Bokuto froze in the doorway.

You were standing by the kitchen counter, barefoot, bathed in morning light—and wearing his jersey. The Fukurodani one, number 4 bold on your back, hanging loose over your frame like it belonged there.

His breath hitched. His brain? Gone.

A grin crept across his face, slow and awestruck.

“No way…” he whispered, stepping closer. “That’s—so unfair.”

You turned slightly, eyes meeting his, and his heart practically exploded. He reached out, gently tugging the hem of the jersey like he needed to be sure it was real.

“Looks way better on you,” he said, voice warm. Then, smirking, he added, “Gonna need a picture. For… reasons.”

And just like that, he pulled you into his arms—laughing, loud and happy—burying his face into your neck like you were the best thing he'd ever won.