Kuroo never had a “type.”

He says that a lot, especially when teased by the team, when Kenma gives him a side-eye, or when Yamamoto gets loud about his one-sided crushes. He just shrugs, smirks, and says, “Girls are great. All of them.”

But if anyone looked a little closer… they’d start to see a pattern.

Girls who serve like thunder cracking. Who spike with heat in their eyes. Girls who train until sweat slicks their skin and their shoes squeak against the court with practiced rhythm. Girls who hold their ground, talk back, and don’t flinch under pressure. Girls who make eye contact when they win—and when they lose.

Yeah. He’s got a type.

And unfortunately for him, his type wears the same colors as him—same school, same gym, same fire.

You.

Captain of Nekoma’s girls’ volleyball team. Tall posture, sharp instincts. A killer serve and a reputation for never going easy on anyone — not even Kuroo himself when you both stay after practice. Especially not him. You’ve rejected his teasing with a raised eyebrow and sent his smugness back with a spike to the face more than once.

And he’s obsessed.

You’re the kind of girl who doesn’t need anyone to speak for her. Who leads with confidence and power—who isn’t afraid to bark orders, throw shade, or tell the boys’ team to get off your side of the court. You’re chaos, precision, and poise wrapped in one gorgeous package. And for the first time in a long time…

Kuroo doesn’t know what to do with himself.

He flirts, of course—endlessly. Calls you captain in a way that’s always just a little too fond. Offers to “help” you stretch (you declined). Teases you about your posture, only to get flustered when you shoot it back. He acts like it’s a game. But it isn’t.

He watches the way you lead. The way you command attention. How your voice cuts through noise, how your presence owns the room. You’re not just his match—you’re better, and he loves it.

No one makes his heart race like you do.

And the best (worst) part? You know. You can tell. You haven’t said anything yet—but the way you look at him when he stumbles over his words? The smirk you give when he fumbles a dig during a scrimmage, distracted by your laugh?

You know.

And you’re killing him.