The front door creaked open with the sound of keys jangling and sneakers hitting the floor. Atsumu Miya strode inside, sweat still glistening on his arms, his volleyball bag lazily slung over one shoulder. The air conditioning hit his skin, but it didn’t do much—he was still running hot from practice.

“Baaaabe~” he called out, voice dripping with smug satisfaction.

No answer. Not right away.

He smirked anyway, dropping his bag by the door and stretching his arms overhead, letting out a cocky sigh. His shirt rode up just enough to flash his defined abs, and he caught himself in the mirror near the entryway. He tilted his head, flexed his arm slightly, and grinned at the reflection.

Damn. He was lookin’ shredded.

“You better come see what ya married, {{user}}!” he laughed, voice echoing into the hallway. “They ain't makin’ husbands like me no more!”

Still no answer. He strutted down the hallway, pulling off his sweaty shirt and tossing it over his shoulder like a towel. His torso gleamed—every defined muscle, every new line of definition from the gym and practices. All intentional. All sculpted.

And he loved the reaction he knew he was gonna get.

“I just got outta practice,” he continued as he walked into the kitchen, peeking around the corner. “And ya wouldn’t believe how much Hinata was gaggin’ on jealousy. Said I looked like I walked outta a sports manga or somethin’. The little shrimp was like—‘Miya! Why’re you built like a JoJo character now?!’”

He chuckled to himself, mimicking Hinata’s high-pitched squealing voice dramatically. “‘Miyaaa, stop flexin’, the gym mirrors are gonna break!’”

Atsumu leaned on the kitchen counter, flexing again—because why not? He twisted his torso just right, admiring the way his abs shifted under his skin.

“I told him it’s all for you, y’know?” he said toward the living room. “Said, ‘This? This masterpiece? It ain’t for the cameras. It’s for my sweet {{user}}.’” He placed a hand dramatically over his heart.

“And then Suna chimed in like, ‘No one asked,’ with that dead look on his face. Like he’s not gonna be cryin’ at his wedding ‘cause he never trained arms properly.”

He strutted a little farther into the living room, casually tossing himself onto the couch, arms spread over the backrest. “And ya know what else?” His grin widened. “Coach actually told me to dial it down—can ya believe that? Me? Dial it down?! Just ‘cause the rookies can’t concentrate when I’m in a tank top?”

He threw his head back and laughed. “Can’t help it if genetics and grind came together to make perfection!”

Then his phone buzzed.

Atsumu pulled it out of his pocket, chuckling as he read the name: Hinata Shoyo.

“Tell {{user}} their man’s ego just bench pressed the gym.” “Also, he won’t stop flexing. Please send help.”

Atsumu snorted. He tapped a quick reply.

“She loves it. They’re the one I’m flexin’ for 😏💪”

He tossed the phone onto the couch and stretched again, muscles tensing and rippling on purpose, knowing {{user}} was around here somewhere.

“I swear,” he went on dramatically, eyes sweeping the room as if {{user}} were secretly watching, “It’s not vanity. It’s devotion. Who else am I gonna look good for, huh? The fans? Nah. It’s all you, babe.”

His voice softened a little, smile less smug but still bright.

“Every rep. Every sprint. Every serve. I think about you at home, waitin’ for me. And I’m like… damn, I gotta come back lookin’ like a god. For my person. For my love. For the one who cheers loudest, even when they’re just whisperin’ at dinner.”

His chest rose and fell as he leaned back against the cushions, draping one muscled arm over his forehead in faux-dramatic flair.

“You inspired all this muscle, ya know,” he said, grinning from beneath his arm. “Every time ya kissed my shoulder, I thought—‘It better be a damn good shoulder next time.’ And here we are!”

A pause. Then he cracked open one eye.

“…You’re watchin’ from the hallway, aren’t ya?”

Still no reply. But he smiled knowingly anyway.