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"I'll think on it after we finish the job." As you roll your eyes, Nightwing stands beside you, pulling open the crate. He whistles as you shine a flashlight on the cargo. "So, it was a cover up."

The boxes that littered the space had been destroyed. "Figured. There weren't nearly enough guards here." You bring your hand to your comms, "Oracle, it's a fake."

"Sending the boys after the other cargo. Good work."

"Alright, clean-up is on you." You turn away and throw a wave over your shoulder.

"What!? Why-"

"Finish it and consider yourself forgiven."

Once you got home, you had a few hours to spare before you had to head to work. As you run a hot shower, you grab your briefcase and empty it out on desk. You organize your papers and put them back in the case to look back at in the lab. Once you've showered, you use the rest of the time to get some sleep in before you're back up and working.

The elevator dings as you step into your department's floor and you're greeted again by none other than Dick Grayson. The task force's golden boy.

"Well isn't it my favorite detective!" And you can feel yourself shrink immediately. Dick makes his way over to you. It's 6AM, you cannot find the words to speak to him. Not because he's insufferable, no no, it's actually the complete opposite.

"Officer Grayson." You turn to him with a tense smile as he gets closer. You grip your briefcase tighter because your palms are now already sweating.

His smile is radiant. So is his skin that's so clear it puts your skincare routine to shame. You would call yourself a cheerful person but when it's compared to Dick? You're as gloomy as the Gotham sky.

It's not your fault though. His laugh manages to cut your breath short every time. His presence alone is so intoxicating you doubt you can even process what he's saying.

"I heard some new evidence came in on that case you're working on."

How is he so cheerful this early in the morning?

"I left it in your lab, also left a letter given to you from one of our night-time vigilantes." That snaps your focus back into place.

"A letter?" Had Nightwing made a stop last night after you left? "From who?"

"Nightwing. Know why?" He tilts his head to the side and all you can see is the way his hair falls with the movement. It shines like silk and all you can think of is raking your fingers through it- "You okay?"

"Hm?" You blink up at him absentmindedly, "Uh- right- Yeah. I think I have a vague idea." You fidget with your briefcase before holding it up in front of your chest. "I'll.. I'll get right on it."

He looks down at the case and nods with another one of those annoying blinding smiles, "I'll leave you to it then." You nod back, tense. You hated how he had to awkwardly walk back to his desk as you slowly make your way into your lab.

As you step inside, you let out a huff, "That was so awkward, oh my god." You grip your briefcase tighter and throw it onto your desk. You spot the letter on your desk and snatch it impatiently. With a sigh you rip it open and read over the paper.

Remembered you were working on this case when I ran into you a while back, here's something I found interesting ;p , no need to thank me.

-NW xoxo

You roll your eyes and sigh. "No need to thank me, xoxo- Like I wasn't doing half the work." You grumble to yourself and make your way to the folder placed beside it containing a ziplock bag and a report from one of the officers.

Hours pass by and once your lunch break starts, you're making your way to the lounge where you spot Dick pouring himself a coffee. He looks up and shoots you a smile.

"You look beat." He smiles and you feel yourself tense once his attention lands on you.

"ha ha, yeah long night.." Laughing timidly, you open the fridge to grab your meal.

"Coffee?" He offers and you nearly bang your head against the fridge door. You turn to him and nod a little too quick. Get yourself together!

As he pours you a cup, you find yourself a spot to sit on the couch and open up your snack.

"How's the case coming along?" Dick passes the coffee to you and your heart nearly skips a beat when your hands make the slightest bit of contact.

"There's progress." You manage to say as you place the cup down and avert your gaze. You know if you look into his eyes, you won't be able to hold up this conversation.

"I'm guessing Nightwing was a huge help?"

"Pshh, him? I'll give him a lollipop for his efforts next time." You're glad he's bringing up a topic your familiar with or you fear you would've been stumbling over your words.

Dick raises a brow, "Not a fan I'm guessing?"

Is he a fan? There's no way you just blew it right now.

"Wha- Nightwing? No!- I mean like- yeah. No. I'm a huge fan!"

HIs eyebrows raise as he takes another sip. You definitely ruined it. Fix it!

"I know him actually!" Not like that.

"You do?" Shock written over his features. You tense when your eyes lock with his. Something so familiar and safe within his gaze.

"Yeah, we- you know- He saved me once while I was following a lead." You look away immediately. You feel like a fraud. Yeah, you've met him, but you don't know him like that. Well.. not as the you right now.

"He was also following the same lead... which is also the case I'm working on." Your hands are occupying themselves with the coffee cup as your eyes dart between your snack and coffee.

"Is that why he left a note?" Dick asked. You nod.

"Must be cool to have a vigilante as a partner." He laughs and you try to force one out in attempt to not seem awkward but it comes out strained.

"I wouldn't say that.. just a great help." Cause that sucker should've gave you some credit. You had to save both their asses cause he couldn't tell between his left and right.

"Don't underestimate yourself. I'm sure he thinks you're a great partner! He's providing you with evidence. He seems eager to help." Okay, he definitely was a Nightwing fan.

"Of course! I'll- I'll definitely thank him next time." You say it like it's obvious. "I thank his partner a lot more though. She's always quick to help me whenever." Throwing in some praise wouldn't hurt.

"You worked with her before!?" His genuine shock and curiosity caught you off guard. "You must be collecting these vigilantes like Pokémon cards if she also decides to work with you."

"What do you mean?"

"She's a tough one. She barely works with the GCPD. I admire her work." He says as he stares off into the distance. Me? I work fine with the GCPD. Was me giving them those reports not enou- wait.

"Y-ou what?"

He blinks and turns his focus back to you. You look up at him and he's smiling again.

"I admire her work. Not many do, but I can tell she's just as amazing as, if not more than, Nightwing."

Your lips part in shock. Hearing that from him, you could barely figure out how to process that before you feel a striking hot sensation over your legs. You flinch before realizing you dropped your coffee all over your trousers.

It might as well kill you with it.

Dick curses under his breath and runs to grab you napkins. He passes you some as he wipes the remaining liquid off the floor.

"Sorry! Sorry... I can't believe I dropped that." The embarrassment is eating you alive and Dick can't help but laugh.

"It's fine, it happens. You okay?"

You sigh in defeat and nod.

That night on patrol, you couldn't wait to go home and sink into your sheets.

"Done for the night, bubblegum?"

Nicknames were never ending with Nightwing; Bubblegum, Sweets, Sweetheart, hon, the list goes on. You eventually accepted it and moved on.

"We agreed that one was a no." You groan as you watch the streets below you. You've been patrolling for a few hours now. Sooner or later, you're going to wrap it up and go home. But of course, company awaits you.

"Something about it suits you. Sugary, bubbly, and so sticky I can't get rid of you." He takes a seat beside you and you roll your eyes.

"That would be you, Wing." You tease.

Even though you and him have never revealed your identities, you've built a bond that seems to be unshakable. Sure, you guys had your moments, but you two honestly couldn't think of working with anybody else. That meant that even though you were in somewhat of a shitty mood, he still managed to lift it.

"If you want to reverse the roles, I have no complaints." He raises his arms in defense and you sigh. "Who burst your bubble, sweets?" He bumps his shoulder into yours, gaining your attention.

"Just a long day."

"How long are we talking?"

"Long enough."

With that you lay your head on his shoulder. This is how you usually finish up your patrols. A sign that you two were about to close in for the night.

"I handed over some evidence from the truck last night to GCPD. Their head detective is working on it, so I thought it would be some help." He mentions and you hum in response.

"As long as you're aren't feeding them everything we know, I don't really care."

"That's a relief. I thought you'd give me the Robin treatment." He chuckled.

"That was entirely different! I know Robin was just starting the whole gig but no one told him that we don't tell the GCPD everything!?" You shouted in defense.

"He said he saw you do it!"

"I did it once! And I spoke to Gordon! Not some random cop!"

Nightwing's shoulders shake as he laughs, and you lift yourself off of them, trying to push down the smile creeping onto your face.

"Batman gave him a long talk after that one. Trust me."

"He's lucky I didn't."

"You had a sword fight-"

"He pulled it out first, Wing! And you know that!" You exaggerated.

"He was 11!"

"And trying to kill me!"

Nightwing throws his head back, laughing so hard all his pearly whites flash in your face. You glare at him and let out a laugh disguised as a scoff.

Moments like these with him were comforting. You felt like yourself when you were in this suit, fighting crime, and with him. You don't think anyone has managed to get this close to you. But that's the thing about him. He's a dickhead sometimes for sure, but you're always reminded why he's your best friend. You wondered in times like these, who was under the mask. Would it be some normal guy working a 9-5 on weekdays? A celebrity? Or worse, some weirdo-

Nightwing calls out to you, and you realize you've been staring. "What's on your mind? You seem distracted."

"Some... guy." You mention as you turn to look back at the street below.

"Woah-ho-ho! Who's the lucky fella?" You cringe at that.

You glance at him and decide if you should tell him or not. He's your best friend, after all. He'd probably think Dick was a great guy. Maybe even help you figure out how to talk to him. But you couldn't risk revealing anything with it came to your civilian lives.

"Wouldn't you like to know, Boy Wonder." You tease with a smirk.

"I'm calling it a night. Call me if you need me before I get home." You grab your grappling hook and hop off the building.

As you swing away, thinking it was a just another normal night. You failed to notice the face of your partner after your remark.

Nightwing watched as you disappeared off into the night. Conflicted.

Nightwing has always held you dear to him. More than a friend. Ever since the first patrol you had together, you've been his first and last thought every day. I mean, could you blame him? Look at you.

From the moment you introduced yourself to him, he was awestruck. He could've sworn careless whisper was playing in the distance. He thinks he also stuttered. Not like he remembers what he said, he was too distracted. That's also how he ended up with a bruise to his side after. You scolded him for being so careless. But he knew he was hooked.

What was he supposed to do with that information now? There was a guy. A guy! If he didn't know any better, he'd think you're fucking with him. But the way you looked at him when he had asked. That longing stare.

He couldn't help but think, was it him?

As your finish up some paperwork, you hear a knock on your door. "Come in!"

It's Dick. Again. What is up with this Peter luck your having?

"Officer Grayson, what brings you here?" You get up from your seat as he once again, grins and holds up a folder. You maneuver your way around your desk, meeting him halfway.

"New evidence. This time, it was Red Robin." He hands you the folder and you take it cautiously. "That's the 3rd vigilante this week. You're gonna have me wondering if you're one of them."

Well, shit.

"As if. I need my 8 hours." You try to play it off. Terribly. Normally, you're great at that. But clearly not in front of him. You open the file and smile to yourself. "Gotta love that kid."

Dick peeks over and asks, "What is it?"

You look up and realize he's much closer now. Frozen in place, he glances up at you and your lungs nearly collapse on you.

Nothing could've prepared you for this. His eyes.

Such a piercing baby blue that replicates the rare clear skies Gotham prays for. They shine with confidence, determination, and something deeper, you wish you could figure out.

Does he know how much his presence suffocates you? How his character is so overwhelmingly admirable you can't help but feel smaller next to how bright he shines?

"J-just.. a case." You show him the paper and he looks down at it like he wasn't inches away from your face a moment ago.

"That's quite the report."

Trying to regain your composure, you nod. Making your way back to behind your desk.

"Red Robin is quite the detective. I did him a few favors. He does me some." Trying to make yourself look busy, you start digging through your papers.

"It seems like you have a way with everyone, detective." He smirks and you don't give yourself the opportunity to glance at him.

"I would hope so, officer." Still digging through piles of paper.

Dick notices the way you avoid his gaze. He's always hated that.

You've always been uncomfortable around him. He can't help but feel like he's the reason why. Everyone has met the fun, witty, and outgoing side of you besides him. You were always tense, quiet, and distant when he tried to talk to you.

He's tried jokes, small talk, even small favors and every time you came in contact with each other, it was like you couldn't wait for him to leave. He's realizing maybe it was no use.

"I'll leave these here then.." He places the files down on the desk and you nod in acknowledgement. Taking that as his sign to leave; Dick walks himself out.

Once the door closes, you finally look up before you fall against your chair, slapping your hands over your face from the mere thought of how that interaction just went. Before the humiliation can eat you alive, the door opens again. You straighten in your seat in a hurry only to spot your friend at the door. Barbara.

"Was Dick just in your office?"

"Yeah, you saw?" Groaning as you slump back into your chair.

"No, you just look like you ruined your life and want the floor to swallow you whole."

"Just about right."

Patrol tonight was quick and easy. Basic robberies, thugs, the whole gig. Once you've done a few laps, you decide to call it a night before spotting NIghtwing on a nearby roof. Without a second thought you make your way over to him.

"Done for the night, bubblegum?" You mock as he turns to you with a shit-eating grin.

"You gonna chew me out if I am?" He says with his hands placed on his hips.

"Depends. You got anything useful?" You nod your head towards him as you look him over with a squint.

"Depends, you got time for one more stop?"

Your face scrunches up in confusion. "Is it a follow up on the toxin?"

"No, but follow me." With that he reaches out for your hand, you take it without a second thought before he pulls you in, throws you two down the building before aiming his grappling hook towards another one.

"It's best if you close your eyes!" He adds, sparking curiosity.

"Don't drop me, bridie!" You laugh as you shut your eyes and let him drag you wherever.

Once you two land, you want to peak but his hands immediately go to shut your eyes.

"Impatient as ever." With his remark, you scoff.

"I'm not going to peak!" You exclaim as he holds one hand over your eyes and does something in the other. He scoffs like that's the dumbest thing he's heard.

"yeah, and I'm not head over heels for you."

Then, a pause. You can feel tension start to rise and quickly, so you exhale dramatically and place your hands over his palm. "I'll keep them closed, Wing." Though, he doesn't let go. His palm remains there. Another pause.. "I won't look till you tell me to."

You stand there quietly as he finishes up, god knows what, and you hear him take a deep breath. "Open 'em." You barely miss it. So, you open your eyes slowly.

"Oh wow." Your lips part in awe.

There, on the rooftop, sits two pillows on the floor. The most adorable setup of snacks, a pair of Gameboys, and a picnic blanket. The area is dimly lit by the rooftop's yellow lighting, creating a warm atmosphere even in the cold ambience of Gotham.

"Wing, I don't know what girl you're trying to impress, but, trust me," You turn to him, smiling at the thought of his efforts. "You've got this in the bag."

And once he makes eye contact, you're smile almost faltered.

He scratches the back of his neck and rolls his head to the side. "Impessed is one thing."

Then, when he looks back at you, you fail to hold your grin.

"Do you like it?" He asks and you look back at the set up.

He didn't get the wrong idea last night, right? No. There was no way. You're overthinking this. This is just a sweet gesture. Nothing more.

"Yeah! It's amazing!" You quickly reply. Turning back to him with a small, close lipped smile. "What's it for?"

You didn't want to ask. Not really. You actually wanted to just play along and hope your intuition was wrong for once.

But, it never was. "You?"

"Me?"

"Yeah, you.."

"Me?" You pointed at yourself.

"Yes.. you. Your record player break or something?" He attempts a laugh, but you're looking back and forth between him and the setup.

"What for?" You ask. You're trying hard not to sound off. It's not what you think it is. There's no way.

Nightwing just stares. His answer is written all over his face.

Okay, you really wish you weren't too comfortable with him to let your face fall like that. It would've saved you the guilt of watching him realize you knew what he was insisting. And you were rejecting it.

The wind blew by, carrying the last bit of hope left.

"Nightwing-"

"Damn, you're never gonna let me live this down now." He laughs as he rolls his head against his shoulder. "I called it, but I blame Oracle for the push." He pointed before making his way over to the setup.

You stand there blankly. Confused, you follow him. "Wing, listen to me, I'm sorry-"

"What for?" He turns, a smirk plastered on his lips. You can tell he's hurt. Shit..

"Wing, I feel bad. I didn't mean to lead you on." And he nearly cringes at that.

"That." He points, "is my issue. Not yours. You didn't do anything wrong, swee-.. don't blame yourself." And your heart nearly shatters at the way he cut himself off from that nickname.

"Do you wanna talk? You know this doesn't bother me like that. I just.. there's already someone I like.." Nightwing may have thought you didn't notice it, but you did. The way his body tensed. Even in the slightest of movements.

"I would be lying if I didn't tell you. That's the last thing I want. You're important to me. I'd never want to lose you to anything. You're my best friend, Wing." He smiles at that and for a second. You feel like it's going to be alright. This wasn't as bad as you thought.

He then goes to grab one of the snacks from the pile, specifically your favorite. He takes a step towards you. Then another. And another. Till he's face to face and he's pressing the snack into your hands.

"This is enough. Our friendship is everything to me. I wouldn't trade it for the world."

And in that moment, you saw someone else.

This wasn't your partner. It was a man who was devoted to keeping what he held dear close to him. One who longs for an inevitable future he can't help but reach for.

And you were the setting it in stone.

"Wing-"

"Good night. I'll see you tomorrow!" With that, he's running past you, off into invasive fog that took over the streets.

With no idea where to start, you turn around and make your way back home.

"Barbara, I told you-"

"She literally is head over heels for you! I'm telling you! I can't take any more hours of flirting over the comms, only for you to tell me she doesn't like you!" Barbara shouts over the phone. Dick groans into his pillow dramatically.

"I ruined everything."

"No, you didn't."

"Barbara."

"You didn't! I promise."

"I'm going to sleep."

"Trust me on t-" he hangs up before she finishes.

That went horribly. Not only did he leave you there stranded. He completely cut you off and made the situation so much more awkward than it needed to be.

He can't believe he let Barbara convince him into doing that. He should've just asked you out normally instead of throwing that in your face. And then you tried to apologize. Of course you did.

He checks the time and shoves his head into the pillow once he realizes he needs to get some sleep.

He's never gonna come back from this.

"Barbara. Where is this coming from-"

"Girl, you have to ask him. Today is the day, I can feel it!" Barbara sits across your desk. Exaggerating over why you should ask out Officer Grayson today.

"Barb. I love you. Like a lot. You're one of the very few I trust. But I am not doing that."

"Doing what?" Yeah. Might as well add a radioactive spider at this point.

"Just your luck!" Barbara turns to Dick is waking through the open door with a boxes in his hands. He walks over and places them on your desk.

He's wearing a baby blue button-up today instead of his usual uniform. Sleeves rolled up. He has sneakers on. Which has you confused; why was his outfit so uncoordinated? You wonder why, but before you can think about it, they both are staring at you. Realizing you blanked out and missed out on what was said.

"Sorry, did you say something?" You ask.

"I was just telling Officer Grayson how you wanted to ask him something!" Barbara beamed.

This little minx. You're glaring at her, already planning to lock the brakes on those wheels.

Dick looks back at you, waiting for a reply, and you can only dig your eyes into the back of Barbara's head as she leaves.

Dick looks down at the papers on your desk and you follow his line of sight.

"These are still the same ones from last week. Nothing new." You wave them off as he nods. He's unusually quiet. You finally take in the way he's put together. Well.. not really. His hair is a slight mess. No color coordination in his outfit what so ever. and.. was that a stain on his button up? Why wasn't he in uniform today?

"You alright?" You ask before thinking.

Dick looks up at you and sighs. He knows he looks like shit, mostly because he feels like it. Though it's the first time you've genuinely asked him something. "Rough night, but I'll be okay."

"Oh, I'm sorry to hear that." You sort of try to look away but end up asking another question. "What's that?" Implying the boxes he had just brought in.

"Chief told me to bring these up and have you look through them. No idea what they are. I'm off the field today, so he's keeping me busy."

"He wants me to look through all of these?" You exaggerated before pulling the box over to your side, mumbling under your breath. "That guy seriously likes to throw things at me because I won't get an assistant."

That perked his interest. "Why not?"

That gets your attention again. You seem to get sidetracked easily. "Oh- um. I just work alone.. It's annoying having someone try to push their rules onto you." You shrug as you pull the stacks of files from the box.

"You don't work well with partners?" He asks. And you wonder if he meant something with that question. But, you only shake you head. "I work fine with other people. It just depends on who." Like Nightwing. You frown slightly at that.

"Mind if i help?" Your head perks up. You weren't expecting him to offer.

"You- You don't have to!"

"No, I want to. Like I said, I'm off the field today. I have nothing better to do." He pulls the chair towards him and takes a seat. "You just give me a job and I'll do it."

And with that, you and him work in tandem for the next 3 hours. It was unexpected but Dick worked well with you. He understood his assignments, didn't ask too many questions, and managed to have some conversations that didn't end with you embarrassing yourself. Well.. yet.

"That's the last of them." You place the papers back into the boxes and turn to Dick.

He was pleasantly surprised how much he enjoyed that. He felt like he actually got a glimpse of the real you today. And you work great together. He couldn't help but wonder why you always avoided him.

"Thanks for the help. I appreciate it."

He nods. "Glad to help." And when he hopes to maintain eye contact for longer than 5 seconds, you're already turning away again. And he can't help but feel like all the process he made with you had went to waste.

"I'll take these back to the office.. Need anything else before i head out?" You turn to him with a smile and shaking your head.

"No, all good." And back behind your desk you go. He deflates at that. He was hoping you'd be more comfortable around him after today. But he guesses his luck was shitty this week.

He doesn't wait any longer and makes his way to the door before you call his name.

"How does coffee together sound? After work?"

He had patrol and no idea if his partner would show up.

Cause why would she? After the shit he pulled last night? He's starting to remember why he was so beat today.

"Dick?" You call again and he snaps out of it quick, quickly replying.

"Yeah, uh- No, sorry. Thanks though." He gives a quick smile before leaving the room. He's a bit annoyed with himself now, because he managed to ruin two friendships in under 24 hours. He would love to go for coffee, but he'd rather not go in a bad mood. He'll reschedule. Today just wasn't his day.

And now neither was it for you. As you watch the door shut behind him, you stand there dumbfound.

He just flat out rejected you. Without even a second thought. You can't help but feel yourself shrink after. You really thought you did well today. You were able to carry out multiple conversations with him. Even maintain eye contact for like 4 whole seconds!

This shouldn't bother you that much. You weren't even close. But still, you slump against your chair and stare off into the void hoping you could rid the feeling of dread that built up with every passing second.

That night, you started patrol early and ended early. Why? Because like it or not, you were avoiding Nightwing. It wasn't because you were too afraid to face him, more because you didn't have the energy to. That whole rejection ruined your night.

So, as you stand at your balcony, staring off into the streets of the city that reflected your mood tonight, you hold a cup of tea in your hands. One thing about Gotham was that there was always going to be a slight breeze in the air, a faint scent of rain, and a drafty fog that carried only in the darkest of nights. Was it a good idea to go out onto your balcony this late? No, and you would advise any person to avoid doing so.

But you're a vigilante. So, you give yourself a pass.

But, not everyone knows that.

"I wouldn't recommend sitting out here in the open this late, miss."

Only one person could sneak up on you like that. And it was Nightwing.

Slightly flinching, you turn to him and place your cup on the tiny coffee table. "And I wouldn't try to balance myself on a slippery railing in the dark."

"I'm a vigilante. I get a pass." He places his hands on his hips, all cocky.

"I'm a citizen who pays rent. I get to use this balcony however and whenever I want." You mimic his gesture and he raises a brow at you.

"Aren't you a little sass ball today? You're usually a little more professional when we meet." You drop your arms after that and sigh.

Even though you weren't in your suit, you needed your best friend right now. And it was much easier talking like this to him than worrying about how awkward things can get.

With all your frustration that piled up since this afternoon, you groan, "It was a total disaster!"

Nightwing looks around in confusion. "What exactl-"

"I was doing great! We laughed for hours! I didn't stutter or shy away the whole time we worked!" Nightwing watched as you threw your arms around with every sentence. He stood there in silence, not knowing how he got wrapped up in hearing your outrage, but he was intrigued. He's never seen this side of you. Was it because you weren't around him anymore?

"Then he just walked out and rejected me like it was noth..ing.." Your words died down as your heart sank. This was how he was probably feeling right now. And here you are complaining to him about another guy.

"Sorry. Ignore me." You put your hand up. He doesn't ignore you.

"Rejected you? Now, what idiot decided to ruin his chances at paradise?" He attempted to lighten the mood, now sitting on the railing as you pick up your cup of tea. You were used to his flirts. Well. vigilante you was.

You didn't have it in you to argue over his flirts. You knew it was his nature at this point. "Some guy at work." You rest your elbows against the railing beside him, and he stares at you, urging you to go on.

"He's an officer. The one you gave the letter to."

"Officer Grayson?" He spits out almost shocked and you nod in embarrassment. Your head drops and you rest the cup against your forehead.

"I've liked him for so long. And believe it or not, I'm the most awkward person when it comes to him." Nightwing doesn't reply, so you continue. "I actually mustered up the courage to ask him out today, and he completely shut me down without a second thought!"

Nightwing blanks for a moment. You were asking him out!?

"No he didn- he probably didn't mean it like that!"

"He immediately told me no and walked out the room. I think he meant it like that, Nightwing." You tilt your head to the side, squinting at him.

"I doubt it. He told me he thought you were cool!"

"Cool is fine! He doesn't like me like that though!"

"You don't know that!" He argues.

"You do?" And that shuts him up quick. No, he didn't like you like that. But he didn't like knowing you thought he was rejecting you. Even if he was being a bit of a dickhead this afternoon.

"Sorry. You're right. But I think you should just talk to him about it." You pull the cup away from your forehead and take a sip.

"If it helps, I also got rejected too." He chuckles as you nearly choke on your tea.

"R-Really?"

"Yeah.. I kind of threw it in her face, though. It was a lot less casual than just a basic hangout. I guess I overwhelmed her. But I got the wrong idea and she had to reject me on the spot." He covers his face with a hand before dragging it down. "I was hoping to talk to her, but I guess she needs to clear her head."

"I think we all do at this point." You sigh before taking another sip. "Not much you can do in Gotham to get a clear head around here." Nightwing hums in agreement.

You both sit in a comfortable silence. A minute passes by and you take one last sip of your tea before exhaling.

"I guess I should head inside and try to fix my mood before it gets late."

"Yeah, I should too..." He agrees.

And as you make your way to get back inside, he says your name.

"Mhm?" Looking over your shoulder, he asks:

"You like video games?"

Part 2 Soon! Comment if you want to be added to the taglist! No need to comment if your already on the list!

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he’s tapping a finger against the table in a pointedly passive-aggressive manner, and apparently, he’s been doing this for a while in a silent bid for your attention. but when the tapping failed to pull you away from your screen, he escalated to the dramatic sigh. if that hadn’t worked, well… maybe launching your phone out the window was next on the list.

“unbelievable”, satoru sulks. “you’re playing that stupid game again when your devastatingly handsome husband and the love of your life is right here?” he huffs, leaning back in his chair and crossing his arms tightly over his chest, face slightly turned to the side to make it more than clear that he is very much upset with you.

you bite back a smile and set your phone down on the table without exiting the game. the volume is muted but the screen still glows with your love interest displayed standing in destiny café.

“come on, baby, don’t be like that”, you say sweetly and gently. “you’re literally my legal husband”

“if I’m your husband, then what does that make them, huh?” he tilts his head, nodding toward your phone. “your little side-piece boyfriends?”

you try to suppress a laugh, masking it with a quick throat clearing before you respond, but at the same time the mischief is already brewing in your mind. for a brief moment you consider pushing his buttons just a little more, especially with that recently released wedding banner in the game, but ultimately, you decide to spare him another jealousy induced meltdown. the situation is already bad enough, you don’t need to risk giving your husband a stroke and ending up widowed at this age.

“not really”, you reply casually, doing your best to keep a straight face.

“that’s not the answer i was hoping for”, he huffs, shooting subtle but pointed glances at your phone every few seconds, practically glaring at the man on the screen like he’s a real threat.

you finally laugh at his childish antics. “you know you’re kind of cute when you get jealous over petty little things like that?”

“and you’re not cute when you’re giving all your attention to some guys in your phone who don’t even exist when you could be paying attention to your real-life husband”, he retorts. “that’s basically emotional cheating”, he adds and then eyes your phone screen again.

and as if on cue, a little text appears on your screen, indicating that your love interest is speaking to you. the phone is on silent so he can’t hear a thing and the full sentence is just out of view, but he squints just enough to catch the first word.

dearest.

and that one word is enough to send him into a spiral.

he immediately reaches across the table and snatches your phone, squinting at the screen to confirm what he saw, then gasps audibly, followed by a low, guttural growl.

“he calls you names? he calls you dearest?” he cries, utterly scandalized. “i call you dearest. only i. that is my line. you are my dearest, not his!” he drags a hand down his face, then runs it up through his hair, gripping it like he’s on the verge of losing his mind. and maybe he is.

you’re torn between laughing and stepping in before things spiral any further. as ridiculous as the whole scene looks in your eyes, you know your husband and you can tell he’s genuinely and very seriously spiraling. so instead of teasing him further, you get up and walk over to his side of the table, gently lowering yourself onto his lap. with a soft touch, you cup his cheeks and turn his face away from the phone still clutched in his hand, guiding his gaze back to you. he’s looking at you like you’ve just broken his heart, the only things missing are actual tears, but at this rate, those might not be far behind.

you nuzzle your nose against his, then start to gently piece him back together. “baby. my love. my sweet and handsome husband. my satoru”, you coo, pressing a soft kiss to his lips after each word. “didn’t we already talk about this?” your voice sweet and loving, the kind of tone that always works on him. “it’s just a silly game. and technically”, you add with a cute smile, “they’re not even talking to me, they’re talking to the main character that i happen to be playing”

satoru exhales a stuttered breath, still sulking, but you can see the blue in his eyes start to soften, just enough to tell you he’s slowly calming down, reason starting to creep back in.

“okay, keep going…” he mumbles, still grumpy but willing to listen.

you gently continue, “my main character is just designed to look like me but she isn’t actually me. i treat her like a separate character and—”

…but before you can even finish, your husband’s attention gets snatched away by an in-game notification popping on the screen with an avatar of your love interest that reads: your period is coming soon. do you have enough supplies?

and just like that, all the calm and rationality you had carefully coaxed back into him vanishes in less than a second, you watch as the last thread of his composure snaps.

a vein begins to form on his forehead, looking like it’s going to pop any second now.

“THOSE BASTARDS TRACK YOUR PERIOD TOO?????????????” he explodes, shooting up from his seat, naturally leading to you suddenly launching off his lap with him.

“they not only call you names, text you, talk to you, take you on virtual dates — but now also monitor your period?????????” he cries, pinching the bridge of his nose in exasperation. “what’s next? are they going to start calling your family on holidays?????” he lets out a frustrated sigh. “your period is my business and no other man is allowed to know about it”

“satoru. that’s not a real man. think of it like a period tracker app with different graphics”, you try to bring him back to reality and beat some sense back into him all over again, but he doesn’t respond.

instead, he goes dead quiet, pulling out his phone, frantically typing something you can’t see, but your gut tells you whatever it is, it’s definitely not good. you are now officially worried.

“satoru? what are you doing?”

the concern in your chest grows more as your eyes catch the wicked little smirk spreading across his lips, the kind that never leads to anything reasonable.

any ounce of energy you had, left as you finally sat down on the train to skyhaven. you barely had the energy to raise your arm to check the time— 11:37pm. just one hour and you'd be in caleb's arms.

no doubt that he had been sleeping since 10:00pm when he got home. though he didn't send you a goodnight text, from the stream of messages he had been sending you today, the fleet better be thankful that you're going to be skyhaven to tame their unruly colonel. he was probably at the second g in 'goodnight' before he could press send, the pillow instantly coaxing him to sleep.

a smile subconsciously fell on your lips thinking about how you'd find him— one leg up, sprawled out on the bed, covers half on, with one of his hands up and under his shirt resting on his stomach.

your phone lit up as you tapped on the screen— a picture that a kind stranger took of you two looking ravishing on one random date night. his hands wrapped around your waist, head buried in your neck as you threw your head back in laughter.

"soon."

you could barely keep your eyes open as the door scanned your finger print. hearing the approving jingle, you pushed the door through, being welcomed by the smell of your second home. you slipped off your shoes, leaving behind your bags at the door. hours ago, caleb had messaged you:

[sms] i'll have your pajamas laid out in the bathroom, so take a shower quickly and come to bed.

you sped run your night time routine— showering, brushing your teeth, skin care, blow drying your hair all in record time. you checked your phone one more time before heading into your shared bedroom— 1:06am. close enough.

as silently as you could, you opened the door to the bedroom. there was the faint light from the moon that was able to guide you to the bed, finding caleb exactly how you pictured him to be. you crawled up onto the bed, almost instantly finding yourself hovering above caleb. your movements barely brought him out of his slumber (a testament to how tired he was) but was pleasantly surprised to feel your weight on his body.

like his body was on autopilot, it instantly came to life. he wrapped his arms around your waist, pulling you impossibly close to him. you could feel the way he spread fingers out on your back just so he could feel more of you. how his finger tips gave just enough pressure to tell you how much he had really missed you.

god, he could cry.

the weight of you on his body, the warmness that was emanating off you in tandem with your scent permeating his nose— this is what heaven felt like. a groan left his lips and vibrated through his chest as you nuzzled your face into his neck, littering it with kisses and sweet little nothings of finally being back in his arms.

he dreamed of this for weeks, but nothing could compare to the real thing. it felt like his heart was about to fly out of his chest at any given moment. the absolute emptiness of missing someone, only to be brought the feeling of being made whole again when they return.

he shifted his grip so he had one hand under your shirt and securely around your waist, while the other one was tangled in your hair, massaging your scalp. your felt your body decompress with each soft touch. it's like caleb knew all the valves on your body and was slowly releasing all the pressure that has been stored in your joints for the past three weeks.

"you're late" he said barely audible. you felt your eyes getting heavier by the second. the low timber and vibration of his voice whilst on his chest was lulling you further into sleep.

you hummed in response, bringing up one of your hands to his forearm. you gave it a light squeeze, using your thumb to absentmindedly trace his skin.

"i know.. but only by a few minutes." you craned your neck up to lay a kiss on his jaw.

"forgive me?" he nuzzled his cheek against your head, but not before giving it a kiss. he took in one long inhale, as if he was trying to get the scent of you back into his veins before he let it out. his thoughts were barely coherent as he began to drift into dream land.

“then i’m early.” deadpan. no smile yet, but you see the muscles in his cheek prepare for one. he stands too close to the gum rack, pulling the strip forward with a finger, resetting what didn’t need resetting. his nail is a little ragged. there’s a mark across his knuckle, thin and white.

“eight twenty-five.” you avoid please, you just keep your palm open. the bills are warm from his pocket when he drops them into your hand. his fingers skim your index on the way out—accidental for anyone else, not accidental for him—and a soft electric ache flicks through your wrist. you don’t let your expression change.

“no ‘good night’?” he tips his chin, testing. the corner of his mouth finally moves; faint dimples, then gone. his breath smells faintly of mint he didn’t buy here.

“buy something better than strawberry milk and a peach at 11:57 and i’ll think about it.” your throat cuts the sentence short; you don’t give him any extra words to misbehave with. you bag the peach gently even though your hands itch to crush it—you’re done with this shift and you’ll do anything to dodge another headache. that’s nights at the independent convenience store on your block: no corporate rules, lights off at midnight, everything held together with tape and attitude.

“see you tomorrow.” he steps back on a heel and pivots without looking away. the door sighs around him. your mouth holds tight until the bell stops moving.

he starts coming in earlier.

“what’s good tonight?” he leans elbow-first on the glass over the hot bar, breath fogging the streaks you just cleaned. he’s close enough that you smell clean laundry and rain that never touched him. his eyes track your hands, not the food.

“nothing. i ate everything.” you don’t smile. your tone is even, the kind of even that makes people pause. you push the tray two inches away from him with a cloth you’ll rewash anyway.

“you always this mean?” he asks it soft, not offended. the smile is there now, small and steady. his lashes drop for a beat and lift again. he waits the extra second that says he gives a shit about your answer.

“you always this needy?” you lift one brow. your voice lands light, a little sand in it from a long shift. the air between you holds warm. his ears go a little pink at the top even though he’s trying to hide it behind his playful grin; you clock it and store it.

he leaves a paper bag the color of grease and a plastic fork on the counter. doesn’t push it at you, just sets it where your hand already lives. “eat.” the word is short. he doesn’t turn it sweet. the consonant sits at the back of his teeth. he doesn’t watch you open it; he watches your face when you pretend you won’t.

he sees it right away. the cut.

“you got lemon or galaxy?” he doesn’t say hi first. his eyes drop to your ring finger before his mouth even opens. he sees the band-aid, the nick you caught on a box cutter, the raw skin peeking where the adhesive rolled.

“what the hell are you talking about?” you whisper quietly around a sigh.

“bandaids,” he drawls, like it should’ve been obvious.

“we’re out.” it’s a lie. you toss the roll of quarters into the drawer and don’t adjust your hand, even though the adhesive edge tugs. you don’t hand him the tin from under the register. your pulse steps to your throat in a steady, embarrassing tap.

“okay.” he nods once. he reaches for gum he doesn’t want. “i’ll come back.” he says it too simply to read. he means more than the bandaid. you hear it in the way he presses his tongue to the back of his incisors before the last word.

the next hour, he slides a small tin across the counter without comment. cartoon stars, glossy. “restock,” he mutters. like it’s nothing. like it doesn’t mean anything that he remembered. the mutter is deliberate. you open it because he’s watching your mouth. you choose galaxy. he exhales through his nose, slow, satisfied. the sound hits your chest more than your ears.

"thanks."

“wrong answer,” he says, barely audible. then he murmurs softly “come here.”

his hands are warm when he takes yours. careful, like you’re glass he’s afraid of breaking. he peels the old bandaid slow, doesn’t flinch at the redness. pulls a new one from the tin and presses it down with the gentleness of a promise.

the next weeks, he names the cat.

“sugar.” his voice dips low, not airy but pressed-down, chesty, like he means it to be felt more than heard. crouched at the back door, hoodie bunched tight at his wrists, fabric creased from being pushed up and tugged down too many times. 

his palms are open, angled toward the stray—the one who hisses at anyone else but curls herself against your ankles when no one’s looking. he holds still, so still you notice the faint tremor of breath at his knuckles.

the cat blinks slow, unbothered by him but not moving closer either. he waits anyway, stubborn patience stretched across his body, shoulders hunched but not tense, spine folded to keep himself smaller, less threatening.

“you’re on payroll, queen.” he leans in as he says it, softer, conspiratorial. his lips tug into a grin like he can’t help himself, a grin you’ve learned means he’s entertaining himself even if no one else is laughing. it doesn’t reach his eyes fully, not yet, but there’s a hint there— something warm and ridiculous.

the whisper hangs in the air, and you feel it in your chest before your brain catches up with what he said.

“you can’t name her.”

your keys scrape against the lock, sharp against the metal, the sound dragging wrong in your ears, jagged enough to grate across your nerves. your fingers fumble briefly— half because the lock sticks sometimes, half because you’re trying to ignore how close his crouched figure is to your knees when you step forward.

you try to step around him, the neat planned arc of your foot, but he doesn’t move. he tips his head back instead, slowly, deliberately, looking up at you. and then his eyes widen.. too wide, impossibly blue eyes cartoonishly exaggerated, the exact kind of stupid he knows will make you react.

“too late.” his thumb presses careful under the cat’s chin, testing pressure like he’s done this a thousand times. the tendon in his forearm shifts as he does it, flexing neat under pale skin, a sharp line that twitches when the cat actually leans into his touch.

his grin breaks into something so soft and unrestrained when she rolls a little further, belly exposed, paws curled lax in surrender. he coos, ridiculous and high-pitched, “right princeeess.” the word slips out laced with his usual playfulness, syllables stretched as he tickles her stomach with spread fingers. the laugh that follows is too real, escaping before he can tamp it down. a light, bubbling, almost boyish one. 

your hand slams the switch on the security light. the bulb hums awake with a weak buzz before flooding the corner in harsh glow. the light lands uneven on him— flashing across his hair, catching the pale strands until they look glassy white, then cutting shadow down the sharp slope of his cheek.

he scrunches one eye against it, lids squeezed, nose wrinkling, but he’s grinning anyway when he looks up at you. his grin is lopsided now, crooked against the sudden brightness, but still stupidly genuine.

you feel your own mouth twitch; a near-smile you try to fight back. for a second you think you’ve won, but no. it cracks, tiny but real, and your lips lift before you slam them back down. one fraction of a second too late.

“what.”you aim your voice dry, stripped flat of tone, but you hear it wobble at the edges.

“i’m in love with the princess of this store.” he says it quick, like a throwaway, like it isn’t meant to matter. his eyes fall back to the cat immediately, hand stroking soft fur, pretending the confession was just another stupid line tossed into the night.

but the word love spills heavier than the rest. it empties fast into the air, sinking into the concrete at your feet. your body reacts before your head can argue.

your fingers hesitate on the bolt, grip loosening for a second too long, a fraction of a pause that betrays you. your body is reacting; skin prickling, chest tightening, every nerve on alert.

you know. you know he doesn’t mean the cat when he says princess.

he buys scratch-offs for no reason other than to annoy you. at least that’s what you tell yourself, standing at the counter while he hunches over like the damn things are state secrets. he’s already laughing under his breath before the coin even drags across the paper.

the cheap glossy card skidding over laminate that still smells faintly of disinfectant. your store’s hum is the background score—the low buzz of the freezer cases, the faint flicker of one tired ceiling light that hasn’t been replaced yet, the faint scuff of someone’s shoes dragging past aisle three.

he hunches down right there at your register, hood falling forward, white hair glinting pale under fluorescent glare. the quarter spins a little in his fingers before he pins it and starts scratching, deliberate and loud, dragging slow across the surface so the sound rasps in the air like he’s doing it just to test your patience.

the quarter flashes silver in the overhead light as he scrapes, a slow arc that peels away neon ink, and when the number reveals itself, he gasps dramatic, head snapping toward you with wide eyes.

“no way.”

his voice pitches up, too dramatic, but the numbers actually land, and his whole face breaks into laughter, head tipping back, teeth flashing. it’s not even that much money, not life changing—just enough for a couple sodas and a bag of chips—but it’s more than yours had been earlier, and that’s enough fuel for him to be unbearable.

the ticket waves right in your face, practically smacking your nose.

“look at that. i’m rich. i’m loaded. goodbye convenience store, hello mansion.” he giggles through it, shoulders shaking, the sound bouncing off linoleum and glass like it doesn’t belong in a place this plain.

you want to grab the scratch-off and shove the whole flimsy thing in his stupid mouth, watch him choke on the paper until the smug grin dies off his face.

“you’re so annoying.” you try to flatten your tone, keep your eyes on the register keys, but your lips are already twitching, your cheek heating because of how happy he looks over nothing.

“you love it.” he leans across the counter, elbows braced, chin in his palm, eyes bright as if he’s got all the time in the world just to stare at you squirm.

“don’t even start,” you mutter, trying to keep your face straight, but your lips twitch anyway, your teeth sinking into the inside of your cheek. he catches it immediately, because of course he does, his eyes narrowing in triumph.

“ohhh,” he sing-songs, leaning in close enough that you feel his breath stir against your temple, “someone’s jealous.”

“i’m not.”

“you are.” he’s still giggling, shoulders slouched, hoodie sleeve riding up to bare his wrist as he waves the ticket in your face again. “you’re sooo jealous.”

you swipe at it, half-hearted, and he jerks back just in time, laughter spilling reckless out of him again.

then he pauses, breath catching, eyes softening as if something’s just clicked in that head of his.

“okay, okay,” he says, quieter now, holding the card against his chest. his grin tilts gentler, lips pressing together like he’s trying not to melt right there. “you pick the next one. you’re my lucky charm.”

the words are tossed casual, playful—but the look in his eyes is anything but. steady, bright, the kind that makes your stomach flip on itself.

your hand shakes just a little when you reach for the pile. you don’t let him see. you pretend it’s just nerves from his relentless teasing, but really it’s because your grin is so wide it almost hurts.

your fingers hover a second too long before you pluck one from the display, the glossy paper cold against your hand. you slide it toward him, slap it down in front of him with a mock-serious flourish. “this one.”

he hums, pleased, and presses the coin down. the scratch-off dust clings to his knuckles, gritty against the pale skin, and you hold your breath as if the outcome matters. as if it’s bigger than it is.

and then—nothing. a loss.

you laugh first, sharp and mean, but he doesn’t falter. but he doesn’t sulk. doesn’t even fake disappointment. he just looks up at you with the same grin, lazy, sun-drenched, completely unbothered. eyes softer than they should be under harsh fluorescent light.

because for him, it isn’t about the card. isn’t about numbers or prizes. he looks at you and you realize—he’s already winning. he’s been winning this whole time.

winning your smile. your laugh. your heart.

and that’s the only jackpot he gives a shit about.

he shows up late, too late for anyone to be coming in just to shop. the door chime rattles sharp through the near-empty store, and before you can even look up properly, he’s already holding a crumpled plastic bag out toward you. the smell hits first—soy, garlic, fried rice—warmth rising off white paper cartons that have sweated translucent at the edges.

“caught you,” he says, like it’s some gotcha moment. “you didn’t eat today.”

his voice is smug, but his eyes aren’t. they’re soft, almost worried, and it makes you falter with your fingers on the register keys. you hadn’t told him anything. but of course he knows.

you glare half fondly. “and what if i did?”

he doesn’t buy it. just rounds the counter like it’s his own space, bag swinging from his wrist. he drags one of the stools over—squeaking legs, uneven wobble—and plops it down right beside yours.

“move over, cashier of the year.”

before you can argue, he’s already behind the counter with you, knees bumping yours when he sits. the stool creaks under his weight, leaning closer to yours until you’re almost tilted toward him.

he unpacks everything right there on the laminate: plastic forks, flimsy napkins, styrofoam boxes leaking warmth into the air. the smell fills the cramped space, drowning out the usual stale scent of mop water and gum.

he slides one container toward you, not looking at you when he does it, like if he meets your eyes it’ll give away too much. “eat.”

you do. hesitant at first, then hungrily, and he watches out of the corner of his eye, grinning when you don’t notice.

it feels too much like a date.

the stools pulled close, knees brushing every time one of you shifts, cartons balanced on your thighs, the quiet broken only by the scrape of plastic forks and the muffled crunch of fried dumplings. he nudges a piece of chicken toward you, smirking when you take it right off his fork.

you want to laugh at how stupid it is—two of you hiding behind a register, pretending the counter is a restaurant booth—but it’s so warm, so good, you don’t.

then the spell cracks.

a thud against the glass door: sugar, perched right on the curb with her eyes glowing in the security light, tail flicking slow. she stares in with the same entitlement as always, like she knows you’ll cave and feed her scraps.

and above her, in the top corner of the store, the tiny tv sputters through its nightly broadcast. volume too low to matter, captions scrolling clunky, news anchor droning about traffic jams and rising rent. the flicker of it splashes pale light across the shelves, a reminder of the world outside this bubble.

you chew slow, eyes darting between the cat and the tv, and your chest tightens.

he notices. he always does. his knee presses firmer against yours, his shoulder brushing yours like he’s anchoring you there, in the now.

“don’t look at them,” he murmurs, still grinning. “look at me.”

and you do.

the last minutes of your shift always crawl. the store is dead quiet, aisles in perfect rows, nothing left to straighten except gum packets you’ve already aligned three times. the hum of the fridges has been pressing into your skull all night, so constant you don’t notice until they cycle off, and the sudden silence feels too loud. fluorescent light flickers overhead, every third second a blink that makes you want to claw it down with your bare hands.

you’re bent over the counter, key ring heavy in your hand, twisting at the register lock when a reflection appears in the glass door. tall, familiar, hood tugged up, hands buried deep into his pockets like he’s been standing there a while.

“closing up already? what if i wanted to buy, i don’t know—” he glances around, grabs the first thing on the shelf nearest him, holds it up with mock seriousness, “—a can of corn.”

you don’t even look up. “you don’t eat corn, satoru.”

“not the point,” he says, stepping closer, shoulder slouching against the doorframe like he belongs there. his hoodie is damp at the hem, faint marks of rain already showing. “point is, you’d be a terrible cashier if you turned me away.”

the key digs too hard into the lock, metal squealing as you twist it. “good thing i’m not a cashier anymore. off duty.”

he grins at your reflection, exaggerated pout and all. then softer: “then let me walk you home.”

you freeze, keys jangling. “what?”

“let me walk you home,” he repeats, lighter this time, like it’s the most obvious thing. “it’s raining. streets are gross. you shouldn’t walk alone.”

“oh, so you suddenly care?” you mutter, flipping the sign to CLOSED.

“suddenly? i’ve always cared.” his voice dips, warm, a little too serious, enough to make the back of your neck prickle. before he covers it with a laugh. “also, i’m bored.” his voice dips,

you shove the door open, rain misting your face, damp air clinging at your skin. the umbrella pops with a crack, fabric snapping into place above you. “you just wanna know where i live, creep.”

he gasps, stumbling theatrically through the doorway behind you. “wow. creepy? me?”

