fayukis Blog

You don’t believe a word he says, but you knew the food wasn’t poisoned. Why would they go through all this trouble of locking you away to just kill you? You simply rejected the food because you were spoiled.

Living with Sukuna made you realize the finer aspects of life: Delicious food prepared by his chef, sweet wines and tender meat. You highly doubt you could confidently say you enjoyed Sukuna’s company, but you appreciated his culinary taste.

The sludge melting in the tray could hardly count as food. It was a meal fit for swine.

“So what plans do you have for me, if it isn’t the guillotine?”

He laughs, squatting down to meet your eyes.

“Did that monster fuck you dumb?” He goads. “I think you can figure it out.”

You already know. You are the sole concubine of the greatest calamity to ever consume your country. There was worth within you. These people looked to exploit that.

It was a good plan, unfortunately for them, it would backfire.

“We already sent your ransom to the King.” He spits the word out with vile and you can taste the hatred that lurks beneath his tongue.

“Hopefully he’ll make a proper payment before we send him his whore’s fingers.”

There was a history of resentment behind his eyes. A charred family, a burned village. Another crime Sukuna would never pay for. But since Sukuna wasn’t here to answer them, he directs that resentment towards you.

He burned your village too, you want to say, but your words wouldn’t matter to this man. He considers you a perpetrator since you chose to spread your legs rather than burn with the rest.

You can’t fault him for thinking that way.

You examine your hands. “It’d be a waste of fingers. He won’t answer to any ransom.”

The King of Curses cares only for himself. By now, he’s probably found another one to warm his bed. You were nothing if not replaceable.

“For your sake, you pray he does.” The man warns.

He leaves you in that cell and the door slams shut behind him. You glance at the tray he failed to take. In a few minutes, the rats would scarf it down. It hardly mattered to you.

This is where you would die. Whether you would be killed or slowly starve to death, forgotten.

Something tightens in your heart. Your eyes burn. Something’s stuck in your throat.

A part of you is happy with your tears. For years, you assumed you didn’t have any left.

It proves you’re still human.

~

You wake up to smoke.

Faint. Far away. It’s a familiar scent—one that’s plagued your nightmares for years and years.

You can hear screaming too. You can’t make out the words but you can hear the fear in their voices.

Lift yourself off the dirty cell floor. You shift forward, trying your hardest to pick up on whatever calamity was attacking your captors.

Eventually, that calamity finds you.

The door doesn’t so much as open as it does falter. The metal creaks and falls as he pushes through like it’s made of paper.

You stare at his two sets of arms, his bare chest, and those red eyes. You blink once, then twice.

It’s not a mirage.

“You came?” You can only ask.

Sukuna only glances around your cell. He eyes the floor in disgust.

“You reek.” He gruffs out, but his hands don’t hesitate as he lifts you up into his arms.

You’re pliant in his grasp, letting him bring you into his chest. Out of pure exhaustion, you rest your head on his warm shoulder. The scent of fire clings onto him.

Sukuna walks out of the cell in confident strides. You force yourself to peek out to see the destruction he caused.

Fire looms everywhere. You can see what used to be bodies, half burned on the floor. He’d come alone and yet he’d done enough damage to destroy a city.

You can’t bring yourself to look anymore and you bury your head back into his shoulder.

“Uraume will guard you from now on,” Sukuna says. “Disciplining the lowers is a pain.”

Uraume shouldn’t have to guard you at all because you are not supposed to return. Sukuna wasn’t supposed to bring you back. He was supposed to forget your existence entirely and move onto another poor soul to torture. You should be dead.

Subconsciously, your hand grips his bicep.

“Why…did you come back for me?”

For minutes he doesn’t respond. He continues his walk until you’re back outside. The sky is bright and blue, clashing with the fire that singes the trees. He must have burned down the entire forest. Whether it was out of rage or something else, you couldn’t be sure.

“I cannot allow anyone to break what’s mine,” he finally tells you. “It’s an insult.”

You close your eyes as he continues to walk back to his estate. You can hear his smile through his next words.

asshole!sukuna can’t help but crack a smile. he’d had about ten girls come and slap the fuck outta him today. they were all old flings desperate to get their get-back, but that was hardly the point. you were this new thing entirely, a soft thing that seemed sweet regardless of if he was notorious for being a cunt or not. 

“what’s y’ name, sweetheart?” 

asshole!sukuna decided he wanted to see you again after that. you’d caught his interest, which doesn’t happen often. he asks for your number. your instagram, your snapchat, everything. it was kinda pathetic how eager he was to get to know you, but you handed them all over anyway. your friends warn you after the fact that he’s definitely not good news, but you can’t help but want to see where this goes after only dating squares for most of your life. 

asshole!sukuna takes you on a date the very next day, and you were pleasantly surprised at how chivalrous he was. he pulled out your chair at the small hole-in-the-wall restaurant he took you to, he paid for everything, and even more surprisingly, made you feel comfortable. you talked for hours about everything and anything. 

you learned that asshole!sukuna had a lot of hobbies. he played guitar, drums, did a fair few building sketches in the art room with his friend geto when he had time, and had a real connection to film. all of which were things you found extremely attractive, and he could tell, because the next time you two went out he took you to his dorm and showed you his musical endeavors. 

“you’re like... super talented, it’s really attractive.” you smile gently, sitting at the foot of his bed, watching as he finishes up a love song he’d been learning for you. 

“yeah, y’ think so? gonna come to all my gigs when i’m a famous musician?” 

“will i get a backstage pass?” 

“oh, absolutely.” 

asshole!sukuna had officially swooned you after about five dates. he'd mustered up the courage to ask you to be his at that same restaurant he’d taken you to on that first date, and the rest was history. you and sukuna, the couple everyone of his mates envied due to how perfectly you two fit together. 

“how the hell did a guy like you bag a girl like her. yr' gonna destroy the poor thing.” geto teased while they were smoking up one night. 

asshole!sukuna could only reply with, “god, don’t you just hate jealous, hating ass motherfuckers?” 

asshole!sukuna loved to not so subtly brag about you to literally anyone he talked to. (which wasn’t many, but still.) 

“eugh, you’re buying lunch? my girlfriend made me food today, fucking loser.” he’d laugh at the dining hall when gojo and geto sat next to him with a greasy burger and fries. they just gave each other a look, smiled, and rolled their eyes. 

“hm? nah, can’t tonight. me and my girl are getting hot pot. have fun drinking your problems, tho.” he’d turn toji down, turning his nose up at the idea of bar hopping like he wasn’t the most frequent man along the strip a few months back. 

“a two man? i’m not bringing my girl around your little one and done situation, don’t ask me that shit again.” he’d laugh in jogo’s face, hating the idea of his precious baby being around a sleaze bag like him. 

asshole!sukuna always puts you first. his frat’s planning something big, another fundraising night where they really care about attendance, and he’s meant to be there early to help set up. but out of the blue, you’ll send him a text just to say that you've had a slightly shitty day, and boom, he’s suddenly nowhere to be found. his phone’s off, car’s out of the driveway, and he’s at your door with your favorite food and that pissed look, how dare the world have the nerve to bother you. 

asshole!sukuna likes to keep you very close to him when you’re out and about, with either an arm at your waist or his fingers intertwined with yours, he’s most comfortable when you’re right there where he can see you. that way, if anything were to happen, you’d be there for him to protect.

asshole!sukuna lets you get away with absolutely everything. 

“ryo, can i draw on you? like, draw on your back while we watch a show or something?” 

“sure, baby.” 

“ryooo, can i braid your hair?” 

“of course, love.” 

“hey, ryomen? could you drive me to my friend’s house? she lives on the other side of town, though.. it’s okay if you don’t want—” 

“no, no. let’s go, sweetness.” 

“ryo, you smell.” 

“shower with me then, baby.” 

with anyone else, asshole!sukuna would have either yelled or broken their jaw for even thinking they could ask him such questions. but with you? the princess gets what the princess wants or whatever the saying he made up in his head was.

asshole!sukuna fucking hates when people talk over you. it’s a common occurrence due to your soft-spoken nature, you’ll be in the middle of saying something, and someone’ll cut in with whatever thing they think is funnier or more worth listening to. sukuna never lets it slide. “she was talking, dickhead.” he’d scoff, shutting them up and earning a shy, thankful smile from you, as you continued with what you were saying, far more important than whatever that clown had to yap on about anyways. (in sukuna’s mind, at least.) 

asshole!sukuna spends a shit ton of money on you. you almost always go against the idea, but he just can’t help it... when he sees your eyes light up when you see something you like at the mall, he physically can’t resist. he’ll bookmark the product, then order it online to come to your apartment the next day. 

“ryo... why do i have another package?” you whine over the phone, earning nothing but a chuckle from the other end. 

“could tell you wanted it, so just enjoy it, sweet thing. you deserve all the fruits of my labour.” 

“you don’t work? isn’t it your parents’ mon—” 

“semantics. just enjoy, baby.” and he hangs up the phone, grabbing his keys to drive to your place and see how you like the new gift. he thinks it was a new dress? couldn’t be sure, it was hard keeping up with the millions of notifications from the post office. 

asshole!sukuna remembers everything about his girl and makes sure you’re always getting exactly what you want. if he’s out getting dinner before driving to your place, he’ll stop at five different places if that meant getting your order perfectly correct. local maccas has a broken ice cream machine? he’s driving to the next location to try his luck there. one place doesn’t have the kind of noodles you like? he’s making his way to the closest chinese place to see if they do. he is the embodiment of “if he wanted to, he would,” and it’s all worth it seeing your face light up when he holds up the paper bag with a smile. 

“your favourite.” 

“oh my god? this is the place out of the city? how did you—” 

“don’t worry about it, angel.” 

and that was another thing, ashole!sukuna  didn’t let you worry about anything. your place felt too messy? he was over there turning on mlp equestria girls and helping you clean. you wanted a home cooked meal? he’s at the store buying the ingredients. you needed help with an assignment? he’s pushed back his own work to sit down and help you smash them out. 

asshole!sukuna is so overly territorial when it comes to functions. he doesn’t know, there’s just something about people drunk and horny all around you that ticks him off. he’ll always have you either sat next to or on his lap at frat parties. you stick to him regardless, but he has to make it obvious to all the fuckwits blatantly staring at you that you are indeed, his. 

if they don’t get the hint the first time and are still gawking after his mild pda, asshole!sukuna would up the ante. he’ll take you off to some hallway or, if the guys are being particularly sleazy, he’ll kiss you right there. his lips trailling up and down your neck while he stares them dead in the eye, challenging them to look away. 

“ryo... people are looking!” you whisper nervously. 

“let them, sweetheart. you’re too pretty not to stare at.” he grins against your neck, sucking and biting at your soft skin. 

by that point, they always look off. whether that be due to his death glare or the realisation that you’re not going anywhere anytime soon was beside the point. 

asshole!sukuna gets embarrassingly hard at the smallest little things with you. you’ll just be sitting on the couch together and you’ll start scratching his back or head, boom, hard. when you’re sitting next to him in the library and you’re biting your pen, boom, hard. even when you’re just laying in bed, tired from the day, he’ll lay next to you and just sigh. 

“how the fuck do you just look like that. you make it so hard to keep my shit to myself.” he groans as his arms snake around your waist. 

“jeez, i can feel that thing poking into my back... what did i do now?” you smile sleepily. 

“i wish i knew. seems like one look at you and i pop a boner.” he admits, a little embarrassed. 

“can i help you out?” 

asshole!sukuna loved how willing you were to service him, but preferred it the opposite way round. sukuna would spend hours between your pretty thighs if he could, sloppily kissing and sucking at your cunt with dazed eyes, loving nothing more than the pretty moans and groans he could pull from your throat. 

“fuck yeah, y’ like that, baby? you like my tongue, hm?” he’d tease with his mouth full, pumping two fingers in and out of your soaked pussy as he dragged you closer and closer to your orgasm. 

asshole!sukuna knew how wet his filthy words could get you, and he abused that knowledge each and every time he needed you prepped and ready for him. 

“y’ think you can take me, baby, yeah? think you can take this fat cock?” he’d taunt, slapping the thick head against your cunt as your slick coated the pink, glossy skin. “fuckkkk, pretty pussy’s beggin’ t’ get drilled.” 

“what’s that? you need me? well, isn’t that fuckin’ cute. beg a little more and maybe i’ll give you what you want.” 

“be a good girl n’ say please and it’s all yours, angel.” 

asshole!sukuna was massive, but you always took him so well. “you can do it, baby. i know you can.” he’d coo in your ear, lining up the monster of a thing. 

“one, two, fuckkk.” 

asshole!sukuna saw stars every time he’d push in, letting go of a long, pornographic moan as he began to thrust slowly in and out of your tight entrance. the look on your face as your eyes rolled back in pleasure made coming in less than a minute extremely hard, but the intense need to make you finish first overrode any sort of selfish desire to fill you up to the brim in the first few minutes. 

asshole!sukuna loved missionary the most because he could see your pretty face. he enjoyed a bunch of freaked-out positions, but nothing could beat watching your pupils dilate and your lips quiver the second you finally came, his name on your tongue as you let go of the tension building in your tummy. 

“y’ gonna come, baby? y’ gonna come on this cock?” he’d grunt, slamming his member deeper and deeper the louder your cries got, faster and faster until— “fuck, ryo! m’ cumming!” you’d stutter, your insides spasming on his cock, drawing out his own orgasm with one final pound, filling you up with hot ropes of his seed. 

asshole!sukuna was the king of aftercare. words that were filthy before, now soft and caring. 

“you okay, baby? did i go too hard on ya?” he’d ask through tired pants, standing to grab the wet wipes in the side drawer to wash your messy parts off. 

“you want me to order something? anything you want, love. i’ll get you anything and everything.” 

“c’mon, sweetheart. drink some water.” 

asshole!sukuna never made you feel small after intimacy, in fact, sometimes you enjoyed the aftermath more than the mindblowing sex. 

“m’ okay, ryo. just wanna cuddle.” you’d admit shyly, reaching for him to come back to bed. 

his eyes would soften and he’d plop down next to you, pulling you into his lap. “anything for you, angel.” 

sure, sukuna was an asshole, but he couldn't even dream of mistreating you, his biggest exception.

“love you, baby.” 

“love you too, ryo.” 

a/n: i wrote this semi off my face so excuse any bad word or structural choices 💘

He touched your forehead next.

The skull he now felt underneath the plush of your skin was split open across the poorly lit road in front of his mansion several days ago. But now, it was fine. Just fine.

Blood, bone, and bits of brain matter that all decorated Woodland Avenue and the hood and windshield of the drunk bastard who slammed into you were no longer lost pieces of you.

He fixed it.

He fixed it all.

He fixed you.

All that existed now was the faintest scar along your scalp — he knew you’d fuss at him if he gave you a big, ugly, visible scar while bringing you back to life, and that was also why an open container of your facial moisturizer sat on the table beside your head, as he had rubbed it across your skin moments before. What if you awakened from death and fussed at him over having the driest skin known to all, dead and living?

But your skin wasn’t dry. That was the entire point.

It glowed with life.

Your mouth was on the verge of smiling.

Your limbs were ready to stretch out and move.

Your lungs wanted to fill with air.

Your heart desired beating.

But it didn’t work.

“Come on,” Satoru whispered. With one hand, he removed his goggles. With the other, he gently stroked the skin of your forehead. “Come on, baby. Come back to me. Please. Please?”

His eyes darted up to the bright screens of the blank machines that were ready to read your vital signs, searching for any sign of life, but your mouth never spread into a smile. Your limbs never flinched. Your lungs ever expanded. Your heart never pumped.

It didn’t fucking work.

Tears swelled in the reddened waterlines of his blue eyes. They fell, splattering onto your skin, and his last hope came in the form of thinking, maybe, just maybe, you’ll surprise him and reach over and wipe it off, but in the end, he was the one who cleaned his tears off of you, all before snatching off the wires he had connected to your head.

“Damn it!” He pushed over a useless cart of medical supplies. “It should’ve worked. Why didn’t it . . . what did I do wrong?”

He ran a hand through his messy white hair and gripped the strands.

“What did I do wrong?” He whispered. “What did I do wrong? What did I do wrong? What did I do wrong?”

Then, finally, he laughed.

Perhaps, he couldn't bring you back to life. Not this way. But, as his mind swirled and pondered and descended into what could only be considered pure madness, he figured that, it didn't mean he couldn't bring you back at all.

—

SUBJECT 001

REPORT ON THE FIRST OFFICIAL CLONE OF MRS. GOJO

DATE: JANUARY 8TH, 2019

STATUS: FAILURE

Subject 001 had no signs of life. This was an expected outcome. I see now that I managed to clone my wife’s corpse instead of my wife.

—

SUBJECT 002

REPORT ON THE SECOND OFFICIAL CLONE OF MRS. GOJO

DATE: FEBRUARY 27TH, 2019

STATUS: FAILURE

Subject 002 had no signs of life. Same outcome.

—

SUBJECT 003

REPORT ON THE THIRD OFFICIAL CLONE OF MRS. GOJO

DATE: APRIL 3RD, 2019

STATUS: FAILURE

Subject 003 was alive for two seconds. Subject 003 opened their eyes, blinked, then all vital organs seemed to shut down instantly. I’m getting close.

—

SUBJECT 012

REPORT ON THE TWELFTH OFFICIAL CLONE OF MRS. GOJO

DATE: JULY 21ST, 2019

STATUS: FAILURE

Subject 012 is the first clone to not only respond to external stimulation, but is capable of communication, and has survived the thirty-six hour window. Ideal vital signs. Able to move, eat, and retain information.

Subject 012, is, however, a failure, because I just made a clone of a human being that looks like my wife, but is not my wife.

Subject 012 does not recognize me.

—

SUBJECT 073 OR SUBJECT 106 (UNKNOWN SUBJECT)

REPORT ON THE ??? OFFICIAL CLONE OF MRS. GOJO

DATE: ???

STATUS: ???

What fucking day is it?? I don’t know. I know it’s somewhere between 3 and 4 am. I lost count of how many clones I’ve created. When they come out of that fucking machine and die right away, or they have limbs in the wrong spots or are missing body parts or are in so much pain I have to shoot them like dogs to put them out of their fucking misery I just

I always forget to write it down.

I didn’t mean to make another one.

I promised myself I’d stop at one hundred. I could be close, or past that. Don’t know. I don’t know shit. But based on the empty bottles of alcohol around my room, I guess I got drunk and tried it again, because I keep getting alerts that my next clone is complete. I’ll call her the Unknown Subject, since I lost track like a fucking idiot.

I wonder what’ll be fucking wrong with this one.

—

Satoru slammed his journal shut with a soft thud and tossed it on his nightstand, next to an empty box that once held a slice of chocolate cake from a local bakery.

His phone vibrated again. Those familiar words alerting him to the completion of yet another clone brought him pure dread instead of excitement.

It was the kind of dread that made his stomach twist into knots. The kind that made droplets of sweat form across his pale forehead. He wasn’t exactly in the mood to potentially see a man-made human copy of his wife stumble out of a machine and claw at their face, all because he screwed something up, and the poor thing didn’t have a mouth, like Subject 023.

It was a memory that made him shudder, but he continued to make his way towards the elevator.

Subject 014 was one of the handful of clones that had survived the initial experiment and went on to live. That version of you currently walked right past him with her hands in her pockets.

“‘Cuse me,” she mumbled pleasantly.

He didn’t need to ask her where she was going. He already knew.

Because, while making Subject 014, a strand of his hair straight from his root had fallen into one of the tubes containing your extracted DNA, and, as a result, he ended up with a clone that had a head of white hair, a cocky grin, and a desire to eat desserts at bizarre hours, like right now.

The shared physical traits didn’t surprise him, but the similarities in personality led him to spend a week studying different theories and research projects regarding how much of one’s personality and non-physical attributes were related to genetics versus environmental factors.

He eyed Subject 014 as she made her way to the gourmet kitchen, perhaps planning to devour the second slice of chocolate cake residing there, without a doubt.

And that was why he kept walking.

Because if this clone was as functional as ones similar to Subject 014, he couldn’t leave them in a tube.

But, if they were suffering, only a whisper of a living thing, then he needed to put them out of their misery.

The elevator dinged as the silver doors slid open. He stepped inside. As he scanned his thumb print and pressed the third lowest button, the one leading to his underground lab, he felt a pair of eyes on him.

Subject 020. She liked to watch him. She couldn’t speak. He didn’t know why. He started to screw up all things related to mouth function when he was around twenty subjects in. Yet again, the haunting memory of Subject 023 stumbling out of the tube without a mouth, nails digging at where a pair of lips should have been . . .

The elevator doors shut.

Satoru’s mansion held a gorgeous brown and beige interior that, to many, was considered out-of-style despite the beauty. His Tuscan gourmet kitchen, warm lighting, and luxurious wooden accents were a reflection of an old-world Italian-like vibe and rejected modern home design trends he found too boring, too lifeless, too dull, too grey.

But his underground laboratory was the exact opposite of the rest of his home.

Stepping out of the elevator and into the sterile white and silver world of glowing technology, bubbling colorful chemicals, and big, vertical, human-sized tubes lining the west wall was like stepping into the future.

His footsteps patted against the ground as he approached one of the tubes that dinged much like a microwave.

Here goes nothing, he thought. The subject stared at him through the clear material of their tube. She’s watching me come closer, tracking my movements. That’s a good sign.

For a moment, he stood there, watching. Waiting. Maintaining eye contact with the clone.

Nailed the appearance. She-

“Let me out.”

His thoughts were suddenly interrupted by that familiar, somewhat muffled voice.

Good. She can speak.

He leaned forward and pressed a green button on the side of the tube. A bit of smoke spilled out into the open air as the door slid open, and the subject of an unknown number stepped out, stumbling a bit, but as a result of a disoriented state rather than a serious cloning mistake affecting the legs.

“Can you tell me your name?” Satoru asked softly and without hope, eyeing the clone that looked around curiously. “Do you know who I am? Do you know where you are?”

“Satoru, you know I’m not a fan of your lab. It creeps me out.” Looking at him, you, not a random subject, but a clone he wholeheartedly could call you — tilted your head to the side a bit. “Did I agree to be the subject of another one of your projects because I was tipsy? Or did I accidentally push you out of the bed again and felt guilty, wanted to make up for it, or something like that? My mind is a mess right now.”

“I . . .” His throat was dry despite him gulping. “Can-Could you . . . c’mere?”

You approached him with a little pout. “What’s wrong? You don’t look so good.”

His large hand cupped your cheek. Your skin felt warm. It was you.

Soft lips with a slight quiver pressed against yours, and upon feeling you kiss him back as if you had never known what it was like to not do so, to have death part you as stated in the vows, his heart thumped madly within his chest.

His tongue eased between your parting lips, briefly swirling around yours as he tasted you; one last check.

The tears that slipped from his eyes soaked your cheeks. Pulling away, you mumbled against his lips, “Why are you crying? You can tell me, honey.”

He’d have to.

He’d have no choice.

After all, he needed to explain why there were ten man-made beings with your face, bits and pieces of you, but one or two or twelve things that weren’t quite right, residing in your home.

He needed to explain why, should you decide to randomly text your friends or family, they’d call you, and you’d hear nothing through your phone speaker except for overwhelmed, grateful, and terrified sobs.

“You died,” he started, voice barely above a whisper. “You were dead.”

“. . . What?”

“You, uh, you were walking home after visiting the neighbors. It’s a short walk, not even the length of a full song. I was standing outside, waiting for you to cross the street and make your way inside our house because it was so goddamn dark and I wanted to make sure you would be safe, and then a car just . . . that stupid, drunk, fucking fool hit you, and . . .” he sniffled, wiping at his wet cheeks, and shook his head. “You were so close to me, so close to making it across the street, that your blood got all over my shoes. I scooped up your own brain matter with my bare hands, then I tried to bring you back to life, I tried to fix you, but I couldn’t.” He tapped two of his fingers against his skull. “Haven’t cracked that code yet. But I started thinking about that congressman who asked me to clone his dog a couple years ago. Cloning has changed so much since then, all thanks to me. It’s not like transferring cells and-and waiting for birth and having to settle for a twin at best and-”

“Satoru-”

“It’s you. Finally, it’s you. I brought you back, just in a-a new body, one identical to your original one, and-”

“Satoru, I think you’ve finally lost it.” You tried to laugh. You wanted to laugh.

“You don’t believe me?”

You shook your head.

He showed you your preserved corpse first. It was as fresh-looking as a living being, lying underneath what could only be described as an enormous, more elaborate version of a copy machine.

Then, he pulled out his phone and showed you the news articles. All of them detailing a young woman killed by a drunk driver, the wife of an infamous scientist now deceased.

Lastly, there was Subject 012 — who was the best clone of you until now, the only thing missing was her memory — who nervously waited at the elevator for Satoru’s return, because she wanted to ask him if the brown-haired woman grinning alongside you in a hallway picture was her, or rather, your best friend.

You saw her once the elevator opened. Your eyes widened at the sight of her. The sight of you.

She looked away shyly.

“Oh my god,” you whispered, raising a trembling hand to your mouth.

“This is Subject 012. I couldn’t believe how perfect she came out so early on. Most of the subjects around that time came out somewhat decent, including Subject 014, but I seemed to move backwards instead of forwards once I started reaching the twentieth subject. Progress isn’t linear, so they say, ya know? But, Subject 012 here was the best version of you til now. The problem is that she doesn’t remember anything aside from basic functions and concepts. She knows how to eat, but not what your favorite food is. She knows what a TV is, but not what shows you like. Sooo, she's a failure, and I had to keep going.” Satoru pressed his hand against your lower back and guided you right past yourself, right past the failed clone.

“I-I’m still trying,” she called out.

There was something so deeply unsettling about hearing your sad voice come out of another human being. Goose bumps appeared along your skin.

Satoru turned back to face her, that failed version of you, and softly, he said, “Oh, there’s really no need.”

Subject 012 looked down at the ground, and you knew yourself well enough to know that she was trying to hold back tears.

“Stop,” your footsteps came to a halt. You looked up into his eyes, searching them for answers to the millions of questions running through your man-made mind. “She . . . I . . . shit, Satoru, what have you done? You mean to tell me there are ten more here?”

“Ten that have survived, yes. But, so far, you’re the first success.”

“Unless I fall dead tomorrow or-or forget my grandma’s name or something, right? Then . . . you’ll keep creating more clones . . .” You spoke slowly, still trying to piece together a mental puzzle that made your head scream from too much unbelievable information. “I’m not even me. I’m just a clone. I’m just a science experiment. I’m not even . . . I’m just . . . oh my god, Satoru. The real me is dead, and I’m just . . . Oh god, what am I? What the hell did you do? What the hell did you do?”

Other subjects appeared at the end of the hallway to witness your meltdown.

You wished you could blame the sight of duplicated faces on panic having blurred your vision, but that wasn’t the case. Those faces were all attached to different bodies. Those faces resembled yours.

Your knees slammed against the ground. Breathing properly seemed to become a memory, something you couldn’t quite grasp the concept of as your chest rose and fell unevenly.

Satoru cupped your face. “Breathe, just breathe. You’re you. You’re not just another subject. Not to me. Do you understand me? It’s you. I saved you, sweetheart.”

The other subjects, the failed subjects, looked down at the ground.

Subject 045 gripped her wheelchair and silently wheeled herself into another room. Some body parts on her right side were missing, including two fingers and the entirety of her leg.

Your eyes darted between them, the floor, and Satoru’s sad, hopeful gaze.

“All this chaos must’ve made you work up an appetite. You must be hungry,” Satoru kissed your forehead. “What would you like to eat?”

He knows what foods I like, you thought. He’s asking me this because this is a test. If I say the wrong thing, I’ll be another failure, right? Alright, let me think. The answer is simple. There’s only one local restaurant that’s open 24/7 that I’d want food from.

You searched your mind, or rather, the perfect copy of a brain that no longer functioned, stuck within an unrotting corpse, for the correct answer. Your hands started to tremble.

“Um,” you mumbled. “Can we . . . order from Abele’s? Is-Is that okay?”

His face revealed nothing.

Not a hint of pleasure, nor an absence of it.

He rose to his feet.

And suddenly, the hallway was filled with the echo of his slow-moving footsteps as he walked away.

—

SUBJECT 073 OR SUBJECT 106 (UNKNOWN SUBJECT)

REPORT ON THE ??? OFFICIAL CLONE OF MRS. GOJO

DATE: ???

STATUS: ??? FAILURE

What fucking day is it?? I don’t know. I know it’s somewhere between 3 and 4 am. I lost count of how many clones I’ve created. When they come out of that fucking machine and die instantly, or they have limbs in the wrong spots or are missing body parts or are in so much pain I have to shoot them like dogs to put them out of their fucking misery I just

I always forget to write it down.

I didn’t mean to make another one.

I promised myself I’d stop at one hundred. I could be close, or past that. Don’t know. I don’t know shit. But based on the empty bottles of alcohol around my room, I guess I got drunk and tried it again, because I keep getting alerts that my next clone is complete. I’ll call her the Unknown Subject, since I lost track like a fool.

I wonder what’ll be fucking wrong with this one.

UPDATE

I thought Unknown Subject was a success, but when I asked her what she wanted to eat, she said, “Um, can we order from Abele’s? Is that okay?”

Abele’s closed down one week before her passing.

Maybe she just forgot . . .

No.

No. I know the truth.

That is not my wife.

Unknown Subject is a failure.

I changed my mind. I can't give up. I can't. One day, I will succeed. I'm so close. So, so close. I'm so close. But I'm running out of room here, and I can't have the failed subjects just walking around my house, reminding me of my failures. Should I drive off with them and leave them on the side of the road somewhere? Should I get rid of them? Should I kill them? I won't matter to me. They're not her.

None of them are my wife.

“By two minutes. Come on, that’s hardly anything.”

“More than enough time to get on my nerves.”

“I love it when you talk to me like that.”

Behind you, someone coughed—probably trying to hide a laugh.

“And I love it when you stop talking,” you shot back.

His laugh came through the radio, warm and amused. “Someone’s feisty today. Is the coffee in the tower that bad again?”

“Coffee’s fine. It’s the pilot that’s giving me a headache.”

“Mmm. I like it when your voice gets all defensive, beautiful.”

There it was again. Beautiful.

Always beautiful. Never ‘ma’am’ or ‘tower’ or even your call sign like every other normal fucking pilot with a shred of professionalism would do. With Gojo, it was always pretty, or beautiful, or—God help you—honey. Like he was talking to a date he wanted to charm, not calling for airspace clearance on public frequency.

You’d corrected him once early on. “Use proper radio protocol,” you’d said, but all he replied was, “Sorry, Control. Slipped. Won’t happen again, pretty.” 

It had happened again. And again. And again.

You leaned back in your chair, staring up at the ceiling and entertaining the fantasy of reaching through the frequency and strangle him with your headset cord. Instead, your fingers found the stress ball on your desk and squeezed until your knuckles went white.

“You don’t even know what I look like,” you said, frustrated.

“Your voice tells me everything I need to know. And I’m betting you’re even more beautiful than you sound.”

“Is that why you like hearing yourself talk so much? Because your voice tells you how pretty you are?”

He laughed. “Ouch. You’re brutal today, Control. Permission to land before you completely break my poor heart?”

“Flight 447, you’re cleared to land, runway 24L. Wind 240 at 8 knots. Try not to crash while you’re busy thinking about how charming you are.”

“Copy that, beautiful. And for the record? I wasn’t thinking about myself.” His voice dropped lower, not caring at all that he was on public frequency. “I was thinking about you.”

Heat crept up your neck. Around the tower, a few heads turned your way once more—grinning, and you wanted to punch them in the face. 

You were silent for a few seconds and you could basically hear his grin forming on the other end of the line.

“Looks like I’ve got you blushing. Well then, see you on the ground, Control.”

More heat crept up your neck. You yanked off your headset and slammed it down on the desk, resisting the urge to scream into a stack of paperwork. Goddamn it, he made you want to quit your job. Or strangle him. Or both.

You looked out the tower’s window just in time to watch his plane break through the clouds and touch down. A fucking textbook perfect landing. Of course it was. Captain Satoru Gojo was, without question, the most infuriating pilot you’d ever had the displeasure of guiding in. And unfortunately, he was also the best.

It had started a few months ago when he began regularly flying the international routes from Japan to Central Europe—the very same routes you’d specifically requested when you transferred to Haneda. 

The 2 AM flights? The twelve hour shifts from hell? The ones that made most controllers question all their life choices and develop an unhealthy, codependent relationship with the espresso machine? 

You loved them.

These were the long flights where pilots were usually dead tired and just wanted to get home. Communication was professional and efficient. No small talk, no unnecessary chatter, just vectors, altitudes, and a few polite acknowledgments. You could guide a Boeing 777 from Tokyo to Frankfurt with maybe twenty lines of dialogue, max. That was the dream.

These pilots had been airborne for twelve hours or longer—the last thing they wanted was a chatty air traffic controller stretching out their shift with unnecessary conversation. And the last thing you wanted was to listen to their rambling. You loved those quiet and professional pilots—the ones you barely had to talk to, just guide them in and call it a day. Great. Easy work. You loved your job when it was uncomplicated.

While your colleagues dealt with the chaos of domestic flights—tight turnarounds, grumbling pilots, weather complaints, gate drama and all that shit—you got the stern and serious long-distance flyers.

Until Captain Satoru Gojo.

The first time you handled Flight 447’s approach out of Prague, you braced for the usual. Someone who’d been flying for thirteen hours straight and just wanted to land, deplane, and find the nearest bed. What you got instead was a happy voice that sounded like the man had just woken from the greatest nap of his lifetime and could easily fly for another thirteen hours.

“Tokyo Control, Flight 447 requesting descent. And might I say... what a beautiful night it is up here.”

You blinked at your radar screen. It was 2:03 AM. Cloudy skies. Visibility barely above minimum levels. Nothing about it was beautiful.

Most pilots at this hour could barely remember their own call signs. But not Gojo. Gojo sounded wide awake and relaxed—and, unfortunately, talkative. 

God, he talked so much. Always cracking jokes, always so cocky, always dragging out what should’ve been a thirty second exchange into a five minute monologue over the radio.

“Flight 447, descend and maintain flight level 240.”

“Descending to 240. Had to adjust our approach three times tonight because of wind shear. Amazing how much the atmosphere changes in just a few thousand feet. Did you know that—”

“Flight 447, contact Tokyo Aproach on 119.7.”

He sighed. “Copy that, beautiful. Always a pleasure chatting with you.”

It started professional enough—well, as professional as someone could be while constantly calling air traffic control ‘beautiful’—but overtime, he got more and more flirty. Somewhere around the fifth or seventh flight, you guided him in, he stopped sounding like a pilot and started sounding like a man leaving voicemail notes to his girlfriend. 

“Good morning, gorgeous.”

“Did you miss my voice, honey?”

“Until next time, beautiful.”

Maybe it was his personality, as if he simply couldn’t help himself—like he’d physically explode if he didn’t borderline sexual harass his ground crew and was naturally incapable of having a normal conversation. But goddamn, did it annoy you.

He’d never even seen you. Didn’t know your name, wouldn’t recognize your face if you passed him in the terminal. He probably couldn’t even point to the tower from his cockpit window. And yet, every transmission felt like he thought he was on private frequency with you, and not broadcasting on public monitored by half the airspace.

And oh my God, the rambling—the fucking rambling. And, of course, you were his favorite audience.

“You know, Control, I was reading this article about albatrosses during my layover in Warsaw and it got me thinking. Did you know they can fly for years without ever touching ground, like literally sleeping while they fly? Can you imagine? They use these tiny wind gradients over the waves to do that. Makes our fuel consumption look pretty inefficient, doesn’t it?”

You already felt your soul leaving your body.

“Although I bet you could optimize their route better than they can to save even more energy. You’ve got such a lovely voice for giving directions. Very authoritative. I like that—”

Sometimes he’d yap for minutes until you got so annoyed that you’d rip off your headset before he could finish whatever outrageous story he was about to finish and waved at Ijichi to take over. Poor Ijichi—an actual saint and unfortunately still a rookie, so he was your victim—would sigh, slid on his headset and took over the frequency to reply to Gojo’s rambling about birds in a very distinctly male, distinctly unimpressed voice.

“Flight 447, this is Tokyo Control. Please state your current altitude.”

A pause. “Oh. Um. Flight level 380. Sorry—Is the other controller… did she…?”

“Flight 447, maintain current altitude and heading. Contact Approach on 119.7.”

Out of the corner of your eye, you saw Ijichi shoot you a pained look and mouthed, “Your boyfriend’s looking for you” while you pretended to be very busy with paperwork, highlighting the same line of a weather report you’d already read four times.

You’d complained to your supervisor, of course. Marched into Yaga’s office with a list of incidents and timestamps of what you considered to be highly unprofessional behaviour that was interfering with air traffic operations.

Yaga had listened, occasionally nodding, while you explained in detail why Captain Gojo’s voice should be banned from all airspace. When you finished, he’d leaned back in his chair and given you that look—the one supervisors gave when they were about to tell you something you didn’t want to hear.

“Has he ever caused a delay?” Yaga asked.

“Well, no, but—”

“Missed a radio call?”

“No, however—”

“Failed to follow vectors or altitude assignments?”

“That’s not the point—”

“Has he ever said anything explicitly inappropriate? Sexual harassment, offensive language, anything that would violate communications protocols?”

You’d opened your mouth, then closed it. You were fighting a losing battle.

Yaga had shrugged and pointed out that Gojo never said anything explicitly inappropriate, never caused delays, and had the cleanest safety record of any pilot flying commercial routes in Japan. Zero incidents, zero violations, zero passenger complaints. He was the perfect pilot.

“The guy’s annoying but harmless,” Yaga had said at last, and slid your complaint folder back across his desk.

Harmless. Right.

Harmless if you didn’t count the fact that he was actively driving you insane and making you seriously consider changing careers. Or at least requesting a transfer to cargo flights, where the pilots were too busy dealing with departures every thirty minutes to spend time talking about stupid bird flyting techniques.

But damn it—you worked so hard for this position. You were a certified, professional air traffic controller with five years on the radar and an impeccable safety record. You’d studied for two years to pass the brutal exams, survived months in training simulations and clawed your way up from ground control to tower to approach and finally to the international routes. 

You directed aircraft worth billions of dollars, carrying hundreds of lives, through some of the most complex and congested airspace in Asia. You coordinated with air traffic controllers in twelve different countries, handled language barriers, time zones, techchnical delays, and medical emergencies—all while being always fucking calm and polite. 

Okay, scratch the polite part. But you got the job done, and that’s what mattered. And you were not about to throw it all away because one stupid, obnoxious pilot with an equally stupid, attractive voice was too dense to tell the difference between air traffic control and fucking Tinder.

Okay, forget about the calm part, too.

It didn’t help that your colleagues found the whole thing all too amusing. Your colleague Maki—who handled mostly domestic routes and therefore dealt with normal, professional pilots—had already labelled Gojo your ‘work husband’.

And every time his flight number popped up on the radar, she’d make kissy faces in your direction and sing, “Oh, your boyfriend’s calling,” to which you’d reply “He’s not my boyfriend.” Or worse, she’d lean over your shoulder while he was in the middle of yet another monologue, whispering when you’d finally ask him out. Of course, she knew he’d hear every word on the other end of the radio, prompting him to tease you with, “She’s right. When will you finally ask me?”

“Flight 447, turn left heading 090, descend to flight level 200.”

“Left 090, down to 200. And might I add that you sound particularly lovely today, Control? Did you do something different with your… well, I can’t see your hair, but I bet it looks very pretty.”

Maki would choke on her laughter like a middle schooler watching her crush talk, and you’d have to clench your fists to stop yourself from punching them both.

And it didn’t help that everyone loved him, of course. 

Everyone except you, apparently.

The ground crew basically fought over who got to service his aircraft. You’d see a swarm of orange vests crowding Gate 7 whenever Flight 447 rolled in—like teenage fangirls waiting backstage for their favourite boy band. It was ridiculous.

You’ve seen how the gate agents would always check their hair and straighten their ties. Hana from passenger services bought new lipstick “just in case” she ran into Captain Gojo during a layover. 

Even the janitors—the fucking janitors—somehow developed a sudden obsession with the floor around Gate 7. Mr. Takeshi, who’d been mopping this place since the airport was built, now took his sweet time in that exact area. Like. What the fuck.

It was like the entire airport had developed a collective crush on a man most of them had never even spoken to. All based on stories and the occasional glimpse of him walking through the terminal in his pilot uniform.

You’d never actually seen him. In the months he’d been flying your routes, your shifts always ended right before he arrived—or you were stuck up in the tower when he was on the ground. Like you existed in parallel universes. You guided his plane through the airspace, but never actually crossed paths on the ground.

Everyone said he was stupidly pretty—so damn dreamy and everything. You could’ve looked him up, googled him, stalked the airport intranet. But you didn’t. For all you knew, he was sixty with a beer belly and balding. But unfortunately, he also had an infuriatingly attractive voice over radio communication.

Which only made it worse.

── ⟢ ·⸝⸝

It was one of those days where everything had gone wrong the moment you’d stepped into the tower. The coffee machine was broken, spitting out something between coffee grounds and mud. Your computer crashed twice during the morning shift, erasing twenty minutes of logged flight data. And to top it off, Ijichi had called in sick, leaving you to handle both international and domestic flights with only Maki as backup—who was currently tied up managing a medical diversion across three different frequencies.

So when Flight 447’s call sign appeared on your radar screen a full twenty minutes ahead of schedule, you felt your eye twitch.

“Tower, this is Flight 447 requesting vectors for approach.”

You glared at the radar. Of course he was early. And of fucking course he was screwing up your carefully timed arrival window. You’d scheduled him between two other flights, and now you had to rearrange everything yet again.

“Flight 447, turn left heading 180, descend and maintain 3,000 feet.”

“Left 180, down to 3,000. You sound tense, Control. Long shift?”

Deep breath. Remember, violence is not an option.

“Just doing my job, 447.”

“Ouch. That’s definitely tension. Let me guess—computer crash? Did someone steal your lunch? Ah wait, I know—the coffee machine spat out mud again, didn’t it?”

You blinked at your screen. How could he possibly—

“Flight 447, maintain current heading and altitude.”

“Come on, don’t be like that. I brought you something from Zurich. Might help improve your mood.”

You paused, finger hovering over the radio button. “You… brought me something?”

“Mhm. You know those famous Swiss chocolatiers? Heard they make the best chocolate in Europe, so I picked some up for you.”

You stared at your screen for a beat, unsure whether to feel weirdly flattered or wildly uncomfortable. Probably both.

“You don’t even know who I am.”

“I know enough,” he said, still annoyingly casual. “I know you prefer late international routes because they’re usually quiet and professional. I know you drink your coffee black, because I’ve heard you complain—more than once—that no one washes out the cream dispenser in the break room, and that it will one day cause a biohazard. Which, judging by your mood today, I’m guessing no one’s done that in a while, so now the good machine’s off to maintenance again, and you’re stuck with that old one that just spits out grounds.”

A pause.

“And I know you stay late to help train the newbies, because I’ve heard your voice in the background on calls. I have to say, you’ve got this calm, patient tone that makes it almost sound like you’re not seconds away from strangling them. It’s kind of adorable, really.”

You sat up straighter. How did he know all that? And more importantly, why had he noticed all that?

You didn’t respond right away, unsure what to respond at all. Then, finally, you clicked your radio.

“Flight 447, turn right heading 240. Contact Approach on 119.7.”

“Wait, that’s it? No ‘thank you’ or ‘wow, you’re so thoughtful for bringing me treats form overseas’? I declared that stuff at customs, you know. It was a whole ordeal.”

Despite your awful morning, your lip twitched. “You declared chocolate at customs?”

