You try not to laugh, mostly because laughing hurts your throat, but his hair tickles your face as he murmurs, “You smell like menthol.”

He’s stocked your nightstand with everything, too. Cough syrup (which he insists on feeding you himself, making airplane noises like you’re six), three types of tissues (including the ‘extra soft’ kind he swore were made from angel tears), and enough vapor rub to fumigate a house.

“Open up,” he says, holding the cough syrup spoon dangerously close to your nose.

“Please don’t make that sound effect again.”

“Wroooommm.”

You glare, but open your mouth anyway. He feeds you, then immediately winces. “Oh, ew. That’s disgusting.”

“Yeah, that’s what medicine is, Gojo.”

He shudders dramatically, wiping your mouth with exaggerated tenderness. “You poor, tragic thing. I can’t believe you willingly drink this poison.”

“You’re the one feeding it to me!”

“Because I love you,” he says simply, “and because I don’t trust you not to spill it on the sheets again.”

You sniffle, glaring through watery eyes. “It was one time.”

“One time too many,” he replies, plopping a mochi into his mouth as though that ends the argument.

You’re halfway between a fever dream and actual sleep when he shifts closer, resting his chin on your shoulder. “You know, when you get better, we should go somewhere warm. Like Okinawa. I’ll feed you real mochi there.”

“Will you still make airplane noises?” you mumble.

“Only if you promise not to throw tissues at me.”

You hum, eyes drooping shut. “No promises.”

He laughs softly, brushing a strand of hair from your forehead, his voice lower now. “Get some rest, yeah? The world can survive without your sarcasm for one night.”

You want to reply with something witty, maybe tell him his world would collapse without your sarcasm, but he’s already kissing your temple, whispering, “You’re burning up, sweetheart. Good thing I’m fireproof.”

You groan, half-asleep. “That’s not even funny.”

“It’s a little funny,” he says, and you feel the curve of his smile against your skin.

As you drift off, you hear him mutter to himself — “If mochi doesn’t fix her by tomorrow, maybe I’ll try soup.”

Then a pause.

But when the lights dimmed and laughter thinned and he found himself alone, the shift was brutal. He’d sit on the edge of the bed, fingers trembling as if someone had snipped his puppet strings. His breath hitched before he could stop it.

The room felt too big. His heart felt too small. He’d curl forward, elbows on knees, head bowed like he was praying to a god he’d long since stopped believing in.

“Stay with me,” he whispered into the dark, voice cracking into shards. “Please. Just… stay.”

He wasn’t speaking to memory. He was speaking to the fear that your existence was tethered to his own. That your story, your warmth, your terrible jokes that cracked him open in the best way, would be erased the moment his heart stopped.

The strongest sorcerer reduced to a trembling man bent over grief so deep it swallowed sound. The great Satoru Gojo pressing his palms to his face as tears slid through the gaps of his fingers.

If someone saw him like this, they wouldn’t recognize him. He hid nothing in battle but hid everything in grief. His shoulders rocked — not violently, but in a quiet, rhythmic surrender, like tides he could no longer command. Sometimes he pressed his forehead to the mattress because the world felt too sharp at the edges.

Sometimes he swore he smelled you beside him, faint as the memory of autumn.

“I have to live,” he choked out once, desperation turning his voice raw. “If I die… who’s left to remember you the way you deserved? Who’s left to tell them how bright you were? They’ll get it wrong. They always get it wrong.” His fists tightened like he was holding onto a rope fraying at both ends. “I can’t let you disappear.”

He lifted his head slowly, like rising through water, eyes rimmed red but burning. That was always the moment resolve slotted back into him: the vow he made quietly every night, the vow that stitched him together again.

“For you,” he murmured, wiping his face with the heel of his palm. “I’ll keep going. Even when it hurts. Even when I’m tired. I’ll outlive every damn thing that tries to take me down. Because if I’m here, then you’re here.”

He breathed in sharply, steadying. The tears didn’t vanish; they glimmered, but they no longer drowned him. He stood, straightened his shoulders, exhaled like a man preparing to step into war again.

The world outside waited for the legend of Gojo Satoru. But inside, in the quiet that only truth could survive, he lived for something smaller, fiercer, infinitely more human.

He lived for you.

𝒾𝒾. CHOSO KAMO

Choso yearned in a way that curled through his ribs like a stubborn vine, gripping tighter every time he tried to breathe without you.

The world had become a gallery of quiet reminders, each object a tiny shrine to the life you’d taught him to live.

Even toast. The cursed thing would pop from the toaster and he would still twitch, shoulders jumping as if ambushed by a trap, before his brain whispered the echo of your laugh, warm and unguarded and entirely his favorite sound.

He would stare at the slice with the kind of reverence people saved for relics, thumb brushing the golden surface while muttering, almost under his breath, “You really thought it was hilarious, didn’t you…”

And then the silence would answer him exactly the way you once had, bright and teasing in the corners.

The washing machine was worse. That whirling, hypnotic drum had called to him again and again like some forbidden portal, and every time he walked past it now he could feel your hand around his wrist, tugging it away with wide eyes and a voice pitched halfway between panic and frustration.

“Choso, do not put your hand in there while it’s running. Are you trying to lose fingers?”

You’d sounded exasperated, but he remembered the way your thumb smoothed over his knuckles afterward, the way you sighed when he apologized, the way you said, “Just… don’t scare me like that.”

The memory hit him so sharply he found himself stepping back from the machine as if it might snatch the ghost of your touch away.

Being kind. That was your lesson he failed at most often, not for lack of trying but because kindness still sat strangely on his tongue.

Yet he heard your voice each time he hesitated.

Like that boy at the bus stop last week, shoulders curled inward as two teens shoved him back and forth while people pretended not to see. Choso had stood stiffly, fists tight, mind full of the version of you who would’ve nudged him forward and whispered, “Help him. You’ll feel better for it.”

He didn’t feel better. He felt a roaring, protective heat he didn’t know how to name as he stepped between them and growled a low, “Leave him alone.” They fled quickly; people always did when Choso used that voice. The boy had managed a tiny, breathless “Thank you.”

Choso didn’t know what to do with that, so he only nodded, the word vibrating through him hours later: thank you. It sounded like something you would’ve wanted him to hear.

And the bus ride home. He’d been exhausted and half-slumped in the seat when an elderly woman stepped on, looked around, and sighed at the lack of space. Automatically, he felt the phantom nudge of your elbow against his ribs. Your voice, soft but insistent, drifted through him again.

“Get up. Let her sit. That’s basic humanity.”

He’d risen without thinking and gestured for her to take his place. She’d smiled in a way that softened the edges of the day. Choso stood for the rest of the ride, hands curled around the overhead bar, heart aching in that dull, quiet way your absence had carved into him.

How could he forget? The world wouldn’t let him. You were stitched into every habit, every instinct, every unexpected softness he had learned to practice. He found himself speaking into empty rooms as if you might answer, murmuring confessions that evaporated into the air.

“I’m trying,” he’d whisper while folding laundry because you’d taught him that too. “I’m still doing everything you told me. Even if you’re not here.”

There were nights he sat at the edge of his bed, elbows on his knees, staring at his hands as though they might hold the imprint of your guidance. You’d shaped him. You’d steadied him. You’d asked him to live gently, and he had tried to mold himself into the shape of the human you believed he could be.

How could he forget you? He couldn’t. His life had become one long, trembling repetition of your lessons, your warmth, your voice echoing through each decision he made. You lived in him the way breath lived in lungs: unseen, constant, impossible to remove without destroying the whole structure.

Some memories fade. This one never would.

𝒾𝒾𝒾. RYOMEN SUKUNA

Sukuna learned long ago that eternity is not a gift but a slow, grinding erosion. It carves away meaning with patient teeth, steals names, softens faces into fog. Yet he still made the catastrophic choice to let you close, let the warmth of your fleeting life press against the cold sprawl of centuries inside him.

Now he sits with the consequences like a blade under his tongue, tasting metal every time your name gets stuck in his throat.

Nights are when it hits him hardest. The world outside has gone dark, but his chambers burn with dim lanternlight that casts uneven shadows across his skin. He sits on the edge of the futon as if afraid he’ll sink through it, elbows braced on his knees, palms pressed against his eyes.

He tries to gather the fragments of you like a man scooping water with bare hands, only to watch it spill through his fingers. The shape of your face drifts, losing definition. The texture of your laugh thins. Even your scent, once etched into him like a brand, wavers at the edges.

“Pathetic,” he mutters into the silence, though his voice carries no heat. The word curls in the air like smoke, accusing him more than anything else. “Can’t even hold on to a single mortal.”

He drags a breath in, sharp and cold. Your voice slips through him then, sudden and unbidden, so clear it cracks him open.

Ryo.

Not screamed. Not whispered. Just you calling for him, the way you did when you wanted something only he could give. That sound never fades. Everything else frays, but that? That clings like a curse he didn’t cast.

He clenches his jaw. The lantern beside him flickers, responding to the tension coiling in his chest, a small storm looking for somewhere to break. He remembers your hand at his wrist, guiding him toward your cheek; remembers his own hesitation, an odd stutter in a man who could split mountains without blinking. But your face in that memory is starting to blur, losing its edges the way snow melts from a sculpture.

He growls. “No. No, damn it, I’m not losing that.”

His fist slams down beside him, rattling the wooden floorboards. The vibration jolts something loose in him, a bitter, restless energy. He rises, pacing the length of the room as if movement will anchor something in place. Each step is heavy, deliberate, like he’s walking through the graveyard of his own memories.

“Why did I let you in?” he asks the empty air, though he already knows the answer. Because you were bold enough to look at him as if he were not a monster. Because you spoke to him like a man and not a disaster. Because you touched him without flinching.

Because you called his name as if it belonged to you.

He stops pacing. His breath leaves him in a long, controlled exhale, but it trembles right at the end, the way a cracked cup trembles before it breaks.

“Say it again,” he whispers, voice stripped down to bone. “Just once more.”

Silence pools around him, slow and merciless. But memory obeys. It always obeys. Through the hollow ache, your voice unfurls, soft and steady.

Ryo… come here.

His eyes close. His throat tightens.

He stands motionless in the middle of the room, every part of him dragged backward into that echo, into the warmth of a moment he can’t fully see anymore but can still feel like a pulse under his skin. The yearning moves through him with the heavy insistence of a tide, eroding, reshaping, refusing to leave him untouched.

He knows he will forget again. Soon, maybe. The world will keep turning, and centuries will keep sanding you down until even your shadow dissolves.

But the way you called for him remains. A quiet, merciless truth carved into the immortal who never thought he could be left wanting.

He breathes your echo in and lets it hurt.

𝒾𝓋. SUGURU GETO

Suguru moved through grief like a storm trapped in a man’s body, each step a low-throated curse stitched into the air as if language alone could keep him from collapsing.

His hands were never still. They dragged through his hair, gripped the edge of a desk until the wood groaned, twisted the prayer beads he no longer believed in. The world around him felt brittle, like a temple left half-burned, its ashes drifting over his shoulders whenever he exhaled.

He muttered your name again, not tenderly but like it was a blade he insisted on running across his tongue. “If you had just listened…” His voice broke, unfurling into a laugh too sharp to be sane. “If you had just come with me.”

The laugh dissolved. His eyes snapped shut as if sight itself betrayed him. The emptiness that followed your absence echoed with its own heartbeat.

He paced, circling the room as though retracing the moment he lost you would conjure you back. Shadows stretched with him, long and thin, cradling the weight of a man who had learned too late that righteousness could be both beautiful and devastating. You were stubborn and upright, carved from the kind of conviction he used to admire when the world still felt salvageable.

He loved you for it. That love hollowed him now.

He dragged a hand across his face. “Why couldn’t you just choose me…?” The question slipped out, raw and trembling.

He didn’t expect an answer. The echo bounced back at him anyway, cruel in its silence.

Memories flashed like lanterns along a dark road.

You, standing in front of him with your jaw set.

You, refusing to step over the line that would have bound you to him.

You, turning away even though your hands shook.

He remembered wanting to grab your wrist, to pull you back, to say something reckless and selfish and unforgivable. But all he did was watch his future walk away on legs steadier than his own.

Now the waiting crawled into his bones. He sat. He stood. He walked again. Something in him kept reaching toward a horizon that refused to grow closer.

Maybe he was waiting for the world to change. Maybe for you to return. Maybe for the version of himself who hadn’t yet been ruined by hope.

He rested his forehead against the cold wall, eyes half-lidded, breath fogging against stone. “What am I waiting for…?” he whispered into the quiet. The words felt heavier than curses, heavier than regret. His pulse throbbed at his temples, slow and insistent, like a distant drum asking him to move forward even as he remained shackled to the past.

He didn’t know anymore. The truth sat in his chest, stagnant and aching.

Maybe he was waiting for the universe to give him a miracle. Maybe he was waiting for you to stop being right. Maybe he was waiting for someone to blame other than himself.

But the reality pressed into him, cold and familiar: he was waiting because it hurt less than accepting that you were gone. Waiting let him pretend there was still a path leading back to you.

He straightened, shoulders taut, breaths steady but thin. His voice emerged once more, softer, stripped of anger like rain carving dust from stone.

“If there’s another life… find me first.”

Then the room swallowed his stillness again, leaving him alone with the sound of his own heartbeat and the quiet, relentless ache of a man who keeps waiting because he cannot bear to stop.

𝓋. NANAMI KENTO

Nanami yearned quietly, in that way a house yearns for footsteps after too many empty evenings.

Nothing loud. Nothing cinematic. Just the soft ache of a man who once built a routine around someone and hasn’t figured out how to disassemble it without dismantling himself in the process.

The oddest part was how natural it still felt to move through his home as if you occupied it. As if time had politely paused on your behalf.

He didn’t fight the instinct. He couldn’t. Some mornings his body simply carried him before his mind arrived, and he’d catch himself smoothing the wrinkles on your side of the bed. He’d pinch the edge of your pillow and fluff it once, twice, as though you were in the bathroom brushing your teeth and would come out any moment complaining that he’d made it uneven again.

Quietly he’d murmur into the empty air, sounding almost embarrassed at himself. “You always liked it softer.” His knuckles would still, hovering a millimeter above the fabric, as if touching it too harshly might erase the last place your head had rested.

