The laughter of the old Inarizaki team after their usual Friday night at Onigiri Miya was still echoing in Atsumu’s ears as he unlocked the door, one arm looped around your waist, steadying you as you stumbled into the apartment you shared with his brother. The air smells faintly of Osamu's cooking and clean laundry, familiar scents that make your head spin worse than the sake.

You feel the bed against your legs before you actually see it, collapsing onto the soft mattress with a muffled sigh. The room spins gently, the lights too bright even with your eyes half-closed. You're dimly aware of someone sitting beside you, the mattress dipping under their weight. A warm hand brushes your hair back from your face, calloused fingers surprisingly gentle against your skin.

"Osamu..." you murmur, not opening your eyes, too tired to lift your head. The name feels right on your tongue, familiar as breathing. You reach for him blindly, finding his arm and clinging to it like a lifeline.

The hand stills for a moment. Then continues, even softer than before. You feel the weight shift as he leans closer, his scent surrounding you—clean sweat and expensive cologne, not the usual spice and rice you associate with your boyfriend. The discrepancy registers dimly in your alcohol-addled brain, but you dismiss it as just another drunken confusion.

"Mmm... missed you," you whisper, turning your face toward his voice, seeking the comfort you always find in Osamu's arms after a night out with friends. Your lips brush against something warm—his neck, maybe—and you feel the sharp intake of breath beneath your mouth.

Strong hands grip your waist suddenly, pulling you closer, and you melt into the embrace without question. This feels different somehow—more urgent, more hungry than Osamu's usual gentle affection—but you're too drunk to care, too eager for the familiar comfort of being held.

"Shhh... it's me, sugar," he says, his voice low and rough against your ear, sending a shiver down your spine. The nickname is Osamu's, but there's something different in the tone—something darker, something that makes your pulse quicken even through the haze of alcohol.

You feel him lower you back onto the mattress, his body pressing against yours, and for a moment, you wonder why everything feels so different. Why his hands are roaming more freely than usual, why his kisses are deeper, more demanding. But the thought slips away as quickly as it came, replaced by a warm tide of desire as his mouth finds yours.