“Had to. They were weirdly suspicious about a pilot carrying so much chocolate in his carry-on. I told them it was for someone special, and they got all sentimental and waved me through.”

“You told customs agents I was special?”

“I told them the truth. …Though I may have implied you were my girlfriend to avoid further questioning.”

“You what?”

His laugh crackled through the headset, way too pleased with himself. “Relax, beautiful. Customs agents don’t exactly hang out with air traffic controllers. Your secret identity is safe.”

“Flight 447, I’m transferring you to Approach. Stop inventing fake relationships with me at international borders.”

“So we’re not dating? Huh. That’s news to me.”

“I’m doing my job.”

“Yeah. And your job involves listening to me, technically speaking.”

“My job involves keeping you from colliding with other planes, not entertaining your delusions.”

“See? You care about my safety. Such a good girlfriend, Control.”

You could almost hear the smirk through the static. Across the tower, Maki—finally free from her emergency—was trying desperately to look anywhere but your direction. She was listening too, you realized, her face reddening as she barely held in her laughter.

“Flight 447 switch to Approach now, or I will reroute you to Osaka instead.”

“You wouldn’t dare. You’d miss me too much.”

“Try me.”

“Okay, okay, I’m switching,” he said, still laughing. “I’ll make sure the chocolate gets delivered to your gate. It’s got your name on it. Well… your call sign, anyway. Couldn’t exactly ask for your real name without sounding like a creep. Oh, and there’s a little something extra in the box, too.”

Your finger froze over the transmit button. “What kind of extra?”

“Just a little something. See you on the ground, beautiful.”

The line went silent as he switched to Approach, leaving you staring at your screen with a whole lot of annoyance, curiosity, and something dangerously close to anticipation swirling in your head.

Maki rolled her chair over without missing a beat. “Did he just say he brought you chocolate? From Switzerland?”

“Apparently.”

“And declared you his girlfriend to customs?”

“I hate him.”

“And there’s something extra waiting for you at the gate?”

You gave her a warning look. “Stop that.”

“You realize most guys don’t even text back. And he flew across eleven time zones and smuggled in fancy chocolate for you. Yeah, no one does that unless they’re into you.”

“It’s creepy.”

“Sure,” she said. “So creepy that you’re smiling about it.”

“I’m not smiling.”

“You absolutely are.” She leaned closer. “And you’re totally going to check the gate during your break.”

You turned back to your screen. “I have work to do.”

“Right. Want me to cover for you while you go see what the handsome pilot brought you?”

“I’m not—” 

Your radar lit up. “Tower, this is Flight 892 requesting vectors for approach.” Saved by traffic, or whatever. You put your headset back on, thankful for the distraction, and focused on the radar. 

You were definitely not thinking about Swiss chocolate.

Or whatever extra he brought.

Not even a little.

Okay, maybe a little.

── ⟢ ·⸝⸝

You waited until Flight 447 was safely out of range and someone else’s problem before making your move. The tower had quieted into its usual evening rhythm—slower, calmer, manageable. Most of the midday traffic was gone. And you? You were definitely just walking to the gate to, you know, get your steps in. Obviously.

“Off to investigate your love offerings?” Maki called as you headed for the elevator.

“Gate operations check,” you tried, but you couldn’t fool her.

The box was sitting right there at the international gate desk—impossible to miss. It was white and elegant, wrapped with a dark green ribbon, and with your controller call sign handwritten on the tag. Hana, the gate agent on duty, lit up the moment she saw you.

“Oh! You’re Control Seven! Captain Gojo dropped that off a few hours ago. He was very specific that it had to go to ‘the controller with the most beautiful voice in aviation.’” She giggled like a schoolgirl. “He’s so romantic.”

You stared at the box. It was bigger than you’d expected with a fancy logo that suggested the box probably cost more than your monthly food budget.

“Did he… say anything else?”

“Just that you’d had a rough day and deserved something sweet.” Hana sighed. “He’s so thoughtful. And his eyes? Like a winter sky.”

Winter sky? My god. You swore everyone around here was losing their goddamn minds over this man. You were so fed up with the collective swooning, you were starting to wonder if you were the only one left immune to his bullshit.

“Right. Well. Thanks.”

Back at your console, you set it down and stared at it as if it were a ticking bomb. Maki appeared at your side, peering over your shoulder.

“Holy shit. Is that from that famous Swiss brand? Do you even know how expensive that place is?”

“It’s just chocolate.”

“Just chocolate?” Maki carefully lifted the lid. Inside, each handmade confection was perfectly nestled in its own spot. “These are, like, forty bucks each. There’s at least thirty pieces in here.”

Ijichi gave a low whistle. “Your pilot boyfriend just dropped twelve hundred dollars on chocolate for you.”

“He’s not my boyfriend.” But your eyes were still glued to the box, your brain struggling to process the fact that someone had just casually spent more than your rent on Swiss truffles. Someone who’d never even seen your face.

“Oh my God, try one,” Maki said, already plucking out a champagne truffle. “Don’t be shy.”

You picked a dark chocolate filled with salted caramel and bit into it. It was... really good. Incredible, even. Probably the best thing you’d ever tasted. Which, somehow, only made this entire situation worse.

“Girl, you are so lucky,” Maki sighed, popping another piece into her mouth. “A hot pilot who brings you fancy chocolate? Where do I sign up for that kind of harassment?”

“He’s probably not even attractive. I’ve never actually seen him.”

Both Maki and Ijichi froze, their mouths full of chocolate.

“Wait,” Maki said slowly. “You’ve never seen him?”

“Our shifts don’t overlap. I’m always in the tower when his flights come in.”

“Oh my God.” Maki turned to her computer. “I’m looking him up. The airport has photos of all the regular pilots for security, right?”

“Tower, this is Flight 234 requesting vectors for approach,” crackled your headset. 

You grabbed your radio. “Flight 234, turn right heading 090, descend and maintain 4,000 feet.”

You moved quickly back to your station, eyes fixed on the radar screen. Behind you, you could feel Maki and Ijichi staring at you, clearly waiting for you to come back to them to gossip, but you waved them off without turning around. 

As you guided the aircraft in, your hand absently toyed with the ribbon around the box, and that’s when you noticed the ‘something extra’. Tucked beneath the chocolates was a postcard that showed the Swiss alps. You turned the card around.

“For the voice that always guides me home. Thank you for keeping me safe up there.” — S

You shivered.

Out of annoyance. Obviously. Not because of the note. Or the postcard. Or the very stupid, very warm feeling creeping up your neck. Nope. Pure irritation. And maybe a tiny bit of cardiac distress. From rage. Clearly.

── ⟢ ·⸝⸝

You’d barely slept the night before. Every time you closed your eyes, you’d thought about stupidly expensive Swiss chocolate, that annoyingly sincere note, and the way his voice had softened when he’d called you special. It was infuriating. You were a professional, rational adult, not someone who lost sleep over a cocky pilot with a bedroom voice that was clearly a walking red flag.

Yet here you were at 12:28 PM, exhausted and surviving on your fourth cup of awful Tower coffee because an emergency landing had turned your normal shift into a fourteen hour marathon. A passenger going into labour during a flight from Beijing had caused half the Pacific to be rerouted, and by the time the situation had been handled, the night shift was understaffed and you’d agreed—more or less voluntarily—to stay and help out.

The tower had gone still in the way airports only do at night. Just you and your collegue Kai on shift, and him busy on a separate channel, handling a delayed cargo inbound. Somewhere below, the terminal lights flickered as the cleaning crews did laps. You rested your chin in your palm and tried not to hate everything.

“Tower, this is Flight 447 requesting approach clearance.”

It took your brain a second to catch up. Flight 447. He’d just arrived from Paris. Of course. You took a breath.

“Flight 447, unable to clear for approach at this time. We have outbound traffic. Maintain current altitude and turn left heading 270 for holding.”

“Copy that. Left 270. Long night down there?”

You rubbed your eyes. “Medical emergency earlier. You’ll be in the hold for about an hour.”

“Roger. Hey—did you get the chocolates?"

Despite your exhaustion, you felt heat creep up your neck. Damn him. “Yes. Thank you. They were... unnecessary.”

“But good?”

You exhaled. “Really good.”

“Knew it. You sound tired, Control. How long you been on?”

You checked your watch. “Fourteen hours.”

“You shouldn’t be pulling shifts that long. You always look after everyone else but you’ve got to take care of yourself too, you know.”

You paused, the words hitting you sideways. Maybe it was the fatigue making you soft, or maybe it was the fact that, for once, he didn’t sound like he was trying to get a rise out of you. He sounded genuinely concerned—and it threw you off more than any flirtation ever had. You didn’t even have the energy to fight him on it.

“Someone had to cover.”

“Not at the cost of your own health. You drinking water? Eating real food? And I don’t mean the sandwiches they sell in the vending machines in the gates.”

“I did eat something a few hours ago. I’m okay. We had a pregnant passenger go into labor. Coordinated three hospitals and rerouted six aircraft, then landed them priority.”

“Is she okay?”

“Baby girl, born healthy. I heard from the flight attendant that they’ve named her Sky. It’s kinda cheesy.”

“That’s beautiful.” His voice was soft. “You helped bring a little life into the world tonight.”

“It’s just part of the job.”

“It’s not just your job, you know that,” he said gently. “It’s you being the person people count on when it really matters.”

“I don’t know…”

“You know why I always ask for this route?”

“Because you like to annoy me?”

He laughed quietly. “Because your voice is the best part of my day. Doesn’t matter what went wrong, how difficult the passengers, or how many delays we had to deal with—the moment I hear you on frequency… I know I’m okay. I know I’m home.”

You blinked. Words tangled somewhere between your chest and your mouth, but none made it out. How could they? Not with your heart thudding like it was trying to escape. Not with your lungs suddenly feeling too small. 

It was silent in the tower. Kai was still busy on the other frequency with his cargo flight, leaving you alone with nothing but Gojo’s soft breathing in your headset and the pounding of your pulse. 

You pressed your forehead to your arms on the desk, willing your heart rate to slow. Eventually, quietly, you said, “Why? Why are you being so… like this? You don’t even know me.”

“I know enough. I know you work too hard and care too much. I know you’re calm even when the tower’s on fire. I know you have the most beautiful voice I’ve ever heard, and you use it to keep people safe.”

You could barely breathe.

“You deserve more than what this job takes from you, you know,” he added, almost like an afterthought.

“You’re so stupid,” you whispered, the insult so soft it barely had teeth.

“You’re exhausted. Lie to me tomorrow.” A pause. “You know, the cherry blossoms along the Seine were beautiful in Paris.” His voice grew wistful, and you closed your eyes, letting the sound wash over you in the quiet tower. “I’d love to show you someday.”

“Your girlfriend probably wouldn’t appreciate you taking other women on romantic trips to Paris.”

“I don’t have a girlfriend,” he said without hesitation. “I wish you were my girlfriend.”

You took another deep breath, slower this time, but it didn’t help. Your face felt hot, your pulse wouldn’t settle, and worst of all, you couldn’t even pretend it wasn’t happening. What the fuck were you supposed to do with that information? 

Normally you would have hung up by now, would have found some cutting remark to shut down whatever this was becoming. But maybe it was the exhaustion seeping into your bones, or the way his voice had gone so unsual gentle, that made you let it happen—this slow unraveling of the careful distance you’d built between yourself and the voice that had somehow become more important to you than you wanted to admit

“You’re insane.”

“You’re beautiful.”

You pressed your forehead deeper into the crook of your arm, as if you could bury the whole situation under your sleeves. As if he couldn’t still hear every shaky breath of yours over the radio.

“What? No comeback?” he teased. “You really must be tired.”

“I hate how you say stuff like that,” you mumbled into your sleeve, “when you know I’m too tired to fight back.”

“Sounds like good timing, then.”

“You’re the worst.”

“Mhm. I like when you sound all sleepy,” he said, lower now, almost like he was smiling. “It’s really cute.”

“Shouldn’t you be asking if I have a boyfriend or something?”

“Sounds like you want me to ask you.”

“I don’t.” You exhaled slowly, turning your head so your cheek pressed against your arm. “I’m not looking for anything.”

“Good,” he said. “So no boyfriend. Because it would be really awkward for me to take you to Paris if you had one. Boyfriends tend to get weird about that sort of thing.”

A soft laugh escaped before you could stop it. “You don’t even know me. Why are you so persistent?”

It was silent for a while—so long it made your skin itch. You glanced at the console. Still active. But then his voice returned.

“Because for months, your voice has been the only thing that’s felt like home,” he said. “Every flight, every approach, every time you say my call sign... it feels like coming home. And maybe that’s stupid. Maybe I’m just a pilot who’s spent too many nights alone in hotels, wondering what it’d be like to hear you say my name—my real name—just once, but I…”

The tower felt impossibly still around you, save for the sound of his soft breathing in your ear and the heavy press of something strange in your chest.

“Flight 447—”

“Can I ask you something? And you can say no.”

“…What?”

“Do you want to switch to a private frequency?”

You shouldn’t. It was a clear breach of communication policy. You knew that. But the tower was empty, Kai was distracted, and there was something in the way he said it that made you want to say yes so terribly much.

“Frequency 121.9,” you said.

“Copy that. Switching now.”

Your heart thudded. You flipped over to the private channel, palms slightly clammy against the controls, and waited.

“Tower, this is Flight 447 on private frequency.”

“I’m here.”

You could hear the smile in his voice when he answered. “Tell me something about you.”

“What do you want to know?”

“Anything. Doesn’t matter. I just want to listen to your voice.”

You went quiet for a beat, still resting your head on your arms, the headset cord wrapped loosely around your fingers. Your body was heavy with exhaustion, but something warm had started to bloom low in your chest.

“That’s… I don’t know what to say.”

“Start simple. What did you have for breakfast?”

Despite everything, you almost smiled. “Coffee.”

“Just coffee?” He groaned. “That’s terrible for you. You need read food.”

“Says the man who probably only eats airplane food and orders hotel room service.”

“I make great scrambled eggs, actually,” he said, a little smug. “Secret ingredient is a little cream cheese folded in at the end.”

“You cook?”

“Mhmm. And I make the best carbonara.”

“According to who?”

“According to me. And I’m a very reliable source.”

You smiled again. “Very humble, too.”

“Absolutely. So, what about you? What do you do when you’re not busy keeping pilots from crashing into each other?”

You surprised yourself by answering. You told him about the pottery class you barely had time for on weekends, how you were trying to teach yourself guitar but could only play three chords and a more or less decent version of ‘Wonderwall’. You admitted to watch trash reality TV while folding laundry, and how your poor balcony basil plant had died three times and counting despite your best efforts. 

It just... flowed. And it felt good. Comforting, even. 

You found yourself sharing more than you meant to, your voice softer than usual in the quiet of the tower, like the distance between you made it easier to be honest. 

You hadn’t realized until now how much you’d come to like hearing his voice. Not the cocky, smug tone he usually used on open frequency—but this version. Soff and warm in a way that felt almost intimate. Like he actually cared about your answer. Like he actually saw you, even from thirty thousand feet away.

You were quiet for a moment, then asked, “Why did you become a pilot?”

A breath passed. Maybe two.

“I had a little sister. She died when she was twelve—leukemia.” He paused, and you could hear the slight hitch in his breathing. “She was obsessed with those National Geographic documentaries, always making plans about all the places she wanted to see—the Andes in Peru, hiking the Highlands in Scotland, and seeing the Northern Lights in Iceland. She had this whole notebook full of destinations she wanted to visit, with pictures cut out from magazines.”

You didn’t move, afraid even a shift might break the moment.

“She never left Japan. Never even got on a plane. But the day before she died, she made me promise I’d see the world for her. That I’d go to all the places and tell her about them.” Another shaky breath. “So I became a pilot. And every flight, every city, every sunset high above the clouds—she’s with me. I take pictures for her. Collect postcards.” His laugh barely held. “Probably sounds crazy.”

“It doesn’t sound crazy at all.” You sat up straighter in your chair and rolled your sleeves down, suddenly feeling the night air’s chill. “So the postcards from Zurich…”

“I brought one for her, and one for you. I thought... maybe you’d like it too.”

“Flight 447,” you said softly, unsure what else to do with the weight in your chest.

“She would’ve liked you,” he added. “She always said the most important people are the ones who make you feel like home—even when you’re thirty thousand feet in the air, circling your home airport at in the middle of the night because you cannot land.”

You were silent for a while, unable to find words.

“Control? Can I ask you something else?”

“…Yeah.”

“Would you like to go out with me?”

You didn’t say anything at first. Didn’t even breathe at first, hand hovering near the console, but instead of replying, you slowly set your headset down and stood—legs unsteady. You crossed the small space behind your chair, ran a hand through your hair, tried to get your lungs to work again.

You weren’t ready. Not for this. Not for him sounding that sincere. He was still up there, circling in the dark, waiting for something you weren’t sure you could give. You braced your hands on the edge of the desk, heart pounding, and finally lowered yourself back into the chair. Slipped the headset on again.

“I…” you began, but the rest of the sentence never came. Your throat tightened too much.

“You don’t have to answer now. Just think about it, okay?”

Then Kai’s voice cut through your main frequency. “Control Seven, runway’s clear for your holding traffic.”

You switched back to the private frequency, your voice steadier than you felt. 

“Flight 447, you’re cleared for approach, runway 24L. Wind 180 at 5 knots.”

“Roger, cleared for approach runway 24L.”

You hesitated, your finger trembling slightly on the radio button, then softly, “Land safe, Satoru.”

Silence stretched between you, each moment an unbearable weight as you waited for him to speak, with only the soft static of the frequency for company. When his voice finally came back, it was barely above a whisper.

“You’re so unfair, Control. How am I supposed to sleep now that I’ve finally heard you say my name like that?”

Your chest tightened, a fragile tenderness settling in your chest, and you closed your eyes, lost in the sudden intimacy of the moment.

“See you on the ground, Control… and sleep easy tonight.”

── ⟢ ·⸝⸝

After that night, everything changed.

What had once been the most frustrating part of your job had quietly become the part you looked forward to most. You told yourself it was just the routine, the familiarity. A comforting voice between the chaos. But when Flight 447’s call sign popped up on your radar, your chest would do that stupid flutter before your brain could stop it. And the professional distance you’d worked so hard to maintain began crumbling piece by fragile piece.

“Tower, this is Flight 447 requesting vectors, and good morning to my favorite controller.”

You didn’t even try to hide your smile anymore. “Good morning, Captain. Turn left heading 180, descend and maintain 4,000.”

“How’s that terrible tower coffee treating you today?”

“Still tastes like mud. But it’s keeping me awake.”

“You really need someone to bring you proper coffee sometime.”

“Flight 447, contact Approach on 119.7.”

“Will do, beautiful. Save me a cup of that mud, will you?”

You caught yourself still smiling after he’d switched frequencies. 

Your colleagues noticed the change immediately. Maki would glance over with that knowing grin the second his call sign blinked onto your screen. Sometimes she didn’t even say anything—just raised her eyebrows and took a dramatically loud sip of her green tea.

Even Ijichi who was usually so quiet and reserved, seemed to soften. Now, he’d offer a small, genuinely happy smile when Satoru’s voice came through the speakers, like a younger brother observing something inevitable unfold.

The conversations with Satoru grew longer, more personal. He’d tell you about the cities he flew to—the morning mist over Prague’s cobblestone streets, the way the late afternoon sunlight painted the Alps during his approach to Munich, the bustling markets in Vienna that smelled like roasted chestnuts and warm strudel.

“There’s this little bakery in Prague,” he said once. “Sells cinnamon sugar spirals on a stick that taste like sugar bread. I picked some up for you and will drop them by your gate when I land, though they might be a bit smushed from the flight, but I swear they’re really good.”

You imagined him standing there, maybe still in his uniform, coffee in one hand and some pastry in the other, sunlight filtering through narrow European streets. You wished you could’ve been there with him.

One Tuesday evening, he came on frequency a few minutes early. “I saw the Northern Lights last night for the first time,” he said, skipping all pretense of small talk. “Over Helsinki. It looked incredible. I took about a hundred photos, even though they don’t do it justice, but… I tried.”

“Your sister would’ve loved that.”

“Yeah. She would have.” His voice grew soft. “I wish you could have seen them too. With me.”

You hadn’t planned on any of this. You didn’t know where it was going. But every word felt a little easier than the last. Like you were building something one flight at a time, stitched together from shared late night conversations, shared silences, and a voice that had somehow made its way under your skin. And you hadn’t even seen his face.

At some point, the flirting had stopped feeling like a game. You weren’t sure when the shift happened, only that it had. One day you were rolling your eyes at his compliments, and the next… you caught yourself smiling before he even switched on the mic.

He’d compliment your voice and your hair he’d never even seen, and you’d toss something sharp right back at his ego. He’d ask about your day like it mattered, and you’d ask how the clouds looked up there in the sky. 

Somewhere between the banter and clearance codes, you stopped resisting the warmth that bloomed in your chest every time he called you beautiful. Stopped pretending it didn’t matter. Stopped pretending you didn’t wait for his call sign, or feel the flutter in your stomach when he said your call sign like it was something he’d been waiting all day to say.

“You sound tired today,” he said one afternoon, somewhere over the East China Sea, his voice laced with concern.

You stifled a yawn. “Double shift. Someone called in sick.”

“That’s the third time this month. You need to take better care of yourself.”

“I’m fine.”

“When’s the last time you took a day off? And I mean not just sleeping in because you worked late, but actually doing something for yourself?”

You paused, thought about it, and realized you couldn’t remember.

“That settles it. When I get back from the Zagreb route next week, we’re going somewhere. Somewhere with decent coffee and food that doesn’t come from a vending machine.”

“Is that a request or a demand, Captain?”

“It’s a promise.”

Late night conversations on the private frequency became your favorite kind of bad habit. You told yourself you weren’t abusing the system—you just happened to monitor 121.9 a little more closely on nights when you knew he was in the air.

When the tower thinned out to near silence, leaving only the hum of the monitors, and his overnight flights aligned perfectly with your shifts, you always found a reason to switch channels.

“Can’t sleep up there?” you’d ask when his voice came through the static.

“Autopilot’s handling the boring parts. Thought I’d check on my favorite insomniac instead.”

“I’m not an insomniac,” you’d say, leaning into the console, exhausted but smiling. “I’m working.”

“It’s 3 AM. You should be in bed, curled up with a blanket and binge some Netflix.”

“Someone’s gotta guide the pretty pilots through the night sky.”

He never missed a beat. “Just one pretty pilot in particular, I hope. Otherwise I might get jealous.”

And you let him win these little exchanges. Because the truth was, the static of 121.9 had quietly become where you truly felt yourself. A place where your voice softened, where the walls came down, where you weren’t Control Seven—you were just you. Tired, overcaffeinated, sometimes frustrated with everything—but somehow still able to breathe easier when his voice filled your headset.

You didn’t have a name for what was growing between you—but it was there. Steady. Constant. Cruising at altitude and waiting for the moment one of you was brave enough to land.

Those conversations could last hours—him circling above the Pacific while you guided other aircraft, both of you stealing moments between official duties to talk about everything and nothing. He’d tell you about passengers he’d met, you’d share stories about the quirky new controller in the tower. He’d describe the view from his cockpit, you’d explain what the radar looked like from your perspective.

“Do you ever wonder what it would be like if we’d met differently?” he asked one night.

“How do you mean?”

“If I wasn’t a pilot, and you weren’t up in a tower. If we just... bumped into each other at a grocery store or something.”

“Would you have still talked my ear off about arctic birds?”

“Probably.” He laughed. “Though I might have started with the weather like a normal person.”

“I don’t think you know how to be normal, Captain.”

You found yourself looking forward to his flights. When Flight 447 appeared on your radar, it was like a switch flipped on inside your chest. And when his route changed and he wasn’t there you caught yourself glancing at the flight board more than necessary. If his flight was delayed by weather or mechanical issues, you’d feel it settle heavy in your chest like stones until his call sign appeared on your screen.

“Miss me?” he’d tease whenever your shifts missed each other and the silence stretched too long.

“You wish.”

“I do, actually. Horribly.”

You rolled your eyes, even though he couldn’t see it. “The frequency’s been blessedly quiet without you. You wouldn’t believe how efficiently I can work without your constant interruptions.”

“Liar. You were bored as hell.”

“Flight 447, I’m transferring you to Approach before your big ego causes your plane to crash.”

“Don’t you think it’s a little to late for that, Control? It’s this big since you said my name that one time.”

You groaned, pressing your palm to your forehead, but you were smiling. Always smiling. And he knew it. You both did. And pretending otherwise had started to feel pointless.

“…I missed you.”

You leaned forward, arms crossed on the edge of your console, and hunched your shoulders, trying to shake off the shiver that traced down your spine at the sound of his voice in your ear.

“Approach is waiting, Captain.”

A few weeks had passed since that first private frequency conversation, and you still hadn’t given him a direct answer about the date. But somewhere between his stories about sunrises over the Himalayas and your chaotic work anecdotes, the question had become less about whether and more about when. Even if you didn’t have the courage to admit it yet.

“So,” he said one Thursday evening, while preparing for approach, “about that date…”

Your heart stuttered in the smallest, stupidest way.

“I know a little café in Shibuya. It’s away from the main tourist spots and makes the best matcha lattes in Tokyo. Perfect place for two hardworking colleagues to grab a coffee.”

“We are colleagues, Flight 447.”

“Colleagues who happen to enjoy each other’s company.”

“Colleagues who work together professionally.”

“Colleagues who talk on private frequencies at 2 AM about the Northern Lights and their horrible exes.” His voice carried that familiar teasing note. “Come on, what’s the worst that could happen? I promise not to talk about aircraft separation minimums the whole time.”

“The worst that could happen is that it gets complicated.”

“It’s already complicated.”

You were quiet for a moment, knowing he was right. You shifted slightly in your chair, fingers idly twirling the cable of your headset.

“Flight 447, contact Approach on 119.7.”

“The café’s called Blue Mountain,” he said before switching. “Saturday afternoon. If you’re free.”

“I’ll think about it.”

Later that night, you lay on your back in the dark, staring at the ceiling of your apartment as the last traces of twilight faded from deep purple to black outside your open window, and replayed every conversation, every laugh, every time he’d called you beautiful.

You were a grown woman. A professional. You managed emergencies, rerouted aircraft in storm systems, made decisions in mere seconds that kept hundreds of people safe every day.

And here you were. Heart in shambles over a man you’d never even seen in person.

It didn’t make sense. Pilots are arrogant. That’s a universal truth you’d learned over the years in air traffic control. They walked through airports like they owned the sky, had egos the size of their aircraft, an attention span of a goldfish when it came to relationships, and probably a different girlfriend in every city.

Satoru was a pilot. 

Therefore, by the sacred logic of the universe, he was a bad idea.

You’d learned that lesson the hard way—given your heart to people who’d seemed so sure, so persistent, so convinced they wanted forever until they didn’t. Until the reality of loving someone flawed and human became too much work, too complicated, too real.

But now here was him—persistent, charming, relentless in his pursuit of something that existed only in radio waves and imagination. All he had was your voice and whatever fantasy he’d constructed around it. And fantasies, no matter how beautiful, eventually shattered when they met reality.

You didn’t know much about him. Not his favorite movie, or if he was the type to do laundry right away or leave it on a chair for three days. You didn’t know who broke his heart last, or what he looked like when he was nervous. You didn’t even know if he wore glasses or if his hair curled when it rained.

For all you knew, he talked like this to every controller on every route. Maybe you were just one more frequency he’d tuned into. A novelty. A nice voice to pass the time.

Yet you knew he brought you gifts from cities you’d never visited. You knew he worried when you worked too many hours. You knew he talked to his dead sister through postcards and photographs, and somehow let you be a part of that grief. You knew the sound of his breathing thirty thousand feet above you, and sometimes wished you could fall asleep to it.

But this wasn’t real. Whatever this was—chemistry, attraction, some strange radio wave Stockholm syndrome—it couldn’t be real. Real relationships required proximity, shared experiences, mundane Tuesday mornings and arguments over who left the bathroom light on. Not conversations between approach vectors and weather reports in the middle of the night.

He’d never seen you laugh until your sides hurt, never witnessed you cry out of frustration. He didn’t know that you were shy in crowds, that you overthought everything, that you had trust issues wrapped around your heart like scar tissue.

This was in between. A connection built in the air, not on the ground. And you were being smart by saying no. You were being practical. Responsible. You were doing what made sense.

But why did the idea of never knowing the warmth of his hand in yours make your chest ache like you were already grieving something that hadn’t even had the chance to exist?

You rolled onto your side, pulled the covers up higher, and pressed your face into the pillow.

── ⟢ ·⸝⸝

It was one of those graveyard shifts where the world felt like it had gone still. Most of the world was asleep, save for you, a few stray cargo flights, and the quiet static of Flight 447 holding steady somewhere over the ocean. And him. Always him.

You were back on private frequency. What began, as it always did, with talk of altitudes and airspeed, soon shifted to stories of cities and people he’d met in Dublin and that little bakery he’d found in Budapest, that he’s sure of you’d love.

And then he told you about his ex-girlfriend who’d left him because she couldn’t handle the distance, the loneliness of hotel rooms. He spoke of his parents, who’d always expected him to run the family’s company, and how they still didn’t understand why he’d chosen to spend his life in the sky.

You found yourself sharing more than you probably should, as you always did in these hushed moments—your failed engagement to a man who’d wanted you to quit air traffic control because it was ‘too stressful’, your complicated relationship with your mother, and how sometimes, even now, it still felt like your worth came with conditions.

“I’ve never told anyone that before,” you said softly after confessing how you’d chosen this career partly to prove you could handle something your ex-fiancé thought was too difficult for you.

“I'm glad you told me,” Satoru’s voice was soft through the headset. And despite the exhaustion, your chest gave that familiar, traitorous flutter. “I love listening to your voice, especially when you’re being honest about things that matter.”

“Satoru…” you said, without thinking—his name slipping out in a whisper that carried more weight than it should have.

“Say that again.”

“Your name?”

“Yes,” he breathed, the single word aching. “Please.”

You hesitated. Not because you didn't want to—but because speaking it aloud meant acknowledging the weight it carried.

“Satoru,” you said again, slower this time. His name felt warm on your tongue, like something meant to be spoken softly, like a confession wrapped in a name.

On the other end of the line, silence stretched long enough to make your heart stutter.

“Satoru?” you asked. “Are you there?”

“I’m here. I was just… thinking.”

“About what?”

A beat.

“About how much I want to kiss you right now.”

Your breath caught so fast it hurt. Heat flooded your face and you pulled your headset off for a moment, pressing your palms against your burning cheeks.

You stood for a second, pacing a few slow steps behind your chair, trying to shake it off, to convince yourself you hadn’t heard what you just heard. But your heart wouldn’t stop racing, a wild bird trapped in your ribs, like your body was reacting to something your mind hadn’t even begun to process, let alone given permission for.

Because part of you had desperately wanted to hear those words. And part of you didn’t know what the hell to do with them now that they were real. You stared at the headset in your lap, hesitating. Wanting. Dreading.

After a few seconds, you slipped the headset back on.

“Did I scare you with that?”

“No,” you said quietly. “It’s… it’s fine.”

“I mean it, you know. I really do want to kiss you.”

“This is insane. We’ve never even met.”

“It doesn’t feel that way to me. Feels like I’ve known you forever.”

His words settled deep, heavier than the silence that followed. Something about them felt like a confession hanging between earth and sky, between personal and professional, between safe and what if.

“Satoru…”

“I know how you take your coffee. I know how you sound when you’re tired, and what makes you laugh when you’re trying not to. I know you bite your lip when you’re concentrating—because I can hear it in your voice. And I know you put everyone else ahead of yourself even when you shouldn’t. I know enough to care. And enough to want more.” A pause. “What else do I need to know?”

“What I look like, for starters.”

“I don’t care.”

“You don’t care?”

“No, because it’s your voice I think about at night. That’s what drew me in. The rest… it never mattered.”

You sat there, heartbeat loud in your ears, not sure how to breathe, let alone how to respond.

“Say something,” he whispered. “Please.”

“I don’t know what to say.”

“Say you’ll have coffee with me. Say you’ll give me a chance to see the woman I’ve fallen for.”

Your breath caught again. “Fallen for?” you repeated, like maybe saying it aloud would help you believe it.

“Yes. Completely, hopelessly fallen for.”

Your hands lifted—without thinking, almost desperate—and pressed against the headset like you could pull his voice closer—pull him closer. Part of you wanted him to say it again. Needed to hear it, to make sure it was real. And another part wished he hadn’t said it at all. Because now it was alive between you. Irrevocable.

“I…” You stopped, swallowed, tried again. “I have to—” You panicked and switched back to the main frequency. “Ijichi? Can you take over Flight 447 for me? I need to step out for a second.”

“Everything okay?” Ijichi’s voice sounded concerned.

“Yeah,” you said. “Just need a bathroom break.”

You yanked the headset off and fled to the small restroom down the hall, slammed the lock shut, and leaned back against the door as if afraid his words might follow you in.

You turned on the faucet, splashing cold water onto your face. Droplets clung to your lashes and slid down your neck. Still, the heat in your skin wouldn’t go away, chest rising and falling too fast.

What is happening? 

He couldn’t be serious. He couldn’t just… fall for your voice. That wasn’t how this worked. That wasn’t how any of this worked. You hadn’t even met him. You didn’t know what his laugh looked like when it reached his eyes. He didn’t know how you looked when you weren’t exhausted. And yet—

Yet here you were, breathless in a dim airport bathroom in the middle of the night, heart racing like you were the one who’d made the confession.

This is insane. He is a pilot. Probably talks like this to every other control tower from Berlin to Bangkok. But why—God, why—did you want to kiss him back so badly?

── ⟢ ·⸝⸝

You took a week off without telling him.

It was cruel—you knew that. But you needed time. Time to breathe. Time to think. Time to stop feeling like you were going to fly apart every time you heard his voice. But distance didn’t feel like space. It felt like ache.

You spent most of that week alone in your apartment, curled into corners of yourself you hadn’t visited in years. You rearranged your bookshelves. Watered your plants twice in one day. Cleaned your windows until they gleamed like they haven’t in years. 

And still, none of it helped. You ended up lying on your back in your bed, just… thinking. Wondering if he was worried. If he noticed the silence. If he regretted saying what he did.

You replayed the conversation endlessly, like a scratched record stuck on the moment his voice had dropped, tender and fragile with something like a confession. 

Completely, hopelessly fallen for. 

You could still hear it. Still feel the way your lungs had stuttered.

You hadn’t meant to fall for him. But you had.

Maybe it started the moment he told you that your voice felt like coming home to him. Or maybe it was the first time he opened up about his sister, the way his voice caught halfway through the sentence, like he was still learning how to hold that grief in his mouth. Or maybe it was even before that, when he brought you chocolate from Zurich and called you special to customs agents he’d never meet again.

You wanted to kiss him then. You want to kiss him now. And that terrified you more than anything. Not because it wasn’t real, but because you’d wanted it to be real for so long without even realizing. But wanting and admitting were two different things. 

So instead, you wrapped yourself in quiet and waited for the ache to fade. It didn’t. You thought it would. You thought time would create space, and space would give you clarity. But it didn’t, and the ache only grew stronger.

By day three, you caught yourself checking the flight tracking apps, wondering if he was flying the skies above you, if his voice was somewhere out there asking another controller for vectors. If he’d call them ‘beautiful’ too.

By day four, you were questioning whether radio silence was mature or just cowardly, and by day five, you were actively pacing your apartment, cursing yourself for disappearing and cursing him for making you feel this way in equal measures.

You heard the familiar drone of an aircraft passing overhead through your open window and stopped your pacing instantly, tilting your head toward the sound as it grew louder, then began to fade.

Was that him? His flight cutting through the darkness with some other controller guiding him home? Someone else’s voice in his headset? The thought made you sick.

Your phone buzzed against the kitchen counter. A text from Maki. “Your pilot boyfriend keeps asking where you are.”

You stared at the message for a long time. Not because you didn’t care, but because you didn’t know what to say. Because how could you possibly say I miss him without it sounding like you were already halfway in love. And maybe you were.

****

You returned on day six. Not because you were ready, or because the questions had answers, or your chest had stopped aching when his name passed through your thoughts, but because Tokyo’s sky was falling apart and there was no more time left to hide.

The call came at 3:42 AM—all available controllers needed immediately. Level four emergency.

You barely had time to pull on your uniform, hair still damp from the shower, as you rushed past stranded passengers sleeping on benches and gate agents with phones pressed to both ears, while overhead an urgent announcement looped in four languages. 

A massive weather front had swept across the Pacific, turning Tokyo’s airspace into chaos. Delayed flights, emergency diversions, aircraft running low on fuel circling in holding patterns, waiting for safe corridors to open. But when you reached your workstation, you stopped.

Flowers. 

A small, beautiful arrangement of white roses and baby’s breath in a clear glass vase.

“He sends them every day,” Maki said, appearing beside you with a stack of weather reports. “Asks if someone can place them on your desk. In case you come back.”

You couldn’t speak, only stared at the petals, watching one tremble in the air conditioning draft. Something fragile inside your chest pulled taut. 

Six days. 

He’d been sending flowers to an empty chair for six days.

“You okay?” Maki asked.

“I’m good,” you managed, swallowing hard. “I need to—” But there was no time. 

“Tower, this is Flight 892, requesting immediate vectors around weather cell bearing 270.”

For the next three hours, there was no room left for feelings. You were too busy handling all the alternate airport requests, fuel emergencies, and missed approaches that required immediate rerouting.

“Flight 315, turn right heading 180, descend to 8,000. Moderate turbulence ahead, advise caution.”

“Flight 726, negative climb, maintain 12,000. Traffic conflict. Standby for alternate routing.”

Every call you answered felt like a life being tossed into your hands. You held on tight. You didn’t shake. At least, not on the outside. 

A sudden, blinding flash from outside momentarily bleached the room, then plunged it back into deeper shadow as rain lashed heavily against the tower’s windows.

And then, between the tangle of signals and storm interference, a call sign you knew like your own name lit up your screen. 

Flight 447.

“Tower, this is Flight 447 requesting vectors through weather, and—” He paused—like he’d caught the shaky breath you hadn’t meant to let slip through. “Control, is that you?”

It shouldn’t have undone you like that. But it did. Your knees went weak under your console. Relief flooded through you at the sound of his voice, alive and safe. Your throat tightened around a dozen things you wanted to say, but there was no time.

“Flight 447, turn left heading 090, descend to 6,000. There’s a gap in the storm cell at your two o’clock.”

“Roger, left 090, down to 6,000.” A beat. “It’s good to hear your voice again.”

You wanted to respond, to explain, to apologize for disappearing like a coward, but four other aircraft were calling for attention at the same time and the storm was intensifying still.

“Flight 447, be advised, severe turbulence ahead. Recommend immediate deviation right, heading 130.”

“Negative, we’re already committed to this approach. We’ll ride it—”

Then nothing. The radio snapped to static, then went silent.

You stood up so fast your chair rolled backward and bumped into the console behind you. One hand clutched the headset tighter to your ear, the other braced against your desk.

“Flight 447, come in.”

No response.

“Satoru, do you copy?”

Still nothing. Only white noise.

Lightning split the sky outside, followed by a deep, rattling roar of thunder that vibrated through the control room. But all you could hear was the terrifying silence where his voice should’ve been.

Your hand trembled as you keyed the mic. “Flight 447, please respond.”

Then, finally, cutting through the noise, “Control. I’m here. Lost comms for a moment there.”

You sank back into your chair like your legs had stopped working, the adrenaline suddenly too much to hold. You rested your forearms on the edge of the console, hands trembling slightly as you leaned in, pressing your forehead against them, trying to steady the frantic beat of your heart against your ribs. 

“What’s with the silence now,” he whispered softly. “Were you worried about me, love?”

Love.

He’d never said that before. Beautiful, gorgeous, honey—but never this. Not like that. Not so soft and tender, like you’d been his love for so long that saying it was simply acknowledging what already existed, what had been waiting patiently in his chest for the right moment to slip free. And never had you been so stupidly, helplessly happy to hear a single word.

He is alive. He is safe. And he’d called you love.

“Flight 447, confirm you’re okay.” 

“We’re fine. Bumpy ride, but nothing we can’t handle.”

Neither of you said anything for a moment.

“I’ve missed you.”

Your throat tightened. Six days of silence. Six days of waiting, wondering, and avoiding the thing you were most afraid to admit. Six days of white roses waiting for your return, and here he was, relieved to hear your voide again like you were something precious he’d thought he’d lost. 

As if your absence had mattered. 

As if he’d missed you the way you’d missed him.

“Thank you,” you said. “For the flowers.”

“You don’t have to thank me. Just… don’t go quiet on me again, okay? It’s hard to feel like I’m coming home when you’re not the one guiding me there.”

You closed your eyes, the ache blooming hot behind your ribs. Coming home. How could he say things like that so easily? How could he make you feel like you were drowning and flying at the same time with just a handful of words spoken through radio static?

And the worst part was how easily he said it—like you really were his home, his anchor point in all that vast sky. Like this thing between you wasn’t just something imagined, but something real enough to miss, something worth coming back to.

“I won’t,” you said, barely above a whisper.

“Promise?”

“I promise.”

And you meant it. Whatever had made you run, whatever fear had driven you to take that week off—it felt so stupidly irrelevant compared to the relief of knowing he was safe. Of knowing somewhere above the clouds, he’d been looking for your voice.

“See you on the ground, beautiful.”

And then the line went silent.

Your eyes stayed locked on his radar symbol, unwilling to look away, tracking his descent as if your gaze alone could guide him safely down. Your eyes drifted to the flowers beside your console, your chest tight with guilt because you’d been too much of a coward to face what you felt for him. 

What was holding you back when he was right there? Wanting you, missing you enough to notice your absence, calling you love so tenderly. What was so terrifying about someone who made you feel like the most important voice in his sky?

He missed you. Wanted you. And you missed him like the sky misses his stars in daylight. Now he was descending through storm clouds, almost within reach, and you still didn’t know how to say any of it.

You watched his altitude drop.

8,000 feet. 

6,000.

4,000.

Each number bringing him closer to solid ground—closer to you.

Then another violent gust tore across the runway. A sharp gasp cut through the tower, everyone suddenly stood and looked out the windows as Flight 447 broke through the storm clouds, lurching violently sideways. The plane’s wings tilted at a sickening angle, fighting against the crosswind as it dropped like a stone before catching itself.

Your heart flatlined.

“Maki, can you cover for me?” you asked, voice tight, already moving.

She looked away from the window. “What? Yeah, but—” 

You were gone. Down the tower stairs, past security who barely glanced at your badge, through the restricted access door and straight into the teeth of the storm. Didn’t matter that you were soaking wet or that this was completely against protocol. All you knew was you had to see him.

Rain hit you immediately like ice, instantly soaking through your uniform, but you didn’t slow. Across the runway, Flight 447 was coming in hard. You watched it slam onto the wet asphalt—one heavy bounce, then another, the aircraft struggling to find purchase on the waterlogged asphalt before finally coming to a halt with a loud screech of brakes.

Not a crash. But rough enough to stop your breathing.

You ran faster, shoes splashing through puddles as emergency crews rushed past you toward the plane. The aircraft had stopped crooked on the runway, passenger stairs already being rolled into position as ground crew in bright orange vests hurried around the scene.

 It was stupid, so stupid. You didn’t even know what he looked like. But then—

You saw him. For the first time in your life.

He stepped out of the cockpit door, tall and undeniably handsome even amidst the chaos. His hair was drenched form the rain, plastered back from his forehead, his pilot’s uniform soaked and wrinkled. He was looking around slowly, searching through the crowd with a furrowed brow and eyes the exact impossible blue you’d somehow always known they’d be. And then—

And then his gaze found yours. And everything stopped. No thunder. No wind. No roar of engines or shouts from the crew.

