< F A N D O M Y A P P I N G >

Pairing: yandere!Toga x fem!Hero!Reader

| Word Count |: 1400

🔞|| NSFW MINORS DO NOT INTERACT ||🔞

Summary:

Toga’s been following you for weeks.

You’re smart. Strong. Dead set on stopping her.

So of course, she fell in love.

And now she wants you.

Just one taste.

You knew something was wrong the second the air went still.

The warehouse was supposed to be empty—just a blip on the radar, a clean-up mission. One villain signature. Solo job.

But the moment you stepped inside, it was quiet.

Too quiet.

You barely had time to curse before something sharp jabbed the side of your neck.

“Fucking—shit—!”

Your hand shot up, but it was already too late. Heat bloomed under your skin. You staggered, legs turning to jelly, everything tilting sideways.

Laughter echoed from the rafters. Sweet. High-pitched. Wrong.

The last thing you saw before you hit the ground was gold eyes. Wide. Starved.

When you come to, your arms are bound—shoulders aching, wrists pinned behind the smooth curve of a wooden chair.

Silk.

Of course she’d use silk.

You snarl, testing the restraints. They tighten. Every movement makes the ropes hug tighter, like they want to keep you here. Like they’re alive.

“Tsk tsk~” comes a sing-song voice. “You’ll make the ribbon sad if you pull like that.”

Then she’s there.

Himiko Toga. Barefoot. Smiling. Carrying a knife like it’s a teddy bear.

You glare. “You better let me go, you weirdo.”

“Oooo~ You’re spicy!” she giggles, eyes sparkling. “I love that.”

She skips closer, pressing her face way too close to yours. “I mean, I already loved you, but now? Now it’s forever.”

You scoff. You don’t know anything about love.”

Her smile goes sharper.

“You bled for people who don’t even see you,” she whispers. “But I see everything.”

The air is thick. Your skin is… hypersensitive. Too warm. Too aware of how close she is.

Whatever she hit you with is still working. Your pulse is pounding in all the wrong places.

You squirm. “What did you give me?!”

She shrugs. “Just a little~ Something to help you stop lying to yourself.”

“Go to hell.”

Her knife clinks softly to the floor.

Then she climbs into your lap.

You struggle, but your limbs feel drugged and slow.

“Ohh,” she coos, brushing sweaty strands of hair from your cheek, “you’re trying so hard to be good. But your body already knows.”

She kisses the corner of your mouth.

You whip your head to the side, hissing. “Don’t dare touch me.”

“Too late~” she sings. “I already did.”

She trails her fingers down your throat, slow, almost reverent.

“You always fight like this,” she murmurs, eyes half-lidded. “So angry. So beautiful. But I saw the way you looked at me the last time we fought. Your eyes shook. Your hands shook.”

“Because I was gonna break your nose.”

“But you didn’t.”

Toga leans in, fangs brushing your earlobe.

“And now you’re here. Dripping heat. Tied up for me.”

Your skin’s on fire now.

You hate it.

You hate how good her fingers feel on your thigh. You hate that your body responds, hips twitching just a little when she straddles you fully.

You growl. “You’re insane.”

She hums, licking your neck.

“You’re mine.”

She doesn’t bite yet. Just tastes. Licking up the sweat behind your ear. Sucking gently at your collarbone. Her hands slide under your shirt, cold fingers on hot skin.

You twist your wrists again, frustrated tears pricking the corners of your eyes.

“Stop pretending,” she whispers. “If you really wanted me gone, you’d scream.”

You don’t scream.

You can’t.

Your voice gets caught in your throat when she grinds her hips down.

Your lips part in a gasp—and she takes it.

Her mouth is everywhere now.

Trailing kisses down your neck, your chest, your stomach. Her hands pushing, tugging, sliding under fabric like she’s opening a gift. You squirm, but your body betrays you completely—aching for more, hungry in a way that makes you sick and desperate.

“See?” she breathes, biting gently at your navel. “You love this.”

“I—Fuck—Toga—”

“Say it again.”

She hooks a finger under the waistband of your pants, dragging it down slowly, eyes dark with want. Her thigh presses between yours again—and this time, you grind.

She moans. Loud. Real. Unhinged.

You curse under your breath. “You drugged me. You—”

“But you want me now,” she purrs. “Doesn’t that mean it’s real?”

