Hey, Can I Make Nsfw Requests?

Hey I really love the way you write it’s so fun to read and really fits the characters. I wanted to request you making small drabbles or a series on how the haikyu characters would treat you while youre pregnant. If it’s something you don’t want to write no worries. 🩷

OMGG yesss I love that idea 🙈🙈🙈 It goes so well with my other mini-series ehehe, I'm 100% adding it to the roster!! Thank you for your sweet words, they never fail to make my day.

For you! Gorgeous Human!! Enjoy <333 --

Pregnancy: Ushijima

Ushijima has been overprotective since the very beginning.

The second those two lines showed up on the test, it was like a switch flipped in him. He became your personal guard dog, nurse, chauffeur, meal planner, and human forklift all rolled into one stoic package.

It was kind of sweet—at first. The way he’d gently tug your hand away if you tried to carry anything heavier than a spoon. The way he’d Google symptoms with intense focus, like your morning sickness was a tactical challenge he could overcome with enough research. The way he sat through every prenatal appointment like it was the Olympics and he was preparing to win gold in fatherhood.

But by the third trimester?

You’re one more “let me do it” away from committing actual murder.

“I’m gonna change the sheets,” you say, bracing a hand on your lower back as you waddle toward the linen closet.

Before you even touch the doorknob, he’s there. He must have materialized from the floorboards.

“I’ll do it,” he says.

You blink up at him. “Wakatoshi—”

“The mattress is heavy.”

“I’m not flipping it! I’m just changing the sheets.”

Still, he reaches over you and pulls out the linens like it’s already been decided. “Sit down. I’ll take care of it.”

You stare at him, nostrils flaring, lips twitching, but you don’t fight it. Not yet.

Then come the groceries. The laundry. The vacuum you so much as glance at. And every time, he gets to it before you can even try. Every time, he gently insists. Every time, you swallow the urge to scream.

Until now.

You step onto the footstool to reach the top kitchen cabinet—one single bowl, that’s all you want—and he appears in the doorway like a haunted house spirit.

“Don’t,” he says sharply.

That’s it. That’s the moment you snap.

“USHIJIMA,” you explode, flinging your arms wide in a very dramatic but very off-balanced motion. “I am pregnant. Not porcelain. I can do things! I can move and lift and stretch and reach and I would like to do one thing—just ONE THING—by myself without you treating me like I’m going to spontaneously combust!”

He pauses. Blinks. That stoic face giving you absolutely nothing.

“…You were wobbling,” he says.

“I always wobble! I’m basically a giant, sentient bowling pin at this point!”

“I don’t want to take chances,” he says, calm as ever.

“Well I want to do something myself!”

He hesitates. You can practically hear the gears turning in his head. Eventually, he steps back and says simply, “Okay. Do it.”

Oh. Oh he did not just call your bluff.

You puff out your chest, grab the cabinet door for balance, and go for it. Fingers brush the edge of the bowl, victory within reach—

—and then you realize you can’t quite twist back down. You’re halfway off the stool and stuck. Pride flickers. Stomach tightens. Arms flail just a little.

“…Toshi?” you call, voice small. “I, um. I need help.”

He’s there in seconds.

Strong arms wrap around you, lifting you like you weigh nothing. He sets you gently on the floor like a queen being lowered onto her throne.

“You were saying?” he murmurs, hand on the small of your back.

You scowl. “I hate you.”

“You don’t,” he replies smoothly. “You just hate that I’m right.”

You slump against his chest, bowl in hand, your forehead hitting the middle of his sternum. His hand rubs up and down your spine. You sigh dramatically.

“You’re so annoying.”

“And you’re still holding the bowl.”

“…Shut up.”

Unrequited Love: Oikawa (Bonus)

The team was loud, as always.

Oikawa, now freshly showered and looking somewhat like himself again, was in the middle of being teased by Hanamaki and Matsukawa.

“So, Captain, let’s talk about your tragic love life,” Matsukawa said, slinging an arm around Oikawa’s shoulders.

Hanamaki took a dramatic sip of his drink. “Yeah, we all knew she was gonna break up with you before you did. What does that say about you, huh?”

“Shut up,” Oikawa groaned, smacking Matsukawa’s arm off him, though there was no real heat behind it. You could see his mood rising with every passing moment.

“Hey, at least you still have volleyball,” Matsukawa said, raising his glass like he was making a toast.

“Right, the one true love of your life,” Hanamaki added with a smirk.

Oikawa sighed dramatically. “You guys are the worst.”

You watched from the side, letting their banter wash over you. The ache from earlier was still there, a dull weight in your chest, but at least Oikawa wasn’t sulking anymore. That was the important thing.

A presence appeared beside you, and you didn’t even have to look to know it was Hajime.

“I’m impressed,” he admitted, crossing his arms as he watched Oikawa shove Hanamaki. “I tried to get him out of bed earlier, but he wouldn’t budge.”

You smirked, nudging him lightly with your elbow. “That’s because you don’t know how to sweet-talk him, Hajime.”

He rolled his eyes. “Oh, please. If I tried sweet-talking Oikawa, I’d never hear the end of it.”

You snickered. “Yeah, he’d probably take that as an invitation to propose.”

Hajime shook his head, amused, before glancing at you, his expression shifting into something more knowing. “So,” he said casually, “are you going to make a move, or are we just going to keep going in circles?”

You exhaled sharply, running a hand through your hair. “Please, you should’ve seen what he told me earlier.”

Hajime raised an eyebrow.

You turned to him, pressing a hand to your chest mockingly, and sighed dramatically. “He looked me in the eye, Hajime. And do you know what he said?”

Hajime waited.

“You’re a good friend,” you deadpanned, voice dripping with bitterness.

Hajime winced. “Ouch.”

“Yeah.” You let out a short laugh, shaking your head. “So, no, I’m not making a move. Not when he clearly doesn’t see me that way.”

Hajime was quiet for a moment before shrugging. “You never know. He’s an idiot. You might have to spell it out for him.”

You huffed, watching as Oikawa dramatically whined about something to the others. “Yeah, well… I think I’ve done enough for one night.” Then you hear a whine of your name. You look over to Oikawa's pleading face along with Matsun's and Makki's devious ones.

“You promised me they would give me a break!” Oikawa suddenly called out, his voice carrying over the chatter of the team. His eyes locked onto yours, pleading dramatically, though the glint of betrayal was exaggerated.

You rolled your eyes but couldn’t suppress a smirk. “C’mon, guys, give him some slack,” you called, raising your hands in surrender.

Hanamaki gasped in mock offense. “Oh, so now you’re defending him?”

“She’s going soft,” Matsukawa said, shaking his head.

“I am not going soft,” you shot back, narrowing your eyes.

Hajime, beside you, smirked before stepping forward. “Actually, now that I think about it… didn’t Oikawa almost cry in first-year when he lost his favorite knee pads?”

Oikawa whipped around. “Iwa-chan.”

