I Live For Awkward/dorky!! Kuroo So This Is My Name Suggestion!!! No Pressure At All Tho Choose Who U

osamu + “we’re fake dating! why did you tell them we were engaged?!” for @amarinthe thanks for requesting this! it's probably one of my favourite prompts

the moment you open your front door, you kind of regret it.

because while your totally hot neighbour is standing in your doorway in his dark jeans and fitted black t-shirt glory, you’re rocking shorts and an unreasonably large sweatshirt.

“osamu,” you blink, tugging the hem of your shirt down a little. “hey.”

“hey,” he replies with a smile that makes your knees weak, holding up a takeout bag. “i brought some onigiri home. wanna share?”

thinking about the instant ramen currently boiling on your stovetop, you couldn’t possibly refuse his offer (especially if it’s from miya osamu, whose very successful restaurant is quite literally across the street).

so you open your door wider, letting him step inside and slip his shoes off while you move into the kitchen, placing two plates on the counter.

“so, how was your day?” he asks, unpacking the setting two onigiri on each plate. “anything interesting happen?”

you slide into the stool next to him, swinging your legs lightly as you munch on happily on the food. “not particularly, you?”

“actually, yeah,” he starts, taking his cap off and running a hand through his hair (you think it’s unfair, how good it still looks, even after spending all day smushed under a baseball cap). “my ma called today.”

“your ma?” you hum through a mouthful of salmon and rice. “what’d she say?”

he picks disinterestedly at the seaweed on his onigiri. “she, uh, asked that i visit home for dinner tomorrow night.”

“that’s sounds fun,” you start, pausing when he visibly grimaces. “unless it’s...not?”

“my brother’s bringin’ his girl again,” he shrugs. “and i know that means ma’s gonna be on my ass about why i’m not datin’.”

“yeah, i’ve had that conversation with my parents before,” you shudder, patting his shoulder in understanding. “the future, grandchildren, the passive-aggressive judgement from siblings. you should just call and say you’re sick.”

“can’t,” he sighs heavily. “i already cancelled twice. she may disown me if i skip a third time, or worse, show up at my place.”

it’d probably be funny, you think, seeing mama and brother miya across the hall, bugging osamu. “then maybe you should bring someone,” you suggest off-handedly. “just to keep them off your back a little. when was the last time you went on a date?”

when he doesn’t answer, your happy chewing slows, and you glance over at him. “jeez, that long ago? i thought you had more game than that, miya.”

a slow grin spread across his face when he meets your gaze. “last time i went out with someone was...four months ago, actually.”

“four months ago? that was around when we—” your eyes widen slightly, heat spreading to your cheeks. “oh. that...was not a date. that was a slightly intoxicated but very satisfying sexual exchange between friends.”

osamu chuckles, ducking his head a little and making those eyes at you (the ones that’d lured you into fucking him on your living room floor at two in the morning). “maybe don’t bring that up when ya meet my mom.”

“excuse me?” you laugh. “you cannot bring me home to meet your family.”

“why not?” he questions, looking genuinely confused. “you’re the one who suggested it. it’s just for one night anyway.”

“i just can’t!” you insist, looking at him incredulously. “i’d be nervous even if we were dating. what if they ask questions about--”

“i’ll give you free onigiri for a month.”

_____

“so, how did the two of you meet?” osamu’s mother asks as she pours you a generous glass of wine.

you freeze, blinking a few times. when you open your mouth, nothing comes out.

(it’s funny how, on the hour-long drive to hyogo, the two of you hadn’t discussed any basic information about your relationship. instead, you’d spent your time debating the best taylor swift album and making fun of the other tenants in your building.)

you almost flinch when someone places a hand on the small of your back, but relax when osamu’s faint cologne meets your senses. “actually it was the day after she moved in next door,” he says. “i brought some onigiri over because she’d asked me that morning where the closest grocery store was so i figured…”

you smile fondly, recalling the day you’d run into him at the mailboxes, and he’d shown up a few hours later with food. he’d claimed they were just leftovers even though it was mid-afternoon.

“i can’t believe you remember that,” you murmur.

he hums quietly, gaze flicking over your face briefly. “i guess it’s just when i knew.”

you’re sure that your heart stutters in your chest. surely he’d stolen that from some cheesy romance flick?

