alexandra

“Late on the first day miss? not the greatest first impression.”

The scrutiny in this tone was poorly hidden with sarcasm. Nevertheless, it had your cheeks heating up.

“Sorry Professor, I promise it won’t happen again.”

You said as you nodded at the man. It was your first day of pre-med and you already felt as if everything was falling apart.

It was just one of those mornings where everything went wrong, your hair wasn’t sitting right, some idiot drove into a puddle, spraying your outfit with rainwater and now you had to deal with your professor hanging you out to dry in front of everyone (pun intended). And just to add to the whole mess the only seats left in class were front and centre. You plopped your things down, and to your absolute surprise, there was what looked like a middle schooler sitting a space away from you. You craned your head to get a better look.

He was dressed well, like he had every dollar to spare. Wearing some designer shirt and expensive slacks to match. He was definitely well put together, but to you it just looked like he was playing dress-up. His cheeks were round and soft, while he wore an adorable little scowl on his face. Gosh, he reminded you of your brother.

Noticing your gaze, his head snapped towards you. You gave him a soft smile. Poor kid must be on edge in a room full of 20-year-olds. You internally cursed yourself for staring. His eyes traced you seemingly analysing every detail, before he hesitantly turned back to his notes.

Him being more put together than you felt kind of humbling. So you began organising everything out on your desk, but the sound of the professors voice cut you off.

“Sorry class, somehow I’ve forgotten my laptop, kind of needed that one for the lesson.”

He joked, no one laughed.

“I’m gonna run to my office, don’t cause too much trouble.”

He said with a chuckle as he raced out of the class. You decided to take this as an opportunity to make some new friends.

You immediately turned to the young boy beside you and introduced yourself.

“Hi! I’m y/n what’s your name?”

he turned towards you let out a “hmph” and turned back to his notes. well that couldn’t have gone better

You turned to the other side of you and saw what you assumed was a couple closely speaking in a quiet tone. Whatever they were talking about you definitely did not wanna be involved.

You turned back to him “you seem very young… how’d you end up here?” You asked looking down at his page. It was a drawing and a good one at that. Gentle strokes shading a very realistic piece of armour. Before he had a second to speak you immediately cut him off.

“This is amazing! Why’re you here? You should be doing art!”

Your eyes widened as you realised the connotations of what you had said. Gosh maybe you should leave this kid alone.

“I mean I’m not doubting that your smart, I mean you’d have to be to be a middle schooler here-“

he cut you off.

“I’m not here to make acquaintances, I simply want to finish the course without any trouble” He pulled his book closer to him, seemingly cradling it in his arms before he continued

“Though I do thank you for the praise. I do enjoy to draw.”

What was this kid raised by ChatGPT? He speaks better than you could write.

“no problem” you said sighing, looking down at your notes. This was gonna be a fun class.

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After a couple weeks into school, you felt like everything was finally falling into place. You had a Job now, a consistent study routine and (thank the lord) you could finally make it to each class without being late.

Well all except one, for some reason, you had made a habit of being late to your microbiology lecture. Usually the only repercussion for it was being the butt end to your professors crappy jokes, well, all besides this one time…

“Miss L/n, late again? I hope the extra time you put into your outfit was worth it”

He chuckled. He was the only one.

“Well you’re beginning your assignment on the immune system so partner up and get started.”

You internally groaned. Group projects were the absolute bane of your existence. You were most likely going to be stuck with some bone headed frat boy and be forced to add his share of work onto your tipping tower of a to do list.

“Ay Y/N, come over here” speaking of..

“You need a partner yeah?” He paused, his eyes dragging down your body. You would shiver, but you don’t want to give him the idea that it was caused by anything but disgust.

“I could really use a cute little nerd like you, this class is kicking my ass”

Your eyes traced around the class looking for anyone else that you could quickly partner up with before they landed on Damian Wayne. he was standing off to the side looking very uncomfortable as his eyes scanned the group of chatty adults. Bless his little soul.

“That sounds enticing and all Jacob, but I’m already partnered with Damian”

Damian’s head snapped to you, and Jacob’s to Damian’s.

“That little rich piece of shit. You know he only got here because of his dad’s money right?”

You felt a surge of anger run through you. Who did this guy think he was?

“A twelve year old can’t pay to win in college genius. Plus he’s probably smarter than your whole frat combined”

You looked over at the child and his face was bright red. You felt terrible. You should’ve just partnered with Jacob instead of putting him through this.

“yeah ok, you’re a bitch anyway”

You shrugged and turned to Damian, and to your surprise there was a small smirk on his face. You took it as a win.

“so partners?” You asked but it was more of a plead.

“hmph, seems I don’t have another choice”

You grinned.

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After spending a couple weeks working on the project you and Damian fell into a rhythm. You’d spend every Wednesday and Thursday in the library perfecting it, and as much as you hated to admit, you had learned a lot from him. He was ridiculously smart, like helps-you-with-subjects-he-doesn’t-take-smart. And while his assistance came with a grimace and aggression, you knew he had grown fond of you too.

And when you both were finally done with the project, well you couldn’t help but still spend time with him.

“You know you don’t have to sit with me anymore, the projects over.” He said his signature scowl on his face.

“Who else is gonna help me with chem? Also who am I to ditch my day-one?” You laughed taking a sip of your tea.

“day-one what?” He said a poorly suppressed smile spreading onto his face. He was just so cute and sweet, especially when he’d pretend to be annoyed at you.

“I’ve known you for over a couple months now, you’re technically my little brother.”

He rolled his eyes. Sighing he looked back down at his work. “No thanks, I have an excessive amount of siblings already.” he sounded annoyed but the expression in his face said otherwise. He almost looked relaxed.

“Enough talking mr chatterbox, I need help on question 12”

After 3 more gruelling hours spent on your study, you finally decided to call it a night and go home. As you stepped into the cold gotham air, you immediately became aware of everything around you.

The soft, never ending sound of sirens, the flicking of the street light, even the screeches of alley cats. But after a while, it seemed to become eerily silent. You clutched your bag to yourself, reaching in for your keys to slot between your fingers. It was always a risk… to say the least walking home alone in Gotham, but it was something you were willing to take in order to spend as little time as possible in your disgusting apartment. If only you could pick up some extra hours, maybe you could-

Your thoughts were interrupted by your bag being ripped out of your hands. There goes your groceries for the week. In a panic, you grabbed onto the strap before the mugger could run away, and with all the force you could muster, you swung your key-adjourned hand into the side of the man’s face.

He winced, clutching his temple, and it gave you just enough time to run off. Though, as soon as you turned around he grabbed a fist full of your hair and pulled you to the floor. That dang ponytail

“You fucking bitch I’m gonna kill you”

He seethed, his face hovering over yours as he used his body weight to pin you down. You used the close proximity to gather all the saliva you could, and spit it right into his face. Though, he barely flinched. In fact it just seemed to make him angrier. The smell of metal filled the air, as the blood from his head dripped onto your face. “This is what you get for being a bitch”

You heard the clanging of metal, which was quickly replaced by the feeling of cold steel digging into your neck.

“HELP SOMEONE HELP ME!” You struggled against his restraints but it was no use. He had you stuck under him.

You closed your eyes, bracing for the impact of the knife, but before anything could happen, the heavy weight was pulled off of you. It all happened so fast you stayed on the floor, suspended in half shock half fear of what was happening.

When you finally found your bearings and sat up, the man was no where to be seen. You took a second to cradle your head before you realised. Your purse.

“Ma’am?”

You flinched. Looking around for the noise before you saw a glimpse of green and red.

“Here you are.” He mumbled, holding your bag out to you, his bloodied knuckles catching the light.

Oh. It was the little boy Robin. Although you were more than thankful for him being here tonight, you resented the fact that such a young boy was doing an adults job.

You looked at his face to thank him but something seemed really off. You took a second to really look at him. The glint of his black hair caught your eye in a way that was so familiar. But it was when you saw the adorable roundness of his face that you realised who he was.

“Damian what?-what’re you?”

He froze looking around him before he leant in and whispered.

“Are you injured ma’am?”

You winced. Looking down at the bruises that screamed for attention. But your focus was on something else..

“This is not ok Damian. You’re just a kid. If there’s anyone that’s forc-”

He cut you off.

“I have a responsibility to uphold, it is of utmost importance that I come here every night”

He paused and it seemed like whatever mask he was hiding behind had melted away. It was only a subtle difference, but you noticed it nonetheless.

“Could you imagine what would have happened?”

You wrapped your arms around his stiff shoulders, trying to silence whatever was going on in his mind. “Thank you Damian”

He slumped not moving to hug you back but standing there, compliant.

“I’ll leave you to your responsibilities, it’s getting late.” You murmured, pulling back from the boy.

he let out a little humph sound before he stood beside you.

“I’ll walk you”

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Despite Damian’s relentless warnings about “getting home before dark” or “Taking public transport” You couldn’t help but find yourself in the same position as the night before. In your defense, you had worked overtime at work today, so you didn’t really have a choice.

Though, your fear eventually got the best of you and you found yourself taking a detour into bat burger when the streets got too silent.

But the sight in the parking lot had you freezing in fear. It was the red hood, hunched over, panting, with some delinquent (or you assumed so) pinned underneath him. You hid behind the lamp post trying to decide your action plan before an all too familiar voice interrupted your thoughts.

“Hey! Let go of me, delinquent.”

It was Damian. If he got himself into trouble with Red Hood you had to do something.

“HEY!”

You screamed running up to the pair. The helmeted man’s head snapped towards you.

“LET HIM GO” Your voice cracked, but you stood your ground, trying your hardest to intimidate the man.

“HES JUST A KID, HE PROBABLY WASNT THINKING.”

The large man slowly tracked towards you. You gulped, trying to slow the uncontrollable tremors going through your body.

When he was close, he leaned into your face, despite the mask you could tell he was analysing your every feature. You tried your hardest to blink back the tears.

“I-I Im sorry just-“

You were cut off by loud cackle. Both your heads snapped towards Damian. He was hunched over clutching his stomach from laughter. The man in front of you seemed to have some sort of revelation in response.

“This your friend Dami?”

He took his silence as a response as he continued.

“She’s pretty. what’s she doing ‘round you?”

Your face went red at his comment as you tried to unscramble your thoughts. Did Damian know Red Hood? Did Red Hood really think you were pretty?

“You-you know him Dami?”

you mumbled with a sniffle. The cold air not helping you seem any tougher.

“He’s my brother.”

Your eyes widened in shock as you looked between the two boys.

“but you’re- he’s-“

“I’m what?”

You flinched in fear. Covering your body with your arms. You had never been more uncomfortable than you were in this moment.

“What? Huh? He’s a hero, I’m a what?.”

“Hood.” Damian warned.

“Leave her alone. It wasn’t meant in that way.”

Looking at Red Hood now, you didn’t know how you could’ve ever thought he was attacking Damian. The way he reacts whenever Damian speaks just oozes admiration.

“No, I’m glad you have someone looking after you.”

He said, but it didn’t really sound true, it sounded like an insult. Should you be insulted? You kinda were now.

“I tolerate her. That’s rare.” Damian murmured quietly, but loud enough for you to hear.

But before he could continue both the men froze and held a device in their ear. Damian turned to you, tugging your arm.

“We have to go, be safe, stay vigilant.”

You nod. Giving the boy a joking salute.

“Yes sir. You too sir.”

He scoffs before grabbing his gun and grappling away, Hood gives you a nod before he quickly follows behind.

As soon as they left any remaining sense of safety was immediately lost. You gripped your keys once again. Praying to God that somehow you’d make it home safe.

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It was the last hour of your shift before you locked up and you were hoping, that somehow, by some miracle, you wouldn’t get anymore customers. Who gets fast food at 12:00am anyways… right?

You were distracted from your cleaning by the jingling of the door. “Hi welcome to Al’s what can I- oh hi!”

It was Red Hood. As much as you were scared of the guy, man did he look good tonight. ”I didn’t know you worked here.” The modulation from his mask sounded like sandpaper to your ears. He hit it with the palm of his hand, you didn’t think it would do too much.

“Well I forgive you if you forgive me for last night?”

He chuckled, the sound surprisingly smooth.

“I’m not too fond of new people, especially around my brother.”

You faltered at his harsh tone before you nodded like you knew where this was going (you didn’t).

“I get it, maybe free food could help though?”

He chuckled staring at the wall behind your shoulder.

“Is that how you got Damian to like you? Free food?”

He was so uptight. Gosh, who hurt this guy? He’s got a good body but geez the red flags…

“Well, nothing from here, mostly just tea, Damian is very restrictive about his diet, I’m sure you know.”

He hummed in affirmation, but the silence quickly grew awkward. You grabbed a big bag and began packaging all the left over food for the man. The smells filling the air made your stomach growl. Gosh you hope he didn’t hear that. You set aside a seperate bag for yourself, while he just stood silently watching your hands with a fixed intensity.

“You here alone?” He asked, now leaning against the counter.

You handed him the bag before nodding in affirmation. “I’m the closer for tonight sadly.”

He reached for his wallet but you stopped him.

“On the house. Like I said before. Besides, I was going to throw it out anyways.”

He hummed.

“I’ll walk you home then, in exchange.”

You took a second, deciding if it would be better to walk home alone, or with a seasoned criminal. The latter seemed like the obvious choice.

“deal.”

You shut off the lights at the front counter running to the break room.

“Let me just grab my purse I’ll just be a second.”

When you came back he was standing at the door, glaring at something out the window. If he was any closer to the glass, his mask would be pressed through it.

“Uhhh I gotta go okay? take the long way home.”

So much for some much needed safety. Before you could even muster a hopefully non-awkward reply, he bolted out the room.

But his food.

You decided you would be the bigger person and leave it on the doorstep. It’ll get cold before he could get it, and possibly torn apart by some junkie, but hey, it’s the thought that counts.

Then it was Kyle, and your scent only grew even more sour. Still, you didn't show it on the outside, so he chose not to comment on it again. He probably never would’ve really— after all, who wants to be ‘comforted’ by someone who can't even fix himself?

When the Sergeants hung out, you were no longer in their little circle, always off somewhere else. He asked Johnny once, why you hadn't gone to watch a movie with them, only for him to just blink at Simon. “Oh— them? Guess we kinda just forgot to invite them. We’re not that close, an’ we got an omega ‘n all now.”

Is that what happens? When an alpha gets an omega? They forget everything they ever knew and just.. lock in on that? Still, Johnnys relationship with him never changed, not like he did with you. Something was wrong about all of this but what was he supposed to do, force the Scot to hang out with you again? This wasnt bloody nursery, besides, matters like this meant nothing with the weight of the nation placed on the team. Well, rather on the four alphas, since he soon learnt you were being taken off their shared missions too. For the first time, he faltered during the briefing with Price.

“You’re not bringing them for this one?” He heard about you being taken off of Johnny’s but this was a whole team mission with your file not in it.

“We have to spread resources efficiently. Technically we dont need them anymore, with two mated alphas. They’ll be placed with the extraction team.”

Ghost wasn't stupid, he knew that part of the reason for you being on the team was because of the regulation effects of having a beta on an all alpha team– it’s the same bias that got him into the SAS anyway. Omega’s never got this high in ranks either. But that’s exactly it, it’s meant to be a part of the reason not enough to throw you off an op.

“When we need to go solo, they’ll be on that op. It’s not that bad, Ghost.” Price reassures him, and all he can do is sigh and nod along. He already anticipated how your scent would tighten upon the news, a hint of sadness seeping in. This time he couldn't help himself– this was something he knew. So, he immediately secured your place the second he received orders of his mission, stationed beside him like you belonged. He’d always been able to recognise the change in scent, from the smallest degree, something that was forced into him at a young age. This time, it was clear you were much happier like this, beside one of the 141, on a mission, doing something.

That he could definitely relate to. He’s no stranger to feeling out of control when he can't contribute to an objective.

Having you beside him had a much better effect than he perceived anyway. Not only were you skilled and efficient, but he felt he just worked better beside you. And so he decided to set up a trip to the pub— give you a chance to hang out with Kyle and Johnny too. He was convinced that they had just gotten to in their heads with their new omegas– a honeymoon phase he supposes.

He kicked himself for not saying more at that fiasco, not forcing Johnny to regret those cruel comments in the moment. But you had already retreated back to your barracks at the end of the night, and he was left staring at your closed door with a chest aching with regret he hasnt felt since he was far smaller. The next day he hounded Johnny until he went to apologise to you, listening from the other side of the door in hopes that’d be enough. Still, he had figured you might’ve still been annoyed after yesterday, wouldn't even blame you really, but instead the acceptance was one of a prey who stopped fighting.  It didn't satisfy the wound in his heart even for a second.

“Why have you denied my team for the next mission?” He stands before Price’s desk, an anger boiling in his chest that he hasn't felt for years. He swore to himself he wouldnt let his happen again.

“You know I'm mated, Simon–”

“But i’m not.” His palms press on the desk as he stares at his Captain, the man who gave him a reason to keep going ever since this force had started. But he cant defend this, not when he’s taking away your purpose. “Price..” 

“If i dont do it now, they’ll force my hand later. It’s a better opportunity for them to work with other teams too–”

“Bullshit.” He knows there’s no more arguing when Price gives him that look. It’s not like you’d be happy in your new omega team– he wouldn't be surprised if you grew envious of them from how their existence had thrown you out of the entire team. He knows something violent would burst if it happened to him. 

————-

There’s a heavy haze on your mind when you try to blink your eyes open, like it’s muddling all your thoughts into one. You’re extremely hungry. 

A small groan escapes you and when you finally open your eyes, it’s like they’re forced to droop. You can feel dried stains on your cheeks which explains why your eyes feel tired themselves. What happened?

There’s a small rumble behind you, startling you but you hardly have control of your body right now so there’s not much you can do but blink in confusion. The last thing you remember is training for the mission with the team, and by the pain rippling across your body, something must’ve happened during it. Still, your chest doesnt pump with fear, in fact you feel calm, like your body is well aware that you’re safe wherever you are.

Again, you try to move, inhaling a sharp breath as you force yourself onto your back. The pain is instant and you have to breathe out slowly as if you dont feel like there’s tears across your arms. When you finally sober up, you stop scrunching your eyes so tight and finally notice the weight next to you. Or rather.. around you.

“W-what the—?”

———

He had woken up to the feeling of you shuffling beneath his arm, but the muffled pained sound is what made his eyes snap open. It takes him a few moments to realise the predicament he had found— or rather put himself— in last night. One arm draped across your stomach protectively with his nose pressed as close to you as he could manage.

“You’re up early.” He glances at the clock behind you, sat on the dresser, the early time of eight am flashing beside ‘Saturday’. Even though he knows he should be questioning why he’s even doing this, his body feels strangely at ease. It’s even better than the day after a successful op.

“Lieutenant.. why are we in bed?” You croak out, trying to sit up from the embarrassment of it all but his arm tightens to keep you from going too far. It startles you, against his intentions, leaving you even more confused than before. “Wasnt i on a mission..? And— and there was a hostage.. is she alright? Did anyone else get seriously hurt—”

“Mission went sideways ‘cause of a bomb strapped to a hostage, everyone’s out alright. You got the brunt of the damage saving them, the rest of them are already going home safe.” 

His alpha isnt as fiery as he remembers it the night prior, the ache in his chest now a warm thrum with you so close. Still, you look uncomfortable, and that hurts his alpha more than being away from you. So he pulls away, letting you sit yourself upright against the headboard.

You take a long breath of relief at his words of reassurance, and he can only assume it’s your own instinctive need to keep others safe. “And how I ended up here..?”

“You had surgery to remove shrapnel and a stray bullet that skimmed you. When you woke, the anaesthesia had you terrified, flailing about like a fish outta water.” He murmurs, gesturing towards the bandages peeking out from the hospital gown you still wore. It had ridden up in the night and now showed the gauze and bandages wrapped around your middle. There were some on your calves as well and the way you wince he supposes you realised about the one on your back.

“They called me in to help stabilise you— figured you’d recognise me. You did, calmed down a bit and then..” He trails off for a moment and you look up at him curiously, watching as he leans back against the headboard. He pauses, unsure whether to tell you about what you had confessed to him in your drugged state. “Jus’ started crying… not sure what about.” He swallows and then glances back down to you. “And well, y’know how we’d get, when another got injured”

They’ve always had their fair share of injuries, usually due to their own brashness as alphas. He remembers when Gaz got shot like it was yesterday, the three of them wouldn't leave his side. It took you all the strength you could muster to force John to let you treat him, even if Ghost had been glued to his side anxiously throughout the entire thing too.

“I took you away from there, brought you here. Stayed till you fell asleep, and then I must’ve passed out myself.”

It’s obvious you’re extremely confused right now, and to be honest, even he is. He’s never felt a pack instinct so strong in his life, not even towards the rest of the 141– it’s still shocking him, and yet, he still cant feel anything but calm.

“Sorry.. for the trouble i caused.” You mumble out but he shakes his head immediately.

“You didn't cause any. Just glad you’re okay.” He gets off the bed, mattress creaking from the relieved weight and springing immediately after he stands. “I’ll go grab breakfast. You shouldn't move too much.”

—————

It took everything in him to force himself to leave you to head towards the mess hall. Doing so also cleared his mind from the tranquility forced upon it, letting him finally go over the events of last night to just five minutes ago.

He had forgone all professionalism, and snatched you from the infirmary like it was what he was meant to do. 

When he got back, you practically shovelled the food in your mouth whilst he restrained himself from telling you to eat slower. Still, he offered to help you clean up, since seeing all those wraps didn't make his chest any lighter regardless of instinct. Though,that was enough for you to adamantly shake your head and accidentally shut the door straight in his face.

“Thanks for making sure I was okay.” You say gratefully, dressed in some spare clothes and picking up your phone in your bag to see for any messages about reports or briefings. “ I should head back to my room though.”

He freezes, you weren't supposed to just leave straight away. Well, technically you didn't have a reason to stay, but a burn in his chest makes it physically impossible to watch you step away now.

“Stop.”

You listen to his command, turning to meet his eyes as you wonder what else he could really want. The chair creaks as he stands, making his way over to you until he’s just standing there, scrutinising you.

“You smell.. off.”

“Well.. I'm not using my usual shampoo obviously.” You give him a meek smile, and even though it’s not enough to settle the craving he just nods— accepting it.

“Should probably check by the infirmary just in case.” He mumbles, fighting every urge to scent you before he lets you go.

“I will.”

———

Three days.

That’s all that’s passed since that night, and still his mind is a turmoil he can't unravel. As much as his brain insisted you needed some space, he found himself insistent on making sure you’re okay. 

That’s exactly why the second he saw you alone in the mess hall today, he was beside you in seconds. 

“Are you feeling any better?” Your shoulders jump in a way that makes him wince, but you relax just as quickly when you realise and smile at him.

“What, better than yesterday when you asked me in the hallway?” He likes seeing you tease him like this, as if the pain wasn't eating you from the inside. You hadn't got the opportunity to talk more than in passing, so you answer more when he looks at you attentively. “The nurses gave me ointment for the burns, and I'll be back on regular training soon. Just taking it easier with lighter gym sets, and running instead to keep my body moving.”

Right, he remembers the significantly less damage on your lower half; running must be a bit easier than any other activity for you.

“Good to know, I’ll keep an eye on you too.” 

You look embarrassed by his words, quickly turning your head away as you hurriedly step forward in the queue. “I’m not going to exert myself, you don't need to do that.”

All he can do is shrug, trying to push down the feeling that bubbles with your reaction. Instead he steps in front of you to dish out your portions of food for you. Not too much, or too little, just the way you’ve always liked it. He even skips the sides you don't like. 

“I do, actually. As a lieutenant, you’re under my care. And as my beta, I need to make sure you’re well.”

It slips out so easily before he can stop it and he pauses, waiting for you to narrow your eyes in disgust. Who is he to claim you like that? Although.. you don't even seem to catch it, but he does notice the small quirk of your brow when you finally process a few moments later. “Wait–”

“Im on grocery run on tomorrow— havin’ a team movie night on Saturday. You should come too, get some steps in instead of being in this stuffy base for so long” Before you can even answer he places your utensils on your plate and then locks onto the exit. “Meet me by our usual car, alright? Eight amsharp.” And then he’s already weaving through the crowds, leaving you standing on your own. 

————————-

For the first time in his life, Simon Riley was excited to see you. He hadn't really had time to question it, between the brand new load of paperwork dumped on him today alone and a million other problems in his mind. And yet, every time he glanced at the time ticking towards tomorrow, his instincts roared.

Would you allow him any closer than before? Although, sleeping beside him was already past many boundaries he had only considered he’d need to ease through now. He’s sure you’d flash him that exact smile when he saw you waiting by the car, positive you’d be embarrassed when he no doubt did something for your sake. 

Or you’d back up in fear, your eyes flashing with the same hurt you directed towards Soap that day. You’d realise he’s no different than the rest, infact probably just as cruel as they are. 

“Bit late to still be working, Lieutenant, even for you.”

“John.” He murmurs, voice on the quieter end as he watches from his seat on the Captain’s couch. There was a small wad of paperwork clutched in his hands like he needed reason to be here, and not solely for the true purpose.

“Simon.” Price returns, walking over to his desk to light a cigar before returning to sit infront of him. “Got a feeling I know why you’re here.”

It’s silent for a few moments and John is convinced he’ll have to lure the question out himself. But it never really is that simple with Simon Riley. Straightforward as ever, he can't help but jump right to the point “How did you.. know? Your omega.” 

Price raises a brow this time, having not entirely expected that, but nods regardless as he breathes out smoke. “Feel it in your chest first. Like your instincts are controlling you really… pulling you towards them. It’s not like you can even try to stop it either.”

“And then what..?”

“The mating bite. The feeling will come soon after, fast even— you’ll get violent. But it’s what’s expected, nearly every alpha goes through it. Just advise your omega to not fight back and there won't be much to clean up.” 

He pauses when the air in the room suddenly becomes tense, taking another inhale of the cigar.

“The sooner you do it, the easier it’ll be. You don't know when you’ll see them again with our schedules. I don't want to see you actin’ feral on a mission desperate for their scent.”

—----------------------------------------------------------------

Soon enough, it was the next day, and he had driven you to the nearest Tesco Extra. Luckily you had come just in time for a sale.. although that meant there were a lot more people than usual. Despite offering to hold it, the basket dangles in his right hand while you glue yourself to his left side. The explosion had left your senses much more sensitive, so sticking to him was the best option. 

“Anything else you want?” 

“Maybe another biscuit?” You tease since he’s been filling up the basket with them so far, making you snort a little. When you did hang around the team, him and you were the only ones who’d eat them but you didn't know he liked it this much.

He rolls his eyes at your teasing, and leads you to the next aisle. “Grab what you want and meet me over there.” It’s emptier here, so you nod and watch him go towards the tinned food, now facing the shelves of crisps he left you with.

Well you know Soap and Gaz’s favourites already, and Simon loves kettle chips. You’re not sure if the Captain would also be there, so you grab a mixed bag for him. Would it be weird after not seeing them for so long? Strangely enough, you really can't bring yourself to resent them for what happened. 

Was it really their fault? No one ever seemed to have the same problems as you. There was only one time you confessed it to a fellow beta on base, although he had quickly become defensive, shaking his head at you. ‘We’re colleagues at the end of the day. As long as it doesn't affect work, it’s totally fine.’

“Didn't get the crisps you like.” You jump as he appears, grabbing your favourite and tossing it in the basket. “Come on, we’ll get some drinks and go.” 

You trail behind him as he carries on, noticing an obvious hunch in his shoulders. He’s tense, which for some reason you find entirely out of place despite you not even knowing him that well. It’s just that, ever since that morning in bed with him, he felt soft, and warm, like everything you’d find comfort in. Surely those same clenched muscles aren't the ones that laid beside you?

You’re about to spiral further into analysing his behaviour when you realise you’re at the checkout with him.  “O-oh, do you mind if I run to the beta section quickly? I just need to grab—“

“Already got you one.” He picks up the scent refresher from the basket, scanning it through, as well as other medication he’s also seen you use before. You can only blink at him in surprise—the prices had hiked even higher recently, and you had to debate over buying one or being able to afford morning coffees anymore

It brought a sense of relief to your heart though, that comforting feeling settling in your gut once more. He’s alright, probably just a tough mission coming up.