In the kitchen he behaved like a man on autopilot. Two plates down on the table, not one. Forks placed side by side, then pushed a little to the left because you always said he set them too straight and it looked like a formal dinner instead of breakfast. The chair across from him remained pulled out at that exact angle you used to leave it in, crooked like a grin.

Once he sat, he’d stare at your empty plate longer than the food cooling in front of him. Sometimes he’d whisper, low as a confession, “I’m not forgetting. Don’t worry.”

The chips were the cruelest ritual. That oily brand you insisted was the peak of culinary innovation despite being, in his words, “an insult to potatoes everywhere.” He’d restock it automatically, bag after bag stacked in the pantry, the corner of each one pressed down the way you liked so they wouldn’t puff and fall.

He used to tease you for it. Now he mimicked it without thinking, fingers precise, almost reverent.

The day he opened one was the day he cracked. He’d torn the plastic with a clean snap of his thumb, intending only to tidy the shelves, but the smell hit him. That artificial spice, the cheap salt, the faint sting that clung to your fingertips whenever you’d steal some and smudge the dust on his cheek just to annoy him.

He froze. Then he laughed, short and breathless, the kind of sound that collapses in on itself. “It really does taste awful,” he muttered, voice wobbling as he chewed mechanically. And then he realized he wasn’t tasting chips. He was tasting memory.

Looking around, he found the house crowded with you. Your favorite flowers in the vase, still replaced every week because he couldn’t stand watching them wilt. Your mug by the dish rack, its chipped handle stubbornly refusing to break just like you always joked. The jacket you left by the door, which he couldn’t bring himself to move because its weight looked right there. You were everywhere, woven into the fabric of his routines so thoroughly that removing any one thread felt like it would unravel the whole man.

The grief wasn’t a storm anymore. It didn’t drown him. It lived beside him, quiet as a roommate who knew where all the creaky floorboards were. And maybe that was why, when he stood in the dim light of the hallway before bed, his hand brushing the switch, he paused and spoke aloud. Not loudly. Not hoping for a reply. Just offering a truth into the space you once shared.

“I’m learning,” he said. “I’m still here. And… it’s okay if I miss you.”

He slid into bed, turned toward your untouched pillow, and let the ache settle where you used to sleep. It wasn’t letting go. It was letting grief sit long enough to soften into something bearable. Something human. Something that allowed him, finally, to breathe without feeling disloyal.

Maybe it was okay to grieve. And maybe, in the quiet of his small nightly rituals, he finally understood that grief wasn’t a failure to move on. It was proof that he had loved deeply, and that love still lived in the spaces you left behind.

𝓋𝒾. TOJI FUSHIGURO

Toji moved through the world like a storm that had forgotten what peace felt like.

He didn’t name the ache in his chest because acknowledging it would have meant admitting you had mattered, and Toji Fushiguro didn’t do tender things like mattering. Yet there he was, strangling the ghost of your memory every night, only to find it curled around his ribs again each morning, stubborn as ivy.

Your absence rewired him. It bent his instincts, carved new rituals into his bones. He’d slit a curse across the jaw and mutter your name under his breath, as if dedicating the violence could summon you back. He’d win a stacked hand at the gambling table, chips clattering into his palm like tiny trophies, and whisper something only he could hear.

The dealer once asked what he said. Toji didn’t bother looking up. “A prayer,” he answered, tone flat, eyes dead. “For someone who ain’t here to hear it.”

But that strange devotion never softened him. It weaponized him. Losing you didn’t slow him down; it sharpened him to a blade that cut everything it touched, including whatever was left of his heart.

Tonight was one of those nights the ache rose like a tide. He didn’t know why. Maybe it was the rain. You used to complain about it, calling it moody background music that never asked permission. Toji had laughed at you once, saying rain wasn’t capable of mood. Now he walked through it like it was punishing him for mocking you.

He stalked a curse through a half-collapsed warehouse, jaw tight, fingers twitching toward his weapon. Every drip of rain through the ceiling felt like the world tapping at his shoulder, reminding him he was alone.

He didn’t like reminders.

The curse lunged. Toji welcomed it. Violence was the only language he had left that didn’t lie.

Steel flashed. Flesh tore. The creature shrieked something guttural that bounced against the concrete walls like breaking glass. Toji pinned it with his boot, leaned down, voice low and terrifyingly calm.

“This one’s for her,” he said, and tore through its throat. He didn’t need to say your name. It lived in the hollow of his chest anyway.

Warm blood hit his forearm, yet he didn’t flinch. He rolled his shoulders, breathing hard, face tightening with something too raw to be anger but too vicious to be grief. The curse dissolved into dust at his feet.

He stood there, chest rising and falling, letting the silence press against him.

No applause. No warmth. No you.

And the ache — persistent, diseased, hungry — gnawed again.

“To hell with this,” he muttered, rubbing a hand over his face. “Why’s it still hurt? You ain’t here. You're not comin’ back.” His voice cracked halfway through, rough and unfamiliar. Emotion was a thing he hunted, not something that ambushed him.

But the ache didn’t care.

He kicked aside a piece of debris and strode out of the warehouse, rain slicing across his skin like cold confessions. The world felt colder without you. The kills didn’t warm him. The wins didn’t thrill him. Nothing soothed that strange, festering devotion except the brief second where something died beneath his hand and he could lie to himself that it was enough.

“That one was for you,” he murmured again into the night, knowing the sky wasn’t listening.

And still he kept walking, kept hunting, kept killing — because every time he whispered your name, even drenched in blood and rage, it was the closest he could get to feeling like you hadn’t slipped out of his life and left him hollow.

Everything he did was still in your name. It always would be.

Now, with his hood pulled so low it practically sheltered him from divine judgment, he looked like any other hungover college student trying not to spontaneously combust in the sunlight. His throat tasted like regret. His brain felt like someone had conducted a drumline rehearsal in it. And the worst part? Every second person he passed carried a coffee cup, which felt like a personal attack. Survival wasn’t a want anymore; it was an urgent necessity, a mission.

And if anyone asked him to run drills today, he would simply perish on the spot.

At first, everything was going according to your very normal, very chaotic morning routine: spot your friend Haru, stride over with the confidence of someone who believes in physical comedy as a love language, and greet him with a well-aimed smack to the ass.

Nothing unusual. Just collegiate affection at its finest. Your hand even tingled in anticipation, already picturing the way Haru would yelp like a distressed puppy and spin around to call you a menace.

Except fate, destiny, and poor spatial awareness had other plans for you, because the person walking ahead of you — hood up, shoulders hunched, aura radiating hangover misery — was not Haru. But you didn’t know that. Not until your hand connected with a strangely firm, sculpted, downright Olympian ass.

And not just any Olympian ass. No, of course not. It had to be Gojo Satoru’s.

The smack! echoed enough for a couple of pigeons to reconsider their life choices. Your palm met muscle that basketball players would write poetry about. And instead of Haru’s offended squawk, there was the kind of stillness that could make gods nervous. A silence so grave your soul performed a perfect front-flip out of your body and onto the pavement.

Slowly, painfully, as though every molecule in the universe had turned to molasses, you lifted your gaze. And there he was.

Gojo Satoru. Star player. Campus legend. Living hangover.

Hoodie criminal.

Staring at you with wide, groggy, ice-blue eyes that were really trying to process what the hell had just happened.

He blinked. You gulped. The quad kept moving like none of this was happening. You tried to speak, but your tongue had turned into a dead USB cable.

“I — I thought— that was Haru — I swear I don’t usually— I mean I don’t— that wasn’t— that was— oh god.”

He just kept staring. Not angry. Not offended. Mostly just… buffering. Like the hangover had delayed his ability to respond to assaults on his rear.

Finally, in a voice so raspy it sounded illegal, he muttered, “That… was you?”

You nodded so fast your neck nearly snapped.

He scrunched his nose, trying to wake up. “And you just… went for it? At eight in the morning?”

You wanted the earth to swallow you whole. “I thought you were my friend!”

Gojo blinked again, slower this time, like your words were sinking through layers of headache. Then — and this was somehow worse — his mouth curled into the faintest, sleepiest, most dangerously amused smirk.

“Damn,” he mumbled, half a compliment, half a dazed observation, “You’ve got a killer grip.”

Your soul left for the afterlife. Your knees nearly followed. And Gojo, still hungover, still in that stupid hoodie, shrugged like someone who had accepted all forms of chaos as part of his morning.

“Next time,” he added, rubbing his lower back with a grimace, “Give me a warning. Or a coffee first.”

You made a noise that wasn’t even human. He raised an eyebrow. “Unless you just… go around slapping asses before breakfast?”

“No!” you squeaked, horrified, “I — it was— you weren’t— Haru—”

“Hey,” he murmured, tugging the hood lower as if shielding his headache from your panic, “Relax. I’m too hungover to be mad. Also too hungover to understand what’s happening.”

You covered your face with both hands, wishing for immediate reincarnation.

Gojo didn’t even look fully conscious. He stood there blinking at you like someone had unplugged him mid-sentence, blue eyes squinting as if you were a particularly difficult math problem. Then his head tilted, the gears in his hungover brain grinding painfully into motion, and he leaned in just a little, studying your face with this unfocused curiosity that almost made you feel bad for him. Almost.

“Wait… have we met before?” he murmured, voice low and gravelly, like he’d been chewing sandpaper.

Your panic flared again because of course he didn’t remember you — not that there was anything to remember. You weren’t the girl who danced on tables at his parties. You weren’t the girl who got front-row seats to his games. You were simply the girl who had just slapped his ass with enough enthusiasm to leave a lasting impression on the school timeline. So you cleared your throat, fighting the urge to evaporate.

“Uh, no,” you said quickly, “I mean— not really. But you might know my sister? Aisha?”

It was like you’d uttered a forbidden incantation. Gojo went visibly still, processing the name, and then a flicker of recognition drifted across his features — the kind that said oh no, that one. Aisha, captain of the cheerleading squad. Aisha, campus sweetheart with claws. Aisha, who had made it her life’s ambition to hop on Gojo Satoru’s… yeah. You cut the thought off before your brain screamed loud enough for him to hear it.

“Aisha,” he repeated slowly. “Cheer captain Aisha?”

You nodded, grimacing. “Yep. That one.”

He let out a soft, tortured groan — the kind of sound only someone being aggressively chased by your sister for two semesters straight would make. “Oh god,” he muttered, rubbing his forehead, “Does she know you’re out here assaulting people?”

Your soul tried to flee your body again. “I wasn’t— it wasn’t— I swear I wasn’t assaulting anyone!”

He smirked. “My ass says otherwise.”

You wanted death by lightning immediately.

Trying to regain an ounce of dignity, you exhaled and muttered under your breath, “You look like shit, by the way.”

There were many possible outcomes. He could’ve rolled his eyes. He could’ve snapped. He could’ve sent you straight into social exile.

Instead, Gojo Satoru — hungover, hoodie-clad, campus icon — threw his head back and laughed. Loud, bright, uncomplicated, and so sudden people walking past turned to look.

“Okay,” he said between laughs, “you’re honest. I needed that.”

Your brain short-circuited. You made the campus star laugh. The one who once told a reporter he didn’t even laugh at brain-rot because he was “built different.” This was not reality. Reality had left the building ten minutes ago.

As he stepped back, shoving his hands into his hoodie pocket, he gave you a once-over that wasn’t flirty so much as intrigued — the way someone looks at a puzzle piece that definitely belongs somewhere but not where they expected.

“Alright,” he said casually, turning to leave, “here’s the deal.”

Your heart stopped. Deals were rarely good.

He glanced over his shoulder at you, a lazy grin pulling at his lips. “Next time you wanna smack my ass? You buy me dinner first.”

You blinked. “What—”

“Tonight,” he added, walking backwards with that same unfair smirk, “Seven. I’ll send you the place.”

Your soul screamed.

“It’s a date, then?”

You opened your mouth. Nothing came out. He winked — actual wink, as if he hadn’t been a walking corpse five minutes ago — and then turned around, strolling off like you hadn’t just accidentally secured a date with the most sought-after man on campus.

Haru jogged up behind you with all the subtlety of a golden retriever on sugar, completely oblivious to the emotional earthquake you were still recovering from. You were frozen in place, staring into the void, replaying the last five minutes like your brain was stuck on a cursed highlight reel. Your heart was in your throat, your dignity was in the gutter, and your soul was still packing its bags, preparing to relocate permanently.

Haru skidded to a stop beside you. “Yo! Why’re you standing like you just saw the ghost of midterms past? Also—” he turned around dramatically, hands on his hips, “no ass smack today? You good? My butt is right here. Available. Un-slapped. This is discrimination.”

You blinked at him, mouth opening, closing, opening again like a fish trying to explain taxes. “No. Absolutely not. The quota is done,” you mumbled, rubbing your forehead like you had seen horrors.

Haru squinted. “Quota? What quota? Since when do you have a limit on violence?”

“Since today,” you said quickly, maybe too quickly, definitely too traumatically. “It’s… a new policy.”

“Huh. Weird,” he shrugged, then leaned in suspiciously. “Wait, did you slap the wrong ass again? Is that what this is? Who’d you hit? Was it that one guy from the robotics club? The one built like a toothpick? Please tell me—”

“Nope!” you cut him off so fast he physically jumped. “No questions. No answers. No discussion.”

Haru stared at you, baffled. “You’re acting shady as hell.”

You nodded solemnly. “I am shady as hell.”

Because there was no universe — none — where you were going to admit that you had slapped Gojo Satoru’s absurdly sculpted ass, survived it, got complimented for your grip strength, roasted him to his face, made him laugh, and accidentally landed a date with him at seven tonight. You were taking that to the grave until further notice. Let the world wonder. Let the timeline remain untainted. Let your pride stay intact for at least one more hour.

Haru opened his mouth again. “So really… no ass smack?”

You refused to answer — because between Gojo’s stupid hoodie, his stupid wink, and the stupid date looming over your head like a falling piano, you needed at least one secret to yourself before your entire life collapsed into rom-com chaos.

𝒾𝒾. CHOSO KAMO

It starts, as all good things do, with a studious friend like Utahime — the kind of girl who color-codes her notes, highlights her highlights, and somehow hears academic gossip before the professors themselves do.