You should push her away.

You should be stronger.

But when her fingers slide lower—past shame, past resistance—you arch into her touch.

And when her lips crash into yours again, you kiss her back.

It’s heat. It’s madness.

It’s her mouth on yours, breathless and hungry, her tongue teasing like she wants to taste every inch of your soul. Your hands are free now—she untied you without you noticing—and you don’t pull away.

You clutch her hair. Tug her closer.

You pull her in.

She sighs like she’s just won everything.

“You feel so good, baby,” she whimpers. “So soft. So mine.”

She finally bites you then.

Not hard. Just enough.

Just one taste.

When it’s over—whatever this was—you’re both a mess.

Your shirt’s half off, exposing your bra. Your skin is marked in kisses and blood and silk.

She cradles you like something precious. Your head rests against her chest.

You’re too dazed to move. Too tired to lie.

She whispers, “You don’t need to go back. Not to them.”

You don’t answer.

But you don’t push her away either.

A/N: I’ve started watching Demon Slayer, and I am soooooo sorry, I’ve been on break so, I’ve not been posting, so heres the apology. My first demon slayer fic which goes out to all of my fellow girls like girls people

Pairing: yandere!Nezuko x fem!Reader

Length: ~1200 words

Nezuko never spoke.

You were used to it—her silence, her soft looks, the way she curled into herself like something precious and half-broken. But she never needed words anyway. Not with you.

Not when she braided your hair in the mornings while you cleaned your blade. Not when she brushed soil from your knees after missions, her thumb lingering too long on your skin. Not when she pressed wildflowers into your hands like offerings—never picked, always stolen, like she knew where the rarest ones grew. Even ones no one else could reach.

You asked once, “Where did you find this?”

She just blinked, pink eyes wide and quiet, then offered you another one.

That was months ago.

Now you sit on the engawa, twilight bleeding into the courtyard, and you can feel her gaze on the back of your neck. You don’t turn. You don’t need to. You know it’s her.

She’s always there when the light goes low.

Always watching.

The ribbon appears after your fourth mission together. Soft pink silk, stained just a little at the ends. You wake up with it tied loosely around your wrist.

You think it’s a prank at first. Then you see Nezuko sitting at the doorway, legs folded under her, hands folded in her lap. Quiet. Waiting.

She tilts her head at you. Smiles.

There’s dirt under her fingernails.

You don’t take the ribbon off.

At first, it’s… sweet. Maybe even comforting.

She’s never far. You start to notice she walks behind you, not beside. Like a shadow. You go to the market and she never touches anything, but her eyes scan every stall for things you might like. You smile at something and she tugs gently at your sleeve, coins already clutched in her hand.

You say, “You don’t have to do that.”

She just looks at you.

That night, she leaves sweet plums on your pillow.

You eat them.

You dream about teeth.

The other girls tease you.

“She’s obsessed,” Sumi giggles.

“She follows you like a lost dog,” Aoi adds.

“I think it’s cute,” Kiyo says. “She likes you.”

You laugh it off, cheeks burning. But that night, you find a new ribbon—this one red—wrapped around the hilt of your blade. You stare at it too long.

When you look up, she’s in the doorway again. Smiling. Not blinking.

You say, “You know I can’t keep these, right?”

She steps closer.

Then she kneels, fingers brushing the hem of your uniform. With slow, deliberate care… she ties the red ribbon around your wrist.

When it happens, it happens quietly.

You’ve been spending time with a healer girl—a newbie. You thought Nezuko wouldn’t mind. She didn’t seem jealous, just… quiet.

But then one day, the healer doesn’t show up.

You ask around. She’s not in the infirmary. She’s not on a mission. No one seems to know where she went.

That night, Nezuko appears at your door, barefoot and bleeding.

You gasp. “What happened?!”

She walks past you without a word, trailing dirt and flower petals. There’s a cut across her cheek, but she doesn’t seem to notice it.

She sets something on your bed.

A ribbon.

It’s the same color the healer wore in her hair.

You don’t sleep that night.

You start to realize things too late.

She always knows where you are.

She never lets you leave without touching your wrist.

You’ve never seen her sleep.

And the flowers she brings now? They’re wilting.

They’re darker.

They smell like graves.

Still, she doesn’t hurt you. Not ever.

