Archive of Our Own

You are fairly certain that if you had stayed home, none of this would be happening.

You wouldn’t be sweating through your shirt at ten in the morning. You wouldn’t be dragging a wheeled suitcase up a staircase that looks like it was designed by someone who actively hated travelers. You wouldn’t be standing in the middle of a narrow street in Amalfi Coast, blinking up at pastel buildings stacked like they’re daring gravity to do something about it.

When your phone buzzes against your palm, the group chat lights up with a flurry of messages from the girls. They want to know if you’ve landed yet, demanding pictures and insisting that you breathe in the sea air because it’s healing.

You slip the device back into your pocket.

This trip wasn’t your idea. You didn’t wake up one morning and decide to become the kind of person who books a solo vacation to Italy after a breakup. You are not that self-possessed nor are you brave in that aesthetic way influencers always seem to be.

Your friends, however, are relentless.

They’d booked the flights while you were still in the foggy aftermath of your split. You’d laughed it off and started listing reasons the way you always did. You couldn’t just disappear for three weeks. You had work. Your passport might be expired. It was too much money. You didn’t even like traveling alone.

They dismantled every excuse with alarming efficiency, not because they wanted to win the argument, but because they loved you and had been watching you slowly fold in on yourself for months. Your boss would understand—they’d already checked. Your passport was fine. They’d split the cost because they were terrifyingly serious about this. And traveling alone, they told you gently, was the whole point.

You remembered staring down at your wine glass that night, watching condensation trail slowly toward the table. You thought about how every corner of your apartment still felt haunted by your ex—how the silence he left had stopped feeling peaceful and instead had grown sharp and invasive.

So now you’re here. Alone. With a suitcase that weighs too much and a heart that feels oddly hollow despite being freshly broken.

You’re following directions you only half-remember, replaying the boatman’s kind but rapid English in your head as you wind your way away from the dock.

Walking distance, he’d said, smiling as he pointed vaguely uphill. You’d just nodded along because that felt easier than admitting you were already overwhelmed.

The harbor fades behind you, replaced by streets that get narrower the farther you go. The sound of the water gives way to the scrape of luggage wheels against stone, and each bump jars all the way up your arms. You stop once, then twice, pretending to admire the view while your legs scream in protest.

So much for walking distance.

Your suitcase feels heavier by the minute, as though it’s actively punishing you for agreeing to this trip. Sweat clings uncomfortably at your back, and you’re acutely aware that everyone passing you looks relaxed and sun-kissed. Like they’re not dragging baggage—literal and otherwise—up a hill that feels endless.

By the time you finally spot the hotel sign, you could cry. You almost do.

The lobby is quiet and mercifully air-conditioned. You approach the front desk with fragile optimism as things start to look up. The receptionist stationed there greets you politely, asks for your name, and starts clicking away at the computer.

But then her smile falters.

She clicks again. Frowns. Tilts her head.

“I’m very sorry,” she says carefully. “But I don’t see your reservation.”

The silence stretches just enough for her words to register.

“What?” You snap up, bewildered. “That’s not possible. I booked it weeks ago.”

She asks for confirmation. You pull out your phone, fingers growing clammy as you scroll. The charge is clear as day in your phone gallery, reflecting the exact amount deducted from your account. You hold it out like evidence, like this should fix everything because it should.

The receptionist studies it before nodding sympathetically. “I understand. But the payment did not register in our system. You will need to contact your bank.”

Something cold drops into your stomach.

Your friends had sent the money they all pooled together that same girls’ night. You remember them watching you book the hotel in real time, cheering when the confirmation page loaded. The transaction had reflected immediately on your end.

This wasn’t supposed to happen. This couldn’t have happened.

“I-I can’t possibly pay for three weeks up front,” you stammer. “That money is already gone.”

“I’m very sorry,” she tells you, palms folding together on the counter. Her voice lowers as though she’s speaking to a child on the verge of tears. “But there is no active reservation under your name. Without confirmation from our system, I cannot check you in.”

You wait for an exception, a workaround, anything.

But the receptionist only offers you a small, helpless shake of her head.

Not wanting to inconvenience her further, you mumble a quick thanks before lugging your suitcase outside. You end up walking until you see a small café tucked just off the main road, shaded by an awning and mercifully empty compared to the others. Inside, it’s cool and smells faintly of roasted beans and sugar. You drag your suitcase in after you, parking it awkwardly beside a table like it belongs there.

You order an affogato because it feels safe. Because ice cream drowning in espresso seems like something meant to fix a bad day, even if only temporarily. When it arrives, you stare at it for a moment before taking a spoonful. Cold. Bitter. Sweet. The contrast makes your chest ache in a way that’s almost welcome.

Then you pull out your phone.

Lale picks up on the second ring.

“Hey,” your best friend greets groggily. You can picture her already sitting up in bed, hair a mess, worry written all over her face despite the harrowing time difference between here and home. “Was wondering when you were gonna check in. Everything alright?”

You close your eyes.

“The hotel didn’t have my reservation,” you tell her, the words tumbling out now that you’ve started. “They said the payment didn’t go through on their end, and… I don’t know what to do, Lale.”

There’s a pause—brief, but loaded.

“They what?” she says, sharp with disbelief. “But we watched you book it.”

“I know,” you sigh as you press the heel of your hand into your forehead. “I showed the receipts and everything, but apparently it didn’t go through on their end. They told me to talk to the bank.”

“Oh my god,” she exhales. “Okay. What did your bank say?”

Chewing on your bottom lip, you tell her the truth. “Haven’t reached out to them yet. I just know it’s just going to make me even more stressed.”

“Can’t argue with that.” Lale gives a sympathetic, lighthearted chuckle. “Where are you now though? Have you figured out where you’re staying?”

“A café. Where I’ll be staying is still up in the air though.”

“At least you’re safe.”

You huff out a weak laugh. “I mean… relatively.”

Silence falls over the line, the sound of sheets shifting on her end of the line. When Lale speaks again, her voice is calm in that way she’s perfected over years of being the level-headed one.

“Listen to me,” your best friend starts. “Flying back right now would be a nightmare. Last-minute tickets out of Naples are insane, and you’ll just be tired and miserable and crying in an airport for twelve hours.”

You glance down at your melting affogato. “So what, I just… stay?”

“You find another place for a few nights. I can help cover it if you need.”

“What? No. You guys already paid so much for me. I can’t ask for more.”

“Don’t be silly,” Lale beseeches gently. “That’s not—”

“I still have savings,” you cut in, forcing steadiness into your voice. “I’ll figure it out. I just needed a minute to rearrange my thoughts.”

She hesitates. You can hear it—the way she wants to push, the way she knows you too well.

“Are you sure?” she asks quietly. “The last thing we want is for you to end up broke in Europe with no way home.”

“I won’t,” you insist as you sit up straight. “I promise. I’ll be fine.”

Another pause.

“…Okay,” Lale sighs finally, still not convinced. “But you call me if anything changes. Anything.”

“I will,” you promise. “Thank you.”

After you hang up, the silence rushes back in.

You stare at your phone for a long moment before setting it down. Around you, the café hums softly with conversation and clinking cups. Even outside, people pass by unburdened, laughing and moving with purpose while your own world is just shy of collapsing in on itself.

It takes you seconds to open your phone’s browser.

Hotels near me.
Cheap accommodation Amalfi Coast.
Last-minute stays.

The prices make your stomach drop all over again.

You close the tab.

You have no plan. No backup. No idea where you’re sleeping tonight. You sit there with your suitcase at your feet, affogato half-melted, telling yourself over and over that you’ve got this.

Even though you absolutely, unequivocally, do not.

You’re still staring at the screen of your phone, thumb hovering uselessly when a voice cuts gently into your spiral.

“Is this seat taken?”

You answer without lifting your head, the response automatic as muscle memory kicks in before thought has a chance to intervene. “No, go ahead.”

It’s only after the words leave your mouth that you clock how something feels weird. Your gaze drifts upward, confusion blooming a second too late, and you realize with a faint jolt that the man before you just spoke to you in Japanese, and you’d replied in turn.

There’s a light tan to his skin, one that suggests time spent outdoors rather than a single reckless afternoon in the sun. He settles into the seat with easy familiarity, setting down a compact backpack at his feet—the same kind you’d noticed slung over the shoulders of other travelers on the boat ride you’d just disembarked from, people unburdened by excess.

