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John and Linda died at the house, where the man dragged the three of you after forcing you into his truck. He took Linda away, and she screamed a lot, and you knew what was happening to her even before it all ended with a distant gunshot and terrible silence. 

You and John had been tied up to the ceiling of the garage and you wondered, almost numb but not quite, if the man was going to drag you away like he did Linda. If you were going to end up violated and murdered in some rotten bed in some rotten house in some rotten town.

All of the nerves in your body sparked at once when the man shouted something in the house–

“Tommy! Go take care of that garbage out there! Make sure you clean up after!”

And what came through the squeaking garage door was not a person, surely, but a big hulking monster of a man. Like the kind you saw in horror movies you weren’t supposed to watch, that greasy-faced guys with unshaven faces told you were like, actually snuff films disguised as movies, man. His hair was greasy but that’s not what stood out, no. It was his size and bulk and a mask strapped over his face, revealing only his eyes, wild but determined.

It must be Tommy, you thought, dimly, your feet scrambling for purchase. As if you could get away. 

This is where John died. It was not a nice death. Tommy had grabbed an axe from the wall and–you began to heave, throwing up a diner breakfast onto the floor–chopping at John’s body like he was a tree to take down. Whacking at his stomach, his legs. His flesh flapped down like so much meat. 

Chop.

Chop.

Chop.

The screaming came from John. And you, too. And maybe the whole wide world had been screaming this whole time and it took watching your friends die in front of you to finally hear it.

John was dead. You knew it, because his torso was hanging from the ceiling now, and his legs had fallen to the ground in a tangled heap. If you had more time, maybe you would have been able to process the full horror of this. But as it was, all you could do was think about what was about to happen to you.

It was your turn.

Your friends were dead, and now, you were going to die. Horribly, probably. Getting axed to death or worse. 

The thing, the creature, the murderer approached you, bloody axe in hand, and you squeezed your eyes shut and began to murmur some prayer you’d learned as a kid and hadn’t said in years. A pitiful thing that you couldn’t even fully remember. But what did it matter, when your life was going to be nothing but a heap of blood and viscera in mere moments? 

“Please make it quick,” you whispered, to the killer, to God, to yourself. Then you went back to your mumbled prayers, hoping it would all be over soon. 

You waited for death.

And waited.

And waited.

And death never came. 

Someone was breathing, hard. It couldn’t have been John–he had no breath left to give. It could’ve been you, but it was lower, harsher, and when you let your eyes slowly open he was standing right in front of you.

Tommy. The killer. With an axe in his hand. Breathing. Staring. 

Maybe he wanted you to watch while you died? 

Maybe he–

He swung the axe suddenly and your heart soared and some half-assed last word pushed itself out through your mouth, but the axe didn’t hit. At least, not you. Instead, it hit the ropes above your head, and you crumbled to the ground like John’s lifeless legs.

Later, you will turn it over in your head. Why didn’t he kill you? Why did he cut you down? 

At the moment, though, nothing went through your head but renewed terror as he grabbed your jelly-like leg and began to drag you away from the garage. Away from John’s mangled body and the blood still dripping from his torso, over rough ground, kicking and yelping like the scared little animal that you were.

A house of death and grime, a house where Linda’s body still lay, somewhere, probably just as faceless as dear Mary Ann’s.

The house would, later, be called home.

–

You’re still on the floor, leg held tightly by the man who killed John without a hint of remorse, when an older woman with glasses looms over you and tuts.

“She’s filthy, Tommy.” A look of horror in her eyes, not because you’ve got blood and brain matter on you, not because this man–Tommy–is covered in blood and she had surely heard all the screaming from your dead friends. But because you’re messing up her kitchen floor with your filth.

Is she going to help him kill you? Thoughts try to land inside but nothing sticks in your brain. The shock is too much. 

But then something seems to click with this strange woman, and she sighs, murmuring, wringing her hands. She looks up at Tommy and he jerks your leg towards her, making one of your muscles cramp. She sighs again, nodding along. “Well. Alright. No need to beg now. If she’s going to stay, she’ll need a bath.”

He drops your leg to the ground. It hits the kitchen floor with a thud but you don’t have the presence of mind to really feel the pain; there’s too much terror coursing through you, unable to properly think about what’s happening at all. 

“Well,” the woman says, hands on her hips. She’s talking to the man, to Tommy, not you. “Help me get her up now. She’s got to get a bath before anything else.” 

Something that might be a protest bubbles out of your dry lips as the man reaches down and scoops you up by the armpits. A thought claws its way up–he’s going to take you into the bathroom and strip you and hurt you and then you’ll be with your friends, dead, some bloodied silent corpse that no one will ever discover. 

So when he begins to haul you away from the kitchen, you struggle, kicking your useless legs and struggling against the rough rope that still keeps your wrists bound. 

“Don’t–”

You don’t get the rest of the words out before your head smacks against the kitchen doorframe, and there’s a dull grey buzzing in your head as you’re slowly dragged up a flight of stairs. 

Thump, thump, your body thumping all the way. You’re aware enough to see the woman following behind, mumbling one thing at Tommy, tutting something else at you. 

The pain in your head fades away as you’re dragged down a wooden hallway, which is, at least, some small relief. It was shock from the sudden pain, then and not a serious injury. 

The bathroom he drags you into wasn’t as dirty as it ought to have been. That’s the strange thought that comes to mind as you’re leaned up against a cold porcelain tub, as his rough hands finally move away from under your armpits.

Yes, you think. The bathroom is all wrong. A bathroom in a house of death should be filthy, grimy. There should be blood caked into the grout that wouldn’t come out even if you scrubbed for years.

Instead, it’s a modest bathroom that reminds you a bit of your grandma’s house. Blinking, you can see a decorative soap sitting on the sink, next to the well-worn pump soap filled with the stuff people actually use. There’s a doily on top of the toilet tank. A bowl of potpourri. 

The only sign that anything is amiss is the bloody killer with a mask covering his face standing over you, breathing. 

Is this where he takes you? Where he forces himself on you, and kills you after? 

“Tommy, you git now–” The woman is in the bathroom, too, hands back on her hips. “Ain’t right for you to be in here with us ladies.” She waves him on and it’s the strangest thing to see him nod, to hear some sort of grunting mumble in response. He leaves the bathroom like a puppy being told to stay out of the kitchen.

You’re left alone with a woman wearing a floral print dress, hair pulled back into a bun, wisps of hair framing her face in an achingly familiar way. She looks like anyone’s grandma, the type of woman you’d see rocking on her porch in the evening, drinking lemonade and watching fireflies.

Instead she’s living in a house of horror and has no apparent problem with it. 

“Well,” is what she says eventually, looking you over like some wayward child come in covered in mud before Sunday dinner. “Best to get you cleaned up before supper.” 

Cleaned up? Supper? Maybe you did hit your head harder than you thought. Because what the hell is she talking about? What the hell is going on? Why aren’t you dead like the rest of them?

Your frantic thoughts and potential concussion don’t matter, though, because all she does is ignore the unanswered questions written all over your face and lean over the tub. A moment later, the sound of rushing water bombards your frazzled nerves and makes you flinch.

A bath. She’s going to run you a bath.

Her arm hooks under your armpits and she hoists you up with surprisingly little effort. Some noise escapes you, but if it was a protest, her suddenly stern expression shuts it up. She sits you down on top of the toilet seat and begins to pull off your dirty jeans.

“Don’t fuss,” she says, not that you have much energy to continue fighting her movements. “I’m not gonna have you in my house in these filthy clothes.” She holds up your loose jeans like they’re something truly awful and chucks them in the trash. 

It’s impossible to take your shirt off with your arms tied, and she hums about it for a while. Finally, she says, low and slow. “I’m gonna take these ropes off you, honey. But if you do anything but sit there nice and pretty, I’ll have Tommy come and break your neck. Okay?”

You can’t do anything but nod.

So your shirt comes next, the swirling floral print looking almost obscene now, with blood on it. Mary Ann’s blood. John’s blood. Your own, probably, from the scrapes you got being dragged around like some ragdoll.

And then it’s your socks and underclothes and really, you ought to fight. But something dull and heavy and numb takes over as she helps you out of your clothes, gentle as anything. Like the way your mom used to give you a bath.

The way she leads you to the tub is familiar too, as is the way she bids you to hold onto her as you step inside it. The water is warm and achingly inviting and you sink down into it. Your body does, anyway. You’re not entirely sure if your mind is actually inside it now, because none of this can be real.

Only it is. Because the woman turns off the tap and hands you a washcloth with a faded embroidered flower and a well-used bar of soap. 

“I’m going to grab you some clothes,” she says, standing in the open doorway. “You just wash up real good. Get all that muck off you.” The muck is your friend’s brain matter, but you don’t say that. “There’s shampoo on the shelf there.” 

She leaves you alone and it’s the pure, unadulterated desire to rid yourself of the blood sticking to your skin that propels you to begin scrubbing.

By the time she returns with a pile of clothes in her hand, the water is a startling mixture of brown and red, all bubbling with soap. Little flecks of brain, the last remnants of Mary Ann’s thoughts and everything she ever was, float with the bubbles. 

You don’t say anything when she helps you out of the tub. You don’t say anything when she sits you back down on the toilet seat and begins to dry you off. It’s only when she starts rubbing at your head that something escapes you–

A hiccup. A whimper. The beginnings of pitiful, whining, childlike tears. 

You expect her to yell at you. Tell you to shut your fucking mouth, like that man probably would have.

Instead, she coos in the back of her throat.

“Oh, sweet girl. Hush now, hush, hush.” She murmurs that plea over and over as she dries you off, and you lean into her touch, gentle, almost familiar, if you can ignore everything else. 

By the time she’s pulling a loose dress with a floral print–from her own wardrobe, you think–over your body, you’ve managed to bring yourself down to the occasional sniffle. She dabs at the last of your tears with the rough towel and hoists you up again.

“I think you ought to take a nap before supper. Or just lie down for a spell, if you can’t fall asleep. Doesn’t that sound nice?”

It does, in fact, not sound nice. It sounds like she means for you to stay here. Or maybe supper is the place where you’re going to die, maybe in some more fucked up way than your friends. Wash you, dry your tears, then tie you to the dinner table and sacrifice you to Satan.

Satan worshippers were real; you knew that much from TV.

But that numbness overtakes you as she leads you, your newly socked feet warm and toasty, out of the bathroom and down a darkened hallway. 

The room you’re shuffled into looks like a guest room. Impersonal, with ironed sheets and doilies on the side table and a generic alarm clock ticking away on top of them. 

The bed is hard and not terribly comfortable, but you let her push you down onto it, let her lift your legs so that you’re curled up on your side.

She leans down and presses a kiss to your forehead.

Would she kiss you, if they were going to kill you later? You didn’t know how these things worked. Or how anything in life worked, apparently, because you never thought a road trip would end with your friends brutally murdered and you laying in some woman’s guest bedroom wearing a dress that smelled faintly of mothballs. 

“When I call for supper,” and her voice is all matter of fact, “you just come right on down.” She takes a step out the door, then stops, looks straight at you. “And honey?”

When she doesn’t continue, you force yourself to make some sort of questioning noise in the back of your dry, horrified throat.

“Don’t do anythin’ stupid.”

–

“Supper’s ready!”

You’re not asleep–how could you be–but the shrill words that come from downstairs startle you anyway. There’s lead in your body as you force yourself to slowly sit upwards. One foot in front of the other–then you think about John’s legs laying in a heap on the floor and the lead turns into helium, tingling and numbing.

Are you going to be laying in a heap on the floor soon? 

A noise in the doorway turns you into a startled animal, even more so when you see what the noise was:

Him. The killer–well, one of them. The one who killed John. Tommy, the older man had said. 

Maybe they sent him up because you were taking too long. Or maybe he was your escort down into hell, where you’d be sacrificed to Lucifer or whatever terrible god these people worshipped. 

“I–I was sleeping.” A lie. “S-Sorry,” and the words stumble out. “It just took me a minute to get up.” Not a lie, at least. 

If this bulky man with an obscured face hears you or cares about your excuse, he doesn’t say anything. He just stands there, breathing, staring. His eyes seem to linger over the dress the woman gave you as you awkwardly walk towards the door, and there’s a few brief awful moments where you’re face to face before he sidesteps and lets you out–

Only for you to stumble over the threshold, nearly flying into the floor. A strong grip lands around your upper arm and you’re suspended, balancing on one shaky leg, taking a moment before you realize that he’s kept you from smashing your face into the wood below.

“Um,” you manage. “Thank you.” Because it is probably a good idea to be polite to a serial killer. And you’re not even sure if your mind is being sarcastic with that particular piece of advice.

