rye 𝜗𝜚

he noticed it immediately: in the way your shoulders drooped as you stepped through the door tonight. in how you held him like someone whose bones hurt from just existing. the exhaustion radiating off you in quiet waves.

“hey… rough day?” he asked, already wrapping his arms around your waist, tucking you against his chest like he always does when he knows you're unraveling.

you hummed into his shirt too tired to speak, resting your head above his heart. he held you like that for a while, saying nothing, just gently rubbing circles into your back with his thumbs.

he noticed you hadn’t done your routine the past couple nights. and not because you forgot, but because you didn’t have it in you. and it breaks his heart, quietly, because he knows how much those little things mean to you. he knows how not doing them makes you feel worse.

and more importantly: when you’re upset with yourself, you don’t let him kiss you as easily. you turn away, mumble something about your skin, and that. that’s what hurts the most.

so he came up with a plan. a theory, really.

if he does the routine with you, right beside you, maybe it’ll feel less heavy. more fun. and if your mood lifts, maybe you'll let him kiss you again. win-win.

so when you’re still clinging to him in the dim light of the entryway, he leans down and presses a kiss to your hair.

“how about we do your skincare together tonight?” he murmurs.

you blink up at him. “...together?”

he smiles. “yeah. side by side. me, following your lead. think of it as a little couples activity.”

your eyes narrowed. “you mean you want to use my toner.”

“i mean i want to wash my face beside the love of my life and get kisses after. yes.”

and you’re already laughing, already melting, because you know how stubborn he gets when he’s decided something is the solution.

so you let him pull you to the bathroom, flick the light on, roll up both your sleeves. he puts on one of your spa headbands the one with bunny ears without shame. you grab another one for yourself.

he watches closely as you wet your face. mimics you exactly when you lather up the cleanser.

“gentle circles,” you instruct. “you’re not scrubbing the sink, kento.”

“noted,” he says dryly, but softens his touch.

you rinse together, side by side, making a bit of a mess with the water. he hands you your toner, then pours some into his own palm, copying your dabbing motion.

“is this doing anything?” he asks, and you catch his reflection in the mirror. his usual sharp features a little flushed, damp skin glowing, expression sincere.

“it’s hydrating,” you reply. “and cute. seeing you like this.”

he huffs a soft laugh and bumps your hip with his. “don’t mock me. i’m making an effort.”

you go step by step. serum next, then moisturizer. you guide him through the amounts, the motions, and he listens like it’s the most important meeting of his life.

he’s a little clumsy, a little too focused, but he’s also warm. steady. present. and the bathroom suddenly feels like a sanctuary. not just a space for routine, but for togetherness.

by the time you’re patting the last bit of cream into your skin, your mood has lifted, your body no longer feels so heavy. you turn to him, finally relaxed, and lean in with a smile.

“you did a good job.”

he tilts his head, just slightly. “so... do i get my kiss now?”

you roll your eyes, but your hands are already curling into his shirt pulling him down for a kiss. you kiss him slowly, sweetly, your lips soft and freshly moisturized. he exhales against your mouth, arms circling your waist again, and you feel him smile.

and later that night, tucked into bed with your cheek against his chest and your skin glowing in the soft light, he thinks maybe he’ll start doing skincare with you more often.

not because he needs it, but because you do. and loving you means meeting you in the places where you care for yourself… even if it means wearing bunny ears and dabbing toner like a fool.

he’d do it a thousand times over if it meant you’d smile like that again

but you barely got through half the sentence before he’d elbowed you in the gut like a reflex, leaving you doubled over. (you get him back by dumping the contents of his bottle, unfortunately plain water, over his head.)

you notice it on your very first date, too.

you’re sitting opposite each other in the quiet booth of one of those cosy, rustic cafes — hanging lights and potted plants and brick walls and the like — doe-eyed and wobbly-kneed teenagers, head spinning with each other’s presence and the wafting scent of bakery goods, shooting startled glances towards the door every now and then in fear of someone from school walking in.

conversation flows like water over a rocky riverbed — that is to say, it’s flowing, but bumpy; jilted. you’ve been to cafes together dozens of times. you’ve hung out at each other’s houses, walked to school together, put each other into headlocks. you’ve never been on a date together. obviously.

it should be easy, and if you squinted you could pretend things were the same as they’d always been, but that’s the thing: it was different. and, god forbid, but you had to say it — it was awkward.

when the waiter came to take your order she had a glint in her eye you really weren’t a fan of, as if she had the audacity to think she knew exactly what was going on here. 

“drinks?” she’d added smarmily.

“nothing for me, thanks.”

suga cleared his throat. “um, can i have the… hot chocolate?”

and just like that, the tension was broken. maybe it was the way you guffawed so raucously that the waiter practically fled the table, or how koushi'd viciously thrown one of those single-use wooden spoons at your face (he missed, by a lot) and unconvincingly threatened to stand you up. the momentum of your bickering carried you right to the shores of ordinary conversation, and from then on you were floating on cloud nine. to your everlasting delight, after all that, the hot chocolate turned out to be sickeningly, inedibly sweet.

so when sugawara koushi comes home from work with lines under his eyes and a weight on his shoulders — when his voice is a touch gravelly, words slow — when he kisses you briefly and spends double the time in the shower — the alarm bells in your head kick into overdrive.

and you know exactly what to do.

milk. cocoa powder. you heat it up on the stove, whisk it till its fluffy, whisk it some more. melt in a whole row of dark chocolate, add a touch of cinnamon, pour it into his favourite mug. float the marshmallows in the rich liquid, drown it in a ton of sprinkles, and blow a kiss over it for good luck because god help you but this better be the best hot chocolate you’ve made in your whole entire life.

he’s fresh out of the shower by the time you’re done, bundled up on the bed in his comfort hoodie with The Fluffy Blanket and that’s how you know things are really bad. there's probably a grade schooler out there that needs a good talking to. possibly a slap but that's neither here nor there.

you knock on the doorframe with your free hand as you enter, carefully balancing his mug in the other.

