Cold Coffee, Warm Regret

The first thing Atsumu did every morning was make coffee. Not just any coffee—the single-origin beans from that little roastery three blocks over, ground fresh, brewed with the kind of care that bordered on religious. He’d been crashing with Osamu and Celia for four days now, and he already had a routine down: up at six, coffee by six-oh-five, then a quiet hour on the balcony with his phone and the steam curling off his mug while the city dragged itself awake.

He was on his best behavior. He knew he was a guest, and he still didn’t really know his brother’s wife—Celia was warm and sharp and laughed at his jokes, but she also had this way of looking at him like she could read his soul and found it entertaining. He liked her. He wanted her to like him back.

So he did the dishes without being asked. Made sure his towel hung straight in the bathroom. Didn’t leave his hair gel bottles scattered across the counter. Even offered to cook dinner one night, which went surprisingly well considering the only thing he’d ever mastered was onigiri and he’d had to call Osamu for backup on the seasoning.

“You’re being weirdly helpful,” Osamu said on day two, leaning in the kitchen doorway with his arms crossed.

Atsumu flicked a towel at him. “I’m always helpful.”

“No, you’re not.”

“Well, maybe I’m tryin’ to make a good impression on your wife.”

Osamu snorted, but there was something soft in his eyes. “She already likes you, dumbass. You don’t have to work so hard.”

But Atsumu did work hard. Because that was who he was—when he cared, he cared with his whole chest, loud and obvious and a little desperate for approval. Their mother used to say he wore his heart on his sleeve. Osamu would mutter it was more like he’d stapled it there.

On the fourth morning, Atsumu was in the kitchen pouring himself a second cup when Celia shuffled in. Her hair was a messy bun, she was wearing one of Osamu’s oversized hoodies, and she looked like she hadn’t slept. Atsumu clocked the dark circles under her eyes right away.

“Mornin’,” he said, holding up the pot. “Want some?”

“Yeah. Thanks.” Her voice was flat. She didn’t meet his eyes as she took the mug.

Atsumu’s stomach tightened. “You okay? You look kinda tired.”

“I’m fine.” She took a sip, then set the mug down a little too hard. “Just… didn’t sleep great.”

She didn’t elaborate. Just stood there staring at the counter, and Atsumu didn’t know what to do with that. He was used to people being loud with their feelings—his whole world was loud feelings. Osamu’s silences were usually comfortable. Celia’s felt like a closed door.

He decided to give her space. Took his coffee to the balcony and tried to shake the feeling that something was off.

It got worse at breakfast.

Celia made toast and eggs, served Atsumu a plate without a word. Osamu was already at the table, scrolling through his phone, and when Atsumu sat down he glanced up and gave a small nod. Nothing unusual. But Celia didn’t sit with them. She leaned against the counter, picking at her own toast, and let out a long, heavy sigh.

Atsumu’s fork stopped halfway to his mouth. “Somethin’ wrong?”

“No,” she said, too quickly. “Everything’s fine.”

Osamu didn’t look up. “She’s just tired.”

“I said I’m fine.” Celia’s voice had an edge now, sharp and thin. She took a bite, chewed, swallowed, then sighed again. “It’s just… it’s hard to relax when you have a guest in your house, you know? Not that I mind you being here, Atsumu. It’s just… different.”

Atsumu’s chest tightened. “I can—I mean, I’ve been tryin’ to stay outta your way. If I’m doin’ somethin’ wrong, tell me. I don’t wanna be a burden.”

“You’re not a burden,” Celia said, but it came out clipped. She pushed off the counter and carried her plate to the sink. “I’m just not used to having someone else around all the time. It’s an adjustment.”

Osamu finally looked up. “Babe, you’re being a little—”

“I’m being honest.” She cut him off. “Is that a crime now?”

The kitchen went quiet. Atsumu stared at his eggs. They were perfectly scrambled, but he’d lost his appetite. He felt like he’d walked into a room where the walls were slowly closing in, and he had no idea how to stop them.

He spent the morning in the guest bedroom, trying to stay out of the way. Heard muffled voices from the living room—Celia and Osamu talking, though he couldn’t make out the words. Tried to tell himself it was nothing. Couples had off days. Maybe Celia was just in a bad mood. It didn’t have to be about him.

But by lunch, the atmosphere had gone sour.

Atsumu came out to grab a glass of water. Celia was on the couch, scrolling through her phone. She didn’t look up when he walked past. He opened the fridge, poured himself some water, and was about to retreat when she spoke.

“You’re really quiet today.”

He turned. “Huh?”

“You’re usually so loud,” she said, still not looking at him. “Talking about practice, complaining about your teammates, bragging about your serves. It’s a lot.”

Atsumu blinked. “I—I can talk less. I didn’t realize I was bein’ annoyin’.”

“I didn’t say you were annoying.” Her voice was flat. “I said it was a lot.”

That was worse. That was so much worse.

He stood there, glass in hand, feeling like a kid who’d been caught breaking something. “Do you want me to leave? I can find a hotel or somethin’. I don’t wanna make things weird.”