A small portion of his bangs is dyed blond, the color catching the café’s warm light, while the rest of his hair sticks up in unruly black spikes. There’s a band-aid stretched across the bridge of his nose, slightly off-center, as if it’s been reapplied more than once. When he smiles at you, it’s open and unguarded, an expression that feels like it might get him into trouble more often than not.

He glances down at the affogato slowly losing its shape, espresso bleeding into pale ice cream. “That’s melting,” he remarks casually, still speaking Japanese as amusement threads through his voice.

You follow his gaze, momentarily flustered, and scoop up a hurried spoonful as if caught neglecting something important. Only then do you look back at him properly, the reality of the situation finally settling in.

“…Are you from Japan too?” you ask, still half-expecting the moment to dissolve.

He hums, lifting his own drink and taking an unhurried sip before answering. “I used to be. But I’ve been traveling for a while now. I haven’t been back in years.”

The way he says it is neither regretful nor proud—just matter-of-fact, as if home has become a flexible concept. You nod slowly, eyes flicking down to your oversized suitcase beside the table and then back to his lone backpack, suddenly aware of how conspicuous your presence must look.

Of all the places for this to happen, you think this feels absurdly, inconveniently well-timed. You glance at him again and the thought arrives almost fully formed.

“…Did you overhear me on the phone just now?”

There’s no point pretending otherwise. The café is small. Your voice hadn’t been as quiet as you’d wanted it to be. He doesn’t dodge it; doesn’t even look sheepish. He just exhales through his nose, a sound halfway to a laugh, and nods.

“A little,” he admits easily. “Not everything. Just enough to tell you were having a rough day.”

You should feel embarrassed. But instead, you feel tired enough that honesty slips out before caution can stop it.

“That obvious?”

He shrugs. “It’s happened to me before. Places like this mess things up all the time. Payments don’t go through. Reservations disappear. Somehow it’s always the traveler’s fault.”

You let out a breath you hadn’t realized you were holding.

“You sound like you’ve got a lot of experience being screwed over.”

He laughs at that, head tipping back slightly, and when he looks at you again his smile is wider, warmer—crinkling at the corners of his eyes in a way that catches you completely off guard. It’s disarming. Annoyingly so.

“Well,” he drawls with an unapologetic grin, “that’s kind of the only thing traveling guarantees. You mess up enough times, you start collecting experience whether you want to or not.”

You huff a quiet laugh despite yourself.

There’s a pause then, the comfortable kind, filled only by the din of the café and the clink of a spoon against porcelain. He watches you for a moment before speaking again.

“I’m Nishinoya,” he says, offering his name like it’s nothing more than another small courtesy.

You hesitate, just briefly.

Somewhere in the back of your mind, Lale’s voice pipes up—don’t tell strangers your name, reminding you that shared language doesn’t equal shared safety. That you’re still alone in a foreign country with a suitcase and no plan.

Still.

You tell him your name anyway. Partly out of politeness. Partly because he doesn’t feel like a threat. Mostly because you’re too exhausted to guard every inch of yourself anymore.

He repeats it once, like he’s testing the sound of it. “Nice to meet you.”

You talk a little more after that. Nothing heavy. Where you’re from. How long you’re supposed to be here. He doesn’t pry when you skirt around details, doesn’t ask anything too personal, and you realize eventually that your shoulders have dropped, and you feel lighter than you’ve been all day.

It’s only when the conversation lulls that he shifts in his seat, expression turning thoughtful.

“The inn I’m heading to is doing couples discounts right now,” Nishinoya begins casually. “Honeymoon season and all that. Apparently if you’re married, everything’s cheaper here at Amalfi.”

You blink. “Oh. That’s… considerate of them.”

Something flashes across his face then—something like mischief, unmistakable and utterly unrepentant. His grin returns, brighter than before, all bad ideas and confidence, and it makes your heart stutter traitorously in your chest.

“So,” he says as he leans forward, brown eyes catching the light as they lift to yours

“Wanna be my wife for a few weeks?”

…

The place Nishinoya leads you to looks like it belongs in a movie.

It isn’t polished or minimalist like the hotel you initially booked, but the place feels lived in, rustic and sun-warmed. The stone exterior is worn smooth with age, pale bougainvillea climbing its walls in lazy bursts of color. Wooden shutters sit open, catching the light, and somewhere inside you can hear the low hum of conversation, the clatter of dishes, and domestic noise that makes your chest ache.

Your “husband” steps in beside you without hesitation, fingers brushing yours just once before settling properly in the spaces between yours. The gesture comes to him easily, as though he has always belonged there. You’re acutely aware of the matching wedding rings on your fingers—simple, unassuming bands of gold that catch the light every time you move. They feel heavier than they have any right to be.

“Welcome, welcome!” the owner greets warmly. Her smile only widens when her gaze catches on your intertwined fingers. “Newlyweds?”

“Yes,” Nishinoya answers smoothly in English, squeezing your hand once. “We just arrived today.”

You nod as you force your own smile into place. Husband and wife. Right.

The owner (Chiara, as she introduced herself) seems delighted when she ushers you both inside with an enthusiasm that leaves little room for questions. As she walks you through the inn, she points out the dining area first—wooden tables, mismatched chairs, candles already lit despite the lingering daylight.

“You may order until two in the morning,” she tells you cheerfully. “Breakfast begins at six. Oh, and you must try the pastries—my sister makes them from scratch!”

Chiara then leads you past a small hanging garden with herbs spilling over clay pots, leaves brushing your arm as you pass. Then she opens a set of doors that lead out onto a terrace, and you stop short.

The view stretches out endlessly—the coastline laid bare beneath a sky just beginning to soften into evening. The sea glimmers far below, rooftops stacked and scattered like something from a storybook rather than built with real human hands. The air here smells like salt and citrus and something faintly floral.

“It’s beautiful,” you breathe before you can stop yourself.

Nishinoya grins, and you try not to stiffen when his arm loops around your waist.

After the tour, Chiara finally brings you to your room, unlocking the door with a practiced twist of her wrist. You and Nishinoya step inside together, still playing your parts, still holding hands as your “husband” helps wheel your luggage inside.

The room is warm and close, wrapped in pale wood and softened by age. Sheer curtains lift and fall with the breeze slipping in from the open balcony, carrying with it the distant hush of the sea.

And there, unmistakably in the center of the room, is the bed.

One bed.

Large. Immaculate. Soft-looking in a way that feels vaguely threatening.

You keep your expression neutral, nodding along as the owner explains where everything is. You even murmur something about the immaculate view, and how perfect it all is. As a married couple, this should be unremarkable. Expected, even.

When Chiara finally leaves, the silence rushes in.

Nishinoya exhales before immediately blurting in Japanese:

“I can sleep on the floor.”

You turn to him, startled. “What? No.”

“I’ve slept in worse places,” he adds quickly, already glancing around like he’s assessing the terrain. “Trains. Park benches. Even under a bridge once—”

“Absolutely not,” you interrupt with an insistent shake of your head. “It’s fine. The bed’s big enough. We can just… stay on our own sides or something.”

He pauses to study you for a moment before shrugging. “Alright then.”

That’s it. No argument or awkwardness on his end. Just agreement, like this is another simple problem with a simple solution. You, on the other hand, are too hyper aware of everything else—of how close the bed is, of how small the room suddenly feels, of how real this arrangement has become in the span of a single afternoon.

You excuse yourself to the balcony under the pretense of wanting air.

The sky has deepened into soft gold and blue in the faraway horizon. You rest your hands on the railing, breathing in the salt air slowly as you try to steady yourself. Your gaze drifts down without meaning to, catching on the band of gold around your finger.

Your “wedding ring”.

It gleams softly in the fading light, and the weight of it settles somewhere deep in your chest. The mere sight of it makes you wonder what exactly you’ve gotten yourself into.

…

Wanna be my wife for a few weeks?

For a moment, you just stare at him.

At the ease in his posture, and the way his brown eyes are still warm with amusement, like he’s fully aware of how outrageous that sounded and has decided to say it anyway. The café noise fades into the background, replaced by the dull rush of blood in your ears.

“…Sorry,” you say finally. “What?”

Nishinoya doesn’t repeat himself right away. He watches you with patience, as though he knows you need the time. You take it and do a quick, ruthless inventory in your head.

You have no hotel. Flying home would be worse—expensive, exhausting, humiliating. Your savings exist, but they are not infinite. He’s Japanese, which helps in ways you don’t want to admit. He’s also a stranger, which absolutely does not.

And then there’s the word he used.

Wife.

Your ex’s voice rises unbidden in your memory—how he used to introduce you, how he liked the way being with him seemed to define you more than you ever meant it to. With him, marriage had always been framed as inevitability, not choice. Until you broke up, sure. But the thought of being perceived that way again, even as a joke, even as a lie, makes your stomach turn.

