everyone’s a star!

you looked like you belonged in a pilates studio that reeked of eucalyptus and sage, not in front of a building that looked like it could swallow you whole. 

with a small sigh, you took a step forward, eyes straining to see inside, just a bit. just enough to decide whether you wanted to run. 

but the glass was tinted enough that you couldn’t really see inside, only vague shapes and movement meeting your eyes. 

a shadow passes, something heavy hitting something else, a thud, then another, muffled through the walls. 

your heart skitters. you can leave. 

the thought came easy, familiar. a relief. 

but you’re so tired of relief being the only thing you reached for. so you inhaled shakily but deliberate and pushed through the door. 

the door opened with a quiet hydraulic rush, sounds meeting your ears instantly, talking and grunting and thudding. 

the warmth hits you first, not cozy but hot. a heat that only came with moving bodies and continuous movement. 

the air smelled like clean rubber mats, metal and the faint bite of antiseptic, indicating that even with the slew of bodies, the place did seem clean. 

a low rap song was playing through the speakers, a tune you didn’t recognize but didn’t mind. you liked loud music because it quieted whatever thoughts your overworking brain mustered up. 

as you allowed the door to shut, fully stepping inside and looking around, you gulped gently. 

fuck, you really were out of place. 

the gym consisted of mostly men but the few women that were scattered about were badasses. 

muscled everything, holding weights you couldn’t even mentally lift or continuously punching a bag till some sand dribbled out. 

you felt your body go rigid, not from fear exactly, but hyper-awareness. 

like every part of you was suddenly aware of itself. your breathing, your posture, the way your wrap ties across your waist. the overall softness of you against the ruggedness of the gym. 

a couple of heads turn, you could feel them. 

you inhale shakily before forcing your feet forward towards the front desk where it seemed much safer. 

the girl behind the desk looked up slowly. she looked a bit older than you, late twenties maybe, with her dark hair slicked back and makeup heavy but suiting her sharp features. her expression was already bored before you’d even spoken. 

“can i help you?” she questioned, tone clipped as her eyes assessed you from head to toe till you were squirming a bit. 

you cleared your throat and smiled softly, “hi! um, i was wondering if i could join the gym? for like weights and boxing or…stuff,” you swallowed once when she simply raised her brows, “you know, training in general…”

“this isn’t a walk-in gym, honey,” the term of endearment felt like a slap to the face rather than a method of reassurance, “we’re referral only." 

your cheeks heat instantly, gut twisting as you felt the embarrassment wash over you. 

fuck, that’s why people kept raving about how private and luxurious it is. 

how stupid could you be? 

“oh!” you blinked, “i’-i’m sorry, i didn’t realize.”

the girl simply smiled sharply, “yeah.”

a beat passed as your throat tightens, anxiety creeping up like a fog, quiet but suffocating. 

you nodded quickly, “my bad. thank you anyways.” 

you turn to leave before the humiliation could bloom into something worse, but just as you went to turn around and sprint back to the door, a voice pulled you back. 

“is there a problem?” 

you turned back around immediately, as if the deep voice itself beckoned you forward, something tangible and pacifying.

the voice sounded older, worn in. like it’s been dragged through smoke and gravel yet still remained steady. 

your lips parted as you looked up at the man standing just by the lobby threshold, having just come from the main gym area. 

“no, mr.fushiguro,” the girl stated, smiling slowly, polite and voice softening in a way that made your stomach churn, “she wanted to join but i told her that’s not how it works.”

but you could barely hear her as your eyes met the man. 

he was big. 

not gym-big like the guys lifting in the back, but…naturally big. broad. he was tall and looked strong but not in an overly muscular way, though he was not lacking in that area. 

he had shaggy black hair and eyes that were equally as dark, broad shoulders stretching out the back compression tee that clung to him, and you could swear you could see the outline of his abs through the shirt. grey sweats sat low on his hips, wraps half-undone around his hands. 

his dark strands were slightly damp with exertion and his face-

you froze for a half a second because your mind wasn’t sure where to land. sharp cheekbones, heavy-lidded eyes that looked tired in a way that could be cruel if he wanted it to be.  

and he had a scar. a scar that cut straight through his lips and down, faint but undeniable, darker than the skin beneath it. 

intimidating is the first word that comes to mind. 

attractive is the second, uninvited and it made you want to swallow yourself whole. 

but fuck, he really truly was. 

and it didn’t help that his gaze wouldn’t leave you either, low and heavy as he took you in fully.

“not how this works?” his voice, deep and gravelly, sounded once more and you physically felt your heart thudding. 

the receptionist squirmed then and you couldn’t help the satisfaction at seeing her nerves this time. 

“um, yeah. you know, referral only? that’s the policy…” she laughed breathily but the man didn’t acknowledge her, eyes shifting to you once again. 

“well, i made the policy, so…” and his eyes trailed down to your glossy lips for half a second, you thought you’d imagined it, “i can make an exception.”

his mouth twitched, not quite a smile but something that made you equally nervous. 

he took a step forward, then another and suddenly, he was close enough that you could smell him. soap, sweat and something faintly like smoke. 

and you didn’t know why you felt like you had to speak before he did, “i didn’t know about the whole referral thing. sorry.” 

“mm,” he hummed, eyes narrowing just a bit, “did you google highest rated gyms and choose the first one?” 

your lips parted then your heart thudded at the smirk that painted his features, eyes half-lidded as they gazed down at you. heat crawled up your neck. 

“is it that obvious?” you murmured softly, eyes glancing down as you shifted before looking back up as a small chuckle left him, low and dark. you could tell it was rare and that had your hands tightening as they gripped the fabric of your yoga pants. 

his chuckle trailed off, your words earning you a real smirk this time, small and brief like it slipped out by accident. 

the receptionist looked like she was about to combust. 

he gestures his chin toward the gym, “cmon.”

you stare, “what?”

“i’ll show you around,” he states lowly with a shrug, as if you weren’t just told this gym requires a bloodline to enter. 

your hands clenched a bit, “i don’t wanna, like, intrude. it’s fine, i can just find someplace el-“

“you already intruded, might as well get somethin’ out of it.” he cuts you off gruffly, almost lazy. 

your lips part. you’re not sure whether to laugh or panic but he starts walking before you can decide. 

without thinking, you follow. 

and you can tell this man doesn’t do favors or shift the policy based on the burning stare of the receptionist. but he’s doing it anyway. 

“name’s toji.” he stated as he lead you through the main area of the gym, eyes briefly looking down at you and fuck, was the size difference plainly obvious. 

you replied softly with your own name and could see his scar twitch. you didn’t read too deep into it. 

people shift out of his way without him saying a word. a couple of guys straighten like they’ve been caught slacking, some man calls out coach and toji merely nodded in reply. 

you trail half a step behind him, trying not to look out of place as your wide eyes assessed the area. 

the entire gym was dark and blacked out, but not in a tacky way. there was a large boxing ring in the middle of the floor, with a few punching bags scattered around. a large powerlifting area was placed on the side along with floor to ceiling windows, allowing natural light in. 

as you'd seen online, pictures lined the second floor walls, the staircase leading up to a strength training area filled with every machine you could think of. 

as your eyes squinted to take in the pictures, you could see pictures of current known boxers and martial artists you couldn’t name but recognized, along with some legends you knew. 

and you could see that the current boxers’ pictures were taken in the very ring beside you. 

you could also see a few photos of toji himself, clearly after a fight, bloody lip but grin splitting his face so attractively. 

this gym was insane. 

he kept glancing at you, more accurately, staring, as he led you through the gym, motioning towards each different section and explaining the contents loosely. 

“so what are you here for?” toji questioned lowly as you stopped by the main gym area where you’d started ten minutes ago. 

you shifted a bit, “um, i just wanna train.”

toji paused for a moment, eyes assessing you as his lips twitched. your brows furrowed a bit at his apparent amusement, suddenly offended by the stupidly attractive man. 

“you look like you could fall over if i open a window.” he smirked as you scoffed instantly, arms folding over your chest as you looked up at him, “have you ever lifted?” 

and he knew the answer was no. 

“no.” you said it anyways and his smirk widened. 

“cardio bunny?” he questioned and you shifted once more. 

“not really.” you stated and it was somewhat true. you walked a lot. like, a lot. it helped with your anxiety but you weren’t running or anything of that sort. 

“let me guess,” his arms folded, mirroring you, “you like to spend your mornings in those little stretching classes.” 

you assumed he meant pilates and his assumption was correct. it’s not like you were obsessed with it but it gave you structure, allowed every morning to start the same. 

plus, it made you feel good. so who was he to judge?

“what if i do?” you huffed gently, suddenly not so intrigued by the man before you, but annoyed. 

toji smirked with a shrug, “nothin’ wrong with that, y’look good. but everyone needs a little muscle. it’s important.”

you tried not to blush at his passing compliment, simply shrugging gently as he lead you through the other side. 

he showed you the lockers, showers, the private room for personal one on one sessions and the sauna. 

finally, he led you to the main boxing ring. 

it sat under focused overhead lights like a stage. 

the ropes were taut, canvas clean and a heavy bag hanging nearby, swinging slightly. 

you stared at it, chest tightening. 

and toji watches you watch it, a glint in his eye and something pressing on his chest. 

“you wanna box, kid?” 

you swallow, “i don’t know.” 

he tilted his head, “so, no?” 

you blink, “no, i just don’t know. i don’t really know what i’m looking for.”

toji hummed once, “i mean, boxing is great for letting out some steam. seriously, it’s proven.” 

and you hated the way he said it like he could see right through you. but you nodded nonetheless. 

“i’ll be your referral.” he stated surely, eyes never leaving yours, “this’ll do you good.” 

and something in toji didn’t want to admit that he was being selfish. he wanted you here. you intrigued him.

he wanted to see you again, fucking enamored with you the second he spotted you outside the establishment, staring like you were about to enter a haunted house. 

the glass was tinted. you couldn’t see him but god, did he see you. 

✶

toji had been mid-round when he caught sight of you.

hands wrapped knuckles aching in that familiar way that always seemed to ground him, rendering his mind mercifully quiet in a way that was rare for him. 

he could see you from his peripheral, could sense the slow movements, hesitation and reluctance dripping from you. 

his eyes had lifted without thinking and there you were. 

standing just outside the entrance, weight shifting like you were deciding whether to flee. you looked so soft. 

in all black but not in the sharp way the gym breathed, but your clothing was smooth and pliant, the kind meant to stretch and not brace for impact. 

too fucking pretty for a place like this.

his first thought had been irritating, she’s lost. 

his second was worse, she’ll leave. 

and the third settled low in his gut, instant and out of character. he didn’t want you to. 

and then you walked in. and he walked away mid-round, towards where you were like a siren singing him closer. 

he hadn’t planned to intervene when tracy was being a bitch, he never did. people always came and went, asked stupid questions, begged for exceptions. he never budged. 

but he did, for you. 

and god, he shouldn’t. 

you looked soft, gentle, young. 

much younger than him, at least by a decade. 

but fuck, you were so pretty. and by the trembling of your hands and the way you were quick to apologize, he could tell you were looking for something. 

maybe someone. 

so he walked up to you. 

✶

the gym opened at six. 

toji was always there by five thirty, ready to open up and get everything in place before the members began arriving. 

but lately, you were beating him there. 

for the past month, he’d arrive some mornings to open up and find you already seated on the steps outside, wired headphones in and your blush pink water bottle in hand. 

in the beginning, you apologized and said you just liked to walk so you’d get there early but that you could wait. 

obviously, toji wouldn’t let you wait. 

so you’d come in, watch him set everything up, sometimes help when you could. 

other nights, you’d slip in an hour before closing, hair damp from the rain and eyes exhausted but determined. 

he’d learned it just depended on your lab and lecture times. 

but six days a week, you wouldn’t miss a single session. 

not once. and toji noticed it all. 

he noticed you. 

he caught himself watching you from across the floor more times than he liked, not leering but assessing. 

he trained you some days, even though you told him he didn’t have to, god, he wanted to. 

you liked strength training now, obsessed with leg days. 

and fuck, was he just as obsessed. 

“i hope all this goes to my ass.” 

the first time you complained mid-set of hip thrusts, huffing as toji barked out a laugh so abrupt and out of place, you blinked up at him with a soft smile of your own. 

“what?” you questioned, head tilting so prettily, his knees almost buckled. 

“nothin',” he muttered, leaning down to add two more plates to the barbell, “let’s go.”

he’d also learned that you were an anxious little thing, something that was somewhat clear the moment you’d entered the gym a month ago. 

he’d found out that the anxiety often made your appetite shit, you could barely stomach food. he’d changed that quick. toji had even started bringing you food himself, watching as you ate every last bite before leaving. 

he explained to you how you weren’t going to grow an ass without fueling properly. 

boxing came in waves, when your head was too loud and school chewed you raw, toji ushered you into the ring where he’d let you get your frustrations out. 

the first time he’d touched you, hands firm on your hips as he repositioned you, both of you froze. his palms burned like they’d learned something they shouldn’t, ignited, really. 

he’d stepped back immediately, “you good?” 

you nodded too fast, breathless, “yeah. sorry.”

toji despised it when you apologized. it made something in him go sharp and protective. 

walking you home happened naturally. 

you never asked and he never offered, it just started. 

especially when you’d come in at night, he’d never let you walk back home alone, in step beside you like some sort of bodyguard. 

he’d learned your class schedule without asking, purely from your repeated patterns. 

he noted which alleyways made you tense, which topics of conversation made you ramble and which you avoided. 

everything about you made him ache with need. 

the way your eyes flickered up to his scar when he smirked. the way his gaze lingered too long when you stretched. 

in the pauses that occurred when you stood far too close. 

he had to remind himself, way too often, that you were only twenty two. you were off limits. get it the fuck together. 

but every morning you showed up, every night you trusted him to get you home safe, every time you smiled up at him, all soft and unguarded…

something inside toji fushiguro shifted it’s weight and settled. 

possessive, unwilling and already gone for you. 

he hated how much he wanted you to keep coming back. because he knew himself. 

when toji wanted something, he wasn’t very good at letting it go. 

✶

it had been two months since you joined the gym and there was one main thing you’d discovered. 

toji fushiguro was absolutely infuriating. 

you weren’t a brazen girl, you’ve never even had a boyfriend before. which is why these feelings you harbored for the older man were making you feel crazy. 

you were different around him, even you could tell. 

the voices in your head quieted, your shoulders went lax and your hands were steady. 

he made you feel safe. 

you didn’t know if it was because he was so much bigger than you, as well as many years older but it didn’t matter. 

because you loved being around him. 

and you made it pretty obvious. no, you didn’t throw yourself at him, your constant trepidation would never allow you to. however, for the better part of two months, you’d made small advances towards the man that should have clued him into your feelings. except, each attempt was met with him brushing you off. 

it was absolutely infuriating because you truly believed toji felt for you as well. you could almost guarantee it. 

alas, he held you at arms length. 

the gym was always quieter in the mornings. certainly not empty, but quieter. settled. 

the music was lower than usual, bodies fewer and the air less aggressive somehow. you loved coming in the mornings, much preferring it to the chaos of late nights. 

you were just finishing your set of cable kickbacks when you felt it again. that subtle awareness. 

not loud or leering, but present. 

toji was leaning against the post by the ring, arms crossed and watching without seeming like he was watching. 

you pretended not to notice as you took a sip of your water, eyes darting anywhere but at him. 

yes, you were different around him, less anxious but he still made you a bit nervous. 

you were in a snug pair of shorts that stopped right where your ass begun, halter top tight as it accentuated your waist. 

you counted your reps slowly, pushing until your breathing grew labored and when you counted to eight, your leg was burning and trembling, barely able to push the weight once more so you stopped and stood, brushing your hair from your face. 

and you could feel him. closer now, no longer downstairs by the ring but right behind you. 

you tossed your hair over one shoulder as you glanced back at him. 

“was that till failure? was it enough?” you questioned, head tilting as your doe eyes watched him walk closer. 

he was in a tight compression top and maroon colored loose shorts. he looked good. 

in this light, you could see the the small dusting of grey hairs where his ears were, subtle and only just blooming, but still there. and god, why did you find it so attractive? 

“to grow your ass?” he asked flatly, arms crossed as he moved even closer. 

you smiled softly, “you’re the one who said that first.”

“don’t put words in my mouth, kid.” his voice was low and gruff but his eyes danced with amusement, “said your ass looks great already.”

and you blushed softly, looking down as you grabbed your phone and logged the weight you used into the app he’d downloaded for you.

you looked up then to see him still watching, a bit further away and you stepped closer. maybe a bit too close. 

close enough to feel the heat off him and enough that he shifted his stance without meaning to. 

“what do you have next?” he questioned lowly, glancing down at your little outfit making the heat envelop your cheeks once more. 

“leg press.” 

he hummed, eyes darting over to the leg press machine to see a man using it. 

“what else?” 

you furrowed your brows, glancing at the machine then back at him, “that’s it.” 

toji huffed once, jaw clenching as his arms crossed.

that guy was a creep, he’d concluded. 

he’d been staring at you the entire hour you’d been here, obviously shifting his exercises to wherever you were so he could be close. it was pissing him off. 

you ignored the sour look on his face, clearing your throat softly as you shifted just a bit closer, “i feel bad about making you walk me home all the time. let me repay you.”

toji frowned, “you don’t make me do shit. i walk you home because i want to.”

and he did want to. in fact, he looked forward to it every single day. 

and you sighed softly. was he clueless or just plain stupid? 

“well, i want to repay you anyway.” you huffed gently, “what about coffee?” 

his head tilted then, jaw clenching as his eyes assessed you. he wanted to say yes, no, he wanted to scream yes.

maintaining a semblance of distance between you both was proven to be one of the hardest things toji has ever done. 

because fuck, he wanted you. he wanted you more than anything. 

but it was wrong, he knew that. but he wasn’t sure if you did. 

“do you know how old i am?” toji questioned you then, taking you off guard as your mouth parted. 

“um, not really? 30?” you knew he was older than that but didn’t older people love when others mistook them for being younger?

toji smirked gently, seeing right through you, “i’m 35, kid.” 

you huffed then. you hated when he called you that. 

“i’m not a kid. i’m about to graduate college.” you argued as the man chuckled gently, shaking his head as his tongue licked his scar once, quick and your knees trembled. 

“and my back hurts when i lift heavy things.”

you knew he was full of shit, you just saw him deadlifting like 600 pounds without even breaking a sweat. 

but you got his point. 

he was older than you and didn’t want to take advantage. 

except he wasn’t. 

“you’re not-“

“kid,” he murmured, interrupting you roughly but not unkindly, “don’t.”

you faltered then, taking a step back as you nodded once, biting your lip. 

and that should have been it. 

except something tightened in his chest when he saw you shy back into your little shell, one he’d worked hard to get you out of. he hated the way you avoided his eyes then, cheeks flushed as you picked up your things and moved towards the leg press machine. 

he told himself it was better this way. and he almost believed it. 

thirty minutes later, you’d been walking on the treadmill when your eyes caught sight of a scene that had your blood running hot. 

the cardio section was on this platform by the ring so you could essentially see the main gym area well which you loved because you enjoyed people watching. 

toji stood by the ring, speaking to this man you knew he coached, voice low and demanding as he instructed him when a girl walked over. 

she was tall, strutting confidently in her tight shorts and sports bra that pushed her breast up to her chin. 

you tensed as you watched her lean against the dark-haired man. you couldn’t hear them well but you didn’t need to. 

she was brushing up against him and toji offered low, one word responses which still did nothing to ease your irritation. 

and you watched them for a good 10 minutes until you were only fifteen minutes into your usual twenty minutes of cardio but you couldn’t take it anymore. if you saw her giggle and brush against him one more time, you were gonna lose it. 

you pressed the little red button on the treadmill, gathered your things and walked down the steps and towards the main lobby. right past the man who was glancing at you from time to time and when he couldn’t spot you on the machine anymore, his gaze immediately turned to see you walk right past him, your familiar warm and pretty scent encompassing him. 

in three strides, his large hand was already gripping your elbow and turning you around, “you’re done early.” 

you simply hummed in agreement, pulling your arm away from his hold as your eyes darted to well, anywhere but him. 

then his hand lifted, thumb and index gripping your chin and forcing your gaze to his, “what’s with the face?” 

“what face?” your lips pouted even more, brows furrowing as you moved your chin away from his hold. or attempted to but his grip was iron-clad. 

he smirked then, “that face.” 

“that’s just my face!” you stated, hands moving to physically pry his hand away from you and he obliged, “now, if you’ll excuse me, i have a lab to get to.” 

an you turned to walk towards the locker rooms when his voice sounded once more, “she’s not my type, y’know?” 

your heart stopped, body immediately turning to face him once more, jaw clenched, “i don’t know what you’re talking about.”

his smirk only deepened as his tongue pressed against his cheek to stop himself from laughing. 

toji moved closer then till your head was forced to crane back to look up at him, “sure y’don’t, sweetheart. not jealous?” 

you scoffed immediately, but god, you wished he’d call you that more often and not kid. 

“oh, please.” 

“y'r pouting.” 

“am not!” 

toji huffed a short laugh, surprising both of you, “it’s cute.” 

you gulped then, the image of her and him crossing your mind once more as you met his dark gaze. 

then his eyes softened, arms uncrossing because he wasn’t cruel. at least not to you. 

“don’t read into things.”

you looked down, “right.”

and there it was again, that ache. the one that made his jaw tighten, that told him he wanted to say more than he should. 

because you were reading into things. 

but so was he. 

and he wanted nothing more than to prove to you that there had been a cosmic shift the moment you had walked into this establishment. that something visceral changed in him when he'd met you.

he walked you home that night. and when you paused outside your gate, eyes peering up at him with something akin to hope, he simply told you to text me when you’re in. 

and he watched you disappear into your apartment complex, staring longer than necessary. 

toji told himself he was being responsible. 

that the tension between you was something he needed to keep a lid on. 

and you laid awake that night, remembering the way he said don’t like it hurt him more than it did you.

✶

it was late when the door was pushed open, a mere thirty minutes before closing time. 

you slipped inside quietly, shoulders tense and fingers trembling where they clutched your mini pink duffel bag that didn’t really carry much. 

toji immediately looked up from his place by the lobby. 

truthfully, he’d been pacing the entirety of the entrance, eyes practically fixed on the door, waiting for it to be pushed open in that gentle way you always did. 

it was a wednesday, meaning you’d usually arrive an hour before closing time, meaning thirty minutes ago. 

and he hated how restless he’s been since, simply waiting for you to grant him your addicting presence like a puppy waiting by the door. he longed to hear your saccharine voice tell him about your day, even if it was laced with exhaustion. 

but you did no such thing. 

as you entered, you’d simply glanced up at him like your eyes always seemed to find him first, offering a tight smile before disappearing into the locker room, a word not leaving your plush lips. 

and toji felt like dying. 

as the days passed, toji had began getting used to the way your doe eyes met his, filling with relief when you saw him. he’d began looking forward to your dimpled smile and the gentle way you recalled the day’s events, even if they were uneventful. 

what felt like a lifetime later which in reality was a mere two minutes, you’d emerged from the women’s locker room in your little black shorts and sports bra with that same ballet top from the first day you’d walked in here wrapped around your smaller frame. 

and you hadn’t expected toji to be right outside the locker room, body colliding with his as he held your elbows to steady you, big hands encompassing you and dark eyes looking down at you with a scowl. 

“sorry.” you murmured as your wide eyes looked up at him, and fuck, if that word didn’t just make him angrier. 

“where the hell were you?” his words uttered like a demand rather than a question, rendering you confused as your brows furrowed. 

but your eyes seemed far away, farther than he’d liked. 

he longed for you to be with him, always, for you to find relief in him like you always did. it seemed that whatever anxious thoughts were riddling your mind, his mere presence alone wouldn’t suffice in calming you this time. 

he only grew more frustrated. 

“what do you mean-“

“i mean, you usually show up at 9 on wednesdays. it’s 9:30. we close in half an hour. where were you.” again, his voice was commanding rather than soothing. he watched as your cheeks puffed out for a moment, skin flushing as you shook your head.

“i can leave-“

toji stepped closer, hands lifting from your arms to your face as he lifted your gaze to his own. he hated when your eyes wouldn’t meet his. 

and you were glad that the gym was basically empty aside from you, him and the cleaning lady. 

“that’s not what i said, kid. i asked where you were.”

and as your wide eyes finally met his, darker than usual and glassy, his chest clenched with effort. 

and he was angry for an entirely different reason. 

“i got caught up in the library.” your voice came out soft, almost a whisper and his jaw clenched, tongue sharply tracing his scar slowly as his eyes flickered around your pretty features. 

you seemed utterly exhausted. 

his eyes immediately travelled to your fingers, specifically your thumb where that patch of raw skin was darker, raw and red. his ribs burned, imagining the way you picked at the skin till you bled. 

“cmon.” 

his hand held your own, drawing your fingers and palm as he led you towards the ring in the main area. 

the ring always felt bigger at night, lights low overhead and ropes casting long shadows across the mat. 

toji grabbed the wraps from the little box on the side, stepping forward to grip your hand, wrapping each one methodically. his eyes never left you and yours stared somewhere into space, mind not even in your vicinity. 

that pissed him off. 

“hey,” he demanded, beginning to wrap your other hand as you snapped out of whatever daze you’d been placed in, eyes looking up, “focus on me.”

you simply nodded once as he walked off to get the mitts, slipping them on as you placed the blood colored gloves into yours. 

“hands up.” he instructed as you complied automatically, “breathe.” 

your first punch was weak, off center. 

toji didn’t say anything, simply adjusted his stance. 

then you hit him again, sharper but still utterly soft. 

“like you mean it. cmon, use me.” 

and those words caused a flicker to brighten in your eyes. 

this time, you hit harder. much harder, almost frantic. 

he encouraged you softly, watched as you punched faster, harder. like you were trying to outrun something. 

no punches you would ever throw could hurt him, even at your strongest. in fact, the mitts barely even moved when you’d hit but he knew when you were really trying or not. 

the rhythm broke quickly, your breathing growing uneven and punches sloppy with frustration rather than fatigue. 

“hey,” toji spoke uncharacteristically gently, firm palms catching your fists mid-swing as he allowed the mitts to slip off, “easy, kid.” 

your shoulders shook before you even realized what was happening, breathing labored and eyes glassy. 

“i’m so tired,” you breathed out, words barely audible, “i don’t know why i can’t just-“

your voice cracked clean down the middle and so did his heart, clenching as he watched your big glassy eyes.

toji swore quietly under his breath and reached out without thinking, a hand cradling your jaw, steady and grounding and warm. 

“alright,” he muttered, “that’s enough.”

you shook your head violently, “n-no, i need-“

your fists slammed against his broad chest instead, weak and unfocused, frustration spilling over into something raw and helpless. a sound tore out of you before you could stop it, a sob you’d been holding back all day. 

and toji caught you without hesitation, an arm wrapping around your waist, dragging you up and into him. the other anchored at the back of your head, fingers clutching at the strands of your hair. 

“i got you, i got you…” he murmured against your hair, rough but steady as he placed repeated kisses to the area. 

your forehead pressed into his chest as you broke, quietly then all at once. tears soaked into the fabric of his shirt as your hands fisted it like you were afraid he’d let go. 

tori’s jaw clenched as he held you close, something inside him burning to fix whatever rendered you this helpless. 

he held you even as your cries quieted to tiny sniffles and sighs, grip only growing tighter. 

when you finally pulled back, your pretty eyes were bloodshot and puffy, long lashes wet and cheeks flushed and damp. 

you looked embarrassed the second you realized how close you were, hands stills gripping the fabric of his shirt. 

“i’m sorry,” you whispered and toji’s jaw clenched. 

“don’t apologize to me.”

your gaze flickered to his mouth before you could stop yourself and he noticed instantly. because he noticed you. every little thing about you. 

the air shifted then, quiet and heavy. almost electric. 

his big hand drifted from your waist down to your hip, yours still at his chest. 

neither of you moved. 