“No, don’t be dramatic.” She waved a hand. “You’re family. It’s fine.”

But it didn’t sound fine. It sounded like she was saying the words because she had to, not because she meant them.

Atsumu retreated to the guest room and sat on the edge of the bed, his hands clasped between his knees. He felt like he was fourteen again, standing in the hallway while their parents argued, not knowing what he’d done wrong but sure it was somehow his fault.

Osamu found him there about an hour later.

“You okay?” he asked, leaning against the doorframe.

Atsumu looked up. “Is Celia mad at me? For real, Samu. I can’t tell if she’s just havin’ a bad day or if I did somethin’.”

Osamu’s expression didn’t change. “She’s just stressed. Don’t take it personally.”

“But she said I’m a lot.”

“You are a lot.” Osamu shrugged. “You’ve always been a lot. Doesn’t mean she hates you.”

Atsumu wanted to believe that. He really did. But something about the way Osamu said it felt off, like he was holding something back.

Dinner was a disaster.

Celia made curry, and Atsumu complimented it three times, trying to be cheerful, trying to fill the silence with something warm. But every compliment seemed to make Celia’s shoulders tighten. She barely responded. Osamu ate quietly, eyes fixed on his bowl, and the only sounds were the clink of spoons and the hum of the refrigerator.

Then Celia said, “You know, I’ve been thinking.”

Atsumu looked up, hopeful. “Yeah?”

“You’ve been here four days. And I appreciate you helping out, but it’s a lot of pressure having someone in your space all the time. Especially someone who… well.” She set down her spoon. “Someone who needs so much attention.”

The words hit like a slap. Atsumu’s throat went dry. “I don’t need attention. I just—I thought I was bein’ helpful.”

“You are helpful,” Celia said, but it didn’t sound like a compliment. “You’re very helpful. You make coffee, you do the dishes, you offer to cook. It’s almost like you’re trying too hard.”

Atsumu’s hands were shaking. He put them under the table. “I just wanted you to like me.”

“I know.” Celia’s voice was soft now, but it wasn’t soft in a nice way. It was soft in a way that made him feel small. “That’s the problem.”

Osamu was still silent. Atsumu looked at him, desperate for something—a defense, a joke, anything to break the tension. But Osamu just stared at his plate.

“Samu?” Atsumu’s voice cracked. “Are you gonna say somethin’?”

Osamu took a breath. “Maybe you should give her some space.”

That wasn’t what Atsumu needed to hear. That was the opposite.

He pushed his chair back. “I’m not hungry. I’m gonna go to bed.”

He didn’t wait for a response. Walked to the guest room and closed the door, but he didn’t sleep. He sat in the dark, listening to the muffled voices from the living room, and tried not to cry.

He failed.

The next morning, he woke up determined to fix things. Made pancakes. Set the table. Poured orange juice. He was going to be so good, so easy to be around, that Celia would have no choice but to like him.

But when Celia came out, she didn’t even look at the pancakes. Sat down, poured herself a cup of tea, and said, “I need to talk to you about something.”

Atsumu’s stomach dropped. “Okay.”

“It’s about your… behavior.”

“My behavior?”

Celia took a sip of tea. Her hands were steady. Her eyes were cold. “You’ve been bringing people over at night.”

Atsumu’s brain short-circuited. “What? No, I haven’t. I’ve been in my room every night. I haven’t even opened the front door since I got here.”

“Don’t lie to me,” Celia said. Her voice was sharp now, a blade. “I heard you. Two nights ago. Someone came in around midnight. I heard voices.”

“That wasn’t me! I was asleep!”

“I’m not stupid, Atsumu. I know what I heard.”

Atsumu’s hands were shaking again. He looked at Osamu, who was standing in the kitchen doorway, arms crossed. “Samu, tell her! I was in my room. I didn’t bring anyone over.”

Osamu didn’t say anything. He just looked at Celia, then back at Atsumu, and his face was a mask.

“Osamu,” Atsumu begged. “Please.”

“Just admit it,” Celia said. “It’s not a big deal. I just want you to be honest. You’ve been bringing men over, haven’t you? Hooking up with strangers in my house?”

“No! I swear!” Atsumu’s voice was rising, cracking at the edges. “I would never do that. I’ve been respectful. I’ve been—”

“You’ve been acting like a whore,” Celia said, and the word hit like a bullet. “Coming in here, batting your eyelashes, trying to charm everyone. You think you can just do whatever you want because you’re cute? Because you’re Osamu’s brother?”

Atsumu couldn’t breathe. “That’s not—I’m not—”

“You’re a slut, Atsumu. Admit it.”

“Stop.” The word came out as a sob. He was crying now, tears streaming down his face, and he couldn’t stop them. He turned to Osamu. “Samu, please. Tell her she’s wrong. Please.”

Osamu’s jaw tightened. For a long moment, he just stood there. Then he said, “Go to your room, Atsumu.”

It was the worst thing he could have said.

Atsumu felt something shatter inside him. He didn’t say another word. Walked to the guest room, closed the door, and collapsed onto the bed. The sobs came loud and ugly, his whole body shaking, his face buried in a pillow that smelled like laundry detergent and betrayal.

