hi. can I request a kuroo fic where the reader gets cheated on by another player and she starts to not feel like herself after the heartbreak, more quiet and not so happy, just living thru every day until she meets kuroo and he's like the one that is bringing her spark back. a lovely heart-warming fic with a little angst at the beginning
loved out loud
after being quietly broken by a love that made her shrink, she finds herself healing in the arms of someone who loves her out loud—and never lets her forget how proud he is.
starring. kuroo tetsuro x fem!reader
genre. fluff, romance, timeskip!kuroo
wc. 6.6k
cw. mentions of cheating
author's note: this might have to be one of my faves because it's just too wholesome for me
you were the ace.
the golden girl of your school’s volleyball team.
in your very first year, you took your school—an overlooked name with a history of early eliminations—all the way to the finals of interhigh. spring nationals followed right after. no one saw it coming, not from a school like yours, but it didn’t matter. you weren’t just playing the game—you were changing the story. your spikes were lethal, your reads near psychic, and your hunger for victory bled into your team until they believed they could win too.
and they did. over and over again.
after your debut, everything changed. your name started circulating beyond your region—people talked about you in forums, whispered in locker rooms, kept an eye out at matches. the volleyball world started paying attention, and so did everyone else. even your classmates, who didn’t care much about school sports, began treating you differently. you became someone.
and he didn’t like that. not the way he pretended to.
he was your classmate, one of the regular starters on the boys’ team. at first, things felt harmless—two volleyball players dating, training side by side, teasing each other about drills and warmups. you liked the comfort of it. you liked how easy it seemed. and for a while, he was sweet. proud, even.
until your name started rising faster than his.
he began to shift things quietly—nothing obvious at first. just small, measured remarks.
“you’re lucky the team’s built around you.”
“must be nice getting all that attention just for spiking.”
“people only care about you because you’re a girl who plays well. if it were me—”
at first, you laughed it off. said he was joking. but then came the changes in behavior. he started mentioning you in casual conversations like your success was his. like he was the reason you were getting recognition. he’d talk to other people about “his girl” carrying the team, like it made him look good to be with you.
it was never about you. not really. not unless it reflected something back on him.
he’d interrupt your interviews to get his face in the shot. post pictures of you after a match with captions about “training his star player.” in public, he clung to your shine like he owned it. but in private? he chipped away at it.
told you your sets were too aggressive. that you were “too serious.” mocked how you celebrated wins. picked fights the night before games. rolled his eyes when your team praised you. told you it was a team effort, even when you carried match after match.
and so you started shrinking.
you stopped talking about your own wins. stopped letting yourself be excited. you downplayed your highlights, laughed nervously when your name was mentioned. you let him take up space, even in conversations that had nothing to do with him.
when people asked about your goals, you made them sound smaller. safer. you didn’t want to make him feel lesser. you didn’t want to give him another reason to pick a fight.
and the worst part was—you still wanted to believe he cared. even when his attention was slipping. even when he stayed behind after practice more often. even when he stopped calling, stopped watching your matches, stopped showing up.
you told yourself it was stress. training. school. fatigue.
but in your chest, you already knew.
you found out about the other girl during a training camp in early winter. a rival school’s libero. fast. flirty. loud. you’d played against her once. didn’t think much of her until one of your teammates quietly asked if you were okay—because she’d seen them holding hands by the vending machines behind the gym.
you felt it all sink at once. the weight. the ache. the truth.
you didn’t scream. you didn’t even cry.
you just walked straight to the boys’ team gym after your session and waited until he turned around and saw you standing there.
he looked annoyed before you even said a word. like your hurt was an inconvenience.
you stared him down.
“is it true?” your voice didn’t shake.
he didn't even try to deny it.
he gave a half-shrug, like it wasn’t a big deal. like your question was just another thing he had to deal with after practice.
“so what if it is?” he said. “don’t act like you didn’t see it coming.”
you stood there, still in your practice jacket, hands clenched at your sides. he wouldn’t even meet your eyes. he just kept wiping sweat from the back of his neck with a towel like he was bored, like you were the one making a scene.