“kid,” he said softly, warning threaded through the word, “you don’t-“

you leaned in anyways, lips only brushing his, as if testing the waters. 

and the mere brush of your plush lips against his own had a sharp sensation go through him. 

toji fushiguro was 35 years old, he’d experienced his fair share of kisses and fucks, but god, if this wasn’t the moment he’d felt most alive. 

fuck’s sake, he’d even been married once and it never felt this right. 

toji stilled for half a heartbeat and he knew you were waiting for him to take the lead, to guide you, as he usually did. 

he tried to reason with himself. he was thirteen years your senior, you were still in college, this wasn’t right. 

but that didn’t explain the way his hand slid up your back, firm and sure as his lips met yours in a kiss that was anything but wrong. 

a sound left you then, low and soft, as he sounded a groan right back, muffled against your lips. 

your lips moved in sync, slow at first, controlled before growing more frantic, mouths parting and tongues licking as a whimper left you. 

your hands tangled in his dark locks as his own feet moved forward till the ropes pressed against your thighs as he sat you down, legs wrapped around his waist but seated on the top rope. 

his hands gripped your hips as his lips crashed against yours, over and over until he couldn’t breathe. he didn’t want to. 

fuck, you were everything. 

this was everything. 

well, until your breath hitched and you pulled back, flustered and wide-eyed, looking absolutely wrecked with your swollen lips and flushed cheeks. 

“oh god,” you breathed out, “i’m so-“

“if you say sorry, i’ll kill someone.” 

his words were sharp, deep and still breathless from you previous actions. and fuck, he just wanted you to stop talking and keep kissing him. 

you gasped softly, hand pushing against his abs but he wouldn’t budge so you simply slid down against him till your feet touched the floor, eyes avoiding his. 

“i-i should go-“ 

“no. stay.” toji placed a hand against your hip, eyes narrowed as he looked down at you but you wouldn’t meet his gaze, unraveling the wraps on your hands as you walked backwards. 

“i have class early tomorrow, i’ll, um, i’ll see you!” 

and toji watched as you hopped down from the ring, grabbing your phone with trembling hands before you rushed out the doors, completely abandoning your stuff in the locker room. 

he didn’t chase you, shoulders tense and jaw locked as he watched you disappear out the door like something precious slipping through his fingers. 

and then it was just him. 

and for the first time in a long time, toji fushiguro didn’t feel in control of a damn thing. 

✶

you didn’t show up the next day. or the day after that. 

and frankly, toji wasn’t sure if you were going to show up at all, but he only lasts two days before taking it upon himself to find out. 

he tried to rationalize your absence. maybe it was just uni shit. deadlines, exams, assignments. 

but he knew you by now. 

you were avoiding him after you’d kissed him in the ring.

he could still feel you, your smaller frame pressed against him, the addicting sounds that left you, the way you’d clutched at him like he was something holy. 

then he remembered your flustered expression, your breathlessness, eyes blown wide like you’d crossed a line you couldn’t uncross. 

by the third night, toji was pacing the gym floor. 

he’d already closed up, lights off and equipment put away but he couldn’t make himself go back home. 

he told himself five different reasons not to do this. 

alas, he does it anyway. 

your apartment building was quiet, too quiet. he climbed the stairs to the sixth floor without thinking, the memory of you rambling on about your landlord serving him well as he recalled your floor and apartment number. 

and when he knocked, it was tight and sharp, utterly impatient. 

meanwhile, you had been quietly making your little yoghurt bowl, tea brewing and a youtube video playing softly in the back. you had finished your assignments yesterday, exams behind you so things were calmer. 

so why didn’t you go to train? 

because you couldn’t face toji fushiguro, no, it was too much. 

the man had already brushed you off on multiple occasions, making it evident that he wasn’t comfortable with pursuing you, drawing that line clear and bold and you went ahead and kissed him anyway. 

god, it made you shudder thinking about it. 

he was just so…good. 

you were sure you were the only person who used that word to describe him, what, with his constant brooding and everlasting scowl painting his unfairly handsome features. 

but he was, truly. 

and god, did he know how to kiss. it was almost sinful. 

you couldn’t stop thinking about him which is why space was definitely needed. 

you needed a rest day anyways, it was good to recover. right?

a few days would pass, you’d go back and toji would have forgotten all about it. even better, he’d simply ignore your existence.

you tried not to acknowledge the pang in your ribs at the thought. 

it was 10:47pm when a rough knock sounded your apartment and you froze. 

you didn’t order anything and your friends didn’t usually show up unannounced. 

you gulped softly and in your little baby blue pajama set and fluffy socks, you padded over to the door, leaning up on your tip-toes as you looked through the peephole. 

and then you gasped softly. 

fuck, fuck, fuck. 

what was he doing here? 

you turned and placed your back against the door, heart thudding as you tried to think of what to do. 

should you ignore him? what if it was important? maybe he was just dropping off the bag you’d left? or he was here to ban you from the gym after what-

“open up, kid, i can hear you shufflin’ around over there.”

his deep voice reverberated through the door and you froze once more. you couldn’t help the beating of your heart and clamming of your hands as he spoke, his voice calling to you in a way you couldn’t explain. 

so with a deep sigh, you opened the door, “hi, toji.”

and fuck, did hearing your pretty voice say his name fucking heal something in him. 

and he was fucking pissed at you for taking that away from him. 

you could tell. by the scowl painting his features and the narrowing of his eyes. but then again, that was also his resting face, so you couldn’t be too sure. 

“you didn’t come in.” he stated, voice low and clipped, “for three days now.”

your brows knitted, “you’re tracking my attendance now?”

“don’t,” he snapped, pushing past you and making his way into your home for the first time and fuck, everything was so…you. 

the neutral and pastels, the low lighting and candles smelling of cinnamon and something warm. it was all so warm. and so utterly you. 

“fuck have you been doing?” he questioned, voice firm as he turned around to face you, arms crossing as he watched you close and lock the door before turning to him with a sigh. 

“i was sore and needed a rest day.” 

he scoffed immediately, taking a step forward, “bullshit. you ran.”

your mouth parted for a moment before huffing once. 

so what if you did? so what if you were? 

you didn’t owe him anything, he was the one who basically said he didn’t want you. 

your spine stiffened, “you don’t-“

“you kissed me,” he interrupted, voice rougher now, “then you bolted.”

silence thickens the room and you swallowed, “do you blame me?” 

he scoffed once, stepping even closer, “fuck yeah, i do.”

you scoffed right back, arms crossing as you looked up at him with narrowed eyes, “seriously? you’re the one who basically told me not to try anything, spent weeks acting like i was some kid playing pretend, like i didn’t know what i wanted-“

toji’s jaw clenched, “i was protecting you.”

“from what?” 

“from me.” 

the words landed heavy and you took a step back but he only took one even closer, slower as if he was afraid you’d vanish once more if he moved too fast. 

“you seriously think i don’t want you?” he began, jaw clenching and eyes darkening as you swallowed gently, “the entire fuckin’ problem is that i want you. bad. have since the moment you walked into my gym, lookin’ like somethin’ out of a dream. like you were on the verge of runnin’…i just,” you couldn’t get over how utterly raw and real he sounded, “i’m older. i don’t want to be something you’ll regret.”

you stepped into his space before you could think it over, hand reaching out to grip at the fabric atop his abdomen, “you wouldn’t be. i'm not fragile.” 

he begged to differ but he presumed you were somewhat right. 

you were fragile, just not in the way he was afraid of. 

you were soft and maybe a bit sensitive, but you were an intelligent thing, and you were extremely aware of everything, yourself included. 

toji studied your pretty features then, searching for doubt or hesitation but he came up empty. 

then his control snapped, not violent but decisive. 

fuck it all. 

one big calloused hand came up to your jaw, thumb resting just beneath your lip and when he kisses you this time, there was no hesitation. 

it was slower, deeper and certain. 

he murmured your name against the plush of your mouth, groaning as you gasped against him when his other hand reached down to squeeze at your ass once. you’d taken the hint and leaned up, allowing him to pull you into him effortlessly, your legs around his hips as your hands gripped at the dark strands at the base of his neck. 

“anxious little thing,” he murmured against you once more, tongue peaking out to paint a stripe across your panting lips, “don’t run from me again, okay, pup?” 

you whined against his lips, nodding gently, “okay.” 

pup wasn’t much of a step up from kid but you’ll take it. 

and this time, when he kisses you again, he leaves nothing unsaid between you. 

✶

this didnt turn out the way i pictured at all but oh well 🫠🫠

toji is acc my fav in jjk but i feel like i cant ever do him justice when i write him so i never do so this was my first toji fic !!

lmk what you think as alwaysss + i hope u enjoooy!

“Did you hear that? I’ll say it again and again. I don’t care that the Jujutsu boys are… you know. Do. Not. Engage.” 

You turn to Yuki. “Is this necessary?” 

She doesn’t answer right away, just lifts her phone and shows you the Jujutsu roster online. Pictured on the screen is their captain and point guard, Satoru Gojo, grinning like he owns the planet. 

You blink. “I guess I understand the hype.”

“Please,” Yuki says, “You should see their shooting guard. He’s Gojo’s right hand man and every girl’s wet dream.”

Before she can swipe to his photo, your captain disbands the meeting. 

“Get to stretching. And remember ladies, keep it tight, keep it classy, and keep your drama out of the locker room!”

-

The pep band blares. The crowd roars. You’re adjusting your ponytail when the arena lights dim, signaling the arrival of the visiting team. Jujutsu University enters like they’ve done this a hundred times. The entire student section rises to their feet to boo, and yet somehow, it sounds more like worship.

Gojo’s the first one in, of course. He blows a kiss to someone in the bleachers and points finger guns at your mascot like he’s flirting with a cartoon. You roll your eyes. And then he walks in, and you immediately know he’s the one Yuki was talking about. Suguru Geto. 

His jersey has a number 3 on the back, and his sharp eyes look like they’ve seen too much and care too little. He’s not showy like Gojo. He doesn’t need to be. He walks with the quiet confidence of someone who knows he can drop thirty points without cracking a smile. His hair is tied back in a low bun, ink trailing down one arm, and a black compression sleeve on the other.

The world doesn’t exactly stop, but you swear it tilts on its axis. It’s not even lust at first, not really. It’s curiosity with teeth. Sharp, intrusive, and a little unhinged.

Yuki nudges you. “Told you.”

You say nothing, still staring as Suguru jogs to half court, gives Gojo a low five, and eyes the place like he’s ready to destroy it.  Just when your gaze flicks to his face again, he looks right at you.

It’s only a glance. Just long enough to make your stomach drop and your skin burn and your body suddenly very aware of itself in your uniform. He doesn’t smile. Just tips his chin up a little, like he’s clocked you, and he’s made a note of something he likes. He turns away just as fast. 

Yuki’s already smirking at you.

“Oh,” you say, trying to sound unimpressed. “Okay.”

“Okay?” Yuki scoffs. “That man is the reason this entire campus is foaming at the mouth. Gojo might run his mouth, but Geto? He ruins people. Quietly.”

You shake your head and turn away, but it’s too late. You’re curious. And that curiosity only festers when game time comes and the court turns electric.

-

When the second quarter ends, your squad breaks for water before the big halftime performance. The gym is loud, thundering with the noise of two frenzied student bodies. The score’s tight, and everyone knows the second half is going to get bloody. 

You wipe sweat from your brow, trying to focus on your breathing, on your formation for the next routine. But your attention is shot. Suguru hasn’t looked at you again since that first glance. And somehow, that’s worse than the way his eye contact affects you.

You’re standing just off-court near an exit, waiting for the rest of your squad to return, when a shadow passes into your peripheral vision. Coming off the court alone, towel slung over his shoulder, jersey clinging to him in all the right places. You freeze, rooted to the floor like you’ve been caught doing something you shouldn’t, even though you haven’t done anything but smile and wave your pom-poms.

Suguru doesn’t say anything as he approaches. Doesn’t smile, doesn’t slow down. Just as he passes you, close enough that your arms almost brush, he tilts his head down and murmurs, voice low enough that no one else could hear:

“You shouldn’t stare so much. People might think you want something.”

Then he’s gone. You don’t turn around. Your thighs are clenched, your pulse is racing, and there’s no doubt in your mind now. You do want something. And if the look in his eyes said anything, he already knows what it is.

-

The rest of the game is a blur of sweat, sneakers, and chants. You know enough about basketball to follow along, but even someone who’s never watched a game could tell that Suguru Geto was good. A fight nearly breaks out when Suguru dunks on your captain, causing him to fall over. Suguru just walks away as his teammates stop your own team from chasing him down. 

It’s the fourth quarter, and the score is tied with three seconds left. Someone passes the ball to Suguru, and everything slows. Silence falls among the crowd. There’s no rush, no panic. He plants his feet, looks at you, and shoots. He sinks the three-pointer and it’s chaos all over again. 

The buzzer goes off as the crowd goes wild, and your squad disbands in every direction. Bodies brush too close in a storm of adrenaline and frustration. You should react, but all you can feel is the heat of his stare still burning on your skin, long after he’s turned away. It takes you a moment before you snap back into it. If you’re going to get what you want, now’s your only chance.

The Jujutsu team is already on their way out, but you spot Suguru looking over his shoulder at you. He tilts his head ever so slightly, and even though he can’t see you, you smile as your feet start moving automatically.

-

The visitor’s locker room is quiet, with only the hum of fluorescent lights buzzing faintly overhead. Your sneakers squeak against the tile as you step inside, heart hammering in your throat.

There he is. Sitting on a bench, legs spread wide, his jersey peeled off and tossed to the side. His skin glistens with sweat, chest rising and falling slow and deep. A single strand of hair clings to his temple. The rest falls loose around his shoulders, like he tugged the hair tie out without thinking.

He doesn’t look surprised to see you. He just drags his gaze up your body, slow and deliberate, and lets it settle on your eyes. You feel it like a touch. It's like being pinned in place.

“Lost?” he asks, voice low and lazy. 

You open your mouth to respond, but the look in his eyes shuts down every excuse you had rehearsed. It’s reckless. It’s probably against three different rules in the Cheer Bible.

“I figured you’d come,” he continues. 

“Are you always this cocky?”

“You followed me,” Suguru replies, mouth curved into the faintest smirk. “Why?”

Your throat is dry. “You looked at me.”

He chuckles, quiet and wicked. “So I did.”

He leans forward, rising to his feet slowly. He walks toward you with a confidence that steals air from the room. Each step measured, heavy, controlled.

And when he stops just in front of you, his hand comes up to brush a strand of hair from your face. His fingers linger at your jaw, his thumb ghosting the corner of your mouth.

“What do you want?” he asks you.

“Like you don’t already know,” you retort, trying not to roll your eyes. 

“I want to hear it, pretty girl,” Suguru responds. 

“I want you,” you confess, voice barely above a whisper. “Happy now?”

His eyes darken at your admission. “Getting there.’

Instead, you grab the front of his shorts and pull him into you as your lips crash into his. Suguru catches your waist instantly, pressing you back into the row of lockers with a low grunt, like he’s been holding back all night. His kiss is rough but unhurried, all control. His hands travel down your thighs, gripping them with purpose, lifting you like it’s nothing. You wrap your legs around him as your back hits the lockers.

“Knew you wanted it the second I stepped on that court,” he breathes against your mouth. 

You drag your fingers through his hair and tug just enough to make him hiss.

“You’re not the only one who knows how to win,” you joke.

He laughs, deep and dark, then walks the two of you toward the bench behind him. He sits, spreading his legs wide, dragging you with him. You straddle him, your skirt already bunched up, breath shaky as he palms your ass through your spandex.

“You gonna ride me like your school pride depends on it?” he murmurs, voice gravel thick.

You press your forehead to his and whisper, “If you ask nicely.”

Suguru looks at you like you’re being ridiculous. “Didn’t I earn this?”

The only response you give him is your hips rolling against his hardening member. He groans under his breath, grip tightening on your hips as your body grinds against him. There's heat in every part of your body, tension stretched taut like a pulled rubber band about to snap.

"Keep that up," he warns, voice low, lips brushing your jaw, "and I won't be gentle."

You grind down again, slower this time, relishing the twitch of his muscles beneath you. “I don’t think you wanted me because I looked gentle.”

Suguru leans back slightly, just enough to look at you. His dark eyes are amused. “You’re dangerous,” he murmurs.

“You looked at me first,” you remind him, breath brushing over his lips.

He tilts his head, runs his hands up the line of your waist, thumbs grazing under your top. “Yeah,” he admits, voice softer now. “I looked. Couldn’t help it.”

You kiss him again, less messy this time, and so much more deliberate. You want him to feel the intention behind it. Suguru cups the back of your neck just as his tongue enters your mouth, like he’s trying to memorize your taste. His hand finally slides under your top, large palm hot against your spine.

“You gonna keep teasing me,” he murmurs, voice thick, “or are you gonna show me what those legs can really do?”

“Tell me you want it.”

He exhales, and you can see his control thinning.

“I want it,” he says, voice gravelly. “I want you.”

You pull your skirt off with haste, tossing it behind you. The look on his face when you pull his cock out of his shorts and line yourself up is almost reverent. 

“No foreplay?” he asks cautiously.

“Been wet the whole game,” you confess. “I can’t wait any longer.”

“You’re gonna regret that,” he murmurs, but he doesn’t make a move to stop you. “Take a breath.”

You do, and then he pushes in. Your mouth falls open instantly. Your fingers clutch his broad shoulders as the stretch steals the breath from your lungs. It’s thick, slow, impossible to ignore. Every inch of his hardened member drags against you like he’s trying to leave a permanent impression inside your body.

“Oh my god,” you gasp, eyes fluttering. “You’re… you’re big—”

Suguru grins at that, eyes blown with lust. His hands tighten just slightly around your waist, dragging you down the rest of the way.

“You’re a cheerleader, ” he taunts. “Aren’t you used to stretching by now?”

You whimper something incoherent against his neck, nails digging into his skin as your hips sink the last inch, fully taking him in. Suguru groans at the feeling, head dropping to your shoulder.

“Fuck,” he mutters against your skin. 

He stays still for a moment, letting you adjust, allowing the full sensation to sink in. Then he pulls back just slightly—just enough to make you whine— and snaps his hips up once, slow and deep.

“Still think I’m cocky?” he whispers, dragging his mouth along your jaw.

You press a finger to his lips. “Don’t waste your breath,” you whisper, breathless yourself. “You’ll need it.”

You plant your feet wide on each side of the bench, sliding into the kind of practiced split your body knows by muscle memory. Suguru swears under his breath like a prayer. A sound escapes him, low and guttural, as his grip on your thighs becomes a silent plea.

“Show-off,” he mutters, breath ragged as he grips your hips tighter, guiding your rhythm.

“Maybe,” you pant, “But you like it.”

“Yeah,” he growls, tugging on your hair at the scalp. “I do.”

You move together like you’ve done this before in another life, frantic but fluid. His hands slip beneath your top while your teeth graze his neck. Sweat builds, your thighs start to shake, and he leans back just slightly, admiring the sight of you split wide open on top of him, owning it.

With his hands firm at your hips, he guides you down onto him—slow, deliberate, watching every twitch of your face like it’s gospel. Each thrust steals the breath from your lungs. You cling to his shoulders, moaning quietly into his ear.

Suguru’s jaw is clenched, eyes half-lidded. “Fuck… look at you. Even the sounds you make are pretty.”

Your movements lose control as you chase your high, using him for your pleasure. When you start to unravel, he pulls you flush to him, burying his face in your neck. 

“Ngh, Suguru—” you gasp out incoherently.

“I know, baby. I know,” he says into your skin. “Cum on my cock, pretty girl.” 

When you clench around him, vision going white and body seizing with pleasure, the feeling pulls a groan from deep in his chest that he muffles against the curve of your neck. You're still catching your breath when his hands tighten around you. His lips drag along your shoulder before he pulls back, breath hot against your skin.

“Turn around,” he murmurs.

You blink at him with watery eyes, still dazed. “What?”

He stands, towering over you now, the heat radiating off him like a furnace. 

“You heard me.”

Your body obeys before your brain catches up. He helps you down, steadying you as your knees shake slightly. Then he turns you until your chest presses against the cool metal of the locker. The contrast between the chill of the surface and the heat of his body behind you makes you shiver. One of his hands flattens against your lower back. The other traces up your spine and slides into your hair, gently gathering it to the side.

“You feel that?” Suguru murmurs, pressing close, his voice a low rumble. “How bad I want you?”

You nod, lips parted, cheek resting against the locker. Even after such a strong orgasm, you’re already rutting your hips back against his cock.

“Use your words, pretty.”

“I feel it,” you whisper. “I feel everything.”

He hums, low and pleased. “Good.”

Suguru’s mouth grazes the curve of your neck as he enters you again, pulling the neediest moan from you. Your hands brace the lockers as his rhythm builds. His grip never falters. Every breathless sound you make only seems to push him further.

“Was I cocky?” he asks. “Or was I just honest?”

You try to answer, but your voice catches. It’s too much— his control, the pressure, the way he knows exactly how to push you to the edge without letting you fall.

“I’ll take that as a no,” he says, voice wicked.

Each motion leaves you shaking, boneless, lips parted against cold steel. And when your knees nearly give out beneath you, Suguru holds you steady, murmuring something you barely catch. 

“You with me?” Suguru asks again. 

All you can do is nod.

“I asked where you want me to cum,” he repeats.

You whimper, constricting around him absentmindedly. “Inside,” you plead.

“Fuck, baby, are you sure?” 

All you can do is nod against the locker. “Need you to fill me up.” 

Suguru cums the way he plays—silent, but explosively controlled. There’s no wasted breath, no dramatics, just a low grunt with a clenched jaw. You moan at the feeling of his cum spurting inside of you, mixing together with your overflowing wetness. His arms lock tight around your waist like he’s holding himself together with sheer force. His orgasm rolls through him like a wave, powerful and controlled, but you can feel it in every part of his body.

His chest heaves against your back, and he presses a kiss to your shoulder, almost like an apology for how hard he took you, for how badly he needed it. For a long moment, neither of you moves. His hands stay on your hips, thumbs brushing gently now, as if grounding himself in the aftermath. As the haze clears and your breathing slows, he presses a final kiss to your shoulder, then leans back with a lazy, satisfied grin.

You let out a breathy laugh and glance at him over your shoulder. Then, quietly, like he just remembered where you are, he chuckles.

“Your squad’s gonna kill me.”

“That’s only if they find out,” you tell him simply.

He brushes a strand of hair from your face. “Worth it.”

Suguru grins, all lazy and beautiful, eyes dragging over your face like he wants to memorize the way you look wrecked and flushed.

Then he reaches for the towel in his duffel bag. It’s already a little damp from wiping sweat during the game, but he uses the clean corner anyway. You flinch at first, sensitive, but he moves slowly and with a gentle touch. He brushes your inner thigh with his knuckles as he works, and his voice drops low.

“Didn’t think you’d really follow me.”

“I didn’t think I would either,” you admit, catching your breath. “This never happened.”

He hums, throwing the towel towards a trash can across the locker room. It lands inside. “Or it can happen again during my home game.”

You start to shift, but he tightens his hand on your waist. Suguru reaches up, eyes locked on yours, and removes the cheer bow from your hair.

“What are you doing?” you ask, half amused, half dazed.

He twirls it around one finger before stuffing it in the pocket of his bag.

“Souvenir,” he says with a wink.

You gape at him. “You’re stealing my bow?”

“Borrowing,” he says. “You can come get it back.”

You give him a look. “That’s not how borrowing works.”

“It is with me.”

You shake your head, finally managing to stand, though your legs are a little shaky and you absolutely hate that he notices.

Suguru sits back on the bench, admiring the view as you fix your uniform and tighten your ponytail.

“Still staring?” you tease.

He licks his lips, not bothering to deny it. “Yeah. And?”

You toss him a look over your shoulder as you head toward the door. “So arrogant for someone who barely won.”

“Mm,” he calls after you. “You didn’t seem too mad about it when you were bouncing on—”

“Bye, Suguru.”

He laughs, full and unbothered, as the door swings shut behind you.

Your heart is still racing. Your skin still tingles. And deep in your bag, your phone buzzes with new messages from your squad wondering where the hell you are. You’re definitely looking forward to next month, when your school will travel to play his. You know you’re not done with Suguru, not even close. 

you blink at him. “i’m sorry, who are you?”

you know this isn’t your gojo. he is not the one that was supposed to meet you in the training yard five minutes ago.

before he can answer, someone skids into the courtyard behind you, kicking up dirt.

“hey! hey, i’m not late, you’re early,” the familiar voice calls. “don’t glare at me—i brought you—”

your gojo freezes mid-sentence.

his gaze slides from you—to the older version of himself—then to you again. and his expression folds into something between shock and deeply insulted confusion.

“…are you kidding me?” he mutters.

older gojo lifts a hand in a casual greeting. “yo.”

younger gojo stares at him with the same look of a man staring at his own funeral.

“why do you look like that?” he asks, voice flat. “why do you look like you have your life together? since when did my traps get that big? is that a blindfold? where did you come from? why are you here?”

“time hiccup,” older gojo says simply. “don’t worry about it.”

“i’m absolutely worrying about it.”

the older version turns his attention back to you, and the shift is so gentle it makes your chest tighten.

“sorry if i startled you,” he says. “i didn’t expect to land this close.”

“you didn’t expect to land at all,” younger gojo mutters mockingly. “you look like you planned it.”

older gojo brushes that off. “right, because i definitely choose to tear open time and space before breakfast. i have three kids and a beautiful wife waiting for me in bed as we speak.”

“with that ego? sure you do.”

you watch the two of them banter. it’d comical, the way they argue in the exact same voice pitched at different levels of arrogance—and your head spins.

older gojo notices you watching and smiles. it is something much warmer than the cocky grin that you are used to.

“it’s good to see you [name],” he says.

you blink. “you… know me?”

“mm.” his smile deepens, soft around the edges. “very well.”

younger gojo bristles on instinct. he steps slightly in front of you, annoyed. “okay, hold on. hold on. she doesn’t even like me yet. how do you know her ‘very well’?”

older gojo tilts his head. “because eventually, she stops running away from me.”

your face heats at the tone of his speech while younger gojo’s entire soul visibly leaves his body.

“i’m not running,” you mutter.

younger gojo groans loudly and drags a hand down his face. “is this what i become? a reflective bastard? do i start journaling too?”

“would it kill you?” older gojo asks.

“probably.”

you can’t help it and laugh quietly, but it’s enough that both of them turn toward you.

younger gojo brightens immediately like he thinks the laugh is for him. 

older gojo’s eyes soften like he knows it isn’t.

the difference makes your stomach do something strange.

“okay,” you finally say, rubbing your temples. “i need someone to explain what exactly is happening.”

“i slipped,” older gojo says.

“you slipped?”

“through a time seam.”

“you slipped,” younger gojo echoes, unimpressed. “like zurumon, but through time.”

older gojo shrugs. “more like the water tiger.”

you sigh at their childish references. “can you get back?”

“maybe,” he says. “in a bit. the seam should settle soon.”

“great,” younger gojo mutters, “so he’s stuck here long enough to ruin my life.”

older gojo’s brow lifts. “ruin? i’m just talking.”

“that’s the problem! your talking is suspiciously effective. she’s looking at you like she’s… i don’t know… impressed.”

you scoff. “i am not.”

older gojo gives you an amused look, and it’s little too intimate for someone you supposedly don’t know yet.

“sure,” he says softly. “you never were very good at hiding it.”

your breath catches and you feel an unfamiliar heat rise up to your face. it was strange, the effect he had on you.

younger gojo notices instantly. “nope. absolutely not. whatever you’re doing. stop.”

older gojo just smiles at you.

and you hate that it makes something in your chest flutter.

“don’t worry,” he murmurs, voice lower, quieter, meant only for you. “you figure it out eventually.”

“figure what out?” you ask before you can stop yourself.

he doesn’t answer, letting the silence serve as an explanation.

and behind him, your gojo stands stiff, his jaw tight as he glances between the two of you.

older gojo seems content to let the quiet hang for a moment, studying you with that unbearably soft expression that feels like it has no business being directed at an eighteen-year-old stranger.

well. stranger to you.