Tommy says nothing. Maybe he stares at you for too long, and he might say something. Instead, though, he gestures for you to go down the stairs before letting go of your arm. He stares at his hand for a moment and you don’t think much of it, now. That will come later. 

For now, you take the staircase one step at a time, out of fear, out of necessity–your body aches all over and your hands grip the rickety railing as hard as you can to keep from slipping or tripping or flying and smashing your nose against the ground below.

The dining room is homey, set just off the kitchen. It seems that everyone but you and the axe-wielding murderer behind you are already seated at the table. There’s the older woman, of course. A man you’ve never seen before. And–him. The one who killed Mary Ann. Who hurt Linda. Who ordered you and John to be killed. 

Something hot twists inside your stomach as you hover in the doorway. When you’re finally spotted, the woman smiles, and gestures for you to come inside–but the man who killed and hurt your friends scowls. 

“What in the hell is that dumb bitch still doing here? Tommy, I told you to–”

The woman steps in, hand on her hip. “Charlie Hewitt, you will watch your mouth at the dinner table.” 

To your surprise, he ducks his head–murmers, “Sorry Mama.”

She begins to dole out spoonfuls of steaming food from a pot onto his plate, and so on down the table. “Tommy thought she ought to stay, so she ought to stay.”

The man–Charlie–only shakes his head at this. “Since when does Tommy make decisions?” He wipes the back of his hand against his nose, and the woman bats his arm with the spoon. “She ought to be tied up, at least.”

The woman sighs. Your wrists ache. 

A compromise is made, and your ankle is tied to the chair. Not that it makes your situation any less horrifying–any less difficult to comprehend, as you find yourself seated between the woman (Luda May, she says, finally) and the man who killed Mary Ann and Linda (Charlie, Luda May addressed him as Charlie) and another man who didn’t object to any of it (Monty, Luda May calls him). 

You expect the hulking, breathing Tommy to sit down at the table. There’s almost a curiosity that prickles in you–will he take off the mask to eat? What would he look like, sitting down at this deceptively cozy dinner table?--but to your surprise, he leaves, footfalls heavy as he skulks outside the dining room door and simply stands there and watches. 

The food that night is not well seasoned, not that it matters. You’re eating it only to stay alive. The hastily chewed globs of it sits heavy in your stomach along with the sight of your dead friends, along with the knowledge of Tommy standing outside, watching all of you eat.

“Now, sweetheart,” Luda May begins, interrupting the buzzing of your thoughts. “Why don’t you tell us your name, seeing as you’re fixin’ to stay?”

–

Charlie and Luda May argue that night about letting you stay. About letting you live. They do it right at the dinner table, with you, captive, ankle bound in rope to the table. It’s hard to do anything else but feel the way your scalp tingles, wondering if this will be your last night on Earth. If Charlie will grab a knife from the kitchen and simply stab it through your chest. Or your head. He seemed to like the violence of it all.

“Well,” Luda May offers, pointing at the open doorway where Tommy still stood vigil. “Tommy thinks she’s sweet. Don’t you, Tommy?”

All heads–yours included–swing doors the doorway. 

You almost, stupidly, because what do you have to lose at this point in your short life, ask how  Luda May even knew what he thought. He didn’t talk. But fear bites your tongue for you, and you simply stare with the others at the strange, unkempt man who, hours ago, lopped your friend’s top half from his bottom half with an axe.

Tommy grunts–

Luda May smiles and claps her hands together and Charlie rubs the back of his head with his hand.

“Well,” he says, a drawl. “If Tommy wants to keep her, then he’s responsible for her.” He gives you half a glance and shrugs. “Like taking in a stray dog, is what I say. A stray dog…”

Stray dogs, you think, sometimes get put down.

–

They let you live. A compromise is made, though, after Charlie insists that they can’t trust you not to attack them for a good while. “Wouldn’t let some roaming mutt sleep with your baby, would ya? Same damn thing.”

So you get tied up at first. By the ankle, usually, and you’re at least a bit grateful for that. Even if the skin around your ankle starts to rub raw, and Luda May (“Call me Mama,” she says, and you do not) rubs cream on it after your weekly bath.  Luda May is the one who takes you to the bathroom, to pee or bathe or whatever else you need to do–and you’re at least a bit grateful for that, too. 

The soap always gets in your eyes when she washes your hair, dunking water over your head from a filled up gas station cup; you don’t mind, because when it burns and stings and you start to cry, it’s easy to pretend that you’re crying from the pain, and not your new normal.

What is normal, anyway? Normal is what you become used to; and you do become used to–this. This life. Or whatever it might be called. 

Because after a while, it gets easier. 

You don’t get tied up to the table for breakfast (or lunch or dinner) and Luda May hovers outside the bathroom door and finally lets you pee and bathe all by yourself. Though she still likes to help you wash your hair, humming and drying your hair for you afterwards, and you don’t fuss about it.

Because she’d only get mad–and because, well. Because it feels nice to be cared for, sometimes. Because it’s easier to pretend this isn’t a horror house when she’s humming and talking about how you’ve been so good lately, so helpful, as she pours a dollop of cheap strawberry shampoo into her hand. 

The chores come with your newfound freedom, freedom that doesn’t extend past the threshold of the front or back door. Do the dishes, pick up after yourself, help fold the laundry when Luda May brings it in from the clothesline outside.

They keep you busy. They keep you from pretending that you don’t hear the screams, now and then, of people that they kill. Usually Charlie. Sometimes Tommy. They die, all the same, and what happens to them after that–you don’t want to know. 

Sometimes you think about running. But where would you go? You wouldn’t make it past the front yard, anyway. Charlie would get you. Kill you, surely, after telling Luda May that he was right all along.

Or–maybe Tommy would grab you first. 

Tommy’s always there, it seems. At the edge of your vision. Watching from the doorway at meals, only dipping in to grab his own plate and wolf it down once you leave. The thought came to you once, when he’d shook his head at Charlie encouraging him to come on in and grab his plate–

Maybe he’s shy.

The thought hit you like a shotgun to the face. Shy–shy? The hulking man who killed your friends? Who could break you like a branch, if he wanted. Who might still kill you, if you step out of line. Who–

Who is the only reason Charlie Hewitt didn’t murder you right then and there in the kitchen.

And who is the only one in the house who hasn’t threatened you at least once. 

(Even Luda May has her moments, when you aren’t being a good girl. She threatened to box your ears once, when she caught you swearing. At least she didn’t threaten to cut out your tongue like Charlie, or say you ought to be taken over someone’s knee like Monty. Though at least a spanking wouldn’t have resulted in the loss of a body part.)

But not Tommy. (He cut Johnny in half–but not you. Not you.)

So.

So this morning, when you’re sitting alone at the table eating a late breakfast because Luda May let you sleep in, and you see Tommy standing in that doorway again, his own plate cold and untouched on the table, you clear your throat. 

He doesn’t stir.

You clear it again.

“Thomas?” You ask, then, feeling stupidly formal, correct yourself. “Tommy?”

There’s a loud shifting sound. The thud and tread of his shoes on the floor. And there he is, standing in the doorway, awkwardly staring to the side like there’s something particularly fascinating there that only he can see.

What are you doing? The question repeats itself in your buzzing brain, but, fuck if you know. Being in this house has made you… something. Crazy. Stir-crazy. Itching to do something, anything, to get yourself out of this tension-filled rut you’re in. Maybe being nice to the sort-of-shy quiet (killer, a small voice pipes in, he’s a killer) will change things. 

Everyone needs kindness, after all. 

“Do you um,” you start, digging up the courage like it’s stuck in the mud. “Do you want to eat breakfast with me?”

There’s a noise from behind his mask. A sort of breathy thing–like surprise. 

He hesitates. Then he stalks forward and leans down, ready to wolf his food in a minute like you’ve caught him doing before, being a sneak in the doorway yourself. But you swallow–

“I mean, do you want to sit down with me?” 

He pauses. Another sound, this time, like wariness.

“If–if you want–I mean, you don’t have to,” you correct, suddenly feeling stupid and anxious rolled into one. What were you even thinking? That you owed it to him, maybe, because he did save you. You’re alive, because he wanted you to be–but why?

And then he moves. Stalks forward, like he’s unused to the idea of simply taking a seat, yanks the chair so hard that you flinch a little. Then he’s sitting, legs parted too wide, with a plate in front of him. 

He stares at it. Then looks at you–and it’s maybe the first time you’ve looked eye to eye in a while. He blinks and looks away first, and again, that word comes to you. Almost stupidly, but still: Shy. 

So you look away, now, and it’s only then that he parts his mask and scarfs down the pancakes. You don’t look–he doesn’t want you to look, and neither do you–but you can hear the sound of it. 

It’s a bit startling, really, the sound of his eating; the weight of him so close, and not hovering in the corner of your life. 

When he’s done, he takes his plate to the sink, and there’s something so normal about it that you almost laugh. 

He goes back to the doorway and you get another idea. A silly, weird, stupid idea. But it’s something different. Something to shake up the tight, tension-filled world you live in.

“Tommy?”

He stops.

“You can help me do the dishes, if you want.”

He turns. Questioning. When you get the nerve to look into his eyes it makes you feel a bit dizzy, how human they are. Because he is a person, after all. Even in this house. 

You lick your lips, and your voice is too dry, but you ask anyways:

“I’ll wash… you dry?”

There is a long awkward moment in which you think you’ve finally lost your damn mind. And then, slowly, Tommy moves to stand to the side of the kitchen sink, still filled with breakfast dishes.

And after you wash them up, with the same hands that once chopped your friend in two gory pieces, Tommy Hewitt carefully dries off Luda May’s breakfast china. 

–

The next morning, you wake up to find flowers at the threshold of your bedroom door. Not particularly pretty ones. Wild ones, the kind you find on the side of the road, the kind that will tickle your palm while you walk on hot summer days with friends, eager to find trouble or fun or something in between.

They’ve been pulled up right from the root, dirt clumps, beetles and all. And there they sit, adding a splash of white and purple to the dull wooden floor. All wild and dirty, with a touch of rot underneath. 

Just like this house.

Still. Still–something in you flutters at the sight.

There’s only one person who could have left them. As if on cue, you hear his footfalls, edging down the hall. Was he watching while you opened the door? Maybe. And maybe that’s partly why you smile, just a little, and reach down to scoop them up. 

In the kitchen, Luda May is frying up bacon–though it has a funny smell, this week, and your brain takes a moment to connect the smell to the screams you heard a few days ago before shutting off that train of thought–and only turns away from the hot stove when you clear your throat.

You hold out the clump of flowers, like a kid presenting dandelions at lunchtime. “Um. I found these–on the floor.”

She smiles a crooked smile, but it’s not a mean one. “I think someone’s got a shine on you.” Something seems to cross her mind, a thought that wants to stick, and she shakes her head. You don’t dare ask what she was thinking.

Instead, you sheepishly ask if you can borrow a cup to keep the flowers in. To make your room brighter. (To make your life brighter, too, but you don’t say that part out loud. Though maybe with the expression on her face, you don’t need to.)

“So they can live a while longer,” you add, as if you need to explain. 

“Of course, honey.”

It makes her smile, and she stands on her tiptoes to retrieve a dusty cup from the back of the cupboard. The kind she won’t miss when it inevitably stays upstairs. She rubs off some of the grime with the back of her shirt and hands it to you.

She really is kind to you. All things considered. Washes you up and gives you extra helpings of vegetables if you don’t eat much meat and tells you that you look nice in her dresses, though you probably don’t. 

“Thanks, Mama,” you say, quick, easy as she hands you the cup; the words come without thinking, as you turn away to head back upstairs with your flowers and dusty cup.

“Oh,” is the sound she makes, and you can’t see the hand that goes to her chest with your back turned, but you imagine it all the same.

As you walk up the stairs, you realize–and don’t, at the same time–you can’t ever go back now. Not all the way. Even if someone finds you and a sheriff-at-arms kicks down the door to rescue you, you can’t ever go back. Not with Tommy’s flowers in your hand and Mama on your lips and the way you’re actually looking forward to supper tonight. 

After filling the cup with water from the bathroom, you drop the flowers in–not before shaking them over the sill so the bugs fall out, landing on your windowsill and immediately crawling away to find a safe spot.

You wouldn’t want to drown them, after all. 

–

Thomas Hewitt watches you while you sleep. You know this. You don’t know if he knows you know this, but you’ve woken up more than once to sense him standing in your bedroom. There’s a certain presence about him, one you can never miss. 

That presence used to be something you’d feel in the corner of this new bizarro world, while you did dishes or tidied or read one of the battered romance books Mama let you borrow and shut your ears to whatever you heard outside. 

Something you could almost-but-not-quite ignore. 

But not anymore. Not when he’s taken to finishing up the dishes with you, or sitting in the same room with you and Mama while you work on embroidery or drink tea and watch her stories. 