“delivery, kou,” you say softly as you near the edge of the bed. a bit of lilting cheer to your tone, but no coercion for him to return the same; no pressure for an explanation. a sort of, i can put it on the bedside table and leave if you need me to.

koushi opens his mouth to speak, then closes it. with a cacophony of rustling fabrics he sits up on the mattress and takes the mug from you, cradling it in his hands. stares at it for a second, then three, then ten, like he’s never heard of the concept of hot chocolate before. takes a tentative sip.

bursts into tears.

well, maybe you’re exaggerating, but only a little. his eyes well up. his face flushes. he gives the most pathetic little sniffle you’ve ever heard.

“i haven’t had this in so long,” he sniffs, a sentiment which seems to bring a fresh round of emotion and yeah, now he’s crying.

poor baby.

you pry the mug from his hands and rest it on the bedside table before climbing up onto the bed and promptly suffocating him under your full weight — his idea of a hug. face buried in his neck, you can feel the shakiness of his breaths underneath you. when he’s calmed down a little, his arms battle several layers of blankets to come up around you, completely squeezing the air out of your lungs (lucky you’re used to it).

“you’re literally,” he says, “the best. thank you.”

“i love you too,” you say with a fond sigh, clambering off him to sit cross-legged by his knee. “now finish the damn thing.”

he rolls his eyes — a little red, a little swollen — as he half-sits up, reaching for the mug. “yeah, yeah.” 

the drink practically disappears into him. there one minute and gone the next. absolutely vaccuumed up, like he’s a black hole. it’s a great feat of mankind, a display of tenacity and skill, leaving you in awe, and also more than a little concerned that it’s burned his tongue.

“how does it taste?” if he’s even managed to taste it with how fast it went down.

he’s silent for a moment, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, then — “hmm…”

you’re not a fan of the scheming look on his face, which you’re only able to process for a fleeting moment before he kisses you.

yeah, he thought he was real smooth with that one. at least at the end of it, you can say for certain you make a damn good hot chocolate. 

you hope you get to keep making them for many, many years more.

i was sposed to publish this 2 wks ago but i didnt cus i didnt like it.

i still dont like it but i hate looking at it languishing away in my drafts even more so here we are ... putting this on queue ... begone. feeling like a #real writer

check out my upcoming suga x reader series left right & setter its gonna b goated whenever i actually write the rest of it

masterlist

notes: so very extremely self-indulgent, post-gym day 2 and lord! standing and sitting down hurts like a mf

taglist: open (link to form) @ottocre @mayyhaps @stars4pais @snowmirth @xoxojisu

@angelhqlo1111

“Oh, please. You love me.”

“Not yet,” he said, which was the biggest lie in Tokyo.

*-*

You’re sitting on couch, both of you cross-legged, knees bumping, a takeout container of dumplings between you. He’s in that rolled-sleeves, loosened-tie, glasses-askew look that you swear he must have patented. You’re in your usual state of absolutely annoying the shit out of him.

“Ken,” you say, voice syrup-sweet, chopsticks in the air like a conductor, “what if you were a worm.”

He doesn’t look up from dipping a dumpling in soy sauce. “We’ve been dating for—what—six days, and this is what you’re starting with?”

“No, answer me. Would you still love me if I was a worm.”

He chews, deliberately slow, swallows, wipes his mouth. “You would be dead in a week.”

“RUDE.”

“I’m not dating livestock.”

You gasp, shove him in the shoulder. “A worm is not livestock, you capitalist pig.”

He just hums. “You’d probably be one of those invasive earthworms ruining the ecosystem.”

“Wow,” you say, leaning back. “First you call me livestock, then invasive. Romance isn’t dead.”

“Not yet,” he murmurs, and his mouth twitches like he’s trying not to smile.

*-*

The thing about dating Nanami after years of friendship is: you don’t ease into it. It’s like being handed the keys to a vault you’d been rattling for years, only to find out he’d been standing on the other side the whole time, holding them, waiting for you to figure it out.

You’d been through the drunk texts, the 3AM ramen runs, the “come over and help me put together this IKEA bookshelf” but really it was just a ploy to spend six hours in his presence while he muttered about cheap screws.

You’d been through that time you stole his sweater “as a joke” and he just… let you keep it. You still have it, Chairman Meow has decided it’s his property now.

*-*

“Why do you have two bottles of wine open?” Nanami asks one night, eyebrows creased, as he stands in your kitchen like a judgmental statue.

“One’s red, one’s white.”

“Why?”

“In case I feel like making bad decisions,” you say, pouring yourself a glass of each. “Do you want—?”

“No.”

“Coward.”

*-*

You’re in bed one morning, limbs tangled, the sunlight filtering through blinds. Chairman Meow is sitting on Nanami’s chest like a bowling ball, kneading at his ribs.

“I think he’s plotting my death,” Nanami says, voice low.

“He’s just saying good morning.”

“He’s crushing my lungs.”

