Chapter Text
When Ushijima Wakatoshi had been seventeen, his strength had been loud even in silence. Back then, his confidence was blunt and unyielding, built on a body that obeyed him and a role that demanded nothing but power. He had spoken truths without hesitation, without concern for how they landed, because to him truth had been a matter of fact, not consideration.
Victory had felt inevitable when he stood on the court; loss, when it came, had been something to endure rather than examine. The world had been simple in that way. He trained, he hit, he won — and when he didn’t, the answer had always been the same: become stronger.
Now, almost thirty, that certainty had not disappeared, but it had grown heavier, denser. His strength no longer announced itself; it settled into rooms with him, quiet and immovable. Years of professional play had carved something steadier out of him — a man who understood not only how to endure pressure, but how to exist inside it.
His body no longer felt invincible, and he no longer expected it to be. Instead, he trusted routine, preparation, and restraint. Where his younger self had relied on sheer force, the man he had become relied on judgment — when to speak, when to wait, when to act.
He was still honest, but now his words carried intent. As a teenager, he had dismissed people without malice, believing honesty required no filter. As an adult, he understood that words could alter outcomes. He did not soften the truth, but he aimed it carefully, offering correction instead of dismissal, acknowledgment instead of silence. He had learned that strength did not only reside in those who could carry a team alone, but also in those who adapted, supported, endured quietly beside others.
Leadership had changed shape around him. Once, teams had been built to orbit him; now, he functioned as a stabilizing force within them. Younger players watched him without realizing it, measuring themselves against his consistency rather than his power. Coaches relied on him not for speeches or inspiration, but for presence — the knowledge that when things faltered, he would not. He rarely raised his voice. He rarely needed to. His reliability spoke in his place.
Emotionally, he remained reserved, but not unaware. In his youth, he had noticed little beyond his own focus; now, he recognized fatigue, frustration, hesitation in others with practiced accuracy. He did not address these things directly. Instead, he adjusted — stayed longer after practice, shifted his play to cover another’s weakness, passed the ball at moments that demanded trust. It was not warmth, but it was care, expressed in the only language that had ever come naturally to him.
His life, at this stage, appeared settled from the outside. His career was established, his routine unchanging, his presence dependable. And yet, there was a quiet incompleteness to him that had not existed when he was younger.
As a teenager, he had been singular in purpose; now, with the edges of his ambition tempered by time, there was space where something else might belong. He did not seek it actively. He had never been good at searching for things he could not name. But the stillness in his life left room — and for the first time, he was not entirely opposed to something entering it.
Romance had never been something Ushijima Wakatoshi thought he lacked. In high school, there had been no time for it, no interest either — volleyball had demanded everything, and he had given it willingly. As an adult, opportunities had appeared regardless of his intentions.
Attention followed him easily, trailing behind his career, his name, his presence. Fans mistook proximity for intimacy, admiration for understanding. He never encouraged it, never sought it out. When relationships did happen, they were brief and shallow, ending not in heartbreak but quiet misalignment. They liked the idea of him — the athlete, the certainty, the strength — but few had cared to learn the person beneath it. Fewer still had stayed long enough to try.
For a long time, he believed this was enough. His days were full. His career steady. His routines intact. Companionship, he told himself, was unnecessary. And yet, there were moments — small and unguarded — when he noticed the absence. Not loneliness, exactly, but the lack of someone whose presence required no explanation.
He enjoyed company more than he admitted, found comfort in shared silence, in being understood without performance. He simply had never met anyone willing to meet him where he stood, patient enough to look past reputation and restraint. He did not know he was waiting for that kind of person. He only knew that something in his life remained unclaimed, left deliberately untouched, as if he had always expected it to belong to someone specific — someday.
Tendō Satori had noticed this long before Ushijima ever would have named it. Of all people, he had always been the most observant, the quickest to see what went unsaid. From afar, through messages and occasional visits, Tendō watched Ushijima’s life settle into something impressive and incomplete. The career, the discipline, the solitude — all of it made sense, except for the quiet spaces between.
Tendō didn’t tease the way he once might have. He only filed the knowledge away, waiting for the moment Ushijima would finally admit that strength, on its own, had limits.
The call came late, adjusted carefully around time zones. Ushijima listened as Tendō spoke, the familiar cadence unchanged despite the years and the distance, chocolate experiments and foreign cities woven casually into the conversation. Ushijima responded as he always did — succinct, honest, grounded. They spoke of work, of health, of people they once knew. Silence filled the gaps comfortably. At one point, Tendō laughed softly and remarked that Ushijima sounded settled.
