Your gateway to endless inspiration
You knew the day was going to be shit when your coffee spilled on your white blouse before 9 a.m.
The rest unfolded like a cruel joke—back-to-back meetings that ran long, a snippy email from your supervisor that didn’t even pretend to be polite, and a presentation you’d poured hours into that got brushed aside for a 'more time-sensitive matter.' By 5 p.m., your jaw ached from how tightly you’d been clenching it all day.
So when your phone buzzed, and you saw Kuroo’s name flash across the screen, your thumb hovered over the green icon. You didn’t want to talk. You didn’t want to pretend you were fine. But you answered anyway.
“Hey,” he said, voice low and familiar. There was a pause, like he was listening for something in the silence between you. "You sound like you had a day."
You scoffed. “That obvious?”
“You get all quiet when you’re brooding.”
You didn’t reply. The lump in your throat had nothing to do with him, and everything to do with the way he could read you like this—without even seeing your face.
He waited a beat, then said, “Come out. First round’s on me.”
You started to decline—already in your sweats, already half curled on the couch—but his voice came again, coaxing.
“C’mon, I’ll even let you rant about corporate dysfunction without rolling my eyes this time.”
That got the faintest laugh out of you. And somehow, twenty minutes later, you were walking into the bar you both loved, the one tucked between a bookstore and a stationery shop, dim and warm and a little too familiar.
He was already at your usual table—second from the back, under the shelf with the crooked leg that made drinks tilt if you weren’t careful. Two pints sat on the table, and Kuroo raised one as you approached.
“Still drinkin’ like a college student?” you teased, sliding into the booth across from him.
He grinned. “Nostalgia’s a powerful thing.”
You took the glass, took a long sip, and finally sighed. It hit your system like a balm.
For the next half hour, you vented. About your boss. About the way the office printer hated you. About how you were so close to throwing your laptop out the window, and how nobody respected boundaries anymore.
Kuroo listened, as always. Interjected only when you needed him to. Smiled over the rim of his beer like he could do this for hours.
Eventually, when the flush of alcohol had softened the edges of your irritation, he leaned forward on his elbows.
“You ever think you’re just lonely?”
You blinked. “Excuse me?”
He didn’t flinch. “I mean—you work hard, you don’t really date, you haven’t mentioned anyone in a while. Maybe it’s not just the job. Maybe it’s... everything else, too.”
You raised an eyebrow. “Is this your way of telling me I'm a spinster?”
He laughed, but it sounded slightly forced. “Nah. Just saying, you deserve someone good. Thought about setting you up with a friend.”
You shrugged, looked down into your drink. “I’m not interested in someone else.”
And that was the truth. You hadn’t been, not for a long time. Not since your second year of college, when Kuroo Tetsurou sauntered into your world like he owned the place—with messy hair, too much sarcasm, and the kind of quiet loyalty that wrecked you. He was all sharp teeth and soft heart, and you’d fallen harder than you wanted to admit. But you’d also accepted, long ago, that he probably didn’t see you that way. So you tucked it down. Smiled when he dated other people. Never said a word.
Until tonight.
You hadn’t meant to get drunk. Not really. You’d planned to drink just enough to take the edge off, to let the tension bleed from your muscles after a long, miserable day. But when the bartender mentioned it was two-for-one night, and Kuroo had raised an eyebrow with that stupid, charming grin, it was all too easy to shrug and say yes.
The drinks hit harder than you expected—smoother, easier, and paired with Kuroo’s low voice and quiet laughter, it was easy to lose track. What was supposed to be one drink became two, then three, and suddenly you were warm in all the soft ways that made the world a little blurrier around the edges.
Your limbs felt too light, your thoughts too soft, and every time he said your name, it rang a little louder in your chest. At some point, you’d slumped further into the booth, propping your chin in your hand and blinking slower with each refill.
“Alright,” he said finally, his voice still light but laced with concern as he reached for your nearly empty glass. “You’re cut off.”
You pouted, dragging your eyes up to meet his, but your grin stayed lazy. "Tetsu," you said, drawing out the syllables, “you’re so bossy.”
“Someone’s gotta keep your chaotic ass alive,” he muttered, even as he flagged down the bartender and handed over his card. He didn’t even look at the receipt when it came.