———————

The past few days it’s like a switch had flipped inside him, too similar to how the others reacted after their new omega. You’re at a loss really, it’s not like he’s being rude, but he’s being distant. Like he’s cautious of you. To be honest, you were half expecting him to tell you not to come to the movie night anymore. 

Though maybe you were judging him too quickly— it’s not all alphas, right? It was almost sickening every time the small bit of hope bubbled up though, like it was stupid to think he’d actually be the one to stay longer than the rest. You just hope the reason for this wasn't because of something they told him about you.

You were.. surprised to say the least when you entered the rec room alongside Ghost. The both of you had retrieved the bags from his car after he surprisingly called to make sure you were still coming. 

Soap and Gaz weren't lazily sprawled across the couch like they usually would—if anything they seemed antsy. They were both sitting there, shoulders tense, Gaz’s leg even bouncing slightly. You did hear they all came back from a mission recently but they were never this agitated, all pent up like this, back when you were with them.  

“Oh, hi.” Gaz looks upon hearing two sets of footsteps and smiles, though it doesn't quite reach his eyes. You just nod, awkwardly fiddling with the plastic bags you grabbed from Ghost’s car. “What’re you here for?”

“Ghost and I went to grab the snacks the other day” 

“Y’can call me Simon, y’know.” He takes the plastic bags from your hands and you nod sheepishly, not even realising you had been using his codename. 

“Oops, sorry.”  He shakes his head at your apology and you quickly help him unpack all the snacks onto the coffee table for tonight.

“Completely blew a mission and now ye come ‘ere for a movie night?” Soap must’ve gotten up at some point, now brushing past you. His arms are like rocks when they hit into yours, and his tone is heavy— almost accusing.

It catches you off guard, and you freeze, watching as he walks around the kitchen, grabbing a glass of water to swallow in one gulp. “Well.. we did always have the best ones, no?”  Surely he didn't mean to be that harsh, clearly something had been holding their bodies in a tight limbo. It must be a poor joke, even if it dug deep.

He doesn't take your words in the tone you intended though, brows narrowing down at you in contempt. “Don’t see why we ‘ave to entertain the fuck ups. My omega was in tha’ mission, she could’ve died ‘cause of you.” 

“Johnny—“ Simon cuts in, voice low as he steps in front of you, his scent wrapping around you, weak enough to not fill your head too much. He’s being careful for you.

Though before Simon can say anything more, you let out a soft huff, crossing your arms over your chest. “That’s the risk of every mission, Soap. I thought as a demolition expert you would know that. Or are you forgetting the time you almost killed me?”

“That was a calculated risk. And yer still standing, aren’t ya?” He scoffs, rolling his eyes at your supposed argument. “You were being reckless and stupid out there.”

“That’s not what you said when I was on the team.” You snap back, anger starting to simmer inside of you too now. After all, they had constantly sung your praises when you were here. It’s their own fault for throwing you into an omega mission when you weren’t prepared enough.

“You left the team.”

“Because I was forced off!”

That pisses him off, because your words feel like an attack against him, and he walks right up to you, inches away. “We never needed you anyway— just a beta to balance us alpha out. Clearly you’re useless otherwise.” Though suddenly his nose scrunches, stepping back a moment before his eyes narrow into a glare.  “Ye fucking bastard. Coming in here, stinkin’ omegas, stinking of her?!”

Your jaw clenches as you watch his body language, something you picked upon living around alphas. They get explosive, very strong quickly. First his fists start to clench, the veins in his forearms starting to show. Then his scent starts getting thicker with anger, pumping into the air like a burning building. It’s bad enough that it makes your own anger start to fizzle, hitting your head in waves of pain and you almost stumble backwards. Everything feels like it’s happening in slow motion, his hand rising upwards, the touch of skin against your cheek and the implosion of pain that spreads across your head.

Simon grabs you before you end up dropping altogether and pulls you away from him immediately, shielding you with his body. “I dont know what the fuck has gotten into you Johnny but you need to sort it out— now.” His scent is thicker than you’ve ever smelt it, in fact this is the most you’ve ever been able to make of it. It smells like gasoline, sharp and lingering, and ready to destroy something completely. So toxic, it forces you to gasp for a breath.

“Both of you, stand down, now.”

Price’s voice echoes across the room and you instantly shudder, leaning against the counter weakly as you grasp your face. The bruise will darken tomorrow but you can already feel your cheek starting to swell. What really has you is the mix of scents all around, filling your head so strongly.

“Captain—“ 

“No.” Price doesn't hesitate to march over, standing in between them as Ghost thrums with anger. You look over to the doorway, hearing the small creak as it closes Gaz standing there with his arms crossed. “You are soldiers, not fucking children.” He argues, pointing an accusing finger towards the Scot before turning to give Ghost an equally sharp glare. 

Then his eyes find you. All you can do is stare back, wondering how he’ll react. Would he blame you for all this? Would you be the scapegoat to keep his perfect little pack intact?

Would you let him humiliate you once more?

You’re a soldier, a beta one, but a fighter nevertheless. Missions you’ve fought through, almost died on, saved lives during. For this? To end up like this? You push yourself to stand despite the heavy scents weighing you down, regardless of the stare his alpha is directing to your beta. Everything tells you to submit, the haze in your head and the throb across your cheek. 

“You should go, I'll talk to you about this later.” Price commands, nodding his head towards the door. Surprisingly, his words weren't as harsh, in fact more exasperated than anything. 

“Enjoy your movie night.” You murmur, grabbing your jacket where it was on the chair and throwing it over your arm. 

“Wait—“ Simon starts, backing away from his offensive on Soap instantly to follow you. “Don’t” You hear Price stop him, his hand wrapped around his forearm to stop him chasing after you. 

————————-

If that wasn't enough of a reason for you to give up on all of them, you don't know what is anymore. They’ve treated you so horribly, it was hardly arguable anymore that you shouldn’t have even tried with them again. This was all so stupid—you’re so stupid for even thinking this time it could end differently. You could never coexist. 

As for Simon, all you feel is a deep regret in your stomach. It was obvious really, of course he must’ve just been smelling omega on you this entire time. It was just a biological confusion, not a genuine interest in you. He didn't care about who you were, his alpha smelt an omega, and that’s all that really matters. It makes you feel sick to your stomach, knowing that you had in some way probably tricked him.  His alpha probably had him strung up all week, no wonder he looked so uncomfortable in that shop and every day past. 

The chat with Price never happened. They had been briefed almost immediately after you left for an op, and you heard the chatters of their departure the next day. So with them all gone,it was time to get back to work. You had briefings to attend, reports to fill and to forget about everything that happened. Or what didn't happen between you two.

Except you can't.

Everytime you get a second alone with your thoughts, they drift back to him, to that morning and waking up beside him. The last time you’ve woken to someone’s scent around you was when you were very little, your family huddling together in the nest. That stopped as soon as you presented.

Now you’re stuck with this emptiness in your chest. At first you thought his scent had been too strong, and you even tried two pumps of the scent refresher to try and clear your senses. Not even that worked, if anything making it worse now that you longed for his scent even more. 

There’s a small balcony you used to see him smoke at, when you first joined the team. He came up here once or twice, and then over the two years you spent with them, never again. In fact, you overheard the sergeants say he quit it altogether. You pause by it today, staring out at the worn railing, the remnants of ash sitting upon it, the mark of his shoe making an outline on the unused floor. 

For some reason it makes your eyes water, mourning a connection you could’ve had but seems impossible now. 

—-

It’s late at night a few days later. You had taken the opportunity while they were gone to take all of your things out of the rec room. Sure, you should’ve done it before, but a small part of you was still clinging on to possibility. Your blankets that you and the sergeants would swaddle yourselves in on colder nights, the tea strainer you bought to show Price how to use leaves instead of the bought bags, even the few mugs in the cupboard you bought to match them. You left behind the one Soap bought for your birthday— perhaps it belonged there more than it ever did to you. Can't forget the CD player you let Gaz borrow a million times either.

They don't suit your room, the colour clashes with the boring greys in here, and they look like a pile of junk from where you’re beneath the duvets, staring at them. It’s almost midnight, and you know you should be sleeping, but it's a Friday night so to hell with that. You could afford late night wallowing; it’s not like you had anywhere to be tomorrow.

They were supposed to come back today. You heard it from Laswell when discussing something else; she must not know what happened between you. Either they chose not to tell her..or forgot, since you were never that important anyways. The clock blinks one am, maybe you really should sleep.

———

The knock on the door breaks your sleep, and you can only assume it wasn't the first as it continues, each one seeming to become.. slower. You crawl out of bed, mind trying to run a million possibilities through your awakening brain. An emergency mission? Bad news? A sudden attack? An intruder?

“Please..” You hear the groan on the other side of the door, convincing you enough to open it instantly and reveal the other side. 

Ghost— or rather Simon, with his mask now fallen at your feet— leans against your door frame, blood dripping onto the floor from a wound near his middle and his eyes glazed over. “Beta..” He breathes through a pained wince, chest sinking quickly. 

“Simon?! You should be in the infirmary, not here- ” You scoff, gaze flicking between the blood staining the floor, his hand clenched over the wound and the grime clinging onto his hair and neck.

“No— no- can’t think..” He steps forward, every movement heavy with pain and hurt and yet his eyes stay locked on you. His words are desperate as his hand clenches the handle, sucking in a strained breath. 

“A-alright, fine. I’ve got some stuff somewhere—“ Opening the door fully now, you reach for his hand, letting him lean the brunt of his weight as you haul him towards your bathroom. It’s only when you manage to get him to sit on the toilet seat do you free yourself from him, rummaging through your cupboards desperately. “Here- okay, lift your shirt we need to fix that quickly.”

Luckily the wound had just been leaking into the bandages so all you had to do was repack and replace, although you had to deal with his incoherent groans the entire time. Tucking the clean edge into the wrap, he’s finally alright again and you sigh in relief, stepping back.

“Stop—“ He grasps your wrist as you try to put the box back, forcing you to stay in place as you raise a brow at him.

“I need to put it back.“ You sigh, unable to fathom what was up with him right now.

“Stay.” 

“Simon, I’m just going to the cabinet..” You sigh as he shakes his head adamantly, pulling you closer even as you try and resist. “Let me go.”

“No.”

“Simon.” You say firmly, a fresh wave of your scent rolling through the air. Never have you used it on any of them before, in fact it only ever worked on inconsolable civilians you’ve saved. Beta scent’s only had the purpose of calming down people anyway, not like an Alpha’s commanding force or an Omega’s lure. “Let me go.”

So when he immediately goes lax, fingers grazing  your palm as he gently lets go, you step back in surprise. What? 

You keep one eye on him as you place the things away, but he just stays, unmoving. As you close the cabinet, you take a step towards him again, gently pulling down his shirt only to feel the soaked blood on it, as well as the gunpowder and grime. Definitely not a good mission then.

“Why.. don't you wash up, alright? I’ll get you some clothes.”

For a moment you’re convinced you’ll have to drag him yourself, but he takes a small inhale and nods quietly, standing the best he can before he kicks off his shoes and socks. Listening like a loyal dog.

—

You make your way to his room with your own mind full of questions from his strange behaviour. Why did your scent have that effect on him? Why did he come to you? Why did he always call you his beta?

The door unlocks easily with the card you nicked from his gear, and his room is in disarray. It wasn’t uncommon for a pack to have scented items from each other, or very close friends; it usually helped with sleeping or just getting comfortable. You remember Gaz and Soap often had items in each other's rooms for that exact reason, though they never traded with you, even if you never asked yourself.

You immediately noticed Price’s sweater on the floor, kicked to the door. Beside the dresser was Gaz’s spare shirt, crumpled and half shoved beneath the base. Soap’s jacket was behind the bathroom door, hidden away from sight like something that couldn't bear to be seen. In the midst of it was a pair of gloves you lent him during a mission when he was damaged badly. Like a pillar in chaos, it was neatly placed beside a brand new scent refresher and a pack of your favourite snacks. Surely, just a piece of repayment, right?

——————

The shower is quiet when you re-enter your room, and you hesitantly step towards the bathroom door, turning the handle. “Brought some clothes.” You murmur, watching the door handle turn. 

“Thank you.” He says, the same gruff tone but quieter, and takes the clothes you pass through the gap.

Surprisingly, he doesn't close it after, letting you hear his quiet shuffling as he changes. It feels weird standing on the otherside, knowing you can just walk in and see him bare like this— an alpha left vulnerable. Though, can an alpha truly be vulnerable before a beta? If anything, you’d always be vulnerable alone with him, and he’d always be the strongest in the room.

“I saw my gloves on your table.” You mumble out, stepping back to take a seat on the edge of your bed.  His silence doesn't help your inability to keep in the thoughts running wild in your head. 

His breath hitches behind the door, something you’ve learnt to notice since you can't read his facial expressions. “I meant to return it to you. But.. I hadn't washed them yet.”

Just as you thought.

The door opens, and he steps forward, the grime washed off and bandages covered by the thin cotton shirt. He looks exhausted like this, like everything weighing down on him has finally caused him to crumble. Just like the others, his shoulders stay taut.

“You left their things on the floor.”

Your beta is desperate to soothe, to understand the problems within his pack, and help him through them. No sane alpha would push away his pack’s items, it has your beta ringing alarm bells across your mind.

“Didn’t need them.” He murmurs, one hand tugging at the end of his shirt as it clings to his damp body. You’ve never seen him fiddle with things like this, running his tongue over his lips. 

“You didn't need your pack’s items?” You huff out crossing your arms over your chest. “At least make the lie believable.” Maybe this was his own strange way of pushing you away like they had, because you just wouldn’t understand, would you? 

“It’s not a lie.” He grunts, eyes flickering over you and then towards the door— like he’s about to bolt. Not now, not after everything.

You stand, blocking his path as you look at him. “Why did you come here, Simon? It’s not because you feel guilty about the other day, and you shouldn't anyway— Soap’s right. I’m not needed.”

“You are.”

“I’m not—“ You shake your head adamantly, turning towards the door. There’s no way you were going to sit around and be humiliated again, intentionally or not.

“We need you.” He says firmly, hand grasping your wrist as his strong ash suddenly washes over you and thickens in the air. It’s all you can smell, echoed by the weight of his words. Though, you feel his grip immediately falter afterwards, like instant regret. The scent calms quickly, back to the dull linger it usually is as his fingers fall to gently holding your palm. “I.. need you.”

For a moment you’re stunned, scent sprawling anywhere for something solid to grip onto as you try and weave through the possible meanings of his words. Him, Ghost, the soldier feared across foreign countries’ soil and by his mask alone, needs you? A beta? 

“I dont…” understand. The word falls silent on your tongue, glancing down at his hand on yours in the low light. “I thought.. the omega’s I work with– their scent rub off on me. That’s the reason for all of this, isn't it?”

“No, no.” His grasp tightens when you try to pull back, feet following you as you step back, until you take a seat against the edge of the bed. “Your scent, it’s been driving me insane. It’s like I can't function without it.”

“But that’s not possible, Simon. I’m not an omega— I can't lure you like that- even the sweetest scent is nothing more than cheap perfume.” You argue, because it’s the truth and there isn’t anything more to it. It’s facts, written and studied extensively in biological research that forms the foundations of society. There could be no other explanation because it just didn't exist, it never will.

His grip tightens again and this time his lip curls back, almost like he’s snarling.. except he seems to be more frustrated with his own actions than at you. “Lust isn't going to save us soldiers.” 

You see it now as you look at him properly since patching him up. His eyes are half lidded but you can see how his pupils have expanded in the short time you’ve had him here. Sorting out the blood spilling out of him might’ve helped, but he was crashing fast now that the pain-induced adrenaline was wearing off.

Now he just looked exhausted out of his mind, frantically holding onto his self control as his eyes locked onto the scent glands on your wrist. You could almost read his thoughts now, how he was slipping off the edge, fingers beginning to tremble. Wounded, exhausted and desperate for a moment of solace.

“Simon..” You whisper again, it’s been more than a few times tonight, but this time it’s different.

He drops to his knees before you, hitting the soft rug beside your bed as his hand holds onto yours. His mask had been off the entire time and yet only in this moment do you truly acknowledge the vulnerability before you. “Please, scent me.” He murmurs, low and soft though not gentle with the rasp of greed that bubbles from his throat. Like he told you, he needs this. He needed you. “Let me be.. your alpha.”

The silence rings loud between you, even from the slow drops from the bath’s faucet and the whir of the bathroom fan fading into nothing. “Okay..I will.” You nod, breaking the dam holding him together and he doesn't even let out a breath until he presses his nose against your wrist. The inhale he takes is greedy, like he wants every last scent coating the air, and then the exhale comes, his body dropping like a bomb.

“Thank you.” He breathes and you watch as he lifts your hand as he rises himself, and you realise now he doesn't have his gloves on from the feeling of his bare skin warm against you.

It’s like he doesn't even hesitate, gently rubbing his wrist against the scent glands on yours. You knew what was coming, read about it a million times between alphas and omegas— hell even heard a million more from them in your youth years.

Scenting, when the alpha’s scent envelopes your body, like a shot straight to your brain. 

Except, this isn't like anything they described.

You can feel your scents starting to mix, intertwining together before separating once more. They’re tied in the middle like a promise and yet sprouting at completely different ends and filling the room. His scent changes, shifting from the harsh burnt tinges of ash and smoke like they’ve been washed up by yours. It’s petrichor, the damp aroma whenever rain ingrains itself into the soil and washes over rocks. The smell is fresh, earthy and it feels like the relief of rain when it finally comes crashing down, washing over the ground and letting the dying flora renew.

But yours? Yours blossoms in magnitude, like a bubble that has grown and grown until it suddenly bursts. You’ve never smelt it so strong before, used to the quietness of it all, but it’s finally loud. Sweet honeycomb and chocolate, an appetising combination so rarely put together it makes his entire body melt. It’s comforting like a warm drink on a cold day and refreshing like a breeze on a summer night. 

You barely get a chance to shuffle backwards before he’s crashing into you, nose forcing it’s way towards your neck as his limbs one by one fall slack, muscles turned to the mere meat they’re made from. A low purr rumbles through him, up his arms where they wrapped around your middle and his chest which is pressed against yours. His eyes have fallen shut, content to be pressed against your nose gland as he lets everything go.

“My beta..” He murmurs, squeezing you tighter to the point you’re forced to exhale yourself and appreciate the warmth and comfort in the room. This was the first time you’ve truly been able to appreciate a friend’s scent without feeling your head start to spin, and it felt amazing. Like everything in the world was set in place, nothing could even shift the balance in this room. 

You squeeze him back, a small huff of laughter bubbling in your throat when he groans in contentment. His scent starts to settle once more, now the faint smell of smoke returning though with the gentleness of a campfire, easing your senses. 

“Alpha..” You breathe out, letting your own body relax under his, eyes slipping shut in his grasp. Your beta was satiated, curling up for the first time in weeks, and you were more than happy to lay your heart beneath him.

----------------------------------

part one Buy me a coffee!

one more part and then this will be done!! thank you for reading alonga nd im so shocked at how many people loved the first one sm! please leave ur thoughts in the comments <3333 ALSO THANK YOU FOR 5000 FOLLOWERS!!!!!!

general cod: @heyitsniki18 @insanityall @twoandahalfdimes @ririerm @alexinarcadia @sgt-artemis-owl-riley @fries-pls @tikitsune

taglist (thank you SO much to @lexloon for putting this tgt for me):

For the entire term, you don’t think you’ve ever seen him raise his voice or even laugh at anything, despite your professor’s occasional corny jokes that you can’t help but laugh out of sheer pity. He just sat there like a statue, except for the occasional clicking of the pen that would also, quite frankly, irk you (maybe you should really reevaluate your anger issues like your friends have told you. Or maybe it's just him).

You constantly hear about the praise he receives, despite not having some courses together; always mentioned for being “brilliant” and “ahead of the curve”. Obviously, given the fact he can be quite a prick, and the fact that he is your "academic rival" as you'd put it, of course you were irritated.

He always came to lecture dressed like he had a deposition afterward. Ironed his clothes perfectly pressed, and his plain expression looked like he was bored with everything. 

That shit drove you absolutely insane.

Not to mention, that he simply seems conceited—cocky. He doesn’t greet anyone, and apparently during group presentations, he does his part and leaves everyone else scrambling. 

You hated vain people like that. Hated people that thought they were above others and acted that way.

“Interesting, Higuruma. Very interesting.” Your professor said, looking devastatingly bored. “Does anyone care to respond? Any commentary or inquiry?” Again, your professor's tone seriously sounded quite monotone. Granted, this was a 9 A.M..

Suguru, your friend beside you, shot you a glance that was practically screaming “don’t do it”. 

Suguru, along with almost everyone in the class, were already aware of Higuruma’s antics. That is who he was known as: the know-it-all that always had his hand raised.

He was also unfortunately aware of your disdain for the guy; how he aggravated you with his constant "raise of the hand" and refusal for human interaction in the hallways. To be fair, he didn’t even want to take the class but had to as a philosophy major. However, that isn’t to say he didn’t find your one-sided beef with the guy not entertaining. Just the sheer mention of Higuruma had you fuming. It was fucking hilarious.

“Y/N. Don’t,” he whispered.

Too late.

You already raised your hand with a prissy little smile etched on your face. 

Maybe it was the fact that you woke up late, got your coffee order done wrong, and the fact that you lost your train card. But you weren’t about to deal with Higuruma getting the last word like always.

You didn't back down. And you didn't want to (unfortunately, you were also too prideful to put your hand down given the fact it shot up so fast).

“Yes,” you said, clearing your throat. “With respect, Higuruma’s argument assumes that liberty is transactional—that it is something handed down or withheld depending on someone’s access to institutional power, is not liberty’s fault rather those systems.”

You noted the way Higuruma turned to look at you from the front of the lecture hall. He didn’t even look at you with disdain rather interest. His gaze towards you lacked the usual judgement it had when someone said something stupid or redundant during class and his eyebrows were pinched together. 

He was listening intently to what you were saying.

“Rousseau would argue that liberty must exist independently from power structures and when it doesn’t, that just means the social contract is broken—not that liberty itself is just leverage. Then that means, we risk reducing liberty to a tool of oppression rather than a foundational principle worth reclaiming.“

You could hear Suguru’s slight chuckle at your words, challenging Mister ‘Definitely-Going-To-A-Top-10-Law-School’. He looked at the rest of the class to notice that everyone was looking at you—and how could they not? 

You were the first person to really challenge something “the genius of the class” said. And you kind of had a point with your words? Oh, how could you. How utterly preposterous.

You shot your professor and Higuruma a smile. Higuruma tilted his head towards you almost innocently. Like he wasn’t aware that your words were dripping with malice and opposition. 

One to nothing.

Your professor went back to pacing and his expression ceased from looking bored. “You have a point, Miss L/N. Very valid challenge to Mister Higuruma and his commentary. Now back to page 466…”

Suguru snickered as he tapped his pen on the table. “That is probably the first time in the semester that someone’s gone up against him during lecture time. How nice, Y/N.”

“Yeah. No thanks to you,” you sneered, gaining post-discussion clarity.  

However, you never thought that you would really interact with Hiromi Higuruma again after that. He was an uptight know-it-all with his personality depth equivalent to white-out, and you purposefully avoided him even before all of this. Even so, he had his own pretentious clique of future law school students in his work study and internship. 

To be fair, the only moments you did was the occasional disagreement in class after the first time, however that itself was rare.

But here you were, emailed a few weeks later regarding your selection to the prestigious school journal for the political science column—and being paired with that fucker. 

The universe—or rather your professor—must hate you.

“Congratulations! You have been selected by the Liberal Arts department to co-author the semester's Political Science journal piece. The assigned topic is Civil Liberties in Post-Democratic Systems, and the writers will be Y/N L/N and…Hiromi Higuruma.”

You tapped on your phone in disdain when you finished reading the email. “I just got asked to write something for the Political Science journal piece for the LAS department,” you scoffed. "What a start to my weekend."

The setting you were at was pretty loud, dimly lit, and typical for a Friday at your campus bar. You were already a few drinks in when you got the notification alerting you of the dreaded, fucking email. 

You took a dramatic swig of your beverage and placed it on the table. “You three are smart—to some extent. Tell me why I, such a sophisticated scholar, am being punished like this.” 

Suguru raised an amused eyebrow at your reaction and laughed. “You literally got into the most competitive writing fellowship on campus and you’re calling it punishment? God, you’re such a piece of work.”

Shoko nodded, taking a drag of her cigarette. “Fuck, are you drunk already?”

You frowned and unlocked your phone to show them the email. Satoru took your phone dramatically and cleared his voice like he was reciting a Shakespearean poem at a slam poetry event. 

“Congratulations, Miss Y/N. Yada yada blah blah, selected for Civil Liberties…Writers will be…Oh...” Satoru hummed before letting out a hearty guffaw. “Are you serious? You’re stuck with Hiromi Higuruma of all people? Holy shit, these jokes write themselves.”

"Shut up," you groaned, covering your face and hitting your phone on your forehead in an attempt to look dramatic. “Now I'm stuck with a guy that has a damn superiority complex? How thrilling.”

“Awh. I’m sorry, Y/N,” Suguru said, mock sympathy dripping from his words. “You know how that guy is, but I can’t lie, this is quite entertaining.”

Satoru’s eyebrow quirked up. “The same Higuruma in your Social Justice 201 class who made Yuki cry? Didn’t he say she ‘didn’t belong in the class’ over a misunderstanding?”

Shoko laughed. “Oh my god. I remember when you told me the story about him submitting an entire paper with case citations for a damn theory class? God, I’m not in liberal arts but that sounds insane. He’s already quite the character in our stats class. Right, Satoru?”

Satoru laughed and nodded. "That guy might be a bigger piece of work than you, Y/N, and that says a lot."

You paused for a moment before really thinking; you didn’t hate the guy based on everything he did… some things were rather…

“Fuck, I can’t even lie… but that whole ‘being prepared’ thing is hot if he isn’t being pretentious about it.”

The three of your friends went silent before Satoru let out a giggle. You didn’t even catch what you said out loud until Satoru spoke to call you out.

“So…you’re sayin’ you’re into him? Ouu shit...”

Suguru let out a damn giggle at your misfortune. “You bitch about him all the time during class and now this happens to you?  This couldn’t get better.” Shoko hummed, "oh but it could... Let's just see how Y/N gets after this."

You flicked Satoru’s forehead and frowned. “No. I’m not into him, I’m into winning. I’m into being the first in that class because I need a recommendation letter from that professor.”

Then you turned to the others. “You two are really, really full of shit.”

“Wouldn’t you just need a good relationship with the teacher to do so?” Shoko asked.

You shook your head. “No. He’s putting a cap for 3 recommendation letters—or the top person in each of the classes he teaches.”

Shoko nodded. “Gotcha. So you’re into leverage? Smart, smart.”

You nodded. “Exactly. I’m gonna make him so irritated that he’ll drop out of the journal and it’s gonna be all me. Then I’ll be at that Top Three.”

“You sound like a movie villain, holy fuck.”

“Or…” Satoru said, swirling his drink.

“Oh no.”

“You seduce him.” He said, deadpan. It was quiet for a moment between the four of you, with everyone looking at Satoru like he had gained a third head.

“From all the shit you’ve ever said, Satoru,” Shoko laughed. “This might be the smartest yet most stupid idea you’ve ever come up with.”

You frowned. “You too? You’re better off watching 10 Things I Hate About You or How To Lose A Guy In 10 Days? I fear there’s no romance happening between me and that guy.”

Satoru giggled. “No, this would be ‘10 Objections On How To Seduce A Poli Sci Student’ or I don’t know. Whatever legal jargon you future lawyers use.”

“Think about it,” Suguru said, taking a drag of his cigarette. “These guys aren’t wrong and imagine if he did fall for you. This might surprise you to know, but I know some of his ‘friends’ and overheard them talk about his type.”

“His type?” Your eyes narrowed at him. Hiromi Higurumahas friends? He has an ideal type? Fuck, wait, why are you even curious about this?

Suguru nodded and dabbed some of the ash onto the little ashtray beside him. “Mhm. He’s into those political science girls. And oh my God! Look! You major in that! Well, what a coincidence.”