“you said you have a wife,” you say suddenly, grasping at the only neutral thread you can find. “and kids?”

younger gojo snaps his head toward him. “i still can’t believe you’re married”

older gojo’s face changes, and now he’s wearing the kind of look people get when something they love crosses their mind at inopportune moments.

“very,” he answers.

“very?” younger gojo repeats. “why ‘very’? what does that even mean? you can't be 'very married.’ it's binary.”

older gojo ignores him, gaze still on you.

“my wife,” he says, slow like he’s choosing every word, “she is incredible."

your heart stumbles against your ribs.

younger gojo’s face twists. “you’re doing this on purpose.”

older gojo shrugs. “talking about my wife?”

“in that tone,” younger gojo hisses. “stop sounding so sappy.”

older gojo finally glances at him, smile faint and maddeningly serene. “i am a man in love.”

younger gojo looks like he’s about to throw a rock at him.

“you love her?” you ask before you realize your mouth has moved without consulting your brain.

older gojo’s eyes soften in a way that steals your breath.

“more than anything,” he says. “she’s the only person I’ve ever met who makes me feel whole.”

younger gojo chokes. 

older gojo ignores that too. “she’s stubborn. too stubborn for her own good. always pretending she isn’t interested when she is. makes me work for everything.”

your pulse jumps painfully.

younger gojo notices and zeroes in on you.

his eyes widen in horror.

“wait—no. no, no, no. you’re not falling for him.” his voice drops. “you are not falling for him.”

“I’m not,” you say instinctively, too quickly and too defensively.

older gojo laughs softly at that. 

“you always say that,” he murmurs.

your entire body warms in one terrible, treacherous sweep.

younger gojo looks between you two like he’s watching a car crash in slow motion. “what is happening right now? why is he being—like this? why are you—like this?”

“like what?” you shoot back.

“like you’re two seconds away from eloping.”

you flush. “we’re not—! he’s married, you freak!”

older gojo smiles into his hand like he’s all too familiar with the argument that unfolds before him.

"my wife also denied everything," he says. “she swore she didn't like me and insisted I was annoying.”

younger gojo points at him triumphantly. “she says that about me!”

older gojo pats his shoulder sympathetically. “and she meant it.”

you bury your face in your hands.

younger gojo collapses to a crouch, grieving the loss of something he never had. “unbelievable. i lose to a blindfolded loser. this is humiliating.”

older gojo hums thoughtfully, toying with the dark piece of cloth. “the blindfold grew on her.”

“you must really love her,” you murmur.

his gaze lingers on you for a long, impossibly still moment.

“more than you can imagine,” he says quietly.

your chest tightens.

younger gojo watches the two of you for three seconds before snapping.

“enough.” he jumps to his feet. “don’t look at him like that,” he mutters.

“like what?” you ask.

“like he’s a man.” he grimaces. “i’m a man too.”

older gojo snorts. “you grow up, you know. eventually.” he leans in slightly, voice low, teasing in a way that curls warm around your spine.

“you will,” he says. “for her.”

younger gojo freezes. “for—?”

“my wife,” older gojo says lightly.

your breath stutters.

younger gojo goes silent.

you look between them, utterly doomed, heart beating far too fast.

this is bad.

you should not be attracted to a mysterious older version of your classmate.

you should not be wondering what his hands would feel like if he cupped your face the way he keeps almost doing. and you really should not be wishing time law violations were less strict.

younger gojo watches the way your eyes drift back to the older one, and his expression darkens in real time. “stop looking at him like that,” he mutters. “look at me like that. i’m right here.”

you ignore him, because the air around older gojo shifts. it’s subtle, like a breeze curling in from nowhere.

he notices it too.

his head tilts up slightly, blindfold catching the light. “ah. there it is.”

“what?” you ask.

“the seam,” he answers simply. “it’s pulling.”

the air distorts again, thin lines of refracted light flickering at the edges of his silhouette, like something trying to reel him back.

you take a small step forward before you realize you’re doing it. “so… you’re leaving?”

“not by choice,” he says lightly. “time has a terrible sense of timing.”

younger gojo throws his hands in the air. “it’s too early in the morning for this! who just casually gets yanked through space-time?! fix it!”

older gojo ignores him entirely, turning toward you instead. “don’t look so tense,” he says. “this always snaps back.”

“always?” you echo.

“well,” he amends, “most of the time.”

“how reassuring,” younger gojo deadpans.

older gojo continues, “i’ll drop back where i came from. five seconds will pass there. maybe six. i left in the middle of brushing my teeth.”

you blink. “you time-travel while brushing your teeth?”

he shrugs.

younger gojo glares. “i hate that that sounds like something i would do.”

the distortion builds, light threading around older gojo’s arms, shoulders, like invisible hands pulling him.

he steps back, one foot already blurring at the edges.

but he pauses long enough to look at you again and it’s something calmer, something knowing.

“don’t overthink any of this,” he says quietly. “you won’t get answers by tearing it apart.”

your breath catches. “then how am I supposed to get them?”

“you’ll get there,” he says. “or i guess… i’ll get there.”

the seam tugs harder, swallowing him up to the waist.

“wait,” you blurt, “do we—do i—do we meet again?”

older gojo’s mouth lifts in the faintest smirk. “from my perspective? we already have.”

younger gojo swears loudly. “STOP SAYING CRYPTIC THINGS IN MY VOICE.”

the light snaps sharply and older gojo disappears like he was never there at all.

you’re left standing in the courtyard, staring at the space where he vanished, the air still humming faintly like it hasn’t figured out he’s gone yet.

and younger gojo, somewhere behind you, whispers in horror,

“did you just imprint on future me?”

then younger gojo rounds on you, expression horrified.

“you were basically swooning the entire time!”

you choke. “i was not—”

“your face,” he says dramatically, “was doing that cute thing.”

“it was not doing anything.”

gojo narrows his eyes, leaning in too close. “if you fall for him, that counts as falling for me by extension.”

you shove him back by the forehead. “please go away.”

he stumbles back with an offended yelp. 

“are we training or not?” you interrupt.

he blinks, thrown off. “…you still want to?”

“yeah,” you say, stretching your arms over your head. “unless you plan on crying about your future biceps all morning.”

he straightens immediately, ego snapping back into place like elastic. “please. my biceps now are clearly thriving.” he makes an attempt to flex his muscles. you don’t give him the satisfaction of knowing that you have spent more times checking them out than you’re proud of.

“uh-huh.”

“and,” he adds, stepping closer with a smirk, “just so you know—whatever he said? i can say it cooler. eventually.”

you give him a flat look. “…you literally cannot.”

“watch me.”

he cracks his knuckles, summons a flicker of cursed energy, and grins at you like he hasn’t just had an existential crisis.

“alright,” he declares. “let’s start. and don’t go easy on me just because you’ve seen the deluxe version.”

“if anything,” you say dryly, “i’m going harder.”

“i knew you liked me.”

“i don’t.”

“sure,” he singsongs.

you sigh, drop into your stance, and pretend your pulse isn’t still a little off-kilter.

older gojo is gone, the seam closed, the future sealed back where it belongs.

but younger gojo looks at you and you can’t help but fear that maybe he has a shot at becoming that guy.

eventually.

maybe.

Maybe you should just sweep everything into the bag without sorting through it—it’d be faster. But it’d also mean you’d run out of distraction sooner.

Something catches your eye in the chaos of wrappers, cans, figures, and whatever else can only vaguely be described as “miscellaneous trash.” A flyer.

You let the trash bag fall to the floor and pick it up. “Fundraising. Help the Tokyo Seaside Orphanage raise money for necessary renovations,” you read out loud, flipping it open. Inside are details—when, where, how.

You recognize it as the same day he blocked off an ominous event in his calendar and wouldn't tell you what it is. Why? You thought the two of you are long past keeping secrets like this. There's an ache in your heart, a small tug, a voice in the back of your head that reminds you of the past. Of how you didn't know things were wrong until you'd found that note and were forced to pack your things an leave. What you'd thought of as a loving relationship had turned into the opposite so fast...and you hadn't seen it coming. What if Gen keeping secrets is the begging of that. You shake your head, trying to stop the spiral your thoughts are in.

No, he loves you. And he must've had his reasons for not telling you about this. Maybe it's because his past is still a part he wants to keep guarded. You bite your lip. Your mind is racing to find a believable explanation to keep yourself from thinking of the worst case scenario.

You know you have to ask him. Communicate...you sigh.

----

The door to your shared quarters opens and closes quietly. Gen toes off his shoes and hangs up his jacket, moving with a sluggish exhaustion thats become too familiar lately. He doesn't even bother to turn on the lights.

He expects you fast asleep, maybe cuddling his pillow, you've been doing that a lot lately causing him to have to sleep without one because he doesn't have the heart to steal it back, or take yours. He's expects the room to be dark and quiet except for the sound of your slow breathing. So he's startled when he sees the faint sliver of light underneath the bedroom door.

“Why are you—” he starts, rubbing a hand down his face, “we talked about this. You need sleep. I don’t want you working yourself sick again.” His tone is soft but tired, and it tugs at your heart.

“So should you,” you counter gently, frowning as you slide a bookmark between the pages of your book. “I don’t like seeing you this exhausted.”

Gen exhales through his nose, tugging off his shirt in one lazy motion. The fabric sticks slightly to his skin, sweat-darkened from training, muscles rippling as he throws it aside and then shoves off his pants.

For a moment, he just stands there in the soft, yellow light of the bedside lamp, rubbing at the back of his neck. “You sound like my doctor,” he murmurs with a tired half-smile, but you can hear the edge in his voice, that something else is weighing on him.

You set the book aside and open your arms.

Gen stands there for a second, blinking like he’s unsure if he’s allowed, then he drops onto the bed, crawling up until his head rests against your chest and his body settles between your legs. It’s one of those times he wishes he could be small, small enough to fold himself completely into you and stay there. But he likes the way you fit in his arms too much to really be sad about his size.

“Gen?” you murmur, burying your nose in his messy hair.

He hums low in response, the sound vibrating softly against your ribs.

“I cleaned your desk earlier and found something.”

“My playboy mag? I promise I don’t use it anymore. Not since you.” He tilts his head up, a hint of a grin tugging at his lips.

You can’t help the quiet laugh that escapes you. “No, not that. The flyer. For the orphanage fundraiser.”

“Oh,” he says, then sighs, nestling back against your chest like he’s hoping you’ll drop it. “That.”

His tone is careful, not dismissive, just guarded. You can feel the muscles in his back tense under your hands.

“What about it?” he asks finally, voice muffled against your shirt.

You drag your fingers through his hair, slow and steady, feeling the tension sitting just beneath his skin. “Why didn’t you tell me about it?” you ask gently. “You even blocked off the day on the calendar.”

Gen doesn’t answer right away. His hand finds the hem of your shirt, thumb rubbing lazy circles into your hip to ground him.

“I just… didn’t want to make a big thing of it,” he says at last, voice quiet. “It’s nothing dramatic. Just thought I’d stop by, see the place, donate a little. Didn’t wanna bother you with it.”

You tilt your head, frowning softly. “Bother me? Gen, you could never bother me. Especially not with something that matters to you.”

He exhales, the air ghosting warm against your collarbone. “Yeah, but… it’s not exactly something I like to talk about. The whole… orphanage thing.”

“I remember,” you murmur. “You told me once. About how you kept getting moved around. How they’d get destroyed sometimes.”

Gen nods faintly against your chest. “Yeah. This one though, the seaside one...they were good to me. First place that actually felt… safe, I guess. They gave me my first bed, the kind with actual sheets. I wanna make sure the next batch of kids get that too.”

You smile faintly, brushing a strand of hair away from his forehead. “That’s really sweet of you.”

He huffs, embarrassed, ducking his head. “Don’t say it like that. Makes me sound soft.”

“You are soft,” you tease, pressing a kiss to the top of his head.

Gen groans, muffled by your chest. “You’re never letting me live that down, are you?”

“Never.”

He’s quiet for a moment, just listening to your heartbeat. “I was gonna go alone,” he admits finally. “Didn’t wanna make it weird. I figured you might not wanna tag along to something like that.”

You tighten your arms around him. “You’re an idiot if you think I’d let you go by yourself.”

Gen snorts softly. “Yeah, I should’ve known you’d say that.”

“Then take me with you,” you whisper into his hair. “I want to see the place that made you feel safe.”

For a long moment he doesn’t move, then he tilts his head back, eyes warm and unreadable in the soft light. “Alright,” he murmurs, a small smile tugging at his mouth. “But don’t blame me if the kids like you more than me.”

“They probably will,” you tease. “I’m the cooler one.”

Gen lets out a quiet laugh, and the sound settles between you like a promise, the kind of fragile, honest thing only love can make. He smirks. "You know, if you want to see the place I feel safe at, just look in the mirror." You giggle and slap his shoulders playfully. "You're so cheesy Captain."

"You should sleep now. Really," Gen says around a yawn, rubbing a hand over his face. "I'll go wash up."

He leans down, pressing a lazy kiss to your lips, then another to your forehead, lingering there for a heartbeat before padding toward the bathroom.

By the time he’s back, hair damp from a quick shower and the faint scent of mint toothpaste hanging in the air, you’re already curled up beneath the blanket, half-lidded and warm.

"You’re hogging the bed," he mutters, tugging at the edge of the blanket. "And my pillow."

"Smells nice," you grumble, refusing to open your eyes as you shuffle a little toward your side to make room.

Gen sighs, the kind that’s half fond, half exasperated, then slips in beside you. "Chest time?" he asks, lifting one arm invitingly.

You crack an eye open, smiling sleepily. "You know I never say no to chest time."

He chuckles lowly as you crawl closer, tucking yourself into his side until your head rests over his chest and his arm settles around you. His heartbeat is slow and steady beneath your ear, grounding you in a way nothing else can.

"Yeah, that’s it," he murmurs, thumb tracing idle circles against your hip. "You ever say no to chest time, and I’ll know a kaiju’s posing as you."

You laugh softly, the sound muffled against him. "I’d still take the kaiju version if it meant this," you tease, voice fading as sleep starts to pull at the edges.

"Yeah, well," Gen hums, his tone softer now, "no kaiju’s stealing my spot."

You don’t answer, just hum in contentment, listening as his heartbeat and breathing even out beneath you, the room fading into comfortable quiet.

----

It’s midday, and you’ve already been working for hours, answering emails, approving reports, scheduling meetings. The lack of sleep sits heavy behind your eyes, pulsing in time with the dull throb at your temples.

The door to your office opens and closes quietly, and you glance up. Gen stands in the doorway, hair tousled from sleep, two steaming mugs in his hands.

“Why didn’t you wake me?” he asks as he crosses the room. “Aren’t there forms or something I need to sign off on?”

He sets one mug down in front of you, and you mumble your thanks without looking up from the screen.

“I always just forge your signature,” you say casually, sliding a stack of paperwork toward him.

“You’re a stickler for the rules, you would never do that.” he mutters, flipping through the pages as he snatches up the nearest pen.

“I like my job, what can I say.”

He signs a few pages, his handwriting as messy as ever. “You know I wouldn’t fire you for faking my signature,” he murmurs.

“Do I?” you ask, quirking a brow and smirking over the rim of your mug.

He sighs, shaking his head, the ghost of a smile tugging at his lips.

“You really want to come later?” he asks after a moment, voice softer. “Wouldn’t you rather… I don’t know, take a nap?”

You place a hand over your chest in mock offense. “Captain Narumi, could it be that you don’t want me to join you?”

His chuckle is warm, fond. “No, I do. I just… don’t wanna burden you. I know you’re stressed. And worried. Because of me.”

The guilt in his tone makes your chest ache. You hate it. Hate how easily he takes the weight of the world and calls it his own.

“Shh,” you hush him, reaching out to rest your hand over his. “I’m coming. End of discussion.”

He huffs out a laugh, but there’s relief in his eyes.

“So,” you say, changing the subject, “how much are you donating? Maybe I could add the same amount.”

Gen glances up from the reports, expression completely deadpan. “Two months’ wages.”

Your mouth falls open. “Two—what?”

“Been setting money aside,” he says, almost shyly. “Cutting back on figures and stuff. You don’t need to add anything. I’m donating enough for the both of us.”

You just stare at him. Two months of Gen’s salary — that’s… a lot. From that kind of donation, they could probably rebuild the whole orphanage, maybe even open another.

Your throat tightens, pride and tenderness swelling all at once.

“Gen,” you breathe, “you’re… amazing.”

He rubs the back of his neck, suddenly bashful. “Don’t make a big deal out of it. I just… owe that place a lot. Feels right to give back.”

The orphanage sits on the edge of the city, tucked behind rows of narrow houses and a half-collapsed playground that’s clearly been patched up a dozen times. You can already hear laughter drifting through the open gate when you and Gen arrive.

Gen pauses at the entrance, staring for a second longer than usual. You catch it, the way his shoulders tense, then slowly relax as he takes a deep breath.

“You okay?” you ask quietly.

He glances down, gives you a crooked smile. “Yeah. Just… it always brings up memories.” Then, in true Gen fashion, he adds, “Kinda weird coming back and not being the one caught sneaking out past curfew.”

You elbow him gently, and he smirks.

Inside, the yard’s full of booths and games, the air rich with the smell of yakisoba and fried batter. Volunteers wave, and a few kids dart over the moment they spot Gen.

“Big Bro Gen!” one of them shouts, launching himself at him.

Gen laughs, catching the boy mid-jump and spinning him around like it’s second nature. “Whoa! You got heavier. What are they feeding you here, Kaiju meat?”

The kid giggles uncontrollably, and soon there are more, three, four of them clinging to his arms and legs, all talking at once.

You just stand there, watching him, the same man who can crush monsters and terrify subordinates without saying a word now kneeling in the dirt, letting a little girl tug at his hair while another brags about how strong she’s gotten.

Your chest aches in that warm, dizzying way.

He glances up and catches you staring, grin turning just a little smug. “What, falling for me all over again?”

“More like I’m realizing I might have to share you with the under-tens,” you tease back, crossing your arms.

He chuckles, setting one of the kids on his shoulders. “You saying you’re jealous? Don’t worry, I’ll make sure you get equal cuddle rights later.”

You roll your eyes, but your heart feels too full to even hide the smile tugging at your lips.

When the fundraising starts in earnest, Gen disappears for a while, helping set up tents, hauling crates, fixing a broken bench like it’s nothing. The man just does. No orders, no fuss. Every time one of the caretakers thanks him, he waves it off with an awkward little shrug.

By the time you find him again, he’s crouched in front of a tiny girl with messy pigtails, carefully showing her how to tie the ribbon on a toy prize she won.

You swear your heart just squeezes.

You step closer, voice soft. “You’re really good with them.”

He glances up, rubbing the back of his neck again. “Guess I just… get it, y’know? What it’s like to want someone to stay a bit longer.”

Something in your chest twists — tender and heavy all at once.

The girl waves at him before scampering off, and Gen straightens up, dusting his hands off. He looks at you for a beat, quiet, then grins. “You’ve got that look again.”

“What look?”

“The one that says you’re picturing me surrounded by ten of our own.”

You sputter. “I am not—”

“Uh-huh,” he drawls, leaning in closer, voice low and teasing. “Don’t worry, sweetheart, one step at a time. Let’s make sure I survive these maniacs first.”

You swat his arm, but he laughs, eyes crinkling in that way that still gets you every single time.

And maybe, just maybe, you do imagine it... Gen, softer around the edges, coming home to a place that isn’t just you two anymore.

An hour has passed. Gen got whisked away by the kids again, and even though being apart from him makes you a little antsy, you decide to take matters into your own hands. You chat with the caretakers, ask about the routines, the challenges, how the whole place runs. They’re open, kind, and tired in that deep kind of way you recognize from people who give more than they get. They explain how the kids take over chores, how the older ones often take care of the younger ones, how they wish they could spend more time actually caring for the children than just making sure they survive, but founds and personell is too little.

You listen quietly, the ache in your chest growing with every small detail.

A little girl tugs at your sleeve.

“Miss, can you braid my hair?”

You smile, crouching down to her level. “Sure thing, sweetheart.”

That’s how Gen finds you ten minutes later, sat on the steps, braiding a girl’s hair while half a dozen others wait their turn, some holding ribbons, others giggling about who gets to go next.

He stops for a moment, watching. There’s a look on his face you can’t quite name, something between pride and wonder, before he walks over and leans down to press a kiss to your temple.

“Not too shabby with children yourself,” he says with a whistle.

“Someone had to keep them entertained,” you reply, finishing off the braid with a pink ribbon.

“Gave them the money,” Gen murmurs after a beat, voice lower now. “The head of the orphanage cried. Got kinda awkward. You know me, not good with that stuff.”

You glance up at him. He looks away, blushing to the tips of his ears.

“You’re too modest,” you murmur. “You probably just changed their lives, you know that?”

He hums, then sits beside you on the steps, elbows on his knees, watching the kids play tag in the courtyard. “Didn’t do it for thanks,” he says simply. “Just… wanted them to have better. More.”

You reach over and find his hand, your fingers slipping into the spaces between his. “They already do,” you whisper. “They have you. The strongest in all of Japan”

Gen goes quiet, his thumb brushing over your knuckles. “You really think that?”

You nod. “I know that.”

He exhales softly, shoulders relaxing for the first time all day. The sun’s starting to dip lower, painting the orphanage yard gold. A few of the kids run past, laughing, one of them stopping to show Gen her new braid with a proud grin.

“Cute,” he says, ruffling her hair. When she runs off again, he turns to you with a crooked smile. “Guess we both got roped into something, huh?”

You shrug. “Could be worse.”

“Yeah,” he murmurs, eyes still on you, so full of love and adoration. “Could be a lot worse.”

You walk hand in hand along the narrow road that traces the shoreline. The sun’s low now, sinking into the ocean, the sky dipped in pink and orange hues, the air carrying the scent of salt and the faint laughter of the kids still echoing somewhere behind you. Seagulls call overhead. Every so often, Gen’s thumb brushes the back of your hand, lazy, unhurried, the way it does when he’s thinking.

“You were good with them,” you say after a while. “The kids, I mean. They loved you.”

He huffs softly, eyes on the water. “Yeah, well. Guess I’ve got a knack for chaos.”

You smile. “Chaos, huh? Looked more like care to me.”

He doesn’t answer right away. His hand tightens around yours a little, just a fraction, and then loosens again. The rhythm of your steps fills the silence.

“Gen?”

“Mm?”

“Do you… want children?”

He exhales, the sound almost lost in the whisper of the tide. “I don’t know,” he admits after a pause. “Never really thought about it.” He gives a small, awkward laugh. “I don’t even know if I’d be any good at it. Didn’t exactly have a father to learn from. Not much to build on.”

You hum softly, the sound low in your throat. It breaks your heart a little, how matter-of-fact he sounds. How he says it like a truth long accepted, not something that ever hurt.

“You’d be good at it,” you whisper. “Better than you think.”

He glances down at you, brow furrowing slightly. “What makes you so sure?”

“Because you care. You notice things. You listen even when you pretend you don’t. And when you love, Gen, you love hard.”

He looks away again, a faint flush climbing his neck, but he doesn’t argue. He just hums, quiet and thoughtful, eyes on the horizon where the sea meets the fading light.

After a long moment, he lifts your joined hands and presses a kiss to your knuckles. “If it’s with you,” he murmurs, so soft you almost miss it over the whooshing of the waves. “maybe I’d want that.”

The words sink into you like warmth spreading through your chest. You squeeze his hand, eyes stinging a little.

“Then maybe one day,” you say.

He smiles, small and tender. “Yeah,” he says. “One day.”

----

When you finally reach Ariake, the lights of the base glow faintly in the distance. He’s still holding your hand, like letting go would break something. Inside your quarters, the air smells faintly of coffee and detergent, the familiar warmth of your shared home wrapping around you like a blanket.

Gen sinks onto the couch, tugging you into his lap without a word. You melt against him, your legs tucked up, his arms wrapping around your waist like it’s second nature.

For a while, the only sound is his steady breathing against your neck.

Then, quietly, he says, “You know… I think I finally get it.”

You tilt your head. “Get what?”

“What having a family feels like,” he says. “That kind of warmth. Belonging. You… gave that to me.”

Your throat tightens a little, and you run your fingers through his messy hair, letting your forehead rest against his. “You have me,” you whisper. “And my family and the first division. You’re not alone anymore, Gen.”

He exhales shakily, the sound brushing against your lips as he presses a soft kiss there , not rushed or desperate, just deep and full of quiet gratitude. “You’re my home,” he murmurs, his voice barely audible.

You smile, your heart aching and full all at once. “And you’re mine.”

He hums low in his chest, pulling you closer until there’s no space left between you. Outside, the sea sighs against the shore, the night still and endless. Inside, it’s warm. Safe. Home.

And for the first time in his life, Gen Narumi doesn’t feel like a man passing through, he feels like he’s finally where he belongs.

He hasn’t even thought about tasting it. It’s not a drink, it’s a prop. A weak attempt at camouflage in a place that feels entirely hostile to him.

Because this is not his habitat. Not the flashing lights, not the wall-shaking bass. Not the sea of strangers moving together like sobriety is some ancient crime.

No, the only reason he even stepped foot in this overheated house was because of you.

You’d been sitting cross-legged on the bed, the blanket from last night’s pillow fort still pooled around your hips. Gojo's legs were stretched out, ankles hooked lazily with yours under the mess of fabric.

He’d been groggy, the air conditioner humming softly, the smell of your shampoo clinging to the fabric between you. You were going on and on about this party you’d been invited to, eyes bright, excitedly describing the dress you were going to wear.

And before he knew what he was doing, he’d cut you off.

“I’ll come with you.”

You’d blinked at him, startled. “Really? It’s… not really your scene.”

He’d leaned back, staring at the ceiling for a long moment before shrugging. “I wanna try it out.”

A blatant lie.

The truth was simpler. He didn’t want to imagine you there, surrounded by strangers, laughing at someone else’s jokes, finding a new replacement.

But that’s exactly what’s happening even now.

His weary eyes find you in the crowd almost without permission. And then everything inside him just… stops.

You’re in a dress.

Not just a dress, the kind of dress that exists to ruin a man’s composure. The one you’d described that morning without knowing it would burn into his mind. Soft fabric hugging your shape, skimming mid-thigh before fluttering at the edges.

The sight makes his throat go dry. There’s this tight, clawing pressure in his chest, like his ribs aren’t wide enough to contain it.

Your head is tipped back in a laugh that slices through the bass. The guy next to you is tall, broad, with the kind of grin that says he’s used to being close to people. His hand brushes your shoulder, and you don’t move away.

Gojo’s stomach turns over like he’s been punched, sudden and sharp.

He looks away fast, like maybe it’ll undo the damage if he stops seeing it. Stares down at the condensation beading on his untouched drink, following a single drop as it slides down the plastic.

He lifts it to his mouth, but doesn’t drink. Just lets the rim press to his lips. Of course you’re flirting, why shouldn’t you?

You don’t owe him anything. It’s not like he ever said what he truly feels.

And now, straight in the middle of a house packed with strangers and bass that rattled his bones, he wondered what the hell he’d been thinking. The sting behind his eyes surprises even himself.

He wants to leave.

Right now. Before he says something stupid, before he breaks the illusion that he can handle this.

He sets the cup down on the nearest counter. Stands too quickly, knees dipping as the floor tilts beneath him for half a second.

Just as he begins to walk, the familiar sound of your laughter falls onto his ears again.

The guy leans in closer this time, says something low near your ear. Your head tilts toward him—whether to listen or to laugh again, Gojo doesn’t stick around to find out.

He’s out the back door before the moment can finish, hoping the fresh air will keep his chest from collapsing completely.

As soon as he makes it outside, the night air hits sharp against his skin. It prickles down his neck, cold enough to wake him up, but not enough to quiet the mess in his chest.

He kicks at the gravel near the garden edge, scuffing the toe of his sneaker against the stone like it wronged him personally. A small pebble bounces and rolls forward, disappearing into the grass.

“Fuck,” he mutters.

“Rough night?” The voice comes from behind him, casual as hell.

He turns so fast he nearly trips over himself.

