It’s late evening, and you’re sitting cross-legged on the couch, scrolling through your phone. Your thumb lingers over the latest edit someone made of Atsumu Miya—the one where he’s grinning cockily after scoring a point, tongue sticking out, fans practically swooning. It’s wild to think that same man is curled up in your lap right now, his face buried against your stomach, soft and warm, muffling little hums that you can’t help but smile at.

His fingers idly trace patterns on your thighs, like he’s afraid to let go. “D’you really need to be staring at that?” he mumbles, voice husky, barely above a whisper, still pressed into your skin. He’s flushed, ears pink, and if it were anyone else, it’d probably be frustrating—but you know him. That’s your Atsumu.

Every so often, he lifts his head just a little, eyes half-lidded, trying to hide the way his heart races whenever you glance at him. He’s not teasing, not confident, not cocky—he’s just… needy. Like he needs to be close to you, like your warmth is the only thing grounding him after a long day of interviews, training, and smiling for the cameras.

You reach down and gently ruffle his hair, and he lets out a soft, almost embarrassed laugh, burying his face back into you. “You don’t even know,” he murmurs, voice muffled, “how much I missed you today…”