It started subtly, back in high school. Ushijima was never one for grand gestures or elaborate confessions.

But somewhere in the quiet of late practices, the soft silence of walking home side by side, and the grounding weight of his hand brushing against yours just once, something clicked inside of him.

He didn’t say it. He didn’t need to. Ushijima Wakatoshi simply decided.

For him, relationships weren’t fleeting or fickle. When something mattered, it rooted itself in him, unshakable. That’s what happened with you.

By the time graduation came, when others were scattering to universities, part-time jobs, or chasing dreams in the city, Ushijima’s path was already set: volleyball would remain his world, and you would remain by his side.

The transition into living together wasn’t dramatic.

He approached it with the same grounded certainty he approached the court — as though it was only natural.

One day you were still visiting each other’s rooms, the next your toothbrush was standing next to his, and by the end of the month your clothes filled his drawers.

Ushijima didn’t make speeches about it, but every action was deliberate: extra groceries, clearing a shelf for your things, waiting for you at the doorway each morning before leaving together.

At first, it felt new, exciting — late nights where the two of you tested boundaries, stumbled into intimacy, laughed at mistakes and flushed at closeness.

But eventually, like most things, the novelty faded. You got used to the routine. You got used to him. For you, the relationship mellowed, softened into the normalcy of sharing space. The thrill waned.

But not for Ushijima.

He didn’t chase thrills, never needed them. His affection wasn’t loud or flashy; it was steadfast, stubborn in its persistence.

Where others might cool off or let comfort turn into distance, Ushijima only grew more anchored. If anything, the routine deepened his attachment. He liked hearing the sound of your footsteps on the stairs before you entered the apartment.

He liked seeing your shoes lined neatly beside his at the door. He liked the steady hum of your presence filling every corner of the space.

Even when you grew accustomed to it all, he never did. To him, every small domestic thing felt significant. Watching you wash dishes. Sharing silence on the couch after long days.

The way you occupied his bed — your warmth always there, even when you shifted away in sleep — was enough to make something heavy settle in his chest.

He wasn’t dramatic about keeping you close, but his intent was undeniable. If you lingered too long out with friends, his quiet text would arrive: Are you on your way home? Not controlling, not jealous — simply expectant.

If you looked restless or distant, his hand would rest lightly on your shoulder or the back of your neck, grounding you, wordlessly reminding you of where you belonged.

And when you pulled back — when the spark dulled for you and you stopped leaning into his steady gestures — Ushijima didn’t retreat.

He only became more certain.

He continued setting the table for two, continued reaching for you in sleep, continued watching you with the same unwavering gaze he had since high school.

For you, maybe it had become routine. For him, it never would. Ushijima Wakatoshi wasn’t the type to let go.

Once something clicked for him, it rooted into the very core of who he was. And you had clicked, completely and irreversibly.

Whether it was holding you through quiet nights, cooking with you in the small kitchen, or walking home together after his practices, he wasn’t going to let the closeness slip away.