Suguru is leaning against the side wall like he owns the place. Black hair pulled into a loose bun, sleeves rolled to his elbows, glitter dusting his collarbone, lipstick smeared faintly on his neck.

“What the hell are you doing here?” Gojo asks, eyebrows furrowed with confusion. His weight shifts from foot to foot, like he wants to pace but refuses to give Suguru the satisfaction. “And where have you been?”

“Eh.” Suguru shrugs, pushing off the wall with his shoulder. “Around.”

“Around isn’t much of an answer.”

“Wasn’t meant to be.” He tilts his head, eyes narrowing in scrutiny. “Don’t change the subject. Are you sulking over that girl again?”

Gojo clicks his tongue and looks away, kicking at another rock with the toe of his sneaker. His hands disappear into his pockets, shoulders curling in on themselves. “Who?”

Suguru raises a brow, scoffing. “Don’t play dumb, Satoru. You’re a lot of things, but subtle ain't one of them.”

“I seriously don’t know what you’re talking about,” Gojo huffs, though the tips of his ears betray him in pink. He turns half away, chin ducking like the grass might be the most fascinating thing on earth.

“Sure you don’t,” Suguru says, voice drawling with amusement. He pushes off the wall to look him in the eye, lowering his voice. “She looks good tonight, by the way.”

Gojo shoots him a sharp look. Not quite murderous, but the warning is clear enough. “Don’t start.”

“What? I'm just saying that the dress is working,” Suguru smirks, shrugging like he’s innocent. “You're acting like I told you I'd rail your mom.”

“I mean it, Suguru.” Gojo shoves his hands deeper into his pockets, jaw tight. “Had a shit evening already.”

“Relax, loverboy.” Suguru laughs under his breath, shaking his head.

“Why are you even here? Don’t you have… like, glitter orgies to attend or whatever the fuck it is you do now?”

“Why are you here?” Suguru says, smirking wider. “Shouldn't you go back in there before some finance major starts hitting on her? Or, y’know, keep hiding out here and let him.”

Gojo swears under his breath and pushes past him toward the house in rapid strides. “I sincerely hope you rot.”

“Tell her you love her, jackass!” Suguru calls after him. “Before I do it just to spite you!”

Gojo storms back inside, muttering under his breath, a mixture of frustration and self-loathing. “Of course she doesn’t like me… why would she like a loser like me?”

His knees feel stiff but he keeps walking toward the living room like a man on autopilot.

The bass from inside vibrates through the floor, and the warm haze of alcohol and perfume hits him again. He grips his jacket tighter around himself, trying to feel invisible, just hoping he can sneak past whatever nonsense is happening and drag you out safely.

But the sight he's greeted with causes him to freeze.

Across the room, you sway slightly, tipsy and disoriented, as the tall guy from before leans a bit too close, his hand brushing your arm. You push at him weakly, clearly not wanting his touch, but he persists, forcing a laugh and leaning in even closer.

“C’mon, sweetheart… you look like you could use a real man tonight.” His breath is sour with cheap liquor as he speaks.

Gojo steps forward finally, putting himself between you and the guy as his voice drops lower than you've ever heard before. “Cut it out, man.”

The guy scoffs, ignoring Gojo. ”I’ll show you a good time. Better than this little loser over here, right?”

Gojo’s hand twitches at that, fists curling at his side. But before he can even look back to check on you, you're gone.

Your whole body launches at the creep like you’ve just snapped a leash. One second you’re behind Gojo, the next your small frame has climbed the guy like he’s a damn tree, legs wrapped around his waist, arms clawing at him.

Your teeth sink straight into his forearm with a muffled, animal-like sound, and he screeches in agony, trying to shake you off as Gojo's jaw drops in horror.

“Wait—wait, hey, don't bite him!” He’s scrambling, hands hovering like he doesn’t know if he should let you be or protect the guy. “Oh my god, you’re gonna give him rabies—”

Your muffled voice is almost unintelligible, but against the man’s skin you hiss and mutter curses, raw and cracked through sobs.

“—fucking pig! I’ll kill you, bastard—you're the loser here, filthy piece of—”

The creep staggers back, flailing, while Gojo’s arms wrap around your waist, trying to tug you free. Gojo is now basically trying to save him from you. “What are you, a raccoon or someth—GET OFF, you’re gonna bite through bone!”

But you’re glued on like a leech, and as you rear back to smack him, your elbow jerks back. Unfortunately, it connects squarely with Gojo’s nose.

“Ow—! Holy mother of—” He stumbles back, clutching his face. His glasses go flying, clattering onto the floor.

The sound of his yelp cuts through your frenzy like a knife. You immediately loosen your grip, sliding down from the guy as if the fight has been sucked out of you all at once.

Sniffling, you stumble over to Gojo, ignoring the creep who’s now limping away painfully. Your hands cup his cheeks without hesitation, eyes blown wide with teary panic.

“Oh my god, I’m so sorry! I didn’t mean— did I break your pretty face?” you slur, voice wobbling with drunken sincerity.

Gojo blinks at you through watery eyes, one hand pinching his bleeding nose. “...Did you just call me pretty while assaulting a man?”

You hiccup, nodding miserably, “Yeah…”

And for the first time tonight, despite the blood, despite the chaos, he bursts out laughing.

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basketball player!gojo who upped the charm like he was flipping a switch. suddenly holding doors open for you, like chivalry wasn’t dead but personally resurrected by his ego. “after you, princess.”

you stared. blinked. walked the other way.

basketball player!gojo who started sitting beside you in class, even when there were a hundred other empty seats. tapping his pen on your desk and whispering, “what do you dream about at night? bet it’s me.”

you told him you dreamed about shoving him into traffic. he only laughed.

you were weirded out. this was worse than usual. he was smiling too much. too politely. and not even debating with you about senseless topics.

basketball player!gojo who serenaded you. not metaphorically.

you were walking out of school and there he was, on the bleachers, holding a speaker, blasting some tragically off-key boy band ballad while spinning a basketball like a ring box.

“this is harassment,” you yelled.

“this is love,” he yelled back in that sing song voice that you absolutely hated.

basketball player!gojo who started leaving your favorite coffee and a pastry in your locker during morning classes. it was accompanied by a small note, changing every day. you almost rolled your eyes at how cheesy today's entry was.

good luck with your classes today, pretty. he had doodled a digimon character at the bottom left corner, with a small text bubble that said "you can do it!".

cheesy it may be, but you never found it in you to throw it away.

basketball player!gojo who started doing the most un-gojo things—like offering to help you study. which would’ve been sweet if he didn’t show up with exactly one pencil, no notes, and a single sticky note that said “ur hot.”

basketball player!gojo who complimented your handwriting, your shoes, your eyebrows (“they’re like, so assertive”), and once, after a heated argument about shakespeare, said, “you’d be a great lady macbeth. you’ve got the crazy eyes.”

you seriously considered punching him.

but then he added, “also the brains. and ambition. and, you know… i'd kill a king for you.”

for a moment, you considered taking him to the nurse's office. there was something seriously wrong with him.

basketball player!gojo who made it harder to breathe the longer this whole act went on. because sometimes, just sometimes, the things he said felt real. and you hated that. hated the way your heart paused when he smiled like that. hated how your insults started losing their edge.

basketball player!gojo who caught you watching him at practice once, and winked.

you flipped him off.

he grinned like he won something. if you had stared for a second longer, you might've noticed the small change in his usual condescending grin. it turned into something softer, something more... him.

basketball player!gojo who leaned close one day after school, crowding your space with all six-foot-too-much of him, and asked, “do you still hate me?”

and you said nothing, settling for a roll of your eyes.

the seemingly innocent question kept you up that night. it echoed in every corner of your mind, occupying every cell in your brain. each passing second repeated the question in your head, seemingly louder than the last.

because you weren’t sure anymore. you didn't know what you would've said.

and it terrified you.

i offer this to all of you because i haven't written childhood enemy!gojo yet 🙏🏻

inspired by 10 things i hate about you because i love them so much 🩷 also because i found out the guy i went crazy for, who plays basketball, is in my class this year... pray for me 💔 might turn this into a full blown fic if anyone's up for it.

likes and reblogs are always appreciated! lmk your thoughts <3

Your arrival at Saint Catherine's wasn't announced with fanfare, wasn't marked by any particular significance that Narumi could discern from his position hunched over his Nintendo DS in the corner of the common room. You were just another teenager with a cardboard box of donations, probably some rich kid doing community service to pad out college applications. He'd seen dozens like you over the years—guilt-faced adolescents who would spend an afternoon here before returning to their intact families and functional lives.

You were talking to Sister Margaret, one of the caretakers who actually seemed to give a damn about her job, though Narumi had never seen the point in getting attached to any of the staff. They rotated out too frequently, moved on to better positions or burned out from the thankless work of managing society's cast-offs.

"Oh, that kid?" Sister Margaret was saying, following your gaze to where Narumi sat surrounded by a small crowd of younger children who watched with rapt attention as his fingers flew across the controls. "He's a bit of an outlier. He's a troublemaker—been suspended from school multiple times due to misconduct."

Narumi's jaw tightened imperceptibly, though his hands never stopped moving. Misconduct. As if defending himself from bullies who thought orphans made easy targets was some kind of moral failing. As if refusing to participate in group therapy sessions where they wanted him to share his feelings was somehow antisocial behavior.

"Really?" Your voice held a note of skepticism that made Narumi's ear twitch despite himself. "He doesn't look like a troublemaker."

Through his peripheral vision, he could see you studying him with an intensity that made something uncomfortable squirm in his chest. Most adults gave him a cursory glance and moved on, content to accept whatever the caretakers told them about the difficult children. But you were actually looking at him, taking in the way his shoulders curved protectively around his gaming device, the careful distance he maintained between himself and even the younger kids who clearly idolized him.

That boy? Gen thought with bitter amusement as Sister Margaret launched into her standard spiel about traumatized children and behavioral issues. A troublemaker? He wanted to laugh. If only she knew how many nights he'd spent mediating disputes between the younger kids, how many times he'd shared his limited allowance money to buy batteries for their broken toys, how carefully he'd crafted his reputation as the resident gaming expert just to give them something to look forward to.

But let her think what she wanted. Let them all think he was some kind of delinquent. It was easier than explaining that he'd learned early that emotional distance was the only reliable defense against disappointment.

Why does he look so sad? you wondered, tilting your head as you watched Gen attempt to explain the controls of his game to a cluster of eight-year-olds who hung on his every word. There was something in his posture, the careful way he held himself, that spoke of a deep loneliness he probably wasn't even aware of showing.

Looking back on it later, there was no particular reason Narumi should have found you interesting. You weren't special, weren't remarkable in any way that would typically catch his attention. You wore the same kind of clothes as every other teenager who showed up to drop off donations—jeans and a sweater that probably cost more than his monthly allowance, sneakers that had never walked through anything worse than suburban sidewalks.

He'd had multiple adults try to connect with him over the years, guidance counselors and social workers and well-meaning volunteers who all seemed to think they could crack his shell with the right combination of patience and therapeutic techniques. All of them had been shut down, dismissed with the cold efficiency he'd perfected over years of practice.

He simply didn't care about their efforts to help him. Why should he? It wasn't like he'd grown attached to any of the orphanages he'd been shuffled through—Saint Catherine's was just the latest in a series of temporary stops, each one passing him off to the next when he became too much trouble to handle. He'd learned to survive on his own strength; none of them had done a thing for him except provide basic food and shelter.

And you were definitely no different. What good would approaching him do? Were you trying to prove that you could reach the unreachable kid? What a waste of time.

But then you did something unexpected.

Instead of launching into some prepared speech about being there if he needed to talk or understanding what he was going through, you simply walked over and crouched down beside his makeshift gaming circle.

"Is that the new Fire Emblem?" you asked casually, nodding toward his DS screen where he was in the middle of a particularly challenging tactical battle.

Narumi's fingers stilled on the controls. He looked up at you properly for the first time, taking in your face with the same analytical intensity he applied to everything else. You didn't have the artificially bright smile that most volunteers wore, didn't seem to be performing kindness for an invisible audience. You just looked... curious.

"Yeah," he said slowly, suspicion threading through his voice. "You play?"

"My little brother does. He's been stuck on this same level for weeks, keeps complaining that the enemy AI is cheating." You settled more comfortably on the floor, seemingly unbothered by the stares of the younger children who weren't used to seeing teenagers willingly sit in their circle. "He's ten," you added, "and absolutely convinced that he's going to be a professional gamer when he grows up."

Something in Narumi's chest loosened slightly. You weren't here to save him or fix his trauma—you were just making conversation about something he actually cared about. It was such a foreign concept that he didn't know quite how to respond.

"The AI isn't cheating," he said finally, turning the screen so you could see his battle formation. "Your brother's probably not managing his resources properly. See, if you position your units like this..."

For the next twenty minutes, Narumi found himself explaining advanced gaming strategies to someone who actually listened, who asked intelligent questions and didn't once mention his situation or try to psychoanalyze his attachment to fictional characters. You even laughed at his dry commentary about the game's more ridiculous plot points, a sound that made something warm unfurl in his chest before he ruthlessly stomped it back down.

When you finally had to leave, you simply said, "Thanks for the tips. I'll have to pass them along to my brother—though he'll probably accuse you of showing off."

"I don't show off," Narumi replied automatically, then paused as he realized he was almost smiling. "I just don't see the point in doing something badly."

"Hmm." You studied his face with that same thoughtful expression from before. "I'll be back next week with more donations. Maybe you could show me that tactical formation thing again? My brother would never believe me if I tried to explain it myself."

And then you were gone, leaving Narumi staring at the spot where you'd been sitting and wondering why the common room suddenly felt so much emptier.

...

You kept your promise. The following week, you returned with another box of your brother's outgrown clothes and a genuine interest in hearing about Narumi's latest gaming achievements. You didn't make a big production of it, didn't announce your intentions to help the troubled orphan boy. You simply settled beside him on the floor and asked about his progress in Fire Emblem as if it was the most natural thing in the world.

"My brother says you're probably making up those completion times," you said teasingly as Narumi demonstrated a particularly complex strategy involving multiple character classes and carefully timed special attacks. "He thinks it's impossible to beat the final boss in under twenty minutes."

Narumi's eyes narrowed, a competitive gleam sparking to life. "Your brother doubts my skills?"

"Well," you said diplomatically, "he's never actually seen you play. For all he knows, you could be some kind of gaming urban legend."

That got a reaction. Narumi spent the next hour proving every claim he'd made, his fingers flying across the controls with a precision that bordered on artistry. The younger children had long since wandered off to other activities, but you remained focused on his demonstration, occasionally asking questions that proved you were actually paying attention.

"Okay," you said when he finally paused to catch his breath, "I'm convinced. You're definitely not making this up."

Something warm and unfamiliar bloomed in Narumi's chest at your obvious admiration. When was the last time someone had been genuinely impressed by his abilities? The caretakers praised him for academic achievements with the same lukewarm enthusiasm they showed everyone, and his classmates either ignored him or viewed his success as grounds for resentment. But you were looking at him like he'd just performed magic.

"It's not that impressive," he said, but the protest lacked his usual bite.

"My brother would probably cry if he heard you say that." You grinned, and Narumi found himself fascinated by the way your whole face transformed with genuine amusement. "He thinks gaming is the highest form of art."

"Smart kid," Narumi murmured, then caught himself. When had he started... enjoying these conversations?

Over the following weeks, you established a pattern. Every afternoon, you'd arrive with donations and seek him out wherever he happened to be lurking. Sometimes you'd find him in the common room with his usual gaming circle, sometimes tucked away in the library where he'd discovered they had a surprisingly decent collection of comics, occasionally hidden in the small courtyard behind the building where he liked to practice his handheld gaming in natural light.

You never seemed put off by his initial prickliness, never took his sardonic comments personally or tried to correct his attitude. Instead, you met his defensive sarcasm with gentle teasing, his skeptical questions with patient answers, his obvious hunger for recognition with the kind of casual praise that didn't feel like pity.

"You know," you said one afternoon as you watched him absolutely destroy a boss battle that had been giving him trouble for days, "you'd probably be really good at chess. It's the same kind of strategic thinking, just without the flashy graphics."

Narumi's paused his game to give you a look of profound disbelief. "Chess is for old people."

"Chess is for people who like winning," you corrected. "Besides, doesn't your favorite Fire Emblem character use chess metaphors for like half his battle dialogue?"

"...That's different."

"Uh-huh." You were clearly trying not to smile. "What if I brought a chess set next week? Just to see if you're as good at it as you are at tactical RPGs."

"I don't need to prove anything to you," Narumi said automatically, but there was no real hostility in it. It was more like a reflex, the same way he might duck if someone threw something at his head.

"Of course not," you agreed easily. "I just thought it might be fun. My brother's been begging me to learn so he has someone to play with besides our dad, who lets him win constantly."

Fun?

"...Fine," he said finally, trying to ignore the way his pulse had picked up speed. "But don't expect me to go easy on you."

Your smile was brighter than sunshine. "I wouldn't dream of it."

...

True to your word, you arrived with a magnetic travel chess set tucked under your arm alongside your usual donation box. Narumi had spent the entire week pretending he wasn't looking forward to seeing you, maintaining his routine of academic excellence and social isolation while trying to ignore the strange anticipation that seemed to be building in his chest.

It doesn't mean anything, he told himself as he found excuses to linger in the common room around the time you usually arrived. She's just another volunteer who'll get bored and move on eventually.

But when you walked through the front door and immediately sought him out with your eyes, when your face lit up the moment you spotted him hunched over his DS in the corner, something in Narumi's chest did a little flip that he absolutely refused to acknowledge.

"Ready to have your ego crushed?" you asked cheerfully as you set up the chess board on a nearby table.

"You're awfully confident for someone who's never seen me play," Narumi replied, but he was already moving toward the table with more enthusiasm than he'd shown for anything in months.

The game that followed was a revelation. You weren't a particularly skilled chess player—your strategy was decent but predictable, your endgame weak—but you were engaged in a way that Gen had never experienced before. You asked questions about his moves, complimented his tactics even when they were being used to dismantle your defenses, and laughed delightedly when he pulled off a particularly elegant checkmate sequence.

"Okay," you said as you surveyed the board where your king lay definitively defeated, "that was embarrassing. But also kind of amazing? How did you see that fork coming six moves ago?"

Narumi felt heat crawl up his neck at the genuine admiration in your voice. "It's just... pattern recognition," he said, using his standard explanation while trying to ignore how pleased your praise made him feel. "Once you understand the underlying patterns, chess becomes fairly predictable."

"Right, 'fairly predictable,'" you repeated dryly. "I'm sure that's what every chess grandmaster tells themselves."

"I'm not a grandmaster."

"Yet, want to play again?" you asked, already resetting the board. "Maybe this time I'll last longer than fifteen minutes."

They played three more games, each one ending in decisive victory for Narumi but somehow feeling less like conquest and more like... fun. You celebrated his clever moves even when they were destroying your position, asked him to explain his thought process, treated each defeat as a learning experience rather than a source of frustration.

By the time Sister Margaret announced that visiting hours were ending, Narumi realized he'd spent the entire afternoon smiling.

"Same time next week?" you asked as you packed up the chess set, your tone carefully casual in a way that suggested his answer mattered more than you were letting on.

"If you want," Narumi said, aiming for indifference and missing by several miles. "I mean, someone has to teach you proper endgame technique."

Your smile was radiant. "It's a date."

Narumi spent the next week replaying that phrase in his mind, analyzing it from every possible angle. *It's a date.* Obviously you hadn't meant it romantically—you were sixteen to his twelve, practically an adult compared to his awkward pre-teen existence. But there had been something in your tone, a warmth that suggested you genuinely enjoyed spending time with him.

Why? he wondered as he lay awake staring at the ceiling of his shared dormitory room. What could you possibly get out of these visits? You weren't earning community service hours, weren't affiliated with any religious organization, weren't studying child psychology or social work. You just... came. Every week, without fail, bringing donations that seemed almost secondary to the time you spent talking to him about games and the kind of random topics that had never interested the adults in his life.

For the first time since his parents died, Narumi found himself looking forward to something.

...

Friday became the highlight of Narumi's week, though he would have rather died than admit it out loud. He developed elaborate pretenses for his anticipation—telling himself he was just eager to demonstrate his intellectual superiority, or that he enjoyed having someone to talk to.

You, for your part, seemed to sense the shift in his attitude without commenting on it directly. You began staying longer during your visits, sometimes arriving early with the excuse of wanting to help sort donations but really just to spend more time talking with him. You started bringing things specifically chosen with his interests in mind—new puzzle games, even a gaming magazine subscription that you claimed your brother had "grown out of" but Narumi suspected you'd bought specifically for him.

The truth was becoming harder to ignore with each passing week: Narumi was falling for you. Hard.

It was ridiculous, he knew. You talked about high school drama and college applications and part-time jobs—adult concerns that felt impossibly distant from his world of dormitory curfews and supervised study halls. You had a life outside these walls, friends who didn't know his name, experiences he could barely imagine.

But knowledge of the impossibility didn't make his feelings any less real.

He noticed everything about you now—the way you unconsciously tucked your hair behind your ear when you were concentrating on a chess move, the soft sound of your laughter when he made one of his dry observations about the other children, the gentle patience in your voice when you explained some concept from your world that he didn't understand. He memorized the exact shade of your eyes, the way your face lit up when you walked into the common room and spotted him in his usual corner.

Narumi had never experienced attraction before—had barely understood the concept beyond clinical definitions in health textbooks. But whatever this feeling was, this constant awareness of your presence, this desperate hunger for your attention and approval, it was consuming him from the inside out.

He started having dreams about you. Innocent ones, mostly—fantasies where he was older, where the age gap didn't matter, where you looked at him with something more than fond affection. Dreams where he was tall enough to stand eye-to-eye with you, confident enough to tell you how he felt, worthy enough to deserve your romantic attention.

He'd wake from these dreams with his heart racing and shame burning in his chest. What kind of pathetic kid develops feelings for someone so obviously out of his league? What kind of delusional fantasy was he living in?

But then it would come, and you'd walk through those doors with that bright smile reserved just for him, and all his rational self-criticism would evaporate like morning mist.

"My brother finally beat that level you helped him with," you said, settling beside him on the floor where he was demonstrating advanced combos to his audience of younger kids. "He's been bragging about it to everyone who'll listen. I think you've created a monster."

"Good," Narumi said, pleased despite himself. "Confidence is important in gaming. Too many players second-guess themselves and lose opportunities."

"Speaking of confidence," you said with a teasing smile, "he's been asking if he can meet you sometime. He's convinced you're some kind of gaming legend."

Narumi's heart did a complicated flip at the thought of meeting your family, of being invited into that part of your life. But the rational part of his brain immediately began cataloging all the ways such a meeting could go wrong.

"He wouldn't be impressed," Narumi said, his voice carefully neutral. "I'm just better at pattern recognition than most people."

"Right, and Mozart was just better at pressing piano keys than most people." You rolled your eyes affectionately. "You know, false modesty doesn't suit you. You're allowed to acknowledge that you're exceptional at things."

Exceptional. The word sent warmth flooding through Gen's chest, even as he tried to maintain his composure. Coming from you, praise felt like sunlight after months of winter.

"Your brother sounds like he has good taste in role models," he said, aiming for casual and missing by several miles.

"He does," you agreed, and there was something in your tone that made Narumi look up sharply. You were studying his face with that thoughtful expression he'd come to recognize, but there was something new underneath it—a kind of careful consideration that made his pulse quicken.

"Narumi," you said slowly, "can I ask you something?"

He nodded, not trusting his voice.

"What do you want to do when you get out of here? I mean, long-term. Have you thought about careers, or college, or...?"

The question caught him off guard. Most adults who bothered asking about his future did so in the context of immediate practicalities—what high school he wanted to attend, what subjects he should focus on, what kind of part-time job he might be suited for. But you were asking about dreams, about the kind of life he wanted to build for himself.

"I don't know," he said honestly. "I've never really thought that far ahead."

It was a lie, but a necessary one. The truth was that Narumi had elaborate fantasies about his future, detailed plans that always seemed to revolve around becoming someone worthy of your attention. Sometimes he imagined becoming a professional gamer, achieving the kind of fame and recognition that would make you proud to know him. Sometimes he pictured himself as a successful businessman or scientist, accomplished enough to offer you the kind of life you deserved.

But he could never voice these dreams, could never admit that every vision of his future included you in some capacity.

"You should," you said gently. "You're too smart and too talented to just drift through life without a plan. You could do anything you set your mind to."

"Anything?" Narumi asked before he could stop himself.

"Anything," you confirmed with absolute certainty.

For a moment, Narumi allowed himself to imagine telling you the truth—about his feelings, about the dreams that revolved around you, about the way your weekly visits had become the center of his entire world. For a moment, he let himself wonder what you might say if you knew how completely you'd captured his twelve-year-old heart.

But reality crashed back down before he could work up the courage to speak. You were sixteen, practically an adult. You had your own life, your own plans, your own future that didn't include a damaged orphan boy with an inappropriate crush.

"I should probably figure that out," he said instead, his voice carefully neutral.

"You've got time," you said with that gentle smile that made his chest ache. "But when you do decide, I hope you'll aim high. You deserve good things, Narumi."

I deserve you, he thought but didn't say. Instead, he nodded and returned his attention to his DS, trying to ignore the way your casual faith in his potential made him feel simultaneously hopeful and heartbroken.

...

The conversation about his future lingered in Narumi's mind over the following weeks, mixing with his growing awareness of your approaching departure to create a constant undercurrent of anxiety. You'd mentioned that your family would be moving next fall, which meant you had maybe six months left of visits. Six months before you disappeared from his life forever.

The thought was unbearable.

Narumi found himself trying to memorize everything about your time together—he started hoarding these moments like a dragon hoarding treasure, desperate to collect enough memories to sustain him through the loneliness that would follow your departure.

But then you said something that changed everything.

"I've been thinking about what I want to do after graduation," you mentioned casually during one of your visits, setting up the chess board with practiced efficiency. "My parents want me to apply to traditional colleges, but I'm considering something different."

"Like what?" Narumi asked, though he was only half-listening. He was too busy watching the graceful movements of your hands as you arranged the pieces, trying to commit every detail to memory.

"The Defense Force," you said, and suddenly you had his complete attention.

Narumi's hands stilled on his own pieces. "The Defense Force?"

"Yeah." You looked up with that bright smile that never failed to make his heart skip. "I know it sounds crazy, but I've been reading about their recruitment programs, and they're actually looking for people to apply."

The Defense Force. The elite military organization responsible for protecting Japan from kaiju threats. It was dangerous work, the kind of career that came with a high mortality rate and no guarantees of coming home alive.

Narumi felt something cold and sharp twist in his stomach. "That's... that's dangerous."

"Well, yeah," you said with the casual fearlessness that only someone who'd never faced real danger could possess. "But it's also important. And the training programs are supposed to be incredible—they teach you everything from advanced combat techniques to disaster management to emergency medical care. Plus, the benefits are amazing, and they help pay for continuing education."

You were excited about this. Narumi could see it in the way your eyes lit up, in the animated gestures you made as you described the recruitment materials you'd been studying. This wasn't some idle fantasy—you were seriously considering risking your life to fight monsters.

The rational part of Narumi's brain understood that you had every right to make your own choices about your future. You were intelligent and capable and perfectly qualified to make decisions about your own life. But the part of him that had grown to depend on your weekly visits, the part that had started building fantasies around a future that included you, was screaming in protest.

"What about college?" he asked, his voice carefully controlled. "You said your parents wanted you to apply to universities."

"They do. But I think I want something more... immediate? More real?" You paused in your chess setup to look at him directly. "College feels like just more school, you know? Four more years of sitting in classrooms and writing papers about things other people discovered. The Defense Force would be different. It would be contributing to something that actually matters."

Narumi wanted to argue. He wanted to list all the reasons why joining the Defense Force was a terrible idea, all the safer career paths that would keep you alive and close to Tokyo. He wanted to beg you to reconsider, to choose something that wouldn't take you away from him permanently.

