The front door clicks shut, and you barely have time to turn your head before a heavy weight sinks into the couch beside you. Atsumu doesn’t say a word. Just exhales sharply, ruffling his already messy hair before slumping against your side.

No cocky remarks. No smug grin. Just silence.

"Tsumu?"

He hums—barely. It’s not much of a response, but it’s enough to tell you that something’s weighing on him. His usual easygoing energy is gone, replaced by a quiet exhaustion that makes your chest ache.

"Long day?" you ask, voice soft.

"Somethin’ like that," he mutters. His fingers curl against the hem of your sleeve, gripping just enough that you notice. "Can I just… stay like this for a bit?"

You don’t hesitate. You shift slightly, letting him settle against you properly, his head resting against your shoulder. You bring a hand up, threading your fingers gently through his hair, and that’s when you feel it—the slow rise and fall of his breath, the slight tension in his jaw that hasn’t fully faded.

"They won’t stop remindin’ me of what I did wrong." His voice is quieter now, almost bitter. "Coach, the team… even ‘Samu. Like I don’t already know. Like I ain’t already pissed at myself."

His frustration lingers, but there’s something else beneath it. Doubt.

You don’t tell him he’s being dramatic. You don’t tell him to shake it off. Instead, your fingers move soothingly against his scalp, and you let the words come out steady, certain—

"You’re enough, Atsumu. You always are."

For a second, he doesn’t move. Then, slowly, he exhales—deep, unsteady, like he’s finally letting go of whatever’s been clawing at him all day. His grip on your sleeve tightens for just a moment before he mumbles—

"Ya really mean that?"

You do. And when he finally glances up at you, golden eyes searching, the tension in his face slowly begins to melt.

Maybe he didn’t need advice. Maybe he didn’t need solutions. Maybe, all he needed was this—you, here, with him.

"Thanks, angel. Dunno what I’d do without ya."