In some manner, in God’s holy land, she has learned that Modern Day Japanese History 101, her pride, her passion, her personal battleground, is getting an assistant lecturer. And, naturally, as the modern saying goes: can’t get into the lecturer’s good books? Try the assistant instead. Utahime had said it with a straight face, too — as if networking her way into intellectual heaven was simply part of her daily schedule.

Punctual as ever, she announced she would meet him at 2 p.m., win him over with her wit and enthusiasm by 2:20, and then swing by to submit her thesis and meet you at 2:30 like the academic machine she claims to be.

You didn’t question it; this is the same girl who once finished a three-day assignment in five hours because “the stars were aligned.”

But now it’s 2:35. The sun has shifted. The hallway is quiet.

And there is no Utahime in sight.

You check your phone, refresh your messages, even glance around for the faint scent of lavender spray she bathes in during exam season. Nothing. Not a shadow, not a whine, not even her signature irritated huff carried through the air.

That’s when your stomach drops with the kind of anxious thud reserved for forgotten deadlines and suspiciously long silences from friends known for punctuality.

So what do you do? Obviously, you sprint — or something between a sprint and the chaotic half-run of someone pretending they’re not panicking — straight to the aforementioned classroom. You don’t even knock; you slide through the doorframe like a rodent on a mission, breath uneven, heart pounding, mind already conjuring images of Utahime debating a man twice her age about the socio-political structure of post-Edo Japan.

Instead, you find someone leaning casually against the desk. Back facing you. Posture relaxed. Completely absorbed in whatever they’re reading. The soft rustle of paper fills the room, and the afternoon light cuts a halo around their silhouette. You freeze in the doorway for barely half a second — because that’s honestly all the time it takes for your brain to make a very confident, very stupid assumption.

Your first instinct?

Smack their ass.

Perhaps it’s the stress. Perhaps it’s the adrenaline. Perhaps it’s the fact that you and Utahime communicate through physical violence more often than through words. But whatever the reason, your hand is already in motion before your rational mind can scream at you to stop.

The contact is loud. Sharper than intended. Echoing off the classroom walls with the sort of crisp finality that splits your soul into fragments.

And your last sight before your spirit attempts to leave your body entirely? The person turning around — slowly, deliberately — and absolutely, one-hundred-percent NOT being Utahime.

Your breath stutters. Your hands go clammy. Every ancestor you’ve ever had collectively groans. Because the man facing you now is not only unfamiliar, but stupidly, devastatingly handsome in that “should not be allowed near undergrads” kind of way. His expression shifts from confusion to mild offense to something dangerously close to amusement, like he’s debating whether to scold you or laugh.

And in that suspended, horrifying, eternal moment, you experience true enlightenment — the realization that Utahime’s absence was not the problem. Your actions were.

And now you must face the consequences.

Before you can even beat the man in front of you to an explanation — because yes, he is devastatingly handsome up close, with chocolate-brown eyes and hair just long enough to violate every written and unwritten men’s hairstyle code — he beats you to speaking. He looks at you not with anger, but with the calm certainty of a man who has already accepted that life is absurd.

“You,” he says, tone flat and factual, “are not Miss Iori.”

You blink. “And YOU are not Utahime!”

He pauses, squints at you just slightly, like he’s examining a peculiar species of bird that’s flown indoors. “Pray tell,” he asks dryly, “in what world do you confuse me with an undergraduate female student?”

You can feel tears threatening — not of sadness, but of pure humiliation. “What did you do to her?” you demand, voice cracking like you’re in a badly acted crime drama. “Where is Utahime? She was supposed to meet the assistant lecturer!”

The man straightens, sets his papers down with a quiet, horrifically professional tap, and then clears his throat like he’s about to begin a speech — an actual speech. And then he does.

“Choso Kamo,” he says. “PhD. Assistant Lecturer for Modern Day Japanese History 101. Former visiting researcher at Kyoto University. Thesis focus on post-Meiji societal transitions, specifically the intersection between family structure and political identity — published, peer-reviewed, and referenced in three undergraduate textbooks, although only one of them has the correct page citation.”

You stare. He continues.

“Prior academic affiliations include guest lectureships, mentorship roles, departmental student advisory boards, and a short-lived position as campus safety marshal that I relinquished after an unfortunate incident with a fire extinguisher.” He gestures vaguely. “Not my fault. Miscommunication.”

You open your mouth. Nothing comes out. He continues anyway.

“I am also” —he lifts a finger like he’s marking bullet points in the air — “certified in workplace conflict resolution, despite never having witnessed a functional resolution in my department. I am punctual, approachable, and generally kind, although my family disagrees. I grade fairly. I do not tolerate plagiarism. And I have never, at any point in my life or career, been confused for an undergraduate female student."

You stare at him. Your brain has stopped, rebooted, and is now running on emergency lighting. He tilts his head, genuinely puzzled.

“Although,” he adds, “this is not the first time someone has introduced themselves to me with… physical enthusiasm?”

“Physical—” You nearly choke on air. “I DIDN’T INTRODUCE ANYTHING — I THOUGHT YOU WERE UTAHIME!”

“Ah,” he says, nodding slowly, as if that explains everything. “Does Miss Iori often greet you with… that level of force?”

You slap a hand over your face, muffling a noise that is somewhere between a groan and a prayer for death. “She— I — we— that’s not the POINT—”

“If it helps,” he offers, thoughtfully, “I have sustained no permanent damage.”

“That does not help!”

He hums mildly, like he’s checking off items on a clipboard only he can see. “I suppose I should ask what, precisely, made you believe she was in danger?”

“I don’t know!” you half-yell. “She was supposed to be here at 2:20! It’s 2:35! She NEVER misses her own deadlines! Something had to have gone wrong!”

Choso considers this seriously. “Hmm. Unlikely she has been kidnapped between the main hall and this classroom.”

“You don’t KNOW that!”

“I do,” he says calmly. “I walked past her five minutes ago. She was arguing with a vending machine.”

Your soul re-enters your body violently.

He continues, completely unfazed: “She appeared unharmed. Very determined. In fact, she threatened the machine with legal action.”

You drop your face into your hands again.

And then, with the same tone one might use to announce the weather, he adds, “Also, for future reference, if you intend to greet me physically, please allow me enough time to turn around.”

You nearly scream as he looks at you expectantly. Not judgmentally. Not impatiently. Just… expectantly. As though this is the natural rhythm of all human interaction: he gives a TED Talk, you give yours.

“So,” he says, folding his arms lightly, “may I have your introduction as well?”

You blink. “My… what?”

“Your introduction,” he repeats, nodding. “Academic background, relevant qualifications, notable publications, institutional affiliations. Or,” he adds after a thoughtful pause, “whatever form of self-presentation you prefer.”

You stare at him. His résumé had been so long it practically summoned an audience, and now he wants yours? The only published document you’ve ever produced is a fanfic comment thread and a two-page lab report you still don’t understand.

“Well,” you say, clearing your throat. “I don’t really have— you know— anything like that.”

Choso tilts his head. “Like what?”

“Like… a dissertation. Or a fellowship. Or a fire-extinguisher incident.”

He waits.

You panic.

“So,” you blurt, “I like reading romance novels, making midnight cookies even when I swear I won’t, going on spontaneous shopping trips, and— uh— I’m Utahime’s best friend. That’s my most important job.”

Silence. A very heavy silence. Then Choso nods, once, as if processing the data packet you’ve just thrown at his brain.

“That is…” he begins.

You brace yourself.

“…remarkably straightforward.”

“Is that good?” you ask.

He considers this. “It is… different.”

You have no idea what that means, but his mouth twitches — just slightly, just enough to betray that he’s amused. Or impressed. Or both. It’s hard to tell when his default expression looks like he’s perpetually grading someone’s essay.

“Anyway,” he says, smoothing the paper on his desk and returning to that maddeningly calm tone, “I recommend you go look for Miss Iori. She was extremely committed to acquiring a bottle of green tea from the vending machine. I fear the battle may have escalated.”

“Oh my God,” you mutter, already backing toward the door. “Right. Yes. I should— I should definitely go do that.”

“Indeed.”

“And— and thank you! And sorry! I mean— both! But also—”

“You may simply say ‘thank you,’” he says gently. “And you may also stop calling me ‘sir.’ I am not the president.”

You splutter. “I didn’t call you sir!”

“You said it with your tone,” he replies dryly.

“No I didn’t!”

“It was implied.”

You gape at him, because unfortunately, he is right. His résumé had been so intimidating that your soul had instinctively saluted him.

“I— okay, well— thank you. Professor. Doctor? Assistant Lecturer? Uh—”

“Choso is fine,” he says.

“Right. Choso. Welcome to campus!”

And then you flee. You’re halfway down the hall before you realize you forgot to call him sir. And honestly? After hearing that résumé, calling him anything less than sir feels like a political crime.

Behind you, just barely out of earshot, Choso lets out a small, startled laugh — light, boyish, completely at odds with the stiff academic persona he’d been wearing like a pressed suit. It escapes him before he can stop it.

Then he clears his throat, straightens his papers, and mutters to himself, “Professional. You are a professional. Stop laughing.”

By the time Utahime drags you home ranting about the vending machine’s “disrespect,” Choso Kamo, PhD, Assistant Lecturer, Campus Legend In The Making, has already slipped back into full lecturer mode — calm, severe, and misunderstood by anyone who doesn’t witness the crack in that façade you accidentally smacked into existence.

But he’s still smiling faintly, just enough for someone walking in five seconds too early to catch it and wonder why the new assistant lecturer looks like someone just tapped him on the shoulder and handed him joy.

𝒾𝒾𝒾. RYOMEN SUKUNA

It starts, as all your most rational financial decisions do, with you storming into the only game store in a ten-kilometer radius that hasn’t yet banned you for verbal assault.

You had texted the wiry-looking bisexual employee — the only man on earth you acknowledged as a functional human being — with strict instructions to keep aside your newly released CD of The Time I Got Reincarnated As The Princess Of This World But My Brother Also Reincarnated And Is My Husband. It was the kind of title that weeded out the weak, the straight, and the insecure, so naturally it was your magnum opus.

You didn’t even look up from your screen as you shoved the glass door open with enough force to trigger lawsuits. Your peripheral vision caught a shape loitering by the new releases shelf.

Tall. Broad. Definitely male, which meant definitely useless. But if he was smacking his ass like that, he had to be your bisexual. That was his mating call for your attention — one smack for hello bestie, two smacks for your game is here, three smacks for this straight man just asked me where the Pokémon cards are and I want to die.

So, naturally, you walked right up behind him and slapped his ass.

Not tapped. Slapped. A full-palmed, god-bless-the-callouses-on-your-hand whack meant for the only tolerable man alive.

Except the man who whirled around wasn’t him.

Nope. Absolutely not. This one had a nametag. A shiny, recently laminated one.

Ryomen Sukuna.

And worse: he was gorgeous.

Not in the normal way, where men think being over six feet is a personality. More like… the kind of gorgeous that made you recoil because it meant he probably expected social interaction. Or eye contact. Or for you to be a real human being. Your spine locked up like Windows XP facing its seventh malware pop-up of the morning.

He stared at you. You stared at the exit. Your soul left your body to go start a new life somewhere with fewer men.

His expression didn’t even change. He just waited. Completely silent. Like a badly coded NPC waiting for the dialogue prompt to load.

Your mouth went dry with pure, distilled femcel fury.

“Why aren’t you bisexual?” you blurted.

His eyebrow twitched. Not raised — twitched. The first sign that there was, in fact, a living creature behind the pretty face fogging up your day.

You crossed your arms defensively, shoulders hunched, chin dipped the way you did when surrounded by testosterone. “You’re not supposed to be here. Where’s the other guy? The — the one that looks like he drinks iced Americanos to forget his dating history?”

Sukuna blinked once. Again, no talking. Just watching you meltdown in real time like you were his morning entertainment.

God, even his silence felt misogynistic.

“I asked him to keep something aside for me,” you snapped, scrunching your nose like existing near him was giving you hives. “So unless you know where he put my game, don’t just stand there.”

His jaw flexed — annoyed, maybe. Or confused. Hard to tell with men; they only have three emotions, and all of them are inconvenient.

Finally, finally, he spoke. His voice was low, unenthusiastic, like he’d been asked to read SAT passages aloud.

“What game.”

Not even a question mark at the end. Just full deadpan resignation.

“The Time I Got Reincarnated As The Princess—”

He cut you off with a look so flat you felt your browser crash internally. You glared back, arms tightening. “Don’t judge me. At least I have interests that aren’t protein shakes and refusing therapy.”

His lip curled in something too unimpressed to be a smile. “Didn’t say anything.”

“You didn’t have to,” you muttered, shifting your weight like you were about to curl into yourself like a potato bug.

He held out a hand — presumably to take the name or go check. But you recoiled like he’d tried to hand you a raw fish.

“Don’t touch me. I don’t like men.”

“You just slapped my ass.”

“That doesn’t count,” you hissed. “That was meant for a bisexual.”

He stared again. Long. Tortured. Regretting every life choice that led him to this job, this shelf, this moment with you. And yet, under the stiff annoyance, something about him screamed begrudging loser too. The way he stood slightly hunched like he hoped people wouldn’t talk to him. The way he looked like he’d rather fight a tax audit than maintain small talk. The way his eyes kept darting away like he, too, wanted to pretend social interaction was optional DLC.

A social disaster. A beauty wasted on a man who didn’t want to be perceived.

Your natural enemy.

Your natural equal.

He sighed. “Fine. I’ll check the back.”

You muttered under your breath, “Finally, a man doing something useful.”

He definitely heard it. And he definitely paused, shoulders tightening for half a second. But he didn’t turn. Or snap. Or quit on the spot.

Which was, objectively, the most attractive thing a man had ever done in your presence.

Sukuna returned exactly the way you assumed he lived his entire life: walking like an inconvenienced NPC forced to complete a side quest he never asked for, holding your game CD like it was both fragile and personally offensive. The pristine packaging glinted under the fluorescent lights — no dents, no scratches, not a single fingerprint.

Honestly? It was the cleanest object a man had ever handed you. You hated how impressive that was.