“You’re joking,” you say, though it comes out more uncertain than you’d like. “Right?”

He tilts his head. “Only a little.”

You blink. “This is something you’ve… done before?”

“Yeah,” he says easily, like you’ve asked whether he’s taken this bus route before. “A few times.”

A few times.

“Fake wives,” he continues, ticking it off on his fingers. “Fake husbands too, a few times. It really depends on the situation. Tourist places like this love couples, especially married ones. It’s basically a free discount code.”

You stare at him, mildly horrified.

“That’s—” You stop, recalibrate. “That’s insane.”

He grins. “Effective, though.”

Your instinctive reaction is to shut it down. To laugh it off. To stand up, thank him for the sympathy, and return to panicking alone like a normal person. That old reflex whispers that it’s safer not to belong to anyone, even in name. Safer not to let yourself be folded into someone else’s story again.

But practicality creeps in, unwelcome and persistent especially under that hazel-eyed stare of his.

“…You’re serious about this,” you say slowly.

“Absolutely,” Nishinoya replies. “But only if you are. I don’t push. Ever.”

He leans back in his chair, giving you space instead of crowding you with enthusiasm.

“Don’t get me wrong, we can set rules if it makes you feel better. A few boundaries,” he adds. “We decide everything beforehand. You can back out whenever you want—no explanations, no guilt. Same goes for me.”

You study his face, searching for something reckless, something slippery.

You don’t find it.

“And the lying?” you ask. “Won’t that get us in trouble?”

“Don’t worry, sweets. This isn’t airport immigration. They won’t ask us for our marriage certificate as proof,” he laughs cheekily, a sound that warms your cheeks. “We can just show them a matching set of wedding rings, and we’re home free.”

You try not to dwell on the way he calls you sweets.

Before you can respond, he reaches down and unzips his backpack, rummaging briefly before pulling out a small pouch. It looks worn and well-traveled. He opens it and tips the contents gently onto the table.

A handful of rings scatter softly against the wood.

They’re simple bands—gold, silver, one slightly too big, another thinner than the rest. None of them flashy. None of them new.

“Souvenirs,” he explains, nudging one aside. “A couple were given to me a few years back. Some I bought just in case.” He glances up at you with his lips curling into a sordid smile. “I try to be prepared.”

You let out a startled laugh before you can stop yourself.

It bubbles up unexpectedly, real and unguarded, cutting through the tension you’ve been carrying since you stepped off the boat on the way here. It surprises you both.

“This is unbelievable,” you mutter.

He slides the rings toward you. “You can pick. Or not. No pressure.”

You hover your fingers over them, suddenly aware of how absurd this all is—and how carefully he’s making room for you to decide. Your ex had always decided for you, always framed choices like conclusions already drawn. The contrast makes your throat tighten.

When you finally select one, it’s the simplest of the lot, cool against your skin.

It fits.

That shouldn’t matter. Yet it does.

“Okay,” you say slowly, exhaling. “Let’s say—hypothetically—I agree.”

Nishinoya nods, an implicit tell for you to keep going.

“We keep our finances separate,” you continue. “No touching in public unless it’s absolutely necessary. We don’t share a bed if it the circumstances allow it.”

“Agreed.”

“And if either of us wants out,” you add, meeting his gaze, “we’re out. No questions.”

“Right on the money.”

You hesitate, then add the last condition—the one that matters most. “This is temporary, okay? Just until I get back on my feet. I don’t want to inconvenience you during my entire stay…”

He smiles, soft and knowing, and agrees without hesitation. “Of course. Although I do think I’ll be staying here longer. In fact, how long are you here for anyway?”

“Three weeks,” you admit somewhat sheepishly.

“Oh? Three weeks is no time at all, sweets. Don’t worry about it.”

You don’t notice it then—the way he says it like he already knows how this will go. So you slip the ring onto your finger, heart pounding, and glance up at him.

“So,” you start. “You’re my… husband.”

Nishinoya grins even wider, looking far too delighted for his own good.

“And you are my wife.”

…

On your very first night, dinner ends up somewhere in Ravello.

Nishinoya recommended a bistro tucked away from the main road where the tables spill out onto stone pavement and the lights are strung just low enough to feel intentional rather than touristy. It’s affordable in a way that feels like a small victory for your budget.

You half expect your companion to excuse himself the moment you two leave the inn’s line of sight and reclaim whatever distance this arrangement is supposed to have. But he doesn’t. He walks beside you easily with his hands in his pockets, matching your pace without comment as if the idea of splitting off hadn’t occurred to him at all.

Once you’re seated, Nishinoya starts talking.

Not aimlessly but with the confidence of someone who’s walked these streets before. He points out which bakeries open earliest, which restaurants water down their wine, which viewpoints are worth the climb and which ones only look good on postcards. Nishinoya even shares which ferry schedules are a gamble on a good day.

Nishinoya talks like someone who’s learned things the hard way and you listen with your elbow propped on the table, chin resting in your palm. It’s easy to forget, for stretches of time, that this began as a negotiation. He isn’t performing expertise; he’s sharing it, passing it along freely, like information is meant to be used rather than hoarded.

“And never buy souvenirs near the docks,” he adds, spearing a piece of pasta. “They jack up the prices. You’ll find the same stuff two streets over at half the cost.”

“You sound like a tour guide,” you remark.

He grins. “I’ve been accused of worse.”

Between bites, he tells you about other places—crowded hostels, missed trains, nights spent sleeping wherever there was space. He talks about it all lightly, but not flippantly, like someone who knows the difference between hardship and adventure. Every so often, Nishinoya pauses to ask about you, and the questions aren’t cursory. He waits for the answers.

You find yourself telling him things you hadn’t planned to.

That you have always liked the sea. That you’re the kind of person who could stand by the water for hours and never feel bored. That sea creatures—big, small, strange, unseen—fascinate you in a way that feels silly considering your age, something that Nishinoya refutes immediately with a shake of his head.

“I was a volleyball meathead in high school. Still am now,” he shares with a quaint little grin. “So don’t call the stuff that makes you happy silly.”

“If I’d had it my way,” you admit, swirling your drink absently, “I would’ve studied something like marine biology. Anything that let me stay close to the ocean.”

“But you didn’t.”

You shake your head. “I’m in med school.”

He perks up immediately, eyes bright. “Oh? Is that so?”

You give him a wary look. “Don’t.”

He laughs. “What? I’m impressed.” Then, with a grin that tells you exactly where this is going, “Good to know we’ve got a doctor in our midst then, sweets.”

You smack his arm without thinking, not hard enough to hurt, just enough to get your point across. “I’m not a doctor yet.”

“Still.” Nishinoya shrugs, unfazed. “Future doctor. Even better.”

You roll your eyes, but you’re smiling, and you hate how easy it feels. How natural it is to sit here with him, trading stories over shared plates, the salt air brushing past your ankles like it belongs.

The two of you walk back at an unhurried pace. Evening has settled comfortably over Ravello by the time you climb the last set of steps. The air is cooler now, kinder, and the ache in your legs feels earned rather than punishing. When you make it inside, the lobby is quiet—lights dimmed, voices lowered, the kind of hush that signals the day is officially over.

Once you’re inside the room, Nishinoya hesitates by the door like he’s waiting for a cue.

“You go first,” he says, already reaching for a towel. “Bathroom’s all yours.”

You blink at him before murmuring a quick thanks as you retreat.

The shower you take is longer than necessary. You let the water run until your thoughts finally slow, then go through your nightly routine with careful attention—cleanser, toner, moisturizer, one step after another until you feel like yourself again.

When you finally step back into the room, Nishinoya is still there, rifling quietly through his bag as he sets out fresh clothes. He looks up when he hears you, gives you a brief nod, then heads towards the bathroom you just emerged from.

You change into sleepwear and perch on the edge of the bed, taking in the room again now that the day’s chaos has dulled into something manageable. The balcony doors are still open, and the curtains stir lazily with the breeze. After a moment, you hear the muted rush of running water.

By the time he returns, hair damp and curling slightly at the ends, a towel slung loosely around his neck, you realize you’re staring.

His hair is usually styled upward, all sharp edges that reflect his endless reserve of energy. Now it hangs softer, dyed blond bangs slipping down across his eyes, giving him a gentler look that feels unfairly distracting.

You look away quickly, pretending to fuss with your phone.

“So,” Nishinoya asks, toweling his hair as he moves to the other side of the bed. “What’s the plan for tomorrow?”

