Gigi

so you shut your book, placing it on the nightstand as he crawls into bed next to you. he says nothing, simply reaching across you to flick off your lamp and plunge the room into darkness.

it’s with a heavy sigh that he rests his head in your lap, grabbing your hand and plopping it into his hair before hugging your legs.

"i can't go to okinawa with you guys tomorrow.”

“satoru,” you can’t help but frown, carding your fingers through his hair. “we’ve been planning this trip for months.”

“i know, i’m sorry,” he says, strained. “you should just take the kids without me. take shoko, or something. megumi’s already stocked up on his spf, and tsumiki was really looking forward to picking seashells—”

“satoru,” you interrupt when you catch his voice break. “are you— are you okay?”

he’s crying, you realize when he doesn’t respond, instead pushing his head deeper into your lap, muttering, “no.”

“talk to me,” you murmur, smoothing your hand down his spine.

"i don't want the kids to think that i didn't want to go."

"you've been talking about seeing me in a bikini for weeks, i think they know how badly you wanted to go."

your comment pulls a small laugh out of him, but it's still interrupted by a sniffle.

"what's this really about?" you ask softly.

"i've been...missing things lately," he mutters quietly. "little league games, piano recitals, science fairs. i leave before they're awake, i get back when they're about to go to bed."

sorcerers who are referred to as 'the strongest' don't get days off. they go where they're needed, when they're needed.

"you know they don't hold any of that against you."

"i know," he says, sitting up to look at you. "but i don't want them - or you - to feel like i'm not choosing you. because i would, but i can't. and i'm just tired. of all of it--"

you wrap your arms around him when his voice breaks once more, pulling him into a hug. he reciprocates immediately, hiding his face in the crook of your neck as he releases a shaky sigh.

"it's not just about being there for the big things," you murmur. "it's about...being there when they need you to be. i can't hit a baseball to save my life, so you're the one who takes them the park to practice. you're the one who taught tsumiki how to read sheet music, and found a way to explain the concept of infinity to a ten year old so he could win the science fair."

without him, there would be no little league games, piano recitals, or science fairs to attend.

"besides, we can always go on vacation some other time," you assure him, rubbing circles across his back. "it's not worth it if you're not with us."

_____

satoru wakes to the sound of muffled laughter. a quick glance at the alarm clock on his nightstand confirms that it's 7am.

the lack of warmth pressed into his side tells him you're up too. it's rare that anyone is awake before he is, especially on weekends or days that he's set to depart. he can hear bits of your conversation with the kids as he gets ready for the day, changing into his uniform and shoving clothes into a bag.

"what shape should i try to make?" he hears you ask. ah, you must be making pancakes.

"a heart!" tsumiki suggests.

"japan!" megumi argues.

he knows you're going to make both. you're doing so when he saunters onto the scene, humming along to whatever song tsumiki's put on the record player as you drop chocolate chips into the batter.

he sweeps your hair away from your neck, dipping his head down to press a kiss to the nape of your neck.

then he turns to the kids, who are in the process of setting the table. "did, uh, you guys already talk about okinawa?"

tsumiki nods, but megumi just shrugs, wrinkling his nose. "there are a lot of jellyfish there anyway."

he of course goes on to inform everyone of the different kinds of jellyfish and all the horrible ways they could kill you. tsumiki chimes in to say that they won't attack unless they're bothered.

you press a mug of coffee into his hand, standing on the tip of your toes to kiss to his cheek before joining the kids at the table with a plate of pancakes.

the scene that unfolds in front of him is a simple one, but one that he's dreamed of all his life. a family sitting together for a meal, laughing and chatting about things that don't really matter.

the world's always going to need him. but this? this is all he needs.

There was a note of irritation in your voice. Enjin lowered his gaze to your hands. Only then did you realize your fingers were, in fact, trembling slightly. It became terribly embarrassing.

“That doesn’t count,” you mumbled, hiding them in your sleeves.

The corner of his mouth twitched, barely noticeable. Almost a smile at the fact that he had noticed. But that “almost” made something inside you feel warmer.

Enjin sat down beside you. Not too close, but not as far away as usual either. There was only a palm’s width of space left between you, and you suddenly realized you were paying far too much attention to it, as if it were something enormous and important.

