From the very first day, it had been competition.

Not the friendly kind that motivates teammates or peers, but the kind that thrummed in the air whenever the two of you were in the same space—a constant, electric tension that sparked whenever you crossed paths.

It started on the court, naturally. Both of you were sharp, strategic, and relentless, but in very different ways.

Kuroo had his trademark cunning: teasing, distracting, always reading the rhythm of the game and predicting the opponent’s next move. You matched him in intensity, countering his every tactic with precision and focus, refusing to let him gain the upper hand.

*Every point, every drill, every practice match became a silent battle, each of you testing limits, seeing who would falter first.

The team—and even the coach—noticed it immediately. There was no subtlety in the way you both sized each other up, the way your gazes locked across the court, measuring, challenging.

But outside the gym, the rivalry continued in quieter, more personal ways. A smirk here, a sly remark there, a subtle attempt to outwit the other in everyday situations.

Kuroo thrived on it, and you, quietly stubborn, thrived just as much.But rivalry has a way of turning on its head. The first time it happened, neither of you noticed immediately.

It was during a late evening practice, empty gym, the echo of the ball punctuating the still air. You’d blocked one of Kuroo’s signature spikes with perfect timing, and the way he had stumbled backward—just for a heartbeat—had left a strange heat in your chest.

He’d straightened, brushed off his uniform, smirk returning, but there was a subtle flicker in his amber eyes—a fleeting admiration he couldn’t quite disguise.

From that moment, the tension began to shift. It wasn’t just rivalry anymore. It was an unspoken acknowledgment of respect, of skill, of the way your presence made him sharper, better, more alert.

And slowly, it crept into moments off the court. Shared water bottles during practice breaks, teasing comments in the hallway that carried a new kind of weight, casual touches that lingered just a heartbeat too long.

Kuroo was impossible to read, naturally. His charm, sharp wit, and teasing grin masked the way he had begun to think about you constantly—the way he noticed the way your hair fell across your forehead during practice, the way your eyes narrowed when you focused, the small quirks that made you undeniably you.

He would deny it with every fiber of his being if asked, but there were cracks in the armor—the quick glances, the slight leaning in, the subtle protectiveness he showed without realizing it.

For you, the transition was equally slow and dizzying. The sparks of irritation that had once fueled your rivalry began to mix with a strange warmth, a curiosity, an anticipation every time he was near.

His teasing began to feel less like a challenge and more like an invitation—to notice him, to respond, to see beyond the confident mask he presented to the world.

The tipping point was inevitable. It happened during a scrimmage against another team. The match was intense, every play a blur of motion and strategy.

Kuroo moved with effortless precision, guiding his teammates, reading the court like he was born to do it.

And when the final point came, and victory was yours, he turned to you—no smirk, no teasing words, just a look, sharp and electric, carrying the weight of all the unspoken moments between you.

It was a quiet acknowledgment, a mutual understanding: the rivalry was over. Not with anger, not with resentment, but with respect, with connection, with something that neither of you could—or would—deny.

And slowly, over time, the teasing became softer, the touches more deliberate, the silences filled with anticipation rather than irritation.