The hotel room was dimly lit, curtains drawn tight like they were trying to keep the world out. The sheets were tangled, the air heavy with heat and the scent of skin. Atsumu lay on his back, one arm draped lazily behind his head, his chest rising and falling as he caught his breath. The room was silent except for that—the quiet pull of exhaustion and satisfaction laced together in a way that felt dangerously familiar.

Too familiar.

You were still here. He should’ve left first. Or maybe you should have. That was usually how this went—never at the same time, never lingering too long, never giving each other the chance to say something stupid. But you were both still lying there, staring at the ceiling like it held answers.

His phone buzzed somewhere on the nightstand. He didn’t check it. Didn’t need to. He already knew who it was.

Atsumu turned his head, catching sight of you in the low light. Your lips were still a little swollen, the marks he left fading too fast. He wanted to do it again.

Instead, he laughed—low and humorless. “We’re real pieces of shit, huh?”

You didn’t say anything. Just rolled onto your side, tracing lazy patterns against his stomach with your fingertips. It was cruel, the way you touched him like this. Like you weren’t both running out of excuses.

He should feel guilty. He did, sometimes, when he left—when he climbed into the passenger seat of his car, the scent of you still clinging to him, and thought about the person waiting for him at home. He wondered if you felt the same. If your hands shook when you sent them a text, if you ever kissed them and felt like you were lying.

But guilt had never been enough to stop either of you.

His hand caught yours, fingers wrapping tight around your wrist. You finally met his gaze, something sharp and knowing passing between you. Atsumu exhaled slowly, letting his thumb brush against your pulse.

"One of us should end this," he muttered.

You didn’t move. Didn’t pull away.

And neither did he.