And now–

When you sleep–well, when you wake in the middle of the night–that flicker of a shadow in the corner is something far more looming. More heavy. 

Once, you carefully peeked, letting just the slits of your eyes flutter open, and saw him. Or the outline of him, his shadows, what was visible from the bit of moonlight that made its way through your bedroom curtains. 

Tonight, you brave it again. Letting your eyes flutter just enough to look. And there he is, standing over you, watching. You can just make out his fists clenching and unclenching, wavering, like he wants to reach out–for what?--but doesn’t. 

You squeeze your eyes shut again and by the time you fall back asleep, you’re alone again.

–

The first time Tommy touches you again–after that first day, when he dragged you into the house–you flinch. Not because he’s being rough or hurting you, exactly. But because your body remembers the feel of his hands. Remembers the way you were dragged, remembers the way you thought, body and soul, that he was going to kill you.

But now?

“Sorry,” you mumble, drawing yourself inward in apology. Someone you used to be screams inside you, a whiny, tiny noise like a tea kettle: You’re apologizing to a fucking murderer?! And you tell her to shut her mouth, because the person you are now has to survive, and surviving means that this has to be normal.

It has to be normal, it has to be right. 

So when Tommy’s rough, large hands reach back up, you will your body to stand still. Will your face to remain neutral. Will yourself to think of this as okay.

All he does is brush at your cheek, at your hair. It’s a strange sensation. Rough and soft–rough in the texture of his callused fingers, used to killing animals and much more besides, and soft in the way he seems like he’s afraid you’ll break you.

He could break you. But he didn’t. And he doesn’t. And that’s something you can hold onto. 

His other hand reaches up, and soon enough he’s cupping both your cheeks, staring straight down at you, his mask obscuring the bottom half of his face. It’s rough-hewn, like him. Maybe he made it himself. (He has other masks, worse masks–you know this. He doesn’t wear them around you, but you’ve seen them all the same.)

That tea-kettle of a voice says: Maybe he’ll carve your face off and make it into a mask, you dumb bitch. You push her down, down, down where she belongs, just as Tommy pulls you against his body.

He’s warm. There’s musk about him. Sweat and butchering and oil. He holds you firm; not to where it hurts, not like when he dragged you into the house over all the bumps and grooves and you hit your head and went fuzzy for a while. 

But firm. He won’t be letting you go, and maybe–maybe that’s okay. 

It must be normal. It must be right. 

If it wasn’t, you might lose your fucking mind.

–

Thomas Hewitt doesn’t watch you sleep anymore. Now, he gets into bed with you. And you let him. Not every night. But enough that it becomes enveloped into your slowly broadening new-normal. Enough that you go from trembling all night from a sick feeling in your stomach to almost looking forward to the warmth, the tightness, the way it shocks your system into forgetting the world before. 

Because when Tommy’s in your bed, you can pretend. Pretend that you’re really part of this family and weren’t brought here by an awful, blood set of circumstances. And that makes it nicer, makes the world blur around the edges.

Is it so bad to want to feel good?

He holds you like a teddy bear, all cradled and close against him. If you needed to get up in the middle of the night, you couldn’t; so far, at least, you haven’t had to figure out the logistics. All you know is that by the time you wake up in the morning, he’s gone.

His chores start earlier than yours, after all

–

Mama notices that the two of you are getting closer. Of course she does. She sees just about everything that goes on under this roof; at least, that’s what she says, hands on her hips, confronting you in the kitchen when the two of you actually walk in together for breakfast.

She tsks at you. She hums at Tommy. A word or two starts to come out, get stuck, and she sucks them back down her throat. 

“You two mind yourselves,” she says, finally. 

Charlie notices, too. Of course he does. But he doesn’t swallow down whatever his mind thought about saying. Instead, he chuckles, folds over the newspaper you are sure he doesn’t actually read every morning.

“Took a real shine to her, didn’t ya Tommy?”

Tommy doesn’t answer. So Charlie prods on. 

“Not saying I blame ya. She’s a pretty little thing, ain’t she? You got to second base yet, Tommy?” He shakes the newspaper. “Better watch out. Pretty sluts like that from the city…” He clucks his tongue, a sticky sound. “Don’t know where she’s been.”

It’s enough to make your cheeks burn hot as humiliation coils in your stomach–and in an instant Tommy grabs your arm and yanks you right out of the kitchen, pulling you down the hall into the living room and its dull, dusty draperies.

“Aw c’mon, I was just fucking around!” Charlie says from behind you, voice softened as you’re being dragged further from the kitchen.

And then, Mama. “Charlie Hewitt, you watch your mouth.”

Tommy stops with enough sudden force that you almost topple over, but he steadies you. When you look up, his eyes look wider, wilder. His breath comes out more jagged. Not because he’s exerted himself, you realize, but because he’s upset.

About what Charlie said?

Yes. About what Charlie said. Because he doesn’t like it anymore than you do. Because he… likes you? Wants you? It’s hard to know, when there aren’t words between you.

Sometimes you don’t need words.

“I don’t like it when he says things like that,” you finally say to him. Soft, quiet. The first time you’ve ever had the courage to say anything about your treatment here. “Or-or when he calls me a bitch or slut,” you add, feeling stupid and brave. 

Tommy nods. Then his rough hands, clean at least because he hasn’t left the house yet, cup your cheeks and stroke downward. He hums–or tries to, it comes across more guttural, less of a sweet sound and something earthier–and it’s you, this time, who pulls closer to him.

You may be fucked in the head. But at least you’re not alone in the house, anymore. 

–

“I’ve still gotta finish the mending,” you say lightly as Tommy lifts you up as easily as a sack of potatoes and sets you down on a dusty work bench in the barn. “But Mama said it’s okay if I stay out here for a little bit.”

It’s nice to be with Tommy. Especially in the mornings, when the air is cooler and Charlie tends to leave the house. Not that he says anything too awful lately–he’s not nicer, exactly, but you haven’t been called a bitch, slut, or anything close to that in ages. Not since Tommy made it clear that he doesn’t like it.

Plus, when you’re alone, it feels nicer. Without the weight of other people on him, Tommy feels different. Lighter, you’ve decided. Like he’s capable of being more than this house and this family. 

Sometimes you watch while he works. Butchering dead hogs on the table, rending the skin from the flesh, processing the meat into slabs or tossing it into containers to be ground up later. It’s messy work. It’s why Tommy always smells, vaguely, of blood, of butchering, of death.

Sometimes what he butchers are human beings. Sometimes they are still alive. Sometimes they are not dead corpses in the barn but are living, wriggling people hung up in the garage like you and John all those months ago. But none of them are dragged into the house and made part of the family. They all die.

You don’t watch–you’re not allowed, and you wouldn’t want to, even if you were–but you hear it. Even with cotton stuck in your ears, upstairs in your bedroom, a pillow over your head. You hear it. 

The nights when Tommy kills people, he holds you tighter. You wish you had the guts to ask why–

Why does he kill them? Why didn’t he kill you? How can he hack someone else into pieces and come upstairs in the evening and act the same around you–caress your cheek and hold you at night and let you, slowly, tentatively, touch his face above the mask.

And how do you bear it? Why don’t you act differently towards him, knowing he’s just killed and butchered and Charlie doesn’t care and Mama cares, maybe, but won’t say much about it. Why do you still want to hold him, despite the blood underneath his fingernails?

But you push all of that down into your stomach with the person you used to be. 

Because “hows” and “whys” are luxuries that you can’t afford anymore. It’s best not to think on them for longer than a moment in the night. 

–

Mama could use some fresh flowers for the vase on the dining room table, and she left some sheets on the clothesline in the back that will be too heavy for her. It’d really help her out if you brought them in without asking. Heaven knows the men in this house won’t do it.

It’s taken time–there’s a new calendar tacked up on the wall–but you’re finally allowed to go outside. Not into town or even to the neighbors or even to the end of the street, heavens no. But in the backyard and to the barn. The backyard is mostly you helping Mama with the clothes, and the barn is mostly you going to visit Tommy, but still–you take what freedom you’re given.

Today, you’re taking your sweet time getting to the backyard. Taking the long way, a way that probably skirts the edge of where you’re allowed to be–but unless someone tells you otherwise, you’ll stick to sneaking out the side door of the garage and walking around the front of the house. There’s sometimes little patches of pink wildflowers near the front, and they look the nicest on the table.

Only this time when you step out the side door and walk down the three rickety stairs into the garage, you are not alone.

A young man is hanging from the ceiling, his arms bound in rope–you’ve known that same rope, the tightness of it, the burn–that keeps him on his tip-toes. Based on the groans coming from his mouth, he’s been hanging up there a while. His muscles are probably screaming at him.

Your eyes lock together and his go from squeezed and pained to wide and–afraid?

“Don’t hurt me,” he says. “P-Please. I just want to go home. Please!”

“Don’t… hurt you?” The first words you’ve spoken to someone outside the family in more than a  year. You blink at this stranger, tied up, and now that you step closer you can see he’s got bruising. And he’s bleeding. A gash on his cheek, some sort of wound on his stomach that’s clotting blood on his polo shirt.

“Um,” you say, feeling small, voice small to match. “I won’t hurt you. I don’t–I haven’t hurt…anyone.” It sounds stupid. But he seems to believe you, because his eyes go from widened in fear to something else.

Something you recognize that you once must have had, before. Hope.

“You’re not one of them? Then untie me–quick, before they see!”

Untie him?

The thought has never crossed your mind before and honestly, honest to God, it didn’t cross your mind even when you stepped down those stairs and saw him. Because it would only cause trouble, and no one in that house would be happy about it if you did. You were a good girl, a good daughter, who did her chores and ignored the screams and listened to what you were told.

So. So you fiddle with the sleeve of your dress, all nicely hemmed in now that you were allowed to use the sewing machine, and refuse to look at his man’s face anymore. 

“I”m not even supposed to be in the garage,” you murmur, though it’s probably a half-truth. “So I can’t…” Can’t untie you. Can’t help you. Can’t spare you from a butchering. 

Your name is suddenly called from inside the house–by Charlie. Loud. Then louder.

“Sorry,” you finish, and you put a spring in your step when your name is yelled out a third time. You barely hear what he says, though you can tell it ends in “fuck you.” Not that you blame him for the expression.

When you reach the kitchen, only Tommy and Charlie are waiting for you. They're both staring with something different in your eyes that makes your stomach feel all tight and gummy.

 "You didn't let the fucker go, didja?” Charlie asks.

You shake your head at once. “No, sir.”  It's not often you call him sir, and he doesn't really bother you about it anymore outside of teasing, but the situation feels serious enough to warrant it. You lower your gaze and try to look as respectful and meek and small as possible. It's not even really pretending anymore.

He tsks, spits something into a cup. “Well, good. Gonna have Tommy here take care of him. Ain’t ya, Tommy?”

Tommy breaths out something hard, and you do look up at him this time. You bite back whatever it was that some part of you, some long forgotten smashed down girl, wanted to say: Why do you have to kill him at all?

But that part of you doesn't surface. She's not strong enough. You're the strong one, the one who survived. The one who's adapted and come to make a life here. And if that life comes with the caveat that sometimes the man you snuggle with at night cuts people in half, well. That's life, isn’t it?

“Bet that guy thought you were a looker,” Charlie muses, cutting through your thoughts. “Did he flirt with you?”

Your brain itches to leave but you know better. So you shake your head. “No, sir.” The truth is as sweet as honey. Or so you hope. “He just asked me to untie him. So I said I couldn’t, and came back in.”

Charlie hums, and it’s not as sweet as honey. “Bet he thought about it, even if he didn’t say nothin. Don’t you think so, Tommy? He probably wants to make a move on your girl.” There’s a sadistic chuckle in his voice, all sticky tar; something you’ll never understand.

It’s Tommy that worries you more, now, though. His breath gets harder, and he suddenly moves too quickly. Stomping right past you and outside and down those three steps so hard that you think they might break.

Even from a distance,  the sound of something metallic and sharp being grabbed from the garage wall catches your ear. You know what’s coming. Charlie does too–he laughs. But not you. It’s not funny, will never be funny, to hear people dying. 

At the first scream, the first sound of metal hitting flesh, you dart further into the house, upstairs and away from it all. You find yourself in the bathroom where Mama is busy putting the clean towels away and you offer to help, to keep yourself distracted.

“Ain’t you a sweetheart,” she says, and gives you a kiss on the cheek.

Downstairs, a man is taking forever to die. 

-

Tommy comes to you that night, smelling of blood and something you can’t place. Something sharper and heavier than usual. He crawls into bed but this time he does not slot himself against your back and hold you close.

No.

Instead, he grips your shoulders, and abruptly rolls you from your side to your back.

