Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Touch—a simple concept. Two objects or people coming so close that they make contact, where the end of one becomes the beginning of the other.

Kiyoomi often wondered why he was so fixated on it. Or rather, why the thought of touch—giving or receiving it—occupied his mind so much. The more he dwelled on it, the more absurd it seemed, because, in truth, he despised touch.

It had begun as a fear of infection—an obsession with avoiding germs, a phobia. Growing up in a family of doctors, talk about hygiene, bacteria, and disease was constant, casual even, but to little Kiyoomi, they were anything but.

The conversations, meant to educate, had instead driven little Kiyoomi into a spiral of fear, convinced that the slightest contact could lead to contamination. The idea of being infected, of something unseen invading his body, became an obsession.

It hadn’t been intentional. His parents had never meant to instill such paranoia—his older siblings had grown up hearing the same things without issue. But Kiyoomi’s brain had always worked a little differently.

What began as a phobia eventually became a boundary—a hard limit he couldn’t seem to overcome. He spent countless hours in therapy, week after week, year after year. And while his mysophobia became manageable at best, his aversion to touch never truly improved. The idea of physical contact still unsettled him, no matter how much he tried to rationalize it.

Being touched—especially by those who didn’t belong in the “safe zone” his brain had carefully constructed—felt like being held at gunpoint. His nervous system reacted the same way: panic, adrenaline, the desperate urge to escape. This led to more than a few awkward, very public panic attacks throughout his school years.

To this day, he had no idea how he survived. Even less how he managed to survive playing volleyball. But it was also true that out of all the sports he had shown interest in, volleyball was the one that required the least physical contact. That was probably the only reason he stuck with it long enough to choose it as his career.

Even now, at the age of twenty-three, his fear of germs was still a problem, but he could suppress that part of his brain with the promise of a long, thorough shower afterward. His biggest problem yet was still touch. Perhaps because it never came as easily to him as it seemed to for others. Maybe because, deep down, a part of him longed for it—longed for the pleasant feeling it seemed to give others—something that he knew he could never truly handle.

Which was precisely why he felt so ridiculously jealous of people like his teammates.

Hinata, for instance, was like a blinding ray of sunshine, always invading others’ personal space—always touching, always hugging. Everyone, except Kiyoomi, of course. He’d learned that boundary the hard way during the first few months of them being on the same team.

Then there was Bokuto, a giant teddy bear in human form, who greeted everyone with bone-crushing, affectionate hugs at the first chance he got. Those hugs always seemed so warm, so comfortable. Kiyoomi would be lying if he said he'd never wanted to experience one—to feel that kind of embrace. But the very thought of it sent his entire nervous system into a tailspin, the anxiety spiraling through him like an uncontrollable wave.

The worst of all, though, was Miya Atsumu.

He wasn’t quite like Hinata or Bokuto, but he too seemed to thrive on physical contact. A hand on the shoulder to show support, a high-five after a successful spike, a quick hug to express affection, or a playful bump of the shoulders to tease.

It all came so effortlessly to him. And it pissed Kiyoomi off, though not for any logical reason. It wasn’t jealousy—or maybe it was—but it felt more like he was being left out.

Because Atsumu, unlike Hinata or Bokuto, had never tried to touch him.

There had never been any need for that uncomfortable “please don’t touch me, it will send me into a panic attack” conversation because Atsumu had never even intended to cross that line. He stayed within the boundaries Kiyoomi had carefully constructed in his head, almost as if he was already aware of them.

In theory, it should have made Kiyoomi feel relieved—at ease, even, that he didn’t have to explain himself to avoid the awkwardness.

But it didn’t.

Instead, it only made him more frustrated with himself.

"Omi!" called the very person who had sparked this entire internal monologue in Kiyoomi's head.

Kiyoomi forced himself to stop the spiraling thoughts and snap back to reality. "What?" he replied, his tone flat.

"Did ya even hear what I said?"

Kiyoomi glanced at Atsumu, catching the familiar warmth of his honey-brown eyes. He shrugged. "No."

The blond rolled his eyes but then let out an exaggerated sigh. "I was askin' if yer gonna join us fer drinks tonight?" His Kansai accent rang out, heavy and unmistakable.

Kiyoomi gave him an unimpressed look. "What do you think the answer will be?" he said, his voice dripping with sarcasm.

Miya grinned, unfazed. "Yeah, yeah, I know ya don't do clubs and all that crap, but we're actually just meeting up at my place. Samu’s dropping off some food too. So technically, you could say yes. No?"

Kiyoomi hesitated, his mind already racing with the usual reasons he’d rather flat-out refuse.

"Before ya ask, I'm a very clean person, and my apartment is immaculate," Miya said, sensing Kiyoomi’s uncertainty. "On top of that, I promise I'll deep clean before you guys come over."

Kiyoomi believed him. Despite everything, Atsumu was, indeed, a very clean person—at least, from what Kiyoomi had observed.

And Kiyoomi did observe him a lot—though not just him, of course. He observed everyone. It was just how he was.

Kiyoomi sighed deeply. "Okay," he said, his voice reluctant but honest.

"Wait! Really?"

Kiyoomi raised an eyebrow at his reaction. "You almost sound like you wanted me to say no."

Miya’s eyes widened in mock surprise. "What? Fuck no. I just never thought ya'd agree," he replied, the playful grin returning to his face. "Honestly, I figured ya’d be all 'No, I’ve got better things to do' or ‘I can’t handle people tonight.’"

Kiyoomi couldn't help but roll his eyes. "I do have better things to do," he muttered under his breath.

"Yeah, sure, Omi, 'course ya do," Atsumu drawled, smirking as he made his way to his locker.

Kiyoomi shot him a flat look. "I detect some sarcasm in your tone, Miya."

"Me? Sarcastic?" Atsumu gasped dramatically. "Nah, yer the sarcasm king 'round here, Omi-kun."

Kiyoomi finished grabbing his things. "So, what time tonight?"

"Seven. Don’t be late," Atsumu said after a pause.

Kiyoomi scoffed. "I’m not you."

Atsumu laughed again, light and easy. "Yeah, yeah. See ya later, Omi."

Kiyoomi exhaled slowly.

This was fine. He could do it.

Kiyoomi stood in front of Atsumu’s apartment door, staring at the handle like it had personally offended him.

He had spent the entire ride mentally preparing himself for everything that might come. And yet, now that he was here, his body refused to move. His fingers twitched at his sides, a nervous energy buzzing under his skin.

It wasn’t even the thought of being around people that unsettled him—he could handle that now, more or less. It was the fact that this was Atsumu’s place—private, unfamiliar. A space that belonged to someone else, filled with their habits, their presence.

Before he could talk himself out of it, the door swung open.

“Omi!”

Kiyoomi barely had a second to react before Atsumu was leaning against the doorframe, grinning like he’d just caught him doing something embarrassing.

“Ya were standin’ out here like a lost puppy,” Atsumu teased, crossing his arms, grinning. “Were ya plannin’ on knockin’ or just admirin’ my door all night?”

Kiyoomi huffed, walking past him into the apartment. “I was about to knock.”

“Sure ya were.”

The apartment was exactly as Kiyoomi had expected—clean, organized, but still distinctly Atsumu. The smell of food lingered in the air, warm and inviting, and the sound of low chatter from the living room told him the others had already arrived.

He took a careful step inside, scanning his surroundings. The kitchen was spotless, countertops wiped down, everything in its place. The living room had a relaxed, lived-in vibe—blankets thrown over the couch, a half-empty bowl of chips on the coffee table, a few beer cans already cracked open. Bokuto sat cross-legged on the floor, laughing at something Hinata had just said, while Meian, Inunaki, and the others lounged comfortably around the room.

It was... fine. Manageable.

Atsumu closed the door behind him, watching Kiyoomi’s expression like he was trying to solve a puzzle. “Relax, Omi. It’s just a hangout, not a hostage situation.”

Kiyoomi rolled his eyes, dropping his bag near the door. “I know that.”

“Good. Now get over here, grab a drink, and pretend ya love us.”

Kiyoomi sighed but didn’t argue.

As he walked into the room, Bokuto spotted him first, his face lighting up with excitement. “Sakusa-san! You came!”

“Seems like I did,” Kiyoomi deadpanned, but the corner of his mouth twitched when Bokuto threw an arm around Hinata in triumph, as if Kiyoomi’s presence was some kind of victory.

Meian lifted his beer in greeting, while Hinata waved enthusiastically from his spot on the floor. “Omi-san! Do you drink?”

“Yeah,” Kiyoomi muttered, eyeing the open beer cans warily.

Atsumu reached for a can, tossing it effortlessly toward Kiyoomi. He caught it without thinking, his fingers curling around the cold aluminum. He stared at the can for a moment, his gaze lingering on the familiar object, before Atsumu, never missing a beat, tossed a pack of disinfectant wipes in his direction as well.

"Here, so ya can clean it," Atsumu said casually, placing a glass in front of Kiyoomi on the coffee table before settling onto the couch next to Bokuto. Kiyoomi looked at him, unsure of the expression on his face, but Atsumu only smiled, unfazed, before making himself comfortable.

Kiyoomi wiped down the can with the disinfectant wipes, his movements precise, before cracking it open. He poured the beer into the glass, taking a moment to inspect it thoroughly for any specks of dirt before filling it. Satisfied, he placed the can back down, the faint smell of alcohol filling the air as he sat back, quietly watching the others.

Kiyoomi had never been much of a talker. His words always felt more deliberate, carefully chosen. His family was full of talkers—his mother, his father, even his siblings—all loud and eager to fill the silence. But to Kiyoomi words had never come easily, and there was something comforting about simply being quiet and taking everything in.

At some point around his third beer, and after too much volleyball talk, Kiyoomi’s eyes went to Atsumu almost on instinct. He hadn't meant to, but it happened anyway. He was pressed against Bokuto’s side now, relaxed, fingers absentmindedly playing with Hinata’s hair as the smaller man sat on the floor between his legs. The laughter echoed around the room—Atsumu’s deep, easy chuckles mixing with the lighter, sharper sound of Hinata’s as they joked about something Inunaki had said.

The warmth that radiated from the group hit Kiyoomi in waves, and he felt it deep in his chest, a strange, uncomfortable burn. He wasn’t sure if it was the alcohol or the isolation he felt creeping in, but his stomach twisted. He shouldn’t care. He didn’t care.

But there Atsumu was, so effortlessly at ease with everyone (except him, of course), his physicality so natural, so comfortable—something Kiyoomi had never quite been able to understand.

Kiyoomi took a few more sips, regretting it immediately as the alcohol began to make him dizzy.

"Sakusa," Meian called.

Kiyoomi forced himself to focus, blinking a few times before looking at the captain. "Yes, Meian-san?"

Meian smiled warmly, a genuine smile that made Kiyoomi feel both welcomed and exposed at the same time. "I was just saying that it was good to have you join us tonight. We feel the absence when you’re not around. The team doesn’t seem complete."

Kiyoomi’s chest tightened at the words. His first instinct was to shrug it off, downplay it, as he always did when people tried to draw him out of his shell. “Uhm, yeah, it’s nice to all be together, I suppose.”

“God, yer so emotionally constipated,” Atsumu chuckled.

Kiyoomi just glared at him as the others laughed.

Everyone had left around midnight—everyone except Kiyoomi.

Somehow, he had fallen asleep on Atsumu’s couch.

When he finally woke up, panic flooded his chest as he realized he wasn’t at home. But as he shifted and felt the soft blanket draped over him, some of the tension eased. The familiar comfort helped settle his nerves.

He blinked, adjusting to the dim lighting, his gaze landing on Atsumu. The setter was sitting cross-legged on the floor, eyes fixed on his phone. The TV buzzed in the background, playing some random game show that no one seemed to be paying attention to.

Kiyoomi rubbed his eyes, still groggy. It took him a moment to process that the apartment was nearly silent. Everyone else had left.

Atsumu glanced up then, a small grin forming on his face.

"Look who finally decided to join the living," he teased.

Kiyoomi huffed, shifting under the blanket. "I didn’t mean to fall asleep."

"Ya were out cold," Atsumu said, setting his phone down. "Didn’t wanna wake ya. Figured ya needed the rest."

Kiyoomi glanced around, his fingers absently tugging at the edge of the blanket. "Thanks for this."

Atsumu shrugged, his voice softening. "Wasn’t about to let ya freeze to death on my couch."

Kiyoomi hesitated before sitting up fully, ignoring the lingering dizziness from the alcohol. He wasn’t sure what to say, but Atsumu, as always, seemed comfortable filling the silence.

"Ya okay?" Atsumu asked, his voice quieter now. There was something different in his gaze—curious, but not prying. "Ya’ve been a little quiet tonight."

Kiyoomi stiffened. He hadn’t realized anyone had noticed.

"I’m always quiet," he replied quickly—too quickly.

Atsumu raised an eyebrow. "Yeah, but usually it’s ‘I’m silently judging ya’ quiet. Tonight, though, it was more… sad quiet."

Kiyoomi blinked, thrown off. He prided himself on being unreadable, but maybe Atsumu was more observant than he gave him credit for.

"I’m not sad," he muttered. "Just tired."

Atsumu tilted his head, watching him too closely. "Ya sure?"