She brings you warm rice balls. She hums tunelessly when she brushes your hair. Her hands are soft. Her smile is shy. She wraps her arms around your waist from behind and rests her cheek between your shoulder blades.

And somehow that’s worse.

Because it makes you want to trust her.

Even when you’re scared.

One morning, you try to go on a mission without saying goodbye.

By noon, Nezuko’s standing in the middle of the road, blocking your path, blood spattered across her sleeves. You freeze.

She raises her hands slowly, as if to sign something.

But then she just… takes your wrist.

And ties the ribbon tighter.

You try to speak.

She touches your lips gently, her fingers smelling like iron and roses.

And you say nothing.

You don’t leave her again.

You start wearing the ribbons like jewelry. Around your wrist. Your ankle. Sometimes braided into your hair. She watches with reverence when you do it, like you’re an altar and she’s the only worshipper left.

You try not to ask what happened to the healer. Or the merchant girl you smiled at last week. Or the crow that never came back after squawking too close to your window.

Nezuko still never says a word.

But when she touches your face, she’s trembling.

When she hugs you, it feels like a plea.

And when she buries her head in your neck, you swear you hear her whisper:

“don’t leave me.”

You never take the ribbons off.

Not anymore.

Even when you sleep.

Even when you bathe.

Even when they itch.

You ask yourself if this is love.

You ask yourself if it matters.

Because Nezuko is quiet.

Nezuko is kind.

Nezuko is yours.

And sometimes—only sometimes—you think:

what does the MHA fandom ship more?

I've been feeling down lately because of a group project team that I'm in. They take every opportunity to degrade me/ belittle me / criticized me and make fun of me in front of me as if I'm that oblivious and dumb, just bcz I made a few mistake and have a misunderstanding with them.

So I want to know how jjk men (Preferably Nanami) would react/ respond/ comfort us.

If this request made u struggle/ uncomfortable, feel free to ignore. Thank u ❤

A/N NOTE: BRO. I GET THIS SO MUCH! I’m sorry, I picked random jjk men, let me know if its a terrible set and I need to pick again. I totally get the struggle, but just do your part, and if you get a bad grade, just know it WON’T be your fault, it will be faulted on those who half-assed the group project. I wrote this fast cause you motivated me! Also, its a perfect comfort fluff if its real, so I hope you don’t mind that I used your struggle in my writing. (I know, im evil…) the authors note has never been this long before… a new world record.

✅ Chapter 1: Messy Hair, Big Heart |Satoru Gojo|

The moment you step into the apartment, Gojo already knows something’s off.

He’s still in his sweatpants, hair loose and soft, a half-eaten bowl of cereal on the couch. But he drops the spoon the second he sees your face.

“Hey, hey, hey. Who do I have to fight?”

You give him a tired look and kick off your shoes, muttering, “No one. Just… my stupid group project.”

He opens his arms. “Come here, pretty.”

You melt into him, and his arms wrap around you like the fluffiest blanket in the universe. He smells like sugar and shampoo. His cheek rests against your head, and for a minute, you just stand there breathing.

“They made me do everything,” you finally whisper. “And then had the nerve to critique my work during the presentation.”

Gojo pulls back just enough to look at you. “That’s it. I’m making a voodoo doll.”

You snort.

“I’m serious,” he says. “Gonna name it chad or brad or whatever their basic names are. Then I’ll poke it with a candy cane. You giggle, even though your eyes are still puffy. He gently guides you to the couch, pulls your legs over his lap, and starts stroking your back with featherlight fingers.

“Babe,” he says softly, “you work harder than anyone I know. If they couldn’t see your brilliance, that’s their L.”

You rest your head on his chest. “I felt invisible.”

“Not to me.” He kisses your temple. “To me, you shine so bright I need sunglasses inside.”

You groan into his shirt. “Stop being smooth.”

“Can’t help it,” he hums, smiling into your hair. “Loving you is easy.”

And for once, the stress softens—because being in Gojo’s arms feels like being seen in full color again.

✅ Chapter 2: Extra Ice Cream, No Judgment |Yuji Itadori|

You hadn’t even opened your mouth when Yuji answered the door and immediately frowned.

“You’re making that face,” he said, stepping aside to let you in.

“What face?”

“The one that says, ‘I didn’t cry, but I wanted to.’”

