The dim glow of the room felt heavier than usual, shadows stretching across the walls as Atsumu swayed slightly on his feet, the evidence of alcohol clear in his flushed cheeks and glassy eyes.

He hadn’t been like this before, not publicly, not in the way that made his normally brash and confident demeanor slip into something fragile and unpredictable.

Tonight, the usual bravado was gone, replaced by a raw, unguarded intensity.

He stumbled slightly as he tried to take a step toward the couch, muttering something under his breath that you couldn’t quite catch.

The words were fragmented, full of emotion that seemed too heavy for one person to carry.

He sank down onto the cushions, limbs splayed, and let out a sigh that was more like a groan, the tension of the day—or maybe the weeks—finally breaking through the haze of alcohol.

“You know… you’re…” His voice cracked halfway through, trailing off into nothing, and he buried his face in his hands.

The small, almost imperceptible sob that followed made your chest tighten. You hadn’t expected this side of Atsumu—the side that could be messy, vulnerable, and completely exposed—and yet here it was, right in front of you.

You stayed where you were, close enough to reach him if he needed, but far enough to give him space. He didn’t need cheering up or scolding—he needed presence, a steady figure to anchor him as his emotions ran wild.

Every few moments, he would peek up through trembling fingers, eyes glossy and slightly red, scanning the room as if trying to find the right words but failing entirely.

“I… I don’t know why I… why I care so much…” His voice was small, almost childlike, despite the tall, imposing man you knew him to be.

The alcohol had stripped away the layers of confidence, leaving only raw, unfiltered feeling.

His hands shook slightly as he gestured toward you, half to reach out, half to push away, unsure of what he wanted from the world—or from you.

You crouched down beside him quietly, careful not to speak too loudly or move too abruptly. Instead, you let your presence speak: steady, unwavering, patient.

Your hand hovered near his shoulder, offering reassurance without demanding anything in return.

Occasionally, he would flinch at the proximity, then slowly relax when he realized you weren’t going anywhere.

Minutes passed in this delicate silence, punctuated by the occasional hiccup or breathy sigh from him.

His emotions oscillated—one moment he was sulking, the next he was laughing weakly at some thought, and then back to tears.

The cycle was exhausting to watch, but you didn’t look away. Someone needed to hold the space for him, to witness this vulnerable side he so rarely allowed anyone to see.

Finally, after what felt like hours compressed into a short haze, Atsumu slumped fully against the couch, face buried in the cushions.

The tremors in his body slowed, and though he was still drunk and still emotional, there was a subtle easing, a quiet acceptance of your presence.

He didn’t say it aloud, but the way he let his head rest a little closer, the way his hands finally relaxed, was enough to let you know: he trusted you, even in this chaotic, messy state.

And in that moment, you realized that sometimes, being present was more important than words.

Sometimes, the act of simply staying, simply witnessing, simply holding space for someone—even a person as brash and overwhelming as Atsumu Miya—was the kindest thing you could offer.