Oh. Oh, now, you think–is it now that this happens? After he's killed someone and some sort of jealous fit? Is that what it took to push this (whatever ‘this’ could be called) from cuddles and touching to something more? It’s a detached curiosity that you force youself into; to keep yourself from agonizing over it. 

He smells of sweat and hard labor. Of butchering. Of the dead man.

You smell of cheap shampoo and musty nightgowns and Mama’s cigarette smoke from rocking together on the back porch before bed. 

Tommy leans down and presses his face against yours, through the mask. Gentle and not gentle all at once. A bit of flesh and mostly fabric meet your chapped liips.

A kiss. A kiss that makes your guts feel all hot and strange, like they want more and also want to unzip your stomach and roll on the floor to get away from it all.

But you won’t let them feel that way for long. You can’t feel that way for long, if you want to live–if you want to stay intact. 

So you lean forward and move your lips against the mask, pushing out something that might be a pleasant sound, vibrating against the fabric. It forces pleasantness inside you. If you think it, it becomes real. Doesn’t it? 

“Tommy,” you murmur, in the night, in the dark, as he begins pulling at your nightgown with his butchering hands.

Tommy, who saved you all that time ago. Who decided you were worth keeping alive and worth protecting and worth–worth whatever this has become. 

Tommy, who heaves you up on the work bench in the barn as you laugh and ask him to show you how some of the tools work, when they’re being used on pigs and not people. Tommy, who brushes your cheeks when you can’t take it anymore and go to bed crying. 

Tommy, who is kissing you and whose hardness is pressing against your thighs. Tommy, who is making you feel good, making some spark light in you.

It’s normal to feel this way. For warmth to spread from your mouth to your gut, burning out the words of that someone-you-once-were. For you to move your hands against him, wondering what you might find underneath his clothes in the end. Wondering if he’ll take off the mask or keep it on and you’ll never kiss more than cloth.

pros:

constantly wants to color coordinate your outfits together

let’s you pick meals at minimum once a week

very good kisser (he practiced with his pillow a lot before your first date)

he wants you to walk him like a dog

sanji never lets you forget how much you mean to him

always remembers important dates, birthdays, anniversaries, etc. 

remembers the little things and notices your absence (will often go to try and find you)

adapts to whatever love language you respond to 

cons:

the nicotine smell embeds into your sheets and clothes and is a pain in the ass to get out

yells for any minor inconvenience

occasionally too handsy

always finishes before you

major jealousy issues

is constantly horny

says he’s fine but he’s dying inside

doesn’t understand the concept of alone time and takes it personally if you ask to be by yourself

roronoa zoro

pros: 

the best napping partner

protective

is a softie but only with you

very emotionally intelligent 

gym trainer boyfriend

let’s you take the relationship at your own pace because he can’t be bothered 

loves to mark you and give you hickies

always makes sure you finish first 

cons: 

stinky (bro smells like sweat and steel)

does not have a single romantic bone in his body; you’ll literally have to teach him how to be a boyfriend

is extremely blunt 

snores super loud 

might fall asleep while you’re talking

you can no longer be friends with sanji 

doesn’t ask you to date him, just assumes you are together

gets upset when you can’t keep up with his drinking

monkey d luffy

pros: 

the best hugger 

extremely loyal to you

hides midnight snacks for both of you

lets you sit on the ship’s figurehead with him

king of silly sentimental gifts (hand-picked flower, cool rock, pretty seashell, that sort of thing)

always makes sure you’re included in conversations

shares his favorite foods with you

can always make you feel better

cons:

doesn’t know how to be quiet or whisper

never lets you win arguments

throws himself at you with no regard to his strength

no concept of personal space

rubs his boogers on you

accidentally makes fun of the noises you make during sex

will steal blankets from you while you’re asleep  

points out your pimples or zits 

usopp

pros: 

always finds a way to make you laugh

grows flowers for you

comforts you if you’re insecure

handmade gifts!!!!!!

brags about you to everyone

loves to show you off and tell stories about your adventures together

names special attacks after you

always lets you in on the pranks he pulls 

cons: 

is insecure

would sacrifice you to an enemy to protect himself

shows you bugs even if you’re afraid of them

incredibly awkward with all your firsts 

clammy hands

make jokes during arguments (it makes you madder and the cycle continues)

never tops

sometimes pranks you too 

cyborg franky

pros:

is always telling you how hot you are

can literally build/make you anything you desire

romantic (can be corny sometimes though)

so flirty with you

human refrigerator; occasionally lets you store things in there

introduces you like this: “and this is my super smokin’ hot girlfriend, OW” to anyone who will listen

protects you during fights

king of reassurance

cons:

messy

never wears pants

slaps your ass too hard since he’s half metal

dad jokes 24/7

you can’t compliment him without him doing a montage of poses

difficult to cuddle with (again he’s made of parts)

always busy fixing something on the ship

is constantly asking you if he can make you a cyborg too

nami

pros:

lets you take a few of her tangerines

immune to her reprimanding when something bad happens (most times)

extremely thoughtful gift giver

shares her money with you

cares deeply about you (don’t point it out though because then she’ll stop)

is always telling you how pretty you are

very good in bed

is more lenient with your allowance

cons:

pawns gifts you get her

bad communicator

critiques everything about you

can and will distance herself from you

charges you if you piss her off

talks about vivi way too much for having a whole other girlfriend

doesn’t apologize after fights even if she caused them

bullies you (with love)

nico robin

pros:

leaves you notes in books to find later

the voice of reason in your relationship

notices and compliments you on every little change you make (haircuts, style change, etc.)

extremely good listener

literally a human search engine; so smart you can ask her almost any question and she knows the answer

passionate lover; treats you like a god in bed

soft lips

spoils you in every way that she can

cons:

can make you feel dumb with her endless knowledge

will never say ‘i love you’ first

always tops (a possible pro depending on your preferences tbh)

has nightmares almost every night ):

closed off in the beginning of your relationship

franky hits on her (and you) all the time

rather be reading than with you

takes your relationship extremely slow

portgas d ace

pros:

can heat food up for you at any time day or night

loves pda

plans fun dates

probably says ‘i love you’ a million times a day

into body worship (both ways)

kills bugs for you

walk him like a dog, sis !

never says no to you

cons:

sweaty and greasy in the summer

farts and gives you a dutch oven

doesn’t take anything seriously

adhd moments

mommy AND daddy issues

likes to lay on top of you even though he’s huge and basically crushes you

talks with his mouth full

is loud in bed (because he enjoys it so much) and everyone can hear when you two have sex

sabo

pros:

another body worshipper

dragon claw fist. need i say more?

the best secret keeper

praises you

would actually bow down to you

very respectful, asked you to kiss on your first date

awkward but sensual lover

a loyal puppy

cons:

loves being right

sore winner & loser

cocky ass mf

talks about luffy and ace 24/7

never on time

bad temper

might catch on fire if he’s mad

loves to tease you (again, could be a pro depending on your preferences)

shanks

pros:

buys you anything you could ever want

good kisser

always showing you off

treats you like a queen

calls you his wife

very affectionate in public

another worshipper; does that thing where his kisses lead up from your hand to your shoulder

when he gets drunk and you try to kiss him, he pushes you away and says “get off me, i have a wife”

cons:

gets you riled up during the day

teases you all the time

can be unreliable

bad at flirting

drunk all the time

still makes jokes about his arm even though it’s been YEARS

lingering alcohol smell

pervert

trafalgar law

pros:

rarely cooks but always does for you when you’re sick

smells amazing all of the time

lets you do this eyeliner in the morning (based off this fanart)

is a victim of the ‘she fell first, he fell harder’ trope

gives you sound solutions to your problems

literally becomes addicted to you and can’t live without you

flusters easily, very shy

would shave his facial hair if you asked him to (please tell him to shave off that godforsaken beard)

cons:

very blunt

never talks about his feelings

grammar police

a virgin; he doesn’t know what to do but fakes confidence like he does (it makes your first time a bit awkward but just talk him through it, babe)

humbles you without meaning to

over explains if you broach a subject he likes

sassy

just stares at you when you try to flirt with him

eustass kid

pros:

scary boyfriend privilege

an absolute beast in bed

insanely good kisser

raspy morning voice

you get to use his boobies as a pillow

is very smart but kinda dumb

eats pussy like a starved man

will always save you some food (it’s how he shows he cares)

cons:

dramatic

hangs out with killer more than you

will put the milk carton back in the fridge even if it’s empty

you can never be mad at him or make him mad because he’s the biggest asshole ever

ignores you if you’re fighting

zones out while you’re talking

if you send him a long, thoughtful text, he’ll respond back with ‘k’

what’s his is his and what’s yours is his

donquixote rosinante

pros:

walk. him. like. a. dog.

possessive over you, especially around his brother

would protect you with his last dying breath

absolute romantic

probably writes you poems

gentle giant, is so careful and soft with you

amazing cook despite accidentally setting himself on fire

has the patience of a god, once again, because of his brother

cons:

clumsy

you have to keep a fire extinguisher with you at all times

you can’t get the smoke smell out of his clothes

he’s so tall you can’t kiss normally, he has to pick you up

whiny

silent treatment

covers up his farts with his devil fruit and you don’t realize it until it stinks

has really bad resting bitch face (literally goes from :| to :) in .03 seconds)

yuuji thinks about you so much sometimes he remembers what socks you have and don't have — and every time he sees one that you don't have for sale, he wastes no time in buying them for you.

"baby, look!"

you look at him dangling two matching pom pom purin socks, "you got that for me? oh my gosh, i've been wanting to buy them for some time now! how did you get them?"

"i saw these while i was walking back and immediately thought of you, so i bought it for you!"

yuuji just loves watching you wear cute socks, especially the one he buys for you. he won't stop in buying them for you in the future.

fun fact: he got you a box of sanrio matching socks so the two of you could match.

GOJO SATORU. absolutely. loves. your. collection. he treats them like his own, would gush over how cute they are on you and would try to look for more. gojo is totally that person who sees you wearing them and immediately tries to find the same motive with his size so he could match you.

he wants to match with his partner.

he is so that "matching outfits" type of boyfriend, loves it when you ask him to accompany you to buy more socks. i feel like he would literally drop whatever he's doing even if it's important (unless it's a mission) and just teleports over to you.

"okay, let's go shopping."

"aren't you in a meeting?"

"no, they cancelled." obvious lie, he just didn't want to be left out — he has to be in on it when you get your socks. and if you come home from somewhere with a pair, he'd literally break down.

"you.. how could you do this to me y/n? i trusted you!"

"satoru, i just bought socks! what do you mean?"

"exactly. fake people everywhere i go." big baby. gojo just wants to be there when you buy your socks. period. no more debates.

TODO AOI. have you seen his necklace? it's a picture of his idol and yuuji. but ever since he settled down for you — he changed his idol's picture to a picture of you smiling brightly. he's so in love with you it's cute.

and todo, the first time he finds out you have a cute socks collection was when you invited him over for the very first time into your apartment. and you were wearing these really cute dinosaur printed ones that managed to attract his attention.

and when he asks you about it, you told him you had more.

so now socks are just a daily gift for you, todo would go on missions and come back with at least two pairs. he's out there obliterating curses and comes back with the cutest gift for you (apparently according to his friends, he strolls around after the mission trying to find a shop or two and if he doesn't find it, he buys you something else). what a cutie.

"look, i saw these when i was fighting a curse. so i came back to the shop when my mission was done."

"...you scare me sometimes," you tell him with a nervous smile as he looks at you, arching a brow in confusion, "you're hurt and you still managed to look at cute socks in a fight?"

"anything for you, darling!"

Not like staring at your face is enough to stop his cock from twitching in his work trousers. In fact, he probably gets even harder looking at you, especially when he can tell you’ve probably just finished your very sacred and meticulous nighttime skincare routine, your face glowing. Seeing you all clean and fresh, savoring the domesticity of you washing your face in the same bathroom he brushes his teeth in, salivating over the way you look standing in his kitchen (it could be yours, too, if you would let him give you everything he wants to) wearing nothing but your pajamas — it all makes his hindbrain want to take over. He’s spent the last fourteen hours stuffed in a boardroom or his office, and your simple existence is enough to soothe his soul and send him spiraling, all at the same time.

Choso could really, really use a drink right about now.

“Sorry, I meant to call to tell you—”

“Don’t worry about it.” You smile at him goodnaturedly, like you’re not still in college with much better things to do on a Friday night than wait for him to come home. 

He should be thankful that you’re so sweet to him, but just the idea that you did have plans tonight makes a hot coil of jealousy tighten in his stomach. 