“how long have you two been together?” his mother follows up with, glancing between the two of you expectantly, a slow smile spreading across her face.

“eight months,” you say.

“almost a year,” osamu answers at the same time.

across from you, atsumu hides a smile behind his glass of water.

“i mean, who’s counting?” you laugh, quick to recover, reaching over to your ‘boyfriend’ blindly, meaning to pat his shoulder but instead catching him on the cheek. “time flies when you’re in love.”

you turn to stare at osamu when you feel him clasp your hand, pressing a kiss to your fingers, lips curling against them.

your stomach flutters a little at the gesture.

“‘tsumu,” he continues, redirecting the conversation. he rests your clasped hands on the table, thumb brushing the back of yours gently. “i thought you were bringing your girlfriend.”

“oh, she’s at her place doin’ some packing,” he answers easily. “she’s movin’ in next week.”

“that’s great news!” their mother beams, osamu’s hand tightening around yours as he blurts,

“yeah, well, we’re engaged!”

this time, you choke on your bite of chicken, almost hacking up a lung as you whip your head towards your neighbour/friend/fake boyfriend turned fake fiancé.

he shoots you a pleading gaze as he rubs firm circles on your back, and when you finally dislodge that traitorous piece of meat, you draw a slow breath and sigh. “babe, i thought we were going to wait until you made it official.” you lift your left hand, pointing at your empty ring finger before turning back to his mother and brother. “do you mind if we step away for a second?”

they both wave you off, and you snatch osamu’s wrist, dragging him out the back door, making sure it’s shut tight before you whisper-shout,

“we are fake dating! why would you tell them that we were engaged?”

he rubs his hands down his face, groaning. “i’m sorry, i panicked! it’s just that when atsumu mentioned moving in i got weirdly competitive because we’re twins—”

“so naturally you told your mother we were getting married? what’s next, atsumu mentions a joint bank account and you tell them that i’m pregnant?”

osamu lowers his hands to peek at you. “can i actually do that?”

“no! this is so not worth the free onigiri!” you growl, smacking him on the shoulder a few times, osamu yelling in protest.

(inside, atsumu and their mother peek out the kitchen window to watch the both of you, the latter murmuring, ‘definitely engaged.’)

_____

“you cannot tell that story in your toast,” you laugh, three years later with a very real engagement ring on your finger.

“why not?” osamu whines, completely invading your side of the bed to wrap his arms around you. “it’s how we got together, isn’t it?”

“by lying to your family.”

“soon to be your family,” he reminds you happily. “and i didn’t have to lie and tell them you were pregnant.”

have a shit eating grin on their face when you scoot closer to them while watching a horror movie and will probably tease you about it for the rest of your life

suna, atsumu, tsukishima, mattsun, semi, shirabu, kuroo, tendou, kenma, osamu ( at times )

can you tell that i love nishinoya <333

In case you didn’t know, I’m in love with Osamu Miya.

But I’m especially in love with the idea that Osamu Miya can, and does, look good doing absolutely anything. Be it from folding your laundry (seriously, he knows how to fold a bed sheet? God tier.) to tying a tie around his neck for a business meeting, even drying his hair from a shower is an absolute joy to witness him do, and your eyes merely glaze and follow his frame as he performs these tasks with you to only watch.

And boy, do you indeed love to watch him.

“What’re you lookin’ at?” He snickers, his eyes fixating on yours through the mirror, massive paw carding back his now brushed, albeit still damp hair. You offer him a shrug and a smile, “just you… I’m always looking at you.”

When he bows his head to hide the blush and the smile that wants to spread over his face, he’s interrupted by your dramatic sigh, “can’t help but think how I could do so. Much. Better.”

His eyes, now glimmering with mischief, meet yours back in the mirror, and he gives you a sharp, overdone inhale through his nose before stalking towards you. “Is that right?” He hums, planting himself at the edge of the bed and biting his cheek. “Seven years together and you’ve had to live with that knowledge every day?” Before you can answer, a massive hand darts down to wrap around your ankle and drag you down the bed and have him stood between your legs, ignoring your screams and laughter of protest. “How have you ever lived such a life?”

“Osamu!” You scream, your legs tossing around his waist instinctively while his now free hands lace his fingers between yours before pinning them on either side of your head. You try to tug your arms down, but he’s got them exactly where he wants them, and he’s not letting them go.