You ponder about it for a moment before telling him about the guided tour you’ve already booked in advance—how it covers the coast for the first week and that everything’s scheduled down to the hour. As you speak, you realize how defensive it sounds, like you’re bracing for judgment. He was a seasoned traveler, after all.

But Nishinoya only listens.

When you admit you don’t have much planned beyond that—two weeks intentionally left open, meant for wandering and figuring things out as you go—he exhales through his nose and shakes his head.

“Guided tours,” he says mildly. “They’re kind of a scam.”

You wince. “I thought so.”

“They mostly bank on tourists being afraid of getting swindled,” he continues, tone thoughtful rather than dismissive. “Which—okay, sometimes that’s fair. But most of the time it’s just capitalism trying to mess with you.”

He glances at you, expression softening. “That said, it’s already paid for. No reason not to enjoy it.”

You relax at that.

“I’ll just… do my own thing while you’re on the tour,” he adds. “Wait for you to finish each day. But—” He pauses, eyes flicking to yours, a spark of something playful there. “—only if you agree to try the Nishinoya Yuu Grand Tour after that planned itinerary of yours.”

You snort. “Is that included in the honeymoon package?”

“Very exclusive,” he says solemnly. “No refunds.”

You consider the idea of having someone show you around without an agenda after a brief pause. He’s proven to be great company so far, and you’re free to jump ship whenever you please.

“Alright,” you agree. “Deal.”

“Nice,” Nishinoya grins, satisfied.

You settle into bed after that, each claiming a side without discussion. There’s a noticeable gap between you—respectful and intentional. As you lie on your back, staring at the ceiling, you are made even more aware of his presence without feeling crowded by it.

The sea murmurs somewhere beyond the balcony doors. The room smells faintly of soap and salt. Your counterfeit wedding rings sit together in a dish on the nightstand. You turn onto your side eventually, careful not to cross the invisible line between you, and let your eyes close.

Tomorrow will come soon enough.

…

Nishinoya was right. Guided tours are an absolute scam.

You learn this within the first hour, when you’re told not to stray more than five steps from the group, not to take photos without permission, not to ask questions until the end. Restrictions are fine. Sensible, even. But this feels excessive, like the experience has been vacuum-sealed for safety and convenience until there’s barely anything left to enjoy.

By the time the shuttle pulls over near a statue the guide announces as historically significant, you’re already drifting. He speaks in a steady monotone that suggests he never wanted this job in the first place and has long since stopped trying to pretend otherwise. The statue itself is weathered and solemn, positioned dramatically against the coastline, and you know you should care more than you do. But you don’t.

So you find a spot a little ways off, close enough to still be counted, and pull out your phone.

It’s a terrible idea. The time difference flashes across your mind—eight hours ahead, dead of night back home—but boredom outweighs caution. You tap Lale’s name before you can overthink it.

She picks up on the third ring.

“…Do you know what time it is?” she murmurs groggily.

Relief floods you anyway. “You’re awake.”

“I am now,” she sighs. “Why haven’t you updated us? Do you know how worried I’ve been?”

You smile faintly. “I’m fine. I swear. I’ve got everything under control.”

A scoff. “You always say that.”

“I’m staying at this inn in Ravello,” you continue, eager to redirect. “It overlooks the whole coast. It’s… a really beautiful place. Kinda glad you guys roped me into this whole thing.”

She hums, the sound softening. “Ravello, huh. Sounds expensive.”

“It’s not,” you say quickly. “Shockingly reasonable, actually.”

You talk her ear off for a few minutes, but you do not mention Nishinoya. You absolutely do not mention the fake marriage, or the ring on your finger, or the single bed. Lale does not need that information at two in the morning.

There’s a pause on the line, one that makes your shoulders tense.

“…Are you sure you’re alright?” she asks carefully. “No weird people trying to sidle up to you or anything?”

“Nope. Just a very boring guided tour I shouldn’t have splurged on.”

She laughs, the sound bright even through the phone. “Figures. At least tell me—has it helped? Are you thinking about him less?”

You blink.

You think back to how you’d left things behind—the apartment that felt too small once your ex was gone, the silence that pressed in on you from all sides. You’d spent so long turning conversations over in your head, replaying endings like they might soften if you examined them closely enough. But now, standing here by the sea, you realize you haven’t done that once.

“I…” You trail off. “I actually haven’t thought about him since I got here.”

There’s another beat, then Lale’s laugh turns soft and satisfied. “Good. That’s really good.”

“Yeah. I guess it is.”

“Enjoy the rest of your vacation,” your best friend implores. “And update the group chat, at least. We’re living vicariously through you.”

“I will,” you promise.

You hang up just as the guide’s voice drifts back into focus, still droning on about dates and names that refuse to stick. As the group starts moving again, you follow along, but your mind wanders.

Unbidden, you imagine Nishinoya at the front instead—gesturing animatedly, pointing things out not because he has to, but because he wants to. You can almost hear him explaining the statue in his own way, weaving some ridiculous anecdote into it, somehow making even this feel alive.

You shake your head, catching yourself.

The thought slips in and out just as quickly, and you don’t linger on it. You fall back in line with the rest of the group, climbing onto the shuttle and claiming a window seat as it rumbles to life. The coastline rolls past in familiar blues and greens, pretty but already starting to blur together.

Whatever this arrangement you have, it’s temporary. Even if, inconveniently, you’re already looking forward to telling Nishinoya just how boring your day was without him.

…

The tour finally spits you back out where it found you when the shuttle wheezes to a stop at the small waiting shed just outside town. You step down with the rest of the group, legs aching despite the fact that you’ve done little more than stand, shuffle, and take photos you’ll later send to the group chat as proof that you’re having a great time. The heat clings to you in a way that feels heavier than summers back home, the air thicker, saltier, and harder to ignore.

You’re tired in that particular, useless way—exhausted without feeling accomplished.

It takes you a second to spot him.

Nishinoya is already there, standing beneath the shade of the shed in what can only be described as full fisherman gear. Boots. A khaki vest over a loose, sun-faded shirt. Something slung over his shoulder that looks like it’s seen real work today. He’s mid-conversation with a cluster of elderly women, all of them animated, hands moving as they talk over one another. He laughs easily, bright and unrestrained, like he’s known them for years instead of hours.

You slow without meaning to.

He’d been gone when you woke up that morning, your shared bed empty and sheets cool on his side. You’d realized, belatedly, that neither of you had exchanged contact information, and had spent the rest of the day reasonably assuming that the oversight might’ve been a mistake.

Apparently not.

It takes him no time at all to notice you. His gaze flicks up, locks onto yours, and his face brightens instantly, like someone’s turned a dial all the way up.

Nishinoya excuses himself with a few quick words, tossing a quick, “Thank you! My wife’s here!” in English, waving once before turning fully toward you.

You freeze for half a second. He doesn’t need to pretend out here. The agreement only extends as far as the inn. Yet he’s already crossing the distance with a skip to his step like he was actually excited to see you again.

Nishinoya reaches you, slips a hand into yours, and presses a quick kiss to your cheek.

It’s brief, warm, and utterly casual.

“How was the tour?” he asks, eyes crinkling.

You blink, caught off guard, and scramble for something that sounds normal. “Oh—um. It was… good,” you say, then wince internally and tack on, “Very… educational.”

Nishinoya’s grin deepens, clearly unconcerned with the quality of your answer.

Behind him, you hear a chorus of soft chuckles.

“Ah,” one of the women says, eyes bright as she looks between the two of you. Another hums approvingly, her gaze dropping pointedly to the ring on your finger before sliding back up to Nishinoya’s face. She says something in Italian that earns a round of knowing laughter.

You shift on your feet, suddenly hyper aware of his hand now holding yours.

The woman nearest you smiles and switches to English. “You should leave the tour,” she says kindly, as if offering advice she’s very confident in. She gestures at Nishinoya with her chin. “Spend time with Yuu instead. He makes everything fun.”

You let out a nervous laugh, brushing a loose strand of hair behind your ear. “I-I’ll think about it.”

They seem satisfied with that.

By the time you start walking back toward the inn together, your hand is still in his, and you don’t comment on it. Nishinoya launches into his day without prompting, words tumbling over each other as he tells you about heading out to sea with a few local fishermen that morning.

“And then—okay, you’re not going to believe this—but I actually caught a marlin,” he boasts.

You snort. “You’re bluffing.”

“I would never bluff about this sort of thing,” he protests immediately, affronted and already digging into his phone. He thrusts it toward you as the screen displays a photo of him beside an insanely large marlin, pride written all over his face.

