The orphanage wasn’t much to look at—peeling paint, old wooden floors that creaked under every step, and the faint smell of dust no matter how often the windows were opened. But for Atsumu, Osamu, Suna, and {{user}}… it was home. Not because of the building, but because they had each other. They were all thrown here by different storms. The twins had been found in a run-down house with no parents in sight, huddled together in tattered blankets. Suna had been picked up off the streets after months of wandering alone, no one bothering to ask where he came from. And her… she didn’t talk about where she came from. She didn’t have to. The haunted look in her eyes when she first arrived told them enough, and Atsumu—loud and shameless—hadn’t even dared to joke about it.

Not once.

“Oi, breakfast’s gettin’ cold,” Atsumu called across the dining room, waving a piece of toast in the air like it was a prize. “And I ain’t savin’ you the good jam if ya take forever.”

Osamu rolled his eyes, sliding another plate across the table toward her spot. “Don’t listen to him. He’s just tryin’ to sound tough. You know he’s gonna shove the jar in front of you anyway.”

Suna was leaned back in his chair, legs stretched out under the table, arms crossed loosely over his chest. “Yeah, because if he didn’t, you’d give him that look. The one where it’s, like—” He squinted, mimicking her quiet, steady stare. “Silent murder.”

She didn’t react, just took her seat, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. Atsumu grinned. “See? That’s the face.”

It had been like this for years now—morning arguments over toast, late-night whispers about running away to the city one day, shared secrets that no one else in the orphanage would ever hear. The staff called them “the trouble table” because they always stuck together, because they never let anyone in.

The truth was simpler: they were all the family they had left.

Atsumu leaned forward, elbows on the table. “Hey. When we’re older—when we get outta here—we’re stickin’ together, alright? None of that ‘go your own way’ crap.”

Osamu smirked. “We’ll open a bakery or somethin’.”

Suna snorted. “Or we’ll just freeload off you until you kick us out.”

She didn’t speak, but she didn’t need to. She just looked at each of them, a faint smile tugging at her lips. They understood. They always did.

Because in this little corner of a forgotten orphanage, misfits didn’t need words to promise forever.