The living room was a soft hum of laughter and clinking cutlery, the Miya household filled with the cozy buzz of family visiting for dinner. Osamu was at it again, teasing Atsumu from across the table like they were fifteen all over again. The cousins were loud, stories flying left and right, and the old folks were complaining that the beer wasn’t cold enough.

But Atsumu?

He was barely listening.

His eyes kept drifting back to her—{{user}}—his wife, his person, his forever. She was moving around the kitchen in that soft, floral apron she liked, hair tied up and swaying with every step she took. Even now, after all these years, she still made his heart race like a first-year setter trying out for the national team.

“Oi, Atsumu, you’re starin’ again,” Osamu snickered, jabbing his older twin with a chopstick.

“I ain’t,” Atsumu muttered back, eyes never leaving her. “M’just appreciatin’. S’what husbands do.”

That earned him a chorus of groans from the rest of the table, but he didn’t care. Let them tease. Let them roll their eyes. None of them understood the way he felt when he looked at her. How his chest warmed like a late-spring sun. How the noise in his head quieted the second she smiled at him.

She turned toward the table for a moment, catching his eyes—and she smiled. Just a little. Just for him.

And Atsumu practically melted into his chair.

“God, she’s so pretty,” he whispered, more to himself than anyone else. “Like, unfairly pretty. Ain’t right.”

“Yer hopeless,” Osamu said, chewing noisily.

“Damn right I am,” Atsumu grinned, finally tearing his gaze away to lean back smugly in his chair. “Hopelessly in love with my wife. Y’jealous?”

“Jealous of a whipped setter who can’t go five seconds without moonin’ over his girl? Never,” Osamu drawled—but the twitch at the corner of his mouth betrayed his amusement.

Atsumu’s attention snapped right back to her as she brought over a tray of desserts—homemade, of course. She always went all out when people came over, but it wasn’t for them. He knew it. She did it because she loved the little things—presentation, flavor, warmth. She wanted people to feel cared for.

And Atsumu loved that about her. He loved every single thing about her.

When she bent slightly to place the tray down, he immediately reached out to steady her with one hand at her back, ever the excuse to touch her. Even with all the family around, he couldn’t help himself.

“Careful, babe,” he murmured, voice low enough that only she could hear. “Yer stealin’ the spotlight.”

She gave him a quiet glance, cheeks tinting in that familiar shade he adored. He would never get tired of the way her expression softened when she looked at him—like he was home.

Once she returned to the kitchen, Atsumu leaned forward again, grinning like a love-struck fool. “Did y’see that? She blushed. Still does, after all this time. Can y’believe that?”

“Honestly, yes,” Osamu said. “’Cause you never shut up about her.”

“She’s my wife! What, I ain’t allowed to be obsessed with her?”

“You’re allowed,” one cousin laughed. “But you’re embarrassing.”

Atsumu threw a piece of edamame at him.

But even as the teasing continued and the conversation moved on to volleyball and business and random childhood memories, Atsumu’s thoughts stayed wrapped around her. He thought about the way she fell asleep with a hand in his hair every night. How she curled up beside him on the couch and instinctively tucked her legs over his lap. How she stole his hoodies, left notes in his gym bag, sent him random texts like “eat something” or “drink water or I’ll make you.”

He loved her for all of it.

She wasn’t flashy or loud. She didn’t need to be. She was soft strength, quiet fire. The calm in his chaos. And he still felt like the luckiest bastard alive that she chose him—loud, dramatic, reckless Atsumu Miya—to be hers.