, now she’s making it emotional,” Oikawa whined.

“We got soft for one second and she’s already out-maturing us,” Makki muttered.

“Let’s never speak of this again,” Mattsun said, pretending to wipe a tear.

Iwaizumi rolled his eyes, but the corner of his mouth quirked up, and his shoulder brushed against yours as he leaned a little closer. Just a little.

“I liked emotional you guys,” you said brightly. “You should do that more often.”

“Don’t push it.”

By the time the group call had stretched past the two-hour mark, the conversation had drifted from volleyball memories to chaotic travel stories, questionable dorm food, and one time Oikawa had tried to use a rice cooker for brownies (“It worked , technically,” he had insisted, ignoring the collective groan). You hadn’t stopped smiling, stretching slightly in your seat, shirt slipping off one shoulder. Your cheeks still hurt a little from laughing and smiling so much.

“When you were telling me about your break last winter, and you mentioned ‘Shittykawa’ making mulled wine,” you eventually brought up, “I imagined a cloaked figure hunched over a smoking cauldron in the dead of winter. Chanting in Latin. Stirring it with the femur of a forgotten enemy.”

The boys burst into laughter—except Oikawa, who gasped like he’d been personally betrayed.

“And the indoor snowball fight,” you continued, eyes glinting with mischief, “I didn’t know what to expect, but I didn’t think he’d be a princely dodo with a headband and eye masks.”

Mattsun choked on his drink. Makki fell out of frame from laughing too hard. Even Iwaizumi snorted, finally letting out the chuckle he’d been holding back.

Oikawa let out a scandalized gasp. “I was regal!” He was currently wearing said headband and eye masks, because apparently ‘even natural beauty requires maintenance’.

“You were a menace in compression sleeves,” Iwaizumi corrected.

But the laughter was good—the easy, comfortable kind. The kind that filled up a room like the smell of something warm baking. And for a moment, the distance between them all didn’t feel quite so wide.

Just then, the front door downstairs opened with a bang, which made you and Iwaizumi quiet down and focus on the noise. Footsteps stumbled over the threshold.

A pause.

Then, Cal’s voice echoed up from the entryway, loud and forlorn, “When I said I liked it rough, I didn’t mean my entire life!”

You nearly slid off the chair laughing so hard you were almost wheezing.

“Someone had a good day,” Mattsun commented with a grin.

Iwaizumi leaned forward, pinching the bridge of his nose as if the dramatic sighs of their roommate were a weekly trial he’d long stopped trying to interpret.

“Should I go check if he walked into traffic?” you asked between giggles.

“He probably tripped over a leaf,” Iwaizumi muttered.

Oikawa looked far too excited. “Bring him on the call.”

“No,” you and Iwaizumi said in unison. But the warmth in her voice and the low, amused hum in Iwaizumi’s chest made it clear—whatever chaos waited downstairs, for now, everything felt right where it belonged.

The conversation had shifted into a soft lull, the kind that happened after laughter had shaken loose all the tension. You had one leg tucked under you in Iwaizumi’s desk chair, a quiet grin still lingering on your face. Iwaizumi sat on his bed with his phone in hand, fingers idle against the comforter. The call was still going. The laptop screen glowed dimly on the desk, three small windows showing Makki, Mattsun, and Oikawa—silent, attentive, utterly invested.

Footsteps on the stairs. A soft knock wasn’t even attempted—Cal just nudged the door open and spoke, brow furrowed.

“You seen Fuyou? Her room’s dark, is she not home yet?”

“She’s in here.” Iwaizumi called from the bed.

Cal stepped further in, hoodie in hand and a wild look in his eye. “Good. I thought you got kidnapped by the gremlins. How was your date?”

Unbeknownst to you, Iwaizumi stiffened at the word ‘date’ and the eyes of his friends all shifted to you to see how you’d answer.

You waved a hand lazily. “Still breathing. And it wasn’t a date. We met in the library, went over everything he would need to survive the demonic wrath of Dr Lewis, then he bought me a burger and I walked home. Nothing date-like at all.”

The Seijoh 4 collectively breathes silent sighs of relief. Unlike Cal who let out an exaggerated sigh, then tossed himself on the carpet like a Victorian ghost giving up the will to live. “The coffee machine’s dead.”

You blinked. “What?”

“Dead,” Cal groaned again, head lolling to the side. “I pressed brew and it coughed like it was dying of consumption and then—nothing.”

“It’s not dead,” Iwaizumi said with a frown. “That thing’s been here longer than we have. It’s probably just clogged.”

“It’s seven years old,” Cal moaned. “It’s time.”

“It’s not that old,” Iwaizumi grumbled. “I’ve got sheets older than that.”

That’s when you turned your chair, looking him dead in the eye. “Maybe your sheets aren’t getting as much action as the coffee maker.”

Iwaizumi choked. Cal blinked. The screen of Iwaizumi’s laptop suddenly jiggled—like someone had jolted their desk trying not to laugh. But none of the boys said anything and therefore remained unnoticed by Cal.

“Oh yeah?” Iwaizumi shot back without missing a beat. “How much action are your sheets getting?”

“My sheets are new,” you said with mock-pride, one hand over your heart. “Pure. Untouched. Their innocent little fibers have witnessed no sin.”

Cal stared at you both like he’d been stabbed him in the chest. “Uncalled for. I came in here grieving.”

“You came in here dramatically,” you corrected.

“I came in here vulnerable!” Cal insisted, flopping back on the floor, arms sprawled like a Greek tragedy. “I’ve suffered. I’ve struggled. And now… this.”

You gave a sympathetic hum. “This too shall pass.”
But Cal didn’t move. Still flat on the floor, eyes to the ceiling like a man who had seen too much.
“And then some other bullshit will come and take its place. It never fucking ends.”

There was a pause.

Cal blinked. Iwaizumi just looked at you for a moment, then let out a quiet snort.

From the desk, the glow of the screen remained. Silent, unmoving. But if you looked closely, you could just make out Makki’s shaking shoulders. Mattsun’s hand pressed over his mouth. Oikawa, mid-sip of wine, frozen with his eyes wide in disbelief. They were all definitely still there.

Cal groaned one last time before hauling himself to his feet. “That was real helpful Fuyou, thanks for the philosophy. I’m gonna go journal or something. If I start writing poetry don’t be surprised.”

He left with all the theatrics of a man betrayed by the universe and the room fell quiet again.

You stretched with a quiet yawn, arms reaching above your head. “Well, it’s officially late—I should get going. But hey,” you paused, glancing toward the door, “what do you think happened with him and Jun? A couple hours ago, he looked like he was falling in love. I just hope it’s something school-related and not… you know, heartbreaking. Real heartbreak. Not the kind college hands out for free with your tuition.”

Iwaizumi only shrugged in response, his expression unreadable as he walked you to the door. “Night,” he said simply.

You gave a small wave to the laptop screen. The boys waved back—but weirdly, said nothing. Which… strange. But you were too tired to question it, and your room downstairs was calling your name. You slipped out without another word.

The door clicked shut behind you.
Silence followed.
Iwaizumi didn’t move. He was already bracing for it.

The screen unmuted all at once, and a chorus of voices burst into life:

“SHE’S ONE OF US.”

“I’M NEVER LETTING YOU LIVE THAT DOWN.”

“I CAN’T BREATHE, THAT WAS FUCKING GOLD—”

Iwaizumi groaned and slammed the laptop shut.

Chapter Text

Iwaizumi lay in bed that night, the room dark save for the faint blue glow of his phone screen on the nightstand. But he wasn’t looking at it—hadn’t been for a while now. He was just… staring at the ceiling, still tangled in the haze of the day.

It had been a long one. School, work, an early dinner, the call with the guys. But his mind refused to wind down. Not when every second kept circling back to her. To the thunder of her footsteps barreling up the stairs. To the way she’d burst into his room—sweaty, flushed, winded, and absolutely glowing with the kind of gossip that could not wait. She’d looked at him like he was the only person in the world who’d understand the gravity of what she’d just witnessed. And the truth? She was right.

Then there was the moment he’d remembered his laptop was still open, the Seijoh4 still on the screen. He’d been about to apologize—maybe even end the call. But then Mattsun had said something. And that was it, suddenly, he wanted her there. He wanted them to know her. Wanted his friends to meet the girl that had been driving him crazy for the last two years.

Because how could he not?

She held her own like she’d known them for years. Bantered with Makki, teased Oikawa, kept up with their chaos without missing a beat. It was easy to forget she wasn’t part of their circle until then. She just fit.

He thought about how the guys watched her—not just with curiosity or amusement—but with something softer, deeper. Like they saw something in her that made sense for him. And when she left, they hadn’t even waited five minutes before lighting up the group chat. He hadn’t looked at them yet and wasn’t about to but he knew they were going on and on—telling him she was perfect, that she was clearly into him too, that he should stop being so damn stubborn and just go for it. That they’d never seen him so relaxed, so quick to smile.

That she made sense for him.

And now, lying in the dark, he kept coming back to that moment—her leaning in close, nose to nose, teasing him like she didn’t even realize how easy it would be for him to lose his breath.

His friends were right.
He wasn’t used to this—this feeling. This pull. But for the first time in a long time, Iwaizumi wasn’t trying to fight it

In the morning, he still refused to check the group chat. He wasn’t stupid—he knew exactly what would be waiting for him in there. And with him and Fuyou walking to campus together today, the last thing he needed was their voices echoing in his head, throwing off his already fragile sense of composure. Their teasing would live rent-free in his brain the second he opened those messages, and he wasn’t about to let that happen before sunrise.

So, he ignored it, got dressed and had breakfast with her like he usually did. Walked beside her like it didn’t drive him half-crazy when she smiled at him mid-sentence. Sat through classes trying not to think about how natural it felt to match her pace, to carry her water bottle without her asking, to wait outside her lecture hall just because he wanted to.

Practice gave him a break. A brutal, welcome one. But once the sweat cooled and the adrenaline faded, there was no more avoiding it. He sat down at the dining table, bowl of udon in front of him, phone in hand.

Twenty unread messages.

With a resigned sigh, Iwaizumi opened the group chat—ready to face whatever idiocy awaited him..

📲 Seijoh4 🏐💪
(Iwaizumi, Oikawa, Mattsukawa, Hanamaki)
[ 19 Unread Messages]

Makki:
bro
BRO
COME BACK

Mattsun:
he’s definitely already asleep
dreaming about her probably 🥰

Oikawa:
DON’T LET HIM SKIP THIS
I demand we preserve this moment for posterity

Mattsun:
srsly
iwa-chan we need to talk about your future wife

Makki:
we’ve decided
you need to marry her
she’s literally perfect for you

Oikawa:
she roasted you so gracefully
and defended me
a vision of balance and justice

Makki:
“maybe your sheets aren’t getting as much action as the coffee maker”
you gonna let her talk to you like that?
(marry her.)

Mattsun:
you didn’t even fight back
you choked on air
like a man in love

Oikawa:
THE WAY SHE GOT ALL UP IN YOUR FACE
my god
I almost proposed on your behalf

Makki:
no joke
she was this close 👀 👉👃

Mattsun:
and you just sat there blinking like she’d personally unplugged your brain

Oikawa:
you two are already acting married
except with more tension and less kissing
FIX THAT

Makki:
okay but for real
you don’t need to worry about the other guy
she’s totally into you
we can tell
even Oikawa can tell and he’s dense as hell emotionally

Oikawa:
RUDE
but also correct
she’s smitten

Mattsun:
just make a move already
we’ll wear suits to the wedding
Makki’s doing the speech

Makki:
I call Best Man
and flower girl

Oikawa:
dibs on drunk uncle

Iwaizumi is typing...

Iwaizumi Hajime:
you guys are idiots.

Makki:
👀 uh huh
we’ll take that as “panicking internally but trying to sound cool”

Iwaizumi Hajime:
i’m not panicking.

Mattsun:
so you did choke on your own spit when she roasted you?

Iwaizumi Hajime:
it caught me off guard, okay?
who the hell says stuff like that with a straight face??

Oikawa:
SOMEONE AWESOME WHO’S ALSO IN LOVE WITH YOU
SHE’S IN LOOOOOOVE 😭💕

Makki:
bro you’re doomed
she’s perfect for you
accept your fate

Iwaizumi Hajime:
she’s not…
i mean
she’s just being nice
she’s nice to everyone

Mattsun:
not like that, she’s not.
you’re different to her. it shows.

Iwaizumi Hajime:
…

Makki:
oh damn.
he’s *thinking.*

Iwaizumi Hajime:
it’d be nice
if she did.
wouldn't have to worry about her going out with some token nice guy

[typing...]

Iwaizumi Hajime:
but if she doesn’t
i’m not gonna screw things up just because I caught feelings.

Oikawa:
well that’s dumb and noble. hate it.

Mattsun:
classic Hajime move: fall for someone, refuse to act on it, suffer in silence
💀 any other guy is a short-term rental

Makki:
just so you know
we’re emotionally invested now
so if you don’t make a move
we will

Oikawa:
I’ll write a love letter and sign it from you

Iwaizumi Hajime:
touch anything and i’ll kill you.

Mattsun:
so you do want to confess

Iwaizumi Hajime:
i didn’t say that
but maybe
one day
if i’m sure

Makki:
when you propose we’re bringing this chat back up at the reception

Oikawa:
screenshotting as we speak 🥰

Iwaizumi Hajime:
don’t you dare screenshot anything
you’re all banned from my wedding
especially you, oikawa

Oikawa:
bold of you to assume I won’t be the maid of honor

Mattsun:
uh speaking of weddings
we’ve met the bride 👀

Iwaizumi Hajime:
what the hell does that mean

Makki:
scrolls innocently
just happened to come across her insta last week 👀

Iwaizumi Hajime:
…how

Oikawa:
you tagged her in one of your stories over summer
a meal prep post with her chopping onions while glaring at the camera
we zoomed and enhanced 🕵️‍♂️

Makki:
i reverse image searched her hoodie
found her in under 10 minutes

Mattsun:
it was honestly impressive

Iwaizumi Hajime:
are you HEARING yourselves
do you hear how insane that is
i’m calling the police

Makki:
too late
we sent her follow requests after last night’s video chat
she accepted all of us

Oikawa:
she even liked my last post 💅
i think she finds me charming

Iwaizumi Hajime:
she finds you manageable at best

Mattsun:
but she does like you, dude
we’re not guessing
she retweeted that video of you helping that stray cat like 3 times
with different captions
“protect this man”
“he doesn’t even know how soft he is”
and my personal favorite:
“who gave him the right 😩”

Makki:
it’s honestly over for you bro
you’re gone
buried
wife'd up and you don’t even know it

Oikawa:
we’re just glad she’s not secretly awful
she’s funny, sweet, and clearly cares about you
also
you really brought home a girl who calls you out AND meal preps?
the dream

Iwaizumi Hajime:
i can’t believe you all stalked her
and got away with it
and she LIKED you

Makki:
the universe is smiling on you, man
you better not screw this up

Mattsun:
no pressure or anything 😌

Oikawa:
when’s the wedding again?
need to check tux availability

Iwaizumi Hajime:
you’re all actual menaces
and you’re lucky she hasn’t blocked you yet

Mattsun:
we’re very lovable when we’re not stalking people

Makki:
and honestly she’s too nice
she’d probably bake us something before blocking us

Oikawa:
all jokes aside she’s great
and she clearly means a lot to you
but if there’s ever a time you need us to shut up and back off
we will

Makki:
(we’ll cry about it later though)

Mattsun:
but seriously
we’ve got your back
always

Iwaizumi Hajime:
…
thanks
really

Oikawa:
awww look at you being soft

Iwaizumi Hajime:
you have approximately ten seconds to shut the hell up

Makki:
aaaand we’re back

Mattsun:
sleep tight, lover boy 💤

Oikawa:
dream of her calling you “Hajime” again

Iwaizumi Hajime:
i hope all your pillows are hot on both sides

Makki:
okay but that’s messed up

~

Earlier That Morning…

You squinted at your phone through one half-open eye, expecting to see your alarm or a morning notification. What you weren’t expecting was:

**3 new follow requests.**

From:

* *@makki_96*
* *@mattsunraw*
* *@tooruoikawa_official*

You blinked.

…That couldn’t be a coincidence.

You opened your DMs, and sure enough:

> Oikawa Tooru:Good morning, Fuyou-chan! consider this an official application to be your favorite honorary senpai. I come with mulled wine and emotionally unavailable chaos.

> Mattsun: yo we come in peace. promise.

> Makki: we think you’re cool. and we’re nosy. mostly nosy. welcome to the Seijoh4 extended universe.

You stared at your screen, still tucked in bed, “…what the hell,” you mumbled, smiling faintly.

Accept.
Accept.
Accept.

Chapter Text

The soft clatter of the knife against the cutting board echoed through the kitchen, underscored by the gentle simmer of miso broth on the stove. You leaned over the counter, carefully julienning carrots with practiced ease. Beside you, Iwaizumi stirred the pot, tasting for salt.

“This needs just a bit more—” he began, reaching for the miso paste.

“I already added some,” You said, glancing up at him with a small smile. “Trust the process.”

He grunted, but didn’t argue, spooning a bit of broth and nodding. “Okay, okay. It’s good.”

The domestic quiet between you was pleasant—companionable. The kind of silence that didn’t need filling. Until your phone buzzed against the counter, screen lighting up with an incoming video call.

Pheebs.

You wiped your hands on a kitchen towel and answered. “Hey, Phee—”

“Guess what!” Phoebe shouted.

The screen flashed to Phoebe’s face, beaming, flushed, and windblown. Behind her, the skyline was pink with sunset, and Eli’s unmistakable profile loomed into view, grinning like he’d won the lottery.

You blinked. “Uh—hi?”

Phoebe shoved her hand toward the camera. A delicate ring, sparkling and unmistakable, caught the fading light.

“We’re engaged!” she screamed. Eli shouted “She said yes!” in the background, throwing up both arms.

For a second, you just stared. The world didn’t stop—but the knife slipped from your hand and clattered onto the cutting board.

Iwaizumi looked over. “Everything okay?”

You turned the phone toward him.

“They’re engaged…OH MY GOD!!!” it finally hit you.

“...Seriously?”

“WHEN DID THIS HAPPEN?!”

Phoebe nodded rapidly, practically bouncing out of frame. “Like, ten minutes ago! I couldn’t wait—I had to call you first!”

Your mouth opened, then closed, then opened again. “I’m so happy for you,” you said, and meant it.

The phone shifted so Phoebe's glowing face filled the screen again. She still looked like she was vibrating from head to toe with excitement, her cheeks pink and her smile so wide it almost hurt to look at.

“You seriously got engaged?” You asked, trying to wrap your head around it. “Today? Just like that?”

Phoebe laughed. “Not just like that! It was planned. Kind of. Well, Eli planned it. I didn’t know. We went for a walk on that cliff trail I love—you know, the one with the trees that look like giant bonsai? And then boom—he got down on one knee and pulled out this.” She flashed the ring again, obnoxiously proud.

Iwaizumi muttered under his breath, “Ballsy move. Cliffs are risky terrain for sudden knee drops.”

You tried not to snort. “Did you know he was going to do it?” you asked, brushing a lock of hair behind your ear, still half in disbelief. “I mean, did you suspect anything?”

Phoebe wiggled her eyebrows. “I hoped something was coming. He’s been all weird and fidgety for weeks. But I didn’t expect today. Honestly, I thought he forgot our anniversary.”

“Wait, today is your anniversary?” You asked, your voice rising. “You’re telling me he double-booked your anniversary and a proposal?”

“Triple,” Eli said from off-screen, poking his head in. “We also had cake.”

You laughed despite yourself. “Unreal. Did you cry?”

Phoebe rolled her eyes. “Obviously. I sobbed. Like an embarrassing amount. I think I startled a passing jogger.”

“What did he say?” You pressed. “Give me the line. I know he rehearsed it.”

“Oh my god, Iwaizumi, you’re gonna love this part,” Phoebe said, shifting the camera toward Eli.

“No pressure,” Eli said, grinning sheepishly. “Okay, I said—uh—‘You’ve been the best decision I never saw coming. Will you marry me?’”

You raised your eyebrows. “That’s… actually really good. Simple, but poignant. Very romantic, and very you Eli.”

Phoebe gave him a proud slap on the arm. “Right? I know. He even practiced in front of the mirror.”

“Hey,” Eli protested. “That was private.”

Iwaizumi leaned closer to the screen, arms folded. “Congratulations, you guys got a date yet?”

Phoebe shook her head. “Not even close. I mean, we’re still high off the ring. I called you before I even told my mom.”

Your chest tightened a little at that. “Wait—seriously?”

“Of course. You’re my person, Fuu. Who else would I call first?”

That did it—You felt a wave of emotion crest behind your ribs, soft and sharp all at once. You blinked fast and turned slightly away from the camera, pretending to check the stove.

“So…” you said, clearing your throat, “What does this mean now? Like, what kind of wedding are you two picturing? Big? Small? Destination? Thematic chaos?”

“Oh, we’re arguing about it already,” Eli said cheerfully. “I want something small. She wants a disco-themed masquerade on a rooftop.”

“With confetti cannons,” Phoebe added firmly.

“You’re insane,” Eli said.

“And you love it,” she replied.

You smiled, resting a hand on the counter to steady yourself. “I still can’t believe it. You’re really getting married.”

“Neither can I,” Phoebe said, a little softer now. “But it feels right, you know? Like…I’m not nervous. Just…settled. Like everything found its place.”

You didn’t reply right away, noticing Iwaizumi glance at you, then look away, wisely saying nothing.

“Yeah,” you said at last. “I know what you mean.”

Phoebe’s eyes softened. “You okay?”

You nodded. “I’m so happy. Truly. Just…processing. And also trying not to burn dinner.”

“Then we’ll let you go,” Phoebe said gently. “But we’ll call again soon. You’re gonna be a bridesmaid, you know. No arguments.”

You managed a real smile at that. “Only if I get to veto the confetti cannons.”

“Never,” Phoebe grinned. “Love you. Talk soon!”

The screen blinked dark as the call ended.

Silence settled again—thicker this time, but not uncomfortable. Iwaizumi handed you a dish towel and bumped your shoulder gently. “You okay?”

You took a breath. “Yeah. Just…life coming at me faster than I expected.”

He nudged the broth pot with his spoon. “At least dinner’s not ruined.”

You gave a soft laugh and picked up the knife again. “Yeah. Let’s not let them upstage our miso.”

The broth simmered quietly, but you didn’t move right away. You stood still, fingers resting lightly on the edge of the counter, phone screen dark and warm in your palm. Only a summer. That was all it had been since Phoebe packed her bags and boxes and hugged you goodbye, promising you’d still talk every day. And, mostly, you had. Late-night texts, chaotic voice notes, and random photos of stray cats or weirdly shaped clouds. But it wasn’t the same as hearing her crashing through the apartment door, or seeing her sticky notes on the fridge with dumb doodles and reminders like remember: eat food, not feelings.

Still, she’d called you first. Not her mother. Not some childhood best friend. Not even her sister.

You.

A bridesmaid. No hesitation.

A warmth rose in your chest—unexpected, unhurried. It wasn’t just the honor of being asked. It was what it meant. That even with all the noise of a new chapter—love, rings, cliffside proposals and confetti dreams—Phoebe hadn’t let you slip to the side. You’d only lived together for two years. It wasn’t much in the grand scale of a life, but it had changed you both.

Back then, Phoebe had been all flash and chaos. You, on the other hand, had been quieter. You measured your emotions like ingredients in a recipe: carefully. Phoebe had disrupted that balance like a storm kicking open the windows—and instead of being annoyed, you had let the wind in. You hadn’t meant to care so much. It had just… happened. Somewhere between shared takeout, movie marathons, and 3 a.m. heart-to-hearts, you’d stitched something real between you. Not just friendship, but found family.

“You’re staring at the counter,” Iwaizumi said, breaking the silence. “Thinking about the cake?”

You startled, then gave him a faint smile. “Thinking about Phoebe. About how we met. How much she’s changed. How much I have.”

Iwaizumi wiped his hands on a towel and leaned his hip against the sink, watching you. “You miss her.”

“Yeah,” you admitted. “But not in a bad way. Just—" you paused. "I think I forgot how close we got. Or maybe I didn’t forget. I just didn’t realize it still mattered that much to her.”

“It does,” he said simply. “You matter.”

The words sank in deeper than you expected.

You turned back to the stove, giving the soup a small stir, grounding yourself in something real and warm.

“She’s getting married,” you said softly. “And she still thought of me first.”

“Because you’re important to her,” Iwaizumi said. “Distance doesn’t erase that.”

You didn’t respond right away, but he didn’t push. Instead, he handed you the tofu to cube and bumped your shoulder once more. And just like that, you felt steady again.