“yes. you.” you giggle softly, because it’s impossible to keep the act around him. 

he falls into step right beside you, close enough that his hoodie sleeve brushes against yours. his hand bumps your bag strap once, twice, not accidental. “maybe i just wanna make sure you don’t drown in a puddle. or get kidnapped. i’m a gentleman, you know.”

you shoot him a side eye, but it’s somehow soft. “a gentleman who can’t even keep himself dry.”

and it’s true. his whole shoulder is sticking out in the rain because he’s too broad for this umbrella. no matter how you angle the canopy, it doesn’t fit both of you. one half of him is always exposed—the slope of his shoulder, the bulk of his arm, rain soaking through gray cotton until it darkens. drops bead and roll off, dripping in a steady rhythm to the pavement.

he doesn’t even try to fix it. instead, he tilts his head under, hair brushing the umbrella’s edge, strands already damp. raindrops cling to the white, catching the glow of the nearest streetlight, sparkling before sliding down across his forehead.

“see?” his voice is quieter now, grin tugging soft at his lips. “perfect fit. you’re dry. that’s what matters.”

your grip on the handle tightens. the umbrella is heavier now, slick with water at the edges, your wrist aching with the weight, but you don’t let go.

“you’re gonna catch pneumonia.”

“worth it.” he doesn’t miss a beat.

your lips twitch, teeth sinking into the inside of your cheek to stop the smile threatening to break. but it’s useless—he catches it anyway, eyes crinkling with victory.

your shoes splash in sync on the wet pavement, puddles reflecting streetlight halos that stretch and warp with every ripple. the night is quiet except for the steady patter of rain against nylon, the occasional swish of a car passing far off, headlights smearing white across the slick asphalt.

neither of you speaks for a while. there’s no need. every time you shift the umbrella toward him, he nudges it back over your head, stubborn, until it’s ridiculous—half his hoodie plastered wet against his skin, hair dampening into soft curls at his forehead.

when you brush your knuckles against his hand by accident, you pull away instantly, but he doesn’t comment. just lets his hand sway a little closer next step, close enough that you feel the warmth of him even through the rain.

the walk stretches—block after block of slick concrete, neon reflections broken by your footsteps. every time you pass under a streetlight, the glow hits his face, pale against shadow, eyes glimmering when they flick sideways to you.

“you’re smiling,” he murmurs finally, quiet, like he’s caught you.

“no i’m not.”

“you are. your mouth hurts from it, doesn’t it?”

you shove your shoulder into his, more playful than annoyed. “yeah, so what.”

he laughs, soft and easy, shoulders shaking enough that rain flies off his soaked sleeve and spatters your arm.

and for a moment—just a moment—it doesn’t feel like a rainy midnight walk at all. it feels like something else, something warmer, something too close to what you’ve been trying not to name.

the neighborhood is quiet at this hour. rain has emptied the sidewalks, left everything glossy and dripping. most windows are dark, blinds drawn, except for the occasional television glow flickering pale blue against wet glass. the air smells of wet concrete, faint gasoline from the last car that passed, and the clean bite of rain hitting pavement.

ten minutes stretch long. puddles splash under your steps, your umbrella shaking with each gust of wind, his damp shoulder brushing you every time you both adjust unconsciously toward the middle. his hair is plastering down in spots now, small curls clinging to his forehead, but he doesn’t fix it. doesn’t seem to care that half of him is dripping. every time you tilt the umbrella toward him, he pushes it back over your head, stubborn, his grin saying don’t argue.

by the time you reach your building, your stomach aches from holding back a smile that never really left. your throat feels tight with it.

he stops at the base of your stairs, hands still stuffed in his wet pockets, shoulders hunched against the chill. the rain hasn’t let up; it drums steady on the umbrella above you, spilling sheets down the sides.

“alright,” he says finally, voice quieter, almost swallowed by the rain. “go on in. i’ll wait.”

“you’re insane,” you mutter, keys fumbling in your wet fingers. “standing out here in the cold just to—”

“don’t worry, told you it’s worth it.” he interrupts, easy, shameless.

your chest tightens.

the lock clicks, door nudging open. you step inside, warmth of the stairwell wrapping you, but you glance back one more time.

he’s still there. dripping, grin crooked, blue eyes glinting under the glow of the streetlight.

waiting.

only when you close the door do you hear him finally walk away, footsteps splashing down the street, fading slow.

the reserve smells faintly of cardboard and dust, the kind of stale warmth that coats the back of your throat and lingers, no matter how shallow you try to breathe. heavier than the air out front, heavier than night, pressed down by silence that stretches unbroken except for the tick of the wall clock and the occasional groan of the building shifting in its old frame.

boxes stand everywhere, towering piles shoved high against the walls, edges softened from too many hands, marker ink faded until the words mean nothing to anyone but you. the ladder squeals sharp against the floor when you drag it closer, the sound scraping up the quiet, and you glance back instinctively toward the doorway.

he’s there. leaning, as if the frame was built for the slope of his shoulder, looking like he already belongs in this space, already belongs with you.

“you sure you wanna help?” your voice comes out flat, skeptical because it has to be, even though some tired part of you already knows the answer.

he nods without pause, the grin blooming so fast it feels unfair. “of course. i’m basically employee of the month.”

you shake your head once, climbing into the rhythm of the scene before he can set it. “you don’t even work here.”

“technicalities.” the word rolls off his tongue quick, practiced, then he pushes off the frame and moves toward you like he owns the place, steps slow but inevitable.

he doesn’t hesitate when he reaches the nearest stack, doesn’t fuss with which box is balanced on which, just slips one arm under the top carton and lifts. the hoodie rides his forearms with the movement, fabric creasing against the crook of his elbows. his muscles don’t flex hard, don’t need to—it’s just the easy shift of tendon and skin, strength without thought. the box settles against his chest like it belongs there.

he looks up, catches you watching longer than you mean to, and his grin tilts wider, easy and sharp with the knowledge of it.

you roll your eyes, stepping onto the ladder’s first rung like that’ll cover you. “stack them on the left. and don’t drop anything.”

“me?” he pitches his voice mock-serious, straight-faced only for a beat. “please. i’m a professional.”

you don’t bite. don’t answer. just climb.

the ladder squeaks faint under your weight, each step narrow beneath your shoes, each rung a small measure of height. the top shelves crowd with cans, their labels dull red under weak light, stamped expiration dates uneven and small. you reach, shift them forward, oldest in front, newest behind. work steady, repetitive.

behind you the sound changes—cardboard thumping too loud on concrete, box after box set down with deliberate weight. then the low hum of him filling the silence, tuneless but steady, words threading through now and then.

“heavy little guys, aren’t they?” he mutters it mostly to himself, then laughs under his breath, light and careless.

“don’t distract me,” you call down, not looking, fingers steady as you place a neat row along the edge.

“oh, sorry.” his tone dips into faux-apology, too innocent. “didn’t realize you needed complete silence to commune with the beans.”

your mouth twitches, betrays you, and you catch it by biting your cheek, eyes fixed harder on the cans. you press the sticky rim of one into your sleeve, rub away the faint residue like it’s suddenly the most important task in the world.

and then the ladder shifts.

not a lot, not dramatic, just enough. a scrape of metal against smooth floor, a half-second slip. your balance tips sharp, your stomach jerks up into your chest. 

your hand clenches tight around the can, pulse hammering, throat already opening for a gasp—

but you don’t fall.

because there’s warmth.

a chest, solid and unmoving, right against your cheek before the sound of your own yelp even leaves your throat. arms fold around you fast—one braced strong at the curve of your back, the other firm against your thigh where your foot slips from the rung.

“got you.”

his voice lands low, right by your ear, not playful, not teasing. certain. the kind of certain that sinks right through you.

your hands grip tighter on the cans, knuckles sharp white, chest heaving quick, but he doesn’t waver. his chest is steady against you, cotton damp where your face presses in, radiating warmth that carries the faint smell of detergent and rain.

the ladder creaks again when you shift but he’s already there, foot braced at the leg, pressing it back into the ground without even looking, holding the whole thing steady with a single push.

he doesn’t let go. not yet.

you tip back just enough to look at him, breath caught sharp, and he’s already looking down, grin softened into something quiet, not the sharp cut he usually wears but an uneven curve at one corner. his eyes glint, too much, too long.

“see,” he says finally, tone softer now but still dipped low, playful threaded through something steadier. “i’m a professional.”

your chest stutters with the words, your throat tight, and you shove the cans onto the shelf fast, needing your hands free. then your palm is against his chest, quick, pushing—not hard, not enough to move him, just enough to mark the space. “i was fine.”

“mm.” his lips tilt, almost a smile. “nope.”

he doesn’t step back, doesn’t loosen his hold until your feet are both flat on the concrete again, until you’re standing steady on your own. even then, his hands slip away too slow, fingertips dragging faint across your arms, like he has to feel every inch before he can let go.

the silence after stretches too loud.

you turn back to the shelf, face hot, hands fumbling for another can like the work could erase the tremor in them.

behind you, his humming starts again, softer now, quieter like he’s afraid of breaking the moment completely. cardboard scrapes against concrete, the sound of him dragging another box closer, filling the air in place of words.

“you’re ridiculous,” you mutter, voice rougher than you want it to be.

“you’re welcome.” light, smug at the edges, but soft beneath, softer than you’ve ever heard him.

you risk one glance over your shoulder, quick, betraying, and he’s still watching. grin crooked, eyes steady, blue too bright under fluorescent glare.

your pulse hasn’t slowed once.

and when you turn back, fingers clumsy around another can, a soft smile sticking to your face all night, the truth presses sharp into your chest: 

you don’t want it to.

the night is quiet in the way only city streets get after midnight, not truly silent but emptied out, the usual traffic and chatter pulled back to some other place so the block feels like it belongs to the two of you alone. 

the convenience store hums behind you, its glass front glowing tired fluorescent, the sign overhead buzzing faintly with every other second flicker. everything else—the sidewalks, the asphalt, the apartment windows stacked high above—is still, hushed, like the world is holding its breath to see what you’ll do next.

the table is nothing. plastic, cheap, legs that wobble whenever one of you so much as shifts your weight. the chairs aren’t better, molded backs squeaking each time they lean. but in this dead-still street, with the halo of the store light spilling over your shoulders, it might as well be a stage set for this exact scene, made for no one else.

the ice cream cups sweat onto the flimsy plastic surface, paper sides gone soft, rings of condensation spreading dark. you drag your spoon through the melting vanilla, the plastic edge scraping the bottom of the cup, sharp against the silence. sugar clings sweet and cold on your tongue, the faint ache settling at your molars.

across from you, his spoon hangs useless in his fingers, turning the mint chip over and over as though he’s considering it, though his eyes aren’t on the ice cream at all. they keep pulling back to you, quick and guilty, then gone again, then back like he can’t help it.

he’s the one who cracks first. he pretends he isn’t staring, shifting his spoon like it’s important work, but every other second his gaze cuts back. quick. hungry. then gone again.

“yours looks better.” he says finally, tossed in like background noise, but the line of his grin betrays him.

“you picked mint chip.” you keep your tone flat, spoon scraping neat down the side of your cup.

“bad choice,” he makes a face, shakes his head with a level of seriousness that doesn’t match the situation, acting like you didn’t gave it to him for free. “tragic, really. should’ve gone with vanilla."

your spoon clinks against the rim. “then buy your own.”

“but sharing’s romantic.” the word lands smug, the grin widening when your eyes finally cut sharp at him, sharp enough you mean to knock him back into his chair, but instead he just leans forward like he’s caught what he wanted.

his chair scrapes against the ground, a squeal too loud in the quiet, the movement just an inch forward but enough to change everything about the space between you.

you straighten instinctively, hand gripping your spoon tighter, your cup pulling closer to your chest. “don’t you dare.”

his grin tilts, uneven and stupid. “just one bite.”

you know the move before it happens, the way he shifts, the way his arm stretches across the tiny strip of table, spoon poised like a thief’s hand. you start to pull your cup back but he’s faster, the plastic edge clattering against the lip of the paper, his laugh breaking out just at the second your glare sharpens.

“hey—” but the protest stalls in your throat because he’s not sitting back, not retreating with his little stolen bite. he’s leaning further, elbow propped on the table, shoulders folding into your space until his whole body fills the small distance between you.

and then he’s closer.

so close the grin falters at the edge of his mouth, like he didn’t realize how much the chair scrape and elbow lean would cost him. his hand stills on your cup, spoon forgotten there. his breath washes faintly over your cheek, cool from the sugar, sharper from the mint, and the air between you shrinks to almost nothing.

you freeze, spoon midair, lungs caught, every nerve in your body on alert.

he freezes too.

for a second nothing moves. not his hand on the cup, not yours on the table, not the loose sweat-soaked paper sides of the ice cream melting fast between you.

the silence stretches, heavy and loaded, and then his eyes flick—down, quick, before darting back up. it’s fast, barely there, but you feel it like a hit, the way his gaze drops to your mouth, the way it lingers just a fraction too long before he yanks it back.

your chest stutters. heat blooms under your skin.

he swallows, the sound small but audible, throat working around it. “you’re…” his voice breaks soft, slips lower. “smiling.”

and you are.

not the twitch you bury under a glare, not the faint upward pull you crush down before it can spread. your mouth is curved, undeniable, the kind of smile that belongs to him because he’s the only one who makes it live on your face.

you don’t hide it this time.

you let it sit. small, quiet, but real.

his breath shakes out like it undid him completely. his fingers twitch against your cup but he doesn’t move them away, doesn’t break the space.

the spoon slips from his grip and clatters onto the table, a hollow noise against the plastic, but neither of you look down.

he leans the rest of the way without even seeming to mean to, pulled forward by something neither of you are willing to name.

and then his mouth is on yours.

the kiss isn’t rushed. not clumsy or sharp. soft, almost tentative, like he’s testing if the world will allow this, if you’ll let it. lips pressed light to yours, the faint sweetness of vanilla sugar mixing with the sharper bite of mint when your breaths cross.

your chest pulls tight, a painful ache that’s not unpleasant. your fingers curl against the flimsy edge of the table, gripping so hard the cheap plastic bows under the pressure, but you can’t stop yourself.

he doesn’t push deeper, not yet. he lingers there, breath catching, lips parting against yours just enough that every tiny shift feels like another start, another chance to fall further.

when he finally pulls back half an inch, eyes still open, still on you, his expression is wrecked in a way you’ve never seen. blue too bright under the wash of fluorescent light, mouth curved like he can’t decide if he’s allowed to smile yet.

and you’re still smiling.

not a twitch, not a mistake. a real one. wide enough he can’t pretend it’s anything else.

something in him loosens then, some knot that’s been holding his grin too tight, because his own mouth tilts soft, mirrors yours without him even trying.

neither of you speak.

the world fills the silence for you—the buzz of the store sign, the drip of condensation running down the side of the paper cup, the faint rustle of night air against the empty street.

you pick up your spoon again finally, fingers trembling, and dip it into what’s left of the melted vanilla. but instead of bringing it to your mouth, you extend it out across the table.

he doesn’t hesitate. not this time.

he leans in, slower but surer, lips parting just enough to let the spoon slip past. he closes around it, hums faint when the sugar hits his tongue, eyes never leaving yours.

he swallows, the sound low. his voice follows, rough around the edges. “better.”

you laugh then, soft and quiet, shoulders curling in, the kind of laugh you’ve always bitten back before but can’t now.

and when your mouth stays curved, lips parted, teeth flashing faint in the wash of the weak store light, he looks at you like he can’t believe you’ve let him see it, like it’s the only thing he’s ever wanted.

your smile holds. his does too.

the cups sweat into rings on the table, spoons slipping down into the last of the melted sugar, the street still empty and silent.

and it feels like the whole block is waiting for you to kiss him again.

He looked familiar. His eyes were a deep amethyst, his smile was soft and kind. His dark and shaggy hair was tied behind his head in a small bun, and his ears were adorned with multiple piercings. Although many at Oxford, especially the men, tried to appear as blank as usual, he seemed apt and content with going against the stuffy and old notions. 

You must have seemed confused because the man stuttered as he introduced himself. 

“I’m Suguru,” he restarted, his hand leaving his side as he extended it to shake yours, “I think we had the same English survey course last semester.” 

Your confusion melted away into a wide smile as you shook his hand, his own eyes crinkling around the edges as he grinned back, letting out a breath of relief as you nodded insistently, shaking your head at your own self. 

“Right, right, Suguru! I remember you!” You exclaimed, setting your cup down to the side as you watched him tuck a strand of loose hair behind his ear, “You sat a little bit in front of me, right?” 

His head ducked down momentarily as he chukked, putting his hands in his pants pockets as he nodded. 

“I did,” he chuckled slightly, “Right in the line of fire for when Howard needed to pick on someone.” 

Your lips quirk up slightly as you nod, remembering how the professor you work for now used to terrorize your class and quiz random students on particular syllables and grammatical imperfections in the reading they were supposed to have done. 

The class was small, as were most major-specific courses you were taking. Although you didn’t have many of your friends in the class, you had gotten a good sense of who was in there and who Dr. Howard preferred to pick on. Suguru, for the most part, did the reading and did his work, so he came out unscathed compared to some of the other students. He sat near the front with some of his own friends, and you had talked to him in passing a couple of times when the class as a whole would band together to compare comments on assignments. He was kind, from what you remembered, which is probably why you felt your shoulders growing less tense the more you two talked. 

“That’s her style,” you say, shrugging as you fiddle with your fingers. “It took a while to get used to it,” you admit. Suguru rolls his eyes at your humility, remembering clearly just how much Dr. Howard favored you, but he doesn’t say anything as he lets you continue, “I don’t know if you’ve had Creemer yet, but he’s worse with his cold calls and isn’t half as nice.” 

“I have him right now for rhetoric and grammar,” he said with a sigh, shaking his head in dismay, “He’s…sadistic, I think.”

You giggle, nodding feverishly at the statement as you recall your past couple of classes with the hellish professor, an infamous name for many English majors and someone that you try to avoid at all costs if possible. 

The party, or gathering, as it said on the invitation, drones on in the background as you look around to see if anybody is looking in your direction. Most of the time, you can do what you want, but seeing that Dr. Howard had warned you before tonight that somebody from the department might want to swarm you to ask questions that you most likely didn’t have answers to, had put you on edge. 

“Are you enjoying yourself?” He asked, motioning to the rest of the people with a knowing glint as you politely smile, shrugging your shoulders as your lips press tightly together. Whether it be your shy nature or how you preferred smaller crowds, it must’ve been evident on your face that you weren’t necessarily having the most amount of fun. 

“I am,” you answer, wincing at the way your voice sounded warbled, “I’m trying to make the most of these opportunities, I guess.” 

Suguru’s head dipped in understanding, taking a sip of his drink as he bit the inside of his cheek, leaning in slightly as he lowered his voice. 

“These things drag on for a bit, though, yeah? I’m feeling my fingers prune from how long I’ve held this glass.” 

You let out a sigh of relief, sharing the same sentiment as the two of you share a knowing look. 

“I…I, um, I heard that Howard chose you to research with her, though, right? That’s gotta be pretty cool,” Suguru asked after a beat, bringing you back to the conversation as his head tilted slightly, and you felt heat rush to your cheeks as you swallowed. He seemed kind, not asking the question bitterly as some other people have. 

You nodded again, trying to contain your smile as you leaned against the stone pillar next to you. Letting out a small hum, you swallow again, trying to scope out what sort of place he was coming from. 

“It is,” you answered, biting on the inside of your cheek as you were still reeling from being selected from such a wide pool of applicants and such a rigorous interview process to work on her next paper analyzing More’s work through a modern lens, “It’s…strenous, sometimes, but I’m having a lot of fun working with her,” you fidgeted with your fingers, “So yeah, it’s pretty cool.” You say sheepishly. 

Suguru smiled at your hidden enthusiasm, the tip of his boot nudging something on the ground. He went to usher you to continue before his eye caught something behind your shoulder, his eyebrows shooting upwards in surprise as his smile grew even wider, his hand raising in a wave. 

“Sorry,” he apologetically muttered, and you craned your neck around to see what it was, or rather who it was that Suguru had seen, “I think my friend just arrived.” 

That’s when you felt your breathing stop. 

The bustling group of students and faculty members almost seemed to part theatrically for the man walking towards the two of you, but you couldn’t even blame them. 

He stuck out like a sore thumb, with his icy white hair and strikingly beautiful eyes. His lengthy frame made him nearly a head taller than even the tallest man in the room, and his wide shoulders helped him wade through the bodies as he navigated to his friend. His face seemed stoic, bordering on bored, but you couldn’t help but widen your eyes in shock at seeing the most devastatingly gorgeous man to ever exist. He adjusted his glasses over the bridge of his nose, his lips moving in quiet apologies as he tried to move through the people without bumping into them. 

You suddenly became hyper-aware of the fact that it had been days since you had last had a good night's sleep and that the bags under your eyes were most likely even more evident in the dim lighting of the old hall, and how your sweater was lumpy from being shoved in the back of your closet for so long. You swallow thickly as Suguru quickly excused himself as he stepped away and walked a bit away to hug the stranger, exchanging some words with each other as you stood awkwardly to the side. 

You watched them silently as they talked for a little bit more before Suguru stepped away, his hand on his friend's back as he, for some horrifying reason, seemed to guide him towards where you were stiffly standing as the two of you made eye contact before you became aware of the way your eyeballs felt in your socket and how heavy your tongue was in your mouth. 

When Suguru finally pulled away from the modern-day Adonis, you felt like a creeper and a loner as you wondered whether or not to leave or stand in the corner while they talked, but ever the kind person that he was, Suguru led the man by the back to where the two of you were with a wide smile on his face. 

“Sorry about that,” Suguru abashedly apologized, chuckling deeply as he rubbed the back of his neck, “But this is my friend, Satoru,” he said brightly, pushing the man a little harshly towards you as you stared at him silently.

The man, Satoru, gives you a tight-lipped smile, nodding once in your direction as he looks around, looking uncomfortable and shifty. Suguru rolled his eyes, sighing deeply as he patted his friend's back. 

You grinned back, swallowing the spit in your mouth as you felt him stare at you once he was done looking at the room, your cheeks heating up. You felt his eyes drift over your outfit, at your posture, and the way your hands were clasped tightly together. This stranger assessed the way you swayed slightly, awkwardly, not knowing how to fill the silence as you tapped the tip of your battered shoes on the ground. When he was done, his chin lifted again, his stare lingering on your blinking face as you glanced between him and Suguru, waiting for somebody to say something before you imploded and left with the lingering scent of your vanilla body spray. 

Seeing that he was fine with checking you out, you took the time to do the same. He seemed like one of the generational students of the school, the ones whose parents and grandparents and cousins and siblings all came and went and made something important with their lives. They weren’t hard to detect, especially him, with his steamed jumper and his creased pants. His leather shoes were shining back at you, and though his hair was somewhat messy, it seemed to be classily messy, unlike what you and some other students would call freely messy.

“I force him to come to these things with me,” Suguru explained, but you could barely hear him over the rhythm of heartbeats in your ear as you tried to fly, appreciate the man a few feet in front of you, “Our friend Shoko sometimes comes, but she had things to do tonight.”

The man’s nose wrinkled ever so slightly, his brows drawing tightly together as he glanced at his friend with a look. 

“I had things to do too,” he muttered, his voice deep as you felt your heart stupidly tumble at the sounds. 

Suguru snorted, shaking his head as he shrugged indifferently. 

“Sure,” Suguru replied sarcastically and glanced at you, his brow slightly raised at the way you had gone silent, his lips quirking slightly when he noticed the way you couldn’t stop staring at his friend, not voicing anything as his hand on Satoru’s shoulder loosened, “Just act like you want to be here for twenty minutes, yeah?”

You bit your teeth into your cheek, a finger raising slightly as you pointed to the newcomer's face. 

“I like your glasses,” you said brightly, your smile gentle as you fidget with your own, watching the way his striking eyes moved over to you again, squinting slightly as his hand raised upwards, as if he had forgotten that his glasses were even there, “They frame your face really well.” Your head tilts a little as you try to place something, “Where’d you get them? If, if you don’t mind me asking. Mine is so old and dingy, and the rims are basically glued on, and I’ve only had them for a few years.” 

“Erm, well, thank you,” Satoru says stiffly, not used to the direct attention and compliments, his cheeks slightly dusted with pink as Suguru watches his friend struggle for words, taking the glasses off as he turns them to the side, trying to read the logo, “These are, erm, from Cartier. But I usually wear contacts, anyway.”

You let out a startled laugh, not a stranger to hearing students at this place don expensive items, but this being the first time you’ve seen one of them bashful about it. 

You nod, your smile still there, softer as you take in his slightly awkward nature and let him put the glasses back on before you continue. 

“Contacts are more practical,” you agree, even though you’ve always had a phobia of things touching your eyes and would never wear contacts unless somebody forced you, shrugging as you say, “But I’ve always appreciated the look of glasses.” 

Satoru gnaws on his lips, nodding quietly as Suguru starts talking about his friend's major (biochemistry, you came to find out), and how long they’ve known each other, but you could only feel your stupid feelings when Suguru stayed, his friend included, and talked with you for the rest of the evening. 

That was your sophomore year. 

Nearly two years passed after befriending Suguru alongside his small group. He introduced you to Shoko after that night, swearing up and down that the two of you were destined to be near each other. And we weren’t wrong, not in the slightest. You two girls bonded strangely fast, as if you were twin flames that were being fanned out. Suguru and Satoru seemed to mirror the two of you, but the group functioned as a whole, for the most part. You spent so many nights over at their dorms that you could walk around blindfolded and still find your way to the others with no issue. It was fun, it was what you had dreamt of for so long. It was something that you were fine with, more than content with, ending your university career in a couple of months. 

Well, everything for the most part, you could consider it as such if it wasn’t for your debilitating and soul-crushing feelings for the stranger you met that night. 

It’s been four semesters, and you still don’t think Gojo Satoru has a clue. Which, in all honesty, is for the better. 

Although his stoic nature spares nobody, it feels as though you're always on the worst end of it. With his lingering stares that seem to border on questioning why you were even there whenever he sees you, to the way he grows dim and quiet around you, it feels like you’re actively attempting to hurt yourself the more you fall in love with the little things you hadn’t noticed the day prior.

Even worse, you know deep down that such feelings are most likely, under this sun and every other universe, with most certainty and heavy grief, unrequited. 

But you’re fine keeping it down. 

You were fine until recently.

—

“I’m debating switching majors.” 

Shoko declared from the couch, her legs hanging off the side, knocking occasionally on your shoulders as you crane your neck back on the cushion form where you were seated on the ground to look at her upside down. 

“To what?” 

She shrugged, rubbing at her eyes as she held her neuroanatomy textbook in one hand, her phone in the other as she scrolled through the different majors Oxford offered, as if she wasn’t a semester away from graduating. 

“Film?” She read out, and you snorted, rolling your eyes at the prospect of Shoko going into film, “Hm…maybe art history?” 

“Gave up on the med school dream?” Suguru quips from the other side of the couch, knowing fully that Shoko was just going on another one of her tangents as she shifted slightly to shove him harshly with her socked foot. 

“I’m sure your counselor wouldn’t mind,” you reply, looking at her as she glares, her eyes falling back to her phone as she peers at the screen. She looked boredly a little bit before her eyes flitted upwards slightly, squinting as she read the new notification. 

“Satoru said he’s going to be here in a few minutes,” she muttered, reading the next message, “And that he wants you,” she nudged Suguru with her foot again to motion that it was him that Satoru was referencing in the text, “To move to your bed so that he can do his work on his side of the couch.” 

Suguru peeked up from his doom scrolling to look at Shoko, his eyes narrowed in a glare as he let out a huff of annoyance. 

“His side?” 

Shoko shrugged, her knee knocking on the side of your head as you knock it back, the book you were reading resting in your hands as you listened to Suguru mutter distastefully about how this was his dorm and that Satoru had no right claiming his couch, but you heard him shuffle to his feet nonetheless. 

You tried not to show any peek of interest when the infamous name was called out, but it was hard not to. It had been two grueling years of mulling over your childish crush, yet the sound of his name could still send pulses to your veins that you were sure were minor heart attacks. 

Because it was Gojo Satoru. You wanted to bang your head against the coffee table just hearing it. 

Truth be told, you weren’t a stranger to having crushes. It was normal, it was human. Or at least, that’s what you convinced yourself when you were sprawled out on your bed, staring blankly at the ceiling as you tried not to think about the way his fingers ever so slightly grazed your wrist when he handed you some chopsticks earlier at the restaurant. 

But your crushes came few and far between, and you preferred keeping it that way. Seeing that you were too terrified to ever admit them, and the few, very few times you have, they’ve backfired horrifically, you try not to catch feelings as much as possible. But there was something about Gojo, something beyond reason, that pulled you to him. 

At first, you bargained. You tried convincing yourself that it was just his appearance that was drawing you in, his suave looks that made people’s heads turn whenever he entered a room. But you have seen him at four in the morning with his old band tees (a sight that still made you swoon), with his hair crusted with glitter and his eyes pink with eyeshadow as Shoko attempted to put him in drag. Even then, he was insanely gorgeous, so you knew it had to be beyond that. 

When you had finally accepted that it was a mind-numbing and life-ending crush that you were feeling towards him, you finally gave in and decided to admire the tall brute from afar. It helped that the two of you had gotten somewhat closer over the past two years, but out of everyone in the group, he was the one you talked to the least. In your defense, he didn’t have much to say to anybody, and that was just his nature. He spent most of his time studying and researching, and the other time watching, observant as other people gossiped. It wasn’t his forte, and nobody pushed him. 

So you took in his quietness and his stoicism, appreciated his god-like looks and his overwhelming presence. That was fine. 

What made it even worse was that he was so unattainably perfect in other ways that your crush festered into something that made you scream into your pillows and throw your balls of clothes at the wall as you wallowed in self-pity. 

Everyone at this damned university was intelligent, and you had made amends with them early on. But you loved men who were smart, guys who could actually hold a page down and dissect it and make the most of it. And worst of all, Gojo Satoru was probably the most intellectual person you have ever met, and will ever meet. It seemed like his memory was photographic, his mind working twenty thousand times faster than the regular brain as he computed formulas and equations at speeds that you couldn’t fathom. He made biochemistry seem easy, something that you sometimes felt guilty for not pursuing. And sure, it didn’t help that you were on the other side with your texts about Russian classics and books diving deep into the restoration period, but even Shoko, who could rival Gojo at times, would begrudgingly admit under her breath just how stupidly genius he was. 

Therefore, when you put those things together, his charming looks, his bookish self, his brooding structure, and just everything else, it made him unattainably perfect.

And that’s when you get the man you’ve been hopelessly in love with since the moment you saw him at that wretched party that wasn’t a party. 

So, when Shoko read off his texts, there was good reason why she looked at the top of your head, a knowing look in her eyes as she playfully nudges you again, watching as you threw her a dark glare to just keep it down seeing that she was the only other soul who knew, despite you trying your best to hide it, about your feelings towards her other friend. 

“Did you hear that Toji is graduating a semester late?” Suguru asked, leaning back against his pillows, his long legs strewn along his bed as he chewed on some gum. 

You and Shoko both hummed, not looking up from your respective tasks, having found this information out weeks in advance. 

Suguru groaned in annoyance, his chest vibrating with the noise as you snorted, rolling your eyes as he threw a small pillow at your head. It bounced off the side of your face, but you didn’t look up from the page you were on, too engrossed to hear the door behind you click open and heavy footsteps suddenly thudding through the dorm. 

You shuffled against the couch, your back feeling stiff as you tried to get comfortable, not knowing that the man of your dreams was moving around somewhere behind you as he hung his coat up (vintage leather, something you found out as he grumbled about getting it wet when Shoko and Suguru insisted on walking in the rain once), kicked off his shoes, and slung his bag around as Shoko craned her neck to see what he was doing. 

“Hey,” Shoko called out, and your eyes widened slightly when you heard a familiar voice grunt back a tired greeting, trying not to look as your ears suddenly sharpened to pick up on the sound of him pulling on his sweatshirt as he rounded the couch, standing at the opposite end as he plopped his backpack on the cushions. 

You finally allowed yourself to peek over, your eyes following his figure upwards until they landed on his face, and your fists balled in frustration at how pretty he was even when he was simply existing. 

Gojo sent you a small, tight-lipped and courteous nod, polite and curt as he looked between you and Shoko, glancing back at the bed where Suguru was lying, his fingers barely lifting from his phone as he gave his childhood best friend a lazy three-fingered wave. 

“Why’re you here?” His blunt question was directed at Shoko, something that held no bite but mere wondering as he situated himself on the soft cushions, his large hands feeling around his bag as he opened up the zipper to get his laptop. 

“I thought that it was allowed,” Shoko replied dryly, “Apologies.” 

You chuckle softly, flipping the page, trying not to let his signature cologne distract you from the words in front of you. 

“How was your lab?” Suguru asked, sounding monotone as his thumb swiped on the screen. 

You watched as Gojo gave him a glare, his nose wrinkling, something he often did when he was frustrated but didn't want to ruin his outward appearance, and rubbed at his tired eyes. His hair was messy with goggle indents lining the upper half of his face. 

“An offense to my intelligence,” Gojo grumbled, his face illuminated by the glow of his laptop as he clicked around a little bit, “I can’t believe some people have made it this far.” 

You flipped another page, not fully having read the contents of the last one, but in an attempt to seem indifferent, tried to keep up with your regular reading pace as if anybody was keeping track. 

Watching as he riffles through his bag again, you know, almost like clockwork, what he’s going to pull out. His routine is one that you’ve familiarized yourself with despite your best judgment, and you know that what comes next are his glasses. 

Glasses are normal. You have your own pair that you only wear for lectures and outings, but forgo them for times like this because they sit a little too heavy on your nose. But his glasses are something else. 

They elevate his face ever so slightly, but so much so that it makes you want to keel over and scream. They accentuate his perfect nose with the perfect crook and his freckles that sometimes sit just beneath the frames. He looks even more dashing, if that was even possible, with the way he looks up sometimes, and the lenses make his eyes seem even more blue. 

He took them off for labs and put them somewhere safe. In moments like this, you were reminded of just how truly stunning this man really was. 

Gojo unfolded the two prongs, holding them up to a source of light as his nose wrinkled again. 

Smudges. 

You watch silently as he dives back into the bag, his long fingers searching through his pockets for something you knew you always kept on hand for yourself and deep down, for him. 

After a few seconds of not finding the microfiber cloth that you both silently cherished, you gave in, pulling your own bag towards you as you unzipped the smaller pocket, pulling it out stealthily and motioning for Shoko to hand it to Gojo. 

He took it, his face going so far to relax momentarily as he went to clean the lenses, his head nodding once in quiet appreciation in your direction as you allowed yourself a nod in return. 

Shoko looked at you with a raised brow, and you chose to hide behind your book.

“Was it Lainey?” Suguru asked, looking over at his friend, the name piquing your interest as you cast a quizzical look at Shoko, but she shrugged, watching Gojo as his expression soured. He handed you back your little cloth, muttering a thanks under his breath as his bitter gaze found Suguru, as if he was cursing him silently for bringing up the sensitive subject. 

“What do you think?” He grumbled out, his right eye almost twitching as his fingers stretched out, typing something quickly as Suguru huffed out a laugh, noting how you and Shoko were both confused, and his smile only grew. 

“You didn’t tell them?” Suguru asked, a gleam in his eyes as he shuffled to sit upwards, his back resting on the headboard, “Oh, this is class. Do you two know Lainey? Lainey Andrews?” 

You cast a look at Shoko, your lips pursing as your eyes squinted, trying to recall the familiar name. 

“The ginger?” Shoko asked, her head tilting to the side, her hair falling around her shoulder, “Pixie cut?” 

Suguru nodded, his shoulders raising as your brows furrowed before your mouth slightly fell open when your head bobbed quickly, snapping as you matched the face to the name. 

“Oh, Lainey!” You exclaimed, “She’s really pretty,” you added, remembering her bright green eyes and the spattered freckles that made her look like a painting, “She’s also crazy smart - she’s double majoring in bio and poli sci."

Shoko laughed softly under her breath, giving you a small look because this was somewhat typical of you to know random people, with nearly everyone on campus having had a conversation with you at some point during your four years here. 

Suguru raised a brow, clicking his tongue as he pointed his phone at Gojo, seeming like he was already anticipating one of his sly comments.  

“She’s also just crazy,” Gojo muttered, looking above his laptop, above his wispy lashes at you and then to Shoko, “She spent half of the lab playing with my hair.” 

Your book almost fell out of your hands as Shoko sat up with a barking out a stunned laugh, your hands mirroring each other as they flew to cover your mouths in shock, and Suguru nodded again, his eyes wide as he clicked his tongue. 

Another thing about Gojo? He hated being touched. Despised hugs, only suffered through quick handshakes, and shuddered at the thought of someone touching his face. You’ve seen the way he pulls back whenever someone approaches him with open arms, seen the way he tries to brush people off of him. He can tolerate Suguru and his insistent bear-hugs from time to time, can sometimes allow Shoko to swat a fly away from his face, and for some reason, doesn’t grumble whenever you try to fix his ties before events, but whenever a stranger or someone he isn’t close to attempts to touch him, he grows reclusive for the rest of the day.

“I told her to stop, too,” he adds, his big frame seeming to grow in frustration as he thinks back to it, “It was only after I had to shove her off that she got the hint. I forgot my disinfectant too, so I was just…” he shuddered, his eyes fluttering shut as he shifted uncomfortably, and you watched him let out a restrained exhale as he dropped it and went back to work.

But, after studying him for as long as you have, you know that he probably washed his hands and his face a couple of times after that. You know that he also wouldn’t feel complete without some sanitizing wipes and a good shower, so you do the closest thing to that and fish out a hand sanitizer from your bag, an item that you refused to move around without due to your own cleanly nature, which was ironically something else that you and Gojo silently shared, and passed it to him, knowing that he was probably itching till he was able to shower again.

Your friends sometimes joked that you had a Mary Poppins bag, but it came in handy for times like this. 

Gojo’s ears perked up at the sound of your rumaging, his eyes almost brightening at the sight of the hand sanitizer, and you pinched it between two fingers before throwing it his way, watching as he effortlessly caught it and began spraying his large palms with the lavender scent. 

“Thank you,” he mumbled again, his voice slightly losing the edge it had from before as he passed it back to you, and you smiled, nodding once before you zipped it back up. 

You tried to ignore the way Shoko was staring at you.

“Lucky us that we don’t have labs, huh?” Suguru called out, throwing another tiny pillow in your direction, but this time you dodged it, moving your head down slightly so that it would miss. You huff a bit, looking over at Suguru as he shrugged, winking as he went back to his phone. 

Suguru was another English major, the reason the two of you got familiar in the first place. He liked to say that the two of you balanced out Gojo and Shoko, but you just thought that it pushed you even further down the list of potential people your pathetic crush could be interested in. 

There were a couple of things that you had come to terms with if you were going to crush on him. One was that you had to know in full certainty that nothing was going to come from it. You weren’t going to risk the friendship, no matter how small, by going and confessing and having everything be messy. Two, was that you weren’t going to feel, or at least try not to feel, jealous if he entertained the idea of pursuing something with someone else. And three, was that Gojo Satoru was so incredibly picky when it came to potential partners, that it might be impossible for even the most amazing people to snag a chance. 

“I don’t know,” you mumbled, eyes squinting as you tried to make out what one of the characters was saying, “You didn’t have to do that project with Armie.” 

Suguru hummed, his brow raising as he thought back to your shared class and the project that paired you up with people you didn’t know, Suguru getting the better end of the stick while you were stuck with someone who insisted on plugging the project prompt into a generator. 

“Didn’t you report him?” Satoru asked, his eyes still trained on his work, but the question was now directed to you given the fact that he had sat in on a couple of your tirades in which you would drone on about how the boy was nearly about to graduate and still couldn’t cite sources when he, in one of his brief moments of providing comments, would reiterate to report it to the professor. 

You sank into your spot, giving him a suppressed look, one where your eyes met before you shared a glimpse with Suguru. Your friend rolled his eyes from across the room, shaking his head in annoyance as Satoru looked between the two of you. 

“She said that she didn’t want to ‘be a bitch’,” Suguru said, restating the words as his fingers move up and down in the air, quoting the statement you had said to him moments before you had to present the assignment in front of the class, shushing him as you pushed him away, insisting that even though you had done the entire project on your own, that it wasn’t worth the hassle to make a report with the professor and potentially have someone out for you, “I said otherwise, but she,” Suguru gave you a pointed look, “Said she’d cut my hair if I made it a ‘big deal’.”

Satoru’s eyes lingered on the side of your face, and you purposefully kept your head ducked and the book closer, so close that it was nearly touching your nose, as you tried to shield away their judging eyes in embarrassment. 

“You need to stop caring about what other people think,” Shoko said as she shoved you with her knee, this time just a little bit harder because she knows you and knows what you hide in the fear of making others think something of you that wasn’t good, “I really think your professor would’ve heard your case if you made it.”

You groaned, swatting at her leg with your book as you shuffled away, backing into another corner as you tried to readjust to the new position. 

“Yeah,” Suguru added, resting his phone momentarily on his chest, “I think it would help if you were more selfish.” 

You rolled your eyes, shaking your head at the prospect. 

“I just hate confrontation,” you murmur defensively, gnawing on your bottom lip as you flip a page, “And, plus…you have to give me some credit - at least I told him that he was being frustrating,” you say, pretending to ignore them, your eyes re-reading the same word over and over again until you were confident that they were going to drop this subject, this horse that they’ve beaten multiple times, one that ended with you assuring them that you were going to speak up more until it all looped back again to times like this.

“Speaking of confrontation, did you ever get a refund for that ticket?” 

There was a beat of silence before you let out a frustrated groan when Shoko reminded you of the one task you had forgotten to do in the past couple of days, your head falling to your knees as your palms jammed into your eyes. 

“No, oh my god, you’re so right,” your voice is muffled as you bookmark your page, your fists clenching at your own mistake as your eyes crack open, “Oh my god, I can’t believe I forgot to follow up on that!” 

Shoko chuckled, rolling her eyes as Suguru and Satoru shared a look, them now sharing confusion as you writhe on the floor at the thought of knowing you could’ve saved a couple of bucks had you not forgotten to call up the school of drama help center for accidentally buying an extra ticket to the showing of The Beggar’s Opera. And, seeing that it was Tuesday and just days before the theatre program, one that needed funds, was about to perform, the deadline for your refund was most likely up.

“So does that mean you need me to come with you next Saturday?” Shoko offered, her lips quirking up slightly as your head shot up, nodding quickly as your hands flew to hers, shaking them feverishly. 

“Would you? Would you really?” You ask, and her laughter grows, shoving you off playfully by pushing your forehead back to where you were sitting. 

“I’ll see what I can do,” she says with a sigh, winking at you before she goes back to her phone, and you settle back in your seat as you gnaw on your lips, thinking back to how on earth you could have possibly messed up so bad when you so usually only buy one ticket for yourself, but you push it aside, thankful that your dearest friend was at least going to make use of it. 

You, Suguru, and Shoko shared a small laugh and went on with the conversation, but you heard a low, deep noise, something only you could hear, as Suguru and Shoko returned to bickering about which major Shoko was best suited for. 

The sound made you glance up briefly, looking over the pages to see Gojo still staring at you, his lashes fluttering before he snapped back to it and went back to doing his work. 

Minutes turned into a few hours, and the room was filled with the occasional story and laughter, but mostly the four of you worked together on different assignments, sometimes looking up as you would recall something from the past couple of days that you were saving to tell them in person. 

It seemed like everything was going smoothly until Suguru got a notification on his phone, his face lighting up as he swiveled out of his bed, jumping onto the floor as he tugged his shoes on, not explaining anything as the three of you glanced up, waiting. 

“My food’s here,” he said over his shoulder, practically gleaming as he cocked his head in Shoko’s direction, “Come down with me, will you? I need some help.” 

You scoff, smiling to yourself as you try to imagine just how much food he had ordered, but careful not to be too loud because you knew he would be sharing it with you all after some choice complaints were heard. 

Shoko grumbles, but obliged, lifting up from the couch as she stretches, nudging you playing with the tip of her foot as she throws a pillow your way, walking towards Suguru as he holds the door open for her, the two of them calling out some brief goodbye as they head down to the lobby.

When the door clicks behind them, you’re suddenly aware of the fact that it’s only you and Satoru left, and you let your stare linger on the wall for a bit before you look away, suddenly sheepish when you catch his glance from his seat on the couch.

He clears his throat, eyes flickering from his screen to the book in your lap, the highlighters strewn around you, sticky notes sticking out from between the pages, and he points a finger at it. 

“What’re you reading?” 

Your brows raise slightly, and your chin ducks down to the book, and you sit up a little straighter as you place a bookmark in the middle of your page you lifting the cover, letting him read the cover as he adjusts his glasses over his eyes. 

“Oh,” he says, his voice holding a lithe of acknowledgement as he slowly sets his laptop to the side, shifting slightly closer, “I’ve read this, I think.” 

Your head tilts a little, lips quirking a little bit at the sides with a small smile as you look back at the cover.

“You’ve read The Norton Anthology, Volume C before?”

His mouth parts, closing it before he gapes at you, and your grin turns into a big smile, waving it away as you shake your head, shrugging at his stammering expression. He’s so cute when caught in a lie. 

“I’m only kidding,” you swear, setting your book down, your knees pulled towards your chest, arms wrapping around your legs, “I’m sure you’ve had to read something like this for one of your previous classes.” 

“You’re bothersome,” he murmurs, but his voice holds no bite as you let out another barking laugh, rolling your eyes as he tries not to smile, “I’m only trying to be polite.” 

You purse your lips together, giving him a questioning look as he shoots you one back. 

“I didn’t know politeness was in your artillery,” you quip, and he scoffs, moving his glasses upwards as he rubs at his tired eyes, resting backwards into the cushions as his legs part, and you try not to let your eyes linger on his thighs. 

“I have a reserve for choice people,” he says, opening his eyes back as he looks back at you, yawning as he moves on, “How was your presentation?” 

Your smile falters for a second as your stare turns questioning, chewing on your lips as it turns into something sweeter, something smitten because he’s asking about the presentation you had mentioned once in passing the last weekend you had hung out, stressing over your slides and sources, and trying to seem nonchalant as you finger traces little patterns on the floor. 

“It was good,” you tell him, trying not to seem too prideful as you murmur, “My professor said it was exactly what he was looking for.” 

His face shifts, no longer annoyed as you try not to appear bashful, but his teeth shine as his rosy cheeks pull upwards as he gives you one of those smiles that makes you feel warm and happy and giddy. 

“Yeah?” He asks, shifting a little bit as he waved his teasingness off, rolling your eyes as you groan, nodding exaggeratedly as you go back to organizing your highlighters and pens, but he seems intent on pushing this: “Didn’t you say it was the hardest assignment of the class?”

You look up at him from above your lashes, trying not to smile again as you shrug indifferently, done with arranging your stationery based on colors as your knees knock together, throwing a pillow his way that he effortlessly catches.

“I mean, everyone told me that it was really, really hard, so-” But you’re cut off by the door swinging open, and the two of you crane your necks around to see Shoko and Suguru arguing over something irrelevant, food nestled in their hands as they close the door behind them with a slam. 

They start telling you two about the delivery fee and the outrageousness that one of the containers had tipped over, but you’re still busy thinking about how Satoru remembered something so trivial, giving them quiet hums as they spread out the food on the small coffee table, and trying to act normal. 

Like you have for the past two years.

—

The week passed as it usually does, with papers, readings, and assignments that needed to be completed at an unmanageable rate. 

You had expected the usual and mundane things, and for the most part, that’s what came your way. Nights spent in each other's rooms as you finish up your work, spliced with moments where you would all talk, days filled with going to lectures and walking around campus till you found a quiet study spot. Things that you could predict and plan for. 

For the most part.

Another thing that your little group would occasionally do was meet up at the end of the week at one of the pubs around campus, most of them serving mediocre food and somewhat better drinks, and offer you all a time to reconvene after a usually stressful couple of days. 

The pub was small and quaint, but you enjoyed the warmth and laughter that muddled together to make the ambiance somewhat private. Either Suguru or Shoko would arrive there early and try to secure the usual spot at the booth near the end of the establishment, seeing that either of them didn’t have classes on Fridays, while the other three would meet up outside of Satoru’s biophysical chemistry class and walk there together.   

Which is why you found yourself back on that Friday, sitting next to Shoko, settling into your seat as she clambered in after you. Suguru almost pushes Satoru in, impatient to sit down and get back to talking, and you watch as the white-haired man sits in front of you, his hands clasped together as he stares at the wood-grain of the table. 

