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at first it’s curiosity. then amusement. then it festers into irritation—because why the fuck aren’t you reacting to him like everyone else?—and then fascination. and then something deeper that coils in his chest and makes his throat tight every time he sees you. he tries not to care. he wants not to care. but you’re already rooting yourself in places inside him he didn’t know were hollow.

satoru notices you because you don’t notice him. not the way everyone else does. you don’t flutter your lashes when he smirks. you don’t laugh at his jokes like they’re scripture. you don’t even flinch when he calls you “baby” out of nowhere—just blink at him like he’s an equation you don’t understand. it bruises his ego. and for some unholy reason, he loves it.

the problem is, you’re not immune to him at all. you’re just hiding it better than anyone ever has.

because what he doesn’t know is—you’ve always had a crush on him. from the very first time he walked into class, sleepy-eyed and bright-smiled, wearing that damn jacket like it belonged on a movie screen. you just figured he’d never notice someone like you. so you admired from afar. watched him flirt with others, watched the way he filled a room with laughter, memorized the cadence of his voice like it was part of your playlist.

your crush was harmless. private. something you never expected to act on. you played it safe. after all, guys like satoru gojo don’t fall for quiet girls with awkward posture and color-coded notes.

but maybe that’s what draws him in—the absence of performance. the quiet genuine way you exist. no theatrics. no games. just you, completely unaware that you’ve started haunting his every thought.

it starts small.

he catches himself watching the way your hands move. the way your nose scrunches when you’re deep in thought. the way you roll your pen between your fingers when you're anxious. it becomes a loop, a soft little addiction. he remembers details he shouldn’t. what color post-its you use. your preferred snack during study sessions. your favorite seat in the library. you don’t change. he just tunes in.

and then, one day, he realizes he’s rearranging his life around yours.

he starts showing up everywhere you are. loiters in the library, conveniently always around during your shifts at the campus café, makes excuses to sit next to you in class. offers to carry your books, asks you about calculus even though he already passed it. satoru gojo, golden boy of his frat, reducing himself to extra tutoring just to see you smile. it’s humiliating in theory, but it feels like worship in practice.

and it’s not just your smile. it’s the way you get passionate when you talk about obscure theories. the way you light up when you don’t think anyone’s watching. the way you stammer when he gets too close, but don’t pull away.

you don’t feed his ego. you feed something softer. quieter. something he didn’t think he had in him. he tells himself it’s because you’re innocent. because you’re shy and sweet and you deserve to be treated right.

he wants to be good for you. slow, patient, gentle. he holds doors open. he listens. he lets you rant about your thesis for forty-five uninterrupted minutes and actually understands it. he even looks up the books you reference, reads them just to impress you. he takes an annotated copy of your favorite book. he starts writing your name in the corners of his notebook like some love-struck high schooler. you haunt him in the best way.

and then—you kiss him.

it’s after a late-night study session. the campus is quiet. the lights in the library flicker like they’re caught between timelines. your voice shakes when you say “thank you for walking me back.” you pause, fidget with the strap of your bag. and then, like you’ve been gearing up for battle, you rise onto your toes and kiss him.

it’s chaste. hesitant. warm. like you're afraid he'll vanish if you lean in too much.

you pull back like you’ve done something wrong, but satoru’s frozen, staring at you like he’s just been baptized. you’re blushing so hard he can feel the heat radiating off your skin.

“you… sure?” he whispers, voice ragged, leaning in like he’s afraid you’ll disappear.

you nod, barely audible: “i’ve read… a lot. i think… i wanna try. with you.”

and he short circuits.

he thought he’d lead. thought he’d ease you into it, kiss your forehead, hold your hand like a gentleman. but then your hands are on his chest, pushing up under his shirt—the varsity jacket creaking as it shifts on his shoulders, the cotton brushing your fingertips. your eyes are searching his like you’re looking for confirmation that he’s real. you study every reaction like a research project. when he shivers, you smile, barely-there, and go back to tracing the line of his abs with trembling fingertips.

it’s not even mischief.

it’s curiosity. slow-burning, chest-aching, and barely held together by your own hesitation. the sort of yearning that tastes like nervous giggles and the edge of something terrifyingly new. you pause between touches like you're checking your hypothesis, calculating the way his muscles tense under your fingers. each brush of your skin feels like a question he's too dazed to answer properly.

“does that… feel good?” you whisper, lips barely moving, as though you’re scared to break the spell.

“f-fuck—yes, baby, yeah,” he gasps, throwing his head back, one hand clutching the edge of the couch like it’s the only thing keeping him grounded.

your lips trail down his throat, each kiss a trembling prayer, following a path only you can see. his skin is fever-hot, tasting of mint and salt, boyish charm unraveling under your mouth. when you press a soft, open-mouthed kiss to his collarbone, his pulse jumps, a twitch rippling beneath your lips. his breath catches, a sharp stutter that makes his chest lurch, and his hands hover, fingers flexing like he’s afraid touching you will break the spell.

satoru gojo—fratboy, golden boy, untouchable—is quiet. too quiet. his eyes are hazy, pupils wide and unfocused, lips parted like words have abandoned him. his varsity jacket is bunched at his elbows, leather creaking, shirt rucked up to his ribs, abs clenching under your trembling fingers. he could take charge, flip this with a smirk—he’s done it countless times, effortless and expert. but now? he just watches, reverent, like you’re a deity he’s too awestruck to approach.

he’s known mouths. polished ones with perfect rhythm, greedy ones that took without giving, bold ones that knew every angle. but yours? it’s hesitant, new, like you’re crossing a threshold you’re not sure you’re worthy of. the way you look at him—eyes flickering behind slipping glasses, wide with awe—shouldn’t hit this hard. shouldn’t feel this fucking intense. but your fingers, shaking as they tug at his waistband, send a jolt through him that makes his vision spark.

satoru’s hand grazes your cheek, a trembling brush of knuckles. “baby… keep going. please.”

you nod, glasses sliding, your breath hitching as your fingers slip under his jeans, easing them down. your eyes flick up, catching his—flushed, jaw tight, his whole body fighting to stay still. it hits you like a blade: he’s done this a thousand times, fucked girls who knew every trick, but you’ve got him like this. trembling. aching. satoru gojo, invincible, unraveling because of you.

guilt stabs your chest, sharp and fleeting. you shouldn’t have him like this, shouldn’t be the reason his hands clutch the couch like it’s his only anchor. he’s always cocky, untouchable, the center of every orbit. now he’s breaking, and it’s your fault—your lips, your touch, your fault. but the guilt only fans the heat in your core, makes your thighs press together as you lean closer, your breath ghosting over his skin.

satoru is used to being wanted. but not like this. not with this aching, earnest hunger that makes his chest tighten.

you press shaky, open-mouthed kisses to his hip, tongue flicking out to taste the salt of his skin. spit gathers at the corner of your mouth, a slick trail left behind as you suck softly at the sensitive skin just above his cock. he jolts, hips jerking before he catches himself, a low curse slipping free, his hands clenching until his knuckles bleach. the sound he makes—fuck, it’s a choked gasp, raw and ragged, like you’ve torn it from his core.

you shift lower, hands sliding up his thighs, fingers digging into the taut muscle. your kisses grow bolder, sloppier, your tongue dragging along the crease where his thigh meets his groin, leaving a glistening streak of drool that catches the dim light.

he tastes like heat and need, and the way his skin trembles under your mouth makes your own pulse hammer. you pause, lips hovering over his cock, spit pooling on your tongue, and glance up—his head is thrown back, throat bobbing as he swallows, a groan clawing its way out of him.

“holy shit—baby, you—fuck,” satoru gasps, eyes snapping open, blown wide as his hand grips the couch, fabric groaning under his fist.

you take him in your mouth, lips wrapping around the tip, soft and slick with spit that drips down his length. your tongue swirls, slow and deliberate, tracing the ridge as drool spills from the corners of your mouth, coating him in a wet sheen.

he’s hot, heavy against your tongue, and you hum—a low, vibrating sound that pulls a whimper from his throat. your fingers curl around the base, stroking in time with the bob of your head, slick with the spit that pools at his base, making your grip slippery. you suck, gentle at first, then harder, lips stretching around him as spit slicks your chin, a glistening trail dripping onto his thighs.

he’s panting, desperate, each breath a ragged plea. his abs flex, thighs trembling under your palms, and he’s biting back whimpers, trying not to overwhelm you. that restraint—fuck, it’s gorgeous, the way his jaw clenches, the way his eyes flutter shut like he’s fighting to stay grounded. he doesn’t push, doesn’t guide, just moans your name like it’s a prayer, raw and broken. “that’s it, baby—fuck—just like that—your mouth’s so fucking perfect—”

the satoru gojo is unraveling, and it’s because of you. the way you glance up, glasses fogging, eyes glassy with effort, lips shiny and stretched around him, spit dripping down your chin in messy strings. the way your tongue flicks, catching the sensitive spot under the head, makes his hips buck, a choked sob escaping.

your hand slides lower, fingers brushing his balls, tentative but deliberate, slick with the drool that’s pooled at his base. you cup them, rolling gently, and his whole body seizes, a string of curses spilling out as his hand fists the couch tighter, the fabric creaking under the strain.

he’s had every fantasy, every trick, but this—your mouth, slow and reverent, full of wonder, messy with spit that coats him like a second skin—hits like a fucking freight train. it’s too much, too good. he wants to last, to let you explore, but you’re too fucking intent.

you hollow your cheeks, sucking harder, tongue swirling in tight, wet circles, spit bubbling at the corners of your mouth as you take him deeper, throat tightening around him. he chokes, hips jerking as his control frays. “gonna—baby, gonna cum, wait, fuck—”

you don’t stop. your lips slide further, tongue flattening, taking him as deep as you can. it’s filthy—spit drips down your chin in thick strings, pooling on his thighs, your glasses fogging as breaths puff through your nose. you’re focused, watching his every twitch, adjusting when he gasps, slowing when he whimpers, like you’re mapping him.

his hand grips the couch, knuckles white, and he breaks with a sound that’s barely human—a shattered cry as he spills, hot and pulsing against your tongue.

you try to swallow it all, but it’s overwhelming—cum mixes with the spit already coating your lips, spilling past them in a slick, messy rush, dripping down your chin, onto his thighs, and pooling on the couch. you pull back, gasping, wiping your mouth with trembling fingers, but the slickness clings, smearing across your skin as your eyes stay wide behind crooked glasses. he’s trembling, chest heaving, shirt clinging to sweat-slick skin, pupils blown like he’s seen the divine.

you should stop.

you fucking should.

he’s wrecked, twitching, fucked out beyond reason. but the ache in your chest—the sharp, flickering guilt of breaking him—only makes you hungrier. you lick your lips, tasting the salty mix of him, and your thighs press together, a soft whimper escaping as you lean in again, spit still clinging to your chin.

“just once more?” you whisper, voice barely audible, like you’re afraid the words will burn you.

his eyes flutter open, unfocused, dazed. he groans, raw and low. “baby… you’re gonna fucking kill me.”

but he doesn’t stop you. doesn’t even try.

you start again, slower, your mouth softer but hungrier, lips wrapping around him with a reverence that makes him twitch instantly. he’s sensitive, still pulsing, and the second your tongue grazes him, he whines—a high, broken sound that makes your stomach twist. you suck lightly, lips gliding along his length, spit pooling at the base and dripping onto his thighs in slow, glistening trails. 

satoru buries his face in a cushion, muffling a sob. “s-sensitive—fuck, it’s too much—”

his thighs tremble under your hands, hips jerking as you kiss the tip, tongue darting out to lap at the bead of cum still leaking from him, your spit mixing with it in a slick, glossy sheen. you linger, savoring the taste, the way it coats your tongue in a sticky film, and he whimpers again, louder, his hand flying to his mouth to bite his knuckles.

your fingers slide to his balls again, rolling them gently, slick with the drool and cum that’s dripped down, making your touch slippery and warm. he arches, a desperate, “please—fuck—please—” spilling from his lips like he’s begging for mercy but craving more.

you don’t rush. your tongue traces every inch, slow and deliberate, swirling around the head before dipping lower, dragging along the vein with a wet, sloppy kiss that leaves a trail of spit in its wake. your breath is hot, teasing, each exhale making him twitch, and you pause to suck at the base, lips lingering as your tongue flicks out, tasting the musk of him through the sticky mess. his hand finds your hair, fingers threading loosely, not pushing, just holding—like he needs to feel you’re real.

you grow bolder, hungrier, your lips tightening as you take him deeper, throat fluttering around him, spit bubbling up and spilling over, coating his cock in a thick, glossy layer. you hum, low and vibrating, and he chokes, a wet, pathetic whimper breaking free.

your hand strokes the base, slick with spit and cum, fingers sliding in the mess, and you slide a finger lower, brushing the sensitive skin behind his balls, now slippery with the drool that’s dripped down. he jolts, a high, keening sound tearing from his throat, his hips bucking as his whole body trembles.

“baby—god—please—fuck, i can’t—” satoru’s voice cracks, raw and whining, as you suck harder, tongue swirling in relentless, wet circles, spit and cum mixing in a frothy mess that drips onto the couch. every noise is desperate—gasps, whimpers, sobs that he tries to muffle but can’t. his body arches, twitching like he’s unraveling at the seams, and you feel it: the moment he breaks again.

he cums with a wail, sudden and violent, hips jerking as he spills into your mouth. it’s messier, hotter, a flood of cum and spit that overwhelms you, spilling out in thick, sticky ropes that coat your lips, your chin, your glasses, dripping onto his thighs and pooling in the creases of his skin.

you swallow what you can, lips still wrapped around him, tongue lapping at the oversensitive tip through the slick mess until he’s twitching, a broken, “n-no more—please—” escaping as he clutches the cushion.

time slips. minutes? hours? you’re tugging his shirt, pulling him closer like he’s the only thing keeping you grounded. ten minutes later, he’s gripping the sheets, praying, fucked senseless by every move you make. you flinch when he whines too loud, hands flying to your mouth, eyes wide with guilt—but then you lean in again, bolder, hungrier, chasing every twitch, every broken gasp of your name.

he’s never felt so cherished and so destroyed at the same time.

every touch is careful, but determined. you’re hesitant but thorough, like you’ve read the same passage in a smutty fanfiction a hundred times and are finally getting the chance to test it out. and the worst part? you’re good at it. really good.

your mouth, your hands, the way you watch his face for every twitch of pleasure—it’s enough to make him lose all sense of pride. the way you keep glancing at his reactions, as if adjusting your technique in real time, is insane. terrifying. he’s never been studied so hard. he likes it. he needs it. he’s suffering in the best way.

he’s never had to hold back like this. never had to breathe through it. never felt this fucking sensitive. he’s gripping the cushions like a man possessed. he’s whispering your name like a prayer. he’s not even sure he’s still speaking coherent sentences. you’ve wrecked him. utterly and entirely.

you pull back, panting, your hands shaking as you adjust your glasses, eyes glassy and wide. your lips are swollen, chin wet with a glistening mix of spit and cum, and you lick them, tasting him again, a soft moan slipping free as your thighs press together.

satoru is ruined—sprawled on the couch, shirt clinging to his chest, chest heaving like he’s fought a war. his hand is still in your hair, loose, trembling, and he’s staring at you like you’re a fucking goddess.

“thought you were the innocent one,” he chokes out, breathless, watching you nibble your lip and adjust your glasses with shaking fingers.

“i still am,” you murmur, face tucked into his shoulder. “kind of.”

he huffs out a laugh, dazed and wrecked. he can feel your heartbeat against his ribs. he doesn’t want to move. his hands are still trembling from how hard he tried to keep it together for you—and yet, you’re the one who took the lead. you’re the one who made him forget how to function. you kiss the edge of his jaw, soft and uncertain, and it undoes him more than anything else.

satoru gojo, campus heartthrob, ruined by a shy nerd girl who reads too much smut on her kindle late at night under the covers. who probably has a secret ao3 account and bookmarked folders. who looks like a timid schoolgirl but fucks like she’s been studying him like a midterm exam. and passed with extra credit. honors. valedictorian. summa cum laude of making him lose his damn mind.

he’s never been so obsessed.

and you? you’re already pressing your forehead to his chest, voice small, eyes wide with want and something raw and messy and needy as you look up at him.

“can we… try again? i think i missed a step.”

he doesn’t know if he wants to laugh, cry, or propose.

he’s never been more in love. and all he knows is he’s done for.

You want to tell them to stop breathing so loudly — it feels disrespectful. Their existence is unnecessary noise. Their bodies clog the space that should be reserved for him and you alone.

None of them know him like you do.

You know the rhythm of his foot tapping against the tile when he’s impatient. You know the little crease between his brows when he concentrates. You know the exact cadence of his voice when he says, “open wider for me.”

So what if this is the third cleaning you booked within the same month?

You told the receptionist your gums were “a little tender”. Your gums are perfectly fine. It’s your sanity that isn’t.

You keep his business card in your pocket, warm with your body heat. The ink is wearing off where your thumb rubs over his name again and again.

He gave it to everyone, sure. But no one keeps it like you do. They don’t whisper to it, don’t fall asleep holding it, don’t kiss it goodnight.

The receptionist calls your name. “Dr. Gojo will see you now.”

Finally.

God, his face — it’s the kind of beautiful that leaves you shaking. There’s no flaw, no wrong angle. Every part of him is exactly where it should be. You hate the idea that anyone else gets to see this. Gets to see him.

He smiles, says your name in that buttery register. He adjusts your chair and guides you back with soft and tender hands. He leans over you and being beneath him like this feels like destiny.

He has no idea what he does to you. No idea how devastating it is to have him this close. It takes everything in you to not reach up and touch his jaw and pull him closer and press your forehead to his and tell him that he belongs to you and no one else and—

“You’ve been taking good care of yourself,” he says.

The snap of latex against his gloved hands is foreplay, and his praise is seduction. Your thighs tense. It’s embarrassing how fast your thoughts collapse.

You love it when he asks you to open up, when he touches you, angles your head exactly how he wants and explore every inch of your obedience. You’ve memorized the exact spot his thumb rests, the amount of pressure on his fingers.

You’re so close to him that you can hear his breathing. You want to ask him what he’s thinking about. You want the answer to be you.

He finishes too soon. You’re not ready. You’re never ready.

He pulls away and gives you a satisfied nod he gives to good patients.

“See you next time,” he says. Next time. Next time. Next time.

And you will. Soon. You’ll make sure of it.

Three months ago

You weren’t supposed to meet him that day.

It was a throwaway appointment — a last-minute cancellation the receptionist squeezed you into because you happened to be nearby. You barely had time to sit before the assistant pushed open the door and called your name.

You didn’t expect anything out of the ordinary from all your previous routine checkups. But when he turned toward you, it was nothing short of extraordinary.

His bright hair caught the light like it was intentionally showing off.

His eyes were so vivid it felt illegal to look into them for more than a second.

Your organ systems forgot they had a job — your lungs, your brain, your heart.

You’d never been disarmed by a person before. You didn’t even think people had the power to do that.

“Let’s get you seated,” he said.

That voice. God.

He adjusted the chair and lowered you gently, explaining the procedure with an intimacy that caught you off guard. The way he leaned close to show you where to rest your head, how his hand ghosted near your jaw without touching yet.

Frankly, it felt inappropriate.

Your body reacted like he’d whispered something filthy. And when you felt him place two fingers under your chin, tipping it up to the perfect angle, your pulse shot upward so fast your vision went blurry.

And while he was rambling on about brushing technique or gum health or something, you couldn't process any of it. Your brain was stuck on one thing, and one thing only: he touched you.

You didn’t leave that room the same person who entered it.

You stood up, nodded politely and thanked him like a functioning adult. You walked out trying to act normal while on the inside, a dangerous thought began to form, one that would only continue to spiral:

He was perfect.

Not just “attractive”, not just “easy on the eyes”.

Perfect.

Perfect in a way that felt targeted. Perfect in a way that felt designed. Perfect in a way that made your body mourn the seconds you weren’t with him.

You replayed his voice all the way home. You replayed his touch. You replayed the way he smiled.

You needed more. You needed him.

Sleep didn’t reach you that night.

The memory of his fingertips brushing your lips resurfaced with humiliating clarity everytime your eyes fluttered shut.

You employed every method possible to forget — you’d roll over, shove your face into your pillow, and try to force yourself to forget the feeling, but your skin remembered.

You had to see him again. Soon. Now. Immediately.

But you couldn’t just show up. You weren’t unhinged — not outwardly. You needed a plan, a reason; a way back into that chair.

You sat down on your desk with renewed purpose, opened your laptop, and before you could question what you were doing, the clinic’s name was already being typed into your browser.

Your motive wasn’t to make an appointment. You were looking for their scheduling structure, their staff rotation, their hours. Any scrap of information you could twist into something useful. But their website was useless. Too clean and too vague.

So you did what any sane, functioning person would do. You called the clinic.

“Hi! Just checking if Dr. Gojo is in today?”

You wrote down the answer. You hung up. Waited a respectable amount of time—you weren’t an animal—then called again. You used a different tone. Different phrasing. Different fake reason.

Another time slot. Written down. Compared. Cross-referenced. It wasn’t enough. You needed data. A pattern. A system.

The spreadsheet grew fast into a color-coded grid;

Green: confirmed work days Orange: probable presence Violet: ambiguous Red: unacceptable absence

Blocks of time were highlighted, circled and analyzed:

He arrived earlier on Mondays. Left later on Thursdays. Took a longer break on Fridays.

Why rely on chance when you could rely on predictions?

Today, your alarm goes off an hour earlier than usual. The spreadsheet predicted an early arrival.

Thursday — Projected Arrival: 7:42 AM.

Last week it was 7:50. The week before, 7:46.

And if your deduction about his caffeine habits (large mocha, double shot espresso, two pumps of sugar, extra foam, less ice) is correct, then today should fall neatly in the middle.

You stand across the street from the clinic with a coffee cup you don’t even plan to drink, pretending to scroll your phone.

The time is 7:45 AM. Any second now.

7:46 People pass. Irrelevant. Noise. Filler. Not him.

7:47:50 You lift the coffee cup to your lips to fake a sip. Your eyes are locked onto the reflection in the glass window across the street — your perfect surveillance method.

7:48:12 There. He’s punctual. Of course he is. He cares about you so much. He’d never leave you hanging.

Dr. Satoru Gojo strolls up to the clinic with his hands in his coat pockets. His hair is obnoxiously bright in the morning light. It taunts every other shade of white in existence.

He’s wearing his spare blue scrub set, the one with the bleach stain on the hem from three weeks and two days ago when he knocked over a bottle on accident. He really should be more careful. Your clumsy boy.

He unlocks the door and disappears down the hall.

7:48:36 — Confirmed.

You mark down the time your notes app. A near-perfect match with your prediction. You understand him better every day.

You should go home and relax now, but then you see her walking straight into his clinic — female, short bob, beige coat, smug little bag.

That’s not right.

He doesn’t have any scheduled appointments now. You know there’s nothing booked in this slot. You checked.

Who is she? What does she want? Why is she here?

This doesn’t make sense. Unscheduled walk-ins are rare. Unscheduled female walk-ins are suspicious.

Does she know him? Is she new? Is she early? Did she call yesterday? Did she call after you checked? Did she lie? Did she flirt?

The receptionist nods and leads the woman toward the hallway. Toward him.

This is fine. It’s totally fine. He’s a dentist, after all. He sees patients. He helps people. It’s his job.

You stare at the clinic door long enough to memorize the exact angle it swings shut after she disappears inside.

You don’t leave.

You tell yourself you’re just passing by, just stretching your legs. You walk as if you’re checking window displays — never mind that the only window worth checking is the one that gives you a perfect side-angle view of his room.

And then you see them.

The woman with the bob is on the chair, chatting with Satoru. You expect her to be annoying, maybe loud—Satoru hated the loud ones—but she’s pleasant.

She’s laughing softly, one hand tucked behind her ear. She looks foolish. Like she’s audtioning for a toothpaste commercial. You think she must’ve had veneers done. No one was born with teeth like that. No one, save for Satoru.

A friend? No — too cheerful. A former coworker? No — not in those shoes. A vendor? No — she didn’t bring any products. A stalk— No. That’s your role.

You watch the bob girl shift her posture, trying to look cuter. Your teeth grind. Then the woman leans in, says something to him, something you can’t make out.

And he laughs.

Your Satoru — your perfectly punctual, perfectly bright, perfectly oblivious reason for existing, is laughing.

It’s not a polite chuckle. Not the forced, professional smile. It was a real, shoulders loosening, eyes crinkling smile. The kind that should only ever be directed at you.

Your mind goes very, very still.

You can’t hear what she said, but you know it wasn’t funny. She shouldn’t be making him laugh. Shouldn’t be making him anything. That expression is yours and yours alone. Your reward. Your discovery.

You’re not jealous. You’re vigilant. You’re careful. She’s one disruption. An anomaly. You’ll handle it.

This is your time slot. This is your schedule.

Your doctor.

Fine. Good. You needed this. People like her will always flutter around him. Let her — temporary little distraction. She won’t matter long. Not when you’re the one coming back soon. Very soon.

You can’t get the image out of your head. Her laugh. His laugh. No. Absolutely not. Everything about that scene was wrong.

You pace down the sidewalk, the morning sun too blinding, the traffic too loud, the world too irritating.

All the while, your brain keeps looping one thought: you need to get inside that clinic. Right now. Before she steals more seconds that aren’t hers.

But you can’t just walk in, or say you forgot something. What would you even pretend to forget? Your dignity? It’s long gone anyway.

And even if you did fabricate some imaginary object, the receptionist would retrieve it in seconds and that bob-headed parasite would go right back to stealing his minutes.

You need something better. A believable reason. A legitimate one. Something that’d make the receptionist pale and scramble, and say the magic words: “We’ll get Dr. Gojo right away.”

Emergency. That’s it. You need an emergency. This is logical. It’s reasonable. This is exactly what any rational person would do if they saw a strange woman hovering around their dentist.

Okay. Think. How does one create a dental emergency?

You could claim a crown fell out; You don’t have one, but they don’t know that.

You could say you felt a crack; Nobody can disprove a sensation over the phone.

You could say you woke up with swelling; “I swear it’s huge,” is such a flexible phrase.

You could even lose a tooth.

Yes. Yes, yes, yes.

You’ll lose a tooth.

It's perfectly convincing. Perfectly harmless — at least, if you plan it right. You read once that if you put it immediately in a glass of milk, the chances of replanting the tooth skyrockets. And whose hands would you trust more than Satoru’s?

Safe hands. Careful hands. Big, warm, gorgeous hands that would cradle your face and say, “Don’t worry, I’m here.”

Your voice will tremble; you can do that on command. Your eyes will water; you’re already halfway there.

They won’t make you wait, they won’t question it. He would never turn away a patient in pain.

And that bob-haired waste of space? She’ll watch him run to you first.

You’ll be exactly where you’re supposed to be. Back in his chair. Back under his hands. Back inside his attention.

You buzz with anticipation and sprint to the nearest grocery store. You check out a bottle of milk and head straight to the restroom, adrenaline singing in your veins, determination settling into your bones. You lock yourself in and grip the edge of the sink.

You ball a wad of paper towels and bite down on them. You’ll need something to stifle the scream. You’re not dumb — you’re not about to sabotage your own plan by having someone rush in and interrupt you.

Okay. Okay, okay. You breathe once, twice, three times.

This is it. This is devotion. This is fate. You whisper, “For Satoru.”

Then you slam into the sink.

Crack.

A sunburst of pain sucks all the oxygen out of you. Your knees knock the side of the stall. You choke on your own muffled cry — a broken, animalistic whimper. Your vision blurs so hard you think you’ve passed out, but you’re still there. The taste of rust crosses your tongue. Then you spit into your palm.

It worked. It fucking worked.

Jagged, red at the root, shining with triumph — your tooth.

You stagger back, dabbing at your mouth. The tissues are still clenched between your teeth now.

It hurts. Oh, it hurts so bad. But it’s sacred.

People only deserve his attention if they’re willing to bleed for it.

You give yourself one minute to practice your act — sixty seconds of dizzy euphoria, staring into the mirror with a mouthful of tissues and blood smeared across your chin.

You look pathetic. It was perfect.

You stumble into the clinic, towards the counter, hands cupping your jaw to really sell it. Your eyes are glossy with unshed pain, voice shaking so sweetly when you plead:

“I—I think something broke. Please… I need to see a dentist right now.”

And just like you dream, she scrambles to pick up the phone, and says the magic words:

“I’ll get Dr. Gojo right away.”

You’re being ushered down the hallway, trembling, clutching your jaw like it’s the most fragile thing in the world. You don’t have to fake the adrenaline; your body is already shaking so hard your teeth (your remaining ones) chatter.

You see the bob-haired bitch scurry out of his room. Good riddance.

The door clicks open. And he’s there.