~

Later That Night

The movie played on, casting flickering shadows across the living room. You were curled beneath a throw blanket, tucked into one corner of the couch, nursing a cup of lukewarm tea. Your legs thrown over Iwaizumi’s lap who lounged beside you, arms folded, eyes focused, but his expression skeptical every time the onscreen drama tried to pass off a clearly fake helicopter explosion as high-stakes cinema.

“Who brings a flamethrower to a hostage negotiation?” Iwaizumi asked.

You took a slow sip of tea. “A man with unresolved issues and too much free time.”

He gave a grunt of agreement just as the front door opened. You both looked up in unison as Cal stepped in, hair slightly tousled, hoodie zipped up but clearly hastily thrown on. He tried for casual, but the slight smile tugging at his mouth gave him away.

You raised an eyebrow. “That was a very cheerful study session.”

“Extremely academic,” Iwaizumi added, deadpan.

Cal blinked. “I—I mean—yeah? I got a lot done.”

“Mmhmm,” you murmured, exchanging a glance with Iwaizumi. You didn’t say anything more, but the shared amusement between hung in the air like a private joke.
Cal escaped down the hall, muttering something about needing water, and Iwaizumi picked up the remote to pause the movie. As he reached for it, your phone lit up on the coffee table beside him, screen facing up.

He glanced at the caller ID. “Hey—Kuroo’s calling.”

Already halfway rising to stretch, you waved a hand over. “Just answer it. Put it on speaker or something—I’ll take it in my room.”

Iwaizumi nodded and swiped to answer. “Hey. It’s Iwaizumi. Fuyou’s here—hang on.”

He turned the phone and offered it to you, but something in his expression shifted just slightly as Kuroo spoke on the other end—something unreadable flickered across his eyes.

You took the phone, frowning. “Tetsuro?”
You started toward your room slowly, bare feet silent on the hallway floor.

“What’s going on?”

The voice on the other end wasn’t Kuroo’s usual casual tone—it was tight. Controlled. Serious in a way that made the hairs on your arms lift.

“Fuyou,” he said. “I didn’t want to send a message. You need to hear this.”

You stopped walking, hand tightening slightly on the phone.

“What happened?”

“It’s your dad,” he said. “He was in a car accident. A bad one.”

Your breath caught in your chest.

“He’s alive,” Kuroo continued quickly. “They got him out and he’s in surgery now, but… it’s serious. He—he lost control on a mountain road. The car went off the edge.”

Your vision started to blur at the edges. White noise rushed in around the words.

“Fuyou?”

You didn’t answer and your breathing got heavier. From the couch, Cal and Iwaizumi both looked up—Cal pausing with the glass of water halfway to his mouth. Iwaizumi was already standing.

“Fuyou?” Kuroo’s voice came again through the speaker. “Are you still there?”

Your mouth opened, but no sound came out.
You turned, slowly, as if in a dream, face blank. The phone slipped from your hand and hit the floor with a hard thud. Then your knees buckled.

“Fuyou!” Iwaizumi crossed the room in two strides, catching you just before you completely crumble to the floor. Cal dropped his glass on the coffee table and ran behind him.

You were frozen like all the warmth had been drained from your body, eyes wide but unfocused. Your breath came out fast and heavy, and your clammy hands were shaking.

Iwaizumi crouched beside you, steadying you by the shoulders. “Fuyou. Hey. Look at me. Breathe.”

Cal knelt on the other side, worry etched across his face. “What happened? What’s wrong?”

Iwaizumi didn’t take his eyes off you. “Her dad. Car accident.”

You blinked slowly, like your body hadn’t caught up with your mind. “He’s in surgery,” you whispered hoarsely. “I don’t know if he’s going to make it.”

The words cracked as they came out.

Iwaizumi pulled you in without hesitation, arms wrapping around you tightly. “You’re not alone,” he said quietly. “We’ve got you.”

At that, you let yourself shake.

~

A large duffel bag sat open on the bed, half-full, the clothes inside folded with mechanical precision. You moved like your mind was somewhere else—because it was. Hands worked on autopilot, pulling what was needed from drawers, zipping up toiletries, double-checking your passport without really seeing it.

Iwaizumi sat silently on the edge of the bed, his elbows on his knees, watching you like you might fall again if he blinked. Cal hovered nearby, folding and packing what you handed him. He didn’t ask questions, didn’t talk. Just helped.

“Kuroo booked my flight,” you said suddenly, voice flat. “First one out tomorrow morning.”

Cal looked up from the tangle of chargers he was untangling. “Do you need a ride to the airport?”

You shook your head and didn’t answer him, turning back to the closet and reaching for your coat. Missing the way Iwaizumi flinched when you swayed again—just slightly, just enough for him to rise to his feet instantly and steady you by the elbow.

“Sit down,” he said gently but firmly.

“I’m fine.”

“You said that before you dropped your phone and collapsed.”

“I’m—” your voice caught. “I just have to finish packing.”

“I’ll finish,” Cal offered. “You sit. Just for a second.”

This time, you didn’t argue.

You sank onto the edge of the bed and stared down at your hands. They were steady now—but numb. Your chest felt hollow, like someone had scooped everything out and left only the scaffolding.

Iwaizumi knelt down in front of you. “Do you want me to call Phoebe?”

You shook your head.

“She’ll want to know.”

“I know,” you said, voice quiet. “But I’m not going to ruin her first night of being engaged with this.”

He hesitated.

“She deserves that happiness. Let her have it, just for a little while. I’ll tell her later, once dad is in stable condition.”

Iwaizumi nodded, reluctantly, and didn’t press the issue.

Cal finished zipping the duffel and set it gently by the door. “You’re packed,” he said. “Flight’s early. I’ll drive you.”

You gave a tired nod, and the house fell into a low, heavy silence. The kind that didn’t ask to be filled.

The clock read 2:53 a.m., but Iwaizumi hadn’t slept. He stayed beside you, one arm wrapped around your shoulder as you leaned against him on the couch. You hadn’t said much since the bag was packed. Just sat there, wide awake, staring into the quiet of the living room.

You hadn’t cried.
He thought, at first, that maybe you would once the initial shock wore off. But you didn’t. Not a single tear. You weren’t cold. You weren’t angry. You just… weren’t reacting.

He knew you weren’t the type to unravel easily. You processed things in silence, piece by piece. But this—this scared him. When you had collapsed from shock hours earlier, and now you were calm in a way that didn’t feel right.

Not strong. Not grounded.

Empty.

He watched you as your head slowly tipped onto his shoulder, breathing growing deeper, slower. Finally asleep.

But still—no tears.

He held you a little tighter.

He hadn’t said anything. He hadn’t tried to fix it. He just stayed there, solid and unmoving, heart aching at how breakable you felt in his arms. Like maybe if he held you long enough, it would reach the part of you that had gone cold.

He’d held you anyway. All night. And wondering—

When would you finally let yourself fall apart?

Around 5:30 a.m., Cal moved quietly through the house, grabbing the keys, your duffel bag, a water bottle. No one said much, just moved with the kind of quiet coordination that happens when everyone knows there's nothing left to do but get through it.

You finally stirred, sitting up slowly, running a hand through your tangled hair.

“I have to go.”

Iwaizumi didn’t stop you. He just stood and helped find your shoes.

You moved with purpose now—mechanical, focused. Bag ready, coat zipped. Your flight to Japan had been booked by Kuroo overnight. You were flying out of LAX, nonstop to Tokyo.

Everything was arranged, but that didn’t make it easier.

The city still slept while the sun tried to rise, painting the edge of the sky in cold gray and the kind of dim orange that didn’t warm anything. Cal parked in the loading zone, hopped out, and opened the trunk. The air was brisk and sharp, the kind that didn’t feel like weather—it felt like an omen.

You stepped out of the car slowly, put your duffel over your shoulder. Everything you needed was inside it, but it didn’t feel like enough.

Cal turned to you, hesitant at first, then hugged you tight.

“You’re gonna be okay,” he said softly, his voice steadier than you’d expected. “And if you’re not, call me anyway.”
He pulled back after he felt you nod against his shoulder and looked at you with uncharacteristic seriousness. “Don’t worry about school. I’ll cover for you with the office. Say you’ve got... I don’t know, diplomatic leave or something.”

That earned the ghost of a smile. “Thanks.”

Cal stepped back and glanced at Iwaizumi. “I’ll wait in the car.”

And then it was just the two of you.

You turned toward Iwaizumi slowly, and he stepped into your space without hesitation, pulling you into his chest. His arms wrapped around you, grounding you in place. Your cheek rested over his heart, and you stayed there, breathing in the calm only his embrace and scent ever seemed to provide.

He bent his head, his voice low and rough. “I wish I could go with you.”

“You being here is enough,” you whispered.

His hand ran down your back slowly, steady and careful. “You don’t have to be strong right now.”

“I don’t feel strong.”

“You don’t have to.”

You didn’t answer, just stayed there.

He let out a breath before cupping your face in his hands and pressed his lips to your forehead—firm, slow and deliberate.

Not a goodbye, but a promise.

He stayed there for a long moment, letting the kiss say everything he couldn’t. And when he pulled back, your face was drawn tight with panic and fatigue, but your eyes met his—and he saw something flicker there. If you weren’t so overwhelmed, so tired, so scared, you might’ve said something reckless.

You might’ve told him you were falling in love with him.

“I’ll be here when you get back,” he said. “And let me know if you need anything anyway.”

You nodded, then turned and walked into the airport.

In the Air – Somewhere Over the Pacific

The cabin lights were dimmed. Most of the other passengers were asleep or faking it, curled into makeshift nests of neck pillows and half-unzipped hoodies. You sat by the window, the tray table down but empty, untouched. Your eyes were open, but unfocused—locked on the glass where all you could see was your own faint reflection and the dark, endless sky beyond.

Twelve hours of silence.

No notifications. No distractions. Just the low rumble of the engines and the occasional clink of plastic cups.

You still hadn’t cried.

Not when you passed through security, not when you watched the sights of LA vanish beneath you. Not during the hours of turbulence when the woman next to you clenched the armrest and muttered prayers under her breath.

Not once.

You kept hearing Kuroo’s voice from the call.

“He’s alive.”

But alive didn’t mean okay. And stable didn’t mean safe. And your father wasn’t the kind of man who broke. He didn’t collapse. He didn’t need help. He didn’t get hurt.

Not until now.

You pressed your forehead to the cold window, hands curled in your lap, stiff and aching from how tightly you were clenching them. You thought about your house back in California. About Cal, quietly folding your clothes while pretending not to watch you fall apart. About Iwaizumi’s arms, solid around you like nothing could touch you as long as he was there.

And about the kiss on your forehead.
The kind of kiss that left echoes.

If you had been in a different state of mind—calm, rational, not carrying grief like a stone in her chest—you might’ve felt something different about that moment. Something bigger. Scarier.

Instead, you just felt far away from it all. Like you were watching your own life from the outside.

Still not crying.

Still breathing.

Barely.

By the time you stepped off the plane, your legs felt weightless. The fluorescent lighting of the terminal cast everything in a weird, sterile glow. Jet lag pressed against your skull, dull and heavy.

Since you didn’t need to go to baggage claim, you just followed the signs through customs, and walked out into the arrival hall. It was late night in Tokyo. The autumn chill hit you like a wave the moment the doors slid open. Wind colder than California’s worst nights swept across the pavement.

And then—

“Tetsuro!”

He was already walking toward you, face drawn, dressed in dark jeans and a jacket zipped to the collar. He looked tired. More than tired—strained.

You dropped the duffel at your feet just before he reached you.
He didn’t say anything, just pulled you into him and held you, tight. Your fingers twisted into the back of his jacket, and for a second you almost broke.

But even then…

No tears.

“You okay?” Kuroo asked softly into your hair, even though he already knew the answer.

You shook your head once.

“Your uncle’s at the hospital,” he said. “Still in surgery. They’re doing everything they can.” He’d been in surgery when you got the news. Were things so terrible that the doctors were still trying to fix him up so many hours later?

You pulled back just far enough to see his face. “How bad was it?”

His eyes softened. “Bad.”

“But he’s alive.”

“Yeah. He’s alive.” Kuroo studied you. “You haven’t cried.”

You looked away, not answering him. You didn’t need to.

He didn’t push. Just picked up your bag, nodded toward the car, and wrapped an arm around your shoulders walking out into the cold.

~

The roads were nearly empty as Kuroo drove through the city’s quiet streets. The streetlights passed in rhythmic patterns across the windshield, casting pale reflections across the dashboard and your faces.

Neither of you said much.

Kuroo’s hand rested loosely on the wheel. His eyes were focused, but his posture was tight—like he hadn’t really let himself relax since the phone call. You sat beside him, forehead leaning against the cold glass of the passenger window, watching the blurry city pass by in silence.

“He’s still in surgery,” Kuroo said quietly, his voice low and careful. “Kenma’s already there. He’ll keep us updated if anything changes before we arrive.”

You nodded slightly.

“One of your dad’s old frat brothers is there too,” Kuroo added. “Makoto-san. He called the others—they’ll show up when they can. You don’t need to do anything.”

You let out a breath you hadn’t realized you were holding.

Of course they were already mobilizing. The frat uncles. The ones who helped raise you like a village of half-grown boys pretending to be men. Somehow, when it really mattered, they always showed up.

Kuroo didn’t push the conversation any further. He just kept driving. And you let your eyes close for just a moment, lulled by the hum of the engine and the low sound of tires on asphalt.

The fluorescent lights inside the hospital lobby hit you like a wave, too bright after the muted world of the car. You followed Kuroo without speaking, steps slow and heavy like you were walking through water.

The waiting room was quiet. Too quiet.

And then—

“Fuyou.”

Kenma stood up from a chair near the back corner, dressed in a black hoodie and dark jeans, hair tied back. His expression was soft and tired, but it warmed the moment he saw you.

You walked straight into his arms and he hugged you gently, carefully—like you were made of glass.

“I’m glad you’re here,” he said softly. “He’ll want to see you the second he wakes up.”

You just nodded against his shoulder.

A moment later, your uncle—your dad’s younger brother—stepped into view from the hallway. His eyes were rimmed with fatigue, his tie loosened, hair messy, but he pulled you into a tight hug like he hadn’t exhaled since the accident.

“Hey, kid,” he murmured. “You okay?”

You didn’t say anything, didn’t need to.

“He’s out of surgery.” Said a familiar voice. You turned to see Makoto-san with a doctor standing in front of you all now.
“He sustained multiple injuries,” the doctor explained, voice calm and clear. “Several fractured ribs, a broken femur, internal bleeding. A severe concussion—but no permanent brain damage. He was lucky.”

Your breath caught.

“But,” the doctor continued, “with proper rest and physical therapy, we expect a full recovery. He’ll walk again. He’ll return to full health. It’s just going to take time.”

“Months?” you asked, voice thin.

He nodded. “Three to six. No shortcuts. But he’s going to be okay.”

Your uncle let out a breath like he’d been holding it for hours. And you finally, finally closed your eyes.
But not from exhaustion this time.
From the weight of something lighter.

Relief.

Chapter Text

“Can I see him?” you asked, once the doctor had finished explaining everything.

He gave a small, understanding nod. “He’s still under, but stable. You can sit with him.”

Your legs were shaky when you stood. Kenma reached over instinctively, but you steadied yourself. You didn’t need help walking. You just needed to see him.

The hallway to the recovery ward smelled like antiseptic and something colder—metallic. The kind of place where time felt suspended. Lights buzzed overhead as you followed a nurse through the quiet wing. She pushed open the door gently.

And there he was.

Your dad.

Tubes, monitors, gauze. Machines softly blinking and beeping around him. He looked small in the hospital bed. Still. Pale. But breathing.

You stepped inside slowly. You didn’t cry. You thought maybe you would—but all you felt was something hollow letting go inside your chest. The ache you hadn’t named yet. The fear you’d carried across oceans.

Gone.

You sat down in the chair beside the bed and reached for his hand. He didn’t stir, but you didn’t need him to. You leaned forward, resting your head gently on the edge of the bed, your fingers still curled around his.

“I’m here, Daddy.” you whispered.
You didn’t know if he could hear you. But it didn’t matter.

You were there. And he was alive.
For now that was enough.

It was three days before your dad finally woke up.

He stayed under observation the entire time, even though the doctor told you more than once that he’d be okay. Maybe they just needed to be sure—sure they hadn’t missed something, sure there wouldn’t be some unexpected complication waiting in the dark.

You didn’t leave his side.

Kuroo, Kenma, Makoto-san, and your uncle rotated in and out—bringing food, keeping you company, sitting beside your dad when they managed to convince you to go home, shower, change clothes, breathe for five minutes. You listened to them about showering, but not about resting.

You slept in the hospital room, in the armchair across from the bed. Normally, there wasn’t space for much more than one stiff chair, but the nurses took pity on you. Or maybe it was Kuroo’s charm. Either way, they had one brought in just for you.
During those long, quiet hours, you only texted Cal and Iwaizumi. Just the important things: that your dad was going to be okay. That you’d be staying longer than expected. That you’d call when things settled down more.

You asked Iwaizumi if he could tell Phoebe in a few days—once the chaos faded a little. You didn’t want her engagement high clouded by this. She deserved to enjoy it, even if just for a few more days. You sent emails too. To your professors, and your academic advisor, explaining the emergency, the need to take the rest of the semester off. It would mean extra work in your final year—doubling up on some classes—but you’d done enough ahead that graduation wouldn’t be delayed.

You could handle it.

Once everything practical was handled, you let your mind drift.

Back to him.

Not the version lying in that bed. Not the blood and broken bones or beeping monitors. But him.
Your dad, who was barely nineteen when your life began. Still a college sophomore. Still living in a house with a bunch of other boys who thought cooking was microwaving instant noodles and that naps on the floor were just part of the experience.

Your mom had been older. Twenty-three and already working. Already out in the world while he was still fumbling through lectures and midterms. The one-night stand at the frat party hadn’t meant anything.

And yet—there you were.

Born from a night no one planned and a situation nobody was ready for.
But he showed up.

Even when he had no idea what he was doing. Even when you wouldn’t stop crying and he looked like he wanted to cry too. Even when his friends—his ridiculous, half-grown brothers—ran around trying to help like this was some group project they were all barely passing.

He never made you feel like a mistake.

He gave you juice boxes in lecture halls, and let you nap on his chest while he wrote papers. Took you to football games in oversized university hoodies and laughed when his friends hoisted you up like the team mascot.

He was never “the guy who helped raise you.”
He was your dad.

And it hadn’t mattered that he and your mom were never together. That their dynamic was more businesslike than warm. They made it work. Kept it respectful, kept it clean.
Separate.

But you wondered now—sitting here, staring at the gentle rise and fall of his chest—if she would come.
Your mom.
She hadn’t called.

Would she show up? Would you see her in the hallway for the first time in years and remember, for a moment, that the two of them had made something good—however strange, however untraditional? Would she sit beside you in silence, both of you waiting, both of you thinking about the man you’d shared so differently?

The thought made your chest ache.

Because whatever your life had looked like—however unconventional—it had always included him. There wasn’t a single version of your life that didn’t have your dad in it. And now, for the first time, the idea of a world without him had become real.
It had almost happened.

You clenched your hands in your lap until your knuckles went white.

Still, you didn’t cry.

But somewhere deep inside, something cracked. Just a little.

You were half-asleep when you heard the shift.
The quiet rustle of blankets. A sigh.

Your eyes snapped open.

Your dad was stirring. His fingers twitched in your grasp. His head tilted slightly. The monitor beeped steady and sure.

And then, his eyes blinked opened.

You shot up in your chair so fast you nearly knocked Biscuit—your little stuffed owl—from your lap. You’d grabbed him before leaving California, without even realizing what you were doing. Somehow, he’d ended up in your duffel bag, and for the last three days, you’d been holding him like a lifeline when the nights stretched too long.

Your dad blinked slowly, trying to focus before he looked around and saw you.

His voice was hoarse, rough from days of sedation. “...Fuyou?”

Your heart skipped. Part of you had been terrified you’d never hear him say that again.

Then—he frowned. “What are you doing here? Why aren’t you at school?”

You stared at him incredulously, before the words tumbled out like they’d been waiting behind your teeth this whole time.

“School?” Your voice cracked. “School?!”

You stood, gripping Biscuit tightly to your chest, the disbelief hitting you like a slap.

“You were in an accident! You almost died! And I was supposed to just... stay at school?! Pretend like everything was fine?!”

You didn’t finish the sentence. Because that’s when the tears finally came.

No warning. No graceful, single tear rolling down your cheek. Just everything—bursting out of you like floodwater breaking through the dam.

Loud. Messy. Ugly.

You couldn’t stop. You couldn’t even breathe right. You gasped as the sobs wracked your chest and made your shoulders shake.

The nurses came running in thinking he was gone. But he wasn’t.

He was awake and alive and watching you from the bed with wide, helpless eyes—eyes that had seen you cry before, but never like this. Never when he couldn’t reach out and pull you into his arms. Never when all he could do was watch.
You couldn’t even hug him—not without hurting him. Not without risking more pain. So you just collapsed into the chair beside his bed again, still clutching Biscuit, and sobbed.

It all came out at once.
The fear. The helplessness. The endless hours staring at monitors, pretending you were fine, being strong because someone had to be.

Now that he was awake... now that he was here...

It was finally safe to fall apart.

You didn’t know how long you cried. Only that your whole body hurt from it.
And then there were arms wrapped around you. You didn’t know whose. You didn’t look. Just let yourself be held.

Because this was the first time you’d cried like this in front of your dad, and he couldn’t comfort you—not like he always had. Not this time.

So whoever it was… you leaned into them and you cried until your body gave out.
Until the exhaustion crashed into you like a freight train. Until your breathing slowed and your eyes burned and your head dropped onto someone’s shoulder, too heavy to hold up anymore.

And then…You slept.

When your eyes opened again, you didn’t know how long you had been asleep.

But you realized you were still being held.

Your cheek rested against someone’s shoulder, warm and steady beneath you. You blinked up through the haze of exhaustion and dried tears. Across the room, your dad was awake—his bed raised so he sat partially upright. A rolling table was wheeled in front of him, with jello and pudding cups neatly arranged in the center. A nurse stood to the side, clipboard in hand, jotting notes and asking quiet, routine questions.

It probably hadn’t been that long. But your head throbbed. Your eyes ached. Dry, swollen, sore from the meltdown you’d had. The kind that cracked you open and left nothing untouched.

You inhaled slowly, and the sound of your breath gave you away. The arms around you loosened—but didn’t pull away. You tilted your head up to see who it was that had held you through the storm.

You blinked once, unsure. Then again—eyes widening as the familiar face came into focus.

“Bo?”

He was smiling down at you—but it wasn’t his usual blinding, sunshine-grin. This one was softer, steadier, but no less genuine. His eyes held their usual warmth.

“Hey, hey hey,” he said gently. “Look who’s awake.”

You stared at him, dazed. “You’re here?”

“‘Course I’m here. Kuroo called. Said you were falling apart and nobody could hug you properly.”

You let out a tiny, broken laugh. “I don’t think that’s what he said.”

Bokuto gave a half-shrug, still smiling. “I inferred.”

Then his gaze dropped slightly—just enough to spot the well-worn owl still sitting on your lap.
“Wait. Is that Biscuit?”

You looked down at the plush, your hand still loosely wrapped around its wing.

“Yeah.”

He looked genuinely delighted. “You still have her?”

You nodded. “She was in my duffel. I don’t even remember packing her, but… I guess I grabbed her without thinking.”

Bokuto’s voice dropped into something softer. “You said you didn’t do stuffed animals.”

“I didn’t,” you said, eyes distant now. “But you said Biscuit would comfort me when I needed it. That I’d be glad to have her, even if it didn’t feel like it at the time.”

“And?” he asked, already knowing the answer.

You hugged Biscuit a little tighter.

“You were right. I texted you about her earlier in the summer remember?”

“Yeah but you could’ve done that just cuz you missed me.” His expression shifted, something bittersweet flickering behind his eyes. He reached up and gently tucked a piece of hair behind your ear.
“I’m really glad you’re okay,” he said. “You were scaring everyone.”

“I scared myself.”

He stood carefully, stretching a little. “I’m gonna get you something to drink. I bet you haven’t had anything since… well. Probably too long.”

You didn’t protest.

Bokuto gently adjusted the blanket over your lap and gave your shoulder a squeeze before stepping out.

You turned toward the bed—and found your dad watching you quietly, a small smile tugging at his lips.

“Did you sleep okay?” he asked.

You nodded. “Better than I have in days.”

His face still looked pale, bruised in places, but his eyes were alert. Focused. Present. “I’m sorry I scared you.”

“That’s an understatement.” You rubbed at your eyes with the heel of your hand, sniffing once. “I really thought I was going to lose you.”

“But you didn’t,” he said gently. “I’m still here.”

“I know. I just…” You swallowed hard. “It was too close.”

He exhaled slowly and shifted slightly, wincing at the movement. “You took care of everything.”

You looked down. “Some of it.”