For a while, the two of you were silent. You looked ahead. So did Enjin. In the distance, the outlines of the street darkened; here and there, lights flickered, and somewhere far away came the muffled clang of metal.

“Are you free tomorrow?” he suddenly asked.

You blinked.

“What?”

“Tomorrow,” Enjin repeated calmly. “After lunch. You don’t have a mission, right?”

You slowly turned your head toward him.

“Are you keeping track of my schedule?”

“Semiu told me.”

“Let’s say she did. Why were you asking Semiu about my schedule?”

That was when Enjin fell silent. And the silence was so suspicious that, for a moment, you even forgot how to breathe. He was the first to look away. He stared off to the side, as if he had suddenly discovered something incredibly important in the darkness. Then he let out a short breath.

“I wanted to ask you to go for a walk.”

You kept staring at him.

“A walk?”

“Yeah.”

“Just a walk?”

“No.”

For some reason, your heart dropped.

“No?”

Enjin scratched the back of his head, and for the first time in the entire conversation, he seemed unsure of himself. It was so unfamiliar, especially because it wasn’t happening in battle, not in front of a trash beast or some other danger. It was here, beside you, on the most ordinary steps beneath the cool evening sky.

“A date,” he finally said, pulling a pack of cigarettes from his pocket.

You froze. Everything around you became too quiet. Even the distant voices seemed to fade even further. The wind swept down the street, tugging at the edge of his cloak and stirring your hair, while you still couldn’t understand whether you had heard him correctly.

“What?” you asked again.

Enjin looked at you.

“I asked you out on a date.”

“You?”

“Me.”

“Me?”

“You.”

“On a date?”

He narrowed his eyes slightly.

“We can keep repeating this for a while, but the point won’t change.”

You opened your mouth. Then closed it. Then opened it again.

“Wait. I thought you didn’t like me.”

Now Enjin was the one who went still. His face was lit by the sudden flare of his lighter. He took a drag, and then his lips stretched into a smirk.

“And what gave you that idea?”

“Well…” You grew flustered, but it was too late to back down. “You barely talk to me. You don’t even look at me. I mean, you do look at me, but somehow like you’re judging me. You sit as far away from me as possible. And sometimes you act like I don’t exist at all. It’s kind of strange to confess you like someone after all that. Don’t you think?”

With every sentence, his face became more unreadable. But now you were noticing the details. How he gripped the handle of his umbrella a little tighter. How he clenched the smoldering cigarette between his teeth. How the line of his shoulders tensed, and how, for a brief moment, his gaze turned guilty.

“I wasn’t acting like you didn’t exist,” he said, unusually quiet.

“You were.”

“Not on purpose.”

“That doesn’t change much.”

He sighed and dragged a hand down his face.

“I thought if I kept bothering you too much, you’d decide I was annoying.”

You blinked in confusion.

“What?”

“You look that way sometimes.”

“How?”

“Like I irritate you.”

“I look at everyone like that.”

“Maybe.”

You couldn’t help it and snorted. Enjin smirked too, very briefly, but this time it was less tense and more real. And that little smirk made something inside you ache. Because you liked him. A lot. Much more than you had allowed yourself to admit.

“I didn’t think you could…” You faltered, searching for the right words. “Well, be scared of something like that.”

Enjin turned toward you.

“I wasn’t scared.”

You gave him a pointed look. He held the pause.

“Fine. Maybe a little.”

You smiled. And Enjin looked at that smile as though it was the very reason he had finally decided to speak.

“Do you really want to go on a date with me?” you asked more quietly.

“Yes.”

“Why?”

“Because I like you.”

He said it simply. Without flowery words or unnecessary drama. As if it were something obvious and, at the same time, incredibly difficult.

Your breath caught.

“But you never…”

“I know.”

“And you always…”

“I know.”

“And I thought…”

“I figured.”

You fell silent. Enjin leaned forward slightly, resting his elbows on his knees. His voice became lower, softer.

“I’m not very good at things like this. Things that are… ordinary. Where I can’t just stand in front of danger and tell everyone else to get back.” He paused. “But I like you. I have for a long time.”

You felt your face begin to burn.

