You vividly remember the day you moved to Japan. You were eleven, your nervousness amplified by the way the airport had smelled—metallic, unfamiliar, cold. Your mother stayed back in your hometown with your younger brother, and you followed your father across the ocean for his new job… your new life. You told yourself it was an adventure, trembling in anticipation.

It wasn’t. Not at first.

Making friends when you didn’t speak the language fluently and stood out in every classroom turned out to be less like an odyssey and more of a series of long, silent lunch breaks. Teachers tried, some classmates smiled, but nothing stuck. Not until high school.

Transferring to Nekoma High at fifteen was your father’s idea. He’d said something about the school’s progressive curriculum and cultural diversity. You hadn’t hoped for much until, one week into classes, the principal cornered you near the shoe lockers and asked if you’d consider being the manager for the boys’ volleyball team.

“It’s part of a new initiative. We’re looking to build an inclusive sports environment,” he said. “And you have excellent organisational skills from your transcript.” You said yes, mostly out of curiosity. And maybe because it was the first time someone had sought you out, instead of the other way around.

The first practice was awkward, to put it lightly. A room full of sweaty teenage guys and sharp whistles. You stood off to the side, notebook in hand, questioning every life choice that led you there with a resigned sigh. Until Kuroo Tetsurō slung an arm around your shoulders and said, “Don’t worry, you’re one of us now. You’ll get used to these knuckleheads.”

The team protested. You laughed for the first time in weeks. That’s how it all began.

They took you under their wing like a little sister, especially Kuroo—he treated you with a big-brother protectiveness that made the transition less lonely. Lev would tell you outrageous lies just to see you smile. Yamamoto always tried too hard to impress you but meant well. Yaku taught you how to be blunt in Japanese without accidentally insulting someone’s grandmother.

But the one you inexplicably gravitated toward was Kenma.

You were the same age, and the same reserved type, at least at first glance. Though unlike him, you didn’t mind talking. People were drawn to you in a way that surprised you. So, Kenma didn’t intimidate you. If anything, you felt safe around him. He was calm, observant, and never asked for more than you were willing to give.

You’d sit beside him during breaks, leaning over his shoulder as he played on his handheld console.

“You’re always watching,” he’d say without looking up.

“I like watching,” you’d plainly reply.

And when he let you try it out yourself—tentatively handing over his console like it was something fragile—you knew you had earned his trust. You’d talk about things beyond video games. Books. Movies. Your homesickness. His dislike of crowds. The weird comfort of silence. He was the only one who didn’t flinch when you talked about the divorce or missing your mom and brother.

By the end of your second year, you were inseparable. Everyone saw it—hell, even Kuroo made a habit of teasing you about it.

“She’s the Kenma whisperer,” he’d joke. “He actually talks around her.”

You dismissed it. You told yourself it was just friendship, that the small twists in your stomach when his shoulder brushed yours were normal. That the deliberate and soft way he looked at you was just how he looked at everyone.

But somewhere near the end of school, when the weight of the future started crawling into every conversation, you realised you felt something more. And it scared the hell out of you. You didn’t say anything. How could you risk losing what you had when it had taken you so long to find it?

After graduation, the team drifted as people often do. University took everyone in different directions, but you all stayed in touch. Kuroo’s group chats were relentless and reunions became an annual thing, something precious to look forward to.

With Kenma, your bond never faded. If anything, it grew.

Even when you were in different cities, the two of you never changed—late night phone calls, half-asleep messages, and meeting up whenever you could. Both of you still talked like no time had passed. Still knew each other in that rare, bone-deep way. However, you dated around, courtesy of your college roommate urging you to move on and get laid. You had simply nodded, telling yourself the crush was a remnant of adolescence. It had to be. It wasn’t healthy to keep holding on.

Tragically, it never went anywhere with the people you went out with. No one matched the way Kenma understood you without trying. No one matched the genuinity and the slow-burn thrill.

And now, in your twenties, with a stable job and a quiet apartment, you were beginning to admit that maybe it had never been just a crush.

But if that was true… what in the world were you supposed to do about it?

Kenma’s penthouse was everything you’d expect: clean lines, muted colors, and minimalist furniture. Expensive in a subtle way. 

He was already curled up on the low couch when you stepped in, barefoot and hoodie-clad, legs tucked under himself like a cat. “You’re late,” he murmured without looking up from his nintendo.

“You’re lucky I even showed up,” you replied, dropping your bag by the door.

“Oh?” His eyes flicked up momentarily, amused. “Is this you playing hard to get?”

You rolled your eyes and sank into the seat beside him, close enough for your knees to brush. “If I was playing hard to get, you wouldn’t stand a chance.”

That earned a low hum of laughter. “So self-assured.”

The night unfolded the way it generally did—casual banter, leftover takeout, and dumb inside jokes that had survived since Nekoma. You both sat there, bodies angled toward each other, the city lights painting the walls with a faint gold.

At one point, he turned off the TV, but neither of you moved. There was a falter. A lapse stretching between words. Then, after much thought, you said it.

“Can I ask you something kind of... weird?”

Kenma blinked. “Sure.”

You took a breath. “Do you ever think you’re, like, bad in bed?”

His eyebrows rose. That certainly wasn’t what he’d imagined the conversation would jump to. You winced at yourself. “Okay, wow, that sounded way more self-deprecating than I meant it to.”

“Little bit.”

“I’m serious,” you said, shifting to face him fully. “I’ve dated, right? But it never really went anywhere. And when it did get physical, it just… didn’t go that far.”

Kenma didn’t interrupt. Merely listened.

“I mean, I’ve done stuff,” you continue rambling, suddenly fascinated by the hem of your sleeve. “A little oral. Some handjobs. But, um, I’ve never… had sex.”

There it was. Out in the open. You’d lobbed the confession between you like a live grenade, waiting for it to detonate. Only that it didn’t. The lack of response wasn’t exactly suffocating, though it did make you scream a little on the inside. 

Kenma’s voice was gentler than you expected when it came. “Why are you thinking about this now?”

His words made you hesitate. “Because I’m trying to see people again. But every time I get close to someone, I panic. I keep doubting myself—what if I’m not good at it? What if they expect me to know what I’m doing and I don’t?”

A beat.

“And it’s not about being ashamed,” you added quickly. “I just want to feel... in control. Comfortable.”

Kenma studied you. “You could just tell them.”

“I know. But I don’t want it to be a thing. Like, ‘oh no, she’s a virgin, handle her with care.’” You wrinkled your nose. “I don’t want pity sex. Or worse, performance sex.” You dared a peep at him. “Have you…?”

He tilted his head. “Had sex?”

Your ears burned, unsure of whether you wanted to hear the answer. “Yeah.”

Kenma leaned back against the couch, arms crossed. “I have.”

The words sat in the air like smoke. You ignored the tightening of your chest. “Was it good?” you asked. Perhaps, a little too quickly.

He gave you a look. “You really want to know?”

You stammered. “Yes. No. Kind of. For research purposes.”

He smirked. “Of course.”

“Shut up.”

He was quiet for a moment before replying, “Some of it was good. Depends on the person, I guess.”

You hummed, eyes on his collarbone. “Would you ever, uh, be willing to show someone the ropes?”

A pause. “What do you mean?”

You didn’t answer right away. The apartment felt charged, causing your fingers to twist in your lap. Without meeting his gaze, you exhaled shakily.

“I was just thinking… if I ever wanted to figure this out—hypothetically—you’re the only person I’d trust not to make it weird.”

Kenma stilled, lips parting. “Hypothetically?”

“Yeah.”

Another pause. A longer one. “You’re asking me to have sex with you.”

Your stomach flipped. “I didn’t say that.”

“But that’s what you meant.” 

You groaned. “Forget it. This was dumb. I shouldn’t have—”

“I didn’t say no.” Kenma looked at you. Not joking, not teasing—just looking. That same sincere care you’d known for years, now sharpened with something else.

Something almost hungry.

“Do you want me to?” he asked, voice low. “Help you?”

Your heart thundered. “Well, I—Only if… you want to.”

He leaned forward. “I want to. Let’s start with a kiss.”

You froze, eyes widening at the abruptness of it all.

“Since, you know,” he added casually, “we’re doing research.” You laughed—nervous, breathy—and nodded. “Right. For the glory of science.”

He moved in leisurely, giving you every chance to pull back. You didn’t. His lips brushed yours once. Gentle and testing, your breath hitching at the sensation. You kissed him again. More assertive than previously. As a result, his hand found your cheek. The angle changed, the excitement deepened.

You realised begrudgingly that your idea had stopped being hypothetical real fast.

Kenma and you grew feverish, your actions slow, then speedy, like you couldn’t get enough. You gripped his hoodie in an act of desperation. His fingers trailed along your waist, reluctant yet calculating. You felt his touch at the hem of your t-shirt and gasped, pulling back.

“I—I need to stop,” you whispered.

Kenma, breathing heavily, nodded. “Okay.”

You sat there, chests heaving, foreheads nearly touching.

“That was…” you began.

“Mhm,” he said, voice hoarse. “It was.”

You didn’t sleep together that night. Be that as it may, something had undoubtedly shifted. Something you couldn’t take back. Neither of you were prepared for what that first sensuous encounter had unlocked. 

After the kiss, everything was different. Not in a dramatic, movie-like way, mind you. There were no whispered confessions or next-day declarations. You didn’t even text about it. Not directly, though every message after did have a different weight to it.

gamer boi: you left your ring on the bathroom sink

You: OMGTHANKYOU i’ve been searching for it all day :(

gamer boi: how did you even forget it?? isn’t it your favourite????  

You: it’s not my fault someone kept me distracted with his mouth 🙄

gamer boi: don’t act like you didn’t enjoy it

The next time you saw Kenma, you were wearing a sundress with zero intentions of escalating anything. Apparently, it didn’t matter.

You were barely inside before Kenma tugged you in by the wrist, your back hitting the front door with a loud thud. His mouth was on yours again, hands roaming like he’d been starved of touch. His fingers curled around your waist, dragging you flush against him. You let out an embarrassingly needy whimper, arms looped around his neck for balance.

