The Rose and the Highway

The bus rumbled along the highway, headlights cutting through the deepening twilight. Inside, the Inarizaki boys’ volleyball team was anything but quiet. The eight-hour ride back to Hyogo had barely started, and the back half of the bus was already a full-blown party zone. Ginjima had grabbed someone’s Bluetooth speaker and was blasting upbeat J-pop, while Akagi and a few others danced in the aisle—movements exaggerated and goofy, nearly tripping over bags. Osamu sat by the window, arms crossed, trying to look annoyed. He wasn’t fooling anyone. That small smile gave him away. Suna lounged beside him, scrolling through his phone, wearing his usual look of detached amusement.

And in the row just ahead, curled against the window, Atsumu Miya was completely out.

He looked nothing like the flashy, loud-mouthed setter who’d just run a flawless game. Face slack, lips parted, blond hair mussed against the headrest. The celebration had died down enough that someone noticed him nodding off about an hour in. Osamu had shrugged off his jacket and tossed it over his twin, muttering something about “annoyin’ setter catchin’ a cold.” The jacket swallowed Atsumu’s shoulders. He burrowed into it like he was claiming the warmest spot in the house.

Now the team was in full swing. A heavy bassline came on, and Ginjima started a clumsy dance that made Akagi laugh so hard he nearly ate a backpack. Suna filmed a few seconds for the sake of it, then went back to his phone. Osamu kept an eye on Atsumu’s sleeping form, making sure the noise didn’t wake him. But Atsumu could sleep through an earthquake—proven many times at training camps.

Four hours later, the bus slowed for a rest stop in a small town. The driver announced a fifteen-minute break, and the team began to stir. Atsumu shifted, nose twitching. He blinked slowly, disoriented, then sat up with a yawn so wide his jaw cracked. The jacket slid off his shoulders, and he grabbed it before it hit the floor.

“…’Samu?” he croaked, still half-asleep.

Osamu glanced over from the seat behind him. “Mornin’, sleepyhead. You were out cold for four hours.”

Atsumu rubbed his eyes, looking around. The bus had stopped, and most of the team was already filing off. “Four hours?” He stretched, spine popping. “Feels like I just closed my eyes.”

“You snore,” Suna said flatly, not looking up.

“I do not snore!”

“You do. I have video evidence.”

Atsumu flushed, but before he could argue, the bus door opened, and a cool breeze swept through. He shivered violently, suddenly aware of how cold it was now that he wasn’t cocooned in sleep. “Brr—whose jacket is this anyway?” He held it up. Smelled like rice and clean laundry.

“Mine,” Osamu said. “You’re welcome.”

Atsumu blinked. Something soft flickered in his eyes. “Thanks, ‘Samu.” His voice was quieter now, almost shy. He draped the jacket over his lap, not quite giving it back yet. Osamu just grunted and stood to stretch.

Kita Shinsuke appeared at Atsumu’s side like he’d been waiting for him to wake. He’d been at the front, organizing the break schedule with the manager, but now he stood in the aisle with a steaming thermos. “You’re awake. Good timing. I brought extra tea.”

Atsumu looked up. A faint pink crept up his neck. Kita was calm as always—short black hair neat, posture straight even after four hours on a bus. He held out the thermos with both hands, deliberate and gentle. Atsumu’s heart stuttered.

“Thanks, Kita-san,” Atsumu said, taking it. The warmth seeped into his palms. He unscrewed the lid and took a sip—green tea, just right. Chased away the last of the chill.

Kita watched him, a small smile playing on his lips. “You slept well?”

“Yeah, actually. Felt real good.” Atsumu took another sip, then paused. “Wait, you made tea for me? On the bus?”

“I made enough for everyone,” Kita said smoothly. “But I made sure yours was still hot.”

The pink on Atsumu’s neck deepened into a full blush. He busied himself with the thermos, pretending not to see Suna’s amused glance at Osamu. Osamu just rolled his eyes and headed for the door, muttering about onigiri.

The rest stop was a small convenience store with a few tables outside. The team scattered—some for drinks, some for the bathroom, some just to stand in the fresh air. Atsumu stayed close to the bus, leaning against the side with his tea, still wearing Osamu’s jacket. The evening air was crisp, the sky a gradient of orange and purple.

Kita didn’t wander far. He finished his own cup, then sauntered over to stand beside Atsumu. Their shoulders didn’t touch, but they were close enough that Atsumu felt the warmth radiating off him.

“You played well today,” Kita said quietly. “Your serves were on point. The quick with Suna was perfect.”

Atsumu’s blush hadn’t faded. “Thanks, Kita-san. That means a lot comin’ from you.”

“I mean it.” Kita turned to look at him directly, dark eyes steady. “You’ve been workin’ hard. It shows.”

Atsumu opened his mouth to reply, but nothing came out. He was used to praise—thrived on it, usually. But from Kita, it felt different. Heavier. More real. He just nodded, taking another sip of tea to hide his fluster.

Behind them, Osamu and Suna emerged from the store, each holding a plastic bag. Suna’s phone was out again, muttering something about “golden footage.” Osamu was shaking his head.

“Hey, Atsumu, you want a snack?” Osamu called, holding up a bag of chips.

“Yeah, sure,” Atsumu said, grateful for the interruption. He pushed off from the bus and walked over, leaving Kita leaning against the metal with a faint curve on his lips.

The team reconvened at the tables. Someone pulled out a deck of cards, and “Old Maid” was proposed. Within minutes, the table was crowded, elbows bumping, laughter erupting. Atsumu found himself squeezed between Osamu and Suna, but after the first round, Kita pulled up a chair next to him. The arrangement shifted, and suddenly Atsumu was pressed against Kita’s side, hips brushing.