“Oh, right!” Hanamaki’s eyes lit up. “The ones with the little stars on them?”

“You guys swore to take that to the grave!” Oikawa cried, scandalized.

“I don’t know, man,” Matsukawa said, leaning back with a grin. “Kind of sounds like a moment that deserves to be remembered.”

As the teasing escalated, Oikawa slumped in his seat, arms crossed, pouting like a child. “I hate all of you.”

You laughed at the whole exchange, and when you glanced back at Oikawa, expecting him to still be sulking, you caught something different—something small, almost imperceptible.

He was smiling.

It was barely there, just a slight tug at the corners of his lips, but it was real. And for a brief moment, as his gaze lifted, he met your eyes.

The world around you blurred, and warmth spread through your chest. You swore you felt your heart stutter, just for a second.

And then, as quickly as the moment had happened, you cursed yourself for it.

Get a grip, you scolded yourself, tearing your gaze away.

Oikawa was still laughing with the others, completely unaware of the effect he had on you.

You exhaled, shaking your head, willing the butterflies away.

Hajime, still standing beside you, didn’t say anything, but when you glanced at him, he was looking at you with a knowing expression.

“Not a word,” you muttered.

He smirked. “Didn’t say anything.”

You groaned, shoving his shoulder, but he only chuckled in response.

Jealousy: Osamu

The scent of rich broth and fresh noodles hung thick in the air, filling Osamu’s restaurant with a warmth that, under any other circumstance, he would have appreciated.

But tonight? Tonight, it was the smell of betrayal.

Osamu leaned against the counter, arms crossed, watching with thinly veiled irritation as you happily slurped down another bite of Atsumu’s ramen.

His twin sat across from you, looking way too pleased with himself, arms folded as he watched you enjoy his so-called cooking.

Osamu hated that look.

It was the same damn smirk Atsumu had worn their whole lives—whenever he managed to piss Osamu off, whenever he got away with something he shouldn’t have, whenever he won by sheer bullshit luck.

And now? Now he was wearing it in Osamu’s own shop.

"Damn, ‘Tsumu," you sighed, tilting the bowl to sip the broth. "This is amazing. I didn’t know you could cook like this!"

Osamu felt a deep, personal offense settle in his bones.

His entire career revolved around food. He had spent years perfecting his recipes, testing flavors, fine-tuning every last detail. He had trained under some of the best chefs, built this restaurant from the ground up.

And now, here you were, gushing over a bowl of glorified college survival food.

Atsumu leaned back, smug. "Told ya. I got talents."

Osamu let out a slow, controlled breath through his nose.

"You put a packet of dried seasoning into hot water," he said flatly.

You blinked. "Yeah, but the broth is really flavorful! What did you put in it, ‘Tsumu?"

Atsumu smirked, tipping his head like he was about to unveil some grand chef's secret. "Oh, ya know, just instinct—"

"It’s instant."

You didn’t even catch the shift in energy, completely oblivious to the deadly stare Osamu was leveling at his twin.

Atsumu sucked in a sharp breath through his teeth. “Technically, yeah," he admitted, "but I added some stuff—”

“Oh, yeah?” Osamu lifted a brow, arms still crossed tight. “And what’d ya add, exactly?”

Atsumu suddenly found the ceiling very interesting. “Uh. A soft-boiled egg.”

Osamu’s eye twitched.

Silence stretched between them.

Tension thick enough to cut with a knife.

You, utterly unaware, stretched with a satisfied sigh. “I’m gonna run to the bathroom real quick.”

You leaned down to press a quick kiss to Osamu’s cheek—normally enough to calm him down—but he was too busy staring daggers at his brother to even register it.

The second the door shut behind you, Osamu turned to Atsumu.

“What’s your deal?”

Atsumu blinked, mouth half-full of noodles. “Huh?”

Osamu’s jaw tightened. “Ya woke up today and decided to piss me off?”

“For makin’ ramen?”

"She liked it."

Atsumu stared, then—as if the realization physically smacked him across the face—his lips curled into a slow, knowing smirk.

“Oh my god,” he whispered, like he was witnessing something life-changing. His eyes gleamed with mischief. "Are ya—jealous?"

Osamu stiffened.

"Shut up."

"No. No way." Atsumu clutched his chest like he had just been blessed with the funniest joke in history. "Yer seriously mad ‘cause she liked my ramen?”

"Ya don’t cook," Osamu shot back, glaring. "That’s my thing."

Atsumu laughed. Full, loud, obnoxious cackles that echoed through the kitchen.

“Oh, ‘Samu,” he wheezed, wiping an imaginary tear from the corner of his eye. "I promise, yer the only chef in my heart."

Osamu grabbed a dishtowel and launched it straight at his face.

Atsumu barely dodged in time, still laughing like a damn hyena.

By the time you returned, Atsumu was half-wheezing into his bowl, Osamu was murdering a pile of green onions with his knife, and the air was thick with something way more intense than sibling rivalry.

You raised an eyebrow. "Uh… did I miss something?"

Atsumu, struggling to breathe through his grin, pointed a dramatic finger at his twin.

Osamu, without looking up, muttered, "He’s banned from my kitchen."

Rivalry: Oikawa

Oikawa Tooru was used to attention.

From the moment he stepped onto the court, eyes followed. Girls sighed when he passed by in the hallways, classmates lit up when he so much as looked in their direction. He had charm, he had skill, and he had a smile that could make anyone—anyone—melt.

Except for the manager.

And it drove him insane.

When she became Seijoh’s team manager, Oikawa expected the usual routine. A few flustered glances, maybe a nervous stammer or two when he spoke to her. Instead? She barely gave him the time of day. Her eyes never lingered, her voice stayed firm, and when he flashed one of his award-winning smiles, she only responded with a flat, unimpressed stare.

At first, it was amusing. A fun little challenge. But as weeks passed, that amusement turned to frustration. Why wasn’t she falling for him like everyone else? Why did it feel like the harder he tried, the more indifferent she became? It was unnatural—Oikawa had spent years perfecting the art of attention, the delicate balance of charm and arrogance that made people gravitate toward him. And yet, she stood there, unmoved, like he was just another player on the team.

It gnawed at him. It wasn’t just that she ignored his flirtation—it was that she treated him exactly the same as she treated everyone else. It made him feel… ordinary.

Oikawa made it a point to test her patience.

“Manager-chan, be honest,” Oikawa mused lazily, twirling a volleyball between his fingers, his tone laced with smug amusement. "Do you ever get tired of pretending you’re immune to my charm?"

She didn’t even look up from her clipboard, her fingers flying across the page as she made notes. "Do you ever get tired of being a desperate attention-seeker?"

Iwaizumi choked on his water, while Hanamaki and Matsukawa outright cackled, exchanging wide-eyed looks of glee. Even Kyōtani, who usually ignored their antics, raised an eyebrow, glancing up from his shoe-lacing. Oikawa, however, was left standing there, momentarily stunned by the sheer disrespect.