You watched the way his brows knit together slightly, the way he pressed his tongue against his cheek, like he was both irritated and fond at the same time. Familiar. Comforting.
He slid out of the booth and looped your bag over one shoulder, then turned to offer you his hand.
“Let’s go, before you start snoring in public.”
The air outside was crisp. Night had fallen while you were inside, and the chill that hit your cheeks brought a bit of clarity—but not much. You shivered, and Kuroo automatically shrugged off his jacket and draped it over your shoulders.
You didn’t argue. You leaned into his side, let his arm steady you as you walked together down the quiet street. His touch was careful, guiding. You kept catching faint traces of his cologne—clean and woodsy, something subtle but undeniably him.
“You smell good,” you mumbled into the fabric of his shirt.
He let out a soft snort. “Thanks.”
The cab ride was even quieter. Your head lolled gently onto his shoulder. You felt warm, and his shirt was soft, and you couldn’t stop your lips from parting with sleepy little compliments.
“I like your voice,” you whispered.
He glanced down at you, mouth twitching. “You’re gonna regret this tomorrow.”
“Am not,” you slurred. “You're very kissable. Did you know that?”
Kuroo closed his eyes for a second, breathing in through his nose like he was trying very hard not to react. Under his breath, barely audible over the hum of the city outside the cab, he whispered, "God, it's me again. Let her remember this so I can see the look on her face tomorrow."
When you arrived at his apartment, he paid the driver with one hand and guided you out with the other, keeping his hold steady on your waist. You stumbled once on the sidewalk and clutched at his hoodie.
“Easy,” he murmured, his fingers tightening just a little.
His apartment was dark and quiet when you entered. He didn’t bother with the lights—just led you toward the couch by memory, his hand never leaving yours. You swayed a little as you collapsed onto the cushions, blinking up at him.
“Always takin’ care of me,” you said, voice soft and blurred at the edges. “You’re good at that.”
Kuroo crouched to untie your shoes, brows drawn. “Well, someone’s gotta keep you upright.”
You leaned forward, still gripping the front of his hoodie, and he didn’t pull away. Your eyes met his, blurry but intent, and your lips quirked upward.
“I love you, you know.”
Kuroo froze.
The words were slurred but clear enough to punch the breath out of him.
Your voice dropped lower, more sincere. “I love you. Since the moment I saw you.”
He stopped breathing.
His hands hovered mid-motion over your shoes, his fingers curled like they forgot what they were doing. Slowly, carefully, he lifted his head to look at you.
“What?”
But your head tipped back onto the couch, your eyes fluttering shut.
“I love you,” you repeated, softer this time. “I’ve always loved you.”
“Wait—” he tried again, voice sharper now, a tremor hidden underneath.
But your breathing was already evening out, lips slightly parted, lashes resting against your cheeks. You were out cold.
Kuroo knelt there for a long moment, just staring. The words still rang in his ears, ricocheting through his ribs like they didn’t quite belong to reality.
He sat back slowly, knees folding underneath him, and pressed the heels of his hands to his eyes. Then he dragged his fingers through his hair and stood up, walking into the kitchen without really seeing.
The quiet of the apartment wrapped around him like a weight.
“…Whoa.”
--
The morning comes slowly, dragging a dull headache and a dry mouth with it.
You blink against the sunlight bleeding through unfamiliar curtains, your body heavy, brain sluggish. There’s the faint hum of a coffee machine somewhere nearby. The smell is strong and bitter and achingly welcome.
It takes you a minute to remember where you are. The couch. Kuroo’s apartment. The drinks. Your stomach twists as snippets of the night flicker back—his arm around your waist, the way he guided you up the stairs, the sound of his laugh.
You sit up with a groan, head pounding as the room spins for a second. Your clothes are wrinkled, your mouth tastes awful, and your memories are slippery at best. But when you swing your legs off the couch and catch sight of him—Kuroo, in the kitchen, hair messy, hoodie sleeves shoved up as he stirs something in a mug—you feel it.
That deep, crawling dread.
He looks over as you shuffle in, blinking groggily. “Morning, sunshine.”
You grunt, dragging yourself to the counter as he slides a mug across to you without a word. You catch it with both hands, the warmth seeping into your skin. It’s blessedly hot. And quiet.
