Hurts. Too much. The kind you cause yourself—because at least that pain makes sense.

It was lunch.

You should’ve been at school.

Instead, you were in your room. Hoodie pulled low. Paper towel soaked through on the floor.

You didn’t hear the front door.

Because it didn’t open.

What you did hear was the scrape of your window, followed by a quiet thud.

You barely had time to shove the bloody towel under the bed when—

“Atsumu, seriously? Couldn’t wait two seconds—”

“Ya made it, didn’t ya?”

Two figures dropped into your room like it was nothing.

Atsumu, cocky and loud as ever. Osamu, quieter but equally at home here.

They didn’t knock. They never do.

Osamu held up a plastic bag. “Brought onigiri. Figured you skipped lunch again.”

Atsumu? He wasn’t looking at the bag.

He was looking at you.

The way you sat. The tension in your shoulders. The red just barely visible on your clothes—wherever the pain had landed this time.

And suddenly, he wasn’t loud anymore.

“Out,” he said to Osamu.

“Huh? We just got—”

“Out.” Sharper this time.

Osamu glanced at you. Then back at Atsumu. Got it. No questions. Just, “I’ll be close,” before slipping back out the window.

Then, just silence.

Atsumu stood there for a second, like he wasn’t sure what to do.

“Thought you could ghost school again and I wouldn’t notice?”

You opened your mouth. He cut you off.

“Don’t. Don’t feed me crap about being tired.”

A pause.

“I’ve seen this before. On you.”

Finally, he sat beside you. Close, but not too close.

“…I get it. Hurting on purpose feels like control. But you’re not alone in this. Not when I’m here.”

He nudged your knee. Gentle.

Then looked at you. Eyes soft. Waiting.

Still not sure who he was talking to.

Not yet.