“All of it,” he corrected. “You flew halfway across the world. Managed logistics. Stayed by my side. You didn’t fall apart until I woke up. That counts.”

You let out a weak laugh. “I did fall apart. You just weren’t awake to see it.”

“I heard enough,” he said, smiling faintly. “You’ve grown up, Fuyou.”

You looked at him, throat tight.

“You’re supposed to be the one taking care of me,” you whispered.

“And I still will,” he replied. “Just… maybe not physically, for a bit.”

You laughed again—softer this time. Sadder. “I missed you.”

“I missed you too.”

The door creaked open behind you, and you turned just in time to see Bokuto walk in again—arms full. A bottle of water, a juice box, and right behind him, with a familiar calm expression and black-rimmed glasses—

“Hi,” Akaashi said, offering you a small nod.

You blinked, stunned but warmed.

“I brought backup,” Bokuto said proudly, handing you the juice like it was some rare delicacy.

“Hydration team,” Akaashi added smoothly, as if this was a routine mission.

You took the drink, holding back a laugh.

“Thanks, guys.”

Bokuto and Akaashi stayed for a while.

They took seats on either side of you, speaking in soft voices while your dad dozed in and out between bites of pudding and sips of water. Bokuto launched into updates—things you technically already knew, but it still felt nice to hear them from him directly. He’d started coaching at a high school near Tokyo, and played in a local league on weekends. Still couldn’t cook anything that didn’t come from a freezer.

Akaashi worked in publishing, of course. He still wore the same neutral expression, still responded to Bokuto’s dramatic tangents with perfectly timed dry remarks, which only made Bokuto louder and more determined to get a laugh.

For a few minutes, it felt like you were seventeen again. Not in a hospital room. Not holding a juice box with swollen eyes and a sore heart. Just… safe.

And then—there was a soft, hesitant knock on the door.

Your chest tensed before you even turned to look.

And there she was.

Your mother.

She stepped into the room so composed. Her coat folded neatly over one arm, her bag slung over the other shoulder. Her eyes scanned the room like she was assessing a meeting. She greeted Bokuto and Akaashi politely. Her tone was friendly but formal—like everything she said was rehearsed to be inoffensive. Efficient.

They answered respectfully, of course. Smiling, gracious. But when it was clear she had come for something more private, they stood. Visiting ours were coming to an end soon anyway so they would take their leave now. Bokuto gave your shoulder a squeeze on his way out and Akaashi gave you a look that said “text us later” even if he didn’t say the words aloud.

And then it was just you, your father, and her.

She stayed for maybe twenty minutes. She didn’t sit down. She stood by the side of the bed, eyes on your dad, asking about his pain, the surgery, the recovery plan. Her questions were precise. Clear and practical.

You knew that tone. You’d heard it all your life.

She asked if you were staying long. If you needed anything. If you had someone to talk to. Her expression didn’t shift. Her posture didn’t bend.

It wasn’t cold or distant, exactly. It was just… contained.

You and your dad answered her questions. She nodded politely at your responses. Her gaze flicked to Biscuit resting in your lap but she didn’t comment.

When she left, she said goodbye to both of you. Like a coworker closing the door to a meeting room.

You didn’t realize you’d been holding your breath until your father turned his head slightly toward you.

“If she showed up at all,” he said quietly, “it means she does care.”

You looked at him.

“In her own way.”

You didn’t answer. Not out loud.

But somewhere deep down—you knew he was right.

Even if it didn’t feel like it had ever been enough.

The hospital stay didn’t last as long as you thought it would.

Once your dad was cleared to recover at home, everything shifted again. The sterile quiet of monitors and fluorescent lighting was replaced by the soft shuffle of slippers, the whirr of the kettle in the kitchen, the slow, careful rhythm of a new kind of normal.

You were home.

Just the two of you.

The house felt smaller than you remembered, or maybe just quieter now. There was no chaos, no loud sports on the TV, no roommate energy to fill the space. But it didn’t feel empty. It felt like yours. Like something familiar had been waiting for you.

You helped him move through his days—gently, carefully, always conscious of his injuries. Showering took more time. So did stairs. You cooked, did laundry, sorted medications. His crutches became part of the furniture. Biscuit moved from your room to the living room and back again.

And without any assignments, deadlines, or exams hanging over your head, you had the rare luxury of just… being there. You talked. You rested. You laughed more than you thought you would.
After everything that had happened—the stress, the flights, the crash of fear and exhaustion—you needed this. A pause that didn’t feel like failure, but something closer to grace.

But the emotional rollercoaster hadn’t ended.

Not entirely.

Because the visitors started coming soon after.

First, it was Kuroo, with takeout and that same smirk he’d always had, softened by a deep, steady concern behind his eyes. Then Kenma, quiet as ever, bringing over a portable gaming system for your dad—not that he ever really used it, but the gesture alone had made him smile.

And then the others. The frat dads, as you liked to call them.

Sometimes they came by one at a time, bringing snacks and dumb stories and inside jokes that hadn't been shared in years. They arrived all at once one night, like a reunion no one had planned but everyone needed.
The house was full again—of voices, laughter, old memories. You heard them call your dad by the same ridiculous nicknames from college, watched them toss pillows at each other like they were twenty again. They teased you, too—lovingly remembering the tiny kid who used to run around the frat house in mismatched socks and yell about snack time.

It should’ve felt overwhelming.

But it didn’t.

It felt good and left behind a warm, full ache in your chest—the kind that didn’t hurt, exactly, but reminded you of how much love your life had always been wrapped in. Not just your dad’s, but everyone who’d helped raise you. Who showed up now, just like they had then.

When it mattered.
When you needed them.
When he needed them.

This time, it wasn’t just about surviving something terrifying. It was about remembering you weren’t doing it alone.

Your phone had become a kind of time capsule since you got back to Tokyo.

Dozens of messages—some read, some still sitting in your notifications, waiting for the right moment when your heart didn’t feel too heavy or your head too fogged with sleep. You’d kept Iwaizumi and Cal updated, even in the early days. Short, clipped texts when you had the energy. Updates like:

He’s stable.
Out of surgery.
I’m okay. Tired, but okay.
Will call soon.

When your dad had finally woken up, you’d sent another one. Just two words:

He’s awake.

Iwaizumi had replied within minutes:

I’ll tell everyone. Don’t worry about it. Just focus on being there.

And he had.

Within the hour, your phone lit up like a festival lantern. Text after text, name after name—some familiar, some unexpected. The volleyball team. The Seijoh4. They all reached out.

Tell your dad we’re cheering for him.
Hope he heals fast. You too.
You’re not alone, okay? We love you.
Anything you need—just say the word.

It was overwhelming in the best way.

Phoebe’s message had come late at night—her contact pinned to the top of your list, always. Her message was longer than most, full of softness and light, just like her.

Call me, text me, video me, whatever you want. I’m here. You don’t have to be strong all the time. Just breathe. You can take as long as you need.

And you had needed time. But tonight… you felt like you could finally answer her.
So you called.

The screen rang twice before it connected, and suddenly, there she was.

Pheebs

Hair tied up in a loose bun, glasses slipping down her nose, and wearing a hoodie that may or may not have originally belonged to Eli. Her eyes lit up the second she saw your face.

“Oh my god” she said. “There you are.”

You gave a tired but real smile. “Here I am. Hey Pheebs.”

She immediately pressed both hands to her chest. “You look… okay. I mean, you don’t look like you haven’t cried for three days straight, or that you have cried for three days straight, which I count as a win.”

You let out a laugh—one that surprised you with how natural it felt.

“I’m okay,” you said. “Really. It was a lot. Still is a lot. But… he’s doing better. And I’m breathing again.”

Phoebe nodded. “I’m so, so glad.”

The call softened then, settling into a natural rhythm. She asked more about your dad’s progress, and you gave her the rundown—his pain was still high, but manageable, he’d started his at-home physical therapy, and the doctors were optimistic.

Then, the topic shifted.

To her. To the wedding.

“I haven’t bugged you with details,” Phoebe said, “because obviously, you’ve had more important things to deal with, but I do have mood boards. And colors. And Eli cried at two venues already.”

“He cried?”

“Oh, full tears. He’s more emotional than I am,” she said with a grin.

You leaned back against your pillow, smiling more easily now. “Tell me everything.”

And she did. Florals, dresses, the ever-growing guest list. How her mom was trying to invite a third cousin she hadn’t spoken to in ten years. The chaos of seating charts. Her wanting something small and meaningful while everyone around her wanted extravagance and fanfare.

You listened. Asked questions. Laughed when she showed you a Pinterest fail from one of her planning attempts. And for a little while, it felt like the last few weeks hadn’t happened. Like you were back in your shared apartment, curled on the couch with mugs of tea and way too many throw blankets, talking about anything and everything.

“You’re still my bridesmaid, by the way,” she said at one point. “Just so you know.”

“I figured,” you said, softly.

“No one else gets to hold my bouquet while I cry through my vows.”

You smiled, heart full. “I wouldn’t miss it.”

Phoebe had just finished telling you about Eli’s disastrous attempt to test out a first dance song—complete with interpretive movement, according to her—when the laughter on the call began to settle into a gentler rhythm.

Then she looked at you.

And with a tone that was soft, quiet, but impossible to brush off, she asked, “How are you, really?”

You started to respond. Some version of I’m okay now, or it’s been a lot, or he’s getting better, because those were the answers you knew how to give.

But Phoebe’s expression told you she wasn’t asking about your dad this time.

She waited.

And so you gave her the truth.

“My mom showed up,” you said quietly, your gaze drifting just past the camera. “At the hospital.”

Phoebe didn’t ask for more. Didn’t press. You’d never really talked about your mom. You’d mentioned your dad, friends and his friends but never your mom so she figured there was something you didn’t like talking about.

She just nodded. “Are you okay?”

You were quiet for a moment.

Then, for reasons you couldn’t explain—not even to yourself—you started talking. Really talking. Words spilled out of you in a way they hadn’t even with Kuroo and Kenma. Maybe because they’d been around and seen so much, and that made it harder to know where to begin. Or maybe because you’d always felt the need to hold certain truths close, out of loyalty to your dad, or out of uncertainty. Or out of that quiet thread of shame you never quite knew what to do with.

But with Phoebe, across the screen, patient and warm and completely without judgment, it just came out.

“She helped raise me at first,” you said, “because my dad was still in college and broke and trying to pass his classes. Finals week was chaos. His friends helped with me, sure, but they needed to study, too. So when it got bad, I’d stay at my mom’s.”

You paused. “I don’t remember those days. I was too little. But I know they happened.”

Phoebe nodded once. Still listening.

“After my dad graduated, everything changed. He started working full-time, had a routine, knew what he was doing. His younger brother babysat me when he couldn’t, and eventually I just stayed with my dad full-time. But she never disappeared. She came to see me twice a month. Called every week.”

You hesitated, feeling your throat tighten.

“She’s… rich. Always has been. Fancy clothes, business suits, driver waiting outside. She’s part of a big company—I still don’t know what it is, exactly. Just that she travels a lot and works constantly. And when I asked her about it growing up, she’d give these closed-off answers like, ‘It’s not something you need to worry about, Fuyou.’ And so I stopped asking.”

You looked at Phoebe now, and she was still there. Still watching you. Not interrupting. Not offering pity. Just present.

“I don’t know if she has a husband. Or a kid. Or a whole other life. She might. I wouldn’t know. She’s never told me. And I stopped trying to find out.”

You swallowed hard.

“But she cares. In her own way. I know she does. She showed up at the hospital. She asked how we were doing. And she’s the one paying my tuition. Always has been like a graduation gift, or in approval that I decided to study something useful and not stupid. Never made it a big deal. Never asked for thanks.”

“My work-study pays for rent and everything else. But college itself?” You let out a soft sigh. “That’s her.”

There was a silence between you. The kind that didn’t feel heavy—but rather sacred. Like something had shifted, gently, in the space between two people who trusted each other enough to speak truths that didn’t have clean endings.

Then Phoebe spoke softly. “I’m glad you told me.”

You didn’t say anything at first. Just nodded. Because you were, too.

You didn’t feel like breaking down or crying. You were too tired, maybe. Or too at peace with the fact that some things in your life had always just been… complicated.

But saying it aloud?

It felt like letting go of a secret you didn’t know you were still carrying.

Chapter Text

You were still in your blanket hoodie when the doorbell rang.

The same blanket hoodie you'd packed in your duffel in a half-conscious haze back in California—the one you'd worn for stress naps and long study sessions on cold nights, and once even to a grocery run because you didn't have the energy to change. Oversized, impossibly soft, warm as a hug.

You hadn’t even realized it was cold enough in Tokyo for it. But lately, everything had felt colder. So you wore it almost every day.

When you opened the door, bleary-eyed and expecting a delivery or maybe one of the neighbors with mail meant for your dad, you were not expecting them.

“Yo, look at you!” Makki grinned, taking one exaggerated step back like he needed to take you in from head to toe. “Fuyou-chan in the wild!”

You blinked. “Makki?”

“And me too,” Matsukawa added with a lazy smile, raising one hand in a casual wave.

You stared at them.

“Mattsun…? Wha—what—how?”

Makki leaned in with a sly grin. “Let’s just say… Iwaizumi has a big mouth when he’s worried, and Phoebe has better extraction skills than the CIA.”

You stepped aside to let them in, still blinking in disbelief. They slipped off their shoes at the door like the polite young men they pretended not to be, each carrying a small, neat bag.

“Wait, did you seriously come all the way from Miyagi just to—”

“Yes,” Matsukawa said simply. “And we brought gifts. Be impressed.”

You followed them into the living room, tugging your sleeves down over your hands. “Gifts?”

Makki held one bag up. “We brought omimai gifts. It’s traditional—you visit someone who’s recovering, you don’t come empty-handed.”

Matsukawa gestured toward the bags. “Juice, high-end pudding cups, seasonal fruit, some snacks, and a little something for you, too. From us and the other two bozos.”

You blinked. “Iwaizumi and Oikawa?”

Makki grinned. “Bingo.”

You laughed under your breath as you accepted the bags and set them on the table, your chest warming with something deeper than surprise. “You two are ridiculous. Thank you.”

“Ridiculously thoughtful,” Makki corrected, plopping onto the floor and stretching his legs. “By the way, we are immensely happy that you’re wearing that hoodie. You know, the one we picked. The one Iwaizumi pretended he didn’t help choosing.”

You raised a brow. “He picked this?”

Matsukawa gave a long, slow nod. “Oh yeah. We spent a whole afternoon comparing material weights and lining thickness.”

Makki smirked. “He tried to act like he didn’t care but then he asked three different times if we thought you’d like the sleeves that long.”

Your cheeks flushed before you could stop them, and you pulled the hood up over your head. “Okay, okay, enough roasting.”

“But seriously,” Matsukawa said more gently, “it’s good to see you like this.”

“Doing okay,” Makki added. “Not just surviving.”

You swallowed past the knot in your throat and gave a small nod. “Thanks. It’s… it’s been a lot. But I’m okay now.”

Makki tilted his head. “You know what would make this visit better?”

You narrowed your eyes at him.

“A surprise video call.”

You blinked. “What?”

“To Iwaizumi and Oikawa,” Matsukawa said, pulling his phone out. “It’s around their usual call time anyway. They’ve been doing nightly FaceTimes like the newlyweds they are.”

You laughed—actually laughed—and rolled your eyes. “You’re the worst.” You said as you went to the kitchen to grab some tea and snacks for your guests.

“We’re the best,” Makki corrected.

When you came back and placed the tray on the coffee table, they helped themselves before scooting to make room for you to sit between them on the floor. Before you could say anything, Matsukawa had tapped the screen. The dial tone sounded once… twice…

And then, the call connected.

Iwaizumi's face appeared first—hair still damp from a recent shower, hoodie half-zipped, warm lighting behind him. He looked tired, but good.

Then Oikawa, dramatically leaning into the frame from wherever he was sitting. “Fuyou-chaaaaaan?!”

You blinked, startled, and then—a laugh broke out of you again. Lighter this time. Real.

“Surprise,” you murmured, the corner of your mouth lifting.

Iwaizumi’s expression softened the moment he saw you, but he didn’t say anything right away. His eyes—those familiar, steady eyes—took you in like he was grounding himself just by seeing your face again.

“Hi,” you said quietly.

His voice was just as quiet when he answered. “Hey.”

For a second, no one spoke. Just soft smiles and screens catching up with the moment.

Then Oikawa let out a mock-gasp and clutched his chest like he'd been shot. “You are alive! I told Iwa-chan you weren’t secretly in a forest commune rejecting technology!”

“You said that?” you asked, eyebrows raised.

Iwaizumi sighed, rubbing the bridge of his nose. “No. I said I was respecting her space. He said you were probably getting adopted by a group of forest-dwelling monks.”

Makki leaned into frame beside you. “Honestly? She’d look good in a monk robe.”

You gave him a light shove. “What does that even mean?”

“Peaceful. Zen. That kind of vibe,” Matsukawa offered with a nod. “Just less bald.”

“That better not mean you think I have a shaved-head face,” you muttered.

Makki clicked his tongue. “Hey, you could rock anything.”

Oikawa leaned dramatically into Iwaizumi’s screen. “They’re ganging up on me, Iwa-chan. Do something!”

Iwaizumi rolled his eyes. “Not my fault you’re ridiculous.”

Then his gaze turned back to you, softening again.

“It’s really good to see your face, Fuyou.”

You nodded, trying not to shrink under the weight of how much that meant. “It’s good to see all of you too.”

“You look better,” Iwaizumi added, his voice lower. “I mean—not that you didn’t before, but… you look like you’re resting. That’s good.”

You gave a small smile. “I think my blanket hoodie healed most of my emotional damage.”

Makki raised a hand. “You’re welcome.”

“I told you guys that would be her comfort item,” Iwaizumi muttered. “You fought me on the dusty rose color.”

“We did not fight,” Matsukawa replied. “We debated.”

“Yeah, and I still think she’d look better in ocean blue,” Makki said with a fake snooty accent.

“She’s wearing it right now, you idiots,” Oikawa said. “Clearly, we all won.”

“I won,” Iwaizumi muttered under his breath.

You ducked your head to hide your smile, cheeks warming. The hoodie really did feel warmer now.

“So,” you said, once the laughter had started to die down. “What I’m hearing is… you’re all hopeless.”

Oikawa smirked. “Emotionally? Yes.”

“Functionally?” Makki said. “Also yes.”

“Lovingly?” Matsukawa added, “Absolutely.”

You shook your head, heart full. “Idiots. But in all fairness, something this comfortable? It could be the ugliest thing to exist and I would still love it.”

The call ended with promises to talk again soon and Oikawa theatrically blowing kisses at the screen until Iwaizumi finally reached over and ended the call himself with a muttered “Good god.”

The room quieted. The last echoes of laughter still lingered in the air.

Makki stretched his arms above his head with a soft grunt. “Whew. That filled my social battery for at least a week.”

“Yours runs out that fast?” Matsukawa asked as he stood, brushing imaginary dust off his jeans.

Makki shrugged. “I’m delicate.”

You smiled as you stood with them. “Thanks for coming by. It means a lot.”

“Of course,” Matsukawa said, reaching for his coat. “We wanted to make sure you were really doing okay. Texts are one thing…”

“But seeing your face in that hoodie was another,” Makki added, poking the sleeve that had swallowed your hand.

They both glanced down the hallway.

“How’s your dad doing, anyway?” Makki asked. “We didn’t wanna disturb him if he was resting.”

You nodded. “He’s usually conked out on his meds around this time but—”

“Fuyou?” a voice called from down the hall.

You turned instantly.

Your dad stood there, dressed in sweats and a hoodie that hung a little looser on him now, looking both surprised and pleased to see people in the living room. He walked with care using his crutches, but his eyes were bright.

“You have company?” he asked, smiling.

You stepped aside as the boys turned to face him, offering polite nods and bows, slipping naturally into their best guest manners.

“Hello Ozaki-san,” Matsukawa said warmly. “Sorry for dropping in unannounced.”

“We brought omimai,” Makki added, lifting the bag like it was a peace offering. “Hope that’s okay.”

Your dad blinked at them, visibly trying to place them.

“Thank you. I thought I met all your friends,” he said, turning to you and scratching his head. “But I don’t think I remember these boys. Though, I did have a concussion, so maybe I forgot.”

You chuckled. “No, Dad. You’ve never met them.”

He tilted his head.

You grinned. “I just met them two months ago. Over video call. These are actually Hajime’s friends from high school—Hanamaki Takehiro and Matsukawa Issei. They live in Miyagi. They sent me this blanket hoodie last winter and… they came to check on us today.”

Your dad blinked again. And then, something in his face softened completely. That familiar warmth rising to the surface, the kind that always said more than words.

“Well,” he said, voice a little rough, “that’s… That’s something special.”

Makki smiled, touched but casual. “Hajime’s always been a good guy. Just figured we’d check in on his girl.”

You flushed instantly. “Makki.”

Matsukawa only shrugged. “We’re glad you’re both doing okay, sir.”

Your dad gave a small bow in return. “Thank you. Truly.”

The boys moved toward the genkan to slip their shoes back on.

“We’ll let you get some rest,” Makki said, glancing your way. “Let us know if you need anything, alright? Or if you want to hang out again. We’ll be in Tokyo for a couple days.”

You walked them to the door, your chest tight in the best kind of way.

Mattsun pulled you into a quick, warm hug—solid and steady.

Makki followed, his hug a little longer and a little looser, but just as sincere. “Take care of yourself, alright? And your old man.”

“I will,” you said softly.

After the door clicked shut behind Makki and Mattsun, the apartment settled into a warm silence, one that still echoed faintly with laughter and lingering gratitude.

Your dad was still standing in the hallway, watching the door with a small, amused smile.

“So… Hajime’s friends?” he asked casually, moving slowly toward the couch.

You followed, easing him down carefully, elevating his leg and putting a blanket over his legs before settling into the armchair across from him, tucking your knees up in your blanket hoodie.

“Yeah, Dad,” you said with a soft laugh. “He was on call with them when I burst into his room with gossip and he introduced me. We ended up spending hours talking that night. There’s another one in Argentina—Oikawa—and we just had a group video call with all of them to show them I’m alright.”

You leaned your head back slightly, glancing toward your phone on the coffee table. “I was gonna call Hajime myself today. Until those sweet morons showed up.”

Your dad chuckled, the sound low and fond. “He seems like a nice guy. I mean, I knew he was—from everything you’ve told me. But now… hearing that he sends his friends, gifts, checks in on you like that…”

He paused, then looked over at you.

“He seems like he’s someone really special. And special to you, too.”

You looked away at first.

That was an invitation. Not a push, not a pry—just a door he left open for you to walk through, if you wanted.

You stared down at your hands for a moment, the soft material of your sleeves bunched between your fingers.
And then, you said it. Quietly, but truthfully.

“Men like Iwaizumi Hajime come but once in a lifetime,” you murmured. “A special treasure.”

Your dad blinked. It was the kind of thing you didn’t say lightly. Or ever, really.

You weren’t the type to talk about crushes. You never had been. Even Kuroo and Kenma had never teased you about boys because—truthfully—there was never anyone for them to tease you about. Sure, you’d gone on a handful of dates here and there, but nothing serious. Nothing real.

And now, here you were. Quite clearly taken with this young man you’d met in California.

Your dad’s expression shifted from surprise to something softer. “You’re holding yourself back, aren’t you?”

You didn’t answer right away. Just gave a small shrug.

He leaned back on the couch, folding his hands loosely over the blanket on his lap.

“I’m not saying rush into anything. I know you, Fuyou. You’ve always been careful with your heart.”
He let that settle before adding gently, “But sometimes… that care turns into fear.”

You swallowed but didn’t look up.

“You’re not your mother,” he said simply.

That made your chest tighten.

“And just because we weren’t able to show you what closeness looked like doesn’t mean you can’t learn it yourself. Or that someone else can’t teach you a softer kind.”

You finally glanced up at him.

“He’s not pushing,” your dad said. “He’s not crowding you. It seems like he’s just waiting for you.”

Your eyes dropped again, guilt stirring somewhere in your stomach.

“I know,” you whispered. “He’s… giving me space. Because I haven’t really let him in, even when I wanted to.”

Your dad nodded, quiet again.
“Let yourself feel what you feel,” he said. “Don’t try to outthink it. Or preemptively protect yourself from something that hasn’t even happened.”

You took a deep breath, your fingers tightening slightly.

“Men like Iwaizumi Hajime come but once in a lifetime,” he repeated, echoing your earlier words. “Don’t let him be the one who got away just because you were too scared to open the door.”

You gave a small, bittersweet smile, eyes stinging just a little. “I’ll call him,” you said softly. “Soon.”

Your dad didn’t say anything more. He didn’t need to. He just smiled at you like he always had—no pressure, no judgment. Just the quiet kind of love that steadied you, even now.

You stared down at your lap for a long beat before your voice slipped out again, softer. Thinner.