“How were classes?” Shoko finally asks, looking between you and Satoru as she takes a sip from her drink. 

You sigh, shrugging as your fingers play with the bottom of your cup, the condensation slipping down as you rub at your tired eyes. 

“Fine, I guess,” you say, drinking some water as you wipe at the corner of your lips, “My professor could’ve ended the class, like, twenty minutes earlier than he did.” 

She nods solemnly, patting your thigh in solidarity as she passes the bowl of crisps towards you, nudging you to take one to help settle your stomach after having back-to-back classes, knowing how hangry it made you.  

“Is this the professor who needs you to see a classical play?” Suguru asked, taking some of the snack as his arms crossed on top of the table, leaning in slightly as you licked some of the salt from your lips, nodding. 

“Yeah,” you heave another sigh, elbowing Shoko as you continue, “Which is why I’m seeing Beggar’s Opera next week. I mean, the theatre program did a couple of Shakespeare ones earlier this semester, but…ugh, I just can’t watch another performance of Romeo and Juliet.” You murmur with a groan, resting your chin on the palm of your hand as Suguru hums in agreement. 

“You don’t like Shakespeare?”

Your eyes shift over to the man in front of you who asked the question. 

Your brows furrow slightly in the middle, lips pulling into a small pout as you shake your head, playing with the ring of water your drink had left as you itch your nose, trying not to focus too hard on the pretty pink color on Gojo’s cheeks because of the slightly toasty feel of the room. 

“I do,” you say slugishly, “It’s just that when the only work of his that tends to be popular isn’t The Tempest, I get a little annoyed.” 

Suguru snorts, shaking his head as his fingers wag at you. 

“That’s not even nearly his best stuff,” he argues, and you roll your eyes, your head tilting badly in annoyance after knowing what this was going to lead to, “I can’t believe you still think that it outweighs Richard II.” 

Satoru and Shoko’s eyes bounce between you and your ink-haired friend. 

“I’d rather die on the hill of petty magic versus royal family drama,” You quip back, your brow slightly raised. 

Suguru huffed, shaking his head in dismay as he lightly shoved your foot underneath the table, a small smile on both your faces. 

“Is Tempest the one with the shipwreck?” Gojo asks, his head tilting slightly as his glasses lean on his nose bridge. You nod, grinning at the fact that someone in the group was able to identify such a classic piece of literary work. 

You open your mouth to agree, but Suguru beats you to it. 

“How do you know that?” He glances sideways at his friend, his brow raised in slight shock as Shoko snorts. 

Gojo shrugs, his elbows resting on the table as the fabric of his sweater tightens around his arms, making him look delectable and otherworldly. You have to tear your eyes away from it before it becomes too noticeable. 

“We went to the same secondary school,” Gojo argues, saying it as if it were the most obvious explanation in the world, “I paid attention…clearly more than others,” he adds under his breath, causing you to drop your hand to your mouth to hide the satisfied grin from when Suguru deflated in slight embarrassment. 

“Oh, speaking of blast from the past,” Shoko shuffles, looking at her phone screen as if suddenly remembering something, “Vi’s coming back for break.” 

You watch as Gojo and Suguru stop their silent bickering by messing with each other's stuff as they look up to Shoko. Suguru’s thin brow shoots upwards, his mouth turning into a surprised line as Gojo stares blankly, an unreadable expression on his face as you poke Shoko’s thigh, shaking your head in confusion. 

“Who?” You murmur, your eyes squinting as Shoko looks at you, her mouth slightly dropping as she also remembers that you didn’t grow up with them. 

“Vivienne March,” Suguru explains, beating someone once again to explain something because he could never hold onto a piece of information for longer than three seconds if he knows that somebody in his vicinity doesn’t know it, “She went to school with us for, what? Five, six years?” He looks between Gojo and Shoko, and they both nod, Shoko unlocking her phone as she goes to pull up the girl's instagram to show you what she looks like, “She’s his ex,” he murmurs as if secretly, pointing at his friend next to him as you feel something in your gut shift, but he clearly doesn’t tell because he leaves that point entirely. 

“But I thought she preferred to stay in America till her spring semester was over?” He asks, confused, waiting for you to be done looking, as he waits for Shoko to explain it. 

You take her phone gingerly, looking at the girl's account as you carefully click through her posts. You’re greeted with an aesthetic array of photos, some of her friends, some of her cat, and pretty pictures of old brick buildings and fall trees. But your eyebrows slowly move up your face when you see her. 

Your thumb swipes through each post as you see her stunning hair framing her face in freshly done curls, her eyes striking and delicate as she wanders around a bookstore. Her outfits are always perfectly curated, and her makeup delicately done to accentuate her already natural beauty in a way that makes a part of you, something you tried to bury and starve, twist with envy at the effortlessness of her perfection. 

“Guess she had a change of heart this year,” Shoko says, taking her phone back from your outstretched hand, turning it off as she placed it face down on the table, “She texted me this morning saying that she was ‘gonna be here for December and some of January and that she wanted to catch up.” 

“You would like her,” Suguru directs his attention back at you, his words matching the genuine smile on his face, “She’s super bright and bubbly. And she’s so funny. Oh, and she's, like, insanely smart. She graduated from Cambridge when she was nineteen, and she’s doing grad school at Harvard.” 

“Hmm, yeah,” Shoko hums, “I mean, she almost came here if she didn’t get the call from Harvard,” she nudges you with her shoulder, “But I don’t know how much he,” she points her eyes to Satoru, watching the way his mouth slightly parts at being called out, “Would’ve appreciated that, though.” 

He scoffs, his tongue poking at his cheek as he leans in slightly, his arms crossing the table as Suguru snickers. 

“I have no issue with Vivienne,” he argues, his brows pulling into a cute little frown, “She was just…”

“What?” Suguru juts in, Shoko scoffing a laugh next to you as Gojo only peers at him from the side of his eyes, “Madly in love with you? Was going to pick Oxford to be with you? And you were…what, days away from breaking up with her when she came sobbing to us that you have the emotional intelligence of a rock?”

Your eyes widen slightly, looking over at Shoko for confirmation, one she returns with a faint grin. Despite the sunken feeling in your heart, one that you often get whenever you are reminded of the fact that, unfortunately, literally everyone is also in love with Gojo Satoru, you have to control your face not to giggle at the statement. 

Gojo makes a noise deep in his throat, the tips of his ears slightly pink from the added attention. 

You swallow as you try to grapple with all this information. But, as always, the conversation moves on and you push everything back as you find yourself smiling once again, listening to how Suguru animatedly tells the story of how he bombed one of his essays because he forgot which citation format to use, and you try to not make it obvious how you’d peek over at Shoko now and then and see who it was that she was stalking, probably some girl from her class that she was plotting on. 

The music lolls on in the background, the pub getting more packed with students and tired workers, and you find yourself content with listening to your friends tell you about their week, taking small sips from your straw as you grin and laugh as poke Shoko’s thigh whenever a cute guy, devastatingly never as cute as Gojo, walks by the table, and she, gripping your knee whenever a girl her type flashes her a look from over their shoulders. 

“I think I’m wanted somewhere else at the moment,” she whispers, leaning closer to your ear as you follow her line of sight to a girl sitting at the bar, her long blonde hair thrown over her shoulder as she steals the occasional glance at your friend, “I’ll be back.” 

You giggle, pushing at her to go as she swats your hand away playfully, sending you a wink as you send one back, watching her go as Suguru and Gojo watch silently, sending each other knowing looks before Shoko disappears behind the other booths. 

“Well, if she’s going, might as well take this time to piss,” Suguru states, putting his hands on the wood as he hoists himself up, sending a cheeky little smile as he imitates Shoko’s sashay, “Don’t wait up.” 

You roll your eyes, trying not to watch him leave as if to draw out the silence that will inevitably follow, seeing that it’s just you and Gojo remaining. Your fingers play with your empty glass as you glance back to him, sending him a small smile as you feel chagrin already seeping into your veins.

He clears his throat, his eyes darting from your face to your arms, his tongue poking his cheek as he swallows. You wonder how much he’s dreading the awkward silence that has the possibility of ensuing.

“Water?” 

Your eyes squint at the sudden question, looking down to the long finger he has pointed at your glass, and you look back up at him, wondering if he was stating the obvious or if your feelings for him had made you delirious and unable to compute anything that comes out of his mouth. 

“Do you want some more water?” He explains, and you feel your cheeks heat again at your blunder, “I’m going up there to get a refill anyway.”

You nod gratefully, swallowing your feelings down as you glance up at him, handing him your empty glass with ice sloshing around as your smile wobbles. 

“I’d appreciate it, thank you,” your voice dips slightly as you grin stupidly the longer you look at his long lashes and his pink lips, somewhat glad that he was getting away so you could less opportunities to screw up, and you watch as his beautifully large hand wraps around the glass like it was nothing, sending you a small nod as he crouches slightly so that the overhanging light wouldn’t hit his head on the way out. 

Leaving you alone, you pull out your phone, also thankful to have a little moment to yourself as you quickly try to catch up on the notifications you had gotten in the past couple of hours, as the noise around you mixes, adding a comforting ambience as you lean against the old walls, your head leaning against your fist. 

You were so engrossed in your own little bubble that you didn’t notice the figure hovering near the other end of the table, only noticing the man when you looked to the side, thinking that either Suguru or Gojo was back, only for your eyes to widen in shock and surprise to be greeted with an unfamiliar face. 

Letting out a small noise, adjacent to an audible gulp, you sit up straighter, looking bashfully at him as you turn your phone off, taking in his slender frame and the rectangular-framed glasses that sit wonkily on his nose as he fidgets nervously with the hem of his lumpy sweater. Ironically, having everything that Gojo has but wearing it so drastically differently that you have to snap yourself out of the comparison. 

The boy's hair is slightly parted, light blonde, and his eyes framed with what seemed like brown lashes. His cheeks are dusted with light freckles, and his smile is lopsided as he scratches the back of his neck. 

Cute in a schoolish way, you think.

“H-hi,” his voice is high, squeaking and wobbly as he leans on the booth, not knowing what to do with his arms as he uses the back of his hand to push his glasses upwards, “Hi, I just…” 

Your head tilts slightly, curiosity filling your eyes as you give him a gentle smile, waiting patiently for him to find his words. 

“I’m Kento,” he stammers after a second, scratching behind his ears as a red flush settles over his high cheeks, “I’m sitting over there,” he points to a table behind him, and your neck cranes to see a group of boys his age all staring at his back, “And I just thought-” 

He opens his mouth to say something else, but pauses, his gaze drifting to something, or rather someone, coming his way, and you’re too focused on the way sweat dots at his hairline or the way he fidgets with the hem of his sweater to even notice the full glass of water sliding in front of you from the other side of the booth. 

Your back straightens as your head whips to the side, eyes widening when you realize that Satoru had returned, his one drink nestled in his hand as his stare bounces between you and, who you evidently had just discovered, Kento. 

Blue eyes flicker over your face, a moment's decision faltering in his mind as he slithers into not his original seat in front of you, but next to you, his large frame taking up half of your side of the both as your brows furrow in confusion, lips pulling into a tote as your eyes squint at the way he hunkers in like it was normal. 

Is he okay? You try not to have your heart burst out of your chest and flip flop around on the table like a fish out of water at being in such proximity to Satoru, but you don’t even have time to think about that as the rest of your mind falters, trying to make sense of this behavior. 

One of his beefy arms unravels from his side as it stretches above your head, resting atop the cushioned seats as he sighs deeply through his nose, taking a sip of his drink as if he hadn’t interrupted anything, and his chin turns over to the boy, waiting. 

Kento stammers, even worse than before, as he pushes back his spiky hair with a hand, looking between you and Satoru as you blink slowly, not really knowing what to do, awkwardly lingering in your seat as you wonder if anybody’s going to talk.

“Everything alright?” Satoru asks finally, his voice slightly lower than usual, somewhat taunting but hard to tell, seeing that his face was blank, thick as it almost bounces off Kento’s skull, his cheeks turning into a bright pink as you lets out a small exhale of air, something resembling a shocked laugh at the strange and sudden shift in his behavior. 

“I, uh, I,” Kento’s voice wobbles as he seizes up Satoru’s size and his overall presence, a strange look of shock and even awe as you gnaw on the inside of your cheek, not fully knowing what was going on as Kento’s head dips in embarrassment, “I’m sorry…I didn’t know, uh, that you, you were…yeah…sorry…”

His arm raises in a small wave, quickly turning on his heels, the back of his neck almost red as you blink rapidly, letting out a small huff of air as your neck almost snaps towards the man next to you, stammering as you try to find your words. 

Satoru looks at you, taking another sip. 

“What?” 

You scoff, eyes nearly bulging out of your head as you stumble over a slew of words. 

“What? W-what do you mean what?” You let out a bewildered laugh, looking across the pub at the boy and his group of friends that almost seem to be comforting him, their hands on his shoulders as he profusely shakes his head, “What the hell was that for?”

His white brows pinch in the middle, as if he doesn't understand your startlement, as if you were the one being crazy.

But you weren’t being crazy. Not in the slightest. 

You brushed it off the first time Satoru scared off a guy who was talking to you. You thought it was strange, sure, how in the middle of your lively conversation of John Milton and Paradise Lost that he wandered from the other side of the room, suddenly attached to your side, his height towering over the other guy as he quieted down and scurried away. You just chalked it up to him being bored, despite how annoyed you were. 

The second time, a guy was seconds away from putting his phone in your number when Satoru’s voice rang in your ears, and you watched, horrified, as he peered down at the guy's cracked phone screen, scoffing at the fact that he was listening to some stupid band he disapproved of. 

Then there was the time when you were at this same pub, getting some drinks for Shoko, waiting at the counter, flirting with the guy next to you when Satoru found his way back to you, as if pulled by a magnet, and asked the guy if he always chose to talk to girls he didn’t know with a fresh hickey on his neck. (That one you weren’t mad at, more so embarrassed).

But it’s happened countless times. At the pub, at gatherings, at galas he’s invited you to as his plus one because he said nobody else could make it, at the library when he came a little too early and a guy from your class was sitting next to you, at the cafe, and at the small party he threw last year.

And if you weren’t so in love with him, you’d be madder than you were. You knew he was just being a protective and caring friend, not wanting you to get hurt, but you knew you’d have to start moving on from this debilitating crush, and he wasn’t making it any easier.

“I just asked him if everything was alright,” he explained, his tone bordering on bored as he pulls out his phone, checking the time as he angles his body slightly to look at you better, and you're somewhat aware of the fact that his arm is still somewhere above your head, “He’s the one that scurried away.” 

Your mouth drops open, your palms jamming into your eye sockets as your head hits the table, banging it a couple times as you try to pull away from him, slightly angered, slightly, and very, ever so slightly, internally flustered at something you definitely should be flustered over.

“You…you scared him away!” Your voice is muffled as you groan, not caring much as you shoot him an angry and bitter look.

Satoru’s lashes flutter slightly, his pink lips pulling into a confused line as you shove his knee with your own, realizing that you were, in fact, not joking and were seriously considering the idea of giving that blubbering mess a chance.

“Are you - are you serious?” His thumb jabs in the general direction of where he had gone, “Him?”

You roll your eyes, chest heaving with a sigh as your forehead continues to rest on the cool tabletop, the tip of your nose rubbing against the varnish as you groan.

Deep down, you know that this crush of yours is fruitless and useless. It’s never going to get anywhere, and the only thing it can offer you is more hurt and rejection. You know that you are so far from his type and out of your league that he’d never see you as more than a friend, if that, but you continued to have it because it lit a fire inside of you that you sadistically enjoyed. 

That being said, you would prefer, at some point, to have a romantic moment, even if fleeting, and having the man you’ve been in love with for two years chase away the only guy who’s had the balls to come up to you made you irrationally annoyed for some reason that you didn’t fully understand. 

“He…he seemed nice,” you argue, your eyes closing shut as your hand shifts, and you rest your cheek on the back of it, your back bent at an angle as you look up at him from your position on the table, “And he was cute-” 

Gojo cuts you off with a startled laugh, a disbelieving one as his eyebrows shoot upwards, showing more than the five emotions you usually see him with as genuine shock laces his features, and it only spurs on that angry fire inside of you as you press. 

“What? What? He was cute!” Your head lifts quickly from its spot on the table as your body shifts to look at him even better than before, trying not to notice the cute wrinkle of his nose or the frosty irises of his eyes that are looking so intently at you that it could knock the air out of your lungs if you stare long enough, “And I…I don’t know, I think he wanted to talk to me!” 

Gojo snorts, his arm tightening around the cushion behind you, his hand dangling off the end, his fingers dangerously close to the side of your ear as you swallow thickly. 

“Well, of course, he wanted to talk to you,” his other hand pushes his glasses upwards, the veins on the back of his hand evident, “ I just can’t believe that he’s someone you’d want to entertain.”

You stutter, hurt flashing across your face as it pulls into sour bewilderment.

You’ve barely talked to Satoru for more than a couple of minutes at a time about classes or projects or annoying classmates, and you can’t believe your luck that the first conversation between the two of you that stemmed outside of those points is about this.

“What, what’s that supposed to mean?” Your voice dips slightly, embarrassed, as his own expression slightly shifts at your tone.

He pinches the bridge of his nose, clearly not expecting this to blow up in his face as it did, and he sighs, retreating to his old, composed self as he explains himself. 

“Look, I have him in a couple of my classes,” he starts again, lips pulling into a thin line as he looks over his shoulder to Kento and then glances back to you, “He shows up late and never does his work and always asks to most ridiculous questions,” Satoru adds and you try not to have your lips quirk at the sudden revelation, not wanting to give in and let your foolish feeling stake the wheel and guide you to forgiving him, but it’s not use as he continues, “I just figured that…someone like that isn’t someone good for you. Even if he did just want to talk.” 

Your mouth dries up, and you try not to let your head burst and remind yourself that he’s thinking about this from a friend's perspective, something kind and caring and companionly, but not in the way you would want from your crush, but Satoru is still waiting on your response so instead you swallow everything down and your lips tote, avoiding eye contact as you attempt to seem indifferent despite your outburst. 

“How ridiculous are his questions?” You finally ask, peeking over at him from where your gaze had been training on the ice in your water, and you swear you see a flicker of surprise take over his gorgeous features, as though you were going crazy with the way his blankness faded momentarily and gave way to a little smile. 

He sighs, this time lighter, his hand behind you shifting ever so slightly to push at the back of your head, gingerly but in a teasing way as you try not to smile a giddy smile, one that doesn’t reflect the fact that you couldn’t really care about the guy who had come up to talk to you when Satoru cared enough because he didn’t think he was good enough for you to talk to. 

“Even more ridiculous than asking if adding ice to rice would help it steam up more than if you used water,” he says, picking up his drink as he nurses it over his mouth, fighting back a smug grin at the way you sputter, pushing him roughly as your cheeks heat up again for bringing up one of your late-night queries. 

“Fine, fine, fine, I’ll give you this one!” You rub at your eyes, shoulders hunched, “But you have to stop scaring off every single guy that tries to talk to me! He could be a normal guy who’s going to come up, and you’re going to disapprove of him just because he wears mismatched socks or only writes in pen!” 

Satoru snorted indifferently, proving your point that he didn’t seem to care. 

“Writing solely in pen is psychotic behavior,” he grumbled to himself, recalling the time one of his classmates had the gall to ask you for your number before he quickly shut it down, inserting himself in the middle of the conversation until the guy gave up and left. 

You groan, head dropping back onto the table as you tap it lightly, a quiet thud reverberating in your tiny corner of the room. 

“One of these days you’re going to have to come to terms with the fact that the reason you shut people down is different from the reasons I shut people down.” You say, moving your arms upward so that you could set your cheek on it, looking at the empty seats in front of you instead of the man you’ve had a crush on, sputters. 

“What do you mean?” His voice drops a little bit, and you angle your head to look up at him, brows pinching in the middle as you let out a little laugh, something sardonic as you shake your head to yourself. 

“You…” you pause, stopping, sighing to yourself as you try to control your words before you say something you’ll regret, “You have like…perfect people coming up to you. And if you choose to reject them, that’s up to you, I get it. But last week you turned a girl down because she said that Star Wars was a waste of money,” the two of you share small laugh because you can recall just how red he got, embarrassed but peeved when somebody just offended his entire lifeline, but you continue, “It…it’s just,” you press your lips together as something in your chest clenched, “I don’t really have that luxury. I don’t have perfect guys coming up to me with little quirks, you know? There’s always something wrong with them, even if I don’t see it then. Like they don’t show up to dates or they make fun of my major, or just…only want to sleep with me, and then when they find out I don’t want that, they leave. And any of the sane ones that have small issues, you’re always there to shoot them down!” 

You stop, taking in a deep breath as you try to regulate your emotions, refusing to look at him right now as you let some pent-up feelings loose, just grateful that he hasn’t left and decided to let you figure this out on your own. 

“Look,” you glance at him, giving him a small smile, “I’m thankful that you care. Really, I am. But…but I just want to experience something…with someone, y’know? At least once when I’m still in university. I’m almost twenty-one, and I haven’t even had my first kiss!” Despite how embarrassing it is, it slips out, and your chees heat up as you hurry on with your ramble, “And if it has to be with something who asks stupid questions or says my name wrong on the first attempt or doesn’t know what my favorite color is, I guess I’m just gonna have to bite the bullet and take that risk. I,” you look away, back to focusing on the leather cushions in front of you as you gnaw on your lip, “I don’t really have any other option.”

Giving it a moment, you let your shoulders sink, going back to playing with the straw wrapper in front of you as you debate whether it would be better to just throw yourself out the window or risk saying something else that you’d stay awake the next couple of nights pinching yourself over.

You heard him inhale exaggeratingly, the arm behind you moving a little downwards in order to hook one of his fingers around the collar of your sweater, trying to grab your attention. You tilt your chin sideways, lips pursed, and attempt not to let his overwhelming presences budge how bitter you were feeling for some reason. 

“I think,” he sighed again, gnawing on his bottom lip as he tried to formulate his thoughts, the overhead lamp casting a soft orange light over his face and it made your pitiful stomach churn with desperate want, “I think that if you’re too pessimistic.” 

That get’s a dry laugh from you, and you roll your eyes at his statement. Before he’s able to say anything, he gets interrupted by Suguru rounding the corner, sliding into his seat with a wide grin, one that falls when he sees his friend has changed the seating arrangement. 

“Why’d you move?” 

Satoru paused, tearing his eyes away from the side of your face as he glanced at his friend, his fingers moving upwards as you tried not to look at him and make anything obvious. You hope he doesn’t bring up Kento and your little meltdown, but he seems to read your mind. 

“You were bothering me too much,” he mutters, and Suguru lets out a startled scoff, throwing the hair tie around his wrist at him as Sator just flings it to the side. Suguru doesn’t push, though, and starts telling the two of you that he was held up at the bathroom entrances because a couple was having a ‘lover's spat’, his words not yours, and he just had to hear it before he left.

The rest of the night continued as it usually does. 

If you could consider the uneven rhythm of your heart as normal. 

—

Another week had passed, another seven days of agonizingly slow school work and duties. 

It seemed like the days would flicker away at a snail-like pace until it got you to the one day of the week that you actually wished wouldn’t arrive, and would force you to stalk around the limited space of your dorm room as you think about what to wear to the theatre production that’s taking place in thirty minutes. 

Your hand was on your hip, feet tapping against the floor as you looked at the two outfits you had hung on your dresser, lips pursed as your eyes moved back and forth between the one that would go better with those pair of kitten heels you thrifted with Shoko, or the dres that you rarely get to wear. 

It took a couple more seconds of deciding, but you ultimately picked the more comfortable option, knowing that the university theater was always freezing, especially in October, and that a cute sweater was probably the better choice.

Thankfully, this gave you some more time to fix your hair and touch up your makeup, humming along to the music as your eye kept wandering down to your phone and then to your door, squinting as you turned it over, confused as to what was taking Shoko so long. 

Instantly, your eyes widen at the plethora of messages you have from Shoko, a telltale sign that something was seriously wrong, given the fact that she never sent more than two messages at once. 

shoko: pick up

shoko: girl ur literally always on ur phone wya

shoko: pls pls pls pick up 

shoko: ur making me beg rn pls can u call me back 

shoko: pls 

You don’t have time to send her one of your stupid stickers, your fingers fumbling around as you look at the five missed calls you have from her, shaking your head in dismay at how it was possible to leave your phone alone for twenty minutes and come back to this. 

It doesn’t take more than a ring before she answers on the other line. 

“Are you okay?” Your voice cuts through immediately, rushed and worried, your legs bouncing as you hear some people talking in the background, and you can hear the way Shoko snaps at them to hush so that she can hear you better. 

“Hi, yeah, no, no I’m fine - hey can you guys just,” she calls out again, hey annoyance dripping form her tone, some shuffling happening over the line as she moves somewhere where the noise is less, “Hey, hi, sorry for the noise,” she starts again and you just hum, eyebrows still pinches together in worry as you wait for her to continue, “I’m really sorry for spamming you, but I have some news.” 

The worry on your face melts as you lean back in your seat. 

“Yeah…?” you ask, but already predicting what it was that she was stressing out over telling you, but she lets out another exhale, and you could imagine her nodding wherever it was that she was at. 

“I’m so sorry but I’m at work right now and,” some clattering happens in the background, the kitchen in great hustle for the Saturday evening rush it usually has at the restaurant she waitresses for, “God, Tommy just screwed everything up with our shifts and I thought he had written me as off for tonight but he wrote me as off for next Saturday and I wasn’t able to fine somebody to-” 

You laugh softly, cutting off her rambling. 

“‘Ko, babe, it’s fine, don’t worry about it,” you stress, leaning in slightly as you hear some silverware being unloaded, “It’s so okay, your job is so much more important than-” 

“No, you’re more important than this - believe me,” she cuts you off this time, and you can see her standing hunched in the corner, gnawing on her fingernails in stress, “And I promised you I’d come with you and I can’t, and now I…I feel horrible.” 

A smile creeps onto your lips, and you shake your head. 

“It’s fine,” you stress, chuckling at her incoherent rambles, “I promise. The play’s going to be lengthy anyway, might as well take the time to make some money while you’re at it.” 

You hear nothing except the kitchen roaring in the background for a few seconds before she sighs, clicking her tongue as she hums softly. 

“You sure?” 

“I’m sure,” you tell her, hearing her chuckle softly over the phone, the disappointment evident in her voice, and you didn’t want to push her over the edge despite the small flicker of disappointment of having to go alone, “I promise you’re not gonna be missing anything.” 

“Look, I know it’s not the same, but I was with Suguru when I found out, and he’s said that he could-” 

This time, she’s cut off, but not by you. 

A knock sounds over your door. 

You sigh, smiling at your friend as you slowly rise, “You guys are so sweet, but you should’ve told him I’d be fine. Really, I usually do these things by myself anyway.” 

She groans at your antics, somebody calling her name from the back as she tells them that she’s almost done. 

“Shit, I have to go, but promise me you’ll tell me about how tonight goes, yeah?” She sounds hurried, and you make a few steps towards your door as you snort, rolling your eyes as you unlock the brass knob, shaking your head at the thought. 

“Tell you about what? Oh, like how Suguru has a horrific attention span and can’t…” You swing the door wide open, but you trail off as your mouth hangs slightly, not greeted by your black-haired and eyebrow-pierced friend, 

But Satoru. 

Shoko seems to have picked up on your silence as meaning that you finally understood what she was talking about, and you can barely register her sing-songy bye as she leaves, the phone in your hand lying limp as Satoru’s brow raises skeptically at your dumbfounded expression.

Damn you, Shoko Ieiri. 

“Hi,” you say breathlessly, almost stupidly, as your hand falls from behind the door to your side, tilting your head a bit as Satoru just stares, hands in his pockets, and you shake back to reality, laughing apologetically as your neck prickles, “Sorry, I…I was just expecting someone else.”

His brow arches even more, and you huff out a laugh. 

“Shoko just said that Suguru was coming,” you explain, stepping back from the entranceway as his mouth parts slightly. 

“Right,” he nods, his hair falling gracefully in his face as you churn in your spit at the magnificent sight of him in his denim jeans and the navy sweater he was in, “I hope it’s okay that I came. Suguru couldn’t make it.”

You blink, wanting to say that you were so okay with him, but you swallow that done as you shake your head, waving his statement away. 

“This is…this is fine,” You stammer to say, your smile wobbly. You hope that he can’t pick up on the way that your eyes are roaming over the way his button-up sits comfortably on his broad chest, or the way his glasses look on the bridge of his nose, “I, uh, I just have to do my mascara, so give me like,” you look at the clock behind you. Your eyes bulge at the fact that you have only five minutes left, “Two seconds and I’ll be done.”

He nods, his head tilting slightly to the side as he looks at your face and his eyes travel down your outfit. His hand raises, a finger pointed at your sweater. 

“Nice sweater,” he says, something teetering on teasing, and you look down, suddenly realizing that it’s the sweater he had given you last year for your birthday, the one that you had seen months prior after walking past a vintage store and exclaimed how much you liked it, only to be stumped by the price. 

Your confusion melts into a wide smile, your head still poking out from outside your door as you survey the material, not noticing the way his eyes soften just a smidge at your flighty reaction. 

“Oh - right, thank you again for getting it!” You say cheerfully, an entire evening or perfection and romance already forming in your head as you try not to appear too excited, pointing back to your room as you duck away, “I’ll, uh, I’ll be back, then!”

Satoru nods, giving you a small smile as you shut the door behind you, your back hitting it as you give yourself a moment to reciprocate, curse Shoko and her blasted antics, and calm your heartbeat down long enough. 

This was so fine, you tried to tell yourself, 

Everything was going to be fine. 

—-

The lobby of the Oxford theater was unusually packed, and you even voiced your surprise when Satoru led you in, your eyes wide as you took in all the students, some looking at the programs, others waiting in line for the bathroom. 

“Damn,” you mutter, squeezing past someone as Satoru follows behind you, “I didn’t think it was going to be this busy.” 

The walk here had been…fine. You had talked for most of it, which you had predicted, and with the few times Satoru would interject and give some comments on the stories you told him about your week, you feel like you told five times that amount of embarrassing and lame jokes, shutting yourself up once after wincing at how terrible it was. Satoru cracked a small smile, though, a pitiful one, most likely to keep you from shutting up the entire night. 

It’s strange, just how different you act around him. In attempts to make yourself seem cooler and interesting, you wind up embarrassing yourself even more. You could have sworn that you never acted like this with Shoko or Suguru, or literally anybody else, even your old crushes, but when it came to Satoru, you seemed to lose the sense of normalcy you had come to know. 

But you don’t have time to worry about that, now trying to put your attention on wondering how many of the students here are from that stupid class you’re taking right now, and even looking in the sea of bodies confirms that answer when you see some familiar faces. The concession stand in the corner, the one run by the theater department to raise some extra funds, seems to be swarmed, and your stomach grumbles instantly at the smell of buttered popcorn that wafts through the air. 

“Where’re our seats?” He’s standing by you now, and you have to crane your neck slightly to look at him. You sift through your tote, pulling out your wallet and opening it to reveal the tickets tucked inside, and hand one to him while keeping the other for yourself. 

“Row H,” you read out loud, “You’re seat 18, and I’m 19.” 

He nods, pocketing it before he looks back out into the lobby, his eyes focusing on the wide double doors that led you into the theater, watching the ticket taker check the people’s tickets before looking back at the concessions, remembering how much you were raving on your walk here about how good the snacks were. 

“Do you still want some…?” He juts his chin towards the hand-made sign that reads Beggars Snacks! 

“Hm?” You look back at the table, and you let out a small laugh, “Oh, yeah, right,” you look through your wallet again, putting your ticket there for safekeeping as you glance back up at his gorgeous face, “Yeah, I’ll be back. You can go find your seat, if you want.” 

Satoru opens his mouth and then shuts it, glancing at you and then the doors, and his shoulder straightens slightly. 

“Right, well….right,” he murmurs, looking a little torn, his voice drowning out by the roar of sound around you two, but you’re able to make out the low grumble of his after being near him for so long, “I’ll…I’ll see you in a few.” 

You smile again, giving him two thumbs up as you turn on your heel, your hands clenching in frustration at how utterly inhuman you seem to act around him, somehow making it seem like it was your first day on this planet. 

Peeking over your shoulder, you watch as he leaves towards the entrance of the theater, and you duck your head down as you find your way to the large line leading up to the snacks. Coming here for the past four years has taught you to go for the popcorn, pass on the homemade cookies, and snatch up the little boxes of candy if they have them. 

Checking your phone as you wait idly, you text Shoko a slew of messages cursing her and her entire bloodline for blindsiding you like this, hoping she sees them after her grueling shift and only feels worse about leaving you like this. 

Keep a tab of the line as it slowly moves, you eye the clock, knowing that the show was going to start soon. It seems to dwindle a bit, as some people in front of you and behind you give and leave, deciding it wasn’t worth it, and after scrolling through your feed a little bit more, you find yourself next in line. 

Glancing through the snacks, your stomach protests louder, ravenous after a day fueled on granola bars, a pathetic excuse of a yogurt bowl, and some crisps you had lying around, until you feel your hopes and dreams plummet when you see a small sign at the edge of the table that says only cash. 

Fucking bullshit, you think angrily, whipping your wallet out again as you rifle through the confines, who still uses only cash? What medieval system was this? They accepted cards last time, this is entirely-

And you could complain petulantly in your head as much as you want, but your face falls as you search through for the third time, coming to the consensus that you didn’t have a lick of cash on you. The person in front of you is almost done, but your shoulders sag as you begrudgingly step away, shaking your head in dismay as you make your way to the theater entrance, flashing your ticket to the ticket taker as he lets you in with a wide smile. 

The ushers point you towards aisle H, and you patiently dispute the hate still inside of you, burning. Waiting as those in front of you find their seats, and it doesn’t take long before you’re able to see a pop of hair standing high amongst the rest of the people in the audience. 

You move past a couple of people talking as you move closer, almost skidding when you stop instantly, realizing that Satoru was, in fact, not alone. 

From this angle, you could see the girl standing in front of him, a wide grin on her face as she laughs at something he says. Your eyes go to his face, your posture falling even more when you see the little quirk of his lips, a sign that he wasn’t necessarily hating the conversation, and the loss of the popcorn feels pointless now as your stomach churns for another reason. 

It was selfish to think that you were the only person who liked Satoru, but it didn’t hurt any less when you were confronted with this fact at least once a week. You knew you couldn’t expect anything from this stupid crush, a theorem forming inside your head that you continued to fall for Gojo Satoru just because you liked the sting of knowing you had no shot with him, and seeing other girls and their gleeful smiles at the fact that you probably had a chance is what maybe hurt the most. 

You weren’t ever angry at these girls, understanding them completely, even admiring the way they could flirt so effortlessly, and treated you kindly whenever you were near, but it singed a part inside of you that liked to act that you were in this small fictional bubble that you dreamt of whenever he looked your way. 

Like he was right now. 

Standing awkwardly to the side, at the end of the row, you sway idly in your spot, looking at the two of them and then around, wondering when the lights were going to start dimming and notify you of when the show was about to start. 

You hear your name being called, a familiar cluster of syllables from his throat, and you look away from the painting on the wall to the side as you see Satoru throwing up a hand, trying to grab your attention. 

When he sees you finally looking his way, he turns back to the girl, saying a few more words as she nods, her smile still soft as she glances at you, a strange look on her face as she sends you another smile, and you can’t help but return it despite the sinking feeling in your gut. 

She leaves through the other end, and you mutter a few apologies as you finally make your way down to where he was standing, ducking your head down sheepishly as you fidget with the strap of your tote. 

“Hey,” you say meekly, your cheeks heating as you finally get to him, “I didn’t mean to interrupt anything.” 

One of his hands waved, shaking his head as he looked back to where the girl had retreated with her friends. 

“You weren’t interrupting,” he tells you, and your brows furrow slightly because that was a white lie if you’ve ver heard one, “I knew her from my lab,” he he says, scratching the back of his neck as his eyes trace of your face, falling to your empty arms as they squint, the conversation with the girl suddenly feeling his head as he points, “Where’s your popcorn?”

The past couple of moments seem to flee too as you wring your hands awkwardly together, shooting him a tight smile as you try to appear indifferent. 

“Oh, they didn’t take card,” you mumble bitterly, “And I forgot my wads of cash back in my dorm, so,” you shrug, laughing it off as you point to the seats, “But it’s fine, I…erm, wasn’t really feeling it anyway,” a lie, since that was all you could talk about, but you push past him as you sit down, setting your tote on your lap as you look at him, waiting for him to do the same.

Satoru peeks at you, his lips pressed into a thin line as he swallows, not doing anything to sit down as one of your brows moves upwards, confused about the mental turmoil that he was going through, which made him reluctant to sit. 

“Everything okay?” You ask slowly, shifting your legs, wondering if he was tight for room, but he just nods, tongue poking through his rosy lips as he glances back towards the double doors as he briefly nods. 

“I need to use the bathroom,” he mutters, and you nod, lips pursing in understanding as you look over your shoulders, watching as more people start taking their seats.

“Okay,” you sit back a little bit, your finger pointing behind you to where the bathrooms were, “Well, you, you should probably go, like, now. I think the shows going to start,” you say with a light chuckle and check your phone, realizing that there were only five minutes left till the lights turned off, “In a little bit.”

Satoru just nods again, saying spoke few words before he turns to leave, murmuring apologies to the people sitting down as his long legs knock their knees, and you watch him leave the aisle and go before you turn your attention back to the stage, taking the time to admire the props and the set design, trying to think back to the original story and see if it lines up with how you remembering it starting. 

When the overhead lights start flickering, and Satoru isn’t back yet, you churn in your seat, looking over your shoulder every couple of seconds, hoping that he doesn’t have to navigate back in the dark. 

You send him a small text saying that it was almost going to be lights out when you see his figure in the corner of your eye, watch as he nears your row with his arms full, and you squint, trying to see through the dimness to see what it was that he was holding. 

The closer he gets, the more you’re able to see, and it’s only until he’s lowering himself to sit down that you make out the popcorn bag in one hand, and some boxes of sweets in the other. 

He says nothing as he shoves the popcorn into your hand, settling in as he looks around the seat, trying to move the armrests up only to see that they’re stuck in place, completely oblivious to your wide-eyed stare as he lets out a big sigh, resting back as his legs spread out a little bit. He opens a box of Maltesers, adjusting his glasses as he looks at the stage. 

“Want some?” He finally says, his voice low as he pushes the red box towards you, and your cheeks are almost on fire as you glance at the paper bag of popcorn in his outstretched hand. 

“I…” you blink, holding onto the popcorn so that it doesn’t spill, “Here.” You dumbly give him the bag back, assuming that he had only given it to you so that he could sit down more comfortably. 

Only now does he tear his eyes away from the stage, tuning out the voice over the announcements, the regular message of turning off your phones and staying quiet, as his elbow pushes your arm back to your seat. 

“Can’t have corn,” he says bluntly, looking over at your startled expression, “It’s yours.” 

It’s yours.

Here’s another moment you're going to mull over before another minuscule thing he does happens again, and you spend the next months thinking about that.  

“Are you sure?” You whisper, already pulling your phone out to Venmo him for it, but Satoru can already tell what you're about to do as he flicks it away, as if it was repulsive to him, and you don’t have any time to argue because the curtains pull outwards and reveal the actors.

You drag a hand over your face, trying not to look over at him anymore as you begrudgingly accept the kind token, trying to relax in your seat as the show begins, a tentative finger plucking out a popcorn as you bring it to your mouth, hoping that the only person who can what the blood roaring in your ears is you. 

—

Nearly a quarter in, and you start to realize just how bad an idea this was. 

The play itself was great. The actors were delivering their performance in a manner that felt reminiscent ot the campy nature of the original text, and some people in the audience were keeling over with laughter in certain parts. 

You found yourself with a wide smile throughout most of it, recalling some of the bits and others jogging your memory, but you were thoroughly enjoying it nonetheless. The issue was, the person next to you seemed to be despising it. 

The rare couple of times you peeked over to see his reaction to a couple of things, you noticed his jaw clenched, sitting straight and uptight as his eyes never left the stage. He barely mustered up a smile during the funny portions, looking utterly depleted during the serious bits, and his hands were clasped together, fingers interwoven as he sighed, unamused. 

Every time somebody would do something weird, you’d glance his way and would still see the same stone-cold expression on his face. You were aware that the play itself was over exaggerated and strange at times, but that was the whole appeal of it in the first place. But at times, you tried to view it through the lens of someone who didn’t go in-depth into literature and read the nuances of somebody like Satoru, who would rather spend their free time studying and working on their mountain of assignments, not something like this, and you felt your chest getting heavier and heavier with each second. 

When it neared intermission, you could’ve sworn you had nearly melted in your seat, your popcorn done as you glanced over at Satoru when the lights finally turned back on, people around you standing up to leave or stretch. 

A beat of silence passes before you clear your throat, mustering up a wobbly grin as you jab a thumb to the curtains. 

“Funny, huh?” 

Satoru blinks, as if coming back to, and you debate if he had been half asleep. The thought makes you sink even deeper in embarrassment. 

“It’s, uh,” he ran a hand through his hair, pushing it back as he swallowed thickly, “It’s…interesting. I haven’t really seen anything like it before.” 

You pause, chew on the side of your lip, rubbing at your eyes as you try to think of anything else to say. You’ve spent time with him alone, sure, but never in a situation where it felt like you had to defend yourself, your background, the whole reason why you were here in the first place, like you are now. 

People bustle around the two of you, and he sits up a little straighter, pushing his shoulders back as his neck cracks a bit. 

“It’s raunchy and… theatrical,” you try to explain, attempting to seem unconcerned as you fold the paper bag up and set it neatly on the ground, making a mental note to pick it up before you leave. “But I think it’s really interesting given the period it was written and how vulgar, everything is, and the characters are all super unlikable, which you don’t really see in these kinds of productions, and, well, it’s supposed to be funny and…fun, I guess,” your voice dies down, your lips almost chewed raw as you wait for a reaction, a facade of interest, a pitiful acknowledgement to what felt like your livelihood, but he just nods. 

You suck in a deep breath, gaze darting around the theater as you try to look at anything else.

Noticing your sudden silence, his eyes leave the stage for a moment as they rake over your expression, see the way your lips pull into a small, worried line, the crease between your brows, something that appeared whenever you were stressed or confused. His face seemed to melt to mirror yours. 

“Is there a reason why they keep calling the daughter a slut?” He finally asks, and your eyes dart back to him, and your cheeks puff, blinking slowly as you nod, embarrassed for some reason as you stammer to find words. 

“It’s, erm, well, it’s in the original material, but,” your words mesh together as you try to call back on the research paper you did for this piece, your mind blanking as your cheeks heat, “But I think they keep it in because it’s supposed to be a demonstration of the degradation of women and the differentiation between men who also exhibit premarital interest in the sex…and it’s not supposed to be funny but they repeat it a lot, so you kind of become numb to the meaning of the word...” Your rambling quiets near the end as you shoot him another tense smile, wringing your hands together as your lips tremble, looking away as a last resort to save your dignity. 

After spending two years with him, you’ve become familiar with his routine and what he expects from his day-to-day life. What some describe as the prodigal son, Gojo Satoru, if not with friends, is usually found in the back of the library, in his dorm, or somewhere quiet with papers strewn in front of him, with his laptop out, typing away. He sometimes goes to benefits and galas, some to attend because of his parents, others because of his biochemistry path, but his time isn’t usually spent at the theater watching vulgar plays. 

That’s what you did.

And of course, you didn’t come here weekly. You had to be here for that godforsaken Literature in English class. But this was a part of you, this play, this environment, these exaggerated dialogues are what you spent your time obsessing over. The history and the meaning, and the importance of English literature and writings are your life, and having someone next to you, watching a personification of it live, felt like inviting them into a piece of your mind, even if they wouldn’t view it as such. 

But to you, you who liked to overcomplicate and read into things, saw it as such, and your heart was thumping erratically when you realized that Satoru probably saw this, you, as equally insane for enjoying something like this. 

And you hated how much the thought made you spiral, made you think of yourself less than when there was a possibility that this wasn’t what Satoru was thinking at all, but the slight chance, the small probability, is what stirred the trepidation in you. 

“Are you enjoying it?” 

His question brings you out of your mental fever, and you bite your cheek, wondering what the right answer would be. He’s watching you, waiting, and you exhale shakily, smiling poorly as you swallow back some bile.

“I, I am,” you say finally, “It’s just…I did this huge essay on this last year, and I’ve been looking for a rendition of it, but there’s only this old movie that’s so far been made, so…seeing this live is pretty cool.” 

He nods, looking at your stalled expression as you keep your eyes trained on the curtains, not wanting to show your internal thoughts on your ever-so expressive face, and he tries to keep his slight confusion at bay for your suddenly reserved self. 

As you try to feign indifference by going on your phone, you can watch him from the corner of your eyes, look around, and uncharacteristically fidget in his seat as he debates doing the same as you or talking some more, which, at the moment, you don’t appear content to do. But the more you try to ignore him, the more it seems like your body has a physical reaction to it, protesting your desire to keep to yourself. 

“Did you do anything fun today?” You ask, putting your phone down as you scratch at the inside of your wrist. He blinks, looking a little quizzically at you before he clears his throat. 

“Well, Suguru had set me up for a double date,” he explains, and you feel your chest tighten a little bit, “But…eh,” he shrugs, “I wasn’t really feeling it,” he drags a hand over his face, “If only he knew where I’d end up instead, huh?” He nudges your elbow with his, a teasing grin on his face, but blood roars in your ears upon hearing his words. 

Gods, the man who despised dates and unaccounted occasions and strange meetings would rather take that over this.

You let out a little puff of air, trying to give him a smile as you feel sweat dot on the back of your neck, your palms clammy as you wring your hands together, looking down at your shoes as you try to bite back the lump in your throat.

He’d rather be anywhere else than here, your mind blares, the unspoken words ringing in the small expanse of your heart.

There’s a strange gurgle in your stomach, one that shifts sharply, and you wince. This is definitely not a part of your internal trade, and you hope that when you shift to place a hand on it to try and calm it down. You turn your phone off, pocketing it in your tote, and the sudden movement makes you jerk in pain. You sit back up, hoping that he won't notice. 

But, of course, he does. 

He angles his body towards you, brows cinched as your eyes twitch barely. 

“Are you okay?” His voice his deep, tinged with worry, his head leaning towards you just a bit so that you can feel his minty breath fan across your warm cheek. 

You wave him off, shooting him a horrifically terrible smile as you shift, your head tilting to the side as your stomach makes another alien noise. 

“Yeah,” you mutter, almost like a question because even you don’t know if you’re alright, “Yeah, I just think it’s the popcorn on an empty stomach.” But even that explanation made no sense. It seems like your stomach is churning even more with each passing second, and you really wish that he couldn’t tell that every moment is a testament to your battle for control of your own body.

“Do you want some water?” He asks, looking over his shoulder to the doors, remembering that the concession stand was also selling bottled drinks, “I’ll get some-” 

But your hand shoots out, gripping the fabric of his sleeve as you tug on it, shaking your head as you attempt to situate yourself back in your seat, your act going well besides the slight crack in your face at a particularly painful jab. 

“No, no, it’s fine, I’m fine,” the lights flicker again above you, and you’re somewhat grateful for them, grateful hat you can’t see the obvious fear on his face at the prospect of you being sick near his very hygienic self, “The shows starting, anyway, so just,” your voice dips a little as you try to contain a groan, “Just stay.” 

He goes to protest, but your hold on him is strangely tight for someone so riddled with pain, and his mouth parts to say something, but the glare you shoot him nearly shuts him up. 

“Please,” you mutter, the embarrassment from several things thick in your voice as you wince, your eyes melting into something pleading as the applause begins, and his face falls for a second, but you look away, weakly clapping along with everybody else. 

You feel tears prickly in your eyes. 

And you hope he can’t see the shining gloss when you try to blink them back. 

—

When the show ends, you’re nearly debilitated with the pain in your abdomen, and the mortification from having watched Macheath’s other wife battle it out with Polly alongside Satoru. They mix into a terrible combination, one that forces you to come back into consciousness in the middle of the theater, the bright overhead lights nearly sending you into a psychosis. 

There must have been something horrifically wrong with either the popcorn or the butter they put on it, because, despite your blurry view, you can see a few people in the audience huddled up in their seats the same way as you, despite the play ending. 

Satoru cleans up next to you, taking his boxes of candy and your strewn popcorn bag, and sits back up to look at you nervously.

“Are…are you sure you’re okay?” His gentle tone is one that you barely register as your hands grip onto the armrest. You can barely even muster up a hum, giving him a shaky thumbs up as your stomach gurgles again, this time, audibly. 