“you’ve been too focused on yourself lately anyway,” he added, like he was the victim in all this. “everything’s always about you now—your stats, your plays, your interviews. it’s exhausting.”
your heart didn’t even race. you didn’t feel the sting you expected. just a quiet, cold stillness. like something inside you had frozen instead of broken.
you took one slow step forward.
he blinked at you, but didn’t move.
“you used me,” you said, voice even, detached. “you couldn’t stand me shining on my own, so you kept me close until it made you feel small.”
he scoffed. “don’t act like i didn’t support you—”
smack.
your hand met his cheek before he could finish the sentence. a clean hit. just once. not hard enough to bruise. not loud enough to echo.
just enough to cut through the weight between you.
he stared at you, stunned. not in pain—just in disbelief that you actually did it.
you didn’t look away. you didn’t apologize. you didn’t even tremble.
you just stared right through him. face blank. voice quiet.
“you don’t get to talk about support. not when all you ever did was take what I built and try to make it about you.”
you didn’t wait for a response. didn’t give him another second of your time. you turned around, walked out of that gym, and didn’t look back.
you didn’t cry. not that night. not the next day. not even when your coach pulled you aside and gently asked if you were okay.
you just blinked at him, nodded once, and said, “i’m fine, coach.”
because what else was there to say?
you still showed up. still tied your shoes the same way, still practiced until your limbs ached, still threw yourself into every drill like it was all you had left.
but something was different.
your fire didn’t go out—it just went quiet.
muted. heavy. like someone had dimmed the volume on who you were.
you weren’t smiling at practice anymore.
you didn’t stay behind for extra drills.
you didn’t joke with your team the way you used to, didn’t bounce on your toes before a game, didn’t light up at the sound of the whistle. you just played. because that’s what you knew how to do. because it was the only place you still felt like yourself, even if that version of you was slowly fading.
and your team noticed.
your setter hesitated more before tossing you the ball, like she wasn’t sure if she was sending it to the same person.
your captain watched you when you thought she wasn’t looking. even the first-years kept their distance, glancing at you with soft, uncertain eyes.
they were worried.
they didn’t say anything outright, but the silence was thick with it. they saw how your eyes didn’t shine after a win, how your shoulders stayed tense, how the usual glint in your step had dulled.
you were still their ace. still powerful, still reliable, still you—but not fully. like your body was there, but your spirit was somewhere else, hovering behind you in the shadow of something unspoken.
you didn’t mean to carry it into nationals.
you told yourself you’d locked it all away—the betrayal, the hurt, the way he looked at you like your success was a burden. you trained harder than ever, pushed yourself past every limit, drowned yourself in drills and game footage so you wouldn’t have to think about it. so you wouldn’t have to feel anything and for a while, it worked. you looked fine. composed. sharp. the ace everyone expected.
but heartbreak doesn’t vanish just because you’ve buried it. it lingers in quiet places—behind your eyes when you're staring at the ceiling, in the stiffness of your shoulders before a serve, in the silence you carry even when the gym is full of noise. no matter how much you practiced, you couldn’t outrun the weight of everything you refused to say.
still, you fought. you carried your team match after match, shouldered every pressure without complaint. your teammates never said it aloud, but they noticed the difference—the way you spoke less, smiled less, how your laughter was delayed, like you were trying to remember how it used to sound. your coach noticed, too. you heard it in the pauses when he called your name, saw it in the way his eyes lingered on you during warmups, worried but not pushing. no one wanted to risk breaking whatever thread you were holding onto.
the quarterfinal game had been close. down to the wire. your team was barely holding onto the lead when it happened—your spike, the one that had carried you through the tournament, was read too early. it was blocked. hard.
the moment it landed on your side, your body locked. it wasn’t just the point. it was the timing, the finality of it, the echo of the whistle that followed. you’d lost. just short of the semifinals.