“You poor, poor thing, didn’t your friends warn you about that before we got together?” He peppers your neck and ears with bites and kisses to make you squeak and laugh at the ticklish feeling, your heels drumming against his lower back. “S-Stoppit!” You scold as sternly as you can despite your laughter.

“Oh, what, don’t want some absolute ogre so close to you?” He playfully starts to slam his hips upwards to bounce into yours, mimicking an all too familiar action and causing your body to bounce and shift upwards. Each slam of his hips against yours only makes a louder scream tumble past your lips, and your legs tighten around him. The bed creaks under you both, his mock thrusts showing a playful side of ‘Samu you’d always crave.

“O-Sam-u!” You laugh with each jounce of your frame. You finally tug your hands free and shove him back with all your might when he uses one of his newly free hands to skitter over your ribs. “I-I-I’m sorry!” You whine, arching as much as you can against his tickling and thrusting hips.

“For calling me ugly, or for insinuating you could do better?” He says, but his voice holds no annoyance or sadness, instead, it’s mingled with a smile that plants sweet kisses to your jawline once he stops his merciless punishment.

“You’re not ugly,” you sigh happily at the feeling of his lips over your skin, your arms tossing around his neck when you deem him pliant. “I just hate how handsome you are- gotta knock you down a peg once in a while.”

“And that seemed to work awesome for ya.” He snickers against your skin before wrapping his own arms around you, worming them between your body and the mattress to hold you impossibly closer.

“But hey… must be pretty handsome if I was able to score you, babe.”

You smile and scratch lovingly at his undercut, “must be.”

fictional kiss things that end me

being unable to open their eyes for a few moments afterward

one small kiss, pulling away for an instant, then devouring each other

pressing their foreheads together while kissing

speaking normally, then after the kiss their voice is hoarse

guys furrowing their brow when kissing passionately

staring at the other’s lips, trying not to kiss them, before giving in

running their thumb over the other’s lips

when they lean forward a fraction as if to kiss the other person, then realize they shouldn’t and pull back to stop themselves

ripping the other away - “no we shouldn’t” - but when they kiss them again they moan and hold them close

one sliding their hand into the other’s hair slowly

their entire body freezing for a second when their love kisses them

accidentally being forced inches apart from each other, staring at each other’s lips, and just before they kiss someone pulls them back apart

when one stops the kiss to whisper “I’m sorry, are you sure you-” and they answer by kissing them more

a hoarse whisper “kiss me”

then licks their lips and says “please”

Nanami gets a strange feeling.

it’s in his bones, a simple vibration that he knows isn’t physically there, but it jitters still, slowly growing stronger and stronger. It’s a memory he can’t place, but so strong he can taste; it’s copper and sweat, the undercurrent of panic-

“Kento?” 

Nanami blinks away the thought and presses his thumbs into the bridge of his nose to calm the headache that’s started. When he looks up, you’re pushing the screen door open and joining him on the back porch.

Sunset has just begun, casting a golden glow against your skin. The ocean’s foam almost glows with sherbet tones as it laps the shore, so far and yet so close he can taste the salt.

“You okay, dear?”

The feeling hasn’t subsided; it rumbles stronger, like a train powering down the tracks.

“Of course, just tired.” Nanami places his book on the railing. The worn thin, water stained pages flutter in the breeze.

“Dinner’s ready if you’re up for it,” you say, “Yuuji’s setting the table right now.”

He pushes off of the chair with a grunt, his knees protesting the movement. The strange feeling sticks to his bones, begs to be acknowledged-

“All by himself?” Nanami pulls you in by the hip and presses a kiss into your temple as he passes, tugging you back inside. The door creaks closed, tapping his but when he doesn’t move fast enough. “When did he get so big?”

“I don’t know, but it breaks my heart a little!” you croon, “Our baby isn’t a baby anymore.”

“Well, don’t fret. If everything goes according to plan,” Nanami catches your mouth against his this time, “We’ll have another baby to whine about soon.”

You shine at that, but your smile quickly falters when you meet his eyes.

“Are you sure you’re okay?” you ask, “You seem off.”

