Classy Ho

Three moons have passed since the orcs swept through your village.

You remember the chaos, the screaming, the clang of weapons, the way the earth shook beneath boots the size of your forearm.

But you also remember him. The chieftain. Standing a head taller than his warriors, tusks gleaming, his emerald eyes scanning the crowd until they landed on you.

And then... nothing.

He took your supplies. Your livestock. A few crates of dried meat your grandmother had salted last winter. But not a single villager died. Not even old Martha, who threw a chamber pot at his head and called him a "green-skinned devil."

He left you all breathing. Bruised, terrified, but alive.

And then he started coming back.

Not with his war band. Not with weapons. Just him, alone, every few days. Appearing at the edge of your house with offerings that make absolutely no sense to you.

A perfectly smooth river stone.

An eagle feather.

A pouch of extremely expensive orcish mead.

A freshly killed rabbit.

You've accepted none of it.

Not because you're ungrateful. Not because you don't notice the way his broad shoulders slump a little more each time you shake your head and turn away. But because what is happening?

You're a weaver. A nobody. You mend shirts and spin wool and occasionally help the blacksmith's wife pull weeds from her vegetable patch. You are human, not a female orc for chieftains to leave offerings.

So you ignore him.

You ignore the way his gaze follows you when you walk to the stream to wash clothes.

You ignore the way he grumbles under his breath when you pretend not to see the wildflowers he's left on your windowsill.

You ignore the way your heart races every single time, because he's massive, terrifying and yet beautiful in that brutal way orcs are.

You ignore him so thoroughly that you've almost convinced yourself you don't care.

But tonight something is different.

You're standing in your small cottage, a threadbare towel wrapped around your body, hair still dripping from the bath you just took. The fire roars in the hearth, warming you up. You're reaching for your sleeping shift when you hear a thud.

Then a groan.

Then the unmistakable sound of someone large and clumsy attempting to navigate your doorstep.

Had you forgotten to lock? Damn!

The door swings open before you can latch it.

And there he is.

The chieftain.

Drunk.

His green skin is flushed across his cheekbones, his green eyes glassy and unfocused. He sways on his feet, one massive hand braced against the doorframe to keep himself upright. His tunic is unlaced, revealing his broad chest and the dark hair trailing down his ridged stomach.

He blinks at you.

Slowly.

Like he's trying to figure out if you're real.

"You—" He hiccups, then points a wavering finger at your face. "You."

You clutch the towel tighter, suddenly very aware that you're wearing almost nothing. "Chieftain. It's the middle of the night."

"Is it?" He squints toward the window, as if confirming this information. "Huh."

"You're drunk."

"Yes." He says it like he's proud of it.

"You should go home."

He doesn't move. His gaze drifts down from your face, lingers on the curve of your shoulder where the towel has slipped, on your damp throat, on the swell of your breasts. His throat works. His jaw tightens.

"Can't," he says.

"Can't what?"

"Can't go home." He takes a staggering step inside, and you instinctively step back. The movement makes your towel hitch higher on your thighs. His eyes track the motion. "Home doesn't have you."

Your heart hammers. "Chieftain—"

"Kolf," he says. "My name. Use it. Please. Please. I'm so tired of 'Chieftain.' I'm tired of you ignoring me. I'm tired of leaving you presents you never touch. I'm tired of smelling you on the wind and not being able—"

He breaks off, swaying again, and catches himself on your table.

A clay cup topples and rolls to the floor.

You stare at him.

Kolf. You don't want to say his name out loud. You are scared it will affect you in ways you wouldn't expect.

"Why?" you whisper.

"Why what?"

"Why are you—" You gesture at him, at the door, at the entire impossible situation. "Doing this?"

"Because you're mine."

"I'm what?"

"Mine," he says powerfully. "I saw you. During the raid. Standing in front of your grandmother. Little thing, shaking like a leaf, but you didn't run. You didn't beg. You just—" He exhales, dragging a hand through his dark hair. "Stood there. Looked at me like I was the monster everyone says I am, but you didn't flinch."

Your throat tightens. "I was terrified."

"I know." He takes another step closer, and this time, you don't move back. "But you didn't run. Do you know how rare that is? How fucking rare?"

"Kolf—" You bite your lips. Damn...now you'd done it now.

"I brought you things. Good things! Pretty things. Things orc males give females they want to court. And you... you just kept ignoring me."

You open your mouth to explain, to tell him that you didn't know, that no one ever taught you orc courting customs, that you thought he was just taunting you—

But he doesn't let you speak.

"I like you! I like the way you hum when you work. I like the way you roll your eyes at the sky when it rains. I like the way your nose crinkles when you're annoyed, and you're almost always annoyed, and I like it. I like you. And you won't even look at me."

He's standing close now. Close enough that you can smell the mead on his breath, the pine and earth of his skin, the heat radiating off his massive body. His chest rises and falls in ragged breaths. His eyes, that impossible green, are glossy.

"You need to—"

"I'm sorry," he blurts. "For the raid. For taking your things. For scaring you. I didn't.. I didn't know how else to see you. Your village. Your face. I thought if I came with my warriors, you'd—" He breaks off. "I'm not good at this. I'm not good at words. I'm good at fighting. At leading. At taking what I want. But you... you're not something you take. You're something you earn. And I don't know how to earn you—"

All of a sudden, his knees buckle.

You lurch forward, catching him—or trying to. He's three times your size, for god's sake. A mountain of muscles and your poor arms barely wrap around his torso. Your strength is not enough and he's going down, dragging you with him.

But he twists at the last second, curling his body around yours, and you land on top of his chest instead of the floor. His back hits the wooden planks with a thud. His eyes flutter.

"Kolf?"

He groans.

"Kolf!"

His breathing evens out. His massive arms, which had somehow wrapped around you, go slack.

He's asleep.

Face wrinkling, you push yourself up, staring down at the unconscious orc sprawled across your floor. His lips are parted. His tusks glint. One of his hands is still curled loosely around your ankle.

"Damn it," you whisper.

Eventually, you manage to drag him onto the couch.

It takes an embarrassingly long time. He's heavy. Every limb feels like it's filled with stone. But you push and shove and grunt and curse until his massive frame is folded onto the worn cushions, his boots hanging off one end, his head lolling against the armrest.

You stand back, breathing hard, and look at him.

The fire is low now, crackling and the dim light paints his face in warm gold. In sleep, he looks younger and softer. The hard lines of his jaw relax. His brow smooths. One of his hands twitches, reaching for something that isn't there, and settles on his chest.

He brought you gifts, you think. For three moons. And you ignored him.

Because you didn't understand.

Because no one ever taught you that an orc chieftain leaving an eagle feather on your windowsill meant I want to wake up next to you for the rest of my life.

Because you're stubborn and scared and so used to being invisible that you didn't know what to do with someone seeing you.

You pull a blanket from your bed and drape it over him. He murmurs something in his sleep, a rumble you can't quite make out, and his hand catches the edge of the blanket, pulling it tighter around himself, smelling it, smiling in his sleep.

You should go to your room.

You should.

But your feet won't move.

Instead, you sink onto the floor beside the couch and you watch him.

He likes you.

The thought settles warmly into your chest. He likes you.

And you... foolish, stubborn, terrified you... might like him back.

******

Hours pass. You are in bed but you can't sleep.

You lie there, staring at the ceiling, listening to the occasional rumble of his breathing from the other room.

Something in you burns.

You are hot and curious.

You want to see him again.

Sighing, you slip out of bed before you can talk yourself out of it. Your feet carry you barefoot across the cold wooden floor, past the hearth where the fire has died to embers, to the couch where he lies.

He hasn't moved. One arm is thrown over his head, the other draped across his stomach. The blanket has slipped to his waist and his tunic is even more open, revealing the hard planes of his chest, the trail of dark hair that vanishes beneath the waistband of his trousers.

You kneel beside him.

And reach out.

Your fingers hover over his chest then, gently, you touch him.

Warm. He's so warm. His skin is rougher than you expected, textured with scars and raised ridges of old wounds. His chest hair is coarse, curling around your fingers as you press deeper.

He doesn't stir.

Emboldened, you trace the line of his collarbone, the strong column of his throat, the sharp jut of his jaw. His tusks feel smooth and cool.

Beautiful, you think. He's beautiful.

Your hand drifts lower, skimming over his stomach. The muscles there tense beneath your touch, even in sleep, and you feel the hard ridges of his abdomen, the V-shape that disappears beneath his trousers.

Your breath catches.

And his hand catches yours.

"Caught you," he murmurs. His eyes open, just a crack. "Been waiting. For you to touch me."

"Kolf—"

"You don't get to stop now." He sits up, and you scoot back on your heels, but he follows. His massive hand engulfs yours, pulls it back to his chest, presses your palm flat against his heart. It's pounding. Hard. "Feel that? That's what you do to me. Every time I see you. Every time I smell you."

"Smell me?"

"Like honey." He leans closer, and his free hand cups the back of your neck. His thumb strokes the sensitive skin behind your ear. "Like mine."

"Y... You're drunk—"

"Not anymore." His eyes are clear now. "Sober enough to know what I want. Sober enough to know I've wanted it for three fucking moons."

"What do you want?"

He doesn't answer with words.

He kisses you.

His mouth crashes against yours, tasting of mead and something uniquely him. His tusks graze your lower lip, careful, and you gasp against his mouth. He swallows the sound, pulls you closer, wraps both arms around you and lifts you onto his lap.

Your knees bracket his hips. Your shift—gods, you're still only wearing a thin shift—rides up your thighs. His hands settle on your waist, and his fingers dig into the soft flesh there, grip you like he's afraid you'll disappear.

"Tell me to stop," he rasps against your lips. "Tell me no, and I'll stop. I'll walk out that door and never bother you again. But if you want this—"

"I want this."

The words leave your mouth before you can think about them. Before you can talk yourself out of them. They are raw and honest, and he breaks.

"Thank the gods," he groans, and he's kissing you again, his tongue sliding against yours, his hands roaming down your back, your hips, your thighs.

"I didn't know," you manage between kisses. "The gifts. The courting. I didn't know."

He pulls back. His eyes are dark, dilated. "What do you mean, you didn't know?"

"No one told me." You press your forehead to his. "I thought you were mocking me. Taunting me. I didn't know orcs—"

"Fuck." His hands tighten on your hips. "Fuck, sweetheart. All this time. You thought I was mocking you?"

"Your people raided my village."

"We took supplies. We didn't hurt anyone. I gave orders—" He breathes out harshly. "I'm not good at this. I've never—I've never wanted anyone like this. I didn't know how to—" He shakes his head. "I'm sorry. For the raid. For scaring you. For not explaining. I'm sorry."

"Stop apologizing."

"But I—"

"Kolf." You cup his face in your hands, feel the rough stubble on his jaw, the smooth curve of his tusks. "I'm here. I'm choosing to be here. With you. That's what matters."

He smiles. "Yeah?"

"Yeah."

He kisses you softly. Briefly. "Bed?" he murmurs.

"Bed."

He carries you to your bed like you're made of glass. Which is hilarious, because two seconds later, he's tearing the shift off your body and staring at you like he wants to devour you.

"Sweetheart," he rasps. "Look at you."

You're naked beneath him, spread across your thin mattress, and he's still fully clothed. Tunic unlaced, trousers straining over his obvious bulge. A very very prominent bulge. The sight makes your mouth water.

"Too many clothes," you manage.

"Agreed."

He strips without care. Tunic over his head, revealing wide shoulders, a chest carved like granite, and arms thick with muscle and crisscrossed with old scars. His trousers follow, and then his—

Oh.

His cock.

You've never been with an orc before. You've heard stories; whispered rumors in the village about what orc males keep between their legs. But stories didn't prepare you for this.

It's massive. Thick and long, veined, the head flushed a darker green, leaking profusely. His balls hang heavy beneath, drawn tight against his body.

"He's friendly," Kolf says, catching you staring. "I promise."

"He's terrifying."

"He'll behave." He crawls onto the bed, over you, caging you with his arms. His thighs bracket yours, and you feel the heat of him, the weight of him. "Mostly."

"Mostly?"

"Can't make any promises about the rest of me."

Before you can spiral, he kisses you again. His mouth claims yours, his tongue strokes against your teeth, your palate, everything. You moan into him, wrap your arms around his neck, pull him closer.

His hand slides down your body, over your collarbone, your sternum, the curve of your ribs, until he reaches your breast. He cups it, weighs it in his palm, and his thumb drags across your nipple making you gasp.

"Sensitive?" he murmurs against your throat.

"Yes."

"Good."

He bends his mouth to your breast, and you feel his hot tongue lapping at your nipple before drawing it into his mouth. He suckles gently at first, then harder, and you arch off the bed, fingers tangling in his hair.

"Kolf—"

"So pretty," he murmurs against your skin. "Wanted to do this. For months. Wanted to taste you. Touch you. Hear you."

He switches to your other breast, giving it the same attention, and you're wrecked. Your thighs clench around his hips, desperate for friction, for something.

"Please," you whimper.

"Please what?"

"I need—"

"I know what you need." He kisses down your sternum, your stomach, the jut of your hipbones. "Going to take care of you, sweetheart. Going to worship you."

He settles between your thighs, and you feel his ragged breath against your pussy.

"Fuck," he breathes. "Look at this pretty cunt."

You're soaked. You can feel it the slickness, the way your flesh aches for him.

"Kolf—"

His mouth covers you, and your thoughts dissolve.

His tongue is everywhere. Lapping at your folds, circling your clit, plunging inside you. He groans against your flesh like you're the best thing he's ever tasted, and his hands grip your thighs, holding you open and immobile for him.

"Oh—" You buck against his face, and he growls. "Ahh, ghnnn—"

"So sweet. Tastes like honey. Like mine. Could eat my mate's little cunt forever."

"Kolf, I'm going to—"

"Not yet." He presses a kiss to your inner thigh, then your mound, then lower. "Not until I say."

"Hgn... that's cruel."

Growling, he continues his attack; licking, sucking, fucking you with his tongue until you're a shaking, sobbing mess, begging him for release. And still, he denies you. Keeps you teetering on the edge, right there, right there—and then pulls back.

"Please!" you cry out. "Please, Kolf, I can't—"

"You can." He kisses his way back up your body, and you feel his cock leaking against your thigh. "You can take more. I know you can, sweetheart."

He reaches down, guides himself to your entrance, and you feel the head of him nudging at your folds.