“How long?”

“Long enough.”

“That is a very evasive answer.”

“I was trying to sound mysterious.”

“You sounded suspicious.”

“That works too.”

You laughed, covering your mouth with your sleeve. The laugh came out awkward, breathless, but sincere. Enjin looked at you without turning away now. And you couldn’t understand how you had ever thought he was indifferent. If you looked closely, there was too much in that gaze: restraint, caution, warmth he had hidden for a long time, even from himself. And something else, something hard to catch, but certain.

“Okay,” you said.

Enjin raised his brows slightly.

“Okay?”

“I’ll go on a date with you.”

His face barely changed. But you noticed how he exhaled, as though he had been holding his breath all this time.

“Then tomorrow after lunch.”

“Where?”

“There’s a place.”

“You planned this in advance?”

“No.”

You narrowed your eyes.

“Enjin.”

He looked away.

“A little.”

Your smile widened.

“So while I was thinking you barely tolerated me, you were planning a date?”

“Not the whole time.”

“How long, then?”

“Long enough,” he said again.

“You’re terrible.”

“But you agreed.”

“Unfortunately.”

“Sounds like a win.”

You wanted to say something sharp in response, but suddenly he took his cloak off his shoulders and draped it over yours. The gesture was simple, almost casual, but Enjin’s fingers brushed your shoulder for a second, and you froze, unable to move. So did he. You were too close now. For the first time, you weren’t keeping your distance. And that distance seemed to have grown charged between you.

The wind passed down the street again, but now you were warm. Not only because of the cloak, but because of his presence. Because he was sitting beside you and no longer trying to pretend there was nothing between you.

“You were still cold,” he said.

“And you still noticed.”

“I noticed a lot, actually.”

You looked at him. Enjin wasn’t smiling, but his gaze was gentle.

“I just didn’t say anything.”

“Then you should start saying things more often.”

He was quiet for a moment, but after glancing at you, he answered:

“I’ll try.”

And for some reason, that sounded more important than any grand promise. You pulled the cloak closer around yourself, hiding your smile in the collar.

“Tomorrow after lunch, then?”

“Yeah.”

“Don’t be late.”

“I’m the one who asked you. Why would I be late?”

“I don’t know. Maybe you’ll change your mind.”

Enjin looked at you so seriously that the smile disappeared from your face on its own.

“Don’t worry. I won’t.”

You swallowed.

“Good.”

He tilted his head slightly:

“Good.”

And once again, the two of you fell silent. Only now, the silence felt different: without the usual awkwardness or emptiness. Now it was a warm promise between you.

You sat beside Enjin on the steps, wrapped in his cloak, and for the first time in a long while, you allowed yourself to believe that maybe everything had been much simpler than it seemed. Maybe he hadn’t been avoiding you because he didn’t like you. Maybe he had simply been afraid to come closer.

Your fingers curled around the edge of the screen door. You forced yourself not to make a sound, not to breathe too loudly in fear of revealing your hiding spot. It was foolish to care—foolish to let the words of the elders dig into your skin. You knew better than to let the words cut you, but they did anyway, like each syllable was barbed.

You weren’t stupid. You knew that in the world of jujutsu sorcery, women were rarely praised for their power. They were expected to surrender it and retire gracefully—to raise heirs. Instead of bearing blades, they were expected to bear babies. You’ve seen it through countless of women. Satoru’s mother. Your own. And so many others. It was a quiet, lifelong obligation to the clan’s legacy.

You have been married to Gojo Satoru for five years now. Five long, loving years. And still, there were no children.

To be fair, the two of you had married young—too young, perhaps—but he had insisted. He couldn't wait, he’d said, pulling you to the altar like a man starved. He had kissed you with feverish devotion in front of the shrine, promised you the world, the stars, and everything in between.

But somewhere along the way, you felt like those promises had gone quiet. The talk of children, of anything beyond “next week” or “next mission,” had never come. The topic had never once left his lips.

Maybe he was too busy. Your Satoru wasn’t just yours, after all. He was a teacher. A leader. The head of the Gojo clan. A living symbol of power.

He spent his days shaping the next generation, mentoring students who looked at him like he was invincible. Perhaps he already had too many children who weren’t truly his. Too many young eyes to protect, young graves to prevent.

