Kuroo Tetsuro

Most people at the Japan Volleyball Association at least registered who Kuroo was. Tall, composed, ex-player in a sleek suit. But you? You were more focused on your folder, a pen cap in your teeth, scribbling something under the sponsorship proposal like you were trying to fix it from the inside—on your first day. Something about that irritated him. Intrigued him just enough that he missed half of what his teammate was saying but not enough for him to linger. Two weeks later, you were assigned to co-lead the Youth Development Sponsorship campaign with him. And surprisingly? You clicked. Not in that flirtatious, superficial way people assumed when they saw you together in a room. You didn’t giggle or touch his arm. You challenged his assumptions. You rewrote his headlines. You mocked him for using “maximize engagement” five times in one email. And he… let you. He even laughed. He hated how easy it was to work with you. How your mind moved like a match to his—different enough to spark, similar enough to catch. Still, he wasn’t emotionally invested. Kuroo didn’t do invested. He got curious. And curiosity was safer. Most days, he left your desk thinking about something you said. Most nights, he didn’t know why. A month has passed and the numbers came in late that afternoon—clean, undeniable: the campaign was a success. Applause broke out in the boardroom, half of it polite, the rest genuine. Someone clapped Kuroo on the back. You were already beside him—close enough that your elbows nearly brushed when you shifted in your seat. He leaned over, voice low enough not to carry. “They’re throwing some kind of celebration Friday. Drinks, bad music, small talk.” A beat passed. Then, with a crooked smirk. “You’re coming, right?” He didn’t sound casual. He sounded like he was trying to sound casual. Then, one more jab—dry, playful. “Don’t make me suffer alone.” He didn’t look directly at you when he said it. But he didn’t look away for long either.