You snorted. “Uh huh, tough shit. You forget I minor in Economics too... Y’know, I’ve been thinking of what he reminds me of. He’s like, very Miles Edgeworth in real life—and not in a good way. In a bad way. Very.”

“But, you could.” Satoru grinned. “You’ve got the looks—because you’re pretty, no weird shit—the brains, and ability to say those weird Latin legal terms without brutally mispronouncing them. He wouldn’t stand a damn chance. You’re gonna have that guy wrapped around your slimy little finger.”

“Gross... but on some actual serious shit, I don't even think he is capable of romance,” you said meekly. “What if he’s like…Gee, I don’t know? Not interested in dating? I’ve never heard of him ever dating anyone. He’s probably better off with his books.”

You then shrugged. “Besides, he’s not my type. I’m not into over-the-top bastards who have an insanely inflated ego.”

Your eyes widened at Satoru letting out the biggest cackle of the night, his face practically turning red like you said the funniest thing ever. “Are you serious? Let’s be honest, your type is shit. Higuruma is a much better option in comparison to the other two guys you’ve dated: stupid and utterly incompetent. Let's not forget Naoya, now."

He had a point… 

“You’ve got nothing to lose, Y/N.” Shoko said. “Let’s make a bet.”

You felt your stomach drop at what she said and feared for the worst. “Uh huh. What type of bet are you trying to make?”

She leaned in and put her hand on your shoulder mockingly. “You make Hiromi Higuruma—Mister Top-of-the-Class—fall for you by the end of the semester. We’ll give you 400 bucks from all of us.”

Suguru shrugged. “I catch him taking a little look at you occasionally. A little here and there. You’re like practically a quarter there.”

Satoru snickered at your reaction. “Awh, this is so like the movies. So so cute!”

You scoffed at the proposition and at the shitty nicknames given to the guy. “He looks at everyone like he’s about to cross-examine them. Don’t start with that bullshit.”

“That’s what makes it fun,” Suguru said.

“Let’s raise the stakes a bit, then.” Satoru raised his finger like a little kid attempting to call the teacher’s attention and cleared his throat. 

“Father dearest is planning to hire some undergrad student shadows for the legal department at our humble family finance group.”

You froze. “Are you suggesting…Corporate law experience..?”

While Satoru pretends to be “dumb”, he comes from the Gojo financial conglomerate. He’s the epitome of being a “daddy’s money” “trust fund” baby.

He smiled. “Precisely. It’s paid, prestigious according to some accounts, and exclusive, according to my uncle. But you already have me. He recently told me that they're planning to receive applications and well, you'll be a favorite considering you have me."

“And if I lose..?”

Shoko shot you a saccharine smile. “You do our stats homework for the rest of the semester. All of it.”

You frowned, weighing the options of attention from your potential-future legal peers to stats homework. You hate that class. It was too annoying.

Higuruma’s face flashed in your mind for a second; his stupid thin wire-frame glasses and that stupid fucking face he makes when someone says something obviously dumb in class. His cocky demeanor also came to mind, making you frown.

You let out a deep exhale. “Fine, but when I succeed—and trust me, I will—I expect all of you to kneel to me during graduation.”

They smiled. 

“You’ve got it.”

                              ──────────────────── 

When you entered, the library smelled like old parchment, the smell of wood polish, and the presumable tears of first year students getting through exams. The sun gleamed over the area of the library from the large windows overlooking the rest of campus.

You glanced at your wristwatch and looked at the time, it being 4:25 in the afternoon. 

You had emailed Higuruma during your stats class to meet when the afternoon lecture was done at the library at 4:35.

The window seat with the two outlets was bare and you decided to station there while waiting for him. 

You placed your things and were finally starting to accommodate yourself and establish your amazing intellectual dominance with your long and cluttered notes. You typed away on a starting document, sharing him on it and sipping on your sadly overpriced matcha from the cafe by campus.

However, just when you were starting to find a bit of solace in your typing and rich matcha, you felt a shift and heard the doors clash open rather dramatically.

He was here.

Your eyes shifted in front of you, where you spotted Hiromi walking towards you—walking like he just walked out of a courtroom where his client was just fucking sentenced to death. 

Yeah, that type of ominous and serious presence.

He was dressed in a dark grey turtleneck, dark colored slacks, and some expensive looking, black leather loafers from the looks of it. And worst of all, he had his stupid little leather satchel that screamed ‘future pretentious law student’.

He looked like he jumped out of The Secret History; dark academia aesthetic and all.

“L/N,” he said, acknowledging you while he set his things down across from you on the table. 

“Higuruma,” you replied, not looking up from your laptop in fear of looking him in the eye. 

A little beat of silence passed amongst the two of you where he spoke—the same pretentious authority he usually spoke with. “I didn’t expect you to be early.”

“I didn’t expect you to show up at all, quite frankly,” you muttered, taking a sip of your matcha before realizing you actually said that out loud. 

You weren’t wrong when saying that. Amongst your peers in your Political Theory class, Higuruma had quite the reputation for being neglectful to his peers when it came to group projects, or so you’ve heard.

“May I look at these?” You felt relief that he ignored your stupid little quip and you nodded, sliding your notes from class over to him. 

You felt your face get warm and looked up to see him already reading your notes; he was taking out a legal pad and fucking Levenger fountain pens. His stupid expression was neutral but focused—analysing your notes. 

How annoying.

“So, I thought we could start with outlining the major arguments and split the sections based on the scope,” he said bluntly. Despite Higuruma being your age, you felt like you were speaking to one of your professors due to his demeanor; even more the reason to mess with him.

“No foreplay?” Your voice sounded more deadpanned than usual, which wasn’t on purpose. It slipped out, causing your face to turn warm, but it proved useful when it came to being the cause for Higuruma’s expression to be anything but a stone-cold one.

His expression faltered and his eyebrow twitched; the pen he was holding had its ink bleeding through the pages of his legal pad while he appeared to be thinking on what to say to your interesting choice of words.

He cleared his throat awkwardly. “...Excuse me?”

You shot him a smile: sweet and extremely fake. “Metaphorically, I meant. I was thinking of starting with a basic thesis breakdown before jumping into the actual structure of what we were going to discuss—before we get too far ahead of ourselves. Then, obviously, construct our abstract of the paper so execution can go smoothly.”

He stared at you blankly—like he didn’t know what to say again, before returning to his own notes and placing yours back to your side of the table. “Your choice of metaphor is quite…strange.”

You kissed your teeth and nodded. “Yup. I get that a lot. What can I say?”

Hiromi paused and glanced up at you, his gaze lingering a bit longer than expected for someone like him—like he was almost examining your face? You felt like a witness in court being cross-examined.

Your eyebrow raised. “Problem, Higuruma?”

“No…” he said, leaning his head onto his wrist. “Just confirming that you’re as unconventional as everyone says…”

Your smirk faltered and you leaned back in your chair. So the little bastard talks bad about you?

“That sounds like gossip. Didn’t take you for the type to indulge in that, Higuruma.” His expression was rather plain as his eyes were glued onto his screen as he wrote some things down in his legal pad.

“I’m not,” he said simply. “But your name has come up before.”

You blinked. 

What the fuck? 

You scoffed. “The hell does that mean?”

Higuruma didn’t answer, rather just turned his folder and passed you a printed outline of a running bibliography with disgustingly clean formatting of his APA citations and the precis on what he wrote. They were color coded by ideology and in alphabetical order with a key up top.

Fucking show-off.

You narrowed your eyes at him and scoffed a bit. You had barely gotten the email two days prior and he had a running bib that was 7 pages long front and back. 

“You do realize that this is just a student journal piece, right? Not a damn dissertation?”

He didn’t react, but instead, continued looking over his notes and typing some notes on his MacBook. “If you are going to write about something like post-democratic systems, it’s better to be precise and do it properly.”

You rolled your eyes at his stiff response and took the outline he placed on the table. From your peripheral, you noted how his eyes went to you and how he watched you do it.

You couldn’t help but admire the organization—how neat, logical, and useful it was. 

It was, unfortunately, useful and easy to work with.

“Okay,” you began. “I’ll take the opening section of the paper and look at Hobbes and Rousseau—some basics and classic theory. You can take modern structures. So like Hayek, Schmitt, and all that constitutionalism shit you obsess over during lecture.” You said the last part rather low in hopes that he wouldn’t hear you.

You looked up to see his expression and his lips twitched upward; he almost cracked a smile. Almost. 

“Fair.”

His tone was plain like always, but with a twinge of something else. You felt your stomach turn... For some reason you didn't feel irritated rather...

Your eyes widened a bit. “You didn’t argue.”

“Yeah,” he said. “I was hoping you would tell me about the structure. It helps me really look at what you’re good at so we could work together accordingly.”

What? He was waiting for you to announce who took what? And he thinks you're good at it? Isn’t he just a prick who doesn’t take that into consideration? 

Maybe he thinks you’re competent. You both were chosen and recommended by a professor. But he just admitted to talking shit about you? 

Or maybe Higuruma just doesn’t know how to word ‘I think you’re so awesome and deserve the first spot’ properly.

His comment caught you off guard and you looked at him for a moment, his eyes already on you. 

“Careful, Higuruma. I could mistake that for a compliment.”

“I know.”

You stared at him and maintained eye contact before you dropped your gaze back to your laptop and began using the running bib he had given you for some reference. It was a mix of some classic theories from class up to some other commentaries from different professors about this topic from other universities. 

But he almost complimented you?!

Shady fucking bastard.

Minutes passed and he didn’t joke, flirt, nor comment. But you felt on edge, like if you breathed too heavily, he could say something. However, you maintained your rhythm, not speaking a word until you were kicked out of the library and you ended your meeting with a simple ‘bye, see you next class’. 

He was rather dry and had you on the edge of your seat, and you hated that with a passion.

                              ────────────────────

You felt like the sun was going to blind you. You had forgotten your contacts and dealt with your glasses, with the sun specifically shining and reflecting on the glass of your lenses.

But it felt wrong feeling that way; despite it being rather chilly outside and perfect for sweater weather. It was a nice day—weather wise.

The lecture hall for your Political Inquiry class was still locked and you waited outside, leaning against the ivy-ridden, red brick wall of the building, looking at your surroundings. Your gaze followed the occasional cyclist and jogger who went by the trail in front of you. 

You felt your eyes close and you let out a deep exhale. The thought of what happened yesterday left you anticipating—for what? You didn’t know. 

You never had the chance to properly digest the fact you actually interacted with Higuruma alone. Maybe it was overthinking but, you couldn’t help but feel rather weird about it. Despite the initial joking with your friends, in hindsight, you didn’t know how to feel.

It wasn’t an unpleasant encounter, despite his unexpected quips here and there. Maybe you could work with him. But what about the bet? You needed that recommendation letter.

“L/N?” Your eyes flickered to the ground, meeting the sight of black leather loafers in front of you. You looked up to see Higuruma, pushing his wire glasses up the bridge of his nose and carrying a textbook. “What are you doing out here?”

“I–I mean…lecture?” You stammered, feeling your face warm for no reason. “Why? The lecture hall is closed and—”

“Didn’t you catch the email? Our professor wanted to meet in the library. I was just passing by to go.” His tone wasn’t mean but dry—clinical and superficial. Like you were another stupid classmate who didn’t know the difference between political ideals.

You narrowed your eyes at him, his expression plain. “I…didn’t know. Thanks, I guess, for letting me know. Unless you’re joking with me.”

He shook his head. “I’m not.”

You kissed your teeth and nodded. “Alright.”

You began walking down the trail and noticed how he walked beside you. The creeping heat in your cheeks returned and you felt like you couldn’t speak. 

He walked with such authority, like he was headed to a courtroom. And he smelled good—maybe cedarwood? You reached in your sweater’s pocket and pulled out your AirPods to cancel out the silence.

“What do you have so far for the paper?”

Your eyebrows raised and you hesitated. “I have a good 4 paragraphs done so far, but I’m definitely going to revise it when I get back. I’m definitely gonna add some structuralist angles and Rousseau. Then it would be much more intuitive.”

You noticed the manner in which his brow twitched. He hummed in acknowledgment to your words before he spoke up. 

“You write very…defensively,” he said looking at you sideways. “It’s not bad.”

You frowned. “Gee, thanks.”

“I’m not trying to offend you. It means you’re smart in your own way.”

You fought off a smile. “Is that…a compliment?”

“An observation.” His tone was flat, forcing you to laugh out of pure awkwardness. “You’re quoting? Correct?”

You snorted. “Of course. This isn’t a damn Buzzfeed article.”

Then you saw how the corners of his mouth twitched like he was going to smile at your quip. “That’s…fair.”

You took out your AirPod from your ear and placed it in the case snug in your pocket as you walked. Maybe he wasn’t as unbearable as always. 

“You said you’re starting with Hobbes, right?”

“Mhm. Framework-wise and then I’ll tie it all together. You?”

He nodded. “Well, I’m building off that with Hayek and market structure in constitutional states.”

You blinked. “That’s…not what I expected.”

“What did you expect?”

You shrugged. “I don’t know. I guess something more cutthroat. That’s how you are in class anyway…”

“So are you,” he shot back plainly. Like his words were so normal in the context of who he was. 

You stopped walking for a moment, your eyebrows furrowed while your mouth was agape at his bluntness. “Excuse me?”

“Well, I haven’t not noticed the fact that you’re the only person in our Political Theory who has had something to say to my commentary. I’m pretty sure everyone else doesn’t even care to be there.”

You felt your ego rise and a twinge of disbelief. Since when was he so direct? 

“Right…so you remember what I said?”

“It wasn’t a bad argument.”

“Uh huh…I’m honored.”

The sound of your sneakers clashed with the sound of his sleek loafers on the pavement and before you knew it, Higuruma had tapped you on the shoulder, phone in hand. 

“Would it be alright if I got your number?”

Your eyebrows furrowed at his words and he noticed. “Excuse me?” 

He blinked profusely and motioned his hands awkwardly. “Strictly for coordination. Email would be too tedious, especially with our course load. This would be the most convenient for the both of us.”

You hesitated for a moment before taking it. “Sure. But if you send me some political Instagram Reel bullshit at night, consider yourself blocked.”

A slight twinge of a smile graced his face before he nodded. “Noted.”

You smirked and shoved the AirPod back in your ear as the two of you walked again in peaceful silence to your lecture.

                                ──────────────────── 

“What do you think of the edits so far?” 

Higuruma is a punctual man, you were already aware of that. So much so that he established a schedule to meet twice a week every week for the next month and a half or so. 

That’s how you found yourself constantly leaving to the library once the afternoon lecture was over. And how you found yourself currently revising his part of the paper on his couch. The library was currently under renovations so you felt a bit surprised that Higuruma waited for you outside your stats class to “walk over to his place” to revise the paper. 

He had said it in such a calm and casual voice that you didn’t think anything of it. That was until you actually were in front of his apartment door, waiting for him to unlock it and enter. 

You were in your academic rival’s apartment. Alone. With him.

This was the last time you were going to revise this since the term was almost over. All that was left was submitting the piece and your final.

The actual apartment wasn’t as cold and scary as you thought. You spotted some pictures of him with his parents and what appeared to be a little novelty figure of a chess rook on a table, along with a little action figure. His apartment was also littered with bookshelves that were aesthetically organized and it was nice. 

Not what you thought. You imagined something painfully boring and beige, yet this was actually depicting some type of personality. 

You held your red pen and printed copy of your piece tightly, analyzing the structuring of his paragraphs while he did the same to yours. 

“For your Rousseau part,” he started,  “it needs a bit of restructuring. He sounds like he contradicts himself when speaking about natural liberty and civil liberty. The transition is too abrupt. Change it. Other than that, your argument is fairly strong and good.”

You narrowed your eyes at him from across the couch despite the twinge in your heart from his clear compliment about your writing. The two of you had been making final revisions for hours and you yawned, ignoring his commentary.

“Hiromi. Do you ever just turn it off? Like just relax...Okay?” Now you were full-on ignoring him, yet now, you have gotten to the point where you had gotten comfortable enough to do so. "Do you ever just... get on social media and talk shit or something? Reddit, Quora, maybe you're a little freak and you use Twitter."

His lips curved to a slight smile. “To do that, I’d need to be on social media constantly in the first place.”

You snorted. “Oh right. God forbid you don’t have the masses begging to access a piece of your intricate little mind.”

“You seem to have access just fine.”

You glared at him to which he looked at you deadpanned and covered his face with the printed paper he held. His ears were pink.

That was something in your mind too when it came to Higuruma, it was like a switch flipped.

When you had first met with him to look at the paper in the library, he was simply stoic and quite dense, dressed like he was to go to a courtroom after your meeting. But now, he still dressed like a pretentious law student, but he almost seemed like he was getting more casual. 

His attire shifted from Oxfords to casual Asics or Nike shoes, and from his knit sweaters and cardigans to sweatshirts from your college and such.

He was less blunt and ‘old man’ when he spoke to you. Now, he actually sounded like someone in your age range rather than an 80 year old professor on his 5th divorce (a.k.a, your current Political Theory professor). His tone shifted from completely academic to more human.

You had even started calling each other by your first names. 

Truth be told, you’ve really gotten quite comfortable with him.

You looked over to check the time on your phone, it being around 8:50.

“We’re probably gonna be here for a while, and I don't think you'd kick me out so suddenly. It’s the weekend tomorrow,” you said, yawning. “Let’s get some caffeine. I saw a coffee shop by here. Let’s go.”

To your surprise, Hiromi didn’t seem bothered by it. He hummed in agreement and nodded. 

He got up from the carpet and stretched. “Okay. Let me get my wallet and keys.”

You didn’t know why, but you felt your heart slightly flutter at the sound of his raspy voice. Even more so when you accidentally looked at him while he stretched and got the view of his toned lower stomach as his sweater lifted. 

It’s not like his outfit was anything out of the ordinary either; he wore his regular old purple sweatshirt that had your college crest embroidered on it and regular old jeans—however, it did look good on him. It...kinda...really did.

God, you felt like a 19th century prude. Seriously? Getting flustered over his lower stomach and boxers peeking out? Your ex-boyfriend would strip and you wouldn't feel anything but now?

“Are you okay, Y/N?” Hiromi looked at you concerned, keys and wallet in hand as he was putting on his shoes by the door of his apartment. You were still on the couch, head against your wrist and daydreaming.

You felt your face get warm and nodded profusely, grabbing your own wallet beside your phone on the coffee table and putting on your own shoes. “Yeah. Let’s go.”

The apartment complex he lived in was rather quaint, taking a good 3 minutes to get to the ground level from the emergency stairs. The cafe itself was also quite a short distance—only being some 4 blocks away. It seemed familiar but maybe it was because you were familiar with the area already.

The smell of coffee beans and lavender hit you while the two of you went over to the barista taking orders. 

“What can I get you two?” They asked, to which Hiromi answered. 

“May I get a medium black coffee and a small iced matcha with brown sugar?”

“15.98, please.” 

He handed the barista his card and waited for the transaction to pass where you then found yourself waiting for the order with him by the pick-up area. 

It was so quick, you didn’t know what to say.

“You remembered my order? I must be spending too much time with you,” you joked. “You didn’t have to pay. I could have.”

He didn’t say anything and you just went on your phone to see what games you could play while you waited. You felt a strange feeling at the fact that he remembered your order; so mundane and small yet…it left you with a weird feeling. You just couldn’t explain what it was. You felt warm.

Maybe it was courtesy on his behalf. You didn’t know—just that it felt a bit casual.

You placed an AirPod in your ear while waiting for the order to be completed, scrolling through your playlists. The cafe was littered with college students in presumably similar situations to finish their own individual papers. 

Maybe it was a bit of a cringe thing, but you began humming the lyrics of the song you listened to, and then noticed Hiromi moving a bit to look at you, specifically looking at the AirPod peeking through your hair. 

“What is it today?” He inquired, making note of your habit of listening to your AirPods when you weren’t speaking in public. 

“Oh. It’s The Smiths.”

Hiromi nodded slowly before he said something that nearly shook you to your core. “May I?”

You blinked slightly at his words. 

Never did you think someone like Hiromi Higuruma—the person you were in such a weird frenemy-ship with, would ask for an AirPod of all things. Something so mundane yet so…intimate? Or maybe you were over-thinking... What the hell?

“You want one?”

He didn’t verbally respond, rather extended his hand towards you. You looked at his blank face then at his hand—big, calloused—and took out your AirPod case to which you gave him the left one and placed it on his palm. 

He gently tucked it into his ear and listened to the music resuming for the both of you. It played a song off The Smiths’s The Queen Is Dead album—one of your favorites. You looked over to see Hiromi, slightly smiling. 

It was calm and gentle. You felt oddly at peace with the man you nearly professed your hatred to at your first meeting. 

You really were calm right now, really. But then—

“You bitch!” 

Holy shit, you thought your heart was about to jump out of your chest. 

You turned around to see lo and behold, your best friends Satoru, Shoko, and Suguru appeared out of thin air. In the fucking flesh. In the cafe right by Hiromi’s apartment.  

No wonder it felt so familiar. Those three idiots lived nearby.

“No fucking way,” you muttered. 

Hiromi looked confused and opened his mouth to say something until he noticed your order was ready and walked over to get it, where your triple threat set of friends walked over to you. Except from what you can tell, Suguru was missing, and was rather, next to your project partner.

“You’re such a slut.” Satoru said mockingly, pointing at your outfit up and down while giggling like a damn moron. 

“Oh shut it.” You sneered. He was right to note your outfit—but you swear it wasn’t to seduce Hiromi. Not in the slightest. The most it did was showcase cleavage.

“Tomorrow’s laundry day, you idiots.” You heard Hiromi cough from beside you, covering his face as he turned around with Suguru beside him.

You felt on edge considering their expressions; with Suguru having a smile while Hiromi looked rather contemplative. His eyebrows were furrowed and his lips were pursed, almost like he was anxious.

Shoko snickered. “It’s okay, girl.”

“Well, Satoru, Shoko, we should leave these two on their date. Wouldn’t wanna interrupt.” Suguru said, a sly smile playing on his lips. 

“Study break,” you corrected, feeling your face become flushed and warm. 

Hiromi nodded and you noticed the way that your friends smiled at each other and exchanged knowing glances.

His face was turning pink.

“Okay then. Bye, Y/N. Bye, Higuruma. Have fun.” Satoru called out. Rather ominously. 

You eyed the three of them as they left the cafe and waved at you from the window. 

“Are those your friends?” Hiromi quietly asked, leaning over to see if he could still spot your friends. His hand was awkwardly placed near his face where it was slightly covered.

“Unfortunately,” you said with an annoyed smirk. “I swear that their combined IQ is the equivalent that of a carrot’s.”

You heard him let out a slight chuckle. “Gotcha.”

He handed you your drink and the both of you walked over to leave the cafe after that strange encounter. You still were sharing your AirPods with him and the melody of a random, you were pretty sure, Radiohead song filled the silence. 

You glanced over to him, who was sipping his coffee rather calmly. You felt the tension and disdain for him slowly disappear and you walked in peace. Then, you turned to him with a teasing smile and asked, “So…what do you think of my lovely friends?”

Hiromi’s lips twitched to a slight smirk. “I recognize Ieiri and Gojo from my statistics class. Then, we have Geto in our political theory class and he’s also in my public speaking class. They seem alright. We don’t really speak.”

You hummed and nodded. “Right.”

He looked over at you and cleared his throat a bit, noticing the song transition. “What song is this?”

You checked your phone and showed him the screen— the title of "High and Dry” appearing beneath the album cover plastered on the home screen.

He nodded. “It’s good. The frontman sings really nice.”

"Mhm... I like him too." Your eyebrow quirked up. “You don’t seem the type to like alternative rock. I kinda doubted you'd even like this in the first place. Like yeah, this is quite basic but regardless...” 

You snorted. He didn’t seem the type to even like music at all and came off as someone who preferred white noise instead.

His eyebrows raised and he drank his coffee. “Do I really seem that type? Tell me, what music do you think I like?”

You smiled. “Probably some shit like Mozart? Bach? Dunno. Something smart like that.”

You felt your muscles relax and felt your cheeks warm. You felt comfortable in his presence despite having thoughts back to the stupid bet you made. 

Your heart fluttered at what happened next: he laughed, like an actual laugh.

Your eyes widened as you simply gawked at him laughing. It wasn’t a quick chuckle nor a scoff, he actually laughed. 

It was a melodic sound—something you didn’t expect from him of all people. It flowed natural and smooth despite his usually tired and deep sounding voice. 

You wanted to hear it again.

“Really? I seem like that? I know you’re quite the jokester but I’m not like that.” He smiled at you, and all you did was simply gawk at him like he gained a third head.

You shrugged. “You give off those vibes. But hey, I’d love to get music recommendations from the great Hiromi Higuruma someday. Who knows? Maybe I’ll find my next favorite song.” You said, unaware of his raised eyebrow at your words. 

He didn’t seem opposed. 

“You use Spotify, right? We can make a shared playlist. We can listen to it while we make some final edits to the paper.”

“Oh! Sure.” You stopped for a second before handing him your phone where he made a blank playlist and shared his own Spotify profile. 

You took your phone back and raised an eyebrow at the title of the playlist. “Poli-Sci Journal Playlist? Is that the best you could come up with? How dry.”

“You choose then, if you have such a problem with my chosen playlist title.”

And before you were going to respond, he spoke up. “We’re here.”

The casualness between you two made you feel warm. Especially considering the fact that he was now initiating it; it made you feel like you weren’t annoying him. Like the quips you let out weren’t just one-sided. 

Like you had nothing to really “hate” on him for. You initially hated him for being dry, but as of now he was anything but.

You were lost in thought while taking the elevator to his apartment where he tapped your shoulder. 

“C’mon.”

“Right.”

Once you reached his apartment, you got readjusted onto the couch, grabbed the coasters he had lying around in the coffee table, and placed your matcha there. 

He walked over to the couch and sat by you, on his phone. Surprisingly.

You smiled and attempted to peer over his shoulder to see his screen. “Talking to your girlfriend, Higuruma?” You didn't know why that quick quip you threw at him made your chest feel heavy. Maybe it was because you were worried about that he would say... but you could always pass it off as you joking...?

His eyebrow raised at your quip and shrugged, handing you his phone. “That’s up for interpretation, I guess,” he paused and glanced at you, smiling shyly. “Here, I added some songs to the playlist.”

You took it and looked at it. “‘Lover, You Should’ve Come Over’? ‘About You’? 'To the End'? I think it’s safe to assume you don’t have a girlfriend, but hey. These are really good songs.” Again, your chest began to feel heavy.

“That’s up to your interpretation. But yeah, I enjoy those songs.” His voice sounded like as if he was nervous—like he was trying something new, but you decided not to question it despite it being out of character from his usual authoritative nature.

You went back onto analyzing the paper and read it—anything to avert your attention from him and his stupid face. His phone was playing the songs the two of you had chosen on the playlist. 

As of now, The 1975 was playing, a popular song of their's that you've heard on the radio before, filling the slight silence in the apartment. You loved the song—but felt anxious—you felt antsy.

Still, one thing was on your mind: why was he being so cryptic?

You sat on the couch with him, analyzing a draft paragraph on theory of fairness when you noticed his expression changed as you leaned closer. 

You noted the change in his gaze from your peripheral; the manner he leaned against the edge of the couch and the way he was just looking at your figure. It was methodical, careful—almost reverent.

You glanced back at him. His eyes lingered on the slope of your neck, the pretty shape of your lips, to finally the allure of your eyes. 

The lamplight, all warm and dimmed, softened his features. 

In the light, he didn’t look like the same harsh classmate that executed everything he did in a precise manner.

The shadows softened his features in a way that could make angels cry and he looked like a muse for a classical Roman statue. The way his pretty lips parted like he was going to say something, the way his eyes softened under your returning gaze and the way his nose looked so sharp yet alluringly sexy. 

You felt a clench in your chest at the thought, at the effect he had on you. His expression was unreadable. 

You swallowed and cleared your throat. “This is perfect now, Hiromi. I think that we did pretty good…” Your voice was a bit shaky, anxious-sounding. 

You were just blabbering about the topics covered when he suddenly interrupted you.

“You’re always so confident, L/N.“

You became stiff. His voice was lower—deeper, almost seductive. It had an edge you couldn’t explain.