"Yes." Kiyoomi finally looked away, his jaw tightening. "And either way, it’s none of your business."

Atsumu didn’t push, but Kiyoomi could still feel his gaze, as if the other man was piecing him together like a puzzle. He hated it—hated being seen so clearly.

A heavy silence settled between them. Kiyoomi usually liked silence, but this one felt too heavy, pressing against his ribs. His thoughts swirled, hazy with alcohol and discomfort.

And then, before he could stop himself, the words left his mouth.

"Why do you never touch me?"

The moment they escaped, regret hit him like a freight train.

Atsumu blinked. "Because ya don’t like bein’ touched," he said simply, as if it were obvious.

Of course. Kiyoomi exhaled sharply, frustrated. "I mean, even before it was common knowledge—you never did."

A pause. Atsumu’s expression softened slightly. "Do ya want me to?"

Kiyoomi’s breath caught. His heart lurched, his pulse hammering in his throat.

"No... yes... fuck, I don’t know," he admitted, running a hand over his face. "Probably not. It’d freak me out."

He hated this—this vulnerability, this openness. It felt unbearable.

Atsumu didn’t seem fazed. Instead, he shifted, resting his arms on his knees as he looked up at Kiyoomi. "Just so we’re clear, it ain’t ‘cause I don’t want to."

Kiyoomi froze.

"Ya got no idea how many times I’ve almost slapped yer shoulder during games or shoved ya when ya pissed me off. But ya got yer boundaries. As much as they confuse the hell outta me, I respect ‘em."

The words sat heavy between them. Kiyoomi didn’t know how to respond.

Atsumu broke the silence first. "Why don’t ya like it?"

Kiyoomi hesitated.

"Is it the germ thing?"

"Yes and no," he admitted. "Yeah, my brain makes me feel sick at the thought of germs, but... it’s not just that. It’s the whole idea of it now, I think."

"It’s overwhelming?"

Kiyoomi exhaled. "Yeah."

"Do ya never let anyone touch ya?"

"Some." He frowned. "Family. Doctors. I don’t panic when they do."

Atsumu hummed in understanding. His expression was unreadable, but something about it made Kiyoomi feel... exposed.

He sighed, rubbing a hand down his face. "Why am I even having this conversation with you?"

Atsumu grinned. "Beats me."

Kiyoomi muttered something about leaving, but he didn’t move. A stupid, small part of him hoped Atsumu would tell him to stay.

And then, Atsumu spoke again.

"Y’know, I don’t think it’s touch that freaks ya out."

Kiyoomi shot him a wary look. "What?"

"I think ya fear intimacy. Emotional connection. More than touch, per se." Atsumu held his gaze, unwavering. "I’ve seen ya shake hands at formal events—yeah, ya scrub yer hands raw after, but ya do it. It’s when emotions get involved that ya freeze up."

Kiyoomi stilled.

"What, are you my therapist now?" he muttered.

Atsumu snorted. "God, no. That’d be too much work—yer brain’s a damn minefield. But I am a setter. Nosy and observant by nature. I watch my spikers a lot. Ya especially."

Something in Kiyoomi’s chest twisted.

"Ya gotta let people in, Omi. Stop bein’ so damn guarded all the time." Then, with a smirk, Atsumu added, "Like I always say—take the stick outta yer ass. Might help with the constipation."

Kiyoomi rolled his eyes but didn’t argue. Annoyingly, Atsumu wasn’t wrong.

The realization sat heavy in his chest. He hated that Atsumu had figured him out—had put into words something he hadn’t fully admitted to himself.

Atsumu didn’t push, though. He just sat there, patient. Waiting.

And Kiyoomi hated that, too.

"You’re annoying," he muttered.

Atsumu grinned. "Yeah, yeah. Not original, Omi."

Silence stretched again. Kiyoomi stared at the floor, willing his thoughts to untangle.

And then, without thinking, he asked, "If I let you touch me... what would you do?"

Atsumu blinked but didn’t hesitate. "Dunno. Guess it depends on what ya can handle. I could pat yer head, if ya want."

Kiyoomi exhaled sharply. "You make it sound like I’m a wounded animal."

"Well, ya do look like a pissed-off cat half the time."

Kiyoomi glared and abruptly stood. "I’m leaving. This is getting ridiculous."

Atsumu didn’t stop him.

Kiyoomi grabbed his jacket, his hands trembling slightly. He hated that Atsumu made him feel like this—like he was standing at the edge of something unknown.

Just as he reached the door, Atsumu’s voice stopped him.

"Yer runnin’ again."

Kiyoomi stiffened.

"That’s all ya ever do, huh?" Atsumu’s voice was quiet but sharp. "Instead of dealin’ with shit, ya just bolt."

Kiyoomi clenched his jaw. "I’m not—"

"Yeah, ya are. And ya know it."

A long pause.

"Good night, Miya," Kiyoomi said flatly, pushing the door open.

Atsumu sighed. "Good night, Omi."

One week later—

Kiyoomi had spent the better part of a week trapped in an endless loop of replaying his conversation with Atsumu. Every word, every pause, every subtle shift in tone—he dissected them all with surgical precision, overanalyzing until his own thoughts became unbearable.

It consumed him.

So much so that during Thursday’s practice, he barely dodged a viciously spiked volleyball—one that would have nailed him straight in the face if not for pure reflex. The close call should have snapped him back to reality, but instead, it only made the knot in his chest tighten.

Maybe Atsumu was right.

The thought made his skin prickle with irritation, but the more he dwelled on it, the more he realized how much it unsettled him—not just that Atsumu could read him so easily, but that he might actually be onto something. Maybe it wasn’t germs that made him avoid touch. Maybe it was the weight of what came with it—the unspoken closeness, the vulnerability.

He had spent his whole life keeping people at arm’s length, and now he had no idea how to bridge the distance he’d created.

He felt himself spiraling, thoughts twisting into something suffocating. This time, though, it wasn’t just his mind pulling him under—it was a volleyball.

The impact was sudden, brutal—slamming into the side of his head with enough force to send him stumbling backward. His balance vanished in an instant, and before he could regain his footing, he hit the floor hard.

The gym blurred around him, spinning nauseatingly as a sharp ringing filled his ears. His skull throbbed. It took him a moment to piece together what had happened.

Bokuto’s serve.

Straight to his head.

Well. That explained the pain.

A flurry of movement followed, sneakers squeaking against the polished floor as the team rushed toward him.

"Shit, Omi-san! Are you okay?!" Bokuto’s voice boomed, thick with panic. He was already vaulting over the net before the rest of the team could catch up, his eyes wide with guilt.

Kiyoomi groaned, pressing a palm to his temple. Everything hurt.

"I'm so sorry!" Bokuto all but shouted, looking genuinely horrified. The guilt was thick in his voice, his hands hovering awkwardly as if debating whether or not Kiyoomi would bite his head off if he tried to help him up.

Kiyoomi just sighed, pressing his fingers against his temples as if that would somehow keep his brain from rattling around in his skull.

This was not his week.

He squeezed his eyes shut as a sharp pain pulsed through his skull. His ears were ringing, and he could already feel the beginnings of a headache creeping in. Fantastic.

"That was... a hell of a serve," he muttered, slowly trying to push himself up to sit. His head throbbed in protest.

Bokuto knelt beside him, looking about two seconds away from bursting into tears. "I didn’t mean to hit you! I was just—"

"Yeah, I know," Kiyoomi cut in, rubbing his temples. "Calm down, Bokuto-san. It’s not your fault."

Kiyoomi tried to sit up again, as if to reassure Bokuto that he was fine, but the dizziness clung to him like a second skin. The world tilted, unfocused, and his stomach churned at the motion. Somewhere in the haze, Atsumu crouched beside him, his face slipping into Kiyoomi’s line of sight—sharp-eyed, assessing.

"I don’t think he’s got a concussion," Atsumu murmured, his voice steady but low, like he wasn’t entirely convinced.

Meian, who had been furiously typing on his phone, probably texting Foster, barely looked up. "You sure?" he asked, his tone tight with concern.

"Yeah, he’s fine," Atsumu said with a smirk, glancing at Kiyoomi like he was some medical marvel. "With that thick skull of his, he’ll survive."

Kiyoomi groaned and threw an arm over his eyes. The gym lights felt blinding, intensifying the pounding in his head, and honestly? The embarrassment might've been worse than the pain. He could still feel Atsumu watching him, that unwavering gaze heavy with something Kiyoomi wasn’t in the mood to decipher.

"I can hear you, you know," he muttered, voice muffled against his own arm.

"I know," Atsumu chuckled, unbothered. There was a brief pause, a shift in movement, and then his voice came again—calmer this time. "Ya should take a break, though. No more volleyball until yer sure yer not seeing double."

Kiyoomi exhaled sharply, part irritation, part reluctant acceptance.

And once again, Atsumu had a point.

Kiyoomi only hummed in vague agreement, the throbbing in his skull making it hard to focus on much else.

"Think ya can try gettin' up again?" Atsumu asked, his voice threaded with concern.

"It hurts," Kiyoomi admitted, frustration laced in his tone. He made another weak attempt to lift himself, but the effort was futile. His head swam, and his limbs felt leaden, useless.

Atsumu inched closer, hesitating for just a second before exhaling a soft sigh—one that teetered between impatience and understanding.

"Will ya let me help ya get to the locker room?" His voice was softer now, less teasing, more careful.

Kiyoomi met his gaze, eyes heavy with exhaustion.

 He hated this.

Atsumu blinked at him expectantly. "Or do ya wanna just lay there in the middle of the court?"

Kiyoomi stared at him for a long moment, torn. His pride screamed at him to refuse, to push through the dizziness and get up on his own. Fear echoed the same, a whisper of unease curling in his chest. But the thought of staying here—on the cold, dirty floor, vulnerable and disoriented—made his stomach twist.

He clenched his jaw. "Help me up."

Atsumu didn’t hesitate. His hands found Kiyoomi’s arms, steady and warm as he pulled him upright with surprising gentleness.

The touch should have set him off. It should have made his skin crawl. But instead, Kiyoomi barely registered the usual discomfort. Their skin met, and for the first time in a long time, he didn’t immediately want to pull away.

His heart stumbled over itself. A strange flicker of something settled deep in his chest—something unfamiliar, unwelcome. The warmth of Atsumu’s grip, the way his touch was firm yet careful—it made him dizzier than the impact that had sent him to the ground in the first place.

Kiyoomi swallowed hard, suddenly hyper-aware of how close they were. He kept his gaze fixed on the floor, as if looking at Atsumu might make the feeling worse.

"Let's go before ya start panickin'," Atsumu murmured, his grip still steady, still grounding.

Wordlessly, Kiyoomi let him lead the way.

As soon as they reached the lockers, Atsumu eased Kiyoomi down onto the bench, his hands steady but quick to retreat the moment Kiyoomi was settled—like he was afraid of overstepping.

"That’s good. That’s better," Kiyoomi thought, but his body betrayed him, his skin still buzzing where Atsumu had touched him.

"Ya good?" Atsumu asked, hovering just out of reach.

A strange feeling rose in Kiyoomi’s throat—something dangerously close to grief at the sudden loss of contact. Ridiculous. He should’ve been relieved. He hated being touched. It always sent him spiraling, left his skin crawling, his breath shallow, his mind clawing for escape. But now, all he felt was the unsettling warmth of it lingering.

His fingers curled into fists in his lap, frustration and confusion tangling in his chest. Instead of answering, he looked up at Atsumu like he’d just committed an unforgivable crime, brows furrowed, eyes sharp.

"Omi?" Atsumu tried again, this time more concerned.

"I'm fine. Thanks," Kiyoomi lied, leaning back against the wall. His head still throbbed.

Atsumu didn’t look convinced, but he didn’t argue. "I’ll go call the medic, 'kay? Stay put and, y’know, don’t die or somethin’." He was already heading for the door before Kiyoomi could respond.

For a second—just one fleeting, reckless second—Kiyoomi almost reached out. Almost grabbed Atsumu’s wrist to stop him and pull him closer. Almost.

Instead, he let out a slow breath and shut his eyes. "Okay," he muttered, willing himself to get his shit together.

He pressed his palms against his face, exhaling steadily. His head was still pounding, but now, it wasn’t just from the impact. It was from the way his body still remembered Atsumu’s touch.

It was disorienting. Unsettling.

Why wasn’t he panicking?

The thought sent a fresh wave of frustration through him, and he groaned, tilting his head back against the wall. This is ridiculous.

The sound of hurried footsteps yanked him from his thoughts. Atsumu was back—and he wasn’t alone.

"See? He ain't dead," Atsumu announced, gesturing toward Kiyoomi like he was some exhibit at a zoo.

The medic, a short woman with sharp eyes, shot him a glare before kneeling in front of Kiyoomi. "How’s your head? Any nausea? Blurred vision?"

Kiyoomi blinked, forcing himself to focus. "It’s fine. Just a dull ache."

The medic hummed, clearly skeptical, and ran through the usual concussion tests. Kiyoomi answered robotically, grateful for the distraction—anything to keep his mind from drifting back to him.

Atsumu hovered nearby, arms crossed, foot tapping against the floor. "He gonna live?"

