Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

The shop smelled like rain and roses, even though it hadn’t rained in days.

Iwaizumi stood behind the counter, trimming the stems of a bundle of freesia with practiced fingers. The small storefront was quiet—too quiet, especially for being in Los Angeles but honestly—he didn’t mind. Mornings were always slow. Just the hum of soft indie music from the old speaker by the register, the gentle rustle of petals, and the occasional bark from the dog grooming place next door.

He preferred it like this: calm, steady, predictable.

Not that he hadn’t dreamed of something bigger, once. There were versions of his life he’d imagined when he was younger—sports, maybe coaching, maybe even something flashy—but at some point, he found more peace in gentleness than adrenaline. Flowers didn’t talk back. They didn’t disappoint. They just bloomed, quietly, beautifully, in their own time.

He glanced at the clock. 10:42 a.m. No customers yet. He considered making a new display for the front window—something seasonal. Maybe peach ranunculus and some snapdragons. Or daffodils, if the shipment was fresh enough. He turned to reach for a vase when the doorbell chimed.

“Good morning, welcome—” he started automatically, voice warm but distracted, eyes still on the shelf—

And then he looked up.
—and froze.

Standing in the doorway, as casually as if he hadn’t just shattered the peace of Iwaizumi’s entire week, was Oikawa Tooru

The Oikawa Tooru

Hollywood heartthrob. Two-time Golden Globe nominee. Lead in the Bloodlines sci-fi trilogy and Saving Grace, that hit medical drama that half the country was obsessed with. Vogue cover model. GQ’s “Most Captivating Smile” two years in a row. Red carpet regular. Walking internet trend. And—of course—gorgeous in the kind of way that didn’t feel entirely fair.

Tall, lean, absurdly photogenic from every angle. Messy brown hair that always looked like it had just been styled by a team of experts. A smile that could derail thoughts and interviews alike. There were millions—literally millions—of fans who would do absolutely anything just for a second of his attention. People who tracked his outfits, dissected his interviews, lined up for hours at events. And not all of them were harmless.
Oikawa had had more than his share of stalkers. Paparazzi that camped outside his apartment, obsessive fans who’d sent everything from disturbing letters to stolen items, people who thought “boundaries” was a suggestion. There were entire gossip sites dedicated to his whereabouts, his love life, and even the way he tied his shoes.

And, more relevantly, the reason Iwaizumi had a very specific watchlist on every single one of his streaming apps. He’d seen everything Oikawa had been in—twice. Some things, more. He knew the exact moment in The Depths where Oikawa’s character had broken down crying after losing his partner, because he’d replayed that scene enough times to memorize the trembling in his voice. He’d watched the blooper reels, the interviews, the fan edits. He’d read that Rolling Stone piece where Oikawa talked about acting as “the only time he didn’t feel like he had to fake it.”

And still, nothing had prepared him for seeing Oikawa in person. Not behind a screen. Not in a suit on some glowing carpet. Just… here. In a hoodie and joggers, standing under the soft yellow lights of his flower shop like some impossible dream.

He blinked. Once. Twice.

Nope. Still there.

“Uh,” Iwaizumi said, eloquently. His brain short-circuited. “Hi.”

Oikawa pushed his sunglasses up to rest on top of his head, revealing familiar brown eyes and the kind of tired smile that pulled at something old in Iwaizumi’s chest.

“Hey,” Oikawa said, like this was normal. Like this was fine. “Sorry to barge in. I was just walking around and—this place looked nice. You do custom arrangements?”

Iwaizumi nodded stiffly, heart hammering in his chest. “Yeah. I, uh… yeah. What are you looking for?”

Oikawa looked around the shop, eyes scanning the warm wood shelves, the clusters of plants in the corner, the hand-written signs on chalkboards.
“Something bright,” he said finally. “Not too flashy. Just… something to cheer someone up.”

Iwaizumi swallowed. He couldn’t tell if he was sweating or if his soul had just left his body. He forced himself to breathe. In. Out. It wasn’t like he hadn’t seen celebrities before—this was LA, after all. They wandered into cafés, dry cleaners, farmers markets like it was nothing. He’d once rung up an actual Marvel actor who bought a bouquet of forget-me-nots and a lavender candle for his wife.

But none of them had ever hit him like this.

None of them had been Oikawa Tooru.

He shifted into autopilot, reaching for the little notepad by the counter. “Do you have a specific flower in mind? Or a color theme, maybe? And—uh, would you like to include a note?”

Oikawa pulled off his sunglasses slowly, hooking them into the collar of his hoodie. His eyes were softer than Iwaizumi remembered from the screen—more tired, more real. And they were on him.
“Bright, like I said. Maybe orange or yellow tones? Something that looks like sunshine,” he said. His gaze flicked back to Iwaizumi, amused. “Is that too vague, or do you work well under pressure?”

Iwaizumi raised a brow, recovering just enough to find his footing. “I’m a florist, not a magician.”

“Oh no, crushed already. I was hoping for a miracle bouquet,” Oikawa teased, leaning casually against the counter. “Do you at least do sorcery on the weekends?”

Iwaizumi shot him a flat look, but the corners of his mouth twitched. “Only if you pay extra.”

“Now that’s customer service.”

He moved on instinct, letting his hands stay busy while his brain scrambled to keep cool. He selected marigolds first—bold, golden, with petals like fireworks—then paired them with soft peach roses and gerbera daisies that looked like they belonged in a sunbeam.

And somehow—somehow—he kept talking. Joking. Bantering.

It hit him all at once, somewhere between trimming the gerbera stems and reaching for eucalyptus sprigs: How am I speaking to him like this?
He should be fumbling every word, sweating through his shirt, maybe hiding in the walk-in cooler for good measure. But instead, his mouth was working
just fine, teasing a man he’d only ever known through screens like it was nothing.

Like it was easy.

Behind him, Oikawa wandered the shop, fingers brushing the edge of a potted lavender plant. Iwaizumi glanced up—and caught him staring. Just for a second. Oikawa didn’t look away. He smiled instead—small, curious.

“I like it here,” Oikawa said quietly. “It smells like peace.”

Iwaizumi’s fingers stilled on a stem. “…Thanks. I try to keep it calm.”

Oikawa nodded, gaze sweeping over the walls of blooms. “It’s nice. You’ve got a good thing going.”

“Wasn’t asking for a Yelp review,” Iwaizumi muttered, gently arranging the bouquet.

Oikawa let out a soft laugh. “Grumpy and talented. The rarest LA combo.”

“Someone has to balance out all the smiling actors,” Iwaizumi shot back before he could stop himself.

Oikawa grinned like he’d won something. “Touché.”

Iwaizumi cleared his throat again, a little rougher this time, and reached for a pen. “You said you wanted to add a note?”

Oikawa nodded, and their fingers brushed as Iwaizumi handed over a small white card and the pen. It felt like nothing. It felt like everything.
While Oikawa wrote, Iwaizumi finished the bouquet, tying the ribbon tight and trimming the paper edges just so. He placed it gently on the counter, letting himself be proud of it—soft, bright, hopeful. Like a little bit of light in a bundle.

“All set,” he said.

Oikawa stepped forward, pulling out a sleek black wallet, and handed over a card with a practiced flick. Iwaizumi rang it up, pretending not to notice the
screen flashing a very generous tip.

“Thanks,” Oikawa said, pocketing the receipt. And then he looked up and smiled. Not the smile from red carpets or TV interviews. This one was warm. Real.

Iwaizumi’s heart gave a traitorous little stutter.

“By the way,” Oikawa added, tilting his head, “what’s your name?”

Iwaizumi blinked, caught off guard again. “Iwaizumi. Hajime.”

Oikawa repeated it slowly, like he was tasting the sound. “Iwaizumi Hajime.” Then, quieter: “That’s a really pretty name.”

Iwaizumi opened his mouth to respond—probably with something like thanks, I guess, or you’re weird—but Oikawa beat him to it with a lazy smile.

“I’m Oikawa Tooru, by the way.”

Like Iwaizumi didn’t already know.

Before Iwaizumi could figure out a reply that didn’t make him sound like a flustered idiot, the door creaked again. A young girl in a UCLA hoodie stepped inside, then froze mid-step, eyes going comically wide.

“Oh my GOD. You’re—oh my GOD, you’re OIKAWA TOORU—”

That was all it took. The scream rang out like a flare, and within seconds, footsteps sounded from down the block. More people appeared at the windows, peering in, and someone shouted, “He’s in here!”

Oikawa winced, already pulling the hood back up.

Iwaizumi snapped into motion. “Back door,” he said quickly, stepping around the counter. “Come on.”

Oikawa followed close behind, ducking low as Iwaizumi led him past shelves of succulents and an old radio playing faintly in the background. The back door creaked open to a shaded alley, warm sun slicing between the buildings.

Oikawa turned to him at the threshold, bouquet still in hand. “Thanks for the rescue,” he said, breathless, grinning.

“Anytime.”

Their eyes met again—and this time it lingered.

“Thanks again. For the flowers. And the name.”

Then he gave a little wave, eyes crinkling, and disappeared into the alley.

The door swung shut behind him.

Iwaizumi stood in the stillness, surrounded by flowers, the soft echo of fan screams still distant and muffled.

His shop smelled like rain and roses—and now, the faint scent of trouble.

Chapter Text

Eleven days passed.

The shop settled back into its usual rhythm: early morning prep, midday bustle, long quiet stretches filled with pruning and playlists. Customers came and went. Most were regulars. A few were new.

But none of them were Oikawa.

Iwaizumi didn’t realize how often he was checking the door until he caught himself doing it again—every time the bell chimed, every time a shadow passed the window. His fingers would still for just a second. His breath would pause.

And then, disappointment.

He told himself it was stupid. That it had been a fluke. A weird little blip of chemistry caught in a quiet moment and nothing more. That he was reading too much into it—into the way Oikawa had lingered. The way he’d said his name.

Still, the memory stayed.

And to make it worse, he’d caught a glimpse of Oikawa on a late-night interview two nights ago—laughing at some offhand joke, hair slicked back, eyes sharp under the studio lights. He’d looked entirely at home in the spotlight.

Iwaizumi had watched for maybe thirty seconds too long. Then turned it off, scowling at himself the entire time.

Ridiculous.

⸻

It was a slow day.

Late afternoon sunlight slanted through the front windows, warming the wooden floors in soft gold. The radio hummed a mellow ballad, and Iwaizumi was elbow-deep in tulips, pollen clinging to his knuckles.

He didn’t look up when the bell jingled. Didn’t expect anything.

So when he heard—

“Hey.”

—his hands paused.

He looked up.

And there he was.

Oikawa Tooru. In jeans and a soft black shirt, sunglasses hooked into his collar, hair tousled like he hadn’t even tried. Like he wasn’t the kind of beautiful that stopped traffic.

“Swear I’m not here to cause another stampede,” Oikawa said with a crooked grin.

Iwaizumi blinked. Once. Twice. Willed his heart to chill out. “You bring a disguise this time,” he muttered, “or should I grab the riot gear?”

“Just my charm today,” Oikawa said breezily. “Far less dangerous.”

“Highly debatable.”

Oikawa laughed, stepping farther in. “Fair. Honestly—I felt bad. About last time. This place feels peaceful. And I kind of wrecked it.”

Iwaizumi glanced up—caught a flicker of something tired around Oikawa’s eyes. Less polished. Still sharp around the edges, but softer.

“You didn’t wreck it,” he said, a little quieter. “Just… stirred it up.”

Oikawa smiled at that—not his practiced, magazine-cover grin. Something smaller. A little lopsided.

“That sounds dangerously close to a compliment.”

“It wasn’t.”

“Liar.”

Iwaizumi sighed, turning back to his tulips. “You here for something, or just back to pester me?”

“Bit of both,” Oikawa admitted, raking a hand through his hair. “I need another bouquet. Something different this time. Less sunshine, more… strength, I guess.”

Iwaizumi paused, eyeing him. There was something in the way Oikawa said it—too casual to be casual.

He didn’t ask.

“…Color preference?”

“Cool tones. Blues, purples. You’re the artist.”

“I’m a florist.”

“Same thing,” Oikawa said, already leaning on the counter.

Iwaizumi rolled his eyes but didn’t argue. He turned, pulling stems from memory—hydrangea, lavender, delphinium, a bit of dusty miller. His hands were steady, precise.

His thoughts? Not so much.

Oikawa had come back. Of all the places he could be—photo shoots, film sets, rooftop parties—he was here. Again. Watching him like he meant to memorize the way he moved.

“You always this quiet?” Oikawa asked.

“Only around people who talk too much.”

“So, everyone?”

“Exactly.”

Oikawa snorted softly. “It’s weird,” he said after a moment. “Watching you work is kind of… calming. Like watching someone fold paper cranes. Or survive a thunderstorm with scissors.”

Iwaizumi raised a brow. “That was almost poetic. Almost.”

“I’m trying,” Oikawa said, flashing a grin. “You do look good doing this, though.”

The compliment came so casually that Iwaizumi nearly sliced a stem too short.

He recovered fast. “You flirt with all your florists, or just the ones who save your ass?”

“Only the ones who build bouquets like battle armor.”

Iwaizumi didn’t answer. He handed the bouquet across the counter instead—cool-toned, clean, calm. A quiet kind of beautiful.

Their fingers brushed again.

And this time, neither of them moved away too quickly.

“Thanks,” Oikawa said softly. “For this. For… not acting weird about me showing up again.”

Iwaizumi shrugged. “You’re only mildly annoying.”

Oikawa grinned, reaching for his card—but Iwaizumi stopped him with a glance.

“If you come back a third time,” he said, a little gruff, “maybe try not to bring the whole internet with you.”

Oikawa paused.

Then smiled—slow, wide, and unfairly bright. “So that’s a yes to a third time.”

Iwaizumi didn’t answer.

But he handed him the receipt.

And when the bell chimed and Oikawa disappeared into the soft golden light of evening, Iwaizumi stood in the hush that followed, something loosening in his chest.

The shop still smelled like rain and roses.

And possibility.

Chapter Text

The shop hummed softly with life—soft footsteps, quiet chatter, the gentle rustle of leaves and petals. A regular customer browsed near the back, murmuring to herself about a hydrangea arrangement for her mother’s birthday. The radio played low in the background, a mellow track curling into the corners of the space like a warm breeze.

The bell over the door jingled, and Iwaizumi didn’t glance up right away—he was elbow-deep in trimming stems, half-focused on the customer’s request and half on the memory of a voice he hadn’t heard in days.

“Hey.”

Iwaizumi’s head snapped up.

Oikawa stood just inside the shop, sunglasses perched on his head and two iced coffees in hand. His grin was immediate, crooked and bright. “Brought a peace offering.”

Before he could step fully inside, the bell jingled again—and a middle-aged woman with a large tote bag strode in, heading straight for the counter.

Oikawa darted behind a tall stand of ferns with the reflexes of someone used to ducking cameras, crouching low until only his eyes peeked out from behind a leaf.

Iwaizumi blinked. Once. Twice. Then he pressed his lips together to keep from laughing.

The customer stepped up to the counter, chatting casually as Iwaizumi helped her select an orchid. Oikawa remained still behind the foliage, sipping his coffee with all the stealth of a spy in a heist film.

When she finally left with a cheerful wave, Oikawa straightened, brushing invisible dust from his shirt. “Stealth mode,” he declared, proud.

“You’re ridiculous,” Iwaizumi said, accepting one of the iced coffees he offered.

“Necessary precaution,” Oikawa replied, sliding back toward the workbench. “Last thing I need is some stranger tagging me at ‘cute flower shop with grumpy florist.’”

Iwaizumi rolled his eyes. “So you’re just here to harass me during working hours?”

“Actually,” Oikawa said, settling beside him, “I was thinking you could teach me.”

Iwaizumi raised a brow. “Teach you what? How not to panic behind ferns?”

“How to make a bouquet,” Oikawa said, shrugging. “Seems like it could be a fun learning experience.”

Iwaizumi studied him for a moment, reading between the easy posture and the casual tone. There was something else there—earnest, maybe. Curious.

Part of him hesitated. If he said yes… if Oikawa actually learned how to make these things, would he stop coming altogether?

But then he glanced at the actor’s hands—ringless, manicured, not even slightly calloused. Not florist hands. And he remembered the way Oikawa had looked at the last bouquet.

Maybe this wasn’t about convenience.

Maybe this was about staying.

“…Fine,” Iwaizumi muttered. “But don’t expect miracles.”

“Was that a yes?”

“Regrettably.”

Oikawa grinned. “Great. I even wore something I could get dirty.”

Iwaizumi glanced at his all-black outfit. “That’s a ten-thousand-dollar shirt.”

“And if it survives your ruthless training, it deserves an award.”

They moved behind the counter, the quiet rhythm of the shop shifting around them like a tide. Oikawa perched on the edge of the table, sipping his coffee, while Iwaizumi gathered supplies.

“You’ve been busy?” Iwaizumi asked after a moment, not looking at him.

“Yeah,” Oikawa said. “Wrapping up press conferences. Interviews. You know how it is—smile until your jaw hurts.”

Iwaizumi grunted. “Saw you on TV the other night. That late-night thing. You said your favorite flower was a ‘white one with the green pokey bits.’”

Oikawa laughed. “I panicked! I forgot what they were called.”

“Lisianthus.”

“Right. Those. I sounded like an idiot.”

“You’re not wrong.”

“You missed me,” Oikawa said, eyes gleaming.

Iwaizumi snorted. “Not even a little.”

“Liar.”

He was.

But he didn’t say so.

Instead, he set a few stems on the table—blue thistle, delphinium, pale lavender, dusty miller—and gestured for Oikawa to come closer.

“First step: pick a mood.”

“A mood?”

Iwaizumi nodded. “Not a color, not a trend. A feeling. Flowers mean something. You want it to say something the person getting it won’t forget.”

Oikawa’s gaze dropped to the stems, something thoughtful settling in his expression. “And what if you don’t know what you’re trying to say?”

“Then you build something honest,” Iwaizumi replied quietly. “Even if it’s messy.”

Oikawa didn’t smile at that. He just nodded, fingers skimming over the petals.

“I’ve never done something like this,” he said. “Usually I just let my assistant pick things out. Sign the card. Smile.”

“You’re not used to slowing down.”

“Or being careful.”

Iwaizumi didn’t respond. He just handed Oikawa a pair of clippers.

They worked side by side—Oikawa fumbled at first, cutting stems too short or bruising petals, but he was focused, patient in a way Iwaizumi hadn’t expected. He followed instructions carefully. Asked the right questions. Laughed when his ribbon tied into knots.

“You’re not terrible,” Iwaizumi muttered.

“I’m stunned by your praise,” Oikawa deadpanned, then grinned. “You’re not so bad yourself, you know. Instructive. Stoic. Mysterious.”

“Charming,” Iwaizumi said flatly.

“I didn’t say that.”

“You implied it.”

Their hands brushed over a stem, brief but electric.

Neither pulled away.

The moment stretched.

Oikawa glanced at him—quiet, searching. There was something unspoken in it, but not heavy. Just… real.

And Iwaizumi let it be real.

Then the bell above the door jingled again, and another customer wandered in asking about orchids. Iwaizumi stepped away, the shift subtle but instinctive.

Oikawa reached for his hat and pulled it low over his eyes, the spell broken but not shattered.

When the customer left, Iwaizumi looked back at him. “So?”

Oikawa glanced down at his lopsided bouquet, then up at him again. “I think it’s honest.”

“That’s what matters.”

“I’ll do better next time,” Oikawa said, gathering the scraps.

Iwaizumi raised an eyebrow. “There’s going to be a next time?”

Oikawa’s smile was soft this time. “Only if you’ll have me.”

Iwaizumi didn’t answer.

But he didn’t say no.

The shop had gone still again, save for the rustle of petals as Iwaizumi cleaned up their mess of trimmed stems and curling ribbon. Oikawa lingered near the counter, tracing the edge of a flower bucket with one finger, clearly stalling.

He glanced up.

“Iwa.”

Iwaizumi looked over. “What?”

Oikawa hesitated, then gave a faint smile. “You know… if I had your number, I wouldn’t have to keep ambushing your shop just to see you.”

Iwaizumi raised an eyebrow. “So that’s what this is?”

Oikawa leaned forward on his elbows, voice light but eyes too direct. “Don’t flatter yourself. I just want direct access to a professional bouquet consultant.”

“Uh-huh.”

“Also maybe the consultant himself.”

Iwaizumi snorted, but something tightened behind his ribs.

He grabbed a pen, scribbled his number on the back of a business card, and slid it across the counter without meeting Oikawa’s gaze.

“No promises I’ll answer if you’re annoying.”

“That’s… so hot of you,” Oikawa said, pocketing the card with a grin. “Seriously, though. I’ll text you.”

“You better not just send flower emojis.”

“Tempting,” Oikawa said. Then, softer, “But no. I’ll actually text you.”

Their eyes caught again—longer this time. No teasing. Curious. Open.

And for once, Iwaizumi didn’t look away.

Oikawa stepped back slowly, fingers brushing the edge of the bouquet they’d made—lopsided, slightly crushed, but still strangely beautiful.

He glanced over his shoulder before reaching the door.

“See you soon?”

Iwaizumi leaned on the counter, arms crossed. “We’ll see.”

But his voice had lost its edge.

And the look he gave him?

That said yes.

Even if his words didn’t.

The door jingled softly behind Oikawa, the golden light from outside briefly catching on the glass before it swung shut. Then it was quiet again.

Too quiet.

Iwaizumi stared at the spot where Oikawa had just stood, still leaning against the counter like he hadn’t just handed his number to a world-famous actor-slash-chaotic menace.

He blinked once.

Then twice.

Then dropped his forehead into his hand.

“What the hell was that,” he muttered under his breath, face burning. “What just happened.”

He could still hear Oikawa’s voice echoing—“Maybe the consultant himself”—like it was some throwaway line and not a direct hit to his nervous system. His ears were red. He could feel it. His heart hadn’t decided whether to race or stop entirely.

He looked down at his hands. They were still warm from where they’d brushed Oikawa’s.

God. He was so—

His phone buzzed.

He froze.

Picked it up.

Unknown Number

“This is your selectively thoughtful student. Hope you save my number. Also: I had fun. And I’m definitely coming back.”

Iwaizumi stared at the screen like it had personally offended him. Then—helplessly, frustratingly—he laughed. Just once. A quiet, stunned huff as he ran a hand through his hair and let himself smile.

His thumb hovered over the reply box.

He didn’t type anything. Not yet.

But he did save the number.

He didn’t stop smiling for the rest of the day and found himself already wondering when he’d see him next.

Chapter Text

The world was still quiet when Iwaizumi woke up.

No alarms—just the soft gray light slipping in through the window and the steady hum of morning silence. He stretched, rubbed a hand over his face, and sat up, already half-thinking about the day ahead.

A quick gym session, a hot shower, and a protein-packed breakfast later, he was out the door. By the time the city had even started to stir, Iwaizumi was already at the flower shop, keys jingling in his hand as he unlocked the front door.

The shop always smelled like something clean and green, even before the blooms were arranged—like eucalyptus and something faintly earthy. He flipped the lights on, swept the floor, and checked the delivery list for the day. Every petal had to be perfect. Every stem trimmed just so. He worked with a quiet precision, the same way he used to move on the volleyball court.

Volleyball.

A lifetime ago, but still wired into him—the discipline, the drive. He’d played all his life, even through college, until something in him shifted and he realized he didn’t want to chase medals anymore. He wanted something quieter.

The flowers made sense in a way nothing else ever had.

His phone buzzed on the counter, and without even glancing, he knew who it was.

Their text thread had taken on a life of its own.

It started with harmless banter—Oikawa sending selfies from his trailer with captions like, “This lighting is tragic.” Or voice notes full of whispered dramatics: “I just did five interviews in a row and forgot what my own name is. Am I still Tooru? Am I even real?”

But then Iwaizumi, without really meaning to, made it a thing.

He began sending Oikawa the most outrageous tabloid articles he could find—ones that all centered on Oikawa himself. Headlines like:

“Oikawa Tooru Caught in Secret Rendezvous at Local Flower Shop—Romantic Mystery Unfolds!”

“Experts Say Oikawa’s Smile Might Be a Marketing Weapon. Should We Be Concerned?”

“The Actor Who Might Actually Be an Alien, According to Fans With Too Much Time.”

The best part? The comments.

Iwaizumi would screenshot the top replies, full of loyal fans typing in all caps things like “LEAVE HIM ALONE HE’S LITERALLY JUST BREATHING” and “IF BEING BEAUTIFUL IS A CRIME THEN LOCK HIM UP I GUESS.”

He never added much when he sent them. Sometimes just a very serious:

“Should I be worried?”
Or
“Did you tell them you were an alien? I feel like that’s something I should know.”

Oikawa always responded—sometimes with dramatic gasps via voice message, other times with blurry selfies of himself buried under a blanket and an ominous song attached.

Once, Iwaizumi sent an article that speculated Oikawa had a secret lover he’d been hiding from the press—complete with a blurry, far-off paparazzi photo of someone who might have been Iwaizumi from behind. He didn’t say anything, just dropped the link.

Oikawa’s response was immediate:
“Okay who gave them your good side. I NEED TO KNOW.”

Their banter didn’t fill every moment of the day—Oikawa was still constantly filming, promoting, being pulled in a dozen directions at once. But they kept the thread alive. Just enough to remind each other they were still around.

⸻

One afternoon, as Iwaizumi clipped a sprig of lavender for a bouquet, his phone buzzed again. It was another message from Oikawa—this time a selfie with that classic exasperated look and the caption: “This morning’s interview went okay, but I swear the lighting is out to get me.”

Iwaizumi smirked and replied with a quick joke: “Maybe it just can’t compete with your natural glow.”

Oikawa’s reply popped up almost instantly: “Careful — keep talking like that and I might have to pay you back with more than just coffee.”

Iwaizumi’s fingers hovered over the keyboard before he shot back, flustered but playing it cool: “Oh, please. I’m too professional to fall for your charm that easily. Don’t make me start charging you double.”

They kept up the back-and-forth, sending silly gifs, memes, and random jokes. It was their little daily ritual, a way to stay connected despite Oikawa’s crazy schedule. Then, just like that, the messages stopped.

No “Good morning, florist!” or “Check out this ridiculous headline!” Like silence had suddenly fallen over their thread.

Iwaizumi’s phone stayed quiet, and without meaning to, he found himself glancing at it more often than usual. One missed day wasn’t a big deal—probably just a long night or an early shoot—but his mind started to wander anyway. Was Oikawa overwhelmed? Exhausted?

Shaking off the worry, Iwaizumi cleaned up the shop and prepared it for the next day. That’s when the door creaked open.

Oikawa, dramatic as ever, slumping across the counter like he’d fought a war with exhaustion and barely lived to tell the tale.

His hair was chaos. His eyes tired. But he still had that spark.

Iwaizumi didn’t even flinch. “You look like a zombie who binge-watched something sad and cried through the finale.”

Oikawa groaned. “I just survived four back-to-back meetings, a wardrobe fitting, and two hours of someone explaining lighting temperatures to me. Oh, and I’m officially cast in that new sci-fi epic everyone’s talking about—that’s been a circus and a half. Apparently I have to train, learn fight choreography, and be ‘camera-ready’ at every hour of the day. My body hurts. My soul hurts. My eyebrows are overworked.”

Iwaizumi raised a brow. “Your eyebrows?”

“They’re expressive!” Oikawa huffed.

“I’m sure it’s exhausting,” Iwaizumi said dryly. “Truly, the plight of the beautiful and employed.”

Oikawa pointed at him with the enthusiasm of someone too tired to fake offense. “Sarcasm noted.”

They shared a look. Familiar. Easy.

“So,” Iwaizumi said, nodding toward the clock, “you gonna rest or hang around and complain more?”

“Tempting,” Oikawa said, “but if I go home, I’ll just end up working on my script. Might as well waste time with you.”

Iwaizumi rolled his eyes, but there was a warmth behind it. “Wow. I’m honored.”

Oikawa leaned against the counter, eyes scanning the flower arrangements. “What do you even do when I’m not bothering you?”

Iwaizumi raised an eyebrow. “Work?”

“No, I mean, when you’re not elbow-deep in tulips. Like—your actual free time.”

There was a pause. Then Iwaizumi shrugged, a little awkward. “I work out. Watch the occasional game. Used to play volleyball all my life. Still miss it sometimes.”

Oikawa perked up. “Wait, really? Me too. Well—used to. I was pretty competitive about it before acting took over. We would’ve made a killer team.”

Iwaizumi smirked. “Or killed each other trying to win.”

“Details,” Oikawa said breezily. “So basically you’re saying you’re secretly a jock?”

Iwaizumi gave him a flat look. “I’m saying I like routine. The gym. The quiet. Things that don’t yell ‘action’ every five seconds.”

Oikawa hummed. “Sounds kind of nice.”

“It is,” Iwaizumi said, turning back to the bouquet he’d been building. “You should try it sometime.”

Oikawa didn’t answer right away. Just smiled, eyes lingering on him like maybe he was already trying.

Then Iwaizumi glanced up, a teasing edge to his voice. “Hey, why haven’t you asked for a bouquet again? You know, like the previous times you’ve visited?”

Oikawa’s smile twitched but he shrugged. “Ah, those were for someone special. Different day, different reason. I’m good for now.”

Iwaizumi’s brow lifted, clearly curious but not pressing it further. “Suit yourself.”

Oikawa deflected smoothly, “Besides, you’d probably charge me double by now.”

They shared a quiet chuckle, and the moment slipped away, leaving the question lingering just beneath the surface.

For a moment, neither of them spoke. The world outside the windows was dimming, orange sun sinking behind buildings, casting long shadows across the floor. Inside, it smelled like eucalyptus and honey, the air soft and still.

“So,” Iwaizumi said after a pause, “what were you like before all this?”

“All what?”

“The fame. The red carpets. The… cinematic nonsense.”

Oikawa blinked. “You mean when I was a regular human?”

“Yeah. Or whatever passes for that in your case.”

Oikawa hummed and looked up at the hanging eucalyptus bunches above them. “I guess I was always the kind of kid who wanted a big life. I liked being the center of attention—shocking, I know—but I think I just wanted people to see me. You?”

Iwaizumi shrugged. “Didn’t care much about being seen. I liked working with my hands. Being useful. Didn’t matter if anyone noticed it or not.”

“You always want to run a flower shop?”

“Not always. I thought I’d be a physical therapist or a trainer. I studied kinesiology in college. But this—” he gestured around them, to the stillness and warmth of the shop “—felt better. Like I was building something of my own.”

Oikawa was quiet for a beat, then said, “That makes sense.”

“What does?”

“I don’t know. Just… you. You seem like someone who wants to build instead of chase.”

Iwaizumi blinked. “That’s either poetic or insulting.”

“It’s meant to be poetic,” Oikawa said, pretending to adjust an invisible tie. “But I’m sure you’ll find a way to take it the wrong way.”

“I usually do.”

Oikawa smiled, then tilted his head. “Do you have family nearby?”

“Parents are in Pasadena. I talk to them every couple weeks. You?”

“Eh,” Oikawa said, dragging out the sound. “Mine are back in New York. We keep in touch, but… long distance, different worlds. It’s easier not to think about it too hard. But, I still talk to my older sister from time to time.”

“Fair enough.” Iwaizumi gave him a look. “You’ve got that look, though.”

“What look?”

“The ‘I was a handful as a teenager’ look.”

“I was charming.”

“You were a menace.”

Oikawa gasped. “You didn’t even know me!”

“I know enough, now.”

They laughed, and this time it wasn’t tentative. It filled the shop’s quiet corners easily. Iwaizumi shook his head, amused, as he reached for the remote behind the counter.

“The Lakers are playing tonight,” Iwaizumi muttered, clicking on the small TV above the register. “Figured I’d catch the end.”

But instead of a basketball match, the screen lit up with the unmistakable colors of an entertainment segment. Flashy headline across the screen: “Oikawa Tooru Rumors Resurface.”

Oikawa groaned. “Oh no.”

The anchor continued, “Speculation is mounting over who will join the cast of the highly anticipated sci-fi epic. Sources suggest that Oikawa Tooru is in talks for a leading role, alongside other big names in the industry. Also, sources say the actor has already begun stunt and choreography training.”

A montage of Oikawa’s past roles played on the screen, followed by a recent red carpet interview.

The reporter asked, “Oikawa, fans are dying to know—do you have a special someone in your life?”

Oikawa on the screen laughed nervously. “Ah, well, I’m currently focusing on my career.”

Back in the shop, Iwaizumi turned to look at the real Oikawa, who was now a shade of red that rivaled the roses in the display.

“Focusing on your career, huh?” Iwaizumi said, a smirk playing on his lips.

Oikawa groaned, burying his face in his hands. “Please turn it off”

The camera cut to a discussion panel. One of the hosts leaned forward, clearly enjoying herself. “And while he’s been busy taking over Hollywood, the internet is wondering—does Oikawa Tooru have time for romance?”

The others laughed.

“I don’t think he’s seeing anyone, not publicly,” another chimed in. “There haven’t been any confirmed reports. But I will say—there’s definitely someone he’s keeping under wraps. Just a guess.”

“Oh, he’s hiding something,” the first said, grinning. “You don’t get that glow from Pilates.”

Iwaizumi snorted and looked over at Oikawa—who was no longer standing quite so tall.

His face had gone completely red. Not just a light flush—an ears-burning, hand-half-lifted-to-cover-his-face kind of red.
“Oh god,” Oikawa groaned, instantly throwing his hands over his face. “No. Turn it off. Turn it off!”

“Shhh. This is getting good.”

“We haven’t seen him with anyone serious in a while,” one broadcaster said. “No confirmed girlfriend or boyfriend. Do you think he’s secretly dating someone?”

“I’m not—there’s no one—” Oikawa spluttered from behind the counter.

Iwaizumi bit back laughter. “Secretly dating, huh? I don’t see a ring.”

“I swear to—”

“You could’ve told me,” Iwaizumi added, mock-serious. “I would’ve made you a bouquet.”

“I hate you.”

“You’re blushing, Oikawa.”

“I am not!” Oikawa’s head popped up briefly—his face was definitely red.

Iwaizumi gave him the smuggest look imaginable.

“Stop smiling like that!” Oikawa protested. “This is a nightmare!”

Iwaizumi finally turned the TV off, still chuckling as the screen went dark. The shop was quiet again, but the air between them had shifted. It was warmer now, charged with something a little deeper than mockery.

Oikawa stood, trying to compose himself, straightening the sleeves of his jacket like it might help recover his dignity.

Iwaizumi tilted his head. “You know,” he said casually, “if you keep showing up here, people might start thinking I’m the secret.”

Oikawa froze. His eyes flicked over to Iwaizumi, unreadable for a moment—then narrowed.

“You wish,” he said, but his voice was too soft, too close to something else.

Iwaizumi grinned. “You’re right. That would be terrible. Me, stuck with you? Sounds like a nightmare.”

“You’re insufferable.”

“And yet, here you are.”

Oikawa was still trying to hide his red face behind his hand, but his shoulders had finally relaxed.

Silence settled again.

And this time, Iwaizumi let it stay.

He glanced at Oikawa—really glanced at him. The curve of his profile, the messy hair, the faint laugh lines near his eyes. He looked normal in the way someone very famous rarely did. Tired, unguarded.

And Iwaizumi found himself thinking—
If people found out he kept coming here, would it be a problem?

Would the shop get swarmed with cameras? Would reporters linger outside like stray cats, waiting for a quote or a photo or something to twist into a story?

Would they assume something was going on?

Would Oikawa deny it?

Iwaizumi’s throat felt tight for no good reason. He leaned back against the counter, arms crossed, but his gaze lingered on the actor beside him.

Was he even into guys?
The compliments, the teasing—sure, it was constant. But it could’ve just been… Oikawa. That slick, polished charm. The part of him trained to be magnetic, a little larger than life.

Still, something about the way he came here—quiet, purposeful—made Iwaizumi wonder.

Why does he keep coming back?

The question stuck to the inside of his mouth for a while before he finally asked, “Why are you so interested in me?”

Oikawa looked over, startled. “What?”

Iwaizumi kept his voice level, but his eyes didn’t leave Oikawa’s. “You could go anywhere in the city. Any café, any shop. You’ve got a thousand better ways to waste time than with some florist who grunts at you and makes fun of you. So… why this? Why me?”

Oikawa didn’t answer right away. His playful mask slipped just slightly, and something vulnerable flickered behind his eyes. He sat back on the stool again, slower this time.

“You don’t expect anything from me,” he said finally. “Everyone else does.”

Iwaizumi blinked.

Oikawa gave a short, bitter laugh. “Everywhere I go, someone wants something. A photo. A favor. A version of me they already made up in their head. And it’s not bad, really. I’m used to it. But here…”

His eyes met Iwaizumi’s again. “You don’t want anything from me. Not even a smile.”

Iwaizumi didn’t speak, but his chest felt a little too full.

Oikawa shrugged, more softly this time. “I come here, and I don’t have to get the lighting right, or say the right thing, or… be the version of me that sells tickets. You don’t treat me like a brand. You just… tell me that I’m annoying.”

A faint smile tugged at Iwaizumi’s lips. “Well, you can be annoying.”

“I know.” Oikawa laughed quietly. “But that’s what I like. You see the mess. You say so. You don’t flinch when I’m not polished.”

The words settled between them like petals drifting from the air.

Iwaizumi didn’t know what to say for a moment. He’d expected another quip, a flashy half-truth. Not this. Not something that made his skin prickle, something that made the air between them feel too still.

“You don’t have to be polished here,” he said finally. “I like things a little rough around the edges.”

Oikawa’s gaze didn’t move. “Yeah. I kind of figured that out.”

The silence that followed wasn’t awkward. It was heavy in a good way. Like the quiet right before you tell someone something you don’t usually say out loud.

Iwaizumi looked down at the counter, then back at Oikawa.

The shop was already dim, quiet, filled only with the soft rustle of air and the faintest trace of lavender from the nearby drying bundles. Oikawa faced Iwaizumi, eyes a little unsure now despite the earlier teasing.

“Hey,” Oikawa said. “Do you ever… want to hang out outside the shop?”

Iwaizumi blinked.

The question landed like a stone dropped into still water—soft, but spreading.

Oikawa laughed nervously. “I mean—just, like. Not while you’re surrounded by hydrangeas and pretending I’m not annoying you. Not that I don’t like the hydrangeas. I do. Very symmetrical. And your scowl’s grown on me.”

Iwaizumi raised an eyebrow. “Are you okay?”

“I’m completely normal, thanks for asking,” Oikawa said, clearing his throat and straightening up a bit.

Oikawa rubbed the back of his neck. “I mean—don’t get me wrong, your flower shop’s great. Smells nice, very aesthetic, and I love what you’ve done with the eucalyptus.”

Iwaizumi narrowed his eyes. “You don’t know what eucalyptus smells like.”

“Okay, rude.” Oikawa huffed, then pushed on with a grin. “But seriously—we always hang out here. I think we need a change of scenery.”

Iwaizumi crossed his arms, eyebrow raised. “Scenery?”

“You know. Less petals, more… skyline. I don’t know. Something different. Outside the shop.” Oikawa tilted his head, watching him carefully. “You ever let people take you out?”

Iwaizumi blinked. “Take me out?”

“Mhm,” Oikawa said innocently. “You know. Like a date. But without the pressure. Unless you want the pressure. I’m very adaptable.”

Iwaizumi scoffed and looked away, ears tinged red. “You’re insufferable.”

“You’re blushing,” Oikawa sang softly, clearly delighted. “So I’ll take that as a maybe.”

Iwaizumi’s eyes narrowed slightly, but not in annoyance. “Wouldn’t the paps catch you?”

“I know a spot,” Oikawa said easily, tapping two fingers against the doorframe like it was some secret knock. “No cameras. No crowd. Just us.”

That last part hung in the air.

Iwaizumi’s stomach did a little flip. “…Okay.”

Oikawa froze. “Wait, really?”

“You sound surprised.”

“I just figured you’d grumble and say something like, ‘Don’t you have a movie to shoot or something?’”

Iwaizumi rolled his eyes. “I was going to. But unfortunately, I said yes.”

A grin spread across Oikawa’s face—bright, wide, a little too smug.

“You like me.”

“I said yes, not that I like you.”

“Oh, you totally like me.”

“Go home, Oikawa.”

“I’m going! I’m going!” He turned and pushed open the door. The bell gave its usual faint chime.

Then he paused again and leaned halfway back in. “Wear something that’ll break my heart a little.”

“And what’s that supposed to be?”

“I don’t know. Guess you’ll have to figure that out.”

“Go.”

Oikawa finally left with a ridiculous little salute. The door shut behind him with a soft click.

And Iwaizumi stood there, staring at it.

Still.

Unmoving.

Until he exhaled hard and dragged a hand down his face—his skin practically burning.

“God,” he muttered under his breath. “What the hell did I just agree to?”

His reflection in the window showed ears red, cheeks red, neck red.

He turned away fast.

Then back again.

Then stood for a good thirty seconds in the middle of his flower shop, trying to convince himself that this was fine, he was fine, and he wasn’t about to have a complete mental breakdown over a guy who got on his nerves and still managed to make him want to say yes to things.

It smelled like roses and the faint trace of Oikawa’s cologne, like fresh rain and the beginning of something he wasn’t ready to name.

Chapter Text

The soft rustle of petals was the only sound in the flower shop that morning. Iwaizumi stood behind the counter, carefully adjusting the cascade of garden roses he was arranging in a ceramic vase. Pale peach, ivory, and soft green — he had chosen the palette on instinct. Gentle. Hopeful. Beautiful in a way that felt both grounded and quietly extravagant.

The bell over the door hadn’t rung in over an hour. Outside, the sun spilled onto the pavement in hazy patches, the kind that made people linger in parks or cafes instead of wandering into flower shops.

He didn’t mind.

Mostly.

The vibration of his phone pulled him out of his thoughts. He wiped his hands on a towel, then glanced at the screen where a new message sat, lit up like it had been waiting to change the course of his whole day.

Oikawa: “I’ll pick you up at 7 tonight.”

Iwaizumi blinked at the message, stared for a second longer than he’d admit, then let out a soft breath through his nose.

This is real.

It had been three days since Oikawa’s last visit.

And now this. A real date. Like it was something they’d always been heading toward.

