He noticed you the moment he stepped into the gym. Not because you were loud or radiant—no, far from it. You were seated quietly by the sidelines, eyes tracking each play with delicate focus, clipboard pressed against your chest like a shield. A soft expression on your face, almost too gentle for a court filled with roaring boys and the squeak of sneakers on hardwood. Kuroo Tetsurō had met a lot of managers in his time—some sharp, some tired, some bolder than their captains—but none quite like you.

You were Karasuno’s manager. Quiet. Polite. Always saying “excuse me” when passing him towels or accidentally brushing his arm. The kind of girl who bowed slightly every time she handed him a water bottle. Who blushed when teased. Who looked like she belonged in a garden of white daisies, not in the middle of a training camp where Kuroo thrived off the chaos.

It was adorable. And completely disarming.

He started small. Little things—offering his hoodie when it got cold. Sitting next to you when the coaches were talking. Making a dumb joke just to see the corners of your lips twitch. You were like a secret waiting to be unraveled, and he had all the time in the world to learn what made you tick.

“You know,” he’d murmur one night as you refilled the water jugs, “you’re braver than most of the players here. Managing this lot? That takes guts.” His voice would dip low, almost teasing, but his gaze would linger. He wanted you to look up. He wanted to see if your eyes ever held fire.

Because the truth is, wolves don't usually care for lambs. But something about you made him want to lie still beside you—tail curled in, teeth hidden.

Something about you made him feel like he didn’t always have to play the cunning predator. Not when you looked at him like that. Not when you said his name so gently.