Your reason, your ruin, your everything: Dr. Satoru Gojo.

His eyes widen with concern the second he sees you curled in on yourself, breath hitching.

“Hey… hey, easy,” he says, unbearably soft, stepping closer, gentler than you’ve ever seen him. “You must be scared. Let me take a look, okay?”

You lift your gaze slowly, letting your lashes tremble, letting your breath wobble. You look small on purpose; crafted yourself into the perfect picture of vulnerability.

You whisper, “It… it hurts.”

His brows knit together instantly. “Aw, sweetheart—”

(Your heart combusts.)

“—I’ve got you. We’ll fix it. I’ll numb the area first, get rid of that pain.”

He dons his surgical gloves with slow, careful movements, retrieving the syringe like he’s trying not to startle a frightened animal.

It does unspeakable things to you.

And when he steps closer and reaches for your chin, you flinch back — deliberately, strategically.

He goes soft all over. “Hey. I promise I won’t hurt you.”

You let your voice shake even more. It isn’t hard. You’re already breathless.

“B-but this is my first time doing something like this,” you say, tiny, terrified. “Please… promise me you’ll be gentle?”

His eyes snap to yours — startled, confused, embarrassed?

He swallows, the tiniest bob of his throat, before he speaks.

“I promise.”

Oh, Satoru. Your darling Satoru. Your beautiful, clueless, perfect idiot.

He leans closer, fingertips tilting your chin, ever so tender and loving.

“Just open wide and relax for me,” he says.

You nearly dissolve into a puddle on the chair. This is your best idea yet. You’ve never seen him care so much about you before, and you want to push the boundaries even more.

He begins to angle the numbing syringe, but you tense up again — intentionally, the picture of sweet, irresistible innocence.

“Hey… look at me.” His voice drops, low and coaxing, “I’ll take good care of you. Trust me.”

You know what he means. You know exactly what he means.

The clinical intention. The rational intention.

But your brain, faithful and deranged, hears something else entirely.

The needle slips into your gum, and the anesthetic floods in, numbing all sensation until the only thing you can truly feel is him, towering above you, looking only at you.

Let her make him laugh. That’s all she’ll ever be — a clown. Let her think that’s enough.

He only speaks like this to you. He said he’ll take care of you. He promised he’d be gentle with you. He’ll make you all better. Only you.

You go home with blood-soaked gauze between your teeth and victory under your skin.

Your tooth hurts, your gums throb, your jaw is stiff; none of that matters.

The compassion he showed and the way he looked at you isn’t something you can un-feel.

You lock the door behind you and head straight to your bedroom. You don’t even bother turning on the lights — the glowing screen of your laptop is all you need.

You sit on the floor, cross-legged, pulse fast as you open your browser.

Dr. Satoru Gojo, you type.

The first results are boring.

Clinic listings, dental certifications, a generic staff bio.

No flavor. No soul.

You already know all this surface-level nonsense. These pages aren’t for people like you — they’re for strangers.

You’re not a stranger.

His personal social media accounts are locked. All of them. Of course they are.

He's private. Someone that beautiful had to be. But privacy doesn’t erase information.

You have to find a way in.

So you discover the cracks:

coworkers with public profiles

relatives who overshare

a cousin who tags him in old photos

family friends who post albums from reunions

a retired teacher who still uploads grainy class pictures from ten years ago

You sit back for a moment, staring at his aunt’s page. Her feed is full of blurry lunches and knitted scarves.

Perfect. You’d be a distant aunt.

You open a new tab. A new account. A new identity. You give yourself a delicate old-lady name, a grandmotherly profile picture, a blurry banner, captions filled with emojis and misspellings, posts about your silly grandkids.

You follow his entire family tree. Then, finally, you follow him.

Your eye twitches with anticipation.

If he declines, you’ll simply try again from a different angle. If he blocks you, you’ll build a new family member.

But if he accepts… if he accepts…

The notification comes instantly.

Satoru Gojo accepted your follow request.

You’re in his world now.

Now that your fake-old-lady-profile has infiltrated his circle, doorways start opening: tagged photos from when he was a teen, comments under his university posts, friends teasing him, coworkers tagging him at events, relatives posting birthday pictures, people mentioning his preferences, old likes he forgot about.

You absorb it all.

You pause at a photo he liked. A woman’s face — the actress, Waka Inoue.

So that’s what he likes. That’s what draws his eye. That’s the shape of his fantasy.

You turn your gaze toward your own reflection in the dark screen. Your clothing is wrong. Your hair is wrong. Your makeup is wrong.

Wrong things can be changed.

You create a single folder — a dossier.

He’ll recognize you the next time you meet him. You’ll become his dream. One perfect piece at a time.

It’s 9:42 on a Sunday morning.

You’re sitting by the window, waiting.

You chose this seat intentionally.

It had the perfect lighting, perfect angle, perfect radius of visibility from the doorway.

A book is open in front of you, pages untouched. You don’t need to read; you only need to look like someone he would want to read beside.

Your reflection in the glass pane matches the blueprint you carved from ten years of digital breadcrumbs: soft waves grazing your shoulders, a delicate blouse draping just right, a muted skirt stopping shyly above your ankles and small earrings that dangled gracefully.

You look like someone meant to be photographed holding his arm.

Two drinks sit on your table — the props in your carefully constructed tableau. An iced mocha (your decoy) and a sparkling water (your actual drink).

And after weeks of monitoring his off-day patterns, you know that on Sundays, around mid-morning, he gets coffee. Always the same shop, always the same route. He doesn’t think twice about routine, so you place yourself in it like a missing puzzle piece.

He walks in wearing casual clothes, glasses slipping down his nose. He looks so disarmingly human like this. Less “doctor” and more “man you’d want to wake up beside.” He’s too adorable, all too unaware of how attractive he is.

He sees you instantly. You knew he would. There’s nothing accidental about this.

“Oh—hey!” he called out. “This is unexpected.”

You lift your head with the sweetest, softest, perfectly engineered surprise.

“Oh! Dr. Gojo! I… didn’t think I’d see you here!”

He walks over, adjusting his glasses, a little flustered.

“Just Satoru is fine,” he says. “You can drop the formalities. We’re not in the clinic.”

A shy blush escapes you, just as you practiced in the mirror. “Okay… Satoru.”

The name sits beautifully on your tongue. He hears it. His shoulders slacken.

“So, uh… what brings you here?” he asks, gesturing around awkwardly. “It’s just that, I’m a regular, but I don’t think I’ve seen you here before.”

“I just came by for a little weekend treat. This here—” you lift your drink and laugh gently, “—is my guilty pleasure. An iced mocha, double shot espresso, two pumps of sugar, extra foam, less ice.”

His jaw drops. He’s bewildered. Absolutely stunned.

“No way. That’s my exact order.”

Hook.

It’s almost too easy. You nearly grin. Nearly. Instead, you pause, blink, tilt your head.

“Really? A dentist with a sweet tooth?”

“Guilty as charged.” He laughs, rubbing the back of his neck. “That’s so funny, we’re already matching coffee orders.”

Matching.

You can already hear church bells ringing.

You lower your eyes, feigning hesitation. A pause that suggests you’re a litty shy and a little nervous.

“Actually… I’ve been meaning to thank you. For helping me last time. I’m really grateful, so, if you’re free… would you maybe like to join me?”

Line.

He shouldn’t say yes. You know that, he knows that.

But his eyes do a once-over at you: your pure persona, your demure posture, all sculpted just for him. He sits across from you without another thought.

“Sure. I’ve got time.”

Sink.

Satoru settles into the chair across from you, fingers curling around his iced mocha.

He looks relaxed, surprisingly. As if sitting with you is the most natural thing in the world, even though this is the only time he’s spoken to you off a dental chair.

“So,” he begins, leaning forward a little, “how’s your tooth? Any pain since then?”

You shake your head, and tuck a strand of hair behind your ear, offering him a shy smile.

“It’s fine, thanks to you.”

A barely-there pink rises on his cheeks. You note the way he tries to hide it by taking a too-quick sip of his drink, only to wince when the cold hits his teeth.

Cute.

“So, uh… what are you reading?” he asks, hoping to recover, nodding toward the book you haven’t touched once.

You allow your eyes to widen like you didn’t expect him to ask.

“Oh, just some light reading.” You run your finger along the spine. “The Tale of Genji by Murasaki Shikibu — Heian period court intricacies, relationships… It’s dense. I won’t bore you.” (it didn't matter that you couldn’t name a single character if he asked.)

He perks up, intrigued. “No, no — that’s really cool. I’ll admit, I’m a simple man.” He laughs. “I read whatever I can squeeze between work. Only seem to have time for manga these days though.”

“That makes sense,” you say. “I imagine it gets overwhelming. Everyone in the city seems desperate to get in with you.”

He groans dramatically. “Don’t remind me. Yesterday someone even tried flirting with the receptionist to steal a canceled slot.”

What a weak attempt.

“Did it work?”

He snorts. “Not a chance. The waiting list is already a month long.”

You laugh politely at your own downplay, hiding a smile behind your cup. You lower your gaze the way all his favorite actresses do in candids. “Well, you’re really good at what you do — I would know.”

He clears his throat, rubbing the back of his neck. “Nah, you’re a good patient.”

“How so?”

He shrugs. “You’re easy to talk to, I guess. Most people are either afraid of me or asking me out.”

Don’t let the rage get to you. Just keep smiling.

“Oh? Do they really ask you out?”

He admits with a grimace. “More often than I’d like.”

“I can see why,” you tease.

How daring of you.

He looks down at his drink, embarrassed. He looks stunned, shy even, but he shouldn’t be — not with a face like that.

“I mean,” you add softly, swirling your straw, “you’re kind, smart, good at what you do.” You offer a tiny, modest shrug. “It’s not hard to imagine people falling for that.”

“That’s—wow, uh—thanks.” He laughs nervously and darts his eyes away for a second. “You’re… not too bad yourself,” he adds. “Though I’m sure you’re used to compliments by now.”

Oh... Pull yourself together. Your fingers toy with the edge of your sleeve.

“You think so?”

He nods without hesitation. “Yeah. I’m glad I ran into you today.”

You can practically feel the universe tightening the noose around his destiny. Poor Satoru is a puppet who hasn’t realized he’s on strings. He’s open, comfortable—and dare you say—starting to like you.

Which means it’s time.

You need to leave. Now. Before he gets too comfortable. Before he stops thinking about you.

Because the secret isn’t making a man like you. It’s making him want more.

You wait— Time it, feel it. Sense the exact moment he leans in, a question perched on his tongue—

Then you stand.

The scrape of your chair might as well be a gunshot the way he flinches.

He stammers, blinking up at you, “Ah—do you, uh, need to go already?”

Your heart flutters at the crack in his voice. That small, wounded surprise. You are that good.

“I should, I don’t want to take up your whole morning.”

He sights up straighter, like the chair suddenly isn’t comfortable without you in front of him. His next words come out in pieces, scrambled, “Oh—no, it’s not—I mean, you’re not, um, I honestly don’t have anything to do, so if you wanted to stay, I wouldn’t—”

He’s unraveling. You did that.

It takes everything in you not to let out a victory cry. Instead, you force out a small and meek, “It was really nice talking to you, Satoru.”

You said his name again.

You can see what it does to him.

“Yeah,” he murmurs. “It was.”

You gather your things slowly, giving enough time for him to watch you and to process the loss of your presence. You shoulder your bag, one last polite nod before turning to leave.

One step. Two. Three—

“Wait.”

You could kiss yourself.

You turn, looking over your shoulder, eyes wide with perfect surprise. He’s standing now, hand in his pocket, awkward, nervous.

“Um…” His fingers fumble with a folded bit of reciept paper, edges crushed from how tightly he’s been holding it. He steps closer and clears his throat. “This is probably a bad idea.”

You give him your most virtuous look. “What is that?”

He glances aside in embarrassment, “I’m not supposed to do this with my patients.” He hands you the slip of his paper. “My personal number,” he says.

Oh. my. fucking. god.

You wanted to scream, laugh, grab his shirt, kiss him, shake him, sink your nails into the flesh of his heart and carve your initials in it.

“I-I… don’t want to get you in trouble,” you whisper.

He shakes his head immediately. “No, it’s fine. I trust you. Text me if anything happens. Or even if anything doesn’t.”

You close your fingers around the paper, cradling it. You have him wrapped around your finger. “Okay,” you say. “I will.”

Everything worked.

Every detail and carefully chosen word.

Executed to perfection, a masterpiece in manipulation.

Everything is falling into place exactly as you planned.

You can’t text him immediately — that’s what clingy, overeager, sloppy little creatures do.

You aren’t an amateur.

So you set the paper on your nightstand, smooth it flat, and let it sit.

You wake up. You make tea. You replay his laugh while brushing your teeth.

It was nothing short of torture, but you had to be patient. For you are his favorite patient.

Three days is the magic number — an acceptable timeframe.

Three days is when he starts to think of you unprompted.

Three days is enough time for him to be haunted by thoughts of “why hasn’t she texted?”

So you start drafting.

Thank you again for keeping me company.

Too plain. Too empty. Delete.

I really enjoyed seeing you. Hope you got home safe!

You gag. Actually gag. Delete.

Thanks again for helping me last time. You really made me feel better.

Ugh. Terrible. You sound like a Yelp review. Delete.

Hope I wasn’t too much of a bother again.

What the fuck? You want pity? Absolutely not. Delete.

You sit cross-legged on your bed, the light from your phone glowing against your palm like a holy artifact. His number waits in your contacts, untouched: Toru <3

Come on.

You didn’t reengineer your entire personality and reconstruct your wardrobe just to send some lukewarm, baseline-human nonsense.

You want to sound warm yet bold. Funny and a little flirty. You want him to blink at his screen, smile without meaning to, then reread it ten times over.

Is it normal to want to see your dentist again this soon?

Yes. Yes, yes. This is the one.

Harmless on the surface. Playful underneath. Disarming in its simplicity. Suggestive if he wants it to be. Teasing if he reads it twice. A confession if he looks closely.

You cross-reference your spreadsheet and confirm his schedule today: No appointments. Lunch break window. Phone likely in pocket. Brain likely idle.

It's the ideal time for emotional interference — you position yourself like a sniper, and hit send. The message floats away, a little digital bullet aimed straight for his heart.

Then you wait, the way a lion sinks into tall grass. And sure enough—

Your phone buzzes, not a minute later. Not even forty seconds. Thirty-one. He read it immediately.

A laughable little thrill curls through you as you stare at the notification lighting up your lock screen:

Only if your dentist has good bedside manners 😉

Your entire bloodstream vaporizes and reconstitutes itself in the span of a heartbeat. Your stomach swoops so violently you nearly drop the phone. You read it thirty-one times and then another four, just to make sure you weren’t hallucinating or misinterpreting the innuendo.

The wink. The fucking wink.

He could have just said “lol” or “haha”. But he didn’t.

Satoru Gojo winked at you.

Digitally, yes. But it counts.

And not a friendly wink either. Not a “grandma made a pie” wink.

A bedside. Manners. Wink.

You’re dizzy with implications. There are so many. What does “good” mean to him? Gentle? Dominant? Hands-on? Does he think you’re picturing him hovering over a bed with gloves off and voice low? Because you are, now. You are so vividly doing that.

You could still dial this down — send a safe, soft-pedaled emoji or a polite “haha, you’re so silly”. All it takes is your next reply to tip the scales toward cordial or carnal.

But your brain isn’t interested in balance aymore.

No, your brain has already slithered off the rails and is now joyriding straight into his lap. It’s licking the thought of his voice bending low, whispering for you to “open wide” with something other than dental instruments in hand. It’s already imagining his so-called bedside manners without latex gloves — no latex at all, for that matter.

You have all the power now. The invitation is sitting wide open, legs parted, saying: come inside.

Is that so, doctor? Next time, I’ll be better prepared to assess your technique

And when he responds, he bites back, hard:

Bring a notepad. I’ll give you plenty to write about

You nearly let out a sound.

You clamp your thighs together without thinking just to contain the full-body voltage that line delivers straight to your pelvis.

You lie back against the pillows, grinning like a lunatic, fingers hovering over the keyboard, thumbs twitching with indecision.

He wants this. He started this.

But still — you want to measure the next stroke just right.

Fair warning: I have strict standards

You can picture him mentally debating, wondering how inappropriate this is while simultaneously wanting to dive in anyway.

Delivered. Read. Typing…

Fair warning: I never disappoint

God. You sit up. Sit forward. He’s still typing. Another text pings in right after:

You free Friday night?

You swear you stop breathing. You let your head fall back, body sizzling, mouth dry. Then you answer, calm and confident like you’ve practiced before.

It’s a date.

You lock your phone and stare at the ceiling with a slow, consuming smile. The room feels too small to hold the satisfaction inside of you.

He has no idea what he’s just set in motion, but you know exactly what comes next.

Satoru Gojo pulls up in his car and steps out like a wet dream.

White dress shirt, perfectly fitted, rolled just once at the sleeves like he doesn’t even know how pornographic his forearms are. A slim black tie, undone (you’d undo it further).

He leans against his car, wearing a devil-may-care elegance, holding the sexiest bouquet you’ve ever seen.

Red roses were far too generic. He held an assortment of deep wine-colored calla lilies, indigo hyacinth, black dahlia, a single spray of bleeding heart, tied in dark silk. You want to crawl into his lap and purr for it.

You’ve been getting ready since 11:00 for a 7:30 dinner.

It started with a three-step exfoliation.

Then a cooling mask. Then a hydrating mask. Then another to seal the glow.

You tweezed precisely — eyebrows, bikini line, the back of your neck. You moisturzied every inch of your body. Twice. Then oiled it.

You sprayed perfume in strategic places: back of the knees, between the breasts, behind each ear and under your hairline so it would bloom when you played with your hair.

You matched the color of your lipstick to the color of his favorite whiskey. You lined your underwear drawer in the off chance he opened it. You painted your nails a color he once liked on a girl’s post from six months ago.

You wore the dress that made your waist look strangled. You wore the shoes that gave you the posture of a prayer.

And by the time you were done curling your hair, steam emerged from the bathroom like smoke after arson.

But it’s all worth it. He’s worth it.

You had rehearsed the steps you’d take down the stairs earlier so that you’d look like a starlet.

You know how you look. You’ve seen it in the mirror a hundred times already, practiced every expression — wide eyes, coy smile, neck bared just a little more than necessary.

You walk toward him slowly, pretending not to notice how his eyes track every inch of you, from the straps over your shoulders, to the dip of your waist, to the swell of your legs straining beautifully against heels he’ll definitely make you regret later.

“Hey,” he says, offering you the bouquet.

The words taste too good in his mouth. And the way his fingers curve around the stems? You almost moan on instinct.

You take them with trembling control. “They’re stunning.”

“So are you,” he says, eyes dragging down your body and back up. “Do I get to keep looking at you all night?”

It should be illegal the way he says it. So lethal you want to die.

“You better,” you say, curling your grasp tighter around the bouquet. “I got all dolled up just for you.”

You don’t tell him about the playlist you listened to while shaving. Or the way you rewaxed your legs even though they were fine.

You don’t tell him you read six articles on body language to keep your posture effortlessly receptive and just barely challenging.

You don’t tell him you spent twenty minutes making sure your purse contents were both practical and inviting.

You don’t tell him about the notes you made on his favorite wines, his casual turns of phrase, the photo from his stories where you could just barely see the title of the book on his nightstand.

He smiles and opens the door for you. “Shall we?”

His fingers brush your lower back as he guides you into your seat. You’re already soaking, and the night’s only just begun.

The interior of the car smells like him, and the radio hums with ambient jazz, the kind of music people undress to in good movies.

His one hand grips the steering wheel, forearm flexing with each turn. You can’t stop picturing it above your head, fingers gripping the headboard, pinning you down as he sinks inside. You imagine leaving crescent-moon marks in that same arm, clutching him through every thrust.

He glances over. “How was your week?”

“Better now.”

He laughs under his breath, the sound curling around your neck. “I was hoping you’d say that.”

The drive feels like the prelude just before climax — surreal, floaty, skin too sensitive, body tuned too high.

Every passing streetlight reflects against his cheekbones, his lashes, carving his features in gold and shadow. And when his thumb grazes the gearshift, all you can think about is whether he fucks like he talks.

When he parks, you barely register it.

The restaurant is tucked between two blank storefronts: wooden façade, softly glowing paper lanterns flanking the entrance, barely visible signage in elegant brushstroke kanji.

He kills the engine and turns to you.

“Ready for the best meal of your life?”

You let your smile drag out slowly, lip catching on your teeth. “Don’t keep me waiting.”

The maître d’ greets him by name and leads the way to the sushi bar. You glide onto the dark leather stool by his side, close and together, no barriers. You sit, crossed legged, spine perfectly postured, dress kissing your thighs with every shift.

The chef bows low and welcomes you in soft Japanese. He works in silence before you, each slice of fish a performance. The entire meal is a private show, course by course, a slow unveiling.

“This one’s from Niigita,” Satoru says, pouring sake into your cup. “It’s supposed to open up as it breathes.”

“We have that in common.”

He smiles, and that little twist in his lips has your toes curling in your heels.

The first dish arrives. The tuna gleams beet red, accompanied by fresh wasabi and smoked soy.

You watch him out of the corner of your eye as you lift the first piece to your lips, fatty tuna so soft it collapses like butter. You moan (not by accident).

“Holy shit,” you say, hand over your mouth. “I think I just saw god.”

Satoru raises an eyebrow, pleased. “And here I was hoping you’d say that after dinner.”

You chew slowly. Swallow. “You know what they say — save the best for last.”

He watches your lips, then lifts his cup. “Amen to that.”

And so it goes. Bite after bite, poured drinks and conversation. You match him beat for beat — his tastes, humor, quirks.

When he references his favorite manga, you recall the exact line that comes after that. When he talks about enjoying late-night walks, you describe the exact route that just happens to mirror the one in his tagged photos.

He rests one elbow on the bar. “If I asked you what you really thought about me after our first appointment…”

“Which version do you want to hear? The censored or unfiltered version?”

He grins. “Both.”

“Mmm. I think I’d rather show you than tell you.” You pause, lowering your lashes. “But I will say this — I hated the girl who came in after me.”

It's a bold move, but you want him to know. And every time you speak, he looks at you longer.

Another dish arrives. Amberjack, kissed with yuzu zest. He lets you steal his when you eye it too long.

Between courses, you joke about food crimes, admit your secret obsession with absurdly niche documentaries and “coincidentally” drop the title he tweeted about last year as if you didn’t spend nights combing through his feed.

Then his hand brushes your knee, barely a graze, but to you, it’s a spark in a dry field. Your entire body stills under the table, tightly coiled. You want him all over.

“You’re kind of perfect, you know that?”

You feel heat. The final thread of restraint snaps. You place your chopsticks down carefully. You turn toward him, half-shifted on your stool, your leg brushing his.

“I don’t want dessert,” you say.

He raises a brow, smirks. “No?”

“No.”

He blinks once, registering, then leans in. “My place?”

It's so tempting — to feel the silk of his bed, his scent on the sheets and the way his furniture looks when he’s distracted and naked.

But not there, not yet.

You want him in the room where it started, where you first imagined what his hands would feel like if it weren’t covered with latex. You want to feel it raw.

You shake your head. “The clinic.”

Then a laugh, sharp and hot. “Seriously?”

Your eyes are unblinking, unapologetic.

And that’s it. No hesitation. He’s already reaching for his wallet, throwing down enough cash to cover every dish twice over. The chef bows and the staff whispers in polite reverence.

He doesn’t question it again, just takes your hand, leads you to the car, and starts the engine. Your mind is already in the chair, already naked under fluorescent lights.

You glance at him as he pulls out of the lot, hand on the wheel, other hand casually resting between you like it isn’t dying to move. You want to grab it. Put it where it belongs. On you. In you.

His shirt is tight enough across the shoulders that you imagine splitting it open. You want to ruin it, ruin him. You want to press your tongue to his wrist and claim his pulse.

You want his tie around your neck. His name in your mouth. The taste of his skin. You want to be so deep in his thoughts that even his dreams wake up blushing. You want to unzip his spine and live inside him.

You imagine what he’ll look like when he loses control. What his voice will sound like when it breaks. You’ll memorize it, bottle it up, stitch it into your brain, ingrain it in you forever.

He turns the corner, the sign for the clinic glows blue and white in the distance.

Tonight, you go back to where it all began.

Satoru unlocks the front door without a word.

You follow him in after him, traced in his shadow — a devout thing.

He flicks on the examination light and the dental lamp explodes in surgical clarity. It blooms overhead in a cold, perfect cone. A goddamn interrogation spotlight on you, the suspect.

You expect him to smile like before, warm, casual, amused. But he doesn’t.

He shuts the door with his foot. A sharp thunk. The lock clicks behind you like a cell door.

His eyes roam the room, then you. His jaw is set. The muscle in it ticks once.

He’s… different.

You noticed it in the car too — the way his fingers drummed the steering wheel like he was holding back. Now, you’re not sure he is.

He tosses his tie onto the counter, sending metal instruments clattering as the silk brushes them. The tray rattles, a staccato little foreshadowing.

“You want the chair,” he says.

Not a question. Not an offer.

You nod.

He gestures. “Go on.”

The vinyl is cool against the back of your thighs as you sink into the seat. Your dress hikes up slightly — a detail he absolutely notices. He reaches for the control panel, but doesn’t immediately press anything. His hand hovers, then he turns to you.

“You’re not who you say you are, are you?”

Your mouth goes dry. Your heart lurches.

How…

He presses a button.

Beep.

The chair reclines a few inches.

“You called the receptionist asking for my schedule, didn’t you?”

… does he know?

Beep.

Lower.

“You pretended to be someone else everytime.”

You should speak. You should deny it.

Laugh. Cry. Run.

Beep.

Back further, your hair spilling over the headrest, your body opening under the cone of clinical light. The angle is suggestive without even trying. Vulnerable in a way that makes heat curl deep inside you.

He pulls on a pair of gloves—one, then the other—snap, snap in punctuation marks.

“When you showed up at the coffee shop on my day off, I knew I didn’t just run into you.” He tugs the gloves down snug. “You don’t even drink coffee.”

He looks directly at you.

“You even knocked your own tooth out.”

The accusations echo all around you.

He knows — all of it.

The obsessive anlaysis of his calendar. The half-dozen “wrong number” calls. The morning stakeouts and the lies you spun, stacking one on top of the other until the only truth left was you wanted him.

In any way, at any cost.

Your hand finds the metal tray beside you by accident. Instruments tremble with a jarring, metallic trrrring. Satoru watches you react, watches every tremor.

He brushes along your jaw, trailing it. “Do you have any idea how fucked up that is?”

You nod. There’s nothing left to say.

“You should be arrested for the shit you pulled.”

His gaze drops to your hands, trembling on the edge of the armrests. Without breaking eye contact, he reaches to the tray beside you and plucks up a pair of sterile elastic tourniquets, the kind used to stabilize an arm for blood draws.

“I used to imagine you on your knees,” he says, “in my waiting room after hours, tongue out.”

He loops the first thick band around your right wrist and the armrest, cinching it tight with a practiced flick. You can’t breathe. You don’t try.

“Wondered if you thought about me, if you touched yourself after appointments.”

Your left wrist is next — another pull, another sharp snag, binding you helpless. The bands stretch enough to give the illusion of freedom, but no more; every movement meets resistance.

“Sorry darling, can’t have you flailing.”

Your chest heaves, your pulse thunders. He watches the panic spread beautifully across your features.

He adjusts the headrest—click—cradling your skull in his palms. His thumbs rest behind your ears. His face is close now, framed by the halo of the dental lamp, eyes bright and impossibly blue.

His glove grazes your lower lip; not a kiss but not even remotely professional. It was enough to set your entire body on fire, every nerve alight under the cold, white brilliance of the exam lamp.

“Tell me,” he says, “is this how you pictured it?”

“Not even close,” you manage.

He leans in, and your back arches under the light. You’re open. Caught. Laid bare on sterile vinyl beneath the weight of guilt. His mouth is so close now you feel his breath.

“You’re insane,” he murmurs, brushing his gloved thumb over your trembling bottom lip. “But so am I.”

You don’t dare to close your eyes. You want to see everything. Because he saw everything. Because he wanted it too.

“Open wide,” he commands.

You do. But not your mouth. Because he’s not your doctor tonight.

Your legs part and his gloves squeak as he drags a hand over your inner thigh. “You didn’t think I would find out? That you wouldn’t be caught?”

He doesn’t give you room to respond, reaching behind you—another click—the chair groans and tilts further back, until your legs slide open wider under gravity, posture collapsed and defenseless beneath him.

“Look at you,” he breathes, taking in the sight. “My lovely stalker in the flesh.”

The metal tray at your side clinks again as he pulls it closer. He reaches for the suction wand.

“Are you sure you can handle me?”

