The Princess and the Drill

The Miya house sat at the end of a narrow lane in Hyogo, its tiled roof and cream walls warm in the afternoon sun. The living room windows were thrown open, a breeze carrying the scent of cut grass and the distant drone of a neighbor’s TV. Inside, the room was a comfortable mess: volleyball magazines stacked on the low table, a half-empty teacup beside a framed photo of the twins at nationals, snapshots tacked to a corkboard near the kitchen door. Among them, a recent one of Atsumu—long hair falling in soft waves past her shoulders, a cream blouse that made her look like she belonged in a fashion magazine, not a volleyball court.

Then the front door slammed open.

“I’m home!” Atsumu’s voice cut through like glass. She kicked off her heels harder than she needed to, one skidding across the genkan floor. “And I never want to go on a date again.”

Osamu looked up from his phone. He was sprawled on the couch, still in his work clothes—black apron over a white shirt, flour dusted on his sleeves. Two other figures sat around the table: Ryō, their eldest, who worked in Osaka and came by once a month, and Kōsuke, who ran a hardware store in the next town. Both turned as Atsumu appeared in the doorway—skirt so short it barely hit mid-thigh, top cut low enough to show the sharp line of her collarbone. Makeup flawless, hair perfect, but her eyes were narrowed, lips thin.

“That bad, huh?” Ryō grinned, leaning back. “What’d this one do? Forget to hold the door?”

“Worse.” She stalked into the room and dropped onto the armchair with a dramatic sigh, crossing her legs. “He spent the whole dinner talking about himself. His job, his car, his workout routine. Then he asked if I’d ever thought about dyeing my hair blonde because he ‘preferred it.’”

Osamu snorted. “So you’re mad because he had taste?”

“I’m mad because he had no manners.” She grabbed a cushion and threw it at him. He caught it, still smirking. “He didn’t ask me a single question. Not one. I could’ve been a cardboard cutout.”

Kōsuke laughed, low and rumbling. “You’re too picky, Atsumu. Most girls would kill for a guy with a steady job who doesn’t play games.”

“Most girls aren’t me.” She flipped her hair. “I have standards.”

“Standards?” Osamu sat up, tossing the cushion aside. “You have a checklist longer than the team roster. Let me guess—taller than you, so half the population’s out. Funny, but not try-hard. Ambitious, but not obsessed with work. Loves dogs, no allergies. And what else? Cook, dance, recite poetry on command?”

“I never said poetry,” she muttered.

“You implied it last week when you told Mom you wanted someone who could ‘surprise you with a sunset picnic without you having to plan it.’” His voice was dry. “That’s not a request, that’s a fairy tale.”

“It’s called having standards.” Her voice rose. “And if you think that’s too much, maybe you should lower yours. What do you look for, Samu? A pulse? A working microwave?”

Osamu’s eyes narrowed. “I look for someone who doesn’t treat dating like a job interview.”

“At least I’m doing it right. I’m not wasting my time on guys who can’t even remember my name.”

The room went quiet. Then Ryō cleared his throat. “Alright, alright. Let’s not start a fight before tea.” He nodded toward the kitchen. “Mom’s been waiting. She made those little mochi you like.”

Atsumu’s glare softened, but only slightly. She uncrossed her legs and stood, walking toward the kitchen like the conversation was beneath her. At the doorway, she turned back, eyes blazing. “You want to know my ‘bare minimum’? Fine. He has to listen—really listen, not just nod while he’s thinking about what to say next. He has to respect that I have a life and a career and dreams that don’t revolve around him. He has to be kind—not just to me, to everyone. And he has to make me laugh. Not chuckle. Not smile politely. I mean laugh until my stomach hurts.”

She paused, and her voice dropped. “And he has to look at me like I’m the only person in the room. Not because I’m pretty, but because he actually sees me.”

No one spoke. The room got heavy. Even Osamu’s smirk had faded.

Then Kōsuke said, very quietly, “That’s not a bare minimum, Atsumu. That’s a fairytale.”

“No.” She shook her head, and for a second she looked almost vulnerable. “It’s just basic respect. But apparently that’s impossible to find.”

She turned and disappeared into the kitchen. The refrigerator door opened and closed.

Ryō let out a low whistle. “Wow. She’s really wound up.”

“She’s always wound up,” Osamu said, but there was no bite. He rubbed the back of his neck, looking toward the kitchen. “She just… expects too much. And then she gets hurt when people don’t measure up.”

“Maybe that’s a good thing,” Ryō said quietly. “Better than settling.”

Kōsuke hummed in agreement. “Still, she could give a guy a chance now and then. First dates aren’t always perfect.”

Osamu didn’t answer. He stood, stretching. “I’ll go see if she needs help.”

He found her in the kitchen, standing at the counter with her back to him. She was reaching for a box of tea bags, movements stiff. The skirt rode up even higher as she stretched. Osamu winced.

“You gonna change before Mom sees you?” He leaned against the doorframe.

She didn’t turn around. “What’s wrong with it?”

“Nothing, if you’re going to a club. But this is family tea. You look like you’re auditioning for a music video.”

Atsumu spun around, a tea bag in each hand. “I wore this for my date, Samu. I didn’t have time to change before coming here. And there’s nothing wrong with showing a little skin. It’s not like I’m naked.”

“Didn’t say you were. Just saying Mom’s gonna say something.”

Right on cue, their mother’s voice floated in from the back garden. “Atsumu, honey, is that you? Did you forget half your dress at home?”

Atsumu went red. “Mom!”

