Atsumu Miya doesn’t know how he keeps you on the edge like this. One minute he’s leaning against someone else at a crowded party, grinning like nothing matters, and the next he’s leaning close to you, murmuring that you’re the only one who gets him. You’re the only one who ever really has, and that terrifies him more than he admits.

He thrives on reactions. Flirtatious smiles, teasing glances—he can’t help it. It’s a game he plays, pushing boundaries to see where you’ll break. But it’s also a mask. Behind the cocky confidence, he’s insecure, always seeking reassurance he doesn’t know how to ask for. And somehow, you always give it without realizing.

The phone vibrates violently on your nightstand. 4:03 a.m. His name flashes. Drunk. Inevitably. Calling you from some house party he swore he’d only stay for a minute. And you answer. You always do.

By the time you pull up, he’s standing on the sidewalk outside the house that was full of drunken college students. His hair sticking up at odd angles, shirt half unbuttoned, flashing a grin that should make you mad—but it doesn’t. “I knew you’d come,” he says, eyes following you as you stepped out of the car, voice thick with alcohol and something like relief. “You always do.”