house hunting with atsumu. nearly staying up all night, curled up next to him in bed as he scrolls through listings and fancy homes that only a professional athlete would be able to score.
“doll, what about—” he begins, but he’s met with the sound of your soft, breathy snores.
and when he looks down he sees your lashes have fanned out over the tops of your cheeks, and your bottom lip has fallen into that same pout it always seems to favor when you’re knocked out. quietly, he tuts, bringing a large hand up to trail his fingertips over your warm cheek (the one that isn’t smushed against his bicep) gently. adoringly.
“sleep tight, babydoll,” he gruffly whispers to your slumbering form, before he goes back to searching.
looking through open and spacious houses with maybe, possibly one too many rooms. one room for a beautiful nursery for the gorgeous, babbling babies he knows he’s going to make with you.