“Love hurts,” you mumble into his shoulder.

*-*

And then there’s Shibuya.

Crowds like tides. Screams like the air’s been ripped open. You and Nanami are back-to-back, breath ragged, cursed energy bleeding through the air like radiation.

And then Mahito.

That smile like a split fruit, the kind that rots sweet.

You see it before Nanami does — the movement, the angle. You don’t think. You move.

And then —

nothing.

No pain. No air. Just a crushing, breaking, ending. Your body folds in on itself like paper in flame. And you’re gone before you can even hear him call your name.

And the worst part?

Nanami doesn’t remember how the fight ends.

Doesn’t remember what he does to Mahito, only that it’s not enough.

What he remembers is the smell — ozone, dust, something metallic.

What he remembers is looking down and finding nothing. Not even the comfort of a body to grieve over.

Only the empty air where you’d been standing.

*-*

There was nothing left.

No body to bury. No hand to hold. Just… absence.

Nanami stood in the ruins of that day with blood in his mouth and your name on his tongue, and for the first time in years, he didn’t know what to do. He had always been a man of quiet precision—wake, work, rest. He could solve any problem if he thought about it long enough. But there was no way to undo this. There was no version of the world where you were still in it.

And so—he went to your apartment.

*-*

Your apartment smells like you, which is almost worse.

Nanami stands in the doorway for a long time, his hand still on the knob, like if he doesn’t step in, it won’t be real.

Your apartment is a mausoleum that hasn’t been told it’s a mausoleum yet. The air still believes in you. The light still lands like you’re here to catch it.

Nanami stands in the doorway too long, his hand pressed against the frame as though it’s holding him up. There’s that faint, stubborn scent of you—something warm, faintly citrus, undercut by the ghost of whatever perfume you wore when you wanted to feel dangerous. It clings to the fabric of the couch, to the folds of the curtains, to the sweater Chairman Meow has claimed as his new throne.

He steps in, and the floor creaks, and for one terrible, dizzying moment, he almost says your name out loud—because it feels like if he calls for you now, you might answer. Not the real you, maybe, but some echo stitched into the walls.

The living room is exactly as you left it: a half-drunk glass of water on the coffee table. The book you were reading, face-down, mid-sentence, the page forever bent. Some pairs of your shoes kicked off by the door, one slightly toppled like you’d been in a hurry.

Nanami moves like a man wading through an underwater city. Each step is resistance. Every object is a relic, demanding worship. He doesn’t touch anything at first—only looks. Looks until his vision blurs. Looks until his throat burns.

He thinks about how the last time he was here, you had laughed at him for bringing over neatly folded laundry “like a suburban housewife,” and he had kissed you just to shut you up. That memory hovers in the corner of the room like smoke, and he almost chokes on it.

In your bedroom, the bed is unmade. The pillows are uneven, the blanket a crooked wave. Nanami sits down on the edge, careful not to disturb the dip where you used to sleep, as if the imprint is something fragile that could dissolve if he touches it wrong.

He stares at your side of the bed until his eyes ache, until he can almost convince himself you’ve just gotten up to make coffee. But then the truth floods in, black and choking: there’s no body to bury. No bones. No hands he can hold cold and lifeless. Mahito didn’t just kill you—he erased you. He took the geography of you, the weight of you, the sheer audacity of your being alive, and turned it into nothing.

It’s not absence. It’s theft. And it feels like blasphemy.

Chairman Meow jumps onto the bed, tail curling like a question mark, and Nanami almost breaks apart at the sound of his small, demanding meow. The cat doesn’t know. He’s still looking around the apartment like you might walk in at any moment, calling him a bastard for scratching the furniture.

“You’ll stay with me now,” Nanami says, voice low, like he’s talking through glass. “I… I’ll try to keep your routine.”

The words are strange in his mouth, because there’s no one here to answer them.

Chairman Meow chirps back, as if asking what was wrong. And Nanami's eyes blur. How was he supposed to do this?

He starts moving through the apartment with his hands. Folding things. Sorting. The mechanical rhythm is supposed to keep him from thinking, but every drawer is a wound. A t-shirt with a stain from that one night at the ramen place when you—laughing too hard—spilled broth all over yourself. A hair tie curled in the corner of the bathroom sink. Your handwriting on a scrap of paper that reads: buy milk.

Each discovery is small enough to fit in his palm, and large enough to crush him.

The grief isn’t loud. It doesn’t wail. It doesn’t shatter glass. It sits in his lungs like wet cloth, pulling at his breath, heavy and damp and unyielding. He carries it from room to room like a bad habit.

At night, he lies in his own bed and cannot stop biting your name in half between his teeth. He says it silently, over and over, until it feels less like a name and more like a prayer, or a curse, or a mouthful of blood.

He thinks of the title of some poem you once read to him—And death shall have no mercy, and I’ll only have your name in my mouth—and wonders if you knew, somehow, that this would be his life.

There is no grave to visit. No shrine to stand before. Only the everyday objects you left behind, pressed into his hands like unwanted blessings.

Nanami dreams of you constantly—sometimes the exact shape of you as you were, sometimes something blurred and faceless that still feels like you. He wakes up reaching across the sheets, hand clawing at the dark, sure for a moment that he can catch you if he moves fast enough.

He took the cat home with him of course. Bought the food brand you always used, the toys you liked to watch him play with. Sat on the couch with Chairman Meow in his lap and stared at the wall for hours.