“Yes, just-” Nanami looks outside. The beach is the same as always, forever changing with each wave. Yuuji is singing to himself in the dining room, some jaunty thing he learned in preschool, though he’s not quite getting all of the words correct.

“I just had the feeling that I almost didn’t have all of this.”

rintarou plays with a bit of ribbon left strewn across the floor, twirling it around his long, lithe fingers idly. it's green and velvety, and slips easily between his digits as he winds it slowly between the valleys of his knuckles, humming a little tune to himself.

as you approach him in the living room by the christmas tree, he looks up at you with a soft, content smile on his face.

"here you go," you say, handing him the cup of coffee you've just prepared, steam curling from the surface. it's in a novelty mug he got you last christmas, shaped like a cute little character from a sci-fi franchise you've loved since you were a kid, and he takes it with an appreciative nod—careful not to spill a drop as the cup passes from your hand to his own.

you take a seat at his side with your own cup of coffee once he's taken his first sip.

"mmm," he hums once he's swallowed the mouthful. "it's good."

"i put some cinnamon in the french press," you tell him, leaning a bit against his arm, your cheek resting on his shoulder as the two of you sit tucked together on the living room floor beneath the tree.

"festive," rinatrou says with an approving nod, shifting so you press even closer to his side, his arm snaking back around your waist.

it's been a slow, easy morning in your nagano apartment. you insisted on opening gifts first thing, because that's what your family always did growing up, and even though rintarou wasn't much of a holiday person to begin with he indulged you without question. it wasn't a grand, elaborate ordeal, just a couple of gifts exchanged between the two of you; some new headphones for rin, some perfume for you, little bits of clothes for each of you here and there. your mother had sent each of you a new pair of mittens (though your card had included an unsubtle but endearing note about how it would be a shame to cover up the new ring you've recently started wearing on your left hand) and rin's sister sent you a popular local tea from the town where she's attending university.

"did you have a nice christmas?" you ask rintarou as he takes another sip of coffee. he hums in agreement, looking down at where you're tucked into his side.

"did you?"

you echo his earlier hum.

"we should clean up," you say, looking around the room at the torn gift wrap and boxes on the floor. "i need to clean up from making the coffee, too."

rintarou dips down and presses a kiss to the top of your head. "you do that, i'll take care of this stuff."

you nod, pulling yourself away from the warmth of his side, pushing yourself back up to your feet as rintarou crawls towards the mess at the bottom of the tree.

you're just about to cross the threshold to the kitchen when you hear him say.

"oh, there's another gift under here."

"what?" you ask, turning back to face him. heat suddenly floods your face when you see him kneeling underneath the tree with a familiar gift in his hands. it's not a very large gift—a slim little package only a bit bigger than the size of his hand—so while you're not surprised it went unnoticed at first, you're mortified when you realize what's about to happen.

"it's for me," he says in confusion after reading the tag, glancing over at you.

"um," you stumble a little over your feet as you try to cross the room towards him. "what if you wait to open that until late—!"

rintarou's finger is already under the edge of the wrapping paper, though he hasn't properly ripped into it yet. he's watching you curiously as you approach him, a glint of something in your eyes that's caused you far too many headaches in the four years the two of you have been dating.

"rin, stop," you say to him, and though you make every attempt to sound firm, the demand comes out more pleading than anything.

"what did you get for me?" he asks, a lilt of mischief in his tone as he peels up the corner of the wrapping paper ever so slightly.

"it's nothing important," you insist, falling to your knees beside him and trying to cover up the present with your hands. "you can have it later."

"but it's christmas now," he counters, slipping the gift out from your hands and holding it away from you. "plus all the other presents are opened, it'll be lonely under the tree all by itself."

"rintarou," you groan, tipping yourself face first into his chest to hide your shame. the telltale sound of wrapping paper tearing tells you that as much as he might love to indulge you, he delights in tormenting you even more.

"what is this?"

you refuse to pull yourself away from his chest.

its quiet for a moment. you hear some shuffling, and you can clearly picture rintarou turning the little package over in his hands as he scrutinizes it.

"was this supposed to be for me?" he asks after a moment, clearly confused.

you don't say anything.

you don't even move.

"did you fall asleep?" rintarou teases you, rubbing at your back as you keep your face hidden against his chest.

"no, i died," you answer, but the words are muffled by the material of his hoodie.