The medic sighed. "No serious concussion, but he should rest for the day. And don’t let him fall asleep for a few hours, just in case."

Atsumu smirked. "Looks like I gotta babysit ya, huh, Omi?"

Kiyoomi’s eye twitched. "I’d rather take my chances with a concussion."

Atsumu just grinned, and Kiyoomi had the terrible realization that he actually meant it.

"I already told Foster yer takin’ the afternoon off. So once ya feel good enough to stand, I’ll drive ya home, ‘kay?"

"You don’t have to," Kiyoomi muttered.

"I know I don't. But I want to," Atsumu said, like it was the simplest thing in the world.

Kiyoomi froze, his pulse stuttering at the words. I want to.

His chest tightened, his mind grasping at the words like they meant something. But they didn’t. They couldn’t. Atsumu was just being… Atsumu. Annoying. Persistent. Overly familiar.

Still, Kiyoomi found himself at a loss for words, so he settled for scowling. "I can take care of myself."

Atsumu snorted. "Yeah, sure. That’s why ya almost got knocked out twice this week, right?"

Kiyoomi clicked his tongue but didn’t argue. He didn’t have the energy. And, if he was being honest, the thought of making his way home alone sounded exhausting. As much as he hated to admit it, having Atsumu around—even just for a ride—felt… reassuring.

The medic packed up her things, giving Kiyoomi one last critical look. "If you feel worse later, go to a doctor. And try not to get hit in the head again."

"No promises," Kiyoomi muttered.

Atsumu laughed, shaking his head as she left. "Yer really bad at this whole ‘accepting help’ thing, huh?"

Kiyoomi ignored him, shutting his eyes again. The pounding in his skull wasn’t letting up, but worse than that was the awareness of Atsumu still standing there, watching him.

"Please shut up," Kiyoomi muttered. "Your voice is already annoying on a normal day, let alone when my head is killing me."

"Asshole," Atsumu said, but there was no real bite behind it.

Kiyoomi exhaled sharply, pushing himself up—slowly this time, making sure he wasn’t about to topple over again. His head still throbbed, but he could walk. He wasn’t going to give Atsumu the satisfaction of seeing him struggle again.

"Let’s go before you start running your mouth again," Kiyoomi muttered, grabbing his bag.

Atsumu stood, his grin widening like he’d won something. "Ya say that like I ever stop."

Kiyoomi rolled his eyes but followed him out.

Atsumu stopped in front of his car, unlocking it with a quick click. "Alright, Omi, in ya go," he said, nodding toward the passenger seat. His tone was light, but there was an unspoken patience beneath it.

Kiyoomi hesitated—just for a second—before opening the door and slipping inside. The car smelled faintly of leather and something distinctly Atsumu, something warm and familiar in a way Kiyoomi refused to think too hard about.

Atsumu rounded the front, sliding into the driver’s seat with ease. He started the engine with a flick of his wrist, the low hum filling the space between them. The radio crackled to life, a quiet pop song playing in the background—just noise, something to fill the silence.

As they pulled out of the parking lot, Atsumu shot him a quick glance. "Yer place, right?"

Kiyoomi gave a small nod, resting his head against the cool glass of the window. The steady motion of the car made his headache throb dully, but he wasn’t about to say anything.

For a while, neither of them spoke. The city lights streaked past, neon reflections bleeding into the dark streets. It was oddly peaceful—comfortable in a way Kiyoomi hadn’t expected. He let his eyes slip shut, not quite sleeping, but not entirely present either.

He wasn’t sure how much time passed before Atsumu’s voice cut through the quiet.

"Ya sure yer feeling good? Ya seem kinda out of it."

Kiyoomi cracked his eyes open, exhaling softly. "I’m fine."

Atsumu studied him for a moment, like he didn’t quite believe him, but whatever he saw in Kiyoomi’s expression must have convinced him to let it go.

"Alright," he said simply.

The rest of the ride was quiet. No forced conversation, no unnecessary noise. Just the steady rhythm of the tires against the road, the soft hum of the radio, and the presence of someone who, for once, didn’t demand anything from him.

And for that, Kiyoomi was quietly grateful.

Atsumu pulled up to Kiyoomi’s apartment, shifting the car into park before turning to him with a smirk.

"Alright, sir, ya’ve arrived at yer destination. That'll be 8,021 yen. Tips are always appreciated." His voice dripped with amusement.

Kiyoomi shot him a withering glare. "Fuck off."

Without another word, he shoved the door open and stepped out, slamming it shut harder than necessary.

He made his way toward the entrance but paused.

A glance over his shoulder.

Atsumu was still there.

"I mean, ya could invite me up. I kinda need ta make sure ya don’t pass out for the next two hours at least."

Kiyoomi hesitated, then sighed. "Fine. Come on up."

Atsumu grinned, too wide to be anything but genuine. "Comin’."

The elevator ride was quiet, the tension between them thick and strange. Not uncomfortable, necessarily, but something close to it. Kiyoomi’s mind raced, running through the thoughts he’d been trying to ignore all week—the conversation they’d had, Atsumu’s hands on him, the way everything felt tangled and complicated in ways he wasn’t used to.

By the time they reached Kiyoomi’s floor, his head was a mess.

He led the way to his apartment, unlocking the door and stepping inside. The space was as bare as ever—just a couch, a coffee table, a couple of chairs. No real decorations, nothing that made it feel like a home. It was functional. That was all he needed.

Atsumu stepped in after him, toeing off his shoes and glancing around with a chuckle. "Real cozy place ya got here, Omi."

Kiyoomi ignored the sarcasm and set his bag down by the door. "Want something to drink?" His voice came out quieter than usual, the usual sharpness dulled by exhaustion.

"Nah, I’m good. Unless ya got somethin’ stronger than water?" Atsumu shot him a grin, voice laced with amusement.

Kiyoomi rolled his eyes but didn’t bother responding. Instead, he walked over to the couch and all but collapsed into it, letting his head rest against the back cushions. His headache still pulsed behind his eyes, but it felt less suffocating now that he was home.

He should have been annoyed that Atsumu was still here.

He wasn’t.

Atsumu, as if sensing Kiyoomi’s reluctance to sit in silence for too long, sprawled out on the other end of the couch with a satisfied sigh. "So, what do ya even do when yer not training?" he asked, stretching his arms behind his head.

Kiyoomi blinked at him. "What?"

Atsumu shrugged. "What do ya do when yer not bein’ a volleyball robot?"

"Watch TV. Read. Stuff like that."

Atsumu let out an exaggerated sigh. "No wonder yer so damn borin’."

Kiyoomi scowled. "Did you come here to help me or insult me?"

"Both, obviously."

Kiyoomi sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. "Of course."

Atsumu chuckled, leaning his head back against the couch. “But seriously, ya should do somethin’ fun every once in a while. Might do ya some good.”

Kiyoomi shot him a dry look. “And you’re the expert on fun?”

“Obviously,” Atsumu said, grinning. “I mean, look at me. I’m a delight.”

Kiyoomi let out a quiet scoff, shaking his head. “A headache, more like.”

Atsumu gasped dramatically, clutching his chest. “Ya wound me, Omi.”

“Good.”

The teasing should have been annoying, but somehow, it wasn’t. If anything, it eased the tension coiled in Kiyoomi’s chest, grounding him in a way he wasn’t used to.

Atsumu stretched, his shirt riding up slightly as he shifted. Kiyoomi noticed—of course he did—but quickly averted his gaze, his throat suddenly dry.

Atsumu hummed. “Y’know, I could always take ya out sometime. Show ya how to actually enjoy yourself.”

Kiyoomi turned to glare at him, though there wasn’t much bite behind it. “That sounds like my worst nightmare.”

Atsumu smirked, eyes twinkling with mischief. “Yeah? Then why ain’t ya tellin’ me no?”

Kiyoomi opened his mouth, but the words didn’t come. Because, annoyingly, Atsumu was right.

He hated that Atsumu had a point. Again. Hated it even more that he didn’t have a proper retort. Instead, he scoffed and looked away, focusing on a random spot on the coffee table as if it held all the answers to his problems.

Atsumu didn’t press him for a response. He just sighed, settling deeper into the couch. “Well, since I’m stuck babysittin’ ya for a while, ya might as well put somethin’ on TV.”

Kiyoomi grumbled but reached for the remote anyway. He flipped through the channels without much thought, the noise filling the silence between them. He was hyper-aware of Atsumu beside him, of the warmth radiating from his body, even though he was sitting far away from him.

Almost too far.

After a few minutes, Atsumu sighed dramatically. “Man, this is the worst babysittin’ gig ever. Ain’t even got snacks.”

Kiyoomi shot him an unimpressed look. “You’re not actually my babysitter.”

“Eh, coulda fooled me,” Atsumu said with a smirk. “Ya want me to order somethin’?”

Kiyoomi hesitated. The idea of spending more time with Atsumu, of letting him linger in his space, should have been unappealing. But strangely, it wasn’t. If anything, the idea of him leaving felt… unsettling.

“Fine,” Kiyoomi muttered. “But nothing greasy. I don’t want my apartment smelling like fried food.”

“Yeah, yeah, I gotcha, clean freak.” He pulled out his phone, scrolling through options.

As Atsumu placed the order, Kiyoomi let himself relax—just a little. His headache had dulled to a manageable ache, and the tension in his shoulders wasn’t as suffocating as before.

Maybe it was exhaustion, or maybe it was just the lingering warmth from earlier, but for once, Kiyoomi didn’t mind the company. He didn’t want to be alone.

The food arrived faster than expected, and for the next thirty minutes, the apartment was filled with nothing but the occasional sound of the TV and Atsumu’s exaggerated chewing—something he was clearly doing just to be annoying.

“Can you eat like a normal person?” Kiyoomi finally snapped, glaring at him.

Atsumu grinned, mouth full. “Where’s the fun in that?” he said around a bite, then winked.

Kiyoomi groaned, rubbing his temples. His headache had mostly faded, but dealing with Atsumu was a whole different kind of exhaustion.

The quiet settled between them again, the TV playing some mindless show neither of them were really watching. The warmth from the food left Kiyoomi feeling sluggish, his body sinking further into the cushions, finally starting to relax.

Then, after a while, Atsumu spoke.

“What’s been on yer mind lately?” he asked, glancing at Kiyoomi. “Ya’ve been distracted all week. Got a volleyball to the head, even.”

“Stuff,” Kiyoomi said, hoping that would end the conversation.

Of course, Atsumu wasn’t one to let things slide.

“What kind of stuff? What could possibly be goin’ on in that pretty head of yers?” he asked, inching closer—still not touching, but close enough to feel.

Kiyoomi turned to look at him, met his gaze, and took a deep breath. “Why do you wanna know?”

Atsumu shrugged, but there was something almost serious in his eyes. “Because I can tell somethin’s eatin’ at ya, and whether ya like it or not, I kinda care.”

Kiyoomi’s breath caught. He hated that—hated how Atsumu said things so easily, like they didn’t carry weight. Like they didn’t sink into Kiyoomi’s skin and settle there, unwanted but impossible to ignore.

“That’s dumb,” Kiyoomi muttered, looking away.

Atsumu huffed a laugh. “Yeah, well, lucky for ya, I’m dumb.”

Silence stretched between them. Not uncomfortable, but not easy either. Atsumu was still watching him, waiting. Kiyoomi felt like he was teetering on the edge of something. Something dangerous.

He exhaled sharply. “It’s nothing,” he finally said, softer this time. “Just… thinking too much.”

Atsumu hummed, unconvinced but willing to let it slide. “Yeah, well, maybe ya should try thinkin’ less.”

Kiyoomi scoffed. “That’s the stupidest advice I’ve ever heard.”

Atsumu grinned, leaning back again, finally giving Kiyoomi space to breathe. “Probably. But it works for me.”

Kiyoomi shook his head, but the tension in his chest eased. He didn’t know what to do with Atsumu—didn’t know what to do with the way Atsumu made him feel.

For the first time in his life, Kiyoomi felt the urge to touch someone. To hold a hand, to feel warmth that wasn’t his own. So, for once, he took Atsumu’s advice—he stopped thinking.

Shifting from his original position, he moved closer, leaning into Atsumu’s side.

Atsumu tensed, his breath hitching. “O-Omi?” he murmured, his usual bravado slipping, replaced by something softer. Kiyoomi turned his face away, half-wishing he could sink into the couch and disappear. “Shut up,” he muttered.

Atsumu let out a short, breathy laugh but didn’t pull away. If anything, he shifted, adjusting so Kiyoomi could rest against him more comfortably. His arm hovered awkwardly for a second before he let it settle along the back of the couch, close but not quite touching.

“Can I?” he asked after a beat.

Kiyoomi glanced at the hovering arm, then gave a small nod.

Atsumu smiled, wrapping an arm around Kiyoomi’s shoulders and pulling him closer. “Ya don’t feel like throwin’ up or kickin’ me in the face, do ya?”

“I’ve never kicked anyone in the face.”

“Ya’ve thought about it.”

“I’m thinking about it right now.”

Atsumu chuckled, rubbing slow circles into Kiyoomi’s shoulder.

“You don’t make me anxious…surprisingly,” Kiyoomi muttered after a pause.

Atsumu grinned. “That supposed to be a compliment?”