“That was uncalled for,” he gasped, clutching his chest as if mortally wounded.

She finally spared him a glance, her gaze flat and unimpressed. "So is your existence, and yet, here we are."

The team erupted. Hanamaki practically slid to the floor from laughing too hard, Matsukawa was bent over the bench wheezing, and even Iwaizumi wiped a hand over his face, shaking his head. "She’s got a point, though."

Oikawa scowled, gripping the volleyball just a little too tight. "Unbelievable. I slave away on the court, leading this team, and this is the gratitude I get? A cruel, heartless manager who refuses to appreciate my many, many talents."

"Oh, I appreciate your talents," she responded coolly, flipping to another page in her notebook. "Just not the ones you want me to."

His mouth opened, then closed, irritation flickering behind his eyes. She had played him—so effortlessly, so ruthlessly, and in front of the whole team, no less. He hated how easily she dismissed him, like he was some annoying background noise. It wasn’t just about her brushing off his flirting anymore—he wanted to rattle her, to break through that ridiculous indifference she seemed to have toward him.

And for the first time in a long while, Oikawa didn’t know how to win.

And that was how it started.

Oikawa made it his personal mission to get a reaction out of her. He turned up the charm, exaggerating his requests, leaving his jersey in the most inconvenient places just to force her to interact with him. And through it all, she remained perfectly unbothered.

Which only made things worse.

During practice, Oikawa's patience had started to fray. What once had been playful teasing was now laced with something sharper, something almost mean. He leaned in too close, his voice lower, more clipped. "You work so hard, manager-chan. Doesn’t it ever get exhausting pretending I don’t bother you?"

She barely spared him a glance. "Not nearly as exhausting as listening to you grasp at straws for my attention."

His fingers twitched at his sides, irritation flaring. It wasn’t supposed to be like this. He was supposed to be the one getting under her skin—not the other way around.. Whenever she’d pass by with the clipboard, he’d throw an arm over her shoulder, lean in just a little too close, and sigh dramatically. "You work so hard, manager-chan. Doesn’t it ever get tiring, pretending you don’t like me?"

"Not as tiring as listening to you talk," she quipped back, shaking him off effortlessly.

That made the rest of the team howl with laughter, much to Oikawa’s dismay.

But the more she dismissed him, the more he found himself noticing her.

How she always had a spare towel ready for anyone who needed it, how her lips twitched when she held back a smile, how she somehow always knew exactly where to be, exactly what needed to be done. The way she’d mutter under her breath when the gym got too chaotic, how she pushed her sleeves up to her elbows when she was in full focus mode.

Even worse, he noticed that she laughed at other people’s jokes. Not his.

It was infuriating.

The way she treated him—like he was just another player, no more important than anyone else—made something coil tight in his chest. It was wrong. He should matter.

As the season went on, their dynamic became something of a spectacle. Matsukawa and Hanamaki kept a running tally on how many times Oikawa failed to get a reaction from her. Even Kyōtani, normally disinterested in team antics, had muttered once, "Why does he even care?"

Practice was no different.

One day, he strolled in late, expecting to slide by unnoticed. Instead, the manager barely glanced up from her clipboard before sighing dramatically.

"And the king has graced us with his presence," she drawled, flipping a page without looking up. "Should we all kneel? Maybe throw some rose petals while we're at it?"

Oikawa's expression twitched. His fingers flexed around the strap of his bag before he forced a scoff. "You wound me, manager-chan. I’d expect at least a little appreciation for my presence."

She finally looked at him, unimpressed. "I’d appreciate it more if you actually showed up on time."

The snickers from the team were immediate. Matsukawa nudged Hanamaki, both grinning like they had front-row seats to the best show in town. Iwaizumi just shook his head, barely hiding his smirk.

Oikawa exhaled through his nose, jaw clenching slightly before he tilted his head, voice dropping just a fraction. "Careful, manager-chan. One of these days, someone’s going to mistake that attitude of yours for something else."

She arched a brow. "Oh? And what’s that?"

"Repressed admiration." His smirk was sharp, eyes locked on hers like he was waiting—daring her to react.

She let a slow smirk creep onto her face. "That’s funny. I was thinking the same thing about you."

Oikawa stiffened for a half-second. It was barely noticeable, but she caught it. And it infuriated him.

Hanamaki snorted. Matsukawa muttered a quiet "brutal" under his breath, and Iwaizumi, ever the opportunist, smirked as he crossed his arms. "Yeah, Oikawa. You expecting a parade or something?"

Oikawa rolled his eyes, adjusting the strap of his bag. "I was—"

"Stretching starts now," she cut him off smoothly, pointing at the mats without even sparing him a second look. "If Iwaizumi yells at you for skipping, I’m certainly not covering for you."

Iwaizumi clapped a hand on Oikawa’s back, grinning. "Yeah, Shittykawa, stretching starts now."

Oikawa groaned, tossing his head back dramatically. "You just like bossing me around."

"Someone has to." She finally looked at him, gaze neutral, unimpressed. Then, before he could respond, she turned and walked off, already shifting her attention to something else, like he wasn’t even worth her time.

He scowled. Why did it feel like he lost that exchange?

The next few weeks were much of the same. The team noticed, amused by the ongoing battle. They weren’t even subtle about it anymore.

"Oikawa, just accept defeat," Matsukawa teased one afternoon, leaning against the gym wall as he watched her deep in conversation with Iwaizumi, clipboard in hand, discussing strategy. She was nodding at something Iwaizumi said, her brow furrowed in concentration, flipping a page in her notes. Oikawa barely heard the words being exchanged, too focused on the way she looked—completely absorbed in the discussion, giving Iwaizumi the full weight of her attention. It was so effortless for her, this back-and-forth, the way she actually cared about his vice-captain’s input, about the game.

His grip on the volleyball tightened. Why did it feel like she never talked to him like that? "She’s immune. It’s kind of inspiring."

Oikawa scoffed, crossing his arms. "I will win. Just wait."

But the truth was, it wasn’t about winning anymore. It wasn’t about charming her or getting a reaction—Oikawa realized, somewhere between watching her scribble notes on the clipboard and catching glimpses of her tying her hair back, that he wanted her attention. He wanted her to look at him the way she looked at the others, wanted to hear her laugh because of him.

And that was unacceptable.

The breaking point finally came after a game.

The team had secured another victory, but the entire time, Oikawa’s mind wasn’t on the match. It wasn’t on his perfectly placed serves, on the points he racked up, or even on the cheers from the crowd.

It was on her.

She had celebrated, high-fiving Kyōtani, clapping Iwaizumi on the back, beaming as she praised the team for their effort. The smile she wore was bright, uninhibited, the kind of happiness he had never seen from her before. She was laughing—actually laughing—carefree and glowing as if this win meant the world to her.

And she hadn’t looked at him once.

He hated it.

Hated how effortless it was for her to shower attention on everyone else, how easily she smiled at them, joked with them, treated them as if they were worth her time. But him? She barely acknowledged his existence, acting as if he was nothing more than a passing nuisance.

