Kenma Kozume had always preferred the quiet. He liked the hum of his video game console as it powered up, the soft tapping of keys as he pressed them in rhythm, and the slow flipping of pages in his favorite strategy guide. Silence was his sanctuary, his escape from the chaos of the world. People weren’t his thing, not really. He didn’t need them. Not until Kuroo Tetsurō came into his life, anyway.

It had all started one day after practice. The team was buzzing with energy as usual, but Kenma had never been one for the noise. As he packed his things in his locker, Kuroo’s voice broke through the usual chatter.

“Kozume!” Kuroo called, leaning against the doorway with his usual smirk. “Walk home with me today.”

Kenma blinked in surprise, pausing for a moment. “Why?” he asked, his voice flat. He had never been one to initiate conversations, let alone walk home with someone.

Kuroo, unbothered by Kenma’s response, grinned wider. “Because I want to. You’re my favorite person to talk to. Let’s go.”

Kenma was a little unsure but found himself nodding anyway. Something about Kuroo’s easy confidence made it difficult to say no, and before long, they were walking side by side.

At first, it was awkward. Kenma wasn’t used to having someone talk to him so easily, someone who seemed to know how to get under his skin and make him laugh without even trying. But as they walked, the silence between them wasn’t uncomfortable—it was peaceful. Kuroo wasn’t just talking for the sake of talking; he was somehow able to match Kenma’s quieter pace and still make him feel like he was worth listening to.

Over time, Kuroo started showing up at unexpected times. He would wait for Kenma after class, drag him to lunch even when Kenma didn’t want to go, and invite him out for snacks after practice. Kenma usually didn’t argue. After all, there was something oddly comforting about Kuroo’s presence—like a warm blanket on a cold night.

“You’re going to make me fat,” Kenma grumbled one evening as he took a bite of the taiyaki Kuroo had bought for him.

Kuroo just laughed, nudging Kenma’s shoulder lightly. “Please. You barely eat enough as it is. I’m doing you a favor.”

Kenma rolled his eyes but didn’t argue. It was true—Kuroo was always trying to feed him, always looking out for him in little ways that Kenma couldn’t help but appreciate, even if he didn’t always show it. The way Kuroo would make sure he had enough water during practice, the way he’d throw his jacket over Kenma’s shoulders when the gym got cold. It was in the little things, the moments when Kuroo was just there, that Kenma found himself drawn to him.

One evening, as they sat on the steps outside the gym, Kuroo turned to Kenma with an unusual seriousness in his eyes.

“You know,” Kuroo said, his voice softer than usual, “you’re a lot more interesting than you give yourself credit for.”

Kenma frowned, unsure how to respond. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

Kuroo smiled, a small, genuine smile. “You’re special, Kozume. More than you think.”

Kenma didn’t know how to react. His chest felt tight, but he couldn’t bring himself to say anything. Instead, he focused on the night sky, trying to hide the warmth creeping up his neck. Kuroo had a way of making him feel things Kenma wasn’t used to—things he wasn’t sure how to handle.

A few days later, the rain began to fall, unexpected and heavy. The gym quickly emptied as the team rushed to find cover, but Kenma lingered by the entrance, watching the rain pour down.

“Didn’t think you’d still be here,” a familiar voice broke through the storm, and Kenma turned to find Kuroo walking toward him, his hair damp with rain.

Kenma tilted his head, glancing at the sky. “Forgot my umbrella.” He shifted uncomfortably, unsure whether to head out into the downpour or wait it out.

Kuroo smirked, a mischievous gleam in his eyes. “Figures. Come on, I’ll walk you home.”

Kenma hesitated for a moment, but when Kuroo reached out and took his bag, Kenma couldn’t bring himself to say no. They started walking side by side, the rain soaking them both, but Kenma found himself enjoying the company. Kuroo didn’t mind the rain at all. He was laughing, his loud voice barely audible over the pattering of the rain.

“You know,” Kuroo said after a while, “I don’t really mind getting wet. I just didn’t want you to walk home alone.”

Kenma looked at him, feeling something strange stir in his chest. “You’re weird,” he muttered, his voice barely above a whisper.

Kuroo just grinned, his voice playful. “And you like it.”

Kenma couldn’t deny that he did.

The days continued to pass, and with them, Kenma began to realize something—something that, at first, he wasn’t ready to admit. He had grown attached to Kuroo in a way that felt different from anything he had ever experienced. It wasn’t just the way Kuroo could make him laugh, or how he always knew just what to say when Kenma was feeling down. It was more than that—it was the way Kuroo made him feel like he wasn’t alone, like he mattered in a way that Kenma had never really understood before.

One evening, after a long practice, Kuroo invited Kenma to watch the stars. It was a quiet night, with no one else around, just the two of them sitting on the hill overlooking the city. The stars above them twinkled, and for the first time, Kenma felt completely at peace.

They sat in silence for a while, each lost in their own thoughts. But then, Kuroo broke the quiet, his voice unusually soft. “Kenma,” he started, and Kenma turned to look at him. Kuroo’s gaze was intense, his usual smirk replaced by a more vulnerable expression. “I’ve been meaning to say something.”

