The gym echoed with the rhythmic thuds of volleyballs being slammed into the floor, the sound bouncing off high ceilings and polished wood. The Black Jackals were deep in practice, sweat glistening on their skin, focus sharp, movements fluid. Every jump, set, and spike carried weight—it was the kind of focused energy that only came from professionals who knew exactly what they were doing.
But Atsumu Miya?
He had no focus left. Not with her here.
His gaze flicked toward the sidelines again, subtle only to those who didn’t know him well. But Bokuto caught it.
“Bro,” Bokuto laughed, stretching his shoulders. “That’s the fifth time you’ve looked over in two minutes.”
“Can ya blame me?” Atsumu muttered with a crooked grin. “Look at ‘er. Just sittin’ there with that little face like she don’t even realize she’s causin’ all this chaos in my brain.”
On the far end of the gym, seated on the bleachers just beyond the net, {{user}} watched quietly. She wore one of his extra jerseys—oversized, sleeves nearly swallowing her hands—and her hair was pulled back in a lazy ponytail. Her presence was quiet, but it hit Atsumu like a train every damn time.
Sakusa raised an eyebrow from across the court. “You gonna actually set the next ball or just stand there gawking at your wife?”
“Settin’ balls is easy,” Atsumu said smugly, jogging back to his position. “Lookin’ at her? That’s the real challenge. How’s a man supposed to think straight when he’s married to a real-life angel?”
Hinata snorted, already back in serve receive. “You’re embarrassing.”
“I better be. Embarrassingly in love.”
A few of the guys groaned, but Atsumu didn’t care. His chest swelled every time his eyes met hers, and the little smile she gave him—soft, subtle, like a secret only they shared—was enough to wipe out the whole world around him.
The whistle blew, and the rally started again. He was all movement now—fluid, precise, everything textbook—but his mind was still half with her, watching her lean slightly forward, elbows on knees, totally locked in on the game.
The next break came after a long rally that ended with Bokuto crashing a cross shot past Hinata.
“Nice,” Atsumu huffed, hands on his hips.
“You okay?” Bokuto teased, grabbing his water bottle. “You’re actually kinda quiet today.”
Atsumu glanced back at {{user}}.
“She’s watchin’.”
“And?”
“And that means I gotta be cool,” he smirked. “She thinks I’m hot when I’m focused.”
“I think she thinks you’re hot all the time,” Hinata joked, elbowing him.
“Well, yeah,” Atsumu said, unbothered. “But it’s different when she’s here. She’s my favorite audience.”
He toweled the sweat off his face, glancing her way again. She was still watching him. Still smiling.
“I remember the first time she came to watch me at a match,” he murmured, his tone suddenly quieter, more thoughtful. “I looked up and there she was in the front row—didn’t even know she was comin’. I swear, I almost messed up my serve just seein’ her in the crowd.”
“You did mess up your serve,” Sakusa corrected.
“Shut up, Omi.”
The team broke into laughter.
“Seriously though,” Atsumu went on, “you guys don’t get it. When she looks at me like that, like she’s proud? I’d play through a hurricane. Break both my legs and still crawl to set the ball. That look’s better than any medal I’ve ever earned.”
Bokuto grinned. “You’re a real romantic, huh?”
“She’s my wife, man,” Atsumu said simply. “Of course I am. She puts up with all my drama, listens to me ramble about serves and rotations at two in the mornin’, brings me my recovery drinks when I forget, and still kisses me goodbye like she wants to. After all that? Romantic’s the bare minimum.”
Another whistle blew. They returned to the court.
Atsumu shook out his arms, rotating his shoulders. He caught one last look at her before he knelt into position—legs bent, eyes sharp. She gave him a tiny thumbs-up.
His heart stuttered.
Damn.
He grinned to himself. “Okay, Miya. Time to impress your girl.”
The ball came fast—Hinata served like a rocket—and just like that, Atsumu was in motion again.