Kita didn’t move away. Instead, he reached over and placed a steady hand on Atsumu’s waist, just above the hip, like he was anchoring him. Atsumu’s breath hitched. He tried to focus on the cards, but the warmth of Kita’s palm seeped through his shirt, distracting him completely.

“Your turn, Atsumu,” Suna said, smirking.

“Right.” Atsumu picked a card from Osamu’s hand, fingers trembling slightly. He got a match. Osamu groaned.

The game continued. Kita’s hand stayed on Atsumu’s waist, thumb tracing idle circles over the fabric. Every touch sent tiny jolts through Atsumu’s system. He made two more mistakes in a row, pulling cards he should’ve avoided.

Omimi, sitting across, noticed. He subtly tapped Kita’s leg with his foot under the table—a silent question: What’s going on?

Kita looked up, met Omimi’s eyes. He gave a small, knowing smile, then said, loud enough for those nearby to hear, “Only special people get to touch me.”

The table went quiet for a beat. Suna’s smirk widened. Osamu coughed into his hand. Atsumu turned the color of a ripe tomato.

“Kita-san!” he hissed, but his voice was strangled.

Kita just squeezed his waist and said, “Your turn.”

The game resumed with renewed energy. Suna and Osamu exchanged a glance that said we saw that without needing words. Ginjima and Akagi snickered quietly, but they were too invested in the game to comment.

The bus driver honked. Time to board. The team packed up, and Atsumu was grateful for the excuse to move. He folded Osamu’s jacket and handed it back, then grabbed his bag and headed for the bus. But before he climbed the steps, he felt a light touch on his back—Kita, guiding him forward.

“You sit next to me on the way back,” Kita said, not a question.

Atsumu’s throat went dry. “Okay.”

They settled into a row near the middle. Kita took the window, and Atsumu slid in beside him. Their thighs pressed together. The engine rumbled to life, and the bus pulled back onto the highway. Night had fully fallen, interior lights dimmed.

Atsumu’s heart pounded. He stared out the window, watching streetlights blur past. Kita’s hand found his knee, light as a whisper.

“You’re tense,” Kita observed.

“I’m fine,” Atsumu said, but his voice cracked.

Kita hummed, unconvinced. He left his hand there, not moving, just a steady presence. After a few minutes, Atsumu’s shoulders relaxed. He leaned slightly into Kita, letting his head rest against the seat. The warmth was comforting.

The team was quieter now, settling in for the second half. A few people had earbuds in. Others were dozing. Suna, two rows back, had his phone angled discreetly at them, but Atsumu didn’t notice. He was too focused on the weight of Kita’s hand on his knee.

Two hours later, the bus pulled into another rest stop—a bigger one with a convenience store and vending machines outside. The driver announced a thirty-minute break for dinner. The team filtered off, yawning and stretching.

Atsumu stood up, intending to buy a bento, but Suna and Osamu intercepted him near the store entrance.

“Hey, Atsumu,” Suna said, holding something behind his back. “We got you something.”

Atsumu raised an eyebrow. “What?”

Osamu thrust a bouquet of pink roses into his hands. A dozen of them, wrapped in brown paper, petals soft as silk. “Don’t make a big deal of it,” Osamu muttered, looking away. “You did good today. And you looked like you needed a win off the court too.”

Atsumu stared at the roses. His mouth fell open. “You got me… flowers?”

“We saw Kita-san buyin’ some red ones earlier,” Suna added, voice dripping with amusement. “So we figured we’d make it a whole thing.”

Before Atsumu could process that, a figure appeared beside him. Kita, holding a single long-stemmed red rose. Perfect—deep crimson, a few drops of water still clinging to its velvet surface.

Atsumu’s breath caught. The pink roses in his hands suddenly felt like a prelude. Kita held out the red rose, his expression soft and serious.

“These are for you,” Kita said, voice low. “Because you’re special.”

The world seemed to hold its breath. The team, scattered around the parking lot, went quiet. Even Suna had lowered his phone, for once not filming.

Atsumu looked from the red rose to Kita’s face. Kita’s cheeks were faintly pink—the only sign he was nervous. Atsumu’s heart swelled so fast it ached.

Slowly, carefully, like moving through water, he set the pink roses down on a nearby table. He took the red rose from Kita’s hand. Their fingers brushed. Atsumu held it against his chest.

And then he leaned in.

He pressed his lips to Kita’s cheek. Quick, barely a second, but deliberate. His mouth brushed warm skin. He pulled back just enough to see Kita’s eyes go wide, then soften.

“Thank you,” Atsumu whispered, voice hoarse. “For the roses. And… for everything.”

The team erupted. Cheers and wolf whistles cut through the night. Ginjima clapped Akagi on the back. Suna finally smiled—big and genuine. Osamu looked at his twin with something like pride.

Kita’s hand came up to touch the spot where Atsumu had kissed him. Then he smiled—a real, full smile that transformed his usually stoic face into something radiant. He reached out and took Atsumu’s hand, intertwining their fingers.

“You’re welcome,” Kita said. “Now let’s eat. I’m hungry.”

They walked into the convenience store together, Atsumu clutching his red rose and the pink roses in his other hand. Suna and Osamu followed a few steps behind, exchanging low whispers and grins.

The break passed in a blur of food, laughter, and stolen glances. When they boarded the bus again, Atsumu sat next to Kita without a second thought. Their hands found each other in the dark, fingers laced together on the seat between them.

The driver started the engine. The team settled in, the atmosphere warm and light. Someone started singing a ballad, and soon a few others joined in, off-key and happy.

Atsumu leaned his head on Kita’s shoulder. Kita’s arm came around him, pulling him close. The red rose lay in Atsumu’s lap, safe and protected.

He’d never felt more at home.