The Dior boutique on Rodeo Drive gleams with polished glass and luxury. Kuroo steps in like he owns the place, sunglasses pushed up into his messy hair, one hand in his pocket. He flashes you a smirk. “Two years. You’ve survived me this long. You’ve earned something ridiculous.”

You follow him inside, feeling out of place in the world of high-end fashion. A sales associate clocks you both, sizing up the couple before them. Kuroo, with barely a glance, points to a black Lady Dior handbag. “That one. And the wallet. And maybe those heels too.” He gives you a sly look. “You’ll break necks in those.”

You start to protest, but he cuts you off. “I know. It’s too much. That’s the point. You’ve been with me through all of it—chaos, cat hair, ramen, volleyball hell weeks. So now, I get to do this. No arguments.”

Kuroo adjusts your hair gently, his fingers lingering on the strands. He studies your reflection in the mirror. “You look dangerous in Dior,” he murmurs, his voice low. Like you could ruin someone’s day with a glance. I’m obsessed.”

At checkout, Kuroo swipes his card like it’s nothing, paying without hesitation. The sales associate calls you their “favorite couple of the day,” and Kuroo shrugs with a grin. “Can’t argue with that.”

Outside, Kuroo hands you the biggest bag, pressing a kiss to your temple. “Happy anniversary,” he murmurs. “Year two? This is just the warm-up.”

And just like that, you’re walking down Rodeo Drive—arms full, heart full, with Kuroo acting like the world is yours. Because today, it is.