"oh no, not on christmas. how tragic," he drawls jokingly, but you don't laugh.

"...baby..."

"...babe."

"why did you buy me a present i don't understand just to get mad at me about it?" he mutters when you don't respond to any of his beckoning.

finally you separate yourself from his sweatshirt to peer up at him resentfully.

"it is for you," you mumble under your breath, answering his earlier question. you snatch the package out from his hands, tucking it against your chest with your arms crossed over top of it. "but i'm the one who's supposed to wear them."

you watch the realization dawn on rintarou's face. if you weren't so hideously embarrassed, you might even find it in yourself to laugh at the almost cartoonish expression of enlightenment.

"oh," he breathes. "oh."

suddenly he's in your face, dipping down to meet you at eye level, his nose brushing yours.

"you got those just for me?" he asks, and you can almost taste the cinnamon on his lips.

"yeah," you answer quietly, and he kisses you to muffle the little groan the slips out of his lips at your answer.

with one hand cradling the back of your head, rintarou lowers you back onto the ground, slotting himself between your thighs as they part to welcome him. his tongue slips between your lips to meet your own, the warmth his hands gliding up over your hips towards your chest.

you don't resist as he slips the little box out from your grasp.

rintarou pulls away, and you look up at him from your position on the floor as your chest heaves. the look in his eyes as he appraises the gift lacks any of the confusion it had a moment prior, replaced now with a heady, palpable lust.

he turns the box around towards you, and you have no choice but to look at the silky sheer tights in their luxurious packaging.

"this is a very thoughtful gift," he says to you quietly, his voice low and a little strained. the bulge in his gray sweatpants, which has only gotten larger since his moment of realization, does not go unnoticed by you.

"it's easy to buy gifts for a pervert," you mumble, hiding your face under your hand.

slowly rintarou lifts your hand from your face, and you watch under heavy lidded eyes as he lifts it to his mouth, kissing your knuckles tenderly—right over the ring he put there a few days prior.

"are you gonna put them on for me?" rintarou speaks into your skin, his lashes fluttering in a way that might seem sweet if the circumstances were different. you take the package from him, slipping your fingertip under the lip of the packaging to pry it open.

you glance up at him again.

rintarou laughs breathily as he meets your gaze, and you catch a glint of teeth biting down into the plush of his lip like he's trying to restrain himself.

there's a sudden thickness in your throat. a knot in your stomach. anticipation thrums just underneath your skin, prickling up to the surface with every gentle touch of his hands.

you tilt the opened package back towards him.

"don't you wanna put them on me yourself?"

he'll be the one tearing them off you in a few minutes anyway, so he may as well enjoy them while they last.

"are you like... into that?"

you tear your eyes away from the screen a few seconds after rintarou says it, too rapt by what's unfolding in the movie scene to look away too soon.

"what do you mean?" you ask, glancing over to the other end of the sofa where he's seated. he's slumped down in the corner of the sofa, nestled right into the valley between the cushions where he always sits—which has resulted in a permanent sort of vaguely rintarou-shaped indentation that you hide using throw pillows when company comes over.

he's watching you very intently from his side of the sofa, too intently almost. you'd thought you'd felt his eyes on you while you were watching the movie, but you aren't exactly sure how long he's been staring, and now it leaves you wondering what exactly he's up to.

rintarou nods towards the television on the other side of the room, you look back at the screen once more and see the male lead still at the centre of the scene. he'd just gotten into a fight—shirtless, glistening with perspiration, and a strangely erotic trickle of blood trailing down his philtrum. you swallow a little as you become engrossed in the movie again, forgetting momentarily that you were ever asked a question at all.

"so?"

your eyes snap back to rintarou—who's still focused only on you, but with a slightly more disapproving look this time.

"what?" you ask him, a bit huffily. you're still not even sure what he'd been asking you in the first place.

"you've been ogling that guy since he got the shit kicked out of him," rintarou says pointedly, lifting a hand and gesturing towards the television. "you into that or something?"

there's something kind of accusatory in his tone.

"wha—hu—no," you stumble over your words in your haste to defend yourself. "i've told you i'm not into hardcore stuff. and that would constitute like... doctorate level BDSM."

rintarou's lips purse slightly. "do you think that guy's hot?"