His grip on his jersey tightened. Something inside him burned, sharp and unsettled, curling hot in his chest like an ember waiting to catch fire. It wasn’t fair. He had worked harder than anyone for this win, pushed himself beyond exhaustion to make sure they came out on top. And yet, when she smiled, when she laughed—it wasn’t because of him.

And that was the moment Oikawa snapped.

So when he saw her alone in the hallway after the match, clipboard in hand, he didn’t think.

"Why do you act like that?" His voice was tight, laced with frustration that he couldn't contain anymore.

She glanced up, brow raised. "Act like what?"

Oikawa stepped closer, his jaw clenching, heat simmering beneath his skin. "Like I’m nothing. Like I don’t exist. You joke with them, you celebrate with them, but with me? It’s like I could disappear and you wouldn’t even notice."

Her smirk was slow, taunting. "Oh, is that what this is about? You need me to fawn over you like everyone else? Poor Oikawa. Is it finally sinking in that I don’t care about stroking your over-inflated ego?"

His eyes darkened. "That’s not—"

She cut him off, stepping forward so the space between them all but disappeared. "You think I didn't know about you before I joined the team? You think I didn't know you'd try with me? I will not swoon and kiss your feet, Tooru."

Oikawa opened his mouth, but the words tangled. He wanted to refute it, to tell her it wasn’t about that, but the way she was looking at him—bold, unshaken, challenging—knocked the thoughts from his head.

He groaned in frustration, fingers twitching at his sides before he finally gave up fighting it. Before she could say another word, his hands shot up, gripping her waist as he yanked her toward him, lips crashing into hers.

It wasn’t soft. It wasn’t careful. It was messy, desperate, filled with months—years—of unresolved tension. His fingers curled against her hips, pulling her closer, his kiss carrying the weight of everything he couldn’t say. It was a demand, a declaration, a fight in its own right.

And the worst part? She kissed him back.

Her fingers curled into his jersey, yanking him closer as if daring him to take it further. He could feel her heartbeat, hammering against his own, and suddenly, nothing else mattered—not the game, not the team, not the rivalry that had defined them for so long.

Just him.

Just her.

When he finally pulled away, both of them breathless, Oikawa rested his forehead against hers, his hands still gripping her waist. He exhaled sharply, lips curving into something between a smirk and disbelief.

"You looked at me just now," he murmured, voice rough.

She huffed a laugh, fingers still tangled in his jersey. "Shut up," she whispered, then pulled him down and kissed him again.

It was just as desperate as before, just as fevered, but this time, there was something else—acceptance. She wasn’t pushing him away, wasn’t stopping to argue. She was right there with him, matching his intensity, giving as much as she took. It was infuriating. It was exhilarating. It was everything.

And then—

Footsteps.

A sharp intake of breath.

Both of them froze just as Iwaizumi and Matsukawa turned the corner.

Iwaizumi stopped mid-step. Matsukawa, wide-eyed, blinked once, then twice. The hallway fell into a suffocating silence.

Then, slowly, in perfect synchronization, both of them took a single step backward.

Another.

Without a word, they turned around and walked the other way, as if they had just stumbled into something forbidden.

Matsukawa exhaled as they rounded the corner. "Damn. He really did get her."

Iwaizumi nodded. "Yeah."

A beat of silence.

"I hate him," Iwaizumi muttered.

Matsukawa sighed. "Me too."

Hey so I really like your writing. Your fics are so inspiring...! Can I pretty please request a fic about Kita catching Reader off guard with a blunt love confession?? 🙏 I'd love to see what you come up with!

Aw inspiring?!! That is so sweet!! I love that I am what people were for me when I started writing (about 5 years ago!) so never give up and be proud of any work you make!! I hope you enjoy <333

--

Confessions: Kita

The thing about Kita Shinsuke is that he never does anything without purpose.

He speaks with intention, moves with care, and rarely—if ever—lets emotion get the better of him. He is dependable to a fault, calm even in the most chaotic situations, and as predictable as a rising sun. Which is why, when he turns to you one spring afternoon and says, "I’m in love with you," you nearly choke on your drink.

The two of you are sitting beneath the shade of a wide camphor tree near the back of the school, where the grass grows a little taller and the breeze feels like a secret only you two share. The breeze is soft, the air warm and sweet with the scent of new blossoms. You’d come out here to eat lunch together—something that had become a quiet ritual between you and Kita. No crowds, no noise. Just the two of you, sharing space, swapping stories, occasionally falling into long stretches of silence that never felt awkward. He always brings homemade bento boxes, neatly packed, and you bring snacks or something small to share.

You blink at him, unsure if you heard right. "Sorry—what?"

Kita is still looking at you, expression as steady and unreadable as ever. He’s holding a rice ball in one hand, his bento sitting neatly in his lap. "I said I’m in love with you."

There’s no hesitation. No blush. Just the plain delivery of truth—as if he’s pointing out the weather, or commenting on the quality of the rice today.

You nearly drop the bottle of tea in your hand. "Kita," you breathe, searching his face for a trace of humor or a tell that he’s messing with you. But he’s not. Of course he’s not.

Your heart stutters. "You can’t just say things like that out of nowhere, you know."

He tilts his head slightly. "Why not?"

"Because—" You flail for a second, grasping for something clever to say, something to make sense of the heat rising to your cheeks. "Because it’s—surprising."

Kita hums, thoughtfully chewing. "I didn’t think it would be. We spend time together. You bring me pickled plums even when I don’t ask. You save the last piece of tamagoyaki for me, even though it’s your favorite. You walk me to the gate every day, even when you’re running late. I thought maybe you felt the same."

You sputter, caught between the instinct to deny and the overwhelming realization that he’s right. You do all those things, and more. You always look for him in a crowded room. You always listen when he speaks, no matter how quiet his voice. You think about him in between classes, after practice, before bed. He’s right.

He continues, voice soft but sure. "You don’t have to say anything right now. I just thought it was time I told you."

And with that, he turns his gaze back to the tree branches swaying above you, like he didn’t just tilt your entire world on its axis. He takes another bite of his rice ball, completely composed, like he hadn’t just carved a confession into the air and left it hanging between you.

You sit in stunned silence for a moment longer, the breeze tugging gently at your sleeves. Everything feels quieter now. The breeze, the rustling branches, the distant sound of other students laughing in the courtyard—it all fades into a soft, blurred background. Your fingers tighten slightly around the tea bottle in your lap.

You steal a glance at him. He’s not looking at you. He’s perfectly calm, patient, and somehow that makes your chest ache more than if he’d confessed with nervous laughter or flushed cheeks. There’s no doubt, no need for reassurance. He meant it.

You reach over, plucking a stray leaf from his shoulder. You don’t know why—it just gives your hands something to do.

"You’re unbelievable," you mutter, shaking your head.

He glances at you, eyes curious but unbothered. "Is that a good thing?"

