heather

You try to wiggle free. His grip tightens, and suddenly you're being pulled back against his chest, his other arm coming up to trap you completely.

"I have to go to work—"

"Call in sick."

"I can't just—"

"Yes, you can." He's kissing your shoulder now, your neck, the spot behind your ear that makes you shiver. "Tell them you've got a fever. Tell them you're dying. Tell them Satoru Gojo is holding you hostage and won't let you leave."

"That last one is accurate."

"See? Honesty is important."

You laugh despite yourself, and he takes advantage of your momentary distraction to roll you onto your back, settling his weight on top of you. His hair is a disaster, sticking up in about fifteen different directions, and there are pillow creases on his cheek.

He looks perfect.

"Satoru, seriously—"

"Seriously," he interrupts, kissing your collarbone, "you should call in sick."

"And what about you? Don't you have to teach?"

He lifts his head, and the grin he gives you is absolutely insufferable.

"Baby," he says, "I'm Satoru Gojo."

"…So?"

"So I don't have to do anything I don't want to do."

You stare at him. "That's not how jobs work."

"It's how my job works."

"You're the worst."

"And yet." He kisses your jaw. "You love me anyway."

"Debatable right now."

"Liar." He's moving lower, kissing down your throat, your chest. "You're obsessed with me. Admit it."

"I'm not admitting anything until you let me turn off that alarm."

"Fine." He reaches over without looking, fumbling for your phone, and somehow manages to silence it. "There. Problem solved. Now stay in bed with me."

"Satoru—"

"Please?" He's looking up at you now, and his eyes are doing that thing—that stupid, unfair thing where they go all soft and earnest. "I just wanna spend the morning with you. Is that so bad?"

You sigh. "You're impossible."

"Is that a yes?"

"…I'll text my boss."

"Yes." He pumps his fist in victory, and you can't help but laugh.

"You're such a child."

"Your child," he corrects. "Besides, I already texted Yaga that I'm not coming in."

"You what?"

"Told him I had a personal emergency." He's grinning now, completely shameless. "Very serious. Life-threatening, even."

"Satoru—"

"What? It's true. If I don't spend the morning worshipping my girlfriend, I might actually die. Medical fact."

"That's not a medical fact."

"It is now." He's kissing your neck again, and his hands are sliding up your sides. "Besides, those first-years can handle basic curse theory without me for one day. And if they can't, I'll just teleport one of them into the Pacific Ocean next week. Builds character."

You snort. "You're not going to teleport a student into the ocean."

"You're right. Too much paperwork." He grins against your skin. "I'll just make them run laps until they puke. Much simpler."

"You're terrible." You swat at his shoulder, but you're laughing.

"And you love me." His hands are still on your waist, thumbs stroking your sides through your shirt. "Now text your boss so I can have you all to myself."

You grab your phone, squinting at the screen. "What am I even supposed to say?"

"Tell them you're sick."

"I'm not sick."

"You're lovesick. Counts."

You snort. "That's the worst thing you've ever said."

"Objectively untrue. Remember when I told Megumi that—"

"I'm texting." You type out a quick message about not feeling well, and the second you hit send, you try to roll away to put your phone back on the nightstand.

Satoru's arms lock around you immediately.

"Nope."

"I'm just putting my phone down—"

"Don't care. You're staying right here." He pulls you back against his chest, burying his face in your neck. "Mine now."

"Satoru—"

"Shh. Cuddling."

You laugh despite yourself, settling back against him. His arms are wrapped around you completely, one hand splayed across your stomach, the other coming up to play with your hair.

"You're being clingy."

"Mm-hmm." He's not even denying it. His fingers are running through your hair slowly, and you can feel him breathing against your neck. "Problem?"

"No," you admit. "Just… pointing it out."

"Good." He kisses your shoulder. "Because I'm not letting go."

You just lie there together for a little while. His hand keeps moving through your hair, occasionally trailing down to trace your jaw, your collarbone. It's comfortable. Warm. You're already half asleep again when he moves slightly behind you.

"Baby?"

"Mm?"

"Can you roll over? Wanna see your face."

You turn in his arms, and immediately his hand comes up to cup your cheek. His thumb strokes your cheekbone, and he's looking at you with that soft expression that makes your heart do stupid things.

"Hi, baby.” he says.

"Hi weirdo.”

"You're so pretty in the morning."

"I haven't even washed my face."

"Don't care." He leans in, kissing you softly. "Still pretty."

You kiss him back, slow and lazy, and his hand slides from your cheek to the back of your neck, holding you close. It's not urgent, it’s just sweet and affectionate. His other hand is on your hip, his thumb rubbing small circles through your shirt.

When he pulls back, he's smiling. "Love you."

"Love you too."

"Say it again."

"I love you, you absolute menace."

He grins. "Perfect." Then he's kissing you again, a little deeper this time, and you feel his hand slide up your side.

"Satoru—"

"What?" He's kissing your jaw now, your neck. "I'm just kissing you."

"Your hand is—"

"Also just existing." But his thumb is brushing the underside of your breast now, and you can feel him smiling against your neck.

"You're ridiculous."

"You love it."

"Debatable."

He pulls back to look at you, and there's something almost vulnerable in his expression. "Stay in bed with me? Please?"

"We already texted work—"

"I know, but—" He's playing with the hem of your shirt now, fingers slipping just barely underneath to touch your skin. "I just… I really want you right now. Like, really want you."

"I can tell."

"Can you?" He presses his hips forward slightly, and yeah. You can definitely tell. "Because I'm trying to be patient, but you're making it very difficult."

"I'm not doing anything."

"You're existing. That's enough." He's kissing your collarbone now, and his hand slides higher under your shirt. "You're so soft. How are you so soft?"

"Satoru—"

"And you smell good. Why do you smell so good?" He's practically whining now. "It's not fair."

You can't help but laugh. "Are you seriously complaining about me smelling good?"

"Yes. It's distracting." He bites down gently on your shoulder. "Everything about you is distracting. It's a problem."