It was supposed to be another kiss. Nothing too intense, nothing too fiery. But soon his tongue brushed against yours—mischievously coaxing. When his knee slid between your thighs, you knew that you were done for.

Your nails dug into his shoulders and he groaned into your mouth.

“Okay?” he checked in, lips grazing your jaw.

You nodded, breathless. “Yeah. Just—you… it’s all very new. ”

He paused. “Tell me if you want to stop.”

“I will.”

That night, you didn’t go all the way either.

But you let him touch you. Really touch you.

You ended up in his lap on the couch, your dress hiked up, his t-shirt discarded somewhere on the floor. His motions were maddeningly drawn out—smoothing over your thighs, teasing under your panties, fingers slicking gently over you until you were shaking. One thing you’d grown to learn thanks to these electrifying escapades was that Kenma neither rushed nor demanded.

Just observed.

He watched you unravel, watched you fall apart with nothing more than his hand between your legs and his mouth pressed to your throat.

You’d returned the favour a week later—kneeling between his knees in that same living room, palms steady even though your mind was a mess. He had gripped your hair, but not harshly—more like he didn’t know what else to hold onto.

And after, when you wiped your mouth and leaned your cheek against his thigh, both of you panting hard, he murmured, “You’re dangerous when you’re confident.”

You smiled. “Guess the research is working, huh?”

His only answer was a smirk.

Life, as it usually does, got in the way. You were swamped at work and Kenma had his own obligations. Days passed. Weeks, even. You didn’t meet up with him, but you felt him everywhere. In your skin. In your thoughts. In the aching, restless emptiness of your bed. And worse: you missed him. Not just the way he touched you—but the him of it. His deadpan humour. The way he’d pause in conversation like he was thinking four moves ahead. The attractive rasp of his voice. The way he drank you in.

You missed your friend. You craved your… something.

You didn’t know what you were to him anymore. In spite of that, you knew that you needed him.

Kuroo’s reunion couldn’t have come at a better—or worse—time.

You’d dressed without overthinking it. Okay, maybe a little overthinking. The black corset hugged your curves like sin. The skirt hit mid-thigh, leaving appropriately enough to the imagination. The oversized leather blazer added a touch of effortlessness you didn’t actually feel. And the platform boots? Tall enough to be seductive.

When you walked into the high-end restaurant, every eye turned. On the contrary, you only looked for one.

Kenma was at the bar, drink in hand, dressed in a black button-up with the sleeves rolled to his forearms. His hair was tousled, face unreadable. But when he saw you, he froze. Eyes trailing down greedily, taking his sweet time. He didn’t smile or wave.

Later, after hours of group toasts, dodging Kuroo’s banter, and pretending you didn’t itch with anticipation, Kenma found you on the rooftop balcony.

The city buzzed beneath.

“You’ve been avoiding me,” you said, not turning around. 

He stepped closer, “You’ve been busy.”

“So have you.”

All you hear for a few seconds is the cacophony of traffic and pedestrians.

“You look good tonight.”

You swallowed, your feet carrying you to him. “Yeah?”

Kenma appeared to be just as tormented as you. “Too good.”

“That a problem?”

He didn’t bother with an answer. Reaching for you, he hastily tugged you close. His mouth slanted over yours, hot and aching, weeks (he’d argue, proclaiming ‘years’) of self-control slipping like sand through fingers.

You didn’t even remember getting into the cab.

The moment Kenma’s apartment door shut behind you, it was chaos.

Lips crashing. Hands fumbling. Breath caught between kisses that were all teeth and tongue, no space for thought. Kenma backed you against the wall while you yanked at the buttons of his shirt like you were unwinding every second you’d spent pretending this wasn’t what you wanted. He dragged your blazer off, then your corset. His hands slid up your thighs, underneath your skirt, finding nothing but heat and skin.

“You planned this?” he muttered, strained, against your neck.

“I thought about you,” you whispered honestly.

He cursed, kissing you deeper—ravenous, like the time apart had built a pressure in him he could no longer contain. Soon, you were in his bed. Limbs knotting, bare. His weight on top of you was crushing—so real with almost a decade’s worth of tension, of friendship, of everything unspoken.

His touch skimmed up your stomach, pausing at the curve of your breast.

“I need you,” he said, hoarsely. “Tell me I can have you. Please.”

“I’m yours,” you reassured—just a whisper, but your whole body yearned to meet his. “I want you so bad, Kenma.”

He reached down between your thighs, fingers running through the mess there, working you open. You moaned, legs falling wider to allow him to move inside you better. You were drowning in sensation. His teeth nipped at your chest, hips grinding just barely against yours, and yet—

You wanted this. God, you wanted him. But—

“Wait,” you muttered, voice thin and trembling.

Kenma froze immediately. His eyes locked on yours, reading your face with terrifying precision. “What’s wrong? Did I hurt you?”

“No,” you said quickly. “No, I—”

Your hand pressed lightly to his chest. “I can’t—I can’t do this like it’s solely physical. Not with you.”

The room shifted.

“I thought I could,” your voice was so low, one might believe you weren’t speaking at all. “I told myself this was just for fun. A learning thing. ‘Research.’ But I can’t pretend anymore.”

You looked up at him, shame creeping in. “If I sleep with you, I’ll fall completely. I already have. It won’t just be sex to me. I don’t think it ever was.” You gulped, words turning rawer. “And if that’s not what you want… then this was a mistake.”

Tranquility. Thick. Cracking at the seams.

You felt your panic rise. “Sorry. I know I fucked things up, god. I should leave—"

“Stop,” Kenma finally spoke. Your blathering halted.

His fingers trailed up your cheek. “You think I’d let you in like this—have you like this—if it was just physical to me?” You didn’t answer. Couldn’t, really.

“I’ve been in love with you since high school, you idiot,” he said, and your stomach dropped. “I just never thought you’d want me back.”

You blinked up at him, stunned.

“When we kissed that day,” he continued, reverent, “everything changed. I didn’t want to risk scaring you away, so I thought if I gave you what you needed… eventually you’d see it too.”

He kissed your forehead. “See that I’d burn down the world for you.”

You gazed up at him, shaking slightly. “You’re not serious.”

He kissed your cheek. Your temple. Your nose. “I’m dead serious.”

Emotion swelled in your heart, hand cupping the side of his face. “Kenma…”

He leaned into the touch. “Talk to me.”

“I used to wait for practice to end just to walk home with you. I used to sit in the stands and pretend I was watching the match, but I was only watching you.”

The corner of his lips twitched. His hands ran down your sides.

“I thought I was broken for never wanting anyone the way my friends did,” you whispered. “But then you showed me it wasn’t about anyone. It was about you. It was always you.”

The atmosphere in the room grew charged with something sacred.

“I love you,” you declared, like the words were stolen from your ribs. Like they were always there between the two of you, waiting for someone to speak them to life.

Kenma was silent for one moment—just one—before… “I love you too,” he kissed you like a man reborn. This time, there was no rush.

He moved over you like he was making a vow—hands smoothing over every curve of your body, lips mapping every inch of your skin, like he was trying to memorise the sound of your breath as it caught in your throat. 

When he lined himself up and pushed inside, it was slow. Intimate. He didn’t look away once. You clung to him, gaping at the fullness, the sheer gravity of him inside you.

“Alright?” he murmured, brows furrowing in concern.

You nodded, breath shaky. “Better than alright.”

He kissed you again, explosively possessive. After what felt like ages, he moved.

Each thrust was deliberate and claiming. His hand tangled with yours above your head. His other gripped your hip, holding you steady as he rocked into you, building a rhythm that made your back arch.

“I’ve dreamed about this,” he murmured into your ear. “Dreamed about you under me, begging for more.”

You moaned, eyelashes fluttering. “You have me now.”

“Trust me, I’m never letting go.”

Your bodies danced in a symphony that blurred the line between pleasure and worship. You came first, legs trembling. He followed right after, whining your name against your lips, pulsing with everything he felt and couldn’t say fast enough.

While you both lay there—spent and dizzy—you clung to each other. Because you knew this wasn’t the end.

You woke up to sunlight. Golden, slithering between silk curtains and spilling across the sheets in hazy lines.

Next to you was Kenma, his arm draped over your waist. The slight scrunch of his forehead indicated he was still deep in thought even while asleep. The sheets were rumpled around your legs, your body still sticky with sweat and afterglow, and every inch of you ached deliciously.

Oh my god, you thought with a giddy smile.

Your phone buzzed on the nightstand. You reached out, careful not to disturb Kenma, and blinked at the screen.

8 Messages from loser

1 Missed Call

1 Voice Note

You opened the texts, bracing yourself.

loser: where the hell are you?? kenma’s vanished too tf                  

loser: you better not have left. lev tried to arm wrestle yamamoto and lost. to YAMAMOTO                                                                    

loser: i swear if you ghosted the reunion i’m kicking your ass        

loser: wait                                                                                                    

loser: waitttttttt                                                                                         

loser: OH MY GOD DID YOU AND KENMA LEAVE TOGETHER???!!! 

loser: TELL ME THIS ISN’T HOW I’M FINDING OUT                       

loser: ANSWER ME FUCKER

You choked on your laugh, snorting into your palm. Kenma stirred beside you, yawning.

“Mmm… what time is it?” he mumbled, exhaustion evident in his voice.

“Too early for our best friend to be having a meltdown,” you giggled.

Kenma cracked one eye open. “Kuroo?”

You held your phone up. “He’s in panic mode.”

Kenma blinked. Then closed his eyes again and guided you down into his chest. “Ignore him.”

You laughed, cuddling into his warmth. His hair was mussed, bleached strands falling into his eyes. His fingers rubbed lazy circles into your back, like he couldn’t stop touching you in his tired state either.

“I still can’t believe last night happened,” you remarked dreamily.

Kenma nuzzled your shoulder. “I can. I’ve imagined it a thousand times.”

You flushed. “Okay, damn.”

He smirked against your skin. “You think I didn’t spend high school losing my mind over you?”

You were about to answer when his hand slid lower. Then lower still.

“Kenma—” 

He rolled on top of you before you could finish. You sucked in a breath as his mouth found yours—inviting at first, then insatiable. Your legs parted instinctively as he settled between them, hardening length grinding slowly into your wetness. His body was still warm from sleep, but his touch was awake. Very awake.

