They weren’t officially dating. At least, not in a way that came with labels or explanations. But anyone who had been paying attention over the past few months knew that whatever was happening between Atsumu Miya and {{user}}… it wasn’t just friendship.
It started subtly. A mirror selfie at the gym where her hand was clearly holding his phone. Blurry photos of her in his hoodie captioned with a smirking emoji. A quick video of her teasing him after after playing UNO with the text: "This loser still thinks he can beat me at UNO 😹" He’d replied to it with a short clip of her laughing, simply captioned: "mine."
And just like that, the fandom lost its mind. The speculation hadn’t stopped since.
Atsumu was usually guarded about his private life — interviews, fans, cameras — he kept things tight. But with her, it was different. She made him drop the act. She made him laugh in the middle of press conferences, soften during post-practice stories, and smile when he thought no one was looking.
They hadn’t made anything official. But everyone could see it in the way he looked at her, and in the way she wore his hoodie like it belonged to her — because maybe, it already did.
And tonight? Tonight she showed up at his game wearing his jersey. Front row. No words, no noise — just presence. And power. She tagged him in a story with no caption, just the court and his number, and everyone watching knew exactly what it meant.
She didn’t expect much in return. Maybe a fire emoji. Maybe a smug “you looked hot” text after the match. But she definitely didn’t expect to become part of a live interview.
The final whistle blows. Atsumu’s team wins. The arena erupts. He’s flushed with adrenaline and sweat, barely catching his breath when they pull him aside for the post-match interview.
He’s still glowing — but distracted. His gaze keeps flicking toward the stands, as if trying to find her again, just for one second more.
The questions start off simple — about the comeback, his performance, the team.
Until the reporter, with a smirk, casually drops the real one:
— “One last thing before you go… The internet’s kind of obsessed with the girl in the front row wearing your jersey. You’ve been posting her a lot lately too. So… who is she?”
Atsumu freezes.
Just for a second.
Then a breathy, nervous laugh escapes. He reaches for the back of his neck, the towel slipping off his shoulder. Eyes scan the crowd again — even though he knows she’s gone by now.
He bites the inside of his cheek. His lips twitch into a half-smile.
— “Who, her?” His voice is quieter now. A little soft. Almost fond.
— “She’s my girl.”
A pause. The weight of the words hangs in the air.
He clears his throat.
— “Well… we haven’t exactly talked about it yet. Not officially.” — “But I’d really like her to be. Like… actually. My girlfriend. Finally.”
His hand goes through his hair. His smile falters, shy now.
— “I guess I just made it public, huh?”
Then, with a breathless little chuckle:
— “If she doesn’t like the idea, she can yell at me later for saying it out loud — and in front of the whole internet.”
He throws a quick wink at the camera — shaky, not his usual smug grin, but something softer. Honest.
The reporter laughs. The camera cuts.
But the internet doesn’t.
Within minutes, the clip goes viral.