I Was Hired To Write My Ex-Captain's Autobiography, But He Ended Up Confessing His Love For Me

The air in the offices of Gekkan Bungei was always still, smelling faintly of old paper and lukewarm coffee. Keiji Akaashi found a certain comfort in the predictability of it all. The rhythmic clatter of keyboards, the low hum of the servers, the precise columns of text he was paid to scrutinize—it was a quiet, orderly world, a stark contrast to the chaotic energy that had defined his high school years. He was marking up a manuscript, his red pen moving with detached precision, when a ripple of noise from the reception area disturbed the afternoon calm.

It wasn't loud, but it was different. A murmur of hushed, excited voices, a feminine giggle that was quickly suppressed. Akaashi ignored it, circling a misplaced modifier. Office gossip was a distraction he had no time for.

“Akaashi-san?”

He looked up. Yumi, one of the receptionists, stood by his cubicle, her cheeks flushed. “There’s someone here to see you.”

“I don’t have an appointment scheduled,” Akaashi said, his tone flat. He glanced at his monitor. No new calendar notifications.

“He doesn’t have one,” Yumi confirmed, her voice a near-whisper. She leaned closer, as if sharing a state secret. “But… Akaashi-san, it’s Bokuto Kōtarō. The volleyball player.”

The name struck Akaashi with physical force, a jolt that went straight through the floor and up his spine. For a moment, he could only stare at Yumi, his mind a sudden, complete blank. Bokuto. Here. It was an illogical combination of words, a collision of two separate universes that he had worked diligently to keep apart.

He stood slowly, his legs feeling strangely disconnected from his body. He placed his pen neatly beside the manuscript and followed Yumi, his footsteps silent on the industrial carpet. The murmuring grew louder as they approached the lobby. Several of his colleagues were loitering near the water cooler, pretending not to stare at the man standing before the reception desk.

And it was unmistakably him.

Three years had passed, but Kōtarō Bokuto was an impossible presence to forget. He was bigger, broader through the shoulders and chest in a way that his casual, expensive-looking jacket couldn’t hide. The wild, silver-and-black hair was the same, defying gravity as always. He was turned away from Akaashi, speaking animatedly to the other receptionist, who looked utterly starstruck.

Then he turned, a wide, familiar grin spreading across his face as his golden eyes scanned the office, and for the first time, Akaashi saw the change. It wasn't just the added muscle or the confidence of a professional athlete. There were faint, shadowed lines of exhaustion under his eyes, a weariness that his bright smile couldn't fully erase. The boundless, almost frantic energy that had once radiated from him seemed contained now, leashed.

His gaze landed on Akaashi, and the grin became real, a sudden supernova of recognition that lit up his entire face.

“Akaashi!”

The sound of his name, so loud and full of unrestrained joy, echoed in the unnervingly quiet office. Every head turned. Akaashi felt a hundred pairs of eyes on him, and a familiar, unwelcome heat crept up his neck. He gave a curt nod, a gesture that was both an acknowledgment and a dismissal to his gawking colleagues, and walked toward the lobby.

“Bokuto-san,” he said, his voice level. “This is unexpected.”

“Akaashi! I knew you worked here! I had to ask like, three people, but I found you!” Bokuto beamed, his energy sucking all the air out of the room. He was a bonfire in a library. “Can we talk somewhere? It’s important.”

Akaashi’s gaze flickered to the receptionists, then to the cluster of editors still pretending to be busy. “This way.”

He led Bokuto down a short hallway to one of the small, glass-walled meeting rooms used for client calls. It was a sterile box containing a white table and four uncomfortable chairs. The moment the door closed, the soundproofed walls muted the world, trapping them in an intense, sudden silence. Bokuto seemed to fill the entire space, his broad shoulders nearly touching either side of his chair as he sat down opposite Akaashi.

“So,” Bokuto began, leaning forward and planting his elbows on the table, his golden eyes bright with purpose. “My agent—you know I have an agent, right? Of course you do. Anyway, she thinks it’s time for me to write a book. An autobiography.”

Akaashi remained perfectly still, his hands resting in his lap. He simply listened, his expression unreadable.

