Archive of Our Own ^beta

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I remember that time. Hate. Loathe. Despise. I can’t think of any other words that describe him better than those three. He took my freedom. My youth. My time. And here I am, lamenting my fate as I stare down at this beautiful creature, squirming in my arms. His tiny fingers curl and squeeze tightly—like the soft little paws of a kitten. And that mouth of his, healthily pink, is urgently searching for milk that hasn’t come yet.

Sorry, little one, the milk isn’t there yet.

My hair is disheveled, and my shoulder slips out of the gown, exposing my breast. The pain from my lower abdomen, right where they cut me for the Caesarean, hasn’t kicked in yet, though I know it will soon. The anesthesia is still numbing me.

I look pale, even paler in contrast to my bright orange hair. That’s what my mother told me. Despite everything, I feel great. The excruciating pain of contractions that I endured for the past two days has finally ceased. All that’s left now is bliss. Well, except for the hungry little mouth constantly searching my breast.

The gynecologist said I needed rest. Lots of it. Even though I’m an Omega, my primary gender is still male. We’re built tougher than females, but when it comes to pregnancy and childbirth, our hormones aren’t on par with theirs. And it’s well known that recovery takes longer without the support of a partner—our Alpha partner.

To hell with them!

Mom and lil’ sis—Natsu are here to support me, lending a hand.

I hold the baby tighter, closer to my chest, as my thoughts wander. “Oh, he’s got it,” I whisper. Somehow, that tiny accomplishment feels like a victory for both of us.

The little creature has stopped squirming. He latches on perfectly, sucking as if his very life depends on it. I watch his tiny throat bobbing up and down as he starts to swallow. Maybe it’s milk, or maybe just colostrum—that early, nutrient-rich milk I read about. I may be an idiot—Kageyama used to call me that all the time—but I don’t want to be an ignorant mother…or father. I may hate the father of the child, but I can never hate this innocent soul. How could I?

Just look at him—

Well, I expected to see myself in him somehow, but… it’s just his mouth. That little mouth is the only thing he gets from me, apparently. Still, after nine months of carrying him, of us spending every moment together—countless bedtime stories, my late-night whining, sometimes…crying—the bond we share is monumental.

I don’t know if I can love him, not when his arrival cost me so much. But he’s here, and he’s mine—that’s a fact. And as I hold him, I know this much: I’ll do anything to protect him from this world.

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My slumber is interrupted. I wake up, feeling groggy. The nurse comes in to administer a painkiller—a shot in the butt.

I look up, searching for the baby inside the see-through crib. There he is, sleeping soundly, wrapped in a white blanket like a mini-burrito. His mouth is parted open. Cute, I think.

“Awww, he’s so cute. Look at his little brows,” the nurse coos as she gives me the injection. “You’re pretty big for a newborn!” she adds in a babytalk tone.

I take another peek at the crib. He looks fine. Big? I’m not sure, since I don’t have much to compare him to. But I get what she means. Bigger usually means there’s a chance he could be born an Alpha. Whatever. I just hope for a healthy baby.

Then she looks at me. “Have you rested well, Hinata-san? Your color seems to be returning. Don’t forget to eat, yeah? You’re gonna need every bit of energy you can get,” she says.

I say nothing, but I nod anyway. She senses I’m in no mood to talk and quickly takes her leave.

I go back to my beauty sleep. If ‘beauty’ is even the right word.

Chapter Text

It’s been a week since we came home, and I don’t think I’ve slept more than two hours in a row. The baby, as precious as he looks during the day, turns into a tiny tyrant at night. He cries like his life depends on it, which I suppose it does, but it’s hard to remember that at three a.m. when I’m pacing the bedroom, half-asleep, bouncing him in my arms while he screams in my ear.

The ache in my chest doesn’t help. I didn’t think it would feel like this—my breasts heavy and sore, especially during the day when he decides to nap and leaves me…full. The nurse said I’d get used to it, but I’m not so sure. Every time he latches on, it’s a mix of relief and pain, like scratching an itch that only comes back worse.

The Caesarean scar is healing, too, but it’s started itching like crazy. Every time I move, the fabric of my shirt rubs against it, making me want to claw at my skin. They told me not to scratch, of course. “Let it heal naturally,” they said. Easy for them to say—they’re not the ones carrying a squirming eight-pound creature around on top of it.

And then there’s the mood swings. By day, I somehow manage. I make silly faces at him, cooing and bouncing him around when he’s quiet, trying to convince myself that I’ve got this under control. I even find myself laughing when he spits up on me for the third time in an hour, like some kind of sick cosmic joke. But at night… at night, it’s different. When he finally falls asleep, leaving me alone in the quiet, it all crashes down on me.

I find myself crying over the smallest things. A dish left unwashed, a sock missing from the laundry, the empty spot beside me in bed. I hate that spot. I hate how big it feels, like a reminder of what’s missing. I lie there with tears slipping down my face, wishing for arms around me, a warm hug to hold me together. But there’s no one. Just me, and the baby, and this emptiness that somehow feels bigger than both of us.

Mom tries to help. She pops in during the day, tidying up, holding the baby while I take a quick shower or try to eat something. She watches me closely, though, like she’s worried I might break. Yesterday, she asked if I was okay, if I was really okay. I gave her a smile and told her I was fine, that I was just tired, but I don’t think she believed me. I don’t even believe me.

When she left, I sank down onto the couch, staring at the baby sleeping in his crib, so small and fragile, and I wondered how much longer I can keep pretending.

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By day twenty, I look like a zombie. Dark circles under my eyes, hair sticking out in every direction, and clothes that haven’t seen a laundry basket in…well, too long. I catch a glimpse of myself in the bathroom mirror and nearly laugh. So this is what fatherhood looks like.

The baby, on the other hand, looks like an angel—well-fed, rosy-cheeked, and completely oblivious to the chaos he’s causing. He has this way of staring up at me with wide, unblinking eyes, like he’s wondering what on earth I’m doing. Me too, kid, I think, bouncing him gently to keep him from fussing.

Sleep deprivation is a strange thing. It messes with your mind. I’ll be holding him in my arms, trying to rock him to sleep, and suddenly I’m nodding off myself, only to jerk awake in a panic. Or I’ll walk into a room and forget why I’m there, just staring at the walls, too tired to move until the baby starts wailing again. I’ve heard people joke about “baby brain,” but no one tells you how real it actually is.

The worst is the crying. His, yes, but also mine. At night, when he finally goes down, I sit there with my face in my hands, exhausted and aching, and I cry like I haven’t cried in years. I miss…someone. Someone to hold me, to tell me I’m doing okay, that I haven’t completely lost myself to this tiny person who needs me every second of every day.

It feels so strange, this loneliness. During the day, there’s my mother, popping in and out, bringing food, helping with the baby. She tells me to sleep while she’s here, but even when I lie down, I just end up staring at the ceiling, worrying. Worrying that I’m doing something wrong, that I’m not cut out for this, that he’d be better off with someone else. Someone stronger. Someone who didn’t feel like they were falling apart.

And yet, somehow, I keep going. Every time he cries, I’m there. Every time he needs feeding, I pull him close, letting him latch on, feeling the pull and the ache as he drinks. Every time he looks up at me with those big, trusting eyes, something in me softens, and I know I’ll do whatever it takes to keep him safe.

By the end of the day, I’m barely holding on, but then he’ll give me the smallest smile, and it’s like the sun breaking through clouds. It’s fleeting, almost accidental, but it’s enough. Just enough to make me believe, for a second, that I can do this.

And maybe, one day, I’ll look in the mirror and see someone who’s not just surviving, but actually living this life. But for now, I’ll settle for being his zombie dad—my little sister coined that name for me. She says it with a smirk, snapping photos of me in my most bedraggled states, claiming she’s “making memories.” I’m not sure what she’s going to do with all those zombie dad photos, but I wouldn’t be surprised if they end up in some embarrassing slideshow one day.

Last night, when I was falling apart around midnight, she plopped down beside me on the couch, took the baby from my arms, and said, “Give it a rest, Zombie Dad. You’ll scare him with those dark circles.” She winked, and somehow, for a few minutes, it was like everything wasn’t so overwhelming. She hummed a soft lullaby while he settled in her arms, and I sat there, grateful and a little ashamed at how badly I needed the help.

“Hey,” she’d said quietly, looking at me over his tiny, sleeping head. “You’re doing better than you think.”

It was such a simple thing, but in that moment, it meant everything. I don’t know if she can see how much I’m struggling, or if she’s just pretending I’ve got it all under control. Either way, lil’ Natsu keeps showing up, and I keep letting her, even though some stubborn part of me feels like I should be able to do this on my own. I wanted this, didn’t I? I chose this.

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Two months in, and life is… manageable. Ren sleeps through most nights now, which means I do too. My body’s slowly bouncing back, or at least that’s what I tell myself every morning when I catch my reflection in the mirror. There’s a little more color in my cheeks, some of the hollow look fading from under my eyes. I even feel my energy returning, bit by bit, like a trickle of water after a long drought.

It’s funny, though—every time I look down at Ren, I feel something heavier pressing on my chest. He’s just waking up, blinking up at me with olive eyes touched with warm amber, a color that seems to have evolved as he’s grown—another part of me in him, and I’m glad for it. (I can’t wait to see what else he might have inherited from me besides those eyes and that tiny little mouth.) I smile, brushing a hand gently over his soft cheek.

His dark hair is swept against his forehead, and his brows… well, they remind me of him—not that I want to be reminded. Thick, slightly angled down, giving Ren a serious, almost intense expression, even in sleep.

That look—so severe and almost hideous on a grown man—is somehow ridiculously cute on a tiny body like his. I can’t help but chuckle at the thought.

I try not to think of him—the man who’s half responsible for bringing this oddly cute little creature into the world. My rival. The person I swore I’d never have to deal with outside of the court. But it’s impossible sometimes, especially when Ren looks up at me with that focused, intense gaze, like he’s studying every inch of my face. Just like his father, I think, suppressing a groan.

Ahh, forget about that man! That beast, who crossed every line and swallowed me whole without a hint of restraint. Knotted me. My cheeks burning, as if I could ever really forget it. But…things were a bit hazy back then, a blur of heat and confusion. Sometimes, I’m not even sure how it all happened. Only that it did, and now I have this little life to look after because of it.

I look down. Ren coos softly, his tiny fist reaching up to grab my shirt, and I feel a smile tugging at the corners of my mouth. “Good morning, pumpkin,” I whisper, brushing my thumb gently over his cheek. Naming him Hinata Ren felt right, like a small act of defiance. It’s my name, my family, my son. No one else’s. And every time I say it, I remind myself that he belongs with me—no one else has a claim on him.

But still, the memories creep in. Memories of a plan I’d clung to so tightly, something that felt like freedom, like purpose. Brazil. The dream I’d had since high school, the escape that volleyball promised me. I’d trained for it, sacrificed everything for it. And then, in one stupid, reckless moment, everything came crashing down.

I hadn’t told anyone about it—not even my old teammates from Karasuno. The pregnancy. Ren. How could I? I was too scared to be seen as a burden, as someone weak. An omega who couldn’t control his own body—who couldn’t even stop himself from…from becoming this.

They’d be shocked, maybe even disappointed. In those first few months, the word ‘bitch’ haunted me. Like an echo, something I was terrified they’d whisper if they ever found out. ‘An Omega bitch’.

I didn’t want that to be me. So I buried it all. I pretended nothing had changed, that I was still Hinata Shouyou, chasing after the sun. But I knew, even then, that I was hiding from something I couldn’t run from forever.

When the pregnancy began to show, I hid myself away. The plan for Brazil was gone. Just like that. I returned home from Chiba, leaving behind every scrap of my dream. Left my phone to die at the bottom of a drawer, ignored messages, stopped checking social media.

And now, looking down at Ren, I realize I would choose it all over again. Even with the ache, even with the way his dark brows remind me of the man who scorned me. Because every time I see those amber-green eyes looking up at me, I know that my life isn’t over—it’s just different. Harder, yes, but in a way I’m still learning to appreciate.

Outside, the sun has risen. Light filters softly through the shoji door, spreading a warm glow that feels gentle against my skin. Ren’s tiny fingers wrap around mine, his grip surprisingly strong, and I feel a swell of something deep, something I can’t quite name. Maybe pride. Maybe love. It doesn’t matter if I’m still figuring it out. What matters is that I’m here, and so is he.

“Come on, Ren,” I whisper, lifting him gently in my arms. “Let’s face the day together, huh?”

He gurgles softly, a sound that could almost be a laugh, and it’s enough. It’s enough to make me feel, even just for a moment, that I can do this.

Chapter Text

I can’t believe Ren is already six months old. Sometimes it feels like he was just born yesterday, and other times it feels like he’s always been here, filling my days and nights.

This month has been all about new things—especially food. He’s started solids, and it turns out he’s got a strong opinion about what he likes. Mashed pumpkin is his absolute favorite. I don’t know why, but every time I feed him that stuff, he’s all smiles and open mouth, like he can’t get enough of it. I also give him rice porridge sometimes, and he tolerates it, but it’s clear he loves the pumpkin.

Ren’s developing fast, too—faster than I’d expected. According to the baby books Mom keeps giving me, most kids his age are just starting to sit up on their own, maybe get their first teeth. But Ren… he’s doing more than that.

He’s already sprouted his first two teeth, sharp little nubs that make him look like he’s always grinning. He babbles constantly, trying out sounds with so much determination, like he’s really trying to talk to me. And he’s not just sitting up—he’s practically ready to crawl. Sometimes he manages to scoot across the floor on his belly, dragging himself forward, and I can’t help but laugh. He’s so serious about it, so focused, like he already has somewhere important to go.

Honestly, watching him wiggle around like that made me a little paranoid. I ended up ordering one of those baby helmets online—the kind you strap on their heads in case they bump into anything. I know it’s probably unnecessary, but… better safe than sorry, right? When it arrived, I put it on him right away, just to see how it looked, and I couldn’t stop laughing. The poor guy looked absolutely ridiculous, like a tiny warrior getting ready for battle. But he didn’t seem to mind, just stared up at me with those big eyes, blinking like he was wondering what on earth I was doing.

“I’m your daddy, and I’m gonna protect you, young man,” I say to him, trying to keep a straight face. He just blinks at me, like he’s taking it all in, like he already knows he’s got me wrapped around his tiny little finger.

I took a few photos of him in the helmet—he looked so serious and confused that I had to capture the moment. I figured someday, when he’s older, I’ll show him those pictures and explain how his dad went a little overboard trying to keep him safe. For now, I’ll tuck them away, just another little memory for us.

It’s amazing to watch him grow and change every day. Every new thing he learns, every little milestone, it’s like a reminder that life doesn’t slow down for anyone. It just keeps moving forward.

And through all this, I’ve realized how much I owe to Mom. She’s the reason we’re both here, healthy and cared for. I’m not working right now, and without her support, I don’t know how I’d manage. I tried bringing up the idea of finding a part-time job, but she shot that down right away. Said I should be giving Ren my full attention right now, and I can’t argue with that. She’s right. He deserves to have me here, fully present, for these early months.

Natsu is busy too. She’s still in high school and completely wrapped up in her volleyball club. She comes by whenever she can, cooing over Ren and snapping photos like she’s his personal paparazzi, but I know her time is limited. It’s funny, seeing her so invested in volleyball—it reminds me of the passion I felt at her age.

The same passion that’s still burning inside me now.

Because even though life has changed, my dream hasn’t. It’s still there, the plan I’ve had since high school, to train in Brazil and learn everything I can about volleyball. I don’t know when that’ll happen now, but that fire hasn’t gone out. If anything, it’s stronger, like it’s waiting, building up inside me. With Ren on a more regular schedule, I’ve started training again—just a little, early in the mornings before he wakes up. I go for a run to build up my stamina, then come back, fix his bottle, get him dressed, and make breakfast for the family.

It’s not Brazil, and it’s not a packed gym, but I’m catching up to this routine pretty quickly. There’s a satisfaction in it, like I’m keeping the dream alive in my own small way. One day, I’ll be ready. I’ll have my strength back, my stamina, my skills. And maybe by then, Ren will be old enough to understand why his dad’s chasing after the sun, why he’s still fighting to be more.

But for now… for now, my world is right here.

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Ren turned eight months today, and I can barely keep up with him. Every day he’s picking up something new, growing faster than I can blink. He’s already crawling like he’s got other plans lined up, his chubby little legs shuffling across the floor at an impressive speed. I have to keep an eye on him constantly, because he’s also pulling himself up on furniture, his little hands gripping anything he can find.

Soon, I know he’ll be standing, and then… walking. Part of me isn’t ready for that. It feels like he’s racing through these stages, and I want to hold on to each one a little longer.

And he’s clever, too. Ren knows how to get my attention. If he wants something, he just laughs or squeals until I look over, then flashes me a big, toothy grin—two little teeth on top and two on the bottom, like he’s showing off. He’s already got these little gestures he makes, pointing at things with chubby fingers, or patting my face to make sure I’m looking at him. Sometimes I swear he’s trying to boss me around.

But today… today he said his first word.

I’ve been teaching him for weeks now, repeating that two-syllable word over and over, hoping he’d get it. Da-da. I’d say it while feeding him, while putting him to bed, while playing with him. And finally, this morning, as we were sitting on the couch, with him on my lap and the Ugly Duckling book open in front of us, he looked up at me, his tiny fingers touching my face. “Da-da,” he said, clear as day, then pointed to the picture of the ducklings swimming behind their mother.

I think my heart stopped. My throat got tight, and before I knew it, tears were spilling down my cheeks. I wanted to record it, to save that moment forever, but of course it was over in a second. I’m not sure if he understands what it means yet, but it doesn’t matter. He looked at me and said ‘Da-da’, and that’s a moment I’ll never forget.

Chapter Text

It’s Saturday night, and we’re all gathered around the dining table—me, Mom, Natsu, and Ren in his little high chair. The TV is on, because Natsu insisted on watching the Olympic volleyball match—Japan versus Italy.

I get it. Nobody wants to miss a game like this, and it’s not often we see Japan on the international stage. But there’s a small part of me that feels uneasy.

Ren’s father is on that court. For what feels like the hundredth time, the camera zooms in on him, focusing on every powerful spike, every perfect block. That man (I refuse to say his name)—towering, unshakeable, all focus. I catch Natsu glancing at me out of the corner of her eye, her face a mix of guilt and worry. I know she’s nervous, thinking that seeing him might upset me, might drag up things I’d rather leave buried. But I keep a straight face, focusing on feeding Ren his dinner, scooping mashed carrots and rice porridge into his mouth while he babbles and wiggles around.

Besides, if I’m being honest, I wanted to look too. It’s been so long since I last saw Kageyama’s sharp sets, his deadly serves that cut through the air like a knife. Watching him play still stirs something in me—a familiar thrill, a reminder of what I once chased after with everything I had. His hands move with that same precision, that same fierce dedication, and part of me aches to be out there, running on instinct, receiving his sets like I was born for it.

But here I am, sitting in my mother’s dining room with Ren in his high chair, trying to act like I don’t care. Like I’ve moved past that world, even though some part of me knows I haven’t.

I tell myself it doesn’t bother me. It doesn’t. I’m here, with my family, and everything that happened between us—it’s behind me. I’m done with that chapter, and he’s just a shadow in my past. I can keep my focus on Ren, on these little moments that mean more to me than any game ever could.

It’s just another match on TV. Just another player on the screen.

But around 2 a.m., I wake up drenched in sweat, my body burning, my skin hot to the touch. It takes me a moment to realize what’s happening, but when it hits, I feel like I’m drowning. The heat—strong and all-consuming, curling through me, making it impossible to think of anything else.

I can’t remember the last time I took a suppressant. Maybe not even once since Ren came into my life. In the whirlwind of becoming a parent, I’d pushed that part of myself away, almost forgotten it. But now… now it’s back, and it’s brutal. The craving for an Alpha’s touch feels unbearable, like a pull I can’t resist. And all I can think about is how unfit I am to look after Ren in this state. He needs me, but I can’t go near him like this.

I pull myself out of bed, shaky and sweating, my body heavy and aching in ways I can’t ignore. There’s a dampness between my legs, an uncomfortable heat that only amplifies the emptiness clawing at me, making it nearly impossible to think straight. The need sits low in my belly, raw and insistent, and I bite down on my lip, trying to steady myself as I cross the room.

I make it to my mom’s door and knock softly, leaning against the frame to keep myself upright.

She opens it, eyes widening as she takes one look at me and immediately understands. “Mom… can you take care of Ren?” I ask, my voice barely a whisper. “Just for a few days.”

She nods, doesn’t ask any questions, just tells me to get some rest and not to worry. I hear her shuffling off to Ren’s room, and relief floods through me. But as I stumble back to my own room, I feel an ache that goes deeper than the heat. An ache of loneliness, of emptiness. Three days of this, locked away in my room, dealing with the waves of heat that won’t relent.

The suppressants don’t work once the heat has started; it’s too late by then. I have to ride it out alone, pushing through each excruciating hour, every burning wave that leaves me breathless and curled up, clinging to the sheets. It’s hell, and I wouldn’t wish it on anyone.

After it finally passes, I make myself a promise. I won’t let this happen again. I’ll start taking the suppressants regularly, sticking to a schedule. I need to be in control—for Ren’s sake, and for my own. He depends on me, and I can’t afford to let anything pull me away from him again.

By the third day, the heat finally loosens its grip on me. I feel like I can breathe again, think again. I stand up, a little shaky but grateful, and make my way to the window. I push it open, letting the cool morning air rush in, filling the room with a sense of calm. The breeze is fresh, carrying the scent of pine and damp earth from the garden, and I take a deep breath, feeling like I’m coming back to life.

I reach for the doorknob, half-worried about what’s waiting on the other side, but as soon as I pull it open, there he is—Ren, right outside my door, sitting on the floor with a few of his toys scattered around him. He’s busy babbling to himself, stacking blocks in that clumsy, determined way of his, but as soon as he notices me, his face lights up like the sun. His eyes widen, shining with excitement, and he extends his little arms toward me, fingers wiggling, practically begging to be picked up.

My heart clenches. I didn’t realize how much I’d missed him until now. Those three days felt like an eternity.

“You miss me, pumpkin?” I ask, voice thick with emotion as I crouch down to scoop him up. Ren squeals, his chubby arms wrapping around my neck, clinging to me like he’s afraid I might disappear again. I press my face against his soft, baby-scented hair, breathing him in, feeling every bit of that aching emptiness melt away.

He babbles something incoherent, patting my cheek as if he’s scolding me for being gone. I can’t help but laugh, the sound bubbling up from somewhere deep, somewhere I thought I’d lost over the past few days.

“I missed you too, buddy. So much.”

I hold him close, swaying gently, my chest warm and full. Right now, with Ren in my arms, it feels like everything’s okay again. I’m back where I belong.

And oh, Japan lost to Italy. Just like that, the game ended, and it all felt strangely empty.

Chapter Text

Ren is almost a year old now, and every day he surprises me with something new. He’s starting to stand on his own, his little legs wobbling as he tries to balance. It’s like watching a baby bird learning to use its wings—determined and a little shaky, but oh-so-proud every time he manages a step or two without holding onto something. Each tiny achievement feels like magic, and I can’t help but cheer him on, even if it’s just standing for five seconds before plopping down on his butt.

Natsu is just as entertained by him as I am, if not more. She’s taught him to call her ‘Beauty’. It’s ridiculous, really—she’ll point at herself and say, “Ren, who am I?” And he just grins up at her and says, “Bea-bee!” She nearly melted the first time he managed to get it right. I scoffed, of course, but it’s hard not to laugh when she gets him chanting, “Bea-bee! Bea-bee!” over and over like she’s some kind of royalty.

And then there’s my mom—‘A-chan’, as Ren calls her. I don’t know how he came up with it, but the nickname has stuck, and now it’s her official title around the house. “A-chan, A-chan!” he calls, with that earnest look in his eyes, and she always comes running, her face lighting up in a way I haven’t seen in years. I’ve been recording all these little moments, saving them like treasures. One day, I’ll show him these videos and tell him how much he meant to all of us, even before he could understand it.

As for me… I’m starting to feel like myself again. My body isn’t as weak as it was when Ren first came into my life. I’ve been running regularly, getting up before dawn to hit the neighborhood trails. And now, every so often, I’ll drop by the community courts to play pickup volleyball games. Just for fun, of course, nothing serious. But that first time back on the court, it was… strange. Some of the alphas there gave me these looks—some a little too interested, others with that scoffing, dismissive attitude, like I didn’t belong there.

But that all faded away once the game started. The ball in the air, the familiar rhythm of setting, spiking, diving—I became me again. The moment I jumped, the moment I connected with the ball, every doubt, every judgment, just disappeared. By the end, even the alphas were nodding at me with respect, some of them slapping my back and asking when I’d be back for the next game.

Still, all this casual playing has only stirred up something deeper inside. The old dream, the one I’d tucked away, is starting to feel real again. I can’t shake the feeling that I’m meant for more than pickup games on a community court. I want to go back to volleyball, really go back, with everything I have. And to do that, I need to go to Brazil. That dream never died; it’s just been waiting for me to be ready again.

I talk to Mom about it—about my plan to go back to volleyball, about Brazil, about giving Ren the life he deserves, and being the kind of father he deserves. She’s quiet at first, her face a mix of pride and worry. I know she doesn’t like the idea of being separated from her grandson, and the thought of me taking Ren halfway around the world makes her anxious. She hates the idea of not being close if something goes wrong. But in the end, she nods. She knows volleyball is my life—second only to Ren.

After talking to Mom, I sit down with my phone and take a deep breath, replacing the old SIM card. It feels strange, like unearthing something I buried a long time ago. My hands shake a little as I scroll through the contacts. Only one name really matters—Kenma.

He was the last person I told about Brazil, back when it was just a dream and I was chasing it with everything I had. Then everything changed, and I cut myself off. It’s been almost two years since I disappeared, since I last spoke to him. He probably thinks I’m gone for good, but if anyone will understand why I’m reaching out now, it’s him.

I press Call, my heart pounding as the phone rings. I’m not sure he’ll even pick up—maybe he’s changed his number, or maybe he won’t want to talk to me after I left without a word. But then, I hear his voice on the other end, soft, with a hint of surprise.

“Hello?”

I swallow hard. “Kenma… it’s me. Hinata.”

There’s a long pause. I can practically feel him blinking on the other end, the silence stretching as he tries to process it.

“Shouyou?” he finally says, his voice cautious and a little shocked. “Where the hell have you been? Everyone thought you’d fallen off the face of the earth.”

I let out a shaky laugh, trying to keep my voice steady. “Yeah, sorry about that. It’s… a long story. But I need your help.”

Another pause, and then a faint sigh, like he’s shaking his head in that quiet, exasperated way he has. “You disappear for almost two years, and then you call asking for help?”

I can picture the look on his face—half-amused, half-incredulous. But I know Kenma, and once he processes the surprise, he’s ready to listen.

“Kenma, I know it’s a lot to ask. But it’s about… Brazil,” I say, hesitating for a second. “Remember how I told you I wanted to go there? To train, to play volleyball? I want to make it happen, but I can’t do it alone. I need your help.”

The line goes silent again. I can sense him thinking, piecing things together. The weight of my words, my sudden reappearance—it’s a lot, I know. Finally, he speaks, his voice a little softer.

“Everyone’s been wondering where you went, you know. Kageyama even came looking for you. He went to your house, but your mom told him you were in Chiba,” he says, a note of concern hidden behind his usual calm tone. “You just… vanished, Shouyou.”

“I know,” I whisper, feeling a knot tighten in my chest. “I’m sorry, Kenma. I really am. There was… a lot I couldn’t explain. A lot I needed to work through. But I’m here now, and I want to pick up where I left off. I need to try. I need to make this dream real, not just for me, but for…someone important to me too.”

There’s another beat of silence, and then I hear him exhale, like he’s letting it all sink in. “Someone… important to you?” he asks, his voice quiet, caught off-guard.

“Yeah,” I say, my voice softening. “I’ll tell you everything when we meet up, but right now, I need to know if you’ll help me. Can we… can we get together and talk?”

Another pause, and then a quiet, resigned chuckle. “Of course, Shouyou. I’ll meet you anytime, anywhere. I don’t think I could turn you down even if I wanted to.”

I let out a breath I hadn’t realized I was holding, relief washing over me. “Thank you, Kenma. Really. It means everything to me.”

“Alright,” he says, his voice gentle now, understanding. “Let’s meet up soon. Just let me know when and where.”

When I hang up, I sit there for a moment, staring at the phone. My heart is still pounding, but it feels lighter now. Brazil doesn’t feel so far away anymore. For the first time in a long time, it feels like something real, something within reach. And with Kenma on my side, I know I’m not alone.

Chapter Text

Today is the first time I leave Miyagi in almost two years. I feel a little guilty leaving Ren behind, but Mom and Natsu promise to watch over him. It’s not like I’m gone for long—just a day trip to Tokyo to meet up with Kenma. Still, Ren must sense something is up, because the minute he sees me putting on real clothes instead of my usual T-shirt and sweats, his face goes from happy to suspicious.

He just sits there on the floor, staring at me, big eyes following every move. The second I put on my jacket, he starts crawling over, patting my leg with those chubby little hands like he’s trying to pin me in place. I crouch down and ruffle his hair, telling him, “I’ll be back soon, pumpkin,” but he just pouts and looks at me like I’m betraying him.

Of course, the moment I manage to peel him off, he starts making that sad whimpering noise, his lip all wobbly like he’s about to cry. Natsu swoops in just in time, scooping him up and distracting him with her usual antics. “Don’t worry, Ren!” she coos. “Beauty is here to save you.” I roll my eyes, but it works—he stops pouting long enough to grin up at her and say, “Bea-bee!” Still, he keeps glancing back at me with that suspicious look, like he knows I’m sneaking off on some big adventure without him.

It almost makes me want to stay, just to make sure he won’t feel abandoned. But I need to do this, and I know he’ll be fine. So I give him one last wave and head out, promising myself I’ll be back before bedtime.

The train ride to Tokyo feels like stepping into another life. It’s funny—Tokyo used to feel like a second home, but now, after being away so long, the whole city feels strange, like it belongs to a different version of me. I watch the buildings and fields blur by, thinking about everything I’ve kept hidden for the past two years and wondering how Kenma will react to seeing me again. To be honest, I’m a little nervous.

When I finally get to Kenma’s house, I pause, just… taking it in. It’s this gorgeous old Japanese-style place—dark wood, shoji doors, and a little garden out front that looks like something out of a postcard. I know Kenma is doing well with his gaming and streaming, but this? This is next level. The place looks like something a celebrity would live in.

Kenma opens the door, looking pretty much the same as always—quiet, calm, with that sleepy look in his eyes, like he’s been awake too long but doesn’t really mind. But the moment he sees me, I can practically see him wake up. His eyes light up, and before I can even say anything, he reaches out, grabbing me and pulling me into a tight hug. I let out a little laugh of surprise as he squeezes me, tighter than I expect.

Kenma’s always been the reserved type, not one for big gestures. But here he is, holding onto me like I’m some long-lost brother. I feel the difference, too—he used to be taller than me, but I’ve filled out a bit over the years, thanks to all the running and training I’ve been doing. Kenma, on the other hand, is still… well, Kenma. He barely goes out, hardly exercises, and mostly only plays volleyball when Kuroo drags him into it.

When he finally lets go, he looks me up and down, his face a mix of surprise and amusement. “You’re bigger than I remember,” he says, sounding like he’s still wrapping his head around it.

I grin. “Maybe you’ve just gotten smaller.”

He snorts, rolling his eyes, but there’s a hint of a smile there too. He waves me in, and I follow him through the house, feeling like I’ve stepped into a little oasis. The place is quiet, neat, and minimalist, with warm tatami mats and soft natural light streaming through the shoji screens. Kenma just shrugs when he catches me looking around, like he knows what I’m thinking. “Streaming, stocks, crypto,” he explains casually, like it’s no big deal. “And I have a small company—Bouncing Balls Limited.” He doesn’t even bother explaining what his company does, and I don’t ask, because honestly, half of it goes over my head.

Once we settle down in his living room, I can feel his eyes on me, waiting. He doesn’t rush me, just sits there, giving me space to figure out what I want to say. So I take a deep breath, pull out my phone, and hand it to him with a photo of Ren on the screen.

“This… this is my son,” I say quietly. “His name’s Ren.”

For once, Kenma looks genuinely surprised. He stares at the photo, then back at me, like he can’t quite connect the dots. “You… have a son?”

“Yeah,” I say, my throat tight. “I know it’s a shock. He’s eleven months old now. And he’s the reason I disappeared.”

Kenma doesn’t say anything at first. He just studies the picture, his expression softening in a way I didn’t expect. He swipes through a few photos, his gaze lingering on each one, taking in Ren’s little face, his bright eyes, his tiny, serious expression.

Then, every now and then, Kenma frowns. It’s subtle, just a slight narrowing of his eyes or a pause, like he’s noticed something that doesn’t quite add up.

Is he noticing something? I start to feel a prickling at the back of my neck. I wonder if he sees… too much. Is it that obvious? I’ve been so careful not to mention who Ren’s father is, not to say anything that might give it away. But maybe it’s all there, written in Ren’s features.

My heart pounds a little, and I’m about to make some excuse, maybe distract him with a different photo, when Kenma just looks up and gives me a small nod. “He’s… beautiful, Shouyou,” he says. “He looks a lot like you. Just look at those bright, eager eyes—and that tiny little mouth when he pouts. Bet he’s loud, too, huh?”

I let out a quiet breath I didn’t realize I’d been holding, forcing a smile. “Yeah… a lot like me,” I say, laughing a little. “He’s got no volume control. Starts babbling at sunrise and doesn’t stop until he falls asleep.”

Kenma’s mouth quirks in a small smile, his eyes soft as he watches me talk about Ren. “Figures,” he murmurs. “He’s definitely your kid, alright.”

I chuckle, feeling a mix of relief and warmth settle in my chest. Part of me wonders if he’s guessed more, if he sees something in Ren’s features that I’m not ready to acknowledge. But for now, he doesn’t push, and I don’t offer. He just sets my phone down gently, like he understands that this is as much as I can give.

But… as a friend—no, Kenma is more than that. He’s someone who’s always understood me, even when I didn’t understand myself.  So I take a deep breath and tell him everything—or most of it, anyway.

I tell him about the shock of finding out I was pregnant just before I was supposed to go to Brazil, how my whole world shifted in an instant. How I felt like I’d let everyone down, even myself. I tell him about the months of hiding, the shame that kept me from reaching out, the fear of being judged as an omega who had lost control of his own life. I admit how hard it’s been, doing this alone, even with my mom and Natsu by my side.

Kenma listens, nodding quietly, his expression a mix of understanding and something deeper—compassion, maybe. He doesn’t say anything, just lets me speak, lets me finally unburden myself after all this time. And as I talk, the knot in my chest loosens, the weight of carrying this secret alone lifting just a little.

When I’m done, I sit back, feeling drained but… lighter. Like I’ve finally let go of something that’s been pressing down on my chest for too long. Kenma looks at me for a long moment, his eyes steady and full of something I can’t quite name. Then, without a word, he reaches out and rests a hand on my shoulder, giving it a firm, reassuring squeeze.

“You’re stronger than you give yourself credit for, Shouyou,” he says softly, his voice filled with a quiet conviction that takes me by surprise. “And for what it’s worth… I’m glad you told me.”

I feel a warmth spread through me, a kind of relief I didn’t realize I was craving. I manage a small, grateful smile, nodding as I meet his eyes. For the first time in a long time, I don’t feel alone with this.

We sit like that for a while, the silence comfortable, his hand still steady on my shoulder. It’s like all the words I’ve been holding back have finally found a place to rest, and for the first time, I feel like someone else really sees me—this part of me that I’ve kept hidden, locked away.

Then Kenma clears his throat, his voice soft but focused, grounding us back in the reality of why I’m here. “So… how can I be of help now?” he asks, his eyes steady on mine.

I take a breath, pulling myself back into the present, into the reason I reached out to him in the first place. “I need a way in,” I say, my voice firmer now. “To Brazil. To train, to… to make my dream real again. I don’t know exactly how, but I need a start.”

Kenma nods, already thinking, his gaze thoughtful and sharp in that way that reminds me why he’s so good at what he does.

Chapter Text

It’s April, and the cherry blossoms are in full bloom, scattering petals across the backyard. Today is Ren’s first birthday. I can’t believe it’s already been a year since he came into my life—a year of sleepless nights, messy feedings, and the kind of joy I didn’t know I was capable of feeling.

And as if it’s a bonus birthday present, Ren has just started walking. Well, sort of. He’s on his feet, taking those shaky little steps, but he still grabs onto my fingers for balance, his tiny hands clutching me tightly as he wobbles forward. It’s both hilarious and amazing to watch. His face lights up with determination, that familiar glint of stubbornness that I know all too well. Every step he takes, he glances up at me with this huge, toothy grin, like he’s so proud of himself. And I feel that same pride, multiplied by a thousand.

We kept it small, just family. It’s just me, Mom, Natsu, and Ren, with a few decorations that Natsu insisted on putting up. She even strung up a little “Happy Birthday” banner between the Sakura trees and somehow convinced Mom to help her make a cake (though it’s mostly whipped cream and fruit, so Ren can actually have a little taste).

And then there’s Kenma and Kuroo, who show up exactly on time, arms full of toys. I think they cleaned out half the toy store. Kenma looks a little sheepish as he unloads the bags onto the picnic blanket we’ve spread out, muttering something about “not knowing what Ren likes.” There’s a whole pile of toys—blocks, stuffed animals, even a little xylophone.

Kuroo just shrugs, grinning as he holds up a soft ball and a toy car. “We just picked whatever looked fun. He’s one, right? How picky can he be?”

And then, without warning, he reaches over and ruffles my hair, like I’m still that kid—Hinata Shouyou from Karasuno,“ Hey, Chibi-chan, long time no see,” he says, his grin widening, as if he’s delighted to find that I haven’t really changed in his eyes.

Curse you, Kuroo-san! I’m a father now. A responsible adult. But, of course, I don’t say that. He’s a nice guy... most of the time.

I swat his hand away, laughing despite myself. “I’m not a chibi anymore, Kuroo-san!” I protest, but I already know it’s pointless. To him, I’ll probably always be ‘Chibi-chan,’ the underdog from Karasuno who had to crane his neck just to look up at everyone else on the court.

Kuroo just laughs, crossing his arms and giving me this slow, exaggerated once-over.

“Sure, sure,” he says, with this mock-serious tone that’s so obviously fake. “I mean, yeah, you’re maybe a little taller… kinda buff here and there,” he adds, giving my shoulder a pat like he’s checking if the muscle’s real. “But you’ll always be the same Chibi-chan to me.” He even throws in a wink for good measure.

I roll my eyes, already feeling that mix of irritation and fondness, the kind I get when Natsu’s being bratty and runs off to snitch to Mom about me sneaking Ren some ice cream. Typical. Hah!

Kenma watches us with this tiny, knowing smile, clearly amused by the back-and-forth. And honestly, as much as I want to protest, there’s a part of me that feels... comforted. Like, for just a second, I’m back at Karasuno again, when things were simpler—when I was just a kid chasing a crazy dream, before everything in life got so messy. It’s weirdly nice to be reminded of that version of me.

And then, as if he can sense my mood shift, Kuroo’s grin softens. He gives me a solid pat on the back, his hand lingering just enough to feel... steady. Reassuring, even.

“You’re doing good, Hinata. I can see it. Ren’s lucky to have you.”

I blink, caught off guard by how serious he sounds. It’s not like Kuroo to go all heartfelt on me, and I feel my face get warm. “Thanks, Kuroo-san,” I mumble, glancing down at the pile of toys scattered around. “I’m just... trying my best, you know?”

He nods, that easy grin sliding back into place, like the moment of sincerity never happened. “Aren’t we all?”

Classic Kuroo. Serious for half a second, then right back to messing around. But even so, it stays with me—what he said.

———-

I feel the tug on my shirt—soft at first, but it quickly grows stronger, more insistent. My little cutie pie is clearly getting desperate, his eyes darting between me and the absurd pile of toys stacked in the middle of the garden. I know he’s itching to dive in, but I’m too absorbed in catching up with these two ex-Nekoma guys. It’s not every day we get to hang out like this, especially after almost two years of staying under the radar. A little company—people who get it, who understand volleyball (well, maybe Kenma’s a little off in his own gaming world, but close enough)—keeps my attention drifting from what’s supposed to be the main event today. Sorry, kiddo.

Ren doesn’t let up, though. He clings to my leg like a barnacle, peeking around it at Kenma and Kuroo with that wide-eyed, cautious look he gets whenever someone new is around. His gaze flicks from the toy mountain, back to the two ‘strangers,’ then back to the toys again.

At home, it’s always just been me, ‘A-chan’ (Grandma), and ‘Beauty’ (his favorite aunt). Strangers? Those are practically mythological creatures to Ren. So yeah, I can tell he’s overwhelmed. He presses himself tighter against my leg, his tiny fingers gripping my pants for dear life, his face half-hidden as he stares at Kuroo and Kenma like he’s trying to figure out whether they’re monsters or new allies.

Kuroo notices and chuckles, crouching down to Ren’s level, that usual cocky grin softening into something more approachable. “Hey, buddy,” he says, pulling out a soft ball like it’s a peace offering. He rolls it gently toward Ren, the ball wobbling across the yard. “This is for you. Think you can catch it?”

Ren stares at the ball, his eyes darting between it and Kuroo, like he’s still deciding if this stranger is worthy of his trust. I suppress a laugh. Typical Ren—he might be small, but he’s no pushover.

Ren stares at the ball, his little fingers still clinging to my leg, but I can see the curiosity starting to win out. Kuroo doesn’t push—he just waits, calm and patient, letting Ren make the call. Kenma shoots me a small smile, like he’s seen this play out a hundred times before. Guess Kuroo’s got his way with kids.

“Ren, it’s okay,” I say softly, running a hand through his hair. “That’s Kenma and Kuroo. They’re Daddy’s friends.”

Slowly, Ren loosens his grip on my pants and shuffles forward, his tiny steps cautious. He grabs the ball and stares at it like he’s trying to decide what to do next. Kuroo leans down a bit, flashing one of those wide, easy grins that somehow manages to win over just about anyone, and before I know it, Ren’s giggling.

The next thing I know, Kuroo’s got Ren babbling, clutching the ball, and waddling back and forth as Kuroo rolls it to him. Within minutes, the kid’s completely sold. Ren’s chattering away like they’ve been best friends forever, dragging Kuroo around the yard to show him every single flower, stick, and blade of grass he can find.

Kenma and I hang back, watching the scene unfold with matching looks of amusement—and maybe a little surprise. “He’s good with kids,” I say, chuckling as Kuroo crouches down and pretends to be fascinated by every single “treasure” Ren shoves in his face.

“Yeah,” Kenma says, giving me a knowing smile. “He’s a natural, even if he won’t admit it. Guess that’s the Alpha instinct kicking in.”

I nod, my eyes following Kuroo as he lifts Ren up effortlessly, spinning him around like it’s the easiest thing in the world. Ren’s squeal is loud, pure joy spilling out of him, and it echoes across the yard. My chest tightens—just a little—and I feel it. That pang. The one I don’t like to think about but can’t fully ignore.

Ren’s face is lit up, his bright eyes locked on Kuroo like he’s the coolest person in the world. That awe, the kind only kids can give, the kind that says they feel safe—safe and loved. Ren is happy. So happy. And it hits me harder than I want to admit.

Kenma must pick up on it—because of course he does. He nudges me. “Have you thought about… what he might need as he grows up?” His words are careful, but they land exactly where they’re meant to. “Whether he’ll need… an Alpha figure in his life?”

I swallow hard, my eyes fixed on Ren as he giggles, his tiny hands clutching Kuroo’s arm like he never wants to let go. “I think about it all the time,” I say, my voice barely above a whisper. “I try to be everything for him. I mean, I’m his dad. I’m here. But…”

The words catch in my throat, like they always do. This is the part I hate the most. It feels like swallowing bitter pills—you know they’re necessary, you know they’re supposed to help—but that doesn’t make them any easier to take.

I glance down, to the dirt catching on my slippers, my thumb busy making that faint click-click sound as I slash my thumbnail against my index nail. The little rhythm fills the silence for a moment, but it doesn’t drown out the truth.

“I know I can’t be everything,” I admit finally, my voice tightening. “I can’t be… the other half of what he’s missing.”

Kenma nods, his cat-like eyes—the same ones that always scrutinized every move back when we played—now softened as they meet mine. “You’re doing a lot, Shouyou. More than most people could. But kids… they pick up on things. He’ll know you’re his Omega father. And one day, he’s going to ask about the ‘other half’ of him.”

My chest tighten. Kenma just pointed out the elephant in the room—the one that’s been sitting there forever, flipping through a magazine, daring anyone to look its way.

“I know,” I say finally, my voice low as I exhale slowly. “It’s just… complicated. I don’t even know how I’d explain it to him. That his other father… well, that he isn’t here.”

And part of that… part of that is on me.

“You’re a good dad, Shouyou. Ren’s lucky to have you. And when the time comes? You’ll find the right words. But for now, just focus on him. Make him happy. One day at a time.” He says.

I nod. Kenma’s never been one for long, wishy-washy speeches—or touchy-feely moments, for that matter. Kuroo’s said it himself more than once. But for some reason, I’ve always been the exception. Kuroo admitted that too, with this weird mix of jealousy and pride when he told me. I still remember the way he said it—half-pouting, half-smirking—and how he added he was glad about it in the same breath. Weird guy, huh?

But now that we’re adults, I realize Kenma’s words hit deeper than I ever expected. He has this way of cutting through the noise, saying exactly what I need to hear, exactly when I need to hear it. And right now, it feels… reassuring. Like he’s anchored me somehow in the middle of all this chaos.

In the face of everything—this reality I’m still trying to navigate—I think I really needed that.

One day at a time. That’s what I’ve been telling myself since Ren was born. Sometimes, it feels like enough. Sometimes… it doesn’t.

But today, at least, Ren is happy. I watch him babbling away to Kuroo, tugging on his sleeve and pointing excitedly at something in the bushes. He’s got this spark in his eyes, this boundless curiosity that makes me think of myself when I was his age. And in that moment, I realize that maybe, for now, this is enough. Just being here. Just surrounding him with people who care.

Kenma hands me a cup of tea, and we settle onto the picnic blanket, the soft grass tickling the backs of my legs as we watch Kuroo lead Ren back to the mountain of toys. Ren’s whole face lights up as he starts digging through the pile, pulling out blocks, cars, and plush animals like they’re rare treasures. Each time, he holds one up to show Kuroo, beaming like he’s just discovered gold.

I can’t help but smile as I take a sip of the tea Kenma handed me, and it’s not just good—it’s warm in a way that settles deep inside, like the heat is spreading through me, soft and steady, until I feel like I’m bathing in it. It’s the kind of warmth that stays with you, wrapping around you like a blanket you didn’t know you needed.

It’s not a perfect family—not by any stretch—but it’s a family. And today, that’s enough. That’s all Ren needs.

-------

“Children born to Omega and Alpha parents will inherit genes that determine their secondary gender, either Omega or Alpha. This will begin to physically manifest around the age of 12, though the onset can vary, occurring earlier or later for some individuals. Distinctive behavioral and physiological traits associated with each gender can appear as early as infancy, though they may not be immediately noticeable. To ensure optimal physical and emotional development, a child should grow up in an environment where both Omega and Alpha figures are present. The presence of both is crucial for the child’s well-being, as it helps in shaping both their identity and emotional resilience. For early development, the Omega figure plays a particularly vital role, as their nurturing and emotional support provides a foundation for the child’s growth. (Note: If the child is an Alpha, the presence of an Alpha figure is crucial, as it helps model behaviors and reinforcing their physical and psychological development). However, for either an Omega or Beta child, it is not strictly necessary to adhere to this pattern. The development can still proceed healthily with appropriate guidance and environment, though the balance between parental figures plays a significant role in shaping their overall well-being.”

(Second Gender Parenting Book—for Beginner, 2nd edition, page 34)

I close the book with a snap, tossing it onto the bed like it just insulted me. I thought reading before bed would calm me down, but nope. What Kenma said earlier? Yeah, still stuck in my head, spinning like a bad replay. And then I stumble across this.

What the hell is this author even trying to say? That I need to find an Alpha partner? Or—ugh—the easier option: drag Ren’s father back into the picture?

No. No, no, no. Absolutely not.

I rake a hand through my hair, glaring at the book like it’s personally to blame for this mess in my brain.

…Do I?

Chapter Text

I swear, if I blink, Ren’s gonna be all grown up before I even know it. He’s only 14 months old, but it already feels like he’s not my tiny baby anymore. He’s turning into his own little person, and every day he does something that completely catches me off guard.

He’s walking now—really walking. None of that wobbly, hold-my-hand stuff anymore. He just gets up and goes. Sometimes it feels like I spend my whole day chasing him around the house. One second he’s in the living room, the next he’s toddling off to the kitchen or trying to climb onto the couch like it’s Mount Everest. The kid’s energy is insane. He’s always on the move, like he’s on this unstoppable mission to check out every corner of the universe—even if his “universe” is just our tiny house.

But walking’s only half the story. He’s “exploring” now, and by that, I mean emptying anything he can get his little hands on. Cupboards, toy bins, drawers, laundry baskets—you name it, he’s in it. Our house looks like a disaster zone half the time, with toys, clothes, and random stuff scattered everywhere. And the tornado responsible? Oh, he knows exactly what he’s doing. He’ll look up at me with this big, mischievous grin, like, “Yeah, I did that. You’re welcome.”

And honestly? I can’t even be mad about it.

I try to keep the place somewhat tidy, mostly to stop ‘A-chan’ (aka my mom) from nagging me about it. Not that she’d ever scold Ren—oh no, her precious little grandson can do no wrong. All her lectures are reserved exclusively for me. Every time she catches me tidying up, she hits me with the same line: “You know, you were just like this when you were Ren’s age.”

Sure, okay, maybe I was a little ball of chaos too, but do I remember any of that? Nope. Conveniently forgotten. So every time she starts in with her “When you were little, you pulled everything off the shelves, spilled food everywhere, left toys in every corner of the house” speech, I just mutter under my breath, “Talk about younger days,” and roll my eyes.

 Watching Ren toddle around, getting into everything he can reach, there’s this warmth in my chest that never really goes away. This is our life now—messy, chaotic, but filled with these little moments I never want to forget.

And sometimes, after I’ve tucked him in for the night and finally picked up the last toy scattered across the floor, I stop and look around at the semi-clean room. I can’t help but smile to myself. Because for all the mess, for all the things he dumps out just to toss aside, I wouldn’t change a single thing.

And now he’s talking, too. Not full sentences or anything—let’s not get ahead of ourselves—but he’s starting to string words together in that cute, broken way that melts your heart. “Da-da, play,” he says, pointing outside to the yard, especially when he’s itching to chase after his favorite toy—a ball. The soft ball Kenma got him for his birthday? Yeah, that one’s long gone. Ren played it into oblivion.

He’s also got this hilarious little command for Natsu. “Bea-bee, up up!” That’s what he says when he wants her to pick him up and spin him around like a human merry-go-round. And every single time, I can’t help but laugh—especially when she actually does it. Watching her try to twirl his solid 28-pound self in dizzying circles is pure comedy. She always complains, but I know better. Secretly? She loves it.

And Mom? She’s officially “A-chan” now. Ren says it with that cheeky little grin, flashing all his baby teeth like he’s got the whole world wrapped around his tiny finger. Can’t argue with that—he does. She lights up every time he calls her—even though nine times out of ten, it’s because he’s demanding something. Cheeky little brat.

His favorite phrase right now is “Want more!” He yells it whenever he’s eating something he loves—or when he’s gleefully launching bits of food across the kitchen like he’s testing my reflexes. Apparently, watching me scramble to catch flying carrots and peas is peak comedy in Ren’s world.

It’s amazing, though, watching him grow like this. But man, it hits me in ways I didn’t see coming. I miss those days when he was just this tiny little bundle who fit perfectly in my arms, when he’d fall asleep on my chest, his little breaths warm and steady. Back then, it felt like time stood still for just a little while.

Now? Now he’s a whirlwind. A walking, talking ball of energy who can’t sit still, who’s always on the move, always curious. And honestly, I couldn’t be prouder of him. But there’s this little part of me—this quiet ache—that already misses his baby days.

____

The phone rings in the middle of the day, right as Ren’s finally down for his nap. I almost don’t answer—God forbid I wake the little tornado—but then I see Kenma’s name on the screen, and there’s no way I can ignore that.

I tiptoe out onto the wooden veranda at the side of the house, sliding the shoji door open as quietly as humanly possible. (Seriously, no sudden moves. Waking Ren would be like waking a sleeping bear—cute but terrifying.)

I press the phone to my ear. “Hey, Kenma.”

“Hey, Shouyou,” he says, his voice calm and even, just like always. But there’s something about his tone—this quiet sense of purpose—that makes me stand a little straighter. My hand automatically goes to my hair, fixing it out of habit, even though Kenma couldn’t see me if he tried.

For a second, neither of us says anything. The silence feels heavy, like the moment before you jump off a cliff, and I know whatever’s coming is going to change everything.

Finally, Kenma speaks. “So…” He pauses, just long enough for my stomach to flip. “Are you ready? Because everything’s set. I’ve arranged pretty much everything for you and Ren to go to Brazil.”

Brazil?

My heart skips a beat. Kenma’s not joking, is he? He’s terrible at jokes. This is real. This is really happening. I clench my fist and press it against my lips, trying to keep myself from screaming like a lunatic.

I can feel the rush—this chaotic mix of excitement and anxiety hitting me all at once, like a wave I wasn’t ready for. My feet start moving before I realize it, pacing back and forth on the veranda. Part of me wants to lose it right here—shout at the top of my lungs, sprint around the house like a total idiot, tell Mom the news and then blow up Natsu’s phone just to scream about it.

This is big. Huge. And it’s happening.

But instead? I do the opposite. (Clears throat, because I’m a grown-up now). Plus, Ren is still sleeping, and waking the little tornado would just be asking for trouble.

So I keep my voice steady and ask, “Everything?” Like it’s no big deal. Like my whole life isn’t about to change.

“Yeah,” Kenma says, and I can almost picture his steady gaze, the quiet confidence he always has. “I’ve set up sponsorship paperwork with my company—Bouncing Ball Limited. It’s mostly for formality, to keep records for insurance, taxes, that sort of thing. We’ll need you to sign a few documents, but it’s all straightforward. This way, you’ll have a safety net while you’re training. And it’ll make it easier to handle Ren’s travel and health insurance, too.”

I exhale slowly, trying to process it all. Brazil has always been the dream, but hearing it laid out like this… it feels real.  “Wow, Kenma… you really thought of everything.”

“Well, I know how much this means to you,” he says quietly. “And I know you wouldn’t go without Ren.”

He’s right. I glance back at the house, where Ren is sleeping peacefully in his crib. The thought of taking him halfway across the world is terrifying—but also kind of exciting. I want to show him what it means to go after something, to fight for a dream with everything you’ve got. And maybe, in Brazil, we can build something that’s ours—something new, something just for the two of us. Even if it’s just for a little while.

It’s wild to think about, though. Just the two of us, halfway across the world, on this crazy adventure. I can’t even picture it yet.

“Thank you, Kenma,” I manage. “I… I don’t even know what to say. I didn’t think anyone would actually support me in this. Not with Ren coming too.”

I hear Kenma chuckle softly—or maybe it’s more of a quiet exhale of amusement. I can’t see his face, but I know him well enough to guess he’s probably smirking a little.

Kenma’s voice softens, like he’s letting me in on some unspoken truth. “You think I’d make arrangements without that little cutie coming with you? He needs you, Shouyou.” Then, almost like an afterthought, he adds, “Besides, as my brand ambassador, I want you to be happy.”

“Brand ambassador, huh?” I let out a small laugh, feeling this warm, quiet sense of gratitude bloom in my chest. It’s not the title that gets to me—it’s the way Kenma said it. Like he actually cares.

It makes me think. When did we even get this close? All I remember is seeing him sitting by himself, scrolling through his phone, waiting for Kuroo. That was back in high school. And the next thing I knew? We just… clicked. No explanation, no buildup. It just happened.

Kenma lets out a soft laugh. “Has a nice ring to it, doesn’t it? Just imagine—you and Ren showing off all the volleyball gear in Brazil. I could even get him to wear a cap…”

I shake my head, smiling, but my response comes immediately. “I couldn’t ask for more, Kenma.” The words spill out before I even think about them.

Kenma might be teasing, sure, but I know he means every word. He’s not just supporting me as a friend; he’s bending over backward to make sure I can chase my dream and be the kind of father Ren deserves.

And me? The moment I decided on Brazil, I shut the door on hesitation. No second-guessing. Whatever happens, happens.

Kenma’s voice pulls me back. “I’ve set up the logistics—sponsorship, insurance, travel. But finding a volleyball partner? Lining up competitions? That’s all on you, Shouyou. You’ll have to put in the hard work yourself.”

There’s a pause, and even though we’re on the phone, I can practically feel him giving me that pointed look. (Okay, I’m imagining it, but still.) “Think you can handle that?”

I nod instinctively, though he can’t see me, and feel that familiar fire flicker to life in my chest. “Of course I can do that!” I say, grinning at the invisible Kenma on the other end of the line, trying to sound as confident as possible—even if there’s a knot twisting in my stomach. “It won’t be easy, but that’s never stopped me before. I’ll find someone.”

Kenma doesn’t miss a beat. “Good. Because I didn’t get you all the way to Brazil just so you could sit on the sidelines.”

I laugh, rubbing the back of my neck. “Yeah, I know. I’ll figure it out. There’s gotta be tons of players in Brazil who are just as serious about volleyball as I am. And even if it’s hard… well, I didn’t come this far to give up.”

I take a deep breath, trying to steady myself, feeling that nervousness settle just a little. I’ve done this before—back when I was in Chiba. God, that was a gamble if there ever was one. I called it my ‘pre-Brazil training’, but let’s be real—it was a reckless shot in the dark.

I still remember that version of me: burning with passion for volleyball and, yeah, burning with jealousy too. I’ll admit it—it wasn’t easy seeing Kageyama get called up for the U-21 National team and sign with a pro team right out of high school. I mean, I knew he was good—too damn good, honestly—but knowing that didn’t make it sting any less.

The memory still feels fresh. That phone call where Kageyama casually told me about all of it—the camps, the training, the pros—it hit me like a spike straight to the gut. I could barely keep the bitterness out of my voice as I congratulated him. That feeling? The sting of being left behind? Yeah, that’s one I’ll never forget.

So I made a choice. A reckless one. I picked up the phone and started calling around. I found a training center in Chiba that worked with beach volleyball players and begged them to let me join. I covered all my expenses and cashed in some recommendations from Coach Washijo. And just like that, I packed up and ended up in Chiba, Tokyo.

It was brutal. I worked my ass off, day and night—training during the day, working part-time at night, sometimes working shifts at the training center itself. There were moments I thought I’d collapse, but at the same time, it was… fun. It was volleyball, and I was doing what I loved.

Until… well, until everything changed. Until I came back to Miyagi, and it wasn’t just me anymore. It was me—and Ren, two months along in my belly.

But here’s the thing: back in Chiba, I found a way when there wasn’t one. When everyone told me I was being reckless—and, yeah, sometimes I told myself that too—that it was all just a whim, I proved them wrong. I proved myself wrong. I shut their mouths, turned rivals into friends, and strangers into partners.

I can do it again.

And this time? It’s not just for me. It’s for Ren. It’s for my dream.

I’ll do it again.

“One more thing,” Kenma says over the phone, pulling me out of my Chiba daydream. “You’ll need to find a nanny for Ren.”

A nanny?

“Kuroo and I looked into it online,” he continues, totally calm, as if this isn’t the most out-of-nowhere thing I’ve heard all day. “There are a few reputable agencies near your apartment in Rio. We thought it’d be best if you visit each one, get a feel, and decide which one would suit him best.”

I blink, caught completely off guard. “You two… really thought of everything, huh?”

There’s a pause, just long enough for me to imagine Kenma shrugging on the other end. Then, his voice comes through, a little amused. “Kuroo’s idea, mostly. Did you know he worked part-time at a kindergarten after high school? Said it was to save money for college, but… turns out he actually liked the job. Kind of funny, right? An Alpha, of all people.”

Kenma chuckles, and I can’t help but crack a smile too. “That’s rare to hear,” I say, shaking my head. But honestly, knowing Kuroo? It’s not that surprising. The guy’s always been full of surprises, even if he hides it behind that smug, teasing face he’s been showing me since forever.

“Well, bottom line is, he takes this stuff pretty seriously,” Kenma adds, his voice a little lighter than usual. He sounds… chirpy. Happier, even.

I narrow my eyes at absolutely nothing. Is it just me, or does Kenma always sound like this when he talks about Kuroo? What phase are they now? I wonder.

I shake my head furiously, trying to shove the thought out. Nope, nope. Not going there. I’ve got enough problems to deal with without adding that to the list. Lucky for me, we’re on the phone, so Kenma can’t see me spiraling like an idiot.

I clear my throat, trying to reset myself. “Ahh… no wonder,” I say, thinking back to how effortlessly he handled Ren. “Bet the kids loved him.”

“They did,” Kenma says, his tone deadpan, but I can hear the faintest hint of a smile. “Apparently he’s got ‘strong opinions’ on early childhood education now. So… take his advice seriously, okay?”

I chuckle, shaking my head. “Alright, alright. I’ll check out the agencies and make sure Ren’s got the best one. Thanks, Kenma. And tell Kuroo… well, thanks for caring about all this stuff. It means a lot.”

There’s a short pause on the other end before Kenma speaks again, his voice steady but softer somehow. “You don’t have to thank us, Shouyou. It’s… important. We love Ren too, as much as we love you.”

Kenma… why you…

I’ve lost it. My knees buckle, and I drop to the floor, sitting with a thud. The heel of my palm presses hard against my forehead.

Is it because I’m an Omega? Or is it because I have a kid now? Either way, I swear my tear ducts are completely out of control these days. I’m supposed to be in the prime of my life—heck, if I’d gone to university, I’d probably be graduating soon, just like Tsukishima and Yacchan. Instead, I’m sitting here, barely holding it together because Kenma decided to be all sentimental.

And let’s not even start on my track record. I cried the first time I saw Ren—when the doctor placed that tiny little bundle of squish on my chest. I cried alone at night while watching him sleep, his little breaths steady and soft. I cried when he said his first word—“Da-da.” I cried when he laughed for the first time, flashing that gummy, toothless grin like the whole world was his to conquer. Heck, I even cried one time just because I woke up late and missed my morning run. My morning run, for crying out loud.

So much crying. I’m practically a one-person waterworks over here. I swear, I could star in one of those over-the-top sappy dramas and win the crown for ‘Queen of Tears’.

And now? Yeah, I can feel it happening all over again. If Kenma were standing in front of me, I’d probably tackle him into the biggest hug he’s ever had—one so tight he’d be gasping for air and thrashing to escape. And me? I’d be a complete mess, ugly crying all over his shoulder like it’s a scene from some dramatic soap opera. The mental image alone makes me snort quietly to myself. Absurd, right?

But here I am, standing on the veranda, swallowing hard and blinking fast, trying to shove down the lump rising in my throat. Fighting off the sob that’s dangerously close to spilling out.

I didn’t expect this. Not from a phone call. But Kenma’s calm voice, his quiet, steady assurance—it hits me in a way I wasn’t ready for.

I clear my throat, trying to keep my voice steady. “Thanks, Kenma. Really… You don’t… you don’t know how much this means.”

“Anytime,” he replies, his tone as calm as ever. “Now, go check on your little ambassador before he wakes up. I’ll send over the paperwork today. And remember, Kuroo and I are just a call away if you need anything.”

I nod, even though he can’t see me. A rush of relief and excitement bubbles up in my chest, and for the first time today, I feel like I can breathe. “Alright,” I say, my voice steadier now. “I’ll start getting things ready. I just… need to sign the paperwork, right?”

“Yep,” Kenma says simply. “I’ll send it over later today. Take your time, go over everything, and let me know if you have questions. This is a big step, Shouyou, but you’re not doing it alone.”

When the call ends, I sit on the veranda for a long moment, phone still in my hand, staring out at the cherry blossoms drifting through the spring air. The petals float gently, catching the breeze like little pink confetti, like they’re celebrating—like they already know something big is about to happen.

Brazil.

It’s finally happening.