“But Dad… I don’t know what to do.”

His brows lifted slightly, a silent prompt to go on.

You took a breath, a shaky one.“I’m halfway in love with him,” you admitted. “And I can’t do anything about it.”

He didn’t speak, just waited.

“He’s graduating in May,” you continued, your voice strained now, “and he’ll be moving back here. And I’ll still be an ocean away for another year. Maybe more.”

You looked up at him, your eyes shining, vulnerable. “It wouldn’t be fair to either of us.”

The words felt heavier once they were spoken.

“But…” You swallowed. “On the chance he does feel the same… I don’t want him to think that I don’t want him.” Your voice cracked just slightly.

“He’s precious to me. And I don’t want to lose him. But I don’t want to string him along, either.”

You didn’t realize your hands were shaking until you felt the blanket hoodie sleeves moving slightly against your legs.

Your dad sat quietly for a long moment, thinking. Not filling the silence too fast. Just letting it breathe. Then he leaned forward, elbows on his knees, looking right at you.

“Princess,” he said gently, “you’re not stringing anyone along. Being scared isn’t the same as being careless.”

You sniffed quietly, not meeting his eyes yet.

“It’s okay to not have all the answers,” he said. “But you can still be honest. You can still talk to him. Tell him what you just told me. It’s messy and hard, but it’s real. And if he really is the kind of person you believe he is… he’ll understand.”

You nodded slowly, eyes glassy but focused.

“Timing sucks,” your dad added, “but love doesn’t care about that. It shows up when it wants. And if it’s real, it doesn’t disappear just because the calendar’s inconvenient.”

You let out a half-laugh, half-sob at that, wiping at your face.

He smiled gently. “You don’t have to make a decision tonight. But maybe… talk to someone who’s figured some of this stuff out.”

You blinked.

“Phoebe,” he said.

Your lips parted slightly. “You think I should…?”

“She’s in love. In a real relationship. You said she always listens to you, right?”

You nodded.

“Well, talk to her. Not for advice, necessarily, but… to get it out of your head. It’s okay to lean on people, Fuyou. Especially the ones who’ve been where you are.”

You closed your eyes for a second, overwhelmed but grounded by the sound of his voice. Steady. Always steady.

“Thanks, Dad,” you whispered. “For listening.”

He leaned back with a tired little sigh. “Always. It’s my favorite job as a dad.”

You smiled. And it hurt, a little. But in the good way.

Time passed much faster than you thought it would. December had arrived in a blur. Your schedule for the next semester was set, but now you faced a decision: stay in Tokyo all winter or go back to California?

Your dad’s recovery was going splendidly. He still had a few months before he’d be back at one hundred percent—but already, he didn’t need help. He was independent again. Visitors were still frequent, but now they came for you. You hadn’t been home in more than three years, and everyone you cared about carved out time just to see you before you left.

The closest by was Kuroo and Kenma. Kenma, always with his games—even at your house—but he’d never drift far. He’d end up leaning against you when tired, sitting with his back to your chest while tapping furiously at his console. Kuroo was more talkative than usual, teasing, catching you up on friends like Kai, Yaku, Lev. He’d had more time lately, now being single again after his painful breakup a few months before, but he seemed to fill it with meaning, staying connected more than before.

No matter whether you stayed or went, you knew you’d spend Christmas with people you loved—and also be away from many. But after quiet talks with your dad and your friends, you made up your mind: you would go back to California. You wanted to spend it with people you weren’t sure you’d see again after graduation. Iwaizumi was graduating; many of your volleyball friends were too. Phoebe would stay in California, but your time apart would stretch. You didn’t know when life would align again.

So you began preparations. There was Christmas shopping, choosing small gifts, packing carefully. Your duffel bag was nearly full, so you borrowed a small hand‑carry suitcase from your dad. You carefully selected what you would buy for friends waiting at home—things that fit in a suitcase but also carried meaning.

You told Phoebe you were coming back first. She insisted she would pick you up at the airport. Then you had an idea: what if you surprised your two housemates first? A secret plan with Phoebe’s help. Phoebe grinned at the idea; she told Iwaizumi nothing. She said she’d make sure the house was standing—just in case—but she promised to keep the surprise.

After many hugs and goodbyes—some in person, some over video—you boarded your plane to Los Angeles.

The wheels of the plane touched down smoothly. You closed your eyes before the taxi came to a stop. The moment you stepped off, your phone buzzed—Phoebe: Can’t wait to see you.

You picked up your luggage with a jolt of energy—nerves, excitement, relief.

Phoebe was waiting for you outside the arrivals gate, arms wide, her smile bright enough to cut through jet‑lag. You ran into her hug, the kind that feels like coming home.

“Long time,” she said, voice muffled in your hair.

“Too long,” you replied.

She loaded your bags into her car, chatting about her wedding and Christmas plans on the drive. The air smelled like Christmas lights already: a mix of crisp winter air, pine from the decorations along the avenue, and Phoebe’s perfume. The skyline of L.A. felt both foreign and familiar.

Then you neared your house. Phoebe parked a little way down the street so you could walk the rest of the way.

“Ready for the surprise?” she asked, eyes shining.

You nodded, heart thudding.

You stepped up to the door and inside, you heard a muffled conversation, laughter that sounded like Cal’s, another voice soft but sure: Iwaizumi’s.

Phoebe held the door. You pushed it open.

Iwaizumi was standing in the living room, hoodie on, leaning against the doorframe with Cal nearby, both looking toward the entrance. The look on his face when his eyes found yours—surprise, then something soft and warm—caught you off guard.

"Surprise! Guess who beat jet lag just to see you!"

“Fuyou?” he said, stepping forward.

“Oh my god,” Cal breathed.

You dropped your hand‑carry suitcase, laughed, and threw yourself into Iwaizumi’s arms.

“Hi,” you said, voice breaking a little.

He held you tight. “You’re here.”

You pulled back to look at them both. Phoebe was grinning like she’d won something huge. Cal had that wide, boyish smile. Iwaizumi’s eyes were something unspoken, relieved, and maybe just a little bit of disbelief.

“I told you I was coming back,” you said softly.

He chuckled, rubbing the back of his neck. “You surprised me good.”

Cal laughed. “We thought you were staying in Tokyo all winter.”

You shook your head. “Nuh uh. I wanted to spend Christmas here. With you guys.”

You smiled, looking between Iwaizumi and Cal. It felt like the room exhaled everything you hadn’t for months. You didn’t know what the next days would hold—but right now, home was exactly what you needed.

It was late by the time you were all seated around the dinner table. You’d showered, unpacked, and changed into your softest pair of pajamas—thick socks and all. The warmth of the room, the clink of utensils, and the soft hum of conversation felt like the most comforting welcome-home gift in the world.

The three of you were halfway through takeout—because no one had the energy to cook—when the catching-up really began.

“So,” Cal said, leaning back with his chopsticks hanging lazily between his fingers, “in case you haven’t noticed from the complete lack of secrecy, Jun and I are finally a public item.”

You blinked. “Wait, really? Since when?!”

Cal smirked. “Since about a month after you left, actually. But we decided to keep it quiet… y’know, low-key. No social media blast. No big dramatic reveal. Just obvious enough for anyone paying attention.”

“Which is basically everyone,” Iwaizumi muttered into his drink.

Cal grinned. “Exactly. No questions if you don’t give people the chance to ask.”

“That’s actually kind of genius,” you said, smiling. “I’m so happy for you guys.”

He raised his glass. “To normalizing soft launches and not letting other people ruin nice things.”

You clinked your glass with his, laughing, and turned to Iwaizumi. “What about you, Hajime? You look like you’ve been through it.”

He groaned. “You don’t even know.”

“She doesn’t,” Cal said, a gleam of mischief in his eye. “But she’s about to.”

Iwaizumi shot him a look, but didn’t deny anything.

Cal leaned in. “Tell her about your partner.”

You raised an eyebrow. “Partner…?”

“For a research project,” Iwaizumi explained, his tone already tired. “One of my classmates—very flirty, very persistent, and somehow under the impression that partner work also includes romantic subplots.”

“She would not leave him alone,” Cal added dramatically. “I walked in once and she was—no exaggeration—trying to climb into his lap.”

Your eyes widened. “What?!”

Iwaizumi groaned again, rubbing his temple. “I was literally trying to explain thermoregulation, and she was trying to—”

“—regulate his body temperature,” Cal cut in, grinning.

You couldn’t help the laugh that bubbled up, though a small part of your chest tightened.
“She didn’t get the message?” you asked quietly.

“She got the message,” Iwaizumi said firmly. “Just… didn’t respect it.”

“Which is why,” Cal said proudly, “they now only work on the project here. In the living room. With me as a chaperone.”

“And sometimes Jun,” Iwaizumi added. “Just to be extra safe.”

You looked between them, biting back a smirk.

“She was bold,” Cal continued. “But Iwaizumi? Never budged. Not once. The second she started leaning in, he looked like he’d rather be anywhere else. Eyes wide like a cry for help. I’m honestly surprised he didn’t fake a fire drill.”

“She’s very persistent,” Iwaizumi muttered. Then his eyes flicked to yours. “But I’m not interested. I wasn’t then, I’m not now.”

You looked at him, sensing the weight of that glance—the way his words lingered a little longer than necessary. The slight tension in his shoulders that only eased when you didn’t look away. There was something behind his eyes—something unsaid but offered. A quiet hope. Like he was trying to tell you, without pressure or expectation, I’m still here. I waited.

And you felt it. All of it. Dad was right, he was waiting for you.

The gentle warmth that bloomed in your chest didn’t come with pressure or urgency. Just... steadiness. As if he was saying: You can take all the time you need. But I’m not going anywhere.
It was no secret that Iwaizumi was a very attractive guy. You had always known he caught women's attention frequently. Almost every gathering or party you had attended, there would be girls that attempted to flirt with him. But it was nice to know that he didn't want to entertain them.

You smiled softly and looked down at your dinner, picking at your rice for a moment as your chest settled around something warm and fragile. You would not make him wait forever.

"I'm glad," you said, barely above a whisper. And you meant it.

You meant it in the way your heart fluttered with relief that he hadn’t let someone else steal his attention. That the connection between you two hadn’t quietly broken while you were away. That despite the distance and time, nothing important had changed.

But a second later, not wanting to linger too long in the softness, you glanced at him again through your lashes and added with a teasing smirk, “Because I don’t think that would get you extra credit.”

Cal burst out laughing, nearly choking on his drink.

Iwaizumi huffed a laugh too, shaking his head at you, eyes twinkling with something between amusement and fondness.

And then—for a single, private second—you and Iwaizumi just looked at each other, and shared that glance.

The kind that says we see each other. The kind that means we’re still us.

And it was enough. For now.

Chapter Text

After dinner, the house had settled into a soft kind of quiet. The plates were cleaned, the laughter had drifted into calm conversation, and the night stretched out like a deep breath. You were in your room and your eyes kept drifting to the gift bag you’d brought all the way from Tokyo. It sat on your desk—quiet, patient, waiting.

You picked it up and padded upstairs and down the hall to Iwaizumi’s room, your steps slow, thoughtful. The door was closed, but the light was visible through the gap at the bottom. He was probably still awake. You lifted your hand and knocked gently.

A second passed. Then—

“Yeah?”

You smiled. “It’s me.”

There was a pause. Then footsteps. Then the door opened—and there he was, looking a little surprised but so unmistakably happy to see you. He leaned against the doorframe, casual but warm. “Hey.”

“Hey,” you replied, hugging the bag a little closer. “Can I come in?”

“Of course.” He stepped back, opening the door wider for you.

His room was the same—organized, minimal, comfortable in that very Hajime way. You moved to sit on the edge of his bed, glancing around like it was new again even though you’d been in here plenty of times. He pulled his desk chair around to face you, one knee propped up lazily. His eyes were on you, gentle but curious.

“I brought you something,” you said quietly, holding out the small bag. “From home.”

He looked surprised. “You didn’t have to do that.”

“I wanted to.” You offered a shy smile. “It’s not much. Just a few things.”

He reached into the bag and pulled out the smaller items first—familiar snacks he hadn’t had in years. His eyes lit up with recognition.

“No way. I haven’t seen these since middle school.” He turned one of the wrappers in his hand, grinning. “You remembered.”

“I did… but I also remembered to ask the right people.” You laughed. “I may or may not have enlisted help from mutual acquaintances.”

He let out a soft, appreciative chuckle, still sorting through the snacks. “This is awesome.”

“There’s one more thing,” you said, voice quieter now.

You reached into the bag and gently pulled out the plush owl—a little bigger than yours, in different shades, but clearly cut from the same cloth. Your hands were careful, like you were presenting something special. And you were.

You held it out to him, unsure where to look.

“I know it’s silly, but…” You swallowed, then continued, “sometimes, the one who comforts everyone else needs something to hold too.”

You dared a glance up—and saw the way his face softened. Not with amusement. But something deeper. Like he understood exactly what you meant. He reached out and took the owl with the same care you gave it.

His thumb brushed over its wing. “This is… really thoughtful.”

You bit your lip, and your voice dipped into something bashful.

“She, um. She has a name.”

He raised a brow, amused. “Oh yeah?”

You nodded, then tilted your head up, looking at him with an expression that was almost mischievous, almost proud. “Her name’s Triscuit. She’s best friends with my owl, Biscuit.”

He stared at you for a beat—and then laughed. Really laughed.

“Biscuit and Triscuit?”

You tried to keep a straight face but failed. “Dynamic duo.”

“Unstoppable,” he said, settling the owl onto his lap like it belonged there. “I’m honored.”

His smile hadn’t faded once. You didn’t realize how long you’d both been looking at each other until the silence stretched—but it wasn’t awkward. It was warm. Full of things unsaid, but not unwelcome.

“I’m really glad you’re home,” he said softly, like he didn’t want the moment to pass too quickly.

You smiled at your lap, then at Triscuit now tucked neatly into his hands, already looking at home there.

“Me too,” you echoed, then leaned back slightly, supporting yourself with your hands on the bed behind you. “Being here... it’s strange. I thought I’d feel out of place coming back. But I don’t. It feels like I never left.”

He looked at you, the expression in his eyes unreadable but warm. “That’s because this is where your people are.”

Your heart did a small, fluttering twist. You nudged him lightly with your foot. “You always say stuff like that and then expect me not to cry.”

He grinned. “Not my fault if you’re soft.”

“Rude,” you muttered playfully, before your tone shifted. “Actually… I was going to wait, but…”

You sat up straighter, brushing invisible lint off your thigh. He tilted his head, sensing your mood change.

“Phoebe finally picked a date for the wedding.”

He blinked. “Oh yeah?”

“May 20th.”

He nodded. “That’s not too far off.”

You gave a small nod. Then… you made yourself look him in the eye.

“And… if you’re not busy that day,” you said carefully, “would you be my date?”

The word hung in the air. Soft, but deliberate.

Not plus one.

Not guest.

Date.

Iwaizumi paused, his gaze sharp with attention now, not because he didn’t understand, but because he did. And even if he didn’t at first, the look of hesitation in your eyes would have clued him in. you wouldn’t have hesitated like this is you were asking someone you were asking as just a friend.

You didn’t let yourself look away, even if your fingers fidgeted slightly in your lap. You had decided, days ago, to stop hiding behind safe words. To stop pretending that the line between friendship and something more hadn’t been gradually blurring.

If there was a chance—even a small one—that he felt something too, then this was how you wanted to begin.

“Of course I’ll be your date,” he said, voice warm but firm, like the answer had already been decided.

You smiled, trying to mask how much his response made your tummy tickle in the best way.

“Good,” you said lightly, looking down at your hands again. “Because I helped Phoebe pick the color palette for the bridesmaids and groomsmen. And I needed someone tall and handsome in navy.”

He let out a soft, amused exhale. “Tall and handsome, huh?”

You glanced at him through your lashes. “Well, I couldn’t ask Cal. He’s already taken.”

Iwaizumi shook his head with a laugh, still holding Triscuit loosely in one hand, his gaze fixed on you like he was seeing all the things you didn’t know you were showing. And for a long moment, the only sound in the room was the hum of quiet understanding.

You didn’t realize how heavy your limbs felt until you stood up, the weight of travel and emotion and everything in between catching up with you all at once.

“Okay,” you murmured, stretching your arms above your head and letting out a small sigh. “Jet lag’s finally winning.”

Iwaizumi looked like he wanted to say something else, maybe ask you to stay a little longer—but he nodded instead, respecting the subtle edge of exhaustion in your voice.

You smiled gently at him. “Thanks for letting me hang out. And for Triscuit’s warm welcome.”

He held the owl up slightly in salute. “She’s already part of the team.”

You took a few steps toward the door, then paused with your hand on the frame. You glanced back at him, and this time your smile twisted into something a little more devious—mischief sparking behind your eyes.

“Oh—and Hajime?”

He looked up from where he was now sitting on the bed, Triscuit now perched protectively in his lap. “Yeah?”

“If you ever need help prying off Miss Clingy McDesperation…” You tilted your head, your voice sugar-sweet with a razor edge of amusement. “Let me know. I’m skilled in the art of fighting a bitch.”

Iwaizumi blinked. And then he laughed—deep and surprised and so fond.

“You’re unbelievable,” he muttered, shaking his head.

You winked at him. “Goodnight, Hajime.”

And before he could think of a response, you slipped out the door, the sound of your quiet steps fading down the hall. Behind you, Iwaizumi sat alone in his room, an owl in his lap, and a grin on his face that didn’t fade for a long, long time.

~

Three days after coming home, you found yourself at a quiet little café tucked between a bookstore and a flower shop—the kind of place Phoebe had raved about in your texts. The two of you had slipped into a corner table, half-hidden by a draping fern, warm mugs in hand and sunlight trailing across the woodgrain table.

“So,” Phoebe said, stirring her latte with the kind of focus most people reserved for final exams. “Ceremony under the trees… or rooftop at sunset?”

You took a bite of croissant, chewing thoughtfully. “You love trees. But your Pinterest board is half skyline.”

She groaned dramatically and flopped back in her seat. “I’m marrying a man, not a landscape, and yet here I am debating centerpieces like it’s a life-or-death decision.” You went through the details—color swatches, DJ playlists, the fact that Eli absolutely refused to wear anything pastel—until the conversation naturally slowed, leaving you with half-empty mugs and a quieter moment.

You both laughed, easy and bright. The kind of laughter that filled your lungs and shook off the lingering weight of everything you’d been carrying. The kind that reminded you that you were home—at least in the ways that mattered.

“You know,” you said, nudging your glass of juice aside and settling your elbows onto the table, “ever since you got engaged—and with every wild, chaotic idea you’ve thrown my way—I’ve started to form this image in my mind. Of what your wedding might look like.”

Phoebe perked up, one perfectly arched brow rising. “Oh? Do tell.”

You grinned. “Well, for the ceremony itself, I don’t see much except this arch. Like, a floral arch over you two. But the reception?” You sat up straighter, your voice turning soft, a little dreamy. “That I can picture. A small wedding. Fifty guests, max. Somewhere open—like a garden or a field—sectioned off in a layout that feels casual, but still magical.”

You kept going, your words flowing easily. “You could have one confetti cannon. Just one. So it’s not overwhelming, but strategically placed. Enough to sprinkle a little confetti in the air at the perfect moment. It’d fall softly, and your photographer could capture those portraits where you two are in sharp focus… and the confetti’s all blurred in the background like glittering bokeh.”

Phoebe was already blinking slowly at you, but you kept going, caught up in the momentum.

“DJ booth in a corner, dancefloor right in front of it. A photobooth with props in another corner. Maybe a hammock somewhere off to the side? And a bench, too. For people who want a break from the noise or couples wanting to make out. Fairy lights strung across the trees and hanging low in soft waves, like fireflies just… waiting.”

You sighed a little, like you’d just released a wish you hadn’t known you were holding in. “Anyway, that’s just how I see it. Romantic and warm with a bohemian touch.”

Silence stretched across the table.

You looked up and immediately stiffened—Phoebe was staring at you, eyes wide and expression unreadable. The kind of blankness that usually preceded either a bridezilla-level outburst or unbearable teasing. You braced yourself. Here it comes. She's going to say that should be your wedding if you like it so much.

Instead, she said, deadpan, “I think you just planned my whole wedding.”

You blinked. “Wait. What?”

Phoebe leaned forward, eyes narrowing. “No, seriously. That’s exactly what I want. Down to the hammock. How did you do that?”

You felt your face warm. “I just… pieced it together from what you’ve mentioned. And I guess I thought about what kind of setting would make you shine. Simple but fun.”

Phoebe stared at you another beat, then grabbed your hand over the table. “Okay, you’re in charge now. I’m promoting you from bridesmaid to wedding sorceress. No one else gets a say. Just you.”

You burst out laughing, cheeks burning but heart light. “Wedding sorceress?”

“Yep. I said what I said.”

You let her squeeze your hand once more before pulling back to take a sip of your drink. “You better hope I don’t conjure an actual peacock for the ceremony.”

Phoebe shrugged. “Honestly? Wouldn’t even be mad.”

You laughed again, warmth blooming in your chest. There was something so uniquely grounding about planning joy. About putting little beautiful details into the world for someone you loved. About dreaming again, now that things felt safer.

And maybe, you thought, looking at Phoebe’s easy smile, just maybe, it wasn’t so scary to hope for joy in your own life too. Phoebe tilted her head, watching you with that perceptive calm of hers. “So… How are you settling back in?”

You toyed with the rim of your cup. “Honestly? Better than I thought. Being here… feels like breathing again.”

You hesitated, then looked up. “I wanted to talk to you about something. About Iwaizumi.”

Phoebe didn’t say anything, just nodded for you to go on.

You took a breath. “I talked to my dad about him one night. Iwaizumi introduced me to his friends over video call once and they came to check on us during dad’s recovery. So I told him, about… how I feel.”

Her eyes didn’t widen in surprise. Of course not. Phoebe was never surprised—only patient.

“I told him I think I’m halfway in love with Hajime,” you said, quietly. You recounted how and why you couldn’t do anything. Told phoebe everything you’d told your dad and what he had said in response.

Phoebe was quiet for a moment before reaching across the table to squeeze your hand.

“You’ve been holding that in for a while,” she said gently.

You nodded.

“What you told your dad—that was brave. And telling me now? That’s even braver.”

Your eyes pricked, but you blinked fast, managing a small smile.

“You’re not stringing him along, Fuyou. You’re being careful. Thoughtful. You’re trying not to break something that matters. That’s love. Real love.”

You swallowed, throat tight.

“I don’t know Iwaizumi as well as you do but,” Phoebe went on. “He doesn’t seem the type to open up to just anyone. But when he does… I guess it means he’s all in. I think he knows, or at least hopes, that there’s something between you. And he’s giving you the space you need.”

You let out a slow breath. “That’s what my dad said too. That being scared doesn’t mean I’m being careless. That I just need to be honest.”

Phoebe smiled. “Your dad’s a smart man.”

You both chuckled, warmth blooming between you like spring in the middle of winter.

“And just for the record,” she added, sipping her coffee with a pointed look, “you did ask him to be your date to the wedding. Not a plus one.”

You groaned, hiding behind your mug. “I thought I was being brave.”

“Oh, you were. Between that and gifting him a plush owl? You’re basically the poster child for romantic subtlety.”

You laughed, cheeks warm, heart fluttering a little too close to the surface. But for the first time in a long time, it didn’t feel like something you had to hide.

Phoebe tilted her head, her blue eyes narrowing just slightly—not with judgment, but with that same familiar intensity she used when planning floral arrangements or mentally organizing an essay. “So,” she said, voice casual but firm, “when are you going to talk to him?”

You let out a breath that turned into a groan and slumped in your seat. “Well, I wasn’t going to just jump to the talk.”

She raised a single brow, unimpressed.

“I’m not very good at confrontation nor do I like it,” you went on, nudging the last of your croissant around your plate. “And I’ve literally never done this before. Like—an actual confession. Not even of like, let alone of love.”

You glanced up at her, only to find her watching you with patient curiosity. It gave you enough courage to keep going.

“But I’m not blind. Or stupid. I know he cares for me.” You gave a small shrug. “It’s just… that stupid voice in my head. The one that’s always insecure. That tells me maybe I’m imagining it. That I’ll ruin something if I speak up. I turned down a few confessions in high school and it terrifies me that the one guy I do finally have feelings for, might not like me as much as I like him.”

Phoebe said nothing, but her expression softened.

“And you know me,” you said, smiling weakly. “I’ve been protected my whole life. Never had my heart broken like that. No one’s ever pushed me, not really. So something like this?” You pressed a hand over your heart. “It feels like skydiving. Like there’s death waiting if things don’t go smoothly.”

There was a beat of silence as you picked up your mug and sipped, stalling.

“I was thinking,” you said finally, “about subtlety. I want him to know, Phoebe. I do. But I don’t want to jump into anything or pressure us before we’re ready. I was thinking of… light flirting? Sitting closer. Stopping myself from pulling back when I want to touch him, or stare at him, or just be near.”