But he was twelve years old and you were sixteen, and he had no right to try to influence your life decisions. He had no right to any opinion about your future at all.

"That's... really cool," he said instead, the words tasting like ash in his mouth.

"You think so?" Your face lit up with pleasure at his apparent approval. "I was worried you might think it was stupid or reckless."

"I think you'd be good at it," Narumi said, because it was true even though it made his chest ache. "You're smart and... and brave."

"Brave?" You laughed, but there was a pleased flush spreading across your cheeks. "I don't know about brave. Maybe just tired of feeling useless."

Useless? Narumi stared at you in genuine bewilderment. How could you possibly think you were useless? You, who had single-handedly transformed his entire world just by showing up and caring about him? You, who had given him the first taste of genuine friendship he'd ever experienced?

"You're not useless," he said, the words carrying more intensity than he'd intended. "You're... you're the most important person I know."

The confession slipped out before he could stop it, carrying way too much emotion for what was supposed to be a casual conversation between friends. Narumi immediately felt heat flood his face as he realized what he'd revealed.

You were quiet for a long moment, studying his face with that thoughtful expression that always made him feel simultaneously seen and terrified. When you finally spoke, your voice was gentler than usual.

"Narumi," you said carefully, "you know that our friendship isn't going to end just because I join the Defense Force, right? I mean, it might be harder to visit regularly, but—"

"It's fine," Narumi interrupted, unable to bear whatever kind platitude you were building up to. "I understand. You have your own life to live."

"That's not what I meant—"

"I know what you meant." His voice came out sharper than he'd intended, defensive in the way it always got when he felt vulnerable. "You're trying to be nice about the fact that you're leaving. But you don't have to pretend that we'll stay in touch afterward. I'm not stupid."

"Gen—"

"Can we just play chess?" he asked, already moving his first pawn with jerky, agitated movements. "I don't want to talk about this anymore."

You looked like you wanted to argue, like you had more to say about the subject, but something in his expression must have warned you off. Instead, you made your own opening move and settled into the familiar rhythm of the game.

But the easy companionship of previous weeks was gone, replaced by an undercurrent of tension that made every move feel weighted with unspoken meaning. Narumi played more aggressively than usual, sacrificing pieces in risky gambits that reflected his internal emotional state. You responded with unusual defensiveness, as if you were trying to protect something precious from his attacks.

The game ended in stalemate—the first time neither of you had achieved a clear victory.

"Good game," you said quietly as you began putting the pieces away.

"Yeah," Narumi replied, though it had been anything but.

The silence stretched between you, heavy with all the things neither of you was saying. Finally, you cleared your throat.

"I haven't made any final decisions yet," you said. "About the Defense Force, I mean. I'm still researching, still thinking things through."

Narumi nodded without looking up from the chess board. "Whatever you choose," he said finally, "I hope it makes you happy."

It was the truth, even though it felt like swallowing glass to say it.

...

You continued your visits, but there was a new awkwardness between you that hadn't existed before. Narumi found himself holding back, afraid that too much enthusiasm or attachment would make his feelings obvious. You seemed to be doing the same, treating him with a careful gentleness that suggested you were aware of his emotional state even if you didn't fully understand it.

The easy intimacy of previous months was replaced by polite conversation. Narumi hated it, missed the natural flow of your interactions, but he didn't know how to bridge the gap without revealing more than he was prepared to share.

Then, in early spring, you arrived with news that shattered his carefully maintained emotional control.

"I got accepted," you said without preamble, your face glowing with excitement and pride. "Into the Defense Force training program. I start basic training right after graduation."

Narumi felt the world tilt sideways. He'd known this was coming, had been preparing himself for months, but the reality of it still hit him like a physical blow. You were really leaving. Not just moving to another city with your family, but joining an organization that would consume your entire life, that would train you to fight monsters and risk your life for strangers.

"Congratulations," he managed, his voice sounding strange and distant even to his own ears.

"Thank you!" You were practically vibrating with excitement, clearly having expected a more enthusiastic response. "I still can't believe it, honestly. The application process was so competitive, and the physical requirements were insane, but I made it. I'm actually going to be a Defense Force officer."

Narumi should have felt proud of you. Should have shared in your excitement, celebrated this achievement that clearly meant so much to you. Instead, all he could feel was a crushing sense of loss, as if you'd already disappeared from his life despite sitting right in front of him.

"When do you leave?" he asked.

"Training starts in June, so I'll be finishing up my visits here in a few weeks." Your excitement dimmed slightly as you seemed to remember the implications for your friendship. "I'm really going to miss our Fridays together."

Miss. As if your time together was already in the past, already relegated to fond memories rather than living reality.

"Yeah," Narumi said quietly. "Me too."

You reached across the table and squeezed his hand, the contact sending familiar electricity racing up his arm. "Hey, this doesn't have to be goodbye forever. I'll write when I can, and maybe once I'm settled in my assignment—"

"Don't." The word came out harder than Narumi had intended, cutting through your hopeful reassurances like a blade. "Don't make promises you can't keep."

"But—"

"I'm happy for you," he said, pulling his hand free from yours and standing abruptly. "I really am. This is what you want, and you deserve to get what you want. But don't pretend that we're going to stay in touch afterward. We both know how these things work."

He was being unfair, he knew. You hadn't done anything wrong except pursue your dreams and try to soften the blow of your departure with kind intentions. But the pain of losing you was so acute that he needed to create distance, needed to start the process of emotional detachment before it destroyed him completely.

"That's not—" You stood as well, frustration clear in your voice. "Why are you being like this? I'm trying to tell you that our friendship matters to me, that I don't want to just disappear from your life."

"Because it's easier!" The words burst out of Narumi with more force than he'd intended, carrying months of suppressed emotion. "It's easier than pretending that you'll actually have time to think about some kid from an orphanage once you're busy saving the world. It's easier than hoping for letters that will never come and visits that will never happen."

You stared at him, clearly taken aback by his outburst. For a moment, neither of you spoke, the silence heavy with the weight of everything Narumi had revealed without meaning to.

"Is that really what you think of me?" you asked finally, your voice small and hurt. "That I would just... forget about you?"

The pain in your voice made Narumi's chest ache, but he couldn't take back what he'd said. Couldn't apologize for protecting himself from the inevitable disappointment of abandonment.

"I think you're sixteen years old and about to start the most important chapter of your life," he said quietly. "I think you'll meet new people and face new challenges and build a future that doesn't have room for Friday visits to an orphanage. And that's... that's okay. It's what's supposed to happen."

"I'm tired," he said, cutting off whatever reassurance you were building up to. "Can we just... can we not do this today? I need some time to think."

You looked like you wanted to argue, like you had more to say on the subject. But something in his expression must have convinced you that pushing would only make things worse.

"Okay," you said softly. "But this conversation isn't over."

You gathered your things with careful, deliberate movements, clearly giving him time to change his mind or say something more. But Narumi remained frozen in place, his hands clenched into fists at his sides as he watched you prepare to leave.

This was it, then. The beginning of the end.

He should let you go. Should accept that this was how things had to be, clean and final and rational. You would walk out that door and continue building your impressive life, and he would remain here in this liminal space between childhood and whatever came next, carrying the memory of your kindness like a secret treasure.

But as you shouldered your bag and turned toward the exit, something desperate and reckless unfurled in Narumi's chest. The careful emotional distance he'd been trying to maintain crumbled all at once, leaving him raw and exposed and terrifyingly vulnerable.

He couldn't let you leave like this. Not when there were so many things unsaid between you, not when this might be his last chance to—

"Wait."

The word escaped him before conscious thought could intervene, sharp and urgent in the quiet common room. You stopped immediately, turning back with surprise written across your features.

Narumi's heart was hammering against his ribs as he took a shaky step forward, then another. The younger children who'd been scattered around the room seemed to sense the shift in atmosphere, quietly migrating toward other activities and leaving the two of you in relative privacy.

"Wait," he repeated, quieter this time but no less intense. His hands were trembling—when had they started trembling?—and he shoved them deep into his pockets to hide the evidence of his emotional state.

"Narumi?" Your voice was gentle, concerned, but you made no move to come closer. Waiting for him to find whatever words were struggling to break free from his chest.

He stood there for a long moment, caught between the safety of silence and the terrifying possibility of honesty. Everything rational in his mind was screaming at him to step back, to let you go, to protect himself from the inevitable pain of hoping for something impossible.

But looking at you—really looking at your face, at the genuine care and confusion in your eyes—Narumi realized that the pain of never trying might be worse than the pain of rejection.

"I..." he started, then stopped, his voice catching on the magnitude of what he wanted to say. How did you tell someone they'd become your whole world? How did you explain that their weekly visits had transformed from pleasant distraction to vital necessity?

You waited, patient as always, giving him the space to stumble toward whatever truth was clawing its way out of his throat.

"The Defense Force training," he said finally, the words coming out stilted and awkward. "How long is it?"

"The basic training program is eighteen months," you replied carefully, clearly uncertain where this line of questioning was heading. "Then there's specialized training depending on your assignment, which can be another six months to two years."

Two to three and a half years. Narumi's mind raced through calculations—he'd be fifteen or sixteen by the time you finished training. Still younger than you, still probably too young for whatever he was thinking, but closer. Less impossibly distant than the gap that existed now.

"And after that?" he pressed, taking another step closer. "What happens after training?"

"Well, that depends on a lot of factors. Your performance, the needs of the organization, personal preferences..." You tilted your head, studying his face with that thoughtful expression he'd come to treasure. "Why are you asking?"

This was it. The moment of truth, the point of no return. Narumi could feel his pulse pounding in his ears as he forced himself to meet your eyes directly.

"Because I want you to wait for me."

The words hung in the air between you, bold and desperate and completely insane. Narumi immediately felt heat flood his face as the magnitude of what he'd just said hit him. Had he really just asked you—brilliant, accomplished, sixteen-year-old you—to put your life on hold for a twelve-year-old orphan with an inappropriate crush?

Your eyes widened in genuine shock. "Narumi..."

"I know how it sounds," he rushed on, his voice cracking with emotion and adolescent uncertainty. "I know I'm just some kid and you're about to start this amazing career and I have no right to ask anything of you. But I..." He swallowed hard, forcing himself to continue. "I think I like you."

The confession hung between you like a live wire, crackling with dangerous energy. Narumi immediately wanted to take it back, to retreat into safer territory, but it was too late now. The truth was out there, raw and honest and completely terrifying.

"You think you like me?" you repeated slowly, your voice carefully neutral.

"I know I do," Narumi corrected, his voice growing stronger even as his hands continued to shake. "I know it's crazy and probably just some pathetic kid's first crush, but I can't help it. You're... you're the best thing that's ever happened to me."

You stared at him for what felt like an eternity, your expression cycling through surprise, confusion, and something else he couldn't quite identify. When you finally spoke, your voice was gentler than he'd expected.

"Narumi, you're twelve years old."

"I know." The words came out sharper than he'd intended, defensive in the way he always got when people pointed out his age as if it invalidated everything he felt. "I know I'm twelve and you're sixteen and that makes this weird and impossible. I know you probably think I'm just some confused kid who doesn't understand the difference between friendship and romance."

"That's not—"

"But I do understand," he continued, unable to stop now that he'd started. "I understand that you're going to leave and become this incredible Defense Force officer and probably meet someone amazing who's actually age-appropriate and accomplished and everything I'm not. I understand that asking you to wait for me is selfish and unrealistic."

Narumi took one more step closer, close enough now that he could see the flecks in your eyes, close enough to catch the faint scent of your perfume.

"But I'm asking anyway," he said quietly. "Because in three years I'll be fifteen, and in five years I'll be seventeen, and maybe by then the age difference won't matter so much. Maybe by then I'll be someone worth waiting for."

The silence that followed was deafening. Narumi could hear his own heartbeat, could feel the weight of your gaze as you processed his impossible request. He'd laid everything bare, offered up his heart with trembling hands, and now all he could do was wait for you to decide whether to cherish it or crush it.

"You want me to wait five years," you said finally, your voice barely above a whisper.

"I want you to give us a chance," Narumi replied, his voice steadier now that the worst of the confession was behind him. "I want you to consider the possibility that what I feel for you might be real, even if I'm young. I want..." He swallowed hard, gathering the last of his courage. "I want you to think about whether you might be able to feel something for me too, someday."

You were quiet for a long moment, your eyes never leaving his face. Narumi held his breath, suspended between hope and terror as he waited for your response.

"You really mean this," you said, and it wasn't quite a question.

"I've never meant anything more in my life."

Something shifted in your expression then, surprise giving way to a kind of wonder that made Narumi's chest tight with desperate hope. You reached out slowly, carefully, as if approaching a wild animal that might bolt at any sudden movement.

When your fingers brushed against his head, Narumi's breath caught in his throat. Your touch was warm and soft and everything he'd dreamed about during those lonely nights in the dormitory.

"You're so young," you murmured, but there was no dismissal in your voice. Instead, there was something that sounded almost like regret.

"I won't always be," Narumi said, leaning slightly into your touch despite himself. "And you... you won't always be so far ahead of me."

You studied his face with that intense focus he'd come to associate with your chess games, as if you were trying to see several moves ahead into a future neither of you could quite imagine.

"Five years is a long time," you said finally. "A lot can change. We'll both change."

"I know." Narumi's voice was barely audible, but his gaze never wavered from yours. "But some things don't change. Some things are worth waiting for."

The moment stretched between you, heavy with possibility and the weight of an impossible decision. Narumi could see the internal struggle playing out across your features—logic warring with something else, something that made his heart race with desperate hope.

Finally, incredibly, you smiled. It was a small, uncertain thing, but it transformed your entire face in a way that made Narumi feel like he might actually float off the ground.

"You know what?" you said, your voice carrying a note of wonder that suggested you couldn't quite believe what you were about to say. "Okay."

"Okay?" Narumi's voice cracked on the word, hope and disbelief tangling in his chest.

"I'll wait," you said, and now your smile was growing brighter, more confident. "I mean, I can't promise that I'll still feel the same way in five years, or that you will. But... but you're right. You won't always be twelve, and I won't always be sixteen. And maybe..." You paused, seeming to gather your own courage. "Maybe there's something here worth exploring, when we're both ready for it."

Narumi felt something break open in his chest, a flood of emotion so intense it left him dizzy. You were saying yes. Not to romance, not now, but to possibility. To the chance that someday, when the timing was right, you might look at him and see not just the lonely orphan boy but someone worthy of your love.

"Really?" he whispered, afraid that speaking too loudly might shatter this fragile moment.

"Really," you confirmed, your hand still warm against his head. "But I have conditions."

"Anything," Narumi said immediately, and he meant it. He would agree to anything that kept this possibility alive.

"You have to promise me that you'll focus on building your own life," you said seriously. "I don't want you putting everything on hold waiting for me. Get good grades, make friends, figure out who you want to be outside of this... whatever this is between us. Can you do that?"

Narumi nodded eagerly. "I promise."

"And you have to understand that I can't make any guarantees about how I'll feel when I see you again. People change, Narumi. What seems important at sixteen might not matter at twenty-one."

"I understand," he said, though privately he was certain that his feelings for you would never change, never fade. "But what if they don't? Change, I mean. What if we both still..."

"Then we'll figure it out when that time comes," you said gently. "But for now, this has to be enough. This promise, this possibility. Can you live with that?"

Could he live with the faint hope of someday rather than the crushing certainty of never? Could he survive on the promise of your consideration rather than demanding your immediate affection?

Looking into your eyes, seeing the genuine care and cautious optimism there, Narumi knew he could live with anything as long as it meant you'd be part of his future.

"Yes," he said simply. "I can live with that."

Your smile was radiant, transforming your entire face in a way that made Narumi's heart stutter in his chest. For just a moment, he allowed himself to imagine what it would be like when you looked at him that way because you loved him back, because he was finally old enough and accomplished enough to deserve it.

"Then it's a deal," you said, extending your hand formally as if you were sealing a business arrangement rather than making the most important promise of his young life.

Narumi took your hand without hesitation, marveling at how perfectly it fit in his despite the size difference. Your skin was warm and soft, and he wanted to memorize every detail of this contact before you pulled away.

"Five years," he said, testing the words on his tongue.

"Five years," you agreed. "Give or take."

You held his gaze for another moment, and Narumi thought he saw something flicker there—affection, maybe, or the beginning of something deeper. But then you were stepping back, creating physical distance even as you maintained the emotional connection you'd just established.

"I should go," you said, glancing toward the door where Sister Margaret was making pointed gestures about visiting hours. "But I'll see you next week? For our last few visits?"

"You'll still come?" Narumi asked, unable to hide the relief in his voice.

"Of course I'll still come. We're friends, aren't we? Even if..." you gestured vaguely between the two of you, "even if there's this other thing too."

Friends. And something more, something with the potential to become everything he'd ever wanted. It wasn't perfect, wasn't the immediate reciprocation his heart craved, but it was infinitely more than he'd had that morning.

"Yeah," Narumi said, his voice steady despite the emotional upheaval of the last few minutes. "We're friends."

You shouldered your bag again, this time with none of the sad finality that had characterized your earlier departure attempt. Instead, there was something almost celebratory in your movements, as if you'd just made a decision that excited rather than worried you.

"Take care of yourself, Narumi," you said as you headed toward the exit. "And remember—focus on your own life first. I want to see what amazing things you accomplish while I'm gone."

He watched you walk away, his heart full to bursting with hope and determination and the overwhelming magnitude of your promise. You paused at the door to look back at him one last time, your smile soft and fond and full of possibilities.

"See you Friday," you called out, and then you were gone, leaving Narumi standing alone in the common room with his heart racing and his entire future suddenly, brilliantly rewritten.

Five years. He could do five years. He could become someone worthy of your love in five years.

After all, he'd already waited twelve years for you to walk into his life.

What was five more?

The dark haired man had encountered many different means of keeping himself afloat over the years too, some more grim than others that he refused to look back on. Nevertheless, after the will of the merciless wind had tossed him around feverishly for far longer than he realized would have been normal for anybody else, he understood that his place in this world was to stand proudly as a man capable of unspeakable violence, inept at the art of killing for the sake of his own gain. 

It’s a dog eat dog world. Toji learned this before he even hit puberty, and therefore, he learned what it meant to transition himself into one - a far more gnarly beast than any of the world’s nastiest entities of evil could conjure. If he only had the choice of eating or being eaten, Toji was going to devour before another dog could get the chance to bare his teeth at him. 

Well into his familiarity with his own brutality, his craft honed in and sharpened to perfection and his years of youth having flown by with the snap of his fingers, Toji is recognized by a crowd that he’s despised for as long as he can remember. 

He is in the middle of a boxing match, one of many he participates in for the hell of it and the cash rather than as a profession, when a representative from the palace ogles him from the crowd, standing out as a sore thumb amidst the screaming patrons clinging to the velvet ropes of the ring, drunk off stinking liquors and spit flying excitedly from their mouths in awe as Toji, undefeated, lands a particularly gruesome blow to the face of his opponent. His foe collapses, blood smearing from his crooked nose, and the jade eyed man filled with years of pent up rage and stress, straddles the nearly unconscious man’s torso and plows his fist into his face repeatedly with wild, shrunken eyes and tight lips. 

Toji only takes notice of his visitor in the midst of his abuse, eyes flickering up quickly to mull over the crowd when he finds a terrified face masked in a black cloak, attempting to shrink into the rest of the room. But Toji sees him clearly, a palace ambassador with no place in an underground ring so far from home.

The dark haired man refuses to even look at him as the owner tells him that he has a guest. He unravels the wrap from his stained fists, back tensing. Toji tells him to fuck off, not even having to whip his head around to see who it is. He can tell by his boss’ tone and the silence of the said visitor that he is exactly who he believes him to be. That, and Toji never receives visitors, for the people who are well aware of his reputation stray far away, fearing the worst from his seemingly deadly lust for blood. 

His owner, however, does not turn the man away. Toji understands that he must have been paid a good deal in jewels by this cloaked man to allow him to stay back here, not leaving until he asks for some kind of favor. An agitated exhalation rises in Toji’s chest, heavy eyes tossing over his shoulder to glare at the ambassador. He gulps, trembling hands reaching up to lower his hood.

“The fuck do y’want?” Toji spits.

The ambassador’s hesitant gaze scatters over his bare back, his fists, the scars littering his skin and lip, and the murderous glow in his venomous eyes. He looks terrified for his life, face dotted in beads of sweat and eyes still full of innocent light quivering. “I-I’m here on- on behalf of the King and Queen.”

Toji stills, brows drawing together. The man’s words seem to have an impact on his boss, normally an uncaring man, for he leaves with a swiftness once royalty is mentioned, sworn to silence by hush money. 

Toji scoffs, shaking his head and turning back around to refocus on his task. “You got the wrong guy,” he dismisses. “Now beat it before I kill ya.”

But he doesn’t, standing his ground rather poorly, clearly shaken by the fact that his life has been threatened for what Toji can only assume to be the very first time. He rolls his eyes at the sentiment, at how weak, fragile, and perfectly stupid palace folk are. “S-Sir, please-”

“Sir?” Toji raises a brow, crouching to sit down heavily on his bench, tossing his bloodied bandages onto the ground before him. His abdominals, bulky and intensely defined, ripple with his movements as he slides his towel from his shoulders, swiping it over his skin roughly. “I ain’t no sir, pal.”

The ambassador stiffens, lips pursing together. “Um- Mr. Toji…?”

Toji twists up his mouth at him unimpressed. “Fushiguro.”

“Yes! Y-Yes, Mr. Fushiguro.”

“Christ, it’s just Fushiguro.”

“Oh,” he nods erratically. “Yes, then. Fushiguro,” he clears his throat. “I’m afraid it’s a matter of great importance.”

“Clearly it is to you lot, or else your dumbass wouldn’t be here,” Toji grumbles, settling a hand on his thigh. “I don’t have time for bullshit. You either get to the point, or the King and Queen are gonna be down one messenger.”

Toji is a violent man. He has had to be violent in order to live, in order to eat, in order to sleep, and now in his late thirties, it has become embedded in who he is. Violence is his first response to every circumstance, to every person who approaches him, to every dirty look that he is thrown, to every unknown within this world that has been nothing but greedy, cruel, and selfish to him. 

Even so, he is not always keen on his word when he threatens such things. He knows that if he were to lay a hand on this toothpick, he would be hanged and quartered within the hour, and Toji isn’t too keen on allowing the kingdom dickheads be the reason his life comes to an end after he fought so desperately to even reach past his twenties. This ambassador knows this, and yet, he is still shaking like a leaf as though Toji has any authority over him, because in truth, he does here in his territory, only temporarily. Toji can use the fear he inspires and the intimidation of his capabilities and large frame to attempt to shake a palace ambassador off of his ass, but there is nothing more to his stern words other than a desire to be left alone.

“You must listen,” the little man continues to press. “The King and Queen- t-they send me for the sake of their daughter!”

Toji groans. “I don’t give a shit who they sent you for, you’re barkin’ up the wrong tree.”

“I fear they are fully aware of who they sent me to speak with,” the ambassador’s brows angle with a sense of urgency. Toji, having been bored by the conversation, rubs his fingers over the bridge of his nose and tilts his head tiredly. “N-Not many of us know about the things you do, but I was told to seek out the strongest, and you are… him.”

“What the hell do they want me for? I ain’t got shit for you pricks. Just leave me be.”

“Fushiguro,” he calls again before Toji can stand and turn away. “I understand you may not care about what the kingdom needs, but you are being offered a great deal of money. A generous salary.”

Toji’s ears perk up at this. He rises slowly, sauntering over to the man with slim, suspicious eyes and a taut jaw. Sweat glistens his bare torso, rolled up sweats hanging low on his waist. As he grows closer, the ambassador takes notice of his great size up close, and his eyes widen as he cowers away slightly from the man that casts a shadow over him completely. 

Toji stares down over his nose and tilted chin with a frown. “A salary? From the King and Queen themselves?” he repeats, and the man whimpers a hum in affirmation. “The hell is going on? What could possibly be turning their panties in a bunch to offer a job to someone like me?”

“It’s their daughter,” the man re-emphasizes. 

“Who?”

“The princess!” he says as though it is obvious, a desperate expression taking his features. “She needs security.”

“From what?”

“The King and Queen grow old, and so does the princess. Their reign is coming to an end, and with that, the princess’s life is often endangered by those seeking to take her right to the crown while her parent’s grow less capable of ruling. There’s already been two assassination attempts and one assault attempt within the past few months,” the ambassador explains, severely. “The princess needs someone to look after her, to be by her side as she prepares to rule as queen and as she looks for a husband.”

“And you want me to be her bodyguard?” Toji raises his brows.

“In a sense… yes.”

The dark haired man snorts in the ambassador’s face, the latter deflating at his reaction. “Of all people, you want me?”

“...Yes. That is correct.”

“What, the brat doesn’t have knights or something?”

“None that are capable of what you do.”

“And how the hell do you know what I do? You come to one match and think you're an expert on my life?” Toji grits his teeth, leering down at the poor man. The ambassador raises his hands in defense, stepping back anxiously. “I see everyone and everything that crosses my path. I’ve never seen you before in my life, and all of a sudden now you show up with a job offer from the fucking King and Queen. Gimme a break.”

He walks off, irritatedly throwing his towel in the corner and ripping open his locker on the other side of the room. “You’re right. I haven’t been watching you, but I’ve been asking around town about someone who could fit the role for weeks, and everyone was too afraid to mention you until a few days ago. Since then, I’ve heard stories.”

“People here like to gossip,” Toji murmurs.

“But your name scares people, right?”

“I don’t care what my name does.”

“Fushiguro, please,” he begs. “I don’t believe you are a man who cares about what happens in the palace-”

“I’m not.”

“But you must care about a sense of duty? Of justice? Of compensation, at least?”

“Obviously I care about money more than I do any of the other shit you just mentioned. But you tell me one thing,” his face hardens. “What the hell has the kingdom done for sorry asses like me, huh? Why should I be the one to help them when they haven’t helped me a day in my life? They’re all a bunch ‘a stuck up, frilly airheads stuck in their own bubble of what they think is urgent. So what if the princess gets a little spooked here and there? Maybe it’ll teach her a life lesson about what the world is really like. ‘Cause I’ll tell ya this, the girls where I come from don’t get to have a bodyguard before bad shit happens to them.”

Toji isn’t entirely sure why he is making a point to shame the people at the top when in the end, he knows he is going to take the job. Money, Toji finds, is incredibly valuable where he is from, and considering the hands he has dirtied in the past to get it, this proposal is practically nothing. Still, that doesn’t mean he likes the kingdom any more for their lack of involvement with the lower classes. His morals, which remain very few, go against this proposal he already knows he is going to accept - slaving away for those who made him a slave to gruesome fates, but hell, what can a man really do when he’s at his wits end and unfathomable riches are being presented to him on a silver platter?

He can complain, yes, but nothing can rank higher than the money the palace is practically drowning in. Besides, he doesn’t have to stay, he thinks. He can entertain this little charade for as long as he has enough funds to set him up for life, and then he’ll be out of there. In and out, quick and easy, and this place would never see his face again. 

A grim look befalls the ambassador’s face while Toji rummages through his belongings for his clothes. He is clearly discomforted by Toji’s words, which was the goal the man aimed to achieve in the first place. 

“We can not force you to do anything you do not desire to do yourself,” the ambassador starts, and somehow, Toji senses that the man is lying for the sake of making it appear as though Toji has a choice. “But I implore you to consider. The princess is unlike her parents. She is younger, eager. There is a legacy she must carry and people she must lead. Without her, the entire kingdom collapses. Including your village.”

Toji’s nose twitches. “Maybe that’ll do this shithole some good,” he grumbles.

The ambassador sighs, shoulders slumping. “Please… think about it.”

Toji rolls his eyes, turning and knuckling a hand to his hip. “How much money ‘we talking here, buddy?”

And oh, is the pay fucking obscene.

Toji doesn’t think he’s ever fathomed such grand numbers and jewels in his head, having been restricted by his village’s limitations, but once he hears his pay manifested into reality by a simple verbalization, his guilt trip seizes and he is signing his life away almost happily.