You sighed and dropped your bag onto the floor a little too hard. His place smelled like the vanilla candles he always forgot he lit, and something vaguely toasty—maybe the popcorn he was halfway through burning.

“Group project,” you muttered. “Worst one yet.”

He made a soft sound and gently took your hand, guiding you to the couch like you might break.

“Tell me everything,” he said, handing you a soft hoodie that smelled like him—clean laundry and a little like wood smoke. “And wear this. Comfort protocol engaged.”

You tugged it on and curled up next to him. “They didn’t do anything. I sent outlines. Assigned parts. Follow-ups. Literally everything. Day of the presentation? One of them said I wasn’t being collaborative enough.”

Yuji blinked, stunned. “…Did they hit their heads before saying that?”

“No, but I wish they had.”

He nodded solemnly. “Violent thoughts approved. Do I need to go beat someone up with kindness? Like… aggressively help them carry their stuff until they cry?”

You huffed a laugh. “You’re ridiculous.”

“Only for you,” he said, handing you a blanket and pulling you close.

He didn’t push. Didn’t try to fix it. Just let you sit there, legs tangled, sharing silence and soft breathing until the tension in your shoulders started to ebb. Then he got up and disappeared into the kitchen.

“I’m making us feel-better bowls,” he called out. “Extra ice cream. Gummy bears. Chocolate chips. No judgment.”

When he returned, you were already tearing up again—but this time, from the way he handed you a bowl like it was an offering.

“I didn’t even do it that well,” you muttered. “The project. I was too tired to make it perfect.”

Yuji put his bowl down, cupped your cheeks in his hands, and looked you dead in the eye. “You did amazing. And even if it wasn’t perfect, you still showed up. You still gave it your all. That’s badass.”

You sniffled. “I hate that you’re so nice.”

He grinned. “Nah. You love that I’m nice.”

You tried to protest, but he leaned in and kissed the corner of your forehead gently—like it was the most normal thing in the world.

“Seriously,” he said, voice soft now. “You matter. You’re not just smart—you’re kind. You care about things. You try. And people like that? They’re rare. You’re rare.”

Your face burned, and your eyes stung again, but this time it didn’t hurt. It felt warm. Like maybe being understood was its own kind of healing.

You reached for his hand and squeezed it, and he squeezed back—twice, like he always did.

You didn’t need to say it, but somehow, in the quiet, you both knew:

You weren’t alone in this. Not when you had Yuji.

✅ Chapter 3: Tea, Tired Eyes, and You |Nanami Kento|

When you knock on Nanami’s door just after nine, you’re convinced he won’t answer.

He’s always in bed early. Routine man. Tidy. Predictable.

But when the door swings open and you see him in a soft gray tee and sweats, tie nowhere in sight, he says only this:

“You’re late.”

You blink, confused. “Late for what?”

“Coming to me when something was wrong.”

Your eyes sting instantly.

He steps aside, and you step into the smell of steeping tea and clean books. His apartment is warm. Calming. A place that doesn’t judge the slump of your shoulders or the disaster in your chest.

You say nothing. You just collapse onto his couch and try to remember how to breathe.

He sits beside you, not too close, but near enough that the silence feels like company instead of distance.

“Group project?” he asks after a beat.

You nod. “They left me to do everything. And when I tried to hold them accountable, they got defensive. One even called me ‘controlling.’”

Nanami exhales slowly. Not surprised. Not angry. Just tired for you.

“People like that avoid responsibility. Then punish those who don’t.”

You nod again, your throat tightening. “I didn’t want to be that person who complains. I thought if I just worked harder…”

“You are not weak for expecting others to do their part,” he says firmly. “And you are not wrong for feeling exhausted.”

Your chest caves in a little, the truth of it hitting harder than you expected.

“I just… I keep wondering if I’m the problem.”

Nanami looks at you then, with soft, patient eyes.

“You are not the problem,” he says. “You are the solution others take for granted.”

Your hands start to shake a little, and he notices—of course he notices. He leans forward, pouring you a cup of jasmine tea without asking. Hands it to you gently.

It smells like calm.

“You always know what to do,” you whisper, staring into the steam.

“No,” he says simply. “I just know you.”

Your eyes meet his. And that steady gaze… it doesn’t waver.

“You give so much,” he continues. “And not just in group projects. In friendships. In love. In life. I only wish people deserved what you give.”