Iwaizumi set the vase down more gently than necessary, suddenly aware of the way his pulse had shifted — a quiet thrum beneath his skin, not nervous, just… alive.

He didn’t want to admit it, not even to himself, but he hoped the day would move faster.

The hours dragged. Customers trickled in — an elderly man picking up peonies for his wife, a teenage girl looking for a “congrats you’re finally divorced” bouquet for her aunt. Iwaizumi handled it all with his usual quiet ease, but his eyes kept flicking toward the clock above the register.

2:14.
Then 3:37.
Then 4:22.

By 4:58, he’d made up his mind. The shop had been quiet long enough. No one would miss an extra hour.

He flipped the sign to CLOSED, locked the door, and turned off the main lights, the warm glow of the backroom drawing him in like a soft invitation. He needed time — not for vanity, but to make sure tonight didn’t feel like an afterthought.

Because Oikawa Tooru, for all his drama and teasing, had asked him on a date. And Iwaizumi didn’t want to show up looking like the guy who forgot what it felt like to be wanted.

⸻

Iwaizumi stood under the shower for far too long.

He wasn’t stalling, exactly — he was just thinking. Letting the hot water drum against his shoulders while his brain ran circles around itself.

He dried off slowly, towel dragging through his hair as he moved back into the bedroom.

When he stepped into his room, half-dressed and already annoyed, the problem didn’t get any easier. He stood in front of his closet like it had personally wronged him.

His usual t-shirts felt too plain. The button-ups felt too stiff. He tried on a black one, then immediately peeled it off. Tried a soft grey tee, then discarded that too. Nothing felt right. Everything felt like it was either trying too hard or not trying enough.

He yanked on a slate-blue short-sleeve shirt that fell somewhere in between and stared at himself in the mirror, scowling.

“What does that even mean, ‘break my heart a little,’” he muttered under his breath. “Stupid.”

But he didn’t take the shirt off.

Instead, he ran a hand through his hair, then tried to fix it, then gave up and ran the comb through it again. He looked fine. More than fine, probably. Normal enough to not draw attention, but — okay, maybe good enough to qualify for heart-breaking. A little.

He let out a short breath and checked the time. 6:42.

Still early. But his stomach was already twisted, buzzing beneath the surface like he was heading into something huge. Something he hadn’t let himself admit he wanted.

He grabbed his wallet and keys and paced once across the room before his phone lit up on the counter.

6:51PM- Oikawa: Almost there. Don’t lock your door I’m coming up >:(

Iwaizumi stared at the screen for a second longer than he meant to.

He set it down, checked the mirror one last time, and mumbled, “He better not say anything stupid.”

There was a knock — two short, one long — like Oikawa was announcing himself with a little fanfare.

Iwaizumi opened the door.

And immediately regretted it.

Oikawa stood there in a soft beige blazer over a black shirt, a mischievous smile on his face and a small bouquet of pale peach ranunculus and creamy garden roses in his hand.

“For you,” he said, as if they did this all the time. Like it was no big deal. Like he wasn’t standing there looking like some ridiculous romcom lead who had personally set out to ruin Iwaizumi’s entire night with a smile.

“What—why the hell did you bring flowers?” Iwaizumi asked, automatically taking them despite himself.

“Because you spend all day surrounded by them and no one ever brings you any,” Oikawa replied, like it was obvious. “And because I wanted to. You look good, by the way. Really good.”

Iwaizumi flushed and immediately looked away, scowling. “Shut up.”

“No, seriously,” Oikawa went on, stepping inside as if he owned the place, eyes trailing over Iwaizumi in full approval. “You look so good it kind of hurts. Heartbreaking, really. I should’ve specified I only wanted it to sting a little, not leave me on the floor.”

Iwaizumi groaned and turned toward the counter so Oikawa wouldn’t see the way his ears were going red. “You’re unbelievable.”

“You followed the dress code, though,” Oikawa said brightly, leaning against the wall with a grin that should’ve been illegal. “So I forgive you.”

Iwaizumi looked over his shoulder, bouquet still in hand. “Where are we going?”

“Somewhere nice,” Oikawa said, pushing off the wall. “But don’t worry — not fancy. Just… nice.”

Iwaizumi stared at him a second longer.

Then, quietly, “Thanks. For the flowers.”

Oikawa’s grin softened into something smaller. “You’re welcome.”

⸻

They stepped into the warm air outside, the early evening painting the sky in muted orange and dusky blue. The quiet hum of the city filled the background, and Iwaizumi’s nerves buzzed underneath it all as they reached the curb.

Then he saw the car.

Of course it was a sleek black sports car, glossy and dramatic, parked like it belonged in a photoshoot. Oikawa clicked the keys and it gave a little purr as it unlocked.

“You’re kidding,” Iwaizumi said flatly.

“What?” Oikawa gave him a look of feigned innocence as he opened the passenger door for him. “It’s tasteful.”

“It’s a car with a spoiler.”

“And you’re still getting in it,” Oikawa said smugly.

Iwaizumi rolled his eyes but slid in anyway, gripping the edge of the seat as if the car might lurch into the air. “You know, I had a hunch you’d be a terrible driver.”

Oikawa got in on his side and flashed him a grin. “Don’t worry. I only speed when I’m alone. Usually.”

Iwaizumi narrowed his eyes. “Oikawa.”

“Relax,” he said, pulling out smoothly. “You’re precious cargo.”

It was stupid how fast that made Iwaizumi’s face heat up.

As they drove, the conversation turned light. Oikawa pointed out places he’d been to when he first moved to LA, laughing at how lost he used to get. Iwaizumi talked about the little cafes that opened near the shop, and how most of them didn’t survive the first six months. Oikawa told a dramatic story about a costume fitting disaster. Iwaizumi nearly choked laughing.

It was easy. Ridiculously so. For someone who hated small talk, Iwaizumi barely noticed the time passing.

“You’re not what I expected,” he said at one point, somewhere between a red light and a turn.

Oikawa glanced over. “Yeah? What’d you expect?”

“I don’t know. Brattier.”

Oikawa smiled, but it was softer this time. “You wouldn’t have let me in the shop if I was.”

Iwaizumi huffed. “I didn’t let you in. You barged in and stared at my flowers for five minutes.”

“And now look at us,” Oikawa said, turning into the lot of a tucked-away restaurant. “On a date.”

“Shut up,” Iwaizumi muttered, but his heart wasn’t in it. Not even close.

The valet met them the second they pulled up, and Oikawa handed over the keys with a casual ease that made Iwaizumi snort. Of course he was the kind of person who treated valet like muscle memory.

“Don’t act so impressed,” Oikawa said, holding the door open for him as they stepped inside. “You could pull this off too, you know.”

“Mm,” Iwaizumi hummed, taking in the interior instead of responding.

The restaurant was beautiful in that quiet, thoughtful way — warm light, clean architecture, tables spaced just enough to let each one feel private without being isolated. A low hum of conversation filled the air, like the whole place was breathing slowly. It wasn’t fancy enough to feel stiff, but it was elegant. Soft piano music played somewhere in the background, weaving through the sound of silverware and laughter.

It was… nice. Really nice.

Iwaizumi blinked, then leaned closer. “This doesn’t seem like the kind of place you go if you’re trying not to draw attention.”

Oikawa glanced around like he hadn’t even noticed, then shrugged. “That’s the point. Everyone here minds their own business. There’s no cameras allowed inside, and most of the regulars are either celebrities or the kind of people who don’t care who I am.”

Iwaizumi raised an eyebrow. “So you’re just casually outing yourself as a regular here?”

Oikawa smirked. “No, I care who you are. There’s a difference.”

Before Iwaizumi could react to that — because god, how was he supposed to react to that — the hostess greeted them with a soft smile and Oikawa gave his name. They were led to a small table near the windows, dimly lit and tucked into its own quiet little corner of the world.

Oikawa rested his chin on his hand. “You’re hard to read, you know that?”

“Good,” Iwaizumi said without missing a beat.

Oikawa laughed softly, almost fond. “I mean it. I can’t tell if you’re enjoying yourself or planning my assassination.”

“I could do both.”

Another grin tugged at Oikawa’s mouth. “You’re not denying that you’re enjoying yourself, though.”

Iwaizumi looked at him, eyes narrowing just slightly. “You talk too much.”

“And you’re still here.”

He hated how that landed — hated how true it was, how good it felt to be sitting here across from him in this quiet, golden-lit space, the city muffled just outside the window.

Oikawa leaned forward, scanning the menu. “Should we start with appetizers? I know the chef. Everything’s good.”

Iwaizumi let out a quiet breath, settling more fully into his chair. “Sure. Just don’t order anything weird.”

“Define weird,” Oikawa teased.

“You.”

That earned him a laugh and a smile he’d remember later, long after the night ended.

They ordered a few things to share, with Oikawa insisting on a starter he described as “life-changing” while Iwaizumi rolled his eyes and told him it better not involve truffle oil. Once the waiter stepped away, they were left with quiet and flickering candlelight, glasses of water sweating gently against the linen tablecloth.

“So,” Oikawa began, propping his elbow on the table and leaning in. “What’s the exciting life of a florist been like this week?”

Iwaizumi shrugged. “The usual. Arranged some bouquets. Helped a couple with wedding centerpieces. A guy came in and asked for something romantic and then started sobbing halfway through describing his ex.”

Oikawa’s eyes widened. “Did you console him?”

“Sold him a succulent and told him to focus on keeping one thing alive at a time.”

Oikawa burst out laughing. “You’re cruel!”

“It’s the truth.” Iwaizumi picked up his glass. “What about you? Working on that movie?”

Oikawa sighed dramatically, like he’d just been asked to lift a boulder. “Yes. Started filming. Long hours. I had to hang upside down in a harness last week for six hours while they rigged a spaceship to explode behind me.”

“That’s what you get for saying yes to a movie where you ‘lead the rebellion with your soulful eyes,’” Iwaizumi said, reaching for a piece of bread.

Oikawa groaned into his wine glass. “That’s from the press release, not me. I’ve said, like, three lines of dialogue so far. The rebellion isn’t even rebelling yet.”

“Tragic,” Iwaizumi deadpanned. “And yet your ego remains fully intact.”

“Of course it does. You think I’m gonna let a half-finished script and a moody director ruin my charm?”

“Pretty sure I watched it almost happen last time.”

“That was method acting,” Oikawa said smoothly. “I was becoming the emotionally tortured heir to a galaxy-wide empire.”

Iwaizumi just snorted. “You were crying in your trailer because they ran out of those chocolate almonds you like.”

“Exactly. Tortured.”

They traded smirks across the table. Iwaizumi shifted slightly, relaxing more as the drinks came and the food followed in fragrant, carefully arranged plates.

After a few bites and a shared nod of approval, Oikawa set his fork down and said, “Okay. Let’s do this properly. I ask, you answer. Then we switch. Deal?”

Iwaizumi narrowed his eyes. “Why do I feel like I’m walking into a trap?”

“Because you are.” Oikawa beamed. “Where’d you grow up?”

“Klamath Falls, Oregon. Beautiful city and state. You?”

“New York. It was great. Still miss it”

“I thought you loved LA?”

“I do. But that doesn’t mean I don’t miss the hustle of New York,” Oikawa said, raising a brow. “Favorite food?”

“Curry rice. You?”

“Pasta, obviously.”

“Of course,” Iwaizumi muttered. “What kind?”

“All of it. But if I had to pick? Tagliatelle with truffle cream.”

“I knew you were going to say truffle.”

Oikawa grinned. “You know me so well. Favorite color?”

“Green,” Iwaizumi said easily.

“Huh.”

“What?”

“I thought it’d be something more dramatic.”

“You’re thinking of you.”

Oikawa tapped his chin. “Fine. Mine’s plum.”

“…Plum?”

“It’s underrated.”

“It’s purple.”

“It’s plum.”

Iwaizumi shook his head, reaching for another bite. “You’re exhausting.”

“Just a little.”

They paused for a few moments, letting the rhythm settle again. The wine softened Oikawa’s shoulders, and Iwaizumi’s gaze flicked between him and the window, watching the sky darken to deep blue.

“Alright,” Oikawa said, voice quieter now, “first kiss?”

Iwaizumi raised an eyebrow. “That’s not light dinner conversation.”

“It is if you make it funny.”

Iwaizumi smirked. “Middle school. Girl named Ren. We were dared to do it behind the gym.”

“Was it romantic?”

“It was terrifying.”

Oikawa snorted. “Mine was during a school play. She kissed me onstage, and I missed my next line.”

“That tracks.”

“Favorite place you’ve ever been?” Oikawa asked.

Iwaizumi hesitated. “New Zealand, definitely. You?”

“Venice,” Oikawa said without thinking. “It was raining. I got lost for three hours and didn’t care.”

Another pause. Their eyes met across the table again.

“Ever been in love?” Oikawa asked, voice dipping low, soft.

Iwaizumi didn’t miss a beat. “Once. Thought I was, anyway.”

“And?”

“Didn’t work out. Too different. Too much distance.”

Oikawa nodded, quiet. His expression didn’t change much—just a small, almost imperceptible tilt of his head—but something in his eyes made Iwaizumi think he understood a little too well.

“What about you?” Iwaizumi asked, keeping his voice even.

Oikawa exhaled, like the question wasn’t unexpected but still carried weight. “Yeah. Once. But it didn’t last. My career got in the way. Hers too.”

He didn’t say more, and didn’t need to. The way his fingers lightly tapped the table was enough.

Iwaizumi nodded, lips pressing into a line. He didn’t push. But the thought stayed with him.

Silence stretched between them for a beat too long — until Oikawa broke it with a grin. “Okay, new question: have you ever done something incredibly embarrassing in public?”

Iwaizumi exhaled, grateful for the shift. “I once slipped on ice carrying a bouquet, and it exploded all over the sidewalk in front of a wedding party.”

Oikawa laughed so hard he had to wipe his eyes. “God, why wasn’t I there for that?”

“Shut up.”

“No, seriously, that’s beautiful. That’s art.”

“And you?” Iwaizumi asked, stabbing another bite.

“I once waved back at a crowd I thought was cheering for me and realized they were actually trying to get the attention of the guy behind me — who was Ryan Gosling.”

“…That’s fair.”

The night stretched on like that — stories traded, old wounds brushed against, jokes shared, glances held for a little longer than they should’ve been. The food disappeared slowly, the bottle of wine even slower.

They didn’t notice the time until the waiter quietly asked if they wanted dessert.

And when Oikawa looked across the table at him, smiling that warm, soft smile that didn’t feel like a performance — Iwaizumi thought, I could get used to this.

Oikawa rested his chin in his hand, watching Iwaizumi over the candlelight. “So,” he said, a slow smile pulling at his lips, “did I pass?”

Iwaizumi gave him a look. “Pass what?”

“The date,” Oikawa said, like it was obvious. “The ambiance. The food. My company—though I know that part’s clearly a ten.”

Iwaizumi huffed. “You’re so full of yourself.”

“That’s not a no.”

He didn’t get a reply right away. Iwaizumi just leaned back in his chair, arms crossed, eyes flicking lazily around the restaurant before settling back on Oikawa.

“The place is nice,” he said. “The food was good. I didn’t hate the company.”

Oikawa gasped, hand over his chest. “A glowing review. Be still, my heart.”

“You asked. I answered.”

“Cold.”

“I’m not the one fishing for compliments.”

“No,” Oikawa said, lifting his glass, “you’re just the one who showed up looking like that and made me feel like I underdressed.”

Iwaizumi snorted. “You wore a designer coat. You’re fine.”

“Still,” Oikawa said, sipping from his glass, “you could’ve warned me you clean up like that.”

Iwaizumi rolled his eyes. “You’re the one who told me to wear something that’d ‘break your heart a little.’ I took that as a threat.”

“More like a promise,” Oikawa muttered into his drink, then raised his brows as he set the glass down. “But really. Did you have fun?”

There was no teasing in his tone this time. Just genuine curiosity.

Iwaizumi held his gaze. “Yeah,” he said, after a pause. “I did.”

Oikawa smiled. Not the showy, camera-ready kind. Just something quiet and real.

“Good,” he said. “Me too.”

⸻

The night air greeted them as they stepped outside, cooler now, laced with the scent of citrus trees and the low murmur of city life winding down. Oikawa handed a valet ticket off with a nod but didn’t reach for the car when it pulled around. Instead, he turned to Iwaizumi with a tilt of his head.

“Feel like walking a little?”

Iwaizumi raised a brow. “Didn’t you just get the car?”

“Yeah, but it’s a nice night.” Oikawa shrugged, a small smile playing at the corners of his mouth. “And I’m not ready to go home yet.”

There was a beat. Then Iwaizumi sighed—more fond than annoyed—and nodded. “Fine. But only because I hate wasting valet money.”

Oikawa laughed, falling into step beside him. The sidewalk stretched quiet ahead, lit by soft streetlights and the occasional glow from still-open shops or cafes. Their shoulders brushed once, then again, and neither of them moved away.

After a block or two, Iwaizumi broke the silence. “You’re not worried about people seeing us?”

Oikawa’s gaze flicked over to him, calm. “Not here. This side of town’s usually dead at night.”

Iwaizumi made a skeptical sound, stuffing his hands in his pockets. “Still seems risky.”

“Maybe,” Oikawa said. “But it’s worth it.”

That made Iwaizumi glance over, slightly caught off guard. Oikawa was watching the street ahead again, the curve of his jaw relaxed, eyes half-lidded like he wasn’t saying something particularly serious. But it hung between them anyway.

They passed a fountain in the center of a small plaza. Its water trickled softly, catching the lamplight. A couple sat on a nearby bench, leaning into each other, whispering like the night belonged only to them.

>

The quiet streets felt like a secret. The kind of space carved out just for them. Side by side, their steps matched in rhythm as they strolled past closed storefronts and warm-lit windows.

“Do you always get like this after dinner?” Iwaizumi asked, glancing sideways.

“Like what?”

“Smug. Like you just changed someone’s life with pasta.”

Oikawa gasped, feigning offense. “That pasta was life-changing. Don’t lie to yourself.”

“You’re impossible.”

“I’m charming.”

“You’re annoying.”

Oikawa grinned. “And yet here you are. On a date. With me.”

Iwaizumi gave him a dry look. “Don’t remind me.”

They walked a little further, letting the banter settle into a more comfortable silence. Then Oikawa said, quieter, “It’s nice though. Just walking like this.”

Iwaizumi hummed. “You don’t get to do this often, huh?”

“Not without sunglasses, a hat, and pretending I’m someone else entirely.”

Iwaizumi didn’t say anything to that, but Oikawa could feel the weight of his attention.

They rounded another corner. The sidewalk narrowed, brushed with flowering bushes and string lights from the small café ahead. Oikawa slowed.

“What?” Iwaizumi asked.

Oikawa shrugged. “Just thinking how strange this feels. Good strange.”

“Strange like you’re not pretending right now?” Iwaizumi asked bluntly.

Oikawa blinked. Then smiled, smaller this time. “Exactly like that.”

Their hands brushed once.

Then again.

Oikawa’s fingers lingered on the third pass—almost shyly. Like asking a question without words.

Iwaizumi didn’t pull away. But he didn’t reach back, either.

Oikawa started to close the distance.

And then—

“Oh my God. Are you Tooru Oikawa?”

They both turned, startled. A girl had appeared out of nowhere, eyes wide and phone already halfway raised.

Oikawa blinked, the spell breaking. His posture straightened, and the transformation was instant: the easy, practiced smile, the slight lean forward, charm dialed up to ten. “Hi,” he said smoothly. “Yeah, that’s me.”

“I knew it!” she giggled, thrusting her purse at him. “Can you sign this? My friends are gonna die.”

Oikawa chuckled like he wasn’t trying to keep something fragile from slipping through his fingers. “Of course.”

Iwaizumi stood nearby, jaw set. But not at the girl. At the change in Oikawa. The way his shoulders stiffened just slightly, the smile just a little too precise. He was back in performance mode, and Iwaizumi could tell.

The girl thanked him—twice, breathlessly—and jogged off, still giggling. But it was like her excitement had sent a signal to the rest of the city. More people trickled in.

Two, then five, then ten.

Then the flash of cameras.

Oikawa didn’t even flinch. But Iwaizumi saw it—just for a second. The way his jaw tightened. The way his eyes darted behind his smile

Oikawa’s name buzzed through the growing crowd like wildfire.

Two paparazzi emerged, half-jogging toward them like sharks catching the scent of blood.

“Tooru! Over here! What’s the story with the new movie?”

“Who’s your date?”

“Didn’t you just break up with—?”

The barrage came all at once.

Oikawa didn’t answer. He grabbed Iwaizumi’s wrist without warning.

“Run.”

“What?”

“We’re running.”

And they did.

Iwaizumi barely had time to register the jolt before Oikawa was pulling him into motion, weaving between people, laughter bubbling out of him like a challenge.

They darted around the corner, Oikawa’s hair tousled, both of them breathless as they reached the valet station.

“Car,” Oikawa panted, pointing.

The valet, wide-eyed, jumped into action.

Moments later, they flung open the doors and threw themselves inside. The engine purred to life, and Oikawa peeled out with a grin, tires squealing softly against the pavement.

⸻

The wind still whipped through the open windows as Oikawa took sharp turns. Iwaizumi braced himself with one hand on the door, the other gripping the dash.

They were both laughing.

Not politely. Not mildly. Full-bodied, breathless laughing—the kind that came from pure disbelief.

“Are you—” Iwaizumi wheezed between laughs, “—always this dramatic?”

Oikawa slumped into his seat, laughing. “So, I end up signing a stranger’s purse during what was supposed to be a quiet, romantic walk.”

Iwaizumi smirked. “You really didn’t try to hide how much you enjoyed it.”

Oikawa shrugged with a cheeky grin. “Can’t blame a guy for being polite. Plus, she was way too excited to say no.”

Iwaizumi rolled his eyes. “Guess you’re just too charming for your own good.”

“Public relations is a battlefield.”

Iwaizumi chuckled, shaking his head. “You were two seconds away from holding my hand and now we’re making a getaway.”

“Don’t remind me.” Oikawa slumped dramatically in his seat. “That moment was going to be cinematic. Sunsets and fingertips and soft piano music in the background—then BAM. Purse girl.”

“Purse girl,” Iwaizumi repeated, deadpan. “Truly a villain of the highest order.”

Oikawa gave a solemn nod. “She’ll haunt me forever.”

They drove in silence for a beat, just the hum of the engine and the echo of what just happened.

Then Oikawa groaned, dragging a hand through his hair. “My assistant is going to kill me.”

“Oh yeah?”

“He’s probably already seen the photos. Paparazzi have some sort of demon speed-to-upload pipeline.”

Iwaizumi raised a brow. “What exactly is he going to yell at you for? Running off with some mystery guy in the middle of a press frenzy?”

Oikawa rolled his eyes. “Yes. That. Plus the fact that I broke the number one rule of sneaking around.”

“Which is?”

“Don’t run. Running makes it look worse.”

“Then maybe don’t drag your ‘mystery guy’ like we’re starring in a spy film.”

“I panicked!”

“You posed before you ran.”

“Shut up.”

Iwaizumi smirked, resting his arm on the door. “Can’t wait to see the headlines tomorrow.”

Oikawa made a strangled sound. “Please don’t speak it into existence.”

“‘Oikawa Tooru’s Secret Night Out — Who’s the Mystery Man with the Killer Calves?’”

Oikawa choked. “If they mention your legs before my outfit I will sue.”

Iwaizumi just laughed, the last of the tension finally bleeding out of him. Oikawa glanced over and saw it—how easily Iwaizumi carried chaos like this. Like it didn’t scare him off. Like it was just another part of the night.

A part he was willing to ride out with him.

Oikawa’s smile softened.

“Hey,” he said, voice a little lower. “Sorry about that.”

Iwaizumi gave him a sidelong glance. “Don’t be. Not your fault purse girl had a sixth sense for famous people.”

“She was feral.”

“She was polite.”

“She asked me to sign her bag with a sharpie. That’s not polite. That’s graffiti.”

Iwaizumi snorted. “You’re fine, drama queen.”

Oikawa beamed, just a little crooked. “You’re still here.”

“Unfortunately.”

“Charming.”

They turned a corner, city lights trailing behind them, something electric still buzzing in the air between them.

⸻
Oikawa eased the car to a stop in front of Iwaizumi’s apartment building. The quiet hum of the city night filled the space between them, both reluctant to break the comfortable silence.

Iwaizumi glanced over at Oikawa, expression unreadable. “Thanks for tonight,” he said simply, voice low but steady. “It was… different.”

Oikawa smirked, eyes bright. “Different good, I hope.”

“Yeah,” Iwaizumi admitted, the corners of his mouth twitching just slightly. “Not something I expected.”

Oikawa leaned back in his seat, stretching one arm over the backrest. “Neither did I. You surprised me.”

Iwaizumi scoffed lightly, turning to unbuckle his seatbelt. “Not sure how.”

“You let me see more than I thought you would,” Oikawa said simply, voice softer now. “And you didn’t punch me once. Major progress.”

That earned him a glance — a flat one — but Iwaizumi didn’t argue.

Oikawa let the silence sit for a moment before he added, “I had a really good time.”

Iwaizumi hesitated. Then, like it was pulled from him, he nodded. “Me too, I guess.”

There was a pause — heavier this time. Neither of them moved.

Oikawa tilted his head slightly, studying him. “You gonna let me kiss you goodnight, or are you gonna make me guess if tonight meant anything?”

Iwaizumi met his gaze without flinching. “You talk too much.”

Oikawa’s grin spread immediately. “Is that a yes?”

Instead of answering, Iwaizumi leaned in. His hand came up to rest at Oikawa’s collar, pulling him in the last inch.

The kiss wasn’t long, but it was sure. No hesitation. No show. Just steady pressure, the kind that said: I don’t do this often, but I mean it.

When they pulled back, Oikawa blinked, looking just a little breathless. “Well, damn.”

Iwaizumi reached for the door handle. “Goodnight, Oikawa.”

“You’re gonna walk away after that?”

Iwaizumi paused, smirked faintly, and looked back over his shoulder. “I told you. You talk too much.”

Then he was out of the car, walking toward his building without another word.

Oikawa sat in the driver’s seat for a second longer, watching the door close behind him, lips still curved into a grin.

“Yeah,” he muttered to himself, fingers drumming the steering wheel. “I’m so screwed.”

⸻

Iwaizumi shoved his keys into the dish by the door, barely registering the soft clink as he moved through the dark apartment. He didn’t bother turning on the lights. His mind was still somewhere else—still sitting in that car, still tasting Oikawa’s breath against his lips.

He dropped onto his bed with a dull thud, staring up at the ceiling. His heartbeat hadn’t settled. His mouth still felt warm.

What the hell just happened?

One minute he was closing up shop early, overthinking what to wear and trying not to admit how badly he wanted to see the guy. The next, he was kissing Oikawa Tooru—Oikawa freaking Tooru—in his car like it was the most natural thing in the world.

Iwaizumi rubbed a hand down his face, then over his chest where the nerves still hadn’t quite left. He wasn’t the type to get swept up in anything, let alone someone like him—a movie star, a public figure, someone who could have anyone.

And yet.

Oikawa had shown up at his door with flowers and a grin that didn’t feel fake. He’d opened up, listened, teased, laughed. Made Iwaizumi forget the space between their lives.

And then he kissed him.

Iwaizumi exhaled slowly and threw an arm over his eyes. “You idiot,” he muttered to himself. He didn’t even know who he was talking about—Oikawa for pulling him in so fast, or himself for letting it happen.

Still, a faint smile tugged at his lips.

He went on a date with Oikawa Tooru.

His phone buzzed

Oikawa: “Goodnight, Iwa. Sleep tight! Or don’t… I kinda like knowing you’re thinking about me.”

Iwaizumi groaned into his pillow, equal parts flustered and amused.

Yeah. He was in trouble.

Chapter Text

The morning sun poured into the shop windows, golden and sharp, casting long lines across the hardwood floor. The flower shop smelled faintly of lavender and citrus. Bright, clean, alive. Iwaizumi had opened early, mostly to keep busy. He’d already trimmed the eucalyptus stems, fluffed the ranunculus, and reorganized the cooler twice. Still, his mind kept wandering.

He wiped his hands on a towel and finally gave in, checking his phone.

Another notification.

BREAKING: Oikawa Tooru Flees Paparazzi—Who’s the Mystery Guy?

Iwaizumi sighed through his nose. That was the fifth headline like it this morning. He tapped into the article without thinking, skimming over the words: “An eyewitness described the man as tall, dark-haired, possibly an up-and-coming actor. Others speculated a member of the production team, or maybe even a bodyguard. The paparazzi weren’t able to catch a clear photo of his face, but sources confirm the two were seen leaving a restaurant before the chaos broke out…”

He locked his phone. “Up-and-coming actor. Sure,” he muttered, half amused, half annoyed.

The bell above the shop door didn’t ring. No new customers had come in. Probably a blessing.

He leaned on the counter and opened his texts.

Oikawa: Okay, so I might be in a little bit of trouble.

Iwaizumi raised an eyebrow.

Oikawa: Nothing serious. Just… I have to keep a low profile for a while. PR is spiraling. And we’re still filming the new movie, so I can’t exactly vanish either.

Iwaizumi typed, then deleted, then typed again.

Iwaizumi: Because you pulled a full movie stunt running away from paparazzi like you were in a chase scene?

The typing dots appeared immediately.

Oikawa: We were in a chase scene. I just wasn’t getting paid for it this time.

Iwaizumi rolled his eyes but couldn’t stop the smirk that tugged at his mouth.

He glanced at the window. Bright blue skies. The kind of morning that made everything feel like it was possible.

______

Iwaizumi had just finished tying off a bouquet—clean, precise, spring-heavy—when his phone buzzed again.

Oikawa: Think I can swing by the shop later? Need a bouquet. Kinda urgent.

Iwaizumi frowned at the screen.

Iwaizumi: I thought you were laying low.

Oikawa: I am. Hat, sunglasses, maybe even a fake mustache. No one’ll recognize me.

Iwaizumi: Doesn’t answer the question.

Oikawa: Let’s call it a… classified floral situation.

Iwaizumi snorted.

Iwaizumi: So it’s not just an excuse to see me?

Oikawa: What if it’s both?

Iwaizumi didn’t reply right away, but he was already reaching for a fresh ribbon.

Just in case.

⸻

The bell above the door jingled, startling Iwaizumi where he stood watering the lilies

“Seriously?” he muttered, turning around—only to stop dead.

Oikawa stood in the doorway in sunglasses, a baseball cap, and a fake mustache that looked like it was peeling off at one edge.

“Don’t say anything,” Oikawa muttered. “It looked better in my head.”

Iwaizumi stared at him. Iwaizumi blinked once. Then again. Then he laughed. “You look like a kid trying to sneak into an R-rated movie.”

“I’ll have you know this is high-level incognito attire,” Oikawa said, lifting the mustache and stuffing it into his pocket. “It’s working.”

“You’re not fooling anyone.”

Oikawa walked in anyway, shedding the hat. Behind him, a man in sunglasses and a black jacket trailed a few steps behind, scanning the empty shop.

Iwaizumi nodded toward the large man hovering just inside the doorway, scanning the room like it held sniper rifles and political threats. “Who’s that?”

“My temporary shadow,” Oikawa said dryly. “My manager and assistant are both paranoid now because of the other night. Apparently, I can’t go anywhere alone for a while. Paparazzi levels might get worse once the new movie promo starts.”

He turned to the bodyguard. “We’re good here. Give us a minute?”

The man gave a small nod and stepped out, shutting the door behind him.

Iwaizumi gestured toward the counter. “Alright. What kind of bouquet are we thinking?”

Oikawa hesitated, then said with a more subdued tone, “Something comforting.”

There was something in the way he said it. Light, casual, like it didn’t matter. But Iwaizumi paused, glancing at him for half a second longer before nodding.

“Got it.”

He began pulling stems from the buckets behind him—soft whites, a few dusty blues, gentle greens that didn’t shout too loudly.

While he moved through the stems and petals, Oikawa wandered the edge of the shop, brushing a finger along a row of vases like he didn’t want to stand still too long. The low hum of the city filtered in through the windows, but the shop itself was peaceful, glowing in warm light and the scent of fresh blooms.

“How’s filming?” Iwaizumi asked, breaking the silence.

Oikawa sighed. “They’re reshooting an entire scene because someone decided the lighting was too ‘insincere.’ I don’t even know what that means.”

“Sounds exhausting.”

“It is. But I’m good at pretending it’s not.”

“That I believe,” Iwaizumi said, slipping a ribbon around the stems.

Oikawa made a dramatic face, hand pressed to his chest. “You think I’m that good at faking things?”

Iwaizumi glanced up, deadpan. “I think you’re literally paid to do that.”

“…Fair,” Oikawa admitted, wandering closer to the counter. He leaned over it, elbows on the wood, chin resting on his hands as he watched Iwaizumi adjust a sprig of eucalyptus into the arrangement.

“How do you do that?” he asked. “Make a bunch of flowers look like comfort.”

“I don’t know,” Iwaizumi muttered, adjusting another stem. “I just try to listen.”

Oikawa didn’t say anything to that. Just watched him a little too long.

Outside the window, his bodyguard stood with arms folded, looking like he was debating whether to shoo away a bird that had dared to land too close to the front step.

Iwaizumi followed Oikawa’s gaze and snorted. “Is he always that serious?”

“Worse,” Oikawa said with a sigh. “He tried to take away my coffee this morning because it wasn’t ‘a color found in nature.’”

“That’s the most LA thing I’ve ever heard.”

“You live here too, don’t get smug,” Oikawa said, poking a finger at him.

“I make flower arrangements,” Iwaizumi replied. “I’m immune.”

Oikawa chuckled, then caught himself watching Iwaizumi again. Watching his hands move, watching how focused he looked, how easy he was to be around even when everything else felt like chaos.

Iwaizumi tucked a final piece of white carnations into the bouquet and tied it off.

“Here,” he said, holding it out. “Something comforting.”

Then, Oikawa broke it with a breathy laugh. “You’re going to make it really hard not to show up again tomorrow, you know.”

Iwaizumi raised an eyebrow. “That supposed to be a threat or a promise?”

“Depends,” Oikawa said, smiling as he adjusted the bouquet in his arms. “What happens if I do?”

Iwaizumi leaned against the counter, arms crossed, not quite hiding the smirk playing on his lips. “You get teased. Maybe put to work.”

Oikawa gasped. “Cruel. I come bearing fake mustaches and flattery, and this is how you repay me?”

“You’re forgetting flowers,” Iwaizumi said, nodding toward the bouquet. “You’re leaving with them this time.”

Oikawa looked down at the arrangement, then back at him. “Yeah… I think I got the better end of the deal.”

The humor faded just slightly from his face. He shifted the bouquet in his hands, hesitated. “Hey,” he said, voice lower now. “I know this whole thing—me showing up here, the date, the paparazzi, the headlines—it’s kind of a mess. I didn’t mean to drag you into any of that.”

Iwaizumi blinked, then shook his head. “You didn’t drag me anywhere.”

“I still feel bad,” Oikawa murmured. “I know it’s a lot.”

Iwaizumi sighed. “It is. But I’m not complaining.”

Oikawa looked at him—really looked, like he was trying to memorize every part of Iwaizumi’s face in the warm shop light.

“Good,” he said, voice barely above a whisper.

He stepped forward and kissed Iwaizumi’s cheek. Warm, quick, but deliberate.

Iwaizumi froze for half a second, then muttered under his breath, “You’re lucky I don’t kick you out for that.”

Oikawa was already walking toward the door, grin curling like sunlight. “You’d miss me if I was gone.”

He slipped his sunglasses back on, slapped his mustache crookedly above his lip, and pushed the door open. The bell chimed gently.

“You know where to find me,” Iwaizumi called after him.

Oikawa turned just enough to flash a peace sign over his shoulder before stepping into the dark, the bouquet held close.

Iwaizumi watched the door for a long moment after it shut.

Suddenly, Iwaizumi’s phone started buzzing in his pocket.

He pulled it out and blinked at the caller ID.

Mom.

He swiped to answer, already bracing himself. “Hey—”

“Hajime.” His mother’s voice came through the speaker like a sunbeam, teasing and bright. “Tell me that was you I just saw on TV with Oikawa Tooru.”

Iwaizumi let out a groan. “Hi, Mom.”

“I knew it was you! I was watching the morning news, and there was a whole thing about how ‘the mystery friend of Oikawa has yet to be identified’—and I said, ‘That’s my boy! I’d know those arms anywhere.’”

He sighed, locking up the front door. “Please tell me you didn’t say that out loud.”

“Oh, I did. Your father nearly dropped his coffee.”

A beat later, in the background, he heard the familiar rumble of his dad’s voice. “You seriously know that guy? The actor?”

“Yes, Dad,” Iwaizumi called over the line, stepping back through the shop and flipping off the lights as he went. “It’s not a big deal.”

“Not a big deal—he’s everywhere!” his dad barked. “I saw him in that robot movie. The one with the talking dog. Be careful, Hajime. Celebrities are two-faced. That’s just how the industry is.”

“Thanks for the trust,” Iwaizumi muttered, grabbing his keys from the counter and heading toward the back door.

“I’m just saying,” his dad added. “Watch your back.”

“He’s a good guy,” Iwaizumi said simply, unlocking the back and stepping into the cool night air. “He’s not like that.”

There was a pause, then the faint sound of his dad muttering something about “still being careful” before his mom shooed him away.

When the line quieted again, his mom’s voice returned, gentler but still amused. “You like him?”

Iwaizumi rolled his eyes as he crossed the small alley to his car. “He’s fine. A little annoying. Stubborn. Definitely dramatic.”

“So, yes.”

“Mom.”

She laughed—unapologetic and full of delight.

He unlocked the car door and slid in, tossing his bag in the passenger seat. The fresh smell of flowers still clung to his clothes. “He’s a good friend,” he said. “That’s all.”

“Uh-huh. And do all your good friends kiss you?”

He fumbled for the ignition. “That happened once.”

“Oh?” she said, delighted. “So it did happen?”

He groaned and turned the engine over. “You’re relentless.”

“Well, I have to be. My only son’s maybe-sorta dating a movie star and didn’t even call to tell me. I had to find out from the news.”

Iwaizumi pulled out of the alley, glancing once in the rearview mirror. “We’re not dating.”

“But you kissed.”

“It wasn’t—I don’t know,” he muttered, suddenly flustered. “We’ve only hung out a couple times. He showed up at the shop because of a flower arrangement, then again, then again… then he visited again and just asked me out.”

She gasped. “A date date?”

He sighed. “We got dinner.”

“Did you like it?”

“…Yeah,” he admitted, eyes on the road. “He’s funny. Easy to talk to. Kind, in his own weird way.”

“Mm-hmm.”

“And he kissed me goodnight.”

“HA! I knew it!” she cried triumphantly. “I knew there was something about the way you talked about him!”

“You’re being ridiculous,” he said, cheeks pink as he flipped on his turn signal.

“I’m being an observant mother.” She softened, just a little. “He sounds nice, Hajime. But—just go slow, okay? Celebrities are… they can be unpredictable.”

“I know,” Iwaizumi murmured, quiet for a moment. “But I don’t think he’s like that.”

“Then trust your gut,” she said warmly. “You’ve always had a good one. And hey, if he breaks your heart, I’ll throw a shoe at him next time I see him on TV.”

That got a laugh out of him. “Thanks, Mom.”

“Anytime, sweetheart. Now go home, shower, and text me when he shows up again.”

“No.”

“Coward.”

He hung up smiling.

The city lights blurred softly against the windshield as he drove, the night quiet except for the hum of the engine and the faint scent of gardenia clinging to his sleeves.

Chapter Text

The shop had been a blur of tulips and tangled ribbon all day. It was one of those rare, sunny afternoons that made everyone decide, all at once, that they needed flowers—apologies, birthdays, some “just because” arrangements. Iwaizumi had barely looked at the clock between rushing to wrap stems and counting change.

By the time evening crept in, the sunlight had dipped to gold through the shop windows, and his shoulders ached in that satisfying, tired way. The cooler had been restocked. The register balanced. Only thirty more minutes, then he could go home and collapse in bed.

He hadn’t even had time to text Oikawa today. Just their usual good morning, rushed between opening and prepping orders. Part of him had been wondering when, or if, Oikawa would show up. Not that he was waiting for him. Not exactly.

The bell above the door jingled.

Iwaizumi glanced up, halfway through wiping down the counter and blinked.

Oikawa stood in the doorway in a hoodie, sweatpants, a face mask, and a cap pulled low over his hair. His bodyguard followed like a shadow, and behind them was someone Iwaizumi didn’t recognize: shorter, wearing a button-up and holding a delivery box.

Iwaizumi raised an eyebrow. “Who’s this?”

Oikawa tugged down the mask, grinning. “This is Dante, my assistant-slash-hero-of-the-hour. I needed another bouquet and he volunteered to deliver it for me.”

The guy behind him smiled politely and stepped forward, extending a hand. “Nice to meet you. I’m Dante. Just doing a quick drop-off, promise. But… wow. This place is gorgeous.”

Iwaizumi blinked, shaking his hand. “Thanks. You work with him?”

“Unfortunately,” Dante deadpanned, glancing at Oikawa.

“You love it,” Oikawa said.

“I tolerate it,” Dante corrected. “But seriously, this is the best flower shop I’ve seen in LA. You’ve got a real eye for this.”

Iwaizumi scratched the back of his neck, not quite used to compliments from strangers. “Uh, thanks. Appreciate it.”

But before Dante could compliment the shop even more, Iwaizumi cut in. “What kind of bouquet do you need?”

Dante paused, scratching the back of his neck. “Oh. Uh… probably some get well soon flowers, or—”

“Just something nice,” Oikawa said quickly, nudging him with an elbow and a light laugh that didn’t quite reach his eyes. “You know, soft and not too dramatic.”

Dante blinked, caught for a second, then nodded. “Right. Something pretty. Comforting.”

Iwaizumi’s gaze flicked between them, sharp but unreadable. Oikawa’s smile was tight around the edges, too rehearsed. Dante looked like he’d just realized he said too much.

Iwaizumi didn’t press.

Instead, he turned back toward the cooler. “Alright. I’ll get started.”

Behind him, Oikawa muttered to Dante, “You seriously need to work on your subtlety.”

“I was being subtle,” Dante whispered back. “You’re the one that looked guilty.”

Iwaizumi didn’t say anything, but he heard every word. And the silence that followed said Oikawa knew it, too.