you stood there for a second too long. your teammates came in quickly, reaching for you with tearful eyes and shaky hands. they said things like “you were amazing” and “we did everything we could” but your mind had already started folding in on itself.
you should’ve hit sharper. should’ve feinted. should’ve moved faster. maybe if your head had been clearer. maybe if your heart hadn’t been so heavy. maybe if you hadn’t let someone like him take up so much space in your life.
they never blamed you. not once. in fact, they pulled you into the center of their circle, arms wrapped around you in a tight, protective hold. you tried to stay still, to breathe through it, to keep your face blank the way you had for weeks.
but when one of them whispered “you don’t have to hold it in anymore,” something inside you gave way.
the tears came slowly. no sobs. no dramatic collapse. just quiet, hot tears slipping down your cheeks while you kept your head bowed, letting them hold you.
your coach knelt beside you, his hand gentle on your shoulder. he didn’t say much, just called you by name in a voice softer than usual, like he already knew what you’d been carrying. like he had seen it unravel long before this moment.
you let them cry. let them talk. let them grieve the end of the tournament in their own ways. and when they finally pulled apart and started leaving the court one by one, you stayed behind for a few more seconds. just breathing. just listening to the sounds of celebration from the other side of the arena.
then you turned. walked off the court in silence. not angry. not broken. just... empty.
it wasn’t the loss that gutted you. it was everything that had built up behind it. the weeks of pretending. the way you stopped feeling like yourself. the way you still wanted to scream every time you saw his face in the hallway.
and even now, after all that, the worst part was still the same—you couldn’t figure out why it still hurt so much to care.
you hated that it still clung to you, even after everything he’d done. you hated how some part of you still ached when you thought about the way things used to be—before the lies, before the silence, before he made you feel like you had to earn your place beside him. you’d told yourself over and over that he didn’t deserve your heart, but it hadn’t made the ache go away.
the rest of your team had gone ahead, most of them headed to the locker rooms or out to meet their families in the stands. you didn’t want to talk. not yet. not while your throat was still tight and your uniform still damp with sweat and tears you hadn’t meant to shed.
so you wandered aimlessly through one of the side corridors of the venue, someplace quieter, away from the noise and the flashing cameras. the hallway was mostly empty now, the echoes of footsteps distant and fading.
and that’s when you saw them.
him.
standing a few paces ahead, near the opposite wall.
his arm was around her shoulders. the same girl. the libero from the other school. she leaned into him with a smile like she belonged there, like nothing had ever been secret. he looked relaxed. proud. untouched by any of the mess he left behind.
your breath hitched. you hadn’t faced their team today—different bracket, different destiny. your last game had ended far from theirs. you hadn’t even looked at the other side of the arena. you hadn’t wanted to.
but seeing them like that—so public, so fine—after everything he made you feel, it was like a fist tightening in your chest. not because you wanted him back. not even because you were jealous but because he got to walk away clean. like you never mattered.
you lowered your gaze and sat down slowly on the bench pressed against the wall, your legs suddenly too heavy to stand. you leaned forward, elbows on your knees, hands clasped so tightly your knuckles turned pale.
you didn’t cry. not this time. you just sat there, letting the sound of your heartbeat drown out the world around you.
until a quiet shuffle of footsteps stopped in front of you.
you blinked, glanced up—and a hand appeared in your vision, holding out a cold drink.
condensation slid down the bottle, beads of water catching the light. you looked at it, then at the person holding it.
you didn’t recognize him at first.
but he knew who you were.
and slowly, without saying anything yet, he offered it again. steady, patient.
as if to say: you don’t have to do this alone anymore.
you finally looked up.
he stood in front of you, tall and relaxed, with wild black hair that looked like it defied every attempt to tame it. a few strands stuck out in different directions, messy in a way that somehow suited him. his eyes were sharp but kind, golden-brown and observant, like he noticed more than he let on. he wore a red and black Nekoma jacket, sleeves pushed up to his elbows, collar slightly crooked, and the faintest trace of a smirk tugged at the corner of his lips.