Your eyes met across the storm, and the world fell away. You had never seen this man before, but it didn’t feel that way. It felt like remembering. There was no question, no doubt, no moment of uncertainty—you knew it was him the same way you knew your own heartbeat.

The voice you’d fallen for belonged to this man, this beautiful and insufferable pilot who was staring at you like he’d just found something he’d been searching for his entire life. 

And now he’d found you.

You ran toward him through the chaos, feet splashing through more puddles, rain streaming down your face. He moved toward you too, taking the metal steps down from the plane two at a time, his hand sliding along the wet railing. 

You met in the middle of the runway, both out of breath, both drenched to the bone. Rain clung to his white lashes as he stared at you—those impossible blue eyes you’d imagined a hundred times now real, locked on your face like you were the only thing in the world. And yes, they were just as blue as a winter sky. Up close, he was somehow even more beautiful than you’d let yourself believe.

You opened your mouth, then closed it again, suddenly at a complete loss for words. “Would you like to go out with me?” you finally managed, having to raise your voice over the wind and rain.

Satoru blinked, his hair plastered against his forehead. A slow, handsome smile spread across his face.

“Yeah,” he said, voice rough with emotion. “I’d really like that.”

And then he was moving, one hand sliding around your waist while the other came up to cradle your face, thumb brushing away raindrops—or maybe tears, you couldn’t tell anymore. He pulled you closer, bridging the last inches like he’d been waiting forever to do it.

When he kissed you, it was like coming home after being lost for years. Desperate and tender, months of longing finally given form. His lips were impossibly soft against yours, warm despite the cold rain, and you could taste the storm on his mouth, feel the way his breath caught when you kissed him back.

Rain poured around you as you finally, finally kissed the voice that had become your everything.

When you broke apart, both breathless, he rested his forehead against yours. His hands trembled slightly where they held you, like he still couldn’t believe this was real.

“God, you’re so beautiful,” he whispered.

Then he was kissing you again, deeper this time, pouring months of missed chances and sleepless nights into the space between your lips. His grip tightened on your waist. Without breaking the kiss, he lifted from the ground and spun once, twice, in the pouring rain like you weighed nothing at all.

Storm clouds churned overhead and emergency crews moved around you, but it felt like you were the only two people in the world—suspended in this perfect moment between earth and sky and the the feeling of finally being found.

── ⟢ ·⸝⸝

A few weeks later.

“Careful with that,” Satoru warned as you briefly touched a panel of switches, his hand catching your wrist gently. “Unless you want to explain to the airline why we accidentally activated the emergency slides in the hangar.”

You were perched in the captain’s seat of his Boeing 777, legs tucked beneath you as you took in the array of countless instruments, screens, and controls that made up his office thirty thousand feet above the ground. The cockpit was smaller than you’d imagined, more intimate, every surface covered with buttons and displays that somehow made sense to him.

“You actually understand all of this?”

“Each and every switch, gauge, and warning light.” He leaned over you from where he stood beside the captain’s seat, his chest brushing your shoulder as he pointed to different instruments. “See this? It’s the primary flight display—shows our altitude, airspeed, heading. That’s the navigation display, weather radar here…”

You could smell his cologne, feel the warmth of his body as he leaned in closer to point out the next display. You loved watching him like this—the way he lit up when talking about his aircraft, completely absorbed in every detail with that endearing kinda nerdy side of his. But being this close to him made it hard to focus on anything he was saying when all you could think about was the way his voice rumbled low near your ear.

“And this,” he continued, reaching around you to tap a small screen, his arm caging you in against the seat, “shows exactly how beautiful my air traffic controller looks in my chair.”

You turned to find his face inches from yours. His sky blue eyes caught the gentle light like glass, impossibly clear, and for a second, you forgot how to breathe.

“That’s not what that screen shows.”

“No? Then why can’t I look away from it?”

“You’re stupid.” But you were smiling, tilting your head back against the headrest to maintain eye contact. “Show me something else.”

“Demanding little controller.” His fingers trailed along the overhead panel, flipping switches as he spoke. “These control cabin pressure, air conditioning, electrical systems…”

You sank deeper into the chair, letting his soothing voice wash over you.

“These are the autopilot controls.” His hand moved again. “This button engages the system—basically tells the plane to fly itself according to the flight plan we’ve programmed.” His finger moved to another switch. “This one controls altitude hold, and this manages our heading.”

“But here’s the most important thing.” Satoru reached toward a small compartment near the instrument panel and pulled out a photo of the two of you from that stormy night—completely drenched, kissing in the rain. It was blurry as hell and underexposed, and absolutely perfect.

“I still can’t believe Hana managed to get this shot,” you said, taking it from him. “She really thought ‘Oh, what a perfect time for a picture’ while there was literally an emergency evacuation going on.”

Satoru laughed. “But aren’t you gald she took it?”

“We look absolutely stupid.” 

Your hair was plastered to your face, his uniform wrinkled and soaked, but you both looked happy. Really happy.

“You look perfect,” he said, leaning closer. “And you were so cute when you had that total meltdown thinking something happened to me.”

“I did not have a meltdown—”

“You ran across an active runway. In a storm.” He traced the edge of the photo with his finger, smiling. “My professional, composed controller lost her cool because she was worried about her pilot.”

“You’re insufferable.”

“I’m just saying—” He leaned back against the instrument panel, clearly enjoying this. “For someone who spent months pretending to hate my guts, you certainly changed your mind when you thought I might be hurt.”

“I was worried about you.”

His smile softened. “You didn’t have to.” He paused, then reached out, gently cupping your face. “No matter how rough the storm or the landing, I’m never really lost—not when I know you’re there. You always guide me home safely.”

“You’re stupid.”

“Stupidly in love, yeah,” he murmured—and then he kissed you.

What started soft and slow quickly turned heated. You pulled him closer by his tie, and he braced his hand against the seat beside your head, his tongue sliding against yours as his mouth pressed hungrily to yours.

“Controller,” Satoru said between kisses, his voice already rough. “What exactly are you starting here?”

“I’m not starting anything,” you said, even though your fingers were already working his tie loose.

“Clearly.”

You rose from the chair and tugged gently at his loosened tie and he followed without resistance. With a gentle push to his chest, you guided him down into the captain’s seat. He let himself fall back into it, eyes locked on yours. Without a word, you climbed into his lap, straddling him. His hands found your waist immediately, pulling you close as his mouth met yours again like he couldn’t stand another second apart.

“My break’s over in fifteen,” you murmured against his lips. “And the plane’s grounded for another hour. No one should be around.”

He pulled back just enough to give you a look. “Wait… did you check the maintenance schedule before coming here?”

“Maybe.”

“God,” he groaned against your mouth, his hands gliding up your back. “Do you even know what you do to me?”

“I’m just making efficient use of our time, Captain,” you whispered, rolling your hips slightly and feeling him tense beneath you. “Isn’t that what good air traffic control is about? Proper scheduling and all that?”

His laugh came out breathless, strained. “Pretty sure this isn’t in any manual I’ve read.”

“Then I guess you’ll have to improvise.” You threaded your fingers through his white hair and pulled him closer. “You’re good at handling unexpected situations, aren’t you?”

Whatever he was about to say dissolved as he caught your lips again, urgency building in the small space between your bodies. One hand slipped beneath your shirt, warm fingers tracing the curve of your lower back, while the other gripped your thigh possessively.

You started undoing the buttons of his shirt with trembling fingers, impatience bleeding into every movement. Fabric slipped from his shoulders as you pushed it off. You pressed your hands against his bare chest, feeling the rapid thud of his heartbeat under your palms and traced slowly down over his abs, earning a rough groan of his against your lips.

“Why do I get the feeling this was your plan all along?” 

Satoru tugged at your shirt, easing it off your shoulders as his lips trailed along your collarbone, then down to the strap of your bra, pushing it aside to press kisses to the skin beneath.

“Says the man undressing me in his cockpit,” you managed, though your voice caught when his mouth found your neck and sucked lightly.

“I can’t believe you let me ramble about navigation systems for ten minutes straight when this was your plan.”

“You’re cute when you’re being all professional and nerdy.”

“You’re terrible.” 

His hands gripped your hips, pulling you closer until you could feel him hard and pressing through his uniform. A soft sound escaped your lips before you could stop it, and his mouth crashed back onto yours, like he was trying to steal every moan before it left your lips.

“Careful. Don’t want us getting caught, right?”

You barely heard him. Your hands dropped to his belt, leather unfastening fast. It didn’t take long to push aside everything that wasn’t necessary. You were both nothing if not efficient, after all. And the last threads of restraint snapped as Satoru’s hands slid up your bare thighs, fingers hooking beneath your underwear and pulling it aside.

His head tipped back against the seat, breath catching as you moved against him. “Fuck,” he whispered, hands gripping your waist and pulling you closer as you found your rhythm together. His mouth on yours again, swallowing the soft sounds neither of you could hold back.

Surrounded by the controls and countless displays, the cockpit windows slowly fogging from your heated breathing, you couldn’t help but think about how it all started. This was where it began—thirty thousand feet above the world, suspended between earth and sky in the place where his voice had first found yours. From that very first radio call, from the moment he’d called you beautiful, it had always been leading here. 

As if inevitable.

Now, with your hands mapping his skin and your name falling from his lips in soft moans, it felt like coming full circle. From air traffic control to this. From ‘Flight 447’ to ‘Satoru.’ From guiding him home to finally being home.

And that felt pretty damn good.

── ⟢ ·⸝⸝

Six months later.

“Tower, this is Flight 447 requesting permission to land and take my gorgeous girlfriend out for dinner tonight,” came the voice you loved through your headset, smooth as always despite the late hour.

You rolled your eyes, though you smiled. “Flight 447, you do realize the entire tower can hear you, right?”

“Even better. Let them all know how lucky I am.”

Around the control tower, your colleagues had long since stopped pretending to be annoyed by Satoru’s radio flirtations. Maki still teased you about how cute you both sounded over the frequency, and even Ijichi had gotten used to the intimate banter without blushing like a teenage boy who’d accidentally walked into a lingerie store.

The gifts never stopped coming. From Vilnius, he’d brought a handwritten pierogi recipe from an elderly woman he’d chatted with during his layover—and it was surprisingly good when he made it for you on the weekend. He did not lie when he told you he’s a good cook. 

From Faro came a hand painted pot for the basil plant you’d surely kill again, but it didn’t matter as he’d secretly replace it in the middle of the night so you’d think you’d finally managed to keep a plant alive and see your happy smile. Seville brought oranges he’d handpicked from the city gardens, and Barcelona brought a gorgeous Picasso art book.

And, of course, every trip came with two postcards. One for you, and one for his sister. You’d started framing the ones meant for her and hanging them throughout his apartment for him.

“You know you don’t have to bring me something from every city,” you’d told him after he’d brought more expensive chocolate from Zurich.

“Let me spoil my girl,” he’d replied simply, watching you take a bite. “Besides, all you see is that boring tower all day. You deserve a little treat.”

The radio banter had only gotten worse—or better, depending on your perspective.

“Tower, Flight 447 requesting vectors to your heart.”

“Flight 447 keep it professional or I’m diverting you to Osaka.”

“Oof. Brutal. But if you send me to Osaka, you’ll never see what I brought you from Rome.”

Your colleagues had started keeping a list of his most ridiculous radio calls. ‘Flight 447 requesting visual on the prettiest controller in the hemisphere’ was Maki’s current favorite, while Ijichi still cringed about the time Satoru had asked for ‘Requesting altitude adjustment because I just fell for you—again.’

Yeah. It was absolutely cheesy.

Moving in together happened gradually, then all at once. Your clothes moved to his closet, your coffee mugs replaced all of his ugly ones in the kitchen, and suddenly your shift schedule was magnetted to his refrigerator beside his flight rotations. One day, you realized you were planning your lives around each other without ever having had the conversation.

“Your apartment’s bigger,” you’d pointed out, when you finally made it official.

“Yours has the better balcony. But mine’s closer to the airport.”

“So, your place then. But I’m bringing my good coffee maker.”

“And won’t let me see that adorable little wince you do at my terrible coffee in the morning? You’re heartless.”

But the real adjustment wasn’t space or schedules. It was learning each other’s bodies with the same intensity you’d spent months learning each other’s voices. After all, with falling in love through radio static, there was a lot of missed physical intimacy to make up for.

Some weekends you didn’t even make it out of your shared apartment, too consumed with discovering each other all over again. Your back hit the mattress with a soft thud, sheets warm beneath you as he settled over you, pressing kisses to your jaw, your neck, your collarbone like he couldn’t decide where to focus first.

“I used to fantazise about this,” he murmured between kisses.

“About what?”

“This.” His voice dropped lower, lips bruising your throat. “What you’d sound like when you weren’t trying so hard to be professional… imagining the sounds you’re making now, how you’d moan my name with that pretty voice of yours.”

You pulled him closer, lips finding his again, his tongue hot against yours.

 “Yeah?”

He smiled against your mouth. “You have no idea how many nights I imagined the taste of your skin. How many times I lay awake wondering if your thighs would shake when I fucked you hard enough.”

Your breath stuttered, hands gripping his shoulders like they were the only steady thing left. “Good thing we’ve got time now to find out.”

“Yeah. And I plan on making up for all of it,” he whispered—just before his fingers slipped between your thighs, and you forgot how to speak altogether.

And you did make up for lost time. Learning that he was somehow even more affectionate and thorough in person than over the radio. 

In the quiet of your bedroom, with the curtains drawn and the world hushed beyond the walls, you discovered each other slowly.  

How he always shivered when you traced patterns across his abs. How you had a small scar just below your ribcage from a childhood fall that he found with his lips, kissing along your skin until you arched beneath him. How your body tensed and then melted completely when his mouth worked between your legs, drawing sounds from you that made him groan against your skin.

You learned the weight of his arm draped over you, holding you close when he was moving from behind, and how soothing it felt when his fingers traced lazy patterns on your shoulder until sleep claimed you both. Discovered that lazy morning sex, followed by his surprisingly good scrambled eggs, was the perfect way to start any day.

You spent hours like this, days even, learning the language of each other’s bodies with a thoroughness that left no inch unexplored and no fantasy unfulfilled.

“You know,” he said one evening, pulling you into his lap while you tried to review approach procedures on the couch, “I spent so many nights wondering what it would be like to touch you while you worked.”

“And now?”

“Now I get to find out what happens when I do this—” His lips found that sensitive spot on your neck, making you gasp and completely forget what you’d been reading. “While you’re trying to be all professional.”

“That’s unfair.”

“That’s what makes it fun.”

The night everything changed started like any other. Weather delays had backed up traffic for hours, leaving Satoru circling above the Pacific in a holding pattern while you worked through the endless stream of aircraft. It was past midnight, the tower hushed and dim, when you finally switched to private frequency.

“Bored up there, Captain?”

“Never bored when I’m talking to you. Though I was thinking…”

“Dangerous pastime for you.”

“We’re both stuck here for the next few hours. You, managing this beautiful chaos from your tower. Me, alone with the stars at thirty thousand feet.” His voice carried that familiar warmth that always made something flutter in your chest. “Feels like the perfect date to me.”

You ended up talking for three hours, switching between official vectors and private topics, guiding other aircraft while Satoru described the city lights below and the way clouds shimmered like winter frost in the moonlight.

“Strange how this all started, don’t you think?” you mused during a quiet moment. “Two voices falling for each other over radio frequency.”

“You’re not having second thoughts, are you?”

“No. It’s just… kind of crazy, isn’t it? All of this.”

He was silent for a beat. When he spoke again, his voice was different—nervous, almost fragile.

“Can I ask you something?”

“Of course.”

“Will you marry me?”

Your heart stopped.

“I know it’s not how this is supposed to go. I know it’s not normal. But then again, nothing about us has been. I’m thirty thousand feet in the air, you’re down there keeping the world together, and all I can think about is how much I want to spend the rest of my life with you.”

Time stretched thin in the control room as you struggled to process what he’d just asked, your heart thundering so loud you were sure he could hear it through the frequency.

“Yes,” you whispered, the word barely more than a breath as you leaned forward, elbows braced against the console. Your hands trembled as you pressed them to your face, overwhelmed by the rush of joy and disbelief.

“Yes?”

“Yes. I’ll marry you.”

He let out a heavy breath. “God, I love you. You just made me the happiest man alive. I swear, if I could pull down every star from up here and give them to you, I would.”

You blinked back tears, smiling. “Just come home safe, you idiot.”

“Always,” he said, and his voice had never sounded more sure. “Your voice guides me home, remember? It always has.”

You thought you’d mapped every corner of him after six months of living together—every habit, every sleepy morning routine, every sound he makes when he cums.

But then came the private jet revelation over scrambled eggs on a random Friday morning.

You’d known he came from money—the expensive gifts, the way he never seemed to stress about finances and had this really fancy apartment—but you hadn’t grasped the scale until he casually mentioned his father’s company owned a fleet of corporate aircraft.

“I was thinking we should take some time off and explore the world a little,” he said, like offering to fly you around the world was the same as suggesting takeout for dinner. “We could take one of the jets.”

“Wait wait wait… you have access to a private jet?”

“Technically, I have access to several.”

Your spoon slipped out of your hand and landed in your eggs.

The first time he took you somewhere—a long weekend in Kyoto for cherry blossom season—you finally understood why he’d fallen in love with flying. 

Up there, suspended between heaven and earth, everything felt different. The world spread out below like a map, cities reduced to scattered lights and rivers threading silver through green landscapes. You watched his hands move over the controls, the same hands that traced gentle patterns on your skin at night, now guiding you both through layers of cloud and sky.

“So this is what you see every day?” you asked, staring out at clouds that looked close enough to touch.

“This is what I used to see.” He glanced over at you. “Now I only see you.”

It started with short weekend trips, then longer stays overseas when both your schedules allowed it. He took you everywhere you wanted to go.

Venice, he bought you both gelato and told you stories about the Murano glass blowers. Barcelona, where you got lost in Gaudi’s wild architecture and found tiny tapas bars nestled in medieval alleyways. And Iceland, where the Northern Lights painted the sky green and purple while you kissed in a natural hot spring—finally experiencing all the places he’d described to you over radio waves. But now you experienced them together.

“Your sister would have loved this,” you said Reykjavik, wrapped in his arms under the dancing aurora.

“She would have loved you,” he replied, pulling you closer in the warm water. “She always said the best adventures were the ones you shared with someone who made you feel at home.”

“Remember when you used to tell me about this place?” you asked one evening in Prague, watching him order those cinnamon sugar spirals from the same bakery he’d told you about months ago over the radio.

He handed you the warm pastry with a smile. “I remember wishing you were here when I first tried it. I used to imagine what you’d say about the cobblestones, or if you’d laugh at my terrible pronunciation when I tried to order something local.”

You took a bite, sugar melting on your tongue. “And now?”

“Now I get to see your face when you taste it for the first time.” He pulled you close, the golden hour painting everything warm around you. “Now I get to hold your hand instead of describing how the sunset looks over the Charles Bridge. I don’t have to imagine anymore.”

Each trip revealed new layers of him—and new ways to make up for all those months of being just voices to each other. 

Somewhere over the Atlantic, you learned just how good he was at multitasking—okay, autopilot might have helped—his hands tangled in your hair, mouth on yours, while the stars streaked past the windows. Long afternoons in Parisian hotel rooms, rain drumming against the windows while you learned exactly how sensitive he gets when overstimulated. Sunset on private beaches in Thailand, where he discovered the sweet sounds you make when he uses three fingers instead of two. 

“I used to get hard just from hearing your voice,” he admitted one night in Santorini, pushing in deep while the Aegean sparkled below your terrace.

“Just from my voice?”

“Especially when you’d get that stern controller tone. ‘Flight 447, maintain current heading.’” His breath caught as you clenched around him, fingers finding yours and intertwining where he pressed them into the mattress. “You have no idea what that did to me.”

“Show me what it did to you.”

He did, thoroughly and repeatedly, until you understood exactly how much he’d wanted you during all those professional exchanges.

The wedding happened a year later, simple and perfect in a garden overlooking Tokyo Bay. Satoru insisted on writing his own vows, and when the moment came, he pulled out a piece of paper that looked suspiciously like a flight plan. 

He promised to pull down the stars for you if you ever wanted them, and you vowed to always be his voice guiding him home.

Years passed like this.

At some point, your story was known by everyone at the airport. Everyone was swooning over the perfect love story of two people who fell in love over their voices alone.

But the best parts were always the quiet moments. Morning coffee in your shared kitchen while he planned routes and you reviewed approach procedures. Afternoons when he’d surprise you at the tower with flowers and terrible jokes that made you ground and your colleagues laugh. Evenings curled up together planning the next adventure, his pilot charts spread across the coffee table next to approach manuals and takeout containers.

“Where to next?”

“Anywhere you want,” was always his answer. “As long as we’re flying together.”

And through it all, some things remained beautifully constant—the flutter in your  stomach when his call sign appeared on your screen, his voice calling from the sky, yours answering from the tower, and the way he still brought you something from every city.

“Tower, this is Flight 447 requesting permission to kiss my beautiful wife once I land. And yes, I know this is a public frequency, and yes—I want everyone to hear it.”

“Flight 447, you’re the worst.”

His laugh crackled through the radio. “I love you,” he said, still completely, hopelessly in love.

And every time he landed, every time you watched his plane touch down safely on the runway, that same warmth bloomed in your chest, just like it had from the very first day. Because no matter how many flights he took, how many cities he visited, how many years passed—he always came back to you.

After all, your voice had been the one calling him home from the very beginning.

The End

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author's note — wait ! before you go ! if you enjoyed this story, i’d be forever grateful if you’d consider gifting me a few minutes of your time to participate in a research survey for my master’s thesis in psychology (if you haven't already) <3

here's the link.

it’s completely anonymous, but just a heads-up: the survey touches on nightmares and emotional wellbeing, so it may be sensitive for some. please feel free to stop at any point if it doesn’t feel right for you.

thank you for flying with insufferable pilot gojo airlines ! please make sure your heart is in the upright position before disembarking. hope this brought you as much joy to read as it brought me to write hehe. somehow i love this idea so much of pilot gojo being completely smitten over a voice alone :')) <3

and sorry that this got unexpectedly horny at the end, my apologies lol. until next time, this is your author signing off. safe travels !

ps: if you want to get notifications for future updates, you can join my taglist here.

tags — @fayuki @starmapz @starlightanyaaa @sxnkuna @cocomanga  

@nanamis-baker @rosso-seta @sugurbo @chiyokoemilia @janbannan  

@bloopsstuff @snowsilver2000 @ihearttoru @momoewn @yokosandesu  

@90s-belladonna @fairygardenprincesss @juneslove21 @glenkiller338 @gojossugarcandy  

@wiserion @moucheslove @nanasukii28 @sugucultfollower @leuriss  

@raendarkfaerie @yeiena @rainthensun @yvesdoee @amayaaaxx  

@cristy-101 @bnbaochauuu @markliving @strawberryswtchblaxe @whytfisgojosohot  

@bloodandnix @zanayaswrld @noble-17 @soapyaya @ethereal-moonlit  

@beaniesayshi @etsuniiru @candyluvsboba @iglb12 @doobybopbop  

@kamuihz @katsukiseyebrows @ezrazra @kalulakunundrum @torusbbg  

satoru would never tell you if there’s something missing. he’d never come back and demand back something he gave you, he doesn’t think he could ever take back something he gave you—being handed back his heart after pressing it to your palms is hard enough. but then again, maybe he should look for small things you probably missed. just so he can come back. just so he can see you—how else will he see you now?

“no, it’s alright,” he says quietly. he doesn’t miss the way you quickly let go as soon as his hands grab the bag, almost like you’re being careful enough not to let your fingers meet each other. “you can uh…you can just keep them. or…throw them out if you don’t want them,” he mumbles.

you nod, standing there silently. it’s quiet, and then it’s quiet some more. and finally, you look up at him for the first time since he got here, staring at him a little expectantly. oh, right. now would be the part where he leaves.

“can i…can i just know why?” he croaks. fuck. he’s not supposed to cry. you ripped his heart out and threw it at his feet, you didn’t even care to hand it to him even after you tore every artery apart. but he sniffles anyway, lips wobbling as he stares at you. “why are you leaving me?”

your fingers twitch, like you itch to reach over and wipe that tear that rolls down his cheek. in the end, you cross your arms instead. “i already told you, satoru—”

“that’s bullshit,” he clicks his teeth, shaking his head as he stares at you frustratedly, “you gave me some bullshit reason.”

satoru has worked so hard to be here—to be with you. hadn’t he done enough? hadn’t he told you about himself, things he didn’t want to? hadn’t he tried to become something, someone more than just a guy swimming in trust funds? hadn’t he worked for your attention, waited outside classes and walked opposite directions in the hall with you just to seem dedicated? fuck, he even burned his hand trying to learn how to make pancakes to impress you, let the maids laugh at him as he twisted the stove the wrong way to try and turn it on. 

why wasn’t it enough? what more could he give you than everything? how can the guy who has everything not have enough to give? he doesn’t understand.

“satoru, we weren’t gonna work,” you pinch your nose—it’s like you’re the one who doesn’t understand why he’s being like this. “the sooner you accept that the more hurt you’re saving the both of us—”

“we were working just fine,” he says exasperatedly. it’s like you insist he’s crazy when he’s nothing but sane. like he’s trying to tell you the sky is blue, and you’re refusing to believe it’s anything other than green. it’s clear. it’s practically a fact. you were doing just fine—why don’t you see that? “we were happy,” he takes a step forward and cups your cheeks, pressing his forehead to yours, “was it someone? did they tell you something? just tell me who, baby—i’ll fix it. i’ll put them in their place, okay? no one can bother you if i get them to leave you alone—”

“then you leave me alone,” you whisper. he stills. you pull away from his hands. “sator—gojo. please just leave me alone. it’s better that way.”

you close the door, and he stands there. numb. maybe a little shocked. entirely ruined.

gojo. he laughs quietly after a moment at that—it’s a laugh meant for men who’ve lost the last thread to sanity. gojo. it’s like a slap in the face, being called the name he worked so hard to get you to drop. it took him weeks—months, even, to convince you to call him satoru. then he upgraded to toru. then it was baby. sometimes you teased him and called him pumpkin—he called you peaches in return. when you introduced him, you called him your boyfriend. 

not anymore. now he’s back to gojo—that god-forsaken name with everything but what he really wants attached to it. his grandfather’s legacy. his future. business deals. fancy invites. more money than he knows what to do with. the name gojo comes with everything but you.

but he had you for a bit, didn’t he? when he was just satoru—but now he’s gojo again, and you’re gone. the only sign of you left is in the faint traces of your perfume in the sweaters you’ve returned. 

and satoru still isn’t sure what brought the break up on. he thinks it’s the part that stings the most—when everything seems perfect one second, and then it’s not. had he not tried enough? maybe he was too much. maybe he didn’t understand you the way you needed him to. maybe he was too overbearing. maybe he asked for too much too fast. 

he’s not sure. he tried asking when you broke it off—you only shook your head and said it wasn’t going to work out between the two of you, that it was a mistake to try at all. mistake? how could you call this a mistake? things were so perfect, weren’t they?

satoru doesn’t think there was even one second he wasn’t smiling when he was with you, and he used to think the same was true for you too. had you been faking it this long? or was it real at one point—had he really failed you so badly, seen past you so blindly that he didn’t notice when your smiles stopped reaching your eyes?

it’s too late, he figures. you and satoru are broken up. 

you ask him to come over one morning, and he does—because he always comes when you call. he brings your coffee order from that cafe you like, the one you don’t go to often because the coffee is more overpriced than any other coffee shop you’ve ever seen. he’s grinning when you open the door, leans in to kiss your lips excitedly. you turn your head then, and his lips meet your cheeks instead—he supposes he should’ve known it at that moment. he should’ve seen that your lips weren’t smiling. your eyes were tired, a little red. you were hugging yourself in that way you do when you’re nervous. you didn’t let him kiss your lips, you made him kiss your cheek. 

and then you sat him down on that worn-down couch of yours, took off that bracelet his mother gave him to gift you on your anniversary, and pressed it to his palm as you said we should break up. break up. you wanted to leave him—and satoru didn’t understand, still doesn’t understand. 

he’s tried for so long, replayed the last month of your relationship in his head over and over and fucking over. you always smiled. you kissed him first. you held his hand, and even squeezed. you asked to see him. you laughed when he was around. you said i love you. you were happy. but then you weren’t—when did you stop being happy? and how could you have stopped feeling it with him?

—————

breaking up with satoru is the hardest thing you’ve ever done. how long can people live without the sun? you think not longer than a few minutes—that’s what it feels like without satoru’s warmth, anyway. 

gojo satoru has always smiled as long as he’s been with you. he smiled smugly on your first meet, smiled bitterly after every rejection, smiled in pure glee when you finally said yes, and smiled like his fingertips could touch the sky every time he saw you after that. 

satoru has never looked sad for long in your presence—you have that effect on him, you make his lips curl and his eyes brighten in that way that they deserve to shine. but for the first time ever, his eyes dim with you around, his lips curl into a frown at your words, and he cries for you. his eyes glisten with tears instead of wonder, and you think for a moment that you might be making a mistake. 

but then you remember that this is for the best—that if you really love gojo satoru, you’ll let him go instead of clipping his wings.

“he’s picked up his things,” you speak quietly into the phone. you don’t sniffle even as you desperately need to—it’s the last bit of control you have left, and you intend to keep it. “i won’t be seeing him again.”

“good,” his father speaks, “that’s good to hear.” 

satoru’s father is a cold man, you learn that on the first meet. he doesn’t look at his wife with a soft look that tells you there’s any love built between the decades of marriage, and he doesn’t look at his only son with any affection for the boy he raised. instead, he stares at satoru like any businessman would an opportunity—with a calculating gaze that tries to work out the best course of action for the most profit. 

satoru is young, but he’s charming and conniving and knows how to get what he wants when he wants—he’s quick on his feet and rarely lets himself get cornered into a wall. in the last three generations of the family business, no heir has shown as much promise as gojo satoru. that’s what his father tells you, anyway. you believe him—satoru is smart and knows how to play his cards right, you won’t deny that. his future is set to be comfortable, and he’s never known anything outside of that, never built any other plans for himself. 

you can’t rip that away from him—not for your own sake, not for your own happiness. 

“you promised you wouldn’t freeze his trust funds once i ended things,” you remind him, “and that he’d keep his inheritance.” somehow, because the world grants you this one favor, your voice doesn’t shake—it’s steady and firm as it reminds the stone-cold man at the end of the line of your agreement—and he offers a slow chuckle that makes your jaw clench. 

“yes, i do recall,” he hums, “i’m glad we could come to agree. you understand, don’t you? it is my job as his father to do what’s best for him.”

you know what he’s saying—what that means. you’re not what’s best for him. maybe he’s right—maybe satoru needs someone who’s equally as promising to build a successful company into even more success. maybe he needs someone who can take him out for a change to those fancy places he takes you every few weeks. maybe he needs someone who’s heard of half the brands he wears and doesn’t scold him to turn the lights off so the electricity bill isn’t high. maybe he needs someone who can keep up with everything that gojo satoru is—and that someone is not you, no matter how deeply you love him. 

“—the offer still stands, should you change your mind. i’m willing to compensate you for the trouble this must all be.” 

your lips curl into a scowl at his words. that’s the thing about rich people, you think—money is always enough to sugarcoat everything. why worry about the dead grass in your lawn when you can paint it green? but you don’t leave satoru for extra cash on your hands—nothing can be worth auctioning off the only man who’s ever made you feel anything. you leave satoru because he deserves to continue living comfortably, to make a name for himself that isn’t just a ghost of his father’s. if that means being cut from the corner of the picture, you’re willing to pick up the scissors yourself. 

“no thanks,” you hiss, “i don’t need the money.”

“i would disagree,” his father sneers, “but suit yourself.”

the line ends, and for good this time, satoru is no longer yours. was he ever to begin with? 

—————

you try to forget your ex-boyfriend—keyword, try. every hour of your life consists of you using your burner account to refresh his instagram page to see if he’s posted anything new. you unfollow satoru from every social media platform the same day he picks up his belongings—you know he’s noticed within the first thirty minutes because all of his pictures with you are gone, just like all your pictures with him. 

in what you assume is an attempt to be petty, he likes every picture of every girl he sees, and he even blocks you on twitter—you know he picks twitter because twitter is the only social media that blatantly states you’re blocked. but then you’re unblocked in two days, and you know he must be missing you now that the initial anger is faded. 

it makes you laugh a little, even through your tears. satoru is not satoru without petty fits of emotion, and you can’t bring yourself to be mad, not when it’s your fault he’s hurting like this. he’s extra sad today, you gather—if the way marvin’s room is posted to his instagram story on a blank screen is of any hint. it makes you scoff in amusement that in true gojo satoru fashion, he’s effectively told all eight-thousand-something of his followers he’s pathetically in his feelings. 

you scroll through suguru’s story, too—he didn’t unfollow you even after satoru temporarily blocked you, but you figure suguru is the only person satoru really has. you shouldn’t keep yourself close to him, not when it could hurt satoru more, so you remove him too. 

suguru is, as always, drinking at some fancy party with obnoxiously rich college students who have not a care in the world for midterms around the corner. who needs to pass when you’re swimming in money whether or not you have a degree? the first thing you learn about the rich is that most of them are only at college for the experience—they don’t see college as the stepping stone to better opportunities, there’s nothing education could offer that trust funds already don’t. but satoru attends college for himself—he enjoys business classes, you learn, and especially finance ones. for someone who spends money so carelessly, he understands it particularly well. 

there’s no sign of satoru at whatever party it is suguru is at, there’s no trace of strikingly bright white strands anywhere in any corners—you do see naoya in a corner, though, and you crinkle your nose in distaste. if satoru were here, he’d say something bitterly under his breath about the asshole, and you would giggle. but satoru is not here, and even naoya the women-hating jackass makes you miss your obnoxiously whiny ex-boyfriend. 

everything reminds you of satoru. that bear he won you at the fair (after maybe six tries) by your pillows, those polaroids at your desk that you can’t bring yourself to take down, that sticky note on your fridge he left promising to replace the creamer he finished (he’s replaced it more times than he’s needed to by now), that extra big blanket you keep on the couch because the old one barely covered his legs, that pair of silly matching mugs you both had for coffee in the mornings. 

every corner of your apartment has something that reminds you that satoru was here, that he was yours, that for a short while, he was the best thing you ever had. it’s your fault, you think—that satoru and you are here in this mess in the first place. he’s always looked at life through a hopeful lens. having everything does that to you, makes you ignorant to the misfortunes of the world, makes you think everything is within the realm of your reach. you, on the other hand, knew this was bound to happen. the two of you together is like hot oil and cool water—what feels like sparks is just the oil shooting out to burn you. you should’ve known this would have never lasted. 

in a way, you think you did. it’s why you hated him so fiercely at first—maybe deep down, you always knew you wanted him, that he would never be yours. maybe that’s why you were so adamant about rejecting him, that even when he was clearly trying, it would never be enough. satoru has always been enough, has always been what everyone has wanted—you’re not so sure you can say the same for yourself. 

you love gojo satoru. he loves you too—he falls first, and you think maybe, he might have fallen harder too. no one loves like satoru. they say if you press coal hard enough, it turns to diamonds—you think if you gave satoru coal, he would hand you back the sun and all of her stars. it’s just the kind of guy he is, the one that turns everything dull into something bright and warm and worth it. you wish you didn’t have to break his heart, you wish you could’ve walked out of this the only one hurt. but maybe, at the very least, if you break him good enough that he hates you, he’ll move on quicker, maybe have something to look forward to while you continue to work your way up and cheer him on. 

before you can refresh suguru’s page one more time to stalk his story, you’re pulled from your thoughts as someone knocks on your door—correction: pounds on your door. you jolt on your couch, standing up and making your way to the front door quickly and looking through the peephole. 

satoru. of course.

he’s soaked to the bone—it’s raining outside, and of course, just as on brand as always, he must’ve rushed here without an umbrella.

you shouldn’t open it.

but you can’t just leave him in the rain, can you? but he’s not your problem anymore, you agreed to leave him, didn’t you? but how could he not be your problem when he’s all you think about? but this could cause him trouble if his father found out he was here, right? but can you really leave someone, ex-boyfriend or not, in the pouring rain? you can’t be that cruel can you?

before you can make up your mind, he speaks up, “i know you’re standing there. open the door,” he demands. 

“satoru, go home,” you sigh, head pressing against the surface that separates you, “don’t make this anymore difficult than it has to be.”

“if it’s difficult, that means you don’t really want to do this,” he argues. he’s still as good as ever at sweet talk, still as persistent and charming as ever at getting what he wants. “please,” he croaks, “just let me in.”

you know it means more than one thing. you know it means more than just your home. but you shouldn’t, you can’t let him know why you did all this—how can you protect someone from something if they don’t let you? satoru would never let you if he knew, and that’s why you can’t let him know. 

“satoru, if you don’t leave…i’ll…i’ll call the cops,” you warn. 

“no you won’t,” he says instantly. “i’m not leaving until you open the door. and if i get sick, i’ll send you my bill for the emergency room visit.”

“you’re not going to the emergency room for a common cold, you idiot,” you scoff. 

the rain doesn’t slow—in fact, you can hear thunder. satoru is still stubbornly outside, knocking away. 

“i’ll start screaming,” he insists, “your neighbors will complain for noise again. do you want to be kicked out of this apartment? just let your cold, wet, heartbroken ex-boyfriend in if you have a heart.”

and because you are, and always will be, weak to the charms of gojo satoru, you open that damned door—even though you shouldn’t, even though you can’t, even though you said you would never again. but you do. because it’s satoru, and he always comes when you call, and you’ll always let him in when he’s here. 

“you don’t come to your ex’s house less than one week after the break up,” you sigh once you open the door. he takes a step in, shutting the door behind him. 

“why did you leave me?” he asks. 

“satoru, you can’t keep bringing this up—”

“why? just tell me why.”

“i don’t have to—”

“tell me why and i’ll stop bothering you. i just need to know why,” he insists. 

and then you break.

you’re only human. you’ve lost the man you’ve given everything to for over a year in the span of one week. you’ll never see his lovely mother again who spoiled you rotten, you’ll never hang out out with his funny best friend who treats you like family, and you’ll never be enough for gojo satoru, the rich, loud, sheltered, obnoxious, handsome jackass you met and had to do a project with and accidentally fucked over and over again until you fell in love. 

so you shove his chest, once, then twice, then a third time, each time getting weaker and weaker than the last as tears slip down your cheeks as you simply break down. “just leave, satoru,” you sob, “why can’t you just leave? why do you keep coming back?”

you hate seeing him here. you want him gone. you never want to see him again. you hope he never leaves. you’re glad to see him. you hope this isn’t the last time. you hate that he seems to not be getting enough sleep. his eyes are hollow. he must not be eating properly. he probably hasn’t attended class. he has a quiz next week. he most likely forgot about that. his clothes are wrinkly. he definitely hasn’t showered in days. 

“last month you said i was it for you,” he glares at you, his eyes red and swollen and every shade of heartbreak. you miss when they were blue—that beautiful, bright, perfect shade of blue. “last week you said we were a mistake. what the fuck do you mean, huh? what are you playing at?”

“you can realize a lot in a month—”

“not enough to erase over a year,” his voice booms. it makes you flinch and hug yourself tightly. tears slide down your cheeks, your vision is blurry. this might be the last time you see satoru, and even if he’s angry, you want to remember the curves of his features. so you wipe them away. they keep coming back. “so tell me,” he clenches his jaw, “did you string me along for a year or did something happen last week that you’re not telling me?”

“i realized you were bad for me,” you say quietly. 

satoru stares at you. it’s a piercing gaze—his eyes are electrically blue and his lashes are unfairly long and every time he stares at you, you think he almost sees into your soul. they’re tired—there are purplish bags under them on that pale skin of his, and the whites of his eyes are concerningly bloodshot. he stares, and stares, and for a second, you think you’ll die like this. watching him stare at you as your heart bleeds out. 

“i spent weeks,” his voice shakes, “i waited outside your class. i followed you to the next one. i memorized your fucking schedule.”

“satoru, you need to leave—”

“and then you fucked me and left every morning like i was nothing,” he glares, sniffling. you don’t know where the rain drops on his face start and where the teardrops end. “and then i begged you for a chance—begged. i burned my hand, got laughed at by the maids to learn how to make those stupid fucking pancakes for you.”

“i didn’t ask you to—”

“it took you two months to call me baby for the first time. did you know that? i waited two months to hear that. i thought it was the best two months i ever waited.”

“satoru,” you plead. 

you’ve given up on trying to wipe away the tears—he’s given up on crying altogether. you’ve never seen him so hollow, so dead in the eyes and so, so tired.

satoru has never gotten tired—not when he’s fighting for you.

“and then you kept pushing me away, acting like i was some shallow guy who wanted to get in your pants and leave cause i had some money to my name. i took you everywhere, introduced you proudly, let everyone say what they wanted to say about me because i loved you, and…and i thought you loved me too,” he shakes his head. 

his voice breaks, and god, so does your heart right along with it.

“i do love you,” you admit it before you realize what you’re saying. 

“then why did you fucking leave me?” his voice is loud.

satoru never yells, not at you. his voice is always gentle, patient, like he worships the ground you walk on, like he’ll get on his knees if you ask him too. satoru never yells—but he does tonight. 

“because i had to,” you sob, fingers digging into your temples as you shake. the words spill from your lips faster than the tears, like a swarm of angry bees, one following after the other. “or you’d lose everything. the trust funds, the inheritance, the company. i couldn’t let that happen to you—not for me,” you whisper. 

it feels like defeat—in the end, you couldn’t keep satoru, and you couldn’t leave him either. you couldn’t love him like you wanted, and you couldn’t let him go like you should have. what else is there left to fuck up? what more can you ruin in less than a week? the bees feel like maggots in your mouth, swarming a dead carcass.  

“so you left me because my old man threatened you with my trust funds?” he asks in disbelief. you think something in satoru dies at that—something in his shoulders falls and his eyes almost seem gray. 

satoru gets his blue eyes from his mother—they’re bright and kind and deeper than the ocean. but unlike the ocean, they’re not scary to fall into, to lose yourself in no matter how far you are from shore. his father’s eyes are gray—cold and blank and not laced with a single hint of emotion. 

you can’t help but think that blue suits satoru so much better than gray ever could. 

“it wasn’t just that,” you shake your head, “that’s not fair, satoru. what was i supposed to do? know you were about to lose everything and stay?”

“you could have talked to me before you decided for me,” he hisses, “what do you want me to say? thank you? thank you for breaking my heart? thank you for making me feel like a worthless piece of shit who wasted a year for someone who didn’t seem to care? thank you for walking out on me?”

“you know i’d have stayed if i could,” you argue, voice breaking.

“then why didn’t you? why the fuck didn’t you?”

“because i couldn’t!”

“you could!” he screams—you realize, for the first time in your life, you hate when satoru screams. he never screams. “all my life, that old man has been making decisions for me. satoru, wear this. satoru, go here. satoru, don’t do that. satoru, put that away. satoru, stay away from them. satoru, come with me. that’s all he’s ever fucking done—make every choice for me. and now…now you’re just like him,” he breathes, lips wobbling as he stares at you with hurt. 

it’s like that for a bit—you stare at him as he crumbles, and he stares at you like he doesn't know you anymore. you don’t know who leans in first, if it’s your hand or his face, but one second you’re feet apart, and the next second his face is cradled in your hands, thumbs swiping away at his tears. you catch them, one by one, waiting to wipe them away no matter how fast they come. because satoru always comes when you call, and you’ll always be there for him to find you. 