Still, he kept working.

Whatever the story was, it wasn’t his yet. But maybe Oikawa would tell him. Eventually.

Iwaizumi worked in quiet focus, pulling a mix of soft lilac stock, pale roses, and gentle greenery into a balanced bouquet. He tied it off with a pale ribbon, trimmed the stems, and handed it over.

“Here you go,” he said, brushing his hands off.

“Wow, looks amazing,” Dante said, taking it carefully.

“Thanks,” Iwaizumi said with a small nod.

He turned toward the door, then paused, glancing at Oikawa. “Well, I’m heading out. Thanks again,” he added to Iwaizumi. “Nice meeting you.”

He started to open the door, then added with a teasing smile, “It’s always fun meeting the guy Oikawa talks about like—”

Oikawa quickly cut him off, speaking over him with a grin. “Alright, thanks Dante, drive safe!”

Dante laughed under his breath, unbothered. “Right, right. I’ll text when it’s dropped off.”

The bell above the door jingled as Dante slipped out, bouquet in hand, disappearing into the quiet night.

Oikawa exhaled through his nose, looking anywhere but at Iwaizumi.

“…So,” Iwaizumi said, raising an eyebrow, “talks about me like what?”

Oikawa teases. “Wouldn’t you like to know?”

Iwaizumi cleans up the scraps. “Dante seems like a great guy.”

Oikawa gave a full-body shiver. “Yeah, until he gets mad. Then it’s like being yelled at by a small, furious thundercloud.”

That made Iwaizumi laugh, warm and surprised. “Can’t picture anyone yelling at you.”

“Oh, believe me,” Oikawa muttered. “It happens.”

The two of them stood there in the calm of the shop, the hum of the cooler and faint scent of roses in the air. The city glowed dimly beyond the windows, and the silence between them was comfortable.

“So,” Oikawa said casually, “you heading out soon?”

“Yeah,” Iwaizumi replied, glancing around the tidy counter. “Place is basically cleaned up.”

“Hmm.” Oikawa rocked back on his heels, hands in the front pocket of his hoodie. “Still pretty early.”

Oikawa lingered near the counter, fingers brushing one of the empty vases absently, like he wasn’t quite ready to leave.

Iwaizumi noticed.

And the truth was… he didn’t really want Oikawa to leave yet either. It had been a long day, yeah, but something about the easy quiet between them felt good, better than most things did after a rush like today.

He leaned back against the counter, arms crossed loosely.

“…You wanna come over?”

Oikawa perked up immediately. “You’re inviting me?”

Iwaizumi gave him a look. “Don’t make it weird.”

Oikawa grinned. “I’m not! I’m just surprised.”

“Well, don’t be.” He reached for his keys from under the counter and walked over to shut the register.

Oikawa watched him, adjusting the brim of his cap. “You sure?”

Iwaizumi gave a short nod. “Yeah. Come on.”

Oikawa’s eyes crinkled with a soft smile. He turned to his bodyguard, who stood near the shop entrance, phone in hand.

“I’m good,” Oikawa said casually.

The man gave a silent nod, stepping aside as they walked past.

The street was calm, a few cars passing, the air cooling into an easy LA night. Iwaizumi unlocked his car with a quick click, and they climbed in. Oikawa pulled off his cap and settled into the passenger seat.

Once the doors shut, Iwaizumi glanced over. “We can just throw something on when we get there. Watch a movie or something.”

Oikawa turned toward him, grinning. “Do you have snacks?”

Iwaizumi huffed a quiet laugh as he started the engine. “That’s your first question?”

“It’s an important one.”

“There’s probably chips, popcorn, some candy. Maybe those chocolate-covered pretzels if I didn’t finish them.”

Oikawa let out a pleased sound, leaning back in his seat. “Perfect. You’ve got the essentials.”

Iwaizumi shot him a sideways glance. “You planning to eat everything in my kitchen?”

“Maybe. Depends on how good the movie is.”

They laughed, the soft, easy kind that filled the space between traffic lights and familiar turns. The drive wasn’t long, but they talked the whole way about nothing, about everything, about bad movie plots and how weirdly quiet LA felt at night. The kind of conversation that didn’t need effort, just time.

______

They pulled into Iwaizumi’s apartment complex, Iwaizumi parked in his usual spot, and before he even cut the engine, Oikawa was already tugging his cap back on and pulling his mask over his face.

“You getting ready for a heist?” Iwaizumi asked, grabbing his keys.

Oikawa adjusted the brim of his cap. “We have to be extra careful, Iwa. If anyone recognizes me, they’ll know you know me. And worse, they’ll know where you live.”

Iwaizumi rolled his eyes. “Pretty sure they’ll just think I’m your personal florist.”

“Even worse,” Oikawa whispered dramatically, stepping out of the car. “That would definitely get you followed.”

They hurried to the building, shoulders tucked and heads low, trying not to laugh like they were sneaking in after curfew. The hallway was quiet, the elevator even quieter, and by the time Iwaizumi unlocked his door, Oikawa was half-giggling into his mask.

As soon as the door shut behind them, they kicked off their shoes and Oikawa pulled off his disguise piece by piece, letting out a relieved breath.

He looked around slowly, taking in the warm light, the soft scent of something woodsy and clean. “Last time I was here, I didn’t really get a good look.”

He stepped further in, eyes scanning the space.

“But now I see it. Your place is beautiful, Iwa. Seriously. It’s so… you.”

Iwaizumi raised a brow. “That a good thing?”

Oikawa smiled, softer this time. “Yeah. Minimalist, clean, cozy. You don’t have too many plants, but the ones you do have, they feel natural. Like they belong here. Just like the rest of this place.”

Iwaizumi gave a small shrug, trying not to show how much the words meant. “Didn’t need to decorate much. I just like it quiet.”

“Well,” Oikawa said, leaning against the back of the couch, “it suits you. I like it.”

He smiled again, easy and genuine.

And Iwaizumi didn’t say anything, but he didn’t need to. He just walked toward the kitchen and called over his shoulder, “Alright, let’s see what kind of snacks I’m about to regret sharing.”

Oikawa followed, grinning.
______

They wandered further into the apartment while Iwaizumi grabbed a towel and a change of clothes from his room.

“I’m gonna take a quick shower,” Iwaizumi said, already heading toward the bathroom. “Guest room’s down the hall. Bathroom’s connected if you wanna clean up too. You can borrow some clothes if you want.”

Oikawa beams. “Cool, that would be way more comfortable.”

Iwaizumi chuckled, disappearing down the hallway and coming back with a folded pile of clothes

“Thanks, hope you picked something flattering.” Oikawa teases.

“I picked what wasn’t in the laundry.”

That earned a soft laugh before the door clicked shut.

Iwaizumi came out fifteen minutes later. Hair damp, sweatpants slung low on his hips, t-shirt tugged into place.

He padded back to the living room and dropped onto the couch, letting out a breath as he reached for the remote. He scrolled lazily through Netflix. Action, comedy, some old favorites but didn’t settle on anything.

A few minutes later, the guest room door creaked open.

Iwaizumi glanced up then immediately looked away.

Oikawa stood there, towel still around his neck, wearing Iwaizumi’s clothes like he belonged in them. The joggers were a little short on him, and the shirt fit snugly across his shoulders and chest. His hair was damp and curling slightly at the ends.

“What?” Oikawa asked, mock-innocent, stepping into the room. “Do I get your stamp of approval or what?”

Iwaizumi cleared his throat, eyes back on the TV. “They fit.”

“Charming as ever, Iwa.”

“Try not to ruin the clothes, Tooru.”

Oikawa flopped onto the couch next to him with a dramatic sigh, limbs sprawling like he owned the place. The cushions dipped under his weight, and their arms brushed for a second before Oikawa tucked himself under one of the blankets Iwaizumi had tossed over the back of the couch.

Iwaizumi leaned back, staring at the TV, but really, he was thinking about how surreal this was. Oikawa. Here. At his apartment. Wearing his clothes like it was the most normal thing in the world. Like Iwaizumi hadn’t handed them over without blinking.

Blankets. Snacks. Oikawa beside him, legs half-tangled in the throw blanket, face mostly relaxed except for that familiar glint of mischief in his eyes.

It was… weirdly easy.

“Alright,” Iwaizumi said, adjusting slightly so he could reach the remote. “What do you wanna watch?”

Oikawa squinted at the screen. “Something dramatic. Betrayal. Maybe a little romance.”

“So, every movie ever.”

“Exactly. Surprise me.”

They scrolled through the Netflix home screen, flipping past rows of suggested thrillers, action flicks, and one oddly persistent Christmas movie.

“That one?” Oikawa asked, pointing at something with a dramatic cover and probably terrible writing.

“No chance,” Iwaizumi said immediately. “That has three sequels. I’m not getting roped into a franchise tonight.”

“Oh come on, what if it’s so bad it’s good?”

“I’m not risking three hours of my life to find out.”

Oikawa snorted and stole the remote. “Okay, fine, what about—wait, this one’s good. Oh. Wait.” He paused. The movie thumbnail showed his face, slightly younger, hair a little shorter, framed by golden lighting and dramatic text. “Actually, no. Absolutely not.”

“What? That’s your movie.”

“Exactly.” Oikawa waved a hand. “I’ve seen it too many times. I know every awkward angle and weird lighting choice. I can literally recite the post-credit scene from memory.”

Iwaizumi leaned back with a small smirk. “Same.”

Oikawa blinked. “Same? Wait. Wait.” He sat up straighter. “You’ve watched it?”

Iwaizumi stilled for a second, then shrugged, trying not to seem flustered. “Yeah.”

“You watched my movie.”

“It was on TV,” Iwaizumi muttered, even though it absolutely wasn’t.

Oikawa stared at him, mouth parted in faint shock. “You chose to watch my movie.”

“Don’t make it weird.”

“Oh, it’s already weird.” Oikawa grinned. “Do you remember the scene where I—”

“I swear if you start quoting it, I’m turning the TV off.”

Oikawa burst out laughing, his head tipping back against the couch cushion. “I still can’t believe you watched it.”

Iwaizumi folded his arms and looked resolutely at the screen. “It’s not a big deal. Everyone’s seen it.”

“You’ve seen it,” Oikawa grinned, nudging him with his elbow. “Did you cry during the dramatic monologue? Be honest.”

“No,” Iwaizumi grunted, deadpan. “But I did consider throwing a pillow at the screen when your character ran into the burning building.”

“That’s valid,” Oikawa admitted. Then he narrowed his eyes, teasing. “Wait… have you seen the other ones?”

Iwaizumi hesitated a beat too long. “Maybe… one more.”

Oikawa gasped like it was the most scandalous confession he’d ever heard. “You’re secretly my biggest fan.”

“I’m literally not.”

“I should’ve brought my autograph pen.”

“Pick a movie,” Iwaizumi said flatly, snatching the remote back.

They both laughed, still jostling each other a little as they flipped past more titles until finally, one popped up that caught both their attention. A moody drama-thriller with good reviews and a runtime that didn’t scream commitment.

Oikawa pointed. “That one. Looks solid.”

“Fine by me,” Iwaizumi said, already hitting play. “And no commentary from the film expert.”

“No promises.”

The movie played on, the glow from the TV casting soft shadows across the living room. The snacks, pretzels, popcorn, and a half-eaten bag of sour gummies sat between them, gradually disappearing as they tossed casual commentary back and forth.

“Why would she go into the basement alone?” Oikawa asked around a mouthful of popcorn. “This is survival 101.”

“She deserves whatever jumps out at her,” Iwaizumi muttered, reaching for another pretzel.

“Wow. Harsh.”

“Realistic.”

They cracked up when one of the side characters tripped over absolutely nothing mid-chase, Oikawa’s laughter echoing through the room while Iwaizumi nearly coughed up a pretzel from how hard he was trying not to laugh too. The jokes died down as the movie hit a slower, softer beat, something emotional unfolding onscreen, but neither of them moved to speak. Just sat there, quiet in the kind of way that felt full, not empty.

After a while, Oikawa shifted, pulling the blanket tighter. Then, without saying anything, he leaned sideways and rested his head on Iwaizumi’s shoulder.

Iwaizumi stiffened for half a second, just a flicker of surprise, before something inside him settled. His heart gave a small, startled thud, but he didn’t move away. It didn’t feel like a big deal. It felt like the most natural thing in the world.

They stayed like that, the sound of the movie filling the room, the city lights dim beyond the window. Somewhere near the end, Oikawa’s breathing evened out, and not long after, Iwaizumi’s eyes started to drift closed too.

By the time the credits rolled, neither of them had made it that far. They’d both ended up stretched out on the couch, legs tangled and the blanket half-draped over them. Oikawa’s head rested against Iwaizumi’s chest, and Iwaizumi’s arm had slipped around him somewhere along the way. The forgotten snacks sat crumpled on the coffee table, the only sound in the room the quiet hum of the TV and their steady, even breaths.

Chapter Text

The first thing Iwaizumi became aware of was the weight against his chest.

Not heavy. More like a quiet presence, warm and steady, the kind of weight that didn’t press down so much as anchor. His eyes blinked open to the soft morning light bleeding through the blinds, pale gold and impossibly gentle. The TV was off now, screen black and quiet, casting no light at all.

What did glow, faintly, was Oikawa.

Or more specifically, the curve of his cheek where it caught the sunlight. His hair was mussed and curling where it had dried overnight, his breathing slow and even against Iwaizumi’s chest. One hand was curled near his own jaw, the other lightly tucked under the hem of Iwaizumi’s shirt like he’d just needed something to hold on to.

Iwaizumi didn’t move.

Didn’t dare.

His arm was still wrapped loosely around Oikawa’s back, the blanket half-fallen from his shoulder. Every part of him ached in the dull, comfortable way you only got from falling asleep on a couch in too-tight corners. But he didn’t move. Couldn’t bring himself to.

Instead, he just stared up at the ceiling and listened to the rhythm of Oikawa’s breathing, the faint city murmur outside the window, the pulse that beat a little faster in his own chest for no particular reason other than the fact that Oikawa was here.

Iwaizumi didn’t know how long he lay like that. Five minutes, maybe ten. The time didn’t matter much.

What mattered was that Oikawa Tooru was sleeping on top of him.

It was the kind of moment that felt too quiet to be real. Too still. Too soft.

He’d spent years watching Oikawa on glossy magazine covers and red carpets, voice echoing from interviews and screens and stages. Always just out of reach. Some far-off version of the boy he used to know, untouchable, perfectly curated, light-years away from this.

And now here he was. Drooling a little and wrapped up in Iwaizumi’s blanket and wearing Iwaizumi’s hoodie, with his fingers tucked under Iwaizumi’s shirt.

It would’ve been funny if it wasn’t so completely insane.

Iwaizumi stared at the ceiling again.

I’m living in a delusion, he thought. I must’ve manifested this in some fever dream and the universe finally gave up fighting me.

But he didn’t move. Didn’t question it out loud.

Because part of him was afraid that if he did, Oikawa might disappear.

Eventually, Oikawa stirred, breath hitching slightly before he blinked awake, still pressed against Iwaizumi’s chest. He didn’t sit up right away. Just shifted slightly, fingers tightening where they rested.

“…Morning,” Oikawa said, his voice rough with sleep.

Iwaizumi’s voice came out low. “Morning.”

A beat passed.

“…I didn’t mean to fall asleep like that,” Oikawa added, finally tilting his head back to glance up at him.

Iwaizumi looked down, eyebrows raised. “You drooled on me.”

Oikawa made a strangled noise. “I did not.”

“You did.” Iwaizumi’s lips twitched. “Right here.” He tapped his collarbone.

Oikawa groaned, burying his face back into Iwaizumi’s chest. “God, I’m never coming over again.”

“Sure you aren’t.”

They both fell quiet again, though this time it was threaded with something soft. Something new, but not unwelcome.

Finally, Oikawa peeked back up, eyes squinting at the morning light. “What time is it?”

Iwaizumi turned to glance at the oven clock. “Almost eight.”

Oikawa groaned. “Shoot day. I’ve gotta leave soon or they’ll kill me.”

“Yeah,” Iwaizumi said, stretching out his arms with a quiet sigh. “I’ve got to open the shop soon too.”

For a moment, neither of them moved. Oikawa was still half-tangled in the blanket, hair a disaster, wearing Iwaizumi’s clothes like they belonged to him.

But they had a little time.

“Coffee?” Iwaizumi asked.

Oikawa made a grateful sound that might’ve been mistaken for prayer. “Please.”

They moved to the kitchen together. Iwaizumi poured two mugs while Oikawa leaned against the counter, eyes still heavy with sleep. They ended up sitting by the front window, Oikawa on the stool with one leg tucked up, Iwaizumi leaning against the frame nursing their coffee and watching the light crawl across the street outside.

It was quiet. Easy.

And then Oikawa glanced over, a small smile tugging at his lips. “You know it’s kinda weird.”

“What is?”

“This,” Oikawa said, waving vaguely between them. “We’re doing all this and we haven’t even talked about what we are.”

Iwaizumi looked down at his mug, hiding a smile. “Yeah. It is weird.”

Oikawa raised an eyebrow. “In a bad way?”

“No,” Iwaizumi said. “Just weird because it doesn’t feel weird.”

That made Oikawa laugh quiet and real. “Yeah. Same.”

A beat passed. Then Oikawa said, more gently, “We don’t have to figure it out right now.”

Iwaizumi nodded. “We shouldn’t rush it.”

“I like this,” Oikawa said, voice softer now. “I like us.”

Iwaizumi looked at him for a moment, then downed the last sip of coffee. “Me too.”

They sat in that silence for another minute. Letting it stretch. Letting it settle.

Then Oikawa glanced over with a small smile. “I mean, we don’t have to put a name on it yet… but I’m not planning on doing all this with anyone else.”

Iwaizumi’s mouth tugged up at one corner. “Good. Me neither.”

A soft buzz came from Oikawa’s phone. He glanced at it. “Driver’s here.”

Oikawa stood with a reluctant sigh, stretching lazily. “Alright. Time to face the real world.”

Iwaizumi stood too. “Don’t forget your adoring fans.”

“Oh, I could never,” Oikawa said dramatically, grabbing his phone off the counter. But he paused before heading to the door, looking back. “Thanks. For everything.”

Iwaizumi met his gaze, steady. “Anytime.”

Oikawa slipped on his mask, a cap, and Iwaizumi’s hoodie, hood up like armor against recognition. He gave a final little wave at the door before slipping outside, shoulders tucked in, head down.

Then he was gone.

The apartment was quiet again. Still. Like it hadn’t been full of soft laughter and sleepy voices minutes ago.

Iwaizumi stood there for a second longer, staring at the door even after it clicked shut. Then he exhaled, rubbed a hand over his face, and moved.

He rinsed their mugs. Folded the blanket on the couch. Picked up the throw pillow Oikawa had elbowed onto the floor sometime during the night.

It was muscle memory, getting ready for the day.

But his mind kept drifting, kept circling back.

To Oikawa sleeping comfortably on him.

To the way their shoulders had brushed when they sat near the window, sipping coffee and talking about “us” like it was something fragile and forming.

To how easy it had felt. Like none of it needed defining.

And still, there was something in his chest that tugged at the edges. A quiet ache that wasn’t bad. Just… full.

He grabbed his keys and headed for the door, locking up behind him.

The morning was bright and too loud. Iwaizumi slid into his car, the familiar hum of the engine settling him as he pulled out onto the street. The city moved around him, but his thoughts kept drifting back to last night. Those quiet moments with Oikawa that still felt too real to be just a memory.

⸻

Oikawa slipped into the backseat of the black SUV without so much as a second glance over his shoulder. Years of practice had taught him how to disappear in plain sight.

The door clicked shut behind him, and he let out a quiet sigh as the car pulled away from the curb.

“Morning, Tooru,” said his driver, Milo, glancing back through the rearview mirror.

“Morning,” Oikawa murmured, rubbing a hand over his face.

But then—

“You look like hell.”

He jumped slightly at the voice that came from the other side of the backseat.

“Dante,” Oikawa groaned. “Why are you in here?”

His assistant sat there, pressed and polished in a crisp black jacket, tablet in hand. “Because you’re late for a script meeting and your phone was off all night.”

“I was…” Oikawa hesitated. “Busy.”

Dante gave him a flat look. “Right. Busy. Wearing someone else’s clothes.”

Oikawa rolled his eyes and turned toward the window. “If you’re about to lecture me, just save it.”

“I’m not lecturing,” Dante said coolly. “I’m telling you to be careful.”

“Iwa’s not—”

“I know. He seems fine. Normal. Maybe even decent. But do you want to risk everything on seems?”

Oikawa’s jaw tightened. “He’s not after anything.”

“You don’t know that.”

“I do know that.”

Dante tapped his tablet screen sharply. “Tooru, you are a brand. You’re about to headline a major international film, and the public has no idea you even like guys. One wrong photo, one careless leak, and the whole press cycle gets hijacked.”

Oikawa scoffed. “So what, I’m supposed to pretend this part of my life doesn’t exist?”

“That’s not what I’m saying. I know you’re already keeping things low key. I’m saying don’t let your guard down. You know how long it took for the last mess to die down, but that’s mostly because it was with someone famous too.”

Oikawa flinched, just slightly.

Dante didn’t let up. “The second someone catches wind of this, it won’t just be headlines. It’ll be chaos. And maybe you’re ready for that, but is he? Because once your name and his get dragged through the same mud, it doesn’t go away. Not easily.”

Oikawa pressed his fingers to his temple. “I didn’t ask for your opinion on my love life.”

“You pay me to keep your image clean. This is me doing my job.”

There was a long silence.

Then Oikawa said quietly, “Iwaizumi isn’t using me. He doesn’t want anything from me. Not my name. Not my money.”

Dante stared at him. “You really believe that?”

“I know it.”

Dante exhaled through his nose. “Fine. Do whatever. But keep it quiet. Don’t let this ruin everything you’ve worked for.”

Then Dante added, “Besides, I don’t think he needs to be dragged into the mess that comes with your world. You haven’t even told him who those bouquets you buy are for. If he’s in the dark about all that, it could easily spiral into something messy— misunderstandings, rumors.”

Oikawa looked at him, voice low. “I don’t want to involve him in any of that.”

Dante smirked, but it wasn’t amused. “Sounds like a disaster waiting to happen.”

Oikawa looked out the window, jaw set.

“I know the risks,” he said quietly. “And I’m careful.”

The world rolled on around them, indifferent to everything else.

Chapter Text

Three weeks passed in a blur.

Oikawa’s schedule had turned relentless, his life swallowed by the final sprint of filming. The studio had fast-tracked production, shaving weeks off their original timeline, and every day seemed more packed than the last. Script revisions. Rehearsals. Long shoot days bleeding into reshoots, then night scenes, then meetings.

Somehow, impossibly, he still found time for Iwaizumi.

Not in grand ways. Not the long evenings they’d stolen in the beginning. But he came. Sometimes for fifteen minutes. Sometimes an hour. Always showing up at Iwaizumi’s apartment or slipping through the flower shop’s back door when no one was looking, hoodie pulled low and sunglasses even lower.

They didn’t go out much. Too risky. Too many eyes.

So they made do with the in-between moments.

Oikawa would perch on the shop counter while Iwaizumi sorted daisies and ferns. He’d lean in close under the excuse of “smelling the roses” only to press a kiss to Iwaizumi’s jaw, grinning when Iwaizumi grumbled and told him to knock it off. He never did.

At home, he was worse by slipping his hands under Iwaizumi’s sweatshirt just to warm them up, nuzzling into his shoulder while Iwaizumi made tea, draping himself across the couch and dragging Iwaizumi down with him. Iwaizumi complained every time, muttering about clinginess and personal space.

Because the truth was that he liked it. All of it. The kisses. The clinging. The warmth. He just wasn’t about to admit it out loud.

Sometimes, Oikawa would drift around the apartment in his socks, stealing half-sips of Iwaizumi’s tea before crashing face-down on the couch. One time, he fell asleep sitting up, mumbling half his lines from the day before conking out entirely.

And Iwaizumi watched. Watched him burn the candle at both ends. Watched the way he flinched when his phone buzzed with calls, fingers tightening like he was expecting bad news. The way he double-checked his reflection in windows, not out of vanity, but like he was making sure he still looked like someone else. The way he stilled at the sound of footsteps in the hallway, even in Iwaizumi’s own building.

He’d always known Oikawa was famous. But this was something else.

Sudden. Sharp. Like something had changed overnight.

Caution had surged up in him out of nowhere, carving suspicion into every movement.

Still, Iwaizumi had his own whirlwind to keep up with. Orders at the shop had picked up with the changing season of weddings, graduations, and anniversary bouquets. He found himself staying late to finish arrangements, juggling deliveries and invoices and early morning market runs. It helped, in a way. Kept his hands full. Gave him something steady to lean on when everything else felt like it might shift beneath his feet.
And then there was that morning, quiet, too early for customers, sunlight barely spilling across the tile when Iwaizumi opened Twitter without thinking. A habit. Just something to fill the dead time between deliveries.

Oikawa’s name was trending. Again.

“Spotted leaving late-night rehearsals. Is this the project that’ll land him his next Oscar nod?”

He skimmed past the headline. The photo was blurry, grainy. But it was unmistakably him. Head down, baseball cap low, walking alone across a dim-lit lot.

Iwaizumi’s thumb paused. Hovered.

It didn’t hurt, not exactly. But it did something. Twisted something quiet in his chest.

He set the phone down and went back to trimming the stems of a fresh bouquet.

But his hands didn’t move quite the same way after that.

Because even if the photo was harmless, even if it wasn’t a tabloid frenzy or some damning leak. It was a reminder. That Oikawa Tooru wasn’t just Oikawa. Not to the rest of the world.

And Iwaizumi was starting to wonder if he was in way over his head.

He didn’t know what this was yet between them. They hadn’t labeled it. They hadn’t needed to.

But he’d been thinking about it more lately.

Did Oikawa want more?

Did Iwaizumi?

And if he did… what then?

He’d never dated anyone with that kind of spotlight before. Never had to wonder if holding someone’s hand in public might blow up both their lives. Never had to ask himself if his own privacy, his quiet days, his shop, his normalcy could survive a connection that millions of people would pick apart like vultures the second they found it.

Would Oikawa really be content slipping in and out of Iwaizumi’s life through side doors and quiet mornings forever?

Would Oikawa be willing to stay in the background, tucked into silence, where no one could see him?

Or what if he wasn’t?

What if one day he wanted to be seen?

What if he asked Iwaizumi to step into that spotlight with him and Iwaizumi couldn’t do it?

He let out a slow breath, dropped the clippers onto the counter, and leaned his hands on the edge of the table.

The shop was still. Just the hum of the fridge case. The faint perfume of lavender and eucalyptus.

Iwaizumi closed his eyes.

He didn’t have the answers. Not yet.

But he knew two people who might talk some sense into him.

He pulled out his phone, swiped through his contacts, and hit Call on the shared thread labeled: Makki & Mattsun

It rang twice before Hanamaki picked up, already laughing.

“What did you mess up this time?”

Iwaizumi sighed. “Can we skip to the part where I ask for your advice and you both judge me for thirty minutes?”

“Absolutely,” said Matsukawa’s voice, joining in.

“Great,” Iwaizumi muttered, dragging a hand down his face. “Because I think I’m going insane.”

“Oh good,” Hanamaki said cheerfully. “We were starting to worry you were too emotionally stable lately.”

There was a rustle on the other end, probably one of them shifting or grabbing snacks. Then Matsukawa said, “Alright. Talk.”

Iwaizumi hesitated. Then: “It’s Oikawa.”

A beat of silence.

Then a confused noise from Hanamaki. “Wait. Like… Oikawa Tooru?”

“The Oikawa?” Matsukawa said. “The guy everyone’s obsessed with? That one?

“Yeah,” Iwaizumi muttered. “That one.”

Another pause. This time longer.

Then: “What the actual hell do you mean, ‘It’s Oikawa’?” Hanamaki exploded. “You don’t even know him!”

“That’s the thing,” Iwaizumi said, rubbing a hand over his face. “I do.”

“You what?” Matsukawa asked flatly.

“You know him?” Hanamaki repeated. “Like in the biblical sense or—”

“Shut up,” Iwaizumi snapped.

“Wait, wait, how long has this been going on?” Matsukawa demanded. “You accidentally water one celebrity’s daffodils and now you’re on the cover of Us Weekly?”

“I’m not on any covers,” Iwaizumi remarked.

“Yet,” Hanamaki said ominously. “Give it time. He’s gonna soft-launch you on Instagram with a blurry pic of your hands arranging peonies.”

Iwaizumi groaned. “You two are insufferable.”

“Us? We’re insufferable?” Matsukawa said. “You just casually drop that you know the most dramatic man in Hollywood like that’s a normal thing. Since when?”

Hanamaki leaned in, grinning. “Yeah, what, did he fall for your whole ‘brooding florist’ thing?”

Iwaizumi muttered. “I don’t brood.”

Hanamaki snorted. “You only brood. It’s your entire personality.”

“It’s not like I meant for it to happen,” Iwaizumi said, sounding a little rough. “But now he’s just everywhere. My days. My space. Texts me like it’s nothing. Shows up with coffee. Falls asleep on my couch like he’s always had a place there. And somehow, it doesn’t even feel weird. It’s just him.”

“Oh my God,” Matsukawa whispered. “You’re dating him.”

“I’m not dating him,” Iwaizumi shot back. “It’s not like we’re making out in public or holding hands in front of TMZ.”

“But you’ve kissed.”

Silence.

“YOU’VE KISSED?” Hanamaki practically shrieked.

“Can you not make it sound like I just won the lottery or something?”

Matsukawa smirked. “Well, if anyone could pull that off, it’s you, but I didn’t think you had it in you to be that smooth.”

Iwaizumi sighed. “I hate both of you.”

“No, you don’t,” Hanamaki said sweetly. “You’re just cranky because you’ve accidentally fallen for the world’s most photographed man.”

“Who wears lip gloss,” Matsukawa added. “Bet your rugged little florist heart didn’t see that one coming.”

“He doesn’t wear lip gloss,” Iwaizumi said through gritted teeth. “It’s just his mouth. Looks like that. Naturally.”

“Wow,” Hanamaki said. “Iwaizumi. Hajime. My guy. You are so gone.”

“Shut up.”

“I didn’t even know you had feelings,” Matsukawa said.

“I don’t.”

“You let a man with perfect cheekbones emotionally compromise you.”

“Perfect cheekbones,” Hanamaki repeated, fake-swooning. “Next thing you know, Iwa’s gonna be writing him sonnets.”

“I will hang up this call.”

“You won’t,” they both said, smug and unified.

Iwaizumi rubbed his temple. “I hate you guys. Seriously.”

He exhaled slowly, thumb absently tracing the corner of his phone. “We actually talked about us briefly. Me and Oikawa.”

That quieted them.

“We agreed to take it slow,” he said. “Neither of us wants to screw this up. And he’s busy all the time, filming, working. I’ve got the shop and everything else. But we still find time for each other. So we said we’d figure it out without rushing.”

Hanamaki snorted. “No public proposals or flashing rings yet? What a letdown.”

Matsukawa smirked. “And no forced contract signings? I’m shocked.”

Iwaizumi cut in, voice low but firm. “He said it feels real. That’s why we’re taking it slow.”

Hanamaki whistled low. “Damn. That’s… kind of mature. Who knew?”

“I know, right?” Iwaizumi agreed.

But the smile didn’t last

“But I saw his name trending again today,” Iwaizumi said. “Paparazzi got a shot of him leaving late-night rehearsals. It was blurry, yeah, but still his name was everywhere. People are always watching him, waiting for something.”

“And you don’t want to be part of the ‘something,’” Hanamaki added quietly.

Iwaizumi nodded. “Yeah. Or I don’t know if I can be.”

He shifted his grip on the phone. “I keep thinking, what if this stays secret forever? Would he be okay with that? Would I? And what if he doesn’t want to keep it hidden, but I’m not built for the kind of life he lives?”

There was a long silence. Not heavy, just thoughtful.

Finally, Matsukawa spoke. “Okay, first of all? You’re not dumb for thinking about this. You’re practical. That’s your whole thing.”

“Yeah,” Hanamaki added. “You always think ten steps ahead. Honestly, it’s probably why you and Oikawa work in the first place. He’s chaos, and you’re the seatbelt.”

Iwaizumi snorted. “Great metaphor.”

“Thank you,” Makki said smugly.

“But seriously,” Matsukawa said, voice softer now, “you don’t have to have every answer right now. You like him. He likes you. That’s a good place to start.”

Hanamaki chimed in, “And if you’re worried about what he wants, maybe just talk to him? You guys do talk, right? Like… words and feelings and all that?”

“Makki.”

“Just checking.”

Iwaizumi rubbed his eyes. “I know I need to. I just… I don’t want to mess it up.”

“You won’t,” Matsukawa said firmly. “Because you care enough to be scared.”

Hanamaki let out a breath. “Look. He’s not just some celebrity fling, is he?”

“No,” Iwaizumi said. Without hesitation.

“Then you owe it to both of you to figure this out. Not alone. Not in your head at 2 a.m. But together. Like adults. Which I know is terrifying for you.”

Iwaizumi huffed a laugh. “You guys suck.”

“Only a little,” Hanamaki said, grinning audibly.

“But we’ve got your back,” Matsukawa added. “Always.”

There was something quiet and solid in that.

“Thanks,” Iwaizumi said.

“Now go make him a bouquet or something dramatic,” Hanamaki said.

“Yeah,” Matsukawa said. “Make him cry. Maybe confess with dahlias.”

“I’m hanging up now.”

“You love us.”

Iwaizumi ended the call with a small smile pulling at his mouth. He stood there for a moment, staring at the phone in his hand.

Two minutes after he hung up, his phone buzzed again.

Oikawa: Can’t make it today :( Stuck at the studio. Interviews, meetings, last-minute chaos. I’m sorry.

Oikawa: Mind doing a last-minute soft bouquet for me? Payment’s sent. You’re the best. :P

Oikawa: Dante will swing by in an hour to pick it up. <3

Iwaizumi stared at the message for a moment, then shook his head. Not annoyed, just faintly amused. The heart at the end didn’t help.

He didn’t text back right away. Instead, he tucked his phone into his back pocket and moved toward the workbench. The soft light in the shop glinted off the jars of baby’s breath and lavender as he pulled out a few familiar stems of pale lisianthus, white ranunculus, silvery dusty miller. All soft. All delicate.

He didn’t have to think about it much. He still remembered exactly what he’d made the first time when Oikawa visited. How he had stood across the counter, watching with that annoying little half-smile that meant he was paying more attention than he let on. He’d held the bouquet in both hands like it was a script he needed to memorize.

Iwaizumi snorted under his breath at the memory and kept working. Clean, precise cuts. A little filler. A quick wrap in cream-colored paper. He paused only once, reaching for a sprig of fresh chamomile, not part of the original mix, but it felt right now.

He didn’t know why.

Maybe because it reminded him of calmness. Of quiet. Of someone sleeping on his couch with mussed hair and a hand curled over their phone, like they hadn’t meant to fall asleep there but couldn’t help it.

The bouquet came together in under fifteen minutes. Iwaizumi stepped back to eye it.

And then he leaned back against the counter, arms crossed, and waited for Dante to walk through the door.

The bell above the door jingled exactly fifty-nine minutes later.

Dante stepped inside with his usual calm air, sunglasses on despite being indoors, a crossbody bag slung neatly across his chest, and an exhausted look tugging at his features.

“Iwaizumi,” he said smoothly. “Please tell me you worked your magic.”

Iwaizumi held out the bouquet. “I hope you like it.”

Dante took it with a surprising gentleness, giving the arrangement a quick but thoughtful once-over. “This is perfect.”

Iwaizumi gave a small, noncommittal sound, though his eyes stayed on him. “Oikawa said you’d be the one picking it up.”

Dante sighed, lifting the sunglasses up onto his head. “Yeah. He’s been completely slammed all week. Shooting during the day, meetings at night, interviews wedged in between. He barely has time to eat, let alone sneak away for flowers.”

Iwaizumi frowned, instinctively checking the time. “He said he was busy, but not that busy.”

Dante let out a quiet laugh. “He’s working himself into the ground. Pushing hard for that Oscar nod. I think he’s trying to prove something to people who’ve already made up their minds about him.”

Iwaizumi’s hands curled loosely around the counter. “Like what?”

“That he’s more than just a face. That he can do serious, complicated, heavy roles and still pull people in.” Dante adjusted his bag strap. “And honestly? He’s getting there. I’ve worked with a lot of actors, but Tooru…he’s relentless when he believes in something.”

Iwaizumi was quiet for a moment, the words settling in. “Does he ever sleep?”

“Barely,” Dante said, half amused and half concerned. “Last night I caught him running lines with himself in the mirror at 3 a.m. Then he insisted on reshooting a scene today because he didn’t like the lighting on his left side. His left side, Iwaizumi.”

Iwaizumi huffed a laugh despite himself. “That sounds about right.”

Dante smiled faintly. “He doesn’t talk about much lately. But he mentions you. More than he probably realizes.”

That stilled Iwaizumi. He kept his expression neutral, but the words buzzed somewhere beneath his ribs.

Dante, thankfully, didn’t push it. “Anyway, he’s got about three interviews this afternoon, a rewrite session tonight, and then another shoot first thing tomorrow. So if he hasn’t texted you back much, that’s why. It’s not personal.”

“I know,” Iwaizumi said. And he did. But still, hearing it out loud helped. “Thanks for telling me.”

“No problem.” Dante nodded toward the bouquet in his hands.

“I hope it cheers him up a little,” Iwaizumi said, almost offhand.

Dante hesitated. “Oh, these actually aren’t for him.”

Iwaizumi looked up. “They’re not?”

“No,” Dante said, adjusting the wrap. “Someone else.”

Something about the way he said it made Iwaizumi pause. “Who?”

Dante shifted, then gave a vague smile. “I don’t think I should say. You’d have to get that out of him yourself.”

That tugged at something in Iwaizumi, curiosity, unease but he nodded. “Right.”

“Tell him to get some sleep.”

“I’ll try,” Dante said, already heading toward the door. “Not sure he listens to me anymore. Maybe he listens to you.”

The door jingled shut behind him.

Iwaizumi stood there for a second, surrounded by the faint after-scent of daffodils, telling himself it probably wasn’t a big deal.

He wasn’t the type to dig where he wasn’t invited but now the question was there, settled in the back of his mind like pollen in the air.

If these weren’t for Oikawa, were any of them?

And if they weren’t… then who?

He sighed and moved behind the counter, reaching for the spray bottle without really thinking.

It probably wasn’t a big deal.

But that didn’t stop him from wondering why it felt like one.

Maybe the bouquets weren’t for Oikawa. Maybe they never had been. And maybe that mattered less than he thought it would because even with the question lingering in the back of his mind, he still wanted to talk. Not about the flowers, not yet. But about them.

He reached for his phone before he could talk himself out of it.

Iwaizumi : Hey. Can we talk soon? I’ve been thinking about a few things.

He didn’t reread it. Just sent it.

And then placed his phone face down on the counter.

He was proud of himself, in a quiet, stubborn way. He hadn’t waited for the perfect moment or tried to script the conversation in his head like he always did. He just reached out.

The shop stayed quiet except for the soft whir of the fan. A customer came in and bought a small bunch of yellow tulips for her sister. Iwaizumi smiled, wrapped them up, and didn’t check his phone even once while she was there.

But the second the door closed behind her, he flipped the screen up again.

Nothing yet.

That was fine. Oikawa was busy.

____

The room bustled with quiet activity of stylists flitting in and out, someone adjusting the mic on his clothes, and the murmur of production staff through the walls. Oikawa sat in the makeup chair, his jacket draped over the back, shirt sleeves rolled up, one leg bouncing nervously

This interview mattered. Big movie. Big studio. Big eyes on him.

Dante stepped in with his usual relaxed grin, the scent of cologne and the faintest trace of flowers following behind him.

“Delivery complete.” Dante said, sliding a water bottle onto the counter beside Oikawa.

Oikawa raised an eyebrow through the mirror. “How’d she like them?”

“Very pleased,” Dante said. “Told me to pass along her thanks to you.”

That made Oikawa smile. A real one. Small, quick, but lingering even as he adjusted his sleeves. “Good.”

He reached for his phone while the stylist dabbed lightly at his jawline, thumbing past a few notifications out of habit. Then he saw the message.

Iwaizumi: Hey. Can we talk soon? I’ve been thinking about a few things.

His heart dropped.

Oikawa stared at the screen. His face stayed still, unreadable, until he stood up abruptly.

“Dante.”

His voice was sharp enough to make the stylist flinch.

Dante glanced up from his phone. “Yeah?”

Oikawa strode over, phone in hand, and shoved it toward his face. “What did you do?”

Dante blinked at the screen and read the text aloud, “‘Hey. Can we talk soon? I’ve been thinking about a few things.’”

Dante paused.

“What?” he asked. “Why is that a bad thing?”

“What did you say to him?” Oikawa demanded, eyes narrowed.

“Nothing! I didn’t say anything. We just had small talk. I didn’t even mention you.”

“You didn’t mention me at all?”

“Well…” Dante scratched the back of his neck. “I might’ve said something like how the flowers weren’t for you, and he asked who they were for, so I said I couldn’t say. But not in a weird way. Just in a, like, contextually innocent way.”

Oikawa closed his eyes and exhaled through his nose.

“Hey,” Dante said gently, “maybe he just wants to talk. That’s a good thing, right?”

Oikawa’s grip tightened around his phone. “Not when I’ve got an interview in twenty-five minutes and I’m suddenly spiraling into worst-case scenarios.”

Dante gave him a look. “You’re spiraling no matter what’s happening.”

Oikawa shot him a glare, then sat back down hard in the makeup chair.

“I’m just saying,” Dante added, backing toward the trailer door again, “you like this guy. A lot. Maybe it’s time you figure out what kind of talk you’re actually afraid of.”

Oikawa didn’t answer. Just stared down at his phone again.

The message was still there, calm and simple.

And it was the calm part that made his heart race the most.

He liked Iwaizumi. A lot. A whole lot. He had from the very beginning. Back when he first stepped into that flower shop and saw him. The guy with strong forearms, quiet eyes, and a way of carrying himself that felt so grounded. Oikawa had barely walked in before something in him buckled a little. Like he knew, immediately, without question: That one. I want that one.