“You’re gonna start something you can’t finish,” you warned.

He kissed your jaw. “Wanna bet?”

You fisted his hair, pulling him back to meet your eyes. “We’re seriously doing this again? First thing in the morning?”

“You’re naked in my bed,” he deadpanned. “If anything, this is on you.”

You were mid-laugh, mid-moan, mid-thigh squeeze when… 

“I SWEAR TO GOD IF YOU—”

The bedroom door slammed open. You both stopped, unmoving. 

Kenma’s mouth was on your neck. His hand was on your thigh. Your legs were definitely wrapped around his waist. Kuroo stood in the doorway like a horror movie freeze frame.

One hand still on the doorknob. Jaw hanging open. Eyebrow twitching.

You screeched and dove under the sheets like they could erase the last thirty seconds of reality. Kenma… just sighed. Still completely on top of you, showing no signs of clothing himself.

“Get out,” he said flatly.

Kuroo was pale. In a shocking display, he turned red. If possible, redder.

“I—WHAT—SHE’S NAKED—YOU’RE—WHAT—WHY—"

“By the way, I didn’t give you the code to my penthouse so you could come and go as you please,” Kenma muttered, frustrated.

“I thought you were dead!”

“Kuroo—” you poked your head out, expression absolutely boiling—“I’m begging you to forget this ever happened.”

“Oh no. This is burned into my soul. Wait till the group chat hears about this.”

Kenma finally stood up, arranging the blanket properly to cover you like a true gentleman. Instead of being embarrassed, he looked rather annoyed at being interrupted. Like this was your regular Saturday afternoon in the Kozume household.

Kuroo glanced between the two of you, hands on hips, processing.

Then he scoffed, “I watched you two lunatics dawdle around each other for YEARS. Years. You think I didn’t know?”

“Then, why are you surprised?” Kenma asked.

“Because I thought you’d tell me through a well-structured text, not with your fucking nipples out!”

You screamed in humiliation and retreated into the covers again.

Kenma shrugged. “We were busy.”

“Oh, no need to tell me.” Kuroo turned, still muttering to himself, “I'm gonna need bleach. For my eyes. For my brain. For my…”

The bedroom door slammed shut and it was peaceful for all of three seconds. At the same time, you and Kenma burst out laughing. He wrapped his arms around you, burying his face in your neck as you wheezed into the pillow, your body shaking.

“Never living that down,” you gasped.

“Worth it,” he whispered.

And then he kissed you again—slow and soft—like he had nowhere else to be.

"so... the party last night..."

"the party, indeed," atsumu smirks, "is this about a certain someone i saw you leave with last night?"

"yes, we slept together." kiyoomi says as calmly as possible, hoping to manage his friend's reaction (even though kiyoomi himself is freaking out internally).

"let's go!" atsumu fist pumps, "hell yeah, man, congratulations! it's about time! you've been crushing on her for forever; i was so close to just locking you two in a room myself—"

"that's not the point," kiyoomi groans.

don't get him wrong, it was definitely the best night of his life, but how does he explain to atsumu that he didn't want things to go like this? he had a whole timeline in his head—take you out on a few dates, kiss you in front of your apartment door, get you flowers and treats from your favorite bakery, go on a couple more dates, and then get into bed together (maybe on the same day that he properly asks you to be his girlfriend). he didn't want things to start with a drunken hookup.

"kiyoomi, hey, you still there?" atsumu says a lot gentler this time, seeing the worry on his friend's usually stoic face.

"i don't want a one-night stand, but i have no idea what she wants. and i'm... scared that that's what she wants."

atsumu has never heard kiyoomi admit his worries like this, not even when they were first recruited for the olympics and the excitement started transforming into nervousness. he knew that you mattered a lot to kiyoomi, and this just solidifies that.

"i mean, it doesn't have to be a one-night stand. you can just talk when she wakes up."

"that's true, but i—" kiyoomi hesitates. going to atsumu for advice was embarrassing enough, but admitting this next part is even worse. he's finally got the blonde to a more serious spot, and he knows his next admission will just bring back the teasing.

"hey, you're kind of starting to scare me," atsumu sighs, "please just spit it out."

kiyoomi says nothing. instead, he braces himself for what's to come.

kiyoomi turns the phone camera and atsumu sees to the hotel's dining room table overflowing with every single breakfast item on the room service menu. in addition to all that, there are even desserts and several cups of juice and coffee.

there's a beat of silence.

and then suddenly, atsumu is practically dying of laughter, "what the fuck, omiomi? what did you do?"

kiyoomi faces the phone back to him, his face a lot redder than a few minutes ago, "i panicked, okay? i figured—you don't have breakfast with your hookups, right?"

"this is breakfast for at least 10 people!"

"i wanted to make sure i got something she liked!"

"don't you already know what she likes?"

"well, i was worried she might be in the mood for something else!" he groans, rubbing his hand across his face. he moves the phone a bit so atsumu can't see how much he's stressing about this.

"she's going to think it's stupid. i just like her so much and i panicked and i just hope she had a good time last night and i feel like she won't take me seriously with this fucking spread but it's not like i can get rid of it and i have no idea if she'll even want to go out with me now and i—"

"just ask her," atsumu says.

"miya, she's asleep and—"

"did you have a good time last night?" atsumu practically shouts, somehow looking past kiyoomi through the phone screen.

"what—"

"a great time, actually," you say.

kiyoomi turns, seeing you leaning against the bedroom door behind him.

"but, i don't kiss and tell, so you should go back to bed," you make your way to kiyoomi, gently placing a hand on his arm, "'cause it looks like this guy and i have a lot to talk about."

atsumu gives a quick goodbye, winking at kiyoomi before hanging up. kiyoomi sets his phone down and turns to completely face you. your hair's still a little messy, you're wearing his shirt—oh wow, you look good in his shirt—and kiyoomi nearly forgets the situation he's in. before he can begin explaining himself, you speak up.

"yes, i've been up for a while. yes, i heard most of that conversation—i think atsumu forgets how loud he is—and," you move closer, wrapping your arms around his neck while his hands find your waist, "yes, i would love to go out with you."

when your words finally register, he feels a stupid grin spread across his face.

"yeah?"

"yeah," you smile up at him, "it's not every day that i get to wake up to a breakfast buffet."

you laugh at the way his cheeks turn pink before he buries his face in the crook of your neck, "did i at least get something you like?"

"well, i like you."

"not what i meant... but i like you, too." he says softly.

"so i've heard," you gently nudge him back so you can look at his face properly, "i believe you like me so much?" you grin.

You swat at his stomach, and he lets out a dramatic grunt. “Rude. I brought that candle to add ambiance.”

“Ah yes,” he deadpans, “nothing like artificial sugar scent.’”

You snort, settling your head back down on his shoulder, the fabric of his hoodie soft beneath your cheek. There’s a long pause before you say, “You know, if we fail our exams, I’m blaming your Digimon addiction.”

He grins. “I’m raising digital warriors, thank you very much. And I’ve never failed an exam, don’t wound me now!”

“They look like mutant toddlers with attitude problems.”

He gasps, clutching his heart. “They’re champions, you monster.”

You laugh, letting the sound dissolve into something quieter as your fingers absentmindedly trace a pattern into the blanket. His hand rests near yours. Not holding it. Not not holding it.

His glasses are tilted again. Of course.

You reach up and straighten them with a sigh. “Honestly, you’d be lost without me.”

“Not true.” He says it reflexively, then pauses. His voice softens. “Okay, maybe. I’d probably just let them slide down until I walked into a wall.”

You smile faintly. “And there’d be no one there to patch you up.”

“Tragic,” he agrees. “Would bleed out on the floor, probably.”

“You’re so dramatic.”

“You’re so bossy,” he counters, shooting you a sideways look. 

“Admit it,” he says, voice full of faux-smugness, “you’d miss me if I died tragically and left you all alone.”

You hesitate for a second too long before mumbling, “Don’t joke about that.”

It’s quiet. The game music loops in the background as his Digimon wins the battle with a triumphant fanfare.

He doesn’t say anything.

You suddenly feel too warm under the blanket. The joke had been harmless, stupid even.

But something inside you twists, the same something that’s been unraveling lately every time he mentions another girl.

Another type. That’s not you.

“You know,” you say slowly, eyes peeling from the screen to his phone, which lights up with a notification, revealing one of his favorite gravure model’s latest issues as its wallpaper. “You could probably date any girl you wanted. Why do you partake in freak stuff like this? It’s anti-girl repellent.”

He makes a noncommittal sound. “Doubt it.”

“I don’t. You’ve got that whole genius-who-doesn’t-realize-he’s-hot thing going on.”

He glances at you, skeptical. “Is that a thing?”

“It is. Annoying, but effective. Girls love it.”

He hums, clearly amused, cheeks slightly flushed. “Well, good to know I have options.”

You try to laugh, but it catches in your throat.

You shouldn’t ask. You really shouldn’t.

But you’re lying in his bed. Wrapped up in him like you belong here. And some part of you aches to know the answer.

So you pretend it’s a joke. You tilt your head against his shoulder, voice airy, teasing. “Hey, be honest—do you think I’m cute?”

He goes still.

His hand tightens slightly on the Switch. You think you’ve pushed too far, so you try to backpedal before he can respond.

“Not like… like that,” you say quickly. “I just meant, like, in general. Compared to those girls you’re into. Say, Waka Inoue. You know, long legs, shiny hair, cute face?”

His jaw tightens.

You’re still trying to play it off. “I mean, I’m not fishing for compliments. I just—was wondering.”

He finally turns to look at you.

His gaze lingers. And for the first time all night, he’s not smiling.

You feel your breath stutter in your throat underneath his gaze.

Then he shrugs.

“…Nah.”

It slices through the air with quiet finality.

Your heart drops. You don’t let it show. Not fully. But it must flicker in your face, because he quickly looks away.

You laugh. It sounds forced.

“Yeah, that’s fair. I mean, I wasn’t expecting a yes or anything.”

He’s silent.

You shift away from him slightly, giving him space. “I should head home soon. We didn’t really get any studying done, anyway.”