“Take it however you want.”

“Oh, I’m takin’ it as a huge one.”

Kiyoomi sighed, letting his head rest against Atsumu’s shoulder.

Atsumu’s fingers drifted up, threading through Kiyoomi’s hair, the gentle motion making Kiyoomi’s breath hitch. It was soft. Comforting. Addicting.

For once, Kiyoomi let himself relax.

Atsumu let out a quiet huff of laughter. "Didn’t think ya’d ever let me do this."

Kiyoomi barely cracked his eyes open, his voice softer than he intended. "Yeah… you and me both."

The TV murmured in the background, its flickering light casting shifting shadows across the walls, but neither of them paid it any mind. Atsumu’s fingers moved idly, threading through Kiyoomi’s curls with a slow, steady rhythm. The motion was almost hypnotic, each pass easing the last remnants of his headache.

A memory surfaced—his mother, the ever composed doctor, once telling him, "Sometimes, a hug or a sincere human connection is the best form of meditation."

Back then, he hadn’t understood. He hadn’t needed to. Touch had always felt like an intrusion, something foreign and unwanted, his body rejecting it before it even came close.

But now, with Atsumu’s fingers in his hair, warm and unhurried, he thought—maybe he finally understood.

And maybe letting Atsumu in like this was the first step.

It had been two weeks since Kiyoomi had let Atsumu hold him on the couch. Two weeks since something in him had cracked open just enough to let Atsumu in.

Somehow, without either of them addressing it, it had become a habit—an addiction, almost.

Not that Kiyoomi would ever admit it.

His tolerance for touch hadn’t magically expanded. It was still just Atsumu. But even with him, Kiyoomi was meticulous. Every time, without fail, Atsumu made sure his hands were clean, scrubbing them without being asked, passing Kiyoomi’s unspoken standards with surprising diligence. And to his credit, Atsumu never complained—never rolled his eyes or made some smartass remark. He just grinned and let Kiyoomi have his way, like it was the easiest thing in the world.

Somewhere along the line, they’d fallen into a strange, unspoken routine.

Kiyoomi would press his forehead against Atsumu’s back when exhaustion hit during practice. Lean against his shoulder on the bus during away games. Let his fingers ghost over Atsumu’s wrist when stress became too much, grounding himself in the warmth there. Sometimes, in moments of quiet vulnerability, he’d reach for his hand—fleeting, deliberate.

And Atsumu? Atsumu never pulled away. Never teased. Never demanded more than Kiyoomi was willing to give. He simply let him take what he needed, always reciprocating, never initiating—like he was carefully navigating the edges of something fragile, something Kiyoomi wasn’t quite sure how to control yet.

None of it was subtle.

The team had noticed.

Kiyoomi’s sudden, uncharacteristic proximity to another human being—willing proximity—was bound to raise a few eyebrows.

“Damn, did I hit him that hard in the head?” Bokuto whispered—well, attempted to whisper—to Inunaki before practice, staring openly at where Kiyoomi had been leaning against Atsumu’s side only moments ago.

Kiyoomi shot him a glare so sharp it could’ve drawn blood.

Both men stiffened immediately, eyes snapping forward like they’d just been caught slacking in the military.

Atsumu, crouched on the bench tying his shoes, let out a quiet snicker. “Omi, chill. Ya look like yer about to murder ‘em.”

So Kiyoomi turned his glare on him instead.

The problem was, Atsumu had grown immune to it. That was one of the downsides of this whole thing—his death stares had lost their effect on one particularly infuriating person.

Rather than looking remotely fazed, Atsumu stood, wandered over to Kiyoomi, and—before he could react—ruffled his curls.

Then, as if he hadn’t just committed an act of war, he strolled past him toward the gym.

“Calm down, tiger.”

Kiyoomi stood there, stunned at the sheer audacity.

Bokuto and Inunaki gawked like they’d just witnessed a crime.

Without a word, Kiyoomi turned on his heel and followed after Atsumu, resolutely ignoring the stares burning into his back.

The first time their… situation was truly called into question was about a month later, after a brutal five-set match in Nagato.

Drained, running on fumes, and far past the point of caring, Kiyoomi didn’t even think twice before leaning his full weight against Atsumu’s back. He buried his face in Atsumu’s shoulder, arms looping around his waist like it was the most natural thing in the world.

He barely had a second to settle before—

“WHAT THE ACTUAL FUCK?!”

Motoya’s voice rang out through the locker room, sharp enough to cut through Kiyoomi’s exhaustion like a knife.

Beside him, Rintarō crossed his arms, raising an unimpressed brow. “Yeah, seriously. What the hell am I looking at right now?”

Kiyoomi didn’t move. Didn’t so much as flinch. He was too drained to even pretend to be bothered. Atsumu, though, could feel the weight of their stares, the way the room had shifted.

With an amused chuckle, Atsumu turned his head slightly. “You two done staring, or should I give ya a minute to catch up?”

Motoya pointed an accusatory finger at them, still reeling. “This—what?! HOW?!”

Kiyoomi, utterly unbothered, muttered against Atsumu’s shoulder, “He’s clean.”

That was, apparently, not the answer Motoya was expecting.

His cousin gawked at him, equal parts baffled and amused. “Are you serious? It took me years to get a single hug out of you, and now Atsumu-san gets them like it’s nothing? Just—just like that?”

Kiyoomi finally peeled himself off of Atsumu with a grumpy sigh, leveling Motoya with a flat look. “I’m too tired for this. I’m going to change.”

With that, he turned and walked off, effectively ending the conversation.

The moment he disappeared into the changing room, Motoya and Rintarō turned on Atsumu, their expressions sharp with suspicion.

“What?” Atsumu asked, feigning innocence.

“What do you mean ‘what’?” Motoya shot back. “You know how Kiyo is. What the fuck did you do to him to make him act like that?”

“Oh my god, don’t tell me you two fu—”

“Rin!” Atsumu cut him off so fast it was a miracle he didn’t trip over his own words. His face turned an alarming shade of red. “No! What the fuck? We didn’t—it’s not—Jesus Christ.”

Motoya and Rintarō exchanged a look—one of those knowing looks that made Atsumu want to hurl himself into the sun.

“I’m just saying,” Motoya drawled, arms crossed, smirking now. “You’ve got Sakusa Kiyoomi—the same guy who flinches at handshakes—cuddling up to you in public. And you expect us to believe it’s not like that?” His smirk deepened. “Are you two dating? Be honest. As his cousin, I deserve to know.”

Atsumu exhaled through his nose, rubbing the back of his neck. The weight of the conversation was starting to settle in.

“We’re not dating,” he said, but even to himself, it didn’t sound as firm as it should have. “I mean it. It’s not like that…” He hesitated. “I think. Look, it’s complicated, okay? I’m not a hundred percent sure myself.”

Rintarō leaned in, eyes glinting with curiosity. “Complicated? That’s a new one.” He tilted his head. “You’re telling me Sakusa—the guy who avoids physical contact like it’s a death sentence—is suddenly all over you… just because?”

Atsumu opened his mouth, then closed it.

Yeah. When Rintarō put it like that… it did sound ridiculous.

“Can we just drop this?” he muttered, hating how flustered he sounded.

Rintarō didn’t look convinced, but to Atsumu’s relief, he exchanged a glance with Motoya before finally shrugging. “Alright, alright, we’ll drop it—for now.”

Motoya, however, wasn’t done. His lips curled into a sly grin. “But just so we’re clear, you’re the one who doesn’t know what this is.”

Atsumu shot him a glare. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Oh, nothing,” Motoya said, far too innocently. “Just that Kiyo—the guy who treats personal space like a religion—is out there clinging to you like a damn koala, and somehow, you’re the one all confused about it?” He gave Atsumu a pointed look. “Really makes you think.”

Rintarō snorted. “Sounds like someone’s in denial.”

Atsumu groaned, rolling his eyes. “Denial of what, exactly?”

“That you like him and he likes you, dumbass.”

Atsumu opened his mouth—probably to argue, maybe to deflect—but no words came out. Because as much as he wanted to deny it, the idea hit him with an uncomfortable weight.

“I…I don’t...and he definitely doesn't..." he protested weakly. It didn’t sound nearly as convincing as he’d hopped. Especially the first part.

Rintarō grinned, smelling blood in the water. “Oh yeah? Say it again, but like you actually believe it this time.”

Atsumu scowled. “Fuck off.”

Motoya leaned in, clearly enjoying himself. “Damn, you’re really struggling with this, huh?”

Atsumu threw his hands up. “There’s nothin’ to struggle with! He’s just—he trusts me, okay? He don’t like touchin’ people, but for whatever reason, I make the cut. It ain’t that deep.”

Motoya and Rintarō stared at him for a beat. Then, in perfect unison, they both went, “Uh-huh.”

Atsumu clenched his jaw. “I swear to god—”

Before he could finish that sentence (or possibly commit a crime), the locker room door swung open, and Kiyoomi stepped back inside, hair still damp from his shower, a towel draped around his neck.

His gaze flicked between them, brows knitting together. “What are you three talking about?”

Rintarō didn’t miss a beat. “Atsumu being a dumbass.”

Kiyoomi barely reacted, already used to that being the default topic of conversation. “That’s not exactly news.”

“Hey—” Atsumu started.

Kiyoomi gave them all a long, tired look before shaking his head. “I’m going back to the hotel.”

Without waiting for a response, he turned and left.

Atsumu didn’t hesitate—he grabbed his bag and followed.

“Oh yeah, he’s so screwed.” Mtoya said once they were gone, smirking to himself, not even specifying who he was talking about.

Rintarō chuckled. “Yep.”

“Do you think this is weird?” Kiyoomi asked, his voice low as he settled into the seat next to Atsumu on the bus.

“Huh?” Atsumu blinked, looking up in confusion.

“The way I’m acting,” Kiyoomi clarified, rubbing a hand over his face, clearly frustrated. “Is it weird?”

Atsumu grinned, amused, but there was something softer in his expression as he studied Kiyoomi. “Right now? Yeah.”

Kiyoomi exhaled sharply, his cheeks flushing. “No, I mean…” He hesitated, his fingers curling against his knees. “The fact that I keep wanting to—y’know—touch you.” His face scrunched as soon as the words left his mouth. “That sounded so bad.”

Atsumu chuckled, the sound easy, like he wasn’t thrown off by any of this. Like Kiyoomi’s awkward admission didn’t faze him in the slightest.

“I guess what I’m trying to say is… this whole thing is new to me,” Kiyoomi continued, his voice quieter now, uncertain in a way he rarely let show. “You’re like—” He huffed, shaking his head. “It’s like you’re my cheat code or something. You don’t trigger my… fucked-up brain when it comes to touch, well not that much anyway. But it just hit me that I never actually asked if you’re okay with it. Am I doing too much? Should I stop? Is this weird?”

His gaze flickered to Atsumu, searching.

Atsumu’s grin softened into something more sincere. “I mean, yeah, it’s kinda weird. But not in a bad way. It’s weird that ya trust me like this.” He leaned back against his seat, exhaling through his nose. “I never thought I’d have yer trust, y’know? But I’m glad I do.”

His voice turned lighter, more teasing. “And no, it doesn’t bother me. I grew up with a twin—Samu might act all nonchalant now, but that sunofabitch was clingy as hell when we were kids. So, I’m used to it. Hell, I kinda need it, too.”

Kiyoomi tilted his head slightly, watching him.

Atsumu rubbed the back of his neck, looking almost shy now. “I like being close to people. Grew up with someone always attached to me, so it’s kinda inevitable. And, uh… I like being close to ya. It feels… I dunno. Kinda special.” He let out a short, nervous chuckle. “So, yeah. Definitely doesn’t bother me.”

Kiyoomi nodded, not entirely sure what to say, but feeling something settle in his chest all the same.

“Don’t overthink it, ‘kay?” Atsumu said, reaching for his hand and lacing their fingers together like it was the easiest thing in the world.

Kiyoomi stared at their joined hands, his thumb ghosting over Atsumu’s knuckles. Underneath his mask, a small smile tugged at his lips. He gave Atsumu’s hand the smallest squeeze, like he was testing the weight of it, the reality of it.

He wasn’t used to this—not just the touch, but the ease of it. The way Atsumu didn’t hesitate, didn’t flinch, didn’t treat him like something fragile or difficult.

It was grounding in a way he couldn’t quite explain.

So instead of telling Atsumu all that he decided to do something that felt more comfortable to him.

Bicker.

“By the way your set in the second half of the last game was absolute shit” he said.

Atsumu made an offended squawking noise, yanking his hand back like Kiyoomi had personally betrayed him. “Excuse me?”

Kiyoomi shrugged, entirely unbothered. “You heard me.”

Atsumu gaped at him. “I was literally carrying that last set, Omi. Carrying!”

Kiyoomi hummed, tilting his head in mock consideration. “If by ‘carrying,’ you mean throwing half-assed sets that made me question your entire career, then sure.”

Atsumu clutched his chest like he’d been physically struck. “Ya little—” He inhaled sharply, pointing a dramatic finger at Kiyoomi. “Ya do realize I’m the reason ya get to show off those fancy spikes of yer, right?”

Kiyoomi gave him a blank stare. “And?”