"Ready?" he asks.

"Yes. Yes."

A little roll of his hips and he pushes inside you.

Just the head at first and you gasp at the stretch. He's so big. Bigger than anything you've ever taken.

"Breathe," he murmurs, kissing your forehead. "Breathe, sweetheart. I've got you."

You force yourself to relax, to welcome him, and he sinks deeper. An inch. Two. Three. Your body yields to him, inch by agonizing inch. It takes forever but at some point, he's finally seated to the hilt.

"Fuck," he groans, and his forehead drops to yours. "So tight. So perfect. Squeezing me like you never want me to leave."

You can't speak. Can't think. The fullness of him, the way he stretches you, the way your body clenches around him have completely taken over.

"Okay?" he asks.

"More than okay."

He laughs softly and begins to move.

His thrusts are slow at first. Each one presses a sweet spot deep inside you, making stars burst behind your eyes. You cling to him, nails digging into his shoulders, legs wrapped around his waist.

"Look at me," he rasps.

You open your eyes, and he's watching you. Watching the way your face contorts with pleasure, the way your lips part, the way your body responds to his.

"I want to remember this," he says. "Want to remember the way you look when I'm moving inside you."

"Kolf—"

"Mine." He thrusts deeper, and you cry out. "Say it."

"Yours."

Another deep stroke. "Mine."

"Yours, I'm yours—"

He speeds up, and the bed creaks beneath you, the headboard slamming against the wall. His hips piston against yours, and you feel everything—the drag of his cock, the slap of his balls against your ass, the way his breathing turns uneven and desperate.

"Going to fuck you so hard," he growls, "you feel me for days. Going to bruise that pretty little cunt. Make you remember who you belong to."

"Yes—"

"Sweetheart." He shifts his angle, and you mewl. "That's it. That's the spot. There."

He pounds into you and you feel your orgasm building—not the teasing edges he gave you before, but something enormous. Something that is about to explode.

"Come for me," he commands. "Come on your orc's cock, sweetheart. Now."

You break. Your walls clamp down on him, pulsing, milking, and you sob his name as wave after wave of pleasure crashes through you. He doesn't stop. Keeps fucking you through it, keeps driving into you, and the sensation triggers little climaxes.

"One more," he says. "Give me one more."

"I can't—"

"You can."

Reaching between your bodies, he finds your clit and circles it. Torments it. Another orgasm hits before the previous has even faded. Your whole body convulses, your vision whites out.

"That's it," he groans. "That's my girl. Fuck—"

He buries himself to the hilt, and lets out a feral snarl. You feel him pulse inside you, endless ropes of his seed pouring into your pussy. He keeps thrusting through it, shallow now, drawing out every last drop, and you whimper at the overstimulation.

But he doesn't stop.

He can't.

"I'm not done with you," he drawls. "Not even close."

Pulling out slowly, he's rolling you onto your stomach, ignoring the streams of his seed trickling down your thighs. He lifts your hips and aligns himself at your entrance.

"Kolf—"

"I said I was going to bruise you." He impales you and you moan into the pillow. "I meant it."

He fucks you again. And again. And again.

He fucks you on your stomach, on your side, with your legs wrapped around his neck and your ankles crossed behind his head. He fucks you against the headboard, against the wall, on the floor when the bed groans too loudly.

He fucks you until you lose count of your orgasms, until you're nothing but a trembling, sobbing, sated mess beneath him.

And when he finally spills inside you for the last time, when he collapses beside you, pulling you against his chest, you feel it.

That ache. Deep inside you. Where his cock has been pounding for hours.

Your cervix is bruised.

And you can't stop smiling.

********

The Morning After...

Sunlight streams through the cracks in your curtains, and you wake to warmth.

Kolf is asleep behind you, one arm thrown over your waist, his face buried in your hair. He's spooning you, his breathing slow and even, his chest rising and falling against your back.

You try to move.

Ow.

Everything hurts. Your thighs are sore. Your breasts are tender. And between your legs... gods, there's an ache that goes deep. Your cervix feels bruised. And you've never been happier.

"Morning," he mumbles against your neck.

"You're awake."

"Wasn't sleeping." He presses a kiss to your shoulder. "Was enjoying you."

"You're creepy."

"You enjoy it."

You elbow him gently, and he laughs, a sound that vibrates through your entire body.

"How do you feel, sweetheart?" he asks, sitting up to look at you.

"Sore."

"Good sore or bad sore?".

"Good sore," you admit. "Really good sore."

"Good." He kisses your neck, your jaw, the corner of your mouth. "That's what I wanted."

You turn in his arms to face him. "You wanted to bruise me."

"I wanted you to remember me." His hand slides down your stomach, between your legs, and you gasp when his fingers find your swollen, sensitive pussy. "Every time you walked today. Every time you sat down. Every time you moved."

"You're insufferable."

"You're mine," he says with a smile. His smile is the most beautiful thing you've ever seen.

You pout. "You say it it like it's the most obvious thing in the world. Like the sun rising. Like the tide coming in."

He grins. "It is. You're mine and I'm yours."

"Yeah," you whisper. "I'm yours."

-------------------------------------

"Kind of, yeah," you swiped the card and quickly grabbed your order before you would drop dead to the overwhelming delicious scents in the bakery. You almost downed the drink in a few large gulps. "Thanks and bye!"

"Have a nice day, miss!"

You sped up to hop in your bus, the one that left the station at 7:35 sharply and arrived at your work exactly at 7:57.

“Sorry,” you murmured apologetically as you bumped into one lady, who only huffed in irritation, without sparing you a single glance. You fought the urge to grimace at her.

Slowly, you made your way to a lone window seat that wasn’t usually occupied at this hour. Mentally, you had long ago declared it your own and would sigh inwardly if other passengers, obviously, not aware of your claim, sat there.

This time, luck was on your side. You quickly fished a book — something to kill time and occupy your mind, besides the usual routine you were clearly drowning in. Your grip on the book tightened: not the best time to delve into and psychoanalyze your life as you tried to lose yourself in yet another magical fantasy world…

“Oh no, my fair lady,” a mysterious knight’s voice drawled, the voice muffled by a half-opened visor. Isabelle thought her heart almost jumped from her chest right into the knight’s hands. “I am here to rescue you.”

Isabelle could almost hear playfulness sipping in the knight’s tone, and it brought a quick grin on her face. Oh, her future husband would be enthralled when the morning would carry him the news about his precious wife-to-be, who would appear to be missing…”

You scoffed softly and reached for a pencil. Faint scribbles adorned the empty margins of the book, a carefully crafted tapestry of your thoughts and emotions. 

“Well, I wouldn’t be so sure, if I were Isabelle, since…”

A sudden honk pulled you back to reality. The bus suddenly jerked forward again, and a string of muttered curses from other passengers wafted to you through the irritated crowd. Someone bumped into you, causing the pencil to fall from your grip. 

“Ah, shoot it,” you huffed under your breath and bent over to take it back.

And then, as you looked up, you saw it.

A sudden flash of white hair.

Your insides got cold in an instant. The surrounding world ceased to exist around you for a moment or for a small eternity; you weren’t so sure. The pencil almost snapped in half in your hard grip as a thousand thoughts rushed through your anxious mind.

“What the hell is he doing there? He shouldn’t be there— no, he is not supposed to be there, in your city! You fled there, and he had the entire Tokyo! What if he saw you? Worse, what if he saw and now wants to talk to you? Shit, shit, shit!”

Your eyes nervously darted to the exit — only to see that the white hair was already missing. You blinked. Blinked again. No, not even a sight. You slumped in relief against the seat and closed your eyes. 

What was going on with you, really? Is he the only man in the world with hair colour like this? Could’ve been some cosplayer! Yeah, that must be it!

Or not?...

Deep down, you knew the right answer. You could’ve recognized the silvery tone of his strands if you were a thousand miles away from him. You ran your fingers through them countless times, memorized the way they caught the moonlight and looked like spilt silver under your gentle touch.

With a long sigh, you put the book in a bag. The phone caught your eye, and you froze at the sight of the display.

8:17.

Memories engrossed your tired mind to the point you missed three stops.

“This day couldn’t get any worse,” you thought, rushing through the maze of irritated people, totally indifferent to your inner turmoil.

Oh, how wrong was that.

***

Flowers had always brought you peace and serenity.

Ever since you were a kid, your mom’s garden welcomed you with a warm embrace, shielding you from the cold touch of reality. Nothing could hurt you there; a few scratches were a fair price for solitude and tranquillity. Sitting under sakuras, amidst the vivid blossoms of magnolias, peonies, and tulips, quietly observing the nature you were surrounded by, you had learnt to see beauty in every soft petal, dew drop on the branches, foggy morning mist, or sunrays, shyly sipping through the branches. 

Or maybe you were just a lone kid with a good heart and rich fantasy, and that gave roots to your need for escapism. Who knows.

You would like to think you still carried that fragile ability to see something precious even in the most mundane things, but you knew nothing would be as breathtaking as it appeared in childhood. Adulthood had long sharpened and hardened you into someone a child you would hardly recognise.

Sometimes you wondered what she would say when you looked at her now?

Your hands were still covered in stitches, calluses bubbled on your fingers, and the dirt seemed to be permanently itched under your nails, but the excitement from your gaze had long given in to exhaustion.

When did a person lose the sparkle that once ignited their entire being? When adulthood falls so hard on your shoulders that you don't even have a chance to take a breath?

You had never thought you would be one of these gloomy people. Especially surrounded by the beauty of nature, as you wished for as a kid. But fate had other plans for you: the florist’s job found you in the middle of rediscovering yourself once again, rather than you finding it, and the rose-coloured naive dreams about designing bouquets, arrangements, and organising events quickly shattered, leaving invisible scars that later would scream of burnt-out. 

Surely, amidst the usual routine, you found your own moments of enjoyment. Designing was your main passion, and seeing the fruits of your work, happy smiles and gratitudes from the customers, was worth scars, hurt knees, and sprained wrists. You were glad to bring people warmth and steadiness in the middle of the storm, which some events might look like. Shame the rest of the job was way more demanding, mentally and especially physically.

You were cauterizing stems, which actually was Nobara's work, but Utahime seemed so worked up that morning that you didn't dare to poke a dragon any more and decided to shield your friend from the boss's wrath. When Nobara sauntered inside the room, you gave her a glance, already preparing yourself for an inevitable round of investigation.

"So," she drawled with an all-knowing smile, a mischievous glint flashed in her eyes as she leaned on the table next to you. Still not touching the stems. "How was your date yesterday? Tell me everything!"

Ah. Yes. Your date.

Partially, the reason you were late to work. Not even in the inappropriate sense you sometimes wanted it to be.

Your grip on the pruning shears tightened. You tried to deflect.

"Nothing worth talking—"

"Oh, come on! I've been dying to hear everything! Spill the tea!"

Nobara was really relentless when she was in a mood, so after a couple of seconds, you decided to end your suffering as quickly as possible. Like ripping the band-aid off.

"That was fucking awful."

You could swear Nobara's nose twitched like a hound that scented the blood. The corner of your mouth lifted in amusement.

"I swear, all these date apps, blind dates, so on and so forth are not my type of thing,"  you murmured and sighed, looking around the room for any clue that could've helped to solve a mystery of human hearts. "No, I am serious!"

You told her everything. How you matched with a guy on a goddamn Tinder, who seemed…adequate at first sight. That you felt like something almost clicked in that unexplainable way, when you just…know.

You really hoped after him and dozens of unfruitful attempts to meet your fate spontaneously, and let Cupid’s arrows pierce you, your dating apps would result in something. However, with every swipe, weird dialogues and unambiguous hints at the end of coffee dates, your confidence that the male loneliness epidemic had been really justified only grew further. Yesterday’s attempt should’ve been the last one before locking yourself in a tower (your apartments), with only a jester (another 2000’s romcom) to keep you company. Sounded like a perfect plan.

“Everything was fine, before that jerk started asking whether I was like these females—”

“Ew,” Nobara grimaced. “Females? That’s a red flag already. Might be one of these podcast guys. They are all beyond saving.”

“I know, right? Should’ve told him to fuck off right that instant. Anyway,” you snipped a poor rose’s stem with more force than necessary and continued. “These females who like to invite poor men to the fanciest restaurants and make them pay!”

Nobara gasped, thoroughly scandalized, handing you a lighter.

“He did not!”

“Oh yes, he did. And that’s not even the worst! Then he asked when I would be ready to quit my job, because his wife and the mother of his children shouldn’t work,” deep-buried irritation from the godforsaken dinner slowly started to bloom in your chest, so you didn’t even notice you were holding the lighter near the stem longer than usual. Luckily, Nobara intervened before you almost set the flowers on fire.

“Hey-hey, gimme that,” she snatched the possible tool of destruction from your hands and quickly put the stem in a vase. You blinked in surprise and slumped on the nearby chair with a long, exhausted sigh.

“Sorry.”

“It’s okay,” she flashed you a warm smile and then added, barely audible. “Was my task, anyway. So, you were saying?”

“Yeah, right,” you dragged your hand over your face, “after we left the restaurant, the asshole offered to give me a ride.” You drawled the last word, double entendre clear in your voice, as you stared at Nobara with a telling gaze.

She, of course, understood. Slowly dragged her gaze from the flowers and stared back at you. A murderous glint flashed in her eyes. The lighter only added to her dangerous image.

You sighed once again and murmured, staring at the ceiling. “So, that was it. What’s even worse is that he seemed so nice and gallant and—,” you gestured vaguely before dropping your hand in desperation. The next words felt like shards; tears stole your voice. “I am not cut out for the relationships, clearly. Maybe something is fundamentally wrong with me, I don’t know! All this staff”, you drew a sharp exhale and angrily wiped your nose, “is not for me. I am way better alone”.

Hearing your voice, so uncharacteristically broken, Nobara kneeled in front of you. She squeezed your hands.

“There’s nothing wrong with you. Believe me. All these men are assholes that do not even deserve the strand of your hair!”

“Uhm, Nobara, flowers there—”

“Ah, fuck these flowers,” she waved dismissively. “I’ve got a bigger potential catastrophe on my hands,” you snorted at her words, and a big, bright grin broke on her face. “You are smart, pretty, kind, and just so wonderful! These guys? They can suck my—”

“Nobara!”