Choso knows that he shouldn’t be feeling this way; he shouldn’t even notice you as much as he does. It starts out with the little things, first, like making sure his assistant gets your favorite snacks restocked during his usual weekly grocery delivery. He asks you about your schoolwork, and then finds himself filing away people he knows in your major’s industry. It’s good to have connections, he tells you, giving you the number to a good business acquaintance of his who’s looking for an intern in the near future. And of course, he’s hyper aware of the fact that you are a very beautiful girl. Unfairly so, with the curve of your lips and the slope of your nose; every time he sees you, he plays a game with himself. Tries to notice something new about you, a beauty mark, a new haircut. If he had the time, he’d probably try to get an exact count of your eyelashes. 

And now, he’s noticing too much of you. The way the fabric of your tiny matching set seems to accentuate every aspect of your body. How he can smell the sweet scent of your body wash and lotion. The way you’re staring at him, so innocently, completely unaware of the lewd thoughts that run rampant in his mind every time you have him cornered like this. 

Some nights, it’s almost too much to bear. 

It’s been a tough day, though. Week. Month. Endless meetings, negotiations that never result in any firm solutions, just more addendums to contracts. He hasn’t seen much of anything besides his office and the boardroom; what’s the point of having an office with a skyline view if he’s too busy staring at spreadsheets and emails to even enjoy it? 

Tonight, Choso realizes, is the night where he snaps. 

He says your name in such a low register, you almost don’t pick up on it. You’re in the middle of telling him a cute story about what Yuuji did during recess with his pre-k class, but you pause.

Maybe it’s all in your head, but it feels like something in the air has shifted. The way your tummy’s butterflies seem to be in overdrive is only proof of this. 

You’re used to the perpetual tension between you and Choso. Filthy rich, successful, always in a nice, tailored suit — looking purely on the outside, who wouldn’t want to get fucked by him? The more time you spend with him, the more time you fill the role of mother over just babysitter for little Yuuji, which gives way to deeper observation of Choso. He works incredibly long hours, but still has time to stay updated on all of Yuuji’s comings and goings, accomplishments and awards. He doesn’t have to; it’s not like he’s obligated. After all, Yuuji is his half-brother, a byproduct of his father’s mistress. He didn’t have to take him in, love him with his entire being, but he does, and this makes you fall for him only more. 

Then, there’s the fact of how he makes you feel. Every time his hands will brush gently against yours, innocently and so quickly, you swear you’re being electrified. The way he says your name, the way he tells you anything, in that low voice of his is enough to get you squeezing your thighs together. But most of all, it’s the way he looks at you. At first, you thought it was because of your crush, but the longer you work for him, the more you realize that Choso will occasionally stare at you when he thinks you won’t notice. 

But how could you not? How could you not detect the feel of his dark eyes scanning your figure, taking in your features? How could you not detect the way his eyes will darken over in lust when he watches you lick sweet cream off your fingers from an explosive can of whipped cream? How could you not catch the barest trace of a smile as he watches you interact with Yuuji at a park, willing to get your hands dirty to appease the toddler while Choso watches over the two of you from his seat on the bench? 

How could you not fall deeper and deeper into his spell when the threads of lust continue to spool, tightening over your body, practically choking you with desire. 

You don’t even realize how big Choso is until he’s standing so close to you, towering over you. So much bigger than you to the point where if you look straight ahead, all you can see is the rise and fall of his chest through his white button down (the one you ironed for him this morning). 

His hands curl into fists, like he’s restraining himself. “Tell me now,” he breathes out, words coming out tight, like speaking to you civilly is proving to be a strenuous task for him. “Tell me that I shouldn’t fuck you tonight. That I can’t.”

Is he joking, or are you dreaming? You’re hyper aware of your breathing now, of the way you reflexively lick your lips, of the way your nipples are pressed taut against the thin, cotton fabric of your cami. You’re also way too aware of him, with the lustful expression in his eyes that give way to something more, as if this request of his means something more. Most men his age and in his powerful position have a wife or a girlfriend by now. As long as you’ve known him, Choso hasn’t been with anybody. 

The stress, the agitation, that annoying, persistent feeling of constantly being pent up — all of it has been building up inside of him. Whoever is going to be on the receiving end of it will be lucky if they’re able to walk the morning after.

“But you can.” You say softly, almost scared that this is some elaborate trick, a means to see if his brother’s babysitter is to be trusted. “You can do whatever you want to me.”

There’s something animalistic in the way he takes you. When he kisses you, it’s hungry. Open-mouthed. Sloppy. It would be invasive if you weren’t so eager to let him, to allow his tongue to hit the roof of your mouth, to swap saliva in the messiest manner possible.

But there’s something gentle there, too. The way his hands cup your face, or travel to rest on your waist. He’s sweet, taking his time to help you slip out of your pajamas, and sweeter still — he lets out an appreciative hum as he takes in the sight of you bare, naked in the kitchen. Fuck a drink, Choso thinks as he takes in your nude body. You’re the only stress relief he needs. 

He whispers the nastiest things to you as he gets you to sit on the kitchen island. He asks you to please spread your legs so he can see that pretty pussy of yours, and when you comply, he takes in a sharp breath before running a single, cold finger against your wet folds. He makes a crude, appreciative comment, asking you are you really this wet, baby? All of this because of me? For me? 

You can’t answer him, of course. Talking is hard when he’s using two fingers to fuck you open, get you ready to take his cock. He’s knuckles deep, and when he curls his fingers right there, the only thing you’re capable of saying is a squeal of his name. Your juices are pooling into a puddle on the counter, the same counter where you served him breakfast so many hours ago. 

He loves watching you. Choso could watch you every second for the rest of his life and still never get his fill of you. He only catches you during particularly chaste moments, moments where you’re humming in the kitchen or playing with Yuuji. He loves those scenes; it feeds the archaic, masculine ego inside of him that tells him he needs to make life easier for you. That you shouldn’t have to worry about school or work, about money or other frivolous things he has an abundance of. He wants to take care of you. 

Seeing the way you lose control of yourself from the work of his own hand has him getting unbearably hard in his work slacks. He loves watching you, and he knows he’s going to love watching you get all depraved and drunk on his cock. 

When Choso first tries to ease just the tip in, you have to curl your fingers over the edge of the counter, trying to steel yourself. With how wet and willing you are, it should be an easy enough task, but it’s made difficult by the fact that he’s just too thick. 

Tip red and angry, leaking with pre, wide — just the sight of Choso’s cock is enough to get you even wetter, more pliant for him, but even the first stretch still has you hissing. 

“S’okay, baby.” He groans, one hand on your waist, trying to steady you, keep you still so he can keep on pushing himself deeper. “You’re doing so good for me.” 

You certainly don’t feel like you’re doing much of anything. It’s hard, when you can’t stop your walls from clamping down on his cock, making it harder for him to move or even think. When he fully enters you, your mind is already too dizzy with pleasure to think straight. You think he says something, but you’re not sure what, and you try to focus on his words, you really do, but then he starts thrusting, and you think it’s powerful enough to tilt the axis of the earth. 

Oh, so this is what sex is supposed to feel like. He redefines everything you thought you knew about it. The feeling of his cock sliding in and out of you, the way the slickness and heat of your pussy seems to keep motivating him to go harder, the way if you look down, you can spot a tiny bulge every time he hits as deep as he can go — all of this combined marks the height of pleasure for you.

“You’re so perfect.” He grunts out, relishing in the way you tighten up at his words. Your eyes are a bit glazed, almost like you’re struggling to focus on what’s in front of you. He doesn’t mind one bit. In fact, there’s pride settling inside his gut as he realizes that he’s the one fucking all the sense out of you. “Let’s do this every night, baby. Do you like the sound of that? Of being my stress relief?” 

He knows that you’re too far gone, too deep in the haze of pleasure, to process his words, to answer him. 

“I wanna fuck you forever, baby. Make you my pretty, little wife and have you waitin’ at home for me. How does that sound?”

He assumes when your pussy tightens up that that’s a yes. 

His hand finds your own, and he interlinks your fingers together. He might be fucking you all messy on the kitchen counter, but he still holds an overwhelming amount of affection for you. Of course he would want to hold your hand. 

He traces your ring finger, feels the familiar sensation of his release building up. So close, he thinks to himself. He’s so close to getting everything he wants.

“I’m gonna cum, sweetheart. I’m gonna cum right. In. Your. Fucking. Pussy.” Each word is emphasized with a particularly hard thrust, and this — him saying that — is what your sex-addled mind registers. You’re vaguely aware that this could be a bad idea, but you’re too addicted to chasing after your high that you don’t put a stop to it. “Gonna give you a baby.”

“Please.” You moan out, the word coming out ragged and strained. Speaking is difficult, so so difficult. He’s happy to hear your beautiful voice, nonetheless.

“Atta girl. I knew you would understand.” 

As if confirming to him that the two of you are meant to be, you both cum at the same time. You feel weightless and drowsy, too out of it to even process how sloppy and wet the mess in between your legs is right now. If Choso pulls out, his cum and your juices would make the counter even more slippery. 

But Choso doesn’t pull out. His cock stays nestled in your wet heat, and he admires your fucked out form. You look a bit different from the fresh and clean girl who greeted him when he came home, but that’s okay. He loves you for you, every iteration you have to offer. He’ll carry you to the bedroom, where he can fuck you nicely, sweetly. Maybe he’ll try his hardest to not go too hard when he has you in a mating press. And after getting his fill of you, after the stresses of work disappear from his mind completely, then he’ll take you to the bathroom and get you all nice and clean. 

The man is nauseous at the mere thought that they faced him as if they weren’t hiding something that could turn Satoru’s life upside down. He hears his mother’s heels as she walks towards him but he can’t bring himself to look up at her. He’s never had a close bond with his mother, and at times he’s hated her presence; but nothing compares to now. Satoru has never hated being her son until now. 

“Satoru.” She doesn’t try to soften her voice when she talks to him. She probably should. She feels the hatred that radiates off her son, and she knows that maybe she should console him. She’s mostly at fault for how things played out. “How did you end up here?”

“That’s what you say.” His voice breaks and he takes a deep breath to compose himself. He won’t start crying in front of his mother, she doesn’t have to know how heartbroken he is. She should have an idea though because it’s no easy feat. “You knew about my son, you hid him from me on purpose, you let me find out on my own and your response is that.”

She stays quiet. Satoru will continue speaking and she won’t interrupt until he lets it all out. “I always knew you weren’t a star mother, but this? You’re the worst mother I’ve come across. You hid my son from me, and for what? Because you didn’t want your ideal plans to go to the trash?”

“You’re almost twenty-seven and you act like a child. You wouldn’t have been able to step up to the role. I did what was best for you, and for Ren and his mother.” She argues and he feels his blood boil. He’s never been so mad in his life.

“I wouldn’t have been like you. I wouldn’t have thrown my son to the help and let them raise him. I’m nothing like you, I would’ve been able to step up to the role. Ren would’ve actually felt me being present, and I would’ve loved him as much as I possibly could.” Satoru’s nails dig into the fabric of his pants. “No one is ready to be a parent. You learn along the way. I would’ve and am going to try my best, the same way you should’ve.”

“If it weren’t for me, you wouldn’t have your precious job title, Satoru. Watch how you talk to me.” She warns him, ignoring the guilt that runs through her veins. She focuses more on the fact that her son gives her attitude. 

“This is what you wanted! You didn’t tell me because you knew I’d give up everything for him. I knew you were fucked up but to this extent? You’re a wretched woman, I’m ashamed to call you my mother.” Satoru raises his voice, and silence follows. She doesn’t know how to answer. Satoru clears his throat, “For how long have you known? For how long have you known I have a son?”

“Almost a year.” She confesses, and maybe Satoru would’ve easily let it slide if it was something more recent. Well, she hired you for a reason, she’s known for as long as you’ve been working with her. Satoru takes a deep breath, trying his best to hold back the tears that fill up his eyes. 

“Shoko knows. She told me. Who else knows?” He asks, speaking slowly to contain his feelings. She shrugs, she doesn’t know who else knows. 

“I have no idea. I didn’t know Shoko knew.” She responds, walking over to stand next to Satoru. He glares at her, standing up. He can’t stand to breathe the same air as her for another moment. She watches him walk away and she asks, “What are you doing? Now is not the time to throw a tantrum.”

“A tantrum?! You hid my son from me and you’re calling this a tantrum?!” He yells. “You’ve known about my son for a year, you asked for him to be kept from me, and you’re calling this a tantrum? You’re fucking unbelievable. This is all your fault. You’ve been set on making me miserable ever since I was born.”

“Calm down, Satoru.” She says, and Satoru has to take another deep breath. He doesn’t even know how to respond to her. How dare she even suggest that? She must be out of her damn mind– No, she’s evil. He’s convinced she’s fucking evil.

“I’ll never forgive you for this. This is so fucked up, even for you.” Satoru steps out of the room. He needs a breath of fresh air, and he needs to take it all in. Gather his thoughts. 

