Keishin Ukai | Haikyuu Series

The cigarette between Keishin’s fingers is already half ash. Burned down like everything else. Still, he hasn’t smoked it. Just held it. Let it waste away while his other hand ties his mess of blonde hair into a loose knot. Hair’s still damp at the roots, sticking to his neck. His whole body smells like her — like sweat, skin, perfume, cum. It’s in his pores, under his fingernails. It’s fucking unbearable.

He’s standing out on the balcony in nothing but a loose pair of black boxers, the waistband folded over, riding low on his hips. Skin still flushed from the heat of last night. Muscles sore in that good, aching way — the kind that makes you remember every moment with your body before your brain catches up.

It was supposed to be a one-time thing.

That’s what he told himself.

That’s what she told him.

But now it’s morning, and she’s still here.

And he’s out here, staring down at the sleepy streets of Miyagi, smoking a cigarette like it’s going to explain how the fuck they got back here. Again.

Inside, through the cracked balcony door, his bedroom’s a fucking disaster. Sheets twisted. Pillows tossed to the floor. Her clothes draped over his desk chair like she never left. And there she is — tangled in the sheets, lying on her stomach, her spine a soft curve under the cotton. Hair a mess. Legs bare and thrown over the mattress like she owns it.

He should hate this. He should be pissed. But all he can think is I want to keep this. I want to keep her.

He takes the first drag finally, nicotine hitting his lungs like an old friend. Fills the silence with a shaky exhale. Tries to let it settle something inside him, but it doesn’t. Not even close.

His heart’s doing that thing again — thudding too hard, too loud, like it’s trying to punch its way out of his chest and throw itself at her.

“Fucking idiot,” he mutters under his breath, dragging a hand down his face. “You’re such a fucking idiot.”

The thing is... it wasn’t just sex.

It never is with her.

Yeah, it was hot. Desperate. Raw. They fucked like the world was ending. Her nails are still imprinted down his back, and his jaw still hurts from where she pulled his hair too hard — like she was punishing him for something he never apologized for.

But after? After she collapsed against his chest, her face pressed into the crook of his neck. Her fingers ghosting over his ribs like she was trying to remember the shape of him. Like maybe she'd missed him too. Like maybe she regretted leaving.

And he had held her. Tight. Too tight. Like if he didn’t, she’d disappear again.

Because she always does.

He stares at the cigarette, thumb tapping against the filter. Flicks the ash over the side of the balcony. Watches it fall four stories down.

“I fucking hate this,” he says quietly. “Hate the way you crawl back in like nothing happened. Hate the way I fucking let you.”

He takes another drag. His voice is raw now, thick in his throat.

“But goddamn, I missed you.”

He glances back inside. Her shoulder’s bare now, peeking out from the sheets. She’s breathing slow. Deep. Lips parted. Looks so fucking peaceful.

He wants to ruin it. Wants to wake her up. Wants to climb back in that bed and remind her that no one knows her like he does. That her favorite songs are still in his playlists. That he still has the note she left taped to the fridge the day she left. That he still wakes up thinking about her and goes to sleep hoping she does the same.

He stubs out the cigarette on the balcony railing and doesn’t even flinch when it burns his fingertip.

Then he walks back inside.

The room smells like sex and sweat and laundry detergent — hers. His. Both. The air’s thick with it. His heart stutters as he gets closer to the bed, like it might fucking explode from how much he wants her.

She shifts in her sleep, murmurs something under her breath. He freezes. Waits. Watches the way her eyebrows twitch, the way her fingers curl in the sheets like she’s reaching for something.

He swears under his breath. Quiet, like a prayer. Like a curse.

Then he climbs in.

Mattress dips under his weight. The bed’s warm, still clinging to the heat they left in it. He lays down behind her, slowly, gently, as if any sudden movement might break the spell and make her vanish again. His hand hovers over her waist for a moment before he finally gives in — touches her. Pulls her into him.

And fuck, she fits.

She always fits.

Like his body was built to hold her and nothing else.

His chest presses to her back. His nose to her neck. He breathes her in, long and slow. She makes a soft sound, half-asleep, and instinctively leans into him. Her ass nudges against his hips, and his grip tightens automatically. She’s still so warm. Still so goddamn soft.

His voice cracks when he speaks.

“I still want you,” he says, barely above a whisper. “I don’t know what the fuck that makes me, but I do.”

He closes his eyes, trying to keep the ache at bay, but it’s no use.

“I can’t do this casual bullshit anymore,” he continues, voice hoarse. “I can’t pretend you’re just some girl I used to fuck. I can’t keep acting like it didn’t mean something.”

His hand drifts to her stomach, fingers splayed across her skin. Possessive. Gentle. Worshipping.

“I want all of it back. I want you to stay. Not just for the night. Not just for the sex. I want the mornings. The fucking arguments. The mess. The noise.”

He kisses her shoulder — slow, aching — like it’s the last time, or maybe the first time all over again.

“I want to wake up next to you every goddamn day,” he breathes against her skin. “Even when you piss me off. Even when you’re driving me fucking insane.”

He pulls her closer, pressing his forehead to the back of her neck.

“I love you. I fucking love you. Still. Always.”

His throat’s dry, but he can’t stop.

“I don’t care if it’s fucked up. I don’t care how many times we break. I’ll put us back together every time if it means I get to keep you.”

She doesn’t answer. Of course she doesn’t. She’s asleep. Or maybe she’s pretending. Maybe she hears every word and just doesn’t know what to do with it.

He doesn’t care.

He just holds her tighter. Buries his face in her hair. Breathes her in like he’s starving and she’s the last thing on earth worth tasting.

And for the first time in months, maybe longer — Keishin Ukai lets himself hope. Hope that maybe, just maybe, she won’t leave in the morning.

Hope that she might still want to come home.

To him.