“Okay, okay,” Nobara rolled her eyes and leaned in closer, her grin morphing into a conspirational smile. Your eyes narrowed playfully. “Tell you what? We finish here, and I am taking you to that new mall, finally making you buy that slutty dress I’ve been talking about for days, then we crash into my flat, order whatever you want, and re-watch “Love Actually” for the hundredth time! How’s that?”

You couldn’t help but smile genuinely at Nobara’s suggestion. It was impossible to brood with her around. 

“That sounds perfect.”

Your thoughts drifted to the morning once again. Something in your guts was telling you that you were right initially. Or maybe it was more of a wishful thinking, because his image would haunt your mind every failed date and every sparkle you misguessed as the beginning of something new. And yesterday was particularly shitty. 

You weren’t that obsessed with your ex-situationship. So what if even after all the months you had been apart (though you doubted whether you could truly say that; you never had been together), he was the only person who had lit up your whole world? Pfft. Every girl had a story like this.

At least you hoped so. Stupid Gojo.

Despite all the things that happened between you (and did not), you couldn’t bring yourself to hate Gojo. His stupid white hair, ivory under the sunlight; a stupid grin that broke his face anytime you would say something funny, and that chuckle, Gods,  that fucking chuckle of his was your biggest reward and the strongest undoing. 

Then you would remember the way he ended both of you, destroying the root before your love could even blossom, and the urge to punch him would multiply drastically.

Just like now.

You were in the middle of preparing the next customer’s order and racked your brains on where to put a couple of black tulips, so they would look presentable enough. Then you struggled with the overall composition, the wrapping paper didn’t work much, you cut your ring finger and —

Stop that.

You took a deep breath. In and out. In and out. 

That was it. The effect Satoru Gojo had on you.

“I definitely should get over this guy,” you murmured in the void, not addressing anyone in particular, but Nobara heard it. She turned around sharply, the large heart box with roses dangerously swaying in her hands. Her narrowed eyes seemed to pierce right through your soul, through the pregnant pauses, creeping between the endless conversations about your love life, the sadness you carried in the unsaid words.

She saw the raging storm in your weary eyes, and her glare softened immediately, lips parting to tell you something only Nobara could tell — but in the moment, the doorbell in the main hall rang obnoxiously loudly, and she hurriedly headed upstairs.

Your gaze dropped to the bouquet. The black tulips in the middle caught your attention immediately. A satisfied grin tucked in the corner of your mouth. 

The flowers were pretty. Gorgeous. The fragile beauty of nature wrapped in the softest of touches. Nature’s most delicate gift. They didn’t hurt anyone. Not in the way people do, at least.

Nobara’s voice called you suddenly, pulling you back to reality. Your brows furrowed slightly: her voice sounded strangely strained. You headed up as well. 

“My mother loves black tulips.”

“Really? Huh. That’s rare. Not everyone even thinks about what flowers they like.”

“Nah, she thinks about everything. And more. Like you.”

“Do you think this ribbon fits well, or should I find the lacy one? I am not quite sure.”

Your gaze flicked to Nobara, and then—

You rooted to your spot. The poor bouquet almost fell from your weakened hands, but that was the last thing that was on your mind.

Not when Gojo Satoru was staring back at you.

His eyes searched for every expression on your face, every bat of the eyelashes, every flicker of colour in your eyes, every twitch of your lips, soaking it up with the intensity that could rival the wanderer's thirst in a desert. Looking, dazing, gawking, drinking in your features. Like he wasn’t sure whether he should grab and kiss you till he got his fill or just admire from afar, like the most exquisite flower under the glass.

He stared. And stared. And stared.

And gods, you stared back. 

His hair caught the sunlight, giving him an ethereal look, and you swore to God, the blue of his eyes brightened even more, though now his gaze seemed to carry more weight. You remembered them flashing with the charm and the mischief; it was still there, though you couldn’t help but notice adulthood setting into his features.  Your gaze drifted over his frame, clad in a dark blue suit (probably worth your month’s rent), greedily fixing the broadness of his shoulders, the tight pull of the fabric on the chest, the little mole between his collarbones, peeking out from the unbuttoned shirt. 

Shit. Shit. Shit. Shit.

“Why was he here?” An anxious thought beat against your ribcage with a deafening thump-thump, suddenly twice its usual size. “He wasn’t supposed to be here! And found me!”

Deep down, you knew. Of course, Gojo could. You moved to another city, not the other hemisphere.

But it was Kyoto. A fucking metropolis!

Gojo was from Kyoto.

You fixed all the details almost unconsciously, committing his features to your memory as if he were about to vanish right this second. Neither of you dared to move; silence wrapped around you like a thick blanket, trapping you in its suffocating confines.

Nobara’s gaze flicked between Gojo and you, but luckily, she didn’t ask anything. Must’ve been obvious.

“You go back. I’ll handle it,” she whispered to you, and the strange spell cast on your room was dispelled. You gave her a quick, unsure grin.

“It’s okay. Don’t worry.”

Nobara opened her mouth to protest, but your pleading look silenced her. With the last suspicious look at Gojo, she disappeared into another room.

You stood behind the register, trying to look as professional as ever. Trembling in your hands and the waver in your voice were a dead giveaway, though. Gojo’s eyes briefly flickered to your frame. His eyes softened almost imperceptibly. 

“So, long time no see, Gojo. How’s that been?”

Gojo grimaced slightly but didn’t comment on you using his government name. Instead, he just stepped closer to the register, as if unsure whether he could approach you.

That startled you. Gojo was never about hesitance in any way. 

“It’s been…okay,” he answered vaguely, and you couldn’t help but notice his timbre deepened. Tone smoothened, became richer. The Kyoto accent was back. You remembered how he desperately tried to sound more like a Tokyo guy.

Stop. 

What on Earth were you thinking? 

Focus.

“We’ve decided to reopen the Kyoto branch, and Gramps wanted to make me in charge of it.” You felt his gaze on you, and its intensity sent shivers down your spine. You nervously tried to issue him a receipt, but the terminal seemed to stop working at the most inconvenient moment ever. Heat slowly crept your cheeks. 

"... and I've got a lot of things to look through and deal with a bunch of old fossils," Gojo continued, grimacing at the mention of old men who were probably a part of the shareholders' board. You noticed he told about himself rather vaguely, almost indifferently, as his own life couldn't feel less interesting.

You dreaded Gojo's next question. Don't ask, don't ask, don't ask—

"And how have you been?"

A strange kind of desperation laced Gojo's voice. As if he knew he had no right to ask that, but just could not help it. His Adam's apple bobbed with effort, and if you paid more attention, you would've noticed the flex of his fingers.

You forced a strained smile, your heart did a stupid little flip.

"I...am doing alright," you gestured vaguely around the shop as if it could've answered his question. However, Gojo's gaze was glued to you, searching, observing, examining the fatigue that was deeply etched into your features, the light dust of pink on your cheeks, a nervous smile hiding at the corner of your lips, and a small cut on your chin. You were even more beautiful than he remembered. Was it ever possible?

"It's for your mom, right?" you blurted out before even thinking, earning a surprised look from Gojo. Your eyes widened; probably, he thought you were a stalker or just a lunatic for asking that. 

Nervously, you explained, fingers fumbling with the ribbon. "I remember you told your mom liked black tulips." Gods, why did you ask that? Is there really a kind of question for your ex-situationship at your first meeting?

Your heart beat anxious staccato against your chest. You prayed the ground would swallow you whole as Gojo remained silent.

Slowly, his initial shock and confusion melted into an undeniable affection, and he smiled, a soft, quiet smile that reached his eyes, crinkling at the corners.

You released a breath you didn't know you were holding.

"Yeah. She still does. That's for her. I...," Gojo's smile faltered a little, "she flew from Tokyo for some business, and I am gonna meet her. I asked my assistant to pick a flower shop close to it. With good reviews, of course,” his gaze quickly swept the surroundings, landing on various arrangements, bouquets and vases. Strange tightness coloured his tone, and you narrowed your eyes in suspicion.

"Ah. I see."

"Yeah."

So, he didn't stalk you. Good to hear.

A loose strand of hair fell over your forehead, and you put it back with an annoyed sigh. Gojo's gaze followed it with a tender ache; you thought you imagined it. 

Gojo's lips parted slightly, and then he abruptly closed his mouth again. A little frown formed between his brows. 

"Listen, I know it's not the right moment, but I would like —"

You swallowed anxiously, but in that second, his phone rang. Whoever that was, you were beyond grateful for a little respite after everything that had just happened.

Gojo Satoru.

Your something. Your almost everything. Your childhood wish for a friend. Your teenage longing for love. Your yearning to be seen.

Your invisible string draped over months and cities. Forever snapped.

Or?

"Ijichi, I told you already," Gojo's voice came out way too harsher than it was with you; a mask slipping back on his face, "I'm busy with something right now."

Annoyance flushed in his eyes as he listened to a hasty voice on the other side of the phone. He pinched the bridge of his nose in irritation.

"Uh-huh. I got it. Be in five minutes."

The anxious voice, Ijichi's, as you presumed, mumbled something back, but Gojo didn’t pay attention.

Silence wrapped around you once again, unsure and hesitant. You took a deep breath, on the verge of blurting something about maintenance or a sudden supply of birthday cards, or anything, before Gojo's voice cut through the mess that your head was, softer than you ever expected.

"It was nice seeing you."

You rehearsed words suddenly seemed meaningless. A look of surprise crossed your face at his words, and before you could articulate your confusion in somehow coherent words, Gojo already left with a curt nod. The bell jingled obnoxiously loud, and you slowly took a deep breath.

Gojo's cologne was still lingering in the air, enveloping you in his scent.

Lost and confused, you slumped in the nearest chair behind the register, brain short-circuiting on what had just happened. Something you had never dared to think about in your dreams. Gojo was tucked in the deepest corner of your heart; you rarely allowed yourself to truly reminisce about what you were and never became.

And you couldn't shake the feeling he wanted to ask you something before the call. 

Or were you just making things up? Wishful thinking?

***

The day when you met Gojo was as clear as ever in your mind. No. When Gojo met you. Really met.

You had seen Satoru Gojo all the time at the campus: his frosty white hair impossible to miss, laugh booming loudly in the university halls, enough for people to turn their heads, all sharp grins and snarky remarks — confidence walked hand in hand with him as he basked in the attention. He moved like a person who had never forced himself to be small. To fit into some box. People orbited around him, inevitably driven closer by his overwhelming presence: planets pulled closer by the gravity of the Sun. 

You, on the other hand, were one of the satellites, surfing through the vast expanse of university life.

Naturally, your paths with Gojo didn't cross very often: sure, he was in your periphery all the time, effortlessly catching your attention with his jokes and... everything; you shared a couple of classes and had a bit of awkward exchanges in the library over behavioural theory of management. You weren't even surprised: for all Gojo's lack of discipline in the classes, he really had a sharp mind.

Sometimes he gave you a bright grin in greeting, to which you answered with a short nod, putting on an air of confidence, despite the frantic beat of your heart and the speed at which your palms got sweaty.

So, as it was etched in the laws of the universe, you quietly observed Gojo from afar, not daring to collide with his orbit more than needed. Burning in the Sun's light would bring long-lasting scars.

Oh, how right you were.

This shouldn't have happened. He should've just walked past you like many others on that rainy day, when you were standing right next to your stall, teeth chattering as the coldness embraced you in its harsh hands. Your gaze quickly swept the surroundings — the majority of students had already left their standings. No wonder, with the weather like that, who would've been foolish enough to stay at the volunteer fair?

You were. Though you preferred to think of yourself as responsible and kind. 

A deep chuckle pierced through the monotonous cacophony of the rain, and inevitably, your gaze landed on Gojo. He was hanging out at his friend's stall, helping to put things in the boxes. Geto, if you remembered it correctly. Surprisingly, he was also helping one of the city's animal shelters. You tried not to dwell on his charity box, which showed way more promise than yours.

You were so focused on not freezing to death at that point that you didn't notice Gojo walking to your stall. The bag with his volleyball (because of course, Gojo was ridiculously good at everything) uniform hit his leg with every step.

He stood right in front of it, a curious grin tugging at the corner of his lips. He looked ridiculously handsome, even with a silly umbrella.

Gojo kept examining the various brochures about the shelter, pictures of cats and dogs, seeking their homes. His gaze softened imperceptibly. 

Meanwhile, your world just tilted off its axis.

"Hi," you gave Gojo a nervous smile.

He looked up immediately and hummed in acknowledgement. "Hi."

An awkward silence fell upon you. Your brain short-circuited as you anxiously tried to scramble for the right words, but they just flew out of your mind right then. Nothing. Blank screen. Error.

Gojo didn't seem to notice your mental struggles, still glued to the stall.

Just when you were about to finally introduce him to the shelter you had been volunteering for, he suddenly reached for the wallet and threw bills in the charity box. A lot, one would say.

You blinked. Blinked again. Maybe you were hallucinating from standing all day in the cold. 

"What the hell are you doing?" You blurted out, and deep crimson painted your cheeks in embarrassment. 

What the hell were you doing? 

Who on Earth would say something like that to a person, willingly donating to your stall?

You hoped he wasn’t very petty.

Instead, his white brows knitted in confusion. He took a step back to examine the box before dragging his gaze, the brightest of blues, to you. 

"Donating, I guess?"

"Yeah, no shit," you scoffed. Backing wasn't an option by this time. "That's like...a lot."

A look of realisation crossed Gojo's face, before a cracking bright grin, as if the Sun finally peeked through the heavy clouds. Suddenly, the cold didn't bother you as much as before.

"Ah, it's nothing. Really," he drawled lazily and nodded at the photos again. "Besides, it's only for the good."

He was kind of insane, you thought. But hey, who would've said no to the charity money? Especially if you did less than expected at this fair.

"Then... thank you," you breathed out in relief, but immediately grimaced at how empty and basic it sounded. Quickly, you added. "Really, thank you! It would do a lot for the shelter, and —"

You reached for a simple box, adorned with a colourful ribbon, resting among others, to gift him. Nothing much, but you spent your whole evening preparing them.

"There's a postcard, a cap and a mug!" You shrugged casually, fingers toying with the ribbon, and handed the box to Gojo. "A token of appreciation, if you wish".

He examined the box with a sharp look, and for the moment, you felt really silly. His long fingers curled around the box, brushing briefly against yours — a warm touch, despite the rain, sending sparks of electricity up your arm.

Did Gojo notice that too?