"i mean... yeah," you answer after contemplating it for a moment. "i didn't really think so before but he's kinda sexy in this scene."

"he just got the shit kicked out of him," the boy at the other end of the sofa responds flatly.

"so you've pointed out," you answer. you turn back to the screen, watching as the battered male lead winds a roll of bandages around his ribs, then drags his knuckles roughly across his lips to clear away some of the blood that clings to them. your tongue peeks out to moisten your own unconsciously. "don't you think there's something kind of hot about a guy with a bit of blood on him?"

"is this a trick question?"

you look back at rintarou again, and find him still fixated on you rather than the film. he's pouting a bit, and it kind of makes you want to laugh. instead, you push yourself up from your own little nest at the opposite end of the sofa, crawling down towards him.

"rintarou, are you jealous because i called the bloody guy sexy?" you ask him as you pause at his side, resting back on your haunches.

he nibbles on the inside of his cheek—a habit he's had as long as you've known him—and for the first time in possibly the entire 54 minutes this movie has been playing, he averts his eyes from you.

"...no."

you do laugh then, swinging one leg over his lap to perch yourself atop him.

"you're being silly," you say to him as you balance yourself with your hands on his shoulders. his own come slithering up to settle at your waist, and his grip is a little tighter than you expect. he's still sulking though, refusing to look at you.

there's a loud crash in the film playing on the screen behind you, but you don't turn to look at it—you doubt that would help the situation at hand very much.

"rin," you coax him, making your voice as sweet as possible.

he doesn't look at you, but he does seem to bite the inside of his cheek a little harder now.

you dip down close to him, your mouth hovering over his and your eyes level. "rin-ta-rou."

he finally looks at you, his lips parting in surprise at your sudden nearness. you're so close that your mouths brush slightly thanks to that subtle movement, and he leans into the warmth of your lips to kiss you properly after getting such a small taste of it.

rintarou pulls away after one long, deep kiss, slouching back into the sofa again—but this time pulling you down with him into his little him-shaped indentation—holding you tightly to his chest as he gets you both comfortable. you let him maneuver you however he wants to, placating him with your docility to make him feel better, and keeping any comment about his jealousy to yourself—at least for now.

the two of you eventually find a comfortable way to rest, entwined together on his end of the sofa but both with a clear view to the screen to resume your spectating of the movie.

"what's so hot about a guy with a nosebleed anyway? i used to get them all the time when i was a kid," rintarou mumbles bitterly after a few moments, and you feel the words reverberate through his chest as you rest with your head upon it.

you laugh lightly, and your boyfriend's arms tighten around your waist.

he pipes up again after a few moments more pass in the film.

"you don't want me to start fighting or anything, do you?" he asks you skeptically.

you've effectively lost track of the movie's plot now, but you don't really care that much.

"no, rintarou, i don't want you to start fighting," you reply, patting his chest reassuringly. "you'd get your ass kicked anyway."

"well, apparently you're into that," he mutters.

"will you be quiet and just watch the movie, nosebleed boy?"

(a week later, rintarou sends you a photo from practice—having gracefully taken one of motoya's receives to the face—with an angry red welt on his cheek, blood dripping from his nose, and an obnoxious smirk on his lips. unfortunately, you are kinda into that.)

just found out that there is a sudanfunds website! like gazafunds, it is a compilation of funds for people facing genocide

“Miya-san!”

Osamu’s head swivels towards the sound, and he spots you right away even though you weren't the one who called for him.

You’re a few metres down the road, sitting on a bench in front of a bustling restaurant, slumped over onto the shoulder of your junior who seems to be doing everything he can to keep your head tipped up against his arm. Kimura, the name Osamu had once been introduced to him as at one of the events your company held, has blushy cheeks when the older man approaches—he seems flushed due both to being flustered and a little tipsy, and the knot of his tie is loosened at the base of his throat.

“Kimura-kun,” Osamu greets him with a dip of his head as he approaches, his eyes scanning your seemingly sleeping face. “She asleep?”

“No,” you slur in reply, but your eyes stay closed. Osamu’s not certain it’s the truth, and even less certain you realize he’s the one who said it.

“I-it’s all my fault,” Kimura squeaks, looking increasingly like he might burst into tears. “They were trying to make me drink more, but Senpai kept switching out our glasses when the other section leads weren’t looking.”