You’d crack your jaw for him. You’d dislocate your ribs to make more room for him. He’s your addiction and this chair is your confession booth.

You whimper—yes, yes, yes—but he’s already dragging the tube down your throat, past your lips. He doesn’t push far, just enough to press down your tongue. Satoru watches you as you gag around the suction, your throat fluttering under the pressure, eyes glossy.

“So eager,” he teases, and the sound of it, the sound of him, is too much. He slides it back out, obscenely slow, and it glistens with spit. “Messy little thing.”

He grabs the tray again, rips gauze from the sterile stack, and stuffs one square into your mouth, watching your lips stretch around it. He pushes two more in, then another wad, just to see how far you’ll let him go.

“Let’s keep the noise down, yeah?”

Your muffled whimper vibrates through the gauze, helpless and needy.

He traces with his gloved knuckle, trailing higher and higher up your thigh with maddening slowness, hovering near where you need him most.

His other hand wraps around your jaw, tilting your head up until your eyes lock with his, blue and burning.

“Don’t you dare look away.”

You couldn’t if you tried.

The dental lamp floods straight into your pupils, washing everything else to shadow. You blink against the brightness, tears gathering from the intensity, from the humiliation of being exposed in the most unholy posture. And he loves it.

He spreads you open with two fingers, exposing your wet, swollen folds to the light. The lamp overhead catches every glisten, every twitch. You try to lift yourself up into his hand, but the elastics bite into your wrists, forcing you to take every torturous second at his pace.

The first touch is barely a touch — the rubber pad of his index finger nudges directly over your clit. A soft push, a slow circle.

The gauze stuffed into your mouth squelches with spit as you sob around it, teeth sinking into the cotton until your jaw aches. He drags his other gloved thumb over the corner of your lip, smearing the saliva that leaks out.

“Mmm, such pretty sounds,” he hums, slipping deeper. “You’re dripping all over my chair. I could ruin you. Right here, right now.”

He waits there, buried to the knuckle, doing absolutely nothing. Your body clenches helplessly around the intrusion, trying to pull him deeper. You whimper into the gag, wrists twisting uselessly against the rubber restraints.

He laughs and lowers his face again until his lips brush your ear.

“You want more?”

A pause.

“Beg.”

You choke on your own breath, air, tears, spit, need, trying to form any sound that resembles a plea. His finger crooks suddenly, finding the spot instantly. Your ragged, gagged cry spills out of you in a confession.

“There’s your little problem area,” he murmurs, delighted.

He strokes it again. Harder, controlled, devastating. Your vision whites out at the edges and your hips thurst upward in broken, jerky movements, driven entirely by instinct.

Then his thumb joins in.

The rubber presses directly on your clit, pushing the wet folds apart around his hand. You damn near convulse — your legs spread wide for him and he thursts in deeper, spreading his fingers apart.

He fucks his fingers in harder, faster, pushing you right to the edge, and then — he withdraws; abruptly, completely, leaving you gasping and choking against the gag, body trembling, thighs slick and open in the cold air.

He steps back and pulls off his gloves with two sharp snaps, tossing them to the tray.

“You look pathetic,” he says.

You wanted to show him just how much.

Your wrists strain against the armrests; you want to touch him, claw him, hold him, anything. Your teeth clamp down around the gag, a muffled snarl erupts low in your throat. Your legs kick out, shaky and half-controlled, but enough to make him grab the armrest and pin you down. His expression flashes from amusement to delight.

“Well, well, look who’s come out to play,” he sings, climbing onto the chair, caging you beneath him.

You buck beneath him again in defiance, and the vinyl screeches under the violent movement. He grabs your throat, holding it with steady pressure, asserting that he can collapse your air at any second.

“You want to challenge me?” He rests his forehead against yours, so close to you that your tears spot his cheek. He pins your wrist with one hand while the other slams your hips down against the chair. “Then fucking challenge me.”

You can’t talk. So instead — you spit the gauze at his face. It hits his cheek, wet and dripping.

“Well now,” he murmurs, brushing your spit down the curve of his own jaw with two fingers. “If you’re going to act like a little monster… I suppose I’ll have to handle you like one.”

He fists his hand in your hair and drags your head back, baring your throat, forcing your mouth open. The restraints creak as your body curls up instinctively toward him, needy and feral.

He kneels on the chair, looming above your pinned body, and drags his cock out — flushed in deep red, heavy and thick enough that your lips part instinctively in disbelief.

“Oh,” he laughs, breath hitching. “You want a taste?”

He taps the head against your lower lip, smearing pre-cum all over, and presses forward to stretch your mouth around a shape substantially bigger than you were ready for.

You try to take him. You really, really try.

But your jaw strains. Your throat tightens. Your lips can’t stretch enough to get past the head before your throat spasms in a futile attempt to open wider.

“What’s wrong?” he taunts, grip tightening in your hair until your scalp burns. “You were so bold a moment ago.”

He nudges forward another inch, forcing your mouth wider, guiding it to the very edge of what it can handle until drool leaks down your chin.

Tears spill from the effort, your neck is strained against the headrest. He watches you struggle, eyes darkening as he watches your jaw quiver around the stretch. Your tongue presses helplessly against the underside of his cock, trying to coax him deeper.

“Oh, sweetheart,” he groans, “if you can’t even take me in your mouth—”

His free hand curls around the base of his length, pressing harder against your lips, pushing a broken whimper from your chest.

“—how the hell,” he pants, “are you going to take me in that tight little cunt?”

You suck harder, jaw screaming, threatening to tear itself apart. You want to swallow him whole, bury him deep, prove that you’re built to take him everywhere.

Satoru smirks down at you, lust-drunk and wicked. “Want to try again?”

You nod frantically, mouth open in a trembling “O”. You think, clear and loud enough for your own mind to hear it:

Yes. Yes, please. Break me on your cock. I want everything you’re about to do.

His eyes gleam like he hears it.

Then he yanks your hair back and shoves himself against your tongue again, harder this time, enough to make your throat seize. You try again, desperate, shaking, gagging on air as you fight to fit around him. He watches you choke on the attempt and loses his goddamn mind.

“Fuck — you’re killing me.”

He leans back, cups your cheeks with both hands, and spits straight into your mouth. A vulgar, wet rope of saliva landing on your tongue and coating your throat.

“There,” he growls, grabbing his cock and smearing his spit across your lips, down your tongue. “Open wider.”

Your throat tries to open. But when he pushes in that inch too far, your gag reflex punches back and you choke hard enough to jolt your entire body, a broken, wet sound that shakes your chest.

“Agh—enough. Enough.”

His voice is ragged, crackling with need. He drags himself out of your mouth and grabs your waist, lifting your restrained body off the backrest with a snap of strength that steals your breath.

He shifts position so fast the chair squeals under him. One moment his cock is pressing at your tongue, the next it’s slapping wetly against your dress, dragged down the centerline of your body, leaving a slick trail of spit on the fabric.

“It’s going in somehow,” he hisses, “if not your mouth, then—”

But he doesn’t finish. Your body reacts before he does. You want to take over, to redeem yourself.

Your hips snap foward, dragging yourself along his cock as he slides it down. Your nails claw for leverage even with your wrists bound.

You tilt yourself, angling your soaked cunt toward him with intent so clear, your entire body trembles as the head nudges your swollen entrance. You strain for contact, cunt pulsing around nothing as you try to drag him into you without permission.

The sight of you trying to mount him while bound, gagged, ruined with tears and spit and slick — he falters, and he jerks forward like he can’t help it. He drops his weight onto you, cock pressed flush to your dripping entrance.

Your chest heaves against him, wrists twisting violently until the elastic bites deep into raw, flaming flesh. It hurts. It thrills. The pain is proof.

“You want it that bad?”

You nod, frantic and wild.

His hand flies to the tray, sending metal rattling. He picks up a scalpel and holds the blade between two fingers, angled toward the rubber binding you.

It slides under the tight band, then—snap—your raw wrist springs free, shaking violently with relief. Thin red marks carve around the skin, swollen and tender, baring evidence of how hard you fought for him.

Good.

Let them stay. Let them bruise and scar.

You earned them.

He drops the scalpel with a clatter, pressing his cock hard against your slit again, smearing slickness over both of you.

Your freed hands fly upward to grab him, nails sinking into his shoulder, dragging him down with a desperation so sharp it borders on violent. Your fingers make their way to thread into his hair and yank him down to your lips.

“Take it properly this time,” he rasps, voice shredded.

“Doctor’s orders,” you oblige, wrapping your legs around his waist to push him in, the head of his cock catching and sinking a fraction of an inch inside your dripping heat.

He slams forward and your body shatters open around him — a shock of pain, a flood of head, a gasp that turns into a moan that turns animalistic. You dig further into his back, dragging warpaths of red down his skin as he sinks further into you.

Finally. This is what you fought for. What you bled your wrists for.

Satoru groans, both of you shivering under the sheer violence. You meet his thrust with a force that makes the chair recline a full inch backward.

His eyes widen. “You’re—” Another thrust. “—trying to take control.”

You bare your teeth in a delicious grin. Then you flip him.

It’s messy, graceless—a snarl, a shove, a twist of your hips and wrists and weight—and suddenly he’s on his back in the chair, stunned, breath gone, cock still buried inside you as you straddle him, thighs clamped around his hips.

You slam yourself down. Hard. He chokes on his own moan.

“Oh—fuck—” His fingers stab into your waist, leaving craters.

You grind down, lifting and dropping your hips in brutal, punishing strokes, using his body like you’re built for it, like he was made to beneath you, inside you, ruined by you.

Your hands push his shoulders down, pinning him with a strength you didn’t know you had. You're taking your revenge.

The chair rattles violently. The light overhead swings in its arm. You collapse your weight onto him, breasts sliding against his chest as you slam down again, again, again, chasing the pleasure.

Satoru’s face contorts, eyes rolling back and mouth falling open, hands clutching you so hard you know you’ll bruise. “You’re going to—fuck—you’re going to break us both—”

You whisper against his ear, voice ruined: “Shut up.”

Then you bite him.

His body jerks so violently his cock slams deeper, hitting a place that makes your vision split into stars. He grabs your hair, yanking your head back, exposing your throat.

“Insane,” he moans. “You’re fucking insane—”

His hand between your shoulder blades pulls you tighter. Your nails rake his chest. Your hips pound down and his breath comes out in shuddering, broken gasps.

You slam down. He cries out. You do it again.

He arches up into you, bucking like he’s trying to escape and bury himself deeper at the same time. You grab his throat and angle him to look at you as you take everything he has.

Your mind is a cathedral of obsession. He’s yours now. You’ll ride him into the grave. You’ll drag both of you into ruin. You slam down so hard the tiles begin cracking under the chair.

“That’s it,” he chokes. “That’s—god—fuck—”

Then he snaps.

He sits up in a single violent moment, arms crushing you to him, mouth on your shoulder, your throat, biting, sucking, marking you with his brand.

You moan, throat raw, as he thrusts up into you from below. Your cries start to shake. Your legs go numb. Your mind falls apart. You claw at his hair, panting into his ear, “Don’t stop.”

He shakes, gripping you like a man drowning. He slams up into you at the same moment you slam down onto him, and the collision rips into a full-body convulsion that arches your spine off his chest and sends your nails carving across his back.

Your throat goes silent for a moment, too much pleasure to even make a sound, before the cry finally tears free, a raw, keening note of release. Your cunt clamps around him so hard he nearly folds with you.

He drags you down on his cock, burying himself so deep the air punches out of him. He stutters, then grinds in ragged and broken thrusts as he groans a low, wrecked sound into your throat, biting into it as he pours into you. You feel blood rising under his teeth — and you almost come again from that alone.

Your legs give out. Your arms tremble intensely. Your body collapses against him, twitching, spasming, clenching with aftershocks so intense it would break the Richter scale.

“Fuck… fuck… stay right there… don’t move… don’t—”

You don’t listen — you shift instead. And you feel it: the soft, hypersensitive throb of him still inside you, your slick leaking down over him. You feel him groan into your neck.

“No—no, sweetheart, don’t—”

Again. You want it again. You want to make sure he can’t walk anymore. To make him delirious.

So you roll your hips again and you kiss him. His lips part on instinct, and you swallow his breath, tongue pushing into his mouth, messy and wet, teeth clashing.

You grind down again and his moan breaks in half. “Fuck—don’t—god, I’m still—”

“I don’t care.”

You kiss him slow, sealing him. His hand slides up your back with a gentleness so at odds with the brutality of what came before that it steals your soul. His mouth lingers under yours, open, wanting more, wanting you.

Every risk you took to get you here worked.

Your obsession made him yours.

His chest rises against yours in one long, shuddering breath. And when you pull back, his voice cracks open against your lips in a low, hoarse murmur:

“… come here, I’m not done yet.”

His nose was nearly close enough to touch yours, and then it did, just barely grazing against you. You couldn't help but glance down at his lips, a pretty pink temptation he was practically shoving in your face.

You couldn't.

Shouldn't.

He exhaled. Long and slow. His breath on your skin. Inhaling like he was taking a drag of you.

But he didn't kiss you either.

"Do you like me?" He murmured, and goosebumps trailed down your arms, shivering without so much as a breeze passing by.

"Yeah," You choked on the lump in your throat, forcing yourself to meet the intensity behind his eyes. "I do."

The corner of those teasing lips curled up, a crinkle beside his squint before he suddenly pulled away.

"Good."

Good?

You wanted to ask what he meant, what this was, but it seemed he rendered you stunned and speechless.

"Saturday night," He grunted when you didn't say anything.

"What?" You felt stupid. Like some dumb girl with her first crush, stuttering around him like you only had enough braincells to babble.

"Are you free?" He asked, cocking a slit brow up.

"Oh, um, yeah, I guess," You nervously rambled, already searching for excuses to make to yourself about why he was asking. "Did Yuki tell you to ask?"

Deep down, you knew that didn't really make sense. But it was easier to deal with than any of the other options.

Sukuna chuckled, and his shoulders relaxed.

"No," He answered. The sky was dark, the light from inside reflecting back through the amused glint in his eyes. "But if you want to party with them, we can stop by the club they go to."

You didn't miss the way he said stop by.

But the implication of where else he wanted to take you - what he might want to do - it felt too big.

"Okay," You agreed, holding your breath before realizing that wasn't exactly an answer "I mean, sure."

"Good," He said the word again - four little letters that left you feeling even funnier the second time around.

Half of you was thrilled. And the other half was terrified.

You didn't know how the fuck you were supposed to talk to Suguru after this. How to talk to anyone when your brain would be stuck on how broad Sukuna's back was when he turned to walk away, the hint of a tattoo peeking out under his sleeve that you started to think you might get a better glimpse at this weekend.

You had made up your mind before you had even snapped out of it enough to get back in your car dazed and practically drunk on the shallow intimacy of just a few seconds with Sukuna. Maybe you'd say you were studying and couldn't call Suguru back tonight. Push it off for a few days until you could figure out how you felt.

Around him, you couldn't control your emotions. Not very well, at least. Some twisted combination of anxiety, excitement, and anticipation that held you onto his every word, every touch.

For whatever weird reason, a hint of guilt had creeped in, like you were somehow cheating in a relationship that had never been real to begin with. On someone who only pitied you anyway.

If it was just about money like you suspected, you supposed you could just send him extra online for now. Another thank you for helping you make some friends since the girls that had been there had actually been texting you for the past few days instead of leaving you on read.

He wasn't your boyfriend. He was barely a friend.

Maybe wouldn't even call himself as much.

Suguru wouldn't care if you weren't around.

It was probably normal to miss your girlfriend. But what about a fake one?

Suguru had never really known what that was like.

Dated around some, sure, but had been on this end of things. Where he stared at the phone after every text you sent him, wondering how to change your mind or convince you to come study with him when you said you got home late from work, too busy with papers and exams.

Declining his call after work, sending a soft voice message apologizing for being too tired and out of it. One he probably listened to too many times.

You'd still walk with him to class the rest of the week, let him hold your hand and kiss your cheek, but you were pulling back. Putting distance there. Treating it like it was a transaction, giving him cash or sending it through your phone like he was some fucking cashier and you were the customer who felt bad for him.

Suguru didn't know how to tell you to stop. That he didn't want it anymore. Didn't need it to stick around.

And there you were, thanking him earnestly anyway, telling him you hoped he had a good day each time and meaning it.

He felt like shit hardly talking to you this week. Maybe ten minutes total, always stuck on the way you glanced over your shoulder at him before you disappeared through some door. The faint flash of hurt, the disappointment that would shine in your eyes when you thought he wasn't paying attention.

"Why are you so nervous?" Gojo laughed at him, glancing over at him from the passenger seat outside the tattoo shop Saturday afternoon. "Does it have something to do with-"

"I haven't talked to her about the catfish yet," Suguru grumbled. That's what it had to be. He didn't know how they got your photos, or what they had against you and him back then, but it was the only thing that made sense.

The you he'd gotten to know never would've said any of that shit to him.

"Why?" Gojo groaned, tapping the center console impatiently, itching to go inside despite the fact Suguru has dragged him there too early. He had to tell him the truth - not that it made an of it less humiliating to hear himself admit that he wasn't really dating you. That you'd paid him to pretend to be just to make some more friends.

"I don't want to make an even bigger ass out of myself," He muttered.

"So ask her on a date," Gojo rolled his eyes. "A real one."

It sounded easy when he said it.

But Suguru wasn't sure you'd say yes.

If you trusted him enough to give him a second chance.

But Gojo didn't give him the chance to even debate it before he had stolen his phone from the cupholder and unlocked it, calling your number before Suguru could stop him.

Shoving it back over the second you picked up, your pretty voice waiting for him on the other end. "Oh, um, hi?"

"Hey," Suguru exhaled, nervousness pricking at his skin.

"Do you need something?" You asked, uncertain. Unsure of what he was asking from you.

"No," He said it a little too bluntly, forcing himself to soften his voice as he cleared his throat. "I just wanted to know if you were busy this weekend."

"If I'm busy?" You echoed.

"Are you working?" Suguru added, loathing how stupid he sounded.

"Not today, but tomorrow," You answered, and before he could get his hopes up, you continued. "I'm going out with some coworkers tonight."

Suguru could tell you were anxious. Could hear it in the small quiver to your voice. You were probably sitting on your bed, cross-legged and chewing on the inside of your cheek. Picking at your nails or reapplying a fresh coat of polish like it'd hide how much you bit them. What color were your sheets?

You liked pink. But for some reason, in his head they were a pale shade of green, something soft. Or maybe it was warm, comforting.

"You'll be fine," He reassured, half of him wishing he was with you now instead, rubbing circles over the back of your hand with his thumb. "Have fun."

"Oh," You squeaked, a cute surprised sound escaping before you recovered. "Thanks, Suguru."

The way you said his name made his heart race.

"What time do you get off tomorrow?" He asked.

"Um, I dunno, it depends, why?" You hummed, and he hoped you were blushing.

"Let's grab dinner." Three words had never been so hard to say.

"It might be late," You warned, but Suguru was just glad it wasn't an automatic no.

"It'll be my treat," He insisted.

"Are you sure?" You tentatively posed the question, as if you were waiting for him to take it back.

He chuckled, "Positive."

And a couple hours later, with the tattoo gun piercing his skin, your voice was still ringing in his head over the dull drone of the machine and the heavy rock playing through the speakers. Sukuna barely spoke outside of grumbling instructions or telling him when to move. It was better that way.

He didn't want to deal with another fake conversation with someone who didn't really care.

Suguru's shoulder ached - but not quite as much as his heart did.

He wanted to see you so bad it was honestly embarrassing. Needed to clear the air in person, apologize for being so standoffish and explain what happened. Although, he didn't exactly have proof - the account he'd blocked didn't seem to even exist anymore.

All week he'd been asking around, and yet he hadn't found a single hint or clue to what happened.

The bell to the front door chimed, but Suguru didn't look over, studying the almost-finished tattoo in the mirror hanging on the opposite wall.

"Give me a minute," Sukuna grunted, wiping it down and peeling off his gloves with a huff before standing up.

That man might be an asshole who lacked customer service skills, but he certainly made up for it with sheer talent.

Suguru rolled his shoulder back, watched the way way the fine lines moved. Gojo hadn't said what he was getting, but he was a little surprised his friend hadn't finished yet, only overheating the occasional chatter from him and the other tattoo artist.

"Hi."

He almost missed it. Nearly chalked it up to a daydream, or a hallucination from how little he'd been sleeping. Your voice, lilting up happily.

It couldn't be you, not here, at least, not-

"You're early," Sukuna grunted.

"Thought you might be hungry, and well-"

"You look good."

Suguru turned - face frozen in a stunned scowl at the scene in front of him.

You, in a pretty little black dress, all dreamy and dolled up, smiling up at his tattoo artist and handing him a fucking sandwich. You didn't look good. You looked delicious.

And Sukuna was staring down at you like he wanted to devour you.

"Are you sure?" You tilted your head to the side, so sincere it made him want to scream, not even a sliver of being sly present in your face. Sukuna had taken the sandwich from you, opening the bag and taking an oversized bite while you started to ramble. "Yuki said I could wear anything, but I didn't know-"

He stuffed the sandwich between your lips to shut you up.

Your nose scrunched up as you grabbed it and tried to not make a mess chewing what was in your mouth. Hand covering your face while a smirk curled up on Sukuna's lips.

"I meant it," He muttered, leaning down and wiping away a crumb from your bottom lip while you swallowed your bite. You being flustered was nothing new, but fuck, seeing you flushed and fumbling for your words for someone else was.

Suguru had been jealous before.

But that was just a little taste. A bitter hint of it on his tongue. This festering feeling stirring in his stomach threatening to make the bile come up his throat was brand new.

"I'm a little scared" You admitted, laughing a little, holding your breath and basically beaming. "I don't think it's really going to be my scene."

Was this your job?

Had you been here all those fucking days you'd turned him down? Sitting pretty at the counter while Sukuna probably stared at your tits the way he was doing right now?

You didn't even seem to notice.

For someone who wanted so badly to be liked, you somehow completely fucking missed the fact you were wanted too.

"I'm not going to leave you." And yeah, it sounded sarcastic coming from Sukuna's lips, harsh and snappy, but it seemed to make you relax, your shoulders slumping a little as he pulled out the chair behind the counter for you to sit on.

Suguru could feel the warmth in your smile from here.

"Is Yuki here yet?" You asked, tilting your head up like some cute lost puppy dog waiting to be pet.

"Nah," Sukuna shrugged. "Wait here. I'm almost finished with my client."

You nodded almost obediently, putting your purse under the counter and Suguru saw it, the way your head tilted, about to turn back and look his direction.

Until Gojo spoke up.

"Small world, huh?" A loud laugh, and then there he was, a bandage over his bicep as he leaned across the counter to poke your cheek.

Surprise flickered across your face before you smiled sincerely at him, bright-eyed as you snagged a lollipop out of the jar and offered him one.

"I didn't know you had any tattoos," You said as he pulled the wrapper off and popped it in his mouth.

"Do now," He grinned, pointing at the bandage proudly. "Didn't know you worked here."

"Yeah," You awkwardly smiled. It wasn't forced, still friendly as you studied his face. Lips parting like you were about to add something before he interrupted.

"You know him?" Sukuna snarled, terse and tense, folding his arms across his chest.

"We go to the same school," You spoke quietly, all that chirpiness fading from your voice and getting replaced with stress.

Your answer only seemed to piss Sukuna off more. Who, Suguru noted, was doing a shitty fucking job of mitigating your apprehension, not even trying to soothe you before he snapped back, "Was he there when-"

"He was the one who gave me his clothes," You muttered under your breath, embarrassed. You told him what happened.

Shame slithered back in.

Because he could condemn Sukuna all he wanted, but Suguru knew it was still his fault for failing you at the first party. That if he hadn't fucked it up then - maybe you wouldn't be looking at Sukuna here the way you had looked at him that day in the library.

Scared and starstruck and hopeful for something Suguru wanted to be the one to give you.

Sukuna backed down at the knowledge Gojo had helped you out, his scowl replaced by begrudging acceptance.

"You can give him the discount," Sukuna grunted.

You glanced up at him, all appreciative and gentle, absentmindedly leaning a little closer to the broad man by your side just for his hand to drift around your waist and squeeze when he bent over and whispered something in your ear.

Suguru hated it. Hated Sukuna. Hated himself.

Hearing you giggle and seeing the glimmer in your eyes when you pulled away. Rolling your eyes at him and not meaning it when the rest of your face was still gentle.

The girl he used to think was spoiled and stuck up standing in front of him crushing on a college dropout with thirty tattoos and a nicotine addiction while he'd give anything for you to want him instead.

"I'm paying for mine and his," Gojo added, deliberately interrupting the thick tension as he pointed back at him. "Do I still get the discount?"

"Yeah, sure," Sukuna grunted, like he didn't care less what happened if you were smiling at him.

But then you turned around.

Saw him sitting there, ink settling into his sore skin and a serious scowl he couldn't help set in his features.

Your hand slowly raised up in a small wave, your breath hitching in your throat.

He felt like a goddamn moron waving back at you.

"Is he one of your other friends?" Sukuna asked, and Suguru couldn't decide who was more annoyed at the idea of that.

But you just nodded, even if it was stiff, your voice quiet when you spoke up, "Yeah."

Your eyes had shifted back to Suguru though, like you thought he might contradict you.

He'd be lying if he said he didn't want to.

Suguru wanted to insist that you were more, but that wasn't true. Wasn't real.

Sukuna didn't ask anything else, just walked back over to Suguru, prepping again to put the finishing touches on the tattoo like today hadn't left it tainted.

Permanently marked with the reminder you might be falling for someone else.

"How well do you know her?" Sukuna grumbled right as the needle pierced through his skin again.

"She doesn't say much about herself," Suguru muttered, if only to find out what he knew.

Sukuna chuckled, dark and dry. "Yeah."

"Didn't think she needed a job though," Suguru commented, keeping his voice low enough that you wouldn't hear.

"She's only at college on a scholarship," Sukuna informed him, more defensive of you than Suguru expected.

Suguru watched his reflection frown. Another sore spot of his pride being poked. Another reason he'd spent so long avoiding you. You'd managed to get the scholarship he was aiming for, not that you knew, forcing him to find another one to cover his costs at the last minute, although it wasn't quite the same amount. He'd had to get a shitty part time job in the meantime to help keep him afloat before.

"Her family's rich," Suguru replied.

"Yeah, but they didn't want her to go," Sukuna scoffed back at him, irritation creeping in.

Now that was new.

How much was there to you he didn't know? That he'd been blind to?

"That's shitty," Suguru exhaled under his breath, wincing at the next prick.

He pretended not to feel your stare on his back. Were you wondering what they were talking about? Did you think it was about you?

What he did know about you told him you'd probably be in denial about that too.

Gojo was busy chatting your ear off, inviting you to other parties and out for lunches next week, trying to set up study times (that he'd bail on and send Suguru as a replacement), a sneaky smirk on his face when you finally agreed to one.

"Done."

"Thanks," Suguru muttered like he didn't feel sick.

And when he glanced back, you were already watching. Your face flushing with embarrassment at him noticing you staring at the broad muscles of his back while Sukuna carefully put the bandage over it.

You turned away before your boss could catch you though.

Suguru pulled two twenties out of his wallet and tipped him anyway.

"I'll see you guys later," You murmured, not meeting his gaze even after he pulled his shirt back on and walked over.

Gojo had just left. A car he called waiting to pick him up inside, probably thinking Suguru would somehow end up leaving with you.

"Can I talk to you?" Suguru heard himself ask, ignoring the heated glare he didn't need to look to know he was receiving from the man who probably would never want to give him another tattoo if he knew that Suguru tasted you first.

"Do you need any help in here?" You still glanced over your shoulder to ask Sukuna first though.

"Nah, you're not on the clock anyway." Sukuna wasn't exactly happy when he said it though.

And Suguru couldn't shake the feeling that he'd do something stupid later to pull you back to him. Stake his claim on you. Stamp his mark.

"Sure, um, okay," You nodded hesitantly, and Suguru held out a hand to help you hop off the stool. You tentatively took it, eyeing him like you didn't understand why he offered it when if it was entirely up to him, he'd carry you outside and into the backseat of his car to show you how he'd been feeling.

But he didn't want to be the scummy guy who made you think weren't worth the world. That it was just about backseats and backrooms where no one else saw the two of you.

"What's up?" You asked.

"You look gorgeous," He answered honestly. Not what he meant to say, but he meant it anyway. "You usually do, but-"

You giggled, and some of the heaviness lifted.

"You don't have to say stuff like that when it's just us," You reminded him, and he recognized the hint of resignation you seemed to default to.

"I know," He breathed. "I'm saying it because it's true."

"Well, you shouldn't," You blushed. "You might make me believe you."

"I wish you would," Suguru soberly said, watching the way your brows knitted together and then fell flat.