He almost left, and you almost could breathe in relative calm, when something must've popped into his mind, and he abruptly stopped in his tracks. 

"Wait...are you this girl from the management class? The one with the old Gakuganji? Sitting on the left side, third row?" His eyes briefly scanned your face. You felt like a butterfly under his piercing gaze. "We talked about Mayo's behaviour theory in the library, remember?"

Remember. Did you remember.

Did you remember him.

The carefully constructed unreachable image of Gojo in your head seemed to have its first cracks. You had never thought he would ask if anyone remembered him. You had never thought he would remember your place at the lecture. The Sun didn’t simply bother to pay attention to the satellites.

Gojo might’ve interpreted your stunned silence in a completely different way.

“I mean, your hair is…different. And the hood,” he gestured vaguely, and you quickly put the lone strand behind your ear. 

“Yeah, uhm, that’s…that’s me.”

Gojo didn’t answer this, studying your face with intensity that might’ve pierced through your entire being. As if he were searching for an answer to a particularly tricky question only you could give him. 

Or maybe it was just an effect of his eyes — a shade that certainly shouldn’t exist in the world, putting all the world’s blues to shame. He was still stuck around your stall, as if glued. As if he didn’t want to leave. 

You didn’t even dare to think about it.

“Why are you alone? Aren’t the stalls supposed to have two volunteers? Suguru told me.”

You sighed, reminiscing about how Nobara almost coughed her lungs out today, but her stubborn ass somehow insisted on coming with you. Eventually, it ended with you locking her up in the dorm room.

“They are. I should’ve been there with my friend. She fell ill.”

A mischievous glint flashed in Gojo’s eyes as he arched his brow. “Really fell?”

“Really, really. Nobara’s not like that.” You scoffed at his implications and crossed your hands on your chest.

Gojo’s face sobered. “Nobara? Kugisaki? The lead cheerleader?”

You nodded.

He nodded back. “Yeah, she’s not.”

Your brows furrowed in confusion. What the hell was going on there? Why did he, Gojo Satoru, out of all people, stay by your lonely stall and ask you weird questions?

Creepy. 

Gojo’s gaze flicked to the sky, just as the deafening sound of thunder boomed out of a sudden, then back to your face. The rainy pit-patter against the stall’s shade intensified, pulling you out of the strange daze to hastily pack the stuff back. The framed pictures landed in the box with awkward thuds as you threw them in the box. How you were going to take all of the stuff back to the dorm remained a full mystery.

You picked two of them with a grunt, and the hair fell on your forehead, obscuring the view. The box on the top dangerously slid down, earning a string of curses and a couple of desperate groans from you, when a pair of strong hands suddenly took them from your weakened hands. The rain didn’t help the situation at all.

You almost slipped, losing balance, but quickly stabilized yourself, gripping the same very pair of hands. There was no objection. From the person, obviously.

Gojo’s gaze pinned you to the ground when you looked up. His messy white fringe fell on his forehead (you felt a strange itch in your fingers to brush it away), and some strands, wet from the rain, stuck to his forehead. The soft brightness of his eyes was gone, replaced with something darker and more intense, you weren’t sure you could name it. You just stared back and wondered if the lost people in the oceans saw that exact shade of blue before drowning in their unforgiving waves.

You never saw Gojo that close, obviously. You didn’t know his lashes were so long and soft, fluttering with every breath he took; his nose was crooked just a fraction, and pale freckles dusted his cheeks. 

You swallowed, not daring to step back, and just froze like a deer in the headlights.

Maybe that was the way goddesses crafted the invisible strings. A whim, a caprice of fate, looking down at the people and deciding to grant their hearts the greatest wishes, just to weave them forever into the endless canvas of the universe. 

Little did you know that it was he who got rooted to the very spot. Froze. Stilled. Whatever. Gojo’s entire universe had just fallen off the axis and flew towards hell. The black hole, one might say. With such clarity that he was, honestly, surprised that no one saw it. 

That was the day when he first saw you. Really saw. The lone girl near the animal shelter’s stall, who observed people dismissively walking past her with an understanding and forgiving look. Whose entire face lit up when she talked about the rescued dogs and cats, to the people who would actually come up to the stall. The kind smile that transformed her face into a painting of the finest craft as she gifted the gift boxes. Who stubbornly chose to stay at the fair in the rain and cold. All alone, because her friend got sick. And, naturally, he walked to you, drawn like a moth to the flame.

A shot of electricity shook through Gojo’s body. The ground dropped away from his feet. The biggest fuckass tsunami hit him and filled his lungs with you, you, you. 

That was scary. That was dangerous. You were dangerous. 

The sudden clap of thunder above pulled you out of this strange haze. You stepped back; Gojo blinked — a storm in his eyes gave way to a warm sea breeze.

“They are heavy. I’ll walk you to the dorm.”

Your cheeks heated up, and you quickly babbled.

“There’s no need, really. I am okay—”

You almost flinched at the particularly deafening sound of the thunder and threw your hands up, answering with a weak grin.

“Seems like I do not have much of a choice.”

Gojo only chuckled.

His shoulder lightly brushed against yours the whole time to the dorm, sending light sparks up your arm even through the hoodie. You noticed how he subconsciously fell into step with you. Gojo gave you his umbrella, with some Digimon on it, and at first, you tried to shield him from the raindrops as well, but Gojo was so tall that your arm quickly hurt.

None of you said anything, besides light humming from Gojo’s side, and it felt strangely…nice. You expected desperately scrapping for words to fill the uncomfortable silence between you, but there was no need. Maybe you still existed in that small babble, where time stopped and held you in its tight embrace.

“So, that’s me,” you nodded at the doors and made a grab for the boxes.

Gojo frowned. “They are heavy. Come on, let’s get inside.”

Nobara certainly would ask you questions about how Gojo ended up in their room. You realized that you didn’t want to share this strange moment of...whatever it was with Gojo, with anyone else yet. Besides, she was still sick.

You forced a smile. “Thank you a lot, but I am fine. Really. And Nobara’s sick, so…”

Gojo blinked in confusion, but seeing you weren’t going to step back, nodded. He handed you the boxes back, which made you almost double over under their weight.

“See you at the lectures,” he waved to you, a charming grin curled up on his lips, and you found yourself smiling back. For a couple of moments, you watched his tall figure retreating, mulling over whether you should ask Gojo what the hell was going on, thank him properly or just say anything. You were so nervous, you could barely hear your own thoughts with the blood roaring in your ears.

Your gaze quickly dropped to the box, the shelter’s logo immediately caught your eye, and the idea popped into your mind so fast your anxious mind had hardly registered it. 

“Hey, Gojo!”

He stepped in his tracks and turned right that instant at the sound of your voice. Like he had been subconsciously wishing for it. His eyes seemed so bright, burning you with their electric blue.

God. What had you done? What were you going to do now? Your suggestion seemed so utterly stupid. Maybe Gojo would get tired of your hesitance and walk away?

“Yes?”

Oh, fuck. He was still standing there, head tilted in curiosity. You swallowed. There was no backing down now. Your grip on the boxes tightened. 

“Come to the animal shelter this weekend,” you blurted out. His eyes widened slightly, but you continued. “Your donation was the biggest. There’s a prize for it!”

For a long, painful second, you were sure he would come up with some polite excuse to decline it. To your biggest surprise, a big grin broke on his face.

“I’ll be there. See you.”

You watched Gojo walking away, still not quite believing what had just happened.

The days leading up to the weekend were filled with nervous excitement. Even when Gojo came for your number to text you about it, anxiety was still buzzing deep in your bones.

Turned out there was no reason for it. 

He actually showed up. That time. And many others.

You met at the shelter countless times — Gojo was more than welcome there. Your awkward, occasional conversations in the library turned into full study sessions, when both of you were glad to just share a bit of space. You learnt each other’s coffee orders by heart, favourite books, movies, shared favourite quotes, and had endless conversations under the starry sky about everything and nothing all at once. He would usually point at the bunch of stars and come up with the most ridiculous constellations and histories about them. You couldn’t remember a single moment when your cheeks didn’t hurt from smiling with him, a warm feeling blossomed in your chest every time his lips curved into a soft, gentle grin, the one you had already learnt was reserved only for you. All your camera film was filled with him, but you never complained.

You had never felt anything like that before; your heart was filled to the top with unspent, unrestrained love, so, naturally, it overflowed and flooded everything.

Maybe that was it. Maybe you loved Gojo so fiercely and desperately that it scared him. You never questioned or tried to define your relationship with him — you both were so happy that you thought that taste of honey would linger on your lips forever, living in the warm, miraculous daze forever. For Gojo, whose entire life was carefully built around expectations — the grades always had to be perfect, his future predetermined, written up to the smallest detail the moment he was born, the weight of his family's prestige settling heavily on his shoulders — being with you was a breath of fresh air. He didn’t have to put on any front: a star student, a team captain, the Gojo heir…he was just Satoru with you. And maybe he got a little bit too used to the fact that you simply took everything he offered to you, without asking for more. Without demanding. Without expecting. And when his heart started to jump every time he saw you, his chest tightened with a loving, tender ache at the sight of your smile and all his thoughts gravitated to you wherever he was, Gojo knew he was gone. Completely. 

He didn’t know how to love someone that much. Selflessly, unconditionally, handing his heart on his palm. The painful vulnerability that came with your love stripped him bare, to the bone, exposed the deepest corners of his heart and soul — something he didn’t even dare to look at himself. And that scared him. No amount of hiding his horror of being loved behind the usual mask of a fool could hide it. So he did the best he could for both of you. At least, that was what he thought. 

Left you.

He sincerely thought that was him protecting you from the inevitable break-up. He didn’t know how to love. He didn’t know how to be loved. 

Turned out Gojo just protected himself.

Slowly, your dates shortened, turning into quick meetings and then vanished completely with his weak excuses. Calls postponed, messages left on delivered. He gradually slipped away from your life, leaving a hole so big you didn’t know whether it was even possible to fill with something, someone else who wasn’t him. He ripped your heart and took it with him.

What was even worse was that despite everything, you couldn’t even bring yourself to hate him. Despite taking away your air with him. You cried yourself to sleep on countless nights, threw yourself into studies, volunteering, working, and everything that could even remotely help you to find closure. You were so lucky to have Nobara by your side — wordlessly, she picked up the shards of your shattered heart and carefully glued them together.

Over time, you grew tired of seeing your own sad, tear-filled gaze in the mirror, the sorrow in the bags under your eyes, hollow cheeks — solitude etched into your soul. You didn’t deserve it. If he weren’t the one, then be it. You couldn’t let a man define all your future.

With strange calmness and melancholy, you blocked him. Moved to another city. Got to work in a flower shop, something that you discussed with Gojo a lot of times. Took up hobbies. Squeezed yourself into bustling, busy Kyoto life as much as you could. Met other people, despite how much you wanted to hide in your shell.

Got over Gojo. At least, you thought you did, safe for times when your mind naturally went to reminisce about him after failed dates; for the fingerprints of him were all over the pages of your life.

Only for everything to return after meeting him today.

***

Saying that Gojo didn’t cross your mind the next days would be a lie. 

You wish you were a liar.

Why did he happen to visit your flower shop? Was it really random?

And more importantly: would he visit again?

The one part of you, young, naive and endlessly romantic, built sandcastles and told you that she wanted it to happen. The other, sharpened by adulthood and the cruelty of the world, destroyed them without batting an eye and told you not to be foolish. The second voice sounded suspiciously like Nobara’s.

You were too scared to trust the girl with the dreams way bigger than her, living in a fairytale, where princes would always find their way to princesses, fight all the dragons and have their happily-ever-afters.

You couldn’t afford to think about it. Closing off, guarding your heart like Cerberus wasn’t an option either, so you did what any reasonable, mature grown-up would do: bury yourself in work.

The large shipment of items, flowers and vases among them, had just been delivered to the shop, before one of your most frequent customers’ jubilee, so you were in dire need of all hands available. As a cruel joke of fate, Nobara was on the other side of the city, and Utahime argued with the suppliers, who messed up an important order again; her angry voice cut through the relative serenity and silence in the shop. Honestly, totally understandable.

Your back hurt from standing for God knew how long, a band-aid on your left hand had already asked for mercy, and the strain in your neck screamed for relief. You tried not to pay attention to the tightness in your shoulders; the exhaustion gave you a much-needed escape from your own mind. 

The bell chimed in greeting; your head snapped up to greet a client, only to be met with a familiar flash of snowy hair.

Your heart skipped a beat, and light pink dusted your cheeks. 

The little girl sheepishly peeked out of the window in her sandcastle.

“Didn’t expect you to see you here, yet so soon,” you mumbled in greeting, hastily wiping your hands off the apron and, unconsciously, clasping them behind your back. For some reason, you didn’t want Gojo to have a look at your scratches. Not when he was dressed to kill. Probably you.

You dragged your gaze from his figure and stood behind the register. The familiar position gave much-needed strength to deal with the headache Gojo Satoru was. Like you were the one in control. 

You didn’t quite recognize your voice, all sharp and business-like, when you asked him.

“How can I help you?”

Gojo didn’t answer you straight away. His gaze swept the surroundings — scattered boxes, vases waiting to be filled, a bunch of balloons —  until it landed on you. Something tender and endlessly fragile flashed in his eyes, but he quickly masked it. 

“I am here to talk to you and your boss, Miss Iori. I’ve been told I have to wait a bit —”

“...and if you are gonna sell me ranunculi instead of peonies once again, when I specifically asked for the fucking peonies,” you both turned your heads towards Utahime’s office, her voice gradually rising in pitch as she spoke. You swallowed. “I am gonna stick them all up in your ass and —”

You quickly exchanged glances with Gojo. His lips curled into a full-blown grin, the amusement dancing on his face, so unrestrained that you forgot what all the fuss about was.

“She’s a little busy now,” you chuckled in return. 

“I see,” Gojo finally turned to you, with the same smile he once stole your heart, and leaned on the register, his long fingers lazily drumming against the surface. 

“Actually, it’s even better. I want to talk to you first,” Gojo’s voice, soothing around the edges, dipped to that tone you were all familiar with. Deep and sweet, thick as honey, dying on your tongue in dizzying aftertaste.

“You see, we’re going to have an event soon, and among everything we need florists, obviously.” He flashed you a quick smile, but seeing confusion written all over your face, quickly schooled himself. Gojo glanced around the shop once again: the holiday postcards seemed to pique his interest way more than your reaction, then his gaze drifted to Utahime’s office once again, and finally, he dared to look at your face again. 

