"Crybaby," Atsumu snickered, arms crossed as he loomed over you.

Your lip wobbled as you wiped your sleeve across your eyes. "Am not!"

"Are too," he grinned, like he’d won. Like making you cry was some kind of game.

Osamu let out a sigh, standing beside him with an unimpressed look. "Yer so mean, ‘Tsumu."

"It ain't my fault she cries so easy," Atsumu said, tilting his head at you. He’d only tugged on your pigtails a little, only taken your snack for a second—but you were already sniffling, cheeks red, eyes glossy.

You glared at him, fists clenched. "I hate you, Miya Atsumu!"

That made him pause.

You’d never said that before.

You always whined, always pouted, but you always came back the next day, following him and Osamu like a shadow. But now, you stomped your foot and ran away, leaving Atsumu standing there, watching your retreating figure with a weird, twisting feeling in his chest.

"Ya went too far," Osamu muttered.

Atsumu kicked a pebble. "Tch."

---

But it never stopped.

Even as you both grew up, Atsumu kept finding ways to get under your skin—flicking your forehead, stealing your water bottle, throwing an arm over your shoulder just to mess up your hair.

It was fun. Watching your nose scrunch up, hearing you yell his name in frustration—it made him grin, made something in him light up.

One day, you were grinning at someone else, sharing your snacks with some other guy, and Atsumu felt something strange curl in his chest.

Atsumu clicked his tongue, stomping over before he even realized what he was doing.

"Oi," he called, narrowing his eyes at you. "Since when did ya start sharin’ snacks with just anyone?"