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.

*The party had died down hours ago. Kenma had disappeared inside to game, leaving me and her sitting on the low wooden steps of the backyard deck. The grass was damp with dew, and the summer night air was soft and still.

I sat beside her, unusually quiet, drumming my fingers lightly on my knee.

“You always get like this when you’re overthinking something,” she said, nudging me gently with her shoulder.

I smirked. “Yeah? And what am I thinking about, then?”

“You’re probably wondering if Kenma would kill you if you kissed me.”

“…I mean, yeah. That’s part of it.”

She looked at me—really looked. I wasn’t the confident, teasing Kuroo most people saw. Right now, I looked like someone trying not to mess up something important.

“You’re allowed to like me,” she said softly. “Even if I’m his sister.”

I turned toward her, expression a little more vulnerable now. “I don’t just like you. I’ve liked you for a long time. And I was trying to be respectful, but—now that we’re actually together…”

“You want to kiss me.”

“I really, really do.”

She leaned in first, just enough to give me the green light. I closed the gap.

The kiss was tentative at first—soft and slow, like we were both afraid to break something. But then she moved closer, her hand finding mine, fingers lacing together, and I deepened the kiss with quiet urgency, thumb brushing gently along her jaw.

We pulled back only slightly, breath mingling, our foreheads touching.

Her voice was barely above a whisper. “That was worth the wait.”

I smiled, eyes half-lidded. “Still might die if Kenma finds out.”

She smirked. “Then let’s make it worth the risk.”

I kissed her again—longer this time, with the kind of tenderness that came from years of holding back. And in that quiet moment beneath the stars, nothing else mattered.

Not Kenma, not the timing, not the risk.

Just her. Just us.*