“And?”

“I want you to be the main designer of the event.”

Gojo’s words didn’t catch you completely off guard. Deep down, you wanted that day not to be a strange accident. Longed to see him again. Needed to allow yourself a moment of foolishness. 

A beat of silence passed between you, charged with the heaviness of unspoken words and feelings, deep buried inside to a point you doubt whether you both had even happened. Otherwise, why didn’t you ask him straight away to find someone else? Go from your sight and never return? 

Why didn’t you have the strength to resist his gravity? Was it even possible? To deny the Sun its power, when the burns still echoed in your heart with raging ache? 

Gojo’s eyes were glued to your face, desperately seeking any clue his expression might hand him. His voice dropped to a desperate whisper.

“I am not going to force you into anything. If you don’t want to deal with this,” the sudden wavering crept into his voice; a grimace briefly crossed his face, “dealing with me, I understand that. But I want to ask you not to do it. You’ll have all the creative freedom you want, all the communication will be handled by my assistant, and we won’t even meet, unless you want it. I promise. Just…just don’t reject the offer because of me. Please.” 

Your gaze narrowed, steel slipping into it. As much as the sapphires of his eyes urged you to surrender, to capitulate, to yield, your dignity screamed in objection.

“Why are you so adamant about this? Why do you want me to do this?”

His lips curled into a small knowing smile, bitter around the edges. His finger lightly tapped on the bunch of receipts, eyes drifting to the forgotten band-aid on your hand. The tightness in your shoulders didn’t go unnoticed either. 

“I think you need it. To feel in your place once again.”

How.

How did he manage to dig into your chest and rip your heart, revealing all the quiet battles you had been fighting? After all those years? Making you seen, even now?

But why did he think he still had a chance to tear you apart? To open apart old scars, the ones you were slowly stitching together?

The sudden anger bloomed bright in your chest, dipping all your words in venom.

“You promised me a lot of things, Gojo. I don’t quite remember you keeping them.”

A sparkle of icy fury flashed in Gojo’s eyes, and his jaw tightened. You didn’t allow yourself to flinch as he stared right into your eyes — the swords clashing in a deadly dance.

You dug your nails into your palm hard enough to leave crescents.

“Come on, say something. Give me a reason to hate you.”

The anger in his eyes slowly melted into an ache until guilt flooded the blue of them. Gojo stepped back with a sigh. His fingertips twitched as if he wanted to reach you, but then stopped halfway.

“I know I had hurt you. And believe me, this is not how I imagined us having a conversation like this,” Gojo’s gaze caressed your features, memorizing them, as if it would be his last chance to see you at all. Miraculously, you hold yourself from giving in to the apology and regret that laced his voice. You weren’t ready to face everything once again. Your heart was still bleeding for him. “If you want to talk about it — “

A subtle shake. “I do not.”

“Okay. Okay. I understand. Then just think about what I said. Please.”

Your gaze dropped. You wanted to hate him. You wanted to look right into his face and say “fuck you”, among many other things you were desperate to cry out. To scream, to push, to take him apart like he once did to you.

But you couldn’t.

You didn’t notice Gojo left the shop until the annoying doorbell chirped right through the haze of your mind.

Exhausted, you dragged your hand over your face and slumped into the nearby chair, deep in thought.

***

Utahime didn’t urge you to anything, and while you were grateful for that, the answer she hoped for was visible in the tight set of her shoulders as she looked through the bills, the tired sigh that would escape her every time she dealt with the suppliers, not to mention the rude customers. The jubilee was the last big event before the usual dry period.

Your inner scales gradually tipped towards Gojo’s offer more and more, with every strain in your neck, headache pounding with deafening force at your temples and endless scratches on your palms.

One evening, with you and Nobara crashing on your couch, you finally felt the scales tipped in Gojo’s favour. As the days blurred into a limitless working routine, where the only light was his words, whispering in the back of your exhausted mind with more and more annoying insistence, you found yourself eventually thinking about his offer more and more.

“So, you gonna text him or what?” Nobara mused, swirling the wine in her glass, sitting with her legs tucked. The Friday evening downed at you with a startling surprise.

You mindlessly twirled a business card that Gojo left for you at the register the day he visited the shop. Strangely, it completely slipped out of your mind. A quick brush of fingers against the plastic — an elegantly written GOJO SATORU caught the light — until it hit the coffee table. Nobara reached for it to examine.

“Whoa, as cocky as ever.”

“Well, he’s the CEO or whoever,” you murmured dismissevely and took a gulp from your own glass. The liquid bloomed bitterly at the tip of your tongue, and you put it away with a sigh.

Even wine didn’t help. You slowly tilted your head back until it hit the back of the couch. 

“Okay, let’s look at this from the other side,” Nobara discarded the card somewhere and sat cross-legged. You cracked one eye open, and the sight of her business-like expression almost made a groan slip your lips. “What’s the worst that can happen?”

When Nobara was in a mood, nothing in the world could stop her. You slowly straightened, but her next words made you choke on your own breath. 

“It’s not like he’s gonna confess that he was a massive jerk and ask for your hand in marriage.”

You spluttered, heat rising your cheeks. “Nobara!” 

The small decorative throw pillow landed on her face with the precision of a sniper. She huffed and rolled her eyes.

“Just saying. Not like that’s ever happening.”

A silence fell upon both of you, while you chewed on your bottom lip, musing over Gojo’s last words, which still lingered in your heart with a dull ache. 

Nobara narrowed her eyes and cocked her brow in a silent question. You swallowed and gave in with a sigh.

“He tried to talk to me that day,” you paused, choosing the next words, fully aware of Nobara’s glaring daggers in you. “Just admitted he hurt me, but I wasn’t ready for this whole conversation. Like, at all. You know what I mean, right?”

You slowly dragged your gaze to her, only to meet her softened gaze, full of sympathy. Wordlessly, she opened her arms, and you fell into her embrace. A quiet sniffle escaped you as you buried your face in her hoodie. Still without saying anything, Nobara brushed a lone hair strand behind your ear.

She indeed knew what you meant. 

When she held you in her arms, after Gojo ghosted you, brushed off like you never ever happened in his life. When she was by your side without even asking, dragging you back to the world, where Gojo was no longer a part of you. When she helped you to stand on your own once again. 

Nobara knew. You knew. Creeping between the cracks of things you never said. 

“I don’t know what to do.” Your voice got muffled by the fabric, but your best friend heard you all good. She patted your head with a soft, melancholic smile and murmured.

“I think you do, sweetheart.”

You went still in her arms, before mumbling something affirmative, and pulled back. Your fingers nervously trembled as you typed Gojo’s number.

“I won’t let him get me this time.”

Nobara watched you with a serious face, chin resting in her palm, elbow digging into the plush of the throw pillows. God, she hoped you were right. Not like her, or you would survive another heartbreak by Gojo Satoru. This time, it might come crushing even more.

She moved closer, your thighs brushing against each other’s, as she peeked at your screen. Her eyes briefly scanned the text before giving an approving nod.

You exhaled sharply before anxiously hitting the send button.

The three dots appeared in your chat alarmingly fast. Like Gojo had been chained to his phone, waiting for your text. You slowly exchanged glances with Nobara.

“He’s typing something.”

“Thanks, Sherlock.”

You threw her an annoyed glance. “Shut it.”

Not even a minute had passed since your own message when the phone dinged with a notification from Gojo. 

Gojo

22:54

Hi. Honestly, I didn’t expect you to text at all. Of course, my offer is still up and will be. Told you it’s yours. We can meet on Monday to discuss the details, if you’re free.

“Oh, he’s so sweet, it’s disgusting,” Nobara fake gagged and reached for her long forgotten wine. You didn’t dignify it with a response.

You

22:56

yeah, monday works for me. what about 2 p.m.?

Gojo

22:56

Totally fine. See you then.

You watched three dots appearing and disappearing in the chat, and your grip on the phone tightened with each passing second.

Gojo

22:58

Good night.

Your heart did a stupid flip, totally not needed and surely out of place. You shouldn’t have this reaction to Gojo Satoru. Shouldn’t!

With a sigh, you blocked the phone and stared up at the ceiling, mulling over what Monday would bring to you.

***

The clock in the Gojo’s reception barely hit 2 p.m., when his secretary, a tall blonde woman with a polite smile, invited you into his office. Honestly, you regretted not asking to meet you at least at a neutral territory the moment you stepped into the cold, pristine walls of the Six Eyes Corp. The ride in the elevator felt endless, your anxiety rising with each passing second, and the sight of an entire horde of managers and support staff running around didn’t help.

Corporation shmorporation. 

Wait. Would you become another cog in this soulless capitalism machine the moment you agree to Gojo’s offer?

You didn’t have time to think through it properly, opening the door to his office.

It was bigger than the reception, but not as enormous as you imagined. The first thing that caught your eye was the panoramic windows, with the entire Kyoto spread before your eyes. The walls were adorned with beautiful paintings: you squinted your eyes to examine them, which probably belonged to the brush of some niche Japanese artist. His workplace was surprisingly neat, especially given the way you remembered Gojo, when you both were…were. The laptop, a bunch of papers to be signed, pens in a holder, and…wait for a damn minute.

A mug. A simple mug just near a stapler. Slightly cracked, the logo rubbed off, but the image of a winking cat was still visible. 

Blood pounded in your ears, while you tried to get a grip on your anxious thoughts. You took a tentative step closer to observe it better, but there was no point in it. It really was the same mug you gifted him at that fair. A prize for the biggest donation. His donation. Gojo kept it in his room, and you drank from the mug more times than you could count. He would often joke that it was his favourite trophy.

And he kept it. On his table, in his office, where he ruled the world that this corporation was. Why?

Why? Did he think of you? Did he recall that fair? The shelter?

Ironically, Gojo didn’t notice you. His back was facing you as he talked to someone over the phone, looking at the city beneath his feet. You allowed yourself a moment of shameless gawking at his back in the crisp white of a button-up. His voice was clipped, words short, and exhaustion laced his words. You felt bad for intruding this place for a moment, especially when his shoulders dropped, as he ran fingers through the hair: the clear white of it catching the light in a way that stole your breath. The sleeves of the shirt were rolled up, exposing the map of the veins on his forearms, muscles slightly flexing with every move. You swallowed and quickly looked away.

He finally acknowledged you with a slight tilt of his head and dismissed the call with a quick “Not now. Busy,” gesturing for you to take a chair.

You carefully sat, fingers fumbling with the strap of a bag to get your notebook, as Gojo slumped in his chair, which screamed The Big Boss™. He hooked his thumb in the tie with irritation to loosen it, and your gaze briefly flicked there. You smiled sympathetically.

“Rough day?”

“A bit.”

Your grip on the notebook tightened. “We can reschedule, I don’t mind.”

Gojo’s white brows knitted together in confusion, and he immediately straightened up. “No, why would we? I am peachy.”

Your shoulders dropped in a shrug. “Okay.”

“Wanna some coffee or tea? I hope Mei Mei offered you something.”

“Ah, yeah, I’ve just had coffee. Thanks.” Yes. Coffee was a totally plausible excuse for your fidgeting.

“I see.”

Inevitably, you kept sneaking glances at Gojo, pulled closer by the gravity. He twirled the pan between his long, pale fingers, checking something on the laptop, his eyes briefly scanning the screen. Then suddenly he looked up, catching you red-handed just mid-gawking. You briefly dropped your gaze back to the notebook, while his lips curled into a little smug grin. You cleared your throat, the business-like mask slipping on your face. 

“So, I’ll need to know what exactly the kind of event it is going to be, a venue, and a budget at first. If you have something specific in mind for the design, I’ll also be glad to hear.”

Gojo’s grin softened as he listened to your questions, head tilted, a dreamy gaze caressing your features. You looked so charming, sitting all serious in his office. 

Only when you cocked your brow in an attempt to hurry him did he realize he was shamelessly staring at you all this time. Well done, Gojo. Very professional. He quickly typed something on the laptop just to avoid your gaze.

“It’s gonna be an annual charity event for our foundation. They used to be hosted in the Tokyo branch, but this year the board decided to hold it there, in Kyoto.”

“Oh, I didn’t know you ran a foundation”.

A smile broke on Gojo’s face, and he hummed. “Well, a lot of things changed since —” he abruptly cut them off, probably having realized he sounded kind of insensitive. You hold your breath, “since I became the CEO.” 

You breathed out and marked something off in your list.

“I see. That’s…that’s really good. I am glad things are taking on a better turn.”

“Me too.”

Gods, that was so awkward. This really should’ve been a call. Gojo, however, either didn’t notice this strange atmosphere or simply decided to ignore it. He examined you with his bright blue gaze, head tilted to the side. A curious smile played on his lips, and you hated that he was effortlessly charming even now. Always had been. You pressed a pen to your lips. His gaze flicked there, as if hypnotized.

“What about the venue?”

“The hotel next to the main building. We have a partnership with this chain, so it’s kinda a mutual offer. You should’ve seen it on the way here.”

Oh yes, you did. The said building screamed luxury, not the grotesque hyperbolized one, but something way quieter. The kind that clearly told you would’ve been odd there. 

Okay, you thought. You would be working there, not catching glimpses of visitors and the staff.

Another mark in the notebook. 

“Budget?”

Gojo waved his hand in dismissal. “Unlimited. The floor is yours.”

You arched your brow, humming. You didn’t have a lot of luck in encountering your exes, who wanted you to work for them with an unlimited budget. “What if I asked for, I don’t know, Juliet Roses?”

He hummed in return, fingers drumming against the wood of the table. Then leaned slightly in, amusement lacing his tone as he drawled.

“I don’t understand much about that. But sure, whatever you want.”

You pressed your lips into a thin line, earning a deep chuckle from Gojo. Teasing the guy who had more money than you would ever be able to make wasn’t as funny as you thought.

After this, you discussed the setting, a couple of specific ideas you already had outlined and some technical details. Gojo tried to crack some jokes, but you weren’t as enthusiastic about them as he was, so he quickly put on a business guy mask on. At the end of the meeting, your mind buzzed quietly with all the information, but a familiar feeling of excitement flooded you: hours of brainstorming, crafting, and creating waited for you. A big heartfelt smile broke on your face as you packed your things back into the bag. 