“i don’t want to leave,” you mumble, “i never do. you are it for me, i meant that, you know. who else will melt extra chocolate in my hot chocolate?”

“then don’t leave,” he begs, voice cracking, “i don’t want you to. i’ll handle that old geezer—my grandfather will knock some sense into him. fuck, suguru and i can even hide his body, it’s fine. just don’t leave, okay?”

you let out a watery chuckle, pinching his cheek as you shake your head. “i don’t know if i’m worth homicide, satoru.”

“i think you’re wrong,” he huffs, “you’re wrong about a lot of things, you know. so wrong.”

“i never said i was perfect,” you pout.

he buries his head into your neck, clinging to you tightly—you cling back, because nothing is as safe as satoru’s arms. you’d melt into his skin if you could, live in that spot right where his heart is so you can make sure it’s always beating. 

“you’re still perfect,” he mumbles, “but you’re always mean to me. this was the worst you’ve ever been.”

“i’m sorry,” you murmur, slipping your fingers into his hair—it’s still wet, you realize. he’s soaked, and he could catch a cold but you don’t care. satoru is back. he’s here in your run-down apartment with the mugs and the blanket and that toothbrush you forgot to return and that pair of socks you found in your drawer. satoru is finally home. “i’ll never leave you again.”

“promise?”

“yeah. as long as you don’t block me on twitter again.”

“you deserved that.”

“and for the love of god, toru, delete that marvin’s room story. that was so dumb.”

“are you stalking me?” he pulls away with a grin, making you glare with a huff. he chuckles, kisses your forehead as he murmurs, “missed me that bad, huh? yeah, i would too.”

“well, obviously not enough to post marvin’s room on my story.”

“you can’t be mean to me after you broke my heart!” he whines.

yeah, you think, satoru is home. he’s still that loud, obnoxious, pestering brat that he always was—and he’s still the only love you’ve ever known. 

“i love you,” you press your forehead to his, kissing him slowly. you want to kiss him harder, you want to kiss him desperately like you’ll never kiss him again. like you lost him and miraculously got him back. like you’ll never see the sun again without him. 

but there’s time for that—lots of it, in fact. because satoru is home.

“i love you too,” he whispers, “wanna shower with me? if you really love me, you would.”

read the makeup sex sequel ;) MINORS DO NOT INTERACT

satoru would never tell you if there’s something missing. he’d never come back and demand back something he gave you, he doesn’t think he could ever take back something he gave you—being handed back his heart after pressing it to your palms is hard enough. but then again, maybe he should look for small things you probably missed. just so he can come back. just so he can see you—how else will he see you now?

“no, it’s alright,” he says quietly. he doesn’t miss the way you quickly let go as soon as his hands grab the bag, almost like you’re being careful enough not to let your fingers meet each other. “you can uh…you can just keep them. or…throw them out if you don’t want them,” he mumbles.

you nod, standing there silently. it’s quiet, and then it’s quiet some more. and finally, you look up at him for the first time since he got here, staring at him a little expectantly. oh, right. now would be the part where he leaves.

“can i…can i just know why?” he croaks. fuck. he’s not supposed to cry. you ripped his heart out and threw it at his feet, you didn’t even care to hand it to him even after you tore every artery apart. but he sniffles anyway, lips wobbling as he stares at you. “why are you leaving me?”

your fingers twitch, like you itch to reach over and wipe that tear that rolls down his cheek. in the end, you cross your arms instead. “i already told you, satoru—”

“that’s bullshit,” he clicks his teeth, shaking his head as he stares at you frustratedly, “you gave me some bullshit reason.”

satoru has worked so hard to be here—to be with you. hadn’t he done enough? hadn’t he told you about himself, things he didn’t want to? hadn’t he tried to become something, someone more than just a guy swimming in trust funds? hadn’t he worked for your attention, waited outside classes and walked opposite directions in the hall with you just to seem dedicated? fuck, he even burned his hand trying to learn how to make pancakes to impress you, let the maids laugh at him as he twisted the stove the wrong way to try and turn it on. 

why wasn’t it enough? what more could he give you than everything? how can the guy who has everything not have enough to give? he doesn’t understand.

“satoru, we weren’t gonna work,” you pinch your nose—it’s like you’re the one who doesn’t understand why he’s being like this. “the sooner you accept that the more hurt you’re saving the both of us—”

“we were working just fine,” he says exasperatedly. it’s like you insist he’s crazy when he’s nothing but sane. like he’s trying to tell you the sky is blue, and you’re refusing to believe it’s anything other than green. it’s clear. it’s practically a fact. you were doing just fine—why don’t you see that? “we were happy,” he takes a step forward and cups your cheeks, pressing his forehead to yours, “was it someone? did they tell you something? just tell me who, baby—i’ll fix it. i’ll put them in their place, okay? no one can bother you if i get them to leave you alone—”

“then you leave me alone,” you whisper. he stills. you pull away from his hands. “sator—gojo. please just leave me alone. it’s better that way.”

you close the door, and he stands there. numb. maybe a little shocked. entirely ruined.

gojo. he laughs quietly after a moment at that—it’s a laugh meant for men who’ve lost the last thread to sanity. gojo. it’s like a slap in the face, being called the name he worked so hard to get you to drop. it took him weeks—months, even, to convince you to call him satoru. then he upgraded to toru. then it was baby. sometimes you teased him and called him pumpkin—he called you peaches in return. when you introduced him, you called him your boyfriend. 

not anymore. now he’s back to gojo—that god-forsaken name with everything but what he really wants attached to it. his grandfather’s legacy. his future. business deals. fancy invites. more money than he knows what to do with. the name gojo comes with everything but you.

but he had you for a bit, didn’t he? when he was just satoru—but now he’s gojo again, and you’re gone. the only sign of you left is in the faint traces of your perfume in the sweaters you’ve returned. 

and satoru still isn’t sure what brought the break up on. he thinks it’s the part that stings the most—when everything seems perfect one second, and then it’s not. had he not tried enough? maybe he was too much. maybe he didn’t understand you the way you needed him to. maybe he was too overbearing. maybe he asked for too much too fast. 

he’s not sure. he tried asking when you broke it off—you only shook your head and said it wasn’t going to work out between the two of you, that it was a mistake to try at all. mistake? how could you call this a mistake? things were so perfect, weren’t they?

satoru doesn’t think there was even one second he wasn’t smiling when he was with you, and he used to think the same was true for you too. had you been faking it this long? or was it real at one point—had he really failed you so badly, seen past you so blindly that he didn’t notice when your smiles stopped reaching your eyes?

it’s too late, he figures. you and satoru are broken up. 

you ask him to come over one morning, and he does—because he always comes when you call. he brings your coffee order from that cafe you like, the one you don’t go to often because the coffee is more overpriced than any other coffee shop you’ve ever seen. he’s grinning when you open the door, leans in to kiss your lips excitedly. you turn your head then, and his lips meet your cheeks instead—he supposes he should’ve known it at that moment. he should’ve seen that your lips weren’t smiling. your eyes were tired, a little red. you were hugging yourself in that way you do when you’re nervous. you didn’t let him kiss your lips, you made him kiss your cheek. 

and then you sat him down on that worn-down couch of yours, took off that bracelet his mother gave him to gift you on your anniversary, and pressed it to his palm as you said we should break up. break up. you wanted to leave him—and satoru didn’t understand, still doesn’t understand. 

he’s tried for so long, replayed the last month of your relationship in his head over and over and fucking over. you always smiled. you kissed him first. you held his hand, and even squeezed. you asked to see him. you laughed when he was around. you said i love you. you were happy. but then you weren’t—when did you stop being happy? and how could you have stopped feeling it with him?

—————

breaking up with satoru is the hardest thing you’ve ever done. how long can people live without the sun? you think not longer than a few minutes—that’s what it feels like without satoru’s warmth, anyway. 

gojo satoru has always smiled as long as he’s been with you. he smiled smugly on your first meet, smiled bitterly after every rejection, smiled in pure glee when you finally said yes, and smiled like his fingertips could touch the sky every time he saw you after that. 

satoru has never looked sad for long in your presence—you have that effect on him, you make his lips curl and his eyes brighten in that way that they deserve to shine. but for the first time ever, his eyes dim with you around, his lips curl into a frown at your words, and he cries for you. his eyes glisten with tears instead of wonder, and you think for a moment that you might be making a mistake. 

but then you remember that this is for the best—that if you really love gojo satoru, you’ll let him go instead of clipping his wings.

“he’s picked up his things,” you speak quietly into the phone. you don’t sniffle even as you desperately need to—it’s the last bit of control you have left, and you intend to keep it. “i won’t be seeing him again.”

“good,” his father speaks, “that’s good to hear.” 

satoru’s father is a cold man, you learn that on the first meet. he doesn’t look at his wife with a soft look that tells you there’s any love built between the decades of marriage, and he doesn’t look at his only son with any affection for the boy he raised. instead, he stares at satoru like any businessman would an opportunity—with a calculating gaze that tries to work out the best course of action for the most profit. 

satoru is young, but he’s charming and conniving and knows how to get what he wants when he wants—he’s quick on his feet and rarely lets himself get cornered into a wall. in the last three generations of the family business, no heir has shown as much promise as gojo satoru. that’s what his father tells you, anyway. you believe him—satoru is smart and knows how to play his cards right, you won’t deny that. his future is set to be comfortable, and he’s never known anything outside of that, never built any other plans for himself. 

you can’t rip that away from him—not for your own sake, not for your own happiness. 

“you promised you wouldn’t freeze his trust funds once i ended things,” you remind him, “and that he’d keep his inheritance.” somehow, because the world grants you this one favor, your voice doesn’t shake—it’s steady and firm as it reminds the stone-cold man at the end of the line of your agreement—and he offers a slow chuckle that makes your jaw clench. 

“yes, i do recall,” he hums, “i’m glad we could come to agree. you understand, don’t you? it is my job as his father to do what’s best for him.”

you know what he’s saying—what that means. you’re not what’s best for him. maybe he’s right—maybe satoru needs someone who’s equally as promising to build a successful company into even more success. maybe he needs someone who can take him out for a change to those fancy places he takes you every few weeks. maybe he needs someone who’s heard of half the brands he wears and doesn’t scold him to turn the lights off so the electricity bill isn’t high. maybe he needs someone who can keep up with everything that gojo satoru is—and that someone is not you, no matter how deeply you love him. 

“—the offer still stands, should you change your mind. i’m willing to compensate you for the trouble this must all be.” 

your lips curl into a scowl at his words. that’s the thing about rich people, you think—money is always enough to sugarcoat everything. why worry about the dead grass in your lawn when you can paint it green? but you don’t leave satoru for extra cash on your hands—nothing can be worth auctioning off the only man who’s ever made you feel anything. you leave satoru because he deserves to continue living comfortably, to make a name for himself that isn’t just a ghost of his father’s. if that means being cut from the corner of the picture, you’re willing to pick up the scissors yourself. 

“no thanks,” you hiss, “i don’t need the money.”

“i would disagree,” his father sneers, “but suit yourself.”

the line ends, and for good this time, satoru is no longer yours. was he ever to begin with? 

—————

you try to forget your ex-boyfriend—keyword, try. every hour of your life consists of you using your burner account to refresh his instagram page to see if he’s posted anything new. you unfollow satoru from every social media platform the same day he picks up his belongings—you know he’s noticed within the first thirty minutes because all of his pictures with you are gone, just like all your pictures with him. 

in what you assume is an attempt to be petty, he likes every picture of every girl he sees, and he even blocks you on twitter—you know he picks twitter because twitter is the only social media that blatantly states you’re blocked. but then you’re unblocked in two days, and you know he must be missing you now that the initial anger is faded. 

it makes you laugh a little, even through your tears. satoru is not satoru without petty fits of emotion, and you can’t bring yourself to be mad, not when it’s your fault he’s hurting like this. he’s extra sad today, you gather—if the way marvin’s room is posted to his instagram story on a blank screen is of any hint. it makes you scoff in amusement that in true gojo satoru fashion, he’s effectively told all eight-thousand-something of his followers he’s pathetically in his feelings. 

you scroll through suguru’s story, too—he didn’t unfollow you even after satoru temporarily blocked you, but you figure suguru is the only person satoru really has. you shouldn’t keep yourself close to him, not when it could hurt satoru more, so you remove him too. 

suguru is, as always, drinking at some fancy party with obnoxiously rich college students who have not a care in the world for midterms around the corner. who needs to pass when you’re swimming in money whether or not you have a degree? the first thing you learn about the rich is that most of them are only at college for the experience—they don’t see college as the stepping stone to better opportunities, there’s nothing education could offer that trust funds already don’t. but satoru attends college for himself—he enjoys business classes, you learn, and especially finance ones. for someone who spends money so carelessly, he understands it particularly well. 

there’s no sign of satoru at whatever party it is suguru is at, there’s no trace of strikingly bright white strands anywhere in any corners—you do see naoya in a corner, though, and you crinkle your nose in distaste. if satoru were here, he’d say something bitterly under his breath about the asshole, and you would giggle. but satoru is not here, and even naoya the women-hating jackass makes you miss your obnoxiously whiny ex-boyfriend. 

everything reminds you of satoru. that bear he won you at the fair (after maybe six tries) by your pillows, those polaroids at your desk that you can’t bring yourself to take down, that sticky note on your fridge he left promising to replace the creamer he finished (he’s replaced it more times than he’s needed to by now), that extra big blanket you keep on the couch because the old one barely covered his legs, that pair of silly matching mugs you both had for coffee in the mornings. 

every corner of your apartment has something that reminds you that satoru was here, that he was yours, that for a short while, he was the best thing you ever had. it’s your fault, you think—that satoru and you are here in this mess in the first place. he’s always looked at life through a hopeful lens. having everything does that to you, makes you ignorant to the misfortunes of the world, makes you think everything is within the realm of your reach. you, on the other hand, knew this was bound to happen. the two of you together is like hot oil and cool water—what feels like sparks is just the oil shooting out to burn you. you should’ve known this would have never lasted. 

in a way, you think you did. it’s why you hated him so fiercely at first—maybe deep down, you always knew you wanted him, that he would never be yours. maybe that’s why you were so adamant about rejecting him, that even when he was clearly trying, it would never be enough. satoru has always been enough, has always been what everyone has wanted—you’re not so sure you can say the same for yourself. 

you love gojo satoru. he loves you too—he falls first, and you think maybe, he might have fallen harder too. no one loves like satoru. they say if you press coal hard enough, it turns to diamonds—you think if you gave satoru coal, he would hand you back the sun and all of her stars. it’s just the kind of guy he is, the one that turns everything dull into something bright and warm and worth it. you wish you didn’t have to break his heart, you wish you could’ve walked out of this the only one hurt. but maybe, at the very least, if you break him good enough that he hates you, he’ll move on quicker, maybe have something to look forward to while you continue to work your way up and cheer him on. 

before you can refresh suguru’s page one more time to stalk his story, you’re pulled from your thoughts as someone knocks on your door—correction: pounds on your door. you jolt on your couch, standing up and making your way to the front door quickly and looking through the peephole. 

satoru. of course.

he’s soaked to the bone—it’s raining outside, and of course, just as on brand as always, he must’ve rushed here without an umbrella.

you shouldn’t open it.

but you can’t just leave him in the rain, can you? but he’s not your problem anymore, you agreed to leave him, didn’t you? but how could he not be your problem when he’s all you think about? but this could cause him trouble if his father found out he was here, right? but can you really leave someone, ex-boyfriend or not, in the pouring rain? you can’t be that cruel can you?

before you can make up your mind, he speaks up, “i know you’re standing there. open the door,” he demands. 

“satoru, go home,” you sigh, head pressing against the surface that separates you, “don’t make this anymore difficult than it has to be.”

“if it’s difficult, that means you don’t really want to do this,” he argues. he’s still as good as ever at sweet talk, still as persistent and charming as ever at getting what he wants. “please,” he croaks, “just let me in.”

you know it means more than one thing. you know it means more than just your home. but you shouldn’t, you can’t let him know why you did all this—how can you protect someone from something if they don’t let you? satoru would never let you if he knew, and that’s why you can’t let him know. 

“satoru, if you don’t leave…i’ll…i’ll call the cops,” you warn. 

“no you won’t,” he says instantly. “i’m not leaving until you open the door. and if i get sick, i’ll send you my bill for the emergency room visit.”

“you’re not going to the emergency room for a common cold, you idiot,” you scoff. 

the rain doesn’t slow—in fact, you can hear thunder. satoru is still stubbornly outside, knocking away. 

“i’ll start screaming,” he insists, “your neighbors will complain for noise again. do you want to be kicked out of this apartment? just let your cold, wet, heartbroken ex-boyfriend in if you have a heart.”

and because you are, and always will be, weak to the charms of gojo satoru, you open that damned door—even though you shouldn’t, even though you can’t, even though you said you would never again. but you do. because it’s satoru, and he always comes when you call, and you’ll always let him in when he’s here. 

“you don’t come to your ex’s house less than one week after the break up,” you sigh once you open the door. he takes a step in, shutting the door behind him. 

“why did you leave me?” he asks. 

“satoru, you can’t keep bringing this up—”

“why? just tell me why.”

“i don’t have to—”

“tell me why and i’ll stop bothering you. i just need to know why,” he insists. 

and then you break.

you’re only human. you’ve lost the man you’ve given everything to for over a year in the span of one week. you’ll never see his lovely mother again who spoiled you rotten, you’ll never hang out out with his funny best friend who treats you like family, and you’ll never be enough for gojo satoru, the rich, loud, sheltered, obnoxious, handsome jackass you met and had to do a project with and accidentally fucked over and over again until you fell in love. 

so you shove his chest, once, then twice, then a third time, each time getting weaker and weaker than the last as tears slip down your cheeks as you simply break down. “just leave, satoru,” you sob, “why can’t you just leave? why do you keep coming back?”

you hate seeing him here. you want him gone. you never want to see him again. you hope he never leaves. you’re glad to see him. you hope this isn’t the last time. you hate that he seems to not be getting enough sleep. his eyes are hollow. he must not be eating properly. he probably hasn’t attended class. he has a quiz next week. he most likely forgot about that. his clothes are wrinkly. he definitely hasn’t showered in days. 

“last month you said i was it for you,” he glares at you, his eyes red and swollen and every shade of heartbreak. you miss when they were blue—that beautiful, bright, perfect shade of blue. “last week you said we were a mistake. what the fuck do you mean, huh? what are you playing at?”

“you can realize a lot in a month—”

“not enough to erase over a year,” his voice booms. it makes you flinch and hug yourself tightly. tears slide down your cheeks, your vision is blurry. this might be the last time you see satoru, and even if he’s angry, you want to remember the curves of his features. so you wipe them away. they keep coming back. “so tell me,” he clenches his jaw, “did you string me along for a year or did something happen last week that you’re not telling me?”

“i realized you were bad for me,” you say quietly. 

satoru stares at you. it’s a piercing gaze—his eyes are electrically blue and his lashes are unfairly long and every time he stares at you, you think he almost sees into your soul. they’re tired—there are purplish bags under them on that pale skin of his, and the whites of his eyes are concerningly bloodshot. he stares, and stares, and for a second, you think you’ll die like this. watching him stare at you as your heart bleeds out. 

“i spent weeks,” his voice shakes, “i waited outside your class. i followed you to the next one. i memorized your fucking schedule.”

“satoru, you need to leave—”

“and then you fucked me and left every morning like i was nothing,” he glares, sniffling. you don’t know where the rain drops on his face start and where the teardrops end. “and then i begged you for a chance—begged. i burned my hand, got laughed at by the maids to learn how to make those stupid fucking pancakes for you.”

“i didn’t ask you to—”

“it took you two months to call me baby for the first time. did you know that? i waited two months to hear that. i thought it was the best two months i ever waited.”

“satoru,” you plead. 

you’ve given up on trying to wipe away the tears—he’s given up on crying altogether. you’ve never seen him so hollow, so dead in the eyes and so, so tired.

satoru has never gotten tired—not when he’s fighting for you.

“and then you kept pushing me away, acting like i was some shallow guy who wanted to get in your pants and leave cause i had some money to my name. i took you everywhere, introduced you proudly, let everyone say what they wanted to say about me because i loved you, and…and i thought you loved me too,” he shakes his head. 

his voice breaks, and god, so does your heart right along with it.

“i do love you,” you admit it before you realize what you’re saying. 

“then why did you fucking leave me?” his voice is loud.

satoru never yells, not at you. his voice is always gentle, patient, like he worships the ground you walk on, like he’ll get on his knees if you ask him too. satoru never yells—but he does tonight. 

“because i had to,” you sob, fingers digging into your temples as you shake. the words spill from your lips faster than the tears, like a swarm of angry bees, one following after the other. “or you’d lose everything. the trust funds, the inheritance, the company. i couldn’t let that happen to you—not for me,” you whisper. 

it feels like defeat—in the end, you couldn’t keep satoru, and you couldn’t leave him either. you couldn’t love him like you wanted, and you couldn’t let him go like you should have. what else is there left to fuck up? what more can you ruin in less than a week? the bees feel like maggots in your mouth, swarming a dead carcass.  

“so you left me because my old man threatened you with my trust funds?” he asks in disbelief. you think something in satoru dies at that—something in his shoulders falls and his eyes almost seem gray. 

satoru gets his blue eyes from his mother—they’re bright and kind and deeper than the ocean. but unlike the ocean, they’re not scary to fall into, to lose yourself in no matter how far you are from shore. his father’s eyes are gray—cold and blank and not laced with a single hint of emotion. 

you can’t help but think that blue suits satoru so much better than gray ever could. 

“it wasn’t just that,” you shake your head, “that’s not fair, satoru. what was i supposed to do? know you were about to lose everything and stay?”

“you could have talked to me before you decided for me,” he hisses, “what do you want me to say? thank you? thank you for breaking my heart? thank you for making me feel like a worthless piece of shit who wasted a year for someone who didn’t seem to care? thank you for walking out on me?”

“you know i’d have stayed if i could,” you argue, voice breaking.

“then why didn’t you? why the fuck didn’t you?”

“because i couldn’t!”

“you could!” he screams—you realize, for the first time in your life, you hate when satoru screams. he never screams. “all my life, that old man has been making decisions for me. satoru, wear this. satoru, go here. satoru, don’t do that. satoru, put that away. satoru, stay away from them. satoru, come with me. that’s all he’s ever fucking done—make every choice for me. and now…now you’re just like him,” he breathes, lips wobbling as he stares at you with hurt. 

it’s like that for a bit—you stare at him as he crumbles, and he stares at you like he doesn't know you anymore. you don’t know who leans in first, if it’s your hand or his face, but one second you’re feet apart, and the next second his face is cradled in your hands, thumbs swiping away at his tears. you catch them, one by one, waiting to wipe them away no matter how fast they come. because satoru always comes when you call, and you’ll always be there for him to find you. 

“i don’t want to leave,” you mumble, “i never do. you are it for me, i meant that, you know. who else will melt extra chocolate in my hot chocolate?”

“then don’t leave,” he begs, voice cracking, “i don’t want you to. i’ll handle that old geezer—my grandfather will knock some sense into him. fuck, suguru and i can even hide his body, it’s fine. just don’t leave, okay?”

you let out a watery chuckle, pinching his cheek as you shake your head. “i don’t know if i’m worth homicide, satoru.”

“i think you’re wrong,” he huffs, “you’re wrong about a lot of things, you know. so wrong.”

“i never said i was perfect,” you pout.

he buries his head into your neck, clinging to you tightly—you cling back, because nothing is as safe as satoru’s arms. you’d melt into his skin if you could, live in that spot right where his heart is so you can make sure it’s always beating. 

“you’re still perfect,” he mumbles, “but you’re always mean to me. this was the worst you’ve ever been.”

“i’m sorry,” you murmur, slipping your fingers into his hair—it’s still wet, you realize. he’s soaked, and he could catch a cold but you don’t care. satoru is back. he’s here in your run-down apartment with the mugs and the blanket and that toothbrush you forgot to return and that pair of socks you found in your drawer. satoru is finally home. “i’ll never leave you again.”

“promise?”

“yeah. as long as you don’t block me on twitter again.”

“you deserved that.”

“and for the love of god, toru, delete that marvin’s room story. that was so dumb.”

“are you stalking me?” he pulls away with a grin, making you glare with a huff. he chuckles, kisses your forehead as he murmurs, “missed me that bad, huh? yeah, i would too.”

“well, obviously not enough to post marvin’s room on my story.”

“you can’t be mean to me after you broke my heart!” he whines.

yeah, you think, satoru is home. he’s still that loud, obnoxious, pestering brat that he always was—and he’s still the only love you’ve ever known. 

“i love you,” you press your forehead to his, kissing him slowly. you want to kiss him harder, you want to kiss him desperately like you’ll never kiss him again. like you lost him and miraculously got him back. like you’ll never see the sun again without him. 

but there’s time for that—lots of it, in fact. because satoru is home.

“i love you too,” he whispers, “wanna shower with me? if you really love me, you would.”

read the makeup sex sequel ;) MINORS DO NOT INTERACT

What did “seeing Italy” even mean? Was it a date? A trip with a friend? Some kind of—what?—cultural exchange program between doctors and patients who almost had sex? God. You needed to stop thinking about that. Except you couldn’t. You thought about his hands on your skin, how steady and sure they were. About his voice in your ear, how it sent a soft shiver down your spine. About the way he’d looked at you in that garden, like you were both his undoing and the only thing he wanted to hold on to—

No. Stop. Files. Focus on files.

You dragged your eyes back to the page and reread the same paragraph for the fourth time, but the words refused to stick, slipping right through you as if your mind had already wandered somewhere soft and sunlit and very much not professional.

And the worst part was that it shouldn’t have felt like this. It shouldn’t have felt major. It should’ve been nothing—just a meeting, just a plan, just a friendly dinner or whatever. Except everything felt major lately, and you were exhausted from pretending otherwise. The internship you’re barely surviving. The art you’re barely making time for. The doctor you’re very obviously developing feelings for who is very obviously still emotionally entangled with his best friend’s girlfriend. That is—unfortunately—objectively major.

You exhaled, tightened your grip on the files, and kept reading. Or at least, you tried.

What were you even supposed to wear to Italy? Did people dress up for that? Was this fancy Italy or casual Italy? Does Italy even have a dress code? What if he didn’t mean actual Italy—what if it’s just some Italian restaurant in Tokyo and you’re catastrophizing like an idiot? But what if it is actual Italy? You’d need a passport and—you had a passport, right? You’re pretty sure you do. Probably. Somewhere. When was the last time you’d seen it? Was it expired? Oh god.

You glance at the clock without thinking.

9:43.

“Oh—fuck.”

You gathered the stack of papers together—the Matsuda documents, your notes from yesterday’s research, the supplementary trade agreements Higuruma had requested. Meeting. Now. The stack was a precarious thing, held together by hope more than anything else. Much like your life, really. You shoved your chair back too quickly and stood—

—and your sketchbook slipped free.

It hit the floor, pages splaying open. Of course it opened to your latest sketch—the stormy sunset study you’d been working on in the middle of the night instead of sleeping like a normal person because you’d been too busy spiraling about what Italy meant and whether Suguru actually liked you or if you were just a convenient distraction from his actual feelings.

“Oh?”

Your soul briefly left your body.

Chad stood a few steps away, hands tucked into the pockets of his designer suit like he was posing for a magazine spread titled Man Who Has Never Been Told to Shut Up. His gaze flicked from your face to the sketchbook on the floor, then back again.

You bent down and grabbed the sketchbook, snapping it shut before he could get a better look.

“You draw?” he asked.

You straightened, clutching the sketchbook. “Sometimes.”

“That’s cute. My little sister does that too. She’s twelve.”

“Twelve?” you said. “Wow. So she’s the talented one.”

“What?”

“Don’t take it personal. Every family needs contrast.”

He blinked at you.

“Now, if you’ll excuse me, some of us have actual work to do. You know—grown-up things. Though I understand if that’s a difficult concept.” You stepped past him, your shoulder brushing his. “Oh—and tell your sister I’m rooting for her.” Then you stepped out into the hallway.

You needed a second to breathe.

Cute.

Because that was what they always said, wasn’t it? When they wanted to dismiss something. Make it smaller, less serious, less real. Oh, that’s cute—like a hobby, like something you’d outgrow once you committed to your real career—the one you were supposed to want. The one your parents had sacrificed everything for. The one that felt like wearing someone else’s skin.

Never mind the hours you’d spent studying composition and light. Never mind the way your hands cramped after sketching too long, or how you saw the world in negative space and tonal values. Never mind that when you painted, you felt more like yourself than you ever did in a courtroom or conference room or—

Your phone buzzed in your pocket.

Please don’t be Suguru. Please don’t be Suguru asking what kind of Italian food you liked, or what your favorite Renaissance artist was, or anything else that would require you to form a coherent thought about Friday when you could barely handle Monday.

You glanced at the screen. Just Nobara.

[9:47 AM] You: Can’t. Higuruma meeting

[9:48 AM] Nobara: Ok but IMPORTANT

[9:48 AM] Nobara: Red nails or black nails

[9:48 AM] Nobara: This is time sensitive

You let out a breath and shoved your phone back into your pocket. You could survive Nobara’s crisis later. Right now, you needed to—

You stopped walking. What time was your meeting with Higuruma? You pulled your phone back out. 

9:48 AM.

Your meeting was at 9:45.

“Shit.” You immediately break into what could generously be described as a very fast walk down the hallway. “Shit, shit, shit!”

This was fine. You were only three minutes late. Higuruma was probably running behind anyway. Lawyers were always running behind, right? That was basically part of the job description.

Except Higuruma was never late. Higuruma was aggressively, pathologically punctual.

You rounded the corner toward his office and nearly collided with a paralegal carrying an even more precarious tower of files. You mumbled an apology, performed an awkward sidestep, and tried to look like someone who had their life together. Someone reliable. Professional. Someone who showed up to meetings on time and didn’t spend their mornings being frustrated and spiraling.

Your reflection caught in the glass door of Higuruma’s office. You looked tired. Stressed. Like someone who’d been up far too late worrying about things she had absolutely no control over—Chad’s comments, the internship, the quiet fear of not being enough, and the maddening fact that in less than a few days, you’d have a date with your doctor, who you’d hooked up with, and who was definitely still in love with someone else, and you had no idea what to wear, or what it meant, or why you’d said yes in the first place, except that when his text message arrived and he’d asked if you were free, you thought about those dark eyes, and your fingers wrote yes before your brain could catch up.

God. What were you doing?

You lifted your hand, knocked, and forced your face into something passably professional.

“Come in,” Higuruma called from inside. 

He looked up from the papers in front of him as you entered and sat down in the chair across from his desk. Relieved to finally give them a stable surface, you set the stack of documents down.

“You’re late,” he said, not unkindly.

“I’m sorry, I was—” You what? Having an existential crisis about your art being called cute? Panicking about a date with your doctor? “—getting the files together. It took longer than expected.”

He regarded you for a moment, then—mercifully—let it drop.

“Let’s start with the Suzuki case. Walk me through your analysis of their customs declarations.”

For the next twenty minutes, you cited precedents, outlined arguments, and followed the logic from point A to point B, which made sense with its rules, structure, and clear answers—unlike everything else in your life. 

“Good,” Higurama said when you finished, making a note in the margin of his copy. “Your research on the import documentation was thorough. I’ll incorporate these points into the brief.”

A small warmth bloomed in your chest. Praise from Higurama was rare. 

“Thank you.”

“Though next time,” he added, already flipping to another page, “don’t bury your strongest argument in the footnotes.”

“Right. Of course.”

Higuruma leaned back in his chair. He took off his reading glasses and put them on the desk.

“You’re doing well here. Better than most interns we get.”

“I—” You weren’t sure how to respond to that. “Thank you” It felt too small, but you didn’t know what else to say.

“You clearly put in the hours.” He paused and studied you. “I was having dinner with a client last week. He owns a gallery downtown. It’s small, but well known.”

You nodded slowly, unsure where this was going. Art fraud? Contract disputes? Something you were about to be assigned?

“He’s looking for new artists for an upcoming talent showcase next month,” he continued. “I mentioned you.”

“You… what?”

“I gave him your name and told him you were promising. He’s interested in seeing your portfolio.”

Your mouth opened, then closed. Opened again and closed once more. Your brain scrambled for words that made sense. “How do you—I mean, why would you—” You stopped, tried again. “How do you even know I paint?”

“You often have paint under your nails or on your fingers.” One corner of Higuruma’s mouth twitched in what might have been amusement. “I made an inference.”

You looked down at your fingers. Sure enough, there was a faint trace of cerulean blue beneath your right thumbnail. You’d scrubbed your hands three times that morning. Apparently, not well enough.

“I could be—” Heat crept up your neck. “I could be doing something else. Could be just... I don’t know, messy.”

Higuruma raised an eyebrow, as if mildly amused that you’d even tried. “Are you?”

“Am I what?”

“Doing something else.”

A beat of silence. You could lie. Should probably lie. Keep that part of yourself separate, private, safe from judgment and dismissal and people calling it cute like it was something you should grow out of.

“No,” you said. “I paint.”

Higurama tried not to look amused. “His name is Takeshi Yamada. I’ll email you his contact information. He’ll want to see samples of your work. Probably five to seven pieces.”

“Mr. Higuruma, I don’t know if—I mean, I appreciate it, but—”

“If you’re only half as good at art as you are at law,” he interrupted, his eyes turning back to the file in front of him, “then I have no reservations about recommending you.”

Your heart was doing something complicated in your chest. Racing and stopping all at once. “I—thank you. I don’t know what to say.”

“‘Thank you’ works fine.” He made another note in the files, already moving on. “Now, about the Matsuda case. I need you to pull the shipping manifests from 2019. There’s a pattern I want to verify.”

You nodded, trying to focus on his words rather than the fact that your entire morning had turned into something you didn’t know how to handle. Breathing suddenly felt wrong, like your lungs had forgotten how much space they were supposed to take up. 

A gallery. A real gallery. An emerging talent showcase. 

Holy shit.

─────── ౨ৎ ───────

You showed up for the rest of the week. You did the work. You pulled the shipping manifests for Higuruma, sat through meetings, nodded at the right times, and filled the margins with professional notes. But it all felt like you were watching yourself from a distance, like you were acting the part of a law intern while the part of you that actually mattered was elsewhere, pacing in circles.

On Wednesday, you caught yourself doodling in the margin of the Nakamura brief. Not notes. Actual sketches—the curve of the desk lamp and the way light fell across a stack of files. You’d scribbled it out quickly before anyone could see, heart pounding like you’d been caught doing something illegal.

On Thursday morning, you opened your email to find the message from Higurama that he’d promised. Subject: Gallery Contact – Takeshi Yamada. You stared at it for what felt like twenty minutes, the cursor hovering over the name, before closing your laptop without reading it. You opened it again during lunch. Closed it. Opened it before leaving for the day. Still hadn’t read it.

Chad made another offhand comment—something about “hobby artists” while discussing a client—and you pressed your nails into your palm until it hurt. 

That night you went home, kicked off your shoes, and dragged every canvas out from under the bed. You lined them up across the floor like evidence in a trial. The sunset studies—six small panels, oils on cheap canvas board, each one chasing the same view from your apartment window. One caught the light fracturing through clouds like shattered glass; another turned the whole sky bruise-purple, angry and beautiful. Next, the still life of your mother’s kitchen with the chipped blue bowl and a half-peeled orange on the counter, coffee steam curling up toward the window where her old curtains hung. You’d painted it the weekend she’d been in the hospital for her knee—something to do with your hands while you waited for updates.

Then you looked at the abstract pieces, larger than the rest, all thick layers of blue and gold scraped and built up until the surface felt like skin. You’d worked on it for months, coming back to it whenever law school felt like it was sanding off pieces of you. It still didn’t feel finished; maybe it never would. And there were other pieces you hadn’t shown anyone. A quick charcoal of Megumi asleep on the subway, head against the window, city lights streaking across his face, and a watercolor canvas of rain-slick streets at night, neon bleeding into puddles.

You sat in the middle of them and studied each one the way you’d study a case brief—searching for flaws, for weaknesses. They looked different than you remembered. Smaller, somehow. Less significant. Or maybe you were just seeing them through other people’s eyes now—Chad’s, your parents’, everyone who’d ever suggested, kindly or otherwise, that art was a nice hobby to have but not something to build a life around.

You stared at your art until the anxiety turned into something painful in your chest.

[10:17 PM] You: I need to stress bake. You free?

[10:18 PM] Nobara: It’s 10pm

[10:18 PM] You: I know

[10:18 PM] Nobara: On a Thursday

[10:18 PM] You: I KNOW

[10:18 PM] Nobara: …what kind of cookies?

[10:18 PM] You: Does it matter

[10:19 PM] Nobara: Chocolate chip. I’m there in 20

Nobara arrived in pajama pants and an oversized hoodie, her hair twisted up in a claw clip, and carrying a bottle of wine.

“Okay,” she said, taking in your apartment in one slow sweep—the paintings still strewn across the floor, your laptop open to an unread email, and flour dusting the kitchen. “What happened?”

You told her everything. About Chad calling your art cute. About Higuruma mentioning a gallery showcase as casually as if he were talking about the weather. About the email you still hadn’t read, the deadline creeping closer, the portfolio you weren’t sure you had the courage to put together. The words tumbled out between measuring cups and cookie dough.

“I can’t do this,” you said finally, setting the mixer with the cookie dough down. “My stuff isn’t good enough. It’s just—It’s just doodles. Hobby stuff. I’m not a real artist.”

Nobara poured wine into two mismatched mugs—you didn’t own wine glasses—and slid one across the counter.

“Have you actually looked at your paintings lately?”

“Yes. That’s the problem. They’re not professional. They’re not gallery-worthy. They’re—”

“Beautiful,” Nobara said.

She crossed the room and crouched in front of the still life of your mother’s kitchen. “This is beautiful. The light through the window? I can basically feel the warmth.”

“It’s just a kitchen.”

“It’s your kitchen.” She moved on to the abstract piece, the one layered with blue and gold. “And this? This is fucking gorgeous. I don’t even understand how you did this with paint.”

“Nobara—”

“Girl.” She straightened and turned to you, hands on her hips—the stance that meant she was about to be brutally honest. “You’ve been hiding paintings under your bed for years. Maybe it’s time to stop hiding.”

“What if they hate it?”

“What if they love it?”

You reached for the chocolate chips and probably dumped too many into the bowl. Stress baking had no rules. 

“Even if I wanted to choose art—which I’m not saying I do—I can’t just abandon law school. My parents sacrificed everything. My dad still works double shifts. They did all of that for a better life, and a better life means—”

“What you want it to mean,” Nobara finished. “Not what they want it to mean.”

You started rolling the dough into balls, pressing them onto the baking sheet with a little too much force. Nobara reached over, grabbed a piece of dough, and pressed it down beside yours.

“What if you submit your portfolio and they love it?” she said after a moment of silent cookie baking. “What if this is the thing that shows you what you’re actually meant to be doing? What if—and I know this is crazy—what if you’re actually talented and deserve good things?”

God, why did she always say the exact right thing at the exact worst moment? 

The oven beeped, saving you from having to answer right away. You slid the tray in, set the timer, wiped your hands on the dish towel.

You wanted to believe her. You really did. But there was this wall in your mind, built brick by brick over years of playing it safe, of choosing the practical path, of making yourself smaller to fit into the life everyone else wanted for you.

Nobara saw something in you that you couldn’t see in yourself. They all did—Megumi, Yuji, even Suguru. But when you looked in the mirror, all you saw was someone pretending. Someone who’d convinced herself that dreams were for other people. People braver than you. People who didn’t have parents who’d sacrificed everything.

But maybe—maybe that was the problem. Maybe you’d spent so long telling yourself you weren’t good enough that you’d started to believe it. Maybe it was time to try believing something else. Just this once.

Your heart was already racing again, but before you could talk yourself out of it, you walked over to your laptop. And finally, you opened the email.

It was short. Takeshi Yamada would like to see five to seven pieces, along with a brief artist statement. Submission deadline: next Friday. One week.

“Holy shit,” you breathed.

“What?” Nobara appeared at your shoulder, leaning in to read over the screen. “Oh. Oh shit.”

“That’s next Friday,” you said, pointing unnecessarily, as if the date might somehow change if you pointed at it hard enough.

“Yeah.”

“I have to write an artist statement.”

“Yeah.”

“I don’t even know what an artist statement is.”

“Google exists,” Nobara said. “Also, you literally research legal briefs for a living. You can figure out an artist statement.”

As you scrolled further down, you saw a phone number and the gallery’s address, followed by a polite request to call and schedule a time to drop off your portfolio. It was all so real.

“I can’t do this,” you said, starting to panic.

“You absolutely can.” Nobara grabbed your phone from the counter. “In fact, you’re going to email him back right now. Tonight. Before you talk yourself out of it.”

“Nobara—”

“Nope. No backing out.” She shoved the phone into your hands. “You’re doing this. Right now. What’s the worst that could happen?”

“He hates my work and I die of embarrassment.”

“Okay, what’s the realistic worst that could happen?”

You hesitated, then sighed. “He says no, thank you.”

“And then you’re exactly where you are now. Nothing lost.” She poured more wine into your mug and slid it toward you. “But what if he says yes? What if this actually works?”

The apartment filled with the smell of melting chocolate and butter as the timer ticked.

Your gaze drifted to the abstract piece—the one layered in blues and golds that you’d worked on for months, sometimes for hours at a stretch and staying up late into the night even though you had work the following day. You remembered painting it. How time had disappeared, how nothing else had mattered except getting the color right, the depth, the feeling of falling into sky or water or something nameless. 

You remembered what it had felt like to create something simply because you wanted to. Not to prove anything to anyone.

“Okay,” you heard yourself say. “Okay. I’ll do it.”

Nobara squealed and threw her arms around you hard enough that you nearly dropped your phone. “Yes! Okay, okay—what are you going to say?”

You opened your email, fingers hovering over the keyboard.

Dear Mr. Yamada,

Thank you for your interest in my work. I would be honored to submit my portfolio for consideration for the emerging artists showcase. I can have five to seven pieces ready for review by next Friday, along with an artist statement.

Please let me know the best time to schedule a portfolio review.

Sincerely,

You typed your name and stared at it for a moment before hitting send. The soft whoosh of the email leaving your outbox felt enormous. Final. Irrevocable. Like stepping off a ledge and discovering there was, in fact, air beneath you.

“Oh my god,” you said. “Oh my god, I actually did it.”

“You did it!” Nobara wrapped you up in another strong hug. “I’m so proud of you!”

“I think I’m going to throw up.”

“That’s just the anxiety. It’ll pass. Probably.” The timer went off. “Cookies are done!”

You pulled them from the oven, golden brown and soft in the middle—easily the best thing you’d produced all week. Nobara grabbed one immediately and tossed it between her hands because it was too hot. She blew on it.

“These are amazing,” she said through a mouthful. “Now. Speaking of things you’re stressed about—what are you wearing for your date tomorrow?”

Your stomach dropped. You really should have told her.

“It’s not—” you started. “I don’t know what it is. He just asked if I wanted to see Italy and I said yes, and now it’s tomorrow and I don’t know if it’s a date or—”

“It’s absolutely a date.”

“You don’t know that.”

“Girl. He’s taking you to Italy. That’s a date. That’s, like, the most date thing possible.”

You buried your face in your hands and let out a groan.

Nobara watched you over the rim of her mug in a way that made you feel like she could see your thoughts. “Or,” she said slowly, “do you not want it to be a date?”