“you’re... kuroo,” you said slowly, blinking at him, voice still hoarse from the tears you hadn’t cried.
his eyebrows lifted slightly in surprise. “you know me?”
you nodded, sitting up straighter on the bench. “nekoma’s captain. i’ve seen your plays.”
that made something flicker across his face—delight, almost. a lightness in his smile that hadn’t been there a second ago.
“guilty as charged,” he said with a short laugh, finally taking a seat on the other end of the bench, leaving enough space between you but not so much that he felt like a stranger. “didn’t think you’d recognize me.”
“you’re hard to miss,” you muttered, taking the drink he’d offered. the bottle was cold in your hands, grounding in a way you didn’t expect.
“funny,” he said, glancing at you sideways, “that’s what i was gonna say about you.”
you looked at him again. his voice wasn’t mocking or flirtatious—just genuine. like he wasn’t saying it to flatter you, but because it was true.
you let out a soft exhale, something close to a laugh but still tired. “long day.”
“i figured,” kuroo said, leaning back against the wall, letting his shoulders rest. “saw your game. you were incredible.”
“we lost,” you murmured.
“and you still played your heart out,” he replied without hesitation. “that kind of thing doesn’t go unnoticed.”
you didn’t respond right away. your fingers traced the label on the bottle absently.
“it’s not just the game,” you said after a pause, voice low. “it’s everything else.”
he didn’t ask. didn’t push. just nodded once, like he understood without needing the whole story.
“some days hit harder,” he said, his tone quiet now. “and people don’t always see what you’re carrying behind the scoreboard.”
you glanced at him again, and for the first time in days—maybe weeks—you felt something loosen in your chest. not fully, but just enough to breathe a little easier.
“thanks,” you said.
“anytime,” kuroo answered.
and even though neither of you said much after that, the silence that settled between you wasn’t heavy.
it was calm.
and for the first time since it all fell apart, you didn’t feel alone.
you didn’t exchange numbers that day. it had been a quiet encounter, unexpected but comforting—two strangers sitting side by side in a moment of shared stillness. but something about the way kuroo had looked at you, the way he spoke like he truly saw you, stayed with you long after the tournament ended.
a week later, you found a message sitting in your inbox on one of your social media accounts. it was short, slightly awkward, and signed off with a casual “—kuroo.”
“hey. i hope you’ve been doing okay. i should’ve asked for your number that day, but i didn’t wanna come off weird. anyway, just wanted to say again—you played amazing. i meant it.”
you stared at the message longer than you meant to, rereading it twice before replying and once you did, the conversation never really stopped.
he was easy to talk to—witty, warm, and never too serious unless you needed him to be. he’d send you physics memes he knew most people didn’t find funny, then immediately follow them with a dumb cat meme to balance it out. he greeted you good morning like it was second nature and always asked how your day went, even if he was busy with his own.
sometimes you’d find yourself smiling at your phone before even realizing it.
and your teammates definitely noticed.
they’d catch you typing during water breaks, lingering near your bag after practice just a bit longer, your expression softer, lighter. one of the first-years once whispered, “is she… laughing?” like it was some rare miracle. your captain raised an eyebrow during one drill and muttered, “i don’t know who’s cheering you up, but thank them.”
it wasn’t like you’d bounced back overnight. but something had shifted. you were starting to come back to yourself—little by little. your voice was steadier, your focus sharper. you stayed behind after practice again, asked to review your spikes, pushed for harder reps. the heaviness hadn’t vanished, but it was easier to carry now.
then, one afternoon during a long, hot training session, you turned toward the gym doors mid-drill and nearly lost your footing. there he was—kuroo tetsurō, standing just outside, leaning against the doorway with his arms crossed and the same stupidly familiar smirk on his face.
he was wearing his nekoma jacket, casual over a plain black tee, hair just as wild as you remembered. his presence didn’t draw a lot of attention at first—until a few of your teammates started whispering, and then gasping when they realized exactly who he was.
you blinked at him, panting and still catching your breath from the last drill.
he waved lazily. “hey. don’t let me interrupt. i just happened to be nearby.”
he didn’t. you finished the set. but your heart was thudding for an entirely different reason.
afterwards, while the others pretended not to stare (and failed spectacularly), you walked over to him, towel around your neck, sweat sticking to your skin.
