Atsumu had always thought that dating you would be the easiest thing in the world. You’d been in his life forever—there wasn’t a version of himself that didn’t have you in it. But lately, it felt like every time he looked at you, there was something unspoken lingering behind your eyes.

He hated it.

"So, this weekend," he started, leaning against your locker, "I was thinkin’—"

"You have training," you cut in, offering a small, knowing smile.

Atsumu blinked. "Oh. Right."

It wasn’t the first time this had happened. You always beat him to it now, listing off his practices, his meetings, the scouts he needed to talk to—like you already knew where he’d be before he did. Like you were bracing for the answer.

He rubbed the back of his neck, suddenly restless. "I’ll figure somethin’ out."

"You don’t have to."

That was the problem. You kept saying that.

Atsumu wasn’t an idiot—he knew what was happening, could feel the distance creeping in, the way your fingers didn’t linger as long when you passed him something, the way goodbyes felt heavier.

He wanted to say something, to fix it, but he didn’t know how.

"Hey." He caught your wrist before you could turn away. "We’re okay, right?"