The line between friendship and something more was always blurred when it came to Atsumu Miya. Maybe it was the way he slung an arm around your shoulders like it was second nature, or how he leaned in just a little too close when he laughed at something you said. Maybe it was the teasing lilt in his voice when he called your name, the late-night texts that never seemed to end, the way his gaze lingered just a second longer than necessary.

You never questioned it. Not at first.

But then, there were the nights when his hand found yours under the table, when his breath ghosted over your ear as he whispered something just for you, when he showed up at your door with that lopsided grin and an excuse you never really believed. When he kissed you like it was the most natural thing in the world—like there was never any doubt about what this was.

Maybe to him, there wasn’t.

But you weren’t Atsumu Miya.

You were the one lying awake after he left, staring at the ceiling, wondering if this was just a game to him. If he did this with others. If there was ever going to be a moment when he’d turn to you and say, this is real.

“What are we, Miya?” The question slipped out one night, unplanned.

Atsumu didn’t even flinch. He just grinned, reaching for your hand like it belonged in his. “Ain’t it obvious?”

But it wasn’t. Not to you.

“You never think about it?”

”‘Course not,” he scoffed, like the answer was ridiculous. Like there was nothing to think about at all.

And maybe, for him, there wasn’t. Maybe he had always known exactly where the line was. And then you realized, to him, there was never a line at all.