"Sounds like a you problem."

"It is a me problem." He lifts his head to look at you, and his hair is even more disheveled than before. "I'm obsessed with you. It's embarrassing."

"Is it?"

"Little bit, yeah." He grins, his thumb brushing your side. "Do you have any idea how ridiculous this is?"

"What?"

"You bring the Satoru Gojo down to his knees."

You blink up at him. “…That's an incredibly narcissistic way to phrase that."

"It is." He nods solemnly. "Also true. Very impressive feat."

You're laughing now, and he takes the opportunity to kiss you again, his hand sliding higher. "But I'm okay with it."

You're about to respond when he kisses you again and it’s deeper this time, and more insistent. His hand finally reaches your breast, cupping it through your shirt, and you gasp into his mouth.

"Fuck," he breathes. "Can I—can I take this off?"

"My shirt?"

"Yeah." He's already tugging at it. "Please?"

"You're so needy."

"I know." He's not even ashamed. "I'm very needy. For you. Always."

You lift your arms, and he pulls your shirt off slowly, his eyes tracking every inch of your newly revealed skin. When he finally gets it over your head, he just stares.

"What?"

"Nothing. Just—" He shakes his head. "You're so fucking beautiful."

"You've said that."

"I'll say it again." His hands are on your ribs now, thumbs stroking your skin. "And again. And again."

"Satoru—"

"I'm serious." He leans down, kissing between your breasts. "I wake up every morning and you're here, and I still can't believe it sometimes."

Your heart flutters. "You're being sappy."

"I'm being honest." He looks up at you, and his face looks so soft and sweet. "Can't help it." He's kissing your breast now, tongue circling your nipple. "You make me sappy."

"Mm—that's—"

"Good?" His hand finds your other breast, his thumb and index finger rolling your nipple. "You like that?"

"Yes—"

"Good." He switches sides, giving your other breast the same attention. "Love the sounds you make. Could listen to them all day."

His hand slides down your stomach, fingers playing with the waistband of your underwear, and you feel him smile against your skin.

"These should come off too."

"Should they?"

"Definitely." He hooks his fingers into the fabric. "Can I?"

"So polite all of a sudden."

"I'm always polite." He's kissing down your stomach now. "I'm a gentleman."

"You're really not."

"Rude." But he's grinning, and he's sliding your underwear down slowly, kissing every inch of skin as it's revealed. "I'm extremely gentlemanly."

"You held me hostage five minutes ago."

"See? Gentleman." He's at your hip bones now, and he bites down gently. "A respectful gentleman."

You're laughing again now, and he looks up at you with that insufferable smirk.

"What's so funny?"

"You. You're ridiculous."

"And you love me."

"Unfortunately."

"Unfortunately?" He bites your inner thigh, making you jump. "Take it back."

"Make me."

His eyes flash. "Oh, I will." His hands are on your thighs now, spreading them apart. "I'm gonna make you take back every mean thing you've ever said to me."

"That'll take a while."

"Good thing we have all morning." He settles between your legs, and his breath is warm against your skin. "You're awfully mouthy for someone who called me a gentleman."

"I'm not being—oh—"

He's kissing your inner thigh, slowly and deliberately, and his hands are gripping your legs possessively.

"What was that?" He grins up at you. "Couldn't hear you."

"I hate you."

"No, you don't." He's moving higher now, and you can feel your breath catching. "You love me." He kisses your inner thigh. "That's what matters."

He kisses your other thigh. "Now let me show you how much I love you."

Then his mouth is on you, and any coherent thought becomes impossible.

He takes his time, with long, deliberate strokes of his tongue that make your toes curl. His hands grip your thighs, holding you open, and when you try to close them on instinct, he just pushes them wider.

"Uh-uh," he murmurs against you. "Stay open for me. Wanna see all of you."

"Fuck—"

"That's it." His tongue circles your clit, and you gasp. "Let me hear you."

"Ahh—Satoru—“

His tongue flattens against you, drags up slowly, then flicks at your clit. Your hips buck up. He keeps doing the same motion, but faster this time, and your fingers twist in the sheets.

"Satoru—oh god—"

"You taste so fucking good," he groans, and the vibration makes you whimper. "Could do this all day… Might actually do this all day."

"Please—"

"Please what?" He lifts his head just enough to look at you, and his mouth is wet, his eyes are dark. "Tell me what you need."

"More—I need—"

"I know what you need." He slides two fingers inside you, and curls them up, reaching that spot that makes your legs tingle, and your back arches off the bed. "This?"

"Yes—"

His mouth is back on your clit. His fingers pump in and out, curling on every thrust. You can't think. You can barely breathe.

"That's it," he murmurs. "Come for me, baby. I wanna feel it."

His fingers curl harder. His tongue flicks faster. You start closing your thighs around him, but he holds them open. Your breathing gets ragged, desperate—

Heat floods through you. You cry out his name, your hands tangling in his hair.

He doesn't stop.

His fingers keep moving, gentler now, and his tongue has gone soft but it's still there, still circling, lapping at your entrance. You're shaking, gasping, and you think he's going to pull away.

He doesn't.

"Satoru—wait—I just—"

"I know." He looks up at you. His pupils are dilated, almost completely covering the blue. "Gonna make you come again."

"I can't—"

"Oh, you can." He adds a third finger, stretching you. "You're gonna come on my tongue again, and then I'm gonna fuck you until you can't remember your own name."

"Fuck—"

His mouth is back on you, and this time he's not gentle. He's devouring you, his tongue working your clit while his fingers pump in and out. The sensitivity from your first orgasm makes everything sharper, and you're already climbing toward another one embarrassingly fast.

"That's it," he groans against you. "Feel how wet you are? All for me. You're so good, baby. You're unreal. You're actually gonna be the death of me one day."

His free hand slides up your body, finds your breast and squeezes.

You break.

Your second orgasm hits even harder than the first. You're crying out his name, your whole body shaking, and he's still not stopping.