You look away, heart twisting. “Sometimes I wish I gave less.”

“I don’t.” His voice is soft now. “Because if you weren’t the way you are, I might not have fallen for you.”

You freeze.

“What?”

He leans back slightly, sipping his tea like he just said you had spinach in your teeth, not that he loves you.

“I admire many things,” he says. “But it’s your persistence. Your heart. The way you give even when it hurts. That’s what made me care.”

Tears slip down your cheeks before you can stop them. Not from the bad day. Not from the stress. But from the gentleness.

He sets his cup down and wipes your cheek with his thumb.

“Next time you carry too much,” he says, “let me share the weight.”

And just like that, the heaviness starts to ease—not gone, but softer. Bearable. Because Nanami’s here. And he’s not going anywhere.

I was thinking about JJK men who goes to the bakery you work at almost everyday to flirt with you / try to win you over, but you simply can't believe them bc everytime they show up you are always all messed up.

So the reader is like: "They are so handsome, what do they want with a lil thing like me? It must be a joke/prank or some shit like that".

Flour all over the face, cheek dirty with chocolate, edible dye stains on hands, and they find it adorable! The way you look so lost all the time but actually knows what to do, while being really kind to them and the costumers, just have them wrapped aroung your finger.

Just a kinda insecure,clumsy reader and a man who's head over heels for her!

It's totally okay if you write this, or if you want to change something! Express you criativity!

For the characters, i would like them to be Toji, Nanami, Sukuna, Nanami and Geto! (If it's too much I understand, do what you are more comfortable with, thank you!!!)

not at all. Thank you so much! Its short, but I haven’t watched alot of jujutsu kaisen so half my time was spent rewatching to observe the behaviors (and uh *cough* stalk gojo…) Enjoy!!

Nanami Kento |~Closed On Mondays, Except For You~|

The “Closed” sign is flipped on the door, but the bell jingles anyway. You’re halfway to yelling that you’re not open when you see him—clean suit, gold watch, calm eyes.

Nanami Kento.

He’s been coming in every Monday at 8:03 a.m. on the dot. Your only customer on your “unofficial” day off, when you prep for the week and try to clean the ovens without melting.

“Just one scone today,” he says, like always.

But his eyes linger longer than usual today. You try not to look back. You’re covered in flour, apron crooked, and your bangs are stuck to your forehead with sweat. Cute girls don’t look like this. Cute girls don’t smell like yeast and coffee grinds. You hand him his scone without a word.

He doesn’t leave. Instead, he leans on the counter. “I like the way you decorate the little signs,” he says softly.

You blink. “What?”

“The handwriting. You make smiley faces on the price tags.”

“Oh. Uh. I didn’t think anyone noticed.”

“I do.” He pauses, watching you. “You’re always in the middle of something. I like watching you work.”

You snort. “You mean watching me nearly drop trays and spill batter on myself?”

He actually smiles—tiny, but there. “Exactly that.”

You freeze. Heat floods your cheeks. You laugh awkwardly, trying to brush flour off your face. “You’re too nice. You don’t have to flirt out of pity, you know.”

He looks at you for a long moment. Then he steps closer.

“I don’t pity you,” he says quietly. “I admire you. You create something every day with your hands. I find that beautiful.”

The world kind of stutters. You blink fast. “Oh. I thought… you were just being polite.”

“No,” he says. “I come here because I want to see you. Not just the pastries.”

Your fingers twitch against the counter. “You mean that?”

He nods. “I’m not the kind of man who says things he doesn’t mean.”

And suddenly, in that still, cinnamon-scented air, it doesn’t feel like a joke at all.

Suguru Geto |~You’ve Got Sugar On Your Sleeve~|

He shows up just before closing. Hair in a bun, dark hoodie, silver earring catching the light. His voice is smooth as syrup.

“One of each, please.”

You blink. “Of… everything?”

“Mmm. Gotta make sure the kids have variety, y’know?”

He winks. You fumble a cupcake. It hits the counter with a sad squish.

He doesn’t laugh—just grins wider. “You alright there?”

“Nope,” you mutter, grabbing a spatula. “Totally fine. Just dropping frosting on my soul.”

He chuckles, and you hate how warm your face feels. You bag his items in record speed, nearly forgetting to give him his change.

“Keep it,” he says, waving you off. “Consider it payment for the show.”

You blink. “What show?”