“She says it’s a good PR move, helps connect with the fans, all that stuff. And I thought, hey! Hey, hey! That sounds awesome! I’ve got tons of stories!” Bokuto’s hands flew up to emphasize his point. “But the guys they sent me to talk to… Akaashi, they were awful.” He slumped back in his chair, his enthusiasm deflating instantly. “They just want to know about the scores. About the endorsement deals. One guy asked me to describe my ‘winning mindset’ in five words. Five! I can’t even order lunch in five words!”

Akaashi almost smiled. It was a familiar complaint, a frustration he’d heard a thousand times in locker rooms and on late-night bus rides.

Bokuto leaned forward again, and this time, his voice was lower, stripped of the usual boisterous performance. The change was so abrupt it was startling. “They don’t get it. They don’t get that the stories aren’t about the winning. They’re about… everything else. The stuff that happens before.” He looked directly at Akaashi, and the full, unfiltered weight of his gaze was something Akaashi hadn’t felt in three years. It was just as heavy as he remembered.

“I want you to do it, Akaashi. I want you to help me write it. Not as a ghostwriter, but with me. As my editor.”

The request hung in the sterile air between them. It was absurd. It was unprofessional. It was also the most Bokuto-like thing Akaashi could have possibly imagined. The dynamic in the room shifted. Suddenly, Akaashi was not just the former kouhai, the quiet setter from a shared past. He was the professional, the editor, the one whose expertise was being sought. Bokuto, the superstar athlete, the national icon, was looking at him with an expression of earnest, desperate appeal. He was asking for help. And in that moment, Akaashi held all the power.

Akaashi let the silence stretch, a tactic he had perfected both in editorial meetings and on the volleyball court. He considered the request from every possible angle. His logical mind, the one that organized his life into neat, manageable columns, screamed at him to refuse. It was a conflict of interest. It was a project far above his pay grade, one that would require time he didn't have and invite scrutiny he didn't want. It would mean letting Bokuto—a force of nature he had spent three years learning to live without—back into his life.

But then there was the man sitting across from him, looking less like a national sports hero and more like the boy who used to show up at his classroom door, begging for extra toss practice. The weariness under Bokuto’s eyes was real. The frustration in his voice was genuine. And the core of his request was something Akaashi understood with a clarity that was almost painful: Bokuto felt misunderstood, and he believed Akaashi was the only one who could translate his chaotic energy into something coherent. He wasn’t wrong.

The thought settled in Akaashi’s chest with a familiar weight. He had always been the one to manage Bokuto, to channel his moods into points on the scoreboard. This was no different, merely a new court with different rules.

“I have conditions,” Akaashi said finally, his voice cutting through the quiet room.

Bokuto’s entire posture straightened, his golden eyes wide with anticipation. “Anything! Name it!”

“First,” Akaashi began, holding up a finger, “this is a professional arrangement. I will be your editor, you will be my client. We maintain that boundary.” It was a rule for himself as much as it was for Bokuto.

“Okay. Professional. Got it.” Bokuto nodded seriously.

“Second, we will not work here.” He gestured vaguely at the glass walls. “The disruption would be… considerable. We will work at my apartment in the evenings.”

Bokuto’s face broke into a grin. “Like a sleepover?”

“No,” Akaashi said, his tone sharp enough to wipe the grin away. “Like a work session. Which brings me to my third condition. We will stick to a strict schedule and a tight deadline. I have a full-time job, Bokuto-san. My time is not unlimited.”

He watched the name land. Bokuto-san. A deliberate, formal wedge he was trying to drive between them. But Bokuto seemed not to notice, or perhaps not to care. The desperation in his expression was completely replaced by a wave of pure, unadulterated relief that was so potent, Akaashi felt it wash over him from across the table.

“Yes! Okay! Perfect!” Bokuto practically shouted, slamming a hand on the table in his excitement. The sound echoed loudly in the small room. “Thank you, Akaashi! I knew it! I knew you’d say yes!”

The relief on Bokuto’s face was overwhelming. It was the same look he’d had after a game-winning spike, the one that said I couldn’t have done it without you. And in that instant, Akaashi felt something deep inside him give way—a tiny, hairline fracture in the formidable wall he had so carefully constructed around the memories of his high school years. It was the first crack, and he had a sinking feeling it would not be the last.