Gojo offered to walk you back to the elevator, and you didn’t find any excuse to refuse him. The silence stretched between you, not unnecessarily heavy, but you wouldn’t call it comfortable. Your gaze swept the surroundings, landing on a couple of managers, who were stealing sneaky glances at both of you and whispering something to each other with sharp smirks. 

Ugh. Like you were back in the university once again, meeting dumbfounded gazes of students, the moment they eyed you up next to Gojo. 

He was humming something to yourself, completely unbothered, leaning on the wall with the air of confidence that suggested he owned this whole world. And he surely did, if the world closed in on this corporation.

You quickly looked over your shoulder. “Didn’t it bother you?”

He stopped humming, eyes briefly flickering to your face. A lopsided grin curled his lips. “What are you talking about?”

Ah, as usual. He didn’t even notice the gaze, the whispers and the gossiping. Again, the sun didn’t bother to pay attention to satellites. 

You wordlessly glanced at the girls back and stared at the elevator. Gojo watched you with his head tilted and followed the direction of your gaze. The moment his eyes landed on the gossiping managers, his jaw tightened, and the steel crept into his voice. “Ah. I see.”

Your head snapped towards Gojo, and without much thinking, you grabbed him by the wrist. “I didn’t mean anything, let them be — “

“Hey, Chloe!” His voice boomed across the hall, causing one girl to nearly drop her binder. You could see her swallowing with effort even from this distance. A charming smile tugged on the corner of his lips, though it didn’t reach his eyes, as he drawled in a deceptively sweet voice. “I presume you already finished the monthly report, since you have plenty of free time?”

The crimson crept up Chloe’s cheeks as she gripped the binder tighter, babbling. “No, Mr. Gojo, I was merely —”

His smile turned more wolfish as he tilted his head. “Then get your friend outta of here and do something useful.”

Chloe briefly exchanged glances with her friend before quickly making their way to the offices. Gojo watched until their figures disappeared and turned to you with a mischievous smile.

“Nah, it doesn’t.”

You couldn’t help but smile in return. “They are gonna talk even more, you know.”

His shoulders dropped in a lazy shrug, but his gaze fixed you with its usual intensity. You forgot how the sharpness of it used to make your breath bated.

“There’s nothing to talk about. Unless?”

Your heart stammered against your ribs at the innuendo in his tone. Inevitably, you remembered the mug from the shelter on his table, and while you were debating whether to bring it up or keep your mouth shut, the elevator behind finally dinged. A sign, hah?

You hastily stepped forward just to hide from Gojo when his fingers brushed against your wrist. 

“Wait — “

“You look beautiful today.”

“I like your blouse, this colour suits you.”

“You curled your hair, right? I love the way they frame your face.”

The blue of his eyes pinned you to the ground as if you were a butterfly. Gojo’s lips parted, but the words never came, and slowly he let your hand go, letting the crowd in the elevator swallow you and take you away from him.

He inhaled slowly and stared at the ceiling.

What was the name of those flowers?

***

The next days passed in a blur as you started planning the event. Honestly, you hadn’t felt such a wave of excitement since…a long time ago. You didn’t blame your flower shop and Utahime, hell, you never could, but turned out when your hands weren’t constantly covered in all sorts of scraps, knees hurt from standing so much and back almost breaking from carrying the vases, you enjoyed your job well more. 

Gojo kept his promise and didn’t contact you until it was absolutely necessary. However, you couldn’t hide the way your heart would skip a beat wherever he appeared at the venue or when he sent you a little emoji at the end of his texts. You told yourself not to live in illusions, but it became increasingly harder with his gaze caressing you, when Gojo thought you didn’t pay attention. The strange, tender ache in his eyes made your insides churn with some unspeakable feeling you weren’t ready to name at all, and for the sake of your mentality, you decided you would pretend it was a simple curiosity. The mug on his office table whispered insistently that you were wrong. You stubbornly shoved the thought away.  

Gojo didn’t overstep, keeping your relationship on a faint, barely non-existent line of business partners and past acquaintances. Though sometimes he couldn’t help himself and…mishaps indeed happened. 

For example, on your first day at the venue, you were greeted by an elegant bouquet of Juliet roses and pink hydrangeas. The florist in you critically examined the bouquet and admitted it was too your liking, but the thought that it was for you didn’t even cross your mind (tell about originality — giving flowers to the florist), when Gojo happened to peek in and noticed the bouquet didn’t move an inch. 

“Is something wrong with the flowers? I thought you liked these roses.”

Too engrossed in your files, you didn’t even catch his words, staring mindlessly at the screen of your laptop, until a shadow loomed over the table and you begrudgingly had to look up. You stared at Gojo in confusion.

He nodded at the bouquet. “You didn’t like the flowers?”

Your brows knitted in confusion as you followed the direction of his gaze. “No. The composition is really good. I like the way the hydrangeas frame the roses. Juliet roses! The guy doesn’t play about his date,” you chuckled and added immediately. “Or the lady. Either way, the flowers are nice.”

A beat of silence passed between you, enveloping you in its warm embrace. A light pink dusted Gojo’s cheekbones, and he murmured in pretend nonchalance.

“So you didn’t check the card?”

Now you felt completely dumbfounded and slightly irritated that Gojo kept distracting you from the work at hand. “No, why would I —”

Your gaze briefly flicked to the flowers at one of the tables and back to Gojo, who kept eyeing with his usual intensity, stripping you bare of any defences. Then it hit you.

This bouquet was for you.

“Oh”, you murmured nervously, and forced a quick smile, involuntarily straightening up in a chair. Now you couldn’t wait to read the card. “I-I am sorry, I just thought. You know.” You twirled a pen between your fingers, mulling over the next words. There was a little excitement in telling your ex-situationship that you weren’t used to flowers. Usually, when the guys heard about you being the florist, they joked, “Then you are probably tired of seeing them,” as an excuse.

It stopped amusing you on the third date. On the fifth, you resisted the urge to smack them. On the tenth, you silently prayed they would shut up. 

You muttered as politely as you could. “You didn’t have to, Gojo. Thank you.”

A strange melancholy lacing your voice didn’t go past Gojo. His tone hardened. “If you liked them, then I absolutely had to.”

He hated it. He absolutely hated the way your face dropped, sadness crept into your usual bright tone, and the smile became a little too tight around the edges. Despised how you automatically assumed the flowers weren’t for you. Hell, who else were they for?

And the thought of him being the reason you doubted yourself drove him insane to the point of keeping him awake in the night, browsing through your old photos; he couldn’t bring himself to delete. Not only as a memory of what he lost but as evidence of his own cowardice. 

He tried to keep you at a distance, letting the contract and the strict confines of the agreement define you. He thought it would be easier this way. 

But there was nothing easy about either of you. Never was. And in the end, he gave up. The lines blurred between you so hard that he couldn’t keep pretending anymore.

you meet satoru gojo on a tuesday morning when the cafe is packed worse than usual. the line stretches all the way past the entrance, your apron is covered in dried milk splatters, and your patience is basically gone.

then in he walks.

satoru gojo is the kind of guy who makes the world bend a little just by existing. cocky without apology, charming in that infuriating way that has people falling over themselves, the type who never hears no because he doesn’t give them the chance to say it. and well he’s rich, he’s brilliant, he’s everything and he knows it, which is exactly why you hated him from the second you met him.

“one of everything sweet you got back there,” he says. “extra whip, extra shots, and throw in a smile for me while you’re at it, yeah? name’s toru by the way.”

you stare at him for half a second. he can’t be serious.

“do you even know how bad that’ll taste?” you mutter, not even bothering to hide the annoyance in your voice. you start slamming cups and pumps because arguing with customers is a quick way to get written up, but god, this one makes it tempting.

the smirk on satoru’s face gets wider, those ridiculous sunglasses sliding down the bridge of his nose just enough for you to catch a flash of those too-blue eyes.

“aw, c’mon princess. live a little. i like my coffee like i like my company—sweet, messy, and a little overwhelming.”

you nearly drop the cup. the audacity rolls off him in waves and when you finally slide the drink across the counter (extra everything just like he asked), he takes one dramatic sip and makes a face.

“too sweet,” he declares as he sets the cup down. “way too sweet. you tryna put me in a sugar coma or what?”

your eye twitches, “you literally asked for one of everything sweet. that’s what you got. if you wanted plain black coffee maybe you should’ve just said that.”

he leans in closer, elbows on the counter, completely ignoring the growing line behind him. “feisty. i like that, it’s almost cute.”

“cute?” you echo. “buddy, i’m two seconds away from spitting in your next drink if you don’t move.”

satoru throws his head back and laughs, you also notice a few girls in line giggle along with him. he then pulls out his card, taps it against the reader, and winks.

fucking asshole.

“that should be it, princess. and hey—i’ll be back tomorrow! maybe you’ll get my order right next time.”

you watch him saunter out, white hair catching the light, and you mutter under your breath the entire time you’re making the next customer’s latte.

you think that’s the end of it. that he’s just another entitled campus pretty boy who’ll forget your face by the time he hits his next lecture.

but satoru gojo doesn’t forget things that interest him.

and apparently, you just became interesting.

˚⟡˖ ࣪

“hey, new hire starts today. show him the ropes when he gets here. he’s a fast learner, supposedly.”

you nod... you’ve been working at this campus cafe for almost eight months now. started right after your financial aid package came up short and you needed something flexible that wouldn’t kill your gpa. the pay is decent, the tips are better on busy days, and it beats retail. plus the free coffee reallyyy helps.

pops, your manager, has been running this place longer than most of the students have been alive on campus. he’s kind of aloof that borders on comedy, always saying the bare minimum while somehow making it sound like the most profound shit you’ve ever heard. you get along with him in that weird way where you trade sarcasm and he never takes anything too seriously.

“great,” you say, already dreading it. “i’m babysitting today basically”

pops snorts, “this one applied with a resume that looked like it belonged in a fortune 500. probably won’t last, but at least he’ll look pretty while he burns the milk.”

“so you hired him because he’s pretty?”

“i hired him because we’re short staffed and he said he could start today. pretty is just a bonus. try not to scare him off on day one, yeah? i don’t feel like doing interviews again.”

the bell above the door chimes. “oh look, there he is. right on time.”

you turn around and your stomach drops straight through the floor.

no. fucking. way.

satoru steps inside wearing the exact same black apron as you have, name tag already clipped to his chest slightly crooked.

he spots you instantly.

“morning, princess,” he says, voice carrying across the quiet space. “ready to teach me how to make that sugar coma special?”

you just stare at him, mouth half open.

“you’ve got to be kidding me,” you mutter.

satoru walks behind the counter, already rolling up the sleeves of his shirt like he’s done this a hundred times. he stops a little too close, that familiar cocky energy filling up the small space.

“what? you told me to try plain black coffee next time. figured the best way to get it right is to learn how to make it myself. plus the tips here looked decent when i was scoping the place out yesterday.”

“play nice, both of you. i don’t want to hear any screaming before ten.”

you pinch the bridge of your nose, already feeling the headache coming on. “this is a joke, right? he’s the new hire?”

“looks that way,” pops says, shrugging. “show him the basics. registers, milk steaming, the usual. don’t let him break anything expensive.”

satoru leans against the counter looking way too amused. “don’t worry, i’m a fast learner. you’ll barely have to babysit. we're gonna be real good friends."

˚⟡˖ ࣪

supervising satoru on his first day turns out to be exactly as annoying as you expected, except somehow worse.

he picks up the register faster than anyone you’ve ever trained. customers love him. older ladies compliment his “lovely smile,” frat guys clap him on the shoulder, and half the girls on campus suddenly decide they need an extra shot in their latte. every time someone tells him his coffee is perfect he makes sure you hear it, tossing the praise your way.

“did you catch that? she said it was the best cappuccino she’s had all semester. guess i’m a natural.”

“she was flirting with you, not rating your foam.”

“eh, same thing.”

he’s extra with everything too, especially the latte art. while you’re trying to keep the line moving he spends an extra ten seconds swirling hearts and little flowers into every cappuccino, sometimes even attempting tiny cats or stars. half the time they come out lopsided but he’s proud of himself.

one girl actually took a photo and posted it right there at the counter. again, satoru made sure you saw it.

“see? people appreciate the details. you should try it sometime instead of just dumping plain foam on top.”

“we’re not an art studio, gojo.”

he just laughs unbothered and keeps going. every time you correct him on something he listens for about five seconds then does it his own way anyway, but he never actually messes up. it’s infuriating how quickly he fits in.

˚⟡˖ ࣪

by the end of the first week you’re convinced satoru gojo was put on this earth specifically to test every last nerve you have left.

he shows up every single shift you’re on. the worst part is he’s actually good at the job. terrifyingly good even. 

you catch him quiet one afternoon working the espresso machine.

there’s something weirdly attractive about how easy he is when he’s focused like this. when he’s not the loud, cocky version that grates on your nerves. the quieter side. the way his shoulders relax, the small smile that sits on his lips when no one’s watching, the brightness that seems to live under his skin even when he’s not talking.

he’s stupidly pretty like that, when he's just simply existing.

it's like the whole world softens around him without him even trying. it pisses you off how much you notice it.

“you know,” he starts, “for someone who claims to hate me, you spend a lot of time staring.”

“excuse me. i’m not staring at you—im looking at the espresso machine.”

satoru steps closer to you. he’s tall, unfairly so, and he knows how to use it, looming enough to make the space between you feel smaller than it should.

“admit it, princess. you’re impressed.”

“sure, most trust fund babies last two days max.”

he laughs, “you think i’m doing this for the money? please. i could buy this whole campus if i wanted.”

did this asshole just flex on you?

“then why are you here, gojo?” you finally look up at him, arms crossed tight over your chest. “you don’t need the tips. you don’t need the experience. so what’s the angle?”

suddenly he reaches out, tucks a loose strand of hair behind your ear.

“maybe i like coffee,” he murmurs. “or maybe i simply just like seeing you. either way… i’m not going anywhere.”

your heart beats faster, traitor that it is. you slap his hand away, ignoring the way your skin tingles where he touched you.

“touch me again and i’ll steam your fingers instead of the milk.”

“violent,” he says. “i like that about you too.”

before you can fire back, the bell over the door rings again and a group of students shuffle in, saving you from whatever stupid thing was about to come out of your mouth. you turn away from him fast, busying yourself with the register.

by closing time the cafe is empty except for the two of you. pops already left an hour ago, so now it’s just you wiping down the last tables while satoru sweeps the floor.

you’re stacking chairs when he appears beside you without warning, grabbing the one next to yours and flipping it onto the table. his shoulder bumps yours on purpose this time.

