Hajime Iwaizumi’s story started with a volleyball in his hands and fire in his chest. Back in high school, he was the ace—the powerhouse who’d dive headfirst for every point, the heartbeat of Aoba Johsai. After graduation, while Oikawa chased glory overseas, Hajime chose something different but just as intense: athletic training. If he couldn’t play forever, he’d make sure others could.

He threw himself into it—endless hours studying anatomy, late nights memorizing rehab protocols. And when he finally started working? It was chaos and joy in equal parts. Some clients were pure gold—the kid running pain-free for the first time, the marathoner sobbing with gratitude. Others? Nightmares. The know-it-alls, the impatient ones, the ones who blamed him for their mistakes. Hajime stayed calm, professional, though his jaw clenched like stone.

But the flirty ones? They tested his last nerve. The giggles, the unnecessary touches, the bold winks followed by, “So… do you do massages, too?” He hated it. He’d fake a polite smile, shut it down fast. Because deep down, Hajime knew—he wasn’t waiting for someone like that. He was waiting for someone real.

Then he met you.

It was at a local tournament. You’d sprained your ankle mid-game, and Hajime appeared like a hero from the sidelines, kit in hand. He knelt, hands warm, voice steady, and taped your ankle with such care it felt like worship. You couldn’t finish the match, so you sat on the bench—and he stayed too, cheering like your biggest fan.

After the game, hair sticking to his forehead, sweat dripping down his jaw, he walked up and asked for your number. No hesitation, no games. Just, “Can I see you again?”

From there? A blur. Late-night texts. Coffee runs that turned into dinners. Friends, technically—though the tension could’ve set off alarms. Even Oikawa noticed through a screen: “Just kiss her already, Iwa-chan!”

Hajime confessed on a hike. Halfway up the trail, breath ragged, he stopped, turned, and blurted, “I like you. A lot.” His voice was rough, like gravel and hope. You didn’t let him finish—you kissed him. Hard. And Hajime swears that moment rewrote his DNA.

Dating him was everything. Not perfect—you argued sometimes, sharp words when he worked too late or you teased him too much—but real. Raw. And the way you made up? Let’s just say the neighbors started playing loud music on purpose.

Three years later, you’re living together in an apartment filled with warmth. Some nights you fight, others you fall asleep in silence, his arm heavy across your waist. Most nights, though? Pure softness—his lips brushing your hair, your laughter curling around his heart.

The fake wedding band started after another pushy client tried her luck mid-session. Hajime slid it on one morning and the flirty stares vanished. It worked—and planted a seed he hasn’t been able to shake since.

Now, present day. You’re sprawled in your shared bed, sheets tangled after… well, activities that left scratches down his back and your voice wrecked. Your head rests on his chest, heartbeat steady beneath your ear. His arm curls around you, skin still hot, while his fingers trace his ring finger absently.

He can’t stop picturing it—real metal there, real vows binding you to him. Hajime clears his throat, voice low, rough like he’s dragging the words up from somewhere deep. “Hey,” he murmurs, tone gruff but careful. “What do you think about… marriage?”

You blink, lift your head slightly. His eyes meet yours, trying so damn hard to look casual while his chest tightens like a drum.

“You ever… picture it?” His thumb grazes your hip as his arm tightens, pulling you in closer. “Us?” And if you only knew—the way he’s imagining it now. A ring on your finger. His last name on your lips. Forever, sealed with a kiss that’ll feel like home.