He tilted his head slightly and the corners of his lips curved. “Is that to our—my benefit?”

The pronunciation of his words left you breathless—the way he said ‘my’ left shivers down your spine. 

Maybe it was the caffeine and sleep deprivation making you think in such a manner. Despite that, you couldn’t deny how aggravatingly good he looked. How much you felt drawn to him—not by lust but by the natural law of attraction. 

His mannerisms, his rhetoric, everything. His tone wasn’t deadpan, rather lifted by a charm you couldn’t explain.

You slightly smiled, your voice dripping with tease to appear calm. Anything to appear like he didn’t have such a visceral effect on you. 

“Do you want it to be, Hiromi?”

The smooth roll of his name on your tongue felt foreign, usually being said quick and easy but now having a different weight. 

“You don’t even flinch when I speak in class anymore.” His voice was calm but there was a twinge of dissatisfaction in his words. 

“You would have some type of reaction. A glance, sigh. That little frown you have when you disagree with something I want to say.”

He leaned his head against his wrist while he looked at you with an analytical gaze. He was looking at you like you were a court case he had to revise for class—same intense look. “No reaction from you anymore.”

So he does that on purpose. 

You shot him a grin. “Because why not? I have nothing of substance to say. What can I say? I only argue when needed.”

“I think I miss it,” he muttered. His gaze averted from you and you felt a pang in your chest. 

“Maybe I’ve grown” He glanced at you, your words dripping with unexpected sarcasm. “Y’know, selective silence is my new thing. Gotta keep them on their toes.”

He hummed. “It keeps the lecture interesting when you do so. You should keep doing that. I at least knew someone paid attention to what I say.”

You didn’t respond immediately and averted your gaze over to his collarbone out of shyness. Like if you kept staring at his eyes, you would start screaming out of embarrassment.

“I notice,” you murmured. “You don’t have to worry about me not listening.”

He let out a deep exhale. “You’re difficult, you know that? You say things and sometimes I’m not even sure you mean it.”

You smiled. “I mean you’re not wrong. Sometimes I just talk and talk…”

His gaze was still on you and you lightly laughed at your predicament. “I’m shocked I didn’t talk your ear off yet. I’ve been expecting you to tell me to shut up but nothing…”

“Okay. Then stop talking.”

Your eyes widened and lips parted. His words weren’t with malice or offense rather low and breathless. Like he didn’t think about what he just said. 

“That simple, hm?” Your laugh turned almost bitter, dry. He sat closer to you and you could smell his cedarwood cologne closer to the point where your senses were drawn. 

“Nothing with you is ever that simple.”

Your fingers were intertwined with your red gel pen, flicking it against the edge of your fingers as you tapped it on your knee. But with his stupid words, you accidentally flung it. 

Such a simple move like leaning forward to grab it affected him. You moved your shoulders to prevent them from being stiff and you ran your fingers through your hair without thinking.  By the time you turned over to him, you met his gaze. It wasn’t just intense, rather like he was starving. 

“Should I be worried?” You asked. “You look at me the same way you look at the documents we’re covering. You got this intense look in your eye, so I can’t help but feel a little nervous.”

He looked like he was caught off guard. “Really?”

“Mhm. Makes me feel like I’m about to be cross-examined, counselor.”

He pinched the bridge of his nose and exhaled sharply, a ghost of a laugh escaping his lips from the stupid nickname. “It’s not that…You just…throw me off.”

Your eyebrow raised in an amused manner. “Really, Hiromi? That’s not very academic of you, I fear. Not very Hiromi of you.” You shot him a meek smile, like you were unsure... and quite frankly you were. It felt as if you were tethering on the edge of him telling you to either get out, or you on the verge of pouncing on him and kissing him. Hard. 

“Yeah…I know.” He let out a small, pitiful laugh. For a moment, he didn’t look at you, rather his gaze drifted to the floor. Like he was nervous.

“The first week of class, I overheard you telling Geto that I spoke like a scary litigator.”

You blinked. “I did?”

He nodded. “Was that a moment where you spoke without thinking?”

You felt that pang in your heart again. This was too intimate, too much to bear. It mirrored a confession scene like in those movies you watched and you felt nervous. You realistically had no reason to; he was someone your friends bet on, not someone you should fall for.

“Well,” you shot him a nervous smile, “you kind of do. And you sound professional. Cutthroat.”

He stayed quiet until he hesitantly spoke. “If anything, you’re the same…”

Your breath caught in your throat. That wasn’t flirting…that was something else.

“I don’t really know what to do with that,” you whispered. 

He looked at you again with that same intense gaze. “I—neither do I…”

The pen you’d thrown earlier rolled slightly across the floor with the shift of your knee, but neither of you moved to get it.

You could feel your heartbeat in your ears and felt how warm your face had gotten. 

He leaned back slightly, like he was going to speak but slightly hesitated. “I thought that if I acted like this didn’t affect me then it would carry on and not…”

“And how’s that working for you now?” you asked. 

He hesitated. “Not working. Not in the slightest.”

The silence engulfed the both of you, except the sound of the train and cars outside along with the playlist still ringing on his phone— specifically a Radiohead song. 

It was impossible to ignore how you felt. Impossible to ignore how he made you feel. So you leaned in ever so slightly; possibly an inch. 

He met you the rest of the way. 

Just like that. And you didn’t stop him. Not even in the slightest.

He tasted like the black coffee he drank, vanilla chapstick, and smelled like his annoyingly expensive, woody cologne that drove your senses on overdrive. 

His lips moved with vigor and desperation. It was a move of pure desire—different from pure lusting rather it being anticipation. 

Like he’s been waiting to do this for a while. And the way he held you was like he was afraid of breaking you.

You didn’t push back rather wrapped your arms around his neck and pushed him onto you; the both of you were laid onto his couch, him on top of you while your lips moved with even more aggression. 

Your fingers clutched the hem of your jeans and his hand grazed your cheek. He pulled back slightly, looking in your eyes like he was looking for your reaction.

You shot him a half-frown, albeit flustered. “Was that supposed to shut me up?”

For the first time, you felt butterflies in the manner that he smiled at you; it was cute and sexy. “It worked. Didn’t it?”

“I’ve been thinking of doing that…” he muttered. For the first time, you don’t think you’ve ever heard him sound so unsure and not confident in his words. Like he was anxious on your reaction and response.

You swallowed and let out a jagged exhale. “Me too…”

His gaze brightened towards you. Then you latched your lips onto his with just enough aggression to make him want more as he held your face with one hand and placed the other on your hip.

His hands roamed over your body, hesitant to feel you. You grabbed him by the collars of his stupid sweatshirt and felt his body weight and warmth against yours. 

Fuck Hiromi Higuruma. 

Him and his nonchalant demeanor, shitty awkward smile, shitty know-it-all personality. Even the way his hair was styled that day and his little wrist-watch pissed you off. 

But God…you wanted to fuck him so bad in that moment. You wanted to touch and feel all of him.

“Touch me…please,” you murmured in the heat of the moment. You looked at him, foggy glasses and flushed face. Your tinted lip gloss was smeared on his lips and he blinked profusely at your words. 

“Okay.” His hands fiddled with the front of your jeans as he slid them off. His eyes widened at the sight of your pink panties all soaked and at your beautiful toned legs. 

Hiromi looked up at you for reassurance; as if he didn’t know what he was doing. 

You smiled. “Do you know how?”

His face got redder and he blinked, slowly shaking his head ‘no’. “I—I want to try.”

“I’ll help you.” You grabbed his wrists and guided them to the waistline of your panties. His breath became shaky and you leaned forward to kiss him. 

“Do you trust me?” You whispered, eyes filled with need. 

He nodded profusely. “Yes.”

You guided his dominant hand down to your folds and clit. Your fingers adjusted his own so that his thumb was on your clit while his ring and middle fingers played with your folds—aching for his touch. 

“Oh my God…Hiro— k-keep doing that…” Your breathing became shaky as he kept rubbing at your clit and his fingers curled into you. He continued his pace while you grabbed at his wrist in reaction to his touch. 

You moved your hips to feel his fingers further as they thrusted inside you. 

Your lips latched onto his one more time; the action overtaken with lust and need, like you absolutely needed each other.

“Damn it…” he muttered, feeling the way your pussy clenched around his long fingers. 

He brought his arousal-slicked fingers and put them in his mouth, savoring the sweet taste of your pussy. 

“Fuck…You’re so damn sweet.”

Hiromi glanced at you again and parted his lips in hesitation. “Y/N? May I try something?” 

You shot him a glance and nodded. “Of course.”

Hiromi nodded, a smile playing on his lips while he leaned back, positioning his face by your bare pussy; wet, puffy, and desperate for him. 

Your lips parted as you felt him go down on you, calloused and large hands gripping your soft, smooth, lush thighs. 

“Please let me know if I’m doing okay.”

You fought off a smile at his words and nodded. You felt the presence of his tongue licking the slit of your pussy while you felt his nose rub on your clit. 

His tongue slowly entered your hole to which you gripped on his black hair in reaction while the point of his nose rubbed on your puffy clit.

Your hips bucked against his face, moving them up and down so deliciously. The sound of him slurping up your pussy drove you mad. His calloused hands gripped your thighs and his thumbs traced circles on your skin: littered with goosebumps at the sensation of him eating your pussy out. 

He ate you out like a starved man, gripping your inner thighs with more strength as he tilted his head while working his tongue. You felt your back arch as your breathing turned almost jagged, feeling his moans against your core.

“Y-You’re doing so good, Hiro…Fuck.” You shut your eyes, feeling the way that little knot in your stomach was inching towards release the more his nose rubbed your clit and thrusted his tongue in and out like he was insatiable for your sweet taste.

You felt your legs shake over his shoulders and that knot slowly undo itself; where you came and shuddered as he slurped even louder. 

“Did I do alright..?” He lifted himself up to see you; his face was absolutely pink and his glasses were resting on the top of his head. His lips and nose were glistening with your arousal and you fought off a smile at the sight.

“More than alright.” You moved yourself to kneel before him, working with the buckle of his belt and sliding his pants and briefs down. Your legs slightly shook at the foreign position but you began stroking his cock: large, veiny, and certainly girthy.

You took his cute strawberry-tinted tip leaking with pre in your mouth, licking it slightly. Your hand worked at the base of his cock, stroking it while his tip stayed in. The taste of his salty sweet cum in your mouth made you feel almost needy for more as you took him whole. 

Tears began brimming at your eyes as you looked up at him, eyes closed and lips parted as he said your name like a prayer. His breathing became more jagged and his forehead gleamed with sweat already, a string of curses leaving his lips. 

“Mm…” He squeezed his eyes shut cutely as your tongue teased his cock slightly, giving him butterfly kisses until you took him whole again. His cock twitched and you sucked him further, squeezing his thighs from how fast you were going. 

You slurped on his cock further, milking him dry from his release in your mouth. His hands gripped on your hair as you did so, his voice cracking with every whine, and you’ve never felt more aroused.

You wiped the corners of your lips and swallowed. “Now fuck me. Please, Hiro.” Your widened doe eyes looked up at him, still on your knees. He blinked, nodding to your immediate request. 

He stripped off his upper half and lifted your shirt up as well. You poked his chest for him to sit down on the couch as you unclipped your bra.

His hooded eyes were glued onto your cute breasts, perky from the cold air hitting them. His gaze roamed on your body; all bare and beautiful in the dim, golden light of his lamp illuminating the place.

“God, you’re beautiful…” he muttered, his gaze mirroring that of before: analytical except there was that hint of gentleness that seemed to overtake the rest of his expression. 

“You flatter me too much,” you murmured, climbing on top of him slowly as you felt his hard on against the inner of your thighs. Your lips met his neck as you kissed it softly; simultaneously, you felt his hands roam on your body again, massaging your ass as you grind against his cock. 

You noticed how he swallowed and touched you like he didn’t know what to do, and you smiled. 

“You’re a damn tease,” he said, letting out a breathless laugh.

“I’m aware, but I know you like it too.” 

You grabbed his cock from the small space between the two of you and stroked it slowly, giving it a few pumps. Your hips bucked up as you aligned the tip of his cock to your puffy, wet slit. 

“I’ve got you,” he whispered, looking at you as he followed your instruction. You wrapped your arms around his neck as you slowly adjusted yourself.

You moved your hips to the side and shifted your weight on your knees as you went up and down his cock. You could feel every pulsating vein and how lengthy yet filling his cock was to your tiny pussy, begging for him to fuck you. 

“Move. Fuck me. Please.” You said it in such a manner that your voice cracks and whiny tone almost unlocked something in him. His slow touches on your ass became rougher, with more weight and force.

His hips went at a damn near animalistic pace, rutting into you with vigor as his hands maneuvered your ass. The pitter-patter sound of your soaked thighs meeting his echoed through the apartment loudly and that alone made you whine, feeling the sticky and hot skin with every move of the hips.

“Ahh…F-Fucking damn it,” you whined, scratching at his tan toned biceps; they were so defined, strong. Your face was buried in the crook of his neck as you felt him pant against your warm skin. Hiromi had pressed your body closer to his, your perky breasts against his toned chest while he fucked you with finesse.

“Don’t stop, please,” he groaned, the raspy sound of his voice leaving you with butterflies in your stomach and your pussy fluttering around his cock.

“Fuckfuckfuckfuck—Y/N…” he closed his eyes and held you tighter, the sensation of him bottoming out only had you squeezing your eyes shut and knees bucking. It was warm, leaving you filled up with serotonin and his cum. 

You kept riding him, feeling how your release was approaching and how your pussy squeezed on him. Hiromi let out such raspy moans that it led you to quicken your pace; such alluring yet seductive sounds coming out of the lips of someone you should hate. 

“Fuck—Hiromi..!” You felt yourself soon reaching your climax and throwing your head back, wanton moans slipping from your lips as your hips gyrated back and forth slowly until you stopped.

You felt your body slump down against him, panting while a sheen of sweat decorated your skin as you both breathed heavily in attempts to catch your breath. He held you gently—with such care as if you were made of sugar, about to crumble on his fingers.

His fingertips brushed on the skin of your hips while he kissed the crown of your head. You were laid on his chest and could hear how rapid his heartbeat was—and how it was matching your own.

There was no sassy quip you could come up with nor any dramatic diss you could throw on him. It was silent between you two, except for the beeping of cars and the train outside. 

You felt your heart clench at your current state: clung to him while he was still inside you.

You couldn’t deny your feelings at your current situation. 

You attempted to get out of his grasp but he held you tighter. 

“Stay the night,” he whispered. It was such a simple offering but your face got warm again. You couldn’t.

“I–I don’t know…”

“Please, love.”

There was a beat of silence before you let out a deep exhale, his nickname causing your heart to beat faster. He spoke to you with gentleness, care. The authority in his voice that you’d gotten used to was dimmed, and your heartbeat sped up.

“Okay.”

You couldn’t deny the sensation in your chest just thinking of the vulnerable state you were in. Letting someone like him see.

You’ve come to the unfortunate conclusion that you’ve gained feelings—and now face a weird ultimatum.

Give up your pride, tell him the truth, and risk not getting that rank; or getting that rank no matter the cost. 

And at that moment, you didn’t know. So for then, you just stayed in his arms, and closed your eyes. 

                               ──────────────────── 

You weren’t one to call for an emergency meeting, but this time, you had no choice but to. 

Shoko had barely sat down before raising an eyebrow at your nervous demeanor. “Something happened. Didn’t it?” Her voice was flat and deadpan. 

Satoru and Suguru were across from you and mid-sip their coffees before they exchanged a knowing glance. They both looked at you, your appearance and demeanor.

“You slept with him,” Suguru said bluntly, like he was absolutely positive and all-knowing. "...Right?"

Your lack of response gave you away and Suguru and Shoko lightly laughed while Satoru’s jaw dropped. 

“Hold up…” Satoru leaned in like he was telling you a secret and shot you a shocked look. “You fucked that guy?”

Your face burned and you looked away. “Stop...: 

“No fucking way,” he murmured, “You’re telling me you actually slept with Higuruma? You’re lying…”

You let out a deep exhale and buried your face in your hands. “I’m not lying.”

Suguru had an amused look on his face and pointed at the sweatshirt you were wearing—the law firm’s insignia embroidered on the left side of the chest. Specifically the law firm’s insignia Higuruma interned at.  

“That’s his. I’ve seen him wear it during midterms.”

You groaned and covered your face meekly. “I didn’t mean for that to happen. I mean—It just happened. And now I feel like I’m gonna be sick and I don’t know what to do…”

“Probably because you like him. Like really like him,” Shoko said, matter-of-fact. 

You blinked at her like she had three heads. “What?”

“Look, you dense girl,” Suguru added, “If you didn’t, you wouldn’t be spiraling like this.”

You slumped in your seat and groaned, your coffee untouched and cooled. “Look, I’ve been thinking…about ending the bet. Like no more, calling it off for good. He’s not who I thought he was and he’s really nice…”

Shoko leaned back smugly and extended her hand towards Satoru, earning a glare from him. “Pay up, good sir.”

He sighed and slapped a crumpled twenty dollar bill from his wallet into her palm. 

Suguru chuckled. “You were the one who said he ‘probably had no game’ or am I mistaken?”

Satoru pouted. “Still does but I guess his whole…melodramatic intense poli-sci vibe works…Maybe I should consider trying that.”

Shoko snorted. “Right…I’m sure every girl on campus would love to hear you rant about the philosophy behind finance bros,” to which Satoru flipped her off. 

They were teasing, sure, but none of it felt mean. 

“We get it,” Shoko continued, her tone softer and understanding. “You’re not doing it for just the game anymore. That’s understandable.”

You sighed. “I don’t even know if he feels the same way…”

Satoru shrugged. “Tell him regardless. As much of an ass that he might be, he deserves to know.”

Suguru nodded, a knowing smile gracing his face. “Worst case? He doesn’t feel the same. But now you wouldn’t have to be on eggshells. Do it.” 

You nodded slowly, your stomach churning. But even if they might be stupid sometimes, your friends were definitely right. 

────────────────────

He hadn’t texted you all week, until today. 

His message was brief, curt—“Let’s go over final revisions before the journal deadline.” Despite the paper already being turned in to the department head. 

Still, there you were: outside his apartment and cold from the wind outside. Your palms felt clammy and your hair was still wet from the shower. You did your routine the best you could for the whole week yet you couldn’t shake the feeling of the pit in your stomach residing every time you thought about him. 

That even caused you to sit all the way in the back during lecture; somewhere he couldn’t hear or see you.

“Y/N…” Hiromi looked at you, his gaze shifting from one of hesitance to one of worry. His eyes narrowed at the way you were pacing outside of his door and went to a stop the moment he opened the door. "Are you alright? Come in."

You slowly stepped inside, your body suddenly going stiff as the intimate smell of cedarwood and eucalyptus hit you. The apartment was dimly lit, courtesy of the lamps in Hiromi's living room. Yet, everything felt different. 

You turned around, standing in the center of his apartment with your arms crossed to your chest. He shut the door and watched you carefully. "You...didn't bring your laptop."

"No," you said. "I didn't bring it."

You met his gaze for a second and looked away. The view of his eyes: narrowed and emotion practically leaking from his look, made you feel guilty—sick. 

"Hiromi, just...please stop." You whispered softly. Despite the bustling city life of downtown, it was like everything was silent between the two of you, slow. 

His eyebrows slightly furrowed but he didn't move from where he was. "Okay."

You swallowed and cleared your throat. "I know this isn't about the paper," you started, your voice low and hesitant. "And I know I've been avoiding you and not speaking to you, but I didn't want to say anything until I knew how...I felt."

"There was a bet.”

He didn’t react—not at first.

You kept talking before you lost all your nerve. "Back when we got paired for the journal, my friends thought it would be funny if I got you to fall for me or to piss you off. And if I did, then they would help with getting a recommendation letter from Kitagawa."

You paused for a moment, swallowing the immense guilt you felt bubbling in your chest. "At first...I didn't think it would matter. You were so...closed off, focused. I thought it would be harmless and a joke."

You looked up and you felt your heart crack at his still expression; he was looking at you like you were a person in your lecture saying something stupid. And you didn't blame him, you couldn't. Not in the slightest.

"But then I got to know you. The way your mind works and the way you speak when you think I'm not listening and how kind you are and how you have such strong fucking integrity."

You looked to the side, to the living room, and exhaled sharply. "And it stopped being a joke. And I didn't know how to come clean without ruining everything, so I just...stopped. Because I liked—like—you. And I hated myself for it.”

There was a pregnant pause between the both of you. It was silent—but you didn't feel any hostility. Despite that, you could practically feel your pulse in your ears.

Then he spoke, calm, collected. Like he was restraining himself. 

"Thank you for telling me."

You blinked. His tone was completely calm. "Y-You're not mad..?"

He let out a slow breath. "I don't know what I am right now."

Hiromi ran a hand down his face and then looked at you again—not with anger or resentment rather something close to prostration, like he was hurt. 

"I had a feeling something was off. Especially after that...night." 

He paused and ran his fingers through his hair, pushing his glasses up the bridge of his nose shortly after. "I didn't reach out because I didn't want to make you uncomfortable. I thought maybe you regretted it, because you were very quick to leave soon after."

You opened your mouth to speak, to say something, but you literally couldn't.

"I've been thinking about it all week," he said, his voice cracking the slightest amount. "And not just that night but you. The way you laugh when you're trying not to be nervous. The way you argue when you know you're right—which is almost all the damn time. The way you snap your fingers when you figure something out."

Your heart felt like it was going to break. 

"I like you," he said, his voice slightly above a whisper. "I really like you. Even if it started with those intentions. Even if I don't know what to do with all of that. All I know is that I’ve never done something like this before—liked someone how I like you.”

Your body moved before you could even process everything he just told you and took a step forward. Then you felt his arms snake around your waist, engulfing you in his pretty cederwood scent that you liked so much.

Then, he spoke softly, face buried in your hair. "For the record, if it even matters, I was going to call you. A dozen damn times."

Your lips curved into a smile. "Why didn't you?"

"Thought I would come across as too strong or pushy. Or that everything that happened was a figment of my imagination."

You snorted at his words, despite the tears brimming at the corners of your eyes. "You didn't."

He smiled too—a real genuine smile. Not those forced ones he gives professors rather one that simply came about. Your heart clenched at the sight. 

Hiromi hummed and he lightly laughed before speaking. "I guess I should go thank Geto."

Your eyebrows furrowed at the mention of your friend and he laughed again. "What the hell? For what?"

"He told me to 'man the hell up because it's obvious'. He said you liked guys who made the first move."

You slightly blinked. "So that's why you were so...confident?"

His smile dropped and a look of concern flashed on his face. "Was it that bad?"

You giggled and covered your face. "A little slutty, I can't lie."

He kissed his teeth and his lips twitched. "Damn. I tried, though."

You extended your hand and held his, intertwining your fingers together. "For what it's worth, though...I liked it. Maybe a bit too much."

And then, before you could make another stupid joke, he caught your face between his warm hands, catching your lips with his in a slow kiss. 

You didn't pull away. And you didn't want to.

────────────────────

He told you to keep a gun, and you told him you’d be fine, when really you just didn’t trust yourself with it. You keep your pills in a lockbox and all your sweatpants haven’t have drawstrings since you were a teenager. A gun feels like you’re asking for trouble, and you weren’t brave enough to think about what trouble could look like. 

When you had—in the dark, while Jason was off doing night shifts—it always came in different forms. Gas suddenly filling the halls, the door breaking down, someone pulling you off into a dark alley and not caring for your pleas. You’ve lived in Gotham long enough to know what trouble could be, even if you tried not to dwell on it. 

But this was more than trouble. 

This was danger.

And you aren’t brave. 

“Lock the door,” Jason had said, right before he left for work. “Don’t answer it for anyone but me, and make sure you ask-“

“For the password.” You’d finished for him, giving him a soft smile. “I know, Jay, we do this every night.”

“I know, babe, but-“

“It’s so I’m safe?”

He’d sighed. “I know it’s a lot but-“

“It’s not a lot.” You’d shrugged. “I’m just telling you I know.”

Jason had scanned over you, nodded—mostly to himself—then folded over you in a long hug.

“I’ll be back in the morning.” He’d muttered, face buried in the crook of your neck. “Call me if there’s even just fuckin’ wind you don’t trust, and-“

“You’ll come home.” You’d hummed, tangling your fingers in his hair. “I know. Be safe.”

Jason had grunted, and you’d swallowed it again. The I love you. Don’t be brave and jump in front of a bullet on patrol, because I love you. 

But he doesn’t know. That you know what his night shifts are, and why he’s so paranoid about your safety. 

You’d always hoped that one day, he’d tell you.

You’d never been brave enough to ask.

And he’d been holding you off the ground, before he left. He always held you like that. Like you were going to try and run away from him, or some invisible force would rip you out of his arms. 

He’d left, and you’d listened to him. Blinds closed, lights off, door locked. Watching TV on a laptop, so people didn’t see the glow of the TV. 

But it hadn’t been enough. You don’t think it ever would’ve been, but it had been a nice illusion. Something had smashed, out in the living room. You hadn’t had that gun, and you’d tried to call Jason, but you hadn’t been fast enough. And now you’re in danger, and you’re not fucking brave enough to get yourself out. 

Because Jason taught you how to break out of handcuffs—he’d seemed to think you wouldn’t, for one second, question why he knew that when he allegedly ran an underground chop shop—but if you do, there’s no way you’ll be able to run without being caught. You’re stuck under a dramatic spotlight, with Harley Quinn singing to herself and watching you. 

She keeps trying to make conversation. She even took off your gag, after an hour. 

You’re staying silent. It’s your best bet to make it out of here alive. 

“Did I tell ya you’re pretty?” She leans forward, and you just stare at her. “I don’t know how the bats get all you cuties to work for them. Mr. J offers dental, y’know. And I know you ain’t getting’ paid a you fair fuckin’ salary, cause corporations are a buncha fuck-face ding-dongs. We’d pay you better, if you’d wanna flip.” She traces a hand over your cheek, and you force yourself to stay still. “I bet Batman ain’t even payin’ you at all. You look like a smart gal, though, so you gotta be in it for somethin’.”

Silent. Your best bet is silent-

“Mr. J don’t pay me.” Harley muses, mostly to herself, smushing your cheeks as if you’re a child. “That why you’re with ‘em? For love?”

You don’t move. Or breathe. And Harley sees it. 

“Oh, it is for love! Aw, you’re so cute.” She shakes your face, smile almost manic as she gasps. “Oh, you gotta know his identity, right? You’ve seen under that spooky, sexy cowl-“

You can’t stop the bitter curl of you lip, a little sickness forming at the idea of fucking Bruce, and Harley sees that too. 

“Not the bats, huh? Hm.” She angles your face around, like the answer will be written on your skin. “Then who are you goin’ all puppy on, sugar? You into bendy, brainy, or shooty-“

“Harley.” A mocking voice cuts through the warehouse, and Harley’s smile grows. “Stop playing with our food, we need her alive so Batman can see her die, that’s the whole fuckin’ point-“

“She’s not with the bats, puddin’!” Harley spins away, and a ragged breath escapes your throat. “She’s sweet on one of his associates-“

“Do I look like I care?” Joker snaps, and suddenly he’s right in front of you. Pale and scarred and ugly, something twisted right under his face that makes him so ugly. “Hey there, little girl. They’re gonna come for you, aren’t they. And then,” he laughs, and the sound crawls over your skin. “Well, I got a big show planned, and an even bigger finale! You’re gonna be a star.”

You just stare at him, and he frowns. 

“Harley?”

“Yeah, Mr. J?”

“Has she been this grumpy the whole time?”

“She has.” Harley whines, appearing over the Joker’s shoulder. “Wouldn’t even play with me! It’s the right gal, but maybe she’s sorta dull in the head-“

The Joker laughs. “No, she ain’t. Look at her.” He grabs your face—a little tighter than Harley did—and pulls your lips into a grin. “You’re just afraid, aren’t you doll. You know why you’re here, and it’s so scary.” 

He’s mocking you. You still don’t react.

Something flashes over the Joker’s face, and his words morph to a sneer. 