And now? They’d shared enough moments that it wasn’t just want anymore. It was hope. Dangerous, real hope. But Oikawa wasn’t stupid. He knew what came with being him. The fame, the scrutiny, the constant photos, the assumptions. The way people watched his life like it was a show, not a real thing with real feelings. He’d had a situationship a couple months ago, nothing even serious. When the public caught wind of it, his fans had gone rabid. They dug through the girl’s social media, left threats, tracked her family down, told her she was ruining him.

She’d broken it off a week later, crying and scared.

So yeah. Oikawa knew what could happen. Knew how ugly people could be. He’d kept himself guarded since then. Detached, even when he didn’t want to be.

And Iwaizumi? He wasn’t just someone from a dating rumor. He mattered. He really mattered.

So he hadn’t told Iwaizumi who the bouquets were for not because he was hiding something wrong, just something complicated. The bouquets weren’t for him, no, but they also weren’t something he could explain easily. Not without unraveling someone else’s privacy, someone who had explicitly asked him not to say anything. It wasn’t shady. It wasn’t a secret because it was bad. It was just… delicate. Personal. Not his story to spill.

But he could feel the weight of it, the risk of misunderstanding. And that terrified him just as much as the fame did.

Oikawa was just trying to help, quietly, without turning it into a headline or a question mark between him and Iwaizumi. The situation wasn’t public, and it wasn’t simple. Truthfully, he’d been hoping it wouldn’t matter. That it wouldn’t even come up.

But now? He knew how it might look. And the idea of Iwaizumi feeling unsure, even for a second, twisted something deep in his chest.

Because if Iwaizumi really needed to know or if it ever got to that point Oikawa would tell him. No hesitation. He’d explain everything, clear every shadow of doubt. He wasn’t afraid of honesty. He was afraid of losing something before it even had the chance to become real.

And this—whatever this was with Iwaizumi—was starting to feel real. Very real.

So the idea of messing it up and possibly being the reason Iwaizumi got hurt, hounded, or turned away from something they could’ve had terrified him.

His fingers hovered over his phone again.

He just looked at that message. His chest ached.

And quietly, without looking at Dante, he said, “I don’t want to lose him over something I can’t control.”

Dante leaned against the wall, arms folded, and for once, didn’t try to make a joke out of it.

“Then talk to him,” he said simply.

Oikawa didn’t respond right away. His thumb rested at the corner of his phone, eyes still glued to the screen.

“Just be honest,” Dante added, softer now. “Tell him what it’s like dating a celebrity. How heavy it gets. Don’t sugarcoat it. If he’s going to be in this with you, he deserves to know what that means. The good and the bad. And if he still wants to stay after hearing it all…” He shrugged. “That says something.”

Oikawa exhaled, his lips pulling into a tight line. His chest felt like it was wrapped in barbed wire of hope and fear threading too close together.

“When do I have time tomorrow?” he asked.

Dante pulled out his phone and scrolled through the shared schedule. There was a shoot in the morning. Meetings, press and blocks of back-to-back chaos with barely any room to breathe. But after a few seconds, he paused, tilting the screen toward Oikawa.

“You’re free from 8:45 p.m. onward,” Dante said. “That’s the earliest slot that isn’t packed with cameras and people.”

Oikawa nodded slowly.

Then typed.

Oikawa: Tomorrow at 8:45. Does that work for you?

He hit send. This time, he stared at the message until the screen went dim

Five minutes later, the screen lit up again.

Iwaizumi: That works. We can talk at my shop.

Oikawa let out a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding. It came out shaky. His shoulders dropped, and for the first time since reading the first message, his expression softened.

He locked his phone and set it on the counter beside the bottled water and untouched lunch. The trailer around him buzzed quietly with background noise, muffled voices outside, and the hum of the light above.

“Done,” the makeup artist announced softly, stepping back from her chair. “You’re camera-ready.”

Oikawa blinked out of his thoughts. “Thanks,” he said, offering a small smile. He sat there for just a beat longer, then rose smoothly to his feet, brushing off the front of his clothes as if nothing was weighing on him at all.

By the time he reached the door, his posture was tall, every line of his body composed. Controlled. The version of himself the world expected to see.

He pushed the door open and stepped outside with his chin high, shoulders back, and charm fixed in place like armor. The cameras were waiting. The lights. The questions. The crowd.

And Oikawa was ready. Or at least, he’d pretend to be.

Chapter Text

Iwaizumi’s day started early.

He was up before the sun, the sky outside still that faint navy blue, brushing his teeth while the kettle hissed behind him. The gym opened at five, and by five-ten he was there with his hood pulled up, earbuds in, and weights in his hands. There was something grounding about the repetition. The rhythm. It let his thoughts settle.

He showered after, made eggs and toast when he got home, and even had time to sit down with his coffee instead of drinking it standing up like usual. It was a good morning.

At the shop, the nice rhythm continued. A steady stream of customers, mostly friendly, some regulars. A few new faces, too. He found himself smiling more than usual. He liked these kinds of days. Days where people knew what they wanted or let him help them figure it out. One girl asked for something that said “Sorry I’m a little emotionally constipated,” and left grinning with a messy bouquet of red ranunculus, blue delphinium, and yellow freesias. He made what he swore was his prettiest arrangement of the week before noon.

Everything should have felt easy. But it didn’t.

Not completely.

Because the whole time between tying ribbons and trimming stems, his mind kept drifting. Back to that text. Back to the fact that by the end of today, Oikawa would be at his door.

They were going to talk.

About them.

It wasn’t like they hadn’t talked before. They had sometimes in between jokes or right after Oikawa teased him into laughing. But this… this was different. This was planned. Serious. There were words waiting in both their mouths that they hadn’t said yet.

And Iwaizumi wasn’t nervous exactly, but—

Okay. Maybe a little.

He wiped his hands on a towel behind the counter, glancing at the time. Still a few hours to go. Still time to think about everything he might say. Everything Oikawa might. Still time to wonder about the bouquets again—why Dante had looked so weird when Iwaizumi asked. Why Oikawa hadn’t said anything.

He didn’t think it was anything bad. Honestly, he didn’t want to think about it at all.

But the question was still there. Just barely. Sitting at the back of his thoughts like a weight he kept shifting around.

Still, he wanted to talk. Because even with all the uncertainty, Iwaizumi knew one thing for sure:

He wanted to be with Oikawa.

That part didn’t scare him.

The rest, whatever it was, they’d figure it out together.

He just hoped they’d both be brave enough to say what needed to be said when the time came.

It was just past four in the afternoon. The warm glow of late spring sunlight filtered softly through the shop windows, casting long shadows over the neatly arranged rows of flowers. Iwaizumi moved quietly between the tables, making sure every vase was filled just right, every petal was free of dust or stray leaves.

He liked this part of the day when the rush had died down but there was still a peaceful hum of life in the air. He straightened a bunch of daisies, adjusted a ribbon on a bouquet of tulips, then reached for a cloth to wipe the counter once more.

His phone buzzed in his pocket.

Glancing at the screen, he saw it was a message from his mom.

Mom: Hey, my favorite florist! How’s my boy today? 🌼

He smiled softly and typed back.

Iwaizumi: Hey, Mom. Shop’s going well. Made some really pretty bouquets today.

A moment later, the reply came.

Mom: Ooooh, nice! How’s everything with that Oikawa guy? Spill!

Iwaizumi hesitated just a second before answering.

Iwaizumi: Pretty good. Everything’s been great.

He didn’t want to say too much—not yet. His mom was the kind who could blow things out of proportion, and tonight was important but not a crisis.

Mom: Ahhh! Yay! Just remember, you’re amazing and deserve honesty and happiness, okay? Don’t let anything bring you down!

He felt a small warmth in his chest

Iwaizumi: Thanks, Mom. I’ll keep that in mind.

Setting the phone down, Iwaizumi frowned slightly and went back to his messages with Oikawa.

He had sent the first “Good morning” text today. That wasn’t how it usually went. Oikawa was always up first—early, busy, on top of everything. Iwaizumi normally waited for him to start the day.

Curious, he tapped the screen and reread the conversation. Oikawa hadn’t replied yet.

The silence felt heavier than usual.

Iwaizumi’s thumb hovered over the keyboard for a moment, then he put the phone down. Maybe Oikawa was still busy. Or maybe he was nervous, just like Iwaizumi.

Either way, tonight would come soon enough.

And whatever happened, he’d be ready to listen.

Iwaizumi glanced at the clock—5:30 p.m. The soft hum of the shop settled into a quiet rhythm as the last few customers trickled out. He wiped his hands on his apron and took a deep breath, trying to push away the nagging swirl of thoughts about tonight.

He moved to tidy up the counter, stacking unused ribbons and straightening the floral shears. His phone buzzed again. This time, it was Oikawa.

Oikawa: Sorry for the late reply. Got caught up with some stuff.

Iwaizumi’s lips twitched into a small, relieved smile.

Iwaizumi: No worries. Hope everything’s okay.

Oikawa: Yeah, just the usual chaos. Looking forward to seeing you later :)

The simple words made Iwaizumi’s chest tighten a little. After all the unknowns and silent questions, this felt like a small anchor.

He glanced out the window at the streetlights beginning to flicker on.

Eight forty-five wasn’t far off.

He finished wiping down the last table and sat on the edge of the counter, phone in hand, heart quietly waiting for the conversation that could change everything.
_____

Oikawa stepped off the set, the final scene wrapped, and the hum of quiet chatter from the crew filling the air. The director caught his eye, giving him a thumbs-up as he approached.

“Fantastic work, Oikawa. You brought depth to the character that really elevated the whole story,” the director said, clapping him on the shoulder.

“Thank you, sir,” Oikawa replied with a tired but genuine smile. “Couldn’t have done it without the whole team.”

The producer joined in, holding out a bottle of water. “Seriously, your dedication during those long takes was impressive. We all appreciate it.”

He noticed Dante approaching, carrying a couple of coffee cups. “Celebratory caffeine?” Dante offered with a smirk.

“Just what I need,” Oikawa replied, taking a cup.

They found a quiet corner away from the remaining noise. Dante took a sip and raised an eyebrow. “You look like you could sleep for a week.”

Oikawa chuckled. “Feels like I’ve been running a marathon.”

Dante grinned. “Well, you’ve earned it. How do you feel?”

“Relieved,” Oikawa admitted. “And a little numb.”

“Movie magic,” Dante teased. “But seriously, you made this character real. You brought something unique.”

Oikawa looked out the window, watching the crew load equipment into trucks. “It’s strange… putting so much of yourself into something, then knowing it’ll be out there, for everyone to see and judge.”

Dante nodded. “That’s the price of the spotlight. But you’ve got something that lasts beyond the screen.”

“Hope so.”

They stood in comfortable silence for a moment.

“You ever think about just taking a break?” Dante asked suddenly. “Stepping away from all the noise.”

Oikawa sighed. “Every day. But then… I remember why I do this.”

“And that is?”

Oikawa smiled softly. “Because sometimes, through all the chaos, I get to be someone else. Someone real. And maybe help others feel a little less alone.”

Dante raised his cup in a silent toast. “To that.”

Oikawa clinked his cup to Dante’s. “To that.”

They stood in comfortable silence for a moment for a moment.

Dante broke the quiet, raising an eyebrow. “So… you ready for that talk with Iwaizumi later?”

Oikawa took a slow sip of his coffee, eyes thoughtful. “A little,” he admitted. “I’ve been thinking about it all day. I’m hoping it goes well. It has to, right?”

Dante gave a small, encouraging nod. “It’s a big step. But I think being honest and open is the only way forward.”

Oikawa smiled, steadying himself. “No more half-measures. I want this to be real, all the way.”

“Good.” Dante smirked. “Because I’m counting on you to keep your head in the game.”

Oikawa laughed softly. “Don’t worry. I’ll handle it.”

_____

Iwaizumi sat behind the counter of the now-empty shop, the soft hum of the air conditioner the only sound around him. The day’s customers had left, and the bouquets he’d arranged sat neatly on the shelves, waiting to be picked up or delivered. His fingers tapped absentmindedly on the counter as he scrolled through his phone, landing on a series of interviews Oikawa had done just last night.

The Oikawa on screen was different from the man he knew. Polished, flawless, always perfectly poised. His smile was radiant, but there was a practiced edge to it, the charm dialed up for the cameras. The questions came fast and often trivial, and Oikawa answered each one with that same effortless grace, deflecting any that probed too deep.

Watching, Iwaizumi felt a strange mix of admiration and distance. This version of Oikawa was the star, the public figure who lit up every room and yet, here in the quiet of the flower shop, the Oikawa he knew was softer, more real. The way he laughed at dumb jokes, the way his eyes crinkled when he was genuinely happy, the way he sometimes let his guard down when no one was watching.

Iwaizumi frowned slightly, wondering how much of that realness Oikawa would show tonight.

Iwaizumi shook off the thoughts before they could settle too deep. Overthinking wouldn’t help right now. He unlocked his phone and opened the group chat with Makki and Mattsun, thumbs hovering for a second before he started typing.

Iwaizumi: talking to oikawa tonight. about… us.

Iwaizumi: unfortunately listening to your advice

Iwaizumi: if it goes horribly wrong i’m blaming you both

The response was almost immediate.

Hanamaki: we’re honored 😌

Matsukawa: finally using that heart of yours, huh? proud of you, emotionally stunted king

Hanamaki: don’t mess it up. or do. either way we get drama

Matsukawa: no pressure tho!! just the fate of your love life in the balance ❤️

Iwaizumi rolled his eyes and set the phone down with a quiet scoff, but the corners of his mouth tugged up despite himself. It was annoying how comforting their nonsense could be.

It was 8:40. Five minutes until Oikawa is supposed to arrive.

The shop was long closed with the sign flipped, lights dimmed, and blinds drawn. Iwaizumi had tidied up more than necessary, rearranged the counter display even though no one would see it, and swept the front area twice. Just something to do with his hands.

It had become a quiet ritual by now, the way he shut the place down whenever Oikawa came over. Not just closed for the night, but closed so no peering eyes through the windows, no chance of someone spotting something they shouldn’t. It was instinct, a kind of invisible perimeter he built without needing to say why. If Oikawa noticed, he never said anything.

Iwaizumi paced the shop floor now, slow steps echoing faintly in the stillness. The scent of flowers lingered softly in the air, grounded by the faint citrus of the cleaning spray he’d used earlier. He caught his reflection in the window. Hair slightly tousled, sleeves rolled just past his elbows and he crossed the room to double check himself in the back mirror. For the fiftieth time.

He ran a hand through his hair, frowned, smoothed it back down, then rolled his eyes at himself.

It was just a conversation. Nothing unusual. They’d talked a hundred times before. This one didn’t have to be any different.

He exhaled, slow and steady, and leaned his weight on the counter, eyes flicking toward the door. Five minutes. Or maybe less, if Oikawa was early.

He hoped he wouldn’t be. Just a few more seconds to breathe.

His phone buzzed on the counter, sharp and sudden in the stillness, jolting Iwaizumi from his thoughts. He blinked, startled, then reached for it.

Oikawa: I’m around the corner. Walking in now.

Oikawa: I let my bodyguard go home. But, my drivers gonna wait in the car out front, just FYI.

Iwaizumi stared at the screen for a second, thumb hovering above a reply he didn’t type.

He should’ve expected it, the driver thing. Still, the idea of someone waiting just outside made this feel more official. Like there was a world outside pressing at the windows, even if they couldn’t see in.

Iwaizumi exhaled and set his phone down, brushing his hands over his jeans to steady himself.

“All right,” he murmured to the empty shop. “Let’s do this.”

Ten seconds later, the bell above the door gave a jingle.

Oikawa stepped inside quickly, head ducked, baseball cap low and mask still covering most of his face. Even with the blinds drawn and the street outside empty, he moved like someone still half-expecting to be recognized. His eyes darted around the shop out of habit, quick and practiced but softened when they landed on Iwaizumi.

“Hey,” he said, tugging the mask down once the door clicked shut behind him. His voice was quiet, almost careful.

Iwaizumi gave a short nod, something in his chest loosening just a little at the sound. “Hey. You made it.”

“Of course I did,” Oikawa said, pulling off his hat and raking a hand through his hair. “I said I would, didn’t I?”

Iwaizumi tried to smirk, but it came out crooked. “Right on time.”

Oikawa shrugged one shoulder, stepping closer. “Of course I am.”

The shop felt unusually still around them. Closed. Quiet. The scent of flowers lingered, soft and calming, but underneath it all, the air felt a little charged.

Something real hovered between them now, just waiting.

Oikawa started, smoothing a hand through his hair and walking up to the counter across from Iwaizumi. “So,” he said lightly, “how’ve you been?”

Iwaizumi let out a quiet breath, leaning back against the counter. “Busy. Good. The shop’s been steady. I had a few weird bouquet requests this week, but nothing I couldn’t handle.” He paused, eyes flicking over Oikawa briefly. “Tired. But fine.”

Oikawa smiled, soft and easy. “That’s good.”

Iwaizumi nodded, then tilted his head. “What about you? You look less dead than usual.”

A laugh slipped out of Oikawa. “Thanks, I guess.” He slipped his hands into the pockets of his coat. “I actually just wrapped filming. Today was my last day on set.”

Iwaizumi raised his brows. “Seriously? That’s huge.”

“Yeah.” Oikawa nodded, that same flicker of nerves in his smile. “It is. They all congratulated me and everything. I think it’s finally hitting me that I can breathe a little. My schedule’s still packed, but it’s slowing down. No more back-to-back shoots. I might even sleep.”

“Now that’s a miracle.”

Oikawa laughed again. “Tell me about it.”

For a second, the space between them was filled only by the low hum of the shop’s old refrigerator unit in the back, and the faint sound of traffic outside.

Then Oikawa’s gaze drifted toward the floor, then back to Iwaizumi. “Anyway,” he said, a little quieter. “I’m really glad we’re doing this.”

Iwaizumi nodded, the corners of his mouth twitching with something close to a smile. “Yeah. Me too.”

The quiet stretched again, softer now, like the calm before a conversation they both knew had to happen.

Oikawa studied him for a beat longer, then tilted his head. “So… what made you want to talk? You texted out of nowhere yesterday.”

Iwaizumi looked down for a second, picking at a thread on the counter before meeting Oikawa’s eyes again. “I guess I just kept thinking about us. Not in a bad way. Just…” He paused, sorting through the words. “I’ve been really happy lately. With you. Being around you. But I’d be lying if I said I didn’t think about where this is heading. What it means.”

Oikawa didn’t say anything right away, but something shifted in his expression, like a wall had been gently nudged, not knocked over, but touched.

“I know we haven’t exactly defined anything,” Iwaizumi continued, more steady now. “And I’m not saying we need to rush or figure it all out tonight, but I just… I don’t want to keep pretending like this is casual when it doesn’t feel casual. Not to me.”

Oikawa exhaled slowly, his face unreadable for a moment.

Then, just as he was about to respond—
Bzzz.
His phone lit up again.

He ignored it at first. Just a glance down, barely acknowledging the sound.

It buzzed again. And again.

Oikawa sighed and reached into his pocket, pulling out his personal phone, the one Iwaizumi knew he only gave to a handful of people. He set it on the counter between them, screen up, muttering, “Not this one.”

Then he fished out the second phone—the sleeker one he used for work. The screen lit up with a name: Gabriella – Publicist.

Iwaizumi raised a brow. “Wow. You’ve gone full corporate, huh?”

Oikawa rolled his eyes fondly. “It’s just the work phone. She probably wants to talk about the press tour or the magazine shoot.”

“You can take it,” Iwaizumi said, nudging his foot lightly under the counter. “I’m not going anywhere.”

Oikawa’s phone buzzed again just as he slipped his mask and hat back on, eyes flicking to Iwaizumi with a faint wince. “I’ll be right back,” he said, voice apologetic but quiet, and then pushed the door open.

The soft jingle of the bell followed him out as he stepped onto the sidewalk, phone pressed to his ear, the glass door swinging shut behind him.

Iwaizumi let out a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding and leaned back against the counter, rubbing his palms over his jeans. His hands were warm. Too warm. He flexed his fingers once, twice, trying to shake the nerves off.

He glanced around the empty shop absently, the familiar quiet suddenly strange with Oikawa gone. His eyes fell to the phone on the counter at Oikawa’s personal phone, not the one he’d just answered.

It buzzed once, the screen lighting up.

Iwaizumi’s gaze flickered to it automatically, but what caught his attention wasn’t the notification but the background. The wallpaper.

He leaned in before he could stop himself, just a little.

It was a photo of Oikawa standing onstage, holding a golden award in both hands, beaming like he had the whole world. His smile was wide, unguarded. Not posed for cameras, not manufactured. Just innocent.

Iwaizumi’s chest warmed. He picked the phone up gently, almost smiling to himself until another buzz pulled his attention to the screen.

Selene: Just wanted to say again that the bouquets you’ve given me are so beautiful. I can’t thank you enough. You’re so caring, and you’ve been there for me in ways I’ll never forget. I love you.

Iwaizumi’s stomach turned.

His smile faded. The warmth drained from his chest and left something cold and uncomfortable behind.

The only reason Iwaizumi had even seen the message was because, for some reason, the phone had been left unlocked. Maybe a face recognition misfire, maybe Oikawa had just opened it recently and it never locked. Either way, the screen hadn’t gone dark yet. The text had slid in, bold and unavoidable.

He blinked at the message once, hoping he’d read it wrong. But the words were still there. The name. The tone.

And the name Selene stuck out like a thorn.

Iwaizumi stared at the screen a second longer, his mind scrambling for context.

Selene Dunkel. That was the name of the actress Oikawa had filmed that romance movie with 2 years ago. They’d been co-leads—two love interests with dramatic tension and perfectly lit kisses. He remembered the posters, the red carpet clips. And the rumors.

Tabloids had eaten it up, speculating that they were dating in real life too. Iwaizumi hadn’t thought much of it at the time and thought it was just another PR stunt, probably cooked up to stir buzz before the premiere. He’d assumed it was all part of the job.

But now?

Now the message on the screen felt like something else entirely. The tone was too soft, too personal. “You’re so caring,” “you’ve been there for me,” “I love you” were words that clung to the inside of his head like static.

He looked away and set the phone down, his heartbeat pressing in his ears.

His jaw clenched.

It didn’t matter if it was innocent. It didn’t matter that he didn’t know the full story.

And Oikawa hadn’t said anything about this. Whoever Selene was to him—whoever she still might be—it hadn’t come up, not once. Not when they talked about honesty.

Iwaizumi set the phone down, a little too fast, and swallowed the tight heat building in his chest. It wasn’t just doubt creeping in anymore. It was betrayal. Sharp and bitter. And anger he couldn’t fully suppress, no matter how hard he tried to be reasonable.

He’d come here ready to talk. To be honest. To open up.

Now, all he could think was:
Why the hell didn’t you tell me?

Oikawa stepped back into the shop, the soft jingle of the door behind him the only sound in the quiet space. His mask and hat were off now, his hair a little tousled from the wind, and he offered a sheepish smile as he made his way toward Iwaizumi.

“Sorry again,” he said, voice light as if trying to shake off the interruption. “Publicist stuff. Boring. But I’m back now. Where were we?”

He paused a few feet from the counter, eyes locking onto Iwaizumi’s.

And his smile faltered.

“…Hey,” Oikawa said, softer now. “What’s wrong?”

Iwaizumi hadn’t moved much since he left and still standing behind the counter, arms loosely folded, jaw tight. There was something shuttered in his expression, something Oikawa didn’t recognize right away, but it made his chest tighten instantly.

“You look like something’s wrong.” Oikawa took another step forward, brows furrowing. “Did… did I say something before I left?”

Silence stretched between them for a moment too long.

And that’s when Oikawa’s eyes flicked toward the counter to his personal phone, still sitting face-up exactly where he’d left it.

“…Did something happen while I was outside?”

Iwaizumi didn’t mean to say it, not like this. Not with that look on Oikawa’s face. But the words had already surged up in his throat, bitter and hot, and now they were spilling out before he could stop them.

“You know what? I don’t want anything to do with you.”

Oikawa froze.

Iwaizumi’s voice was flat. Cold. Detached in a way that didn’t sound like him, not even to his own ears.

“I only ever entertained this because you’re famous,” he went on, staring straight at Oikawa, refusing to let his expression break. “It was exciting for a second, I guess. Getting attention. The kind of attention people only give you when you’re standing next to someone like you.”

Oikawa blinked. Once. Twice. But didn’t say a word.

“I’m over it,” Iwaizumi said. “This—whatever this is—was never going to work. I was lowkey thinking about dating you, actually thought I was worried about what the fame might do to me.” He let out a humorless laugh. “Turns out I wasn’t scared of that at all. I was scared of you.”

That word, you, hung heavy between them.

Something in him screamed to slow down, to stop talking, but his anger kept his mouth moving.

“Your personality, Tooru. You’re spoiled. Dramatic. You think everything revolves around you. Maybe it does, on set. But not here. Not with me. And honestly?” Iwaizumi shook his head slowly. “You’re not worth the headache.”

Something in Oikawa’s posture crumpled, even if he didn’t move an inch. He stood perfectly still, lips parted just slightly, as if trying to speakbut nothing came out.

And that silence?

That was the worst part.

Oikawa’s eyes narrowed, confusion and hurt flickering across his face.

“What are you saying?” he asked carefully, his voice low but steady.

Iwaizumi didn’t look away. His voice was sharp, tinged with anger.

“I’m saying I want nothing to do with you. I only messed with you because you’re famous and wanted some clout. But now? I’m done. I don’t want this.”

Oikawa flinched, searching Iwaizumi’s face for any hint that he was joking or angry in the moment but Iwaizumi’s glare was fierce and unyielding.

“And honestly,” Iwaizumi continued, “you’re just like the rest of those celebrities, entitled, acting like everything’s a game. You’re… unlikeable.”

Oikawa’s breath hitched. “Iwa…”

Iwaizumi cut him off, voice low and bitter, “So yeah. That’s what I’m saying.”

The silence stretched, heavy and sharp between them.

Oikawa stared at him, something flickering behind his eyes— confusion, anger, hurt. “Okay,” he said, voice tight. “I’m going to pretend I didn’t just hear all that. So why don’t you tell me where this is actually coming from?” He reached out, instinctively, trying to close the space between them.

But Iwaizumi flinched back like he’d been burned. He slapped Oikawa’s hand away, hard. “Don’t,” he snapped. “Don’t act like you don’t know.”

“Hajime, please.”

“Get the fuck out, Tooru.”

The words echoed, brutal and final, slicing through the stillness like glass.

Oikawa didn’t move at first. He just stood there, blinking, like the room hadn’t caught up to him yet. Like maybe he’d misheard.

But the silence that followed was too heavy to mistake.

His hand dropped slowly to his side. His mouth opened then closed. Whatever he wanted to say, whatever apology or explanation or defense was on the tip of his tongue, it never made it out.

He nodded once, barely. Then he turned, quiet and slow, and walked out the door without another word.

The door clicked shut behind him.

And just like that, Oikawa was gone.

The shop fell into silence again, but this time, it felt different like it had been hollowed out. Still and aching. Even the flowers seemed quieter somehow, their scent too sweet, cloying in a way that turned Iwaizumi’s stomach.

He stood there, breathing hard, fists clenched on either side of him. The anger was still there, burning in his chest, but beneath it now was something else. Something colder.

He stared at the counter where Oikawa’s phone had been.

That message still rang in his head like it had been carved there.

His jaw locked.

He shouldn’t have exploded like that.

He knew it.

But it had come too fast—too much all at once. The warmth from earlier. The almost-confession. The smile on Oikawa’s face when he’d said “I’m really glad we’re doing this.”

And then… that text. Like a punch to the ribs.

He’d tried to swallow it down, to wait for an explanation.

But he hadn’t.

He hadn’t even asked.

Iwaizumi pressed his palms against the counter, head hanging low between his shoulders. His heartbeat still hadn’t slowed. The echo of his own voice shouting “Get out” was bouncing around in his skull like a curse he couldn’t take back.

He wasn’t even sure what he was really mad at anymore.

Selene?

Oikawa?

Himself?

His throat tightened.

‘You’re just like the rest of them.’

‘You’re unlikeable.’

‘I only messed with you for the attention.’

He’d said that.

He’d meant it, in the moment—but only because his chest had been full of something twisted and hurt, and he hadn’t known where to put it.

But watching Oikawa’s expression fall like that? Watching him flinch and still not fight back?

That wasn’t satisfying.

It wasn’t cathartic.

It felt like he’d cracked something open that he couldn’t fix.

Iwaizumi let out a slow breath and rubbed a hand over his face, trying to will the shaking out of his fingers. But it didn’t stop. Not really.

He looked at the door again.

Part of him expected it to open. For Oikawa to come back in, furious, ranting, begging for clarity, something.

But he didn’t.

Of course he didn’t.

Iwaizumi had kicked him out of the only place he might’ve felt normal in this entire city. And he’d done it with hate in his voice.

But, what else was he supposed to do?

He saw the text. The name. Selene. He saw the way she wrote it. “I love you.” “You’ve been there for me.” “Caring.”

That wasn’t normal. That wasn’t harmless.

Oikawa had never even mentioned her. Not once. Not when Iwaizumi had tried to be open, vulnerable. Not when he’d been sitting right there saying he wanted something real.

So yeah. Maybe he lashed out.

Maybe he went too far.

But what was he supposed to think?

They had history. There’d been rumors.

And the worst part?

He hadn’t even asked Oikawa what the message meant.

He hadn’t let him explain.

He’d just made himself judge, jury, and executioner all because he was scared.

Scared that he actually liked Oikawa. That this wasn’t just some passing thing. That the idea of losing it, losing him, hurt more than he was ready for.

And instead of saying that, he’d burned the whole damn thing to the ground.

Iwaizumi sank into the stool behind the counter. Elbows on the surface. Head in his hands.

The room was still full of flowers. Warm light spilled through the windows. The faintest thread of piano music drifted in from the speaker in the back, soft and slow like it was trying to soothe something.

But none of it landed.

None of it felt real anymore.

It all felt like someone else’s shop. Like someone else’s life.

Not after what he said.

Not after the way Oikawa had looked at him before leaving like he didn’t even recognize him. Like something had just broken.

The moment replayed in his head, over and over, warped and jagged at the edges.

God.

What the hell had he done?

Iwaizumi dragged his hands down his face, fingers shaking. He stared at the counter, willing the pressure in his chest to go away, but it only grew worse.

Tighter.

He gritted his teeth.

You were just protecting yourself.

You saw what you saw.

But the excuses didn’t hold like they had before. Not now. Not when the storm had passed and all that was left was silence.

Oikawa hadn’t yelled or denied it.

Hadn’t called him crazy or demanded to be heard.

He’d just… left.

The sound that tore out of him wasn’t even a word. Just something broken and low in his throat as he hunched over the counter and pressed the heels of his hands hard against his eyes.

Still, the tears came.

Hot, heavy, relentless. Not the kind that slipped down quietly, but the kind that shook through his shoulders, cracked down the middle of his chest.

He hadn’t cried in years.

But now he couldn’t stop.

Because the truth was that beneath the anger, beneath the fear, he’d been happy. Really happy.

Oikawa had made him feel seen. Like things could be soft again, like the world wasn’t so loud when they were together. And maybe it had scared him.

Maybe he’d hated how vulnerable it made him feel.

But that didn’t justify what he’d said. It didn’t un-say it. Didn’t rewind the look on Oikawa’s face or make the emptiness in the shop go away.

He covered his mouth with one hand, as if he could hold everything in but his body betrayed him.

He cried, hunched over his own counter, surrounded by beauty that suddenly felt meaningless. Like all the color had drained out of the petals.

And beneath it all, his thoughts spiraled in one relentless loop:

What if I just ruined the best thing that’s ever happened to me?

⸻

Oikawa didn’t remember walking to the car.

His feet had moved, his hand had opened the door, but his mind was blank like someone had scooped every thought out of his head and left nothing behind but a dull ache.

He slid into the back seat, the leather cold against his legs.

“Hey, boss!” Milo, his usual driver, grinned in the rearview mirror. “How’d it go? You look like you finally got through to him, huh?”

Oikawa stared ahead, unmoving.

“Take me home,” he said quietly, voice flat. “Fast as you can.”

Milo blinked, the smile fading from his face. “Yeah. Of course.”

The car pulled away from the curb in silence.

No music. No radio chatter. Just the hum of the engine and the occasional turn signal, clicking like a heartbeat that didn’t quite belong to him.

Oikawa kept his eyes fixed on the passing streets, but he didn’t see them. The world was just a blur of color and motion. Too fast, too loud, and somehow not loud enough.

He couldn’t stop hearing Iwaizumi’s voice. Cold. Measured.

“You’re not worth the headache.”

“You’re like every other celebrity.”

“I don’t want anything to do with you.”

Each word had landed like a slap. Like ice in his chest.

And he still didn’t understand.

He’d been so careful. So open. He thought they were finally, finally on the same page. He thought… he’d felt it. That realness. That shift.

And then everything shattered.

By the time they reached the house, Milo didn’t say anything else. Just parked in the long driveway beneath the dim glow of the front lights and gave Oikawa a worried look as he got out.

“Text me if you need anything,” Milo offered quietly.

Oikawa didn’t answer. He shut the door gently behind him and walked up the front steps like he was sleepwalking.

Inside, the mansion was quiet. Too quiet.

No noise. No warmth.

Just stone floors and tall ceilings and windows that stretched too high to feel safe under. It felt cavernous. Lifeless. Like a stage after everyone’s gone home.

He climbed the stairs. Each step felt heavier than the last. Past the grand hallway, the awards on the wall, the pristine furniture no one ever sat on.

Into his bedroom.

Dark.

He didn’t bother turning on the light.

The curtains were still drawn, casting long shadows across the walls. The air felt cold, untouched. Like no one had lived here in a long time.

And maybe no one had.

He stood in front of the mirror, slowly peeling off his jacket. Then his watch. His rings. One by one, he set them down on the dresser with trembling fingers.

Finally, he looked up.

His reflection stared back.

Same eyes. Same face people always praised, always photographed. But tonight, he didn’t recognize it.

His jaw clenched.

He didn’t know who he was anymore.

Not to Iwaizumi.

Not to himself.

The pain surged too fast to contain. It rose up without warning, burned its way into his throat, and before he could stop it—

He broke.

Oikawa’s shoulders crumpled as a sob tore free, sudden and loud in the stillness of the room. He turned away from the mirror, but it was too late. He’d already seen himself. The version of him that wasn’t enough.

He pressed a hand to his chest, like he could hold himself together, but it didn’t help.

The tears came hard. Angry. Helpless.

He sank to the floor by the edge of the bed, knees pulled close, choking on everything he hadn’t gotten to say. Everything he didn’t understand.

Everything he was so tired of carrying alone.

And for the first time in a long, long while, Tooru Oikawa felt completely unwanted.

Utterly hopeless.

And completely alone.

Chapter Text

The knock came late Sunday morning.

It was persistent in a way that tugged Iwaizumi out of the fog he’d been swimming through for days.

He sat on the edge of the couch, back hunched, hoodie sleeves pulled over his hands. The fabric was the same he’d been wearing since Friday, maybe even Thursday night. He couldn’t remember. Time had blurred somewhere between the moment the door shut behind Oikawa and now.

The apartment was dim. Curtains drawn. Half-closed blinds in the living room spilled soft gray light across the floor, but it didn’t warm anything. Dishes had piled up in the sink. The TV was still on, a low murmur of some reality show rerun he hadn’t bothered to change. He’d barely eaten, just a protein bar here, a half-drunk smoothie there.

His phone was face down on the table.

He hadn’t touched it since that day.

He hadn’t gone back to the shop since Thursday.

The “Closed” sign was still hanging in the window, exactly how he’d left it after Oikawa walked out. He hadn’t gone back to flip it over, hadn’t touched the register, hadn’t watered the displays or checked inventory. The arrangements by the window were probably wilting.

It all felt far away now.

Even his plants were starting to show it. There were dry edges on the leaves of the basil and a few sun-thirsty begonias drooping near the window. He hadn’t watered them.

He’d barely spoken. Barely moved. Just replayed the same moment over and over again in his head until he couldn’t tell if it was real anymore.

The look on Oikawa’s face.

The text on his phone.

The silence after the words Iwaizumi hadn’t meant.

Another knock. Then a pause. Then Matsukawa’s voice:

“Okay, Hajime. You’ve got five seconds before Makki picks the lock.”

A muffled “I will!” came from behind him.

Iwaizumi sighed and stood, the muscles in his back stiff. He crossed the room and unlocked the door.

Iwaizumi dragged a hand down his face. “You guys drove all the way from Santa Monica for this?”

“No,” Matsukawa replied. “We drove all the way from Santa Monica because you ghosted us and haven’t answered a single text in three days.”

Matsukawa was leaning casually against the frame like he hadn’t been worried out of his mind two minutes ago. Hanamaki stood beside him with a plastic drink tray, two iced coffees and a bright pink smoothie. He looked at Iwaizumi for half a second, then shoved the tray into his hands.

“You look awful,” he said.

“Gee,” Iwaizumi muttered. “Thanks.”

“Take the smoothie,” Makki said. “You need sugar. Or joy. Or both.”

Matsukawa’s gaze drifted to the unwatered plant in the corner. “Okay, now I know something’s wrong. You let your peace lily die.”

Makki stepped in beside him. “Is it even peaceful anymore?”

They settled into the living room like they’d done it a hundred times, which, to be fair, they had. Matsukawa nudged Iwaizumi into one end of the couch while Makki flopped into the armchair across from them, stretching out.

“So,” Matsukawa said. “You gonna tell us what the hell happened?”

Iwaizumi didn’t answer.

Matsukawa and Makki exchanged a look, already knowing what the conversation was about.

Matsukawa raised an eyebrow. “You told us you were going to talk to Oikawa about… you know, the relationship stuff. So what happened with that conversation?”

Iwaizumi ran a hand through his hair, sighing. “I did. I told him I was happy with him and that I didn’t want to keep things casual.”

Makki leaned forward, curious. “Sounds serious. So?”

“Well,” Iwaizumi continued quietly, “right after, his publicist called, so he had to take it. I didn’t mind that part. But then I noticed something on his other phone that he left in front of me… He had left it unlocked, and a message popped up.”

Matsukawa frowned. “From who?”

Iwaizumi hesitated. “Selene. The woman Oikawa was rumored to be dating after their romance movie together. I thought it was just a PR stunt back then. But this message didn’t feel like that.”

Makki’s eyes widened. “Wait, you’re talking about Selene Dunkel?”

“Yeah.” Iwaizumi’s voice tightened. “The message was… personal. And I lost it. I got angry. I lashed out at Oikawa.”

Makki exchanged a glance with Matsukawa, concern clear on both their faces. “What exactly did you say to him?”

Iwaizumi hesitated, swallowing hard. “I told him I didn’t want anything to do with him anymore. That I was just using him for his fame. I said some pretty harsh things.”

Matsukawa shook his head slowly. “That’s… not like you, Hajime. You’re usually the calm one. What made you snap like that?”

Iwaizumi looked down, running a hand over his face. “It just hit me all at once. Seeing that message, all the doubts I’d been pushing away. It just felt like betrayal. And instead of talking it through, I just exploded. I was scared. And hurt.”

Makki softened his tone. “We get it, man. But you’re better than that. You don’t lash out without reason.”

Matsukawa leaned back, folding his arms. “So what did Oikawa say when you told him all that? Did he try to explain?”

Iwaizumi shook his head slowly. “No. That’s the thing. He didn’t say anything. Just stood there.”

Makki frowned. “That sounds like a mess. He probably didn’t know what hit him.”

“It felt like I was yelling at a ghost,” Iwaizumi admitted quietly. “And then he left.”

Matsukawa gave him a sympathetic look. “That silence can be worse than any fight.”

Iwaizumi exhaled hard through his nose, pressing a hand to the back of his neck. “I should’ve asked. But instead, I assumed the worst. And the worst part is the text,” his voice caught slightly. “It said thank you for the bouquets. Which means…”

Matsukawa’s eyebrows lifted, slowly piecing it together.

Makki’s mouth dropped open. “Wait. You mean all those bouquets he kept buying—those were for her?”

Iwaizumi gave the smallest nod. “I made every single one of them. Picked the stems, wrapped the paper, added that stupid wax seal he liked. Thought it was sweet, I thought he was just trying to spend more time around me. Turns out…” He trailed off, jaw tightening.

Makki didn’t finish the sentence for him. He just leaned back with a wince, like the hurt had hit him too.

Matsukawa stared at Iwaizumi for a long second. “That’s rough, man. Anyone would’ve spiraled seeing that. You’re not crazy.”

“But I am ashamed,” Iwaizumi muttered. “Ashamed that I couldn’t keep my cool. That I didn’t trust him enough to just ask. He didn’t even know what was happening. He walked back into the shop smiling.” He swallowed hard. “I tore him down. I said awful things.”

Neither of them spoke for a while after that.

Makki leaned forward and rubbed his palms together. “Okay. So you freaked out. You made a mistake. Welcome to being a human.”

Matsukawa nodded. “We’ve all said things we didn’t mean. You still have time to fix it. But you can’t fix it if you’re hiding here in your sad cave of doom.”

Iwaizumi huffed a humorless laugh, eyes dropping to his hands. “Yeah.”

“You gonna talk to him?” Makki asked, quieter now.

“I want to,” Iwaizumi said. “I just don’t know how to face him after everything I said.”

Matsukawa stood up but didn’t head for the door this time. “Well, before any grand declarations of love, we need to do a little research.”

Iwaizumi blinked. “Research?”

Makki plopped down on the floor with his backpack and pulled out his MacBook like it was a weapon. “We need to figure out who exactly she actually is. Maybe it really was just a PR thing.”

“I thought you two didn’t care about that stuff,” Iwaizumi muttered.

“We don’t,” Matsukawa said, already sitting back down. “But we care about you. And if clearing this up helps you get your head straight, then we’re gonna Google like our lives depend on it.”

Makki cracked his knuckles and opened a browser. “What’s her full name again?”

“Selene Dunkel,” Iwaizumi said reluctantly. “They were in a romance movie together two years ago. It was everywhere for a while.”

