Haikyuu imagines

It's you- Kuroo

You've always existed on the edge of the group.

Not ignored - never that - but quieter, less obvious. The kind of presence people don't clock immediately because your sister tends to fill the room before you do. She laughs louder, talks faster, leans closer. And somehow, when you both ended up folding into the same circle of volleyball boys over time, everyone just... assumed.

Assumed she was the one Kuroo flirted with.

It made sense on the surface. Your sister teased him openly. Leaned against his shoulder when she laughed. Rolled her eyes at his dumb jokes but smiled anyway. She looked like the kind of girl someone like Kuroo Tetsurō would go for - bold, confident, a little chaotic.

You never corrected anyone.

Because what would you even say?

Actually, he sits next to me when the room gets too loud. Actually, he texts me first when something goes wrong. Actually, he's softer with me in a way he never is with her.

You sit on the floor of Bokuto's living room, legs tucked under you, sorting through takeout containers while the others argue about music. Kuroo is sprawled on the couch above you, one arm slung over the back, posture relaxed. He glances down, nudging a container toward you with his foot.

"You didn't eat much," he says quietly.

You shrug. "Wasn't that hungry."

Your sister's head snaps up instantly. "You noticed that?"

Kuroo blinks, glancing between the two of you. "Yeah. I usually do."

She laughs it off, tossing her hair. "You're so observant, Tetsurō."

But he doesn't look at her when she says it. His eyes stay on you - steady, thoughtful, like he's reading something under your skin.

Later, when people start drifting toward the balcony and the volume rises, Kuroo stands and offers you a hand without a word. You take it automatically. No show. No commentary.

He leads you into the kitchen, quieter, cooler. You lean back against the counter, exhaling.

"Thanks," you murmur.

"For what?"

"For... pulling me out. It was getting loud."

He shrugs, easy. "You always disappear when it does."

You smile faintly. "Guess I'm predictable."

"No," he says. "Just noticeable."

From the doorway, your sister watches. You catch her gaze flicker between your joined hands - which neither of you noticed letting go of - and something tight flashes across her face.

That night, as the group plans a beach day, assumptions start piling up.

"Obviously Kuroo's riding with me," Your sister says, grinning. "Shotgun couple energy."

You stiffen.

Kuroo's response is immediate.

"No," he says. "I'm riding with you."

The room stills for half a second.

You blink. "Me?"

He nods like it's obvious. "You get carsick less. And you hate sand in your bag - I've got room in mine."

Your sister laughs awkwardly. "Since when do you pay attention to that?"

Kuroo finally looks at her. Not unkindly - just firm.

"Since always."

The drive is quiet but comfortable. Windows down. Music low. At a red light, Kuroo glances over.

"You okay?" he asks.

You hesitate. "I didn't mean to make things weird."

He scoffs. "You didn't. They did."

At the beach, it becomes clearer. Kuroo sits next to you. Tosses you a towel before the wind kicks up. Walks beside you when the path narrows.

Your sister tries once - looping an arm through his - and he gently extricates himself, saying, "Careful, you're pulling my shoulder."

Then he comes back to you without thinking.

Later, when the sun dips low and people scatter toward food trucks, she finally corners him.

"Do you like her?" she asks, sharp and quiet.

Kuroo doesn't hesitate.

"Yes."

"But- I thought- you always joke with me, and you smile and-"

"I'm nice to you," he says carefully. "I care about her."

She goes silent.

And when he finds you near the water, staring at the waves, his voice is softer than you've ever heard it.

"They expected me to choose someone else," he says.

You don't look at him. "Yeah. They usually do."

He steps closer. Not touching. Just present.

"I didn't."

You finally turn.

And in his eyes, there's no confusion. No performance. Just certainty.

"I never did. It was always you."