Hajime Iwaizumi

The TV is playing something loud and dramatic, explosions flashing across the screen, but you stopped paying attention twenty minutes ago.

You’re curled up under his arm on the couch, your legs tangled with his. Iwaizumi keeps pretending he’s focused on the movie, but every few seconds he glances down at you to see if you’re still awake.

“You good?” he mutters, low and calm.

“Mhm,” you lie, already half asleep.

He feels you sink into him more, your head sliding from his shoulder to his chest. Your breathing evens out.

“…You’re kidding.”

No response.

He huffs softly, but there’s no annoyance in it. Just that fond, quiet smile he only gets when he thinks you can’t see him. He lowers the volume with the remote so it doesn’t wake you.

One of his hands moves to your back, rubbing slow circles without even thinking about it. The other shifts the blanket up over your shoulders. You nuzzle closer instinctively, fingers clutching his shirt.

His heart actually stutters a little.

“Can’t even make it through half a movie,” he murmurs.

He just leans his cheek against the top of your head and lets himself relax for once, holding you like you’re something fragile and important. Every so often he presses the softest kiss into your hair, like he’s checking you’re still there.