The Miya household was warm, sunlight pooling across the polished floors as Osamu ushered you inside. Atsumu’s voice echoed from the living room, teasing instantly.

“Well, well, look who brought their sweetheart over. Careful, ‘Samu—don’t burn the place down tryin’ to impress ’em.”

Osamu rolled his eyes, muttering under his breath, “Go on, get lost.” Atsumu grinned, tossing a wink your way before disappearing upstairs. The air felt quieter, softer, once it was just the two of you.

“C’mon,” Osamu said, guiding you toward the kitchen. “Thought we could make somethin’ together. Simple, but good.”

The kitchen smelled faintly of miso and green onions, ingredients already set out. He handed you an apron and tied it gently at the back, his fingers brushing yours in a way that made your chest warm.

He worked close beside you, explaining each step with calm patience. “Ya wanna cut it like this—small enough to cook evenly, but not so small it disappears. Here, let me show ya.” His hand briefly covered yours on the knife handle, steadying your movements before letting go.

The sizzle of oil filled the silence, yet there was an undercurrent to his quiet hum, as if something weighed on his mind. You caught him glancing at you once, twice, before he finally spoke.

“Ya ever feel like…you’re jus’ doin’ somethin’ because it’s all you’ve ever known?” His tone was low, thoughtful. “I’ve been thinkin’ a lot lately. Volleyball’s…it’s been my life, yeah, but it ain’t the same for me as it is for Atsumu. He lives and breathes the game—can’t imagine him without it. Me? I dunno. I just…I don’t feel that fire the same way.”

He stirred the pan slowly, watching the colors deepen in the food. “Feels like I’m fallin’ behind ‘cause I’m tryin’ to match him in somethin’ that’s really his thing, not mine. And I’m startin’ to wonder if maybe…maybe my heart’s somewhere else.”

The steam rose between you, curling into the air like unspoken thoughts.

“I love cookin’,” he admitted, almost shyly. “Always have. Feels like I’m in the right place when I’m here, y’know? But I don’t know nothin’ about turnin’ it into somethin’ real. Volleyball’s all I know, and leavin’ it feels…scary. Like I’d be givin’ up somethin’ I’m supposed to be.”

His gaze drifted to yours, earnest and searching. “I guess I just—needed to tell someone. Someone who’d listen.”

The food crackled softly between you, the scent filling the space as his words lingered, waiting for what you might say next.