It took weeks of adjustment, Chairman had realised you were gone for good, and had been depressed for some time, to the point that Nanami had to bring him to the vet. Multiple times.

Grief was not loud for him.

It was quiet. It was the ache of waking up and reaching for you and finding cold sheets. It was the way his chest tightened every time his phone lit up, because some stupid, hopeless part of him thought maybe—maybe—it was you.

He’d go to say something and remember you weren’t there to hear it. He’d hear a joke and think, she would have liked that. He’d walk past your favorite café and keep going because the thought of walking in without you was unbearable.

And death shall have no mercy, he thought. Because it hadn’t. It had been greedy. It had taken you without warning, without fairness, without even letting him hold your hand one last time.

And all he had left was your name.

And every night, before sleep took him, he would whisper your name. Just your name. As if keeping it in his mouth would keep you in the world a little longer.

But the morning always comes. And he is still here. And you are still not.

The world, in its cruel and ordinary way, keeps going.

A/N: hope you liked it! i hated writing this! yippie!

Masterlist

dragging his right hand across the side of his face, it takes every nerve in his body to not flinch. the right side of his face is completely scarred, blisters of darkened skin bumpy against the callouses of his hands, the skin still tender and raw to the touch. there's a long gash running from his shoulder to his lower waist, the cut healed but having left a permanent red line across his body. the fingers on his right hand won't extend all the way, and his vision often fades in and out of his right eye.

the first day back from the hospital had been brutal. as not only had the physical toll of the injuries had made daily life impossible, but the mental weight of carrying these injuries in public made him self-conscious.

children turned around in fear. grandmothers frowned. young boys shouted names.

and worst of all, nanami couldn't bear to look at himself. he covered all the mirrors in his room. closed all the curtains in his apartment. and stopped looking at his reflection when passing by tall, glassy buildings.

quitting the life of a sorcerer had been easy - no one had argued with him, not after what he'd survived - but he hadn't moved on.

he was stuck.

unmoving, hopeless, and tired.

=====================

if there was one tradition nanami still forced himself to do (albeit in a ball cap and mask), it was to gather his morning coffee outside. it'd be too early and too busy for most people to stop and stare at him, and nanami had expertly figured out the quietest route that led to the corner coffee store he was a regular at.

today is no different. he rises before the sun does, feels around in the dark for his pre-selected clothes (not that he wears anything different each day), and forces himself out the door. it's chilly, a slight breeze running down his back between the gaps of his leather jacket, as he walks down the quiet tokyo streets.

a dog barks in the distance. a single taxi driver drives down the empty street. the wind rustles through the fall foliage.

it's quiet. and it's the only time he isn't thinking about the hopelessness of the world.

but when he turns the corner and sees that his usual coffee place is closed, he nearly throws a fit. his left eye twitching in anger, he manages to read the small print next to the door handle: 'closed early for public holiday weekend!'

sighing, he shoves his hands back into his jeans and is about to give up and go back home when-

a woman steps out from a store two blocks down, the clicking of her boots alerting him as to her presence. he watches as you smooth your apron down, carefully positioning the sign to be visible from all angles, before disappearing back into the cafe. walking closer to the new sign set out on the street, nanami can see a cute drawing of a croissant with legs and in your handwriting the words: 'new cafe open! complimentary croissant for every coffee ordered.'

through the glass door he can see your nervous expression as you fiddle with a flower vase on the counter, constantly turning the pot in a million different directions. there's something so... simple and innocent to your worry, nanami ponders. with the way your brows scrunch up in concentration and the sunlight reflects a halo on your hair, his feet carry him forward without him thinking.

the ringing of the bell as he opens the door wakes him up to what he's just done.

you look up from the vase, not having expected the front door to ring, only to be met with a tall blonde figure staring down at you. despite his mask covering half of his face, you can tell that he has a sculpted jaw and proportionate, sharp features. his brown eyes twinkle in worry, but they're soft, crinkling at the edges and there's something devastatingly endearing in the way he awkwardly shuffles in front of your gaze as if he's not good looking enough to be a model.

"my apologies. i assume you're not open yet?" he says, sheepishly, already regretting having stepped inside.

you blink at him, because technically you're not open yet, but you're not about to turn away your first customer.

"oh no! uh, we're open! i mean, technically everything's been set out and i did already put the sign outside so that means we're open!" you ramble, nervously referring to your surroundings. the espresso machine is hissing hot behind you, the pink marble counter tops sparkling with a display of an assortment of pastries, and the collection of mismatched postcards and pop posters lining the walls. you'd only finished gluing down the removable letters for the wall menu a few minutes ago, and you're so glad you did as the handsome stranger stares at the wall.

"in that case, if it wouldn't be a bother... could i please get a flat white?" he nervously asks, stepping closer to the counter so you could hear him. your eyes are soft, glistening like pebble stones on the shoreline of a lake, and it makes his skin feel prickly and hot.

"yes, of course! iced or hot?"

"hot please."

"what kind of milk would you like?" you hum, typing in his order on the ipad. you notice out of the corner of your eyes that his shoulders have begun to relax, his body finally easing into the conversation.

"well, what kinds of milk do you have?"

"oh. duh." you slap yourself on the face, shaking your head sideways. "i should've mentioned that! we have oat, soy, coconut, almond, whole and semi-skimmed."

you smile at him so bright it's blinding, the kind that feels like the force of a million suns shining at once, and it's hard to not feel the edges of his own lips lifting at the way you're grinning from ear to ear.

"could i get it with oat milk, please?" he asks, whilst you nod and input his order.