Makki typed fast, and within seconds, headlines were flooding the screen:

“Onscreen Chemistry or Real-Life Romance? Selene Dunkel and Oikawa Tooru Spotted Off-Set”

“Selene Gushes About Oikawa During Press Junket: ‘He’s Everything You Think He Is and More’”

“Are They or Aren’t They? Fans Still Shipping Selene and Oikawa Post-Premiere”

Iwaizumi leaned forward, frowning as Makki scrolled.

“There’s a bunch of articles like this,” Makki said. “All super vague. No actual confirmation they were dating. And this one here—” he clicked on another link, “—says they were only spotted together publicly during the movie promo. Nothing before and barely after.”

“Nothing too recent either,” Matsukawa noted, peering over.

Makki clicked onto her Instagram. He scrolled. Then scrolled again. And stopped.

“What the hell?” he said.

Iwaizumi leaned over. “What?”

“She hasn’t posted anything in over six months.”

Matsukawa frowned. “That’s weird for a celebrity, right?”

“Super weird,” Makki said. “Her last post was some aesthetic shot of a lake. No tags, no caption, nothing. Before that, she was posting every few days.”
Iwaizumi sat forward, tension crawling up his spine. “What are the articles saying?”

Makki searched again, voice quieter now. “Some gossip sites mentioned she skipped out on a few scheduled appearances back in the winter. One article asked if she disappeared, but no one followed up. It’s like she just went quiet.”

“That doesn’t make sense,” Matsukawa muttered. “Wasn’t she rising fast after that movie?”

“She was,” Makki confirmed. “There were even talks of her getting cast in a major drama series, but the rumors stopped cold.”

The room fell silent for a second.

“So,” Matsukawa said slowly, “let’s recap. She vanished from public view six months ago, hasn’t posted, didn’t take on any new roles, and you just now found a message from her on Oikawa’s phone?”

Iwaizumi nodded stiffly.

Makki exhaled. “That’s… sketchy.”

“It is,” Iwaizumi agreed.

“What did the message say exactly?” Matsukawa asked.

Iwaizumi swallowed hard. His voice came out low. “It said something like how she wanted to thank him for the bouquets. Said they were beautiful. That he’s been there for her, that he’s caring and then she ended it with ‘I love you.’”

There was a heavy pause.

Makki sat back slowly. “Okay. Yeah. That… that sounds intimate.”

“No wonder you freaked,” Matsukawa muttered.

“I shouldn’t have,” Iwaizumi said quickly.

Makki’s brows furrowed. “But that’s not just a ‘thanks for the flowers’ kind of message. That’s full-on I love you. No emojis. No fluff. It reads serious.”

“I know,” Iwaizumi said.

Matsukawa rubbed the back of his neck. “Wait… has Oikawa ever actually said her name? Like, specifically told you who he was buying them for?”

“No,” Iwaizumi said after a moment. “Never.”

Makki’s tone was gentler now. “It’s still just a message. We don’t know what kind of love she meant.”

“But I reacted like I did,” Iwaizumi muttered.

Makki closed the laptop. “Okay. So. This message might be something, or it might not. But either way, Oikawa deserves a chance to explain.”

“And you deserve to hear the truth,” Matsukawa added. “Without spiraling or storming out.”

Iwaizumi gave a small, exhausted nod. “I know.”

Makki leaned back on his hands. “Then let’s start fixing it. Step one was research. Step two: apologize like hell.”

“And step three,” Matsukawa added, “maybe don’t go through people’s phones. Even accidentally.”

That got the faintest twitch at the corner of Iwaizumi’s mouth. “Didn’t exactly mean to,” he muttered.

“Still. Dangerous territory,” Makki responded. “Even if the message looked bad, you didn’t have the whole picture.”

“Yeah.” Iwaizumi exhaled slowly, staring down at the floor. “I know I should talk to him. But I don’t even know if he wants to hear from me.”

Matsukawa looked at him for a long beat. “You won’t know until you try.”

Makki added, “And I think he does. I really do.”

Iwaizumi was quiet. Then, finally, he nodded. Barely.

“Okay,” he said. His voice was rough, but steadier now. “I’ll try.”

It wasn’t much. But it was something.

Iwaizumi exhaled, slow and low. “How should I even reach out?” he asked, voice barely above a murmur. “I can’t just show up.”

Makki tilted his head thoughtfully. “You could text him. Just something simple. Ask if he’s okay and if he’s open to talking.”

“Low pressure,” Matsukawa added, standing and grabbing the empty smoothie cup. “No paragraphs. No confessing your sins through emojis.”

Iwaizumi nodded slowly, unsure. “And if he doesn’t answer?”

“Then he needs time,” Makki said. “But at least you’ll know you tried.”

“Yeah,” Iwaizumi said again. His voice was steadier this time. “Yeah, okay.”

Matsukawa gave his shoulder a firm pat on the way to the door. “Step four: send the text.”

Makki looked back as he followed him out. “And maybe drink some water. You look like you’ve been living off air and regret.”

That earned the faintest smile from Iwaizumi, just a flicker, but real.

There was still a mess to face.

But at least now, he didn’t have to figure it out alone.

The apartment was quiet again after the door shut. Still dim, still heavy, but less suffocating now.

Iwaizumi sat there a long while, elbows on his knees, hands laced. His phone sat untouched, like it had been for days.

He reached for it slowly, fingers hesitant. The screen lit up with the movement, momentarily too bright. His notifications were a sea of missed messages and unanswered calls. None of them are from Oikawa.

He unlocked it anyway.

Opened the thread.

Stared at Oikawa’s name at the top of the screen like it might burn him.

Then, slowly, he started typing.

Iwaizumi: Hey

He stared at it. Too short? Too nothing?

He backspaced.

Iwaizumi: I don't know if you want to hear from me right now.

No. That felt like asking for pity.

Iwaizumi: I owe you an apology.

True. But still not enough.

He sighed, running a hand through his hair, then typed again.

Iwaizumi: I’m sorry for the way I spoke to you the other day. It wasn’t fair. I let something get to me and I lashed out without giving you a chance to explain. I know I hurt you. I regret it more than I can say.

He stared at the blinking cursor for a while.

Iwaizumi: If you’re open to talking, I’d like to. But if you’re not ready, I’ll understand.

Still too stiff?

He hovered his thumb over the send button.

Waited.

Then tapped it.

Message sent.

And just like that, all he could do was wait. Again.

He set the phone face down once more. But this time, it wasn’t to avoid it.

This time, it was to give Oikawa the space to decide.

He stood.

His legs ached from being still so long, muscles stiff and reluctant, but he pushed through it. Walked into the kitchen and picked up the coffee cup Makki had left behind, tossed it. Then the dishes in the sink. The scattered laundry. The empty water bottles near the couch. All of it.

He moved slowly at first, like warming up after an injury. But the more he moved, the more he could breathe again.

He threw open the blinds. Light hit the room in wide streaks. Real sunlight.

He showered next. Hot water, clean clothes. He even shaved.

Opened a window. Let the breeze in.

And when he passed the hallway mirror on his way to the laundry, he paused.

He looked tired. Still hollow around the eyes. But he looked like himself again.

There was still a dull ache in his chest. Still no idea what Oikawa would say, if he’d say anything at all.

But Iwaizumi felt steadier now. Not fixed. Not forgiven. But ready.

If Oikawa answered, he’d listen.

And if he didn’t then Iwaizumi would keep trying until he knew he’d done everything he could.
_____

Two weeks.

Fourteen more days of silence.

No response. Not a word. Not even a “delivered” read receipt. Just the message, sitting there like a wound that never closed.

Iwaizumi had gone back to his routine because he had to. Gym in the morning. Flower shop by eight. Water, trim, arrange. Smile politely when customers walked in. Pretend everything was normal when nothing felt that way.

But every time he stepped through the door of the shop, it hit him all over again.

The air wasn’t the same. The scent of lilies and roses used to calm him; now it turned his stomach. The bell above the door used to make him glance up with a welcome. Now it made him flinch.

This place had once been his refuge, his sanctuary from the noise and chaos of the world. But ever since that day, all it reminded him of was what he’d lost. What he might’ve ruined beyond repair.

Customers came and went. Orders piled in. His hands worked like they always had, but his mind kept wandering.

He hadn’t told Makki or Matsukawa that it’d been two weeks. He didn’t have the energy to hear them say “give it more time” or “he just needs space.”

He didn’t want space.

He wanted Oikawa.

But wanting didn’t change what he’d said.

Or how quiet the shop had felt ever since.
_____

It had been twenty two days.

Twenty two days since the argument. Nineteen days since he sent the message. Twenty two days of nothing.

It was a Friday, late afternoon. The shop had been too quiet again, so Iwaizumi locked up early and went for a walk. Just to breathe. Just to move. Just to feel like he was doing something other than waiting.

The sun was low over Los Angeles, casting everything in that soft golden hue that made even cracked pavement and traffic look cinematic. Iwaizumi barely noticed. His hands were in his jacket pockets. Head down. He hadn’t walked this far in weeks.

He wasn’t paying attention to where he was going until he turned a corner near Erewhon and almost walked right into them.

Two figures were walking out of the store, arms full of branded grocery bags.

Dante.

Oikawa’s assistant.

And behind him, the tall, quiet man Iwaizumi remembered from all those brief glimpses was Oikawa’s bodyguard. He was dressed in black, alert as ever, head turning slightly as they made their way toward a sleek black SUV idling by the curb.

In the driver’s seat, just barely visible through the tinted window, sat Milo. The side of his face caught the light — cheerful, casual, one hand resting lazily on the steering wheel.

Iwaizumi’s heart dropped straight into his stomach.

They hadn’t seen him. Not yet.

But there they were. All of them.

Was Oikawa in the car?

His feet didn’t move. His breath caught.

Because if he was… what would Iwaizumi even say?

He couldn’t help it, his eyes scanned the backseat windows, looking for the familiar silhouette. For the hint of hair, the flash of profile. Nothing.

Still, the air shifted. The possibility alone was enough to knock the breath out of him.

And suddenly, the sidewalk felt too narrow. The city too loud. His chest too tight.

He could turn around. Walk away. Pretend he hadn’t seen anything.

But he didn’t.

Not yet.

One foot in front of the other. Slow. Controlled. Like approaching a wild animal or maybe walking straight into the jaws of something he couldn’t name.

Dante and the bodyguard were still loading bags into the SUV when the bodyguard's eyes lifted. He straightened immediately, alert and broad-shouldered, moving forward with purpose. His hand went slightly to the side not threatening, but warning.

Iwaizumi didn’t flinch. He didn’t stop either.

“Sir,” he said, low and firm, stepping directly into Iwaizumi’s path. “You need to back up.”

Iwaizumi didn’t stop. “I just want to talk.”

“You need to back. Away.”

“Mr. Colt,” Dante snapped from the other side of the car, slamming the trunk closed. “It’s fine.”

The bodyguard, Colt, looked at Dante, then stepped back reluctantly, his eyes never leaving Iwaizumi.

Dante came around the side of the car slowly, a canvas tote slung over one shoulder, sunglasses perched low on his nose. He looked angry. Annoyed.

Mostly, he looked done.

“I don’t know what the hell you think you’re doing,” Dante said coolly. “But whatever it is, turn around and walk away.”

Iwaizumi’s throat felt tight. “I just wanted to see if he was okay.”

“He’s not,” Dante said flatly. “And you don’t get to check anymore.”

That made Iwaizumi freeze.

“You think you’re the only one who cares about him?” Dante continued, eyes narrowing. “You think you can tear him apart and then show up weeks later like it never happened?”

“I’m not trying to—”

Dante snapped. “He’s barely keeping it together. If you really cared, you’d leave him alone.”

“I made a mistake,” Iwaizumi said quietly. “I said things I didn’t mean. I let something get to me and I messed up. I just want the chance to apologize.”

Dante laughed once, humorless. “No. What you want is forgiveness without doing the work. You tore him down, belittled everything he was, and now you expect him to just forget and take you back like nothing happened? That’s not how it works.”

Iwaizumi said nothing.

“Let me be very clear with you,” Dante went on, stepping closer. “Oikawa doesn’t need people in his life who turn on him the second they feel insecure. You don’t get to call what you did a ‘mistake’ just because you regret it now.”

Colt was still watching. Still silent. His stance hadn’t shifted.

“I know you care,” Dante added, almost like it pained him to admit it. “But sometimes, caring isn’t enough. Especially when you hurt someone that badly.”

Iwaizumi drew a slow breath, voice hoarse as he asked, “Then tell me, Dante… what can I do? What can I possibly do to fix this?”

For a moment, Dante didn’t answer. The silence pressed down between them, broken only by the faint hum of the engine. When he finally spoke, it was quiet and sharp, but not unkind.

“Look,” Dante started, brushing a hand through his hair with a sigh, “you hurt him. Badly. But that doesn’t mean he doesn’t still remember the good moments too. Doesn’t mean it’s all gone.”

Iwaizumi confessed, “I saw a message from Selene. I didn’t mean to read it, but I did, and it sounded like they were in love or something. It felt like there was more going on between them. I was scared, and I lost it. But I was wrong. I should’ve talked to him first. I should’ve trusted him.”

He drew a slow, unsteady breath. “I texted him three days after that night. He never replied.”

For a moment, Dante didn’t say anything. His jaw tightened, and for a second, a pained look crossed his face. He pressed a hand to the side of the SUV, exhaling sharply.

“Yeah,” he said quietly. “And you have no idea about the context of that message, do you?” He shook his head slowly, voice dropping low. “You jumped to a conclusion, but you don’t even know why it was sent, or what was really going on.”

Dante met Iwaizumi’s stare, voice softening just a fraction. “Then that’s where you start, Iwaizumi. You don’t fix this by beating yourself up in a parking lot or sending a text and hoping it magically makes everything okay. You fix this by looking him in the eye and owning every word you said, every mistake you made. You fix this by telling him you’re sorry. Not just ‘sorry for misunderstanding.’ Sorry for hurting him. Profusely.”

Iwaizumi clenched and unclenched his fists, swallowing hard. “What if he doesn’t want to listen?”

“Then he doesn’t,” Dante said simply, brushing a hand down the lapel of his suit. “That’s the risk. But if you care as much as you claim, if you want this to mean more than a misread text and a door slammed shut, you have to try.” He pulled the SUV door open, then glanced back one more time.

“Trust me when I say this, Iwaizumi — the Oikawa you knew? The one who stood in that shop hoping for more?” His voice softened, just a shade. “That guy deserves the truth from you. Not anger. Not suspicion. The truth. Whatever’s left of it.”

“When can I talk to him? Where?” Iwaizumi urged.

“That’s up to him,” Dante said quietly. “Give him time. He’ll tell you when he’s ready.”

Dante watched him a moment longer, then turned and pulled open the car door. The engine purred as the SUV pulled away, taillights blinking down the quiet street until it rounded a corner and was gone.

Iwaizumi stood rooted to the spot, swallowing hard. It had been twenty-two days. Twenty-two days of silence. The sting of betrayal still felt fresh, the guilt still lodged deep in his chest… but somewhere, faint and stubborn, a whisper of possibility refused to be extinguished. Maybe this wasn’t the end. Maybe it could be a beginning, too.

____

The sound of the security code chiming pulled Oikawa out of the quiet haze he’d been drifting in. He was slouched in the living room of the sprawling, open-layout house. It was a space that felt too big and much too quiet when he was on his own.

Then the door clicked, and three silhouettes appeared in the entryway: Dante first, crisp as always despite the long day, followed by Milo, hauling paper grocery bags, and finally Colt, a looming figure with an easy, practiced precision.

Oikawa pushed himself up from the couch and crossed the room. “Hey,” he said quietly, brushing hair out of his eyes. “Thanks for grabbing the groceries. I owe you one.”

“No problem,” Milo said with a faint smile, brushing past to set the bags down on the long, marble-topped kitchen island.

Oikawa glanced at Dante, and for a moment, he didn’t recognize the tension in him. The line of his jaw was tight, shoulders set just a fraction too stiff, like he was holding something in. Not that it was rare for Dante to be serious since he was a fixer by nature, sharp and composed, but this felt different.

“Hey,” Oikawa asked curiously. “Are you alright?”

Dante didn’t flinch, didn’t quite relax, either. He glanced up, then gave a faint shrug, brushing a hand down the lapel of his jacket like he was brushing the thought away. “Yeah,” he said smoothly, voice neutral. “Traffic was just annoying.”

“Right,” Oikawa replied slowly, searching his face for a moment longer. He didn’t push, though. Whatever was bothering Dante, he clearly wasn’t going to say it.

“Thank you, all of you,” Oikawa added quietly, brushing a hand down the edge of the counter as Milo unpacked groceries. The three of them exchanged glances — a brief one from Colt, a faint shift from Milo, and an unreadable expression from Dante — and then went about putting things away.

Dante gave a quiet nod as he and Colt turned down the long hallway, disappearing into the depths of the house. The sound of the door clicking shut felt too sharp in the silence, and Oikawa sank deeper into the couch for a moment, brushing a hand down his face.

Milo was still in the kitchen, unpacking the last of the groceries, lined up neatly on the counter. Oikawa watched him for a beat, then spoke, voice soft but pointed.

“Hey, Milo.”

Milo glanced over. “Yeah?”

“What happened?” Oikawa asked quietly. “With Dante. He’s acting weird.”

Milo froze for just a second, hand resting on a bag of oranges, then shrugged like he hadn’t heard. “Uh, no. Just a long day, I guess.”

But Oikawa didn’t drop it. He stood, brushing imaginary lint from his shirt as he stepped closer, voice softening.

“Come on, Milo. I know you.” He offered a faint, wavering smile. “You’re too nice to cover for him. Too honest.”

Milo refused to look at him for a long moment, brushing a hand down the side of the counter. “Oikawa…”

“What is it?” Oikawa pressed, voice low but desperate now. “Please. Whatever it is, I can take it.”

Milo sank back on one hip, brushing hair out of his eyes, torn between loyalty and guilt. After a long beat, he sighed. “We… ran into Iwaizumi.”

Oikawa froze, breath locking in his chest. “What?”

“Outside of Erewhon,” Milo said quietly. “He came up to the car. Tried to talk to Dante. He… he looked like hell, Oikawa. Like he hasn’t been sleeping. He said he messed up and acted like an idiot. He said he assumed the worst about that text from Selene and lashed out when he should’ve trusted you. He wanted to fix it.”

Oikawa sank deeper into the chair, brushing both hands down the legs of his pants. “The text from Selene,” he said quietly, almost to himself. “That’s what set him off, huh?” He shook his head slowly. “I can guess what he must’ve thought when he read it. And… I can’t even blame him for jumping to conclusions. If I were in his shoes and I saw that, I’d be thrown too.”

Oikawa drew in a long breath, “And Dante didn’t tell me?” His voice rose sharply as he rounded the counter. “If he came looking for a chance to fix things, why am I finding out from you?”

Milo didn’t answer. He didn’t have to.

The silence that followed felt charged, hanging between them.

Then the sound of footsteps announced Dante’s return. He stepped into the kitchen, clearly hoping to slip by unnoticed, until Oikawa spoke.

“Why weren’t you going to tell me?” The words came out sharp, wavering between betrayal and desperation.

Dante stopped mid-step, looking over at him. “What?”

“That you ran into Iwaizumi,” Oikawa pressed, rising slowly from the chair. “Why am I hearing this from Milo?”

Dante shrugged sharply. “What for? So you can work yourself up over it?”

“Not your call, Dante.” Oikawa’s voice rose as he rounded the counter. “If he came to apologize, I deserve to know about it.”

“Maybe it is when you’re making yourself sick over this,” Dante snapped, voice rising just enough to fill the space. “I was trying to protect you. You don’t owe him anything. Not after how he treated you.”

“Then why the hell didn’t you tell me?” Oikawa’s voice rose too, sharp and shaking. “You don’t get to decide what I can and can’t handle!”

Dante pulled in a breath, brushing a hand down the bridge of his nose, voice dropping low. “That guy tore you down, Tooru. Do you remember that? Do you remember how long it took you to even walk out of this house? He doesn’t get to swoop back in and undo it just because he feels bad now.”

Oikawa clenched a fist on the countertop, swallowing hard as the silence bubbled between them. “Maybe. But that doesn’t mean you get to make the choice for me, Dante. Not about him. Not about this.”

For a moment, neither spoke. The sound of Milo quietly putting away groceries felt too loud.

Then Dante exhaled sharply and pulled off his sunglasses, brushing a hand down the side of his face. “Fine. You’re right. It’s your call. But don’t forget when this whole thing went down, I was here. You weren’t okay, Tooru.” He shook his head slowly. “I just don’t want to watch it happen to you again.”

Oikawa sank back down into the chair, brushing both hands down his face until it felt like all the sting had gone out of the air. “I know,” he said quietly, voice hoarse. “I know, and… thank you. But if he came to apologize, if he came to own it, I have to be the one to decide where it goes from here. Not you.”

Dante watched him for a long moment, then gave a faint, tight nod. “Yeah,” he said quietly. “That’s fair.” He glanced down at the floor, brushing a hand down the lapel of his jacket like he needed to straighten himself out. “Just… be sure about what you’re doing, Tooru. That’s all I’m saying.”

Oikawa sank deeper into the chair, brushing a hand down his thigh as he drew in a slow breath. “I don’t know if I am,” he admitted quietly. “But I have to find out.”

Oikawa drew a slow breath and sank onto the edge of the couch, hands smoothing down his pants as if trying to calm a restless mind. “After that night, Iwaizumi asked if we could meet… if he could apologize properly.” He glanced between Milo and Dante, voice softening. “I didn’t reply right away, not because I didn’t want to, but because I wasn’t sure I could handle that conversation while everything was still so raw.”

He clenched a hand on the counter, swallowing hard, and sank down deeper in the silence that followed. “But I want to now. I have for a while.” The words came out faint, like he was admitting it to himself as much as to them. “I miss him. A lot.” He pressed a palm to the edge of the counter and exhaled shakily.

“But I can’t forget what he said. All those things he threw at me.” His voice wavered for a second. “I tell myself he was just scared, that he didn’t mean it. But then I wonder… what if he did? What if that’s how he really sees me?” The thought weighed down every word. “What if those things weren’t just anger, but the truth he wouldn’t say otherwise?”

He sank down until his elbows pressed into his knees, staring at the floor like it might have an answer. “I want to fix this, I do. I just don’t know how to walk into it when part of me is still afraid… afraid that maybe he meant every word.”

For a moment, the room felt very quiet. And buried deep in Oikawa’s voice was the ache of someone who wanted to try, even when the thought of being hurt again felt like too much to bear.

Dante watched him quietly for a moment. When he finally spoke, it was low, measured. “Then you tell him that,” he said, voice softening just a fraction. “That it hurt. That you don’t know if he meant every word. You deserve an answer, Tooru, and he deserves a chance to give one. Whatever comes after… you’ll at least have the truth.”

He paused, eyes narrowing slightly. “And Iwaizumi needs to hear you out too. He doesn’t know the full story about Selene. If you want this to have any chance, you both have to lay everything on the table.”

Milo sank down beside him, brushing hair out of his own eyes. “And… for what it’s worth,” he added quietly, “you’re not the only one carrying this. He is too. The guy we met tonight? Whatever he said that night, it’s eating at him. You could see it. He knows he messed up, and he’s trying to make it right.”

Dante gave a short, sharp nod. “If you want to walk away, walk away. You owe him nothing. But if you miss him like this, if a part of you still wants to try, then have that conversation. Not for him. Not for appearances. For you.” He shrugged slightly, brushing a hand down the front of his shirt. “Then you can decide, knowing you gave it an honest chance.”

Milo smiled faintly, brushing a hand over Oikawa’s shoulder. “And if it goes wrong, we’re still here. You’re not doing this alone.”

Oikawa drew a long, shaking breath, brushing at the sting in the corners of his eyes, and for the first time in weeks, the ache felt just a little lighter like maybe, just maybe, there was a way through this.

Milo smiled faintly, brushing a hand over Oikawa’s shoulder. “And if it goes wrong, we’re still here. You’re not doing this alone.”

Oikawa drew a long, shaking breath, brushing at the sting in the corners of his eyes, and for the first time in weeks, the ache felt just a little lighter like maybe, just maybe, there was a way through this.

Oikawa pulled out his phone and started typing slowly.

Dante crossed his arms and smirked. “Look at you. No dramatic sigh? No complaining about ‘how hard this is’? Are you sure you’re Oikawa Tooru?”

Oikawa glanced up from his phone. “Trust me,” he said, “there’s enough drama going on already.”

Then he pulled the phone closer, started typing, and after a moment looked to Dante. “Alright, when can I do this?”

“Two days,” Dante said, voice softening just a shade. “Sunday. Midday. You’ll have the afternoon.”

Oikawa gave a short nod, swallowing as he tapped out the reply and hit send.

“Done,” he said quietly, setting the phone down.

Milo smiled, brushing a hand over Oikawa’s shoulder. “That’s the hard part over with. The rest… well, you’ll figure it out together.”

And for the first time in a long while, Oikawa felt like maybe he could.

Chapter Text

“What.”

His mother’s voice burst through the phone speaker, sharp with disbelief, like she’d just heard her son claim the sky turned green.

Iwaizumi winced, adjusting the gym bag strap on his shoulder as he crossed the street, the afternoon sun casting long shadows over the sidewalk. “You heard me.”

“No, no, Hajime, I heard you. I’m just trying to wrap my head around the fact that you, my sensible, emotionally constipated son, accused a movie star of two-timing and kicked him out of your flower shop.”

Iwaizumi groaned and dragged a hand over his face. “I didn’t kick him out. I told him to leave.”

“Oh,” she said dryly. “So much better. Let me guess. You also gently ripped his heart out and handed it to him in a nice bouquet arrangement?”

He stepped around a cyclist and muttered, “I know, Mom.”

“You’re telling me this now? While you’re walking home from the gym? Is this your way of ensuring I don’t launch into a full dramatic monologue?”

“It’s Saturday,” he said. “I figured you’d be relaxed.”

“Well, I was. Now I’m pacing in the kitchen and wishing I had a glass of wine.”

Iwaizumi didn’t say anything, just shifted his grip on the phone as he crossed through a quieter residential block. Trees rustled overhead. His sneakers hit the pavement in steady rhythm.

“And let me guess again,” she went on, voice a touch more pointed, “you haven’t seen him since, and now you’re just stewing in your tragic little guilt bubble?”

“I texted him,” Iwaizumi muttered. “We’re meeting tomorrow.”

There was a long pause.

“Wait—he actually agreed to see you?”

He nodded instinctively, even though she couldn’t see. “Yeah.”

She sighed like he was the most helpless man alive. “You’re lucky he still wants to talk to you, Hajime. Because if someone had said that stuff to me, I would’ve slammed the door so hard it’d register on a Richter scale.”

Iwaizumi stared at the concrete floor. “Yeah. I know.”

She sighed. “Don’t waste it. You messed up. But if he’s still willing to talk, then that means something.”

“I know.”

There was a beat of quiet as he turned onto his street, the weight of everything still hanging heavy between his ribs.

There was a lull, quieter than before. Then, gently:

“You really like him, huh?”

The words punched something warm and awful right in his chest. Iwaizumi stared ahead for a moment, the silence between breaths stretching thin. Then he nodded once, more to himself than anything.

“Yeah. I do.”

He let out a breath, shaky but real.

“I thought he’d be… I don’t know. Spoiled. High-maintenance. One of those celebrities who makes everything about them. But he’s not. He’s just—he’s just Oikawa. He’s stubborn, and dramatic, and so unbelievably annoying sometimes, but he’s also one of the kindest people I’ve ever met.”

A faint smile touched his lips despite himself.

“He’s curious about everything. He laughs at his own jokes before he finishes telling them. He takes his coffee with too much sugar and thinks it still tastes bitter. He’s careful in ways no one sees. He checks in on people, remembers tiny details, and tries so hard to seem put together even when he’s falling apart.”

Iwaizumi swallowed, voice going quieter.

“I thought I knew what kind of person he’d be. And then I actually got to know him. And now I can’t stop thinking about him.”

“Well,” she said, calm and steady, “then you know what you have to do. Be honest. Just tell him the truth, Hajime.”

His breath caught, just slightly. “I will.”

Another pause, then her voice came through again, a little lighter. “You’ve got a good heart. Don’t let your fear stomp all over it.”

“I’ll try.”

“And maybe,” she added pointedly, “don’t accuse anyone of secret love affairs next time unless you’ve done your homework.”

Iwaizumi blinked. “Okay, goodbye, Mom.”

She laughed, that full, belly-deep kind of laugh only a mom could get away with, and just like that, the call ended.

Iwaizumi stepped up to his door, keys in hand. His gym bag was heavier now, even empty, and somehow so was everything inside his chest.

But Sunday was close.

Tomorrow, everything might change.

He just had to get through one more night.

⸻

Oikawa stepped into the quiet lounge of the hotel suite and let the door click shut behind him.

The silence was a relief. No more flashing lights. No more scripted lines. Just a little space to breathe.

He tugged loose the top button of his charcoal-gray dress shirt and ran a hand through his styled hair, now slightly deflated from the day’s chaos. His shoulder ached from holding that same perfect red carpet pose for hours. His brain felt fried.

“I swear,” he muttered, dropping his bag to the floor and flopping onto the couch, “if one more person asks if I did my own stunts or actually trained in zero gravity, I’m throwing myself out the airlock.”

From across the room, Dante looked up from where he was scrolling on his tablet. “You’re lucky they didn’t ask about your chemistry with the AI character again.”

Oikawa groaned into the couch cushion. “It’s a hologram. I had to flirt with a tennis ball on a stick. That should count as emotional labor.”

Dante snorted. “That tennis ball’s getting more fan edits than you are.”

Oikawa peeked up at him through a mess of bangs. “I hate the internet.”

“Quit lying.”

He let out a sigh, “Fine. I hate today’s internet.”

Dante walked over, folding his arms. “You’ve been looking better, though. Less haunted by emotional space ghosts.”

Oikawa raised a brow. “That a compliment?”

“Depends. You gonna start eating solid meals again?”

“Don’t push your luck.”

But he smiled. Just enough for Dante to see it.

Just as Oikawa sank into the couch with a sigh and half-lidded eyes, Dante checked his watch and made a face.

“Alright. Meeting in fifteen,” he muttered, grabbing his blazer off the back of a chair. “Final trailer rollout stuff. Studio’s wringing their hands about the premiere press schedule.”

Oikawa groaned. “Again? Didn’t we already approve everything?”

“You know Hollywood. Everything’s approved twice and changed three times,” Dante said. “Come on, we’re already late.”

Oikawa pushed himself off the couch with a groan, stretching his arms over his head. “Remind me why I agreed to back-to-back meetings on a Saturday?”

Dante didn’t look up from his phone. “Because you’re a professional. Allegedly.”

Oikawa gave him a side-eye as he slipped on his shoes. “You’re lucky I’m too tired to throw something at you.”

“You’d miss,” Dante said flatly. Then, after a pause, he added, “At least you look alive again.”

Oikawa blinked, then smirked. “Was that… encouragement?”

“Don’t start,” Dante muttered, grabbing his keys. “Let’s just get through this.”

⸻

The meeting was the usual chaos of emails, calls, timelines, press angles, poster placements. Oikawa barely got a word in between studio reps and execs tossing around buzzwords like “impact momentum” and “cross-platform synergy.” He let Dante handle most of it. Milo handed him a bottle of water halfway through, and he nearly proposed on the spot.

By the time it was over, the sun was down and the air had cooled. Oikawa stepped outside with Milo and Colt just behind him, stretching his arms above his head.

Dante hung back by the studio doors, checking his phone. “I’m grabbing dinner with some friends near the Strip. You’re headed back with Milo and Colt.”

Oikawa blinked. “Wait. You have friends?”

Dante slid him a flat look. “I have an entire life that doesn’t revolve around your sleep schedule and emotional roller coasters.”

Oikawa grinned, tired but playful. “Could’ve fooled me.”

Dante waved him off and turned toward the line of idling cars. “Text me if anything implodes.”

“Same to you,” Oikawa called, already heading to the SUV.

He slid into the backseat beside Colt, Milo already in the front. As the door shut and the car pulled into the slow stream of traffic, Oikawa leaned his head back and closed his eyes.

Just one more night.

He didn’t know what would come of it. Whether he’d leave that conversation feeling whole again, or shattered in a new way.

⸻
The city slipped by in a wash of soft gold and deepening blue, streetlights flickering to life as the SUV moved steadily through early evening traffic. Oikawa slouched in the back seat, arms folded loosely.

“I swear,” he mumbled, “if I had to smile through one more fake laugh, I was going to dissolve into the floor.”

“You didn’t even fake-laugh that much,” Milo called from the driver’s seat, glancing at him through the rearview mirror. “Mostly just nodded like you were being held hostage.”

“That’s because I was,” Oikawa said, muffled by his sleeve. “By my own career.”

Milo leaned his head back, voice light. “At least you didn’t spiral this time. Progress.”

“Low bar,” Oikawa muttered, lowering his arm to stare at the car ceiling.

From the front, Colt let out a small, almost imperceptible grunt. Milo turned slightly in his seat to glance at him, and they shared a quiet look. The kind exchanged between people who’d been spending more time together than Oikawa realized.

He tilted his head slightly, watching them. Milo was smiling, elbow resting comfortably on the armrest. Colt wasn’t exactly smiling back, but he seemed… at ease in a way Oikawa hadn’t seen before. Casual. Familiar.

When did that happen?

Oikawa leaned his head against the window, eyes flicking between the two. He didn’t say anything. Just watched. Thought.

There’d been a lot of shifts lately in his own life, in the people around him. Some loud. Some quiet. And this was one of the quiet ones. Milo and Colt, talking like this was routine.

Oikawa didn’t feel left out. Not exactly. But it made him ache a little. It was that soft kind of ache that came from realizing how much life kept happening even while you were stuck in place.

Still, as Milo looked back at him from the mirror and offered a soft smile, it was the kind that said he noticed the tired in Oikawa’s eyes without needing to say it and Oikawa felt something ease in his chest.

⸻

The SUV eased to a stop in front of Oikawa’s house, headlights washing briefly over the familiar curve of the driveway. Milo turned the engine off with a quiet click, stretching his arms once before glancing back.

“We made it,” he said cheerfully.

Oikawa didn’t answer right away. He rubbed his eyes with the heels of his hands, then reached for the door.

Colt stepped out first, scanning the quiet street automatically before moving to open the gate.

Milo passed Oikawa his bag. “Get some rest. No meetings till Monday, promise.”

Oikawa nodded, already halfway up the steps. “Night.”

“Night, boss!” Milo called.

Oikawa let himself into the house, flipping on the hallway light and toeing off his shoes with a tired exhale. The quiet settled around him.

He headed down the hall, bag slung over one shoulder, and stepped into his bedroom. The blackout curtains were already drawn, casting everything in a muted navy hue. He dropped his things onto the chair, peeled off his sweater, and was halfway to grabbing his phone when it buzzed in his pocket.

He glanced at the screen.

Mom.

Oikawa let out a groan, head tilting back against the doorframe. “Of course.”

Calls from her rarely meant casual check-ins. They meant blunt commentary, clipped concern, and, if he was lucky, a ten-minute lecture wrapped in a one-minute greeting.

Still. He answered it.

“Hi, Mom.”

A pause. Then, “You sound exhausted.”

“That’s because I am,” he said, dropping onto the edge of his bed.

“Well, if you didn’t work yourself into the ground—”

“Mom,” Oikawa cut in, though not unkindly. “What’s up?”

His mother’s voice came through, crisp as ever. “I saw something on the entertainment news. They said you looked tired during today’s press event. That you seemed… emotionally distracted.”

Oikawa blinked. “Wow. That’s journalism now?”

“You know how people talk,” she replied briskly. “And when you’re in the spotlight, every little thing becomes a headline. You’re an actor, Tooru. You’re supposed to look like everything is fine even when it isn’t.”

He let out a slow breath. “It was just one interview. I answered every question.”

“They’re not talking about the answers, they’re talking about how you looked. You can’t afford to be careless right now, not with the trailer about to release.”

He ran a hand through his hair. “I know, I know. I’m handling it.”

There was a pause. Then, in a slightly lighter tone: “You should start being seen out with someone. A nice girl, maybe. Someone presentable.”

Oikawa’s eyes dropped to the floor. “You mean for appearances?”

“I mean for stability,” she said smoothly. “You’ve been caught up in so many strange headlines lately, it wouldn’t hurt to… balance the narrative a bit. That’s all I’m saying.”

He let out a soft scoff, biting back the retort that rose to his tongue. “Right.”

There was a pause, just long enough for the weight of her words to settle.

“And Selene looked perfect beside you,” she added. “I don’t know what happened there, but the two of you… you had a good image together. Elegant. Clean. Like real stars.”

Oikawa opened his eyes, the muscles in his jaw tightening. “We weren’t right for each other,” he said flatly.

His mother hesitated, then softened her tone. “Still. What she’s going through now… it’s tragic. You could have—”

“I’m gonna go to sleep,” he said abruptly, sitting up straighter.

She sighed on the other end, clearly disappointed but not surprised. “Of course. Rest well, sweetheart. Just think about what I said.”

“Night,” he muttered, already pulling the phone away.

The line went dead, and he let it fall onto the bed beside him, his fingers pinching the bridge of his nose.

Silence filled the room.

His shoulders sank.

She knew about his sexuality. She had known for years when he told her with shaking hands and a too-light laugh like maybe, if he joked fast enough, it wouldn’t hurt so much if she hated it. But she didn’t hate it.

She just… didn’t like to talk about it.

Never outright dismissed it, never scolded him, never asked him to lie. But it was always a phase, or a distraction, or not worth complicating things over. Always redirected to the next event, the next appearance, the next chance to get it right.

And no matter how many interviews he did, or how brightly the cameras flashed, that small ache never went away and that quiet, persistent truth that he could be everything she wanted in public, and still not quite enough in private.

He stared up at the ceiling, trying to push away the strange ache left behind.

His mind spun with everything his mother said, with the weight of the week, with the ache that never fully left since that night in the flower shop.

Am I doing the right thing?

The question surfaced before he could stop it, curling like smoke in his chest. For Iwaizumi. For me. For the career I’ve built out of blood and exhaustion and perfect timing.

He had worked so hard to get here. To be polished, admired, controlled. He had sat through endless interviews, fought for roles, smiled until his cheeks ached, and sacrificed every inch of privacy for the life he’d carved out. And all of that could unravel so easily with one headline, one photo, one moment too real.

He could find someone else. Someone easier. Someone willing to be a part of the curated image. That was what people like him did.

But the thought turned his stomach.

Because there was no one like Iwaizumi.

No one who looked at him like he was just Tooru, not the face in the trailer or the name trending online.

No one who saw past the camera-ready smile to the tired, stubborn, infuriatingly human mess underneath and stayed anyway.

And yet… Iwaizumi had still said those things.

Accused him. Questioned him. Treated his feelings like something disposable.

There was a time I couldn’t even imagine forgiving him, Oikawa thought, staring up at the ceiling. Not after the way he looked at me. Like I wasn’t real. Like I wasn’t enough.

But deep down, even in that moment, he knew.

He’d seen it in Iwaizumi’s eyes. The panic. The regret. The way his hands trembled like he didn’t know how to pull the words back once they’d already cut too deep.

He didn’t mean it. None of it.

He was scared. Hurt. Lashing out because of a lie he told himself that people like Oikawa couldn’t be trusted.

And maybe that was what hurt most of all was that he’d believed it for even a second.

But even now, Oikawa knew: Iwaizumi wasn’t cruel. He was just afraid.

And Tooru Oikawa could forgive fear.

Oikawa squeezed his eyes shut, his chest tight.

Iwaizumi had made him feel safe in a way no one else ever had. Had called him out when he needed it. Had handed him ribbon and flowers and a kind of quiet comfort Oikawa didn’t know how to name.

Maybe this is stupid. Maybe it’s selfish.

But just this once, he wanted to be selfish.

Just this once, he wanted to follow his heart, not his PR team, not his mother’s careful scripts, not the future he’d mapped out like a machine.

And his heart wanted Iwaizumi.

Always had.

Still did.

Oikawa exhaled slowly, pulling the blanket up to his chin, and let his eyes flutter closed at last.

Tomorrow, he’d face it.

Whatever happened he was going to fight for the one thing that had ever felt real.

⸻

Sunday morning light filtered softly through the curtains as Iwaizumi pushed himself out of bed, muscles still stiff from restless sleep. He moved methodically. He brushed his teeth, took a quick shower, and tried to steady the nerves knotting in his stomach. The familiar rhythm grounded him, a quiet counterpoint to the storm swirling just beneath the surface.

In the kitchen, he prepared breakfast on autopilot: eggs cracked into the pan, toast popping up, coffee brewing with its comforting scent filling the room. It was simple, but somehow felt like a small act of courage in itself.

His phone buzzed on the counter, drawing his attention. Unlocking it, he saw messages lighting up the screen.

Makki: Today’s the big day. Remember: if you cry, cry cutely. You’ve got a reputation to maintain.

Mattsun: Oikawa’s got a soft spot for drama so if you tear up just a little, you win.

Makki: But not too much. We don’t need you sobbing into his clothes.

Mattsun: Also, wear black. It’s slimming and tragic.

He shook his head, a reluctant smile tugging at his lips. Leave it to those two to make the most nerve-wracking day of his life feel like the setup to a sitcom.

Amid the jokes, there were gentler messages too from his mom.

Mom: Be kind to yourself today, Hajime. No matter what happens, you’re my brave boy.

Mom: And don’t forget to eat. You can’t fix the world on an empty stomach.

Mom: I’m proud of you.

Then, tucked among them, was a message from Oikawa: a pin location. The place where they were going to meet. His heart caught for a moment, a mixture of anxiety and hope.

⸻

It should’ve been easy.

Just throw on a shirt. Grab the keys. Go.

But twenty minutes later, Iwaizumi’s room looked like it had been ransacked by a very anxious, fashionably challenged burglar. Three shirts were crumpled on the bed. A jacket lay inside-out on the floor. A tie — why did he even consider a tie? — hung from the closet door like a bad decision come to life.

“This is stupid,” he muttered, yanking off the button-up he’d just put on for the second time. “It’s not a date. It’s an apology.”

But even as he thought it, he paused.

It wasn’t a date. And yet somehow, it felt more important than any one he’d ever been on.

Eventually, he settled on something simple: a plain white tee under a dark green overshirt, sleeves rolled to his elbows. Jeans. Clean sneakers. It was the kind of outfit he wore when he wanted to look like himself. And that’s who Oikawa deserved to see — him. No overthinking. No show.