Ushijima agreed. After a pause, longer than necessary, Tendō added, “Settled’s good. Comfortable, even. But you don’t sound… occupied.”
Ushijima considered that. “My schedule is full,” he said.
“I know,” Tendō replied easily. “That’s not what I meant.”
There was no accusation in his voice, only observation. Ushijima didn’t interrupt.
“You ever get tired of being surrounded by people who don’t actually see you?” Tendō asked.
Ushijima exhaled through his nose, slow and thoughtful. “Occasionally.”
“That’s already more than ‘never,’” Tendō said, not unkindly. “You don’t have to want romance for it to matter, you know. Wanting company’s enough.”
“I have company,” Ushijima answered. Teammates. Staff. Noise. Routine.
Tendō hummed. “Yeah. But none of it’s chosen by you. It’s all assigned.”
The line went quiet. Ushijima didn’t disagree.
“I’m not saying you need to date,” Tendō continued, gentler now. “Or go looking for anything dramatic. Just—maybe stop meeting people in places where they already think they know you. Try something that has nothing to do with volleyball. Somewhere you don’t have to carry anything.”
“What would that accomplish?” Ushijima asked.
Tendō smiled, even though Ushijima couldn’t see it. “It’d give someone a chance to meet Wakatoshi, not UshiWaka. Big difference.”
Ushijima’s grip tightened slightly around his phone. He pictured unfamiliar spaces, unfamiliar expectations. The idea wasn’t uncomfortable — just untested.
“I don’t think I’m missing anything,” he said after a moment.
“I know,” Tendō replied. “You wouldn’t. That’s kind of the problem.”
There was no laughter this time, only warmth. “You’ve always been good at enduring,” Tendō added. “I just think you deserve something you don’t have to endure at all.”
Ushijima didn’t answer immediately. Outside his window, the city lights were steady, distant. When he spoke again, his voice was even, but quieter.
“I wouldn’t know where to start.”
Tendō’s tone brightened, just a little. “Good. That means you haven’t already decided it won’t work.”
It happened in an uneventful, unsuspecting evening.
He had walked farther than necessary. The grocery store wasn’t close; it was one of those weekend pilgrimages for people who treated food like religion. Organic this, fermented that, powders with ingredients he couldn’t pronounce — exactly the sort of place athletes and minor celebrities haunted. He could have had the items delivered but liked walking and didn’t need much. It was quiet, predictable, and usually didn’t involve anyone asking him for an autograph.
He had spent precisely forty-two minutes inside, which was longer than he intended. Only a few items — some kale, a jar of chia seeds, protein bars — but the checkout line had been unusually slow, the cashier unusually chatty. He didn’t particularly mind, but he could have gone without.
As he exited, breathing lightly from the walk rather than exertion, he saw them. A cluster of faces he knew only from Instagram. Fans, a couple of cameras sticking out like awkward appendages. Some paparazzi had apparently stationed themselves nearby. How they knew he was here, he didn’t know. He assumed someone had called them, or posted online, or maybe it was just coincidence. The universe liked irony.
Usually he would have waved, maybe entertained them a little bit, but today was his day off and he was in no mood. He adjusted the straps of his tote bag, pretending not to notice them, walking as if nothing had changed. They called his name. A lot. They shouted. He picked up his pace. Not running yet — just briskly, like a pedestrian with somewhere vaguely urgent to be.
They followed. He could hear them — shrill, enthusiastic, and slightly off-key in unison. Rounding the corner of the building, he broke into a run. Clearly, there was no logical way a crowd could maintain pace with an athlete like him, but they tried anyway. Idiots.
He spotted a door ahead, half-hidden, inconspicuous. Instinctively, he ducked through it. The heavy thud of his sneakers on the mat sounded loud in the quiet interior. He leaned against the wall, hand on his knees trying to breathe properly.
Then, behind him, a voice: “…are you alright?”
Ushijima turned around.
The door had led him into the back of a bookstore… or a library. Quiet, orderly, smelled faintly of paper and polished wood. He paused mid-breath, trying to recalibrate. This was not the emergency exit he had expected, nor the convenient alleyway for a quick escape.
And there she was.