He set it on the counter gently, like he was wary you’d bite if he made a sudden movement. You grabbed it with both hands, clutching it to your chest like the holy scriptures. “Finally. God. Took you long enough.”

“It was right in front,” he said flatly.

“Well maybe it was hiding from you,” you snapped, already rummaging through your bag for your wallet — or rather, the wallet containing your father’s card. Not that you would ever acknowledge such a thing. You swiped open the worn leather like it personally disgusted you. “Just ring it up.”

He tapped something into the system with meticulous precision, fingers long, movements calm, posture still radiating that energy of a man who regularly unplugged his router to avoid talking to his roommates. Then — mid-transaction — he halted.

“There’s extra merch.”

“…What.”

“With this edition,” he clarified, not looking up. “There’s a standee. And a bonus soundtrack disc.”

You stared at him, expression flattening into pure femcel betrayal. “Since when do CDs come with extra merch? Why didn’t he tell me? Why didn’t you tell me earlier? Why am I finding out like this? Do I look like someone who enjoys being humiliated publicly?”

He blinked, slowly, as though rebooting.

“…Do you want it or not.”

“Obviously I want it,” you snapped, crossing your arms so aggressively your elbows cracked. “Go get it. Why would you even ask? Go. Fetch.”

He gave you a look. Not annoyed — just deeply tired. A man who had lived thirty lifetimes in the last seven minutes. But he turned around anyway, trudging to the back room like someone being led to the gallows.

You waited at the counter, foot tapping, scowling at nothing in particular except all men ever born.

He returned with a neatly packed bundle: the standee still wrapped in thin plastic, the bonus disc in its own shiny case, a folded promotional booklet you didn’t even know existed. He set them down with the delicacy of someone aware women like you were capable of biting.

You lifted the standee with awe you would never show on your face. “They made a standee of the brother? That’s so camp.”

“It came with it,” he muttered, already pulling out wrapping paper — actual wrapping paper — like this was an Apple store and you were the Queen of England.

You narrowed your eyes. “Why are you wrapping it.”

“You’re buying it.”

“That doesn’t answer the question.”

He paused, a tiny flicker of irritation crossing his face before dying instantly under the weight of his social awkwardness.

“…Because people complain when we don’t.”

“People complain because you’re men,” you shot back automatically.

He didn’t even argue. Just wrapped your items with slow, careful precision, creasing the edges neatly, tucking the corners in with the concentration of a man defusing a bomb. You watched, arms crossed but gaze suspiciously softening.

“You’re weirdly good at that,” you said.

“Okay.”

“No, like — for a guy? That’s abnormal. Are you hiding a girlfriend in the back or something? Some domesticated creature training you?”

He looked genuinely offended. “No.”

“You sound defensive.”

“I’m just wrapping something.”

“Well you’re doing it like someone who has… I don’t know… skill.”

He huffed, faintly. “I’ve worked here two weeks.”

“Two weeks is enough to learn how to disappoint women,” you muttered.

He froze before resuming to wrap it faster.

When he finished, he placed the bundle in a branded bag and slid it across the counter. You made sure not to touch his fingers — not because you were scared, of course, but because men had cooties and emotional negligence.

As the receipt printed, Sukuna handed it to you. “Here.”

You took it without looking, too busy staring at him now that you could do it without him noticing. The stupid pufferfish cheeks. The stupid pretty face. The stupid social loser aura vibrating off him like gamer funk but emotionally.

Maybe it was because he’d been patient with you — something most men failed at within seconds. Maybe it was because he hadn’t spoken over you, or laughed, or tried to correct you, or called security.

Maybe it was because he wrapped your merch like he actually cared about a job paying $12 an hour.

Your stomach swirled. Disgusting.

You grimaced. “Ugh. I think I’m gonna throw up.”

He blinked, alarmed for the first time. “What did I do.”

“Nothing,” you said quickly, clutching your bag too tightly. “Just — indigestion. Or emotions. I don’t know. Both are bad.”

He stared at you, confusion pinching the corners of his mouth. “Are you always like this.”

“Are you always shaped like a violent goldfish?” you shot back, because vulnerability was illegal.

He opened his mouth, then closed it, then looked away like making eye contact might summon a demon. You grabbed your bag, chin up, pride intact, voice trembling only a little. “Thanks for… doing your job or whatever.”

He nodded once, awkward, stiff, like a man bowing in a cutscene for the first time. “Yeah.”

You stepped back toward the door, refusing to admit you were walking slower on purpose. “See you… never.”

“You’ll probably come back,” he muttered.

You froze. He fiddled with a pen, refusing to look at you. “People like you always do.”

Your mouth opened, closed, then opened again in outrage — and something else.

“You don’t know anything about me.”

He shrugged one shoulder. “You slapped my ass before saying hello.”

You nearly combusted.

Without another word, you spun on your heel, burst through the door like a Victorian woman fainting, and stomped down the street with your wrapped merch like a trophy of battle.

Unfortunately, your stomach kept swirling.

Even more unfortunately… it did not feel like indigestion.

𝒾𝓋. NAOYA ZENIN

You were lucky.

Covering Shoko Ieiri’s runway was something half the industry would’ve killed for, and here you were, weaving through racks of silk and satin because being her college friend still paid off in ways you frankly did not deserve.

Backstage was chaos in a way only fashion week could be — stylists sprinting with hairdryers, makeup artists swearing under their breath, models teetering by in impossible shoes, and you, clutching your camera bag like a lifeline while trying to remember if Shoko said she’d be near the chequered skirt or the chequered jacket.

Both existed. Both were currently moving.

You spotted the skirt first. A clean black-and-white check, sharp pleats, very Shoko-coded. You hurried over, relief ready to spill out of your mouth, greeting already forming on your palm as you reached out and smacked her ass — sound and contact, a full, confident hello.

Except the skirt turned around and it wasn’t Shoko.

It wasn’t even a woman.

Your breath collapsed in your chest as your gaze carried upward — first the narrow hips, then the cinched waist, the crisp fall of the fabric, and then the man towering over you.

A model. A very beautiful, very tall, very pissed off male model.

His brown eyes sharpened into a glare the second your brain decided to keep staring instead of apologizing. Dyed blonde hair, the soft pale kind that looked expensive, framed his face but did nothing to hide the dark green roots that screamed grown-out rebellion. His jawline was a weapon. His cheekbones could cut glass. His expression said you should already be praying.

“Excuse me,” he snapped, voice cool, clipped, and far too offended for someone who had literally just existed in your way. “Do you often greet strangers by smacking their clothes?”

You jolted back, hands up, already choking on your own mortification. “I thought — you weren’t — It’s just — Shoko!”

His eyes dragged over you in one slow, unimpressed sweep, landing on your jeans like they were a personal insult. “And why,” he said, tone flattening into something smug, “are you wearing pants?”

You blinked. “Because… they’re pants?”

“They’re unflattering,” he said simply, as if this were objective truth carved into stone. “On women especially.”

Your brain stuttered. “Excuse m—?!”

“Yes,” he cut in, already bored. “You touched my kilt without permission and I’m the rude one? Unbelievable.” He adjusted the garment with a flick of his wrist, movements precise, elegant, borderline theatrical. “It’s custom, by the way. Handmade. Probably worth more than your entire outfit.”

“Your… kilt?” you echoed, because your ears had stopped functioning from the moment he said women should not wear pants.

“Kilt,” he repeated, nodding once. “K-I-L-T. Not whatever you were about to call it.”

And you nearly gasped, because yes, you were absolutely about to call it a clit and honestly, the shame might kill you before he could.

He cocked his head, studying you again with that disdain only the highest-paid, hottest man in the room could muster. “You’re new.”

“I’m not new,” you muttered. “I just didn’t expect to see… you.”

“Most people don’t.” His chin lifted smugly. “Naoya Zenin.”

The name hit you like a bucket of ice water. Because of course. Of course this had to be him.

The highest-paying male model in the country. The notoriously difficult one. The one critics called elegant but insufferable. The one designers bent over backwards for because his face sold out collections before the clothes even hit the floor. And apparently, the one who thought women in pants were a mistake.

You stared at him, flustered, indignant, still slightly enchanted because unfortunately he was disgustingly pretty. He stared back, fully aware of it.

“So?” he said. “Are you going to apologize, or are you going to stand there thinking about my legs?”

Your mouth fell open in fresh horror. “I wasn’t—!”

“You were,” he said, already turning, already dismissing you with a flick of those perfectly dyed strands. “At least know my name before you start groping my wardrobe.”

You spluttered, but he didn’t look back. He didn't need to. Men like Naoya Zenin never did.

And somewhere behind him, you finally heard Shoko’s voice calling your name — far too late to save you from the disaster that had already happened.

You bolted back toward the main stage before your humiliation could settle into your bones, camera already in hand, lungs tight with the leftover sting of Naoya Zenin’s arrogance. The runway lights washed everything in white-gold, the crowd humming like an electric current as models filed out in Shoko’s signature silhouettes. You focused on the rhythm, the shapes, the fabrics — anything but the memory of smacking a stranger’s kilt and being told you shouldn’t be wearing pants.

But then the hum changed.

It sharpened, brightened, swelled into something undeniably attentive, and you didn’t even need to look up to know why. The audience always reacted like this for him — that model, the one whose name sold tickets before designers even announced their collections. You forced yourself to raise your camera and there he was.

Naoya Zenin. Gliding out in Shoko’s piece like he owned the runway, the kilt swaying just enough to mock your lingering embarrassment.

Your traitor hands snapped picture after picture — clean angles, close-ups, detail shots, full-body frames. You’d tell yourself it was guilt. Professionalism. Artistic obligation. Anything except fascination.

Anything except that strange coil of tension you felt when the light hit the pleats of his kilt and you remembered exactly how it felt to slap your hand against it.

And then the show ended. Applause. Flashbulbs. Shoko grabbing you by the shoulders and shrieking about how half the editors loved your shots already. Relief pooled in your chest, shaky and warm — right up until the afterparty, where alcohol became courage and courage became stupidity.

The venue pulsed with music, glassware chiming, and soft laughter from every direction. You were three drinks in — maybe four, depending on if the bartender was being generous — when Naoya appeared out of nowhere, sliding into your peripheral vision like he was stepping onto another stage. His hair was brushed back now, the green roots more evident, his eyes still sharp enough to slice you open.

“So,” he said, voice silk-lined and arrogant, “you’re Shoko’s photographer.”

You stiffened, trying to look composed. “For tonight. I’m… helping.”

“Helping,” he echoed, swirling the drink in his hand before giving you a slow once-over. “Interesting word choice. You captured the detailing of my kilt surprisingly well for someone who didn’t even know what it was.”

Your face heated instantly. “I was distracted.”

“I noticed.” His lips curved into the faintest, most condescending half-smirk imaginable. “Most people get distracted by my walk, but you? You went straight for the fabric. Very thorough. Very hands-on.”

You choked on air. “That was an accident.”

“Was it?” he murmured, leaning closer, studying you like one of Shoko’s garments under inspection. “You kept photographing me like you were trying to make up for it. Guilt? Attraction? Don’t worry — I won’t judge. I’m used to admirers.”

“I wasn’t admiring—”

“Of course you were,” he cut in smoothly. “You have eyes.”

His confidence was infuriating. Worse, it was correct. But before you could tell him to take his ego elsewhere, your brain — glazed with alcohol and the humiliation of the whole night—made the catastrophic decision to let your thoughts slip out.

“Well,” you muttered, half a slur, “if I captured the intricacies of your kilt, can you capture the intricacies of my—”

Your mouth shut too late.

Too. Late.

The word clit hung between you both like a chandelier about to crush your entire budding career.

Naoya froze.

Then he laughed.

At first it was a sharp, mocking bark of disbelief — like he couldn’t fathom the audacity. Then it melted into something real, rich, and startlingly warm as he held his stomach and actually doubled over.

“You—” he wheezed, wiping a tear from the corner of his eye. “You did not just say that.”

Your brain short-circuited. “I didn’t mean— I wasn’t— I’m drunk—”

“That’s not drunk,” he said, still laughing. “That’s bold. Or suicidal. Hard to tell with you.”

You looked around for the nearest exit, convinced security would drag you out and blacklist you forever, but Naoya straightened, brushing imaginary lint off his perfectly tailored suit jacket. His eyes gleamed with something new — interest.

“Relax. If I fired everyone who flirted badly, the industry would collapse.” He leaned in again, voice dropping into a low, taunting purr. “And besides… I like your work.”

You blinked. “My work?”

“Yes. The photos. The eye for detail. The restraint.” He paused, smirking. “Well. Not total restraint, clearly.”

Your face burned hotter.

“I want you on-board,” Naoya continued, tone shifting to something dangerously close to professional — but still dipped in arrogance. “Personal photographer for all my shoots. Starting tomorrow.”

“Tomorrow?” you echoed, stunned. “You want me?”

“Oh, absolutely.” His gaze drifted deliberately downward, slow, suggestive. “You notice everything. Even what you shouldn’t. That’s valuable.”

Before you could respond, he stepped closer — impossibly close — and with a single smooth motion, slid something behind you.

A card.

Into your back pocket.

Of your pants.

Right against your ass.

“You—!” you jumped, spinning around as he withdrew his hand with infuriating calm.

“You’re wearing pants,” he said with a shrug, turning to leave. “I thought you wanted reasons to defend the choice.”

Your jaw dropped. “That’s not a reason!”

“It is,” he called over his shoulder, raising a hand in lazy farewell. “Karma. Or whatever poetic nonsense you believe in.”

He glanced back once more, eyes amused, condescending, and unmistakably flirtatious.

“Don’t be late tomorrow,” he said. “I’d hate for your career to end before I enjoy ruining it myself.”

And then he was gone — leaving you breathless, furious, mortified, and undeniably employed.

Karma, you realized, was not only real — it was wearing a kilt and had your career in the palm of his smug, perfectly manicured hand.

𝓋. SUGURU GETO

When your girlfriend suggested meeting up in the library for a quick makeout session, you didn’t even blink twice; in fact, you practically teleported there.

Nearly one full week of radio silence and she suddenly pops out of the blue with a “Come to the reference section ;)”? Please. Who are you kidding? You’re like a dog being enticed with a bone — tail wagging, ears perked, pride abandoned at the automatic doors.