Or maybe… maybe he just didn’t want them with you.

You stirred the soup with absent hands, the wooden spoon swirling through the broth like it might uncover something at the bottom. The scent of miso filled the kitchen, but it felt hollow. Your expansive kitchen felt too quiet and it was slowly driving you mad.

Satoru was late. Again.

And when you hear the front door finally open, you don’t bother moving. You listened to the familiar sound of shoes slipping off and a coat sliding from his shoulders and landing in a heap by the door. His footsteps were slower these days. Even the great Gojo Satoru—your indestructible, overpowered husband was starting to sound… tired.

Tired of what, you’re not sure.

You, perhaps.

He appeared in the kitchen, the ever-present blindfold slung loosely around his neck. His cerulean eyes looked exhausted.

But he still smiled. Still leaned down and kissed your cheek like you were the one thing anchoring him to the world.

“Smells amazing, sweetheart,” he murmured. “Sorry I’m late.”

And without another word, he dragged himself toward the bedroom and collapsed face-first into the sheets, asleep before you even turned off the stove.

You stood there for a moment, spoon still in hand, watching the soft ripple of the soup.

This had become a pattern. 

He used to be insatiable—always touching you, reaching for you, teasing you like the mere idea of being apart from you made him physically ill. There had been times where he couldn’t keep his hands to himself even in public. Where he used to whisper sweet nothings into your skin that he couldn’t wait to fulfill.

But now he barely looked at you.

He said he was tired. That the curse rate had skyrocketed. That the weight of the world was getting heavier.

You believed him. Of course you did.

But the belief didn’t make the cold side of the bed any warmer. It didn’t make the silent distance between you any less unbearable.

It happened in a moment of weakness.

The bathroom door closed behind him, and the sound of the shower was on. It was one of his regular short, cold showers. You sat on the edge of the bed, glancing at the phone he left on the nightstand.

It was face down and silent, yet all the more inviting.

You hesitated, telling yourself not to look. You try to convince yourself that you trusted the man that you married. The one that had been in love with you far longer than you had even known. That after everything, you had no reason to doubt.

Your fingers moved anyway as if you were a woman possessed. The lock was no match for your memory. His passcode hadn’t changed—it was still your birthday. You’re not sure if that fact made you feel worse for the act that you were committing.

But the messages were right there.

And what you saw made your stomach drop.

Gojo: Shio, I need your help.

Shio: Gojo-kun, I thought we agreed that calling me just “Shio” was improper. It is not right.

Gojo: You know we’re past that stage, Shioooo.

Shio: I should like to have a word with your wife about your behavior.

Gojo: Ha! You and my wife? Over my dead body would I let you two meet. She’d kill me~~~

Shio: That would be a tragedy indeed.

You blinked.

No.

No, no, no.

The bile that rose in your throat was immediate. The evidence was damning: the banter, the flirtation, their familiarity—it was something you had once shared with him.The way he spoke to her mirrored so perfectly the way he used to speak to you. It was the same cadence, the same wry humor, the same intimacy that had once made your heart leap.

You didn’t even know who this woman was. But she had something you no longer did: his attention. 

And it made you sick.

Before you could scroll further, the sound of water stopped. You dropped the phone like it had burned you and threw yourself beneath the covers, forcing your body to still, your breathing to slow.

He came in moments later, humming faintly, smelling like the clean soap he had insisted on the both of you sharing. It is only right that we smell like each other, he had once told you. You wanted to scoff at the memory. Satoru pressed a soft kiss to the top of your head before settling in beside you.

You didn’t move. You don’t end up sleeping that night. You don't even think you let the breath you were holding in for the rest of the night.

Just like clockwork, Satoru was late again.

The table was set. The food that was once warm had grown cold. You sat alone for an hour before you gave up and placed plastic wrap over everything, sliding the dishes into the fridge.

When the door finally opened, he walked in with a bounce in his step. A cloth bag hung from his fingers.

“Hey, sweetheart,” he called out brightly. “I brought dinner!”

You turned slowly, eyeing the contents. You didn’t need to open the bag. One glance told you everything.

