It was almost a ritual by now.

Practice would end just after sunset, and occasionally—somewhere along the walk home, Ushijima would fall into step beside you. Silent, steady, his presence grounding like gravity itself.

Neither of you spoke much on these walks, letting the air to speak for two of you—not because there was nothing to say, rather because the quiet felt enough. Just the sound of his breath, the warmth of his arm brushing against yours, the soft shuffle of his sneakers.

It was a shared stillness you both understood.

But today, you haven’t made it. Work, errands, exhaustion—too much had built up that even you forgot to text him that you wouldn’t be there.

And part of you wondered if he even minded. Ushijima wasn’t the type to let routine shift his world no matter the occasion, nor was he one to need someone waiting for him on the sidelines. He stood unwavering, no matter the noise—no matter the silence.

Still, when he entered the apartment that evening, something was just…off. He didn’t say much. Just toed off his shoes, placed his bag down neatly, and gave you a soft glance.

There was a heaviness to his shoulders, the kind that didn’t come from playing hard but from carrying himself through hours of drills and stretches with no one to meet his gaze afterwards.

“You should shower,” you said gently from the couch. “You look…tired.”

He blinked at you for a second. Then nodded. “Alright.”

Simple, low, steady. The same voice that could command an entire court with a single word.

You didn’t think much of it then. You let him disappear down the hall, the door clicking softly behind him. You sat still for a few minutes, staring down at the blanket twisted in your lap—wondering if maybe you should have greeted him better, if your words could have been more softer, more affectionate.

Ushijima wasn’t the kind to expect affection. But he noticed when it was missing.

And when he emerged again, hair still damp, towel slung loosely around his neck—you finally saw it. The way his movements were slower than usual, the way his hand kept rubbing at the base of his neck, as if trying to ease out a knot that just couldn’t let go.

“Wakatoshi,” you murmured. “Come, sit.”

He did. No questions asked, no protests fell from his lips.

He just sat down on the floor between your knees, as you scooted forward on the couch; hands hesitating before they touched his shoulders. The muscles beneath his shirt were rock-hard, tense as steel. You started to knead, slow and careful, feeling the taut strain in every inch of him.

“You’re sore,” you whispered quietly, fingertips working up towards his neck.

He gave you the tiniest nod. “I didn’t stretch enough after weights.”

“You should have said something…”

“I didn’t want to bother you.”

The silence came again— but this time, it was thoughtful. His breath had slowed down beneath your touch, head tipping slightly forward, allowing you to press your palms deeper into the dip of his back, the slope of his shoulder blades.

There was something unspoken in the way he leaned into your touch, the smallest surrender from a man who never faltered on court.

The weight he carried for everyone else slipped, piece by piece, into your hands—as though you were the only one he trusted to hold it without dropping him.

You leaned down a little, whispering close to his ear. “Sorry I couldn’t come today.”

“You don’t need to apologise.” His voice was low, almost sleepy. “Just being here now…it helps.”

And you knew he meant it.

For someone like Ushijima, who rarely ever asked and rarely ever confessed, those words were the closest he came to saying “I missed you”.

You smiled, letting your thumbs glide down the length of his spine.

Maybe he wouldn’t say that he missed you. Maybe he didn’t know how.

But this quiet moment—your hands on him, your presence constant and gentle—was his way of saying it anyway.