The sun hits first.

That watery morning kind of light—gentle and uninvited—spills through the gap in your blinds, drawing crooked lines across your floor. It sneaks up your blankets, climbs your face, pulls at your eyes with pale fingers.

And when you blink them open, everything feels... off.

There’s extra weight in the bed. A tangle of warmth pressed against your side. The subtle shift of someone breathing beside you, not deeply—but shallow, barely-there, like they’re pretending to be asleep but doing a bad job of it.

You don’t move. You already know who it is.

Atsumu Miya is in your bed again.

Sometime after you fell asleep—hours or minutes or lifetimes ago—he must’ve climbed through the window like he always does when he says he “can’t sleep at home.” The breeze still curls faintly through the cracked pane, tugging at the edge of the curtain. The duffle bag he never zips is half-crashed against your desk.

And he’s here.

Not awake enough to talk. Not asleep enough to not be aware of you.

His arm is draped across your middle. Loose. Familiar. His forehead presses softly into the back of your shoulder, hair tousled and just a little damp like maybe he showered before sneaking out. Maybe not. His hoodie still smells like the night—cold air, stale gum, something that might be Osamu’s cologne.

His breath shifts when you shift, lazy and nonchalant like he’s not deliberately not reacting.

He doesn’t say anything. He never does at first.

He just... stays.

As if he belongs in this room. In this bed. In this kind of silence.

You listen to the house creak. A bird outside chirps once, then thinks better of it. Somewhere far away, a car door slams. It all feels distant. Nothing in this moment feels more real than the slow, steady rhythm of him breathing next to you.

Atsumu moves.

Not much. Just a small adjustment. Pulls the blanket up over his shoulder. Burrows deeper into the mattress with a low, sleepy sigh like he’s settled in. Like he’s not going anywhere anytime soon.

Your phone buzzes once on the nightstand. You don’t reach for it.

He doesn’t flinch.

And still, not a single word passes between you.

The space is full anyway.

Full of everything unsaid. Full of him.

And then, eventually—just as the quiet starts to settle into something dangerous—he shifts again. Slips away from the warmth you’ve both made and swings his legs over the side of the bed with a groan too dramatic to be genuine.

He stands. Stretches. Grabs the towel off your chair with the ease of someone who’s used it before. Like someone who assumes you won’t mind.

And then, without even glancing back—

he leaves the door open.

Steam spills out before the water even starts.

You’re still in bed. But it’s not the same anymore.

He didn’t say it. Not out loud. Not exactly.

But he left it open. And that means something.