“And—” Atsumu sputtered, looking dangerously close to launching into a full-blown rant. “Ya need me, jackass!”

Kiyoomi blinked. “I could always transfer to a team with a more competent setter. Adlers maybe? They did offer last season, you know. Plus Kageyama is a great setter.”

The noise that left Atsumu’s throat was downright murderous. “Ya wouldn’t dare.”

Kiyoomi lifted a shoulder in a slow, deliberate shrug.

Atsumu narrowed his eyes, then suddenly lunged forward, jabbing Kiyoomi in the ribs with quick, merciless precision.

Kiyoomi jolted, sucking in a sharp breath. “What the—Miya!”

“Take it back,” Atsumu demanded, eyes glinting with challenge.

“No.”

Another poke, this time to his side. Kiyoomi nearly jerked out of his seat.

Atsumu grinned. “Take it back, Omi.”

“Stop—” Kiyoomi batted his hands away, scowling. “What are you, five?”

Atsumu wiggled his fingers menacingly. “Not stoppin’ ‘til ya admit I’m the best setter ya’ve ever had.”

Kiyoomi huffed, shifting as far away as their cramped bus seats would allow. “I’m not indulging this.”

Atsumu’s grin widened. “So ya admit it?”

“I’m admitting that you’re insufferable.”

“Close enough.” Atsumu leaned back with a victorious smirk, clearly pleased with himself.

Kiyoomi rolled his eyes but didn’t move away when Atsumu, almost absentmindedly, reached for his hand again.

This time, Kiyoomi laced their fingers together first.

Two and a half months after letting Atsumu into his "safe people to touch" zone, Kiyoomi decided it was time to push his boundaries a little further.

He was going to try—really try—to shake his teammates' hands. No gloves. No immediate scrubbing afterward.

His fingers twitched as he extended them, every nerve in his body on high alert. Across from him, Hinata froze, wide-eyed, staring at Kiyoomi's outstretched hand like it was some kind of mirage.

For a moment, neither of them moved.

Then—

"Omi-san?!" Hinata practically shrieked, his voice high-pitched with disbelief. Kiyoomi couldn't tell if he was excited, horrified, or some chaotic mix of both.

His own skin felt hot, hyper-aware of the contact. The sensation was foreign—uncomfortable—but he pushed through it. He'd seen Hinata wash his hands just a minute ago. They all had, after Kiyoomi told them what he was about to do. This was fine. This was progress.

Before he could fully process the touch, Hinata's eyes began to shine.

"Can I hug you now?" he asked, voice wobbling like it was a life-or-death matter.

Kiyoomi blinked, completely caught off guard. Instinct took over before logic could, and he took a small step back.

"No. Sorry." His tone was firm, polite—but absolute.

Hinata's face crumpled in pure betrayal. "But you let Atsumu hug you!"

There was something almost accusatory in his tone, like Kiyoomi had personally wronged him by playing favorites.

Before Kiyoomi could respond, Atsumu stepped in, grinning as he raised his hands in mock surrender. "Hey, slow down, Sho-kun. Omi's just gettin' used to all this. Give him some time, and maybe he'll let y'all hug him." He paused, then added with a casual shrug, "Maybe."

Kiyoomi shot him a glare—half annoyed, half begrudgingly appreciative. Atsumu had an uncanny ability to step in at just the right moment, smoothing things over without trying too hard.

Hinata huffed, glancing between them before finally settling on a pout. "Fine," he muttered, clearly disappointed but willing to wait. "But I'm holding you to that."

Now came the real test: shaking hands with the rest of them.

Bokuto grabbed his hand with teary-eyed enthusiasm. Meian smiled like a proud dad, giving Kiyoomi a reassuring squeeze. Inunaki shook his hand and immediately cracked a joke. Thomas and Barnes hesitated, as if they couldn't quite believe what was happening.

Then, as if summoned by the commotion, Foster passed by the lockers, spotted the scene, and—without hesitation—joined in on the "handshaking ritual."

Kiyoomi felt ridiculous. All of this felt ridiculous. But at the same time, it helped—helped quiet that part of his brain that panicked at the slightest touch.

"Exposure therapy," Atsumu had called it.

Maybe, it was working.

Once everyone was gone, and the room was empty except for him and Atsumu, his shoulders dropping in relief. Without thinking, he turned toward the blond, stepping closer and pressing his forehead against Atsumu’s shoulder.

“It wasn’t that bad,” he murmured, voice barely above a whisper.

Atsumu blinked down at him, caught slightly off guard, before letting out a soft chuckle. “Ya think you’re actually gonna be okay with huggin’ people eventually?”

Kiyoomi hesitated. Then, with a small shrug, mumbled, “Maybe I don't fucking know.”

But instead of pulling away, he lingered, shifting slightly so his face pressed into the crook of Atsumu’s neck. It was the closest he’d ever let himself get to Atsumu —they'd hugged before but not like this. It felt…different more intimate

Atsumu was warm. Not just physically, but in a way that made something in Kiyoomi’s chest settle. He smelled like his usual shampoo, with an undertone of something fresh, citrusy—clean. The rise and fall of his breathing was steady, grounding, and without thinking, Kiyoomi inhaled, just a little, letting the familiarity of it sink into his bones.

Atsumu’s arms wrapped around him in response, pulling him in—not forceful, not tentative, just sure. His grip was firm, solid, like he knew exactly how to hold Kiyoomi without making it feel overwhelming. Because he did know. His hand splayed out against Kiyoomi’s back, fingertips pressing lightly through the fabric of his jacket, while the other rested at his waist, keeping him close.

Kiyoomi could feel the steady thump of Atsumu’s heartbeat beneath his cheek, and for a rare, fleeting moment, he allowed himself to just exist there—close, warm, unguarded.

“…Omi,” Atsumu murmured after a while, voice quieter than usual.

“Hmm?”

"Wanna go out with me?"

Atsumu’s voice wavered in a way that was rare for him. Kiyoomi could feel his heartbeat pick up, rapid and unsteady.

"I—I mean, go out to eat,” Atsumu fumbled, his confidence suddenly crumbling. “Samu’s been trying out these new recipes at his restaurant, and I thought ya might like ta try ‘em." He rushed the words out, stumbling over them in a way that was painfully un-Atsumu-like.

Kiyoomi pulled back just enough to look at him.

Atsumu—cocky, insufferable Atsumu—was actually nervous.

A small smile tugged at Kiyoomi’s lips, something quiet and amused.

"Okay."

Atsumu’s eyes widened slightly, like he hadn’t expected such an easy answer. "Really?"

"Yeah," Kiyoomi said simply, still smiling, warmth flickering in his chest at the thought of spending more time with him.

Atsumu stared at him for a moment longer before his lips split into a grin, something bright and undeniably happy. “Yer gonna love the food! Samu’s a great cook, although he can be annoying. Actually no, he will be annoying, just warnin’ ya.”

Kiyoomi huffed, rolling his eyes even as a small smirk tugged at his lips. “I think I can handle one more annoying Miya.”

Atsumu let out an exaggerated gasp, like Kiyoomi had just mortally wounded him. “That was uncalled for.”

Onigiri Miya was much bigger than the original location Osamu had opened two years ago—the same one Kiyoomi had last visited. The difference was striking.

“Oh, this is definitely an upgrade,” he remarked as they stepped inside. The bell above the door chimed softly as it swung shut behind them.

“I know, right? The scrub's been workin’ his ass off to get here,” said Atsumu, scanning the restaurant. “Speaking of—where’s my idiot brother?”

He turned toward the counter, searching for Osamu.

A staff member behind the counter glanced up at the sound of Atsumu’s voice, recognizing him immediately. "Oh, hey, Atsumu! Osamu’s in the back. Want me to—"

Before she could finish, a familiar voice cut in from the kitchen. "Oi, quit yellin’ in my damn restaurant."

Osamu appeared from behind the counter, wiping his hands on a towel. His apron was slightly askew, and there was a faint smudge of flour on his cheek. He gave his brother a once-over before raising an eyebrow. "Didn’t expect ta see you here without a camera crew or somethin’."

Atsumu rolled his eyes. "I can visit my dear twin without a special occasion, y’know."

Osamu snorted. "Yeah? What’s the real reason? Free food?" His gaze flickered to Kiyoomi. "And ya even dragged Sakusa along, huh?"

Kiyoomi, who had been silently observing the exchange, exhaled sharply. "I was promised good food. That’s the only reason I’m here."

Osamu smirked. "Good choice. Hope ya brought an appetite. Food's free for ya, but Tsumu's payin’."

"Hey! What the fuck? I'm yer brother!" Atsumu protested, crossing his arms.

"Yeah, unfortunately," Osamu deadpanned, and Kiyoomi let out an unexpected snort.

Atsumu shot him a glare. "Don't encourage him, Omi."

Kiyoomi, unfazed, simply shrugged. "I’m just enjoying the entertainment."

Osamu chuckled as he untied his apron and slung it over his shoulder. "Well, since yer here, might as well sit down. I’ll get ya somethin’ good."

Atsumu perked up instantly. "Oh hell yeah—"

"But nothin’ fancy for ya," Osamu interrupted, smirking. "Just plain onigiri. Don’t wanna waste the good stuff on someone who still eats like a five-year-old."

Atsumu gasped. "Yer an asshole."

Osamu rolled his eyes and turned to Kiyoomi. "What about ya? Got a preference, or ya trust me to pick?"

Kiyoomi considered for a moment before nodding. "I'll trust you."

Osamu grinned, and it was so similar to the way Atsumu grinned. Kiyoomi realized that that particular grin had become so familiar and special to him lately. "Good answer. Now go sit yer asses down before ya scare off my customers."

“Rude motherducker,” Atsumu huffed, exhaling sharply before striding toward an empty table.

Kiyoomi followed, sliding into his seat as his gaze drifted to Atsumu. He hadn’t paid much attention before—or rather, he had, but he refused to acknowledge it. Now, sitting directly across from him, ignoring it felt impossible.

Atsumu’s bleached blond hair was a little messy, dark roots peeking through just enough to tell that it was probably time for a touch-up. He wore a fitted white T-shirt that clung in all the right places, paired with light-wash, slightly baggy jeans that sat low on his hips. Simple. Casual. And yet, somehow, it looked effortlessly good on him. Then again, with a body like his, anything would.

Kiyoomi clicked his tongue, irritated at himself for noticing. He wasn’t here to analyze Atsumu’s wardrobe—or how well he filled out that shirt, or the way his forearms flexed when he reached for the menu. Forcing his attention elsewhere, he fixated on the laminated sheet in front of him instead.

Atsumu, either oblivious or simply enjoying himself, leaned back in his seat, arms stretching behind his head. “Man, I’m starvin’. Hope ‘Samu doesn’t take forever.”

Kiyoomi hummed in response, willing his focus to stay on anything but the way Atsumu’s shirt rode up slightly with the movement. The restaurant had a warm, inviting atmosphere, the scent of rice and grilled fish lingering in the air. It felt… nice. Comfortable.

"You ever been to this new location before?" Atsumu asked, tapping his fingers idly against the table.

Kiyoomi shook his head. "No. Last time I ate at Onigiri Miya was two years ago."

Atsumu snorted. “Damn, two years? Ya were still in uni, right?”

"Yeah, my last year," Kiyoomi confirmed. "Came to Osaka with Motoya to watch one of MSBY’s games, actually. Then Toya dragged me to Onigiri Miya after."

Atsumu blinked. “Wait, ya came ta see us play?”

Kiyoomi nodded. “Yeah. I had an offer to join the team after graduation, and I wanted to see for myself how you guys played.”

Atsumu grinned, leaning forward slightly. “And that convinced ya ta join?”

Kiyoomi hesitated for half a second before offering a casual shrug. “You could say that.”

What he didn’t say was that it wasn’t just the team that convinced him—it was Atsumu. Or rather, that he’d secretly wanted Atsumu to set for him ever since the first time they played together at the Youth Camp, nearly eight years ago.

Atsumu tilted his head, watching him curiously. “Huh. Never knew ya came ta scout us first.”

Kiyoomi shrugged, keeping his expression neutral. “I like to make informed decisions.”

Atsumu smirked. “Bet ya took notes too. Sat there all serious, analyzin’ our every move like some kinda volleyball scientist.”

Kiyoomi scoffed. “I wasn’t that bad.”

Atsumu snickered. “Please. Yer the type ta have a whole spreadsheet on us.”

Kiyoomi rolled his eyes but didn’t argue—because, well, he had. A pros and cons list, even. Atsumu’s name had been on both.

Atsumu was electric on the court, commanding attention with every set, every sharp grin, every effortless moment of synchronicity with his teammates. Kiyoomi had spent years perfecting his own technique, refining every move to be efficient and controlled. But Atsumu—Atsumu played like he loved it. Like he lived for it. And Kiyoomi had known, in that instant, that if he wanted to push himself further, this was the setter he wanted to play with.

But Atsumu was also cocky. Loud. Obnoxious. Arrogant and blunt—too blunt, most days. He was a headache in human form. And yet, if Kiyoomi was being honest… he wouldn’t have him any other way.

“You’re doin’ it again.”

Kiyoomi blinked, snapping back to the present. “Doing what?”

Atsumu grinned. “Starin’ at me. Wanna take a pic? It'll last longer.”

