The Tsukishima household hadn't changed in years.

Same creaky wood floors that groaned under careless steps. Same faint lemon-scented cleaner lingering in the corners. Same lukewarm enthusiasm from the residents when anyone came over — except, perhaps, for Kei’s mother, who greeted you like you’d just come back from war.

"You got taller," she beamed, pulling you into a hug before you could say otherwise.

“I’ve been the same height for four years,” you muttered into her shoulder, hands awkward at your sides. "You're just imagining it."

Kei leaned against the banister upstairs, eyes half-lidded, holding a can of soda like it was too much work to finish drinking. “You two done down there? You’re standing in the exact spot I drop my dirty laundry.”

“You’re disgusting,” you called up, stepping into the house with a soft thump of your backpack on the floor.

He didn’t reply—just turned and disappeared, leaving the faint sound of a door creaking open.

You followed without asking.

—

Kei's room looked exactly as expected: clinically tidy with no warmth, like the rest of his life. You had brought chaos in the form of an Uno deck, a bag of spicy chips, and a pair of socks that didn’t match.

You were winning. Naturally.

“Reverse,” you said, lazily slapping down your card.

Kei raised an eyebrow from where he lay sprawled across the foot of his bed, long legs taking up more space than necessary. “Again?”

“Symbolic.”

He blinked. “Of?”

“Me reversing your entire bloodline.”

He let out a dry snort. “That doesn’t even make sense.”

You shrugged and laid another card. “Neither does your personality.”

Before he could throw his rebuttal, the door creaked open again.

This time, it was your mothers.

Too synchronized. Too cheerful. Always a red flag.

“Sweetheart, Kei,” his mom began, hands clasped in front of her, “we were just talking... and we think it’s time you two get married.”

You, mid-draw, didn’t even flinch. “Right after I win this round.”

Kei didn’t bother looking up. “Sure. Whatever. Just don’t make me wear white.”

Their mothers exchanged looks. They both laughed. The door closed again.

Neither of you realized it wasn’t a joke.

—

Fast forward.

Kei Tsukishima — pro volleyball player, world-class eye roller, king of sarcastic retorts — was married. To you.

There had been a ceremony. Flowers. Guests. Speeches. Someone cried. Definitely not him.

Now you stood in the entryway of a sleek, strangely quiet house.

New place. Neutral walls. A ridiculous amount of storage. Kei dropped their luggage beside the door and stretched like he had just played five sets straight.

You toed off your shoes and walked in like you’d been living there for months already.

“This place smells like new furniture and capitalism,” you commented, wandering into the kitchen.

“You picked half the stuff,” he pointed out.

“Yeah, and you picked the overpriced espresso machine you don’t even know how to use.”

“I bought it so you’d stop calling me uncultured.”

“You are uncultured,” you replied, popping open the fridge. “This thing is emptier than your text replies.”

Kei wandered into the living room, dropping onto the couch with a dramatic sigh. His shirt was only half-buttoned from the wedding chaos, tie long gone, hair slightly tousled. His glasses were tilted from being poked by five different aunties who kept insisting he looked "so grown up now."

You flopped down beside him. Not touching, just... there.

“Nice ring,” you said, holding up your hand. The silver band caught the light.

Kei lifted his own. “Yours looks better.”

“Obviously.” You paused, then added, “It’s mine.”

A long silence stretched between you. Not uncomfortable. Just... you two.

Then: “So,” you said finally, “are we supposed to do anything... official now?”

Kei turned his head to look at you, deadpan. “Like what. Make a PowerPoint?”

“No. Like. Consummate.”

Kei blinked. “You’re the one who said marriage is a scam invented by linen companies.”

“Still is,” you said. “But we got a 30% discount on this bed. So maybe not all bad.”

He let out a slow breath, lips twitching. “God, you’re terrible.”

“I’m hilarious. You just have no taste.”

Another beat of silence. Then you leaned back on your palms, staring up at the ceiling.

“I still can’t believe they went through with it,” you said quietly. “I thought they were bluffing.”

“I thought you were bluffing when you said you’d never cry at your own wedding,” he replied, turning to face you more fully.

“I wasn’t crying. I was sweating. Through my eyes.”

“You’re insufferable.”

“You married me.”

“No,” Kei said flatly. “I lost a very long, very slow Uno game.”

You barked out a laugh, the sound bouncing off the empty walls.

You sat like that, in the hush of your new house, your wedding rings catching the soft light. Everything felt weirdly normal — not romantic, not awkward — just... yours.

Kei’s voice broke the quiet again, repeating your earlier words with just enough disbelief to be real:

“Seriously... now what?”

You grinned, shifting so your feet were in his lap. “Now you lose at Uno. Forever.”

You didn’t move for a while. The soft hum of the air conditioning kicked on, somewhere in the walls. Your luggage still sat by the front door. A bouquet from someone’s overly sentimental aunt had begun to wilt slightly on the kitchen counter.

Eventually, Kei pushed up from the couch with a grunt. “Come on.”

“Where?”

“Bedroom. The couch feels like concrete and I’m not breaking my spine on night one.”

You stood, stretching slowly. “Wow. Look at you. Prioritizing spinal health like a real adult.”

“I’m an athlete. I have to take care of my assets.”

You followed him down the hall with a snort. “Please never refer to your back as an asset again.”

—

The bedroom was still unfamiliar.

Too clean, too perfect. The mattress was one of those high-end hybrid ones that promised to conform to any sleep position. The room smelled faintly of new furniture and unopened suitcases. Your clothes for tomorrow still hung in a plastic garment bag on the closet door.

The lights were still on — soft but bright enough to make your shadows stretch against the pale walls.

Kei didn’t bother to take off his shirt, and you still had your dress on, slightly wrinkled from sitting for hours. There were faint traces of glitter on your collarbone from someone’s overly enthusiastic hug.

You both sat on the edge of the bed like you’d done it a hundred times before — because, in other homes, in other cities, you had. Just not like this. Not in this house. Not after standing in front of a crowd with rings on your fingers.

You shifted first, lying back and sighing like the mattress itself had whispered welcome. Kei followed a second later, one arm flung over his face.

You didn’t say anything for a while.

The silence didn’t stretch. It just existed — the kind of quiet that needed no filling.

Finally, you turned your head slightly, voice dry. “You know your mom cried harder than mine.”

“She always does. Weddings. Funerals. Championship games.”

“You snored during the vows.”

“I didn’t.”

“You did. A little. I almost poked you with my bouquet.”

Kei cracked one eye open. “You didn’t have to say anything. I felt the threat.”

You smiled faintly and let your eyes close for a beat. Your heels were still on. His tie was lopsided and half undone. The room was too bright, the air a little too cold. None of it mattered.

“This feels weirdly normal,” you murmured.

Kei didn’t move. “It’s you.”

Your lips twitched. “You’re gonna make me cry with that romantic poetry.”

“Shut up.”