“It’s late. Why don’t you stay the night?”

Usually, you’d accept his offer with a smile, but you really wanted to go home and wallow in your own self pity.

“It’s fine, I have something to do anyway,” the lie slips out of your mouth easily as you begin to pack your things.

And you miss the way he watches you—guilt in his eyes, frustration on his tongue. 

You knew it was time. Twenty years of hopeless, fruitless pining had done enough damage to your heart.

It had started the day your parents moved next door. Satoru had been the loud, obnoxious, too-pretty-for-his-own-good boy on the playground who shoved candy in your hand and asked if you wanted to be friends.

You’d been doomed since day one.

And to make things worse, you’d both gotten into Japan’s most competitive university—together. Same neighborhood. Same school. Same train route. You weren’t just stuck with him. You were haunted.

But you were young and hot. And allegedly in your prime. You couldn’t keep orbiting around a guy who still thought microwave gyoza was a food group and used your shampoo because it “smelled like you, so why not?”

You were sipping coffee with your two closest friends, and today’s topic was—unfortunately—your love life.

“Honestly, I can’t believe you’ve been stuck on Gojo for this long,” Utahime said, disgusted, as she stirred her latte like it personally offended her. “You could do so much better.”

“It was kind of cute in high school,” Shoko added “but now it’s just sad.”

You sighed, blowing on your drink. “I know, okay? It’s not like I haven’t tried. But he’s literally the only guy I’ve ever been close to. I don’t even talk to guys besides him.”

“That’s because he’s been gatekeeping you since the two of you met,” Utahime said flatly. “I swear, every time someone so much as glanced at you, he pulled that overprotective act.”

You wrinkled your nose. “That doesn’t sound like ’Toru…”

Shoko and Utahime exchanged a look. One of those knowing glances.

Utahime cleared her throat. “It doesn’t matter! What matters is you are hot. You’ve got the face, the body, the grades, the personality. You just need the confidence.”

You peeked up at her, unsure. “You really think so?”

Utahime leaned forward, smirking like she’d just won a war. “I know so. And that’s why I’ve come up with a plan.”

You narrowed your eyes. “A plan?”

She slammed her hands down on the table, eyes alight. “Operation: Get Over Gojo Satoru.”

You blinked. “That’s… a long title.”

Shoko blew a slow stream of smoke. “It’s either this or pine until you die and haunt him as a love-sick ghost.”

You stared into your cup, sighing. “Fine. I’m in. What’s step one?”

Utahime grinned.

“Whatcha doing?” 

Gojo’s voice drifts lazily over your shoulder, followed by the soft rustle of his hoodie as he leans in. He’s far too close, obnoxiously so, his breath tickling your ear and his chin was nearly resting on your shoulder.

You don’t even glance up. “Studying.”

The two of you are supposed to be studying— finals loom overhead like a guillotine, but as usual, very little academic progress has been made. Mostly because your study partner is a six-foot-something genius who insists on sitting sideways in the booth, long legs tangled in yours under the table like it’s second nature.

He hums, skeptical. “Liar.”

You hum noncommittally, thumbing through the dating app Utahime suggested with vague disinterest. The guys blur together: not tall enough, too cocky, too bland, too not Satoru. One makes a joke suspiciously close to a Gojo classic, and you immediately hit unmatch with a scowl.

“Wait,” Satoru says slowly. “Are you on a dating app?!” He practically yells the last part. Half the cafe turns to glare at the source of the disruption.

You hiss under your breath, mortified, swatting at him. “Keep your voice down, idiot!”

His eyes widen dramatically, hands thrown up like you’ve stabbed him. “I leave you alone for two minutes and you’re already planning a life with someone named ‘Keita, aspiring poet and spiritual healer’? I’m wounded.”

“You weren’t supposed to read that far.”

“I’m a speed-reader,” he says with a smug grin. “It’s part of the whole ‘genius’ thing.”

Before you can argue, he snatches your phone with a level of ease that tells you this isn’t the first time he’s done something like this. He grins like he’s won a prize.

“Satoru!”

“Relax, I’m not texting anyone,” he says, fingers flying across the screen. “Just optimizing.”

Your heart drops. “What are you typing?”

“Nothing~”

You make a grab for your phone, but he effortlessly leans back, holding it above his head with those ridiculously long limbs. You glare at him from across the table, arm outstretched like a furious cat trying to swat at the moon.

“Give it back!”

“Patience.”

“Gojo Satoru—”

“Okay, okay!” he relents with a dramatic sigh, finally placing your phone face-down on the table like he’s done you a huge favor.

You snatch it up immediately, eyes scanning for damage. No weird messages. No unsolicited likes. No new matches.

“…What did you do?”

“I didn’t message anyone,” he assures, too innocent to be trusted. “I’m not that cruel.”

You narrow your eyes, suspicious.

“But,” he adds with a grin, “I didn’t know you were dating.”

“I’m not,” you mutter, clicking your phone off. “Just considering it. Trying. It’s not going well.”

“Good.”

The word comes out too fast. Too sharp. And his face doesn’t match the light tone he’s trying to play off.

You raise an eyebrow. “Good?”

He shifts, leaning back in his seat, suddenly very interested in stirring the foam in his overpriced coffee. “I mean, it’s good you’re not settling. You should be picky. Guys are the worst.”

You snort. “You are a guy.”

“Exactly. I know what we’re like.”

You smile despite yourself, rolling your eyes. “I’m sure you think you’re the exception.”

“I know I am,” he says, winking. Then he sobers slightly, eyes flickering to yours. “I’m just… looking out for you.”

The sincerity in his voice makes your chest ache. You wish it was more than just him being protective in that big-brotherly, annoyingly loyal kind of way.

You take a sip of your coffee to cool your nerves. It doesn’t help. The words come out before you can stop them.

“You know with the way things are going… maybe you should just date me at this point.”

Silence.

It’s a joke. Supposed to be. But the second it leaves your lips, it tastes real.

Gojo freezes.

You panic. “I didn’t mean—like, I was just joking—”

But he turns toward you, eyes unreadable behind the fringe of snowy white hair. “Maybe I should.”

You blink.

And then, with infuriating ease, he grins.

“Anyway,” he says quickly, swiping your phone from the table again before you can stop him, “Yuto here looks like the type to ghost you after three dates and a karaoke duet. You can do better.”

You gape at him, completely thrown off, your heart slamming in your chest.

You don’t even notice what he’s done until later—until you get home and open your app to find that your bio has been changed.

Taken. Mentally married to a nerd since birth.

You want to scream.

Operation: Get Over Gojo Satoru?

Yeah. Not going great.

Not at all.

You weren’t sure why you agreed to it.

Maybe it was the look in Utahime’s eyes, so determined and hopeful. Maybe it was Shoko promising she would help you find true love. Maybe it was the quiet part of you that wanted to see yourself through someone else’s eyes. Someone who wasn’t Gojo Satoru.

“Today,” Utahime had declared, curling the last strand of your hair like she was threading a spell, “is the first day of your Gojo-less future”

You laughed nervously, tugging at the hem of your skirt. It wasn’t your usual style—not the dewy makeup you weren’t used to seeing in the mirror, not the new haircut that made your eyes look almost too bright, not the blouse that left your shoulders bare in a way that made you feel strangely noticed.

But when you caught your reflection, your heart fluttered. You looked beautiful.

When you stepped onto campus, the sun was out, the wind teasing your hair. You spotted him immediately—Gojo, slouched against the wall outside your lecture hall, nose buried in his Switch as he muttered something under his breath about evolving stats and attack modifiers.

He didn’t notice you at first.

Then he looked up.

His game froze mid-battle. His mouth opened. Then closed. Then opened again, like someone had unplugged his brain.

“Wha—” he said eloquently. “Wh—what did you do.”

You blinked. “Hi to you too.”

He stared, unabashed. His glasses were slightly crooked, his ears glowing scarlet. He looked like someone had just told him Digimon was real and living in your shoes.

He blinked. “You look like… like you skipped two evolution stages overnight. Straight to Mega. Like if Angewomon fused with… I don’t know, some kind of rare, limited-release goddess-type Digimon that only spawns on a lunar eclipse.”

You blinked.

Utahime’s voice in your head: You’re hot. Unstoppable. He’s going to be speechless.

And Gojo was. But not in the way you wanted.

You tried to laugh. “So I look like a cartoon?”

“A beautiful cartoon,” he said, serious now. “Like the kind of boss character they only show for two frames because animating her costs too much.”

Your heart stuttered. It was the sort of compliment only Gojo could give: clumsy and dorky, yet brilliant in its own way.

But the moment passed.

He rubbed the back of his neck and looked away, sunglasses slipping slightly as he muttered, “You just… you look different. That’s all.”

Different.

Not better. Not prettier.

Just different.

You swallowed. “Yeah, well. Thought I’d try something new.”

“I didn’t say it was bad,” he added quickly, but the words felt unsure. Flimsy.

“I should… use the restroom,” you mumbled, turning before he could say anything else.

In the bathroom, you stared at your reflection. Your lipstick looked too bold now. Your lashes too heavy. Despite the change, you were still painfully you— the you Gojo teased during study sessions, the one he let borrow his hoodie when it rained, the one who sat next to him during endless all-nighters. And maybe that was the problem. You weren’t like those girls on the magazines. 

What you didn’t see, what you couldn’t see, was Gojo still standing outside the lecture hall, staring after you, Switch forgotten, game over screen blinking on the screen.

He didn’t even notice.

“You good, Satoru?” Shoko asked, walking by.

He blinked. “I think I just saw my best friend… and my final boss… and my future wife… all at once.”

Shoko snorted. “You’re a dork.”

Gojo just sighed, shoulders slumping as he muttered, “I’m so doomed.”

It’s a mild Friday evening when you meet him—Kazuya, the guy from your psychology class. He’s polite, articulate, and kind of cute. The kind of guy who asks if you prefer cats or dogs before ordering his drink, and actually listens when you answer.

Utahime and Shoko had insisted you say yes. “A change of pace,” they called it. “You need a baseline. Not every guy is going to be Gojo Satoru.”

Exactly. That was the point.