Heat crept up the back of Kiyoomi’s neck. “Don’t flatter yourself.”

Atsumu snorted. “Too late for that, Omi-kun.”

Before Kiyoomi could fire back, Osamu returned to their table, setting down a tray. “Alright, lovebirds, food’s here.”

Kiyoomi scowled. “We are not—”

Atsumu, completely unfazed, just grinned. “Aw, ‘Samu, ya jealous?”

Osamu sighed, setting the tray down. “Jealous? No. Exhausted? Absolutely.”

Kiyoomi pinched the bridge of his nose, regretting every decision that led him to this moment, but not really.

Osamu set the tray down with a smirk, sliding a plate in front of Kiyoomi before turning to his brother. “And for you, a very special meal,” he said, placing a plain onigiri on Atsumu’s plate with exaggerated care.

Atsumu stared at it, deadpan. “Yer a cockhead,"

Osamu shrugged. “Eat up, scrub.”

Kiyoomi, already picking up his chopsticks, watched as Atsumu grumbled under his breath but ultimately took a bite. He had to fight the upward twitch of his lips when Atsumu’s expression melted into satisfaction

“Good, huh?” Osamu teased, leaning against the table.

Atsumu chewed, swallowed, and reluctantly admitted, “Shut up.”

Kiyoomi took a bite of his own meal and hummed in approval. The flavors were balanced, the rice perfectly cooked, the filling just right. He had expected good food, but this was better than he remembered.

Osamu grinned knowingly. “Told ya it’d be worth it.”

Kiyoomi nodded. “It is.”

Atsumu pointed his chopsticks at Osamu. “I take back all the mean things I said about ya.”

Osamu arched an eyebrow. “All of ‘em?”

Atsumu thought for a second. “Most of ‘em.”

Kiyoomi watched the exchange, something warm settling in his chest. This—this easy back-and-forth, this comfortable energy—felt annoyingly… nice.

Too nice.

So, naturally, he did what he did best. He deflected.

“You have rice on your face,” he informed Atsumu, nodding toward the small grain stuck near the corner of his mouth.

Atsumu’s tongue darted out, missing completely. “Got it?”

Kiyoomi sighed. “No.”

Osamu snickered, shaking his head. “Hopeless.”

Kiyoomi rolled his eyes before, without thinking, reaching out and brushing the grain away with his thumb.

Atsumu froze.

Kiyoomi froze.

Osamu, watching with an absolutely insufferable smirk, did not.

“Well, and I thought Rin was lying,” he drawled.

Hearing those words Atsumu almost chocked. “What did Rin tell ya exactly?” he asked almost panicked. Kiyoomi raised an eyebrow at him.

“Oh nothing much. Lemme just get back to the kitchen and let y'all enjoy your flirt- meal I mean” he said because of course Osamy was just as much of a menace as Atsumu was. They had both shared a woumb after all.

“So ehm, excuse my idiot brother I guess,” sighed Atsumu.

Kiyoomi just laughed shaking his head. “He's almost as ridiculous as you are,”

Atsumu scoffed, crossing his arms. “Almost? C’mon, Omi, gimme some credit. I set the gold standard for ridiculous in yer books don't I?”

Kiyoomi smirked, idly picking at his food. “That’s not something to be proud of.”

“Yeah, well, it’s a full-time job bein’ this entertainin’,” Atsumu shot back, grinning. “Yer lucky ta have me around.”

Kiyoomi exhaled through his nose, shaking his head.

Atsumu leaned forward, chin resting on his palm. “So, what’d ya think of the food, really?”

Kiyoomi took another deliberate bite, chewing thoughtfully before nodding. “It’s good.”

Atsumu scoffed. “That’s it? Just ‘good’?”

Kiyoomi raised an eyebrow. “Would you prefer a detailed analysis?”

Atsumu grinned. “Yeah. Tell me how it made ya feel, Omi. Did it change yer life? Did ya see heaven?”

Kiyoomi deadpanned. “It made me feel like I’m never going to a restaurant with you ever again.”

Atsumu barked out a laugh, leaning back in his chair. “Yer full of shit.”

Kiyoomi’s lips twitched. “And you’re full of rice. Literally.”

Atsumu wiped at his mouth instinctively, scowling when he realized Kiyoomi was just messing with him. “Yer a menace.”

Kiyoomi took a slow sip of his drink. “Learned from the best.”

Atsumu watched him, his grin softening for just a second before he shook his head. “Man, yer somethin’ else,”

Before they could finish their meal and leave the restaurant, Atsumu excused himself to the bathroom, leaving Kiyoomi alone at their table. It wasn’t even a full minute before someone else slid into the seat across from him.

Kiyoomi blinked, momentarily thrown off as he found himself staring at a face so similar to Atsumu’s—yet undeniably different.

Osamu.

“Alright,” Osamu said, leaning forward with a no-nonsense look. “I’ll cut to the chase, ‘cause I know neither of us like wastin’ time.” He narrowed his eyes slightly. “What exactly are yer intentions with my brother?”

Kiyoomi froze, nearly choking on his own saliva.

“Excuse me?” he managed, voice slightly strained.

Osamu didn’t so much as blink. “Ya heard me.”

Kiyoomi set his drink down carefully, as if the extra second would help him process what was happening. It did not.

“My… intentions?” he echoed, brows knitting together.

Osamu sighed like this was the most exhausting conversation he’d ever had. “Look, I ain’t dumb. I see the way ya look at him. The way he looks at you. And don’t get me started on the way y’all bicker like an old married couple.”

Kiyoomi’s brows furrowed. “That’s just how we’ve always interacted.”

Osamu raised an eyebrow. “Uh-huh. And ya don’t let just anyone touch ya, do ya?”

Kiyoomi stiffened, fingers twitching around his glass. Yeah well, Osamu got him there.

Osamu smirked at his silence. “Thought so.”

Kiyoomi exhaled sharply, pinching the bridge of his nose. “This is ridiculous.”

Osamu shrugged. “Maybe, but i know my brother. He's got a good heart and he gives it away easily, too easily. And I know yer a smart man, so don't tell me ya have noticed that he's got a thing fer ya.” His tone wasn’t teasing anymore. It was steady. Serious. Protective.

Kiyoomi swallowed and shifted uncomfortably in his seat, leaning back just a fraction. He wasn’t used to being put on the spot like this, especially not by someone who had Atsumu’s eyes and that same piercing gaze. He took another sip of his drink, stalling for time as he tried to organize his thoughts.

“I’m not…” Kiyoomi started, then paused, trying to choose his words carefully. “I’m not here to hurt him, if that’s what you’re worried about.”

Osamu studied him for a long moment, arms folded across his chest. His posture remained unwavering. “I know. But ya’ve been clingin’ to him, an’ only him. Treatin’ him like he’s the only person ya can stand. Don’t try ta deny it. Rin and Toya told me already.” He let the words settle before continuing. “He doesn’t always show it, but he gets attached easily. And when he does, he’s all in. So if he’s some sort of experiment fer yer aversion to touchin’ people—”

“He’s not,” Kiyoomi cut in, voice tight with irritation. “Look, I don’t know what kind of monster you’ve made me out to be in your head, but I would never treat him like some experiment. My issues with touch and germs, or whatever you wanna call it, make me feel like an alien enough, so don’t go throwin’ words at me like that.” His jaw tightened, eyes fierce. “Atsumu is one of the few people I can genuinely want to be close to. I treat him like he's the only one I can stand because it's true ”

Osamu just smirked. “I guess I have any answer then.”

He was infuriating, just like Atsumu. Kiyoomi felt like he had been forced into a corner and then made to admit things he wasn’t ready do admit yet – not even to himself.

He supposed it was a Miya thing. They knew how to push just the right buttons.

“Don’t hurt him. I'm serious, Sakusa”

Kiyoomi glared at him. “What if he hurts me?”

“He won't.” said Osamu like it was the most sure thing in the world.

The sound of the bathroom door opening interrupted their conversation. Atsumu reappeared, looking none the wiser to the quiet tension still hanging in the air. He flashed a grin at both of them as he slid back into his seat.

Osamu gave Kiyoomi one last look before standing up to leave.

“Good talk, Sakusa, "

Kiyoomi sighed, watching as Osamu made his way back to the kitchen.

Atsumu, oblivious as always, turned his attention to Kiyoomi, his grin widening.

"So," Atsumu said, plopping back down at the table, "what’d I miss?"
Kiyoomi looked at him his irritation from before slightly dying down. “Nothing, I was just chatting with Osamu about how bad your hair was in high-school” he said deflecting.

Again.

Atsumu pouted and then rolled his eyes. “Like yer one to talk. Ya only learned how to style yer curls in Uni!”

“At least I learned. Your hair still looks like you just rolled out of bed. Plus it's all fried.”

Atsumu reached for a strand of his hair and sighed. “Can't argue with the fried part….”

Then after a few beats of silence Atsumu narrowed his eyes. “Yer actin’ weird.”

Kiyoomi raised a brow. “Weird how?”

“I dunno.” Atsumu tilted his head, scrutinizing him. “Like ya just had a life-alterin’ experience while I was gone taking a piss.”

Kiyoomi frowned. Either he wasn’t as skilled at masking his thoughts as he’d always believed, or the Miya twins had an annoying talent for seeing right through his bullshit.
Both possibilities were equally infuriating.

Atsumu studied him for another second, then huffed, leaning back in his chair. “Whatever. If ya suddenly decide ta start spillin’ secrets, lemme know. ”Kiyoomi rolled his eyes, taking a slow sip of his drink. The last thing he wanted was Atsumu pressing him any further—especially when Osamu had already managed to drag out more than he should have.

Atsumu, oblivious to Kiyoomi’s internal turmoil, perked up. “Anyway, let’s get the check. I wanna stop by that bakery down the street before we head back.”

Kiyoomi hummed. “Didn’t you just eat an entire meal?”

Atsumu scoffed. “So? Dessert is in a different stomach.”

Kiyoomi sighed, but there was no real weight behind it. If he was being honest, he didn’t actually mind.

As they made their way to the register, Atsumu shot Kiyoomi a sharp look the moment he reached for his wallet.

“What the hell do ya think you’re doin’?” Atsumu demanded.

Kiyoomi blinked. “Paying?”

“Put that away. Tonight’s on me—well, on Samu, actually.” Atsumu grinned, batting his lashes dramatically at his brother.

Osamu didn’t even flinch, leveling him with a flat stare. “Absolutely not. Pay up, asshole. I even added a brother tax.”

His smirk was wide and shameless, and Atsumu groaned, rolling his eyes before tapping his card against the reader with an exaggerated sigh.

As the transaction went through, Atsumu shot Osamu a betrayed look. "A brother tax? Yer unbelievable."

Osamu shrugged, completely unbothered. "Consider it payback for all the headaches ya gave me growin’ up."

Kiyoomi watched their exchange with mild amusement. It was oddly entertaining to see Atsumu at the receiving end of someone else’s antics for once.
Atsumu, still grumbling, grabbed the receipt and turned to Kiyoomi. "C’mon, let’s go before Samu tries ta charge me for breathin’ his air too."

Atsumu grabbed Kiyoomi by the sleeve, tugging him toward the door without hesitation. Kiyoomi let himself be pulled along, but not before casting one last glance over his shoulder.

Osamu was still at the counter, watching him with a knowing smirk—satisfied, self-assured, like he hadn’t just upended Kiyoomi’s entire world with a few well-placed words.

As they stepped outside, the cool night air was a stark contrast to the warmth of the restaurant. Atsumu stretched his arms above his head, letting out a content sigh.

"Alright, let’s hit that bakery," he said, already leading the way.

Kiyoomi followed in silence, his mind still reeling. Osamu’s words lingered, threading themselves through his thoughts no matter how hard he tried to shake them off.

He won't.

Osamu had sounded so certain. Like it was impossible. Like Atsumu would never, could never, be the one to hurt him.
Kiyoomi wasn’t sure if that made him feel more relieved or terrified.

“Ya good?” Atsumu’s voice broke through his thoughts, and Kiyoomi realized too late that he had been staring.

He blinked, shaking his head. “I’m fine.”

Atsumu didn’t look convinced, but he didn’t press. Instead, he grinned, nudging Kiyoomi’s shoulder as they walked. “Hope ya saved some room, ‘cause I’m gonna make ya try everythin’ at that bakery.”

“How do you stay in shape with how much you eat?” Kiyoomi sighed.

Atsumu smirked. “Lots of cardio.” to which Kiyoomi rolled his eyes.

“In the gym, Omi,” Atsumu added with a laugh, wiggling his brows.

Kiyoomi gave him a flat look. “Yeah, I’m sure that’s what you meant.”

A few days after their date… (Was it a date? Kiyoomi wasn’t entirely sure, but it felt like one.), he came to a terrible, undeniable realization—he had, in fact, fallen for Miya Atsumu.

Not that it was particularly surprising. Sure, Osamu had given him a push, forcing him to confront the truth, but Kiyoomi hadn’t been completely oblivious before. For someone as introspective as he was—someone who overanalyzed everything on a daily basis—he liked to think he was at least somewhat self-aware.

