Triple Trouble {KuroKen}

Chapter 8

Kenma's POV:

At first, I hadn't thought I'd ever get used to Kuroo's strange, eccentric personality towards both his life in general and his kids. It had been a little while since I'd first started working here, and it got a bit more bearable every day; at least, I could get along with Kuroo rather well whenever he got home from work.

The babies were starting to warm up to me, too; all in all, it wasn't as bad as I might've originally dreaded. Of course, it wasn't the best-case scenario; I still had to wake up at ungodly hours of the night to feed them or change their diapers.

Sometimes, they'd be loud enough even to wake Kuroo up, and he'd always show up in the nursery, eyebrows drawn, eyes worried. It was a bit cute, if I was honest. These kids were lucky they had a dad who really cared about them like he did, despite the fact that he was absolutely hopeless when it came to taking care of them.

He'd learn... eventually. Maybe.

I'd just woken the kids up and carried them downstairs to watch their morning TV – as was the routine, now. It was Saturday, which meant that Kuroo was in the kitchen again, cooking something. I hated to admit it, but he was pretty good; it was extremely surprising.

The image I'd had of the legendary CEO of Obsidian Games was gradually fractured; he was a lot more human than he was made out to be. He knocked into things clumsily, and then he'd laugh loudly at himself for a while before continuing on with what he was doing, the way he and Bokuto would revert to being mindless unicellular organisms when they were together, and he geeked out over the Discovery channel.

I'd brought my laptop down this morning, too. Although I could only stare at the blank page, unable to write down so much as a single word, it was still a start. I chewed on my nails as I stared at it before shaking my head.

I could try later.

Just then, my phone rang. My eyebrows furrowed; who would be calling me? I hadn't talked to any of my friends in a while. I looked down at the screen; it was an unknown number. I stared at it for a second before hesitantly answering. "... Hello?" I mumbled, eyebrows still furrowed as I watched the kids bumble around, giggling at the bright colours and shapes on the TV.

"Kenma?" I froze, my blood running cold. I knew that voice. I knew that voice too well. My grip around the phone tightened, my knuckles turning white. "Kenma, are you there?"

I closed my eyes and took a deep breath. "How did you get this number?" Although I tried to sound cold, my voice wavered. My hand started to shake.

"That's not important... Can we meet? I want to talk to you. I miss you." I could barely suppress the laugh that welled in my chest along with the tears in my eyes, the ones I desperately attempted to blink away; I was hopeless.

I clenched my jaw, though when I spoke, my voice was unusually thick. "No. I'm busy." As an afterthought, I added: "And even if I wasn't, what makes you think I want to see you." I blinked aggressively, biting my lip to stifle the lump that steadily grew in my throat.

I'd practiced this. I knew he'd do this eventually – he'd come crawling back when he was done having his fun. Just like before. I shook my head although I knew he couldn't see me. "And don't call this number again or I'll block you. I'm done with you." Without waiting for him to speak, without allowing him the chance to use his words to manipulate me, with that flattering, sugary voice of his, I hung up.

I put the phone down on the table, closing my eyes as I took a deep breath. When I'd finally managed to calm the harsh beating of my heart, I rubbed at my eyes to get rid of the tears. He wasn't worth my tears.

He missed me, did he? Bullshit. I clenched my jaw and glared at my phone.

"Woah, what did the phone ever do to you?" I startled as Kuroo suddenly spoke, and I looked up, finding him standing in the doorway between the kitchen and the living room, balancing two plates in his hands; the babies had already eaten their breakfast and were oblivious to anything but their fun TV show.

It was almost the same thing every morning.

"Thank you," I said softly as he handed me one of the plates; this had also become part of the routine. It really was atypical, wasn't it? He really wasn't at all how I'd expected him to be. He was a lot less self-important and arrogant than the media made him out to be.

Then again, when was the media actually accurate?