You stare for a moment, then laugh. “Oh my god.”

“I brought it back to the inn after lunch,” he continues. “Chiara and her sisters are already figuring out what to do with it. Pretty sure dinner’s going to be… excessive. Could feed all of us for a week if they froze some of it. ”

You shake your head, smiling despite yourself, as he launches into stories about the morning. How he nearly lost his grip when the line first jerked hard enough to rattle his shoulders. How an argument broke out on the boat over whether the marlin was luck or skill. Nishinoya reenacts it all with broad gestures and poorly contained excitement, voice rising and falling as if the moment is still unfolding in front of him.

By the time he finishes, you’re laughing softly, the image of it vivid enough that it feels like you’d been there with him. And somewhere between his animated storytelling, you realize something:

Maybe you won’t be finishing that guided tour after all.

…

Unlike your carefully color-coded itinerary, the Nishinoya Yuu Grand Amalfi Tour appears to run on an entirely different operating system.

Namely: vibes.

He never tells you what’s planned ahead of time. Any attempt to coax details out of him is met with a grin that suggests he’s enjoying your mild irritation far too much to give it up now. “Trust me,” he keeps saying, like that alone should be enough to override years of habit and common sense.

At the end of your first week in Amalfi, you’re starting to suspect it might actually be the case because that’s the day he wakes you up at four in the morning.

You surface slowly, still disoriented, the room still dark and cool, and the sea outside nothing but a low, distant hush. For a blissful half second, you think you’ve imagined it—until the bedside lamp flicks on and Nishinoya’s face appears in your line of sight, far too alert for an hour that is meant for sweet, undisturbed REM sleep.

“Morning,” he whispers loudly in Japanese, like he always does when it’s just the two of you.

You squint at him. “It’s… still night.”

He checks his watch theatrically. “Technically, yes.”

You groan and roll onto your side, pulling the pillow over your head. “Nishinoya.”

“C’mon,” he cajoles, poking your shoulder. “This one’s important. Once-in-a-lifetime timing.”

“I am an early riser,” you mumble into the pillow before stealing a glance at the time on your phone lockscreen. “But four a.m. is a little ridiculous, don’t you think?”

He laughs, unabashed. “You’ll forgive me later.”

That remains to be seen.

Still, you drag yourself up, shuffle into the bathroom, and go through the motions on autopilot. You splash water on your face, tie your hair back, pull on clothes that feel only marginally appropriate for whatever fresh madness he’s orchestrated. When you step back out, Nishinoya’s already ready, bouncing lightly on the balls of his feet like this is Christmas morning instead of ass o’clock.

You leave the inn at five while the streets of Ravello are hushed and half-asleep, shutters still closed, the sky a muted blue-gray that promises dawn but hasn’t delivered yet. Nishinoya stays infuriatingly tight-lipped the entire walk downhill, humming to himself while you trudge along beside him, trying not to trip over your own feet.

At one point, you consider texting Lale your location—just in case. He’s charming, yes. Friendly. Endearingly unhinged. But you’ve also watched enough documentaries to know better.

That thought loses steam the moment you reach the harbor.

It’s already alive with motion. Tourists mill about in small clusters, some yawning openly, others clutching steaming coffee cups. A few couples pose for photos against the faint light creeping over the water. The presence of people loosens something in your chest.

You board the boat with the rest of them, the engine rumbling to life beneath your feet. Nishinoya claims a spot along the side and pats the bench beside him. You sit, tucking your hands into your sleeves as the boat pulls away from the dock.

As it picks up speed, the coast slips past in quiet silhouettes, cliffs softened by shadows, and the sea smooth and dark and endless. The wind is cold enough to wake you properly, threading through your hair, carrying the clean, briny smell of open water.

It’s peaceful in a way that feels almost unreal.

You glance at Nishinoya, who’s leaning forward slightly, elbows on his knees, watching the horizon like he’s greeting an old friend. The light catches his profile and something about it nudges at you.

“So,” you yell over the roar of the engine. “Where’re you from? In Japan?”

He blinks, then looks at you, surprised but not guarded.

“Sendai,” Nishinoya answers easily. “Miyagi Prefecture, specifically. Born and raised.”

You nod. “That tracks.”

“Yeah?” He grins. “How so?”

“You did call yourself a volleyball meathead,” you point out as you try to recall some things that Lale’s partner, Kiyoomi, once shared in passing. “I heard Sendai had some strong teams.”

Nishinoya snorts, but the expression that crosses his face afterward is… complicated. Fond, definitely. A little sad, maybe. It’s there and gone so quickly you almost think you imagined it.

Instead of addressing it, he straightens, grin snapping back into place like it’s muscle memory. “Best high school volleyball team in the world,” he announces proudly. “I was the libero. Got called all sorts of stuff: Guardian Deity, Savior of the Court, One in a Million Defender—”

“You’re making those up.”

“I am absolutely not,” he insists, offended. “Okay, maybe some of them. But the Guardian Deity thing was real.”

You smile, listening as he launches into story after story—about impossible saves, roaring crowds, teammates who trusted him with everything. You picture it without effort: him younger but no less electric, throwing himself across varnished wooden floors, fearless and unyielding.

When he finally pauses for breath, you ask carefully, “So… why’d you stop?”

The shift is subtle, but you feel it. Nishinoya’s shoulders relax, his gaze drifting toward the horizon where the sky has begun to lighten, the deep blue thinning just enough to hint at what’s coming.

“I just… thought I needed to see what else was out there,” he says after a moment. His voice is quieter now, but no less sure. “Figure out who I was without all that, and I’m glad I did.”

It sounds genuine. It feels genuine. Yet, there’s something unfinished about it, like a sentence deliberately left without its final clause.

You don’t push. Some things aren’t yours to pry open.

Instead, you sit beside him as the boat cuts through the water, the air cool and briny, the world holding its breath in that fragile space before morning. The sea stretches on in the slowly receding darkness and for the first time since you arrived, you don’t think about where you’re going next.

You just let yourself be carried by the tide.

…

You finally find out where he’s been taking you when the boatman throttles down and calls out their arrival, voice ringing clear across the water.

“Capri!”

The name lands with a strange mix of familiarity and disbelief. Capri Island was printed neatly on your abandoned itinerary, a crucial part of the guided tour you’d ditched without much remorse. You’d assumed you’d get here eventually, just… not like this.

The boat nudges up against the dock, ropes thrown, planks set. People begin to disembark in a loose, unhurried line. You step forward with them, misjudging the distance between the boat and the wooden platform by just a fraction—

—and your foot slips.

The world tilts off its axis. Salt air rushes up to meet your face.

But then a hand catches your waist, yanking you back before your brain even has time to panic. You collide lightly with a solid chest, fingers clutching instinctively at the fabric of his shirt. For a heartbeat, everything freezes.

You look up.

Nishinoya is already looking down at you, eyes wide and bright, breath warm against your cheek. You’re close enough to count the freckles dusted across his nose, close enough to feel the steady strength of the arm still braced around you. The noise of the harbor fades to a dull hum, replaced by the thunder of your pulse.

Then he clears his throat and gently sets you upright, hands lingering just long enough to make sure you’re steady before pulling back.

“Careful,” he says lightly, like he didn’t just pluck you out of mid-disaster.

Behind you, the boatman lets out a sharp whistle, laughing as he rattles off something in rapid Italian. You don’t catch the words, but the tone is unmistakably impressed.

Nishinoya beams and shoots back a reply just as animated, one hand gesturing wildly as if reenacting the whole thing. He offers you his arm as you step down the plank properly this time, steadying you until both your feet are safely on solid ground.

Your face burns.

“Th—thank you,” you manage, mortified and relieved in equal measure.

He just laughs, bright and unbothered. “Hey, I can’t have a future doctor drowning on me. My conscience would never let me live it down.”

You huff a shaky laugh as the two of you head toward town, the early morning still quiet enough that your footsteps echo faintly against the stone. After a moment, you add, almost offhand, “It was a… nice save. By the way.”

“Mm?” he hums.

“I, uh. I don’t know how to swim.”

He stops.

You take two more steps before realizing he’s no longer beside you and turn back to find him staring at you like you’ve just told him the sky is green.

“…I thought you liked sea creatures,” Nishinoya says slowly.

Your face goes even hotter. “Liking them doesn’t mean I’m good at swimming. That’s actually—” You hesitate, then sigh. “That’s part of why I never pursued marine biology.”

