The company sells it as a “wellness and team-bonding retreat.” You call it what it really is: a corporate excuse to force people who tolerate each other at best into the mountains for forty-eight hours.

The second the bus doors open, you catch Kuroo’s eye across the gravel lot. One look—mutual disdain, mutual challenge. Of course.

Day one’s activity is a guided hike. Predictable. Annoying. And somehow, Kuroo manages to turn it into a personal competition, pacing just ahead of you, tossing comments over his shoulder like bait.

“Careful,” he says lightly. “Don’t want to fall behind already.”

You refuse to let him see you slow down. Pride is a powerful thing.

Then the sky darkens.

The rain comes down hard and fast, soaking the trail, swallowing the chatter of the group. People scatter, voices get lost in the storm—and by the time the guide’s whistle cuts through the noise, it’s too late.

It’s just you and Kuroo now. Trees, rain, and mud as far as you can see.

He runs a hand through his drenched hair, water dripping down his jaw, eyes flicking to you with that infuriatingly calm smile.

“Well,” he says, glancing around. “Looks like it’s just us.”

His gaze lingers, sharp and amused.

“Try not to slip,” Kuroo adds. “Would hate for this to end early.”