"that'll be 400 yen please."

whilst nanami taps his card on the machine to pay, you hum to yourself as you prepare his coffee. your white skirt flows behind you as you pace from one end of the store to another, opening fridges, grinding the last of the coffee beans, pressing it into the portafilter, and locking it into the machine to brew. your head disappears from view for a few moments as you pull out the trays of freshly baked croissants from the back, your hands carefully handling the tongs to transfer the pastry into a neat paper bag with a smiling croissant on the front.

hastily, you put in another croissant inside before fetching the coffee for the man, a nervous smile on your face as you pass over the items.

"there you go, a flat white and complimentary croissant."

"thank you. though, you didn't have to give me two." he shyly adds, his fingers brushing against yours when he accepts it, his heart suddenly being flushed with warmth.

you shrug at his comment, hair falling into your eyes which you brush away with a sugar-dusted hand.

"you're my first customer ever..." you pause, eyes lifting in a way to subtly ask for his name.

he nearly stutters over his words with how eager he is.

"nanami. nanami kento."

".... nanami san. it was only fair that i give you more than one."

"well..." it's his turn to pause and raise his eyebrows, quietly asking for your name. your glossy lips part, as if you're surprised, and you dart your eyes away from his gaze that makes his heart burst with affection.

"please call me (y/n)."

you're not sure why you're even giving him your first name upon first meeting, but you're so glad you did when you see how his entire face lights up at your response.

his cheekbones rise and his eyes fade into a lighter shade of caramel.

"(y/n) san. thank you for the coffee and the extra croissant." he bows his head slightly towards you, which you automatically reciprocate, your heart dropping in disappointment when he begins to walk out.

"wait!" you call after him.

"yes?" he asks, turning around to face you. you look troubled, a little embarrassed to have stopped him in his tracks, but he doesn't mind.

he quite likes looking at you, he thinks.

"would you mind... trying the coffee now to tell me what you think? you know, considering you're my first ever customer?"

he chuckles at the innocent request, before carefully lifting the edge of his mask (just enough to bring the cup to his lips without revealing his face) and taking a sip. the flat white is smooth and delicate on his tongue, the caffeine not too overpowering but not weak.

hell, it's even better than his usual coffee place that was closed.

"it's perfect." he mutters.

"really?!" you can't contain your excitement.

"best coffee i've had in tokyo." nanami adds, enjoying the way you get flustered and fidget nervously behind the counter at the compliment. a curious customer squeezes their way past nanami, drawn by the pastel pink and green design, signalling that he should probably leave you to your day of business. "thank you again, (y/n) san. this coffee has truly made my day."

nanami means it, and he replays the bright smile you give him in response for the rest of the walk home.

when he arrives home, he sets down his coffee cup on the table and carefully unwraps one of the croissants as if it's the most important artifact in the world. biting into the middle, he tastes flaky pastry and smooth butter, the mixing of the sweet croissant and the bitter coffee causing him to nearly moan in delight.

it's perfect, he thinks. blinking his eyes open, he tries to remember the last time he's actually enjoyed something he's eaten, and comes up blank.

he'd gotten so used to cheap bento boxes from late night convenience stores and quick meals in the form of cereal and onigiris, that the simple pleasure of eating something delicious and warm had become so lost to him.

he finishes the croissant quickly and saves the second one for later, savoring each bite over his afternoon tea.

that's when he knows - he has to go back to your cafe.

==================

nanami should hesitate when leaving the front door of his apartment the next day.

after all, wouldn't it be too soon to return to your cafe so eagerly, repeating his visit for the second day in a row to a newly opened spot?

but none of that seemed to matter.

cause all he could think about was how his body buzzed with warmth when he'd drank that flat white in front of you, the creaminess of the milk, and the flush of affection he'd felt when you'd smiled with relief at his compliments.

so he ends up being the first customer of the day, again, when you open at 7am on a Tuesday morning. you blink at him, surprised, before exclaiming "nanami san! it's so good to see you again." and rattling off your specials for the day.

"i am trying out a new recipe for banana bread if you'd like to give it a try." you suggest, winking at him as you grab the tongs from behind you.

his eyes twinkle at your suggestion.

"i'd love to."

and like the day before, you prepare his coffee, carefully package his pastry, and bid him goodbye for the day. you hope he'll be a regular, though you know it's too soon to tell.

but then he comes back the next day. different outfit, same hat and mask, a shy smile on his face and his gravely voice asking you for a new pastry to try.

and then the next day.

and the day after that.

by the third week, you know he's a regular customer.

your cafe's been open for nearly a month now and you've come to expect the regular rush of crowds during the peak times and developed a keen eye for your regulars. an old gentleman who enjoys his cup of black coffee and chocolate muffin on the armchair by the window every morning, a half-folded newspaper on his lap. a young mom with twins smiling apologetically at you as she balances her iced latte with three bags of various treats, her children pulling at her arms for a quick bite. a couple in their 50's whom you've learned are retired lawyers, popping in during the afternoons for the sourdough bread you bake fresh on wednesday morning.

and nanami.

consistently, at 7am each day, walking through the front door asking for a flat white and a sweet treat. sometimes, he leaves with copious bags of almond croissants. another time, every flavor of cookie you'd baked for that week. and when he ends up ordering a single item for a day, like a blueberry muffin or a slice of carrot cake, you joke that he's starting to get sick of you.

but then he smiles lowly, shakes his head sideways, and looks you straight in the eyes when he says: "i could never get sick of you."