“so,” he starts, casual as ever, “what are you doing after this?”

“going home, i’m pretty tired… uh you?”

“boring, you're boring," he yawns, "lemme walk you back to your dorm to be safe.”

“i’ve walked myself home for eight months, gojo. i think i’ll survive without a bodyguard.”

“yeah, but now you don’t have to.” he continues, “c’mon, princess. one walk. i’ll even try to keep the pet names to a minimum.”

you study him for a long moment.

“fine,” you say finally giving in, “annoy me again and i’m pushing you into the nearest bush.”

“deal.” he holds up both hands in mock surrender. “but just so you know… i’m really good at dodging bushes.”

you roll your eyes at that, he never runs out of bullets. the two of you finish closing up in comfortable quiet. he locks the front door while you kill the lights, and when you step out into the cool evening air together, the campus paths are mostly empty, strung with soft golden lamplight.

satoru falls into step beside you, hands shoved in his pockets. for once he’s not filling the silence with cocky one-liners. he stays at your side, occasionally glancing over like he’s making sure you’re still okay with this.

“you know,” he says after a few minutes, “i wasn’t lying earlier about liking seeing you.”

“seeing me glaring at you?”

“exactly.” he bumps your shoulder lightly with his. “it’s cute. you get this little crease between your brows when you’re annoyed. makes me want to annoy you more just to see it.”

“you’re weird, gojo.”

“and i’m also walking you home like a gentleman.”

you snort, preventing yourself from smiling. you would never hear the end of it if he sees it.

the walk to your dorm isn’t long. when you finally reach the front steps he stops, rocking back on his heels with his hands still in his pockets.

“working tomorrow, right?” he asks.

“yeah.”

“night, princess,” he says as he backs away. “sweet dreams. try not to dream of me!”

˚⟡˖ ࣪

you overslept like an idiot.

your alarm didn’t go off, or maybe it did and you smacked it into oblivion in your half asleep state. either way you’re rushing across campus because you completely missed the lecture you usually go to. now the only option left is this later section if you want any chance of catching up.

you slide into the back row just as the professor starts droning on about macroeconomic theory. you’re busy trying to catch your breath and fish out a pen when someone drops into the seat right next to you.

“well well well,” that familiar voice drawls, low enough not to draw the whole room’s attention. “didn’t know you were stalking me now, princess. following me to my lectures?”

you turn your head slowly and there’s satoru.

of fucking course he’s here too.

“you wish,” you hiss under your breath. “i overslept, this is the only section that still had seats. don’t flatter yourself, gojo.”

he leans in a little closer, “sure, sure. keep telling yourself that. but here you are, sitting right next to me when there’s like twenty empty spots further down the row. coincidence? i think not.”

“there weren’t twenty empty spots when i sat down, genius. and move your arm, you’re taking up half the desk.”

“admit it. you saw my pretty head of hair from across the room and couldn’t resist. it’s okay, happens to the best of them.”

“you’re delusional,” you mutter. “i sat here first.”

“well i was already in this section.”

the professor’s voice fades into background noise while satoru keeps up his quiet commentary, whispering dumb observations about the slides or how the guy in the front row is clearly asleep with his eyes open. it’s annoying. it’s also kind of funny, in a way that makes the lecture drag less.

by the time class ends you’re packing up faster than usual, hoping to slip out before he can say anything else, but of course he matches your pace, rushing beside you as you both head down the steps.

“shift starts in thirty, right?” he asks.

“yeah,” you say, adjusting your bag strap. “you don’t start yours till later. go do better things, please.”

“nah, i’ll come with. what if you fall asleep on the way? need to keep you in check..”

“one, that’s not gonna happen. two, i didn’t fall asleep,” you protest, “i overslept. big difference.”

“same difference when it leads to you accidentally stalking me.”

“gojo.”

“princess.”

you guys keep walking, the silence only lasts a few seconds before he breaks it again.

“so what’s your major anyway?” he asks. “gotta be something serious.”

“business with a minor in econ. figured it was the safest bet for actually getting a job after graduation. plus the classes overlap enough that i can knock out credits without killing myself.”

he hums, nodding slowly. “it suits you.”

“what about you?”

“finance, technically. heavy on the econ side too—market theory, behavioral stuff, all that. my family’s been pushing it since i could walk. boring as hell most days but the numbers click for me.”

“huh,” you say after a beat. “explains why you’re weirdly good at the register. and the latte art, actually. ever think about taking art too? you could probably minor in it without even trying.”

satoru raises an eyebrow, clearly surprised you noticed.

“...art? me?”

he continues, “i doodle sometimes when i’m bored in lectures, it’s nothing serious. but yeah… the latte stuff is kinda fun.”

“just saying you’re good at it. might be worth adding to the schedule if finance ever gets too soul sucking.”

“most people just call it extra.” 

“it is extra,” you clarify quickly. “but it’s not bad extra. customers eat it up and you don’t suck at it. if you like that kind of thing, maybe you should.”

“maybe i will. only if you sign up with me though. can’t have you missing out on watching me be naturally talented.”

you say shoving his arm lightly. “in your dreams, gojo.”

“oh it’s definitely in my dreams,” he shoots back. “speaking of dreams, did you see me in your dreams last night? did i look good? hope i didn’t flutter your heart too much.”

˚⟡˖ ࣪

it’s terrifying how easy it is to fall for satoru gojo’s charm.

you’ve been telling yourself for weeks that it’s just the proximity talking, that anyone would start to soften after seeing the same face everyday. but it’s been a month now since he first showed up and the annoyance you felt on day one is slowly fading away.

it’s disarming in a way that feels unfair, like he figured out exactly where your walls are thinnest and decided to camp there.

the thing about satoru is he never pushes too hard, even when he’s being impossible. sure, he’ll tease you about your order of plain black coffee (because he thinks you’re boring) but then he’ll remember how you take it on the days when you're stressed and slide it across the counter before you even ask. a month of this and you’ve caught yourself noticing the way his little habits. he’s a show off and obnoxiously aware of it, but he’s also the guy who stays late to help you mop even when his shift ended an hour ago, who quotes your professor’s driest slides back to you in a deadpan voice that makes you laugh despite yourself.

“morning, princess,” he greets, handing you a cup of coffee.

you smile as you take the cup, “morning, toru.”

his eyes widen just a little at the name, then the grin returns, brighter than ever.

“careful,” he teases. “keep calling me that and i might start thinking you actually like me.”

you blink. “what’d i do?”

“you just called me toru,” he says.

you freeze. “no i didn’t.”

“yes you did.”

“no. i didn’t.”

“yes you did. you said ‘morning, toru.’ clear as day. i heard it with my own two ears.”

“prove it or it never happened.”

“i heard it. that’s my proof.”

“you hear what you want to hear, gojo. it’s what they call selective listening.”

satoru straightens up, crossing his arms over his chest. a dramatic pout settles on his face. bottom lip jutting out with his brows furrowed, those pretty eyes narrowing at you.

“selective listening? really?” he huffs, the pout deepening. “i’m standing right here, princess. you said it. you finally said it and now you’re taking it back? that’s cold. that’s actually cruel.”

you bite the inside of your cheek to keep from laughing. 

“i didn’t say anything,” you reply, “you’re imagining things again. maybe you need less sugar in your system.”

he lets out a dramatic sigh and slumps against the counter. “you’re so mean to me. i make you coffee all the time, i stay late to help you close, i walk you home like a gentleman, and this is how you repay me? denying my existence? denying toru?”

the way he says his own nickname in that whiny tone is ridiculous. “say it again,” he demands, though the demand comes out more like a sulky request. “just once. call me toru again and i’ll drop it. i swear.”

“no.”

“please?”

“absolutely not.”

satoru groans, dragging a hand down his face before peeking at you through his fingers. “you’re killing me. slowly and painfully. i finally get a win… a tiny, beautiful win and you snatch it away like that.” he snaps his fingers for emphasis. “heartless… you’re heartless, princess.”

you can’t help the small laugh that escapes. “you’re such a baby when you don’t get your way.”

“i’m not a baby,” he mutters, “i’m a grown man who just got emotionally devastated by a terrible girl who won’t even admit she likes saying my name.”

you roll your eyes and finally turn back to face him, crossing your arms to match his stance. “fine, satoru. happy now?”

his pout vanishes instantly. “heh i’ll take it.”

all morning the teasing doesn’t stop. every time your eyes meet across the counter he mouths “toru” with exaggerated lips, making you glare at him. you don’t fight him with it though, that’ll be more tiring.

later that afternoon, you remember the big econ test is coming up in a few days.

“hey… have you studied for the test yet?” you ask knowing he has the same class, “the one for macro? i’ve been so buried here i barely looked at the slides.”

satoru glances over at you, one brow raised. “yeah, kinda. skimmed the chapters last night while i was pretending to pay attention in that boring finance seminar.”

you hesitate for a second before pushing forward. “did you happen to take notes for the lecture i missed last week? the one on monetary policy? my notes from the earlier section are trash and i can’t make sense of half the graphs.”

he thinks for a moment, then shakes his head. “nah, i don’t usually take notes. everything sticks up here anyway,” he taps his temple with two fingers. “but my bag’s in the back room. go check if you want—there might be some loose papers or something i scribbled on. i’m not promising anything though.”

you nod going right away. satoru’s bag is tossed carelessly on the small table near the lockers. you unzip it carefully, feeling a little weird going through his stuff even if he said it was okay. there are a couple of notebooks, some loose receipts, and a few crumpled pages from lectures.

you flip through them quickly but nothing looks like the notes you need. then your fingers brush against a smaller sketchbook tucked near the bottom. you pull it out without thinking, flipping it open to the first page. it’s an unfinished drawing—pencil lines forming the rough outline of a face. no eyes yet, no mouth, just the shape of cheekbones and the suggestion of hair falling across a forehead. it’s surprisingly delicate, the strokes careful. you can’t tell who it’s supposed to be; the features are still missing.

it’s probably just some random doodle from class, and shove the sketchbook back where you found it. no notes on monetary policy so nothing useful.

you come back out, “couldn’t find anything. your bag’s a mess by the way.”

satoru shrugs, not looking the least bit surprised. “told you i don’t usually bother. you know—” he turns toward you fully, a mischievous glint lighting up his face, “i could teach you instead. i remember most of it. we could go over the graphs and everything.”

you raise an eyebrow, suspicious. “really? you’d do that?”

“yeah, of course,” satoru says without hesitation, “i’ve got the graphs memorized anyway, also will you hate me less after?”

you narrow your eyes at him, “for the record, i don’t hate you. i just think you’re annoying.”

“same thing,” he pouts, already reaching for a clean cup to start scribbling formulas on the side with a sharpie. “consider me your personal tutor, princess.”

and just like that, satoru found another way to get closer to you.

after closing, the two of you end up at a corner table with textbooks and laptops spread out on the table. the cafe lights are dimmed low, only the warm glow of the hanging bulbs left on, and it feels strangely intimate with just the two of you.

“see this curve?” satoru says, tapping the screen of his laptop with his pen. “that’s the liquidity preference curve. when it shifts like this—” he drags his finger across the trackpad, “—interest rates drop even if money supply stays the same. ya following?”

you lean in closer as you nod slowly, even though the words are starting to blur together.

“mmm kinda… keep going.”

for the next hour he walks you through every graph, every theory, every formula that’s been kicking your ass for weeks. he’s good at it. you like that he explains things in ways that actually stick with you.

satoru has always been scary smart. even as a kid, his past teachers would vouch to that. finishing exams in ten minutes, correcting them on accident, winning academic awards he didn’t even try for. now it’s the same. he barely listens in lectures, he literally doodles instead of taking notes, he zones out half the time, and still somehow walks out with good scores. 

when you get a question right he gives you this little proud smirk that you find cute. what’s more is that he doesn’t gloat when you slump back in your chair after a while, letting out a frustrated sigh and staring at the messy notes in front of you.

“god, i wish i could remember stuff as fast as you do,” you admit quietly, “it takes me forever to get things to stick. i have to reread the same slide ten times and still feel like i’m gonna blank during the test.”

“here’s a tip,” he says, leaning forward on his elbows. “stop trying to memorize it all at once. the brain hates that. instead, explain it out loud like you’re teaching someone who knows nothing. even if it’s just to me or the wall. it forces you to actually understand it instead of just cramming the words.”

he continues, “works way better than staring at slides until your eyes cross. trust me, princess. i’ve tested every lazy method there is.”

you look at him, a tiny smile pulling at your lips despite how tired you feel.

“you’re surprisingly good at this teaching thing.”

“only because it’s you. now c’mon, pick a graph and teach it back to me.”

˚⟡˖ ࣪

you come straight to the cafe after the test, the bell above the door chiming as you push it open with your shoulder. you weren’t even scheduled today, but you wanted to tell him how it went.

“....hey? you’re not on today, right? did i mess up the schedule?"

you slide onto one of the stools at the counter giggling, “test went better than i thought. like actually good.”

his eyes light up instantly at that.

“yeah? see that? knew how fucking smart you were.”

you nod, the excitement bubbling out before you can stop it. “yeah, the way you explained everything made it click in my head during the test. i actually remembered instead of blanking like usual.”

satoru lets out a low whistle, smile widening until it takes over his whole face. “that’s my girl. told you explaining it out loud works. see?”

“genuinely thank you.” 

“stay right there. we’re doing something to celebrate.”

you end up staying until closing. when the last customer leaves and your manager waves goodbye on his way out, satoru flips the sign to closed and turns to you with a nod.

“reward time since you aced that test, i helped a little, so we’re getting ice cream.”

“that’s your big celebration?”

“c’mon, there’s that place two blocks off campus that stays open late. they have that ridiculous pistachio with the chunks of chocolate. you’re gonna love it.”

when you reach the little ice cream shop, you find a small table by the window and settle in after ordering, the sweet cold already melting on your tongue. satoru watches you take the first bite with way too much interest, chin resting on his hand.

“good, right?”

you nod, licking a bit of pistachio off the spoon.

