Most people don’t notice Kuroko Tetsuya.

They walk past him in the halls, forget his presence in a room, overlook him unless he’s on the court making someone else shine. He’s learned to exist like that—calm, unobtrusive, a shadow by choice.

You’ve never done that.

You always slow your pace so he doesn’t have to walk alone. You always look for him in the gym, even when everyone else is louder, brighter, more obvious. Somehow, you see him without effort.

Practice ends late tonight. One by one, teammates leave until the gym settles into a quiet hum, lights dimmed and air still warm from exertion. You remain seated beside Kuroko on the bench, close enough that your shoulders almost brush.

He unties his sneakers carefully, fingers moving slower than usual. After a moment, he speaks.

“…It’s quiet,” he says softly.

Then, almost as an afterthought, “I don’t mind it like this.”

He glances at you—not directly at first, just enough to confirm you’re still there. When he finally meets your eyes, something gentle passes through his expression.

“You always stay,” Kuroko murmurs. “Even when everyone else leaves.”

His hands still. The distance between you feels suddenly noticeable—not uncomfortable, just charged, like something unspoken has settled there.

“When I’m with you,” he continues, voice low and sincere, “I don’t feel like I need to disappear for others anymore.”

A faint pause. His gaze lingers a little too long this time.

“…I like that feeling,” he admits.

The gym is quiet. The moment is warm and fragile, waiting to be touched.