You sip slowly, staring into the cup, your head still throbbing. The silence stretches. He doesn’t speak. Just leans against the counter and sips from his own mug like this is normal. Like you didn’t say something earth-shattering last night.
Eventually, he breaks it. “You remember anything from last night?”
You blink, then close your eyes for a second, willing your sluggish brain to scroll back through the hazy reel of the evening. “We went to the bar,” you murmur slowly. “You were already there when I came in. There was a drink waiting. A pint—of course. I think I complained about work for forty-five minutes straight.”
You pause to take a sip of coffee, your eyes still narrowed in concentration.
“I had the first two drinks faster than I should have. You were teasing me about my tolerance—"
You stop.
The cab. His jacket. His arm around your waist. The stairs.
“Oh my god,” you whisper, a spike of panic hitting your chest. “And you helped me back to your pla—OH MY GOD.”
Kuroo raises a brow, trying—failing—to hide the smirk that curls onto his face.
You set the mug down a little too hard. "I didn't mean it," you blurt, voice too high. "I mean—I was drunk. Very drunk. You know how I get, right? I say stupid things, I—"
You wave a hand vaguely in the air, flushing deeper. "It didn’t mean anything. I mean, obviously I care about you, we’ve always been really good friends, and I didn’t—"
Your words trip over themselves like dominoes, spiraling into panic as you try to claw your way out of whatever you admitted the night before. Your face is on fire, your fingers drumming anxiously against the side of your mug.
And Kuroo just watches you, quietly amused. Something fond in his eyes. Like he’s letting you run your mouth on purpose.
Then he sets down his cup, crosses the space between you, and gently cups your face in his hands.
You freeze.
“And here I was thinking I’d break first,” he says, voice low and warm.
You stare at him, mouth parted, utterly lost.
“…But you wanted to set me up…?” you whisper, your voice cracking mid-sentence.
He huffs a laugh, brushing his thumb over your cheek. “Oh, screw that. You’re mine now.”
You blink up at him, blinking hard like your brain is trying to keep up. “Wait, you mean that?”
He nods slowly, his hands still cradling your face. “I do. I meant it last night, too. You passed out before I could say anything, but I meant to.”
There’s a pause, the kind that’s too soft to be awkward—just full of all the things that didn’t have time to be said. “I’ve loved you for a long time,” he adds quietly, voice going a little rough at the edges. “Guess I just needed you to drunkenly beat me to it.”
The laugh that slips out of you is half a breath and half a sob, surprised and stunned and disbelieving. “Oh my god.”
He grins, leaning his forehead against yours for a second, and the two of you just stand there, smiling quietly into each other like the world finally makes sense.
Then you squeeze his hands once, step back with a wince, and say, “I’m going to go throw up.”
He lets go of you immediately, one eyebrow lifting. “From excitement?”
You’re already wobbling toward the bathroom, one hand raised in defeat. “Alcohol poisoning.”
He leans against the counter, grinning to himself. “Yeah, that too.”
You’re not sure when it started. Maybe sometime last week, maybe even before that—but the switch flipped quietly, without warning. One minute you were just a little tired, a little bloated, trying to get comfortable with the weird limbo that is second trimester pregnancy. And the next?
You were staring at your husband like he was carved from marble. Like every movement of his arms under that damn fitted black t-shirt was offensive. Like the way his voice dipped when he answered a work call should be punishable by law.
You hadn’t touched him in days—partly because you were tired, partly because the two of you were still adjusting to the wave of appointments and vitamins and new routines. But now, now your skin feels too tight for your body. You can’t stop thinking about his hands. His stupid smirk. The stretch of muscle across his stomach when he reaches for the top shelf. You keep shifting in your chair at the kitchen table, thighs pressed together as you half-watch him move around the apartment, trying not to combust every time he bends to grab something or stretches his arms over his head like a personal attack.
You're four months pregnant, and your hormones are holding you hostage.
But how the hell are you supposed to say that? Hey honey, I want you so bad it’s making me delusional? You’re turning me on just by walking?
You'd rather burst into flames.
So instead, you sit quietly, pretending to scroll through your phone while your eyes flicker up to him every ten seconds like a heat-seeking missile. You’re trying to be subtle. You really are.