he means it, too.

his apartment has transformed from a dark, desolate place smelling of stale paper and unwashed clothes, to a brighter, livelier home filled with the scent of warm pastries and freshly brewed coffee. he finds himself spending longer each morning getting ready, fussing about what outfit to wear when he comes to visit you at the cafe each morning. the nights feel less unbearable with the awareness that tomorrow, like always, he'll wake up and get to see you first thing in the morning.

the world is still brutal. his injuries still hurt.

but the unspoken routine between you and him each morning - it keeps him going.

nanami also starts to stick around for a bit longer during his visits. he starts off by asking how your week has been so far, if there's been any new updates to the cafe and its menu. he asks you what recipes you're working on in the moment, nodding intensely as you ramble in between pressing coffees and rolling out dough, and charms you with his attention to detail when he remembers a comment you made weeks ago.

'i remember you saying the new tiling was supposed to come in this thursday. has everything worked out with that?'

on one friday afternoon, nanami finds himself a little hungry after a park run. he sees your bright, colorful sign from down the road and decides to give you a visit (no less than 8 hours after having seen you earlier in the day).

"welco- oh! you're back!" you exclaim, pleasantly surprised at his appearance. he looks a little different from what you're used to, now in tight shorts and a running jacket that expands over his muscular physique (which you try not to stare at, and fail miserably). nanami pretends not to notice your gaze either, suppressing his smirk for the sake of your sanity.

"i am. i hope that's okay." he says quietly, leaning over the counter.

"it's more than okay." you respond. "anything for my favorite customer. though-" you look up at the clock behind you. "we are closing in thirty minutes."

"totally fine. just a brownie for now please."

"one brownie, coming up."

the crowd in the cafe slowly begin to fade out over the course of the long conversation you have with nanami behind the counter. as you wipe down counters and serve the final orders, nanami leans out of the way as other cusomters return their coffee cups and exit the establishment. fifteen people become twelve, then ten, then five, and now two.

you and him.

"and i always think that-" you jump in fear at the sudden burst of thunder that rumbles through the city, the sky suddenly gray and spitting out rain at an alarming speed.

"oh shit. i gotta get my sign from outsid-"

you haven't even finished your sentence before nanami's rushing out the door for you, his left hand gently cupping yours for a moment.

"i got it."

he's positively drenched when he returns, the mere seconds in which he was outside in the storm enough to wet his entire attire, but he doesn't mind.

not when he's successfully rescued your pop-up sign, and you stare up at him in awe, bowing in thanks.

"wow, uh... thank you so much! you really didn't have to do that."

"i wanted to."

you crane your neck past him to look at the sky, biting your lower lip in worry.

"it looks like the rain won't clear up so quickly. you don't have an umbrella on you, right?" you ask him, wiping your hands on your apron. he shakes his head no, confirming your worries.

"could i at least walk you back home with an umbrella? it's the least i could, for saving my sign." you joke, lightly poking his shoulder.

"that'd be lovely."

so nanami finds himself waiting, patiently, as you finish closing off the shop, turning off the lights, and locking the doors before grabbing your umbrella.

"are those... kitten prints on the umbrella?"

you look away, flustered, as he steps closer to you to stay under your umbrella.

"hey, i like the design, okay? even if it's a bit... childish."

"don't worry. i was going to say it was cute. and that it suited you, a lot."

"thank you."

the walk to his apartment is easy, quiet. eventually your arm tires of holding the umbrella and he nervously asks if he can hold it for you instead, and asks you to hold onto his arm so that you can avoid getting wet. your soft hands curl around his bicep perfectly, your scent overwhelming from this proximity (a blend of vanilla and lavender), and nanami's mind is unable to focus on a single thing other than how warm you feel against him.

so when you two finally arrive in front of his apartment building, shoes soaked but heads dry, the words tumble out of his lips before he can think.

"could i take you out on a date some time? o-outside of the cafe, i mean."

and his heart skips a beat when you look down at your feet, unmoving, before grinning widely.

"i'd love that, nanami."

======================

it's not just your baking that's sweet, nanami learns.

the first date - a late night stroll after work around downtown tokyo - turns into a string of dates filled with syrupy smiles and feathery touches.

a trip to the aquarium. a jazz night at a bar. a bike ride around a park.

throughout it all, nanami is careful. it's unbelievable to him, how different his life suddenly looks.

his room's been cleaned to a professional standard. his fridge is filled with actual food, fresh produce and home cooked meals, instead of empty plastic containers. his apartment is now a bastion of light, owing to his windowsill of flowers, as he draws back the curtains and waters them each morning.

he's even found the strength to pick up his phone again, gingerly beginning to reach back out to old friends and colleagues of the like.

and when gojo flashes his signature smirk, visiting nanami's home three months now after the incident, asking coyly: "you've met someone, haven't you?"

nanami doesn't deny it.

only smiling a cool, low grin, before resuming the conversation.

the sun feels warmer on his skin. the music on the radio feels lighter, the flowers more plentiful, even the morning air more peaceful.

some weeks, nanami comes into the cafe early to help you set up. he checks the ingredients in stock, carries over the heavy bags of flour and coffee beans to the back kitchen, and kisses the top of your head through his mask when you lean into his touch out of exhaustion.

other weeks, he surprises you after work with a bouquet of flowers, alongside the newest tickets in hand to an art exhibition or a performance you've been dying to see.

it's easily the most comfortable love he's ever felt.

and yet, he's yet to kiss you.