You’re sipping a matcha latte and nodding along as Kazuya explains his thesis on cognitive development when a very familiar voice cuts through the air.

“Well, well, well. Fancy seeing you here.”

Your stomach drops. You look up, and sure enough—

Satoru.

In all his tall, obnoxiously eye-catching glory, wearing a white t-shirt that was inside out and a grin like he just won the lottery. He's holding a bottle of ramune and standing directly next to your table, like he’s been there the whole time.

You blink. “What are you doing here?”

He shrugs. “Thirsty. Wanted a drink.”

“At this café? On this side of campus?”

“Yeah,” he says, tone innocent. “Weird coincidence, huh?”

Kazuya offers a polite smile. “You’re her friend, right? Gojo?”

“Oh, best friend. Lifelong. Practically her shadow.” He plops into the empty seat beside you without asking, casually tossing his ramune onto the table. “What’s your name again? Kaname?”

“…Kazuya.”

“Right, right. I always mix those up. You look like a Kaname, though. Or maybe a Yusuke.”

You stare at him, incredulous. “Satoru—”

But he’s already leaning over, squinting at the book tucked under Kazuya’s arm. “Ooh, Piaget. Bold move. Love that for you.”

Kazuya blinks. “Do you… like developmental theory?”

“I like being correct,” Gojo says with a cheeky smile. “Also, [Name] hates Piaget. She called him ‘the Freud of toddlers’ last semester.”

Kazuya turns to you in mild surprise. “Really?”

“I—I mean, yeah,” you mumble. “Sort of.”

Gojo beams. “Told you.”

Kazuya makes a valiant effort to steer the conversation back to safe, neutral ground.

“So, you mentioned you're interested in behaviorism, right?” he says, offering a gentle smile. “I thought Dr. Takeda's lecture on conditioned responses was kind of fascinating—”

“Oh, riveting,” Satoru cuts in, lounging back in his chair like he owns the café. “Nothing like bonding over Pavlov’s dogs to spark romance. Did she tell you she cried during Inside Out because the depiction of core memories was ‘psychologically resonant’? Real charmer, this one.”

You shoot Satoru a look. “I was twelve!”

Kazuya blinks, trying not to smile. “I actually thought that was pretty moving, too.”

“Wow,” Satoru deadpans. “A match made in neuroscience.”

Kazuya laughs politely and continues, undeterred. “So, uh, any research plans after graduation?”

You open your mouth to answer, but Satoru beats you to it again.

“She used to want to be a vet. Cried when she had to dissect a frog in middle school. Tragic day.”

“Is that true?” Kazuya turns to you, amused now.

“Technically, yes,” you mutter into your drink.

By the time your cup is empty, you realize you’ve laughed more at Satoru’s interjections than you have at anything Kazuya’s said. Not because Kazuya wasn’t interesting—he was. He was calm, thoughtful, well-read, and clearly trying. But next to Satoru, whose entire presence seemed impossible to ignore, Kazuya didn’t stand a chance.

Still, to his credit, Kazuya maintains a steady, if slightly strained, expression as he sets down his cup and finally says, carefully,

“So… is Gojo your boyfriend?”

The question hangs awkwardly.

You and Satoru answer at the same time.

“No,” you say quickly.

“Yes,” he says with a smile.

You both turn to stare at each other.

“I mean—no,” he corrects, waving his hands. “Just a joke. Hah. Obviously.”

Kazuya blinks. “Right.”

You can’t meet either of their eyes. Your drink is finished, your palms are damp, and the café is suddenly too warm, too small. You push back your chair and stand.

“I should go. Early lab meeting tomorrow.” It’s the weakest excuse, but neither of them calls you on it.

Kazuya stands too, polite as ever. “Thanks for meeting up. You seem like a really cool person.” He hesitates, then adds, gently, “I just think maybe you’ve already got someone.”

You freeze. You open your mouth, then close it again. There’s nothing to say.

Outside, the cold air kisses your cheeks like a reminder. It stings a little, or maybe that’s just the confusion burning in your chest.

Satoru’s already waiting for you. Of course he is. He’s leaning against the lamppost, silver hair catching in the wind. But his eyes are downcast, trained on the sidewalk.

He doesn’t say anything right away. Neither do you.

You exhale, watching your breath curl white in the air. “You didn’t have to crash it, y’know.”

“I didn’t crash,” he replies without looking at you. “I was invited.”

“By who?”

“Fate. Karma. The gods of poor decision-making.” He shrugs.

You roll your eyes, but it tugs a laugh from you anyway. Stupid, annoying, charming Gojo.

“So,” he says after a beat, nudging your arm gently with his elbow, “how’d it go?”

You glance at him. He still won’t meet your gaze. His lips are pursed like he’s holding back a hundred words and none of them are funny.

“He was nice,” you admit. Despite being rudely interrupted by the white haired idiot beside you.

“Nice is boring,” he mutters, kicking at a loose stone on the pavement.

You laugh, soft and tired. “You’re the worst.”

He finally looks at you then, lips quirking into that smug, too-knowing smile. “But you like me anyway.”

You look away, cheeks burning, heart thudding like a traitor in your chest.

You don’t answer.

You don’t have to.

Despite Operation: Get Over Gojo Satoru failing in every imaginable way, things were starting to feel bearable.

Almost good, even.

Satoru still hovered a little too close, always with that same half-smile like he knew something you didn’t. And maybe, just maybe— his constant sabotage, the teasing, the jealousy, the way he looked at you like he was about to say something important but never did. Maybe it all meant something.

You let yourself believe it, just a little.

And that was your first mistake.

It happens quietly, without fanfare or warning. Just a throwaway line between sips of lukewarm coffee and the soft shuffle of paper. You’re both at your usual spot in the library, surrounded by open notebooks and highlighted packets, pretending to study more than you actually are.

You’re halfway through underlining a term in your psychology notes when Satoru leans back in his chair, stretches like a cat, and says far too casually:

“So, guess who asked me out?”

You hum absentmindedly. “Who?”

“Ayane.”

The name hits you like a slap.

You freeze, highlighter paused mid-sentence. “…Ayane? From the biochem track?”

“Yeah,” he says, practically glowing. “You know her, right? She's in your study group sometimes.”

You do know her. Of course you do. Everyone knows her.

She’s beautiful, with this effortless, clean kind of elegance—long legs, perfect posture, and that quiet, poised confidence that makes professors adore her and guys fall over themselves. The kind of girl who posts one blurry bookshelf photo and still racks up a thousand likes. The kind of girl Gojo always jokes about marrying.

But he’s not joking now. He’s beaming.

“She asked me out to dinner this Friday. She’s so smart, too. I didn’t even have to pretend to know what quantum entanglement was. It’s wild.” He laughs, brushing a hand through his hair. “I thought she’d never go for a guy like me, y’know?”

You force a laugh. “A guy like you?”

“Yeah. I dunno. Too much, I guess? But she said I was ‘refreshing.’” He grins. 

Your stomach sinks.

This is what you thought you wanted—for him to move on, so you could finally do the same. For Operation: Get Over Gojo Satoru to succeed, for real this time.

But now that it’s happening, it feels like someone’s slowly pulling your ribs apart.

“Oh,” you manage, smiling like you’ve practiced it. “That’s great. I’m happy for you.”

He doesn’t notice the way your voice cracks on happy. He just keeps talking, rambling about restaurant reservations and how she likes contemporary poetry and used to live in France. You nod in all the right places, but your thoughts are already slipping away.

Because it isn’t just that he’s going out with someone else.

It’s that he chose her.

Her with her flawless skin and quiet charm and the kind of beauty that doesn’t need to try. Her, with everything you’re not. And more than that, it’s that he made you believe you could have meant more to him, when really, he’d been searching for someone else all along.

You excuse yourself early, mumbling something about laundry.

He doesn’t follow.

You don’t cry until you’re halfway home, the cold air biting at your cheeks as your vision blurs.

For the first time in years, you don’t text him goodnight.

You don’t wait for a meme. Or a dumb joke. Or his usual, “Hey, genius. Sleep.”

You go silent.

And when he texts the next day, you don’t reply.

You skip your library meet-up. You don’t sit next to him in class. You even duck into the stairwell when you see his ridiculous white hair from across campus.

It’s not because you’re mad. It’s because you’re heartbroken.

And you can’t keep pretending it doesn’t matter—that he doesn’t matter.

You weren’t just losing your best friend.

You were losing the love of your life.

And he didn’t even notice.

It takes him three days to notice you’re gone.

Well—no. That’s a lie.

He notices immediately. The moment your usual seat in the library stays empty. When your laugh doesn’t echo in the café line. When your name doesn’t pop up on his screen at 2AM with some stupid meme captioned, “this reminded me of you, idiot.”

But he tells himself you’re busy.

Midterms, right? Stress. Coffee. You get like this sometimes, and he gets it. He really does.

So he waits. Tells himself not to be clingy.

But then Friday comes.

And he's sitting across from Ayane in some expensive, quiet restaurant where the napkins are folded like origami cranes and the water tastes filtered. She’s telling him about her research internship in Osaka, about enzymes and international grants, and all he can think is—

You’d be making fun of me right now.

You’d be kicking him under the table. Whispering some dumb pun about digimon. You’d be pulling faces every time he tried to pronounce the items on the menu. You’d be you.

Ayane is lovely.

But she doesn’t laugh when he says something stupid. She just smiles politely.

She doesn’t ask about why his glasses are always crooked (it’s so you could fix them). Doesn’t tease him for double-knotting his laces like a paranoid grandma. Doesn’t call him “Sato” like it’s some private joke only the two of you get.

He walks her home. Thanks her for a nice evening.

Then he goes to the convenience store. Alone.

And he sees your favorite snack on the shelf and buys two out of habit.

He stares at his phone the entire train ride back.

No new messages.

Just the last one you sent days ago:

“Laundry. Rain check?”

And nothing since.

He waits. Another day. Then two.

You don’t show up to class again.

You don’t like his latest meme.

You don’t comment on the Digimon pun he texted you out of desperation.

You are silent.

And Satoru Gojo—brilliant, blind-sighted, the golden boy of theoretical physics, always five steps ahead realizes, too late, that he’s been a fool.