"Satoru—please—"

He finally pulls back, pressing soft kisses to your inner thighs as you come down, trembling and gasping.

"Fuck," you breathe.

"Good?" He's grinning, looking entirely too pleased with himself.

"You're so smug."

"I have reason to be." He crawls back up your body, and you can taste yourself when he kisses you. "You're beautiful when you come. Did you know that?"

"You've mentioned it."

"I'll mention it again." His hand slides between your legs, fingers teasing. "And again. And again."

"Satoru—"

"I earned it." His hand slides down your side. "And I'm not done with you yet, baby."

"Of course you're not."

"What can I say?" He's positioning himself between your legs now, and you can feel how hard he is. "I'm obsessed with you. Can't help myself."

He lines himself up, and when he starts to push inside, you gasp. He's so big—you know this—but the stretch is always still so intense.

"Okay?" His voice is strained as he goes slowly, inch by inch.

"Give me a minute—"

He stops, buried halfway, and you can feel him shaking with the effort of holding back for you. "Okay, baby. Take your time."

You breathe through it, adjusting, and after a moment, you whisper, "Okay, you can move."

"Thank god," he groans, pushing all the way in until he's completely buried.

"Fuck, baby—" His voice cracks. "You feel so good."

He starts moving. Slow, controlled thrusts that make you gasp. Then he hooks one of your legs higher, pushing it up toward your chest, and suddenly he's hitting even deeper.

"Satoru—"

"There we go." He's watching your face. "Love watching you like this. So fucking beautiful."

"You're—ah—ridiculous—"

"Ridiculously in love with you, yeah." He thrusts harder, and you cry out. "That's it, baby. Let me hear you."

His rhythm picks up, each thrust deliberate and deep, and he's still watching your face like he's memorizing every expression.

"You always take me so well," he groans. "Like you were made for me, baby."

"Maybe I was—oh god—"

"Fuck, yes." His hand finds your other leg, pushing it up too. "Say that again."

"Ahh—Made for you—"

"That's right." His thrusts become harder, more desperate. "All mine, baby. Fuck."

He shifts his hips just slightly, hitting that perfect spot, and you come apart. You're screaming out broken attempts of his name, your whole body shivering uncontrollably.

"Fuck, baby—not yet—"

Before you can even process what's happening, he's pulling out and flipping you over. His hands grip your hips, pulling them up, and you feel him slide a pillow underneath.

"Ass up for me, baby."

You're still shaking from your orgasm, but you do what he asks. His hand slides down your spine slowly and possessively.

"Fuck, look at you." He squeezes your ass, and you hear him groan.

Then he's pushing back inside. The new angle makes you gasp. He's so deep like this, and when he starts moving, each thrust hits that sweet spot inside you. You swear you can feel him in your lungs.

"Satoru—oh god—"

"That's it, baby." His hands grip your hips tight enough to bruise. "So fucking good."

He sets a punishing rhythm. You can feel another orgasm building fast. The sensitivity from your last one makes everything feel like you might actually break apart, and when his hand slides around to your clit, you moan loudly into the mattress, almost screaming.

"You gonna come for me again?" His voice is rough and teasing now. "Can feel how close you are, baby. You're so fucking tight around me."

"Yes—please—"

His fingers circle your clit faster. You're right on the edge, so close—

You break.

You let out a silent scream, your whole body clenching around him. He groans, and it sounds almost pained. His thrusts slow down, getting deeper and more deliberate. He's not chasing anything anymore, he's just feeling the way you're squeezing him.

"Fuck, baby—" His voice breaks, desperate and raw. "You're so fucking tight. Jesus, you're actually gonna be the death of me."

His hips move slower now, almost grinding into you, and you can feel him shaking. He's breathing hard against your back, completely overwhelmed, and then his whole body goes almost rigid before he collapses on top of you, his weight pressing you into the mattress. His arms wrap around you, holding you close, his face buried in your neck.

"Fuck," he breathes, and he sounds completely undone. "I love you so much. Fuck—you wreck me, baby."

You both just stay like that for a few minutes, tangled together, breathing hard, his heart pounding against your back.

Then he moves, rolling onto his back next to you, pulling you with him so you're still close. His arm stays wrapped around you, and when you look at him, his eyes are soft and completely open.

You don't think. You just move, climbing into his lap and kissing him, slow and deep and full of all the love and need you feel for him. His hands immediately find your waist, holding you like you're the only thing that matters.

"Come here," he says, and it's almost pleading.

You're already straddling him, and when you sink down onto him, you both groan into each other's mouths.

"That's it, baby," he breathes against your lips. "Just like that. Fuck—"

You start to move, rolling your hips. His head falls back against the pillow. His eyes stay locked on you though, watching every movement.

"God, yes—" He grips your hips tighter. "You feel so fucking good. That's my girl."

"Satoru—"

"I know, baby. I know." He's guiding you faster now, helping you move. "You're doing so good. Taking me so perfectly."

Your thighs are burning, but you don't care. You can feel yourself getting close again.

"That's it," he groans, watching you. "Use me, baby. Please. Take what you need. You know I love it when you do."

"Fuck—Satoru—"

"I know. I can feel it." His hips start moving too, thrusting up to meet you, and the added force makes you cry out. "Come for me, baby. Wanna watch your beautiful face when you fall apart on me."

He's fucking up into you now, hard and fast, and his hand slides between your bodies to find your clit.

You shatter. You're letting out breathy and high pitched moans.

"Fuck, yes—" He's still moving, still thrusting up into you. "So fucking beautiful when you come. I could watch you like this forever, baby."

You're still shivering, still coming down, when you feel his stomach tighten under you.

"Baby—fuck—I'm gonna—"

"Come for me," you whisper. "Please, Satoru."

That's all it takes.

"Fuck—baby—I love you—fuck—" His words are broken and desperate. His hips snap up hard. "So good—you're *so good—*you're mine—"

He grips your hips so tightly it almost hurts, and you feel him pulse inside you as he comes, his whole body shuddering. His head falls forward, forehead pressing against your shoulder, and he's still murmuring against your skin. "Fuck—you're everything, baby—never letting you go—"

You're both breathing hard, shaking, and he's still buried deep inside you. His arms wrap around you, holding you tight against his chest, and you can feel his heart pounding.