You let out a soft laugh, one that feels lighter than it should considering your heart is still racing in your chest. "I don’t even know. You really just said that like you were telling me we had PE next period."

He shrugs. "I meant it. I don’t think it needs to be complicated."

And you know he’s right again. Kita doesn’t dress things up. He doesn’t make things harder than they need to be. He doesn’t hide behind games or fear or doubt. He just is.

You look down at your lunch, your appetite forgotten. You can’t stop thinking about the things he said. The way he noticed your little habits. The way he didn’t need you to answer right away. The way he didn’t waver.

When you finally meet his eyes again, there’s a warmth blooming in your chest—slow and full, like sunlight rising through clouds.

"I’m in love with you too, you idiot," you say, and your voice is so quiet, so soft, that you almost expect him to miss it.

But he doesn’t.

Kita Shinsuke turns to you fully then, and for the first time all afternoon, he smiles.

Really, truly smiles.

And just like everything else he does, it’s quiet, intentional, and completely disarming.

He reaches for your hand—not suddenly, not dramatically, but gently, deliberately—and your fingers lace together like they were always meant to. You sit that way for a long time, the afternoon stretching endlessly before you, the breeze curling around your ankles, the scent of spring growing thicker with each passing minute.

Neither of you says much after that. You don’t need to.

Some things are better left to the quiet.

And Kita, as always, knows exactly what silence means.

waiting for megumi's class to end so they can play ૮⍝• ᴥ •⍝ა

Rivals: Kuroo Pt. 2

The office buzzed with the sounds of people wrapping up their day—chairs rolling back, papers shuffling, conversations turning light and easy as employees grabbed their things and made for the exit. The hum of voices filled the space as groups gathered near the doors, excitedly chatting about after-work drinks, dinner plans, or simply the bliss of heading home.

You forced a tight smile as you exchanged goodbyes, nodding along as a coworker clapped you on the shoulder, laughing about how you were always working too hard. If only they knew. If only they realized that, while they were off unwinding at some izakaya, you were about to be trapped in a nightmare.

The moment the last of them walked out, the heavy glass doors swinging shut behind them, your smile dropped. You exhaled sharply, shutting your office door with more force than necessary before leaning against it, letting your frustration take full hold. The walls muffled the distant chatter of people heading to the elevators, but all you could hear was the pounding of your own irritation.

This is ridiculous.

This is so, so ridiculous.

You should have been out there with them. Should have been free from all this nonsense. But no—because of him, you were stuck here, hunched over a campaign that never should have made it past a brainstorming session.

There was no way in hell you were about to march down to Kuroo’s office and work beside him like some cooperative pair. If you had to see his face right now, you might actually punch him, and that would be hard to explain to HR.

So, you settled for the only tolerable option: virtual communication.

You pulled up the campaign document and began typing out edits, slashing through the legal landmines Kuroo had casually placed like a menace. Your comments were pointed, efficient, and—fine—maybe a little passive-aggressive.

“You can’t claim this product ‘enhances’ anything without direct, proven research. I assume you don’t have a scientific study hidden somewhere? No? Then take it out.”

“This violates four separate consumer protection laws. FOUR, Kuroo. Are you collecting them like trophies?”

“You know full well we can’t guarantee these results. Unless you have psychic abilities, this has to go.”

It didn’t take long before Kuroo’s own comments started popping up.

“Trophies? I was thinking of making a bingo card.”

“No psychic abilities, but I do predict you’re going to keep glaring at your screen like that for another ten minutes before you take a break.”

You clenched your jaw, fingers hovering over the keyboard as his infuriatingly smug tone bled through even in text form.

But at least this way, you didn’t have to hear his voice. Didn’t have to see that lazy grin or the way he leaned against desks like he was permanently comfortable in any given space.

The two of you went back and forth like that for a while—your frustrations fueling your edits, his infuriating commentary punctuating them like some editorial nightmare.

Then, suddenly—

He stopped responding.

You frowned, staring at the document, watching the cursor blink mockingly. Five minutes passed. Then ten.

Was he ignoring you? Giving up?

You tapped your pen against your desk, debating whether you cared enough to message him first, when—

A knock sounded at your door.

Before you could even react, it swung open, and there he was—Kuroo Tetsurou, in the flesh.

His lean frame filled the doorway, one hand resting against the frame like he owned the place. He had his signature smirk in place, but there was something else in his expression too—something entertained, something knowing.

"Miss me?" he drawled, eyes flickering over your stiff posture, your clenched jaw. "You looked like you were having so much fun talking to me virtually, I figured you’d want the full experience."

You inhaled through your nose, already feeling the blood pressure spike.

You exhaled sharply, leveling him with a flat stare. "I figured there’d be less opportunity for violence."

And honestly, that wasn’t even a joke. The amount of restraint it had taken not to march down to his office and rip that smirk off his face with sheer force was immeasurable. You had chosen the safer option—the one where you didn’t have to look at him, hear him, or risk throwing a stapler at his head. And yet, here he was, standing in your doorway like he had been summoned from hell itself to personally test your patience.

He was insufferable. Smug, self-assured, a walking headache in human form. And if there was one thing you knew about Kuroo Tetsurou, it was that he never did anything without a reason. If he was here, standing in your office when you had both agreed to keep this virtual, then that meant—

Oh god. He had something planned.

Your fingers twitched, already anticipating whatever bullshit he was about to pull.

Kuroo chuckled, raising his hands in surrender. "I come in peace. And—" he paused, reaching into his bag, and before you could stop yourself, your eyes followed the movement.

Your breath caught when he pulled out an expensive-looking bottle of liquor. Not the cheap stuff you’d grab from a convenience store, but something premium, something that had been picked out with actual effort.

"—with a peace offering," he finished, his smirk tilting just enough to make your stomach twist.

You narrowed your eyes, suspicion lacing your thoughts as you stared at the bottle.

Was this a trick? Some underhanded play? He was good, you had to admit that—good at worming his way under your skin, good at making you react, good at playing you like a game he had already won.

Your pride warred with your exhaustion. The righteous fury you had been carrying all day was begging you to tell him to take his bottle and shove it where the sun didn’t shine. But then reality settled in.

You were going to be here for hours.

With him.

Your head throbbed at the thought, and suddenly, the idea of a drink didn’t seem so bad.

You sighed, rubbing your temple before muttering, "Let me get glasses."

As you turned toward the office cabinet where you kept miscellaneous supplies, including the occasional emergency stash of glassware, you heard the unmistakable sound of Kuroo grinning. Smug. Bastard.

"Well, that was easy," he mused, leaning lazily against the doorframe. "Didn’t think you indulged while working."

You shot him a sharp glare as you pulled out two glasses. "Well, I would've been at the bar by now, so consider yourself lucky."

Kuroo snorted, shaking his head. "Hey, blame the boss, not me."

You narrowed your eyes. "If you hadn’t pissed him off with that ridiculous campaign, he wouldn’t have cracked down on us."