He’s a father. He’s been one for the past four years. How does he handle it all? His mother betrayed him in the worst possible way. You betrayed him the worst possible way. But Satoru can somewhat understand why you stayed quiet. Not her though. Both reasons are selfish, but her selfishness is pure evil. 

“Satoru.” He hears your mother, and he stops walking. The tears that he’s been holding back finally slip out, and he wipes them away as your mother walks to him. Her hand goes to his arm and she squeezes it as a form of reassurance. “Let’s go grab a coffee, there’s a coffee shop nearby that’s open.”

“Yeah.” He tries to talk normally, and she gently smiles at him. They walk outside and Satoru follows your mother’s lead to the coffee shop. They walk in silence, and when they get there, Satoru pays for coffee for the both of them.

Once the coffee is in their hands, they sit in silence at a table. They came here to talk, yet Satoru is not going to spark up the conversation– At least Satoru assumes that they came here to talk. Your mother clears her throat, “I hope you can forgive my daughter for this… At the very least see her point of view.”

“I’ll try at the very least… I just thought she would try to tell me. I’m disappointed… and feel betrayed.” Satoru confides. He’s always felt like he could talk to your mother, she’s always been someone he can trust. He never went to his own mother for help, instead he went to yours. “I would’ve done anything for Ren, she knows I’ve always wanted to have a kid.”

“I remember the day my little girl called crying, telling me she was pregnant. Her boyfriend just broke up with her and she didn’t know how to tell him. You were out of town, your mother fired me– I told my daughter I quit, but it wasn’t that. Your mother didn’t want me around, she started hating me the moment my daughter started to date you,” Your mother begins and Satoru listens attentively. 

“She tried to tell you, Satoru. You changed your number. You completely cut her off. She went to your house, and guess what your mother said to my pregnant daughter?”

“That I got married.” Satoru mutters, looking away since he’s too ashamed to look her in the eye. 

“And you know the damage that caused? She cried for weeks, but she managed to move on. She couldn’t dwell on you forever because she had a son to be responsible for. Maybe she should’ve told you when she saw you, but I understand she didn’t need you anymore.” 

“I didn’t get married because–” Satoru begins but your mother cuts him off. She doesn’t want to hear any justifications, she really doesn’t see any response that will make her feelings change.

“I don’t care why the hell you got married. I was rooting for you, Satoru. I was rooting for the two of you, but you showed me that you’re just like your selfish entitled family. You made me change my mind, you’re the last person I want near my daughter and my grandson.” Her words sting more than anyone’s because the woman that sits across from him practically raised him. “But I guess I have no other option. You are Ren’s father.”

“I’m sorry.” He murmurs, causing her brows to raise.

“I’m not the one you should be apologizing to.” She answers before standing up. Satoru watches as she walks away, biting his quivering bottom lip. He shuts his eyes, trying not to begin crying in front of everyone. 

He’s tired. He should probably go home and take a nap, but he promised his son he’d be there when he wakes up. So he won’t leave until Ren sees him. Satoru stands up and goes back to the hospital.

You don’t talk to each other when you’re with Ren. Ren is filled with love, from both of his parents and grandmothers. He’s never been with them all at the same time, and he’s excited to be with them all even when he isn’t feeling too well. His father seems to have a lot of questions though, but Ren likes the attention.

Ren gets to talk about his birthday (which surprises Satoru since they have the same birthday), his favorite color, his favorite show, his favorite toys, what he does when mommy is not home, what he does when mommy is home; Satoru tries to get to know all about Ren in a couple hours to make up for the past four years of his life. Satoru is overwhelmed with sadness, yet he’s never felt so happy before as he sits on an armchair, next to his baby boy. Ren holds his father’s hand, smiling when he’s never felt worse before. He’s just happy to meet the man that he’s been asking about.

Satoru spends the entire afternoon there, listening to Ren’s every request. He expected to spend the first day with his son in the hospital but not under these conditions. Regardless, Ren could be a newborn or a four-year-old, Satoru loves him either way. 

Ren yawns, and Satoru sheepishly smiles. He kisses the top of his son’s head. “How about you go to bed, buddy? You’re tired.”

“I don’t want you to go.” Ren says, and Satoru squeezes his hand. You swear you hear your heart break as you hear Ren’s words. You definitely fucked up.

“I’m not leaving, Ren. I’ll be by your side when you wake up, I promise.” Satoru assures him, and the man stays by his side until Ren finally falls asleep. Satoru doesn’t let go of Ren’s hand. You sit in silence for a moment as you try to decide what you’ll do next. Should you speak? Maybe you should… But what should you say? Maybe you should apologize, but you don’t have the guts to do it. 

“Who else knows?” Satoru whispers, not wanting to wake Ren up. He doubts that Ren will be waking up any time soon though, no matter how loud he is.

“Shoko and Suguru. And everyone that works at your house.” You answer. “I asked them not to tell, and I lied to Suguru so don’t be mad at them.”

“Did you… At least try to argue with my mother about telling me?” He hopes that you’ll say yes, so at the very least he can feel like you care about his feelings. He wants to hear that you tried a bit more. He’s filled with disappointment when you shake your head. He looks away from you, and back at Ren.

“hey it's me,” he says the moment you answer because who else would it be at this hour...does that thing with his voice that's so effortless. warm, and inviting. seductive really. ringing through right as the snow outside begins to frost over wilting leaves.

“sorry, don’t think i know who this is,” you reply, adding a playful lilt to the end of it. there’s a low chuckle in return, then the rustling of sheets, it’s enough to paint you a picture of him in bed. a very large bed from what you remembered, but the last time you’d stopped by his place, there'd been no need for accurate measurements, thread counts, and whether or not he’d gone with sustainable options. in fact, there was no need for talking at all, only muffled moans into the crook of your neck, a whining plea here or there. gojo likes to grit through his teeth, pausing before every first thrust, a savourer is he.

speaking of which, he asks, “how’d you like a reminder?”

you weigh things out, tucking your phone between ear and shoulder. "it's a tempting offer...but i'm starting to feel a little used here," you say. this is just a check-in point for him. just so he knows he still can have his fill of you and...whatever it is you bring to the table, he hasn't actually told you.

'it's the sex' your brain reminds you—all the multiple orgasms in under an hour–type sex, in an onsen, over a balcony, backshots and binding you to fancy rig, will accept a blowjob only if you want to, eager to please, so willing to learn—no, that's not true, the both of you are so much more than that. you talk about very important things like the news and whats good on tv right now. just as long as it doesn't have anything to do with his past or his future or what exactly is the state of this relationship...so it's definitely the sex.

"i thought that's what you wanted, weren't you screaming it at the top of your lungs that night?" for effect, he acts it out for you, "oh use me, do whatever you like," he doesn't try to pitch his voice higher, which makes it all the more embarrassing when hearing your own words said back to you with such impassiveness, such tease. who you were during the throes of passion is not the same person outside of it. to think he'd been a virgin when he met you.

"that selective memory of yours never ceases to amaze me," you can't help the smile that widens on your face.

he smiles too, despite not being able to see it, you know it's there. "well im a very selective man, i don't just ask anyone on a date." you roll your eyes at that. oh how you should feel so lucky. most times he chooses the place because gojo likes what he likes and your recommendations end up getting shot down or made fun of anyways.

you'd say the best part is that he shows up every time. something about how he detests people who flake on him. which is surprising because if anyone were to be tardy and forgetful, it'd be the man who's maybe a bit too blase about anything that doesn't hold his interest for long. that includes when and where his missions are, a flailing hand brushing off any bit of urgency or seriousness. picks and chooses the things he finds worthy of his efforts, his overly exaggerated bouts of emotion—"you wanna go sit by a lake and talk?" people often say he talks too much, besides didn't he just get off the phone with you hours ago.

"we're bonding, there's a difference," you defend, putting your foot down on the matter. if it'd been months earlier, you wouldn't have thought to stand your ground, and maybe a part of you would have been anxious over his reaction but gojo only gives you a pout. shiny, moistened lips giving it away, he's not coming out of this one without a fight and he's annoyed about it. reluctant.

so he'll make an exception, "fine, we'll psychoanalyze each other, how exciting—" the sarcasm is slathered and piled on thick. if he weren't masked you'd kick him in the shin for that eye roll he gives you, childlike almost, given the chance he might even stick his tongue out, "—but i get to choose the place, ah, ah, it's about compromise darling."

——————————————————

later on, when he's three parfaits deep into a sugar rush at a maid cafe, he admits, "you scare me sometimes," of course, he understands the importance of communication, and getting to know one another is part of the deal, this is what girlfriends and boyfriends do, but— "how are you still here?" there's something hidden in his question, sometimes it feels almost like he's testing you to see if you'd be offended, taken aback, huffing out indignantly and stomping away, making him watch you leave.

still, your answer remains the same. "i like you," you sigh out into the night, feeling his arms wrapped around your middle. gojo doesn't need worshipping or sacrifices made to please and appease, but he’s feeling ten feet tall in this body, too long and large, housing power he didn’t ask for. 

“you really mean that?” he whispers in the crook of your neck, you don’t miss the hint of self-deprecation there, or the uncertainty.

so you reach a hand up, just enough to hold his head full of self-doubt, “yes," is all that's needed for him to crumble. walls coming down.

"you're the only woman i've ever been with," he admits. waiting for the moment you face away from him so it's not as revealing, not as vulnerable, and he can say it with just that little bit of courage because he wouldn't see your reaction, he's escaped death many times, he'd be able to say it now, say it here. "and i intend to keep it that way..." you know he's waiting in anticipation for the final blow, the real death that comes for him is when he loses you because of how unlikely it sounds, gojo satoru, the strongest sorcerer alive, only bedded one woman.

his fingers come up to graze the slope of your shoulder, before he wraps an arm around your chest, pressing his weight into you from behind, wrapping you up, only it's ten times heavier when his admission presses down on your thumping little heart alongside with it.

——————————————————

in the middle of a restaurant in ginza, gojo breaks his chopsticks in half along a deep line with fine precision, before rubbing them back and forth to remove the thin, stray hairs of aspen. there are people who look up when the sound catches their attention, then avert their eyes away. but not before lingering over his striking looks for that split second, blue eyes and white hair, what a combo.

he barely notices at this point, but he does know you’re watching from where you sit. food untouched, like you’re waiting for something to happen. you don’t need his permission he thinks, or at least, no one had ever waited for it. so he explains before you get the chance to ask, getting it out of the way and maybe then you’ll start digging in and he wouldn’t have to sit in this weird, silent tension, “he always did it this way,” gojo shrugs. 

you don’t ask who 'he' refers to, “i wasn’t going to say anything,” you reply, nodding along, trying to ease some of the nerves there because this isn't to do with the chopsticks, but that gojo gets like this around christmas. actually, he gets like this almost all the time these days. 

“why aren’t you eating? the unagi’s really nice,” he points to the piece of eel that’s cooked to perfection, glazed and sticky. “is it not to your liking?” he looks up quickly, searching your face, looking for any sign of distaste. 

“it’s fine,” you stop him from waving down the waiter, knowing he intends to order something else for you. but he never asks, not about what you would prefer or if you had any aversions to seafood. instead, he plays a guessing game, only tries, and tries again. hoping that he’d get it right immediately. just another thing satoru does. that he's way more accommodating than most would give him credit for. so much so you forget that he's barely touched the unagi himself, choosing instead to nudge it closer to you.

and maybe he’d been to used to this, maybe he’d always gotten it right with the one before you, maybe that’s why it hurts so much. and you're too occupied with wiping tears behind a blindfold that night to make sense of it when he can’t stop dreaming about long silken hair tucked into a bun, of a scent that lingers on a street crossing and by a classroom window.

still, he tucks a finger underneath the band. revealing clumped-up strands of white, silver, grey...a storming ocean swirls. a woman finally found, what a sight to behold. who chooses him and cleaves his heart in two every time she so much as smiles, calls him by his name, and touches his skin with her own. gently at first and then in a pressured, firm grip. "i'm not going anywhere," hand wholly encompassing his, fingers entwined, or maybe it's the other way around. gojo's got a wide expanse of palm, life and heart lines spanning across a region of an untouched, unmarred surface, all the power to bend space, time, and an infinity simmering above it.

it was a few minutes to seven p.m. so you were standing in the kitchen, waiting for the water to boil so you could cook the udon noodles you were going to wrap on the tempura to make the dish look a little halloween-y. behind you was your husband in the form of gojo satoru, lanky but muscular arms wrapped around your waist.

his face was buried on your shoulder, hot breath fanning your neck as he hummed some tune he heard from a television commercial. you still remember how his soft, glossy lips started ghosting from the back of your ear to your shoulder as he started slowly swaying the both of you to his humming, and how in the middle of that, you suddenly got the urge to urinate so you turned around, tiptoed, and pecked him softly on the mouth before you told him to “watch the noodles, ‘toru. i’m going to the bathroom”.

you still remember how you took the two boxes of pregnancy tests that had been feeling too heavy out of your pockets, and how in the middle of doing your business, gojo knocked on the door and informed you through the wall that a curtain was cast at shibuya.

his voice at that time was still his usual high-pitched, cheery, enthusiastic, unbothered tone; like he was expecting other sorcerers to be able to handle the brewing mess.

you still remember the way he suddenly got silent when you asked if they needed him, and how after exactly 17 seconds later just when you were finishing up, you heard his voice again. that time it was low-pitched, serious, somber, dull; you could tell he received some sort of message that he was holding himself back from telling you.