It wasn’t takeout. Rather, the meal appeared to be homemade and carefully prepared. It must be a subtle message from his mistress to you. 

Inside was Kyoto-style soup—vegetables simmered in dashi, hints of seaweed and root. You had watched the compound servants make it a hundred times growing up. There was even yamaimo, shredded fine and folded in.

“Where were you?” you asked softly, hoping it would mask the edge in your words.

Satoru grinned.

“Kyoto. Had a mission there. Thought I’d bring something special back.”

Your stomach dropped.

Kyoto. 

Of course it would be there. In the house where you were both born. In the same halls where those whispers about your empty womb had first begun. You imagined him surrounded by a dozen younger women, all wide-eyed and obedient who were excited to please the clanhead. The thought alone made you dizzy.

“I’m not hungry.”

You stood before he could stop you, the chair screeching against the wood.

He looked up, his smile flickering, a confused wrinkle forming between his brows.

But you didn’t look back. You didn’t want him to see your face. If he did, he might see the cracks forming. And you weren’t sure you’d survive long enough to be pieced back together.

“I miss you, [Name]. Come work here,” Shoko says on the phone, her voice in its casual cadence. “You’re an excellent sorceress. You were born for this. Plus, I miss you. Satoru’s been keeping you away for far too long.”

You sit on the edge of the bed, the phone tucked between your cheek and shoulder as your fingers trace a wrinkle in the blanket.

“Yes, but… Satoru and I agreed I’d stay out of the field. I’m retired now, remember?”

“You’d only be teaching,” she replies gently. “Nothing too intense. And besides… Gojo’s an idiot. What does he know?”

You laugh quietly, but it’s thin and brittle.

A silence stretches between you.

Shoko picks up on it. She always does.

“What’s wrong?”

You hesitate. 

Vocalizing the thought seemed so shameful.

When you do summon the courage, it comes out in a hushed whisper: “I think Satoru is cheating on me.”

There’s a pause.

“Is this a joke?”

“No.” Your voice is flat. “I went through his phone.”

Another silence. This one lands heavier.

“[Name]…” Shoko says slowly, “I don’t think that’s possible. I mean—he worships you. He annoys everyone at Jujutsu Tech talking about you like you’re the second coming of the sun. We get it, he married up.”

You close your eyes. You can almost hear his voice echoing in Shoko’s. How you missed that version of your husband.

“He pulled you from the field not because he wanted to chain you down, but because he was terrified. I’ve never seen him scared until you came back bleeding that day. He looked like someone tore the world from under his feet.”

“Shoko… you don’t get it.”

“Have you talked to him?”

“No. Not yet, but—”

“Then you don’t get to spiral like this until you do.”

You sigh and lean back.

 “I just feel so... stuck. I’m tired of this house and how quiet it is all of the time. The growing distance in between us. It used to feel like home, but now it feels like— I don’t even know.”

Her voice softens again. “Consider coming back to Jujutsu Tech. At least for a while. Let yourself breathe again.”

You’re quiet. 

“I’ll consider it. Domestic life’s been… suffocating lately.”

“There she is,” Shoko says warmly. “There’s the [Name] I know.”

You smile, and this time it’s real—even if it is just a little. But it doesn’t last long after the phone call.

The moment you step out of the bedroom you walk directly into a solid chest. You freeze and your heart sinks.

Standing in front of you was your husband. But he looked more like Gojo Satoru than your Satoru. He was home early and he did not look happy. Once bright eyes were now shadowed and unreadable.

“You’re returning to Jujutsu Tech?” he asks, voice calm in the way a man trying to keep his emotions at bay would. “After we decided you were done risking your life?”

You blink, startled.  “How long have you been standing there?”

“Long enough to hear my wife thinks staying home with me is ‘suffocating.’” His jaw tightens. “Is that really what you think?”

Something in you snaps.

“Don’t you dare make this about you.”

He stares, stunned.

“You decided I’d retire, Satoru. You didn’t ask. You didn’t even give me a choice.” You lightly push his chest to make space. He doesn’t move but his hand reaches for yours automatically, gently, like he can’t help but hold onto you even when you’re furious.

You don’t pull away. His grip was firm enough for you to know better.