“You been spending too much time around those bores of vigilantes, don’t know how to have fun? Don’t worry.” He slaps your cheek, and you bite your tongue to fight the sting. “We’re gonna have a good time together. All you gotta do is wait here, and when I’m back, we’ll play.”

You swallow the bile, and remain still. You’re not brave, but you won’t break either. The Joker scoffs, and vanishes back into the shadows, grumbling something about how annoying it is that you won’t just fucking cry. Harley plants a kiss on your cheek, then runs after him, and you’re alone.

Not dead yet. 

Still alone. 

And there’s a lot of time to think in the dark. A lot of time for your life to flash before your eyes, before the gun is even pointed at your temple. 

But you don’t even really think about your life. Not the shadows and hospital and nights behind a locked bathroom door. 

Jason.

All you can think about is Jason. 

———

You don’t know how it happened. 

You keep to yourself. Don’t go out after nightfall, stay away from dark corners and highly populated areas. And lowly populated areas. Mostly you just go to work, then go back to your apartment. It’s safer like that. Lots of people means mass attack. No people means isolation, an easy target. 

But it happened anyway.

And it started with him.

He didn’t even save you. He just appeared in the basement, when you’d been doing laundry. 

“Hey, dollface.” Someone had groaned from the shadows, and you’d frozen. “Can you close the door behind you?”

You’d listened. Kicked it back with your foot, gripping your laundry like it would possibly be able to do anything, if you were attacked. Then he’d emerged from the shadows, and you hadn’t even been able to scream. 

The Red Hood. In your basement. Suit tattered, mask still very much in place, staring at you. Maybe staring at you. 

It was sort of hard to tell.

“You’re not on of Black Mask’s goons.” He’d said slowly, and you’d shaken your head. “You live here?”

“Yes, sir-“

“Don’t call me sir,” he’d muttered. “I’m not- Do you think I’m gonna kill you?”

You’d stared at him for another second, then shaken your head. If he wanted to, he would have. And he was still sticking to the shadow, face tilting up to the door every few seconds, body braced like he was worried you’d attack. But he was huge. You wouldn’t stand a chance, even if he was unarmed.

But he was still tensed. 

And you really didn’t think he’d attack you. 

You’d been right. Red Hood had stepped off to the side, and let you do your laundry. 

“You have a lotta clothing.” He’d said, and you’d shot him a frown. 

“So?”

“Nothin’.” He’d shrugged. “Just, uh- I can’t leave yet. Conversation. Do you wear those skirts?”

“No, they’re decoration.”

He’d stared at you, you’d stared back, and when he’d spoke again you could’ve sworn you heard a smile.

“You use them as hats, sweetheart?”

“Yep.”

“Huh.” He’d fallen silents, and you’d sighed. 

“Can you please stop looking at me?”

“Why? You’re nice to look at.”

You’d shot him a small frown. “Do you break into people’s basements and hit on them a lot?”

He’d shrugged, still hovering in the shadows. “Nah. But I didn’t break into your basement with the goal of hitting on you.”

“So you are hitting on me?”

“I guess. Is it working?”

You’d snorted, and looked back to your clothing. “No.”

“Damn.”

There had been another silence, Red Hood still looking up the stairs every few seconds, and you’d cleared your throat. 

“Do I have to be worried about Black Mask breaking into my basement?” You’d tried—and failed—to hide the quiet fear in your voice, and he’d chuckled. 

“Nah. And if they did, I’d protect you.”

“Oh, would you.”

“Yep.” He’d paused, definitely grinning now. “Is this working?”

You’d ignored him. “Your clothing is ripped.”

“It- Huh. Didn’t notice.” 

“How did you not-“

“Lot was happening, dollface.” He’d waved you off, suddenly no longer in the shadows, but leaning on the washer. “Why’d you notice?”

There was heat radiating from his body. And his arms were big, and his voice—even through a modifier—sounded deep. Rich. 

It wasn’t some misplaced confidence, that let you look up at the blood red, blank mask. 

It was mostly just his voice, and some animalistic part of your brain that wanted to touch him. 

“It’s kind of obvious.” You’d whispered. “I can fix it, if you want.”

There has been a pause, then, “Really?”

You’d nodded, ripping your gaze back to the washer—yep, all the clothing was still in there—and the Red Hood had cleared his throat.

“Do you fix the clothing of random assholes who break into your basement a lot?”

You’d swallowed, and shaken your head. “No.”

“Huh.” He hadn’t moved away. He might have gotten closer. “You got an angle?”

“I don’t know what that means.”

“Something I gotta do for you. Nobody just does favors in Gotham, princess-“

“Sorry.”

“Don’t-“ He’d sighed, and you’d kept your gaze fixed on your clothing. “You got nothing you want in return? For real?”

You’d sighed, tapping your fingers on the washer. “I’d like for the Black Mask not to kill me. Please.”

The Red Hood had laughed. A real, deep laugh that—even through the mask—sounded sort of heavenly. And you’d heard all the stories about him and his alternative crime solving. 

But in the basement, he’d mostly just seemed like a man. He had broken gloves you could fix. A way of talking and standing that made you trust him more than the men at work. He was close, but never once touched you. His voice had something to it that made you want him to keep talking. 

“You got a deal,” he’d said, and you’d still been able to hear that smile. “Can I have your name?”

You’d sighed, and told him. He already knew where you lived, and your sense of self-preservation had never been high. And he’d repeated it back, but it hadn’t sounded like your name. He’d said it slowly at the start, and with a slight sort of infliction at the end. As if he was trying to memorize it. Like it could mean something more than just a name. 

“You can call me Red,” he’d offered, and you’d given him a small smile.

“Okay, Red. Are you going to let Black Mask kill me?”

He’d laughed again. It was sort of an addicting sound. “No, sweetheart. I don’t think I will.”

———

So it had started with Hood. After the first suit, you expected to never see him again, but he came back. Appeared in the same corner of the basement, rubbing the back of his neck.

“Could you do me another favor?”

You’d screamed that time. And somehow, even under the mask, you’d seen him pale. 

In the moment, he’d spent about two minutes apologizing for scaring you. Now, he teases you about it. Calls you Frog Princess.

“Cause you’re leapy.” He’d said, and you’d rolled your eyes. 

“It’s Princess and the Frog, Red-“

“Nah, that’s the movie. The fairy tale is frog princess.”

He’d been right. And pretty fucking smug about it, too. Then you’d told him you’d start locking your windows, and he’d scoffed, but stopped gloating. 

Because he came in through your windows, now. All of them did. 

It had started with another favor. Then another. Then he’d started leaving things in the corner of the basement when he didn’t have time to wait for you. And there had been more and more things, and then you’d come down the stairs and Red hadn’t been there, but Nightwing. 

“Hi!” He’d beamed at you, and you’d needed to start carrying a baseball bat or something. “You’re the lady that fixed my pants, right?”

“Your-“ You’d sighed, because you knew those had been too thin for Red. Not his style, either. “Yeah. Why?”

He’d held up a suit with a sheepish expression. “I’ll pay you a hundred American Dollars.”

You’d cross your arms. “Can I make that Ethiopian Birr?”

“Uh, sure?” He’d titled his head. “Are you being serious?”

“No.” You’d extended your hand for the suit. “I don’t need you to pay me, I’ll do it.”

Nightwing had beamed at you, and passed over the clothing. 

After him was Robin. Then Batgirl, then Signal, then Red Robin. They started taking your design inputs. Bringing you things that didn’t need fixing, just so you could look at them. And Black Mask hadn’t killed you yet, but you’d started to dread the moment Batman himself appeared in your basement, so you’d told Red which window led to your apartment.

And you’d become the Bat’s unofficial costume manager. You don’t know why. Maybe it was that you were free, and did good work. None of them ever asked you why you had bullet proof fabric—Gotham flea markets were fascinating places—and you never asked why they didn’t have anyone else to go to for this. 

Most of them would flit in and out. Drop things off, maybe make light conversation, then vanish. 

But Red always stuck around, for maybe longer than he should. 

And you always let him. You liked him too much to kick him out. 

“I like the thing you did with my jacket, sweetheart.” He’d said, sprawled out on your couch like it was nothing. At this point, it kind of was. “Fucking pockets. You’re sorta a genius.”

You’d laughed softy. “Only sorta?”

“Sorry. Total genius.”

You’d flushed. “Thanks.”

“No problem, dollface.”

“Am I dollface, or sweetheart?”

He’d hummed, the sound static through his mask. “Which one do you like?”

You’d shrugged. “I don’t care.”

Lie. 

You like when he said your name. 

And he had to know that—the asshole—because he’d drawled it, watching you move around your kitchen with that audible grin. “I know you care, you’re a shit liar.”

“I don’t-“

“I’ll keep calling you Frog Princess- Fuck-“

You’d thrown a pillow at him. And he’d just laughed it off. 

“You feel strong, princess? Attacking an unarmed man?”

“Yeah,” you’d stuck your tongue out at him. “I do. And you’re not unarmed, Red-“

“Can’t prove that.”

You’d leaned over the back of the couch, reached into his jacket, and pulled out a gun. 

But you’d barely gotten to give him a smug look before you’d frozen. 

You were leaning over him. He was holding you by your arm, to stop you from falling further. And your breath had hitched because he was warm. And strong. And close-

“Careful,” he’d muttered your name. “Don’t hurt yourself.”

Your voice had been breathy. “I am careful.”

He’d sighed. “I know, princess. Still would rather this,” he’d pulled back the gun. “Stays with me.”

“What if I need to shoot someone?”

It had been meant to be a joke. You and Red both knew you couldn’t if you wanted to. 

But his voice had been so serious when he’d said. “Then call me, and I’ll take care of it for you.”

And, more than almost anything else in the world, you’d believed him. 

————

It takes five seconds when you meet Jason. For you to know. 

He stumbles into the connivence store you pull night shifts at, soaking wet from a storm, wearing a red hoodie, and taking up your whole vision. 

It’s not just that he’s built exactly like Red. Same shoulders that you spent far too much time thinking about, same broad chest that—after that first moment on the couch—you’ve kept touching with small shoves and whacks, that Red has crowded all your space with while both of you giggle about something stupid. It’s not just that he walks like Red, with long, loose steps but a tension in his legs. 

It’s his voice. 

“It’s pouring.” He mutters, staring out the windows, and you shrug.

“I’ve seen worse.”

“Yeah,” he chuckles, shaking his head. “Guess I have too.”

You know there. 

The smile in his voice, more casual and prominent without the mask. 

But you don’t react. You can’t. You might be wrong, and then you’ll just be accusing some guy of being the Red Hood-

Then he looks at you, and you’re even more certain. 

He’s—somehow—exactly what you pictured. 

Handsome. 

Dark hair with one white streak. Sharp jawline, almost glowing green eyes, and deep scarring near his neck and on his cheeks. 

But still handsome. Suited to his voice, his everything.

Then he scans over you, extends his hand, and says, “I’m Jason.”

Jason. 

His name is Jason. 

And when you tell him your name, you’re certain. He repeats it back—the exact was Red did—and nobody else has ever said your name like that. Nobody else ever would. 

“If I buy you one of those coffees,” he jerks his head to the shitty machines in the corner. “Are you allowed to drink it?”

“Yeah, but I won’t. They taste like shit.”

He laughs. It’s Red’s laugh. 

And you’d had small conversations, with the other Bats. Where they say that Red doesn’t laugh. Doesn’t smile, either. 

You believe them. Jason sort of smiles at you like he’s forgotten how. 

But he’s smiling at you. 

It feels like it means something. You’d like it to mean something. 

“Can I drink shit coffee and talk to you?” He asks, and you tilt your head.

“Sure.” You pause. “Nothing better to do?”

“Nope.” He shrugs. “I’m exactly where I want to be.”

———

It means something. 

So fast, it means something. 

Jason gets your phone number, then he calls you. Then, like it’s nothing at all, you’re friends.

“What do you do?” You ask, turning a coffee cup in your hands, and Jason leans over the table. 

“You think you can keep a secret?”

You nod, and his lips twitch. 

“I sorta run a chop shop. Lotta late nights, and I know it’s not an honest living, but who gives a fuck about that.”

You let out a slow breath, and shrug. “You could try stripping.”

“I did.” He smirks at you. “My pole dancing was fuckin’ horrible. Got sacked in a day.”

You laugh, he grins at you, and you don’t know what the other Bats were talking about.

Jason smiles all the time. 

Maybe not with his mouth, but to himself. Invisible and dry, but so obvious when you know where to look. And you do.

You know him when the hanging out becomes half of your free time. 

“I like your apartment.” He tells you the first time he comes over—just to watch a movie, because you’re not brave enough to ask if this is more—and you have to force down a laugh. “It’s very you.”

“Is that a compliment?”

“Yeah.” He shrugs. “I don’t know if you’ve noticed, princess,” he bumps his shoulder with yours. “But I sorta don’t hate you.”

You hum, and you’re leaning a little too close to him. But without the suit and mask, he smells like salt and old books, and it’s sort of intoxicating. “Is that good?”

“Yeah.” A shadow flashes over his features. “You’re one of five, if that helps.”

“Oh.” You flush, offering him a soft smile. “Then I sorta don’t hate you either.”

Jason grunts and looks away, but his face is flushed at well.

It matters. 

He wraps his arm around you on the couch—legs spread and head tipped back—and brought you your favorite candy without you asking, so it matters. 

You know him when you say goodnight, and then he’s back at your window—now in the mask—only a few hours later.

“I like my belt.” Red tells you, and you don’t know how he thinks he’s fooling you. Jason does the exact thing, of just telling you that he likes something, as if he’s trying to prove he’s paying attention and cares. “It’s thick.”

“Thanks?”

“You’re welcome.” He drops on your couch, spreading himself the same way as always. The same way he did, only hours ago. “Any big life developments?”

You sigh, and focus on your hands as you choose your words carefully. “Maybe.”

“Maybe?”

“I met a guy.”

“Oh.” He pauses. “You like him?”

“Yeah,” you bite your lower lip. “A lot.”

Red grunts. “But?”

“There’s no but.”

“I know a but when I hear one, dollface-“

“There’s not a but.” You snap, and Red falls silent as you take a steadying breath. 

He’s trying to bait you into saying something bad about him. He hasn’t done it as Jason yet, but he’s done it as the Red Hood. You tell him something good about him, and he tosses it off. He says that whatever hero vigilante thing he did last night wasn’t that good, then look at you like you’re supposed to agree. And doing it here is fucking mean—to both of you—but you can’t tell him you know. He has to tell you first. But you won’t fall for it anyway. 

You don’t have anything bad to say. 

“I like him a lot.” You mutter, still unable to face him. “I just don’t know if he likes me.”

“What?” You can hear Red’s frown. “Why?”

“Cause he hasn’t asked me out.”

“Ah.” Red lets out a sharp breath, his voice dropping slightly. “Don’t worry. He will.”

You shrug. “I’ll be fine if he doesn’t-“

“Don’t worry about it, sweetheart. He’d be a lucky asshole if you said yes, and I bet he knows it.”

 He knows it. 

You know him. 

And the very next day, Jason’s knocking on your door with his hands in his pocket, and clears his throat.

He mutters your name, watching you carefully. “What’s a guy gotta say to have you?”

“That.” You beam at him. “That’ll work.”

———

It gets serious quick, as wll. 

Maybe it’s because you’ve known him a while, and even before that you felt like you knew him forever. But soon Jason has a toothbrush in your bathroom, you wear his shirt to bed, and you have favorite places to go for dinner. If the other bats notice that you clearly have someone half-living with you, they don’t mention it. 

You’d bet that Jason told them. It can’t be a coincidence that the only nights no one shows up are the nights Jason is staying over. 

There will be a time when you have to talk about it. When you have to take his face between your hands and scream that you know. That you’ve always known. That some insane part of you loved him when he appeared in the basement, so there was no way you couldn’t know.

But for now, you let him carry you to bed after you curl up in his arms. Let him do his little patrol of your apartment, then hold you tight to his chest as you both drift off to sleep.

And tonight isn’t the first night you wake up like this.

It won’t be the last. 

At least you know what to do.

Jason’s shoved you away from him, and he’s rolled himself off the bed. Fallen to the floor then shot up, the toy gun you put under the bed in his hands. 

You keep a real gun on your side of the bed. Just in case. Jason says. But he also tried to convince you not to sleep with him because of this, so you compromised for a toy gun. 

In this state, he doesn’t notice the difference. Feral eyed and aiming it around in the dark, breathing ragged and weak noises leaving his throat.

He doesn’t shoot you, as you crawl to the edge of the mattress. He never shoots you. Something flashes over his features, and he mutters you name the same way as always. 

Like you’re holy. 

“It’s me, Jay,” you offer him a soft, sad smile. “Just me, baby. You’re okay.”

He shakes his head, but doesn’t fight it as you slide of the bed and pull him into your arms.

It only takes a second for him to hold you back. To cling to you like you’re going to vanish. Sobs are muffled in your neck, and he’s massive but folded so gently over your body. You trace your fingers through his hair and hum until he comes down, and mutters your name against your skin. 

“You should leave, princess.”

You kiss the top of his head. “I’m good.”

“One day I’m gonna hurt you.”

“So I’ll leave when you hurt me.”

“You shouldn’t let it come to that-“

“Jason.” You mutter. “Do you really think you’re going to hurt me?”

There’s a long silence, then he mumbles.

“No. But I’m not always- Shit, I’m not good for you-“

“Why?”

He sighs, and even though you both know how this ends, he keeps up with the dance. 

“I got issues,” he says your name, and it’s still a prayer. “I’ve done things, that- You deserve better than fuckin’ this-“

“Yeah, but I want you.”

“You shouldn’t. You’d leave me, if you didn’t-“

He doesn’t say it. Neither of you have said it yet, and you don’t know how to be the first. 

But you can hold him a little tighter. And let it hang in the air, before you break the silence.

“Don’t tell me what to do, Jay. I’m here. And I’m not leaving until you tell me and mean it.”

He always holds you back. And you both know.

You might know a little more. 

But it doesn’t matter.

You breathe, when he’s here. Feel more important than you are. 

So you’re not letting him go. 

———

Time flies by. 

Jason doesn’t tell you.

And you should be furious about that, but it’s too fucking easy to love him. 

He makes the bed, when he stays over. He kisses your forehead, whenever he sees you. He keeps saying your name like you’re the only thing in the world and smiling at you. Everyone always tells you he never smiles, but he smiles at you.

Even his father—Bruce Wayne, which Jason decided not to mention until the very last second because he likes surprising you—says he’s never seen Jason this happy. Never had Jason introduce someone to the whole family—now you’ve worked out Batman’s identity too, which is great for you—and never heard him laugh this often, like it’s nothing at all.

You love him more with every single second. 

He’s got scars, but he’s not stuck in them. And when you kiss them, his hand tangles gently in your hair and he lets out a soft, happy sigh. He pays such close attention to you, there’s never again a question of if this is something.

It’s everything. 

You and Jason eating dinners and his hand in yours as you walk down the street. You still scream, when he comes around a corner, but he just laughs and pulls you into his arms. 

Domestic. Peaceful. 

Still haunted by the Red Hood. 

“Look at my goddamn boots.” Jason grumbles—voice static through the mask—and holds them up for you to see the soles and sides torn, almost like-

“Did you step in a bear trap?”

“Yeah. Can you fix it?”

“Red, I- Where even were you-“

“Docks.” He says like it’s obvious. “I’m fine, sweetheart-“

“You’re an idiot.” You snap, grabbing the boots, and he’s still for a second. 

Silent for longer, as you patch up his boots. But he couldn’t gotten hurt. It’s sour in your gut and sore over your ribs, he could’ve gotten seriously fucking hurt-

“Do you worry about me?” He asks suddenly, and you sigh. 

“Yes.”

He grunts. “You don’t have to-“

“But I do. I will.”

There’s a long, heavy silence, and Red coughs. 

“I can take care of myself, y’know-“

“I know. I don’t care.” You shoot him a glare, marching over to drop at his side. “I’m allowed to worry about you, Red. You do worrying things.”

He snorts. “You got no idea-“

“Yeah.” The memory of Jason, shirtless beneath you and littered with scars, flashes through your head. “I do. And I care about you. So I worry.”

“Aw.” He drawls. “You care about me, dollface-“

“Yeah.” You snap, glaring at his mask. “I do.”

Red stares at you, but you don’t waver. Not for this. 

Jason’s there whenever you have a panic attack. He walks you home every night, stress over your safety every moment, and then lets you hold him when he waking up thrashing, on the rare nights he passes out in your bed. He always mutters an apology after, and protests when you turn on the light and tell him to read to you. 

You love him. He’s in pain, and you can see it whenever he stumbles back covered in blood, and it fucking eats at you that he won’t let you love him back, but you love him. He’s not your Jason—hood, whatever—if he’s not a little bit fucked up, but still fighting through it. 

You’re just waiting for him to let you fight with him. And until then—and a long while after—you’re going to just care, and hope he understands.

That you’re here. 

And not going anywhere. 

“How’s your boyfriend?” He mutters, and you want to smack him. 

He sounds so bitter, as if he’s not your fucking boyfriend. 

“He’s perfect.” 

“Yeah?”

“Yep.” You shrug. “Perfect.”

———

And he is perfect.

Jason’s fucking perfect. 

His mouth, brushing softly over yours, always asking a silent permission before he takes more. His kisses, deep and delicate, like he’s worried he’s going to bite you. His teeth when he does bite you, because you lean your neck back and give him a soft, pleading expression that he knows far too well.

“Now?” He mutters your name, holding you naked on his lap. “You were up all night-“

“So were you.” You mumble, trailing your hands down his bare chest. “If you’re too tired, baby-“

Jason cuts you off with another, deep kiss, and you sigh into his mouth.

It took a while for him to get this comfortable with you. Only two months for him to believe you when you told him you’d like him to touch you—taste you, have you, fuck you—and four months together before he took off his shirt during sex. Another two for you to have sex with the lights on. 

But you never mentioned it. Never asked, because you know where that conversation goes, and he’s not ready for it yet. It’s another example of how it’s amazing he doesn’t know you’ve figured it out, though. He’s got an autopsy scar, and Red’s told you about how he died. Jason’s told you his full name, let you meet his family, and somehow thinks that their story of faking his death because stalkers was something you bought. You would’ve been insulted if you didn’t know he was trying to protect you. If he didn’t spend every moment in your presence calling you his smart and pretty girl.

You’d worry he didn’t love and trust you, if you weren’t smart. If he didn’t moan your name like a hymn, when you palmed him over his sweatpants. If he didn’t attach his lips to your neck and suck small, dark spots as you rolled your hips on his thigh, the ache between your legs slowly building with every second. 

When you slowly start to kiss down his chest, Jason grabs your chin and gently tips it up, frowning at your lust blown expression. 

“Princess, you don’t have to-“

“Want to.” You whisper, kissing just under his pec and watching, mesmerized, as his head tips back. “May I?”

He nods, watching you under hooded eyes, and you resume your path. 

Over his abs, along the sharp V of his hips, then slowly pulling his pants down and taking his cock in your hand.

Jason groans as you slowly start to stroke him, and you don’t need to look up to know he’s staring at you. A soft moan leaves him as you press a gentle kiss to the reddened tip, his finger tangling in your hair as to you spit on him and play with your balls. 

His hips jerk, when you take him in your mouth, and you moan as he bumps the back of your throat.

“Fuck,” Jason groans your name, and you set a slow, lazy pace. Jerking off what you can’t get in your mouth, swirling your tongue and sucking him like he’s a lollipop. “Jesus, pretty girl, you’re so fuckin’- God-“

He’s slurring his words already, grip on your hair tightening, and you want him to lose control. It always takes a minute, to get him to snap, but fuck, you love it when he does. When Jason fucks your face until you can feel it, and you know he trusts you because he doesn’t do this with anyone else. Doesn’t want anyone to see that side of him.

But you worship it. 

Just thinking about it makes you press your legs together and take him deeper in your mouth. Move your fingers back down to his balls as you flick your tongue over the slit on the tip of his cock. Whine with pleasure as his hips slam up, and roll your hips against the mattress. 

“Shit, sweetheart, you gotta slow down-“

You obey without thought, turning your pace torturously slow, and he groans. 

“Fuck- I- I gotta-“ Another jerk of his hips. This time he tries to take away his hand, but you reach up. Hold it against you, then go a little faster. 

Look up at him with that same pleading expression, and almost cum just from the sight. 

Jason’s always beautiful. But watching you with a starved, desperate expression and blushing at the sight of you sucking his cock, he’s a work of art. 

And he understands in a second. Groans your name and shakes his head, but understands.

“Don’t know what I’m gonna do with you, dollface.” He yanks you off his cock, and a little droll falls out of your mouth as he runs his thumb over your lower lip. “You need me to take care of you?”

You nod, and moan as Jason pushes his thumb into your mouth. Suck him the same way you did his dick, grinding your ass against the sheets for a little bit of friction.

“Shit,” he lets out a ragged breath, eyes never leaving yours. “You want my cock?”

You hum, and his jaw clenches.

“Then take it how I want,” he all but growls your name, and you beam at him. “Think you can do that for me?”

He pulls his thumb out of your mouth, you take a deep breath, nodding like a bobble head. 

“Yes- Please, Jay, touch me-“

You moan as he drags you up his chest, pulling you into another long kiss, and he rolls you over without a single grunt.

“Whatever you want, my love.” He mutters against your lips, and your mouth falls open as a thick finger slide between the folds of your cunt, then pumping slowly in and out of your fluttering pussy. 

“Jason,” you gasp, hips rolling as his palm presses to your clit. “So good, feels so good-“

“Always fuckin’ soaked, sweetheart.” His lips return to your neck, and you whimper. “Never enough for my needy girl, is it. Always ready for my cock, always beggin’ for it-“

“Yes.” Your back arches off the bed as Jason crooks his fingers, then rubs that spot deep inside of you. “Need to feel you, baby, please-“

He cuts you off with another deep kiss, and you melt into the mattress. 

And Jason’s got you. He’s always got you. 

His fingers vanish for a second, then he’s slapping your clit with his dick. Swallowing your whine of protest as he repeats the movement, then pressing his brow to yours and looking down between your bodies. 

He’s lined himself up at your entrance, and he always watched himself slide into you with a moan rumbling in his chest and look of awe on his face. 

And Jason doesn’t talk, when he’s inside you. You’re not sure he can. There always a mumbled so good, takin’ me so good, then his face presses against your neck, and it’s all about feeling. Jason’s cock buried inside you for minutes at time before he starts moving, his arms caging you to his chest, and his lips teasing over the soft crook of your neck. 

It’s only when you start to squirm and whine, that Jason starts to fuck you. 

Sometimes is rough. Hard and fast, with bruising kisses and force. You think he’s always trying to mark you in a way that will last, like you’re not already his. 

Other times, it’s like this. 

Slow. Soft. A little fucking sacred, because Jason’s moaning your name against your skin and touching you like you’re holy, but still dragging so painfully good inside of you, bringing you right up to the edge without ever letting you fall over. The are parts inside of you that you didn’t know existed, until Jason found them and used them to unravel you. Parts that love the slow, lazy attention of his cock, even as the rest of you starts to buzz with electricity. You wiggle in his arms, but he only holds you tighter and kisses you harder. 

A silent message of wait. I’ve got you, pretty girl, but you gotta wait. 

It’s so hard to wait. Jason’s warm around you and in you, the feeling of him splitting you open better than any drug, and the heat in your gut ready to burst the moment he gives you permission. 

But tonight, he wants to touch you slowly. 

So you wait. 

But you still play dirty. 

You squeeze around his cock when he’s pressed against your cervix, then again just the tip is still in you. Then you moan his name as his hips rut forward. 

Jason pushes up on his elbows, giving you a flat expression, and you smile back stupidly. 

He rolls his eyes, and doesn’t pick his pace. 

But he stays hovered over you. 

And that’s how you know you won. 

Jason’s thumb finds your clit as he fucks you. Still pulling out like he as all the time in the world, then slamming home so hard the bed creaks. And you’re right there. So fucking close, unable to get that last push to cum-

“Jay.” You whisper, reaching up to grab his face. “Please.”

His throat bobs, and he nods, his thumb pressing down and rubbing in furious circles, and your orgasm washes over you in an instant. Stars dance behind your eyes and your toes curl, the pleasure dragged out as Jason finally speeds up, chasing his own release as you spasm around him and moan his name. 