He didn’t understand. He had tried so hard. Had been so careful. And they had just—they had looked at him with disgust, like he was something dirty, something to be thrown away. His own brother told him to go to his room like a child being punished for something he didn’t do.

He cried until his throat was raw and his eyes were swollen. He didn’t hear the footsteps in the hallway. Didn’t hear the muffled whispers. Just lay there, curled into a ball, wishing he could disappear.

In the living room, Osamu and Celia were trying not to laugh.

They’d made it through the whole thing without breaking—barely. Celia had had to bite the inside of her cheek so hard she tasted blood when she called him a slut. Osamu had kept his face stone-still, but his hands were shaking from the effort of not cracking a smile.

“Did you see his face?” Celia whispered, clutching her stomach. “Oh my god, Osamu, he looked like a kicked puppy.”

“I know,” Osamu said, but his laughter was fading. “He really—he really believed it.”

“Of course he did. You know your brother. He takes everything to heart.” Celia leaned against the wall, wiping a tear from her eye. “That was the best prank we’ve ever pulled.”

But Osamu wasn’t laughing anymore. He was looking at the closed door of the guest room, and the smile had slipped off his face.

“We should go tell him,” he said.

“In a minute,” Celia said, still giggling. “Let me catch my breath.”

“No, I mean it. Right now.” Osamu walked toward the guest room, and Celia followed, still chuckling. He knocked on the door. “Atsumu? Open up.”

No answer.

“Atsumu.” He knocked again. “Come on, man. It was a joke. We were messing with you.”

Still nothing. Just the faint sound of breathing.

Osamu’s stomach turned. He opened the door.

Atsumu was on the bed, curled on his side, his face buried in the pillow. His shoulders were shaking. The pillow was soaked.

“Atsumu.” Osamu’s voice came out soft. He walked to the bed and sat on the edge. “Hey. It was a prank. Celia and I—we were just bored, and we thought it would be funny to see how you’d react. None of that was real.”

Atsumu didn’t move. His breathing was ragged.

“We’re sorry,” Celia said from the doorway. She wasn’t laughing anymore. “Atsumu, I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean any of that. You’re not—you’re not any of those things. You’re wonderful. We were just being stupid.”

Atsumu lifted his head. His eyes were red, his face blotchy, and he looked at them with such raw hurt that Osamu felt like he’d been punched.

“Why,” Atsumu whispered. His voice was wrecked. “Why would you do that?”

Osamu opened his mouth, but nothing came out. There was no good answer.

“We thought it would be funny,” Celia said, her voice small. “We thought you’d realize it was a joke eventually. We didn’t think you’d—”

“You didn’t think.” Atsumu sat up slowly, wiping his face with the back of his hand. “You never think, Osamu. You just—you do things, and you don’t think about how they’re gonna make me feel. You never have.”

“That’s not true.”

“It is true.” Atsumu’s voice broke again. “You let her call me a whore. You let her call me a slut. And you didn’t say a single word to defend me. You told me to go to my room. Like I was nothing.”

Osamu’s throat was tight. “I’m sorry. I’m really sorry.”

“Sorry doesn’t fix it.” Atsumu stood up. His legs were shaking. “I need—I need to get out of here.”

“Atsumu, please don’t go.” Celia stepped forward, her hands out. “We messed up. We know we messed up. Just give us a chance to make it right.”

Atsumu looked at her. His eyes were still wet, but there was something hard in them now. “You called me a whore.”

“I know. And I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean it.”

“But you said it.” He grabbed his jacket from the back of the chair. “Words matter. They matter to me. And you used them like they were nothin’.”

He walked to the door. Osamu stood up, reaching for his arm. “Atsumu, wait. Where are you gonna go? You don’t know anyone in this city.”

“I’ll figure it out.” Atsumu pulled his arm away. “I always do.”

He left. The door clicked shut behind him, and the apartment fell into a silence that felt like a tomb.

Osamu stood in the middle of the living room, staring at the door. Celia was crying now, quiet tears sliding down her cheeks.

“We really messed up,” she whispered.

“Yeah,” Osamu said. “We did.”

He pulled out his phone and called Atsumu. Straight to voicemail.

Called again. Same thing.

Texted: I’m sorry. Please come back. We’ll talk.

No response.

Osamu sank onto the couch and buried his face in his hands. He thought about Atsumu’s face, the way his voice had cracked, the way he’d looked at him like he was a stranger. Thought about all the times he’d teased his brother, pushed his buttons, called him dumb names. It had always been fine because Atsumu gave it right back. But this wasn’t fine. This was cruelty dressed up as a joke.

Celia sat down beside him, her hand on his back. “We’ll fix it. He’ll come back. He loves you.”

“I know.” Osamu’s voice was hollow. “That’s why it hurts so much.”

They sat there for a long time, waiting for the door to open, waiting for Atsumu to walk back in and yell at them, or cry, or throw something. Anything.

But the door stayed closed.

And on the balcony, the coffee from that morning had gone cold.