Chapter Text

It’s 8:30 p.m., and Haneda Airport is buzzing. People are rushing through security lines, checking-in their bags, and waiting at the lobbies.  Seriously, is there ever a time when an airport isn’t busy?

Ren, meanwhile, is starting to go quiet. His little head is drooping, and I can tell sleep is catching up to him. Poor kid. I’m sorry, buddy—this is the only flight time Kenma and I could agree on. The other options were either way too long, cramped with no legroom, or at completely ridiculous hours. The best we could manage was this one: departing at exactly 12:05 a.m. Midnight.

Twelve hours to Dubai. A layover. Then another fifteen hours to Rio de Janeiro. Yup, this is going to be a ride.

Traveling with a kid Ren’s age is no joke—I’ll admit that—but hey, I’m ready for it. I came armed to the teeth with every trick in the book: toys, sketch pads, crayons, storybooks, snacks, you name it. I’d list everything, but honestly, it’d take all day. Just know this—I’m prepared for anything.

We step into one of the many elevators in Terminal 3—the kind with glass walls and dual glass doors that open on both sides. It’s roomy enough to fit all of us, the two suitcases, and Ren’s stroller without feeling like we’re packed in like sardines. I’ve got a carry-on bag slung over one shoulder—it’s mostly Ren’s stuff, of course—and a fanny pack strapped across my chest for the essentials: wallet, passports, phones, all the things I can’t afford to lose.

I’ve got my Hanshin Tigers baseball cap on—felt like the right choice for the occasion. I’m hoping it makes me look a little tougher, less Omega. Maybe it’ll fend off any unnecessary attention. Because, let’s be real, this mop of orange hair is already a damn spotlight magnet. It’s like a neon sign that screams, “Look over here!” People still ask me, even now, if it’s my real hair color. Some ask if I’m even Japanese. Others do a double take, like they’re trying to piece together a puzzle. And yeah, thanks, but no thanks—I’d really prefer to skip that kind of attention today if I can help it.

I hit the button for “3F” to take us up to the departure lobby from the Entrance Plaza on the first floor—where the taxi dropped us off. The elevator hums softly as it begins its ascent, the view opening up through the glass as the floors below start to shrink away.

Mom’s the one pushing Ren in the stroller—the “parting gift” she insisted on getting before we left. “Something to make things easier,” she called it. Apparently, Natsu was the one who picked it out, and I’ve got to admit, she nailed it. Who knew Natsu had an eye for baby gear? But hey, she did good. It’s sleek, lightweight, easy to fold, and sturdy enough to handle Ren’s constant squirming. Definitely a win.

But okay, enough marveling at the stroller. As we ride up, my eyes drift to the second floor—the Arrival lobby. There’s a crowd gathered, some people just hanging around. I spot men with cameras—probably journalists—and a bunch of others holding banners. Some are small, others are huge, like those roadside banners you see during election season screaming, “Vote for XX!”

“Must be some VIPs or artists,” I mutter to Mom, who’s standing beside me in the elevator, looking about ten shades of worried.

I get it. In an hour, Mom’s going to have to say goodbye to her precious grandson. The thought’s already weighing heavy on her face. I glance at Natsu, standing stiffly beside me, her arms crossed, looking like she’s ready to sulk through the entire send-off.

“Oi, I’m not even gone yet, and you’re already making that face,” I tease, slipping my arm around her neck in a headlock and giving her orange mop a good ruffle. (If it weren’t for my trusty Hanshin Tigers baseball cap, we would really look like two carrot tops in this elevator). She squirms and lands a few good jabs to my ribs, knocking the wind out of me.

I let go, and Natsu straightens, huffing and puffing at the same time.

“There, now you look alive,” I say, but of course I don’t stop there. It’s way too tempting to push her buttons just a little more. “You’re never gonna get a boyfriend with that sour face.”

Her head snaps toward me, eyes glaring, and before I can even brace myself—BAM! A punch lands square in my stomach. I double over, groaning, but can’t help laughing through it.

“Jerk,” she bites out, not missing a beat.

I close my eyes dramatically, shrugging as if I’m soaking up her insult like it’s a compliment. “Yeah, yeah, I’ll take it,” I say with a smug smile, adding just a little extra to needle her.

She mutters something under her breath and looks away, but I can tell—she’s already fighting back a smirk. Classic Natsu.

____

We step out of the elevator into the bustling departure lobby. It’s just as packed up here as it was downstairs, with people rushing in every direction. My eyes flick to the massive monitors overhead, scanning for check-in info. The air is fresher here, and the smell of coffee wafts by, waking me up a little.

I lean over the stroller to check on Ren. For a second, I think he’s asleep—but nope. He’s fighting it, his little eyes drooping but stubbornly refusing to close.

Just then, he leans forward, his tiny finger pointing excitedly at a bright LED screen. It’s playing some promo ad for a travel destination—beaches, blue skies, coconut trees perfectly angled over crystal-clear water, and, of course, models lounging in beach chairs, sipping from coconuts with those tiny umbrellas sticking out.

I can’t quite tell what’s got him so excited—maybe it’s the colors, maybe it’s the moving pictures—but I can’t help smiling at how fascinated he looks. “You like that, huh, buddy?” I mutter, though I’m not really expecting a reply.

I glance back at the screen and let my thoughts wander for a second. It does look nice. Maybe, just maybe, one day we’ll be able to relax like that too—just the two of us, chilling on some beach somewhere. One day.

____

Check-in done. And man, it feels so good not having to lug those suitcases around anymore. With that weight (literally) off my shoulders, we head toward the seating area.

That’s when I spot them. Kenma and Kuroo stepping out of the elevator, their hands intertwined like it’s the most natural thing in the world. It’s… kind of a nice scene, actually. I whisper that to myself with a small smile.

The second my eyes land on Kenma, though, I’m off. I take off running, leaving Mom with Ren and the stroller like some kind of guilty escape artist.

Rain check, finally getting cashed. I’ve been dying to hug the guy. And I do—tight enough that he probably sees his life flash before his eyes.

Kenma taps my arm twice, the universal “let go before I suffocate” sign. Only then do I release the chokehold.

“Hey, Chibi-chan,” comes that familiar, teasing voice.

I look up, and there he is—Kuroo Tetsurou in all his 6’2” glory, his black hair still flopping into his face, one bang practically covering his eye. (Seriously, when is this guy going to update his hairstyle?) He bends down to my level, flashing that trademark ‘Kuroo smugness’ I’ve learned to tolerate.

“Kuroo-san. Nice to see you,” I manage, still catching my breath.

And, of course, he goes straight for the hair ruffle. Again. (Something I’ve resigned myself to over the years—it’s practically a tradition now as the resident shorty among giants. For some reason, they can’t resist messing with my hair).

“Shouyou, you’re ready? Got everything packed?” Kenma asks, stepping in like the voice of reason.

I nod. Profusely. What else can I say? I’ve been packing for a month. Literally. Packing, unpacking, repacking—rinse and repeat. Ren’s stuff alone takes up half the space in my luggage. No surprise there.

“Yeah, all checked in already,” I say, giving a thumbs-up for good measure.

“Where’s your ‘mini-me’?” Kuroo asks, eyes already scanning the busy space.

“With my mom,” I reply, nodding toward the seating area near the giant LED screen.

Kuroo darts off without another word, leaving me and Kenma to follow at our own pace.

We chat for a bit after that. About Rio. About the kind of life I should expect once I get there. Kuroo brings up the nanny situation again.

Like I could forget something Kuroo’s drilled into my head, I think, but I just nod along. And Kenma reminds me, in his usual blunt way, to take care of myself and enjoy the experience.

I must say, Kenma is probably the worst sponsor from a business perspective. Like, seriously, I don’t know what he’s getting out of this. I’m not exactly a household name. My technical skills? Meh. My beach volleyball experience? Zero, unless you count the short stint I did in Chiba. All I’ve got is guts and conviction. And somehow, that’s enough for Kenma to put his faith in me.

It’s a lot. Maybe even more than I deserve. But it’s Kenma, so I get it.

I’ll make sure I repay you someday, buddy. I promise.

____

It’s true—time flies when you’re doing something you love. Moments like this? They’re unbeatable. I’m surrounded by people who care about me, people I trust and love the most. But then, inevitably, the clock keeps ticking. And finally, it’s here—that time. No matter how much we try to stall it, to stretch the minutes a little longer, it comes anyway.

I look at mom—still fussing over Ren like her life depends on it, straightening his tiny jacket for the third time and brushing off invisible specks of dust from his shoulder. Her voice quivers as she rattles off instructions for the millionth time.

“Shouyou, make sure he drinks plenty of water, okay? And don’t let him skip his nap, or he’ll be cranky on the plane. Oh, and for heaven’s sake, pack extra diapers in your carry-on! Flights are unpredictable—you know that!”

I nod, biting back a laugh. “Yes, Mom, I know. You’ve told me, like, ten times already.”

She shoots me a look, half stern, half like she’s trying to burn the memory of my face into her brain. “Well, maybe I’ll remind you eleven times, just to be safe.”

Her hand brushes my cheek—quick, gentle—and then she turns back to Ren, who’s squirming in the stroller, begging to be let out. His wide eyes heavy with sleep but still fighting to stay open. It’s obvious he’s trying hard not to nod off, even though he’s losing the battle.

His ‘A-chan’ picks him up. I just let him be. I think even if Ren didn’t beg, Mom would pick him up anyway. It’s time for the part she’s been dreading the most. Goodbyes were never easy, to begin with. And this one? It’s heavy. I mean, we’ve been living under her roof, 24/7, all this time. I get it. I get it too much to brush it off.

Ren blinks slowly, his little body sinking into Mom’s arms for a moment, completely at ease. Meanwhile, Mom keeps muttering under her breath, as if she’s reciting some kind of parenting manual: “You make sure to feed him healthy food, you hear me, Shouyou? None of that instant junk. Never! And plenty of water—he needs fruits and vegetables. If not, he’ll get constipated, and then he’ll cry when he can’t… you know… do his business.”

She pauses, as she brushes a stray lock of hair off Ren’s forehead. Her gaze lingers on him, tender and full of something so deep, so pure, it almost makes my chest ache. How much love is in that stare? I don’t think I could even begin to count it.

But let’s be real: Mom’s not just worried about Ren. She knows—has always known—how well I’ve been taking care of him. No, she’s worried about me too. You know that old saying, “When you’re talking to the kids, you’re actually talking to the parents”? Yeah, that. It’s all over her face, in the way her hands won’t stop moving, in the slight tremble in her voice when she speaks. She’s scared. Scared to see me go so far away, chasing a dream on the other side of the world.

I know, Mom. I know it all too well.

Natsu, standing next to Mom, rolls her eyes but tries (and fails) to hide the sniffle she clearly doesn’t want anyone to notice. “Mom, you’re smothering them,” she says, swooping in to grab Ren and absolutely bombarding the poor kid’s face with kisses. Ren squeals in protest, but she doesn’t care. “They’re gonna be fine,” she says with a huff. “Besides, I’m the one who taught Nii-san how to cook rice and make pumpkin pudding, remember? My star student won’t go astray after learning from such an amazing teacher like me.”

She adds that last bit with so much smugness that I swear I can actually see her nose tilting toward the ceiling.

“Yeah, yeah, thanks, Natsu. Wouldn’t have survived fatherhood without you,” I say, pulling her into a hug and squishing Ren right in between us. He lets out a squeaky little protest, but I ignore it completely. Leaning closer to Natsu, I whisper in her ear, “Take care of Mom, okay?”

We share a look, and I can tell—she’s about to lose it. “We’re gonna miss you, Nii-san,” she says, her voice all wobbly, her eyes shiny with tears, her face flushed red. Then she bends down and kisses Ren again, like she’s trying to hold onto the moment, maybe because it’s the last one for a while.

Kenma, who’s been quiet this whole time, finally steps forward. He gives me a small nod, his usual calm self, but his gaze is sharper than usual. “Shouyou, just… take care of yourself,” he says, his tone steady but serious. “If anything goes wrong, or if you need help with anything, you know where to reach us.” He glances down at Ren, who’s now clinging to my leg like a koala, and adds softly, “And remember, we’re all rooting for you. For both of you.”

I nod, swallowing hard as I try to keep it together. “Thanks, Kenma. Really. For everything.”

Of course, Kuroo has to swoop in and break the moment with a loud, dramatic sniff, pretending to wipe away an imaginary tear. “Man, I never thought I’d see the day. Our Chibi-chan, flying across the world with a baby on his hip. Don’t you dare forget about us when you’re a big volleyball star, got it?”

I snort, shaking my head. “Like I could ever forget you, Kuroo-san. Besides, you’ll probably just show up in Brazil unannounced with Kenma in tow.”

Kuroo grins, crouching down to ruffle Ren’s hair gently. “That’s a promise, kiddo,” he says, grinning as Ren beams up at him, babbling something no one can understand but Ren, clearly thinks is very important. “And hey, Chibi-chan—don’t let this little guy outshine you on the court. Can’t have Ren stealing all your fans.”

“Oh, don’t worry,” I shoot back, laughing. “He’ll have his own fanbase soon enough.”

The group laughs, and for a moment, the tension hanging in the air lifts, replaced by a warmth I didn’t realize I needed.

The boarding announcement echoes through the hall, loud and clear, calling all passengers to the gate. My heart skips a beat. This is it.

Mom’s face falters just a little, her resolve cracking as she gives Ren one last squeeze. Her eyes are red, but she’s holding it together—barely. She turns to me, grabbing my hand like she’s afraid to let go. “I love you, Shouyou. I love both of you so much. Go show the world what you’re made of.”

I nod, my throat tight as I pull her into a hug. For a moment, it feels like all her love, all her fears, and all her hope are wrapped up in that single embrace. “I love you too, Mom,” I whisper.

When I pull back, I take one last look at everyone: Mom, clutching her hands together and blinking back tears; Natsu, waving with a wide, overly bright smile that doesn’t quite hide the sniffle she just tried to cover up; Kenma, giving me a small, firm nod that says, “You’ve got this”, and Kuroo, grinning like an overgrown kid, his hands shoved casually into his pockets, but his eyes saying more than his smirk ever could.

I pick up Ren, who’s still half-asleep, and head toward the security gate.

Just as I’m about to disappear into the crowd, Kuroo’s voice booms out over the noise. “Make us proud, Chibi-chan!”

I wave back, not turning around, but letting my voice carry. “I will. I promise.”

With Ren nestled in my arms and my heart pounding like it’s about to burst, I step forward. Ready. Ready to chase the dream I’ve held onto for so long.

But this time? This isn’t just my journey. It’s ours. And no matter what happens next, I know one thing for sure: we’re not doing this alone.

____

I pass through the security check, pushing Ren’s stroller toward the gate. The chaos of the airport starts to fade as we go further in. The buzzing noise, the bustling crowds—they all thin out little by little, replaced by the soft click-clack of footsteps on the polished floor and the low murmur of quiet conversations. It’s a welcome change, the kind of quiet that doesn’t press too hard on your chest.

I lean over the stroller, peeking in, and sure enough, the little ball of energy has finally given in to sleep. His tiny chest rises and falls, his face completely relaxed except for that tiny furrow in his brow—like he’s still a little annoyed at the world, even in his dreams.

Reaching down, I lower his seat gently so he’s lying back, then brush my lips against his forehead for a quick goodnight kiss. “Sweet dreams, buddy. I love you,” I whisper softly, my voice barely more than a breath.

How does someone look so ridiculously adorable even while frowning? Only an angel could pull that off, I think to myself, grinning at the thought. An angel. The word makes me chuckle under my breath. Yeah, maybe not your traditional angel—this one’s a little messy, a little chaotic, and definitely stubborn, but still mine.

We make our way through the duty-free shopping area, past the bright displays of perfumes and electronics. The walkalator hums beneath us as we glide up and down, weaving through the crowd. Gate 146—second floor, the West wing—the ‘L’ part of the building. That is our boarding gate. Still a ways to go. I take an elevator down to the second floor and checks the time again. Still plenty of time—a solid hour, to be exact. Ren’s knocked out in his stroller, so I take my time strolling through the terminal, gliding past gate after gate. Up ahead, just past the corner, it’ll be a straight shot to my gate..

In my life, I’ve never flown outside of Japan. Heck, the only time I’ve been on a plane was that one trip to Okinawa with Mom and Natsu back in middle school. It was for a holiday. Mom had been planning it for ages—said she’d saved up for years. I think it was all because I wouldn’t stop begging her to go after seeing some ad about Okinawa. What was I even thinking back then? I guess when you’re a kid, the idea of beaches and pineapple-shaped souvenirs is enough to set your heart on fire.

But this? Flying internationally? The vibe between domestic and international gates is completely different. Domestic gates are calmer, quieter—a lot of solo travelers or families with kids carrying stuffed animals and backpacks. Everyone feels relaxed, like they’re just heading to grandma’s for the weekend or off on a little trip.

The international gates, though? They’re buzzing with energy. It’s louder, busier. There’s this constant hum of different languages blending together, people lugging suitcases, and groups huddled together, taking selfies or chatting excitedly about their trips. You see people from all over the world, all dressed so differently—some in vacation mode with flip-flops and oversized hats, others in sharp business suits looking stressed out. It feels bigger somehow, like the stakes are higher. Like you’re standing at the edge of something way outside your comfort zone.

And then there’s me.

Just a guy with a toddler in a stroller, trying to keep it together while hauling a carry-on, a fanny pack stuffed with passports and snacks, and a head full of nerves. No fancy suit, no flip-flops or tropical vacation vibes. Just me, rocking my Hanshin baseball cap, blending into this sea of people who all seem like they know exactly where they’re going and what they’re doing.

And maybe I do too. Sort of.

I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t nervous. And yeah, my head’s starting to spin as the reality of it all sinks in. Mom’s teary smile, Kenma’s steady words of support, Natsu’s cheerful wave, Kuroo’s dumb joke that somehow made me laugh even when it felt like my chest was in a vice grip. It’s all playing on repeat in my mind like a montage I didn’t ask for.

I’m still stuck in that weird limbo—trying to accept this new reality. The fact that I’m actually leaving everything behind. The people I love. The comfort of home. The steady reassurance of knowing I always have someone to lean on.

Shit! I must be crazy.

I’m really doing this. Hinata Shouyou, going to Brazil—and with a kid in tow, no less. Who does this? Who uproots their whole life like this?

Can I even do this? Will I survive in a whole new country, in a whole new environment?

Where’s all that confidence I had before? The stuff that’s been fueling me like fire since I made this decision? It’s like the moment I stepped past the immigration, it evaporated.

Dammit, where’d it go?

Before I even realize it, I’m speeding up, pushing the stroller like we’re on some kind of power walk. My steps are quick, too quick, like I’m trying to outrun something. By the time I stop next to a pillar, I’m out of breath—not from exertion, but from the pounding in my chest.

Calm down, Shouyou. Just breathe. I tell myself, trying to reel it all in. Cap off, fingers raking through my hair, cap back on—this time a little loose. Why is it so damn hot in here? Deep breath.

When I finally look up, I freeze.

There he is. Kageyama’s face—larger than life, staring back at me from a small LED screen. He’s in a bright red volleyball jersey, giving a thumbs-up with one hand and holding a plate of rice and curry in the other. And that smile—awkward as hell.

It’s a five-second ad. All he does is shovel rice and curry into his mouth like it’s the last meal he’ll ever have.

I can’t decide whether to laugh or groan. Well, at least the guy got paid.

Weirdly enough, the shock settles me. It’s like my brain went, ‘Wait, what?’ and forgot to spiral for a second. Of all things to calm me down, it had to be Kageyama awkwardly stuffing his face with rice and curry on a screen. Go figure.

Ren is still fast asleep, his little face peaceful, oblivious to the chaos of the airport around him. I keep walking, the corner just a few steps away, when suddenly, I hear the sound of running footsteps behind me.

I turn, curious—and it’s not just one person. It’s a small group. A mix of airport staff and locals, all sprinting past me with urgency in their steps. My eyebrows raise. What’s going on? My eyes trail after them as they turn the corner ahead, disappearing out of sight.

An emergency? Someone injured? An accident?

A million possibilities race through my head. This must be big, I whisper to myself, gripping the stroller a little tighter.

My curiosity gets the better of me, and I quicken my pace. I mean, who wouldn’t? I don’t want to miss the fuss. Whatever it is, it has people running, and that’s not something you see every day.

I round the corner and stop in my tracks. A crowd has gathered, lining up against a thick glass pane—or maybe it’s a wall?—the kind that separates this side of the terminal from the other side—the arrival section. Their hands are ready, phones held up like shields in anticipation.

I push Ren’s stroller closer to the glass, finding a small, vacant spot for us. Not ideal, though—the view here sucks. No wonder no one’s standing in this spot. A giant pillar is smack in the way, and all you can see through the gap is Kageyama, still shoving rice and curry on repeat in the LED screen just beyond the glass. Great. But hey, I’m here already. Might as well try to see what the fuss is all about.

What are they looking at? Or, more importantly, who are they waiting for?

I hear faint murmurs ripple through the crowd, voices overlapping in excitement. I crane my neck, hoping for some miracle that’ll let me actually hear something coherent. Nothing. So I tiptoe, leaning slightly, trying to catch a glimpse of something, anything, through the slim gap past the pillar.

And then it happens—a shift, like the air itself changes. The murmurs swell into cheers. Clapping erupts, loud and growing louder, and I hear it—the unmistakable, rapid-fire clicks of cameras going off like popcorn in a microwave. People start waving and calling out, their voices filled with excitement.

An artist? An idol? Seriously, who would’ve thought I’d run into one here at the airport? Just wait till I show Natsu the pictures—I can already see her face puffing up with jealousy. I’m smiling inside, like some evil mastermind plotting their next move. Yeah, I totally think like that.

Or maybe... I think for a second. Some kind of politician or minister? Nah, people wouldn’t go wild like this for them. Ministers don’t usually get this kind of star treatment.

So, who is it?

My train of thought screeches to a halt as my eyes catch them—the source of the commotion. A group of tall figures, all in matching black track jackets, moves in sync, like a well-oiled machine. They walk with this quiet confidence, heads high, like they own the place. Could be athletes—judging by the way they’re built, I’d bet on it.

Must be nice, I think, feeling a sharp pang of… something. Envy? Longing? Regret? I don’t even know. Whatever it is, it twists low in my chest, sharp enough to make me pause.

And then my heart stumbles. Skips a beat. Freezes.

Holy shit!

I blink hard, as if that’ll change what I’m seeing. It doesn’t. My gaze zeroes in on the emblem stitched onto their jackets.

“Ryujin Nippon.”

I mutter the name under my breath, my lungs scrambling to keep up with my brain, which is currently short-circuiting. My chest tightens like a fist around my heart.

It’s them.

My body screams at me to move—to turn around, keep walking, to get as far away from this moment as humanly possible. But my feet? They stay planted right where they are. Rooted. Stubborn. And my eyes? They betray me too, scanning the group like I’m searching for something—or someone.

What am I even hoping to see? Seriously.

I don’t want to see anyone. I’m not ready to see anyone yet. I haven’t accomplished anything. And worst of all, I definitely don’t want to see him. Because… because… why?

I hate him. Yeah, that’s it. I hate him. I loathe him. It’s because of him that Ren is with me. No, wait—that’s not it. Ren’s a gift. The most precious gift I’ve ever had. So that’s not it.

I hate him because he ruined my plans. My two-year plan—completely derailed. My precious youth? Gone. But then again… here I am, finding my footing again. So, do I still hate him?

...Yes. No. Maybe. Ugh.

What am I even thinking? He’s probably not here anyway. Maybe this is just another team. Yeah, that’s gotta be it. I’m worrying for no reason—

‘Bang!’

A loud knock on the glass pane snaps me out of my spiral, making me jump. My head snaps toward the sound, and there he is, larger than life, grinning like he just won the lottery.

“HINATA!” His voice is muffled, dulled by the thick glass, but unmistakable.

“Bokuto-san!” I call out, louder this time, hoping he hears me over the noise. He does or he just know—his face lights up, and he starts waving frantically, like a kid who just spotted their best friend across a playground.

I wave back, just as enthusiastically, both hands going at it like I’m trying to fan a fire. Honestly, if someone handed me a sponge right now, I could probably clean this glass until it gleams.

We’re both grinning so wide it feels like our mouths might split open, our expressions practically screaming, Holy crap, it’s been forever!

Bokuto-san’s saying something, his lips moving behind the glass, but I can’t make out a single word. I stop waving, point to my ear, and mouth, “I can’t hear you!” while shrugging dramatically.

He responds with another knock on the glass—bang, bang—and I just laugh, shaking my head. What else can I do? Then he turns, his hand shooting up in a big, exaggerated wave, motioning someone over.

My smile falters for a second. Who’s he calling?

I follow his gaze.

And then I see him, my rival. Life-long rival.

Kageyama.

He’s walking toward us with his long strides, faster than what you’d call a normal pace—not running, but definitely not casual. His face is focused, almost intense.

Well, shit. Here we go.

He’s taller now, somehow sharper-looking than I remember.

Damn these Alphas. They just don’t stop growing, do they?

The intensity in his face hasn’t gone anywhere, but there’s something heavier about it now—more defined, like time chiseled it out. It’s been two years since Tokyo—two years since he used to drop by every now and then. Not super often, but just enough for me to get used to it. Enough for the memory of him to linger, like I never really left Chiba.

That focus in his eyes—that unshakable determination—it’s still there. Burning the same way it did back in high school, back when we stood side by side, chasing the same dreams.

Some things really don’t change, huh?

Now I’ve got not one, but two faces pressed against the glass, silently trying to communicate with me like I’m supposed to magically understand what they’re saying. I nod anyway and smile.

Kageyama’s expression, though—man, it takes me back. That scowl, that  look— reminds me of the time I botched a play and smacked him in the head with my serve during our friendly match with Aoba Johsai.

—Scary as hell. He must be mad. I think. He had every right to be mad. I left Chiba without a word, shut myself away in Miyagi, and pretended I didn’t exist. I shut him out completely. He must’ve been lonely—probably because there was no one left to challenge him with our ridiculous, regular rivalries.

One-on-one volleyball (stupid, sure, but fun). Who could run faster? Who could eat the most? (Even crazier). Who could stay in a hot bath longer without bailing? Most of our challenges were pretty lame, honestly, but they made those days brighter. Damn good times. They turned what could’ve been a dull, gray life in Chiba into something I actually looked forward to. And a lot of that was thanks to Kageyama, showing up out of nowhere every now and then.

Guilty as I am, I know I owe him an explanation. One day, I’ll tell him everything—I promise. But today’s not that day.

And then, a few seconds later, more familiar faces pop into view. Hoshiumi. One of the Miya twins—I think it’s Atsumu, though I’m too frazzled to be sure—both rushing over to join the group at the corner.

What is this? A high school reunion?

I’m sweating. Like, actually sweating in this overly air-conditioned airport. My hand grips tight on Ren’s stroller—the one I’ve been keeping strategically behind me—like it’s my lifeline. It’s the only thing stopping me from completely losing it and melting into the floor. I had a plan for this trip—a solid plan. I accounted for everything, right down to the exact number of diapers in my carry-on.

But this? A mini-reunion with Ryujin Nippon players clustered at the corner, waving and grinning at me like I’m some rare bird they just spotted in the wild?

Yeah… this was definitely not in the plan.

I glance around, left and right, pulling at the collar of my t-shirt like it’s suddenly too tight, like it might somehow help me breathe easier. I swallow hard. The weight of the stares around me is almost unbearable, like I’m standing under a spotlight in a room full of strangers, or like I’m the only person at a fancy dinner party who showed up in pajamas. That’s what it feels like—this itchy, prickly discomfort under the gazes of people who are clearly wondering, ”Who the hell is this guy?”

—A country bumpkin with a kid, somehow catching the attention of these giants, these professional volleyball players.

That’s it, I tell myself. I need to leave. Now.

I grip the stroller tighter, ready to take a step, to just go, but before I do that, I glance back at the glass pane—maybe for a quick goodbye. A polite nod or something.

But I freeze.

There he is. Behind Hoshiumi.

Tall, broad, commanding. The way he moves—those long strides, the set of his shoulders, the sway of his hips (why does that even stand out?!)—and that expression he always wears. It all screams, “I’m an Alpha!” Like the Tokyo Skytree lit up on Christmas Eve—impossible to miss, impossible to ignore.

My breath catches, lodged somewhere in my throat.

"Ushijima Wakatoshi," I whisper, like saying his name out loud might make him disappear.

My grip tightens on the stroller, my knuckles white. Slowly, instinctively, I push Ren a little further back behind me.

Chapter Text

Our eyes meet, and it’s as if someone’s hit the giant pause button on the universe. The airport fades—no loudspeaker announcements, no bustling crowds, no clinking luggage trolleys. Even the glass pane between us seems to vanish, as if it’s been magicked away.

It’s just me and him.

We’re both staring, wide-eyed, like kids caught red-handed in the cookie jar. The shock hits hard—breath-stealing, stomach-tightening, the kind that leaves you off balance. Neither of us expected this. Honestly, if life were a movie, they would have cut this scene for being too dramatic.

Inside, my mind is a carousel spinning out of control, emotions blurring together in a dizzying, unstoppable whirl. His gaze rakes over me, slow and deliberate, leaving me feeling stripped bare. Funny how I’m still in one piece after that night.

Behind me, there’s a faint shift. A tremor. The stroller wobbles.

“Daddy?” Ren’s voice is soft, thick with sleep, and it cuts straight through me.

“Daddy’s here, pumpkin.”

I hush him back to sleep as my eyes lock into a staring showdown with Ushijima. The last time I saw him this close, everything had been…hazy. My head, my heart, my instincts—everything drowning in a fog so thick I couldn’t breathe. He’d held me that night, his body warm, pressed against mine, and for one brief, reckless moment, I’d let myself fall into him. Fall into the safety of it, until exhaustion pulled me under. And when I woke up? I ran.

And now... I see him, clear as blue skies.

“Daddy?” Ren’s voice breaks through again, a little stronger this time.

“Yes, I hear you pumpkin.”

“Daddy?” His call turns insistent. Ren is tugging on my jeans.

I glance down and my breath stumbles. Cold sweat trickles down my neck, pooling at the base of my spine. The kid is sitting up in the stroller, wide-eyed and fully awake, his messy hair sticking up in unruly tufts. He’s frowning. His gaze darts over the bustling terminal, the strangers, the noise. And then... he sees them—the giants on the other side of the glass. The giants?—they’re like icicles hanging from branches at dawn, still and glinting in the sunlight, but I know the warmth is coming and soon they’ll start to drip.

I admit it—I got carried away with the moment. Now Ren’s lips are quivering, his chest rising and falling. He’s about to burst.

Ahh… my mother-goose instincts kick in. Giants are giants, and Ushijima’s definitely one of them. But my son? He’s the golden duckling.

I kneel and stroke his cheeks, wiping the invisible tears that are yet to come. “Daddy’s here. I’m here. You’ve just woken up. We’re at the airport, remember?”

He stares at me, sniffles still hitching his shoulders.

I hold his hands. “We’re going on an airplane. Do you like that? Do you want to get on an airplane?  I can’t wait for it,” I muster a smile, even if it feels shaky and hollow, hoping it’s enough to reassure him.

Ren nods, cheeks flushed.

“Good. You’re ready? Tell me if you are.”

“Yeah…” he replies in that wobbly voice.

“You’re a good boy, Ren. I know you are,” I kiss the crown of his head, then stand up. I glance at the glass wall; Ushijima looks like a  mannequin. Frozen. Stupefied. Utterly lifeless. His eyes are locked on Ren, wide and unblinking. Then slowly, almost hesitantly, he leans forward. His face presses against the glass pane, so close that it fogs up with his breath. His eyes flicker from Ren to me, back and forth, like he’s comparing two pages in a book, piecing something together.

Has he caught on? Have they? Damn…What a terrible timing.

I’m the deer in the headlight now. They’re all looking at me and Ren, waiting for even a slight remark—a gesture, a response.

What could I possibly say? Oh hi, this is my son. Yep, that happened. Totally normal, nothing to see here. Yeah.

—No.

I glance back at Ren, who’s still watching them with curiosity. His wide, innocent eyes make my chest ache. This isn’t a moment he’ll remember, but for me…this moment will linger. A split-second decision that I’ll be turning over in my mind for days, maybe weeks. What do I do here?  Face them, answer their silent questions, confront the inevitable?

I don’t think so. Not now. Explanation can wait.

I take a breath, shaky and uneven, and let it out slowly. I am but a balloon out of air—deflated.  Words just seem to  wring me dry. So I just shrug—a small, half-hearted one that says, Yeah, well, this is my life now. Take it or leave it.

Then I turn my heels and walk away. My hands tighten on the stroller as I fix my gaze straight ahead. I can feel their stares at my back, but I don’t look back.

____

We board the plane and find our seats. Ren wiggles into his spot by the window. Luckily, his mood’s back. That  cranky, sleepyhead vibe is gone. I think he’d tossed it out the window the moment he saw the real planes, not the flat,  2D ones from his picture books. After all that sleep, his energy’s through the roof. It’s midnight, and I can only hope he falls asleep soon.

His first time on a plane—it’s a big deal, and I can already see the wonder in his eyes. For now, he’s thrilled, but I’m also wondering how long that excitement’s going to last. Twelve hours in a tiny seat is no joke, even for a human battery like him. And let’s not even talk about the other  thirteen hours after the layover. Sleeping is good; cranky is a bit of a problem. I pray for the former.

The pilot’s voice crackles through the speakers, calm and a little too rehearsed, followed by the safety demo on the tiny overhead screens. I double-check the carry-on bag shoved under the seat in front of me (snacks, emergency distractions, spare clothes—check), then lean back and try to relax.

“Daddy! Look. Big!” he says, tugging at my sleeve. He presses his face up to the window, leaving a perfect nose smudge on the glass.

A minute later, it’s, “Daddy, that! Yellow!”

How does he even see that with just the lights from the airport?

And then, not long after, “Daddy, it’s sooo slow.” He nods, the movement comically exaggerated.

I nod along, trying my best to level his energy. But all Ren gets from me are half-hearted replies: “Oh, yeah,” or “That’s a big one,” or “Planes are just like that, bud.”Lukewarm at best.

My mind is elsewhere.

As the steady hum of the engines fills the cabin, Ren’s voice fades into the background. My thoughts drift, unbidden, back to that encounter—was it still today, or had it already slipped into yesterday?

It caught me off guard. But I’d thought—just maybe—I’d be ready. That I’d scrape together the strength to rise to the occasion and handle it. All of it. I’d even pictured myself in that situation before. You know, rehearsing it in my head, like one of those motivational exercises people talk about. Visualization or whatever. Prepare for the worst, or so they say.

I’d told myself, over and over, that when the moment came, I’d be ready. Calm. Collected. Completely in control.

Turns out, I was dead wrong.

I wasn’t ready. Not for that moment. Not for him. Not for any of it.

And now? Now I’m leaving. I’m walking away—or flying away, technically. Even though I know this is the right thing to do, it still feels... off. Like I’m leaving something undone— a loose thread dangling behind me, waiting to unravel.

“Sayonara, Japan,” I mutter under my breath. Ren doesn’t hear me; he’s too busy smushing his nose against the window and counting the planes.

I’ll be back, eventually. But when? Soon feels impossibly optimistic. Too soon, laughable.

For now, though, I just close my eyes and try not to think about the look in his eyes.

Chapter Text

My back is stiff, my shoulders are aching, and my body feels like I've aged about ten years. Sleeping upright? Never a good idea. Not once. And yet, every time I convince myself this time, it'll be different. Spoiler: it never is.

I glance down at my little buddy, snug in his stroller. Ren's endless energy is finally starting to run out, thinning like the last sliver of daylight before the sun disappears completely. His head droops to one side, his eyelids fluttering slowly, but he's still fighting it. Stubborn, as always.

 A tiny yawn escapes him, soft and drawn out, and I can't help but reach down to stroke his hair. Slowly, gently, I pat his head, my hand lingering just a little longer than needed. He leans into it the way he always does. C ute. 

We landed in Rio at 3 p.m. local time—the same day we left Tokyo. Funny how that works. We've somehow cheated the clock after over a day in the air. Bending time to our will. Like time travel. (Okay, not really, but still.)

The whole journey? It wasn't exactly smooth sailing, but it wasn't total chaos, either. Ren handled his meals like a champ—or, actually, scratch that, he ate more than he ever did at home. I didn't know if it was the boredom or the novelty of eating on a plane, but the kid went to town. Maybe he figured, "If we're stuck here, I might as well eat my way through it." Who knows?

He slept too—though it was more of a light doze, here and there. A few times, he woke up, stirring and fidgeting, clearly not thrilled about trying to sleep in a chair. I mean, fair enough—it wasn't exactly a bed, kiddo. You weren't at the Ritz.

But here's the kicker: because he ate so much, he also… uh… "produced" a lot. Three times, to be exact: Twice on the planes and once in Dubai. Ren did his business with this proud smile each time, like he'd conquered the world. Not gonna lie—it was infectious. There I was, standing in a cramped airplane bathroom or some random restroom in Dubai, laughing like an idiot because his giggles were so damn contagious.

We even waved goodbye to his "treasures" like it was some grand farewell. Parenting, huh? It was a weird trip.

____

It's exhausting. I'll admit that much. But as soon as I spot Lucio Kato-san—an alumnus of Shiratorizawa and an ex-student of Coach Washijo—waiting for us in the arrival hall, I nearly cry with relief. Hail to whatever higher power arranged this moment. Seriously.

Kato-san has been my point of contact for everything in Rio. He owns a volleyball training facility—beach volleyball, no less—and coaches, too. It sounds way too good to be true, but it's not. It's all fact. The deal? I work part-time at his place, and in return, I get to train under him. Easy. Fair. And he's kind, too, which is just the cherry on top.

I dealt with him two years ago when this plan was just a pipe dream. Then, life happened, and I disappeared off his radar. I called him out of the blue a few months ago, saying I wanted to pick up where we left off. He was surprised—shocked, even—but in the end, he said yes. He said he'd be delighted to have me train under him. Something about how he'd heard "nothing but good things" from Coach Washijo. (Still not sure how I managed to impress the old man, of all people.)

Of course, I told him about Ren that I have a son. That I'm a single parent. That he'd be coming along with me. Kato-san took it all in stride. In fact, when we spoke on the phone, he said something like, "Ah, so that's why you had that hold-up last time. But a child is a gift, Shouyou. You're one of the lucky ones."

I think about that now as we stand in the arrival hall; Ren is half-asleep in his stroller, his messy hair sticking out in every direction. A gift. Lucky. Yeah. I am.

We have a brief introduction—handshakes, Kato-san asking about the journey, and a polite greeting for Ren (who's already fast asleep). I can see already why coach Washijo favored him. Kato-san stands tall, taller than Ushijima (why did I mention him?), and a bit clumpy in the middle,  late 40s, or maybe early 50s. There's something about him—easy confidence and the kind of face that carries age well like it's earned. He has the quiet charisma you don't notice initially, but it lingers once you do. He then helps me with my giant suitcases, pulling them like shopping trolleys. 

As we step outside the lobby, Rio's heat greets us—not the thick, sticky kind, but warm and breezy, with just enough air moving. It's pleasant—like those Miyagi summers when the weatherman would sigh, 'Hot day ahead!' Back then, we'd laughed and ran around in shorts and t-shirts after school, popsicles melting in our hands as we cooled down after practice. 

 "Is it hot?" Kato-san asks as he lugs the suitcases into the trunk of his car. 

 "It's okay. It's nice, actually."

"People say it's 'winter' now in Brazil. Wait until December and January—the summer. Those are the hottest months and apparently the busiest months for beach volleyball." He opens the passenger door for me—the back seat. 

I am thankful because I wasn't sure how to politely ask to sit in the back, considering Ren is in my arms. Some people find it rude to sit at the back, but with a baby, it feels like the better choice. 

Kato-san starts the engine and pulls onto the main highway. The overhead signage flashes Bem-vindo ao Rio de Janeiro! —Welcome to Rio de Janeiro!—and I take it in with a nod. I'm really here.

"How hot does it usually get in the summer?" I can't contain my curiosity.

"It can go more than 30 degrees." Kato-san pushes the blinker and swerves left, changing lanes. "If you're used to Tokyo summers, maybe you'll get used to it in no time. But if you haven't, you'd better start preparing now. And don't take the kid out under the blazing sun. Summer evening is better if you want to take a stroll." 

It should be fine for me. I think. But this little kiddo ..   I'm not so sure .

As quickly as the topic arises, it fades into the engine's hum. My attention now shifts to the brightly painted squares dotting the hillsides.

"Oh, those are ' favelas ,'" Kato-san said. 

"— Favelas ?" 

"Yeah, favelas," he repeated, glancing out the window. "They're informal settlements. You could call shantytowns, but there's more to it than that." He paused, tilting his head slightly as if searching for the right words. "You'll see these all over Rio—especially on the hills. They started out as makeshift homes for people who couldn't afford housing in the city. A lot of them were built by freed slaves after abolition, or later, by people migrating from rural areas looking for work. The government never really planned for them to exist, you know? So the people just made do—building where they could, often illegally, stacking houses on top of each other."

"So... they're poor areas?" I ask but soon come to regret. I sounded stupid. 

"Yeah, mostly," Kato-san replied. "But they're not just places of poverty—they're full of life, culture, and resilience. A lot of hardworking people live there. Some work jobs in the city—construction, cleaning, driving—but housing in the formal neighborhoods is way too expensive, so they stay in the favelas."

He gestured vaguely at the colorful clusters of homes clinging to the hillside. "But it's tough. Basic infrastructure—running water, electricity, and sanitation—isn't always consistent. Some favelas have improved over the years, but others are still struggling. Crime is a problem in some areas, especially the ones controlled by gangs or drug cartels. But that doesn't mean everyone there is bad—it's just... complicated."

"It sounds rough."

"It is," he agreed, then added, "but it's not all bad. Favelas have their own sense of community—tight-knit, you know? People help each other out. They've got their own businesses, schools, and cultural traditions. Samba, for example, started in the favelas. And funk carioca, too."

He leaned back, scratching his chin thoughtfully. "You've got to see it for what it is. It's a mix of struggles and beauty. They're not just ghettos, and they're not just slums—they're homes for millions of people who've built lives there, even with all the challenges."

"I get that. You don't need much to make a home. Just people who care about each other."

Kato-san's eyes crinkle with a quiet smile in the rearview mirror. "Exactly."

He hits the blinker again and takes the exit—looping almost a full circle before merging onto a much larger, busier expressway.

The Linha Vermelha (Red Line Expressway) is the artery connecting the airport to the city's southern parts. Buses rumble heavily alongside us, their exhaust thick in the air. At the same time, motorbikes weave recklessly between lanes like players in some chaotic game of survival.

Outside, the hard steel and industrial grays of warehouses give way to patches of greenery. The city begins to soften—first with scattered trees and then with a growing sense of openness, the landscape breathing as it transforms.

In the distance, the sharp peaks of Corcovado Mountain come into view, its iconic statue of Christ the Redeemer standing watch over the city. I'd read about it in that colorful in-flight magazine tucked into the seat pocket, but seeing it now—this massive figure rising from the green slopes—takes my breath away. I've seen the statue countless times on TV, but it feels surreal in person, even from this distance. It's like stepping into one of those spy movies where the main character jets off to exotic locations, slipping seamlessly into new cultures and making it all look effortless.

Except… that's not me. I'm the guy plastered to the window, gaping at everything like a kid at his first theme park, feeling about as cool as a sweaty tourist clutching a map. Blending in? Yeah, not happening.

I wish Ren could see all this, but the little guy's already off in Slumberland, completely out for the count.

"Thrilled?" Kato-san asks, catching my wide-eyed look. My attention shifts. "Yeah. And scared, too."

"I understand what you mean. I, too, felt the same way when I first arrived in Japan. And to make it worse, my parents sent me straight to Shiratorizawa to board there. I knew no one," he says. "But volleyball connected me with everyone. It still does. I hope it'll be the same for you."

I nod. It has been that way for me, too.

Kato-san chuckles. "Got me a friend there. The best of them. He used to play professional volleyball—made it to the second division before he had to quit because of an injury. He's in the U.S. now, coaching varsity volleyball."

The car jerks suddenly, and my arm shoots out instinctively to pull Ren closer into my lap. The brakes squeal as we slow down, merging into a sluggish line of cars. I glance ahead and see the traffic crawling at a sloth's pace, brake lights glowing red as far as the eye can see.

Kato-san glances at me in the rearview mirror, a sheepish smile on his face. "Oh! Sorry, Shouyou. You know how it is here—traffic jams out of nowhere. No accidents, no construction, no nothing. Just... too many cars trying to go somewhere at the same time. You both okay back there?"

"We're fine, Kato-san," I reply, resting a hand on Ren's shoulder as he stirs slightly but doesn't wake. Outside, the honking grows louder, blending with the low hum of engines idling in frustration. I watch a motorbike snake through the cars, its rider weaving expertly between the gridlock.

"Anyway," he continues, "that friend of mine has a son—also went to the same academy. He's playing for the Japan National team now. A pro club, too. His name is… I forgot…he didn't use Takashi's family name."

I rake my brain, trying to figure out who Kato-san's talking about. Shiratorizawa? There's only one ex-Shiratorizawa player that I know—

"Ahh! I remember his name. Saw it on the Internet. They got second place in that tournament in Russia—a few days ago. Ushi…Ushijima?"

"—Ushijima Wakatoshii,"  I say, my heart sinking. What a pleasant coincidence.

"Yeah! That's it." Kato-san nods and smiles at the same time. He presses the accelerator, and the car picks up speed again. "I remember meeting that kid once," he adds. "He was still in middle school, but you could tell he was something special even then. Built like a tank, focused like a machine. You just knew he'd go far."

Yeah. Sure. He has.

"You know him, Shouyou?"

"Y-yeah. We played once."

Twice, actually. And the second was intense as hell-that much, I remember. Though vaguely. 

I clear my throat. "He's as good as you said."

"I saw your video. You're not bad either." Kato-san's eyes flicker to me through the rearview mirror. "You know, volleyball isn't just about strength or height. Of course, it helps if you've got both, but it's about strategy—finding the gaps, reading your opponent, knowing when to act."

Strange. I've heard this before. It sounds like something Kenma would say.

Great minds, maybe?

"Shouyou, life's like that too, in a way. Sometimes, you must look for the right moment to move forward."

I nod. Kato-san is right. I turn to the window, letting my gaze drift to the chaos outside. I don't know how long the conversation has been quiet since I realized we've crossed over the Aterro do Flamengo (I saw the signboard by the roadside). It's a stretch of highway running parallel to Guanabara Bay. This is when Kato-san says, "Shouyou, look to your left."

The view… takes my breath away, leaving me gaping. The shimmering bay reflects the afternoon sun, dotted with sailboats gliding effortlessly over the water. I think Ren would surely love this. On the other side, lush parks and palm trees line the route, swaying gently in the breeze. It's hard to believe this serenity exists so close to the city's hustle.

We approach a tunnel, and the scenery shifts again. Emerging on the other side feels like stepping into another world. The streets grow narrower, cleaner, and more vibrant. Apartment buildings tower over tree-lined sidewalks and street vendors sell coconuts and pão de queijo (cheese bread) from their carts. The hum of life feels richer here, more alive.

The car turns down a wide avenue lined with jacaranda trees, their purple blossoms cascading like delicate rain. The air feels fresher and cooler, as though the ocean welcomes me. We're close—I can sense it. The car swerves again, weaving through a few corners until it finally pulls up to a modest apartment building tucked away just a few blocks from the shore.

I can only stare momentarily, taking it all in—the place, the view, the way everything feels so perfect it's almost unreal. ' Damn ,' I think, overwhelmed by a sudden wave of gratitude. This… this is how deeply Kenma loves me. He didn't just find a place to stay—he found a home, a life that was made for us. For me and Ren.

____

The apartment Kenma set up for us is just right—not too big or small. It's on the second floor of a modest six-story building. Its faded red brick and white stucco give it a charming, classic Western vibe that reminds me of Yokohama. Ivy snakes up the walls, weaving into the canopy of trees outside, their leaves shifting lazily in the breeze. And the best part? It's within walking distance of Ipanema Beach—a paradise for beach volleyball enthusiasts with top-notch training facilities.

Inside, it's a snug little space with one bedroom. There's a queen bed that takes up most of the room, a simple wooden wardrobe, and a cozy corner by the window. The kitchen's fully equipped and opens into the living area—small but practical. A big sofa sits there, which folds into a bed for visitors (right, if we actually had any). 

The living room has a TV mounted on the wall, but I moved the sofa to face the balcony instead. The view's too good to waste, though we have to crane our necks every time we watch TV. We've given up and lie on the floor for TV time—not that I care much. The TV's only on for the occasional volleyball game while I'm in the kitchen making dinner.

The living room has a low coffee table but is already a battlefield of Ren's toys. Picture books splay open like fallen soldiers and half-finished doodles scatter everywhere. It's a little chaotic, but it makes the space feel lived-in—like ours.

The balcony? Small but perfect. Just enough room for two chairs. It's hands-down my favorite spot to sit with my morning coffee and watch the world wake up, the air carrying the faint smell of fresh bread. Did I mention the bakery just a block away? It's funny how something so simple can make this place feel like mine.  Peaceful.

Someone—a previous tenant, maybe—left a few potted plants out there, still thriving like they're waiting for someone to care for them. There's a mini-sized lemon tree with glossy green leaves, a sprawling spider plant, and a vibrant red geranium that catches the sunlight in the mornings. I've taken to watering them daily, with Ren watching curiously from the living room, babbling to himself as he watches me tend to 'our' plants. One morning, while I'm out on the balcony watering the plants, I notice the guy from next door stepping onto his own balcony. He spots me, gives a friendly wave, and I wave back—caught off guard but relieved to meet one of my neighbors finally.

We chat, leaning over our balconies like neighbors in an old-school sitcom, trading jokes over the railing. His name's Pedro—a local guy around my age studying at a college in Rio. It turns out he's a massive manga fan and completely obsessed with One Piece. That alone is enough to break the ice, and we hit it off pretty quickly.

And Ren? He and Pedro basically become best friends in five seconds flat. I'm not even kidding. Watching them 'talk' is like seeing a chicken and a duck try to communicate—Pedro rattling off in Portuguese, Ren babbling back in Japanese baby talk. Somehow, though, they seem to understand each other… most of the time. It's hilarious to watch.

____

The first few weeks were a total whirlwind—getting settled, figuring out the neighborhood, hunting down grocery stores, and, yes, nanny-hopping. We went from one agency to another, meeting candidate after candidate, until we finally found Isabela. She's in her late 40s, with a sweet face and a warm smile that instantly reminded me of Mom.

She's got grandkids of her own—two of them, a toddler and a grade-schooler—and you can tell right away she knows what she's doing. The way she scooped Ren up the first time, spinning him around, had him squealing with giggles. Right then, I knew she was the one. Kids don't need to know the language to determine who the right person is. Ren had her pegged from the start.

With Isabela coming in, life is finally settling into a rhythm. Mornings start early, with me making breakfast for Ren and me. Once everything's ready, I head to his room to wake him up. We eat together—him in his high chair, me beside him, pretending to pout as he tosses bits of toast onto the floor like it's some great game. He giggles every time, and staying annoyed with this brat is impossible. 

 When Isabela arrives, that's my signal to start training for the day. The first time I left  Ren with her, I was the one who nearly shed tears—of worry, of course. But my little guy? He was all grins, holding Isabela's hand as he waved me goodbye. 

Isabela just smiled, her voice calm and steady as she told me, "We'll be fine. Don't worry." The way she held Ren's hand—so gentle yet confident—told me she meant it. It even made me a little jealous—just a tiny bit, I swear.

Ren is surprisingly adaptable. I could barely close my eyes the first few nights, but him? He's out like a light the moment his head hits the pillow. It's probably a good thing—his ease makes all the changes feel less overwhelming, even for me. 

After a while, once everyday things settled into a routine, my body started to adapt to them—but in the opposite way. Somehow, I nodded off during bedtime stories, drifting in and out while reading to him. And occasionally, he's the one waking me up, his little palms patting my face as he calls "Daddy" repeatedly. I can't help but laugh when that happens. 

Oh Ren, what do I do without you? 

The apartment is slowly becoming our little haven, filled with traces of Ren in every corner. His toys are scattered across the floor, his tiny shoes by the door, and his picture books are stacked on the sofa where we read at night. His drawings—scribbles, really, but I treasure them—are taped up on the fridge. There's a sippy cup always within reach, a half-finished puzzle on the coffee table, and a faint smell of baby lotion that lingers in the air.

It's mundane, maybe even repetitive, but after so much change and uncertainty, I feel a sense of peace I haven't known in a long time. This is our life now: just Ren and me, building something together, day by day.

----

The first night I arrived in Rio, I called Mom—a video call. It started like most calls with her: a million questions flying at me all at once. Was Ren eating well? Had I figured out where the grocery store was? Was I remembering to wear sunscreen? (Because, of course, she wouldn't let that one go.)

I gave her a little tour of the apartment—showing her the tiny kitchen and the even tinier bathroom tucked awkwardly in the corner of the narrow hallway. Then, I took her to the window and showed her the view. It was too dark to see, but you could hear the waves swooshing over the shore. The sound of it seemed to calm her for a moment.

And then, just like that, Mom declared Kenma, her son. "When he visits Miyagi," she said, "I'll cook for him. What's his favorite food?"

What about me?!

Then Natsu jumped in with her usual teasing: "So, did you manage not to get lost yet?" Or, better yet, " Have you tried any Brazilian food?" Or "Are you still surviving off toast and rice?" I don't know her deal, but she always finds a way to get her digs in.  

We laughed and joked around, and for a moment, it felt like I hadn't moved halfway across the world. It was just us—Mom, Natsu, and me—bantering like always. 

But then Mom's face changed. Her usual trademark smile faltered slightly, and her voice softened in a way I immediately recognized.  Anyone who's spent 21 years under her roof could pick up on that instantly.

"Shouyou… are you okay? Is Ren okay? Has anything… unusual happened?"

"Unusual?" What an odd way to put it. Normally, Mom's questions are rapid-fire, no-nonsense. But this? This one came slower—measured.

I laughed, brushing away the weird feeling creeping into my gut. "We're fine, Mom," I said, flashing her my usual grin—the one Natsu claims could blind someone. I even joked about how Ren was adapting way faster than I was.

But Mom wasn't buying it. She tilted her head, studying me the way only a mom can. A few minutes later, she circled back. "You're sure nothing strange has happened? You're both really okay?"

I was starting to get confused, but I heard someone shushing her in the background before I could ask what she meant. Probably Natsu, trying to keep Mom from spiraling into full-on worry mode. 

The call ended not long after, but the look on Mom's face stuck with me. She looked…, not just her usual worried self. It was like something was really bothering her.

For days, it gnawed at me. Ren and I are fine settling into our routine and living day-to-day. No major disasters, no earth-shattering events. What is there to worry about? 

I shake it off, telling myself it's nothing. 

It has to be, doesn't it?

Chapter Text

By the third month in Rio, Ren has officially hit one and a half years old. It's wild to think about how quickly he's growing and how much he's learning every day. His hair has grown just enough to hover above his eyes, and with the heat here, I figured it was time for a trim. I ended up cutting it myself—carefully snipping it away. At the same time, he squirmed in my lap, his little hands darting for the scissors whenever he got the chance. 

The haircut isn't perfect—far from it—but it's neat enough. Looking at Ren now, with his dark, serious eyes and that unmistakable focus, I can't help but chuckle. Ren might have my energy, but sometimes… sometimes he looks just like him.

My little guy’s starting to string words together into simple sentences now. Thanks to spending most of his day with Isabela, he's picking up Portuguese faster than I am. His favorite phrase lately is "Cadê?— Where is it?" that cheeky brat says whenever he's looking for something—his toy car, sippy cup, or me, if I step out of sight for too long. He toddles from room to room, calling out in his baby version of Portuguese, "Ca-deh? Ca-deh?" until he finds what he wants.

He's also taken to saying, "Que-o mai!" (Quero mais! / I want more!) whenever he's eating something he loves. It's more of a demand than a request, his chubby hand outstretched with all the determination he can muster. Whenever he says it, Isabela bursts out laughing, and I can't help but join in.

Of course, he says all of it in that broken, wobbly toddler language—half of his words sound like mush, but somehow he gets his point across. I admire his confidence. Wonder where he picks that from. Ehem.

Watching my son speak Portuguese like it's second nature is hilarious and surreal. I won't lie—it makes me ridiculously proud. The kind of pride that makes you imagine yourself grinning like an idiot while showing off your kid's report card to the neighbors. Not that I know anyone here except Pedro. Not that Ren has a report card, either. You get the point.

But jokes aside, there's something else, too. Occasionally, I feel these little knots of anxiety tightening in my chest. I didn't come all this way just to stay the same. I came here to grow, to chase my dream, to prove that this wasn't some reckless move. Most of all, I came here to live up to Kenma's trust.

Kenma. For all he's done for us; for me—I promised myself  I'd repay him someday. That I'd come back stronger. That I wouldn't waste this chance.

I've talked about this with Kato-san. He said it was normal. Finding a partner takes time. "Don't rush," he told me. Trust your ability." I know he means well, and he's probably right. The people at the center have been playing together for over a year and see each other's games every day. Building that kind of trust takes time.

But I don't have a year to find a partner. My clock ticked the moment I stepped onto the flight to Rio.

Kenma hasn't said anything, but I don't need him to.  I know what it means to receive favors. You can't waste it. You can't fail. If I don't make this work, I'll feel like I'm dragging him down. 

The training has been incredible. I can't deny that. My basics are solid, and my technique is sharper than ever. My digs are improving every day. My jump is compact and controlled; even on sand, my form stays consistent. And my spike? Let's just say I'm ready to brag about it to Kageyama. 

Even my reflexes and agility have improved. Everything feels faster, more instinctive, more precise. 

Kato-san hasn't let me slack either. He's got me poring over readings—on nutrition, muscle development, and the rules about second genders in professional sports. It's a lot to take in, really. But this is what I signed up for. 

And yet, each day that goes by without finding a partner or getting an actual game experience feels like another grain of sand slipping through my fingers. The pressure starts to creep in, like a slow tide rising around me. I talk less. I laugh less. I play less with Ren. And when I'm with him, I catch myself zoning out.  It feels like I'm holding everything together with duct tape, and it's only a matter of time before the seams burst.

Sometimes Ren notices, too. I see it in how he looks at me sometimes, his little face scrunched up in a frown like he's trying to figure out what's wrong with his daddy. It hits me harder than I want to admit.  It's not fair to him, I know. But what can I do? Most of the time, I just smile at him and ruffle his hair. "Daddy's just tired," I say, brushing it off like nothing. But even as the words leave my mouth, I know I don't believe them. How can I?

If I can't convince myself, how am I supposed to convince anyone else?

Today, I've somehow found myself on the balcony, lukewarm coffee in hand, staring blankly at the still-vacant beach. The waves crashed with a deep roar, followed by a soft hiss as foam spread across the sand, scattering golden light across the water like gold dust sprinkled by the wind. The sun rises steadily, making herself known to the living beings. Farther out, I can see a few surfers riding the waves while others toddle in the water, waiting for the next swell.

It seems fun, I say to myself, and unfair, too.

They're out there having fun while I'm here, wallowing in my night t-shirt and sweatpants, my mop of hair—which I haven't trimmed since arriving—sticking out in every direction. Everything feels like a drag lately. Showering, eating, walking—it all feels pointless. I rang Kato-san and said I wasn't feeling well—not entirely a lie. So today, I've declared it a self-pity day. I'd like to pretend I'm joking, but the truth is, I'm nothing but sad and lethargic.

The door clicks open. Isabela enters, her usual cheerful "Good morning!" filling the apartment.

 I forgot to tell her I wasn't training today.

 Ren abandons his toys and sprints toward her, arms outstretched, ready to be lifted. The nerve of that kid—doesn't he know he's getting heavier? 

Isabela grunts, "Uphh…" as she hoists him up in the air.  Poor her soul. 

She peeks through the curtain, still holding Ren's hand. "Oh, you're still 'here'?" I know she meant the balcony by the way she drawled out the 'here.'

"I'm taking the day off, Isabela. I don't feel like doing anything today," I say, my voice flat. 

I can feel her eyes on me. Disbelief, maybe. Amuse? Possible too. This is the first time she's seen me like this. I haven't missed a day of training before. 

"It's okay to rest once in a while, Shouyou." She sounds like Mom. "If ya don't feel like it, then don't. No use forcing yourself. If your heart's not in it, it'll only hurt ya—and everyone around ya."

I glance at her, my fingers tightening around the mug as if holding onto it could keep her words from sinking in. The coffee's lukewarm against my palms, the heat fading—like my will to keep arguing. I don't feel like drinking it anymore.

I slump back into my seat, letting out a long sigh. Isabela's right. She always is. What is it about wisdom that cuts so cleanly through your excuses?

From the corner of my eye, I notice the surfers again, paddling out for the next big wave. "I think I've hit a dead end, Isabela. I keep running in circles and wearing myself out, but no matter how hard I try, I can't break through."

She tilts her head, listening.

"I still can't find a partner. No partner, no games," I fumble in Portuguese. "I'm so tired every time I think about it." 

I don't know what kind of expression I'm wearing—whether my lips are trembling or my eyes are glassy—but before I realize it, Isabela steps onto the balcony and wraps her arms around me. Her big, strong arms pull me into her chest, and she pats my back, her hand moving in slow, steady circles. Her shirt smells faintly of soap and lavender, grounding—like she knows how to quiet the storm inside me.

I feel like that boy again, clutching onto Mom for dear life, overwhelmed by knowing I carried Ren in me. The ache hasn't changed—fear and love tangled together. Maybe it never really goes away.

"Ah…Shouyou, why didn't ya say so?"

"I don't know what to do," I murmur, clinging to her like a lifeline.

She pats me twice and says, "Tell ya what. Tomorrow's Saturday, eh."

I nod.

"Why don't we all go to the beach. Chill a bit. Take some time out. Ren needs it, too. I think he's worried about ya. Look at him."

She taps my back, and I turn. Ren is standing at the doorway, staring at us with wide, wet eyes and a trembling bottom lip.

"Daddy? Sad?"

My chest tightens. I let go of Isabela and held out my hands. "Come here, pumpkin."

Ren runs straight to me, burying himself against my chest. Funny how we went from Isabela holding me to me holding Ren. But that's how we are—consoling each other.

"Daddy's fine," I say, kissing his head. "Just a little tired, that's all. Nothing to worry about, okay?" 

"Kay," he sniffles. 

I squeeze him tighter until he squirms, laughing,  begging to be let go. "Not yet. I will squeeze you like one of those lemons over there." I point to the lemon tree sprouting on the balcony, its small fruits starting to come in. 

I glance at Isabela and mouth, "Thank you." She waves it off like it's nothing. Not even close. 

Just like that, in the blink of an eye, Saturday arrives. Ren and I share the same fervent anticipation for our day out at the beach. This isn't the first time, but we have extra company today—Isabela's grandkids. Livia, a grade-schooler no older than eight, and her little brother, whom she calls 'Oolmoo.' Later, I learned from Isabela that it's actually 'Ulmo.' He's two years older than Ren and carries himself with surprising maturity. 

Isabela catches me glancing  and says, "Those two are often left at home alone when I'm out working." She gives a bitter smile. "I leave some food on the table, and they get by. Their mom's only home two weekends a month—working all the way in São Paulo. Who's got the money to waste on travel every week? Not her." 

"What about their father?" I ask, already half-guessing the answer.

Isabela bristles, exhaling sharply as she shakes her head. "That man is not worth mentioning."

I nod, taking the hint. I don't press more, but my thoughts wander. Isabela is here,  with her grandkids, for me and Ren on her day off. And those kids—Livia and Ulmo, knowing they're often left alone stirs something in me. It feels wrong. Mom always tells me, "Don't trouble others." But isn't that what I'm doing? Taking her time and energy on a weekend when she could be resting? How does she really feel about it all?

"Isabela," I say after a moment. "Thank you. My mom would probably scold me if she knew I was making life harder for other people. It's your weekend, and you're here—"

"Shouyou, stop." Isabela gestured toward the kids. "The kids are happy. That's what matters. Being stuck in that neighborhood too long—it suffocates them." She nods toward the hillside, where colorful blue, red, and gray houses cling to the slopes like patchwork. 

Her firm hand lands on my shoulder. She meets my gaze. "There's nothing wrong with asking for help, Shouyou. We're all family here. Family helps each other." 