Kuroo just grinned, pouring the drinks. "Technicalities, technicalities."

You huffed, shaking your head as you took a sip, feeling the warmth of the alcohol seep into your system. "Focus, Kuroo. We actually need to get this done."

"I am focused," he said, swirling his glass with lazy amusement. "Multitasking. Drinking and working—very efficient."

Rolling your eyes, you dragged your laptop closer, forcing the conversation back on track. Despite his insufferable presence, the two of you made progress, fine-tuning the proposal, fixing the compliance issues, and actually making something presentable.

And, unfortunately, the drinks didn’t stop at just one.

At first, it was just a sip to take the edge off. Then another when Kuroo cracked a joke so unexpectedly funny that even you couldn't suppress a snort. Then another after you argued over phrasing in a particularly stubborn section of the document, only to realize you were both right in different ways. Somewhere along the way, the line between tolerating Kuroo and actually enjoying the banter blurred.

Your body felt warm, pleasantly buzzed as the stress of the day melted away. You stopped feeling the sharp edge of frustration every time he spoke, and—maybe it was the alcohol—but the way he leaned back in his chair, shirt sleeves rolled up, smirk easy and lazy, didn’t seem quite as aggravating as before.

Another drink. Another laugh. Another sidetracked conversation.

Until—

Darkness.

When you blinked your eyes open, you weren’t in your office.

You weren’t even in your apartment.

A sharp, groggy awareness hit you all at once as you registered the unfamiliar ceiling above you, the soft sheets against your skin, the distinct lack of a work desk or legal documents anywhere in sight. And then—

The realization slammed into you like a freight train.

You were naked.

Your body stiffened, the cool air against your bare skin making it impossible to ignore the fact that you had absolutely nothing on beneath the sheets. Panic surged through you in waves, your mind scrambling to piece together what the hell had happened last night.

Then came the real kicker—the slow, steady sound of breathing beside you.

Heart hammering, you turned your head—and there, lying next to you, Kuroo Tetsurou.

Still asleep. Still shirtless. Still in his bed.

Oh, hell no.

Your breath caught in your throat as fragmented flashes of the night before flickered through your mind—hazy, disjointed, but unmistakable.

Your hands gripping his shirt, pulling him closer as your lips crashed against his. The low groan in his throat as he deepened the kiss, his hands gripping your waist, his touch feverish, desperate. The feeling of his fingers dragging down your spine, his mouth trailing along your neck, leaving marks you probably still had.

Your voice—breathless, needy—whispering his first name like a secret. "Tetsurou..."

The way he murmured your name against your skin, his breath hot and ragged. His body pressing against yours, strong, unrelenting, claiming every inch of you. The undeniable fire between you, building, burning, until there was nothing left but the desperate need to consume each other.

Another flash—

Your head tilting back, a gasp leaving your lips as his mouth devoured the sensitive skin of your throat. The way his voice turned hoarse, possessive, when he whispered in your ear, "You drive me insane."

Your body arching into him, nails raking down his back, every touch sending electric heat through your veins. The sound of the sheets rustling, the deep gravel of his moan, the feeling of being completely, utterly unraveled beneath him.

And then—

Your legs wrapped around his waist, his gritted teeth against your shoulder, his grip bruising as he held you still, his body pressing into yours with a hunger that felt like it would break you apart. The way he cursed under his breath, muttering something too low to fully remember, but you knew it was about you—about how good you felt, how much he wanted you.

Your own voice, breaking on a whimper, a moan, pleading—

"Tetsurou—"

You sucked in a sharp breath, your eyes wide as your pulse pounded violently in your ears. No. No, no, no.

Your entire body tensed, your fingers gripping the sheets as if that alone could ground you. You felt too warm, too aware, heat crawling up your spine as your skin tingled with the ghosts of his touch.

What the hell had you done?

A fresh wave of panic surged through you as you peeked beneath the sheets, confirming what you already knew. Your clothes were nowhere in sight.

You squeezed your eyes shut for half a second, willing yourself to wake up from whatever twisted fever dream this was—but when you reopened them, Kuroo was still there, breathing evenly, looking far too comfortable in his sleep.

Your stomach twisted as your brain scrambled for something—anything—that could explain how this had happened. You had been working. You had been arguing. And then there had been drinks, and—

Your fingers pressed against your temples.

You weren’t an idiot. You knew exactly how this had happened.

You had slept with Kuroo Tetsurou.

And the worst part? The way your body still thrummed with the memory of it.

Shit. Shit, shit, shit.

This wasn’t just some nightmare. This was real.

And you were absolutely screwed.

Heart pounding, you slowly—carefully—peeled the sheets away, trying to move as silently as possible. You needed to find your clothes. Now. Every fiber of your being screamed at you to get out before Kuroo woke up and made this entire situation even more unbearable.

Your eyes darted around the room, scanning for any sign of your belongings. You spotted your shirt draped over the back of a chair, your underwear crumpled on the floor near the bed. No sign of your pants.

Biting your lip, you held your breath and gingerly slid out of the bed, wincing as the mattress shifted beneath you. You crept forward, grabbing your shirt first, hurriedly clutching it to your chest as you crouched down to retrieve your underwear.

Just as you were about to reach for them—

"Mornin', sunshine."

You yelped, stumbling back against the nightstand, your grip tightening around your shirt as you clutched it against your bare chest. Your wide, panicked eyes shot toward the bed where Kuroo was now very much awake, watching you with groggy amusement. His voice was still thick with sleep, deep and gravelly in a way that sent an unwanted shiver down your spine.

"God, you scared the shit out of me!" you snapped, still holding your shirt up like a makeshift shield.

Kuroo’s lips twitched, clearly enjoying this far too much. He stretched, arms reaching over his head, the sheets slipping just enough to reveal more bare skin than you needed to see this early in the morning. His messy hair somehow looked even worse than usual, and yet—

You shook your head violently, banishing whatever treacherous thought had just formed.

"Trying to sneak out?" he mused, his golden eyes glinting with amusement as he propped himself up on one elbow. "Rude."

You opened your mouth, then shut it, feeling heat creep up your neck. "I don't—I mean—did we—?"

Kuroo chuckled, the sound deep and lazy, sending a fresh wave of mortification through you. "Oh yeah. Several times." He tilted his head slightly, watching as your grip on your shirt tightened. "You were quite eager."

Your face burned, the words hitting you like a wrecking ball to the soul. "Oh my god," you muttered, squeezing your eyes shut for a second, as if that would make the entire situation disappear.

Kuroo smirked wider, clearly relishing your reaction. "I gotta say, I didn’t know you had it in you."

You snapped your eyes open, glaring daggers at him, your heart still pounding a million miles an hour. "Shut up, Kuroo. Just—shut up."

"Oh, but you weren’t saying that last night," he teased, stretching lazily, the motion making his muscles flex in an unfairly distracting way. "In fact, if I recall correctly, you were saying—"

"Don’t. You. Dare."