“I thought it was for my safety,” you whisper. “But now I see it was just to make room for your little affair behind my back.” The words were meant to shame Satoru, but it felt more like a double edged sword with the way your heart ache at the reminder of his infidelity.

He flinches.

“What?”

“I read your messages,” you hiss. “With Shio. You don’t even delete them, Satoru. Are you that arrogant? Or did you just stop caring?”

“[Name], it’s not what you think—”

“Then explain it!”  Your voice breaks.

 “Explain the messages. The dinners. The way you’ve been avoiding me like touching me might burn you alive. I can feel the distance growing every night, Satoru, don’t you?”

You yank your hand back.

“Tell me. Is she prettier? Younger? Is she too naive to see through your bullshit? Does she—” You laugh, but it’s sharp and bitter. “—does she even know you hate bitter vegetables? Or did you choke it down for her anyway when you brought the yamaimo home?”

Gojo looks like he’s been hollowed out.

You see it. The tremble in his fingers. The way his mouth opens and shuts, like he wants to speak but can’t breathe through the guilt.

You step back.

“Forget it,” you whisper. “I want a divorce—"

“Don’t.” His voice is quiet. Desperate. “Don’t finish that sentence. P-please.”

“Why not?” you whisper. “Give me one reason not to walk away when you’ve already left me in every way that matters.”

He shakes his head. “You think I left you? [Name]… I was trying to building a life for us.”

You stare at him, your heart in your throat.

“Shio’s not a mistress. She’s not even close to being my type—unless I suddenly go for women in their late eighties.”

You blink.

“She’s my great-aunt. She’s half-senile with hands like prunes! I—that day, when we visited the compound, she asked me why we didn’t have any kids yet. I told her… I told her I wanted them.” His voice falters. “So badly. With you. Only with you.”

You suck in a breath.

He steps closer, eyes pleading. “I know you’re scared of pregnancy. I know what it means for sorcerers. I’ve seen it, [Name]. So I never brought it up. I didn’t want to pressure you, not ever.”

His hands hover near yours. Not touching. Not yet.

“Shio said she’d help. That she’d cook meals, ones she thought would bring good fortune or increase fertility. The traditional route. And I let her. Because I thought… if I just waited long enough, maybe you’d bring it up on your own.”

You’re frozen. Tears sting your eyes, unspilled.

“I never wanted to lie to you. I just—” He lets out a broken laugh. “I was embarrassed that I wanted a dozen tiny monsters who’d take after you. That I wanted to hold your hand through every contraction and cry harder than the baby when it was born.”

You collapse into his chest, allowing your tears to stain his uniform. “You’re such an idiot.”

“Takes one to marry one.”

“You should’ve just told me.”

“I know.” He holds you up, cupping your face gently now, as if he’s afraid you’ll disappear. “I was trying to protect you from everything. I—I never realized I was hurting you in the process.”

You close your eyes and press your forehead against his.

“I was so scared you didn’t love me anymore.”

He kisses the corner of your mouth. “I love you so much it hurts. It always has.”

You breathe him in, your voice shaky. 

 “So… you want kids?”

“Only if they’re bossy and brilliant like their mother. Every night, I imagine that they’d know at least ten ways to manipulate me by the age of five.”

You snort. “That sounds like a nightmare.”

“That sounds like heaven.”

 He kisses you again, except it is long and slow this time. It’s unlike the desperation from earlier, rather, apologetic and full of everything he’s been too much of a coward to say in the past few months.

When you part, breathless, your voice is softer.

“We’ll take it slow. I’m not saying yes to ten—”

“Nine.”

“—but we’ll talk. We’ll figure it out. Together.”

His grin is smug, but his eyes are misty.

“You mean I’m finally allowed to touch you again without you pretending I’m a curse?”

You smile. “I’ll think about it.”

“Can I bribe the jury?”

“With what?”

“My undying love. And, I’ll do the dishes for a month.”

You lean in close, breath brushing his ear.

“Hmm, two months… and a foot rub every night.”

he blinks at you. innocent. as if he isn’t rock hard again less than ten minutes after he nearly made you sob. he presses a kiss just above your mound, lips dragging slowly.

