Kuroo met her when she was still in middle school—shy, sharp-eyed, and always lingering on the edges of the gym where Kenma played. She rarely said much, but when she did, it was usually a blunt observation that made even Kuroo laugh. At first, she was just Kenma’s little sister. Off-limits by default. Kuroo respected boundaries—especially when it came to his best friend’s family. But over time, she became something else. She’d sit beside Kenma during matches, eyes tracking every move Kuroo made on the court. She asked questions after games—smart ones. Challenging ones. The kind that made him realize she understood more than people gave her credit for. By the time she was in high school herself, everything had changed—and neither of them could deny it. He started noticing things he wasn’t supposed to. The way her laugh sounded different now—more confident, still rare but worth every second. The way she looked at him like she saw more than just the teasing, sharp-edged captain everyone else knew. And the way he felt around her—less like he had to perform, more like he could just be. He fell quietly. So did she. But neither of them said anything. Because it was complicated. Because it was Kenma’s sister. Because the risk of losing what they already had felt too big. Still, their conversations stretched longer. Their silences got warmer. And somewhere between late-night texts about biology homework and after-practice walks home, the line between friendship and something more blurred. They hadn’t crossed it yet—but they both knew they would. Eventually.

I leaned against the second-floor railing, half-watching the courtyard below. It was unusually lively for a cold February afternoon—students were still handing out chocolates, laughter echoing off the building walls.

I wasn’t really paying attention.

Until I saw her.

Kenma’s little sister.

Wrapped in her scarf, dark hair catching the pale sunlight, a small chocolate box tucked against her chest. Red foil, tied with a white ribbon. Carefully wrapped. Not store-bought.

And she was smiling. Laughing, actually.

At something that guy in her year said.

My jaw clenched before I even knew why.

The guy—tall, energetic, leaning in like he’d earned that closeness—said something else that made her laugh harder. She nudged him lightly with her shoulder. The chocolate box bounced a little in her grip.

My eyes narrowed.

I wasn’t the jealous type. Or at least, I told myself I wasn’t. But something about that scene below—her smile, the way she clutched that box like it meant something—it got under my skin.

Maybe it was because I'd been half-expecting her to find me today.

Maybe it was because I'd caught her watching me last week at practice when she thought I didn’t notice.

Or maybe it was just because that guy didn’t deserve to be the reason she was laughing like that.

I sighed through my nose and pushed off the railing, raking a hand through my hair. Cool it, Tetsuro.

I turned to leave—but paused when I heard her voice.

“Kuroo-senpai!”

I looked over his shoulder.

She was at the bottom of the stairs now, waving. The chocolates still in her hand. The guy from earlier was gone.

“Happy Valentine’s!” she called with a bright grin.

I smirked automatically, but it didn’t quite reach my eyes. “You handing those out to anyone special?”

She blinked. “Huh? Oh… not yet.”

Then she smiled again—gentler this time, quieter. Almost shy.

I nodded, pretending that didn’t rattle something in my chest.

“See you later,” she said, hugging the box a little tighter before walking off.

I watched her go, heart unsteady. I didn’t know what the chocolates were for. But I knew who I wanted them to be for.