And really, the signs had been there all along. The fact that Atsumu had wormed his way into Kiyoomi’s extremely limited circle of people he could tolerate was one thing. But more than that—more than allowing Atsumu near him—Kiyoomi found himself wanting it. Wanting him.

Wanting to touch him. To hold him.

If that wasn’t proof enough, then he didn’t know what was.

And the fact that he was currently sitting on Atsumu’s lap while having these thoughts was just further proof.

Atsumu’s arms were wrapped securely around his waist, his face pressed against Kiyoomi’s back as he chatted with Bokuto about something Kiyoomi wasn’t paying attention to.
Bokuto—along with the rest of the team—had long since given up on questioning them. Or rather, questioning Kiyoomi’s behavior.

Atsumu’s arms tightened around his waist, his chest rising and falling steadily against Kiyoomi’s back as he laughed at something Bokuto said. Kiyoomi didn’t even flinch at the sensation. If anything, he let himself settle a little deeper into the hold.

Ridiculous.

Even more ridiculous was how right it felt.

He exhaled sharply, dragging a hand down his face. This was getting out of hand.

“Ya good there, Omi?” Atsumu’s voice was amused, his chin resting on Kiyoomi’s shoulder now, far too close for someone who wasn’t supposed to be in his personal space.

Kiyoomi scowled, trying to ignore the warmth creeping up his neck. “I’m fine.”

Bokuto snorted. “You don’t look fine. You look like you just had an existential crisis.”

Kiyoomi shot him a glare. “Mind your own business.”

Atsumu, the menace that he was, just grinned. “C’mon now, Omi. No need ta be fiesty.”

“Let go. I’m going to practice some serves,” he muttered, trying to sound indifferent.

Atsumu didn’t budge.

Kiyoomi turned his head, shooting him an irritated look. Atsumu only grinned, tilting his head like he found the whole thing amusing. “Yer actin’ like I forced ya onto my lap,” he teased. “Ya sat here all on yer own, remember?”

Kiyoomi’s blush deepened, his glare sharpening. “Yes, and now I want to get up. So fuck off.

“Damn, what’s got yer panties in a twist?” Atsumu sighed, finally loosening his hold.

Kiyoomi wasted no time slipping off his lap, ignoring the warmth lingering on his skin. Without a word, he turned and strode toward the court, fully aware of Atsumu’s gaze trailing after him but refusing to acknowledge it.

He picked up a ball, rolling it between his fingers as he made his way to the far end of the court. He needed to clear his head.

On the other side of the net, Inunaki was lazily stretching, but as soon as their eyes met, the libero grinned. No words were needed—he instinctively dropped into a receiving stance.

“Come at me, Sakusa!” he called.

Kiyoomi exhaled, the corners of his lips twitching upward. He took a few measured steps back, letting the weight of the ball settle in his palm.

Yeah. This was exactly what he needed.

Kiyoomi tossed the ball up once, catching it as he inhaled deeply. He could still feel the ghost of Atsumu’s touch on his waist, the lingering warmth pressed into his skin like a brand. It was distracting—too distracting.

He needed to focus.

With a sharp exhale, he squared his stance, his grip tightening around the ball.

The moment he tossed it into the air and swung, everything else faded away. The tension in his chest, the heat in his face, the maddening awareness of Atsumu—it all disappeared the second the ball made contact with his palm.

It soared over the net with brutal precision, slamming into Inunaki’s arms with enough force to make the libero stagger back a step. He let out a low whistle, shaking out his hands.

“Damn, Sakusa. You tryna take my arms off?”

Kiyoomi rolled his shoulders. “If you can’t handle it, get off the court.”

Inunaki just grinned. “Nah, I can handle it. But whatever’s got you all worked up? Pretty sure it ain't got nothin’ to do with me.”

Kiyoomi didn’t respond. Instead, he picked up another ball, tuning everything out.

With a scowl, he tossed the ball up again.

Maybe if he hit enough serves, he could shake the feeling. Maybe.

He couldn’t shake the feeling—no matter how hard he tried. Atsumu’s touch, his presence, clung to him like a stubborn ache, persistent and impossible to ignore. Not that he really wanted to ignore it.

It was less about pushing Atsumu away and more about needing just one quiet moment to think things through logically.

Turns out, that was pointless. Because feelings weren’t something you could rationalize— or whatever bullshit his therapist had told him the last time he saw her.

He was starting to think she might’ve had a point.

After practice that evening, Kiyoomi decided he was done torturing himself with overthinking. He was going to take Atsumu’s advice—“Ya gotta stop thinking so much, Omi-kun”—and act.

So, without a second thought, he marched up to Atsumu just as the setter was pulling on his hoodie, his damp hair still clinging to his forehead from the shower. Without a word, Kiyoomi grabbed Atsumu’s wrist, then his sports bag, and dragged him out of the changing room.

Atsumu, thoroughly confused but oddly compliant, shot a quick wave to their teammates before following along like a lost puppy.

“Where are we goin’, Omi?” he asked.

Kiyoomi came to an abrupt stop. He hadn’t thought that far ahead. In fact, he hadn’t thought at all—and the regret was setting in fast.

Atsumu chuckled, eyes glinting with amusement. “Yer actin’ real weird today, y'know.”

Kiyoomi’s grip tightened around Atsumu’s wrist for a split second before he let go, shoving his hands into the pockets of his jacket like that had been his plan all along.

"Forget it," he muttered, already turning away.

Atsumu, of course, was having none of that. He grabbed Kiyoomi’s sleeve and tugged him back, grinning like he had just caught him in the act of something embarrassing.

Which, to be fair, he had.

“Nuh-uh, no way. Ya don’t just drag a man outta the locker room all dramatic-like and then call it quits,” Atsumu teased, rocking back on his heels. "C’mon, Omi, spill it. What’s goin’ on in that overcomplicated head of yers?"

Kiyoomi exhaled sharply through his nose, debating whether he should just walk away, pretend this whole thing never happened. But then Atsumu leaned in a little closer, tilting his head with that smug, insufferable smirk, and Kiyoomi felt the last shred of his patience snap.

“I don’t know,” he admitted, his voice low, like the words tasted wrong in his mouth. “I just—” He exhaled again, running a hand through his hair in frustration. “You told me to stop overthinking so much, so I did. And now we're here...”

Atsumu blinked. Then, just as quickly, his lips stretched into a wide, wolfish grin. “Wait. Are ya sayin’ I got ya to act purely on impulse?” He let out a delighted laugh. “Oh, this is golden.”

Kiyoomi scowled, swatting his hand away. “Shut up.”

“Nah, nah, this is a historic moment! Kiyoomi Sakusa, takin’ my advice for once? Feels like I should document this—wait, lemme grab my phone—”

“I swear to god, if you take a picture—”

"Relax, Omi, I won’t," Atsumu snickered. "But seriously, where are we doin’?"

Kiyoomi scowled, tightening his grip on Atsumu’s wrist as if that would somehow make up for the fact that he had absolutely no plan. He should’ve thought this through—at least a little—but now he was standing there, frozen, while Atsumu tilted his head at him like a particularly smug golden retriever.

Kiyoomi exhaled sharply through his nose.

“Food?” he said stiffly.

Atsumu blinked. “Food? Are ya takin’ me on a date?

Kiyoomi rolled his eyes and started walking again, this time without dragging Atsumu behind him. “Don’t make it weird.”

“Oh, I am definitely makin’ it weird,” Atsumu teased, falling into step beside him. “So, what’s it gonna be? Ramen? Yakiniku? Or are ya the type to stress-crave sweets?”

Kiyoomi sighed. He was already regretting this. “Just—shut up and walk.”

They reached Kiyoomi’s car, and he unlocked it, tossing Atsumu’s bag into the backseat next to his own. Atsumu slid into the passenger seat, quickly buckling his seatbelt.

“For the record, this is totally a date,” he said with a grin, clearly trying to get under Kiyoomi’s skin. And, of course, he was succeeding.

“Yeah, it’s a date,” Kiyoomi replied flatly, knowing full well that his casual tone would be enough to shut Atsumu up.

Sure enough, Atsumu fell silent, his grin faltering.

As Kiyoomi shifted the car into reverse, Atsumu stiffened in his seat, clearly still processing the response.

“Wait... for real?” he asked, his voice sounding just a little more uncertain than usual.

Kiyoomi didn't look at him as he eased the car out of the parking spot, his focus on the road ahead. He could feel Atsumu’s eyes on him, and the shift in the air was unmistakable.

“Don’t act so shocked you said it. I’m just playing along.” Kiyoomi said, his tone flat, though a small part of him enjoyed how rattled Atsumu sounded.
Atsumu fell silent for a moment, the hum of the car’s engine filling the space between them. Kiyoomi could practically feel the wheels turning in Atsumu’s head as he processed what had just been said.

“Yer such a pain in the ass, Omi,” Atsumu finally muttered.

"Just, shut up and let me drive in peace," Kiyoomi muttered, feeling his cheeks flush.

Atsumu raised his hands in a mock zip-it gesture above his lips, leaning back in his seat.

The drive to the ramen shop was relatively quiet, aside from the occasional commentary from Atsumu about whatever song was playing on the radio. Kiyoomi mostly ignored him, keeping his eyes on the road and pretending he wasn’t hyperaware of the way Atsumu kept sneaking glances at him.

When they finally arrived, the shop was exactly what Kiyoomi had wanted—small, tucked away in a quieter part of town, with the warm scent of broth and spices filling the air as soon as they stepped inside. There were only a handful of other people, and the low hum of conversation made it easy to pretend it was just the two of them.

Atsumu whistled lowly. “Didn’t take ya for the hole-in-the-wall kinda guy,” he teased, shoving his hands into the pocket of his hoodie. “Thought ya’d pick some fancy, overpriced place that serves tiny portions and calls it ‘art.’”

Kiyoomi rolled his eyes, shoving past him toward an empty table.

Atsumu, naturally, wasted no time making himself comfortable. He plopped down at the counter, stretching his arms out before cracking his knuckles. “Man, I can already tell this is gonna be good.”

Kiyoomi sat beside him, adjusting the sleeves of his hoodie before resting his forearms on the counter. He liked places like this—quiet, low-key, no unnecessary small talk. Just good food and a comfortable atmosphere. Plus it was clean, maybe the most important attribute to have in his books.

They placed their orders, and soon enough, steaming bowls of ramen were set in front of them. The first bite was enough to make Kiyoomi’s shoulders relax, the stress of the day melting away.

Atsumu, of course, was talking between mouthfuls, making observations about everything from the flavor of the broth to how he could probably eat three bowls if given the chance. Kiyoomi mostly let him ramble, answering in short responses when necessary.

At some point, the conversation slowed, and the atmosphere shifted into something softer. Atsumu had stopped talking as much, stirring his noodles absentmindedly. Kiyoomi didn’t think much of it until he felt a familiar weight settle against his shoulder. He didn’t tense. He didn’t even flinch. Because, somehow, this had become a habit. Touching and being touched by Atsumu had become a habit.

Maybe his favorite habit too.

Atsumu leaned his head against Kiyoomi’s shoulder like it was where he belonged. And Kiyoomi stayed still. Let him stay. The quiet stretched between them, and Kiyoomi could feel the warmth of Atsumu’s skin through the fabric of his hoodie. 

“Ya don’t mind, do ya?” Atsumu’s voice was quieter than usual, less teasing.

Kiyoomi exhaled slowly, staring down at his bowl. “If I did, you’d know.”

Atsumu hummed, apparently satisfied with that answer, and settled in a little more comfortably.

“Tired?” he asked as he continued to eat.

“Exhausted actually,” sighed Atsumu.

Kiyoomi huffed out a breath, shifting slightly but not enough to dislodge Atsumu. “Then why are you still talking?”

Atsumu snorted, but his eyes stayed closed, his breath warm where it ghosted against Kiyoomi’s shoulder. “Gotta keep ya entertained, don’t I?”

“If by entertained you mean annoyed then yes, you do that very well.”

“I don’t believe ya. I know ya gotta enjoy my annoyingness as least a little bit if yer still here,” replied Atsumu.

Kiyoomi let out a slow breath through his nose, staring blankly at the last few noodles in his bowl. He didn’t dignify Atsumu’s comment with a response—mostly because the bastard was right, and there was no way in hell he was going to admit that.

Instead, he nudged Atsumu’s head with his shoulder, trying to get him to sit up. “Eat your food before it gets cold.”

Atsumu groaned dramatically but straightened, rubbing at his eyes before picking up his chopsticks again. “Fine, fine. But just so ya know, yer real comfy. If volleyball doesn’t work out, ya should consider bein’ a professional pillow.”

Kiyoomi shot him a glare. “I’d rather die.”

Atsumu only grinned, slurping up his noodles obnoxiously.

The rest of the meal passed with the usual back-and-forth—Atsumu talking too much, Kiyoomi telling him to shut up. Atsumu ignoring him and continuing to ramble. Kiyoomi secretly loving when he did that. Their usual drill.

Once they finished eating, Kiyoomi paid the bill without a word and stepped outside. Atsumu followed close behind—still talking, of course. Kiyoomi wasn’t really listening anymore. He caught bits and pieces—something about “Hyogo,” maybe “Ma,” and definitely “Samu”—but the words barely registered.