Phoebe leaned in slightly, a knowing smile tugging at her lips.

“And then,” you continued, “depending on how he responds… maybe I’ll talk to him. Towards the end of the semester. Once we’ve both had time. Once I’ve figured out if this feeling still fits us both.”

You looked up at her then, suddenly vulnerable again. “What do you think?”

Phoebe reached across the table and gently took your hand, thumb brushing over your knuckles.

“I think that’s one of the most grounded, brave things I’ve ever heard you say,” she said softly. “You’re giving it a chance to speak in ways that feel safe to you. You’re being careful with your heart—but you’re not hiding it. And not just yours but his too, and that’s beautiful.”

You exhaled, some small knot in your chest loosening.

“And Fuyou,” she added, squeezing your hand, “he’s going to see it. I promise. Hajime Iwaizumi is many things—but blind to you? Never.”

You ducked your head to hide your smile, cheeks warming under her praise.

“Just don’t chicken out halfway,” she said, pulling back and pointing at you with a grin. “If you do, I will tell Cal, and then you’ll be dragged into a group intervention.”

You burst out laughing. “Okay, okay! No chickening out. I’ll flirt like my life depends on it.”

“Atta girl,” she said, raising her latte in a toast.

You were still giggling when your phone buzzed on the table next to your plate. Phoebe watched you reach for it already teasing in her tone. “Is that him?”

You rolled your eyes but didn’t deny it.

[Iwaizumi Hajime]:
Hey. You free after brunch?
My project partner wants to come over again to work on the presentation. Thought I should give you a heads-up… and maybe see if you’re open to playing designated chaperone

Your lips twitched in amusement as you read it, and Phoebe immediately leaned over like a nosy cat.

“I knew it,” she whispered, peeking over your shoulder. “Let me see the damage.”

You didn’t need to wave her off since your texts with him were in Japanese anyway.

[You]:
Of course I’m free. I'll head back right after this.
Want me to bring reinforcements? I have Phoebe with me.

Almost instantly, his typing bubble appeared.

[Iwaizumi Hajime]:
Yes. Absolutely yes. She’s terrifying. Please come fast.

You couldn’t help the little laugh that escaped you.

You nodded, lifting your coffee for a final sip. “Miss Clingy McDesperation strikes again. He said she wants to come over and work on the project again. He asked if I was free and casually requested I be the designated chaperone.”

Phoebe snorted. “You’re going to have to start charging him for bodyguard services.”

“I’ll add it to his tab,” you said dryly, finishing your plate.

“Can I come witness the chaos?”

“I already invited you.”

Phoebe grinned, snatching her purse. “Then let’s go keep your boy safe from academic thirst traps.”

The moment you stepped inside, Iwaizumi met your eyes—and the look on his face was pure, unfiltered relief. His shoulders loosened, the tension in his jaw melted just slightly, and something in his chest seemed to unclench.

"You're here," he said, as if that alone made his life easier.

"I'm here," you said gently, stepping out of your shoes. Phoebe followed behind you with a saccharine smile stretched across her face that immediately promised trouble.

Right across from him, his project partner glanced up. She sat perched on the edge of the couch like she was posing for a lifestyle ad. Perfect posture, bare legs crossed, her laptop open but untouched. You could tell immediately she had expected him to be alone. Her lips tightened—not a pout, exactly, but close. She took in Phoebe behind you, her expression faltering just slightly before she forced it back into polite neutrality.

“Didn’t know we’d have an audience,” she said with a light laugh.

“We’re just passing through,” Phoebe replied cheerfully. “But we’ll hang if that’s okay.”

You offered a calm smile and held up a little convenience store bag. “I brought snacks.”

Iwaizumi smiled. “You didn’t have to—”

“You’ve skipped dinner before,” you said simply. “So I did.”

You made your way around to the back of the couch and sank down behind him. The way his shoulders lowered when you sat nearby was too familiar now to ignore. He didn’t even lean away—he leaned back, ever so slightly, like your knees against his back helped ground him.

“I’m Fuyou by the way. Nice to meet you.”

She looked you up and down before letting out a sigh and turning back to her laptop. “Rina.” She responded without looking at you in the typical California-girl accent.

Soon Cal came downstairs, hoodie slouched halfway over one shoulder and a headband pushing back his curls. “Hey, you’re back,” he said, shooting you a bright grin before throwing a meaningful look at Iwaizumi. “Wasn’t expecting company.”

“Project meeting,” Iwaizumi said.

“Sounds fake,” Cal replied, but he sat on the edge of the armchair, watching.

Rina flipped her hair and leaned far across the coffee table, sketching something out in her notebook, her blouse slipping just slightly off one shoulder as she did.

“If we shift the hypothesis structure like this,” she said, drawing unnecessarily slowly, “we could increase the word count without sounding repetitive. Thoughts?”

You tilted your head, watching her before looking back to your phone. Seems like she wasn’t about to let your presence discourage her. She was practically halfway into Iwaizumi’s lap at that point. Iwaizumi didn’t move closer. Instead, he shifted subtly back, and your knees pressed more firmly into his back. One of your hands moved gently to his shoulder and began a slow, absent-minded rub. Just enough pressure to soothe.

Rina looked up at the shift and paused—just for a second—before forcing a smile. “Oh,” she said lightly. “You two seem cozy.”

“We live together,” you said pleasantly, still scrolling through your phone with your free hand before getting up to go to the kitchen to plate up the snacks and get drinks for everyone.

“But, like… roommates cozy?” she pressed, her voice lilting like it was meant to be a joke.

“Roommates who know each other’s meal schedules, caffeine tolerances, and favorite pen colors,” Cal said without looking up from his phone, lounging on the floor near Phoebe. “Which is honestly a deeper bond than half the couples I know.”

Rina blinked, then refocused on Iwaizumi. “Anyway,” she said, scooting slightly closer to him. “You free tomorrow? You could swing by my place, we’ll order takeout, go over the draft and practice the presentation. It’ll be fun.” she said, tilting her head and smiling a little too sweetly, “My apartment’s way less crowded. We could probably get more done without the peanut gallery.”

You returned from the kitchen just as Rina leaned a little too far across the coffee table, her fingers brushing the edge of Iwaizumi’s laptop in a move that was definitely not necessary for handing him a notebook. Iwaizumi didn’t respond, but the muscles in his jaw twitched—just slightly. You didn’t look up from the tray of drinks you were carrying, just moved past her and gently set it on the table.

“He doesn’t like working away from his own materials,” you said evenly, settling into your usual spot behind Iwaizumi on the couch. “He keeps everything he needs organized here.”

Rina blinked, caught off guard by the simple deflection. “Well… I can be organized.”

You smiled as you uncapped a bottle of water and passed it to Iwaizumi, who took it with a low thanks and a glance that felt quietly grateful. You returned your gaze to your phone, thumb scrolling lazily, tone still calm.

“I’m sure you can. But he’s got a rhythm here. Even shifts his chair to the left a few inches when he’s focused.”

Like clockwork, Iwaizumi adjusted his seat on the floor just slightly to the left, confirming your point without realizing it. A subtle smirk tugged at Cal’s lips where he sat perched on the armrest of the nearby armchair, watching the whole exchange like a very entertained spectator. Phoebe was looking up from her phone and was now smiling smugly.

Your hand found Iwaizumi’s shoulder again—familiar, grounding, casual. You weren’t touching him to show off. You were touching him because that was just what your hands did when he was near. (And because you wanted to)

Rina gave a light laugh, clearly still trying to recover her footing. “I mean, it’s just a change of scenery. A little flexibility is good for productivity, right?”

Phoebe muttered, “Not when it’s that kind of scenery.” But she didn’t say it loud enough for Rina to hear.

You tilted your head, eyes still on your phone. “Hmm, not for him. He gets more done when his back’s to a wall and he doesn’t have to adjust to new lighting or furniture. I asked him once and he said even the wrong table height throws him off.”

Your voice was soft, not pointed. But there was weight behind your words. The kind of weight that came from years of observation and a quiet closeness that didn’t need to be announced. It just was.

Rina blinked again. Her smile faltered, just for a second.

Then you finally looked up, meeting her gaze with a small, polite smile of your own. As if you weren’t basically acting as a bodyguard.

“But hey—if you want to help, maybe keep handing him notes when he asks instead of reaching over his laptop,” you said, voice still warm. “Saves time.”

There was no sharpness in your tone, but the message was clear:
You were here.
You knew him.
You didn’t need to fight for your place—you’d already earned it.

Iwaizumi, meanwhile, leaned back slightly, letting your knees brush against his back. Without thinking, your hand moved over his shoulder blade again, rubbing a slow, absentminded circle with your thumb. He relaxed into it almost instantly.

Rina didn’t try to lean over again.

And Cal? He let out a quiet, victorious hum under his breath and passed Phoebe an imaginary scoreboard gesture when Rina turned away.

Iwaizumi shifted again, absently pulling the pen from your hand where you’d tucked it behind his shoulder, and clicked it open.

“Blue ink,” he muttered with a half smile. “You remembered.”

You only hummed, letting your hand drift lower to rest along his upper arm.

Rina tried again. “Well, if you do come over, I’ll make sure it’s quiet. Candlelight, soft music…” She let the words linger, her fingers just barely grazing his wrist.

You stilled.

“Scented candles give him headaches,” you said softly, still smiling. “Especially vanilla.”

There was a long, lingering pause as Rina slowly retracted her hand.

Cal piped in with a mild, amused tone. “You ever think about just emailing each other instead of doing all this… ambiance?”

Phoebe sipped her drink, then added, “Some people use Google Docs.”

Rina blinked. “I just think collaboration is better in person.”

You leaned forward slightly and offered her a mochi from the small container on the table. “Snack?”

She hesitated. “What flavor is it?”

“Matcha,” you said with a small, innocent smile. “An acquired taste.”

Rina stared at it like it might bite her before shaking her head. “I’m good.”

“Suit yourself.”

Iwaizumi, still scribbling notes, leaned just a little more into you. He didn’t say anything, but his free hand reached behind him, fingers brushing lightly over your knee. You curled your hand gently over his shoulder in response—steadfast, familiar.

The low hum of the living room lights blended with the soft tapping of keys and the occasional rustle of a page being flipped. It wasn’t completely silent—Cal and Phoebe still bantered quietly, and the occasional shift of someone getting more comfortable filled the space—but the atmosphere had settled into something steadier, heavier.

You decided to be a bit more playful. His back was already leaning against your calves and knees, so you shifted forward without much thought, moving like your body had always known how to fit around his. Your legs parted and stretched out forward from his sides so your arms could slip over his shoulders and gently cross under his collarbones, looping loosely like a scarf made of warmth and trust. Then you leaned in, cheek pressing softly against the top of his head.

Iwaizumi didn’t move, didn’t flinch. If anything, his typing steadied. As if the weight of you was a grounding force, not a distraction. After a moment, he tilted his chin back slightly and murmured, “You’ve been staring at this screen for five minutes. What do you think?”

Before you could answer, another voice cut in. Sharper this time.

“What would she know about biomechanics and motion analysis?” Rina scoffed softly.

Rina’s tone was no longer coy or sugary sweet. It was clipped, dismissive—tinted with the unmistakable shade of frustration that came from being ignored. Her patience had thinned, and her civility was slipping, one jagged edge at a time.

The room stilled.

You didn’t move. Neither did Iwaizumi.

But something shifted.

For the first time since you had arrived, Iwaizumi turned his head towards Rina. His face was composed and professional. But his eyes were cool and his voice was laced with an edge that silenced even Phoebe’s raised eyebrow.

“She’s a double major,” he said flatly. “Biology and computer science. I assure you, she understands this better than we do.”

The quiet that followed was tense and electric. Rina blinked, visibly thrown, mouth slightly parted like she hadn’t expected to be shut down so plainly especially by Iwaizumi since it was the other three people that had done that all evening. You caught Cal’s glance from across the room—one brow raised, lips twitching. Phoebe pressed her fingers to her mouth to hide a smug grin.

You gently pulled your arms back, slipping one hand down to Iwaizumi’s shoulder, your thumb absently brushing along his collarbone before you leaned forward to peer at his screen. “This equation’s off—your data input assumes symmetry in the joint range, but the motion capture from the test run shows his dominant leg overcompensating.” you spoke with a soft shrug, as if Rina hadn’t just tried to discredit you.

Iwaizumi’s eyes flicked back to the screen, and he nodded slowly. “You’re right. Good catch.”

“Of course I’m right,” you teased lightly, and he huffed out a laugh under his breath—just the smallest sound, like a secret shared between the two of you. You bit back a smile and patted his chest once before speaking, voice sugar-sweet. “I also designed a predictive model last semester that’s pretty accurate at detecting irregular movements. Hajime’s was the control data.”

Rina said nothing, her eyes narrowing faintly before she looked away and crossed her arms over her chest.

The tension didn’t return after that.

Whatever hope she had been clinging to—the idea that her charms might work, that she could diminish you to stand taller herself—had clearly fractured. Your presence wasn’t loud. It wasn’t even confrontational. But it was steady and unshakable. And that was louder than anything you could’ve said.

Phoebe caught your eye across the room and gave you a small, satisfied nod, mouthing, “Nailed it.”

You just smiled.

And Iwaizumi?

He didn’t say anything else either.

But he leaned just a little further back between your knees, and your hand didn’t leave his arm for the rest of the evening.

Eventually, the project discussion began to taper off.

Iwaizumi adjusted the spacing on the final report section while Rina scrolled through the shared document half-heartedly. Her interest had clearly dwindled the moment she realized you weren’t going anywhere. And worse—you weren’t just someone to him. You were someone who fit. Someone he trusted.

Phoebe had migrated to Cal’s side, the two of them whispering snarky commentary between bouts of stifled laughter. You caught phrases like “She’s gonna crack a molar grinding her teeth like that,” and “How did she even think this would work?” followed by muffled giggles. Phoebe checked the time, then glanced toward you with a small smile. “I should head out. Long day tomorrow.”

You gave her a knowing look, and she winked in return, brushing past you as she mouthed good luck. You mouthed traitor, and she just laughed softly, slipping out with her coat and leaving the air a little quieter. Cal, thankfully, didn’t leave. He reappeared from the kitchen with a drink and collapsed into the single-seater with a pointed sigh, pulling his phone out but making no move to actually look at it.

Rina finally closed her laptop with a sigh that seemed carefully rehearsed to sound exasperated and tired. “I should head out,” she said, gathering her bag. “We’ve made good progress.”

You nodded, not rising with her. “Thanks for coming. Drive safe.”

“Sure,” she said with clipped politeness, gathering her things with a kind of quiet embarrassment she tried to hide behind a neutral face.

You watched her pause at the door, clearly expecting someone to walk her out.

No one moved.

Cal coughed. “Door opens inward.”

She huffed lightly and left.

The moment the door clicked shut, the air in the room shifted—lighter, easier. Cal stood with a stretch and an exaggerated groan. “Alright, I’ve fulfilled my moral duty as chaperone. I’m off to bed before I end up third-wheeling so hard I have to officiate something.”

You snorted. “Thanks for your service.”

“Don’t thank me. Thank the ghost of that awkward-ass girl who’s definitely gonna complain about this to a group chat later.” He gave Iwaizumi a slap on the shoulder and winked at you. “Don’t break him.”

“I’m right here,” Iwaizumi said dryly.

“You’re welcome,” Cal replied, already walking away.

And then it was quiet again.

He shifted slightly, stretching out his back now that he wasn’t working. The tension in his shoulders had eased significantly. His head tilted in your direction.

“Thanks,” he said. Voice quiet. Honest. “For being here.”

You offered him a small smile and a shrug. “Always.”

He didn’t say anything after that. But he turned just enough that he was sitting sideways, his chest brushing your calves, and the backs of his fingers ghosted over your knee like he was checking to see if you were real. If this was real.

Your voice softened. “She really doesn’t give up, huh?”

“Not even a little.”

“Didn’t seem to bother you this time,” you teased gently.

He gave a quiet snort. “I had backup.”

You felt something in your chest tighten and loosen all at once.

There was a beat of silence before you added, “You handled her pretty well. But if she tries again, you should just tell her you’re not interested.”

His brow quirked slightly, amused. “Think I wasn’t clear enough?”

“I think some people need a billboard,” you said dryly.

“Or a girlfriend,” he muttered under his breath, almost too low to catch.

He leaned more fully against your legs, laptop closed now, his arms resting loosely over your knees and his head rested on top of them. Your fingers brushed the ends of his hair absently, not really thinking about it until he sighed—not out of discomfort, but in that way someone does when they can finally relax.

It made your chest ache, just a little.

“You okay?” you asked softly.

He didn’t answer right away. Just nodded, slow, then leaned his head back to look up at you. The angle was a little awkward, and a little endearing, the way his eyes had to tilt upward to meet yours.

“You being here helps,” he murmured.

You smiled gently, tracing a line down the side of his temple with the back of your finger. “You’re allowed to be exhausted, you know.”

“I know.” His eyes closed for a second, breathing steady. “But I’m more annoyed than anything.”

“Because of Rina?”

He gave a tiny shrug. “She’s not the first person to misread the room,” he said. “Just… the first one in a while I couldn’t brush off easily.”

You were quiet for a second. Then, quietly but without hesitation: “I’m glad you didn’t.”

His eyes opened again, this time meeting yours without the upward tilt. Just steady, open, searching.

“You were kind of amazing,” you added, voice low. “Like... all those little moments of quiet choosing. You didn’t play along. You didn’t try to be polite just to avoid tension.”

His face softened, just slightly. “It mattered what you saw.”

That took the air from your lungs a little, in the best way. But you only smiled, slipping your hand from his hair to the nape of his neck.

“I already knew,” you said. “But thanks.”

A pause.

“Still,” you continued, voice playful now, “if you’d let her kiss you, I would’ve had to fight her.”

He let out a low laugh, the kind he rarely made. His hand reached back blindly, fingers brushing against your shin. He gave it a light squeeze. “You scare me a little when you say things like that.”

“Good,” you said, smug.

Another quiet beat passed, comfortable. Familiar.

You eventually slid off the couch and knelt beside him, propping your elbow on the cushion and resting your chin in your hand. You were eye-level now, closer than you probably needed to be—but neither of you moved.

“You tired?” you asked gently.

His gaze softened. “Not really. You?”

“Little bit.” You shifted, brushing a speck off his sleeve. “Jet lag is still tap dancing through my sleep schedule.”

“You want me to walk you to your room like a gentleman?”

“I want you to admit you’re secretly sleepy.”

“I’m not,” he said, even as he blinked a little too slow.

You chuckled. “Liar.”

The silence that followed wasn’t awkward. It was just… full. Full of things neither of you said but both of you felt.

Eventually, you rose to your feet, stretching slightly. “Alright. I’m calling it.”
Before you could walk to your room, you spoke again, quieter. “You know… if you ever need that again—the quiet, or the space, or someone to just be here...”

You grabbed the blanket off the back of the couch and draped it over his shoulders from behind.

He didn’t stop you. He just looked up at you and murmured, “You spoil me.”

You gave a quiet huff of a laugh, smiling softly.

Then, before turning toward your room, you said gently, “Goodnight, Hajime.”

He didn’t say it back right away. Not until you were nearly to your door and he called after you, voice low and a little rough.

“Hey—”

You glanced back, hand on your doorframe.

“Thanks for coming home.”

And that was enough to make you pause. You smiled at him again, smaller this time. Just for him.

“Always.”

Then the door closed behind you with a soft click, and the quiet wrapped around both of you once more.

Chapter Text

The scent of pine and cinnamon drifted faintly through the cracked door of your room, carried in from the rest of the house where Cal had gone full domestic mode. You could hear a vacuum running somewhere, distant and intermittent, followed by the soft clatter of someone struggling to hang lights in the hallway. Probably Iwaizumi. The two of them had taken decorating duties seriously. Not obsessively—but enough to turn the house into a cozy little holiday nest for the volleyball team’s arrival tomorrow.

But you were holed up in your room, cross-legged on your bed, surrounded by a halo of open boxes and carefully wrapped parcels. Your suitcase had been emptied days ago. Now, it was refilled with neatly packed gifts and a thin film of glitter from the wrapping paper you hadn’t realized was glittery until too late. It clung to your sleeves and fingertips like festive static.

You had one more thing to do before you could join the others. A small stack of thick, cream-colored cards sat beside you—one for each of your friends. On the front of each card, you’d drawn a tiny pressed flower in ink, mimicking the real one inside each person’s bookmark. And now you were writing their notes by hand, slowly, carefully, wanting to get every word right.

You uncapped your pen again and smiled to yourself. The stack of little envelopes beside you was slowly growing — each tucked with care, sealed with a wax stamp, and tied to its matching gift with a sliver or forest-green ribbon. The pressed flower bookmarks had taken longer than expected to finish, but now that everything was coming together, you were glad you’d taken your time.

You reached for the next card, flattening it on your thigh as you wrote at the top. Your pen moved slowly, your handwriting curling around each word with a quiet kind of tenderness.

Hajime
Camellia – for strength without shouting, devotion without demand. You inspire it in others just by being you. I’m always rooting for you.
—Fuyou

You traced the outline of the small, ink-drawn camellia on the front of the card, then slid it carefully into the envelope and reached for the ribbon. This one got a deep red string — simple, clean. You held the bookmark in your hand for a moment longer before you finally let it go.

The rest came more easily, your fingers finding a rhythm as you moved through the names:

Liam – Sunflower. You smiled as you wrote, remembering the chaotic way he’d fumbled two cupcakes at once and somehow landed in a full split during last week’s match warmup.

Sunflower – for joy that’s contagious, warmth that fills a room, and energy that keeps us laughing. Never change.
—Fuyou

Mina – Sweet Pea. You laughed quietly just thinking about her mock-serious rant on how short people were "closer to the earth and therefore more spiritually grounded."

Sweet Pea – for spirited sass, quick feet, and charm in every direction. You’re impossible to miss and impossible not to root for.
—Fuyou

Each bookmark was wrapped in a slim kraft envelope with its matching note tucked behind it — a collection of quiet love letters to the people who had filled your life with laughter, chaos, and comfort this past year.

The door to the hallway cracked open just a little, and you heard Cal call out, “If you don’t come help me hang the stockings, I’m replacing yours with a gym sock.”

You snorted. “On my way, elf boy.”

You slipped the last few finished cards into their places and stacked everything in a small basket near your bed. There were only a few left: Phoebe, Eli, Callie, Bea, Jun and Cal.

You took a deep breath. Christmas was going to be good. Busy, messy, loud, but good. You capped your pen, stood up, and brushed glitter off your hoodie sleeves. It was almost time to join the others.

The living room smelled even more like cinnamon and pine.

Phoebe had insisted on getting a real tree — which meant Eli had driven them out to a farm an hour away, helped lug it into the living room, and then spent another half hour vacuuming up the chaos of needles. But now, with the fairy lights gently blinking and gold ornaments catching the glow from the fireplace, it all looked like a page out of a holiday card.

You adjusted a stocking on the mantel and stepped back to admire the scene. Everything was ready — the lights, the music, the extra air mattresses stacked in the hallway, even the basket of hot cocoa packets on the kitchen counter. Wrapped gifts were tucked under the tree. Candles were lit. The scent of gingerbread was drifting in from the kitchen.

And then…

The doorbell rang.

“Finally!” Cal shouted from the kitchen. “I was starting to think they all bailed!”

You moved to open the door, only for it to be thrown open from the other side.

“Merry Christmas Eve, losers!” Liam bellowed, dragging in two duffel bags and nearly knocking over a wreath in the process. Behind him, Mina marched in with her backpack, a tray of cookies balanced expertly on one palm.

“I brought bribes,” she declared.

“Cocoa bombs, cookies, or complaints?” you asked.

“All of the above,” she grinned, handing you the tray before turning to yell at Liam for stepping on someone’s shoes.

Within minutes, the rest of the team started trickling in.

Jun arrived last, hoodie up and travel mug in hand. He offered a quiet wave as Bea and Callie argued over who got to pick the first movie of the night. Dev tossed his backpack directly into the beanbag and declared it “reserved.” Everyone dropped their bags, their coats, and their voices — volume rising, excitement growing, as the house filled with energy and laughter.

You spotted Iwaizumi coming down the stairs, barefoot in plaid pajama pants and a fitted black sweater, his hair still damp from a recent shower.

He looked around the room, briefly taking it all in — and when his eyes landed on you, he smiled.

“Hey,” he said, soft but warm.

“Hey,” you returned, a matching smile tugging at your lips. There was something steady about him in moments like this — chaos blooming all around, but him? Unmoved. Grounded.

You tilted your head toward the kitchen. “Want to help me set out the cocoa station before Liam gets to it and dumps the marshmallows all over the floor?”

“I’d rather die,” he deadpanned.

“But you will anyway if you don’t,” you replied sweetly, already walking toward the kitchen.