I nod. Yeah…, I couldn't agree more with that. 

"Come, Shouyou. Today is no time for that face."

So I smile. A curling smile goes up to my eyes.

As soon as the kids spot each other, Ren's face lights up. He releases my hand and toddles toward them, giggling as he stumbles across the sand. Lívia crouches down to his level and helps him back up, her eyes widening as she studies his face. "Oh my God, Grandma! His eyes are like a doll's!" she exclaims in Portuguese, giggling as she brushes the crooked fringe from his forehead. It must be my haircut, I think wryly.  

I wonder when Ren started becoming such a people person. Back home, he was always shy, clinging to me until he warmed up—usually after ten minutes of coaxing. But now? He jumps right in; no prologue is needed. Maybe it's because Isabela's here. She's so naturally gregarious that it must rub off on him.  Yeah,  that must be it. 

"Up! Up!" Ren says in Portuguese, lifting his tiny arms with a toothy grin. Lívia laughs, obliging, taking his hands and helping him jump up and down on the sand. His joyful laughter rings out,  echoing across the beach.

Watching him now, so at ease with his new friends, I can't help but feel a pang of guilt. He's been cooped up with me for so long, maybe longer than I realized. He needed this—to play, laugh, and be a kid. 

So did I. 

I follow behind, carrying our bags and taking the scene around me. The beach is alive with energy. Sunlight glints off the waves as the sun dips toward the horizon. A salty breeze sweeps past, carrying the sounds of laughter, the rhythmic smack of volleyballs on makeshift courts, and the occasional call of a vendor selling snacks. Families set up umbrellas, kids race to the water, and a few joggers move along the shoreline. 

I set down our things and watch Isabela help Ren and her grandkids dig in the sand and chase the waves. Ren laughs, stumbling over his little feet with wet sand clutched in his hands as he tries to imitate them. For the first time in weeks, I feel the weight on my shoulders ease. 

My eyes wander to a nearby volleyball game. Like so many others on the beach, it's just a casual match. Still, man… look at that spike, that jump, that dig—everything about them is entirely in sync, their movements as fluid as a dance. Watching them, I feel that familiar itch—the urge to be out there, to jump into the game and prove myself. 

Then, as if the universe is listening, the ball comes flying —a miss-pass, heading straight my way. I stand and volley it back to them. The motion is so natural that it feels like breathing. Ahh…how nice that feeling. Damn, I really can't live a day without volleyball, can I?

"Thanks, man!" One of the players shouts from the court. 

I wave them off and turn my attention back to Ren, who is scrunching his face in concentration as he builds a sandcastle.  He carefully lines up crooked little shells on top. Each time the pieces fall back into the sand, he carefully places them again—left hand, right hand, alternately looking all exasperated. He's trying so hard, I say to myself.

Twenty minutes pass in a blur. I chat with Isabela and play ball with the kids. We kick, toss, and even run around holding the ball, though I have no idea what kind of game we're playing. It doesn't matter—it's fun. Falling, rolling in the sand, and laughing until our sides hurt feels so good. The kids, with Ren on their team, gang up on me relentlessly. Now,  I'm sprawled on the sand, arms pinned by Lívia and Ulmo, while Ren sits triumphantly on my chest. It's turned into wrestling now.  I glance over and see Isabela shaking her head, a knowing smile curling on her lips. 

While I'm pinned there, one of the volleyball players—the one who missed the pass earlier—approaches. He crouches down, his face looming over me. "Wanna play?" he asks.

I blink up at him. 

He tilts his head. "Play?" he says again, mimicking a volley action, his forearms pressed together for an underhand dig. 

"Ah—"I sit up quickly. "I can speak Portuguese just okay," I say, still catching my breath.

"Oh, good," he holds out a hand. I take it,  and he pulls me up. 

"Thanks," I say, brushing sand from my hair and patting it off my pants. 

"You made a good dig earlier. We could use you," he adds. "What do you say?"

I glance back at Isabela. She nods and smiles approvingly. Turning back to the tall guy, I grin. "Yeah, sure." 

"Cool," he says. 

We fall into step, walking in sync. "I'm Shouyou. Hinata Shouyou.  And you?"

"Heitor Santana. Call me Heitor. Nice meeting you, Shouyou." 

Chapter Text

“Yo! Ninja Shouyou!” Some regular beachgoers call out whenever I pass by the beach on my way to the training center.

How did I end up with this nickname?

Well, let me tell you.

Heitor and I—we’ve found our rhythm as a team. We’ve been competing in local tournaments, one after another. There’s no shortage of them, especially now that we’re approaching the so-called summer here in Brazil. With more tourists flooding Rio, there isn’t a single weekend without a tournament. Some are just for fun, with small cash prizes. Others offer hampers—mostly snacks, which, let’s be honest, aren’t bad either.

On the court, I fly—diving, defending, attacking. I hit the sand hard, chest first, digging deep to keep the ball alive. But I’ve learned to recover—quick as a flash, faster than anyone expects.

The sand might try to pull me in, but I escape, breaking free and soaring. Between the flips, the jumps, and the dives, I’ve earned that moniker—Ninja Shouyou.

The latest tournament we participated in was the Copacabana Open Tournament, a well-known event that draws amateur and semi-professional players. Of all the tournaments we’ve competed in, this one has been my favorite (so far). Because of its popularity, the participation list is enormous—locals and non-locals, amateurs and veterans alike. The games are fast-paced and intense, and every match offers something new. I faced teams with different play styles, learned tricks from seasoned players, and absorbed their strategies like a sponge.

You see, beach volleyball isn’t straightforward. Unlike indoor volleyball, where your only enemy is the opponent standing on the other side of the net, beach volleyball has another adversary: the wind. You can’t control it, but you can turn it into an ally if you’re smart—and experienced. That know-how only comes with time and countless matches under the sun.

And that was precisely what played out in our last game—a match against a pair from Curitiba, Paraná. They came all the way from the south, bringing with them the air of kings of the court. These seasoned players knew how to manipulate the sand and wind so well that it was almost poetic. At one point, I found myself transfixed, exasperated—and yeah, jealous—watching how they outwitted nature and us.

We came third. They went on to the finals and championed the tournament. 

“Not bad, Shouyou, for our first ‘season,’” Heitor said, slapping my back as we climbed the podium. I grinned, holding Ren in my arms—my lucky charm.

 I couldn’t believe how much that kid loved the spotlight. He smiled so big, you could fit a whole sunrise in it. The cameras flashed, and people poured out congratulations. There were pinches to his chubby cheeks, pats on his head, and even more smiles—strangers or not, it didn’t matter to him.

But his grin got impossibly wider when Isabela, Lívia, Ulmo, Pedro, and Sofia approached him, egging him on and turning his triumph into a game.

My arm? Sore from holding him up. (Kidding—kind of.)

I even flaunted that sleek Bouncing Ball gear Kenma had entrusted me with. Standing there, with Ren in my arms, Heitor by my side, and the applause in the air, I thought, yeah, this isn’t such a bad beginning.

I sent Kenma and Mom a photo of Heitor and me on the podium, proudly flashing our medals, with me decked head-to-toe in Bouncing Ball gear—cap, shirt, and shorts. I made sure Ren appeared, too, cheering from the sidelines with his tiny fists in the air.

Kenma responded almost instantly—a simple thumbs-up emoji followed by a rare, enthusiastic message: “Looking good, Shouyou! Keep it up!”

Coming from Kenma, that’s the equivalent of a standing ovation.

And Mom… oh, Mom. She called within seconds, her excitement practically fizzing through the phone. “Shouyou! Look at you up there! And with Ren, too—you both look so handsome!” I can practically see her beaming, her eyes crinkling with pride, probably shoving the photo under the noses of anyone within a five-mile radius—whether they wanted to see it or not.

Natsu, on the other hand, went straight for the teasing route. She texted: “Not bad, Nii-san! Didn’t think you’d pull it off.” Then, as if she couldn’t help herself, she added: “Ren looks adorable. Just like his dad. But why does he look a bit thinner?! Are you feeding him properly?” I could practically hear her yelling behind the texts.

Two weeks later, a huge parcel arrived at my apartment. When I opened it, I couldn’t help but laugh. The box was packed with more Bouncing Ball merchandise tailored to beach volleyball. Sleeveless tanks, quick-dry shorts, even a few pairs of durable flip-flops. A wide-brimmed sun hat, a sporty visor, and a sleek new cap made my old one look ready for retirement. It was everything I could possibly need for the season ahead.

At the bottom of the box, I found a handful of tiny shirts and shorts—Ren-sized, each bearing the Bouncing Ball logo in miniature. I picked up a bright orange tank top, Ren’s size. I couldn’t stop the grin spreading across my face. Kenma had thought of everything.

I shot Kenma a quick message: “Got your package. Ren’s gonna look like my little mini-me out there!”

Kenma’s reply was brief, as always: “Good. Brand synergy.” But I could imagine the small, proud smile he must’ve had as he typed it. Behind all the business talk, I know he’s always got my back.

While I’m at it, let me just say—I trust Ren completely in Isabela’s care. During weekday games, Ren usually tags along with me—if he’s in the mood, of course—with Isabela in tow. If he’s not feeling it, they stay home, and I can focus on the match without worrying.

Weekend games, though? That’s where things get a little tricky. A few times, I called in favors from Pedro. Naturally, he was happy to oblige—he loves playing “best friend-slash-babysitter” to Ren. But let’s be real; even Pedro needs to bury his nose in his books now and then.

Luckily, the matter has been resolved. Isabela, in her infinite kindness, offered to take over. I didn’t want to impose—she already does so much for us during the week. But she smiled at my concern and said, “It’s okay, Shouyou. Looking after Ren is like a walk in the park. Besides, a little extra dindim (a slang for money) never hurts.”

Her words entirely made my day.

November flew by like a Shinkansen speeding past Mount Fuji on its way to Kyoto—just a blur, gone before you can even realize it. The next thing you know, you’re staring at the sprawling Ise Bay, glinting under the sun like molten gold. That’s exactly how it feels now. Heitor and I are already knee-deep in planning for the professional beach volleyball tournament.

This one’s a big deal—Brazil’s major league tournament, running from early December to March. Four months might sound excessive, but here’s how it works: the tournament kicks off with an intense round of qualifiers before narrowing down to a group stage, followed by the quarterfinals, semis, and, of course, the grand finale. It’s not just about winning matches; it’s about consistency. Teams accumulate points throughout the tournament, and those points determine the final rankings. Every-single-game matters.

It feels like everything we’ve been working toward is finally within reach. Just thinking about it gives me a rush—like I’m finally chasing something tangible, something real here in Brazil.

I still remember the day Heitor approached me, not long after our first encounter on the beach. After a few rounds of casual pick-up games, a few laughs shared over drinks (pineapple juice for me, though), and then, out of nowhere, he said:

“Shouyou, wanna play with me? Be my partner for the tournament.”

I was stunned. Of course, I said yes—I mean, how could I not?

From that random moment when we first crossed paths on the sand to this? Becoming partners? It felt… well if I’m honest, it felt supercalifragilisticexpialidocious.

Yes, the long, ridiculous word from Miss Poppins. And now? Mine.

Still, I had to ask. “Why?”

Heitor didn’t hesitate for a second. “You play with a lot of heart,” he said simply.

It wasn’t a performance review, no sizing me up, no running through my pros and cons like I was an audition piece. Just those words. And somehow, they landed precisely where they needed to.

But I couldn’t leave it there. I tilted my head and asked, “What do you see in me?” A short, scrappy omega with barely a few months of beach volleyball experience—what could he possibly see?

Heitor just shrugged, his eyes meeting mine with that quiet intensity he always carries. “Passion,” he said. “And speed. You play like you’ve got something to prove. You’ve got this energy… it’s rare. Reminds me of when I first started.”

He tapped his temple with a grin. “Plus, you’re sharp up here. Reading the game, anticipating moves. That’s what I need in a partner.”

And just like that, we clicked.

Somehow, his confidence in me felt like something I’d been searching for, maybe without even realizing it. I’d always felt like an outsider—someone constantly climbing uphill, trying to prove himself from scratch. But Heitor? He didn’t care about my origins or the hurdles I faced. He just saw what I could bring to the court, and that… well, that changed everything.

And now, as we sit on the beach, digging our feet into the sand, feeling the soft grains gliding over our skin, I close my eyes, savoring the lingering warmth of the sun as it dips lower in the sky and the breeze that caresses my face. 

Heitor sits beside me, leaning forward, elbows resting on his knees. His gaze travels somewhere far beyond the waves. Ren curls in my lap, his attention full on arranging the seashells we picked up earlier, and Sofia, Heitor’s girlfriend, lounges nearby, leaning back on her elbows. 

For the first time, Heitor opens up about his old volleyball partner and how he ended up alone before he found me.

“We were partners for almost two years,” he begins. 

“Thought we had a good thing going,” Heitor continues, “Then one day, he just… left. Found himself a new partner, someone ‘better.’” He lets out a bitter chuckle, but it’s hollow, the kind that doesn’t quite reach the heart. “Two years, and that’s all it took.”

 That’s all he said. I thought it was going to be more, but sadly, no. Heitor isn’t much of a storyteller. But he plays damn well, too damn well for someone who lost a partner and hasn’t played in a tournament for over a year.

For a moment, neither of us speaks. The only sounds are the whispering waves and Ren’s babbles, nodding in agreement and shaking his head when the shells do not quite place as he wanted them to. I glance down at Heitor’s hands and notice how his fingers play together, picking at his nails. And maybe that’s why I started opening up to him, too. 

My fingers graze the smooth edge of Ren’s seashell, half-buried in the sand, and I take a deep breath. “I should tell you something,” I say, my voice quieter than intended. “My time here in Brazil… it’s not permanent.”

Heitor’s head tilts and I can feel his attention shift entirely to me. 

So I told him. I told them why I came to Brazil in the first place—that I wanted to learn beach volleyball. Maybe it would give me an edge when I return to indoor volleyball and (fingers crossed) go pro someday. 

To be fair to them, the story should start from the way back in my good ol’ days—my high school years, when my volleyball basics were mediocre. I share some of my adolescent days with them—when volleyball was all that. Living without caring for the world. No responsibility. Of course, I could never leave out the linchpin moment— my encounter with Kageyama—a genius (though I would never admit it in front of the person himself). 

“A setter with skills so absurd, so over-the-top, that he somehow managed to utilize my athleticism to its fullest.  It only took one spring for us to earn the moniker ‘the most feared duo’”—not just in Miyagi, but even in Tokyo—but of course, I don’t tell them that part. It sounds too conceited. Hah. 

Then comes the hard part—the part that still stings, even now. I tell the couple about what people said. (Not to me directly, except for one person—but that’s a different story.)

“People said I could do the almost impossible because of my genius setter,” I begin, my voice steady but tight. “And yeah, maybe half of me wanted to believe that. But the other half?” I let out a short laugh, more like a snort. “The other half screamed, ‘I’m worth more than what they take me for!’”

I pause, leaning back slightly. The wind feels nice against my face. And I continue. “So, I kept practicing. I pushed myself harder, determined to prove them wrong. I wanted to learn more. Master the basics.” I glance at Heitor and Sofia, gauging their reactions. “You see, I only started playing seriously in senior high. Before that, I was a one-man team. I taught myself. Compared to everyone else, I was a hundred years behind.”

I pause again, letting the words hang in the air before continuing. “So I searched everywhere, turned over every stone, every hidden corner of the sport. If someone told me jumping into a rabbit hole would make me better, I’d have done it in a heartbeat.”

Sofia lets out a soft tongue click, followed by a long sigh. Then she gives me that look that says, “Aww, Shouyou...” without a word.

“But here’s the thing,” I say, lowering my voice. “No matter how hard I practiced, I could achieve only so much. And it wasn’t enough.”

I let out a dry chuckle, crossing my arms. “Call me greedy?” I don’t expect an answer. “Hell, yeah, I was. You could’ve flung me to the moon, and I’d still come crawling back, hands out, asking for more. Wanting more. Because more is what I’ve always chased, no matter how pathetic it makes me.”

I pause, letting the words sink in. “But that greed? That’s what got me here.”

“So, how did you figure beach volleyball was the answer?” Heitor asks. His knees are pulled up, elbows planted firmly on them. 

I let out a soft laugh and grin. “Well, the short version or the long version?”

“Oh, come on, Shouyou,” Sofia says, rolling her eyes with a smile. “We’ve got all day.” She sits up straight, hands resting neatly on her lap.

Somehow, I feel giddy—like I’m at a pajama party with a bunch of girls doing pillow talk late into the night. Only this isn’t a bedroom, and there are no pillows. Just sand.

“Come on, man. Tell us,” Heitor urges, leaning in.

“Honestly, there’s not much to tell,” I grin. “But I can dramatize it a little—add some flair to the story.”

Then I start, not even bothering to wait for their response.

“It happened in the Fall of my final year of high school. I call it my moment of revelation. Like God had decided to speak to me—in His own way, of course.” I smirk, catching their attention as I continue. “I was cycling back from school, popsicle in my mouth, passing this electronic store.”

I pause, the memory is so vivid I can almost taste it again. “It was one of those blue popsicles that tasted like Mountain Dew, and it turned my lips and tongue completely blue. Very attractive, I know.”

They chuckle, and I keep going. “Anyway, this cat—or maybe a kitten—suddenly darted across the road. I hit the brakes hard. You don’t want to hit a cat, do you?” I glance at them both for dramatic effect, watching their heads shake slightly in agreement.

“I skidded and tumbled onto the sidewalk. My palms and knees took the brunt of it—just grazes, nothing serious.” I hold up my palm, showing them the faint scar that lingers. “I remember sitting there, hissing at the cat that had already disappeared. The little troublemaker didn’t even stick around to see the mess it caused.” I smile sheepishly, enjoying their reactions.

“Then,” I continue, “a passerby came over to help me. And that’s when the magic happened. Did I mention there was an electronics store nearby?”

“Sort of. You said you passed it,” Sofia replies.

“Right. Well, the shop had this huge window display. They’d left the TV on even though the store was closed. So there I was, face practically glued to the glass, watching.”

“Don’t tell me.” Heitor’s grin widens. “Beach volleyball?”

“Exactly. A freaking beach volleyball match—World Championship, U.S. vs. Brazil.” I grin, recalling what a match that was. “I was mesmerized, couldn’t move, couldn’t even blink. When I got home, it was late, and my mom gave me an earful.” 

That’s right. Her furious face is seared into my brain—eyes blazing, mouth firing off words like bullets: “Dangerous, omega, alone.” She said it so many times that I swear my ears packed their bags and threatened to leave.

“That night… I couldn’t sleep. I kept replaying the match in my head. The way the players moved, the way they trusted each other completely. It was all on them—either you do it, or you do it well. There’s no middle ground.” I glance at Heitor and Sofia. “It exhilarated me. That’s when I decided I wanted to do this, too. Maybe, I thought, if I were given that kind of responsibility, that chance to shoulder it, I’d learn better. Faster.”

I go on and tell them how Kenma has been helping me on this journey.

To this, Heitor smirks and says, “Ah, that’s why you’re always flashing that Bouncing Ball merch.”

I nod, laughing. “Caught me.”

“You’re lucky, Shouyou,” Sofia says. “Having friends and family supporting you is no small feat. That’s huge.” 

“—and making this big jump in life,  being halfway across the planet, away from home,  I think I wouldn’t even dare to do it—alpha or not,” Heitor says.

I don’t know how to respond to Heitor. Deep down, I respect him for saying that.

But to Sofia, I just say, “Yeah, maybe I am lucky.” I pause, letting the words settle. “I’ve made my peace with it—whatever happens, happens. And I figure there’s a reason behind everything that crosses our path.”

Truthfully, I’m starting to like that phrase more and more as I mature. It has become a sort of mantra for me.

I pull Ren onto my lap before he wanders too far, his tiny legs chasing after a little sandpiper, pecking at the crumbs from the Goldfish Crackers he was munching on moments ago. 

Then I continue. “I remember that first trip to the gynecologist, the day Mom held my hand as we waited for the ultrasound scan. I was barely breathing, and then… there it was, Ren. Just a tiny blob, no bigger than a kidney bean, floating in a sea of darkness.” I laugh, the kind that doesn’t give a sound, and my eyes fix on the glimmering orange horizon as I continue reminiscing the story of my life. “I stared at the screen, at that little flicker of life, barely able to believe it was real. Then the most magical thing happened—I heard his heartbeat.”

Yes, that thrumming beat—fast and strong, like galloping hooves, “steady and healthy”—the doctor said.

 Damn, my eyes get strangely hot all of a sudden. But I continue anyway, for my audience is waiting. “To think I carried that little life in me… It knocked me down, shot through me, flipped me upside down. I was breathless.”

I turn and look at the couple. They’re holding hands now, and Sofia’s clutching her pendant. 

“I cried rivers that day.”

The truth was more than that. I was enraptured but despondent, elated but terrified. I wondered if that was normal to have mixed feelings about it. Were all 'moms-to-be' feeling the same way? or was it just me?  

“Mom pulled me into her arms as I sobbed against her chest. Then she said it, the one thing I still hold dear to me,”

I pause, glancing at Heitor and Sofia. Then I say it like I’m passing down wisdom from a great book written by an even greater author.

“Shouyou, when responsibility knocks, it asks you to grow into the person you were meant to be. I know you can do it.”

I turn my body fully, facing them, and sit cross-legged. “Beyond my crazy obsession with volleyball, I want to prove that I can be that person—not just an omega, but a person. A real person.”

I hear Sofia empties her chest with a long, steady breath. I didn’t even realize she’d been holding it.

“I hope this little trip will be ‘something’ for him and me,” I tilt my head to Ren. “Maybe slowly we can build our own life--our own little haven,” I say quietly the last part. 

The couple listens in silence. And Heitor doesn’t flinch, doesn’t interrupt, doesn’t look at me any differently. He just nods, his eyes fixed on mine as though he’s weighing every word I’ve said. 

A moment passed. Then he says, “Man, that’s gotta be tough—raising a kid on your own while chasing your dream at the same time.”

Sofia hugs me, saying, " You go chase your dream, Shouyou. Prove that  we can do it.”

I hug her back.

The lampposts flicker to life one by one, even though the last orange rays still shine bright.

The breeze has softened and is more pleasant as it brushes past us. The beach gets livelier with people strolling in, filling the space with laughter and chatter.

From the corner of my eye, I notice someone calling out to us—a familiar face waving from the sand and motioning for us to join their game. I smile and cross my arms in an apologetic no. Ren is with me, curled up against my side, and I don’t want to leave him.

Sofia notices and, to avoid being rude, gives Heitor a little push. “Go on,” she says. “You can play for both of us.”

Heitor hesitates. It’s supposed to be our rest day. But eventually, he stands up, sighing. “Fine.”

Before he leaves, Heitor places a hand on Sofia’s neck, his fingers brushing lightly against her skin. Then he leans in and kisses her. And it’s not a peck. It’s long and deep—lips to lips, tongue to tongue, the kind of kiss that feels like it belongs in a romance movie.

I didn’t realize I was staring until I heard a loud, deliberate throat clearing. My gaze lingers on them for a second too long, and something stirs inside me—a strange, unfamiliar feeling I can’t quite place. My stomach twists, a knot tightening out of nowhere, and then—why the hell is Ushijima’s face suddenly flashing through my mind?!

When they finally break apart, Sofia smooths her hair, leaning back with a soft laugh. “He always does that. Leaving his scent all over me,” she says, smiling. “I guess that’s just his way of telling people I’m his.”

She’s right. Now that she mentions it, I realize it’s true. She has Heitor’s scent. I hadn’t noticed until now.

“Did you know that alphas have this habit of leaving their scent on omegas?— when they think it’s necessary,” Sofia says suddenly, turning to me. “It’s in that Cosmopolitan magazine.”

I blink, caught off guard. “I had no idea. I mean, for someone they love, yeah, like rubbing or kissing. Like you guys did…” I trail off, feeling my cheeks warm.

Sofia laughs, clearly amused by my embarrassment. “Oh, not just for love. Alphas have a protective instinct, especially when it comes to omegas they care about—friends, siblings, relatives. They leave their scent on you to create a safety net, to keep strangers from messing with you.”

That’s new. My mind flashes back to all the constant head pats and hair ruffles I endured in school—from my teammates and during training camps. Kuroo, Kageyama: those two were the worst offenders, always laying their hands on my head like it was second nature to them. Every time we met, it was like a reflex. Sometimes, it was a quick touch—a casual pat as they passed. Other times, their hands lingered, mussing my hair with deliberate intent. And on particularly annoying days, when their moods were especially mischievous, they’d go all out, ruffling my hair until it looked like lightning struck me. I’d flail and desperately swat their hands away, but they’d just laugh, clearly pleased with their handiwork.

“Really?” I ask, my voice quieter than I expect.

Sofia nods. “Yeah. Alpha is alpha. They have that instinct to protect. Well, the responsible ones, of course. We have shitty alpha too, no offense,” Sofia shrugs. 

“—I’m with you.”

“Sometimes it’s possessiveness—the touches, like with Heitor and me. The effect is stronger when you love each other—your pheromones mix, and it’s like a… claim.”

She pulls out her phone, tapping quickly before holding it to me. “Here. See for yourself.”

I lean in to read the article on her screen.

“Didn’t they teach you about this in school?” Sofia asks, watching me.

I shake my head. “They don’t. I think they expect us to learn this ourselves.” My eyes stay glued to the screen, scanning the text. The more I read, the more my thoughts drift back to those head pats, those teasing touches.

They’ve been protecting me this whole time?

We sit back, the conversation slowing as we watch Ren play in the sand. He’s arranging sticks and seashells into a straight line.

“How long have you guys been together?” I ask, breaking the silence.

“Four years,” Sofia replied. “It’s long, huh.” 

I shrug. “I don’t know. I never…never been in a relationship.”

Sofia’s gaze shifts back to Ren, who is now sticking in the small branches into the sand. His eyes focused.

“Does he know?”

“—Yes?”

“No, not him. “ She nods toward Ren. “His father—the alpha. Does he  know about Ren?” 

My chest tightens at her words. Does he know? I think back to that fateful encounter. He saw us. He might have some ideas. 

“—I never told him.  We haven’t seen each other after…after that night.” I’m not lying. We never did. That one time at the airport was just a glitch. And we didn’t get to talk. Our situation did not permit us to do so.

Sofia tilts her head, her curiosity piqued. “What happened? Did he ditch you?” She pauses, her eyes scanning my face for a reaction. “Sorry if I’m being nosy. You don’t have to answer, Shouyou. It’s just my stupid curiosity.”

“No, it’s okay. It’s in the past,” I say, pausing as I search for the right words. “He… no, I ran away—went into hiding. Panic overcame me. I was scared—not of him,” I add quickly, pulling my knees close to my chest and hugging them. “I was afraid of everyone. Of what they might say if they found out.”

In a shaky breath, I add. “For two years, I vanished. Disappeared from the face of the earth and kept myself invisible at my mom’s house, trying to figure out what to do. He… he never came looking for me. So I think maybe he never really cared.”

Sofia watches me in silence. “I can’t say much about that. Maybe he did care, maybe he didn’t.” She shrugs slightly. “But it sounds like you two never got any real closure. And even if it was just a fleeting moment between you two if it involves a child… I think both parties owe it to themselves—and the child—to have that conversation. You know, for closure.”

Her eyes flick to Ren, “And maybe… not just for you. For him, too.” 

I follow her gaze to Ren, who hums softly as he places another stick in the sand. 

Sofia’s hand lands on my shoulder. “Your plans are great, Shouyou. But I see no room for an alpha in there. You’re sure about that?” 

“I…I don’t know. I know it’d be good for Ren to have a father—an alpha figure—in his life.  But…“

“But what about you?” Sofia presses.

My index finger moves instinctively to my chest. “Me?”

“Yeah, you. Don’t you think you’ll need one, too? Don’t tell me you plan to live on suppressants your whole life, Shouyou.”

I hesitate, the words catching in my throat. “I might… Besides, I don’t think anyone would fall for me,” I say, straightening my back and forcing a smile. “Look at me, Sofia. Wild orange hair, messy and all over the place. Dark skin, freckles—yeah, I have those now, too. And don’t forget,” I chuckle dryly, “I come with extra baggage. The most precious baggage, sure, but baggage nonetheless. Something I can never let go of, no matter what.”

Sofia shakes her head. “I’ve never heard someone put themselves down as much as you do. Let me refute every word of that.” 

She raises her fingers. Four down; “First, your orange hair? It’s beautiful—unique. I can see you coming from miles away, and that’s a good thing. The freckles? They’re cute, honestly. And as for your so-called baggage—anyone who doesn’t want it is either too blind or too stupid to deserve you.” 

She leans closer, motioning for me to scoot in. Curious, I do.

Sofia leans in and whispers, “Tanned is sexy, honey. And with a body like yours—toned, curvy, and that small waist? Trust me, it’s enough to make alphas turn, look twice, and think thrice.” She grins, eyes twinkling with mischief. “But first, I’d recommend a Brazilian wax. Men—alpha or not—absolutely love it. They go crazy down there.”

“What?” I stammer, feeling my face go hot—scorching hot, like someone just cranked the thermostat to the max.

Sofia flashes a toothy smile—the kind that screams, 'You know exactly what I mean.'

“Find a time, Shouyou. You’re still young. Judging by the look you gave us just now, I think you deserve to be kissed like I was. Maybe even more, don’t you think?” She winks.

Oh, Sofia—with that impish look, it’s impossible to tell if she’s joking or serious.

Regardless, I can feel my cheeks ignite, burning brighter than the sunset behind us. My laugh comes out shaky, my head shaking like I’m trying to extinguish the fire.

Still, I go with the flow, “Yeah, you’re probably right.” My gaze flickers back to Ren. “I’ll think about it.”

“Ring me if you want to do the ‘thing.’ We could go together.” Her second wink lands like a perfectly placed spike, sending another heat wave straight to my neck and ears.

I think I’m about to explode. Forget the thermometer—I’m a Krakatoa.

Our laughter echoes across the beach as Sofia takes great pleasure in torturing me with tips I’m too embarrassed to repeat.

At one point, she even says, “You need to learn these things, Shouyou. You’ve outgrown the kiddie pool; it’s time for the deep end.”

“Chibi-chan?!”

The voice cuts through the noise—smooth and silky, yet somehow crystal clear amidst all the gleeful chatter.

I turn, my heart stuttering. Am I dreaming?

“No way… no freaking way…”

“Who’s that, Shouyou?” Sofia asks, her eyes following my stunned gaze. Then, singsong, she teases, “Hmm… handsome. Looks like Prince Charming!”

“No,” I murmur, still transfixed by the sight, standing just ten yards ahead.

“He’s the king.”

And the king is smiling.

Chapter Text

I blink, taking in the brown hair, the familiar face, and the confident, almost regal posture. I rise. 

He steps forward, a grin breaking across his face, and my stomach flips as we stand face to face, not more than 3 feet.

“Chibi-chan?” he calls, in that smooth, teasing voice I haven’t heard in years. “Is that really you?”

He looks the same. That smug smile, still wearing its usual coat of arrogance—with just a splash of indignation for flair. And the hair? Shorter, but still his. But there’s something else, something beneath it all—A quietness. A kind of weightlessness, like he’s finally figured something out. Contentment, maybe. Confidence? Or just plain happiness—the kind that settles in your bones, like a traveler who’s walked too far, for too long, and finally steps onto familiar soil.

“Oikawa-san?” The words trip out of me, stumbling over the shock because I swear I’m staring at a ghost.

“Small world, huh?” he says. “What are you doing here, of all places?”

 “Living the dream, I guess? I’m here learning beach volleyball.”

“Beach… volleyball?” He sounds bewildered as if he’s only just processed the word ‘beach.’

“O-of course you are,” he says, laughing his head. “I should have known. You’re always unpredictable.” His gaze drops to the small audience gathered on the sand.

I step aside slightly, giving him a clearer view of Sofia and Ren. “Oh. Oikawa-san, meet my friend, Sofia.”

“Olá,” Sofia says, waving her hand.

“And uh… Sofia, this is my old—”

“—friend,” Oikawa cuts in smoothly.

“Yeah, a friend from Japan. We used to fight— I mean, play— in high school.”

Oikawa extends his hand. “Hi. I’m Oikawa. Nice to meet you.”

They shake hands, and then Oikawa crouches down, ruffling Ren’s hair with a curious smile. “And this cute little guy? Don’t tell me you’re babysitting now, too.”

“What? Oh—no. Not babysitting.”

I hear a chuckle—definitely Sofia. My face heats up, and suddenly, I forget how to function like a normal human being. I haven’t exactly broadcasted the whole “I have a kid” thing to anyone from Japan. Except Kenma. And only because he’s, well, Kenma.

Oikawa cocks his head, eyes narrowing as he shifts his gaze to Sofia. “He’s yours?”

Sofia smiles and offers a nonchalant shrug. She’s enjoying this, really.

“He’s mine, Oikawa-san.” I blurt it out. Too fast. Too loud. Too… me.

I glance at Sofia, and she grins, offering two thumbs up. I feel I'm in this some kind of game show and just scored a million points.

You see, I hadn’t exactly planned on announcing this to an old rival on a beach in Brazil, but here we are. No take-backs. No control-Z. I take a deep breath, straighten my shoulders, and push the words out carefully, one syllable at a time.

“Oikawa-san, this is Ren—my son.”

You’re the second person from Japan I’ve told about him. Be proud! Maybe I should say that to his face.

A beat passes. Then another.

Okay, here comes the classic Oikawa reaction: the frown, the prolonged stare, the wide eyes—aaand there it is. The mouth gaping like a fish that’s just been yanked out of the water. “What? Nice joke, Chibi-chan. You almost got me there.” He laughs.

I laugh, too. Vibing, as the cool kids call it. “I’m not joking, Oikawa-san. He’s my son. Flesh and blood.”

“No way.” He squints at me. “Really?” His gaze flicks to Sofia, a silent plea for backup. “He’s not joking?”

Sofia, who’s been watching the whole thing like it’s her favorite evening telenovela, nods with a bemused smile that says, "Oh, this is gold."

Oikawa’s hands return to Ren’s hair, smoothing it down before settling on his tiny shoulders. He takes his sweet time, looking him over, and finally mutters, “He doesn’t look like you.”

“Excuse me?” I gasp dramatically, pointing to my face. “Just look at his eyes! See the shape? Round. Like mine! And his mouth. That cute little mouth? Totally me.”

Sofia laughs. Oikawa grins. And I suddenly remember why this guy used to drive me absolutely insane. Soft and hard—he has this uncanny ability to say the meanest things in the smoothest, most melodious voice, making you second-guess yourself. Warm and cold, too, like that one time after our friendly match at Seijoh—praising us with a smile, only to launch into a speech about how he’d crush us next time.

“Okay, okay,” Oikawa says, raising his hands in surrender, all smugness and charm. “He’s yours. Only because he has your cuteness.”

“What—” I blink. Really? Is this the Grand King I used to know?

“I’m serious, Oikawa-san.”

“I know. I’m serious, too.”

“No, you’re not.”

“I am,” he insists, his grin widening. “But I just can’t help it. Seeing you all flustered like this? It’s priceless. You always go the extra mile. I’ve always liked that about you.”

Oh? This is new. Get put on a pedestal, laughed at, and showered with compliments? Yeah. Totally new. And honestly? Suspicious.

Before I can dwell too much on the sudden praise, Oikawa glances at his watch, tapping the face like he's checking some Very Important Plans. “Anyway, I’m heading to dinner. You guys should join me.” He flashes that trademark grin. “We can catch up.”

I glance at Sofia, and just like that, Heitor conveniently strolls into our little huddle right on cue. Introductions happen—handshakes, nods, some very obvious sizing each other up—and then Sofia, ever the opportunist, clasps her hands together. “You go, Shouyou. Heitor and I have prior plans.”

She winks. And before I can so much as blink, she’s already dragging Heitor away, leaving me standing there with my mouth half open.

I adjust Ren in my arms. “We should head back too—maybe next time—”

Oikawa waves a hand, slicing through my perfectly reasonable excuse like it’s nothing. “Oh, come on. We’re in Brazil! The night’s still young.” He leans in, elbow nudging my side, his eyes twinkling with mischief. “Besides, I want to know more about this kid of yours.” He blinks expectantly.

I stay silent. Because, honestly? I don’t trust where this conversation is going.

“You wouldn’t turn down an old friend, would you?”

I scoff, raising an eyebrow. Old friend? Since when? Even calling him just a friend feels strange—almost alien. But… I can’t deny that I kind of like the way it sounds. I would have been happy if we had been friends back then like I was with Bokuto-san, Kuroo-san, or Kenma. I learned a lot from them.

After a moment of staring at his stupidly hopeful face, I let out a sigh. “Alright, alright. A quick dinner, that’s all.”

Oikawa claps his hands together like I just agreed to sign a lifetime contract. His grin stretches wide, victory written all over his face. “Perfect! I know a place not too far from here.”

We end up at this cozy little bistro tucked at the end of a row of shop lots, just two blocks from my apartment. I’ve walked past it a million times, grabbed takeout when I was too tired (or lazy) to cook—twice, thrice… I never counted. But eating in? That’s a first.

The staff here are incredibly friendly. Once, I was coming back from grocery shopping, pushing Ren in his stroller, and—bam—they were on him like seagulls on a French fry. I can’t even remember how it started. Still, I remember the chorus of “ooohs” and “ahhhs,” the cheek pinching, and an impromptu photoshoot. Maybe that’s why my takeout portions are always suspiciously generous. Or perhaps they’re just naturally nice like that. Either way, the food here? Super deliciosa.

The place opens from midday until midnight, and we show up right on time for dinner. It’s lively but not packed, which is perfect. The bistro has two seating areas: the indoor space, which is cool, quiet, and air-conditioned, and the outdoor area, which is open, breezy, and shaded by an orange-tiled roof with no walls, just rows of sturdy wooden columns framing the space.

It doesn’t matter where you sit—inside or out—because the second you step in, you’re hit with this warm, cozy vibe that makes you want to stay. The wooden tables are set up with neatly folded white napkins and gold-toned sanitizer bottles because we’re still in a pandemic-conscious world. The chairs? Painted white, worn-down just enough to be charmingly rustic, with curved backs that add a bit of flair against the sleek wooden tables. The floor has this beautiful, soft-hued mosaic pattern that ties the whole aesthetic together in a way that screams effortless Instagram-worthy perfection.

And outside? It's even better. The sidewalk, the beach just a stone’s throw away—the perfect spot to sit, eat, and feel the soft breeze caressing your face while your eyes can rake on the conifers jutting out from the baskets hanging and lulled by the wind.

Walking in, we’re met with big grins from Ren’s unofficial fan club—his ‘stepsisters’ and ‘brothers’ behind the counter. And because we’re feeling fancy (or, well, because Ren insists), we grab a table outside.

“How do you know this place?” I ask, settling Ren into the baby chair, which—by the way—he’s starting to outgrow.

Oikawa leans back in his chair, looking too comfortable for someone supposed to be just visiting. “A friend—my teammate. He’s a regular here. Then, it became my go-to spot whenever I’m in Rio.”

“Ah…” I nod, glancing around.

“The workers seem to know you and your son.” Oikawa arches an eyebrow, that familiar smirk tugging at his lips. “You come here often?”

“I do takeout sometimes,” I admit. “My apartment’s just two blocks away.”

“Really? Must be convenient…”

Convenient, yes. Dangerous for my wallet? Also yes.

We skim the menu, but let’s be real—I already know what I’m getting. For starters, I order a Greek salad with a Mediterranean twist. You know, something light and fresh—cherry tomatoes, cucumber slices, Kalamata olives, thinly sliced radishes, a generous crumble of feta cheese, and a mix of crisp greens. The toasted bread croutons add the perfect crunch, all tossed in a zesty dressing of olive oil, lemon juice, and a sprinkle of fragrant herbs. Can’t blame me—he asked me to pick the starter.

“Is it good?” Oikawa asks, resting his chin on his hand.

“You’ll love it.”

For the main course, we go for something meaty, packed with protein and carbs—only natural, considering we live in a constant calorie burn. Funny, though—no matter how far from home we are, rice always ends up on our plate. Some habits die hard. We settle on rice and chicken curry, Brazilian-style—served with apricots and cashew nuts.

As for the meat, I let Oikawa have the honors. And, of course, he goes all in—baked lamb chops with feta ravioli. I can’t even be mad. Ren loves ravioli, so it’s basically a win for everyone.

“And that’ll be it,” I say, snapping the menu shut because Oikawa doesn’t know how to stop ordering. If I let him, we’d have enough food to feed the entire beach.

The waiter, a woman with the warmest smile, looks at Ren and asks, “Bread and cheese for the little man? It’s on the house.” She ruffles his hair, and Ren beams at her like she just handed him a treasure chest.

“That’d be nice. Thank you,” I say, returning her smile.

Oikawa watches the whole exchange, amused. “They really do know you here, huh?”

I shrug. “What can I say? We’re popular.”

We wait. The bistro buzzes with life, the evening crowd rolling in like the tide—families settling in with sleepy-eyed toddlers, couples leaning in close over candlelit tables, and clusters of young people, their laughter rising above the clatter of cutlery. Tourists, probably, judging by the mix of languages floating through the air.

“So, what brings you to Rio?” I ask, breaking the comfortable lull between us.

Oikawa leans back, his eyes drifting out toward the beach. “I’m with an Argentinian club right now—here on a training exchange. Argentina, Brazil… South America is the place to be for volleyball.” He flashes that trademark Oikawa grin—confident, smug, effortlessly charming. “Over there”—he means Argentina—“it’s not so different from here. Volleyball’s huge. The fans are incredible.”

“Wow… you play in the LVA?” (Liga Argentina de Voleibol).

“Oh? You know LVA?”

“I read, Oikawa-san.”

“Good for you,” he says, puffing out his chest a little. “‘Cause I am.”

“That’s amazing! I’ve always known you’d go places, but this… this is next-level. Playing with international clubs—”

He waves a hand, downplaying it, but the smugness is still there, curled into the corners of his smile. “You’re one to talk, Chibi-chan. I remember watching you in high school—you were… something else. Those ridiculous moves…” he trails off, then tilts his head, smirking. “I think that’s why you had that idiot wrapped around your finger, huh.”

Idiot? “wait—what idiot?”

Oikawa’s smirk widens. “You know.”

“I don’t.” 

Before I can ask, he continues, “I knew you wouldn’t quit volleyball after high school. I mean, with your guts and all. Though I—“ he stops, clears his throat, “—we all did wonder what happened when you went under the radar. Vanished. Poof!” He makes a little explosion motion with his fingers.

“How do you know I… vanished?”

Oikawa’s eyes gleam with something that makes me immediately regret asking. He leans in, resting his chin on his hand, “Well… we keep tabs, you know.”

“We?”

“Those of us from Seijoh? Yeah, we have this little group chat,” he says, waving a hand like it’s the most natural thing in the world. Like, duh, of course we do. Doesn’t everyone?  “Don’t be surprised—your name pops up much more than you’d think.”

“Aahh… so you guys had been talking behind my back. What a bunch of meanies.”

“Well, we do say nasty things about people we don’t like.” He pauses for dramatic effect. “But you? Pure curiosity.”

I roll my eyes.

He studies me for a moment, then shakes his head with a chuckle. “Honestly, I thought you might be wasting your talent if you didn’t keep playing. But seeing you here…” his lips curve, subtle but definitely there. “You’re still that same guy.”

“What guy?”

Oikawa leans back, stretching an arm across his chair, looking at me like I’m an equation he’s just solved. “The crazy volleyball monster,” 

I make a face. “Monster?”

“Monster,” he repeats with a smug nod. Then, with a smirk creeping onto his face, he gestures toward Ren. “So. Beach volleyball, huh? With a kid, no less.”

“Y-yeah…”

“Yeah? Seriously? That’s it?” Oikawa suddenly leans in again, elbows pressing onto the table, his eyes narrowing like when he’s about to pounce on something juicy. It’s unsettling and weirdly impressive.

I sigh. “What do you want to know?”

“Come on, spill the tea. We have all night.” A beat. “What’s his family name?”

I blink. Oh. We’re really doing this.

I clear my throat and sit up straighter, handing Ren another piece of bread. “First of all, we don’t have all night,” I say, keeping my voice low but firm. “This little guy can’t miss his bedtime. Otherwise, it’ll be a long fight.” I pause, taking in the air into my lungs, which suddenly feel smaller.  “Secondly, his family name is Hinata. Ren Hinata.”

I try to sound casual and nonchalant, but it somehow comes out heavier—like a declaration.

For a moment, silence stretches between us. Oikawa’s expression shifts—his eyes darken, his lips press into a thin line. And then, in true Oikawa fashion, he explodes. 

“Who the fuck was it?! Who the hell just left you to deal with all this on your own?”

“Shhh!” I hiss, nearly choking on my drink as I lean forward, throwing a frantic glance around and at Ren, who— thankfully—is too busy with his snack to notice Oikawa’s outburst.  “Oikawa-san, we have a kid here.”

“Sorry, Hinata. Sorry…” He rubs the back of his neck, though he doesn’t look the least bit sorry. In fact, he looks about one second away from grabbing me by the shoulders and shaking the answer out of me. And then, because this is Oikawa, he leans back in like we’re co-conspirators in some grand scheme. “But seriously.”  His voice drops, quieter now but still sharp with curiosity. “was it…that idiot—Tobio?”

“What? No! No, no, no,” I shake my head so hard I’m surprised it doesn’t fall off. “What made you even think that?”

“Well, naturally. He was the only Alpha close to you—like, all the time. You two were practically fused at the hip.  I thought—” He pauses, frowning. “Wait. You guys weren’t?”

“You thought what? And what do you mean we weren’t? I don’t even—“ I cut myself off with a groan, pinching the bridge of my nose. “You seriously need to learn how to finish your sentences, Oikawa-san.”

“So, if my idiot kouhai wasn’t the one… who was it then?”

I say nothing. I can’t say anything. The words lodge themselves somewhere in my throat, stubborn and unmoving. Because once they’re out, they’re out, and I don’t know if I’m ready for that mess.

“It looks to me like you’ve chosen not to say,” Oikawa says, leaning back slightly. “It’s okay. You don’t have to. I already hate that motherfu—“ he clears his throat, eyes darting to Ren. “—that guy. no matter who he is.”

I swallow hard. The words slip out before I can stop them. “It was… the heat of the moment,” I croak. “We were… caught in the haze, I think. At least, that’s how it felt to me.” I force out a soft, bitter laugh. “Pathetic, right? I was weak—”

“I’m not sure about ‘weak,’” Oikawa cuts in. “But that alpha? Total douchebag.” His jaw clenches, fingers tapping against the table. “Taking advantage of you like that—what a scumbag. No self-control. If it were me, I would never—”

He stops short, grabbing a glass of water and downing it.

“Oikawa-san, calm down. I was the victim. It’s okay. I’ve learned to let it go,”

It’s weird. Shouldn’t I be the one all worked up about this? Shouldn’t I be the one simmering with unresolved anger and frustration? But here’s Oikawa, vibrating with rage, looking like he’s two seconds away from flipping the table in righteous indignation. 

I glance at Ren, who’s already finished his piece of bread. He’s gnawing on the last little crust, eyes darting between me and Oikawa with the quiet curiosity kids have. I grab another piece from the small rattan basket and hand it to him.  He takes it with a soft, mumbled, “Tank u.” 

And then—slam!.

I jump, eyes snapping to Oikawa’s hand, now clenched around the empty glass he just dropped onto the table with enough force to make the cutlery rattle. The water? Not helping, he’s still burning hot. Mad hot. 

“—Then what?” he snaps, his eyes sharp, his mouth tight. “He went off and acted like a total jerk after that?” He pauses, his expression hard but his voice softening. “Does he know about Ren? If… you don’t mind me asking.”

My mouth opens. Closes. “No. He doesn’t.” I think.

Oikawa’s face does this complicated thing—his brows pulling together, lips pressing tight like he’s this close to launching into another rant.

But then—thankfully—salvation arrives.

“Excuse me,” the waiter says politely, balancing a large round tray.

Perfect timing. Because if I had to endure Oikawa’s next question, I might need to chug a whole glass of water myself.

“Alright, Hinata, I’m still mad. But for your sake, I’m willing to put all that serious stuff aside—for now." He claps his hands together, like the mere sight of food has magically wiped away every ounce of his earlier frustration.

Good. His mood has done a complete 180 with the arrival of the food, and I’d rather keep it that way.

“Oh! Before we start digging in, can we take a picture?” He’s already pulling out his phone before I can process what he said.

I shrug. “Sure, why not?”

In an instant, he’s up, coming around to my side and crouching until our faces are level. His arm drapes over my shoulder like we’ve been doing this for years.

Click. The phone makes a sound. Then another. Click, click, click.

I watch as he swipes through the pictures, flicking left and right with a concentrated frown—until he pauses. His eyes lock onto one image, staring at it longer than necessary. “Oh?” He tilts his head, showing me the screen.

It’s us. Behind me, a small hand was holding a cube of cheese, frozen midair like it was about to make a grand entrance. What was Ren even trying to do? Wave? Steal the spotlight? Who knows.

Oikawa’s face twists into something weirdly fond. “Oh, little guy. You want in too?”

I glance over my shoulder—oh, wonderful. Ren’s cheeks are stuffed to the brim with bread and cheese, his eyes sparkling as he nods furiously. My kid, the chipmunk.

Oikawa looks at me for silent permission.

I sigh. “Sure…” It comes out half-hearted at best.

Click, click, click.

Ren giggles when he sees himself on the screen, and Oikawa is doing the most—there’s a shot with his mouth jutted out like a duck, one with his eyes scrunched up like he just sniffed an old gym sock, and another where he’s staring into the void with his tongue poking out at an odd angle. There’s even one where he looks like he’s just witnessed someone choking to death.

And then there’s me. Stuck in the middle of their antics, stiff as a scarecrow.

Oikawa scrolls through the shots, grinning like a kid in a candy store. “Oh, this is perfect.”

He taps his screen a few times, then looks up at me with that playful glint in his eye—the one that usually spells trouble.  “Mind if I brag to the folks back at Seijoh? I’ve got to let them know I found the legendary Karasuno player with the crazy orange hair, living his best life in Brazil.”

I shrug. “Go for it.”

Wait—did I just say that? Me? Hinata Shouyou? The one who’s been practically allergic to unnecessary attention for the past two years?

Has Oikawa softened me? —No.

Am I okay with being under the spotlight? —Absolutely not.

Do I have any control over this? —Not in the slightest.

And yet, here I am, giving him the green light like it’s no big deal. Like I haven’t spent the last two years running from exactly this kind of thing—weaving this invisible wall around me and Ren. But you know what? I think I’ve hit that moment in life—the moment where stressing over every little detail is just too exhausting. I’ve been carrying this around for so long, picking it apart, overthinking it, drowning in it. And now? Now, I have bigger things to focus on. I’m finally getting closer to my dream. I have Ren. There is literally no space left in my brain for petty existential crises.

Besides, some of them already saw me at the airport. Saw Ren, too. Even a goldfish with a three-second memory span could’ve put two and two together. (Not that I was hoping they would. Obviously.) But if they do—if they already have—what exactly am I supposed to do about it?

—Nothing.

And maybe that’s the terrifying part. Or maybe—just maybe—that’s the freeing part too.

Today, it’s Oikawa. Tomorrow? God knows who else I’m going to bump into. Kageyama? Bokuto-san? Some rando from Nationals who barely remembered my name but will sure as hell remember my face? This whole thing was bound to happen sooner or later. It’s just a matter of time and place.

I think... I’m done running from it. No. Scratch that. I am done running from it

I glance at Ren, happily munching away, completely oblivious to the emotional hurricane swirling inside me. Must be nice. No existential crises, no big decisions. Just him and his snack.

But honestly? He’s all that matters. He’s my whole world. And the rest? They can deal.

So what if they find out?

Go on. Knock yourselves out. Have a field day.

I’m done worrying. Time to turn the page. New chapter, fresh start. Here we go.

“Tell them I’m still as ‘unstoppable’ as ever,” I say to Oikawa.                                                                                                                         

His grin turns sly. “I can’t wait to face off against you, Hinata—Karasuno’s ‘flying ace.’” His voice trails off as he scrolls through the photos, fingers drumming lightly on the screen. Then, with a wicked glint, he adds, “Oh, they’re going to lose it when they see this.”

I watch as he types out a caption under the photo. He chose the one with Ren’s little hand reaching out instead of where I looked like a deer in headlights. Small mercies.

His fingers fly across the screen, and I catch a glimpse of the words before he hits send: Met this gorgeous old friend.

I roll my eyes, grinning despite myself. So over the top. I just hope that photo doesn’t end up causing chaos in the universe.

And with that, we dig in. Food first. Drama later.

Between the clank of our spoons and forks, the occasional deliberate munching, and words like “This is good!” or “This one too!”, our conversation flows effortlessly. Somehow, without meaning to, we carefully dance around the elephant in the room—Ren’s father. His other dad. The words come easily, naturally, like two old pals grabbing dinner on a random night, with no years or distance between us.

Has Oikawa always been like this? The Oikawa of Seijoh I used to know was more about stirring the pot than keeping the peace—sharp-edged, borderline hostile whenever we were around. But now... has age actually mellowed him out?

It’s surreal, sitting here with him, talking like old friends. We were rivals once—fierce ones at that. But now, life has a funny way of stitching people back together when you least expect it.

Dinner’s done.

I did say “a quick dinner,” didn’t I? Well, the joke’s on me. I’ve officially shoved my foot into my mouth. We really enjoyed the food—the conversations in between—and before I knew it, an hour and a half had slipped by. Ren had already started nodding off at the table, his little head bobbing like a tired sunflower.

Man… what a careless father I am. 

We’re walking now. Or rather, Oikawa is walking me back to my apartment with Ren sound asleep on his shoulder, his tiny fingers clutching onto Oikawa’s shirt like it’s his favorite blanket. It’s a nice walk—after stuffing ourselves with an incredible amount of good food, a stroll feels almost necessary.

The sidewalk isn’t crowded, but there are always people. It’s Rio—there’s always someone around. We pass by a family with two toddlers—one slung on his father’s back (I’m assuming he’s the father), and the other held by... another father. A man with a stature like mine—eyes so bright they practically twinkle with happiness. My eyes quickly flick, and we trade glances, followed by a polite nod and a smile.

The bigger man greets Oikawa with an easy “Boa noite, amigo.”

Oikawa, without missing a beat, replies the same and waves at the toddlers—who, by the way, look absolutely identical.

We walk on, and my mouth moves before my brain catches up. “They’ve got twins. You noticed that?”

“I did,” Oikawa says.

I don’t know why, but the sight of the twins tickles my brain. I wonder how people manage having multiple kids at the same time. Having Ren alone is enough to make me lose my arms and feet—and sometimes, my sanity. Yes, I’ve questioned it. I know—you know—that I already have the answer;

It’s love.

Love for those tiny, all-knowing eyes staring back at you—day and night, day and night. And perhaps, in that couple’s case, it’s love for each other, too—their other half. Maybe that’s what keeps them going.

“You like twins?” Oikawa suddenly asks, snapping me out of my thoughts and back into the mild evening breeze.

“What?” I blink. “No... I mean, not that I don’t like them. I’m more... amused than anything.”

Oikawa hums. “My mom has a twin, you know. Different sexes.”

“Really? And…?”

He looks at me deadpan. “Nothing. Just letting you know.”

I catch his mouth twitching, and I narrow my eyes. “That was random.”

A brief moment passes in silence. You’ve got to hand it to the ocean—it always knows how to fill the quiet.

“You’ve got a good kid here, Hinata,” Oikawa says at last, his voice softer than usual. “And you’re doing something amazing, balancing it all.”

“Thanks, Oikawa-san. Didn’t know you could say nice things too once in a while.”

“I can be mean,” he shrugs. “But never to you.”

“Ohh… what about that time you wanted to kidnap me and throw me somewhere people couldn’t find me?” I shove my hands into my pockets, watching his reaction.

Oikawa stops mid-step, frowning. “When did I say that?”

I smirk. “Ah… you don’t remember? You and Iwaizumi-san at the Spring Qualifiers. Your last game in high school.”

His eyes widen in realization, and then he bursts into laughter, throwing his head back. “Oh! You didn’t actually think I was serious, did you?”

But Ren stirs in his arms before I can answer, and Oikawa quickly hushes him, rocking gently. “Shh… go back to sleep, little guy.”

“Yeah… but it scared the absolute crap out of me.”

We both laugh—the kind that starts soft but snowballs into something louder until we scramble to cover our mouths. I don’t know why, but whenever I’m with Oikawa, we always end up being louder than we should.

 Oikawa shakes his head, still chuckling. “Sorry, couldn’t help it. Your scaredy-cat expression was priceless!” he adds, voice dropping to a hushed tone. He laughs again, this time quieter—lips pressed together, shoulders shaking. 

I groan, nudging him lightly with my elbow. “Damn you,” I mumble, but there’s no bite to it. “I’m not that boy anymore,” I add, tilting my chin a few degrees.

Oikawa pauses, his eyes scanning my face. Then—he smirks. Not his usual smug, teasing kind, but something softer. Something almost… proud. “I see you’ve grown up and all.”

I nod.

“You’re a mom and a father, too.”

I keep nodding.

“And a hot one,” he adds.

“What?—” I stop nodding.

 Oikawa flashes a teasing smile and paddles away smoothly. His teasing just keeps going. “Just don’t go too soft on me if we ever face each other on the court, okay?”

“Wouldn’t dream of it.” I give a casual shrug.

And just like that—BANG!

A man slams into my shoulder-hard. The force knocks me off balance, and I stumble sideways. My heart lurches as the world tilts, my mind racing to figure out how to fall without breaking something.

But I don’t hit the ground.

Oikawa is quicker—his arm tightens around Ren, and with the other, he grabs my arm and steadies me before I topple over. “You okay?” he asks.

“I’m fine,” I say, though my heart is still hammering from the close call.

Oikawa’s gaze snaps to the man who hit me—a man who’s already walking away like nothing happened. “Hey!” He calls out.

The man turns around sluggishly, his eyes bloodshot and unfocused, blinking as if the streetlights are too bright. He sways slightly, his legs unsteady beneath him, the kind of drunken wobble that screams too many drinks and too little sense. His face is red and sweaty, his lips chapped and stained from whatever cheap alcohol he’s been downing all night.

“What?” he slurs in thick, heavy Portuguese.

“Watch it, man. At least say sorry,” Oikawa snaps in English, his grip tightening protectively around Ren.

The drunk man lurches toward us, his steps sloppy and erratic, his feet stumbling against each other. “What did you say?” he breathes out, reeking of alcohol, standing way too close now—his dull, glassy eyes locking onto Oikawa’s with a sloppy grin.

Oikawa stiffens, pulling Ren closer, his arm draped securely across my boy’s back as he steps back. “You, say sorry to him,” he says in broken Portuguese, his voice sharper now.

“Fuck you! All I know is that cunt hit me,” the man slurs, licking his cracked lips that disappear behind his scruffy, unkempt beard. His glazed eyes drop to me, and he exhales a foul-smelling breath. “Hah…you! Greedy, stingy cunt.” He jabs a finger against my chest, pushing just enough to make me step back.

I barely have time to process before—

“Hey! Back away, man!” Oikawa snaps, his voice ringing out loud enough to catch nearby attention. He steps in front of me, one arm still holding Ren protectively while the other shoves the drunkard backward.

Ren begins to whimper softly.

I glance around and notice people slowing down, turning their heads toward us.

Oh, shit. This is bad. Really, really bad. How did things escalate so fast?

I look at Oikawa, and my stomach tightens. His jaw is clenched, veins bulging on his temple, and his eyes are glinting with something dangerously sharp. It’s that look that says he’s ready to throw down if he has to. And I know, without a doubt, if he weren’t carrying Ren right now, this could have already turned into a full-blown scene.

And me? I’m caught in this awful mix of fear and frustration. Ren is at the forefront of this confrontation, literally. My kid, my baby, is right there. The image of this drunk guy swinging a fist sends my mind spiraling into desperation. My chest tightens, and I can already imagine myself grabbing the guy’s greasy hair and kneeing him in the face—or lower. Yeah, I’m having those thoughts.

That’s it. I can’t wait for this to go nuclear.

Without giving Oikawa a chance to respond, I grab his arm and tug him away. “Come on, Oikawa-san. That guy’s drunk. There’s no point in reasoning with him.”

Oikawa resists for half a second, his blazing glare still locked on the man. But then—thankfully—he lets me drag him down the street. His muttering, though, doesn’t stop.

“Drunk or not, I don’t care,” he huffs, Ren still whimpering softly into his chest. “If need be, I’ll punch him in the nose. Let him bleed.” His chest puffs up, his tone seething with anger, like he’s actually weighing the options.

I shoot him a sharp look, my pace quick and my grip on his arm firm. “Are you stupid?” I hiss, sneaking glances over my shoulder. My heart is hammering so hard it feels like it might burst, adrenaline courses through me like wildfire.

“—What?”

We keep moving—brisk walking—until we turn a corner. I stop abruptly, pressing my back against the wall and peeking around the edge, scanning the street behind us.

Nothing.

The bastard isn’t following.

But as the adrenaline fades, it leaves something else in its place—something tight, prickly, and ready to burst. I glance at Oikawa, still holding Ren like nothing just happened, completely unaware of the simmering frustration boiling up inside me. And suddenly—yep, that’s it. I can’t hold it in anymore.

“You want to risk your precious setter’s hands?” I snap, my voice sharp as I rake a hand through my hair, gripping it briefly before letting go. “Those hands are everything to you, Oikawa-san!” My hands fly wildly in his direction before falling limp at my sides.

I stop, my chest heaving. I glance at him, then at Ren— cradled in his arms, sleeping peacefully despite everything. I take a deep breath. “Seriously, it’s not worth it.”

Oikawa blinks at me as I’ve just smacked him with the logic he can’t argue with. His grip on Ren shifts slightly.

I continue, “I get it, okay? That guy said bad things.” My tone is gentler now, though I can feel my pulse still thundering in my ears. “But it doesn’t matter—not to me, at least. You—”

“You’re worried about me,” he cuts in, his mouth twitching into a faint, teasing smile.

I sigh, meeting his gaze head-on. “I just don’t want to explain to your coach why you’re sitting in jail with a broken wrist.”

Oikawa chuckles softly, the tension finally draining from his shoulders. He shifts Ren slightly, freeing one hand to reach out. He pats my head, and then his hand glides smoothly down to my temple, lingering there for a beat before settling lightly on my cheek.

“Don’t be mad, please,” he murmurs. His eyes hold mine for a second longer than necessary, and then, with his sly grin, he adds, “You’re way too cute when you’re mad like this.”

I deadpan, my expression flat. “Whatever,” I mumble, pulling away just enough to shake off his hand. Then I turn and quicken my pace, refusing to look at him. “Let’s just get home before something else happens.”

Behind me, I hear his soft laugh, followed by a muttered, “As you wish, Chibi-chan.”

We reach my apartment. I stop. Oikawa doesn’t. He marches straight to the elevator, punches the button, and steps in like he owns the building.

“Come on,” he says, tilting his head toward me with that smug expression. “Aren’t you coming up?”

I sigh and shuffle in after him. “You didn’t have to send me up.”

“Well, I’m already here. And you should’ve said something earlier if you didn’t want me to.”

I roll my eyes for the second time tonight.

The elevator dings, and we step out onto my floor. As I unlock the door, I juggle Ren in my arms, trying not to drop my kid or my patience.

Oikawa leans lazily against the doorframe, watching me.

“It’s late,” I say, narrowing my eyes at him. “I’m not inviting you in. Maybe next time.”

“Next time, sure,” he says, smirking like he knows there will be one.

I’m just about to step inside when he turns back toward the elevator—and then, of course, he pauses. There’s that mischievous spark in his eyes. The one that usually means trouble.

“Hey, Hinata.”

Oh no.

“Since you’re all about beach volleyball now…” He crosses his arms, leaning against the wall like a movie villain about to deliver his master plan. “What do you say we settle our rivalry? One-on-one. Right here. On the sand.”

I blink, momentarily stunned by how much confidence this guy has. “One-on-one? In beach volleyball?” A laugh bubbles out before I can stop it. “That’s… an absolutely terrible idea, Oikawa-san. Beach volleyball is all about teamwork. Besides…” I grin, leaning against the doorframe. “I’ve always wanted to see your set—up close.”