The words feel fragile once they’re out, like glass set carefully on a table. You brace instinctively for the familiar dismissal, the way your ex had always waved it off like a childish phase best forgotten.

Instead, Nishinoya just smiles.

“Then I’ll teach you how to swim,” he chirps.

You blink. “But I’m unteachable.”

“There’s no such thing.”

“No, I’m serious.”

He only grins wider. “Then I’ll be the judge of that. Soon, though—not now, ‘cause we gotta take a chairlift up the mountain.”

Before you can argue, he’s already tugging you along, leading you toward a small building with a sign proudly declaring ANACAPRI CHAIRLIFT above the entrance. To which Nishinoya helpfully supplies that Anacapri means 'top of Capri', implying that you’re in for a view. Thankfully, you’re the first ones there, the teller barely looking up as he recites the price.

You reach for your wallet automatically, but Nishinoya’s hand snaps out, stopping you mid-motion.

“I got it,” he says.

Before you can question that, he leans forward and produces something from his small pack—a small glass bottle sealed with wax, pale yellow liquid catching the light. Limoncello. The homemade kind, not the mass-produced stuff lining souvenir shop shelves. The teller’s eyes flicker with recognition. He glances once toward the door, then accepts it discreetly, sliding two tickets across the counter.

Free of charge.

Nishinoya ushers you out toward the lift before you can even process it.

“Did you just bribe that guy?!” you hiss in Japanese as an attendant begins strapping you into your seats.

From the chair behind yours, Nishinoya snickers. “Hey, it’s just a well-known custom around these parts.”

“You really are a cheapskate.”

“Implying limoncello is cheap?” he shoots back, mock-offended.

“Yes,” you say flatly. “That’s exactly what I’m implying.”

He laughs from the chair behind yours, the sound carried easily through the cool morning air.

You’re still mildly grumpy about it—about the bribe, about his infuriating ease with things, about the way he keeps pulling surprises out of thin air—when the chairlift lurches forward and begins its slow ascent. The motion pulls a small, involuntary sound from you as your feet lift off the ground, dangling freely over the slope below.

“Relax,” Nishinoya calls. “It’s sturdy.”

“That’s what everyone says right before something goes wrong.”

“Hey, if we die, at least it’s scenic.”

You huff, gripping the edge of the seat a little tighter than necessary as the lift carries you upward, the forest rising to meet you. The path cuts straight through a stretch of trees, branches brushing close enough that you can hear leaves whisper against one another. For a while, all you see is green and shadow and the pale steel line stretching endlessly above.

Then the trees begin to thin.

You hesitate, then let your gaze drift outward—and stop breathing for a second.

Capri spreads out beneath you, smaller than the main island along the Amalfi Coast but no less striking, its rugged cliffs catching the first real light of morning. The sea beyond it is an uninterrupted expanse of blue, darker near the shore and slowly lightening as it stretches toward the horizon. The sun hasn’t fully crested yet, but its presence is unmistakable now, gilding the edges of everything it touches.

“Oh,” you murmur.

You instinctively reach for your phone, then freeze, suddenly very aware of the fact that you’re suspended hundreds of feet in the air with nothing but open space beneath you. The idea of fumbling your grip and watching it tumble into oblivion is enough to make you tuck it safely back into your pocket.

Nishinoya laughs softly. “Yeah. Probably not worth the risk.”

You don’t answer right away. You’re too busy watching the light shift, the colors deepen, the island slowly wake beneath you. The earlier annoyance fades, replaced by a quiet understanding that settles in your chest.

So this is why he woke you up at four in the morning.

By the time the chairlift reaches the top of Monte Solaro, you feel almost weightless, like the ascent has shaken something loose inside you. You step off carefully, legs a little shaky, and follow Nishinoya toward the edge of the viewing platform.

The ocean stretches endlessly in every direction, an unbroken sheet of blue that makes you feel very small and strangely unburdened all at once. The breeze up here is stronger, cooler, carrying the clean scent of salt and sky. Below, the island curves and dips, rooftops and paths reduced to tiny, orderly shapes.

You stand there in silence, taking it in, letting the view settle into you.

After a moment, Nishinoya glances over, grin softer than before as he takes your hand in his. You let him.

“Worth it?”

You exhale slowly, a smile tugging at your lips despite yourself.

“…Yeah,” you admit. “Worth it.”

…

Sometime later, you wander through narrow streets lined with shops selling hand-painted ceramics, linen scarves, little blue-and-white magnets shaped like fish and lemons and cliffs. You linger, compare prices, pick things up and put them back down again, trying to imagine your friends’ faces when they open these pieces of a place you hadn’t known you needed so badly.

Nishinoya trails along beside you with easy patience, hands tucked into his pockets or hooked through the straps of his pack. He doesn’t buy anything for himself—not once. Instead, he steers you subtly toward stalls tucked a street away from the main drag, murmuring, “This guy’ll knock ten euros off if you smile first,” like it’s insider knowledge meant only for you.

It strikes you, somewhere between haggling for a set of hand-glazed espresso cups and picking out a ridiculous keychain shaped like a squid, that he doesn’t leave pieces of himself behind the way most travelers do.

No trinkets. No keepsakes. No little proof that he was here.

He travels light—just his backpack, his clothes washed and rewashed at Chiara’s inn, possessions reduced to what he can carry without thinking. It’s not that he seems detached from places. If anything, he’s deeply present, absorbing details, collecting experiences with an intensity that makes everything feel brighter. It’s just that once he leaves, he doesn’t cling to physical reminders.

Like he trusts himself to remember.

Or maybe like he’s learned not to anchor himself to any one place for too long.

The thought lingers with you as the afternoon heat presses down, and by the time you end up at a quirky seaside restaurant, you’re still half-lost in it.

You’re staring absently at the water when Nishinoya leans forward with his elbows on the table, that no-good grin sharp enough to cut through your thoughts.

“You’ve been spacing out,” he observes. “Did souvenir shopping tire you out that much, sweets?”

You blink and refocus on him.

He looks… unfairly good like this. A little rumpled from hours in the sun, shirt clinging slightly at the collar, a thin sheen of sweat catching the light across his brow. His dyed blond bangs have fallen out of place, curling softly against his forehead, and he looks energized rather than worn down, like the heat only feeds whatever keeps him moving.

Your gaze drops without permission to the space between your hands on the table.

They aren’t touching. But they’re close enough that the fake gold bands on your fingers sit side by side in your line of sight, matching and unmistakable. The sight of them sends an unexpected warmth creeping up your neck, settling in your cheeks before you can stop it.

What is wrong with you today?

“I-it’s not like that,” you say quickly, lifting your eyes again.

“Okay.” He nods. “Then—is the Noya Tour at least enjoyable for you so far? You seemed to have a great time playing pickleball with the seniors at the Ravello rec center the other day too.”

A laugh slips out of you before you can catch it. “Yeah. I don’t think any guided tour would’ve let me go toe-to-toe with locals in pickleball.”

“Exactly,” he says triumphantly. “That’s the secret. You gotta earn your fun.”

You shake your head, smiling despite yourself.

“Well, that’s great,” Nishinoya continues. “Because we still have a lot of things to cross off your bucket list.”

You eye him warily. “I’m afraid to ask.”

“Teaching you how to swim,” he says immediately.

You groan. “You’re not letting that go, are you?”

“Absolutely not,” he agrees, pointing at you with mock seriousness. “I take promises very seriously.”

You laugh again, and the sound surprises you with how natural it feels. Sitting here with him, watching the sea lap lazily against the shore, you’re struck by the quiet improbability of it all—that of all the people you could’ve met on this trip, of all the versions of escape this vacation could’ve turned into, it’s him you ended up with.

You glance at Nishinoya again, still talking animatedly about some other half-baked plan he’s already dreaming up, and feel something unfamiliar stir beneath the surface.

You don’t give it a name just yet.

For now, you’re content to sit here, letting the day stretch on, grateful in a way you don’t quite have the words for that you met Nishinoya Yuu of all people—and that, somehow, he chose to stay and weave himself into the tapestry of your life.

…

The rest of your stay in Amalfi doesn’t unfold so much as it happens to you, one day bleeding seamlessly into the next under Nishinoya’s cheerful, utterly unapologetic direction.

Somewhere along the way, he takes full control of the reins—and you let him.

There’s a day trip to Pompeii that starts with an obscenely early train and ends with you sunburned, dusted in ash, and laughing so hard your sides hurt. Nishinoya navigates the ruins like he’s been there a dozen times before, ushering you out of crowds and into pockets of quiet where the air feels more reverent. He insists on taking photos of you, angling himself low, then high, then darting sideways with startling speed.