it's not been for the lack of wanting. god, has he wanted to kiss you badly at times. when he finds you falling asleep against his chest whilst watching a movie at his place. when you complain to yourself in the kitchen, squinting your eyes at the measuring cup to perfect the ratio of flour to sugar. or when he sees you interacting with young kids who visit the cafe, crouching down to smooth over the children's hair whilst feeding them free samples of muffins and cookies.

but nanami just can't stomach the idea of you seeing his whole face.

the colder weather has allowed him to cover the burns on his body, the scars littering the right side of his torso with ease. long sleeves, oversized pants, zip up jackets.

but his face?

if he's not wearing his hat and mask, as he normally is 99% of the time, it becomes too obvious. he hasn't even been brave enough to look at himself in the mirror after the accident.

and he doesn't want to imagine what your reaction would be like upon seeing the extent of his injuries.

you, on the other hand, begin to worry. nanami's the best boyfriend you've ever had. he's sweet. he's a gentleman. he never pushes, always listens, and is always putting yourself before him.

so why doesn't he want to kiss you?

he has no issues holding your hand in public. he insists on walking on the side of the road closest to the cars when you two walk together on the streets. he likes having you sit on his lap on movie nights, and gently kisses your forehead when you're stressed out or overwhelmed from a bad work day.

does he not find you attractive like that?

it's confusing, maddening even, which doesn't go unnoticed by nanami.

"you're frowning, darling." he points out, slowing down his walking pace when he notices your face glazing over in contemplation.

you bite your lower lip, wondering if it's fair to ask, before caving.

"... do you find me attractive, nanami?"

his eyes widen like saucers at your question, voice stuttering in disbelief.

"of course i do, honey. wh-where is this coming from?"

you sigh, feeling bad for your question, clinging closer to him.

"sorry, i know, it's just-" you pause. "we've never kissed."

realization, and guilt, washes over him in an instant.

"oh."

seeing his disappointed reaction, you start speaking quickly in an effort to cover for yourself.

"which is totally fine if you don't find me physically attractive in that way, or if you think i'm asking too soon, i just really like you and was wondering if maybe i was being delusional you know." you're rambling, still holding his hand but unable to meet his gaze, so that nanami has to be the one to carefully cradle your face and turn your cheek to face him.

"darling, that isn't the case at all. it's just-" he takes in a deep breath. "it's just... i'm not sure you'd like what you'd see if i...."

he drops his hand from yours at the moment, eyes heavy and sad.

"if i removed the mask to kiss you."

you blink at him, shocked at his confession. you've gathered bits and pieces about his past. he had a dangerous job. it left a mark. but he hadn't gone into detail, and you hadn't pressed.

and now, he was bearing his heart to you out on the street, mid-way through a random evening walk to the supermarket just because you said you were craving some mochi.

"ken...." it's your turn to cup his face with your hands, your thumbs brushing against his cheeks. "you're perfect to me no matter what. i'd never think of you differently, scars or not."

he doesn't seem to fully believe you, or at least, feel confident, but he wordlessly drags you to a nearby alley away from the main street.

"if... if i show you my face, i don't want it to be somewhere public where people can... see."

your heart breaks at that confession, imagining how many people must have stared and made enough cruel comments to make him insecure.

"please promise you won't turn away." his voice is shaking, feeble even, his fingers looping around the mask but not pulling the fabric away quite yet.

"i promise."

nanami squeezes his eyes shut as he pulls away the fabric from his face, finally freeing the bottom half of his face. heart pounding so loud, he can hear his blood rushing through his ears, and his face feels cold from the sudden assault of winds brushing up against his skin.

and for a few moments, it's completely silent. save for his nervous breathing and the shuffling of feet as you step closer.

he doesn't see the expression on your face, his eyes still closed shut, but feels your warm hands cupping his face again. your soft, delicate fingers, tracing circles onto his rough, burnt skin, and it gives him the courage to open his eyes to meet your tear-filled ones.

"you're beautiful, nanami."

that's all it takes for him to pull you into his embrace immediately, your sugary lips meeting his, the taste of cinnamon sugar on the edge. he spins you around with so much force that he nearly slams you up against the wall, left hand cupping your face to angle your lips exactly, worries and sorrow melting into the starry night.

"i love you. so damn much." he whispers, his voice coming out gruff from his swollen lips.

"i love you too." you admit, still out of breath from the kiss, your face hot and buzzing from the contact.

pushing off of the wall, nanami extends a hand towards you to pull you back onto the sidewalk. the mask falls from his left hand, and nanami pauses for a moment, bending down to pick it up.

"do you... want to wear it again?" you question quietly, not knowing the answer.

but all he does is kiss you again, his left hand clenching around the fabric before tossing it into the trash.