Never mind the fact that your girlfriend is actually your situationship, who is also a bicurious cheerleader with an attention span shorter than your will to resist her.

But your queer love struggles are an issue for another day. Preferably one where you’re emotionally stable and well-rested.

Right now, all your focus is on the reference textbook section. You weave through the rows like you’re in a stealth mission, dodging stressed students and the occasional rustle of pages. And then you see her — or who you assume is her — back turned to you, long hair flowing down her spine. T

hat was new. She never mentioned extensions. Or maybe she did and you just weren’t listening because she said it right in the middle of a rant about her roommate stealing her lip gloss again.

Whatever. Point is: hair down, hips out, stance familiar. That’s her. That’s totally her. Your brain registers the silhouette with the enthusiasm of a lab rat finding the cheese in the maze.

You do not think. You do not evaluate. You do not consider consequences. You simply act. Because that is who you are in this deeply unfortunate romantic chapter of your life.

You stride up, confidence inflated by delusion, and you greet her the way any self-respecting, touch-starved situationship soldier would: you raise your hand and deliver a swift, enthusiastic, absolutely devastating smack! to her ass.

The sound echoes. Echoes. Somewhere, a librarian winces.

You grin, already forming some smug line about how much you missed her. You’re ready for her usual gasp-laugh combo, the flirty shove, the whispered “You’re crazy” that makes your knees weak.

Except. Except.

When the person turns around, it is not her. It is not her in any universe, timeline, or parallel dimension.

You are staring directly into the wide, horrified eyes of a man.

A man.

A man with cheekbones that could cut glass, forearms that suggest he lifts more than emotional baggage, and — this is the real kicker — luscious, flowy hair identical to your situationship’s. The kind of hair that makes you question why the universe is punishing you specifically.

He is frozen. You are frozen. Time itself takes a smoke break.

You feel the blood drain from your soul first, then your face. Your brain sprints through every possible explanation, landing on nothing except the overwhelming urge to self-destruct.

He opens his mouth. You open yours too, but only a squeak escapes. You are, in real time, discovering the physical embodiment of regret.

You start calculating how fast you can run if you drop to all fours. Maybe if you bolt down the aisle, leap over the cart full of overdue textbooks, and dive behind the encyclopedias, you can start a new life under an alias.

Something simple. Something quiet. Something belonging to someone who doesn’t assault strangers in academic institutions.

He keeps staring at you like you just slapped the taxes out of him, which, frankly, you might have.

And all you can think is: your situationship better appreciate this. Because you just smacked a grown man’s ass in public. A man with better hair than both of you combined. A man who is probably going to tell security.

A man whose shampoo you kind of want to ask about but now you can never show your face again, so that opportunity is gone forever.

In the distance, a chair squeaks. Someone whispers. You swear the overhead lights grow brighter, spotlighting your shame like you’re the main character in a tragic musical number.

You manage to croak out something resembling, “I thought you were — someone else,” but it comes out more like a dying animal sound layered with humiliation.

You stand there, hand still halfway suspended in the air like the world’s worst criminal caught mid–crime, as ditzy lil’ miss situation-girlfriend-ship happily skips off to aisle 3, blissfully unaware that you have just assaulted a man with the same hair as her.

Of course she didn’t wait for you. Of course she wandered off. Cheerleaders don’t walk; they skip. They flounce. They cause chaos without ever having to witness it.

You, on the other hand, are standing in the smoldering crater of your own choices.

He’s still blinking at you like he’s trying to reboot. You don’t know whether to pretend you’re a phantom, apologize before a harassment case is filed on the spot, or run so fast your sneakers melt.

You open your mouth, ready to attempt the apology route.

“I—LOOK, I’M REALLY SOR—”

But he holds up a hand, calm, polite, putting a stop to your spiral before it combusts.

“You are not Gojo.”

You freeze. “Who the hell is Gojo?”

“My boyfriend,” he replies, completely unfazed, like this is a normal thing he clarifies for people who smack his ass in public.

“Well, he isn’t my girlfriend either!” you blurt out, panic mashed into defensiveness. “Why am I even — ugh, sorry for smacking your ass.”

He gives a small laugh, brushing his hair behind his ear with an elegance that offends you. “It’s not my first time. Just mildly surprised it was a stranger instead of, you know… familiar man hands.”

“Wow,” you snort. “Lesbophobic much?”

He raises an eyebrow. “How is that lesbophobic?”

“You’re assuming I don’t have familiar hands to smack! Aren’t we basically on the same gayness level here?”

He pauses, considering this. “Fair enough.”

A moment of silence passes. It is impressively awkward. Someone coughs in the distance. He shifts his weight, offers a hand like this is a networking event and not the aftermath of you slapping his very bisexual ass.

“I’m Geto.”

You shake it, because manners persist even in humiliation. “I’m… the idiot. And bisexual. Not that it matters.”

“It always matters,” he replies with the wisdom of a man who has clearly endured multiple chaotic relationships. “Nice to meet you.”

Another beat of silence. Somewhere in aisle 3, your situationship giggles. You and Geto both glance in that direction, both wearing the expression of people who really did not ask to be here.

“So,” he asks, “why’d you slap me?”

“My girlfriend—ish—told me to meet her here, and I saw your hair and…” You trail off, waving a hand over his head. “This is disrespectfully identical.”

He nods solemnly. “I understand. Gojo has nearly caused fights because people think he’s me from behind. I tell him to keep his hair up, he says it ‘blocks his beauty.’”

Sounds about right.

“And you?” you ask. “Why are you… here?”

“Gojo said he wanted to ‘study together.’ Which means he’s probably lost in the children’s section right now, bothering toddlers with his riddles.”

You sigh. He sighs back. Solidarity is born.

“So,” you say slowly, “we’re both side pieces to rich bicurious kids with superiority complexes?”

He thinks. “Yes. Essentially.”

“Does that mean we’ve trauma-bonded?”

“Absolutely.”

You hear another giggle from aisle 3 — your situationship's unmistakable laugh — and Geto hears a loud, dramatic sneeze echo from somewhere beyond the encyclopedias. You both sigh in perfect unison.

“Well,” he says, straightening his shirt, “should we go meet our individual disasters?”

“Yeah,” you mutter, rubbing your face. “Side piece solidarity.”

You and Geto share one last, deeply exhausted glance before splitting off — he goes left, you go right — both of you walking toward your own respective chaotic, rich, impossibly attractive bisexual nightmares.

You’ve known him for three minutes and somehow this is the only man who has ever truly understood you.

𝓋𝒾. SHIU KONG

The thing about growing up on the Upper East Side, (besides developing an allergy to public transport and an inexplicable fondness for overpriced iced matcha), is that you are expected — no, groomed — to participate in extracurriculars that make you look like an upstanding Gen-Z heir.

Charity galas. Fencing. Golf classes. The whole well-rounded, well-mannered, vaguely insufferable package.

And because you’ve never understood the joy of swinging metal sticks at tiny white balls, you and your best friend Gojo invented your own twist: whoever managed to aim a shot at the other’s ass and land it first won the day.

Prestige, bragging rights, and a free iced latte on the loser’s tab.

Simple enough, or so you told yourself.

Gojo always won. Always. He had this annoyingly natural talent for everything that required hand-eye coordination, balance, charm, or general showmanship. You suspected this was because his body was crafted by malevolent angels tasked with making your life difficult.

He got you every time — on the green, in the driving range, once even while he was texting.

But today, you were determined. You woke up with purpose, brushed your hair with determination, and marched into the country club like the Hilton heir you were absolutely not but behaved like anyway.

The sun shimmered over the manicured lawn as the two of you zoomed in the buggy, Gojo sitting with that smug posture you hated, white polo slightly undone because he insisted it helped with his swing, sunglasses perched on his head even though he didn’t intend to use them. He looked like he belonged on a recruitment poster for nepotism.

Meanwhile, you clutched your club like it was a sniper rifle, fully prepared to win the stupidest battle of your privileged little life.

The buggy slowed near the next tee, and Gojo hopped off to grab a different club, leaving Shiu — his assigned caddy for the season — standing nearby with an expression that hovered somewhere between tired resignation and soul death. Poor man had long since accepted his role in the chaotic ecosystem that was you and Gojo Satoru. You flashed him a polite smile, thinking he probably deserved a raise.

This was your chance. Gojo was standing beside the buggy, back turned, stretching like an overdressed flamingo. You positioned your feet the way the instructor had taught you, even though you were ninety percent sure the form didn’t matter if you were committing premeditated ass-targeting.

You inhaled. You focused.

You locked onto Gojo like a heat-seeking missile fueled by entitlement and petty vengeance.

You swung. The ball sailed.

You felt triumph bloom in your chest—

too soon.

SMACK!

A sharp, echoing sound cut across the quiet golf course. Not the sound of ball meeting Gojo’s annoyingly perfect derrière, no. This was different. This had weight. This had consequence. This had…an audible groan?

You blinked.

Gojo turned.

You turned.

Shiu Kong — the caddy whose greatest aspiration in life was probably a quiet afternoon and a job without aristocratic hazards — was hunched over, hands cupped very protectively between his legs, face contorted in a way that would’ve made marble statues weep.

You had hit him directly in the nuts.

The world fell silent except for the distant thwack! of someone else being far better at golf than you.

Gojo stared at you like you’d just committed a war crime. “You hit my caddy in the balls.”

Your jaw dropped. “I thought they were your balls — WAIT, NOT LIKE THAT—”

Shiu wheezed. Gojo ran a hand over his face, half horrified, half amused, and a tiny little bit proud because only you could turn a simple golf lesson into a social scandal. “You assaulted an innocent man. Do you know what that means?”

“It means,” you said, cheeks heating, “that I missed.”

“It means you're paying his medical bill.”

But you couldn’t hear him anymore. Your brain was spiraling, narrating your downfall in real time like the Gossip Girl episode your life had suddenly become. Oh, Upper East Side girl assaults caddy in broad daylight! Parents mortified! Trust fund threatened! Rumors swirl faster than Gojo can swing a nine-iron!

Meanwhile, Shiu straightened slowly, giving you the exhausted, mildly judgmental look of a man who had seen the downfall of empires and now yours.

“I'm so sorry,” you squeaked, stepping forward, then back, then forward again because you had no idea how apology etiquette worked when it came to nut-related injuries. “Do you need ice? Do you need water? Do you need me to leave the country?”

Shiu sighed, voice low and gravelly. “Just…maybe aim somewhere else next time.”

Gojo burst into laughter so loud it nearly scared off the swans by the pond.

It wasn’t your proudest moment, but in a twisted, ridiculous way, it was the most Upper East Side thing you’d ever done. After all, nothing screams generational privilege like accidentally assaulting your friend’s caddy during a golf match you rigged yourself.

In what was, in your mind, the most gracious gesture any civilized Upper East Side debutante could extend, you scrambled to offer Shiu an olive branch of peace so large it could’ve been framed as modern art. The moment he managed to stand upright again — albeit with the stiff posture of a man reassessing every choice that brought him to this country — you leaned forward, clasped your hands together, and unleashed the full force of your well-meaning, catastrophically class-insulated brain.

“Do you want a latte? I can buy you one! Or — I mean — your medical bill? Should I cover that? Or I can order you a car home? Do you need new shoes? You can have mine! They're Prada.”

Shiu stared at you, the way one might stare at a chandelier that suddenly started speaking. His face didn’t show anger — no, that would’ve required energy he no longer had — but rather a patient, exhausted neutrality that only men who worked service jobs for rich teenagers ever truly mastered. He adjusted the strap of his caddy bag on his shoulder, wincing subtly, then offered you a faint smile that didn’t reach his eyes.

“I’m fine,” he said, voice low, a little raspy, and so painfully dry it could’ve been used to season seaweed. “Just…good luck with your aiming skills.”

You gasped, taking it as encouragement instead of sarcasm. “Thank you! I'll practice, I promise. And if you ever want better shoes just tell me, I can—”

He held up a hand, slow and weary, as though you were a golden retriever he needed to gently hush. “I really just...need a break.”

A break. Not a latte. Not Prada. Not a chauffeur. Not a diamond-studded apology card. He needed a break.

Maybe a vacation. Maybe a teleportation device home.

“A break!” you repeated cheerfully, as if this was a problem money could fix. “From work? Oh, Gojo can give you time off! Maybe you want a vacation? I can book a flight! Do you want a return ticket to, um —where did you say you're from again?”

Shiu tensed, jaw ticking. “South Korea.”

“Right! Right, Korea. I can book it now if you want! Or at least upgrade your seat? Do you like hotels? I can get you a suite.”

Gojo snorted behind you, muttering something like, “She's trying to buy back God's favor,” but you waved him off.

Shiu looked away so quickly you almost missed the micro-expression — a flash of longing, of someone who definitely couldn’t do that, of someone who probably missed Korean convenience store ramen more than he missed sunlight. But he shook his head, sighing softly. “Not necessary. I don't need a vacation. Just...some air. Maybe a cigarette.”

“A cigarette?” you echoed, blinking. “Do you need a lighter? Do you want the expensive ones they sell in Paris? My dad has a few—”

He exhaled through his nose, the universal sign of a man acknowledging your sheltered upbringing without saying it outright. Then, with a tiny bow of the head — because Shiu was raised with manners far older and sturdier than anything money could buy — he muttered, “Have a good day,” and limped off toward the staff area, where presumably no golf balls would be assaulting him for the rest of the afternoon.

You watched him go, clutching your club to your chest like a heroine in a Regency novel who had just accidentally traumatized the help. Gojo strolled up behind you, sipping his iced latte with the lazy swagger of someone who’d never known shame.

“Wooowwww,” he drawled. “I think he likes you.”

“Satoru, I hit him in the crotch.”

“That's a very intimate area,” he said, shrugging. “Could be a sign.”

You elbowed him, scowling, but your mind was already spinning. You were stubborn. Determined. A menace in designer sneakers. You weren’t about to let this go unresolved. You turned to Gojo with that familiar spark in your eyes — the one that meant someone, somewhere, was about to suffer the consequences of your enthusiasm.

“Set up a meeting with him.”

Gojo choked on his drink. “What, like a business meeting?”

“A lunch,” you clarified, chin high. “At one of dad's restaurants. A proper apology. He deserves that.”