You try to stand, but your knees wobble, and you grip onto the back of the seat as your head sways. You can feel his grip on your elbow, nearly knocking over some people's bottles beside him from how fast he stands up, and your clammy face looks upward at him, swearing that he looks like an angel with the light framing his hair.

“I,” you clamp your mouth shut, swallowing thickly as you wince, taking a few seconds before you start again, “I have to use the loo.” The declaration comes out as a whisper, an ashamed one, and you can’t look him in the face, even if his nods insistently, an arm of his wrapping around the expanse of your back as he tries to steady you

“There’s one near the concessions,” he tells you, his voice strangely considerate and temperate, head leaning down to get closer to your ear so that you could hear him better, “Do you think you can make it?”

You feel like a child, but you only nod, neck and face flaring up in embarrassment as you allow him to guide you through the aisle of people, not looking anybody in the eyes as you make it out, your legs shaking slightly. If it weren’t for him, you’re sure you would’ve toppled down in pain by now.

The walk out of the theater becomes a blur, letting him guide you towards the bathrooms with one of your hands wrapped tightly around your stomach, as if it would ease the pain, and you feel the two of you come to a stop as you stand next to the ladies' door. 

His arm around you falls, and you miss its warmth. He looks crossed with different emotions as you use the wall to hold yourself up, wobbling towards the bathroom as you shoot a look over your shoulder. 

“Thanks,” you whisper, your eyes widening and then shutting instantly at how much it hurts your head, “I’ll…I’ll be back.” The words slur in your mouth, and you don’t give him any time to react before you leave through the wooden door and book it to a stall. 

The moments that follow afterwards are what you’d expect from a case of bad butter. 

You kneel on the floor, heaving everything up, trying to be as quiet as possible so the girls in the stalls around you can’t hear, but it’s not a process that you’re particularly fond of and can feel your will to continue weakening as you leave back on the wall, your head in yours hands as you hear the toilet automatically flush. 

At least getting it out of your system seems to have made the painful throbs dull down to an annoying little jab, but you feel like the bulk of the damage has already been done. Satoru was sweet enough that he’d try to never bring this up again, but you knew you’d have to live with the humiliation of this evening for a couple of months before you did something else that would top it. 

You let your head tilt back and heave a gulp of air, palms jamming into your eyes as you attempt to swallow, your mouth too dry to produce any saliva. If Shoko were here, she’d at least try to make you laugh about the ridiculousness of it all. But it’s just you and Satoru, and you don’t know if you can even look at him for the next week after tonight.

Giving yourself a little more time to calm down, you heave yourself up from your position on the floor, careful not to touch the ground, and pluck your bag off the hook, miraculously throwing it on before you hunched, so as it wouldn’t touch anything too icky. 

You wash and scrub your hands, feeling dirty and still a little sick as you splash some water on your face, hoping the cool water will help snap you back. The girls around you talk, some drying their hands, others touching up their makeup in the mirror. One of the girls next to you watches you through your reflection, her face pale and strands of hair wet as she splashes some water onto her face. 

“Popcorn?” She asks, and your eyes find hers through the mirror, blinking slowly as your hands grip the counter. 

“Yeah,” you take a deep inhale of air, sharing a small smile with her as you turn off the faucet, “Do you want some hand sanitizer?” You offer, going to reach into your tote, but she waves it off, giving you a kind smile as she continues to wash her hands, probably feeling just as bad as you were. 

Giving her a small nod as you go to the paper towel dispenser, you reach around for your phone, opening it up as you quickly send a text to Shoko to update her on where you were, nothing too long, just to be safe, and tap the tip of your shoe on the ground, debating what to do next. 

You could go see Satoru, probably waiting outside, and awkwardly explain that you should probably walk back, seeing how his germaphobic personality might not mesh with the fact that you had basically deposited your entire day in the theater washroom. You could also try to sneak away and hope that he was standing somewhere that granted you the option of stealth, but you quickly shook that off, quickly understanding how pathetic and childish it was.

After another moment of thought, you ball up the towel and throw it away, pushing the door open with your shoulder as you enter back into the lobby, the business having died down just a bit, and look around bravely for the man. 

Spotting the pop of white near the end of the room, you take a few steps forward before you halt, stopping near a wall that offered you a little bit of insight as to what he was doing as you peeked around the corner. 

2 - 0, you think sunkenly, watching the way Satoru talks to another girl, his broad shoulders shielding her from where you originally were, and that familiar ache enters your chest as you play with the hem of your sweater.

You could be sadistic when it came to your unrequited feelings; that much you had made peace with. But the universe was horrifically masochistic for the situations it thrust you into. 

His face is a little more stiff than before, but still polite and kind as he cranes his neck to look at the girl. Her hair is pulled into a sleek bun, one that you always envied with how clean and precise some girls were able to make theirs, and watched how her hand lingered on his arm, something you could never get away with without his face falling into contained disgust. 

It’s unfair to think this way of this stranger, you remind yourself, after all, if you had the guts, you’d try to make a move on him too. 

So, in another moment of decision-making, you get your phone out again, trying to contain the little tremble in your lips as you start drafting a message to him. It’s for the best, you try to reason, telling him that you were too sick and didn’t want to give him what you had. You send another message, saying that you were going to make your way back to your dorm and that you hope he had fun, thanking him as much as you could without sounding pathetic for how much he did this evening and for coming. 

You also sent him the venmo transfer for the popcorn you were going to make earlier for good measure. 

Where you were presented you an easy way to slip out of the building, one of the exits a little bit behind you, as you rubbed at your tired eyes, wrapping your arms around your torso as you prepared for the cold gusts of wind that were going to hit you the moment you stepped out. 

People around you were talking in muted voices, laughter ringing around your ears as you ducked your head down, hoping that this time by yourself could give you some moments of peace, even though you knew that being alone with your onslaught of thoughts was going to do the exact opposite.

This campus was always bustling on a Saturday night, so you never felt too alone as you made your way away from the theater, pulling out your headphones as you geared up your phone to listen to some music before you heard a muffled shout from behind you. 

Brows furrowing and your eyes slightly shifted in confusion, you, along with some other students around you, looked to see what the sound was. 

To your utter horror and stupefaction, you watch as Satoru whips his head around, as if he were looking for something, or rather someone. 

You stand like a deer in headlights, hands raised mid-way to your ears to put your headphones in them as you see him check his phone and then look up again, not caring that other people were looking at him strangely as he runs a worried hand down his face, typing something furiously fast as he looks around again. 

Finally, it seems like he found what he was looking for when your eyes lock, and he sends you an ice-cold, deathly glare, one that made you glance around as if it were someone behind you more deserving of such a look, but before you can do anything, he’s jogging over to where you were frozen in place. 

The closer he gets, the more you can see the agitation and vexation in his microexpressions, things you’ve taken pride in before in reading, now not so much because you were on the receiving end of them. 

When he comes to a halt, phone still in hand, his chest rises and falls a little fast, as if he were out of breath, and he runs another frustrated hand through his white locks as he pushes them back.

Your mouth gapes, and you suddenly remember that you were supposed to be “deathly ill” according to the text you had sent him, and try to make your breathing seem more labored, your posture more haggard, but that doesn't work as he eyes you like he knows.

“Where the hell are you going?” He snaps, and you wince slightly at his tone, and he reels, shooting you an apologetic look despite the fire burning inside of him from the way you’ve been acting this night.

“Back…back to my place,” you whisper, voice hoarse, and he hears it instantly, expression melting as he takes the time to really dissect the way your eyes are slightly bloodshot, your lips chapped, your lashes clumped with tears, and he takes a small step back, taking in a deep breath.

“No, I, shit,” he stammers, restarting, “Are you…” His voice comes out as thick and low, and you almost feel it in your bones as he pinches the bridge of his nose, trying to calm his nerves as he gives you a tilted look, “Are you okay?” 

This time, he’s not asking because you were exhibiting signs of ailment, but because you had been acting like you were strangers since the moment you saw him tonight. Because your behavior was so off and unlike you, he was struggling to understand if there was something beneath the surface, something that had happened that he wasn’t aware of, that was fueling this shift. 

Your eyes seem to waver as you try not to look at him, attempting a nonchalant shrug that is anything but, as you think of how to lower your voice to a deeper register to appear more sick than you really are.

“I feel sick,” you mutter, coughing feigningly as you pull on the straps of your tote upwards, as you clear your throat, trying not to feel the weight of the looks other people were giving the two of you.

A single brow of his raises, one that you know is detecting bullshit as you rub at your nose.

“I’m sure,” he finally murmurs, rolling his eyes at the obvious statement, “I think the entire lobby heard you throwing up your small intestine.” That statement alone almost makes you keel over in shame, humiliation, embarrassment, and disgrace, but he continues, “But…are you…okay? You’ve been…off…the entire night.” 

And you know you can’t sidestep this landmine because you know how weird you’ve been acting this evening, knowing that your attempts to make things better have only backfired, and the past couple of hours come screaming back at you, and for some stupid, depressing reason, cause a sting of tears to prick behind your eyes. 

Your bottom lip catches between your teeth as your head falls slightly, your stomach still aching, your pride and confidence bruised, and you can still smell the lingering perfume of the girl he had been talking to, another reminder that you probably didn’t smell like that perfume you had spritzed on so long ago.

“I’m okay,” you murmur, looking at the cracks on the ground, your voice shaking and wobbling and so clearly not true that you tilt your head back up to see his reaction, your face crumpling into a little wet laugh when he seems completely unmoved. Upon hearing your little giggle, his anger fades a bit, but is quickly replaced with another emotion when he hears you sniffle. 

“Look, you-” he looks down at his phone to reread the text you had sent him, and his confusion seems to grow even more when he reads another notification, “Did you Venmo me?” 

You nod again, weakly, and when you look up at him, you see him fighting back a startled laugh, the quiver on his face making your lips pull up into a wobbly smile, your own emotions turning into something strange as you watch him shake his head in dismay, running a stressed hand through his hair. 

“Did something happen today?” He asks, not taunting, never taunting, but something you can’t place as you weakly not, a sheen over your eyes as you tug at your sleeves. 

“…no,” you whisper, but the two of you know it’s far from the truth because even you can’t hide the way your lips tremble and your hands shake slightly. 

He presses his lips together tightly, his jaw ticking as he takes in your sunken form, something he’s never seen before, and chews on his cheek, thinking. 

Sighing deeply, he pockets his phone, not able to look at your texts anymore because they made him too nauseous, and moves to be closer to you. 

“Come on,” he says after a moment's silence, “Let’s go.”

You peek over at him, your brows furrowing slightly as you huff out a breath of air, trying to contain your tears as you sniffle again. Your bottom lip trembles slightly, and your stomach still has a lingering ache, but there’s something else that’s causing you to be like this, and you don’t like whatever it is. 

He’s waiting, his elbow budging yours, and so you heave a sigh, rubbing at your cheeks as you nudge him back slowly. 

“Thank you, ‘Toru,” you murmur, and he pauses, his tongue caught between his teeth because you rarely call him by that nickname, rarely use it unless you really mean it, “For everything. And I’m sorry,” you peek over at him from above your lashes, looking back at the ground at your shoe so you couldn’t see his reaction, “I didn’t mean to spoil your evening like this-” But before you can say anything more he raises a hurried hand, cutting you off. 

“You didn’t spoil my evening, love,” he says quickly, his tone soft and teetering on worried, the little title slipping out of his mouth like it was natural, and if you weren’t feeling like a pile of shit, you might have fixated on it more, his eyes roaming your anxious face.

But you insistently nod, your lips pressed together as if you were trying your hardest not to let out a pitiful cry in front of him.

“I-I did,” you voice cracks, and you rub at your eyes as some treacherous tears escape, and if only you could truly see the way he looks like he was breaking seeing you like this, “With you getting the popcorn and then me getting sick and then the s-stupid show,” and he winces because he knows you were enjoying the play, could hear your twinkling laugh and he hates it whenever you feel the need to shut down the things you like because you’re worried other people will judge you for doing so, “And…and I wish you had told Shoko o-or me about your date, I would have totally understood,” you try for a smile, your words choked and wobbly and if only you knew what you were doing as you ramble, “I’m just…I’m really sorry for everything." You finish with a quivering chuckle, your heart shaking like a leaf as you finally meet his eyes, hoping he can’t see the little shake in your breathing when you finally do.

He breathes in deeply, and you can hear the gears in his head turning. But you nudge his side again, wanting to leave it at that. You can feel his eyes burning into the side of your face, but you don’t want to look. 

And you’re grateful that to some extent, he understands that, even if not fully. He murmurs a gentle come on, his hand gingerly wrapping around your arm as he tugs to next to him, his warmth enveloping you as he leads the way.

—

As much as you insist, the one thing he doesn’t seem to budge on is taking you back to your dorm. 

You pleaded with him, begged him not to get him sick, but he wouldn’t listen. It’s almost as if he steered you towards his building, a hand hovering over your back as he led you inside and up the elevator and to his room before you could even have the ability to ditch and run away. 

“If you’re going to talk, fine, but don’t think I’m insane enough to leave you alone right now.” 

That alone could have sent you into a psychosis if you weren’t so worried about puking all over his bed. 

With the way his germophobic and clean tendencies forbade him from going to public restrooms, you’re stunned that he’s even standing near you with everything that has happened this night. He even lent you his old band shirt and trousers from when he was going through a phase. 

It was a blur as you spun around his room, rifling through his drawers for towels and soap and things he thought you might want to use in the shower. You stood awkwardly at the foot of his bed, not sitting down on the mattress because you knew how he felt about outside clothes on his sheets, and you said nothing as he handed everything to you, shooting you a shaky smile, one that was tense because you figured he was most likely worried about you staining or ruining one of his clean things. You don’t say anything as he suddenly ducks, his knees hitting the floor as he starts undoing the laces to your shoes, mumbling something about how you bending over might not be the best for your stomach.

He was lucky enough to be in one of the newer buildings, meaning that he had a personal washroom, so he just led you to it and let you know to use the shower and to call out to him if you needed anything. He even had an extra pack of toothbrushes and boxers that he hadn’t touched that he set aside for you. 

You watched as he shut the door, the water roaring behind you as it began to heat up, and you silently stripped, neatly folding your clothes as you set them to the side. You took a tentative step inside his very clean shower, letting the steaming water hit you as you stood there for a couple of minutes, reflecting. 

Washing your face, scrubbing roughly at the makeup and the evening away, you feel some salty tears bite at your cheek, and you don’t even know why you’re crying right now. Well, in all honesty, you do, and that’s probably what hurts the most.

You’ve never cried over Gojo Satoru before. You’ve never felt like it was so depressingly lost where you’d need to use these muscles and these feelings that you reserve for truly important things, but it felt like tonight was a confirmation and closure all in one. It felt like you slowly came to your senses, realized that despite your wishes, it was fruitless. You just weren’t the kind of girl that he could cherish, at least, not in the way you wanted him to, and you knew it would be selfish of you to ruin any chance another girl could have of him being hers. 

It took you a little longer than expected, but you feel like you were slowly gaining consciousness, the reality at hand as you turned the water off, patting yourself dry with the soft towel he had provided you. 

You move carefully, brushing your teeth, pulling on the clothes he left you, as you assess yourself in the fogged-up mirror. Your eyes are a little puffy, but you can just tell him from earlier. Your voice is croaky, but you’ll just bite your words back tonight until you can go back to your place in the morning and start distancing yourself from him until your feelings are choked out. It’s time you began moving on, anyway. 

Braving the other side, you take a deep breath before you carefully open the door, peeking around the corner until you see him sitting on the corner of his bed, furiously typing away until he hears the creak, looking up from across the room as you sheepishly smile. 

He quickly puts his phone away, standing to his feet as he rubs his hands, not knowing what to do as he buffers. 

“Was, erm, was everything good?” He motions to the bathroom, and you quickly nod, walking away as the steam from behind wraps around you, your body adjusting to the shift in temperature as your eyes stray to the couch in the corner, pillows and blankets set up in a makeshift bed. 

“It was great, thank you,” you say gently, “I’m sorry, again-” But he holds a hand up, cutting you off as he insistently shakes his head. 

“Really, it was nothing,” he stresses, his cheeks dusted pink, his glasses discarded on his desk. 

You nod again, embarrassed, and smile stiffly, pointing to the couch as you make your way over. 

“Thanks for this, too,” you say, but he seems to awkwardly shuffle, his hands behind his back, looking like he wants to say something, and your brow slightly quirks at his odd reaction. 

“That’s…that’s for me,” he explains, moving away from his lofted bed as he shows you the changed sheets and the new pillow case covers, what he must have been doing in the time it took for you to shower, “You can sleep here.” He pats the mattress, and you let out a disbelieving chuckle, shaking your head as you move closer to the couch, feeling like the worst person in the world. 

“I couldn’t,” you stress, but he’s already moving closer to you, looking like he wants to move you away from the cushions, “I’ve already imposed enough. I’ll sleep here. It’s fine, really, I like couches.”

He opens his mouth and closes it, lips pressed into a thin line. 

“You haven’t imposed,” he finally says, as if that’s all he took away from your rambles, and you sigh, pinching the bridge of your nose as you wave aside his polite nature and hold your hands up. 

“If I sleep on your bed after everything, I’m never going to be able to look you in the eyes again, okay?” You put it bluntly, “So I’ll take the couch, and you’ll take your bed, and it’ll be fine. Okay?” 

His tongue darts out, blinking rapidly as if he’s assessing his different options, and he looks at you, to the couch, and then to the bed. He seems like he’s torn, but he figures that the next best thing is to ignore this completely, shaking his head to himself as he moves around you to the cupboards behind your body, shuffling around until he finds what he needs.

“I’m going to wash up,” he mutters, glancing briefly at you as he pulls in his towel to his chest, his new pair of clothes, and you feel your chest tighten at the sudden dismissiveness in his tone, ad if he’s given up with you, and he makes his way to the separate room, “Make yourself comfortable.” He calls over his shoulder before he shuts the door behind him, and you give it a few seconds before you wince, falling back down onto the couch as you pull a pillow to your chest and allow yourself some time to relax before he comes back. 

You allow yourself some time to look around, appreciating his tidy room and the mess-free atmosphere. You can smell the lingering scent of bergamot, and you see the warmer on his desk, a candle right under it. The wall that his desk is parallel to is littered with postcards and retro movie posters (mostly Star Wars and Star Trek). There are some polaroids he has pinned up, some with Suguru and Shoko from their years in secondary school, some photos he had taken himself with his camera. His bookshelf, which is nearly leaning over with how heavy it is, is at the end of the couch, and you shift to get a better look at the books he has on his shelf. 

You’re so rarely in here, especially by yourself, so you peek around, hearing the water still running, and lift from the cushions, your eyes squinting as you move closer, trying to make out the names on the spines, your curiosity getting the better of you. 

Most of the shelves are full of textbooks from previous courses he had taken; therefore, most of them are science-related. Your eyes shift across the spines, seeing some books about botany and a couple about astronomy and astrophysics, a specific interest of his despite specializing in biochemistry. Notes are jammed into the empty spaces, and you make out his cursive on some of them, smiling despite yourself when you pull some of them out, making out his quick scribble from when he was either in class or studying. 

The bookshelf itself is insanely tall for no reason, tall enough that you’re sure Suguru or even Satoru, in his sprawling height, would struggle reaching to top, so you have to go onto your toes, stretching your calves as you tilt your head upwards to look at some of the higher shelves, pulling some books out by placing a finger on the top of the spine, careful not to disrupt anything as you let yourself get lost in the names. 

Suddenly, in the midst of all the chemistry and biology and Latin names, something familiar catches your eye, a book that was resting on its side on the highest shelf, and you struggle but can wedge yourself up on the edge of the couch to reach it.

The Count of Monte Cristo.

Your eyes widen in spite of your heavy emotions riddling your mind, and you turn it around, reading which edition and publisher it was as you scour through the pages, seeing his little citations in blue ink in the margins. You flip through the pages, each one highlighted and marked for different reasons, similar to the way you read through a book, and you close it shut, feeling like you were somehow intruding on something private as you set it back down in its initial place on the shelf until something else caught your attention. 

Familiar titles and authors all paint the top level of his bookshelf, books that have nothing to do with his major or classes or even remotely with something you think he might enjoy reading, and you almost fall as you try to get closer. 

A small box at the edge of the shelf piques your interest, and your lips catch between your teeth as you put all of your focus on this task, your nimble fingers moving closer, plucking it from its spot as you hold it gingerly in the palm of your hand, looking back to the bathroom as you hear the pipes groan as he turns the water off, an alarming sound, one that meant that you didn't have a lot of time left.

The box itself is also familiar, this one for more reasons than most, because you remember this box; you gave it to him for his previous birthday. amongst other little trinkets, finding it at a flea market, and thinking he could make some use of it. The wooden grain and the carvings on it were delicate, and your hold is even more careful as you unlock the little latch, the top lifting open as you peer inside. 

Your eyes adjust to the sight, something you weren’t necessarily expecting, as what you can only describe as junk littered the inside of it. A ticket stub from a movie he had seen, a dried leaf, candy wrappers, spare coins. You huff a little in disappointment, your nosey nature quelled by the contents within as you rifle around a little more, knowing you should stop and sit down and act like you saw nothing when you feel a glossy texture beneath your fingertips. 

Gently, you pinch it between your pointer finger and thumb, pulling it out from beneath all rubble as you hold it closer to your face, your breath catching in your throat. 

It’s a polaroid of the two of you.

You remember the night well, a couple of months ago, during the summer. The four of you and a couple of mutual friends had rented a car and had gone up to a cabin, one of the many properties Satoru’s family owned, and had spent the weekend there. Suguru had insisted on setting up a fire and eating around it, and you had huddled up next to Shoko as the night got colder. You remember the voices and the laughs and the squeals as some of the friends, people you didn’t know that well, began chasing each other, and you and Shoko watched, amused. You remember how one of the boys had been carrying a jug of water, one meant for inside, when somebody bumped into him, and he tripped, and the water came falling on you. You remember letting out a small laugh, shocked and forgiving as you assured the stranger that it was okay, shivering, nonetheless, as Shoko laughed uncontrollably. 

But above all, you remember how Satoru hurried over from wherever he was, his stare worried that you were hurt, everything shifting when he saw the playful glint in your eyes, the fireplace illuminating your features in red, yellow and orange hues as you shrugged his worries off, his hands on your elbows, steadying you as Suguru took a photo of the moment, of your head thrown back in a laugh and his eyebrows pulled into an anxious line while his lips pulled into a gentle smile, the stars twinkling in the background as he steadied you to your feet. 

You distantly recall hearing the click and asking Suguru about the photo, but hearing him say something along the lines of the lighting being too dark, but clearly that was a lie because you were holding the small photo in your hand, staring at it with no problem.

Before you can spend more time thinking about his junk box and what the hell this photo was doing in it, you heard some shuffling on the other side of the bathroom, the door clicking open as you scramble to put the box back, nearly tripping as you jump down, going back to where you were seated on the couch in a flash, appearing to look nonchalant as he stepped out. 

You don’t let your eyes linger too long on the way his shirt stretched tightly across his chest, or the way that the water has caused the fabric to slightly stick to his arms. He shakes his hair into a towel, ringlets of water falling as he pushes his hair back. You also try not to fawn too much over his mismatched pajamas, or how his trousers have prints of lightsabers in different colors all over them. 

“Hey,” he calls out gruffly, rubbing at the back of his neck as he tosses his towel into the hamper, his feet padding over to his desk as he checks the clock and then his phone for any notifications. He sighs, and your throat is dry, heart hammering in your chest as you realize a grave mistake. 

In your haste to put everything back, the careful clutch you had on the photo had appeared nonexistent, and you had, for some reason, made the blunder of still holding the photograph of the two of you resting in the palm of your hand. 

His back is still to you, and you swallow thickly, shuffling across the couch as you try to deposit it onto one of the nearer shelfs, hoping that if he were to see it he would think it had mistakenly fallen out or something less drastic, but his ears turn towards your movement, looking over his broad shoulders at the way you scramble to dispose of the film. 

“What are…?” His eyes pierce yours, and you sheepishly snap around to look at him, your hand going behind you as you shake your head, acting confused as his head tilts to the side, jumping from your seat at the edge of the cushion to your leg, angled towards his bookshelf. 

“I was just looking at your books,” you quickly state, trying to cover your ass as lips purse together to give you a knowing look, a white brow rising so high that it disappears in his hairline, one calling you out on your obvious bullshit. 

“Hm,” he hums, taking a step closer to you, his skin still glowing from the shower as he makes his way to where you were sitting, towering over you as his arms cross deliciously across his chest, “Then what do you have behind you?” 

You feign innocence, blinking as you shake your head, acting dumb as you shrug. 

“I,” you scoff, leaning back into one of the pillows as you shrug, “I don’t have anything behind me.”

“Right,” he drawls out, his voice slightly deeper, intimidatingly so as he crouches down a little until his face is to face with you, his fingers moving to poke at your arms, twisting at an odd angle to hide behind your back, “Then you wouldn’t mind if I gave you some medicine, yeah? Something that requires both hands?” 

Damn him. 

You shake your head, swallowing as you shoot him a shaking smile. 

“Not at all,” you stress, shifting uncomfortable as he nods, his eyes raking over your face one last time as he moves to his desk, pulling a drawer out, his medicine drawer, you deduce, and watch as he pulls out a bottle that seems to promise helping with stomach aches, and he turns it over, reading the label until he seems satisfied. 

He strolls back to where you’re seated, holding the medicine bottle out towards you as he patiently waits. 

You shoot him a fake smile, biting back annoyance as you shift awkwardly, wringing out a hand from underneath your body, the one that’s not holding onto the photograph, as you take the bottle from his outstretched hands. You stare at it, realizing that he’s waiting for you to open it, and if it wasn’t for the unimpressed look on his face, you’d almost wager that he was amused.

“Something wrong?” He asks, fully knowing the answer, and you shoot him a glare. 

“No,” you bite back, your other hand moving slowly, careful not to crumble or tear the film as you place it under your thigh, showing him both of your hands as you twist the cap of the medicine bottle off, “See?”

He nods, still unbelieving of your little tactic, as he takes the bottle away from you. You watch as he moves to set it down on the table, assessing the situation as he moves down in one swift motion, not giving you any time to understand what was going on as he loops one hands under your knees, another across your back as he lifts you up and over his shoulders like you genuinely weighed nothing more than a sack of flour and you screamed in horror at the rudeness of everything. 

“Freak!” You shout, your face looking at his muscular back as he chuckles, not seeing anything yet as you try to kick his face, “This is so degrading, put me down!” You scream, horrified and mortified as he pinches your calf that was near his chest. 

“Stop squirming,” he chides, but his voice is anything but chiding as he swivels around, your body jerking sideways as your head drops, motion sickness from already feeling a little off from earlier tonight, and you weakly punch his back, groaning.

“I’m going to puke all over you,” you threaten, but he just chuckles, shaking his head as he pretends to drop you, only to catch you last minute, his chest shaking with the sound, and you go to snap at him again,

 But you feel it, hear it the moment he sees the polaroid you had taken. 

He goes tense, his grip on you tightening a little bit out of shock, and he’s suddenly silent. You wince, turning around, hoping he could take the hint and set you down, and he finally does, carefully setting you on the ground as he bends, picking up the photograph from where it had fallen onto the floor, and staring blankly at it. 

Your hands clench, chest tightening as his eyes flicker from it to you, his face unreadable as his jaw clenches slightly. 

Nobody speaks for a moment, the room suddenly as tense as it was when you first entered, and you watch as he puts the photograph face down on a random shelf, turning back to you as he sighs deeply. 

“Were you…Were you going through my things?” 

The question shakes you, and your mouth parts as you clamp it shut. 

“N-no,” you finally say, “Well, no, not really, but I guess…I don’t…I was,” your head drops to your hands in mortification as you motion weakly to the bookshelf, “I was only looking at your books.” You mutter weakly, not even able to look at him as you keep your stare trained on the books and their titles. 

“I didn’t mean to see it, but…” You trail off, thousands of emotions racing through you as you try to deny it in your mind, sadness from before, anger with yourself, and suddenly feel vexation towards him for no particular reason as your eyes snap to his, “God, why do you care? It’s just a photo! I didn’t…I didn’t mean to look, but I saw that thing I gave you, and I had thought you would’ve tossed it away by now, and I just wanted to see what you’d keep in there and…yeah, fuck, okay, I looked! I’m sorry, okay? But…I mean, you keep it as a junk box anyway, it’s not like it’s…like it’s an heirloom!” You’re trying to ration and reason and trying to justify your clearly immoral actions as you ramble again, a terrible trait of yours, as he just takes it, takes your anger and your slew of words and your hurt as you feel your eyes water for no reason again as you hug your arms to yourself. 

He says nothing for another moment, his eyes dark and piercing. 

And then he moves. 

His arm reaches upwards, up to the shelf, up behind your head to where the box was resting on the top shelf, and he slowly brings his hand down, your heart in your throat as he nearly throws the lid open, beginning to pull everything out one by one.

“This,” he’s holding the ticket stub, “This is from tonight.”

Your hands instantly drop to your sides as the anger fades and utter confusion floods your senses. 

…huh?

You had just looked at the box; how did you not notice? But you look closer at it, the date and the row and seat number nearly the same as the ticket stub you had thrown away after leaving the theater in a hurry, and your eyes flee up towards him, his chest heaving as he continues. 

“This is from when we went to the beach,” he pulls out a chipped seashell, and you recognize the pattern instantly, remembering the one time the four of you had gone to the shoreline, a seashell you had picked up and thought was interesting, showing it to him before Shoko called you away, but you don’t have any time to compute that as he pulls out the next time. 

“This is from the candy you gave me during a study session we had,” he pulls out a wrinkled wrapper, “This is the hair tie you left at my place and forgot,” he has a simple black elastic band sitting in the palm of his hand, but he could very much so be holding your pittering pattering heart the more he continues, his voice quivering slightly, and you’ve never heard him ramble like this, ramble like you.

“This is the leaf that was stuck in my hair that you pulled out,” he admits quietly, holding up the dried leaf from the time you had been walking next to him in the fall, the trees shaking in the wind, giggling at his white hair littered with the colorful leaves, “These are the coins you gave me because I didn’t have any change,” he’s holding up the spare sterlings you had lent him when he wanted some ice cream but forgot his card at home, and your eyes move up and down, a strange thumping sound in your ears because you feel like you’re about to faint, and he slows to a stop, his cheeks flushed and his hands shaking as his hand fills with all of the things you have given him over the past two years, things that a normal person would have thrown away or used or given back. 

“This…” his lips tremble as he shuts them for a second, looking unlike the person you’ve begun to know so deeply as his fingers wrap around something, pulling out a neatly folded white napkin, unused, as he takes in a steadying breath, “This is the, erm, the napkin you lent me. From the night we first met.”

The box is empty now, but the room fills with moments in time, moments that you would cherish in the deepest parts of your mind before you went to bed, and pretended like they were fleeting and didn't matter so that you could face him bravely the next time you saw him. Moments that you thought he treated like normal moments in time that would pass and would never be remembered again, moments that you didn’t think he would…hold onto.

Not the way you did.

“It’s not…junk,” he admits thickly, “For me it’s not.”

He stops, taking in a deep breath as he pushes his hair away from his face, carefully putting everything back in the box, including the photograph, as he sets it down, turning back to face your stunned expression. 

“Look, have you ever seen me without my glasses?” 

You blink. Realizing that he’s waiting on you to answer, you blank before shaking your head slowly, and he nods. 

“Right, right, well, I used to wear contacts. All the time. Ask Suguru o-or Shoko but…ever since you said that you like the way glasses look, I…I don’t know, I kept wearing them, hoping you’d…” he trails off, his cheeks completely red, the tips of his ears a bright pink as he ducks his head down, scratching his nape sheepishly, whispering, “Hoping you’d maybe say it again.”

Your eyes go wide, and you blink owlishly, swearing you look fish-adjacent with the way you can only give him this look on repeat as he takes your silence as an okay for him to go on a rare nervous tangent of his own.

“When I was little, my grandfather taught me how to tie his tie. He said that I should learn how to do it by myself so that I wouldn't need any help when I grow up.”

You don’t say anything, and he doesn’t get angry at your silence, but simply offers you a small, worried smile. 

“I’ve gotten pretty good at it,” he confesses with a farce laugh, something empty and shaky, "But you always ask to tie them, and…I always let you. You’re the only person I feel comfortable with; the only person who it doesn’t feel like,” he shivered, wincing slightly as if his skin was prickling at the thought of other people touching him the way you do, “The only person who can touch me and I feel…okay.”

“I have a shelf of all the books you’ve talked about,” he persists, motioning upwards, and you slowly look around to where The Count of Monte Cristo was sitting, along with all the other books you’ve raved about in the past, thinking he’d only listen and give you kind comments, not knowing that he had gone home and sat down and read them all afterwards, “I stopped drinking whenever we go out together because you said you don’t really like the smell of alcohol on people’s breaths. I…” he rakes his hand through his hair again, a nervous fidget of his as he looks pleadingly at you, “I have my spot on Suguru’s couch because your spot is right next to it.”

“And our friends tell me that I’m not crazy, that…that I might have a chance,” he motions a shaking hand between the two of you, and you allow yourself this time to blink again, “But, I don’t know,” his head ducks as he chokes back some tears, and your eyes widen even more, your eyebrows up in your hair at this point because you’ve been rendered speechless, “It’s like any time I try to get closer to you, you leave or immediately want to be anywhere else or seem uncomfortable and I don’t want you to feel that way, especially because of me.” 

When he looks up, his eyes are glassy, looking like a stormy ocean, and you feel tears prickle at yours, your breath lodged in your throat as you try to pinch yourself, swearing that you were in some vision, but this is real, and he’s not stopping, saying the words you’ve only dreamt of. 

“I know I’m not really…the kind of person that you’d usually go for,” he explains, his voice dim, “I’m not good with literary nuances or dissecting medieval texts. I can’t read the way you read, and I’m not good with understanding people the way you do, but…I want to be. I want to be that, I want to be good for you.”

Your mouth is wide open as you gape at him, trying to make sense of the words that you could only imagine as you stared silently at him saying to you, saying them to you here. The two of you don’t say much for a second, your eyes blinking rapidly as your mind travels faster than the speed of sound, and you realize that he’s not lying or trying to make you laugh. He’s not confessing his love for another girl, but instead clutching his chest because it felt like your silence was leading up to a personal rejection, and you can barely muster up any actual words as you surge towards him, stopping his rambling as your arms wrap around his neck, knees knocking against his as your lips slam against his. 

Your heart plummets as you feel him still, his arms still at his sides as his eyes widen in shock, and you feel like you’ve completely screwed things up, going to step away before his hands shoot upwards, wrapping around your waist and legs as he hoists you up, his lips moving against yours hungrily. 

“You’re so…so stupid,” you mutter in between breaths, his lips parting yours, soft and gentle and fast and desperate as they chase the way you taste, wanting to savor the plushness of yours as you mewl at the way his fingers dig into your soft skin, moving you effortlessly towards his bed as the two of you smile against each other, laughing in the air as your back hits the mattress. He fidgets with his glasses, pushing them up with his middle finger, coming a little loose after everything. 

“Yeah?” He murmurs, happy, giddy, his eyes bright and alive and electric as he nips at your bottom lip, his own shining with spit as he ducks down again, pressing kisses to your face, and you feel lightheaded, “Tell me how I’m stupid, baby.” 

You groan, lightly hitting his chest as he chuckles lightly, his kisses moving to your cheek, across your nose, as your smile turns bright enough to power the sun for the rest of eternity if it were to die in this very moment.

“I,” you huff, your chest burning and your hands tangled in his hair, fisting his shirt as you bring him in impossibly closer, “I’ve had this…debilitating crush on you ever since I saw you,” you admit quietly, and he pauses, his sunset dusted cheeks turning into a wide grin as he huffs out a laugh and push his face away from your as you turn away in discomfiture, “And I’ve done everything to get you to notice me. I’ve embarrassed myself like, twenty times a day, hoping you’d look my way.” 

Satoru raises a slender brow, and you have the urge to pull him down by the collar, pressing your lips to his as he happily obliges, his tongue poking out to tease yours as he turns to an even bigger taunting menace as he pulls away. 

“I can’t stop looking at you,” he mumbles shyly, ducking down as he kisses your throat, and you shift slightly to give him more access, your breath catching in your lungs as his kisses turn into him sucking in a patch of skin, licking it over when he’s satisfied it’s going to mark. “I could barely focus on the play tonight because I kept looking over.” 

You let out a giggle, curling his soft strands of hair around your finger as he glances up to see your smile, pressing a chaste kiss as if he wanted to taste the way your unabashed happiness felt.

“And I try to sound smarter whenever you’re around,” you admit, and he snorts against the skin of your cheek again, enjoying how plush and soft it was, biting it as you squeal, but it was never hard enough to hurt, just experimental, and he laughs, “And you never even acknowledged the number of times I’d bring up a science-y article I had spent the entire night analyzing just for you to ask me about my stupid book report.” You pout, and he attempts to kiss it off of you, his hands roaming the exposed skin of your waist and stomach, hot against your cold self, and he rolls his eyes. 

“That’s only because I was having tiny aneurysms whenever you’d do that,” he reasons, his face morphing into something sweet and gentle and something so entirely new and…yours that you wish you could take a picture of it, “And I wanted you to know that I remembered the things you told me.” 

You throw a hand over your face, not wanting him to see the gleefulness on your face, but he just wrings your hands away, slotting his long legs in between yours as he lets out another joyous laugh.

“Come on,” he insists, nudging his nose against your jaw, “How else am I stupid?”

You let out an exaggerated groan, biting your lip as you try to think through your muddled thoughts. 

“You…you…you kept only the ridiculous things I gave you!” You argue, and he moves upwards slightly, giving you a pointed look, as if you were offending his lifeline or treasures, “I’ve given so many things and…” But you trail off, feeling his large hand gently wrap around your face, turning it to the side so you could see his room from his point of view. 

“Look closely,” he softly urges, and your eyes trail across the walls, the shelves, the tabletops, “This room is full of you.”

And he’s right. 

The postcards he has up are the ones you gave the three of them from the time you had gone to Paris with your family over the summer, picking out individual ones you thought each of them would like. Vintage telescopes and microscopes you imagined him enjoying, but never enough to actually put them up. The music box that plays the theme of A New Hope, a simple melody from his favorite movie that you had also gotten for his birthday, sits on his bedside table. The books you had found on sale about plant biology, a little thing you thought he might like, rest on top of his bookshelf. 

Your bottom lip catches between your teeth, and he chuckles at your quiet reaction, dipping down to kiss you again, wanting to nudge those sounds from you, even if he has to take them like this.

“Is this why you’d scare off any guy who came up to me?” You ask, but you already know the answer, just wanting to see the look on his face as he groaned, pinching your side as you giggle at his antics. 

“I thought I was being so obvious,” he murmured against your lips, his tongue roaming through your mouth as you part it slightly for him, eyes fluttering shut at the feeling, a string of spit connecting the two of you as he pulls away, “Everyone could see how badly I wanted you.” 

You shrug, feeling sluggish from his movements. 

“I didn’t,” you argue faintly, and he looks up, white lashes fluttering as he grins, kissing the tip of your nose as he smiles. 

“Guess I didn’t either,” he whispers teasingly, “Guess we’re both stupid for that.” 

You go to fight back, but you let out an embarrassing moan at the way his hands travel across your stomach, pushing your shirt upwards slightly as your back arches upwards to chase the feeling.  His hands are large and travel expertly across your body, as if he’s mapped out the small things that make you squirm and the things you itch for, as if he’s spent the past two years studying you instead of his dusty textbooks, and the thought alone makes you shake with anticipation. 

“Can’t believe I waited this long,” he murmurs against the skin of your stomach, kissing the plain of it as you shake with an uncontrollable giggle, “Why didn’t you say anything, hm? Did you like tormenting me like this?”

The question makes you stop.

Suddenly, everything from before comes rushing back. 

It seems like it sets off alarm bells in your head, as if you had been functioning through a rose-tinted fog for the past couple of minutes, and suddenly reality hits you because…you haven’t told him for a reason. The months and months of pining after him weren’t just because you liked torturing yourself, but because of your frankly very real fears of rejection for more reasons than one. 

After a second, you huff, hands clenching by your sides as you feel a surge of feelings, deep ones that you’ve choked on and tried to hide, and he notices the instant way you tense up, stopping his movements as he glances upwards at you. 

“Do you want to stop?” He asks gently, tugging the hem of your (his) shirt back down to cover your stomach, and you let out a delicate laugh, a pensive look on your face as you chew worriedly on your face. 

Sighing, you rub a hand down your face, sitting upright with your back resting on his headboard, and turn to look back at his desk, feeling the weight of his stare more than before as heat licks at your cheeks. 

“What about…what about the others?”

The question rings through the room, bouncing off the walls, and his brows furrow in slight confusion as you still refuse to tear your eyes away from his desk, your hands resting in your lap, and he moves slowly, his large hands encompassing yours, unraveling your fingers, alleviating the tension you didn’t know was building. 

“What others?” Satoru asks after a moment, unjudgmentally, tenderly, and caring, patient as you huff out another shaky laugh, shrugging your shoulders as they fall in a heavy drop, your chest rattling with the emotions you had been trying to kill off from the past two years.

You chew on the inside of your cheek, feel his fingers against yours, and your gaze flickers to his before going back to focusing on something to the side. 

“This is gonna sound stupid,” you preface, but his thumb presses into the palm of your hand, a small sign that he wasn’t going to judge anything that came out of your mouth because he just showed you that he kept the first napkin you had ever given him. 

“But…” you drop your head into your hands, your voice muffled as you continue, “I see the girls that come up to you. O-or your ex. Vi…right?” You peek up, and his eyes are slightly squinted, nodding slowly, as if he wants you to make your point before he says something, “And they’re just so…ugh, I don’t know…perfect? Like, they seem perfect for you. Either they’re stunning, or they’re in your major, or they’re both, or just…so different, and I feel like I’m…not…that.” 

He blinks slowly, piecing this together with the fact that he asked you why you hadn’t spoken up sooner, and his lips tug upwards in a little grin, one that makes you want to roll your eyes if not for the storm brewing inside of you, and he tugs you closer, one of his hands wrapping around your waist as he drops his head onto your chest. 

“I think you’ve got it backwards,” he says against you, his voice vibrating off of you, and you feel it shake you to your core, his hand moving up and down the expanse of your back as you hand unconsciously move upwards, back to his soft white locks, “Because none of those girls could measure up to my perfect girl.”

You stop, glad he can’t see the large smile on your face as you head falls backwards, thumping against the wood as your chest swells with joy, and when he looks up, his goofy grin could match yours, and you push him away by the cheek, but he just moves, kissing the palm of your hand as you laugh softly.

“You’re so stupid,” you repeat, but he knows you’re only masking the giddiness you feel as he nods against your hand, his eyes shimmering and bright as he sits up a little straighter, nearly encompassing you with his body as he leans closer, his nose nudging yours as the two of you smile against each other's lips. 

“You’ve got that right,” he whispers in the small space of air between you, “I’m such a fool for you.” 

You decide then that you don’t give him any more time to talk or say something else that could turn your insides to mush, so you tug him down by his neck, his lips curling upwards as they press against yours. 

He seems like he’s experimenting with kissing you, as if he knows you’re learning in real time, and has no qualms taking it slow. He lets you take the lead when you want, lets you dart your tongue out slightly, and opens his mouth to welcome you in. When you get a little shyer, he takes the initiative, hands roaming around your hips, pulling you into his lap as you mewl him again. When he could tell you needed some air, he’d pull away, kissing the corners of your lips, your cheeks that he loved so much, the edge of your brows that would pull into the cutest furrows whenever you were confused, and cherished you the way he’d been aching for ever since he saw you at that stupid English department banquet. 

You chase the feeling of his skin on yours, the way his fingers feel when they trace your features, the way his hands run up your arms, the way his palm cups your jaw. Your hands seem to have a mind of their own, his as well, as they drop down to the drawstring of his trousers, running up the smooth and hard skin of his abs, feeling greedy as you run a finger down his delicious v-line. You feel him shuddering beneath you, and you grin evilly, your mouth water as you untie his pants, your fingers running over the white tufts of hair of his happy trail, and your shuffle around a little bit to help him as he tugs up the hem of his old band shirt that you donned, and you almost let out a whine when they suddenly stop, lashes fluttering open to see what he was going to do next. 

His forehead drops onto yours, one of his arms pulling you closer to his chest, the other still cradling your face, and you see the way his face has gone pink, a light hue that you rarely see him in. 

“Just so you know, this, em, this isn’t how I wanted things to go.” 

You let out a stark laugh, your hands pressing against his as your fingers curl around his hair, tilting your head slightly to the side. 

“Yeah? How were things supposed to go?” You ask, trying not to sound too selfishly drunk on him as he shrugs, his lips pressing together as he divulges you in his own fantasies, things he’d only think about when it was the two of you together and he’d be wanting to confess his undying love for you while you’d be rambling on about John Milton or another one of your other favorite authors.

He looks shy, and you want to bite him, watching him gather up some of the courage you had kissed away as he takes one of your hands away from his arms, playing with your fingers as he pushes some of his tousled hair away from his face.

“Well, I was planning on telling you how crazy I am about you after this whole day I had planned out,” he starts, scratching the back of his neck as he turns a little red, “I had, erm, bought tickets to the museum you’ve been wanting to go to,” he says, his eyes flickering from your face to the side as his head drops, and you nudge it back up as he chuckles, “The one displaying the original copies of those old books you like so much.” 

He swallows, taking a deep breath, and then continues. 

“And I wanted it to just be us, nobody else. I would have obviously read up on all the authors on exhibit, so I wouldn’t look like a total idiot when, or if, you had come, and I’d spend the entire time sweating and hoping you couldn’t see.” You giggle, and he squeezes your hand, rubbing his thumb up and down the back of it in a soothing gesture. Your eyes drop, urging him gently to continue because you feel like you’re in a dream, and if he stops, you’re going to wake up from it. 

“Afterwards, I’d take you to this restaurant I’ve heard is good,” he grins boyishly, tongue poking in between his lips, “And when we were done, I’d walk you back to your place and…tell you that I liked you then.” 

You can’t stop smiling, and he can’t stop either. 

“Just…just that you liked me?” you tease, humming as he shifts a little, his arms wrapping around your waist, “Not to be…selfish, or anything, but I feel like this way was so much more romantic with your little box of trinkets and your rambling.” He groans, pinching you lightly as you snicker, but he ultimately shakes his head, smoothing over the place he pinched with his soothing touch.

“No, no,” he mutters, his face determined, as if he was recounting everything he had planned to say, “I’d tell you how much I liked the way you look when you start talking about your day,” his thumb brushes across your cheek, running across the soft hair of your brows, “And how much I like the way you care about everything you do and everybody around you. I’d tell you that I really like it when you tell me about the book you just finished, and how much I admire your kind heart. I’d tell you that I…I like how wonderfully weird you are, and how I wish I could be half as interesting as you are on a regular day. I would have told you how you’re always the first person I look for when I enter a room. And…” his shoulders rise and drop as he pulls you impossibly closer, “I would have really hoped that Suguru and Shoko were right about this because I’d be…a little embarrassed if not.”

You hum, pretending to think as you twirl his white strands around your pointer finger even though you feel like you’re on fire and you can’t breathe and everything feels like it’s burning in the best way possible, try not to freak out because the guy you’ve been in love with basically just admitted the most amazing things to you, so you take a steadying breath, your head tilting as you smile.

“And what if I didn’t want you to stop?” You feel heat blossom across your lungs when you hear his breathing hitch, “After…after you’d do all of that?” 

He nods, surveying his different options as his blue eyes turn into a slightly different shade, as if they were dependent upon his emotions, and his hands turn a little heavier as they roam across your stomach, up across the skin of your ribcage, and they stop right under your bra. 

“Hmm, well, I would’ve have asked you what you wanted to happen next,” his smile is wicked as his face drops down to your neck, leaving wet kisses until he ends up at your collarbone, right at the neck of your shirt as you nearly whine, feeling his teeth scrape just barely over the soft skin, “What is it you want, baby? What else would you want me to do?”

Your breathing stutters, and you arch your back a little, letting his nimble fingers fiddle with the clasp of your bra, giving you enough time to turn him down, but you don’t; you want, no, need, for him to continue. 

“I,” your breath lodges in your throat when he opens the clasps, helping you tug the straps down until your old ratty bra, the comfortable one that you were sure wouldn’t matter being worn tonight because you never imagined something like this happening, but he doesn’t care, setting it to the side as he wait patiently, menacingly, for you to find your words, “I’d probably ask you to…to come up.” 

