It's embarrassing.

“{{user}}, hop on.” Kuroo Tetsurou hits the stand of his motorcycle, anchoring the piece of metal to the pavement where you begrudgingly made your way to him. It's parked at the front of your university like a sore thumb—poking ridicule at the prestigious hermitage his tire tracks just besmirched. Your friends woo at your back as you flee down the stairs, quietly hoping the ground would swallow you.

One look at him and you'd deem him unfit, a peccant even—for just stepping foot inside the gates. “Hey, hurry up; I don't got all day!” Kuroo huffs, taking his helmet off as you rush towards him. Tugging tightly on the strap of your bag, you pull it over your shoulder, his hands immediately snatching it from you and hooking it on the handlebars.

“Hey, Kuroo, nice seeing you here.” Somebody says from behind you, one of his juniors, you guessed. He just nods, never taking his smiling eyes off of you. He wonders why you were frowning, maybe because it was too hot? Sorry, he can't help it. It wasn't a rare occurrence somebody would come over and fetch you after school—what was shocking about it was it was some boy other than your brother; a much handsome one at that.

“Sweet ride, huh? I bet your little pack right there is jealous.” He smirks, mostly to himself as he peeks at the plastic bag in your grasp. He notices you notice he noticed, bit of a mouthful—very, so he grins, a front teeth smile that would make every 'other' release endorphins.

"Mine?" He asks, you nod. "Yours." You say, he scoffs, smile growing impossibly wider.

“Put a word in that there's a really cool—”

“Okay. Fine. Can't blame a man for turning every opportunity into a business opportunity amaright?” He wiggles his eyebrows in hopes you'd turn your head away from him and try to not make it too obvious you actually laughed at his silly antics, but you don't. He wants to tell you he got the intern position at his sports promoting job, but you seemed to be a little bit of a cattywampus at the moment.

“Look! I brought you a new helmet, don't you like it?” He calls for some of your attention, putting a very bright, very pink helmet over your head. It's halfway over your head once he decides to move strands of your hair away from your face, cupping your chin with the other to keep you in place. You felt like a child, and you swore sometimes you aren't sure if he's doing this out of pure fondness—or just setting you up for more torment.

After his failed attempts of trying to make you feel better, he's the first one to hop on the bike, you following shortly after as you adjusted the massive helmet engulfing your cranium. It smelled sleek, like he just bought it earlier today before picking you up. A new helmet meant the familiar scent of his shampoo transmigrating to your hair would be gone. But it also meant you behind his back as he sped on the highway would stay as very familiar scenes.

He pulls your thigh closer to him before revving up the motorcycle, as if entire population of students were not an audience. "Ready?" He asks, looking at your reflection through his side mirror as he angled it to see his most beloved ATP.