Unfortunately for you, Kuroo Tetsurou has known you long enough to spot a mood shift from fifty paces away—and he’s been watching. Smugly. Patiently. Waiting.
The first hint that you’ve been caught comes when he strolls by with a bowl of chopped strawberries, casually plucks one from the bowl, and leans over to offer it to you without a word. You’re caught off guard, lips parting automatically as he feeds it to you. Your teeth graze the tip of his fingers, just barely, and his lips twitch.
He doesn’t move. Just watches you chew. Slow. Calm.
Then, in a voice dipped in dry amusement: “You’ve been staring at me for twenty minutes.”
You blink, swallow. “I haven’t.”
“Mm,” he hums, straightening up. “Sure you haven’t.”
You grit your teeth. Heat burns your cheeks. You can already feel the spiral beginning.
He doesn’t press. Just walks around the kitchen like he didn’t just call you out for mentally undressing him on the spot. His movements are so casual it’s infuriating. He grabs a dish towel, wipes down the counter, opens the fridge, all while your brain is on fire.
You stare down at your phone, eyes unfocused, and will yourself to get it together. You just need to act normal. You’re not gonna combust. It’s fine. It’s just hormones.
“You okay?” he asks, voice far too neutral. You glance up. He’s leaning against the counter now, arms crossed over that broad chest, eyebrow lifted in feigned innocence.
“Yeah. Why?”
“You’re flushed.” His head tilts. “You hot?”
“I’m fine.”
“You sure?”
You shift in your seat, pressing your knees together. “Yes.”
Another pause. Then:
“You hungry?”
Your eyes shoot to him instinctively—and that’s when you realize he knows. Not just suspects. Not maybe. Knows.
And worse: he’s enjoying it.
Your mouth opens, but no sound comes out. You look away again, hands gripping your phone like it might save you from yourself.
When he crosses the room, you don’t even notice until he’s crouching beside your chair, resting one arm on the armrest, the other hand brushing lightly over your thigh. You freeze.
“Sweetheart,” he says, voice dipped in syrup, eyes glinting with something dangerous, “you’ve been lookin’ at me like you want to climb me.”
You blink rapidly. “That’s not—”
“You sigh every time I stretch.” His fingers trace up to your knee. “You squirm when I talk. You’ve eaten, slept, and had your iron supplements. So unless there’s a sudden new strawberry emergency—”
“Tetsuro.”
“—I think,” he murmurs, leaning closer, “there’s something you’re not saying.”
You bury your face in your hands, groaning into your palms. “This is so embarrassing.”
He laughs softly, warm breath fanning over your shoulder as he presses a kiss to your temple. “It’s adorable.”
“It’s feral, Tetsu. I feel like a monster.”
“Monsters don’t look at me like that,” he says, voice low against your skin. “They don’t whimper every time I bend over.”
You groan louder, but your body leans into him on instinct.
“Say it,” he teases. “C’mon. Say you want me.”
“I hate you.”
“You want me.”
“I’m four months pregnant and deranged, don’t flatter yourself.”
“Oh, baby,” he grins, pulling you gently into his lap, “you’re carrying my kid and horny for me? I’m the luckiest bastard alive.”
Mortified beyond recovery, you squirm your way out of his lap, muttering something unintelligible as you bolt from the kitchen. It’s half an attempt to escape, half a desperate grab for your dignity. You make it three steps into the hallway before you hear him laugh—low and knowing—and then feel his hands at your hips.
“Where d’you think you’re going?” he murmurs, lips brushing the curve of your ear as he tugs you back against him. “You’re not getting away from me after saying all that.”
You fumble for a response, but it vanishes the second his hands find the hem of your shirt, fingertips grazing your skin with unbearable slowness. You tilt your head back without thinking, breath catching.
“Tetsurou—”
“Yeah?” he answers, already kissing down your neck, voice infuriatingly calm. “Say the word, and I’ll stop.”
You don’t. You can’t.
Instead, your hands find his wrists and guide them higher. You melt into him like wax to flame.
“Good girl,” he breathes against your jaw. “That’s more like it.”