Gojo smirked. “You just wanna feed him so he doesn't sue you.”

“And show him I'm sorry!”

“And maybe buy him shoes.”

“If he wants shoes I'll buy him shoes, Satoru.”

He burst out laughing again, shaking his head like he couldn’t believe you were real. And maybe you were clueless, maybe you were ditzy, maybe you were so class-unconscious you offered Prada as an apology for blunt-force trauma — but your heart was in the right place.

Even if your swing definitely wasn’t.

Somewhere near the staff exit, Shiu lit his cigarette with a shaky sigh, probably praying you wouldn’t follow him.

Spoiler alert: Gojo was absolutely going to make that lunch happen. And Shiu? Poor, unsuspecting Shiu would learn that apologies from girls like you came with appetizers, overcompensation, and enough unintended chaos to last him a lifetime.

𝓋𝒾𝒾. NANAMI KENTO

Every marketing student you know keeps a silent prayer lodged beneath their tongue, a hopeful little chant that someday they’ll land an internship that doesn’t force them into the digital equivalent of dancing for scraps. Nobody wants to be remembered as the one who tried to convince a 48-year-old construction worker with three slipped discs and a pension crisis to do a Sabrina Carpenter hip-snap twirl because “the algorithm likes dancing.” The algorithm doesn’t like movement; the algorithm is a fickle forest deity that requires blood, sweat, and the occasional trending audio sacrifice, and even then, it might spit on you.

So when you found out you’d secured an internship at a newly opened campus-adjacent bakery, you nearly dissolved into a puddle of bliss right there on the quad. Pastries, pastel décor, forgiving lighting, and content that wouldn’t make you question your career choices? Your soul briefly left your body, floated over the campus gates, and whispered thank you to whatever cosmic scheduler finally aligned your timetable with destiny.

You felt chosen. Blessed. Reborn. A marketing phoenix rising from the ashes of “Okay guys, one boomerang for the brand?”

The bakery itself was the kind of place that smelled like childhood, adulthood, and whatever era of your life you wished you were living.

Buttered air. Cinnamon gossip. The low hum of ovens exhaling warmth like tired dragons. The owners wore matching aprons and matching delusions that “keeping things minimalistic” meant painting everything a color that looked like beige having an existential crisis. But it was cute. It was earnest. It was yours to brand.

Best part? A handful of classmates and acquaintances worked here part-time. That meant familiar faces, semi-cooperative labor, and the possibility of bribing them with leftover croissants to appear in your videos.

You pictured it already: day-in-the-life reels, “POV: you walk into your new fave bakery,” moodboard shots of flaky pastries sparkling under natural light. Pure content heaven.

And because you knew them, the filming process would be smooth. Comfortable. Maybe even fun.

Except… tell that to the algo.

Because the moment you whipped out your phone and attempted your first test clip, the algorithm emerged from the shadows like a rat who hadn’t seen the sun in four fiscal quarters.

Your lighting betrayed you. Your framing betrayed you.

The pastry you filmed developed stage fright and deflated like it was auditioning for a tragedy. The latte art heart looked more like a kidney.

Meanwhile, your classmates, who you thought would beam with enthusiasm, stared into the camera like Victorian orphans being photographed for the first time. One of them blinked so slowly you wondered if they were asleep.

Another kept asking where to look, despite you telling them seventeen times. A third spontaneously developed the posture of a confused shrimp.

You tried switching angles. The algo cackled.

You tried using trending audio. The algo yawned.

You tried writing a caption so poetic it could make a grown influencer cry. The algo responded by giving you six likes, two of which were your own accounts, one from your mother, and three from bots selling crypto.

Still, you persisted. You dragged in a coworker to slice bread in slow motion. You filmed a cinnamon roll getting iced like it was the main character in a bakery-themed biopic. You arranged pastries into geometric formations so precise a math professor would’ve wept. You even made one of your classmates pretend to take a bite, only for them to inhale powdered sugar and cough violently across the mise-en-scène. The footage looked like a low-budget winter wonderland.

But somewhere in this swirling chaos, this sugar-dusted battlefield, something shifted. Your content slowly took shape. The bakery began to glow under your lens. Your classmates loosened up, laughing and breaking character in ways that looked effortlessly real.

And the algorithm, the mercurial god of engagement, finally blinked at you. Maybe even winked. One post edged past a thousand views. Then a few thousand more. The comments trickled in: students wanting to visit, professors tagging colleagues, locals asking about the new brownie flavors.

You weren’t just documenting a bakery anymore. You were animating it, breathing life into it, stitching it into the campus ecosystem. Your phone became a wand, the cinnamon rolls your familiars, and every time the algo decided to grace one of your posts with visibility, it felt like a small celestial nod.

Not approval. Just... acknowledgment.

The work was still chaotic, of course. Your classmates still forgot their cues. Pastries still collapsed. And the algorithm still behaved like an emotionally unavailable situationship.

But for the first time, you felt like you weren’t just chasing virality. You were crafting something with pulse and charm, something that fed people before they ever tasted a single thing. And that alone made every powdered-sugar sneeze and lighting malfunction worth it.

You arrived after class with a backpack full of half-baked campaign ideas, each one scribbled during bathroom breaks while doomscrolling past other people’s perfectly moisturized lives. The back door of the bakery welcomed you with its usual whoosh of warm air, that buttery exhale that felt like a pat on the head from the universe. You stepped in with the energy of someone who’d convinced themselves this would finally be the day the algorithm bowed before them in gratitude.

Inside, one of the part-timers stood at the industrial oven, sliding in fresh loaves with the rhythm of someone who had survived a STEM lab practical that morning. From the cropped hoodie, the hunched posture, and the playlist murmuring faintly from a single AirPod, you assumed biology major. They always worked like the bread depended on their GPA.

Without thinking, without checking, without even letting a single neuron confirm the identity of this individual, you strolled forward with the breezy confidence of a marketing student who believes camaraderie can be expressed in the universal language of harmless chaos.

In one smooth, misguided gesture, you gave them a friendly slap! on the ass and chirped something about being ready for another day of content magic.

You expected a muffled gasp, maybe a scandalized giggle, or at least the offended squeak of someone who understood workplace affection only in the form of overpriced lattes.

Instead, the universe clicked into slow motion. Your heartbeat thundered in your ears, drumming an urgent funeral march as the person froze. Straightened. Turned.

And it was not a biology major. It was not even a student. It was your manager.

Nanami Kento.

The bakery’s rare cryptid. The man who appears only during moments of bliss or disaster, like some beige-swathed omen. His expression, carved with the precision of someone who alphabetizes spreadsheets for fun, carried none of the bliss.

Very, very much the disaster.

He stared at you with the quiet intensity of a man reconsidering every hiring decision that led him to this exact millisecond. His posture was perfect. His sleeves were rolled just enough to suggest responsibility but not enough to imply friendliness. His jaw tightened in a way that made you aware of your own mortality. Even the oven behind him seemed to dim out of respect.

You stood there, a marketing intern with the blood draining from your face in real time, feeling the atmosphere congeal like week-old custard.

Nanami finally spoke, voice low and smooth, carrying the weight of a thousand unapproved PTO requests.

“Can’t keep your hands to yourself?”

It wasn’t a question. It was a headline. A thesis. A prophecy of impending HR paperwork.

You opened your mouth to explain that it was a misunderstanding, that you are a creature guided by aura instead of vision, that you seriously thought he was Jun from microbiology who did laugh when you smacked him last Tuesday.

But your throat had calcified. Your words evaporated. Even your internal monologue packed a suitcase and left.

Nanami didn’t move closer, but it felt like he did. His gaze alone stepped into your personal space. The kind of gaze that sorted out truth from nonsense and found you lacking in both.

You watched his gloved hands finish sliding the loaf trays into the oven with calm precision, as if he hadn’t just been assaulted by the world’s most incompetent intern. He shut the door gently.

Too gently. The kind of gentleness that suggested he was restraining himself from hurling the nearest baguette in your direction.

He finally sighed, a long, weary sound that stretched across the tiled floor like spilled flour.

“If this is your idea of workplace morale,” he said, “we have a very long day ahead of us.”

Your soul hovered somewhere near the ceiling tiles, watching your body malfunction. The algorithm suddenly felt like the least dangerous force in your life. Even the pastries cooled their crusts in reverent silence.

And you? You simply stood there, a cautionary tale with student debt.

This was not the content you had planned to film today.

You contemplated faking your own death by the time you reached the bakery’s back door. Mentally, you had drafted at least three escape plans involving remote mountain villages, minimal Wi-Fi, and a new identity where no one knew you had once slapped your manager’s ass with the confidence of a frat boy greeting his teammates.

Yet the bakery greeted you with a betrayal of the highest order: everyone had decided to clock in early. At the same time. Together. Like a coordinated flash mob of optimism.

Your part-timers swarmed you with bright greetings and eager enthusiasm, their eyes shining with dreams of micro-influencer fame. You wanted to pat their heads and tell them not to waste their youth on reels, but instead you held your clipboard like a shield. Each “Good morning!” hit you like an emotional dodgeball.

Meanwhile, the ghost of Nanami’s disappointed silence floated somewhere behind you like an air-conditioned draft.

You shepherded your little flock into the meeting room, heart pounding like it was trying to tunnel out of your chest. Today’s monthly content planning had never felt heavier. You clicked through slides, voice wobbling at every innocuous motion Nanami made in your peripheral vision. A shift of weight. A blink. A subtle adjustment of his glasses. Each small gesture struck you with terrifying precision, like he knew the exact sound frequency at which your nervous system collapsed.

Your ideas spilled out in a rush of self-preservation. Cupcake decorating time-lapses. Barista POV mornings. A “flavor of the week” skit you prayed the algorithm would latch onto like a needy koala. The team nodded along, scribbling notes, whispering excitedly about how this might finally get them discovered by someone other than their mothers and a few dedicated Reddit lurkers.

Nanami stayed silent, arms crossed, expression unreadable in a way that made you want to jump into a vat of batter and let the sourdough starter take you.

When the meeting finally ended, everyone filed out chattering happily, clutching aprons and half-formed dreams. You exhaled shakily and turned around, ready to collapse into the nearest chair.

Instead, you collided into a solid chest that smelled faintly of clean linen and responsible decision-making.

Nanami Kento.

Again.

You made a noise somewhere between a gasp and a dying kettle. He steadied you with one hand, the gesture minimal but firm, as if preventing your complete physical disintegration was just part of his job description.

You stepped back so fast you nearly tripped over the tripod, words spilling like scrambled eggs. You apologized. Then apologized for the apology.

Then apologized for existing, for breathing, for contributing to global carbon emissions.

Nanami looked at you with a patience that felt older than civilization.

“I understand it was a mistake,” he said quietly.

The kindness in his tone almost killed you on the spot.

Your throat tightened. Your eyes warmed. Your tear ducts prepared to betray you spectacularly. Because here stood the man you had accidentally assaulted via friendly fire, and he was offering you reasonable reassurance instead of firing you into the sun.

But then, with the gentle precision of someone handling a priceless artifact, he lifted a hand slightly and said:

“If you cry, please avoid doing it on the apron. It’s new.”

That did it. The tears backtracked instantly, terrified of staining corporate property. You hiccuped out a strangled laugh-sob hybrid, nodding violently, wiping your eyes with the sleeve of your hoodie like a chastened toddler.

Nanami gave you a small, almost imperceptible nod, the bakery equivalent of a papal blessing, then stepped past you to arrange something on the counter.

You stood there, heartbeat thundering, knees trembling, soul vibrating, wondering how a man could be both your boss and your emotional DEFCON-1.

And as the staff’s voices carried in from the front room, ready to begin filming, you realized with crushing clarity: you would survive today.

Barely. But you would.

𝓋𝒾𝒾𝒾. TOJI FUSHIGURO

Life had always liked to toss you the strangest fruit from its cosmic orchard, but marrying your best friend had felt less like a curveball and more like winning a prize you didn’t remember entering a raffle for.

Domesticity with him in your late 20s had been an oddly cozy chapter, the kind where two people orbit each other like planets politely avoiding collision. And when he finally sat you down one evening, hands folded like he was about to confess to eating the last cookie, you braced for the apocalypse.

Instead, he whispered that he was gay, closeted and terrified, but also deeply grateful for you.

It unfolded with the tender neatness of origami; no shouting, no tears, just a quiet reconfiguration of your shared life into something that still had warmth but no longer required matching rings.

He asked you twice, then thrice, then a bonus encore that felt like he was trying to win an award for Most Concerned Soon-To-Be-Ex-Husband. Were you sure? Would you be alright? Did you want to try living separately but still married? You had to put a hand on his shoulder the way you would calm an overexcited dog and tell him that yes, you were sure. The man deserved to fall in love without a tangle of legal obligations holding him hostage. And you deserved to stop pretending your marriage was anything other than two best friends accidentally LARPing domestic bliss.

Which is how you ended up spending your recent weekends in that courthouse, the one that smelled faintly of disinfectant and older bureaucracy, sitting on a wooden bench that had the ergonomic grace of a medieval punishment device.

This had become your routine: shuffle in, greet the receptionist who never blinked, and settle onto your assigned plank, waiting for the familiar sound of his hurried footsteps.

Your monologue, however, had become its own weekend ritual. The sort of internal soliloquy that unfurled whenever you were surrounded by peeling paint and laminated notices reminding you not to shout at the staff.

You’d kick your feet and think, Look at us, two emotionally stable adults dissolving our marriage like we’re returning a badly chosen sweater.

Then you’d look around at the couples on either side of you, radiating enough resentment to power a small town. And you’d think, At least we’re not throwing accusations like confetti. Perhaps divorce court should give us a loyalty discount.

Sometimes you’d imagine the judge calling your names and you both walking up with the serene air of two monks delivering tea. Divorce granted, and may the universe guide you to better sex and people who don’t shrink from honesty. Your husband would probably gift the judge a thank-you card.

And then there were the tiny absurdities that stitched themselves into your weekends. The vending machine that swallowed your coins like a spiteful beast. The security guard who had decided your face was the highlight of his shift and kept asking how your “journey” was going. The way your ex-husband always burst through the door in the same pattern: out of breath, apologizing, holding something ridiculous. Once it was a bouquet of chrysanthemums. Once it was bubble tea.