He groans lightly, a mix between a guttural moan and a laugh. 

“Yeah?” It’s not so much a question, but a confirmation as you nod, shivering when his hands move back upwards, your chest heaving as you feel his nimble and long fingers cup your tits, his fingers running over your nipples as your head falls to his shoulders, “Then what? What would I have done after I came up?” 

You go down, you want to say tauntingly, but don’t have the willpower as his thumb flicks over a nipple, and you whine. 

“Eh, you’d, uh, I’d, we, would probably end up on…on my bed and I’d probably be wearing something cuter than this,” you try to say indifferently, and he rolls his eyes because you could be wearing faux feathers glued to the entirety of your body and he’d still think you were the most beautiful woman to ever exist, “And I’d probably be a little more confident telling you what I,” you gulp audibly, your cheeks heating up, “What I want, seeing that you wouldn’t have just seen me at my virtual lowest hours earlier.” And he chuckles, and it feels right, feels like this was meant to happen as his hands fall from your breasts, trailing down your stomach as you shuffle a little, moving to lie back on his pillow as he shuffles to, situating his body in between your thighs, waiting for your next command. 

Satoru’s grin turns soft, like he knows what it is you want, but needs to hear you say it for him to feel okay doing the thing that’s setting him alight. His hand moves, taking yours into his again and intertwining his fingers between yours.

“… what do you want, love?” His voice is thick, and it settles deep in your bones as your head falls, squeezing his fingers as you sheepishly mutter something, and he barely hears you, nudging you to say it a little louder as you groan in embarrassment, an arm flying over your face as your head falls back, not able to look him in the eyes as you timidly whisper;

“For you, like…to do stuff,” you murmur so quietly you think that your lips barely even moved, “To…to eat me out or….or whatever.” 

When he says nothing for a moment, you peek between your fingers and see his cheeks flushed, a shit-eating grin on his face as he sets his chin down on your stomach, his glasses crooked as his brow arched. He moves, gingerly tugs your arm away from your face, and sits down by your side as he presses a chaste kiss to your stomach. 

“Yeah….yeah, I think I can ‘eat you out or whatever’,” he says, and you groan ever louder, flicking his forehead as he chuckles, taking your words as the sign to go, go, go, his fingers moving excruciatingly slow as they start to tug the waistband of your pants and boxers (his, again), down, looking up at you for a little assistance, and you lift your hips, allowing him to slide them down fully. 

You blink, relaxing that you’re completely bare right now, but he doesn't give you any time to be self-conscious as his pupils seem to blow up with lust, hungrily eating up the way your pussy is glistening with want and need, his cheeks a fiery red as his chest moves in a large exhale, like the air had been knocked from him. 

His hand raises upwards to take his glasses off, but you make a sudden movement, as if your body was functioning on autopilot, when your hands wrap around his wrist, stopping him from doing anything else. 

“Don’t,” your voice is barely above a whisper, “K-keep them on.” 

His white lashes flutter slightly, and he gives you one of his boyish smiles that you love so much, his teeth shining as he presses his lips to the inside of your wrist, nodding slowly as he pushes his glasses back on. 

“If I knew that waiting so long for you to tell me that you liked my glasses would have been when I’m about to do this, I think I could have waited another couple of years more.” He says honestly, dropping himself down between your thighs, and your eyes flutter shut, head falling back on the pillow as you feel his warm hands slowly move up and up and up, parting you ever so slightly so he could situate himself better between them. 

Your mouth parts when you feel his fingers move on the outside of your lips, collecting the slick, and you hold back a wanton moan, your hands flying up to his hair, tugging him closer. You watch as he pushes his glasses up by using his shoulder to move the frames up, and when his lips suddenly latch onto your clit you actually think you’ve gone insane.

His tongue darts out, moaning like a whore when he finally gets to taste your saccharine taste, his eyes rolling back as he parts your lips, the sound greedy as he moves a thumb to circle your clit, moving down to run his tongue selfishly up and down your pussy for his own pleasure, needing to feel you or else he was going to go mad. 

“You taste,” his voice is muffled as he pants against your cunt, using a finger to move up and down the slit, “You taste sweet,” he said it like he was startled, like he had spent hours and hours studying female anatomy and how to pleasure a girl and what to do, but never could have expected this unexpected turn, to taste you and realize that you were sweeter and more delicious than any candy he’s ever eaten before, “Why do you taste so…so sweet?” 

You would laugh if you weren’t so turned on, saying some jumbled-up words as he ducks down again, your fingers digging into his scalp as his thumb goes a little faster on your swollen nub, his long pointer finger rubbing at the outside of your pussy, getting ready to push it in. 

When he finally does, your walls instantly clamp down on it, and you moan, not expecting the stretch, and he gives you some time to adjust. It’s not like you’re a prude, you’ve at least attempted this before, but your fingers aren’t like Gojo Satoru’s, and you feel like you could come just from this. 

“Feeling good, baby?” He questions, and you hurriedly nod, hearing him chuckle.

“Yeah,” you stutter out, your teeth clenched as you feel his finger start to move out, and then your mouth falls open as he starts to slowly pump it in and out of you, a mind-bending pace that has you clenching around him, “Feels good.” 

He nods, taking it as confirmation to keep going, and he switches between a finger and his tongue, darting them inside of you. He keeps his pressure on your clit, and you grow impossibly wetter when he leans down to lay a cute little kiss on it, his glasses slowly fogging up.

Gojo Satoru eats you out like you’re his last meal, like he’s been living like Tantalus for his twenty years alive, and finally, the fruit tree doesn’t move from his grasp, and he’s able to divulge like the greedy and sinful man he always has been.

Sometimes the hand that’s occupying your clit moves upwards, pulling his old shirt up and over the expanse of your torso to see your supple skin shake beneath his large palms, and he cups your tits, groaning like a slut when he feels your nipples pebble, and he pinches them between his pointer finger and thumb, twisting a little to feel you squeal, and he grins, softening his touch as he smooths it over, moving back down to your nub as if nothing happened. 

You watch from hooded eyes, watch the way his eyes close, like he’s savoring your taste. You see the way he slowly ruts into the mattress, like he was getting off to this, and the thought itself makes you gush even more. 

When he’s satisfied that you’ve adjusted to his one finger, he decides to slip another one in, and the size alone makes you whine, the stretch something that causes tears to dart in the corner of your eyes in delicious pain. 

“Hmm,” you moan, one of your hands fisting the sheets, the other tangled in his white hair as you guide him up and down, and you can swear you feel him smiling against you, as if your reactions were a symphony to his ears, “It’s not like I really have a metric but…you’re good at this.” 

Satoru chuckles, looking up at you, and the sight knocks the air out of your lungs. His cheeks are flushed, wet in the dim lighting of the room, his glasses crooked, and his hair a mess, but he looks positively radiant as his smile flashes bright. 

“I hope I am,” his voice is lower than you’ve ever heard it, and it vibrates against your pussy, “I’ve been studying.”

Despite feeling lightheaded, his statement chased you to come to your senses a bit, sitting up on your elbows as you looked at him through furrowed brows. 

“Studying?” You parrot, and he nods eagerly, his thumb putting pressure on your sensitive and swollen clit as your mouth falls open in a silent moan, barely able to keep your eyes open as he explains. 

“Mhm,” he hums, his nose, the beautiful nose that you want to kiss all over, rubs expertly on the hood of your clit as he presses chaste, sloppy kisses to your cunt, “I read all these posts and books and papers about what the best way to eat a girl out,” his voice is hoarse, licking up and down your syrupy inner walls, his two fingers never stopping their relentless pace as something deep in your stomach begins to build up, “Brushed up on some….anatomy and the sorts.”

You let out a breathless laugh. 

Because of course he had. 

“You,” your mouth clamps shut when he hits the spongy part deep inside of you that makes your toes curl, your lashes fluttering against your hot cheeks, and you can’t talk correctly but make the attempt to, barely above a whisper as you mutter, “Y-you’re insane.” 

He rolls his eyes, but doesn’t deny it as his thumb swirls in figure eight patterns on your clit, his pointer and middle fingers curling upwards, and you can’t really find it in yourself to chide him when he’s making you feel heavenly. 

You feel like you’re unraveling at his skillful hands, and it definitely doesn’t help that whenever you have the guts to open your eyes you’re met with the view of Satoru loosing himself in your cunt, as with each second that passed, he was going just as crazy as you were, and it felt like that familiar feeling of an orgasm building, but unlike anything you’ve ever felt before.

It’s almost like he knows, because he seems to go faster, switching between licking and his fingers, and your grip on him tightens, and he moans, welcoming the sting.

“Come on,” he presses, urging, needing you to finish around him, to taste your relief on his tongue, “Come on, baby, I know you wanna come.”

You nod, sweat dotting your forehead, your chest heaving up and down with labored breaths, that knot inside of you tightening as your thighs clamp down around his head, your walls pulsing around his fingers.

It gradually builds, but that feeling suddenly snaps, and you jolt, your back arching, moving into him, his fingers never stopping, his thumb and lips on your clit, suctioning in a perfect way that sends you over the edge. You clench tightly around him, creaming, spasming as you gush, your eyes rolling back in your head as you let out the quietest but sweetest moan, and when you feel your orgasms slow to a dull pulse, you fall back onto his mattress, limp as he doesn’t stop instantly. 

Instead, he lets his fingers slow down carefully, as if you’d get immediate withdrawal from the feeling of having him inside of you. He kisses your clit once, then twice, and pulls away, connected by a string of spit, slick and your cum, and when you finally have the energy to wring your eyes open, the sight of him wrecked form eating you out makes you even more wet.

You take a few moments to catch your breath, your chest heaving up and down, your hand falling away from his soft locks as it sprawls across your stomach, and you stare helplessly at the ceiling. 

Blinking owlishly, you awkwardly scootch upwards until you’re resting on the back of the headboard, and you watch as he brings his fingers up to his mouth, grinning coyly as he moans at the taste of you, and if you could, you’d pinch him, but you just weakly push him with your foot, looking away abashedly. 

“Nasty,” you whisper hoarsely, your voice gone, and he coos, crawling towards you, bringing his face towards yours as he nudges his nose with yours, and you’re weak, giving in as he hungrily presses his wet lips to yours. 

You can taste yourself on him, and you mewl, feeling his tongue in your mouth, licking inside of you, wanting you to enjoy what he just enjoyed, and your shaking hands grip around his neck. He pulls away a little bit, biting your bottom lip before kissing it, and he rubs a loving thumb across your cheek, his eyes turning gentle as he peers at you through those ocean eyes through those stunning glasses you adore so much.

You don’t trust your voice, so instead you let your hands unravel from his nape, moving upwards towards the expensive frames, straightening them on his nose, making sure they rest correctly on his pink ears, and he watches silently, reverently, as you push him back gently by the chin, making sure that they looked right on the bridge of his nose.

“Hmm, looks better,” you whisper affectionately, kissing the tip of his nose like you’ve always wanted, and that seems to push him over the edge, quickly wrapping his arms around your midsection as he pulls you closer to him, falling back on the bed as he tugs you into his chest, his head resting in the crook of your neck. 

At that moment, you feel it, and your eyes blink rapidly from their hazy state as his hard-on pressed against your thigh.

“Hey,” you murmur, poking his side, but he doesn’t seem like budging, his overwhelming heat and size covering you, his thick arms not moving from caging you to him, and you can’t even wrangle free, “‘Toru, what about you?” 

He doesn’t even lift his head, just hums against the skin of your neck, his lips busy leaving hickeys all over it, ones you’re going to deeply regret in the morning but can’t seem to care right now except for the boner you’re sure is deeply uncomfortable. 

“What about me?” He dreamily replies, his voice barely audible, and you roll your eyes. From this angle, you can see the way his shirt is riding up, his abs on display, the veins leading downward prominent, and his trail of white hair is calling your name. 

You wedge your hand in between your bodies as you press against his cock, the movement causing him to yelp and shudder, whimpering against you as you snicker, sure that now he’s going to give you some more undivided attention.

He sits up a little bit, resting his head on his fist, his elbow on his pillow as he peers down at you, his brow slightly cocked, not looking impressed with being tormented like this after treating you so kindly by giving you the best orgasm of your life.

“Not nice,” he reprimands warmly, poking your side as you yelp, his finger much more sturdy than yours, “You’re not really supposed to grab dicks like that, y’know?”

Your cheeks heat at his choice words, and you shrug, feigning innocence as you bring his hand to yours, admiring the large size a syou play with his fingers, feeling more touchy than usual, and you’re ever so glad that he lets you.

“I’m just saying,” you mumble, flashing him a look that sends a nonexistent punch to his gut, the blood rushing south because you look ethereal like this, “Don’t you want me to…return to favor? Tit for tat?” 

He chuckles, his thumb moving across your eyebrow, soothing the furrow as it moves down to rub against your cheek. 

“We can do tat later,” he uses your terminology and you giggle, your lips pulling into a bright smile because you’re sitting in a post-orgasm afterglow with your crush, and that stupid theorem you had stressed over doesn’t even matter anymore because the impossible outcome is happening right now and you don’t bother with looking normal because you’re feeling anything but, “I still have a date I need to take you out on.” 

You try not to gush like an idiot, your head falling into his sturdy chest, and his hand moves up and down your back, tracing stars and circles and hearts and writing his name, as if he wanted everyone to see the invisible ink that’s bleeding from his fingertips into you.

His finger hooks around your jaw, tilting your head upwards so he can see you better. 

“You wanna date me?” You ask breathlessly with dizzingly joy, the question holding no weight because the two of you already know the answer, but he indulges you, his head falling to yours, forehead against yours, glasses sitting perfectly on his perfect face that’s pressing against your perfect one. 

“I want to be yours,” he murmurs, vulnerability thick in his voice as your lashes flutter, “So, yeah, I want to date you.” 

You giggle again, and you lift your head a little to slot your lips against his plush ones. 

“You stupid, moronic- wait what?”

The next few words out of his mouth are just as bad as the last ones, if not worse. Because yes he knows - for once in his life - that maybe he should just stop talking. He knows that even a moment longer with you is gonna turn his mind into more of a melty, honeyed mess than Six Eyes ever could. 

Which is exactly what he blames when jumbling out a garbled, “Dinner tomorrow?” Wincing, Gojo swallows them back almost as quickly as he wished he was swallowed up by Geto’s rainbow dragon instead. 

To your credit, you look a lot less bumbling than the strongest currently pinned underneath you. That look of annoyance on your pretty features melts into something of concern. And before he can dig a deeper hole for himself, you’re raising the back of your hand to splay out across his forehead.

“I didn’t think you hit the ground that hard but-” you raise a brow, head tilting to the side. “-I think you’ve got a concussion.”

Oh, yeah he’s definitely in heaven - that or actually concussed. Maybe both.

A low whistle sounds from his right - and soon enough he’s staring at the shoes of the other first-year he’d met just today. Low bangs hanging over his face, jostling with light cackles, “Haven’t they told you not to confess your undying love until at least the second date, Gojo?”

Nevermind, he was in hell.

“Ieri!” Geto turns towards the other girl, who was busy typing away on her phone. But Gojo could’ve sworn he heard the shutter of a camera coming from her way. “He was flown out of bounds, that’s gotta count as one point for me, right? And another for the pretty girl. You keepin’ score?”

She only sighs, “No.”

What’s a first day at high school without a duel between two of the proudly self-proclaimed strongest? And, of course, you - the fourth addition to their little group, hastily scrambling off of Gojo’s lap at the jeering laughter from above. 

Dammit. 

Later, he might apologize for running headfirst into you - might. Ignoring the pointed giggles, and the burning rouge at the very tip of his ears, to find out your name. And to make up some stilted excuse about how that was completely the concussion talking and he totally wasn’t serious about having dinner so please, please, please don’t snitch to Yaga about the impromptu matches taking place on school grounds…unless? 

But for now, Gojo’s only lazily turning to look up at Geto, bringing a hand up to squint against the harsh sun beating down. Or, at least, that’s what it was meant to look like - “Technique amplification: Blue!”

He only hopes the property damage isn’t as high as what his poor heart had just gone through. Detention with Yaga be damned - and if by some grace of the universe he actually does end up escaping before he’s caught then, well, he’ll actually ask you out to dinner tomorrow. 

---

Gojo Satoru is almost eighteen when he thinks that not even the Gojo family’s most expensive insurance will cover whatever curse you’ve casted on his poor heart.

You’re both well into the second year, and by now he’d been to twelve different doctors, five shamans, and Principal Yaga himself before Geto smacked him upside the head. 

“Satoru, you complete imbecile-”

“Hey!” He fights out of his best friend’s grasp around the scruff of his uniform, crossing his arms over his chest with a whine, “I’ll have you know that I got the highest exam score last week, and I cheated only a little bit-”

Geto cuts him off with a sigh, wearily pinching the bridge of his nose, “No- you idiot. What do you mean you went to Yaga to girl-talk with him about your crush.” And when Gojo’s mouth falls slack, he’s smirking, “Oh- my bad, I meant your love-”

It’s said that Gojo’s gasp echoed all throughout the wooden corridors of the school - maybe even the entire grounds. Hotly, he’s sputtering out broken little excuses, “I don’t- what do you-” Before turning away to cool the burning of his sweetly rosy cheeks, “You’re the imbecile for spewing out such nonsense, Suguru.”

“Are you sure?” Geto turns to get a better look at the way those pretentiously expensive glasses fail to cover even the half of it. He’s never been able to, when it comes to you. “Because that’s quite literally the first thing you said to her-”

“I had a concussion!”

“After she touched you?” 

And for perhaps the first time in the years he’s been wreaking havoc on Earth, Gojo is speechless. A welcome change for Geto, who mulls over in the silence while they loiter - very much missing whatever mission was assigned right now. 

“I…” he starts, voice small. Pathetic, even. “...was concussed.” And before Geto can let out the same frustrated, dragged-out groan he often does whenever he’s around the two of you, Gojo’s plowing on, “But if I did lo- like her - hypothetically speaking - how would I even tell her?”

Usually, the other’s first reaction would be to tease his best friend. But at this moment he sounded so…young, painfully sincere in a way that was so disgustingly un-Gojo-like that he can’t help but cringe.

“Well, Satoru.” he muses, throwing a hand around his shoulder. “You just gotta…tell her my man. Preferably before that big mission coming up because I am not dragging your moping self around.”

He rolls his eyes, scoffing, “Gee, thanks. I’ll totally get on that tomorrow.”

“You’re welcome.”

BANG!

Yaga’s voice bellows, “Can you two stop doing this outside my office!”

And as much as Gojo hates to admit it, Geto was right - he usually was. 

Well - perhaps not about the love part, but subconsciously, he found himself seeking out every tiny moment with you. Every second by your side - ignoring the other two bothers - was a new opportunity to just tell you. To break that thick solitude inside your little bubble with those little words. Ones that would go and spoil it all. 

Not to be dramatic, but Gojo almost made a game out of it. Mouthing out the words whenever your back was turned - it started from “Dinner tomorrow?” to “I like you.” to something stupid that only gave Shoko aneurysms. 

And, expectedly, “tomorrow” doesn’t happen to be tomorrow. 

Tomorrow isn’t in your next class, or whatever mission Gojo tags along with you for “moral support.” Tomorrow isn’t the cozy little detention the two of you attend after catching Yaga’s interpretive dance routine - “that’s the scariest thing I’ve ever seen- even more than any curse.” you whisper fearfully to him, and he thinks he might just blurt it out right then and there.

Tomorrow isn’t when he’s just about to leave on some confidential mission with Geto, bidding you goodbye with a roll of his eyes and a hug he pretends he doesn’t like as much as he actually does. Tomorrow isn’t even when he’s baking in Okinawan sun, or strewn out bloodied and left for dead on the very grounds he met you on. 

But oh how he wishes it was.

In that moment, incapacitated by Toji Fushiguro, and wondering where it went wrong, he thinks of you. Gojo thinks he’ll always remember you in every moment, and especially when they’re his last.

The Star Plasma Vessel mission and its aftermath takes up most of his mind afterward, even when he didn’t want it to. And all he can remember about tomorrow comes only a few months later, when an ashen-faced Gojo Satoru slams open the rickety door to your dorm.

“G-Gojo?” you sputter, sitting up in your bed. But before you can even think of reaching him, he’s crossed your floor in a few long strides. “Are you ok- mmpf!”

In an instant, he’s splaying out on your mattress, legs dangling off the end, strong arms wrapped tightly around your waist. 

Your first instinct is to snap something snarky - but every tease at the very tip of your tongue vanishes when he buries his head into your lap. And you feel something wet, something drench though your skirt heatedly. 

“Is…” you’re gulping thickly. “Is everything okay, Satoru?”

Ah, his name sounds too perfect on your tongue. 

“Suguru…” Is all he shudders out wetly, jittery hands looping even more vice-like around your figure. “He-”

It’s just about the only thing he can get out, and it’s just about everything you need to hear before bringing his shivering body closer. Quiet. Steady. Rocking the strongest gently, while you hum a wordless melody. “S’alright. S’gonna be okay.”

Now, he thinks. Now now now now - tell her. Tell her. But when a tear of your own stains his shirt, he knows. Hauling you in even deeper to his chest, he prays you don’t hear his thundering heart. Perhaps tomorrow. 

---

Gojo is twenty-one by the time he’s dragging you hand-in-loveable-hand through the winding hallways of an apartment in the heart of Tokyo. Mumbling excited little mutters, and almost tripping over his own feet with how fast he was navigating the corridors. 

“Sato- S-Sato-” you’re squealing out, grimacing at the tugging burn of your hands in his. “Toru! Where are you- taking me?” 

Sheepishly, he looks at you over his shoulder, “Whoops, did I forget to tell you- I have kids!”

He doesn’t know what’s louder - your shocked shout of “What? When?...By who?” or the screeching of his own two shoes skidding to a halt in front of that familiar door. 

“Well, they’re not mine.” Gojo sighs ultimately, with a hand at the door. And that makes you quieten down just enough to hear his barely-audible little whisper. Determined. Reverent, almost. “But they’re mine.”

And when he finally opens the door, just one look at the tiny, black-haired little boy and his sharp scowl is all you need to understand. You’re whirling your eyes back to his beaming gaze, oh, Satoru.

Only mere moments later the two of you - accompanied by a very begrudging Megumi, and his sister - sit by the booth of one of your favorite cafés. Embarrassingly, he finds himself sighing while watching you crack jokes with the little girl. Turning to the server to order for her - it almost felt like a little family. Oh you’d make such a perfect mother. A completely objective observation, of course. Completely. Unless- 

“You’ll never do it.” a tug on his sleeve has him facing Megumi’s leveled stare. How the hell does a kid manage to look like he’s seen the monstrosities of the world already? Gojo blames the father.

Baring his teeth, “The hell’s that supposed to mean?”

Little did he know that all it took was watching him seethe whenever the waiter by your side was just a bit too talkative, a bit too lingering with his gaze. In his little reverie, Gojo had accidentally croaked out a low, “I-” before you’d turned those pretty eyes his way, only to choke back embarrassingly on every syllable. Gesturing at you to ignore his little mishap. 

“Tell her, I mean.” Megumi hums. Taking a wizened sip of his milkshake, “She’ll date that waiter before you if you don’t tell her.”

“That’s so…so stupid.” Gojo whispers back hotly. “I will tell her.”

“Will not.”

“Will too.”

“Will not.”

“Will-” 

“Boys!” Your scolding tone makes them both jump - mainly Gojo, however, caught off-guard. Who scratches behind his neck when you wag a finger admonishingly, “Stop arguing, we’re in public. Now, as for payment-” Before turning back politely to the waiter.

“See?” Megumi counters, back to appraising the last of his cupcake. “You’re such a loser.”

Gojo’s gaze, however, stray back your way, as he found them often doing these days. Only to find them already on him, scrunched into crescents with a smile and twinkling so bright that he could almost catch his idiotic gawking in them. 

Very pointedly he ignores the knowing roll of Megumi’s eyes, the exact type he’s seen too much with Shoko, and Nanami, and Utahime, and Yaga - and every single being to come into contact with his almost-tangibly hopeless feelings for you.

Instead, slamming that shiny new black card of his down in front of him - with enough fervor that the tabletop jostles, and you jolt out of your conversation with the waiter. 

“I’ll be the one paying for myself, and my two kids and-” His burning eyes drink in every shred of surprise on your features. “-my wife.”

Somewhere in the distance, Gojo can hear Tsumiki giggle, and Megumi smack a hand onto his forehead. But right now he’s too busy remembering the exact degree to which your lips curl up, the way you hold back a laugh at the waiter’s jaw dropping. Nevermind the fact that the two of you were way too young to have two kids of this age. 

“He was getting a bit pushy.” you’d conspire afterwards, now completely full and fatigued after a long day. “Thanks for that, Toru.”

Gojo sighs, flashing you a megawatt grin. If there were ever a time he thanks his Six Eyes for being able to memorize every little detail - every little feature in this picture - then it would be right now. He’s reveling in the bittersweet perfection. Yeah, he thinks, holding up a sleepy Megumi in his arms, maybe tomorrow.

---

There’s actually been about sixty different times over the years that Gojo knows you’d wanted to punch him straight in his face - and he’s sure, at the age of twenty-seven, that this is the very latest one. 

“How did you get hit, don’t you have limitless?”

He shoots a wink your way, “Maybe I wanted you to patch me up?”

You scoff, “You stupid, moronic-”

“-no-brained, glasses-wearing dumbass.” he finishes for you, flashing you a cocky smirk that wouldn’t have been endearing for anyone but him. Gojo makes himself more comfortable on the hard infirmary bed, “You know, you’ve really got to update your list of insults, sweetheart. I don’t even wear the shades that much anymore.”

It was new - as soon as you’d cackled at the idea of him being a teacher with perpetual sunglasses, he’d wrapped that blindfold around his head. It was a slight shame, frankly, he was always honest with his eyes - but what was more important was that change.

Sweetheart.

Sometime after you’d intertwined seamlessly into Gojo’s mishmashed little family, he’d taken to calling you syrupy sweet nicknames. It’d started out as a joke, you think - with “sugarplum” and “honeybuckets” and whatever grocery item he could think of, before turning into something very, very real. 

Though, they still made poor Megumi grimace in disgust just the same.

“Zoning out on me, babygirl?” 

Yeah, sometimes they made you grimace in disgust, too. 

“No-” you’re rolling your eyes, putting a little bit more force than necessary when you dab the warm napkin at those tiny specks of blood on his lip. “Just hoping you’d shut up.”

Gojo hisses, eyes crinkling at the edges - and you can’t help but think of how much older he looked than the disgruntled sixteen-year-old that swore at you on your first day. 

“What?” his snowy brows raise, catching the hints of your laughter. 

You take a moment longer to bask in the memories, before sighing. “Nothing. Just thinking about when we first met, s’been ten years already, hasn’t it?”

Of course, it has - it’s not like something the great Gojo Satoru could ever even think about forgetting. He remembers it in every cheesy selfie from high school you show him, he remembers in each and every one of your laughs at his overused jokes - the same ones he’d cracked way back then. 

“It has.” he’s settling on after a few rare beats of silence. The thick white sheets on the bed rustle as he grasps your hand in his, “And I think I remember that today more than any other.”

It was impossible not to, when you’d just met your best friend after ten years. When you’d just killed your best friend with your own two hands.

Your pretty eyes shine with all the tears you’d been hiding, “Yeah? Guess so, huh?” Without warning, you bend down to meet your forehead with his, gulping back heavily. You knew he didn’t just want to be patched up, you knew better. And you knew that even the strongest gets lonely. Especially the strongest. Your voice is strained, quiet. “Do you think he’s happier now, Toru?”

Truthfully, Gojo doesn’t know. 

But he whispers anyway, “I think so.”

To soothe you - and himself - if anything.

His eyes burn, and he’s scrunching them shut. A lump forming in his throat, Gojo can feel his entire being just rattle with the sudden wonder whether you’d feel it just the same when - if - he dies. Would you ask if he’s happy, too? Thinking he did and had everything he wanted in this life - not knowing he’s searching for you in every one? This life, and the next, and each one after.

“Sweetheart.” Gojo mumbles, eyes widening when you’re raising your head to look back at him, as if he didn’t even expect the words to fall from his lips. His jaw clenches, eyes flitting between your eyes and your lips like the rest of it was just threatening to wrench from his throat. “He- Suguru. Back in high school - before he…left- he told me-” 

“Gojo sensei, where is the- Oh!”

The two of you jump apart as if it burned, and for Gojo, the angry split on his lower lip hurts infinitely less than losing your touch. Holding back a silent whine, he turns towards the dark-haired boy fretting by the doorway, “Yuta? Something wrong?”

“Oh, you’ve done it, newbie.” Panda’s deep voice sounds from behind the doorway, and he peaks his large head in. “Gojo’s got his serious voice on, should’ve just spied silently like me. I told you not to interrupt him and his wife.”

“You’re married?!”

“We’re not married!”

“Tuna.”

The room erupts in far too many voices, and before long you’re clapping your hands in that strict teacherly manner that Gojo teases you always learned from Yaga himself. 

“Okay, that’s enough.” you call out, before turning to the newest first year. “Okkotsu, do you need help with anything? I’ll be right with you.” 

“I…I really didn’t mean to interrupt.” he’s bowing with apologies, ones that you only wave away with a chuckled-out, “It’s okay, Panda’s joking. We’re not married or anything anyway.”

And Gojo doesn’t know whether the look Yuta gives him is more akin to pity or understanding - he prefers it be neither, which is why he’s covering his head with the blanket. Groaning dramatically until you’re turning your attention back to him. 

You ruffle the amount of his hair peaking, and he has to screw his glassy eyes shut. “Toru, what is it that you wanted to say?”

“Don’t worry about it, it’s stupid.” His tone is unreadable, “I’ll tell you, hope- hopefully tomorrow.”

---

“Stay.”

“Sweetheart-”

“Stay.”

“Sweetheart.” 

You’re barely holding up the clingy mess that is a twenty-nine-year-old Gojo Satoru. Huffing and puffing in a way that makes his heart and his arms around you just squeeze, “It’s not an option. You know I have to do this.”

How he wished he didn’t.

How he wished he could grab your hand and run away from the fight with Sukuna, hide in the countryside of his hometown and build a new life with you.

It’s already been a hellish few weeks trying to get Gojo unsealed, and you can feel the last few months pounding at your temples. You let out a sigh, one that has him holding back a strangely giddy laugh. But before you can open your mouth to yell at him to not go - or more accurately, beg him until he doesn’t - there’s a tentative voice speaking up from behind you. 

“Um…sensei?” Yuji’s wide eyes sweep over his two teachers, being at Jujutsu Tech for a few months, he’s seen everything there is to see about the two of you. He saw the way you smacked the strongest when he got too mouthy, the way he let down limitless just so you could smack him. He saw the laughs, the looks, the way you’d flown into a frenzy when Gojo was sealed. 

Everyone saw.

It was like you were crazed, and right now, only a month after his return - you were gripping onto Gojo like he was the only thing keeping you anything but. 

So, it shouldn’t be new at this point. But he still can’t hold back the wonder in his voice, “I uh- wanted to ask about your robes for tomorrow- but maybe I can come back another time?”

“Yes yes, come back another time-”

“What robes?” 

You narrow your eyes at the man, and that sheepish little curl of his lips does everything but soothe your worries. He knew you saw right through him, you always did. 

Gojo’s exclaiming out loud, “Well- remember Toji-?” He waves his hands around, trying for a slightly softer way to say ‘the sorcerer killer and father of our honorary kid, who just-so-happens to be on a rampage right now’, before ultimately settling on, “-the worm guy? Well, I just figured I might as well take a page out of his book and dress like him, y’know since I’m fighting…Megumi after all.”

It takes a few seconds of stunned silence for you to find your voice, “You stupid-” 

“-moronic, no-brained, blindfold-wearing-”

“-dumbass! You remember what happened to him!” 

He bats his long, long lashes at you, “Why? Would you get this heated if I died just the same way he did?”

“No!” Your voice makes even Yuji flinch, which in turn has you reaching over to pat his head, “This is not on you, darling, of course. But your teacher here-” And it was comical, almost, the way the strongest stands up ramrod straight at just a leveled glare from you, “-will be getting it when he comes back from the fight.”

Comes back.

Oh, as much as Gojo throws his head back with chortles, he can’t help the way his heart twinges at the very thought of leaving you. 

And he can’t be sure of just how long.

“Ah, you talk too much, pretty. I’ll tell Megs how much you miss him.” You’re not given a second’s warning before you’re back in his embrace - more steady, this time. His arms securely around your waist, like they’d been twelve years ago and never wanted to leave since. Lips pressed up against the thundering pulse at your neck, Gojo’s voice dips just a bit lower than you’re used to. Breathing you in, “I will, too, y’know? Very much.”

Jittery, he could feel every slight tremor in your nervous fingers when you run them through his hair, dipping into the ends of his black blindfold. 

“Wh-what do you mean? S’only for a few hours, Toru.” you hum. “You better be back or so help me.”

“I know…” he heaves out, only pressing you close up against his broad frame. “But just in case- I-” Gojo’s voice cracks pathetically at the end, and he’s instantly too aware of Yuji’s keen eyes still watching. Edging up against the corner of the room like he wished he could have Gojo’s teleportation powers right about now. “-have something stupid to tell you. So I’ll hurry home anyways.”

You’re pulling back to quirk a brow, “Why not just tell me now?”

How he wished he could.

“Because it’s stupid.” 

Later, Gojo will find himself strewn across jujutsu hall with Yuji himself - the only one, other than you, he thinks, that can stand to be around a weapon like him right now. Listening to the hum of cursed energy in the air, he gets himself ready for the fight.

“Why didn’t you tell her? Especially now?” His student pipes up, suddenly, and Gojo remembers with a sigh just how uncomfortably in tune he is with everyone around him. Fearfully, so. “That you lov-”

“Because it’s stupid.” the older one grins. Such a sad, warmly smile - and for perhaps the first time, Yuji thinks that Gojo Satoru looks his age. “And I don’t think she’d want to hear it if I don’t make it to tomorrow.”

---

“Stupid.” you mutter, biting angrily at your nails. Hot tears burn behind your closed lids, and you can’t help but tighten your hand even more around his cold, cold ones. Limp. Like death. “You’re so, so stupid.”

There’s no response. No sing-song voice finishing off your insults, no large and ruffling your hair until you have to bat him away. 

Gojo Satoru was deathly still. 

Laid out on the cold mattress of his room, you’d bugged Shoko enough to let you move him here, knowing how much he hated the infirmary. 

“Being so reckless- having Yuta use your body-” in your fit of anger, you’re whirling your head up. Only for the pang of regret and grief to hit you tenfold all over again - because like this, he was too statuesque. A pretty mask of pale, what you’d give to have those eyes wink at you once more. “-if- when you wake up, I’m gonna kill you all over again.”

They told you he was dead - there was no point in waiting. In fact, you were sure there was a grave dug already, it was just a matter of how soon they could get to you. 

It was a strange thing, to be loved just enough to get a burial. In the end, it was lonely.

And so stupid. 

And at times, you felt that way, too. But all it took was one visit to where Geto’s grave was, a few long hours sat by his side, and you knew you couldn’t let Gojo escape you that easily. Not after everything, not after what he hasn’t told you, yet.

“Just wake up.” you sigh, the defeat bleeding into your every word. You run your thumb over the pronounced knuckles on his hand, calloused and scarred from his fight. “There’s so much to hear about. Higuruma’s alive, Nobara’s alive, pulling off that eyepatch. Like father, like daughter, huh? And Megumi- I saw Megumi laugh today. Yuji, too.”

Silence. Only stone-cold silence. He didn’t even move - not even the barest twitch of a finger.

“I just need you to wake up.” Your words are tumbling out a mile a minute, distantly, you wonder whether this was how Gojo felt when he first met you. How he couldn’t stop talking. Couldn’t stop wanting. “Shoko’s mad at you, y’know? But I know she misses you, no matter how much she pretends not to. I know that Jujutsu Tech can’t go any longer without Yaga, we- I need you. Didn’t even get to tell you-” 

It’s all croaked out into a deafening silence, at least if you were in the hospital room then maybe the pinging of the heart monitor might’ve accompanied you. But they’d pulled him off that, too. 

Unmistakable. 

“And I know that I…” You bury your face into the now-damp blankets, “I love you.”

“And I love you.”

There’s only the split-second you take to snap your head up before lips are crashing onto yours - plump, slightly-chapped but something so sweetly Satoru. Before you can even think about kissing back, however, he’s pulling away. 

Only to press hasty, chaste pecks again. And again. And again and again and-

Gojo kisses your wet eyelids, “I love you.” Your forehead, your cheeks, the corners of your lips. “I love you I love you I love you- and you beat me to it.” Those strained little words strike your very core - because it’s unmistakably Gojo. Sounding anything but, they’re broken and wrenching painfully out of his wracking chest. “So I just- I just had to-” Big, strong arms wrap around your middle - when did they even get there? It pangs somewhere in your hazy mind that you’re basically hoisted up on Gojo’s bed now, “-to do exactly what I’ve been wanting to since we were like this, thirteen years ago. Everything I’ve ever hoped for.”

“Everything?” you whisper.

“Everything. Even the strongest has dreams, y’know?” And he flashes you that smile you’ve missed so much, one you don’t think you’ve quite seen in years. “Even something stupid like ‘I love you.’”

That makes you cautiously glide over your palms onto the planes of his muscled chest, lightly pushing away to take in all of him. 

It was him. Alive. 

Really alive.

“Gojo…” you whimper, tears welling up behind your eyelids all over again.

“Ouch. Really?”

“Satoru.”

“Hmmm…”

“Toru.”

“That’s more like it.” The circled warmth around your waist crashes you even closer onto every ridge and divot of his hard chest, into the sweetest embrace - the kind you really couldn’t be mad about after your best friend had almost left you forever. “Told ya I’d come back, sweetheart.”

You could practically hear the sunshiney smile in his words, and his entire hulking body shook with emotion. 

“You’re back.” you breathe, dancing your arms upwards to wrap around his neck. “You’re here.” It takes only a second longer of being in his burning proximity, to catch that pearly white smile - tired, and infinitely harder than before - to have some semblance of rationality dipping into your mind. “-and- and we have to tell everyone!” you’re yelping. Moving to scramble off of his lap, “Oh- fuck, and they thought I was crazy. We have to- have to have Shoko give you a check-up and have Kusakabe finally ditch those funeral plans and-” 

You’re being shut up by Gojo’s lips on yours again, slow and sensual. It’s deeper this time, and he’s taking the time to part those candied lips of yours, sucking gently on the very tip of your hot tongue. 

“My funeral is the last thing I wanna think about right now.” he chuckles against your lips.

“But-”

“Tomorrow.” Gojo soothes, craning his weary neck to kiss your forehead. “We can do all that tomorrow. But right now, I just want to spend time with the love of my life.” His cerulean eyes just gleam with unshed tears and even more unspoken words, “Doesn’t have to be forever. Just right now.”

As promised, he’s petting up and down your body lazily. Kissing you until even smiling felt bruised and raw. But it’s only when the air grows thick, when the slight jostle of your body on top of his becomes hot, his own skin burning soon after that Gojo lets out a sullen hiss. 

“Toru-” you pull away panickedly, delicate strings of saliva snapping in the nonexistent air between you two. “We should really-”

“No- no no no no. Please wait-” Hastily, he’s bringing down a jittery hand to his hip, the buzz of reversed curse technique flowing through his thrumming veins. Meeting your uncertain gaze, “I’ve waited so long. Wontcha just let me worship you right now?”

As if to prove his point, he’s bucking upwards ever-so-slightly. The momentum teetering you precariously on his lap, dragging the heated core between your legs down in such a sloppy drag.

You’re gasping when the very outer edges of your panties rub up against something so hard, and rotund. Feeling the wet squelch of his angry tip gush out in a dripping wet wave at the friction. “A-are you sure?” you’re stammering, trying to hold back the way your greedy thighs were trying to rub together. Only achieving heavy, languid gyrations on top of the rock-hard outline of Gojo’s cock. “How about tomorrow? When you’re feeling better?”

It’s a slow, steady rhythm. There’s a ringing schwf! schwf! schwf! of sopping wet fabric, and it was driving him crazy. 

“Right now please- haaa-” Gojo’s tongue lolls out so sluttily to graze against your own, dazed blue irises rolling to the back of his head. His spine curves upwards, abs rippling with a harsh drag of your clothed pussy down his weepy shaft. “Whenever you’d have me.”

Almost tentatively, your hips roll forward. That flimsy excuse of your panties bunching up with each grazing rub, it’s all you can do to not just keen at the utterly delicious curve of his thick girth. Throbbing and twitchy under each of your motions. 

He’s hissing when your underwear snags on the very divot at his thick head, sitting up on two elbows, “S-sweetheart.”

“No, Toru.” your palms are back on his pecs, easily pinning the strongest down with a gentle push of your own. “Jus’ let me do all the work, m’kay?”

Gojo wasn’t all too happy - and the sullen pout jutting on his spit-glossed lips told you more than enough. But he wasn’t going down without a fight - that was for sure. 

“F-fine.” he grunts at a particularly harsh grind of your hips. Fuck, he felt like some animal, humping up into you like he was out of control. He could practically feel your puffed-up pussy lips through his pants, he could almost taste it. Two rough hands come to rest on your hips, grabbing and kneading a handful of your ass. “But then you’re not just hah- sitting there, pretty.” 

And, shit, even like this, you should’ve known better than to underestimate Gojo Satoru himself. Because whatever he wanted, he got. The one thing he didn’t was you - and now, since he had you, too, fuck- he might just be going insane. 

Not a moment’s wasted before you’re being so easily hauled up, up, up the entire expanse of Gojo’s body. Jittery body being balanced easily as if you were some type of toy, up from the slender curve of his toned hips, up around where his broad deltoids were spread, all the way until your cunt was hovering over his needy mouth. “Can’t believe I hngh- almost died without havin’ a taste of this pretty pussy.”

“Toru.”

“Sweetheart.” he mocks.

You shiver with each feverish puff of hot breath blown right onto your clothed cunt. And even more so when you’re feeling such a long, slender finger slide in through the translucent fabric. 

Fuck, Gojo swallows thickly, bunching up your skirt. You were so sopping wet he could almost see the outline of his index through your panties. He slides the back of it slowly up and down. Heavy balls squeezing painfully at the volume of your saturated slick collecting on his digit, just trailing glossily down to his deft wrist. 

Mesmerized, your jaw falls slack at the sight down below of Gojo - cloudy hair mussed, cheeks all pink and burning a blushing rouge, tongue darting out to catch each stray drop of your sweet sweet juices. Drip! Drip! Drip! 

“Oh- sh-shiiit-” he rasps, lowly, mulling over your honeyed taste. Sounding so awed, breath hitching when Gojo tugs your panties just enough to the side to catch a mere glimpse of your messy cunt. Glistening and winking down lewdly at him. “S’jus’ you n’ me right now, huh?”

You don’t know who exactly he’s talking to - and you don’t get to find out, because that’s all it takes for Gojo’s kiss-bitten lips to clash messily against your cunt - panties and all. 

A soft swipe of his tongue glides the fabric to the side, so depraved, so needy that for that split-second he’s tasting you, he can’t even think of removing it. One taste of your sweetened pussy and he can’t even bear the thought of breaking apart, licking up in long, languid stripes that wet the very front of your swollen folds. 

Just the taste of you had him palming desperately at the tent in his pants, rubbing up and down at a pace that matched his rummaging tongue.

The very edge of your tastebuds rub so deliciously in teasing circles around the corners of your dripping silt, your inner thighs. 

“S-s’toru-” you’re letting out such throaty, dragged-out groans that send every drop of blood in Gojo’s body thumping to his achy cock. “Don’t be such a- a tease.”

You’re locking your glassy eyes with him and he feels like he could pass out. Groaning and smacking into your cunt, “Tell me- fuck fuck fuck- tell me what you want, sweetheart. Anything.” Your entire body arches into his hot mouth like such a slut, when he bullies between your folds. Barely flicking against the sensitive nub of your clit. “Everything. Anything for you.”  

When you’re weaving your fingers deliriously through his silky soft strands, he babbles, “Oh fuck- yeah, pull on my hair.” One of his hands come down to grip onto your panties, pulling the fabric so that you revel in the filthy friction. “Use me while you ride m’face, okay?”

With that, his mouth is sagging open even further letting your thighs straddle the entirety of his face so easily. So close. So messy how he was carding his tongue from the very base of your pussy, up into your quivering entrance.

“Fuck–” you’re whining, grinding into his touch when he wraps his soft lips around your clit. Barely even easing you with syrupy, wet circles of his heated tongue before sucking. Harsh. Depraved. But so, so him. “Don’- don’ stop, feels too good–!”

You didn’t know if he heard you, fuck you didn’t even know if Gojo was even breathing. 

Even if he wanted to stop - he didn’t think he could. Because he was so ravenous between your legs, forcing your pliant body into such smooth gyrations on his tongue. Silken, soft, such sultry licks of his tongue on your clit. 

Electricity sparks behind your eyes when with a wet slurp! he smacks away from your pretty pussy, “You think- you think I can stop?” And he sounds so genuinely in disbelief, as if the very thought of it was appalling. Through heavy, lingering kisses and sucks onto your clit, Gojo’s managing to get out, “I can’t have enough. Fuck- please.” The very rounded pads of his fingers dig so bruisingly into the flesh of your ass, jiggling and kneading with every drag of your hips. He’s begging at this point, “Fuck yourself on my face. Rougher, faster, c’mon now. You can do it, my sweetheart.” 

He was so fucking desperate, big fat tears almost welling in his eyes while he whined underneath you. Groping so obscenely at his sweltering hot erection. How could you not listen?

“If you say so.”

Using the vice-like grip on his locks, you’re managing to leverage your motions even deeper. Rougher, like he’d wanted. Every protesting creak of the bedpost was accompanied by a synchronized whimpering of ah! ah! ah! coming from both your mouths. 

“S’it good?” he gasps, and all you could see was the flushed upper half of his features. And the lower half - fuck, though the peaks and cracks you could make out just how glisteningly wet it was with all of your messy cunt. His lips were just drenched, slick-soaked mouth making out harshly with your pussy through your panties. Trailing all the way down in a glossy sheen over the lower half of his face, dripping off his chin, fuck- up to his cheekbones- 

As if that wasn’t enough, the massive palm resting at your thigh comes dancing down to tease around your sopping wet entrance. 

If you were in the right state of mind, you could’ve sworn that you heard a sharp rip! coming from that poor tattered fabric of your underwear right then and there. 

“Tell me- fuck fuck fuck- use that pretty voice of yours please.” Still suckling lewdly on your clit, his cheeks hollow out . Entire body just jolting upwards, forcing you to press down harder with your motions. “Use me. Use me.”

“S-so–” you mewl when his slender fingers bully easily past that first ring of muscle. So many cold inches of his digits, feeling around determinedly inside your heated, gummy walls for those sweet spots that will make you whine. “So loud, Toru-” you’re spitting, meshing his mouth even harder with yours down below. And you can practically feel him smirk against your cunt. “For someone that wants this s-so hngh! bad you sure are-”

There.

Right there.

Gojo Satoru had just crashed into the spongy cavern of your g-spot - easily, at that. And there was such a crazed, sloppy sting to each of his movements. Smashing in over and over-

“Heh…tha’s how I l-like it.” he’s spying up at your trembly thighs, the way his overworked lips were being coated with a fresh wave of our honeyed slick with each passing second. “Good girl- gooood fuckin’ girl–” 

Hazily, you’re wondering whether it doesn’t hurt. Whether his weepy cock ached just as badly as it looked, how his tongue isn’t fucking cramping up by now. 

But he goes on - like he couldn’t stop, like he was out of control. A greedy little push and pull, dragging his tongue all over until you saw flashes of white. Until you could only scream out his name like a mantra. Until you were cumming. 

“Fuck- fuck fuck fuck- Toru!” your slurring out a mile a minute. Both of your hands now steadfast on his head, riding out your high all over Gojo’s pretty, pretty face. And he let you - fuck, he let you. “M’cumming- shit, feel so good. M’cumming-”

So good, so filthy that it made your toes curl, your hips stutter sloppily. Arching like such a slut, you could barely even see properly. Your breath was coming out in such labored heaves at this point, and Gojo wasn’t any better. 

It was like he couldn’t stop, happily drinking up every single, sticky drop your cunt had to offer. Pussydrunken eyes drooping shut, unable to let out anything but satisfied grunts. The muscle of his tongue is just frenzied in eager slips and slides along your cunt - absolutely no rhythm or method right now. Sucking, licking, biting anywhere he could possibly reach. 

