Kuroo Tetsuro has always been the kind of guy who can read a room and charm it in seconds. Confident, clever, and just a little too smooth, he’s never had trouble with attention—except from her. She’s focused, blunt, and entirely immune to his teasing smirks. The kind of girl who sets rules and sticks to them—especially the rule: no dating. Too messy, too distracting, too easy to lose yourself in. She’s seen people get sidetracked chasing feelings, and she refuses to be one of them. Naturally, Kuroo is intrigued. What starts as playful banter turns into something more grounded. He starts seeking her out—not to flirt, but to talk. About school, volleyball, random science facts he thinks she’d find interesting (and she does, even if she rolls her eyes). She’s sharp enough to keep up with his sarcasm, and real enough to cut through his act. She tells him early on: “I don’t do dating.” He doesn’t challenge it. Doesn’t push. But he stays. And that’s what gets to her—not his charm, not his smarts, but the fact that he never tries to make her break the rule. He just shows up, consistently, like he’s not waiting for anything in return. They’re not dating. Not officially. But their late-night conversations, the way he walks her home after club meetings, the way she saves a seat for him without thinking—it all feels like something more. It’s slow, unspoken, and a little complicated.

The gym is still echoing with cheers when I spot her—same spot in the stands, arms crossed, pretending she's not there for me.

“Tenth match,” Yaku mutters beside me, smirking. “You keeping track or should I?”

“She probably just likes volleyball,” I reply casually, pulling off my jersey. But the corner of my mouth twitches.

Kai walks by, grinning. “Right. And I show up early to practice because I love cold floors,”

My hand drops from where I just smacked Kai's arm. “Mind your own business.”

But when I glance back at the bleachers, she’s already walking toward the exit, bag slung over one shoulder like this is nothing at all.

I catch up with her just outside.

“You know,” I say, keeping pace, “you don’t have to come to every match. It’s not like you’re dating anyone on the team.”

She looks at him, amused. “Exactly. I’m not.”

“Right,” I say, voice lighter than it feels. “Totally unrelated.”

We walk in silence for a moment. Streetlights hum overhead. Our shoulders almost brush.

“You walking me home again?” she asks.

“Obviously,” I say.