Just Iwaizumi.

Still, his heart thudded in his chest as he grabbed his keys and headed out.

The drive was quiet, the sun warming the asphalt. Trees blurred past, a breeze catching through the cracked window as his fingers tapped against the steering wheel in time with nothing in particular. His stomach twisted the closer he got. Not fear exactly, but the weight of everything unsaid. Everything he was about to lay bare.

He pulled up slowly to the park entrance. It was quiet. A little tucked away. The kind of place where people went to walk their dogs or read books in the shade.

The pin Oikawa sent matched exactly.

He parked. Killed the engine. Let his hands rest against the steering wheel for a beat longer than necessary.

This was it.

One way or another this was it.

Iwaizumi stepped out of the car, the slam of the door muffled by the stillness of the day. The air was crisp, touched with the scent of sage and distant pavement heat. He glanced around, nerves curling tighter with each second, until he saw him.

Oikawa.

Sitting alone on a bench as he looked out over the sweeping view of Los Angeles below. The light made everything hazy, softened the edges of buildings in the distance. It was quiet. Private. Chosen.

Just like Oikawa always did — intentional.

Iwaizumi’s chest pulled tight. He hadn’t even realized how much he missed seeing him in stillness like this, calm and thoughtful instead of stage-lit or stressed.

Then, his eyes drifted toward the parking area where Oikawa’s sleek black car was parked a little ways off, the window cracked just enough to reveal the sharp silhouette of the bodyguard in the passenger seat. Colt, unmistakable even without the suit. The man met Iwaizumi’s gaze through dark sunglasses and gave a single, respectful nod.

No threat. Just presence.

Iwaizumi nodded back, his throat thick.

He turned back to the bench. To Oikawa.

His heart was pounding now, not just with nerves but something stronger. Determination.

He adjusted his overshirt once, quietly let out a long breath, and stepped forward.

He was going to fix this.

He was going to win him back.

Iwaizumi approached slowly, his shoes crunching softly against the gravel path. Oikawa sat with his back to him with messy brown hair ruffled by the breeze, a relaxed-fit shirt hanging loose on his frame, shoulders slightly slouched like he hadn’t slept well.

“Hey,” Iwaizumi said, voice quiet and a little awkward.

Oikawa startled slightly, his shoulders giving the smallest jump before he turned. His expression was unreadable at first, eyes scanning Iwaizumi like he was still trying to believe he was actually standing there. Then he gave a faint nod.

“Hi.”

A beat passed.

Then, with a small sigh, Oikawa shifted to the side, patting the empty spot on the bench next to him. He didn’t look at Iwaizumi again, just turned his eyes back toward the hazy skyline.

Iwaizumi hesitated, then sat. The wood of the bench creaked softly under his weight.

It was silent again.

The kind of silence that rang louder than it should’ve — thick with all the things that still hung between them. Iwaizumi glanced sideways, taking in the cut of Oikawa’s jaw, the faint shadows under his eyes, the way his hands were twisted together in his lap.

He looked beautiful. He looked tired.

“I like this spot,” Oikawa said suddenly, like he couldn’t stand the quiet either. “Not a lot of people come here. It’s very quiet.”

“I’m so sorry.”

The words came out before Iwaizumi could stop them, low and sharp and trembling with all the weight he’d been carrying.

Oikawa turned to him, surprised.

“I mean it,” Iwaizumi continued, eyes fixed on his own hands now. “For everything. For accusing you. For assuming the worst. For belittling you like that, for making you feel like you weren’t enough or like you did something wrong. You didn’t. You never did. And I had no right to treat you the way I did.”

Oikawa’s eyes were wide, stunned into silence. He looked at Iwaizumi for a long moment, unmoving, and then slowly turned back toward the view, expression unreadable again.

The silence returned but this one wasn’t angry or sharp. It felt like a breath being held. A question waiting for its answer.

Iwaizumi took the silence as permission to keep going or maybe he just couldn’t stop. Not now. Not when everything he hadn’t said was choking the back of his throat.

Iwaizumi took a slow, steadying breath, his voice heavy with remorse. “None of what I said was true. I was cruel and wrong. I said things I didn’t mean because I was scared and confused, but that doesn’t excuse it.”

Oikawa didn’t move, but his posture shifted almost imperceptibly. Still listening.

He swallowed hard, struggling to keep his voice steady. “I never used you. Not once. You’re not a trophy or some prize to show off.”

He shook his head slightly, frustration and regret mixing in his expression. “And the things I said about you being spoiled? The way I said you acted like everything revolved around you? That was me projecting. I was hurt and angry and I took it out on you. But I know that’s not who you are. You’re not selfish, or entitled, or like those celebrities who think the world owes them something.”

Iwaizumi’s voice cracked, the guilt breaking through his usual restraint. “You’re nothing like that. You’re kind, you’re thoughtful, and so goddamn genuine. You made me feel like I mattered, and I betrayed that.”

He closed his eyes briefly, then looked back at Oikawa, voice barely above a whisper. “I was jealous and scared. I thought I’d lose you, and instead of fighting for us, I tore you down. I was so wrong. So incredibly wrong.”

“I’m sorry, Tooru. I’m sorry for every word that hurt you. For making you question yourself or what we had. For acting like you weren’t enough when you were everything.”

His voice dropped.

“And I’ll regret that for a long time.”

Still no answer.

Oikawa let out a slow breath, eyes still fixed on the view. He didn’t speak for a moment. Didn’t even look at Iwaizumi. When he finally did, it was quiet and tired in a way that felt older than him.

“I thought you meant it,” he said. “Every word.”

Iwaizumi swallowed hard. “I didn’t—”

“I know that now,” Oikawa cut in. Not harshly. “But you looked me in the eye and said I was unlikeable. Spoiled. That you only ever wanted me for the attention.”

His voice cracked slightly, but he didn’t stop.

“I work so hard to not be those things. I’ve spent years proving I’m not just someone people watch on a screen. That I’m human. That I feel things. That I’m not disposable.”

His shoulders were tense, fingers twisting in his lap. “And when you said all that… it didn’t just hurt, Hajime. It undid something in me. Because if someone like you—someone who actually saw me—could think all those things… then maybe everyone else did too.”

Iwaizumi opened his mouth, but no sound came out. His chest ached.

“I tried to remind myself you were angry. Scared. I told myself you didn’t mean it.” Oikawa’s voice wavered. “But a part of me still hears those words when I wake up. Like they’re burned in. And I hate that you’re the one who put them there.”

The silence that followed was thick. Real.

“Do you have any idea what it’s like to hear that from someone you were starting to…” He didn’t finish the sentence. “I kept wondering if it was true. If I really was all those things. If I just imagined the good parts of us.”

Iwaizumi looked at him then, really looked, and it felt like his lungs couldn’t quite fill all the way.

“But I missed you,” Oikawa went on, voice quieter now. “Even when I hated you, I missed you more. Which is the stupidest part of all this.”

A small laugh slipped out of him. Not amused. Just broken around the edges.

Iwaizumi’s throat felt tight, like the words had to claw their way out.

“I hate myself for saying those things to you,” he said quietly. “Every single day since that night, I’ve wanted to take them back. I’ve heard your voice in my head a hundred times, but it was the version of you I don’t deserve. The one who still cared enough to be hurt by me.”

He turned to face Oikawa more fully, eyes glassy but firm. “Every day without you was hell. I kept going through the motions — gym, shop, sleep, repeat — like it would keep me from thinking about you. But it didn’t. I thought about you all the damn time.”

Oikawa didn’t speak. His gaze held steady, unreadable.

Iwaizumi pushed on, his voice rougher now, cracking around the edges. “I missed your stupid texts. Your loud voice. Your dumb jokes that made me laugh when I didn’t want to. The way you’d breeze into the shop like you owned the place. I missed you hovering behind the counter pretending to help, or rearranging cards that didn’t need rearranging. I missed your opinions on my coffee, your long rants about the worst interviews, the way you filled a room without even trying.””

His hands curled slightly in his lap. “You were this chaotic, relentless light in my life. And I didn’t know how much I needed it until I tried living without it.”

He drew in a breath, hard and deep, like it hurt. “You’re not just someone I liked. You’re the person I fell for, before I even knew it was happening. And when I said all that cruel shit, it wasn’t because any of it was true. When I saw that message from Selene… I didn’t stop to ask. I didn’t trust you like I should’ve. I let fear get louder than everything else, and instead of just talking to you, I burned everything to the ground.”

His voice dropped, trembling just a bit. “But I’ve been standing in the wreckage ever since, and I can’t do it anymore.”

Iwaizumi looked down, then back at Oikawa.

“I want you back, Tooru. All of you. The stubborn, ridiculous, overthinking, determined you. The one who drives me crazy and makes everything better just by being in the room. I want to make this work. Not because it’s easy but because it’s worth it. Because you’re worth it.”

He swallowed hard. “But if I’ve already lost you for good… I’ll still carry every part of you with me. Whether I deserve to or not.”

Oikawa sighed, the sound low and almost tired.

“Even if I wanted to move on,” he said slowly, eyes fixed on the view ahead, “I couldn’t. Not really. Because I fell for you, too. More than I expected. More than I thought I ever would.”

Iwaizumi blinked, stunned. The words hit harder than anything else had.

“You… you feel the same?” he asked, voice barely above a whisper.

Oikawa glanced at him, a hint of a smile playing at his lips, but his eyes serious.

“Yeah. I do.”

The silence that followed was different now, not full of anger or regret, but something uncertain and fragile.

Iwaizumi’s heart hammered, hope flickering to life, raw and real.

Iwaizumi swallowed hard, the weight of everything pressing down on him, but beneath it, a fierce resolve ignited.

“I’ll fight every single day,” he said, voice trembling but steady, “to show you that none of those things I said… none of it was true. That I never meant to hurt you.”

He reached out, fingers almost brushing Oikawa’s hand but stopping short, unsure yet desperate to close the distance.

“Because the truth is, I don’t just want you back, I need you. I need the real you. Every part of you. Even the parts that drive me crazy.”

His eyes searched Oikawa’s face, raw and honest.

“I’ll spend every day proving that I’m not that person who walked away. I’m the one who wants to stand beside you, stubbornness and all. Because I don’t want anyone else but you.”

The yearning in his voice was unmistakable—a quiet, aching hope that maybe this time, they could rebuild what had been broken.

There was a beat of silence between them, thick and fragile, hanging in the air like a held breath.

Then, suddenly, Oikawa threw his head back and let out a huge, genuine laugh that echoed softly against the quiet of the bench.

“You’re such a dramatic mess, Iwa,” he teased, eyes sparkling with warmth and mischief. “Seriously, you should be a soap opera star.”

Iwaizumi’s cheeks flushed deep red, and he jabbed a fist lightly at Oikawa’s arm.

“Shut up,” he muttered, half embarrassed, half amused, but the tension between them eased just a little.

Oikawa’s laugh faded, and in the quiet that followed, something more serious settled in his expression. He looked out over the hazy sprawl of the city, then down at his hands, twisting the hem of his sleeve between his fingers.

“I don’t want you to leave either,” he said quietly. “I want something with you. I really do.”

Iwaizumi’s breath hitched, but he stayed quiet, listening.

“But if we do this… you have to understand the world I’m in.” Oikawa turned to face him fully, eyes sharp but vulnerable. “It’s not normal. Nothing about it is. We can try to keep it private, for as long as we can but if it gets out… if people start digging, there’s no going back.”

His voice softened, almost afraid to break the moment. “My fans can be intense. The media even worse. They’ll nitpick everything. Twist every glance, every word. And the fame? Some days it gets to me. It’s loud and invasive and exhausting. I don’t want to drag you into that if you’re not ready for it.”

He took a breath, then added, “So if you don’t want that kind of life, if it’s too much, I need to know now. Because I can’t go through losing you again later. Not after all this.”

Iwaizumi stared at him for a long moment, eyes unwavering. Then he exhaled slowly, almost like he’d been waiting to speak for hours.

“I won’t pretend I’m not scared of all of it,” Iwaizumi said, voice low but certain. “I was, before. I let that fear get to me and I hurt you because of it. But I’m not running again. If being with you means things get complicated, then I’ll learn to live with complicated. And you’re worth all of it.”

Oikawa blinked, stunned for half a second, then let out another short laugh, almost disbelieving.

Iwaizumi leaned a little closer, voice quiet but firm. “I don’t care about the cameras. Or the headlines. Or what random people on the internet think. I care about you. And if being with you means braving all that… then fine. Let them try.”

His expression softened, but there was a fire behind it. “They’re not getting rid of me that easily.”

For a second, Oikawa didn’t say anything. Then he stepped forward and pulled Iwaizumi into a tight hug. Iwaizumi didn’t hesitate; his arms came around Oikawa without thinking, holding on like he never wanted to let go. He closed his eyes. He hadn’t realized how much he missed the warmth of him, the quiet strength Oikawa held on to, or even the way he smelled, like fresh linen and something faintly sweet he couldn’t name. Familiar. Safe.

After a long moment, Oikawa pulled back just enough to look at him, his hands lingering at Iwaizumi’s sides. His expression turned thoughtful, almost unreadable, as he watched Iwaizumi like he was weighing something in his head.

Then, quietly: “Before you fully make up your mind…”

Iwaizumi blinked. “About what?”

“About all of this,” Oikawa said, waving a vague hand between them. “There’s someone you need to meet.”

Iwaizumi sat up straighter, brows furrowed. “Who?”

“You’ll see.” Oikawa stood with a stretch, arms reaching overhead until his shirt rode up just slightly. He glanced down at Iwaizumi with a casual tilt of his head. “Can you drive?”

“I— yeah, of course.” Iwaizumi stood too, still confused. “Where are we going?”

Oikawa only smiled. “You’ll see.”

They turned together toward the car parked nearby, the sun warming their backs. Oikawa approached the passenger window and tapped twice. The bodyguard, still seated inside, rolled it down.

“Colt,” Oikawa said with a practiced kind of charm, “you’ve got the rest of the day to yourself.”

Colt didn’t move. “Where are you going?”

“Nowhere dangerous,” Oikawa promised, already pulling up his glasses and adjusting his cap low over his eyes. “I’ll keep my face covered, sunglasses and everything. And if anything sketchy happens, I’ll call you right away. I swear.”

Colt narrowed his eyes behind dark lenses, clearly unconvinced.

But after a beat, he gave a slow nod and shifted the car into gear. “One message. If you don’t answer, I’m tracking your phone.”

Oikawa gave him a lazy salute. “Duly noted.”

As the SUV pulled away and disappeared around the bend, Iwaizumi turned toward him again.

“Alright,” he said, gesturing to his own car. “You gonna tell me what this is about?”

Oikawa was already sliding into the passenger seat. “Nope.”

Iwaizumi exhaled, half amused and half anxious, climbing in beside him.

Whatever this was mattered. He could feel it in the quiet under Oikawa’s grin.

The drive wasn’t long, but every turn Oikawa told him to take only made Iwaizumi more confused.

“Left at this next light,” Oikawa said casually, leaning back in the passenger seat with his hat pulled low and sunglasses still on.

Iwaizumi glanced sideways. “You’re not gonna tell me where we’re going?”

“Nope,” Oikawa replied simply, fingers drumming lightly on his thigh.

He gave directions with the ease of someone who knew the route by heart. Iwaizumi didn’t push partly because Oikawa was being stubborn about it, but mostly because he trusted him. Still, the knot in his chest grew a little tighter with each passing minute.

Then they turned into a wide driveway, and Iwaizumi slowed to a crawl.

A hospital.

A sleek, private facility tucked into the hillside. The parking lot was mostly empty. Trees lined the perimeter like silent sentries, and the automatic glass doors reflected the overcast sky above them.

Iwaizumi pulled into a spot, shifting the car into park. “You brought me to a hospital?”

Oikawa unclipped his seatbelt, already pulling his hat further down and adjusting his sunglasses. “Come on.”

That didn’t answer anything. But Iwaizumi followed anyway.

They stepped inside, the cool blast of air conditioning brushing against their skin. The lobby was clean and quiet, filled with muted tones and soft lighting. A single receptionist sat behind a long counter, typing something on her computer.

Oikawa walked up with calm confidence, tugging off his sunglasses just long enough to flash her a soft, polite smile.

“Hi. I called ahead. Tooru Oikawa. We’re here to see her.”

The receptionist’s eyes widened slightly in recognition, but she composed herself quickly, typing something into her computer. Then she nodded. “Yes, of course. You’re cleared to visit. You know the way?”

“I do,” Oikawa said, slipping his glasses back on and turning slightly. “Thank you.”

Iwaizumi followed as Oikawa led him toward the elevators without another word.

“Her?” he asked, voice low, confusion etched into every word.

“You’ll see,” Oikawa murmured.

They rode the elevator in silence. The higher the numbers ticked, the quieter everything felt. Iwaizumi didn’t know what to expect. His brain raced through every possibility, but none of them quite made sense. Not yet.

The elevator dinged softly as it arrived, and the doors slid open to reveal a hallway that looked different from the floors below. It was quieter, more secluded, with heavy wooden doors and soft golden lighting. There were no visitors in sight. A private wing.

Iwaizumi hesitated.

Oikawa glanced over his shoulder, offering a gentle nod. “This way.”

They turned down the hall, Oikawa walking with practiced steps like he’d done this a hundred times. The world narrowed with every step, not out of fear, but from the weight in the air. Like something important was waiting behind one of these doors. Something delicate. Something sacred.

Iwaizumi’s heart beat a little faster.

He didn’t know who they were about to see, or why Oikawa had chosen now, of all times, to bring him here.

And that whatever it was, Oikawa trusted him enough to show it.

They walked in silence until Oikawa slowed to a stop in front of a door near the end of the corridor. There was a moment where he didn’t move and just stood there, his back to Iwaizumi, hand hovering above the doorknob.

Then he turned.

His sunglasses were pushed up now, his eyes bare and sincere.

“This,” he said quietly, “is my way of showing you that you’re the only one I want. That there’s no one else. Not even close.”

Iwaizumi’s brows furrowed, the words catching him off guard. “What are you talking about—?”

But Oikawa didn’t answer. Instead, he turned back, gave the door a soft knock.

There was a pause.

Then, faintly, a voice called out from inside. “Come in.”

Oikawa opened the door gently, stepping in with a soft warmth that felt like stepping into sunlight.

The room was bright, spacious, filled with the soft beeping of medical monitors and the scent of flowers. A tall window looked out over a quiet garden below, and sunlight poured across the bed where a woman lay propped up against pillows, a novel open in her lap.

She looked tired, pale, but her eyes lit up the second she saw him.

“Oikawa!” she beamed.

“Hey, you,” he grinned, striding over to her bedside like he’d done it a hundred times before. “Caught you napping with a book again.”

“Oh, hush,” the woman teased, rolling her eyes fondly. “I was resting my eyes.”

Oikawa laughed. “Sure you were.”

She reached out and squeezed his hand with a quiet familiarity, like they shared years of inside jokes and soft conversations. There was something unshakably kind about her — the way she smiled at him, the ease between them.

Iwaizumi stood in the doorway, uncertain, the puzzle still not clicking into place. He watched them, the patient and Oikawa, so natural together, and yet—

Then Oikawa turned toward him, expression softening even further.

“This is Selene,” he said, motioning for Iwaizumi to come in.

And everything stilled in Iwaizumi’s chest.

Oikawa held his gaze for a second longer before returning his attention to Selene.

“She’s one of my closest friends,” he said gently, voice quieter now. “And probably the strongest person I know.”

Selene looked between the two of them with a curious smile, but there was a flicker of knowing in her eyes, something softer, older, weathered. She tilted her head just slightly, her gaze landing on Iwaizumi like she was sizing him up, but not unkindly.

Iwaizumi stepped further into the room, heart suddenly thudding in his chest as the pieces started to fall.

He’d been wrong.

So, so wrong.

Chapter Text

Iwaizumi stood frozen for a second, unsure what to say, unsure if he’d even taken a full breath.

The woman lying in the hospital bed was pale, so much so that her skin seemed to glow softly under the sterile overhead light. A patterned wrap was tied neatly around her head, the kind often worn by patients in treatment. Thin tubes snaked from her arms to the monitor beside the bed, blinking slowly in quiet rhythm. There was a water bottle on her bedside table and a vase filled with soft pink peonies that looked like his own work.

She offered him a gentle smile. “It’s nice to meet you, Iwaizumi,” she said, voice light but a little breathless. “Tooru’s told me a lot about you.”

Iwaizumi opened his mouth, then closed it again, caught completely off guard. This wasn’t what he expected. None of this was.

Oikawa gave him a small look—calm, a little solemn, but open. He didn’t say anything yet. He didn’t need to.

Iwaizumi blinked, still catching up. He cleared his throat lightly, stepping closer but keeping a respectful distance from the bed. “It’s nice to meet you too,” he said, voice lower than usual. “Sorry for… showing up out of nowhere.”

Selene smiled again, softer this time. “Oh, don’t worry about that. I was expecting you.”

That made Iwaizumi pause. His eyes flicked to Oikawa, who shifted awkwardly by the foot of the bed, gaze fixed on a spot on the wall.

Selene grinned. “He cried to me, you know. Practically sobbed. Total meltdown.”

“I did not,” Oikawa cut in quickly, half groaning, half mortified.

She turned back to Iwaizumi and winked, “He was ugly crying.”

Oikawa groaned. “You’re literally the worst.”

Despite himself, Iwaizumi let out a quiet breath of laughter. The warmth in the room was strange but welcome like the space had already decided he wasn’t the villain here.

He looked at Selene again, more grounded this time. “I just want to say… I don’t hold anything against you,” he said seriously. “I didn’t know the context, and that’s on me. You didn’t do anything wrong. And I’m sorry you got dragged into it.”

Selene’s teasing expression softened a little. She gave him a long look and then nodded. “Well, for the record, I promise I wasn’t trying to steal your boyfriend.”

Oikawa glared. “Selene.”

She just grinned. “What? I think it’s important to clarify. I may be dramatic, but I’m not that kind of dramatic.”

“But seriously,” she continued, more gently this time, “I heard what you said to him. All of it. Not from Tooru, by the way, he refused to badmouth you, even when he looked like he wanted to disappear into my floor.”

Iwaizumi winced.

She tilted her head. “It was harsh. But… people say dumb things when they’re scared. Especially when they don’t know the whole story.”

He met her eyes, throat tight. “Yeah,” he said softly. “I didn’t. But I want to now.”

Selene smiled again, this time more kindly than anything. “Then you’re in the right place.”

Selene patted the armrest of the empty chair beside her. “You should pull up a seat. It’s kind of a long story.”

Iwaizumi, still quiet, nodded and pulled the nearest chair closer. Oikawa also dragging one next to Selene’s bedside and sitting down, leaning his arms against his knees like this was the hundredth time they’d had this conversation. He glanced back at Iwaizumi, then gave Selene a small nod. “You start.”

She smiled, then looked over at Iwaizumi. “Oikawa and I met before filming, technically like, a handful of times at events or industry things. But it was always small talk. You know, ‘love your work, how’s your team, are you trying the shrimp skewers’ kind of stuff.”

“I hate shrimp skewers,” Oikawa muttered. Selene rolled her eyes.

“Anyway,” she continued, “we didn’t actually talk until the first script read-through for the rom-com. A little over two years ago now.” She gave a soft, slightly disbelieving laugh. “It’s weird to say out loud. Doesn’t feel that long.”

Oikawa chimed in, a little quieter now. “We hit it off. Same humor, same taste in old movies, same hatred for early morning shoots. It was easy.”

“We became close on set,” Selene said. “But it wasn’t just during filming. We started hanging out outside of it, too. Coffee runs, bookstore stops, grabbing dinner after table reads.”

Oikawa nodded, eyes down for a second like he was playing the memories back in his head. “People started noticing. Taking pictures. There were all these headlines about how we were the ‘perfect onscreen couple turned real,’ and we just kind of… laughed it off at first.”

“The studio loved it,” Selene added with a wry smile. “Suddenly our PR team was encouraging it. More public outings, more ‘accidental’ photos. They never said the word romance, but they didn’t have to.”

Oikawa added. “Strategic appearances. Posing together. Laughing too loud in cafes so we’d get spotted.” He shrugged. “It was easy.”

Iwaizumi stayed quiet, taking it all in, his hands clasped loosely in his lap.

“But then it stopped being fake,” Selene added, her tone a little softer now. “We started talking more. Off-set. Hanging out when no one was watching. We had fun. We cared about each other. And it turned into something real or at least, it felt like it.”

Iwaizumi listened quietly with a dull pressure in his chest.

“It worked for a while,” Oikawa said instead, his voice softer now. “We understood each other in the moment. We laughed at the same dumb jokes, liked the same things. It felt comfortable.”

“But eventually,” Selene said, “our careers started pulling in different directions. We wanted different things, long-term. And the more we tried to bend to fit each other, the more cracks started to show. We weren’t as similar as we thought.”

She looked over at Oikawa with a soft, fond smile — the kind that held no bitterness. “But that’s not the whole story.”

Oikawa glanced at Iwaizumi briefly, then stayed silent.

Selene drew in a slow breath, fiddling with the hem of her blanket. “Part of the reason we ended things is because I was fighting feelings for someone else. A woman.”

Iwaizumi blinked, surprised, but Selene kept going, steady.

“I tried to push it away,” she said. “Tried to convince myself it was just a phase, that I could override it. That if I just focused on Oikawa — who I genuinely did care for — the rest of it would go away. I thought I was doing the right thing.”

Oikawa finally spoke up. “She told me after a press shoot. We were both exhausted and half-delirious from being around each other so much. And she just… said it.”

“I figured if anyone would understand, it’d be him,” Selene said. “I knew he was bi. I knew he wouldn’t judge me. I just didn’t expect him to be so kind about it.”

Oikawa smiled faintly. “We broke up after that. Quietly. No big drama, no public fallout. Just mutual respect. A lot of understanding.”

Selene leaned back against her pillows, letting the last part settle.

Selene let out a breath, her gaze drifting toward the window as if grounding herself. “After we broke up… not even a month later, I got diagnosed. Stage four breast cancer.”

Iwaizumi’s expression shifted immediately, jaw tightening as he straightened in his seat.

“I went through chemo, radiation, targeted therapy, everything,” she continued, her voice calm but not cold. “It was hell. But it went away for a few months. I thought I was in the clear. And then… it came back.”

She smiled, tired but sincere. “And through it all, he never left.”

Oikawa sat a little straighter, like he wanted to brush it off. “She didn’t tell anyone for a while. Only a few people knew. I’d visit whenever I could. Sit with her during her infusions. Make her drink her protein shakes even when she hated me for it.”

Selene gave him a sideways glance. “He was the only one who made me laugh when I thought I wouldn’t again.”

There was a long pause after that. Just the quiet sound of machines humming in the background.

“Iwaizumi,” she said finally, her voice gentle. “You don’t have to feel guilty for jumping to conclusions. But you needed to know the whole picture. Because this?” She gestured faintly to the hospital room, the weight of it all. “It wasn’t some secret romance. It was life. And Oikawa… he stayed through the worst of it. He brought me flowers every week. Hid from paparazzi to sneak into the hospital. Sat with me when I lost my hair and didn’t want to be seen. Not because he had to, but because that’s who he is.”

Oikawa shifted in his seat, visibly uncomfortable under the spotlight of praise. “You’d do the same for me.”

Selene smiled softly. “Yeah. But you did it first.”

Iwaizumi sat still, absorbing every word, his throat thick. The weight of misunderstanding pressed heavier now, not just because of what he’d assumed, but because of what he hadn’t asked.

“I get it,” he said finally, voice rough. “I really do. And I’m sorry for ever making either of you feel like you owed me an explanation.”

Oikawa didn’t say anything at first, just looked at him, the sharp edges in his expression slowly softening. Selene gave a small smile, but didn’t interrupt. This was their moment, and she knew it.

Iwaizumi rubbed the back of his neck, suddenly feeling every ounce of guilt press down on his shoulders again. “I was so focused on what I saw, what I thought I knew. And I didn’t even stop to consider there might be something deeper going on. I just reacted. And I hurt you. Both of you.”

“No one blames you for reacting,” Selene said gently. “We all carry our own fears. Yours just… collided with ours in a really messy way.”

Iwaizumi looked at Oikawa again, and this time, there was nothing guarded in his eyes. Just something aching and real. “Thank you for letting me see this part of your life. For trusting me with it.”

Oikawa smiled faintly. “I want you to see all of it. The good parts, the messy ones. Even the ones I’ve tried to keep to myself.”

“And I want to earn that,” Iwaizumi said. “All of it. Every day.”

Selene let out a quiet breath, lips quirking into a smile. “Okay, this is getting disgustingly romantic, and I’m the one stuck in a hospital gown.”

Oikawa rolled his eyes, laughing softly.

Selene glanced between the two of them, then tilted her head at Oikawa with a teasing grin. “Okay, real question. The bouquets you’ve been bringing me—those gorgeous ones every few weeks?”

Oikawa raised an eyebrow, already sensing where this was going. “Yeah?”

She narrowed her eyes. “They’re from him, aren’t they?”

Iwaizumi blinked. “Wait, what?”

Selene’s eyes sparkled with satisfaction. “I knew it. I’ve been saying for months there’s no way Oikawa put those together himself. They’re way too coordinated.”

Oikawa threw up his hands, mock-offended. “Wow. No faith in me at all.”

Iwaizumi rubbed the back of his neck, a little pink at the ears. “Yeah, I made them. He asked me to.”

“And every single one of them’s beautiful,” Selene said warmly, her gaze landing on Iwaizumi. “Seriously. I looked forward to those more than the actual visits sometimes.”

Oikawa let out a huff. “Okay, rude.”

“I said sometimes.”

“It made the place feel less cold. Less like a hospital,” Selene said.

There was a quiet pause, soft and full, before Oikawa added, “He didn’t have to say yes when I asked. I just… wanted to bring you something that didn’t feel generic. Something that felt like it came from someone who actually cared.”

Selene blinked slowly, touched. “You are unbelievable.”

“Unbelievably sweet,” Oikawa said, tossing his hair dramatically.

“Unbelievably codependent,” Selene corrected, and all three of them broke into laughter.

For a while, they chatted more easily—about movies, the awful hospital food, the last show Selene binged that she forced Oikawa to hate-watch with her. It was the kind of comfort only real friendship, real healing, could bring: the shared knowledge of pain, the gentleness in knowing where not to press, and the love in showing up anyway.

Eventually, Selene stretched carefully and sighed. “Alright, gentlemen. As much as I’d love to keep pretending I don’t have a nurse about to barge in and check my vitals, I should probably let you two go.”

Oikawa stood and smoothed the hem of his coat. “We’ll stop bothering you.”

“It really was great to meet you, Iwaizumi,” she said genuinely. “And I have to say, I’m honored to meet the one person on this planet who can actually humble Tooru.”

Oikawa let out a loud, scandalized gasp. “Excuse me?”

Iwaizumi smirked. “Glad to be of service.”

Selene grinned. “No, really. He’s a lot — we both know that.” She reached over and nudged Oikawa’s elbow. “But I’ve never seen him like this. Not just softer. Braver.”

Oikawa looked away, cheeks faintly pink. “Okay, that’s enough out of you.”

Iwaizumi gave Selene a quiet nod. “Thank you. For being honest with me and for helping clear the air. I won’t tell anyone about your sickness.”

Selene gave him a small, knowing smile. “Just take care of him, okay?”

“I will,” Iwaizumi said, steady and certain.

“Good,” she said, leaning back against the pillows with a little grin. “Because you’re the only one he’s ever brought to meet me. And believe me, that idiot does not let just anyone into his orbit.”

Oikawa groaned. “Please don’t make this weird.”

“It’s not weird,” Selene said sweetly. “It’s touching. Also, if you break his heart again, I’ll personally drag myself out of this hospital bed and dump fertilizer in your flower shop.”

Iwaizumi grinned. “Not soil sabotage.”

“Absolutely soil sabotage,” Selene said primly.

The door clicked shut behind them with a soft finality. For a beat, they just stood there in the quiet hallway, the scent of antiseptic and distant beeping the only sounds around them.

Then Iwaizumi turned to Oikawa, eyes searching, and before either of them could speak, he wrapped his arms around him.

“I’m sorry again,” Iwaizumi murmured against his shoulder. “Not just for everything I said… but for making something so heavy yours to carry alone. You shouldn’t have had to deal with her illness and me on top of it.”

Oikawa hugged him back just as tightly, his fingers curling into the back of Iwaizumi’s shirt. “I forgive you,” he said quietly. “I do. And I’m sorry too. I should’ve told you sooner.”

They stood there for another moment, just holding each other — two apologies stitched into one silence.

Then they slowly pulled apart. Oikawa reached into his coat pocket, slipping his hat back over his hair and tugging the brim low. His sunglasses followed, shielding his face from the world again. “Just in case anyone’s lurking.”

Iwaizumi gave a soft, crooked smile and reached down without a word, lacing their fingers together.

They walked down the corridor side by side, something steadier between them now. Not perfect. Not fixed in one conversation. But real and held together by something they’d both chosen to fight for.

Together.

____

Three months.

That’s how long it had been since Oikawa introduced him to Selene, since the long-overdue apology and the quiet promise to try again for real this time. And two weeks after that, over a dimly lit dinner at a tucked-away restaurant Oikawa swore no paparazzi knew about, Iwaizumi had finally asked him out. They were halfway through their meal when Iwaizumi, with his usual no-nonsense tone, said, “Let’s make this official. I want to date you.”

Oikawa blinked, then grinned. “Finally.”

Iwaizumi rolled his eyes. “Don’t get cocky.”

Oikawa laughed. “Too late.”

Now they were officially something. Something real. Something steady. And almost three months in, Iwaizumi still caught himself smiling like an idiot every time his phone lit up with a text or call from Tooru — no matter the hour.

Oikawa had been all over the place lately. Korea, London, New York, back to LA for a day, then off again. The promo tour for Starborne — the long-awaited sci-fi epic he led — was in full swing, and his schedule was packed with interviews, panels, and red carpets. Iwaizumi kept track of every stop like it was second nature. Watched every segment he could find online. Sometimes live. Sometimes when the shop quieted down and the only sound was the gentle hum of the display fridge and whatever low playlist he had running.

He never told Oikawa just how often he replayed those videos. How many articles he saved. How even the fluff pieces — the ones about Oikawa’s “effortless charm” or “off-screen warmth” — felt like little windows into his world when they were apart.

Iwaizumi didn’t mind the distance. Not really. They still talked every day, even if it meant one of them whispering half-asleep at 2AM or calling between shoots. Oikawa made the effort, and Iwaizumi… well, he didn’t know he had it in him to miss someone this much and still feel so grounded by it.

The flower shop kept him busy. Iwaizumi, thoughtful as ever, sent bouquets weekly to Selene, simple gestures of thanks and support. Life didn’t pause just because his boyfriend was halfway across the world. But somehow, even in the quiet routine of sweeping floors and trimming stems, Oikawa never felt far away. He wiped his hands on a towel, glanced toward his phone where a missed call from London time was already waiting, and smiled.

Almost three months. And somehow, it still felt brand new.

___

Now, late at night in his quiet apartment, Iwaizumi sat by the window, the city lights casting a soft glow over the room. His phone lay heavy in his hand, eyes flicking to the screen again and again.

Oikawa had finalized his press conference in Boston earlier that day. He was supposed to land a few hours ago from his flight back, yet no message, no call.

The silence gnawed at him. It wasn’t like Oikawa to go this long without checking in.

He tapped out a quick text, fingers hesitating before hitting send: “Tooru? You okay?”

Then, he waited — heart thumping in the quiet.

Iwaizumi’s thoughts spun with worry when suddenly the sharp chime of the doorbell cut through the silence. Frowning, he wondered who could be visiting this late. Setting his phone down, he made his way to the door and opened it cautiously.

There, standing under the soft glow of the porch light, was Oikawa with his beanie pulled low and dark sunglasses shielding his eyes.

Oikawa grinned cheekily as he stepped inside, pulling off the glasses with a flourish. “Missed me?” he teased, voice light but tired.

Iwaizumi blinked, a mix of relief and exasperation flooding through him. “Why the hell haven’t you answered my texts?” he asked, voice low but tight with concern.

Oikawa just grinned, stepping inside. “I wanted to surprise you,” he said simply, peeling off his beanie and tugging the sunglasses free. His hair was tousled, eyes tired but sparkling in that way Iwaizumi had missed all week. Before Iwaizumi could respond, Oikawa wrapped his arms around him, warm and solid, pressing a kiss to the side of his jaw.

Iwaizumi let out a breath, his arms wrapping instinctively around Oikawa’s waist. “You’re ridiculous.”

“I know,” Oikawa murmured, voice muffled against his shoulder.

Then, like his limbs finally gave up, Oikawa flopped onto the couch with a dramatic sigh, stretching like a cat. “I’m finally done with press for a bit,” he
said, eyes fluttering shut. “Movie drops in a week. I get a short break, thank God, but then premiere week kicks in and promo picks back up. Still… post-release stuff’s a lot lighter. I’ll actually be able to breathe again.”

Iwaizumi leaned against the doorframe, watching him with quiet amusement, arms crossed. “So you flew cross-country just to collapse on my couch?”

Oikawa cracked one eye open and smiled lazily. “No. I flew cross-country to collapse on your couch and kiss you whenever I want.”

Iwaizumi rolled his eyes. But even then, he couldn’t stop the way his chest felt a little lighter.

After a few minutes of catching up, mostly Oikawa rambling about Boston weather and how a mic cut out mid-interview, Iwaizumi nudged him toward the bathroom.

“You smell like plane,” he muttered.

“You smell like loneliness,” Oikawa shot back, smirking as he disappeared down the hallway, already tugging off his sweatshirt.

While the water started running, Iwaizumi moved into the kitchen and got to work. He didn’t need to ask if Oikawa had eaten since the answer was always no when he was traveling. So he pulled out the ingredients he knew would coax an honest-to-God hum out of Oikawa: truffle oil, fresh pasta, a few herbs. He chopped and stirred while the apartment filled with the warm, savory scent of garlic and mushrooms, a comforting rhythm anchoring the quiet of the evening.

By the time Oikawa padded back out, hair damp and clinging to his forehead, he was dressed in one of Iwaizumi’s oversized t-shirts and sweatpants, the waistband knotted sloppily at his hips.

“You really don’t own normal-sized clothes,” Oikawa said, but his voice was already softening at the smell wafting from the kitchen. “Wait… is that truffle?”

Iwaizumi didn’t look up from plating. “Don’t act surprised. I know you.”

They carried their food into the living room and sank onto the couch, Oikawa practically melting into Iwaizumi’s side. They scrolled through the movie options for a bit, half-arguing over genres before settling on something neither of them had seen.

Iwaizumi settled back into the couch, the soft glow of the TV casting gentle shadows across the room. Oikawa was beside him, quieter than usual, his confident facade softened into something tender.

Oikawa’s hand found Iwaizumi’s, fingers curling gently around his. The warmth from that simple touch spread through Iwaizumi’s arm, steadying him more than words ever could.

“You look tired,” Oikawa murmured softly, his voice barely above the movie’s soundtrack.

Iwaizumi glanced at him, a small smirk playing on his lips. “Been a long day. But it’s better now.”

Oikawa shifted closer, resting his head lightly on Iwaizumi’s shoulder. The faint scent of his shampoo and cologne wrapped around Iwaizumi like a quiet promise.

“I missed this,” Oikawa whispered, his breath warm against Iwaizumi’s skin. “Just being close to you, without everything else getting in the way.”

Iwaizumi turned his head slowly, meeting Oikawa’s gaze. The smile that bloomed on Oikawa’s face then — genuine, soft, and so real — was one only Iwaizumi ever got to see.

“Me too,” Iwaizumi said, leaning his head against Oikawa’s.

Oikawa pulled back just enough to look Iwaizumi in the eyes, his expression a little nervous beneath his usual confident mask. “Hey,” he said softly, “I know this is kinda out of the blue… but would you want to go to the movie premiere with me?”

The question hung in the air, delicate and weighty all at once.

Iwaizumi blinked, utterly caught off guard. His mind raced, heart pounding harder than he expected. Go to a premiere? With Oikawa? The idea felt surreal— like stepping into a world he usually only saw from the sidelines.

He opened his mouth to respond, but nothing came out at first. Instead, he just stared, caught somewhere between surprise and something warmer, something like hope.

Finally, he cleared his throat, voice low and a little rough. “Are you serious?”

Oikawa smiled, that same soft smile from before, the one reserved only for him. “Yeah, I’m serious. It wouldn’t be the same without you there. I want you with me.”

Iwaizumi’s chest tightened, a mix of emotions swirling inside him — pride, nervousness, and a flicker of something like disbelief. He was used to keeping his life quiet, but here, with Oikawa, the idea of stepping into that world felt less scary.

Oikawa hurried to add, reading the hesitation in Iwaizumi’s eyes. “And, hey, you don’t have to be there for the whole thing like, the red carpet and all the quick interviews. You can just meet me at the theater for the actual screening. Nobody will have to see you if you don’t want.”

Iwaizumi swallowed hard, the warmth in his chest growing. “Okay,” he said finally, voice quiet but sure. “I’ll go. With you.”

Oikawa’s grin grew wider, relief shining in his eyes. “Good. Because I’m not going without you.”

And in that moment, the whole world outside didn’t matter. It was just the two of them, stepping into whatever came next.

After their quiet conversation, they moved together toward Iwaizumi’s bedroom. The soft glow of the bedside lamp cast gentle shadows across the room as they settled beneath the covers. Oikawa shifted closer, their bodies fitting together with a familiarity that only grew stronger over time. The world outside faded away, leaving only the steady rhythm of their breathing as they drifted off to sleep together.

Over the next week, their days unfolded like a gentle, perfect rhythm. Oikawa stopped by the flower shop whenever he could, slipping in quietly among the vibrant blooms and the scent of fresh earth. Iwaizumi greeted him with a smile and a playful shove, the ease between them as natural as the petals around them. Sometimes, after closing time, they’d drive back to Iwaizumi’s place, sharing laughter and stories as the city lights flickered on. Other nights, it was Oikawa’s house where they relaxed, the space slowly filling with shared memories and quiet moments. Everywhere they went together, it felt effortless, like two halves finding a whole, their bond growing deeper with each passing day. There was a simple joy in being with someone who understood them completely.