Before you can catch your breath, he has you gently turned, your back pressing against the hallway wall. His hands settle firmly on your hips, then slide lower, fingers working with a confidence that has your knees buckling. You gasp when he pops the button of your pants, the sound deafening in the quiet space between your bodies.
“Tetsurou—”
“Shh,” he murmurs, his lips brushing over your collarbone with the lightest graze, voice so low and deliberate it sends a pulse through your spine. His hand dips beneath the waistband of your underwear with a languid slowness, his knuckles dragging along your skin like he wants you to feel everything.
“Let me take care of you, yeah? You’ve been trying so hard to hold it together.”
You inhale sharply as his fingers slide deeper, seeking out the ache you’ve been trying to ignore for days. When he finds it—you—it’s like your body short-circuits. Your breath stutters, hips jolting forward as if your body’s been waiting for this exact moment, this exact touch.
His fingers move with maddening precision—expert and unhurried—stroking you in a rhythm that melts the strength from your knees. He presses you harder into the wall, not with force but weight, anchoring you there while your body twists and trembles under his control. His mouth trails along your neck, slow kisses blooming across your pulse point as you gasp, the sound catching in your throat.
"Just relax, sweetheart," he murmurs, his breath hot against your skin, "Let me make it better."
Your hands cling to his arms, fingers digging into his sleeves as your body arches into him. The tension coils tighter and tighter, strung high by weeks of restrained want, the heat of your own embarrassment fueling the need. He murmurs low praise into your skin—good girl, so soft, so perfect, so fucking sweet like this—and the words alone nearly undo you.
And when you do come, it’s a quiet, raw thing—your body trembling in his hold, face tucked against his shoulder, a muffled cry of Tetsurou slipping from your lips like confession. He holds you steady through it, one arm around your waist, the other still curled low, fingers easing you through every last tremor.
When your breathing slows, when the fog begins to lift, his hand gently slips free and he cradles your face, brushing back damp strands of hair with the same fingers that just unraveled you.
“God, you’re perfect,” he whispers, his forehead resting against yours. “My gorgeous, needy wife. All mine.”
Your breath comes out in short, shaky bursts, still reeling, still trembling in his hands. “I can’t believe I—” you start, but the words collapse in your throat, too breathless, too flustered to finish.
Tetsurou chuckles softly, and before you can even think about collecting yourself, he’s hooking one arm under your knees and the other behind your back, lifting you with effortless strength.
You yelp, arms flying around his neck as he princess carries you down the hallway, your face burning hot against his shoulder. “Tetsu—! What are you doing?!”
He glances down at you, grin smug, eyes molten. “You didn’t think we were done, did you?” he murmurs, already walking with you in his arms toward the bedroom. His voice is velvet and heat, wrapped around every word, promising more. “I’ve got you all night, baby. You’re not going anywhere.”
The crisp morning air hit you the moment you stepped outside, your cheeks still flushed with residual heat from the sheer embarrassment of what had just transpired. You adjusted the strap of your bag over your shoulder, tugged your coat tighter around your body, and walked. Faster than necessary, eyes fixed ahead, ignoring the unmistakable ache in your legs that served as an unrelenting reminder of last night.
What the hell did I do?
The question looped in your mind as you trudged down the sidewalk, each step bringing another humiliating flashback. The way his lips had trailed down your throat, the rasp of his voice murmuring your name like a prayer, the heat of his breath against your ear.
The way you begged for him.
You groaned out loud and shook your head violently as if you could physically shake the memories loose. This was bad. This was so bad.
By the time you reached your apartment, your heart was still hammering in your chest, the adrenaline of your walk of shame still rushing through your veins. The second your key turned in the lock and you pushed the door open, a familiar weight landed against your legs.
“Hey, buddy,” you murmured, bending down to scoop up your cat, pressing your face into his fur for a moment of comfort. He meowed in response, blinking up at you with wide eyes before batting at the collar of your coat.
At least he wasn’t judging you.
You set him down and made a beeline for the shower, peeling off your clothes as fast as you could. You needed to wash off Kuroo Tetsurou, scrub away any remnants of his touch, his scent, his presence.
But no matter how hot the water was, no matter how much you lathered soap against your skin, it didn’t leave you. The heat of his hands, the press of his body—it was all still there, lingering like an impossible-to-ignore memory.