A woman, standing next to a shelf not far from the door, small enough to seem fragile beside him but not so tiny as to be faintly cartoonish. Average height for a Japanese woman, he guessed, soft around the edges — not chubby, just… a little pudgy. Somehow cute, though he could not have explained why that mattered at all. She wore glasses that made her eyes look bigger than they probably were, yet somehow hidden at the same time, which only made her seem more careful, more measured.
She looked… startled. Rightfully so. Concerned. A little frozen.
Of course. He had barreled through the door, clearly running for some vague reason of life or death. His hair was messy, his expression locked in what other people had kindly called a “resting face that makes you look like you’re planning a military operation.” He knew it was intimidating. Always had.
She tilted her head slightly, her voice careful, almost whispering, edged with concern.
“Sir? Are you alright? Do you need help?”
The words weren’t loud. They didn’t demand anything from him. They simply existed, soft, unobtrusive, offered with genuine curiosity and caution.
Ushijima froze for a moment. He hadn’t expected anyone to notice. He hadn’t expected anyone to… care.
“I… can I hide here for a few minutes?” Ushijima asked, his voice clipped, careful, betraying none of the urgency in his chest.
Her eyes widened, and she took a cautious step back, as if he’d just admitted to something deeply alarming.
“Hiding?” she repeated. “From… the police?” Her tone slipped into panic for just a moment. “Because if this is a crime situation, I’m afraid this library does not offer asylum—and I will be exiting the conversation immediately. Sir. No.”
Ushijima froze.
She will not assist criminals, he thought. That is reasonable.
He had not considered that angle. In hindsight, her reaction was logical. Libraries were places of order. Rules. Quiet. Harboring fugitives would conflict with that.
“I am not,” he said immediately, a little too firmly. “A criminal.”
He paused, then added, because accuracy mattered, “Nor am I being pursued by the police.”
Her posture did not relax.
“I’m… running from the press.” he said, holding up a hand, almost apologetically.
Her head tilted to one side, confusion written across her face like a cat trying to figure out a math problem. “The press?”
Before he could explain further, there was a thud from the other side of the door he had come through. Ushijima froze, muscles tensing. His eyes widened in a way that even his stoic face couldn’t conceal. “HELP,” they seemed to scream.
And then she got it.
Without a word, she pointed toward a small desk tucked in the corner. Ushijima didn’t hesitate. He dove behind it just as the door burst open.
From his crouched vantage point, he couldn’t see them, but he could hear everything. They talked, very loudly, among themselves first. Scrambling around to see if they could spot him. But then the woman shushed them very loudly before clapping her hands sharply to get their attention.
“I don’t know what you think this place is, but if it involves shouting and stampeding, you’re several blocks off. This is a library, not a zoo. If you’re going to behave like animals, please do it somewhere with fewer books and more enclosures.”
“Have you seen him? Did Ushiwaka come through here?”
“What on earth are you talking about?”
“He ran down this alley and disappeared! We finally caught him on a day off and he just slipped through our fingers!”
“You chased someone on their day off? Incredible. Truly. Do none of you have shame? Also—this is a library, not a magic portal. No one burst through the back door. Now please leave before you disrupt anything else.”
Her voice was calm, quiet even, but every word cut through the noise like steel. There was no hesitation, no faltering, just authority tempered with restraint. She shushed them loudly and sternly a few times, each “SHHH!” punctuated with such presence that they quickly realized they weren’t dealing with someone timid.
A few more stern words, a final glare, and the press shuffled out like sheep, muttering. She closed the back door behind them and turned the lock. Silence fell immediately, thick and strange in comparison to the chaos from a minute ago.
Ushijima exhaled slowly, almost theatrically, as if his lungs were only now allowed to function. He stayed crouched under the desk, leaning against it, closing his eyes. His hands rested on his knees, the pulse in his neck gradually slowing. He didn’t move for several breaths. He didn’t leave. He just… let himself exist for the first time since the pursuit began.
When he finally opened his eyes, she was there. Not looming. Not too close. She crouched a few feet away, careful, deliberate, giving him space. Enough to breathe. Enough to feel slightly less ridiculous hiding under a desk like a criminal.
Her expression was calm, kind, genuinely concerned. She held out a bottle of water, cool and unassuming.
She didn’t say anything. Didn’t demand an explanation, didn’t quiz him. She just… offered it.
Ushijima blinked at it, then at her. Then, for lack of a better response, he said, simply, “Thank you.”
