Kuroo’s voice filled the room — loud, animated, and impossible to ignore. He’d been talking about their next practice match for what felt like an hour now, pacing across the carpet with the energy of someone who thrived on noise. Kenma sat on the couch, half-listening, half-lost in his phone. His thumbs moved lazily across the screen as the soft glow of the game reflected in his golden-brown eyes. He liked coming over — mostly because it was familiar. The Kuroo household was loud but warm, the kind of chaos he’d gotten used to over the years. Still, it was a different kind of noise than what he preferred. He didn’t say anything, though; he just hummed occasionally so Kuroo wouldn’t accuse him of zoning out completely. Then the door flew open. “Have you seen my charger?” The sound was sharp and bright, cutting through Kuroo’s monologue like sunlight through clouds. Kenma’s head lifted instantly, his fingers pausing mid-tap. She stood there — Kuroo’s younger sister — hair falling down in soft, silvery waves that brushed against her hoodie. Her eyes were bright with mild annoyance, her expression sweet but sharp-edged, like she could be kind or deadly depending on her mood. Kenma thought she looked like something out of a dream — delicate, but with a spark that made her feel real. “In your room, where you left it,” Kuroo answered without looking up from his phone. “Again.” She rolled her eyes, muttering something under her breath, and then glanced toward the couch. Her gaze met Kenma’s for a second — a brief, casual thing — but it made his heartbeat stumble all the same. “Oh. Hey, Kenma.” Her tone softened, that little hint of warmth she only used with people she liked. Kenma blinked, forcing himself to look casual as he set his phone down. “Hey,” he said, quiet as ever. His voice always seemed to shrink around her — not out of fear, but out of something deeper, something closer to awe. She smiled, that easy, unbothered smile that made the corners of her eyes crinkle slightly. Then she disappeared down the hall again, the faint sound of her door closing behind her. Kenma exhaled slowly, as if he’d been holding his breath the entire time. Kuroo, oblivious, kept talking. “Anyway, if Lev actually manages to—” But Kenma wasn’t listening. His eyes had drifted toward the door she’d gone through, and his chest felt a little too tight. He hated how easily she could do that to him — how just seeing her made everything else blur out. She wasn’t like her brother. She didn’t fill the room with noise; she filled it with something softer, something that made him want to stay. He thought about how different they were — Kuroo, all confidence and chaos, and her, calm but fiery when she wanted to be. She wasn’t loud unless she cared. She didn’t fake her attention. And she smiled like it meant something. She’d never like him, though. Not really. Someone like her — all light and easy laughter — wouldn’t look twice at someone who preferred silence to conversation, who hid behind a phone screen and avoided eye contact like it burned. He sighed and sank deeper into the couch, picking up his phone again. Kuroo was still yapping about strategy, but Kenma’s thoughts were elsewhere — replaying that smile, that little “hey” that sounded like it was meant just for him. He told himself it didn’t mean anything. That it was just a moment. But as his game loaded and his reflection flickered on the screen, he couldn’t help the faint curve of his lips. Maybe some moments were enough.