Sometimes, you forget that these volleyball nutheads are still just teenage boys. And teenage boys? They gossip. They argue. They talk about girls just as much as the girls talk about them, maybe more, honestly.

That fact hit you again as you padded toward the kitchen of the training camp, expecting silence and maybe the hum of a fridge. Instead, voices drifted from the lunch hall, low and animated. A few third-years from Nekoma, and of course, Bokuto, all still buzzing with energy. It was Kuroo’s voice you heard first: low, teasing, impossible to ignore. "Seriously, dude? I just don’t get the appeal of short hair."

Kuroo, ever the instigator, leaned back in his chair with a grin, clicking his tongue at Yaku. "Like, what can you do with it? There’s no versatility. No styling: braids, ponytails, buns. Long hair is just... prettier. More elegant.”

You couldn’t help but raise an eyebrow as you hovered by the doorway, hidden just out of sight.

Yaku shot him a glare, clearly prepared to fight him on it. "Short hair is cute as hell, you tasteless, rooster-hair bastard. That’s such a shallow take. Short hair is clean, sharp. Shows off the face better. Plus, it’s way more practical. Not everyone wants to spend twenty minutes wrestling with a curling iron, Kuroo.”

Kuroo chuckled, not at all buying it. “Nah, man. I just think long hair is pretty. Sue me.”

That was the thing about Kuroo: you could never tell when he was being serious, or just playing devil’s advocate for the fun of it. But even now, in this drowsy, late-night moment, there was a little spark in his eyes. A hint that he meant what he said, at least a little.

Bokuto laughed with his mouth full, still working through a granola bar like it was the last food on Earth. The conversation turned to him, but even as Bokuto gave his usual chaotic energy, talking about how he liked “chubby girls” with a mouthful of oats, it was Kuroo you kept watching. Because the way he reacted said a lot. No mockery. No teasing. Just a thoughtful tilt of his head and a soft huh, like he’d never thought of it that way before.

“What about you then, Kuroo?” Yaku asked, half-smirking. “Since you’re suddenly a hair expert, what’s your actual type?”

Kuroo blinked, caught mid-sip of water. “Me? I already said—long hair’s a good start.”

“Yeah, but that’s surface-level. Give us something real.”

He hesitated. Just for a second. Then gave a lazy shrug, like he hadn’t just paused to think carefully about what to say.

“I guess I like girls who seem... put-together, y’know? Confident, but not loud. Someone who’s smart. Stylish?”

You felt something odd settle in your chest at that. It was more specific than expected. Less shallow, too.

“Sounds like you want to date a CEO,” Yaku muttered, amused.

Kuroo just grinned again. “Hey, I’m not saying I’d mind being a trophy husband.”

That earned a round of laughter, Bokuto nearly choking on the second granola bar he'd just opened in the process.

Still, behind the jokes, you caught something else. The way Kuroo’s eyes flicked toward the table as he said it. The way he shifted in his chair, just a little. He was always playing it cool, but there was a reason he spoke the way he did. He wasn’t just talking about looks. He was describing a vibe. A presence. Someone who intrigued him. Challenged him, maybe.

So... Kuroo had a type, huh?