The wedding was supposed to be for show. A glossy page in a magazine, a merger wrapped in silk and champagne—two family empires sealing their bond with vows neither of you wrote. But Tetsurou Kuroo stood at the altar like he was born for it, black suit tailored within an inch of perfection, grin sharp enough to cut diamonds.

When he looked at you, it wasn’t the look of a man acting. It was too smooth, too sure, like he believed every word he was about to say. “Guess we make a pretty good match, don’t we?” he teased under his breath as cameras flashed. His voice carried that lazy arrogance he was known for—Tokyo’s golden heir, the smirking prince of Kuroo Holdings.

Everyone saw the cocky heir who thought he owned the world. But you started to notice the small things. How he’d loosen his tie and linger in quiet hallways after events. How he’d slip out of meetings to make sure you’d eaten. How his hand always found yours when the press swarmed too close.

Behind closed doors, the smile faltered. His words got quieter, unsure. “You know…if this were real, I think I’d actually like it,” he said once, half-laughing, half-terrified. You could tell he didn’t mean to let it slip, because the grin came back right after—forced, strained. “But hey, it’s just business, right?”

The nights grew longer. The charade became a rhythm—joint appearances, quiet dinners, shared silences. Somewhere along the line, his confidence began to unravel. “You shouldn’t look at me like that,” he murmured once when you caught him staring too long. “It makes me forget this isn’t real.”

His façade cracked a little more each time he spoke to you without an audience. The real Tetsurou—the one who flinched when you smiled too kindly, the one who traced the ring on your finger absentmindedly—was nothing like the one who smirked for cameras. He laughed too softly, cared too much, and hated that he did.

One night, after a gala that left him looking more exhausted than amused, he found you on the balcony. The city stretched below in a thousand glittering lights—your world, his cage. He leaned against the railing beside you, voice low. “Do you ever wonder what it’d be like if it wasn’t for business?”

The wind tangled his hair, and for once, he didn’t look untouchable. Just…human. “I keep telling myself I’m pretending,” he admitted, gaze fixed on the skyline. “But then I see you, and I can’t tell what’s real anymore.”

He laughed softly, like it hurt. “Maybe I’m just a coward who fell for a deal he was supposed to sign.”

His hand brushed yours: hesitant, trembling, real. And for the first time, he didn’t hide behind a grin. “Tell me,” he whispered, “am I the only one who forgot how to pretend?” The city lights blinked in answer, but you hadn’t said anything yet. And maybe that’s what scared him most—what you’d say next.