He smirks, tapping his chin. “Hmm. I don’t usually take requests, but since it’s you…”

“How about we team up, then?” I offer, shrugging. “There’s this pair I know—locals. They’re pretty good. I’ve been playing against them for a while. Think you can handle it?”

His eyebrows shoot up. “You’re seriously asking the Great King to team up with you?” He pretends to think it over as if this is a huge favor. “Interesting.”

I roll my eyes—again. At this rate, they will stay permanently rolled back in my head. “It’s just for fun, Oikawa-san. Don’t let it get to your head.”

He grins and extends his hand, all mock seriousness. “Fine. Tomorrow, we’ll show them what a genius setter and a ninja can do.”

I shake his hand; the deal is sealed. And I can’t help the small thrill bubbling inside me. Playing alongside Oikawa… It’s exciting. We were rivals in high school, but tomorrow? Tomorrow, we’re going to be teammates. And for once, I’ll get to see his legendary setting—up close and personal.

As I step inside and kick the door behind me, I hold Ren tighter, his tiny breaths warm against my shoulder.

“Come on, Ren,” I murmur softly as if he can hear me through his dreams. “Tomorrow’s going to be… interesting.”

Chapter Text

The sun is sinking, splashing gold and pink across the sky as we step onto the sand. The beach is alive now—more people, more laughter, more impromptu games on the makeshift courts. It’s that perfect evening when everything feels a little lighter and more open.

The breeze picks up, slapping against my arms and shoulders, slipping under my shirt like icy fingers. A shiver rolls through me, my skin prickling in protest. Instinctively, I hunch my shoulders, rubbing at my arms in a weak attempt to trap some warmth. Maybe a sleeveless top wasn’t the best idea.

It's funny how fast the day can turn. Just moments ago, everything was drenched in gold. Now, out on the horizon, dark clouds linger, like indecisive guests at a party—waiting, watching, not sure if they should barge in or stay put.

Oikawa and I square off against a pair of locals I know well. They’re solid players, comfortable on the sand, and it’s clear from the start that we’ll have our work cut out for us.

From the very first serve, the so-called ‘genius setter’ struggles. I see the frustration building in his eyes as he tries to maneuver through the sand, each step sinking and dragging him down. Twice, he dives for the ball and goes down hard, face-first into the sand. I catch a few muffled curses slipping out. The laughter and jeers from the crowd only fuel the fire in his eyes. I have to bite back a laugh.

Oikawa’s used to the polished, steady surface of an indoor court—out here, he’s like a fish out of water, his movements heavier and clumsier than I ever thought possible. We lose the first set badly, barely able to keep up with our opponents, who glide across the sand effortlessly while Oikawa fights against it with every step.

During the short break, he wipes the sweat off his forehead, giving me a look that’s equal parts annoyed and exasperated. “This sand feels like it’s swallowing me alive,” he mutters, scowling.

I grin, patting him on the shoulder. “Welcome to the wonderful world of beach volleyball, Oikawa-san. Not as easy as it looks, huh?”

“Oh, you’re enjoying this, aren’t you? Watching the ‘Great King’ flail around in the sand?”

I grin. “Maybe, a little.”

By the time the second set begins, Oikawa is adapting—his movements are less clumsy, and his footing is more assured as he finds his rhythm on the sand. 'Finding' but not quite mastering. Barely managing, as some might say. His eyes, though, are sharp—burning with that fierce, unwavering focus.

When we stood on opposite sides of the net a few years ago, that look scared me. His serve, his set—we would wait for it, tension curdling in our gut like milk just before it turns. I half expected it to have dulled after the first set.

But no.

Like a flipped switch, he scans the court, reading our opponents, shifting, adjusting, and easily slotting himself into the right places. The gears turn, the fire ignites. And just like that, the real Oikawa is here.

And for once, I’m glad we’re standing on the same side of the net.

Then it happens—the moment I’ve been waiting for. Oikawa sets the ball, a perfect, controlled toss within my reach. I surge forward, leaping off the sand and meeting the ball at the peak of my jump.

For a split second, it’s like high school all over again—me chasing Kageyama’s sets, only this time, it’s Oikawa’s. And here, on the sand, with the warm evening light fading around us, it feels… surreal. Almost sacred. I’ve imagined this moment a thousand times but never thought I’d actually live it. To see his set up close—to feel it—not as an opponent, but as the one who brings it to its final, decisive strike.

And here we are.

The ball leaves his fingertips, and I move without thinking. We’re in perfect sync, and somehow, it feels right.

The ball slams down on the other side of the net, landing perfectly between our opponents. They barely have time to react.

Oikawa grins, looking over at me. “See that, Hinata? Watch their feet. How they angle their bodies before the jump gives away their next move.”

I nod, catching my breath. Every set, every rally, he’s teaching me something new, showing me how to read the game on a different level. I’d thought I knew the ins and outs of volleyball and figured out most of its twists and turns. But playing with him has been… eye-opening. It's like someone’s handed me a brand-new pair of glasses, and suddenly, I’m seeing the game in a whole new way. A fresh perspective I didn’t even realize I was missing.

Bonus? He lets me set.

Downside? He complains. Endlessly.

“That was too high, Hinata.”

“That one was too low.”

“Seriously? Are you trying to make me suffer?”

I shrug, barely holding back a grin. Damn, such a king is impossible to please.

By the end of the second set, we’ve evened the score. We’re both grinning, breathing hard, and practically thrumming with that addictive rush of competition—even though this is supposed to be a casual game.

‘Casual’. Hah! As if we know the meaning of the word.

I steal a glance at Oikawa, who looks just as exhilarated, eyes alight with challenge. And that’s when it hits me.

Are we… monsters?

Honestly, I wouldn’t be surprised. Some people are born with common sense. Others—us included—are born with an unshakable need to win, even when nothing’s at stake.

 Oikawa claps me on the back, and his eyes glint with something between mischief and a challenge. “Not bad, Chibi-chan,” he says, smirking. “I almost thought you’d be holding me back out there.”

I snort, still catching my breath. “Please, Oikawa-san. You’re the one who’s been eating sand all game. Maybe stick to setting and leave the hard part to me.” 

He gasps—actually gasps—and then flicks a clump of sand at me with his foot. “Don’t get cocky just because we’re tied. You might have the speed, but I’ve got the brains on this team.”

“Oh really?” I shoot back, grinning. “Pretty sure the last time I saw you, I was spiking past that ‘brain’ of yours.”

Oikawa tilts his head, watching me like he’s evaluating a new species. “You’ve changed. All grown-up, all confident. Cocky, even.” His smirk widens. “I kind of like it.”

“What can I say? I’ve had good practice… especially spiking past that ‘Great King’ block of yours.”

He gasps again—this time, clutching his chest like I’ve personally offended his royal status. “Oh, you think you’re funny, huh?” He leans in, voice dropping to a teasing whisper. “Careful, Chibi-chan. Keep this up, and I might start taking you seriously.”

Before I can retort, he suddenly yanks me in, draping an arm over my shoulder. Our cheeks press together—snap. He takes a selfie—both of us covered in sand, hair a complete disaster.

“Hey—” I barely have time to react before he’s already grinning at his screen.

“Perfect,” he declares.

Surprisingly, I don’t mind at all. I’m right here, matching his energy, playing along without a second thought. Something freeing about it is being here with him, letting loose. No overthinking, no second-guessing. Just fun.

“Bring it on, Oikawa-san,” I say, feeling the thrill of the game and his teasing. “You’re in my world now.”

Oikawa steps closer, his smirk deepening and voice dropping just enough to make the hairs on my neck stand at attention, traitors that they are.

“Oh, am I now?” He tilts his head slightly, eyes locked onto mine. “How about I make myself at home, then? After all, this is your world. I wouldn’t mind staying.”

My brain? Gone.

Words? What are those?

Heat rushes my face so fast and so bright that people might mistake me for the sunset. Okay, maybe that’s an exaggeration, but it feels pretty accurate right now.

I blink rapidly, scrambling for a coherent thought, but my neurons have abandoned ship. How did we go from playful banter to him standing way too close, voice all low and smug, saying things like that at me?

Oikawa’s grin stretches wider like he knows exactly what he’s doing. “Careful, Chibi-chan,” he adds, voice smooth as silk. “Keep looking at me like that, and I might think you want me to stay.”

Oh, hell. Nope. Not happening.

I shake my head, laughing as I move into position for the third set.

Focus, Hinata. Volleyball. Game first. Oikawa nonsense later.

But just as I’m setting up to serve, I catch movement from the other side of the net. One of our opponents, João, raises an eyebrow at me, Oikawa, and back at me. His teammate leans in and mutters something, and suddenly—smirks.

“Your boyfriend, Shouyou?” João asks in Portuguese, completely deadpan.

“Oh.” Oh no.

My face is hot. Burning hot- the kind of hot that makes me look like a tomato under stadium lights. I nearly choke on thin air and quickly shake my head, forcing an awkward laugh. “No, just an old friend,” I reply in Portuguese, waving João off like it’s the most ridiculous thing I’ve ever heard. Ha. Ha. Ha.

Oikawa, of course, notices everything.

His head tilts, eyebrows lifting in that way that makes my stomach flip for no reason. “What did he say?”

“Nothing,” I mumble, very focused on adjusting my wristband. So focused. Best wristband adjustment of my life.

Oikawa crosses his arms, one foot tapping on the sand, clearly not buying it. “Come on, Hinata,” he drawls, that smirk creeping onto his face. The smirk, “You’re a terrible liar. What did he ask?”

I roll my eyes, still refusing to look at him. “Just… something dumb. Really, it’s nothing.”

For a second, he watches me. I feel him watching me. Then, suddenly, he leans in, voice dropping to a ridiculously smug whisper. “Did he think we were a couple or something?”

I freeze, gaping at him.

“That’s it, isn’t it?”

“Alright, alright, yes!” I groan, flinging my arms up in surrender. “He asked if you were my boyfriend! Happy now?”

“And you said?” He presses.

“—I told him you’re my old friend.”

Oikawa hums, tilting his head. His eyes twinkled with amusement. “Just an old friend, huh?”

I roll my eyes. “Get over yourself, Oikawa-san.” I drop into my receive stance, focusing hard on the game instead of the heat creeping up my neck.

But Oikawa isn’t done. Of course, he isn’t.

“Oh, I don’t know, Hinata…” he muses, stretching his arms lazily like we’re discussing the weather and not my rapidly deteriorating dignity. “You looked pretty flustered back there.”

“I was not flustered.”

“You totally were.”

“I—” I snap my mouth shut and exhale through my nose. He’s just being Oikawa, I remind myself—the same guy who had half of the high schools fawning over him. Of course, he enjoys messing with people.

Oikawa grins, bouncing on the balls of his feet. “It’s okay, Chibi-chan. You can admit it. I am very charming.”

I groan, aiming a light kick at his shin. “Less talking, more playing.”

“Fine, fine,” he laughs, finally getting into position. “But I will remember this.”

Oh, great. Can’t wait.

We’re deep into the third set, battling for every last point, when I feel the tiniest drop of water landing right on my nose. I blink up at the sky. Huh. Drizzling. Fine. We can handle drizzling.

And then—whoosh.

The drizzle thickens into a complete downpour, drenching us in seconds. The last few spectators on the beach scramble for cover. Once soft and warm, the sand turns heavy and clumps beneath our feet.

Across the net, João and his partner glance at each other before giving me a knowing nod—the universal sign for “let’s not break our necks today, yeah?”

I nod back. “Later, then,” I call, shaking out my arms.

I turn to Oikawa—only to find him standing dead center in the rain, head tipped back, arms spread wide like he's about to break into song.

And—oh god, he’s laughing.

"Are you a child?" I yell over the downpour, already marching toward my bag.

Oikawa grins through the downpour, rain streaming down his face. “You tell me, Chibi-chan!”

I groan. “Come on! My apartment’s just up the street.”

With a final shake of his wet hair—because, of course, he has to be dramatic—Oikawa jogs after me, and we grab our stuff, sprinting up the boardwalk. The rain doesn’t let up for a second, drenching us completely. By the time we reach my building, we’re soaked through.

Water drips from my hair, my clothes cling to my skin, and my sneakers squelch with every step.

Still breathless, we tumble into my apartment, leaving a water trail across the floor. I reach for my keys, but before I can unlock the door, it swings open.

Pedro—my ever-reliable, ad-hoc babysitter—stands there, arms crossed, one eyebrow raised at our sudden, very wet arrival. He glances between Oikawa and me, eyes narrowing slightly, then lifts a finger to his lips and points toward Ren’s room.

Right. Sleeping child.

I nod, giving him an apologetic smile. “Thanks, Pedro. I owe you.”

Pedro waves me off with a casual 'no problem' in Portuguese before slipping past us. But not before giving Oikawa a slow, curious once-over.

Oikawa, of course, smiles like he’s just won a popularity contest.

The door clicks shut, leaving us alone, and suddenly, it’s just the sound of rain pattering against the windows.

I glance at Oikawa. He glances at me.

We’re both dripping, leaving puddles on my floor, looking like we just took a fully clothed dive into the ocean.

And for some ridiculous reason, I can’t stop grinning.

“I’ll grab you a towel. Stay there,” I say, already making a beeline down the hall before my floor becomes a swimming pool.

I grab two towels—the fluffiest ones I own—and then rummage through my drawers for the most oversized shirt and shorts I can find. When I return, I toss a towel at Oikawa, who catches it effortlessly. 

He ruffles it through his hair, still dripping and looking way too pleased about this situation. “Thanks. Can’t remember the last time I was this soaked,” he laughs.

“Here.” I shove the shirt and shorts at him. “Best I can do.”

Oikawa takes them, inspecting the fabric with an exaggerated look of concern. “I’ll try to squeeze in,” he says, that glint in his eyes telling me he’s enjoying this way more than he should.

I sigh, pointing down the hall. “Bathroom’s that way if you want to clean up. And since your clothes are already half sand, I could be nice enough to throw them in for a wash.”

Oikawa presses a hand to his heart. “Hinata, your kindness knows no bounds.”

“Yeah, yeah. Just go.” 

While Oikawa is in the shower, I swiftly escape to my bedroom. I peel off my soaked clothes, kicking them to the edge of the parquet floor—a silent reminder to deal with them later. I wrap myself in a bathrobe. Since there’s only one bathroom, I’ll have to wait my turn. Hopefully, Oikawa isn’t the type to take his sweet time in there.

I might as well check on Ren while I wait.

I pad softly toward his crib, careful not to wake him. He’s fast asleep, tiny fingers curled around his blanket, his chest rising and falling in that steady, peaceful rhythm. His face is calm, mouth slightly parted in a way that makes my heart squeeze. How can he be this cute?

I smile softly, brushing a stray lock of hair from his forehead. How lucky am I to have this view to myself every night?

With one last glance, I return to the kitchen, my damp clothes bundled in my arms. I crouch, shove them into the washer, and about to press the 'start' button when—

Click.

The bathroom door swings open.

Great. My turn now. Finally.

I stand up—

—And instantly wish I hadn’t.

Because there, stepping into the living room like he owns the place, is Oikawa.

Wearing nothing but a towel.

A decently sized towel. 

I freeze. My brain? Completely fried. System failure. Blue screen. Fatal error. Please restart.

Because—okay. Objectively speaking, I knew Oikawa was fit. He’s a pro athlete. Of course, he’s fit. But this? This is a whole different level of unfairness.

His skin is sun-kissed, glowing under the dim kitchen light. Droplets of water cling to his collarbone, trailing slowly—too slowly—down his chest, over lean, sculpted muscles. Broad shoulders, defined arms, a ridiculously cut waist, and—oh, God—the towel. The stupid towel hanging just a little too low, like gravity’s testing my self-control. His damp hair falls over his forehead infuriatingly effortlessly, making him look like he’s walked straight out of a steamy romance novel. The kind with shirtless men and dramatic taglines like ‘He was everything she never knew she needed.’

Not that I read those. Obviously.

Nope. Nope, NOPE.

I drop back into a crouch so fast I almost dislocate something. “What the hell?!”

Oikawa’s voice drifts lazily across the room. “Hinata? Why’re you hiding?”

“I’m not,” I shoot back—to the washing machine, mostly. I stick a hand in the air, waving blindly. “Your clothes.”

I hear soft footsteps approaching. A shadow looms over me—his wet clothes land in my open palm. I yank open the washer, shove them inside like they personally offended me, and jab at the buttons with unnecessary force.

I stand up and turn—

And nearly die on the spot.

Because Oikawa is right there.

Right. Behind. Me.

Arms crossed. Leaning against the fridge like he’s on the cover of Men’s Health: The Smug Edition.

"Yo," he says casually as if he’s not standing half-naked in my tiny apartment, radiating some unfair Alpha magnetism.

I clutch my robe tighter, sealing off what suddenly feels like way too much-exposed skin.

This whole damn situation is dangerous. Wildly dangerous.

Allow me to state the facts:

Fact #1: I am an Omega.

Fact #2: I have never been this close to an Alpha. (That one time doesn’t count because I don’t remember it.)

Fact #3: Said Alpha is wearing a compromised piece of cloth and looks at me like this is a perfectly normal Tuesday night.

And to top it all off?

There’s been something between us all day—a low, steady hum beneath the surface. A frequency only we can hear. Like sonar waves, bouncing between us—closer, stronger, more dangerous.

I swallow hard.

And Oikawa?

He grins.

"Don’t sneak up on me like that! You nearly gave me a heart attack." I grab at the opening of my robe—again, pulling it shut, secure, locked down—because if he gets to stand there looking obscenely like that, then I refuse to be the one caught slipping.

He raises his hands in mock surrender, still grinning. “Sorry, sorry. Didn’t mean to. I thought you knew I was here.”

I huff, stepping away because distance...distance is safe. “Your clothes are in the washer,” I announce, proud of myself for forming a coherent sentence.

And then, like an absolute fool, I look at him.

Big mistake. Huge.

And there it is. Smug. Ridiculous. Infuriatingly inviting.

Oikawa’s bare, toned, unfairly well-defined body. The sharp lines of his chest, the sculpted abs, the dip of his navel—oh, come on. It’s like a first-class ticket to Regret City, and I just willingly boarded the train.

Not that I’m gawking. Oh no. It’s just a super quick look—a totally normal, utterly unbothered once-over.

One second.

Two seconds, max.

And then—disaster strikes.

I look up.

And immediately regret everything.

Because Oikawa is already looking at me.

Smirking. Smug as hell.

His entire expression is screaming, “Like what you see?”

Damn it. I’m caught.

"Why aren’t you wearing the shirt?" I ask, arms crossed, doing my best to look unimpressed.

Oikawa holds up the shirt and the shorts, inspecting them like they’re some rare artifact. Then, with a dramatic sigh, he snorts. “Not the most Alpha-friendly wardrobe, huh?”

He tugs at the towel around his waist—the very snug towel, might I add—his lips curling into something far too amused for my liking.

I let out the world’s most awkward laugh, scratching the back of my neck. “Uh, yeah… guess not. I’m not really… stocked up for Alphas.”

Not really stocked up for Alphas?

What the hell is that supposed to mean?!

Stupid, stupid me. I can practically hear Sofia cackling in my head.

Oikawa chuckles, casually propping himself against the fridge, utterly unfazed by the fact that he’s half-naked in my apartment—towel slung criminally low, muscles on full display, and that—yep. Nope. I need to delete my entire line of sight.

Keeping my eyes up should qualify as an Olympic event.

I need to fix this. Immediately.

I shoot up to my feet. “I’ll, uh—bathrobe! I have a bathrobe!” I announce, like I’ve just had the most groundbreaking revelation of the century.

I speed-walk to my bedroom, yank open the closet, and—great. The most oversized robe I own is still not precisely Oikawa-sized. But it’s better than a towel that could betray us all at any moment. My hands feel weirdly unsteady as I grab it.

I return to the living room, pointedly looking anywhere but at him as I hold it out.

"Here," I say, clearing my throat, aiming for casual and landing somewhere around; why am I like this? "Might… fit you."

Oikawa takes the robe, fingers brushing mine for half a second. A millisecond? A whole five seconds?? No, wait—what?! Whatever! Point is, it’s enough to send my brain into a full-blown meltdown.

I press my lips together, refusing to acknowledge the heat creeping up my face, refusing to acknowledge anything.

Oikawa, however, has no such qualms. His smirk deepens. 

He’s enjoying this, I realize. 

“Thanks, Shouyou.”

Shouyou??

The way he says it—soft, slow, so completely unnecessary—has my stomach doing an Olympic-level gymnastics routine.

“Yeah… no problem,” I mumble, staring at a very fascinating spot on the floor. “Just… uh, get comfortable.”

Oikawa tosses the robe over his shoulder, turns, and disappears into the bathroom.

I stand there. Still. Silent. Heart pounding.

What the heck is going on with me?!

While Oikawa takes his sweet time changing, I pace the kitchen like a man unhinged, arms crossed and then uncrossed, gripping the counter like it holds the answers to my existential crisis. 

My brain? Absolute chaos. My thoughts? A frantic mess of heat calendars, suppressant intake schedules, and an increasingly desperate need to prove that I am—without a doubt—still in control of my own body.

I haven't missed a dose. Not a single one. Not since that incident when Ren was eight months old—never again. I’ve been disciplined. Scheduled. Practically religious about it.

So why the hell is my body reacting like this?

It’s just Oikawa. Oikawa. A friend. An old rival. A smug, self-absorbed, volleyball-obsessed pain in the ass who, for some unfathomable reason, is suddenly making my pulse race like I just ran suicide across the court.

I slap my cheeks—hard. Get it together, me!

I squeeze my eyes shut, exhale—

And instantly regret it. 

Because all I can see behind my eyelids is him. Smirking. Shirtless. Broad-shouldered and dripping from the shower, his presence filling the room like some kind of effortlessly confident, walking Alpha stereotype.

I groan, dragging a hand through my hair. Maybe—maybe—this is happening because I haven’t… done anything in a while. It's been almost two years now. 

Is that a long time? What’s the standard here? 

Is my body just starved for any kind of attention? 

Oh god. Am I touch-deprived?

The horror.

I press my forehead against the counter. It’s just Oikawa: same dramatic flair, same dumb hair, same irritating, infuriating self-confidence. 

But the moment I remember how he looked standing there, towel slung low, skin still damp—

Nope. Absolutely not.

I whip upright, aggressively busying myself with something—anything, before I lose whatever scraps of dignity I have left.

I grab a glass of water and down it in one go, mostly to distract myself, partly because my throat is suddenly parched. My hands feel oddly unsteady, but I ignore it. 

I am fine. Everything is fine.

And then Oikawa steps into the doorway.

And everything is not fine.

I choke—violently—on the last sip of water. There’s spluttering. Coughing. Oh god, some of it just went up my nose.

I slap a hand over my mouth, eyes watering as I struggle to recover—because...because what the hell is he wearing?!

The bathrobe.

My bathrobe.

Chapter Text

The sleeves stop awkwardly at his forearms. The hem barely reaches the knees. And the neckline? 

Well. Let’s just say it’s fighting for its life. It refuses to close properly, exposing far more than it was ever designed to.

I sputter—full spit-take—a mouthful of water as I try (and fail) to hold back a laugh.

Great. Real smooth, Shouyou. 

Oikawa crosses his arms, seemingly unimpressed. “Something funny?”

I slap a napkin over my mouth, trying to compose myself.  “Nope. Nothing at all,” I wheeze, shaking my head and wiping at my chin. “Just… wasn’t expecting that.” I gesture vaguely toward all of him.

He glances down at himself, tugs at one of the sleeves, and sighs dramatically. “Yeah, ‘cozy’ is one way to put it,” he muses, utterly unbothered. “Not exactly my size, but I’ll manage.”

I make the mistake of actually looking at him again. 

Oikawa notices because now, he’s leaning over the counter, elbow tucked, way too comfortable in something that should make any normal person feel ridiculous. He quirks an eyebrow. "You okay, Shouyou? You look a little… red."

Damn. 

He caught me.

I scowl and respond nonchalantly. ”I’m fine."

I clear my throat, fetch another napkin, and wipe the water I've just spit all over the counter. "Maybe I should invest in a bigger robe if I have guests like you."

"Probably a good idea. You never know when a tall, handsome friend—devastatingly charming—might need a place to crash."

"Yeah, yeah," I mutter, waving him off. But there’s a grin tugging at my lips against my better judgment.

And then—

His expression shifts.

The laughter fades.

Something changes.

He’s looking.

Not just looking—taking me in.

His eyes travel—roaming up, down, up again.

They rest at… my chest? Neck?

I clear my throat, forcing my voice to stay casual.

"Uh, I’ll need the shower. So, um, make yourself at home, Oikawa-san. I’ll be back in a bit.”

Oikawa nods, giving a lazy, mockingly smug salute. "Take your time, Shouyou."

A pause.

A smirk.

"I’ll just… make myself comfortable."

The moment I stepped out of the kitchen, I let out a breath I didn’t even realize I was holding.

Escape. Retreat. Regroup—whatever that means.

One thing’s for sure: I cannot just stand there and let his eyes roam unchecked—not when this bathrobe has clearly decided to work against me tonight.

I hurry down the hall and into the bathroom, shoving the door closed behind me—maybe with a bit more force than necessary.

Then I press my back against it, stare at the mirror, and—

Wait. 

Is that me?

I scrub a hand over my face, then lean closer to the basin—staring at the stranger in the mirror.

No shit.

I look like a steamed lobster.

One shoulder is bare, revealing…too much.

—The chest. Two shades—tanned and embarrassingly less tanned.

—The tiny nub. 

My breath hitches. I look like a freaking omega—desperately trying to seduce an alpha. 

I groan and furiously ruffle my hair, the small bathroom feeling even tinier.

Ten minutes under freezing water, and I’m officially de-lobsterized . Now? I tell myself I’m a fresh mackerel—swimming free, unbothered. Or so I’d like to believe as I grab a loose T-shirt and sweatpants.

Dressed and ready, I pause by Ren’s crib. He’s sprawled out like Patrick Star—limbs everywhere, his SpongeBob pajamas slightly bunched up.

Looking at this kid sleeping peacefully like this is downright torturous. The urge to pinch his fat little cheek is almost unbearable. And just like that, everything else fades—the nerves, the awkwardness, and the spiral in my head.

—Gone.

"It’s just you and me, kiddo," I whisper.

I walk to the door.

Grip the knob.

Pause.

Rake a hand through my still-damp hair.

And exhale.

And then, I step into the living room like I’m just heading out for grocery shopping.

Something smells good—fresh, fragrant.

My head lifts. My neck stretches—like a meerkat on high alert.

And then, I see him.

Oikawa. At the stove.

I walk forward, stop and blink. "Where did you get that?"

"Hope you don’t mind. Found these in your cupboard. Figured we could use something warm while we wait out the storm."

Right.

Because this night wasn’t already surprising enough.

I cross my arms, eyeing him suspiciously. "You don’t strike me as the ‘making tea and relaxing’ type, Oikawa-san."

He smirks as if he’s been waiting for me to say that and slides a mug across the counter toward me. "I’m full of surprises, Shouyou. Besides, you looked like you could use something to calm your nerves."

Nerves?

Wait.

Hold on.

What?

He noticed?

—He noticed. The reply echoes in my head.

I wrap my hands around the mug, its warmth seeping into my fingers. I hope the rising steam will mask the flush on my cheeks.

I take a sip.

And hiss as the hot liquid burns my tongue.

"Oops… be careful, hun. It’s hot."

Hun? At this point, nothing about this guy surprises me anymore.

Then—he blows air at my face.

"You okay? Need cold water?"

I hold up an okay sign, shaking my head. 

Oikawa takes my cup and blows on it.

"You’re just like a kid. Who drinks hot tea like that?" He shakes his head. "You should blow slowly, test the temperature, then sip it—just a little. Like this."

He puts the cup to his lips, demonstrating. Then he nods, satisfied. "There. Nice and warm. Safe for a kid like you."

I take the cup back and sip—smaller this time.

Then, I dunk a tea cake into my tea, eat it in one bite, and take another sip—pointedly ignoring the look Oikawa gives me.

He tilts his head. "Oh… you’re pouting. Are you mad?"

"For what? I should be thankful—for the tea."

"Na na nah… you’re mad. I can tell."

"I’m not."

He studies me, eyes narrowing slightly. Then, softer— "Come on, Shouyou. I was just teasing. Did that hurt you?"

I shrug. "What do I know? I’m just a kid."

"If you’re a kid, then I’m an old man. Think you can forgive this old man for his harsh mouth?” He pulls a face—eyes wide, exaggerated pout, like a dog wagging its tail.

I swear, he looks cute like that.

I feign hesitation, letting the silence stretch long enough to make him sweat. "You’re forgiven. But only because you made good tea."

And I’m not lying. The tea is perfectly balanced.

"Phew… for a second, I thought you were gonna kick me out. In this storm."

"Don’t be dramatic, Oikawa-san. I’m not cruel."

Somehow, his hand reaches my cheek and stops there.

His grin flickers—hesitates.

And then, just like that, it softens into a smile.

"What—" I start to say.

But before I can finish, he pinches my cheek.

"I know, I know. You’re not heartless," he says, smirking. "You’re just a little mochi—soft, tiny, and way too easy to squish.”

Then, the same hand drifts upward.

For a moment, I think he’s going to pat me.

But instead—his fingers brush my bangs aside, tucking them gently out of my face.

And he says nothing.

Just a lingering pause, his gaze orbiting my face.

I mirror it. Silent. My lips rest against the rim of my cup.

Really, this silence is unnerving. What is this man trying to gauge? 

That’s it. I say to myself.  

"I’ve always loved the rain," I murmur, my gaze drifting to the window. "The way it taps against the glass, the way it smells afterward, the way it makes everything feel cozy."

I take another sip. The tea is pleasantly warm now. "When I was little, I’d rush to bed whenever it rained at night—snuggling under my covers, letting the sound lull me to sleep."

Oikawa leans back, watching me over the rim of his mug, and says nothing.

"What?" I ask.

Oikawa hums, his fingers moving slowly, tracing the mug.

"Yeah… I get that." His voice is softer now, almost thoughtful. "There’s something nice about the rain, isn’t there? Makes everything feel… slower. Softer."

I blink, caught off guard by the sudden sincerity. "Yeah."

”Guess I’ll have to remember that about you. You like the rain.” He says.

I follow his gaze. They’re locked to the window, watching the rain slide down the glass in slow, lazy streaks.

"When I was a kid, I used to listen to it too," he admits. "Late at night, when I couldn’t sleep. I’d close my eyes and pretend I was somewhere else. Somewhere quieter—me and my volleyball."

"Did it help?"

He pauses.

Then, slowly, he turns to me—another look I can’t read.

And then—he smiles lopsidedly.

“It did, sometimes. Now? I’m not so sure. Guess, that depends—“ he tilts his head. “would you… like to be my distraction tonight, Shouyou?"

Game set.

My brain short-circuits.

Heat floods my face.

"I— Wha— That’s not—"

Oikawa laughs, clearly pleased with himself, and takes another sip of his tea like he didn’t just send me into complete meltdown mode.

I groan, covering my face with my hands. "You’re the worst."

“Mm, and yet… here you are—drinking tea with me. In the middle of a storm.”

I hate that he has a point.

Oikawa looks around. Pointing his nose left and right. 

—The clutter in the living room.

—The scribbles of Ren on the fridge.

He pauses there.

"You’ve made a life for yourself here, haven’t you?"

I nod. "Yeah. It’s… more than I could’ve asked for. As long as I have Ren with me, everything’s good. He’s my whole world now."

Oikawa’s expression softens, his gaze flicking toward the bedroom, where Ren is fast asleep.

"Never—not in my wildest dreams—did I think I’d see you with a kid. At least…not this soon.”

"Things don’t always turn out the way we expect, Oikawa-san. But if there’s one thing I know, it’s this—I’m still me. And my dream?” I lift my gaze to meet his. "It hasn’t changed. I’m still chasing it, still working for it—though, I won’t lie… it wasn’t easy at first."

Oikawa rests his chin on his palm and takes a slow, deep breath. ”I envy your conviction, Shouyou. Balancing all this… it’s not easy."

"I’m just doing what I can.”

Somehow, the quiet stretches again. The conversation only goes so far.

The silence lingers—a little too long. A little too heavy.

I clear my throat, breaking the stillness.

"Hey… we never really had dinner, did we?” I glance at him with a small, sheepish smile. "If you don’t mind, I could whip something up. It’s nothing fancy—just instant ramen, but, you know, with eggs and veggies, I can elevate it a bit."

“That sounds good. A hot meal with good company… what more could I want?"

I get up and start rummaging through the kitchen, pulling out ingredients as I try to shake off the strange weight in the air. Cooking is familiar and steady—something I can focus on while my mind sorts through the mess beneath the surface.

Oikawa leans back, watching me with that quiet, observant gaze.

It makes me feel… exposed.

"Rather than sitting there and ogling at me, you might as well help me with the veggies."

Oikawa smiles and stands.

"Ogling? Now, now, Shouyou—I prefer to call it appreciating."

He steps closer, leaning just a little too far into my space. "Can you blame me? The view’s not bad."

I snort, rolling my eyes as I shove a cutting board in his direction. "Chop the veggies, Oikawa-san."

He chuckles but takes the knife without complaint. "See? I can be helpful. But if I accidentally cut my finger because I was too distracted staring at you, that’s on you."

"You better not," I huff, pointing a spoon at him.

"Bleed on my veggies, and I’m kicking you out.”

God, what did I do to deserve this never-ending torment?

The rain is coming down hard, nonstop, hammering against the windows and filling the room with its steady, rhythmic drumming.

Usually, I’d find it comforting—soothing, even.

But tonight?

Tonight, it feels... unhelpful.

It betrays me.

I roll onto my side, pulling the blanket up to my chin.

Maybe if I get extra cozy, my brain will take the hint.

Five seconds. A staring contest with the ceiling.

Nope. No luck.

I set everything up for him—fresh sheets, a spare pillow, a warm blanket—

So why do I feel like I should go check on him? Make sure he’s comfortable.

Or maybe that’s just an excuse, a tiny, meddling voice in my head whispers.

I groan softly and shove my face deeper into the pillow.

What is wrong with me?

It’s just Oikawa, sprawled out on that damn sofabed, crashing here because of the torrential downpour that refuses to take a hint and leave.

Outside, the wind howls through the tiny creak in the window—a ghostly, mocking ‘whooo’ and ‘wheee.’

Even the weather is laughing at me.

I toss and turn again, my heart thudding like I’ve just sprinted ten laps.

I press a hand to my cheek.

Burning. Absolutely sizzling.

Fever? —No.

Sudden unexplained medical condition? —Also, no.

Physically, I’m fine. Strong as a horse.

(A slightly panicked, sleep-deprived horse, but still.)

Mentally? —Debatable.

I don’t know what to call this swirling, jittery, ridiculous mess inside me.

All I know is I’m bursting with energy, begging to be let out.

Adrenaline? —Maybe.

Because my eyes refuse to close, and my brain stages a full-on mutiny at the very thought of sleep; So, I do the only thing I know when my body is coursing with this kind of energy.

I push myself up and drop to the floor.

Push-ups. Twenty.

Still buzzing.

I fling myself upright and start doing star jumps.

My mouth keeps counting, but my mind wanders.

Is it the environment? The circumstances?

The close proximity?

Or the teasing gaze Oikawa’s been throwing at me all evening—and like an idiot, I've been standing there, arms wide, catching every single one.

The way his long fingers grazed mine.

The way his hand lingered on my head.

Seriously—why did he do that?

He slipped into my personal space so quickly, so casually—like he knew he didn’t need permission.

How? How did he know I was—am—okay with that?

Oh my god. Have I been sending signals?

Encouraging signals?

Did I?

It’s hard to ignore when I’m face-to-face with the absolute mayhem of his shoulders—broad, powerful, the kind every volleyball player dreams of.

The kind I used to dream of for myself, too.

Not to forget—his clean, perfectly sculpted chest and those long, powerful legs—

Legs with calves that look like they could sprint ten kilometers without breaking a sweat—

Shit!

It happens before I can stop it. The warmth. The slow, heavy churn-low in my stomach. Am I really this desperate?

It’s been two years.

Two damn years.

And I was sure I could live like a monk for however long it took.

But what the hell is this feeling?

Is it true? That my body… is starved for touch?

Maybe it’s just biology catching up to me.

But somehow, knowing that doesn’t make it any easier to calm down.

And then, like a curse I can’t shake—

The image of Oikawa sprawled out on the sofabed takes over my mind.

“Get a grip, Shouyou.”

I glare at the ceiling. At the door. Back at the ceiling.

Is he asleep? Is he still awake?

I slap a hand over my face.

What the hell am I thinking?

“Stupid, stupid, me."

I take a deep breath, willing myself to steady.

But the feeling doesn’t fade. It just sits there. A stubborn, circling tension—like a roundabout with no exits. 

No way off. 

Just endless loops, dragging me under.

I’m screwed. Completely. 

My body surrenders as I sprawl onto the floor, heaving. 

My gaze drifts toward Ren’s crib.

Thank God. The last thing I need is for him to wake up and see me like this—face flushed, chest heaving—

 And my… uh, situation is standing at full attention like it’s leading the goddam marching band.

I groan softly, covering my face with my hands. 

I need to do something. 

Mind you, the only time I’ve ever done it myself was when I was in heat.

It wasn’t a pleasant experience.

Just a desperate aching need—like I had to get it over with and move on.

The rest of the time?

—Painkillers.

The question now is: Should I do it?

—I have to.

I need to—

A knock.

A quiet tap at the bedroom door.

I clamp my mouth shut.

Have I been talking out loud? 

—I think I’m not. 

The clock on the side table reads a little past midnight. 

Why isn’t he asleep?  

The knock comes again, soft but insistent.

I should pretend I’m asleep. Yeah, quiet as a mouse. 

And again, it comes.

Shit. Shit. Shit.

 Why won’t he give up? That soft thud, thud, thud —careful enough not to wake Ren but loud enough to send me twisting in agony.

Then I hear it. 

“Shouyou?” 

Soft. Muffled. Careful.

“I know you’re not asleep.” A pause—long enough for me to start holding my breath. “Are you in pain?” 

Pain?

Far from it. I’m twisting in agony. I want to say that. But my mouth clamps shut. 

“Shouyou?” His voice comes again, gentle but more persistent. 

Okay, I’m starting to panic here. How the hell does he know I’m still awake?

“If you’re okay, then it’s fine. I’m just afraid that you might—“

I’ve got to be kidding myself.

Because somehow, I’m already standing behind the door with my head peeking out. All I can see is Oikawa’s face—blanketed in the dim room with street light streaming through the balcony door.

“Oikawa-san?” I murmur, voice hushed, feigning sleepiness. Beads of sweat slide down my temple. 

Great. I’m an actor now. A bad one, that is. 

He steps closer, hand pressing against the doorframe. His face scrunches up, eyes big and dark, reflecting me like glass.

I hate to admit it.

They unsettle me-the eyes.

“I didn’t want to bother you,” his voice softer than I expected. “But… I could smell it.”

 “Smell what?”

“Your scent. Your omega pheromones. It’s leaking out into the living room,” Oikawa adds. 

“What?—How?” The words stumble out of my mouth. 

There goes my acting career. Because whatever sleepy act I was putting on?

—Gone. It is now being replaced with wide, big, startled eyes. 

“But… I’m not in heat.”  I say it out too loud, and my lips clamp shut the second the words leave me.  “I don’t… I don’t understand.”

It’s impossible. I’ve been taking my suppressants diligently. There’s no freaking way.

Oikawa observes me, his eyes narrowed—studying every twitch in my expression. He says nothing for a moment; silence walks in and passes by.

“You might not realize it,” he finally says. "But it’s there."

“What is there?”

“The 'want'?” he replies, keeping his voice low. “'Desire.' Your body is… I don’t know… responding?”

Responding to what? To you? Of course, it is. You’ve hit me with those careless words, gazes, and touches. There’s no way in hell it’s just gonna sit down and watch. You… aggravate them! I want to say that. I want to throw those words at him, make him hear it. But the words just sit there, marking my tongue bitterly.

He pauses. “Maybe it’s been a while?”

What kind of question is that? Should he be asking me that?

Because right now, it feels like he’s dragging me onto a stage, slapping a beauty pageant sash across my chest that reads—

‘World’s Longest Dry Spell.’

Cue the confetti. The applause. The eternal shame.

I look away, heat creeping up my neck. My fingers grip the doorframe tight. “I—I’m fine, really,” I mumble. 

Oikawa doesn’t budge an inch. 

Neither does his face. 

A moment too long at the door, and then he says, “Right. Just in case you’re not… if you need relief… I can help.”

Help huh. Relief…

Wait—

“Just—just a hypothetical question,” I blurt, raising a finger at him. “How exactly are you intending to help me?” 

Oikawa tilts his head. 

“…By sleeping together, of course.”

He says it-smooth as silk. 

Like it’s obvious.

Like it’s common sense.

Like— daaah???

That’s it. 

“Yeah, of course.” I shut the door right in his face. 

“Wait—“ Oikawa’s hand slides between the door and its frame. “I can help you, really.”

I sigh, pressing my forehead against the door. “Your teasing is a bit too much this time, Oikawa-san,” I whisper through the space. 

“I’m not.” His voice is different this time. “I’m not teasing, Shouyou. This isn’t  one of my stupid jokes.” 

He looks at me.

I look at him. 

We just…stand there. Staring. Studying.

“I can smell you. It’s thick—deep, rich, and spicy, and…something dangerously sweet too. It  makes my head feel light.” He pauses and dribbles his cast away from my face. “Honestly, it’s affecting me—very. If this goes on, the night will be unbearably long for us.”

“Well, I’m sorry if I make you dizzy—”

“No, don’t be.” His palm presses against my cheek. “Don’t say that, please.”

Then—softer, steadier, in a voice I don’t recognize—

“I’m flattered. It’s for me, right?”

 “How do you know that?” I ask.

“No one else here except me.”

“I could be imagining someone else.”

He frowns. "No, you don’t."

A pause. Then he casually—

“Look, hun.”

… again? My eyes twitch. 

 But Oikawa holds my gaze. 

"This isn’t just instinct, Shouyou.  You want me.” He takes a step closer. "And I want you…that’s not an opinion. That’s science. Your body is reacting to mine…a chemical reaction. Omega and alpha. It’s just biology.” 

Just biology…

A breath. A pause. 

I say nothing.

Oikawa exhales through his nose, slow and measured.

Then, softer—

"Give it a thought,” he says. “I’m here if you need me.” No smile. No smug. Just a plain, hardened expression—one that I never encountered before. I can say, if there’s one thing different about tonight, it’s Oikawa looking serious.

And that—that scared me a little.

He turns and walks into the dimly lit room, his silhouette fading into the dark.

I shut the door softly.

And just stand there.

Still. Silent.

Then, slowly—I roll my back against it and slump to the floor.

Oikawa was right.

This is ‘desire’—the slow, smoldering kind, burning low inside me.

And that alpha out there?

—Desirable.

Still...

This is a battle of wits. Mind versus body.

Because right now, my mind is screaming—

This is a mistake.

It’s reckless.

Don’t go.

Is what happened last time not enough?

That’s right. I have Ren.

One was already a miracle.

Another?

Another could be a disaster.

"I should just settle this myself," I say it.

I swear I do.

But somehow—

My hand is already on the door.

Already pulling it open.

Too hard. Too fast.

I step into the dim light of the living room.

Oikawa looks up. His eyes find mine instantly.

"Shouyou?"

I sink down beside him.

I open my mouth. The words slipped out faster than I thought. 

”Do me…please.”

The thing about this alpha? He knows exactly when to speak and when to let the silence stretch until it becomes unbearable.

Oikawa doesn’t answer right away. 

He just looks at me.

Really looks at me.

Like I’m something he’s trying to understand. Like I’m something fragile.

"Well, am I gonna sit here all night or what?" I say, calm, casual—even bored.

Or at least, that’s how it’s supposed to sound.

Because, God—why does the air suddenly feel thinner?

He exhales. Long and slow.

"You sure?"

No teasing.

No smirk.

Just quiet. Serious.

His eyes hold the question, waiting for me to say something.

I swallow hard. My throat bobs.

And suddenly—my tongue feels numb.

So I just… nod.

And that’s when he moves.

Slow. Stiff. Hesitant.

But he moves anyway.

His palm finds my face—cool against my feverish skin.

His thumb skims over my cheekbone, light, careful, like he’s afraid to break me.

His fingers curve under my jaw, tilting my face up.

I should say something.

Anything.

But all I can do is stare up at him, at the heat in his eyes.

Then, soft as a breath—

"Tell me if you want me to stop."

And I realize—

I don’t want him to.

The storm outside is blustering, filling the silence between us. Rain is hammering against the windows, and thunder is rumbling low in the distance. Every so often, a flash of lightning splits the sky, flashing silver shadows across the room. The only other light comes from the streetlamp outside, spilling through the sliding glass doors, wrapping us both in a soft, dim glow. 

I think it’s good that we are in the chaos of what nature has unleashed upon us. Because it drowns out the sound of my heartbeat that seems to pound louder with every passing second. 

If Oikawa heard it—really heard it—

He’d know. 

He’d know how much I’m shaking. 

Then—

His lips press against my neck. 

I freeze—every muscle going taut. My spine snapping straight. My toes curl in. 

“Relax, Shouyou,” he murmurs. Warm breath against my throat.  

He tugs me down to lie beside him. 

Before I can even process it, he’s above me. 

On all fours. 

Towering. 

His weight doesn’t press down, but I feel it—his heat. The presence of him. The way he fills the entire space makes it seem as if he belongs there. 

I look up at him, and something inside me stirs. 

Because this Oikawa?

I don’t know this Oikawa.

The dim streetlight outside slices across his face—that sharp cheekbones now look sharper than ever with that pair of heavy-lidded, pupil-wide eyes lazily blinking at me. 

My heart pounds—hard, erratic. I hitch, breath caught somewhere between a gasp and a plea.

It feels like a concert—standing at the edge of the stage, bass thrumming through my chest, blood rushing to my ears, every beat hammering against my ribs, threatening to split me open.

Except this isn’t a concert.

This is Oikawa.

Above me. Watching me.

I swallow, but my throat is too tight and dry. 

“Breathe, Shouyou,” he murmurs. 

His voice is low and soothing. Like he’s not afraid. Like he’s done this before. Of course he has, I think. 

His thumb moves in slow, patient circles, memorizing my pulse. His touch lingers, testing how much more I can take.

I barely recognize my voice when I whisper, “Oikawa-san…what should I do?”  I sound like a schoolboy.

He exhales, his breath warm against my skin. “Nothing. Just enjoy it, Shouyou. Let me do all the hard work.“

And just like that, my body stops shaking. 

He's exploring. Tending. Teasing.

And I’m floating.

I can’t stop looking at him—his crown, the sharp curve of his jaw, the way his lashes rest against his cheek as he focuses—entirely—on me.

His face is flushed. Just barely. A faint heat dusting his skin as he loses himself in the slow, careful unraveling of me.

Thread by thread.

The tension inside me loosens.

Slowly, my body gives in.

Craving the warmth, the closeness, the touch I’ve denied myself for so long.

A tiny sound escapes my lips—barely a moan, scarcely a breath—

But he hears it.

I slap my arm over my face, mortified. My skin burns, heat crawling up my neck.

"Shouyou," he whispers, gentle, certain like he already knows what I’m feeling.

Soft fingers pry my arm away.

"You don’t have to hide. It’s okay. It’s just me."

Just him…

Oikawa sits up, eyes searching mine, his fingers already brushing the hem of my shirt.

"Is it alright if I take this off?"

I nod.

Careful hands. Careful movements.

My shirt slips away.

And suddenly, I’m lying there, bare from the waist up.

His gaze moves over me—slow, tracing, taking in everything.

It’s strange. Being seen like this.

I’m no different from most men.

Broad shoulders. Lean muscle. Built for volleyball.

Except—

Smaller waistline.

Curves at the back.

An omega’s body.

I glance up at him.

There’s something in his eyes—a glint I can’t quite place.

Curiosity, maybe.

Or something deeper.

Something that makes my pulse stutter.

Then—his hands move again, ghosting over my skin.

"The moon must’ve borrowed its light from you…" he murmurs.

His touch doesn’t falter.

But mine does.

I’m not smart. I know that. Back in high school, I barely passed Japanese.

But even I can understand what he’s saying.

Those words. Those lines.

The kind boys throw at girls, smooth and practiced.

And I melt—just a little.

But then, another thought sneaks in.

Is he always like this?

Is this just what he says?

—To anyone?

Oikawa is practiced. Smooth. He knows exactly what to say, exactly how to make someone feel wanted.

It feels natural.

Too natural.

And that... scares me-a little.

"Shouyou," he says again, voice low, steady, commanding.

It pulls me from the spiral of my thoughts and yanks me back into this moment—into him.

"Can I take this off too?"

His hands are already at my waist, fingertips ghosting over my skin.

I nod—small, slow, unsure.

Then—somehow, it happens.

Quick. Effortless.

One second, my pants are on.

The next, they’re gone.

I barely process it before heat floods my body, and I instinctively curl in, trying to shield the last of my shame.

Oikawa stops.

And then—

He unties the robe.

One shoulder out.

Two shoulders.

Everything.

Now, it’s just us.

Bare. Exposed. Nothing left to hide.

Skin to skin.

And he looks like a—

Oh.

Oh, I think I’m melting.

His eyes rake over me—slow, lingering, up and down and up again.

Then—he smiles.

"You’re laughing. At me."

"No." He shakes his head, voice soft. "I just feel… undeserving."

"What?"

"You’re so amazing, Shouyou." His fingers skim my arm, deliberate, reverent. "I should be extra careful."

"What?—"

"Shh… concentrate, Shouyou."

That shhh goes straight to my stomach.

And then—his hands move.

The ones that had been lingering on my calf?

They creep up. Timid at first. Then bolder. Higher. Higher.

I jolt. A sharp inhale.

And then—I feel it.

Something… knocking. Lingering. Waiting for the right moment to enter.

"Do you trust me?" he asks as he folds me.

I swallow. My breath shudders.

"Can you… come outside?" I ask him back—shamelessly.

He smiles. Slow. Knowing.

"I intend to."

Slowly, he enters. 

Hot. Tight. Burning. Filling. 

And they’re not his fingers anymore.

The heat spreads—twisting, digging, making its way through me.

A sharp gasp tumbles from my lips. 

Oikawa is looking down at me, brows knitted together. 

And me is no less different.

My instinct takes over. My back arches, chasing the warmth, the connection—the thing I didn’t even realize I’d been longing for.

Every nerve in my body is awake, alive, trembling.

A shudder, a sharp spark running straight through me.

"O-Oikawa-san… I—I can’t—"

His hand moves—and slides up, cupping my face.

Fingers find my bangs, brushing them back, revealing my damp, overheated skin.

And then—a whisper.

"It’s okay. Let it out, Shouyou. Let it all out."

“But—but—“ 

Between every desperate ‘but,’ I cling to him.

Fingers digging into his shoulders, grip so tight I almost feel guilty.

He’ll probably feel it tomorrow.

But right now?

I can’t help it.

Every sensation crashes over me—wave after wave, pulling me under.

Heat builds, tightens, unraveling me completely.

Until—

Everything goes white.

I break.

I lose all restraint.

Breath ragged. Chest heaving. Body trembling.

A moment passes. 

The rush fades.

My senses return, slow and hazy.

And when I finally look up—

Oikawa is watching me.

Not smirking.

Not teasing.

Just watching.

Soft. Satisfied. Almost… affectionate.

And somehow, that look—his quiet, unshaken calm—

Makes me feel more exposed than anything else.

Without a word, he leans down.

The press of his lips meets my forehead.

He stays there for a moment.

Long enough for the warmth of his touch to settle into me.

"You did great, Shouyou," he murmurs.

And then—he pulls away.

Oikawa stands, tying the bathrobe loosely as he heads to the kitchen. The soft rustle of napkins, the gentle clink of something against the counter—then, he’s back, sinking beside me on the sofabed.

He doesn’t say anything or look at me; he just moves.

Back and forth. Up and down.

His touch is gentle, careful, and methodical. He cleans me up and tends to me. He does not speak, but he is not distant either.

When he’s done, he pulls the blanket over me, tucking it around my shoulders—firm but light.

For a second, he lingers.

As if he wants to say something.

As if the words were already there, sitting on his tongue.

But then, he turns.

And disappears into the bathroom.

Leaving me alone.

I lie there, wrapped in the warmth of the blanket, feeling the weight of the moment settle over me.

The silence feels strange—in a way, I don’t know how to carry them.

Do I get up? Go back to my own room?

Or should I stay here?

My gaze drifts to the faint shadows shifting on the ceiling, my mind spinning with questions.

Are we supposed to talk after something like this?

Or is this it?

I pull the blanket tighter around me.

What did I do great?

I’m still wondering about that.

I didn’t do anything.

I glance toward the bathroom door, but he’s still inside.

And the longer he’s gone, the more uncertainty creeps in.

Still, I wait.

Eyes growing heavier.

The exhaustion of the day—the emotions, the tension—finally settles in.

Outside, the rain has softened. A steady rhythm against the window.

Soft. Constant. Like a lullaby.

Before I even realize it, my body sinks into the mattress, my breathing slowing, slipping toward sleep.

Somewhere in the haze—half-dreaming, half-aware—

I feel it.

The faint stir of the blanket-shifting.

The mattress dips.

A familiar warmth seeps into the space beside me—quiet, unobtrusive, grounding.

A hand tugs the blanket snugly around my shoulders.

And then—

The soft press of lips against my temple.

Light. Lingering.

Like a whisper etched into my skin.

"Sweet dreams, Shouyou," a voice murmurs.

Low. Velvety. Right at the edge of my awareness.

A faint smile tugs at my lips.

The words wrap around me—warm, soothing, safe.

I want to respond.

To say something, anything.

But I’m already slipping away.

Drifting into the quiet softness of the moment.

Chapter Text

The soft giggles. The incoherent chatter.

They stir me from sleep.

Even in this groggy, hazy reality blur, I want to sleep more.

The warmth of the morning sun presses against my eyelids. The cool breeze drifts through the house. The rhythmic crash of waves fills the air, steady and soothing.

It’s perfect.

A perfect morning to stay curled up, drift, and sink deeper.

I wish I could have it.

But wishing is all I can do.

Because these two have been at it for a while—

"Can you say my name, Ren?" Oikawa coaxes, drawing out the sounds. “Toh…ru.”

"To-yuu!"

A loud laugh. "Close! But not quite. Come on, one more time. Toh…ru.”

Hah. Good luck with that. 

…

After an eternity, Ren finally says, “Taw…yuu.” Then my little man bursts into laughter, clearly amused with himself.

"Oh. You’re playing hard to get, huh?"

I can’t help but smile as I lie, one half-open eye, watching them.

After a few more rounds of “Toh-ru” and “Taw-yuu,” it seems they’ve settled on the nickname.

Oikawa ruffles Ren’s hair before heading back to the kitchen. Just as he opens the fridge and bends—

"Yuu-chan! Yuu-chan!"

Ren’s little arms wave wildly, his fingers pointing eagerly. "Juice!"

There it is. The highest honor Ren can bestow—a nickname.

That kid always has his way with names.

Oikawa stops mid-motion, straightens, and glances back at Ren. "Again?"

"Juice!" Ren chirps.

"Not that. The other one. What did you call me?"

Ren blinks. "Yuu…chan?"

Oikawa snorts. Then—laughs.

"It’s been so long since anyone called me that."

Ren just stares at him, his little face scrunched in confusion.

Oikawa grins, ruffling Ren’s hair. "Kid, you sound just like my granny."

He laughs again—full-bodied, unrestrained. I can see his shoulders shaking from here. 

I wonder what was so funny about it. But his laughter hasn’t subsided. He still sniffing, perhaps tearing up from the laughter. 

“Where does your sweet daddy keep your cup, Ren?” Oikawa is digging through the cabinet. 

Well, perhaps that’s my cue. 

“It’s in the dishwasher,” I say as I rise from the sofabed.

Both of them snap their heads in my direction.

"Good morning," I say, stretching with a grin.

“Good morning, Shouyou. You’re up.”

“Can’t sleep hearing all that,” I yawn and stretch lazily.  "Looks like you’ve been officially promoted to ‘Yuu-chan.’ That’s a high honor, you know."

Oikawa chuckles. "Yeah, well, your kid’s a tough negotiator. I guess I’ll take what I can get."

Ren toddles over to me, face bright. A banana in one hand. "Morning, Daddy."

"Good morning, honey."

He swoops into my arms. ”Yuu-chan give me this!"

Oikawa appears beside us, two mugs in hand.

"Here," he says, holding one out. "Black? Or do you prefer milk?"

"I drink anything, Oikawa-san. Thanks."

A nice gesture. Really. I take the cup—

And realize my mistake.

I’m still utterly naked under the blanket.

Oikawa’s gaze flickers downward.

I follow his eyes.

Oh! Oh no.

Marks. Red. Fresh. Scattered across my chest.

Heat rushes up my neck. I shove the mug back at him.

"My shirt."

Ren points at a crumpled piece of fabric. "Daddy, here!"

I take it from him quickly, muttering, "Thanks, honey."

Throw it on.

Pants. Where—?

I lift the blanket. There.

I grab them, clutching the shirt as low as it’ll go.

"Bathroom," I mutter.

And make a run for it.

Oikawa’s laughter follows me all the way.

Once inside, I shut the door, inhale deep, and exhale slowly.

Then—I make the mistake of looking in the mirror.

Messy hair.

Red marks. Everywhere.

One—no, two—on my neck. A couple on my chest. And when I lift my shirt and peek down—

Oh.

Even a few on my inner thighs.

I squeeze my eyes shut, cheeks burning.

How—

When—

Did he really—

No wonder I melted like hot chocolate last night.

Damn. This is so embarrassing.

Flashes of last night slam into me.

His hands.

His mouth.

His eyes—the way they looked at me.

And his…his—

I slap my cheeks. 

Hard. Damn, that stings.

Get it together, Shouyou!

He’s just a friend.

And that? That was a favor.

A. Fa. Vor. Got that?

A friend who’s way too good at “helping” apparently leaves bite marks as part of the package.

—Who said that?!

Come on, you were the one who asked for it.

The one who said, “Do me, please,” in that confident stroke.

You shouldn’t be flustered now.

That’s right. You’re an adult.

Not a high school kid.

—An adult.

Adults do these kinds of things.

…Right?

Arghhhhh!!!

I ruffle my hair aggressively.

Whatever. Thinking about this won’t get me anywhere.

I splash cold water on my face, hoping—praying—it’ll do its job and calm me down.

I step back into the living room, fully dressed, face washed, hair tamed.

I walk like my high school principal is watching me from behind.

Should we talk about it?

Or just pretend like nothing happened?

Before I can overthink, I glance at the man by the counter.

Completely nonchalant.

In wrinkle shirt—the one I forgot to take out of the dryer last night.

A quick glance my way.

A grin.

A nod.

A wave for me to shuffle faster.

No hint of discomfort. No awkwardness.

Like last night didn’t happen.

Right.

So, act like nothing happened.

I can do that.

…Maybe.

I slide onto the counter stool.

Scrambled eggs. Toast. A small bowl of salad and tomatoes. Coffee.

Oikawa sits across from me.

Ren, in his high chair, happily munching on toast.

Oikawa clasps his hands together. "Alright, let’s eat, Shouyou. I know you’re hungry."

We murmur a quick thank-you for the food.

Ren, ever the mimic, does the same.

We eat.

In silence.

Until—

"Oh, I ‘borrowed’ your toothbrush," Oikawa suddenly says.

I pause mid-bite. "What?"

"Hope you don’t mind." He shrugs. "Did a little digging in your medicine cabinet. Found a fresh one in the pack."

I sip my coffee. "Hmmm. Go ahead."

A beat of quiet.

I chew, then mumble through a mouthful, "Eggs are good."

"I know, right? I can make them with my eyes closed."

I squint at him. "Mmm-hmm."

Oikawa grins. "No, seriously. I was a disaster in the kitchen when I first moved to Argentina. But I practiced. And practiced. And voilà—" he gestures at my plate. "Your five-star breakfast, courtesy of yours truly.” He laughs, clearly pleased with himself.

I raise an eyebrow. "I believe you. You’re pretty natural in the kitchen. Guess that’s just another special skill of the great ‘Grand King,’ huh?"

Oikawa laughs, giving me a mock bow.

"I do what I can," he smirks. "But actually, I cook a lot back in Argentina. Living alone, it was either learning to cook or survive on takeout."

He pauses and takes a slow sip of his coffee.

"I lasted two months on Argentinian food." A small shrug. "Then I started missing home."

I nod as he talks about life in Argentina—how he learned to make his favorite meals from scratch just to get a taste of home.

New country. New language. New challenges.

For the first time, I realized how different his life must be. How much he’s given up, how much he’s built for himself. The steps he took to be where he is now… they’re huge.

And it makes me glad.

Because it means I’m not the only one crazy enough to throw myself into the unknown for something we love.

"So… what’s the plan over there?" I ask, curious. "Like, long-term?"

He pauses, looking down at his plate before answering.

"Actually, I’m in the process of changing citizenship," he says, catching me off guard. "If I want to play for Argentina’s national team, I need to be a citizen. So… that’s the goal."

...Changing citizenship. Committing to an entirely new country. That’s not a decision anyone makes lightly.

"Wow," I murmur. "That’s… huge."

He shrugs, but there’s a flicker of pride in his eyes.

"Yeah. It’s not just some paperwork, either. Japan doesn’t allow dual citizenship, so I must renounce my Japanese nationality." His fingers tap against his plate. "Once I do that… there’s no going back."

I stare at him. "Are you really okay with that?"

He exhales, then meets my gaze.

"You know," he says, "I’m not a genius like that damn Tobio. I realized that a long time ago. Talent? That’s something you’re born with. But skill? You can sharpen it, refine—something you earn." His voice is steady, certain. "And I refuse to lose before I even fight for it. I’ll do whatever it takes to get 'there.' It’s been a journey, for sure. But I’m determined. This is what I want. So I’m all in."

I nod, a part of me in awe.

Another part? Maybe a little jealous—of his confidence, his certainty.

To me, Oikawa has always been intense about volleyball.

But this?

This is something else entirely.

We fall into a comfortable silence as we finish breakfast.

I’m just starting to relax when—

"I’ll need to leave after breakfast," Oikawa says.

His tone is casual.

But somehow,… heavier.

"My flight to Argentina is this afternoon."

The news hits me harder than I expected.

I knew he wasn’t here to stay.

Logically, I knew.

We’d only run into each other by pure chance two days ago.

Him staying here last night?

-Completely unplanned.

But somehow, hearing him say it feels like iced water to the face.

What the hell am I thinking?

This is Oikawa.

The guy I barely talked to in high school.

The one whose presence made me shudder—yet silently rejoice because it meant I got to play against him.

And now, suddenly, I’m getting all sentimental about him leaving?

I scrub a hand over my face, half-expecting that maybe I’m still half-asleep or drowning in last night’s mess. 

Yeah, that’s got to be it. Anything else is just… ridiculous.

I must’ve gone quiet in that brief moment because when I look up—

Oikawa’s watching me. One eyebrow raised. That small, knowing smile.  

“Missing me already?” And then—he flicks my forehead. 

Of course, it stings. I rub the sore spot. “I— that’s not—” I stammer, my cheeks burning. “I mean, it’s just… I wasn’t expecting you to leave Rio so soon, that’s all.”

His smile widens, and there’s a glint of something in his eyes that makes me feel even more self-conscious. 

“Uh-huh,” he says. “Just admit it, Shouyou. You’re gonna miss me.”

I scoff, looking away, but I know my face is red.

 “Don’t get ahead of yourself, Oikawa-san.” 

I poke at the last toast on my plate, suddenly interested in it.

"I just… thought we’d have more time to hang out.”

He leans in a bit over the small dining table, voice dropping.

“Well, it’s not like I’m disappearing. Besides—" his grin returns, full force, "I haven’t even taught you how to pronounce my name correctly."

I snort, rolling my eyes. “Tooooru, right?” I drag out the syllables on purpose.

“Hmmm. You and that kid, are father and son, after all.” 

“To-yuu!” Ren chimes in through a mouthful of food, completely oblivious to the moment he just hijacked.

We laugh. Ren too. The morning routine falls back to usual until Oikawa suddenly asks, “So, who’s Toshi-kun?”

“What?—“

Chapter Text

A week has passed since Oikawa left.

Another Friday night.

Another lively beach.