From then on, Toji is bound to the likes of you, his signature scribbled messily over a royal contract and securing him to you from now until your death… at least, that is what the fine print says. His plans, however, differ, and when he has fled from you, he will be hundreds of miles out of the kingdom’s reach.

That is his plan. To run away, but you unfortunately do not make this a very plausible task for him.

After days of training that Toji does not at all listen to, of watching elder royalty turn their nose up in disgust at the way he speaks and carries himself, of hearing murmurs of disapproval as he saunters down red carpeting with the head guard to meet yet another person that he will not remember the name or importance of, of being sworn to secrecy - to only serve as a protective, lethal air of silence and nothing more - to refuse any and all physical or verbal interaction with the woman in his protection, and of being fitted into a stuffy black uniform clad with gold detailing that serves only for show since he would have hardly bothered to lift an arm in that uncomfortable ass thing, let alone kill someone, Toji finally meets you.

And he has to admit that you are not at all what he expects.

Adorned in a regal soft pink gown that crowds from your waist and pools down to the floor, cuffing delicately at your wrists through sheer sleeves and tugging over your torso snugly with a corset, you stand before him in your chambers like an angel gracing earth. Your bejeweled gold crown sits upon your head with complementarity and your ringed fingers clasp each other before your lap. You're decked in what Toji can only assume to be century old gems, necklaces, and chains which he has to physically fight himself from reaching to pluck from your body and run off with. Standing before him, he decides that you are worth at least twenty times more than the almost forty years of life he has spent picking around for specs of funds. 

The thought agitates him. 

While he wishes he can say that he is the only one agitated, he notices a flick of fire in your (e/c) eyes as you size him up, trace your gaze over him with judgment and a pout on your glossed lips. Your presence is almost frightening with power as the two of you stare at each other, him with blank indifference and you with very apparent disappointment. 

When the head guard eventually takes his leave now that you are in the hands of your newly bestowed bodyguard, the door closing behind the two of you as you enter the hall in preparation to go handle your duties, you stop in your tracks, dress ruffling along with you. Toji, who has been told to remain ten feet behind you at all times, freezes like a statue, eying you when you whip your head around to glare at him.

Toji’s heard of elegant aestheticism, of the otherworldly beauty that the royal family carries, but he hadn’t believed it until he sees you face to face - though he’ll admit, he imagined you to appear less… aggravated and more peachy? Light. Dimwittedly sugary.

“Listen up,” you demand, a shocking bass carrying in your tone. You’re dominant, he noticed, or at least you are attempting to be. You stand proud, tall, chin lifted and eyes narrow. This certainly isn’t the picture of spoiled naivety that he imagined you to be previously. “I don’t know whatever the royal guard told you, but I’m not a damsel in need of protecting. I didn’t agree to whatever this is or whoever the hell you are invading my life.”

Toji’s brow lifts in intrigue. You certainly are not what he expected. Not at all.

Encouraged by your tone, his lips quirk up into a subtle smirk. You drag your brows together in confusion, eyes catching the scar that stretches over the right side of his lips. “Do you find me amusing?” you frown.

“A little bit,” the dark haired man responds quickly, leading you to reel slightly in shock. He appears so unaffected by you, and you’ve never encountered a person who hasn’t scrambled to kneel in your presence or nervously abide by any and everything you say. The gaul of this stranger, you think, to stand before you so casually and smile as though your position of authority is some sort of joke.

“I beg your pardon?” you scoff. “You should mind yourself when you speak to me.”

“I’m not paid to speak to you, doll, let alone be sweet on you,” Toji scratches under his jaw, his posture slipping into something resembling his nature rather than that of a rigid guard. His hands find the pockets of his uniform slacks, hardly caring at all how disrespectful the stature appears to you. “In fact, I think you’re bein’ a little rude by tryin’ to strike a conversation with me in the first place.”

“Well, I did not advise you to answer me. I expected you to simply listen,” you state firmly. “Clearly, you are incapable of doing so without having something to say.”

Your comment is snarky, judgmental, and Toji at least finds that you match the idea of snobbiness that all royalty withhold. “If I got somethin’ to say,” he starts. “I’ll say it. You don’t gotta worry about me being untruthful with ya, I’ll tell you that. I’ll give it to ya straight.”

“And how do you think the royal guard would feel about such a thing?” you posed. “If they were to hear even a second of what you are saying to me now, you’d be booted from my side and this palace immediately.”

“And what exactly makes you think that I care about that?” he chuckles, watching you shift with sudden uncertainty. This man does not appear to be swayed by you in the slightest, and it is a bit off putting to you as a woman accustomed to your every beck and call being honored. “I thought you weren’t happy about what the ‘royal guard’ had me doin’. Besides, if you wanted me out, you’re the princess, yeah? You could kick me out yourself. I ain’t stoppin’ ya.”

Your lips tighten, eyes digging further together. His attitude is strange to you as well as his dialect, the manner in which he speaks. Even his appearance is strange, for while he is dressed in your palace’s fabrics, he is drabber than everything around you. And even with this royal clothing, his face and build do not match his suit. 

He has tired bags under his poisonous haze of ivy hues. Dark tendrils of inky hair sprout over his forehead, his ears, and into his sharp gaze. His facial structure is hard, mature with hints of stubble sprouting over his chin, remnants of what you assume to be the guard forcing him to shave. He’s bulky as well, remarkably so. He’s an unnaturally large man, and his muscles bulge against his clothing as though it is going to burst with the raise of his arm. 

His eyes, however, are pools of green you have never seen before - not once in all your twenty seven years of living. While the people that you surround yourself with carry a light in their twinkling gazes sparked by a passion for protecting your throne and the privilege of the lives they lead, your new bodyguard’s eyes are a stark contrast. Even from afar, you can see the exhaustion swirling about them as he looks at you slyly. He’s weary somehow, the windows of his soul revealing a glimpse into his world, into the things he has seen, and that is how you deduce that he is not the same as you. Not at all. 

This observation of yours only gives you more reason to question him.

“Who are you?” you command. “You’re not from here.”

“You must be a smart one,” he quips sarcastically.

You grit your teeth. “Answer me, now.”

“You know my name, darlin’. That’s all you need from me.”

“Not if your princess demands to know your identity.”

“You ain’t my princess, girlie,” he stops you. “You’re my job. And I don’t do a lot of talkin’ on the job.”

You make a noise of displeasure, something between a grunt and a gasp, and Toji only revels in the way he has thrown you off. You sputter, taking a step forward with emotion. “Now you wait just a minute-“

“Princess!” a voice calls for you from around the corner, down at the end of the long narrow hallway by your bedroom door. You quickly swish yourself around into the direction of the address, and Toji watches how your dainty fabrics dance along with you, even long after you have stopped moving. Seconds later, an ambassador appears, peeking his head around the wall. “Are you well? You are needed in the second floor den to review some papers regarding your upcoming coronation.”

Frazzled, you nod unceremoniously. “Yes. Yes, my apologies,” you breathe out. “I am coming. My guard and I were just… I was merely informing him of my expectations here on out.”

Toji would have rolled his eyes at the way you all speak, the sound of it on his ears rather exhausting. He can hardly keep up with the properness of it all. 

“I see,” the ambassador nods. “I shall inform everyone that you are on your way.”

The man leaves, and you take a moment to breathe in and dust yourself off. You murmur under your breath to yourself what Toji can only deduce as assurances and affirmations, little words you tell yourself to keep your rather striking confidence instilled. You clasp your hands once more, bracelets clinking as you regain your composure. Toji stands in silence, watching boredly.

“Whoever you are,” you begin, turning your head to your shoulder so that your voice is audible. “I don’t need you. Despite what my parents say, I manage fine on my own. Keep your distance.”

The green eyed man watches you walk off, forcing himself to begin following at a reasonable pace. His eyes train on the back of you as you trek ahead, and he finds himself lost in his thoughts, formulating his opinion of you.

You do not take to him easily over the course of your adjustment to each other, and neither does he. You find his presence to be a burden as he trails after you everywhere you go, far more invasive and persistent than your knights have ever been. He becomes your second shadow, and while you are accustomed to having been followed around all your life, Toji’s approach is impossible to ignore. 

Even from ten feet away, you feel him there, watching, and it drives you mad. 

He’s light on his feet, for if it weren’t for his obvious mass trekking in your footsteps, at times you would have forgotten that he was even nearby. How someone as big as him could travel so quietly, you did not understand.

And worse than his hovering is how foreign he still is to you. You know absolutely nothing about him, and your parents, who you find to be useless in their aging stupors these days, will not bother to tell you anything about where he is from. It isn’t the fact that he frightens you, per say, despite the rather frightening energy that he emits. You notice the way people stare as he follows your path, how they internally conjure their own ideas about who this ominous figure is and what he is doing in a place so very clearly unfit for his type, but you are not scared. You believe him to be a nuisance more than anything, and if he is there to protect you, you feel you have nothing to necessarily worry about in regard to your own safety. 

In fact, you feel unfathomably secure, though irritated more often than not.

What you seek from Toji are answers. He abruptly appears out of nowhere under the vow that he will be stuck to you like paste to parchment for the rest of your life, and you are expected not to question his arrival? To question his place of origin? To question what he has done to secure a place as the Princess’ bodyguard with no experience in this field? To question what he has done to be trusted by royalty with your life?

It doesn’t make any sense to you, and you feel that it is unfair to be kept in the dark as the future queen in place of your parents. And every time you try to go to him about it, he either ignores you or gives you that cunning smile, scar stretching and lips spreading.

Toji himself is itching to get out of here the second he’s nestled in. He despises the atmosphere, the sneering looks, the air of shrewdness that envelopes him everywhere he turns. You’re an ungrateful thing, and that only makes his job all the more aggravating. You don’t know how good you have it, and yet you look at him like he’s doing more harm to your life than good when he is literally ensuring that you are out of danger’s path.

He studies you from his position ten feet away, watching how you take on tasks and prepare for the day of your coronation, communicating with villagers surrounding the palace walls with a generous grin and a glowing energy about your presence, and how you patiently sit with your parents at breakfast, lunch, and dinner each day as they practically wither away in their seats. You are always so poised and polite in the presence of other people, authoritative and strong, yet when he is alone with you, you’re wallowing in displeasure, throwing him heated glances and clenching your jaw tightly. You find it hard to behave elegantly in his company, and that fact alone gives him some hint of satisfaction. 

But what Toji truly can’t stand above all the waiting that he has to do on you with no sign of action are the meetings you have with princes from far away, seeking to take your hand as their bride and fulfill the role as king. Toji’s found himself biting his tongue more times than he can count when he’s standing with his back pressed to the wall in one of your many tea rooms, the umpteenth shiny haired, pearly teethed virgin bowing his head before you and pompously chanting about all the wonderful things he would bring to your life if you were to allow him to wed you. Toji finds the whole thing ridiculous, for obviously you don’t want to share your crown with another man, especially not a husband, but the unspoken law of your reign requires that you must find someone to stand by your side. And of course after that is done, Toji is still expected to follow you around day in and day out.

And for what? What purpose does this bring him aside from money? He hasn’t even been given his first stipend a month into this little endeavor, and he’s beginning to think that the whole ordeal is a scam, that he had been tricked into a false agreement. He should have known when the guard outright refused to pay him up front beforehand due to their lack of trust in his goals, which in truth was fair, because the Fushiguro would have run for the hills the second he got his hands on those riches. Nevertheless, he’s growing tired of the repetitive tiredness of his routine. He was promised a chance to at least defend your honor by fighting, but despite the King and Queen’s concerns, he has not seen a single threat to your life yet. 

At night, a weight drags down on his chest as he stares up at the ceiling in a daze. He doesn’t know what he’s doing here, how he even came across such a thing. Back home, if the townfolk were to hear about where he had run off to, they’d all laugh. Toji Fushiguro, the man hungry for blood now at the will of the government that destroyed his childhood, his life. What a fucking joke. 

And you’re so perfect, it destroys him. To be serving such a deplorable image of sovereignty, to see your angelic face decorated in breathtaking clothes and to follow you around like a damn puppy with nothing to show for it. In your company, he is reminded of his place, of how much higher you are than he is. Though Toji is a man who has never cared what the higher class thought of him, in your wake, he feels helpless. He wants to say that he is holding out for a better future, that he is doing this for himself, but it doesn’t feel that way. He knows it’s not for him anymore, but for you, and what could you possibly bring him other than crisis after crisis, heart clench after heart clench, and more bubbling, searing aggravation over his place in society?

You are terribly beautiful, and Toji is not. He sees that the more he’s at your side, taking in the way everyone looks at you in comparison to how everyone looks at him. These palace walls are stuffy. They suffocate him, turn him against himself and almost make him forget who he is, and he can not stand it. 

He is convinced he needs to leave in the dead of night, to flee away without a trace left behind, off to a new world with no money and no plan. He believes that it would be a better fate than being stuck here… that is, until he is finally paid.

A monthly salary of a thousand gold and silver pennies combined. He is handed the sack of funds while he is off duty, hours after you have gone to sleep as though the exchange is illegal, and in the privacy of his cabin, his eyes glimmer with the reflection of the money in his grasp. His brow twitches, eyes still and jaw tightening.

He hadn’t believed it to be real before he got his hands on it.

He stares into the bag, into the past years he has spent on his knees crawling for barely even a scrap of this, into the future of tranquility where he can turn to rest without having to bloody his hands for the right to buy a sandwich, into everything he has ever done amounted into far less than one bag of this payment. He’s stupefied with disbelief, with greed, and hurries to escape that very night.

Toji is stripping himself of the bullshit pajamas the guard has sent for him to wear, tucking away the bullshit uniform he’s been snug in for weeks, and stuffing his pay into his beaten bag that he had tossed under his barracks. He changes back into his old clothes, the black shirt that hugs him comfortably and the sweats that pool over his calves, and he sneaks to the door when he pauses.

A glass window breaks just above him, and he whips his head up above. It’s coming from where your room is.

The dark haired man hangs his head low, conflicted. He could go, abandon you and pretend that none of this ever happened. He could go back on his promise to the kingdom, sentence himself to death by hand of royalty if he were to ever be discovered in his new home. He could flee from you, risking the chance of you dying under his protection and run off to live the life he has always dreamed of living, far from home, swimming in gold and silver.

Or he could stay. He could conquer whatever imposing danger he has detected within a half of a millisecond, his senses failing to fool him yet, and save your life. He could keep his promise to this awful society. His promise to you, and remain stuck forever.

Toji is inching out of the door, still pondering, leaning toward the latter hesitantly when a muffled scream rips from the open space of your window that has just been broken in. Your scream.

The dark haired man doesn’t know what takes over him as he drops his bag to the ground and rockets himself through his own window, foot first, to shatter the glass. His hands grip the rim as he flips himself over to face the exterior brick, digging his chipped fingernails into the crevices of the old stone to scale the side of the building that led to your room with swift agility. He claws his fingers into the ledge of your window past the grapple of a rope that was likely used to break in in the first place. A jagged edge of glass cuts his skin, but he hardly feels it due to the roughness of his callouses. 

Toji kicks his feet up and piles himself into your room, rolling onto the floor within a matter of at least five seconds. He rises slowly, chest rippling into his tight shirt as he visually locates what harm is befalling you.

You’re on your bed, kicking out against the cloaked figure hovering over you with a dirtied hand pressing over your mouth, his knees kicking open your thighs and another hand holding a dagger to your throat. A bruise circles the eye of the intruder just above the cloth worn over his mouth, likely a result of your fist to his face.

When you look up and find Toji, your panicked eyes widen in relief, your brows pressed together desperately as you screech out against the attacker’s palm. Your hair, normally so meticulously pinned is sprawled messily over your silk sheets, your satin nightgown threatening to ride up your thighs, ripped at the hims, and sweat pools over your chest as it glistens in the moonlight with each heavy, anguished breath you take. 

Toji’s eyes go dull, his face blank with something horrifying, yet familiar to him. You tremble, whimpering unintelligible sounds as the intruder turns to face Toji with foolish anger. “Get back!” he shouts through his mask. “Get back or I'll kill her!”

The knife’s tip presses further into your chin and you inhale sharply, squeezing your eyes tight and mustering up whatever strength you have left to turn and push away. 

Toji says nothing, staring emptily into your attacker’s eyes.

Toji finds that there is a certain coolness that takes over his body and mind mere moments before he goes in for a kill. He isn’t sure if it's a form of tranquility, or perhaps his fellowship with the act having done so many times over. His eyes gloss ever, and every muscle in his body smoothes out into a relaxed state. He is motionless, still as a sculpture, but his eyes are hungry with rage, flecks of red bleeding into the garden of his IRISES, honing in on his target before he pounces.

You don’t even see Toji move before your attacker is ripped off of you and you can finally breathe, scrambling to press your back to your headboard and stare ahead in horror. You swear you had only blinked, but by the time your teary vision refocuses, Toji is drenched up to his forearm in blood, a curved blade which seemed to manifest out of thin air clutched in his hand. His arm is curved over his mouth, reaching back over his alternate shoulder as though he had just made a slicing motion. His breathing is slow, smooth, and a headless body collapses onto your floor.

Wide eyes of fear-stricken (e/c) stare at the mangled corpse leaking out onto your expensive carpet, and you don’t even notice the splatter of blood that has reached your cheek from Toji’s nimble action. You’re hyperventilating, attempting to gather yourself after having been stolen from your sleep and held at knifepoint, and now suddenly your attacker is dead on the ground. It had all happened so fast. Your head is spinning, and you’re shaking terribly. You can’t even see straight. 

With a heavy exhale, Toji lowers his twitching bicep to his side, tossing his weapon off in the corner with a resounding clang! He rolls his head on his neck, stretching it from side to side and cracking it softly, before opening his eyes to find you. 

You stare at each other in heavy silence, you in grateful, terrified disbelief, and him with the knowledge of how you will react to his violence. He has seen it before. The screeches that follow, the running that ensues.

He waits for it, but… it doesn’t come.

Instead, you just stare at him like a deer in headlights.

He moves to ask if you are alright, to do something to break the air, when your door bursts open after hefty pounds at your door. Your parents and a few guards, who Toji now sees are quite useless, stand in the doorway, wide-eyed. 

Your parents move to comfort you and envelop you in their arms while the guards run to the scene in shock, mulling over the body that lay before Toji. He gets an earful, angry reprimanding about having done such a horrible act right before your eyes, and Toji looks over at you, finding that your eyes are already in him.

You try to speak up and say that he had no other choice, to actually defend Toji in your shaken state, but the authorities around you hear none of it and usher to whisk you away while Toji and a few knights are left to take care of his mess. You look over your shoulder, gluing your gaze to him as you are pulled carefully away. 

By the time Toji is finished, cleaned, and has been lectured by the guard, he finds himself rather exhausted, but all he can think about is whether you’re alright or not. He is told that he can find you in the library on the west wing. He ventures out and reaches the space, finding you seated in a lavish sofa before your fireplace with the room guarded by your father and mother who whisper urgently with more knights. When they look up and see Toji, however, they fall silent and immediately part to let him in. 

He quietly approaches, shutting the door softly behind him. He doesn’t make a sound, but you turn upon sensing him in the room. You’re cuddled into a warm blank that is wrapped over your shoulders, eyes heavy and tears damp. You sit in a sullen state, a still mess.

Toji rounds the sofa to stand far on your left side, body half concealed by the shadows of the unlit side of the library. The fire kindles gently over your face and in your eyes as you stare. Toji thinks that you almost look like a child this way, so vulnerable and disheartened. 

He’s seen things like this happen to women every day at home, only he didn’t always make it to help in time. For the first time since knowing you, he sees the same trauma in your eyes, the glimmer of innocence dimming ever so slightly. 

The dark haired man is not good with emotions, and he knows for damn sure that he will not know how to approach your own. He isn’t even meant to be speaking with you, but something deep in his bones is compelling him to you after witnessing you in such a horrible state. 

It’s his job after all. 

“You hurt?”

The question is gruff, blunt, and you look at him but not with an expectation for more. You sit with your knees to your chest as well, a position he has failed to ever see the Princess herself in. 

Eventually, you shake your head and look back to the fire crackling before you. “No.”

He hums, darting his eyes over you quickly. He sees a thin line of blood on your chin where the blade had been pointed into your skin. “You lyin’?”

You glance at him tiredly. “I am not injured,” you say again.

“Alright. You’re not injured.”

You look down, picking at your blanket as you chew on the inside of your lip. “…Toji.”

“Yeah?”

“Are you an assassin?”

The question catches Toji off guard, almost making him laugh. “That’s a little personal, doll.”

“I believe I deserve to ask right now. Forget the rules, the guards were not there. You were.”

He relaxes. You’ve got a point. “No. I ain’t an assassin. At least not every day.”

“But you have… done that before…”

“How else do you think I got the job?”

“Right,” you mutter as if reprimanding yourself for asking something so obvious. “You’re rather fast.”

He’s unsure where this stream of questions are coming from. You are still mellow, speaking below a whisper, but your eyes are in a different space away from what is before you. 

“Fast’s an understatement,” he mumbles and you give a nod, at least agreeing. “But yeah. I’m fast. Among other things.”

“And how long have you been…?”

“Killing?” Toji concludes the sentiment for you. You clamp your lips, retreating into yourself. “You can say it. It’s not gonna hurt ya.”

“Well, how long?”

Toji shrugs. “A while now I guess. I’m not a killer, but I do what I need to do when I have to.”

You nod, unable to find a verbal response to his words. Your lips purse forward and your eyes still beam into the fireplace in a daze.

Toji crosses his arms. “You scared of me yet?”

You exhale, corners of your lips tugging to the side. “You saved my life,” you say. “I am not scared of someone who has been hired to protect me.”

“That wasn’t really a pretty sight for a princess to see, though,” Toji attempts to reason.

“Yet you were not the man with the knife to my throat, were you?”

Toji falters. Once more, you’re right, but he’s a bit confused. He would have expected you to turn away from him, to reject his violent nature after seeing what he could do. But here you are, complacent with his abilities. Is it because of the shock?

He looks at you closer, but does not see any lingering signs of unawareness, or any stupor that freezes your mind and body. While you still look like you are slightly in a trance, you appear to simply be contemplating instead of suffering from shock. 

How are you so chill about all of this?

“I heard you’ve been attacked before,” Toji says rather bluntly. This makes you peek up, locking your eyes with his steely ones from afar. 

An exhale shakes your body. “So?”

“So?” he echoes with a scoff. “That’s not a big deal to you?”

“I told you before that I did not need you,” you say somewhat gently. “What you have seen tonight has happened more than you think, and will continue to happen in the future.”

“I hate to break it to ya, doll, but it didn’t look like ya didn’t need me. You didn’t really have much of a choice but to let me help you.”

“I have gotten out of those situations before. I could have gotten out of this one.”

Toji looks at you oddly. “Not from where I was standin’, you couldn’t.”

“I’m not weak,” you frown.

“I didn’t say you were. Hell, I saw the black eye you landed on the bastard before I snuffed his ass out,” Toji grumbles. “But you’re the Princess. Fightin’ isn’t your thing, it’s mine.”

“Do not attempt to fool me into thinking you wish to fight on my behalf,” you look him in the eye as you speak. “After all, you believe me to be inexperienced, don’t you? Sheltered. Naive.”

A moment of silence passes as Toji stares at you intensely, face cold. “Yeah. I do,” he admits. “If you’ve seen enough shit I’ve seen, you’d get why.”

Your eyes dance over his face with a pensive expression of patience. Your brows are slightly angled, denting the spaces between them, yet you breathe so deeply that it almost fools Toji into believing you are at peace.

“When I was six years old,” you start abruptly. “A tutor of mine tossed a candle to my head because I could not complete my times tables correctly. The wax and flame burned my shoulder badly when I tried to dodge. I have worn long sleeve gowns since,” you confess.

The dark haired man frowns, befuddled while you proceed.

“My grandmother, who had been heavily involved in my bringing when I was a child, was obsessed with cleanliness. Every night before I went to bed, she would inspect my room to ensure that it was tidy. If a single spec of dust was found on my floor, she would raise the back of her hand and smack me clear across the face. ‘You are a princess,’ she would say. ‘Princesses do not behave like slobs.’ Then she’d make me clean the room all over again. If it was still not to her liking, she would continue to hit me, and so on. I had welts on my body for years. I would try to ask my parents to tell her to stop, but they ranked her authority over my own every time. They believed her to be teaching me discipline. Now I do not sleep at night without inspecting every inch of my room for anything that is out of place.”

Toji’s face smooths slowly into something unreadable as he listens to you.

“When I was seventeen, I learned that men sought to ruin me. Diplomats and countrymen would visit with the same look in their eye when they saw me as I grew, seeking to force their hand to mine. One of them was banished after having been caught throwing himself onto me when I was alone. He left bruises on my arm from gripping me too hard when I tried to run away.”

Toji falters completely now, internally guffawed by your revelations.

“Over the years, I have been beaten, assaulted, and almost killed by those close to me, by those envious of me, and by those who want but can not have me. And now, with the influx of assassination attempts, I can do nothing but what I have been doing all my life; stand strong and kick.”

Your eyes swirl with honesty and grief as they lock with Toji’s pools of torment. “I may not know who you are, nor do I know where you came from or what you have been through, but do not assume that because we do not share the same origins that I am a stranger to the world’s cruelty. The kingdom tricks you into believing that we are a perfect society, when in reality, we are tainted by dark secrets swept under the rug and generational traumas. I have seen enough of reality within these palace walls surrounded by people I am meant to trust, only I do not trust any of them but myself. 

“I can see it in your eyes that you are broken too. You carry yourself in such a way, but do not allow that to blind you from any hardships I have experienced in my life. We are not the same, but I know inhumanity very well.”

Toji, rendered speechless for the first time in a very long time, watches as you lean over and reach to the other side of the sofa for something on the floor. You gradually reveal his satchel, the one he had dropped to rush to save you, and sit it on the cushion beside you. Toji’s eyes widen slightly when the contents of his bag clink together like wind chimes brushing each other in the wind.

“One of the royal guard found this in the hall,” you say calmly, lowering your hand back under your blanket. “I told him to let me hold onto it. That you must have misplaced it. Were you planning to leave tonight?”

Toji exhales, threading his fingers through his hair and glancing over the floor. Still moved by what you had told him about your upbringing, the man finds himself caught off guard once more by your confrontation. You’re smart, he has to hand it to you. Much smarter than he had previously given you credit for.

“Let’s face it,” Toji sighs. “You and I both know I don’t belong here. The whole kingdom knows. This place isn’t where I’m s’posed to be.”

“And still you took the job anyway,” you challenge. “This was your scheme all along? To take off with the first bit of money you acquire from watching over me?”

“Do you expect anythin’ more?”

“I expected you to be wiser,” you admit. 

“I am bein’ wise.”

“By fleeing from the only life of luxury that you have ever known?”

“I don’t live in luxury here, doll. I’m your bodyguard.”

“Even so, your bag is full of enough money to buy yourself a home, and that is only the first monthly payment. That isn't a luxury to you?”

“Luxury, to me, is doin’ what I want when I want it without havin’ to worry about anything else ever again.”

“Then where are you supposed to be?”

“Far from here.”

“You did sign a contract, you know. The guard and my parents would not take well to your abrupt absence. You would be treasoned.”

“Which is why I’d be long gone before they could find me.”

You sigh, turning away. Toji monitors you for a sign of disappointment, of anger, of desperation, but instead you remain indifferent. “I will not stop you if you choose to go,” you say.

Toji cocks a brow, lowering his arms to his sides. “You won’t?”

“You are your own man with your own ability to make decisions. I do not fault you for wishing to leave. I do not know you well enough to do so.”

Toji eyes you harshly, stepping closer and breaking the barrier of a ten foot distance. He approaches the other side of the sofa, peering down at you heavily as if to piece you apart. “You’re just gonna let me go,” he tests. “The hell do you gain from that?”

“Must it be about what I gain?” you ask. 

“I’m just a little shocked you’re not more pissed about this.”

“Toji, I was the Princess before you came and I will continue to be the Princess after you leave. I am not angry about what life you choose to live if it is separated from mine. I do not know what is best for you. That’s for you to decide.”