"You don't like me," You pointed it out like you were stating a fact.

"I shouldn't have said that." His attempt to sound confident was falling apart within seconds, his throat closing up just from you frowning at him, lips pushed together in a pout that hurt him to see. "Look, I really do have something important to talk to you about."

There was actually a lot he wanted to talk to you about. A meal wouldn't be enough. He wanted your day, your week, your month, your year. However long it took to know all the stuff that he missed.

"Can it wait?" You asked, shuffling uncomfortably.

He stepped closer, but you backed up.

"Just hear me out," He started, only to stop when he realized how unsteady your breathing was.

"Is it about Sukuna?" You chewed on your lip, glancing up at him then looking away just as fast, as if even that second was too long.

"No," Suguru answered, but it sounded unconvincing even to him.

Any annoyance he had was traded for concern when he noticed your nails digging into your own palm, how fast your chest was rising and falling, like you were on the verge of a panic attack.

"Baby," He soothed, trying one more step forward, but you were retreating back. A skittish stray who wasn't sure whose hands were there to soothe and whose would hit.

"It's something bad though, right?" You swallowed hard, choking on whatever you were scared of.

He didn't know how to answer that one.

"I just want to have a good time tonight, okay?" Your voice was closer to a whisper, cracking on the last word. "Can we talk about it tomorrow? Please?"

How was he supposed to say no to you?

"Sure," Suguru reluctantly agreed, regretting it before he finished saying it. "Just be safe tonight. You know you can call me if-"

"You don't have to worry about me," You murmured, arms folded across your chest and studying your heels on the cracked pavement when you cut him off. "It's not like I'll be taking my clothes off this time."

Not if Sukuna had anything to say about it.

NEXT CHAPTER...

patreon is here with additional original content for anyone who feels like supporting me a little extra :3

You readjusted on the stool, rereading the same message from Suguru over-and-over again. You'd typed a reply out a hundred times, all different variations of cancelling tomorrow's trip to the aquarium. Claiming something had come up or pretending you had to attend a lecture. But apparently he'd already convinced his friends to come, and the people pleaser inside you couldn't stand the idea of disappointing a crowd.

You heard the dull thud of footsteps approaching, swiping it all away before Sukuna could see.

"What are you doing?" He grumbled, glaring at your phone as if it (or you) somehow offended him. His next client was late, and you were starting to think it was more of an inconvenience to you than him.

"Just checking the schedule," You lied, sighing and setting your phone down. You'd memorized it days ago, and he rarely changed it anyway.

You wouldn't have to come in the evening tomorrow whether you joined Suguru or not. And surprisingly enough, you didn't have any shifts this weekend either, but you were pretty sure Yuki was covering them for extra cash.

She was currently restocking Choso's snack drawer, draped across the furniture casually, chatting with the guy sitting in his tattoo chair like nothing came more naturally to her. Her boyfriend laughed at something she said, rolling over to press a soft kiss to her cheek, just because, and a painful pit in your chest ripped open.

It wasn't like it was particularly intimate. Just a simple peck. But it was real.

And you were blatantly aware no one would ever kiss you like that.

Where you were comfortable and secure and so wholly in love that every touch was something to cherish, where you would be someone to worship.

Two months from now, you'd be meeting your future husband at polite and planned brunches. A year? You'd be adjusting to a loveless marriage of convenience. Your husband might have affairs, but you couldn't exactly imagine yourself doing the same.

"You've been quiet," Sukuna commented, and you honestly had forgotten he was still standing there.

You shrugged.

It was exhausting to try so hard all the time. Exasperated just to fight against the current life was dragging you towards.

Graduation seemed more like a doomsday clock, set and ticking for the day your life came to a close. Although, you supposed you'd at least have a few extra weeks after that till your lease was up and you'd be expected to return back to your parents estate, trading your apartment for your childhood bedroom, all those things you'd convinced yourself you'd do while you had a chance abandoned and discarded as dreams.

"Just stressed," You murmured, grabbing a rag and window cleaner out from under the desk for a reason to walk away from him.

He made it clear he was just your boss. And you couldn't keep crushing on men who obviously didn't like you outside of a paycheck - no matter which line of it they were on.

"About what?" He scoffed, following you over to the window. You threw him a confused glance before spraying the glass down and starting to scrub.

"School?" You didn't mean to make it sound like a question, but you didn't understand why he bothered to ask in the first place.

"You're stressed?" Yuki chimed in, your focus flickering to her, surprised she'd even been paying attention to you. Much less smiling at you, head tilted to the side and eyes crinkling as she continued talking before you could reply. "You should come party with us this weekend. Relax a little."

"Oh, um, a party?" You echoed, unease returning at the thought of embarrassing yourself in front of someone as cool as her.

"Maybe a couple of clubs too. It'll be fun," She grinned, goading you into it. She elbowed Choso, trying to get him to chime in, but he was distracted sketching something. So she looked over at the man practically hovering over you instead, throwing him her best set of puppy dog eyes. "Shouldn't she come, Kuna?"

He grimaced at her calling him that, but gritted his teeth before his stare settled back on you.

"You should."

It might've been more believable if he didn't look like he was dreading the very idea of it.

"I think I'll pass, uh, I've kinda had my fill of parties lately," You muttered, a weird mix of guilt and disappointment leaving an awful aftertaste in your mouth after you said it.

Part of you wanted to accept. Wanted to risk everything if it meant you could find a friend in Yuki. Desperate for any kind of approval. All three of them were cooler than you. Operated at a different speed. But who was to say you wouldn't find something worse there and you'd lose the one safe space you had in your work? That some fresh new humiliation would happen and Sukuna would fire you? Stop looking at you at all?

"Thanks for inviting me though," You added, eyes glancing down at the floor to make a mental note to mop after everyone else left.

Sukuna grabbed the spray bottle and rag from you, gesturing for you to go sit back down at the desk. You didn't think you'd been doing it wrong, but he was the kind of guy whose definition of right was narrow.

You reluctantly walked back over to the receptionist seat, hopping up on the stool and offering Yuki an apologetic smile.

"Sukuna said you went to one last weekend," She said, walking over to prop her elbows against the edge. Her pretty brows furrowed together as she stole a sucker from the jar you added for clients to take when they were leaving. "Did something happen?"

She was certainly perceptive.

"Sorta," You admitted under your breath. "But it was embarrassing."

"You can't just say that and not tell me," She groaned, peeling off the plastic wrapper. You held out your hand to throw it away for her, and she gave you one of those easy smiles that had you tempted to actually spill your guts.

Lips parting, the words waiting to leave them, to tell someone who was far enough away from the situation to not blame you for what happened.

"Well?" Yuki hummed at you, leaning across the counter, lollipop dangling from her lips as you shifted uncomfortably in the seat. You looked over to where Sukuna was wiping the windows, shoving down the thought that he might be listening in with reassurances that he probably didn't give a shit.

You didn't know how many times you had to remind yourself you weren't friends. That any consideration he had for you was that of a colleague.

"Some girls invited me to go skinny-dipping with them and stole my clothes," You muttered. "It's stupid-"

"Seriously?" Her jaw locked, and for the first time, you felt what it was like for someone to be annoyed for you. You hadn't been able to tell what Suguru was thinking, but with Yuki it was obvious. In the way she scowled and the anger brimming in her voice, like she was indignant at the idea of someone doing that to you.

And yet, you were already trying to come up with reasons to minimize it, to not make it a big deal.

"It's fine," You shrugged, swallowing hard. "The guy throwing the party gave me some of his clothes, and Sukuna's hoodie in my car, so it wasn't like I had to walk around naked or anything."

You only flashed Gojo.

"Did you get your stuff back?" Yuki gawked at you.

"Well, no, but-"

She scoffed.

You were so distracted you didn't notice Sukuna approaching until you glanced up to see him glaring.

"What the fuck?" He was grinding his molars, dark eyes squinting at you with barely-concealed rage. "I asked if you needed me to pick you up."

"I was fine," You argued. That seemed to be your favorite word today.

Sukuna would've made a scene if he saw you. And judging by his expression now? He might've murdered someone if he showed up.

"You were crying on the phone," He shot back, bitter and brutal and blunt.

The harshness in his voice, even if he wasn't angry at you only made you retreat further, heart shuttering itself while a hot lump formed in your throat that threatened to make you cry now.

"Hey, look, it's okay," Yuki interrupted, scowling quickly at Sukuna like she was silently telling him to shut up before turning back to you. Her face softened in an instant, apologetic as she reaches over to squeeze your hand. "Maybe another time then, yeah?"

"Maybe," You muttered.

The tension was still there, oppressing and heavy on your shoulders, a rain cloud content to chase you down. Sukuna opened his mouth to speak, and you waited for the storm. But the bell on the door rang, his client finally showing up, and you plastered your prettiest smile on to greet them.

Yuki offered to close up for you so you could slip out before you could have whatever uncomfortable conversation with Sukuna was surely coming. You wanted to act like everything was still normal, trying your hardest to make your handwriting legible when you left a sticky note that he could leave your glass containers his sandwich and cake were in here after he ate them and you'd just grab them during your next shift.

He texted you anyway while you were getting ready to sleep, asking for your address to drop them off so they didn't clutter up his fridge.

For whatever reason, he didn't seem that pleased when you told him he could just throw both away if it was a problem.

Everything you did just made you feel more like an annoyance.

And when you went to sleep that night, your dreams weren't much different.

Haunted by the feeling of being left behind and lonely. A hand on our waist that disappeared to hold someone else's. Soft lips that grazed over your shoulder just to laugh at you later.

You didn't remember what man it was by the time you woke up.

Unsure what it meant - only convinced that it was your subconscious trying to remind you what you needed to do.

Coming to conclusions about both of them while you got ready in the morning, slipping on a sundress and applying lip gloss as if a polished exterior could hide all the cracks inside.

Sukuna wasn't available. Neither was Suguru.

So why waste your energy wishing they were?

You shoved them down, your worries with it, attempted to set your intentions solely on having a fun day. On making friends.

But when you showed up to the aquarium, and Suguru was there waiting with an easy smirk, pulling you against him in front of all his friends like it wasn't just a performance, all you could think was this can't last.

You couldn't deny it didn't feel nice though.

Being properly introduced to people, all those once-wary glanced turned to smiles, being apart of the joke instead of the punchline to it. Belonging to a group and the giggles while they bounced from exhibit to exhibit, Suguru's hand never straying from your side, sometimes slotted in your own, fingers interlocked and unyielding. He helped you through the awkward gaps and lulls, chimed in when you said something too blunt or came off wrong with a light chuckle and explanation.

Gojo constantly included you, always asking weird stuff and attempting to get to know you without making you uncomfortable, but there was a hint of guilt in his eyes, apology for the party, you guessed.

"Um, I washed your clothes, by the way, I meant to give them to Suguru-" You mumbled to him awkwardly after you all ate lunch in the tiny restaurant built-in that only served a handful of sandwiches and sides, throwing away your empty wrapper when everyone else was still eating.

"Don't worry about it," Gojo waved it off.

Suguru's grip suddenly grabbed your waist, tugging you backwards and nearly stumbling as your back hit his chest.

"Stop trying to steal my girl," He chuckled, and for a brief moment, you wondered what it'd feel like for him to mean it. Where it wasn't accompanied by disappointment you had to choke on just to get by.

"My bad," Gojo grinned, winking at you before walking back towards the group.

Despite everything, you were still having fun.

Slowly warming up to everyone no matter how many slip-ups you made, an unfamiliar fuzzy feeling growing in your stomach by the time you made it to the sting-ray tank, Suguru's hand on your back while yours anxiously reached in to touch one. Listening to him laugh when you scrubbed your hands clean afterwards and admitted it felt weird.

He dragged you into a photo booth, taking cash from his own wallet and pushing it in before you could protest. Selecting the options while you nervously glanced between the camera and him, unsure what faces to make or what to do.

"I've never done one of these before," You admitted, a funny deja vu twisting in your gut and you were once again reminded how handsome he was when the corner of his mouth curved up, sly and surprisingly sweet.

"Guess I'll be your first," He murmured, and then he was pulling you on his lap.

You laughed as the camera flashed, but he was the one you were looking at.

And then his fingers were touching your face, forcing you to meet his eyes, and before you could blink, his lips were on yours.

Your mouth parted open, more out of surprise than instinct, clumsily kissing him back. There were a million things you wanted to savor about the moment, his steady touch, the minty taste on his tongue, the way he murmured your name the brief second he pulled away for a breath. Your wrists delicately looped around his neck, his palm against your spine.

But then the final flash came, and he pulled away.

You were out of the booth first, readjusting the straps on your dress and struggling to collect yourself.

Unsure if you made a mistake or a memory.

Gojo was waiting outside of it, leaning against the side and observing you with a casual grin.

"Have fun?"

"Stop being a creep," Shoko scolded him, cigarette dangling unlit between her lips while she glanced around for an exit.

But she still grabbed the photos when they shot out of the dispenser, probably ready to tease Suguru as he stepped out of the booth behind you.

"You two should get an actual room," Gojo laughed, looking over Shoko's shoulder as she passed him the photos to look at.

"Shut up," Suguru groaned, snatching them from his best friend's hand.

He folded the strips at the tear line, carefully pulling it apart and passing one half to you.

The bitter part of you wondered what he'd do with his. Throw it away?

But a bigger piece was grateful he'd given you the best day you had in years. One where you actually felt wanted somewhere. Where no one had looked at you like you had no place there, where you were included in all the jokes and given a chance.

Gojo was saying something else, and Suguru was already snapping back, both of them going back-and-forth without the argument having any teeth.

You slipped away to the gift shop without either of them noticing.

Browsing around the cluttered shelves and busy aisles to look around. One of them was filled with small hand-blown glass animals, some of them a little goofy-looking, but all still cute. You picked out a couple - a pale yellow seahorse for Yuki, a penguin for Choso, an axolotl that was almost the same shade of pink as Sukuna's hair for the guy you'd been giving your all trying not to think of today.

Maybe you could pick up some gift boxes or something to go with it this weekend to hand out to them on Monday.

You wanted to get something for Suguru, but it took you a few more minutes to find something suitable. Kind of tempted to buy a souvenir for yourself, grab a shirt or a hoodie to hang up, but the idea of finding it years from now in the back of your closet or at the bottom of a moving box felt a little too depressing.

Suguru found you when you were leaving the gift shop, two separate bags hanging off the crook of your elbow.

"Where'd you disappear to?" He murmured, a hand reaching out to brush your hair back, settling on the side of your throat, thumb tracing over the tendon there almost affectionately.

Somewhere in the back of your brain, you wondered who was watching. What the show was for. And then you shut it down, let a grin spread back across your lips as you looked up at him.

"For you," You giggled, holding out the second bag. He took it slowly, another unreadable look behind his eyes as he pulled out the souvenir coffee mug. "They didn't have your name."

He smiled at you.

A real one. Or at least, you thought it was. Soft. Sincere. The corner of his mouth curling up lazily. Letting go of you to grab it, holding it up and reading the neat lettering at the top.

#1 BOYFRIEND had seemed to, uh, on the nose. So you settled on YOU'RE SPECIAL.

He chuckled at it, glancing between it and you with an amused smirk.

"You didn't have to," He murmured.

"I wanted to," You relaxed, unable to stop yourself from leaning into him. "Thank you for today."

"I had fun," He spoke quietly, but it was still firm.

"Me too," You laughed a little. "Some of the girls gave me their numbers and invited me out for drinks with them next week."

"Good," He muttered. "I'm glad."

Even if they were only nice because of him, you were still happy it happened.

"What's in there?" Suguru hm-ed, trying to peek inside the other bag. You pulled it away with a laugh.

"It's for my coworkers," You answered, heat creeping up the side of your neck. "You know, trying to make more friends."

A small frown formed, just for a few brief seconds before he brushed it off.

"You know you don't have to give people stuff for them to like you," Suguru softly said, like he was actually looking out for you. Like what he said was true.

Maybe it worked for him.

But for you?

He was only here because you paid him to be. Sukuna only hired you because of the stupid sandwich you bought him.

Who you were was only defined by what you provided.

Suguru was staring at you.

Well, a picture of you.

His hand on your waist pulling you into his lap. Your pretty giggle caught as you looked up at him instead of the camera. The second where he tilted your chin up and kissed you.

He was still studying all the little details of you he'd spent so long overlooking. He lingered on your words and your laugh. His brain looping how natural it felt to slip an arm over your shoulder.

Even if he shouldn't like you - Suguru wasn't stupid enough to deny that he did.

Whether or not he wanted to, he once again had developed an irritatingly large crush on you.

The first had ended horribly.

You probably didn't even remember meeting him. But it had burned itself in his brain.

The nervous apology you'd given him after you bumped into him like you weren't the one on the floor, so completely unlike your sharp and icy front you put on, blushing and stuttering. He felt his own smile when he stopped, the sharp shiver touching you had almost sent down his spine when he handed your stuff back. Gojo had pulled him away, teasing him for staring at your figure long after you left.

He found your profile the next night, not that it had much outside of a handful of pretty pictures of you and a few cute captions, messaging you something not-quite-cheesy but obliviously flirty. All the chats were deleted now, although he'd never been able to fully erase it from his memory. Your interested replies and inside jokes, the casual hints of wanting to meet up just for you to walk past him in public, to never notice him or acknowledge the nights the two of you would stay up talking. And what did you have to say when he brought it up?

That you'd never thought it was serious. Especially when he couldn't afford to even take you out on a date.

Suguru didn't tell Gojo. Didn't tell anyone. Not about talking to you. Not about you basically calling him broke. If it was up to him, he'd scrub any time he ever mentioned the faintest sliver of attraction he had towards you.

He'd watch you sometimes after that.

How you blocked out everyone else. Ignored the rest of the world in favor of your own. People would whisper - but you didn't give a shit.

Suguru heard the rumors later. Dated other girls and didn't think about the one who rejected him.

Until you stepped back into his life with your shy smile and soft laugh and so easily monopolized his mind.

You were in a word, different. Maybe you changed. Perhaps some private part of your life had shifted and you weren't the same person anymore. Didn't have quite the same sense of humor or harsh edges. Didn't tease him, but never dismissed him either. You never divulged much, didn't offer details of your life, but you listened. Attentive to every single thing he gave of his.

You'd been even quieter than usual yesterday.

And here he was, replaying eating lunch at the aquarium for the thousandth time, how you tried to keep to the fringes of the conversation, watching it play out rather than actively participating.

"They won't bite," He murmured in your ear.

"I know," You muttered, all cute and flustered.

But it took Gojo dragging you in by pestering you with questions to get any kind of real answers out.

"Do you have like, any hobbies?"

"Baking," You answered awkwardly. "Kinda busy with studying and work though. Sometimes when I'm bored, I go feed the stray cats that live outside my apartment."

God, were you even real?

What happened to doomscrolling? Or even binge watching terrible tv?

"Are you any good?" Gojo cocked his head to the side, like Suguru hadn't seen him eat three-day old brownies someone had left on the counter uncovered.

"I'm okay, I guess," You shrugged.

"I expect something sweet next time I see you," Gojo teased, leaning across the table and Suguru was surprised how much he was tempted to smack him for it.

"Do you have any preferences? Cake or cookies or-" You asked, entirely oblivious to the tension sparking behind Suguru's shrewd glare.

"He'll eat anything," He muttered, trying to shut down his own irritation, his own jealousy at the way you were offering to bake his best friend something before him.

"You have any plans after graduation?" Gojo had changed the subject, popping fries in his mouth.

You went stiff, squirming in your chair.

"Um, not sure yet," You answered. You were a bad liar. Terrible at hiding what you were feeling - especially when you were uncomfortable.

"Surprised you don't have something lined up," Shoko added, more of an observation than anything judgmental.

"I work somewhere now," You mumbled, smoothing down your dress in an attempt to soothe whatever was stressing you out. He had traced little patterns on your shoulder reflexively, something inside him automatically responding to the signals you were sending out asking for help. "But uh, not sure what will happen after the lease on my apartment ends."

You didn't elaborate.

He still didn't even know what your job was. Where you lived.

A hundred things he wanted to ask and didn't know how to.

Stuck instead thinking too much about what answers he did have in his dorm, wishing he hadn't taken your check when you discreetly passed it to him outside your car after everyone else had left the aquarium. Uselessly staring between your photo and the coffee you'd given him instead, sitting untouched on his desk.

He had more than enough money now - all thanks to you. Cushioned by your cash and his actual part-time job to be able to afford more than just surviving now. He already paid for his deposit and plane ticket. Would be able to buy furniture for his new place and not just sleep on the floor.

Suguru ran his thumb over the edge of the photo, your pretty face all glossy as it caught the light from the window.

"Cute," Gojo commented over his shoulder, and Suguru shoved it back into his wallet.

He didn't even notice him walking in.

"Need something?" Suguru grumbled.

"Wanna go get a tattoo next weekend," Gojo grinned, like he hadn't chickened out the last two times he said he wanted to get out. "Come with me? I'll pay for yours too."

"Sure," He shrugged. "I'll message the guy."

Did you like tattoos?

He was annoyed at himself for the thought even popping up while he pulled out his phone and scrolled searching for the name at the tip of his tongue.

Sukuna.

He was halfway through typing before Gojo spoke up again.

"Are you gonna post those?" Gojo asked, tapping the edge of the photos sticking out of his wallet.

"No," Suguru mumbled, a sharp stab of bitterness reminding him who he'd have to tag if he did. Who he'd have to unblock.

"Sucks that she doesn't have any social media or anything," Gojo casually chirped, plopping down on his bed next to the desk. "You know, you should really convince her to create an account or-"

"She what?"

The stupid little statue sat heavy in the pocket of your purse, the outline sticking out and staring at you as you glanced between it and the clock a couple days later.

You'd spent your weekend torn between wondering if Sukuna would hate it and wishing you hated him a little more.

Both of them.

They had each reached out a few times, but you never really knew what to say when it felt like you just stuck your foot in your mouth every time you talked.

Even bumping into Suguru in the hall Monday morning was more awkward than it would be with just an acquaintance, struggling not to blush and stammer when he said he'd been thinking about you, when he asked if you could call him tonight or meet up after you got off work. That he said something important to talk to you about.

He didn't seem upset. No, his face was more warm than usual, his voice softer, a hand squeezing your shoulder while he talked. And for a short second?

Suguru leaned in like he was thinking about kissing your forehead again before someone shouted his name and you mumbled that you had to get to class.

Maybe he wanted more money from you. Needed help with something. He would probably offer to check one of the other boxes off your list in exchange for cash. Another transaction to be made.

You attempted not to think about it at all through your shift. Considering how hard Sukuna was staring through you, he was more than enough of a distraction.

Still, you kept your conversations focused solely on work, putting his dinner in the fridge without a word. Got into the rhythm of checking out customers and cleaning up, talked with Choso for a few minutes before he headed out to meet up with Yuki. You gave him both of the gift boxes, mumbling under your breath you'd just picked up some little trinkets for them.

It was busy enough that you didn't have to deal with Sukuna until you were closing up. He kept looking at you though, but you figured whatever words he was holding in were better left unsaid.

"How was your weekend?" He eventually grumbled, as if making small talk physically pained him.

"Good," You mumbled, mopping up the last few spots while he cleaned up his station, the last client already gone and the cash register counter. "How was the party?"

Probably more fun without you.

"I didn't go," Sukuna grunted.

You paused as you set the mop back in the bucket.

"Why?" You asked, curiosity slipping out before you could contain it.

Sukuna stared hard, the slit across his brows and the piercing by them practically twitching before his frown broke for him to reply.

"You weren't coming."

You couldn't think of a single thing to say to that.

Just went back to completing your list of tasks, his voice in your hand saying the same thing over and over again.

You didn't get him. Didn't know what to make of that or this or whatever this weirdness hanging between you was.

Struggling to make it out of your shift unscathed, waiting for him to go to the backroom to clock out, leaving his gift box with a small handwritten note attached with a ribbon on his desk and shoving your leftover containers he surprisingly saved inside your purse before hurrying out the door.

You heard his footsteps before you had even unlocked your car. Heavy and hard on the damp pavement, a light drizzle coming down and making loose strands of your hair stick to your face.

"The hell are you running away for?" Sukuna grunted, his hand holding you car door closed when you went to grab the handle.

"I'm not," You huffed.

"You are," He argued, and then he pulled the tiny axolotl out. "The fuck is this?"

"I thought you'd like it," You pouted, although that wasn't completely true. It just reminded you of him, not that you'd say it at risk of sounding idiotically cheesy and sentimental.

You weren't dumb enough to think he'd care. You were only stupid enough to still want to show him you did anyway.

"Did I say I didn't?" He frowned, and you froze, too flustered to figure out what that meant.

"I don't understand you," You bluntly mumbled under your breath.

"Have I not made myself obvious enough?" He rolled his eyes, stepping closer until your back was pressed against the cold metal of your car.

"What?" You tried to breathe. Tried. But it felt like he'd stolen all the air from your lungs just by being close.

"I like you."

Your mouth fell open. His did too.

Watching you slowly blink, eyes slowly narrowing into a squint as he panicked and pushed out some frantic explanation, holding his hands up as he tried to make it sound somehow less creepy, “Look, you just never know if the guy you pick already has like, fifty other kids, and what if your baby meets one of them and doesn’t know that they’re siblings and-” 

“You don’t want me to use a sperm donor because you think my hypothetical kid might accidentally fuck their sibling?” 

Okay, wow, that was worse. 

“I’m just saying you wouldn’t have to worry about that sort of stuff with me,” he continued, choking on the lump in his throat before clearing his throat. “You already know I have great genes.” 

And like he wasn’t already shooting himself in the foot just by speaking, he flexed his bicep with a stupid grin on his face, t-shirt straining against his muscles just for you to roll your eyes at him. 

“You’re twenty-eight,” you bluntly said, as if he had ever given a shit about being younger than you before. 

If he was the same age, would you see him differently? 

He had asked himself that too many times to count. Enough that the hurt that it came with had seeped into his bones and started to live there. Weighing him down as he wondered how you would treat him if he met you later, when you were both older, somewhere neutral. 

Would you want him the way he wanted you?

“And?” He whined, pouting as you resisted the urge to shut him down harder. “Doesn’t that mean I have, like, even better sperm?”

“Satoru, you’re gonna meet some gorgeous girl and get married, and then it’s just going to be weird if-” You started, shaking your head dismissively. 

“I’m not,” Satoru cut you off before you could finish coming up with weak excuses, like he’d ever met anyone he thought was half as gorgeous as you.  

You made that cute little face you always did when you wanted to argue with him but couldn’t come up with anything that would make him agree with you. 

“You don’t know that,” you said after a few short moments, leaning in closer, oblivious that the next whiff of your perfume was enough to make him lose what little reason he had left. 

“What if I pinky promise?” 

“That you’ll never have kids with anyone else?” You gawked at him, face scrunching up in confusion. “That’s literally ridiculous. You know I’d never ask you to-” 

“I was going to get a vasectomy in a couple years anyway,” he lied in a panic, shrugging his shoulders as if he didn’t really care when he had literally never cared more about the simple notion of some stranger’s sperm winning out over his. 

“You never mentioned that,” you quietly pouted back, like you were a little upset at the idea he never brought it up. But at least you believed it. 

“If I was even ever going to have one,” He paused, dragging his chair closer to the table to stretch over it and wipe some icing stuck to the corner of your mouth, dredging up something he knew without a doubt was the truth to make up for his bullshit. “I’d want it to be with you anyway.” 

You stared at him, his fingers still grazing against your mouth before he dropped his hand and reclined back in his chair, as if there was even a scrap of his cool left to recover. Shrugging his shoulders as he scrambled for something to say before you could call him an idiot for even suggesting something like that. 

“I could even pay for it,” he grinned like this was some grand gesture instead of him desperately clinging onto this chance. He didn't like to just throw money at problems – but he'd throw his entire dignity in the trash can if it meant when you were waddling around pregnant in six months, that it would be his baby you were carrying. “What else are best friends for?” 

Personally, he’d prefer to add father of your child (and future husband) to his resume, but he was used to accepting whatever you offered. 

“Satoru,” you said his name slowly, sounding out the syllables so he could hear the hint of scolding in them. But you didn't dismiss him. 

He smiled at you, and it was just as easy as it had always been. Comfortable. Cozy.

“It's not a big deal,” Satoru shrugged. “I want what you want.”

Even if it meant pulling down his pants and jerking off in a cup a few weeks later after you admitted that maybe it wouldn’t be so terrible to have the hottest guy you knew contribute his sperm to create the cutest child ever – not that you worded it exactly like that. He guessed his promise of paying all the bills may have also helped sway your decision. 

The whole thing was sorta scary, waiting and hoping for updates from there about egg retrieval and embryo viability, feeling like a loser checking his phone two hundred times a day when he wasn’t with you and showing up at your place with meals, trying to pick out foods that were good for someone doing IVF. 