Training goes on as usual—superb, in fact.

That short time spent playing with Oikawa? More than worth it.

I learned a lot. And now, I’ve been practicing what he preached—adjusting, reading the court differently, seeing angles I never noticed. And damn it—it works.

Not surprising. The man is the epitome of perfection in my volleyball world.

And yet, here I am, sitting on the beach post-practice, staring at the ocean, about to ruin my night with a question gnawing at me.

“Sofia… what does it mean when two people sleep together but don’t even kiss on the lips?”

She turns to me, eyes widening.

“Oh my god, Shouyou. Don’t tell me.”

I blink.

Sofia leans in, mouth hanging open. “You slept with him?!”

I choke on my own breath. “No—!” I sputter. “I mean—not me. A friend. Asking for a friend.”

“Nah, sweetie.” She points a finger at me. “You can’t lie to me. Look at you—red already. I knew it. I knew it!”

She pumps a fist into the air like she’s just won a bet with herself.

“What exactly did you know?” I ask, wary.

“That guy—Prince Charming. I saw it. The way he looked at you. The way he smiled. All pleased and charming. Like—”

She stops mid-sentence, tilting her head. Her teasing grin fades slightly. “Wait… you’re not happy it happened?”

I hesitate.

“I… he said he’d call,” I admit.

She raises an eyebrow. “And?”

I glance down at my hands. “He didn’t.”

She hums, thoughtful. “And the kiss?”

I shake my head. “Didn’t happen. Not even goodbyes. He just waved…”

Then, after a pause—

But he did. My forehead. My temples… Everywhere else. Just not my lips.” I exhale, rubbing a hand down my face. “I don’t know…” My voice sounds exasperated. “Is it too much to expect a kiss on the lips while we were… doing that?”

Sofia’s lips purse. “Hmmm.”

“Yeah,” I mumble. “Made me wonder if it was really just… a favor.”

“—A favor?”

“Or was I just bad at it?” My voice dips even lower, barely above a whisper.

Sofia lets out a chuckle. “Oh, come on.”

“It was my first time… in two years.”

Her eyebrows shoot up. “Really?”

I nod, inhaling deeply before dragging a hand down my face. “I came so fast. I didn’t even know about him.”

Sofia cackles. “Honey, you’re brutally honest.”

I groan. “I don’t know how it happened.” I bury my face in my hands. “God, this is so embarrassing.”

I pause, trying to gather my thoughts.

“That night—I was on a roller coaster. My hormones were unchecked. You know how attractive he is. He kept teasing me—little touches, gazes, stepping into my space. And my body just… responded to that. Very much. Worse? He could smell me. And he offered to help. ‘A relief,’ he called it.”

I glance at Sofia, my voice quieter now.

“He said my pheromones were affecting him too. It was a win-win situation.”

I exhale, staring at the sand.

“But… is that normal? For an omega and an alpha who aren’t even in love?”

Sofia looks at me, then leans in, her voice barely above a whisper.

“So… was he good?”

I whip my head toward her.

“Very—” I clamp my mouth shut. Shit.

Her smirk explodes into a full-on cackle.

“Hey! I’m being serious here!”

She laughs harder, patting my back. “I know, I know! Sorry! Can’t help it—I’m curious!”

She leans back, stretching her legs out in the sand.

Heitor went to grab drinks ages ago and still hasn’t come back. Probably stuck chatting with the locals.

She exhales. “Honestly? I’m not an expert in this either.”

Then, in a whisper—

“I had a few relationships before Heitor.”

I gape at her. “Really?”

She grins. “Some intense, some casual. Don’t tell Heitor.” She winks. “But all of them were sexual.

We met. Had drinks. Maybe dinner. A few dates. And the next thing I knew, we were in bed.”

She turns to me. “The sex? Good. But the relationships? Didn’t last.”

She shrugs. “I think… the longest was six months with a woman alpha. She understood me. Like, really got me. But that was it.”

I shift uncomfortably. “Should you be telling me this?”

She laughs. “It’s all in the past. I told Heitor some of it, too. Just some.”

I shake my head.

She looks out at the ocean. “The point is, Shouyou… those relationships? They were all sexual attraction.

Temporary feelings.”

She sighs, suddenly looking more thoughtful than before.

“I didn’t feel the ‘thing’ with them.”

I frown. “The thing?”

She waves a hand. “Ugh, how do I explain this?”

Now she’s talking like an Italian, hands flailing dramatically.

“The spark. The thing that makes you go breathless under his gaze.”

I stay silent.

She looks at me. “Do you feel that with Oikawa?”

I stiffen. Did I?

My mind replays everything—his hands, his voice, the way he looked at me like I was something he wanted to keep.

“It felt… crazy good,” I murmur. “Thankful. Awkward. Hopeful.”

A beat of silence.

I glance at Sofia. Her grin is positively feral.

I groan, dropping my head into my hands. “Did I say all that out loud?”

“Enough for everyone here to hear it.” She chuckles. “Look, I’m just saying—there’s a difference. Between just wanting someone and actually feeling something for them.”

I glance at her. “Do you feel that with Heitor?”

She smiles. Soft. Certain.

“I feel like dying every day.”

I blink. “Is… is that bad or good?”

She laughs.

“When your knees shake. When you’re breathless. When he does nothing, you still want to jump on him and never let go.”

She leans back into the sand. “But most importantly—he makes me feel safe. I never felt that with anyone else.”

She turns to me, gaze steady.

“Dead and come back to life. Wanting to be with him. Again and again. That’s how I knew he was the one.”

We sit in silence, watching the waves roll onto the sand. More people pour onto the beach, their laughter and footsteps filling the evening air.

Then, before I can stop myself—

“I called someone else’s name in my sleep.”

Sofia’s head snaps toward me. “What?”

“Oikawa said I—" I swallow. “He said I mumbled ‘Good night, Toshi-kun’ in my sleep.”

A pause.

“And who, pray tell, is Toshi-kun?”

I scratch the back of my head, eyes darting to the sand.

“Ren’s father.”

Sofia’s eyes go comically wide before narrowing into something way too mischievous.

“Ooo?… Ooo…?” She leans in. “You’re a naughty one, aren’t ya?”

“Hey!” I yell, scandalized. “I was asleep, okay?! How would I know?”

She bursts out laughing.

And then—

“Ren Ren!” she calls out, turning toward my kid.

Ren, halfway through building a lopsided sandcastle, perks up. “Huh?”

Sofia cups her hands around her mouth. “Your daddy misses your dad.”

Ren tilts his head, mouth hanging open in confusion.

Panic kicks me in the chest.

“NO—No, no, no!” I shove her, waving frantically at Ren.

“She’s joking! Jo-king! Don’t listen to her!”

____

It’s Saturday morning.

I sip my coffee at the counter, watching Ren chew on his toast, his little feet swinging beneath the chair. My mind runs through the checklist—tournament prep, training schedules, and last-minute adjustments.

Then—my phone rings.

I glance at the screen.

Mom.

A weird feeling nudges at my chest. She usually texts first.

"Mom?" I answer, pressing the phone to my ear.

"Shouyou," she greets, her voice softer than usual.

"How’s everything? How’s Ren?"

I nod automatically—though she can’t see it. "Healthy as ever. Eats like a champion."

"And you?"

"Never been better," I say, giving her the usual rundown—tournament, training, routine.

She listens. But she’s quiet.

Too quiet.

A pause.

Too long.

I shift in my seat, fingers curling tighter around my cup. "Mom? Is everything okay?"

Another pause. Then, a slow, careful sigh.

"I wanted to talk to you about something."

A weird weight settles in my chest.

This isn’t a casual check-in.

I glance at Ren—still happily munching on toast, unaware of the sudden shift in the air.

"What’s up?" I ask, keeping my voice light.

Mom inhales. "You remember… Kageyama?"

My grip tightens around the mug. "Uh… yeah?" My voice comes out more defensive than I mean. "Kind of hard to forget him, Mom. What about Kageyama?"

She hesitates. Then, carefully—too carefully—

"That day at the airport. When we sent you off. You remember?"

I stare down at my coffee, suddenly too aware of how my heart picks up speed.

"Of course, Mom." My voice is quieter now. "How could I not?"

"Well… after you went in, we ran into him at the airport," she says, waiting for my reaction. "And… Ushijima was with him."

My heart skips a beat.

And suddenly, I’m back there—standing in the bustling airport, pushing Ren’s stroller toward the gate.

Me and Ren on one side of the glass.

Them, on the other.

Kageyama—staring. Stunned.

Ushijima—silent. Expression was unreadable.

And me?

I walked away.

Because I was scared. Because I wasn’t ready. 

But in the present, Mom’s voice pulls me back.

"Shouyou? Are you listening?"

I blink. Shake myself free. "Yeah… sorry," I mumble, still reeling.

"I know this isn’t what you wanted to hear. But the airport was just the beginning."

My grip tightens around the phone. What does she mean?

"They showed up again. At our doorstep. Last week. Asking for you."

My breath catches.

"And so I thought… maybe it’s time, Shouyou. They need to hear it from you. And… Ren deserves to know where he comes from."

"He comes from me, Mom."

"I know, honey, I know. But it takes two to tango. You know that, too."

I exhale sharply, my chest already hollowing out from this conversation. "Mom, I left Japan to start fresh. I… I’m not even sure I’m ready to see them."

"I know," she sighs. "But they won’t let it go, Shouyou. I can’t say much about Ushijima—I barely know him. But Kageyama…"

Something in her voice makes my stomach twist.

"What about him?"

She hesitates.

"That boy, the one I knew since high school… after the airport, I haven’t seen him like this since those days.”

A pause.

"Like what?" My voice was barely a whisper.

"Determined."

She exhales.

“He punched Ushijima. Right in the face. At the airport. In front of everyone.”

I jerk forward. "He WHAT?"

"Yeah." A pause. "I’m sorry, Shouyou. I kept this from you because I didn’t want you to be bothered with it. But now… the situation is out of hand."

My heart is racing now. Why would Kageyama punch Ushijima?

Unless…

"Mom." My voice is sharp. "Does Kageyama know?"

A beat of silence.

Then—

"Yeah… he does."

Cold seeps into my fingers.

"Because Ushijima… well, let’s just say he admitted it. To everyone."

My stomach turns to stone.

"Admitted what?"

Mom takes a breath.

"That he spent the night with you."

A sharp, ringing silence.

"That the kid he saw at the airport could be his."

The phone slips from my hand.

I stare. Blank. Disoriented. My ears ring.

The words repeat.

Ren. Ushijima. Kageyama.

It’s like someone took my world and tilted it at an angle I can’t fix.

"Shouyou?" Mom’s voice is distant, muffled through the receiver. "Are you still there?"

I snatch the phone back up. "Yeah." My voice doesn’t sound like mine.

"Honey, listen. Ushijima said other things, too. He—"

Ding-dong.

The doorbell rings.

The sound punches through me, grounding me back into the present.

I let out a breath. Deep. Shaky.

"Mom, I need to get the door. I’ll call you back."

She starts to protest, but I set the phone down.

The doorbell rings again.

"Coming!" I call out, forcing my feet to move.

But my stomach is still tight.

My heart is still pounding.

And my mind?

My mind is running a mile a second.

Because whoever is on the other side of that door—

They’re about to add to the chaos.

With one last glance at Ren, who's watching me with wide, innocent eyes, I push up from my seat. My legs feel stiff like they don’t quite belong to me. The weight of the conversation with Mom still clings to me, heavy, unsettling.

The doorbell rings again. Urgent. Impatient.

I rub my palms against my sweatpants, trying to steady myself, but my fingers tremble. I know. I know this isn’t just some delivery guy or a neighbor stopping by. The timing is very odd.

I take a slow, deliberate breath. Then another.

The space between me and the door has never felt this long. Every step feels measured and cautious. But I keep going. Because I have to.

Because they’re waiting.

One step.

Two.

Three.

I reach the handle. My fingers hesitate. Curl. Uncurl.

The door feels heavier than it should. My pulse thuds against my ribs.

And then—before I can talk myself out of it—I pull it open.

I freeze.

My brain stalls. Completely.

Standing there, looking just as intense and determined as ever—is Kageyama.

And behind him—calm, unreadable, and undeniably present—is Ushijima.

My breath catches.

My knees falter.

I grip the door tight.

Kageyama’s eyes lock onto mine the second the door swings open. There’s no hesitation, no shift in his gaze—just focus. Intensity. That sharp, unyielding presence I remember so well.

He looks... mature. Sharper. His jaw-more defined, his frame broader, more solid. But his expression—that fire burning behind his eyes? It hasn’t dimmed. If anything, it burns brighter, with an intensity I’ve never seen before. 

Like he came here with a purpose.

Like he won’t leave without answers.

Ushijima stands just behind him, hands in his pockets, with a posture as composed as ever. But his presence is no less suffocating. He’s watching me, too, with that same unshakable steadiness that makes my stomach twist.

For a second, I don’t move.

I don’t speak.

I don’t even breathe.

Because moving means running, speaking might drain what little words I have left, and breathing—do I even have the air for that?”

Because this moment—the one I’ve spent years running from—has finally caught up to me.

Chapter Text

If not for Mom’s call, I might’ve convinced myself I was still dreaming—trapped in some fevered hallucination stitched from the seams of my volleyball days. But reality, for some cruelly obvious reason, holds firm.

I blink hard and stare at them again, half-hoping they’ll vanish. Then, I can shut the door, return to my tea, and pretend the morning is still mine.

But they don’t disappear.

They remain.

And I am still here.

Ren behind me, small hands tugging at the waistband of my sweatpants—a reminder that the present is real and tangible.

There’s a line drawn at the door. An invisible threshold neither of us knows how to cross. Once they do, I’m not sure what remains on the other side.

“Kageyama?” I manage. “U…shijima-san?” I open the door halfway.

“Hinata,” Kageyama says, voice taut, like he’s holding it together with frayed thread. One hand grips the doorframe, knuckles pale. “I’ve been looking for you.”

Before I can respond, Ushijima steps forward, his full weight emerging into view.

“We both have,” says Ushijima.

Suddenly, my vision whites out. Not metaphorically—literally. A blur of black presses into my frame, swallowing the edges of the hallway until I’m enclosed in it.

It’s warm. It smells like something crisp and clean—subtle cologne clinging to a shirt that’s been on too many long-haul flights. A trace of musk beneath it is sharp and instinctive, like something primal that triggers memory before thought.

“Oh, I’m so glad I found you, Hinata. I looked everywhere,” says the voice I recognize instantly—low, rushed, unmistakably Kageyama.

My arms, which had stayed rigid at my sides, rise. I pat his back softly, carefully. Kageyama’s shoulder presses near my cheek. He trembles—barely—but I feel it. 

Behind him, I catch a glimpse—Ushijima, silent in the doorway, gaze steady, face still—like he’s watching without looking.

Kageyama pulls back. 

I run a hand through my unkempt hair—too long now, curling at the nape. My eyes shift between the two men.

Kageyama and Ushijima—two different versions of gravity pulling at me at once.

My brain scrambles. Words flicker and die before they form. What do I say? What do I ask first?

Ren squirms at my legs, tiny fingers tugging at my shirt as he peeks around me. I react before I think, pulling him closer, shielding him with the curve of my body until I feel his cheek pressed against my thigh.

“Daddy?” he whispers, voice a thin quiver.

I know why he’s trembling. I feel it, too—the weight in the air, the caustic burn in my nose. The scent is too thick, too sharp. It scratches at the back of my throat and rattles my nerves. But maybe that’s what I need. Perhaps that’s what they didn’t expect—how it jolts me clean out of my daze and knocks my spinning thoughts into place.

It’s overpowering—in a menacing sort of way. It’s real.

And it forces me to speak; 

“I’ll let you two in—if you shut off those pheromones. They’re suffocating.”

“Who—?” Kageyama starts, then wheels around and snaps, “You! Stop that shit! You trying to gas us out? You know how bad that stinks up the air in here?”

Ah…I get it now. That’s why. These two—

“Sorry,” Ushijima says, face blank in the way only he can pull off. “I didn’t mean to—”

“Yeah, yeah.” Kageyama’s voice curls around the words like smoke. “You never mean to. And look what it does to people anyway.”

That sudden outburst—his voice so loud, louder than I’ve ever heard from Kageyama—knocks me clean off balance. 

They exchange a look—one of those silent, competitive stares I’d almost forgotten about. And, it seems Ushijima’s flustering—losing. 

I’ll be honest: I don’t want to be caught between those stares. It feels like they could burn me to ash. Still—do I really need to play mediator here? Because right now these two are like oil and water. 

“Well? You’re just gonna stand there or what?” 

The staring stops. 

They step inside.

We cluster in the living room.

They take the sofa. I sit across from them on a chair dragged from the dining table, which still holds the remnants of Ren’s breakfast—toast crumbs and a browning banana peel. Ren’s, obviously.

The culprit is at my feet, cross-legged, quietly clicking his Duplo blocks together.

The silence stretches—awkward, heavy. I realize I have no idea where to begin. My hands keep shifting: resting on my thighs, clasping together, and back to my thighs again.

I glance at them.

Ushijima is calm, too calm. His gaze keeps flicking between me and Ren.

Kageyama… he’s about to burn a hole through the carpet. His fists are clenched so tight I can see the veins from where I sit. Finally, he speaks. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

That— was expected. One of the many questions.

And I have answers—dozens of them—prepared just for this.

Answers that make sense. That justifies it. That sounds responsible, brave, or tragic, depending on who’s listening. Friends, not friends, anyone. I’ve crafted them all.

Maybe I could even toss back a couple of rhetorical counter-questions:

What’s it like to feel your body betray your future?

To carry something you didn’t plan for and watch it erase everything you thought made you you?

To flinch at pity. To live afraid of being seen as broken. Or worse—weak.

But the truth is, I don’t feel that way anymore.

Brazil gave me back something I thought I’d lost—my body, my hunger, my rhythm.

I remembered who I was. Who I could still be.

But damn—my tongue betrays me. Kageyama isn’t just a friend. He’s more than that. He’s my person. My confidante. My ride-or-die. 

And I left him just like that.

So, I stay silent.

Solemn—that’s the only word that fits as I keep my eyes on him.

Kageyama leans forward. Elbows tucked on his knees. “I looked for you, Hinata. For a long time. You just disappeared—after that night at the club. No goodbye. Nothing.” He swallows. His hands tighten. “You were alone in Chiba, for God’s sake. I thought—God,” he scrubs his face, “I thought you’d been kidnapped back then." He exhales sharply, breath catching in his throat, like just saying it tightens his chest all over again. "I searched for you like a madman—checked the curbs in Shibuya, Kabukicho, praying I wouldn’t find you there—lifeless. Cold."

His jaw tenses. His Adam’s apple bobs as he swallows hard. but he continues anyway. And I let him be.

“My mind went wild. I imagined the worst.” His voice dips—lower, rougher, like the weight of those words has been sitting on his chest for years. “I went to your house two years ago. Asked your mom where you were. And I didn’t even know if she knew you were missing. And me? I just stood there, wondering if I was making things worse just by showing up.” His voice falters. Then softens—something hoarse, bare. “But thank God, she said you were safe. Somewhere. But, Hinata... I was worried as hell! And you…” He averts his gaze, jaw twitching. “You had no idea…”

The room goes still. No one says a word.

And then—

“And at the airport,” Kageyama says as if the memory had just surfaced. “When I saw you, you—you—” He sighs. The words don’t come out. Maybe he’s lost it.

He said all that.

And I’m still sitting here—on a too-hard dining chair that wobbles slightly with every breath—cowering in guilt like a schoolboy getting an earful from a teacher.

But as I’m still processing Kageyama’s words, Ushijima straightens slightly in his seat, posture tightening like he’s about to speak for the first time in hours.

“Hinata—”

“Don’t call him that, you fucking dickhead!” Kageyama snaps, sudden and sharp, eyes flashing with barely restrained fury.

Ren flinches behind me, clutching my sweatpants with both hands.

My eyes twitch.

“Kageyama—” I say, voice low, trying to steady the tremble that wants to slip in. 

“You— followed me here, didn’t you?!” Kageyama spits. “Don’t act like you have the right to be part of this. I’m the one trying to talk to him.”

Ushijima pauses. His eyes widen—just for a second.

Maybe, like me, he’s caught off guard by the outburst.

But then, just as quickly, the shock fades. And his composure snaps back into place—like a mask being quietly, expertly refastened.

“I haven’t forgiven you, you dickhead. Do you really think you can just waltz in here and goad him into doing things that please you?”

Mom’s right. He’s different. Kageyama has changed.

With a much more restrained voice, Ushijima says, “No, Kageyama. It’s not that—I would never do that to him—”

“Yeah, you’ve been saying that a lot lately.” Kageyama scoffs, pointing a finger, his face twisting in disgust. “But you know what? I don’t trust you. Not one bit. You’re—” he pauses, then snarls, “—a wolf dressed as a man. A fucking sex-crazed wolf!”

Okay. My pulse ticks.

The air in the house shifts—heavier now. Weighted and wrong-charged with a tension that prickles over my skin like static before a storm.

Their pheromones—Alpha, unmistakable—are thick in the room, colliding in the air, swirling like an invisible hurricane.

I can’t see it, but I feel it pressing in. Like the house itself holding its breath.

It’s suffocating.

Even Ren squirms at my feet, his tiny face scrunched tight, sensing it too. 

And they’re still at it—

“For crying out loud, Kageyama. Please, if you’d just let me—” Ushijima tries to reason.

But Kageyama—eyes blazing, shoulders rigid—suddenly surges to his feet. He grabs Ushijima by the collar.

The big guy doesn’t resist. He just follows the motion, rising to stand, stoic as ever.

“Listen, you fuck—”

I don’t even know how it happens. One second, I’m frozen; the next—I’m already in the middle. Hands out, shoving them apart. One East. One West. And worse, I’m heaving. Really heaving. My chest rises and falls too fast. 

Is the air getting thinner, or are my lungs just shrinking? I can’t tell.

My eyes are wide. “Stop it, you two! This is my house! I haven’t even said a thing, and you’re already pulling each other’s hair?!”

Yeah. I think my patience just snapped.

Silence.

Thick, stunned silence.

No one moves.

Kageyama’s fists are still clenched, frozen mid-motion.

Ushijima stands stiff, collar wrinkled where Kageyama’s hand had been.

Behind me, Ren sniffles. He’s clutching the leg of the dining chair I was sitting on, tiny fingers tight around the wood like it’s the only thing holding him steady.

Even I’m turning into a madman.

And he’s right here. Watching.

I don’t want my kid to see me like this.

My arms are still outstretched—one toward each of them—like my body hasn’t realized the shouting’s over.

Like it’s bracing for another blow.

I don’t look at either of them—couldn’t give a damn. If Kageyama is madly angry, then I am livid. All I can hear is the blood in my ears and the shallow rise and fall of my chest. 

“Hi—Hinata—”

I cast a sharp look at Kageyama.
“You!” I point at him—full-on, finger-jabbing, no-holding-back pointing.
“I have a kid in here. My neighbor’s right next door. It’s morning. If you two want to throw hands, take it outside. Not in my house.”

Then, lower—just for these two giant idiots:
“Bleed all you want. I won’t give a damn.”

I look at them. Left and right.  I’m still breathing hard. But when I speak again, my voice comes out softer—like I’ve just stepped into one of those astronomical exhibitions. The kind so beautiful it stops you mid-step, makes you forget to breathe. “Either you both leave, or we talk like normal humans.”

“But I didn’t do anything—” Ushijima mutters defensively.

I shoot him a look. That look. The one that says, zip it.

Thank God he actually listens.

Kageyama and Ushijima exchange a glance. I watch as they both exhale—slowly, deliberately—reining in the heat they’d been bleeding into the room.

But I don’t miss it. The way Ushijima’s eyes keep drifting toward Ren. Lingering a moment too long.

I carry Ren to the bedroom and gently set him down, placing a few of his favorite toys beside him.

“Are you scared?” I ask.

He nods, his fingers fidgeting, reaching for each other.

My heart breaks.

“I’m sorry, honey. You had to see that.”

I brush his bangs aside, smoothing them with my hand.

“To tell you the truth, I was shocked too.”

I pause, letting my voice soften.

“But Daddy’s going to set things straight, okay? We—adults—we’re going to talk now. So just play here for a bit, alright?”

Ren looks up at me, wide-eyed. “Daddy will be okay?” he asks quietly.

“Daddy’s going to be fine, sweetheart.” I smile, even if it feels a little shaky. “They’re friends. Good people. They didn’t mean to shout. But... well—never mind.” I pat his head. “I’ll be back in a jiffy, okay?”

He nods, reaching for his toys without another word.

I step back, hand tightening around the doorknob.

And then, slowly, I head out.

The two alphas have quieted down. Ushijima sits still, hands clasped. Kageyama scrolls his phone like nothing happened.

Honestly, how are they even teammates?

“So?” I say, pulling out a dining chair and sitting down. “Which is it? In or out?”

“—In,” they both say in sync, in a heartbeat.

I raise an eyebrow. “Good. Now we speak. Like adults. No ‘f’ bombs, please.” I throw a sharp glance at Kageyama for good measure.

They nod. But neither says a word.

And the clock is ticking. 

Did they come to some sort of agreement while I was gone? 

Maybe this is my cue. 

“How did you find me?” I start.

Kageyama’s jaw tightens. “Saw your photo.”

I narrow my eyes.

“—Kindaichi showed it to me.” He explains. “—you and Oikawa. In Rio.”

 I stare. That did it? 

My attention shifts to Ushijima. 

Startled, he jumps in quickly. “I saw it too. From Iwaizumi-san. I believe it was the same photo Kageyama saw.” 

That photo. That darn photo.

The one Oikawa posted with that dumb caption—“Met this gorgeous old friend”—and a picture of us laughing on the beach.

That’s all it took to set off this entire chain of events?

"And how did you find me here?"

"-your mom," Kageyama replies.

I look at Ushijima. 

"-same."

I rub the bridge of my nose.

I’m so screwed.

I said I was ready. That whatever happens happens.

Let the world know—because I didn’t care anymore.

But this?

This is different.

When reality hits—and it hits when you least expect it—it leaves you with no room to breathe.

And maybe all I can do now... is wade through it.

“Look, I didn’t…” My voice trails off. 

I search for the words—the right ones. Because one: I was tired of explaining myself. Of being that same stupid, cowardly version of me. And two: This is the life I built. Slowly. Carefully. With Ren. And I like it this way.

I want it to stay this way. Without all the noises.

So I settle for: “I just… I needed time. To figure things out on my own. That’s why I chose to stay quiet about this.”

I gesture around the apartment. “All of this.”

I hope they understand what I mean. But regardless, I continue. “And I, um… Kageyama—sorry. For worrying you all these years. I didn’t mean to. It was selfish. I was immature. Back then, I thought disappearing would make things easier.”

I shift in my seat. Straighten up.

And then—I bow. Just a little. “Forgive me, please?”

“W–what are you doing?” Says Kageyama, already in front of me, knees on the floor. He grabs my shoulders—tight, like he’s trying to shake something loose. Maybe my guilt. Maybe the space between us. 

“I never wanted your apology,” he says. “Not from you. You didn’t do anything wrong!” He glances over his shoulder—at Ushijima, sitting stiffly on the sofa. Then he looks back at me, and there it is.

That look. I used to see them right before he’d set a perfect toss, and I’d spike it like we were the only two people on the court.

—Satisfied. Focused. Certain.

“I just want you to know,” he says quietly, “I care about you. Always.”

I look at him for a long moment.

I know I’ve said it before. Mom said it, too. And I’m saying it again now—

He’s changed.

What happened to that Kageyama?

The one who was always stiff, guarded, with a five-word vocabulary and zero emotional nuance.

I like that Kageyama.

But I like this one too.

I grin, just slightly.

“Wha—why are you laughing?” Kageyama asks.

“You’re—since when did you become this adorable?” I tease.

He jerks back. “What? A—adorable?”

He turns red. “Hinata! I’m being serious here. You can’t just—”

I pull him in—his head, to be exact—and wrap my arms around him. 

He doesn’t move. But I feel his weight shifting against me, burying his face wholly in my arms. 

“Shh... I know,” I whisper, patting his back gently. “I know. And I am, too.”

His breath settles against my shoulder.

—Warm. Real.

And I know—

I’ll never find anyone else like him.

Someone who’s always in sync with me.

Who’s always there for me.

Who says the nastiest things when it matters most,

while everyone else just glosses it over.

Damn you, Kageyama Idiot Tobio.

I think I’m going to cry.

Instead, I say,

“Thank you, Kageyama. You’re the best friend I've ever had.”

We stay like that for a minute. Maybe longer. I don’t count.

The silence holds.

Until someone—clears his throat.  

That reminds me—the third presence in the room still exists.

Ushijima.

“Um… listen,” I mutter to Kageyama, still pressed close. “I need to talk to Ushijima. Can you... check on my kid? See what he’s up to. Maybe play with him a little?”

I feel his head bob—a soft nod.

We split.

Kageyama steps back, red dusting the tips of his ears.

Maybe I went a little overboard.

I point toward my bedroom. “His name’s Ren. Introduce yourself. And don’t yell, or I’ll kick you out.”

“Yes, Your Highness,” he mutters, shooting a lazy glare at Ushijima before turning away. “Can I use your bathroom first? I’m about to burst here.”

“Straight ahead, end of the hall. And you don’t have to tell me that!”

That leaves just me and Ushijima.

Alone.

In this too-small living room.

The air is so still that every shift of fabric, every breath, feels loud. The kind of silence that tightens in your throat—suffocating.

I stand, ignoring his stare, and walk to the sliding balcony door. I shove it open.

The morning breeze rushes in—cool and crisp, catching my skin. It hits my face, and for a second, I close my eyes and let it in. Invigorating as ever. 

And then I hear it: the sound I’ve missed most. Waves crashing against the shore, soft at first, then louder, relentless, like the sea is trying to remind me it’s still there.

“Isn’t it lovely, Ushijima-san?” I say, not looking at him. My eyes are fixed on the view—pale light bleeding into the ocean line.

“—What is?”

“This.” I lift my hand, motioning at the invisible air swirling around me.

Ushijima doesn’t move. Still sunk into that same sofa. “I guess so.”

“But I bet you’ve seen better views. You’ve been traveling, haven’t you?”

“I have,” he says. Then, after a beat, “But the best view I’ve seen—it wasn’t a place. It was something I found close to me. Not long ago.” Then, in a softer voice, he says, “I wish I could take it home.”

I blink and glance back at him. “I don’t get it. But whatever. Every man for his own.”

Always the uptight one, huh. Can’t even let me win this one.

I sit again and lean back into the chair. The breeze still moves through the room, curling around the corners.

“Well,” I say, exhaling. “I’m ready to talk—”

Ushijima suddenly stands.

My eyes widen. 

My neck cranes back like it’s being pulled by some invisible force. 

My breath catches, and my fingers curl into the fabric of my sweatpants. I blink—once, twice, trying to make sense of what I see.

Don’t tell me...

Come on. How many men are going to kneel in front of me today?

 But then—he lowers himself. Slumps onto the floor, sitting in seiza. Facing me.

His hands rest on his thighs. Fingers clenched, knuckles white.

“Ushijima…san—”

He raises a hand.

My mouth snaps shut.

The house falls back into silence.

It’s just us—blinking at each other, waiting.

Me, for him to finally say what’s on his mind.

Him, maybe gathering the air he needs to push out the words stuck in his throat.

Is this it?

A few heartbeats pass.

Then, Ushijima clears his throat. He looks up.

“Hinata, I owe you an apology,” he begins.

“For everything that happened… that night. I don’t think I ever understood the impact my actions had on you. I didn’t mean to…”

He pauses. Swallows hard. His gaze drops to the floor.

Then he looks up again—eyes sharp, blazing. His spine straightens like he’s steeling himself.

For a second, I swear his gaze cuts through me, all the way to the back of my skull.

But it lasts only a moment.

The edges soften.

His face turns to silk as he exhales slowly.

“I am sorry, Hinata. For everything.”

I swallow. My brain is processing.

Have I had breakfast?

I think I did. But why does it feel like my insides are twisting themselves inside out?

I’ve waited so long for this.

Some kind of acknowledgment.

Something to make sense of that night.

For him to own it too—not just me.

But now that he’s here, saying the sacred words...

I don’t even know how to respond.

I want to keep a straight face.

Hold my chin high.

Glance at him sideways with a little indignant.

Instead, I just sit here—

Frozen to the bone.

Eyes burning.

Am I weak?

I try so hard not to be.

Not in front of him.

Dammit. 

What’s worse is that my feet move on their own,

carrying me toward him until I, too, settle into seiza.

I study his face.

A glint of sweat clings to his forehead, a single drop trailing down the side of his temple.

His hair—grown out a little since I last saw him—falls neatly, bangs sweeping sideways in an uneven part at the root—asymmetrical.

Just like Ren’s.

His eyes—sharp and piercing just moments ago, every time they landed on me—now look dull.

Earnest.

And my eyes—traitorous, as always—don’t miss the rest of him.

The way his mouth completes the look.

The heartbreaker look.

Though I’m not sure if he’s ever been one.

Is that what it was?

Was that all there was—when I yielded to him?

“H-Hinata?”

I blink. Slowly.

“Yes…” My voice drags like someone waking from a dream.

“You’re okay?” He waves a hand in front of my face.

I flinch back. “What?”

I look at him—but not really.

“Oh. You’re back,” he says.

“I was never gone.”

“No,” he murmurs. Ushijima clears his throat. “You weren’t.”

I take a few seconds to calm myself.

I sit straighter, wiggle my feet, and silently thank Takeda-sensei for all those long, earful sessions in this exact position.

“So, uh… you’re sorry,” I say to Ushijima.

“That I am.”

“Repentant?” I ask again.

“Definitely.”

I tilt my head. My brows draw together.

“Is that all you want to say?”

“I have a lot,” he says. “But that tops the list.”

“A lot... such as?”

Ushijima looks down. Frowns, but not in anger.

Like he’s trying to hold something back—and losing. “You may think what I’m about to say is just me defending myself. But I’m not. It’s just... my side of the story. Something I want to share with you. And after that—You can judge me. Punish me. Hate me, maybe. But please... don’t shut me out. Don’t keep me from seeing my son.”

My son, huh.

“How do you know he’s your son?” I ask, tone flat.

Ushijima straightens. Shoulders squared. Hands clasped tightly in front of him. “I’ll answer that in a bit. But hear me out first. Will you?”

“…Okay.”

Ushijima begins. “That night, I happened to be at the same club as you. I saw you with Kageyama and a few of your friends. That wasn’t unusual—we all frequented that place. It was normal to bump into each other.”

He exhales. One hand goes to his mouth, then trails to his chin, like he’s replaying the memory in his head. “What wasn’t normal was me. That time.” He glances at me. “I was... drawn to you. My eyes followed your every movement. I was like a moth to a flame. And when I saw you leave—to the bathroom—I followed.” He pauses. “Believe me, I meant no harm. I just wanted to talk. Maybe say hello.”

In the bathroom? Really?
Couldn’t he have picked a better time? A better place?

I roll my eyes—internally.

He watches me closely now. Not pressing, not pleading.
Just… waiting.
Like he’s asking: Can I keep going? Are you with me or not?

“Do you remember our last interaction? Before that night?”

I answer without thinking.
“The game. Spring Qualifiers. Sendai…and that—” I stop short.

My voice drops. “That damn training camp.”

“Right,” he says, nodding. “So I was wondering what you’d been doing since then. You’re very talented, Hinata. You have so much potential. Naturally, I was interested to know—”  He swallows the end of the sentence. “—alittlebitmoreaboutyou...”

It slips out like he’s biting down on the words.

Is he unsure? About what? My talent—like he said? Or the fact that he wanted to know me?

Heck.

Ushijima continues. “Right when I stepped into the bathroom, I was met with uh... another you.” Then, on a more thoughtful note, “Your pheromones were everywhere. You were flushed, breathing hard. You looked... vulnerable.”

His gaze flicks briefly to my neck.

I catch it.

“And your eyes—” he hesitates, “they were looking at me like you were pleading for something.”

“Stop.” I throw up a hand. “You’re exaggerating, Ushijima-san. When did I ever do that?”

He looks at me, genuinely puzzled. “You… don’t remember it?”

“Only bits and pieces.” I frown. My stomach twists. “Do you really want to bring this up again? Do you have to?”

“Only if you’re comfortable with it.”

“Well, clearly, I’m not.”

“But—”

“Can we get to the point, Ushijima-san?” I cut him off, sharper now. My patience is thinning.

He sighs—long and slow. Then presses the heel of his palm to his forehead.

“Okay. My bad. Maybe I got a little carried away. Look—my point is…” His throat works.

“The moment I saw you in that bathroom. Looking like that—” A pause. A throat clear again.

“I lost my senses.”

Ladies and gentlemen, Shoyou Hinata is buffering.
Please stand by.

…

Like that?
Looking like that?
Like what?

Losing sense? Him?

I try to keep a blank face. Really, I do. 

But the last part of Ushijima’s words—

They send me spiraling.

Suddenly, a flood of images hits me.

Me, leaning against the sink.

Eyes hooded. Lips parted.

Parched—burning from the inside out, no matter how much water I drank.

That oversized yellow t-shirt—slipped off my shoulder like it had a mind of its own.

The faint rise and fall of my chest.

The heat in the air clinging to my skin like a second layer.

Shit. It’s all coming back.

“Hi—Hinata?”

Ushijima’s calling me. I know he is.

But I’m not here.

I’m still in that bathroom.

At the club.

Caught in a memory like a lucid dream—

Only I’m sleeping with my eyes wide open

Chapter Text

I remember the dim, muted lighting in the restroom.

My face felt hot and sticky as I splashed water on it.

And then—he entered.

I didn’t notice him at first. I was lost in my own world, spinning like one of those carousel horses at a fair—

round and round, no end, no escape.

But then I looked up.

And there he was.

Standing still.

His gaze locked on mine.

Everything stopped.

No—It didn’t stop.

It slowed. Like the whole room had dipped underwater.

His eyes—dark, intense, pupils blown wide—like he’d just cornered his prey.

And I was it.

Funny thing is—was? I’m not sure—

Even though my knees were about to give out, I still managed to stammer a pathetic ‘Hi.’

Hi?

What was that? A schoolgirl?

In that bathroom, everything else dulled. But when it came to him—

Everything was sharp.

Funny how the mind works. It cunningly picks out what matters—

The blown-wide pupils, the heat in the air—

And discards the rest—

The accessories.

The garnish.

The spectators.

I saw nothing else but him.

Ushijima stepped closer, shrinking the space between the sinks and the wall.

His presence filled the air.

I could feel his breath on my face—warm.

And then—

His lips were on mine.

Damn. What did I expect?

Of course, we kissed. What else would we do in that ridiculous, lust-drunk state?

The kiss pulsed with rhythm—soft, hungry, primal, then soft again.

Over and over.

Until I pushed him away for air.

I remember he said, ‘Sorry.’ Said my name as he tried to hold me up.

I remember our eyes meeting—

A walk-through.

Quick, like passing a store window.

You stop. You look. Admire the newest jacket of the season.

And instead of walking away,

You go in.

I grabbed his hair. Pulled him in. Kissed him again.

Of course, he went in, too.

God.

What do I even do with me?

It didn’t end there. Where do you think Ren came from?

I remember the intensity. How every coherent thought unraveled. How I couldn’t breathe, couldn’t think—only feel.

My body—traitor—leaned into him, craving something only he could offer. It was strong. It was so overpowering that we started exploring each other like we’d been waiting a lifetime. 

The desperation. The pull between us. The frantic hands, the fumbling. It was as if we were trying to make up for years of restraint.

And then—he pulled me out of the restroom.

I followed, dazed like a lost child. My bottom half was already heavy, pulsing with want, begging without words.

He hailed a taxi, opened the door.

I climbed in.

And even in that cramped, swaying space, we couldn’t stop.

The kissing continued—desperate, ravenous, almost feral. Like we were falling apart and holding each other together at the same time.

But then... everything blurred. The edges smudged.

Suddenly, I was in bed. And all I could see was his face—sweaty, flushed, euphoric. Radiating something between joy and release. From him.

And maybe it wasn’t just him. Maybe I looked the same.

It would also be a lie to say I didn’t feel it.

“Hinata??” He waves a hand in front of my face—for the second time today.

I blink. Look up at Ushijima.

But all I see is him in that taxi.

Him, on that bed.

Him on top of me.

That flushed, breathless version of Ushijima.
His voice was raspy—strained, heated.
Like he couldn’t speak without touching me.

Not this one—

Not this well-composed man in a crisp shirt, collar sharp—except for where Kageyama tried to strangle it. With hair— parted neatly, like a dream cleaned up for daylight.

—No.

That night, his hair was a mess—thrown in every direction because my hands had been tangled in it. His skin was damp. Lips parted. Eyes hooded.

Good Lord. This is bad.

I rise to my feet.

“I’m thirsty. Do you want some water, Ushijima-san?”

I don’t wait for an answer. My feet are already moving. Flight is the only instinct left in me.

I take my time digging through the cabinet, searching for a glass. The clink of dishes is oddly grounding.

I fill the glass with water and let the faucet run a little longer than necessary, watching the stream like it might somehow slow my heartbeat. I pause there for a few good minutes, one hand resting on the counter, the other gripping the glass too tightly. 

I really need this—a time-out. A breath.

I didn’t realize, not really, how intense it had been with Ushijima. How much of it I’d packed away, buried under daily life, under denial. Just remembering it now—those fragments I let surface—is enough to rattle me. To stir something in my chest that tightens, rises, and won’t settle. 

I thought I’d made peace with that night. That I’d moved on, that it didn’t own me anymore. 

But it’s here, alive in my memory, playing behind my eyes like I never left. Just recalling it is enough to twist me up from the inside out.

“Are you okay?” Ushijima’s voice comes from behind. 

“Yes! I’m fine. Let me get that water for you.”

I sit back down. We’re still holding that stiff seiza position.

Ushijima grabs the glass and downs the water like he’s been parched for days.

“So,” I say, eyes fixed on the glass, “where were we?”

He clears his throat, setting the glass down slowly.

“Oh, yeah. What was I saying…” He pauses, thinking. “Right. The bathroom. I saw you and went... you know. Kinda crazy. Yeah…”

Another pause.

“Well, from that point to the moment I realized what I’d done—” His voice drops. “When I woke up, and you were gone... it was all on me. I took advantage of your vulnerability. And for that, I’m truly sorry—for the damage I caused. I’ll take full responsibility.”

We look at each other.

And for a brief moment, I see something in his eyes-Almost like fear. 

Thank god that’s all I see. My brain knows how to separate this Ushijima from that one.

I keep my gaze locked on him, lips pressed into a line.

“So. You’re sorry.”

“—Yes.”

“You admit you took advantage of me.”

“—Yes.”

“And I was the victim here.”

A beat.

“—Yes.”

“It’d be wonderful if I recorded all these confessions, you know.”

Ushijima tilts his head, completely unfazed.

“Yes—I mean, we can do that again if you want.”

I pause and stroke my chin. “Nah… I was just joking.”

“Oh… right. Okay.” Ushijima lets out a small laugh.

It sounds forced to me.

The confession—divulgence, revelation—his side of the story, told to me in awkward waves of tone and phrasing,
like shaping namagashi by hand, delicate and deliberate, folding sakura petals into translucent layers,
where every movement has to be careful or the whole thing falls apart.

I think it’s amazing.

And suddenly, I have no words.

We just end up staring at each other.

“I guess it’s my turn,” I say, finally.

He needs to know.
Otherwise, I’d just be taking advantage of the whole situation.

And I’m not Hinata Shoyou if I don’t say this—

“I was on the brink of my heat cycle that night.”

“—What?”

“That’s why I looked that way, you know…” I roll my hand in the air.

“Ah… that makes sense,” Ushijima says, nodding slowly. “You were... so alluring.”

I groan. “You don’t have to say it, Ushijima-san.”

“Sorry. Can’t help it,” he replies, smiling—apologetically.

And why the hell are his cheeks turning red?

“I’ll be honest with you,” I say, keeping my voice even. “I hated you. I regretted everything that happened to me. What you did to me. My plans... were derailed. While you soared. And you’re still soaring.”

I glance at him.

“I read about you, you know. It felt unfair.”  My eyes shift to the curtain, watching it dance in the breeze.

Then, past it—out to the beach.

Just for a moment.

And when I look back at him, I say, “I have dreams too.”

Ushijima starts to speak, but I hold up a hand.

“But,” I continue, “as time passed, and Ren got bigger... all those feelings—anger, hate, jealousy—Faded. I’m aiming for something bigger now. For myself. For Ren.”

I take a breath.

“Trust me, Ushijima-san, I’m working hard toward that.”

I motion my hand toward him. “I’m not like you—born with everything a volleyball player could wish for. I don’t have that.”

I meet his gaze. “You understand where I’m coming from, right?”

“But—” he begins.

I lift my hand again, silencing him.

“Not yet, Ushijima-san.”

I let out a slow breath, steadying myself. “My point is... I don’t have space in my heart for all that negativity. It’s too taxing. Too draining. Too... miserable.”

I glance toward the bedroom.

And I smile.

“I’m happy now. With my child. Here.”

“—Our child,” he says softly.

I ignore him.

And keep going—before I forget. Not that it matters to me anymore.

“One thing though,” I say, tilting my head. “Why didn’t you come looking for me right after that?”

Ushijima looks down at the floor, his brows drawn together tightly. Then, he looks back up. “I did.” He says. “I went to Chiba and asked around about you. They said you’d deregistered. I tried to get your house address, but they wouldn’t give it to me. I asked Kageyama, but he flat-out dismissed me.” He exhales, rubbing the back of his neck. “A week after, I went to Russia for training. I was there for a year. And when I got back…things moved so fast. Too fast. Like a bullet train.”

Ushijima looks at me earnestly. I can see my reflection in his eyes.

“Look, Hinata... I’m not gonna lie to you. Deep down, I was scared. The possibility of…I was sure— so terribly sure I knotted you that night.“

I cringe at that word.

“Back then, my resolve was nothing more than lukewarm tea—undrinkable, flavorless, gone cold before I ever took a real sip. Every day, I lived with the question of how to face you... until that day at the airport.”

He pauses, mulling over what to say next.

Then Ushijima continues, quieter now: 

“Fate played its role. We met. I saw him—
and today, when I heard you say his name... ‘Ren’...”

He smiles. “What a lovely name. A perfect name for a perfect kid, like him.”

His eyes slide past me.
I know where they go.
We both know.

And just like that, we remember ourselves—
and he turns his gaze back to me.

“And in that moment, I thanked Kageyama for that punch more than I’ve ever thanked anyone for anything.” He exhales slowly, like something’s been sitting on his chest for years.

“Seeing you two... and getting jabbed in the face—
it woke me up from whatever I’d been hiding in.” He deflates. Breathes in. “I was nothing but a foolish man. Maybe... I still am.”

Ushijima straightens. “That’s why I said—this is all on me. I’ll take responsibility going forward.”

So he was afraid after all. 

I let that sit for a second.  

But there’s no point dwelling on it. The past is the past.

To the first question,  “How do you know he’s your son?”

“—You were with me. I knotted you,” Ushijima says, steady, matter-of-fact. “Counting back the time—and judging by the look of the kid I saw at the airport—it lines up. Besides,” he adds, a little proud, “He looks exactly like me when I was a kid,” he says. “Same hair. Same stare. It startled me.”

I fold my arms.

“For all you know, I could be scamming you. He could be someone else’s.”

He shakes his head, a small smile tugging at his lips.

“Hmm… good try, Hinata. But no. You’re just not that kind of person. You’re a good person. I just know it.”

Good person? I blink. “I don’t understand. What do you mean?”

“You… you don’t sleep around. Don't play around, either. Discipline. You’re uptight.”

“—I don’t like the last part.”

“What I mean is—” He sighs, wiping a hand over his face.

“You have principles.”

I breathe out slowly. “That’s more like it, hmm.”

A moment passes.

Then I make the decision.

The one that will change everything—not so much for me, maybe, but for Ren.

“Alright. You’re right. He’s yours.”

I pause. Then, correct myself.

“No—Ren Hinata is ours.”

His eyes light up in an instant. “I like the sound of that.”

“I raised him.”

“—And I couldn’t be more thankful.”

“And I’ll continue doing that for the rest of my life.”

He nods.

Then, quieter—careful—

“And... where do I fit into that picture?” Ushijima asks.

I pause and think.  “Good question. You can see him whenever you want.”

“Really? You’ll allow that?”

“Let’s be real—you were a fool. I hated you. But we’re human. And humans have hearts, Ushijima-san. And that’s exactly the kind of person I want Ren to grow up to be.”

He bows. Head slightly tilts down, hands clasped tightly on knees. “Thank you, Hinata. I’m forever in debt to you—“

Suddenly Ushjima straightens up and raises a hand slightly, like a schoolboy asking permission. “I have a question… or maybe a request.”

“—Yeah?”

“If we add him to my family register,” Ushijima says, “I can open up a fund for him. Official assets. As my son. My kin. That way, he’s guaranteed a monthly allowance. Maybe it would—”

I sigh.

“If you’ve got that much money, why not just give it to me?” I tease.

Ushijima looks stunned. “If you allow me… I would.”

I burst out laughing, waving a hand. “I was joking, Ushijima-san. Relax. I don’t need your money. And let’s not talk about money right now—it’s too complex.”

“But… I want to be responsible.”

“Listen, Uu-shii-jii-ma-san.”

I drag out each syllable, nice and slow. “Responsibility means a lot of things. Yeah, money’s one of them. He will need it when he grows up, goes to college, and so on.”

I pause, then shift forward slightly.

“But right now? What he needs is love. Be there as a father—someone who can guide him. Support him in ways I can’t.” 

I read his face. “You get what I mean, right? There’s a limit to what an omega can do regarding child development. Not that he can’t grow without you—without an alpha—but as a parent, I want to give him the best possible environment.”

I meet his eyes.

“Make yourself visible. Support him. Play with him. Let him see you as a father—not… some stranger.”

Ushijima nods, looking thoughtful. “I understand,” he says. “And I’m 100% with you.”

A pause.

Then—

“But Hinata… wouldn’t it be easier if we get married?”

Ey? My brain short-circuits.

He’s being bold all of a sudden. Am I being too lenient?

“Hold your horses.” I wave a hand. “I said a lot of things. Marriage wasn’t one of them.”

“I mean… don’t judge me, Hinata...”

His expression is so severe it’s almost painful to look at.

“Isn’t that what people do? When a guy impregnates a girl? Alpha to an omega. They get married. Because that’s what it means to be responsible, right?”

I scoff.

Good Lord. Sofia, we have another one who’s still in the kiddie pool. I want to yell it out loud.

“Like I said, Ushijima-san—we’re not in that kind of relationship. It was a one-night stand. You don’t love me. I don’t love you—” I stop mid-sentence.

Why... why is he making that face?

Like someone just told him, his dog got hit by a truck.

“I get it,” he says quietly. “I get it, Hinata. So... not the marriage, then.”

His lips press into a thin line. The corners turn down just slightly.

Seriously, who am I dealing with here? A thirteen-year-old boy?

I wipe a hand over my face and let out a long, exhausted sigh.

“No. Not marriage. Besides, I don’t have any plans for that. Not right now.”

“What’s your timeline?” Ushijima asks, suddenly interested.

I gape at him. “What do you mean?”

“Marriage plan,” he replies, dead serious.

“I... I don’t know! I’ve never thought about it!”

I throw my hands up. “Can we please let go of this whole marriage thing?”

“I wasn’t trying to suggest anything,” he says, voice lower. “I just thought… it might be nice, someday.”

“Ushijima-san, I’ll pretend I didn’t hear that.”

He stays silent, pulling that solemn face.

Shoulders hunched in that weird, too-neat cross-legged way of sitting. 

Damn. He looks exactly like Ren when I refuse to give him his snacks.

“I think we both get the gist of it. Glad we settled it,”  I say.

No tear-jerking. No big drama. This is better than I    imagined. 

Mom always used to tell me—when you’re speaking earnestly to people, face them properly. Look into their eyes. People can read even the slightest tremble when your heart’s not entirely in it.

So that’s precisely what I’m about to do.

I cast a long look at him.

I look into his eyes.

Sit facing him openly, hands resting on my knees.

I take in all the air in the small space of the living room and stuff it into my chest.

And then—I let it back out.

“Alright, Ushijima-san. At first, I didn’t like you coming here. But now—I’m relieved. Maybe I wouldn’t have confronted you about Ren if it were up to me.”

I take a moment. Take a deep breath. Then I say it: 

“I... forgive you.”

He gasps.

“Surprised?” I ask, watching him blink like I just turned his whole world inside out.

“I’m surprised myself, Ushijima-san. But let me tell you—

it feels... liberating.”

I shift, folding my legs comfortably beneath me.

Lean in a little and point to my face.

“And for the record—Ren has my mouth. My lips.”

I exaggerate a pout like I’m defending my honor. “Look exactly like you? Puh puh. Don’t go counting chickens before they hatch.”

To this, Ushijima laughs.

A real laugh.

Hearty. Unrestrained. Honest.

“I know,” he says, still smiling. "He got the best parts of you.”

And then—

“Com licença. Bom dia, Shoyou!; Excuse me, good morning, Shoyou!”

A singsong voice floats into the apartment, startling both of us mid-laugh.

Isabela.

She pauses in the doorway, eyebrows lifting as her gaze lands on me and Ushijima, both sitting on the floor, grinning like idiots.

“Shoyou? Am I interrupting something?”

“Isabela!” I wave her in, still catching my breath.

“Come here—I want to introduce you to someone!”

Ushijima and I both get to our feet.

“Isabela, meet Ushijima Wakatoshi—Ren’s father. I mean, the other father.” I gesture toward him.

“And Ushijima-san, this is Isabela—Ren’s nanny.”

Isabela tilts her head, gaping up at the towering, slightly menacing figure.

Ushijima offers a smile—awkward, small—and holds out his hand.

She catches it, mouth still parted in shock, and gives it a firm shake.

“Shoyou, now I know where Ren got his good looks from,” she says in Portuguese.

I roll my eyes. “Ain’t from me?” I reply in the same language.

“What did she say?” Ushijima leans in.

“She said you’re good-looking,” I grumble.

What a traitor, Isabela.

“But Shoyou—don’t ya have a match today? Have ya forgotten? That’s why I’m here—” she starts.

That reminds me: I’m about to be late.

“Ushijima-san, I have to get going in an hour—practice match. Isabela’s staying with Ren.”

I glance at him. “What’s your plan? Have you booked a hotel?”

He shakes his head. “I didn’t plan that far.”

“What about Kageyama?”

“I don’t know his arrangement.”

Right. Speaking of that guy—

What has he been doing in the bedroom with Ren this whole time?

That’s when we hear it: a shriek from the bedroom.

Seconds later, Isabela comes marching out, patting her chest, fanning herself with her hand, muttering something under her breath I can’t quite catch.

“What’s wrong?” I ask.

“Shoyou, you didn’t tell me there’s another one in there.” She rubs a hand over her chest. Walk back and forth. “Nearly gave me a heart attack. Oh, this poor old soul. Have mercy on me, Lord.”

“What did he do to you?”

“Come see. Come see him, Shoyou.”

She tugs my wrist and drags me down the hall. Ushijima trails after us.

And then I see it.

I cover my mouth.

Sputter. “Where’s my phone? I need to snap this moment.”

“Oh! Let me! Let me! I saw it just now.” Isabela bolts to the kitchen, skids around the corner to the counter.

A few seconds later, she’s back, handing me my phone.

I take a few quick shots.

Then, just to be sure, a few more—from different angles.

Ushijima stands in the doorway behind me, leaning against the frame, arms crossed. Amused. 

Possibly... judgmental?

There, on the floor, lie two figures:

My little man.

And a very large, very unconscious second man-child—aka Kageyama—sprawled out beside him, Ren’s head resting on his shoulder.

And—

Why the hell is he wearing my bathrobe?!

“No wonder they’ve been so quiet,” I mutter to Ushijima.

“Figures,” he says. He tilts his head, brows faintly drawn. “Is that... your clothing?” 

“Yeah…”

Ushijima says nothing more.

Chapter Text

“Wow… Shoyou! You’re on fire!” Heitor calls bent low and ready for my serve.

It’s a practice match with another local pair—players from the same stretch of beach. With the tournament creeping closer, everyone agreed that a few scrimmages couldn’t hurt.

We took the first set. And now we’re up 10–2 in the second.

I grin at Heitor, ball in hand and ready for the next serve.

Of all the days I’ve played here, on this beach, on this sand—today feels different. Better. Brighter.

I feel the sand under my feet like a rhythm I’ve known forever.

Is it the weather? The wind?

Or maybe it’s because things with Ushijima have… settled.

Well. I assume they have.

We haven’t exactly done anything concrete yet.

Ren’s asleep back at the apartment with Kageyama—who, thanks to jetlag, is basically a sentient pillow.

And Ushijima?

He tagged along. Said he wanted to see me play.

I steal a glance to the side.

There he is—standing tall and silent in an outfit that screams, “I don’t belong here.”

Seriously. Who wears a pair of leather loafers to the beach?

Everyone else is barefoot or in flip-flops.

But him- a collared t-shirt tucked into tailored pants. He looks like he’s about to host a board meeting, not watch a beach match.

I’m tempted to throw a towel over his shoulders so he blends in. 

Sofia’s chatting with him over there makes the situation even more unnerving.

I really hope she’s not saying anything weird.

When I introduced Ushijima to her and Heitor, I saw how her face shifted into something suspiciously mischievous.

Raised brows. Knowing smirks.

She flashed them at me multiple times like we had some unspoken secret.

And, of course, when no one else was looking, she threw me a thumbs-up like we were sealing a deal.

What was that? An approving thumbs-up? Seriously?

Sofia is dangerous, I think.

No—definitely.

We won the game. Two sets—a clean sweep.

But I’ve got to admit, the weather helped us. We had the downwind side in the first set, which meant I could serve hard without the ball floating off. In the second, facing the upwind, the ball hung in the air just long enough for me to track it better—perfect for my jumps. I felt every grain of sand under my feet like it was syncing with me.

Best game I’ve had in weeks.

Sofia is waving at us frantically. She’s calling.  And by the smug expression cast on her face, I could think of nothing else except she was up to something. And Ushijima is standing beside her, hands behind his back like a soldier. Why does he look so stiff? 

“Shoyou! Come, come!”

The eagerness scares me, really. 

“What?” I call back, still catching my breath.

“Heitor and I are heading out for dinner, so I was telling him,”—she points at Ushijima—“that maybe you two would want to join us?”

I glance at Ushijima, silently asking you in?

He shrugs.

I’m unsure what that means, but I take it as a 'no'. Plus, I don’t trust that grin that Sofia’s showing. 

“Thanks, Sofia. But I have to head back. Ren’s at home, and... I’ve got a guest too . Can’t leave him alone for long.”

“A guest?” she echoes.

“Yeah. A friend. From Japan. So maybe next time.”

Sofia makes that polite smile, which looks unauthentic, nods once to the guys, then snakes an arm around my elbow and pulls me aside. 

“Goddamit, Shoyou,” she whispers. “He’s a good catch. Dominant alpha. And can’t tell you how many eyes he’s stolen just by standing there, doing nothing. Nice guy, too. Talks about you fondly.”

Talks about me?

Sofia’s eyes go; yeah , he talks about you, stupid . I can hear her in my head. 

She leans in even closer. “Every time you jumped to spike the ball, his eyes went like—” She does the sparkle-hands gesture. “And when you killed it? He clapped. Every. Single. Time.”

She waggles her brows. “And my eyes? Couldn’t stop staring at the Patek on his wrist. The real deal, baby.”

Patek? Wrist? Did she mean a watch?

We both glance back at Ushijima, who appears to be having moderate difficulty in making conversation with Heitor.

I scrunch my face. “Say, Sofia... are we even looking at the same person?”

“Of course,” she says, locking her arm around mine. “Look closely, Shoyou. Can’t you see it?”

“See what?”

She flails her arms like one of those inflatable tube men at used car dealerships. It’s ridiculous. But it’s her.

I burst out laughing.

“What? What’s so funny, sweetie? I’m seriously trying to help you here.”

“You’re just... comical. Trying to play Cupid like this.”

“Hey.” She pinches my cheek. “You’re my brother. I’m your sister. We wear the same coat of arms.”

“Coat... of arms?”

She points dramatically at her own arm. “O-ME-GA.”

Then grabs my shoulder, eyes sincere now. “Look, I just want you to be happy, Shoyou. You and Ren.”

“But we are happy.” I say.

“You know what I mean. The kid needs more than just love , he needs... a balance.”

“Ushijima’s the father. He’ll be there. We already talked about it—he’ll do his duty.”

“Oh…you’ve settled the matter?” Sofia sounds surprised. 

“Yeah.”

“But what about you?”

“Me?” I point at myself and scoff. “I don’t need... them. I can live on my own—”

“-And have an alpha to help you ‘relieve' occasionally?”

“Ouch. That stings, Sofia.”

She pats my head. “Sorry, honey. Harsh words. I’m just excited for you, okay?”

And the thing is…I don’t think she’s wrong.

“But—” I pause.

“But?” Sofia echoes.

“I have no plans for marriage.”

“Who said anything about marriage, honey?”

“I thought—?”

“—An alpha. A lover,” said Sofia.

“Does it have to be him? …We don’t love each other.”

Sofia gives me that look. That crooked eyebrow, the head tilted just so—at precisely the angle that says, “ Really ? You want to play that card with me ?”

“Are you sure about that?” she asks. “Sweetheart,” she leans in, lowering her voice, “wanna know another secret of the universe?”

“—What?”

She whispers, right next to my ear—And in that voice, the one I’m sure would drive Heitor wild if he heard her:

“It’s the heart. Look into it.” She clenches her hand to her chest. So dramatic.

I roll my eyes. “Yeah, yeah. I get it. I’ll think about it. When the time comes.”

“That’s more like it.” She gives me a wink, then murmurs—“But don’t think too long, Shoyou. A man like him? Omegas are lining up just to pounce. Maybe betas too .”

I look back at Ushijima, leaning casually under a tree while talking to Heitor. 

Omega lining up? No…it can’t be true. That stiff, textbook fellow, all serious and no fun? Nahhh…

____

“So, got the room?” I ask, peering over his phone like I can see from here.

We’re walking—just out of the market. I’m thinking maybe I’ll whip something up for them tonight. I mean, I’ve got two gorillas waiting at home to be fed.

“Yeah, thank God,” Ushijima says. “About two kilometers from here. That way I can just walk to your place.” He looks over. “Want me to carry that too?”

His hands are already full, still…

“I can handle it. It’s fine.”

“Okay. If you say so.”

We keep walking, groceries in hand. I steal a few glances at him. I didn’t notice it at first. But after that completely ridiculous talk with Sofia... I started paying attention. And become anxious. Dammit, Sofia, for making this unnecessary thought crosses my mind. What a waste of brain cells.

The glances. The looks people keep throwing at us.

I don’t know why. Or maybe I do, but afraid to admit it.

I look stupidly out of place walking alongside him. 

Me: sleeveless top, beat-up flip-flops, a faded cap pulled low, and those short, sand-streaked athletic shorts every beach volleyball player owns.

Him: sharp and sleek from head to toe. That crisp, no-crease collar. Those tailored dress pants. The loafers that have no business walking on sand.

We’re a walking contradiction.

Is that why people are staring?

Or is it like Sofia said? Him?

And the smell he’s been leaking. 

Sometimes, it’s warm—burnt sandalwood, musky amber, slow and relaxing. And other times, sharp—cedar mixed with metal, like a warning. I don’t miss the way people wrinkle their noses as we pass. Some even veer to the side, giving us space like we’re trouble.

And him?

God. He looks totally unbothered.

Walks like we’re in a flower garden and he’s watering his damn orchids.

And he’s… humming?

Humming , for god’s sake.

“Hinata,” he says suddenly, “you’re good with beach volleyball. It’s amazing how quickly you’ve picked up the skills.”

“Thank you. But I’m still learning.”

“That’s expected. Learning should never stop. Even I’m still learning new things.”

“You?” I scoff. “Like what?”

“A lot. But right now, I’m working on improving my swing—my spike.” He mimics a spike motion with that plastic bag dangling in his hand. “I want to stay in the air longer, too.”

“Ohhh… you shouldn’t do that.”

Suddenly, his foot stops. “Why?” He looks at me, surprised, almost incredulous.

