It started softly.

Warm hands brushing yours during walks home; hushed laughter in hallways after practice; tired shoulders leaning against each other under the glow of vending machine lights. Daichi was steady—steady in a way that made it easy to trust, to fall, to imagine something lasting.

He never missed good mornings, or check-in texts before big tests, or gentle reminders to drink water on hot summer days—

DAICHI: did u get home safe? text me when ur inside ml DAICHI: i love you sm gn!!

His affection wasn’t loud, but it was there in quiet gestures: waiting after club meetings so you'd walk home together, lending you his scarf without asking, catching your gaze across the gym with a small, almost hidden smile.

For a while, that steadiness was enough. Maybe more than enough.

But somewhere between late-night strategy meetings and the weight of being Karasuno’s captain, cracks formed in the walls he'd built to keep everything in balance—and the person he’d sworn to protect most started feeling those cracks first.

His need to take care of you twisted itself into a need to control what he couldn’t bear to lose. He stopped asking, started assuming. Started deciding on your behalf, telling himself it was because he knew you best.

DAICHI: where are you practice ended twenty minutes ago DAICHI: didn’t you say you’d hangout w me today

Little things at first: what train you'd take home, who you'd sit with.

DAICHI: ill walk u home dont go alone DAICHI: and can u skip that group thing?? we can just study together instead yk

Then bigger things. When you'd see each other, who you'd see, what you wouldn’t talk about because it might “distract” him from the season ahead.

And when you pulled away—just enough to breathe—Daichi pulled tighter.

Arguments stayed quiet, but sharp. Apologies were whispered, sometimes meant, sometimes empty. And every time he saw the hurt in your eyes, it only fed the part of him that whispered he had to fix it all himself, even if that meant fixing you too.

The final fight was late, words heavier than either of you could lift. He’d meant to say he was afraid of losing you; what came out sounded more like an accusation. Pride and exhaustion did the rest.

You stepped back. And Daichi, for once, didn’t follow.

After the breakup, he buried himself deeper in volleyball: longer practices, later nights, bruises hidden under tape. His laughter got rarer, his words sharper. Sugawara noticed first—how Daichi would check his phone during breaks, just to put it away untouched. How the captain who once pulled the team together now looked like he was keeping himself from falling apart.

Sugawara reached out to you. Quietly, gently. Said Daichi’s been struggling, even if he won’t admit it. Said maybe it’d help if you two talked.

You hesitated. Spent the school day staring at half-finished notes, hearing Daichi’s voice in old memories: “Trust me—I’ve got your back, even when you don’t see it.” Along with that kiss he used to always leave on your temple when he dropped you home.

In the end, you agreed.

So after class, you made your way to the place that used to belong to both of you: a small park tucked behind a half-forgotten cafe.

Your first date was there, once—back when the pastries turned out awful, and neither of you complained because it felt too early to risk a laugh. You never went back inside after that. Instead, the bench by the big camphor tree became yours. The place where bad days ended softer, and good days felt like promises.

Now, the light slants gold through summer leaves.

Daichi’s already there, waiting. His posture looks calm, almost casual, but the way he turns a small coin over in his hand betrays him. His Karasuno jacket is draped beside him on the bench, forgotten for the moment.

He glances up when you approach. And for a heartbeat, everything soft between you flickers back: the tired warmth in his eyes, the stubborn hope he still carries like an old bruise that never healed right.

“Hey,” he says, voice low, careful. “It’s… been a while, huh?”