“i’m being summoned, baby. i’ll see you later. i love you.”

you didn’t even have the time to respond before you felt his presence disappear. he teleported. you knew that meant he was in a hurry.

thinking back, you really should’ve told him to go inside so he saw what you were doing. this may be bold of you to think of, but maybe he wouldn’t have left if you did.

that night, you received the two biggest news of your life.

first, a few minutes after your husband left, you found out that all your suspicions about your missed period, frequent urination, fatigue, and mood swings were right. you were, indeed, pregnant.

at 7:04 p.m., you sent your husband the usual text with a tiny modification.

come back safe to us, toru. i have something to tell you.

you sent a photo.

-.-

second, a few hours after your husband left, you found out that, well, he had been sealed.

on the upside, it finally answered your questions as to why you never heard back from him, why he never read your text, and why he never sent you his usual response.

on the downside, he was now treated as a criminal in the jujutsu society, getting him out of that stupid box would be considered a crime, itadori's sentence was back, japan was in chaos, the world will soon be in chaos, you don't know when he was going to be back, you don't know how he was inside, you don't know if he's safe, you don't know when he would come home, if he would come home.

oh. and you also have his baby who you're going to have to take care of for the rest of your life. alone. possibly.

for the rest of the following days, you were disoriented. how was he feeling? when he found out that the man he had killed, his best friend, his one and only, was back? was he devastated? hurt? shocked? confused?

why didn't you go with him? why didn't you go out of that door for a few seconds to have one last moment with him? hug him? kiss him goodbye? tell him you love him? that he will be the only man you would ever love? that you're so happy he chose you? that you would wait forever until he comes back to you? that you would give anything just so he comes back to both of you?

there's no way you could've known.

those were shoko's words to you when she came to the apartment to check on your well-being two days after the incident. she was worried about not having heard anything from you.

"before he went to the elders, satoru came to school and made me promise to look after you if anything happens."

"so he knew something was going to happen."

"he's very intuitive, after all. so how have you been feeling?"

"oh, you know. the usual feelings when you've been given news that your husband might never come back; devastated, exhausted, grieving,

…pregnant."

a beat, shoko's droopy eyes widen.

"what the hell?"

the doctor's visit was the catalyst for you to decide what your next move would be.

frankly, you had second thoughts about whether you wanted to join the culling game or if you wanted to keep the child. because god knows you can't do both.

but for once, you decided to be selfish.

the fetus in your womb was the most important reminder you would have of your sealed husband that you could hold for years. you were dead set on protecting your baby, even if it meant escaping japan like some wanted criminal and going to another country until everything else settles.

for half a year, you went through the pregnancy all by yourself in some foreign nation where you knew no one. every hour of the day, you messaged your husband, hoping deep inside that one day, the all-familiar 'read' would appear in the conversation signaling the end of your nightmare.

you told him about your morning sickness, mood swings, all your cravings, sleepless nights, hormonal changes, and whenever you feel your child kick.

he seems strong, toru.

that's good, isn't it?

he probably got it from you.

humorously, you never explicitly told him that you were pregnant.

at the start of your third trimester, you decided to go back to japan when you deemed it would be fine to. shoko constantly updated you about everything. the aftermath, who died, who almost died, who survived, how many funerals you missed.

when you were about to board the plane, you sent a text to your husband.

we're about to go back to tokyo.

i can't believe it's been 7 months.

can you, satoru?

i really hope you come back soon.

it's so hard without you.

we miss you so much. i love you.

he loves you too, btw. he just kicked me.

time doesn’t pass inside the prison realm.

gojo had no idea how long he had been trapped, how long he had been sealed. how long his students had to fight without him, to save him.

how many days, months, or years you waited for him.

the moment he got out, everything was fuzzy; his brain couldn’t process anything.

gojo never slept inside the box, but he felt like the fushiguro toji incident all over again when he came face to face with death and was allowed one more chance to live. so he woke up from his coma, learned the reverse cursed technique, and warped to the sorcerer killer for payback.

except this time, what he learned was that the constant vibration in his pocket was your newly sent text messages informing him that you woke up from your nap because—

he kept kicking.

i couldn’t sleep properly.

:(

‘he kept kicking’? are you in danger?

the gears finally started turning inside his head as he began scrolling through the rest of the messages. gojo still couldn’t really make sense of what you talked about in all those thousands of texts, but the newly appeared white bubble did.

you finally read it…

come back to us, satoru.

let’s have the udon the three of us never got to eat.

i love you.

we'll be waiting for you. always.

this time, instead of warping to the man who made the six eyes feel so useless, so powerless, and such a weak person, he goes straight to you. the second person in his life who made gojo satoru feel… satoru. the only woman who he’ll ever love and will manifest his love through a child, an heir.

his footsteps have never felt so heavy in his whole life as he arrived outside your shared home. not even when he came face to face with suguru after a year, not even when “suguru” took half of his head off and showed him that disgusting talking brain.

i wanna go back to that box.

with a deep sigh, he twisted the handle and slammed the door open. he swiftly made his way to the kitchen where he knew you would be.

and then he sees you.

despite his six eyes, every single thing in his surroundings became blurry. everything in his world slowed down, there was ringing in his ears, his heart beats too loudly for his liking, and the bitter taste of bile slowly started making its way through his mouth.

his vision focused wholly on you. only you. his baby, his wife. his wife.

it was déjà vu. as it was the moment before he got sealed.

you were standing in front of the stove, watching the pot of noodles. only this time, you're facing him, you're looking at him, you're smiling and crying.

your stomach was also sticking out waaaaay more than he remembered, and suddenly satoru is bawling as he slowly makes his way to you.

"i'm sorry, baby. i'm so sorry."

you didn't know to whom he was apologizing. or why. it's not his fault. nothing is his fault.

he was kneeling in front of you, arms wrapped around your waist with an ear pressed against your belly. you rake your hand through his unruly alabaster hair. it's amazing. how even after seven months it's still as soft and as lustrous as ever.

you missed him so much.

"did you feel that, 'toru? he seems excited to finally hear his dada's voice."

your husband closed his eyes as more tears streamed out of his eyes. he kept pressing his lips onto different parts of your stomach, his quiet mutters of "i'm sorry" never-ending. your baby responds well to his voice, kicking back every other moment.

your maternity dress had long been drenched with tears and the boiling noodles had long been saggy when gojo finally stood back up, eyes swollen and face red from all the crying. you're sure you appear the same.

and he’s finally looking at you. for the first time since he came home, he takes your face in. your face was a lot chubbier, a lot rounder. and it’s so damn cute. you were sniffing, your cheeks, philtrum, and lips were wet from crying. your eyes were puffy yet behind those orbs, gojo sees a certain glint of warmth he’s seen countless times whenever he’s with you. and it was mixed with a particular yearning he was no stranger to.

then his lips are on yours.

it’s messy and salty and sticky and one of the best kisses you two have ever shared.

your mouths were moving in sync with the same amount of fervor and god. he’s never been this deprived of anything else before.

it’s slow and sensual yet the way he devours your lips is like that of a famished man who was devoid of any food or water for years before he finally saw an oasis, a cornerstone, a life saver.

you return the same amount of passion he’s giving you, slightly swollen hands coming up to rest on his neck.

satoru wishes for the moment to last forever if it wasn’t for his need of oxygen and your need to breathe. he definitely won’t have it if you suddenly collapsed because of him.

he broke the prolonged kiss, resting his forehead against yours as he tightened his hold on your hips and started slowly swaying you side to side.

with the feeling of your warm breath fanning against his mouth and a smile adorning both of your lips, he whispers.

“no matter how long, how far, how absurd, how futile…

i’ll always come back to you.”

ps. i just want to add that the photo reader sent wasn't a pic of the pregnancy test lmao i was thinking it was probably just some kind of selfie showing her face after going to the bathroom

thank you so much for reading!! 😚 interactions & reblogs are appreciated *kith kith*

“Someone better be in the hospital.” Satoru responds, and this wave of guilt hits Shoko. For too many of her actions, the biggest of all is her hiding his son from him. She shouldn’t care, it’s none of her business.

“Satoru…” Her heartbeat races, and she’s about to stop herself from talking. She shouldn’t, it’s not her place. But you’re not speaking up ever, and Satoru deserves to know about the existence of his son. “She’s going to see Ren at the hospital.”

“The cat? Why the fuck–” Satoru begins but he’s cut off. The next words that leave her mouth, leave him dumbfounded.

“Ren isn’t a cat. Ren is her son.” Shoko blurts out. Satoru feels his blood boil at the mere thought of you being with someone else. He’s confused though, why would you hide the fact that you have a kid? Shoko tries to read his emotions, but she can’t. It’s hard.

“Who’s the father?” Satoru asks, wondering if it’s someone he knows. It doesn’t click in his head quite that second. Shoko gives him a moment to think about it, but it doesn’t occur in his head. Shoko has to tell him,

“I don’t think you get it… Why would she not tell you that she has a son?” Shoko feels like she’s dumbing it down. Satoru isn’t an idiot, but a million thoughts run through his head. He shrugs. “Ren is her son. Your son. She’s leaving because you have a son together, and he’s in the hospital.”

“You’re lying. She would tell me. She wouldn’t keep that from me.” Satoru answers, and Shoko lets go of him. He goes chasing after you, but you’re gone. He’ll just stop by every hospital nearby, until he finds you. He’ll remember the name– Either Ren has your last name, or his. He’ll ask about either name.

“Satoru…” You stand up from your chair, and you watch as tears well up in his eyes as he takes in the scene. Shoko wasn’t lying– Ren doesn’t have his last name, but one swift look at the kid and he realizes that is his son. That’s his spitting image.

You stare at each other, frozen in time. Your heart feels as if it’s in your throat, and your mind chases a thousand miles per hour as you think of what you’ll say next. What can you say? You weren’t exactly preparing yourself for this moment, you thought this would never happen. How fucking stupid.

While Satoru feels betrayed. Utterly hurt. He’s always thought the best of you; you were damn near the perfect woman. Yet you’ve betrayed him in the worst possible way. You hid his own flesh and blood from him… For what?

But Satoru isn’t going to argue, not when a little boy that he just met is in pain, and the kid is calling him daddy. Satoru rushes to Ren’s side, pressing a kiss on his forehead. Satoru isn’t quite sure what to say, what do you say to your son? A kid that’s probably almost five, a kid you just met? 

“He has appendicitis, he has surgery in the morning.” You inform him. Should you tell him to go back to his event? And deprive Satoru and Ren from this sweet moment? You have no option but to sit back down and watch the scene unfold.

“I’ll be by your side, buddy. Everything’s gonna be okay.” Satoru’s finger pushes Ren’s hair out of his face. Satoru takes in the little details of his son’s face. Ren has your nose, but apart from that, he looks just like Satoru. Tears stream down Satoru’s face, and his voice breaks, in disbelief that this is happening, “I’m sorry I wasn’t here earlier, Ren. Your daddy is here now.”

You feel nauseous, tears streaming down your face as you watch them. Guilt for the last couple months that you’ve kept him hidden when Satoru was right in front of you. But you didn’t. You could’ve defied Mrs. Gojo’s orders, but you selfishly didn’t. You watch as Satoru kisses his son’s forehead again.

If he could, Satoru would hug Ren so tight that he’d nearly leave the boy breathless. But he can’t. He’ll do it next week though, when Ren is better. 

The sweet moment is interrupted by his ringing phone, and Satoru takes it out. His mother calls, and he’s about to pick up since he has this news; she’s a grandmother. For a moment he stares at the phone, and he realizes something. You’ve mentioned Ren the cat before and his mother knew. His mother fucking knew. That’s why you’re working with her, because his mother knows that she has a grandson.

He declines the call, instead he focuses on his son. Grabbing his tiny hand, and taking note of every crevice. He always swore that when he had a baby, he’d look at every finger and toe individually, and he’d count them over and over again. He can’t believe he missed that.

There’s a smile on Ren’s face as he looks at his father, finally meeting the man that he’s been waiting for. 