“And what about your guard?”

“They will be fine.”

“What about you?”

You soften. “I will be fine too.”

His mouth twitches. “I ain’t convinced.”

“Do you wish to leave or not?” you question. “You can not worry for my sake and desire to run away at the same time.”

“I ain’t-“ he stops himself, shaking his head and pressing his hands into the armrest. He wants to deny caring about what will happen to you, but his current hesitation over leaving proves otherwise. “You coulda died.”

“I could have died many times,” you counter. “I always manage.”

“And if one day, you don’t?”

“That will not happen.”

“Yeah, only if I’m there.”

You raise your brows and Toji catches himself, clenching and unclenching his jaw. He glances at his bag and reminds himself of his future, of his plans, of his life, and then he looks back at you, swarming in your wool blanket with such lovely eyes. Free of your jewelry, your crown, and your extravagant gowns and makeup, you look more human. You look softer, and Toji battles a newfound internal conflict - his growing desire to stay. 

Slowly, a soft smile rises to your lips that does not reach your eyes. Your soft skin, aglow by the flames before you, illuminates the warmth of your expression. “Do not tell me you are beginning to feel a duty toward me?”

“Duty ain’t in my vocabulary,” Toji defends, looking away. 

“Then why are you still here?”

He catches the testing look on your face and exhales in weary amusement. “Don’t get smart with me now, Princess. You won’t win that battle.”

“Just make up your mind, Toji,” you tilt your head and toss him a knowing look. 

You carefully shift and maneuver your body around so that you are laying your head on the cushion with your legs curled up to you, Toji’s bag still sitting on your left. The said man’s eyes follow the motion. “What’re you doin?” he asks.

“I’m going to try to get some rest,” you murmur, though you do not close your eyes. You stare ahead in exhaustion, but no urge to sleep comes over you. “You may do as you please. If you are not here in the morning and your bag is gone, I will assume that you have left.”

Toji looks back at his bag, torn. He’s itching to grab it, to swipe it up in his grasp and make a break for it, but there you are. The Princess, soon to be Queen of everything Toji has ever resented, and suddenly he feels a human connection to you. The things you told him, the steadiness of your voice as you spoke, the maturity in your eyes, the hidden, harbored scars, the arrogant will you carry to proceed into this life alone despite your susceptibility to harm… it got to him. 

And when he saw your face as you lay trapped under your intruder, how your body writhed with the involuntary will to fight despite your disadvantage, Toji was taken completely by an urge, a responsibility to protect you. To look after you. To kill for you. 

Therefore, neither of you say a word when Toji moves to pick up his bag and toss it onto the floor. In its place, he sits at your feet and tosses his arms over the back of the headrest, legs sprawled out before him as he watches the fire beside you. 

He stays there until the sunrise, and solidifies his fate.

After that night, Toji feels himself changing. Time goes by and you only grow stronger, approaching your coronation swiftly and taking on the role of Queen with regal pride. Toji finds himself staring at you when he’s by your side, which you have appointed him to after having a tense conversation with the royal guard, resulting in him no longer having to linger ten feet away at all times. He stands rather closely now when it is appropriate to do so, glaring ahead menacingly as he towers over your frame while you conduct meetings or speak with foreign princes and diplomats, who Toji keeps a sharp eye on with the knowledge of what you shared with him about your past interactions. 

He thinks of the pressure that weighs over you, and studies how you harbor so along with your traumas with so much poise. You don’t allow the things you have gone through to weigh you down, to deter your path, and he grows impressed with the strength of your mind. Without such, you likely would not be where you are today. 

Toji becomes one of the very few people you entrust your life with, if not the only person you fully trust to take your life into his hands. Despite his initial plans to leave you, he proves himself loyal to you, standing guard outside your room every night instead of retreating to his chambers and preventing disasters before they even happen. With his keen senses and hawk-like gaze, he catches suspicious figures in crowds, which he can recognize easily due to his upbringing as well. He used to be one of those lurking shadows, stalking packed spaces to find a target, only he was always too swift to be caught. 

Toji now takes to disposing of the people who mean you harm in private, away from your vision. While you are well aware of his capabilities, Toji has a tendency to become borderline sadistic when killing for you. Inspired now by his respect for you and your budding relationship, the honesty in your eyes and the sanctity of your life in his hands, he is more ruthless than he ever has been before in private, and he does not want you burdened by the vision. The guard does not question him, taking to caring for your parents and watching the palace walls while Toji handles the direct threats unto you. No one in the palace questions him any longer, for you have grown close to him and he to you, and the proof of him risking himself time and time again for the sake of you forces all heads away and onto the next thing. 

During the day, he is still and mute, a brick wall of eerie, bulky freight, but at night when you are alone, he’s making you laugh, sharing stories with you about gruesome bar fights he has been involved in and past jobs that have given him a run for his money. You always listen with curiosity, eyes bright with intrigue as a long forgotten book lay in your lap as you watch him, absorbing tellings of a world far from your reach. He does his best to leave out gory details, like the things that tend to keep him up at night, the things he is ashamed of having lived, but you always understand. You can always see more of him than he lets on in his gaze, how he stands and tenses, how he looks away after having held your gaze for too long. 

The dark haired man finds that he has never felt such security that you bring him, that while he keeps you safe, he feels safe in your defense, in your presence, in your path. You ease his mind somehow with your gentle grace and your unearthly beauty, with your loud cackles that he draws from you after dinner when he walks you to your room, a far cry from the contained chuckles you allow to slip when cozying up to someone for diplomatic and political purposes. 

You ease his mind with your warm grins, your soft hands that brush his arm when you get his attention, with the sweet breath that tickles his ear when you lean up to cup your hand over your mouth and whisper something to him. He always has to lean down for you as you reach up on your tiptoes, informing him of a task he must carry out in secret when all he can think about is the shiver that racks his spine when your coo of a whisper flutters directly into his ear. 

Toji does not want to admit that you make him feel strange when he starts to notice the way his chest tightens as you brush past, the air of your perfume lingering in his nose. He does not want to admit that this foreign warmth he now feels takes over his entire being, melting his hardened soul after he believed it to be beyond repair. He does not want to admit that he recognizes this feeling as love solely because he has never felt it before, never experienced the visceral pump of his blood into his heart or the honeyed comfort that slips into his understanding of lust. He does not want to admit that you attract him as more than someone he wishes to ravish, but as someone he has come to cherish deeply. 

He does not think it affects his job, for he has been at your side for nearly a year when you are finally appointed Queen and he still performs incredibly well. He stands at the upper corner of the grand hall, diamond chandelier twinkling brilliantly above your head in your wake as you inch your way down the aisle and up the purple velveted carpet. The kingdom watches you in awe, your gold encrusted gown dragging delicately over the floor, manicured hands clasped before you as you approach with your chin high and your chest puffed. You are a vision of artistry, of indescribable, unfathomable beauty, and Toji knows he loves you when he catches himself smiling gently as he watches you graze the room like fresh dew beaming on a crisp, sunlit morning. 

There is no sign of an attack when your new crown is placed upon your head, thanks to Toji and the word of his talents spreading like wildfire across villages, lands, and kingdoms alike. The entire world by now must know of the Queen’s bodyguard, who sticks to her side like glue and wipes out anything that even thinks of creeping into her path. His reputation proceeds him once more, yet now, he is proud of who he has become. He is proud, now, that he is killing for the good that is you, a woman deserving of every goodness that comes to her in this world, instead of for his own survival.

You do not marry. You refuse once you gain the power to deny the visiting of any more suitors, much to Toji’s relief. He had never been a fan of watching men kiss your feet, take your pretty hand in theirs and look you in the eye with a bent knee. He would have killed them all if you had not frowned upon so, for he did not believe anyone to be as deserving of a woman working to rebuild the economy for the sake of Toji’s village and all those who suffered along with him with such compassion and selflessness, not even him - as much as he cared for you.

Somehow, Toji’s duty to you triumphs over his desire for you. While he struggles, he respects you more than he has respected any human being in his life. His job is to make sure that you live, and that you do so peacefully and happily. You have transformed him into a noble man, and how you did so, he barely knows. What he does know, however, is that he loves you as much as he honors you. You are his Queen, he is your bodyguard - your right hand. He would never interfere with the boundaries set between the two of you, with the responsibility he has to you. 

Consequently, he stubbornly pushes away the telling looks that you share with him, your eagerness to jest, to press your touch to him and feel you near him, to remind yourself that he is still there. 

He knows. He sees it in your eyes, the unspoken yearning, the reason why you do not wish to marry anyone else, and you know that he knows, but he says nothing. He breaks his gaze away, he guides you back with a gentle hand to your waist and upper arm, and he leaves you every night, redrawing the line, keeping you at such a close distance. 

It’s been two years. The two of you now know one another better than you’ve known anyone, and Toji has been with you through thick and thin, through the death of you parents, the conflict with the council over the uncertainty regarding a future heir, your silent fatigue that only shows itself at the end of the day when no one else is looking and it is only you and him as he bids you good night. He’s seen it all, and you have seen him just as clearly. 

Tonight is no different as you enter your room sluggishly, sinking into the edge of your bed as you gaze ahead, an emptiness in your eyes. Toji stands at your door, examining you sternly. You look beat, aged by the years and the burden of ruling. The veil of composure lifts from you, and you slump, gown crowding over the floor and your aching feet, which dangle over the bed. 

Wordlessly, the dark haired man sighs and closes the door behind him. Within a second, he is kneeling before you, calloused hands grazing over the many layers of your gown to delicately cup your ankle. His touch pulls you back to reality and you look down, brows curling ever so subtly.

Toji cradles the back of your ankle and grips the stem of your glass heel. He slowly glides the cramping footwear from your foot, setting it to the side once it is free from its confinements. You watch him with ardor swelling in your gaze, his hands so rough when handling others, smoothing over your skin as though you are fragile.

He moves to your other shoe and glances up when he catches you staring in that way that makes his heart ache. “What is it, doll?” he murmurs, the nickname he bestowed upon you once condescendingly having stuck in a sweeter, more genuine manner. 

You don’t answer. You only gaze gratefully, tiredly, while Toji sets your other shoe to the side. He stays down on his knee, looking up at you. 

“You alright?” he asks and you sigh deeply. 

“You are the only person in this world I feel I can be myself with,” you eventually say earnestly, gently. Toji blinks, shifting slightly and nodding slowly.

“Back at ya,” is all he can manage to say under your loving stare. He almost feels suffocated by the way your eyes swallow him whole. “I get what you mean.”

“Everyone is just so-” you lift your hands in an attempt to physically depict what you want to say, but the words fail you and your arms stall in the air. “So-”

“Shitty?” Toji fills in with his own words for it, and you smile with a light giggle.

“Yes,” you drop your hands to your lap. “Shitty.”

Toji chuckles, the sound of you cursing still so funny to him. “Don’t I know it,” he agrees. He looks over your gown before back into your eyes, preparing to stand. “I’ll go call for the maids so they can’t get you outta this thing. You need to sleep.”

“Don’t,” you shake your head the second he moves to get up. He stops, sinking back down. “Not right now. I don’t want to see anyone else but you.”

Toji clenches his jaw, your words so sweet it kills him. “Don’t you wanna change? You get cranky in this thing after dark,” he jokes. 

“I know,” you say. Something flickers in your eyes as you look over his figure, a hint of desire swirling into weariness. “You do it.”

Toji furrows his brows. “What?”

“I want you to help me out of my dress instead,” you whisper. The green eyed man thinks he must have heard you incorrectly, his eyes going wide as he registers your request. “There’s nightgowns in that dresser over there. Bring one to me.”

“(Y/n),” he warns, heart fluttering and skin flushing over his chest. “I’m not gonna do that. It’s not right.”

“Why not?” you press. “As your Queen, I am giving you a task.”

“Yeah, but-” he scoffs, shaking his head. “I’m not gonna strip ya. That ain’t… I won’t do that.”

“Toji,” you lean forward, lids heavy over your eyes. You call his name sternly, yet still so quietly, and he can not help but bide by your will each time his name slips from your tongue in such a way when you need him. “I am asking you to help me. It is not wrong if it is what I want.”

“It’s wrong ‘cause I’m your bodyguard, not your-”

His words die in his throat before he can finish his sentence. “Not my what?” you mumble.

He gets lost in your gaze, in your scent, and he is struggling to find the words. His face is tense, brows knitted and lips curled, his scar creasing along with them. “I’m not in any place to do this stuff. You know that.”

“You are because I say that you are.”

“Anyone ever tell ya you can be a little cocky?” he smirks lightly to sway the mood. 

“Yes,” you roll your eyes. “You have.”

“Oh, that’s right,” he snickers. “Well, you are.”

“Stop trying to change the subject. Help me out of this dress.”

“Doll-”

“Now.”

Toji exhales, for he finds that he has no other choice once you have made up your mind about something. He pushes himself to his feet and stands over you, holding his hand out to you. “C’mon,” he mutters.

You slip your dainty handy into his palm and allow him to pull you up gently to your feet. Your face meets his chest, his height never failing to shock you up close, and when you look up he’s already peering down at you with heavy eyes. 

“Show me how to undo this thing,” he says impatiently under his breath, and you can tell by his hastiness that his nerves are jumping.

“I will, but you need to take your time. It’s fragile,” you whisper and he nods slowly.

“Alright.”

“Can you remove my jewelry?”

He inhales sharply. “Alright,” he says again.

You turn slowly, moving your hair out of the way to expose your neck to him. He grits his teeth, seeking some sort of self control as his fingers move to unclasp your many chains of expensive necklaces. His knuckles brush your skin, and he watches as bumps ghost over your neck after he has touched it. 

Your scent invades him as his hands lower over your shoulders to bring your necklaces down from your chest. His chest bumps against your back accidentally, brushing over your shoulders, and you both twitch at the contact. God, he feels like a teenage boy, losing himself over breathing you in. 

You tell him to go place the necklaces on their stand on your armoire, then to find a nightgown for you to wear. Toji feels weak, rifling through your clothes as though it is a sin to even be seeing them. Your silk fabrics smooth over his fingers before he pinches one into his hand and brings it to lay out on your bed. 

“Now, see the string tying my corset in the back?” you ask over your shoulder, Toji humming distractedly when he locates it and stands behind you again. “Unravel it.”

As though entranced by your demand, he does, despite every voice in his heading screaming in protest. He should not be with you like this, the Queen, so privately in your room lit daily by the kiss of candlelight and swarmed by the scent of patchouli incense and your damned perfume. Toji’s head feels hazy, thick digits tugging at your string and drawing it out slowly, watching as the ribbon unfolds and drapes down your train.

“Now what?” he murmurs.

“Loosen it so I can take it off.”

“Heh?” he scrunches his brows, looking over the weaving of the lace between your corset. 

“Just peel either side of the corset back,” you clarify. “Now that it’s untied, it will come apart.”

He obliges with uncertainty, cautiously tugging back either side of the thick fabric, the lace stretching and pooling over your back. “Okay, I’m going to raise my arms so you can pull it over my head.”

“Jesus, this thing is so damn extra.”

“Be quiet and just do it.”

“Yeah, yeah.”

You lift your arms into the air and Toji catches the way your curves peak out. His eye twitches as he pulls the corset over your head, off your arms, and from your body. A second corset, thinner and more form fitting, graces your waist and exposes your bare back to him, as well as the healed burn on your right shoulder that you told him about so long ago.

He clears his throat, setting the outer corset onto the bed with his fingers stilling on your hip. “What now?” he asks.

“Do the same with the rest. This one’s connected to the bottom part.”

“...What about your… uh…”

“There’s another layer under it, don’t worry,” you assure him. “Why? Is my fierce and scary bodyguard nervous?”

“Don’t even,” he grumbles and your shoulders shake with a silent laugh.

The ruffle of your clothing fills the air as Toji works his fingers through the second set of lace, loosening it and pulling it from your body. You slide your arms from the thin straps of this layer and allow Toji to drag the fabric down. His eyes train on the way it smooths over your frame, a nude colored set revealing as he pulls, pulls, pulls until the fabric is pooling around your ankles.

All that you are covered in now is a hoop cage over your hips and sleeveless underwear the same shade as your skin tone that holds you sinfully tight. Toji’s heart is in his ears and the blood in his body is surging out everywhere, including toward his crotch. He’s biting down on his teeth so hard as he holds your arm and helps you step out of the net like framing for your gown, breaths labored.

Your dazzling (e/c) hues catch his as his hand lingers on your waist and your arm, his figure now before you again. He keeps a tough facial expression, but his eyes yet again give him away as he coolly takes in your body, the way your cleavage pools out of your garments and your skin milks into a breathtaking glow. 

You feel his thumb swipe over the curve of your back, experimentally caressing the space as his other hand slides up your arm and over your shoulder. His thumb touches your chin, reels back hesitantly, then touches again, sliding delicately over your cheek. You welcome the contact, your hands raising to press against his lower abdomen as he lingers over you, so closely, so intimately. You can feel his abdominals, rigid and tense, contract beneath your palms though they are barely touching him, and you look down at how small your fingers look pressing into the wall of his stomach. 

“Doll,” he murmurs, voice gravelly and husky as it breathes out. You hum, lashes fluttering when his hand slides to hold the entire side of your face. He melts before you, your beauty so striking that it almost scares him, and nothing has ever scared Toji Fushiguro before. “You need to get to bed.”

“In a bit,” you mutter, gaze wandering over his lips and back up to his eyes. You sink into him, inching closer until he’s surrounding you, swarming you. “Stand with me like this longer.”

“I can’t stay here much longer. You know that.”

“What I say goes. I say you can.”

“(Y/n).”

“No,” you breathe, shaking your head as he looks over your features softly. “I do not care.”

“Well, I do,” he says, brushing a piece of hair gently from your forehead. You lean into his palm, a soft pout on your lips. “I’ve got one job, and that’s to keep you safe, y’understand?”

“And that is all this is?” you murmur, eyes darting over him. “That is the only reason you protect me? Because it is your job?”

He tilts his head slightly, smoothing his hand up and down your spine as you push yourself closer to him. Against his better judgment, against his instincts, he allows you. Even if just for a moment. Even if he never gets to feel you this way again, so plush against him, yearning and wistful.

“You know that ain’t true,” he tells you.

You bring your hands up, smoothing them up to his chest and you coo. “So stay,” you beg. “Please.”

“You’re killin’ me, y’know that?” he exhales, his nose brushing against yours as you close in on him, just centimeters away from his lips. 

He holds you, shares the same breath as you, and in this moment he forgets about the barrier between you. He forgets where he came from, he forgets what your role in this world is, he forgets his duty to you and how complicated it is that it has now molded into some emotional connection. He forgets that you will need to marry one day to continue your legacy, that he himself is not a King nor a man of royalty, that he was born of hate and abandonment while you were born to be something. He forgets, as your warmth consumes him and the taste of you is so close he can smell it, that he could never take your relationship beyond what it already is. That he is not, and never has been, a man made for love yet somehow you have fooled him into believing that he is made for loving you.

“Why are you fighting me,” your eyes close, fingers inching over his shoulders and arms wrapping around his neck.

“‘Cause I can’t let myself do this to ya,” he grumbles.

“Why?”

“Stop asking me questions.”

“Do you love me?” 

The question is a heated gasp against his mouth, and Toji, no longer harboring the willpower to push away from you, can only respond honestly.

“Y’know I do.”

Your fingers tangle into his silky black hair and his hand brings your faces together. “Then stay.”

“Okay.”

Your lips feel like a fluff of cloud melting into his, the rich, sugary taste of your mouth clashing into his own. You’re soft against his hard body as you crush into him, swooning and sinking as though you no longer have the strength to stand and he is catching you, bringing you to him as though it is the last time he will ever touch you in such a way, the last time he will ever have the privilege of tasting your sacred mouth.

Toji is a rough man, but he handles you gingerly, gradually as he savors you for everything his life has ever been worth. You overstimulate him with your mind numbing squeezes and the gentle sounds of satisfaction that slip from your throat into his. Toji thinks he can die blissfully happy as he encircles you, ravaging your lips with hard brows and a fuzzy mind. He crowds over you, so tall and big that you have no choice but to succumb to all of him in his embrace. He overpowers you, and you adore it, ruffling messily through his locks as his hands wander your hips generously, appreciatively, lovingly. 

He guides you back, leaning over with his hand firm to your back to ease you onto your bed, lips still locked. His body is thinking for itself as his lips swarm you, tongue gliding into yours and searching every space of your cavern. You arch into him needily, sensually, and Toji pushes further though remaining mindful not to hurt you. He wouldn’t dare. 

Your thighs lift to crowd his torso as he curves down into you, hovering over your gorgeous body. His lips crash into your cheek, over your jaw and down your neck, sliding his tongue hungrily over your skin with heady groans. Your lips part and your head tosses back onto your sheets, hushed gasps and contented sighs spilling from you, and even the noises you make are as angelic as you are. 

His large hand cradles your head as he ducks down to care for your chest, hot lips sucking over your skin like he is enjoying a meal. Your hands tighten in his hair, his mouth easing you into astounding pleasure before his lips are back on yours, more desperate, more lustful. 

“Toj…” you moan and he grunts into you, arms caging you beneath him and lower half pressing into your own. Your blurry eyes peer past strands of his hair as he consumes you, kisses you, worships you. 

“Yeah, darlin,” he exhales into your mouth as your bodies writhe against the barrier of clothing. “Talk t’me. What is it, my girl?”

“Do not… mmm, don’t leave me. Not tonight,” you plead in between weighted kisses.

Toji pulls back to look you in the eyes, hands exploring all over you. “Nothin’ could take me from you now, doll,” he swears, pupils enlarged and shrinking the green expanse of his eyes. “I’ll take good care of ya, promise. I swear on m’life. I got you, baby, I got ya.”

You whimper and his lips find yours again, kissing into you his promise of devotion.

Toji swaddles you with love for hours on end, into the early morning, molding marks of his loyalty over your stomach and down your legs, kissing over your scars, and pulling release after release from your core. He’s tender, firm but soft as he makes love to you and molds the shape of him into your essence. Imprints of your fingernails into his skin and your teeth marks into his shoulder encourage him to drag every moan, every ounce of fluid from your body. And god, you feel better than Toji could have ever envisioned. You’ve ruined him with your passion, with your pretty entranced gazes and your loving kisses, your insatiable need for him to give you more and for yourself to give him more. You’re sweet. So sweet, and Toji loves you more than himself, therefore he promises to give you what you want tonight and to return to his responsibility tomorrow.

But liking you? It didn’t feel simple. Or light. It felt… tense. Electric. Like holding a live wire between his teeth and pretending he wasn’t getting burned.

You were sitting across from him again, legs curled up on the chair like you owned every inch of this space. Like his house was just another set piece in the drama that was your life.

And yeah—you were trying now. Actually reading the material, taking notes with your pen twirling dramatically between your fingers, reciting things back with that same smug bite in your voice. But it wasn’t fake this time. You were showing up. You were trying.

Still, you couldn’t get through a paragraph without insulting someone. Or him.

“Okay, but who names their kid ‘Tokugawa’? It sounds like a bad cough drop.”

Megumi didn’t look up from his textbook. “It’s a family name.”

“Well, their whole family needs lozenges.”

He sighed. “You’re lucky I’m being paid in patience.”

You rolled your eyes. “No one’s paying you, loser.”

He muttered, “Exactly.” But he didn’t snap at you the way he used to. Not anymore.

Because somewhere between the failed midterm and your unexpected essay redemption, something shifted. You started turning pages with less sighing. Started showing up with scribbled notes and highlighted sentences. Still late. Still dramatic. Still wearing lip gloss like it was armor. But different.

You were still a brat. Still loud. Still mean, sometimes.

But you were honest. Everything that came out of your mouth, whether it was dumb, crass, or painfully sharp—it was real.

And he found himself wanting to hear more of it. All of it.

You were so fucking pretty it made his head hurt. But it wasn’t the kind of pretty people wrote poems about. It was the kind that interrupted his thoughts mid-sentence. That dragged his eyes across the curve of your smile or the annoyed flick of your wrist. That made him forget what year the Meiji Restoration happened. (1868. He remembered, eventually.)

It wasn't just the gloss on your lips or the ridiculous skirts you wore to tutoring like this was some social call. It was the way your voice pitched higher when you were actually confused, when you really wanted to understand something and didn’t know how to ask without sounding vulnerable.

Like now.

You squinted at the textbook. “Okay, this is phrased so dumb. What does ‘centralization of feudal power’ even mean? Why not just say ‘a bunch of dudes fighting to be king’? They’re so obsessed with sounding smart.”

Megumi rested his chin in his hand, watching you frown at the page like it personally offended you.

“It means uniting all the regional lords under a single authority,” he explained, calm. “It was a turning point. Less infighting, more nation-building.”

You blinked. “Could’ve just said that.”

He shrugged. “Some people enjoy full sentences.”

You stuck your tongue out, then scribbled something into your notes. “You’re lucky I’m actually writing this down.”

He didn’t respond. Just watched you.

Watched the furrow between your brows when you were focused. The gloss smudged slightly on your bottom lip. The faint ink stains on your fingers from dragging your hand over your writing. You weren’t trying to impress anyone here. Not anymore.

You weren’t posturing. You weren’t performing.

You were just… you.

And Megumi— Megumi was starting to realize he wanted to see more of that version. The one you didn’t show anyone else.

Even if you called him names. Even if you rolled your eyes every time he corrected you. Even if you would never admit how hard you were trying now. He reached for his water bottle, trying to cool the heat in his chest.

You glanced up at him suddenly. “What?”

He blinked. “What?”

“You’re staring.”

He looked away. “You’re imagining things.”

You snorted. “Ugh. You’re so annoying when you lie.”

“And you’re unbearable when you’re right.” You grinned at what he said. He didn’t.

But he did allow himself to look at you one more time—quietly, briefly—before flipping the page in the book and beginning the next topic. If this was what liking someone felt like—this quiet ache, this constant hum of attention, this need to understand every version of you—then maybe he could live with it. Even if he never said it out loud.

This wasn’t supposed to happen.

Megumi kept telling himself that—again and again like some mantra meant to ground him. Like it would rewind time, make things easier. Simpler.

You weren’t supposed to matter this much.

You were chaos. Noise. All sharp edges and unapologetic confidence, pulling attention like gravity. You cursed too much, you interrupted his explanations just to roll your eyes, and you refused—refused—to let anyone think you cared.

But you did.

He could see it now, sitting across from you as you hunched over a half-written sentence, mumbling to yourself about power structures like it wasn’t already a miracle you’d even remembered the term.

You cared so fucking much you didn’t know what to do with it.

And Megumi… didn’t either.

Because for the longest time, he thought someone like Miwa was what he wanted. She was kind. Polite. Smart. She smiled without hiding anything behind it. She was gentle in all the ways life never let him be. And she didn’t make him feel like he was unraveling every time she laughed.

Miwa was soft. Safe.

Everything that should’ve been good for him.

But she never looked at him like you did. Never challenged him. Never cut him open with a single glance and then left him there bleeding, only to stitch him up again with some bratty little smirk and a flick of your hair. You were a storm. And for some reason, his whole body leaned toward it. He glanced up again, stealing a look at you without meaning to.

You were chewing your pen now, eyes narrowed at your notes, one leg bouncing restlessly. You looked frustrated and stubborn and real. Your nails were painted, your lashes curled, and yet there was ink smeared on the edge of your palm from where you’d been writing too fast.

You weren’t perfect, but fuck, you were trying. And somehow that made you more dangerous than Miwa ever could’ve been. Because this version of you—this girl scribbling down answers like she had something to prove—this was the version that had cracked something in him open. This was the version he wanted to see again. And again. And again. He didn’t know what to do with that.

He’d spent so long keeping people at arm’s length, never letting anyone get close enough to see more than the surface. But you… you bulldozed past all of it without asking. You made him feel seen, even when he didn’t want to be. Even when it scared the hell out of him. You weren’t good for him, but somehow, you felt right. His chest tightened.