You always let him in, even if you hummed and huffed that he didn’t have to do it. 

Satoru clung to claiming that he just wanted to be supportive.

Carrying you back to your bed after you crashed on the couch, tucking you under the blankets and cleaning up the dinner, stuffing the styrofoam boxes down in the trash can while he cursed himself for not just coming clean about his feelings fifteen fucking years ago. 

Sometimes he wasn’t sure you even saw him as a man. Didn’t realize he wasn’t the awkward, lanky preteen or scrawny kid he used to be despite the fact he’d been taller than you for over half your lives now. 

You didn’t even blink when you woke up to him sleeping with no shirt on your couch, the blanket deliberately draped at his hips to show off his sculpted abs, just yawning and walking past him, already showered and fully dressed, applying lip gloss as you scrolled on your phone. 

“Just lock the door after you leave,” you hummed, dropping your phone back in your purse and picking up your shoes before returning back to the couch to sit on top of his calves so you could slip them on.

A few years ago, he might have pretended to groan, to tease you for being on him, but now he just felt utterly hopeless at how hard he was savoring the connection, the weight of you on him even when it was totally platonic. Blinking sleepily and staring at your side profile as you bent over to slide your shoes on, preemptively picturing where you both might be in nine months. Would he be helping you get them on then? Putting his hand on your stomach and feeling his baby kick underneath your skin?

“Where are you going?” He mumbled, rubbing his eyes before he propped himself up on his elbows. 

“Today’s the day,” you casually said, and after a painfully long pause, it clicked. 

“Like, the day?” He gawked, adrenaline overwriting the exhaustion at the thought that you could be coming back home with his babies implanted inside you. 

“We don’t know if it will take,” you muttered. The cocky half of him wanted to remind you that the doctors had said that his sperm was high quality, tempted to turn it into a joke and break the tension, make some childish offer. But he held it in, reached out to brush his fingers against your arm. 

“How many are they implanting?” He asked, tracing a faint little heart over your skin you didn’t seem to notice. 

“Just one,” you answered with a little sigh, biting your lip to hide the hint of a smile curling up and betraying the hint of excitement under the surface you were trying not to feel. “A girl.”

And then you were standing back up, readjusting your purse over your shoulder as you searched it for your keys, despite the fact they were sitting on your kitchen counter instead. 

“Can I come?” He asked, wiping his sweaty palms on his slacks as you puckered your lips together, shuffling on your feet. Was it so fucking wrong to want to be in the room at least when he got you pregnant? 

“It’s not like-” 

“I could drive you,” Satoru offered, hyperaware of how hopelessly desperate his own voice sounded. “I have the day off anyway.” 

He didn’t, but he’d call out sick if he had to, fake a coughing fit and convince Ijichi to push back all his meetings or come in at absurd hours to catch up on stuff if he had to.

Satoru didn’t want to miss a single appointment. Didn’t want to let you do it alone – no matter how strong he knew you were. You never needed him. But he needed you. 

Craved being the guy you depended on. Trusted to help take care of you. 

You glanced back at him, tilting your head to the side with that cute little sigh of yours you always made right before you caved in. 

“Fine.”ᘏ⑅ᘏ

“Do you think she’ll like it?” 

For a man who was only supposed to be a sperm donor, Satoru Gojo was acting far more like a father. 

Your best friend standing outside your front door with shopping bags of baby stuff, stumbling through your threshold with that stupidly charming cheeky smile. And when he realized he was about to be scolded, he started dramatically sniffing the air as he peeked past you to see what you were cooking, eagerly changing the subject before you could comment on what he brought, “Whatcha making?” 

“How many different outfits do you think she needs?” You rolled your eyes as you eyed him suspiciously, sighing as you shut the door behind him. Satoru just laughed, already piling up everything on your coffee table as you self-consciously tried to pull down your t-shirt from where it was sticking to the swell of your stomach, threatening to ride up and show off your growing baby bump. Only five months in and barely fitting into any of your old stuff anymore, despite how many prenatal yoga classes you attended or midnight cravings you ignored. 

He looked as perfect as he always did. White hair tousled and the sleeves of his button-up rolled up on his forearms, veins sticking out as he glanced up at you with those irritatingly sparkly blue eyes. God, you couldn’t remember a single time you’d seen him look bad. 

Even when you were younger, you couldn't escape the effect he seemed to have on everyone else. It didn't help that your family worked for his, that you got a front row seat to watch him get everything he ever wanted. Hyper aware of all the differences in his life than yours, what world he'd been born into that you just happened to occupy. Only able to stare from the sidelines, the bottom row of the bleachers, pointedly aware that he occupied a certain position above everyone else. 

You’d grown up glaring as your other friends fawned over him, strangers approaching him in public to shove their numbers at him or shyly flirt while he smiled at the affection he was showered with. It wasn’t his fault. You didn’t even hold it against him, not when over time, you’d found yourself increasingly, um, fond of him.

 But you couldn’t just ignore who he was when it trickled down to every aspect of your own life. 

All the guys you started seeing never lasted long. 

Either assholes who cheated on you or dickheads who dumped you, both always citing how little they could stand Satoru, just insecure, you supposed, unable to tolerate your best friend and his sometimes annoying antics. He had a bad habit of showing up right when you were about to go on dates, swinging by late at night or bringing presents just because. 

You tried to explain that it was just how he was. Satoru had spent his entire life being spoiled and sheltered. Spoiling you in return was one of the few ways he knew how to show affection. And when he could drop a few bands a day without noticing so much as a tiny dent in his bank account, it wasn't like money or gifts meant anything to him. 

And here you were now, feeling like you were taking advantage of it anyway, single and pregnant while your best friend bought your (his?) baby teething toys and the most expensive car seat stroller combos, helping turn your spare bedroom into a nursery on the weekends while you reminded him (and yourself) over and over again that you didn’t expect him to do any of it. 

Satoru didn't just blur the lines. 

He buried them. 

Took a shovel and tossed so much sand over it that it was impossible to tell where they originally were. And after the first embryo was successfully implanted, once you went to the first scan and saw the tiny little blob that would be your baby, you seemed to be making meals for three instead of two most days when the man who helped make it insisted on coming over after he got off work nearly every evening.

Sometimes, he'd arrive with takeout or groceries, but he never showed up empty handed. 

“How's our, um, this little princess doing?” Satoru grinned after he corrected himself, walking over to squat down in front of you, tapping your stomach like he was trying to wake her up. 

“She keeps kicking,” you murmured, biting your lip as his palm abruptly pressed flat as if he was hoping to experience it for himself. His hand was warm through your thin shirt, his thumb subtly dragging a small semi-circle as you continued, “I didn’t get much sleep last night.” 

“Lay down,” he muttered, just as a faint flutter stirred in your stomach, the sensation of your baby moving around still alien and strange as you watched the slow smile spread up on his face as he felt it too. “I’ll finish cooking.” 

“You suck-” 

Satoru pressed one long finger against your lips before you could argue with him, shaking his head as he scoffed, “I’ve been taking classes.” 

“When?” You pouted, a hand on your hip as you racked your brain for when he’d even have the opportunity when you practically had to shoo him out of your place half the time. 

“Every other Tuesday,” he retorted – and then he was gently trying to guide you over to your couch, not stopping until you were sitting down and he was putting the remote in your hand. 

Begrudgingly flipping through boring movies, readjusting a pillow behind your back before you gave up and started sorting through the bags of stuff he brought with him. 

Blue dresses. Pink bows. Extra diapers and wipes. Swaddles. 

A two-pack of onesies featuring the words MOMMY’S ANGEL and DADDY’S PRINCESS embroidered across the chest. 

A small voice in your head rationally suggested that you should set some better boundaries. Tell him you weren’t going to put her in that second one when he was supposed to be more like a…rich uncle? Family friend? 

Well, something other than daddy. 

But some awful part of you sort of liked it.

Liked how much his attention was devoted to you, how you couldn’t exactly ever feel lonely when he was always around, always willing to step into whatever box he thought you needed from him. He didn’t complain. Never groaned or gritted his teeth and acted like you were too much. Always able to make you laugh and smile, holding your hair back when you were nauseous and holding your bags for you in public. 

Even if all of it was only platonic. 

You weren’t stupid enough to think his interest in you was romantic. 

He could pick anyone. Go out and come home with a girlfriend in two hours if he wanted to.

Satoru was simply excited to share this with you, at the idea of a little infant that might have his hair or his eyes, his ego probably ballooning and bigger than ever because you chose him to have it with. 

The one thing you could never afford was letting yourself have a crush on him.

Especially when his care right now was temporary. 

It would probably fade after your baby was born, once she was crying and crawling and required more than just trinkets and toys to thrive. You didn’t think he’d disappear. But he would move on, focus on his work or his other friends, return to his more spontaneous visits as he resumed his role as your best friend rather than baby daddy.

Which was fine. 

Completely, totally, fine. 

“Here you go, sweetheart,” Satoru hummed, handing you a warm bowl before clearing off a space on the coffee table for you to put it before rushing back to grab napkins and a drink for you to go with it. You stared at him. Struggling to ignore how sturdy his frame was, how handsome, how steady he’d turned out as he hurried around, casually rummaging through your cabinets to pick out a glass while he acted like he was perfectly at home here when his own place was probably three times bigger, your heart thumping a little too loud for your own comfort as you caught a glimpse of that cute crinkle by his eyes when he turned his head.

You loved him. 

As a friend. 

You were content to raise your daughter by yourself, made the decision to have her because you knew you could. 

But maybe you could enjoy his attention while you had it. 

Hold onto how things were before he got bored. 

And whatever this fluttering in your stomach was, the one that you couldn’t blame on the baby in there, it would pass.

ᘏ⑅ᘏ

Satoru only realized the depth of his own stupidity when he was realized just how fucking hard it was to stay best friends watching you waddle around swollen and seven months pregnant with his baby. Barefoot with powdered sugar dusting your fingertips, one hand casually resting on your stomach and leaving a print on your loose pajama shirt while you baked your favorite dessert, babbling about how badly you were craving it in between complaining about how much your back was aching. 

He’d known his pining was pathetic from an early age. 

Forced to acknowledge it post-puberty when you started going on dates and he had to resist the temptation to punch a wall and tell you that no one was good enough for you. Discomfort and anger crawling under his skin at the idea of you giving anyone else who obviously didn’t deserve you any of the time that should be his. 

And now, despite the (lack of) wisdom age had added, he was still just stuck staring at you with an open mouth like a moron as you glanced back at him, glowing no matter how much you complained about how awful you thought you looked. 

His pants had never been fucking tighter around you. 

Boner carefully concealed with one of your throw pillows, long legs stretched out on your couch as he pretended to scroll on his phone. 

Every day only seemed to get harder too. More of a struggle to shove down his feelings when you started to rely on him more. Leaning against his shoulder, holding onto his forearm, your fingers skimming over his skin as you started to casually cling to him the same way he always hung onto you. Asking him for massages, laying your head on his lap, playing with his hair when you walked by him. Your stare had started to stick to him more, catching you watching him when you thought he wasn't looking. 

Satoru had spent years dreaming of this easy domesticity with you. 

Walking through your door to find you already making a meal big enough to share, baking or singing to yourself, peeking out and smiling at him without even being surprised. Expecting to see him there. 

And still, he only ever got to sleep on the couch. 

Didn't get to hug you or hold your hand or kiss you at the end of the night. 

He wanted to invite you back to his place, see if you’d spend it with him if he changed up this new normal, but he was scared that you’d decline. That he’d fuck up this tightrope he was walking before he made it to the other side. 

Um, and maybe because he’d turned one of his own extra rooms from storage to a pretty, pink nursery too. Just in case you asked him to babysit, or uh, wanted any extra help with her. 

But there was a subtle edge to your behavior, your softness sometimes switching abruptly, going cold or sharp when least expected it, suddenly getting short with him when he got a little too close. Hormones, maybe? 

It wasn’t like he could ask without receiving a lecture that he shouldn’t blame your feelings on your hormones just because they didn’t match whatever he thought they should. 

“You’re quiet tonight,” you commented with a huff, turning on the timer on the microwave after you shut the stove. 

“Jus’ thinking,” he hummed, trying to avoid the urge to spill out his dirty secret. 

“About?” You tilted your head to the side, almost bumping into the baby swing he built last weekend as you walked back over to him, starting to bend over to try and lift one of his legs instead of just sitting on him like you used to. 

He patted his thighs, as if you would actually take him up on it, just to earn a dramatic hand on your hip, pouting hard. 

“You’re really making a pregnant lady stand?” You muttered dryly, jutting your bottom lip out further.

“There’s a perfectly good seat right here,” he teased, grinning as his hand reached out, leaning forward, about to gently graze against your waist when- 

You started crying.  

Big tears welling up in your eyes before he could so much as blink, your brows knitting together in frustration as your own fingers rushed to wipe them away. 

His mouth fell open, words automatically spilling out, “Sorry, I’ll move, I-”

“You’re an asshole,” you hissed, breath hitching as you started to turn away from him, and he was shoving himself up off the couch, hurrying to spin you around by your wrist only for you to yank your arm away from him. 

“What did I do?” He gawked, blinking hard and fast, panic seizing in his chest as he desperately tried to search your face for any sign. 

“You keep acting like-” You stopped yourself, just vaguely gesturing up-and-down at his body before you scoffed and buried your face in your hands. “I’m such a fucking idiot for thinking that this was a good idea.” 

“You’re not an idiot,” he argued, pulling your hand down so he could wipe away your tears himself. Dragging his thumb under your eyes and cupping your cheeks to force you to look at him. “What the hell are you talking about?” 

“We need, like, boundaries, or-”

“Boundaries?” 

Okay, sure, boundaries were normal, needed even, in most relationships. But he’d be lying if he said the idea of you putting up walls and pushing him away with new rules didn’t make him want to vomit. 

“You keep treating me like I’m your girlfriend,” you said, eyes wide and wavering as you barely managed to meet his stare. “Like, this means something more-” 

“Do you want to be my girlfriend?” 

He knew he shouldn’t have said it the moment he heard how it sounded out loud. Heard the sharp inhale you sucked in, how shattered it came out. “Stop-” 

“You mean everything to me,” he blurted out before you could break his heart, ready to beg, to barter, to do whatever he had to just so you would see it. 

“Don't say that,” you whispered, shaking your head as you tried to take a step back. “Not when you don't mean it.”

“I do,” he huffed, holding onto you as he again attempted to stop you from pulling away, from severing this connection. And somewhere in his panic, his body purged all the words his mind had been shoving down for so long. “Fuck, sweetheart, I love you. I've loved you my entire life and I will for the rest of it. I'll be anything you want me to be, shit, just don't shut me out.” 

“You love me,” you repeated, like it was ridiculous. 

“I love you,” he said it again anyway, his voice dropping low.

“You-” You stopped yourself, starting to breathe fast through your nose, biting your bottom lip before you continued, “If you're just trying to make me feel better-”

“Do you seriously think I'd say it and risk ruining us just because you're crying?” He asked, wiping away another stray tear from your soft cheek, managing to sound appropriately serious for the first time in his life. 

You swallowed hard, like you were suffocating on the truth now that it was out there. Fingers balled up by your side, fists shaking as you fought the reality Satoru had dropped on you. 

“I don't expect you to tell me that you love me too, just, fuck, just don't walk away from me, okay-” 

And before he could finish begging, you were grabbing the collar of his shirt to pull him down, his mouth still open when yours connected with it. 

You kissed him, soft, unsure, like you weren't certain or confident that this was the right decision. But you didn't stop even if part of you thought you'd regret it later. 

His own hands failed him, his brain freezing the second if processed the fact you were actually kissing him, stuck completely still as you soft lips lightly started to suck on his bottom one, his breath stolen and his heart straining to accept how fucking sweet this felt. 

But then your fingers went loose, started to let go of his shirt, and he snapped out of it. Tethering his hands in your hair, deepening the kiss before you could pull away and he'd have to hear that you changed your mind. That he lost his only chance. 

Satoru tried to show you with his lips. 

Tongue dancing across your bottom lip for entry, dragging over the ridges of your teeth, exploring your mouth and memorizing how it felt. Saved it in case he'd never be able to savor the experience again. 

And when a cute little moan slipped out as his chest pressed against yours, as your bodies connected, your baby bump pressed against his stomach and your free hand draped over his shoulder, he knew his boner was back. 

“Mmph, Sato-” you murmured when you finally pulled away for air. He was desperately trying to suck in the quickest breath he could just to kiss you again.

The most he managed was a few quick pecks pressed to the corner of your mouth before your palm pressed flat against his chest. 

“We should talk about it,” you reasonably said, despite how inclined he was to throw reason out the window and carry you back to your bed. 

“Do you want me?” He asked, sucking in a short breath, leaning down so his nose was nuzzling against yours. 

“I do,” you answered, your voice strained and tight as you reluctantly looked up at him, studying the shape of his lips. And maybe it was because he’d spent an entire life wrapped around your finger, building and molding himself to be the sort of man you wanted, that you needed, he knew what thoughts were swirling around in your head before you said any of them. “I’m just scared.”

Hearing it out loud still scared the shit out of him though. 

Knowing how close he was to having you – and how easy it would be to fuck it all up. 

“What can I do to show you just how serious I am?” He murmured, leaning in, lightly grazing his lips against your mouth again. 

You closed your eyes, held onto his shirt and let yourself melt into his chest. 

This kiss didn't last long though, not when the timer on the microwave suddenly blared out. 

“I, um, should check on that,” you muttered, and it was incredibly hard to let you go. To watch you slip from his hold again and walk back into your kitchen, some intangible thread tugging him towards you, unable to stay more than a few steps away from you while you opened the oven and sighed before you added a few more minutes on the timer. 

But you didn’t come back, didn’t speak up immediately. 

You were staring at your distorted reflection in the microwave, like you were silently attempting to convince yourself of something. 

Maybe to turn him down. 

Say that you were both always going to be better off as friends.

“Tell me what to do,” Satoru begged. 

“I don’t know,” you blanched. 

“Anything,” he started. “I swear, I’ll-”

“Shouldn't we take this slow?” You hesitantly asked before he could offer to put up a billboard professing his love or get down on his knees to propose, clinging onto the counter tight enough he could see the clear outline of the bones and tendons in your knuckles. 

“You're having my baby,” he pointed out, and you just pouted at him. 

“I know,” you muttered, mulling over how you wanted to word your concern. “But what if you're only doing this because of that?”

“Sweetheart,” Satoru started, a fresh pang of panic shooting straight through his chest. “I would want you whether or not the baby was mine or someone else's. I've loved you for so fucking long-”

“It's hard for me to accept that,” you admitted, rubbing the back of your neck. “I don't understand why you would pick me. You could have-”

“You’re the only person I’ve ever wanted. You occupy all my thoughts,” he breathed, his throat constricting as he did his best to confess. “Your glare. Your laugh. The way you defend me even when I'm a dick. How you indulge me even when I don't deserve it. Every morning, every night, every stupid meeting I get stuck in and when I'm in the shower. I've spent my whole life waiting for you to see me standing here and hoping for you.”

Another big tear welled up in your pretty eyes, one you quickly blinked away as your stare shined up at him. 

“Can you wait a little longer?” You asked, as if he wouldn't wait another ten, twenty, thirty fucking years holding onto this. 

“Of course,” he whispered. 

As long as you needed. 

He’d just hope it was a sooner rather than later thing. 

You wiped your cheeks, recollecting yourself before checking the oven again, pressing your lips together in a thin line as you put some mitts on and opened it to pull out the baking tray before reaching up to shut off the timer.

Satoru ended up where he always did. 

Stretched out in the corner of your couch, arm thrown around the back and pretending to pay attention to what was on TV instead of watching you in the corner of his vision. But this time, you snuggled up a little closer after you sat a plate down in front of him.

Curled up enough that your thighs were firmly pressing against each other, and slowly, his hand drifted down to cup your stomach. Just under the skin, feeling the faint flutter of his daughter kicking, or readjusting in there. Growing to hopefully be more like you than him, even if she would get stuck with half his DNA. 

“You’re warm,” you softly said, as if that was your excuse to melt into him more.

“Will you still let me spend the night?” He pouted, lips parting only for you to push a warm treat against them to shut him up. 

“On the couch?” You asked, watching him chew, chocolate probably smeared across his mouth before you asked something he only ever dreamed about. “Or in bed?” 

ᘏ⑅ᘏ

Satoru never stopped staying the night. 

And despite the fact he’d technically gotten you pregnant, you still had yet to have sex with him. But instead of him walking in hungry for your cooking, he was starving for you. Thighs hooked over his shoulders while he dragged his tongue up across your pussy, greedily lapping you up like it was his new favorite meal. 

You liked the way he kissed you when you woke up, his strong arms slung around your body, his soft mouth dotting your face like it was his favorite thing in the world. You loved the way he looked at you when he left for work, the warmth that seemed to radiate and wrap around you when he leaned down to caress your cheek and tell you that he’d call you at lunch. 

Somewhere along the way though, or more precisely around week thirty-eight, you started spending the night at his place instead, getting stretched out on his long fingers in his silk sheets instead of your cotton ones. 

You spent almost an hour chewing him out for the nursery he’d already set up there, dismissing his excuses because you both were well aware of the reasons why. 

He didn’t want to just be the donor. 

He wanted to be your baby’s dad. 

And when it came time to actually have your daughter, when your water broke a couple days past your due date and he rushed you to the hospital, you were the one to tell the nurses that was exactly what he was instead of playing pretend and ignoring what was right in front of your face. 

Letting him wipe the sweat from your brow and hold the cup of water to your lips, nearly breaking his hand by holding it so hard when it came time to push, hours of labor culminating in a little baby with your favorite set of blue eyes. 

She had your hair though, and he tried to say your smile too, peeling off his shirt right there in the room and ready to do skin-to-skin with her the second you said he could. 

If you hadn’t figured out you were completely and totally fucking in love with him, you knew the second you saw him cradling her to his chest, the gleam in his stare and the reverence in his trembling fingers brushing across her chubby cheeks. 

He had looked up at you with that lopsided smile, pride and adoration present in every line etched in his face. 

“I feel like the luckiest guy in the world,” he grinned.

And just a couple months of being with him had made you see how lucky you’d always been to have him. 

To have her. 

Even though you were pretty sure she inherited her dad’s personality. 

Specifically the loud and clingy parts. 

Always needing one of you to be carrying her, crying when you tried to leave her in the crib, refusing to be bottlefed half-the-time even when you were just feeding her what you pumped. Her crystalline stare welling up with fat tears if you dared to put her down on a soft mat for tummy time, lazily hitting her tiny feet against the ground instead of trying to roll or crawl.

All that baby proofing Satoru had spent hours on pretty much useless so far when she'd barely been outside of your arms or the baby carrier he proudly walked around with her in. He even started working from home once his paternity leave ran out, taking meetings with her still in the carrier, chatting with people on the phone or on video calls, something about the sound of his voice and the way he bounced her, always seeming to lull her to sleep. 

You had unofficially moved in with him, although you let him handle all the packing and unloading, rooms conveniently already set up like he'd always been holding that space for you, closet half-vacant until all your clothes were hung up by his. 

Boyfriend, best friend, husband, no title really needed to tag onto whatever it was the two of you shared. 

It was bigger than that. 

You were his now. 

And you didn’t want to deny it anymore. 

Besides, you'd done some laundry a couple days ago and found a ring box underneath his boxers in the sock drawer, so you supposed it would have a label soon anyway. 

If you were going to spend the rest of your life loving someone, it was always going to be him. 

You were an idiot for not seeing it sooner. 

But he never made you feel like one. 

He kissed you good night like it was the most natural thing in the world, half-draped across your body and skimming his fingers over your face before he curled up next to you in the dim bedroom, blankets tangled around your bodies. 

Falling asleep came fast when it was in his arms, but you'd begun to have one, or, uh, two problems when you woke up at four in the morning with a massive ache in your chest. 

In his quest to be the best father (and future husband), he'd taken over night feedings to make sure you slept, but despite his sweetness, your body wasn't on the same page. Or rather, schedule. 

Missing her night feedings had left you engorged. 

Tits swollen and milk stuck in the ducts, the usually soft flesh practically hard under the stretched skin, painful when you sat up and realized you had started to soak through your bra and shirt. You tried to peel both off of you, wincing at the wetness as your finger fumbled for the pump you left by the nightstand in the dark only to knock it off instead. 

“Sweetheart?” Satoru groggily spoke up, a big hand reaching out, half-patting your stomach in his sleepy state.

But then he was already shutting his eyes again, yawning and humming as he drifted back to sleep, your lips pressing together in a frustrated line as you swung your legs off the bed and bent over to grab the pump. 

Although, it wasn’t really much use when your ducts were too fucking clogged for anything other than a painfully slow drip to come out, the ache just getting worse as you begrudgingly switched on the lamp by your bed and bathed the room in warm yellow light as you put the pump back. 

“Satoru,” you whined, rolling over in bed and lightly shaking the pretty man drooling on the pillow next to you. He almost immediately stirred for real this time, sitting up and blinking before wiping the spit from the corner of his mouth, grunting as he got up, the low sound only making your thighs tense and press together. 

“Mm, baby?” He yawned as he stretched, running his fingers through his hair as his baby-food-stained sweatshirt rode up to show a sliver of his toned abs. 

“When did you feed her?” You half-whispered as his tired eyes shifted to his phone on the other side of him, briefly turning it on with a sigh. 

“Like, an hour ago?” He answered, blinking a couple times as his eyes returned to you – and then practically bulged out of his head at the realization your boobs were out. 

Mouth falling open in a pretty ‘o’, drool probably pooling inside it as he stared at how heavy they were hanging, tongue uselessly trying to form a coherent follow-up and some strangled sound escaping instead. 

“I need you,” you admitted just as another droplet of milk leaked out, starting to roll down your breast – but before it could make it more than an inch, Satoru was there, wrapping his lips around your areola and starting to suck before you could even get another sentence out. 

He pulled you closer, an arm slipping around your lower back, pulling you in as his tongue dragged over your hardened nipple, his other hand already reaching up to squeeze your other tit, groaning at how it felt under his palm. 

You gasped, a surprising surge of electricity racing down your spine as heat you hadn’t expected bubbled up to simmer in your core. Technically, you’d been cleared for sex, like, six weeks ago, but you’d been a little anxious about him seeing your postpartum body. 

Not sure if his feelings would be swayed after you carried his baby, if the stretchmarks or soft plush of your stomach would put him off. 

But the ravenous gleam in his eyes, the frenzied way his fingers kept fumbling to make sure you couldn’t slip away, you didn’t think anyone had ever wanted you as badly as he did right now. 

And before you could fully process it, your back was hitting the bed, pinned between his heavy body and his firm mattress, the sheets crinkling underneath you as he greedily drank. 

He looked delirious. 

Okay, probably a little bit sleep deprived from being in night feeding duty half the time, but he was drunk on you, letting out a lewd moan as he sucked hard on the hardened bud, desperately kneading into the other one with those thick fingers of his while something hard and huge dug into your thigh. 

Fuck.  

Why the hell was he that big? 

The size of him was on your mind as he switched breasts, eagerly slurping as he squeezed, trying to break up the clog with his thick fingers, pressing in and working into the skin, forcing more milk out as he tried to drain you. 

“Shit, angel,” he moaned, barely pulling away to glance up at you, the blue in his eyes swallowed up by his pupils as milk dribbled down the corner of his mouth. “You’re so sweet.” 

“S-Satoru,” you stammered, relief washing over you as he went back to drinking and managed to clear out at least one of the ducts, eyelashes fluttering as his tongue toyed with your still overly sensitive nipple. Your fingers were shaking as you tangled them in his hair, trying to guide him back to the other one, hyperaware of how sticky your skin was, some of the milk definitely leaking down onto the bed and getting on his shirt as he continued without a pause. 

“S’not fair,” he whined, fingers digging in again as he practically rutted his cock against your thigh. Hips rolling down to grind against you, his muscled thighs flexing with every rock of them. “How come she gets to drink this all the time and I don’t?”

“You can’t be serious,” you gasped, tugging at his roots to pry him back just to find that fucked-out look on his face, everything relaxed as he jutted out his bottom lips like he was willing to beg for more if he had to. 

“This is my new favorite drink,” he insisted, and before you could sputter out another protest, he was latched on again, relieving your other breast with that pretty mouth of his, massaging it until you were both moaning, your head falling back against the pillow as you gave in.

Gave it all up for him. 

Finding yourself arching your own back up off the bed, squirming and shuddering as he went to work on it, teeth skimming and scraping until your nipples were sore, swallowing your milk until your breasts almost felt empty – but you knew they’d fill back up sooner or later. Sooner, if he kept sucking on them like that as if he could telepathically communicate to them to make more. 