“you just happened to be nearby?” you asked, skeptical.
“totally,” he said, not even trying to sound convincing. “and also maybe checked your schedule when you mentioned it last night.”
you rolled your eyes, but your smile betrayed you.
“figured it was about time i said hi properly,” he added, glancing around the gym. “besides, i wanted to see you play when you weren’t carrying the weight of the world.”
you didn’t say anything at first, just looked at him, heart full in a quiet, unfamiliar way. then you nodded and nudged his arm with your elbow.
“then stick around,” you said, already walking back to the court. “practice isn’t over yet.”
and this time, when you looked back, he was still there—watching, smiling, waiting.
kuroo watched you with a quiet kind of pride—the kind that sat steady in his chest, like he knew exactly how much it took for you to stand on that court again.
he leaned against the wall just outside the gym, arms crossed, a small grin tugging at the corners of his mouth as he followed your movements with his eyes. you moved with precision, your form sharp and clean despite the weight of a long practice. your voice rang out during calls, steady and clear, and when you landed a perfectly timed cross spike, he couldn’t help the soft chuckle that escaped him.
he didn’t cheer. didn’t make a scene. he just watched, quiet and present, like you were the only thing in the room worth noticing.
every once in a while, one of your teammates would glance toward the door and whisper something behind their hand, giggling or nudging each other when they caught him still watching. kuroo didn’t mind. he kept his eyes on you, arms loosely folded, gaze warm and unshakable.
you hadn’t noticed it, but he saw the way you started to carry yourself again. the slight bounce in your step, the way your posture didn’t sag between sets anymore. the fire he’d seen dimmed after nationals—it was coming back. and he was proud of you, not just for how well you played, but for every part of you that chose to rise again after being broken.
he stayed until the very end.
until your coach blew the final whistle. until your teammates gathered around for cooldown and wiped sweat from their brows, until your captain clapped you on the back and muttered something that made you laugh softly.
he waited, hands in his pockets, until you finally jogged over to him, towel slung around your neck, hair tied loosely at the base of your neck, strands sticking to your cheeks.
“still here?” you asked, already knowing the answer.
kuroo shrugged with a grin. “would’ve waited even longer.”
and when you smiled at him—shoulders loose, voice light, that same glow he remembered from the first time he saw you play—he knew.
you were healing. not all at once, not completely. but enough to let someone in. enough to let him in.
he walked you home that night. the sun was just starting to dip below the rooftops, painting the sky in soft oranges and pale blues. the air was still warm from the day, and your footsteps matched as you walked side by side, a quiet comfort lingering between you.
somewhere along the way, he pulled something from his bag and held it out to you. your eyes widened when you saw it—a perfectly wrapped salmon onigiri and a small carton of strawberry milk.
“you remembered,” you said, surprised.
he smirked. “of course. you ranted about how every convenience store runs out of salmon first and how strawberry milk is ‘severely underrated.’ pretty hard to forget.”
you took the onigiri with both hands, crinkling the wrapper gently. you were about to thank him again when he reached for your gym bag.
“give me that,” he said, already slipping the strap off your shoulder. “you carried the team today. least I can do is carry this.”
you blinked, halfway through opening your food. “it’s not that heavy.”
“then it’s even easier for me to carry,” he said simply, slinging it over his shoulder like it was nothing.
you rolled your eyes, but your smile lingered.
you started eating as you walked, chewing slowly, and for a moment there was only the crunch of gravel beneath your shoes and the rustling sound of city traffic in the distance.
then, without thinking too much, you reached out your free hand and gently wrapped it around his arm.
kuroo stiffened for a second, his body freezing mid-step. he looked down at you—eyes wide, caught off guard not by what you did, but by how natural it felt.
your grip wasn’t tight. it wasn’t dramatic. just soft. grounding. like you were reminding him you were still there. or maybe reminding yourself that he was.