He followed, naturally.

As the night settled in and the house buzzed with voices, teasing, music, and the smell of too many baked goods, something soft bloomed in your chest. For the first time in a long time, you were exactly where you wanted to be.

It didn’t take long for the house to settle into holiday rhythm — one half of the living room was blanket-fort central, the other claimed by a group attempting to untangle fairy lights that should have already been hung hours ago.

From the kitchen, Cal called out, “Who poured the eggnog already?! This was supposed to wait until we watched a movie!”

“Too late,” you called back innocently, raising your glass. “Cheers.”

You were on your second glass before anyone said a word.

Phoebe appeared behind you, snatched a sip from your glass and grimaced. “That is definitely the adult version. How strong is this?”

“Mm,” you hummed thoughtfully, tilting your head. “Enough to make your ears feel fuzzy, but not enough to regret your life choices.”

“That’s oddly specific,” Cal said, passing through with a handful of popcorn.

Iwaizumi appeared a second later, eyeing the cup in your hand with a distinct look of concern. “Wait—” he reached out, fingers brushing your wrist lightly, “—was that the eggnog from the blue pitcher?”

You blinked at him, then looked down at the nearly empty glass.

“…Possibly?”

“That one’s spiked.”

There was a small, awkward pause where you considered this information. Then you shrugged and leaned slightly against the kitchen counter, a grin tugging at your lips as you looked up at him through your lashes.

“I’ll be alright,” you said lightly. “After all… I have you looking out for me, right?”

Iwaizumi paused — only for a second, but long enough for the answer to rise in his throat before he had the chance to overthink it.

“…Yeah,” he said softly, voice lower now, gaze steady. “You do.”

Your heart gave a tiny, unnecessary flutter, and you felt a warmth rise to your cheeks that had nothing to do with the eggnog. You quickly covered it by knocking back the rest of your drink and setting the cup down with purpose.

“Besides,” you added playfully, “I think this makes it your problem now.”

He exhaled a half-laugh and shook his head. “That’s a terrible idea.”

You patted his arm affectionately. “And yet here you are.”

Across the room, Liam yelled something about a missing sock, Jun asked for scissors in the calmest possible way, and Callie was trying to teach Mina how to twirl with a Santa hat on without flinging it into the fireplace. Pure, festive chaos.

You stayed close to Iwaizumi for the rest of the night — partly because of the drink, mostly because it felt natural. He didn’t hover or fuss, but you noticed the subtle ways he kept an eye on you. The glass of water that appeared in your hand. The way he shifted his spot on the couch so you could sit and still lean comfortably into his side. The small look he gave Cal when someone tried to suggest party games with way too many rules.

You weren’t drunk.

You were mildly enhanced by holiday cheer, comfort food, and dangerously nostalgic eggnog. There was a fine difference. A line. A line you were doing an excellent job of walking.

Mostly.

“Okay but hear me out—” you declared from your new perch on the arm of the couch, brandishing a gingerbread cookie like a conductor’s baton, “if we turn the fort into a giant caterpillar tunnel and everyone army crawls through it, we could probably loop it around the coffee table—”

“No,” came Iwaizumi’s immediate, exhausted reply.

“I like where this is going,” Liam chimed in, appearing beside you in a Santa hat that was clearly not his. “Let the woman create.”

“She’s trying to create injuries,” Dev added, holding a tray of water like it was the last defense between order and chaos. “And we are not explaining to the ER how someone got a tinsel concussion.”

“I’m an innovator!” you declared, hopping down in a wobble. “Like the guy who invented jam.”

“Pretty sure that was just fruit going bad,” Phoebe muttered, half-drunk and very warm, her arm draped lazily around Liam’s shoulder while they scrolled through karaoke options on the TV.

Cal had long since settled into a bean bag chair with Jun in his lap, an arrangement that would’ve been shocking if not for the fact that Jun was giggling. Actually giggling. And clingy.

"You're warm," Jun mumbled into Cal's hoodie, half his face buried in the fabric.

"I am," Cal agreed with a small smile, stroking the back of his hair. “You're also super drunk.”

"I love you,” Jun said without hesitation.

Cal blinked. “Okay—well—there’s that.”

"I do,” Jun mumbled again, now trying to tuck himself further into Cal like he was a cat. “I like your stupid face."

“You’re going to regret how honest you are tomorrow,” Dev said from the couch, watching the scene unfold like a babysitter with whiplash.

Meanwhile, you, Phoebe, and Liam were now belting out some completely off-key rendition of “Last Christmas”, using candy canes as microphones. You leaned into Phoebe with exaggerated passion during the chorus and nearly tripped over Liam’s foot when you tried to twirl.

Iwaizumi caught you by the elbow with lightning reflexes.

You blinked up at him, sheepish. “Hi.”

“You’re at your limit,” he said flatly.

You pouted dramatically. “Don’t put me in time-out, I was winning the duet.”

He looked like he was biting back a smile. “You were not.”

“I was incredible.”

“You said ‘last Tuesday I gave you my heart.’”

You waved vaguely. “Close enough.”

He sighed, shaking his head as he guided you to the couch with a hand at the small of your back. “Sit. Drink water.”

“Yes, Mom.”

“I heard that.”

You giggled but obediently took the glass he handed you. As you sipped, you watched the chaos unfold — Liam now dragging Phoebe into an aggressive jingle bell dance-off, Jun trying to slow-dance with a very confused Dev, and Cal holding up his phone, recording the evidence.

You looked up at Iwaizumi again. “Thanks for catching me.”

He didn’t look away. “Always.”

That word settled into your chest like warmth, spreading gently through the haze of the night. You leaned your head against his arm for a moment, not caring if anyone noticed.

Things got worse before they got better.

By “worse,” you meant better for everyone else watching, mildly embarrassing for you, and a challenge to Iwaizumi’s legendary composure.

You weren’t totally drunk — just a little glassy-eyed, very happy, and, in your own words, “at peak sparkle”.

At one point, you walked up to Iwaizumi while he was helping Eli sort through the remaining snacks, narrowed your eyes at the way his sleeves were pushed up to his elbows, and whispered loudly:
“You know, if you keep doing that, I can’t be held responsible for what I do next.”

Eli nearly choked on his cider.

Iwaizumi turned slowly, face utterly blank. “What?”

You poked him in the bicep. “Why do your arms look like they do push-ups for fun? Is that your secret hobby? Torturing sweaters?”

Eli lost it. You just grinned and walked away, hips swaying more than usual, tossing a cookie at Cal as you passed.

From the couch, Cal snorted. “You’re gonna give Iwaizumi a stroke.”

“Oh, come on,” you called out, flopping dramatically onto the bean bag next to Jun and Cal. “It’s not my fault he’s hot.”

Jun, with his cheek smooshed against Cal’s shoulder, let out a sleepy noise that might’ve been agreement. Cal covered his own laugh with a sip of water.

A few minutes later, Iwaizumi came over and crouched beside you, clearly trying to pull you back into the realm of hydration and stability.

“You doing okay?” he asked gently, voice low.

You blinked down at him, slow and full of affection. “You have really nice eyes.”

He sighed, but there was the faintest twitch of a smile on his lips. “That’s not an answer.”

You leaned forward, bracing your arms around his shoulders and resting your chin on top of his head. “If I fall asleep here, will you carry me to bed?”

“That depends. Are you going to keep hitting on me?”

“That depends. Are you going to keep looking like that?”

He actually laughed. Laughed. Low and warm and full of disbelief.

“You’re unbelievable,” he muttered, rubbing a hand over his face.

You tilted your head innocently. “But I’m cute though, right?”

Iwaizumi didn’t answer right away. His eyes flicked up to meet yours, and for a second, something very real — and very unspoken — passed between you.

He blinked first.

“You’re a menace,” he murmured.

“But a cute menace.”

“Unfortunately.” This time he didn’t hold back his smirk.

You giggled again, arms still lazily draped around his neck. “See? You do think I’m cute.”

Before he could fire back, Liam strolled past holding two candy canes like swords. “Alright, lovebirds, break it up unless someone’s proposing.”

“You’re just jealous,” you said, not moving from your perch.

Liam winked. “Only ‘cause he won’t flirt with me like that.”

Iwaizumi glared after him. You could feel the heat from his face even from above him.

Jun lifted his head blearily from Cal’s chest, his voice muffled. “Is anyone else seeing double or is Fuyou just draped on Iwaizumi like a fashion scarf?”

“That’s her final evolution,” Cal said. “From eggnog gremlin to seductive scarf.”

“I’m warm,” you mumbled into Iwaizumi’s hair.

“You’re drunk.”

“I’m charming.”

“…Also true.”

Despite himself, he let you stay there — curled around him, practically attached. And the fact that he didn’t shift away, didn’t make a single excuse to put space between you, only made your emboldened little heart beat faster.

You started playing with the fabric of his collar next.

“Y’know, if I didn’t know better, I’d say you like me.”

He exhaled slowly. “Go to sleep, Fuyou.”

“I would, but you're really warm.”

“Sleep. Now.”

“Make me.”

He lifted his head just enough to glance up at you with a deadpan look that was almost betrayed by the amused crease at the corner of his mouth.

“Don’t tempt me.”

You gasped, hand flying to your chest in mock scandal. “Oh my god, Hajime, was that you flirting back?”

“No.”

“Was that a little blush? Is this what success feels like?”

He shook his head. “You’re cut off.”

You gave him your most innocent smile. “But I still have presents to open tomorrow. You wouldn’t take Christmas joy from me, would you?”

“I would if it meant you stop trying to seduce me next to the gingerbread house.”

You laughed — bright, tipsy, entirely delighted.

Phoebe caught your eye from across the room and gave you a knowing little smirk.

By some miracle — or maybe just the sheer force of Eli’s dad voice, Dev’s linebacker energy, and Iwaizumi’s unshakable glare — the house was finally quiet.

Jun and Cal had retreated to his room upstairs after Jun nearly fell asleep face-first into a bowl of caramel popcorn. Phoebe and Eli were curled up in your bed, limbs tangled and blanket stolen. Dev was snoring like a freight train on the living room couch. Liam had been unceremoniously rolled into a sleeping bag by the fireplace and was out cold. Mina, Bea and Callie were peacefully sleeping on the air mattresses all snuggled up.

And you… were still awake. Sober enough to feel the eggnog catch up to your limbs. Sleepy, but not quite ready to close your eyes.

The living room was dim now. Just the soft glow of the Christmas tree lights, the fireplace embers, and a lamp on low near the kitchen. You sat on one of the floor cushions, cross-legged in your hoodie, watching Iwaizumi drag another spare comforter from the laundry basket.

“My bed’s still free upstairs,” he said, looking over at you. His voice was quiet, a little gravelly from the long day.

“I know.”

He straightened up. “You should go. It’ll be more comfortable.”

You just shook your head with a small smile. “I want to stay here.”

His brow creased slightly. “Why?”

Your answer was soft. Honest. “Because you’re here.”

There was a pause. A flicker in his eyes that warmed something inside you.

“Not trying to flirt,” you added, a little sheepish. “I’m just… comfortable with you.”

He exhaled slowly, then dropped the extra pillow beside you and sat down, his knees brushing yours as he settled. “Comfortable, huh?”

You nudged him lightly with your foot. “Don’t make it weird.”

“I’m not. I’m just impressed.”

You gave him a look. “Why?”

“Well, you’ve been trying to seduce me all night,” he said casually, reaching for the blanket and shaking it out, “but I’m honored to know you also find me emotionally safe.”

You let out a soft gasp, dramatic and quiet. “That is slander.”

He laughed under his breath, voice low and warm. “Really? Let’s recap. You called me hot. You called me warm. You asked if I’d carry you to bed.”

“I was joking.”

“You told me I had dangerous arms.”

“That’s objectively true.”

He looked at you, amused, eyes gleaming in the half-light. “You draped yourself over me like a weighted blanket.”

You rolled your eyes, suppressing a grin. “Okay, maybe I was flirting a little.”

“‘A little,’” he repeated, raising a brow.

“Fine,” you sighed, grabbing the pillow he’d brought and hugging it to your chest. “It was more than a little. But in my defense… you’re really hard not to flirt with.”

That quiet tension returned — soft and unspoken, just beneath the laughter. Iwaizumi didn’t say anything at first, just looked at you with something unreadable and warm in his eyes.

Then, very gently, he said, “For what it’s worth… you were cute.”

Your throat went a little dry. “Oh?”

“And very distracting,” he added.

You smiled. “Sorry.”

“Don’t be,” he murmured. “It made my night more fun.”

For a moment, neither of you moved. Then you both seemed to shift at once — pulling the blanket over your legs, settling into the pillows until your shoulders were brushing. Your head leaned lightly against his bicep, and he didn’t shift away.

No more words were needed.

Just the glow of the tree. The noise of Dev's snoring. The scent of cinnamon and pine and sleepy comfort lingering in the air.

Eventually, your voice came quiet, eyes heavy. “Thanks for not making it weird.”

He chuckled under his breath. “You make it impossible to.”

You woke slowly.

At first, it was just warmth. A comfortable pressure at your side, the kind that made you want to burrow deeper into sleep and forget the world existed. Then the rise and fall of steady breathing, chest to chest. A heartbeat under your ear. A quiet inhale not far from your hair.

And then—

Shutter click.

Your eyes cracked open.

The lights were brighter now — faint morning sunlight filtering through the curtains and fairy lights still glowing on the tree. You were no longer upright or curled on your side. You were fully, completely, and inarguably snuggled into Iwaizumi Hajime’s chest.

His arm was looped around your waist. Your legs were tangled. Your face was half-buried in his soft sweater. And he…

Was still fast asleep.

You didn’t move. Mostly because panic hadn’t fully kicked in yet.

Click.

You turned your head just enough to see the culprits. By the kitchen doorway, half-hidden behind a hanging garland of tinsel, were Callie, Bea, and Phoebe — each holding their phones and struggling to contain their laughter.

“Oh my god,” Callie whispered behind a hand. “They’re cuddling.”

“They’re wrapped around each other,” Bea murmured. “Like it’s scripted.”

Phoebe only grinned, biting the inside of her cheek to keep from squealing. “I knew this was gonna happen. I knew it.”

You wanted to hide. Vanish. Melt into the floor like a Sims character with poor pathfinding.

But instead, you whispered harshly, “Stop that!”

Callie’s eyes widened innocently. “Why? This is so pure. You guys look like a Hallmark movie.”

“You look like The Nap Before Christmas,” Bea added.

“I swear to God,” you hissed, cheeks burning as you tried to peel yourself away from Iwaizumi without waking him.

But of course, you did wake him. Damn it, you didn’t even get the chance to fully appreciate his sleeping face.

He blinked slowly, still half-asleep, and then looked down at you. You froze. His hand was still resting at your waist. He didn't move.

“...Merry Christmas?” he rasped, voice low and gravelly with sleep.

You wanted to die.

Behind you, another shutter clicked.

Phoebe gave a proud little nod. “This one’s going in the wedding slideshow.”

“Phoebe!”

He blinked again, finally registering the trio of giggling gremlins at the doorway. His arm withdrew slowly but without urgency, and he turned his face slightly toward the cushion with a groan.

“They’re relentless,” he mumbled.

“Tell me about it,” you whispered back.

Phoebe finally took pity on you and waved the others toward the kitchen. “Come on, before Fuyou commits murder before coffee.”

Once they were gone, the silence returned — heavier than before, but not uncomfortable.

You pulled away slowly and sat up, rubbing the sleep from your eyes. “Sorry,” you murmured. “I didn’t mean to cling.”

He stayed lying down for a moment longer before lifting himself to sit beside you. His hair was a little mussed. His sweater had twisted awkwardly around his shoulder. But his eyes were soft and still laced with sleep.

“I didn’t mind,” he said. “You were warm.”

You looked at him. He met your gaze.

And you both smiled. You may have missed out on his sleeping face but that sleepy smile? Heaven help you, he was beautiful.

You and Iwaizumi eventually climbed to your feet, trading in the tangle of blankets for slippers and soft groans of sleep-cracked joints. Your hoodie was slightly wrinkled from sleep, and your hair was a bit of a disaster, but at least the chaos was shared. The living room was slowly beginning to stir with sleepy voices, rustling fabric, and the faint, collective groan of a group still riding the tail end of a hangover.

Everyone was at least a little hungover — except Iwaizumi, who looked aggravatingly well-rested, and Dev, Eli, Bea, and Callie, who had somehow managed to pace themselves (or, in Bea and Callie’s case, switch to water halfway through and start recording everyone else's decline like mischievous documentarians).

Dev was the first to rise, stretching with a loud yawn and a dramatic, “Merry Christmas, ya filthy animals!” before shuffling off to the kitchen like a bear in search of coffee.

Soon enough, the house was alive with the scent of brewed coffee, toasted bagels, pancakes and maple syrup, and whatever experimental breakfast Callie and Cal were throwing together on the stove. You were perched on the kitchen island, a mug of hot chocolate cradled in your hands while Iwaizumi leaned casually next to you, hip against the counter. Phoebe sat cross-legged at the dining table, hair tied up in a messy bun, stealing strawberries off Eli’s plate. Liam after a pancake mishap, was in charge of the playlist, alternating between Mariah Carey and ridiculous remixes of holiday classics. Jun sat beside Cal, looking freshly showered, his hand resting on Cal’s thigh like it belonged there — which, of course, it did.

Everyone looked a little sleepy, a little tousled, and a little wrecked, but warm. Happy. Together.

Then someone noticed.

“Wait,” Mina said, holding up a finger and squinting. “Where the hell did Bea and Callie go?”

You blinked. Iwaizumi straightened slightly beside you.

The kitchen door creaked open just then, and the two in question walked in like they’d just returned from a covert operation. Both had smug little grins and a suspicious bounce in their step.

“I was starting to think you two had disappeared,” Cal said, side-eyeing them with amusement.

Callie raised her brows. “Oh, we were busy.”

Bea nodded solemnly. “Very.”

There was a moment of silence.

“…Busy with what?” Jun asked, warily.

Bea and Callie exchanged a slow, wicked glance. Then Callie pulled out her phone and wiggled it between her fingers.

“Oh, you know. Just documenting the most adorable crime against personal space we’ve ever witnessed.”

You froze, hot chocolate halfway to your lips.

Iwaizumi blinked, immediately going still.

“What did you do?” Eli asked, instantly suspicious.

“We took pictures,” Bea said, far too innocently.

“And videos,” Callie added, equally guilty.

“Of what?” Dev asked, a little slower now. “Who committed the crime?”

You made the mistake of glancing at Phoebe, who had ducked her head into her arm to muffle a cackle.

“Those two,” Bea said plainly, pointing at you and Iwaizumi with both hands.

“I mean,” Callie added, “snuggled up like an indie movie couple under a blanket by the fire? Come on. What did you expect us to do? Not document that?”

Iwaizumi exhaled through his nose, but you saw the faint pink creeping up his neck.

“Delete it,” he said, trying for firm but not quite making it past fond.

Bea just smiled. “I would, but they’re backed up.”

“Auto-upload to the cloud,” Callie chirped. “It's above us now.”

“Guys,” you groaned, face already heating.

Phoebe finally looked up, chin on her hands and eyes alight. “You looked really comfortable,” she said sweetly. “Like… ‘this is my person’ kind of comfortable.”

Iwaizumi didn’t say anything to that. He just leaned forward slightly, elbows on the counter beside you, his shoulder brushing yours.

“Oh, and by the way,” Bea added, scrolling casually, “this isn’t even the first crime from last night.”

“God,” Liam groaned, dropping his head to the counter. “You two were filming all night, weren’t you?”

“Listen,” Callie said with a grin, “when the rest of you started drunk-belting Celine Dion and trying to build a human pyramid in the living room at 2 a.m.? That’s art. We were archiving.”

“We’re making a documentary,” Bea said sagely. “Working title: Holiday Hangover: A Study in Chaos.”

“I can’t believe you filmed us,” Mina said, but she was already laughing.

“Don’t worry,” Callie said brightly. “We got everyone. Equal opportunity embarrassment.”

A beat of silence passed where everyone reflected, or tried not to, on their actions last night.

“Breakfast, anyone?” Liam piped up, opening a box of donuts like he was throwing a distraction grenade.

“God, yes,” Dev said, diving in before anyone could resume the teasing.

And thankfully, they didn’t. For now.

But Bea and Callie kept smirking.

And you knew, deep in your soul, those pictures — and everything else — were going to surface again.

Chapter Text

The living room still smelled faintly of maple syrup, cinnamon, and whatever chaotic brilliance Callie had thrown together in the name of “festive brunch.”

Mugs had been abandoned. Crumbs were scattered like confetti across the coffee table. The fireplace crackled softly, casting flickering shadows against walls already lined with string lights and paper stars.

Everyone — in varying stages of pajamas, blankets, and post-meal daze — shuffled back into the living room, where Dev dragged the pile of presents to the center of the floor with a groan that suggested he was the gift.

“Alright, Christmas goblins,” Bea announced, flopping onto the couch and tucking her legs beneath her. “Who’s first?”

“House rule,” you said, raising a finger. “No one opens anything until Phoebe finds her glasses.”

“I’m blind, not inefficient!” Phoebe shouted from the hallway. “I’m coming, Jesus.”

A few moments later, glasses located and tea in hand, everyone huddled into the nest of cushions and fleece like a circle of exhausted woodland creatures with the gift pile sat in the center like a tribute to the gods of cozy chaos. Callie took it upon herself to start passing things out — moving with the speed and focus of someone dealing cards in a high-stakes game.

“Liam,” she said, tossing a box toward him. “It’s not a sword, but you’ll live.”

He tore it open with a dramatic gasp. “You got me Spite Santa: The Card Game?!”

“It’s toxic. Like you,” Callie replied sweetly.

Jun slid a neatly wrapped package over to Dev, who peeled it open to find a custom hoodie with Soup is an Emotion embroidered across the front in delicate cursive.

“Oh my God,” Dev whispered, pulling it over his head like it was armor. “I’ve never felt so seen.”

Eli’s present from Phoebe turned out to be a hand-painted mug with No, you can’t eat that scrawled around the rim in elegant script.

“I’m using this every day,” he declared, already sipping tea from it like it was priceless.

Phoebe raised her cup in salute. “It’s dishwasher-safe. I know who you are.”

Liam’s gift to Iwaizumi was met with instant suspicion — and rightfully so.

Iwaizumi opened the package slowly. Inside was a bold black t-shirt with all-caps white lettering:

“I LIFT HEAVY THINGS SO MY FRIENDS DON’T HAVE TO.”

He blinked once. Twice.

“I got it in two colors,” Liam grinned.

“…Thanks,” Iwaizumi muttered, which in his language translated roughly to: I love this and will never tell you.

The gift pile was already a mess. Wrapping paper fluttered through the air like festive shrapnel, and ribbons dangled from people's wrists and hair. Phoebe tried to keep order by shouting names like a holiday auctioneer — but before chaos could fully claim the room, you shifted forward with something tucked in your arms.

“Wait,” you said — softly, but clearly.

The energy quieted almost immediately.

From beneath the tree, you pulled out the woven basket you’d tucked away the night before. Inside, the gifts you’d spent hours making: wrapped in simple parchment, tied with forest-green or deep red ribbon, and sealed with wax. Each had a tiny envelope attached — no glitter, no tags — just small, meaningful care.

“I wanted to give you these first,” you said softly, arms gently cradling the basket fingers fiddling with the handle. “They’re… small. But they’re from me.”

A hush fell over the group — a rare, reverent kind of stillness.

You began handing them out one by one.

“Liam.”

He plopped onto the floor criss-cross and opened the envelope first, dramatically clearing his throat.

Sunflower – for joy that’s contagious, warmth that fills a room, and energy that keeps us laughing. Never change.
—Fuyou

He blinked down at the pressed sunflower inside the glassine sleeve. Then up at you — unexpectedly quiet.

“…I’m framing this.”

“You’re supposed to use it,” you teased.

“No. Framing it. Immortalizing it. Putting it above my bed like a shrine.”

“Mina.”

She opened her envelope with her teeth, tugging the wax seal off with a grin like she was unwrapping treasure.

Sweet Pea – for spirited sass, quick feet, and charm in every direction. You’re impossible to miss and impossible not to root for.
—Fuyou

Mina sniffed dramatically. “You are NOT making me cry before I open real presents.”

“You’re welcome,” you said with a bow.

Dev read his silently, then got up and wrapped his arms around your waist from behind, sleepy-koala style and slowly swayed you from side to side.

Forget-Me-Not – for gentleness you never have to shout about. You notice the little things, and it matters more than you know.
—Fuyou

“You make people feel safe,” you murmured just for him.

He didn’t answer — just gave a small, grateful squeeze before letting go.

Jun’s envelope revealed a chrysanthemum drawn in intricate black ink.

For thoughtful stubbornness and fierce loyalty. Even when you pretend not to care, you care with everything.
—Fuyou

Jun blinked. “Okay. That’s illegal.”