He cums inside of you, kissing you like he’s going to war as he paints your cunt white. 

It takes him a moment to pull out, after you both come down. He clings to you, cock twitching as he slowly fucks his cum into you.

You’re not sure he knows he does that. But you don’t mind. 

It makes you feel like his. 

And this is how you know Jason loves you. 

He mutters your name against your lips, the tone alone one of soft praise, then pulls out with a grunt. He cleans you up after, brings you water and guides you into the shower, before wrapping you in a towel and carrying you back to bed.

He holds you to his chest, as you both start to drift off into sleep. 

And for some reason, you have to tell him now. When there’s still water clinging to his eyelashes, and his arms around relaxed around your waist.  

“I love you, Jason.” 

His eyes shoot open, and he looks terrified. Mouth opening and closing, pale faced and holding you tighter. 

But he doesn’t run. 

“It’s okay if you can’t say it back,” you whisper, and Jason’s throat bobs.

He mutters your name, voice hoarse, and you shake your head. 

“I’ll wait.” You kiss his jaw, and he lets out a soft breath. “But I love you.”

He sighs, and nods, kissing the top of your head. 

“You’re amazing.” He mumbles, and when you smile at him, he smiles back.

He won’t say it now.

But you know anyway.

———

He’s going to blame himself, if he doesn’t get here in time. You’ve pieced together bits of his past from news clips and timelines, and you know he’s going to rip himself apart.

You haven’t slept since Harley grabbed you, and you’re starting to feel it in your skull. 

Soon, it’ll be over. You’d rather be asleep when that comes. 

But, as you hold it in the dark, one last time—you love Jason, and it’s more holy than anything else—you know he’s going to blame himself. 

He’s going to take that promise from the basement, and rip himself apart with it. 

He’s strong. Braver than you are. And he’s been through worse. And maybe he’ll look at ruined gloves and tattered jacket and cry. Or maybe he’ll preserve you somewhere.

But he’ll keep loving you. 

That’s never really been a question. 

Mostly, you wish you’d been braver enough to tell him that you knew. That you knew, and you loved him all the same, because he’s not Jason if he’s not a cryptic, dramatic asshole.

But you weren’t.

At least he knows you love him. And you know he loved you. He wouldn’t have risked so much if he didn’t, wouldn’t have stayed when it was easier to cut and run. So all you can pray for, as the exhaustion pulls you under, is that he’ll forgive himself. 

Maybe smile again, sometime after you’re gone.

———

He knew. 

From the goddamn start, Jason knew it would end like this. It always ended like this. Good things didn’t just fucking happen, not to him, not in a way that lasted.

If he was a better man, he would’ve stayed away from Her. She would smiled at him in the basement, he would’ve turned down Her offer to fix his clothing, and She’d be safe. He might have thought about Her for the rest of his life, but he was used to not getting what he wanted. Jason was good at not getting what he wanted. Life was shit, but he did it anyway. 

That didn’t mean he got to live with others. To have something as soft and delicate as love, because he’d always known it would break. It always broke. 

But She was so goddamn stubborn. Beautiful and unwavering, more resilient than he could ever hope to be, telling Jason She loved him when he was made of cracked and sharp, pointed edged. 

She always soothed them. Always spoke in that pretty voice, and made Jason feel like maybe there could be something for him. Something in the future, in the dark, filling up all the cracks of his head he didn’t know how to mend. 

He never thought of Her as a lighthouse, though. He wasn’t a ship lost in the dark, and Gotham was a storm because Storms passed. 

She was a moonbeam. Shimmering in the dark, illumination and gentle and always there, even when he thought She shouldn’t be. It wasn’t up to Jason if the moon glowed. It just did.

She did.

And She loved him. 

Jason. 

She loved Jason. 

But She didn’t love Red Hood. 

And it had killed him at first, to only visit Her in the mask. He couldn’t press Her lips to the soft parts of Her throat through the mask. Couldn’t smile at Her, when she’d become the only thing that made him really, fully smile. There was nothing bitter or mocking or fake about Jason’s smile when it was for Her. It wasn’t a tactic for intimidation or a forced expression to make his family think he didn’t still have a lot of anger, boiling in his gut. Anger at the people in charge, letting everyone hurt and never lifting a finger. Anger at all the people, who made him worry that one day, he’d lose Her.

Anger at the Joker. For everything.

He’d pushed past the anger at Bruce, for not killing the Joker after Jason died. He was just Jason. He could die over and over, and maybe the world would be better for it if he just stayed dead.

But if She didn’t wake, Jason was going to kill Bruce himself.

This was the exact fucking reason the Joker needed to die. The reason Jason should’ve just been content with loving Her silently as Red Hood, instead of pretending to just happen upon Her at work and have her for real. 

Now he was going to lose Her.

And he could die and come back again, kill the Joker a thousand more times, somehow turn Gotham into a paradise, and he’d never be able to repent for losing Her. 

He couldn’t lose Her. 

He’d never even said he loved Her. As Jason, or Red Hood. 

She looked so small, curled on a cot in the Batcave. Alfred said She’d be fine. If Alfred said She’d be fine, She’d have to be fine. There wasn’t another option. 

But She’d wake up here. And She was smart. 

She’d realize why She was here. See Jason—even in his normal clothing, because Dick had made him change out of the Red Hood suit while Alfred looked at Her—and realize that his chop shop job was a lie. Then She’d leave him, and the only truly good thing in his life slip through his fingers. 

It was for the best. 

He’d been a lucky fucking asshole to have Her at all. 

And it was always going to end like this. 

He’d explain, She’d leave, and Jason would be stranded in the dark once more. But he knew the dark. He knew the spaces of it that could be warm enough to keep him alive, and how to navigate the colder parts. He knew that good things didn’t last. 

So when She made a soft sound and Her eyes fluttered open, Jason braced himself for the bullet. He’d take it easy, stitch up after, then keep going. Keep loving Her after she left. Make sure She stayed safe, just like he’d promised. 

Let Her go on.”

“Jason?” She mumbled, blinking up at him with a pretty frown. “Jay, my- my head hurts-“

“I know, princess, it’s okay.” His voice sounded more strained than he’d wanted. He couldn’t stop it. “I’m here. You’re safe.”

She made a muffled, weak noise, and reached for his hand. 

He wasn’t strong enough not to take it. 

“Jay?” She whispered, eyes still clouded with exhaustion. “I- What happened?”

He swallowed, forcing out the words he’d spent the past few hours rehearsing. “We got to you in time. Got you out. Took Harley and Joker in. You’re gonna be okay.”

“Oh. Okay.” She sighed, tugging slightly on his arm. “Can you lie down with me?”

Fuck, he wanted to. There was nothing that sounded better than folding his body over Her’s, feeling the warmth that meant She was still alive. That he hadn’t completely failed. 

But he couldn’t. 

He had to tell Her first, before Steph or Tim wandered in and accidentally snitched about what She seemed to be too tired to put together. 

Jason muttered Her name, staring at the floor, and She hummed. 

“Yeah?”

“I- I gotta tell you something, sweetheart.” He should let go of Her hand. He couldn’t. “’S my fault they took you.”

“Jason-“

“No, I- Just let me say it.” His voice broke slightly, but he couldn’t pussy out now. He’d never say it otherwise. “I’m Red Hood. Harley must’ve seen me leaving your place, in the suit, then gone after you.” He swallowed, unable to look up and see Her expression. It would be over the moment he did. “I’m sorry, princess. I’m so fucking sorry.”

She was silent for a moment, and it was suffocating. Wired and heavy on his shoulder, their hands still connect, the last time he’d be allowed to feel Her- 

“Harley didn’t know we were together, Jay.” She said, voice far too soft for how angry She must be. “She didn’t know who was going to come save me. She just knew I did work for Batman.”

Jason frowned. She didn’t seem to be dwelling on the point. 

“And it wouldn’t be your fault anyway-“

He grunted Her name, shaking his head. “That’s not the fuckin’- I’m trying to tell you that I’m Red-“

“Hood?” She finished for him, and She should be pissed. 

Why the hell didn’t She sound pissed-

“I know, Jay.”

He froze, and looked up. She was looking at him so gently. No hatred etched under Her features, no fear in Her shining eyes, just- 

The same.

Exactly how She’d always looked at him. 

She must not understand. 

“No- You- I’m Red Hood.” He raised his voice slightly, because She had to get it. Jason needed this to be over, now. “I was in the basement with you, I hit on your while you did laundry-“

“You tried to hit on me while I did laundry.” She corrected with a small smile. “I told you it wasn’t working.”

He gaped at Her, then shook his head.

“There’s- Dollface, there’s no way-“

She scowled at that. “Jason, I knew from the first moment I saw you-“

“How-“

“Because I love you.” She said it so simply, but that wasn’t supposed to be the truth anymore. “I just- I knew.”

Jason stared at Her, still frowning slightly, but relaxed. 

Telling the truth. 

She’d known. The whole goddamn time, She’d known. Every time he’d left for “work” She’d known, whenever he crawled into bed with strange bruises She’d known, when he woke up screaming or kissed her or fucked her, She’d known-

“And you stayed?” He rasped, and She looked at him like it was an insane question. 

“Of course I stayed.”

“No- Sweetheart, you should’ve fuckin’ left-“

“Why? Jason, I love you-“

“No.” He repeated it, because it had to be true. Everything Jason knew about the world said that She shouldn’t know and love him. “You’re too good for that-“

She scoffed. “Oh, fuck off-“

“You’re too good for me!” He roared. “Fuck, I- I’ve tried to tell you, but you never fucking got it, you’re too good for me, princess. I kill people-“

“I know-“

“Then you should’ve left-“

“Jason Todd.” She hissed, sitting up on the mattress, still holding his hand. Why wouldn’t She let go of his hand. “I love you because of who you are, not in fucking spite of it. I love you as Red, and I love you as Jason, and I am not too good for you-“

“Yeah, you-“

“Are you going to love me less?” She snapped, Her grip almost strangling. “Just because I know and still love you?”

Jason scowled. “That doesn’t matter.”

“Yes, it does-“

He muttered Her name, and She shook her head, yanking him forward. He could’ve fought it. He was stronger.

But he never did. Not when it was Her. 

“It matters.” She hissed. “If you love me less, it matters. Because if you do, I’m leaving you. I’ve told you, I only go when you make me.”

Goddamnit, She was stubborn. “You should leave.” He muttered, and She shook her head. 

“I won’t.”

“You-“

“I won’t.” She repeated, holding his gaze. “Not until you say it.”

“Say-“

“Say you don’t love me anymore.”

Fuck. “I never said I love you-“

“Yeah, but I know you do.” Something flashed over Her beautiful features. “Did. Tell me you did love me, and I’ll go. But you have to say it.”

He should.

Jason always should have stayed away.

This wouldn’t last.

But fuck, he wanted it to. And looking at Her, glowing in the dark of the Batcave, still here, still loving him, it wasn’t possible to hate himself enough to make Her leave. 

“I won’t.” He muttered. “I won’t say that, princess. I can’t.”

“Then I’m not leaving. Okay?”

Jason sighed, and—despite all of it—She smiled at him. Rested Her brow against his, and squeezed his hand. 

And Jason still had Her. 

And She was still good.

“I love you, Jay.” She mumbled, holding his gaze. “All of you.”

There was a heavy lump in his throat, and a sting behind his eyes that meant tears were coming. 

But She still loved him. 

So despite all of it, Jason smiled back.

“I love you too.”

End Note: I was born in the right century. I love da internet and Jason Todd.

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And only then does he reflect on how he just acted toward you, his babygirl. He'd told you to leave him alone...told you that you're annoying...told you he was sick of you. And on top of it all, he just stood there, watching as fat tears slid down your cheeks, weighing your pretty lashes down.

"Fuck," he mutters to himself, letting the water soak into his dark hair and slide over his body. As much as he hates to admit it, he wishes you were here with him. In a perfect world, you'd be washing his hair and back, listening to him ramble on about everything that was wrong. Instead of being something to attack, you'd be his teammate, his companion that he goes to.

Silently, he goes through the motions of a shower: shampoo in hair, rinse. Wash body, rinse. Wash face, rinse. He does it all with a heavy heart and a clouded mind. The same thought repeats in his head like a mantra: Why do I treat the love of my life like this?

As he shuts the shower off and wraps his soft white towel around his waist, he half-expects to walk out of the en suite bathroom to see you sat on the bed, patient and eager to help him unwind—to be there for him.

But of course, you're not.

Heaving a heavy sigh, he slips himself into a pair of sweats and a t-shirt, shaking his wet hair out with a towel. Twisting the door handle slowly, he creeps it open. "Sweetheart?" he calls out tentatively.

No response.

He inches out of the room, eyes scanning the apartment floor for you. Not in the kitchen, not in your office, not...

Oh, there you are. Curled up on the couch with a glass of wine and a book in your lap. So precious he thinks to himself, then silently curses himself for it. He shouldn't be allowed to think such soft things of you after how he treated you. "Hey..."

You glance up, look into his eyes with your sweet, gentle ones, then look back to your book.

His heart squeezes so painfully that he has to reach a hand up to rub his aching chest.

"Ma, please talk to me. I'm sorry," he murmurs gently, as if he's speaking to a wounded animal and not his girlfriend.

"I know."

"You know what...?"

"That you're sorry," you reply, looking up at him again. "You're always sorry, Jason."

Against his will, his temper begins to flare once more. "What's that supposed to mean?"

"You come home from patrol, explode on me, leave for an hour or so, then seek me out to tell me you're sorry," you say. "That's usually how my nights go nowadays."

"You can't just pin that all on me," he argues. You gently shut your book. Here we go. "It's not my fault that you just...piss me off so badly."

You nod. "Okay, Jason," you mutter, lifting off the couch and walking toward the bedroom. You dump whatever wine was left in your glass down the sink on the way.

He hates that he can see the dried tears on your cheeks. He hates even more that he can't shake this inexplicable anger he feels.

"What do you mean 'okay'?"

"I mean okay," you reply gently. "I'm going to bed."

He blinks, standing in the middle of the room like a lost dog. "You're just...going?"

You nod.

"O...kay. Why?"

You let out a sigh. "Really, Jason?"

"Yes, really!" he exclaims. "Why're you just leaving?"

"I don't wanna be around you, quite frankly," you murmur, walking closer to the bedroom.

His shoulders sag as he hears the click of the bedroom door shutting. Your words repeat in his mind, paining him.

I don't wanna be around you.

Of course you don't, because why would you, what with how he's been treating you. He glances at the microwave clock—12:15am. Simply seeing what time it is seems to make Jason's exhaustion weigh heavier on his shoulders. He yawns, rubbing his eyes softly.

Couch...or bed?

He's been sleeping on the couch for god knows how many days now, one more day wouldn't hurt. But at the same time, he misses his baby. He misses feeling you snuggle up against his chest, wanting to be held and loved. He smiles faintly at the memories of all the times you've nudged up into his hand, silently asking for him to play with your hair.

He doesn't deserve to have that anymore, he knows it. But still, he makes the decision that tonight, he is going to sleep where he's meant to: in his bed, next to the woman he loves.

He shuffles into the kitchen, washing your wine glass for you as well as the new dish you bought the other day but hadn't gotten around to cleaning. Then, flicking the light off, he makes his way to the bedroom door.

As he enters, he's met with a pitch black expanse of nothingness. The only light is the faint moonlight peeking through the curtains, perfectly illuminating the slope of your nose for him to see.

You're not asleep, he can tell from your breathing. Gently, he crawls in beside you, scooting close enough that he can spoon you. He hates the way your body tenses when his arms envelop you before releasing, hates that you're no longer used to his cuddles.

"It's just me, baby," he whispers softly, pressing a kiss to your temple.

"I'm not really in the mood to cuddle, Jay. Sorry..."

He blinks. "Oh. Yeah...sorry, love." His arms release from around your waist, and he slides back until he's on his side of the bed.

He stares up at the ceiling, eyes tracing the spin of the fan in order to avoid looking down at your pretty self. His strategy only works for a solid two minutes before his eyes instinctively flicker down to you.

His eyes trace you—your relaxed forehead, your soft brows, your shut eyes, those beautiful lashes, the slope of your nose...all the way down to those plush lips he loves so much.

"I don't know why I act the way I do," he whispers shakily, as if he's admitting his deepest, darkest secret. "I..."

You look over your shoulder at him. "You what, Jay?"

"I'm not...a violent dog. I don't why I bite..."

The pure sadness and insecurity in his voice does truly make your heart ache, but what about you? What about all the times he's lashed out on you without reason, making you feel unwelcome?

"I know, but..." you sigh. "I'm so tired, Jason. You didn't always used to treat me like this...you used to, I dunno, regulate it better."

"Tired of me?"

"Of how you treat me, like you're not afraid of losing me."

You can physically hear his breath catch. "But...oh, baby, no..." he whimpers softly. "Do I really make you feel that way, my love?" His hands cup your cheeks, thumbs gently stroking your cheekbones.

Softly, your hands find his wrists, removing his hands from your face and placing them in his lap.

"You're...you're losing me, Jay," you murmur. His eyes are immediately glassy, you can tell. You want to do nothing more than kiss that sadness away—but you can't. "You're definitely going to lose me if you keep treating me like I'm disposable."

"I'm trying to get better for you, baby, I swear I am–"

"I know you're trying, but nothing's actually changing, babe..." you pause a moment to look into his eyes, trying to truly get your point across. "I...I've considered leaving if this keeps up."

His breathing is labored and uneven as he imagines a life without you—it's a horrible, pain-riddled, miserable one. "No..."

"Jay..."

"Baby, no," he's actually crying now, tears streaming from his beautiful blue-green eyes. "I need you, ma, I–"

"Then you'll get help and fix your problem," you say. Your fingers twitch, aching to brush the tear away that's sliding down his cheek.

"Help?"

"Y'know, like therapy."

Immediately, his mood shifts. It's so quick, you'd miss it if you blinked. His eyes sharpen, his face hardens, and his body becomes more alert. He wipes the wetness off his face. "I don't need therapy."

"Then how else are you gonna fix this?"

"I don't know, Y/N, but I don't need therapy," he doesn't catch the way his voice is rising. "Me, Jason Todd—'son' of batman—therapy?"

"You're doing it again," you murmur numbly.

"What?" he blinks.

"Yelling. You're yelling at me, and you don't even realize it."

His eyes soften. "Oh."

"Yeah," you mumble. "You do that a lot, Jay."

"Okay, but I'm...I'm not getting therapy."

You look down, debating whether to say exactly what you're thinking or to just agree with him and move on, to let the cycle repeat.

"It's either therapy or me, Jason."

He blanches. "What?" he whispers, wondering if he heard you correctly.

"It's therapy or me," you repeat a little more firmly, looking into eyes when you say it this time.

"I'm a bat, Y/N. I don't do therapy," he defends.

"Jay, for christ's sake!" you exclaim. "Are you not like, processing what's happening right now?" You say your next words slowly, trying to get them through his head. "If you don't go to therapy and get help for your anger management, you're going to lose me. I'm going to leave. I won't be your girlfriend anymore.

"I can't just keep being your punching bag forever, baby, no matter how much I love you—how much I know you love me. So what's it gonna be, Jason? Your ego or our relationship?"

By the time he gets to you, you’re prodding at the battery terminal with pure confusion, clearly out of your depth. He stops by the driver’s side fender, his shadow stretching over the engine bay and swallowing up what little light the morning offers.

"Get in and try to crank it," he rumbles, his voice still rough from sleep.

You flinch slightly, nearly dropping your keys, as you turn to find the massive mechanic who’s just materialized out of the fog. Stumbling through a rushed, embarrassed explanation about how the dashboard lit up like a christmas tree before the steering went stiff, you slide behind the wheel, fingers trembling as you twist the key. The engine coughs out a pathetic, sluggish click-click-click before dying completely.

Sukuna leans over and scans the open engine bay with narrowed eyes. He brings his hand down to the alternator, then straightens and wipes a streak of grease off on his thigh.

"Alternator's shot," he diagnoses, pinning you with a flat stare through the windshield. “It stopped charging your battery while you were driving. That's why your steering went stiff, and all those warning lights came on. Battery's flat now."

He glances down the road toward his garage, jerks his chin in that direction, then flicks his gaze back to you, waiting. "Not fixing it out here. I can tow it in and take a look, if you want.”

You blink at him, hesitation suddenly tightening your chest. He's a huge, imposing stranger with eyes that seem to see right through you. You have no clue what his garage charges, and for all you know, he’ll tow your car a few meters and hand you a bill big enough to drain your entire savings account. Biting your lip hard, you look down the foggy road toward the distant city lights, debating whether freezing out here for your usual mechanic is worth it.

"Really?" you ask, your voice thin and cautious.

"You got a better plan?" Sukuna asks, raising a skeptical eyebrow. He doesn't look like he's got the patience for a long deliberation this early in the morning.

Your eyes flick from the dead dashboard to the shutters of his garage down the road again. Waiting for your own mechanic could mean hours out here, and you’re already running late. Shoulders sagging, you let out a shaky, resigned sigh and nod. "No, not really. Okay, yeah. Please tow it."

True to his word, ten minutes later your car is hooked up to his truck and rolled right onto his hydraulic lift. He works quietly, hooking up a diagnostic scanner and testing the voltage. You stand on the side, nervously watching him work through the tangle of wires and metal, while the smell of old coolant and burnt oil fills the air.

Finally, he wipes his hands on his coveralls. He glances up, meeting your gaze with a flat, unreadable look before speaking. "Alright. It's definitely the alternator. Parts and labor, you're looking at around two hundred, maybe two-fifty if the belt snapped when it seized up."

He braces himself for the usual routine: the hesitant sigh, the defensive wince, maybe a drawn-out complaint about how expensive car parts are these days. He’s seen it all before, a thousand times over.

None of that happens, though. You just blink at him, completely speechless, like he’s started speaking a foreign language.

"Are you..." You swallow hard, eyes darting between your car and the man in front of you. "Are you undercharging me out of pity? Did I really look that pathetic standing on the side of the road?"

Sukuna freezes, and the rag stops mid-wipe against his palm. He stares at you, his brow knitting into a dumbfounded, deep scowl, entirely derailed by the accusation. "What? No. That's the price of the part and half an hour of my time. I don't do pity discounts.”

"Seriously?" A breathless, half-disbelieving laugh escapes you, as your hand comes up to press against your forehead while you try to make sense of the numbers. "My mechanic charges me a small fortune every time I bring this thing in. Like... last year I paid almost three hundred for an oil change, so I figured something that actually stopped the car from running would be..." You trail off, your eyes wandering up to the underside of a different car on the lift. "Honestly, I have no idea. Just… more."

Disbelief hardens his stare, and a sharp, sudden outrage flares in his chest at whoever’s been fleecing you, quickly followed by a heavy wave of disappointment. He can't quite believe you’d just hand over a small fortune for basic maintenance without so much as a second thought.

"An oil change," he repeats in a low rasp. "He charges you three hundred dollars for an oil change?"

"Well... yeah? And..." Shifting your weight from one foot to the other, you wince as your sneakers squeak against the slick concrete. Your hand waves uselessly in the air when you’re trying to remember the items from the invoices you received. "Some other things? He always says there are other things."

Silence settles over the garage, broken only by the steady drip of fluid into a drainage pan nearby, each drop echoing like a ticking clock.

Sukuna tosses the rag aside, leans against the workbench and folds his arms across his chest. His eyes narrow, studying you with a look that grows more troubled by the second, like you’re some puzzle that refuses to make sense.

"You know what those other things were?"

You frown, your shoulders pulling in slightly under the weight of his intense stare. "Not really."

That stare doesn’t budge, flat and unblinking, and it makes you want to sink straight into the concrete floor.

"And you paid anyway."

It's not a question, but a flat statement, paired with a slow, disappointed shake of his head that twists your stomach.

Heat crawls up your neck, embarrassment prickling across your skin. You wrap your arms tightly around yourself defensively, trying to salvage a scrap of dignity. “He’s a mechanic, so like… why wouldn’t I trust him about… mechanic stuff?”

"So you just pay whatever he puts on the invoice?"

After a beat of hesitation, your eyes flick toward the garage exit before you force yourself to meet his gaze again. "I mean..."

The irritation in him doesn’t fade; if anything, it settles in deeper. The more you talk, the clearer it gets that this wasn’t just one bad invoice. It’s a pattern.

"How long you been taking your car to this guy?"

A startled blink, caught off guard by the rapid-fire questioning. "A few years?"

A muscle jumps in his cheek as his jaw flexes. "Christ." His arms drop, one hand coming up to rest flat against the workbench behind him. "You don't know anything about cars, do you?"

You open your mouth, ready to stammer out some flimsy defense, but he cuts you off with a sharp, impatient wave.

"No, don't answer that." He pinches the bridge of his nose, squeezing his eyes shut for a long moment. "I already know." When he lowers his hand, his expression darkens. "And he knows it too. That's the problem." He takes a slow step toward you, his towering height making the small garage feel instantly crowded. "He knows you don't know what you're looking at. He knows you won’t question the invoice. He knows you’ll just nod, pull out your card, and pay whatever number he pulls out of thin air."

His words hit with bruising accuracy, uncomfortable in their honesty. Swallowing hard, you feel the bitter reality of years of being scammed settle like a stone in your stomach. Sukuna clicks his tongue, the sharp, dismissive sound echoing off the concrete walls.

"And he's been taking advantage of it, overcharging the hell out of you.” He shakes his head again, his hands clenching into fists at his sides. "It's disgusting."

—

The last clink of metal fades, giving way to the low, steady purr of your car’s engine. Sukuna lingers, listening to the alternator hum, his attention fixed on the sound until he’s sure everything is running just right. Only then does he cut the ignition and shut the hood.

At the sink, he scrubs at the thickest layer of grease on his hands and forearms, while each pass of the soap gives him a moment to stew. The whole time he’d been working on your hatchback, the audacity of your last mechanic kept simmering in the back of his mind, needling at his sense of professionalism and refusing to let go.

He dries his hands on a clean rag, then heads back to where you’re waiting by the office door. The invoice comes off the clipboard, and he holds it out to you along with your keys.

"Alright, you're good to go," he rumbles, his voice level and calm. "It was just the alternator. Parts and labor came out to two hundred, exactly like I said."

You take the keys and the paper, relief washing over you as your eyes land on the total. Exactly what he quoted. No hidden fees, no sneaky line items, no surprise charges, nothing lurking in the fine print.

Sukuna stands there, his large hands settling loosely on his hips. His gaze flicks from your face to the paperwork in your hands, brow furrowing slightly as he hesitates. Then, the words slip out before he can stop them.

“If you want, you can bring your old receipts by sometime. Dig 'em out of your glovebox or whatever." He clears his throat, the sudden offer surprising even him as it leaves his mouth. This isn’t something he does. He doesn’t take work home, and he sure as hell doesn’t do clerical charity for strangers. Still, he pushes through the awkwardness, keeping his tone flat and businesslike. "I’ll look through 'em and write down what you actually should have been paying for that basic stuff. That way you have a baseline reference sheet next time you go back to your guy, and you'll know if he's trying to pull a fast one."

There's no pressure behind his words. He leaves it entirely up to you, offering a casual favor simply because he despises seeing someone get taken advantage of.

You blink at him, completely caught off guard. You look up to his face, and gratitude cuts through your usual wall of caution.

"Really?" you ask, a soft smile breaking across your face. "You'd actually do that?"

Sukuna gives a short, dismissive shrug, shifting his weight like he’s trying to play down the gesture. "Takes me ten minutes. It's no big deal."

"Thank you. Seriously, that’s... incredibly nice of you," you say, genuinely touched by the gesture. You fold the invoice carefully, tucking it into your purse. "What day would work best for you? I don't want to interrupt your business."

Sukuna rubs the back of his neck, eyes drifting toward the calendar tacked to the garage wall as he does the math in his head. "Day after tomorrow," he decides, looking back down at you. "I usually wrap up around six. Come by then. The shop's quiet after hours."

"Six on Wednesday. Perfect," you nod, your smile widening slightly. "Thank you again. I really appreciate you fixing the car so fast, and for... well, everything else. I'll see you Wednesday."

"Yeah," he mutters, his voice dropping a fraction softer as he nods back. "See you then. Drive safe."