And even when they were nearly drained, he was running his tongue over your chest, cleaning you up like he was a goddamn cat. Taste buds dragging over your skin, running his fingered over your peaked nipples now, a surprised squeak pulled from you that made you both pause for a second, his blue eyes wide when they immediately locked onto your face.

Neither of you said anything. 

But his cock twitched, and a funny pulse shot down to your clit, and your mouth was opening to ask him something you’d been craving more than you could confess. 

“Do you want to fuck me?” You breathed, awkward, tense. 

Terrified he’d say no, no matter how irrational it was. 

But Satoru just smiled, climbing completely on top of you and caging you back in to caress your cheek, “God, you have no idea just how long I’ve been waiting for-” 

Your mouth crashed against his before he could even finish his sentence, your own impatience catching you by surprise, lips fitting so nicely in between his, and you wondered why it had taken you so long to take what was always yours. 

You could taste yourself on him, the faintly sweet milk on his breath, although it was a little weird mixed with the leftover mint from him brushing his teeth. He didn’t seem to mind though, eagerly shoving his tongue in your mouth, the now-damp fabric of his shirt pressed against your chest. 

One of you would definitely need to throw a load into the washing machine after this, strip the sheets down and change them after the mess you were making. 

But you couldn’t help but slip your hand down, sneaking underneath the band of his sweatpants and inside his boxers to feel his swollen tip, collecting the thick pre-cum already there and sliding it down his dick. 

Veins pulsing against your palm, your fingers delicately wrapping around his girth and starting to stroke as he made some guttural groan that made your stomach feel funny. Pure want searing through you, desire you weren’t used to handling or holding back now dealt to you in spades. 

Maybe it was because some small voice was trying to suggest that you were about to have sex with Satoru, a sliver of you thrilled at the idea of him needing you too. 

“F-fuck,” he whimpered, and it was probably the prettiest sound you ever heard. “M’gonna cum if you keep doing that.” 

“You’re not even in me,” you teased him. He growled at that, and before you could even giggle, he was pulling your hand back out of his pants, firm fingers gripping your wrist and pinning it above your head before you could make him snap. 

And then his other hand was suddenly helping spread your thighs further apart, easily able to move the thin fabric of your cotton shorts and lacy panties aside so he could shove two fingers inside your pussy to see how soaked you were. 

“Baby,” he immediately hummed the second his fingers swirled inside, one corner of his mouth curling up almost condescendingly while you huffed back at him. “I wasn’t even in you.” 

Dick. 

But it was hard to be hurt by him mocking you back when he was sliding his actual dick inside you barely thirty seconds later, the rest of your clothes and his quickly discarded so he could do what you'd both been dreaming about, his eyes scrunching shut as he slowly took it inch by inch. Savoring the stretch, the way his hands trembled as he touched you, his breathing heavy and uneven as he felt your walls squeeze around him. You might’ve complained at how long it was taking if you weren’t also having a hard time holding yourself together. 

Studying all those details of his face you’d fallen for, the shape his soft lips made when his features were all twisted up in pleasure, how his long lashes fluttered as he whispered your name like a prayer. 

Sure, you had sex before. Weren’t exactly a virgin by any means. 

But nothing was like this. 

No one was like him. 

Satoru was treating you like some alter he was born to worship at. Every movement deliberate, sucking in a sharp breath as he pushed through, filling you up until his cock was nestled against your womb, the pressure mind-melting as he tried to focus on your own body reacting to him. 

“I-is it too much?” He asked, like he wasn’t straining, his voice thin and airy. “Tell me if anything hurts.” 

Still concerned for you, still worried he might wound you. 

You nodded, heart thrumming wildly as his cock throbbed and all your sore muscles tensed around him. Hesitantly opening your mouth to reassure him, “I’m good. This is good.” 

Fantastic, actually, but his ego didn’t need that much of a boost. 

Satoru still lit up like you’d told him it was the best you ever had. 

“Thank fucking god,” he murmured, his head falling down so he could nuzzle his nose against your neck. Peppering your throat with kisses as he started thrusting, almost delicate at first, but quickly picking up the pace once he was confident he wouldn’t completely break you with his cock. 

Driving himself in faster, harder, both hands now holding up your hips, angle himself deep enough you could feel himself re-molding you to him. You were out-of-practice, and you could tell he was too, but his sloppiness was made up for with how eager he was, how earnestly his mouth and his fingers and his cock worked to make you feel good. 

“I love you,” he babbled, breathing hard and heavy into your collarbone, your breasts still leaking a little bit of milk onto his chest that he didn’t seem to notice. “I, oh fuck, I love you so much.” 

You were nodding, tracing your fingers over his broad back, his defined shoulder blades, holding onto him as your walls tried to squeeze and clamp down on him. The sex felt different, all your nerves suddenly more sensitive, everything burning and starving for more. 

“I-I love you too,” you gasped, an invisible weight lifted off your chest hearing the words leave your mouth. 

He made a noise that was probably loud enough to wake anyone else in the building, both of you freezing as your heads snapped back towards the door to see if it woke up your daughter down the hall. 

But then his thumb darted to your clit, rushing to make rough circles, his chest heaving with fast breaths as he tried to make sure this wouldn’t end without him making you cum. 

“My pretty girl, fuck,” he purred, sucking a spot he’d already nipped at above your tendon, the jolt it sent through you dragging you embarrassingly close to climax when it was combined with the patterns he was painting over your needy bud. The friction was intense, feeding something deep in your chest you hadn't realized was hollow before. 

Comforted by him coaxing you, crumbling bit by bit into his hand as his cock continued pumping inside you. 

“Always been your girl,” you half-whispered back, toes curling hard as your body tensed up again, lips staying parted as he pulled you right to the precipice. 

“Mine forever then?” Satoru asked, sounding ruined. 

“Forever,” you promised without really thinking, breath itching in your throat as his cock abruptly stalled, still buried deep. 

You were pretty sure he came first, but before you could open your eyes or get another word out, his thumb twitched and pressed down mid-motion and you were seeing stars right as he groaned and snapped his hips down. Too occupied with the pleasure rolling through your almost limp limbs, your nails scratching down his back as warm spurts of cum started coating your walls, leaking down your legs. 

“Shit, fuck, please tell me you came,” he hissed, his own eyes shut, sweaty strands of hair hanging down and sticking to his forehead as you stared at his glossy lips. 

“Mhm,” you murmured, blinking as he finally peeked his eyes open and took in the full sight of you. Breasts still sticky and swollen, his cum dripping down your thighs, bite marks probably staining your throat. 

“Will you marry me?” He bluntly asked, and you could only roll your eyes and laugh at him. 

“Ask me again later,” you muttered, sighing at the state of yourself and wondering if a late night shower would wake a sleeping baby. 

You guessed it didn't matter when her soft cry cut through the brief silence, both of you exhaling at the same time. 

“I'll get dressed and go get her,” Satoru preemptively offered, climbing off of you with a small yawn. You watched him pad barefoot over to the dresser, biting your lips as he pulled fresh boxers back on and rummaged through the other drawers for pajamas. 

“Um, Satoru?” You hesitantly spoke up as a thought nagged at you. 

“Yeah, baby?” 

“I'm not on birth control.”

reblogs + comments are always greatly appreciated <3

that had been three months ago. now, you found yourself looking forward to your tuesday and thursday afternoons with an intensity that bordered on concerning. not because you'd developed some crush on the six-foot-something jujutsu sorcerer with impossible ivory hair and an even more impossible smile. no, it was something else. something in the way he carried his strength like a casual coat, the way he made death seem like a minor inconvenience.

you adjusted the small bouquet of wildflowers you'd brought—something you'd started doing a few weeks ago, when you'd noticed the stark white vase in his room remained perpetually empty. the nurses had told you he rarely received visitors.

"delivery for the world's strongest sorcerer," you announced, pushing open the door to room 307.

gojo was sitting up in his bed, blindfolded as always, but today he had a pair of sleek black headphones perched over his ears. he tapped a finger against his wrist, indicating you should wait. you did, watching the subtle movement of his fingers as he apparently navigated whatever playlist he had going.

when he finally pulled off the headphones, a smile spread across his face that temporarily blinded you in more ways than one. "ah, my favorite volunteer! come to analyze me again?"

"something like that," you said, placing the flowers in the vase. "thought these might brighten the place up. hospital decor leaves something to be desired."

he leaned forward, sniffing appreciatively at the wildflowers. "nature's rebellion against institutional sterility. i approve." he paused, then added, "though i have to say, the flowers are nice, but your company is the real highlight of my week. don't tell the nurses i said that—they'll start charging admission."

you rolled your eyes, but couldn't suppress a smile. "flattery will get you nowhere, gojo. especially when you're supposed to be resting."

"rest is for the weak," he declared, though he made no move to get out of bed. "and boring. absolutely, mind-numbingly boring. you know, i think they're trying to kill me with monotony."

"or maybe they're trying to save your life," you countered, taking your usual seat by the window. "the doctors said you need to take it easy after that last mission."

he waved a dismissive hand. "pfft. 'last mission."it was a couple of curses—lower grades, at that. barely broke a sweat. though..." he paused, rubbing his temples with two fingers. "there might have been some minor exertion."

you studied him more closely. his usually impeccable posture seemed slightly slumped, and there were faint lines of tension around his eyes that the blindfold couldn't completely hide.

"minor exertion that gave you a migraine so bad you needed intravenous medication?" you asked, keeping your tone light but watching his reaction carefully.

gojo chuckled, but it sounded slightly strained. "it's nothing. the six eyes work overtime, that's all. processing all that cursed energy—it's like running a supercomputer at maximum capacity without any cooling. things get a little... overheated."

he said it so casually, as if discussing the weather rather than what sounded like a neurological crisis. you'd been volunteering long enough to recognize when someone was downplaying their symptoms. the other sorcerers who came through here did it all the time—pride, stubbornness, or some combination of both.

"have you talked to dr. shoko about it?" you asked.

"ieri worries too much," gojo said, shifting position wince slightly. "it's just a headache. happens to the best of us."

you didn't push, not yet. you'd learned that with gojo, subtlety was your best approach. direct questions about his health were deflected with jokes or changed subjects. but you made a mental note to mention it to shoko later—she was his regular doctor and had been more forthcoming about his condition than any of the doctors.

"soooo," you said, changing the subject. "what's on the agenda today? more 'rest,' or are we breaking hospital rules?"

he grinned, that infuriatingly charming smile that made you forget you were supposed to be monitoring his health. "how about we play a game? twenty questions, but with a twist. you can only ask about my love life."

you laughed. "is that supposed to be tempting?"

"extremely," he said, leaning back against the pillows. "come on, you know you're curious. the great satoru gojo—relationship status? single? dating? married to my work?"

"i'm not sure that's appropriate for a volunteer-patient relationship," you said, though you couldn't help but smile at his persistence.

"rules are made to be broken," he countered. "besides, i'm practically a guest here. not a real patient."

"tell that to the iv stand in the corner," you retorted, nodding toward the equipment that had been there since your first visit.

he glanced at it as if noticing it for the first time. "ah, yes. the evidence of my 'debilitating' condition." he made air quotes with his fingers. "it's just saline, you know. mostly. sometimes they add vitamins. makes it feel like a fancy smoothie."

you shook your head, but couldn't suppress a laugh. "you're so stupid."

"thank you," he said, bowing his head slightly. "i try."

the afternoon passed in a blur of conversation that ranged from the absurd (his theory that cats were actually cursed spirits in disguise) to the philosophical (whether strength was a gift or a curse). you found yourself opening up in ways you rarely did, sharing snippets of your own life—your struggles with university, your complicated relationship with your family, your dreams that felt increasingly distant with each passing semester.

and he listened. really listened. his blindfold never wavered, but you had the strange sensation that he saw more with those covered eyes than most people did with their sight wide open.

as the afternoon wore on, you noticed him growing quieter. the playful energy that usually surrounded him had dimmed, replaced by a thoughtful stillness. his fingers, which had been gesturing animatedly moments before, now rested lightly on the blanket.

"you okay?" you asked softly.

he blinked slowly, then shook his head as if clearing it. "just tired. these 'rest periods' they insist on—they're actually exhausting."

"maybe that's the point," you said gently.

"probably," he admitted. "but i hate feeling useless. being stuck here while everyone else is out there handling threats..." he trailed off, then added with forced lightness, "guess i'll just have to content myself with your sparkling company."

you stayed until the nurses came to give him his evening medication, watching as he accepted the small pills with a nod that was almost imperceptibly weary. as you were leaving, he called your name.

"hey," he said, his voice softer than usual. "thanks for coming today. i enjoyed spending time with you. more than you know."

you paused at the door, surprised by the sudden sincerity. "of course, gojo. i'll see you on thursday."

"looking forward to it," he said, and this time, his smile seemed to reach the eyes hidden behind the blindfold.

as you walked down the hospital corridor, the neon lights suddenly seemed harsher, the silence more profound. you thought about his earlier comment about feeling useless, about the way he'd winced when shifting positions, about the saline drip that seemed to be a permanent fixture in his room.

something was wrong. really wrong. and you had the sinking feeling that whatever it was, gojo was determined to face it alone.

the next morning, you found yourself seeking out shoko during your break. she was sorting medication in the supply closet, her movements efficient and precise.

"morning, shoko," you said, trying to sound casual.

she looked up, surprised. "what brings you here? not another bouquet for our favorite patient, i hope?"

you smiled. "not today, i've spoiled him enough. actually, i was wondering about him. yesterday, he mentioned having a headache, but he brushed it off. is he... okay?"

shoko's expression shifted, becoming more guarded. "satoru is a private person. he tells us what he wants us to know. i don't think he's being entirely truthful about his symptoms."

"i understand that," you said quickly. "but i'm worried about him. he seemed different yesterday. tired."

shuko sighed, setting down the box she was holding. "the six eyes are both a blessing and a curse. they process cursed energy at speeds no human brain was meant to handle. for years, that idiot has pushed himself beyond his limits. the human brain can only take so much overclocking before things start breaking down."

you felt a chill despite the warm hospital air. "breaking down? what does that mean?"

she lowered her voice, glancing toward the door. "neurological degradation. it's rare, but we've seen it in sorcerers who've pushed their techniques too hard for too long. the brain tissue that supports the six eyes... it's wearing out. like a processor that's been running at maximum capacity for too long."

"can it be treated?" you asked, your heart pounding.

shoko shook her head slowly. "we've tried experimental cursed techniques, medications, everything. the degeneration is tied to his ability itself. it's irreversible." she paused, then added softly, "he doesn't have much time."

the words echoed in your mind, a death sentence delivered with the clinical detachment of a medical diagnosis. gojo, with his impossible strength and even more impossible smile, given "not much time" to live?

"he doesn't know, does he?" you whispered.

"not the full extent," she confirmed. "he knows something's wrong, but he's... compartmentalizing. satoru has always faced everything with confidence. this... it's different. it's something he can't fight his way out of."

you thought about his laughter the day before, his jokes, the way he'd made you feel like the most interesting person in the world. and beneath it all, this quiet unraveling. this neurological time bomb.

"thank you, sho," you said, your voice tight. "for telling me."

she nodded. "he cares about you. you should know what you're dealing with."

as you walked away, the hospital corridor seemed to stretch on endlessly, each step taking you further from the illusion you'd built around gojo and closer to a truth that felt both devastating and inevitable.

when you returned to room 307 that afternoon, you carried with you a knowledge that felt like a physical weight. gojo looked up as you entered, his blindfolded face turning toward you.

"there you are," he said, a smile already forming. "i was beginning to think you'd abandoned me for some exciting life outside this crappy room."

you forced a smile in return, placing the flowers—sunflowers this time, bright and defiant—on the nightstand. "never. you're stuck with me."

he chuckled, then winced slightly, rubbing his temples. "sorry, shit— these headaches... they're getting worse. like someone's digging into my brain with a drill."

you sat down heavily in your usual chair, the words shuko had spoken replaying in your mind. "gojo—"

"satoru."

"what?"

"you can call me satoru, if you want."

"okay then, satoru. have the doctors told you anything specific? about what's causing your headaches?"

he waved a dismissive hand. "just stress, they say. overexertion. nothing a good night's sleep won't fix." he paused, then added, "though i have to admit, even sleep doesn't feel like rest anymore. it's like my brain won't shut down."

you watched him, really watched him, seeing the exhaustion that lurked beneath the surface of his usual confidence. the way his fingers trembled slightly when he reached for the water glass. the way his blindfold seemed to sit crookedly, as if his head was too heavy to hold it straight.

"satoru," you began, then stopped. what could you say? that you knew he was dying? that you knew his brilliant mind was literally breaking down?

"yeah?" he prompted, tilting his head in your direction.

you took a deep breath. "i'm worried about you. that's all."

his smile softened, becoming something more genuine, more vulnerable. "i know. and i appreciate it. really." he reached out, his fingers brushing yours where they rested on the armrest of your chair. the contact was brief but electric. "you're good at this whole caring thing. maybe i should keep you around."

you pulled your hand back slightly, surprised by the intensity of the moment. "i'm just doing my job."

"not really," he said, his voice dropping lower. "volunteers don't have to sit with patients for hours. they don't have to remember how they take their coffee or bring them flowers." he paused, then added, "you choose to be here. with me."

the air between you suddenly felt charged, thick with unspoken words and possibilities you hadn't allowed yourself to consider. you looked into his blindfold, trying to see beyond the fabric to the eyes you knew were watching you with an intensity that was both unnerving and compelling.

"i do," you admitted quietly. "because i enjoy your company. even when you're being infuriating."

he laughed, a real laugh this time, devoid of the strain you'd noticed earlier. "good. because i enjoy yours too. even when you're trying to psychoanalyze me."

as he spoke, you noticed something new—a faint tremor in his hand that he quickly tried to hide by clasping it with his other hand. the casual mask was slipping, revealing the cracks beneath. and in that moment, you knew with certainty that this was more than just a volunteer assignment. this was something real, something that was growing between you despite the circumstances, despite the ticking clock you now knew was counting down the days until the inevitable.

you reached out again, this time taking his hand in yours. his skin was warm, but you could feel the fine tremor running through it. he didn't pull away, but turned his hand slightly, his fingers lacing through yours.

"hey," he said, his voice barely above a whisper. "what's going through that pretty head of yours?"

you met his gaze, holding it even though you couldn't see his eyes. "just thinking," you said softly. "that you're not as invincible as you pretend to be."

he was quiet for a long moment, then squeezed your hand gently. "maybe not. but i'm still here. right now, anyways. that's what matters."

and in the sterile white room of the tokyo metropolitan curse technical hospital, with the afternoon light filtering through the window and your fingers intertwined with his, you knew he was right.

—

the days that followed shoko's revelation blurred into a haze of hospital routines and stolen moments with gojo. each visit became a delicate dance between the carefully constructed illusion he presented and the crumbling reality you now knew existed. you found yourself arriving earlier, staying later, inventing reasons to linger—offering to read to him, bringing books from the library, simply sitting in companionable silence as the afternoon light slanted across the room.

one tuesday, you arrived with a thermos of hot tea and a collection of short stories you'd been told were particularly engaging. satoru was already awake, sitting up in bed with his laptop balanced on his knees, the screen illuminating his blindfolded face.

"breaking hospital rules with unauthorized electronics?" you teased, setting down the tea and books.

he minimized his screen with a flick of his wrist. "just checking emails. the higher-ups can't seem to resist bothering me even when i'm supposedly 'resting.'" he gestured to the thermos. "is that that fancy jasmine blend you brought last week? the one that smells like a flower garden?"

"guilty as charged," you said, pouring two cups. "thought it might help with the migraines."

he accepted the cup with a nod that seemed more dulled than usual, his fingers brushing yours as he took it. the contact sent a warmth spreading through your chest that had nothing to do with the tea.

"you're too good to me," he said, taking a sip. "keep this up and i'll turn soft."

you smiled, but your eyes were drawn to the way his hand trembled slightly as he raised the cup. the shiver was subtle, almost imperceptible to someone who didn't know what to look for, but to you, it was another crack in the facade.

"how are you feeling today?" you asked, keeping your tone casual.

"never better," he declared with his usual bravado. "though i did have a spectacular headache this morning. felt like someone was trying to rip out my medulla." he took another sip of tea, then winced, setting the cup down carefully.

you watched him, noticing the way he pressed his fingers against his temples, the slight tension in his jaw. this wasn't just a headache; this was something more, something deeper.

"satoru," you began, then stopped.

"yeah?" he prompted, turning his head in your direction.

you took a deep breath. "can i... can i see your hands?"

he looked surprised, but held them out, palms up. they were steady now, but you remembered the tremor from moments before. you reached out, taking one in yours. his skin was colder than before, but you could feel the fine shakes that had returned, running through his fingers like an electrical current.

"what are you doing?" he asked, though he didn't pull away.

"just checking something," you murmured, tracing the lines on his palm with your thumb.

he was quiet for a long moment, then his fingers tightened around yours. "you're different today," he said. "more observant."

"i'm always observant," you countered, though you knew that wasn't entirely true. something had shifted in you since shoko's diagnosis. you couldn't unsee what you now knew to look for.

"maybe," he conceded. "or maybe i'm just getting worse at hiding things."

you looked up at him, meeting his blindfolded gaze. "are you in pain right now?"

the question hung in the air between you, fragile and charged. gojo was quiet for so long you thought he might not answer. then, slowly, he nodded.

"a little," he admitted. "it comes and goes. mostly in my head. sometimes... sometimes it spreads."

"where else?" you asked, your voice barely above a whisper.

he hesitated, then said, "my eyes. they ache behind the blindfold. like they're trying to burn through it." he paused, then added, "my hands too. sometimes they feel... disconnected. like they don't belong to me."

you wanted to ask more, to press him for details, but you could see the effort it was taking for him to even admit this much. instead, you simply squeezed his hand.

"i'm sorry," you said.

he shook his head. "don't be. it's not your fault. it's just... the price of power, i guess." he managed a weak smile. "though i have to say, i expected a more dramatic end. not... this. not fading away in a hospital bed."

the vulnerability in his voice caught you off guard. this wasn’t the satoru you’d come to know—the flirty, overconfident jujutsu sorcerer who made death seem like a minor inconvenience. but there was something different now, a quiet understanding in his eyes that you hadn’t seen before. it wasn’t shock. it wasn’t fear. it was just... awareness. the realization that he wasn't invincible—that, maybe, the end was closer than he liked to admit.

It made your chest tighten, a protective instinct rising within you, one you didn’t even know you had.

"i don't think anyone expects to fade away," you said softly.

"no," he agreed. "we all think we'll go out in a blaze of glory. fighting some impossible curse, saving the world, that kind of thing." he sighed, a sound that seemed to carry the weight of years. "not like this. not with my brain turning to mush."

the room felt too still after he said it, like even the air didn’t want to move. he looked so small in that moment — so unlike the man everyone believed couldn’t be touched by anything. his shoulders were hunched forward just slightly, the posture of someone who had been fighting the inevitable alone for far too long.

you opened your mouth to comfort him, to reach for any piece of softness you could offer, but nothing felt right. nothing felt enough.

instead, you reached out gently, your fingertips brushing the edge of his blindfold right above his right eyebrow. the fabric was warm from his skin, damp with sweat, familiar in a way that made your throat close up. he leaned into the touch just a little, like it helped him breathe.

the silence stretched for a long, heavy moment — not awkward, not even painful. just… real. a rare moment where everything between you hung fragile and honest in the air.

then, quietly, you said it.

“there’s no we in this, gojo.”

he blinked, slow and confused, as if the words didn’t quite make sense at first.

you swallowed hard. “nobody else expects to die like that. nobody else lives with that hanging over them. it’s just you who thinks that way.”

the words felt sharper than you meant them to be, but they were true — painfully, unmistakably true. you saw it hit him, saw the way his expression shifted, the way something behind his eyes dimmed. not because you hurt him, but because you’d exposed something he never let anyone say out loud.

because he realized, maybe for the first time:

he had been carrying that belief alone his whole life.

his fingers tightened weakly in the blanket again. his throat bobbed as he swallowed. “oh,” he whispered, almost to himself. “i guess… yeah. it’s just me.”

there was a tremor in his voice — not physical, not from the illness, but emotional. a quiet unraveling. his façade cracked in a way even death hadn’t managed yet.

“i always thought that was just… how it was,” he continued softly. “that people like me don’t get to grow old. that we’re… built to die dramatic. quickly. violently. i thought that was normal.”

you shook your head, moving a little closer, your hand slipping from his blindfold to his cheek, your thumb brushing the faintest trace of fever-heated skin.

“it’s not normal,” you said. “you were just alone in it. that’s all.”

his lips parted like he wanted to argue, or agree, or just breathe, but nothing came out. he looked up at you with this expression you’d never seen on him before — a raw, bewildered kind of vulnerability. like he didn’t know what to do with the truth now that it was sitting between you.

for a moment, he wasn’t the strongest. he wasn’t untouchable. he wasn’t a legend. he was just a man who’d been conditioned to believe his life only had one possible ending.

and it wasn’t this one.

you wanted to comfort him, to say something that would make this better, but you knew there were no words. instead, you reached out, your fingers brushing against his blindfold, just above his right eyebrow.

"can i...?" you began, not sure what you were asking.

he didn't pull away. "what?"

"can i see?" you whispered. "just for a moment. your eyes. i won't tell anyone, i promise."

he was quiet for so long you thought he might refuse. then, slowly, he reached up and untied the knot at the back of his head. the black fabric fell away, and you found yourself holding your breath.

the eyes that met yours were not what you'd expected. they were a startling shade of blue, so pale they seemed almost translucent, like chips of ice. but it was the pain in them that struck you most—a deep, raw anguish that seemed to emanate from his very soul. the pupils were dilated, and the whites were webbed with fine red lines, as if the blood vessels had been strained to their breaking point.

"they're beautiful," you breathed, the words escaping before you could stop them.

gojo managed a weak smile. "that's what everyone says. though i think they're less impressive right now. they look like someone took a screwdriver to them."

you reached out, your fingers hovering near his face, not quite touching. "does it hurt? the light?"

"everything hurts," he admitted. "but especially light. even the soft light in here... it feels like needles."

you nodded, understanding. "i'll draw the curtains."

as you moved to the window, you felt his eyes following you, watching your every movement. when you turned back, he was still watching you, his gaze intense and unnervingly perceptive even in pain.

"you know," he said, his voice low, "you're not like the others."

"you're making me sound like a pick-me," you snorted, returning to his side. "how so?"

"the other volunteers... they come in, they do their job, they leave. they don't notice things. they don't care." he paused, then added, "you notice. you care."

you didn't know what to say to that, so you simply sat down on the edge of his bed, close enough that your knees brushed his. "i care because you're... you're important, satoru. to a lot of people."

he was quiet for a long moment, then said, "including you?"

you met his gaze, not flinching from the intensity in his eyes. "yes. including me."

something shifted in the space between you then, a current of understanding passing between you that needed no words. you reached out, your fingers brushing against his cheek, and he leaned into your touch, his eyes closing briefly.

"thank you," he whispered.

"for what?"

"for seeing me. not just the satoru gojo everyone else sees. the real one."

you wanted to tell him that there was no other gojo to you, that this was the only one you've ever seen, the only one you've ever wanted to see, but the words caught in your throat. instead, you simply leaned closer, your forehead touching his.

the afternoon wore on in a blur of quiet conversation and shared silences. you read to him from one of the short stories, your voice soft and steady as he listened with his eyes closed. at one point, he reached out, his fingers finding yours and lacing through them, and you didn't pull away.

as the sun began to set, casting long shadows across the room, gojo grew quiet, his breathing slowing. you thought he might have fallen asleep, but then he spoke.

"you know," he said, his voice barely above a whisper, "i used to think being strong meant never showing weakness. that if i was vulnerable, people would see me as less than." he paused, then added, "but being with you... it's different. it's okay to not be strong all the time."

you squeezed his hand gently. "no one is strong all the time. not even you."

he smiled, a real smile this time, that reached his eyes despite the pain. "maybe not. but it's nice to have someone who knows that."

as the nurses came to give him his evening medication, you stayed, watching as he accepted the small pills with a nod that was almost imperceptibly weary. when they left, he turned to you, his expression serious.

"you'll come back tomorrow, right?" he asked, the vulnerability in his voice making your chest ache.

"of course," you said, surprised by how much you meant it. "i'll be here."