That he didn’t just lose a study partner.

He lost the one person who knew him better than he knew himself.

The one person he couldn’t replace with rare Digimon pulls, half-solved physics equations, or overly sweet desserts.

And for the first time since he was a kid—

He’s afraid.

It’s been a little over a week.

A little over a week since Gojo Satoru has heard your voice. Since you shoved your coffee at him without asking, muttering “too sweet for me” when you really meant “I got this for you.” Since you poked fun at his stupid sock choices, or knocked your foot against his under the table like it was nothing.

And Satoru is suffering.

He's tried everything. Showed up to your house with excuses too weak to be called plans (“Hey, I brought your favorite snacks. I just... figured maybe you forgot you liked them?”). Waited outside your lecture hall until a security guard asked if he was lost. Took detours between classes hoping to catch a glimpse of your ponytail, your laugh, anything.

But you were always one step ahead.

You stopped answering his texts. Blocked him on that stupid dating app (which—ouch, even though you hadn’t used it seriously). You didn’t even show up to the library anymore. And even Shoko started looking at him with thinly veiled pity and a you really fumbled the bag look in her eyes.

Gojo Satoru is just tired.

Miserable.

So when he finally finds you—not because he’s chasing you down this time, but because he’s walking the long way home, and there you are, sitting on the old swings at the park where you first met—it knocks the wind out of him.

You don’t look surprised to see him. Just tired too.

“I figured you’d find me eventually,” you say quietly.

He swallows. His hands curl at his sides like he’s preparing for a fight.

“You’ve been avoiding me,” he says, like it isn’t obvious. “Why?”

You look away. “You’re smart. Figure it out.”

Gojo looks down at his feet.

“I didn’t know you felt that way.”

Silence stretches between you, heavy and stinging. The playground is empty except for the wind dragging a soda can down the sidewalk and the faint creak of the swing chain.

Then he exhales, ragged and unsure. “Look, I can’t—I can’t take this anymore.”

You glance up.

“I can’t either.”

Hope flares too fast, too naive in his chest. His shoulders drop like he’s been holding up the world. “That’s good,” he breathes, stepping forward. “Because the silent treatment— God, I thought I was going to—”

“I don’t think we can be friends anymore.”

The words stop him cold.

“What?” he breathes.

You laugh, but it’s hollow. Like something already broken. “Don’t you get it? I can’t be friends with you and pretend that nothing’s changed. That I’m okay just being your best friend. I’ve been in love with you for years, Satoru.”

His heart stutters. You don’t stop.

“And I love myself too much to keep hurting for someone who doesn’t even look at me that way.” Your voice cracks, but you push through. “Do you know how humiliating it feels? To love someone so much it aches, and still feel like you’ll never be enough?”

He opens his mouth. Closes it.

You wipe your eyes with the sleeve of your jacket, swallowing the lump in your throat. “You never even thought I was cute.”

He looks like he’s been hit.

“I’ve been chasing scraps. Leftovers. Mixed signals and stupid inside jokes. I—I can’t do it anymore.”

You finally meet his eyes, and that’s when he sees it: the hurt you’ve been hiding behind every smile, every brush-off, every joke you cracked to keep the silence from swallowing you.

And for once, Gojo Satoru can’t find a single thing to say.

Not yet.

Not until he stops you from walking away.

“Where did you get an idea like that?” His cerulean eyes search yours desperately. “I-I don’t think you’re just cute, are you kidding?” he blurts, eyes wild.

“Y-you’re breathtaking! Everything I’ve dreamt of and more! That night when you asked me if I thought you were cute, I only said no because it would be a divine crime to reduce to such. All of my fantasies have been centered around you since we first met on that playground—since you tripped over your shoelaces trying to race me to the monkey bars!”

Your breath catches.

He continues, desperate now, like every second of silence might kill him.

“I love you! And not like a brother. Like—I want to marry you. Like, small wedding in Okinawa, barefoot on the beach, you wearing that soft blue dress you like. I already planned it. Our firstborn would be a daughter, with your eyes, my hair. She’d be the boss of the house.”

You gape.

“Wait—”

“I’m not done!” he says, hands thrown up. “Then we’d have twins. Boys. Chaos gremlins. One would look like my twin and the other yours, and they’d absolutely terrorize us—but their sister keeps them in check, she’s fierce like you.”

You blink. A tear slides down your cheek.

“I want to move to Kyoto,” he says, softer now. “Buy a house with a dumb little garden. Grow tomatoes we’ll never eat. Live out the rest of our lives where it’s quiet.”

You cover your mouth, stunned. “You… really thought all that out?”

“It’s easy,” he breathes, “when all I can think about is you.”

He steps closer. The wind tugs his white hair into his eyes, but he doesn’t blink.

“I go to study nonlinear quantum field theory and all I see is your face. I try to cool off and play Digimon, and even that’s ruined—my lineup is garbage now! I only keep the ones you said were cute!”

A laugh bubbles out of you, fragile and watery.

“You idiot,” you murmur.

“I am,” he nods solemnly. “I’m the world’s biggest idiot. And I’m in love with you.”

Another tear slips down. He wipes it away before you can.

“Is it too late?” he asks, voice cracking slightly. “Please tell me it’s not too late.”

You stare at him, this man, this brilliant, ridiculous boy who had held your heart long before you ever admitted it.

“It’s not too late,” you whisper.

He doesn’t speak. Just steps closer. Gently and carefully, like he's handling something sacred, he cups your cheek in his hand.

Your nose bumps his. His breath ghosts over your lips.

“I’ve been waiting to do this for years,” he whispers.

And then, finally, he kisses you.

It’s not perfect, your cheeks are still wet, his nose bumps yours again, and his hand trembles just a little, but it’s warm and sweet and soft. It tastes like home..

When he pulls away, his smile is sheepish. “So… are we still doing the whole ‘Operation: Get Over Gojo’ thing, or?”

You laugh, heart full, forehead pressed to his.

“Mission failed,” you whisper.

He grins. “Good.”

And then he kisses you again.

you knew it from the start.

sae itoshi was never one to wear his heart on his sleeve. he was calm, quiet, collected. everything about him felt composed — from the way he played to the way he spoke to the way he barely blinked when you told him you loved him for the first time.

he just nodded, kissed the top of your head, and said, "mm."

and you let it go.

you told yourself he was just reserved. that he wasn't the type for grand displays. that it didn't mean he didn't care — he just showed it differently.

but over time, the "differently" started to feel like not at all.

you'd come home from a long day, exhausted and aching, hoping for even a fraction of his attention, and all he'd do was glance up from his phone with a quiet, "hey."

you told him about your promotion — he said, "cool."

you cried over a rough week — he patted your shoulder.

you kissed him goodbye before a trip, whispered "i'll miss you," and he just nodded, pulling his hoodie over his head.

no "i miss you too." no "be safe." no "call me when you land."

just silence.

and you started to wonder if maybe you were the only one who ever really showed up for this relationship at all.

does he even like you?

the question hits you late one night, uninvited but relentless — the kind that doesn't whisper, doesn't knock, just barges in and makes itself at home.

you're lying in bed, staring at the ceiling like it might offer some kind of clarity. the room is still, but your thoughts are anything but. they spiral and loop and twist until you're left with nothing but that single, sharp doubt.

does he even like you?

not love. you're not reaching for something that far anymore. you stopped hoping for that a while ago.

but like? does he even like who you are — your voice, your laugh, your dumb little stories about your day? did he ever look at you and feel warmth? did his heart ever speed up when you texted?

you're not sure.

when you go back in your mind, sift through all the moments, it's hard to find proof.

you remember speaking and getting a shrug in response. you remember telling him how tired you were, and him not even looking up from his phone. you remember trying to make him laugh and feeling like you were talking into an empty room.

he didn't fight. he didn't try. he just... let things pass.

like he was always a step outside the relationship — watching, waiting, but never stepping in. like he was barely there at all.

you think about how it always felt like you were the one showing up. you were the one asking how his day went. you were the one remembering his schedules, planning the dates, reaching for his hand first.

always you.

did he ever get excited to see you? did he ever miss you when you were gone? did he ever talk about you when you weren't around?

God, does he even like you?

because loving someone — real love — that takes presence. intention. warmth. and he was so cold.

so detached. so distant, even when he was sitting right beside you.

and maybe what hurts the most is that you let yourself settle for it. you convinced yourself that he was just tired. or busy. or bad at expressing himself. you gave him excuses when he wouldn't give you effort. you kept trying, kept pouring, even when the well on his side was bone-dry.

you thought it was worth it.

but now, lying here in the dark with your heart knotted up in your chest, you realize you don't know the answer to the most basic question of all.

does he even like you?

you weren't expecting to hear from rin.

not after everything. not after the silence that followed your quiet unraveling with sae.

but he texts you one night, short and to the point:

rin (9:03 pm): you should know what happened between me and sae.

a beat. then another message:

rin (9:04 pm): he won. our dream's over. he made sure of it.

you stare at the screen, heart suddenly too loud in your chest.

you: what do you mean?

he calls you. you answer.

there's silence for a second, then rin's voice—tired, tight.

"we played. one on one. i told him i still wanted to be the best with him. that we could still chase what we promised when we were kids."

you don't say anything. you know what that promise meant. sae had told you once, half-asleep with his head in your lap, how much that dream used to matter.

"he said he doesn't believe in it anymore," rin continues, bitter. "that being the top striker's not worth it. that it's not his path."

you close your eyes.

"i told him i still believe in it. in him. but he wouldn't bend."

rin's voice lowers. "he said... he said he can't be what everyone needs him to be. not to japan. not to football. not to you."

your breath hitches.

"he said it like it didn't matter. like you didn't matter."

you bite down hard on the inside of your cheek.