“Because you’ll be even more lethal. It’ll be harder for me to beat you when I return to indoor volleyball.” I grin. “I haven’t given up on it, Ushijima-san. I’ll be back. Trust me.” I keep walking, and I think my nose rises in the air a bit. 

Ushijima catches up. “I eagerly look forward to that day, Hinata,” he says, smiling.

We continue walking in silence until—

“Do you have practice tomorrow too?” Ushijima asks.

“Yeah. Why?”

“I was thinking of spending some time with Ren. I’m flying back to Japan the day after—can’t be away from the team too long. Me and Kageyama—literally just took off. We only informed the management after we were already on the plane.” He laughs. “Reckless, I know. But it was worth it.”

“So… will you two be penalized?”

“Nah. We’ve been good kids until now. First offense. Probably just a warning.”

“What about the time he punched you?”

Ushijima halts and looks at me. “How did you know?”

“Mom told me.”

“Ah…” he laughs. “That? It was nothing. He was defending your honor. So… I think I deserved it.” On a more thoughtful note, he says, “Kageyama… he’s a good guy, really. We got along well. But after he found out about us— me, and you—he was… different. Hostile.” He pauses, then adds, “But rest assured, Hinata… I never blamed him. He’s someone special to you, right?”

“He is. He’s a friend—and also a rival. With him, I can just be me. When I was in Tokyo, he was there—I mean, when he wasn’t training or playing. We could talk about stupid stuff for hours... Not that we always did, but you get my point, right?”

“Yeah…” Ushijima replies, a bit melancholy. “I’m jealous.”

“Of?”

“Kageyama.” He smiles.

His answer stuns me for a few good seconds. That kind of dry smile you give when trying to laugh at your loneliness before someone else does. The thing about this big guy is that there’s still so much I don’t know about him, except that he’s always been intimidating when in games. Powerful. And now, this morning, I’ve learned he’s a little naive. Earnest and honest, too.

But jealous? —I’m at a loss for words.

____

We reach home. I pull out the key, twist it, and push the door open. As soon as I do—

“Daddy! Welcome home!” Little hands wave frantically from the sofa.

“Oh. You’re back,” Kageyama mutters, glancing up—nonchalant, tired, borderline asleep—

Then, he immediately sharpens when his eyes land on the big guy next to me.

Both of them--the big kid and the kid kid are eating bananas. The peels are stacked neatly in the middle of the living room floor. SpongeBob is blaring from the TV.

I did say they were gorillas, didn’t I?

“Hope you don’t mind,” Kageyama says from the sofa, gesturing with the last banana. “We were kinda hungry. Oh—and the aunty, Isabel, left not long ago.”

“Eat all you want. Dinner’s underway,” I call as I head to the kitchen. “And the aunty’s name is Isabela.”

I start unloading the grocery bag. “How many did Ren have?” I ask, eyes still on the counter.

Kageyama flashes a peace sign.

Two.

“That’s enough for him,” I say. “We’ll have dinner in an hour—I don’t want him too stuffed. And how many did you have?”

Kageyama pauses. Then starts counting on his fingers.

That’s not a good sign. He’s using both hands.

“Eight,” he says.

“Eight?!”

“Don’t worry. I still have room for your cooking,” he grins.

“Well, don’t force yourself.”

“You bet I won’t. By the way, what’s on the menu?”

“Something not curry.”

“But I love your curry.”

“I thought you got tired of it. I saw you stuffing your face with curry at nearly every corner in the airport. So maybe—you know?”

“ Not your curry, ” he says—quick, curt. Like it’s a protest. Like I just insulted something sacred. Then he turns back to the TV, chatting with Ren about SpongeBob like he didn’t just emotionally sulk right before me.

“What? Hey—don’t pull that face on me. Hey! Kageyama!”

He ignores me.

Okay. Let’s see if he can ignore this.

“I have other things too. Ushijima-san ,” I say sweetly—like candy wrapped around a speaker with bass boosted to max. “What was that thing we bought at the store?”

Ushijima blinks. “Which one?”

“The drinks.” 

I catch it—the slight lift of Kageyama’s head.

Bingo.

Ushijima rummages through the bag. “This one?”

“Yeah, that one,” I say. Then, a little louder— “I wonder who’s going to finish two cartons of yogurt drink. Ren can’t do it alone. I’ll bloat if I drink more than one. Ushijima-san, can you finish them?” I shoot him a wink.

“Give them to me ,” Kageyama says, raising a hand—still not turning his head. “I can finish them. Would be a walk in the park,” he mutters.

But I hear him just fine.

Then, after a pause—his voice softer:

“But, Hinata.” He turns around. His eyes meet mine.

“It’s been so long since I’ve tasted your curry. Can… you make it next time?”

Hah. There goes the big kid.

I smile triumphantly. “All right. Next time. Special. Just for you.”

He perks up. “You will?”

“Do you want me to retract it back?”

“No. No no. I trust you.” He turns back around and faces the TV like nothing happened.

Man… Did I just get another child? I definitely don’t remember being pregnant a second time.

____

Alright. Time to get to work.

A cooking show in my own tiny corner of the world.

I push Ushijima out of the cramped space.

“I can help—” he says.

“It’s okay. I can manage.”

“But—”

“You really want to help?” My tone turns mischievous.

“Yes.”

I lean over the counter and lower my voice. “Why don’t you bathe him .” I glance toward the living room. “It’s time for his bath anyway. Besides, it’s time you prove yourself.”

Ushijima straightens like he’s been given a mission.

“I’ll do it. I can do it.”

“The bathroom’s at the end of the hall. Towels are in the small closet under the basin. Panama’s... in the bedroom. Just ask Ren—he knows where I keep them.”

Ushijima nods. His face is a mix of focus and low-key panic, like he’s about to enter a high-stakes match he didn’t train for. Determined, but deeply unsure of the rules.

As he turns to go, I call after him.

“And Ushijima—”

He pauses.

“Don’t think of this as something you have to write off. You should enjoy it.” 

Then I flash him a grin. And then I realize—

Crap. I haven’t even introduced them yet.

I move fast—past the counter, past Ushijima (who looks like he was just about to open his mouth and say something awkward). I crouch in front of Ren.

“Ren, this is Ushijima Wakatoshi. He’s Daddy’s friend too . Ushijima’s going to help you take a bath, okay?”

“And Daddy?”

“Daddy’s making dinner. You’re hungry, right? We’re all hungry. So, while I cook, how about you take a bath?”

“With him?” Ren asks, pointing with his chin.

“Yes, with Ushijima-san. He’s a good guy. Like—”

I gesture at Kageyama. “Like this Uncle Tobio.”

“Oyo?” Ren echoes.

Someone sputters.

“Oyo-chan!” Ren shouts, pointing an accusing finger at Kageyama—who is very clearly pretending he has no idea what’s happening.

“Daddy, Oyo-chan sleep . Eat. Play.” He shakes his head, solemn. “Not helping. Bad.”

I am stunned. My skull hurts from holding in the laugh.

Behind me, I hear Ushijima let out a quiet chuckle.

Then Kageyama mutters, “Oh yeah? What about when you woke up crying and I held you in my arms, patting your bum, saying everything’s okay? That didn’t count?”

“Then you sleep again,” Ren fires back, scowling. “Isabeya came.”

Kageyama pulls a face.

Ren mirrors it.

Same pout.

Same glare.

Identical attitude.

And I lose it. I laugh—hard. Clutching my stomach, wheezing. My other hand grips something for balance.

I don’t even realize what it is at first— But it’s Ushijima’s arm. And I don’t let go. Because somehow, in that small, unconscious gesture, I want to tell him—

Look.

This is what it’s like.

This is my world.

____

When they finally return to the living room, the sight that greets me almost makes me drop the spatula.

Ushijima looks like he just walked through a car wash. His sleeves are rolled up to his elbows, his pants awkwardly tucked above his knees, and his shirt—oh, his poor shirt—is absolutely soaked, with dark water stains splashed across the front. His hair, usually neat, has a single wet strand clinging to his forehead.

And Ren?

Well, as expected, the little guy is toddling around butt-naked, not a care in the world.

I try—really, I do—to hold back my laughter, but it bursts out anyway.

“I’m sorry,” I manage between giggles, waving a hand toward Ushijima.

“That looks good on you,” I hear Kageyama say.

Ushijima blinks. Then looks at me. “Well, uh… things got a bit out of control in there. A ship was sinking. A giant duck was attacking. And, uh… a sponge-like creature saved the day. So yeah. It was a mess. A dangerous situation. Right, Ren?”

Ren, still proudly naked, throws his arms in the air and shouts: “DUCK! Boom!”

Then he takes off running in a little circle, nearly tripping over his feet. “SpongeBob go swim! Ship fall down! Splash!!” He pauses, frowns with great seriousness, and declares: “ Danger . Big danger . Chii-chan the duck.”

He points directly at Ushijima.

“Chii-chan?” I blink, turning to Ushijima. “He called you that?”

Ushijima shrugs like this is simply his fate now. He doesn’t even try to explain. Just accepts it.

Still sitting on the sofa with his arms crossed, Kageyama watches the whole thing unfold. He scoffs. “That name suits you. Dick—”

I give him a look.

“—Dickens…dickery dock…” he mutters, somehow saving it at the last second.

Then he clears his throat and looks away like nothing happened.

____

The night had settled in. The house felt smaller now.

Dinner went smoothly—thank God . We had rice with miso and chicken karaage. There was pizza too . I’d bought the ready-made base—super easy.

Ren ate a lot. Rice and pizza—no objections there.

When it was time for bed, I glanced at Ushijima. We had that telepathy thing going on— the you go put him to bed kind. Try it. Feel how it’s done.

And he got it. Agreed with a nod.

Ren, of course, put up a fight.

Kids always know how to pick their battles, and bedtime is the hill they’ll die on every single time.

I convinced him to let Ushijima tuck him in, which wasn’t easy.

Ren’s got this stubborn streak.

Wonder where he gets that from? (Don’t answer that).

“I’m beat,” I mutter, slumping onto the sofabed.

The springs groan under me like they’re complaining about the weight of my day.

Kageyama’s next to me. Sitting close.

I stretch out my legs, that floaty post-dinner fatigue finally settling in. If I could just get to the bed—

“So, what’s the plan now?” Kageyama asks. His voice cuts through the quiet.

“How long are you staying in Brazil? When are you coming back to Japan? What’s next for you?”

I stare at him. What is this, an interview?

I bite my lip and feel my mouth twist into a thin line.

Plans for my life? Sure, I’ve got them—not written in neat bullet points or pinned to a vision board or whatever Kageyama probably imagines.

But they’re there. Rough. Messy. Flexible.

Enough to keep me moving.

“My contract with my sponsor says up to two years,” I say, leaning back into the couch. “That’s my window to learn everything I can. Beach volleyball’s been progressing nicely—I might even head back sooner.”

I glance at him. “But to be honest… I kinda like it here.”

Before he can start picking my answer apart, I pivot.

“What about you? Any plans after all this—nationals, training, the whole grind?”

Kageyama scoffs, like I’ve asked him what two plus two is. “The usual,” he says, with all the energy of someone reading the back of a cereal box. “Get back to practice. Train. Play. Same as it ever was.”

Of course. That’s Kageyama.

His life is predictable. Almost boring in its certainty.

It’s like he’s on a conve yor belt of serve, set, spike, repeat.

And you know what? It works for him.

And maybe—just maybe—I envy that. Not the talent, exactly. Not even the way he keeps climbing, like the top doesn’t exist. It’s the certainty. The quiet conviction. That laser focus, like he’s never once doubted who he is or what he’s meant to do.

We pause as Ren’s laughter drifts in from the bedroom.

Soft. Mischievous. The kind of laugh that only happens when a kid knows they’re winning.

“Still fighting it, it seems,” I say.

“Well, can’t blame the little gremlin,” Kageyama mutters.

“He napped too long. Now he’s burning through that extra energy like a fuse on a firecracker.”

“You...” I turn to look at him, eyebrows raised. “You’re surprisingly good with kids.”

He tilts his head, nostrils flaring in that smug little way.

“I’m used to gremlins. My sister’s got two. They always pounce on me when I go home.”

“Oh? Really? That’s good. How old are they?”

“The girl is five. The little one’s two.”

“Ahh... same as Ren.”

“Yeah. Same. Brats .”

“You’re saying my son is a brat?” I lean in, looming over him.

“Ack! No. I mean—they always wanna win, okay? So you must pretend you lose...” he mutters, half-defensive.

“Really? You, intend to win against a kid? What are you, seven?” I pinch his cheeks.

“Ouch, ouch—that hurts, Hinata!”

I pull back and sink into the sofa again, arms crossed. “Serves you right.”

We sit there in comfortable silence for a good minutes, until—

Kageyama speaks—quietly. “When I used your bathroom this morning… I, um… I noticed there were two toothbrushes. Adult-sized. You… um… you have someone coming over?”

Toothbrush?

Wait—

Oh.

“Yeah... I did. Well—it was unplanned.”

I rub the back of my neck, suddenly too aware of the room’s temperature. 

“You know how it is. It was raining hard—we were playing at the beach, and it just poured. Oikawa-san got stuck here and... kinda spent the night.”

Why does it suddenly feel hot here?

I pull at the collar of my shirt, fanning myself slightly.

Kageyama doesn’t move. He just stares at me.

I wait. Finally—

“Who spent the night?” he says, slow. “Can you say that again?”

“Umm… Oikawa-san?” I repeat, a little more hesitant this time.

“What’s with Oikawa?” Another voice—deep. Quiet. Ushijima steps out of the hallway.

Ren’s door clicks shut behind him.

And the room stills.

Fuck.

Chapter Text

Wait—why am I sweating this? They wouldn’t know. Not unless I told them. Not unless Oikawa did—which he wouldn’t, I think. And even then, who cared? People spent the night at each other’s places all the time. That didn’t mean anything.

Whatever happened that night—if anything even counts as ‘happened'—it was casual. It was nothing more than just a favor. A friend helping another friend out in a moment of desperation. That’s all it was. Simple. Harmless. No big deal. …God. That sounds worse the more I say it.

From the corner of my eye, I catch Ushijima moving—quiet as ever—as he pads over to the kitchen. He grabs a glass, fills it with cold water, and drags out one of the high stools with a low scrape. He sits, lifts the glass to his lips, and downs it in one clean, leisurely sip. Then he set it down without so much as a twitch of muscle. And he waits. His eyes darting between me and Kageyama. 

Suddenly I feel like I’ve walked into a scene from a crime drama—interrogation room lighting, two sets of eyes on me like heat lamps, and no way out.

Great.

I lean back into the sofa. Keep it clean. Keep it casual.

“I ran into Oikawa-san here in Rio. You saw the photo. We had a match, it rained, and he stayed the night to wait it out.”

“Is that all? Nothing happened?” Kageyama asks.

“What else should have happened?”

Kageyama scrapes a hand through his hair. His posture changes—shoulder tight. “You might not know him well. But I do. I know him damn well enough to say he’s an asshole. He flirts. He plays. He watches people squirm just for fun.”

His voice drops. “So. Tell me, Hinata. Are you sure he didn’t do any of that to you?”

For a second, I say nothing. Because dammit—Kageyama’s not completely wrong. And that pisses me off more than anything.

Oikawa does flirt. He knows how to talk, how to touch your arm just enough to shake the insides of you and maybe leave a few questions hanging in the air. He was magnetic, intentional, maddening. But that night… it didn’t feel like a game. Not to me. His words were spare, stripped-down, to the point where he sounded almost earnest. Or rehearsed.

I could’ve imagined that. Maybe I wanted to believe it. Because for once, I wasn’t fogged out. I was lucid. Fully aware. I had chosen to trust someone, and now I couldn’t decide if that made me bold or pathetic.

Perhaps I was nothing more than just another name on his rotating list.

I hate that Kageyama’s making me think this. Hate that he could shake what I thought I knew.  So I look up, and I answer the only way I can without giving away the whole damn mess.

“Yeah, he teases. That’s just Oikawa-san. But that was it,” I say.

Kageyama straightens. Legs planted wide, voice grated like sandpaper. “Oh yeah? Then why does your bathrobe smell like an alpha?”

“What else was he supposed to wear? We were soaked.”

“And the damn sofa?”

“What about it?”

“I didn’t want to say anything at first,” he mutters. “You don’t get it, Hinata. I was just... happy. Happy to finally see you again. I told myself I was imagining things. That the scent, the tension—it was nothing. I brushed it off because I didn’t want to ruin it. Not the moment. Not after everything.”

He laughs, but there’s no humor in it.  Just bitterness, rising like bile.

“But then you said his name. And it clicked. All of it. My suspicion.” Kageyama’s lips curl. “It reeks. And it’s not mine, for sure. And Ushijima isn’t stupid enough to let it happen. It’s Oikawa’s. His pheromones. His liquid for god’s sake! The bathroom. Still has traces of him.”

He whips his head toward Ushijima. “You.  You noticed it too, right?”

Ushijima blinks—caught off guard. “I—I…”

“Speak, Ushijima!” Kageyama barks. “What, scared Hinata will hate you if you tell the truth?”

“That’s not it,” says Ushijima, already on his feet. “We shouldn’t be dissecting his private life like this. He—”

“It’s your kid living here. Don’t you care what he’s exposed to?” Kageyama turns back to me. And now, his voice is soaked in poison.

“Clearly, Hinata, either you didn’t notice—or you didn’t bother cleaning up. Or maybe,” he sneers, “you’ve just gotten immune to the smell.”

How did we get here? How could he say that?

“I—” I start, but no words come. Nothing finds shape.

And Kageyama—he doesn’t hesitate. His face twists, like this is the moment he’s been waiting for. The final blow, gift-wrapped in venom.

And me?
I just wait—like a lamb in the abattoir.

“First Ushijima,” he points, sharp as a blade. “Then Oikawa. Who’s next, huh? God knows who else you’re gonna fuc—”

The sound cracked the room.
My palm against his face.

I don’t remember standing. I just remember the silence. My own breath, hard in my ears. My fingers, curled. The sting in my hand.

I had slapped him.

My best friend.

I look up, and Ushijima is already there, between us.

“Kageyama,” Ushijima says calmly. “I think we’d better leave. It’s late.”

Kageyama doesn’t say a word. Just stands there. I can’t see what expression he’s wearing at this second but I know he’s breathing hard.  Then he turns on his heel and walks out.

The door doesn’t slam. It clicks shut—like the final page of a novel no one liked the ending of. Quiet. Anticlimactic. Ironic. And maybe that’s what hurts more. The restraint.

Ushijima hesitates. Just for a second. He looks at me—and I mean really looks.

Is that disgust? Pity? Do I look pathetic to him? A bitch?

Was I wrong? It was just a favor. A night. And why the hell do I owe anyone an explanation for my sex life?

What even went wrong? Me—not telling him? Or the fact that it was Oikawa? I know Kageyama never liked that guy.

Dammit! I’m so confused. And mad. Terribly. 

My insides feel like wildfire.

My eyes sting. My throat burns. My chest is tight—so tight it feels like if I could just punch it, maybe I’d breathe again.

But that would be too dramatic. Even for me.

“Hinata.”

I look up. Ushijima stands at the half-open door, backlit by the dim hallway light.
Then, without a word, he crosses the space between us.
His hands extend.
And then gently, he wraps me in his arms.

I don’t resist.
I sink into it.
Breathe him in.

“He’s just worried about you,” Ushijima murmurs.

“I slapped him,” I whisper, clutching a fistful of his t-shirt.

“Hmm. I’m sure he won’t bite you for that,” he says softly. “Just get some rest. You’ve got practice tomorrow, right? And I’m still coming over. To see Ren.”

Then he pulls away. And just like that, I feel cold again.

He holds my arms a second longer. “You’re gonna be fine, right?”

“I… I don’t know.”

“You’re strong, Hinata. I can see it. You’ve already been through worse,” he taps his chest with his thumb—just once then gives a faint nod. And smiles.

“I… thank you. Thank you, Ushijima-san. I—”

“A thank you is enough,” he says. “Anything more, and you’ll make it hard for me to sleep tonight.”

He lifts a hand, touches my cheek, and carefully brushes my bangs aside. “I need to go catch that wolverine before he does something stupid.” Ushijima tilts his head slightly, like he’s trying to read me. “See you tomorrow?”

I nod.

Ushijima pads toward the door, fast and light.

“Oh—and Hinata?” He pauses at the threshold, glancing back over his shoulder.

“Don’t forget to bolt the door. The second one.”

His gaze softens. “Good night.”

Chapter Text

He first saw the carrot top during a game. Back in junior high. They were opponents.

And man—those twenty-something minutes? Hinata left an impression. He’d declared, loudly, confidently, that he would defeat Kageyama.

His athleticism was something he could admire.
But with that build, and little to non-existent skill in volleyball?

Kageyama thought it was ridiculous—reckless, even. An ungrounded challenge.

But somehow, it stuck.

The second time he saw the carrot top was in high school.

The old Karasuno gym.
Wooden floors. Dusty corners. Familiar ghosts.

And that same finger—later, he’d realize it was smooth, oddly delicate, almost like a girl’s—pointed accusingly  straight at his face, demanding to know why the guy he swore to beat had ended up in the same school.

Rude as hell.
Really, how much more disrespectful could the Chibi get?

What a nuisance, he thought.

And yet—he hadn’t looked away.
He couldn’t.

No matter how many times he tried to create distance—on the court, in the halls, in his own head—his gaze kept drifting back to that damn carrot top.

Like the moon to the earth.
Like the earth to the sun.
Inevitable. Gravitational.

And, to add to the pain, the Chibi’s scent—well, Kageyama could write a 1001 word essay on it if given the chance. But the short version? It was intoxicatingly sweet—like ripe rock melon in the summer. Sometimes citrusy, especially when he was mad (cutely mad). And always—always—it left a warm twist in Kageyama’s stomach whenever their skin so much as collided.

Hinata’s voice—loud, always demanding; “higher, give it to me, trust me,” they grated on Kageyama’s nerves. But those were just trivial. Because his eyes—

His eyes were something else.
They were bright. Bright like stadium lights at full blast. Like the afternoon sun in the summer sky. Like the silvery moonlight caught on calm water.

Too much energy. Too much honesty.
Like they saw the whole world as something worth chasing.

It was irritating. It was distracting.
It was—
Beautiful.

Kageyama hated that word. And hated more that it kept surfacing whenever he looked at Hinata for too long.

Because his eyes didn’t just shine. They believed.
Hinata looked at the world like it would always meet him halfway. Like everything good was just one jump, one run, one spike away.
Kageyama had always believed the world expected him to meet it all the way—or not at all.

He remembered the training camp. The one in Tokyo.

Hinata had been everywhere all at once—bouncing between courts, swapping jokes with Bokuto, listening to Kenma like he was the most interesting person on earth.
The Chibi  didn’t even notice Kageyama was watching.

And god, he’d been watching.

At first, it was fine. Until Bokuto slung an arm around Hinata’s shoulder, laughing loud and open like they were best friends.

Until Kenma leaned in too close, whispering something that made Hinata flush and grin and nudge him back with his elbow.

And Kageyama—he had clenched his teeth so hard he thought his jaw might snap. Something primal flared up in his chest.  Thorny. It crawled beneath his skin, prickling, itching, like it wanted to tear its way out.He hated it because it felt familiar.

The wanton was tremendous.

He wanted to drag  Hinata witlessly to a corner, wrap his arms around him, and hell—bite him.
Leave something there. A mark. A message.

His and only his.

Kageyama didn't understand it then.
He just knew that whenever another alpha got too close, his throat tightened. His palms itched.

And that night, after lights out, he couldn’t sleep.

Not because of the snoring. Not because of the constant, shrill whine of mosquitoes.

But because he could still smell Bokuto’s cologne on Hinata’s shirt.

And it made him want to burn the whole damn camp down.

They were teammates. First and foremost. Friendship came later—slow, clumsy, hard-won. And rivalry? That had always been there, thrumming underneath everything like a live wire. The good kind. The kind that made both of them better.

He didn’t know when it started.

That feeling—the one that didn’t belong on the court. Had it been there all along? Buried under every set, every spike, every breathless win?

All he knew was this:
He couldn’t stand not seeing him.
He wanted to protect him.
He wanted to be the one holding him when he cried like an idiot.
He wanted—desperately—to hold his hand.
To taste his lips.
To kiss him like lovers did in those stupid romance movies under the Eiffel Tower.

The need only grew. Slowly, steadily, as they matured. As they became something more than kids with shared goals and stupid arguments.

But what did he attain?

Nothing.
Not any of that.
But he stayed anyway. He made himself visible as possibly he could.  The old faithful Kageyama Tobio.
The friend.
The constant.
And sometimes that felt like enough.
But most nights, it didn’t.

He last saw the carrot top in Tokyo.

In a bar. Went in together. Went out alone.
Hinata had vanished like a ghost slipping between shadows—and that was it.
The end of something that hadn’t yet begun.
After that, Kageyama lost his mind—quietly.

Sanity became a uniform he wore like it didn’t fit.

He searched. Days for traces. Years for closure.

But Hinata had already crossed into another world—

and never once looked back.

Then came the airport. He’d thought—God must finally be on his side. Maybe all those years of showing up to Hatsumode, never missing a prayer at New Year’s, had finally meant something.

A moment so sudden, so cinematic, it could’ve been fate.

Or cruelty.

He saw him.

His carrot top.

Even under the shade of a baseball cap, even through that thick pane of glass, Kageyama knew him instantly.

His breath snagged in his throat.

He looked—
God, he looked beautiful.
The same face that haunted Kageyama’s sleep.
The same silhouette etched into his muscle memory.
God knows he’d spent years longing for that face.

So why… why couldn’t he smile?
Why didn’t Hinata smile back?
Why did his expression twist—not with joy, but with panic?
And why, of all things, was he so desperately trying to hide that lump of a body—tiny legs swinging, light and carefree, in a stroller?

Kageyama couldn’t stop staring.
Couldn’t stop the questions.
Why.
Why.
Why.

Then, the answer had come fast and on point.

So Kageyama responded the only way his body knew how.

With a punch.

Hard and direct.

Square in Ushijima’s face. The culprit. The bastard who had taken something Kageyama had never even gotten to hold.

Kageyama remembered the fury.

It rang loud in his ears. It bled into his eyes.

All  he could see was that damned guy—Ushijima Wakatoshi, washed in red, framed in the crosshairs of his vision.

His irises burned.

His fists clenched.

He was rage incarnate—a wild animal, cornered in a cage.

He lunged, ready to strike again—
But something yanked him back. It was Kuroo.

But it wasn’t Kuroo who actually stopped him.

It was the horror strickened on her face—Hinata’s mom. The wide eyes, the hand over her mouth, the small gasp that didn’t even make a sound.

That was when the shame came. It came fast and sharp,  punctured his lung, slowing his breathing.

Kageyama realized he hadn’t just lost control. He had shown the ugliest part of himself—to the woman he respected most. The one he’d always wanted to impress. He’d messed up. Badly. And there was no taking it back.

And today…
Today, he’d finally gotten to see his favorite carrot top again.
He’d even held him.  Not the way he imagined. Not with a kiss under that Eiffel Tower.  But with arms wrapped tight, holding the memory like it might vanish again.

And when Hinata said it. That he was the best friend Hinata had ever had—
Kageyama felt it.

Finality.
Clear. Cold. Irrefutable.

That was his place.
That was the sentence written on the last page of this chapter of his life.
Best friend.

And he accepted it.
Of course he did.
Because he loved him.
And more than anything, he wanted Hinata to be happy.

And he seemed happy.
With that bright apartment.
That sunshine laugh.
And that cute little gremlin.

But what an asshole he was.
Getting embraced and slapped in the same day.
Everything came undone.

What really ticked him?
What pushed him over the edge?

Was it jealousy—because it was Oikawa?
Or because it wasn’t him?

Or maybe it was the way Hinata had danced around the question—voice too light, too careful like it didn’t matter.
Like it never could have mattered.

The streets of Rio blurred past in warm, humid waves.
Laughter spilled from balconies.
Music thrummed through open doorways.
Neon shimmered across puddles that never dried.

But none of it landed.

His feet moved forward—automatic, mechanical.
No destination. Just movement.
Marching for the sake of motion.
His fists were still clenched.

What was he even trying to protect?

Hinata didn’t belong to him.
He knew that.
He’d always known that. Even before today.

The word FRIEND had been stapled to his chest so long, it was practically carved into bone.
He told himself it was enough.
That it meant something—not the whole universe, maybe, but a constellation’s worth. Enough to light the dark.

And be that anchor no matter how rusty it was.

Because somewhere along the way,
he started to believe they were tethered.
Not by promise.
Not by touch.
But by something deeper. Unspoken. Lived. Earned.

That no matter how far they strayed,
they’d always snap back to each other.

Because wasn’t that what they did?

But now—
Now, the thread felt slack.
Maybe broken.

And the thought that Hinata didn’t need him anymore?

It scared the hell out of him.

The streets started to look the same—warm lights flickering off white-painted walls, the smell of sea and fried food in the air. Voices speaking a language he didn’t know. A city that didn’t care who he was, or what he’d done.

That should’ve been a comfort.

But the silence inside him kept growing louder.

He ended up near the water. Somewhere quiet. A stone ledge overlooking the beach, the mountain glowing in the distance. The sand stretching out in the dark. The ocean, restless and unbothered.

He sat down. Leaned forward. Let his hands dangle between his knees. Then came the footsteps.

Kageyama didn’t turn.

Ushijima approached slowly, with that heavy, measured walk that said everything and nothing at once. He stopped a few feet away, and stood there without speaking. Just… there.

“You followed me.”

“I did,” Ushijima said.

“Why?”

“To make sure you didn’t do anything stupid.”

Kageyama let out a breath that almost sounded like a laugh.
“And if I had?”

“Someone we both know would’ve been sad.”

The wind rolled in off the ocean. It smelled clean.

Kageyama shook his head. “I messed up.”

Ushijima said nothing.

Kageyama picked at a loose thread on his shorts. “He slapped me.”

“—You deserved it.”

That one landed.
His jaw tightened. Eyes narrowed. “Thanks.”

Ushijima stepped closer but didn’t sit.

“Aren’t you mad?” Kageyama asked.

“I have no right to be.”

“Always the clear-headed one, huh,” Kageyama muttered irritably.

“Not really. I’ve lost my composure once.” Ushijima looked away. “You know... it’s hard, when it comes to Hinata.”

“Don’t bring that back. Or I’ll kick you.”

Ushijima didn’t apologize. Didn’t even flinch. “I think I get it now,” he said instead, voice quieter than before. “Why you’re so furious.”

“Oh yeah?”

“You’re not angry because of Oikawa. Or me.
You’re angry because... you weren’t ready for him to live without you.”

Kageyama blinked.

The words dropped slow. Quiet.
Like a volleyball falling in an empty gym—no cheers, no whistle. Just silence.
And they hurt.
Not because they were cruel.
But because they were true.

Ushijima finally sat down beside him.
“Then what about you?” Kageyama asked.
“I told you. I have no right to be.”
“I know you didn’t come empty-handed. Didn’t that disappoint you?”
“How do you know?”
“Saw you breeze into Tiffany.”

Ushijima let out a slow breath.
“It wasn’t for him to wear. It was for me to give.”

They watched the waves together.
They exhaled at the same time.
And for once, silence was allowed to just be silence.

But the synchronicity of their melancholy didn’t last.
It slipped away before it had the chance to settle—
Gone as quietly as it had arrived, winding down the hour.

Kageyama rose, brushing the dust from his pants.
“I’m leaving first thing in the morning.”
“That’s too soon,” Ushijima said.
“I’m thinking of stopping by Argentina.”

Chapter Text

Sweat slid from my hairline down the bridge of my nose, pooled in the hollow of my collarbone. Once comfortably loose, my shirt clung like damp tissue, soaked through before the day had even properly begun.

The weather app said ‘nice and breezy, highs of 28.’

Which—“hah!”

Hilarious.

Because right now? I’m melting. I am literally one squint away from bursting into flames. It’s not even eleven in the morning, and the sun has apparently decided that today is Fry-an-egg-on-Hinata's-head day. No breeze. No clouds. Just me, this sad excuse for a T-shirt, and the full wrath of the solar system. I remember Lucio Kato-san once saying January in Brazil is the worst. The absolute worst. The sun apparently goes feral like a stag in rut; there is no chill, just charge.  And yet, it’s only mid-December.

Mid-December!

January hasn’t even RSVP’d, and it’s already elbowing its way in like some overexcited party guest who brings a tequila bottle and no self-awareness.

Even Mother Nature has had enough of waiting.

And me? Compared to that? Please. At least she’s doing something.

I’ve had no call. No text. Not even a stupid emoji.

How long has it been now? Weeks? Months? Years? (Okay, not years, but still.)

He said he’d call. He actually said that.

And now—brilliant—I’m thinking about him.

In the middle of a game.

Where I’m meant to be, you know, functioning.

And then there’s Kageyama.

That stupid, stupid... UGH.

Ushijima said he left. Went back. As in—poof, vanished, no explanation, no warning, no “Hey, sorry I totally emotionally wrecked you and then disappeared like a ghost with a volleyball.”

Seriously? I’m not asking for much here. Just one syllable. Maybe two. "My bad" would’ve been great.

God, what am I even doing?

I rake a hand through my hair like that’s going to magically fix my brain; then wipe the sweat off my face with my shoulder, which is now also sweaty. Because everything is sweaty.

My face, the air, my thoughts.

Is it me, or is the universe overheating?

Focus, Hinata. For the love of God—get a grip.

“I thought you’d be used to the heat by now!” Heitor yells from the baseline.

How can he say that when he looks just as cooked as I feel?

I tug at the collar of my shirt and wipe my face with the hem. Barefoot on the sand, already crusted in sweat, I step to the edge of the court, ball in hand, squinting past the net.

“Say that to yourself, Heitor,” I mutter, tossing the ball and launching into a jump serve. The opponent volleys—a last-ditch effort. For a second, I think it’s sailing out. We all do.

But then—oh, sweet miracle—the wind catches it, flips it just enough to keep it in. Heitor’s already there, keeping it up like it’s nothing, and here I go for another—

Man, that toss. Perfect. Right at the sweet spot.

I catch a glimpse of Heitor grinning like a kid at a carnival. We connect, clean, high-five, and begin again.

“Oohh, what a great combo—serve and attack! Things have been going just fine for our Ninja-Shoyo-Heitor duo here. We’re deep into the third set, and they hold strong in this crucial group-stage decider…”

I love you, Mr. Commentator.

Bless you and your radio voice.

It’s like verbal Gatorade—I swear I just leveled up.

And more importantly, it shoved that utterly useless, absolutely not-helpful thought straight out of my brain.

Good riddance.

I lay sprawled out on the sand, chest heaving. The sun beams straight onto my face. I think my sunscreen’s either melted or surrendered.

“That was intense,” I say, eyes shut tight against the glare.

“Yeah. Come on, Shoyo—let’s get to the shade,” Heitor says, already tugging me up and dragging me toward the big tree.

I squint through the sunlight—and there she is, waving like she’s fighting off a swarm of bees. Grace? Nowhere in sight.

“Oh! Congrats, boys!” Sofia beams, planting a kiss on Heitor’s cheek. “Tomorrow’s going to be even more hectic. And—can we talk about the heat? I’m roasting.” She fans herself with both hands. “I hope it’s not this flaming tomorrow.”

“Yeah, the heat is bad enough,” Heitor says. 

Sofia turns to me.

“You! Shoyo. What was going on with you? You totally zoned out at the start of the third set.”

Now both are staring at me like I’ve grown a second head.

I offer her a crooked smile.

“Sorry. It won’t happen again. Promise.”

“Well, he probably has a lot on his mind,” Heitor says, slinging an arm around my shoulder and guiding me a little away from her. “Look, Shoyo. I’d love it if you could stay 100% focused while we’re playing. But if you can’t? I don’t mind. As long as it doesn’t screw with your game, we’re good.” He thumbs up at me.

Sofia.

Sofia, however, doesn’t seem to buy it. Whatever thing just passed between me and Heitor, she cut right through it. No hesitation. No smile.

“Something’s bothering you,” she says softly. “I can tell.”

“Nah…Just a dumb thing. Not important.”

Her eyes stay on me.
And they keep staying, for a few good seconds—long enough to make my face muscles go stiff from holding it together. If I so much as flinch, I’ll look petrified entirely under a spotlight.

“Okay, if you say so.” Sofia steps in and grips my shoulder, firm but gentle.

“Just remember, Shoyo—I’m always here, if you need me.”

I meet her eyes and nod. “I will.”

____

We wrapped up soon after that. None of us could stand the sun much longer—not after everything.

I rushed home as fast as my legs would carry me. And the moment I open the door, I’m met with the sweetest, most angelic smile.

“Daddy!!”

I crouch down, arms wide—like that scene from 'Leslie, the Dog,' or whatever it was—and here he comes, barreling straight into them.

Ren smells like afternoon meadows and something lemony. It’s weird, I know—but I love his scent. So much so, I wish I could bottle it and keep it forever.

He stirs in my arms. “Daddy! You stink! And you’re sandy!”

Sandy?

Yeah… he’s right. I probably am covered in it. 

Ren scrunches up his nose, struggling in an attempt to push me away. I hold him tighter. How much cuter this kid could be?

If I could freeze this moment...

“Shoyo. Ya got sand all over your hair. And ya back too,” Isabela says in her concentrated Portuguese, trying not to laugh. “Go change. Now.”

I give her a dramatic salute and tiptoe forward, slow and guilty, like a walking sandstorm trying not to shed. 

“Sorry for the mess, Isabela. I kind of… rolled around on the beach. Your instincts were spot on. It's a good call not to bring Ren today. It was brutally hot out there.”

Halfway to the bathroom, I catch sight of the laptop on the coffee table. Camera light is blinking green.

Oh.

I glance back at Isabela. She meets my eyes and nods knowingly.

Ren dashes back into the living room and calls out, “Daddy! It’s Chii-chan!”

So… they are on it. 

We did agree he’d call sometimes. To talk to his son.

Video calls, phone calls—whatever worked.

At first, it was just that.

But somewhere along the way, it became something else.

Not quite casual. Not quite routine.

Now it feels more like a ritual than simple father-son bonding.

Ushijima almost always calls in the afternoon. Maybe because it’s midnight back in Japan.

Initially, I had to teach Isabela how to answer the call on the laptop. Just one button. Easy enough.

Now, Ren does everything himself.

That kid learns fast especially when it comes to tech.

Will he grow up to be some computer genius?

I don’t know.

But dreams, hopes, imagination—they’re free, right?

I kneel in front of the screen. And there he is—Ushijima. On a bed, in a room that seems like a hotel, wearing glasses and a gray varsity shirt that says UCLA. He raises a hand and waves.

“Hello, Hinata. You look…”

There’s a pause. Why is there a pause?

“great…,” he finishes.

“And you look old,” I retort.

God. I sound like a sulking second-grader with a grudge.

“Oh, you mean these?” Ushijima takes off his glasses. “They’re just for the screen. Blue light filter.”

“Ah. I thought you’d gone full old-man mode—reading glasses and everything. Like my mom.”

He laughs. From the belly, open with nothing held back. It sounds… free.

Right.  What’s so funny about that? I’m not trying to be skittish here. 

“So, how was the match?” he asks, wiping the traces of tears from his eyes. 

Yes. This is it—my bragging moment.

I don’t care about the future or fate as we call it or the tournament beyond tomorrow, for I have no control over what’s coming, other than working by butt off to the limit. But right now? I want to tell this man—this literal spike machine, on my screen; hair down, looking stupidly sexy—how we crushed it today.

…Wait. Did I think 'sexy'?

Nope. Forget that. Moving on.

“Hmph. You’re not gonna believe it. We won the group stage. The real thing starts tomorrow.”

“As expected,” he says, calm and direct. “You nailed it. And I know you’re going to do the same tomorrow.”

I narrow my eyes. Who even says stuff like that so casually? He’s only seen me play once. How can he—?

“You—what do you know about it!” I snap, too flustered to hide it.

Ushijima hunches over the screen. His expression hasn’t changed much, but something in his eyes sharpens. Or maybe…they’re twinkling?

“Hinata. I saw how you play. You make it look easy to move in the sand, when it’s not. Believe me—I’ve tried.”

He tried?

“And you’ve got the basics down pat,” he adds. “You’re not the klutz—sorry, I mean, you used to rely almost entirely on your speed and fighting spirit. Now you’re calmer. Smarter. You read the court. You’ve become an all-rounder.”

“Come on,” I mutter, waving him off. “That’s too much—”

“I’m not saying this to flatter you,” he cuts in. “It’s my professional opinion. So I think you’ll do well tomorrow. Maybe even better.”

His words slide in—clean, deliberate.

Like a knife through warm butter. Sharp enough to cut. Soft enough to sink deep.

And something in me gives. 

My chest tightens, and I don’t know why.

Or maybe I do. I just don’t want to admit it.

Heat rises in my sandy face, blooming across my cheeks, likely to the tips of my ears. Maybe it’s the sun, still blazing outside. Or perhaps it’s the weight of everything I’m not saying.

Instinctively, I reach for my nose.

No blood. Thank god.

Because right now, Ushijima’s words echo like Mozart—or better, Fuji Kaze’s “Shinunoga E-Wa.”

I wouldn’t mind playing them on repeat.

And the way he says them, so earnestly, with that stupidly charming face, sends my heart drumming wildly.

Ren barrels in before I can spiral further—loud, bright, and perfectly timed. My saving grace in more ways than one.

“Daddy! Chii-chan’s coming!” he shouts, tugging my cheeks hard to make me look at him.

“What?” I blink, turning back to the screen.

“Oh, um…” Ushijima clears his throat. “I was thinking of coming by to celebrate New Year’s. With Ren. If that’s okay. The club just released next year’s schedule, and it looks like I have a few days off… So I thought, maybe I could come over.”

I open my mouth, but don’t get a word out before a knock—loud and abrupt.

“Hang on a sec,” Ushijima says, shifting off the bed and walking out of frame.

Instinctively, I lean in closer to the laptop, toward the speaker.
My index finger presses to my lips as I glance at Ren.

Muffled voices drift in. Indistinct. Male laughter. Something slurred and celebratory.

I tilt my head, just a little closer.

“Hinata?”

I jerk back. 

 Ushijima clears his throat. “Is something wrong?”

“No. Nothing wrong.” 

“In case you’re wondering—“

“I’m not,” I say, too quickly.

“Well… if you were. Those were my teammates. We’re in Namba, Osaka. We had a match tonight—against the Suntory Sunbirds—”

“Did you win?”

“We did. The guys wanted me to join them for drinks. Celebrate.”

“So why are you still here?”

He smiles.

And not just any smile. It’s soft. Honest. Disarming. The kind of smile that slips past every defense, even the toughest iron wall of Date Tech.

Where the hell did Ushijima learn to smile like that?

“I have a pre-arranged date,” Ushijima says, his tone calm and resolute. “With someone important to me. Here.”

He looks directly at the screen. “Wouldn’t miss it for anything.”

Okay.

Right.

He means Ren. Of course he does. That’s the only reasonable interpretation.

They made a promise. One he’s never broken. Ren waits for his calls like a sacred ritual—small hands pressed to the screen, counting down the seconds like time might slip through his fingers.

So why does my face burn like I’ve been caught in something I shouldn’t want?

It's just heat. That’s all. Residual sun. Nothing else.

Nothing at all.

“So?” Ushijima says, his voice calm, as if the conversation hadn’t just sent me into a mental tailspin.

“What do you think?”

“You mean, dating?”

He blinks.

I blink.

Wait—what?

“That’s… not what I meant,” he says slowly. “But if it was... I wouldn’t be opposed.”

My brain stutters.

What did I just say?

“I didn’t—I wasn’t—“

“You brought it up,” Ushijima says.

“My tongue slipped, okay. I didn’t mean any of it!”

Ushijima laughs. But it’s a different laugh this time.

I can’t read him—this look. There’s the faintest curve at the edge of his mouth, those piercing gunmetal green orbs holding mine too long. That tilting head…

It’s unnerving.

I feel like slamming down the laptop, but that sure would upset Ren.

“Understood,” he says. “I got ahead of myself.”

He pauses, more serious now.

“But I meant what I said. Can I come over for New Year’s? For Ren.”

“Oh…Sure,” I say before I can think too hard about it.

“Thank you. I couldn’t ask for more.”

“Wooooosh! Pyung pyung pyung!” Ren makes explosion sounds, flailing his arms. The kid has been surprisingly patient waiting for his turn for the screentime with Ushijima. 

“Fireworks! Chii-chan said!”

I glance at the screen and give Ushijima that look that says, “Really? You're promising fireworks now?”

“I think we can see them from your balcony,” he says. “It’d be a good memory for him.”

“Fine,” My voice is low as I push to my feet and head toward the bathroom, leaving the conversation behind.

Behind me, all I can hear is Ren—my little spark—chattering excitedly to the screen—to the man he doesn’t even know is his father. 

Chapter Text

We lost.

Semifinal.

We went up against a pair from Fortaleza—strong, experienced, and veteran-level. You could see it in the way they moved. They barely had to speak, but they always knew where the other would be.

Really, who am I compared to people who’ve been playing beach volleyball since they could walk?

Three days straight of matches, and I thought I could get a nice lazy day off today. Unfortunately, I  thought wrong. 

I’m down with hot flashes, muscles aching, and brain fried. I think I pushed too hard—wrecked my body and my mind trying to carry it all. And to top it off, I did it under that ruthless sun.

What was I thinking? 

“Daddy!”

Ah. Ren must be done with his potty.

I start to rise from the sofa—

“Oh, Shoyo, just lie down. Don’t bother. I’ll take care of Ren.” Isabela pushes my chest back down and lays a cold, damp towel across my face.

The nanny switch has flipped into full Mother Goose mode.

No matter how many times I tried explaining that I’d be fine in no time, that I could still function like a normal human being, she just kept saying, “Não, (no), ” and practically shoved me toward the bedroom.

“Rest,” she says.

I try again—big mistake. She karate chops me on the head.

And that’s when it hits me: mothers, grandmothers... they’re all the same regardless of what country they’re from. They are sweetly terrifying, I swear.

So yeah, I don’t argue after that.

But we came to a settlement: I am allowed to lie on the sofa in the living room instead of on my bed, in my cluttered, messy bedroom.  This way, I can still hear what my son’s up to.

The damp towel Isabela shoved onto my forehead is cold—blissfully so. The chill seeps into my skin, bleeding into my cheeks, eyelids, and lips. It feels nice when even the air you breathe out comes out cool.

And slowly, I'm drifting.

The clock ticks.

The TV’s on—some cooking show where amateur chefs are battling it out for glory.

Nearby, I hear Isabela and Ren chatting in Portuguese. His Portuguese is getting better every day. He’s starting to keep up. 

My eyes are starting to feel like lead.

I’m not sure when it began—just that now, everything is starting to quiet.

I hear nothing except:

The low hum of the air conditioner, straining at full blast.

The click and clack of Ren’s Duplo blocks—softer now, duller—fading until they melt into the background, just another part of the white noise.

My thoughts, my breath, the ache in my bones; I let go for a moment. 

“Hinata.”

Someone’s calling my name. 

Isabela?

“Hinata,” it calls again, closer now. 

A warm hand strokes my cheek tenderly. 

I lean into the touch. “Mmm…” 

“Wake up.”

“Don’t wanna…”

Soft lips press against my temple. Another whisper, closer this time. “Wake up.”

My eyes peel open. I blink once. Twice. Again.

I see nothing except;

Light. Shadow. Heat. 

A silhouette looms above me, tall enough to block out the world.

My breath catches. 

I close my eyes again.

“Babe,” the voice murmurs, curling around my ear like smoke. “Wake up.”

A breath grazes my lips—hot, steady.

“Wait—”                                                                                                                        

I barely speak before his mouth claims mine.

Firm. Intentional. No hesitation. It's as if he knows exactly what I need and refuses to let me pretend otherwise.

His kiss is fire and hunger—strawberries, lemon, peaches, summer sweetness over something darker.

I grab his shirt. Then his hair. And I pull him closer. Harder.

I bite his lip.

He growls.

“Impatient, aren’t we?” I hear him say.

And then he deepens the kiss like it’s a promise.

Who he is, I don’t care.

Not in this moment. Not when he’s everywhere. Not when he tastes heavenly delicious.

We shift.

His hands seize my waist, dragging me into his body. My legs wrap around him on instinct, skin against skin. No barriers. No breath. Just need.

When did the layers go?

My body hums. And he, too. Everything becomes alive.

Not a spark. A surge.

Every inch tingles, burns, trembles beneath his touch. The drag of his fingers across my spine sends me reeling. One roll of his hips and my lungs forget how to function.

I feel cracked open. Unmoored.

Like something inside me has been waiting for this—for him—and now it’s awake and starving.

“Tell me what you want,” he breathes, voice low and wrecked as he looks up at me.

“I want you," I say in a heartbeat.

His mouth curves—slow, dark, content.

“Then take me,” he says. “All of me.”

And I do. 

I swear I do. 

Heat. Hands. Gasps. 

I moan. And between those moans and ragged breaths, I keep calling his name.

It slips out, instinctively. Unstoppable. 

His face comes into focus now, shadow melting into clarity.

Broad shoulders. Steady gaze.

Strange. 

My heart doesn’t race.

It settles.

I don’t pull away.

I smile—small, soft, inevitable.

Then I kiss him again. I kiss him everywhere. Because in this moment, he’s the only thing that lets me breathe.

Like the world narrowed to this one point of contact, and I never want to come up for air.

I lose track of everything—time, breath, thought. My body moves to him, with him, because of him. His rhythm becomes the only truth I know.

His hands hold me. His voice anchors me.

“Hinata Shoyo,” he growls, lips brushing my neck, breath scalding. “You’re mine.”

His teeth drag against my skin.

“Forever.”

Pain. Sharp. Fleeting.

Then—

Pleasure, blinding and infinite, ripping through me until I’m nothing but sound and sensation.

I don’t know where we are.

Only who I’m with.

“Toshi,” I gasp. “Toshi… hold me tight.”

I cling to him like gravity, like breath, like salvation.

Like he’s the only thing keeping me whole.

It’s crazy because I want more.

More of him. More of everything.

My hand finds him. I stroke—

“Shoyo?”

A hand presses gently to my forehead, followed by the shadow of a body leaning over me.

I jolt awake.

“You’re sweating buckets,” Isabela says, half-concerned, half-amused. 

“Daddy wet his pants!” Ren points gleefully.

My eyes widen. I bolt upright, mutter something incoherent, and speed-walk to the bathroom.

I splash cold water on my face, hard enough to sting.

My hand moves instinctively to my nape.

No blood. Not a single scratch. 

But the phantom ache lingers. I can still feel his teeth sink into my skin. Still see it.

Damn.

My eyes—reluctantly, traitorously—drift downward.

And there it is. A dark patch blooming across my sweatpants, massive and obvious.

Roughly the size of the African continent.

What the hell did I just dream?

____

This is insane.

Because that dream? It wasn’t the end of it.

I woke up drenched in sweat, and... yeah. That too. Down below.

It’s 2 a.m.

The dreams have been weirdly lucid. Every time I wake up, I swear I can still feel the bite on my neck—even though I know it’s not there.

Every single time, it’s him. Ushijima.

Why?

It’s a dream.

Shouldn’t I be able to choose someone else?

Someone who’s actually occupied my mind—haunted it, even.

The one who said he’d call.

But never did.

Maybe it’s time I take Oikawa’s words for what they were.

That night meant nothing.

A favor, offered casually.

A kindness between friends.

A temporary collision of two exhausted souls pretending not to need more.

So why did I hope?

Because he was the first person I touched with a clear head after months of silence?

Because he whispered soft things and held me like he meant them?

Because he smiled at my son like he’d known him longer than an afternoon?

God.

Do I have a twisted mind?

Am I really that shallow?

I move through the motions—stripping the bed, tossing the sheets into the washer, replacing the covers like it’s just another chore.

And finally, I step into a cold shower, accepting the sting of it like penance.

Maybe if I stand here long enough, I’ll rinse out whatever this is.

The dreams. The thoughts.

Oikawa’s absence.

Ushijima’s presence.

One leaves me aching.

The other—I don’t even know why he keeps showing up in my head.

He’s Ren’s father. That’s all.

Haven’t I made that clear? Haven’t I drawn the line?

So why does it feel like… it isn’t?

Dammit, I need someone to talk to.

“I slept with Oikawa,” I tell Kenma—no filter, no softening—at three in the morning, with a glass of cold tea in my hand. 

“Figured you ought to know. You’re my sponsor, after all.”

Kenma blinks. “When did this happen?”

“Last month? A few weeks ago?” I sigh. “I can’t remember exactly.”

“Did you use protection?”

“...No.”

Kenma pauses, deadpanned.  “Seriously?”

“We— he was careful. He pulled out, okay?” I rub my temple, already regretting this entire conversation. “No weird symptoms or anything. My body feels normal. And anyway—that’s not why I called you at three in the morning.”

“Okay. Not great, but not the worst,” Kenma says. 

I groan. “It was a whim. Well, plus, like, two minutes of deep thought.”

I drag a hand through my hair. “I was kinda desperate. We were two consenting adults. There was rain. Thunder. We were soaked. His hands kept brushing mine. The teasing. His stupid alpha body. And it’s been so long since my body reacted like that. So—so—”

“Shoyo,” Kenma cuts in, calm and dry.

“Yeah?”

“I get it. And I don’t expect you to wear a chastity belt forever.”

Chastity belt? Seriously? What century are we living in?

Kenma goes on. “Men, women, omega, alpha—even beta. We all have needs. Sexual desire isn’t a weakness. It means you’re human. Healthy, even in mind and body. And as far as I can tell, you’re both. Also… you're attractive. And he’d be stupid to deny you.”

I blink at the screen, watching Kenma slouched in his gaming chair, a controller balanced on his lap.

“Look,” he says, voice steady now, “as your sponsor, I don’t care who you sleep with. I care that you’re in control. That you know your limits. That you take care of yourself. That’s my job.”

Then, he leans back, his voice softening just a fraction.

“But as your friend… I want to ask you something else.”

“Okay.”

“What did it mean to you? The sex. Oikawa. Was it just physical, or was it something more?”

“He… Oikawa said it was a favor,” I murmur. “He acted like it was nothing the next morning. Made me and Ren breakfast. Talked to me like normal. Said he’d call. Then walked out like nothing happened.”

“Hmm. Cheeky bastard,” Kenma mutters.

“Don’t say that. He’s… he’s actually a nice guy.”

Kenma leans back, arms now crossed over his chest.

“You’ve been strangely smitten with him since high school,” he says, tone flat. “I still remember when he said he would crush your entire team, and you looked like you’d just been personally blessed by the volleyball gods. And that one time—remember?—when he called you ‘interesting’ after a game. The one your team won. You blushed so hard on the video call, then talked about him for an hour straight. I timed it.”

He lifts an eyebrow. “That much I know.”

Then, more carefully, Kenma continues, “But the man hasn’t called. And you were hoping he would.”

I blink. “How did you know?”

“You wouldn’t be wallowing at me at 3 a.m. if he did,” Kenma says, eyes locked on the screen.

Then he looks up with a look sharp enough to cut paper. “Do you like him, Shoyo?”

“I... I don’t know. I’m confused. And the thing with Ushijima—”

“Ushijima?” Kenma cuts in, voice still even. “What about the big guy now?”

“You knew he came here to see me, right? With Kageyama?”

Kenma nods once.

“I’ve been dreaming about him lately. Like dream dream. In sleep.” I admit, heat rising to my cheeks. “Lewd dreams.”

“Ahh… that explains why you’re red all over.”

“Well, it’s been hot lately over here,” I mutter, fanning myself with my loose nightshirt.

“Well, keep hydrated,” Kenma says. “And maybe don’t get so tangled up that you forget to care for yourself. Or Ren.” 

He studies me for a moment. “And what about the big guy? You starting to miss him too?”

“Far from it. I don’t even like him.”

“So you like Oikawa.”

I hesitate. “If you put it that way…maybe?”

“Why not give him a call?” Kenma suggests.

“I’m not gonna sound desperate.”

“So you’d rather sit here in agony?” He raises an eyebrow. “Interesting choice.” Kenma scratches his chin. “But I’ve been wondering…”

“About what?”

“—Ushijima. You say you don’t like him. And yet, you dream about him.”

“Yeah, well, it’s not like I get to fill out a guest list before I fall asleep.”

Kenma huffs through his nose.  There’s the faintest quirk at the corner of his mouth. I wonder what he’s thinking of me now.  He leans back in his chair, eyes still on me. “…was he good?” He tilts his head. “In the dream, I mean.”

“He was fantastic. Big body. Big hands, big… You know. Big feet. And everything.” I cover my face. “Why are you asking me this? Seriously, Kenma—”

He laughs. “Sorry, Shoyo. I just like seeing you flustered like this. Kinda missed it.”

He keeps laughing.

“Glad I could entertain you.”

“Jokes aside, Shoyo. Really—why don’t you like Ushijima? “Your mom said you forgave him. That you gave him the space to be in Ren’s life.” He pauses. “Which, let’s be honest, means being in your life too.”

“I did.”

“But you don’t like him.”

“I don’t.”

“Then why?”

I scoff. “Am I supposed to like someone just because we made a person together? What’s next—marrying my blender because we made soup?”

Kenma doesn’t even blink. “Depends. Was it good soup?”

I throw a pillow at the screen. “I hate you.”

“No, you don’t. You just hate that I’m not disagreeing with you.”

I lean back, rubbing a hand over my face. 

“It doesn’t matter anyway,” I say to Kenma. “Everything I do, I do it for Ren. And so far, I daresay Ushijima has been carrying his role nicely.”

Kenma hums. “Okay. I think I get it.” He looks vaguely amused.

“What do you get?” I ask. 

“That you’re confused.”

“That fact we know already. I told you that, like, two minutes ago.”

“Yes,” he says calmly. “But I’m saying it’s deeper confusion.”

“How deep are we talking here? Existential crisis deep? Heartbreak deep?”

“You tell me,” he says. “You’re the one having wet dreams about a man you claim not to like.”

I groan, dropping my face into my hands. “Kenma…”

“Okay, okay. That one’s on me. Kill me later when you’re home.” He holds up a hand. “Now listen up, because I’m only saying this once.”

I lean closer to the laptop.

Kenma folds his arms. His voice slows, turns oddly formal. “Figure out what’s real for you. No one else can name it. And you won’t find the answer standing still.”

I blink. “Did you just quote a game?”

Kenma shrugs. “Possibly.”

“You’re making me more confused.”

“Good.” His expression doesn’t waver. “Confusion means something’s shifting. It means you give a thought.”

I glance at him. “Do you ever feel like this about Kuroo-san?”

Kenma tilts his head.  “Nah. He’s a straight cut. We kind of dove into it the second we hit puberty. Saved me the trouble of guessing.”

Then, completely deadpan: “He’s good in bed—makes me come in under five minutes. Efficient.” He taps his chin. “The drawback is, he always wants more rounds. Three’s the default. Five’s max. After that, I’m flatlined. Last month, I couldn’t walk straight or sit upright long enough for my ranked match. Got a time-out ban. Tragic.”

I blink. Horrified. And he’s still going.

“Sometimes he insists on morning sex, too. Says it boosts his ‘energy levels.’ It doesn't. He just likes watching me limp to the kitchen like I’ve been hit by a truck.”

“Kenma. Are you—are you bragging about your sex life right now?”

He shrugs. “Oh. Right. Tangent.”

Then he laughs. Laughs and is amused. “Anyway, Shoyo…”

The rest of the conversation went completely tangential.

We talked about home. Our friends. Life—everything except the two guys we’d spent way too long circling around.

At some point, I asked him about Kageyama. Kenma said that idiot was gaining ridiculous popularity back in Japan.

“After the curry commercial,” he said, deadpan, “he landed a men’s shorts campaign. Boxers, too.”

Well. That’s a leap.

I close the laptop, and my brain feels like static.

I think I’m more confused now than I was before.

What was I even expecting from my conversation with Kenma? 

My eyes drift to the calendar.

Christmas is in two days.

We don't celebrate it, but still lean hard into the presents.

And I haven’t gotten anything for Ren.

The washer hums in the background, louder than it needs to be, spinning the bedsheets clean.

I think I’ll wait here until it’s done. 

And why is it so damn hot in here?!

I feel like stripping already—

Correction: I already have.

Next thing I know, I’m butt naked on the sofa, clutching a second glass of cold tea.

My eyes drop to my groin.

The damn thing’s at full attention. My lower half feels heavy. My stomach’s churning.

Heat floods my body in waves.

Oh my god.

Can it be—

Chapter Text

“Fuck.”

How could I forget the pills?

I’ve searched the bathroom shelves. The bedroom. My bag.

Nothing.

Now my hands are tearing through the kitchen cabinets—upper, lower, even the drawers. I stuck my head in the fridge, too. Ridiculous, but who knows? Maybe I shoved them in with Ren’s cough syrup or fever meds.

Still nothing. Nada. Nada.

My heart feels like it’s about to burst. I’m palpitating.

I know I shouldn’t be panicking in this situation.

But hell—the 'cool' me already jumped off a cliff.

All I’m left with is the 'jittery' me, trepidation-ridden version of me, pacing back and forth; sofa to kitchen counter, kitchen counter to sofa, biting my nail.

After five minutes of pacing, I stopped abruptly in the living hall.

Okay—breathe, Shoyo. Let’s take this one step back.

I start counting:

One: The tournament started two weeks ago.

Two: I got the suppressant injection a week before that, to adjust the dosage.

Three: because of that, I stopped the pills—the ones I usually keep on hand.

Four: I never stocked up again.

Five: I’m out. Totally out.

Brilliant.

I’m completely fucked up.

Where the hell am I supposed to get pills at three in the goddamn morning?

I storm back into the bathroom, yanking open the shelves again.

Nothing.

I duck under the sink, just in case—maybe I dropped a bottle?

Nope. Just cobwebs. And whatever built them is now sprinting for its life.

I straighten up. Maybe too fast—because suddenly the floor tilts, and my head swims. My vision warps sideways.

I think the Earth has shifted its horizon. Or maybe it's just me—my world tipping over.

I reach out and grab the shower curtain to balance.

The damn thing yanks straight off the hooks with a metallic clatter, and I go down hard.

My forehead slams against the edge of the bathtub.

“Dammit!”

White lights. Then stars—exploding across my sight like fireworks.

The pain’s instant and molten, like someone jabbed a burning spoon into the front of my skull.

I curl on the tile, hands pressed to my forehead, blinking against the sting.

After what feels like hours of cursing in this small, hollow bathroom, I finally manage to pull myself upright and stumble to the mirror.

My face blooms red where the tub kissed it. The swelling is fast. Like anger. Like shame. 

I need ice. 

My head throbs. My body’s burning. The wants start to crawl under my skin and pool in my bottom. I swear, if I could just give it a touch, a stroke—anything. Even shoving something into the already pulsing, aching hole—

It might ease the despair.

Be it only temporary. 

I’d still take it.

Anything to dull this.

I’m on heat. No doubt about it. 

And it hurts.

It hurts like hell.

Everything’s off the charts.

My whole body feels like it’s buzzing under too-tight skin. My stomach coils, my thighs clench, my nipples—God.

Exactly like when I carried Ren. That same electric pressure and unbearable hypersensitivity—sore, tight, like air could graze them the wrong way. A shirt? Forget it. Even the thought makes me flinch.

I blink up at the mirror again.

My eyes are already glazing over—heavy-lidded, fever-bright.

My cheeks, ears, and neck… all flushed. My skin is burning red in patches, like it’s advertising exactly what I am.

I throw the robe over my shoulders, not bothering to tie it right. The belt hangs loose. I flinch as the fabric skims over my chest—already too swollen, too raw.

It’s useless, this cover.

The animal in me wants nothing hidden.

Wants skin. Wants exposure. Wants want.

That’s the danger of heat. It strips you down before anyone ever touches you.

I stare at my reflection.

God… I look like—

“A horny bitch begging to be fucked.”

The words leave me in a flat breath.

I don’t even flinch at the vulgarity.

There isn’t a more accurate word for it. For this… this feral, pathetic need that’s overtaking me.

I stumble back from the mirror, one hand pressed firmly to my swollen forehead, and lumber out of the bathroom.

Lucky me—my brain’s still working, at least a little.

With every shaky, aching step, even standing upright takes a ridiculous amount of effort. But somehow, I make it to the freezer.

There’s still ice.

I scoop out five, maybe six cubes, toss them into a ziplock bag, and wrap them in a towel.