You reached for a cookie. “It’s complicated,” you mumbled around chocolate.

“How complicated.”

“Very complicated.”

“Like… he’s married complicated?”

“No!” you said immediately, horrified. “He’s not married. He’s—” You paused, trying to untangle the knot in your own head. “He has feelings for someone else.”

“Okay, that’s not ideal, but—”

“She’s his student.”

“His student as in… he’s a teacher and—”

“Professor,” you corrected. “And she’s a medical student. It’s… not like that. It’s just—” You took a breath, because saying it out loud made it worse. “She’s with Dr. Gojo.”

“Wait,” she said. “There’s another hot doctor?”

“Yes.”

“And this other hot doctor is dating a student?”

“Yes.”

“And your doctor has feelings for the student who’s dating the other hot doctor.”

“Basically,” you said, dead inside.

Nobara reached for the wine bottle and refilled her mug. “Okay. Okay. I need you to walk me through that again because what the fuck.”

“So there’s Dr. Geto—Suguru—who I went to the art gallery with and who, um… at the party we—”

“You hooked up with him at the party?” Nobara nearly dropped her cookie. “You left out the most important part!”

“It’s not the point—” you protested, though your face was already heating up.

“It is absolutely the point!” Nobara leaned forward. “You hooked up with Hot Doctor Number One at the med-students party and didn’t tell me?”

“Can we please focus on the complicated part?”

“Okay, okay.” She took another bite of cookie. “Go on. You hooked up with Hot Doctor Number One—”

“Suguru.”

“Ooooh. First name basis.”

“That’s not—”

“So,” she continued, undeterred, “you hooked up with Suguru, who has feelings for a student, who is dating Hot Doctor Number Two—”

“—who is also Suguru’s best friend.”

Nobara choked on her wine. “I’m sorry,” she said after a second, coughing. “What?”

“They’ve been best friends since high school or so.”

“Okay. Let me make sure I’m following.” You braced yourself. “Your doctor—Suguru—is in love with his best friend’s girlfriend, who is also his student. He took you on a date to an art gallery. You hooked up with him at a party. And now he’s taking you to Italy. Even though he is still in love with someone else.”

“When you say it like that, it sounds really bad.”

“Because it is really bad. Girl. What are you doing?”

“I don’t know!” You grabbed another cookie, because despite the crisis, they’d turned out pretty good. “I like him. He’s kind, and smart, and he actually listens when I talk about art, and he doesn’t make me feel stupid for caring about things, and—”

“And he’s in love with his best friend’s girlfriend.”

“Yes.” You slumped back against the counter. “Which is why I said it’s complicated.”

Nobara took another sip of wine, considering. “Okay. So he has feelings for someone else. So what? Feelings change. People move on. And you know what really helps people move on?” She pointed at you with her cookie. “Seeing someone so hot they forget their own name—or the other girls name, whatever.”

“That’s not how feelings work.”

“It is exactly how feelings work,” she shot back. “People don’t sit around being tragically sad forever. They get hot. They show up. They remind everyone why they’re the catch.” She grabbed another cookie, unfazed. “You’re going to Italy with a hot doctor. You submitted your portfolio to a gallery. You’re literally the main character right now.”

You stared at her as if considering vanishing into the floor. Nobara noticed immediately and grabbed your shoulders, forcing you to meet her eyes. “Repeat after me: I am the main character.”

“Nobara—”

“Say it.”

“I am absolutely not saying that.”

“You’re no fun.” She sighed dramatically and let go. “But seriously. You’re going to Italy with a hot doctor. You submitted your portfolio to a gallery. You’re literally taking control of your life right now. That’s main character energy.”

You looked at your paintings on the floor. At Nobara, standing in your apartment at nearly midnight on a Thursday, trying to convince you that you deserved good things.

“Okay,” you said. “Maybe I’m the main character.”

“There it is!” Nobara threw her arms up. “Character development! Growth! I’m so proud!”

“You’re the worst.”

“I’m amazing and you love me.” She reached for the wine bottle. “Now. You need to tell me everything about this hookup, because I have questions.”

“Absolutely not.”

“Was it good, though?”

Your face went hot instantly. “I’m not discussing this.”

“Oh my god! It was good. I can see it on your face. It was so good.” She grinned. “Okay, okay, no details. But on a scale of one to ten—”

“Nobara!”

She did not stop. She absolutely did not stop. She kept asking, kept needling, and somehow—somewhere between the wine, the cookies, and the fact that it was far too late—you started giving in. Not everything. God, definitely not everything. But enough.

That he knew what he was doing. That it hadn’t been awkward or fumbling or disappointing like past experiences. That you were still thinking about it. That maybe that was the problem.

Nobara’s eyes went wide at that, her grin splitting her face, and she launched into a whole speech about older men and experience and how this was exactly what you needed. You threw a dish towel at her, but you were smiling despite yourself.

By the time she left, it was past midnight. Your apartment was a mess—paintings still on the floor, cookie sheets in the sink, wine glasses on the counter. But something felt lighter. Like maybe submitting that portfolio wasn’t the end of the world. Like maybe tomorrow with Suguru could be good, complications and all.

Maybe Nobara was right. Maybe it was time to stop being the supporting character in everyone else’s story.

Starting tomorrow.

─────── ౨ৎ ───────

The next day, you stood just outside the hospital entrance with a container of cookies clutched to your chest, feeling like a complete and utter idiot. 

What were you doing? Who brought cookies to a hospital? To their doctor? Is he even working today? Probably—but, oh God, this was stupid. This was so, so stupid. You should turn around right now, go home, eat all the cookies yourself and die of embarrassment in private where no one could see it. 

But then Nobara’s voice echoed in your head: You're the main character.

Except main characters in movies didn’t stand outside hospital entrances having internal crises about baked goods. Main characters walked in confidently, cookies in hand, wearing their carefully chosen outfit their best friend had sworn made them look so hot, and acted like their heart wasn’t trying to claw its way out of their ribcage.

You took a breath and pushed through the entrance before you could talk yourself out of it. 

Nurses rushed past with charts, patients shuffled down hallways. You’d been here before—for your appointments with Dr. Gojo, after your seizure the other night—but showing up uninvited felt different. Intrusive, maybe.

Maybe this was a terrible idea. Maybe you should just leave the cookies at the nurse’s station with a note. Or maybe you should throw them in the trash and pretend this never happened. Maybe—

You were halfway to the elevators, lost in the spiral, when you nearly collided with a tall figure in a white coat.

“Oh—sorry, I—”

You looked up. Dr. Gojo stood there, exhaustion written into the lines of his face, but it did nothing to dull the boyish, unfair kind of prettiness he seemed to always carry. Recognition flickered across his face, followed by a grin. He asked whether everything was okay. About your medication. And you reassured him quickly—yes, fine, really, everything was fine—and watched as something eased in his expression. 

He glanced at the container in your arms, then back at you. “Are you looking for Suguru?” he asked.

You tried to explain. Something about making too many cookies, about being in the area anyway, about—god, you were making it worse. Every word that came out of your mouth sounded more pathetic than the last.

“Suguru’s in surgery,” he said. “But he should be finishing up soon.” He tilted his head, studying you with those unsettling blue eyes that always felt like they were seeing a little too much. “Want me to show you to the surgical wing? You can wait for him there.”

You nodded, grateful he’d stopped you from digging yourself deeper into whatever embarrassing explanation you’d been piecing together. He was already turning away, and you hurried to fall into step beside him. At least someone was committed to this bit, even if it wasn’t you.

The elevator ride up to the surgical wing was quiet. Gojo pressed the button, the doors slid shut, and the lift began its ascent with a low mechanical hum that filled the silence.

“Hey,” he said suddenly. “About the party. I’m sorry. For—everything that happened. The seizure, the chaos. All of it.”

“It’s not your fault. Really. These things happen sometimes. No one could’ve predicted it.”

“Still. I should have—”

“Dr. Gojo.” You turned to look at him. “It’s okay. It’s no one’s fault.”

Something pained crossed his face, gone so quickly you almost missed it. Then he reached over and ruffled your hair like you were a kid, completely messing up whatever you’d tried to do with it that morning.

“Hey!” You swatted his hand away. He grinned, but it didn’t quite reach his eyes. 

You hesitated, then the question slipped out before you could stop it. “Is everything okay? Between you and Dr. Geto, I mean. I don’t want to cause trouble or—”

“You’re not causing trouble. Suguru’s just… he can be a bit grumpy sometimes. Don’t worry about it.”

“You’re sure?”

“Positive.”

You bit your lip, then pushed forward. “And what about her? Is everything okay with her?”

Gojo went very still. His expression didn’t change—not really—but something closed off behind his eyes, like a door sliding shut. The silence stretched. One beat. Then another.

The elevator chimed, doors sliding open onto the surgical floor. “Come on. Let’s go find the grump.” He stepped out before you could respond, leaving your question suspended in the air.

The surgical wing was quieter than the rest of the hospital. Through the observation windows, you caught glimpses of operating rooms—surgeons bent over patients, faces hidden behind masks. It was surreal, seeing it from this side, not as someone lying on a gurney, but as a visitor with nowhere specific to stand.

Gojo stopped in front of one of the rooms and glanced at the board mounted beside the door. “He’s in OR three. Should be closing up now.” His gaze flicked to the container in your hands again. “So. Cookies for Suguru, huh?”

Heat crept up your neck. “I made too many last night. Stress baking.”

“Uh-huh.” His grin widened. “And you decided the best place to unload stress cookies was a hospital. At three in the afternoon. Right before—what time’s your date, anyway?”

You nearly dropped the container. “How did you—”

“Suguru’s been checking his watch every five minutes all day. Also, he’s been weird. Weirder than usual, anyway.”

Before you could form a response, the door to OR three swung open. Suguru stepped out, tugging off his surgical cap. His hair fell loose around his face, damp with sweat, strands sticking slightly to his temples. He looked exhausted, but also unfairly good, in a way that made your chest tighten before you could stop it. For one very unhelpful second, your brain supplied an image you absolutely did not ask for—him looking exactly like this but for entirely different reasons. Worked up. Breathing hard. Close. Too close.

He was pulling off his gloves when he looked up and saw you. He stopped. Completely froze, like he’d walked straight into some kind of invisible wall.

For a moment, he simply stared at you with an expression you couldn’t quite read, something caught between shock and disbelief, like he was seeing a ghost, or something equally impossible.

“Well,” Gojo said, glancing between you both. “My work here is done. Suguru, she made you cookies—try to act normal about it.” He was already sauntering away before either of you could respond, his white coat disappearing around the corner with a casual wave.

“Hi,” you said, suddenly very aware of how stupid you looked. Standing here. In a hospital. With cookies. “I, um. I made too many cookies last night and thought—” You thrust the container toward him. “You look like you need these more than I do.”

Suguru blinked, his gaze dropping to the cookies, then lifting back to your face, then down again, as if trying to match the reality of what he was seeing to what his exhausted brain could process. His fingers brushed yours when he took the container, and your whole arm lit up like you’d touched a live wire.

“You… baked me cookies?”

“For stress, actually. I just—there were a lot left over. A friend helped but she’s one person, and I couldn’t bring them to the office because Chad would’ve opened his mouth about how his personal chef makes better ones or whatever, and I just—” You were talking too fast. “I remembered you like coffee and cookies go with coffee, so…”

He was already opening the lid. Stared down at the slightly lumpy, golden chocolate chip cookies. You held your breath. What if they were terrible? No, wait. You knew they were good. But what if he thought they were terrible?

“These are really good,” he said, and there it was—a real smile breaking across his face like sunrise, small and tentative but unmistakably genuine. “Really good.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.” He took another bite, larger this time. “Thank you.”

You shrugged, trying to play it off even though your heart was nearly exploding. “Just wanted to make sure you didn’t pass out before our... before tonight.”

“Right. Tonight.” He checked his watch. “I should be done here in about an hour. I can pick you up? Around five?”

“Five’s good.” You paused. “Where are we going, exactly? You said Italy but—”

“The marina,” he said, popping the rest of the cookie in his mouth.

“The marina? Like… boats?”

“Like boats.”

“Are you planning to murder me? Because I should tell you, a friend of mine knows I’m with you and she will absolutely investigate.”

He laughed. “No. God, no. I just want to show you something.”

“At a marina.”

“At a marina.”

You waited for him to elaborate. He didn’t. “You’re really not gonna tell me what this is about, are you?”

“That would ruin the surprise.” His eyes crinkled at the corners as if amused by your obvious frustration.

“Can you at least tell me if I’m dressed okay for… whatever mysterious marina thing this is.”

His gaze drifted over you then—taking in the sweater, the jeans, the leather jacket Nobara had forced on you with a trust me, it’s hot—like he was drinking you in, the same way he had that night you’d undressed in front of him for the first time. 

His mouth twitched, just a little. “You look perfect.”

Your pulse kicked hard against your throat. His eyes stayed on you a beat too long before flicking back up to your face.

“Okay then,” you said, taking a quick step back before you did something stupid like kiss him in the middle of a hospital hallway where anyone could see. “Five o’clock. Mystery marina adventure. I’m trusting you.”

“I’ll text you when I’m on my way.” He lifted the cookie container slightly. “And thank you. Again. For these.”

“Anytime.” You started walking backward toward the elevators, nearly tripping over your own feet. “Just… don’t eat them all before you pick me up. You still need real food.”

“Yes, doctor,” he said, smiling.

“That’s my line!”

You could feel him watching you the whole way down the hall, and you fought the urge to look back over your shoulder to confirm it. Main character energy, you reminded yourself. Main characters don’t turn around to check.

It was only when the elevator doors slid shut that you let your face crumple into the biggest, dumbest grin. You pressed your forehead to the cool metal wall and laughed under your breath like an idiot. Five couldn’t come fast enough.

─────── ౨ৎ ───────

You changed outfits four times before circling back to the one from before—the sweater, jeans, and leather jacket that Suguru had called perfect. Hearing his voice in your head again made your stomach flip and your head spin with heat. A scarf went on last. December evenings in Tokyo were biting now.

In the mirror, you tugged it for the third time. Too fussy? Too casual? Trying too hard—or not enough?

Your phone buzzed on the dresser.

[4:47 PM] Nobara: PICTURES. NOW.

[4:47 PM] You: I look the same as when you left this morning

[4:48 PM] Nobara: LIE. Send pics or I’m coming over

You snapped a quick selfie and sent it.

[4:49 PM] Nobara: GORGEOUS

[4:49 PM] Nobara: He’s going to DIE

[4:49 PM] Nobara: Main character energy!!!

[4:50 PM] Nobara: Also I need hourly updates or I’m calling the police

[4:50 PM] You: That seems extreme

[4:50 PM] Nobara: You’re going to the marina with a man you barely know

[4:51 PM] Nobara: Extreme is appropriate

[4:51 PM] You: Fair point

You grabbed your bag—the same one you always carried, stuffed with the essentials. Wallet, phone, keys, your emergency medication, a small sketchbook you’d thrown in because you always carry one around, and yes, okay, maybe you’d also packed the lip gloss Nobara had insisted would seal the deal.

Another buzz.

[4:53 PM] Suguru: On my way. Five minutes.

Your nerves lit up all at once. 

[4:54 PM] Nobara: HAVE FUN

[4:54 PM] Nobara: BE SAFE

[4:54 PM] Nobara: REMEMBER YOU’RE THE MAIN CHARACTER

[4:55 PM] You: I’ll try to remember that while I’m being murdered at the marina

[4:55 PM] Nobara: NOT FUNNY

Your phone buzzed again.

[4:57 PM] Suguru: I’m here.

You grabbed your jacket and headed downstairs.

He was waiting by his car when you came down—dark jeans, charcoal sweater, hair loose around his shoulders. Your eyes stayed on his car for a second. Being a surgeon certainly paid well, you thought. You’d never pictured him in something this flashy, but now that you saw it, it fit. When he spotted you, his expression softened. He stepped forward and opened the passenger door.

“You look beautiful,” he said. You felt your cheeks redden as you slid into the seat that smelled like his cologne and something warmer, almost like fresh bread. You mumbled something back that probably didn’t make sense, hoping he couldn’t hear your heart thudding against your ribs.

City lights streaked past the window as he drove. You asked again where you were going, what this mysterious marina thing was about. He smiled and said something about patience being a virtue, which was completely unhelpful and unfair because he had to know you were dying of curiosity.

But when he glanced over at you, eyes crinkling at the corners, you decided maybe not knowing wasn’t the worst thing in the world.

─────── ౨ৎ ───────

“Close your eyes.”

“What? Why—”

Suguru’s hands came up gently from behind and covered your eyes.

“Just trust me.”

“Oh my god.” Your pulse spiked as he guided you forward, one hand steady on your waist. “You are going to murder me. This is it. This is how I die. Nobara was right to be suspicious—”

“I’m not going to murder you.” You could hear the smile in his voice, feel the warmth of him close behind you as wood creaked under your feet. “Just trust me for two more minutes.”

“That’s exactly what someone planning murder would say!”

“Would a murderer buy fresh bread?”

“That’s—wait, that was bread I smelled in the car?”

“Yes. Now stop talking and walk.”

You let him guide you down what had to be a pier—the air smelled like salt and seaweed and cold water, and you could hear gentle lapping sounds somewhere below. His grip on your waist tightened slightly when you stumbled.

“If I end up in the ocean, I’m haunting you,” you said.

“Noted. Careful here—step up.”

The surface under your feet shifted, moved with the water. A boat. He’d brought you to a boat, and you were walking onto it blind, which seemed like either very romantic or very stupid and you hadn’t decided which yet.

“Can I look now?”

“Almost.” He moved you a few more steps, body close behind yours, until he stopped. “Okay. Now.”

He dropped his hands.

You blinked into soft gold. String lights crisscrossed overhead, bathing everything in warmth. Blankets were spread across the deck—thick, soft ones layered with pillows—and candles flickered in glass holders that protected them from the breeze, their light dancing off the water. 

In the middle: pizza boxes, a bottle of wine, that fresh bread torn into chunks beside a small dish of olive oil and balsamic. A few containers of what looked like pasta salad. And his white coat tossed in the corner like he’d rushed straight from the hospital and forgotten it was there.

“You said you wanted Italy,” he said.

You turned. He stood with his hands in his pockets, watching you, a little uncertain.

You hadn’t known what to expect when he said he’d take you to Italy—obviously not actual Italy, you weren’t that delusional—but you hadn’t let yourself hope for anything like this. Hadn’t dared to dream he’d put in this kind of effort, this kind of thought, for you.

He’d done this. Set all this up after a full day of surgery because you’d made one stupid comment about wanting to visit Italy someday. About sitting in the sun with good food and wine and nothing else mattering.

“It’s not real Italy,” he added, almost shy. “And it’s just pizza from that place near the hospital, but—”

And in that moment, you wanted to kiss him, kiss the man who could have taken you to some expensive restaurant but instead brought you here, to blankets and candlelight and pizza, because somehow he’d understood that this—this was what you actually wanted.

“It’s perfect,” you said, and he smiled.

“Wait here.” 

He moved toward the front of the boat—the bow? You weren’t sure of the terminology—and loosened them, his hands sure on the lines. You watched, transfixed, as the ropes slipped free and the vessel eased away from the dock. If he really wanted to kill me, it would be too late to turn back, you thought.

Suguru turned to the sails next. His sweater sleeves were pushed high, forearms flexing each time he hauled a line taut, veins standing out, and you tried not to stare too obviously, but failed. Miserably. You’d never seen anything hotter in your life.

When he finally secured everything and walked back, hair tousled by the breeze, he dropped onto the pile of blankets beside you. Close enough that his shoulder brushed yours, close enough that he tugged one of the thicker blankets over both your legs without asking, tucking it around you like it was the most natural thing in the world.

You almost forgot how to speak. Words scattered somewhere between the salt air and the way the sun painted everything in orange and gold.

“How do you know how to sail?” you managed at last.

He took a sip of wine, settling in deeper beside you.

“It’s mine.”

“What?”

“The boat. It’s mine.” A small, almost shy smile tugged at his mouth. “I, uh. Had a bit of a crisis after residency. Thought it would be a good idea to get a sailing license.”

“A crisis,” you repeated. “So you bought a boat.”

“Seemed logical at the time.” He handed you a slice of pizza. “Residency was… intense. Years of constant learning, constant pressure, never sleeping, always studying. And then suddenly it was over and I was an attending and I just—I felt empty. Like I’d been running towards this finish line for so long and then I crossed it and there was just—nothing. No celebration, no sense of accomplishment. Just more work.”

You stayed quiet, letting the gentle rock of the boat fill the space.

“Satoru was dealing with his own mess back then. We both were, I guess. And I needed something that wasn’t medicine. Something that belonged only to me. I considered getting a motorcycle, but that seemed like a death wish.”

“So you learned to sail.”

“So I learned to sail.” He laughed. “Took lessons every weekend for six months. Probably drove the instructor insane. But it gave me something to focus on that wasn’t blood or charts or someone else’s life in my hands.”

You looked around at the deck, at how carefully everything was maintained, how loved. “Do you still come out here a lot?”

“Not as much as I used to. I’ve never brought anyone else here.”

The words settled right in the center of your chest and stayed there, spreading warmth through your ribs until your heart felt too full, like it might float up and out of you entirely. 

“Well,” you said, “I’m honored to be your first sailing victim.”

“You’re not a victim.”

“The evening’s still young.”

After that, you ate pizza—crispy crust, still warm, the kind that left your fingers shiny and you didn’t care at all—and sat on the blankets, passing slices back and forth, talking about everything and nothing.

He told you about the patient who’d swallowed a fork (“Not even during a meal—just absentmindedly, apparently”), and you countered with the time you’d filed a motion for the wrong client and only realized when Higuruma cleared his throat in open court. The stories got looser with every sip of wine, laughter spilling out easier than it had any right to this far out on the water.

You already knew he was funny—dry, sharp, the kind of humor that snuck up on you and landed perfect. You loved it, had loved it for weeks now: the way he’d drop a line so deadpan you’d almost miss it, then watch your face for the moment it clicked. 

Tonight he was on, maybe because the hospital was miles away, maybe because the wine loosened him. And every time you laughed, he’d tilt his head a fraction, eyes crinkling at the corners, like your reaction was the actual punchline he’d been aiming for.

The sun sank slow toward the horizon, bleeding orange and pink across the sky until the water caught fire with it. The distant city turned into dark shapes against the glow.

He leaned back against the pillows, wine glass balanced on his chest, and murmured something about only resting his eyes for a bit.

“Hey. No passing out on me,” you said. “You can’t fall asleep and leave me alone on a boat in the middle of the ocean. That’s how horror movies start.”

“It’s not that different from driving a car.”

“I can’t even parallel park. I’m the person who circles the block four times rather than attempt it.”

“Good thing we’re surrounded by water, then. Plenty of space.”

You snorted, shoving another pillow behind your back. “Don’t tempt fate. I’ll find a way to crash this thing.”

He was still smiling, head tilted against the blankets, watching you like your terrible parking skills were the most endearing thing he’d heard all day. “I’ll stay awake. Promise.”

But his voice was already softening again, and you knew it wouldn’t be long. You didn’t mind. Not really. You’d keep watch—for the stars, for the quiet sway of the deck, for the way his breathing evened out beside you like the night trusted you to take the wheel for a while.

You watched him for a minute—the rise and fall of his chest, the way his hair fell across his forehead, the small furrow between his brows that even sleep couldn’t quite smooth out.

Quietly, you pulled the small sketchbook from your bag and started to sketch. First the clean line of his jaw, then the messy fall of hair over his forehead. His hand lay open on the blanket—those long fingers that had been inside you just a few nights ago—

You stopped that train of thought immediately and focused on his face instead. You worked quickly, quietly, trying to capture the particular quality of light that made everything feel suspended and golden and perfect.

You shaded fast, chasing the last of the sunset’s light, which made everything look like something out of a dream. Out here on the water, with pizza boxes scattered and wine half gone, with a man who’d built a whole evening around one offhand comment you’d made about Italy—this felt too easy. Too good. The kind of easy you could slip into without noticing, until it felt like something you needed every day.

But he wasn’t in love with you. 

It hit like cold water. 

He’s in love with someone else. This—whatever this is—it’s not about you. It’s about him trying to move on, trying to feel something other than whatever complicated mess he has with her. A way to outrun the pull of someone else.

Your hand tightened around the pencil until the wood cracked.

Suguru’s eyes opened slowly, blinking against the last of the sunset. “Shit. I fell asleep.” He pushed up on one elbow. “You okay? We still afloat?”

You forced a quick nod, shoving the broken pieces into your fist before he could see. “We’re fine. No international incidents on my watch.”

“Give it time. I believe in you.”

You nudged his leg with your foot. “Keep talking and I’ll steer us straight into a shipping lane.”

He laughed under his breath, then his gaze dropped to the sketchbook clutched against your stomach.

“Were you drawing?”

“It’s nothing. Just… dumb scribbles.”

“Can I see?”

“Really, it’s not—” You hugged the book tighter. What if he thought it was weird that you’d drawn him while he slept? What if it came across as creepy or obsessive or—

He sat up properly, elbows on his knees, watching you with that calm look that made arguing feel pointless. “You don’t have to. But I’d like to. If you’re okay with it.”

You chewed your lip. “It’s not good,” you muttered at last, already flipping the sketchbook open. You turned the page toward him, bracing. 

He went quiet, and for a long second he didn’t move.

“You did this just now?”

“Told you it’s not—”

“It’s incredible,” he said. “The light… the way you caught it falling across my face…” He looked up. “Is this how you see me?”

Your throat tightened. “Yeah. I guess.”

“I look… peaceful.”

“You were,” you said softly.

He exhaled, slow, like the word meant more than he expected. He handed the sketchbook back carefully. “Thank you for showing me.”

In that moment, as the boat rocked gently beneath you and the last traces of sunset bled into the water, you realized how big this was. You didn’t share your art—not like this. Nobara had seen most of it, and Megumi had caught a glimpse here and there when you were sketching in university. Even Yuji, who asked so often after noticing your drawings, had only ever been given a handful of finished pieces. Your parents still had your kindergarten finger paintings framed in the hallway. Nothing after that.

Showing your art had always felt like peeling back skin. Perhaps that was why you kept it private.

And yet here you were, handing the sketchbook over without a fight. It felt strange—exposed, vulnerable in a way that made you want to fold in on yourself. But it also felt safe. Safe enough to let him hold this small, unfinished piece of you and not flinch when he looked at it like it mattered.

“Do you draw people often?” he asked.

“Not really. I mostly do still life. Landscapes when I can get out of the city. Flowers, sometimes.”

And as you said it it felt so terrible small. Flowers. You almost winced. It sounded so… childish. Like something you’d admit to in elementary school art class, not to a man who spent his days holding people’s lives together.

You could hear Chad’s voice in your head, clear as if he were sitting right there with his smug little smirk: My little sister draws too. It’s cute.

“It’s stupid,” you said, quickly.

“It’s not stupid at all,” he replied.

The gentleness in his voice caught you off guard—like a hand steadying you just as you started to stumble. You’d expected polite agreement or a careful deflection—not this quiet conviction, like your doubt was worth challenging instead of smoothing over.

You looked away, out where the first stars were starting to prick through the deepening sky, suddenly afraid he’d see too much if you met his eyes right then.

“You know what I don’t understand?” he asked.

“What?”

He nodded toward the sketchbook in your lap. “How you can make something like that and still act like it’s nothing. Like you’re not talented.”

“It’s just a hobby.”

He studied you for a second longer than was comfortable. “Why do you do that?”

“Do what?”

“Make yourself smaller.”

You tugged at a loose thread on the blanket, winding it around your finger until it pulled tight. “Because everyone else seems so sure,” you said. “The other interns at the firm, they’re so confident, they know what they want to do, why they are here—they’ve got their five-year plans mapped out, clerkships lined up, judges they want to impress. And I just—I don’t know what I’m doing. With law, with art, with any of it.”

You hesitated, then kept going. “I’m halfway through law school, and half the time I hate it. My parents gave up everything for me to be there. My dad’s still working double shifts so I can sit in those classrooms. And I can’t even bring myself to tell them that maybe I made a mistake.”

“What would you do?” he asked. “If you could do anything.”

“It’s funny—A friend of mine asked me the same thing.”

“And what did you answer them?”

You stared at the dark water sliding past the hull. “It’s not that simple,” you said at last.

“You can do both.”

“Both?”

“Law and art. You don’t have to choose one or the other. Work at a firm three days a week. Or four. Or consult. And spend the rest of the time painting.”

“That’s not really how law works. You have to give it your whole life.”

“Then find a different kind of law,” he said. “Or a different firm. One that doesn’t treat you like you owe them your soul.” He leaned forward, elbows on his knees, gaze steady on yours in the low light. “You know what I do? I teach. One day a week, sometimes two. Not because I love lecturing hungover med students at eight in the morning, but because I couldn’t imagine doing surgery full-time.”

“You do surgery full-time.”

“And that’s why I’m so miserable.”

You couldn’t help it; a laugh escaped.

“I’m serious,” he said, but he was smiling too. “Teaching is the only thing that keeps the rest bearable. A day where nothing bleeds, nobody codes, and the worst thing that happens is a med student spells ‘meninges’ wrong. It’s—I need it.”

He reached over, fingers brushing yours to untangle the thread you’d been winding tighter and tighter around your index finger. You hadn’t even noticed the tip had gone white. He freed it carefully, rubbing the blood back in with his thumb. So doctor of him.

“You’re allowed to want more than one thing,” he said softly. “You don’t have to drown yourself in one thing to prove you’re committed to it.”

“My parents—” you started.

“Your parents want you to be happy,” he finished. “Maybe they think law school is the path to that, but I guarantee you they don’t want you to be miserable for the next forty years just because they made sacrifices. That’s not how love works.”

“You make it sound easy.”

“It’s not easy. Nothing good ever is. But it doesn’t have to be all or nothing.” He paused, thinking. “You could look for firms that do art law. Cultural heritage cases, intellectual property for artists, restitution cases. Places that would kill for someone who actually understands both sides. Or you work part-time and paint the rest. Or you paint now, see where it takes you, and keep law as a backup.”

He let go of your hand, but the warmth stayed.

“You’ve got time. You don’t have to decide your whole life tonight.”

“Art law,” you repeated.

“It exists,” he said. He didn’t sound completely sure himself, but there was firmness in his voice, like he was trying to believe it for both of you. “Museums get sued. Artists fight over copyrights. Collectors need legal help. Someone has to do it—why not someone who actually understands both sides?”

You turned the idea over in your mind, looking at it from different angles like you might study a painting. It felt almost absurd, the idea that you didn’t have to choose—that you could be both. It felt uncertain, like stepping off the path that everyone else insisted was the only safe one. But hearing it from him, it felt almost possible.

“When did you figure this out?” you asked. “About teaching, about needing something else?”

He leaned back against the pillows, gaze drifting to the stars. “When watching someone close to you run himself into the ground stopped being something I could stand by and observe, and every surgery started feeling like just another way to avoid dealing with real life.” He exhaled. “I needed something that reminded me why I became a doctor in the first place. Teaching gave me that back—standing in front of students who still believe this job can be good, reminding myself it sometimes is. It’s the only part that still feels human.”

He reached for the pack of cigarettes on the blanket, then seemed to think better of it and set them aside. 

“I’m not saying quit law school tomorrow and become a full-time artist. I’m just saying—you don’t have to make yourself smaller to fit into one box. You can spill over into two. Or three. Or build some odd-shaped thing no one else gets.”

You went quiet, the words sinking in slow. You drew your knees to your chest, arms tight around them, and stared at the black water.

“There’s this gallery thing. Higurama mentioned it the other day—he knows the owner somehow, and they’re doing a showcase for emerging artists. I have until next Friday to submit a portfolio. Five to seven pieces, plus an artist statement, whatever that is.”

“What would you put in it? If no one was watching?”

You’d thought about it more than you wanted to admit—because wanting something made failure possible. Still, the thought lived in the back of your mind like a bruise you kept pressing.

“I have these sunset studies I actually like,” you said. “And there’s a still life of my mom’s kitchen counter, and an abstract piece I’ve been working on forever. I don't know if it’s finished or if I just gave up on it. But they’re not… professional. They’re just mine.”

“That’s what makes them good.”

“You haven’t seen them.”

“I’ve seen enough.” He nodded toward the sketchbook resting between you. “If you can pull that out of twenty minutes while I’m asleep, I can only imagine what happens when you give yourself real time and intention.”

You wanted to believe him. God, you wanted to believe him so badly. Him, Nobara, all of them. You pressed the heels of your hands against your eyes for a second, like you could push the doubt back in.

“I don’t know if I can do this. I can’t even figure out an artist statement. What would I write? ‘Hello, I’m a failed law student who paints when she should be studying’?”

“You’ll figure it out. And if you need help—brainstorming the statement, choosing pieces, whatever—I’m here. If you want.”

“Why are you doing all this?” you asked, voice quieter than the waves.

“Because I know what it’s like to lose yourself in what everyone else expects. To wake up one day and realize you’ve been living someone else’s life.”

His gaze didn’t waver.

“And I don’t want that for you.”

A breath. Small, but it carried everything.

“Because I like you.”

The words were quiet, almost swallowed by the night air, but they struck you like a sudden shift in the wind. A soft lurch behind your ribs, the way your breath caught and held for a second too long. Such a small sentence. Ordinary, even. People tossed it around all the time. But coming from him, here, now, it wasn’t small at all.

It wasn’t love. Not the grand, consuming kind you suspected still belonged to someone else. But it was real. It was him choosing to say it here, now, under flickering string lights with salt air on your skin.

He liked you.

And in this moment, with the vast dark water around you and wine on your tongue, that felt like more than enough. It felt like something solid you could hold in your hands without fear of it slipping away. And in that moment, you foolishly allowed yourself to believe it meant more. 

You reached for your phone before the courage slipped. “I photographed everything the other day,” you said, scrolling past case screenshots and Nobara’s goofy selfies until you found the folder. You handed it over. “Here. These are what I have.”

He took the phone and shifted closer to you under the blankets as the night air grew colder. You didn’t plan to lean into him, but the cold made it easy—your head found his shoulder like it had been looking for it all evening. He didn’t pull away.

He studied each painting. Every quiet “this one” or soft hum of approval landed gentle in your chest. You realized then, that these were things you’d never shown anyone—not Nobara, not your parents, not even yourself in daylight. Only him, tonight, on a boat out in the ocean, of all things. 

You decided together: the three strongest, plus the rainy street if you finished it, and the old man from the café—honest, he called it. Five pieces. A real portfolio. He helped you shape the artist statement too, going over ideas until you felt comfortable with it.

When the candles guttered low and the stars took over, you were already tucked against his side, his arm draped along the back of the cushions, fingers brushing the sleeve of your jacket like he couldn’t quite help himself. You stayed pressed to his side, warm now, and finally said it.

“Thank you.”

His answer was quiet, his cheek brushing your hair. “I should be thanking you.”

“For what?”

“For a night where I’m not talking about tumors or mortality rates once. Even if I sound like an idiot about art.”

You tilted your face up. The string lights painted gold across his cheekbones. “You’re pretty good at the art thing for a brain surgeon.”

His gaze flicked to your mouth, then returned to your eyes. “If you say so,” he whispered, “then I’m honored.”

His hand found yours beneath the blanket—tentative at first, then sure, fingers sliding between yours until they locked. He was so close now. Every breath you took brushed his lips, and you could feel the moment he stopped holding himself back.

“Suguru,” you breathed.

He went still. You could almost hear the thought running through his mind: I brought you here for this night, for the lights and the water and the quiet—not to take advantage of you. He was being the gentleman. You wished he wouldn’t be.

Main character energy, you thought, Nobara’s voice loud in your head. Main characters don’t wait.

“Kiss me.”

His hand lifted to your cheek, thumb brushing your skin. And then his lips met yours, soft and careful. But the moment your hand moved to tangle in his hair, something in him snapped loose. It turned deeper, hungrier, his tongue tracing yours with a slow drag that made heat pool low in your stomach. You tasted wine and salt air and him.

“You know,” he pulled back barely an inch, “you make me lose my mind.”

Before you could answer, he kissed you again—harder, like he needed to prove it. You matched him, climbing into his lap, the blanket slipping away. One hand settled firm at the small of your back, pulling you close, while the other stayed gentle against your face.

Another kiss—slow, deep, teeth catching your bottom lip until a gasp slipped out. He took the sound into his mouth, tilting your head back to drag his lips down your throat.

His hand slipped beneath your sweater, palm gliding up the bare skin of your spine until his fingers brushed the clasp of your bra. He paused, long enough for you to feel the question in it. You answered by arching into him

“Don’t stop,” you whispered against his lips.

And he didn’t. His hand moved lower until it slipped beneath the waistband of your jeans and the thin lace beneath them. A moan broke free, loud in the open night.

He groaned against your neck, fingers circling, slow and sure, like he already knew every secret spot that made you tremble. You pressed your face into his shoulder as another moan escaped, louder, helpless. And in that moment, you thanked God for the dark ocean stretching endlessly around you.

You weren’t the kind of person who went home with someone this soon—not when everything still felt new, fragile, full of edges. You had rules: your own bed, your own pace, time to think. But when he’d kissed you in the car, his hand already sliding between your thighs again, you’d breathed yes against his mouth before he’d even finished asking if you wanted to come upstairs. 

Seconds later, your back was pressed against the cool glass of his living room window, your legs wrapped tightly around his hips as he moved inside you in a way that made coherent thought impossible. Heat rolled through you in waves, building low and tight until your head tipped back against the window.

Part of your brain—the last stubborn corner that still worked—kept screaming that this was a terrible idea. He was still tangled up with her, the other woman, whose shadow you’d felt hovering since the beginning. You weren’t stupid. You knew the shape of a rebound when you were living inside it.

But right now, with your breath coming in shallow pulls and your body burning under his hands, you couldn’t make yourself care. Not when he was holding you up like you weighed nothing, buried deep, driving every thought out of your head except the next push of his hips and the way your own name sounded when he groaned it against your neck, and maybe that was enough.

He carried you the few steps to the couch, both of you breathing hard and laughing under your breath at how clumsy and urgent it all felt. You barely had time to catch your breath before he was behind you again. One hand slid up your spine, gentle at first, gathering your hair to the side so he could kiss your neck, while the other guided himself back inside you in one slow push that made your fingers curl into the cushions.

“God,” he muttered against your skin before starting to move again.

His forearm hooked across your throat with enough pressure to tilt your head back against his shoulder and make you feel completely surrounded by him. You turned your face toward him as much as the angle allowed, breathless and desperate for his mouth. It was brief, hot, more teeth than tongue.

You don’t remember exactly when it ended—only that it was deep into the night when it finally did. Breath by breath, movement slowing, until your bodies slid down the couch and tangled together, skin slick, hearts still hammering against each other’s chests. 

He asked if he should take you home. You shook your head. He pulled you against his chest, arm draped over your waist, heavy, like he was afraid you’d vanish if he let go. You tucked your head under his chin, listening to his breathing even out, and let yourself drift.

At some point in the night, you woke up and untangled yourself from his arm, trying not to wake him. He made a small, sleepy sound when you moved, but didn’t stir beyond that. You paused, half out of the sheets, and looked back at him. 

He was on his stomach now, one arm stretched toward where you’d been, face turned into the pillow and lashes dark against his cheeks. Moonlight painted faint lines over his bare back, and the slow and even rise and fall of his breathing. He looked almost soft, peaceful in a way, and younger than you’d ever seen him.

Your chest did something complicated.

You were so fucked.

Because you could get used to this—waking up beside him, watching him sleep with his arm still searching for you, like this could be normal. Like it could last. Like he might keep reaching for you even when he was awake.

In the kitchen, you found a glass in the first cabinet you opened. You filled the glass from the sink and drank half of it in one go.

You didn’t hear him come up behind you until his arms slid around your waist. He pressed his chest to your back, chin resting on your shoulder, lips brushing the side of your neck.

“Couldn’t sleep?” he murmured.

“I was just thirsty,” you whispered back. You tilted your head without meaning to, giving him more of your neck, and he took the invitation.

He turned you gently until you faced him. The glass was still in your hand; he plucked it away, set it down somewhere behind you without breaking eye contact, then cupped your face in both hands and kissed you. And for that moment, it felt like the night belonged only to the two of you. 

You melted against him, palms sliding up the warm skin of his chest until your fingers rested over his heartbeat. It was racing, same as yours. And you wished this night would never end—that the sun would stay down, the city asleep, and you could stay right here in his kitchen at this impossible hour, trading kisses that felt endless with nothing waiting to pull you apart.

“You’re so beautiful,” he said, almost wondering, like he was saying it to himself as much as to you. “I don’t think I’ve told you that enough tonight.”

You opened your mouth to say something—anything—to lighten it, but nothing came out. Only a shaky little laugh that turned into a soft inhale when he stepped closer still, crowding you against the counter. 

His hands slid down to your hips, to lift you like you weighed nothing, and set you on the countertop. Your legs parted instinctively so he could step between them. He didn’t waste time—mouth finding yours again, deeper this time, then trailing down. You were still wearing his oversized shirt from earlier, half-buttoned and slipping off one shoulder. He nudged it aside with his nose, lips brushing the skin he’d exposed, kissing lower still.

“What…?” you breathed. “What are you doing?”

He looked up at you through dark lashes. A smirk tugged at his mouth as he pushed your shirt higher up your thighs.

“I’m thirsty myself,” he said, before sinking to his knees right there on the kitchen floor.

Your head fell back against the cabinet with a soft thud as his mouth was on you. Your legs draped over his shoulders, heels digging into his back, and whatever smart comeback you’d been forming dissolved into a broken moan.

─────── ౨ৎ ───────

It was that strange stretch of time before dawn when the sky outside had shifted from black to a soft, bruised indigo. At some point during the night, you had both moved from the couch to his bed, limbs tangled under the sheets and his body warm and heavy against yours. Then, three quick chimes in a row cut through the silence.

You startled awake first. Suguru stirred beside you with a gravelly groan, arm tightening around your waist before he registered what the sound was. He lifted his head and squinted at the clock on the nightstand.

“Who the fuck,” he muttered, “is ringing my bell at—” he squinted again “—five-thirty in the goddamn morning.” The bell chimed again, longer this time, like the person had leaned on it.

He exhaled through his nose, clearly annoyed, but before he moved he turned his face into your neck, pressing a sleepy kiss there. Then another, softer, against the corner of your mouth.

“Stay in bed,” he said, lips brushing yours as he spoke. “I’ll get rid of whoever this asshole is.”

You made a small affirmative sound, still too dazed to process what was happening, and burrowed deeper into the pillow that smelled like him. He kissed you once more, proper this time, lingering just long enough to make you want to pull him back down, then reluctantly untangled himself from the sheets.

You watched as he tugged on a pair of sweatpants, raking a hand through his messy hair, and then he padded barefoot toward the door. The bell rang again once more.

You stayed curled up in bed with your eyes closed, listening to the soft creak of the front door opening down the hall. Suguru’s voice rumbled low—too low to make out the words. Then, the door clicked shut. 

After that, silence.

No footsteps returning. No irritated grumble. Nothing.

Pushing up slowly, you clutched the sheet to your chest. Your heart was already racing—a sick little flutter you couldn’t blame on the wine from the night before. 

You told yourself it was probably nothing. A neighbor. An emergency page from the hospital. Someone with the wrong door. But the seconds dragged into minutes, and still no sound of him coming back.

You sat up straighter and strained to hear something. At first, you could only hear the faint hum of the refrigerator. A car passed on the street outside. But then—soft, almost too soft to be sure—a woman’s voice.

Dread bloomed cold in your stomach, spreading outward until your fingers went numb against the sheet. 

You knew that voice.

It was her.