"i don't think he meant it," rin adds. "but he still said it. and i thought... you should know."

you whisper, "thanks for telling me."

rin sighs through the phone. "i told him he was a coward. for giving up on us. on you. i don't think it even got through."

you nod, even though he can't see it. "it did. even if he pretends it didn't."

rin is quiet for a while, then: "he's lost, you know. even if he's pretending to be focused. i think he let go of everything that ever made him feel anything. even you."

the words slice deeper than you expect.

but somehow, hearing them from rin—someone who loved sae in his own fractured way—makes it more real. and a little easier to grieve.

you say a soft goodbye and hang up. 

what the fuck. 

you find him after evening practice, alone in the hallway near the locker rooms, towel slung over his neck and hair still damp from the shower. he's looking down at his phone, texting someone — maybe his agent, maybe no one — but he looks up when he hears your footsteps.

his expression flickers for a second — annoyance, surprise, something colder — then flattens. "what."

not hey. not what's wrong? just what.

you stop a few feet away from him, jaw tight. "i talked to rin."

he blinks, slow. "okay?"

"he told me what happened between you two."

there's a pause. then he scoffs.

"seriously?" sae mutters, rolling his eyes. "of course he did."

"you're not even surprised," you say, folding your arms. "you just assumed he'd tell me."

"because he always does. can't keep anything to himself, apparently."

your eyes narrow. "he told me because you wouldn't."

"because it's none of your business."

your breath catches. "excuse me?"

"i said," he repeats, stepping around you toward the exit, "it wasn't your business. it was between me and rin. i don't know why he felt the need to drag you into it."

you follow after him, sharp on his heels. "maybe because i'm part of your life? or did you forget that too, while you were busy burning every bridge that ever meant something to you?"

he stops walking.

the hallway goes still.

he turns back to you slowly. "watch it."

"no," you snap, heat rising to your face. "you watch it. i can't believe you said the things you said to him. that you—"

"what, ended it?" sae cuts in, eyes narrowed. "finally told the truth? yeah. i did."

"you told him the dream didn't matter anymore. that you don't believe in being the top striker. that it's not your path," you spit. "fine. maybe that's true. maybe people change. but you didn't have to tear him down with it."

"i didn't tear him down."

"you abandoned him, sae!"

his mouth tightens, jaw clenched. "i gave him the truth. we're not kids anymore. it's not my fault he can't let go of a fantasy."

"it wasn't a fantasy to him," you say. "it was his entire reason for chasing football. you were."

sae scoffs again, looking away like he's bored. "great. so i'm the villain for not letting him live in my shadow anymore."

"you're the villain," you say, voice sharp with disbelief, "because you knew exactly what that dream meant to rin, and you still used it against him. you knew he looked up to you, and you crushed it. and now you act like you're above it all."

"i am above it."

the words land like a slap.

you take a step back, stunned. "do you even hear yourself?"

he shrugs, cold. "yeah. do you?"

your mouth parts in shock. "you're unbelievable."

"you're overreacting."

"and you're heartless," you say, voice shaking. "you treated him like nothing. like he never mattered. and you treat me the same way."

he glares at you. "you're pissed because i didn't coddle him?"

"no," you bite. "i'm pissed because you hurt him. because you stood there and told him—told me—that you can't be what we need, and you said it like it didn't matter."

"because it doesn't," he snaps. "what difference would it make? i've never been who people want me to be. i'm not your warm boyfriend, and i'm not rin's older brother anymore. i'm just trying to be the best at what i do, and if you and him can't handle that, then—"

"then what?" you interrupt, voice loud and furious now. "we get left behind? we get discarded?"

his eyes flash. "don't twist this."

"i'm not twisting anything! you said it yourself. you gave up on him. on the dream. on me. and you don't even care that you did it."

he's breathing heavier now, fists clenched. "you don't know what i care about."

"then tell me," you challenge. "tell me what you care about. because from here, it looks like all you care about is yourself."

a beat of silence. he doesn't answer.

you stare at him — this boy who once made you feel seen just by standing beside you. this boy who could've had everything, and chose isolation instead.

"i used to think you were cold because you were focused," you say quietly. "now i think you're just afraid."

"of what?"

"of needing people."

his jaw ticks, but he doesn't deny it.

you take a breath. "you don't want to need rin. you don't want to need me. and that's why you pushed us both away."

he doesn't respond. just stares — angry, tight-lipped, eyes stormy with something unspoken.

"rin didn't tell me to hurt you," you finish. "he told me because he still gives a shit. because he still sees the version of you that cared."

sae turns his head away, jaw clenched.

"but if you really don't care anymore," you say, stepping back, "then maybe i don't want to know you, either."

his once stoic face darkens. 

"go be with rin, then," he spits, eyes narrowed. "sounds like he means more to you anyway."

you blink, stunned. "what?"

he laughs — low, bitter. "don't play dumb. you've been talking about him all night. what he said, how he feels, what he believes in—like he's some perfect little saint and i'm just the heartless asshole who ruined everything."

your eyes widen. "that's not what i said."

"you didn't have to." he runs a hand through his hair, sharp and angry. "you made it pretty fucking clear where your loyalty is."

"loyalty?" you echo, voice climbing. "i was loyal, sae. i've always been. even when you were distant. even when you shut me out."

"but the second rin tells you something—"

"no. don't twist this into jealousy."

"i'm not jealous," he snarls, stepping closer. "i just think it's funny. i open up to you, and it's never enough. i tell you i can't do this—can't be everything for everyone—and you run off and call my little brother for answers."

"i didn't call him. he called me."

"sure," sae scoffs. "right. and i bet he was so fucking gentle about it, wasn't he? so understanding. because that's what you want, right? someone who'll bleed for you."

"no," you snap, throat tight. "i want someone who doesn't push me away the moment things get hard. i want someone who doesn't act like love is a burden."

he flinches, barely. but his face hardens in the next breath.

"love is a distraction," he mutters.

you feel like he's punched the air out of your lungs.

"then what the hell are we doing?" you whisper.

silence.

just the sound of both your breaths, ragged and uneven.

sae looks away, jaw tight.

you're shaking — from cold, from fury, from something deeper that won't stop aching.

"you think rin matters more to me?" you say, voice trembling. "he told me the truth because he still believes in you. because he loves you. even after everything."

sae's eyes flick to yours, and for a split second, something cracks behind them.

"you both still believe in someone i'm not," he says, softer now. "someone who doesn't exist anymore."

"no," you whisper. "we believe in the person you could be. the one who used to care."

he doesn't answer.

doesn't deny it.

just stands there, fists clenched, like he wants to scream but won't let himself.

you stare at him, heart broken open, and say quietly:

"and maybe that's the saddest part of all." 

the silence stretches between you like an endless gulf.

finally, you take a breath—the kind that feels like dragging yourself out of quicksand.

"sae, i can't do this anymore. not like this. not when it feels like i'm the only one holding on."

he swallows, jaw tightening. "you think it's that easy? just walk away?"

"no," you admit. "it's not easy. not for me either."

you stand up, pacing the room slowly, voice trembling but steady. "i stayed because i loved you. because i wanted to believe you'd come back. but you keep pushing me away, ignoring everything i am."

"i'm still here," he says, voice cracking.

"are you?" you stop and look at him, searching his face. "because it doesn't feel like it. not when you're distant, when you don't fight for us. when you treat my job like it doesn't matter, like i don't matter."

he flinches at that. "i never meant to hurt you."

"but you did. over and over." you bite your lip. "i'm tired of being the one who cares more, who tries harder. it's exhausting, sae."

his shoulders slump. "so what, this is it? you're giving up?"

"i'm choosing myself," you say, voice breaking. "because if this is all i get—the silence, the coldness, the feeling of being invisible—then i'm done."

he closes his eyes, as if trying to will away the words.

just as you reach for the doorknob, sae's voice cuts through the thick silence—harsh, sharp, and laced with something like anger.

"i don't need you," he says, voice low but fierce. "you're a distraction. something that's holding me back."

you freeze, hand on the door. it's not what you expected—not the apology or begging you'd secretly hoped for. instead, it's cold dismissal.

"a distraction?" you repeat, voice trembling but steady. "after everything, that's what i am to you?"

"yeah," he spits out, eyes flashing. "i'm trying to be the best. focus on my goals. and you... you just get in the way."

you feel tears prick at your eyes—frustration, sadness, and something like anger rising all at once.

"if that's how you really feel, then maybe this is for the best," you say softly. "because i'm not going to be your distraction. i deserve to be someone's priority, sae."

he says nothing, just stares, jaw clenched.

you open the door, stepping out into the night air, heart breaking but clear.

sometimes, love isn't enough when the other person doesn't want you—not as you are, not as you deserve.

and that's when you know it's time to finally walk away.

sae sat alone on the edge of the worn couch, the weight of the room pressing down on him like a suffocating fog. the silence around him wasn't peaceful — it was loud, heavy, and unforgiving. every sound seemed to echo off the walls: the faint hum of the refrigerator, the ticking of the clock, the distant muffled noises of the city outside. yet none of it filled the hollow ache gnawing at his chest.

he clenched his fists tightly, nails digging into his palms as his mind replayed the conversation from earlier, every harsh word sharp and cutting.