His grin widened. "Tetsurou—please—" he mimicked in a high-pitched voice, clearly enjoying this too much.

You grabbed the nearest pillow and launched it at his face. "I hate you."

He caught it with ease, laughing. "Hate me? That's funny, 'cause last night, you were—"

You groaned, pressing your palm against your face, praying for the ground to swallow you whole.

"I'm leaving." You turned sharply, spotting your pants halfway across the damn room, and cursed under your breath.

Kuroo only hummed, watching you scramble with amusement. "Sure you don’t wanna stay for round…what was it? Five?"

You threw another pillow at him. "I swear to god, Kuroo—"

His laughter followed you as you yanked your pants on, still red-faced, still mortified beyond belief.

You snatched up the rest of your belongings—your shoes, your bag, even the stray hair tie that had somehow ended up on his nightstand—moving so quickly you nearly tripped in your haste. Every second in this room was a second too long, every moment spent within Kuroo’s amused, knowing gaze only fueling the burning humiliation in your chest.

As you shoved your arms through your sleeves, pulling your shirt over your head, Kuroo propped himself up on one elbow, watching you with the kind of infuriating satisfaction that made you want to launch something heavier than a pillow at him.

"See you Monday," he drawled, voice thick with teasing amusement.

You shot him a withering glare, but it only made his smirk widen. Without another word, you turned on your heel and stormed out, refusing to give him the satisfaction of a response.

You could still hear his low chuckle as you slammed the door behind you.