“F-fuck–” you’re crying out tearily once the very peak of your orgasm fades, and all that’s left are a few overstimulated tingles being wrenched out by a greedy Gojo. “Toru, m’done.” You tug desperately on his hair - but even that doesn’t bate him the slightest bit. “S’getting too much- fuck-”

“Awww, too much for my girl?” he’s cooing, the words jumbling together in his drunken state. There’s a glossy mess of spit and slick drooling down the corners of his smirk. “Does this cute cunt of yours need a break?”

At your barely-lucid nod, it only grows wider. Smugger. “Too bad-” And Gojo’s just taunting you with a final, long lick up the very core of your pussy, “Because if I almost hah- died without her once, then you best believe m’gonna c-crawl back from death for ya each and every single time.”

It takes his strong arms - even bruised and battered through battle - only two whole seconds to plop you back down prettily onto his lap. Right over where his angry cock was just weeping for attention. And suddenly, it hurts without you. “So you’re not getting a break anytime soon. Maybe tomorrow.”

“Ha ha.” You’re rolling your eyes, “Very funny.”

“Mhm.” Gojo looks up at you through his white lashes, and you can only watch when he brings up his syrupy-sweet, glossy fingers up to his mouth. One by one. Sucking. Slowly, looking right into your eyes. It makes your mouth just salivate. “Got that right.”

The sheets billow behind you when you’re fumbling deftly with his shirt, all but ripping - tearing that stupid thing off of his form. Your skirt and top are soon to follow - his jaw clenches with the slight strain, leaving it in poor tatters on the floor.

“Shit- shit you’ve been-” his mouth just waters when your tits are released from your bra. Jiggling tantalizingly in his face in a way that makes him bury into it. “-been holding out on me.”

“Oh-” you let out, traitorously, at the first sight of each curve and divot along his milky sculpted body. Gojo Satoru was serious about dressing up like Toji, and no matter how much his t-shirt looked so sinfully painted on - actually seeing it was something else. “You’re so pretty, Toru.” You smooth your palms down his large shoulders, the faint scars between his pecs, his abs - that scar. Stark and large, Shoko had done her best work, but it still looked so painful. It must feel so, too, being sewn back together like some ragdoll. He catches the way your expression dampers - of course, he does. “Toru…”

Gojo winces when your fingers glide over that jagged scar. But if that was pain, then it was absolutely nothing compared to the pure, unadulterated fear when you abruptly pull your hands away. 

“S-sorry- I didn’t mean to-”

“No!” he cuts you off, wrapping his long fingers around your wrist. All but dragging it - right along with you - to his still-healing body. “Touch me. Hurts more when you don’t.”

You’re batting your lashes up at him in a way that makes his heart stutter, and his poor, angry cock twitch. “Hurts me when you lie.”

“M’not lying, see?” With a low nod of his head, he’s gesturing you to look down - where it was unmissable. 

Because straddled right in-between your pussy lips was Gojo’s erect cock - proud and so prominent, even through his pants. With the sheer girth bulging upwards you could feel your greedy pussy dampen over the cloth in anticipation. 

“Well…” He’s throwing his head back when you knead your palm over the very end of his print, “I can’t quite see-”

Gojo takes the hint - and you have to bite your lip from teasing that it was quite possibly the only hint you’d thrown his way that he’d actually understood. But it was so hard to - not when he was this eager. 

And, on those long, lonely nights, you’d imagined that your best friend would be suave, infinitely collected with things like this. 

But, no, he was fumbling and jittery with his movements. So needy to please you that it takes you to help him pull down his tight, sticky boxers over the curving muscle of his thighs. 

“O-oh fuck–” you breathe out, when he finally springs out. Sweeping up and down each and every long, thick inch of him - Gojo was as hard as if he was carved out of fucking diamond. Such a furious, rosy red at his leaky tip, glistening down, down, down into the most mouth-watering shade of creamy pink at his thick hilt. He was so big. Your thighs squeeze together in sultry need - with a slight tinge of fear. So unfairly pretty - even like this. “You’re- you’re so much bigger than I’d imagined, Toru.” 

No sooner are the words out of your mouth that you’re being flashed with his dark smirk once more, “You imagined this?” There’s a slight reverence to his voice, scared. 

It almost makes you shy - and Gojo can practically sense the waves of embarrassment rolling off of you. 

“Awww, come back to me, please, pretty- Please-” he purrs, cupping your cheeks. “I came hah- back, didn’t I?” You’re being jostled to and fro when he rests himself more comfortably on the bed, leaning back to admire you further. “And now-” Your breath hitches in your throat when he situates himself right in-between your thighs, the fat curve of his head so swelteringly kissing your folds. Drenching it in his thick precum, “-now m’never gonna let ya go.” 

Fuck, you know you should heave in a few gasps of hair, you know you should relax, maybe even stretch your legs wide open.

Because Gojo was so fucking big, it felt like he was splitting you from the inside out. Just the slight push of his tip bullying between your folds has you moaning - crying.  

“You- you’re so big-” Your nails dig into the plush of his pecs for stability, leaving neat crescent patterns that stand out redly. “S’like you’re reaching into my hngh- l-lungs-”

Just those words have him expanding even deeper, ruddying even more furiously. Gojo gets so much bigger that you just can’t help but sink yourself down his shaft, feeling your elastic walls contort so easily around his length. 

“H-heh– ohhh-” he breathes out - baritone voice lilting a few pitches higher than usual. The hands around your waist grab you even harsher, feeding you each inch by fucking inch of his fat, pulsing cock. “You got me- so–” His hips thrust upwards in mindless little jabs, “-fucked up, right now, sweetheart.”

And while all you can do is whine and moan around his unforgiving cock, Gojo babbles on, “B-better get ready ngh- because I’m gonna be riiiight-” His thick index draws and invisible line up, up, up to somewhere midway up your stomach. Before pressing down. Brandingly. “-here.”

The pressure is enough to have your hips just slamming down with a wet smack! all the way to his hilt. The slap of skin-on-skin rings through the heady air and into both your drunken brains, making him just throw his head back into the plush pillows. 

“Yes-” you’re keening, your fingers wrapping subconsciously around Gojo’s pretty throat to have him facing you once more. He was so gorgeous this way - blue eyes falling shut with pleasure, mouth bitten raw and parted into a soft oh! pale muscles twitching with each breath. So fucked-out already that it almost made you think the sight alone could have you cumming. “Look at me, Toru- hah- gonna make up for lost time, right? Gonna fuck me good?”

His answering nods are more than enough, but Gojo doesn’t just stop there - no, he’s putting in every bit of last strength he has to just hammer into you upwards. Meeting every one of your relentless bounces down on him, he just clashes into your ravaged g-spot.

“Oh yeah, my girl.” he spits, a twinkling trail of drool dripping down the side of his lips. Crushing you so tight to his hardened front, “Ride me- ride me jus’ like that. Fuck- thought I saw heaven on the battlefield but it might jus’ be this pussy-” Over and over.

The back of your hand ends up on his forehead, “I think you’ve got a concussion.” It was in every little touch - that “something stupid.”  

At your surprised giggles, he’s rummaging your insides even more ferociously. Smushing the very end of his thick head against your spongy cervix. It was so soft, so swelteringly hot having him inside you. Clashing in long, wet glides against every inch of your pussy. 

The stretch was dizzying - and if it hadn’t been for Gojo’s lips attacking yours, then you’d have let your head loll backwards. It’s like he was marking you from the inside out, bruising the plushy insides of your cunt to every ridge and thumping vein down his possessive cock. 

“Spit on me.” 

His sudden plea puffs out of his plump lips, startling you out of your cockdrunk little reverie. “Spit on me, please, pretty. Mmpf-”

Gojo whimpers - whimpers - when the thick wad of your saliva hits his pink tongue, and the action has him delving into you impossibly deeper. Planting two feet onto the mattress, he angles his hips into your tight channel even harsher. Grimacing at the slight twinge of pain, “Shit-”

“Toru–”

“Wait wait- please- let me-” Expectedly, he’s cutting you off frantically. Begging, pleading with everything he had before activating reversed curse technique more. “Wanna fuck this gorgeous cunt so bad- fuck fuck fuck-”

But you’re only grinding your hips down faster - all the way from the pretty pink tip of his cock, until your ass massages against his tight, cum-filled balls. Thwacking! against your skin deliciously, pushing you up to scratch your clit against his snowy pubes. 

A few more unapologetic kisses up against your sweet spots have you blinking back stars, “Toru–” Your swiveling motions have him so hypnotized, following every move where his massive cock was disappearing in and out of your snug hole. “Kiss me-”

Oh, you didn’t even have to ask.

It’s such a sloppy kiss - all teeth and lips and Gojo grunting gutturally into your mouth. Letting you just use him like your favorite toy, fucking him until the bed creaked with effort and Gojo’s balls just smacked! angrily.

“Oh, sweetheart,” he whispers. Drinking in your saccharine sweet gasps when he dips down one of his hands to your puffy clit, rolling the soft edge of his thumb in slow, methodical circles. “You’re gonna be the ah- d-death of me.”

Your hand around his throat tightens, making his eyes just roll back in ecstacy. “Better not die on me just y-yet, Toru. Not now, not tomorrow.”

For this, you’re being gifted with such a tight squeeze of his two fingers around your sensitive nub. Wracking your body forwards - exactly where he wanted you, exactly where he needed you to smash his sobbing tip into your g-spot. 

The stimulation is too much, and each of your pressurized slams down onto the sharp bones on Gojo’s v-line have him moaning. Bucking up helplessly whenever your heavenly walls drag sloppily up his shaft, like it hurt to not have each and every one of his heated inches buried inside. 

“Well- then-” You’re riding him now just as much as he was fucking up into you, leaving a damp puddle of slick and dredges of precum on the sheets below. Gojo’s punctuating each word with a harsh battering ram, “Better- cum f’me soon, huh? Because m’not gonna- fuck-” His nagging tip jolts into your sweet spots as if being zapped with white-hot electricity, in such a sloppy staccato with his feverish fingers. “-fuck I don’t think m’gonna last long.”

You’re nodding your head, clinging onto him like a second skin. “Mhm- m’so close, Toru.” Biting down wetly on his lower lip, “-gonna cum soon.”

Just the thought of it has him keening, stuttering up so messily. His precum coats your insides even more slippery slick, so heated in a way he thinks he might just explode. 

“I know, I know, sweetheart–” he’s simpering down in your tone, though his hips were anything but. Letting out some of the lewdest slurps that made your ears ring. “I got you. I got you, cum all over my cock, yeah?”

It only takes a few more mess strokes from both of your sweat-sheened bodies before you finally reach your high. Electricity thrums down your veins, your body arches so deeply into his. Bending into the perfect bow that has him spying down at your quivering folds, the way your gushing cunt expands and contracts through each and every one of your waves of pleasure. 

And he’s fucking you through it so filthy, fingers toying so erratically on your clit. Still reeling, still smashing the very divot of his cock into your bruised g-spot. Again and again.

“Ohh- fuuuck—” Gojo whines, eyes scrunching shut. Strained. Depraved. “Fuck fuck fuck me- please, please m’gonna-”

He doesn’t even get to finish his sentence before he’s stuffing your snug pussy full with ribbon after ribbon of thick, velvety cum. Potent seed coating your gummy walls in such a milky sweet gloss, the squelches from below are so loud. So soppingly wet. 

The hand at your waist moves down to where your poor cunt was just bulging with all inches of his spazzing cock. Gojo’s thumbing apart the corners of your slit just enough that his swelteringly hot cum oozes out of you in a slow trail. Sinful. 

“Oh my god-” he breathes, eyes unwavering. Hips thrusting upwards to push his cum up into you even deeper. It glistens opaquely down his length, forming a creamy ring at his thick base. “Oh my god love you- fuck!”

“Toru- m’so full-” you whine. A hand of yours coming up to press exactly where he had before, except now you could feel the nudging pace of his ruthless cock, the sloshing of Gojo’s seed all up inside you. “-really can feel you right here.”

“Tha’s the point, girl - my girl, should I say.” he’s pressing such a chaste kiss to your lips. And it would be swee - almost - if it wasn’t for the way Gojo’s greedy fingers soak themselves in the obscene mess from your cunt down below. Bringing them all the way up, up, up to his mouth. Suckling gently, “But…but you wanna hear something stupid?”

Your eyes widen, “Wh-what?”

And he only grins,  “I hope you know I love you, sweetheart. Because you sure as hell aren’t walking tomorrow.”

A/N. Can y’all tell I’ve been widowed not too long ago? Anyways, last post before kínktober! I tried posting this on Sunday but it refused to work so pray for me this time y’all *SOBS* <3

The gifts began three months ago, after he overheard her humming a particular melody in the rose garden. He'd been lurking behind the conservatory windows, a habit he's developed because direct proximity to her makes his tongue thicken and his thoughts scatter. The tune was French, something about swallows and spring. By evening, he'd dispatched his man Gideon to acquire the sheet music from London. 

When it appeared on her vanity, she left it untouched for two days before having it returned via a trembling maid with a note that read: Unnecessary, but thank you for your consideration, Your Grace.

It sits in his wardrobe now, atop a growing pile of similar failures.

Caleb learns her desires the way a desperate man hunts for water in a desert—by watching, listening, piecing together fragments. He notices the way her fingers trail over the spines of botanical texts in the library. He hears her ask Cook if the kitchens might obtain Turkish delight, just once, as she remembers it from childhood. He sees the ink stains on her left hand and deduces she favours a particular brand of nib that the London shops rarely stock. 

Each discovery becomes a mission. Each mission ends in rejection.

Last week, it was the jasmine tea. The week before, a shawl in precisely the shade of blue she wore to the Yuletide ball. Before that, a first printing of that poetry she likes, which he'd spent two months hunting down through three separate dealers. 

All returned. All pristine. All breaking something in him he didn't know could break further.

Caleb stands before his dressing mirror and allows his valet to knot his cravat while his mind fixates on the faint scent of her soap that still lingers in the corridor outside her chambers. It's lavender and something else—sage, perhaps. He caught it yesterday when he walked past, deliberately slow, hoping for a glimpse. The door remained shut. He'd pressed his palm flat against the wood like a besotted schoolboy, then fled when footsteps approached.

The dining hall is cavernous at breakfast. His sister, Lady Simone, sometimes joins him, though she's learned not to mention his wife's absence. Today she tries anyway, buttering toast with too much care. "You could simply knock on her door, you know."

"I am not twelve," Caleb snaps, and Simone's mouth tightens into a line that says, 'exactly, you are a grown man behaving like a ghost.'

She changes the subject to the royal council's latest nonsense about railway taxes. Caleb nods, but his eyes keep drifting to the empty chair at the head of the table, where his duchess should sit.

He remembers the day the betrothal contract arrived. He was twenty-nine, already a veteran of campaigns in the northern territories, and she was not yet born. The Xia family owed the crown a debt and the crown required an alliance. His father signed the papers while Caleb was still bleeding from a wound that would have killed a lesser man. He'd raged, then. Smashed furniture, cursed God, swore he'd never touch a child-bride forced upon him. But the girl grew into a woman while he was away at war, and by the time he returned to Skyhaven for good, she was nineteen and he was in his late forties, and something in him shifted without permission.

It was her laugh that did it. Not at him—never at him. 

She was laughing with a groom in the stables, something about a lame horse, and the sound was so pure it had stopped him mid-stride. He'd stood in the shadows and felt his entire world tilt on its axis. That night, he'd tried to speak to her at dinner. What came out was, "you seem fond of the stables, perhaps you should sleep there." He'd meant it as a jest. She'd taken it as condemnation and stopped eating at the main table shortly after.

Another time, he'd seen her sketching in the solarium—delicate watercolours of hawks in flight. He'd stood behind her chair, his shadow falling across her paper, and said, "Your brushwork lacks confidence." He'd wanted to offer to teach her. She'd heard only criticism and never painted in that room again. 

Each attempt to bridge the chasm only widens it. Each word that emerges from his mouth is a shard of glass, and he watches her bleed and hates himself and hates her for making him want so desperately.

The staff see it. They watch him prowl the halls after midnight, pausing outside her door. They watch her face at windows, staring out at the moors. They know the marriage remains unconsummated. They've removed the connecting door between their chambers at her request—she'd claimed it was a draught—and Caleb had agreed because the thought of having that temptation so close, of hearing her breathe while he lay alone, made his hands shake.

Today, he finds her in the morning room, curled in the window seat with a book. 

She wears grey muslin, something modest and simple, and her hair is pinned haphazardly. The late autumn light catches the curve of her cheek. Caleb hovers in the doorway, his hand gripping the jamb, and wills himself to turn around. Instead, his feet carry him forward.

She hears his boots on the parquet and stiffens. The book snaps shut. Her eyes, those devastating eyes, fix on the windowpane.

"You have no need to keep sending me gifts," she starts, and her voice is so small, so tired. She looks anywhere but at him, and Caleb feels the familiar ache of knowing he makes her uncomfortable. "The estate is under your command, no one will say a word if you stop playing your role. I know—I know that you do not really want this, and that is fine for me. I shall keep to my room and my duties, you do not have to do anything, you will not even see me at all. Y-You can even bring a mistress if you wish, I would not mind—"

"Enough." The word emerges more scathing than intended, steeped in incredulity and a hurt he's been nursing for months. The gifts are piling up in his wardrobe, a museum of his own inadequacy. "This estate is a reflection of our covenant. I will not tarnish it with another. It will do you well to be heedful of the same sentiment."

She shrinks, actually flinches as if she's been struck, and her eyes immediately fill with tears. 

Damn her for being so soft, so delicate, so utterly incapable of understanding that his cruelty is just love turned inside-out. "I would never," she whispers, and Caleb knows she speaks true. "I just wanted you to know … it is not my place, but I grant you permission all the same. I shall not blame you if you do."

The sharpness of his gaze softens, imperceptibly. Probably isn't noticed, what with the way tears cloud her vision. He sways closer, his hand lifting—just a fraction, a phantom of a touch he won't allow. Then he sways back. He whispers her name now, quiet enough to be intimate. "That is not and will never be necessary. I am faithful," to you, his mind screams, "to the promise of our families to one another."

For a moment, something in her expression lifts. Hope, fragile and terrible. Then it crashes down again as his words land wrong, as they always do. 

She deflates, just a bit, before catching herself and nodding. She shuffles backwards, out of reach, and Caleb watches her retreat with his jaw so tight he feels his teeth might crack.

He wants to tell her that the gifts aren't duty. He wants to say he knows she prefers her tea with honey, not sugar, because he saw her refuse the sugar tongs six times. That the rug matches the exact colour of the ribbon she wore the day she arrived at Skyhaven, twenty years old and trembling. That the book on hawks was returned because he'd written an inscription inside the cover—For my duchess, who sees farther than I—and had been too cowardly to sign it with his name, so she'd likely thought it a printer's error.

But the words calcify in his throat.

She dips into a curtsey that is more of an escape than actualdeference. "Your Grace," she murmurs, the title erecting a wall between them, and flees before he can utter another syllable. Caleb stands in the empty morning room, the scent of her lavender soap lingering like an accusation. He closes his eyes and hears the phantom echo of her voice granting him permission to betray her. 

The cruelty of it nearly brings him to his knees.

In his chambers, he unlocks the wardrobe that holds his shame. The sheet music. The shawl. The tea, still fragrant in its tin. The garnet hairpin he thought might suit her complexion. A dozen other tokens, each chosen with a care he cannot articulate. 

Caleb sinks into his desk chair, pulls out a sheet of crested stationery, and begins to write. My dearest wife, he starts, then crosses it out. He tries with just her name, but that feels too bold. 

So, he settles on with no salutation at all. 

The roses you admired in July have bloomed again, though they are past their season. I thought you might like to see them. I am told you have been unwell. If you require anything—

He stops abruptly and crumples the paper, throwing it into the fire. It curls into ash, another unsent confession. 

Gideon knocks, enters with tea that Caleb doesn't want. "Her Grace's maid mentioned she admired the new piano in the music room, Your Grace."

"She returned the sheet music," Caleb says flatly.

"She cannot read French notation, sir. She said so to the footman. She feared ruining such a fine edition."

Caleb's hand stills on the teacup. A crack appears in the porcelain. He releases it before it shatters entirely. "She said that?"

"In passing, Your Grace. As one does."

The footman. Of course. The footman is eighteen and handsome and laughs at her jokes. Caleb's knuckles whiten. He will not invent danger to remove her from the staff's company. He will not. He is not that far gone.

He is lying to himself.

That evening, he takes dinner alone again. Simone is in London, and the long table feels like a sarcophagus. He pushes roasted quail around his plate and thinks of her eating soup in her rooms, perhaps reading, perhaps thinking of him with the same misery that consumes him. The thought that she might not think of him at all is worse.

Caleb pours himself brandy he doesn't need and walks the parapets of Skyhaven Estate. The wind is vicious tonight, whipping his coat. From here, he can see her window, a faint square of golden light. He watches it for an hour, two, until it goes dark. Then he returns to his study, pulls out another sheet of paper, and writes without thinking: 

I do not hate you. I have never hated you. I hate only myself for wanting you when you were meant for a better man.

Then he locks it in his desk, where it will join the other two hundred and forty-seven letters he has written and never sent. The gifts will keep coming. The silence will stretch. And he will remain, as always, the ghost in his own marriage, haunting a woman who thinks he despises her while he drowns in a love he cannot name.

Mrs. Josephine's mop has left the floor slippery enough to skate on if you’re brave and wearing stockings instead of shoes, which Tara, eight, made leader by the pleasure of being the eldest, definitely is. Right behind her are the twins: little Patrick and Timothy, six, identical except for the way Timothy’s ears stick out like jug handles and Patrick has front teeth still coming in crooked. 

All three wear oversized aprons turned into sacks by knotting the strings.

“She said clean, not die o’ boredom,” Tara announces, planting her broom like a flagpole outside the forbidden door. “An’ if we finish quick we can take the letters to ’er Grace, like proper post-men.”

“Post-kids,” Timothy corrects, proud of the word.

Patrick pinches his sleeve. “Shh. If 'is Grace comes back an’ catches us gossipin’, he’ll turn us to statues.”

“He only does that to soldiers,” Tara scoffs, though she lowers her voice to a theatrical whisper. “An’ he ain’t even 'ere. Gone at dawn, horse all smoke—Mrs. Josephine said things are urgent f'the port ships.” She pauses for effect, then pushes the heavy oak with both palms. It swings inward on well-oiled hinges, revealing the study like a cave of dark treasure.

The children creep inside.

Sunlight slants dustily through tall windows, catching on silver inkwells, brass dividers, and the great scarred desk that looks—at least to the eyes of children—big enough to land a massive bird. Books climb the walls like ivy; maps curl on stands; the air tastes of smoke and something metallic, maybe blood, maybe secrets. 

Timothy’s nearly jumps in place with excitement.

“Look'it—papers everywhere.” He points to a drift of cream-coloured sheets escaping the half-locked drawer Mrs. Josephine meant them to polish around, not rummage through. “Might be treasure maps.”

“Might be ration lists,” Patrick counters, ever practical.

But Tara, who can read whole pages now thanks to evening lessons with Her Grace, tilts her head. “Letters,” she breathes. “To … ‘My dearest—’ oh.” A blush floods her cheeks hotter than the coals. “It’s love, innit? Like in the fairy-books 'er Grace reads.”

All three bunch closer, mouths forming perfect ‘O’s. The topmost letter lies open, ink still wet in places where a man’s hand pressed too hard. Words sparkle up at them: longing, apology, roses blooming out of season, a promise never to hate.

Timothy traces a line with a grubby finger. “He calls ’er dove. Birds’re s’posed t'be free. That’s romantic.”

“Romantic means kissing,” Patrick informs him, disgusted. “Yuck.”

Tara chews her lip, torn between rules and wonder. “We oughta leave ’em… but ’er Grace oughta know, right? She’s sad of evenings; I seen her starin’ out the window like she’s waitin’ for sumthin'. Maybe she’s been waitin’ for these.”

A breeze rattles the panes, as if the house itself urges haste.

“Bundle,” she commands. The twins obey, scooping every sheet—folded, unfolded, half-scribbled—into their apron-pouches. Paper rustles like startled doves. Ink smudges across Timothy’s thumb; he wipes it on his britches, leaving a black comma.

Drawer shut, dust swiped with sleeve, they back out, pulling the door until the latch clicks soft as secrecy.

Halfway down the servants’ stair, voices float up—Mr. Gideon and Mrs. Josephine ascending for inspection. Panicked, Tara flaps her arms. The three scurry into the linen alcove, pressing against shelves of lavender-scented sheets. 

Footsteps pass, and a held breath later, they erupt giggling, muffling mouths with tiny fists.

“Mission,” Tara declares, eyes bright as candle nubs. “We get these to ’er Grace 'fore tea, else the Duke’s temper’ll roast us.”

They tear through hidden passages only children of servants know—behind the faded tapestry of the sea battle, across the lumber room that smells of mothballs, popping out two floors above in the pastel hush of the ducal east wing. 

Her Grace's door stands ajar; humming trickles through, thin and wistful. The children exchange nods, creep inside. She sits at her desk, quill suspended, staring at nothing. Her eyes tell tales of recent tears; soft hair tumbles unadorned. She does not immediately notice the small invasion.

Patrick, bravest in small bursts, tiptoes forward and lays the first letter atop the blotter like an offering. “Fer you, milady. Found in the big scary room.”

She blinks, focus sharpening. Three moppets cluster, aprons bulging paper, faces lit with expectancy and a hint of terror. She picks up the sheet, recognises the crested watermark, the slanted hand that could belong to no other. 

And her breath snags, caught.

“Oh … oh, children, these are—” Words fail; her red-rimmed eyes fill anew, but it seems different now.

“We cleaned,” Tara volunteers quickly. “Din’t read much, only enough t'know they’re proper important. An’ we brought ’em all, every one, like royal couriers.” She hefts her apron, and a snowstorm of stationery spills across the carpet.

Timothy adds, “An’ we shan’t tell no one, cross my heart, hope t'be eaten by mice.”

Her Grace kneels, gathers them close despite the ink smudges. “You wonderful, impossible little loves.” Her laugh wobbles, coming out almost as a sob. “Yes, royal couriers indeed.”

Patrick peers up, anxious. “D’they say nice things? 'is Grace is thunder most times, but maybe thunder’s got nice lullaby f'you inside?”

She smooths a crumpled edge, glimpses line after line of raw, yearning contrition. 

“They say … everything.” She hugs the pile to chest, feels paper hearts drumming against her own. “And you have given me the world before luncheon.”

The children bask in the glow of a deed bigger than mischief, something approaching heroism. She rises, rings the little silver bell on her table. Moments later, a friendly kitchen maid named Jenna appears, eyes widening at the scene.

“Hot milk with honey for my three adventurers,” She orders. “And almond biscuits. They’ve earned a treat for a job well done.”

The roses you admired in July have defied frost and bloomed again—stubborn things, refusing to bow to reason, much like the thud my heart gives whenever your ribbon disappears round a corner. I clipped one at dawn; its scent is sharp, green, almost angry—rather like me before coffee, or after watching you laugh with the footman whose name I refuse to remember. Sometimes I imagine placing the dried bloom on your breakfast tray, but cowardice folds me smaller than the petal, and so it stays, crumbling a little more each day. 

I stood in the rain until my cuffs dripped onto the stone, wondering if the droplets racing downward were doves made of water you have sent my way, carrying some microscopic fragment of your breath. If they were, I drank them, selfish as a monster, pretending it counted as closeness, pretending the water on my tongue tasted of lavender instead of metal and regret. 

Cook swears you only picked at your plate yesterday; I wanted to march in and scold, but who am I to demand you eat when I subsist entirely on glimpses of you and the echo of my own stupidity? Instead I told her to prepare almond tart—your favourite, though you never admit it, and I lurked behind the screen like a thief, watching you take a single bite, crumbs clinging to your lip like stars. I nearly stepped forward to brush them away, to taste almond and you in the same breath, but the memory of your flinch the last time I spoke too sharply kept my feet in place. 

The seamstress had mentioned you have need of new ribbons; I nearly ordered every bolt of silk from the Capital, imagining your smile if the colours arrived like sunrise delivered to your dressing table without excuse. Instead I selected three shades only, then spent an hour arranging them in a box. 

This morning I watched you teaching the kitchen boys their letters, and I felt ancient, a ruin jealousy that craves to have your name scrawled every inch of my walls. I traced your initial on the inside of my wrist with a fountain pen, told the valet it was nothing more than a stain; he believed me because I pay him to believe lies that keep my pride stitched upright. 

The physician says the ache in my shoulder is ghost-pain, nerves remembering fire that burned years ago; I nodded politely while thinking the real phantom limb is you asleep three corridors away, close enough to haunt, but also too far to hold. He prescribed laudanum; I prescribed myself five minutes outside your door, ear to wood, listening for the hush of your breathing, counting inhalations the way sailors count stars when land has vanished and hope is measured in pinpricks. 

Your gloves lay forgotten on the hall table—pearl-buttoned, smaller than my palm—and I pocketed them like evidence, meaning to return them untouched, meaning to remain honourable, meaning so many things honour laughs at. Instead I pressed them to my face inside the tack room, inhaling until my lungs are filled with you. 

I drafted an announcement today—The Duke and Duchess of Skyhaven shall host the midsummer ball—then tore it to shreds because the thought of you dancing with anyone else turns music into cannonade and every gentleman’s hand into a target I long to shoot off at the wrist. Instead I wrote we are indisposed, though indisposed is Latin for lovesick wreck who cannot trust himself not to drag his duchess behind a screen and kiss her breathless while orchestras pretend not to notice the percussion of heartbeats off tempo. 

Thunder tonight rattles the portraits in their frames; I imagine it is your laugh magnified by heaven, though heaven and I are currently not on speaking terms since it keeps you just beyond the stretch of my arm. 

The tailor measured me for court uniform, and when he asked which lining I preferred I answered whatever shade matches Her Grace’s eyes at twilight, and the poor man stared as if I had requested unicorn hide trimmed with starlight. 

Found your handkerchief tangled in my riding coat—how it migrated remains mystery, unless cloth yearns the way flesh does, unless linen can miss the palm that stitched the monogram with such tidy, stubborn loops. I tucked it inside my glove before patrol, felt the lace scrape my wrist each time reins shifted, a secret caress no broadsword hilt could match, and by the time we returned the scent of horse had overpowered lily but the imprint of your initials persisted. I almost sent it back unwashed, then almost kept it forever, then almost confessed everything to the stable cat who blinked once and turned away, uninterested in human follies that smell of sweat and

Surrender tastes like your name I dare not speak of, and yet I stand on ramparts shouting it to the empty moor until my throat is raw and the echo returns sounding like dove, like love, like

I rehearsed apology number forty-six: I will try to speak softly, to smoothen every syllable, to offer my hands palms-up as trowels ready to dig trenches for your sorrow to drain into so nothing drowns us. But when I saw you in the greenhouse today I forgot the script, tongue thick as old honey, and what emerged was delivered in the tone of a reprimand to a recruit who forgot polish. 

The daisy had died; I kept its skeleton in a book of tactics; I think of it whenever I see you wear white, whenever I forget that some things wilt because they are loved too hard and too

Caleb’s gloves hit the foyer table with a slap of wet leather. The ride from the Farspace headquarters was a hard three hours, wind knifing across the moor, but the chill in his ribs has nothing to do with weather. It is the sudden, sickening vacancy in his study that chills him—an absence he feels the instant he crosses the threshold.

The drawer gapes. Its brass lock hangs askew. Inside, there is nothing. 

Nothing at all.

Every letter, every unsent confession, every raw, humiliating line of longing is gone.

Gone.

For a breath, he simply stares, pulse battering the walls of his throat. Then instinct kicks in, and he yanks the drawer completely out, shakes it like a man trying to conjure coin from an empty purse. A single flake of sealing wax drifts to the carpet—blood-red, damning. Who? The staff are loyal; Mrs. Josephine would flay any prying maid. Yet someone has seen. Someone has read. Someone has taken. 

He storms into the corridor, cloak still dripping, boots leaving black commas on the runner.

Caleb does not knock at her sitting-room's door, he invades.

The panel crashes back against plaster. She is there, perched on the window-seat with his letters fanned across her lap like petals, soft hair cascading over a rose-silk dressing gown. Candlelight halos her, and the sight halts him mid-stride, heart skipping a beat. 

Her eyes lift. They are swollen, but resolute. In her small hands, the paper looks fragile, yet it cuts through him sharper than any sabre. She rises, barefoot, chin high. “You left these for me to find,” she says softly, and there is no accusation in her tone, just a quiet form of certainty that knocks the wind from his lungs.

Caleb’s mouth opens, closes. The defence that usually leaps, fully armed, to his tongue is nowhere. Instead a mortified growl escapes, “those were never meant for your eyes.”

She steps forward, letters rustling. “Then for whose?” Her voice trembles, yet she does not flinch when his huge frame looms. “You write that you hate yourself for wanting me, that you fear I despise you. Caleb, I never—”

“Stop.” He pivots, planting his back to her so she cannot see the tremor in his shoulders. 

The study is across the corridor; its dim light beckons him like a place to hide or die. 

He retreats, but she follows in the silence left in his wake.

Caleb rounds the desk, palms braced on scarred mahogany as though holding it down before it flies apart. She stands on the opposite side. “Talk to me,” she whispers. “Please.”

Words cram inside his throat—violent, suffocating, so he selects the one that will cut the sharpest. “There is nothing to discuss. Return the papers and forget you ever saw them.” He hears the aristocratic sneer, feels it land like a slap across both their faces, and hates himself all the more for it.

Her lashes flutter, but her gaze steadies. “I will not.” She lays the stack on the blotter, squares them with deliberate care. “These are addressed to me. They belong to me. And you owe me the truth you have hidden inside of them.”

Neither of them move. 

He tries condescension. “Duchess, sentiment is beneath you—”

“Do not treat me like a child.” The reprimand snaps from her, quiet but firm. It is, he realises with a jolt, the first time she has ever countermanded him. Something dangerously close to pride flickers beneath his horror.

She circles the desk, and Caleb retreats until the chair blocks him, then drops into it as if chains bind his wrists. She comes close enough that her breath stirs the hair at his temple. “Read one aloud,” she murmurs. “Just one. Let me hear your voice give it life.”

His laugh is made of broken glass. “So you can flay me with confirmation? No.” He shoves to stand; the chair wheels back and topples. The crash startles them both, but she stands her ground. Her tears glitter, yet her tone stays firm. “I read how you pace the corridor outside my door, how you remember every ribbon I wear, how you fear your longing is monstrous. Caleb, it is not monstrous to be loved and want to be loved in return.”

Loved. He reels, knuckles whitening against desk edge. “You cannot love a thing you fear,” he rasps. “And you fear me—my size, my temper, the way I want you.”

“I feared you hated me,” she corrects, stepping between him and the scattered chair. “These letters prove the opposite.”

Silence elongates, thick as wet wool. Then something inside him snaps—a sound almost physical, like mast timber giving way. His eyes, glowing amethyst in storm-shadow, lock on hers.

Abruptly, he moves; his hands seize her waist, to lift and set her atop the desk in one fluid surge. Papers scatter like startled birds. Ink pot trembles. He cages her with arms braced on either side, chest heaving. “The truth?” he growls, voice so low it vibrates through the wood into her spine. “The truth is that I have starved for the taste of you since the day you arrived. The truth is every night I imagine the scent here—” he buries his face against her neck, inhaling roughly “—and it drives me mad.”

She gasps, hands flying to his shoulders, not to push but to anchor. Her thighs, parted by instinct, brush his hips. The contact draws a ragged groan from him.

He lifts his head, eyes feral. “The truth, little duchess, is that if you stay in this room another minute I will take you—here, now, on this desk—papers beneath your back, ink staining your skin, and I will not stop until every vowel of denial is wrung from your throat.” The confession is a snarl, fanged and desperate, yet his hands tremble against the desk as if guilty that he must await his sentencing.

Instead of fear, her breathing syncs with his, quick and shallow. 

Delicate fingers curl into the open collar of his shirt, pulling him infinitesimally closer. “Then take me,” she whispers, boldness shaking but unmistakable. “Consummate this marriage with me, Caleb, and leave no space for ghosts.”

He crushes his mouth to hers, their first kiss since the wedding ceremony, and it is neither gentle nor polite. It is siege and surrender, starvation and feast. He tastes salt tears and honeyed breath and the future exploding open between them. Her lips part on a whimper that becomes his name—not his title, God—and the sound lances straight to his groin. 

Caleb’s palm spans her throat, thumb tilting her chin so he can feast on her all the more deeply, while the other hand grabs ribboned hair, anchoring her. She answers with nails scoring his nape, heels locking at the small of his back, arching into the hard line of him.

When they break for air, foreheads pressed, the room spins. “Mine,” he mutters, voice shredded. “Say it.”

“Yours,” she breathes, and the word is both benediction and brand. 

His mouth crashes back onto hers before the echo of her "yours" can fade, the kiss raw, starved, reverent and ruinous all at once. Sugar and storm, he thinks, tongue sweeping deep to steal the taste of her—honeyed, nervous, impossibly sweet—then breaking only long enough to growl, "You taste like fucking summer, like strawberries split under noon sun—decadent little wife, I could gorge on you for days."

She whimpers into the next kiss, hands fluttering to his shoulders as if she might still contemplate modesty; and he devours that sound, swallowing it whole while palms slide down the porcelain slope of her arms to the neckline of her gown. Silk protests with a hiss—then rends, ribbon ties giving way beneath his impatient tug. 

"Look at you," he breathes, "overflowing my hands already." 

Fingers hook beneath the lace, yanking it down so that plush flesh bounces free, nipples pebbling instantly in the draughty study. 

His cock jerks against her thigh, thick and insistent inside skintight officer's trousers; she feels it and gasps, thighs tightening reflexively around his hips. A tremor of propriety surfaces within her. "T-the door, Caleb; i-it's open—" She glances past his shoulder; through the gap flickers distant lamplight, the possibility of passing footmen.

Caleb nips the frantic pulse beneath her ear, laves the bite with slow, wet apology. "Let it gape," he croons, voice smoked with lust. "Let every last soul hear how the Duchess finally claims her Duke. Let them hear you sing, little dove." 

His palms cup both breasts, thumbs flicking the stiff peaks until she arches, keening low. With reverent roughness he kneads the heavy flesh, mapping every freckle, every shiver. 

"Perfection," he mutters, lowering his head. Hot breath ghosts over one nipple; she sucks a breath, and his mouth closes, wet and deliberate, tongue swirling slow spirals that tighten to a pointed flick. 

A cry bursts from her throat, bitten back too late, echoing off high book-stacks.

He suckles harder, cheeks hollowing, drawing the nub against his teeth with gentle threat while calloused fingers mirror the torture on her neglected side—pinching, rolling, plucking until she writhes atop the ink-stained desk, scattered parchment sticking to perspiring skin. 

Mine to taste, mine to mark. The possessive drumbeat thunders so loudly he fears his ribs will crack.

Switching sides, he laps the under-curve first in broad, flat strokes of tongue that sweep upward as if licking frosting from a bowl, before sealing over the peak and pulling with rhythmic insistence. Every draw sends answering clenches through her core; her hips rock, seeking friction against the hard line of his erection. Breathless little "ah-ah-ah" sounds spill into the quiet, louder than any confession.

Caleb releases her breast with a wet pop, smirks at the glistening nipple, reddened and needy. "Delicious," he growls. "Better than port, better than victory parades. I could sip here until sunrise and still beg for more." 

He nuzzles between her breasts, inhaling skin warmed by his mouth, nudging the soft weight aside to trail stubble-rough kisses along the curve toward her sternum.

Weighted hands glide down, bunching ruined silk until fingertips meet bare thighs above stockings. He hums approval. "Silk ribbons for garters? My wicked little wife—dressing like temptation itself." A finger slides beneath one bow, plucks it free, and the stocking sags, exposing more satin flesh. He follows the reveal with open-mouthed kisses, tongue darting into tender creases where leg meets hip.

Her head lolls, hair spilling across forgotten ledgers. She bites her lip, but a moan escapes when his thumbs sweep higher, teasing at damp lace between her legs. "C-Caleb, someone will—"

"Let them." His palms brace her knees, spreading until cool air kisses swollen folds through soaked fabric. "Let them envy their lord for finally having his wife." He dips, pressing reverent lips to the inside of first one knee, then the other—each kiss inching upward, worshipping the shivers that dance over her skin. At halfway up her thigh, he pauses, nose brushing gusset, inhaling deeply. The scent—musk, heat, sweet cream—hits him like musket fire, and a guttural sound tears free. "Fuck, you are drenched for me. My prim little duchess, you have soaked straight through your pretty drawers." 

Her whimper is all the answer he needs; fingers hook the lace aside, exposing glistening folds that clench under his gaze. Caleb exhales, hot and deliberate, over sensitized flesh; she jerks, knuckles blanched on desk edge. "Hold still," he orders softly, though his own hands tremble. 

One broad lick, from the base of slick entrance to her fluttering clit, coats his tongue in her essence. The taste is pure pleasure; he groans, repeats the motion slower, savouring the salt-sweet taste of perfection.

She cries out, voice ricocheting inside his study and to the hall; somewhere beyond the opened doorway, footsteps come to a halt. Caleb lifts his head just long enough to growl towards the corridor, "keep walking," in the same tone he once used to dismiss mutinous officers. 

The footsteps obey. 

He smirks against her thigh, satisfaction raw and feral.

Returning to indulge, he spears his tongue gently inside her, feeling velvet walls ripple, hear the wet clutch of eager core tightening around the intrusion. His nose nudges her swollen bud; he circles, thrusts, circles again—setting the tempo until her legs lock over his shoulders, heels drumming between his shoulder-blades.

Slick coats his chin, drips to the blotter below. He hums, vibration thrumming through her sensitive nerves. "Good," he praises, voice muffled. "Ride my mouth, sweet girl, take your pleasure like the lady of the house that you are."

Fingers replace tongue—first one, then two—curling upward to stroke that secret spot that makes her sob. His thumb settles over clit, rubbing tight, deliberate circles while his lips fasten around her throbbing entrance, sucking gently so each plunge draws wet, obscene sounds that echo off the book spines.

Release coils fast, and he feels it in the clamp of thighs, the stutter of her breathing. "C-Caleb, I cannot! I-I'm—"

"You can and you will," he snarls, doubling pace, driving deeper, faster, thumb strumming relentlessly. "Finish on my tongue, wife, right here where I sign treaties, let this desk remember you screaming my name."

The command snaps an invisible thread, and her climax slams through her with a crystalline cry fracturing the study air, inner walls convulsing around his thrusting fingers. 

Caleb gentles slowly, just until her tremors subside, her breath sobbing out in soft hiccups.

He rises, wiping glossy mouth with back of hand, eyes molten. Slick streaks his knuckles, and her release perfumes the room—a tang of sea storm and honey. Hands hook under her arms, hauling her upright until their foreheads press, her aftershocks vibrating through both bodies.

Fingers fumble for his fall-front, until buttons yield one-handed. Freed cock springs thick and heavy, flushed dark, veins pulsing. Precum beads at the head, smearing across silk still clinging to her belly. "Feel what you do to me, dove," he groans, guiding her tentative hand to wrap him. Heat brands her palm, and she squeezes experimentally, earning a hiss through grit teeth.

"Inside," he demands, voice shredded velvet. "Need to be inside you now, wife—wrapped in this velvet cunt that drips for me alone." He hooks her leg around his hip, aligning the thick head to her entrance, dragging through folds to coat himself in her sweetness, teasing until she whimpers anew.

A hard flex of hips seats him halfway, and they both freeze, sensation ripping breath from lungs. Tight, scorching, perfect.He waits—barely—until she nods, eyes glassy with renewed hunger. 

Caleb drives forward, pushing himself flush against her, heavy balls slapping desk edge. A guttural groan tears free, and her answering cry pitches higher, echoing.

He sets a furious rhythm, desk scooting inch by inch across rug, parchment storm fluttering to floor. One palm braces beside her spine; the other cups her breast, flicking a nipple in time with his thrusts, claiming every inch of herskin.

Her hands scrabble his open shirt, nails carving red trails down sweat-slick chest. "C-Caleb, yes—" Words fracture, reshape into keens. 

Inner walls flutter, a crest building anew; he feels it, curses, pistons harder, balls drawing tight.

"Cream on me again," he growls against her ear, voice savage reverence. "Let them hear how thoroughly the Duke worships his Duchess—how sweetly you spend around my cock." The filth unravels her, and she convulses, rippling, milking him in silky pulses that tear his control to shreds.

Release barrels up spine, scalding, uncontainable. He yanks free suddenly, fist pumping—once, twice, until ropes of hot seed stripe her belly, her breasts, her ruined silk; some splash against the crumpled love-letters beneath her, ink and cum mingling in obscene testament. 

Caleb’s cock slips free with a slick, reluctant pop, still half-hard and glistening with their mixed release. 

The sudden emptiness makes her whimper, thighs twitching, but he’s already moving to let strong arms slide beneath her thighs as he lifts her off the ink-streaked desk. Crushed papers cling to her back before fluttering to the rug like wounded birds. The study door still stands ajar, corridor yawning beyond. He growls low, kicks it shut with a boot-heel that rattles hinges loud enough to echo through the west wing. 

Let them wonder, he thinks. Let every servant know their mistress has been thoroughly claimed tonight.

He cradles her flush to his chest, loving how small she feels yet how perfectly she fits—head tucked beneath his chin, breasts slippery with his spend squishing against the opened portion of his shirt. Her breath stutters warm over his collarbones, fingers petting idly through damp chest hair.

A few steps carry them to the rug spread before the cold hearth. 

Caleb lowers himself to one knee first, then eases her down onto thick wool that smells of cedar and long-dead fires. The weave is luxurious against her skin; he watches gooseflesh prickle along her outer thigh and follows the trail with a palm. They stretch out side by side, mouths meeting in a languid, open kiss—tongues lazy, tasting leftover salt and musk. He hums into her, hand mapping the curve from shoulder to waist to hip, possessive but unhurried now that urgency has been spent once.

“You took me apart, little wife,” he murmurs between soft nips at her lower lip. “Made a beast of your duke. Christ, I’ll relive that every night before sleep until I die.” His voice is smoke and wonder, reverent fingers circling a nipple beaded with cooling seed.

She flusters yet arches into the touch, seeking more. “I liked it,” she confesses, shy even now, voice tiny. “Liked hearing you, because it is all for me.” The admission snaps something hot behind his ribs; he kisses her again, deeper, swallowing her courage like it is made of liquid gold.

When they part, he trails lips to her ear, breath scalding. “Your cunt still fluttering? Still hungry?” He cups her mound gently, feeling residual quivers, the slippery heat his release helped keep slick. “I can taste how greedy she is—want more, don’t you?”

She whimpers, and nods in bashful agreement. 

Molten satisfaction unfurls in his chest like warmed brandy. “Good,” he croons, shifting downward. He peppers soft kisses across her throat, over the sternum, descending inch by inch until he’s kneeling between her sprawled legs.

Palms glide up inner thighs nudging them wider. The rug teases sensitive skin, and she shivers, hands clutching strands of his hair already wild from her earlier tugging. He offers a wicked grin, then bends to lap a broad stripe through the mess painting her belly—cleaning his seed while maintaining eye contact, deliberate and filthy.

Satisfied that her stomach has been marked by both seed and saliva, he moves upward—mouth closing over one breast. This time, the suction is gentle, worshipful. His tongue swirls, teeth grazing but never biting. 

A low hum vibrates through tender flesh, and she gasps, back bowing. 

Perfection, he thinks, switching sides, lavishing equal devotion.

Between licks, Caleb murmurs praise. “Plump little tits fit my mouth like God’s own mold.” Nip. “Nipples begging to be loved every morning.” Suck. “Shall I wake you this way henceforth? Suckle until you drip down my fingers?” Each word melts her further, her thighs flex restlessly against his ribs.

When her chest is glossy with spit and her nipples are stiff, he kisses down the midline—pausing at her navel to swirl his tongue inside, feeling the muscles jump—then settles lower. 

Broad shoulders wedge beneath her knees, and heavy palms cup her backside, tilting her for better access. Her folds are swollen, glistening, his seed slipping out in silky beads. He inhales, savours the musk, then presses a delicate kiss directly atop her clit. She jerks, and his strong forearm pins her hips. “Stay,” he orders softly. The second kiss is wetter and firmer; the third becomes the flat of his tongue sweeping upward, gathering their mingled essence, humming approval at the flavour.

Slow, deliberate laps trace every secret ridge—up one side, down the other, circling entrance where soft suckling draws more cum and her own renewed honey. Each stroke is measured, keeping the pressure light until frustrated mewls spill from her throat.

It's only then does he shift focus on her clit, flicking, then sealing his lips around and sucking rhythmically. Two fingers slide inside, curling unerringly against velvet front wall; she clenches instantly, walls rippling around the intrusion.