Cal, peeking over his shoulder, added, “She got your soul in two sentences.”

You handed the next one directly to Cal.

He stared down at the tidy wrapping like it might combust in his hands. Carefully, he opened the envelope.

Geranium – for steady kindness, quiet loyalty, and the kind of warmth that stays even when the room clears out. You’re the calm in our storm, and the one who makes everyone feel at home.
—Fuyou

Jun, still nestled beside him, murmured, “Okay, now I’m crying.”

Cal cleared his throat. “No one look at me for five to seven business days.”

“I’m looking directly at you,” Liam whispered.

Cal gave you a soft, sincere smile. “Thank you.”

“Would’ve given you a geranium in person,” you said. “But those don’t fit in bookmarks.”

He chuckled. “Next time, just stick one in a teacup and hand it to me like an old man.”

“I’m writing that down.”

Phoebe’s gift was wrapped in cream paper with a peach wax seal. She peeled it open slowly.

The pressed Orange Blossom glowed pale beneath the vellum.

Orange Blossom – for the way you love with precision, and begin again with grace. You make space for joy like it’s second nature. I hope the next chapter feels like spring.
—Fuyou

Phoebe didn’t speak. She just leaned forward, resting her forehead against your temple.

“Congratulations again,” you whispered.

She smiled. “I’m keeping this forever.”

Eli’s envelope made him snort out loud.

Daisy – for resilience wrapped in sarcasm. You’re like a field of them: too many to ever pull up. Thank goodness.
—Fuyou

“That’s the most backhanded compliment I’ve ever received and I love it,” he said, hugging the bookmark to his chest.

Callie’s card shimmered with a golden wax seal.

Marigold – for fire, for laughter, for being the chaos engine behind 90% of our group texts. We’d be bored without you. I’d be bored without you.
—Fuyou

Callie hugged you instantly. “I’m putting this in a book I never return to the library.”

Bea’s was a sealed in red poppy.

You’d typed hers after three failed handwritten drafts.

Poppy – for fierce curiosity and that “I already know what you’re hiding” energy. For being the friend who documents everything but never forgets to show up, too.
—Fuyou

She didn’t say anything. Just nudged your knee and blinked a little too fast.

And then, the last.

You turned to Iwaizumi.

His was the only one tied in deep red string — simple, clean, intentional.

He took it slowly, thumb brushing over the wax seal. He opened the card, eyes scanning each word.

Camellia – for strength without shouting, devotion without demand. You inspire it in others just by being you. I’m always rooting for you.
—Fuyou

He didn’t move for a moment. Just looked at the card.

Then, quietly:
“…Thank you.”

“You’re welcome.”

He slid the bookmark into the front pocket of his hoodie — not showy, not casual — just like it mattered. His thumb lingered over it.

The others were already diving back into gift chaos. Ribbons flew. Someone tossed a bow like a frisbee. But you stayed where you were, leaning in closer to him for just a breath of space.

You whispered near his ear, “Your real gift is in your room.”

His eyes cut to you, curious. “Should I be worried?”

You only shrugged.

He gave you a long, unreadable look

“Menace,” he muttered.

“Camellia,” you whispered back, and slipped away before he could say another word.

It took less than five minutes after the last gift was unwrapped for someone (Liam) to suggest putting on a movie.

It took exactly two minutes for someone else (Callie) to veto it in favor of something far more dangerous:
“Reviewing Last Night’s Crimes.”

Bea perked up immediately, grabbing the remote like it was a sword of destiny.

“Alright,” she declared, already cueing up her phone and casting it to the TV. “We’ve unwrapped the socks, the mugs, and the emotionally loaded bookmarks. Now it’s time to unwrap the emotional damage.”

“No,” you groaned, dragging a pillow over your face.

“Yes,” Callie whispered, eyes glowing with evil glee.

Everyone reconfigured themselves like sleepy cats preparing for an incoming storm — blankets were claimed, limbs slung over laps, someone’s foot ended up tangled in someone else’s scarf. A bowl of leftover peppermint bark made its rounds. Jun quietly retreated to the kitchen to make popcorn, possibly just to avoid what was coming.

And then, the first video started.

The room stilled.

You froze mid-bite, a smear of strawberry cream cheese suspended on the edge of your bagel. Across the island, Phoebe’s head snapped up like a meerkat on patrol. Jun groaned without even opening his eyes. Iwaizumi — who had just taken a sip of his coffee — exhaled like he was steeling himself for combat.

Bea held up her phone like it was a sacred relic. “I present to you: Last Night, A Tragedy in Eight Acts.”

“No one asked for this,” Eli said flatly, even as he leaned in to get a better view.

“You’ll thank us later,” Callie said. “Or you’ll sue us. Honestly, I’m fine with either.”

Bea cast the video to the living room TV before anyone could stop her. The screen lit up above the fireplace — and just like that, the house was filled with chaotic echoes of the night before:

Drunken laughter.

Off-key singing.

The unmistakable crash of a Jenga tower being sacrificed to gravity.

And somewhere in the background — clear as day — someone yelling, “YOU CAN’T PROVE I TOOK THAT COOKIE.”

Your soul left your body.

ACT I: THE RISE OF THE EGGNOG GREMLIN

The first video was of you, glassy-eyed and gleaming, balancing a half-empty cup of spiked eggnog and loudly announcing you were “at peak sparkle.” The camera zoomed dramatically as you twirled — nearly taking out a lamp — before throwing an arm around Mina and slurring, “You guys, I love Christmas. And sweaters. And arms.”

“God, no,” you groaned, hiding your face in your hands as everyone started chuckling some of them already knowing what was coming next.

“Wait, wait, here it comes—” Callie pointed at the screen.

The next clip showed you stalking toward Iwaizumi in the kitchen, where he was quietly sorting snacks with Eli. His sleeves were rolled up. A fatal mistake.

You stopped, narrowed your eyes at his arms, and declared, far too loudly:

> “You know, if you keep doing that, I can’t be held responsible for what I do next.”

Eli was visibly choking on his cider in the background. The camera caught Iwaizumi turning, completely blank-faced, just as you poked him in the bicep and demanded:

> “Why do your arms look like they do push-ups for fun? Is that your secret hobby? Torturing sweaters?”

The room erupted into howls. Screams of laughter.

“Rewind it,” Cal begged, clutching his stomach.

Iwaizumi buried his face in his hands (mostly to hide his blush and his smile).

The footage rolled on — you flouncing across the room, cookie in hand, dramatically declaring:

> “It’s not my fault he’s hot.”

“I STAND BY THAT,” you yelled, over the howls of the room.

“I should’ve left you on the bean bag,” Iwaizumi muttered.

“Too late,” Bea said gleefully. “You're hers now. Everyone saw.”

And from there, it was a downhill sled ride of chaos:

Liam’s Mariah Carey meltdown.
Jun’s human pyramid crumbling like a roman ruin.
Cal’s pancake pan bursting into flames with absolutely no warning.
Phoebe’s sneaky strawberry heist, complete with a zoom-in and dramatic music.
Dev’s cider-fueled monologue about hugs and dying by bread truck.
Callie pretending to be a chef and nearly setting off the smoke detector with “rum-glazed” whatever-the-hell.

There were edits. There were at least three gifs already circulating in the group chat. Every few minutes someone screamed, “Pause it!” to point something out — a weird facial expression, a one-liner, someone tripping in the background.

And through it all, you and Iwaizumi remained glued to your corner of the couch. A little mortified, a lot entertained. And close.

Still close.

He nudged your leg with his knee under the blanket you were sharing, murmuring under the laughter, “Next time, I’m cutting you off after one drink.”

You smirked. “You say that now…”

He side-eyed you. “I’m serious.”

You leaned in just slightly, voice warm and teasing:
“Even if I call you hot again?”

A pause. The corner of his mouth twitched.

“…We’ll talk.”

ACT II: FLIRTATION TURNS TO MENACE

The next video began with you flopping dramatically onto the bean bag, a blurry blur of motion before you ended up next to Jun and Cal, hair wild and eyes sparkling.

“Oh my god,” Jun muttered, recognizing the clip. “This was right before she started draping herself on Iwaizumi like an affectionate octopus.”

“That’s not—!” you tried, but then the next bit played:

You, draped lazily over Iwaizumi’s shoulders, giggling into his hair while mumbling,

> “You have really nice eyes.”

His voice was low but audible:

> “That’s not an answer.”

Then:

> “If I fall asleep here, will you carry me to bed?”

“That’s illegal,” Liam said. “That line’s criminal.”

The clip continued through the iconic exchange:

> “Are you going to keep looking like that?”
> “You’re unbelievable.”
> “But I’m cute though, right?”

The video zoomed on Iwaizumi’s smirk, small but very real.

Phoebe clutched a throw pillow to her chest. “That was the moment. That was the romcom climax. That was it.”

Cal was crying with laughter. “Wait for the scarf part—”

ACT III: THE SCARF EVOLUTION

Next clip: Jun, bleary-eyed and slumped against Cal’s chest, muttering,

> “Is anyone else seeing double or is Fuyou just draped on Iwaizumi like a fashion scarf?”

Then Cal chimed in without missing a beat:

> “That’s her final evolution. From eggnog gremlin to seductive scarf.”

The footage then panned to you fiddling with the collar of Iwaizumi’s sweatshirt, murmuring something about how warm he was, before muttering:

> “Y’know, if I didn’t know better, I’d say you like me.”

And then the line that killed the room:

> “Sleep. Now.”
> “Make me.”
> “Don’t tempt me.”

The screen froze mid-gasp, your face lit in exaggerated scandal, and the room absolutely exploded.

“HE FLIRTED BACK,” Dev shouted.

“He flirted back,” Callie confirmed.

“Roll it again,” Mina said breathlessly, “run it back. I missed the blush—"

“No one is allowed to speak to me ever again,” Iwaizumi muttered, dragging a hand over his face.

“Incorrect,” you said, voice still hoarse from laughter, “you flirted with me next to the gingerbread house, and that means I own your soul.”

Liam casually handed you a candy cane. “For the bride.”

“I hate you all,” Iwaizumi said, but there was a helpless little smile on his face.

Phoebe, already scrolling through her own photos, looked up with a twinkle in her eyes. “Guys. I found the one where she’s literally hanging off his shoulders like a human cape.”

“I am so printing that,” Bea declared.

“Slideshow for the wedding toast,” Cal added.

“Oh my god,” Jun said, eyes wide. “What if this is the origin story? The romantic montage?”

Iwaizumi let out a slow exhale, glanced your way, and then down at his coffee.

“…You all should be banned from owning phones,” he muttered.

You just leaned over, grinning ear to ear. “But I’m cute though, right?”

He looked at you — cheeks faintly pink, jaw clenched like he was weighing his odds — and finally sighed.

“…Unfortunately.”

ACT IV: CHAOS IN THE WILD

“Okay,” Bea said, thumbing through her camera roll like a crypt keeper of secrets, “we’ve covered the scandalous scarf section. But the night didn’t start with Fuyou trying to seduce Hajime by osmosis. It escalated.”

“You have too much power,” Dev muttered, already bracing himself.

“Oh, I know,” Callie beamed, tapping on another thumbnail. “Next up: Liam vs. Mariah Carey.”

The screen lit up again, this time with the grainy, slightly too-close footage of Liam in the center of the living room, shirt half-untucked, belting out All I Want for Christmas Is You like his life depended on it.

Not singing. Screaming.

“I WAS SO DRUNK,” Liam wailed, burying his face in a throw pillow.

“You knocked over the couch trying to do the high note,” Eli pointed out.

Sure enough, the footage shifted as Liam tried to spin, lost balance, and collapsed into the armrest, laughing so hard he couldn’t finish the line.

“I was inspired!” Liam yelled defensively.

“I was terrified,” Jun deadpanned.

“I was impressed,” Dev added.

“And that,” Phoebe said, raising her coffee mug, “was just the start.”

ACT V: PHOEBE THE STRAWBERRY BANDIT

“Speaking of,” Bea said cheerfully, clicking on another video, “Phoebe, I have something for you.”

Phoebe sat up straighter. “No. No, Bea, I thought we were friends—”

The video began with a wide shot of the dining table. Eli sat there, eating his cinnamon toast like a normal person. Phoebe, however, was slowly — slowly — inching her hand across the table toward his plate, eyes locked on the pile of sliced strawberries.

“Look at the stealth!” Callie shouted. “That’s a raccoon with a master’s degree!”

“Not my finest moment,” Phoebe muttered.

Then, in perfect silence, Phoebe snatched a strawberry, popped it into her mouth, and leaned back like nothing happened.

“What the hell,” Eli laughed, “is wrong with you?”
“She gaslit me for twenty minutes,” Eli said. “Told me I imagined it.”

“I was protecting your blood sugar,” Phoebe sniffed, completely unrepentant. “You’re welcome.”

ACT VI: JUN’S FAILED PYRAMID

“You know what comes next,” Callie said, her face already turning red from holding back laughter. “The engineering disaster.”

Jun groaned. “Delete it. I swear to God—”

The screen showed a very determined, slightly flushed Jun, drawing up plans on the back of a pizza box. Mina and Dev were crouched nearby, nodding solemnly as he explained, in great detail, how they were going to build a three-tier human pyramid “in the spirit of team bonding.”

“Oh no,” Liam muttered. “This is where we die.”

The next clip was pure chaos: Mina scrambling up onto Dev’s back, Dev wobbling, and Jun — attempting to form the base — yelling, “I NEED STABILITY AND COMMITMENT FROM YOU PEOPLE!” just before the entire thing collapsed into a pile of limbs and laughter.

Cal wheezed. “The best part is Bea’s voice going ‘oh noooo’ in the background and never once moving to help.”

Bea shrugged. “I’m a documentarian, not a hero.”

ACT VII: CAL’S FLAMING PANCAKES

“Wait,” Phoebe said. “Show the one with Cal trying to flambé pancakes.”

“I didn’t try to flambé them!” Cal shouted. “The pan betrayed me!”

The video said otherwise. It opened on Cal in the kitchen, dramatically flipping pancakes while wearing a reindeer apron. He added what he thought was a safe splash of rum to the batter, and a half-second later — foom — the pan lit up like a bonfire.
You could hear someone shrieking “CALLIE GET THE BAKING SODA” while Liam screamed, “FIRE IS FESTIVE.”
“I was making Christmas brunch memorable!” Cal said defensively.
“You were almost on fire,” Jun replied, dry as toast.

ACT VIII: DEV'S CIDER CONFESSIONS

“Oh,” Callie said, gasping. “Dev. DEV. We have your ‘cider confessions.’”
Dev froze. “What?”
The video started. Dev was on the couch, clearly a few drinks in, eyes glassy and dreamy, cuddling a pillow like it owed him money. He looked into the camera with the softest expression and whispered:
> “You know what’s underrated? Hugs. Hugs are like emotional soup.”
“Oh my God,” Dev groaned.
Then:
> “And also—everyone in this house is so pretty. I love you guys. I’d die for Liam. Not like, heroic death, but like... in a movie where I get hit by a bread truck.”
“A bread truck?!” Liam howled. “That’s so specific.”
“I was very emotional,” Dev muttered.
“We know,” Callie said, still snorting.

CLOSING SCENE: STILL A LITTLE SPARKLE

The final video wasn’t loud or chaotic. It was Bea’s favorite. She cast it silently on the TV without saying a word. It showed the fire dying down in the living room. The chaos had faded. Everyone was somewhere nearby — asleep or close to it. The camera panned slowly, blurry in spots, past Liam and Dev passed out in a pile of pillows, past Mina curled up with a book she hadn’t finished reading, Phoebe tucked under a blanket beside Eli, their hands barely touching.

And then it landed on you.

You were curled against Iwaizumi, eyes half-lidded, a sleepy smile on your lips, arms loosely wrapped around his shoulders. He had one hand on your back, slow and steady, like he didn’t even realize he was still holding you.

No flirting. No jokes.
Just warmth. Quiet.

Callie paused the video.

The room was silent for a long moment.

“Okay,” Phoebe finally said, voice soft, “maybe we were a little drunk, but… we were so happy.”

You felt Iwaizumi’s fingers brush yours under the counter. Not a grab. Not even a full hold. Just there. Close.

Bea gave you a side-eye grin. “Still at peak sparkle?”

You smiled. “Always.”

LATER THAT AFTERNOON

It started innocently enough.

Liam was half-asleep on the couch with a donut balanced on his stomach. Jun was deep in a post-nap haze, mumbling about how someone should make tea but refusing to get up. Iwaizumi was sitting beside you at the kitchen table, quietly peeling a clementine — which, honestly, shouldn’t have been as attractive as it was.

Bea was hunched over her phone, typing with alarming speed. Callie, feet up on the table, grinned like she was waiting for a bomb to go off.

“I’m scheduling the posts,” Bea said without looking up.

Everyone snapped to attention.

“What posts?” you asked, instantly suspicious.

Bea’s eyes sparkled. “The Greatest Hits of Christmas Eve, 2016.”

“Oh no,” Dev groaned. “Oh no no no—”

“It’s too late,” Callie said solemnly. “It’s already in the cloud. You can’t fight the cloud.”

A beat passed.

Then everyone’s phones started buzzing.

Ping. Ping. Pingpingping. A chorus of notifications. Group chat alerts. Mentions. Instagram tags. Story reactions.

Eli looked at his phone and just said, “I hate this timeline.”

The Group Chat:

Callie:
you're welcome 💕✨
[attached: video of Jun yelling “STRUCTURAL INTEGRITY” while the human pyramid collapses]

Bea:
captioned the scarf pic: “find someone who clings to you like she does.”
15 people have already messaged “are they dating???”

Phoebe:
reposted it. sorry. it’s too cute.
also your hair looks great in that lighting.

Liam:
WHY IS THERE A VIDEO OF ME FIGHTING A CHRISTMAS TREE WITH A CANDY CANE
WHO LET THIS HAPPEN

Dev:
i cried at least once last night. the internet knows now.

Jun:
i was an architect. i had a dream. and you ruined it.

You:
iwaizumi. youve got a dad glare tell them to delete it.

Iwaizumi:
i tried.
they laughed.

Later, when you scrolled through Instagram, you saw:

• A carousel post titled “Christmas Chaos: An Exposé” — featuring blurry pics of Liam mid-Mariah performance, Phoebe strawberry-snatching, Cal in the flaming-pancake aftermath, and a candid shot of Jun crying over the collapsed pyramid with Dev patting his back like a disappointed coach.

• A reel set to “Baby It’s Cold Outside” — showing your scarf evolution in slow motion, complete with hearts and sparkles edited in by Callie.

• A poll on Bea’s story:
“Should they just get married already?”
🔘 Yes
🔘 Also yes

You buried your face in your hands.

Across the table, Iwaizumi casually handed you another clementine.

“Peak sparkle,” he said under his breath, not looking at you.

You couldn’t even argue.

Later that night, the house had finally gone still.

The last mug had been rinsed. The pillows had been returned to the couch. Crumbs vacuumed. Lights dimmed. Blankets folded (or, in Liam’s case, stuffed under the coffee table with a dramatic flourish). And one by one, everyone had disappeared — either headed back to their dorms or climbing the stairs like exhausted warriors returning from battle.

Cal and Jun had vanished quietly into Cal’s room upstairs. Phoebe had left with a sleepy wave and an armful of Tupperware. Even Bea and Callie had given in to sleep, though not before loudly threatening to release Bonus Footage: The Dancefloor Cut sometime in the new year.

Now it was just you and Iwaizumi, still curled on opposite ends of the living room couch, each with a mug of tea cradled between your hands. The fireplace was glowing low, more embers than flame now, and the soft tick of the old wall clock seemed louder in the absence of voices. You took a slow sip. Peppermint and chamomile. The steam curled upward, catching the light.

Iwaizumi shifted slightly, mug resting on his knee, elbow propped along the back of the couch. He looked relaxed in the kind of way that only came after a long day of soft chaos. His hair was mussed from running his hands through it. His socks didn’t match. And his hoodie still had a faint smear of frosting on the sleeve from when Callie had thrown a cupcake at Dev and missed.

“You tired?” he asked, voice quiet.

You nodded. “But the good kind. Like I survived something… joyful.”

He huffed a laugh through his nose. “That’s one way to put it.”

You glanced around the room — at the slightly tilted gingerbread house still standing on the coffee table, at the half-burnt candles, the half-empty tin of fudge, the pile of opened gifts by the armchair.

“This was so great. I’m really glad I came back for winter break,” you said softly.

Iwaizumi glanced at you, then down at the tea in his hands. “Yeah. It really was.”

There was a pause, gentle and unhurried.

“I thought it would feel weird,” you admitted, curling one leg beneath you. “Not going home. Not seeing the usual people.”

He nodded once, slowly. “Me too.”

You glanced over at him, catching the way his thumb traced the rim of his mug.

“But I didn’t miss it as much as I thought I would,” you added. “I mean… I still miss them. My family. My old friends. But today felt—”

“Right,” he said, finishing for you.

You smiled. “Yeah. Right.”

He looked at you then — properly. Not just a passing glance, but the kind that felt like it held weight. His eyes were tired, but warm. Steady.

“I haven’t laughed that hard in months,” he said.

You chuckled. “Jun nearly fell asleep in the popcorn.”

“I had to physically carry Liam out the door.”

“And Bea tried to bribe Callie with a second cinnamon roll to delete the video of her serenading the mop.”

He smiled at that — a soft, crooked thing that crinkled the edges of his eyes. “You know what the weirdest part is?”

“What?”

“This might’ve been the best Christmas I’ve ever had.”

You blinked.

And then you smiled — that slow, quiet kind of smile that built from the inside out.

“Me too,” you whispered.

Neither of you said anything after that for a while.

You just sat there — letting the warmth linger, letting the silence feel full instead of empty.

Eventually, Iwaizumi stood, stretching slightly and draining the last of his tea. His gaze flicked toward the stairs.

“I should head up.”

You nodded, fingers curled around your now-empty mug. “Goodnight, Hajime.”

He gave a small nod. “…Goodnight, Fuyou.”

And then he turned, footsteps quiet on the stairs, the soft creak of wood following him up.

You stayed on the couch a little longer, letting the silence settle again. Letting the memory of the day hold you gently, like a blanket still warm from the dryer.

Best Christmas ever.

Maybe not the one you expected.

But the one that mattered.

Upstairs, Iwaizumi pushed open the door to his room and immediately stopped short.

There, on the edge of his bed, was a box.

Unwrapped. No tag. No glitter, no ribbon — just a deep forest green box, simple and clean, exactly the kind of thing you would choose.

He stared at it for a moment, lips pressing together in something that wasn't quite a smile but wasn’t not one, either.

The lid came off smoothly with a quiet pull, and inside, resting right on top of the tissue paper, was a single card — unsealed, just folded in half.

He picked it up.

“Because you never take a break — this might help. And maybe think of me when you do.”

Her handwriting was instantly familiar — neat but casual, a little loopy at the edges.

He exhaled slowly through his nose.

Beneath the card, nestled in layers of rich green and ivory tissue, was a matte black travel mug.

Sturdy. Sleek. Clearly insulated. And absolutely, unmistakably customized.

All around the sides in small, clean text were:

“Hydrate or fight me”
“Ace Fuel”
“Hajime’s Tactical Beverage Unit”

On the other side, small and discreet near the bottom, were his initials next to two tiny, etched owls. One holding a dumbbell in its beak and the other in its wing.

He stared at that last detail for a long time.

“…Biscuit and Triscuit,” he muttered under his breath, and this time the smile did come, quiet and a little helpless.

Inside the mug, and arranged around it, tucked carefully within the folds of tissue, were a handful of sachets — some of his usual hydration mixes, a few of the teas he kept stashed in the training room, and others he didn’t recognize, clearly new ones she thought he might like.

One was labelled Berry Electrolyte Explosion. Another had a little sticky note on it that read:
**“Warning: Smells like pine trees. Tastes like victory.”**

He laughed once, a soft sound that barely broke the stillness of the room.

Then he set the box down gently on his desk, mug in hand, and looked around like maybe this moment should be recorded — or maybe just remembered.

Because it was a good gift. A great one, actually.

Thoughtful. Practical. A little ridiculous.

And so unmistakably her.

He glanced toward the stairs behind him, where the soft hum of the house had finally gone quiet for the night.

“…Best Christmas ever,” he murmured to no one.

And with the mug still in his hand, he finally turned off the light.

Chapter Text

Three Days Post-Christmas

The living room was quiet again — the kind of soft, sleepy quiet that only settles in once the guests are gone and the festivities have faded.

The tree was still up — slightly tilted, one sad ornament hanging by a thread — and there were exactly three half-eaten cookies left on the plate near the fireplace. You were curled up on the couch in your blanket hoodie, cup of leftover peppermint tea in hand, legs folded to your chest and tucked into the giant hoodie.

Your phone lit up with a FaceTime Incoming notification.

