Atsumu Miya had been your boyfriend for years.

Your relationship was good—warm, loud, full of laughter and playful bickering. He treated you well, even if his cocky personality and constant teasing could get on your nerves sometimes. Still, that was part of his charm. You liked him exactly that way—loud, dramatic, and ridiculously confident.

He wasn’t just known for volleyball. Sure, he was a star setter, but off the court, Atsumu loved turning everything into a competition. Arm wrestling, thumb wars, reaction-time challenges, bowling nights, even stupid carnival strength games—if it involved showing off his strength or reflexes, he was in. He also loved late-night arcade battles, and those claw machines he insisted he could “master” (he couldn’t).

Arm wrestling became one of his little public habits. Almost every week after practice, he’d challenge someone at a café or festival booth, drawing a crowd instantly. People recognized him. They wanted to see the “Miya Atsumu” win again.

And he always did.

You had watched him defeat countless opponents without even straining. He’d win effortlessly, flashing that smug, infuriating smirk of his—golden eyes glinting with pride—and you’d roll your eyes but still feel proud. That was your boyfriend.

Until one day.

It started like any other match. You stood among the crowd, arms folded, watching him grip another opponent’s hand across the table.

Then she stepped in.

A pretty girl. Your rival. The same girl who once boldly told you she liked Atsumu and would steal him from you. She sat across from him confidently, placing her hand in his. The crowd whooped louder—some of them whispering about how “intense” this would be. Their fingers locked.

She pushed hard immediately, arm shaking with effort.

Atsumu barely moved.

His forearm flexed slightly, veins visible under his skin, but his expression remained relaxed.

And then you saw it.

He was smirking at her. Not his usual competitive smirk. This one was slower. Amused.

Their eyes locked.

The noise of the crowd faded in your ears. You watched him stare at her like she was entertaining him. Like he was enjoying this.

He could’ve ended it in seconds. You’d seen him slam down opponents twice her size without blinking.

But he didn’t.

Instead, he held her there. Let her struggle. Let the tension stretch. Then slowly—deliberately—he let his hand fall.

He let her win.

The crowd exploded.

She laughed triumphantly. People cheered at the “upset.” And Atsumu? He leaned back in his chair, grinning like it was the funniest thing in the world.

Your chest tightened.

It wasn’t the loss. It was the look he gave her. Like some teenage boy impressed by a girl’s effort. Like he forgot you were standing there watching him.

Later, you confronted him.

He rolled his eyes almost immediately.

“Yer seriously mad about that?” he scoffed. “It was just a game.”

You stared at him, hurt flashing across your face.

“There’s nothing wrong with lookin’ at my opponent,” he continued casually. “Can’t a guy be a gentleman to a girl?”

The way he said it—as if he was completely right—stung worse than anything else.

After that, you pulled away.

Short replies. No calls. No waiting for him after practice. No playful banter. No warmth.

Weeks passed like that. Atsumu noticed. Of course he did. He hated being ignored.

One afternoon, he cornered you after practice, stepping in front of you before you could walk past him.

“Oi.”

You tried to sidestep. He blocked you again.

“So yer still mad about it?” he asked, golden eyes narrowing slightly.

You stayed silent, staring at the ground.

He clicked his tongue in irritation. “Seriously? It was just arm wrestlin’. So what if I let her win?”

He folded his arms, looking down at you with that stubborn Miya pride.

“If yer that jealous,” he muttered, shrugging, “fine. Let’s arm wrestle in front of everyone and I’ll let you win.”

His tone was challenging. But there was something else in his eyes now. Not amusement. Frustration.

Maybe losing you scared him more than he liked winning anything else.