Because Atsumu, standing under the dim streetlight, was distracting in a way Kiyoomi wasn’t prepared for. The glow cast his hair in shades of deep gold, his eyes softer than usual, reflecting the warmth of the night. His lips, still tinted red from the spicy broth, parted slightly as he spoke, shaping words Kiyoomi wasn’t hearing.

And before he could stop himself, Kiyoomi was staring. Atsumu must have noticed the silence, because he finally paused mid-sentence, tilting his head at Kiyoomi.

“What?” he asked. “Do I have somethin’ in my face?”

Kiyoomi blinked, barely processing the words. His pulse was loud in his ears, drowning out everything else. Because he had just realized something.

He wanted to kiss Atsumu.

Which didn’t make sense. He had never wanted to kiss anyone before. The idea had always seemed… disgusting. Messy. Not worth the hassle. But now, standing under the streetlight, staring at Atsumu’s lips—red from the ramen, glistening slightly—he couldn’t think of a single reason why he shouldn’t.

Atsumu’s voice broke through the charged silence. “Omi?”

Kiyoomi blinked, snapping out of his daze, only to realize—too late—that he had been caught. His eyes darted up, meeting Atsumu’s amused gaze.

“Hm? Yeah?” he replied, a little too quickly.

Atsumu bit his lower lip, suppressing a smirk before leaning in slightly. “Do ya wanna kiss me?”

Kiyoomi felt the heat rush to his face instantly. “W-what?”

Atsumu’s grin stretched wider, all too pleased with himself. “Knew it. Ya were starin’ at my lips, weren’t ya?”

Kiyoomi scowled, crossing his arms over his chest like that would somehow shield him from Atsumu’s smugness. “You’re imagining things.”

Atsumu stepped closer, tilting his head. “Am I?”

Kiyoomi should have backed away. He should have put some distance between them before he did something stupid. But he didn’t. Instead, he stayed right where he was, letting Atsumu close the gap between them until they were nearly toe-to-toe.

He could feel the warmth radiating off of him and the faint smell of his flagrance. It was entirely too much—too overwhelming, too distracting, too Atsumu.
And yet, Kiyoomi didn’t move. Atsumu studied him for a moment, the playful gleam in his eyes softening just a fraction. “Y’know… ya can, if ya want to,” he said, voice quieter now, more serious.

Kiyoomi swallowed hard, his pulse hammering in his throat. “I don’t want to.”

“Liar.”

He glared. “I’m not lying.”

Atsumu only smirked, then—so effortlessly, so infuriatingly—reached up and flicked Kiyoomi’s mask down, letting it hang loosely under his chin. The air between them shifted instantly.

Kiyoomi inhaled sharply, his breath catching in his throat. Atsumu’s gaze dropped to his lips.

Kiyoomi forgot how to breathe.

The world around them felt distant, muted. The sounds of the city blurred into nothing, the cool night air barely registering against Kiyoomi’s overheated skin.
Atsumu lifted a hand—slowly, giving Kiyoomi every chance to pull away—but he didn’t. He let Atsumu’s fingers graze the edge of his jaw, featherlight and unbearably gentle.

“If ya won’t admit it and kiss me, I will. So this is yer last chance to stop me,” Atsumu murmured.

Kiyoomi didn’t say a word.

And that was all the permission Atsumu needed. He leaned in, closing the final inches between them, and pressed their lips together.

It was… warm. Soft. A little hesitant at first, like Atsumu was testing the waters, but when Kiyoomi didn’t pull away—when he instinctively leaned in—Atsumu’s grip tightened, deepening the kiss just enough to make Kiyoomi’s stomach flip.

It was ridiculous. It was stupid.

And it was perfect.

When they finally broke apart, Atsumu didn’t move far. He lingered close, forehead almost touching Kiyoomi’s, his breath warm against his lips.

“Still gonna pretend ya don’t wanna kiss me?” Atsumu teased, his voice dripping with amusement.

Kiyoomi exhaled sharply, scowling even as the heat in his face betrayed him. “Technically, you kissed me.”

Atsumu chuckled, the sound low and warm, and Kiyoomi felt it more than he heard it—the subtle vibration against his skin, the weight of it settling in his chest.
He hated how much he liked it.

Or maybe… he didn’t hate it at all.

“Yer a stubborn little shit, y’know that?” Atsumu muttered, and before Kiyoomi could fire back, Atsumu grabbed the collar of his hoodie and yanked him forward. Kiyoomi barely had time to react before Atsumu’s lips were on his again—hot, insistent, leaving no room for hesitation. His grip on Kiyoomi’s hoodie was firm, keeping him close like he was afraid he’d pull away.

As if Kiyoomi even could.

His hands clenched into fists at his sides, his whole body rigid as his brain scrambled to process what was happening. Atsumu was kissing him. Again. And this time, Kiyoomi wasn’t frozen in shock. This time, he tried to kissed back.

It was awkward at first—hesitant, unsure—but the second Kiyoomi melted into it, Atsumu let out a low hum of satisfaction, tilting his head to deepen the kiss. His fingers loosened their grip on Kiyoomi’s hoodie, sliding up to cup the side of his neck instead, his thumb brushing just below Kiyoomi’s jaw. The touch sent a shiver down his spine.
Kiyoomi’s hands moved before his mind could catch up, gripping Atsumu’s wrists as if to steady himself, to keep from completely unraveling.

The kiss wasn’t perfect—Atsumu was all confidence and heat, and Kiyoomi was just trying to keep up—but somehow, it worked. It was messy and warm, and Kiyoomi could taste the remnants of ramen broth on Atsumu’s lips. It should have made him uncomfortable. Should have been disgusting.
But it wasn’t.

At all.

Not when Atsumu made a small, pleased noise against his mouth. Not when the fingers on his neck curled just slightly, holding him like he was something fragile.
And certainly not when Kiyoomi realized, with startling clarity, that he never wanted this to stop. After what felt like both a second and an eternity, Atsumu finally pulled back, just enough to breathe, though he didn’t go far. Their foreheads nearly touched, and Kiyoomi could still feel the ghost of his breath against his skin.
Atsumu grinned, cocky and utterly pleased with himself. “Yer a shitty liar,” he murmured.

Kiyoomi scowled, trying to ignore the way his heart was hammering in his chest. “I'm not.”

Atsumu chuckled, his fingers lingering against Kiyoomi’s jaw for a second longer than necessary before he finally—finally—let go. A slow, teasing grin spread across his face as he tilted his head. “Wait a sec… was that yer first kiss?”

Kiyoomi exhaled sharply, rolling his shoulders like he was trying to shake off the lingering warmth. “Yes. Kissing is disgusting.” His voice was flat, firm—like he was trying to convince himself as much as Atsumu. Atsumu only laughed, leaning in just slightly, eyes glinting with amusement. “Oh yeah? ’Cause ya sure didn’t act like it.”

Kiyoomi scowled, crossing his arms over his chest. “Shut up.”

But Atsumu just smirked. “Ya seemed to enjoy it.”

And maybe it was because his defenses were still down, or maybe because the words slipped out before he could think better of them—but Kiyoomi muttered, barely above a whisper, “Yeah… because it’s you.”

Atsumu blinked.

His smirk faltered, just for a second, like he hadn’t expected the honesty. Then, his expression softened—grin turning into something smaller, warmer. “Damn, Omi,” he murmured, eyes locked onto his. “Yer gonna kill me if ya keep sayin’ shit like that.”

A heavy silence stretched between them. Kiyoomi felt his heartbeat pounding against his ribs, he cleared his throat, shifting his weight uncomfortably. “Can we go now?”

Atsumu’s grin widened. “What, gettin’ shy on me, Omi?”

Kiyoomi scowled. “No.”

“Oh, ya definitely are,” Atsumu teased, rocking back on his heels. “Ya just kissed me twice and now ya don’t know what to do with yerself, huh?”

Kiyoomi turned on his heel and started walking toward his car without another word. Atsumu’s laughter followed him.

Still, despite the smug bastard’s endless amusement, he fell into step beside Kiyoomi easily. There was no hesitation, no second-guessing—just Atsumu, as loud and as confident as ever, shoving his hands into the pockets of his hoodie like nothing had changed.

But everything had changed.

And Kiyoomi had no idea what to do about it.

The car ride back was quieter than before. Atsumu didn’t fill the silence with his usual pointless chatter, which Kiyoomi both appreciated and resented because now all he could think about was how his lips still tingled from where Atsumu had kissed him.

At a red light, Kiyoomi chanced a glance at the setter. Atsumu was looking out the window, a small, satisfied smile playing on his lips.

“Stop starin’, Omi,” Atsumu murmured without even turning his head.

Kiyoomi’s grip on the wheel tightened. “I wasn’t.”

Atsumu chuckled. “Sure ya weren’t.”

The light turned green, and Kiyoomi pressed the gas pedal a little harder than necessary.

They reached Atsumu’s place too soon—or maybe not soon enough, Kiyoomi wasn’t sure—but before he could say anything, Atsumu unbuckled his seatbelt and turned to him with that same infuriating, knowing grin.

“So,” Atsumu drawled, tapping his fingers against his thigh. “Guess this was a date after all.”

Kiyoomi exhaled slowly, gripping the steering wheel so tightly his knuckles turned white. He should have seen this coming. Of course, Atsumu wouldn’t let it go. Of course, he’d push.

“It wasn’t,” Kiyoomi muttered, eyes locked on the dashboard as if it held the answers to all his problems. The only reason he was denying it now was just pure stubborn pride.

Atsumu snorted. “Oh, c’mon, Omi. You dragged me outta the locker room, took me to dinner, kissed me—twice.” He leaned in, voice dropping into something teasing, dangerously smug. “Ya sure know how to treat a guy.”

Kiyoomi swallowed, still refusing to look at him. “I—” He stopped, jaw clenching. He didn’t have an argument. Not a good one, at least. And Atsumu knew it.
Atsumu grinned, tilting his head like a cat toying with its prey.

“Will ya bite my head off if I kiss ya again before I go?”

Kiyoomi’s lips twitched—just barely. “No. I wouldn’t.”

“Cool,” Atsumu muttered, then leaned over the console and kissed him.

Kiyoomi let himself sink into it—just for a moment—before forcing himself to pull back. But Atsumu wasn’t having it. He chased after him, nipping at Kiyoomi’s bottom lip like a silent challenge.

Kiyoomi’s breath stuttered. His fingers flexed against the steering wheel, itching to grab Atsumu by the collar and pull him closer. Instead, he exhaled sharply through his nose and pressed his forehead against Atsumu’s, eyes squeezed shut.

“You are the most irritating person I know,” he muttered.

Atsumu grinned against his mouth. “And yer the most emotionally constipated person I know.”

Kiyoomi huffed, tilting his head back against the headrest. “Okay. Now get out of my car.”

Atsumu ignored him, chuckling as he lingered in his seat. “So… was this a one-time ‘Kiyoomi Sakusa loses his goddamn mind’ kinda thing, or is there gonna be a second date?”
Kiyoomi rolled his eyes, but the corner of his mouth betrayed him, twitching upward.

“Maybe.”

Atsumu arched an eyebrow. “Maybe there’ll be a second date, or maybe it was just a lapse in judgment?”

Sakusa shrugged, barely suppressing a smirk. “I don’t know. You claim to be smart—figure it out.”

Atsumu let out an exaggerated sigh, flopping back against the passenger seat. “Man, ya sure know how to keep a guy on his toes.”

Kiyoomi scoffed, reaching across Atsumu to push the door open. "Out."

With a dramatic sigh, Atsumu slid out of the car, stretching as he straightened up. He shot Kiyoomi one last grin through the open window. "Drive safe, Omi-Omi. Oh, and ya gotta come pick me up tomorrow, my car is still in the gym’s parking lot. Since y'know...someone dragged me outta there with no warning earlier.”

Kiyoomi groaned, tipping his head back against the headrest. “That sounds like a you problem.”

Atsumu snickered, leaning down to rest his arms on the open window. “Nah, sounds like a you problem, considerin’ yer the one who kidnapped me.”

Kiyoomi gave him a flat look. “I didn’t kidnap you...I just brought you along with me to have dinner.”

“Tomayto, tomahto.” Atsumu grinned, clearly enjoying himself far too much. “So, what time ya pickin’ me up?”

“I’m not.”

Atsumu tsked, shaking his head. “Real rude of ya, Omi. First ya take me on a date, then ya kiss me, and now yer leavin’ me stranded?”

Kiyoomi exhaled sharply, resisting the urge to bang his head against the steering wheel. “Take a taxi.”

Atsumu gasped, clutching his chest in mock betrayal. “Wow. Cold. Is this how ya treat all yer dates?”

Kiyoomi’s grip on the wheel tightened. He’s doing this on purpose. “I don’t have dates.”

Atsumu beamed. “Well, lucky for you, now ya do.”

Kiyoomi’s jaw clenched. He could just drive away. He should just drive away. But he already knew, deep down, that he’d be here tomorrow, parked outside like an idiot, waiting for Atsumu.

And Atsumu knew it too.

“Goodnight, Miya,” Kiyoomi muttered, finally putting the car into drive.

Atsumu winked. “See ya tomorrow morning.”

Kiyoomi slammed the gas just to avoid hearing himself groan again.