Kuroo didn’t expect the call. Then again, he kind of did. You’d been texting him nonstop the week before your surgery — everything from nervous rants to cursed memes about wisdom teeth and anesthesia disasters. He’d listened, reassured, and teased you in equal measure. But beneath the jokes, he’d paid attention. He knew how tense you were about it, even if you brushed it off. So when your mom called and said you were asking for him, he was already out the door.

You and Kuroo had been close for years. The kind of close that didn’t need a label. He knew your favorite snacks, how you liked your coffee, and what kind of silence meant you were fine versus the kind that meant you weren’t. He knew where you kept your spare key, how your bedroom light flickered when it rained, and which drawer your mom always forgot to close. That kind of knowing came with time — and care.

When he stepped into your room, it hit him all at once.

You were wrecked. Puffy cheeks, gauze stuffed into your mouth, hair flattened on one side from the pillow. You were blinking slowly, dazed and groggy, sunk deep into your blankets like you hadn’t moved in hours. You looked at him, unfocused, but your expression shifted — not exactly a smile, but close. Close enough.

He dragged the chair closer to your bed and sat down without asking, like he’d done a hundred times before. He didn’t look at you right away — just leaned back, stretched out one leg, and let out a quiet breath through his nose.

Then he glanced over, smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth.

“You’ve looked better,” he said, voice low, dry, and a little too pleased with himself.