“You. Flustered, covered in sugar, talking to yourself while measuring cookie dough. It’s endearing.”

“Oh my god.” You bury your face in your floury arms. “You heard that?”

“Every word. I keep hoping you’ll sing again.”

You groan. “Please tell me you’re joking.”

He smiles, soft now. “No. You’re the best part of my day.”

You stop breathing for a second.

“I always wondered if you were just messing with me,” you whisper. “Like… who would actually flirt with this mess?”

He tilts his head, eyes warm. “Sweetheart, if you could see what I see when I look at you…”

Your eyes lock.

“…you’d never doubt it again.”

Ryomen Sukuna |~The Devil Orders A Croissant~|

He strolls in like he owns the place—tattoos crawling up his arms, smirk sharp as a knife.

“Got anything spicy today?”

You blink. “Uh. Cinnamon scones?”

He leans on the counter. “That’ll do.”

You give him one and watch him bite into it like he’s judging your entire existence. He groans low in his throat. “Holy hell.”

You wait.

“That’s good,” he says, licking sugar from his thumb. “You made this?”

“Obviously. Who else would?”

He grins. “Damn. That’s hot.”

You nearly choke on air.

“What, never been complimented before?”

“Not… like that.” You glance at your apron. There’s flour down your shirt and possibly in your hair. “Not when I look like a walking bakery explosion.”

“That’s exactly why it’s hot,” he says. “You work hard. You’re passionate. That’s sexy.”

You stare. “Okay. Where are the hidden cameras?”

He laughs. “No cameras. Just me. I’ve been coming back every week to watch you throw dough around like a maniac.”

“Romantic,” you deadpan.

“You have no idea.”

He’s watching you like he’s memorizing every inch. You suddenly feel seen in a way you didn’t expect.

“I thought you were just teasing me,” you admit.

His grin softens—just a little. “No, sweetheart. I’m dead serious about you.”

Your heart stumbles.

“…oh.”

Toji Fushiguro |~Extra Butter For The Handsome Stranger~|

He walks in with a swagger that screams “trouble,” but he smiles like the sun.

“Smells like heaven in here,” he says. “Or is that just you?”

You almost drop the tray of croissants.

He catches it. “Easy there, sugar.”

You’re bright red. “I’m—um—fine. Just startled.”

“You always like this?” he asks, watching you juggle tongs and trays.

“Clumsy? Yeah. It’s my thing. That, and talking to ovens.”

He laughs. “Sounds like you’ve got personality.”

“More like a personality disorder.”

“Cute and funny,” he grins. “You trying to kill me?”

You snort. “You’re weird.”

“And you’re beautiful.”

You stop moving. “What?”

“I said,” he leans in, “you’re beautiful. Even covered in flour.”

You look down at yourself—sugar on your sleeves, hair like a frizz explosion, apron streaked with melted chocolate.

“You seriously think this is cute?”

“I think you are,” he says.

You blink fast. “Are you flirting with me?”

“I’ve been flirting with you for two weeks, babe. You just never noticed.”

Your heart thuds. “…You’re not messing with me?”

“Nah,” he says, eyes soft now. “I’d never joke about falling for a girl like you.”

And just like that, the air smells sweeter than butter.

| Hanta Sero x Fem!BaristaReader| ~ | Coffee Shop AU | ~ | Deep Fluff | ~ | Word Count: 1092 |

The bell over the café door chimed, a cheerful sound that barely registered over the hum of milk frothers and indie music. You didn’t even look up at first. It was mid-morning on a Tuesday, the usual lull between the commuter rush and lunch crowd. You were busy wiping down the counter, half-listening to a coworker rant about her ex, when a voice—slightly too loud and full of sunshine—cut through the haze.

“Uh, hey! I think this is my first time here. What do you recommend?”

You looked up, and damn.

He had a wide grin like he knew how contagious it was, hair slightly messy like he’d run here or just never cared to fix it. Hanta Sero. Tape Hero: Cellophane. You recognized him instantly. Not from the news—though yeah, you’d seen him there—but from those little clips that went viral sometimes. Dancing with kids at a rescue site, accidentally sticking himself to a wall during a battle, laughing like he didn’t have a care in the world.

And now he was awkwardly reading your drink board like it was written in another language.

You blinked, then smiled. “Depends. Are you feeling adventurous?”