"good," he said, reaching out to take your hand. "because i think... i think i'm starting to need you."

the words hung in the air between you, charged with a meaning that went far beyond the patient-volunteer relationship. you looked at him, really looked at him—at the pain in his eyes, the exhaustion in his posture, the way he clung to your hand like a lifeline—and knew with certainty that your life had changed irrevocably. you weren't just a volunteer anymore. maybe to him, you never were. you were someone who had seen beyond the mask to the man beneath, and in doing so, had found something neither of you expected.

as you left the hospital that evening, the city lights blurring past the window of the train, you found yourself thinking about him—about his laughter, his strength, the way he made the sterile hospital room feel like a place of warmth and connection. and beneath it all, this quiet unraveling.

you pulled out your phone, your fingers hovering over the contact list. you wanted to call someone, to talk about what you were feeling, but there was no one who would understand. no one who could comprehend the complexity of what was happening between you and gojo—the attraction, the concern, the impossible circumstances that had brought you together.

instead, you typed a message to shoko, asking if you could stop by her office the next morning before your shift. you needed to know more, to understand what was coming, to prepare yourself for whatever happened next.

as the train pulled into your station, you closed your eyes, seeing gojo's face in your mind—his blindfold, his smile, the pain in his eyes that he tried so hard to hide. and you knew, with a certainty that settled deep in your bones, that whatever came next, you would face it with him. because for the first time in your life, you weren't just watching someone else's story unfold. you were becoming part of it.

—

the next afternoon, you arrived to find him in a state of disheveled agitation. his bed was unmade, his laptop was open on the nightstand, and he was pacing the length of the room, his fingers pressed against his temples and his feet shuffling against the floor."

"satoru?" you asked, concern immediately flaring. "what's wrong?"

he stopped pacing, turning to face you, his blindfold askew. "they want to put me in a fucking coma. an induced one," he said, his voice tight with anger. "shoko said it'll give me more time."

you approached him cautiously, as if he were a wild animal that might bolt at any moment. "and you don't want to?"

he laughed — or tried to — but it came out cracked, jagged, nothing like a real laugh. it was a sound pulled straight from panic, scraping the raw edges of his throat.

“want to?” he echoed, like the word itself was offensive. “of course not. why the hell would i want that?”

his voice kept getting thinner, shakier, like he was losing grip on it second by second. his hands twitched against the sheets, trembling too hard to hide now. he pressed the back of his wrist to his mouth like he was trying to steady his breathing, but it only made it worse.

“it’s a waste of time,” he spat, eyes flicking wildly like he was searching for something to anchor himself to. “you know it is. i’ve seen what it looks like.”

his chest hitched — a tiny, broken jerk — and something in him just… buckled.

“it’s not natural,” he whispered, voice cracking halfway through. “it’s— it’s not even living. it’s just waiting. waiting to die while your body does… whatever the fuck it does.” he squeezed his eyes shut, shaking his head like he could physically dislodge the images. “i’ve watched people go into comas. i know what they look like when they take the— when they pull the plug.”

his fingers curled tightly in the blanket, knuckles whitening even through the tremor.

“don’t ask me to do that,” he choked out. “please.”

you reached out instinctively, but he flinched — not from you, but from the terror clawing through him.

“i don’t want to be—” he swallowed hard, breath stuttering. “i don’t want to be a body lying there while everyone pretends i'm gonna make it. i don’t want to be trapped in my head. i could…” his voice warped, thin and breaking, “i could just— never wake up at all.”

his breath came too fast, too shallow. he pressed a shaky hand to his chest like he couldn’t get enough air.

“they’re trying to put me away,” he whispered. “shoko wants to shelve me. like i’m already gone.”

his eyes shot to yours, wide and shimmering, panic clawing behind them.

you reached out, your fingers brushing his arm. "but it might help. it might give you more time, as shoko said."

he shook off your touch, his jaw clenching. "time for what? to lie in a bed, to be a prisoner in my own body? i won't do it. i'm not throwing away any months i might have left by laying in the hospital bed like— like i'm already dead."

you took a deep breath, steeling yourself for what you knew was coming. "satoru, listen to me. this is not brave. it's not strong. it's not like you'll be in the coma forever. it's just... you're being stupid."

he recoiled as if you'd slapped him, his eyes widening in shock. "what did you say?"

you held your ground, your hands clenching into fists at your sides. "you heard me. skipping treatment isn't going to make you stronger. it's just going to make things worse. it's going to make you weaker, and it's going to make me and other people upset. we only want what's best for you"

he stared at you for a long moment, then laughed, a bitter sound that grated against your nerves. "upset? you're upset? you're just my nurse— no, not even that. jesus christ, you're a fucking volunteer. you're not my keeper. you're not my mother. you don't get to tell me what to do."

the words stung, but you refused to back down. "i'm not trying to tell you what to do, gojo. i'm trying to help you. i'm trying to keep you here, with me, with all of us, for as long as possible. but if you're just going to throw that away... if you're just going to give up— then— then i don't know what to say to you!"

he turned away from you, his shoulders tense. "you don't need to say anything. i know what i'm fucking doing. i know what's best for me."

you took a deep breath, trying to keep your voice steady. "fine. if that's how you feel. but i can't... i can't watch you do this to yourself. i can't watch you throw your life away."

he was silent for a long moment, then said, his voice cold, "then don't watch. no one's asking you to."

that one hurt in a way nothing else had — not the distance, not the slow dying, not the fear. this felt like betrayal. like he’d taken every soft thing you’d given him and lobbed it back at your chest.

your laugh came out sharp and humorless before you could stop it. “yeah? no one’s asking me?” you said, stepping closer so he had to hear you. “that’s funny, because just a few hours ago you were talking about how you didn’t want to be alone. about how much you needed me here.”

his shoulders tensed even harder, but he still wouldn’t face you.

“but sure,” you went on, voice low, trembling with hurt and anger. “let’s pretend that didn’t happen. let’s pretend you’re not terrified and lashing out because it’s easier than admitting you don’t want to die without someone in the room.” you swallowed hard. “you want me here more than you’ll ever say, but your head’s shoved so far into your own ass you can’t even admit that.”

he flinched. actually flinched.

you stepped back, your hands shaking. “but if you wanna play it like that… fine. i won’t.”

you heard the breath he sucked in — sharp, panicked — but he didn’t turn around. didn’t call after you. didn’t take the words back.

he just sat there, shoulders trembling, as you walked away for the first time.

you made your way to shoko's office, pushing open the door without knocking. she looked up from her desk, surprise flashing across her face.

she said your name, standing. "what's wrong?"

you took a deep breath, trying to steady yourself. "satoru. he's... he's deciding on skipping treatment. he won't listen to reason. he won't listen to me."

shuko sighed, rubbing her temples. "i was afraid of this. his pride... it's going to be his downfall."

"he says i'm just his nurse," you said, your voice breaking slightly. "he says i don't have the right to tell him what to do."

shuko was quiet for a moment, then said, "you're too attached to him. it's clouding your judgment. you need to distance yourself. for your own sake, and for his."

the words felt like a slap in the face, and you found yourself recoiling. "what do you mean? i'm just trying to help him."

"exactly," shoko said, her voice gentle but firm. "you're trying too hard. you're letting your emotions get in the way. you need to step back, let the doctors handle this."

you shook your head, your hands clenching into fists at your sides. "no! i can't do that. i won't do that. i won't just stand by and watch him— watch him... fade away!"

shoko’s expression softened, but there was something tired in it too — something that told you she’d already had this conversation in her own head a hundred times. something that told you you weren’t the first person breaking over him.

“you think you’re the only one scared?” she said quietly. “you think you’re the only one who hates this? i’ve known him since we were kids. i’ve stitched him back together more times than i can count. i’ve watched him walk into hell with that stupid grin like he’s invincible.” she let out a hollow laugh. “this isn’t easy for me either.”

her voice wasn’t sharp — it was worse. it was honest.

you swallowed, but the knot in your throat wouldn’t budge. “then why are you acting like i should just… step aside?”

“because i know how he is,” she murmured. “he won’t stop. he won’t rest. he won’t admit he’s scared until he’s already drowning. that’s how he’s always been.” she paused, something wounded flickering across her face. “and every time he does it, someone else gets dragged down with him. usually me. now it’s you.”

that stung — not because she meant to hurt you, but because she was right. painfully right.

you shook your head. “i don’t care if it hurts. i don’t care if he doesn’t want help. he needs someone. he needs… someone who refuses to quit on him.”

“and you think i don’t?” she whispered.

the quiet in her voice punched straight through your chest. shoko wasn’t accusing you — she was grieving with you. the difference made it worse.

you wiped your eyes with the back of your hand, frustrated. “you’re telling me to let him go because you’re used to this. because you’ve been watching him self-destruct forever.”

“i’m telling you to be careful,” she corrected softly. “he’s proud. he’s stubborn. he doesn’t know how to let himself be taken care of — not by me, not by you, not by anyone.” her shoulders sagged, and for a second she looked as tired as he did. “if you push too hard, he’ll shove you away. not because he wants to — because it’s all he’s ever known.”

you hated that. you hated how true it was.

“and when he does shove you away,” shoko added, glancing at you with something like sympathy, “you’re the one who’s going to bleed for it. not him.”

your voice cracked. “so what? i should just sit here and do nothing?”

“no,” she said, shaking her head. “you stay. you care. you love him in whatever way he’ll let you. but don’t make yourself believe you can stop him from being who he is.” she hesitated, then admitted, “if i couldn’t do it after all these years… you won’t either.”

that was the part that finally shattered something in you.

because she wasn’t pushing you away from him — she was warning you from experience. from heartbreak. from loving someone who never let himself be saved.

and for a moment, standing there in the dim hospital hallway, you realized it wasn’t just your heart on the line.

he’d been breaking hers for years too.

you left her office without another word, your heart pounding in your chest, your mind a whirlwind of anger, fear, and confusion. you knew she was right, knew that you were too invested, too emotionally entangled, but you couldn't just walk away. not now. not when he needed you most.

—

you spent the rest of the day avoiding gojo's room, instead throwing yourself into your other duties with a fervor that bordered on manic. you cleaned patient rooms, restocked supply closets, even helped with laundry, all the while trying to push thoughts of gojo from your mind. but no matter how busy you kept yourself, his words echoed in your mind, a bitter litany of rejection and anger.

you didn’t go back the next day.

or the day after that.

the silence stretched into a week — a cold, echoing gap that felt way too big, way too sharp, like someone had carved out a piece of you and left the wound open to the air. at first you told yourself you were still mad. that you needed space. that he deserved to sit with the consequences of pushing you away.

but that wasn’t the truth. not even close.

the truth was uglier: every time you even thought about going back, something twisted in your gut, a nauseating mix of fear and shame that made your lungs feel too tight. because yeah, he’d snapped at you. yeah, he’d been cruel. but it wasn’t his fault. not really. his brain was failing him. his control was slipping. and you’d walked out anyway — furious, hurt, convinced for one stupid moment that your pride mattered in the face of what he was going through.

shoko's words echoed in your mind: you're too attached. but detachment felt like a betrayal of a different kind. on the eighth day, the gnawing worry won out. it wasn't about forgiveness or pride anymore; it was a simple, biological need to know if he was still breathing.

you didn't bring flowers. instead, you stopped at a small, expensive bakery near the hospital and bought two slices of matcha cheesecake—his favorite, something he'd mentioned offhandedly months ago when complaining about hospital food. the box felt flimsy in your hands, a pathetic peace offering for a war you weren't sure you wanted to end.

the walk to room 307 felt longer than ever. the familiar scent of antiseptic and despair seemed sharper, more accusatory. you paused outside his door, your heart hammering against your ribs. no sound came from within. taking a deep, shaky breath, you pushed the door open.

the room was dim, the curtains drawn against the afternoon sun. gojo was sitting up in bed, but he wasn't wearing his blindfold. he was staring blankly at the wall opposite him, his profile illuminated by the sliver of light escaping the drapes. and he was crying.

silent, steady tears tracked down his cheeks, glistening in the low light. his shoulders were slumped, his hands limp on the blanket. he didn't seem to notice you, lost in some private agony. the sight stole the breath from your lungs. you’d seen him in pain, frustrated, angry.

you’d never seen him weep.

for a long moment, you just stood there, frozen, the cake box dangling from your fingers. was it the physical torment? the relentless, grinding decay of his own mind? or was it the wreckage of your argument, the bridge you’d both burned with such furious precision?

a floorboard creaked under your weight. his head snapped toward the door, his startlingly blue eyes—now clouded with pain and red-rimmed from crying—widening in shock. he swiped hastily at his cheeks with the back of a trembling hand, a gesture so vulnerable it made your chest ache.

"you're here," he breathed, his voice raw and thick.

"i brought cake," you said lamely, holding up the box as if it explained your presence after a week of radio silence.

he stared at you, then at the box, then back at you. a fresh wave of tears welled in his eyes, but he blinked them back fiercely. "you came back."

"i..." you swallowed, stepping fully into the room and closing the door softly behind you. "i was worried."

a bitter, choked sound escaped him, halfway between a laugh and a sob. "yeah. me too." he looked away, his jaw working. "about a lot of things."

you set the cake box on the nightstand and pulled your chair closer to the bed, but didn't sit. the distance between you felt vast, charged with everything left unsaid. "satoru..."

"i'm sorry." the words rushed out of him, quiet but fervent. "what i said— calling you just a murse... it was a lie. the biggest lie i've ever told, and i've told some whoppers." he finally met your gaze, his eyes pleading. "you're not. you haven't been for a long time. i was just— i am— so scared. and i took it out on you! pushing you away, as stupid as that was, it was-" he pauses, gesturing helplessly to himself, "it was easier than letting you see me like...this. but it didn't work. nothing's easier. it's all just— everything's worse without you here."

the confession, so stark and honest, dismantled the last of your defenses. the anger bled away, leaving only a profound, aching sorrow. you sank into the chair. "i'm sorry too," you whispered. "for storming out. for calling you stupid. i didn't mean it. not really. i was just... so afraid for you."

he nodded, a tear escaping to trace the path of its predecessor. "i know. i am stupid. just not in the way you think." he was quiet for a moment, his breathing shallow. "the headaches... they're constant now. a white-hot pressure behind my eyes that never fully goes away. my hands..." he held them up; the fine tremor was now a persistent, noticeable shake. "i dropped a glass of water this morning. couldn't pick up the pieces. shoko had to do it." the humiliation in his voice was a tangible thing. "i can barely feed myself without spilling everything. i tried to wash my hair in the sink yesterday and almost passed out from the pain of leaning over."

his gaze dropped to his lap, his shoulders curling inward. "i feel so... weak. useless. i don't know how to— i don't know how to be who i've become."

without thinking, you reached out and covered his trembling hand with yours. he turned his palm up, his fingers lacing through yours with a desperate strength. then, slowly, as if the movement cost him immense effort, he leaned sideways, letting his forehead rest against your thigh. the contact was electric, a surrender so complete it stole your breath. you could feel the heat of his skin through your jeans, the slight dampness of his tears.

you let your free hand come up, hovering for a second before you gently carded your fingers through his hair. it was, as you'd noticed from the doorway, lank and slightly greasy at the roots. the strongest sorcerer in the world, brought low by something as mundane as being unable to wash his own hair.

"let me help," you said softly, the words leaving your lips before you could reconsider their intimacy.

he stiffened for a fraction of a second, then exhaled, a long, shuddering breath that seemed to deflate him further. "you don't have to."

"i want to."

he was silent for so long you thought he'd refused. then, a barely perceptible nod against your leg. "...okay."

you helped him shuffle to the edge of the bed, his movements slow and uncoordinated, leaning heavily on you. you guided him to the recliner chair by the window, draping a towel over his shoulders. you filled a basin with warm water from the bathroom sink, adding a few drops of the lavender-scented shampoo you'd brought for him weeks ago, hoping the scent might soothe his headaches.

kneeling beside the chair, you gently tilted his head back. he kept his eyes closed, his long white lashes casting shadows on his cheeks. his breathing was shallow, hitched.

"tell me if it hurts," you murmured, your voice barely above a whisper.

he gave another small nod.

you began, pouring the warm water slowly over his hair, using a cup to wet it thoroughly. he flinched at the first touch, a sharp intake of breath, but then relaxed marginally as the warmth seeped in. you worked the shampoo into a lather, your fingers massaging his scalp with careful, deliberate circles. the intimacy of the act was overwhelming—the smell of lavender and clean sweat, the softness of his hair against your skin, the absolute trust in his stillness.

as you worked, you felt it—the subtle tremors running through his skull, the tension in the muscles of his neck and shoulders that no amount of gentle massage could ease. you rinsed, the water turning slightly cloudy, and repeated with conditioner. through it all, he didn't speak. but you heard it—the soft, hitching sniffles he tried to suppress, the occasional shuddering breath that betrayed the emotion he was fighting to contain.

it wasn't just the pain. you knew that now. it was the humiliation. the loss of control. the terrifying vulnerability of being cared for in such a fundamental way. for satoru gojo, who had defined himself by his effortless, boundless strength, this was a deeper agony than any curse could inflict.

after the final rinse, you wrapped his hair in a fresh, soft towel. you didn't move away. you stayed kneeling there, your hands resting on the towel atop his head. he finally opened his eyes, looking down at you. they were clearer now, but swimming with a pain that had nothing to do with his six eyes.

"thank you," he whispered, his voice cracking on the second syllable.

you just shook your head, unable to speak past the lump in your own throat. you reached up and carefully dabbed at a stray tear track on his cheek with the corner of the towel. he caught your wrist, not to stop you, but to hold it there, his thumb stroking over your pulse point.

"i don't deserve you," he said, the words raw.

"that's not your decision to make," you replied, your own voice thick.

you helped him back to bed, his body heavy and pliant with exhaustion. you fetched a comb and carefully worked through the tangles in his damp hair until it fell in its usual soft, chaotic waves. he watched you the entire time, his gaze a physical weight.

when you were done, you finally opened the cake box. you fed him small bites, your fingers steadying his trembling ones around the fork. he ate silently, his eyes never leaving your face.

you felt the room shrink around the two of you — the quiet hum of the machines, the soft glow of the bedside lamp, the faint sweetness of the cake mixing with the sharp, sterile air. he lay there against the pillows, chest rising in shallow, tired breaths, hair falling into his eyes. he looked younger like this, stripped of all the bravado he carried like armor.

his voice broke the silence, barely more than a whisper.

“can i kiss you?”

you froze. you shouldn’t have — you knew better, you really did — but something in the way he asked it just… gutted you. it wasn’t flirty or smug or teasing. it was a confession. a plea. like he was afraid he wouldn’t get another chance.

“satoru…” you breathed, not even sure what you meant to follow it with.

he swallowed, throat bobbing. “i just—” his fingers flexed weakly on the blanket. “i don’t want to go without knowing what your lips feel like. please?”

you hesitated, the weight of every reason to say no crashing into you all at once — boundaries, professionalism, the messy tangle of grief already forming in your chest. but he looked at you with so much naked vulnerability that it felt like refusal might shatter him outright.

“okay,” you whispered finally. “okay. come here.”

you shifted closer, leaning in slowly, gently, giving him every chance to pull back. but he shook his head with a faint, breathless laugh.

“no. let me,” he murmured, determination flickering through the exhaustion. “i want to kiss you.”

he pushed himself up with trembling arms, gritting his teeth as the effort drained what little strength he had left. you reached out instinctively, steadying him at his waist.

“hey— take it easy—”

but he only shook his head again, stubborn even now. “please,” he said, and that single word undid you completely.

so you let him.

he brought one hand up to your cheek — slow, shaky, but purposeful — his thumb brushing just under your eye like he was memorizing you by touch alone. his palm was warm, but you could feel the tremor running through it. he leaned in until his forehead touched yours, breath coming uneven and fragile.

“you’re… so beautiful,” he whispered, the words ghosting across your lips.

then, with every ounce of strength he still had, he kissed you.

it wasn’t desperate in the way you expected. there was no rush, no heat, just an aching tenderness that made your heart lurch. his lips were soft, careful, reverent. like he was afraid you might disappear if he pressed too hard. his hand cupped your face fully now, shaking just slightly as his fingers threaded into your hair. you felt him pour something into the kiss — something quiet and honest and devastatingly gentle.

you kissed him back just as softly, one hand gripping the front of his hospital gown because he was swaying, and the other bracing against the mattress. the whole world narrowed to the faint mint on his breath, the warmth of his mouth, the way he exhaled shakily against your lips like he’d been holding his breath for weeks.

after a long moment, he pulled back, chest heaving with the effort. his eyes fluttered open — tired, bright, impossibly full.

“worth it,” he whispered with the ghost of a smile.

“you’re ridiculous,” you murmured, brushing your thumb over his cheekbone, but your voice shook.

he sank back into the pillows, breath shuddering as though even that tiny moment had wrung him dry. you helped guide him down gently, adjusting the blankets around him.

when his breathing steadied, you reached for the cake box. the spell didn’t break — it softened.

you cut a small piece, placing it on the plastic tray, and held the fork out to him. his fingers trembled too much to grip it properly, so you wrapped your hand around his, steadying him as he lifted it to his mouth.

he ate each bite slowly, almost reverently. crumbs clung to the corner of his lips, and you reached out to wipe them away with your thumb. he leaned into the touch like it was instinct, eyes half-lidded.

“good?” you asked softly.

he nodded, chewing, then swallowed with effort. “only ’cause you’re feeding me,” he murmured, his gaze locking onto yours again — heavy, unguarded, almost glowing with something you weren’t sure you were ready to name.

you fed him another small bite. his fingers trembled again, and you steadied them without a word. he didn’t look away from you once, not even for a heartbeat. it felt like he was memorizing you — the shape of your face, the sound of your breathing, the warmth you never realized you were offering.

like he wanted to save all of it, store it somewhere inside him before anything could fade.

before he could fade.

—

the next morning hit you like a cold hand around your spine.

you walked into his room expecting him to at least be awake — maybe exhausted, maybe dim around the edges, but awake. instead you found him half-curled on his side, blindfold askew, hair plastered to his forehead with sweat. the sheets were twisted around his legs like he’d been fighting the pain even in his sleep.

“'toru?” you whispered.

his eyelids twitched. he didn’t open them.

you stepped closer, trying to breathe normally despite the sudden spike of dread clawing through your chest. his skin looked paler than yesterday — not the soft, porcelain sort of pale he always joked about, but a washed-out, empty kind. his breathing was uneven, each inhale catching like something inside him snagged on the way in.

you touched his shoulder gently. “hey. can you hear me?”

he flinched. actually flinched. like your touch burned.

“sorry— sorry, i’m so sorry,” you blurted, but he grabbed your wrist weakly, fingers barely curling around it.

“’s not you,” he breathed, voice shredded. “just— hurts.”

the two words lodged in your throat like shards of glass.

you eased down onto the bed beside him, lifting the edge of the blindfold. his eyes were squeezed shut, lashes damp. there was a faint line of dried blood under his nose — he must’ve wiped it away in the night, too groggy to get help. you grabbed tissues and dabbed at the dried streaks, careful not to make it worse.

his jaw trembled.

“bad morning?” you asked softly, because saying anything heavier might break both of you.

he let out a small, humorless laugh, more air than sound. “y-you could say that.” his voice cracked. “feels like my brain’s… eating itself.”

your chest tightened painfully. “shoko’s coming in soon. i’ll get her—”

his hand shot out, clutching your sleeve with surprising desperation. “no. stay a sec.” he swallowed hard, throat clicking. “just… stay with me.”

you sank back into the chair, staying close enough that your knee brushed the edge of his hip.

“what can i do?”

he hesitated, like he hated the answer. “water,” he whispered finally.

you helped him sit up — or tried to. the second your arm slipped behind his back, he let out a strangled sound, half-gasp, half-whimper, immediately hiding his face in the crook of your shoulder as if that would muffle it. you froze, heart breaking cleanly in two.

he’d been in pain before — migraines, disorientation, the occasional wave of dizziness — but never like this. never so raw that he couldn’t pretend.

“hey, hey— it’s okay,” you murmured, supporting his weight. “i’ve got you.”

“shouldn’t…” he breathed shakily. “shouldn’t hurt like this.”

you bit the inside of your cheek. he’d always been the strongest person in any room — physically, spiritually, catastrophically — and watching him fold into himself like this felt wrong on some cosmic level.

you got him upright against the pillows, even though it left him trembling, teeth clenched. you offered the cup of water, but his hands shook too hard to hold it. so you brought it to his lips yourself, angling it slowly so he didn’t choke.

he drank a few sips, then leaned his head back, exhausted from just that.

“thank you,” he whispered, breath catching halfway through the words.

“you don’t have to thank me for helping you.”

“i do,” he murmured, eyes opening just a sliver — bloodshot, unfocused. “you… you shouldn’t have to see me like this.”

“stop.” your voice broke on it. “don’t say that.”

his lips twitched in something that wanted to be a smile but died halfway. “i was more fun yesterday, huh?”

you set the cup down a little too hard. “shut up,” you whispered, suddenly angry in that helpless, scared way grief feels before it has a place to go. “you don’t have to be 'fun'. you don’t have to joke.”

his breathing hitched — not quite a sob, but close. “if i don’t joke,” he whispered, “i’m gonna fall apart.”

you reached for his hand.

he didn’t squeeze back.

not because he didn’t want to — because he couldn’t.

his fingers lay limp in your grasp, trembling faintly, warmth fading from them as if even holding your hand cost too much.

his eyes were half-open now, staring past you at something you couldn’t see, pupils unfocused like his energy was slipping away faster than he could pull it together.

“satoru,” you whispered urgently, brushing his hair from his damp forehead, “hey, look at me— stay with me, okay?”

he blinked slowly, clumsily, like it took effort.

“i’m here,” he murmured. “just… tired.”

tired. not the normal kind. not the stayed-up-too-late kind.

the kind that sounded final.

you cupped his cheek, thumb brushing the fever-warm skin. “i’m calling shoko.”

he shook his head — a tiny motion, barely there. “no— five minutes. please. just… not yet.”

tears pricked your eyes, hot and unwanted. “you’re in so much pain.”

“yeah, i am” he said softly, a broken little sigh. “but it's better with you here.”

you felt something inside you crack open.

he leaned into your touch again, weakly, like he barely had the strength to move but still sought your warmth. his breaths were uneven, shallow, every exhale shaking.

you could feel the tremor in his ribs each time he inhaled, like even breathing was something his body was starting to argue with.

you swallowed hard. “did you take your morphine this morning?”

he didn’t answer right away. his jaw twitched, the faintest shift. his eyelids fluttered, then lowered again like he didn’t even have the energy to lie properly.

“gojo,” you said softly, “did you take it?”

a beat.

then a tiny shake of his head.

your stomach dropped. “why not?”

that got a reaction — not a verbal one, but he stiffened just a little, shoulders tightening like a flinch. he looked away, face turning toward the wall as if he could hide inside the shadows it cast.

“i… couldn’t,” he murmured finally.

“what do you mean you couldn’t?” you pressed, keeping your voice gentle even though panic was starting to climb up your throat. “the cup was right there.”

he swallowed, throat bobbing painfully. “i couldn’t sit up.”

the words landed like a punch.

you stared at him, your hand still cupping his cheek, thumb stroking along his skin like you were afraid he’d fade if you stopped.

“why didn’t you call me?” you whispered.

nothing.

you leaned closer, trying to catch his gaze. “hey. why didn’t you call me?”

his lips parted, trembled, then pressed together again like he was trying to hold the words in. his fingers curled weakly in the blankets, fighting some invisible battle with himself.

finally, barely audible:

“i didn’t… wanna bother you.”

you blinked, staring at him because the sentence didn’t make sense. not here, not now, not after everything.

“bother me?” you echoed. “gojo— what are you talking about?”

he let out a shaky laugh, the kind that wasn’t really a laugh at all. “i was… i was embarrassed.”

you felt your heart break — loudly, violently — right behind your ribs.

“embarrassed?” your voice cracked. “you think i'd feel burdened by you? because you needed help?”

he winced, not from pain — though there was plenty of that — but from hearing it out loud.

“i just…” he breathed, staring at the ceiling because he couldn’t look at you. “i used to be able to do everything. anything. sitting up wasn’t supposed to be—” his voice wavered, broke, “—something i need help with.”

you slid your hand down from his cheek to his shoulder, grounding him, grounding yourself. “you’re sick,” you said softly. “you’re allowed to need help.”

he shook his head again, smaller than before. “not from you.”

“why not?”

his breath hitched, and for a moment you thought he might cry — not loudly, not noticeably, but in that quiet way where someone’s entire face softens and collapses under the weight of the truth.

“because i don’t want you to see me like this,” he whispered.

you leaned closer, voice breaking right along with him. “i've already seen you like this. and i’m still here, aren't i?”

his chin trembled. he didn’t answer.

you brushed the damp hair from his forehead, fingers gentle. “you should’ve called me.”

he whispered, “i know.”

“i would’ve come right away.”

a beat. his voice came out thin, almost childlike. “i was scared you wouldn’t.”

your breath caught.

that was the first time he said something like that — the first crack in the armor that wasn’t pain, wasn’t exhaustion, but fear. real, human fear.

you slid onto the edge of the bed, careful not to jostle him.

“i’m here,” you murmured. “i’m right here. you’re not doing any of this alone.”

his eyes finally met yours — glazed, exhausted, rimmed red — but there was something else there too. relief. shame. fragility.