Once it was a tote bag that said Emotional Support Wife in pastel lettering, which he did not buy for himself but insisted suited you. Really, the whole situation felt like life had turned your divorce into a sitcom with a strangely wholesome tone.

Today, you settled onto your usual bench, hands folded, heartbeat steady, the air humming with the faint electricity of endings that are also beginnings. The court clock ticked above you like a metronome for your thoughts. Outside the window, a pigeon strutted as though on official business.

Patience had never been your most loyal companion, and in the courthouse it abandoned you entirely. The clock above your head ticked with the theatrical menace of a villain monologuing before the hero escapes, and you refused to be held hostage by anticipation.

So you rose from your wooden plank of despair, straightened your clothes with the determination of someone about to perform a minor social crime, and padded toward your assigned courtroom.

The door creaked when you pushed it open, the inside washed in that sterile fluorescent glow that bleaches everything into equal parts boredom and dread. And there he was — hunched over the desk, signing what you assumed were the final documents of your shared, lovingly chaotic marriage.

The curve of his back, the familiar slope of his shoulders, the way his hair always curled near his collar when he was stressed — you didn’t even question it. You marched forward with the casual confidence of a woman whose divorce is so amicable she can still smack her soon-to-be-ex-husband’s ass as punctuation.

The sound ricocheted in the room like a firecracker.

Nice form, you thought proudly, hand still warm. A little farewell punctuation mark to a marriage that never truly required fireworks. You muttered, mostly to yourself, “Finally. End of an era. Now what do we eat for lunch? Tacos? Sushi? Something carby as a reward for surviving bureaucracy—”

Silence.

Too much silence. The particular kind that begins to glow ominously, like a neon sign spelling out: You Have Made A Very Grave Mistake.

You hummed. The man didn’t respond. No startled jump, no offended gasp, not even a quiet, dry “Really?” which your ex had perfected over the years. This figure stayed utterly still, pen frozen mid-stroke, as if reconsidering every life choice that had led him to this exact millisecond.

“Hellllooooo?” you ventured, voice pitching upward. “Did you hear me? Are you—”

He turned.

Not your ex-husband.

Not even close.

The man who now faced you had raven-black hair, ruffled just enough to suggest he had run a hand through it one too many times, and a scar slicing artfully through his lower lip. That scar twitched when he smiled. And he was smiling now. Slowly. As though savoring the comedy unfolding in front of him.

His eyes dropped deliberately to your hand, the guilty one, still hanging in the air like incriminating evidence. Your stomach plummeted.

Behind you erupted a sound that might as well have been a teakettle discovering its own voice. A screech. High, sharp, furious.

You turned just in time to see a redheaded woman in immaculate Valentino heels, her expression pulsing with betrayal, horror, and the type of indignation usually reserved for reality TV finales.

She pointed at you as if summoning divine judgement. “DID YOU JUST— DID YOU JUST SPANK MY EX-HUSBAND?”

Your brain scrambled for a coherent explanation but found only static. “I— well— I thought he was— he wasn’t— this is—”

The raven-haired man leaned an elbow on the desk, utterly amused. “Bold move for a stranger,” he murmured, voice slipping through the air with lazy confidence. “You always greet people this way, or am I just lucky today?”

Your soul attempted to exit your body.

“No! No, absolutely not, I— my ex-husband looks— from the back he— your posture— I’m so sorry— I didn’t mean to commit battery— or adultery-adjacent battery— I swear—”

The woman screeched again, her heel tapping the tile with the tremor of imminent chaos. “THIS is why he’s divorcing me. Spirits above, I knew it. I KNEW women were throwing themselves at him in court.”

“Technically,” the man drawled, “I was the one thrown at.”

You felt your entire existence compress into a single bead of mortification. “I’m going to walk into traffic after this,” you whispered.

“No need,” he offered lightly. “You’re already a hazard.”

You considered the nearest fire escape.

He slid the pen across the desk with one elegant movement, eyes still locked on you, something curious simmering behind the amusement. “If it helps,” he added, “that was the most interesting thing to happen to me in weeks.”

“I’m thrilled,” you deadpanned, “to have contributed to your enrichment.”

Footsteps echoed down the hall. Your real ex-husband. Of course. Now the universe wanted to be timely.

And there you were, standing in the middle of the courtroom, hand still tingling, facing the wrong man, the wrong marriage, the wrong everything, and the dangerously right smirk of someone who looked like trouble wrapped in courtroom lighting.

You swallowed hard. Your original bench, the one with medieval ergonomics, suddenly felt like a sanctuary compared to this.

You backed away a step, then two, murmuring, “I… need to go wait outside.”

He gave you a nod, the kind that made your spine hum with the knowledge you had absolutely walked onto a live landmine.

And so you retreated, cheeks burning, heart skipping, returning to your seat in the hallway to wait for your ex-husband like the universe’s most confused criminal, praying no one else in this building needed their ass smacked today.

Valentino Heels was still verbally fencing with the scar-lipped man inside the courtroom, her voice sharp enough to shear wallpaper. You watched through the open door as she stabbed the air with her manicure, berating him while he signed the last of the documents with the calm of a man who has endured chaos long enough to develop immunity. The whole exchange unfolded like a tragic opera scored by someone with a personal vendetta against your eardrums.

Meanwhile, you stood beside your own soon-to-be-ex-husband in the hallway, both of you waiting to be called in. He didn’t pry, didn’t side-eye you, didn’t even offer one of his gentle eyebrow raises that usually meant I sense nonsense brewing. He simply stood with his hands tucked into his pockets, offering you the silence of someone who knew you would explain if there were anything to explain.

Except in this case there wasn’t. Not in any universe. Because you were not going to confess to anyone — least of all your best friend — that you had smacked a random man’s ass in a court of law.

Some things deserved to be sealed inside an emotional lead box and launched into the sun.

Eventually the redhead stormed out, hair bouncing like furious flames, and the man followed at a slower, cooler pace. You refused to look at him. Not even a sideways glance. Not even a nano-second of acknowledgment.

But you could feel his attention brush against you as he walked past, a grazing flicker of recognition.

You suddenly became very interested in the wall.

Your turn came, and within minutes, signatures dried, stamps thudded, witnesses nodded. Just like that, the quiet, gentle marriage you had once stitched together with your best friend became something preserved in memory rather than law.

Outside the courtroom, you and your ex-husband stood in the wide hallway’s soft echo, both of you exhaling something bittersweet. Then he pulled you into a hug, warm and tight, like he was making sure you understood that while the labels were gone, the bond wasn’t going anywhere.

“I’m proud of us,” he murmured into your hair. “We handled everything like actual adults. Who knew we had it in us?”

You snorted against his chest. “Speak for yourself. I nearly had a crisis over the stamp ink.”

He chuckled, the sound vibrating through your ribs. “You’re going to be fine. And I’m still not convinced you won’t end up texting me for help assembling your bookshelf later.”

“Of course I will,” you said, pulling back to look at him. “You know you’re still my go-to for manual labor.”

“Use me,” he said dramatically, hand over his heart. “I live to serve.”

The two of you laughed, the kind of laugh that carried history, comfort, the soft ache of transition. He squeezed your arm one last time.

“Do you want a ride home?” he asked, eyes gentle. “We can grab coffee on the way. Or something sweet. You always want something sweet after you’re stressed.”

The offer tugged at your heart, familiar and warm, but from the corner of your eye, movement caught your attention. At the far end of the hall, near the courthouse stairs, stood the man — the one whose ass your hand still remembered in vivid, humiliating detail. His posture was deceptively relaxed, lean shoulder against the railing, papers tucked under one arm.

But his gaze was elsewhere, scanning, waiting. For someone. Hopefully not for his ex-wife. Hopefully also not for you. Hopefully for… a taxi? A bird? A sudden revelation about the meaning of life?

Your pulse fluttered like a trapped moth.

You pressed your palm softly to your husband’s shoulder. “You should go ahead,” you said with a little smile. “I want to walk today. Clear my head. And I’ll text you as soon as I reach home.”

He studied you for a moment, concern flickering gently in his expression. “You sure?”

“Completely sure.”

He pulled you into a final quick hug. “Text me,” he repeated with the seriousness of a man delegating a life-or-death mission.

“I will,” you promised, waving as he walked toward the exit, turning back twice just to make sure you were alright. You gave him thumbs-ups both times to reassure him you hadn’t suddenly combusted.

Once he disappeared, you inhaled, squared your shoulders, and stared at the man by the stairs.

You could pretend you hadn’t noticed him. You could walk away, erase this day from your emotional archives, and survive.

But no. You stepped toward him instead, each footfall a tiny surrender to fate, curiosity, or possibly stupidity. Probably all three.

As you approached, the scar-lipped man shifted, raising his eyes to you with a slow awareness, a quiet “there you are” that felt like stepping too close to a bonfire.

You told yourself this wasn’t another mistake. Even though it absolutely might be.

You took the last step forward, standing in front of what could easily be your second-most catastrophic decision of the day.

He didn’t even give you a chance to properly arrange your face into something dignified before the corner of his mouth curved, that scar pulling with it like punctuation on a very rude sentence. He tilted his head, eyes dragging over your expression with a laziness that felt intentional, almost indulgent, and said, “Couldn’t say hi first?” He let the words settle, savoring them. “Most people use their voice before they use their hands.”

You felt the heat climb up your neck like someone had replaced your bloodstream with boiling embarrassment. The memory of your palm meeting the wrong ass returned with full cinematic clarity. You groaned, quietly, into the air between you. “Please don’t remind me.”

“Why not?” he murmured, a low hum of amusement threading through each syllable. “It was memorable. Not every day someone greets me like that. Might set a new standard.”

You sputtered, pointing a finger at him as if that would restore some cosmic balance. “That was a mistake.”

“Sure,” he agreed too easily, hands slipping into his pockets in a way that should have been illegal. “If that’s your story, stick to it.”

You almost choked. “What, you think I just go around smacking strangers?”

He offered a casual shrug. “I dunno. Maybe that’s your thing. Everyone’s got a thing.”

“It’s not my thing.”

“Could be,” he said, eyes glinting. “If the introduction was a little more persuasive, I might’ve filed different paperwork today.”

You blinked, stunned for a beat, then managed, “Are you always like this with people you meet mid-divorce, or am I just incredibly unlucky?”

“Unlucky?” He leaned in just enough for you to catch the faintest scent of clean cologne and trouble. “No. Special.”

Your chest fizzed like someone had cracked open a carbonated drink under your ribs. You wanted to scoff, roll your eyes, smack him again out of sheer self-defense, anything to ground yourself, because who flirts with a stranger twenty-five minutes after legally separating from their spouse?

Apparently this man. This audacious, raven-haired, scar-lipped man whose presence felt like leaning too close to an open flame.

“You don’t waste any time,” you muttered.

He nodded solemnly as if discussing weather patterns. “Fastest divorce I’ve had so far.”

“So far?” you echoed, caught between horror and laughter. “You say that like it’s a sport.”

“Might as well be,” he said with a smirk. “Wanna help me break my record?”

“Absolutely not.”

“Didn’t sound like a no.”

You stared at him in disbelief. “It literally was a no!”

“Eh.” He made a vague gesture. “Tone was flexible.”

You exhaled a laugh despite yourself, fingers brushing your forehead. “You’re insane.”

“I get that a lot.” He looked entirely too pleased with himself. “What’s your name?”

You told him. He repeated it quietly, the syllables rolling off his tongue like he was testing their weight. “Nice. Suits you. Better than ‘ass smacker.’”

“Stop bringing that up,” you whined under your breath.

“Never,” he said, far too satisfied. “It’s our origin story. Very touching.”

“That’s not what touching means—”

“Isn’t it?” He cut in again, smooth as water over stone. “Anyway,” he continued before you could throttle him, “give me your number.”

You blinked. “Why?”

“So we can recover from our divorces together,” he said as if it were the most logical conclusion in the world. “Support group. Mutual healing. All that.”

“You are not someone who does mutual healing.”

“You don’t know that yet,” he teased. “And I don’t bite unless asked.”

Your jaw dropped halfway before you recovered, straightened, and exhaled a disbelieving laugh. “You’re really weird.”

“Probably. But I’m fun.” He lifted a brow. “Number?”

You should have walked away. You absolutely should have walked away. Instead, you typed your number into his phone with a shake of your head, saying, “This is a terrible idea.”

“Most good things are,” he replied. You handed the phone back, already retreating a step, because something about him made your pulse skitter in a way you were not equipped to handle today.

“Goodbye, Toji,” you said, testing the name you had wrung out of him earlier. It fit him like a well-worn leather jacket.

“Bye?” he echoed with a lazy drawl. “Pretty optimistic. You’ll hear from me before you even get home.”

You let out a strangled laugh, turned, and walked away with the kind of giddy, buoyant feeling that only danger disguised as charm could summon. Because somehow, against all logic and every warning bell your brain possessed, you knew this wasn’t the last time you’d see Toji Fushiguro.

Maybe you hadn’t stepped on a landmine. Maybe you’d stepped on the beginning of something you weren’t ready to name yet.

the next time he has you under him, legs wrapped tight around his waist, choso’s touch feels different. there’s something more intense about the way he’s gripping your thighs, pinning your body to the bed, and the way his gaze darkens as he thrusts into you, slow and deep at first.

“choso…” you gasp, your fingers threading through his dark hair, tugging gently. “what's — what's gotten into you?”

his eyes flicker up to yours, and there’s a moment where you catch that shift, that deeper hunger. “i’m gonna make you mine,” he mutters, almost too quiet for you to hear, but it sends a shiver down your spine. 

“i — i am yours,” you manage to say between shaky breaths. but that doesn’t seem to be enough for him. 