He stands in the open bay, watching as your hatchback backs out of the driveway and pulls into the morning traffic. Only when your taillights disappear down the street does he finally let out a low breath, turning back to his tools and wondering what possessed him to volunteer his free time to look at old paperwork.

——

Just like he promised, the shop is mostly quiet when you pull up to the garage on Wednesday. With the bay doors rolled halfway down, the usual street noise is muffled, leaving only the clink of a wrench against metal to let you know he’s still inside.

Pushing open the side door, you’re greeted by the soft chime of the bell overhead. Sukuna appears from the back a moment later, dragging a clean rag over his forearms. His crimson eyes catch yours before flicking down to the stack of papers in your hand and the box tucked securely under your arm.

"You actually found 'em," he rumbles, a faint quirk tugging at the corner of his mouth before his expression smooths back into that usual, unreadable mask.

"Every single one I could find." Stepping up to the high counter that separates the office from the shop floor, you set the invoices down and nudge the box toward him, careful not to jostle what’s inside. "And I brought this. As a thank you."

Sukuna glances down at the cardboard box but doesn’t reach for it. He folds his arms across his chest, and his brow instantly furrows into a stubborn, defensive scowl.

"I don't need cake," he snaps, voice blunt and dismissive. Shifting his weight from foot to foot, clearly uncomfortable, he looks like he’d rather be anywhere else than accepting a gift. "I fixed the alternator, you paid the invoice. We're even. You don't owe me anything."

"It's not cake. It’s an apple pie. And it’s homemade," you counter softly. Before he can get another word in, you reach out and pop the lid open, letting the sweet scent of baked apples and cinnamon spill into the grimy, oil-scented room. You shoot him a small, stubborn look that dares him to refuse. "And you're taking it."

For a split second, Sukuna freezes, his eyes darting from the warm pie back up to your face, looking completely out of his depth. The tension drains from his broad shoulders, and he lets out a low, grudging grunt, realizing he’s being difficult for no good reason.

"Fine," he mutters, reaching over. He grabs the box and carries it to the small, cluttered desk in the corner, sweeping aside a stack of part catalogs to clear a spot. Pausing, he peeks into the box again, then nudges a metal stool toward the desk for you with his boot. "Sit down. Let me wash up."

While he heads over to the sink to scrub the grit from his hands, you pull the pie out of the box. Only as you glance around the cluttered office does the realization hit you. You look down at the pie, still warm in its baking dish, then at your empty hands.

When Sukuna walks back in, drying his hands on a paper towel, he finds you perched on the stool, mortification written all over your face.

"Um," you manage, cheeks burning with embarrassment that creeps up. "I just realized... I forgot plates. And forks. I was so focused on getting the pie out of the oven and not showing up late that I didn't even think about it."

Sukuna stops, staring at your flushed face, and a slow, amused smirk tugs at his lips. He opens a filing cabinet, rummages through a plastic bin in the top drawer, and pulls out two plastic forks he clearly hoarded from a takeout order.

"Don't worry about it," he says, dragging a second stool over and settling in beside you. One fork is pressed into your hand, while he plunges his own straight into the pie, breaking off a steaming chunk. "We can eat it out of the dish. Problem solved."

A relieved laugh slips out as you take a bite for yourself. The pie is actually good—better than you hoped and the relief from that is almost dizzying. Watching this massive, intimidating mechanic quietly savor a dessert you’ve made in his own garage fills you with a sudden, unexpected warmth.

A few bites in, Sukuna reaches for the stack of invoices you brought along. He fishes a battered yellow highlighter from the drawer, uncapping it with his teeth, and drags the first sheet closer. Instantly, his whole demeanor sharpens, focus narrowing as he scans the lines of text.

"Two hundred for an air filter?" he mutters, jaw clenching so fast you can almost hear his teeth grind. Flipping the page back a little too sharply, he scans the top of the sheet, eyes narrowing. "When was this?"

"Last… three months, I think?" you offer, leaning in to peer over his elbow, the edge of his sleeve brushing your arm.

"Three months ago," he confirms, voice dropping into a dangerously low, tight register. The highlighter clicks against the paper, and a muscle jumps in his cheek. "I looked at your air filter on Monday when I was checking the belt. There is absolutely no way a filter looks that bad after ninety days of city driving. He didn't even change it. He just wrote it down and charged you for the part."

Your fork stalls halfway to your mouth. Staring at the highlighted line, you feel disbelief crash over you, cold and sharp, prickling along your skin.

"Wait... what? He just... left the old one in there?" You shrink down on your stool, while both embarrassment and genuine offense burn in your chest. "I actually remember sitting in his waiting room for an hour because he said he had to go fetch the specific part from the back warehouse."

Sukuna lets out a sharp, cynical grunt that cuts through the room and makes you wince. "Yeah. He was probably back there taking a nap on your dime." He flips to the next invoice and scoffs loudly. "A hundred and fifty for a 'diagnostic fee'? Your car doesn't even have a complex computer system. You plug the reader in, it takes two minutes. He's padding the numbers because he knows you’re not gonna question it.”

You blink, eyes glued to the number on the page, the math slowly ticking through your head. "Two minutes... for a hundred and fifty...?"

He’s working himself up again, but his eyes keep flicking to you, making sure you’re following every step of his explanation on why it's a scam. He breaks down the mechanics in plain English, laying out the real labor time versus what was billed, and you find yourself keeping pace with him, asking about parts, checkup schedules, and why on earth a single fluid could ever cost that much.

Sukuna’s highlighter hovers over a line, pausing as he takes in the questions you’re firing back at him. Whatever assumption he had about you being gullible is gone now. He sees you're not stupid or careless, just someone who did what anyone would: you trusted a professional because you didn’t have the background to know better. The way you’re sitting here, eagerly learning, determined to protect yourself, earns a flicker of respect in his eyes.

"You're tracking this fine," he says, irritation melting away into something unexpectedly gentle. "You just needed someone to actually layout the baseline for you."

"Yeah," you murmur, smiling a little self-consciously. "Nobody ever really explained it before."

Any trace of your nervousness has vanished. Settled into his office, you absentmindedly swing your legs beneath the stool, taking another bite. Eating straight from the baking tin, you instinctively leave the best pieces of crust for him. It’s a small, polite habit that doesn’t go unnoticed, and Sukuna finds it oddly endearing.

Powdered sugar dusts your thumb as you hold the dish steady while digging your fork in again, and without thinking, you lick it off while scanning an invoice. The gesture is so unselfconscious, so normal, but it catches his attention and draws his gaze to your face.

This close, he can’t help but notice the small things: the way your eyes crinkle at the corners when you’re focused on the paperwork, the little smile that appears each time you taste the pie, how small you look perched beside him. For a moment, his mind just goes completely blank.

The realization hits him square in the chest—you’re beautiful. And you went out of your way to bake a pie for him.

All at once, the office starts to smell different. The sharp tang of oil and metal slips away, replaced by the sweetness of apple and cinnamon, and beneath it all, your perfume.

You point to a line on the invoice, but his attention drifts to your hand resting next to his on the desk. His own fingers are thick and calloused; yours look impossibly soft and small by comparison. The urge to see how your hand would feel in his is so distracting he nearly loses track of what you were saying.

For a moment, the usually unshakeable and confident mechanic is thrown completely off balance, his thoughts tangling so fast he almost forgets what he’s supposed to be doing. Somehow, he keeps his face neutral, handling the rest of the paperwork with a steady voice, but underneath, panic is already clawing at him. He has no clue how he’s supposed to get your number before you walk out that door.

Hesitation or tentativeness have never been his style. If he wants something, he takes it; if he likes someone, he just tells them. It’s always been that simple. But with you leaning over his desk, a crumb of crust clinging to the corner of your mouth, something unfamiliar creeps in and stiffens his limbs. It isn't shyness—he doesn’t have a shy bone in his body, and he certainly doesn't embarrass easily. Still, this strange, careful caution settles in his bones, making every movement feel intentional and new.

For once, he actually cares about the reaction he’s going to get, and that shift in the stakes makes his usual straightforwardness feel too rough, too heavy-handed for this. The thought that messing this up could mean never seeing you again roots him to the spot, every instinct to act suddenly tangled up in hesitation. His hands feel too big, his words too blunt, and the risk of screwing this up presses in until he feels almost clumsy.

Ideas tumble through his head, each one worse than the last, none of them good enough. Sliding his business card across the desk? Too impersonal, like he’s just angling for another job. Handing over his phone and asking you to put your number in? That’s too aggressive, too much like he’s trying to corner you in his own shop. Even making up some excuse about needing to text you a follow-up on the alternator warranty feels cheap, and the idea of playing a game just to get your number makes him feel ridiculous.

The whole thing leaves a sour taste in his mouth, every option making him feel more foolish than the last. Frustration builds until his jaw aches from how tightly he’s been clenching it, tension crawling up into his temples. He can’t remember the last time he was this stuck on something so simple.

At last, he forces his jaw to unclench, loosening his grip on the highlighter before setting it down. Glancing around the cramped office, something cuts straight through his frustration. Here you are, sitting in a garage after hours with a man twice your size you barely know, just because he offered to help. You trusted him enough to walk into his shop after closing, carrying a homemade pie as a thank-you that feels so genuine it almost hurts.

The last thing he wants, and the absolute last thing his pride will allow, is to make you feel like he used a professional angle just to corner you. If he pushes for your number now, after spending an hour showing you how vulnerable you’ve been to a scam, it’ll feel like an ambush. It’ll undo every bit of safety you felt sitting next to him and ruin any chance he might have had. The thought hits him like a splash of cold water, cooling his temper.

Drawing in a sharp breath, Sukuna reaches past you for a pen resting on the clipboard. He pulls the top invoice toward him and scrawls his phone number across the margin of the page.

"Look," he rumbles, his voice steady and stripped of the chaos in his head, sliding the stack of paperwork back across the desk to you. "You're gonna have to find a new shop now or keep dealing with that idiot down the road. If he—or anyone else—hands you a quote and it feels even a little bit off, you text a photo of the invoice to that number." He taps his thick thumb against the handwritten digits on the page. "That's my personal cell. I’ll look at it and tell you if they’re trying to rip you off."

Blinking down at the paper, you’re completely oblivious to the war he just waged with himself. The gesture is so unexpectedly kind that warmth blooms in your chest and a soft smile tugs at your lips as you glance back up at him. "Are you sure? I don't want to bother you any more than I already did."

"It's not a bother," he mutters, keeping his face carefully blank even as his pulse hammers a little harder against his ribs. "Just think of it as a backup plan. I can't stand watching people get scammed."

"That… actually makes me feel a lot better. I’ll make sure to save it," you murmur, glancing up to meet his unreadable gaze. The papers fold neatly beneath your fingers before you tuck them into your bag and rise from the stool. "Thank you. Seriously. For the alternator, the invoices, all the explanation and… for the company."

"Yeah," he mutters, his throat suddenly tight as he gives a single, gruff nod. "Don't sweat it."

Once your empty baking dish is tucked back into the box, you offer him one last warm smile that squeezes his chest uncomfortably tight. He pushes himself up to walk you to the door, the bell above your head chiming bright as you step out into the cool evening air.

"Goodnight, Sukuna."

"Goodnight," he calls back, standing entirely still as he watches you walk toward your car.

The warmth lingering in the office vanishes, leaving only a cold, hollow ache in its place. Through the glass, Sukuna watches your car start up, headlights slicing through the dusk as you ease out of the driveway and disappear around the corner. The instant your taillights blink out, frustration slams into him, heavy and relentless.

"Damn it," he barks into the empty shop, slamming his hand flat against the workbench.

Never in his life has he felt this powerless. Control is what he prides himself on—knowing exactly how a machine or a situation will play out because he’s the one steering it. But right now? He’s handed over his only leverage, left the whole gamble in your hands, and the lack of control is enough to make him want to tear his hair out.

He has no name saved in his phone, no confirmation. Nothing. He’s got no way to reach you, which means he’s stuck waiting, and everything now hangs on whether you decide to text. What if you lose that paper? What if the number gets buried in your purse and you forget about it until your car dies again months from now? What if you just think he was being polite and have no intention of ever using it?

The weight of not knowing gnaws at him, driving him to pace the shop floor, muttering curses under his breath for being so damn careful.

Two hours later, fresh from the shower, he sinks into the couch with a cold beer he hasn’t even opened yet. Usually, Sukuna finds the quiet of his apartment a relief after a day spent surrounded by noise, but tonight the silence feels heavy and irritating.

His phone lies face-up on the coffee table. By ten, he’s already picked it up and set it down more times than he cares to admit, each glance met with nothing but the glow of the lock screen and the relentless crawl of minutes. By eleven, frustration curdles into something uglier—doubt.

Doubt isn’t something he’s ever felt before, but alone in the dark, his mind starts tearing apart every second of that hour you spent in his office. The memory of your shoulder brushing his lingers. He can still hear your laugh when you realized you’d forgotten the plates, see how easily you followed his explanations, and how you smiled. He’d been so sure there was something there. He’d bet on it.

But as midnight approaches without a single vibration, his thoughts twist, turning defensive and sharp. Maybe he’d read the whole thing wrong. His brow knots as a heavy, sour thought appears and settles right in his gut. You didn’t feel a connection. You were just being polite, bringing an apple pie to thank a mechanic for doing his job. Sitting on that stool, chatting with him, you were just well-mannered, not interested. He’d blown it all out of proportion, let himself believe there was a spark when, to you, he was just the guy who fixed your alternator and handed out some advice.

—

Sukuna arrives at the shop in the worst mood humanly possible. Sleep barely touched him last night, and whatever patience he might have had for the rest of the world has been ground down to nothing.

Fingers curling around the cold iron handles, he wrenches the shutters up, and metal slams against the top of the frame so hard the glass windows in the office rattle. Not that he gives a damn. His jacket lands carelessly on the hook as he storms inside, and the paper coffee cup hits the workbench hard, sloshing the dark liquid over the plastic lid. It tastes like battery acid, but he drinks it anyway, needing the bitterness to match what’s inside of his chest.

He sets his personal phone right at the edge of the workbench, telling himself it’s just so it won’t get crushed in his pocket while he works. He knows that’s bullshit. Each time he reaches for a tool or crosses the bay for another socket, his gaze flicks back to the black screen, searching for a flicker of light that stubbornly refuses to appear.

Around nine, the shop's cell rings, echoing through the empty bay. Sukuna’s heart lurches, a ridiculous, frantic leap before his brain can rein it in—maybe you lost his number but found the shop’s online. The wrench clatters to the floor as he strides into the office, snatching the phone off the desk with a grip that’s just a little too tight.

“Ryomen’s Automotive," he grunts, his voice a rough, impatient gravel.

"Hey, man, just checking if you got those brake pads in for the pickup?"

Disappointment slams into him right beneath his ribs. His jaw locks, knuckles whitening around the mobile. "Yeah. They’re here. Come get 'em," he snaps, hanging up before the customer can get another word in.

Storming back into the bay, he grabs up his phone and shoves it deep into his pocket, as if that’ll keep the urge to check it all the time. The impact gun roars as he goes after a stubborn lug nut, the booming racket finally loud enough to drown out the chaos in his head. That’s it. He’s done checking. If you haven’t texted by now, you’re not going to. You probably tossed the paper, and he needs to get over it.

By one, Sukuna is elbow-deep in the greasy undercarriage of an old sedan, forearms streaked with black smears, his expression locked in a scowl so forbidding that even the delivery drivers have been giving him a wide berth all day.

He’s just reaching for a torque wrench when his phone vibrates on the workbench.

Bzzzt.

The sudden vibration catches him off guard, freezing him mid-reach. For a moment, he doesn’t move at all, letting the faint clicks of the cooling engine overhead fill the silence. It’s probably just spam, he tells himself. Or some useless data plan alert. Or a wrong number.

Peeling off his gloves, he slides a hand into his pocket, pulls out the phone, and swipes the screen awake. There’s a text from an unknown number—except the first line of the preview makes his chest seize up.

[You]: Hey! Sorry for the late text, I didn't want to bother you last night since it was way too late. Just wanted to send this so you have my contact too. Thanks again for looking through those invoices with me, the pie was a small price to pay for saving my bank account!

OH THANK FUCK.

Relief hits him in a bone-deep wave, draining the tension from his shoulders. He draws in a slow breath as he stares at the words glowing on the screen. It takes a moment for his brain to catch up and register the gap between his own spiraling and your ridiculously polite message. You were just being considerate, that’s all.

Clearing his throat, he uses a clean patch of his forearm to wipe the grease off his thumb before he even thinks about typing. Something clever would be good, something that proves he’s not rattled by any of this, but his fingers feel thick and awkward on the keys. Finally, he settles for something short that won’t give him away.

[Sukuna]: No worries. Pie was great, by the way. Just let me know if you get any more of those invoices.

He taps send, eyes glued to the delivery confirmation, then instantly adds the number to his contacts. Your name appears at the top of the chat, and for the first time all day, a smirk tugs at his mouth, breaking through the hard set of his jaw.

The phone disappears back into his pocket, and he turns to the sedan on the lift, with a jolt of energy running through him. As he grabs his wrench, the reality of the situation hits him from a completely different angle: you texted just to be polite and acknowledge the professional favor, and he just capped his own response by telling you to let him know if you get more invoices, boxing himself right back into being the helpful mechanic. Now what? How is he supposed to ask you out without trampling all over the boundaries you just so carefully respected?

By Friday night, that pitiful text thread on Sukuna’s phone has become a full-blown obsession. Sitting on a kitchen stool, he ignores the bowl of dinner going cold on the counter, his attention fixed on the glow of his screen. The chat is as embarrassingly short as it was the previous day: your polite thank-you, then his own awkward reply about the pie.

With a low, frustrated rumble in the empty apartment, he taps the empty text box. He’s never had to plan a conversation in his life, but suddenly, the weight of actually caring what you think drags every word through mud.

Hey, you free this weekend?

He glares at the five words. The line looks all wrong, like something a teenager would send on a dating app, hovering over his phone, waiting around for a girl he barely knows to throw him a bone. Sukuna is a grown man; he doesn't do vague, open-ended checking-in. And if you say no, or tell him you have plans, that’s it. Conversation over. No way to push back without looking like a desperate idiot.

Worse, you texted him because he'd offered to help with invoices, not because you'd expected him to use your number for anything else.

"Don't be a fucking asshole, Sukuna," he mutters.

With a heavy, irritated sigh, he holds down the backspace key until the box is wiped clean.

Saturday evening drags in after a brutal ten-hour shift, wrestling with stubborn leaf springs and rusted exhaust bolts. As he’s slumped on his couch with a cold beer in his hand, his muscles ache, but his mind is still stuck on the same loop. He pulls out his phone again and opens the chat. All he needs is an excuse—something car-related, since that’s the only ground you both actually somewhat share.

Let me know if that alternator’s making any noise.

His thumb freezes before he can hit send, and he scowls at the message, a sharp spike of professional irritation cutting through the haze. If the alternator was making noise, that would mean he’d screwed up the belt tension. He knows it’s perfect. He checked it twice before you left the bay. Asking about it now is basically calling his own work sloppy, and his pride won’t let him insult himself just to get a text back. With a shake of his head, he deletes the line and takes a long pull from his beer, trying to rework the phrasing, still clinging to the car angle but making it less about his own hands.

Make sure you check your oil this week.

He drags his hand over his face, catching himself immediately. If he sends that, he’s just barking orders at a customer who already admitted she doesn’t know a thing about cars. It sounds bossy, too gruff, and leaves you nothing to say except a flat agreement. 

"What the fuck am I doing?" 

He clears the text box again and tosses the phone face down onto the cushion beside him, ready to bang his head on the wall.

Monday night is the worst. The silence of the last few days feels like a personal insult. Standing by his kitchen window, looking out at the dark street, he’s completely fed up with his own uncharacteristic hesitation. He’s Sukuna. He doesn’t sit around overthinking a three-line message like some awkward kid. Enough. He’ll just give it to you straight, no games or professional excuses. He snatches the phone off the counter and types, fingers jabbing at the screen.

I'm heading to the diner by my shop for lunch tomorrow. Come with me.

He stares at the message, breathing heavier as his thumb hovers over the blue arrow. For a split second, he almost hits it. But then your reaction flashes through his mind—opening your phone and seeing a blunt lunch demand from the mechanic who fixed your car last week, suddenly wondering whether the man who seemed so put-together had been working an angle the whole time.

"No. That's fucking creepy."

He’s completely trapped by his own respect for you, stuck suffering the consequences of having zero organic reason to reach out. He can rebuild a transmission blindfolded, but figuring out how to move a text thread from professional advice to I want to see your face again without being an asshole? That breaks his brain entirely.

A low, bitter curse slips out as he clears the message. He throws the phone onto the kitchen table, furious that one person has managed to jam his gears so completely without even lifting a finger.

“Pathetic,” he mutters, rubbing the bridge of his nose.

By Tuesday afternoon, the frustration has cooled into a quiet, stubborn determination. Leaning against the workbench during a lull in the shop, he stares at your name in his contacts. One more try to find a middle ground that feels natural but actually gives him an opening.

Found another complaint about that shop online. Thought you’d wanna see it.

Sukuna deletes it before he even finishes the sentence, dragging his hand down his face. Thought you’d wanna see it. He sounds like he’s trying way too hard to find an excuse to talk to you. It’s not a lie, but he’d rather die than let you catch on.

"For fuck's sake."

By Wednesday afternoon, Sukuna’s completely done with himself, and he’s become absolutely insufferable to be around. Leaning against the tool board, he glares at the calendar pinned crookedly to the office wall, his thumb drumming a relentless rhythm against his thigh.

Every scenario he plays out in his head ends with him looking like an idiot. If he’s going to make a move, it has to be on his own terms, in his own space, where he actually knows what the hell he’s doing. Turning back to his tools, he forces himself not to spiral into another round of pointless drafts. Finally, his mind clears—he doesn’t need a smooth pickup line. He just needs a real, professional reason to get you back in the garage. Maintenance. That’s it.

I’m closing up the shop tomorrow around 6. If you wanna swing by, I can show you how to check your fluids and oil so you aren’t just guessing. No worries if you’re busy.

He stares at the message for a moment. There. Completely professional. Nobody in their right mind could mistake that for flirting. Another second passes. Perfectly reasonable text to send a customer.

With that, his thumb slams the send button, heart thudding stupidly against his ribs. The phone disappears deep into his pocket as he turns back to his tools, pulse racing, completely irritated by his own anticipation and already hooked on the slow, torturous wait for your reply.

Meanwhile, you’re at home, finally sinking into the couch after a long day, when your phone buzzes against the coffee table. His name flashes across the screen, and your heart gives a small, unexpected flutter. You read his invitation twice, and a soft smile tugs at your lips. Fingers hovering over the keyboard, you tap out your reply, keeping it light and trying to match his tone.

[You]: I'd love to! Need me to bring anything? (I promise I'll actually remember the plates this time if there's food involved!)

Down in the garage, Sukuna’s been organizing the same shelf of oil filters for the last four minutes, trying to distract himself, when his pocket finally vibrates. He freezes mid-reach. He deliberately finishes placing the last filter on the rack, forcing himself to move at a normal pace, refusing to look like a lunatic even to his own reflection. Only then does he step back, dig out his phone, and unlock the screen.

Reading your text, the tight, stubborn knot in his chest unravels all at once. Relief hits so fast it’s almost dizzying, and a rush of heat crawls up his neck. You didn't say no. You didn't find an excuse, you didn't think it was weird, and you explicitly said you'd love to come back. And that little joke about the plates instantly crumbles the remaining walls of his stubborn frustration.

A massive, genuinely victorious smirk spreads across his face, eyes crinkling at the corners as a low, rough chuckle rumbles out of his chest. Energy surges through him, ridiculous and electric, like he’s just rebuilt a blown engine in record time.

Then his gaze snags on that last sentence, and his thumb freezes over the keyboard.

Food. You’re asking about bringing food.

For you, it’s testing the waters for a little more time together. But to him, it's enough to send his thoughts careening straight off the rails of the maintenance lesson and into a chaotic spiral of logistics. Does he buy something? Does he tell you to bring something? If he says no, does that mean you’ll just learn how to check a dipstick and drive away immediately after? He doesn't want you to leave. He wants you back on that metal stool, right where he can see you.

Pacing a short line next to the workbench, he types out a response, frowning as he slams straight into a wall of overthinking that’s completely foreign to him: I’ll grab some burgers. No, that’s too much like a date. Don't worry about food. No, that sounds like he doesn't want to eat with you at all. Or worse, you’ll eat before you come, and he’ll miss his chance entirely.

Frustrated with his own hesitation, he deletes the drafts, grunts, and decides to handle it the only way he knows how: blunt and completely practical.

[Sukuna]: Just bring the car. I’ll order a pizza. Pepperoni alright?

He hits send, tossing the phone back onto the bench with a sharp exhale. The message is demanding, a little aggressive, and leaves zero room for negotiation. Still, it guarantees you're staying for dinner.

A wide grin splits his face as he spins around and surveys his empty shop, eyes scanning the bays with sudden, critical focus. Twenty-four hours. That’s all he’s got to make sure his office looks halfway respectable before you walk through the door.

—

Rolling into the gravel driveway with five minutes to spare, you idle near the entrance just as the side door swings open and Sukuna steps out into the cool evening air. He’s in a plain black tee stretched across his broad shoulders and dark grey sweatpants. The change catches your eye immediately because he looks ridiculously good out of his coveralls. You can’t help but wonder if the wardrobe swap was just a coincidence, or if he actually cared about making a good impression tonight.

He walks over to the front of your car, waving his hand to guide you forward. "Bring it straight into the second bay," he calls out.

Following his gesture, you shift into drive and ease the car forward into the bay. The engine clicks softly when you shut it off, and as you step out, Sukuna’s already at the front bumper, nodding at you.

“You’ve made it," he rumbles, stepping up to pop the latch and lift your hood into place with a practiced, heavy thud.

"Told you I would," you say, glancing over the open engine bay with curiosity. "So, where are we starting? Am I going to get entirely covered in grime?"

Sukuna lets out a low, amused huff, a ghost of a smile playing on his lips, and pivots toward the rolling tool cabinet. "Not if I can help it."

He reaches into a cardboard box on top of the cart and pulls out a pair of thin, black single-use gloves. His size is impossible to ignore when he steps in close, suddenly crowding the space, and hands them over.

"Put these on first," he instructs, his gaze locking onto yours for a heartbeat. "The alternator's fresh, but everything else under that hood isn’t. No reason for you to ruin your hands."

You take the gloves, smoothing the black rubber over your wrists before looking up at him with a playful smile, tilting your head. "Very thoughtful. I didn't think a tough mechanic like you cared about a little dirt."

"I don't care about it on me," Sukuna mutters. His eyes linger on your hands for a second before he jerks his gaze back down at the engine bay, clears his throat, and points into the tangled mess of metal and hoses. "Alright, come here. We’re skipping the basic fluid check—you’re smart enough to know how to read a dipstick. I want to show you more interesting stuff."

Stepping in close, you slide the gloves over your hands, your shoulder brushing his for just a second. It's barely a touch, but enough to make both of you hyper-aware of the space you share.

"See this belt right here?" Sukuna asks, leaning over the grille. His deep voice drops into a steady, confident cadence as he gets into his element. "This is your serpentine belt. In case someone tells you it’s about to snap, I'll show you how to check the tension yourself, and how to spot actual dry rot versus regular wear."

He tugs on his own gloves, then reaches down. He navigates the cramped space around the engine block with ease, and you find yourself briefly distracted by the contrast between the size of his hands, the precision of the movements, and how gentle they look as he grips the heavy rubber belt. Then, with a twist, he exposes the underside to the light.

"Get your hand in right here," he says, glancing sideways at you, his eyes dark and intense in the low light. "Feel the edge of the rubber. Tell me what you notice."

For the next hour, Sukuna guides you through a standard oil change, patiently talking you through each step. He doesn't do the work for you; he has you reach beneath the chassis with a socket wrench to feel the exact point of resistance on the oil pan drain plug, his hand covering yours to adjust the angle, explaining the difference between a secure seal and stripped threads.

When he shows you a spark plug, he holds the tiny ceramic piece beneath the shop light, pointing out the faint color differences that separate a healthy engine from one that's burning fuel too rich.