"Fuck," he breathes.

"…Yeah." you breathe.

He laughs weakly, and when he lifts his head to look at you, his eyes are hazy and that breathtaking sky blue again. "That was—I don't even have words."

"Mhmm." you mumble.

He's kissing your face now—your forehead, your cheeks, your nose, your lips. "Seriously, what am I supposed to do with you?"

"Satoru—"

His hands are running over your skin, like he can't bear to stop touching you. " You're the only one that gets me like this."

"You're being sappy again."

He pulls you closer, tucking you against his chest. "Only for you, baby. Only ever for you."

"I love you too," you say softly.

He's quiet, just holding you, his fingers tracing patterns on your back for a while.

"We should probably shower," you murmur eventually.

"Later." His grip tightens. "Right now I just wanna hold you."

"Clingy."

"Yep." He doesn't even sound ashamed. "You're stuck with me now. Forever. Hope you're ready for that."

"I think I can handle 'the Satoru Gojo'" you say laughing.

"Good." He kisses the top of your head. "Because I'm never letting you go."

"Sounds like a threat."

"Mmm."

And you lie there in his arms, the morning sun streaming through the window, his hands still moving over your skin in gentle swirling patterns, and yeah— forever sounds pretty fucking good. 

Your eyes roll back down.

“Mhm.”

"And it was such a good question.”

You turn a page. "Really?”

“Yup.” He’s draped over the corner of your desk now, like gravity has wronged him, whining. “It was such a thoughtful… personal… deeply relevant… extremely genius level getting-to-know-you tier question that—”

You scowl. "—Satoru, enough. Just do your job."

It lands harder than expected. The sigh he lets out is deeply, theatrically offended. And when you glance up again, he’s sprawled over that same corner of your desk you made the mistake of clearing for him on day one because you’d thought, foolishly, that giving him a designated surface might contain him.

It had not.

Nothing about Satoru had ever suggested he could be contained.

Snowy white hair falls against his brow, sleeves rolled to his elbows; looking far too expensive and far too comfortable for someone whose official title is intern. His coffee is sweating beside your open planner — the one with a date next week circled in red: WEDDING, scrawled across the margin in your own handwriting. The condensation trails towards a stack of vendor invoices and—

…

Wait.

Are those the same vendor invoices you asked him to file yesterday?

Fucking great.

“Oh, c’monnn,” he grumbles, blinking at you over the rim of those absurdly expensive sunglasses he insists on wearing indoors. “One question. Just a tiiiiny one. It’s completely harmless. Humor me, yeah?”

You narrow your eyes.

“Satoru, you’ve been trying to ask one question for the last four months.”

“Yeah,” he says. “And you’ve been dodging it for four months. Imagine that.”

Technically… four months and four days. But who’s counting?

With an exhausted groan, your eyes fall shut, pinching the bridge of your nose. Noise drifts in from the hall — the elevator, the printer, a phone trilling somewhere nearby.  But when you look up again, it all seems to fall away.

He’s gone strangely still. The smug grin hasn’t disappeared, but it’s softened at the edges, hooked at one corner with his head tilted slightly. And those eyes…

Oh.

That’s — no. You’ve seen his eyes before. Obviously. Four months of them. But right now, with the morning light doing something cruel and unhelpful behind him, they catch in a way that makes you forget you were mid-thought. The kind of blue that doesn’t ask if you’re looking. It already knows.

Which means of course, you look away first. “Fine.” Your hand drops as you mutter. “One question. But if it’s stupid, I’m sending you back to HR.”

It’s not much of a threat. It’s his last day, after all, and for reasons you still don’t fully understand, Satoru has always seemed oddly immune to consequences — which, frankly, feels statistically improbable given the amount of shit he’s managed to pull in the few months of being here.

“One question?” his grin sharpens. You point your pen at him. “Don’t make me regret this.” Yet his pleased chuckle is already making you. “Awhh… look at you. Finally yielding.” His pen twirls between his fingers, nodding with false solemnity. “Okay. So, here’s the thing… throughout these four months working beside you, I’ve seen a lot—"

“—that’s not a question.” You deadpan.

But ignoring you, he reclines back in the chair, hands clasped behind his head.

“Liiiike… I’ve seen the exact face you make when Mei-Mei emails you,” he smirks. “Even noticed you work through lunch more than you should. And I’ve noticed that little line right here—” he gestures vaguely between his own brows “—every time the budget goes sideways.”

Lips parting, you blink.

…why is he so observant?!

For someone who acts like he doesn’t give a shit, he’s strangely attentive.

You clear your throat, huffing. “Okay… what’s your point?” Your hands straighten a stack of papers that doesn’t need straightening. “Is there a question in here somewhere, or are you just reciting my habits back to me for fun?”

His grin is far too pleased. “Relax. I’m getting there.” And leaning forward, his voice drops, like he’s unraveling a conspiracy. “I just find it interesting how you answer work calls before the second ring. Every damn day. Doesn’t matter who it is.” His head tilts with a smug grin. “But for whatever reason, for the past month, your personal phone’s been ringing off the hook, and you never pick up. Not once.”

Heat creeps up your neck. Not because he’s wrong — but because he’s right. And he said it like it was nothing. Like noticing the pattern of your avoidance was just something that happened to him between stamps.

Oh.

Way too observant.

Shit. He couldn't have settled on what's your favorite color!? Or, what superpower would you have!? No. Of course he had to go for the fucking jugular.

His eyes drop to the planner lying open beneath the invoices. The circled date: WEDDING. And his grin sharpens. “Ohoho… I get it now,” he whistles, leaning back in his chair and kicking one leg over the other. “What’d your fiancé do to screw up this bad? Is the wedding off?”