Meian and jealousy‼️‼️‼️ I just love this man so much

oooh good pick hehe... Your wish is my command :p

~~~

Meian walked through the door, casually tossing his bag onto the couch before holding up a glossy calendar with an amused smirk.

“Guess what I brought home?”

You barely looked up from your spot on the couch, lounging in one of his oversized hoodies. “Groceries?”

He huffed a laugh. “Try again.”

When you finally glanced over, your eyes landed on the calendar in his hands—MSBY Jackals 12-Month Exclusive Athlete Calendar. The cover alone was pure chaos: Bokuto flexing dramatically, Hinata grinning mid-spike, Sakusa looking entirely unamused while still managing to look good, and Meian himself, standing dead center with his usual captain’s stance—shirtless.

Your brows shot up.

“Oh, this is amazing.”

Meian chuckled, flipping it open. “Didn’t even know they were makin’ this until they asked me to pose for it.” He turned the pages, showing you a year’s worth of ridiculously chiseled volleyball players. “Thought you might get a kick out of it.”

You grabbed the calendar, flipping through the months with increasing delight.

“Oh my god, look at Bokuto’s arms—wait, they oiled him up for this.” You laughed, tapping the glossy image. “I mean, I get it. If I had muscles like that, I’d want them to shine, too.”

Meian hummed, crossing his arms. “Uh-huh.”

You kept going, completely unaware of the way his jaw was starting to tense.

“Sakusa actually looks incredible here, wow—he must have hated this photoshoot.” You turned another page, eyes widening. “Damn, even Hinata’s looking ripped.”

Meian arched a brow. “...That right?”

“Oh, absolutely,” you grinned. “Seriously, whoever planned this deserves a raise. They captured perfection.”

Meian let out a slow, deliberate exhale through his nose.

“...Captured perfection, huh?”

You nodded, still obliviously flipping pages. “I mean, look at these guys, Shugo. They’re built like—”

You yelped as suddenly, the entire world flipped.

Before you could even react, Meian had hauled you up over his shoulder, calendar completely forgotten as he marched toward the bedroom with zero warning.

“Shugo—what the—PUT ME DOWN.”

“Nope.”

“You are not seriously—”

“Oh, I am.”

His grip was firm, his tone too smug, and you finally realized.

“…You’re jealous.”

He snorted. “Not jealous. Just provin’ a point.”

“A point about what?!”

Meian kicked the bedroom door shut behind him, tossing you onto the mattress effortlessly before climbing over you, his hands braced on either side of your head.

“Since ya like praisin’ the team so much,” he murmured, voice dipping lower, rougher, “I figured I’d remind ya which one of us ya like the most.”

Your breath caught.

For someone who claimed not to be jealous, the heat in his gaze said otherwise.

“Still think they captured perfection?” he asked, his smirk dangerous.

You swallowed, the calendar long forgotten on the floor.

“…I might need a closer look to compare.”

His chuckle was low, pleased.

“Good answer.”

Husbandry: Daichi

The rain comes down in steady sheets, tapping against the windows in a soothing rhythm. The streets outside glisten under the glow of streetlights, the occasional car passing by leaving behind a faint hum of noise. It’s the perfect kind of evening—the kind meant for staying in, wrapped up in warmth, with nowhere to be and nothing urgent pressing on your mind.

Daichi is already settled on the couch, a soft throw blanket draped over his legs, the remote lazily balanced on his stomach. The TV is on, playing some crime drama, but his attention isn’t fully on it. Instead, he glances over at you, a slow, easy smile tugging at his lips as you walk into the living room carrying two mugs of tea.

“You’re the best,” he says as you hand him one, fingers brushing against yours in the exchange. His hands are warm, even against the ceramic.

“I know,” you reply, sinking onto the couch beside him. The heat from the tea seeps into your fingers as you take a slow sip, savoring the way the warmth spreads down your throat.

Daichi shifts, draping an arm over your shoulders and pulling you close, his body solid and reassuring against yours. You relax into him easily, letting your head rest against his shoulder. His thumb moves absentmindedly over your arm, slow and steady, and you exhale, feeling the tension of the day melt away.

On the screen, the detective is interrogating a suspect, voice low and serious. Daichi lets out a quiet scoff. “That’s not how real interrogations work.”

You smile against his shoulder. “Oh? Care to enlighten me, Officer Sawamura?”

He huffs a laugh, shaking his head. “It’s just unrealistic. No one confesses that easily. And look at how he’s holding that report—like he’s never actually read one in his life.”

You chuckle, shifting so you can look up at him. “You say this every time we watch crime shows.”

“Because it’s true every time,” he argues, but his voice is light, teasing. “It’s a shame, really. They should just hire me as a consultant.”

“Oh yeah, I’m sure the Tokyo police force would love for you to moonlight as a TV consultant.”

He grins, taking a sip of his tea. “I’d be good at it.”

“You’d be insufferable.”

“And yet, you’d still watch with me.”

“You’re lucky I love you,” you say, laughing softly.

Daichi shakes his head, eyes narrowing at the screen as the detective makes a sweeping accusation that somehow miraculously leads to a confession. He scoffs, growing more animated now. “That’s not even how questioning works. There’s a whole process! There’s procedure, and paperwork, and—why does this guy always get away with breaking protocol?”

You watch him, amused, as he continues to rant, his brows furrowed, hands gesturing as he lists every inaccuracy he can spot. His passion is endearing—adorable, even. And before he can go on any further, you reach up, cupping his jaw and pressing your lips to his mid-sentence.

Daichi stills for a moment, surprised, before he leans into the kiss, his earlier frustration forgotten. When you pull back, his brown eyes flicker with something softer, more intrigued, but you don’t stop there. You press another kiss to the sharp line of his jaw, then lower, trailing down the side of his neck.

His breath hitches slightly, but he doesn’t say anything. He just watches you, waiting.

You smile against his skin before slowly pulling away. Rising from the couch, you peel off your shirt, letting it drop to the floor as you make your way toward the bedroom. Just before disappearing through the doorway, you glance back at him.

“Still pissed at the show?” you ask, voice teasing.

Daichi exhales sharply, setting his mug down without even looking. “You’re good.”

You giggle, knowing full well he’s already getting up to follow you.

Confessions: Oikawa

(This is connected to another drabble I made in my series 'Unreq Love' so here is context if you'd like the full experience: Oikawa & Bonus)

--

The gym is quiet.

Not the kind of quiet that comes from peace, but the kind that settles like dust in the corners—heavy, still, waiting. The lights are off, but the late afternoon sun filters through the high windows, painting the floor in long strokes of gold. The volleyball net hangs limply between its poles, no longer taut with purpose. There are scuff marks everywhere, like memories burned into the wood—ghosts of spikes, dives, the relentless rhythm of ambition. The echoes of laughter, shouting, the rhythmic squeak of sneakers still seem to hum beneath the silence, like the gym itself refuses to forget.

You spot him immediately.

Oikawa stands near the back wall, his figure backlit by sunlight, facing the net with his hands shoved deep into the pockets of his jacket. His shoulders are drawn tight, his posture still and unreadable. He doesn’t move when you step in, but he knows it’s you. No one walks into a gym like you do—especially not after hours. Especially not him.

You take your time crossing the floor. Your sneakers squeak a little, but he doesn’t flinch. The air smells like dust and floor polish, and something sharper underneath—like endings. Like goodbye.

“I figured I’d find you here,” you say, coming to a stop beside him.

He huffs, a soft, humorless sound. “You always do.”

“Well,” you shrug, “someone’s gotta make sure you’re not brooding yourself into an existential crisis.”

Finally, he glances at you. There’s a tiredness in his eyes, something far quieter than the version of him everyone else sees. You know it well. You’ve seen it before, behind locker room doors, in the quiet of bus rides home, in the way his voice would sometimes crack when no one was supposed to hear. He looks like someone who's been chasing a shadow for too long and just realized it was always out of reach.

“I thought maybe if I stayed long enough, it’d feel different,” he murmurs, gaze shifting back to the net. “But it still hurts.”

“Of course it hurts,” you reply, arms crossing over your chest. “You gave everything to this place. You bled for it. You obsessed over every drill, every stat sheet, every match. Losing was never going to be painless.”

He chuckles, and it’s low and bitter. “We didn’t even make it to nationals. What was the point of all of it?”

You frown, nudging him lightly with your elbow. “Tooru, you seriously need to get your head out of your ass.”

That earns you a sidelong glance, the barest glimmer of amusement.

You soften. “You weren’t just chasing wins. You built something here. A team that trusted you. A legacy. People are going to remember you—not because of a scoreboard, but because you made them better. You made them believe. You pushed them to be more.”

He doesn’t respond right away, but his jaw tics. He always does that when he’s trying not to feel something. The weight of three years rests on his shoulders like armor that no longer serves him.

“And what about you?” he asks suddenly, turning to face you more fully. “You stuck by me through everything. Even when I didn’t deserve it.”

You scoff, leaning back on your heels. “Don’t get all sentimental on me now, Tooru.”

“I’m serious.”

“So am I. You think I followed you around like a lost puppy for three years because I enjoyed your tantrums and diva moments?”

A small smile tugs at the corner of his lips. “Maybe a little?”

“God, you’re insufferable.” You shake your head, but your voice loses its edge. “I stayed because you were worth it. Because you’re more than volleyball. You always have been. Even when you were too busy being dramatic to see it.”

The silence that falls between you is thick with years of shared glances, missed chances, and words left unspoken. The light shifts across the floor, turning everything gold like the last flicker of a day that tried its best.

You don’t mean to say it. Not like this. Not when he’s already unraveling.

You glance at him again, then down at your hands. Your voice comes out low, more to yourself than to him. “God, I can’t avoid this, can I?”

But it’s been sitting in your chest for too long, and something about the way the light hits his face—the rawness there, the quiet ache—makes it impossible to keep in.

“I love you.”

His head snaps toward you, eyes wide. “...What?”

You inhale slowly, like that’ll steady the thundering in your chest. “I said I love you. I’ve been in love with you since the moment we met. Since you made that dumb joke during orientation and somehow managed to trip over your own feet.”

Your voice wavers slightly, but you push through. “I thought it was just a crush. Something stupid. But it never went away. Through every win, every loss, every time you walked into a room and lit it up like you didn’t even know—through all of it, I kept falling. I knew every version of you—the charming captain, the insecure overthinker, the friend who stayed behind after practice to help pick up stray balls—and I still fell.”

You swallow hard, heart aching in your chest. “And I wasn’t going to tell you. I didn’t think I had the right to. I thought I’d be a distraction, or worse—just another person you’d feel responsible for. But standing here with you, watching you look at that net like it still owes you something... I couldn’t walk away without telling you. Because it’s not just about volleyball. Not for me. Not when it comes to you.”

You take a step back, the burn of embarrassment creeping up your neck, your voice quieter now. “You don’t have to say anything. I just needed to get it out of my system.”

You turn, ready to bolt before you make a bigger fool of yourself—but before your foot even hits the line, his hand wraps around your wrist.

You freeze.

His grip isn’t desperate, but it’s firm—anchoring. When you look back, he’s already there—closer than you thought, close enough that you can see the flicker of emotion dancing in his eyes. His breath is uneven. So is yours.

His gaze lingers on your face, moving from your eyes to your mouth, then back again, as if trying to piece together something he should’ve realized long ago. You see it hit him all at once—the memories, the missed moments, the way you’ve always been right there. His shoulders loosen like something inside him’s finally cracking open.

His hand moves slowly to your face, tentative but gentle, and his thumb brushes against your cheek like it’s something fragile he’s afraid to break. His fingers tremble just slightly, and the warmth of his palm grounds you in place.

“How did I never see you?” he breathes, and it’s not a question meant for you. It’s a confession all on its own, shaped by regret and wonder.

Then he kisses you.

Soft at first, hesitant—like he’s asking permission.

Then again—deeper, fuller, with the kind of reverence that comes from finally seeing someone who’s been standing in the light all along. His hand curves behind your neck, the other still holding your wrist like he's afraid you’ll vanish if he lets go.

And for once, Oikawa doesn’t say a single word.

He just pulls you closer, holds you like you’re the only thing keeping him grounded, and lets the silence speak for itself.

In that quiet, there is no loss. No disappointment. No game that slipped through trembling fingers.

There’s just you.

And it’s enough.