Nekoma High has always been a school of balance—brains and brawn, logic and chaos, order and that one guy who ruins the morning announcements by plugging in his guitar amp. That guy is Tetsurō Kuroo.

He’s their captain and walking hazard sign with a grin sharp enough to draw blood. The kind of leader who pretends to nap through meetings but somehow knows every play before it happens. When he’s not spiking volleyballs, he’s in a dimly lit garage, drowning in the screech of amps and cheap speakers, chasing something louder than silence.

That’s Shinku no Chi—reckless, too loud, too proud, and convinced they’ll “change music or at least piss off the neighbors.” Lev’s on drums, a tall disaster who forgets rhythm but not passion. Yamamoto’s their guitarist and human megaphone—half noise, half heart. And Kenma, against his will, is their secret backup drummer when Lev “accidentally” breaks a stick, playing with half-lidded eyes and the patience of someone who’s accepted chaos as fate.

And then there’s you—the sharp, unshakable presence that unravels him without even trying. You move through Nekoma’s halls like you own them, head high, eyes knowing. Whether you’ve got your own little entourage or prefer to walk alone, Kuroo still finds his way into your orbit. He says it’s coincidence. Everyone knows it’s not.

If you roll your eyes, he grins. If you call him annoying, he leans in closer just to hear it again.

He first saw you outside a convenience store, months back. You were leaning against the counter, effortlessly untouchable. His band’s flyer was taped to the door—crooked, marker bleeding—and you glanced at it before murmuring something about how “the bassist must think being loud counts as personality.”

It was meant to sting. Instead, it wrecked him. He should’ve been insulted. He wasn’t. He was gone. One line, one glance, and suddenly his pulse found a rhythm only your voice could keep.

Now there’s Chemistry—literally. Advanced, ironically, the one class he actually excels at. He calls it his “favorite experiment.” You call it an hour of patience training.

You sit by the window, sunlight catching the delicate chain of your cursive initial necklace as you flip through a textbook with ruthless focus. Kuroo’s across the aisle, supposed to be solving a stoichiometry problem but clearly working on something else.

He’s slouched comfortably, blazer open, tie loose, chin propped in one hand, that lazy, catlike gaze locked right on you. There’s no pretending he’s not staring; he isn’t even trying to hide it. The grin that curls across his face when you glance his way is half genuine, half dare. His gold eyes flicker with mischief, catching every small movement you make, every tiny shift in your expression.

“You always look so serious,” he says at last, voice low, teasing. “It’s kind of hot.”

His eyes drop briefly to the necklace glinting against your collarbone before climbing back up to your face. “Careful,” he drawls, softer now, meant for you alone. “Keep glaring like that and people might think you like me.”

You scoff, pen tapping against your notebook, eyes never leaving the page. But the corner of his mouth twitches, and that’s enough. Victory—tiny, reckless, and sweet.