“no,” he growls softly, his pace quickening. “i need to breed you. make sure you’re mine forever.”

the word hits you like a shockwave, heat rushing through your body as his movements grow more frantic. choso is normally careful, measured, always making sure you feel good, but tonight, there’s something primal behind every thrust. his mind is singularly focused, fixated on one goal: breeding you.

the sound of skin slapping against skin fills the room, along with your moans and his ragged breaths. his lips brush against your ear as he murmurs, “gonna fill you up… over and over. until you're full of me.” 

you gasp his name again, but this time, it’s broken, overwhelmed by the intensity of it all. “choso — fuck — slow down, i can’t —”

“yes, you can,” he breathes out, his voice low and gravelly. his hips snap forward, rougher, faster, every thrust sending sparks of pleasure up your spine. “you can take it. you're made for me. made to take all of me.”

your fingers dig into his back, nails scraping against his skin, but he barely seems to notice. his focus has narrowed, a steady chant echoing in his mind: breed, breed, breed. it’s all he can think about as he pounds into you, faster, harder, deeper, his eyes glazed over with raw need.

“gonna cum inside you,” he grunts, his forehead pressed against yours, his voice strained with desperation. “gonna fuck you so full, you’ll have no choice but to be mine forever.”

his words send you over the edge, your body trembling beneath him as waves of pleasure crash over you. but choso doesn’t stop. he doesn’t even slow down. he’s relentless, still chasing his own release with the sole intent of breeding you, pounding into you as if it’s the only thing that matters.

“choso—” your voice is ragged, breathless, but he cuts you off with a low growl.

“don’t — don’t say anything,” he groans, his thrusts becoming erratic as he finally reaches his peak. “just… take it. take all of it.”

with one final thrust, he buries himself deep inside you, groaning as he cums in you. his grip on your hips tightens, holding you in place as he empties himself, wave after wave, ensuring that not a drop is wasted. but even when he’s done, choso doesn’t pull out. he stays inside you, still grinding his hips slowly as he murmurs, “not done yet… gotta make sure it sticks.”

you’re trembling beneath him, chest heaving as you try to catch your breath. “how much more can you—”

he snorted, sitting up straighter. “can’t promise the skirt’s gonna make it, sweetheart. that’s on you for wearing somethin’ that’s beggin’ to be ripped off.”

“begging?” you echoed, placing a hand on your hip.

“hell yeah. that little bow’s just screamin’, ‘tear me up right now.’” he said it so casually, like it was an undeniable fact, and the heat in your face skyrocketed.

“you’re horrible.”

“nah, i’m a man with good taste,” he countered, his grin widening. you rolled your eyes, trying to maintain your composure, but the way his eyes lingered on you, drinking you in like you were his last meal, had your resolve crumbling.

“look,” you said, holding up a hand to keep some distance, “just keep your hands off the skirt. i actually like this one.”

“oh, so now i’m the bad guy?” he laughed, running a hand through his hair before standing up, towering over you in an instant. “you come in here lookin’ like that, twirlin’ all cute, makin’ me work real hard to behave, and now you’re givin’ me rules? nah, baby. that’s not how this works.”

you took a step back, but his hands were already on your waist, strong and firm, pulling you flush against him.“toji,” you warned, though your voice was softer than intended.

“relax, i ain’t gonna ruin it,” he murmured, his voice dropping an octave as his fingers toyed with the fabric at your hip. “just wanna feel it, see if it’s as soft as it looks.”

“toji—”

“shhh, lemme enjoy.” his lips brushed your ear, and his hands slid lower, just skimming the hem of your skirt. “can’t help myself, baby. you’re too fine for your own good.” 

you shivered, caught between swatting his hands away and letting him continue. “you’re lucky i like you.”

“lucky?” he smirked, tilting your chin up to meet his gaze. “nah, princess. you’re the lucky one. got a man who knows how to treat ya, hype you up, and still keep ya on your toes.”

his lips ghosted over yours, and for a moment, you thought he might kiss you — until you felt his hand tug lightly at one of the bows on your skirt. 

“toji!” you smacked his chest, and he barked out a laugh, pulling back just enough to admire the frustrated look on your face. 

“alright, alright. i’ll behave. for now.” 

“you’re impossible.”

“so… um, a bit of exhibitionism, some praise kink, occasional knife play — though only in fiction, don’t panic—”

“...knife play,” he’d repeated, voice flat, like he was trying to confirm whether you’d just confessed to felony-level horniness.

“oh, relax, it’s more like the concept of danger. not like i want to be stabbed in bed.”

he had hummed then, pulled out his phone, and you’d watched in mild disbelief as he typed “knife play kink wikipedia article” into google.

“is that necessary?” you’d asked.

“if i don’t understand, i can’t participate responsibly,” he’d replied in that calm, measured tone of his, like he was moderating a town hall meeting instead of discussing what makes you wet.

that conversation had ended politely, neatly, and had been left to die like your house cat’s fart — quick, silent, unacknowledged. and now here you were, three months later, staring at the gaping space in your underwear drawer and realizing: oh. oh he remembered.

the problem was how to bring it up.

so you waited until dinner, when nanami was plating out chicken and rice with his usual precise movements, like a man who would never, ever be suspected of underwear theft. he even tied his apron strings so tight it made you suspicious of what other secret knots he was capable of.

“so,” you began, very casually, as though you weren’t planning to launch into a potentially marriage-altering interrogation. “funny thing. my underwear’s been… disappearing.”

nanami’s hand paused only for a second before he set the ladle down. “disappearing?”

“mm. vanishing. like socks in the dryer, but specifically only the underwear. isn’t that interesting?”

he turned, towel over his shoulder, expression unreadable. “do you think the laundry service is misplacing them?”

“kento. we are the laundry service.”

a beat of silence. his jaw flexed, the tiniest tick of a nerve.

ah. got him.

“and,” you pressed, leaning your chin into your palm with mock seriousness, “i find it very unlikely the washing machine has suddenly decided to develop a panty fetish.”

that earned you a look, the kind of look that was equal parts long-suffering husband and man caught with his hand in the metaphorical cookie jar.

“you’re… making quite the leap,” he said carefully.

“am i? or am i uncovering the secret perversion of my otherwise painfully respectable husband?”

nanami sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. “we spoke about kinks once, and you catalogued them like you were preparing for an exam. forgive me if it took me time to consider which, if any, i could—” he stopped, cleared his throat, adjusted his glasses, “—accommodate.”

your grin was immediate and sharp. “so you admit it. you did steal them.”

he didn’t answer right away, just went back to portioning rice with exaggerated focus, which in nanami-language was basically a confession.

you bit your lip, trying not to laugh, trying not to imagine this dignified man sneaking into your drawer like a pervy raccoon. the whole image was so hilariously at odds with his normal composure that you almost wanted to thank him on the spot.

“well,” you said at last, letting the silence stretch. “at least we know our marriage isn’t going to be boring.”

nanami finally looked at you, resigned but — just barely — amused. “i married a woman who uses the phrase ‘panty fetish’ over dinner. boring was never on the table.”

you could’ve kissed him then and there. but you decided to save that for dessert.

“so are you planning to, like, return them at some point? or should i accept my drawer has been downsized permanently?”

“…i washed them.”

he threw himself into your arms, clinging to you like you were the last thing tethering him to the earth. “mm, see? knew my wifi would always come back for me,” he muttered into your hair. “you’re… so fast, like 5G, even.”

“wow, i didn’t know you married a router,” suguru snorted, gently helping him settle against you. you laughed, rubbing soothing circles on gojo’s back. “and here i thought i was just his wife.”

gojo’s eyes suddenly went wide with shock, and he leaned back, looking you dead in the eyes with absolute sincerity. “you’re more than wifi. you’re... you're the whole internet.” he grabbed your face, squishing your cheeks together. “like, fiber optic. unlimited data.”

“okay, okay, i get it,” you chuckled, kissing his forehead. “unlimited data and all.” 

gojo grinned, totally triumphant, and turned back to suguru with an exaggerated, wobbly point. “see, suguru? i told you she’s the real deal.”

“yeah, i got it loud and clear, buddy,” suguru said, looking at you with a smirk. “he's all yours.”

“thank you for escorting my husband home,” you said, shaking your head with a smile. 

“no problem. he spent the entire cab ride showing the driver pictures of you, actually,” suguru replied, amused. gojo’s face brightened even more, as if he’d just been handed the greatest compliment in the world. “she’s… my favorite picture. no, wait.” he blinked, trying to gather his thoughts, swaying a little. “she’s my wallpaper. like... my home screen.”

you couldn’t help but laugh as suguru tried (and failed) to hold back his own amusement. “you’re a lucky home screen, then. good luck with him.”

after suguru left, you guided gojo to the couch, where he immediately flopped down, reaching for you like a kid needing a hug. you obliged, settling beside him, and he buried his face into your shoulder. “satoru,” you murmured, gently running your fingers through his hair, “you’re so dramatic when you’re drunk, you know that?”

“it's not drama if it's real,” he said, pulling back just enough to look at you with the most sincere gaze you’d ever seen, despite the fact he could barely keep his eyes open. “like, i knew i wanted wifi in my life, but i had no idea it’d be this strong.”

“oh?” you smirked, leaning in closer. “and what does that mean?”

“it means you’re, like, the only signal i wanna connect to,” he muttered, sighing and nuzzling his head into your neck. “like… one bar, two bar, three bars — full signal, only with you.”

you couldn’t stop yourself from laughing at his adorably drunk logic. “you’re too much, you know that?” 

he just hummed, eyes closing as he settled against you. “but, babe? promise we’ll never lose connection?”

you held him a little tighter, pressing a soft kiss to the top of his head. “never. as long as you don’t go dropping signals in my house.” he grinned, letting out a soft, happy sigh. "perfect. ‘cause i’m… gonna marry you, wifi lady."

you held back a snort. “well, lucky for you, you already did."

he looked up, astonished. “i did?! really?!”

“yes, satoru, you already did.”

you smiled, tugging the blanket over her little shoulders. he reached over her to touch your hand. 

“and you,” he said to you, eyes gleaming in the dark, “you gave me the whole universe.”

the ceiling never changed, even when the rest of the house did.

bookshelves replaced toys. posters replaced finger paintings. she grew taller, her giggles deeper, her footsteps heavier. but the stars stayed.

you caught her once, at seventeen, lying in bed after a long day, face turned up. her eyes were rimmed red from a silent cry she thought you hadn’t noticed.

“can’t sleep?” you asked gently. 

she shrugged, then whispered, “i miss him.”

“me too.”

she looked up again. “sometimes i feel stupid. it’s been so long.”

“grief doesn’t know clocks,” you said. “and neither does love.”

she nodded, blinking up at the ceiling. “they’re starting to peel off.”

you looked too. some corners were curled now, soft from time and heat. one star had completely fallen, tucked somewhere behind the headboard maybe. 

“we could take them down,” you offered. “or put new ones up.”

she was quiet for a while.

“no,” she finally said. “i like the old ones. he touched these.”

on the night she graduates college, you find her in her old room, just for a moment, dress still on and heels in her hand. she’s looking up. the stickers are faded now, barely holding on, only glowing if you really let your eyes adjust.

“you okay?” you ask from the doorway.

“yeah,” she says, smiling faintly. “just… he would’ve clapped the loudest today.”

you walk over, place your hand over hers. “he would’ve lost his damn mind,” you say, laughing through the ache. “probably yelled your name way too loud, embarrassed both of us.”

“he would’ve stood on the chair.”

“and made everyone look at you.”

you both laugh, then fall quiet, eyes tracing old constellations on a familiar ceiling.

“he never took them down,” she murmurs. 

“no,” you say. “because love like his… it stays.”

and so do the stars. even if they fade. even if they fall.

every time you sway too far to the side, he yanks you upright by the collar with a gruff “watch it,” as if that’ll actually penetrate your alcohol-soaked brain. you try to explain that you’re fiiine, that the water’s “fixing you,” but it comes out in a slurry mess he doesn’t even bother dignifying with a response.

meanwhile, he’s already got a mental checklist running. carpets? rolled up and shoved into a corner so you don’t trip and break your neck. sharp corners? navigated with one hand gripping the back of your shirt like you’re some troublesome toddler.ORS? already measured out in a glass on the counter, which he shoves into your hands with an unimpressed “drink.”

you complain it tastes gross. he tells you to shut up and swallow.

you do, because at this point you know he’ll tip it down your throat himself if you don’t.

and when he finally drags your sorry ass to bed, the man doesn’t even let you crawl under the blankets yourself — you’re flopped down like a sack of laundry, damp hair fanning over the pillow, shoes somehow already removed because he’s that thorough.

you’re out cold in under two minutes. no “goodnight,” no “thanks,” just blissful unconsciousness.

he still pulls the covers up to your chin, tucks them in tight like you’re a burrito he’s too annoyed to admit he cares about, then drops onto the mattress beside you with a sigh that says “never again.”

the next morning, you won’t remember half the details. not the way he hovered when you swayed in the shower, not the muttered curses as he wrung water from your sleeves, not even the way he checked if you were still breathing before finally shutting his eyes.

but you’ll remember the feeling — that bone-deep certainty that, no matter how bad you screw up, he’ll be there to catch you before you hit the floor.

“i have a girlfriend. your insolence disgusts me. i am not a man so easily swayed by such trivial temptations. do you believe your paltry attempt at seduction can move the king of curses, the scourge of nations, the one who reduced empires to ash before your great-grandmother’s bones were dust? i pity you. seek dignity elsewhere. i repeat, i have a girlfriend. should you persist, know you invite a wrath older than your bloodline. think carefully. reflect on this shame. may the weight of my words crush your insolence into silence.”

seven paragraphs. each one longer than the last. all ending with “i have a girlfriend.”

you scrolled through his inbox with tears in your eyes from laughing. every spam message was the same: “hi hun lets play 💋,” “im single in your area🔥,” or “you up? ;)” and every reply was an unholy essay-length monologue about loyalty, honor, and how dare they intrude upon his sacred bond with you.

“sukuna…” you managed between giggles, “they’re not women. they’re spam bots. automated messages. fake.”

he frowned deeply. “bots?”

“yes. fake. not real people.”

the king of curses — millennia-old terror of humanity, the bane of sorcerers, devourer of kingdoms — stared at you as though you’d just revealed the sun was a hologram. he was silent for a long time, scrolling through the sea of pink-heart usernames, his thumb pausing at another one: “Jessica💋xx” followed by “u want me ;)”.

you watched his jaw clench, his pride refusing to yield even as you wheezed beside him. 

“fake or not,” he said finally, “they should still know their place.”

and then, before you could stop him, he began typing again.

“i have a girlfriend. kill yourself.”