He didn’t know how to let someone in. He didn’t know what he was supposed to do with this version of you—the one who was trying, who looked up at him after answering a question like she needed him to say she’d done okay. Who still called him names but now lingered a little longer after sessions ended. He didn’t want to be this close to someone, but he already was.

And when you glanced up at him again, cocking your head and muttering, “Okay, don’t give me that face, Fushiguro. I’m not dumb, I’m just tired,”—he didn’t even bother pretending not to stare.

Because you were right. You weren’t dumb. You were just tired. Tired of being underestimated. Tired of pretending you didn’t care. Tired of being afraid of how real this could get.

And maybe… he was tired too, tired of lying to himself, because whatever this was—whatever you two were becoming—it wasn’t supposed to happen. But it did, and now Megumi didn’t know how to go back.

The halls were quieter than usual—just the low echo of shoes scuffing tile, the faint buzz of fluorescent lights, and Nobara’s voice weaving effortlessly through the silence.

“Okay, but I swear to god, if they put streamers on the ceiling again, I’m not going,” she said, flipping her hair over her shoulder as she leaned casually against the lockers beside you. “Like, we’re not in middle school. What is this, Pinterest-core depression?”

You snorted—barely. A weak smile flickered across your face, just for a second. “You’re still going?”

“Hell yeah, I am,” she grinned. “If I’m gonna suffer through a school dance, I’m at least gonna do it in heels and with free punch. And I heard they booked that DJ—the hot one.”

You blinked, distracted. “There’s a hot DJ?”

Nobara rolled her eyes. “You are so out of it.”

You shrugged. Adjusted your bracelet. Looked down the hall even though you knew who wasn’t there. “I’m not planning on going.”

She paused. “Why not?”

“I just…” You trailed off. “Doesn’t feel like my thing.”

Nobara looked at you for a second. You didn’t meet her eyes.

There was a stretch of silence, the kind only a close friend knows how to sit through without forcing you to fill. You kicked lightly at the base of your locker.

“I used to love that shit, didn’t I?” you said suddenly, voice dry. “Dances. Crowds. People staring. Picking the best dress just to make some insecure girl cry.”

“You did,” Nobara agreed with a small smile. “You were terrifying.”

You smirked, then it faded. “It doesn’t feel the same anymore.”

And she didn’t have to ask why.

Because Megumi was in your head again.

No, he was under it—rooted deep in the places you didn’t want anyone to touch. The places you’d spent years fortifying with fake smiles and sharp words and a reputation built so high no one dared climb it.

And he was climbing it anyway.

You could feel it—the weight of it all. The way he looked at you now, like he saw every version of you and didn’t flinch. The way you remembered his voice when he explained concepts to you like you were worth explaining things to. The way his hand felt when it grazed your back. The way he kissed you like he needed to remember it later.

God, you were falling. Fast. Hard. But was that good for him?

Megumi was steady. Quiet. Good in the kind of way that didn’t need to be loud to matter. He gave a shit. He noticed things. He didn’t just listen—he understood.

And you? You were sharp and petty and glittering at the edges. Built on lies and control and showstopping exits. Your whole world was curated to be untouchable, and still you let him close. Still, he got in. And now you didn’t know how to protect him from it.

From you.

You leaned back against the lockers, head tilting until it thudded against the metal.

“I don’t like Megumi,” you said suddenly.

Nobara didn’t reply. Not immediately. She just raised an eyebrow.

You added, louder, sharper, “I will never like Megumi.”

The silence afterward burned. And she didn’t argue. Didn’t call you out. Didn’t throw your words back in your face. She just tilted her head and stared at you for a long second, then said, soft and slow:

“You’re self-destructing again.”

You didn’t answer. Because what could you say? She was right. You crossed your arms tighter, like you could fold yourself in enough to stop the ache. Because you weren’t supposed to like someone like him. You weren’t supposed to want good things. You deserved Noritoshi. Men who used pretty girls as arm candy and talked circles around your feelings until you thought you were the problem. Men who didn’t care too much.

Because caring too much meant someone could leave. And Megumi? He’d never leave in pieces. He’d just leave quiet. Fully. For good. So you lied, and Nobara saw right through it, but she didn’t say a word. She just slid down to sit beside you on the floor, shoulder brushing yours, and let the silence speak for both of you.

The silence stretched for a moment longer. You stayed slumped beside Nobara against the lockers, feeling your ribcage squeeze with every inhale like your body was rejecting the truth you just spewed. But your eyes were dry now. Done sulking. Done wallowing in the hollow space between denial and regret.

You shifted, exhaled, then suddenly slapped your palm against her thigh.

“I need your help, bitch.”

Nobara blinked. “The fuck?”

You turned to her with that too-sweet, too-fake smile—the one that meant trouble. “No, I’m serious. I need your help. I’m on a mission.”

“Okay?” she said slowly, suspicious. “What mission? Did you finally realize you’re in love with Megumi and you wanna go confess on the school roof?”

You rolled your eyes so hard it nearly gave you a headache. “Ew, no. Gross. Barf. Never.”

“Uh-huh.”

You ignored her smug little grin and sat up straighter, crossing your legs like you were about to give a fucking TED Talk.

“I want to help him.”

Nobara stared. “…Help who?”

“Megumi, dumbass.”

She blinked. “Didn’t you already help him? You know, with the whole unvirginizing him thing?”

You snorted. “Oh my god, shut up. That wasn’t—I mean, okay, yes, I helped him with the sex thing. You’re welcome, by the way.”

“I didn’t say thank you.”

“Whatever, you should. I performed a civic duty.”

Nobara was biting her knuckle to hold back a laugh. “So what now? You’re launching a full-blown Megumi makeover arc?”

You clapped your hands once, sharp. “Exactly.”

“You’re serious.”

You grabbed her arm. “Look at me. Dead serious. We—I—need to fix the situation.”

“And what exactly is the situation, princess?”

You stood, pacing a little now like this was a war room briefing. “Megumi dresses like a damn divorced math professor who lost custody of his kids. I’m talking black-on-black, sad hoodie, never met a comb, wouldn’t know swagger if it slapped him.”

“He’s always been like that.”

“Exactly. And it’s criminal. Have you seen that body?!” you shouted, arms flailing. “Like, holy fuck, he’s hiding all of that under a zip-up and shame.”

Nobara wheezed.

“I’m telling you,” you said, pointing at her. “We need to fix his wardrobe. Change his hair. Show him what looking good actually feels like. Because Megumi Fushiguro being that hot in secret? That’s a sin.”

“Maybe he doesn’t care about that stuff,” Nobara offered, still smiling. “Not everyone wants to be a runway reject.”

“Well, he should,” you snapped. “Because people don’t see him right now. They don’t get it. He blends in like he wants to disappear.”

Nobara raised an eyebrow. “And you want him to stand out.”

You paused. Then slowly shrugged, crossing your arms again, eyes a little softer.

“…Yeah. I do.” Because people should look at him the way you did now. Like he mattered. Like he was there. Like he wasn’t just some sad genius background character who kept his head down until graduation. He deserved better than that.

And if he didn’t know how to show it, you’d do it for him. You grinned again. Bright. Dangerous. “So are you in or what, bitch?”

Nobara gave a mock sigh and stood up next to you, brushing dust off her skirt. “God, this is gonna be chaotic.”

You linked your arm through hers. “That’s the goal.”

And in the back of your mind, you weren’t just thinking about new jackets or hair wax. You were thinking about him, and this time, you were going to do it right.

“No.” Megumi said it flatly. Instantly. Without even turning his head.

He stood stiffly in the middle of the men’s section at a massive, modern shopping mall, surrounded by racks of jackets and hangers with carefully folded shirts. A goddamn fluorescent spotlight beamed down on his disheveled black hoodie like it was about to be burned in some sacrificial ceremony.

“No,” he said again, like it was final. You grinned like it wasn’t.

“Oh, come on, Fushiguro,” you groaned, dramatically flopping a blazer over your arm like it was a dying animal. “Live a little. It’s not like I dragged you here under false pretenses.”

“You said it was an emergency,” he said without blinking, staring dead ahead at a mannequin in cargo pants.

You beamed. “It was. Your wardrobe.” Beside you, Nobara cackled, holding up a dark olive button-down like she was choosing weapons in an armory. “Honestly, she’s right. You dress like an apocalypse survivor. And not in a hot, Mad Max way—just... sad.”

“I didn’t ask,” Megumi muttered, adjusting the strap of the messenger bag slung across his chest like it was his only armor left in this cursed environment.

“You never ask for anything,” you snapped, shoving a rack aside to step closer. “That’s the whole problem. You’re allergic to being perceived.”

“I don’t care what people think.”

“Yeah, we know,” Nobara muttered. “The problem is we do.”

You jabbed a finger at him. “You’d rather walk around looking like a tax fraud suspect than admit you’re hot. It’s actually insane.”

“I’m not—” He cut himself off and glared. “This is pointless.”

“Oh my god. Fushiguro. You literally do martial arts. You could break someone’s jaw with your pinkie and yet you’re scared of trying on a fuckin’ jacket?”

Megumi turned toward you now, his brows furrowed, that signature exasperated glare leveled straight at your face. “I’m not scared. I just don’t care about stupid shit like this.”

“Well maybe you should!” you snapped, stepping closer. “Maybe people would take you seriously for once if you looked like you had your life together instead of like you live in a supply closet!”

“I don’t care what people think,” he growled, arms crossing.

“Not even Miwa?” you said, biting your lip with a smug grin.

That made him pause. Even Nobara blinked. “Wait what the fuck—”

“Oops,” you said sweetly, tilting your head. “Was that too honest?”

Megumi’s jaw tensed, and for a second he looked like he wanted to walk directly into oncoming traffic.

“She doesn’t—” he started, then stopped himself. “That has nothing to do with this.”

“You like her,” you sing-songed. “And she’s all proper and polite and whatever. You really think she’s gonna look twice at you when you show up to events looking like a prison escapee?”

“That’s low,” he muttered.

“You know what else is low? Your pants. You don’t even wear a belt, it’s a miracle they’re not around your ankles right now.”

Nobara wheezed.

“You’re both insane,” Megumi muttered, dragging a hand down his face.

“No, we’re fashion-forward,” you corrected, shoving a clean white T-shirt into his hands. “And this is an intervention.”

“I’m not putting this on.”

“Why?” you narrowed your eyes. “Scared I’ll see your abs again and have a full mental breakdown in the dressing room?”

Nobara choked. “Not again?!”

“You’re not helping,” Megumi growled, shooting her a glare.

“I am helping,” she chirped, tossing him a tan jacket. “Helping your hopeless ass look fuckable.”

“Please die,” Megumi said under his breath.

You shoved the clothes into his arms. “Three outfits. Try on three. Then you can go back to your corner of despair.”

He looked at you. Really looked at you. And for a second, it was like he saw something soft behind the snark.

You rolled your eyes before he could say anything. “Don’t get sentimental, bitch. Try on the fuckin’ shirt.”

And Megumi—muttering obscenities under his breath—finally walked toward the fitting rooms.

You high-fived Nobara like you’d just summoned a demon.

It wasn’t just about clothes. Not really. It was about showing him the version of himself the world deserved to see. And goddamn, he was going to shine. Even if it killed you.

He stepped out of the fitting room with the same flat expression he always wore when he was forced into anything mildly humiliating—shoulders stiff, jaw clenched, hair slightly more disheveled than usual like he’d run his hands through it five too many times in frustration.

But none of that registered. Because the second Megumi walked out, wearing a black shirt that hugged his torso like a second skin and dark jeans that—oh fuck—sat criminally well on his hips, every cell in your body short-circuited.

Your mouth opened. Nothing came out. Your brain? Vacant. Your heart? Punching itself in the face.

He looked… hot. Not “cute” hot. Not the quiet-guy-who-reads-in-corners hot. No. He looked like someone who should be banned from public spaces. Like someone who’d lean against a bar with his hands in his pockets and get phone numbers without speaking.

And he had the audacity to look annoyed about it. He stood in front of you, arms stiff at his sides, clearly uncomfortable but trying not to show it. “Well?”

You didn’t answer. You couldn’t. You were still staring. His biceps shifted beneath the sleeves—those same arms that used to cross in irritation when you were being a brat during tutoring. Now they just looked… solid. Defined. Powerful. The shirt clung to the dip of his waist, the muscle of his chest, and you were going feral.

“Earth to bitch,” Nobara said, elbowing you sharply. “You’re drooling.”

You blinked. “Am not.”

Megumi raised an eyebrow. “You’re quiet.”

You swallowed. Hard.

“Yeah, so?” you snapped. But it came out breathier than you wanted. You turned away like it might give your sanity a fighting chance. “Shirt’s tight. You look like a douchebag.”

Nobara snorted. Megumi crossed his arms. “Is that supposed to be bad?”

Your eyes flicked back to him without meaning to. “No. I mean. Yes. I mean—shut the fuck up.”

His lips twitched. Just a little. Barely there. You were going to combust.

You forced a scoff, grabbing the next outfit from the chair. “This isn’t even the best one. Get back in there, Fushiguro.”

But even as he rolled his eyes and turned away, the image burned into your skull. You hadn’t seen this version of him before. You didn’t know what to do with this version of him.

And the worst part? He didn’t even know what he was doing to you.

He didn’t know he’d just shifted something in you—something real, something terrifying. Because for the first time in a long time… you were speechless.

Megumi stepped out again.

Different outfit, same unbothered expression—except this time, it was worse.

This time, he was wearing a fitted white button-up, sleeves rolled to his elbows, top two buttons undone, hanging slightly open like he gave zero fucks about propriety. Paired with a pair of dark, loose slacks that cinched perfectly at his waist, he looked like he belonged on the cover of some Calvin Klein campaign where the tagline was “Silence is seductive.”

And maybe that was what made it worse.

Because this wasn’t your Megumi.

Not the one who clicked his tongue at your mistakes. Not the one who made you repeat Civics dates until you cried out of rage and not frustration. Not the one who looked soft in the corners of his eyes when he thought you weren’t paying attention.

No—this Megumi was different.

Sharp. Composed. Dangerous.

He didn’t even glance at you at first. Just adjusted his sleeves slowly, hands veined and calm, like he had no idea he was doing things to your soul. But maybe he did. Because when his eyes finally flicked up, they went straight to yours. Quiet. Direct. Unrelenting.

And you forgot how to breathe. Nobara beat you to it.

“Holy fuck,” she breathed, literally grabbing the rack next to her for support. “You’re lying to me. You’re not real.”

Megumi frowned. “It’s just a shirt.”

“It’s the shirt of Gods,” she corrected. “You look like you kill people with a fountain pen and then drink black coffee over their grave.”

He raised a brow. “That’s specific.”

“I have taste.”

You didn’t say anything. Because what could you say?

You were the one who dragged him here. The one who started this whole thing. The one who picked out that shirt because it might look good and—

Now you couldn’t even speak.

It looked too good.

Your heart was racing like a traitor. Your fingers itched to fidget with something—your bag strap, your hair, his fucking shirt, maybe.

“Looks fine,” you muttered, arms crossed tight, refusing to meet his eyes again.

“Fine?” Megumi echoed, voice laced with just enough sarcasm to light your entire body on fire.

“Yeah, fine. Don’t get cocky.”

Nobara gave you a look.

“Is that why you’ve been standing there in complete silence for a full thirty seconds? Because it’s fine?”

“I was just thinking,” you snapped.

“Thinking about how hard you’d let him rail you on a school desk—?”

“SHUT THE FUCK UP,” you and Megumi yelled at the same time, both whirling on her.

Nobara just raised her brows and held her hands up. “Okay, okay. Lovers’ quarrel. Got it.”

You turned away, ears burning. “We’re not—”

“Don’t even start,” Megumi muttered under his breath, clearly flustered too, tugging at the sleeves of his shirt like they were suffocating him now.

But you both went silent again.

Your pulse wouldn’t slow. You watched him out of the corner of your eye. The way the collar of that shirt dipped into the line of his collarbone. The way his jaw tensed like he was holding something in.

And all you could think was: You did this. You made him look like this. And now? You didn’t know how to handle it.

Megumi looked like he was about to say something—anything to break the electric tension crawling between you. His hand lifted slightly, hovering awkwardly at his side as if caught between reaching for a hanger or snapping it in half.

Then he sighed. “Can someone help me with this—?”

Nobara perked up from the bench. “Well, I’ll go find something else. You two—” she wiggled her fingers, “figure that out.”

Before you could even open your mouth to tell her not to leave you alone with him—again—she was gone.

And then it was just the two of you.

Megumi still standing in front of the changing room door, looking disarmingly good in that white button-up and slacks, hair slightly damp from sweat, the scent of soap and something distinctly him still clinging to his skin.

Your heartbeat spiked.

“I can help,” you muttered, stepping forward before your brain could catch up with your mouth.

He didn’t say anything—just looked at you.

And that was all it took.

Because the moment you reached for the edge of the changing room curtain, Megumi grabbed your wrist, pulled—and you stumbled right into him.

The door clicked shut behind you.

And then he kissed you.

Hard.

His mouth was on yours before you could even breathe. No warning, no question, just heat—his hands gripping your waist like he couldn’t stand the space between your bodies a second longer.

Your gasp broke the kiss, but he chased it, tongue sweeping against yours, messy and desperate, like he’d been waiting to do this since the second you walked into the store.

“Megumi—” you mumbled against his mouth, but it came out half-strangled because he was already backing you against the mirror, crowding your body, and hitching one of your thighs up around his waist.

His grip was rough. Possessive. Your skirt bunched around your hips as he lifted you with ease, hands firm beneath your thighs, grinding against your clothed core like he didn’t give a shit who might be outside that curtain.

“Fuck,” he muttered against your throat, kissing the skin there like he was punishing it. “You drive me insane.”

Your head thudded against the mirror, fingers threading into his hair, yanking hard enough to make him groan against your neck. “You’re one to talk.”

But he didn’t answer—not with words.

He rolled his hips again, and the pressure made you arch into him, your breath hitching. Everything was so close—the heat of him, the taste of him, the sheer pressure of his body against yours. You felt like you were going to combust.

Clothes still on. Dignity long gone.

And he was still kissing you like he needed it to breathe.

Your hands fumbled with the collar of his shirt, dragging him closer—tighter—as your lips crashed together again. There was nothing soft about this. No hesitation. Just heat, and sweat, and the dizzying, aching need you both pretended didn’t exist for weeks.

And now it was here. Now he was here. And you didn’t want it to stop.

Not when his hands were sliding under your top. Not when your legs were trembling around his waist. Not when his tongue was in your mouth like he wanted to swallow every bratty word you ever spat at him.

But then— Voices outside. Faint. Distant. Still enough to pull you back.

You both froze. Megumi didn’t let you go.

But his breathing was uneven now, lips brushing yours in a breathless drag, like he didn’t want to stop—like he didn’t know how.

Your voice was barely a whisper. “Gumi…”

He stared at you.

And you stared back. Chest heaving. Skirt still hitched. Mouth swollen. Something unspoken burning between you. And that’s where you stayed—hovering between whatever this was… and whatever came next.

His breath hit your lips, warm and ragged. His forehead rested against yours for a moment—then pulled back just far enough to see your face.

You were quiet.

Too quiet.

And Megumi noticed.

His brows furrowed. His eyes narrowed—not in anger, but in concern. His hand, still hot from where it had been gripping your thigh, slid up slowly, brushing over your waist until it curled gently under your jaw.

“I don’t like it when you’re quiet,” he muttered, voice low and hoarse, like it scraped the edges of something unspoken.

You blinked up at him, stunned silent by the sudden shift in him—the switch from that sharp, cold, untouchable Megumi to this. This boy whose hand now held your chin with careful fingers. Whose voice trembled with the weight of something softer.

“I’m fine,” you said, trying to muster up the usual bitchy confidence, the bratty armor you always wore like second skin.

But it cracked.

Just a little.

Megumi didn’t let it slide. He tilted your chin up gently, enough to make your gaze meet his again.

“Don’t do that,” he said quietly. “Don’t lie to me.”

His thumb brushed along your cheekbone, his stare unwavering. Still cold. Still composed. But that softness was there now—simmering beneath it all like a secret only you got to see.

“Tell me what’s wrong, pretty.”

Your lips parted, but the words caught. You swallowed thickly, breath catching at the name. The way he said it—pretty—wasn’t sarcastic or mocking. It wasn’t a jab or a joke or some arrogant dig.

It was… warm, and that scared you more than anything.

“It’s nothing,” you whispered, voice thinner than you wanted it to be. “It’s not a big deal.”

Megumi didn’t move. He didn’t push or pressure or pull away. He just kept his hand where it was, thumb dragging over your jaw as his eyes searched your face for the truth.

“Then why won’t you look at me the same?” he asked, quieter now. “You’ve been avoiding it. You’ve been avoiding me.”

You breathed in sharply, back pressing against the mirror again, like it might absorb you whole. You hated this. Hated how naked it made you feel.

He was supposed to be the awkward one.

You were supposed to be untouchable.

So why the fuck did it feel like he was the only one who ever looked at you like he saw you?

“I’m not avoiding you,” you muttered, half-hearted.

You said nothing.

Not right away. Not when he was still holding you like that, arms strong and steady beneath your thighs, chest pressed to yours like he hadn’t just kissed the air out of your lungs.

So he dropped you.

Not harshly—but suddenly. Like he was testing you.

Your back hit the changing room wall with a gentle thud, your heels barely catching the floor before your knees almost buckled. You looked up at him, breathless, heart a mess, mascara smudged just enough to betray what had just happened.

And still—you smiled.

Smug. Crooked. Unbothered.

The kind of smile that always got you out of trouble. The kind of smile that meant game on.

“Don’t worry,” you said, smoothing your hair with both hands, the lace of your skirt riding scandalously high on your thighs. “I’m good.”

Megumi didn’t respond right away. He just stood there, bare chest rising and falling, hair damp, lips still slightly parted.

“You sure?” he asked, voice lower now. Quieter. A little cautious.

You nodded. “A hundred percent.”

And before he could say anything else—before you had the chance to crack even further—you turned around and opened the changing room door.

Nobara was standing right outside, arms crossed, one brow arched like she’d been waiting hours instead of minutes.

She gave you one long, slow look from head to toe.

Your skirt was wrinkled. Your lipstick was smudged. Your hair was a war crime.

“Well damn,” she said, deadpan. “Did he fuck the physics into you or what?”

You rolled your eyes and shoved past her with a scoff. “Shut up.”

“I’m just saying,” Nobara chirped, following you down the hall. “Your hair looks like it got into a fight with gravity. And lost.”

You reached up instinctively to fix it, still feeling Megumi’s hands on your waist, his mouth on your neck.

You didn’t say anything. But the smile on your face didn’t fade. Not even a little.

“Okay, seriously,” you said, deadpan, staring at Megumi like he just kicked a puppy. “What the fuck is on your head.”

Megumi blinked, genuinely confused. “My hair?”

“No, your tragic decision-making, obviously it’s your hair,” you snapped, arms crossed. “Why does it look like a hedgehog lost a fight with a blender?”

Nobara burst out laughing behind you, flopping onto your bed with a snort. “Oh my god—thank you. I didn’t wanna say anything at the mall, but it’s atrocious. He looks like he cut it himself during an earthquake.”

Megumi frowned, defensive now, dragging a hand through the spiky mess. “It’s just… messy.”

“Messy?” you echoed. “No. Messy is a tousled ‘I-just-got-fucked-against-a-wall’ kind of hot. This?” You circled him like a shark, squinting at the disaster on his scalp. “This is ‘I got electrocuted in the shower and didn’t notice.’”

He turned slightly to Nobara, as if for help. She just smirked and held her hands up. “Don’t look at me, Fushiguro. I’ve been trying to say this since the first day we met. You’ve got good bone structure and awful hair.”

Megumi muttered something that sounded dangerously close to “I hate both of you.”

But you weren’t having it.

“Oh no, you’re not getting out of this now,” you said, grabbing his sleeve and dragging him toward your vanity like a man being marched to execution. “You let me bring you to the mall, you let me pick your clothes, and now? You’re letting me fix the national tragedy that is your hairstyle.”

“I never agreed to this,” he said, digging in his heels halfway across your carpet. “This wasn’t part of the deal.”

You whipped around, inches from his face. “You’re hot now, Fushiguro. It’s your moral responsibility to have a hairdo that doesn’t look like it was styled by a weed whacker.”

“I liked it,” he muttered under his breath.

“I liked it,” you mocked in a high-pitched voice. “Oh my god, he’s got feelings. Someone call the news.”

Nobara snorted. “Y/N, be nice.”

You rolled your eyes and shoved him into the chair in front of your vanity. “No. He deserves violence. Emotional or physical, I haven’t decided yet.”

Megumi looked at himself in the mirror, then back at you, clearly regretting every life choice that led him to this point. “If you burn my scalp—”

“I will set you on fire on purpose if you keep complaining.”

“You’re terrifying,” he muttered, glaring as you sprayed water on his head.

You grinned. “I know.”

Nobara watched from your bed, sipping a boba drink she clearly found from your mini-fridge. “So what’s the plan, boss? We chopping it? Styling it? Shaving it off so he can start over?”

“Not shaving,” you said immediately, combing through his damp hair with a level of focus that would’ve shocked your teachers. “This bitch has potential. It just needs to be tamed.”

Megumi scoffed. “You make it sound like a wild animal.”

“That’s because it is, babe,” Nobara said helpfully.

You held up a strand and narrowed your eyes. “It’s giving ‘slept with my head in a microwave.’ Like, what is the texture? What is the shape? Where is the respect?”

Megumi rolled his eyes. “It’s not that bad.”

You and Nobara turned to him in unison.

“Yes,” Nobara said solemnly. “It is.”

“It’s a violation of basic human decency,” you added.

Megumi leaned back in the chair like a condemned man. “Do whatever you want. I’m already dead inside.”

You grinned. “That’s the spirit.”

You and Nobara circled Megumi like vultures, armed with a spray bottle, two combs, a round brush, and enough styling product to open a pop-up salon. He sat rigidly in your vanity chair like he was preparing for surgery, eyes narrowed at his reflection as you pulled his hair back and forth with clinical precision.

“I swear to god, if this makes it worse—”

“Shut up,” you snapped, misting his head aggressively. “You gave up the right to complain the second you walked in here with this disaster on your scalp.”

“It’s not a disaster,” he muttered, grimacing as Nobara tugged a chunk of hair upright with a teasing comb.

“You’re right,” Nobara chimed in sweetly. “It’s a catastrophe.”

You couldn’t help the laugh that slipped out. “It looks like it’s been styled with a spoon and a prayer.”

Megumi groaned audibly. “Why are you both so dramatic?”

“Because we have eyes,” Nobara said.

“And standards,” you added.

It took longer than it should have—spraying, combing, trimming flyaways, arguing over center part versus side part, threatening to shave it all off entirely—but eventually, after a blur of movement and bickering and way too many close calls with Nobara’s flat iron, you took a step back.

You stared at him. Silently.

The spikes were still there—sharp, unruly, unapologetically him—but now they were tamed, softened in shape, styled with a cleaner edge that actually made sense with his face. Not too polished, not too wild. Balanced.

Dangerously so.

Because it brought out everything.

His cheekbones. The cut of his jaw. The deep-set steel blue of his eyes. It was like finally seeing a painting under the right lighting.

And you hated how hard your chest clenched.

“Oh,” Nobara said, her voice soft with shock. “Oh, you’re handsome-handsome.”

You flinched out of your trance. “Calm your fucking tits.”

Nobara ignored you, walking around to get a better view. “Y/N, we really did that. We should be charging for this.”

Megumi, still blinking at his reflection like he wasn’t sure what universe he was in, murmured, “It’s... better?”

“You look hot,” Nobara said bluntly.

“I said calm—”

“No, I’m serious. I didn’t know your face looked like that under all the porcupine static.” She turned to you. “Now—glasses.”

“Wait, what’s wrong with his glasses?” you and Megumi said at the same time, both frowning.

Nobara rolled her eyes. “Nothing’s wrong with them. But let’s just see. For science.”

“I need them to see,” Megumi deadpanned.

“Then close your eyes for two seconds and survive.”

Before either of you could protest again, she plucked the frames off his face.