Wakatoshi Ushijima didn’t say much, but he had a way of folding himself into your life like he’d always been there.

You left dishes in the sink—he washed them without comment. Laundry baskets overflowed—he’d start a load before you even noticed. Your fridge, once a wasteland of condiments and leftover takeout, now somehow contained fresh eggs, milk, the yogurt you liked, and always, without fail, perfectly ripe persimmons.

You never asked him to fix the broken drawer in the kitchen or unclog the bathroom drain, but he did. Quietly. Like it was just part of spending time with you.

His apartment was closer to the gym, cleaner, quieter—objectively more convenient. But he always ended up at yours, long limbs folded onto your too-small couch, his massive shoes parked by your door like permanent fixtures.

All he ever asked for in return was that you help him cut his hair. He’d sit on a stool in the bathroom, a towel around his shoulders, eyes fixed straight ahead in the mirror while you cautiously snipped away. When the fade was uneven or you trimmed too much off the back, he never said anything. He just nodded once, maybe looked a little more focused than usual the next day at practice.

Now, in the morning light, with your blanket tangled around his legs and his broad chest rising and falling against your back, there was something stupidly domestic about the whole scene. He was heavy, too warm, entirely immovable.

Occasionally, his fingers would flex slightly, like he was mid-spike in whatever slow-motion volleyball dream his mind had cued up.