Their mother appeared in the back doorway, a laundry basket on her hip. She took one look at Atsumu’s outfit and shook her head slowly. “That skirt’s less a skirt and more a belt with ideas. You’re going to catch a cold.”

“Or catch something else,” Osamu muttered.

Atsumu threw a dish towel at him. “Shut up!”

Their mother laughed and set the basket down. “Alright, come. I made fresh soba for lunch. And your favorite mochi. Let’s all sit and have a proper meal. Atsumu, you can tell us about your date while I make sure you don’t freeze.”

Grumbling, Atsumu followed her mother into the living room, where Ryō and Kōsuke had already set the table. Late afternoon light spilled through the windows, casting long shadows across the tatami mats. Green tea and sesame oil filled the air.

They sat—mother at the head, the three brothers on one side, and Atsumu on the other, still pouting. She poured herself a cup of tea, took a sip, then started. “It was a disaster from the moment he picked me up.”

Osamu leaned back, bowl of soba steaming. “Let me guess. Loud car, bad music, forgot to bring a jacket.”

“Worse. Convertible. Windy. My hair was a mess by the time we got to the restaurant. He didn’t even apologize.”

Ryō winced. “Ouch.”

“And then at dinner, he ordered for me. Without asking.” Her voice climbed higher. “He said, ‘I know what girls like.’ And then he ordered a salad. A salad! He assumed I was on a diet.”

The room burst into laughter. Kōsuke nearly choked. “A salad? Brutal. What’d you do?”

“I told the waiter he misunderstood and I actually wanted the Kobe beef special. Then I ate the whole thing while he stared.” Atsumu smirked, a hint of pride. “He paid, though. Free steak.”

Their mother shook her head, still smiling. “That’s my girl. Always getting something out of a bad situation.”

“That’s not the point, Mom. He didn’t even see me. He saw some idea of me. A pretty girl who should be skinny and quiet and grateful.”

Osamu set down his chopsticks. “And that’s why you have your list. So you don’t waste time on guys like that.”

Atsumu blinked, surprised by his sudden seriousness. “Yeah. Exactly.”

“But here’s the thing.” Osamu met her eyes. “You can’t vet someone into loving you. You can’t check boxes and expect a perfect person to show up. You have to take a chance. Let them be imperfect and messy and human. And maybe, just maybe, one of them will surprise you.”

The table went quiet. Atsumu stared at her tea, fingers wrapped around the warm cup. “I know. But I’m tired of getting disappointed. It’s easier to just… not expect anything.”

“That’s not easier.” Osamu’s voice was soft now. “That’s just lonely.”

She looked up, and for a second her eyes were glassy. Then she blinked, and the mask slid back. “Lonely? Please. I have you guys. Who needs a boyfriend when I have four overbearing brothers?”

“You called us overbearing?” Ryō grinned. “I’m hurt. Thought we were just supportive.”

“You’re supportive when you’re not being annoying,” she said, but she was smiling. “And Osamu, you still owe me an apology for calling me a princess.”

“I didn’t call you a princess.”

“You implied it.”

“I said you had high standards. There’s a difference.”

Their mother cleared her throat. “Atsumu, honey, I love you. And your list is wonderful. But maybe you’re looking in the wrong places.” She reached across and patted Atsumu’s hand. “The right person will come when you least expect it. Maybe when you’re not even looking. And he’ll be someone who doesn’t care about your list—he’ll just care about you.”

Atsumu scoffed, but half-hearted. “That’s so cliché, Mom.”

“Clichés exist for a reason. They’re true.” Their mother refilled her tea. “Now, Kōsuke, tell us about that girl you met at the store last week. The one who kept asking about power tools.”

Kōsuke groaned. “Mom, don’t.”

“Oh, yes!” Ryō leaned forward. “I heard about that. She wanted advice on a drill, and you spent twenty minutes explaining torque. She left with your number.”

“She left because I gave her a discount,” Kōsuke mumbled, ears red.

“And then she called you the next day to ask about a saw,” Atsumu said, grinning. “I heard all about it. You blushed so hard your face matched the fire extinguisher.”

Kōsuke threw a napkin at her. “At least I have a date. You’re the one who came home angry.”

“Better angry than desperate.”

“I’m not desperate!”

“You just gave a girl a discount on a drill. That’s definitely desperate.”

The bickering continued, laughter filling the room. Osamu watched Atsumu as she laughed, the tension in her shoulders finally easing. She was fierce and loud and impossible, but she was also the most alive person he knew. He didn’t say anything. He just reached over and lightly slapped the back of her head.

“Oi. Princess.”

She whirled around, ready to snap, but he held up a hand.

“You’re going to find someone. Someone who actually gets you. But stop making it sound like you’re asking for the moon. You’re asking for basic respect, and that’s not too much.” He paused, then shrugged. “Even if your list is still ridiculous.”

Atsumu’s expression softened. She opened her mouth, then closed it. Finally, she gave him a small smile. “Thanks, Samu. Even if you’re an idiot.”

“Right back at you.”

Their mother poured another round of tea, and the conversation shifted—Ryō’s new job, the local festival coming up, whether they should adopt a cat. The evening sun dipped lower, painting the walls gold and orange. Atsumu leaned back in her chair, feet tucked under her, skirt still too short, but she didn’t care. She was home. She was safe. And even if every guy in the world turned out to be a disaster, she had her brothers.

Osamu caught her eye and raised his cup. “To the princess.”

“To the driller,” she shot back.

They both laughed, clinking cups over the table, and the sound echoed through the warm room until the last of the light faded outside.