“you’re okay with this?” you asked quietly, voice half-hidden behind a bite of rice and fish.
he looked at you for a second longer, then gave the gentlest smile you’d seen on him yet.
“yeah,” he murmured. “more than okay.”
and the rest of the walk home felt easier—like the night air had lightened, like the past wasn’t chasing you quite as hard anymore. your hand rested on his arm, warm and familiar, and every so often his fingers would brush against yours like he was memorizing the spaces between them. the salmon onigiri tasted a little better, the strawberry milk a little sweeter, and your heart a little lighter with every step.
this routine continued quietly, gently—late night texts that turned into phone calls, random memes that made you laugh in the middle of class, small meetups between training and school. he’d tease you when you were grumpy after a long practice, and you’d call him out when he forgot to sleep because of work.
even after he graduated, the closeness didn’t fade.
you attended his graduation in the back of the crowd, dressed in your own winter uniform, holding onto a small gift bag with both hands. inside was a new keychain for his gym bag, a protein bar brand he loved but couldn’t find often, and a neatly folded letter sealed with a small sticker of a cat—because you thought it’d make him smile.
when he finally found you outside after the ceremony, tall and a little flushed under the march sunlight, you walked up to him without hesitation and slipped the bag into his hands.
“congratulations, graduate,” you said softly, standing on your toes to press a quick kiss to his cheek.
his teammates, who weren’t far behind, exploded in cheers.
“ooooh, kuroo got kissed!”
“is that her?”
“you’ve been holding out on us, captain!”
he groaned, but the way his smile tugged at his lips betrayed the fact that he was very much not complaining. he gave you a look—somewhere between fond and sheepish—and quietly whispered, “i’ll read the letter later.”
later that day, you found yourself joining his family for lunch. he’d insisted, saying something about how “it’s not right celebrating without the person who kept me sane through all of this,” and how “my mom’s been dying to meet you properly.”
his mother was kind, his father quietly curious, and the entire meal passed with laughter and soft glances exchanged across the table. it felt oddly natural, like you belonged there, like this wasn’t a new beginning but just another step forward.
but the moment that changed everything came a few months later, during summer.
the lanterns from the festival swayed gently above your heads as fireworks cracked softly in the distance. you had met up after your practice, him after a long day of interning for the japan volleyball association. he looked good in yukata—casual but clean, hair a little messy from the summer air, the smell of grilled food and shaved ice clinging to the streets.
you were laughing about something dumb when he pulled you aside near the riverbank, just far enough from the crowd.
“hey,” he said, rubbing the back of his neck, suddenly nervous. “can i—say something?”
you blinked, “of course. everything okay?”
he looked at you for a long second, eyes warm and steady.
“i like you,” he said, finally. “i think I’ve liked you since your first year—when you led your team to nationals and spiked like your life depended on it. i didn’t say anything back then. figured it wasn’t the time, especially after everything you went through.”
you stayed still. heart thudding in your chest.
“i wanted to be sure you were okay first,” he continued, voice quieter. “and i didn’t want to be just another person who made you feel like you had to give something back.”
you swallowed, something tightening in your throat.