All the while, Sukuna stays at your shoulder, keeping you grounded. Each time your gloved fingers falter over a stubborn clamp or an unfamiliar valve, his hand is there, nudging your wrist or guiding it with a confidence that makes it impossible to feel foolish. He answers every question thoroughly without a hint of impatience, pleased with your curiosity. By the time you peel the gloves from your hands, the machinery that once felt so intimidating is just a puzzle you’ve learned how to solve, and the satisfaction settles deep in your chest.

A sudden chime of the office bell cuts through the quiet, shattering the spell. Sukuna pulls his hand back from the engine block, his head snapping toward the front door.

"Pizza's here,” he rasps.

He strips off the gloves, tossing them in the trash before heading to the glass door to pay the delivery guy. You follow suit, peeling yours off and grabbing the plates you stashed in your trunk earlier. Stepping into the dim office, you find Sukuna already setting the steaming pizza box dead center on his desk.

"Look at that," you tease softly, sliding the plates onto the desk. "Real plates this time."

Sukuna glances down at them, and a faint, genuinely amused smirk tugs at the corner of his mouth.

"Fancy," he mutters, eyes flicking up to catch yours for a split second before his hand moves to the cardboard lid. “Bringing the good stuff to a garage."

The moment he flips the lid open, the rich, savory scent of hot cheese and pepperoni floods the room, instantly smothering the stubborn trace of motor oil that still clings to the air. He slides a massive, steaming slice onto your plate before grabbing one for himself. "Eat up before it gets cold."

For the first twenty minutes, conversation just flows easily, and to his immense relief, not a single word about car parts comes up. You ask about the shop, how long he’s been running it, and whether he always wanted to be a mechanic. He tells you how he likes working with his hands, how machines make sense in a way people never do, because if something’s broken, there’s always a reason, and always a fix.

After a while, Sukuna starts tossing questions your way. One answer leads to another, and before long you're deep in a story about that trainwreck project at work and the latest chaos your friends managed to stir up over the weekend. He doesn’t interrupt, his crimson eyes fixed on your face, watching your eyes crinkle with laughter, how your hands sketch wild shapes in the air, and the tiny smile that sneaks out when you mention your friends.

Some part of him is convinced this should be awkward. Or, at the very least, harder than this. But it feels completely natural, and before he knows it, he’s talking more than he ever does. And that’s exactly when the invisible trap closes right back around his throat.

Ask her, his mind orders, the thought landing in his chest with a sudden, heavy thud. Eight words. Do you want to go out with me? Just say the damn words.

You finish your slice and lean back a little on your stool, thumb brushing a stray crumb from your lower lip without thinking.

Do it now. She's sitting right here. She likes talking to you. Just open your stupid mouth and ask for a real date.

Sukuna shifts his weight on the metal stool as his large hand tightens around his napkin.

Don't be a coward. It's a question, not a marriage proposal.

He opens his mouth, but his throat locks up tight. He isn't actually afraid of hearing the word no—he has plenty of pride, but a rejection wouldn't break him. What paralyzes him is the fiercely protective boundary he’s drawn around you in his own head.

And then what? She realizes the mechanic who helped her has been working an angle the whole time?

He’s desperately trying not to abuse the trust he’s built with you. The sheer weight of wanting to keep this clean and respectable for your sake completely jams his gears.

"Hey," he blurts out anyway, his voice a little rough, cutting right through the middle of whatever you were saying.

You pause, blinking at him with curious eyes. "Hm?"

Sukuna freezes as his brain goes completely blank again under your direct gaze. His eyes drop to your mouth, staring at the soft curve of your lips in the dim light of the desk lamp, his mind scrambling for any kind of escape hatch.

For fuck's sake, Sukuna. You've started already. Just finish it.

Instead, his throat stays bone dry, jaw clenching so hard a muscle jumps in his cheek. The words just refuse to come, and the surge of internal fury that follows nearly knocks him sideways.

“Never mind.”

You study him for a long moment, and a small, knowing look flickers in your eyes as you set your crust down on the plate.

"Well," you say softly, with a playful little tilt to your head. "I guess I officially know enough about drive belts now. At this rate, I won't have an excuse to bother you anymore."

The words hit like a bucket of ice water. The thought of you just fading back into the real world, never showing up at his garage again, triggers a raw, defensive panic that steamrolls right over his hesitation.

"You don't need car trouble to stop by," he quickly says.

It comes out too blunt, his voice rough and a little too sharp in the quiet room. He winces inside, bracing for you to pull away, but you just look at him, a soft, slow smile spreading across your face.

"You know," you murmur, your voice dropping into a gentle, teasing tone as you lean just a hair closer over the edge of the desk. "Most people just ask for a date."

Sukuna goes utterly still. The words hang in the air, and the silence that follows is so thick you can hear the faint, steady hum of the fluorescent bulb overhead. He doesn’t answer right away—he can’t. The gears in his brain lock up as he stares at you, completely stunned that you’ve just outmaneuvered him without even trying.

But then the sheer absurdity of it all hits him, and the tension in his chest snaps like a rubber band.

A low, rough chuckle shakes his chest, half frustration, half pure captivation. He drops the crumpled napkin onto the desk, and suddenly his eyes are burning with that hyper-confident heat he’s been holding back all week. The cautious, hesitant mechanic is gone in a blink.

"Yeah?" he rumbles, his voice dropping an octave.

Before you can blink, he closes the distance between the stools. That massive hand of his finds the back of your neck, thick fingers curling gently, thumb pressing into the warm skin along your jaw. His sheer size blocks out the rest of the office, casting you in his shadow as he leans down, tilting your face up to meet his gaze.

His eyes drop to your mouth, and the intensity of his stare makes your breath catch.

"Been trying real hard to be polite all week," he mutters with a wicked smirk right against your lips, tracing a slow line along your jaw with his thumb. "But you're entirely right. I'm taking you out tomorrow night."

He pauses, giving you one last chance to pull away if you want to. When you don't move, matching his smirk with one of your own, he closes the last bit of space without a single shred of hesitation.

The moment his lips meet yours, a ragged breath escapes him, a sound so raw it sends a shiver tearing down your spine. He’s been starving for this all week, and the force of it knocks the air from both your lungs.

Sweet vanilla and tobacco from his perfume flood your senses, drowning out everything else. Sukuna tastes exactly like he smells: warm, intense, and utterly intoxicating. Any coherent thought vanishes beneath the rush of it. Your hands find the soft cotton of his shirt, fingers twisting the fabric at his chest and bunching it tight in your fists as you pull him closer. Every bit of hunger he pours into the kiss, you give right back.

Feeling you lean in and your hands on him, a low, gravelly groan rumbles from deep in his chest. His grip at the nape of your neck tightens, thick fingers slipping higher into your hair until they're tangled in the strands at the base of your skull, leaving no room for doubt about how badly he's wanted this. His other hand leaves the desk, sliding up to cup your face, calloused thumb sweeping hard over your cheekbone as he tilts your head back, searching for a better angle.

Slow, insistent pressure parts your lips, and his mouth moves over yours in a rhythm that makes your head spin. The heat pouring off him is overwhelming, swallowing up the entire office until there's nothing left but his lips and the rough drag of his hands against your skin.

Sukuna pulls back just a fraction, barely a breath of space between you, so you can both drag in ragged breaths. Eyes closed, his forehead drops against yours while his chest heaves. But staying away isn’t an option. He leans right back in, catching your lower lip between his, sucking on it with a slow pull that rips a quiet gasp from your throat.

That deep drag is followed by a series of quick, hot pecks—one to the corner of your mouth, another firm press at the center of your lips, and finally a lingering kiss that seals your mouths together all over again.

Every tiny, breathless break just makes him hungrier. He presses in deeper, tongue tracing the shape of your lips, completely taking over the pace. Your heart hammers stupidly against your ribs, your body turning to liquid on the metal stool, kept upright only by the iron grip of his hands. He’s kissing you like he wants to leave a permanent mark, making up for an entire week spent talking himself out of this.

Even when he finally tears his mouth away, he refuses to let you go. His breath comes in short, heavy rasps that tangle with your own, crimson eyes fluttering open to find you—dark, hooded, and completely blown wide as he stares at your swollen lips. His thumb sweeps over your lower lip, wiping the dampness away with a slow, heavy pressure that makes your chest ache.

For a moment, neither of you says a word. The office is silent except for the sound of both of you trying to catch your breath. His chest rises and falls close to yours, and you can feel the lingering warmth of him, the tension that hasn’t left either of your bodies.

A smirk slowly tugs at the corner of his mouth. He savors the silence every bit as much as the kiss itself.

“Text me your address,” he rumbles, his voice incredibly low and rough. His hand is still tangled in your hair, fingers threaded deep enough that when you instinctively try to lean back and get a better look at him, his grip tightens just enough to stop you. It isn’t rough, but it’s firm, keeping you exactly where he wants you as his fingers shift slightly against your scalp. “And be ready at seven.”

Blinking up at him through the haze of the kiss, you tilt your head as much as his grip allows, brows lifting as you study him. The corner of your mouth twitches, caught somewhere between amusement and disbelief.

"Pretty sure that wasn't a question, Sukuna."

His smirk deepens as he looks down at you, completely unfazed by your tone. That arrogant confidence in his eyes is impossible to miss now, and somehow it only makes your stomach flip harder.

"Neither was taking you out tomorrow night," he murmurs.

You don’t bother answering. Instead, your fingers curl tighter into his shirt as you drag him down, crushing your lips into his. He chuckles deeply into the kiss as his hands slide from your face to your waist. Before you can think about what he's doing, he's pulling you off the stool and into his lap. Deepening the kiss, you bury your fingers in his hair, drawing a low groan from him that sends a shiver racing down your spine and straight between your legs.

notes:

> sukuna: somebody has been scamming this woman > sukuna: she baked me a pie > sukuna 5 minutes later: i need her phone number or i'm going to lose my fucking mind

and you'd seen the way sukuna had started looking at you when he thought you weren't paying attention.

that was the part that stuck with you, honestly. the way you'd catch sukuna staring at you across the library table or from the other end of his worn-out couch, his expression soft and unguarded in a way he'd never let you see before that tuesday. the way he'd immediately look away the very second your gaze met his, his jaw tightening like he'd been caught doing something really embarrassing.

three weeks of this; sukuna flirting and panicking and flirting again, of you pushing just enough to make him squirm but not enough to break the careful dance you'd both settled into.

three weeks of both of you pretending that something fundamental hadn't shifted between you, that you hadn't accidentally kicked open a door sukuna had been trying to keep closed so freaking bad.

but today, you were done pretending.

today, you were going to kiss your flirty best friend, sukuna, and you were going to do it in a way that left absolutely no room for interpretation.

today, it was a saturday afternoon, the kind that felt lazy and golden and full of possibility, and you'd shown up at sukuna's apartment with a bag of takeout from that thai place he liked so much and the specific kind of determination that came from weeks of watching him flail.

sukuna opened the door looking like he'd just rolled out of bed, which was probably accurate given that it was almost two in the afternoon and he'd texted you at 4am about a dream he'd had where his stats professor turned into a sentient spreadsheet. sukuna's pink hair was messier than usual, sticking up in ways that shouldn't have been attractive but absolutely were, and he was wearing that faded black t-shirt that had a small hole near the collar and made his tattoos stand out even more against his skin.

"you brought food," sukuna said, his voice rough with sleep, and the way his eyes lit up made something warm curl in your chest. "i was about to text you to ask if you wanted to order something. i haven't eaten since, like, yesterday."

"that's disgusting," you said, stepping past him into the apartment. "and also incredibly on-brand for you."

sukuna made a little sound of protest that was mostly performative, shutting the door behind you and following you into the living room like a large, tattooed shadow.

the apartment was the same as always — slightly cluttered, faintly smelling like his cologne and whatever takeout containers he hadn't thrown out yet, with that old leather couch that had seen better decades and the coffee table covered in his notes and empty energy drink cans.

you set the takeout bags on the table and turned to face him, and of course, sukuna was already looking at you with that familiar, lazy amusement, like he was already gearing up to say something annoying.

"you know," sukuna said, folding his arms across his chest in a way that made the muscles in his forearms shift, the dark lines of his tattoos pulling tight over bone and tendon. "you're kind of spoiling me. showing up with food, looking all—" sukuna gestured vaguely at you, his eyes dragging down and then back up in a way that was supposed to be teasing. "—like that. i might start expecting this."

"expecting what?" you asked, and you kept your voice light, casual, like you weren't about to completely upend both of your lives. "me bringing you food because you can't be bothered to feed yourself?"

"no," he said, and his grin sharpened, that particular tilt to his mouth that meant he was about to be a menace. "you showing up. looking good. being all—" he made another vague gesture, his fingers curling in the air like he was trying to grab the right word. "—you know. you."

and there it was, the thing that had changed, that you'd noticed more and more over the past few weeks.

sukuna had stopped simply saying you looked cute or making some comment about your outfit — the pink haired boy was getting softer, clumsier, like he was trying to say something real and didn't quite know how.

you could feel your stupid heart beating a little faster in your chest, but you kept your expression steady, and your posture easy. you'd been planning this for days now, running through it in your head again and again, trying to figure out the right moment and the right way to do it.

"you," you repeated, and you stepped closer to him, just one step, close enough that you could see the way his throat moved when he swallowed. "is that supposed to be a compliment, kuna? because it's kind of vague."

sukuna's eyebrows pulled together, just slightly, the way they always did when you deviated from your usual deflections. his arms were still crossed, but you could see the tension in his broads shoulders now, the way sukuna was holding himself just a little too still.

"it's not vague," he said, and his voice had dropped just a fraction, that roughness from sleep still clinging to the edges of it. "you know what i mean."

"do i?"

you took another step closer, and now you were close enough to see the way his pupils had dilated just slightly, the way his breath had caught in his throat. his tattoos seemed to darken against his skin in the afternoon light filtering through the windows, those familiar lines shifting as his muscles tensed.

"you're doing it again," sukuna said, and there it was, that slight crack in his voice, the one that had been appearing more and more often over the past few weeks. "the thing where you're—where you act like—"

"act like what?"

sukuna's arms uncrossed, and for a moment he looked like he didn't know what to do with them, his hands flexing at his sides before he shoved them into the pockets of his sweatpants. the gesture was almost defensive, and you could see the way his jaw worked as he ground his teeth together.

"act like you're going to—" he stopped, swallowed, tried again. "you know what. you know exactly what you're doing."

"do i?" you asked again, softer this time, and you let your gaze drop to his mouth for just a second before bringing it back to his eyes. "tell me, then. what am i doing?"

sukuna's breath hitched; you heard it, the way it caught in his chest and came out uneven, and you watched the flush start creeping up his neck in that splotchy pattern you'd become intimately familiar with over the past few weeks. it started at his collarbones, just visible above the collar of his t-shirt, and spread upward in patches that stained his skin pink.

"you're—" sukuna started, and then he had to stop to clear his throat, the sound embarrassingly loud in the quiet apartment. "you're trying to make me—i don't know what you're trying to make me do, but you're doing it on purpose."

"maybe," you said, and you let yourself smile, just a small one, the same way you had three weeks ago. "maybe i just wanted to see what would happen."

sukuna's eyes went wide, and you could see the memory of that tuesday flickering across his flushed face — the way you'd leaned in, the way he'd frozen, the way he'd spent the rest of the evening in a daze, not flirting once, just staring at you when he thought you weren't looking.

"that's not—" sukuna started, and then his voice cracked, and the sound of it made something in your chest ache. "you can't just—that's not fair. you can't just do that and then act like nothing happened."

"i'm not acting like nothing happened," you said.

you reached out, slowly enough that sukuna could stop you if he wanted to, and let your fingers brush against his wrist. the skin there was warm, his pulse racing beneath your fingertips, and you felt the way he shuddered at the contact.

"i'm acting like something did happen. something that changed things. something we've both been pretending didn't happen for three weeks."

sukuna's mouth opened, then closed, then opened again, and absolutely nothing came out except this small, strangled sound that might have been your name or might have been a prayer. his pulse was hammering under your fingers, fast and uneven, and you could see the way his chest was rising and falling too quickly, like he'd just run up several flights of stairs.

"i—" he started, and then he stopped, and his free hand came up to rub at the back of his neck, the movement jerky and nervous. "you're serious. you're actually—this isn't a joke?"

"no," you said, and you stepped closer, close enough that you could feel the warmth radiating off his body, close enough that you could smell his cologne and something underneath it that was simply him. "it's not a joke. it was never a joke."

sukuna's eyes searched yours, and you could see the war going on behind them, the part of him that wanted to deflect and the part of him that wanted to just let go. his jaw worked, his throat moved, and his huge hand came up from his neck to hover near your face, not quite touching, like he was afraid you'd disappear if he made contact.

"you're serious," sukuna said again, and his voice was so quiet, so fragile, nothing like the sharp confidence he usually wore. "you're not—you're not just messing with me?"

"i'm not messing with you," you said, and you lifted your other hand to cup his jaw, your palm warm against the stubble there. his skin was hot, his pulse fluttering under your thumb where it rested near his ear, and you watched his eyes flutter closed for just a second before they opened again. "i'm not. i want to kiss you, kuna. i've wanted to kiss you for a while now."

the sound sukuna made was something between a whine and a groan, and his hand finally made contact with your face, his fingers splaying against your cheek like he was trying to memorize the shape of you. his palm was warm and slightly rough, and you could feel the slight tremor in his fingers, the way they shook against your skin.

"you can't just say that," sukuna said, and his voice was wrecked, completely destroyed, like you'd reached into his chest and pulled out something he'd been trying to hide. "you can't just say that and expect me to—i've been—do you have any idea how long i've—"

"how long you've what?" you asked, and you let your thumb trace along his jaw, feeling the way his muscles jumped under your touch. "how long you've wanted to kiss me?"

sukuna's eyes were bright, almost too bright, and his blush had spread to his cheeks now, staining them pink in a way that made him look younger, softer, nothing like the sharp and untouchable figure he pretended to be.

"yes," he said, and the word came out rough and raw, like it had been scraped out of him. "yes, okay? i've wanted—i've wanted to kiss you for years, and you—you just sat there on my couch like it was nothing, like you didn't—"

"like i didn't know?" you finished, and you leaned in, your forehead almost touching his, close enough that your breath mixed with his. "i knew. i just didn't—i wasn't ready. and then that tuesday, when you—when you looked at me like that, i thought maybe you were ready too."

sukuna's hand on your cheek tightened, just slightly, and his other hand came up to grip your hip, his rough fingers pressing into the fabric of your shirt like he was desperately anchoring himself. sukuna's eyes searched yours, and you could see the fear there, the uncertainty, the desperate hope he was trying and failing to hide.

"i'm scared," he said, and his voice broke on the last word, splintering in a way that made your heart ache. "i'm scared that this is—that i'm going to—"

"you're not going to mess this up," you said, and you leaned in closer, your lips almost brushing his. "you're not. i'm right here. i'm not going anywhere."

and then you closed the distance, and you kissed him.

it was soft at first, just a gentle press of your lips against his, testing, asking. sukuna's mouth was warm and slightly chapped, and you could feel the way his breath caught against your skin, the way his hand on your hip tightened convulsively. the kiss was tentative, almost shyly so, and you could feel the tension in sukuna, the way he was holding himself back like he was afraid of breaking something.

but then you pulled back just enough to breathe, and you looked at him, and the expression on sukuna's face literally made your heart stutter.

sukuna's eyes were wide, his pupils blown so dark you could barely see the red of his irises, and his lips were slightly parted, wet from the earlier kiss. sukuna's blush had spread down his neck and disappeared beneath the collar of his shirt, and his breathing was fast and uneven, his chest heaving like he'd just run a marathon.

"was that—" he started, and his voice came out as barely a whisper, cracked and fragile. "did you—"

"yes," you said, and you couldn't help the smile that spread across your face, so warm and so genuine. "that was real. that was me kissing you."

sukuna made a sound that was somewhere between a laugh and a sob, and his hand on your cheek pulled you back in, and this time the kiss was not soft.

this time, it was desperate.

sukuna’s mouth was hungry against yours, like he'd been starving for this for long years and had finally been given permission to eat. his lips moved against yours with a kind of frantic urgency, and his huge hand slid from your cheek into your hair, his long fingers tangling in the strands and pulling you even closer. his other hand was still on your hip, his grip almost bruising, and you could feel the way sukuna’s whole body was trembling against you.

he kissed you like he was trying to memorize the shape of your mouth, like he was trying to pour every unspoken word from the past three weeks into the press of his lips.

sukuna’s warm tongue brushed against your lower lip, asking, and you opened for him, and the sound he made when he tasted you was something you'd never forget — a low, desperate sound that vibrated against your mouth and made your knees feel oh so weak.

you kissed him back just as fiercely, your hands finding his shoulders, feeling the tension there, the way his muscles were coiled tight like he was barely holding himself together. his tattoos shifted under your palms as he moved, those familiar dark lines stretching and pulling over warm skin, and you could feel his pulse hammering under your fingertips.

when you finally broke apart, you were both breathing hard, your foreheads pressed together, and sukuna's eyes were squeezed shut like he was trying to process what the actual hell had just happened.

his chest was heaving, his breath coming in short, ragged gasps, and his hands were still in your hair and on your hip, gripping you like you might disappear if he let go.

"that," sukuna said, and his voice was hoarse, wrecked, completely destroyed. "that was—"

"good?" you offered, and you were smiling, you couldn't help it, the way his whole body was trembling against yours.

"good," he repeated, and he let out a breath that was almost a laugh, almost a sob, somewhere in between. "good doesn't even—i've been wanting that for—and you just—"

sukuna pulled back just enough to look at you, his eyes bright and his face flushed, and there was something raw and open in his expression that he'd never let you see before.

"you have no idea how long i've been waiting for that."

"tell me," you said, and you reached up to brush a strand of pink hair from his forehead, feeling the way he leaned into your touch. "tell me how long."

sukuna's lips curved into a smile that was soft and almost shy, absolutely nothing like the sharp grins he usually wore. his blush was still adorably staining his cheeks, and his ears were pink, and he looked so vulnerable and so open that it made something in your chest ache.

"too long," sukuna said, his voice still rough, still fragile. "longer than i want to admit. years, maybe. i don't—i really didn't know how to tell you, and i didn't want to mess things up, and then that tuesday—"

"that tuesday," you repeated, and you laughed, soft and warm. "you were so pathetic. your voice cracked."

"shut up," sukuna said, but he was laughing too, his body shaking against yours. "i was caught off guard. you never—you never do that."

"maybe i should do it more often," you said, and you leaned in to press a soft kiss to the corner of his mouth, feeling the way he melted into you. "maybe i should kiss you more often."

sukuna's breath hitched, and his hand in your hair tightened, and he turned his head to catch your mouth with his, this kiss slower than the last, deeper, like he was trying to savor it. his lips moved against yours with a kind of tenderness that made your heart swell, and his tongue was tracing your lower lip gently before pulling back.

"yeah," he said against your mouth, his voice barely more than a whisper. "yeah, you should. you really, really should."

and you did.

you kissed sukuna until the takeout got cold, kissed him until the afternoon light shifted into evening, kissed him until he was a trembling, blushing mess in his own living room, his tattoos warm and familiar under your hands and his heart racing against your chest.

sukuna was still pathetic, still whining and blushing and falling apart every time you touched him, and you loved it.

you loved him, you realized, and you'd probably loved him for a little while now, even before that tuesday, even before everything changed.

and from the way sukuna was looking at you, his eyes bright and his face flushed and his mouth curved into that soft, shy smile — he loved you too.

"so," he said finally, his voice still hoarse, his hand still tangled in your hair. "does this mean you're my—like, you're—"

"yes," you said, and you kissed the corner of sukuna’s mouth again, just because you could. "i'm your something. we can figure out the labels later."

sukuna made a sound that was almost a whine, and he pulled you closer to him, burying his blushing face deep in your neck and mumbling something you couldn't quite hear but you were pretty sure was 'finally'.

and you laughed, warm and happy, and held him, and the evening light filtered through his windows and painted the room in shades of gold and pink.

three weeks of pretending had led to this, and it had been more than worth it.

The big ones, the important ones, sure. He remembered them all too well, even through the haze of pain and fatigue that often hung thickly around their reception. 

But there were too many to account for. To remember the particulars of each slash and burn and gunshot wound was a losing battle. He’d long since given up on keeping track of them. Little lines on the sides of his fingers, stretchmarks on the backs of his biceps, winged fans of a burn on the side of his thigh, a pale line along the point of his elbow that he might as well have been born with.

There were ones from further back, too. Scars that time and pain had eroded the precision of the memory, but not the feeling. Cigarette burns on his forearms, a necklace of animal teeth on his side, a craggy line across his hip, accompanied by the shadowy memory of hand reaching for him, and not being quick enough to duck out of the way. 

They all meshed together into the hard patchwork of scar and muscle his body had wrought itself into.

Almost none of them could be helped, out of his control, out of his hands.

They were a catalogue of his life, a story traced on his skin.

Stamped, more like. Branded. 

Survived. 

And soulmates shared scars. 

Their hurt was his; his hurt was theirs. Literally or metaphorically, he wasn’t quite sure. Simon had so many, spent so much time in pain, it was impossible to know if any of them didn’t belong to him originally.  

He didn’t like the thought of someone sharing his scars, having felt what he did. Possessive of them and the pain in a strange way. 

It’s ironic, then, that he should be able to find his soulmate more easily than the average unmarred person, and wanted to do nothing of the sort. Simon dismissed the whole thing as drivel a long time ago, anyway. If they did exist, if they weren’t just incredibly rare instances of luck, Simon was sure that he hadn’t been afforded one. 

There was guilt, too, settled somewhere deep inside him, that someone had to endure it alongside him. It was easier to believe he’d been left out of the whole thing. 

Better he was alone. 

The likelihood of finding that person was slim. It almost never happened. Eight or so billion people swanning around the planet would do that. A one in eight billion chance. 

A grand, cosmic joke. The unfairness of it drove some people crazy, drove them to do insane things to increase a probability that couldn’t be altered—to know that person probably existed somewhere and yet know that they would probably never run across them.

A trend of self harm cropped up online every few years, healed over self inflected wounds posted in forums of people seeking their other, fated, half. The presumption being that they were being desperately searched for in turn.  

Idiotic. Determined. Fallibly human.

And taboo. Most saw it as circumventing fate. 

Violently frantic for the thing Ghost had been unwillingly given. A way to find them, or, at least, easily identify them. And he never would. 

But, sometimes, he wondered. 

He tried to picture the imprint of a person somewhere out in the world wearing his wounds, suffering his losses. The thought would circle his brainstem in an unrelenting loop, a bright fish whispering around the perimeter of its bowl before it dissipated in lieu of something more pressing. 

It was always there, though, waiting to be grappled with again. 

He always came up blank. Nothing but a shadow in his mind where a person should be. Fitting, typical.  

It was a cruelty he couldn’t imagine, somehow. Someone being fatefully, inescapably afflicted with him. 

Simon didn’t want a soulmate anyway, and he was sure, if they existed, that they didn’t want him either. 

If there was someone out there, someone wandering around with his scars on their skin, he was certain they hated him already. 

He didn’t particularly believe in fate; life had taught him not to. He believed in himself, his capabilities, planning and contingencies. And Simon didn’t relish the thought of something he couldn’t control, someone holding the other end of his corded, deformed soul, like a leash they could tighten and use to yank him to his knees. Compromised, vulnerable. 

It wouldn’t happen; the margin for discovery was so small it was practically nonexistent. 

He blamed Soap, then, for tempting fate.

Ghost listened to Johnny yammer on, the sound of his voice louder than usual in the rattling dark belly of the transport plane home. The glow of green light, the roar of engines, the jangle of gear. 

It was an irritating, and sometimes endearing, quirk of Johnny’s that he couldn’t stop talking in the post-op cortisol and adrenaline drop, his words a smeared haze of jumbled thoughts spoken aloud for hours afterward.

The notion of a soulmate was at the front of Soap’s mind, not for the first time. He’d always seemed to enjoy the idea of it, and find some comfort in it, particularly after a close call. There was someone waiting for him, somewhere, after all, it couldn’t all come to nothing yet.