He tilted his head like he was considering it seriously. “Always.”

You listed off your signature drinks, including the one you’d secretly made up yourself and hadn’t officially named yet. When you described it—vanilla, a hint of cinnamon, brown sugar cold foam, with a caramel drizzle—his eyes lit up like a kid in a candy store.

“I want that one,” he said, tapping the counter. “Do you have a name for it?”

You flushed a little. “Not yet.”

“Then name it after you.”

You raised a brow, playing it off even though your stomach did a little flip. “What makes you think I have a cool enough name for a drink?”

He leaned in slightly, grin never faltering. “I just met you and I know you do.”

You rolled your eyes, laughing despite yourself. “Name for the cup?”

“Sero.”

After he left with the drink in hand, you tried not to overthink it. Heroes came through the café sometimes. You were in a busy district. They were people too. He’d probably never come back.

You were wrong.

He came back three days later.

“Hey! That cinnamon-vanilla thing? Best drink I’ve had all year.”

And again the next week.

“I was gonna try something new, but your drink is kinda haunting my dreams, not gonna lie.”

And again.

By the fourth visit, you weren’t even pretending not to smile when he walked in. He always came during your shift. He always made conversation, always asked about your day first, like he genuinely wanted to know. And you weren’t sure when you started fixing your hair before your shift or wearing the shade of gloss your roommate said made your lips look soft. You just… liked seeing him. Liked how easy he was. How he made you feel like you were the interesting one.

“Okay, but real talk,” he said one afternoon, leaning on the counter while the espresso machine hissed behind you. “Do you make drinks this good for everyone, or am I just lucky?”

You raised a brow. “What if I said you were special?”

He mimed a dramatic swoon. “Then I’ll have to start writing poetry. It’s what you deserve.”

You laughed, but your cheeks were warm.

Weeks passed. Then months. And it wasn’t just about the drinks anymore. He’d hang around during your break, sometimes bringing you snacks, sometimes just stories from his week. Once, he brought you a charm from a local fair, said it “reminded him of you.” It was a tiny sunflower in resin.

“Why a sunflower?” you asked, voice low.

“Because you’re bright, and you make people feel warm, even when you don’t notice it.”

You didn’t know what to say to that. So you wore the charm on your keychain and touched it every time you passed your apron hook.

One rainy afternoon, he showed up soaked to the bone, hair plastered to his forehead, hoodie clinging to his arms.

You stared. “You walked in this?”

“I was in the neighborhood,” he said, like it wasn’t a big deal. “Didn’t wanna miss seeing you.”

Your heart skipped so hard it felt unfair. You handed him a towel from under the counter and two extra napkins. “You’re gonna get sick, idiot.”

“I’ll risk it.”

And then, one night, he didn’t come in.

Then a week passed.

And another.

You tried not to check the clock during his usual hour. Tried not to notice how your drinks didn’t taste as good when you tested them. You didn’t even know if you had the right to miss him that hard. You weren’t dating. He never said he would always come.

But it still hurt.

Until three weeks later.

The bell rang.

And there he was.

You nearly dropped the mug in your hands. His hair was longer. His eyes looked a little tired. But his smile—God, that smile—was the same.

“Sero,” you breathed, rushing to the counter.

“Hey.” His voice was soft. “Sorry I vanished. Got pulled into a mission out of town. No cell service. I didn’t mean to just… disappear.”

“It’s okay,” you said, even though it wasn’t. “You’re here now.”

He nodded slowly, then glanced around the empty café. You realized it was near closing. The lights were dim. The music soft.

You gave him a nervous smile. “You want your usual?”

He looked at you for a long moment. And then—

“No.”

Your heart stumbled. “Oh. Uh, okay. Something else then?”

He shook his head, stepping closer.

“Not something else.”

You tilted your head, confused. “Then what do you want?”

He smiled, the kind of smile you’d been waiting to see for weeks. Something gentle. Sure.

“I want you.”

You blinked. “Wait. Like—”

“Like a date. Like, maybe more. Like I’ve been trying to find the words for months but the only thing I’m sure of is that I don’t just want the drinks. I want the girl who made them.”

Your face heated, the corners of your lips twitching into a grin you couldn’t stop.

“Well,” you said softly, “good thing I’m not on the menu. But I’m available after closing.”

His smile split wide, warm and radiant.