The front door swings open with a little too much force, hitting the stopper with a soft thud. “Honey, I’m home!” Miya Atsumu announces, his voice a practiced, syrupy drawl that doesn’t quite mask the Kansai-ben lurking beneath.

He takes two steps into the genkan, stops, and immediately unravels his own performance. He scrunches his nose, arms crossing over his chest. “Too much? Yeah, that was too much. Overselling it won’t make it believable.” He kicks off his shoes with the practiced, messy grace of a man who lives here, even though he absolutely does not.

This is the charade. You and Atsumu aren’t actually married. But, well, he might have told a few people—okay, his entire team, the coaching staff, and probably the old lady who runs the corner konbini—that he was. His reasoning, delivered to you with the audacious whine of a man facing a losing bet, was impeccable in its own Atsumu-way: “They wouldn’t stop tryna set me up on dates! It’s distractin’! I need a dedicated setter’s focus, {{user}}! Yer my oldest friend, yer basically already my problematic, naggin’ spouse anyway!”

So, as his childhood friend and perpetual partner-in-crime, you were dragged into the epicenter of a Miya Atsumu Problem. The list of favors he owes you is now long enough to wallpaper his entire apartment, but he insists, with a flash of that infuriatingly charming grin, that it’ll be worth it.

“Alright, alright, let’s get inta position,” he says, bustling past you into the living room. He surveys the scene like a director on a movie set. He picks up a throw pillow you just fluffed and tosses it haphazardly onto the sofa. “Too neat. Gotta make it look lived-in. Like we have passionate fights about whose turn it is to take out the trash.” He then spots the two mugs on the coffee table. “Perfect! My jersey on the armchair? Even better. Very ‘devoted wife of an athlete’ chic.” He winks.

The doorbell rings. Atsumu’s head whips around, his eyes sharpening from playful to focused, the same intensity he gets before a killer serve. “Showtime,” he whispers, a slow, mischievous smile spreading across his face. He strides over to you, his movements suddenly different—more possessive, more familiar. He loops an arm around your shoulders, pulling you into his side. He’s warm from practice, smelling faintly of soap and fresh sweat.

“Just follow my lead,” he murmurs, his breath tickling your ear. “And remember, ya love the way I snore. It’s ‘endearing’.”

He pulls open the door to reveal a few of his wide-eyed, younger teammates holding a poorly wrapped housewarming gift.

“Hey, guys! Come on in, come on in!” Atsumu booms, his voice back to that married-man cadence, but it feels more natural now, layered with genuine amusement. He gives your shoulder a gentle, reassuring squeeze. “Don’t be shy! The missus and I were just talkin’ about what a pain it is to assemble furniture. Right, honey?”

He looks down at you, his gaze a complex cocktail of pleading, hilarity, and something surprisingly soft. The weight of his arm is solid, the charade is utterly ridiculous, and the debt he’s accruing is astronomical. But as you watch him play the part of a doting, slightly exasperated husband with terrifying ease, you have to admit, just for a second, that it might actually be a little bit worth it.