You groaned, pressing your forehead against the shower tiles, letting the water cascade down your back. Why him? Of all people, why Kuroo?
The man drove you insane. Always teasing, always pushing, always so damn smug. You’d spent years butting heads with him, rolling your eyes at his antics, gritting your teeth at his unrelenting wit.
And yet…
The minute he touched you, something inside you had snapped. You’d met his fire with fire, let yourself get lost in the burn of it.
And worst of all?
You wanted to do it again.
You sucked in a sharp breath and shut the water off, gripping the edge of the shower door for stability. No. No, no, no. This was a mistake. A one-time lapse in judgment.
You would not let yourself fall into this trap.
By the time you were dressed, your cat had curled up on the couch, watching you with half-lidded eyes as you ran a towel through your damp hair. “Don’t look at me like that,” you muttered. “I know I made a bad decision.”
He flicked his tail, unimpressed.
You threw the towel into the laundry hamper and collapsed onto your bed, staring at the ceiling, mind still racing. You had to go back to work on Monday and pretend nothing happened. You had to look Kuroo in the eye and act like you hadn’t had his name spilling from your lips over and over again.
You squeezed your eyes shut, inhaling deeply.
This was going to be hell.
__
The weekend blurred by in a haze of distractions. You tried everything—burying yourself in errands, binge-watching dramas, even deep-cleaning your apartment twice—but nothing worked. The memory of Kuroo was burned into your brain, lingering at the edges of your mind no matter how hard you tried to shove it away.
You could still feel his fingers digging into your hips. The sharp scrape of his teeth against your neck. The husky, teasing laughter in your ear as he dragged you down with him into the mess of tangled sheets and breathless whispers.
You growled at yourself, shaking off the heat pooling in your stomach.
Before you knew it, Monday morning arrived, and the reality of facing him hit you like a freight train.
You stepped into the office, coffee in one hand, your other gripping the strap of your bag tightly, as if that alone would keep you grounded. You could do this.
Thankfully, Kuroo was nowhere in sight. A quiet sigh of relief slipped past your lips as you made your way to your office, eager to lose yourself in work and push all thoughts of him aside.
Settling into your chair, you opened your laptop, sipping your coffee as you began typing out emails, reviewing contracts, and approving documents. The mundane rhythm of work was a welcome distraction, something solid and predictable to keep you from spiraling back into the humiliating thoughts of the weekend.
That relief, however, was short-lived.
Just as you started drafting a compliance report, your office door swung open without a knock. You glanced up, already annoyed, only to find your boss standing there, arms crossed, an expectant expression on his face.
"Good job getting that campaign finalized," he said, nodding as if you had done something worthy of recognition. "There's a shareholder meeting this week to discuss it. You need to be there."
Your stomach dropped.
Shareholder meetings were always a pain, but that wasn’t the real issue. No, the real issue was that Kuroo would be there. You’d have to see him sooner than you thought.
You quickly straightened in your chair, trying to compose yourself. “Sir, I have a full schedule today, a backlog of approvals, and several reports to review—surely someone else from legal can attend?”
Your boss gave you a flat look, clearly unimpressed. “Oh, don’t even start. You’re the one who finalized this campaign, so you’re the one explaining it. Be in the meeting room in half an hour.”
You barely had time to protest before he turned on his heel and left, leaving you staring at the empty doorway, mouth slightly open in disbelief. Half an hour.
Your pulse quickened as you slumped back in your chair, rubbing your temples. Fuck. Fuck, fuck, fuck. You had been hoping—no, praying—for more time before you had to see him again. But now, in thirty short minutes, you’d have to sit across from him in a professional setting, pretend nothing happened, and endure whatever smug, knowing looks he threw your way.
You inhaled deeply, rolling your shoulders back as you forced yourself to think rationally. Kuroo might have the upper hand in teasing, but that didn’t mean he had the power here. You were damn good at your job, and if he thought he could waltz in and fluster you with a few smirks and carefully placed jabs, he had another thing coming.
Straightening in your chair, you pulled up the campaign documents, reviewing them with meticulous attention. You weren’t just going to walk into that meeting unprepared. No, you were going to walk in with confidence, fully armed with every technicality, every regulation, every damn reason why you knew what you were doing.