___

The morning passed like any other. Iwaizumi went through his usual routine—woke up early, hit the gym, opened the shop, arranged the flowers, watered the stems. But even as he worked, something buzzed beneath the surface. A different kind of energy. Not nerves exactly. More like anticipation.

By mid-afternoon, he closed the shop early and flipped the sign to Closed with a glance over his shoulder. The shop felt quieter than usual, as if even the flowers were holding their breath.

Oikawa had texted him detailed instructions that morning, complete with timestamps, a map to the venue, and a checklist.

Oikawa: At 6:30, car picks you up. VIP entrance to skip the press side entirely. You’ll go straight into the theater. It’s reserved seating, so don’t stress. Just wait there for me.

He could practically hear Oikawa’s voice in the messages. Iwaizumi had to smile. The premiere wasn’t for another couple of hours, but he’d already showered, shaved, and triple-checked the suit hanging on his door.

When 6:25 rolled around, his phone buzzed again.

Oikawa: Your driver’s outside :) Text me when you’re in your seat so I don’t have a heart attack.

Outside, the black SUV was waiting exactly as Oikawa promised. Tinted windows. No logos. Clean and professional. He stepped inside and gave the driver a polite nod, tugging at the sleeves of his jacket.

The ride over was quiet. Just the soft hum of the city passing by as the sky faded into evening gold. The closer they got to the venue, the busier things looked. Bright lights. Velvet ropes. Crowds clustered along barricades. Cameras flashing like strobe lights.

But the SUV turned smoothly away from it all and coasted toward a private side entrance.

Just like Oikawa said.

The driver spoke for the first time. “This is the VIP drop-off. Someone will escort you to the theater.”

Iwaizumi nodded, heart thudding slightly faster now. “Thanks.”

Inside, everything was polished and hushed. Quiet halls and a few familiar-looking assistants directing people where to go. One of them led him through the back and into the theater. He spotted the row Oikawa reserved easily enough. A small gold plaque marked his name on the seat.

He sat, smoothing his hands down his pants, and pulled out his phone.

Iwaizumi: I’m here.

The theater was still filling in slowly. A few assistants moved along the aisles with clipboards, checking off names, making sure guests were in the right place. Most of the crowd hadn’t arrived yet, but Iwaizumi had been early like always.

He pulled out his phone. The premiere’s live stream was already well underway. The red carpet coverage was splashed across every media app, and even if he tried not to look, it was impossible to avoid.

The moment he opened the stream, there he was.

Oikawa.

Dressed to kill in a sharp, black suit with subtle gold accents that shimmered just slightly when the lights hit right. Hair swept perfectly, smile flawless. He moved with that practiced grace—waves to fans, a few charming poses for the cameras, short answers to a string of questions from reporters.

Iwaizumi watched quietly, listening to the way Oikawa dodged prying questions with practiced ease and offered glowing praise for his castmates. When one reporter asked what it was like balancing a sci-fi epic with something so emotional, Oikawa just smiled.

“It’s always about finding something real,” he said. “Even when the world around you is built from stardust and fiction. You anchor yourself to something—or someone—that matters.”

His voice didn’t waver. But Iwaizumi knew that look in his eyes.

He didn’t say a name, but he didn’t need to.

Iwaizumi’s chest tightened.

The camera shifted, and Oikawa was ushered to another segment of the carpet, surrounded by lights and noise. He looked like a star, like he belonged up there. And somehow, despite all of that, despite the impossibly big world he stood in…

He still looked like Oikawa.

The same Oikawa who hogged Iwaizumi’s blanket at night and left half-full coffee mugs in weird places. The same Oikawa who snuck into his apartment and fell asleep mid-sentence, curled up on his chest like the rest of the world could wait.

Iwaizumi’s phone buzzed—this time, just a message from the driver saying the cast would enter the theater soon.

He leaned back in his seat.

A little stunned. A little proud.

And more than anything… just ready to see him.

⸻

Before the premiere:

The suite smelled faintly of expensive cologne and steam from the iron still hissing in the corner. Garment bags were tossed open across the room, designer pieces hung like armor waiting to be worn. Oikawa sat by the window in a robe, staring out at the slowly setting sun over LA, the city below already glowing with anticipation.

“Five minutes to suit up,” Dante called from the other side of the suite, flipping through the itinerary on his tablet. His voice was calm, but Oikawa could see the little crease in his brow that always showed up when things had to be perfect.

“It’s not a battle, you know,” Oikawa said lazily, not turning from the glass. “You’re acting like we’re storming the gates of war.”

Dante didn’t even glance up. “With your schedule, your reputation, and your fanbase? It might as well be.”

Oikawa let out a breath and finally stood. His stylist immediately moved in, helping him out of the robe and into the suit they’d spent three fittings perfecting. Black silk, gold accents running subtly along the seams, sharp lapels that caught the light just right. It was sleek, simple but commanding. Oikawa Tooru wasn’t just here to walk the carpet.

He was here to own it.

Dante hovered nearby, adjusting a cuff, giving last-minute notes. “Your interview cues are prepped. Don’t linger too long in one spot. Publicists are on standby. Security has eyes at all entry points.”

Oikawa rolled his shoulders and checked his reflection. Everything was in place. The suit, the shoes, the faint shimmer of under-eye highlighter to keep him looking awake. His smile was already settled but not the overly perfect one. The one that felt like it could handle any question thrown at him.

And still, under it all, his heart beat hard.

He wasn’t nervous about the cameras or the questions.

He was nervous because he knew Iwaizumi would be watching.

“Ready?” Dante asked, already holding the door open.

Oikawa nodded once. “Yeah. Let’s go.”

The car pulled up behind the long line of sleek black vehicles outside the Starborne premiere venue. The crowd was already roaring, fans held signs and glowing wristbands, camera flashes glittered like fireflies. The giant movie poster loomed above it all—Oikawa’s face front and center, framed by stars and shadow.

A security guard opened his door.

The noise hit him like a wave.

He stepped out.

Immediately, the crowd went wild.

Photographers shouted his name from every angle. He took a slow breath and let instinct take over—smile, wave, pivot. A tilt of the head, a glance over the shoulder. Each movement felt rehearsed, but not forced. This was second nature now. Oikawa knew how to perform.

He greeted a few castmates at the start of the carpet, exchanged hugs and handshakes, and made his way down the line. Interviewers leaned in, asking questions ranging from the making of the film to how he prepared for such an emotionally intense role.

“It was one of the most demanding things I’ve done,” he admitted, “but also the most rewarding. The universe of Starborne isn’t just about space battles—it’s about identity. About choosing who you want to be, even when everything is stacked against you.”

The interviewer smiled. “Sounds like you related to your character.”

Oikawa paused, smile softening. “Yeah. I did.”

He moved down the carpet again, pausing for a few more interviews and posing alongside co-stars. A couple questions veered personal—he deflected with ease.

“Dating rumors? Oh, I’m married to my work,” he said with a wink, and the crowd screamed.

But as he stepped toward the end of the carpet, he felt his phone buzz gently in his pocket. A notification from Iwaizumi: “I’m here.”

A warmth stirred deep in his chest.

Without missing a beat, he turned slightly toward the cameras one more time, let them get their shot.

Then he whispered to Dante at his side, “Let’s wrap up. I’m ready.”

⸻

The theater was dim and cool, a gentle hush settling over the rows as more guests trickled in. It wasn’t packed like the public screening rooms; this was the VIP side—reserved for close friends, family, and industry insiders not required to brave the camera flashes.

Iwaizumi tapped his foot restlessly, eyes flicking toward the screen, then toward the wide side doors near the stage—where the cast would eventually come in.

For the past thirty minutes, he’d been watching the livestream premiere on his phone, tracking Oikawa’s interviews and red carpet poses. Oikawa looked incredible. Confident. Effortless. Like he belonged up there with the galaxy-sized backdrop behind him and all the attention fixed at his feet.

Iwaizumi couldn’t help but smile a little when one reporter asked about dating and Oikawa gave that coy, irritating “married to my work” answer. That stupid answer he’d heard him practice jokingly the night before.

He shook his head to himself.

Then the side doors clicked open.

Iwaizumi looked up.

Oikawa stepped through first. He was still wearing his premiere suit, but the red carpet charm had slipped off the moment the door shut behind him. His shoulders dropped slightly. His eyes scanned the seats.

Right behind Oikawa came Dante, sharp as ever in a pressed suit, muttering into his earpiece. And behind Dante was Colt, calm and unreadable, doing his usual quiet sweep of the room with a practiced gaze. And trailing behind the group was Milo, who shot Iwaizumi a wave and a toothy grin, clearly enjoying himself.

Oikawa made his way down the row, eyes fixed on Iwaizumi.

A grin pulled at his mouth, the real one. The kind Iwaizumi only ever saw when they were alone.

“There you are,” Oikawa said, weaving his way down the row.

A wave of soft chatter followed as the rest of the main cast began filing into the theater. Familiar faces from Oikawa’s interviews, all dressed to the nines, still glowing faintly from the flash of red carpet lights. There were a few cheers and scattered clapping from the audience as they entered, a warm, informal kind of applause. Oikawa turned slightly and offered a quick wave to one of his castmates, who grinned and shot him a thumbs up.

Dante sat a few seats away, typing something into his phone while Colt lingered at the back of the room, keeping a watchful eye. Oikawa glanced toward them, then back to Iwaizumi.

“You made it,” he said softly, a little surprised despite himself.

“I said I would.”

Their eyes met in the dim lighting, and something unspoken settled between them—familiar, warm, solid.

Oikawa smiled again, that private kind of smile.

“Good. I wanted you here.”

The lights began to dim, the theater quieting as the opening credits rolled.

Oikawa leaned in one last time, voice barely audible in the dark.

“Hope you like sci-fi.”

Iwaizumi’s hand found his in the shadows. “I’m here for you.”

The screen flickered to life, studio logos fading into a cold, star-speckled void. Iwaizumi settled into his seat, arms crossed loosely, letting the thrum of anticipation around him fade into background noise. The orchestral score built, deep and urgent, and suddenly—

There he was.

Oikawa’s character—Commander Thale Riven—strode onto the screen, cloaked in dark armor with a streak of silver across his cheekbone. His voice was sharp and commanding, rallying a crowd of rebel fighters in the smoldering wreckage of a fallen city.

“I’m not here to die a martyr,” he growled on-screen. “I’m here to win a war.”

Cheers echoed through the theater. Iwaizumi blinked, surprised by the weight of it. Oikawa looked… cool. Like a real action star. Confident, war-torn, magnetic in a way that didn’t feel like acting.

Halfway through the film, Thale hijacked an enemy ship to infiltrate a floating alien capital. The scene cut to a brutal fight sequence in zero gravity—Oikawa flipping between corridors, blasters flaring, sparks flying. At one point, he crashed through a window and tumbled through open space, his suit damaged and spinning fast.

Oikawa whispered, “That was all green screen. I was strapped to a harness.”

“Worth it,” Iwaizumi whispered back. “You looked badass. For once.”

Oikawa elbowed him.

Then came the plot twist.

The alien leader—someone they thought had been killed in the first rebellion—was revealed to be alive and allied with Thale’s own command officer, the one who’d trained him.

Oikawa’s character stood frozen in disbelief, blood running down his temple, betrayal written across every inch of his face.

Iwaizumi shook his head. “How are you still walking in that scene? You got blasted into a wall.”

“Because I’m powerful,” Oikawa replied, clearly pleased with himself.

“You’re limping like you pulled something in rehearsal.”

Oikawa huffed. “I did pull something. They made me redo that fall six times.”

The movie continued. “You taught me how to fight,” Thale said, voice shaking. “Was any of it real?”

“It was all real,” the traitor answered. “Just not for the reasons you wanted.”

The entire theater went quiet. Oikawa’s character stood facing the traitorous officer who raised him. It was emotionally heavy and Iwaizumi actually held his breath.

As the final battle kicked off—chaotic and bright and loud—Oikawa’s character took a direct hit, crashing to the ground in a heap of smoke and debris. Iwaizumi tensed instinctively.

“Do you die here?” he asked, a little too seriously.

Oikawa just smirked. “Would I invite you to my premiere if I died in the movie?”

“Yes.”

“Okay, maybe. But shhhh just watch.”

When Thale finally emerged from the rubble, dragging himself to his feet and raising the rebellion’s broken banner, the crowd erupted into applause. Iwaizumi glanced sideways.

Oikawa was watching the screen with a rare, quiet look—focused, a little awed, like he still didn’t quite believe it was real.

Iwaizumi reached over, gave his hand a quick squeeze.

Oikawa didn’t say anything. He just glanced down at their hands, then leaned his shoulder a little more against Iwaizumi’s, the tension in his posture melting. His fingers curled back around Iwaizumi’s, quiet but firm.

On screen, Thale was delivering a final speech to the surviving rebels, scarred and tired but standing tall. A new world beginning behind him.

“You didn’t tell me there was a monologue,” Iwaizumi whispered.

“I was saving some surprises,” Oikawa murmured back, voice low. “Is it cheesy?”

Iwaizumi didn’t answer at first. He watched as the camera panned out, music swelling, lights flickering across Thale’s bruised face.

“It’s… very you,” he finally said, soft. “Over-the-top and sincere at the same time.”

Oikawa’s eyes shimmered with something unspoken. “That sounds dangerously close to a compliment.”

“Don’t let it go to your head,” Iwaizumi muttered.

Oikawa chuckled under his breath. “It already has.”

The movie faded into credits, and applause erupted around them. A few cast members stood to bow or wave to the audience. Someone whooped near the back. Oikawa stayed seated, eyes still on the screen, breathing steady but deep, like he needed a minute to soak it in.

Iwaizumi didn’t speak. He just stayed there beside him, shoulder to shoulder, their hands still linked in the dark.

After a long moment, Oikawa turned to him.

“You think I looked good in the space armor, admit it.”

Iwaizumi sighed. “You looked… alright.”

Oikawa grinned. “Wow. Practically a declaration of love.”

“I’m revoking my hand-holding privileges.”

“No, you’re not.”

And he was right.

Because Iwaizumi didn’t let go, not even when the lights turned on..

They followed the flow of people out into the lobby, which had been transformed for the reception. Low music played beneath the buzz of conversation, and soft amber lighting made everything look more expensive than it probably was. Tables of hors d’oeuvres lined the walls, and champagne flutes clinked as servers passed through the crowd.

Oikawa slid easily into the spotlight. With effortless charm, he greeted co-stars and producers, exchanging laughs with directors and stylists. His posture was relaxed, smile genuine, voice smooth and practiced. Nothing about it was forced—it was just Oikawa doing what he was good at.

From a spot near one of the marble columns, Iwaizumi stood beside Milo, sipping from a flute of something he couldn’t pronounce and wasn’t sure he liked.

“You look like you’re surviving,” Milo said lightly, watching Oikawa across the room.

“Barely,” Iwaizumi muttered, adjusting the sleeves of his jacket.

Milo gave him a grin. “He’s in his element. It’s weird seeing someone look that comfortable in a crowd like this.”

They both looked back over to where Oikawa stood with the lead actress and the film’s composer, gesturing animatedly with his hands, face lit with easy amusement. Every now and then, he’d glance over at Iwaizumi, just for a second like checking in. Like grounding himself.

“He’s been talking about this premiere for months,” Milo said, voice a touch softer. “And even when he was halfway across the world, you were always part of the picture.”

Iwaizumi glanced over, but Milo didn’t look smug, but genuine

“I’m proud of him,” Iwaizumi said, quiet. “And very lucky.”

Oikawa caught his eye again just then, smiled that small, private smile—the kind no camera ever caught. The kind only Iwaizumi got.

He raised his glass slightly in response.

And across the room, Oikawa’s smile widened.

It was late by the time the reception began to thin out. People started gathering their things, heels were quietly swapped for flats, and the champagne trays became less frequent. The energy had mellowed into something looser.

Oikawa reappeared at Iwaizumi’s side, his cheeks flushed and his tie a little looser than before. “There you are,” he said, swaying slightly before leaning into Iwaizumi like he was gravity itself. “Missed you.”

Iwaizumi steadied him with a hand on his back, amused. “You’ve been gone for twenty minutes.”

“And in those twenty minutes,” Oikawa said dramatically, “I had to do three rounds of hugs and two forced selfie requests. I’m exhausted.”

Dante stumbled over next to them, one arm lazily slung around Milo’s shoulder. His hair was sticking up slightly, and he was in the middle of a passionate debate with a catering staff member about whether the mini eclairs counted as dessert or “tiny regret grenades.”

Milo laughed, watching Dante with an entertained shake of his head. “I think we’ve officially hit the ‘everyone is tipsy but pretending not to be’ portion of the night.”

“Oh, I’m not pretending,” Oikawa chimed in, blinking slowly.

Colt, still looking like the only sane man in the room, nodded once and said dryly, “He’s had three glasses and a cocktail. This is his limit.”

“That’s slander,” Oikawa said, poking a finger at Colt’s chest and missing slightly.

Everyone burst into laughter, even Colt allowed himself a small huff of amusement.

“All right, party’s over,” Colt said eventually, nudging Dante upright. “Let’s get you home.”

“The night is still young,” Dante declared as Colt guided him toward the doors.

Milo jingled his keys and turned to Iwaizumi and Oikawa. “Come on, lovebirds. Let’s get you two out of here.”

“I’m not a bird,” Oikawa muttered, blinking up at Iwaizumi. “I’m a space commander. I led a rebellion.”

Iwaizumi rolled his eyes and helped guide him to the exit. “Yeah, and now you’re gonna lead yourself straight to bed.”

As they walked outside into the cooler night air, Oikawa tucked himself a little closer under Iwaizumi’s arm, letting the rhythm of the evening settle.

“Tonight was good,” he murmured. “Really good.”

Iwaizumi nodded. “It was.”

Behind them, Milo unlocked the car, humming something quietly. Once they were all inside—Colt having already taken Dante in a cab—Milo adjusted the rearview mirror, glanced back at the pair curled together in the backseat, and grinned.

“Don’t fall asleep,” he warned. “You’ve got about fifteen minutes before we’re home.”

“No promises,” Oikawa mumbled, head on Iwaizumi’s shoulder.

⸻

They pulled up quietly in front of Oikawa’s house, the porch light casting a soft glow across the driveway. The engine clicked off, and the stillness of the late hour settled over them.

Milo turned around in his seat, one arm draped over the headrest. “All right,” he said, lowering his voice like it was some sacred announcement. “Hajime, you’re officially in charge of getting our beloved actor to bed in one piece.”

“I’m fine,” Oikawa muttered, still slumped against Iwaizumi’s shoulder. “I could do a handstand right now if I wanted to.”

“Please don’t,” Iwaizumi said flatly, already reaching for the door handle.

Milo laughed. “Good luck, man. Text me if he tries to jump on furniture. Or give a dramatic monologue.”

“He does that sober.”

“Exactly.”

Iwaizumi got out and helped Oikawa out of the car. The night air hit him like a whisper, cool and gentle, and Oikawa leaned into him more fully, letting out a tired sigh.

“Thanks, Milo,” Iwaizumi said as he steadied them both.

Milo gave a mock salute from the car. “Take care, you two.”

As the SUV pulled away, Oikawa reached up and rubbed his eyes. “He’s dramatic.”

“You’re literally draped over me like a Victorian maiden,” Iwaizumi muttered, walking them toward the door.

“That’s because I trust you not to let me collapse in the foyer,” Oikawa replied sweetly.

Iwaizumi unlocked the door with the key Oikawa had given him weeks ago and guided them inside. The house was dark and quiet, the familiar scent of linen and citrus lingering in the air. He flicked on the hallway light and toed off his shoes.

“Come on,” Iwaizumi said, gently tugging Oikawa’s hand. “Let’s get you to bed before you start reciting Shakespeare or something.”

“I’d never,” Oikawa gasped, offended. “Only Oscar Wilde.”

They made it to the bedroom without too much chaos. Oikawa dropped his tie and jewelry on the dresser, kicked off one shoe (but not the other), and then flopped face-first onto the bed in full premiere attire.

“Iwa,” came his muffled voice from the comforter.

“Yeah?”

“I like having you here.”

Iwaizumi stepped over Oikawa’s shoe. “Yeah, well, I like being here. But you still need to change out of your clothes and brush your teeth.”

“I’ll do it if you carry me.”

“No.”

“Piggyback?”

“You’re a grown man.”

“A grown man in distress.”

Iwaizumi sighed and offered his hand. “Get up.”

“No.”

“Tooru.”

“Noooo.”

“You have thirty seconds before I carry you and drop you in a cold shower.”

Oikawa blinked at him. “You wouldn’t dare.”

“Try me.”

Eventually, with the grace of a tipsy giraffe, Oikawa let Iwaizumi haul him upright. He stumbled sideways, catching himself on a doorframe with a laugh.

“My legs are just for decoration now,” he mumbled.

“Teeth. Clothes. Bed. In that order.”

“Iwa,” he said gravely, “do you know how many buttons this shirt has?”

“I don’t care.”

“I physically cannot handle more than four tonight.”

Oikawa just stood there, looking helpless, so with a sigh, Iwaizumi rolled up his sleeves and started unbuttoning the shirt for him, one button at a time, muttering, “This is why you don’t wear fancy clothes when you’re drunk.”

Oikawa let out an exaggerated sigh, flopping onto the edge of the sink. “You’re spoiling me, Iwa.”

Iwaizumi smirked, tugging the last button free. “Someone has to. You’re useless right now.”

Oikawa wobbled slightly, catching himself on the counter. “I’m not useless.”

“Yeah, sure.” Iwaizumi grabbed Oikawa’s toothbrush and toothpaste, holding them out like a peace offering. “Now, brush your teeth before you pass out.”

Oikawa groaned dramatically but took the brush. “Fine, fine.”

As Oikawa brushed, he kept sneaking glances at Iwaizumi, who just watched with a fond smile.

When the bathroom light dimmed, Oikawa turned around, wearing an oversized shirt and looking half-mischievous, half-exhausted.

“Happy now?” he asked.

Iwaizumi nodded. “Much.”

“I love you,” Oikawa mumbled.

“I know.”

“Even when you boss me around and make me wash my face like I’m five.”

“Someone has to.”

Oikawa pulled him in by the arm without a second thought. “Stay.”

Iwaizumi smiled. “Wasn’t planning on going anywhere.”

Iwaizumi peeled off his own clothes with practiced ease, his movements calm and steady compared to Oikawa’s clumsy theatrics. He grabbed a toothbrush dedicated for him, rinsed it under the faucet, and brushed methodically, eyes flicking over to where Oikawa was already half-draped in his oversized shirt, looking both mischievous and exhausted.

Once done, Iwaizumi rinsed, wiped his mouth, and headed to the bedroom, slipping under the covers with a quiet sigh. Oikawa was already half-asleep, his head resting lightly on the pillow, one arm thrown casually over the blankets.

“You’re so warm,” Oikawa slurred, already burrowing into his chest.

“You’re a menace.”

“I’m your menace.”

Iwaizumi let out a quiet laugh and kissed the top of his head. “Yeah. You are.”

“Wake me up early tomorrow?” he murmured.

“Why?”

“So I can spend more time with you.”

Iwaizumi smiled, brushing hair away from his face. “You’re ridiculous.”

“You love me.”

“I do.”

And with that, Oikawa sighed, content, and drifted off. Warm, safe, and finally home.

Chapter Text

Oikawa woke to the smell of food and the unmistakable throb of a hangover behind his eyes. His hand shot out across the bed instinctively, only to find empty sheets. Groaning softly, he flopped onto his back, one arm flung over his face. He was definitely regretting those last drinks.

The scent of something warm and buttery—eggs? toast?—cut through the fog in his brain, and he peeled himself off the mattress, legs unsteady as he padded out of the room. The hallway was quiet, flooded with soft morning light. He rubbed his temples as he made his way toward the kitchen, each step echoing just a bit too loud in his skull.

When he finally turned the corner, he paused at the doorway.

There, standing at the stove with his sleeves rolled up and his hair slightly messy from sleep, was Iwaizumi. Cooking.

Oikawa blinked.

The table was already set with two plates. The kettle was steaming. There were eggs sizzling in a pan and something that smelled suspiciously like pancakes waiting nearby. It was domestic.

“You’re making me food?” Oikawa croaked, his voice still raspy with sleep as he leaned against the doorframe.

Iwaizumi glanced over his shoulder, one brow raised. “You’re welcome.”

“Wow.” Oikawa crossed his arms, trying not to smile. “I must’ve really looked pathetic last night.”

“You tried to reason with your toothbrush,” Iwaizumi deadpanned. “You lost.”

“Okay, well, that toothbrush was being judgmental.”

Iwaizumi snorted. “Sit down idiot.”

“Fine,” Oikawa mumbled, dragging himself into a chair. “Also—hi. Good morning.”

Oikawa blinked down at the plate in front of him, steam curling from the eggs, bacon, and toast like something out of a food commercial. He picked up his fork sluggishly but perked up after the first bite.

“Okay,” he mumbled with his mouth full, “this is really good.”

Iwaizumi sat across from him with his own plate and a coffee mug in hand. “You say that every time I make eggs.”

“Because it’s true every time,” Oikawa said, pointing his fork at him like it was gospel.

They ate in comfortable silence for a moment, the kind of quiet that only came with deep familiarity. Outside, the sun had climbed higher, casting soft light across the kitchen tiles, and Oikawa was starting to feel a little more human again.

“So,” Iwaizumi said, taking a sip of his coffee, “how do you think last night went?”

Oikawa stabbed a piece of toast with his fork, chewing slowly as he thought. “Better than expected. No wardrobe malfunctions, no weird questions, and I didn’t accidentally insult any reporters. So… a win, I guess.”

Iwaizumi gave a quiet snort. “That’s your bar for success?”

“You’d be surprised how low it needs to be on premiere nights.”

He leaned back in his chair, gaze softer now. “You being there helped.”

Iwaizumi raised an eyebrow. “I was in a dark theater for eighty percent of it.”

“Still counts.”

They ate for another moment, then Iwaizumi leaned forward slightly, eyeing Oikawa. “Did you check your phone yet?”

“No,” Oikawa said, stretching his legs under the table. “I figured if something was bad, Dante would’ve stormed in by now.”

“Well, if he does, it’s gonna be to congratulate you. People loved it, Oikawa. The movie’s trending on every platform. Your name’s everywhere.”

Oikawa blinked. “Wait, seriously?”

“Dead serious. I checked this morning. Reviews are pouring in. People are calling Starborne phenomenal. Critics are saying it’s one of the most emotionally rich sci-fi movies in years. And you?”

Iwaizumi gave a small smirk, raising his eyebrows.

“They’re saying you were perfect for the role.”

Oikawa stared at him like he didn’t quite believe it, his fork halfway to his mouth. “Shut up.”

“I’m not kidding. There’s a clip of you from the last act floating around—something about your expression when you look up at the sky? People are losing their minds over it. I think someone called it ‘Oscar-worthy despair.’”

Oikawa covered his face with both hands, muffling a groan. “Oh my god.”

Iwaizumi chuckled, leaning back in his seat. “Yeah. That’s my boyfriend, apparently.”

Oikawa peeked at him from between his fingers, a slow, genuine smile blooming—soft and a little sleepy.

“I guess all those sleepless nights and spaceship stunts paid off.”

“Guess so.”

They clinked their mugs together and for the first time in weeks, Oikawa looked like he could finally breathe easy.

⸻

Three weeks later, the whirlwind slowed.

The movie had been released worldwide, and in true Oikawa fashion, he didn’t let it go quietly. He wrapped up a final string of TV appearances and talk shows, visited surprise fan screenings in different cities, and sat down for press recap interviews that reflected on the process from pre-production to premiere night.

Then came the Instagram post.

It was a massive photo dump—behind-the-scenes chaos and candid moments with castmates, pictures from the makeup trailer, a clip of him slipping and nearly taking out a light stand, and a sweet shot of the final day on set where he stood with the director and most of the crew, grinning and clapping a clapperboard. The caption was heartfelt but still cheeky, classic Oikawa:

“From getting fake-blooded and space-blasted to being covered in glitter and exhaustion—this one’s been wild. Grateful, tired, and already nostalgic. Thank you for all the love you’ve shown Starborne. This movie meant everything to us, and seeing it finally out in the world has been surreal. I’ll be taking a short break to rest and breathe and spend time with people I love. Be good while I’m gone. #Starborne”

The comments were instant chaos.

“Oscar WHEN??”
“why is he still hot even while floating in zero gravity?”
“The behind-the-scenes drama better drop next”
“can’t believe I cried during a sci-fi movie what kind of sorcery”
“he acted and served as usual”

The support was overwhelming—funny, emotional, celebratory. Critics were still praising the film’s heart and scope, calling it a genre standout. And fans were already calling for a sequel.

At long last, the storm was quieting. And Oikawa had real, uninterrupted time to breathe.

And he knew exactly how he wanted to spend it.

___

The bar was dimly lit and cozy, buzzing with low music and the murmur of voices over clinking glasses. Iwaizumi had chosen the spot — not too loud, not too flashy, just the kind of place he trusted to keep things relaxed with no one to fuss over Oikawa being there.

Makki and Mattsun were already two drinks in by the time Oikawa and Iwaizumi arrived, and they greeted them like long-lost brothers, arms slung around shoulders, jokes flying before they even sat down.

“Finally, the infamous Oikawa,” Mattsun said as he leaned across the table, squinting dramatically. “I thought Hajime was making you up. Like an overly dramatic and emotional fever dream.”

Oikawa laughed as he settled in next to Iwaizumi, unfazed. “I promise I’m real. But dramatic? That part’s probably true.”

“Definitely true,” Iwaizumi muttered into his drink, though he was smiling.

Makki raised his glass. “No offense, but your face is so symmetrical it feels like a jump scare.”

“I’ll take that as a compliment,” Oikawa laughed. “Because it definitely is.”

To Iwaizumi’s surprise — and maybe a little horror — Oikawa hit it off with his friends almost too well. Within twenty minutes, they were getting along just fine.

Makki raised his glass. “Okay, but be honest—how did you survive the press tour without spontaneously combusting?”

“I didn’t,” Oikawa replied, deadpan. “I’ve just been a ghost ever since. Ask Iwa.”

Iwaizumi rolled his eyes. “If he were a ghost, he’d still find a way to be dramatic about it.”

Makki leaned back in his seat, arm slung over the back of the booth. “You say that like it’s a bad thing. I, for one, respect the art of being a little extra.”

“Oh my god,” Iwa muttered, taking a long sip of his drink.

Mattsun pointed his beer toward Oikawa. “No, but for real. I saw that one interview where they asked if you were dating your co-star and you smiled like a Bond villain.”

“I gave them mystery,” Oikawa said with a grin. “Keeps the public on their toes.”

“You gave them a panic attack,” Iwaizumi said. “You made it worse.”

“Exactly,” Oikawa agreed proudly.

Mattsun looked at Iwaizumi with mock sincerity. “Hey. You sure this one’s not gonna ruin your life?”

“I mean, it’s too late to back out now,” Iwa said dryly. “He already has a key to my apartment.”

Makki gave a slow, approving nod. “Tragic”

The four of them laughed, the kind that came easy and warm and unfiltered. Iwaizumi glanced around the table—Oikawa leaning forward, totally at ease; Makki cackling into his drink; Mattsun looking way too pleased with himself—and something settled in his chest. Content. Maybe even… grateful. Iwaizumi has always known Oikawa was good with people — charismatic, easy to like — but this was something else entirely. His best friends weren’t just tolerating Oikawa; they were thriving and letting him into their tight little orbit like he’d always belonged there.

Oikawa caught his eye and tilted his head. “What?”

“Nothing,” Iwaizumi said. “Just surprised you haven’t scared them off.”

“Please,” Oikawa scoffed. “They love me.”

Makki smirked. “Let’s not get ahead of ourselves.”

Mattsun grinned. “We’re still deciding.”

Oikawa gasped in mock betrayal. “Rude.”

And just like that, they were laughing again.

By the end of the night, Makki and Mattsun were already planning a second hangout and Oikawa had earned a truly cursed nickname from Mattsun that he promised never to repeat in public.

And Iwaizumi?

He just sat back, watching the people he loved laugh together like they’d always known each other — heart full and maybe just a little stunned.

⸻

Back at the shop, things had shifted. In a big way.

It started last week when Oikawa, in his typical casual way, had snapped a photo of the bouquet he picked up—one he had specially ordered to send to Selene—and posted it on his Instagram story. He’d tagged Iwaizumi’s shop account, added a couple of emojis, and wrote something vague like “Always the best from this guy 💐”

That alone might’ve caused a mild wave of attention. But Oikawa Tooru wasn’t just anyone. He was Oikawa Tooru, and within hours, the shop’s following quadrupled. Local fans started visiting “just to see the place,” and suddenly, what had once been a peaceful floral sanctuary became something of a quiet phenomenon.

The orders skyrocketed. Walk-ins were nonstop. Online requests poured in with messages like, “Do you guys sell the one Oikawa got?” or “Can I get a bouquet in his exact aesthetic?”—whatever that meant.

Iwaizumi, after pulling three back-to-back doubles and nearly knocking over an entire display of hydrangeas from pure exhaustion, finally snapped and muttered, “Alright, screw this. I’m not doing it alone anymore.”

He put up a ‘Now Hiring’ flyer, and by the end of the week, he’d hired three new part-timers: Akira Kunimi, Yutaro Kindaichi, and Shigeru Yahaba.

They weren’t exactly seasoned florists, but they learned quickly. Kunimi was quiet and efficient, the kind of guy who could prep six arrangements in a row without blinking. Kindaichi was a bit scatterbrained but had a great eye for color. And Yahaba, to no one’s surprise, took charge like he was born to manage a retail floor.

Iwaizumi stood behind the register one afternoon, arms crossed, watching as all three of them handled customers, stocked inventory, and kept things moving with barely any direction from him.

He blinked slowly, both impressed and slightly offended. “…Are they better at this than I was when I started?”

From across the shop, Kunimi looked up. “Yes.”

“Didn’t even hesitate,” Iwaizumi muttered, but a small, proud smile tugged at the corner of his mouth.

The shop was still his, but for the first time, it didn’t rest entirely on his shoulders. And somehow, with Oikawa’s chaos and a team that had his back, it all felt… manageable. Maybe even a little fun.

Even with the flower shop busier than ever, Iwaizumi and Oikawa found ways to carve out time for each other. Days blurred into one another, filled with small, effortless moments that felt like their own little world.

Oikawa would swing by the shop after his morning meetings, leaning against the counter with that familiar teasing smirk, watching Iwaizumi work with a sort of quiet admiration. Sometimes, they’d slip away for a quick coffee run or a walk nearby, stealing minutes to just be themselves.

Other days, he and Oikawa cooked dinner together, laughing over burnt rice or poorly chopped vegetables. Nights ended with them sprawled on the couch, sharing playlists or debating over which movie to watch next.

No matter how busy life got, they thrived in these small, shared routines — each day building something steady and real between them.

⸻

The kitchen was unusually quiet for a house that had that many loud personalities in it.

Oikawa sat at the table, bouncing one leg nervously, his coffee untouched and steadily going cold beside him. Iwaizumi sat to his left, calm on the outside, one hand resting on Oikawa’s knee under the table. Milo was leaned back in his chair, arms crossed, trying (and failing) to look unbothered. Colt had his phone out, watching the livestream countdown like it was a bomb about to go off, and Dante was pacing slowly along the edge of the kitchen island.

“They’re almost at the Best Actor category,” Colt muttered, glancing at Oikawa with a grin. “You ready to panic?”

“I’m not panicking,” Oikawa said immediately. Then: “Okay, I am, but like, quietly. Respectfully.”

Milo snorted. “That’s not what your leg says.”

Iwaizumi squeezed his knee once. “Breathe, Tooru.”

Oikawa nodded, eyes fixed on the TV in the living room just a few feet away. The voice of the announcer came through clearly, calm and clipped.

“…And now for the nominees for Best Actor in a Leading Role…”

The room held its breath. Not a word. Even Dante stopped pacing.

“Daniel Keys, Fractured Glass.”

Dante nodded. “Expected.”

“James Wu, The Black Valley.”

Milo rolled his eyes. “Give him Supporting, not Lead.”

“Luis Herrera, Beyond the Border.”

“Adrien LaSalle, The Gold Thread.”

“Oikawa Tooru, Starborne”

The room erupted.

“YES!” Dante shouted, throwing both hands in the air.

Milo jumped out of his seat, smacking Colt on the shoulder. “I told you! I told you he was getting it!”

Colt, grinning wide now, held up a hand for a high-five. Oikawa, still wide-eyed and stunned, blinked at the screen. “Wait. Wait. They actually—?”

“You got it,” Iwaizumi said with a smile that could’ve lit up the whole block. “Tooru, you got it.”

Oikawa’s breath hitched, then he laughed — a little wild, a little stunned. “I GOT IT!” he shouted, leaping up from his chair as everyone swarmed around him. There were claps on the back, high fives, arms thrown around his shoulders. Someone knocked over a chair in the process.

And then—

“Starborne — Best Picture.”
“Starborne — Best Visual Effects.”

The kitchen somehow got louder.

“Oh my god, we’re taking over this damn show!” Dante shouted.

Dante pointed at Oikawa like it was fate. “I knew this movie was gonna sweep. Knew it. That script, that cast—”

“—and that performance,” Milo cut in, nudging Oikawa with a grin. “You carried that film, man. I hope you know that.”

Oikawa stood in the middle of it all, breathless, surrounded by noise and love and disbelief. He turned to Iwaizumi — who hadn’t moved from his spot, just watching him with that calm, proud expression that made Oikawa want to cry and laugh all at once.

“Iwa,” he whispered, almost dazed, “they actually said my name.”

Iwaizumi stood, wrapped an arm around him, and said, quietly:

“They’re gonna say it again.”

⸻

The late afternoon sun cut golden across the living room, casting warm shadows over the couch where Iwaizumi and Oikawa sat — or rather, where Iwaizumi sat and Oikawa sprawled. The TV played low in the background, a Lakers game Iwaizumi insisted they watch, claiming it built character. Oikawa had only rolled his eyes and claimed it was “research” for a possible role.

They were mid-argument over whether the referee was biased when Oikawa’s phone buzzed against the coffee table.

He glanced at the screen casually then frowned.

“That’s… weird,” he murmured, standing up and grabbing the phone.

Iwaizumi sat up straighter. “Who is it?”

Oikawa didn’t answer right away, stepping into the hallway as he picked up. His voice echoed faintly, but Iwaizumi couldn’t make out the words.

A few seconds passed. Then he heard something crash.

Iwaizumi was on his feet instantly.

He found Oikawa frozen by the wall, phone clutched tightly in one hand, his face pale, more than pale. Hollowed.

“Oikawa?” Iwaizumi’s voice was firm, steady. “What happened?”

Oikawa didn’t answer at first. His mouth opened, then closed. Finally, barely above a whisper: “It was the hospital.”

Iwaizumi’s stomach twisted.

Oikawa turned to look at him, wide-eyed and reeling.

“Selene…” he choked out, “she… she passed away.”

Silence dropped like a stone.

For a second, Iwaizumi didn’t believe he’d heard it right. It felt too sudden, too surreal. Selene had been sick, yes, but—

“I need to go,” Oikawa said suddenly, moving toward the door. His hands shook. “I need to be there.”

“Hey—hey, no, you’re not driving like this,” Iwaizumi said quickly, grabbing the car keys from the counter. “I’ll drive. Let’s go.”

Oikawa didn’t argue. He just followed, silent, stunned, like the grief hadn’t quite landed yet — hovering just overhead, about to crash.

Iwaizumi opened the passenger door, gently guiding him in. Then he circled to the driver’s side, started the car, and pulled out of the driveway, his jaw tight, his hand finding Oikawa’s for a moment across the console.

Neither of them spoke as the road unspooled ahead, the hospital drawing closer with every beat of their shared silence.

The hospital air was sterile and too quiet, fluorescent lights casting a pale glow as Iwaizumi followed Oikawa through the familiar private wing. Their footsteps echoed softly down the corridor. The staff at the front desk gave them a gentle nod of recognition, no words needed.

When they turned the corner, the scene hit them like a wall.

Selene’s family was gathered outside the room. Her mom sat hunched in one of the plastic chairs, shoulders shaking as her husband held her hand tightly, eyes glassy. Her sister stood nearby, pacing with a clenched jaw, trying not to break. And beside her, sitting motionless against the wall, was Selene’s girlfriend, hands covering her mouth, eyes swollen red.

Oikawa stopped. His breath caught. Then he moved forward.

“Mrs. Dunkel…” he said softly.

Selene’s mother looked up and immediately pulled him into a hug, sobbing into his shoulder. Oikawa clung to her, silent but shaking, as Selene’s father reached out and patted his back.

“I’m so sorry,” he murmured, though the words felt completely inadequate.

Iwaizumi stood back for a moment, letting Oikawa have this space. The pain on his face was something raw and unfiltered, something he hadn’t seen since their worst days. Slowly, Oikawa went on to hug Selene’s sister and her girlfriend, both of whom he had met many times before during filming and visits.

“She was okay,” her sister said through a shaky breath. “She was just laughing with us last night. Talking about her next treatment plan and how excited she was to see that stupid Marvel movie again.”

“They said her organs started shutting down this morning,” Selene’s girlfriend added, her voice barely above a whisper. “All at once. They tried everything.”

“She fought so hard,” her mother said, clutching Oikawa’s hand. “Right up until the end. I think… I think she just got tired.”

Oikawa didn’t say much. He just kept nodding, lips pressed into a trembling line, until he couldn’t nod anymore and just sank into the nearest chair.

Iwaizumi slowly walked over and sat beside him, close but not touching yet. He knew better than to speak right now.

Oikawa’s voice finally came, quiet and low: “She called me three days ago… said she felt better than she had in months.”

Nobody replied. There wasn’t anything to say.

The hallway was still, filled only with the sounds of soft crying and the hum of machines behind the closed hospital doors.

Oikawa stood in front of the room door, eyes glazed, hands trembling faintly at his sides. Just beyond the sterile barrier of wood and steel was Selene’s body—still, quiet, forever asleep. The Dunkels gave him permission to go in and say goodbye, but he hadn’t moved yet. He stood just outside the door, his hand raising then left resting on the handle like it weighed a thousand pounds. His fingers curled, relaxed, then curled again. He didn’t look back.

