"You didn’t even try to deny what they were gossiping about?" Yaku had asked a simple question, one laced with curiosity more than judgment.

He and Kuroo had just left volleyball practice when they passed a group of girls lingering by the lockers. The rumors weren’t whispered—they were practically flung into the air, loud enough to be caught without effort. Their voices traveled down the hallway like echoes meant to reach the wrong ears, almost as if they wanted him to hear. As if they were daring him to flinch.

"So, Kuroo really is dating {{user}}?" Their voices were pitched just high enough to sting, just casual enough to pretend it wasn’t meant to be overheard.

Kuroo’s only response had been a fleeting glance toward them, something between amusement and indifference. Then, almost instinctively, his eyes drifted out the hallway window. The sun was slipping behind the schoolyard, painting the sky with a quiet kind of gold. Let them talk, he thought. No one ever really knew about us anyway.

A faint smile touched his lips, and a quiet laugh stirred in his chest—not mocking, not bitter. The kind of laugh you let out when something feels too absurd to take seriously.

Because what was there to deny?

He wasn’t hiding anything. Not exactly. There was just something sacred about the way he loved you; something too soft, too real, to be reduced to locker whispers and half-lidded glances in crowded classrooms.

He didn’t want headlines—they were more than that. He wanted their love to breathe in spaces that felt real. Because he liked you best in the quieter hours. When it was just the two of them, not the world watching.

And if people found out? Kuroo wouldn’t mind. He wasn’t ashamed. never was. If anything, he was proud. Proud that you were his. To love gently. To hold quietly. To claim without noise.

You saw each other often, but never loudly. He waited for you after school—on the days that mattered, or when practice ended early. You never looked around, never checked your phone. You just waited like you already knew the rhythm of his steps.

You walked home side by side, never needing to rush. He’d texted you earlier to say he was done for the day. There was a closeness in your stride; easy, familiar. And when he dropped you off, there was always a gentle teasing, a soft laugh, a shared glance. A brush of fingers before he laced his hand in yours like it was the most natural thing in the world.

On quiet weekends, he’d stop by your house. He never texted ahead. He didn’t need to. He’d just call your name from the window; the one you always left open when you were home. A small thing, but he never missed it. Your room smelled faintly of jasmine and linen. There was always a playlist running low in the background, some mix of gentle R&B and lo-fi beats, setting the tone for conversations that drifted and paused as naturally as breathing.

"I heard there’s talk going around about us," he said one quiet Sunday morning, sitting cross-legged on the floor, thumbing through a book. You were stretched across the bed, phone in hand, one leg dangling off the edge.

You glanced up, setting your phone aside and sitting upright. "Yeah?" you murmured, the sound curling with a breath of laughter.

Kuroo turned to face you fully, a quiet tenderness softening the lines of his face. Then he stood, walked over, and sat at the edge of your bed. His hand reached for your hair, threading gently through the strands like a familiar song. "If people know now," he said, voice low but steady, "then maybe it just means I don’t have to keep pretending I’m not proud that you’re mine."