You checked the clock. Fifteen minutes left.
With one last steadying breath, you closed your laptop, grabbed your notes, and stood, smoothing out your outfit. He’s just another coworker. Nothing more. If Kuroo wanted to play games, fine. But you weren’t going to lose. Not this time.
Squaring your shoulders, you stood, grabbed your notes, and marched toward the meeting room, determination outweighing the lingering heat in your face. You weren’t going to let him have the satisfaction of seeing you flustered.
Fuck him. I have nothing to be ashamed of.
Yet, the moment you stepped inside, you instantly regretted everything.
Kuroo was standing near the far side of the room, engaged in conversation with a few of the shareholders, his usual easygoing charm on full display. His sharp suit was tailored perfectly, the slight smirk on his lips too damn self-assured. And then, as if he could sense you, his golden eyes flicked toward the door, locking onto you instantly.
His knowing smile deepened, and you had to physically fight the urge to turn around and leave.
“Ah, there she is,” Kuroo announced, casually gesturing toward you. “My partner on this campaign.”
Your stomach clenched at the word. Partner?
The older gentleman Kuroo had been speaking to turned, his expression brightening. “Oh, so you’re the legal mind behind all of this! I’ve heard good things. Very impressive work.”
You forced a polite smile, waving a hand dismissively. “It was a team effort.”
But Kuroo, of course, wasn’t about to let you downplay your role.
“Don’t be modest. She kept me in check the whole time,” he added, his tone dripping with amusement.
You clenched your jaw, swallowing down the urge to shove him into the nearest chair. He knew exactly what he was doing.
Before you could formulate a response, he gestured to the seat beside him. “Come on, have a seat.”
You hesitated for the briefest second—just long enough to see the glint of mischief in his gaze—before forcing yourself to step forward and sit down, mentally cursing every decision that led you here. That wasn’t even enough time to mentally prepare yourself for the inevitable disaster that was seeing Kuroo again.
You hesitated for the briefest second—just long enough to see the glint of mischief in his gaze—before forcing yourself to step forward and sit down, mentally cursing every decision that led you here.
More people trickled in, the sound of chatter filling the room as the shareholders settled into their seats. Small conversations broke out, professionals exchanging pleasantries while waiting for the meeting to begin. The air in the room was light, easy, full of smooth laughter and the clinking of pens against notepads.
For everyone except you.
You turned to Kuroo, lowering your voice in a hiss. “Partner?”
He chuckled, leaning back in his chair, voice full of teasing amusement. “Would you have preferred I introduce you as my handler?”
Your fingers curled into the fabric of your skirt beneath the table, nails pressing hard enough to leave marks. You were already regretting every single interaction you had with him. Smug bastard.
You narrowed your eyes, about to snap back, but before you could, the meeting was called to order.
Kuroo led the discussion with practiced ease, his voice smooth and effortlessly engaging. He was sharp, confident, weaving through each point with that natural charm of his, drawing in the room like he belonged there. And the worst part? The shareholders loved him.
You mostly kept quiet, answering questions when necessary, keeping your responses measured and precise. You weren’t about to let him run circles around you. Still, you had to admit—grudgingly—that he was good at this. Too good. His ability to present information with just the right balance of authority and ease was frustratingly effective. It made you irrationally angry, watching the way he commanded the room with nothing but a few smirks and a well-placed joke.
And he knew it. Every so often, you caught him glancing at you out of the corner of his eye, as if he could feel your irritation thrumming beneath the surface.
Bastard.
Just as you thought you were in the clear, your boss spoke up. “We were actually discussing another campaign that needs some serious revisions. Given how well this one turned out, we’d like the two of you to work on it—on short notice.”
Your breath caught. No. No, no, no.
Panic shot through you like a live wire, your heartbeat hammering against your ribs. You had barely survived the last time you worked with him—mentally, emotionally, professionally. And now they wanted you to do it again?
This wasn’t happening. It couldn’t be happening. You had told yourself the project was a one-time thing, an unfortunate alignment of responsibilities that you had somehow, miraculously, endured. You had barely made it out of the last collaboration with your sanity intact, and after what happened between you two, the very thought of working with him again made your stomach churn.