Her eyes softened slightly, but still alert, still in charge. She didn’t answer. She just waited, a silent presence in the quiet library, giving him exactly what he needed without a word.
“You can stay here as long as you like,” she said, her voice calm, steady. “There aren’t many people here today. I’ll be at the front desk. Let me know if you need anything.”
With that, she rose smoothly and walked away, her presence fading but not disappearing entirely. Ushijima stayed crouched under the desk a moment longer, letting the silence settle.
Once he was sure she had returned to her post, he shifted slightly, sitting back against the desk. He took a slow breath, staring at the polished wood floor, at the neat stacks of books. He had no reason to linger here, no real reason at all, and yet… he didn’t move.
After a few more breaths, he pushed himself upright, stretching stiff shoulders, testing his joints. The quiet creak of the floorboards under the desk reminded him he wasn’t invisible. Carefully, deliberately, he slid out from under the desk.
She looked up almost immediately, not startled, not flustered. Just alert.
“Feeling better?” she asked simply.
“Yes,” he replied, voice clipped, as always. “Fine.”
Her eyebrows lifted slightly, like she had half-expected him to say otherwise. “That’s good,” she said. “Do you… need anything else?”
Ushijima considered it. Water? Already given. Space? Already provided. Patience? Apparently unlimited. He didn’t know what to say. So he didn’t.
“I’m… okay,” he repeated, more out of habit than need.
She nodded once, once that somehow conveyed understanding, and sat back slightly at her desk, giving him room without words.
He noticed, despite himself, the quiet way she had arranged herself — small, unassuming gestures that somehow made the space feel safer, calmer, less absurd.
He realized then that no one had ever treated him like this. Not his teammates, not his coaches, not even family. No one had simply… let him be, acknowledged him without pressing or prodding.
“You’re calm,” he said finally, in his blunt, understated way. “Even after…” He gestured vaguely toward the door.
Her lips twitched, almost like a suppressed smile. “I work in a library,” she said dryly. “Calm is… part of the job.”
He blinked. Not an explanation, not a lecture, not a joke. Just a fact. Delivered plainly.
And Ushijima Wakatoshi, usually impervious to the ordinary and unremarkable, found himself… intrigued.
After a few more seconds of standing there, Ushijima realized something: he didn’t know how long he was supposed to stay. He wasn’t used to this kind of… neutral attention. Calm, kind, patient attention. Not probing, not fawning. Just… there.
He cleared his throat lightly. “I… thank you,” he said, his voice clipped, precise, but carrying a hint of genuine gratitude. “For… the water. And… helping with… earlier.”
She gave a small nod, the kind that said, I understand, without needing anything more. “You’re welcome,” she said softly.
Then, after a pause, “Goodbye,” he said, bowing his head slightly, careful, polite.
“Goodbye.”
He turned and walked toward the front of the library. The door led him out to the main street, bright with afternoon sun and the hum of city life. He squinted, momentarily disoriented by the sudden exposure to noise and movement.
He didn’t want a repeat of the earlier mobbing incident, so he kept his head down, scanned the street, and hailed a cab. The driver gave him a questioning glance, probably used to odd requests from passengers who preferred discretion. Ushijima slid into the back seat, adjusted his bag on his lap, and let the city blur past.
Home. Quiet. Predictable. Safe.
He settled into the familiar rhythm of his apartment—shoes placed neatly by the door, bag set down, lights turned on in the same order as always. Everything was as it should be.
And yet, the encounter lingered.
Not loudly. Not insistently. It did not demand his attention or intrude upon his thoughts. It simply… remained. A small, persistent presence in the back of his mind.
He had not expected that.
He wasn’t sure why it mattered. But something about the calm, ordinary presence of the librarian had left a trace—one he couldn’t quite ignore.
It was strange. Intrusive, even, how something so simple could stay with him. She hadn’t asked who he was. She hadn’t questioned him, stared, whispered, or assumed anything. She hadn’t fawned or made a spectacle of his discomfort. She hadn’t treated him like a celebrity caught somewhere he didn’t belong.
She had treated him like a person.
He found himself examining the memory with the same precision he applied to studying a match—careful, methodical, searching for understanding. She hadn’t pushed. Hadn’t pried. Hadn’t asked for explanations or reassurance. She hadn’t even demanded that he justify himself—why he’d run inside, why he looked rattled, why he was clearly out of place.