“but now…” he laughed softly. “now it just feels right. and if you feel the same, i mean, i think you do, then… can i finally ask you out? properly?”
you didn’t speak. instead, you leaned in, cupped his face gently between your hands, and kissed him. soft. honest. like you had been waiting to breathe again.
he froze at first, then melted into it, arms wrapping around your waist like he couldn’t believe this was real.
when you pulled back, you whispered against his lips, “you’re right. i liked you for a while too.”
that night, the sky lit up with fireworks above the river, and underneath them, two hearts finally met at the same rhythm.
kuroo was the best partner you could ask for. he never dimmed your light—he made sure you always shone. he never competed with your strength or your success. he celebrated it. he was proud of every stat, every win, every step you took forward. and it showed, in all the ways that mattered.
during interhigh and spring nationals, he never showed up empty-handed. kuroo came prepared like a one-man support unit—salonpas, extra knee caps and elbow sleeves, cooling pads, finger tape in every width and color. he even carried a compact med kit with your name written on the inside flap, just in case. and without fail, at the very top of his bag, he always had your favorites—strawberry milk and salmon onigiri, fresh and cold.
if he couldn’t be there in person because of his work at the jva, your team manager would walk into the gym with a small paper bag right before warm-ups, and you’d know.
he remembered.
he always remembered.
when you won spring nationals, the rush of the final point barely had time to settle before your team tackled you into a group hug. you were breathless, sweaty, grinning like your face might split in half—and somewhere behind you, someone yelled, “your boyfriend’s gonna lose it when he hears this!”
someone else added with a laugh, “nah, he probably already knew you’d win.”
while everyone was cooling down in the locker room, stretching with exhausted limbs and half-changed into travel clothes, your captain nudged you with her shoulder and said, “you really found the right person for you, huh?”
before you could answer, the door slid open—and as if on cue, kuroo walked in with a group of v-league coaches and sponsors, dressed sharp in his jva id card and blazer, clipboard tucked under his arm. his eyes scanned the room until they landed on you. the second he saw your face, a proud grin spread across his.
he stayed professional, of course, but the way his gaze softened when he looked at you didn’t go unnoticed by your teammates. one of the first-years whispered, “they’re so in love,” and the rest nodded in agreement.
later, after the media buzz died down, he waited outside the gym like he always did. you spotted him from a distance, standing near the exit with something behind his back.
“for the champion,” he said, holding out a bouquet of bright, summery blooms. “you make winning look easy, but i know how hard you worked.”
you took the flowers and leaned into his chest, your forehead resting against the front of his jacket.
“was it obvious i cried after the last set?” you mumbled.
he laughed softly, pressing a kiss to your hair. “maybe a little. but you made everyone in that arena cry with you.”
months later, it was your turn to graduate.
you wore your winter uniform, surrounded by classmates in the same deep navy, school pins glinting under the spring sun. it was quieter than you'd expected—more bittersweet. but kuroo was there, standing at the back with a bouquet of pale pink flowers in hand and his camera already out to take your picture the second you stepped off the stage.
you were approached again that day—more scouts, more offers, more opportunities—and it should’ve been one of the happiest moments of your life.
until your ex showed up.
he hadn’t changed much. still smug, still the same fragile ego hidden under a polished smile. he had hovered near the edge of the crowd, and as soon as the spotlight shifted your way, he started weaving through like he was entitled to share it with you.
you saw him a second too late.
but kuroo didn’t.
he stepped in before the ex could get close, his tone calm but firm, hand casually in his pocket like he wasn’t prepared to throw him over the railing if it came to it.
“you’ve done enough,” kuroo said evenly. “you don’t get to be part of her story anymore. let her have this.”
for a second, it looked like the ex might argue but then he saw the way you were watching—unbothered, unmoved, bouquet still in hand—and something in him deflated. he turned and walked away.
kuroo walked back to you like nothing happened, brushing some hair behind your ear.