“Granny!” Ren shouts when his grandmother comes to sight. Your mother, who happily walks in with food but drops the bag when she sees him. Satoru looks back at your mother, and it’s like she’s just seen a ghost. Satoru walks over to her, and wraps his arms around your mother.

She isn’t sure what to do as Satoru hugs her. This isn’t the same little kid that would come running to her after an injury, the man that hugs her is the father of her grandson. A man that’s left many unattended wounds in her daughter. Satoru pulls away, and goes back to his son.

Your mother looks at you, watching as you silently cry. It seems as if more tears stream down your face when Satoru asks, “So how old are you, buddy? Sorry for not knowing.”

Ren puts up four fingers, excitedly replying, “Four!”

“Nice to see he isn’t in pain anymore.” Your mother comments. Your hand holds onto Ren’s, and you rest your head on the empty space of the mattress again, listening to your son and his father talk.

Ren is taken in the morning, and Satoru assures him that he’ll be there right after surgery. Neither of you slept a wink last night, and you hope that while you wait you can sleep for an hour or so. You doubt you will though since you have a lot to talk about. So much to talk about. 

When you’re left alone, you sit in silence for a minute. Both of you gather your thoughts. Until Satoru finally clears his throat, “So you faced me everyday like that? Like you weren’t hiding anything. You were planning on keeping quiet about my son.”

“I tried to tell you when I was pregnant.” You answer, and you take a deep breath. That’s not good enough. Not now, not when you’ve been seeing each other daily. “And then… Mrs. Gojo didn’t want me to tell you.”

“And why the hell did you listen to her?” Satoru slowly begins to see red. His own mother did this to him. He has no trouble believing you, it does seem like something his mother would do. “You had no problem looking me in the eye while hiding him.”

“She gave me an opportunity that would make my life easier, I would obviously listen to her.” You respond. “You started over with someone else, I feel like I’d ruin everything if I’d come out of nowhere with a child.”

“You don’t have to lie to me. You don’t care about that, do you? You’re just scared I’ll take Ren from you.” He says, and maybe Satoru remembers how you are. 

“I struggled with him for so long, the last thing I need is for you to take him from me. You have no right to take him from me. I don’t care if you can financially support him better than me, he’s my son.” You get defensive, and Satoru’s hand goes over your own to reassure you. He squeezes it, feeling tears well up in his eyes again. He hates that this is how you think of him. It’s not unwarranted.

“And I won’t take him from you, but at the very least I deserved to know. I deserved to know I have a son.” He’s clearly upset, and his emotions reflect in his voice with every word that leaves his lips. “Do you know how hurt I am? You hid my own flesh and blood from me, you know better than anyone how badly I wanted to be a father.”

“I wanted to tell you, Satoru. I tried to tell you. But then I realized you had other priorities, and I understood that I didn’t need you by our side. And I’m sorry that it happened like this, but you’re partially at fault for the outcome.” You answer, standing up from your seat. You need a breath of fresh air and a shower. You begin to walk towards the door, and it opens before your hand goes to the doorknob. You’d be terrified of her at any other time, but not now. You take a deep breath,

“Ren’s got a tummy ache and doesn’t want you to go.” Your mom leans on the doorframe of the bathroom, and you sigh before you stick out your bottom lip. Your baby boy has been as clingy as ever, and as much as you wish to spend the rest of your evening with him, you have to leave. You still have to work.

“Ren, come here, baby!” You yell, and your mother moves out of the way so the boy can pass to the bathroom. It’s taking longer than usual for him to pop up. You crouch down when he’s in front of you, and you kiss his cheek, leaving a stain of red lipstick on his skin. You would laugh at the sight, but worry consumes you when your lips touch his skin and you feel it warm. The back of your hand touches his forehead, and you look up at your mother, “He does have a slight fever. Nothing worrying though.”

“I’ll keep a close eye on my favorite grandson.” Your mother says, making you chuckle. Ren is her only grandson, of course he’s going to be her favorite. You doubt she’ll be getting more in the future. She grabs your son’s hand to take him out of the bathroom so you can finish getting ready without your clingy baby by your side. “You want some ice cream, honey? We can do whatever you want when your mom leaves.”

You’re almost going to tell your mom to not allow the child to do whatever he wants when you’re gone, but surprisingly enough, you hear him reject the offer. It makes your brows furrow, but you try to put yourself in his shoes. When you have a cold the only thing you want is to lay in bed, snuggled up in a blanket so you understand. You try to focus on doing your makeup since you have to get going soon, after all, you have to show up early to help set up the event. You’re not invited, you’re responsible for helping set up. In other words, this is part of your job.

Ren doesn’t want you to leave when he sees you walk toward the door, but you assure him that you’ll be back soon. Tomorrow you’d do whatever he wants to do but you have to leave for the night. He reluctantly agrees, and you leave him behind to begin your work night.

The moment you get to the hall, you dread all the work you have to do. At first you’re worried, thinking about Ren, but ensuring that everything turns out as desired is what takes over your mind. You’re the one that’s making sure everything turns out as perfect as possible, which should be Satoru’s duty, yet he’s nowhere to be found. But you’re sure he’s worried since it’s his first big event, so you give him the benefit of the doubt.

Ten minutes before guests are expected to arrive, your boss finally appears. Satoru looks as handsome as ever, wearing a black tuxedo, his hair slicked back. You try not to admire how good he looks, but you’re sure he notices. Thankfully, he doesn’t comment on it.

“Sayo took forever to get ready.” He puffs out a breath, and you peek your head to find the woman, but you don’t see her. “She’s in the car… Apparently her makeup still wasn’t ready.”

“Oh…” You respond, and you try to tell him that everything is set. Decorations are set. Drinks are ready, food as well. We’re just waiting on guests.” You inform him, and you can tell by the way that he looks you up and down, he isn’t listening to you. You feel yourself get more and more nervous with every passing second. “Mr. Gojo?”

“You look stunning.” He compliments you, and your face gets warm. You don’t respond though, you change the topic back to the event that’s about to happen, although Satoru doesn’t want to listen to it. The place looks perfect– Plus, he can’t do much now. He grabs two glasses from a tray that sits idle on a table, and he hands one to you. “To a great event.”

“Too early to cheer, is it not? No one has gotten here yet.” You respond. You almost feel bad for responding to him like that, so you assure him, “I think it’ll be fine though.”

He clinks his glass with yours, and you watch him bring the glass up to his lips and take a sip. You follow his lead, and you put it down immediately after. You feel your heart flutter as you look at him, and you force your eyes to avert.

“Will you need me the rest of the night, Mr. Gojo? My cat is sick and I want to leave early to take care of him.” You share, and his brows perk up. He ends up nodding his head, not wanting you to leave early for a stupid cat. “What exactly do you need? I thought you and your wife handled everything else.”

“Just need you around… You represent the company.” He says, and your brows furrow.

“I thought you did since you’re the president.” You tell him.

“And you’re my assistant, therefore, you also represent the company.” He argues. You look at the entrance of the hall, and you watch how Sayo walks in, wearing a stunning red dress. She always manages to make you look inferior, simply by walking inside a room. You understand why Satoru chose her over you, if you were in his shoes, you wouldn’t hesitate.

You look back at him, expecting him to watch her with his mouth agape, but he’s staring at you. You sheepishly smile at him, bowing down your head before walking away. At the very least, you’ll have Shoko and Suguru with you. In the end, you’ll manage to sneak out to go back to being with your son.

Hours go by, and the event progresses smoothly, Satoru makes a beautiful speech that leaves you surprised– Something that reminds you of his old self. It’s refreshing to see that he has the ability to be the man that he once was, even if it’s for a split second. You’re seated with Suguru and Shoko, and you converse to kill time.

“How is Ren, by the way?” Suguru asks, and you smile at the mention of your son. You’ve gotten no calls, so you can assume that he’s doing better.

“Poor baby is sick. I just want to leave to be by his side.” You respond, and it catches Shoko’s attention.

“Sick? What does he have?” She questions.

“A cold, didn’t seem anything bad when I left.” You answer. After you answer, her mind drifts elsewhere, and for the first time in the night, you follow her eyes. Her gaze is set on the woman that’s next to Satoru. She spends around a minute staring at Sayo, before she feels your eyes on her. She rolls her eyes before standing up and walking away from the table. It’s a weird reaction, so your response is to follow after her to ask about it.

You stand up to follow after her, but just as you rise from the chair, Satoru approaches your table. “I hope you’re not thinking of leaving.”

“I have to talk to Shoko.” You say, and you walk away from the table to go after her. Satoru’s brows furrow and he takes a seat beside Suguru, asking,

“What’s up with them?” 

“Wish I knew.” Suguru answers. “Shoko’s been out of it.”

Satoru then mentions your name, “How’s your relationship progressing? Do you see something more in the future with her?”

“Satoru, focus on your event.” Suguru shuts it down immediately. “Everything is going well, don’t ruin your night by finding out about something you don’t want to hear.”

“It’s just a question, geez.” Satoru rolls his eyes before standing up. He’s about to leave the table, approach another one and ask how everything is going so far. He mutters, “I’m allowed to ask, aren’t we friends?”

“That’s the one part of my life that you aren’t allowed to ask. Not after what you did.” Suguru responds, making Satoru scoff before walking away.

While they sort their problems out, you look for Shoko, finding her in the bathroom. She fixes her makeup, and you clear your throat before asking, “Everything okay?”

“Mind your business.” She sounds hostile, and you don’t want to push her boundaries. But she’s your friend, and you’re wildly curious to know why she’s been so focused on Sayo. She stops fixing her makeup and glares at you. “If you aren’t going to fix your makeup or pee, then leave.”

“Do you like her?” You ask, since it’s the only possible explanation. Of course, she could also like Satoru, but you doubt that she does. Shoko has never really been interested in men.

“I told you to mind your business.” She repeats. You decide not to push it further. You decide to take a short break, taking your phone out of your purse to check if you’ve missed anything. It hasn’t ringed once so you’re not too worried. You realize that you accidentally silenced your phone, and when you check, you feel your heart drop.

Shoko looks at you through the mirror, watching as you turn a color that’s not your own, your eyes widening. She forgets that she’s mad at you and worriedly asks, “What’s wrong?”

“Ren’s in the hospital, I have to go.” And she watches as you run out of the bathroom, and she stands dumbfounded.

When you get to the emergency room, Ren has already been moved to a private room. He’s laying in the hospital bed, not in as much pain as before since he got his medicine. You look at your mother, who sits beside her grandson, giving all her attention to him.

“What is it?” You ask, worry translating in your voice.

“An appendicitis. He has surgery very early in the morning.” Your mother answers. She watches the tears that have accumulated in your eyes stream down your face as you look at your son. You should’ve listened to him and stayed when he told you he was sick. “I contacted Mrs. Gojo before coming to the hospital and she arranged for everything to be quick. She’s stopping once the event finishes.”

“Thank the lord for the power of her money.” You answer, going to Ren’s side. He fights back his sleep, his lids heavy and closing on their own. You kiss the top of his head, and grab his little hand. “I’m sorry I wasn’t here earlier, honey.”

“It’s okay.” He says, although he could’ve used you by his side when he was getting injected.

“I promise that after this, we’re going to spend a lot more time together.” You respond, and you’d be worried about making an empty promise, but you’re done. You’re quitting. Your job is consuming you, and you need to pay more attention to the little boy that’s in front of you. He’s your everything, and time goes by fast. You then look at your mother, “You can go, mom. I’ll keep you updated.”

“There’s no way in hell I’m leaving.” She tells you, and a chuckle leaves your lips. Nerves were eating her alive when the doctors took him to run some tests on him, she can’t sleep soundly tonight if she isn’t close to Ren. Her stomach growls and she says, “I might get some food. But I’ll be back.”

“Of course, mom. I’ll be here.” You try to smile at him. You take a seat in her old seat, and you keep your eyes on Ren. His eyes keep closing on their own, and you lay your head on the empty space of the bed, about to fall asleep just like him. 

Ren has been your entire world for the time that he’s been alive, you have no idea what you’d do if something would happen to him. You still can’t wrap your head around the fact that when he took his first breath, he automatically became your first priority. You’d die for him.

You slowly drift off, and you hear Ren mutter ‘daddy’, and you feel your heart swell. He’s probably thinking about his dad again, and you begin to wonder how he imagines his father. Does Ren think they look alike? Because they certainly do, they’re practically twins.

Until you hear it again, and you lift up your head to look at your son. Yet, Ren’s eyes are wide open, and you’re paralyzed. You can’t move your head to look at the direction Ren looks.

Your eyes follow his gaze, and you nearly puke at the sight. Wide blue eyes are staring at the both of you. He takes deep heavy breaths, completely baffled at the sight that’s in front of him.

You murmur, “Satoru…”