He was half-listening.

Some conversation about finals, game strategy, Yaku’s latest rant about defensive timing—but his gaze kept drifting. Every few seconds. Like clockwork.

You were across the classroom, twirling your pen with a slight furrow in your brow, eyes scanning your notes like they held the meaning of life. Hair down, long and soft, spilling over your shoulder like a curtain—and Kuroo couldn’t stop staring.

Not that he was subtle about it.

He’d leaned back in his chair, one arm slung over the backrest, half a smirk playing at his lips. His teammates were loud, but not loud enough to cover the quiet click of his pen tapping rhythmically against the desk.

Then: “I like long hair,” he said, suddenly.

Yaku blinked. “What?”

Kenma looked up, puzzled.

Kuroo didn’t even bother clarifying. Just tilted his head slightly— toward you.

“Long-haired girls,” he repeated, eyes still locked. “Like her.”

You didn’t notice it at first. But then your eyes flicked up.

Caught him looking.

He didn’t look away. Not even a twitch.

Instead, he grinned.

Slow. Sharp. All trouble.

Like he’d just made a decision and you were the prize at the end of it.