“you okay?” he asked.
you nodded, heart full, voice soft. “better than okay.”
and as you stood there in your final year uniform, a medal in your bag and your whole future wide open in front of you, you realized—
the best part of all this wasn’t the title or the victory.
it was having someone like him by your side to witness it all.
years later, not much had changed in the way he looked at you. only now, the boy who once stood at the back of your graduation crowd holding flowers had become one of the youngest division heads in the japan volleyball association. as head of sport promotions, he was responsible for driving the face of volleyball to a new era—one ad campaign, press conference, and sponsored tournament at a time and of course, as fate would have it, the face of the v. league's rising star also happened to be the woman he shared a closet and a kitchen with.
to say he was biased was putting it lightly.
technically, it wasn’t against any formal rule for him to be dating a v. league player. but when your face started popping up in every major volleyball promo, interview opportunities rolled in faster than your agency could respond, and your game highlights were the first to get posted after every match—well, people started talking.
some whispered that you only got this far because of your connection. that maybe it wasn’t all skill. that maybe you were just lucky to have someone in your corner with that much pull.
and each time, he heard it, kuroo took it personally.
he didn’t tolerate disrespect, especially not toward you. and while most of his public persona was smooth-talking and composed, the second someone so much as hinted at your success being anything but earned, he was all sharp eyes and cold words. there were a few times when it escalated a little too far—he might’ve called a coach a “spineless gossip” in a press conference, and during one post-match interview, he very loudly reminded the room that you were statistically top three in blocks and serves that season, with or without his name tied to yours.
the jva had no choice but to issue a warning after the third incident. they couldn’t let him go—he was really good at his job, after all—but he did get scolded like a schoolboy in a conference room once. his official privileges were slightly reduced.
most notably: he was banned from using the jva’s social media accounts.
this was mostly because one night, after a particularly rough match, he got tipsy and tweeted from the verified account, “not naming names but if you think she’s only popular because she’s dating me, maybe try blocking her once. losers.”
the post was taken down within three minutes, but screenshots circulated like wildfire.
since then, the jva account had been taken over permanently by his exhausted, overworked secretary—who, despite being younger than the both of you, probably aged a decade every time kuroo opened his mouth during meetings.
“i’m so sorry,” you often told her during league events, trying not to laugh as she massaged her temples.
“it’s fine,” she sighed, scrolling through the brand calendar. “i've just accepted that i’ll retire by twenty-five and sue him for emotional distress.”
and still, she kept showing up to work.
it became a running joke in the organization to remind him to stay professional whenever you were scheduled to appear. someone even made a laminated sign that hung above his office desk:
“you are the head of sport promotions. please stop live-tweeting her stats.”
but professionalism aside, no one could deny how much he genuinely loved you.
he wore your jersey under his coat during matches. he sent flower arrangements to the bench when you hit new milestones.
and when you got your first v. league MVP award, he cried.
actually cried.
in a blazer.
on live television.
off the court, life with him was just as full.
you lived together in a cozy two-bedroom apartment a few train stops away from the city center, tucked between a small neighborhood bakery and a park with too many cats. he claimed the smaller room as his office, though it was mostly a clutter of volleyball memorabilia and half-empty coffee mugs. your schedules were chaotic—early training for you, late meetings for him—but the routine you built was soft and steady.
he made you coffee in the mornings, always two sugars, and you packed his lunch whenever you had time, sneaking little post-its inside with dumb doodles and worse puns. when you came home sore and exhausted, he had your favorite muscle patches ready by the kotatsu. when he came home stressed and talking about brand launches and press disasters, you pulled him into your lap and made him drink water while you rubbed slow circles into his back.
you’d wake up on weekends tangled together under a messy blanket, one of his legs thrown over yours, his face buried in your neck like you were a pillow he refused to give up. breakfast was whatever he managed to cook without burning—usually eggs or instant rice—and the two of you would lounge in oversized shirts, your jersey on him, his hair sticking out in every direction.
on quiet nights, you’d lay across the couch with your feet on his lap, your textbooks open and headphones in while he typed away on his laptop, one hand mindlessly tracing your ankle. and even in the silence, even with the chaos of your lives outside those walls, everything felt still. full. home.
you’d both worked hard to get here and no matter what anyone said, you knew—you earned every second of this love and he would always, always be proud of you.
because in the end, you didn’t just find love—you found someone who never made you shrink to fit beside him, someone who held your hand with pride and stood behind you with his whole heart.
you finally had the love you deserved—loud, unwavering, and always, always proud of you.