"i don't need you. you're a distraction."

he hadn't meant for those words to come out so cold, so cruel. but in that moment, they felt like the only way to push the tangled mess of frustration and fear inside him out into the open. he thought pushing her away might make things easier — simpler. maybe even protect her from the version of himself that he was struggling to face.

but now, as the minutes stretched into what felt like an endless ache, sae realized just how wrong he had been.

he looked down at his hands, shaking slightly, and swallowed hard. his chest tightened with a pressure he couldn't shake. the truth was that he needed her more than he wanted to admit. more than he ever had before. but admitting that felt like losing control. it felt like exposing the parts of himself he wished he could hide.

the space beside him felt unbearably empty. she was gone — not just physically, but in that moment, it felt like she was slipping out of his life entirely. her absence carved a jagged wound in the quiet room, one he wasn't sure how to heal.

his eyes burned with the sting of regret as he recalled the look on her face: the sadness, the hurt, the flicker of hope that maybe, just maybe, he could be different. and yet, his own walls had kept her at arm's length, keeping the distance she didn't deserve.

sae wanted to call her back, to tell her everything — to confess how lost and scared he was, how much he hated the idea of losing her. but the words tangled in his throat, heavy and impossible to say. fear rooted him to the spot. fear that she wouldn't come back. fear that maybe he didn't deserve her.

the quiet swallowed him whole, and for the first time in a long while, sae felt utterly, painfully alone. all that remained was the bitter taste of what could have been — and the painful weight of his own mistakes pressing down on him like a storm with no end in sight.

two months later.

the sun filters in through the lace-curtained windows of the small café, bathing the room in warm, hazy light. the smell of coffee beans and sugar hangs in the air — familiar, comforting. it's quieter than usual for a saturday. couples talk in hushed voices, spoons clink against ceramic mugs. everything feels slow, easy.

you sit across from someone new. he's... nice. sweet, in a slightly offbeat way. maybe a little too eager, a little too loud, and you've caught him checking his reflection in the spoon more than once. but still — you're trying.

he's talking about his job. or maybe his dog. it's hard to focus. you nod politely, stir your drink even though you're not thirsty, and glance out the window, letting your mind wander.

and then the door opens.

a soft chime.

you hear it, but you don't look up at first. it's muscle memory. a habit from another life.

but your date stops mid-sentence. "whoa, that guy looks like—"

you look up.

your stomach drops.

sae.

he walks in like he doesn't know — or maybe doesn't care — that this was your café. the one you claimed together months ago, when everything was warm and easy. he's wearing that same navy jacket you used to steal, his headphones slung around his neck. his hair's a bit longer. his expression, unreadable.

he sees you almost instantly.

you freeze.

his steps falter, just for a second — like he's been punched in the chest — but then he looks away, pretends like it doesn't sting. pretends like it's not you, sitting where he used to sit, with someone else in his seat.

your heart thuds painfully.

he moves to the counter, orders without looking back. but his shoulders are tense. too still. and you know him well enough to see it — the flicker in his jaw, the way he doesn't take his hands out of his pockets.

your date leans in. "you okay?"

you blink, look down at your half-empty cup. "yeah. just... spaced out."

"you know that guy?"

you pause. "yeah. i used to."

across the room, sae turns just enough to glance at you.

and your eyes meet.

for the first time in two months.

everything stills.

memories come rushing back like a wave — laughter over shared desserts, cold hands tucked into warm ones, that look he used to give you when he thought you weren't watching.

you tear your gaze away first.

your date is still talking, something about how the coffee's too bitter. you nod again, but you can't hear any of it. not really.

because sae is behind you now. you feel it — that pull, like gravity.

a presence that tugs at you even before he speaks.

"we need to talk," comes his voice — low, sharp, just over your shoulder.

you freeze.

your date blinks up at him, confused. "uh, sorry—do you need something, man?"

sae doesn't even look at him. his eyes are on you. hard. unreadable. "now."

and before you can even process what's happening, his hand is at your elbow — not rough, but firm enough to mean no arguments. he pulls you up, ignoring the confused sputter from your date as he leads you out the front door of your café, past the windows and the tables and the ghosts of a hundred memories.

outside, the air is colder than you expected. or maybe it's just him.

you yank your arm away once you're on the sidewalk. "what the hell, sae?"

he turns on you. "you're on a date."

"and you dragged me outside in the middle of it," you snap, voice rising. "what do you want?"

"why here?" he bites. "why our café?"

you stare at him, stunned. "you're seriously upset about that?"

his jaw clenches. "it's not about the café."

"then what is it, sae?" you ask, arms crossed tight over your chest. "what are you mad about? because you're the one who said you didn't need me. you called me a distraction."

he flinches, just barely. "that's not—"

"not what you meant?" you cut in. "because it sure sounded like it at the time."

he exhales, sharp and shaky. Runs a hand through his hair like he's trying to calm the storm inside him. But his voice stays bitter, raw. "you really replaced me that fast?"

you blink, stunned. "is that what this is about? you're jealous?"

he doesn't answer.

just looks away, fists clenched in his coat pockets.

"it's been two months, sae. you made it very clear you didn't want this—didn't want me."

"i never said i didn't want you," he mutters.

you laugh, bitter. "you didn't have to. you said i was a distraction. said you didn't need me. what was i supposed to do? wait around forever while you pushed me away and buried everything that mattered?"

he doesn't meet your eyes. doesn't move.

"that guy inside?" you add, voice quieter now. "he's not you. he never will be. and you know what? i haven't even kissed him. i don't want to. but at least he wants me there. he shows up."

finally, sae looks at you. really looks — and the emotion in his eyes is a mess of guilt, regret, and something that hurts worse than anger: want.

he swallows hard. "i was scared," he admits, barely audible. "of losing focus. of not being enough. for the game. for you."

"and so you pushed me away," you whisper.

he nods once, like it costs him.

"then why are you here?" you ask. "why now?"

his voice cracks when he answers. "because seeing you with someone else hurt like hell. and i know i don't deserve to say this, but... i still want you."

your chest aches. god, you hate how much those words still sting, still reach you.

but you shake your head, biting your lip. "wanting me when you see me with someone else isn't love, sae. it's ego."

his breath catches.

you take a step back.

"if you want me," you say, voice trembling, "you have to show it. not just when you're jealous. not just when it's too late."

you glance at the café behind you. at the window where your date still sits, staring in confusion.

"and i don't know if i can trust you to do that anymore."

you turn—half expecting him to let you walk away, again. but he doesn't.

"you're just going to give up on me?" sae's voice cuts through the cold air. "after everything?"

you whip back around. "you gave up first."

his jaw tightens. "i had reasons."

"no, you had excuses." you spit. "you didn't even try to explain yourself until you saw me with someone else."

he steps forward. "i didn't know how."

you laugh bitterly. "and you still don't. do you even realize how much it hurt? watching you shut down, close off, like i didn't matter—like we didn't matter?"

he doesn't say anything. just stands there, silent in the face of your anger, like he thinks if he stays still long enough, it'll pass.

you don't let it.

"i waited for you to reach out," you go on. "i kept hoping maybe—maybe—you'd come to your senses, but you just disappeared. like i was nothing."

his eyes flicker. "you weren't nothing."

"then why did you treat me like it?" your voice cracks. "why did you throw everything away without even talking to me?"

he looks down at the ground, fists clenched in his pockets.

"say something," you demand.

"because i didn't think you'd understand," he snaps, finally looking up. "you think it's easy, being me? being expected to carry the weight of everything—japan, madrid, football, my brother, you?"

you flinch. "so i'm a burden now?"

"that's not what i meant."

"then what did you mean?" you fire back. "that loving me made things harder for you? that caring about someone makes you weak?"

he exhales, sharp. "it made me feel. and i can't afford that. not right now."

"but you can afford to walk in here and act like i belong to you the moment someone else is sitting across from me?"

he glares at you, wounded pride flashing in his eyes. "that's not what this is about."

"really? because it looks like it's exactly what this is about," you say, voice rising. "you didn't care until you saw someone else where you used to be."

his lips part like he wants to argue, but no sound comes out.

you step closer. "you think you're the only one who's scared? who's under pressure? you chose to shut me out. you told me you didn't need me. and now you expect me to just forget all of it because you're hurting?"

he breathes out, slow and shaky. "i didn't mean to hurt you."

"but you did."

you both fall silent. the wind picks up. a few brown leaves tumble across the pavement, caught between your feet.

"you want me to fight for you," he says quietly. "but you're already halfway out the door."

your eyes narrow. "i was halfway out the door. months ago. and you just stood there. now you want to act like i owe you another chance?"

"you don't owe me anything," he mutters, voice tight. "but i still want one."

you stare at him. at the familiar curve of his brow, the slope of his shoulders, the storm in his eyes. he looks different than he did two months ago. thinner. tired. but the ache in your chest tells you it's still him. still the person who held your hand under café tables and kissed your forehead like a promise. still the person who walked away.

"you can't just show up and ask for me back like i'm something you left at home," you whisper. "i'm not a possession, sae."

"i know." he breathes out. "i know."

you blink, and your voice softens—just barely. "so what do you want from me?"

he shakes his head. "i don't know. i just... i saw you. and everything i've been holding down since you left hit me all at once. and i hated that you looked okay. like you'd moved on."

your throat tightens. "i'm trying to move on. because i had to. because you didn't give me a choice."

his voice is lower now. hoarse. "i miss you."

you close your eyes. for a second, the wind is the only sound between you.

"then maybe you should've missed me sooner." 

you don't mean for your voice to shake. you don't mean for your heart to splinter open again, like it hasn't already been broken and rearranged by him a hundred times.

but the words leave your lips like a final blow, and as soon as they do, something inside you cracks.

you take a shaky breath, then another—and then you crumble.

it starts with a small, helpless sob. one that catches in your throat and spills past your lips before you can stop it. then another. and then you're crying—ugly, gasping, heartbreaking sobs that curl you forward like you're trying to fold in on yourself. like if you make yourself small enough, the pain might go away.

sae's eyes widen. "hey—hey," he says, stepping forward instinctively. "don't—come here—"

but you shake your head, shoulders trembling. "no—don't—i can't—"

"you don't have to say anything," he says quickly, arms wrapping around you without waiting for permission. "just... let me hold you."

and you do.

because even now, even after everything, your body still remembers what it's like to be safe in his arms. still leans into the shape of him like it's something you've missed more than you'll ever admit.

you bury your face in his chest, sobs muffled by the fabric of his coat. your hands fist into it like you want to push him away—but you don't. you can't.

"i hate this," you cry, voice raw and muffled. "i hate that you still feel like home."

he holds you tighter, one hand cradling the back of your head, the other steady at your waist. "i know," he murmurs. "i know. i'm sorry."

"you left me," you whisper. "you hurt me."

his voice is choked. "i know."

you pull back just enough to look at him, eyes red and glassy. "i hate that i still love you."

he flinches—like the words wound him. like hearing them aloud is worse than silence.

"i don't want to," you add. "but i do."

he swallows hard. "then let me be better. let me fix what i broke."

your lip trembles. "i don't know if you can."

he nods, once. "then i'll try. for as long as it takes."

you search his face for a lie, for a crack in the words—but it's just him. sae. stripped down and vulnerable and maybe, just maybe, starting to feel again.

you don't say yes. you don't say no.

you just stay there—pressed against him in the cold, the wind still howling through the streets—while he holds you like he's afraid to let go again.

and for now, that's enough.