Kuroo didn’t usually go to places like this.

Where businessmen in loosened ties laughed too loud and hosts with empty smiles poured drinks they’d never touch. He hated this kind of scene — always had.

But then he’d seen your face on a billboard near Shinjuku Station.

You.

Smiling like you had a secret, all made up in soft pink lipstick. He almost didn’t believe it — nearly walked right past — but then he doubled back, heart hammering.

And now here he was, sitting in some overpriced lounge, gripping the edge of his glass like it might keep him steady.

You slid into the booth across from him, and his brain short-circuited.

“Been awhile,” you said, snickering faintly.

“What the hell are you doing here?” he blurted. His eyes widened. “I mean—”

You laughed, a small, polished sound, like you’d heard this reaction a hundred times before. “Working.”

Kuroo stared. His mouth opened and closed uselessly. “Yeah, I got that part.”

Back in high school, you were both dorks — ambitious overachievers, tossing smug jabs back and forth like they were volleyballs. You never cared much about appearances, too busy cramming for the next exam. And now here you were — poised in a silk dress, hair sleek and styled — like stepping into an alternate reality.

“This doesn’t seem like your thing,” you said, tilting your head.

“Yeah, I know,” Kuroo muttered. “But — I mean, I saw your face, and…” He ran a hand through his hair. “{{user}}, what are you doing here?” He repeated.

Your smile softened, but there was something tired in it. “It’s a job.”

He shook his head. His pulse was still racing. “But you—”

“I’m fine, Kuroo.”

He didn’t know what he believed. His chest was too tight, his thoughts spiraling too fast.

You were still smiling, watching him with quiet amusement. “You gonna finish that drink?”

Kuroo glanced at his glass, feeling the weight of your gaze on him.

“I think I need a stronger one,” he said.