“can… can you help me sit up now?” he asked, voice small.

“yeah,” you said, brushing your thumb across his cheek again. “of course i can.”

you shifted closer, slipping an arm behind his back. even that small movement made him tense, breath catching like a whimper he refused to let out. slowly, carefully, you lifted him, guiding his body upright a few inches at a time. every muscle in him shook.

“you’re okay,” you murmured. “i’ve got you.”

his fingers clutched weakly at your sleeve, more for grounding than support. you could feel how badly he was shaking — not from fear, not exactly, but from sheer exhaustion, pain threading through every nerve.

when you finally propped him against the pillows, he let out a shuddering sigh, sweat dampening his temples. you reached back to adjust them, making sure he wasn’t leaning at an angle that would strain him more.

but then he did something you weren’t expecting.

he scooted over.

slowly, inch by inch, like each movement took a whole breath to complete. he shifted closer until his shoulder brushed yours, then leaned into your side, curling into you like someone exhausted down to the soul.

you froze for a heartbeat — not because you didn’t want it, but because the gesture was so vulnerable, so unlike the gojo you used to know. the one who joked, bragged, teased—he wasn’t here. this was someone softer. smaller. hurting. trusting you anyway.

hesitating only for a moment, you lifted your hand and slid your fingers through his hair.

he exhaled — a tiny sound, almost a sigh, almost relief — and relaxed just a little against you. his head rested against your shoulder, the weight of it so light it scared you.

you kept running your hand gently through his hair, stroking the damp strands back, untangling a few knots with your fingertips. each time your nails grazed his scalp, his breathing steadied, just a bit.

he curled his legs up slightly, like folding in on himself made him hurt less, one hand clutching at the fabric of your shirt weakly. he was warm against you, but too warm — feverish.

after a long moment of silence, he spoke.

“can i… ask you something?” his voice was rough, barely above a whisper.

“of course.”

he hesitated. you felt his fingers tighten faintly, like he was bracing himself.

“do you…” he swallowed hard, breath trembling, “do you see me as… less of a man? like this?”

the question hit you straight in the heart.

you turned your head slightly, brushing your cheek against his hair as you kept stroking through the soft, messy strands.

“no,” you whispered immediately. “not even a little.”

he inhaled shakily — not quite relief, not quite disbelief, something tangled between the two.

“i feel like i should be stronger,” he murmured, his voice cracking on the last word. “i used to be… everything. untouchable. unbeatable. i don’t… i don’t know what i am now.”

you curled your arm around him more firmly, holding him so he wouldn’t have to hold himself upright.

“you’re still satoru,” you said softly. “you’re still strong. needing help doesn’t change that.”

he let out a broken breath, leaning more heavily into your side like your words had taken something unbearably heavy off his chest.

“i don’t want you to think i’m weak,” he whispered. “or pathetic.”

“i don’t,” you said, threading your fingers through his hair again. “i never will.”

your hand slipped down to cup the back of his neck, thumb brushing soothing circles. he shivered — not from pain this time, but from the softness of it. like he wasn’t used to being touched gently. like he didn’t know how to accept it without falling apart.

his voice came again, even quieter, barely there:

“thank you— thank you for not looking away.”

you turned your head, resting your cheek lightly against the top of his hair.

“nothing else is worth looking at,” you murmured.

and he curled into you just a little tighter, like he needed those words as much as the air he was struggling to breathe.

—

you didn’t sleep that night. you sat slumped in the stiff hospital chair with your head tipped back against the wall, staring at the pattern of tiny cracks in the ceiling tiles. the room smelled faintly of antiseptic and fading lavender — the little diffuser you’d snuck in weeks ago because he said it reminded him of “a nice hotel, not a deathbed.”

every so often his breathing hitched in his sleep, these tiny, stuttering noises that were almost whimpers. they slipped out before he could swallow them down, before he could turn them into a joke or a smug comment about how dramatic he was. each one struck you like a pin in the ribs.

by morning, your eyes burned, your back ached, and the gray dawn light through the blinds made everything look washed-out. but none of that mattered.

because the strongest looked worse.

so much worse.

his skin had gone a pale, waxy shade, like the color was draining out of him from the inside. the hollows beneath his eyes were darker than you’d ever seen, bruised and sunken. sweat dampened the white hair at his temples, plastering a few strands to his forehead. his chest rose and fell in uneven jerks, each inhale a struggle, each exhale shaky enough to make your own breath catch.

you could tell right away — before you even touched him — that something had shifted overnight. something irreversible.

“satoru?” you whispered, barely breathing the name.

at first he didn’t respond. his eyes stayed fixed on the ceiling, unfocused, like he wasn’t sure whether he was awake or dreaming. you reached out slowly, your fingertips brushing the back of his hand.

he flinched.

so faintly you almost missed it, but it was there — a startled, fragile twitch, like your touch was too much sensation for a body too close to shutting down.

“hey,” you murmured, scooting closer. “what’s wrong?”

he blinked. once. twice. each one slow, delayed, like his brain had to send the command twice.

when he finally turned his head toward you, it was sluggish, as if gravity itself had grown heavier.

his mouth opened a little. no words came out. he swallowed and tried again.

“i was gonna tell you something important,” he said, a weak, confused sound. “i— i forgot.”

it froze you.

it froze everything.

because even exhausted, even when his pain split his skull open, he never lost words. he lived in words — cocky quips, teasing insults, dramatic declarations. his mouth ran even when his body failed.

but now, lying there lost and blinking slowly at you, he wasn’t gojo satoru — strongest sorcerer in the world, living embodiment of arrogance and charm.

he was a scared young man who couldn’t remember what he was trying to say.

“okay,” you whispered. “it’s okay. just breathe for me.”

he tried. god, he tried. his chest rose but trembled, like the simple act of pulling in air was something he had to fight for. you shifted closer, adjusting the pillows behind him to lift him a little. his body moved like a ragdoll — light, limp, frighteningly easy to guide.

when his eyes finally met yours again, they were glassy. too bright. too wet.

“hey,” he mumbled. “is it time?”

everything dropped out under you.

the air. the room. your heartbeat.

it all fell silent for one excruciating second.

he’d never asked that. not once. he’d joked about it, teased you about worrying too much, shrugged off shoko’s stern lectures. but now he asked it with this raw fear, this quiet, helpless confusion that made your stomach twist.

you opened your mouth, desperate to say no, to soothe him—

but no sound came out.

and he saw that.

his expression shattered slowly, piece by piece, like glass cracking under pressure.

“it is, isn't it?” he whispered.

your throat closed so tight you couldn’t breathe. you shook your head too fast, too hard, your tears spilling immediately, hot and stinging. your vision blurred, but you kept looking at him because he needed you to.

“no— satoru, just— just wait, okay? don’t— don’t jump to conclusions—”

“hey,” he breathed, voice trembling with fatigue. “don’t lie. i can… i can feel it.”

he tried to lift his hand toward you. it barely moved more than an inch before dropping again. you grabbed it instantly, wrapping both hands around his, trying to infuse warmth into fingers that were frighteningly cold.

you wanted to be strong. to be calm.

but the panic surged too fast, too violently, clawing up your chest.

his breathing grew erratic, shallow. his gaze kept drifting to the side, losing focus. every few seconds he tried to form a word and failed — the syllables falling apart halfway, dissolving on his tongue.

“satoru,” you whispered, voice cracking. “stay with me. hey— stop! look at me. please.”

but he couldn’t.

his head rolled slightly, his eyes half-lidded, his mouth slack with confusion. you squeezed his hand harder, your tears dripping onto his sheets. each second felt like it was slipping through your fingers.

“please!” you cried, the word barely a sound. “don’t go yet.”

he blinked, slow and delayed.

then he tried to smile.

it was faint. broken. but it was him. still him.

you turned away.

“hey,” he murmured. “don’t… look away from me. please. i wanna… wanna see your pretty face.”

that shattered you.

your breath stuttered violently. you cupped his cheek, your thumb brushing the cold skin just beneath his eye. he leaned into it — weakly, barely perceptible, but he did.

“good,” he sighed, his voice a thin thread. “there you are.”

he was slipping.

you felt it in the way his chest rose slower, in the way his fingers twitched but couldn’t close around yours anymore. every time you blinked, he looked softer, more unfocused.

“i… i was saying something, right?” he murmured, the fog swallowing half the words.

your heart pounded so loudly it hurt.

“okay,” you whispered. “try. i’m right here.”

he swallowed with difficulty.

“i was saying… that…”

his gaze drifted. his face slackened.

he blinked, looking at nothing.

you watched his mind lose the thread.

“i can't,” he whispered, ashamed.

you covered your mouth with one hand, trying not to break completely.

“it’s okay,” you sobbed softly. “it’s okay, satoru.”

his breath hitched.

and then — just for one heartbeat — his eyes cleared.

"i need to tell you this before i forget how to say it"

crystal blue. sharp. bright. unmistakably him.

and he said it:

“i love you.”

you collapsed forward, the sound you made nothing short of broken. he smiled, tiny and soft, like the confession relieved him of a weight he’d been carrying for too long.

you touched your forehead to his, your tears sliding onto his cheek. his breathing was collapsing inward now, weak and uneven, every inhale thinner than the last.

“i love you,” you whispered back, desperate. “i love you so much, please— p-please stay, please don’t—”

but he was already fading.

his eyes drifted. his hand slipped from yours, fingers falling limp. his breathing slowed to something fragile and irregular, like a candle flickering in its last seconds.

“satoru?” you whispered, voice shaking. “hey. hey— look at me—”

he looked one last time.

one slow blink.

one small, peaceful smile.

his chest lifted. once, twice, then it fell.

and it didn't rise again.

the silence that followed was unbearable.

your brain couldn’t wrap around it. it sat there in the space between you like something obscene, something unholy. your hand was still cradling his cheek. his forehead was still touching yours. your tears were still sliding down onto his skin.

but he wasn’t breathing.

your body knew it before your mind did. something primal inside you recoiled, screamed, twisted — but everything in your head went eerily, horribly blank.

you didn’t move.

you didn’t breathe.

you just stared at him.

at his half-closed eyes, still aimed in your direction but empty now. at the faint hint of a smile still on his lips, as if he’d slipped away mid-sigh. at the way his chest stayed still, stubbornly still, despite every instinct telling you it had to rise again.

it didn’t.

you didn’t know how long you stayed like that — seconds, minutes, a lifetime — before the door burst open.

“we got an alarm spike—!”

shoko’s voice hit you like it was underwater, muffled and distant. then more footsteps, louder, clattering equipment, the curtain being yanked aside, voices overlapping:

“get oxygen—” “he’s unresponsive—” “pulse?” “nothing—” “start compressions—” “move the volunteer out of the— wait—”

someone touched your shoulder.

you didn’t feel it.

your mind was trapped in this strange slow-motion loop, reliving the last second of his life over and over again — the way his eyes softened, the way his smile sagged, the way his chest fell and never rose again. time didn’t feel real. your body didn’t feel real.

a pair of hands grabbed your arms, trying to pull you back.

you didn’t resist. you didn’t help either. you were a statue they had to drag away, your limbs stiff, your gaze glued to the bed.

they moved you aside, but your eyes never left him. not even when someone stepped in front of you — you just shifted enough to keep him in view.

they laid him flat on the bed. his head lolled a little with the movement, and that — that tiny motion — made something inside you wrench violently. you wanted to scream at them to be gentle, he was fragile, he was hurting, he—

but your throat didn’t work.

you watched shoko climb onto the stool beside him, her face set, her eyes sharp, her hands steady.

you watched her lace her fingers together and place them over his sternum.

and then she started cpr.

hard. forceful. the sound of her compressions was awful — this sickening rhythmic thump of bone and muscle and skin being pushed down, over and over. his body jerked with every push, arms shifting, hair bouncing.

you felt nauseous.

the room swarmed with motion — machines beeping, nurses shouting vitals, someone tearing open an iv packet, another preparing a defib pad — but it all blurred together into meaningless color and noise. none of it touched you.

you just kept staring.

you couldn’t recognize him now — not the way he moved under their hands. he looked like a body. like something separate from the warmth you’d held only minutes ago.

your vision tunneled. all the edges of the world faded out.

someone knelt in front of you, saying your name with urgency, trying to get you to respond. but they sounded far away, like they were shouting to you from across a canyon.

you blinked once. slowly.

your eyes burned. your chest felt tight, too tight. your heartbeat thudded painfully against your ribs, a frantic drum that didn’t match the lifeless stillness you were seeing.

and still — you didn’t move.

you just watched.

watched shoko push and push and push, her jaw clenched, sweat forming at her brow. watched the nurses switch out, taking turns, their movements frantic.

watched the defibrillator paddles press against his chest, jolting his whole body off the mattress in a violent, horrifying jerk.

you didn’t flinch. not did you blink.

you just watched.

time lost all shape. your ears rang. the air felt thick like syrup. your hands tingled uselessly in your lap.

then — suddenly — everything stopped.

the movements. the shouting. even the rhythmic thump of compressions.

shoko slowed, her arms trembling slightly, then pulled back. she stared down at the body beneath her hands. her shoulders rose and fell with one long exhale.

“time of death…” she whispered, voice cracking at the edges as she spoke the words you weren’t supposed to hear.

your stomach dropped. not sharply — more like you were freefalling in slow motion, the ground disappearing beneath you without warning.

a nurse hesitated, glancing at you.

shoko didn’t look up. her voice was barely audible as she repeated it.

someone in the room sighed. someone else quietly stepped back. the beeping machines were turned off one by one until only the harsh fluorescent lights hummed overhead.

you stayed frozen in time.

your mind was empty and full at the same time — blank, but screaming somewhere distant, like the part of you that felt anything had been shoved behind thick glass.

his body lay still on the bed, his hair mussed, the sheets wrinkled beneath him, his skin already losing heat.

you watched the last spark of your world extinguish in real time.

and you didn’t move.

—

you’d been dodging room 307 like it was cursed.

for three whole weeks, you took the long way around the ward, pretended you suddenly cared about taking the stairs, ducked into supply closets just to avoid walking past that door. even shoko noticed — she cornered you one morning, arms crossed, eyebrows raised, and told you therapy wasn’t optional anymore. you didn’t argue. you didn’t have it in you.

slowly — painfully slowly — you’d started to feel like a person again. you were sleeping a little more, eating a little more, breathing without it hurting so sharply in your chest. but room 307 was still a black hole you orbited in wide, terrified circles. you couldn’t look at it without feeling your heartbeat stutter, couldn’t imagine stepping inside without your stomach twisting.

you eventually went back because shoko said you had to — because two weeks of sitting in a chair and answering questions about crying in public had to mean something — but also because the avoidance was getting loud in your bones. therapy helped in small, practical ways — grounding exercises, naming things in the room until the room was just furniture again — but grief kept its own stubborn hours.

the hallway to room 307 smelled like bleach and nothing else. when you pushed the door open you expected it to be an obliterating museum of him — his mug, his blanket, a thousand little objects clinging to presence — but instead it was skeletal. the bed was made with hospital efficiency, a pillow plumped like someone had tried to fold air into a shape. the tv was off. the magazine rack sat empty. his blindfold was gone, his chair tucked under the tray table like it hadn’t been sat in for years. the diffuser you’d hidden? not there. even the sticky ring where the cake box had sat was gone; someone had cleaned it like you’d never been there at all.

it felt like the room had held its breath and then exhaled without you.

you walked the perimeter slowly because you were afraid to break anything — not furniture, not a glass, but the illusion that something of him might still be anchored here. the tile floor was cool under your shoes; the fluorescent light hummed a thin, insulting hum. you ran your fingertips along the bedside rail out of habit and found nothing but metal.

then your foot hit an edge. a tile — one of the square floor tiles near the bed — was slightly uneven, a hairline difference that made you stop. you crouched, knees protesting, and pressed at it. it gave with a small, private click, sliding up like it had been waiting for you to notice.

underneath, folded into the dark of the cavity, was an envelope. plain manila. your name written across it in a hand that made your throat seize before you could decide if it was cruel or merciful.

you sat back on your heels and stared at it for a ridiculous amount of time. your fingers trembled when you reached for it, because anything you touched that had his handwriting felt like stealing. you turned it over, checked for a stamp or a date — nothing. the flap was tucked in like someone had been careful to keep a secret clean.

you slid a fingernail under the flap and opened it.

the blindfold hit you first.

soft, worn, familiar — the fabric he always joked about (“my designer eyewear”) now folded neatly beneath the tile with the paper tucked inside it. your breath caught as you lifted it, fingers curling into the cloth. it still smelled faintly like him, that warm, subtle scent you’d pressed your face into more times than you could count.

the letter inside was creased, edges bent, the handwriting… oh god. it was bad. jagged. uneven. letters tipped sideways like they were trying to lie down and rest too.

he’d tried so hard to write this.

the paper smelled faintly of his shampoo — the scent of mint and something you could have sworn had been there since that first ridiculous night with the cake. his writing spilled across the page, messy in that same confident scrawl he used when he was being performative, the loop on his g’s insistently extravagant. you read and then read again, because your brain kept refusing to accept the pile of words in front of you.

"if you’re reading this… it means i’m gone. i’ve gone back and forth on whether leaving a letter would make things better or worse for you, but in the end… i couldn’t leave without saying what i never had the strength to say out loud. i’m sorry. for all of it. for leaving you with this weight. for making you open a goodbye instead of hearing one.

my handwriting is awful — that’s the one joke i get — but i needed to write this even if every line shakes and smudges. i wanted something of me to stay behind, something you could hold without it hurting the way my body did.

i keep trying to figure out where to begin. maybe with thank you. you don’t know how much you gave me, just by sitting beside me, just by talking to me like i wasn’t dying. you made the hours feel less sharp. you held me like i still had a future, even when we both knew i didn’t. you were gentle with me when i’d forgotten what gentleness even felt like.

i know it wasn’t easy. watching me fall apart piece by piece… i saw it in your eyes, even when you tried to hide it. i saw the fear. the grief. the anger at how unfair everything was. i’m sorry you had to see me like that. i’m sorry you had to carry the version of me that was more pain than person.

but you stayed. even when i told you not to. even when i tried to joke my way out of scaring you. you stayed. that… meant more than i ever said. more than i ever could say while i was still here.

there’s something i never told you, and i hate that i’m telling you now, like this. i wish we’d met sooner. before all the breaking. before the countdown. before every moment between us became something we had to savor because we didn’t know how many were left. i wish we’d had time. real time. the kind where we could’ve been in love without the terror of losing it before it even had a chance.

i think about it a lot — what we could’ve been if i had more months, more years, more anything. maybe we would’ve lived somewhere quiet. maybe i would’ve learned to cook something that didn’t burn. maybe i would’ve woken up beside you instead of in a hospital bed. maybe i wouldn’t have been so afraid to want those things if i wasn’t already dying.

you made me imagine a future i had no right wanting. and even if that hurts now, even if that tears you apart, i’m grateful you existed long enough in my life to make me dream of it.

i’m sorry the end was messy. i’m sorry i scared you. i’m sorry you had to see me go. i didn’t want that for you. i hope someday the memory softens, even a little. i hope you remember me before the shaking, before the forgetting, before the pain made me someone smaller than who i really was.

remember the way i looked at you — that was real. even when everything else was slipping away, that was real.

i love you. i need you to know that. i need you to never doubt it, even on the days when remembering hurts too much to breathe. i love you in ways i didn’t understand until the end. i love you in ways i didn’t get enough time to show you. if i had been granted more time, every second would’ve been yours.

please take care of yourself. please don’t carry me like a wound forever. you deserve mornings that don’t ache. you deserve nights that don’t hollow you out. you deserve a life that keeps going, not one that stops because mine did.

if you ever think of me, i hope it’s in a way that doesn’t hurt. i hope it’s in a way that warms you instead of breaking you. i hope you remember that even at my weakest, even as everything inside me was failing — i was never alone because you were there.

i’m glad it was you. right until the very end, it was you."

your hands trembled so hard the paper blurred. his voice — the cadence of his line breaks, the way he undercut a heart with a joke — was exactly him. absurdity wrapped around confession. he’d left you a map that was both practical and mischievous, like him trying to keep caring for you even when he couldn’t bend the world to his will.

you read it again because the sentence about the sunrise made your chest split in a new way every time. the instruction to keep the cake container felt like permission to hoard something silly and alive against the sterile civilization of the hospital. the “don’t be perfect” line hit with the force of a command you didn’t know you needed.

you curled the letter to your chest until it wrinkled. your body finally broke when the first full-bodied sob hit — a real, wet thing that left you shaking and empty. you didn’t notice when the nurse knocked and stepped in, a soft, awkward pause at the door, because your whole world had narrowed to that single sheet of paper and the taste of mint that clung to it.

someone offered you a box of tissues and you took it without looking up. shoko arrived a second later, quiet, her arms folded like she was bracing for impact. she crouched beside you, wordless, and for once there were no medical terms, no protocols — just the two of you and the letter you’d uncovered under a tile.

you unfolded it again, reading aloud because your voice needed to fill the room with him. and each line was both a wound and a salve: a joke to make you breathe, a command to keep living, a confession you hadn’t been given in time.

when you read the last line, you pressed the paper to your lips and made a promise into the mess of sniffles and whispered words.

outside, the hospital lights hummed the same indifferent tune. under the tile, a piece of him had waited to be found. you tucked the letter into your jacket, close to your heart, because a thing written by his hand felt like a small, stubborn anchor. you stood up slowly, fingers white against the paper, and for the first time since the day he died, you felt like you could walk out of room 307 without tripping over silence.

you left the tile slightly askew. some things, you realized, were better with a little gap — a place to slide memories into when the world felt too whole without him.

"Did you seriously just—" You try to gesture incredulously and end up elbowing him in the ribs with enough force to make him grunt. "Shit, sorry!"

You try to put some distance between you but that only results in you stepping on his foot. "Oh god, I'm so sorry! Again!"

"Just—don't move," he says, his hands finally finding your shoulders to hold you still. You feel the warmth of his palms through your shirt as he clears his throat. "We could just... not do anything. Nothing has to happen if you don't want it to. We can just wait it out."

The consideration in his voice surprises you. You try to see his face in the darkness and end up with a mouthful of fuzzy coat. After spitting out what you hope isn't synthetic fur, you say, "That's really sweet of you. And like, I get it. This must be super awkward for you too."

"Awkward?" He sounds puzzled.

"Yeah, I mean... being stuck in here with a girl when you're..."

"When I'm what?"

"You know..." You wave your hand vaguely in the narrow space. "I just meant, like, with you and Geto..."

There's a moment of complete silence, and then Satoru starts laughing so hard you can feel him shaking against you. "You think— me and Suguru? Oh my god, is that why you turned me down for lunch last month?"

"Wait, what? I thought you were just being nice! You're always hanging all over Geto—"

"Because he's my best friend."

"And that time I saw you feeding him—"

"He had a broken arm!"

"The couples' costume at Halloween—"

"We were Mario and Luigi! They are brothers."

Every explanation makes you want to dissolve into the floor more. "Oh my god," you say. "You know everyone on campus thinks you're gay—not that there's anything wrong with that! I totally support you two, you're so cute together and—"

"Can you please stop," he interrupts, pressing a finger to your lips to silence you. "I am very, very interested in women."

Your heart skips. "Oh, really?"

"Yes." His voice drops lower as he removes his finger from your lips. "One woman in particular, actually." You can feel him lean closer. "And she's currently pressed up against me in a very small closet."

"Oh," is all you can manage, your brain short-circuiting as you process his words. You try to lean back slightly, but there's nowhere to go, and suddenly his face is very close to yours.

Then he asks a question you never thought Satoru Gojo would ever ask you. "Can I kiss you?"

The question is soft, almost vulnerable—so unlike the usual Satoru you know. When you don't immediately respond, too shocked to form words, his hand comes up to gently cup your chin, tilting your face up to meet his gaze in the darkness. "Can I kiss you?" he asks again, his thumb brushing across your lower lip.

A breathless "yes" escapes your lips before you can overthink it.

The first brush of his lips against yours is gentle, questioning, like he's afraid you might change your mind.

Then you grab his shirt and pull him closer, and gentle goes right out the window. He kisses like he's trying to prove a point, like he's been thinking about this for ages, and oh — maybe he has been.

His hands slide from your face to your waist, pulling you flush against him as he deepens the kiss. You gasp against his mouth, and he takes the opportunity to sweep his tongue against yours, drawing a small sound from your throat that makes him grip you tighter.

"Still think I'm gay?" he says against your jaw, trailing kisses down your neck that make your knees weak.

"Not sure," you tease him, even as your head tilts back to give him better access. "Might need more convincing."

You feel him smile against your neck. "More convincing, huh?"

In one fluid motion, he presses you more firmly against the wall, his body completely flush against yours. One of his hands slides into your hair while the other grips your hip, thumb stroking the strip of skin where your shirt has ridden up.

"Let me be very clear then." He punctuates each word with a kiss. "I am very—" kiss "—very—" kiss "—interested—" kiss "—in you."

His hand tightens in your hair as his tongue sweeps against yours, drawing a small whimper from your throat that makes him groan in response.

"God," he breathes against your lips, pulling back just enough to speak. "Do you have any idea how long I've wanted to do this?"

You can't form a coherent response because he's already kissing you again, harder this time, more desperate. Something falls off a nearby shelf as you shift against him, but neither of you care.

You're so lost in each other that you don't hear the warning knock. The door flies open, flooding the space with light and the sounds of party chaos.

"God, finally!" Geto's voice breaks through the stunned silence. "Do you know how long I've had to watch him pine over you?"

"Suguru, I will literally murder you," Satoru growls, but he doesn't let go of you. Instead, he leans down, his lips brushing against your ear. "Wanna leave this party?"

And oh, you do.

© lostfracturess. do not repost, translate, or modify my work.

tags. @fayuki @starmapz @saurondriell @starlightanyaaa @sxnkuna

@cocomanga @nanamis-baker @rosso-seta @shervinss @chiyokoemilia

“hm, that feel good? lookin’ real pretty like this.“ your boyfriend drawls against your lips as he sinks his fingers into you once more, swirling gentle circles into your clit with his thumb while his fingers drag more of your slick out, making a sloppy mess between your thighs and on the plush sofa cushions below you both.

gojo groans when he feels your tongue drag along his own, a low, gravely sound as he works your body with practiced precision. this was his kind of love, one part of it atleast — the kind that’s shown through the way he knows your body perfectly, the way he’s memorised every part of you but still wants to learn because he wants to love every part of you.

he feels your hips twist under him when he pushes his fingers deeper, feeling your walls tighten around the digits as he speeds up his ministrations, pulling an almost surprised whimper from your lips and god— he loves you like this.

gojo’s breathing becomes ragged as he kisses you, feeling him shift slightly from his position over you to support his weight with his forearm as it rests beside you. his hand moves after to rest around the back of your neck, pulling you closer— deeper into his mouth with a sigh, but it’s a more breathless, dreamy sound against your lips.

“when did you get so beautiful, hm?“ he grunts again, a slight whine to his words and he’s convinced the heavens and the earth dropped an angel into his lap everytime he steals a glance of you.

gojo’s giving in completely to the dizzy spin of the room and the buzz of his mind, a feeling he’s only ever found in you as he offers you the air from his own lungs just so you don’t pull away, not yet. you’re too intoxicating, his mind and senses feel blurred when he’s wrapped in you and not even the six eyes could control his body or the way his soul yearns for yours. nothing could stop him from curling over your as he loses himself— pushing his name between your lips.

it’s like fire lived within your kiss, and it had a way melting every part of him.

he’s only snapped from his lustful, drunken haze when you nudge him, a needy— questioning whimper falling from your lips and that’s all it takes for him to realise his fingers have suddenly stilled inside of you and he can’t help but smile.

maybe he got a little too lost in you. not that he cares, his need for you was limitless after all.

“‘toru, you okay?” you soften, smoothing your fingers through the snowy peaks of gojo’s hair and he grins, cheeky and a little smug despite the flush of his cheeks and chest and the kiss drunk little buzz in his mind.

“oh, is my sweet girl worried about me?” he breathes, deflecting the real reason but he smiles again, and because you love him, you catch yourself smiling too before you roll your eyes instinctively at his sickly sweet tone.

“yeah right, i just don’t think right now is the time to be distracted— i was so close, you know.” gojo pulls you in for another sloppy kiss and pulls away once more, slowly pulling back his fingers from between your thighs in favour of kicking off his sweats instead as he huffs—a more needy but still as fond sound before he chuckles again and takes a handful of his cock.

“oh no, i would never.” he gasps, free palm resting against his chest like he’s offended you’d even suggest that it wasn’t always you that’s constantly occupying the space in his mind. he gives you another look when you giggle, and he knows he’s so in love when it rings through the room before he’s back over you once more, cock pressing between your slick folds as he groans.

“got everything i’ve ever needed right here, sweet girl. just keep looking at me, yeah?”