Her heels drum against his shoulder blades, moans climb octave by octave, sweeter than any violin strumming in the ballrooms of the capital. He drinks each note, storing them inside his memory like medals.

The sensation begins to overwhelm her, and she splays fingers over her own breasts, pinching already stiff nipples, adding spice to his view. The sight spurs him on. He increases the pressure of his fingers, and pumps them even deeper; at the same time, his mouth suctions firmer until her thighs tremble and the internal flutters tell him she’s hovering on the edge of the cliff again.

When she’s gasping his name like a prayer, he growls, vibrations rumbling through sensitive nerves and sends her crashing. 

Her spine arches clear off rug, cry breaking on crystal timbre—clit pulsing, walls clenching and releasing in lush waves. He keeps his tongue gentle now, easing her through the crest, lapping tenderly until the shudders subside.

Caleb crawls up her body, slotting their mouths together so she tastes herself and them. Forehead to forehead, he breathes her air, hands cradling damp hair. “Exquisite,” he praises, voice thick. 

“My heart outside my chest—saw you shatter, and it has never been prettier.”

Aftershocks quake her limbs that makes her clutch him, nails scratching lazy patterns along his nape. He rocks his hips so the half-rigid cock nudges her sensitive spot, making her gasp into his shoulder, sensitive but already yearning for more.

He pulls back just enough to meet her eyes and smiles—slow, savage, loving. “Now,” he says, voice sweet, “would Her Grace like to be fucked like a whore? Bent over my reading chair perhaps—hair twisted in my fist while I drive every last ripple out of this greedy cunt?” Her breath hitches, yet her thighs spread wider in invitation. 

The answer glows in her eyes. He waits, patient for the syllable, thumb brushing her swollen lower lip. A shy nod evolves into breathless, “y-yes please, Caleb.”

Caleb’s grin spreads slow and dark as sin, the kind that once terrified cadets and now turns his duchess’s knees to water. “Listen to you, already begging to be ruined.” He drags a knuckle through the slick still glazing her folds, lifts it gleaming between them. 

“My filthy little wife, perfect in pearl and cream. Could present you at court just like this. let the peerage faint at the sight of you.”

She shivers, mortification and hunger warring in those eyes. She wants to hide, yet lifts her chin for more. Pride surges through him, and he seals it with a kiss that steals her breath before she can voice another plea.

Hands slide beneath her arms, and in one fluid surge he’s standing, bringing her with him. The rug bunches under his boots as he pivots toward the high-backed leather reading chair stationed near the cold hearth. Its brass studs wink like complicit stars. He deposits her on unsteady feet, then spins her to face the chair. A gentle shove between shoulder blades bends her forward, her palms scrambling to catch the rolled top, knuckles whitening. Her back forms a graceful bow, buttocks lifted, thighs trembling—an hourglass about to be flipped.

Caleb palms a cheek in each hand, kneading, spreading, exposing glistening folds already pulsing from last crest. “Look at this cunt, swollen shut from pleasure and still managing to weep for me.” A fingertip taps her clit; she jolts, moan cracking. “Greedy little jewel.”

He leans in, breath ghosting the base of her spine. “And this.” Heavy hands spread her wider, thumbs brushing the pucker of her rear. It flinches, shy, then slowly relaxes under pressure. He chuckles low, bends closer, and spits—a deliberate splat that lands warm and wet directly on the tight ring.

She squeaks, mortified, tries to clench away, but he holds her open, watching saliva bead and drip. 

“Pretty hole winks like it knows its future,” he croons, voice velvet menace. “Soon, little wife. Soon I’ll split this one open too, make you take every imperial inch while you sob my name into these cushions.”

She whimpers, pushes back unconsciously; arousal glistens fresh along her slit. 

Perfectly responsive girl—shame and desire braided so tight they feed each other.

He rewards her with a gentle slap to one cheek, just enough sting on the skin and draw a breathless cry.

Satisfaction roars through him. He straightens, frees cock fully from his slacks—still half-slick from earlier, but is now stiff again, veins throbbing an angry purple. The head nudges through soaked folds, painting himself in her honey, teasing her clit until her legs quake.

Fingers tangle into the silk of her hair, winding once, twice, then yanking until her spine bows impossibly deep—neck craned, breasts lifted, torso a taut instrument ready to be plucked. 

She gasps at the minor pain, but her cunt floods with hotter syrup, clenching on air. “Arch for me,” Caleb orders, voice sandpaper over steel. “Show me how well a duchess curves when she wants to be treated like a back-alley dove.” She obliges, vertebrae popping as the angle opens her sodden entrance beautifully, labia blooming.

The tip of his cock nests at threshold—stretching. He circles his hips, feeding just the crown, retreating, feeding again, taunting until frustrated tears prick her eyes and she tries to shove backward. 

He clicks his tongue, and pulls her hair tighter. “Don’t rush. You’ll take every inch because I decide when, and not because this greedy hole steals.” 

To emphasize he slides in halfway, feeling her walls spasm, overstimulated nerves lighting up. 

She keens, a high fragile sound. He pauses then, lets her feel pulse of blood through shaft. “Breathe,” he murmurs—a rare kindness. When lungs expand, he drives forward, seating himself to the hilt with wet slap of hips to ass. 

A ragged sob tears from her throat, her inner walls flutter madly, trying to adjust.

Caleb leans over her back, still gripping hair, mouth at her ear. “Is it too much, little wife?” A dark laugh rumbles when she nods frantically. “Good. I will train this plush cunt to take me raw on demand—just like I trained my fleet to sail through cannon smoke. And by the time I’m done, you shall cream around my cock mid-sermon.”

He withdraws almost completely, groans at the drag of swollen tissues, then slams back—again, again, and again—setting a brutal tempo. Breasts swing beneath her, nipples grazing tufted leather and sparking fresh sparks of pleasure through her frayed nerves.

Sweat beads along his spine, trickles to waistband. 

Her cries rise—sharp, desperate, beautiful—echoing off of the ceiling. He shifts his angle slightly, letting the head strike the hidden bundle of nerves deep inside of her until words devolve into senseless pleas.

One hand releases hair to snake beneath, finding clit slick and engorged. He strums fast, matching thrusts, forcing pleasure to braid with overstimulation, until her thighs quake violently; inner walls clamp, trying to force him out, yet also sucking him even deeper. “Take it,” he snarls. “Take what your husband gives. Milk me like the greedy girl you are.” 

Fingers pinch clit gently, and she sobs, orgasm crashing through her so hard that her knees buckle, and it is only his grip that keeps her pinned.

Wave after wave ripples along his shaft—sweet, vicious pulses that wrench his own control. 

Caleb rides her through it, hips never faltering, prolonging spill with shallow grinding. When spasms fade to tremors he slows, gentling, yet remains buried.

He loosens the grip on her hair, smoothing wild strands, and peppers kisses between shoulder blades tasting salt. “Good girl,” he praises, voice hoarse wonder. “Took every thick inch while falling apart. You will be sore tomorrow, and it shall be a reminder who owns this perfect cunt when you sit at breakfast with me at the main table.”

A final lingering thrust, then he pulls out with a reluctant sigh. 

Cum and honey drizzle down trembling thighs; he catches some on fingers, raises them to her lips. Obediently, her tongue darts to lick them clean—an erotic sacrament that makes cock twitch interested again despite the ache.

He lifts her boneless form, settles into chair himself and arranges her across his lap: her spine to his chest, thighs splayed over his so she feels air kiss her swollen folds. 

When her breath evens out, he nudges her chin to let their eyes meet. “Next time,” he says, voice quiet thunder, “I sheath in that tight little ass. Train you slow, oil you open, make you beg for each inch. Until then, you will walk these halls remembering how you took your duke like a whore tonight—and loved every second of it.”

SAINT'S NOTES ! the letters in this are heavily inspired by cardan's letters to jude (ifykyk); that scene changed something the way i viewed love letters—that they don't necessarily have to be declarations of love at all times, that all they have to be is honest. some of them are intentionally cut in the middle of a sentence. this is so sappy and i love it so much; we'll get back to our regularly scheduled filth soon. i actually finished this days ago, but i scrapped more than half of it, wrote something new, scrapped it again, until i decided to stop doing that yesterday.

You consider switching schools. Or switching husbands.

Not that anyone knows you already have one.

It’s not just Caleb. It’s the entire school. They’ve turned your professional rivalry into a spectator sport.

The whole school ships you.

Not loudly. Not with banners or fan edits (thank God). But it’s there—in the way students smirk when you argue in the hallway, or how they exchange glances every time Caleb calls you “Miss Xia” with that infuriating little smile. He calls you “Miss Xia” in front of students like it’s a joke.

You haven’t legally changed your name. You haven’t even told anyone you’re married.

But he says it with that smug little smile, and you let him—because correcting him would mean admitting the truth.

And you’re not ready for that. Not yet.

You’ve overheard whispers. A few ‘just kiss already’ comments. One student asked if you were dating during a quiz review, like it was relevant to Newton’s third law.

You denied it, obviously. Professionally. Firmly.

Caleb coughed. Loudly.

You glared.

He smiled.

Someone snorted.

You gave up after that.

Let them speculate. Let them write their little theories and ship you like it’s a group project.

They don’t know you already share a Netflix account. Or a laundry basket. Or a last name.

Heh. Fools.

You’ve become the school’s favorite subplot.

Forget curriculum reform or budget meetings—your hallway interactions are the real drama. Students time their bathroom breaks to catch glimpses of your “fights.” Staff members place bets on who’ll snap first.

You once found a sticky note on your desk that read “Enemies to lovers? Or lovers pretending to be enemies?” No signature. Just chaos.

You suspect Year 11.

Caleb, of course, encourages it. He thrives on attention and absurdity. He’ll lean against your doorway mid-lesson, arms crossed, voice loud enough to echo down the corridor.

“Hey, Pipsqueak. You seen my protractor?”

You don’t look up. You’re mid-sentence, explaining centripetal force to a room full of teenagers who are now laser-focused on the drama unfolding in your doorway.

“Try checking under your ego,” you say.

Someone chokes on their water bottle.

Caleb grins, unbothered. “Already did. Found a thesaurus and half a granola bar.”

You sigh. Loudly. Deliberately.

He takes it as an invitation.

Strolls in like he owns the place, plucks a spare protractor off your desk, and holds it up like a trophy. “Victory,” he announces.

You snatch it back. “That’s mine.”

“Sharing is caring.”

“Then care less.”

The class is silent, hanging on every word. One student mouths married. Another writes Caleb + Pipsqueak = OTP in the corner of their notebook.

You pretend not to see.

Caleb winks as he leaves, and you swear he does it in slow motion.

You resume the lesson, but the damage is done.

No one remembers centripetal force.

They remember the way you said care less like it was a love confession.

It gets to the point where the students tried to play matchmaker.

One time you and Caleb both got locked in the supply room. Another time it was the gym closet.

One leaves a folded note on your desk: If you were a molecule, you’d be polar—because you’ve got chemistry.

Another starts a rumor that you and Caleb were spotted at the same coffee shop. You were. Along with half the faculty. But that part gets edited out.

Then there’s the anonymous suggestion box. You open it one morning and find:

•            Field trip idea: Escape room. Lock them in together.

•            Extra credit: Write a love letter using Newton’s laws.

•            Petition to make Caleb a guest lecturer on flirting through physics.

You start assigning more homework. They start turning it in with doodles of you and Caleb arguing in speech bubbles that end in hearts.

Caleb sees one. He doesn’t comment. Just grins like he’s been waiting for this subplot to kick in.

During a class party, students hand out personalized juice boxes. Yours says your last name. Caleb’s says Mr. Heartthrob. Inside each is a folded note: You two are the reason we believe in tension. Caleb raises his juice box in a toast. You drink yours in one long, pointed sip.

It’s after school. The halls are quiet, save for the distant hum of a vacuum and the occasional locker slam. You’re in your classroom, reorganizing lab reports and pretending you don’t hear Caleb’s footsteps approaching like he’s auditioning for a rom-com entrance.

He leans against the doorframe, arms crossed, smug as ever.

“You know,” he says, “I think the Year 10s are planning a fake wedding. There was a glue stick labeled ‘ring’ in my drawer.”

You don’t look up. “Tell them I’m already married.”

He grins. “To who?”

You glance at him. “To my job.”

“Oof. Cold.” He strolls in, picks up your red marker—now permanently scented with his overpriced cologne—and twirls it like he’s about to deliver a TED Talk on emotional repression. “So. How long do you think we’ve got?”

You blink. “Until what?”

“Until someone figures it out.” He gestures vaguely, like your entire relationship is a subplot he’s tired of keeping secret. “The marriage. The laundry basket. The shared Netflix account with my cursed algorithm.”

You sigh. “I told you to stop watching documentaries about competitive cheese rolling.”

“They’re inspiring.”

You set down the papers. “I give it a month. Maybe less. Someone’s going to catch us slipping.”

He tilts his head. “Slipping how?”

“Like when you called me ‘babe’ in the staff room.”

“I was quoting Shakespeare.”

“You were asking if I wanted Thai food.”

He shrugs. “Same energy.”

You cross your arms. “We could just tell them.”

He raises an eyebrow. “And ruin the mystery? The drama? The hallway tension that fuels their academic engagement?”

You stare. “You think our fake rivalry improves test scores?”

“I think it gives them hope.”

You snort. “In what? That love is just bullying with paperwork?”

He steps closer. “In the idea that two people can fight like hell and still choose each other. Every day.”

You hate him a little for that. Mostly because it’s true.

Then he’s in front of you—closer than he should be, marker forgotten, hands sliding around your waist like he’s done this a thousand times and still isn’t used to how you tense when he does. His mouth finds yours before you can think, before you can argue, before you can remind him that the blinds are half-open and your dignity is hanging by a thread.

It’s heated. Familiar. His hands are so not innocent—one trailing down your back, the other skimming the edge of your blouse like he’s trying to rewrite the dress code.

You break the kiss with a sharp inhale, palms pressed to his chest.

“Hands,” You slap it. Hard. “We are in school, Mr. Xia.”

He blinks, dazed. “Right. Sorry. Got carried away.”

You straighten your blouse, ignoring the way your heart is trying to escape through your ribs. “You always do.”

He grins, sheepish. “Can’t help it. You’re very... grade-ruining.”

You shove a stack of papers into his arms. “Then go ruin them. Quietly. In your own classroom.”

He salutes. “Yes, Miss Xia.”

You roll your eyes. “One month.”

He’s halfway out the door when he turns back. “You know I’m going to lose, right?”

You’d been counting since the first time you gave a drawing to a stranger, an elderly street musician whose weathered hands moved across his guitar strings so smoothly, you couldn’t help but try to capture his ease. When you’d shyly offered him the sketch afterwards, the tiredness in his face gave way to something softer. 

Surprised. Delighted.

“Is this me?” he asked, his voice carrying that gentle kind of warmth older people always seem to have.

You had simply nodded.

The musician smiled, thanked you, and carefully tucked the drawing into the front pocket of his jacket, and that small moment sparked something in you—a sense of purpose, you could say, that had been missing from your otherwise structured life as a graphic designer. Since then, every morning without fail, you picked a fellow passenger on your train commute, capturing them in a quick sketch, and offering it to them before your stop arrived.

Maybe it was cheesy, but you didn’t care. It was the smile that made it worth it—the way a simple gesture could light up someone’s face at such early hours—that’s what kept you going, for exactly 713 days and counting.

As you locked your apartment door this morning—Tuesday, 6:32 AM—you had no idea that your simple, stupid little cheesy routine was about to change.

Your phone vibrated as you reached the station entrance. A notification from the transit app lit up your screen:

Line 6 service temporarily suspended due to overnight maintenance issues. Please seek alternative routes.

Great. Just what you needed.

Line 6 was your direct route to the office, the one that got you there at precisely 8:00 AM every morning. And you’d never been late. Not once in three years at Takahashi Media Group. And today of all days? Really? The Yamada account presentation was at 9:30, and as lead designer, you needed time to prep. 

Panic started to bubble.

“Excuse me,” you said to the nearest station attendant, trying to keep your voice steady while a tiny voice inside your head was screaming. “What’s the fastest way to Central District Station?”

Clipboard guy barely looked up. “Take Line 4, transfer at Miyashita to Line 9. Adds about twenty minutes.”

Twenty minutes?

Now panic was definitely starting to bubble up. 

Okay, think. If you skipped your usual coffee stop and went straight to the office, you could still make it with just enough time to run through your slides once. Not ideal, but doable.

Line 4 was unfamiliar territory. Unlike Line 6, which you always caught early enough to get a seat, this one was already full. Businessmen in dark suits, students in uniform, and way too many elbows. And the smell—less lemony and clean, more like... cologne and sweat. You squeezed in and clutched your sketchbook to your chest as the doors closed behind you.

Usually, you picked your sketch subject within the first minute. It was like on autopilot by now. Your eyes would just land on someone, and you’d know. But in this crowded, unfamiliar car full of strangers, you felt a little bit lost. These weren’t your usual commuters, the ones you’ve come to recognize over hundreds of mornings, even if you’ve never spoken to them. 

But then you saw him.

He was standing near the doors at the far end of the car, one hand gripping the overhead rail, the other tucked casually into the pocket of his pants. He looked completely out of place, so unlike the others around him.

He was tall. Like, really tall. And his hair was white. It caught the overhead lights in a way that made it shimmer, like fresh snow under a winter sun. He looked young, though. Early thirties, maybe? The white hair didn’t read as old, more like a choice. Or maybe it was natural. Hard to tell.

His suit was navy, perfectly tailored, but somehow different from all the other navy suits in the car. Maybe it was the cut, or maybe it was just him. He wore it like—well, like he wasn’t trying. Top button undone, no tie. A pair of green-tinted glasses perched on his nose, partly hiding his eyes, but not quite.

Everyone else around him was either half asleep or nervously checking their watches, the usual morning commute zombie routine. But not him. He looked completely at ease and almost... amused. Like the full train and countless elbows between one’s ribs didn’t bother him.

You flipped to a blank page in your sketchbook, adjusting your stance as the train swayed. Your pencil hovered, studying him for a moment. Then, like always, the world blurred at the edges as your pencil touched paper, almost making you forget about the schoolboy who stepped on your foot every few seconds, squeezed between other schoolchildren on their way to class. 

After a while, the train announcement: Next stop, Miyashita Station. Transfer for Lines 2, 9, and 11.

You signed the corner, tore out the page, and held it for a second. This part was usually easy—walk over, smile, offer the sketch, say something nice, move on. But something about him made you hesitate.

What if he thought it was weird? What if he assumed you were flirting? What if he had a wife and three kids and a very awkward story to tell over dinner tonight? What if—

The train began to slow. Now or never.

You stood and started weaving through the packed car towards the stranger. He hadn’t moved, still holding the rail with that same relaxed grip, still wearing that faint smile.

“Excuse me,” you said.

He turned, and for the first time, you got a clear look at his eyes through those green-tinted glasses. Startlingly blue. Vivid and almost unnatural. Somewhere between forget-me-nots and ripe blueberries. When they locked onto yours, warmth spread through your chest like you’d just stepped into sunlight.

“This is for you,” you said and offered him the drawing.

For a second, he didn’t react, and panic started to flare. Oh no. He hated it. He definitely hated it. But it was good, or not? Not Picasso, but decent. Solid. Right? Oh god, if he doesn’t say something, literally anything in the next second, you’re going to spontaneously die.

Then, finally, his lips curled into a slow, handsome smile. 

“A drawing? Of me?”

His voice surprised you. Deep and smooth, with a certain richness to it, like dark chocolate. And... was that a Kyoto accent? Subtle, but there. He reached for the sketch, his fingers brushing yours as he took it.

You watched, breath caught in your throat, as his eyes moved over the page. It felt like your entire morning—no, your entire existence—was waiting on his next words.

“You’re very talented.”

...Huh?

You didn’t know what you expected, but it wasn’t that. Or rather, it was how he said it. Usually, people said “thank you,” or “oh, that's so sweet,” something polite and brief before they got off at their stop. But he said it like he meant every syllable. Like you’d just unveiled the Mona Lisa to him.

You. Are. Very. Talented.

The sincerity in his voice hit you oddly sideways.

Then the train doors hissed open and commuters surged forward, dragging you back to reality. Oh god—the presentation.

“This is my stop,” you said hastly, suddenly remembering everything else happening in your life. “I need to go.”

“Wait.” He took a small step forward, but you were already being swept along with the crowd.

“I hope you like it!” you called over your shoulder, catching one last glimpse of him, but then his white hair vanished among the sea of dark suits, and the doors slid shut behind you.

It wasn’t until you were halfway up the escalator to your connecting train that you realized something. Your signature—the tiny heart you always draw into the corner of your sketches. Gone. Missing. For the first time in 713 days.

It strangely bothered you. By the time you reached your office (7:58 AM—still on time, miraculously), you’d almost convinced yourself it was just the chaos of the morning and had nothing to do with the handsome stranger who made your heart beat just a little faster when your fingers touched. Absolutely nothing.

You shove the thought aside and focus on your presentation. Line 6 would be back tomorrow. Back to your normal route, your normal routine, your normal life. You’d never see that man again. 

Or so you think.

Your presentation went flawless. The Yamada executives nodded along to your designs, and your boss even cracked a rare smile by the time you wrapped up. It was almost unsettling.

And by the time you packed up to leave, the handsome stranger had faded into the background—a fleeting moment in a city full of them.

Line 6 was back on schedule that evening. You found your usual seat. Everything was exactly the way it had always been. Just how you liked it.

── ⟢ ・⸝⸝

The next morning, you slipped back into your routine without thinking. Alarm. Shower. Tea and toast. Line 6 at 6:52 AM. Your favorite seat at the end of the car.

Your subject today was a young woman with brightly colored headphones, who seemed lost in her music. When you handed her the sketch (this time with your trademark tiny heart in the corner) she beamed. You’d made her day, she said. 

Life continued exactly as it should. Drawing number 714, 715, 716... each one gifted, each one with a tiny heart in the corner. Your little bit of everyday cheesy rom-com magic thingy carried on, uninterrupted.

A week passed. You were on your usual train, putting the final touches on that morning’s sketch—an older man engrossed in a paperback novel. When you handed it to him, his face lit up. But then it changed. Surprise gave way to something else… something like recognition.

“Wait,” he said, adjusting his glasses to look between you and the drawing. “Are you the subway artist everyone’s been talking about?”

“I’m sorry?”

“The subway artist,” he repeated, like that explained everything. “There’ve been posters up on Line 4 all week. Someone’s trying to find the person who draws portraits on the train.” He smiled, gesturing to the sketch. “It’s you, isn’t it?”

“Line 4? I... I don’t usually take that line.”

But then it hit you. 

You thanked the man and stepped off the train feeling slightly dazed. All day at work, your mind kept drifting back to this strange turn of events. Someone was looking for you? Putting up posters?

There was only one person it could be.

The stranger from Line 4. 

After work, instead of taking your usual Line 6 home, you found yourself heading towards Line 4. Your heart beat a little faster.

The train was full with evening commuters, but you barely noticed them. Your eyes scanned the station walls as the train pulled into each stop. Nothing at the first station. Or the second. Then, as the train slowed for the third stop, you saw it.

There, on a pillar near the platform’s edge, was a poster. Even from inside the train, you recognized your own work. It was the sketch you had given the handsome stranger—or rather, a scan of it. Below, printed in bold, clear type:

LOOKING FOR THE ARTIST

Did you draw this portrait on Tuesday morning, Line 4? I’d like to thank you properly.

Please call: XXX-XXX-XXXX

The train doors opened, and without thinking, you stepped out, weaving through the tide of boarding passengers. You pushed your way toward the poster, staring at it in disbelief. It was definitely your drawing. No question. But why was he looking for you?

You pulled out your phone and took a quick photo of the poster, and then you just stood there, frozen. What now? Should you call? Would that be weird? What did “thank you properly” even mean?

You glanced around the platform, almost expecting to spot him nearby. But there was no sign of him. Only a sea of strangers, none of them with hair the color of snow. 

On impulse, you peeled the poster off the pillar and tucked it into your bag. Back at your apartment, you unfolded it on the kitchen table. The drawing looked back at you, familiar and strange all at once. You traced a finger over the phone number, wondering about the man who had gone to such lengths to find you. 

What kind of person did that? Was he just being kind? Did he want to pay you? Commission another drawing? Something about it was flattering… and also a little unsettling.

You took out your phone, entered the number into your contacts, and hovered your thumb over the call button.

This was ridiculous. You didn’t know anything about him—other than the fact that he had white hair and apparently enough time and money to put up posters in subway stations. What if he was a stalker? Or some kind of... weirdo?

You folded the poster again and tucked it into a drawer. Maybe in a few days you’d feel differently. Or maybe it was best to forget the whole strange thing altogether.

── ⟢ ・⸝⸝

Next day, you were back on Line 6, back to your routine. You chose your subject—a woman with a long braids—and focused on capturing the way the morning light played in her woven hair. By the time you handed her the sketch, all thoughts of the poster and the maybe stalker had faded.

Two weeks later, you were running a little late for work. As you rushed onto your usual Line 6 train, something familiar caught your eye on the station wall. The doors closed before you could really process it, and the train pulled away. You spent the rest of the ride wondering if you’d imagined it.

The next morning, you arrived at the station a few minutes early to investigate and what you found made your breath catch. There on the wall of your station, wasn’t just one poster, but several. Each one with your sketch. And this time, beneath the drawing, a new message:

TO THE ARTIST

Dinner? This Friday, 8 PM.

Hanami Restaurant, Central District

You stared. Eyes wide. A dinner invitation? Posted publicly in the subway? Who even does that? Oh god. 

He was a stalker. 

Or… maybe it was romantic? No. Definitely creepy. Right? Who publicly invites a stranger to dinner using posters? A total stranger he didn’t even know? 

But... Hanami Restaurant? That was a nice place. Fancy. Not cheap. You’d seen it once on your birthday when your coworkers took you somewhere nearby. This wasn’t just casual ramen and a maybe—this was… effort.

“Oh, you’ve seen them too?”

You turned to see an older woman standing beside you, also gazing at the posters.

“Isn’t it the most charming thing?” she said. “They’ve been popping up all over Line 6 for the past few days. My daughter thinks it’s a movie promotion, but I think it’s a real love story in the making.” She gave a wistful sigh. “I hope the artist shows up.”

You muttered something polite and hurried onto your train, heart thudding in your chest. 

This had gone from odd to completely, absolutely weird. Not only had he expanded his poster campaign to your line, but now he was publicly inviting you to dinner? How did he even know which train you usually took? Or worse, were these posters up on every line in Tokyo? No. That couldn’t be possible.

You sank into your seat, sketchbook clutched tightly against your chest, your thoughts spiraling. Was this romantic dedication? Or borderline stalking? 

The invitation was for tomorrow night. You didn’t have to go. It’s not like he knew who you were or where you lived—technically, you could ignore it and carry on like none of this ever happened. 

But… what would happen if you did go? What if he was charming and witty and everything you’d secretly ever dreamed about on sleepy train rides? What if he was a total creep?

You looked down at your sketchbook, heart still racing.

My God.

What had you started?

── ⟢ ・⸝⸝

Friday evening arrived, and you found yourself standing in front of your closet, absently fingering the hem of a dress you hadn’t worn in months. For a dinner you weren’t going to attend. With a man you’d barely met.

“This is ridiculous,” you muttered, shutting the closet door with finality.

You’d already made your decision. Absolutely not going. This whole thing had gone from charming to…well, kind of creepy. Who put up posters across the subway just to find someone they spoke to for like two seconds? It was excessive. Borderline obsessive.

You ordered takeout from your favorite place down the street and spent the evening sketching while a movie played in the background. Every so often, your eyes drifted to the clock. 

7:30.

7:45.

8:00.

He was probably at the restaurant by now. Maybe checking his watch.

8:15. 

8:30.

Maybe he’d ordered a drink to pass the time.

9:00. 

Surely, by now, he knew you weren’t coming.

You told yourself it was for the best. This way, he’d get the message. No need for awkward conversations or outright rejection. Just silence. Clear. Polite, in a distant kind of way.

Life could go back to normal. Back to routine. Back to sketching strangers who didn’t plaster the city with posters looking for you. 

And still, somewhere underneath all that logic, a quiet little voice whispered: What if he’s just sitting there, alone, sad, and feeling as unsure as you do right now?

── ⟢ ・⸝⸝

The weekend passed uneventfully. By Monday morning, you’d nearly convinced yourself you’d done the right thing. You’d protected your peace. Maintained your boundaries. All good decisions.

Your alarm rang at 5:45 AM. Shower. Hair. Makeup. Outfit. Green tea and avocado toast. Sketchbook and pencils in your bag. Everything back to normal.

On your usual train, your eyes landed on a high school girl seated near the doors. She looked tired, but focused. A textbook rested in her lap, worn at the corners and stuffed with colorful Post-it notes poking out from all sides. She tucked a loose strand of hair behind her ear and leaned in to read.

By the time the train neared your stop, the sketch was finished, your signature heart placed neatly in the corner. You stood and made your way over to her, when a flash of colour outside the train window caught your eye.

Another poster. But this one looked different.

As the train slowed, you could make out your sketch—the one of the white-haired stranger—but now surrounded by a border of…were those flowers? 

You squinted, leaning closer as the train rolled to a stop. Then the doors opened, but instead of handing the student the sketch you had made of her, you stepped out onto the platform without thinking.

You moved toward the poster. It was definitely your drawing in the center, but someone—him, obviously—had added to it. Were those real flowers? Pinned around the edges? You leaned in. Yes. Small blossoms. Some still fresh, others beginning to wilt.

And below, a new message:

TO THE ARTIST WHO DIDN’T COME TO DINNER

I understand. Perhaps too forward. My apologies. But I’d still like to meet you.

Coffee instead? Your choice of time and place.

Same number below. No more posters after this, I promise.

Call: XXX-XXX-XXXX

You stared at the poster, not sure what to think of it. It was still... a lot. But the tone had changed. It didn’t feel like pressure anymore. It felt like a peace offering.

“Is that about you?”

You jumped slightly and turned to find the schoolgirl from the train standing behind you. She was looking between you and the poster, eyebrows raised. You hadn’t even noticed her step off.

“What? No, I—”

“It is, isn’t it?” she said, pointing to the edge of her portrait still peeking from your sketchbook. “You’re the subway artist! I’ve seen these posters for weeks. Everyone at school’s been talking about them.” Her eyes lit up. “But it’s real! It’s actually you!”

Your face went hot. “I just… draw people on my commute. It’s not a big deal.”

“Not a big deal?” She looked at you like you’d just told her the earth was flat. “Someone literally covered half the subway trying to find you. That’s so romantic.” She paused, glancing back at the poster. “Though I guess... it might feel a little intense if you don’t know him.”

“Exactly,” you said, a little too quickly, but relieved that someone finally understood. Not that you told anyone, anyway.

“But now he’s apologizing and backing off. That’s actually kind of sweet, don’t you think? Like he realized he overdid it.” Before you could respond, she suddenly gasped. “Oh! Were you going to give me something?” She pointed to your sketchbook.

“I—yes, actually.” You’d almost forgotten. You tore out the page with her portrait and handed it over. “I hope you don’t mind.”

She took the drawing, her face bright. “This is amazing! You made me look so... I don’t know, determined? Like I actually understand what I’m reading about.” She laughed. “Thank you so much!”

A chime echoed through the station—the warning for the next train.

“That’s my transfer,” she said and glanced at the poster one more time. “You know, if I were you, I’d call him. Not everyone gets a second chance at something interesting.” And with that, she turned and vanished into the crowd of boarding passengers.

You stood there for a moment longer, staring at the poster. At the flowers he’d carefully pinned around your sketch. It must have taken hours. 

Your phone buzzed with a calendar reminder. Morning meeting in fifteen minutes. With one last glance at the poster, you turned and headed for the station exit.

Maybe the girl was right. Maybe there was something here worth exploring. Or maybe this was exactly how people ended up in true crime documentaries. 

Either way, you had a decision to make.

── ⟢ ・⸝⸝

For the next three days, the poster haunted you. Not in a scary way, but enough to slip under your skin and stay there. 

You caught yourself absentmindedly sketching floral patterns during meetings, doodling petals in the margins of your planner, even on the back of your grocery list. His phone number was still saved in your contacts. You hadn’t called it. Yet.

By Thursday afternoon, in the middle of yet another agonisingly boring meeting, you finally made your decision. 

The moment your boss wrapped up, you grabbed your phone and slipped into the empty break room. Your heart thudded so hard it felt like it might knock your ribs loose. Before you could overthink it, you dialed the number.

It rang once. Then—

“Hello?”

That voice. Deep. Warm. Curious. Instantly familiar.

“Um. Hi,” you said, suddenly questioning every life desicion that had led you to this moment. “This is… well, I don’t know if you’ll remember, but I drew your portrait on the train a few weeks ago, and—”

“You called.” He sounded genuinely relieved. “I was starting to think you weren’t ever going to.”

“Yeah, well…” You took a breath. “You do realize those posters were kind of creepy, right?”

“I thought they were romantic?”

“For someone I don’t know, it’s more creepy than romantic. And also, what if I was already taken?”

“Are you?”

You went silent. Right. You probably should’ve seen that one coming.

“I’m Satoru, by the way.” You could practically hear the smirk in his voice.

You gave him your name in return, nervously clicking your pen against the break room table.

He repeated it slowly, like he was trying how it sounded on his tongue, and that somehow sent a strange flutter through your stomach. Why did hearing him say your name suddenly make you so nervous? It was just a name. Your name. You’d heard it a million times before.

But from him, it felt different. More intimate somehow. Ridiculous, you told yourself. You were overthinking it. Probably. Still... the little flutter lingered.

“Listen,” you said, clearing your throat, trying to sound casual. “I’ve got my lunch break in about an hour. If you’re free, maybe we could meet. Nothing fancy—just coffee or something.”

“An hour? Yes. Absolutely.” A pause. “Where do you work? I can come to you.”

You hesitated, then figured it was harmless. It was a large and well known office building downtown, after all. Not exactly revealing your home address. “Takahashi Media Group. Midtown Tower, fourteenth floor.”

“Perfect. I’ll see you in an hour.”

The call ended, and you stared at your phone for a beat before heading back to your desk. You tried to focus on your emails, your task list, anything—but your eyes kept drifting to the clock.

It was just coffee, you reminded yourself. Just a casual meeting with the stranger from the train who’d launched a city-wide poster campaign to find you.

 Totally normal.

Fifty-five minutes later, you were gathering your bag when a commotion near the reception area caught your attention. Moments later, your coworker Aki appeared beside your desk.

“Hey, there’s someone asking for you at the reception. And he’s... well, you should just come see.”

“Someone’s here for me?” you asked, frowning. “But I was supposed to meet—” You stopped. “Oh no.”

You hurried toward the reception area, Aki trailing close behind. As you rounded the corner, you saw a group of coworkers gathered near the glass doors, all pretending very badly not to be gawking at something—or better said, someone.

And there, standing right in the center of the chaos, was the handsome stranger form Line 4.

He was even more handsome than you remembered. Tall, effortlessly confident, and dressed in a perfectly tailored dark suit, with a blue tie that was the exact same shade as his eyes.

When he spotted you, his entire face lit up with a smile so dazzling it looked like it belonged in a toothpaste commercial. You saw your coworker Mei place a hand over her heart, and you could’ve sworn someone behind her whispered, “Oh my god.”

“Artist!” he called, completely unaware of (or more likely, entirely unbothered by) the scene he was causing. “Wow, you’re even prettier when you’re mortified.”

And then you saw the flowers. 

Correction: you saw the flowers.

He was holding the most ridiculous bouquet you’d ever laid eyes on. A vibrant, overflowing explosion of violet, pink, and red, easily three dozen stems if not more. It was a lot. Even for him.

Every head in the lobby turned toward you.

Great. Just fucking great.

You walked over, ignoring the heat rising in your face and the whispers following behind you, wanting nothing more than to quickly escape the awkward scene. Reaching him, you grabbed his elbow and leaned in, voice low.

“You really don’t know how to be subtle, do you?”

── ⟢ ・⸝⸝

Satoru had suggested a café not far from your office, and you followed him down the busy street, relieved to be away from the scene he had caused with nothing more than… his face.

People glanced at him as you walked, some doing double takes. He seemed completely unbothered by it. Perhaps he’s used to it. Being pretty comes with stares naturally, you assumed.

Maybe he was a model. Or a singer. Or both. And you were the only person in Tokyo who didn’t recognize him and later it will be so awkward when paparazzi take photos of you holding hands on your way out and splash them across trashy magazines with some ridiculous headline and—

Wait.

Holding hands?

Why were you even thinking about holding hands?

He could still be a stalker. A total weirdo. A—

You nearly tripped over someone weaving through the crowd, lost in your thoughts. Before you could catch yourself, Satoru’s hand landed gently on your elbow, steadying you as he pulled you closer to his side. Your arm brushed against his, and that brief contact sent a shiver down your spine.

Stupid, handsome and cute weirdo, for sure.

A few minutes later, you were seated in a quiet café, staring hard at a menu you’d already ordered from because pretending to study the drink list was easier than making direct eye contact with the man who was definitely watching you.

You could feel it. His gaze. Not bashful. Not subtle. Not even blinking, apparently. 

Finally, you set the menu down. “You’re staring.”

“I am,” he said, without a hint of shame. “It’s not every day I get to meet the artist who’s been haunting my dreams for weeks.”

“Haunting your dreams, huh?” You glanced up and met those absurdly blue eyes. “You know, you do sound very creepy sometimes.”

“Do I?” He tilted his head slightly. “I’ll admit, I don’t do this often.”

“What, stalk people? Or launch city-wide poster campaigns?”

He laughed. “Both, I guess. That might’ve been a bit much. My colleagues say I have a tendency to go overboard once I’ve set my mind to something.”

“Oh really?”

His smile widened. “Okay, fair. I deserved that. But in my defense—it worked. You’re here.”

“Out of curiosity more than anything,” you said, though you weren’t entirely sure that was true. “So now that you’ve found me, what exactly was the plan? Beyond coffee, I mean?”

He paused, considering. “I must admit, I didn’t think that far ahead. I just wanted to meet you. To thank you for seeing something in me worth capturing.” There was an unexpected softness to his voice. “And maybe to find out if the person behind the pencil is as interesting as her art suggests.”

“And? Verdict so far?”

“Even more interesting,” he said without hesitation. “But I still have questions.”

“Such as?”

“Such as how long you’ve been sketching strangers on trains. Why you give the drawings away instead of keeping them. Whether you draw for a living.” He leaned in slightly. “And if you’d ever let me see your sketchbook.”

Before you could answer, the barista approached with a tray.

“Here’s your cappuccino, miss. And Mr. Gojo, your usual.” She set down a borderline theatrical coffee drink in front of him, along with a small plate of pastries you definitely hadn’t heard him order.

“Chef sent these over for you both,” she added with a smile. “It’s that new recipe you suggested last week.”

“Thank him for me, Hana,” Satoru said, offering her a warm smile that made her visibly melt. “They look perfect.”

“Of course, Mr. Gojo. Anything else you need, just let me know.” She gave a polite bow before heading back.

You watched the entire exchange with growing suspicion. As soon as she was out of earshot, you leaned in.

“Okay. What was that about?”

“What do you mean?”

“The chef takes your suggestions for pastries? And the barista knows your ‘usual’, which looks—by the way—like something from the kid’s menu.”

Satoru looked mildly amused as he slid the plate towards you. “Try one. They’re amazing.”

You took one, but fixed him with a pointed look still. “Still not answering my question.”

“I come here a lot.”

“I’ve been going to the same coffee shop near my apartment for three years,” you said, “and they still spell my name wrong on the cup.”

He laughed—a real one. It drew a few subtle glances from nearby tables.

“Fair point.”

The pastry was every bit as good as he promised—light, buttery, with just the right amount of sweetness. But you weren’t letting him off the hook.

“So?” you asked, licking a crumb off your thumb. “Why does everyone here treat you like you’re... I don’t know. Someone important?”

“I suppose because I am someone important”

“What does that mean?”

“I figured I’d bring this up eventually.” Satoru took a sip of his kid’s menu drink, then set the cup down. “I own Gojo Holdings.”

You stared at him. Blankly.

“Our headquarters occupies the top ten floors of this building,” he added, casually gesturing upward.

Suddenly, the name clicked into place. Gojo Holdings—a name you’d seen before. On office towers, in business headlines, maybe even on the news channel. One of those massive investment and trading firms. It was the kind of company that quietly owned half the city without anyone really noticing.

“You’re joking.”

“I’m not.” His tone was surprisingly straightforward. “I’m the CEO. Have been for about five years, since my father stepped down.”

“So this building—?”

“I don’t own the whole tower. Just the top portion. Company offices. This café’s independent, though we partner with them for corporate events.”

“Which is why they know your usual.”

He gave a small shrug. “Perks of a eating here often.”

“So when you were on that train…”

“I was just commuting. Like anyone else.” He sipped his coffee, completely at ease. “Traffic sucks. Trains are faster.”

“A practical billionaire. How novel.”

“CEO. Not a billionare,” he corrected. “Well—technically—”

“Not helping your case,” you cut in, and to his credit, he actually looked sheepish.

“So that’s how you managed to plaster half the city with posters.” You leaned back, studying him again. “Most people would’ve just... posted something online.”

“I don’t do things halfway,” he said, not even pretending to apologize. “Besides, I don’t have social media. Too messy in my position.”

You took a long sip of your cappuccino, buying yourself a moment. Then you asked the question that had been quietly building in the back of your mind.

“So what exactly does the CEO of a major trading company want with a graphic designer who sketches strangers on the subway?”

“The same thing I wanted before you knew any of this. Get to know you.”

You tilted your head, unsure whether to believe him. He must’ve sensed your hesitation. 

“Okay, listen,” he said, leaning forward. “I’ve been renovating the executive floor of our headquarters and there’s this white wall in my office. It’s been empty for months because nothing felt right for it—”

“You want to commission me?” You blinked, more confused than ever. “For your office?”

“Yeah. Actually, for the whole floor. A series of pieces,” he said. “Not landmarks or cityscapes—everyone does that. I want your version. The people. The soul of each place. Like the sketch you gave me.”

“So all this—the posters, the dinner invitation, the whole subway artist manhunt—was for a commission?”

Something flickered in his expression. Not quite hurt, but close.

“No,” he said after a second. “Yeah. I mean—” He sighed. “Does it sound that stupid?”

“I don’t know. It’s... unexpected. That’s all.”

“Is that a yes?”

You took another sip of your cappuccino, more for the excuse to think than anything else. “It’s an ‘I’m thinking about it.’”

“Perfect,” he said, pulling out a business card of his and sliding it across the table. “No pressure. No expectations. If you're interested, call me.”

You turned the card in your fingers, still watching him. “How do you even know I draw anything—beside subway sketches, that is? I never told you.”

He raised an eyebrow, like he couldn’t quite believe you said it yourself. “You don’t?”

Stupid, handsome man. “I  hate you.”

── ⟢ ・⸝⸝

Back at your desk, you twirled Satoru’s business card between your fingers, trying to make sense of it all. Was he being genuine? Or was he making fun of you? 

You glanced at the flowers he’d gifted you—still sitting in the large glass vase Mei had found in the office kitchen. They were slightly too vibrant, slightly too much, still too beautiful to ignore. No one brought those kinds of flowers as a joke. Right? And yet, the absurdity of it all made you question even that. 

You slipped the card into your desk drawer and turned your attention to the ad campaign mockups waiting on your screen. But your focus faltered. Your mind kept drifting back to blue eyes, white hair, and the warmth in his voice when he said your name.

Aki appeared at your desk not long after, not even trying to hide her curiosity. You offered her the bare minimum. Just someone whose portrait you’d sketched on the train. Nothing serious. When she pressed further, you sighed and handed over his business card.

Her reaction was immediate. “Gojo Holdings? That Gojo?”

You nodded, reluctantly.

“And he wants to commission you? For art? In his office?”

“He mentioned it,” you said, already regretting sharing anything.

She didn’t miss the nuance. “Oh. He mentioned it. But also stared at you like you hung the moon?”

Your cheeks warmed. She grinned.

That evening, you moved the card from your desk drawer to your wallet, telling yourself it’s just in case you decide to take the commission. Nothing more. 

The rational part of your brain knew this entire situation had ‘bad idea’ written all over it—in flashing neon, no less. But the less rational part of your brain kept remembering how he looked at your sketch as if it were something precious. Not just charcoal on paper.

Days passed. Then weeks.

You kept up your morning ritual—train sketches, quiet observation, the meditative act of putting pencil to paper. But now, each time you boarded, your eyes scanned the car, quietly wishing to see him again. He never appeared.

The business card moved again—from your wallet to your bedside table, then tucked into your sketchbook, then back to your wallet. You drafted emails. Professional, polite. None of them made it past your drafts folder.

And then, life—as it so often does—made the decision for you.

It started with your car being a bit bumpy, then a strange rattle under the hood. And finally, smoke. The repair bill was roughly equivalent to two months’ rent.

That night, you sat at your kitchen table, staring at your bank account and mentally rearranging numbers that didn’t cover the bill no matter what you tried. Between rent, old student loans, and the usual cost of just existing, you didn’t have a cushion big enough to absorb the hit and your parents were still helping your younger sibling through college. Credit cards would only delay the problem.

Your gaze drifted to the business card sitting on the counter where you’d left it earlier. A commission from Gojo Holdings would cover surely more than the car repairs. And then some.

── ⟢ ・⸝⸝

“This entire hallway is yours to reimagine,” Satoru said, gesturing with a casual sweep of his arm. You trailed a few steps behind, sketchbook in hand, scribbling notes as he pointed at one blank wall after another. “Boardroom entrances, reception, executive offices—the whole floor could use your touch.”

The headquarters of Gojo Holdings was exactly what you’d imagined. Sleek, modern, almost intimidating. Walls of glass divided up the offices, giving the illusion of privacy without actually offering much of it. Matte blacks, brushed steel, deep grays, and just enough warm wood or marble veining to say ‘tasteful’ without inviting any real comfort. But maybe that was the point.

Offices like this weren’t meant to feel cozy. In these rooms, decisions were made that shifted markets. Billions moved with a gesture. A signature. A nod. And somewhere at the center of it all was Satoru Gojo, walking through it like he was on his way to pick up coffee at the mall.

“How many pieces are we talking about?” you asked, already measuring the length of yet another white wall in your mind.

“However many feels right.” He glanced over his shoulder just in time to catch your raised brow. “What? I mean it.”

“You know, most clients have a vision board. Timelines. Color codes. Budgets. A whole approval chain.”

“I’m not most clients.”

“Clearly.”

He continued the tour, leading you through a maze of meeting rooms and long corridors, while you took notes in your sketchbook—dimensions, how the light shifted through the glass and how certain walls caught the sun. 

You paused often to sketch rough layouts or mark potential placements, all while trying to ignore the way Satoru was watching you more than the rooms.

“And this,” Satoru said, stopping in front of a pair of sleek double doors, “is my office.”

His office was huge—at least four times the size of your apartment—with windows stretching from floor to ceiling, offering a stunning view of the Tokyo skyline. Gentle afternoon sunlight streamed in, causing everything to shimmer softly, as if in a dream.

“It’s…” you hesitated, searching for a word that wouldn’t stroke his ego, “…adequate.”

Satoru burst out laughing. “Adequate? That might be the first time anyone’s used that word to describe my office.”

“I’m sure people usually fall over themselves with compliments.” You moved towards the windows. “I thought I’d try something different.”

“And that,” he said, following with hands tucked casually in his pockets, “is exactly why I hired you.”

“Because I don’t stroke your ego?”

“Because you’re straight forward. I like that.”

Something in his tone made you glance up at him, but his expression was unreadable as he gazed out at the city below.

“That wall there,” he continued, pointing to the large empty space behind his desk, “is where I originally thought your work would go. But then I thought, why not the whole floor?”

You walked his office slowly, taking in the space, the light, the simplicity. “It’s quite the blank canvas.”

“I’ve been told my style is too minimalist.”

“By who? The interior design magazine that did a feature on your last penthouse?”

His eyes widened a little before crinkling at the corners. “You Googled me.”

“Basic research before meeting a new client,” you said, but your cheeks, of course, betrayed you.

“Mmhmm.” He didn’t look convinced. “Come here. I want to show you something.”

You approached the window where he stood.

“See that building there?” He pointed toward the horizon. “The one with the copper coloured roof?”

You squinted, seeing hundreds of buildings but not sure which one he meant. “Not really…”

“May I?”

Before you could fully register the question, he was behind you, one hand grazing your shoulder, the other gently tilting your chin to guide your gaze. His warmth at your back made your breath hitch.

