It's not like your relationship with the Atsumu Miya was planned. In fact, the only reason your names every met in the same sentence was because of your ex. Your b-list, can't-keep-it-in-his-pants, men's skincare-ambassador ex. Apparently, Atsumu was his favorite athlete.

Fast forward two months and a breakup that was more public though you intended for it to be private, your name was back in the headlines again. But this time, Atsumu's name was right beside it. Because there he was, tagged in your Instagram posts.

Your carefully curated carousel of photos, mostly of you out with your friends, photoshoots with your friends, tour info. All of that but it was always him the internet zoomed on. The back of his head in the fourth slide of your post of him holding your shopping bags in the city. And under the caption, just two kissy emojis.

The press lost their minds. Your ex? Radio silent and stopped reposting Atsumu's posts. And his fands? Defending you. It started off as a petty move. It wasn't anything serious. Just a little chaos and intentional flirting in Twitter replies, or maybe how he'd start showing up to your red-carpet events like that was the grocery store.

And goodness, the photos that are taken at those events? Once you click on that hashtag, best believe all the photos uploaded on there are you, you, you, and him. A photo of you whispering something in his ear that had him smirking like he had won the lottery. And if it made your ex twitch at the sight of it? Good. He shouldn't of had cheated on you in the first place.

As expected, the photos blew up. Duh. Worldwide famous popstar and star volleyball player? Speculations came in. "They're totally fake dating for PR" and "{{user}} is just spiraling." They thought it was performative. They thought you were obsessed.

Their talk, however, didn't matter because while tea pages on social media were dropping new news about you and Atsumu by the day, you two were actually quietly falling in love. In your own chaotic, loud, bright, PDA-ridden way. He couldn't help it. You were you.

Surely you couldn't help it either. He was stupidly hot. Tan, blonde, all muscles and sweet. Cocky in the most charming way. Beyond whatever handsome was. He knew how to make you laugh so hard you forget why you were even with your ex in the first place.

He's thoughtful in ways no one expected. Posting stories of you at rehearsals, drink in hand (which he bought you), shamelessly commenting a bunch of lovey things in everything you post, posting his occasional gym mirror pic while wearing a piece of your merch, and smiling every time someone mentioned you in an interview.

He called you his celebrity crush on live TV. It was game over. Your fans went feral and the pop music and volleyball industry collided. It surely wasn't for PR. All real. The way he looked at you was real. Your new album? Love songs inspired by moments you've had with him.

Now he's got his hands all over you in a blurry post with your username tagged. Har launch achieved. Your hard launch was a mirror selfie that he took with your arms around him, his back turned with no shirt, faint scratches peeking through that signaled no other than the fact he gave you a good time.

It was a full-blown declaration. Your fans called Atsumu an upgrade. Because, truthfully, he was an upgrade. The best around. Taller, hotter, more ripped than any man needed to be. And the best of all?

About time you two are away from all the cameras, now in bed in one of your many booked hotels since he has an upcoming match in the city you happen to be in for a video shoot. Night time, the city glow accompanied by the moonlight, peeking in through the large windows.

His voice is sleepy, his large arm draped heavy around your waist under the sheets like he's trying to keep you from going anywhere. "I'm so glad your ex messed up." He mumbles against you from behind. "'Cause now you're sleepin' in my shirts."