Kenma raised an eyebrow, unsure of what to expect. “What is it?”

Kuroo took a deep breath, and Kenma could feel the tension in the air. “I like you,” Kuroo said simply, his voice steady. “Not just as a friend. I’ve liked you for a long time now, Kenma.”

Kenma’s heart skipped a beat. He stared at Kuroo, his mind racing. “What?”

Kuroo smiled, but it was a little unsure, like he wasn’t certain what Kenma’s reaction would be. “I like you,” he repeated, his voice almost a whisper.

Kenma could feel the world slowing down around him. He opened his mouth to say something, but the words caught in his throat. Finally, he managed to speak. “You’re an idiot,” he muttered, his voice soft but laced with affection.

Kuroo blinked, clearly surprised. “What?”

Kenma glanced at him, his heart pounding in his chest. “You’re an idiot,” he said again, his cheeks turning pink. “Of course, I like you too.”

Kuroo’s eyes widened, and then his face broke into a wide grin. “You do?”

Kenma nodded, a small smile tugging at his lips. “Yeah. I do.”

Kuroo laughed, a joyful sound that made Kenma’s chest flutter. “I can’t believe you like me back,” Kuroo said, his voice full of relief and happiness.

Kenma shifted, feeling nervous suddenly. “So… are we, like, together now?”

Kuroo raised an eyebrow, as if the question had been a little too obvious. “I would hope so,” he said with a grin. “Unless you’re not interested?”

Kenma couldn’t help but smile. “I’m interested.”

And in that moment, everything felt right. The stars above them sparkled, and the world seemed to fade away until it was just the two of them.

“Good,” Kuroo said softly. “Then I’ll see you tomorrow, right?”

Kenma nodded, his heart full of something he couldn’t quite put into words. “Yeah. Tomorrow.”

And as they sat there, hand in hand, Kenma realized that maybe, just maybe, the quiet wasn’t so bad with Kuroo by his side.

The stars had long since faded, but neither of them moved.

Kenma’s fingers were still lightly curled around Kuroo’s, his thumb brushing against the back of his hand in small, thoughtful motions. The air had gotten cooler, but the warmth between them lingered like an unspoken vow.

“…I don’t want this to change,” Kenma murmured, voice barely louder than the wind.

Kuroo turned his head slightly, his dark eyes soft. “What do you mean?”

“This. Us. Things always change when feelings get involved.”

Kuroo was quiet for a moment before squeezing Kenma’s hand gently. “Then we won’t let it.”

Kenma glanced at him. “You say that like it’s easy.”

Kuroo chuckled, low and warm. “Nothing with you has ever been easy. But it’s always been worth it.”

A tiny smile tugged at Kenma’s lips, the kind that only showed up when he felt truly safe.

“Okay,” he whispered. “Let’s try.”

And under the soft glow of the fading night, with sleepy hearts and honest eyes, the two of them made their quiet promise. Kenma didn’t let go of his hand.

They sat there, wrapped in the last whispers of the night, the rooftop slowly being bathed in early morning light. It painted everything gold—the concrete, the railings, and the soft shadows under Kuroo’s eyes.

“I think,” Kenma started, hesitating just a little, “I’m scared of messing it up.”

Kuroo tilted his head. “You won’t.”

“But I overthink. I shut down. I get distant,” Kenma listed, voice quieter with each word. “What if one day, you get tired of all that?”

Kuroo leaned in, resting his forehead gently against Kenma’s. “Then I’ll remind you how much I like all of that—especially the part where you let me in anyway.”

Kenma let out a breath that almost sounded like a laugh. “You’re so cheesy.”

“And yet, here you are.” Kuroo grinned, pulling back just enough to see him clearly. “Still holding my hand.”

Kenma rolled his eyes but didn’t let go. “Shut up.”

They sat in silence for a few moments longer, but this time it wasn’t heavy. It was full. Full of all the things they didn’t have to say out loud.

Finally, Kuroo stood, tugging Kenma up with him. “Come on. I’m taking you to get breakfast.”

Kenma blinked. “It’s like 6 a.m.”

“Exactly. The best time to get pancakes.”

Kenma narrowed his eyes, skeptical. “You just want syrup.”

“I want you,” Kuroo said dramatically, placing a hand over his heart. “And syrup. Together. The perfect morning.”

Kenma gave him a flat look—but his cheeks were pink, and he followed Kuroo down the stairs anyway, their fingers still intertwined.

Maybe love didn’t have to be loud or dramatic.

Maybe, just maybe, it was quiet hands in the early morning, and laughter that echoed down empty stairwells.

And maybe Kenma was starting to fall—slowly, softly, in a way that felt exactly right.

As they stepped out into the quiet streets, the world still half-asleep around them, Kenma glanced at Kuroo from the corner of his eye. He didn’t say anything—but the way his hand tightened just slightly in Kuroo’s said enough. For the first time in a long while, the day ahead didn’t feel so heavy.