“yeah?”

his hands are slow as they slide over your hips. one squeezes, grounding. the other strokes the soft inside of your thigh, thumbs sweeping in soothing circles that border on teasing. you see the way his eyes flick up—watching for every twitch in your face, every breath you forget to take, the way your jaw tenses then slackens when he brushes over a particularly sensitive spot.

“you feeling okay, sweetheart?” he asks, almost too gently.

you squint at him. that tone always spells trouble.

he tucks the sheets around you like he’s being helpful. like he’s not also letting his fingers slip under your waistband. “nothing else you need?”

your jaw drops slightly. then you squeak when his mouth descends to your breast, tongue dragging over your nipple with slow, devoted strokes, the kind that make your spine arch despite yourself, your hand flying up to thread through his messy hair.

“satoru,” you say, warning sharp—but shaky.

“‘m trying to behave,” he mumbles into your chest, clearly lying. his fingers dip lower, parting you with an ease born of how well he knows you. your hips jerk when his thumb finds your clit, lazy, slow circles that make your lashes flutter and your thighs twitch. “but baby, you’re just so soft. so warm. i need to be inside you again.”

he rolls his hips against your thigh and the weight of him—all of him—presses into you like a brand. he lifts his head to look at you, pouty and flushed and ridiculously pretty, his wild hair sticking out in tufts, strands fanned out across his forehead. “just a little? i’ll go slow.”

you try to glare. you really do. but your mouth betrays you with the tiniest whimper, your thighs parting without conscious thought.

his grin is instant. too bright. too boyish. he’s already shifting closer, one big hand hooking behind your knee to open you wider. his other hand cradles your face like you’re something holy, while he leans down to kiss your jaw, your temple, nose brushing against yours.

“you still smell like me,” he murmurs, voice cracking. “d’you have any idea what that does to me?”

and instead of pushing in, he teases—rubs the swollen tip of his cock along your folds, slow and languid. back and forth. not enough. never enough. his hand cups your breast again, thumb flicking your nipple in rhythm with his motions below, his mouth grazing the shell of your ear. you shiver, thighs instinctively twitching.

“look at you. god, i don’t even deserve you. but i’m gonna make you feel good again. promise.”

you turn your head away, whimper caught in your throat, and that’s when he shifts—pressing a kiss to your nape, brushing your hair aside like it’s a veil. he rests his forehead there, warm and damp and trembling, breath shuddering as his hand tilts your hips upward.

he doesn’t warn you. doesn’t count. he knows better. he waits until your breath catches—until your nails dig into his arm just slightly—and that’s when he presses in.

slow. stretching. the full length of him inching deeper and deeper until his pelvis meets yours.

he shudders, nose buried in your hair. kisses the nape of your neck once. twice.

then he starts to move.

not frantic. not harsh. worshipful. slow, grinding rolls of his hips that knock the air from your lungs. every thrust has intention, angled to press deep, to feel every inch of you squeezing around him again. your body trembles with overstimulation, jaw slack, breath catching every time he nudges against the spot that makes your toes curl.

he whispers your name like a hymn, his thumb slipping back between your legs to circle your clit again. slow. patient. like he’s building you up on purpose.

“can’t stop,” he breathes. “can’t help it. you’re perfect. mine.”

and every time you start to plead—every time your walls flutter around him like it’s the end—he whispers, “just one more.”

he lies. over and over again. but god, you let him.

because he doesn’t slow. doesn’t stop. not when your legs tremble. not when your fingers claw at the sheets. not when your voice is hoarse from moaning. he just keeps going. another round. and another. and another. until your body forgets what empty feels like.

until you’re soaked and aching and delirious, and he’s still above you, kissing your damp cheeks, murmuring against your skin.

“so good. you’re so good. just one more, baby.”

his thrusts stay slow, but there’s something ravenous behind them now. he’s desperate. trembling. voice cracking with every word he mutters into your neck. his hands are everywhere—your waist, your chest, your jaw. his mouth worships every inch of skin he can reach.

and when you break again, voice barely a whisper of his name, he spills with you—hips stuttering, arms locked around you, face buried in your neck as he breathes you in.

he doesn’t pull out. doesn’t move. he just stays there, pressed deep, body curved over yours like a shield.

“just one more,” he whispers again, breathless.