This’ll do for the swelling. At least my forehead won’t look like it laid an egg.

I stagger into the hallway, grab the phone, and march loosely to the bedroom. Ren’s sleeping soundly. 

I collapse onto the bed and ice my forehead.

The robe slips loose. I don’t bother fixing it.

It’s too hot. Everything is hot.

I shift, sprawled and aching. The ice is burning cold against the swelling, but the rest of me feels like it’s boiling.

I grab my phone with a shaky hand.

“Help. I’m in heat. No pills.” I type and hit send before I can overthink it.

My eyes drift to the clock on the bedside table.

3:40 a.m.

Really?

All that struggling—that felt like a lifetime—was only forty minutes?

Forty fucking minutes?

Okay, breathe, Shoyo. Breathe.

I lie motionless on the bed, eyes fluttering toward the ceiling.

I started to think maybe I could weather this.

But then another wave hits—deeper now, heavier.

The kind that claws straight down to the bone.

My hips twitch. My legs tense.

Oh, shit.

I’m aroused beyond control.

Everything is wet.

Instinctively, I spread my legs, press my palm between my thighs, and jab my fingers in.

I close my eyes and breathe slowly at first. Then faster.

Then comes the moan.

Maybe I’m being too loud. I hear Ren squirming in his sleep.

I bite my lip, trying to stay quiet.

But how?

The sensation is too much.

My hips move in rhythm—bouncing, rocking with my fingers.

Everything’s starting to move faster.

Fast.

Fast.

Faster—

Until I come.

A release, bursting out of me like a fountain.

God.

How long has it been?

I lie there, heart pounding, hand still slick and trembling.

It should feel like relief.

But it doesn’t.

Because the body knows.

This is only the start.

God, I’ve never wanted the sun to rise this badly.

My body jolts awake, like someone dumped a bucket of ice water on my face.

My eyes fly open, darting wildly around the room. My chest is heaving.

Someone’s at the door. Banging.

I reach for my phone. Twenty-three missed calls.

It’s 4:20 a.m.

 I drag myself up, legs heavy and unsteady, and shuffle to the door. I unlock it and twist it open. Cool air hits my face like a slap.

I lean against the frame, barely upright.

“Oh my god! Shoyo, you look terrible!”

“You came,” I murmur.

“Honey, you stay out here. I’ll go in alone,” Sofia says firmly.

My vision pulses—shrinking and expanding like the room is breathing. But I still catch the shape of Sofia pushing Heitor back from the door.

“Wait for me here,” she tells him. 

She steps inside and shuts the door with a soft click. She pauses, glancing around, then moves to me and tugs my robe closed, tying it with a quick, practiced knot.

“Darling, I know this isn’t comfortable, but you need to be decent while I’m here. Come on. Let’s get those pills in you.”

She guides me to the sofa.

I sit, slumping.

Sofia heads to the kitchen. “Lucky you—I always keep extra with me, just in case,” she says.

She returns with a glass of water and the pills. "Two?" 

I nod. I toss the pills into my mouth and down the whole glass in one go.

Then I wait.

Two minutes. That’s all it takes. The pain begins to dull. My breathing slows. The blur in my vision fades.

Sofia’s face, which looked warped like a funhouse mirror before, comes back into focus.

But the ache remains-t he need.

“Sorry you had to come,” I say.

She brushes my hair off my forehead. “Anytime, Shoyo. What happened here? Did you bang your head?”

“Sort of.”

“Did you ice it? That swelling looks awful.”

“I did.”

Well. For two minutes. Before my fingers got… busy. Of course, I didn't tell her that. 

“Clearly, you need to ice it more.”

Sofia is already in the kitchen. I don’t even look. I’m just sitting there, savoring this temporary calm, eyes closed, aware of the dull throb between my legs and the heat pulsing at my rear.

Then something cold presses to my forehead. I flinch.

“So, is Ren okay?” she asks.

I nod. “ He’s been sleeping.”

“Good. You can’t take care of him like this.”

I nod again, slower.

“Let’s get you to bed,” she says. “I helped with the pills, but the rest is on you now, Shoyo.”

I know what she means.

Touching myself. It’s not like I haven’t done it before. So I say, “I know.”

She looks at me for a long moment. “You know, it’d be faster with an alpha doing it for you.”

“Clearly, I don’t have one,” I say. “And the last time I did, I got Ren.”

Sofia laughs, soft and dry. “That’s because you two were ‘rutting’. Adolescence is indeed a dangerous thing.”

“It was my first,” I say flatly.

She pauses. Then smiles.

“You’re smiling, and I’m hurting here.”

She pinches my cheek. “Oh, cheer up, Shoyo. You’ll get through this. I’ll nurse you and your kid, don’t worry about it.”

She starts pulling cushions off the sofa. “Now come on, let’s turn this couch into a bed. We’ll bring Ren out here—you take the room.”

“You’ll be here?” I ask.

“Where else would I be?”

“But… Christmas is in two days.”

She waves a hand. “Ahh, don’t worry. I’ve got everything figured out.”

And she keeps on saying it. “Don’t worry.”

I’m on my bed. Fully naked. 

Ren is out on the sofa. That kid didn’t even stir when we moved him—deep sleeper, that one.

Heitor’s gone. Sofia sent him on some errands, and I didn’t ask what. I don’t want to know.

I’ve got bigger problems.

Or “situations,” if you want to dress it up pretty.

My body’s on fire. I need something—anything—to calm it down.

Biologically, heat is a hormonal event tied to secondary gender expression. 

It begins when the hypothalamus signals the pituitary gland, kicking off a full-body cascade. Pheromone output spikes. Skin becomes hypersensitive. Mucosal tissue swells, softens, and lubricates—essentially, the body opens itself. The brain follows, slipping into a more instinct-driven state. Boundaries blur. Logic loosens.- Book of Second Gender. 4th edition. 

And then it gets worse.

Because heat isn’t just a one-time flare of arousal.

It lasts.

Days.

The omega body shifts into a sustained fertile window, cycling through phases of heightened sensitivity and hormonal peaks, like waves hitting the shore, harder and faster until the system is spent;

Either it fades on its own or fulfills its purpose—eggs meet sperm. A new life begins.

Everything in between is just damage control. Calming the body. Easing the wants.

It’s a natural pattern that isn’t limited to humans.

It’s like how lionesses experience estrus: days of repeated mating, the body forcing exposure, demanding attention.

Not because of pleasure.

But to increase the odds of successful breeding.

That’s what heat is at its core.

It’s not about sex.

It’s biology, stripped to its most brutal—or maybe its most novel—purpose;

Reproduction.

And it doesn’t care if you’re ready. Or if you’re alone.

Your body doesn’t ask for permission.

It just prepares.

Guess that reading assignment Kato-san gave actually turned out to be useful.

I just wish I’d known all of it before that fateful night with Ushijima.

Maybe Sofia was right.

Maybe we were caught in that cycle. Both of us. His rut mirroring my heat, instinct against instinct. 

Ushijima did say—he’d lost all sense.

I believed him.

I still do.

Because a sane, uptight alpha like him doesn’t easily lose control.

Not unless his instincts are screaming at him, too.

It wasn’t love.

It wasn’t even choice.

It was biology.

My heat.

His rut.

We were just two kids with no idea how deep that rabbit hole went.

“Oh—“

I come again.

Second time this morning.

It was only a finger.

Just a slip—pressure against too-sensitive flesh.

The ache didn’t need coaxing. It just needed a crack to pour through.

I slept.

And now I’m wide awake. Again.

The relapse won’t stop.

Did I mention—"until the system is spent?"

The sun is already up. Through the closed curtain, I catch the soft haze of morning light.

I get out of bed. Not a single thread on my body.

My skin is tacky with sweat, thighs slick with the remnants of last night.

The scent of my pheromones clings to everything—thick, sweet, almost suffocating.

I slide the curtain aside and crack the window.

A breeze slips in, cool and clean, cutting through the heat in the air. It feels fresh. No, it is refreshing. 

I need to pee. Maybe rinse off before the next wave hits.

I throw my robe back on and open the door.

“Daddy!”

Ren is curled up on the sofa, watching TV.

Sofia stands at the kitchen counter, glancing up as I enter.

Ragged and filthy, I wave anyway.

“Daddy’s not feeling well, remember?” Sofia says gently.

“Yes…” Ren mumbles, a little deflated.

“Come play with Aunt Sofia,” she says, coaxing. “We can go to the beach. Do you want to?”

Ren lights up. “Yes!”

I manage a small smile.

“You okay, Shoyo?” Sofia asks.

“Just woke up. Need the bathroom,” I mumble.

“You must be starving. I’ll leave breakfast at your door.”

I nod. “Thanks, Sofia.”

And then I shuffle off to clean up.

I’m famished.

But I don’t have an appetite.

I managed to finish the orange juice. That’s all.

And so it begins.

The cycle.

Arousal hits like a wave—sudden, searing. My body flushes with need, every nerve exposed.

I get off. Sometimes with fingers. Sometimes with nothing but the tension itself.

I pass out, only to wake again hours—or maybe just minutes—later, the hunger back in my bones.

Arousal. Release. Collapse. Wake. Repeat.

The body doesn’t care that it’s tired. It just keeps demanding.

Before I know it, it’s dark outside.

The day has waned.

So has my kid. His voice has gotten softer with each hour—

Dimming like the light slipping out of the sky.

What time is it?

My hand slips around my cock.

I stroke it hard, fast, and rough.

The quicker I finish, the sooner I can sleep again.

That’s all I want.

To shut off.

And eventually, I do.

I come.

And I fall asleep again.

I am awake.

The relapse has returned—hot and deep and bone-tired.

My skin is a mess. Slick clings to me in patches, half-dried, half-fresh.

My thighs ache from too much tension and too little rest.

My stomach gnaws at itself. I haven’t eaten in—what?

Thirty hours?

I’m dizzy.

Fading in and out.

And then, a knock.

Three soft raps on the door.

“Shoyo?”

It’s Sofia. Her voice is gentle, like she’s afraid I’ll break if she’s too loud.

“Are you decent?” she asks. “I’m coming in.”

I pull the blanket up, covering what I can—half my body at best. “Yeah.”

The door creaks open.

Sofia steps in quietly, eyes scanning me and the room, and they stay for a moment on the tray of eggs, sandwiches, crackers, and cheese.

“You should eat something,” she says softly. “Even just a bite.”

I don’t respond. I’m too far under.

She hesitates. Then—

“He’s here.”

My brow furrows. “Who?”

Her expression shifts. Her lips curve.

“Ushijima.”

And just like that, I’m awake for real.

Chapter Text

“Listen, Hinata.” 

Sofia’s hand is firm on my shoulder. Her gaze pins me, keeping my focus solely on her.

“He came,” she says, her voice low, as if she’s confiding in me and me alone. “Let him help you. Let him relieve you. Let him… end the pain for you.”

“No.”

“—Why?”

“You know why. We both do.”

“I don’t understand.” Sofia’s hand hung at her side. “He’s no stranger to you. He’s Ren’s father, for God's sake.”

“That’s exactly why.” I meet Sofia’s gaze. My throat is raw. “Because I might lose it again.”

Sofia lets out a quiet laugh, but it’s not joy. “Funny,” she murmurs. “He said the same thing.”

My head jerks up. Eyes widen, muscles stiffen. “You asked him?”

“I did.”

I rub my temple, trying to press down the ache that is slowly creeping in beneath my skin. It’s pulsing, a cruel jibe to what comes next. 

“Here.” Sofia presses a glass of orange juice into my hands. “Slow sips.”

I drink. Let the tartness slice through the fog in my head. It’s sharp. Tangy. Real. Something to hold onto. I finished it. It does nothing. But it’s something.

“That’s it,” she murmurs, taking the glass back. “Good.” She sets it in the tray with a gentleness that cracks something in me. Then she brushes back my hair, eyes glistening with unshed tears. Her palm lingers on my brow as she picks up the crumpled towel beside me and dabs my forehead. 

“You told me once…it usually takes three days.”

“Yeah.” I swallow hard. “Two more to go. I can do this.”

Another wave hits. 

I break. My spine arches, my breath catching, and I can barely get the words out. “This— this isn’t new.” I grit my teeth. “I’ll be fine.”

“You’ve been passing out in between waves. You barely eat. Drink when forced to. What is ‘fine’ about that?”

She’s right. If I were thinking clearly—if I were even slightly rational—I’d admit it: This is the worst heat I’ve ever had. 

Is this normal? 

Sofia doesn’t speak for a beat. She just wets the towel again and presses it to my jaw. 

“I don’t know how you’ve handled this before,” she says quietly. “But I can’t sit here and watch anymore. Not when Ushijima’s here.”  She leans in. “Think about it, Shoyo. If this continues, you might end up in the hospital. What about Ren, then?”

What she said — I know it makes sense.

But how could I—

How can he—

“Sofia,” I rasp, my voice thin. “Thank you. Really. For worrying…”

Another wave barrels through me, tightening my chest and pooling and twisting my own half. 

“Fuck, it’s coming.”

And it’s coming hard like a tsunami rolling over bone. I cry out — just a little. 

“Please. I need to deal with this now.”

Sofia exhales, heavy with guilt.

“Alright, Shoyo.”

She leans forward and kisses my forehead. “I’ll be right outside if you need me.”

Then she slips out the door. 

I quickly move — flip over my body, press my face to the pillow, nipples protruding hard; I rub them against the sheet, my back jutted out like a cat doing its stretches. Without wasting a second, my hands move automatically. One to the front, already curling around my fully erected cock.

The other—sliding between my legs. Two fingers, slick and practiced, find their way in.

And just like that, the cycle begins again.

Painstaking. Desperate.

Relief—or something like it—just out of reach.

Blacked out.

Wake up.

Hands move.

Up and down. In and out.

Blacked out again.

Then wake up.

I don’t even know what time it is anymore.

The light is wrong—too soft to be morning, too dim to be day.

My thighs sting.

Slick clings to my skin in half-dried streaks. The throbbing is back, low and steady—like a silent killer waiting for its cue.

I’m on my back now, staring at the ceiling.

At least it’s the ceiling this time—not the crumpled sheets, not the edge of the mattress.

The beddings are twisted and shoved to the corners; nothing is left but wrinkled ghosts.

My arms ache.

My back is screaming.

My lips are cracked, dry like shriveled grapes.

My throat scrapes like sandpaper.

My stomach growls like it’s trying to devour itself.

And the throbbing—God, it just keeps pulsing, deeper, hotter, crueler.

I feel all of it.

But I’m too exhausted to care.

Too wrecked to move.

Not even a finger.

Am I going to die?

Do omegas die from heat?

What happens to Ren if I die?

I haven’t written a single will.

Who’s going to take care of him?

Oh hell no. No. No.

My body shakes.

Not with heat this time—but with fear.

I think I’m convulsing.

I sob into the silence. Quiet. Panicked.

I’m not ready to cross that river. Not yet.

Damn. Dammit all.

This is the damnedest thing that’s ever happened to me.

“I don’t wanna die. I don’t wanna die yet. God, please help me.” I cry.

Then the door swings open.

“Shoyo? Are you—”

Sofia enters, sees me, and spins back out. Fast.

Seconds later, Ushijima rushes in.

He winces as the scent hits him, but says nothing. He goes straight to the window and cracks it open just enough to let the air shift.

Then he’s beside the bed. His hand brushes my forehead.

“No fever. That’s a good sign.”

I don’t know why, but the moment I see him, something inside me breaks open.

My chest jolts, and a sob rips out of me.

“I don’t wanna die.”

“You’re not going to die. Why would you think that?”

He slides a hand behind my back, lifting me gently. Stacks a second pillow. Lowers me again. Then he pulls the blanket over my lower half. I hadn’t even realized I was completely exposed.

“ I-I feel like I’m dying,” I whisper, voice wrecked. “Everything hurts. My body’s not working.”

“That’s because you haven’t taken anything. You’re deep into it.”

He lifts me again—just a bit—and tilts a glass to my mouth. “Here. Water first.”

I try.

It tastes off—bitter, metallic, wrong. I choke and cough it back up.

“You need to drink, Hinata. Or I’ll take you to the hospital.”

The hospital sounds scary.

“No, I don’t wanna go there.”

He tries again. I manage a few gulps. It stays down.

“Good boy,” he murmurs, stroking my hair once. Then he nods toward Sofia, who’s holding a tray of crackers with cubes of cheese. It is Camembert—Ren’s favorite.

“With cheese or no cheese?”

I flinch as a wave coils in my gut.

“I don’t have the appetite.”

“Forget appetite. You eat to survive now.”

He picks up a cube of Camembert, soft and pale, and holds it to my mouth.

“You don’t have to—” I push his hand, at the same time, groaning, fingers pinching at my temple.

“It’s coming?” he asks.

I nod.

“Then all the more reason.”

He presses the cheese past my lips.

I chew slowly.

The taste is rich and earthy, creamy with a sour edge. It coats my tongue like oil and sits heavy in my throat, but it’s something. Something real.

“More?"

I nod again.

He feeds me another piece. And another. And another. 

Sofia’s still there, quietly watching.

“Feeling better?” Ushijima asks, eyes scanning my face.

“Not dying, at least,” I mutter, wiping the streak of tears from my cheeks with the palms of my hands. “Though, it still feels like someone’s shoving a white-hot knife into my hips. Over and over. Like my whole lower half’s trying to tear itself apart from the inside out.” 

Ushijima looks at me hard. “I should leave the room.” He gets up and steps back.

“Wait—” My hand shoots out, fingers wrapping around his wrist. “Just wait. Please.”

My breath hitches. It’s shaky, ragged like everything else in my body. 

Ushijima goes still. His eyes drop to my hand, then flicker back to my face.

Sofia looks between us.
She hasn’t said a word since the moment she saw me sobbing. Then, after a long beat, she nods once, as if to let me know that she understands the situation — that I’m doing the right thing, whatever the hell I’m about to do.
She sets the tray down gently on the dressing table and walks out.
Quiet.
Careful.

I try to sit up, but the next wave hits—sharper than before, digging straight through my pelvis like a red-hot hook.

I grunt, sucking air between my teeth. My grip tightens on Ushijima's wrist.

“Hinata?” he says slowly, cautiously.

I close my eyes, fighting back another surge of tears.

Shame? Yes, I am. 

Principles? I've locked it tight deep in the safe. 

All I have now is survival.

I just want this goddamn pain gone so I can hold Ren again—give him a proper Christmas. His first here in Brazil.

Ushijima hasn’t moved. His hand is steady under mine. His shoulders are tight, eyes reading every inch of my face.

My head tips forward, forehead nearly pressing into his thighs.

“The fact you could walk in here, stand near me…” my voice trembles, “I assume you’ve taken something?”

“I took a blocker before I came,” he admits. “Didn’t want to risk losing control around you.”

“How strong?”

“Pills and patches.” He taps his arm and signals a 'peace' sign.

“Then... can you help me?”

A pause.

“What kind of help?”

I breathe. Shaky. “Sleep with me.”

“You mean—”

“Exactly what you think I mean,” I say, voice thin, cracked. “I need you inside me. I need help, Wakatoshi. I’m at my limit. I’ve done everything—pills, ice, my own goddamn hands. Nothing works. It won’t stop.”

My vision blurs. I don’t know if it’s the pain or the humiliation. But I go on. Bulldozing my way into it, “This isn’t about us. Or our past. You’re the only one I’ve got.”

Ushijima inhales slowly. His chest rises, controlled.

“So, I’m the last option.”

“Do we need to debate that right now?” I snap, breathless. “I’m asking because—maybe—I could trust you. Think of it as... charity work. Helping the desperate."

His voice stays even. “And if I say no?”

“Then you say no.” My eyes meet his—hard, even though my whole body is shaking. “And I’ll figure it out. Again. Like I always do.”

He studies me for a long, unbearable moment.

Then, he storms out.

My chest caves.

Well. It was worth a shot. Not every alpha would risk it. Maybe he has a partner now. Maybe...

I shove my hand under the blanket. I can't wait. My fingers find slick skin, moving instinctively.

And then, the door bursts open with a rush of wind.

Ushijima steps inside, closes the door behind him, and locks it. Then he strides back inside. Fast. Determined.

“What the hell are you doing?” I gasp, breath ragged, my hand still working under the sheets.

His face is different now—focused, intense. Red. 

“Hinata,” he says. “Are you in your right mind now? I need to be sure.”

“Y-yes! I am! And if you're not helping, get out—I'm already handling it!”

“Who am I?” He starts to prod.

“U-Ushijima Wakatoshi.”

“What do you want me to do?”

“I need you inside me.” Gosh. I sound lame. Like, all I want is his dick. 

“You're sure? You won't be mad later?”

I huff. “Why would I—”
Oh. I get what he means.
I clarify, “I’m not some crazy memory-lost bitch. I’m sane. Fully sane. I see you — tall, big, nice smell, white shirt.”
My gaze flickers down briefly.
“And nice pants.”

He lets out a small laugh.

 “-Don’t laugh at me.”

“Okay,” he says softly. “Okay. Sofia bought this for us-for me.” He lifts two boxes of condoms. 

My stomach twists. “Can you... do it?”

I hate how small my voice sounds now.

“I'll help you get through this,” he says, stepping closer.

“Then maybe we can go celebrate the New Year together with Ren.”

He smiles faintly. “Maybe even Christmas if we do this right.”

Do it right?

What the hell does that suppose to mean?

--

Ushijima sets the box down carefully on the bedside table, then pulls the chair closer to sit beside me for a moment.

His hand reaches for mine, not to stop me but to still me.

“Hinata.” His voice is steady. Deep. “Allow me.”

I exhale a shuddering breath. My chest still trembles from the last wave. My hand obeys, retreating from under the blanket. Still, the ache pulses wildly beneath my skin, threatening to drag me under again.

He observes me, giving me a moment. Letting me decide how far to let him in.

“I’m going to touch you now, okay?” he says softly.

I nod. My voice is too broken to answer.

He reaches forward, slowly peeling the blanket away from my body. 

I burn under his gaze, but it’s not the kind of shame I expected. It’s a relief.

Relief because, finally, I’m not alone in this. Because I swear, I don’t know how much longer I could function before I’m spent.

His eyes roam over me for a second, reading me, reading my reactions. There isn’t one speck of smile or smirk on his face. Just gaze… assessing. Not hunger.

“You’re trembling,” he says — more to himself than to me.

His hand slides gently over my thigh, and right away, I flinch at the touch.

His fingers — they’re cold.
Is he nervous?
Or just pretending he’s fine with all this?
Either way, I’m glad. 

The next contraction stirs under my skin.

“Breathe with me, Hinata,” he whispers, voice calm like water. “Let it pass.”

I obey. In. Out. In. Out.

It didn’t pass.

He strokes the inside of my thigh with slow, even circles, giving my body something steady to anchor on while I’m busy riding the wave.

“You’re doing well,” he murmurs.

My eyes sting with fresh tears.

His other hand moves to my stomach, applying gentle pressure, steadying the tight pull in my lower abdomen.

Then he stands, pulling his shirt over his head in one smooth motion, followed by his pants, until he’s left in just a pair of boxers.

Ushijima is big.

I mean that, literally.

Broad shoulders. Beautiful back. Thigh muscles - built perfectly for a volleyball player.

And right now, he looks exactly like how he appears in my dreams.

How the hell did I get it so accurate?

I don’t know.

And dammit, Shoyo — this is not the time to be admiring him.

He climbs onto the bed, settling carefully between my legs. His touch never leaves my skin, a constant reassurance I didn’t realize I needed this badly.

“I’ll go slow,” he promises. “And you’ll tell me if anything feels wrong.”

My lips part on a shaky breath, desperate and already too far gone.  “Yes.”

“Good.”

He leans in, pressing his forehead to mine. His breath fans across my lips. 

Then, gently, unexpectedly, he reaches for my hands and lifts them up to his chest — right over his nipples.

“Can you play with these two?” he whispers, his voice rougher now, lower and honest.

God. I’m a terrible person. Even now, my brain chooses to spiral. If this were any other situation, I would’ve laughed. The way he asked — like offering me a pair of fragile things to hold, like handling me his kids.

Ridiculous. And yet somehow, impossibly sweet.

But right now? Right now, I don’t laugh.

I touch him— them.

My fingers move cautiously at first, learning their shape, their warmth. A flick. A small twist. Another fondling and then—

A gasp.

Short, sharp, whispered against my neck. Then his voice again, even softer, even lower;

“You trust me?”

My chest tightens. My heart stumbles.

“I trust you.”

The words crack as they leave me, but I mean them. God, I mean them more than I’ve meant anything in days.

Ushijima reaches for the condom on the bedside table, tears it open, and rolls it on with practiced ease. Every motion is unhurried. Controlled. Like him.

The ache flares again, coiling up my spine, arching my back without permission. But his hand is already there, resting on my thigh, grounding me. Holding me steady while everything else inside me shakes.

“One breath at a time,” he whispers, lowering himself between my legs. “Just breathe, Hinata.”

My hands fist the sheets so tightly my knuckles burn. I can’t trust my voice anymore—it’ll crack the second I try to use it. And I can’t afford to fall apart. Not now.

His hand moves to my hip, firm, sure. Like he’s anchoring me. To him. To this moment.

And then—

I feel him.

The head of him presses against me.

He doesn’t push.

He waits.

His gaze meets mine, so calm, so heartbreakingly steady, it nearly undoes me.

“Breathe, Hinata,” he whispers again. “You’re safe. You’re in control.”

I drag in a shaky breath. My whole body trembles; my muscles tighten in instinctive resistance. But the ache-the desperate, clawing need—is louder.

He presses forward. Slow. Steady. Controlled.

The stretch burns immediately, profound and sharp, but it’s different than the waves before. This isn’t chaos. This burn has a purpose. And—God—it has an end.

“There you go...” Ushijima murmurs, voice low and warm. “That’s it. Just like that.”

My thighs tense involuntarily, but his hand moves, stroking my leg again, coaxing the tension out of me with nothing but gentle pressure and whispered patience.

“You’re doing so good.”

Another breath. Another inch. My body softens, opening for him, accepting him piece by piece.

“Almost there,” he breathes.

I nod blindly, biting my lip as a tear slides down my cheek. But it’s not pain this time. It’s relief. Relief of finally not having to face this alone anymore.

Finally, he’s inside. Wholly.

There’s nothing between us. No gaps. No distance. Nothing.

I can feel his pubic bone press against me, feel the steady pulse of his breath hovering just above mine.

He stills. Holds me. Waits.

And my body adjusts around him in soft, pulsing waves— tight, twitching, but stable.

The crushing ache that’s haunted me for days finally dulls. Not gone—not even close—but manageable. Bearable in a way it hasn’t been in what feels like forever.

“Better?” Ushijima asks softly, his forehead brushing gently against mine, his breath warm on my lips.

I let out a shaky exhale, my chest hitching with the release.

“Better.”

He doesn’t move right away. He just holds me there, full, stretched, trembling beneath him, as if giving my body every second it needs to adjust. His hands stay on my hips, warm and steady, his thumbs brushing soothing circles against my skin.

Then he moves.

Slow. Just the slightest pull—not even fully out—before easing back in.

I gasp, my fingers curling tighter into the sheets, trying to hold on.

“That’s it,” he murmurs, his voice like velvet against my skin.

The movement sends a ripple through me.
Not pain—not that sharp, brutal torment from before—but something heavier. Thicker. Like a deep current sweeping through, planting itself inside me before pulling back, leaving behind nothing but the weight of breathless release.

He keeps his pace steady.

I feel his eyes on me, watching every twitch of my muscles, every breath that shudders from my lips, every small wince I can’t hide.

“If it’s too much, you tell me."

“It’s not,” I manage to whisper, my voice cracking. “Just… don’t stop.”

He doesn’t.

Each thrust is slow and deep, every movement sinking into me with deliberate purpose. His hands anchor me, grounding me to him as my body unravels beneath the steady rhythm.

The need inside me unfurls — not sharp anymore, but rolling.
Less like knives.
More like waves cresting and breaking over me again and again.

My head tips back, and another sound slips from my throat — somewhere between a sob and a moan, like I can’t tell if I’m drowning or breathing for the first time.

Ushijima lowers himself slightly, his forehead pressing to mine again, breath warm against my skin.

“You’re safe,” he whispers.

My tears spill freely now, blurring my vision as I struggle to hold on.
He means well — every whisper, every soft word, every time he grounds me when I’m slipping — but every time he says it, something inside me pulls tighter.
Like a cord wrapped around my chest.
My heart constricts.
Hopeless.
Vulnerable.
Guilty.
Guilty for using him like this. For needing him like this. For taking when I have nothing to give back.

“That’s it, Shoyo,” he breathes, voice steady as stone. “Let go. I’ve got you.”

His rhythm never falters. Never rushes.
He holds me steady — like a goddamn lifeline — while my body claws toward the edge, desperate for relief.

Every deep pull of him inside me unravels the ache piece by piece, stripping it down until I feel it — my heat finally breaking.

The pressure coils tight one last time—fast, brutal—

And then I come.

My entire body arches beneath him, convulsing as the release tears through me.
White blooms across my vision, stealing everything but the sound of my own ragged breaths and his voice anchoring me through the storm.

“I’ve got you.”

I collapse, chest heaving as the wave crashes and finally breaks apart.
My muscles tremble, spent. In his arms, I go limp — like a sunflower forgotten by the sun.

He doesn’t let me fall.
Ushijima holds me steady, one arm wrapped around my back as he slowly, carefully pulls out.
The emptiness is immediate — sharp — but for a brief, fragile moment, the ache is quiet.

His fingers brush my sweat-damp hair from my forehead, his gaze never leaving mine.

“Breathe,” he whispers.

I nod weakly, my eyes heavy, fighting to stay open.

But it doesn’t last.

Minutes pass. Not many. Not enough.

And I feel it.

The next wave is already rising, crawling back up my spine, making its statement that it never really left. It hasn't. 

The fragile calm shatters.

I suck in a shaky breath. “It’s starting again.”

His thumb strokes my cheek. “I know.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Don’t apologize,” he says softly. “This is why I’m here.”

My lower belly tightens, the heat sparking alive again — more rapid this time.

My thighs twitch, instinctively trying to close, but his hands are already there — steady, gentle — easing them open again.

“Look at me, Hinata.”

I force my eyes up, barely managing to meet his.

“You’re okay. We’re going to get through this.”

My throat tightens, but I nod.

Ushijima reaches for the table, tearing open another condom.

His movements are steady. His breath remains calm, even as mine shakes with every beat of my pulse.

Then, as he settles between my legs, he pauses.

“Do you… mind if I strip?” he asks, voice low but careful. “It’s easier to move.”

I nod again. 

This time, my body welcomes him more easily — already softened, already stretched from the first round. The entry is smoother, the burn less sharp, but the need is stronger now, brusque, pulsing in rhythm with every beat of my heart. 

“Hurry,” I rasp, the word slipping out like a breathless plea. My hands shoot out, pulling him greedily now.
Because the pain doesn’t wait.
It doesn’t come in polite.

He plunges deep and, as if understanding the urgency, Ushijima starts to move.

My hands move on instinct,  clutching at his shoulders, fingers digging into his skin like I’ll lose myself if I let go.

“That’s it,” he whispers. “Hold on to me.” 

The rhythm builds—not frantic, but bursting with energy. 

The second release rises faster than I expect, crashing into me like a tidal pull I can’t resist. My back arches, and I gasp out his name as my body clenches around him, holding him tight as the wave tears through me.

He stays with me. Never breaking the rhythm. Riding it out with me as the crest peaks, breaks, and finally falls.

My body slackens beneath him, spent. Shaking.

He doesn’t move, holding me there, still buried inside, his breath rough and warm against my ear.

“That’s two,” he murmurs.

My lips twitch the barest shadow of a smile. “Don’t count.”

He huffs a quiet laugh. “I have to. It’s going to be a long night.”

--

I don’t know how many times we’ve done it.
I lost count somewhere between the waves crashing and my body moving on instinct alone.
All I know is I’m limp beneath him now, trembling, my nerves frayed and drained. 

“You’re doing good,” he whispers as his hand stays braced under my lower back, supporting me while my muscles spasm with the aftershocks.

A single drop of sweat- his- falls onto my cheek.
I blink it away. 

When he finally pulls out and sits upright between my legs, I catch my breath just enough to register how soaked we are. Head to toe, damp with sweat. And,

Slick — mine, of course.

“Are you okay?” I manage, breathless. 
“Do you need some water?”

Ushijima shifts, moving to sit on the edge of the bed.
From this angle, I catch the curve of his back, strong and broad, the way his shoulder blades flex as he moves. The muscles roll with effortless grace, and I can’t help but wonder how much strength it’s taken to carry me through all of this wreckage.

He slips his boxers back on, pours a glass of water, and then turns toward me.

“Here.” He offers the glass. “It’s you who needs care. Not me.”

He pauses for a moment, studying me with that same calm, grounding gaze he’s had all night. “I’m okay,” he adds. “I can still go on. As long as you need me to.”

I take the glass and drain it in a matter of seconds.
The water is heaven — cool, real, slicing through the dryness in my throat like jelly.

“Slow,” he murmurs, gently tipping the glass as I sip the last drops.

When I finish, he sets the glass aside and presses a cold, damp towel against my brow.

The coolness bites into my skin, but in a way that makes me want to lean into it.

“You’re burning up.”

“Feels like it,” I croak.

“Sofia left ice packs in the freezer.” He picks up his shirt from the chair, pulls it on, and walks out. 

I watch him go, and somehow seeing his back walking away makes my stomach churn with nothing except emptiness.

Hollow for reasons I don’t dare think too closely about.

But then he’s back.

Two ice packs in one hand, a packet of crackers and a banana in the other, and two bottles of water tucked under his arm

“You need to eat,” he says. “Banana or crackers? We still have cheese on the tray, too.”

“Banana, please.”

He starts to peel it for me.

“I can do that myself,” I offer, reaching out.

But he shakes his head gently. “Please. Let me. You just... stay there. Relax while you can.”

His voice leaves no room for argument, so I let him finish peeling it and place it in my hand.

I eat quietly, chewing slowly, my body still weak but solid. Held together, for now.

When I’m done, I toss the peel into the small bin by the bedside.
And that’s when I see them;

The used condoms.
Crumpled, tangled with tissues. The empty box flattened beneath them.

My breath catches. i stare, eyes narrowing slightly. 

Not at the empty box.

But at them, the condoms.

My fingers tighten on the edge of the blanket.
I blink and pull my gaze away.
My heart sinks.
The questions come fast, spinning in my head.

Am I not capable?
Do I look that bad?
Or am I being fair?

The guilt doubles — because apparently, one version of it isn’t cruel enough.

"Water?" Ushijima offers quietly as if nothing happened.

“Yeah...” I answer languidly. 

I reach for the bottle, bringing it to my lips. The cold water grounds me, washing away the questions.

“Hinata?”

“Yes?”

“Can you lie down?”

“Yes.”

Ushijima wraps the ice packs in a towel and gently tucks them against my stomach.

But before he does, I catch it—the way his eyes linger there, on my lower abdomen.
His hand moves as if he’s afraid my skin might shatter beneath his touch. His fingertips glide across my stomach, pausing like he's not just checking for heat. Like he’s remembering something.

“So small...” he murmurs under his breath.

And for one fleeting second, something flickers in his gaze.
A softness.
A tenderness.
Maybe even a wistful kind of yearning.

And I wonder—just for a moment—if he’s thinking of when I carried Ren. Carried his child inside this very body.

But then again...
Maybe I’m imagining it.
Maybe it’s nothing at all.

“Better?” he asks softly.

“For now.”

I blink up at him — at his face, so calm, so steady — and that strange softness still quietly shining in his eyes.

“You didn’t have to do this, you know.”

“I know,” he says simply. “But I wanted to.”

And after that, we sit quietly — I propped up in bed, he beside me on the chair — sharing the simplest meal like nothing’s happened. Like everything hasn’t changed.

We eat slowly.

Not much.

Just enough to quiet the hunger gnawing at our stomachs. Enough water to keep our bodies going.

Neither of us speaks much. The silence isn’t uncomfortable, but it hums with something neither of us dares touch. Every so often, our eyes meet — brief, awkward glances that bounce off each other before dropping back to the food, to the tray, to anywhere but each other’s faces.

Funny.

We’ve already been connected — body to body, skin to skin— more times than I can count today.

But sitting here fully clothed, face to face in the soft glow of midnight, I feel more exposed than I ever did beneath him.

I have no idea what to say. Maybe I'm just afraid to say it- what I want to say. 

Ushijima senses it too. His voice cuts gently through the quiet, offering me an easy landing.

“Ren’s with Sofia. At her house.”

My head snaps up. “Really? I’m glad. He doesn’t need to see me like this.”

Ushijima glances toward the window, the faint light outlining his profile. “Wanna know what time it is?”

“What time?”

“It’s past midnight.”

He pauses, his voice dipping even softer. “Merry Christmas, Hinata.”

“Err... Merry Christmas to you, too, Ushijima.”

There’s a beat, then he tilts his head. “Wakatoshi,” he corrects gently. “You called me by my name earlier — it sounded nice. So please… call me that.”

I open my mouth, breath already hitching. “Wakato…shiii—”

It catches halfway through his name, breaking apart on a sharp inhale.

“Already?”

“Y-yeah.” My voice cracks. “This one feels... heavier.”

My thighs twitch involuntarily as the ache sharpens again — not the frantic edge of before, but something deeper. Heavier. Like a coil winding tighter inside me, pressing into my back.
Suddenly, it feels like a massive lead weight slams into my gut.
My cock. My hole.
Both throbbing. Desperate. Yearning.

And honestly?
I could kill the first person who dares cross my path and say this was nothing.

His gaze locks on mine, reading me carefully, waiting for my signal.

“Do you want to keep going?”

I nod without hesitation. “Please.”

His hand slides back to my thigh, stroking softly. My hips roll toward his touch instinctively, chasing warmth, the friction, the relief I know only he can give.

“Alright.”

Ushijima calmly pulls his shirt over his head and sets it aside. Then his boxers follow.

He reaches for the hem of my shirt, pausing briefly as if silently asking permission.

I nod.

He pulls it up and over my head, leaving me completely bare beneath him.

“Then let’s take care of you,” he murmurs.

Ushijima positions himself again, guiding my legs apart with that same tender patience, his hand steadying my thigh as my hips lift toward him without thought, without hesitation.

The head of him presses against me again. But this time, my body opens easily, greedily, like it’s been waiting for him all along—like gravity pulling him in.

“Still okay?” he whispers.

“Y-yeah,” I say as my gaze falls on him, watching him closely because—

Because God—it’s embarrassing how much I want him to stop asking. To stop checking in. To stop holding back.

We’ve done this enough times now.

My body knows him.
Craves him.
Welcomes him.

I want him inside me. Fully. Hard. Now.

I warned him not to lose control.
Wagered my faith in him.
But right now, I want him to let go.
To lose himself for once—even just a little.
To stop thinking only of me.

To stop treating this like a careful, clinical act of service, which it still is.

Like I’m some patient he’s trying to fix — which, in a way... I am.

Still.
I want him to enjoy it.
I want him to take.

Because my pride as an omega can’t stand watching him hold back like this.
Those empty used condoms —
Not once has he allowed himself release.

And the words slip out of me before I can stop them — half-sane, half-instinct.
“Wakatoshi…san.”

God.
If I could crawl under the blanket right now, I would.
But there’s no hiding from this. It’ll haunt me, day and night — because that’s what guilt does best.

My face burns as the words tumble out.

“ I-I want you to go harder. I want you to pound me like you mean it.” My voice cracks, landing somewhere between shame and desperate craving. “You can lose it… just a little. Because I think I already am.”

His eyes widen, just slightly.
Not with shock. Not with judgment.
But like, he’s carefully recalculating—measuring the exact line between what I’m asking for and what he’s willing to give.

His breathing shifts, heavier now, like my words press against something he’s worked too hard to keep locked down.

But his face stays steady. Always steady.

His hands lift, cupping my cheeks with the gentleness of a prince, his thumbs stroking just beneath my eyes where the heat still simmers in my skin.

“I hear you,” he says softly. “And I understand. Fully.” His voice lowers.

“But you have to know… it’ll be hard for me, too. I might lose it, Hinata. When we’re riding that wave—” he sits up, voice dipping even softer, almost like a confession— “I’m afraid, too. I can’t afford to lose control. Not when you’re like this.”

His honesty slices straight through me. The sheer weight of his restraint wraps tight around my chest.

“Wakatoshi…” My voice breaks again. “Please. I need this. I need you now.”

I swallow, forcing a breath.

“We’re using protection. I don’t see why not. And you—” a shaky, nervous smile tugs at my lips, “—I’ll kick your ass if you lose it entirely. Don’t worry.”

A humorless, breathless laugh escapes me, because God—
I never thought negotiating sex would be part of this.

“Look, my head hurts from talking too much,” I mutter, dragging my arm across my forehead and turning my face away from him. Lips pressing into a straight line.
“You just… do what you need to do. My body’s at your mercy anyway.”

I feel his gaze on me—heavy, lingering, long enough that my skin prickles, and my stomach flips with nerves. But I don’t look at him. Right now, the side table feels far safer to stare at than him.

Then he speaks, voice steady but lower now, like he’s anchoring both of us. “Alright.”
His gaze locks onto mine.“I’ll give you more. I’ll go harder if that’s what your body needs. But I won’t lose myself. I won’t because you trust me to stay in control. That’s why you asked me to do this. That hasn’t changed.”

The knot in my chest loosens, just slightly. Just enough to breathe again.

I nod quickly, biting down on my lip as another surge coils tight in my stomach. “Okay. Okay. I get that. You’re a super nice man. Very considerate.”

Before I can spiral any further, he catches my hands, leans in closer — so close I can feel his breath on my lips. His gaze shifts, flickering between my eyes like he’s searching for something buried beneath everything I’m trying to hide.

Then he speaks again, quieter this time. “That’s not it. I’m not nice. I—”

He stops. The rest gets caught somewhere in his throat. Unspoken. Held back.

His expression softens as he exhales. “Brace yourself, Hinata. I’m coming hard at you.”

Before I can even react, he leans down, taking one of my nipples into his mouth, suckling like it’s instinct. Like something raw and intimate, he’s been holding back until now. His other hand moves to the other one, caressing it with a tenderness that makes my head spin.

This is new.

Of all the rounds we’ve shared, he’s never done this. He’s always avoided anything above my waist, as if afraid of crossing some invisible line — except for the soft exhale across my neck or the brief brushes of his mouth against my skin.

But now? Now he’s claiming me differently.

And God—
I swear I could come just from this alone.

but then—

“Why did you stop?”

His mouth pulls away, lips wet. He sits up, voice lower, rougher. “Sorry. That one wasn’t for you.” He swallows, glancing down between his own thighs. “It was for me.”

My gaze follows his — and for a second, I forget everything else.
Because there it is.
Fully hard. Majestic.
And why the hell am I proud of that?
I. Am. So. Twisted.

“So… we’re doing it?” he asks, already positioning himself between my legs.

I lay back fully, trying to steady my breath, but my heart pounds harder as his expression shifts.
Playful. Forward. Open in a way I haven’t seen before.
And it terrifies me — and thrills me — all at once.

His grip shifts on my hips, grounding me, and then—

He pushes in.

Slow at first.
Pulling out only slightly.
Then thrusting in fully—deep, all at once.

The air leaves my lungs in a broken gasp. My head tips back, my body arches, and I moan — loud and raw.

“You’re okay? Are you hurt?” His voice cuts in, sudden panic flickering across his features.

“No—” I pant between gasps, clutching the sheets tighter. “Don’t stop. Please.”

He doesn’t.

He moves — rocking into me with measured force, slamming into me in steady, deliberate strokes.

The careful restraint he’s carried this entire time is still there, but now his thrusts are harder, deliberate, but undeniably more potent.

Every time he slams into me, I feel him buried so deep he’s touching a place I never even knew existed—my own Secret Garden of Eden.

It hurts.
But God—it’s sweet in the worst kind of way.
Rough. Yet, devastatingly addictive.

So addicting that I can’t stop the way my mouth falls open, breath hitching as my eyes roll back, everything blurs.
Saliva pools on my tongue as my body chases every single drag of him, desperate for more.

The pressure inside me sharpens, crashing harder now — waves rolling through me faster, heavier, unstoppable.

His breath ghosts against my ear as he leans in closer, his voice dropping, rough and achingly low — like gravel sliding over silk.

Then he lifts me, settling me upright on his lap, cradling me close to his body as he rocks us together.

“You like that?”

My answer breaks out of me in a gasping shudder I can’t hold back.

“Is that good, Hinata?”

My nails keep digging into his shoulders, desperate for something to ground me as my body pulses around him, already chasing the next wave. Needing more.

“Yes,” I breathe out, voice thin, wrecked. “God, yes.”

His hips slam deeper now, every stroke slamming into me with brutal precision, like he knows exactly where to hit, exactly how to unravel me.

His mouth brushes my ear again, voice dropping into something that nearly undoes me.

“Is this what you really want?”

A whimper escapes me before I can even think. Raw. Unrestrained.

“Yes. Please.” My voice cracks as my moans come faster, breathless and desperate.
“Toshi. Don’t stop.” I say it again and again, pleading, begging, moaning his name between broken breaths, like the words are the only thing tethering me to this moment.

"Toshi, this is great. You're doing great." I keep on.

And then I feel it.

The words seem to light something inside him, breaking loose the restraint he’s held for so long.

His rhythm spikes — faster, harder — slamming into me with a force that rocks my entire body, the bed groaning beneath us under every relentless thrust.

His breathing roughens, every exhale falling in time with the slick slap of skin meeting skin, the sound filling the room like a pulse of its own. My body writhes beneath him, clenching, twisting, falling apart in his hands as the pressure builds and builds again.

My back arches off the bed, helpless against the surge building deep in my core — curling, tightening, crashing toward the inevitable.

“So good for me,” he breathes, voice wrecked, his words like silk wrapped in gravel. “Taking all of me. Just like that.”

The pressure snaps tight — too fast now — barreling straight toward release, and I can’t stop it. I don’t want to stop it.

My hands fly to his neck, pulling him to me, desperate to anchor myself to him, to something solid as everything inside me shatters.

I don’t even know what happens next. I just know I need him closer.
Down there.
Up here.
Everywhere.

Our mouths collide.

His lips crash into mine — firm, hungry, claiming me like he’s been starving for this moment, for me. Like he’s been holding this back for years.

And I meet him with everything I have left.
Tongues tangle, teeth clash, breath stolen in broken gasps as the world narrows to nothing but him.

And then—
I break.

My body convulses hard on him, tenacious spasms ripping through me like nothing I’ve ever felt before.

My legs lock tight around his waist, holding him inside as my release slams into us, white-hot and all-consuming. My sobs spill into his mouth, raw and shaking.

A deep groan rumbles from his chest, vibrating into me as my body clenches around him, dragging him with me.

His hips stutter — once, twice — then still. Buried deep. Fully.

The spasms keep rolling through me, each pulse pulling another low grunt from him as he rides out his own release, holding me like he’s afraid to let go.

And when it finally ebbs, we stay like that — wrapped together, breathless, shaking.

His forehead rests against mine, both of us trembling in the heavy quiet.

For a long moment, the room is nothing but the sound of our breathing — uneven, ragged, but together.

“Thank you,” I whisper to his neck. And I smile triumphantly. My voice is barely more than a breath, and my grip on him slowly loosens.
The edges of his silhouette blur as my eyes drift shut, leaving nothing but the soft weight of him holding me close.

I blink awake.

The room is dark, but not completely.
Moonlight spills in through the barely-cracked window, casting soft silver across the room, turning everything into silhouettes that blur at the edges.

The wind pushes gently against the curtain, sending it swaying like the veil of a bride caught mid-spin. Slow. Weightless.

The sheets are cool now.
Only damp at the edges.

The sharp ache that hollowed me out for days has faded, distant, like a storm that’s finally passed and left behind only the wet, heavy silence.

I shift slightly, and that’s when I feel it.

His arm.

Draped beneath my head, curling around my back, holding me close against his chest.

The steady rise and fall of his breathing presses softly against my skin. It’s…calming and somehow anchoring.

My face is tucked beneath his chin, his soft exhale brushing the top of my head with every breath.

Our legs are tangled — no, my leg is draped over his, clinging like I’ve the safest place I could possibly land.

My palm rests against his side, his skin warm beneath my fingertips.

I feel the slow expansion of his ribcage, rising and falling, steady enough to pull me right back under if I let it.

Has Ushijima— no, Wakatoshi always been this solid?

Grounded.

Unshakable.

Safe?

The thought stirs something dangerous beneath my ribs, but I push it down.

My eyelids flutter closed again. The pull of sleep is still heavy even as my mind drifts.

He’s here to help.

That’s all this is...

When my eyes open again, I’m tucked in.

The ceiling above me is familiar.
So is the bed beneath me.
But something’s different.

The smell.

That suffocating, stale thickness from before—gone.
Replaced by fresh air drifting through the window, cracked open just enough to let the breeze in.

I can smell the ocean.

My hand glides across the sheets — smooth, clean fabric beneath my fingertips.
Fresh sheets.
Fresh blanket.
I lift it slightly, peeking underneath.

Clothed.

A clean T-shirt.
I smell… good. Fresh. Like soap and cotton.

My other hand clutches something soft — a piece of fabric.
A white shirt. Oversized.
Definitely not mine.

Without thinking, I bring it to my nose. Sniff it.  Immediately, I breathe it in— a full inhale.

Damn.

It smells good.
I stare at the shirt, blinking, my brain caught between logic and leftover exhaustion, too foggy to process fully.

And then — a knock. Two soft raps against the door.

I don’t answer, but the door opens anyway — slow, cautious.

Ushijima peeks his head in.
“You’re up,” he says, voice soft, like he’s afraid to break whatever peace this is. “Hungry? The shops are closed — holiday and all… so um.. I had to improvise. It’s edible. Wanna try?”

“What did you make?” My voice comes out raspier than I expect.

He hesitates for half a second. “Um… rice. Tamagoyaki — though honestly, it looks more like Omuretsu (scrambled eggs). And dashi soup.”

He steps into the room and crosses over to the bedside without hesitation.

His palm presses gently to my forehead. The other hand rests briefly at my nape.

“Normal temperature,” he murmurs, then meets my eyes.

“How are you feeling? Any part of your body hurts?”

I draw in a slow breath, testing every sore muscle. “Except for feeling clean and fresh... I think I’m good. Amazing, actually.”

I leave out the dull ache still throbbing deep inside me — because if I told him that part, he might drown in guilt.

He exhales softly, smiling. “Thank God. Do you think it’s over? It’s been...” —he checks his watch, “—fifteen hours.”

“Fifteen hours?!” I jolt upright. “You’re saying I’ve slept for fifteen hours?”

“Like a baby. Yeah.”

“And not once did I wake up?”

“Waking up — no. Stirring — yes. When I was bathing you.” His hand lifts slightly, waving off my worry with a small, easy motion. “But—it doesn’t matter. You needed rest. Your body’s been through hell. Sleep was what you needed most. Don’t feel bad about it.”

Bathed me.

“You… bathed me.”

“Yeah. Who else?”

“You bathed me?”

“Yes.” He doesn’t even blink. “What’s wrong? There isn’t a part of you I haven’t seen yet.” He says it so matter-of-factly, like it’s nothing.

I groan, my face burning. “No, that’s not the problem. The problem is—”

I cut myself off, waving my hand like I can physically swipe the words away.
“Forget it. It’s fine. I was in your care. So… thank you. I appreciate it.”

“You didn’t like that I bathed you.”

“No. No, no, it’s not that.” My words tumble out too fast, tripping over themselves.
“It’s just… you’ve already done so much for me, and I-I feel like I’m taking advantage. Isn’t it a bit much that you even had to wash me too?”
I pull my knees in slightly, half curling into myself. “Besides... can’t you see I’m practically curled up in shame right now?”

“What shame. You were— you looked totally fine, peaceful. And both, beautiful, then and now.”

I am stunned. Too stunned that I couldn’t even close my mouth to utter any syllables.

His gaze softens, voice steady, bringing me back to the moment:
“Hinata, I’m here to take care of you and Ren. You texted me — like some SOS. I flew straight from Tokyo the moment I got the message.”

I freeze.
“Wait. What text?”

Ushijima reaches into his pocket, pulls out his phone, and holds it up.
I lean in, reading the message on the screen, bewildered.
“Yeah… that’s from me.”

“You don’t remember sending it?”

Crap.
I meant that for Sofia.
No wonder he’s here, fast, right on time when I needed him the most.
If I tell him it was an accident, it’ll only upset him. After what he’s done—

“Yeah.” I force a slight nod. “I remember.”

Then, quickly, I pivot — desperate to redirect.
“What day is it? Where’s Ren? Sofia?”

“Calm down. I called Sofia this morning — she’ll bring Ren today after I give her the green light. Your condition’s looking much better, so it might be ending today. And…” his lips curve slightly, “…well, today’s Christmas.”

He smiles again. “So, let’s just take things slow. I’ll bring the food.”

“No, I’ll eat at the table. Can you help me up, Wakatoshi?”

He pauses for a second, looking all bright all of a sudden. “Of course.”

He helps me sit up, one hand steadying my back, the other gripping my arm.

God, three days in bed wreck you.

As he helps me adjust, his voice drops lower, hesitant. “Hey... I’m sorry for going so hard on you. You 'fainted' after that.”

Why is he bringing that up?

My face flushes instantly. “It’s fine. I asked for it.” I force a smile, waving my hand like it’s nothing. “And I’m fine now. Look at me—hey hey hey.”
I sound like a mini Bokuto-san. Anything to cover the creeping humiliation blooming in my chest.

“—and thank you, Hinata.”

“For what?”

“For calling me by my name. I appreciate it.”

My stomach tightens, my face heating again.
“It’s just a name. What’s so special about that?”

“Most people call me Ushijima. Some prefer Ushiwaka, but it has no meaning. But close friends, family… call me Wakatoshi.”

His smile deepens, eyes going distant for a moment, softer — almost like he’s lost in some quiet thought.

“Ren calls me Chii-chan.”

Then he laughs — quiet and warm.
“You called me Toshi a few times. I liked that too. Very much.”

My stomach flips — hard.
He remembers that?
All those moans. All those times I cried out his name?

God.
I want to crawl under this table and disappear.
Which, clearly, I can’t.
So instead, I babble.

“L-let’s eat. Have you eaten? If you have, eat again. Second round, okay? Come on. I’m starving.”

The words tumble out, one after another, too fast, too much, because talking is easier than thinking.
Much, much easier.

He eats. 

I shovel food into my hungry mouth — if this still counts as ‘eating,’ then sure, I’m eating.

“You’re eating well.”

I swallow, forcing a half-smile. “You said I should.”

“I’m glad.”

Then, we pause into an awkward silence before he starts again:

“How’s my cooking?”

I pretend to think, lips twisting like I’m seriously evaluating it.

“The rice is fluffy. The eggs are a bit sweet. The soup is... watery.”

Ushijima frowns slightly. “So... it’s not good. I thought so. I’ve never cooked before, except for simple sandwiches. Rice is fine. But side dishes — never.”

“Oh, quit it, Wakatoshi,” I shoot back. “It’s excellent. Fluffy rice? Check. Sweet tamago? Love it. The soup? What are soups, if not watery? I was teasing — didn’t you get that?” Then I look into his eyes, and slowly, word by word, I tell him: “You. Have. Done. Well. Soak it in.”

“Ah, thank God.” He smiles nervously. “You got me there, Hinata.”

“Hmmph…” I nod, bouncing my head up and down in a jazzy mood. Mouth full.

Then—

“So...” he starts, and pauses.

My nerves spike instantly. “So?” I throw it back at him, forcing my voice to sound lighter than the panic already rising in my chest.

He looks serious. Sounds serious.

“We’re good? I mean... after everything we’ve been through. Together.” His gaze flickers across my face like he’s searching for any crack. “I just—I wanted to be clear.”

I set my chopsticks down.
And my rice bowl.
Both carefully placed, like buying myself seconds to breathe.

My full attention shifts to him, the weight of what’s coming settling heavily in my chest.

I open my mouth, still scrambling for the right words, but then—

“I love you.”

The air leaves my lungs.

“What—”

“Not because we spent the nights.” His voice lowers, rushing like the words have been trapped too long. “Don’t get me wrong. I love every single moment of it.” He gives a breathless, almost nervous laugh, his cheeks coloring.

“Hinata, I’ve loved you since that day,” he confesses, his voice catching but steady now that it’s out. “Please… you don’t have to answer yet. I don’t think I’m ready to hear it either way.”

He looks away for a second, swallowing like it costs him something to keep going.

“And—I know this is selfish. But I want to keep coming here. I like it here. Spending time with Ren… with you… It’s the best thing that’s ever happened to me.”

His voice drops even softer, barely above a whisper.
“Though… it might not feel the same for you.”

“Stop.” My hand shoots up instinctively, like I can physically stop his words from crashing into me.

“Please stop.” My voice shakes, my chest tight as I struggle to hold my breath steady.

“This is... It’s all too sudden. For me, at least. You’re making me uncomfortable.”

“Sorry.” His voice softens immediately, retreating like a reflex.

“Yeah. Can you—can we just… eat? And maybe put this matter on hold?”

His shoulders ease slightly, the faintest, patient smile tugging at his lips.

I'm not sure what he thinks, but he seems happy.

“Sure. Whatever you say, Hinata. Whatever you say.”

And so, we eat.

Or rather—he eats, I think.
I mostly push the rice around my bowl, my heartbeat thundering too loudly in my chest to focus on anything else.

Then my phone dings.

Grateful for the distraction, I snatch it up and check the message:

Hi Chibi-chan. It’s been ages. Sorry, I didn’t call. Been busy with the drafts and whatnot. But guess what? I’m officially Argentinian now. What do you say about that, huh? But that’s not all. I’ll tell you everything when we meet. I’m coming down to Rio soon — can’t wait to see ya. And send my love to Ren. ❤️

My stomach twists.

I think my heart just stopped.

Chapter Text

Christmas by the sea. If someone told me a year ago this would be my life—sand between my toes, my son laughing in the surf and the weight of loneliness loosening its grip—I would’ve laughed. Or maybe cried. Probably both. I never imagined joy could feel this fragile. Or this real.

The air smells thick with salt, grilled shrimps and chicken, cinnamon and sugar. Sofia went all out: a glazed bundt cake with heavy cream and powdered sugar sprinkled on top, which Ren, with that quizzical look of his, called “snowy mountain.” You can guess where he got that phrase from. And Sofia, with all her quirky artistry, calls it Nutty Bundt Cake. I don’t know who’s nuttier—her or the cake. Walnuts, almonds, hazelnuts… it’s got them all.

“If you want to eat cake, might as well make it healthy,” she says when she catches me staring at the ‘snowy mountain’.

“You don’t have to justify.”I say to her.  To me, I eat whatever I think is good.

But that’s not all. The compact foldable table is spread with other delicacies, too. There’s grilled chicken breast and sticky-sweet rabanada, which is French toast soaked in sweet milk, deep fried, and rolled in cinnamon sugar. And I must say, it’s become Ren’s and my favorite.  

I dig my feet into the warm sand beneath me, half-buried, still holding the heat from earlier in the day. The beach is balanced—quiet, but not empty; alive, but not loud.

The usual thumping, disco-like music is gone, replaced by Christmas songs and soft bossa nova jazz drifting from a nearby restaurant. 

Small waves tap the shore in an easy rhythm, keeping time with the quiet beat of the evening’s song. Beyond us, the ocean stretches out—green and clear near the beach, darkening the farther it reaches into the horizon. And then there’s Sugarloaf. From here, it looks like someone dropped a giant stone in the middle of the bay and just left it there like some ancient souvenir. Smooth, with two rounded peaks — not sharp like the mountains back home. More like… loaves of bread sitting side by side. Above it all, the sky fades from deep blue to that last breath of gold stretching toward the vanishing point.

Ren’s playing football—well, sort of. It’s more like he’s chasing the ball, running in and out of the waves, tumbling over the sand, having the time of his life with Wakatoshi and Heitor.

“Have a bite of this, Shoyo. Don’t just eat the dessert.” Sofia places a slice of the grilled chicken breast on my paper plate.

“I made it especially for you. To give you back the energy you need.” She flashes me that knowing smile — one I know too well.

I wanted to snap back, tease her for that awful, mischievous grin she threw at me. But after everything she’s done for us... I just can’t. If Kenma is my Daikokuten—my money god—then Sofia’s my guardian angel. So the only thing that really fits is: “Thank you.”

“Aww, what are you? A stranger?” She pats my back. “You’re family now. This is what we do for family.”

I stare at the white meat on my plate. Give it a few stabs with my plastic fork. I bet it tastes good because Sofia said she made it. I trust her. 

But under the bossa nova—‘Quando, Quando, Quando’—floating soft on the wind, something in me turns quiet. A little… melancholic.

Sofia pulls up a chair next to me. Without a word, she takes the fork from my hand, spears the meat, and shoves it into my mouth. “When it needs a shove, we give it,” she mutters. 

The flavors burst—tender, juicy, slightly salty, and aromatic. 

Damn, what have I been missing.

“This is amazing. How can a piece of chicken—”

“It’s turkey,” she cuts in.

“Yeah turkey… Turkey?  How can it tastes this good?”

“See? I told you. But you kept staring at it as if it were an alien. What’s on your mind, Shoyo? You seem... distant. Off.” She touches my cheek, then my forehead. “You’re okay? Still tired? If I knew you weren’t fully up to it, I wouldn’t have suggested coming out for Christmas like this—”

“No. No, no. I’m not tired. I’ve slept more than enough. It’s just…” My eyes drift to Wakatoshi, who’s now kicking the ball to Ren.

“What?” Sofia asks.

I nod toward Wakatoshi. “He said he loves me.”

Sofia gasps, her hand flying to her mouth. Her eyes go wide. “He did? Like—he actually said it?”

I nod again.

She leans in, lowering her voice. “So... what did you say?”

“I said... ‘let’s put it on hold.’”

“On hold?” she repeats, incredulous.

I shush her. “What else was I supposed to say?”

“I don’t know—maybe something like, ‘The feeling might be mutual’?” She clutches her chest dramatically, putting on a ridiculous version of my voice.

“Oh, come on. We both know that’s not true.”

“Does it?” she shoots back, raising an eyebrow.

I hold her gaze for a few seconds. “I panicked, okay? The confession came out of nowhere.”

“So you gave him... a vague answer?”

“Yes.”

“Because you were panicked.”

“Yes.”

“And... giving him hope?”

“Yes… wait—no. That wasn’t it. I didn’t mean…” I falter.

We’d been close—too close—because of the heat. And now, sitting here, trying to find the right words, I feel it: a tremor in my chest. Because the truth is—I liked it.

“I liked every second of it,” I say, looking at Sofia. “The way he held me. The way his hands just... knew where to go. The way I felt seen—wanted, even. I didn’t know how much I needed to be cared for until I was.”

I pause. My eyes drop to my hands, finding solace in the way my thumb brushes gently over my wrist. Then I speak again.

“For once, I felt like I was floating. Weightless. Untethered from everything that usually drags me down. For once, I slept, and the night didn’t gnaw at me. I didn’t wake up searching for something that wasn’t there. I was safe. And that, in itself, is what scares me.”

I look at Sofia, hoping I’ll find the answer in her gaze.“Because how do you go back? How do you live without that kind of touch, that kind of closeness, once you’ve tasted it? The worst part is,” I say, softer now, “I don’t even know if it was the touch I liked... or if it was his touch.” I exhale. “I’m just... lost in it all, Sofia. Deep in the muddle.”

Sofia leans in, her eyes searching mine. "So... you're confused."

“As hell,” I say, letting out a breath.

“And afraid,” Sofia adds.

I nod.

Sofia sits back, her body leaning into the foldable chair as she crosses her arms, her fingers tapping lightly against her arm. "I get the confusion, but I don't get the 'afraid' part. Why?"

“It’s too good," I say, the words slipping out like they’re too heavy to hold. “Too good to be real. What if I get used to it? What if it’s taken away, and I can’t go back? I don't want Ren to see me fall apart.”

Sofia’s gaze softens, but she doesn’t pull away. “This is tricky,” she says, draping an arm over my shoulder.
“You’ve spent so long doing everything on your own, keeping everyone at arm’s length. And now… you’re scared. Not of love—but of getting used to it.
Of depending on someone, and not knowing how to go back if it disappears.”

I nod, barely.

