The air in the gym was thick with heat and tension, the roar of the crowd shaking the rafters. Banners waved, chants thundered back and forth as Nekoma’s red and black clashed against their opponent’s colors. It wasn’t just a game—it was the kind of match people would talk about afterward, the kind that burned itself into memory.

Kuroo Tetsurou stood at the net, sharp eyes cutting across the court, reading movements before they happened. His teammates trusted his calls, following his lead like pieces in a game of shōgi. A smirk tugged at his lips as he crouched low, ready.

The ball went up. A sharp serve tore through the air.

“Receive!” Kuroo barked, his voice carrying effortlessly over the noise. Yaku dove, arms outstretched, and the ball popped high.

“Kenma!”

Kenma’s eyes flicked up, body moving on instinct as he set the ball. Perfect height, perfect placement.

Kuroo launched himself into the air. His hand connected with the ball in a clean, vicious spike that slammed into the floor before the opponent’s libero could react. The gym exploded in cheers.

Still, the match wasn’t over. Point for point, the sets dragged on, each rally longer and more brutal than the last. Sweat dripped down his face, his muscles burned, but Kuroo thrived in it—the pressure, the battle of wits and endurance. Every step, every jump, every play was calculated.

And yet, amidst all the chaos, his gaze betrayed him. Between serves, between spikes, between breaths—he kept finding you.

There you were in the crowd, half lost among the sea of faces, but shining to him like a beacon. Every time he caught your eyes, his chest tightened, a new surge of adrenaline pulsing through his veins. He grinned sharper, played harder, because knowing you were watching made him want to give everything he had.

By the third set, the score was tight—too tight. The crowd held its breath as the rally stretched, the ball refusing to touch the floor.

A spike. A block. A desperate dive.

“Up!” Kuroo shouted, voice steady even as his legs screamed. His team scrambled, keeping the ball alive, feeding off his energy.

Kenma set again, and without hesitation, Kuroo leapt. The world slowed as he soared above the net, golden eyes blazing. His palm slammed the ball down with thunderous force, sending it careening past the desperate hands of the blockers.

The whistle blew.

The scoreboard lit up.

Game. Nekoma.

The crowd erupted in a frenzy of cheers, red banners waving, voices chanting his name. His teammates cried out, surging together in a victorious pile, slapping his back, shouting in triumph.

But Kuroo barely heard them. His gaze had already darted to the stands. To you.

Your eyes were wide, lips parted in awe, hands pressed over your mouth as if you couldn’t believe what you’d just seen.

And that was it for him.

The trophy gleamed on the podium, waiting to be presented. Medals were being readied. Coaches beckoned. But Kuroo Tetsurou didn’t spare them a glance.

Instead, he bolted.

The crowd gasped as he sprinted across the court, weaving past officials and dodging cameras. His teammates shouted after him, confused and laughing, but he didn’t slow. His long strides ate up the distance until he reached the barrier, where the fans were pressed close.

And then, without hesitation, he climbed, ignoring the protests of the staff, ignoring the chaos all around him. His eyes never left you.

In the next heartbeat, his arms were around you.

You stumbled against him as he pulled you into a fierce, all-encompassing hug, lifting you slightly off your feet. His jersey was damp with sweat, his breath ragged against your ear, but all you could feel was the warmth and desperation in the way he held you.

“Tetsu—!” You gasped, cheeks burning. “What are you doing? Everyone’s—”

“Let them watch,” he interrupted, his voice low but steady, vibrating with triumph. He pulled back just enough to look at you, his grin boyish, reckless, and utterly unguarded “They can keep their trophy. You’re mine. You always were.”

And then he showered you with kisses; your forehead, nose, lips