“Trust me,” he says every time you protest.

And annoyingly, every time you look at the results, you do.

He makes you stand framed by crumbling archways, catches you mid-laugh when a gust of wind sends your hair flying, snaps a candid while you’re reading an inscription with furrowed concentration. When you accuse him of secretly moonlighting as a professional photographer, he just shrugs.

“I like catching people when they forget to pose.”

Then there’s Amalfi Cathedral, where you barely get three steps inside before Nishinoya tilts his head back, cups his hands around his mouth, and shouts just to see what happens.

You stare at him, horrified.

“Oh my god,” you hiss. “You did not—”

“I had to know if it was true that it only echoes once!”

You’re escorted out less than a minute later, the attendant visibly unimpressed, but Nishinoya only laughs, apologizing profusely in a way that somehow makes it impossible to stay mad. He makes it up to you by taking you to a tiny seafood place by the docks that evening, the kind that smells like salt and garlic and butter before you even sit down.

It’s there he discovers mid-bite that you don’t like peas.

He stares at your plate. Then at you. Then back at your plate.

“…Are you serious?”

You bristle. “They’re mushy.”

He doesn’t say another word. Just calmly reaches over with his fork and starts picking them out of your dish, piling them neatly onto the edge of his own plate.

“What are you doing,” you ask weakly.

“Protecting you from suffering,” he replies gravely.

You laugh, mortified, as he proceeds to tease you about it for the rest of the trip. Any time peas appear on a menu, he shoots you a look of exaggerated concern. Once, he even asks a waiter—entirely unprompted—if a dish is “pea-free.”

By the second week, you find yourself at Spiaggia Grande, standing at the edge of the beach in a fully modest bathing suit and wondering how you let this happen.

“I still think this is a terrible idea,” you say, arms crossed tightly over your chest.

Nishinoya, already barefoot and ankle-deep in the shallows, grins. “That’s okay. You don’t have to like it. You just have to trust me.”

You hesitate. Then, against your better judgment, you step forward.

Teaching you how to swim is… an experience.

You panic. A lot. One second you’re fine, the next you’re flailing, convinced the sea has personally decided to have you as a snack. Nishinoya stays close the entire time, steady hands at your elbows, voice calm and unwavering even when you’re anything but.

“I’ve got you,” he keeps saying. “I’m right here. You’re doing great. No, seriously, you are.”

You alternate between sputtering protests and intense focus, brows knitted, teeth clenched, refusing to give up even when your muscles start to burn. And somehow—somehow—it works.

When you finally manage to float on your back, arms loose, body supported by the water instead of fighting it, Nishinoya freezes.

“…You’re floating,” he gasps.

“I am?” you squeak, immediately tensing.

“No, no—stay like that!” He throws his arms into the air. “YOU’RE FLOATING!”

The celebration he throws would make you think you’d just broken a world record. He whoops loud enough to earn looks from nearby beachgoers, claps like a proud coach, nearly trips over himself rushing back to you.

“I told you!” he beams. “I knew you could do it! Come on. Freestyle next!”

You’re breathless—not from fear this time, but from laughter and the warmth blooming in your chest that has nothing to do with the sun.

There are smaller moments too.

Sharing leftover pastries from Chiara’s sisters at midnight on the steps outside the inn. Falling asleep on the ferry back to Ravello, your head tipping against his shoulder without either of you acknowledging it. Waking up early just to watch fishermen haul in their nets, Nishinoya translating bits of conversation with exaggerated flair. And lying awake just a few inches away from his snoring form on your shared bed, wishing so badly that you were brave enough to reach out.

Somewhere between all of it, you realize you’re no longer counting down the days.

You’re counting memories instead.

You can’t remember the last time you felt this light—this seen—without bracing for it to disappear. But when Nishinoya laughs, when he looks at you like the world is brighter simply because you’re standing in it with him, you feel something settle into place all the same.

Quiet. Certain. And growing.

…

Your last night in Amalfi arrives quietly—almost deceptively so.

You’d known it was coming, of course. The date has been sitting in the back of your mind like a tide chart you’ve been refusing to check. Still, when Nishinoya finally mentions it aloud over breakfast, the words land heavier than you expect.

He breaks the news to Chiara first.

It’s done gently, earnestly, his Italian rough but enthusiastic as he explains that his wife has to return to Japan early—medical school waits for no one, apparently. Chiara’s hands fly to her mouth immediately. One of her sisters clicks her tongue in sympathy, another shakes her head like this is a personal injustice.

“No,” Chiara says firmly. “We send her off properly.”

You think she means a hug. Or a nice dinner. Maybe a shared bottle of wine.

You are not prepared for a farewell banquet.

By sunset, the outdoor dining area behind the inn has been transformed. Long tables are draped in white cloth, fairy lights strung overhead in soft golden arcs. Someone has hung a banner between the olive trees that reads Arrivederci, amica!, the letters hand-painted and slightly crooked. The air smells like grilled fish and lemon and rosemary, dishes laid out generously—fresh hauls from the sea you and Nishinoya had helped reel in days earlier, alongside plates of pasta and sides you’d offhandedly mentioned you’d miss once you left.

The other guests are invited, too. Laughter spills easily between languages. Glasses clink. Music drifts through the warm night air.

Nishinoya is in his absolute element.

He talks and laughs and gestures wildly, weaving himself into every conversation, making sure no one feels left out. He retells stories from your weeks here with dramatic flair and embellishes just enough to earn laughs without crossing into nonsense. Every so often, he slides an arm around your waist or presses a kiss to your temple, easy and affectionate and convincing.

Too convincing.

You keep reminding yourself that this isn’t real. That it’s gratitude and kindness and performance, that it has to be—because the alternative feels too fragile to touch. Still, your heart doesn’t seem to care. It stutters every time he leans close, every time he smiles at you like this night belongs to the two of you.

Near the end of the evening, Chiara claps her hands loudly to get everyone’s attention.

“Dance!” she announces, pointing at you and Nishinoya. “Under the stars. It’s only right.”

One of her sisters is already seated at the vintage piano near the wall, fingers hovering expectantly over the keys.

You sputter. “Oh no, that’s really not—”

Too late.

Nishinoya grins, grabs your hand, and pulls you forward before you can finish the sentence. The guests cheer, clapping in rhythm as the first notes spill out, soft and lilting.

“Nishinoya,” you hiss.

“Trust me,” he murmurs back, squeezing your hand.

Of course he says that.

He draws you close, one hand settling at your waist, the other warm and steady around yours. You move together easily, swaying more than dancing, the world narrowing until it’s just the two of you beneath the lights.

You look up, only to lose yourself.

His brown eyes are warm and intent, reflecting the glow of the fairy lights overhead. There’s something unguarded there tonight, something gentler than his usual mischief, and it makes your chest ache. You think of the past three weeks in a rush: sunrises and sea spray, laughter and late nights, the way he made space for you without ever asking you to earn it.

Lale and the others had been right. This trip was exactly what you needed.

You just hadn’t known it would come with the quiet, devastating side effect of falling in love with a stranger you were about to leave behind.

The song ends too soon.

Applause erupts around you, cheers and whistles echoing into the night. Someone pops confetti, bits of silver and white fluttering down like celebratory snow. Chiara laughs, wiping at her eyes.

“It’s like a wedding reception!” Nishinoya jokes, breathless and bright.

Chiara beams. “Then you may now kiss the bride!”

The words catch him off guard—you can tell by the way his grin falters, just for a second. His gaze drops to yours, searching, careful.

He leans in, close enough that only you can hear him.

“I won’t actually kiss you,” he whispers. “Okay? Just… trust me.”

You nod.

You always do.

He presses his forehead to yours, breaths syncing, his arms tightening around your waist as the space between you disappears. Slowly, tenderly, he tilts his head and places a kiss at the corner of your mouth—close enough to feel, distant enough to remain an illusion.

The crowd roars.

When he pulls back, the noise fades again, replaced by the dull thud of your heartbeat in your ears. Confetti still drifts through the air, catching in his hair, on your shoulders, around your feet.

Nishinoya smiles at you like he loves you.

And all you can think is that this is the kind of smile you might never see again once you leave, the kind that exists only here, under Amalfi’s stars, in this borrowed moment you didn’t know how to ask to keep.

…

Narita feels… ordinary.

That’s what gets you. After weeks of light and noise and salt in the air, there’s something almost jarring about how everything here simply works. The floors are clean. The lines move. Announcements arrive on time. You step forward when you’re told to, wheel your luggage, keep going.