Your head jerks up. “F-Fiancé?!” And he rolls his eyes with a scoff, still grinning. “Knew it. God, he must be really in the doghouse. Or maybe he’s just clingy as hell to be calling that much.”

You blink.

Okay. Nevermind. He’s wrong. That is not even remotely what’s happening. The most committed relationship you’ve had is the one with your coffee machine. And yet… part of it feels almost cosmically cruel.

Because somehow, this is the second time in a month that someone had looked at the scattered pieces of your life and decided a man must be hiding inside them. Except the first time, you never even got the chance to correct it.

After all… how do you tell your mother she’s wrong?

Last month, you still answered her phone calls.

Not because you expected anything different. But because somewhere between the second ring and the third, there’s this gap — this stupid, paper-thin gap — where you still believe she might ask how you’re doing and actually wait for the answer.

Some habits taste like smoke. Some burn like liquor. But yours, unfortunately, had always looked a lot like hope.

Hope is a terrible habit you’ve never been able to kick.

“Oh—uh, hi mom!”

Your phone was wedged between your ear and shoulder while you stepped out of your car, juggling your purse and what was left of your sanity. You were already behind schedule, and your mother was calling — which meant the day had already made its intentions very clear.

“What’s up?” the door slammed shut with your hip. “I’m actually about to—”

“—Trish sent the venue photos,” she blurted, launching into a conversation like always.

Blinking, you shook the bitterness away. Striding toward the towering glass of Gojo Corporation. “That’s—yeah, that’s great,” you muttered, badge in hand as you pushed through the front doors. “But I’m actually heading into work right now? So—”

“—It’s such a beautiful venue,” she ignored you. “Very traditional, very grand. But you know the Zenin family—they never do anything small.” And as she sighed in awe, you resisted the urge to roll your eyes.

The rational part of your brain told you to let this go to voicemail. But the rational part of your brain has never once won this fight. Because…

Hope is a terrible habit you’ve never been able to kick.

"Mom, I'm sure it's lovely, really… but I'm kind of—um, excuse me…" you pivoted around a man in the bustling lobby with a sigh. “Sorry. I’m literally walking into the building right now? But maybe we can revisit this later and—"

"—have you booked your flight yet?"

Your mouth flattened.

Clearly, your half of this conversation is optional.

“No… not yet,” you mumbled, as patiently as you could manage, jabbing the up button harder than necessary. “It’s been a crazy ass week so I haven’t had a chance to, but—”

“—every week is a crazy week for you.” The huff she let out sounded almost offended by the inconvenience of your life. “Why can’t you just book it now while we’re talking? I mean, it literally takes five minutes.”

A miracle, really, that your blood pressure isn’t a medical emergency.

Every week is a crazy week?

Yeah. No shit.

Two managers resigned last quarter. Another got escorted out by security. And their work didn’t disappear. No. It landed on your desk. Because that’s how it goes. That’s how it’s always gone. Group projects. Internships. End-of-quarter disasters no one else wanted to touch. If something needed fixing, it found its way to you.

You’re the one people relied on.

Just… never the one people chose.

“Mother. I’m at work,” you said, stepping into the elevator as the doors slid open, dropping your voice as you stabbed at floor fifteen. “Look—I’m about to walk into an eight a.m. meeting. But I’ll book it tonight, promise.”

“…eight a.m.?” she repeated slowly, before letting out a small, unbothered laugh. “Oh! Right. It’s eight p.m. here. Silly me. I keep forgetting.”

…

Keep forgetting?

She keeps forgetting that she’s ten thousand miles away? Forgetting that twenty years ago she abandoned you in another country to live abroad in Japan—handing you to your grandparents like a detail she'd get back to later?

How convenient that she forgot that.

The elevator slid shut, and you watched the numbers tick upward. “Um. Yeah…” you managed, trying to keep the hurt out of your voice. “Anyways. I’ll book it tonight. After work. Okay?”

"Okay, okay. Sure. Sounds good. But are you bringing anyone?”

Squeezing the strap of your bag, you swallowed the lump in your throat. This again? The last thing you needed was to walk into your shitty eight a.m. meeting looking emotional.

No thanks.

“I… uh…” you cleared your throat. “I um—actually—haven’t decided yet. But anyways, I gotta go, so—”

“Waitwatiwait. Haven’t decided? Does that mean… you actually found someone?!”

Her voice pitched up so fast it almost startled you, and your mouth dropped so low it could’ve hit floor one.

Shit.

“I-I—I didn’t say—"

“—oh, thank God. This is incredible!!” she squealed. “We’ve been so worried. I mean—Trish is younger than you and she figured it out,” her tongue clicked. “People have been asking questions, you know. Your aunt Sara keeps bringing it up every time I see her and—”

“—Mom, I—"

“—It’s about time,” The laugh she let out was relieved, like a problem in her life had finally begun resolving itself. “You can’t keep putting love on hold forever, because men aren’t going to wait around forever. You’re already twenty-six—not getting any younger, dear.”

Love?!

Who has time for that?

And why the fuck is twenty-six the age a woman expires?!

“What’s his name?” she pressed, practically beaming through the phone. “What does he do? Is he from there, or—oh, is he Japanese? Your father would love that, he always said—”

And she was off.

Spinning an entire man out of thin air. An entire future, really. Building him in real time from a tiny slip up you had because you were too tired and cornered and desperate enough to answer the phone in the first place. And you stood there, letting her. Because interrupting her has never once worked in the history of your life.

“—actually, never mind,” she chirped a moment later, as if she was being considerate now. “You have work. I’ll call tomorrow and you can tell me everything, yes? Okay, bye-bye honey—”

Click!

And just like that, the elevator went quiet. You were left staring at your reflection in the metal doors, phone pressed to your ear, listening to the silence where your mother’s voice had been.

‘We’ve been so worried.’

…

If they were so worried… why had you spent most of your life learning to take care of yourself? And yet, the second there might be a man, suddenly you’re worth getting excited about?

Funny how that works.