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author's note — i’ll keep this short: thank you for reading and i hope today treats you kindly <3

“I knew I wanted to propose to Yuko the same way you proposed to Mom, but I didn’t think that meant I’d almost pass out, just like you,” Yuji made his way over to one of the couches, collapsing in the comfortable, empty spot beside Megumi. He sighed with relief. “It’s funny. You talk about getting married, having a future, and whatnot, but when it’s actually time to get down on one knee? Scariest moment of my life.”

“Well, since you went through with it, we’ll be celebrating tomorrow!” You smiled brightly, sitting down in a seat across from everyone else.

What a beautiful sight it was — albeit a rare one — having all of your children together, in one house.

Yuji and Megumi, the sorcerers you adopted eight years ago, had both moved out within the last three years. Though they stopped by quite often — loving the grin that would appear on your face whenever they stepped through your double front doors — nothing compared to waking up every morning and seeing their early-bird smiles as they roamed around the kitchen way back when.

“Sounds great,” Yuji beamed, and whenever he did grin so brightly, it was a showcase of his former, boyish self.

The pink-haired sorcerer turned his attention towards his tween sister sitting on the floor nearest their father’s leg, her own long legs shifting into various positions — pulling one knee up to her chest, both, then stretching out, then sitting criss-crossed.

“So, how was school this week, Maya?” Yuji paused. “Tell me all the chaos.”

“School’s school. Next play hasn’t been picked out yet, but I’m gonna start practicing anyway, ‘cause I wanna get the lead. Oh, and guess who got laughed at in band class the other day ‘cause their clarinet squeaked, like, three times? Me. It wasn’t my fault! It’s these stupid braces,” Maya frowned. Even her words carried a bit of a lisp thanks to the brackets and wires running along her teeth.

“You just gotta get used to them, Muffin. You’ll be able to play, eat, and talk just fine in a couple of weeks, promise.” Satoru glanced down at the girl beside him as he spoke, and she looked up with a playful glare.

“We’re not friends right now, Dad.”

“Not friends?” Yuji interrupted, his eyebrows rising in surprise. “What did I miss? Dad, what’d you do?”

“Nothing wrong, nothing wrong at all,” Satoru said defensively.

“Liesss,” Maya turned her body to better face her dad — or her newest enemy, rather — and Yuji. “So, I asked dad if I could dye my hair and he said no, remember?”

“Yeah, I remember,” Yuji nodded.

“But I thought that maybe, if I got good grades, helped out around the house more, yadda yadda yadda, he’d change his mind. But he still said no. Wait, no, hold on, I got it wrong. He said no ‘cause mom said no first. He would’ve said yes if I asked him first, which, like, is worse than your answer being no from the start. Like, you only said no ‘cause mom said no? It’s not fair.”

“Maya, I’m just not comfortable with you dying your hair until you’re a teenager,” you said.

“Sucks to be twelve, huh?” Yuji looked at her sympathetically, and she nodded.

But she didn’t give up hope.

The girl turned her body in the direction of the quiet, dark-haired man dressed in all black, who was listening along to the conversation with a small, pleasant grin upon his face, his elbow propped up on the armrest of the couch, knuckles pressing into his cheek.

“Megumi,” she called out. “My favorite sibling of them all, the great and wise, tell me, do you think I’m too young to dye my hair?”

“Why do you want to dye it? It looks fine.” Megumi eyed the waves of white locks that flowed from her head — a passed-down Gojo trait, without a doubt.

“No one has white hair,” Maya pouted a bit. “Even I didn’t have white hair at first! I had mom’s hair ‘til I got older and it started to change. I’m already taller than Bigfoot and stick out a ton ‘cause of that. Having white hair just makes it worseee. I look like the Yeti. I mean, it’s not like I was gonna dye it a crazy color, just something less freaky looking. I wish I still had your hair color, momma.”

“Let me guess, next, you’re going to ask for contacts because you hate the eye color you inherited from your old man, hm?” Satoru pressed his hand against his chest, faking a wounded state, as if Maya’s words had stabbed him through the heart. “I helped create one of the prettiest girls in the entire world, passed on all of my best qualities, and she wants to dye her hair and chop off her legs.”

“Hey, don’t talk like that, there are children present,” you waved a finger at your husband, then pointed at the six-year-old fraternal boy-girl twins, Kenji and Kaia, — the girl looking every bit like a mini you while your son favored Satoru in every way — who were heavily invested in their coloring books, sprawled out across the living room rug.

“I heard it!” Kaia shouted.

“Unhear it, princess,” Satoru scratched the side of his head. “You don’t need that imagery in your head before bed.”

“What’s an im-ger-y?” Kenji asked softly, tilting his head a bit, halting his neat coloring of a firetruck. Though his question was a response to Satoru’s words, he looked at Megumi — his favorite person of all — for answers.

“Visual stuff. Things you can see.”

“I’m coloring Yuji because I miss Yuji and, um . . . I love Yuji a lot,” Kaia mumbled randomly, though she was, in fact, not coloring Yuji. It was a picture of a tiger that she dragged her pink crayon across. Close enough.

“Megumiii, help me convince them!” Maya, still upset about not being able to dye her hair, carried on.

In her eyes, she didn’t carry her father’s traits as well as he did. The white hair, blue eyes, and taller-than-average height all worked for him like day and night. Sand and the sea.

But it wasn’t as common for a girl to be tall, especially when her limited views of society were confined to that of a big building surrounded by fellow twelve-year-olds, ones who judged each other quite harshly.

And her hair wasn’t exactly as silky, smooth, or cooperative as her father's. It was massive, which wasn’t a problem in itself, as she quite liked the size of it sometimes, but all the products her friends recommended her didn’t seem to work.

Not only did it, oddly enough, change colors with age — but in a world where someone like Yuji could be born with pinkish hair, perhaps it wasn’t that surprising — but she often grew frustrated with it, almost to the point of tears as she stared at her reflection in the mirror, because at the very least — the very least — if she had to have an odd natural hair color, she wanted it to look nice.

But, it always looked rather pretty when you did it. You seemed to have some sort of magic, motherly touch that she wasn’t capable of capturing just yet. But some mornings, you were working at the children’s home you owned. And other mornings, she wanted to be independent. She wanted to do it herself. She wasn’t a little kid anymore.

You promised her that such obstacles were normal for her age, but even so, she eyed the boxed dye at the stores whenever you went shopping. She sadly gazed at photos from early childhood, jealous of the grinning, Barbie-obsessed little girl with chubby cheeks, her mother’s hair, and two big brothers who still lived at home.

“How about we go to the hair salon this weekend? I’m still saying no to dye, but they could give you a cute hairstyle, maybe help us find ways to take care of your hair when I’m too busy.”

Maya perked up instantly, whipping around to face you as you spoke, her blue eyes going wide. “Seriously?”

“I’ve been meaning to take you for a little while now. Let’s have a girls’ day. Get your hair done, go shopping, grab lunch-”

“Oh my god, I’m so excited! Ahh!” Maya shrieked happily, nearly bouncing off the floor in pure excitement. “Thanks, mom!”

Suddenly, another member of the Gojo family’s quiet footsteps could be heard against the freshly mopped floors as he made his way into the living room, carrying a bag across his shoulder.

“Ready.” Tomoya pushed up on his big glasses, his soft voice serving as a harsh contrast compared to Maya’s, so much so that he almost went unheard — but the fellow quiet, dark-haired member of the family heard him.

“Don’t forget your toothbrush,” Megumi looked up at the twelve-year-old from where he sat.

It was almost like staring into a mirror. Truly, the only difference between Megumi and Tomoya was that Tomoya’s hair was flatter, his skin had gotten a bit tanner as he aged, and, of course, he wore glasses.

But, at the age of twenty-three, Megumi’s hair had gotten a bit flatter, truth be told. It wasn’t quite as spiky as it used to be — stuck somewhere between the hairstyle his teenage self had, and that of his fathers.

Even so, it was rather funny how, though he and Tomoya weren’t related, they seemed to resemble each other both in appearance and personality.

And, according to your worried phone calls, in their fair share of troubles as well.

It was to be expected. Once Tomoya became old enough to think to himself, “hey, my childhood was pretty messed up,” to realize that his birth parents treated him like shit, and yet, fought to take him away from the adoptive parents who found his hungry, dirty, and abandoned self at the park six years ago, who treated him like royalty; it was too much sometimes.

There came a point last year when his birth mother discovered that he often liked to visit the crafts store for art supplies.

He didn’t recognize her. He could only remember the hunger, the coldness, the loneliness, but not her. His mind blocked out any memory of the people inflicted it upon him — not that he had very many memories to begin with. The neglect only happened because his folks were hardly around, after all.

So, when a woman who feigned weakness claimed she needed help getting two easels into the back of her truck, Tomoya was kind enough to help her. He didn’t have time to question why a man with a face so similar to his own was lurking around the car, yet, not helping the woman he appeared to be with.

It was then that the boy realized neither one of them had any interest in loading the easels into their opened trunk, but him.

Shock ripped away his ability to scream, much like trauma once stripped away his desire to talk beyond a couple of words a day.

But, thank goodness his father — not the man who helped create him, but the white-haired sorcerer he shared a last name with — was the one who brought him to the craft store in the first place.

He couldn’t remember much after Satoru Gojo showed up and his potential kidnappers were hurled to the ground in an instant, just as he was partially in the trunk and his glasses tumbled from his face.

He only remembered warmth as he grabbed Satoru out of pure relief, the feeling of Satoru’s dark work uniform pressed against the side of his head, and Satoru wrapping his long arms tightly around his trembling frame, telling him repeatedly that it was okay. He was safe now.

How long had he hugged Satoru? Hours, it seemed. All he knew was that he closed his eyes and clung to him whilst they were still in the parking lot, awaiting the police’s arrival, and he didn’t let go until he had been home for a long while.

But Satoru didn’t mind. Never once did he shuffle or sigh as a small polite hint towards annoyance. He only held the crying boy for as long as he needed it.

Megumi could hear the worry in your voice during the frequent phone calls that came during the following weeks. According to you, Tomoya had started to talk less, retreating into the shell of his former self who hardly spoke. His art had changed as well. He found himself painting more, truth be told, but the artwork represented the dark moments of his life: the ribs of a man. Hunger. A person standing in the rain. Abandonment. Crumbled missing posters. Kidnapping.

Attempting to bond with the tween was Megumi’s idea.

After all, he was a similar age when he too struggled with the sick, twisted thing called life. And, upon further reflection now that he was twenty-three, and could properly consider himself to be a happy person, he figured that, perhaps, what Tomoya needed was something Megumi had once gone without: someone who was similar to him. Someone who understood his pain.

“You’re leaving already?” You tried to hide the sadness in your voice. Never had you wanted to make your children feel guilty for having their own lives, but you couldn’t help it. You so desperately missed having everyone under the same roof, even for fleeting moments.

“It’s getting late. But don’t worry,” Megumi rose from the couch. “We’ll see you tomorrow. All of us.”

A smile returned to your face.

It was for the best, perhaps, as the entire point of Tomoya spending the night at Megumi’s place was so they could bond in a calm, quiet environment.

Goodbyes were exchanged. Yuji stayed for an extra half hour, and left with a couple of to-go plates filled to the brim with dinners he missed out on — he missed your cooking — and with that, they were gone with the promises of seeing you, Satoru, and their other siblings tomorrow.

—

Tomoya had been to Megumi’s apartment before. It was a few years ago, when you all helped him load in his boxed belongings and new furniture. You then cooked a celebratory dinner in his modern kitchen.

But now, without the group of Gojo’s crowding the place, Tomoya could see it for what it really was. It was one of the newer apartments closer to the city — closer to everything.

“I like to walk places rather than drive or take public transportation,” Megumi said, shutting the door behind his brother, as if reading his mind.

It screamed of newness, an environment that seemed sterile enough that Tomoya couldn’t help but wonder if Megumi actually lived here, as the only sign of life was Tomoya and Megumi themselves.

And the folded note on the corner of his marble kitchen island.

Flicking on a light, Megumi smiled at the sight of the note. He walked over, opened it, and saw his partner’s neat handwriting informing him of a long, overnight shift as a nurse — though Megumi already knew — along with good luck wishes towards Yuji regarding his proposal.

Soon enough, it would be Megumi’s turn to propose.

And he could imagine the quaint ceremony now.

But he had to shake those thoughts away and return his attention to the dark-haired boy standing awkwardly near a high stool, as if he was scared to put his backpack down in the wrong spot.

“You can set your bag on the couch,” Megumi nodded in the direction of the living room, then turned his back to open his stainless steel fridge. “I don’t compare to our mother, but I’m not a bad cook. You still like ginger chicken, same as me, right?”

Tomoya gave a tiny hum in response.

—

The tantalizing aroma of sizzling chicken and broccoli filled Tomoya’s nostrils as he sat in the middle stool at the kitchen island, letting his pencil strike paper as he worked on a couple of sketches.

Megumi gave the dish one quick stir before turning around to face the tween briefly.

His shoulders seemed relaxed. Perhaps, being able to draw, the smell of a familiar meal, and the comfortable silence eased his anxiety. Megumi’s eyes darted down to Tomoya’s socked feet, and the sight of him feeling at peace, so much so that he was okay with removing his shoes, made a small grin appear on his face.

“Megumi?” Tomoya called out.

“Hm?”

Tomoya appreciated the way his brother didn’t have a big, overdone reaction to hearing him speak. He only continued to stir their dinner with his back turned. While most reacted to Tomoya speaking first to spark a conversation with oohs and ahhs as if he never spoke at all, Megumi didn’t appear surprised, as if Tomoya was a chatterbox and this was a regular occurrence.

“Why’d you ask me to spend the night?” Pushing up on his glasses, Tomoya then twirled his pencil around in his hand.

“I heard that you were going through a rough time. I know what that is like. I’m a bit of an expert against my will, so I wanted to show you that I’m here for you.”

“Hm . . .” Tomoya mumbled.

Megumi turned off the stove. As he spoke, he opened a cabinet and pulled down two glass plates. “Listen. Bad things happen more often than we’d like them to. It’s okay to feel sad or angry, and it’s okay if it takes a while before you start to feel like yourself again. There’s nothing wrong with needing help, either. I started therapy when I was just a few years older than you are now. But, if that sounds terrifying right now, our parents are great listeners. I am too.”

“What was life like when you were younger?”

Megumi scooped out a hefty serving of ginger chicken, veggies, and a side of rice. As he placed it in front of Tomoya, he thought about it all. His biological parents. Curses. Depression. Abandonment. Medication. Dark thoughts. Half-hearted attempts at dying.

Nothing new.

Megumi said, “I’ll tell you. But, as I do, I need you to remember one thing. I am happy now.”

Tomoya grabbed his fork, softly stabbed the tender meat, and nodded. Megumi began to speak.

—

The day of Yuji’s wedding was one filled with tears, divine food, and heartwarming speeches. Friends and family surrounded him and Yuko — everyone from his old classmates to the friends of his parents whom he considered relatives were there.

And while many people passed on well wishes to the bride and groom, Yuji found himself holding his wife’s hand, and making a wish of his own: that he and his lover would have a relationship as beautiful as his parents, who slowly, happily danced together in the distance.

—

Satoru guided a fork covered in a bite of wedding cake towards your open mouth.

It was around midnight when you bit into the moist dessert. There was too much leftover cake for Yuji and Yuko to handle, but luckily, there were plenty of to-go boxes, and your sweets-loving husband made sure to pack plenty.

The two of you were in the dimly lit kitchen, hovering over the kitchen island, taking turns chatting about nothing and feeding each other cake while still dressed in your formal clothes.

“It’s been a long time, and I regret nothing.” Satoru stroked away a bit of frosting stuck to your bottom lip with his thumb. “I knew I couldn’t talk my folks out of throwing us an old, boring, traditional wedding, so what was my solution?”

“Have a second one,” you both said in unison. Your shared words were followed by a bit of soft laughter.

“I mean, no cake, no music, no dancing, it was awful. There was no way I was gonna have a wedding but not dance with my wife. My clan’s crazy. I’m not surprised, though. These were the same people who wouldn’t let me have a childhood.” Satoru said, eyeing the cake-covered fork you brought to his lips.

“I thought they were going to make us get a divorce when they found out we threw a second wedding without them. I still remember your grandfather’s face when he saw the photos.” You paused. “I’m glad we’re cool enough parents to understand that our kids are adults, and therefore, they can have any kind of wedding they want. They can move out, have children . . . no pressure to visit home if they don’t want to.”

“You miss ‘em.”

“Is that a statement or a question?” You smiled sadly. Cake no longer seemed appetizing. “Guess it doesn’t matter, does it? But yes, I do. More than I thought I would. I feel so selfish, though. It’s not like they don’t visit home, they visit us more than the average person experiencing independence for the first time visits home, and it’s not like they up and left as soon as they turned eighteen, I still had them for a few more years after that, but still. I didn’t appreciate having all of my kids under one roof enough.”

“I hear you, baby,” The cake was nothing more than a memory as Satoru spoke. He moved behind you, wrapped his arms around you, and hugged you from behind. In that moment, all you knew, all you could take in, was his scent and the lingering taste of cake. “You know I hate tradition, but I kinda miss the times when kids stayed home until they got married. Sometimes, they didn’t leave even then. They just moved their spouse into their parents’ place with them. Don’t worry, though. We’ll get through it. Our boys never stay away for long. And you know the Gojo house is never a quiet house, so you’ll never, ever be lonely, even when you wish you could be.”

“Speaking of kids, the other day, Yuko was telling me how much she wants children. Can you imagine us becoming grandparents already?” Lying your head back against his chest, you continued, “We’re not even forty yet. Hell, we have two six-year-olds! It’s crazy!”

“Does it scare you? Knowing we’re getting older?” Satoru’s voice took on a low tone, one similar to what you often heard during your late-night chatters — it hit you then that, even though you both weren’t warm in your bed, this was no different.

“I think technically having kids who are twenty-three at the oldest and six at the youngest has put me in this weird spot mentally to where I have no concept of my own age. I truly don’t know how to answer that question. What about you?”

“I think it’s great,” Satoru shrugged. “It’s rare for a sorcerer to live a long life. Not that we’ve lived a long life, you and me, but I hope we live long, long, long lives. And that we die together somehow so neither one of us has to miss the other.”

“Woah, that was pretty dark.”

“Well, on a lighter note, when my hair turns completely gray, no one will notice much since it’s already white.”

Having been madly in love with the man since your teenage years, it was quite easy to look past his attempt at humor, to know that there was something deeper buried beneath his words. “Satoru, do you think about which one of us will die first often?”

“Yes.” He whispered against the top of your head. “More than I’d like to admit.”

“Is there anything I can do to get you to stop worrying about it when we’re only thirty-six?”

“Nope. Sorry. It’s a dangerous world, tomorrow’s not guaranteed to anyone. Worrying about the love of my life is just what comes with having a love of your life.”

Your body went stiff in his arms. He felt it and pulled you tighter against him as a result.

“Oh? You like when I call you that?” He asked.

“You know I do. It, unlike us, will never get old.”

“Come here,” Satoru turned you around. There you were, pressed between the kitchen island and your husband, who had an appetite for more than cake, as it would seem.

One would have thought that you were the dessert your sugar-loving husband was devouring when he pressed his lips against yours.

That man had never known an ounce of shame. Never before had he subscribed to the stupid ideology of men muffling their moans, holding themselves back — no. Hell no.

He was madly in love with you, and he’d rather die than hide how badly he wanted to be with you, inside of you, it didn’t matter. He just wanted you. You, you, you.

His hands roamed across your dress, touching and grabbing everything from your head, your back, to the curve of your ass, and those soft lips of his were just as adventurous, pressing against your neck as you fought to say, “Satoru, the kids are sleeping, we can’t.”

“Can’t what?” He mumbled against your skin. “I’m just trying to help my beautiful wife get out of her beautiful dress. These zippers can be tricky sometimes.”

The sound of your dress coming undone filled the silence as his fingers found your zipper, but your eyes found the archway of your kitchen, and suddenly, you couldn’t help but wonder if your little prince, Kenji, would sneak his way downstairs. That child was identical to Satoru in terms of appearance and a love of sugar — his eyes seemed to glow whenever you gave him a cup of watered-down juice — but, unlike his father and his twin sister, Kenji was as quiet as a mouse. He’d appear in the blink of an eye, all the while you didn’t hear the gentle pats of his feet.

Satoru lifted you, sitting you on the kitchen island where the cake wasn’t, and busied his hands with tugging down your dress while his lips trailed kisses along your collarbone, which held faint scents of a perfume that drove him crazy.

“Satoru, Kenji has your sweet tooth, he could come down here, trying to sneak a bite of cake.”

“Excuses, excuses. Are our kids sleeping or trying to eat cake? Which is it?” Satoru pulled away from you. But not in defeat. Just so he could see the look on your face when he pressed his hand in between your thighs, feeling the slick wetness coating your underwear. “You’re a mess, honey.”

Those long fingers of his hooked around the fabric. He stretched it out a bit, then released it, letting it smack against you gently in a way that sent a shiver of need up your spine. Your hole clenched around nothing. Your clit ached with the desire to be sucked, touched, anything.

“Guess I should leave you like this all night then, yeah? Maybe . . .” he paused, grabbing your hand, pressing your fingers against his mouth, kissing your fingertips. “Maybe I should let my own wife try to satisfy herself with her fingers, which aren’t nearly as long as mine. Sounds like a pathetic orgasm waiting to happen, but that’s what you want, right?”

“No,” you said softly.

“No?” He smirked a bit. Then, like a plumber peering at broken pipes, trying to figure out the solution to a leaky situation, Satoru hiked your dress all the way up to your hips, staring at the wet, inviting patch. He rubbed his fingers up and down, up and down, gracing your clit, teasing your hole, and watching you tremble. “We should go to the guest room then and keep things nice and quiet.”

“If,” you gulped. “If I end up having to gag you with your own blindfold again, no sex for three months.”

Satoru’s smirk widened. He lifted you off the kitchen island with ease and started to carry you, bridal style, to the furthest corner of the massive house. “Don’t worry, it’s kinda hard to be loud when your head’s buried between someone’s thighs.”

—

The same man who devoured your pussy with great expertise — and impatience, as he didn’t bother to fully remove your underwear, only pushing them to the side — all until you came repeatedly, giving him something to slurp up like it was his final meal, was the same one who held you close that night, stroking the skin of your forehead and nose with his fingertip.

“You still like me, right?” He asked with a little frown.

“Satoru, I’ve been officially known as Mrs. Gojo for almost seventeen years. I deal with your snoring, you trying to put the mugs that are to be hand-washed in the dishwasher, and our house smelling like meat all night long because you bought an indoor grill, all because I still like you. Very, very much. Call me crazy, but some would even say I love you. That’s odd, isn’t it?”

“Love me, or in love with me? ‘Cause there’s a difference,” Satoru leaned up on his elbow, practically hovering over you, that frown deepening.

“May I ask why you’re feeling insecure right now?” You curiously smiled up at him.

“Remember when I was eating you out earlier?”

“I . . . yes, I remember.”

“Well, you were moaning my name, which sounded beautiful, by the way, but it hit me that you don’t really call me ‘Toru like you used to when we were younger. You haven’t done it in years. Why’d you stop? If you hate me, just be honest.”

“You’re so dramatic. I still do sometimes, but I mainly only did it when I was a teenager,” you shook your head at him, rolling over onto your side. “I just prefer your full name. It’s you in every way. Does that make sense?”

“No, but I’ll pretend it does, because I’m madly in love with you.” Satoru pulled you close, letting your back hit his chest as you laughed softly. He mumbled, like it was a prayer, “love of my life.”

— FOUR YEARS LATER —

The state-of-the-art computer within Gojo’s home office showed the latest assignment submitted by the fresh crop of first-year students. His blindfolded eyes scanned over what was an essay about the importance of camaraderie, what to do when your partner’s life is in danger, and general mission safety.

This kid can turn a curse inside out but used the wrong form of there, Satoru thought, sighing as he leaned back in his leather office chair. That’s Jujutsu High for you.

Suddenly, there was a knock at his door, and he smiled, knowing who it was.

“Door’s open,” he said.

In came Jujutsu High’s most cherished second year, dressed in a dirty uniform that her mother would have to mend later, not only because of the tears, but to make adjustments that would allow the tall girl to feel more comfortable.

It wasn’t surprising that the damned place would not consider that, perhaps, some of the female students would need clothing that suited those who were taller than average. And Maya was indeed quite tall. Certainly taller than the uniform designers predicted, as they could not imagine any woman being above the height of 5’4”. 5’6”, at most. But here Maya Gojo was, standing at a bewildering 5’11” at just sixteen years of age, and no one knew if she was finished growing.

Even as she stepped into the home office, Satoru noticed the way she naturally hunched over a bit, as if to make herself seem smaller, her arms wrapped around her frame.

“Hey, Dad.”

“How was the mission, Muffin? Are you hurt?” Satoru rose from his desk.

He approached his daughter, pulling her in for a long hug — a daily ritual, but even more so after a mission. However, when he wrapped his arms around her, she flinched.

Satoru pulled away quickly, staring. Maya couldn’t see his eyes, but she knew that, behind that blindfold, he was taking in her information, monitoring her on another level for any clue as to why she was acting this way.

“Sorry, it’s just been a seriously long, long day, but I’m fine, cross my heart and hope to die.” Maya faked a laugh. Her identical eyes wouldn’t meet his.

She looked at everything else — the crowded bookshelf. The painting on the wall. The chairs. The nearly empty mug of half-cold coffee her dear dad was sipping on.

But her dear dad only stared at the leaves and sticks in her black-dyed hair. The smears of dirt and faint scratches along her skin. The quivering corners of her mouth.

“Talk to me,” he said softly.

Her eyes met his then. “Please don’t tell Mom.”

Her hushed tone, her desperate plea — it was a father’s worst nightmare.

Maya reached down with trembling hands, gripping the bottom of her torn skirt.

Slowly, she raised it, revealing soaked layers upon layers of red cloth that did a poor job at bandaging whatever monstrous wound was beneath it. It must have been the work of her teammate, as the placement of the cloth was a telltale sign of panic, but even so, it got the job done, for a short period of time, at least. It showcased the very subjects that Satoru was making his students write about right now.

How to care for your fellow sorcerers.

Maya’s small movements made more blood trickle down her thigh.

While the cloth held on, did its best, it wasn’t a permanent solution. The poor girl was in pain. And she was losing blood right before Satoru’s eyes, and he felt his limbs go weak at the sight.

He didn’t bother with questions. That would come later.

For now, he only scooped her up as if the tall teenager weighed nothing, and carried her to one of the bathrooms with the most medical supplies.

Having raised sorcerers, having seen Megumi, Yuji, or even a number of his students show up at his doorstep with similar wounds, had forced Satoru to learn a thing or two from Shoko.

He sat Maya on the edge of the bathtub. Slowly, carefully, he removed the work of her teammate, and he wanted to cry.

The wound was deep. Too deep for him to handle at home.

It was a horizontal gash along her upper thigh, one that was seemingly so painful, the fact that she was walking around with such an injury was a testament to her strength.

She was the daughter of the world’s strongest sorcerer, after all.

But that was little comfort to anyone.

His girl was a special-grade. No surprise there. And she had been training since she was a child.

Therefore, as Satoru hooked his arms around the girl that was now much too lightheaded to protest being taken to the place she knew, deep in her heart, she’d end up, Satoru asked the question he wasn’t certain he wanted the answer to: “What happened?”

“What happened is . . . I’m just not you, Dad. Everyone thinks I am. The higher-ups s-send me on missions I’m not ready for, and I can’t . . . I can’t stand it. I’m not the Gojo anyone wants or needs. You are.”

When the forty-year-old man frowned down at the girl he carried, the grief upon his face made him seem much older.

“Sweet girl, I wish I could say a leg wound was the worst of my injuries when I was your age. I almost died. Megumi’s father almost killed me and your mother, you know that. Don’t compare your current self to who I am now. You would kick my sixteen-year-old self’s ass, I promise you.” Satoru grabbed his car keys that sat on a hallway dresser in the foyer. “You’re gonna need stitches. That’s something I won’t risk trying to do here. I know you don’t wanna go to the hospital, but I don’t wanna hurt you.”

Satoru carried her to the car and buckled her in. When he got into the driver’s seat, he reached for his phone, and she knew what that meant.

—

Though your phone rang, you didn’t hear it.

Do Not Disturb was the only setting you dared to have your phone set to while working at your children’s home. It was way past bedtime, the kids having earned the privilege of staying up a little later because The Mrs. Gojo was here, and you had just finished reading the last page of the adventurous picture book about magical sea creatures.

No notification would ever interrupt reading time, you swore it.

Though you owned the children’s home, it wasn’t necessarily your full-time job. You were a stay-at-home mother first. However, being that the youngest of your children, the twins, were now ten, in school most of their days, and the only babies and toddlers you had to worry about were your grandchildren whenever Yuji would bring his adorable three year old and newborn by every now and then, you had a bit more free time to work at the children’s home and truly establish a relationship with the orphans receiving care under your name.

Things had been peaceful for the most part.

Both of your boys were approaching thirty.

Megumi and his partner had been happily married for a while now. They weren’t interested in having children, which was fine, and they enjoyed their quiet lives, while — as a sorcerer and nurse couple — they saved lives on a daily basis.

Yuji and Yuko had moved houses twice. Nothing seemed quite big enough, and not because of greed, but rather, because they seemed to want to contribute to the Gojo legacy of having lots and lots of children.

Every other Gojo was easily within your reach, being watched over by Satoru himself, and therefore, you felt comfortable silencing your device and giving the children who had nothing in the world, not even parents, your undivided attention.

Once you closed the picture book with a small thud and endured the sad awww’s from the small frowning faces sitting on the rug below you, the children then lined up, coming up to hug you goodnight one by one.

The last child wrapped her little arms around you before running off in Yuta’s direction, who was currently responsible for making sure each and every one of them made it to bed.

He was a natural with children. For years, he had taken a part-time position at your children’s home, more so when curses weren’t active and he had the time to help out. But even he was doing well in life, having started his own family with Maki.

“Get home safe!” Yuta said, hugging you goodbye.

“Thank you! Have a good night,” you grinned, leaving the cozy building, and taking the bunny ears that you wore for the kid’s entertainment off of your sore head.

You hopped in the car. Tossed the bunny ears in the empty passenger spot. Adjusted your seat. Put on your seatbelt. Set the heater to your desired temperature.

All before you pulled out your phone and noticed three missed calls from your husband.

—

Maya was fine.

She was badly wounded, earning a trip to the ER, but as far as injuries go in the name of what most sorcerers faced, what she received was equivalent to a little push on the playground. Truth be told, the bruise to her ego was worse.

And knowing that her parents, who supported her dream of becoming a sorcerer but secretly prayed every night before bed that she’d decide to go into the medical field or write novels or cure cancer or plant potatoes or do anything that wasn’t killing curses and curse users for a living, would view this situation as a telltale sign that maybe, just maybe, she should reconsider her life choices made her twist and turn a bit while her thigh was carefully stitched up by a medical professional.

“There was no need to call mom, really,” Maya muttered to her father, who broke their promise — not that he ever agreed to it, nor did she truly expect him not to tell you — and she blinked up at him from where he stood at the side of the examination chair she sat in. “By the time she gets here, they’ll be all done. She should just go home, don’t you think?”

“I’m afraid to say you may be here a while, dear.” The woman tending to her wound spoke up. “You are quite dehydrated, in need of fluids, and I’m sure they’d like to monitor you a bit longer considering how much blood you have lost. Just for a few hours.”

Maya sighed, resting her head back against the crinkling, thin paper draped over her chair.

“Well, no school tomorrow, right?” Maya tried to fake another laugh, but Satoru saw right through it. He reached for her hand, giving it a light squeeze, trying hard to ignore just how much pain he felt seeing his daughter in such a state.

—

“I hope the store’s still open. Everything closes so early nowadays, but if she’s going to be there for a while, I’d like to get her something to cheer her up. I just . . . I’m thankful it wasn’t worse.”

You made a right turn as you spoke to Satoru through the Bluetooth system within your car. His hushed voice came through it, as he said, “You know, lately she’s been loving-”

“Satoru, let me call you back.”

You slammed on your brakes, ending the call with haste. He would be worried, you knew it, but upon turning down a street in search of a Get Well Soon gift for Maya, you caught sight of someone who you could have sworn died years ago.

But you weren’t staring at the infamous Toji Fushiguro on the side of the road.

Suddenly, you were able to make out the somewhat softer features that made up the difference between Megumi and Toji, and you realized it was indeed your son instead, dressed in a black trench coat, headed towards a bench underneath the glow of an orange streetlight.

You parked your car, hopping out, startled.

“Megumi? Is that you?” You shut the door and approached him, not yet noticing the way his eyes were filled with worry. “My goodness, I thought I was seeing things. You looked just like your father when I was driving by. I almost hit you with my car! On purpose! What are you-” In that moment, you realized the bench he was approaching wasn’t empty.

You thought it was a homeless person.

That was, until you saw a pair of glasses sitting upside down in the grass. Limbs were hanging off the bench, and those limbs were dressed in the name-brand clothes you bought for your loved ones. For your sixteen-year-old son.

“Tomoya? What’s going on? I thought you were at home.”

Your eyes darted down to what dangled loosely within his grasp. A glass bottle. An alcoholic beverage. “Oh my god, are you drunk?”

He was in no state to respond, that much was made clear by the distant, sleepy look on his face. Soft, pained groans — emotional, not physical — escaped him instead of answers. For those, you looked up at Megumi, and he took a step forward, his hands in his pockets.

“I don’t know what happened. He called me and I just showed up.”

“Oh my goodness, this is-” you placed your hand over your mouth, stepping away in realization. In shock. Stopping your own speech so Tomoya wouldn’t hear the words that you were going to say, that you oh so regretfully thought and didn’t truly believe: This is too much.

“I’ll put him in your car,” Megumi approached the teenager until your words made him halt his footsteps.

“No, actually, I’m . . . Maya’s fine, but she got hurt on her recent mission. She’s at the hospital getting stitches.” You stopped speaking, frowning as you puzzled over the situation. Did you have to choose between watching over your drunk child or your injured one?

Satoru’s with Maya, so she’s not alone. And Tomoya really needs a parent right now. It’s not just a matter of underage drinking, but he snuck out! He’s wandering the streets at this hour, all alone! And he stole that bottle from our bar cabinet. But Maya’s at the hospital. She’s injured, dehydrated . . . but she’s not alone. Tomoya would be. I-

Suddenly, your thoughts were interrupted by another realization.

“Oh god, the twins! They’re home alone! Satoru left with Maya so suddenly and Tomoya was supposed to be watching over them and-”

“Hey, it’s okay, relax. They’re ten years old and they’re asleep.” Megumi approached Tomoya. After grabbing his glasses off the ground, he scooped him up as if he weighed nothing. “I can take him to your house and stay with everyone for as long as you need. Visit Maya first for a little while, then come home and see about him. You’ll feel guilty if you pick one child over the other, even if one makes more sense logically. Just know that neither one of them will be alone.”

“Thank you.” You sighed with relief, starting to walk back to Megumi’s car, trying to ignore the way your hands trembled with worry. “And . . . see if you can get some answers out of him. You’re the one he called, so he may open up to you. Megumi, I don’t know whether I should be angry or worried.”

“Both. Worried, above all.”

“Hm.” You nodded, opening his car door, allowing him to put Tomoya in his back seat. “When’d you get so wise?”

After buckling the boy in, Megumi replied, “Since this.” He raised his hand, showing off his wedding ring. “And owning a Shikoku. Trying to train that dog has turned me into a very wise person.”

Shutting the door, Megumi made his way to the driver’s side of his vehicle as you approached yours.

It was devastating to know that whatever was hurting Tomoya was bothering his soul so much that he tried to find the solution at the bottom of a bottle. But, in truth, there was a bright side. One that made Megumi’s heart smile. Tomoya, at some point, had acknowledged that he needed help, that alcohol only made life seem more scary and he couldn’t battle his demons alone, and that was the important thing.

That is what would help everyone sleep at night.

But, as Megumi took the teenager to your home, watched over him — and made sure the twins were fast asleep, even after Kenji woke up as if sensing Megumi was here and requested several hugs from him — Megumi still couldn’t wrap his mind around the simple fact that, at the end of the day, someone needed him.

—

“What a night.”

Those words slipped out from between your lips as soon as your back hit your enormous bed, though, by then, the early morning sun was starting to rise, marking dusk.

The urge to cry was nearing, as if your tears were like clockwork: any minute now . . .

But then, warm arms embraced you as they always did, soothing your chaotic mind in an almost ritualistic way. Perhaps, it was. This wasn’t your first time dealing with frightening circumstances related to parenting. That’s what came with being the mother of sorcerers, kids with troubled pasts, and everything in between.

“At least everyone’s safe and sound now,” Satoru whispered. He kissed your cheek softly. “If you ask me, if the day ends with everyone warm in their beds, it wasn’t all that bad.”

You couldn’t help but smile. The urge to cry was vanishing.

“I guess that’s all we can ask for, hm?” You turned in his arms, facing him as he held you close, as if your being, your body, was a secret he wouldn’t let go of.

— TWO WEEKS LATER —

Today was the day!

Soon, and so soon, that all the food in preparation for the get-together was almost done, the Gojo house would be packed to the brim with people. Loved ones.

Satoru figured that, after what happened with Maya and Tomoya, both you and his kids would benefit from a friendly reminder that you all weren’t alone in the universe. So, he made phone calls. Sent emails.

Found a day in which everyone — from his children, to in-laws, to grandchildren, to his old students, to friends, to family — could carve out the free time to pop up at the Gojo house for a couple of hours. Or all day long.

A little while before guests were set to arrive, you scooped up a ball of chocolate-chip cookie dough with your hand.

“Alright my prince and princess, it’s your turn,” you instructed the twins standing at the kitchen island on either side of you, the three of you wearing matching aprons. “Roll them into a smooth ball. That’s how we make them nice and soft on the inside.”

Their smaller hands reached into the bowl, copying your movements.

“Hitting double digits means we learn the super secret recipe, cool.” Kaia grinned with a smile that matched yours in every way possible as she eagerly rolled the dough.

“Can I eat the dough?” Kenji looked up at you with a pout so similar to your husband’s, but spoke with a softness to his voice that was all his own.

“I made you both some edible cookie dough earlier. It’s in the fridge,” you placed the cookie dough ball on the lined baking sheet.

The twins cheered. Suddenly, a tall woman entered the kitchen with a baby in her arms, and though you smiled up at Yuko and she smiled back, but the grin didn’t reach her eyes.

“You alright, honey?” You asked.

“Sorry! I just, um,” Yuko glanced down at the baby. “She won’t stop crying. Well, she’s not crying right now, but she’s only quiet because Yuji put her to sleep. I swear, you’d think I was pinching her with the way she cries around me, but not her father.”

Stepping away from the kitchen island as the twins carried out the mission of prepping the cookies, you headed for the sink, washing and drying your hands as you spoke. “Oh, it’s not you, trust me. Yuji’s just great with children. When Kaia was little, no one could make her laugh quite like him.”

“It’s just that, well, today, she’s more upset than usual. I want a big family, I do. But between having a baby, a rowdy toddler, and being pregnant now, I have to say, I doubt I can pull this mother thing off as well as you do.”

You gave Yuko a sympathetic look, telling her with your eyes, I hear you.

“Hey, why don’t you two help your dad finish cleaning the living room?”

The twins, who couldn’t have looked more opposite of one another, proved that they were, indeed, related by groaning in sync.

“I’d rather keep making cookies than clean thirty-seven couches,” Kaia frowned.

“Ditto,” Kenji nodded, putting another roll of cookie dough on the pan.

“Cleaning isn’t up for debate, you two. Besides, it’s your socks that keep getting stuck between the cushions,” You raised your eyebrow at the young boy, then eyed the girl beside him. “The cookie dough will be waiting for you when you’re done. Both the batch we’re making now and the one for you to eat later.”

With the promise of cookies swirling around in their minds, the twins grinned at each other, then ran off in the direction of the living room.

Though there wasn’t much privacy, as the house was alive with activity even with the two kids leaving the kitchen, you refocused your attention on Yuko.

“Listen. There’s no such thing as being a perfect parent. Just now, I had to wonder if I was being too strict and overprotective by not letting Kenji eat a little cookie dough and making an entire edible version. Would a good, fun mom have just let him eat the normal kind? And don’t even get me started on what happened with my older ones two weeks ago. But, as my husband says, if the day ends with everyone warm in their beds, things aren’t so bad,” you gave her a smile, then nodded down at the baby in her arms. “Can I take a look?”

She passed you the baby, moving carefully and slowly to not wake her. And, when you caught a glimpse of the sleeping child with the knowledge that she resembled her mother closely, you did notice that, in a lot of ways, she was similar to Yuji.

The little fine hairs that made up her eyebrows were pinched with discomfort. Her chubby cheeks were red, and her lips were slightly pursed. In an instant, you recalled the days in which you’d bring a tray with a warm bowl of soup alongside some medicine into Yuji’s room. He was always hot to the touch, squirming around in his bed as if he couldn’t get comfortable, and begging for you to watch a movie with him or talk his ear off, anything at all. Because, back then, even as a teenager, he wanted his mother when he was sick.

And the face of the baby in your arms was practically identical to Yuji’s sick face in every way.

“Poor thing’s not feeling well, that’s all. See the color of her cheeks? Trust me, she wants to be in your arms right now more than anything.” You pressed a kiss against the baby’s forehead, whispering, “Don’t you, sweetheart?”

“Mom?” Yuji called out, appearing in the archway of the kitchen, but not yet stepping into it fully. “Your grandson was wondering if you were free later. He wants to spend time with you.”

“Oh? Does he now?” You handed the baby back to Yuko — who eased away after saying hi to Yuji, with the intent of placing the sleeping child in one of the cribs you kept specifically for when your grandchildren would visit. For beautiful days like this.

Staring at Yuji with a knowing look, but with words of false belief, you said, “And what does my grandson want to do?”

The twenty-seven-year-old sorcerer leaned his shoulder against the frame of the arch, looking in your general direction, but not directly at you. “He said he wants to watch a movie. Maybe the new one that came out the other day about that family dealing with a demon in their house.”

You couldn’t help but laugh, taking off your apron and putting it on the back of a counter stool. “Well, my schedule depends on whether or not my son can tell me why he won't ask me to spend time with him directly, and is using my little bean as an excuse.”

“Fine, you caught me.”

As if summoned, Yuji and Yuko’s other child, their little boy, ran into the kitchen as fast as his tiny legs would carry him, small arms stretched out as he squealed, “Gwammy!”

You were crouched down in an instant, wrapping your arms around the toddler. “There he is! My little bean!”

You lifted him. While — with the exception of being sick — Yuji’s baby daughter favored her mother more, his son stole every bit of his appearance. Though you hadn’t known Yuji when he was a toddler, you knew well that his son was a replica of him from his toddling days. The small child with pinkish hair and soft brown eyes grabbed a fistful of your hair curiously. “Gwammy go to work? I come too?”

“I’m not going to work today, I’m here.”

The boy eyed his father next, turning his head. “Dada go to work?”

“Nope, I’m here too. Everyone’s gonna be right here allll day,” Yuji smiled, approaching the child and giving his hair a little ruffle.

Satoru suddenly entered the kitchen with his famous grin. He tugged his blindfold up slightly as if he couldn’t see through it — just to make a point — as he said, “What’s this? A family meeting without us?”

Us. Us referred not only to himself, but to the twins who rushed to finish rolling the cookie dough, the man behind him, who stepped into the kitchen with a container of fruit skewers, and his spouse by his side.