You’d thought twelve hours in the air might be enough to put some distance between you and Amalfi. Enough time for the memories to blur at the edges.

It wasn’t.

Lale is waiting just beyond the gates, eyes already searching the crowd. The moment she spots you, her face breaks into a smile, arms lifting in greeting like nothing has changed. You return it automatically, the expression practiced enough to pass.

“There she is,” she gushes as she pulls you into a hug. “Welcome home.”

Home.

You nod, letting yourself lean into the familiarity of her for just a second too long.

“I’m back,” you greet her brightly. “I have so much to tell you.”

And you do. Stories spill easily as you walk—about the food, the views, the absurdity of the tours you ditched. You talk about Pompeii and Capri and the ridiculous number of photos you took, about how Italy somehow managed to live up to the hype. You laugh at the right moments. You sound, by all accounts, like someone who had exactly the kind of healing vacation her friends had hoped for.

What you don’t talk about is your last moments at the harbor.

You don’t talk about how Nishinoya had walked you there that morning when the sun barely crested the water. How you returned the ring he let you borrow. How he’d pressed a small bundle into your hands at the last second—a mess of candies, some wrapped in crinkled paper, others clearly from different places, different days.

“Why these?” you asked, startled.

He just grinned, that familiar, lopsided thing.

“Because you’re a sweet person, sweets,” he said simply. “Always remember that.”

You’d stood at the edge of the boat afterward, eyes fixed on the dock as it pulled away from the shore. Nishinoya had waved until his arm must’ve hurt, until he was nothing more than a blur of color against the stone, until even that disappeared into the horizon.

You hadn’t asked for his number. Hadn’t asked if he was coming back to Sendai. Hadn’t asked for anything at all. Because some things were easier to carry if you never let them turn into hope.

Lale listens beside you as you talk, nodding, smiling, and occasionally bumping her shoulder against yours like she always has. At some point, her gaze lingers on you a fraction longer than usual, sharp and knowing in the way only hers can be. She doesn’t comment on the way your voice softens when you mention Amalfi. She doesn’t ask why your hands keep worrying at the handle of your suitcase.

She just says, “I’m glad you went.”

So are you.

…

You go back to your old life like nothing happened.

Classes resume. Syllabi pile up. Your days are swallowed whole by lectures, labs, late-night study sessions where time blurs into caffeine and fluorescent lights. Med school is merciless in the best way—it doesn’t leave much room for wandering thoughts. There are always terms to memorize, pathways to trace, exams looming close enough to keep your mind occupied.

Hazel-brown eyes don’t belong here. Neither does the endless ocean, or the sound of laughter carried on salt air. So you tuck Amalfi away. You tell yourself it was simply a fleeting season, something beautiful because it ended. You move through your routines with quiet competence, smiling when appropriate, answering questions, showing up exactly where you’re supposed to be.

You pretend you haven’t lost something.

You do such a good job of it that even Lale never pushes. She notices, you’re sure of that, but she lets it be. She’s never been the type to pry unless she’s certain something’s wrong, and you give her nothing concrete to grab onto. Just a version of you that’s functional, composed, unchanged.

Weeks pass and then somehow, it’s December.

Tokyo turns cold in earnest, winter settling into your bones with quiet determination. Snow becomes a regular companion—soft at first, then insistent. You finish your final exam of the semester in a haze, fingers stiff as you clutch the paper, relief dull rather than triumphant. By the time you make it back to your apartment, all you want is to disappear beneath your kotatsu and let the world wait.

You shower. You change. You sink briefly into stillness.

Then your phone buzzes.

A group chat lighting up—Lale and the others inviting you out, insisting it’s almost Christmas, and that you can’t keep hiding in your apartment forever. You stare at the screen longer than necessary, thumb hovering over the keypad as you roll some words of declination in your head.

In the end, you go.

You bundle yourself against the cold and head for the station, breath fogging in the air as you board the train into the city. Tokyo feels sharper in winter—steel and glass made colder by the season. You watch the snow blur past the windows and think, unhelpfully, of how different it was from the heat of the Amalfi Coast.

From the way the sun used to cling to your skin.

From him.

Normally, you don’t let yourself linger there. It’s a thought you banish quickly, like touching something you know will burn. But tonight, exhaustion lowers your guard.

You wonder where Nishinoya is now.

You wonder if he’s somewhere that snows. If he’s warm. If he’s laughing with strangers the way he always does. If he’s already convinced someone else to play pretend spouses with him just to save a little money.

The idea makes you snort softly.

A high schooler leaning against the wall near the doors glances at you, confused. You bow your head in apology and look away—only to catch sight of the poster behind him. It was an ad about the decisive match between two Division 1 volleyball teams, scheduled for later this week.

You sigh and turn your gaze elsewhere.

Not tonight. You really can’t afford that tonight.

You disembark at Tokyo Station to a barrage of messages asking where you are. Instead of replying, you make a small detour—a habit you’ve picked up since coming back. Your favorite sweets shop sits tucked between larger storefronts, warm and dimly lit, familiar in a way that feels comforting.

You ran out of the candies Nishinoya gave you months ago.

What they left behind, however, is harder to quit.

You browse the shelves, selecting your usual favorites, barely noticing that someone else is in the store—a lone figure with their hood pulled low and a large backpack slung over one shoulder. Probably a tourist, you assume, murmuring a quick excuse me as you pass.

You don’t see the way his head snaps up.

At the counter, the elderly shop owner smiles when he recognizes you. “Back again, huh?” he says fondly, already reaching for an extra handful to toss into your bag.

“You really don’t have to,” you protest automatically.

Before you can even reach for your wallet, another hand appears, placing additional items on the counter.

“Hey, gramps,” a voice says easily, familiar in a way that makes your chest seize. “Can you add these onto the receipt? I’ll pay for it all.”

You turn.

For a split second, your brain refuses to cooperate.

Because Nishinoya Yuu is standing barely an arm’s length away, the hood of his jacket pushed back just enough for you to see him clearly. He grins at you like he always does, like he hasn’t been living rent-free in your memory for months.

The shop owner looks between the two of you, confused, but shrugs and rings everything up in one transaction when you don’t respond.

You can’t speak. You can’t even breathe properly. You simply let Nishinoya guide you outside with a bag of sweets in hand like you’re afraid you’ll shatter if you resist.

It takes a few steps before your voice finally catches up to you.

“W—What are you doing here?!” you blurt.

For a moment, he just stares at you until he laughs, snow already beginning to gather on the hood of his jacket. “My pals have a pretty big game coming up this week. Thought I’d fly in to watch it myself.” Then his grin softens. “Didn’t think I’d run into my wife the moment I got back, though.”

Your face goes absolutely red. “I’m not your—!”

“Well,” Nishinoya cuts in cheerfully, “we never divorced. And I never took another wife or husband after you.” He tilts his head, eyes bright with something you cannot name. “So that still makes you my wife, sweets.”

You open your mouth. Close it. Open it again.

Something in his gaze makes your stomach twist—too sincere to be brushed off as a joke, too careful to be casual. You can’t tell what it means, and that terrifies you.

“I—I have to go,” you say weakly, taking a step back. “My friends—”

You don’t get far.

Nishinoya steps forward and pulls you into him without hesitation, arms wrapping around you in a tight, grounding embrace. Your brain short-circuits. For a heartbeat, you’re frozen—

Then you melt into him.

You cling to his jacket, fists twisting into fabric as if letting go might undo him. You hug him back just as fiercely, breath hitching as the truth settles fully into your chest.

You missed him.

You missed him so much.

Snow falls quietly around you, the city fading into a blur as you stand there holding each other like this is the only place you’re meant to be. You don’t know what this means. You don’t even know what comes next.

But right now, with his arms around you and his warmth seeping through the cold, all you can think about is how impossibly, overwhelmingly glad you are to be here again.

Right where you left your heart.

…

Me: Rain check? Ran into an old friend. Gotta catch up.

Lale: What seriouslyyyyy

Lale: Bring her to girls’ night.

Me: That’s the thing. He’s not a girl.

Lale: Oh? 👀

Lale: And I’m guessing not just an old friend?

Me: …How did you know?

Lale: I’m your best friend, babes. I just do.

Lale: Have fun out there. Stay safe.

Me: WE ARE NOT DOING ANYTHING LIKE THAT

Lale: HAHAHAHAHA OKAY!!

Lale: Just introduce him to us sometime, yeah?

Me: …

Me: No promises.

Lale: Good enough for me 😙