“Yeah, that sounds like somethin’ she’d do,” Osamu replies with a fond but exasperated sigh.

“I’m sorry for contacting you so late,” Kimura says, flinching as you slump away from him unexpectedly in your drunken stupor. Osamu is quicker to react than the younger man, stepping in and catching you in the crook of his elbow before you can go toppling off the bench onto the sidewalk. He keeps you steady.

“Don’t apologize, I appreciate ya callin’ me to come get her—and thanks fer lookin’ after her,” he says down to the younger man, who seems relieved now not to be responsible for keeping you upright. “Tell her to bring ya by the shop for a meal sometime as payback. She owes ya one.”

Kimura’s eyes widen and he shakes his head like he couldn’t possibly accept, but before he can decline the offer Osamu turns his attention back to you. With an arm wrapped around your waist, he gently pries you from your seat.

“Up ya go,” he mutters encouragingly as he eases you onto your feet.

Your eyes flutter slowly open, looking around blearily for a moment as you take in your surroundings.

“Samu?” you ask, his name slurred on your alcohol loosened tongue. You perk up noticeably in his arms once you realize just who’s holding you. “What are you doing here?”

“I’m here to take ya home, Cinderella,” he says with a light laugh as your fingers twist into the material of his sweatshirt against his chest. He looks to Kimura again, who’s also risen to his feet now. “We’ll be off, then.”

“Thank you, Miya-san!” Kimura bows deeply forward, a nearly perfect 45 degree angle at his waist.

He’s a sweet kid, Osamu can’t help but think, even if does follow you around like a puppy.

Osamu helps you down the sidewalk towards his waiting truck, then up into your seat on the passenger’s side. He makes quick work of buckling you into your seatbelt even as you squirm counterproductively, then he jogs swiftly around to his own side of the truck and climbs in behind the wheel.

Kimura waves from outside the restaurant as the truck pulls away.

“Seems like ya had fun tonight,” Osamu remarks as he drives in the direction of your home. You hadn't even wanted to attend this work gathering, but had been forced to by your director. Now look where it had gotten you.

You’re fiddling with the controls of the radio, stations crackling in and out as you switch rapidly through the channels. 

“Drank too much,” you complain, settling on a talk radio station (of all things) that seems to be midway through discussing prefectural bylaws.

“Don’t I know it,” Osamu quips in reply and you swat at him harmlessly over the centre console with a laugh.

You’re turned in your seat, your body facing in his direction, watching him as he keeps his eyes on the road. He can feel your gaze tracing over him, but doesn’t glance back.

“Hey,” you whisper, something conspiratorial in your tone. “Wanna know a secret?”

“Sure thing,” he plays along with your antics, fighting back a grin.

It’s silent for a moment—only the voices on the radio discussing trash collection to be heard. Osamu pulls up to a red light, and finally looks over to meet your gaze.

Your eyes are glassy and a bit unfocused, but they’re bright with affection.

“I have a crush on you,” you tell him with a giggle.

Osamu’s chest pangs.

The light turns green.

“Well,” he remarks, returning his gaze to the road ahead and proceeding through the intersection. “That’s good.”

From the corner of his eye, he sees your shoulders slump dejectedly. 

“I’m being rejected,” your next words are positively morose. You turn away from him and lean your body over to the side. He hears a loud thump as your forehead head hits window on your right.

“Hey!” Osamu chides you in concern, reaching out and grabbing the collar of your blouse to tug you up a little straighter. It’s not the most elegant motion by any means, but he’s fairly limited with his other hand on the wheel and his eyes still on the road.

“Owww,” you complain, rubbing your forehead weakly. You bat the hand he has clutching the collar of your shirt away. “You’re so mean.”

“How’m I mean?” Osamu guffaws beside you.

“I just confessed my love for you, and all you had to say is ‘that’s good’!” You turn your body in your seat to waggle an unsteady but judgemental finger at him. “A woman’s heart is a precious, fragile thing, y’know!”

“There’s nothin’ fragile about ya,” Osamu mutters under his breath, thinking about how much you had to drink that night as a prime example of this fact. “Yer tough as a brick wall.”

“Mean!” you jeer at him again, your mouth agape in the wake of his words.

