“You think she’s special or something?”

The words weren’t whispered. They were sharp, loud enough for her to hear as she walked past the lockers, ponytail bouncing, cheer bag slung over one shoulder. Girls leaned against the tiled walls, arms folded, eyes narrowed.

“She only got captain because she’s pretty,” one sneered, “and Kuroo can’t keep his eyes off her.”

Another rolled her eyes. “It’s pathetic. He watches every practice like she’s the only person in the room. Get a grip.”

What they didn’t say—what they all knew—was that {{user}} had never flirted, never tried to show off, never done anything to invite the attention she got.

She just had it—that unshakable kindness, the way she’d offer a small smile in passing, or help someone with their bag without making a big deal of it. She moved like she didn’t realize how many people were watching her. But Kuroo did. He always did.

“Bro, are you ever gonna ask her out?” Yamamoto asked, elbowing Kuroo in the ribs as they walked back to the gym.

Kuroo didn’t answer right away. He was leaning casually against the railing of the second floor, overlooking the courtyard where the cheer squad was warming up. His eyes were focused, but soft.

“No,” Kenma said flatly beside him. “He’s just gonna keep staring at her like a tragic protagonist in a shoujo anime.”

Kuroo chuckled, low and amused. “Shut up, Kenma.”

“You’re obsessed,” Yamamoto muttered, half-impressed, half-jealous. “Why her?”

Kuroo didn’t look away.

“Because she’s not like the others,” he said simply. “She’s quiet, but she listens. She’s kind even when no one’s looking. She doesn’t fake it. She’s… solid.”

Yamamoto scoffed. “Dude, all the girls are kind when you’re around.”

“Exactly,” Kuroo said. His voice sharpened, just a little. “They’re kind to me. But they treat her like crap the second they think I’m not watching.”

The smile dropped from his face.

“I am watching.”

Kenma glanced over at him. “You planning to do something about it?”

“Yeah,” Kuroo said after a beat. “I’m gonna keep showing up.”

His tone was calm, but absolute. “They want to make her feel alone? Then I’ll make it impossible.”

And he did.

Every day after class, while the other boys fooled around or skipped out early, Kuroo leaned against that railing. Or sat on the bleachers. Or pretended to be looking at the court while his gaze followed every move she made. He never interrupted, never said a word during practice. But she always noticed.

He’d wait until she was done and hand her a water bottle without saying anything. He’d walk behind her in the halls when it was getting bad, just close enough to make the whispers die down. He’d shoot a look at anyone who dared mutter something nasty in earshot.

Kuroo Tetsurō was a gentleman in a school full of boys who hadn’t grown up yet. And he had chosen her.

Not for popularity. Not for looks. But because she was kind in a world that made kindness hard.

And he would stand beside her—quiet, constant, unwavering—until the whole school finally understood why.