Scoffing, you lowered the phone, shoving it into your bag just as the elevator chimed open. Itadori Yuji’s head snapped up behind the reception desk.

“Morning, boss,” he waved, radiating sunshine as you walked towards the conference room. “Kento’s asking if you’re still good for the budget review at eight… or if I should just tell him to panic.”

Your smile softened, burying the sting. “Yes… I’ll be right there.” And as you stepped through the polished glass doors, you played the role you’d always played.

The reliable one. Twenty-six years old, with two master’s degrees, a career at one of the most competitive corporations in the world, and a team of seven that would quietly fall apart without you.

But…

None of that glitters quite like a diamond ring, does it?

“Oi,” Satoru frowns. “You’re makin’ that face again.”

“Huh?”

Blinking out of your spiral, your eyes trace back to the man across from you. His chin is resting in his palm, those impossibly blue eyes fixed on you with a quiet stillness that makes something in your chest trip over itself — like a lock turning in a door you didn’t know was closed.

“Oh.” You clear your throat, forcing the pen back into motion. “…what face?”

“The one you make when something’s wrong,” he says quietly, gaze unmoving. “When you’re upset and trying to act like you’re not.”

For a second — one terrible, unguarded second — you don’t have a single thing to hide behind. It’s just him, looking at you like your well-being is something he’s been keeping track of in a column you didn’t even know existed.

But then the sarcasm kicks in, right on time. "Wow," you say, forcing your hands back to the papers in front of you. "So… now you read faces?"

“Mm... nah. Just yours, sweetheart.”

And that grin — god, that fucking grin — hooks at one corner like he knows exactly what just detonated inside your chest. You don’t acknowledge it. Acknowledging things have consequences, and consequences with this man are not something you can afford.

"…that’s highly inappropriate," you mutter, shoving it down. "Let’s maybe redirect some of that insight toward the invoices, yeah?"

“Sorry, sorry.” He leans back, hands up like he’s the picture of innocence. “Wouldn’t wanna start shit with your dear future husband.” His grin goes sharp as he twirls his sunglasses between two fingers. “Though, wow. Tough look for him. Whatever he did, he clearly fucked up bad.”

Why does he sound… bitter?

No. You must be imagining it. This is Satoru. Satoru, who treats everything like a joke until proven otherwise. Satoru, who doesn’t care enough about anything to sound bitter over a man who may or may not exist.

You scoff. "You’re making some wildly stupid assumptions right now…"

He perks up at that. "Oh?" With his grin hooking higher, almost hopeful. "Wait. So, there’s no fiancé, then?"

Your lips purse.

What does he care? He’s not your mother.

“I wish you’d be this interested in your actual job,” you sigh, arms crossing. “Those invoices have been sitting there all week.”

“Uh-huh.” He tips his head. “And yet somehow, I noticed you still didn’t answer me.”

You frown.

What the fuck are you supposed to say!?

Oh. Um. Actually, Satoru, there is no fiancé. That’s the problem, actually! My mother invented him the other morning and I haven't worked up the nerve to call her back.

Yeah. No. You'd rather die at this desk.

“Maybe because it’s none of your business.”

“But I—”

“Drop it.”

He stares at you for a beat, then he flops back in the chair with a dramatic huff, long legs kicking out in front of him, mouth dragging into a sulky pout.

“Well, damn,” he grumbles, pushing his sunglasses up into his hair, rolling his eyes. “No wonder you’re single if this is how you shut people down…”

The second the words leave his mouth, he blinks. His gaze flicks up to yours like he hears it too late — like he realizes, all at once, how shitty that sounded.And it only feels worse the moment he sees your face.

God.

Of all the places to hit.

“Oho… wow. Okay. This?” you say with a thin, self-deprecating laugh, chair scraping as you shove back from your seat. “Yeah. This is exactly why I shouldn’t have let you ask, Satoru.” You reach for your planner, your purse, anything to do with your hands besides let them shake.

He straightens, watching you scramble. “Whoa. Wait. I—"

“—because you don’t know when to stop!” The words come out louder than you mean, blinking at the sting behind your eyes. “You just keep pushing and pushing and pushing until you get what you want. Well good. I hope you’re happy.”

Before you can turn away, he’s on his feet. “Wait—” And the moment his hand catches yours, you freeze, breath snagging.

His voice is quieter now. His grip is firm yet gentle, and the air between you shifts, while something warm and uneasy twists low in your chest. The kind of feeling that makes you want to lean in and run in the same breath.

Though your eyes stay down. “Satoru… let go.”

“I didn’t…” he starts, then stops, gaze flicking to where his fingers still circle your wrist — before climbing back to your face, slower this time. “I’m… sorry. I just—” His mouth tightens. “I see how hard you work, okay? I see it. And every time that phone rings, you get this look on your face like it’s already ruined your day before you even touch it. And…” His brows pinch. “Fuck. I dunno why, but it pisses me off!”

Your gaze hesitantly drags to his, and the look in his eyes is softer than they have any right to be — all that blue, stripped of its usual sharpness, turned careful. Like he’s stepping toward something breakable and knows it. Like… if he asked once more, something in you might actually give.

“Satoru…” your breath hitches. “I-I—"

“Oh, finally.”

Shoko’s voice trails in, and your head snaps up so fast your neck almost goes with it. She’s leaning against the doorframe, arms crossed, coffee in hand — looking like a woman who arrived exactly on time for something she's been expecting all week.

Her gaze flicks down to where he’s holding you, and the corner of her mouth twitches.

"Sooo… not to interrupt whatever this is," she says, taking a sip, "but Kento's one eye-twitch away from a medical event. He needs you to sign off on the variance line before he starts reconciling his own will and—"

You're already jerking your hand back. "Yup—coming!" And as you step away, heat floods your face, but you don't look back. Not once. Not even when you feel him still standing there, watching you go.

Because looking back would mean acknowledging that something just shifted. And you are not — not — doing that today.

Unlike those invoices, perhaps some things are better left… unfinished.