Iwaizumi sat stiffly in the waiting room chair, heart pounding for Oikawa—for all of it.

Beside him, Selene’s girlfriend, Noel sat, quiet for a few moments before she turned slightly toward him.

“Selene talked about you sometimes,” she said softly.

Iwaizumi looked over, caught off guard. “She did?”

Noel nodded, her expression tired but gentle. “She said you were kind. Thoughtful. That you sent her flowers every week without ever making it about yourself. She always said, ‘Oikawa’s lucky. He found someone who understands how to show up.’”

Iwaizumi blinked, throat tightening. “I just… wanted to show support. I didn’t know her that well.”

“You didn’t have to,” Noel said, her voice warm. “She noticed. And it meant something.”

She smiled faintly. “Thank you, Iwaizumi. For being good to both of them.”

Iwaizumi could only nod, words stuck in his chest. He didn’t know how to explain what Selene meant to Oikawa—how much her acceptance, her trust, and their shared past had shaped him. And now, standing on the other side of this loss… he could only hope Oikawa wasn’t breaking behind that door.

So he waited. Quietly. Letting the silence wrap around him, not daring to leave.

Not when Oikawa might need him most.

When he left the room, Oikawa’s eyes were red and puffy, his face blotched with the kind of sadness that didn’t have words. Iwaizumi waited for him outside, hands clenched at his sides.

Mr. and Mrs. Dunkel were in the hallway too, their eyes tired and red-rimmed, but they managed soft smiles for Oikawa and Iwaizumi as they said the funeral home was on the way. They would stay with Selene until the pickup. Oikawa nodded, barely holding it together, and whispered his final goodbye again before they stepped out into the quiet midnight air.

The drive back to Oikawa’s house was still. The streets were empty. Oikawa stared out the window, not saying a word, one hand gripping Iwaizumi’s as if it grounded him to the earth. The TV was still glowing in the living room when they got back—muted commercials flickering across the screen. A lamp near the hallway was still on, left in the rush to get out.

Oikawa’s jacket was half off by the time they stepped through the door. Iwaizumi helped him the rest of the way, guiding him gently to the bedroom like handling something fragile. Oikawa didn’t resist, just moved like he was on autopilot. Iwaizumi brought him water and Tylenol, but before he could even step away from the bed—

“Don’t go,” Oikawa said, his voice breaking for the first time that night.

Iwaizumi froze, heart twisting. “I’m not.”

He set the glass down, climbed in beside him, and pulled him close. Oikawa melted into the hold almost instantly, burying his face in Iwaizumi’s chest like he needed the warmth to keep breathing.

No more words passed between them.

___

The days after blurred together.

Oikawa didn’t want to eat. Could barely sleep. He spent most of the time on his couch, curled up in a blanket with his phone face-down and notifications silenced. The curtains stayed closed. The TV stayed off. Even the thought of smiling for anyone else made him feel like he was betraying something sacred.

Iwaizumi was there every single day.

He didn’t push. Didn’t try to fix it. Just made sure Oikawa drank water, left food nearby, and stayed close enough that Oikawa never had to reach far for him. When Oikawa drifted off in restless naps, Iwaizumi would drape another blanket over him or brush his fingers through his hair. When Oikawa finally broke down, silent tears soaking his hoodie, Iwaizumi held him like he never intended to let go.

“I thought I’d have more time,” he said, voice cracking.

Iwaizumi didn’t say anything. He just took his hand.

News of Selene Dunkel’s passing broke like a wave no one saw coming. Her team released a brief statement early that morning, revealing that she had quietly battled an aggressive form of cancer for nearly two years. The world hadn’t known — not her fans, not the press, not even many of her colleagues. Within minutes, her name was trending everywhere. Headlines flooded timelines: “Actress Selene Dunkel Dies After Private Cancer Battle.” Tributes poured in across every platform — old interview clips, favorite film scenes, red carpet photos now heavy with hindsight. Fans and celebrities alike were stunned, heartbroken, reeling over the loss of someone so bright, so alive. The silence she had kept around her illness only deepened the grief — she hadn’t wanted pity, only peace. And now, all the world could do was mourn her brilliance too soon gone.

Two weeks later, the funeral was small and quiet—exactly how Selene had wanted it. The press had respected the private nature of it. But afterward, Oikawa didn’t say much about her. Not to Iwaizumi. Not to anyone. But Iwaizumi could see it in the way Oikawa lingered too long in the doorway, or how his laughter came a beat too late. He didn’t bring Selene up. Not once. And Iwaizumi didn’t force him to. He just wrapped his arms around Oikawa when he noticed the silence stretching too long. He let him lean into his chest when the nights got too quiet. He cooked more, stayed close, and reminded him—without ever needing to say it—that he didn’t have to be okay yet.

One afternoon, Dante came over unannounced. He stepped into the living room like he’d done it a hundred times, nodding at Iwaizumi before looking straight at Oikawa, who was curled up on the couch in one of Iwaizumi’s sweatshirts.

“You’re not working right now,” Dante said simply.

“I’m ready,” Oikawa replied, voice hoarse but even.

“No,” Dante said, crossing his arms. “You’re not.”

“I can handle it—”

“You always say that,” Dante cut in. “But handling it doesn’t mean pretending nothing happened. You lost someone important. Take the damn time, Oikawa.”

For a moment, it was tense. Oikawa opened his mouth to argue again but faltered when he caught Iwaizumi’s quiet gaze from the kitchen.

Iwaizumi didn’t say a word.

But his eyes said everything: You don’t have to carry this alone.

Oikawa closed his mouth. Swallowed hard.

“…Okay,” he said finally, quietly. “I’ll wait.”

Dante nodded once, satisfied. “Good. We’ve got it covered. And when you’re ready, not when you think you have to be, we’ll be here.”

After some time and healing, Oikawa returned to his routine—sort of.

He still visited the flower shop. Still texted Dante and Milo. Still showed up with overpriced coffee and curled up on Iwaizumi’s couch during off-days. But the light was dimmer behind his eyes, like he was keeping a part of himself hidden behind a smile.

And Iwaizumi saw it. But through it all, Iwaizumi kept showing up. He knew grief looked different on everyone. But he also knew Oikawa—knew the way he masked pain with sparkle and sarcasm and busy schedules. Iwaizumi didn’t offer solutions. He offered presence.

He ran the shop like usual. Kept the boys in line. Packed up bouquets like normal. And then at night, he let Oikawa curl up next to him and say nothing at all. And that, more than anything, seemed to help. Because even in grief, Oikawa was never alone.

____

The apartment smelled faintly of lavender and citrus from the hair mask Oikawa had slathered into his curls, now tucked beneath a plastic cap. A thick green face mask clung to his skin like armor, and he sat upright on the couch with the poise of someone who believed he still looked dignified.

“You look like an avocado,” Iwaizumi said from the kitchen, where he was prepping popcorn for later.

Oikawa huffed. “This haunted avocado is going to be on every major magazine’s best dressed list tomorrow. Your opinions are invalid.”

“You can’t even move your face.”

“I don’t need to. My bone structure does the work for me.”

Iwaizumi leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed, watching him with a crooked smile. “You’re lucky I love you.”

Oikawa grinned as much as the mask would let him. “I am. Incredibly lucky. And also gorgeous.”

They both laughed, the kind that curled warm in their chests. The TV played softly in the background, some documentary Iwaizumi had thrown on while they waited for the timer on Oikawa’s skincare.

Across the room, Oikawa’s Oscar suit hung from a rack near the window—sleek, custom-made, every detail finalized. His stylist had gone over every inch of it three times, Dante had booked all the facial and grooming appointments, and transportation was confirmed. Tomorrow, he’d be stepping out of a limo at the Dolby Theatre.

But for now, he was on the couch in a hoodie two sizes too big and boxer shorts.

“I can’t believe you’re not going,” Oikawa said suddenly, softer now.

“We agreed it’s better this way,” Iwaizumi replied as he joined him on the couch. “I’ll be screaming for you with my parents and Makki and Mattsun from the living room. That’s way more high-stakes than any red carpet.”

Oikawa chuckled. “God, I hope they don’t try to FaceTime me mid-ceremony.”

“Oh, they absolutely will.”

Oikawa leaned his shoulder into him, careful not to smudge anything. “I don’t need a trophy to feel like I’ve won already.”

Iwaizumi glanced down at him, lips quirking. “Was that romantic or cocky?”

“Why not both?”

They stayed like that a little longer—close, safe, quiet—before the kitchen timer dinged and Oikawa groaned dramatically, declaring skincare was a full-time job and he deserved hazard pay.

Tomorrow was the Oscars. But tonight, it was just them.

⸻

Oikawa stood barefoot in the living room, facing the quiet of his house in the soft haze of morning light. The air smelled faintly of mint from the diffuser, and outside, birds were barely beginning to chirp. He took a slow breath and tried not to let the nerves settle too deep in his chest.

In front of him, Iwaizumi held a steady yoga pose, strong and still like a statue.

“You’re shaking,” Iwaizumi said calmly, without looking.

“I am not.”

“You’re trembling like a damn leaf.”

“Shut up,” Oikawa muttered, wobbling slightly in tree pose before dropping his arms with a groan. “Why are we doing this again?”

“Because it’s better than pacing a hole in the floor,” Iwaizumi said, finally standing straight and rolling his shoulders. “And because you asked me to help you stay calm.”

“Remind me never to ask again.”

But he was smiling faintly, even as he reached for his water bottle and flopped onto the couch. Iwaizumi handed him a towel, already moving around to tidy up—folding blankets, fixing the cushions Oikawa had tossed aside the night before, wiping down the glass coffee table.

Stylists. Hair artists. Skincare specialists. Publicists. Dante.

All of them would be showing up in the next two hours to transform Oikawa into something camera-ready—prepped and polished for one of the biggest nights of his career.

And for once, the nerves weren’t just about how he’d look. It was about everything. The nominations. The expectations. The fact that so many eyes would be on him.

“You’re thinking too hard again,” Iwaizumi said, appearing beside him with a raised brow.

“How do you know?”

“Because you always get that scrunch in your forehead.”

Oikawa groaned and rubbed at his face. “It’s going to be fine. I know it’s going to be fine. I just—”

“Want it to go well.”

He looked up. Iwaizumi was watching him quietly, his expression calm but warm.

“I want you to know I’m proud of you,” Iwaizumi said. “No matter what happens tonight.”

Oikawa blinked. The words caught him off guard in the best way.

“Iwa…”

“I mean it.” Iwaizumi stepped closer, reaching down to brush his fingers lightly through Oikawa’s hair, smoothing a bit sticking out from the yoga session. “You’ve worked hard. You’ve grown so much. You don’t need a trophy to prove any of that.”

Oikawa stood too, just so he could wrap his arms around Iwaizumi’s middle and press his forehead into his shoulder. “I’m really glad I get to do this with you in my life,” he murmured. “I don’t say that enough.”

“You say it just fine,” Iwaizumi said, hugging him tightly. “You’re just dramatic about it.”

Oikawa let out a soft laugh, then pulled back when the clock caught his eye.

“You should go,” he said reluctantly. “They’re going to descend like a pack of wolves.”

Iwaizumi nodded. “Alright, alright. I’ve got snacks and drinks ready at the apartment for the watch party. Makki and Mattsun are already texting about predictions.”

“Tell them if they bet against me, I’ll personally revoke their fan cards.”

Iwaizumi leaned down and kissed his temple. “They wouldn’t dare. I’ll be watching. And cheering.”

Oikawa smiled and walked him to the door. “Good. Then I’ll try not to fall on the carpet.”

“I’ll still love you if you do.”

Oikawa grinned. “That’s true love.”

And as Iwaizumi walked out the door, Oikawa stood there for a moment longer, just breathing in the calm before the storm.

Today was going to be big.

By the time Oikawa stepped out of the shower, the apartment had transformed into chaos.

Hair tools hummed, makeup brushes flitted between stations, and voices overlapped with commands, updates, and questions. The scent of hairspray and cologne hung in the air, and someone was already steaming a backup suit just in case.

He barely had a towel around his waist before Milo passed by with a clipboard, muttering something about itinerary finalizations, and Dante’s voice rang out from the kitchen:

“You’ve got exactly ten minutes before glam starts, Tooru! Dry off and be photo-ready—press photos go live in an hour!”

Oikawa gave a faint, amused groan but moved quickly. He wasn’t new to this. But today wasn’t just a press circuit or a regular premiere—it was the night. The awards show everyone had been talking about. The culmination of months of buildup. And now that Starborne had become a smash hit, all eyes were on him.

He dressed quickly in the silk robe the glam team requested (for ease of touch-ups, obviously), and by 4:00 sharp, he was sitting under ring lights while two stylists worked simultaneously on his hair and makeup.

“You good?” Dante asked, walking in again, now with a phone to his ear and a coffee in the other hand.

“As good as I can be,” Oikawa said, holding impressively still as someone filled in his brows.

“Then here’s the schedule,” Dante said, glancing down at his notes. “4:40, glam and social media shots. Your Instagram team will snap a few for your story and a couple press pre-rolls. At 4:45, we’re in the car. ETA at the theater is five, red carpet photos first, then interviews with three main outlets. You’ll be at the theater by 5:45, just in time for pre-show intros.”

That got a small smile out of him—one the makeup artist quickly told him to hold still.

Things moved fast after that. Someone spritzed his face, another checked his jewelry, and Milo handed him the suit he’d chosen days ago with a reassuring pat on the shoulder.

Everything was in motion. And in all the chaos, Oikawa felt the adrenaline kicking in.

He could do this. He always did.

⸻

Iwaizumi adjusted one of the folded blankets on the couch, making sure the corners were neat—like that would somehow keep his nerves in check. He’d already set out the snacks: popcorn, chips, a small charcuterie board that Oikawa had dramatically insisted was necessary, and a tray of chocolate-dipped strawberries. Drinks were chilling, glasses were clean, and the living room smelled faintly of the citrus candle Oikawa liked. Everything was in place.

The doorbell rang.

He wiped his palms on his jeans and opened the door to see his parents standing there, both smiling wide.

“Hi, sweetheart,” his mom said first, pulling him into a hug with one arm while holding a bottle of champagne in the other. “We brought something to celebrate.”

“Congratulations to Tooru,” his dad added, handing over a small wrapped box. “He’s the first celebrity I’ve ever watched on screen and still felt like a real person.”

Iwaizumi huffed a laugh and stepped aside to let them in. “He’ll like hearing that.”

As they stepped into the living room, his mom looked around and smiled warmly at the setup. “You’ve done a good job. Very cozy. He must be rubbing off on you.”

“God, I hope not too much,” Iwaizumi muttered, making his parents laugh.

They chatted for a bit—his mom asking how things were going, his dad throwing in light teasing questions about whether Iwaizumi had learned how to survive red carpet events yet—when another knock interrupted them.

This time, Iwaizumi opened the door to see Mattsun and Makki standing there in matching Starborne shirts, grinning like idiots.

“We come bearing merch and desserts,” Mattsun announced, holding up a box of mini cupcakes decorated with tiny edible stars.

Makki pointed to his shirt. “Limited edition. Got it from an online shop this morning. We’re committed.”

“You’re ridiculous,” Iwaizumi said, but stepped aside, smiling despite himself. “Come in.”

His mom greeted them both warmly, and Mattsun gave her a careful hug while Makki reached for one of the strawberries. “Been forever, Mrs. I. Still making the best gyoza in the country?”

“Hajime still talks about them like they’re sacred,” Makki added with a grin.

“They are sacred,” Iwaizumi muttered.

The group eased into a rhythm of conversation and laughter, the atmosphere light and warm. Iwaizumi’s parents had known Mattsun and Makki for years—there was a comfort in seeing them all together like this. The TV buzzed quietly in the background, playing a pre-Oscars broadcast. Glitzy ads, commentators speculating about winners, clips of actors arriving on the carpet. Iwaizumi kept one eye on it, waiting for Oikawa to show up.

But for now, everything felt calm.

And that was rare. He’d take it.

The living room was glowing — champagne flutes in hand, snacks half-finished on the coffee table, and the red carpet coverage playing on the huge TV. Iwaizumi sat nestled on the couch, flanked by his mom and dad on one side and Makki and Mattsun on the other, the five of them watching as celebrities posed in glittering gowns and tuxedos under blinding lights.

“Ooo,” Mattsun said, squinting at the screen. “Is that a dress or a chandelier?”

Makki leaned forward, frowning. “I think it’s both. She’s wearing, like, twelve pounds of beading.”

“She looks like a really rich disco ball,” Iwaizumi muttered, sipping his champagne.

His mom gasped, scandalized but amused. “You boys are awful! She looks elegant.”

“She looks like she’s fighting gravity,” Mattsun said. “Elegantly.”

Iwaizumi’s dad chuckled, shaking his head. “If Tooru heard you all right now…”

“He’d agree,” Iwaizumi said, glancing at his phone again. Oikawa’s last text had said ‘Almost there!!! Red carpet chaos has begun’ followed by a selfie from the back of the car, sunglasses on and tux pressed, looking cool and calm as ever. But Iwaizumi knew better. He could practically feel the nervous energy buzzing through the screen.

Makki peeked over Iwaizumi’s shoulder. “Has he touched down?”

“About to pull up,” Iwaizumi said, adjusting his position on the couch. “He’s probably being swarmed by people with cameras and boom mics right now.”

“God,” Mattsun said, leaning back, “it’s so weird that he’s actually at the Oscars.”

“Not just at,” Makki corrected. “Nominated. For a movie where he leads a galactic rebellion and flies a spaceship.”

The TV cut to another red carpet interview, and the room collectively groaned at the interviewer’s awkward attempt at humor.

“They really don’t prepare for these, do they?” Iwaizumi’s dad muttered, swirling his champagne.

Iwaizumi sat with his arms crossed beside him, trying to focus, but every now and then his eyes flicked toward the corner of the screen, waiting.

And then the screaming started.

The distant hum of chatter and music was suddenly drowned out by a burst of wild cheering, camera flashes popping like fireworks. The interviewer paused mid-sentence, glancing toward the commotion, and the broadcast cut to the top of the carpet where Oikawa had just stepped out of the car.

He looked effortlessly striking, every line of his suit perfectly tailored, the soft glow of golden hour catching his features in just the right way. His hair was styled loose but polished, his steps smooth and confident as he greeted fans with a smile that somehow made him seem both otherworldly and completely human.

“Oh,” Iwaizumi’s mom said immediately, clasping her hands. “Oh, Hajime. He looks so handsome.”

Iwaizumi, already bracing for it, just closed his eyes for a beat.

“Look at him,” she went on, voice rising with pride. “He could be a prince! That smile? Those cheekbones? The little wave! So elegant! So charming!”

“He’s literally just walking,” Iwaizumi mumbled.

Mattsun snorted. “I think she just proposed to him.”

“I mean, she’s not wrong,” Makki added, elbowing Iwaizumi. “He does look stupidly good.”

Iwaizumi’s dad took a slow sip of champagne and muttered dryly, “I raised my son to be humble. Apparently I should’ve raised him to be famous.”

Iwaizumi gave them all a withering look but couldn’t help the faint smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. He turned back to the screen just in time to see Oikawa strike a playful pose for the cameras, then laugh at something a fan shouted nearby.

“Yeah,” Makki said, grinning. “You’re doomed, man.”

Iwaizumi didn’t deny it. He just kept watching.

The camera stayed on Oikawa as he made his way down the shimmering red carpet, a practiced yet easy smile on his face. Lights flashed in bursts, fans screamed from behind barricades, and reporters leaned over velvet ropes for a quote, a wave, a glance. He moved gracefully, greeting familiar faces, giving quick hugs to castmates, and offering polite waves to the cheering crowd.

On-screen, Oikawa stopped in front of one of the biggest press setups of the night — a major entertainment network. The interviewers, already grinning, instantly lit up as he stepped into the spotlight.

“Tooru Oikawa!” one of them exclaimed. “Looking incredible as always! First of all — who are you wearing?”

Oikawa smiled warmly. “This suit’s custom, actually. Designed by Versace. We wanted to go for something sleek but still sci-fi inspired. A little shine, a little structure.”

“And the shoes?”

“Also custom. And painful,” he joked, lifting one foot slightly for the camera. “But worth it.”

Laughter. Flashes. More fan screams from the barricades.

“And how are you feeling tonight? Nervous?”

“I think I used up all my nerves this morning,” Oikawa said charmingly. “Right now, I’m just really excited. This movie it meant a lot to make. No matter the outcome, I’m just very grateful to be here.”

In the living room, Iwaizumi watched as the camera zoomed in just slightly on Oikawa’s face. He knew that expression — calm on the outside, calculating everything. But the shine in his eyes was real. That was the part only a few people ever noticed.

“He’s good,” Iwaizumi muttered, mostly to himself.

“He’s a pro,” Mattsun said, crossing his arms. “Makes it look easy.”

As the interview wrapped, Oikawa gave a grateful nod to the hosts and continued down the carpet, and for a moment the camera lingered on the genuine joy in his expression.

Just as he passed another cluster of reporters, he was flagged again — this time by the team at Live from the Red Carpet. He stepped into position smoothly, offering another warm smile.

“Tooru, you are glowing tonight,” the host said, holding the mic out. “We need the full breakdown. Who styled this look, what was the inspo, and how many people helped zip you into this outfit?”

Oikawa laughed, lifting his hand as if to shush them playfully. “No zippers involved, just a lot of planning. I wanted something that honored the vibe of Starborne — kind of futuristic, kind of classic. We leaned into that.”

“Mission accomplished,” the host said. “We’re obsessed.”

Oikawa offered a final wave and wink before being pulled away once more, a blur of cameras, lights, and curated chaos.

Iwaizumi rolled his eyes, but his gaze stayed on the screen, heart pulling just a little tighter every time Oikawa smiled.

The living room was silent except for the flicker of the television.

The Oscars had begun almost thirty minutes ago. The opening monologue from the host — a well-known comedian — had drawn many laughs from around the room, mostly from Mattsun. A couple of early awards had come and gone: Best Sound Editing, Best Costume Design, Best Animated Short. None of which Starborne had been nominated for, though the movie had picked up momentum in the lead-up press.

A musical tribute began — a stripped-down ballad performed on a darkened stage, simple and haunting. And then, the screen shifted.

In Memoriam.

The lights in the room dimmed, as if in silent agreement that this wasn’t a moment to talk over. Black and white portraits of late actors, writers, directors, and editors floated across the screen, each name met with gentle piano chords and a quiet murmur from the audience onscreen.

Then—
Selene Dunkel.

A photo of her from a few years ago filled the screen — full smile and sharp eyes that knew too much and softened anyway. It wasn’t the movie poster version of her. It was the real her.

Iwaizumi felt his chest tighten. Not because she was his good friend — she wasn’t, really. But because she had mattered deeply to someone he loved. And because he could picture, so clearly, Oikawa sitting in a formal suit somewhere out there in the Dolby Theatre, watching this same moment unfold in front of thousands, his expression carefully composed but aching underneath.

Iwaizumi wished he could hold his hand. Wished he could be there, even just to nudge their knees together in silent solidarity.

The segment faded. The lights brightened again.

Then came a commercial break, and Mattsun let out a slow breath, stretching his arms over his head.

“They’re about to get into the big ones now,” he said, glancing at the screen.

Iwaizumi nodded silently.
Best Supporting Actor.
Best Actress in a Leading Role.
Best Director.
They were coming.

And with them—
Best Actor in a Leading Role.

He tapped his thumb anxiously against his knee and reached for the remote to raise the volume a notch. His mom reached over and patted his shoulder gently, no words needed.

The next hour was going to decide everything.

Makki popped another piece of popcorn into his mouth, eyes glued to the screen. “Okay, hear me out—Best Cinematography? It’s got to go to Beyond the Border. That lighting alone deserves its own award.”

Iwaizumi’s mom tilted her head thoughtfully. “True, but Fractured Glass had some stunning long takes. That scene in the hallway gave me chills!”

Mattsun raised a beer. “Nah, I’m voting The Black Valley. If it looks like a nightmare in 4K, they did their job.”

The group chuckled, cozy on the couch and scattered across the living room. He could hear his father ask Mattsun about his job and Makki offering way-too-personal Oscar predictions, and somehow, it all worked.

But the volume dipped. The camera panned back to the stage.

A hush fell over the room.

The screen lit up again—this time with a glimmer of gold and white. The presenter stepped up to the mic.

“And now,” she said, her voice clear and bright, “the nominees for Best Actor in a Leading Role.”

Each name echoed through the room like a drumbeat:

“Daniel Keys, Fractured Glass.”
A clip of him screaming in an empty church pew.
“James Wu, The Black Valley.”
A still, silent shot of him bleeding out under strobe lights.
“Luis Herrera, Beyond the Border.”
His character whispering something in Spanish over a grave.
“Oikawa Tooru, Starborne.”
A close-up. Oikawa, wide-eyed and trembling, gripping the control panel of a doomed spaceship, shouting over static, “This isn’t just war. It’s extinction.”
The clip faded.
“And finally, Adrien LaSalle, The Gold Thread.”

The presenter paused, smiling with the envelope now in hand.

Iwaizumi could hear the thudding of his own heartbeat. His chest felt tight. Oikawa wasn’t even in the room, wasn’t anywhere near, but somehow it felt like every person sitting beside him was holding their breath for him.

The camera showed each nominee. It was the smile. That small, nervous, genuinely hopeful smile he wore as he waited for the winner to be announced. Not the rehearsed kind he used for press. Not the cocky grin he slipped on during interviews.

No, this one was real. Quiet. Honest. Maybe even a little scared.

And Iwaizumi could barely breathe.

His mother reached over, touching Iwaizumi’s hand gently.
“He already won in our book,” she whispered.

Iwaizumi’s jaw flexed, but he nodded, eyes still on the screen.

The camera panned across the row of nominees, each face carefully composed under the bright, expectant glow of stage lights. The audience was hushed, the tension sharp enough to cut through the air.

“C’mon, Oikawa,” Mattsun murmured.

Makki bounced his knee, muttering, “They’d better say his name—”

“And the Oscar goes to…”

The envelope was opened.

The pause stretched.

The room fell into a hushed, buzzing silence. Iwaizumi leaned forward on the couch, Makki and Mattsun already halfway to screaming.

“Tooru Oikawa, Starborne!”

The living room erupted.

Cheers, screams, a loud “YES!” from Makki while Mattsun punched the air. Iwaizumi’s parents hugged each other and clapped proudly. Iwaizumi sat frozen for half a second, heart pounding, as the broadcast cut to Oikawa’s stunned, beaming face. He covered his mouth briefly, then laughed—one of those full-body, breathless laughs—and hugged the director, a couple castmates, and the film’s producer before standing and making his way down the aisle toward the stage.

The camera stayed on him the whole time.

He was smiling bigger than Iwaizumi had ever seen him smile on television. He looked like a kid walking toward his dream and realizing it was real. Iwaizumi’s chest swelled with pride. His eyes were burning.

Oikawa ascended the stage, adjusted the mic, and blinked into the lights. For a moment, he stood still — tuxedo crisp, expression composed, but his fingers trembled slightly. The applause was still fading when he finally spoke.

“Wow,” he breathed. Then, steadier: “Thank you. Thank you so much.”

He exhaled like he hadn’t been breathing since they’d called his name. “This… this means more than I can say.”

He glanced briefly down at the statue in his hand, then lifted his gaze again. “First, I want to thank the team behind Starborne. Our director, Kira Latchlan — your vision changed my life. Our producers, Vincent Yao and Marie Brennan, for believing in me. Our incredible crew — Julian, Emerson, Petra, Ash — every single one of you made this story what it is. And to my castmates, especially Alina Reyes and Jamal Everett… I am so proud to have stood beside you.”

In Iwaizumi’s living room, the screen glowed bright in the dim light. Iwaizumi sat on the edge of the couch, unmoving, while Makki and Mattsun leaned forward in sync beside him. His parents sat quietly behind them, hands folded, eyes misting.

Oikawa paused, breathing in again.

“This role was more than a role. Starborne was more than a film — it was a gift. I’m unbelievably grateful for this opportunity. I get to do what I love… and tell stories that matter. Stories that make people feel seen. That make people feel less alone. That give them hope when they need it most.”

He blinked quickly, jaw tightening. “And I want to honor someone who gave me that hope.”

The room fell quiet. A hush even in the audience.

“Selene Dunkel was my best friend. My light. She believed in me before I did. When I was lost, she helped me find the best version of myself — the one I get to share with the world now.” His voice wavered, and he didn’t fight it. “She’s not here anymore. But every single day I step on a set, or a stage, I try to live in a way that would’ve made her proud.”

The camera caught a few people in the audience dabbing at their eyes. A ripple of sniffles echoed through the theater.

Oikawa straightened, voice soft but sure.

“And to those who stood by me when I was stubborn and afraid… thank you. You didn’t walk away when it would’ve been easier. You saw me — not the version people expect, or the one I pretend to be — but me, at my worst, and you stayed. You reminded me who I was when I couldn’t see it for myself. You challenged me, fought with me, believed in me even when I didn’t earn it. You made me better — not as an actor, but as a person. Everything I am today… is because you never gave up on me.That kind of loyalty and patience is rare, and I am endlessly grateful.”

His eyes lift, soft and certain, and for a moment it’s like no one else exists in the room but the person he’s speaking to.

“I love you so much.”

The room in Iwaizumi’s house went still. Then Mattsun elbowed Iwaizumi hard.

Makki grinned, eyes watery. “Oh my god. That was so for you.”

“Say something,” Mattsun whispered, smirking. “Or are you crying too hard?”

Iwaizumi didn’t answer. His hands were clenched in his lap. His throat burned.

Back on the screen, Oikawa gave a small, trembling smile. “Thank you. Truly. From the bottom of my heart.”

Applause swelled again as he stepped back from the mic.

And in the quiet living room, surrounded by the people who knew him best, Iwaizumi finally let himself smile.

⸻

The ceremony had wrapped up a few minutes ago, and though Starborne hadn’t won Best Picture, losing to a surprise favorite, it had taken home the award for Best Visual Effects — a win Oikawa wore like a quiet badge of honor. On the TV screen in Iwaizumi’s living room, Oikawa’s proud smile was unmistakable. Iwaizumi sat back, a soft smile tugging at his lips, watching the man he loved shine so brightly despite the evening’s ups and downs.

“It’s late,” Makki said, stretching as he grabbed his jacket. “Time to start wrapping this up.”

Mattsun was already gathering his things, stacking empty cups and stray napkins on the coffee table. Slowly, the room shifted from lively chatter to calm tidying.

Iwaizumi’s parents exchanged looks before his mother leaned in toward him, voice warm and gentle. “Tell Oikawa we are so, so proud. So happy for him.”

His father nodded in agreement. “And we need to plan a dinner soon to meet properly.”

Iwaizumi chuckled softly, shaking his head in mock protest. “I’ll let him know.”

With hugs and goodbyes exchanged, his parents slipped out into the quiet night.

Makki smiled, nudging Iwaizumi lightly. “You’ve come a long way too, Hajime. Proud of you, man. Keep being you.”

Mattsun grinned and added, “Yeah, seriously. Don’t ever change.”

Iwaizumi felt a warmth bloom in his chest. He pulled them both into a quick hug. “Thanks, guys. That means a lot.”

Makki glanced toward the door. “So, what’s the plan? Is Oikawa heading to an after party?”

“Yeah,” Iwaizumi replied, gathering his coat. “He’s going. Milo and I are gonna pick him up later.”

“Alright, don’t stay out too late,” Mattsun teased as they said their goodbyes and stepped out into the cool night air.

Iwaizumi watched them leave, the soft echo of their footsteps fading, then turned to tidy the last few things — readying the apartment for the quiet that would come before he headed out to meet Oikawa, proud and grateful to be by his side.

⸻

Around 1 a.m., just as the after party’s energy began to wane, Milo pulled up outside Iwaizumi’s apartment building. He honked softly, and Iwaizumi grabbed his coat, grinning at the plan they’d cooked up together.

They’d agreed: instead of Iwaizumi waiting at home, he’d surprise Oikawa at the limo when the actor finally left the party. A little unexpected joy after a long night.

Meanwhile, at the party, Oikawa was starting to come back to himself, feeling the buzz fade and the weight of the evening settle in. Colt stood nearby, ready to escort him to the waiting limo; Dante had left earlier, worn out from the day’s excitement.

Oikawa stepped outside, clutching his Oscar tightly as if holding a fragile dream. He paused as he entered the car and there, sitting calmly in the back seat, was Iwaizumi, a small, smug smile playing on his lips.

Oikawa stepped outside into the cool night air and slid into the back seat of the limo — then froze.

“Iwa?!” Oikawa practically burst, eyes sparkling with surprise and joy. He threw his arms around him, holding him tightly. “What are you doing here? I thought you’d be at home!”

Iwaizumi laughed softly, wrapping his arms around Oikawa in return. “Thought I’d surprise you for once. You’ve been surprising me nonstop these past few days.”

Oikawa’s grin widened as he lifted the Oscar a little higher. “I still can’t believe I actually won this.”

“You deserved every bit of it,” Iwaizumi said, voice warm and steady.

The city lights danced outside the window as they gazed at each other, a comfortable silence settling between them.

Oikawa leaned in first, their lips meeting in a soft, tender kiss — a perfect ending to an unforgettable night.

Hand in hand, they settled into the quiet hum of the limo, ready to go home.

⸻

Two months later, life had settled into something warm and steady — a rhythm they hadn’t dared to imagine back when everything was flashing lights and uncertain scripts.

Now, the only light around them came from the golden sunset dipping low over the horizon. The beach was quiet, nearly empty, the tide brushing against the shore in slow, even waves. Oikawa and Iwaizumi sat on a worn blanket spread over the sand, half-finished drinks in hand, legs stretched out. A small cooler sat nearby, half-buried in the sand, and Oikawa had a salt-damp curl falling over his temple.

“I swear,” Iwaizumi said, tipping his drink slightly, “the flower shop’s never been better. We’ve got regulars who actually pre-order now. Pre-ordering. Like we’re a bakery or something.”

Oikawa laughed, leaning his head against Iwaizumi’s shoulder. “That’s because your arrangements are perfect. No one touches lavender and white roses the way you do.”

“Now you’re just flirting,” Iwaizumi muttered, but he was smiling.

“I always flirt when I’m proud of you.” Oikawa sipped from his glass, then looked out at the ocean. The light shimmered across the water, and for a moment he looked almost boyish in the fading sun. “Things feel… good, you know?”

Iwaizumi hummed in agreement. Oikawa continued, softer now, “I think I’m finally happy with where I’m at. Status, roles, everything. I needed that break — I didn’t know how much until I had it.” He nudged Iwaizumi gently with his shoulder. “My agent’s giving me space. Said she’ll call me in a few weeks with new projects, and I actually don’t feel anxious about it for once.”

“You shouldn’t,” Iwaizumi said, looking at him. “You already made something incredible. You don’t have to chase anything. Not if it means running yourself into the ground again.”

Oikawa glanced at him, eyes soft. “I’m not chasing. I’m resting. With you.”

They sat in the quiet for a while, the waves the only sound between them. Seagulls cried somewhere in the distance, and Oikawa reached for Iwaizumi’s hand, threading their fingers together.

It wasn’t just peaceful — it was full.

They were full.

And happy.

⸻

Time moved the way it always does — slowly at first, then all at once.

Oikawa kept making movies. Not just good ones — great ones. Stories that stirred hearts, that lingered long after the credits rolled. Roles that challenged him, changed him. He went on to win another Oscar, then another. And every time he walked up to that stage, Iwaizumi was in the front row — the one constant in a world that never stopped spinning.

And Iwaizumi, for his part, quietly built a little empire of his own. The flower shop expanded — from one cozy storefront to three — still grounded in the same soft, thoughtful craftsmanship. Locals called it the best flower shop in LA, and they weren’t exaggerating. People drove across the city for Iwaizumi’s arrangements. Brides begged for his waiting list. He never made a big deal of it, but Oikawa did — in every interview, every speech, every chance he got.

Two years into their relationship, Oikawa and Iwaizumi went public — not with a splashy headline, just a quiet photo of them at dinner, hands interlaced over a table, posted without caption.

The internet predictably broke but not in the way Oikawa had feared.

The fans were kind. Sweet, even.

“Can’t believe it wasn’t me, but I respect that guy for pulling the Tooru Oikawa.”
“He is so hot, wait a second??”
“Honestly, they look like they’ve been in love for years.”
“Protect them at all costs.”

Some even started stanning Iwaizumi in his own right — calling him a catch, praising his hands, his voice, the way he always looked at Oikawa like he was made of stars.

Oikawa had laughed at that last one, reading the comments aloud while Iwaizumi tried to act unbothered, muttering, “They’re just making stuff up,” even as his ears turned red.

And through all the lights, the headlines, the growing world around them, they remained the same where it mattered: Oikawa with his ambition and heart, Iwaizumi with his steadiness and quiet strength.

They built a life not just filled with success, but full of each other.

And they never stopped surprising each other — with flowers, with words, with kisses in the kitchen at 3 a.m.
With love, unwavering and real.

It was everything they never dared to hope for, and more.

____

Three Years Later

Nothing about the week leading up to the wedding was calm — and Oikawa wouldn’t have had it any other way.

There were guest lists being double-checked, table settings being rearranged last minute, a three-tier cake that arrived with the wrong flowers (Oikawa nearly had a meltdown until Iwaizumi calmly fixed it with fresh-cut white peonies), and at least six different people shouting about seat placements the morning of. Oikawa had always wanted a big wedding — he’d said it with stars in his eyes since the day they got engaged, the year before, in the quietest way possible.

Iwaizumi took Oikawa to a small, hidden garden outside the city — just trees, flowers, and fading sunlight. No cameras. No speeches. Just a simple question, asked with shaking hands and steady eyes. Oikawa had said yes before Iwaizumi could even finish asking. It was quiet. Private. Perfect.

And now, here they were — surrounded by everyone they loved, standing on the edge of forever. However, Iwaizumi, ever the minimalist, had wanted something small, quiet.

They compromised — which, to Iwaizumi, still felt suspiciously large. But he let it happen, because it was them now. Not him, not Oikawa — them. And that meant the sand, the sunset, the guest list of a hundred and twenty, and a perfectly imperfect, beachside celebration under twinkling lights and laughter.

The venue overlooked the ocean, gentle waves brushing the shore just behind the altar. Guests began to gather as the sun dipped golden into the sky. Rows of white chairs were set beneath soft string lights, flowers lining the aisle — all carefully arranged by Iwaizumi’s team, with Oikawa’s input, of course.

Oikawa’s and Iwaizumi’s families got along like they’d known each other forever. They’d met years earlier, and today was just another celebration for people who already felt like one big family.

Makki and Mattsun, both in tailored suits and wearing the exact same smug smile, took it upon themselves to make sure everything was in place. “You’d think we’re getting married with how much work we’re doing,” Mattsun muttered, straightening a chair. Makki just grinned and nodded toward Oikawa and Iwaizumi across the venue. “Nah. Totally worth it.”

Oikawa’s childhood friends were there, some laughing at old stories, some crying before the ceremony even started. Many of his former costars had flown in, giving him hugs and joking about finally seeing him nervous. The Dunkels had come too, dressed in elegant navy and silver, taking their seats with quiet, full hearts.

A single seat in the front row bore Selene’s name in graceful gold script, with a soft bouquet of her favorite flowers laid gently across it.

Iwaizumi’s old volleyball teammates were scattered among the guests, exchanging looks and whispering, “He really did it, huh?” “Yep. Married the Oikawa Tooru. Unreal.”

Then the music began.

The ceremony itself felt like a blur — a beautiful one. Oikawa in white, radiant as the sun, Iwaizumi in soft charcoal and silver, looking like he belonged there, steady as the tide. Their hands found each other naturally at the altar, and for a moment, it felt like everything had always been leading here.

The vows came. Iwaizumi went first.

He cleared his throat, then smiled — small, nervous, real.

“I never imagined this.”
He glanced at Oikawa, eyes soft. “Not just today — but you. For the longest time, I watched you from a distance. On a screen. In headlines. You didn’t even feel real. You were this bright, untouchable thing… and I was just a florist in LA with dirt under my nails.”

A quiet laugh rippled through the crowd. Oikawa’s eyes shimmered.

“But then you walked into my shop — and everything changed. You were loud and clumsy and charming and nothing like what I expected. And yet… somehow, exactly what I needed.”

He paused, voice thickening slightly.

“You made my world louder. Brighter. You gave me chaos, and purpose, and a kind of joy I never thought I’d be lucky enough to have. I didn’t expect to fall in love with you but now I can’t imagine a world where I’m not. I want to be beside you forever. Through every award, every late-night breakdown, every plant you accidentally kill in our house.”

Oikawa laughed, wiping his eyes.

“You’re my favorite person, Tooru. And you always will be.”

The crowd sniffled, some already dabbing at tears. Oikawa exhaled shakily, then stepped forward to speak.

Then came his vows.

“I never imagined falling in love with a grumpy florist,” he began, already smiling, voice soft with emotion. “And yet — thank god I did.”

Laughter again, and a few scattered “awws.”

“When I first walked into your shop, I just wanted flowers. That’s all. I didn’t expect anything more. But then I met you. And somehow, that simple moment became the start of everything. I didn’t know it then, but I was walking straight into the best part of my life.”

Iwaizumi’s gaze never left him.

“You were kind when I didn’t know I needed kindness. You were honest with me when everyone else was just trying to impress me. You never tried to change me — just made space for me to be, even when I was difficult. Especially when I was difficult.” Oikawa chuckled through a tearful smile. “You gave me something I never thought I’d have — a home.”

His voice caught, but he kept going.

“Every step of this life, every award, every mess I make — you’re the one I want beside me. You keep me grounded and remind me who I really am. And the way you love? It’s quiet and steady and absolutely everything I’ve ever wanted.”

He reached for Iwaizumi’s hand again.

“So yes, you’re still a little grumpy. But you’re mine. And I’m yours. Forever.”

There was no holding back after that. The applause, the cheers, the standing ovation from their guests as they sealed their vows with a kiss — it was like watching two stories finally fold into one.

And as the sun dipped into the sea behind them, casting gold across their joined hands, Oikawa leaned in and whispered — just loud enough for Iwaizumi to hear:

“This is better than any movie.”

And Iwaizumi, still holding onto him like he never planned to let go, whispered back:

“It’s real. And it’s ours.”