"not a chance."

and when he walks through the streets of shibuya again, your warm hand in his and your voice filling the busy air, he doesn't even flinch.

it's in the past.

and when he looks at you from the corner of his eye, he sees the future.

a/n: omg omg omg okay so i'm so sorry for being so inconsistent with writing (╥﹏╥) work has been crazy but i got the most insane writer's rush on a sunday evening so i ended up writing this hurt/comfort fic in a few hours?! not sure if this turned out good but i really liked the idea and really needed a break from my other WIPs. next up (hopefully): the mega long slow-burn exes to lovers fic with ex fiancee!nanami and reader. it's already past 8k and that one will be a bitch to edit because i've been writing over several weeks lol. anyways, hope you guys liked this one uwu

not even a week ago, on july 23, i received an ask from anon asking if i own a certain blog since there is a fic very similar to mine and anon also linked the post. same anon then sent another ask with another link to a different post of the same writer. the blog is named @okwonyo !

i’ll link the fics here(had to unblock the author to do that): “confession” and “dreamer”.

and the works that they were “inspired by” are: “flirting” and “shaving nanami”.

now, the posts were uploaded on july 21 and jul 10, notably later than my works, and if it weren’t for anon i wouldn’t even have known about anything, because i don’t lurk around the enhypen tag. if you want to, you can read works and connect the dots, but i am gonna present the similarities and explain why i, and many others, think it’s blatant plagiarism rather than inspiration(red is marking her work and blue is marking mine), you can read the whole thing too if you’d like ofc, i highlighted everything that would guide to see the problem, but please read everything.

this is from “dreamer” and “shaving nanami” fics. you can see that there is similar pacing, and some of the sentences are structured the same way, using the same words, minimal changes applied. and yeah, you can say that the writer added the “dreaming about marrying you” thing to her work but it doesn’t change the fact that this whole thing was basically ripped off. then, let’s get to the “confession” fic that has like a sequence of sentences taken from my fic, despite the plot being a little different in her fic, but the whole “not noticing the flirting thing” was taken from me. i wouldn’t really call that inspiration if you just take the sentences and literally put them in your fic. would you? :)

(mind you, this is my first time dealing with things like this, which is not an excuse, bur rather an explanation as to why i handled this situation poorly at first.)

now, with these out of the way, let’s discuss what i talked about with the owner of the @/okwonyo, or “jiah”. i sent an ask since i didn’t follow her and couldn’t message her, and we had a civil conversation about these works. i’m sorry i don’t have screenshots but it’s because the chat is no longer available to me(she blocked me from her sideblog which she used for chat with me @okwonyos).

she did apologise and offered to link the fics(or even take them down!) but i, admittedly, was a bit distracted with in real life issues and dismissed by saying that she could just tag me, which of course was my fault. when i said that i thought she would say “inspired by bla bla bla” but she just literally tagged me in the end of posts(mind you, there were 4 posts and she tagged me only in these 2 hah) and when i noticed and decided to ask her to take the posts down like she offered in the beginning because it would just be easier and would make me comfortable enough. she insisted that she likes those works a lot and me, being the pushover i am, relented and thought “well alright at least her readers will stay happy” and allowed her to link my stuff in her post, although she again mentioned me only at the end when i asked her to do it in the beginning of the post. i didn’t really care that her notes were in the end, not really.

come to find our, there were another 2 fics, that i didn’t know about until she mentioned me.

oblivious and promises, which are “inspired” again by my fics: oblivious reader and beauty marks.

was she gonna mention these if i hadn’t texted her again a while later about her poor credit giving style? i don’t think so, buddy. anyways, i read the fics briefly and was baffled by the similarities i saw. granted, i will mention that the “oblivious” fic by her resembles an “inspiration” a lot more than other fics since there are added elements like the characters being childhood friends and confession scene and all that — but still, there is whole beginning of the fic that she basically reworded from mine(was it necessary to even use the message with emoji thing…):

for the “promises” fic… bruh, the pacing, the whole dialogue, the similarities, literally whatever happens between the reader and that male character are taken from my fic and reworded and posted as original before i dm’ed the author. which pisses me off, because if she had mentioned me from the beginning and if i considered it plagiarism it just would have been a lot more telling about this author’s intentions — they wouldn’t have been able to act nonchalantly, you know what i mean?

now, eventually, i sent the author some texts about how just taking paragraphs and changing them a little doesn’t look much like an inspiration and asked to take the posts down(if i remember correctly) and she went defence mode and me? i was too tired with my irl issues to attempt anything more after a string of messages pointing out that she didn’t “copy and paste” and she added her own details and plots to the fic. so i went with something like okay whatever i hope you learn from your mistake and bye and she happily replied “feel free to block me” which irked me.

it irked me to the point that after blocking her i didn’t feel relief or like a “winner” but more like i played right into her hand, which should have been the signs that this was not the right way to end things.

now, jiah, did you think it was over? i did think i’d just be mulling over this for a while and hoping other people don’t steal my stuff, but see it’s not me who noticed it, i was unaware — it was other people, several people, who noticed you just taking writing as your own and ignoring being “inspired” by me until you were reminded that yes, you did it wrong. and you have to understand what you did was wrong and accept it.

and you had to be the one to address it to your readers because me, i did address it and i asked my readers and followers to not even say anything to you and not go into your inbox — but something tells me you would have just ignored them and turned off anon asks.

you may ask: tori, why are you posting this almost a week later? well, i’m not gonna lie i have been thinking about this whole situation a lot and how i didn’t do it right and didn’t feel satisfied. and thanks to my beautiful readers and anons who felt injustice and confirmed my thoughts i have been finally pushed to act on this.

look, i have nothing to gain from this… i don’t need like the undying love of enhypen fans or to turn anyone against her, but jiah, gotta respect me, no? do i really need your credits after you posted your post like 10 days ago and was going to act like nothing happened until confronted? i really don’t lol, i just want to have peace and i want every anon and every person who sent me an ask about it and showed me immense support to be relieved that kpop community knows what’s going on.

and i’m bringing awareness to this because i am sure that plagiarism here is really common and i have been lucky to be struck by it only for the first time.

now, do what you will with all of this info.

thank you for reading this and have a good rest of your day!!