Haikyuu imagines

I got you- Bokuto

I didn't plan on ending up on Bokuto's doorstep.

Honestly, I didn't plan on crying, either.

But here I was, standing in front of his apartment door with mascara smudged under my eyes, rain matting my hair to my cheeks, and absolutely zero idea of what the hell I was doing. I wasn't even sure when my feet decided this was where they were heading. All I knew was that I needed to be somewhere safe-somewhere familiar-somewhere that didn't make the ache in my chest feel like it was swallowing me whole.

My knuckles hovered over the door.

I almost turned around.

But then the door swung open before I even touched it.

"Y/N?" Bokuto froze. His hair was down, soft and messy, eyes widening at the sight of me. And then-instinct. Pure, immediate, unstoppable instinct.

He didn't ask. He didn't hesitate. He didn't let me fall apart alone.

He just wrapped me up.

One second I was standing in the hallway trying not to break; the next, my face was pressed into his chest and his arms were banded tight around me like he could hold together all the pieces I was losing. He smelled like warm fabric and cedar body wash and something so him that my whole body trembled.

"Hey... hey, hey, hey," he whispered into my hair, voice cracking a little at the edges. "You're okay. I've got you. I've got you."

That was it.

All it took.

I broke.

My hands fisted in his shirt, and an ugly sob ripped out of me before I could swallow it back. God, I hated crying-especially like this, messy and loud and raw-but Bokuto only pulled me closer, one big hand finding the back of my head, the other smoothing down my spine in slow, steady circles.

"It's okay," he murmured. "You can cry, owl. I'm not going anywhere."

I don't know how long we stood like that in the doorway. Time felt weird. Elastic. Like everything outside his arms didn't exist. Eventually he nudged me inside with gentle persistence, closing the door with one hand while not letting go of me with the other.

He guided me to the couch but didn't sit until I did-like he was afraid if he let go, I'd disappear.

"Do you want water?" he asked softly. "A blanket? Hoodie? My bed? I can-hell, I can go beat someone up if you want."

Despite everything, a small, fragile laugh slipped out. "I don't think punching them would help."

"Doesn't have to help," he said seriously. "Just has to make you feel better."

I sniffed, wiping my eyes with the sleeve of my jacket. "You'd get arrested."

"Not if I run fast enough."

"Bo."

"What? I'm quick."

Another tiny laugh. It didn't fix the ache, but it loosened something in my chest.

He relaxed a little at the sound, like my laughter was proof I hadn't shattered entirely. Then he reached out-slowly, giving me room to pull away if I needed-and brushed his thumb under my eye.

"Your makeup's running," he whispered. "Still pretty."

My breath hitched.

Because there was something in his voice-something warm, protective, almost fierce-that made my stomach twist.

He saw it, too. His hand froze, fingertips still resting against my cheekbone. His golden eyes softened and sharpened all at once, like he was seeing me clearly for the first time since I showed up.