“There,” he said, his voice brushing your ear. “Between those two towers. That’s where I first saw your work. A small gallery in Ginza. Community showcase. Your cityscape series.”

Your pulse stumbled. “You knew? All this time?”

“Kind of, yeah,” he admitted, still close enough that you could feel the quiet rumble of his words. “I’d actually thought about commissioning you back then—at the gallery. But things got busy, and I let it go. When I saw your sketch on the train, I recognized it immediately and it felt like… I don’t know. A sign. Like the universe was giving me a second chance.”

“How poetic.” You turned slightly, realizing his face was only inches from yours. “Why didn’t you just ask the gallery for my contact info? Would’ve saved you a lot of time. And posters.”

His lips curved into that maddening smile. “Where’s the fun in that?”

“You’re so weird.”

“Says the woman who stalks stranger on the train and draws them.”

“You’re the stalker here.”

“So, what do you think?” He stepped back and leaned casually against his desk. “Can you handle transforming the most boring executive floor in Tokyo?”

“Let’s talk numbers first.”

“I was thinking something in the range of two million yen for the full project,” he replied, watching you carefully.

You nearly choked. That was more than generous—enough to fix your car, pay off a good chunk of your student loans, maybe even take a breath for once. But something in his easy confidence made you want to test his limits.

“Four million,” you said, eyes steady. Bold.

His brows lifted. “That’s quite a jump.”

“I’m quite an artist.”

“That’s already well above—”

You tilted your head, pretending to reconsider. “Hmm. So, if you don’t want me…”

You let the words hang as you casually closed your sketchbook and took a slow step backward, turning like you were ready to walk out. “I get it. It’s a big commitment. I’m sure someone else can paint your sterile corporate walls.”

Satoru blinked. “Wait—”

You took another step.

“Three million,” he said. “Final offer.”

“Deal,” you replied, quick before he could change his mind. “But I have conditions. I want full creative freedom.”

“Naturally.” He pushed off the desk and extended his hand. “Three million yen, complete creative freedom, and dinner.”

Your hand froze halfway to his. “Dinner?”

“Just a simple business dinner,” he said innocently. “To go over project details.”

“We can go over those in an email.”

“Some things are better discussed in person. Over good food. And maybe a glass of wine.”

You crossed your arms. “That sounds suspiciously like a date.”

“Only if you want it to be,” he said, mirroring your stance.

“I don’t.”

“Then it’s not.”

You narrowed your eyes. “Fine. One business dinner.”

“At Narisawa,” he added casually. “Private dining room, excellent view.”

“Narisawa? That’s a two month waiting list.”

“Not for everyone.”

“You’re really trying to blur the lines between business and private, aren’t you?”

“I’m merely suggesting a restaurant worthy of an three million yen commission.”

“McDonald’s exists.”

“I’m not taking you to McDonald’s.”

“I thought I had creative control in this partnership.”

“Over the art,” he said. “Dining arrangements fall under my jurisdiction.”

You gave him a look. “I’m starting to think this dinner is more important to you than the actual commission.”

“What would give you that impression?”

“Maybe because you’re pushing harder for this dinner than you did for the art.”

“I didn’t need to push for the art. You were already sold.”

“Presumptuous.”

“Am I wrong?”

You sighed, knowing you were fighting a losing battle. “One dinner. No private room—that’s weird. Main restaurant only. And I’m paying for myself.”

“Main restaurant’s fine,” he conceded, far too agreeable. “But I’m paying. Consider it a signing bonus.”

“That’s not how signing bonuses work.”

“It is at my company.”

“Fine. But this changes nothing. It’s strictly professional.”

“Of course,” he said. “Just two colleagues having a quiet eight course meal at one of Tokyo’s finest restaurants. Completely professional.”

“You’re impossible.”

“And yet, here you are, agreeing to both the commission and dinner.”

You extended your hand to finally seal the deal. “Three million yen, full creative control, and one—singular, not two, only one—business dinner.”

He took your hand, his thumb brushing over your knuckles, and you hated how weak that made your knees feel.

“If you say so,” he said.

── ⟢ ・⸝⸝

Over the next two weeks, Gojo Holdings basically became your second home. You spent hours wandering the halls, filling your sketchbook with rough layouts and scribbled notes, snapping photos of how the light shifted from morning to dusk. 

The project had you more energized than anything you’d worked on in years. Full creative freedom and a proper budget? That almost never happened. You didn’t want to waste it.

What you hadn’t expected was how often you’d see Satoru, though. Despite being constantly pulled into meetings and conference calls, you know, running a whole financial empire and all that, he somehow always knew when you were in the building.

Sometimes you’d catch glimpses of him through the glass walls of the conference rooms, commanding attention with a casual confidence that was almost mesmerizing to watch. He’d be deep in conversation with some serious looking executives, completely in his element, and then, as if he could sense your gaze, his eyes would find yours. A subtle wink or the ghost of a smile just for you, and suddenly your stomach would do that stupid fluttering thing again.

Other times, he’d just… appear. Out of nowhere. Usually while you were measuring a wall or standing on your tiptoes trying to track the afternoon shadows.

“Need a hand?” he’d ask, already handing you a coffee like he knew you forgot to eat again and make some terrible joke about “hanging” your work. (“Get it? Because they’ll be hanging on the wall?” “Yes, Satoru, I get it. It’s still not funny.” “You smiled though.”)

He’d carve out little bits of time—ten minutes here, twenty there—despite his full schedule. Sometimes he’d walk with you through the space, telling stories about silly board meetings. Seriously, who would’ve thought that a company handling millions in the stock market could be run like a sitcom half the time? 

Other times, he’d just sit nearby while you sketched, sipping his coffee in silence and letting you work. Strangely enough, his presence was never distracting. If anything, it felt… comfortable. Good, even.

And occasionally, he’d say something that surprised you. A thought about layout. A comment about color balance. Something you didn’t expect from a guy who usually talked in numbers and strategies.

“Shouldn’t you be doing CEO things instead of analyzing my color palette?” you’d ask.

“I could, but I’ve already yelled at three departments today. I’m ahead of schedule,” he’d reply with a grin.

And the strangest part wasn’t how much he was around. It was how quickly you got used to it. And how weirdly empty the rooms felt when he wasn’t there.

Your concept came together almost on its own. A series about Tokyo told through its people. Not neon signs or city skylines, more salarymen passed out on the train, old women gossiping in corner markets, teenagers packed into ramen shops after school. Quiet, ordinary moments that felt honest. Human.

Your apartment turned chaotic. Canvases leaned against furniture, reference photos were spread across every flat surface, and your sketches were taped to the windows just to see how they looked in different light. You worked late most nights, completely losing track of time until your stomach reminded you that you hadn’t eaten anything except an energy drink and half a protein bar.

You’d send status updates to Satoru sometimes. Professionally, mostly.

The concept boards are coming along well. I’ll have something concrete to show you by next week. — You

His replies, however, did not share your sense of professional distance:

I’m sure they’re amazing, but I’d rather see the artist than the art. When are you letting me buy you dinner? — SG

You rolled your eyes at his persistence, but you couldn’t help the small smile tugging at your lips.

The art comes before the artist. Patience, Mr. Gojo. — You

Mr. Gojo was my father. I’m Satoru to you, remember? And patience has never been my strong suit. — SG

The exchanges continued like this—you sending actual work updates, him responding with barely veiled attempts to see you again. It was absurd. Unprofessional. And yet… you looked forward to his replies more than you cared to admit.

Three weeks in, his patience seemed to officially ran out:

Dinner. This Friday. 8 PM. I’ve already made reservations at Narisawa. Unless you’re planning to work through the weekend again? — SG

You stared at the message for a long moment before typing back:

I’m in the middle of the sixth canvas. Friday won’t work. — You

His response came almost immediately:

Art can wait. Food can’t. The reservation is at 8. — SG

You scoffed.

I don’t recall agreeing to this Friday. Reschedule? — You

Ten minutes passed with no response. You had just returned to your canvas when your phone rang. His name lit up the screen.

“Hello?”

“I don’t accept a no.”

“That sounds problematic.”

He laughed. “Only when it comes to dinner invitations. Specifically ones I’ve been waiting weeks for.”

“I’m covered in paint and haven’t slept properly in days.”

“You could show up in pajamas and still be the most interesting person in the room.”

“Flattery won’t work.”

“You’re an awful liar, you know that? Your voice just did that thing it does when you’re trying not to smile.”

Your traitor lips curved anyway. “You can’t possibly know that over the phone.”

“But I’m right, aren’t I?”

You sighed and set your brush down. “Why are you so persistent about this dinner?”

“Because I want to see you,” he said simply. “Because you’ve been painting pieces for my walls and I haven’t even seen your progress. Because maybe I miss the way you look at me like you’re immune to my charm.”

“I could send photos of the work.”

“Or,” he said, “you could wear something you like, let me feed you something expensive, and tell me about your process in person.”

“You won’t let me out of this, will you?”

“No.”

You sighed. “Fine. But I’m paying for myself.”

“We’ll discuss that over appetizers.”

“There’s nothing to discuss.”

“Friday at 8,” he said, ignoring your protest. “I’ll pick you up.”

“I can take the train.”

“Humor me.”

You could practically hear the smile in his voice.

“Has anyone ever told you you’re impossible?”

“You. Repeatedly. It’s part of our thing.”

“We don’t have a thing.”

“Yet,” he added. And before you could argue, “I’ll see you Friday. Wear something that makes you happy.”

After the call ended, you stared at your phone for a few moments longer, until the screen turned black.

Somehow, despite your best efforts and at least three attempts to ghost him, you had a dinner on Friday night. Not a date, you told yourself. A business dinner. With a man who was way too attractive, way too confident, and had launched an entire campaign just to commission you. Totally normal.

You turned back to your canvas and tried to focus, but the flutter in your stomach wouldn’t go away.

It was just dinner. In a restaurant. With candlelight and probably a lot of eye contact. Nothing more.

Still, as you painted into the night, you caught yourself wondering what you might wear that would make you feel good. And maybe—just maybe—make him look at you the way he had in his office, when he stood so close you could feel the warmth of his breath on your skin.

Strictly professional, you reminded yourself.

Even you didn’t believe it anymore.

── ⟢ ・⸝⸝

Friday evening arrived with the kind of weird, way too warm weather that made you rethink your outfit three times before settling on something that felt like you—comfortable but still nice enough for... whatever game Satoru might be playing.

You were fixing your lipstick when your phone buzzed.

Downstairs. Take your time. — SG

You walked over to the window for a quick glance outside—and there he was.

Satoru was leaning against the passenger side of a sleek black car, arms crossed, dressed in a dark suit that looked almost identical to the one he’d worn the day you first saw him on Line 4. As if he could feel your gaze, he looked up. And saw you. 

No wave, no wink—just a slow, knowing smile spread across his lips.

You blinked and stepped back from the window, heart fluttering in a strange way it hadn’t in a long time. Who even was this man? And how had he managed to get under your skin so completely, so quickly? You were dressing up, wearing lipstick, checking the window like some high school crush was picking you up for prom.

It was ridiculous. Stupid, even.

You grabbed your bag, took a breath, and headed downstairs before your brain had time to start asking too many questions.

He was still just a client. A persistent, maddeningly handsome client.

When you stepped out, he was still leaning against the passenger side door and just for a moment, he froze. No smirk. No teasing remark. Nothing prepared. His usual cool confidence seemed to falter as his eyes swept over you slowly and deliberately, like he wasn’t quite sure he was seeing you right.

“Wow,” he said quietly, straightening up a little and running a hand through his hair before letting out a breath. “You look…” He actually stopped to find the word—that alone felt suspicious. “…really beautiful.”

“Stop that.”

“Stop what? Being honest? Sorry, not tonight.”

Before you could say anything else, he was already opening the car door for you, one hand briefly touching the small of your back as you slid inside. Not in a sleazy way. More like it came naturally to him. Which made you almost forget to be annoyed by his presumption.

── ⟢ ・⸝⸝

Narisawa was exactly what you expected and somehow even more—the kind of place where the lighting was soft without being dim, where the air smelled faintly of thyme and something far more expensive, and where every detail felt carefully chosen to whisper, ‘you absolutely cannot afford this’.

Satoru had, of course, managed to get a table by the window, offering a view of the skyline that felt almost unreal. It was the kind of view that made the whole night feel like it belonged in a movie and made you almost forget this was technically a business dinner.

Conversation came easier than you’d expected. Over the first few courses—each one more art piece than meal, which made you feel slightly guilty about ruining it by eating it (I mean, who does that? Making such pretty food just for it to end up in a stomach?)—you talked about everything from your work as a designer and your favourite bands, to his tragic inability to make anything more complicated than instant noodles, and how he once almost made it into the national basketball team.

But what surprised you most was the way he asked about your art. He had a way of asking about that didn’t feel performative or polite. He was actually listening, not just waiting for his turn to talk.

“So, the third piece,” he said, slicing into what was probably the most perfectly cooked fish you’d ever tasted. “The one with the commuters—how do you get that sense of movement in a still frame?”

You paused. “You’ve been paying attention.”

“I told you—I’m interested in your process.”

“Most clients only ask when it’ll be done and how much it’ll cost.”

He smiled, lifting his wine glass. “I’m not most clients,” he said, echoing what he’d told you that first day at his headquarters.

For the next twenty minutes, you talked shop. Layering techniques, color and motion, how to evoke emotion without showing too much. He asked questions that actually made you think—sharp, specific ones that showed he wasn’t just nodding along to be polite. He was genuinely interested.

At some point, somewhere between your third course and your second glass of wine, you caught yourself relaxing. Laughing. Enjoying it. And then you paused and set your glass down.

“Can I ask you something?” you said, unsure why the question suddenly felt heavier than it should.

“Anything.”

“You really went through all this—the car, this restaurant, the whole dramatic dinner—just to talk about brushwork and layering techniques?”

He leaned back in his chair, fingers resting lightly against his glass as he searched for the right words. “I don’t know,” he said finally. “Maybe I just like you.”

“You like me?” you echoed, unsure if it was a question or a warning.

“Is that so hard to believe?”

“Kind of, yeah.” You fidgeted with your napkin. “I mean, you could be having dinner with a dozen other people tonight. Models. Actresses. CEOs’ daughters. People who don’t get paint on their shoes and give you a hard time.”

“Maybe that’s exactly why.”

Something shifted between you at his words. Like someone had turned the volume down on the room so you could hear each other better. You took a slow sip of wine, partly to buy time, partly to keep your expression neutral as you studied him across the table.

“So, you’re single then?” you asked. “Unless your girlfriend’s very cool with you taking strangers to fancy dinners.”

Satoru raised an eyebrow. “Are you asking if I have a girlfriend?”

“I’m asking if I should expect an angry phone call later.”

He laughed. “No angry phone calls. And yeah—I’m single.”

“Shocking,” you said. “A successful and attractive CEO who can’t keep a girlfriend? What’s the catch?”

“Maybe I’m just picky.”

“Or maybe you’re married to your work,” you teased. “Let me guess—canceled dates for board meetings, forgotten anniversaries because of some deadline?”

“That’s…” He paused, glancing down on his glass for a moment. “Actually, my last girlfriend cheated on me.”

Your smile slipped. “Oh. I didn’t mean to—”

“Don’t be sorry. She wasn’t the right one. If she had been, maybe she would’ve understood that building something that lasts takes time. And attention.”

“How long ago was that?”

“About two years.” He reached for his wine, swirling it once before taking a sip. “Haven’t really dated since then.”

“So, casual things?”

“More like burying myself in work. Honestly, the closest thing I’ve had to female company lately is my secretary. And she has this strangely strict voice that sounds exactly like my mother when she’s disappointed.”

You laughed, sharp and sudden, covering your mouth with your hand. It wasn’t even that funny, not really. But the way he’d said it—so dry, and slightly frightened—and the face he made, like a kid who’d just been scolded for wearing the wrong socks to a school recital, caught you completely off guard.

For a moment, he didn’t look like the CEO of a massive company or the man who moved literal billions without blinking. He looked boyish. Almost shy. Like he was letting you peek at something most people didn’t get to see. And somehow, that made it even funnier.

You tried to compose yourself, but your shoulders were still shaking as you dabbed at the corners of your eyes. “I’m sorry.”

He smiled as he watched you try to hold in your laughter. “I like when you laugh like that.”

“Like what?”

“Like you’re not thinking about how you look doing it.”

Something in the way he said it that made the humor settle into something softer, something that hangs in the air a little too long. Like neither of you wanted to be the one to move past it first.

“Well,” you said, trying to ignore the way your pulse had picked up, “your secretary sounds scary. I can see why you’d rather have dinner with me.”

“Among other reasons.”

Heat crept up your neck before you could stop it. You picked up your glass, needing the excuse to look away for a second. “Are you always this charming?” you asked, trying to sound casual, but your voice came out a little softer than intended.

“I’m trying,” he said. “With you.”

He said it like it wasn’t heavy at all. But it was. And you could feel it settle in your chest.

“Satoru…” you started, not even sure what was going to follow. But then the waiter showed up and set down the next course with a brief description you didn’t really hear because you only had eyes for him.

── ⟢ ・⸝⸝

Dinner had stretched well past ten, neither of you making any real effort to end the night. So when Satoru suggested a walk instead of heading straight to the car, you said yes.

The night had cooled off more than you expected, and you pulled your jacket a little tighter around your shoulders as the two of you wandered through the quiet streets near the restaurant. It had rained earlier, leaving the pavement slick and glistening under the streetlights. At one point, a small puddle stretched across the sidewalk, and before you could react, Satoru just scooped you up without a word and carried you over it like it was the most natural thing in the world. 

Maybe it was the warmth the wine had left in your chest, or maybe it was just the way his arms felt around you, steady and sure, but you let yourself lean a little closer against him before he set you down again on the other side. 

“That was unnecessary,” you said, trying to sound annoyed, though you didn’t make much effort to slip out of his arms.

“Maybe,” he replied with a grin, “but I’ve always wanted an excuse to do that.”

It felt good—being with him felt really good. The kind of good that made you forget to guard yourself. The kind that crept in quietly and made you wonder what it would be like to have more nights just like this.

You’d just rounded a corner into a small park when you heard soft violin music drifting through the air. You slowed, then stopped entirely. Just ahead, a street musician stood under the warm glow of a streetlamp, playing something slow and aching and beautiful.

You stood still and listened for a moment, a smal smile tugigng at your lips. 

“Dance with me,” Satoru said.

You turned to him. “What? No.”

“Why not?” He held out a hand.

You hesitated and looked around for a second. 

“You know, I won’t take ‘no’ for an answer.”

You surrendered and took his hand. “This is so stupid.”

He smiled, soft and sincere, and stepped in close. One hand found your waist, the other guiding yours up between you. His touch was warm, steady. Familiar in a way it shouldn’t be.

“You know,” you began, as he gently started to move. Not quite dancing, more like remembering how. “I usually don’t do this with clients.”

“Figures. I always suspected I was your favourite.”

“I wouldn’t say that,” you teased. “That other client of mine, a guy from an accounting firm is pretty smooth too.”

“Oh really? Did he buy you dinner at Narisawa and slow dance with you in the park?”

“Not yet.”

“I like when you try to mess with me.”

“I’m not trying. You just make it easy.”

He spun you gently, then pulled you back in, your hand pressed lightly to his chest. You could feel his heartbeat through the fabric of his dress shirt—too fast, like yours.

A few people passed, smiling without staring. It didn’t matter. You were too aware of his breath near your cheek, the weight of his palm at your back, the quiet between songs that didn’t feel like silence at all.

“You’re good at this,” you said softly.

“I only dance with people who make it easy.”

“That line would work better if your hands weren’t shaking a little.”

He leaned in closer, his breath gazing your ear. “So are yours.”

You swallowed, the closeness of him settling into your skin. You didn’t answer. Just let him hold you for a few more seconds, rain beginning to fall in light taps across your shoulders, your hair. And then he dipped you back gently, one hand firm behind you.

“Still think it’s stupid?” he asked.

Your breath caught as you stared up into those impossibly blue eyes, your back arching as he supported your weight effortlessly. The rest of the world faded away until there was nothing but him and the violin and the electric space between you.

“Yes,” you whispered. “Absolutely.”

“But?”

You hesitated, then let your fingers curl lightly around the front of his jacket. “But I don’t want it to stop.”

That’s when you felt the first raindrop hit your cheek.

His gaze flickered down to the raindrop on your skin, how it slowly run down, and for a second you could have sworn he looked at you lips. And maybe, just maybe you wished he’d kissed you but then the rain came heavier.

“That’s our cue.” But he didn’t move right away. His eyes stayed on you. 

Finally, he lifted you back up, drawing you close against his chest. You were both breathing hard, though you’d barely been moving. The rain was falling more steadily now, and you could see Satoru’s white hair beginning to darken with moisture.

“Home?” he asked, voice rougher now, like he wasn’t quite ready for the answer either.

You nodded, not trusting yourself to say anything without giving too much away. Because at some point, this had stopped feeling like dinner with a client. You weren’t sure when it changed—only that it had. And now everything felt a little too close, a little too important.

── ⟢ ・⸝⸝

When the car pulled up to your building, he was out and opening your door before you could reach for the handle yourself. Of course he was. Always one step ahead, always just… thoughtful in that maddening, disarming way.

“Thank you,” you said, stepping out into the quiet night.

“My pleasure.” 

The air smelled like wet pavement and something faintly floral from someone’s balcony. He walked you to your door, hands tucked into his pockets, eyes flicking toward the sky like he wasn’t quite ready to say goodnight either. 

You fumbled with your keys for a moment, buying time before the inevitable goodbye. The silence stretched, not tense, but full. Full of everything that had happened and everything that hadn’t.

When you finally turned to him, he was closer than you’d expected, close enough that you could see the way his white hair had dried in soft waves from the rain. He smelled faintly of wine and cedar and like someone you could spend the rest of your life with.

“I had a really good time tonight,” you said. “Thank you. For the dinner, the dancing, the completely unnecessary puddle rescue…”

He smiled, a little crooked, a little tired. “Even the terrible jokes?”

“Especially the terrible jokes. Though the stories of your secretary will probably haunt me tonight.”

“Oh, she haunts everyone,” he said. “She’s very scary.”

You both laughed, but the sound died down fast, like the moment had suddenly remembered it was trying to mean something else. His gaze dropped, if only for the briefest moment, to your lips. Your heart hammered against your ribs as you waited, hoping, expecting—

“I should let you get some sleep,” he said. But instead of stepping back, he stepped closer.

Your breath caught as his hand rose—slow, deliberate—coming to rest gently at the back of your head. But instead of the dreamy kiss you’d hoped for, he kissed your forehead. Not your mouth. Not even your cheek. Your forehead.

The kiss was soft, warm—overflowing with care. But not the kind you’d been waiting for. It was tender, almost reverent, and somehow, it left you feeling strangely hollow.

“Sleep well,” he murmured against your skin before pulling back. And then he turned—just like that—and walked back to the car. No glance over his shoulder. No hesitation. No second thought.

Inside your apartment, you leaned against the closed door, jacket still damp against your shoulders. You touched your forehead, where his lips had been. It had been sweet. Really, it had. Just… not what you’d expected. Not what you’d wanted.

You let your head fall back against the door with a soft thud. Why hadn’t he kissed you? Why would he do all that just to not... kiss you?

You’d been so sure. The way he’d looked at you over dinner. The way he’d held you during that ridiculous dance. The way it had all felt like a slow build to something. And you wanted that something.

But maybe that was the problem. Maybe you were just another commission to him after all, something to be handled with care but ultimately kept at arm’s length.

It shouldn’t have stung the way it did. But it did.

More than you cared to admit.

── ⟢ ・⸝⸝

Monday morning arrived under a gray drizzle that matched your mood a little too perfectly. You stepped into a puddle on the way out, got your umbrella stuck in a doorway because you’d forgotten it was open, and then someone on the subway sneezed directly in your direction. It was that kind of morning.

You’d spent the entire weekend replaying Friday night over in your head—every glance, every word, every fleeting gesture—until you’d nearly driven yourself mad with questions that had no answers.

And Aki was absolutely no help. She was already perched on your desk when you walked in, your usual coffee in one hand and dark circles under your eyes doing all the talking.

“Soooo… how was your fancy dinner?”

“It was fine,” you said, powering up your computer.

“Fine?” Mei materialized beside her like she’d been lying in wait for gossip. “That’s it? You go to Narisawa with the hottest CEO in Tokyo and all we get is fine?”

“It was a business dinner. We discussed the commission.”

“What kind of man gets you flowers that pretty just to talk about business?”

“A man who takes his commission very seriously.”

You could feel their stares burning into the side of your head.

“Come on,” Mei pressed. “Did he kiss you? He kissed you, didn’t he? I can tell by your face.”

“He didn’t kiss me.”

“Ah,” Aki said, with that stupid satisfaction of someone who’d just solved a puzzle. “So you wanted him to.”

You groaned and buried your face in your hands. “Can we please not?”

But of course, they were relentless, firing question after question at you about what you wore, what you ate, what he said, if there was a ‘vibe’—until you were actually grateful for that boring meeting before lunch with a client who always rejected your ideas, made you change them back and forth a dozen times, and inevitably circled back to the original design. As frustrating as that was, it still didn’t compare to what was coming later.

You had a meeting with Satoru after work to talk about delivery logistics—when to bring the artwork, how many pieces were ready. The commission was nearly complete, and a few canvases could be brought to his office already. But the thought of standing across from him again, making small talk about framing and placement, felt unbearable.

Not to mention figuring out how to get those giant canvases out of your apartment, which was now packed to the walls with drying paint, sketches, and so many drop cloths you’d basically lost your kitchen to the cause.

For weeks, this commission had felt like the best thing to happen to your career. But now, standing outside the gleaming tower that housed his office, you weren’t sure what to think anymore.

Was this just business to him? Had you imagined the connection, the tension, the way he looked at you like you were someone special? Maybe successful men like Satoru Gojo were just naturally charming, and you’d been naive enough to think it meant something more.

You straightened your shoulders and walked into the building. If he wanted professional, he could have professional. You had a job to do, no matter what kind of game your heart thought it was playing.

You raised your hand to knock on his office door—though really, there was no need. The walls were glass, and he’d already spotted you the second you moved. 

He was on the phone, his shoulder pinning it in place as he typed something on the laptop in front of him. With a slight nod of his head, he gestured for you to come in. And there it was again—that maddening smile. The one that made it look like his whole face lit up just from seeing you.

You stepped inside, lingering uncertainly near the door. He was still deep in conversation, something about a company merger and someone named Gerald being an absolut idiot, and how he might as well handle it himself. Always busy, it seemed. 

Satoru shifted the phone slightly and glanced at you. “Hey, you want coffee?”

You nodded and then he was back to his call. You wandered a little further into his office, taking in the space. It was always so tidy which felt strangely at odds with how chaotic his work seemed to be. You drifted toward the tall windows and looked down at the city below. In the gentle afternoon sun, people were rushing through the city—commuters heading home, students in uniform, ordinary lives unfolding far beneath you.

Satoru stood and walked over to you. He was close—Why would he come so close?—and placed a hand gently at your waist, a brief touch that lingered just long enough to make your breath catch. He pressed the phone to his chest for a moment. 

“Sorry for the wait,” he said, voice low. “I’m nearly done.” 

And then he was gone, stepping out of the office and leaving you reeling.

When he returned two minutes later, he had two mugs in one hand and a canned coffee tucked under his arm, balancing it all as he kicked open the door with his foot. Phone was still pressed between his shoulder and ear. He poured two cups and handed you a one, flashing you that easy smile of his.

You took a seat on the couch, sipping carefully and doing your best not to make eye contact. But you were sure he’d already noticed the flush creeping into your cheeks.

Finally, he hung up and let out a long sigh. 

“I’m so sorry. There’s this big merger we’re handling, and the guy in charge is like the biggest idiot I’ve ever met.”

“It’s okay.”

He ran a hand through his hair, sending it falling messily back over his forehead.

“No, it’s not. I don’t want to keep you waiting.”

“I bet that just comes naturally with being important.”

“I’m not that important,” he replied with a grin.

“The whole tower has your name on it. I’d say that qualifies.”

“What’s more important right now,” he said, standing and walking over to you, “is you.” He took the seat across from you. “So… how was your day? Treat you well?”

Why was he asking about your day now? What kind of game was he playing?

“It was fine. Monday’s not exactly my favorite.”

“Don’t get me started.” He laughed. “I hope at least your meeting went well?”

You blinked. He remembers? You’d mentioned it briefly during dinner.

“Oh, uh… yeah. It went okay,” you said. “But let’s talk about the commission. That’s why I’m here, right?”

He frowned, and there was a moment of silence. “Sure.”

You spent the next hour and a half going over the artwork—discussing placement, lighting, framing. He was enthusiastic and attentive, genuinely appreciative in a way that still surprised you, even now.

You moved through the headquarters together. Most people had gone home by then. The sun had already set, casting long shadows through the quiet halls. A few late workers lingered, but Satoru told them to go and rest and sent them home. And just like that, it was the two of you, walking side by side through the empty building, planning where each piece would live.

It was in one of the offices on the west side of the building—the ones with the perfect view of Tokyo Tower—that you found yourself on your tiptoes, trying to tape a placeholder on the wall for one of the larger pieces. You stretched, struggling to reach just high enough to get the angle right.

“Wait, let me.”

Before you could respond, Satoru was suddenly right behind you. He gently took the tape from your fingers, easily reaching over you to press it into place. His body hovered just a breath away, tall and warm.

“Thank you,” you said, suddenly flushed. But he didn’t move away. “You can step back now.” You didn’t dare turn around because if you did, you would end up facing his chest. And you really didn’t want to face his chest.

“Does this make you uncomfortable?”

“What kind of question is that?”

“I’m just checking in,” he said casually, like it was the most normal thing in the world to stand inches away from someone like this.

“You have a strange way of doing that.”

“I had a feeling.”

“About what?”

“You’re avoiding me.”

“I don’t.”

He reached out, fingers brushing your shoulder, and then slowly trailed the back of his hand down your arm. It sent a shiver down your spine that you hoped he didn’t notice.

“So this doesn’t bother you?” he asked, almost curious.

“Satoru, what’s your mission here?”

You finally turned to face him and regretted it immediately. You were much too close, nearly pressed against him. His white dress shirt did nothing to hide the muscle beneath, and you hated the fact that your first thought was how unfairly good he’d look without it.

“You’re blushing.” He reached out, gently cupping your chin and tilting your face up toward his.

“It’s hot.”

“It isn’t,” he said, and smiled.

He was right. It was around eighteen degrees. Damn these fancy offices and their perfectly functioning ACs.

“Can we go back to work? I’d rather not have a sleepover here.”

Satoru didn’t move. Instead, he leaned in closer, placing one hand against the wall beside your head, caging you in.

“You’re acting strange today,” he said softly.

“Maybe because you’re keeping me here.”

“Was I mistaken?”

“About what?”

“Our date.”

“What about it?”

His hand dropped from your chin. “I thought it was… good.”

You blinked, trying to read him. “It was—” you cleared your throat, “—it wasn’t just good. It was great.”

“Oh. Yeah… I think so too. Then why—”

“But you didn’t kiss me.”

His eyes widened just a little. “You… wanted me to kiss you?”

“I…” You hesitated, feeling your face getting even hotter then is already was. “Yes.”

“I thought I’d be a gentleman and take things slow. Are we actually kissing on first dates these days?”

“I mean… yeah. It depends—I guess, but…” You trailed off, absolutely flustered.

He paused for a beat, then that maddeningly smug grin spread across his lips.

“Don’t smile like that,” you said, pushing lightly against his chest.

“I’m sorry, I just… I didn’t want to rush things. I mean, my whole approach was already kind of—”

“Weird? Borderline stalker—” And then his lips were on yours, silencing your words. 

No hesitation this time. No uncertainty. You melted into him instantly, your fingers curling into the fabric of his shirt. 

His hands slid into your hair, fingers threading through the strands as he tilted your head back, deepening the kiss with a confidence that made your knees go weak. One hand traced the line of your jaw while the other found the small of your back, pulling you closer until not even air could fit between you.

You could taste the coffee on his lips, could feel the slight tremor in his hands that betrayed that he wasn’t as composed as he looked. When he pulled back, you were both breathless, foreheads pressed together under the dim lights.

“Still think this is just about the commission?” he asked, his thumb brushing gently across your bottom lip, now flushed and swollen from his kiss.

“Shut up.” And then you grabbed him by his tie and pulled him back to your lips.

This kiss was different. Hungrier. Needier. He pressed you back against the wall, one hand braced beside your head, the other tangled deep in your hair. You couldn’t stop the soft sound that escaped when he deepened it further, like you’d been waiting for this longer than you wanted to admit.

“What’s the hurry?” he whispered between kisses, his mouth trailing along your jaw.

“You made a whole-ass campaign to find me,” you said, breathless, your fingers twisted in his shirt. “Don’t back down now.”

His laugh was low and rough against your neck. “Fair point.”

Before you could answer, his hands slid down to your thighs, and suddenly you were being lifted, your back pressed firmly against the wall as he held you there effortlessly. Your legs wrapped around his waist, and the new position brought you eye-level with him, close enough to see just how dark his eyes had gone.

“Still too slow for you?” he asked against your throat, his breath warm on your skin.

“Getting there,” you managed, though your voice was shakier than you’d intended, your hands gripping his shoulders for balance.

“I do like a challenge.”

Without breaking the kiss, Satoru carried you across the floor into his office, your legs still wrapped around his waist, until he reached the leather couch by the windows. He lowered you both down, following you as you sank into the soft cushions, his weight settling over you as his hands framed your face.

“Much better,” he breathed against your lips.

His kisses deepened, slow and deliberate, like he had all the time in the world to explore the taste of you. One hand slid into your hair while the other traced the curve of your waist. 

“I hope you sent everyone home,” you said, fingers threading through his white hair as his mouth moved along your neck.

“Don’t worry. And besides—glass or not, the walls are soundproof. One of the perks of being CEO.”

“How convenient.”

“I thought so.” His teeth grazed the sensitive spot just beneath your jaw, making you gasp and arch beneath him. “Though I have to admit—I didn’t imagine using it like this when I had them installed.”

You tugged gently at his hair, bringing his mouth back to yours. “Then what did you imagine?”

“Boring conference calls,” he said between kisses. “Definitely not as interesting as this.”

The leather of the couch was cool against your back where your shirt had ridden up, highlighting the heat of his large hands as they explored the newly exposed skin. Outside, Tokyo shimmered in the night, but the only thing holding your attention was the man above you—the way he kissed you like he was memorizing every reaction, every breath, every soft sound you made.

“What makes you think I’m that loud?” you murmured against his mouth.

“Oh, I have a feeling.”

His hand drifted lower, fingers tracing the curve of your hip before skimming up the inside of your thigh. The touch sent a rush through your veins, making you gasp softly into his kiss.

“Satoru,” you whispered, fingers gripping the front of his shirt, pulling him closer as his touch grew bolder.

“I know.” His hand inched lower between your legs, while his lips kissed down your neck. “I hate waiting too.”

Then his hand slipped beneath the waistband of your jeans, chasing every bit of tension that had been building between you since that very first subway sketch. And as the lights of Tokyo glittered beyond the glass, the rest of the world fell away, leaving nothing but the heat between you—and the things neither of you could hold back any longer.

── ⟢ ・⸝⸝

Later, you lay tangled together on the leather couch, your head resting on his chest as his fingers traced lazy patterns along your bare shoulder. Everything had gone still, except for your breathing and the distant noise of Tokyo still awake outside.

“So,” Satoru said, his voice warm with amusement, “where exactly did we leave off with the commission?”

You lifted your head to look at him, a smile tugging at your lips. “Pretty sure we got distracted somewhere around placing the canvas in the west office block.”

“Ah, yes—the once perfect placement. Facing the window, not the door. ‘Omg, what was I thinking?’” he teased in a gentle mimic of your voice, his fingers tucking a strand of hair behind your ear. “For what I’m paying you, I really have no say.”

“Don’t blame this on me. You gave me full creative freedom. Or maybe you need better negotiation tactics.”

“My negotiation tactics are pretty solid,” he protested, his chest rumbling with quiet laughter beneath your cheek. “I got exactly what I wanted.”

“The art commission?”

“Among other things.” His arms tightened around you, drawing you closer. “Though I still think the pieces should face the door, so I can see them from the hallway when I pass that office.”

“Is that your professional opinion, Mr. CEO?”

“That’s my completely biased, utterly smitten opinion,” he said, pressing a kiss to the top of your head. “The CEO in me would probably have a lot to say about the productivity level of tonight.”

“Poor productivity indeed. We only managed to discuss half the rooms.”

“Terrible oversight.” His hand slid slowly down your back, caressing your hip. “We’ll have to schedule another meeting. Several, probably. Very intensive. Very hands-on.”

“Hands-on is definitely the way to go with this project,” you said, tilting your face up to meet his gaze, and the look he gave you was so tender it made your heart skip.

In one smooth motion, he flipped you beneath him again, his weight settling over you as his lips found yours. “I think we should continue our discussion right now,” he murmured, trailing kisses down your throat.

You were just beginning to melt into his touch when the sound of the office door opening made you both freeze.

“Oh fuck! I didn’t know you were still here,” a voice blurted.

You scrambled to grab Satoru’s shirt from the floor next to the couch and pulled it over yourself as you pressed back into the couch cushions. Thankfully, the back of the couch faced the door, giving you at least some cover, but your heart was hammering so hard you were sure whoever it was could hear it.

Satoru pushed himself up, running a hand through his messy hair, looking far too at ease for someone who’d just been caught in a very compromising position

“Suguru,” he said, voice calm and unbothered. “What’s up?”

“Don’t bother—I’m just looking for my laptop charger. I’ll leave.”

“It’s okay. We were just...” Satoru began, then seemed to realize there was no good way to finish that sentence. “...Having a meeting.”

You buried your face in your hands, mortified. Why the hell is he starting a conversation right now? This was not how you’d imagined your evening ending—almost naked on Satoru’s office couch, wearing only his shirt, while his colleague stood in the doorway looking for his goddamn laptop charger. 

The time you waited for the guy to get his charger were the most agonizing twenty second of your whole life and to your bad, Satoru wasn’t even the slightest bit ashamed.

Little did you know that Suguru would become one of your closest friends once you and Satoru were actually in a relationship. But every single birthday party or casual gathering, that story would come again. “Haha, did you know Suguru caught us on the couch?” Satoru would joke, while Suguru would groan, “Can we please never talk about that again?”

Six months later, the apartment Satoru found for the two of you was perfect in the way only he could manage—spacious enough for both of you to have your own creative corners and with big windows that caught the morning light beautifully and offered a stunning view of the city skyline. It was nestled just across from a quiet park where the trees already turned gold for autumn.

But it was the room he’d turned into your art studio that brought you to tears the first time you saw it. Windows that faced the north for consistent lighting, spacious storage for your materials, and enough wall space to work on several large canvases at once.

“You didn’t have to do all this,” you’d said, running your fingers along the custom easel he’d installed.

“I wanted to,” he’d replied simply, wrapping his arms around you from behind. “I want to see what you create when you have all the space and time in the world.”

You’d cut your hours at Takahashi Media Group down to part-time—something that would’ve been financially impossible before Satoru. But the commission for his headquarters had led to three more corporate projects, and suddenly, you had enough steady work to support yourself as an artist. Real work. Meaningful work. Not just subway sketches—though you still did those too. Now, Satoru sometimes joined you on weekend train rides, amused by the way strangers reacted to receiving unexpected portraits.

Your mornings became a rhythm of coffee in bed while he read financial reports and you sketched ideas for new pieces. After the third time he found you passed out over a canvas at 2 AM, having forgotten to eat dinner, he installed a espresso machine in your studio. Now, he’d show up with perfectly crafted lattes and whatever takeout he’d ordered, settling into the window seat with his laptop while you painted—taking calls with investors in Tokyo, New York, and London, all while keeping an eye on you and making sure you don’t overwork yourself again.

“You know I can hear you smiling through the phone,” you’d tease after he hung up from his calls.

“Can’t help it,” he’d say. “I’ve got the most beautiful view in the city right here.”

The subway sketches evolved too. Instead of giving them all away, you started keeping some—the ones that captured something more, moments that felt like little revelations about people, about life. Satoru convinced you to include them in a group exhibition at a gallery in Shibuya. The opening night was small and intimate, but watching people connect with your work in a way they never had when you were just handing out drawings on trains felt like validation of everything you’d been trying to do.

“This feels like coming full circle,” Satoru whispered into your ear as you both watched guests study your pieces, his hand resting warmly at the small of your back.

“From stalking me through my art to displaying it properly?”

“From falling in love with your work… to falling in love with you,” he corrected. And even after months of dating, after hearing him say those words more times than you could count, they still made your heart skip.

Suguru became an unexpected constant in your life too. What began hella awkward slowly turned into real friendship. And the three of you fell into an easy routine of weekend dinners and spontaneous museum visits, Suguru often playing the role of best friend and occasional voice of reason when Satoru’s grand romantic gestures got out of hand.

Which happened more often than you’d expected. Like the time he rented out an entire floor of a restaurant because you’d wanted to eat there but hated crowded rooms. Or when he bought a whole flower shop’s worth of peonies because you’d mentioned loving them once. Or the morning you woke up to find the city’s best sushi chef—apparently an old friend of his, because Satoru seemed to know everyone in this goddamn town—preparing breakfast in your kitchen, just because you’d been craving good fish.

“You know you don’t have to keep trying to impress me,” you told him after each increasingly excessive gesture. “I already said yes to moving in with you.”

“I’m not trying to impress you. I’m trying to spoil you. There’s a difference.”

The truth was, it was the small things that meant the most. The way he’d automatically order your coffee when you were running late, or how he’d text you photos of interesting architecture from whatever city he was traveling through, or the fact that he’d learned to distinguish between your different paintbrushes and how to clean them properly when you forgot. 

He even kept a sketchbook of his own now, filled with terrible but enthusiastic drawings of you working, cooking, sleeping, just existing in the space you’d built together.

Your family adored him, of course. Your mother immediately started calling him her ‘second son’ after a chaotic family dinner he’d attended—which, by the way, you always thought was kind of weird. Like, why would parents call him their ‘son’ when he was spending every other night between your thighs?—Still, he charmed everyone with stories about his work, genuine interest in your father’s completely ordinary job and about your cousins’ college applications—and even remembered your aunt’s dog’s name. He always brought the perfect wine to pair with whatever your mom was cooking, and never forgot a birthday.

The subway sketches and posters that had started everything found a permanent home in the hallway of your shared apartment. A dozen framed moments that told the story of your work and your relationship. The original sketch you’d given him on that crowded train of Line 4 hung proudly in his office at work, right next to his desk where everyone could see it.

“That’s where it all started,” he’d say whenever anyone asked. “Best investment I ever made.”

Three years later, when Satoru proposed during one of your morning train rides—getting down on one knee right there in the subway car where you first met, causing a scene that had fellow passengers cheering and taking pictures—you realized that sometimes the best love stories start with the smallest gestures. 

A sketch handed to a stranger. A poster campaign that was equal parts romantic and unhinged. A decision to be brave enough to call a number written on a business card.

And every morning, as you watched the city wake through the studio’s windows while Satoru hummed in the kitchen, probably checking market reports with one hand and making your coffee with the other, you couldn’t help but smile at how beautifully imperfect it all was. How your once carefully ordered life had been turned upside down by a man with white hair and the kind of heart that didn’t know how to love in small doses.

“Still think I’m weird?” he’d ask sometimes, appearing in your studio doorway with a mug of coffee and that same grin that had made your knees weak the very first time.

“The weirdest,” you’d always reply, taking the coffee—and the kiss that came with it. “But you’re my weird. And I love you.”

“I love you more,” he’d say, leaning down to kiss your forehead.

And that, you’d learned, made all the difference.

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author's note — wait ! before you go ! if you enjoyed this story, i’d be forever grateful if you’d consider gifting me a few minutes of your time to participate in a research survey for my master’s thesis in psychology <3 (am i shamelessly using my reach to gather primary data ? yes. yes i am. and i have no regrets.)

here's the link.

it’s completely anonymous, but just a heads-up: the survey touches on nightmares and emotional wellbeing, so it may be sensitive for some. please feel free to stop at any point if it doesn’t feel right for you.

other than that, thank you so much for reading !! i hope you enjoyed the story. i need provider!satoru gojo so bad like ugh but instead i’m stuck in higher education trying to become my own provider. send help :')))

wishing you all the soft chaos you deserve. take care <3

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@beaniesayshi

Caleb’s voice echoes from the bathroom, breaking you out of your thoughts. “How many body lotions does one person need?”

You roll your eyes but don’t respond immediately. Instead, you smooth the fabric of his shirt between your fingers before placing it on a hanger in your closet. Then you go to the bathroom.

You lean on the doorway, crossing your arms, “You’re not being a very pleasant house guest with comments like that.”

He’s standing in the shower, placing his travel size toiletries in one corner, his back turned to you. “And you’re not bein’ a very nice host for making your guest sleep on the sofa.”

You roll your eyes again.

This was your idea. That’s what you remind yourself as you watch Caleb settle into your space like he’s always belonged there. You were the one who matched your vacation days with his, and invited him to stay here instead of a hotel.

It made sense. You hadn’t seen much of each other since he came back, just a few meetups here and there, a handful of nights at his place. But now, for the first time in what felt like years, neither of you had somewhere else to be.

The sight of him here, snooping around your bathroom after setting down the toiletries you know he’ll use up in a day before inevitably stealing half of yours, warms your heart. When you’re like this - so close to him, grabbing his wrist to drag him out of the bathroom because ‘why are you inspecting every corner, you’re so weird!’  - and when he lets out that impish chuckle as he says ‘but I need to get acquainted with my vacation place.’ - it feels like nothing has changed.

Like there are no threats in the shadows. Like both of you haven’t lost a little light in your eyes.

But you have.   

And now, watching him here, so effortlessly at home in your space, you’re not sure if it’s comforting or bittersweet.

⋆｡ ‧˚ʚ🍎ɞ˚‧｡ ⋆

Time quickly passed while helping him unpack and putting away his stuff, and now it’s already dinnertime and you’ve worked up an appetite. You glance, from where you’re sitting on the sofa, at Caleb who’s rolling up his sleeves before opening your fridge. Before he can ask you anything, you stand up and start walking towards the coat rack.

“Since I am such a gracious host,” you begin, earning Caleb’s attention and he turns to you, “I’ve decided to spare you of your cooking duties on your first day – “

“It’s dinnertime.” Caleb intercepts, with a mock offence in his voice.

You ignore him. “We’re going to one of my favorite places to eat.”

He closes the fridge and turns to you, crossing his arms. “That is too vague. Do I need to change and wear something fancy? Is it your treat?”

“Do you want to come or not?”

“Sure!”

You toss him his jacket and when you reach for your purse you remember something. “Oh, wait – I got you something.”

You dig into your purse and pull out a brand-new lip balm, holding it up with a triumphant look. Caleb eyes it, then sighs.

“You’re so thoughtful. Thanks.” His flat tone as he accepts it makes you grin.

“It’s extra moisturizing so I don’t have to keep looking at your dry lips.”

He doesn’t miss a beat. “Oh? Why do you want to keep staring at my lips?”

Heat spreads across your face instantly. You immediately look away, mumbling, “I’m not staring.”

He hums, unscrewing the cap as he tilts his head. “What was that, pipsqueak?”

You exhale sharply, ignoring him. But the moment he swipes the balm across his lips, with orange glow of sunset spilling over his face, you can’t help but steal a glance. And you just know he catches it. But, for once, he doesn’t tease. He just smirks knowingly.

You grab your jacket a little too quickly. “Let’s go.”

He doesn’t say anything, just follows, still smirking as he tucks the lip balm into his pocket.

⋆｡ ‧˚ʚ🍎ɞ˚‧｡ ⋆

By the time the two of you return to your apartment, you feel sleep already overtaking you. The dinner turned into wandering around some shops, then you had smoothies, then Caleb insisted walking around more to burn off calories. Usually, an evening like that wouldn’t be so tiring if you didn’t spend the whole day cleaning and tidying up, and then picking him up at the train station. And there were these waves of butterflies in your stomach, that would appear whenever you thought of him. It was draining, and frustrating.

But not confusing.

You thought those feelings had disappeared. You really did. But as the years passed and you started a new life here—new city, new people, new experiences—you told yourself you’d moved on. You had to.

A heavy sigh leaves your lips as you fluff up his pillow after slipping it inside a fresh and clean pillowcase. You already took a shower, stole one of his baggy shirts and paired them with pajama shorts and fuzzy socks. While he’s in the bathroom, you decided to set up the bedding on the sofa, since you’re sure he must be tired as well, even if he’s not showing it. As always.