You’re gone in a blur of heels, nerves, and professional self-preservation, leaving Shoko trailing behind and Satoru staring at the empty doorway like maybe the conversation might wander back through it.

It doesn’t.

And it’s not long before his mouth is pulling into a slow, petulant pout—just before he flops back in the chair with all the elegance of a man personally betrayed by the universe.

Un-fucking-believable.

He’d almost had you! After four months and four days of being stonewalled, redirected, and professionally shut down, you’d finally looked like you might give him something. A crack. A sliver. And then Kento had to ruin it with his stupid reconciliation sheet, his stupid earnest face, and his stupidly impeccable timing.

…

He could fire Kento.

Should he fire Kento?

As tempting as that thought is, Satoru settles for glaring at the empty doorway a second longer before dragging a hand down his face and raking it back through his hair. There’s no point. This performance will end soon. Because by this time tomorrow, he’ll be on a flight back to Tokyo. Where he can resume the slow, agonizing process of preparing to inherit a company he didn't actually give a shit about.

'Grow up, Satoru.'

'Apply yourself, Satoru.'

'You have no idea what it takes to run something like this, Satoru.'

Right. Because apparently, the heir to a multinational corporation needed to learn humility. Alphabetize files. Sit in a cubicle. Fetch coffee like some goddamn spreadsheet slut with a trust fund and nowhere to put it.

Four years of business school, two years shadowing his father; and yet, this is what they had for him?!

He scoffs. And when his gaze drops to the wreckage of your desk, he’s pulling the stack of vendor invoices toward him with a sigh that sounds put-upon even to his own ears. You’ve been nagging him about filing them for the better part of the week and… the least he can do is clear one thing before he goes.

The stamp thuds against the first page. Then the next. Then the next. And with muscle memory taking over, his face goes blank in the way it always does when boredom finally wins. It’s mindless shit. Still, he’s used to it. So naturally, when the phone on your desk buzzes, he doesn’t think twice; snatching it up, tucking it between his ear and shoulder as he reaches for the next invoice.

It’s probably another budget nuisance. Or Mei. Or one of the other thousand little crises that seem magnetically drawn to your extension.

“Yo,” another stamp echoes. “Satoru speaking.”

There’s a sharp inhale. “…who?”

His brow lifts. “Uh… Satoru?” Another thud of ink slams against the paper and he huffs, annoyed. “What do y’need?”

The line goes quiet for a beat too long. Before the woman on the other end finally murmurs, “Satoru…” Sighing in awe. “What a lovely name. Is that Japanese?”

"Uh… yeah?” he snorts, flipping to the next page. “I mean. Last I checked.”

“Mm… I thought so!” She giggles. And her voice pitches like she's just unwrapped a present she didn't know she was getting. “So… Satoru. Why exactly are you the one answering her phone, hm?”

…

Why the hell does this woman sound so invested? And why is she asking questions that should be obvious?

Frowning down at the invoice, he stamps it harder.

“Because it rang?” He says it like it’s obvious. “And uh—sorry, but. Maybe because I’ve been with her for months, so… why the hell wouldn’t I?”

"Months?!” A soft gasp crackles, far too delighted. “You've—you've been with her for months?!"

"Mmm… four months and four days, technically."

He’s been her intern for that long.

That’s the question, right?

"—technically?!" she squeals, like the word personally seduced her. "Ohmygoodness—oh, this is perfect. Four months and four days—that is so specific.”

He blinks. But she doesn’t give him time to process.

“Look at you Mr. Devoted. Keeping track. I was starting to worry she’d never find someone like you. Every time I asked it's like pulling teeth. But I knew there had to be someone. I told her father—I said, there is a man, I can feel it.”

Pausing mid-stamp, the words slowly begin to catch up. Satoru straightens.

"…sorry. Who is thi—"

“—everyone is so excited to meet you at Trish’s wedding. I already reserved your seat and—"

Her voice keeps going… and going… and going. He pulls the phone away slowly as her voice echoes on the receiver, staring down at the phone in hand to see:

📞 Mom

Oh.

Oh, shit.

This is not your work phone. Your work phone is currently sitting at its dock twelve inches to his left. And it dawns on him that he accidentally just spent the last sixty seconds answering your personal phone like an absolute jackass and—

"Uh…” he backpedals. “Wait. I—"

"I told Sara, I said, we have to meet him and—”

"Stop. I-I really think—"

“—Satoru, what are you doing?’

His head snaps up at the sound of your voice, mouth dropping as he sees you standing at the doorway, eyes wide in horror.

Oh, fuck.

“Who is on the other end of that phone,” you hiss.

He winces, pulling the phone from his ear like it’s toxic — and you’re snatching it right out of his hand. He lets you have it without a fight, sinking back into the chair like he’s trying to physically dissociate from the situation he’s just created while you press the phone to your ear.

“And I mean…” she rambles. “I certainly was never one to wait around at twenty-six, believe me. But—"

"Mom."

"Oh! Honey!” She gasps. “Oh, my goodness, hi—I was just having the loveliest chat with—"

"I'm at work. Gotta go."

"—okay! I can't wait to meet Satoru, he—"

Click!

The phone sits in your hand like evidence.

And Satoru — to his credit — has the decency to look like a man standing in the blast radius of his own stupidity. His mouth opens. Closes. Opens again. Like he’s rehearsing an apology in a language he hasn’t learned yet.

You stare at him.

He stares at you.

And somewhere ten thousand miles away, your mother is already calling your aunt Sara.

“Sooo… funny story…”

“—what did you do?!”

Satoru flinched, and now, the tears were already rolling down your cheeks — hot, fast, completely unauthorized. Not the kind you could disguise as allergies or blame on the air conditioning. No. The ugly kind.

Great. Fucking great.

You were standing in the middle of your own office, in the building where you work, crying in front of your intern. And Satoru felt the weight of it all at once. In the last four months, he had seen you in every flavor of workplace misery there was. Pissed off, stressed out, one spreadsheet away from actual murder.

But cry?

Never.

And this had his fingerprints all over it.