“You know...” Sofia leans back in her plastic chair. “That man called us at three a.m., voice thick with panic, asking us to come to you.” She meets my gaze, holding it steady, then grips my shoulders. “What I’m trying to say is, when it’s you, he didn’t hesitate. Forget the time. Forget the niceties. He put you first. Front and center. Above everything else.”

“Sounds like you vouched for him.”

“I did. While I can’t guarantee anything, I do vouch for him.” She softens. “Darling, the man looks at you like you’re the only one in the room.” Then she gives me a look—half exasperated, half fond.

Sofia exhales slowly, letting the quiet stretch before speaking again.

“So, what’re you gonna do about it? You didn’t say ‘yes,’ and you didn’t say ‘no,’ either.” She raises an eyebrow. “You just let him sit on pins and needles, waiting anxiously, no?”

“I just need time. To think. To figure out what I’m even feeling. Because honestly? Right now… I don’t know.”

I turn to Sofia. “Besides, do you think I even have what it takes to be in a relationship?”

I wave a hand down my body. “Look at me, Sofia. I’m a father. The roof over our heads, the food on our table, even Ren’s nanny — all of it exists because of a good friend’s generosity.”

I pause as the reality sets in.

“I made a promise—to deliver, to show up—because that’s who I want to be. So, do I even get to think about... being with another alpha right now?”

Sofia lets out a soft ‘tsk’, shaking her head.
“Shoyo. Love doesn’t give a damn about timing. Not even a little.”
She gestures toward my chest, fingers hovering just above it. “As long as that’s beating, it’s gonna knock. Sit at the edge of your life. You can try to shut it out, ignore it, bolt the door—but it’ll stay. Linger. Like a shadow that won’t leave, even when the light changes.”

Her eyes soften, and the hint of a smile plays on her lips as she continues. “Now, I’m not saying you should jump into a relationship with this lovely man who’s crazy about you,” she emphasizes the word crazy, dragging it out like a tease. “What I’m saying is, honey, you can love whoever you want, whenever you want. But pretending you're not capable of love—or denying yourself love because of your circumstances—that’s just unjust. To yourself.”

Just as Sofia finishes speaking, Heitor walks up to us, his hand reaching out to her like an invitation.

“Babe, let’s dance. It’s our song.”

Sofia tilts her head, listening. The soft bossa nova from the restaurant drifts in—something familiar and beautiful. Her face lights up.

She touches my arm gently. “Oh, Shoyo. Let me steal this one with Heitor. We’ll talk more after, that’s for sure.”

I nod and flap my hand at her. “Go ahead. Don’t worry about me. I’ll live.”

Sofia takes Heitor’s hand, and he instantly pulls her toward him. Then they both walk, fingers intertwined, until they reach a spot a little further from where I’m seated, closer to the restaurant. They stop, and Sofia lifts her hand to rest in Heitor’s while her other hand settles gently on his shoulder. Heitor places his hand on Sofia’s waist, pulling her closer, and they begin to move.

The song drifts, soft, through the air.

I can’t make out most of the words, just the shape of them, like petals on water — slipping past.

But one line catches and lingers.

‘Fly me to the moon’.

It spreads across the space like breath on glass, the kind of melody that settles into the bones and makes everything else go quiet.

I find myself watching them — Sofia and Heitor — swaying in time to something deeper than the music.

Their movements are slow, unhurried. 

Her eyes never leave his.

She leans in, mouth close to his ear, saying something only he is meant to hear.

A secret passed between heartbeats.

I rest my chin in my palm, trying to hum along, my eyes fixed on them, then drifting past. Out toward the sand, where it curves and breaks, where boulders jut out like rough patches on silk.

Sofia’s words echo in my head.
Am I even capable of love?

“Wanna dance?” A voice pulls me from my thoughts.

I turn my head to the side. 

“It’s what Ren asked,” Wakatoshi says, pointing toward Ren, who’s perched on his arms, both of them looking breathless—probably from too much running around in the sand.

“Yes, Daddy. Dance? Like Aunty Sofia,” Ren chimes in, flashing a row of baby teeth.

“No, I’m fine. I just love watching them.”

“Oh, come on, Hinata. Can’t you see his enthusiasm? He really wants to dance with you.”

Then, as if on cue, the stereo changes into another song. The soft, intimate Bossa Nova is replaced by something a little more upbeat. It’s jazz- the fast jazz.

“Pwetty please, Daddy?”
Ren’s face transforms — brows knit, lips poked out in that signature goldfish face. The one that always gets me.

I shake my head, trying to hold firm as I pinch his soft cheeks.
“You know it’s not fair, pulling that face on me.”

He giggles. Wakatoshi chuckles beside us.

And before I can protest, Ren is already in my arms, passed smoothly from Wakatoshi like a baton in a race we both know I’ve already lost.

His little fingers curl around mine. I can feel it: the excitement in him. We’ve danced together at home ever since he found his feet. But never like this. Never outside.
Barefoot, on warm sand, under a sky full of strangers and stars. Maybe that’s why his eyes are shining now, brighter than a thousand constellations.

I laugh and lift him up.

“Alright, alright. We’ll dance. We’ll dance until we drop tonight!”

____

And then, how is it that I’ve ended up here?
Five minutes ago, I was dancing—spinning Ren in the sand, laughing, lost in the mess of joy. And now… I’m here. Holding Wakatoshi’s hand, his other resting lightly on my waist. And my feet? Scrambling to keep up.

I glance behind me.
Ren is twirling with Sofia, his laughter rising like music—a sound so light, so free, it’s like time forgot him altogether. He’s completely in the moment, like I’m not even here. And somehow... he’s okay with that.

“Let him,” Wakatoshi says.

I turn back to him. "Sorry?"
I hate that I have to tilt my head to meet his eyes. It makes me feel small—like even standing still is an effort.

“He loves it more when you dance with him,” Wakatoshi says.
“Don’t worry—nothing beats the way you swing him around like there’s no tomorrow.”

“Are you trying to make me feel better? Because right now, it kinda feels like the opposite.”

“I’m just stating the obvious. He loved it. You heard his laugh—it’s contagious. I recorded it. I’ll send it to you later.”

The music shifts again, and this time, it’s something I recognize.
“I know this song,” I say.
“Oh yeah? What’s it called?”
“It’s L-O-V-E by Nat King Cole.” I chuckle. “Natsu—my sister—and I used to sing it when we were little. We’d pretend we were on a karaoke stage. Mom loved it.”

He watches me for a moment, his lips curling, eyes twinkling.

“What?”

“You never talk about your family. That’s a first.”

“Oh, shut up, Wakatoshi. Just dance.” I roll my eyes, already trying to steer the moment away.

And so we dance—well, he does. I flail like a log on rushing water—stiff, uncoordinated, just trying to keep up.

“You’re surprisingly good at this,” I say, embarrassed by how wooden I’ve become in his arms.

“You won’t believe me if I told you. My family made me do many things. Dance lessons, for one.”

“Dance lessons?” I raise an eyebrow. “You… learned to dance?”

“Mm-hmm. Not just any dances. Waltz, foxtrot… anything that’ll make you look graceful on the ballroom floor—that’s what they said. To me, it was just buying time. Teaching us how to move smoothly enough to pass. Or at least not stick out like a sore thumb in rooms we were supposed to ‘belong’ in.”

He twirls me, and I spin once and get caught in his arm again.

He continues.  “I learned to spin, twirl, swing, and sway until I started to wonder—am I turning into a tumbleweed? blown endlessly across the desert.” He scoffs, the memory pulling a faint smile from him, but there’s something darker in his eyes. His lips curl downward ever so slightly. “I almost gave up. But it was part of the deal I made. So I kept going.”

“A deal?” I blink at him, genuinely curious. “What deal?”

Wakatoshi looks at me with his ever-steady gaze, like always. But there’s a slight hesitation in the pause before he speaks again.

"Since I was little, I’ve been crazy about volleyball. My father introduced me to it, and the sport stuck with me ever since. My mom—she didn’t like it. A lot happened in between, but let’s just say we came to an agreement. I could keep playing, but I had to do what she asked. And one of those things... was a dance lesson. At least I got to move my body instead of sitting stiffly learning etiquette and burying my nose in boring books.”

“Seems like you had a lot going on.”

“Yup.” He shrugs, then smiles. “But hey—look at me now. I get to dance with you.”

“Please. Like I need a good partner when I move like a log.”

He laughs. “Well, a log can be bent into thin plywood, can’t it?”
He gives me a quick once-over, eyes glinting.
“Wanna try a waltz? I’ll lead.”

“But—uh—we’re on sand. Our feet—”

“Doesn’t matter. Just small steps. Basic. You’ll love it.”

Before I can protest, he pulls me close, taking my left hand in his and placing my right hand on his shoulder. His other hand rests on my shoulder blade.

I follow, half-reluctant, half-excited, like a child unsure of the next step.

Of course, it turns into a comedic skit. We laugh so much I can barely keep up. I step on his feet, ram into his body, and get stuck in the sand. Behind me, I hear Sofia’s voice cheering us on.

“Come on, Shoyo! You can do this! You’re not a tree!” she calls.

Damn, my cheeks heat up. A few passersby stop to watch and laugh as well. I think I hear someone shout, “Ninja Shoyo!” and I groan inwardly.

Ren, clapping his hands, yells, “Daddy! Daddy!”

“Come on, Hinata. This is easy,” Wakatoshi says, his voice calm despite the chaos. He starts counting the steps, pulling me closer.

“Listen to my voice. We’ll start with your right foot.” He moves slowly, guiding me.

“Right foot, back—one, left foot side—two, right foot, close—three,” he counts steadily.

I try to follow, but the eyes on us make me tense.
Damn this volleyball community.

“Hinata, focus,” he says, his grip still firm. “Now your left. Same move—back, side, close.”

We move again—shaky, but moving.

“You don’t have to stare at your feet,” he says.

“Yeah, well... it’s hard to coordinate if I don’t look,” I mutter, barely keeping up.

“Fair. But do you always look before you jump?”

“I look for the ball.”

“Exactly. Because that’s your target.”

I nod, unsure where this is going.

“So what’s your target here?” he asks. “When you’re dancing with a partner?”

“Um... not stepping on your toes?” I shrug. “Staying in the lines?”

He laughs.

“Yeah, go ahead. Laugh it up. I know I sound like an idiot.”

“Idiot? No.” He grins. “Cute? Definitely.”

“I’m not cute. I’m a man. Twenty-two. That disqualifies me.”

He laughs louder, rich from the belly. “I’ll take that debate to the grave. You’re always cute to me.”

His gaze lifts to my hair.
“These beautiful orange locks...” Then down. “Those eyes...”
He stops at my mouth. Doesn’t say anything. Just looks.

Fuck. Don’t tell me—

“Too much?” he says softly. “Sorry—I didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable.”
He keeps us moving. Still waltzing, somehow.

“Let me give you the real answer to my earlier question.” His voice is low now.

“You’ve got to look at your partner. Eyes up.”

I tip my head, meeting his gaze.

“And trust him to lead. And never let you fall—”

“Ow, ow, ow—”
Our feet tangle. We crash to the ground. I land flat on my back, and he’s practically on top of me.

“Oops. Sorry.”

His face is just inches from mine. And for a second—I forget how to breathe.

“So much for never letting me fall,” I mutter.

He pushes himself up fast, offers me a hand.

“This almost never happens. I swear. You okay?”

I rub my spine and try to laugh it off, even though my face is still warm.

“Yeah, I’m fine. Don’t worry about it.”
I grin, brushing it aside.
“Dancing’s just... not my thing. I can’t catch the steps, and my body’s stiff in all the wrong places.” I shrug, playing it off.“The only thing I’m good at is shaking. Maybe a little spinning, if you’re lucky.”

He laughs.
“Sure. We’ll do that next time.”

We? Next time?

We both head back to the others.
Ren is already sagging against Heitor, his head resting on his shoulder as Heitor cradles him. The little guy blinks slowly at us, eyes heavy.

“Maybe we should call it a night,” Wakatoshi says, his gaze drifting to Ren.

“That... I can agree with.”

We pack up the food, fold the chairs and table, and start strolling down the sidewalk along the beach. The evening air is warm and soothing, wrapping around us like a blanket.

The path curves gently as we drift toward the quieter end of the shore, where the beach gives way to the rising shapes of concrete.

Sofia closes in and wraps me in a hug. Her voice is soft in my ear.

“Remember, Shoyo — follow your heart.”

My feet stay planted, soles pressed to the stone slab beneath me.

Her words echo: Follow my heart?

The thing is…

I’ve never followed my heart.
Not once.
I chased the dream. Not the feeling.
I pushed. Trained. Fought for every inch just to prove I deserved to be on the court.

While the others had height, power, perfect form—
trained since they could basically walk—
I was scrappy. Too short. Too stubborn.

They had the system. I had... obsession.

That’s what got me here. Not love. Not softness.

And the one time I let my heart take over—just once—
I got Ren.

I don’t regret him. Not even for a second.
But after that? I promised myself: no more slip-ups. No more feelings leading the way.

So now? Follow my heart?

What if it’s pointing straight at something I can’t afford to want?

I know I'm treading dangerous water here.

We bid our farewells, exchanging Christmas wishes as the evening draws to a close. I thank Sofia for the nth time that day, but she hushes me every time I try.

Wakatoshi and I continue walking. Ren’s sitting in his arms, and my hands are full with the bag—Sofia packed the leftovers for me, insisting that I must finish it in whatever way I choose.

Less time in the kitchen, I'd say. I welcome the "gift" with arms wide open.

I walk, swinging my hands to and fro absentmindedly.

“You look happy,” Wakatoshi says, his gaze still fixed ahead. Ren’s head rests against his shoulder, peaceful—as if nothing in the world could touch him.

Well, I try to be. A beautiful day. Beautiful moments. A happy kid.

Maybe… just for tonight, I can stop treading water.

“I am,” I say, glancing at him. “And you?”

“I am… when you are.”

“Oh, come on. Your happiness is yours. Don’t go putting it on other people.”

Wakatoshi tilts his head slightly, a small chuckle escaping him. “You don’t think two people can be happy because of each other?”

I pause. My feet slow on their own. “I don’t know. I never really thought about it like that.”

I glance at the sidewalk, then at him. “I always figured happiness was something you had to find on your own. Like... no one else could do it for you.”

“That’s true too,” he says thoughtfully. “But let me ask you this—do you feel happy when Ren’s upset? When he’s crying over something…”

“No, of course not.” I think back. “When he was a baby, he’d cry all night sometimes, and I’d cry too — stressed and helpless. Turned out it was just colic. I hated that thing. It came out of nowhere and wrecked us both.”

Wakatoshi walks beside me in silence, gaze lowered to the pavement.

“I’m sorry,” he says softly.

“What for?”

“For you having to go through that alone.” His voice softens, and his expression turns somber.

I shrug, shifting the bags of food in my hands. “I didn’t mean to bring it up. But, you know, as long as you understand that raising a kid isn’t easy, I’m fine with it.”

“I know. And I’ll make it up to you,” he says, stopping and turning to face me. "To you, both.”

My heart races. Is he going to mention the confession again? Before I can say anything, he resumes walking, his gaze fixed ahead. He tilts his head slightly, brushing Ren’s hair, then rests his hand on the kid's back.

“Do you feel happy when Ren’s happy?” he asks. 

“Of course,” I say without thinking. “Any parent would. I’d do anything to see him smile. If I could take his pain, I would. My life doesn’t mean much without him.”

Wakatoshi smiles- a rare, warm smile. “See? That’s exactly what I mean, Hinata. Exactly.”

I slow my steps, trying to process his words. Exactly what he means? Exactly what does he mean?

He continues walking, leaving me a few steps behind. “Come on, Hinata.”

I catch up quickly.

“I’ve made plans for our first outing,” he says. “Then we’ll have dinner. I’ve made a reservation.”

“You did? Where are we going?”

“Just wait and see. It’s going to be a long, tiring day. But dinner—well, it’ll be somewhere near Copacabana. I didn’t want to risk looking for something farther with Ren’s bedtime and all that.” Wakatoshi gently strokes Ren’s back when the kid stirs, like he knows we are talking about him.

I bounce along beside him. “So... should I dress up?”

Wakatoshi glances over, giving me a quick once-over. His gaze lingers on my outfit—an oversized t-shirt in some dull grayish-blue that doesn’t really suit my tanned skin or orange hair, but I like it anyway. The sleeves hang past my elbows, and the hem stops just below my waist.

My pants—well, I’m actually wearing them today for the occasion. Otherwise, I’d be in shorts. They’re loose linen, the kind that puff up like a balloon when the wind gets in.

“And don’t say I look cute.”

Wakatoshi quickly looks away, his lips twitching like he’s holding back a laugh.

“What?” I ask. “Is something wrong with…with my fashion sense?”

Even as I say it, I wince.
Who even says ‘fashion sense’ nowadays?

He doesn’t answer right away. Just as he opens his mouth to respond—his phone rings.

Wakatoshi pulls it from his pocket, glances at the screen, then swipes to silence it. The ringing stops. He turns his attention back to me, about to say something, but the phone rings again.

“You can pick it up. I don’t mind,” I say.

“No... It’s not important.” He swipes at the phone again, silencing it, then presses the side button—probably putting it on silent mode.

He looks back at me, but this time, he’s not seeing all of me. Just my face.

“Wear whatever you want, Hinata. Anything you feel comfortable in. I like the way you look today. I liked how you looked yesterday, too.”

He pauses, his gaze drifting slightly, like he’s remembering something.

“And… I’ve liked how you looked for a long time. It’s not the clothes that define you... It’s you.”

Whoa.
He’s really stepping it up. Jab after jab of mushy, sickly-sweet serotonin.

“There’s nothing I can do to stop you from saying cheesy stuff like that, is there?”

He just smiles. Calm, certain. “I’m just telling the truth.”

He walks me up to the door, enters the house, drops Ren on the bed, and kisses him goodnight—all done expertly. 

I stand in silence at the doorway, watching.  

“Hinata,” Wakatoshi calls, standing across from the bed.

“Yeah?”

“I’d better go now.”

“To where?”

“The hotel?” he says plainly. “I’m staying there until the New Year.”

“Ah, yeah… The hotel. That’s right.”

I walk him to the door.

 Wakatoshi turns around; “Can I…come again the day after tomorrow? I know we promised to meet on the 31st, but… can I come?”

“Sure. You’re welcome to come tomorrow if you’d like. I’ll be at the training center anyway.”

“No, no. I’ve got something to do tomorrow.”

“Oh. Okay.”

“So… good night, then,” he says, then pauses. “I, uh… sorry I didn’t bring a present. For you. And Ren. It’s just—”

“Oh! That’s okay! Haha—we’re fine. Don’t worry about it.”

I laugh it off, because seriously—if he brings up how he showed up on a whim and spent most of the day tangled up with me under a blanket, I’ll need to find a hole and disappear into it.

“I didn’t get you anything either.”

“That makes us even.”

He leans in—then stops just short. Instead, he gives me a stiff, awkward hug.
Then, without another word, he turns and steps into the elevator.

Just before the doors close, I hear him speaking softly into the phone.

And for some reason, I don’t move.
I just stand there, listening, like I might hear something I was never meant to.

Chapter Text

I wake up, clutching that white oversized t-shirt.

I don’t remember grabbing it.
But there it is—wrinkled between my fingers.

I toss it. Across the room.
It lands in the corner and lies crumpled.
Among the sweat-soaked remnants of yesterday’s effort.

Morning leaks in through the grey curtain.

Ren’s still curled up beside me.
His fingers twitch. His mouth, half-open.
His eyes—not fully closed.

His face might look like Wakatoshi's.
But the way he sleeps? That’s me.
Well. That’s what Mom said.

“Good morning, kid.”
I kiss his cheek.
Pull the blanket up around his small, warm body.

I stretch—arms, neck, back.
The pain from yesterday? Not gone.
But duller. Mostly. I’ll take it.

I slip out of bed.
Grab a towel. Head to the kitchen.

My phone’s there, charging on the counter.
Waiting.

I pick it up.

And freeze.

Am I seeing this right?

I blink.
Wipe my eyes with the heel of my palms.
Blink again. Faster this time.

What the hell happened while I was sleeping?

Seven missed calls from Kenma.
Twelve from Mom.
Twelve.

I check the time.
It’s seven in Rio.
So—7 p.m. back home.

I swipe. Messages.

A bunch.

Sofia. Kato-san. Pedro.
Probably Christmas wishes.

Then—
Mom.
Kenma.
And one from a number I don’t know.

I tap Mom’s first.

“Shoyo, how’s everything? Is everything okay? Call me when you wake up.”

Mom’s message.

Simple. But her voice was tight in my head.

Then—
The unknown number.

Unbelievable.
But real.

Kageyama.
That petulant man-child.

“Hinata?! Are you okay?! Is Ren okay?!”

Seriously?
Has the exclamation mark become his best friend?

And what’s with the barrage of questions?

Okay.
No, really.
What is going on?

I open Kenma’s message.
My heart kicks.
Not a sprint. More like a startled rabbit.

The light in the room changes.
Still morning—but barely.
Like afternoon pretending. My palms sweat. From holding a phone.
A phone.

“Shoyo, is everything OK? Is Ushijima in Rio? With you? Call me.”

He included an X link under the message.

The link is the NipponSport/SV.League_official account.

I click on it.

@NipponSport/SV.League_official:

Following a thrilling Emperor’s Cup tournament, Adler Tokyo triumphed over MSBY Aichi in a 3-1 victory, securing their place in history as the first team to win the prestigious cup two consecutive years.

Once again, Ushijima Wakatoshi delivered an outstanding performance, scoring 21 points and becoming the top scorer of the match. His continued dominance on the court remains remarkable.

However, as Daido Life SV. League action resumes on Friday, December 27, with a surprising development: Ushijima Wakatoshi was absent from both doubleheader matches. Not only was he missing from the starting lineup, but his absence from the bench has raised questions regarding the possibility of an injury.

We reached out to Adler’s management for clarification, and they confirmed that there are no injury concerns. They attributed his absence to a “family matter,” but declined to provide any additional details.

This news has sparked considerable speculation, and we will continue to monitor the situation and provide updates as more information becomes available. Stay tuned.

There are many likes and comments, but one of them catches my eye. It’s a link to another account, posted two days before Christmas:

@wild_Xfan:

Spotted Ushijima Wakatoshi at Narita Airport today!

Here’s the pic I snapped!

[Picture of Ushijima at the airport, wearing a baseball cap, but still recognizable.]

I sit down in the high chair at the counter, eyes glued to the screen. I scroll again, not sure why I’m drawn to it.

@NipponSport/SV.League_official:

We were able to contact Ushijima Wakatoshi’s family representative regarding his sudden absence from this weekend’s games, but no comment was given. 

We’ll keep digging. Stay tuned.

I scroll further, my heart pounding.

Another post catches my eye.

@wild_Xfan:

A new twist in the Ushijima mystery: Someone claims to have seen him board the same flight to Rio!

Is there something more going on?

Can anyone confirm?

And then it starts.
The spiral.

Posts.
Everywhere.

Wild guesses.
Half-baked theories.
A few so off-base that I almost laugh.

Almost.

@UshiGirlsUnite:

Is Ushijima seeing someone special in Brazil? 👀 We never see him dating anyone here. Could he be into Brazilians now? Wedding samba coming soon?

Oi oi oi…

@Alphagossip_LV League:

He has a girlfriend? Wait—he’s an alpha. It could be any omega. 👀

Hah.

These just keep getting more unhinged.
My stomach does this weird twist—half laugh, half warning bell.

I scroll again.

This next one…
Actually makes a bit more sense.

Still—

@VolleyballFanatic

Is Ushijima joining the Brazilian League?

The buzz on social media is growing after reports that he’s on a flight to Rio. Is he in talks to join the Superliga Brasileira de Volei?

The speculation keeps heating up.

My mind spins.
My finger aches from scrolling.
If I could scroll with my eyes...

Hah.
I wish.

Enough.

Time to call Kenma.

I swipe to his name.
Press call.

One ring.
Then two.

On the third—
He picks up.

“Shoyo! Thank God. We’ve been trying to contact you. Are you okay? Is something wrong? Is Ren okay?” Kenma’s voice rushes through the line, frantic.

“We’re good. What’s going on?” I try to sound calm, but it’s hard when everything is not.

“Did you read it?”

“Yeah, I did.”

“Rumors are going wild here that Ushijima is in Rio to join the Brazilian League. But we both know that’s bullshit. He’s there for you, right?” He pauses, breathing hard. Then his voice comes again, hurried. “We’ve all been worried. Why would Ushijima suddenly fly to Rio if not for your sake? Tell me, Shoyo. Are you really okay? Or is it Ren?”

I smack my palm to my forehead. Maybe I even bang it against the counter.

What the hell have I done?

“Shoyo?” Kenma’s voice cuts through the fog.

“Y-yeah. I’m here.”

“Do you hear me?”

“Yeah.”

I take a deep breath. Try to steady myself.

Doesn’t help much.

There’s no one around. But I whisper anyway. “Listen, Kenma. Don’t tell my Mom. She’ll worry herself sick if she finds out.”

“Yes, cross my heart,” Kenma says— that no-nonsense tone he only uses for important things.

I exhale.

Lean back against the counter.

“I was down with a heat last week. It was bad. The worst I’ve ever had. Hit me around two or three in the morning. I thought I was texting Sofia—Heitor’s partner—but I accidentally sent the message to Wakatoshi—”

“Wait…” Kenma cuts in. “Let me guess. He ran straight to you.”

“Yeah… kind of. You could say that.”
I curve in my seat.
I’ve just realized that.

The line goes quiet.
Just the soft buzz in my ear.

Kenma is calculating.
I brace for impact.

“YOU SLEPT WITH HIM?!”

“I—”

A second voice cuts in.
Kenma’s background.

“Who slept with whom?”

I know that voice.

“No one,” Kenma answers flatly.

“Is that Chibi-chan?!”

God.
He’s getting louder.

“Hey, Chibi-chan! How are you? How’s my little man?”

“Err… fine?”

“Off the line, Kuroo.” Kenma’s voice knifes in.
“We’re in the middle of something important here.”

“Oh? Like what? Sleeping with Ushijima Wakato—”

“Damn it, Kuroo! GO. That was supposed to be top secret!”

“Aw, babe, you’re always like this when it comes to Chibi-chan… putting me second.” Kuroo whines. Dramatic as hell.

Am I seriously listening to their domestic argument?
They’re not even trying to keep it private.

“Go,” Kenma says again.
“And don’t tell anyone. I’ll kill you if you do.”

“Okay, okay… I’m going.”

Footsteps.
A creaking door.

“Don’t keep me waiting too long, babe. The bed’s getting cold without you.”

A loud thud.
Something soft hitting something solid.

I hope no one bleeds.

“Err… I’m still here, in case you were wondering…”
I mutter into the phone.

“Right. Sorry, Shoyo. Forgot he was home.”

“It’s okay.”

“So. Back to the issue.” Kenma breathes in.

Even over the phone, I can hear it—
the slight hitch, the silence before his voice lands.

“You slept with him.”

I squirm like a worm on salt. “Yeah…”

Another breath.
This one is heavier.
Dragging words behind it.

“Oh my God, Shoyo! Were you even aware?! What were you thinking?!”

I guess the exclamation mark wins today.

“I was aware, okay?”
I press my thumb into the counter’s edge.
“Fully awake. Sane. Still thinking straight. But, Kenma… I was in so much pain.
It felt like something was being ripped out of me. Like—like having a kid pulled from your body.”

Well, almost.
Except—“minus ten percent.”
I sound like a salesman.

Kenma stays quiet.

“Look… he was there. I was writhing in bed. My whole body aching. Pills, fingers—you name it.
God, I tried, Kenma. But nothing helped. It didn’t curb the hunger. If anything, it got worse.
So I asked him.”

“And he raised his hands into banzai and jumped on you?”

“What? No. Far from it. Wakatoshi resisted. Completely. But I—I begged him."

A long exhale on the line.
Kenma is trying to process everything at once.

“So... did he... You know…”

“He didn’t knot me. We used protection.”

Kenma sighs. "You nearly gave me a heart attack, Shoyo. For a second, I thought, ‘Oh, he’s done it again.’ My brain was already drafting  explanations for your mom.”

“Nothing’s going to happen. This isn’t like the last time. We were both aware the whole time.”

A scrape on the line—chair dragging?
Then a loud thud.
Like a body hitting something soft.

Kenma lets out a long “ahhh.”

“So... is everything okay now? You and him?”

He confessed.
Said he loves me.

I wish I could tell Kenma.
But let’s not.

Not yet.

“We’re okay. Everything’s normal.”

“Is he still in Rio?” Kenma asks.

“He is. He promised Ren an outing on New Year’s Eve.”

“Oh. Father and son outing. That’ll be fun. What about you?”

“I’ll be tagging along. Wakatoshi said the three of us should go.”

“Ah… he said that? He really said that? How nice…” he says dryly.

“You sound awfully pleased.”

“I smell something brewing,” Kenma says.
“Look, Shoyo. I don’t care about his volleyball career or his team. I care about you. The second rumors started—someone saw him boarding a flight to Rio—we knew it was because of you. And Ren. There’s no other reason he’d go.”

His voice tightens. “Ushijima’s got a huge fanbase. He’s the national team’s prodigy. Most-wanted bachelor. All that.
You’d be surprised how many people have their eyes on him. So, you need to tread carefully now.” He says it slow. Word by word.

Tread carefully?
What’s that supposed to mean?

“Okay. I understand.”

…Which part do I understand?!

“Kenma, I need to call my mom. We’ll talk again?”

I’m about to hit end call when he stops me.

“Shoyo.”

I freeze.

“Guess that dream of yours came true. Seems your body knows you better than you do.”

I don’t know how to answer that.

Man, talk about perfect timing for love life talk.

Before I call Mom, I send a text to that man-child:

“We’re fine. Everything’s fine. Thanks for asking.
So, when are you going to apologize to me?”

I add a mad emoji. And a pouting face.
Just to piss him off.

Then I take a deep breath and pick up the phone to call Mom.

A telltale version of me and my heat.
A half-truth. But half a truth is still a truth, right?
That’s what I tell her.

That’s what I tell myself.

Mom doesn’t press.
She just says “Thank God”—again and again—until I lose count.

I hope she buys it.

I can’t imagine what would happen if she knew.

Let’s not.

Right after that, my phone is bombarded with texts from Kageyama:

“Good. Cuz if you’re not, I’m gonna fly there and bring you back and keep you safe at your Mom’s. You can kiss goodbye Brazil.”

He’s sassy. I give him that. Still, I reply anyway, “Oh, you wouldn’t dare.”

“Try me.” He replies. Another one: “Is the dickhead there?”

To which I confirm, “Yes. He’s in Rio.”

“When will he be back?”

“Ask him yourself. You’re his setter.”

“Tell him he better be here for the next game. Or I won’t set to him, ever.”

“I don’t remember working for you.”

There’s a long pause. He seems to be typing. So I wait.

… … …

Man...he's taking his time typing. 

“Did he say anything about his family?” asks Kegeyama.

Finally. 

“Not really. Why?”

“They’re looking for him, too. You have no idea how much chaos that big oaf’s caused. Ushijima doesn’t go off-grid like this. He’s disciplined. Annoyingly so.”

“Wow. Pot, meet kettle.”

“Hinata, you dumbass. You don’t know what kind of rabbit hole you’re falling into.”

“Yeah, well... I’ve dug myself out of worse.”

“And look where that’s gotten you.”

“Straight into my own cloud cuckoo land. Still, you don’t get to judge me.”

Just then, my phone rings. I slide to answer:

“Hinata, I’m sorry,” comes the voice, hoarse and breathless, like someone just finished a sprint.

“Kageyama?”

“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean it.”

“Mean what?”

“What I said just now. And all the other craps I’ve said before. I’m sorry—”

“You fool.” I shake my head, even though he can’t see it. “I forgive you. But just this once. No next time, got it?”

The line buzzes, that weird static hum that sometimes happens on long-distance calls. In the background, I hear a dog barking, traffic rumbling—and then, a silence thick enough that I can make out his breathing, the soft rustle of his clothes.

“Kageyama?”

“Yeah. I’m here.”

“Say something.”

“I…” A pause. “Damn, I forgot what I was gonna say. Stupid dog chased after me and threw me off.” I hear him sigh. “Just… take care of yourself, okay? And Ren, too. When you get back, I’m buying you both dinner. Something grand. For all the dumb craps I’ve said.”

“Really? Then make it super grand. I want Chinese. Twenty-three courses.”

“Sure. Whatever you want.” A beat. “Gotta run. See you when you’re home.”

Twenty-three courses?

What am I, a glutton?

Is there even such a thing as a 23-course meal?

Nah…there isn’t. 

Is there?

I set the phone down.

Talking to Kageyama always lifts my mood.

Man, that guy.

Twenty-three courses?

Hah! Good luck finding even ten in one place.

My fingers keep scrolling through X. The more I read, the crazier it gets.

Is Wakatoshi really that popular among volleyball fans?

I mean, I know Kageyama is—he literally does that boxer commercial.

No, it was way before that.

Even in Tokyo, when we walked together, fans would stop him for photos. Autographs.

He always picked out-of-the-way places when we ate.

Guess now I know why.

But Wakatoshi...

I don’t really know much about him. Except—

He’s a demon.
On court.

Monster spikes.
Killer serves.
And… and…

A big gun.

How the hell did I come to that?

My neck burns.

_____

The day Ren’s been anxiously waiting for is here. It’s the last day of the year. I just hope it ends on a good note

The clock hasn’t even struck five when I get out of bed, though waking up would be a stretch.

My eyes have been peeling themselves open since four.

I stand there by the bed, hands on my hips. I wonder what I’m supposed to do first.  What do people even do on a morning like this?

Wakatoshi said he’d pick us up at ten.

Five hours.
What the hell am I gonna do for five hours?

Staring at my face in the bathroom mirror—checked.
Lamenting how awful I look—checked.
Curling my fingers through overgrown bangs, complaining they’re too long and swearing I’ll get them cut soon—also checked.
Face wash, teeth brushing—done.

Twenty minutes in the shower.
Washing. Conditioning. Scrubbing.
Thorough enough to count as a deep cleanse for my soul.

Then I step into the bath. Just to soak.
I’d over-poured the bath liquid anyway, so…
Might as well not waste the soap. You know.

I lie there with my arms folded over my chest, floating like a corpse, eyes fixed on the ceiling.

And naturally, I start thinking:

What should I wear for our first outing?

Something fancy?
Stylish?
Casual?

Or... inconspicuous?

He said to wear whatever I’m comfortable in.

Ugh. 

“Daaddy?”

The bathroom door creaks open just a little, and that small, sleepy head peeks in.
One hand rubs at his eyes.

He calls again, voice softer this time:

“Daddy?”

“Daddy will be out in a minute, honey.”

I sit up.
Glance once more at the mirror on my way out.

Huh.

I don’t think I’ve felt this clean in ages.

____

 And here we are, cruising in an SUV.

Ren strapped into his car seat, gazing up at the blue sky through the wide sunroof. 

I lean in and whisper to Wakatoshi—it feels weird, since we’re speaking in our mother tongue.

“This is nice. But... aren’t you going a bit overboard?”

Wakatoshi tilts his head, lowering his voice to match mine.

“What do you mean?”

I glance around, then jerk my chin subtly toward the front of the car—three sharp nods in the driver’s direction.

“The car looks expensive. And there’s a guy in a full suit chauffeuring us around.”

Wakatoshi follows my gaze. “Everything for my loved ones.” He pats Ren’s head. And brushes the kid’s hair. “Besides, it’s not every day we get to do this. And I can’t drive. It’s a left-hand drive here.”

My mouth makes an ‘o’ shape. Then stretches back. “Ahhh…right.” I sit back. That makes sense. “But don’t spoil him, Wakatoshi. I don’t want him growing up and being a brat.”

He chuckles. “Duly noted, ma’am.”

“—I’m a man.”

“—Sir. Duly noted, sir.”

The SUV rolls through traffic. Slips into an underpass. Streetlights flicker across the glass.

I catch my reflection in the window—

And then—

“By the way,” Wakatoshi says, breaking the quiet.

I turn. “Yeah?”

“You look nice. Did you do something with your hair?”

“My hair? What about it?”

His gaze turns almost analytical. “I don’t know. It looks… fluffy. Shiny.”

“Shampoo and conditioner. That’s all you need.”

I lean toward him, bowing my head a little.

“Go on. Touch it.”

Wakatoshi doesn’t say a word. But I feel his fingers slip into my hair. I thought he was going to ruffle it.

He doesn’t.

“It’s so soft. Last time I touched it, it was soaked in sweat.  This is … different.”

I jerk upright. “Don’t bring that up.”

He laughs. “Sorry. Can’t help reminiscing.”

There’s still a trace of laughter in his voice when he says,  “By the way, I thought you loved colors. Why are you in all black?”

I tug at my black shirt and smirk. “It’s a new style. I’m blending in.”

“Blending in?”

“Yeah.” I nod like it’s obvious. “Why? Does it bother you?”

He raises an eyebrow. “Does not.” He looks at me. Up and down. The corner of his mouth twitches. “Just so you know, it’s going to be hot today. Black’s gonna roast you at the summit.”

I turn back to the window.

“I’m not gonna roast. Just wait.” I huff at the glass.

The SUV crawls uphill through the winding lanes of Rio.

Cars honk without rhythm. Motorbikes dart through the gaps like fish escaping a net. 

At the red lights, vendors drift between bumpers, holding up bottled water, slices of mango and pineapple, little plastic tubs filled with something bright and sugary.

Then, two soft thuds on my window.

I turn.

A woman in a faded headscarf stands there, lifting a tray of pastéis toward me like an offering. The shells are golden, puffed slightly from the fryer, probably still warm. Filled with beef or cheese. Maybe shrimp. The kind you eat standing up with one hand and a napkin, no questions asked.

When I first arrived, I ate them as if I were trying to make up for something. Two in five minutes. Three, if I skip chewing.

I don’t even have to be hungry. I just want them.

Now, I lick my lips and swallow down a ridiculous wave of saliva.

The light turns. The SUV lurches forward, slow at first, then with certainty, leaving the vendors behind until they’re just part of the noise we’ve outrun.

I glance to my side.

Ren is busy, wide-eyed, gawking, tracking the city as it rushes past in streaks of motion.

Wakatoshi leans in close. Like a tourist guide, he speaks, pointing things out through the glass—statues, birds, buildings half-swallowed by vines.

Ren listens, nodding with full, serious attention. 

I shift my gaze back to the road.

Somewhere between the last honk and the way Wakatoshi said, “Look, that’s a toucan,”

I forgot I was annoyed.

I clear my throat. “You. Are you aware of the wild rumors about you?”

Two heads turn. Two pairs of eyes blink at me like I’ve grown another head.

Wakatoshi hands Ren a colorful brochure—something about Rio, full of parrots and waterfalls. His hand rests lightly on the boy’s hair. Doesn’t move.

Then his gaze finds mine.

“What rumor?” he asks, voice steady, pitched just above Ren’s head.

I watch him for a few seconds.

Is he really asking? Or is he waiting to see how much I already know?

“I heard you missed two games,” I say. “Your sudden absence is stirring people up. They're looking for you.”

“Where did you hear that?”

“I read. On X.”

“Do you always read that kind of thing?”

“No. Not really.” I shift in my seat. Cross my hands. “Just this once.”

Why do I feel like I’m the one being interrogated?

Finally, he turns away, gazing out the window.

“I don’t read those things,” he says. “I follow the official club account. The Nippon LV.League. The rest… It’s just noise. Hogwash.”

“Those are your fans,” I say. “Are you saying you don’t care what they think?”

He looks back at me. Unmoved.

“I don’t. Fans can raise you up. Yes. But they can pull you down just as fast. My life—I decide where it goes.”

“So you’re not worried at all about the rumors? The part where someone saw you board a flight to Rio? That you might be joining the Brazilian V League—or seeing a girl. Or... an omega, for that matter?”

“Oh, that?” A faint quirk touches his lips.

“The club had settled it.”

“Everything?”

“No. Just the part where I join the Brazilian League.”

I narrow my eyes. “So you’re not worried?”

“About what?”

“About people thinking you’re seeing someone when you’re not. That it might, in some twisted way, affect your image?”

He holds my gaze.

There’s a pause so thick I want someone—anyone—to interrupt.

Then—

He laughs.

A sudden laugh that startles Ren beside him.

“Oops—sorry, Ren.” He ruffles the boy’s hair. “Chii-chan got a little excited.”

“What’s so funny?”

“You,” he says simply.

“Me?” I twist to face him, legs shifting against the seat.

“Yes, you. You’re worried about me.”

I pull back.

“-Am not.”

“Ah... is that so?” he says, the corner of his mouth lifting again. “Okay then.”

“Okay then?” I repeat. “Excuse me, mister. What does that mean? What are you going to do about it?”

“Nothing.”

“—Nothing?” I repeat again.

“Yeah.” His voice is flat, matter-of-fact. “They’re not entirely wrong. You’re the omega I’m seeing.”

I stare at him like he’s a piece of abstract art hanging on a wall. Stunning, sure—but confusing as hell.

Come on, mouth. Say something. Anything.

“I’m not your omega,” I manage, finally. “You should say something. People might get the wrong idea.”

“But you’re the omega who bore my son,” he says. Still blunt. Still unbothered. “That sits on top of everything else.” He scans my face. “Hinata, do you mind being seen with me?”

“I…” I shift in my seat. Did I accidentally turn on the seat heater? Because damn, it’s hot.

“Because I don’t.” He meets my eyes. “And I can’t wait to tell the world that Ren is my son.”

“What? Wait—hang on a sec.” I throw up a hand between us. “Are you insane?”

“If insane means telling the truth, then yes. I am.”

Now it’s both hands. “No, no, no. Think about this. Think about your family. Think about Ren. We haven’t even told him that you’re his…” I lower my voice, “…father.”

“So you’re against this?” he asks.

I breathe out slowly.  My fingers are fiddling with each other. From this point,  I can see my white pair of canvas shoes. “No. I’m not. You have the right. I understand that. But… can you wait?”

“—Until when?”

“Maybe after I finish here.”

“How much longer?”

“A year and a half.”

He rubs his chin like he’s calculating something far more complicated than time. “Do you want to come back and train in Chiba? I’ll cover everything.”

“What? No! Absolutely not.” My voice spikes. “Keep your money. And besides—I’ve made a commitment here.”

He smiles. A tiny curve of his lips, like he already predicted that answer.

“I thought so,” he says. “One and a half years—it’ll pass in the blink of an eye. I can wait.”

Then, just like that, his attention shifts to Ren.

I turn to the window.
Chin in hand.
Man...What a conversation that turned out to be.

We reach the summit of Corcovado Mountain just as the sun stretches to its highest point, and our shadows are barely more than faint dots at our feet. From here, Rio sprawls below us, shimmering under the unmerciful sun. We squint to take it all in, the vastness almost too much to process.

Occasionally, a gentle breeze blows through the statue and the web of trees. Some people are already fanning themselves with whatever they can—hats, pamphlets, and, for the more prepared tourists, women mostly, wielding those tiny handheld fans.

I wish I had one too.

“You okay?” Wakatoshi asks suddenly.

“Toasty,” I say, fanning myself with the pamphlet.

He chuckles. “Maybe we should get one of those.” He nods toward a group of young girls, probably on a school trip, wielding the mini fans.

“And make me look like a girl? No, thank you.”

“You’re far too lovely for a girl.”

I shoot him a look. “I’ve been working hard not to look like one—don’t ruin it for me.”

“Alright. Not lovely,” he says. “Just someone I keep looking at, for some reason.” He shrugs, eyes sliding forward again. “I’ll live with that.”

“What—”

“Come on.” He cuts me off. “We’re piling people up here.”

He grabs my hand and starts walking, leading us toward the ledge to find a spot.

Honestly, I’ve always dreamed of standing here, yet it felt out of reach, something too difficult to do alone with just Ren. The tram ride, the steep flight of stairs—it never seemed like an option for us. But somehow, in the most unexpected of ways, one I never dreamed on; Wakatoshi made it happen.

Ren is perched happily on Wakatoshi’s  shoulders, the vast world before him, his little face alight with wonder. The carrier backpack he’s secured in seems almost too sleek, too practical for something so simple. It’s the kind of thing fathers should have. How the hell did I not think to get one of those?

“Where did you get that?” I ask, pointing to the carrier.

“Pretty cool, right?” Wakatoshi responds. “I saw a tourist at the hotel had it on him. One kid on his back, the other on his front. Tough dad. So, I went up and asked him about it.” He leans in, eyes bright with the memory. “You know what he said?”

“What?”

“He said, ‘Ah, new dad, eh? This’ll take some getting used to, mate. Let’s grab a seat and have a yarn about it.” Wakatoshi chuckles a warm sound as he continues. “He looked at his partner, winked at him, then set down his kids. We sat and had some drinks. He started at A and went all the way to Z, talking brands, pros and cons, and what his kids preferred. I googled and, sure enough, one of the brands he mentioned was right here in the mall next to the hotel. The little cap? It’s a gift from the shop.”

Wakatoshi pulls out his phone, scrolling through a gallery of photos, each one brimming with Ren’s joyful face.

The sheer number of pictures he’s snapped is a little astonishing—this is just the beginning of the tour.

He pauses on one, his finger hovering over the screen. “Look at him,” he says, showing me a photo of Ren in his little hat, cheeks flushed from the heat, pointing excitedly to some unknown spot as we ascended the mountain in the tram. “Isn’t he cute?”

I glance up, catching Ren’s happy expression, his eyes wide with wonder, soaking in the world around him.

“Yeah,” I reply. “He is.”

Photos taken—me and Ren, together. Ren and Wakatoshi, together. Us three, together, like a little happy family.

We sit on the steps, passing a water bottle between us—one I packed with Ren’s things. The shade arrives like a small miracle, a cloud sliding over the sun as if someone up there took pity on us. The heat lifts, just enough to breathe again.

Ren, now free from the carrier, squirms beside me.

“Daddy, pee-pee.”

Wakatoshi stands up quickly. “Let me,” he says, taking Ren’s hand in his. “Do you need the toilet? Chii-chan needs one too. We can go together. Do you want that?”

Ren nods eagerly, and the two of them walk hand in hand toward the restroom, which already has a long queue.

That’s going to take a while.

I lean back on the steps, letting the wind caress my face.

With one hand, I fan my shirt to let the cool air in.

With the other, I thumb through a pamphlet of places to visit in Rio.

Our next destination, according to Wakatoshi, is Selaron Steps. I read through the description, my nose almost touching the paper, when suddenly, a voice interrupts.

A man, perhaps in his 70s, stands before me, dressed in a supremely unstained white t-shirt, half-hidden under a cargo vest that probably screaming a thousand things from the many lines criss-crossing on it. His crisp khakis, however, tell a different story. His stance is slightly slanted, leaning on a walking stick for support. He takes a steadying breath, and his voice, low but clear, carries a fluent American accent. But his face doesn’t. 

“Say, young man. Would you be kind enough to snap a photo for me? Bit of a pickle, traveling solo and all.”

“Yes. Sure sure.” I reply, my English faltering. I can speak Portuguese well enough and read English fairly well—mostly books—but speaking it? Not so much. I’m terrible at it.

I take the phone from his hand. He strikes a pose with Sugarloaf Mountain behind him—shoulders back, chin up, cane tucked neatly at his side.

“One, two, three. Say cheese. One, two, three. Again,” I say, trying to sound more confident than I feel.

He grins—a sly, almost charming smile—then gestures toward me.

“How about one together? A little memento, eh?”

I nod and step beside him. Up close, I realize—he’s a full head taller than me. Must’ve been all that stooping with the cane that threw me off.

I lift the phone, frame the shot.

Just as I’m about to snap it, he leans in, tilts his head, and throws up a peace sign.

“Cheese!” he beams.

Without thinking, I mirror him.

Peace sign and all.

I hand the phone back.

He squints at the screen, then beams again. “Perfect, perfect,” he says,  before glancing up at me. “Arigatou.”

I blink. “Nihon?”

“Hai.” His smile widens, like he’s been waiting for me to notice.

Without thinking, I extend my hand. He takes it—a firm shake. “It’s been a while since I met another Japanese here.”
Well—other than Wakatoshi, Kageyama, or Oikawa.
They don’t count.
Too young.
Home lives in older faces.

“I’m Hinata. Hinata Shoyo. From Miyagi.”

I bow a little too deeply, voice louder than I mean it to be.

He tips off his bucket hat and holds it to his chest with a slight bow of his own. “U— Uehara Junzo. From Osaka.”

Then, with a faint twinkle in his eye;

“Hinata Shoyo... that’s a fine name. Rolls off the tongue nicely, doesn’t it?”

“Uh, thank you, sir.”

He waves a hand. “No ‘sir,’ please. Just call me Jii-chan. Everyone does.”

He gestures toward the folded pamphlet in my hand.

“Planning your next stop already?”

“Yeah... just figuring out what to do, what to see, checking the restroom situation… You know, traveling with a kid—you’ve got to be prepared.”

“You have a child?” he asks, a flicker of surprise behind his polite smile.

“Yes. One.” I nod toward the restrooms. “Went to the toilet.”

“Ah… with the mother, I assume?”

“Err… with the father. I’m the mommy,” I say, scrunching up my face like, yeah, I know, sounds wild—but it’s true.

He looks at me for a long moment, then clutches his cane under his arm and claps once. “That’s perfect,” he says. “My apology,  Hinata-san. It’s not every day you meet such a beauteous omega. Your child must be lovely too—like you. What is his name?”

“Ren.”

“Ren? How do you write it?”

“With the kanji for ‘lotus.’”

Most people don’t understand what it means. Ren can be a dozen things depending on the kanji—love, honesty, refinement, gemstone, practice, even waves.

But this one—this one was always his.

“Ah...” he murmurs, nodding. “That is indeed a beautiful name. A beautiful meaning.”

He pauses, then gently, “Did you and your husband choose it together?”

I hesitate.

Should I correct him?

Or just let it go?

“It was me,” I say with a small smile. “Actually—”

“Oh, look at the time!” Uehara-san glances at his watch, his eyes flicking past me—as if scanning the crowd—before settling back on my face.

“Time flies when you’re enjoying yourself, doesn’t it, Hinata-san?”

“Yeah…”

Honestly, I’m a little thrown. The spontaneity—or maybe the randomness-of Uehara-san keeps catching me off guard.

One minute he’s smooth and sweet, like your classic charming jiji. Next, he’s twitchy, like he just remembered he left the stove on.

“I need to be somewhere after this.” He gropes the pockets of his vest one by one. “Oh, here it is.”

He hands me a can—an energy drink, chilled and sweating. Almost like he read my mind.

“Hot as a kettle, eh?” he says with a wink in that Kansai lilt.

I take it, blinking at the kindness. “Thanks.”

“It’s been a pleasure talking to you, but this old man’s gotta run.” He tips his hat, turns, and waves over his shoulder. “See you again, Hinata-san.”

And just like that, he vanishes into the crowd.

“What a jaunty Jiji,” I mutter, half to myself.

“Who’s jaunty?”

Wakatoshi appears out of nowhere,
Ren perched calmly in his arms.
Both of them are staring at me like I’ve just committed a crime.

“Just— just someone I met while you two were off doing your business. He’s Japanese, by the way.”

“Japanese?” He scans the crowd, eyes alert. “Where is he?”

“Gone. As quickly as he showed up.”

He frowns slightly. “Are you sure he didn’t try anything weird?”

I blink. “No?”

“Hitting on you?” His eyebrow lifts.

I laugh. “That old Jiji? No way. I don’t think I’m his flavor.”

I lift the energy drink. “But he did give me this. Kind of sweet, right?”

Wakatoshi pulls that face — one brow down, the other twitching up in a judgmental slope, lips parted like he’s halfway through a lecture.

“He gave you that.”

“Yes.”

“And you just drank it?”

“No. I sniffed it first, shook it a little, performed a ritual—of course I drank it, Wakatoshi.”

I take another long sip, smirking.

“It’s watermelon-flavored. Want a taste?”

I offer him the can.

“No thanks,” he says, voice flat. “I need to stay fully alert. In case you collapse from drinking suspicious liquids handed to you by rogue seniors.”

“You know, you don’t have to be such an ar—”

“Watch your language,” he cuts in smoothly. Then, deadpan:

“We have a child present, mister, lovely boiled octopus.”

I stop mid-retort.

“Boiled… octopus?” I squint at him. “Excuse me?”

He shrugs, entirely unbothered.

“You look like one right now.”

Then he shoves a plastic bag at me.

“Here. You might want to change. That black shirt’s going to roast you any moment.”

I pull the white fabric out.

“I ♥️ Rio?” I read aloud, eyebrows raised.

Ren giggles and points.

“Daddy!”

“He chose it,” Wakatoshi says with a slight nod.

“Go on. We can’t disappoint our little fashion consultant.”

I take off my cap and grab the hem of my shirt.

“Not here, Hinata,” he says quickly. “Restroom’s that way.”

I glance in the direction of the long restroom queue.

“I’m not lining up just to change a shirt.”

Wakatoshi looks at me like I’ve just announced I eat sunscreen for breakfast.

“I’m quick. I always do it at the beach. No problemo.”

“Always?”

“Yeah?...”

“You’re not… worried?”

I blink. “Worried about what?”

“You’re exposing your body. To strangers.” He lowers his voice a notch, serious now. “You’re an omega. Your body’s… different from ours. You know that.”

“I’m still a man.”

“A man with a body so alluring…” His voice shifts—rougher. “It’s hard to look away once you’ve had a glimpse.”

I flinch. “You’re overreacting,” I say.  “It’s just a shirt. I’m not getting naked.”

God, how long are we going to debate this?

I wipe my face with a huff, sweat beading at my temples and running down my legs.

Still, I hold my ground.

“Besides, nobody’s looking at me.”

He stiffens, just a bit.

“Can you— value yourself more?”

A pause. Then, awkwardly; “A glimpse of those pink—”

“What pink?” I narrow my eyes.

He coughs. “Whatever. Just change in the restroom.”

“-Too much hassle.”

Wakatoshi lets out a long-suffering sigh. “I pray Ren doesn’t inherit this stubborn streak.”

“Oh, we’ll see to that.”

With a groan, he scoops Ren into one arm and steers me behind a stall wall, where it’s quieter and less crowded.

Then he steps in—close. Barely a breath between us.

“Okay,” he says, voice low. “Do it fast.”

This is him compromising. Meeting me where I stand. I’ll take it.

I yank off the black shirt, swapping it for the white one in one quick motion. In the middle of it, I can feel his eyes on me—like sunbeams on bare skin.

“It’s rude to stare.”

“I thought you didn’t mind?”

“Ugh, yeah, I get it. Loud and clear.”

“Good.”

I tug the hem down, stretch my arms up in a banzai pose.

“Daddy’s all done! How do I look?”

Ren claps like I just performed a magic trick.
Then Wakatoshi leans in, whispering something in his ear.

“Daddy’s buwiful!” Ren shouts, beaming, thumb in the air.

Naturally, I roll my eyes.

____

“Hinata.”

“Hinata. Wake up. We’re here.”

I fell asleep?
Since when?

All I remember is stepping into this nice vehicle, breathing in the cool air, and then…

Yup.
I fell asleep.

“Come on,” Wakatoshi says.
Ren is already in his arms.
“Let’s have a light lunch before the cable car.”

“Cable car? I thought we were going to the Selarón Steps first?”

“Both of you were sleeping soundly. I didn’t want to wake you.
So I asked the driver to head for the cable car instead.
We can go to the Steps after dinner, if you want.”

“Nah. It’s okay. I’m fine with this.”

“You sure? We can go another time.”

“Yeah, sure.”

“Come on, Ren. Let’s feed that monster in you.”

The mini Waka and the big Waka walk off hand in hand, leaving me behind.

Look at that…
They even mirror each other when they walk.

We eat at a small café tucked beneath a row of sun-bleached awnings, just outside the cable car station. The breeze carries the faint scent of salt and grilled garlic. We’re nearer the sea than the sky. Not Corcovado. Just the coast.

Wakatoshi has pão de queijo—warm cheese bread. Crisp on the outside. Steamy in the middle. We share a salad topped with hearts of palm, slivers of mango, and crushed cashews. Colors like a parade on a plate.

Ren picks at rice and feijão, spooning black beans into his mouth with intense concentration. The beans don’t stand a chance.

I get a glass of fresh guava juice. Cold. Sweet. It wakes my tongue. Wakatoshi orders lime soda—and winces.

That’s when I laugh. Big and full because I can’t help it. He tries to play it cool, but his face betrays everything.

We trade drinks.

He can’t do sour.

I can drink anything.

And after a scoop of lime sorbet, Ren is back on track.
Fully recharged.
Maybe a little too recharged.

He darts from one side of the terrace to the other,
narrating the path of imaginary cable cars with wild hand gestures.
A tiny conductor.
Hands slicing air. Voice climbing invisible rails.

But hey—who am I to complain?

We’re in the middle of the excitement.

The day has far yet to end.

I’ll admit it, his energy?
It’s catching.

 We ride the cable car to the top of Sugarloaf.
Wakatoshi takes tons of photos — most of them of Ren.

Ren’s excited face riding the cable car.
Ren, among the crowd.
Ren, drinking orange juice from a tall glass, scrunching up as the sourness hits his lips.
Ren, squinting suspiciously at the salad.
Ren’s cheeks puffed like a chipmunk as he chewed cheese.
Ren on my shoulders, arms flapping like wings.
Ren, being kissed by me.
Me and Ren, laughing, clutching our stomachs.

And later—
When the sun isn’t so angry anymore,
When it bleeds orange across the ocean, and I stay still, wrapped in this dreamy view where sea meets sky—
He calls me.

“Hinata.”

I turn.

Ren is perched in the carrier on Wakatoshi’s shoulders, grinning. "Daddy, cheese,”
My little man says, holding out a crumb with proud, sticky fingers.

I don’t say the word.
My mouth just hangs open.

Wakatoshi doesn’t say a word either.
He just lifts the camera.

All I hear are soft clicks.
Again. And again.

“Lovely,” he says afterward, almost to himself.

‘Lovely’ seems to be his favorite word today.
And I’m too stunned to complain.

Then he raises the camera once more.
Pulls me in.
Wraps an arm around me so the three of us fit into the tiny screen.

We all look up.

“Smile, Hinata,” he says, tugging me closer.
Cheek to cheek.

Our little gremlin up top, grinning. Hands spread like he’s riding the wind.

Small smile to big smile.
That’s my gift to him today.

Behind us, the Copacabana shore glows yellow in the mellow sun, the forested curve of the mountain rising gently in the background.

Ren tries to make a peace sign—ends up holding his thumb and index finger instead.
Both raised like mismatched antennae.

“That’s an ‘L’,” Wakatoshi says, deadpan. “You should know what ‘L’ means, young man.”

But the young man in question just grins, ignoring everything.

It cracks me up.
I laugh—loud and full.

Wakatoshi, of course, doesn’t waste the moment.
The clicking sounds are relentless.

I don’t complain.
I let the moment stand as it is.

It’s Ren’s special day.

And let it be so.

And now, we’re at a restaurant, perched on the rooftop of a hotel in Copacabana, facing the stretch of sparkling white beach.

The place has a casual, unhurried charm. Jazz music softly in the background, notes curling through the open air.

A secret:
I never liked jazz.
Or—more accurate—I never noticed it.
Jazz wasn’t on any of my playlists.

Not until Brazil.

The more I hear it, the more I like it.
Like it’s been growing roots in me, note by note.

I wonder why people played jazz in restaurants. Not that I frequent such a place.

Back in Chiba, it was izakayas.

Chinese joints.

Sometimes small clubs with empty dance floors.

No one played jazz in those places. It’s not exactly the kind of music you want to shake to, let loose, or cry to.

We step into the place.

There’s a roasting table near the center, the scent of grilled meat and charred vegetables drifting lazily toward us. A polished bar glows under low amber lights. Around us, families laugh over plates of food, couples sip wine, and clusters of tourists study menus in a dozen different languages.

A server leads us to a table outside, on the terrace.

The floor is made of warm wooden planks, slightly weathered by sun and sea air. A single pergola stands in the corner, its beams draped in flowering vines. Planter boxes filled with jasmine, bougainvillea, and pale yellow lantana line the railing, their blooms spilling gently over the edge. A few hibiscus peek through — bold and coral-red, catching the last of the light. The terrace is softly lit with lampposts, but the most eye-catching—even to Ren—are the strands of tiny LED lights, dangling overhead in yellow shimmer, brightening the space like something out of a fairy tale garden.

I can’t say it.

I must say it.

I can’t say it.

Dang.

“It’s beautiful…” I whisper to myself.

“It is,” Wakatoshi replies, his hand warm on my back, gently nudging me toward the place we’re meant to sit.

The tables are shaded by large parasols, though they’re all folded down now, letting the indigo sky and golden light pour over everything.

We sit together in its glow—Wakatoshi across from me, Ren in a baby chair between us— under that honeyed dusk—a cool, salty breeze brushing against our faces.

The scent of jasmine drifts lazily around us, sweet and clean, like the beginning of a lullaby.

From here, I can hear the waves flapping softly below, the rise and fall of conversations, the distant sound of the city winding down.

We sit, legs stretched out, sipping from tall glasses of cold water.

Then a server approaches, leaning in politely. “Shall I serve the first course now?” he asks.

I blink, surprised.

I glance at Wakatoshi.
Then at the server.
Then back again.

And honestly?
I’m impressed.

How much more prepared could this man be?

All it took was a nod.
One nod from Wakatoshi, and the server was off—no questions asked.

Then, catching the look on my face, Wakatoshi says,
“Sorry, Hinata. I didn’t ask what you’d like to have. I just figured it’d be faster this way. You know, since it’s close to his bedtime.”
He tips his head toward Ren.

“No, no. It’s totally fine. I eat everything,” I say, waving it off.

Wakatoshi flashes that perfect, slightly sheepish smile— all clean lines and symmetrical teeth. “That’s a relief.”

Within five minutes, the first course arrives.
(The server said it’s a five-course dinner.)

Heck if I know what that means.
I usually stick to two: Main course—rice or noodles—plus tea.

But here we go.

Dishes come and go.
I finish them every time they bare themselves before my hungry eyes.

And the steak?

It’s unlike any meat I’ve devoured before.

“God, Wakatoshi. You did a good job with this one.”
I give him a big thumbs-up.

“Glad you like it.”

“Like it?” I keep munching, sip some water. “I love it. The meat is so tender—when you bite it, the juice just rushes out. For a second, I forgot I was even eating meat.”

“—It’s wagyu.”

“Wagyu?”
I push another chunk into my mouth, chewing with total devotion.

I set the knife and fork down. “I didn’t know it tasted this good.”

“You’ve never had it? It’s from Japan,” Wakatoshi says, calm as ever.

“Wagyu?” I laugh a little. “Yeah, no. We didn’t do wagyu. Too pricey. It was like... a myth. Just a name you saw in magazines, sort of.”
I pop another piece into my mouth. “Turns out, the myth tastes amazing.”

“Eat as much as you want. You want a second?”
He raises his hand to call the server.

“No!” I cut in. “Put that hand down.”

“But I thought you liked it. I want to spoil you, Hinata. Eat a lot.”

“And get fat? No thanks.”
Dammit. My cheeks burn.

“You… another piece of meat won’t change anything.”

“Wakatoshi-kunnn…” I draw out his name, giving him slanted cat eyes.  “I said no. But—thank you for the offer.”

“O... oh. Okay. Enjoy your food, then.”

Thank god that tone shut him up.

Who on earth gets seconds at a place like this?

I look to my side. My kid is behaving nicely.

Ren has a mini plate of soft rice, shredded chicken, and mashed pumpkin, which he inspects with the solemn focus of a judge before poking it with his spoon.

We eat.
We drink.
Cold lime sodas and fresh tropical juice.

Food I’ve only seen on cooking channels or in magazines comes in gentle waves.

The taste?
Heavenly.

That big oaf did a good job with this one.

My eyes drift to said oaf—he’s quietly cutting carrots for Ren.

I think I know it now.

Jazz…

It fills the space without crowding it.
Like chocolate sauce on ice cream.
Miso with rice.
A soft-boiled egg in ramen.
Like good light. Or good silence.

You don’t notice it at first—but if it disappeared, you’d feel the gap.

Will I feel the gap when tomorrow comes?

When the table is cleared, I see Wakatoshi exchange a glance with the server — the same man who led us to the terrace. It is brief, practiced, and almost imperceptible. The server nods and disappears through the far door.