Kuroo (🧠 + 👀)

You groaned. “Why now.”

You considered letting it go to voicemail. Then you realized: they’ve probably seen the posts.

You picked up anyway.

Kuroo’s face appeared mid-sentence — too close, chaotic, and deeply offended.

“—and don’t even try to act like we didn’t see it.”

You blinked. “See what?”

Behind him, Kenma’s voice came through faintly. “The post. Callie’s story. That one video with the blanket.”

Kenma appeared in-frame, chin propped on Kuroo’s shoulder, hoodie hood up like a sleepy gremlin. He raised one hand in a small wave. “Hi.”

“Hi?” Kuroo repeated, incredulous. “Hi?!That’s all you’ve got?”

You tried for innocence. “Uh… Merry Christmas?”

Kuroo narrowed his eyes. “Don’t you dare deflect with holiday cheer. We just found out from Instagram, Fuyou. Instagram.”

Kenma lifted his phone and zoomed in dramatically on a grainy, clearly-too-zoomed photo: you and Iwaizumi, curled under a blanket near the fireplace, his head tucked against yours. The caption read: “love actually (2016)”

You nearly choked on your tea. “Who posted that?!”

Kuroo didn’t miss a beat. “Someone named Bea. With a slideshow. A slideshow, Fuyou.”

“Also,” Kenma added mildly, “you’re tagged in seven posts. Two reels. One TikTok.”

“Oh my god.”

Kuroo leaned toward the camera like a prosecutor presenting evidence. “Let’s begin. Exhibit A — you sitting on this man’s lap.”

“It was a bean bag.”

“—and still. Exhibit B: intense eye contact over a gingerbread house.”

Kenma added, “Exhibit C: the kareoke photo. He’s in the background. Holding your cup. Intimately.”

You blinked. “Intimately?”

Kenma shrugged. “It looked warm.”

Kuroo spread his hands dramatically. “We’ve never even met this guy and yet here he is — holding your tea, letting you drape yourself over him like a human scarf, and looking at you like you personally invented sunlight. Did you think we wouldn’t notice? ”

“It’s not like that,” you muttered, cheeks already heating. “He’s just—he’s been around a lot. We’re close. And it was Christmas. It’s not a crime to… lean a little.”

“ ‘Lean a little,’ ” Kuroo echoed, mocking. “He looked at you like you hung the moon and then stole the stars just for fun.”

Kenma scrolled through something on his screen. “Is this the same Iwaizumi you went to watch at that college match last spring? ”

You froze. “…You remember that?”

“You said, ” Kenma said flatly, “ ‘It’s not a crush, I just like watching him do warm-ups.’ ”

Kuroo snorted. “That’s when we knew. ”

“I said no such thing. You didn’t know anything.”

“Oh, but we suspected. And now? ” Kuroo pointed at his screen triumphantly. “Confirmed. Soft-launch successful. You’ve got chemistry with a capital Cramming-my-feelings-in-a-mug.”

You groaned and covered your face. “You’re both insufferable.”

Kenma nodded. “Correct.”

Kuroo, now smug and slightly more sincere, softened. “Teasing aside… you looked happy. Both of you. So… is it a thing? ”

You hesitated, smile tugging at the corner of your mouth. “It’s not official, its not even a thing. Not yet. We haven’t really talked about it. But it’s been building. I think we both know it. ”

Kenma tilted his head. “And you’re okay with that? ”

You nodded. “More than okay.”

Kuroo leaned back, exhaling. “Alright. Iwaizumi gets a tentative stamp of approval—pending interview and vibe check.”

Kenma added, “We’ll be reviewing his track record. ”

“I cannot wait to warn him about this.”

Kuroo grinned and gave a mock salute. “Merry Christmas, by the way. Your gift was being perceived. ”

Kenma held up his Switch. “I had money on New Year’s, but I’ll take the early win.”

You just laughed — cheeks warm, heart embarrassingly full — and let yourself fall back into the couch cushions, already wondering how in the world you were going to explain this call to Iwaizumi without him immediately going silent and never recovering.

You’d figure it out later.

Probably with tea.

~

Unbeknownst to you, Iwaizumi also received a call later that night.

One he had been expecting ever since his phone started flooding with notifications. Because of course, Bea and Callie had uploaded every single second of Christmas chaos they’d recorded — blurry photos, chaotic videos, mid-conversation candids, group selfies, table spreads, and that one suspiciously well-composed shot of you and Iwaizumi looking way too cozy on the couch under the same blanket. And they tagged him. In all of it.

He didn’t want to deal with the interrogation he knew was coming. But they were going to text him. Then call him. Then text again. Then probably start harassing his friends online or threatening to call his mother.

He thinks, briefly, about not answering.

Then he remembers what happened last time he tried to ghost them.

(Makki sent him 114 consecutive texts, all saying “coward.” Oikawa signed him up for a spam newsletter about dog sweaters. Mattsun had a pizza delivered to his door with “TELL US” spelled out in pepperoni.)

So yeah. He answers.

And immediately regretted every life decision that led to this moment.

Because three familiar faces stare back at him, sitting unusually still and upright, like they’re part of a Netflix true crime documentary and he’s the one on trial.
Oikawa is dead center, arms crossed, lips pressed into a perfectly judgmental line, eyes cold and sparkling with betrayal.
To his left, Mattsun is pretending to look disinterested, but he’s tapping a pencil against a notepad like he’s going to start taking notes for a future roast session.
And to the right, Makki has his hand under his chin like a therapist — if therapists were about to verbally body slam you for hiding your relationship status.
All three were suspiciously composed. Suspiciously too quiet.

And the worst part?

All three of them are trying (and failing) to hide the amusement curling at the corners of their mouths.

Oh God. This was going to be bad.

Their expressions screamed: We know everything. You’re in big trouble mister. Start talking.

And just when Iwaizumi thought he had a chance of surviving the ambush—

“Iwaizumi Hajime. ” Oikawa’s voice was tight, icy, and deceptively calm.
“Is there something you want to tell us?”

Oh god.

Oh no. Full name. No “Iwa-chan.” No annoying “Iwa-chan” in his usual whiny tone. No dramatic gasp.
Just that sharp, quiet, furious voice that made him sound like a disappointed mother and a betrayed best friend rolled into one. Just that cold, quiet fury that meant he was Really And Truly Offended™.
The kind of tone he reserved for being left out of secrets. Or group photos. Or brunch plans.

And the phrasing? Not a question. A threat. Like they already knew everything and were daring him to lie.

“Iwaizumi Hajime,” Makki echoed, nodding gravely like he was sitting on a courtroom bench. “You have the right to remain silent. But everything you don’t say will absolutely be used against you.”

Iwaizumi sighed.
“...No,” he answered honestly.

That was the truth. There was nothing he wanted to tell them.
Because once he told them, they’d never let him live it down. He’d be getting memes. Group chat bullying. At least three personalized gifts featuring inside jokes from this very moment.
But of course, his honesty gets him nowhere.

“How was Christmas?” Makki asked casually, eyes glinting with mischief. “How was Christmas, by the way? We got your little ‘Merry Christmas, losers’ text, but you never said what your actual plans were. Do anything fun?”

Ah. So they were going the passive-aggressive route. The ‘we’re pretending this is a normal conversation but we’re actually setting a trap’ routine.

Fine.

“Had some friends over,” Iwaizumi said with a shrug, keeping his voice neutral. “Some of them got drunk. Presents the next day. That was it.”

“Oh, was that it?” Mattsun asked with a raised eyebrow.

“Mm-hmm,” Iwaizumi hummed. “What did you guys do? I know you didn’t come back this time, Oika—”

“Oh don’t you dare try the ‘deflect and deny’ act with us, ” Oikawa snapped, suddenly pointing a finger at the screen like he was yelling at a suspect on a crime show. “We saw the posts! We had to find out from strangers on Instagram that you and Fuyou-chan are finally together?! Do you know how it feels to find out your best friend is in a relationship from someone else’s Instagram story?! From a girl named Callie who spells it with an asterisk in her bio and uses sparkle filters unironically?! ”

He should consider himself lucky that the videos of you flirting with him were thankfully not uploaded. Bea and Callie had sent them to the groupchat but hadn’t uploaded them. Thank God.

“They’re not strangers,” Iwaizumi cut in, frowning. “They’re my friends—”

“Oh, I’m so glad they’re your friends. Because apparently we’re not.” Came Oikawa’s outraged response

“We’re just bystanders to your soft little love story now. ” said Makki mock crying now.

“Extras in the movie that is your life.” mattsun’s comment just as dramatic as the others.
“And you didn’t even tell us,” Mattsun added, tone dry. “Not even a hint. Not a ‘hey, I might be in love with my beautiful roommate’ text. Nothing. We had to watch it unfold through blurry 0.5x camera shots and TikTok edits with Christmas music.”

“If that wasn’t bad enough, ” Oikawa continued, tone climbing, “we didn’t even get to see what she got you for Christmas. Which we know was probably ten times more meaningful than anything anyone else got you. ”

“And you didn’t even TELL US what you got her,” Makki added, scandalized.

Mattsun leaned forward slightly, eyes narrowing with faux suspicion. “I bet you got her something soft. Personal. Maybe homemade. ”

Makki gasped. “Did you make her something?! ”

“No,” Iwaizumi muttered.

“Did you cook for her? ” Oikawa asked, scandalized. “Oh my god, you cooked, didn’t you? You made her, like, soup or something heartfelt like an idiot in love—”

“She was cold,” Iwaizumi said flatly. “I made her tea.”

Makki dramatically clutched his face. “HE LOVES HER”

Oikawa pointed at the screen like he was delivering a verdict.
“You’re in LOVE with her. You made her tea. You gave her your national team hoodie. You let her put her feet on you like you’re a couch. You love her and you didn’t even tell us?? ”

“Coward behavior, ” Makki muttered. “This is betrayal.”

“Love, Hajime, ” Oikawa said, voice trembling like this was the finale of a drama. “Not like. Not a crush. You’re in love with her. ”

Mattsun nodded. “And judging by those posts? She’s in love with you too. Congratulations. We’re your last friends to find out. How does it feel to be a liar? ”

“I’m ending this call,” Iwaizumi muttered, reaching for the button.

“NO YOU’RE NOT!!!” All three yelled.

Makki started typing. “Fine. I’ll just DM Fuyou-chan and ask her what you two did for Christmas. Bet she’ll answer faster than you.”

“Do you think he kissed her under the mistletoe? ” Makki asked suddenly, eyes wide.

“Oh my god, he definitely did, ” Oikawa gasped. “That’s why he didn’t tell us — he’s scared we’d make fun of him for being soft.”

“I’m not soft,” Iwaizumi growled.

“You’re in love, Iwa-chan,” Oikawa said smugly. “Same thing. ”

There was a long silence.

Iwaizumi dragged a hand down his face.

All three of them were smiling now. That irritating, smug, too-proud, too-happy smile that meant he was never, ever going to hear the end of this.

“You’re all insufferable,” he muttered.

“We love you too, ” Oikawa chirped.

“Now, ” Mattsun said, settling in. “Tell us everything. ”

Makki grinned. “Start with the hoodie. End with the kiss. ”

Iwaizumi sighed.

This was his life now.

And he might as well get it over with.

Iwaizumi exhaled slowly, like he was about to explain something deeply complicated — like taxes. Or nuclear physics. Or his feelings.

He knew they weren’t going to drop it, not until he said something. And the longer he stayed quiet, the worse it would get.

So he decided to clear the air.

“Okay, listen,” he started, sitting up straighter. “First of all, no, there was no mistletoe kiss and we’re not together.”

“Boooo, ” Makki said immediately.

“Tragic, ” Mattsun added, shaking his head.

“She wears your clothes, ” Oikawa said, like that was legal evidence. “That’s basically marriage. ”

Iwaizumi ignored them. He had to stay on track.

“And yeah, I made her tea. We cook together all the time, so obviously I cook her stuff. It’s not a big deal.”

“Cooking together, ” Makki repeated with a smirk. “Domestic. ”

“That’s not—” Iwaizumi started, but then he waved it off. “That’s not the point.”

The trio stayed quiet, eyebrows raised, waiting. Predictably smug.

“…Sometimes,” Iwaizumi continued slowly, carefully, “I make beef curry. Because she likes it.”

There was a beat of silence.

Mattsun tilted his head. “Wait. ”

Makki blinked. “You make what? ”

Iwaizumi’s mouth opened. Then closed. His eyes narrowed slightly as he realized what he’d just admitted.

Shit.

Oikawa’s entire face lit up like someone had just told him there was a new drama series dropping at midnight.

“You make her beef curry?! ” he gasped. “Your special beef curry?! The one you won’t even make for me?! ”

“I asked for it on my birthday once! ” Makki threw his hands up. “You said no because it ‘took too long’ and ‘wasn’t worth the effort’! ”

“You made it from scratch for her?? ” Mattsun asked, already laughing. “Oh my god. Oh my god. That’s like—love food. That’s ‘I’m trying to win her heart’ food! ”

“Stop.” Iwaizumi snapped, already regretting every single word that had left his mouth in the past three minutes. “Forget I said that.”

“You can’t unsay curry, Iwa-chan, ” Oikawa said gleefully. “That’s locked in. Signed, sealed, delivered. ”

Makki leaned closer to the screen, narrowing his eyes like he was solving a case.
“So you’re saying you just casually make her favorite meal on days she’s stressed or tired or sad or happy or—?”

“I said forget it,” Iwaizumi growled, rubbing the bridge of his nose.

Mattsun grinned. “Nah, I’m framing it. Putting it on a wall. ”

“She’s been different since she got back, ” Iwaizumi muttered.

The teasing paused. Not gone — just slightly subdued. The air shifted.

“I don’t know,” he continued, quieter now. “Not in a bad way. Just… softer, sometimes. Quieter, other times. She’s still her, but it’s like she’s—figuring something out. I think she… might be testing the waters. To see if I feel the same.”

His voice trailed off for a moment.
Then he added, almost like a confession: “And I think I’m doing the same.”

Oikawa blinked. “Wait, so… you both like each other, and neither of you has said anything? ”

“Shut up.”

“So you’re in love with her, and she’s possibly in love with you, and instead of just talking, you’re feeding her curry and letting her wear your hoodie like some confused little house husband—”

“Oikawa.” Iwaizumi growled in warning for Oikawa to shut his trap.

Makki let out a low whistle. “This is some softboy nonsense. I’m so proud. ”

“I'm not a softboy,” Iwaizumi growled again, but there wasn’t much heat behind it this time. Just exasperation. And maybe a little defeat.

“She curled up on you like a cat,” Mattsun said. “That’s girlfriend behavior. ”

“She used your shoulder as a pillow for an entire movie,” Oikawa added. “That’s ‘I trust you with my life’ behavior. ”

“And you made her curry because it makes her feel safe, ” Makki finished. “That’s married behavior. ”

Iwaizumi groaned into his hands.
“Why do I tell you things?”

“Because you love us, ” Oikawa said smugly. “Just like you love—”

“Don’t even finish that sentence.”

Makki raised his hand like he was in court. “I just want to go on the record and say that if you two don’t kiss before the end of the year, I’m showing up at your house and forcing a romcom intervention. ”

Mattsun nodded solemnly. “I’ll bring the curry. The real one. ”

“I’m hanging up now,” Iwaizumi muttered.

“Love you, Iwa-chan, ” all three said in unison.

He ended the call.

And five seconds later, his phone buzzed.

Group chat name changed: The Hajime & Fuyou Curry Chronicles™

Oikawa added photo: You + Fuyou + blanket, suspiciously couple-like

Makki: “Send us the recipe, coward.”

About ten minutes after ending the call — and enduring the follow-up chaos in the group chat — Iwaizumi stared at his phone.

He considered throwing it against the wall.

He also considered deleting Instagram. Maybe changing his name. Starting fresh in the mountains.

But instead, he sighed, unlocked it, and typed out a quick message:

Hajime:
hey. did you also suffer the consequences of bea and callie’s tagging spree or was that just me.

She replied almost immediately.

Fuyou:
kuroo and kenma video called me
texted by like 4 different people
one of them just said “😏” and that’s it
so yeah. consequences were suffered.

Iwaizumi let out a short breath through his nose. A laugh. A grumble. Something between the two.

He sat back against the couch, thumb hovering as he thought. Then:

Hajime:
my friends cornered me like it was a sting operation
oikawa said making you curry was “married behavior”
i’m pressing charges for emotional harm

The reply came quick.

[Fuyou]:
was that before or after you told them you made it bc i like it?

He paused.

Squinted.

Sat up a little straighter.

Hajime:
how do you know i said that
i don’t think i told you i said that
...did they dm you

Fuyou:
screenshot. mattsun. 3 minutes ago.
captioned “he loves her your honor”

Iwaizumi groaned. Actually groaned. It wasn’t uncommon for them to lightly tease you too now that they were your friends but still. He didn’t think they’d be this blunt.
Well, now was as good a time as any.

Hajime:
you’ve been acting a little different since you got back.
not in a bad way. just... different.
figured maybe you were testing the waters.
so i’ve been doing the same.

The typing bubble on her end appeared…
Then disappeared.
Then reappeared.
Then disappeared again.

Ah, he thought. She’s panicking. Good.
Now they were both in emotional hell. Balance.

Fuyou:
i was.
still am.
guess i just wasn’t sure if you weren’t jumping in for the same reason i wasn’t

Iwaizumi stared at the message for a full ten seconds.

The way it was worded — careful, cautious, just a little vulnerable.
And suddenly everything that had been tight and wiggly in his chest since she'd come back — since the jokes, the soft glances, the too-long hugs in the kitchen — let go.

Hajime:
yeah.
same reason.

There was a pause.

Then:

Fuyou:
...okay.
glad we cleared that up.

Another bubble popped up.

Fuyou:
do i have permission to start being a little more obvious or do i need to send it in writing
i can also cc your friends if they’d like to be included in the official announcement

Hajime:
you’re a menace

Fuyou:
and yet you still make me curry

He smiled. Despite himself.

Hajime:
shut up

Fuyou:
❤️
I’m going to take that as a yes

~

Since that night, things didn’t really change — they just deepened.
You still haven’t had the talk. You’re not dating. Nothing official. Nothing defined.

But you both know something is different.

The subtle little advances started getting bolder. Still quiet, still careful — but there’s more heat under the surface now. More weight behind every small touch.

When you both walk side by side and your hands brush, it’s never an accident. One of you will extend a finger — just barely — a small, silent invitation. And the other always accepts. Your fingers slip together like it’s the most natural thing in the world. Easy. Unspoken. His thick, strong hand holding your softer, delicate one almost protectively.

You stand closer when you cook now. Close enough that your shoulders bump, and when he reaches past you, his arm brushes around your waist like it means nothing — and you lean into it like it means everything. If you’re in his way, he’ll softly wrap his hands around your waist and gently push you aside. And you don’t try to hide the goosebumps that raise on your arms. You share drinks without asking. You hand each other things with lingering touches that neither of you pretend not to notice.

He rests his hand on the back of your chair when he’s behind you. Tugs gently at your sleeve when you tease him or say something cheeky. Sometimes you catch him watching you — quiet and steady — and he doesn’t look away fast enough. But you don’t call him out. You just smile. Let him.

And you aren’t subtle either.

He fixes your hoodie strings even when they’re fine. Lets his hand linger on your wrist when he passes you something. He says your name in that low, even voice like it’s a fact — like he’s trying to figure out what kind of truth it really is.

It’s all slow. All careful. But it’s building. Growing.

More than friends. Not quite anything else.

Yet.

Valentine’s Day is creeping up.

Heart-shaped displays in store windows. Too many reds and pinks. Cafés pushing "Sweetheart Mochas" and "Love Lattes" like everyone’s supposed to fall in love over whipped cream and cinnamon syrup. You roll your eyes every time you see them. And he smirks when you complain, shaking his head like your ridiculous but always listening.

But you haven’t said a word about the date.
You’re both thinking about it.
But you just haven’t decided what you’re going to do about it.
Yet.

Still, despite the silence surrounding the day, the thought has taken root in your mind.

Handmade chocolates.

The traditional kind. Like the ones girls give in Japan — not the cheap obligatory stuff, but the kind that means something. Honmei choco. The real-deal, heart-in-your-hands kind. The kind that says I chose this. I choose you Pikachu.

You haven’t made them since high school.

It’s silly, maybe. Old-fashioned. But the idea won’t leave you alone. You start mentally flipping through recipes — not the easy ones, the fancy store-bought-look-alikes, but the kind with a little more heart. The ones that take time. Care and effort. You picture it all: dark chocolate melted down, rich and warm, carefully tempered so the texture is perfect. Maybe something inside — a soft ganache filling, or a little crunch of hazelnut. Maybe even a splash of something bold — whisky or espresso — something that feels like him.

You’d wrap them up, of course. In a simple little box. Neat. Clean. A color he wouldn’t scoff at — maybe matte brown or deep green. Something understated. Something he wouldn’t be embarrassed to get. Maybe even a handwritten tag — something quiet and a little awkward, like “Thanks for everything lately” or “Try not to eat them all at once” — something that hides how hard your heart is pounding even writing it.

Should you make giri choco, for your coworkers or friends too? Just to play it safe? After all, this wasn’t Japan and here flowers and chocolates were for the ones you wanted to be your valentine right? Maybe just a box for Cal and your closest friends will do. But his would be different. You’d use a different recipe. A different mold. A different wrapping. His box would be the one you triple-check, the one you obsess over — not just because you’re trying to impress him but because you care too damn much not to.

You tell yourself it’s no big deal. Just chocolate. Just tradition.

But your hands already know how you’d want to do it. Your brain already has a grocery list. Your heart is already racing at the thought of handing it to him — of watching his face as he opens it. That quiet pause, that look in his eyes when he realizes this isn’t casual, this isn’t friendly.

This is you testing the water. Again.

And hoping he jumps with you.

~

You already made them.

It took a few late nights, some trial batches, and more stress than you'd ever admit, but they’re done. Bagged. Wrapped. Ready. The hardest part of making them was making sure Cal and Hajime didn’t find out. You wanted to surprise them.

For your friends you kept it simple. Milk and dark chocolate pieces. A few dusted with cocoa, some with a little sea salt on top, all tucked into clear cellophane bags. Tied up neatly with curled ribbons — gold, silver, red — whatever was on sale, honestly. Pretty, harmless. Friendly.

They’ll get the message you’re not sending.

But his?

His is different.

You knew it would be from the beginning. You didn’t even bother pretending otherwise. You’d picked the recipe days in advance — something richer, softer, more delicate. More vulnerable, like the way your heart feels around him lately. You still haven’t let yourself think too hard about it, but you’ve never made anything like it for someone before. Not with this much care.

You put them in a tin.

Not a paper box. Not a bag. A proper container — cool to the touch, rectangular, solid. Silver, with little purple stars scattered. You’d found it by chance in a random shop, sitting on a clearance shelf when you were buying the ribbons, and you thought he might like it. Something clean and simple, but still a little like you.

The chocolates inside are arranged carefully. You checked the layout three separate times before you closed the lid. They’re separated by little paper dividers — the kind you bought special because it felt like he’d notice that kind of detail even if he didn’t say anything. Even now, with the tin sealed and tucked away, your brain won’t stop replaying how it felt to pack them.

It’s not about the chocolate.

It’s about everything you didn’t say while making it. The stir of your hands. The weight of your thoughts. The hope tucked into each piece.

You haven’t told him, obviously. You haven’t even decided how you’re going to give it to him yet. Part of you thinks about just leaving it out somewhere — by his stuff, maybe, with no note, no explanation. Easy to ignore if he doesn’t want to talk about it. Easy to write off as “just chocolates.”

But another part of you wants to watch his face when he opens it.

Wants to hear what he thinks.

Valentine’s Day is tomorrow.

And the tin is waiting.

You’d already handed them out.

One by one, all throughout the day. You didn’t have classes with any of them, and there was no volleyball practice today so you hunted them down all over campus and handed them over. You weren’t in a rush about it — just slipped them into their hands and onto their desks. A little smile here. A small “Happy Valentine’s” there. Light, casual, easy.

Like it was no big deal.

You even handed Jun’s off to Cal. “Make sure he gets the whole thing,” you said with a raised brow. “I already texted him, so if he ends up with a half-eaten bag, I’ll know who to blame.”

Cal just grinned and disappeared back into his room.

And then it was just one left.

The one that mattered.

You stand outside Hajime’s door, chocolates in hand, nerves climbing higher than you expected. Your stomach feels tight. Weirdly weightless. Like your brain finally caught up to what you’re actually doing.

You’ve never given chocolates to a guy you liked before. Not like this. Not with this weight behind it.

What if he doesn’t like them?
What if he doesn’t even eat sweets? You knew he avoided them to be healthy but what if he also doesn’t like them?
What if the variation you made just for him is too much? Too different? Too obvious?
What if he thinks this is silly? Or worse — that you’re silly?