“Megumi, you made it!” Yuji grinned, heading to hug the new company.

But the little boy in your arms gave your cheek a little poke as a way of saying goodbye all before trying to squirm out of your arms. Then, he ran wobbly up to Satoru.

“Papa!”

“Hey buddy! C’mere!” Satoru grabbed his grandson, raising him up and down, up and down, as the boy giggled wildly.

Once the boy settled down cozily in his grandpa’s arms, he blinked at the dark-haired man standing beside him, as if forming a thought. Then, suddenly, he blurted out, “Goomie’s got sleepy eyes!”

“Great observation,” Megumi replied. He approached you next, hugging you as he continued, “We were up late last night. There was this new documentary we finished watching around midnight, but we had to discuss it for another two hours afterward.”

“Tell me all about it, you two,” you said with a grin, heading to give his spouse a welcoming hug.

The tall teenage girl who was your beloved daughter appeared in the kitchen next. Alongside her, Tomoya, who stood shyly behind her.

“Megumi, did you bring Kimi? Please tell me you brought Kimi,” Maya rushed out impatiently.

“He’s out front.”

“Can we give him a treat?” Tomoya asked.

“They’re in my bag on the couch,” Megumi’s spouse said.

The two teenagers gave their thanks, and their eager footsteps could be heard as they rushed off. A few moments later, after opening one of the double front doors, Maya’s voice boomed throughout the house.

“Uncle Kento’s here! And Nobara’s pulling into the driveway!” She paused. “Someone else is as well, I’m not sure who. Mom, how many people did you invite?”

“It wasn’t me! It was your father!” You shrugged with false innocence, knowing well that you might have extended the invitation to a few other people. Several other people. “Boys, will you bring up those extra chairs from the basement?”

“Sure thing,” Yuji replied.

“. . . and Gwammy make cookie, and I eat cookie, cookie, cookie, okay, Papa?”

The rambling toddler in Satoru’s arms had lots to say, it would seem. Everything from space, to his family, to cookies had crossed his mind and tumbled out, and Satoru listened eagerly, giving him exaggerated reactions that his grandson oh-so adored, making the little boy feel like he was a master poet with every word. Satoru kissed his forehead.

“Kissie,” the toddler giggled, pink hair shifting as he wiggled his feet excitedly. “Papa give kissie.”

“Mhm. Do you know why?”

“Papa love me lots. Papa kissie me . . . Papa kissie Gwammy.”

“You’re the smartest little boy in the whole wide world!” Satoru beamed, and gently, he sat the toddler down on the floor.

He giggled yet again at the praise, then, he focused his attention on the twins, pulling at Kenji’s pant leg, so desperately wanting to see what the ten-year-old was doing.

Satoru took the time to shine light on the truthful words the toddler mumbled earlier by walking up to you and planting a kiss on your lips. “Baby, I don’t think we have enough chairs or square footage in this house in general to fit all the extra people you invited, and it’s a pretty big house if I do say so myself.”

“I know, I know,” you grinned rather sneakily. “I even tried to see if Sukuna could leave his dungeon for a couple of hours and come over.”

“Seriously? No way.”

“He likes my cooking. Well, he used to hate it, because he was anti-seasoning, but he came around. Anywho, I’m sure Maya and I will try to sneak him a plate of something when we visit him soon.”

Satoru shook his head in amusement. It still amazed him that the king of curses, who was once trapped inside of Yuji when they adopted the teenager, had grown to like the Gojo family. Or, rather, he viewed Maya as his own kin, while he tolerated everyone else. But upon Satoru discovering how to separate Sukuna and Yuji and therefore saving his son from being executed, Sukuna had since been civil, living his days behind bars.

“You’re something else.” Satoru paused. “But, I’m glad you’re happy. I-”

A brown-haired man appeared in the kitchen archway. He waved. You waved back. He then walked off without a word.

Satoru blinked, bewildered. “Honey, was that Choso?”

“Yep! I can’t wait to tell Yuji!” You started to leave the kitchen and step into the house that was coming to life with mingling guests, music playing sweetly in the background, and you glanced back at Satoru. “I’ll be right back. Don’t let my pies burn. Make sure the little royals get those cookies in the oven!”

You were gone with a smile as bright as the sun gracing your face. It was a sight everyone wanted to see; Mrs. Gojo, being as happy as she deserved to be. And as you made your way through the gathering of guests, chitchatting, hugging, and feeding everyone — but the acts of kindness vanished quickly when it was time for board and card games — everyone hoped and prayed that your smile would remain for years to come.

— TEN YEARS LATER —

The crinkles by Satoru’s eyes that appeared when he grinned were a gift from decades of smiles and laughter. That was rather obvious, given that the man at the age of fifty was grinning, even now, as he watched his wife snap endless pictures of the beloved landmark in front of them.

“Did you get one from this angle?” The wind blew through Satoru’s hair as he spoke, his eyes glued on you; the Eiffel Tower be damned.

“From every angle. It’s gorgeous at night, isn’t it?” Your head turned between your husband and the enchanting Eiffel Tower before you, the wind blowing gently. “Oh, online, I found the cutest little frame for the photo of us in front of it!”

As he always did, as he always loved to do, Satoru approached you from behind and wrapped his arms around you. “It’ll look perfect right next to the photo from the twins’ graduation trip.”

“Paris next to the Bahamas, honey?” You frowned. “We should keep Europe with Europe and place it righttt beside the photograph from Italy.”

“Aht, aht, silenzio!” Satoru tossed his head back, speaking in what was, perhaps, the worst Italian accent you had ever heard. “I will decide the best place for the photograph, the best!”

“Horrible Italian accent while wearing a French hat? You’re too much.” You laughed, turning around in his arms to face him. What a dream he was. What a dream all of it was.

“It’s called a beret, my clueless lover,” Satoru smiled. “Just you wait. You’re going to hate the person I become when we go to Greece next year.”

“Well, if my biggest problem is you acting like an awful tourist wherever we go, I’d say life is well.”

Satoru stroked your cheek with his thumb. The glistening lights upon the Eiffel Tower were about as exciting as light bulbs on a ceiling fan compared to staring into your shining eyes.

“Let's go toss our money at a tourist trap, then find a nice, quiet place to admire the Iron Lady.” He kissed you softly. “We’ll say, oh la la, a croysahnt shop!”

—

The girl who was always told, Gosh, you look just like your mother! stood on a sidewalk across the street from a firetruck. She was waiting for her twin brother to emerge from whatever business he had to attend to, but the group of goggling women beside her was recording the firefighter approaching his truck, tugging off his coat.

“Oh my god, that guy is so handsome!”

“I wish I were on fire. Save me, sir!”

Gross, Kaia thought.

She rolled her eyes until the starry night sky above was within her line of sight. With a sigh, she approached him, the man who always heard, Wow, you look just like your father!

Everyone told Kenji that he would soon discover the true magnitude of his Gojo-given abilities. But, as time went on, it was his older sister, Maya, who became everything everyone expected a child of Satoru Gojo and his former first-grade sorcerer of a wife to become. Even though Kaia was leagues behind her, she was still ahead of Kenji.

There was no doubt about it. He was the weakest Gojo when it came to Satoru’s biological children.

No. He was the weakest out of all Satoru’s children, except Tomoya, because when both Yuji and Megumi were in their prime, becoming special-grades and discovering just how powerful they truly were, they too left Kenji in the dust. And they didn’t share blood with Satoru Gojo.

What was true, was the fact that he was jealous of Tomoya as well. He was ordinary, yes, but he couldn’t see or kill curses. Therefore, he was allowed to be ordinary. But with him becoming a gifted artist, able to create a masterpiece with paint and his imagination, Kenji’s stomach twisted into knots, knowing he couldn’t do such a thing either.

And children didn’t naturally bond with him the way they did you. Never before had he seen someone so easily teach a traumatized child what it was like to feel loved quite like his mother could. Even lost children at a grocery store always came to you for help.

But it was fine. Truly, it was.

Killing curses or creating art or watching over children weren’t his passions to begin with, and he knew that from the very moment he saw a firetruck whirl past him, brave men jumping out to rescue whomever needed saving.

“Everyone has a hand in saving the world, even non-sorcerers, hm?” Megumi once said to him.

After all, he knew. He knew what his younger brother was battling with internally, and he saw the look of amazement on his face. “Some firemen are braver and more kind than some sorcerers I know. You’re brave and kind too, Kenji. Just like them.”

“Just like them?” Kenji blinked.

Megumi nodded, honest.

And now, here he was, dressed in the uniform of a firefighter as his sister approached, her clothes far from clean after handling, what he assumed, was another mission.

“Are you purposely trying to put on a show, Kenji?” Kaia asked with a grimace.

“Just doing my job.” He gave a small, polite wave to his new fans, earning a wave of shrieks and squeals in response.

“And how many lives did you save, you brave, brave, hero?”

“Four people from the worst house fire I’ve ever seen. But don’t let the heroics fool you, I’m just in the game so I can slide down the pole at the fire station,” he grinned. “What about you? How many lives did you save, superwoman?”

Despite the playful nature of the conversation, Kaia leaned her back against the firetruck, sighing as if to showcase the heavy burden upon her shoulders.

“Not enough to get myself out of Maya’s shadow. She’s living up to dad’s name, yay, I guess, because that’s all she’s ever wanted, but that kinda thing just doesn’t interest me.”

“No?” Kenji tilted his head a bit.

“I think I’m gonna take a page out of your book and do something else with my life. Killing curses is hella fun, but watching people die isn’t exactly my cup of tea.”

“Haha.” Kenji laughed a bit at first, but then, his face fell into a small frown. “Oh, you’re being serious? Still copying me after all these years, I see, I see.”

“Oh, shut up.”

“What are you thinking of doing with your life, then? College? Then you’ll be copying Tomoya, which would be a nice change. But, if you wanna become a firefighter too, I don’t care, just know that I slide down the pole first, always, and in a very astonishing way.”

Kaia was silent for a moment, thinking. “The other day, I was visiting the children’s home, and I was only there so I could drop off some glue since they ran out, but I saw mom making these arts and crafts with those orphans and, I don’t know, I think I wanna be like her.”

“Might as well. You already look like her,” Kenji shrugged. “Seriously, though, we’re twenty. You don’t have to decide what you wanna do for the rest of your life right this second. If you ask me, I don’t think you gotta pick between being a sorcerer and working at the children’s home. Yuta did both.”

“I should do neither. I should be at a club or something,” running a hand down her face in pure, utter stress, Kaia released yet another sigh.

“Me too, me too.” Kenji paused, preparing to enter his firetruck. “Also, I lied. There was no fire. Some guy just accidentally flooded his kitchen. I just had to twist a couple of things behind his fridge back in place. But I’m gonna keep spreading that lie today so everyone thinks I’m cool. See you later.”

Kaia found herself yet again rolling her eyes for the second time that evening.

—

The Gojo house, as promised, was still alive with activity. It had gotten rather quiet once Kenji and Kaia decided to move out a few months prior. Often, the only noise that graced the halls were the subtle noises you and Satoru would make. Soft chatter, gentle kisses, hums of a song, the flicker of a fireplace, water trickling off of cleaned dishes, and everything in between.

There were also the soft meows of your new cat. And the gentle hum of your humidifier keeping your new houseplants alive and healthy.

But, today, it was alive with people, other people, who greeted you and Satoru at the door as you made your way inside with your suitcases.

“There’s my muffin and mini-muffin,” Satoru’s suitcase was a long-gone memory. It rocked back and forth all before it hit the floor, and he didn’t care. Not one bit.

Instead, he focused on embracing Maya as gently as he could, aware of the baby she carried in her arms.

Oh, he’d never forget what it was like when Maya found her first boyfriend. She was singing in the shower and seeing clear skies on rainy days, meanwhile, he was so sick, he was certain he’d need to be taken to the hospital.

Worry had him nearly bedridden, overthinking, and dreading the possibility of his little girl — who was no longer a little girl, but a seventeen-year-old at the time — getting hurt. How would he, someone who married their first and only love, comfort someone during their first breakup? Or, yet, how would he handle someone breaking his daughter’s heart in a calm, rational way that would not result in him sending a spherical purple force of pure power through their house?

But then, he met him. Her boyfriend. And he was just as pathetic for his daughter as Satoru was for you.

And that stammering teenager was now a grown man, standing tall — though he was shorter than her — at Maya’s side, and taking your suitcase like the gentleman he was.

“Welcome home!” Maya smiled. “How was it?”

“It was a dream! Thank you for house sitting,” you replied, hugging her next once Satoru released the sorcerer.

The tall woman, who was regarded as one of the strongest sorcerers in the world, stood proud at twenty-six years old. Her hair was completely white, as she had decided to toss out the dye and embrace everything that represented the last name, Gojo — or, maiden name, in her case — be it power, wealth, love, or white hair.

And she was well. She was doing very, very well.

“Plants are fine, cat is fine, everything’s fine,” Maya snuggled her daughter closer towards her chest.

“We got everyone a, uh, a souvenir, here’s yours.” Satoru cleared his throat. The suitcase wasn’t long forgotten anymore. He dug through it until the familiar surface graced his fingertips, and he pulled the cherished item out, handing it to Maya, who took it with her free hand and laughed wholeheartedly.

“How in the world did you find a fake muffin with an Eiffel Tower on top?”

“Using blood, sweat, and tears,” Satoru smirked with pride.

Suddenly, someone appeared in the foyer where you were all gathered.

“Oh!” You jumped a bit, placing your hand over your pounding heart, startled. “I didn’t know you were here, little bean! Oh, you look just like your father, doesn’t he, Satoru? It’s like looking at a teenage Yuji again. That takes me back.”

The boy who was nearing thirteen years old approached you with open arms.

“Wait, does that mean . . .”

“Yep, the actual Yuji’s here too.” Satoru’s words were cut off by Yuji’s sudden announcement of his presence.

Yuji’s heart jumped with joy seeing the look of surprise and happiness on your faces. Life had gotten busy for him. As a special-grade sorcerer, husband, and father of five, including two adopted kids, the thirty-seven-year-old had also decided to take on a teaching position at Jujutsu High, and because of that, he hadn’t been able to visit as often as he liked.

Long hugs were exchanged.

“Hi, sweetie,” you greeted on the brink of tears. “Oh, I’ve missed you. How are you? Where are my other grandkids?”

“I’ve missed you too. Figured I’d stop by. Our three-minute phone calls haven’t been enough for me lately either. But they’re at home with Yuko. This one just hopped in the car quick, fast, and in a hurry, though.” Yuji nodded his head down at his son, who loved his grandparents so much, he was leaning against Satoru’s side while keeping a grip on your wrist.

“Can you all stay for a little longer?” You darted your eyes between everyone in the foyer — Yuji and his son, Maya and her husband, and even the baby in her arms. “I could cook something!”

You were already headed for the kitchen before any of them could respond. Maya and Yuji exchanged a look of understanding that could only come from a sibling bond, because it was quite fortunate that their answer would have been a yes.

— FIVE YEARS LATER —

There was a knock at the front door.

It took you a while, quite a while, for you to realize it wasn’t a dream.

Most times, when you found yourself awakened in the middle of the night, it was because a baby was crying, a child had a nightmare, or a teenager was injured or in need of comfort after a traumatizing event.

But no one who fit those descriptions currently resided in your house.

No grandkids here, you thought. It’s just me and Satoru. What was that noise I-

It happened again, interrupting your thoughts. That was when you realized what it was. A knock.

Your blurry eyes blinked all the while you prepared to shake your husband awake, but then, you noticed his eyes were already open.

And he was wide awake before the knocking began, because he felt it, whatever it was, as soon as it happened.

—

Housecoats were tugged on, light switches were flipped, and your cat meowed in protest over being disturbed at such an ungodly hour.

You had opened the door expecting to see one of your children, but who you saw instead was the boss of one of them.

“Mr. and Mrs. Gojo?” The man — the boss — gazed at you with the saddest eyes.

His face wasn’t all that familiar on its own. Not really. The only thing that truly made you remember him was the shirt he and the fellow person standing at his side wore, as you had washed plenty of the dark-colored shirts with that same logo before. They were the shirts firemen wore under their gear.

“Yes?” You spoke with great worry. Satoru placed his hand on your shoulder.

“I am Chief Broucher with the-”

“Yes, yes, I know, we’ve met before. What’s . . . it’s three in the morning.”

“I understand, ma’am.” The man removed his hat out of respect. “May we come in?”

You let them into your foyer, and with every step they took, the reality of the situation started to sink in, and you knew what he was going to say before he said it. His eyes spoke for him. Based on the way Satoru’s hand fell from your shoulder and took hold of yours, you knew he knew it too, but well before you did. That was why he was already awake, because he felt it earlier. As it happened.

But still, you waited for the official news.

And the firefighter began. “I’m afraid I have some difficult news. There was a massive fire and cave-in at the Rileston Apartments. Your son, Kenji, was able to rescue as many people as he could, but he did not survive. He died heroically. I am so sorry. The department is here to support your family during this difficult time, in any way that we can.”

“Our boy . . . my son died?”

“I’m sorry, ma’am.”

The ache — the terrible, awful ache — that shot through your knees when your legs gave out and hit the floor was nothing compared to the suffocating pain that took your breath away. Satoru was on the ground beside you, holding you in his arms, but no force on earth was strong enough to hold your heart together. There was a sob stuck somewhere between your chest and your throat, one that couldn’t escape, not when memories of your sweet little prince filled your mind. His smile after trying the edible cookie dough you made for him. The way he followed Megumi around the house, be it with crawls, the pitter-patter of running toddler feet, the confident stride of a kid, the casual walk of a teenager, or the brave one of a young man.

“Mommy? I wanna be a fireman,” he once said, fidgeting with his fingers nervously.

You encouraged him with praises and hugs. But now . . .

Now, calls of his name erupted from your throat. Satoru held your head against his chest, which rose and fell unevenly as he too was starting to lose it, coming to terms with the harsh reality.

When he awakened an hour before the firemen showed up at his door, it was because he felt an enormous weight on his chest, as if his heart was filling with heavy metal and threatening to burst open. He thought it was some sort of weird heart attack. In hindsight, he wished that’s what it was.

But then, he sensed it, in the same way he could most times sense curses from a far distance or people begging for his help from miles away.

There were a few key differences though:

This feeling came too late, when he couldn’t do anything to save his boy.

This feeling wasn’t a call for help, but rather, an announcement of his death.

This feeling felt as if part of him had died as well.

The fire department wouldn’t leave until you were as stable as a grieving mother and father could be. They removed the cuff around your arm after checking your blood pressure, mumbled their well wishes, and left you and Satoru in your living room, where you could do nothing except stare at the smiling photos of your little prince.

And the next time all of the Gojos and everyone close to the family gathered, it was at Kenji’s funeral.

— TEN YEARS LATER —

At the age of sixty-five, Satoru Gojo walked into the fancy art museum with a woman on his arm who, as he stated at least once a day, aged like fine wine.

His covered eyes darted over the gray streaks in your styled hair, the perfect, tasteful makeup along your face, and the nicest dress generational wealth could buy.

And he had a classic, handsome appearance that complimented him well at his age. Overall, you were both breathtaking, and perhaps, he had your nightly enforced skincare routines to thank for that.

The art that filled the crowded halls of the exhibition was stunning. Beyond that, they filled your heart with pride, as this wasn’t just any regular art show, but your son’s.

“Surprise.” Tomoya softly greeted from behind you.

You and Satoru turned around, grinning widely upon seeing the forty-one-year-old.

“Oh, sweetheart!” You looked up at him, embracing him immediately as you said, “We are so proud of you, words cannot begin to describe it, dear.”

Satoru joined in on the hug. “Who knew I found the next da Vinci at the park that day, huh?” Tomoya grinned softly, pushing up on his glasses. “There are a couple of paintings I want you both to see.”

You followed him towards an area of the museum that wasn’t quite restricted, not necessarily, but was treated with a near secrecy that almost made you wonder if you would have had to show ID to prove you were Tomoya’s mother had he not been your escort.

But, upon seeing the big collection of paintings on the wall, upon realizing that you were putting your waterproof makeup to the test as the tears came instantly, it was clear why this artwork was in a special area.

“It’s our family through the years,” Tomoya said.

He captured everyone, from when you and Satoru were bright-eyed young adults to now, your golden years. In some, Maya was a little girl with a missing tooth, to a grown woman with big white hair spilling across her shoulders. Yuji’s teenage self was painted with an expression he used to always have; boyish, grinning wildly, pinkish hair messy. Megumi had gone from being a rather gloomy teenager to a sophisticated-looking man. Kaia’s excitable nature from her childhood was painted perfectly. She was similar to Yuji in that way. But, after losing her other half, her twin, her smile faded over the years, right after Kenji was no longer part of the paintings, because he no longer existed above the age of twenty-five. Tomoya captured the loss of light in Kaia’s eyes, but, in the more recent paintings of her, her spark was starting to return.

He went on to paint your grandchildren — including the child he adopted — and even your great-grandchildren. Family pets as well.

But what both broke your heart and glued it back together was the independent painting of what Kenji would have looked like if he were still alive.

“That’s why you borrowed all of our old photographs,” you sniffled, pulling a tissue out of your purse.

“It’s beautiful,” Satoru smiled, pointing. “Look at Kenji’s smile in this one. You get all this talent from me, by the way.”

Tomoya smiled at the joke. “You asking for plenty of paintings of mom throughout the years definitely gave me opportunities to practice. Also, there’s another painting I’ll show you later.”

—

Later came after the art show, when the Gojo house was once again alive with love as another gathering was held in celebration of Tomoya’s success.

You, Satoru, and your children sat around the dining table, while everyone else crowded around it as best as they could, but the crowd spilled out into hallways, which was the result of having so many people you all called loved ones, whether they shared a last name with you all, or not.

Satoru stood from his seat, the chatter dying down as he did so.

“Settle down, now,” the old man said with a small smile, eyeing his talkative fifty-two-year-old son sitting across the table, Yuji, specifically. “You kids are old as dirt now and still bad.”

There was laughter, but it vanished as quickly as it had arrived, for everyone was prepared to hear whatever Satoru had to say. “I just wanted to say a couple of words here. Tomoya’s paintings are making me feeling nostalgic right now. Tomoya, I’m proud of you, son. Life hasn’t always been your best friend, but you? You overcame it all, and look at you now. Your artwork is magnificent, but there’s no masterpiece quite like you. I’m grateful we went to the park that day and found you, and we’ve spoiled you ever since, but somehow, you still deserve more. Kaia, nothing makes me prouder than knowing you are a reflection of that woman right over there. But you’re more than that as well. You found yourself, even after you lost your other half, and your strength is outta this world, princess. You make the world a better place even when the only thing you can do most days is just smile, and I think I speak for everyone when I say we love that smile, hm?” Satoru paused. “Megumi, I didn’t know what the future would be like when I found you, a sassy little six-year-old who was smarter than I was. Even though we didn’t adopt you until later, you were my son from that very moment. Watching you grow over the last forty-six years has made me a happy old man. You are everything I hoped you would be, still smarter than I am, and even during your darkest moments, you were the light of my life. Yuji, this family wouldn’t exist in the way it does now if it weren’t for you asking me that question all those years ago. I’ll never forget. We were walking down the street when you decided to ask me if I was married. I told you about my wife and kid, and you just had to meet them, remember that? We just knew the second we let you into our house that day that we had to adopt you. You’re a joy, Yuji. Muffin, you were our firstborn. I’ll never forget the day I held you in my arms, and I cannot count how many times I have or almost passed out while raising you, because you have my heart, Muffin, and all your dear old dad ever wanted was to protect you from bullies, from curses, from scraping your knee, everything. Nothing warms my heart more than seeing you grow, grow, and grow. This world has been safe in your hands from the moment you decided to become a sorcerer, and from the moment you were born, you’ve been safe in mine.”

Satoru’s eyes met with every family member as he spoke to them, but now, they drifted off, staring at no one in particular. “And, to Kenji, my boy, if you’re listening, nothing makes me and your mom prouder than knowing we raised a hero, one who gave his life to save others, but we miss you more than anything, little prince. I hope you’re at peace, and I know we’ll see you again someday. You were quiet as a kid, and I would have never, ever changed a thing about you, but I wish we had more conversations. I wish I could hear your voice again in person. And I wish you were here with us now. I love you, and kids, I love all of you. Each and every single one of you has been a joy to raise. Thank you all for giving me grandchildren, and grandchildren, thank you for giving me great-grandchildren. I love you all. Friends, family, and friends we pretend are family, I love you all as well. I’m going to shut up and sit down soon, but I need to say a couple of words about my beautiful wife.” Satoru turned his body towards you, grabbing your hand. He leaned down and softly kissed your knuckles. “You just take my breath away, I don’t even know where to start. After all these years, decades of marriage, since the day we first met, April 8th, 2005, you still make my heart skip a beat. You’ve given me the world, and I’m still excited to wake up beside you every single day. We’re soulmates in every lifetime, honey. Every part of me, from that nervous, fainting, crying mess of a teenager who could barely speak to you, to this sixty-five-year-old man holding your hand right now, believes that with all my heart. As I always say, always think, you’re the love of my life. You own my heart, and every part of me. And, speaking of hearts, you need to stop smiling at me like that, or else mine is going to give out before it’s my time, hm?”

“Oh, Satoru,” you sniffled. There it was again, the tears.

And while they streamed down your cheeks, Tomoya had risen from the table and left the room, only to return with a painting he uncovered.

It was you and Satoru, but not in your golden years. Not as adults. Not as young adults. But as teenagers. The painting was made from a photograph taken by Suguru Geto during your first date, karaoke night, and it detailed you and Satoru gazing into each other's eyes with microphones in hand, Satoru’s cheeks as red as a tomato.

As it would happen, and everyone knew it would, you cried harder. Praise spewed from everyone’s lips at the sight of the painting.

“You two still look the same if you ask me,” Kento Nanami, who stood near the dining room table, spoke up, earning a laugh from everyone.

The painting was hung next to all the other paintings Tomoya had made of you and your husband, its new home along the big wall of your living room.

It was late, much later than you and your husband would have typically stayed up, but that was only because the celebration lasted well into the night, and once everyone staggered out of your house with hugs and goodbyes, you and Satoru decided to keep the music going, turn the lights down low, and dance together in your candlelit living room.

You rested your head against him as you both swayed slowly.

“You spoke so beautifully,” you said. “I’ve used that word quite a few times today.”

“I was just saying what was on my heart, honey.” Satoru's hand stroked your back. “Beautiful wife, beautiful life, beautiful words.”

— EVER AFTER —

It was a beautiful life indeed. Though there were moments in which your world fell apart, your heart snapped into pieces, your family always, always, always knew how to put the pieces of you back together again.

And, today, that same family surrounded your bedside during your final moments.

You couldn’t see them all that well, but oh, could you feel them.

You knew the frail, large hand that held yours belonged to Satoru. You knew the sniffles you could barely make out were Yuji’s. Instinctively, you wanted to hold him as you once did whenever he was upset. The breath you could hear had barely changed from when you and Megumi used to bond over washing dishes together in silence, decades ago, and still, that rhythm matched his presence: quiet, gentle, but present. The hand stroking the wrinkles along your forehead was Maya’s. You painted those nails long enough to know how those fingertips felt. Some footsteps wouldn’t settle, those belonged to Kaia, your excitable princess who now moved around out of the pure anxiety of saying goodbye to her eighty-five-year-old mother, and Tomoya’s hand touched the blanket over your leg, and without being able to see him, you knew well that he was taking off his glasses to wipe away his tears.

Beyond them, your house was filled with your additional loved ones, all of whom received that same phone call from Maya, that, according to your doctor, you were in your final moments.

You could feel it. The breath escaping you.

But it wasn’t painful. It was peaceful.

Beautiful, in a way, because when you drew your final breath, the last thing you ever felt, saw, or heard, came from the loved ones that surrounded you.

Just before Satoru broke into pieces, he kissed the hand belonging to the love of his life, now gone. “Wait for me . . . honey.”

—

When Maya Gojo was around four years old, she once called her father while he was in the middle of an important meeting.

“You learned about the life cycle of a butterfly? Oh, that’s amazing . . . And you drew a picture of one? We’re just gonna have to hang it on the fridge then . . . Mommy packed you your favorite sandwich for lunch? Did you gobble it all up? Sounds like you had a fun day, Muffin,” he once said, for he was the kind of man who always answered the phone when she called, no matter what.

That sentiment was still true today, a few weeks after your passing, when the old man did nothing but mourn you, talk to his beloved family — someone, or multiple people, were staying in his house daily to watch over him, and he loved it more than he could express.

Everyone was worried about him.

He was healthy until the day he lost you.

Then, it was as if the eighty-five-year-old man’s body started to decay rapidly, accompanied by his never-ending tears and horrific chest pain.

But, even though he was rejecting the food his grandchildren brought him, always had low blood pressure, and couldn’t find the strength to get out of bed today, Maya was calling, so he grabbed his phone and answered. He always did.

He didn’t talk much nowadays, which Maya knew, but he loved hearing her voice, which Maya also knew.

“What’d you do . . . today?” Satoru croaked out several minutes into their phone call.

“I went to the cutest little yoga class with my grandchildren,” the sixty-one-year-old woman paused, parking her car outside of his house, without his knowledge.

“When you get a chance to eh, . . . stop by . . . I have some food for you . . . here.”

“Okay, Dad. I’ll be there day after tomorrow. Get some rest, old man,” she lied, barely able to fight off a grin as she unbuckled her seatbelt.

“Love you . . . to pieces, Muffin.”

“I love you too.”

The phone call ended with Satoru’s silent prayer that he would make it to the day after tomorrow, living just long enough to see his daughter one last time. He knew what was happening to him. His mind was still rather sharp, it was his heart that wasn’t working as well as it used to.

And that was because he saw you die. Now, he, too, was dying, dying of a broken heart.

Not that he minded, he was ready to see you again, see his little prince, see Kento Nanami, Suguru Geto, his cat — everyone he had to say goodbye to.

Satoru turned over in his bed and shut his eyes, only opening them when he felt Maya’s hand press against his arm.

His tired, aged eyes blinked.

“Muffin?” His surprised grin didn’t grace his face alone. Tears came with it.

Maya sat on the little free space on the side of his bed, leaned down, and kissed his cheek. “Hi, Dad. I’m here. I’m home.”

Finally, he thought, feeling her grab hold of his hand. Feeling relief, because he had seen everyone relatively recently as some form of goodbye, but not yet her, not until now.

As if his soul was waiting for Maya to appear, and was now satisfied, Satoru’s eyes closed.

Satoru Gojo once spoke on the phone with his daughter, and, following that, left a meeting early, killed a curse, all because his four-year-old little girl wanted to show him a picture of a butterfly, and he had to make it home. He promised to always make it home.

Now, it was a promise that Maya upheld, holding her dying father’s hands as she whispered, “I’m here, I’m home.”

Satoru released one shaky, final breath.

And when he died, he died with a small smile, one that formed because he passed on with his daughter by his side, a house filled with loved ones — oh, he had so, so many loved ones — and, above all, he was with you again.

—

Much like you, much like Satoru, the rest of your children lived full, satisfying lives.

Megumi passed away a year after losing you and Satoru. He lived to be seventy-three, but health problems claimed his life, but even so, life turned out to be more beautiful than his teenage self had thought it would. His spouse lived on for a few more years after that.

Yuji made it until the age of eighty. He passed on around eight years after Megumi, following Yuko, surrounded by his kids and grandchildren. Some say that, even during his final moments, he was rambling on happily, full of life.

Maya also died surrounded by family. Perhaps, it was the great Gojo genetics that would have worked in her father’s favor had he never developed broken heart syndrome as a result of losing you, but Maya lived to be ninety-eight.

Kaia made it into the nineties as well. There was no doubt in anyone’s mind that she was beyond joyful to reunite with her beloved twin brother again. Before her passing, she became the owner of your children’s home when you could no longer run it, but it had now been passed on to Tomoya’s descendants.

Tomoya himself died in his seventies. Following which, his artwork became evermore famous.

“His glasses are actually in a museum now along with his artwork.” The woman who spoke was a descendant of the great Gojo family. She told the story that started with a man developing a school crush in 2005 to the children and teenagers, a few with white hair, who sat before her, criss-crossed, and looked up at her curiously.

“Satoru Gojo will forever be known for the great work he did as the world’s strongest sorcerer, while his wife, who everyone called Mrs. Gojo, made history in this town with everything she did for orphans and neglected kids. There are a couple of news articles about her. Videos too. As a whole, though, they and their children, biological and adopted, have changed the course of the world with all of the contributions they’ve made to society, be it as a sorcerer, or as loving people.” The woman gave the famous grin that often graced the face of all Gojos, both alive and well, and long gone. “So, we have some pretty big shoes to fill. Though I do think a love story as great as theirs doesn’t happen to people often.”

She was right.

Though many people fell in love, very few would truly come to understand — even the world’s greatest minds and most dedicated historians — just how much Satoru Gojo adored his beautiful wife, the love of his life.

Thanks for reading! I can’t believe this is the final part of the series. I appreciate all the love and support you readers have given me!

You still aren’t sure what happened. Her entire family was so hush about it. All you knew was that one day she was laughing and smiling with you at school. The next, she was gone. 

Word travels fast in your small town. Everyone knew the Gojo girl mysteriously vanished. There were so many theories. Everyone made your friend their own little true crime fixation. It made you sick. Some thought she was taken for ransom. Others thought she ran away with a man double her age. 

The worst one were rumors of a sacrifice to a demonic entity. 

Hearing people speculate of her disappearance and missing her presence all felt so unbearable. Days passed, and your morale grew lower and lower.

“Don’t worry, I’m sure everything’s ok. Stop worrying so much.” Your mother assures you. 

“Her family probably went on a trip and she forgot to tell you. You know how careless that girl is.” She laughs. 

You do know how careless she is. Toru was smart, but she constantly dropped pens and pencils. She’d forget what her next class was. She’d lose her own head if it weren’t attached to her. 

You berate her for it. She only laughs you off.

“I have you to take care of me, don’t I?” 

You felt like crying all over again. 

Disappearing without telling you wasn’t like Satoru. She’d tell you everything, regardless if you wanted to hear it or not. A sudden family trip without you knowing is unheard of. 

Something had happened to her, but no one believed you. 

“At the same time she’s so responsible.” Your mother continues to gush. “I still remember how brave she was the day she saved you from that lake. How old were the two of you? Nine? Ten?” 

Your mom is starting to say something else, but you want a break from her rambles about Toru. Instead, you grab the full trash can, muttering how you’ll be back, before disappearing out into the night air. 

October night blooms above you. It was chilly- enough to make you feel goosebumps. You didn't linger on it. You’d only be out here for a few minutes at most. 

You placed the trash can beside the curb. The suburban community you lived in was quiet as always. It was dark. The only light you had was the dim glow of a nearby streetlight. 

It takes a while for your eyes to adjust. 

And then you notice there’s a person on the other side of the road. 

You’re not too alarmed at first. It’s probably just someone taking a walk. This is a safe neighborhood. 

But they move so silently. You didn’t notice them until you saw them. They’re so quiet, even as they step off the sidewalk and onto the road, headed straight for you. 

You’re too slow to react. You take a step back, then another. You might’ve run after that, but you couldn’t trust yourself. You always had terrible instincts. 

There’s a flicker of light. Long, white hair makes you pause. 

“…Toru?” 

She freezes. 

You watch as a slow smile stretches across her face. 

“I found you.”

You should’ve noticed it then. You should’ve picked up on how off her smile was. Too wide, too many teeth, like she was mimicking mirth. You should’ve noticed her stature, the way she moved when she walked. 

You don’t. You just run to her. 

You just care how cold she is as you hug her. She’s always been taller than you, but you manage to envelop her in your hold as tightly as you could. 

She doesn’t react. She remains stiff as a corpse. 

You pull away. She’s still smiling. 

“Where were you?” You exclaimed. “I was so worried! I—I called and texted but you never responded. I even went up to your house and it was completely empty. Did you guys go on vacation or something…” Your voice trails off as you glance down. 

She was barefoot. When you glanced around, you didn’t see her car parked anywhere. 

“Toru?” You ask, finally taking a proper look at her. “Did you walk all the way here…barefoot?” 

Her eyes, they’re so bright and blue. 

Almost glowing. 

“I found you,” she says again. It’s the only thing you’ve heard from her tonight. 

She's reaching up, brushing her fingers against your neck, your face. Only then do you notice how unkept she looks. Her hair is brittle and messy. Her clothes are faded and worn. You see dirt underneath her nails and neck and clothes, like she crawled out of the Earth herself. 

“I found you.” She repeats. 

Your name being called snaps you out of your trance. 

Your mother stares at you with furrowed brows. 

“What are you doing?” She chastises. “Get inside. It’s cold.” 

“But–” When you turn back, Toru’s gone. 

You’re alone, standing out in the middle of the road. The air is colder now. 

“Are you okay?” She wonders when you stumble back inside. 

You try to smile but it comes out stiff. The more you thought about it, the less reasonable it seemed. Satoru would not trek miles and miles on foot to your house. She wouldn’t roam the streets caked in dirt. 

Maybe mom was right. You were getting so worked up you were starting to lose your mind. 

“It’s nothing,” you say. “Nothing.” 

~

You liked Shinichi. 

He moved to your town a few years ago, back in sophomore year. The crush started when you two were paired as biology partners last year. You think it might be mutual. Sometimes his hand lingers on yours for a little too long when you hand him a pen. You noticed he watches your lips when you’re talking. 

For whatever reason, you never told anyone about your crush–not even Toru. 

“Did she really?” Shoko cocks her head. “I don’t believe you.” 

“She did.” Suguru insists, coiling up her hair in that signature bun. “How could you not believe me? I’m so hurt.” 

“‘cause you’re a liar.” Shoko responds. 

Suguru laughs. Or maybe she doesn’t. You weren’t paying attention. Despite the girls hanging beside your locker, you were still nose deep into your notes. Your anatomy test was happening next period and you had an awful feeling you were going to fail. 

You were barely past the mandible before your notebook was ripped away from you. 

“Hey—“ Your voice dies in your throat. 

Satoru grins. 

“Missed me?” She teases. 

You can only watch as the rest of your group crowds around her immediately. Shoko and Suguru ask where she went, eager for answers. 

A last minute ski trip. 

“Sorry I went AWOL like that.” She shrugs. “There’s bad reception over there.” 

They both buy it. Shoko demands pictures. Suguru prods about the mountains and slopes. Satoru eagerly shows the girls the pictures she took along the Swiss Alps. 

You can only stare. 

She looks like the same Satoru you’ve known for years. Her smile is just as playful. Her eyes are the brilliant blue you’ve come to admire. Her ivory hair is long and pin straight (‘which I could never do anything with’ she always complained). Her hands are unblemished and dirt-free. 

You still can’t get that sight out of your mind: her cracked nails caked in mud. 

She catches you staring, finally drawing her attention back on you. 

“What?” She prods. 

“You never texted me about that.” You blurt out. 

She rolls her eyes. “Must’ve forgotten. I don’t gotta tell you everything I do. Stop worrying so much.” 

She reaches out to pinch your cheek. You wince, wondering if she meant to be this rough. 

“Right,” you say when you brush her hands off of you. Only then do you notice how much taller she is. 

Satoru has always towered over you, but she’s never worn lace-up stilettos. Not ever. 

You trail over her outfit. Her dress is short and tight, trailing right past her hips and barely covering her ass. The sheer stockings do little to cover the fat of her thighs. Her jacket is unzipped, leaving you to see the amount of cleavage she proudly showed. How she didn’t get dress-coded already was beyond you. 

She never dressed like this before. Sure, Satoru had amazing outfits, but she was never this daring. She preferred more conservative clothes: longer skirts, shirts with higher scoops, hoodies that hid her shape. 

You can smell her perfume. It’s different. Bolder, compared to the light floral stuff she used to wear. It’s smokier. You feel like you’re standing next to a blooming fireplace.

Shoko and Suguru have hoarded Satoru’s phone, chattering over her trip. You hear the slam of locker doors all around you as the bell rings for the first period. You have a test soon, but you can hardly bring yourself to look away from how different she looks. 

Uncanny might be a better word. 

You think about the Satoru you saw last night, the one with empty eyes and cracked nails. You want to reach out and ask her, but she’s already slipping away to class.

“Fuck, I gotta’ go.” She sighs. “See ya at lunch. Don’t stress too hard about that anatomy test.” She tells you. “You’ll get wrinkles.” 

You manage a weak smile at her joke. When she blows you a kiss, you half-heartedly wave back. 

You were freaking out over nothing. The Satoru you saw last night was part of some stress-induced hallucination. And today, Satoru is trying out a new look. She doesn’t have to tell you everything she does. You needed to stop being so paranoid. 

School drags on hour by hour. Lunch is just like before. By the time the last bell rings, you’ve almost forgotten all about it. 

Usually, Satoru drives you home. She’d sit by the curb, honking if you don’t get in fast enough. She was dramatic like that, but you liked that side of her. The fun side. 

Today,  there’s no black Maserati waiting for you. You glance around the parking lot, wondering if maybe Satoru’s running late. 

You spot ivory white hair blow in the wind.

You watch as she continues to hold Shinichi’s hand, dragging him along. She glances back to say something to him. You can see him throw his head up and laugh. 

Something boils on your face. You can’t look away as Shinichi gets into the passenger seat of the car. Satoru follows right after. Tinted windows conceal their faces. 

Just for a moment, you swore she turned back to see if you were watching. 

~

You had that dream again. 

You were at the bottom of a lake, watching the bubbles rise up to the surface. A soaked letter floats next to you. Tiny hands reached in to pull you out–

You wake up in a pool of sweat. Your breaths are heavy. In. Out. In. Out. In. Out again. 

The ceiling fan gently whirs above you. It felt nice on your heated skin. You kick the thick blankets off, letting your bare skin cool down. 

After a few minutes, it becomes apparent you won’t get any sleep tonight. You rise from your bed, cringing at the stickiness of your skin. It was like you woke up from a nightmare. 

Well, it was more like reliving the memory of a near-death experience. 

You stretch, pushing your arms up and out. Your bones crack at the release of pressure. Still sitting on your bed, you reach over for your phone. It’s nearly four. You’d have to get ready for school in three hours. There was no point in going back to sleep. 

Maybe it was because you were still-half asleep, and now your brain-fog is gone. Maybe the fan was obscuring it, spinning noisily above you. 

But you swear you could hear breathing. 

Loud. Deep. In. Out. In. Out. In. Out again. 

For a moment you thought it was your own, maybe you hadn’t calmed down all the way. But you could still hear your breaths. Quieter–slower than whatever this was. 

Vents, you tell yourself. The A.C was acting up. You try to ignore the chills that run up and down your back. Goosebumps rose along your arms and shoulders. The air felt colder. 

With your tank top and your shorts, you felt so naked. Almost like you were being watched. The only thing rivaling the sounds you keep hearing is your loud heartbeat. Blood rushes through your ears.

There’s a hint of a footstep. On the other side of your bed, there’s a creak. 

You lean over to flick on the lamp. 

Light engulfs the shadows. You can see your four walls. The ceiling. The fan. The trinkets you gathered for years sitting nicely on your shelves. 

You’re alone. 

You wait again, listening. There’s no breathing. Of course you didn’t hear anything. You must have imagined it. You were still so strung up from your nightmare. 

You fully roll out of bed, deciding to get ready for school a little early. Maybe you can get a little homework done too before class starts. 

It’s another remnant of your night terror. You ignore it as you trek into the bathroom. 

For a moment, you thought you could smell a bonfire 

~

“Did you two fight?” Suguru suddenly asks. 

You barely glance up at her from your phone. 

“What?” 

“You and Satoru,” she presses. “You two fight?” 