It wasn’t just about the way Kuroo existed to push your buttons. No, it was the fact that you had let him get under your skin—too far under, past the point of irritation and into something more reckless, more dangerous.
And now, you were supposed to do it all over again?
Your fingers clenched under the table, nails pressing hard into your palm to stop yourself from blurting out something unprofessional. This isn’t fair. This isn’t my fault. You had done your job perfectly. If Kuroo hadn’t gone out of his way to be Kuroo, none of this would even be an issue. Now, because of his antics, because he couldn’t help himself, you were getting roped into another late-night headache with him.
Your pulse thudded in your ears, drowning out the rest of the boardroom as your mind scrambled for a way out. Any excuse. Any way to get literally anyone else assigned to this instead.
But you knew your boss. He didn’t care. He had made up his mind. And Kuroo—that smug bastard—had probably already figured that out too.
You straightened in your seat, carefully choosing your words. “Of course, but we’d need extended work hours to meet such a tight deadline—”
Kuroo, the bastard, cut you off effortlessly. “No need. We’ll just work on it after hours, like last time.”
The room barely reacted, but you felt the shift like a blade pressed against your skin. The way he said it—so casually, so naturally—it was almost as if the two of you had some kind of established dynamic. Like you were some seamless, perfectly functioning duo.
Which, you absolutely were not.
Your jaw clenched, hands curling into fists beneath the table. And then, just to drive the knife deeper, he added, “In fact, let’s get started tonight. Over dinner.”
Your head snapped toward him, but he didn’t even have the decency to look at you. He was still facing forward, still completely composed, as if he hadn’t just publicly tricked you into agreeing to spend more time with him.
Your teeth ground together as your boss nodded approvingly. You had no choice but to nod along, forcing a tight-lipped smile. “Sounds great.”
You could feel Kuroo’s eyes on you, the weight of his amusement pressing into your skin like an irritating heat you couldn’t shake. Your fingers curled around your notes, grip tightening as you fought the very real urge to smack that insufferable smirk right off his face. This bastard.
The shareholders murmured their satisfaction, the meeting officially winding down as the final notes were made. The conversation naturally shifted to small talk as people began gathering their things, but you were barely listening. Your mind was stuck in a loop, replaying the past minute over and over.
Another project. On short notice. With him.
And worse—
Over dinner.
You inhaled sharply through your nose, schooling your features into something neutral, something capable, because the last thing you needed was for Kuroo to see the way your pulse had spiked at the mere thought of spending another evening alone with him. You could already hear the smugness that would drip from his voice. The lazy, self-satisfied amusement. The way he’d push your buttons just enough to make you snap—because that’s what he did.
You should have argued more. Should have demanded proper work hours. Should have reminded your boss that he had hired you for legal work, not to babysit the marketing team. But instead, you sat there, forcing a strained smile while Kuroo all but preened beside you like a cat that had just caught a canary.
A chair scraped back beside you. He was standing. Stretching. As if he hadn’t just successfully trapped you into another night of torture disguised as collaboration.
“Looking forward to it, partner.”
The way he said partner made you want to throw something. Preferably his overpriced watch right out the nearest window.
He strolled past you, his confidence almost offensive, and you knew—you knew—that he was expecting a reaction. A flustered glare, a sharp retort, anything to fuel his amusement. But you weren’t going to give him the satisfaction.
You took a slow, calming breath and gathered your papers, pressing them together with deliberate patience. Kuroo was still lingering, just at the edge of your vision, but you refused to acknowledge him. If he thought you were going to give him what he wanted, he had another thing coming.
You stood, keeping your expression perfectly schooled, smoothing out your skirt like this was just any other normal meeting, like he hadn’t just completely thrown you off balance. Then, just as you turned to leave, you made the mistake of glancing up.
And there he was. Watching you.
Golden eyes, sharp and waiting. The barest trace of a smirk still pulling at his lips.
Something inside your stomach twisted—not in anger, not in frustration, but something dangerous. Something reckless.
You gritted your teeth, ignoring the traitorous warmth creeping up your spine, and turned sharply on your heel, storming toward the exit without a word.
Kuroo chuckled under his breath behind you, the sound deep and far too amused.
You were never going to survive this.