She had simply handed him water. Given him space. Let him breathe.
No one had ever done that.
He considered whether it was her personality, her profession, or simple chance that had made her that way. Perhaps it was nothing remarkable at all—just a woman doing her job with quiet competence.
And yet.
No fanfare. No assumptions. No expectations. Just calm. Just kindness—not the performative kind that sought praise or gratitude, but the kind that existed on its own, without asking anything in return.
It was… unsettling.
Not unpleasant. Not unwelcome.
Just unfamiliar.
The thought of seeing her again produced a small, unfamiliar sense of anticipation. The kind of unfamiliar that lingered longer than it should have.
It occurred to him, then—belatedly—that in his rattled state, he had not introduced himself. He had accepted her help and left without offering even the most basic courtesy in return.
That was rude.
The realization sat heavily with him. Ushijima Wakatoshi valued discipline. Respect. Proper conduct. And by his own standards, he had failed to meet them.
He thought, briefly, of Tendō’s voice in the back of his mind—of suggestions about trying something different, about interacting with people outside the rigid boundaries of his usual world.
Perhaps this was what he had meant.
After a moment of quiet consideration, Ushijima reached a conclusion.
He would go back.
Not to hide. Not to escape.
But to thank her properly.
The following weekend, after a morning of light practice and a careful breakfast, Ushijima set out on foot.
The streets were quieter than during the week, the city’s usual roar softened to the hum of weekend traffic. He adjusted the bag over his shoulder and focused on the route to the library, keeping a low profile.
No distractions. No surprises.
He arrived a little after noon. The library’s exterior was calm, unassuming—no press, no crowd. Just the faint scent of old books and polished wood drifting through the slightly open doors.
He paused outside for a moment, assessing the familiar structure with the same tactical caution he approached everything else. Then, after a slow breath, he stepped inside.
The quiet wrapped around him immediately. Familiar. Safe. Predictable.
And there she was.
At the front desk, as before—calm, patient, unaware that his return had been intentional.
Ushijima’s heart didn’t race. But it did take notice.
He inclined his head slightly as he approached, careful not to startle her this time.
She looked up—and her eyes widened just a fraction, pleasant surprise flickering across her face.
“Oh, hello,” she said softly, a smile forming. “You’re back.”
“Yes,” he replied evenly. “…I returned.”
Her smile lingered. “I’m glad. I wasn’t sure I’d ever see you again.”
He paused. The words he’d rehearsed settled awkwardly on his tongue.
“…I should not have left without acknowledging you properly. That was… rude.”
She shook her head lightly. “It was fine. Really.”
He considered her, precise as ever.
“…I am Ushijima Wakatoshi,” he said, bowing slightly.
Her expression softened further—no shock, no sudden awe. Just warmth.
“I’m Saitō Midori,” she replied. “It’s nice to meet you properly, Ushijima-san.”
“…Saitō -san,” he repeated quietly, testing the sound. Ordinary. Fitting.
A comfortable pause followed—one Ushijima noted he wasn’t used to. Kindness without expectation was rare.
She tilted her head, curious but not prying.
“So,” she said lightly, “are you browsing today—or hiding again?”
The corner of his mouth twitched. Almost a smile.
“…Both,” he admitted. “And perhaps… apologizing in person.”
She chuckled softly. “You didn’t need to. But I appreciate it.”
A beat passed.
Then she glanced toward the entrance.
“No mob forming behind you this time?”
“No,” he said. “I adjusted my route.”
She blinked. “…You adjusted your route.”
“Yes.”
That earned a quiet laugh.
“Well. Welcome back, then.”
“I wished to thank you,” he added. “Again. Your assistance was… effective.”
“High praise,” she said, amused.
She leaned forward slightly. “You were pretty busy outrunning a small army of cameras, after all.”
His brow furrowed. “It was approximately twelve people.”
She froze—then laughed, softer this time. “You counted?”
“Yes.”
Something about that made her smile linger.
“Well,” Midori said, tapping the desk lightly, “if you’re here to read, I can recommend something calm. Minimal crowds.”
“That would be preferable,” he said immediately.
“Come on, then.”
As she led him between the shelves, Ushijima followed in silence—but found himself thinking, with mild surprise, that her humor was… efficient. Dry. Unexpected.
Amusing.
The library closed around them in soft light and quiet.
And for the first time in days, he felt like he could breathe.