"Shit," he breathed, panic flashing across his face. "I—fuck. Okay. Please don't—I can fix this. I can—"

"Fix this?" A splintered laugh ripped out of you, and you hated how thin it was. "Fix what, Satoru? You just confirmed a boyfriend to my mother, a boyfriend that doesn't exist—and she is, at this very moment, probably already—"

Another break in your voice cracked, and you squeezed your eyes shut, pressing your hand to your forehead hard like you could hold the tears in by sheer force. But it only made it worse, because now you could feel the wetness on your own face, the heat of it under your palm, and the mortification landed like a second wave.

God. How fucking humiliating.

"Hey, hey—it's okay,” his voice softened. “We'll just… call her back. Right? Tell her it was a misunderstanding. Easy."

“Easy?” you scoffed, the word coming out strangled. “Y-You don’t understand my mother, Satoru,” you managed, voice gone thin as thread. God, you sounded like a child. “If she thinks something is true, then it’s true. That’s it. That’s—there’s no correcting her, there’s no walking it back, she’s already told my aunt Sara by now and Sara’s told Trish and—oh, fuck—”

Another sob tumbled out, and your fingers dug harder into your temple.

God. Stop it.

Stop it stop it stop it.

Think.

Think logically. You're good at this. You solve problems for a living.

But every time you tried to grab onto a thought, it slipped — replaced by the echo of your mother's voice, high and delighted. The happiest she'd sounded talking to you in years. Maybe ever.

…what look will she give you when you show up alone?

"I can’t," you whispered, and the word came out waterlogged. "I-I'm supposed to get on a plane to Japan in a week and—do what? Tell them there's no one? Tell them I'm still—"

Single.

The word sat in your mouth like a stone. You didn’t realize you’d gone silent until the silence itself started ringing — your sniffling, the hum of fluorescent lights, the muffled life of the office continuing beyond the door like yours wasn’t actively coming apart at the seams.

And through all of it, you could feel Satoru looking at you. His stillness; holding you with an expression you'd never seen on him before and couldn't categorize if you tried.

"Um…” he looked down, scratching the back of his neck. “Soooo... the wedding's in Japan?"

You blinked. “What?” And as you wiped your face with the back of your hand, his gazed tentatively flicked back up. “The wedding…” he repeated, voice careful. “It’s in Japan?”

"Yes." Your brow furrowed, not understanding. "Why?"

He didn't answer right away. Just looked down at the floor for a second, jaw shifting, like he was turning something over in his head — something he hadn't fully assembled yet but could already feel the shape of.

"Huh… okay."

Okay what?

You watched his expression change in real time — from guilt to calculation to something else. "Right then!" He said, clapping his hands once, bright and sudden. "No biggie. I'll just go with you."

No biggie?

Your mouth dropped.

That wasn’t even an option, was it?

…is he crazy?

“You’re kidding,” your laugh was awkward and breathless. His eyes rolled with a smug grin. “Sweetheart, c’mon,” and he was gesturing between the two of you like the answer was sitting there in plain sight and you were the only person in the room committed to not seeing it. "Your family thinks you're bringing someone? Cool." A hand pressed to his chest with theatrical solemnity. "I'm someone."

You stared at him. Genuinely stared.

Oh. He wasn’t kidding.

Yup. He’s crazy.

"You are not 'someone,' Satoru. You are my intern."

“Yeah. For like… another six hours?"

He checked his watch with a shrug, and your lips flattened.

"…that is not the point."

“Mm… feels a little like the point."

He smirked, but it faded faster than usual, dimming at the edges as his blue eyes hesitated on yours. Something shifted in his posture; the performance pulling back, like a tide going out. "Um… look…" He pushed off the desk, stepping closer. "It’s really no hassle." He said, hands sliding into his pockets. "I already have a flight scheduled. My family's in Tokyo. And I was going back after this internship anyway, so… this just moves my timeline back a little."

He was shrugging like it wasn’t a big deal. Like he wasn’t agreeing to fly across the world with you and walk straight into the disaster that was your family.

…

His family’s in Japan too?

You barely knew anything about him. He kept his life sealed off with the same practiced deflection you kept yours — jokes in place of answers, charm in place of honesty. You never bothered to ask, because asking meant caring and that was a door you never intended to walk through with anyone.

But…

"Just… let me come with you. I’ll be your boyfriend for the weekend. For the wedding. For… whatever you need,” he said. And this time, when he stepped closer, there was no grin to hide behind. "I can be useful. I caused this. So… let me fix it."

Heat creeped up your neck, and you scoffed, weakly.

"Okay… but you can't fix my mother."

"No…” he murmured, tilting his head. His hand came up and brushed a tear trailing down your cheek with a careful gentleness. “But… I can make sure you don't have to walk in there alone?"

Your breath hitched, and when your eyes finally lifted, the morning light was being cruel again — catching in that impossible blue and turning it soft. Like stained glass dipped in sunlight. Like something holy made dangerous by the simple fact that it was looking straight at you.

“Mhn. So, do I get the job, boss lady? Because that look you’re giving me…” a slow smirk curls up the corner of his mouth. “Very encouraging for my boyfriend résumé, by the way. Might get addicted to it and wanna make it a full-time gig.”

“Shut up,” you mutter, looking away too fast to be convincing.“That was not a look. I was just—” You grimace. “…never mind.”

He’s chuckling as you brush past him. And his words are what scared you the most. Which was bad. Very, very bad. Because your mother was one problem. Japan was another. But Satoru looking at you like that?

Shit…

That felt like the kind of complication that didn’t stay neatly contained. And you knew better than anyone. Nothing about Satoru had ever suggested he could be contained.

a/n: hehe. this has been fun to work on! i am excited to share the next part. clearly i love these fake dating/fake marriage tropes aha 🙂‍↕️ bc this is like... what—my third time doing it? soooo i tried to change things up and make it feel less standard/generic :) but anyways, like i said pt 2 will be out in a week, pls lmk if you wanna be tagged 💖