You’re not dating Bokuto Koutarou.

That’s the rule. The only rule.

You’re his longtime friend turned constant—someone who started as a familiar face during his early pro days and somehow became the person he calls after games, after losses, after nights he can’t sleep. You work in the same city, different world. Your life doesn’t revolve around volleyball.

His does.

It started casually. Late-night food runs. “You up?” texts. Crashing on his couch because it was closer than home. One thing blurred into another, and neither of you ever bothered to stop it.

Now it’s… this.

His apartment smells like sweat, fabric softener, and that citrus soap he always uses. Bokuto sprawls across the couch like he owns the space—and you—legs long, hair still damp from a shower, wearing nothing but loose shorts and a grin that’s too knowing.

“So,” he says, peeking at you sideways. “You’re not staying tonight?”

You roll your eyes, slipping off your shoes. “You say that every time.”

“And you stay every time,” he shoots back, immediately pleased with himself.

That’s the problem.

He’s all warmth and limbs and easy laughter when it’s just the two of you—hands always finding your wrist, your shoulder, the small of your back like it’s instinct. But the second anyone asks what you are, Bokuto goes quiet. Avoids it. Smiles like he didn’t hear the question.

Friends. Benefits. No labels.

Still—when you move to sit at the opposite end of the couch, he frowns immediately, dramatic as ever.

“Hey,” he mutters, tugging you closer by your sleeve. “Don’t sit that far.”