Osamu flicks his turn indicator on before he pulls his truck over to the curb, putting it into park. You’ve stopped outside a convenience store, and when he turns to look at you, the fluorescents from inside the shop bathe you in a backlit halo where you sit in the passenger seat.

He grabs your hand. The one you still have lifted to point at him.

“D’ya see this?” he asks, holding your hand up in front of your face. The ring on your fourth finger catches in the glow of the convenience store lights.

Your eyes widen.

Osamu holds up his left hand where there’s a ring that matches your own.

“I said it’s good y’got a crush on me ‘cause we’re married, dummy.”

Your lips form a surprised little ‘o’ as your eyes flicker rapidly from the band on your finger to his own and back again. 

After a moment you grin, your eyes squeezing shut with how high your cheeks lift. “What a relief!”

Osamu is quick inside the store, just popping in to buy a vitamin drink for you and a pack of cigarettes for himself. He doesn’t smoke as much these days—you’d nag him incessantly if he did—but every so often he gets a craving, and tonight is one of those instances. 

The two of you sit side by side on the curb in front of the shop, the truck parked a little ways down the road. 

Osamu takes a drag of his cigarette, sighing in contentment with wispy plumes of smoke slipping from his lips. He peeks over at you from the corner of his eye. 

“Ya feelin’ better?” he asks.

You’ve got the little bottle of vitamin drink cradled in your hands, working your way through it slowly. You hate the taste of them, he knows that, but you’d regret it more tomorrow morning if you didn’t force it down tonight. You nod a bit, and seem to have sobered up in the time since Osamu arrived to take you home.

“This reminds me of when we first started datin’” Osamu laughs to himself. And he means it. Everything about it. Being out so late. The taste of the tobacco on his tongue. The way you keep creeping a little bit closer to him unconsciously, as though his space isn’t already yours to freely take. “I can’t believe ya forgot we’re married.”

You groan in embarrassment. “I’m sorry.”

He bites back a grin, trying not to revel too much in your misery.

“And I’m sorry I made you come pick me up,” you mumble after a moment, taking another sip from the little bottle in your hand and wincing against the bitterness. “I planned to just take a cab.”

“It was that little junior of yours who contacted me,” Osamu laughs, lifting the cigarette to his lips and holding it there while he rifles in his pocket for his phone. He holds the device out so you can see the conversation where your subordinate had commandeered your phone, remorsefully messaging Osamu asking him to come and collect you from the bar. He’d even used a funny little sticker of a bunny with tears in his eyes bowing apologetically—it bears a striking resemblance to Kimura himself. 

“That kid,” you sigh, shaking your head lightly as you rub your temple. Your eyes suddenly widen and your face snaps towards your husband. “Wh—“

“Tsumu’s there watchin’ ‘em,” Osamu laughs, reaching up and plopping a hand down atop your head. “Not that there’s much to watch since they’re in bed. He was still at the house when Kimura-kun messaged me.”

You lean into Osamu's touch as you think of your twins at home, tucked up in the little bed they share, and it makes your heart ache a little bit. You wonder if you’ll be able to creep in and give them a kiss goodnight when you get home without waking them. 

You go terribly quiet for a moment, and Osamu finishes his cigarette. He stamps it out on the curb beside him and then slips the extinguished stub back into the pack to throw into an ashtray later.

“Samu?” you call to him, your voice quiet.

He glances over at you, and sees the way you’ve wrapped your arms around your knees. The anxious posture worries him.

“I didn’t forget you, I promise,” you whisper. “It’s just… sometimes I think this is all too good to be true.”

Your husband watches as you admire the ring on your finger that reflects the streetlight overhead.

Osamu smiles to himself, scooting closer to you on the curb.

“I know,” he reassures you, wrapping an arm around your waist and tucking you into his side. Your head naturally falls to his shoulder. Familiar and instinctive. “I was just teasin’ ya.”

You smell like alcohol. He’s sure he smells like cigarettes. You're in rumpled business casual, and he's dressed in the sweats he planned to wear to sleep. He reaches over and takes your left hand in his own—your wedding rings overlapping. And for a moment, in spite of all the ways the two of you have changed over the years and all the ways that life is different now, everything is exactly how it’s always been.

He tilts his face and presses a lingering kiss to your temple.

‘I’ve got a crush on ya too, by the way.”