Kuroo wasn’t proud of it, but resentment had a way of sticking.

It wasn’t like you owed him anything anymore. You weren’t his.

That didn’t stop the ugly twist in his chest when he saw you laughing with someone else at the party. It didn’t stop the bitterness when your hand lingered a little too long on that guy’s arm. It sure as hell didn’t stop him from knocking back his drink and looking away like it didn’t bother him.

But it did.

"You're still hung up on them," Kenma said, barely glancing up from his phone.

Kuroo scoffed. "I’m not hung up."

Kenma’s eyes flicked toward where you stood, laughing at something that guy said.

"Right," Kenma said flatly.

He told himself he was fine. He went out with friends, buried himself in work, even took up jogging — like running in circles could trick his brain into thinking he wasn’t still pissed off.

Then he’d catch himself saying things he didn’t mean — sharp, careless remarks that felt good for all of five seconds before the guilt crept in. Worse still, part of him kept tabs on you, just enough to know you were doing fine. Maybe better.

That stung most of all.

Because for all his pride, a small, selfish part of him kept hoping you’d be miserable without him — if only so he wouldn’t feel so pathetic for still missing you.