“And who won?” Shoko chimes in. 

You roll your eyes. “We didn’t fight.” 

“Then why is she ignoring you?” Shoko prods. When your gaze lingers on your phone for too long, she plucks it out of your grasp. 

You glance over to the other side of the cafeteria. Satoru was crowded around the other girls in the color guard. They seemed to be having a lively conversation. You glanced back at Suguru and Shoko, who were coming up with their own analysis. 

“She’s usually so obsessed with you too.” Shoko thinks out loud. “Pretty sure this is the only conversation I’ve had with you where she hasn’t butt in.” 

You stare at her, unimpressed. 

“What are you talking about?” 

They exchange glances. 

“You can’t tell me you haven’t noticed it, right?” Suguru asks. When you continue to give a blank stare, she sighs. 

“She’s constantly walking you to and from class. You’re one of the only people allowed in her car. Ninety percent of her conversations revolve around you too. She shares food with you, even when she’s so possessive over her snacks.” 

“Not to mention you’re the only one who’s allowed to call her ‘Toru.” Shoko gives. 

“It’s a childhood nickname.” You mutter. 

“Oh! Maybe it’s from the time she saved you from that lake.” Shoko wonders out loud. “After that day, her brain forced her to think of you as some helpless animal who needs to be protected all the time.” 

“Oh, like conditioning?” Suguru prods. 

“Yeah, exactly.” 

Maybe if you ignore them and their stupid theories, they’ll finally leave you alone. 

Suguru leans over your shoulder, pressing herself into your space until you can’t ignore her anymore. She grins when your scowl grows deeper. She’s so much like Satoru it actually enrages you. Maybe that’s why they were such good friends. 

“So, did you two fight?” She urges. 

“No.” You stress. “We didn’t.” 

You would have to talk to fight. 

Since the day she got back, you hadn’t spoken to Satoru. You never called or texted, you barely even looked at her. She did the exact same. It was like you two were never even friends in the first place. Acquaintances. Strangers that shared the same space. 

You’d be lying if a part of you wasn’t mad at her. She left for days with no texts or calls. You were worried sick about her and yet she comes back perfectly fine. It was like she didn’t even care about your feelings or worries. How could she do that to you? It was so shitty. 

You still think about her and Shinichi getting into her car and driving off. You don’t think you were too mad about the Shinichi part. You liked him, but it was barely a crush. Him seeing someone would be like someone stealing the last piece of pie before you could. Disappointing, but easily forgettable. 

It was the fact that she almost seemed to know how you felt about him that irked you. The way you were sure she glanced back at you to see if you were watching before they drove off. 

It felt…mean. Unwarranted. 

Still, that wasn’t the biggest issue you had with her. 

“Doesn’t she feel a little strange to you?” 

Both girls look at you. It’s the same look a parent would give to a child when they’re rambling about Santa Claus. You feel yourself heat up. 

“What do you mean?” Shoko asks. 

What could you say? What would you look like if you started bitching about how strange her new wardrobe looked? Who cared if you pointed out her new heels? The smell of smoky fire never left you.

You knew Satoru. She constantly moved from one thing onto the next. When has she ever stuck to something? Why was this so different? 

You give a helpless shrug. “She’s just…” You trailed off. “Strange.” 

Shoko leans in closer.

“Do you think she’s pregnant?” 

You gape at her. “What? No!” You squeeze your eyes shut. Forget it, you were just seeing things again. “Never mind.” 

Suguru laughs. She leans the rest of her weight on you. 

“You’re so paranoid. It’s actually a little cute.” 

You’re about to respond, but something prickles over your skin, ever so slightly digging in. 

That oppressive weight remains all throughout the rest of the day. You don’t understand it until the school administration hastily calls for a last minute-assembly. 

It was just before the end of 8th period. You weren’t too upset,  preferring to sit in the gym bleachers than physics. The entire student body shifted and murmured all around you. The principal stands in the center. He transfers his weight from one foot to another. His expression matches the one you saw on teachers and a few of the students too. Those people are a lot quieter today. 

The microphone squeals in his grasp. He clears his throat. 

Inu Shinichi, a senior in high-school. 

Dead at the young age of 18. 

Immediately the crowd erupts. People start asking questions all at once. You can hear the confused clamours of students all around you as staff tries to assuage the panic. 

The noise, the voices are all too much to keep track of. In the background, you can hear the principal try to continue. It was an unfortunate accident with a wild animal. Police think there might be a bear in the area. Everyone is highly encouraged to stay away from the woods. His words seep in and out of your ear. 

You feel that prickling sensation again. You search through the crowd, eyeing the rows of frantic students. 

Toru stares right back. 

~

Eventually, the school releases you. 

People are encouraged to pair up in groups if they are walking home. Suguru had a club meeting that ran late. Shoko went home early. In the end, you were forced to walk home alone. 

It’s not as scary as people thought. Besides, it gives you time to think. 

Mostly, you thought about Shinichi. 

You saw him just yesterday. He was smiling, maybe even laughing. And now, he was gone. 

You were probably one of the last people to see him alive. 

You and–

A loud honk disrupts your thoughts. You whirl your head to the side. 

Her window is down. Her head is leaned against the wheel. There’s a sly smile on pretty pink lips. 

“Tryna’ ditch me?” She teases. “Get in.” 

You blink at her. 

“No,” you eventually say. It sounded snappier than you liked. “I’m fine, thanks.” 

She says nothing to that. You keep walking. You expected her to whine, inch her car forward as she demands you to get in. She’s always been a brat, it’s not like her to give up so easily. 

There's a yank on your back. You stumble, feeling your backpack slip from your arms. When you glance behind you, Satoru’s already shoving your bag into the back of her car. She shuts her trunk with a victorious grin. 

“If you want it back, you’re gonna have to work for it.” She tells you, before climbing back into her seat. 

Like you could ever win against her. Feeling your mood sour by the minute, you slipped into the passenger seat. Satoru doesn't wait for you to buckle yourself in before driving off. 

The two of you sit in silence for two minutes. Eventually, Satoru breaks it. 

“So?” 

“So?” You repeat. 

“Are you gonna tell me why you’re so pissy lately or will I have to needle it out of you?” 

You stare out the window. “I’m not pissy.” 

“That.” She tells you. “That’s pissy.” 

“I’m not–” You swallow. 

You peel your eyes from the window, daring to glance her way. Her shirt is low enough for you to see a hint of cleavage. Her makeup is bold: deep red lipstick and dark eyeshadow. Her skirt keeps riding up, letting you see creamy thighs. 

It’s not like her at all. 

“Did something happen?” You finally ask. “On the trip.” 

“What do you mean?” 

You can’t help it. It comes out all at once. 

“What I mean is that you disappeared for days. You refused to call or text or anything. And now you’re back like nothing happened, and I’m supposed to believe you went on a ski trip?” 

She waits for a minute. Maybe two. 

“Oh,” she says. “You missed me.” 

You’d yank her hair if your life wasn’t in her hands right now. 

“You get so cute when you get all worried.” She gushes and you frown even deeper. “Don’t worry, I missed you too!”

She giggles and you feel your face heat up, but you’re not too upset at her teases. It reminds you of what you two used to be like. 

“Of course I was worried for you, idiot,” you say. She was your best friend, after all. 

She laughs again, before it dies down. 

“You’re right,” she finally says. “I didn’t exactly go on a ski trip.” 

You glance over. She’s still smiling but it’s strangely shadowed somehow. 

“Oh,” you respond. “So…where did you go, then?” 

She taps dainty painted nails on the steering wheel. You like the color. A glistening red.

“My folks took me to some last-minute family thing,” she says. “They called it tradition-” She rolls her eyes “-a bunch of bullshit really.” 

You nod, not wanting to prod further. You knew Satoru’s family. They considered family and the clan to be extremely sacred. Obviously, they’d have some weird customs they’d force Satoru into. You also got the feeling they were elitist and maybe sexist. Despite the financial freedom Satoru got, it always felt like it came with strings attached. Good grades, perfect attendance, a compliant demeanor. Absolute perfection. The tension between her and her folks was ice-cold. She was constantly at odds with them. 

You take a peek at her outfit again. You may not know them intimately, but the Gojo family would definitely not approve of her outfit. Especially the matriarch. 

You’ve only met Satoru’s grandmother a few times, but it didn’t take you that long to realize she didn’t like you. Her blue eyes were always tainted with disdain whenever she looked down at you. It was a bit insulting, honestly. Apart from her, you were actually great with the elderly. She was a stain on your perfect people skills record. 

“Satisfied?” She asks. You can hear her smile. “Are you still angry I ghosted you?” 

“I wasn't angry.” You tell her, and now your irritation feels silly. “I was just thinking.” 

“About?” 

You make sure to keep your eyes on her, wanting to watch every micro expression as you speak. 

“Shinichi.” 

She didn’t stop smiling. She didn’t even blink. 

“I was just really surprised about what happened to him,” you continue. “I knew him. Just…one second he was in class, the next–” Dead. Gone. Devoured. 

Satoru hums. “Yeah, I heard it was a bunch of coyotes. They just tore him up until there was nothing left.” 

You almost take a moment to comprehend her casualness. She spoke like she was talking about the weather, not a gruesome death. 

“Yeah…” You trail off. “It was horrible.” 

“I–I still can’t believe someone I knew died like that,” you say. “And it was Shinichi. How is that even–” 

“Hey,” Satoru’s voice is sharp. It startles you. 

Her smile is gone. A thin line replaced it. Her grip on the steering wheel is tight enough to make her knuckles grow white. 

“Let’s stop talking about him” 

You wanted to ask about it right there. The words were on the tip of your tongue. She was the last person who saw Shinichi alive. It was a morbid curiosity to ask what he was like just before he fell off the world. 

“Okay,” you say instead. 

Despite ordering you to stop, Satoru didn’t seem too keen on following. 

“You liked him, right?” She presses. 

Your mouth opens and closes like a fish. Satoru takes it as her answer. 

“I just don’t see what you saw in the guy,” she continues. “So…bleh, y’know?” 

“We shouldn’t speak ill of the dead.” 

“I’m just saying,” she argues. “You deserve someone way better. Trust me, that guy was not good news.” 

You think of the heat in your stomach when Satoru led Shinichi to her car. The tight grip she held onto his hand. Envy. God, it all felt so silly all of a sudden. 

“Do you like him more than you like me?” She suddenly asks. 

You burst into laughter.

It was just like her, to constantly ask for scraps of attention and approval. She strove to be the best in her academics. She wanted to be number one in her sports team. Why would competition for her best friend be any different? 

“What’s so funny?” She demands as your laugh dies down. You shake your head. 

“I don’t like you, I love you.” You ease into your seat. Your heart feels full. You’re happy.

You two were back. 

She’s smiling. It’s goofier, and a bit smug. You missed that smile of hers. 

You missed her. 

For the first time in a week, you two finally have a real conversation. Satoru shit-talks the girls in her color guard team, as always. You chide her for being too strict on them. You complain about teachers and pop-quizzes. Satoru shows you a band she’s been listening to. 

You almost don’t want to get out of the car by the time she pulls out on your street. 

“Wanna come in?” You ask. “My mom would love to see you.” 

“I got something I gotta do.” She waves you off. “But I’ll text you later.” 

You hum, stepping out of the car and grabbing your bag. 

Her hand latches onto your wrist. 

When you glance back, her eyes have soured. Warm oceans turned into cool ice. 

“You do like me, right?” She presses. “More than anyone?” 

You smile, confused. 

“I kind of have to.” You respond with a laugh. “We’re best friends, right?” 

You expect her to smile back. She doesn’t. 

Her nails dig into your skin ever so slightly. 

“Yeah.” She pulls away. “Besties.” 

You can’t name her tone, but the firm line on her lips remains. It’s like she’s retreated back into her head, obscuring herself from your view. 

That prickling sensation is back again. It crawls up your back, latching at the sides of your neck. It only stops when you shut the door behind you, blocking yourself from her vision. 

The scent of smoke fades and you finally feel yourself breathe again. 

~

Now thinking about it, you could name the exact day the Gojo matriarch stopped liking you. 

Truthfully, she never actually liked you. A mild tolerance, maybe.

Clearly, she was the type of person who believed that those of higher class should mingle with each other. When her granddaughter started bringing home a child who’s parents were middle class at best, she wasn’t pleased. Still, she never outright chastised Satoru. Again, it was a mild tolerance. You were a blip on her radar.

You became friends with Satoru in the first week of second grade. It was less of a meeting, more of a kid latching onto your arm and immediately declaring you as ‘hers’. You don’t remember having an issue with the possession. You liked being Satoru’s friend. She let you braid her long wispy hair. 

Satoru soon became Toru, and you quickly found yourself inseparable from each other. 

Teachers found it adorable how much Toru clung onto you. You two were always found together, always paired up for projects and assignments. Sometimes, when she’s riled up enough, she’d suddenly declare how she’ll marry you. The surrounding adults got a kick out of that.

Peas in a pod. Two halves of a whole. 

The real issue started when Toru began bringing you home. 

You’ve never been in a house so large. You were scared you might get lost, so you’d hold onto Toru’s hand even tighter as she gleefully led you through her maze of a home. Up winding staircases. Past doors and doors. 

You two would mostly stay in her room. You’d play with her grand dollhouse, dress up in her fancy clothes, have pretend tea parties and horribly tried to replicate royalty. It was stupid. It was childish. It was fun. 

Even back then, you knew Satoru didn’t have a lot of fun within her cold, empty home. 

Once, and only once, she took you into the backyard. 

It wasn’t a backyard. It was more of a botanical garden. There were pretty flowers of all colors. The grass was neat and pristine. You’d never seen any place more beautiful in your life. 

“This.” She told you when she led you through a patch of chids. “This is where we’ll get married.” 

“It’s so pretty.” You gushed, plucking at a dahlia. “Can we invite our teacher to the wedding?” 

“Yes!” She declares. “Everyone will come! I’ll be the bride, and you can be the groom. I wanna wear a pretty dress.” 

Your lips sour into a frown. “I don’t wanna be a groom.” You complain. “I wanna wear a pretty dress too.” 

Even from a young age, she hated seeing you unhappy. “We can both wear pretty dresses.” She decides.

You giggle and she holds your hand even tighter. 

It’s barely a kiss. It’s a soft peck, a light brush of her lips against yours. When she pulls away, her ocean ocean eyes bloom just as fiercely as the cherry red across her cheeks. 

“What was that?” You wonder. 

“It’s what two people who want to get married do.” She tells you. For once, her voice is quiet. “Now, we’ll be together forever.” 

You two were seven years old: too young to realize what it meant, too innocent to understand the danger of a small town with backwards customs. 

The Gojo matriarch was not. 

She grabs Toru’s arm before you could blink. Her grip on the younger Gojo is rough and violent as she drags your friend back into the house. 

A short while later, a servant politely tells you that your parents are waiting for you at the front. You go home in silence.

You only see Satoru the next day at school. There’s a large bruise on her cheek. The teachers, pockets filled with Gojo’s money, ignore her. 

When she sees you, she smiles. 

It’s not as bright as it used to be. 

~

As much as you try to avoid it, it forces you to notice it eventually. 

It was the weekend. Satoru had dragged you out to the city. She parked her car somewhere in a crowded garage, forcing you to walk through dirty streets and busy roads. 

Another shopping spree. So far, you've picked up some shorts and a velvet top. She, on the other hand, had about two bags per arm filled with skirts, dresses, crop tops. Designer. Expensive. Heavy. You had no idea how she was able to carry them all. 

“Toru,” you call as she hurries on in front of you. “It’s getting late. We should head back.” 

It was already dusk. The sky was filled with purples and pinks. The shadows grew longer and longer. You wanted to be back by the car before night came. 

Satoru didn’t share the sentiment. She carried onward, the bags shuffling at her sides. 

“Just a few more minutes,” she insists. “The store I was talking about is right around the corner, I’m pretty sure.” 

You sigh, but you have no choice but to follow. As much as you loved her, she was way too overzealous for you sometimes. Constantly hyper-fixating on one thing or another, and tugging you along for the ride. 

Despite it all, you shuffle towards her when you see a dark figure in a hoodie. Just from the way he stands, you could already tell what he was planning on doing. 

“Nice legs.” He whistles at Satoru right as she passes him. 

She barely spares him a glance, flipping him off. 

“Bitch,” he mutters under his breath. You curl your lips in disgust. 

You stared for too long. He catches your eyes.

A nasty smirk crawls along his haggard face. 

“What about you, gorgeous?” He prods. “Wanna have a good time?” 

It happened in a flash. 

One moment, Toru was next to you on the sidewalk. 

The next, she was grabbing the man by the throat, pinning him against the building. 

With a single manicured hand, she hoisted him up until his feet dangled, crushing his windpipe. He choked, immediately grabbing onto her wrists, trying to wrench her off of him. She barely even flinched, continuing to keep him up there with a strength you’ve never seen from her before. 

It was inhuman. 

You only move when it sounds like he’s dying. 

You pull on her hand. Nothing. 

“Toru,” you say in urgency. “Let go of him. It’s fine.” 

She barely even twitches. The look on her face is unsettling. No scowl. No smile. Her features were completely blank. 

Like she was staring at nothing. 

You yank harder on her wrist. You squeeze. 

“Toru, please.” You beg. 

She takes a moment, but eventually, she drops him just when he’s about to pass out. 

He falls to the floor, holding his throat. Already a dark ring is starting to show on his skin. 

You expect him to yell and scream. There’s nothing. He just staggers off, trying to get as far away as he can. 

Relieved, he didn’t make a scene, you turn back to Satoru. 

She had yet to move. 

“Hey.” You shove at her. “What was that? Where did you learn to do that?” 

Nothing. You give up trying to get anything out of her. Something on the ground catches your eye. 

The shopping bags. She must have dropped them when the skirmish happened. You go to pick them up. 

There’s a hand on your chest, forcing you against the wall. Immediately, she presses up against you, caging you in. You don’t move. You can’t. You just stare forward, right at her neck as her throat bobs up and down. The smell of the campfire is back again. Flickering and burning. 

There’s a hand at your waist, keeping you in place. You press your fingers against the wall. 

“Toru?” You weakly ask. 

There’s a sharp inhale above you. 

And then she’s gone. 

By the time you blink, she’s already picked up her bags, continuing her way along the sidewalk. 

After a second, you’re bounding after her. 

Your mouth opens and closes as you stare at her back. What the fuck was that? You wanted to ask so badly. 

“I think we might’ve missed it.” She suddenly says. 

“What?” You say dumbly. 

“The store.” She glances back at you with a ‘duh’ look. “I think it might’ve been on the next corner.” 

“Oh,” you say, voice vacant. “Toru?” 

“Hm?” 

Your mouth closes into a sharp line. 

“It’s nothing.” 

~

For the first time in a while, Satoru comes over for a sleepover. 

Your parents were ecstatic. Dinner was served with hot homemade food and extra hospitality. Your mother was delighted that her “second daughter” came to visit. She offered Satoru, seconds and thirds. You were starting to acknowledge that Satoru might be your parent’s favorite child. 

“Your parents are always so sweet.” Toru tells you. 

You sit on the blankets, still scrolling on your phone. She’s already underneath the covers, peering up at you. She smells like your soap and shampoo, dressed in your clothes because she always manages to ‘forget’ to bring her own. 

“Pretty sure my mom loves you more than she loves me.” You mutter. “Trust me, you’re the favorite.” 

Your words sound bitter, even when you truly aren’t. Your parents know better than anyone how neglected Toru is in her home. Being showered in money and luxury could never replace parental affection. 

She laughs, curling up in your pillows. 

“I missed this place.” She murmurs into your pillows. You know she’s annoying you on purpose when she buries her head into the pillows, taking a deep breath. 

“If you keep being creepy, I’m kicking you out,” you tell her pointedly. 

She pouts, arching her pretty lips into a frown. “You’re a meanie.” 

You scrunch your nose when the smell of incense wafts into the room. 

“And why are you wearing perfume?” you chide, “we’re supposed to be sleeping.” 

“I’m not wearing perfume.” She tilts her head. 

Was she telling you that was just her natural scent? You doubt it, but you don’t bother arguing. Besides, she’s already starting to whine. 

“And we can’t sleep now!” she argues, “we never hang out these days. We should do something.” 

“Are you not exhausted?” You two had been running around all day: spa day, manicures, shopping trips. How was she not tired? 

She shakes her head, rocking back and forth from her spot on the bed. 

“C’mon!” she urges. “Let’s watch a movie or something. A horror movie.” 

“You watch,” you tell her, crawling underneath the blankets. “I’ll sleep.” 

She frowns and if she was the Satoru before, she’d be whining more. The Satoru tonight pouts as you lift the blankets. 

You stare down at her pretty blue eyes. Pink lips. Long lashes. Her nails are a different color today. Black. 

“Yeah.” You finally say. “You are different.” 

“Hm?” She peers up at you. 

“I don’t know how else to say it,” you confess, “but you’re…brighter somehow.” 

You can see it in her eyes. Lighter. Less cloudy. The sky on a bright summer day. You haven’t seen her like this since she was a kid. 

Like she was free. 

Toru takes interest in this. She props her head up, eyes lingering on you. 

“Am I?” she wonders. 

You nod. 

“It’s nice,” you tell her, “you used to act like you had the weight of the world on your shoulders and now…” 

Before, she still laughed, still joked around, but it all felt controlled. You always thought of it as strings digging into the skin of her arms and legs. She was a puppet hung on nylon thread. They yanked her back every time she said the wrong line. 

“Yeah, I can feel it too,” she tells you, “I think I’ve just realized that I can do whatever I want.” 

Her fingers gently crest on the skin of your arm. 

“I can have whatever I want.” 

You catch the stress in her words. 

“Is there something you want?” Something Satoru wants? For a girl who has everything, you can hardly comprehend her having a desire for anything. 

“Yeah.” 

The air stops. The room grows dark. For a moment, you feel as though you and Satoru are the only two people left in the world. 

She’s closer now. You hadn’t noticed she moved. Her breaths match yours.

 In. Out. In. Out. In. Out again.  

“Something I’ve wanted for a really long time.” 

Blue fills your vision. The walls are closing in. Lips draw closer to your cheek. 

 “I think I’m finally gonna have it.” 

Her head suddenly slumps down onto your shoulder. Soft white hair tickles your neck. 

“Your mom’s fluffy pancakes,” her whine is muffled by your shirt, “can you please ask her to make them tomorrow?” 

You’re laughing out of relief. You push her away from you, urging her to lie on the pillows. 

“Only if you sleep now,” you say. 

She grumbles something, but she doesn’t argue after that. It’s quiet after you shut off the lamp. 

The next morning, Toru gets her wish. She eagerly chomps down on your mom’s cooking, while your parents gush at how well she eats. You were chiding at how messy she was, urging her to add less maple syrup. 

It’s still in the back of your head all morning. It lingers when Satoru leaves your house. It stays until days later. 

Eventually, you tell yourself that you were flustered. Of course you were flustered. You hadn’t expected Satoru to get so close like that. She was always clingy, but this was the first time she was this daring. It was just playful, you don’t need to over analyze yourself. 

And yet you can’t help but remember the shiver down your back. You remembered the way you could hear your heartbeat throughout the night. 

It almost felt like fear. 

~

(It was some type of field trip. 

The last day of third grade. The teachers wanted each student to have one last fun day before school broke out for summer break. Over 90 kids were released to run around the local park. Most children gravitated towards the lake, entranced by fishes and ducks. 

You and Toru wander toward the other side of the lake, straying from the teacher’s eyes. 

It was your idea. You’d been giddy all morning, barely able to contain the secret. You wanted to wait until you and Toru were alone before you showed it to her. 

She was equally excited, following obediently as you led her along the shore. Dragonflies soared across the lake’s surface. Frogs dove under lilypads. If you weren’t so distracted, you might’ve been tempted to catch one of them. 

Today, you had a mission. 

“Look!” You tell her eagerly. The envelope in your hand laid crinkled. You weren’t kind to it, opting to stuff it in your pocket for safe-keeping. Stubby hands carefully unfold the paper. 

“What is it?” She curiously asks. She recognizes the name scrawled in bright green crayon. It was that kid with thick-rimmed glasses. Toru often saw him doodling wobbly monsters on his papers. 

You give a coy smile. 

“It’s a love letter.” 

You keep on rambling, too engrossed in your own story to notice the way Toru’s breath hitched, the way she froze. You talk about how he stopped you just before class started. His hands shook. His voice wobbled. Cherry red plastered across his cheeks as he shyly murmured, ‘I like you’–

At first, you thought you fell. 

You sank further down. Your ears filled with water as your clothes softly swished in the current. Panic was slow to catch up. At first, you thought about how angry your parents would be when they found out you drenched your clothes in pond water. 

The water wasn’t deep. A little more than one foot. You could easily wade out. 

Tiny hands break the surface, reaching out for you. Toru’s hands. You instinctively reach out so she could pull you out. 

Her hands reach past yours, right at your neck, and you’re pushed further underwater. 

Panic kicks in then. You flail your arms. Your feet. Adrenaline claws at your veins even when there’s nowhere for it to go. Your lungs are screaming for air but all you can do is look up at the blurry image of your friend because she’s killing you, she’s killing you, she’s killing you.

Just when spots cloud your vision, something gives. You’re hauled up from the surface and dropped onto the banks. Sunlight heats your soaked skin. Your drenched clothes cling onto your arms and legs. You’re coughing up water and sobbing. You still can’t understand what happened. 

Satoru is silent. Through your tears you can still see her. Her clothes are also wet but it doesn’t look like she cares. You’re barely able to control your shuddering breaths when she speaks. 

“He can’t have you.” 

Her voice is devoid of that childish lilt. It’s smooth and calm. 

You look up at her. 

Her face is blank, but her eyes are filled with so much venom…

“He can’t have you. Nobody can have you. You’re mine.” 

…you feel like you’re staring at a monster, rather than a child. 

People catch on eventually. Adults and other kids crowd around your soaked body. There are worried shouts of ‘What happened?’ while teachers gently urged you to calm down. 

“She fell.” Toru spoke up. Her original voice is back, filled with childish innocence that now sounds as fake as candy. 

Someone is urging you to your feet. Another is urging you to breathe. All you can see is how the teachers and students gather around Satoru, praising her for saving your life. 

She meets your gaze then. 

She’s smiling.)

When you wake up, your breaths are just as ragged as that day from the lake. 

You kick off the blankets, uncaring if they fell off the mattress. The carpet is soft under your feet as you make your way into the bathroom. You flick on the lights, knowing what you’ll see but still uncertain. 

Your skin is shiny and dull. The circles underneath your eyes are darker. Makes sense. You haven’t gotten a lot of sleep lately. 

It was the first time you ever truly completed that dream. 

No, not a dream. Not a nightmare. A memory. 

You must’ve repressed it for years, forcing it to sink down and down. 

You think of Satoru’s eyes back then. They were just as bright as the ones Satoru has now. 

Maybe you were wrong. Maybe Satoru was always like this. 

Until now, she just hid it better. 

The memory of the lake, that cursed letter, still plays in the back of your eyes. 

You take a deep breath, and you drown it.

~

You hadn’t visited the Gojo household in a while. 

Satoru doesn’t invite you too often. You understand why. She prefers your house over yours. You share her thoughts. Her house always felt cold and empty. Despite the multitude of servants and housekeepers hired to keep the house running, it always felt lifeless. 

Tonight, that feeling only got worse. 

Your mom dropped you off minutes ago, but you still hesitate to go in. The house looks darker, somehow. Maybe you hadn’t been here in a while, but it felt so different. 

You linger around the mansion. A ding from your phone indicates your time is up. It’s from Toru. 

‘Door’s unlocked.’ 

Large, mahogany doors groan as you push them open. The interior isn’t so much different compared to the exterior. The house looks just as abandoned from the inside. There’s barely enough light to see. Apart from the windows casting in sunlight, there’s not much else. There’s dust on the floor, in the air, on the windows. 

It’s such a stark contrast to house strict the gojo household was typically maintained. Earlier it looked well-kept but empty. Now, it just looks…empty. 

“Boo.” 

You scream. 

Satoru laughs. 

“I really hate you,” you tell her once you’ve calmed down, “you know that, right?” 

“I know,” she cheerily tells you. 

She leads you through the house. You follow close behind. 

“So, where is everyone?” You finally ask. You don’t usually see Toru’s family members during your visits, but you always see attendants and servants around. 

Right now, it just feels like it’s just you and Toru. 

“My folks went to some gala thing.” She tells you, walking ahead. You can’t see her face. 

“Right.” You nod. “But what about the others?” 

She hums. 

“No idea,” she says, “they just stopped coming around. ‘Must’ve gotten fired.” 

You don’t know what to say to that, so you say nothing. Satoru is more than happy to change the subject to whoever pissed her off that day. You idly listen as she rants and rants. You don’t mind her griping. It’s a nice distraction from the hollow mansion. 

At least her own room is warm. It’s bright and completely lit up with fairy lights. You sit on the fluffy pink comforter, admiring the posters she put up from her favorite band. She changes her favorites every two weeks. You doubt those faces will be up the next time you visit. 

Toru turns the lights off, taking her own seat next to you. 

“Ready?” She asks, the tone of her voice is mischievous. 

You settle onto the bed, frowning. 

“Let’s just get this over with.” 

After days of begging, Satoru finally convinced you to watch a horror movie with her. You were never a fan of scares. Up until recently, neither was Toru. 

“When did you suddenly get into the genre?” You prod. “You used to be scared of Goosebumps.” 

“The summer camp one is really scary,” she argues. “Also, aren’t people allowed to change?” 

Yeah. 

She’s done a lot of that recently, hasn’t she? 

You don’t respond. Instead, you turn back to the TV screen. 

“So, is it a slasher?” 

“No,” she tells you, fiddling with the remote, “It’s a bad-good horror movie. You’ll like it.” 

She was wrong. It was a lot gorier than you anticipated. The storyline itself was pretty cliche. A family moved into a haunted house, oblivious to the haunted part. Very quickly, things begin to go wrong. All the classic tropes are there: delayed jumpscares, pentagrams in the basement, children crawling up walls. 

“Let’s skip this part.” You tell her when the male lead and female lead inevitably start making out. You immediately sour when the scene stretches on to them taking off their clothes. You never understood why horror movies always focused on these parts. 

Satoru laughs. “What, never seen dick before?” 

When you stay silent, she slowly turns to look at you. 

“Really?” 

“You haven’t either.” You argue. 

“I have, but I didn’t just look.” She tells you with a sly grin. You blink, thinking of the numerous boyfriends she used to parade out in the past.  You never knew she went that far. 

“You’ve never even had your first kiss, have you?” She leans in, clearly delighted at embarrassing you. 

You frown, speaking without really thinking. 

“My first kiss was you, idiot,” you tell her. 

It’s the wrong thing to say. You immediately sense it in the air. There’s a sudden drop in temperature. A chill travels down your spine. 

Satoru opens her lips. A deep breath. 

“Yeah,” she says, voice quiet, “I was your first.” 

You don’t know why she says it like that. It sounds less like a funny memory and more like a claim. Her eyes are wide and unwavering. She leans in closer. You’re stiff. 

“I was always your first.” She’s close enough that you can feel her breath on your cheek. “‘Makes sense I should be your first for this, also.” 

That same feeling is back. You’re a mouse, caught in sticky sap, the more you struggle the more you sink. 

Her hand ever so slightly brushes up against your thigh. 

The jolt is enough to send you careening back. 

“The fuck are you talking about?” You hope your laugh isn’t too forced. “Oh, we forgot the popcorn! Should I go make some?” 

You’re already slipping off the bed. The movie is still playing. There’s the exaggerated sounds of screaming and ghostly moans. You can’t look at Satoru, but you can feel her stare. 

“Sure.” She finally says like nothing just happened. “I’ll pause the movie.” 

“Don’t you dare.” You tell her. 

You finally feel like you can breathe again when you leave the room and start for the kitchen. The chill returns, but you prefer it compared to the suffocation you felt in Satoru’s room. 

Why was she acting like this? You try not to think too hard. She was just joking again. It’s her personality to be clingy. 

But you’ve never seen her act like that before. 

You brush away your thoughts about Toru, for now. When you get to the kitchen, your thoughts are focused on popcorn and nothing else. 

It’s strange being here alone. Usually, there’d be an attendant or two lounging around, waiting on hand and foot. Now, there’s nothing but the chill to keep you company. 

You watch the popcorn rise in the microwave. The loud pop pop pop is a relief to your ears. It’s a nice buffer from the quiet. 

Since you aren’t an animal, you take your time to find a nice glass bowl. You wait until the popcorn is cool enough to pull apart the back. Slowly, you shake until every last kernel is safe in the bowl. 

You’re stalling, but you won’t admit that to yourself. 

Eventually, you have to return. You trudge your feet up back towards Toru’s room. A curtain catches your eye. 

The door to the garden is half-open. 

You hadn’t been to the garden in years. Not since that day. 

You slow your walk just before you pass it. It’s barely lit outside. The flowers still bloom, even when the only light source around is the moon and the dim lanterns. 

You set the bowl by the door.  

Toru wouldn’t notice if you got back a little later, right?

It’s a lot cooler outside. The chill air leaves goosebumps across your skin. The grass is damp beneath your feet. You don’t mind it. The scent of flowers is fresh in your nose. You hadn’t been here in almost a decade. You wondered if anything’s changed. 

Things have. There are more labels now. Beneath every shrub and flower, there’s a tiny sign. Plumbagos, one reads underneath dancing purple flowers. Cosmos, says another. Echinacea, delicate pink petals sing. Lantana, Guara, hibiscus, Aster, Roses. 

You follow the signs deeper and deeper into the garden. You linger around others, breathing in their scents. Some smell sweet, others smell a bit more like citrus. 

And then, there’s suddenly the pungent smell of death. 

It’s such an instant shift you feel your throat close up. For a moment, you get nauseous. What is that smell? Did some type of animal die in the garden? Or maybe it was some type of new soil treatment? Compost? 

You pull out your phone, and flick on the flashlight.

Instantly, you regretted it.

Bodies. A pile of bodies laid right next to the roses. Flies buzzed around decaying flesh. The smell only got worse the more you stared.

Is

The worst part was that you recognised them. You knew their faces. Before, they wouldn’t even glance at you. They used to ignore you. They used to look down at you.

Tonight, the entire Gojo family gazes up at you in frozen horror.

“You aren’t supposed to be here.” 

Your phone drops. You spin around. 

Her face is dull. She’s no longer putting up the faux bright eyes and the artificial smile. 

Maybe she’s realized there’s no point anymore. 

Deep down, you understand what happened. Deep down, you know what’s about to happen. 

Still you blabber. Still you fumble because Toru is your friend. 

“Toru?” You call out, voice weak. “What—what is all this? Did—did you—“

“Go back inside.” 

You shake your head. You feel like you barely have the strength to stand. You can’t stop shaking. It’s not because of the cold. 

“What happened?” You beg. “Just—just tell me what—“

She says your name then. There’s no term of endearment. It’s clinical. Devoid of any feeling. 

“Go back inside.” 

She takes a step forward.

You take a step back. 

She tenses. Her body shifts in a way that can’t be human. 

You run. 

You don’t know where you’re going. The garden is a dead end. You just want to get away from her, away from the flowers, away from that cold mansion, away from the bodies. 

She lets you go for 45 seconds, and then she closes the distance. 

There’s a yank on your shirt, and you’re pulled down into the grass. Your back hits the ground, and she instantly straddles your hips. You shut your eyes as you hear her haggard breathing. It’s not from running. 

She sounds animalistic. Excited. 

“Look at me,” she demands. She pulls back your arms as you pathetically try to hide your face. 

You refuse. You can’t. You’re so scared. You’re close to breaking. You can’t look. 

“Look at me.” 

There’s a squeeze on your wrist, threatening to break. 

Slowly, you pull your arms back. 

You look. 

The gibbous moon illuminates her white flowing hair. Her skin is paler, almost a stark white. She’s grinning. Her teeth are sharp. 

But her eyes are what truly makes you cry. 

Her eyes are so bright and blue. 

They’re glowing. 

She looked just like she did on that chilly October night. When there was dirt underneath fingernails. Bare feet in the ground. 

The smell of bonfires singes your nose. 

“It was you,” your voice shakes as the pieces come together, “you killed Shinichi, just like you…with—with your own family.” 

“They were in the way,” she hisses and you flinch and sob harder, “Don’t you get it? He—They were in the way of everything we should’ve been.” 

She reaches for you. You bat her fingers away. Weak, barely enough to do any real damage. 

She leans down. There’s a sharp inhale as she leans into your neck. 

“Stop it!” You thrash in her hold. “Stop talking like her—stop looking like her. You’re not her. You’re not Toru.” 

“I am her.” She growls into your skin. “I’m better than her. I’m doing the shit she never had the balls to do.”

You’re shaking your head. 

“You wanna know the truth?” She asks, shaking your shoulders. “Where did I disappear to for days? I was out here, getting set on fire by my dearest family.” 

She grits her teeth. “They tied me down, told me it’d fix me, told me that what I felt about you–what I always felt about you– was unnatural. Monks were chanting as I screamed and screamed. I thought I was gonna die.” 

You can barely listen. Your hands are on her shoulders, trying to push away, but she’s barely budging. She’s like a wall, unwilling to move, set on keeping you there. 

“And then I woke up.” Her eyes simmer, like she isn’t there anymore. “I was stronger, faster, I wasn’t me anymore…I was more.” 

Your sobs quiet as you stare up at her. 

Hands trace your shoulders, your neck. Manicured fingers swipe across your trembling lips. 

“They tried to take me away from you,” she’s telling you. “Of course I had to get rid of them. All of them. Shinichi too.” 

A wide smile stretches across her face. You’re suddenly eight years old again, held underwater by childish fingers. All you can do is suffocate. Drown. 

“It was the only way to get everyone out of my way,” she whispers. “I’d do it over and over again. No matter what.” 

You didn’t mean it. You were scared. You were pinned down by something that looked like your friend. Something that talked like your friend. Something that acted like your friend. You were scared. It comes out more hateful than you meant. Less fearful.

“You’re a monster.” 

Her face falls. Heartbreak is written all over her face. You think she might cry. 

“I thought you’d get it,” she softly says, sitting back up. “I… I thought you’d understand what I did for both of us…” 

Another tear slips down your cheek. She brushes it away. 

Her bright eyes narrow into slits. 

“It doesn’t matter if you understand or not.” Her voice is harsh, devoid of any softness. “You’re mine, either way.” 

“I just need to get that into your skull.” 

“No,” you beg as claws dig into your skin, your shirt, yanking on your clothes. “Please just–” 

She’s hissing into your neck, as she tears off your shirt with inhuman strength. You’ve only seen glimpses of it before. Now, it shows just as fully as tonight's moon. 

Hands rake over your bra, playing with the strap. 

“Do you know how long I’ve waited for this?” She growls into your ear as she pushes up the cup to fondle your tits. “Do you know how many times I’d lay awake with you next to me?” Her voice is shaky, excited, as she pinches your nipples. You yelp under her touch. A purr rumbles within her throat. 

“You were right there. You were always right there. I just could never touch you–” When you reach out with your own hands to stop her, she shackles both wrists with one hand, keeping them above your head “-until now.” 

Fingers trace down to your stomach. You jerk. 

“Stop–” 

Your voice gets caught in her lips. 

Your second kiss is nothing compared to the first one. There’s no yearning, gentleness care. It’s harsh–filled with sharp teeth, lust, possession. 

She bites down on your lips. You whine against her mouth. 

When she leans back, there’s a trace of blood on her plush lips. Her eyes are at half-mast. It’s like she’s drugged. Drunk off the taste of you. 

“You taste so good.” She sighs. “Even better than I thought you would.” 

You’re dazed from the kiss, your mind struggling to understand how this night turned so wrong. You don’t notice the way her fingers tug on your shorts. Nimble fingers skim past your panties. 

Her forehead presses to yours. Bright blue eyes stare into your own. 

“I love you,” she tells you and you think she believes it, “I love you.” 

You think once she did. Once, her love was gentle and pure as she held your hand as you two squabbled about wedding dresses. 

And maybe she still does. However, it wilted and burned. It was charred from the outside fires, left abandoned. And then it was warped into something sicker, more twisted. 

A kiss to the corner of your mouth. “I love you.” 

Two fingers roughly enter your pussy. 

You gasp. So does she. You realize it the same time she does. 

“You’re so wet,” her voice is quiet in wonder as she continues to push her fingers into your hole. “Fuck.” 

You jerk under her grasp. You hate how well she plays you. The noises that escape your hole are humiliating. A wet squelch every time she forces her fingers back into your warm heat. Your pussy contracts with her movements, like it’s trying to keep her inside. 

You zip your lips shut, forcing yourself to curl into her chest to hide. She’s not kind enough to let you. 

“Stop that,” she chides, nudging you away. “I wanna hear you. Lemme hear how good I’m making you feel.” 

You shake your head in the last form of rebellion you have. As punishment, she shoves her fingers deep enough that it hits something spongy inside of you. You can’t help it. You moan around her fingers. 

“Yeah.” You could hear the grin in her voice. “Just like that.” 

Her thumb presses on your clit as she leans down towards your chest. You shiver as a hot tongue circles your nipple before she envelopes it with her mouth. She suckles and bites, leaving you to squirm and weakly cry out as something coils deep inside you. 

She’s not quiet either. Her gasps and purrs and is muffled by your tits as she lightly circles your skin with her teeth. She curls her fingers inside of you. Your hips snap up. 

You can’t hide it. Satoru knows you too well for you to hide it. She knows when you're about to laugh, when you’re about to smile, when you’re about to cry…when you’re about to break right on her fingers.

She releases your tit with a humiliating ‘pop’. It’s already swollen. 

“Getting close?” She goads when your thighs unwillingly clamp together. 

You don’t respond, doing all that you could not to fall off the edge. Your hips jerk up and down, like you’re trying to ride her. A broken wail stops right at your throat. 

“It’s okay baby, you can do it.” She urges, raking her teeth right on the skin of your neck until you feel the burn. “C’mon baby. Just a little more a little more–” 

You’re screaming as your orgasm picks you up and smashes you onto the ground to splinter apart. It’s the hardest you’ve ever come in your life. Toru works you through it as your pussy milks her fingers. 

She only pulls them out when you go limp. 

Slowly, like she’s savoring the feeling of your battered pussy still clinging onto her. You spasm weakly as she retracts her hand from your underwear. 

Her fingers, covered in your juices, glisten in the moonlight. She eagerly takes them into her mouth, loudly slurping on your essence. 

“Sweet,” she grins. 

There’s a flush to her cheeks. Her eyes no longer glow. It’s like the taste of you made her regain her human facade again. 

You can’t move, not even when she’s done. All you can do is lay there as Satoru clicks her tongue, mumbling something about a mess. She adjusts your clothes, pulling back your shirt, realigning your shorts to preserve what little dignity you have left. She gives a satisfied sigh when she’s done, laying next to you on the grass. 

She moves her head so she can hear your heartbeat. Satoru closes her eyes. 

“Should we go out somewhere tomorrow?” She asks, calm, happy, elated, victorious. 

You think of the bodies lying just on the other side of the garden, rotting away. You think of Shinichi left mangled in the woods. 

“Yeah.” Your voice sounds so far away. “Okay.” 

Your mother often warned you of monsters when you were little. She told you they’d hide under your bed, deep into your closet. They’d steal your shoes and coats, if you weren’t careful. 

She forgot to warn you about the monsters on the bed. The ones you invited into your home. The ones with painted lips and freshly manicured nails. 

You see her. The girl who stayed up with you until 4 am. The girl who helped you with your homework. The girl who stole your pens and pencils, claiming they worked better than her own. The girl who’d never leave your side.