“mhm sooo good.”

he laughs softly at first, but then his eyes drop to your mouth as you lick another slow stripe along the spoon to catch the melting edge.

his throat bobs once, “fuck,” he mutters under his breath, barely loud enough for you to hear.

you glance up, spoon still halfway to your lips. “what?”

satoru suddenly reaches out with his thumb, wiping a tiny smear of melted ice cream from the corner of your mouth.

“you can’t just do that,” he says, “licking the spoon like that, it’s unfair.”

“unfair how?” you oblivious ask. 

“because now all i can think about is how that mouth would feel on something else.” he says it so quietly, so casually too. now heat floods your face. you set the spoon down, suddenly hyper-aware of every inch of space between you and him. 

“sorry,” he murmurs, though the small smirk tugging at his lips says he isn’t sorry at all. “too much?”

you shake your head slowly, biting your lip to keep it from smiling too obviously. the warmth in your cheeks refuses to fade.

“.…i don’t mind?”

satoru’s eyebrows lift, surprise flickering across his face. “you don’t?” he echoes, leaning forward a little more, elbows on the table. “don’t do that, i’m already trying really hard to behave.”

“you never behave.”

“hey, i’ve been on my best behavior for weeks,” he protests as his hand finds yours on the table, “just waiting for you to admit i’m not so bad.”

you squeeze his fingers lightly, eyes meeting his. “you’re not.... most days.”

“most days? that’s the best i’m getting?”

“take it or leave it, gojo.”

he laughs under his breath then his free hand comes up, cupping the side of your face, thumb brushing along your jaw. “i’ll take it for now.”

satoru leans in slow enough that you could pull away if you wanted to.

just like that his mouth meets yours, and the kiss starts soft but the second your lips part he doesn’t hesitate. his tongue slips in first, sliding against yours. he tastes like chocolate and pistachio, sweet and overwhelming in the best way. you kiss him back just as eagerly, fingers tightening around his hand on the table while your other hand finds the front of his shirt, curling into the fabric to pull him closer.

satoru makes a low sound in the back of his throat, tilting his head to deepen the kiss, one hand still cradling your face.

suddenly the worker behind the counter clears his throat loudly, “sorry folks, we’re closing up. you two might wanna take that somewhere else.”

you pull back quickly feeling embarrassed while satoru pulls back just enough to laugh, not even a little embarrassed. “man sorry about that,” he says, “can’t help it. i’m irresistible and she’s a bit greedy tonight.”

you hit his arm playfully, face burning as you stand up fast. “toru!”

˚⟡˖ ࣪

the next few days were different in the best kind of way.

well nothing much changes inside the cafe itself. everything is mostly the same. but satoru? he has zero shame now, and you’ve clearly unlocked something dangerous in him.

his clinginess is a whole new beast.

you’re at the register ringing up an iced caramel latte when he appears right behind you, chest brushing your back as he reaches for a stack of lids he absolutely does not need. his chin drops onto your shoulder like it belongs there.

“missed you during that eight a.m. lecture, princess. thought about skipping just to come bother you earlier.”

you elbow him lightly, “we have the same shift, toru. you saw me forty minutes ago.”

“forty minutes too long,” he murmurs, pressing a quick kiss to the side of your neck before he pulls away. the customer gives you a knowing little smile and you feel your face heat up as you hand over the drink.

he does it constantly now.

during the slow hours he’ll tug you into the back room under the excuse of “checking inventory” and then spend the whole time crowding and kissing you.

“we’re gonna get caught,” you whisper.

“let them catch us,” he says against your mouth. “i’ll just tell pops i was giving you mouth-to-mouth.”

you laugh and shove him harder. “you idiot, he would never believe that.”

he only laughs louder and pulls you back in for one more kiss before the bell over the front door saves you.

the worst part (or maybe the best) is how he switched half his schedule just to match yours. you found out when he casually mentioned it during one afternoon, like it was no big deal.

“my advisor was pissed,” he told you, “said something about ‘not rearranging your entire academic plan for a girlfriend.’ i told her my barista girlfriend was non-negotiable.”

you stared at him. “you changed your schedule?”

“mmhm. dropped the early monday seminar and swapped it for the afternoon one. added a useless elective just so i could keep these exact shifts with you.” he shrugged, completely unbothered. “worth it. now i get to stare at you all day.”

you wanted to scold him for being ridiculous, but the way he said it made something warm bloom in your chest. so instead you just flicked his forehead and called him an idiot again. he caught your wrist before you could pull away and pressed a kiss to your palm.

how freaking adorable.

sometimes he’ll slide a stool over so you can sit for a few minutes while he handles few customers alone, shooting you little winks every time you look up from your phone.

it’s how he takes care of you.

and you like when he takes care of you.

˚⟡˖ ࣪

satoru gojo has always been pretty experienced with girls.

he’s never had to chase too hard. regular hook ups, quick flings during freshman year, girls who wanted the thrill of the rich pretty boy who never seemed to take anything seriously. he knew how to kiss, how to touch, how to make them feel wanted for a night without promising more than that. it was easy, fun, but never deep enough to stick.

none of them ever made his chest feel this tight. none of them made him nervous the way you do.

“is this okay?” he asks as his thumb brushes just under the edge of your bra, waiting, always checking even when his body is clearly aching to keep going.

“yeah…. it’s okay, toru.”

that’s all he needs.

he starts kissing you then trails his mouth down—his hands push your shirt higher, bunching it up under your arms. when he finally tugs your bra down, cool air hits your skin for half a second before his mouth is there.

satoru groans softly against you, the sound vibrating through your chest as he takes one nipple into his mouth. he’s gentle at first, lips closing around the peak. his tongue swirling before he sucks. a little harder, a little hungrier. 

your back arches without thinking, a quiet whimper slipping out. one of your hands finds his hair, fingers tightening in the soft white strands as he switches to the other side, giving it the same attention.

“fuck, you taste so good,” he mumbles against your skin, voice muffled.

“mhmm.… it’s so good baby.”

“yeah?”

he presses open-mouthed kisses across the swell of your breast. his free hand cups the other one, thumb brushing over the wet nipple he just left behind, pinching lightly.

he’s thorough with it. every little sound you make seems to spur him on.

“still okay?” he questions, “tell me if you want me to stop, princess. i’ll stop.”

you shake your head, tugging him back down by his hair.

“don’t stop,” you breathe.

satoru’s smile is slow and a little dazed before he leans in again, mouth finding your breast like he never wants to leave. he’s still careful, still checking in with every new touch, but the clingy, greedy part of him is winning tonight.

he’s making sure you feel exactly how much he’s been holding back.

clothes come off slowly after that, piece by piece, until there’s nothing between you. satoru lies back against the pillows, his hands resting on your hips as you straddle him. he’s hard under you.

you take the lead.

your palms press flat against his chest for balance as you shift your weight, lining yourself up. 

“fuck—” he breathes when you start to sink down, the head of his cock pressing inside you. his head tips back, throat bobbing as he swallows hard. “you’re doing so damn good, baby.”

you go slow at first, letting yourself adjust to the stretch. the fullness is overwhelming in the best way, once you’re seated fully, you pause for a few seconds.

then you start to move.

you roll your hips experimentally, finding a rhythm that makes pleasure spark up inside you. satoru’s hands slide up your sides, thumbs brushing the undersides of your breasts. he contains himself so he doesn’t take over. he wants to let you set the pace, let you ride him exactly how you want.

“that’s it, use me, baby. however you need.”

the words send a shiver through you. you brace your hands on his chest and start moving faster, lifting up and sinking back down. satoru’s eyes stay locked on your face, then drift lower to watch where you’re joined, the way your body takes him in again and again.

his grip tightens on your hips when you start grinding down instead of bouncing, circling your hips so his cock rubs against that sensitive spot inside you.

“a–am i doing good, toru?”

“god, yes,” he pants. “so pretty riding me like this.”

you feel a rush of confidence at his words. you plant your feet on the bed, hands still braced on his chest, and start riding him faster. your hips snap down harder and quicker as satoru’s head presses back into the pillow, a low, broken moan slipping out of him.

“you’re insane f–for this,” he groans, he sounds wrecked.

“shh you’re so big toru.” you whine too, “feel so soo good.”

you don’t slow down, continuing to ride him hard, bouncing on his cock like crazy. 

you feel the thick head of his cock kissing that spongy spot inside you, satoru’s fingers dig harder into the soft flesh of your hips anchoring himself while you use him. his abs tense and ripple beneath your palms every time you slam down.

“fuck baby, slow down or i’m gonna—” his words cut off into a guttural moan when you purposely clench around him. “oh you evil woman.”

you giggle in response letting out a high, needy whimper after. 

“im sorry,” you gasp, voice breathy.. “can feel you everywhere.”

satoru’s eyes roll back for a second. he looks a mess. his white hair sticks to his forehead, damp with sweat, and his mouth falls open on another moan.

“shit h-hahh princess, your pussy’s—ah so greedy tonight.”

you’re breathless, thighs burning, but the ache only adds to the pleasure. you brace one hand on his chest and reach back with the other, cupping his balls gently, rolling them in your palm while you keep bouncing.

oh you are so killing him.

“toru you’re twitching so much inside me,” you tease. “feels so good when you throb like that…”

he lets out a string of curses in response while your breasts bounce with every movement, nipples still shiny from his earlier attention, and satoru can’t stop staring, mesmerized and completely undone.

“i’m—i’m so close,” you say, “toru—come with me please!”

“yeah fuck, yeah— i’m right there with you, princess,” he replies, voice breaking on the last word. his thumb finds your clit, rubbing fast circles that match your crazy pace. “come on my cock, baby. mess with it…shit!”

the pleasure pushes you over the edge first, milking his cock as your orgasm hits you. satoru follows right after you, his back arches off the bed as he comes hard, thick spurts of heat flooding deep inside you. 

finally, you collapse forward onto his chest as both of you gasp for air. satoru’s arms wrap around you instantly, holding you tight against him. he presses open-mouthed kisses to your shoulder, your neck, anywhere he can reach.

“holy fuck… you just destroyed me,” he whispers, voice hoarse and awed. “never felt anything like that. you’re gonna be the death of me, princess.” 

you smile against his damp chest, pressing a soft kiss right over his racing heart.

“i think i like being in charge.”

“yeah? then next time you can tie me down if you want. just give me five minutes first. i think my soul left my body for a second there.”

you laugh softly, letting your eyes drift shut while his warmth surrounds you.

˚⟡˖ ࣪

“wait, since when has gojo been a barista?” you hear one girl say, laughing like it’s the funniest thing ever. “him out of all people? no fucking way.”

you’re drying your hands when voices filter in from the stalls behind you. two girls chatting loud enough that you can’t ignore it even if you wanted to.

the other one snorts, “i know, right? i heard from his friends that he only applied there to sleep with one of the workers.”

your stomach twists a little, but you tell yourself it’s nothing.

campus gossip is always exaggerated.

“he’s probably quitting soon anyway,” the first girl continues, “what’s a trust fund baby doing slinging lattes?”

“like play charming until he gets what he wants then bounce?”

their laughter echoes off the tiles as they leave and you're left staring at your reflection again. you rethink everything in the span of thirty seconds—was it all calculated? did he really just do everything to sleep with you? 

you show up to your shift pissy as hell, you hear satoru humming while he wipes down the espresso machine. he looks up waving at you, and normally that makes your chest warm. today it makes you want to throw a cup at his head.

“there you are,” he says, “you look cute when you’re all serious like this—did you run here or something?”

you brush past him without a word, grabbing the rag from the sink and attacking the already clean counter. satoru’s grin falters a little bit, blue eyes narrowing already picking up your mood.

“whoa, okay. bad day?” he asks, reaching out to touch you and you flinch away.

“don’t,” you mutter, keeping your eyes on the counter, scrubbing harder. “just not in the mood, gojo.”

he straightens up, his cocky energy disappearing.

“gojo?” he echoes, “what happened to satoru? you’ve been calling me that for days. did i do something? because if i did, tell me so i can fix it. i’m not above begging, princess. i’ll get on my knees right here.”

“nothing happened,” you lie, because admitting you overheard some random girls in the bathroom is affecting you feels stupid. “i’m just tired, you wouldn’t get it.”

satoru doesn’t buy it. he steps closer anyway, “try me,” he says softly, all the usual bravado dialed down. “i’m good at a lot of things, but i’m especially good at listening to you. baby, please talk to me. did someone say something? because if they did—”

“i said it’s nothing, gojo.” your voice comes out louder than you meant, and you see the way his shoulders tense just a little.

he nods, stepping back with his hands raised in that mock surrender. “alright, message received. whatever this is… we’ll figure it out later.”

well that didn’t happen.

the whole day you did your best ignoring him.

before he could even ask what you guys were doing after shift you made a cheap excuse to pops about how you felt sick (it was an obvious lie) and needed to leave early. pops just shrugged and told you to go rest. satoru watched you grab your bag, mouth opening to say something, but you were already out the door before he could get a word in.

later that night satoru is sprawled on suguru’s couch, one arm thrown over his eyes, the other gesturing wildly as he rants.

“everything was going so well, man. like actually well,” he groans, voice muffled behind his arm. “she's even initiating stuff, now she’s calling me gojo again? dude, fuck gojo. i hate that.”

suguru sits across from him, legs crossed, very used to satoru’s dramatic rants. he’s just not used to it being about a girl.

“so what happened?”

“i don’t know!” satoru sits up suddenly. “she flinched when i tried to touch her. flinched. like i’m some random creep.”

he drags both hands down his face, groaning louder.

“she even left early. made up some bullshit excuse to dip before i could even ask what we were doing after. she’s been staying at my dorm for days, suguru. my bed still smells like her shampoo. i had snacks stocked for her. and now she’s shutting down? i don’t get it.”

“you sure you didn’t do something stupid?”

“i swear i didn’t.” satoru flops back down dramatically. “i’m losing my mind. she went from soft and clingy back to hating me in like twelve hours. what the fuck did i miss? i really like her. like…. a lot. more than i thought i could.”

suguru hums, “if it’s not you, then maybe somebody else?”

“if someone said something to her i’m going to lose it,” he mutters. “i finally got her to let me in and now she’s pulling away again. i don’t know how to fix something when she won’t even tell me what’s broken.”

“look, relationships aren’t always smooth. problems come up, it’s normal. the difference is whether you actually talk about it or let it fester.”

˚⟡˖ ࣪

your morning has been irritating as hell.

you woke up cranky, then you spilled coffee on your shirt while rushing, you had to change, and still barely made it to your first lecture on time. every little thing felt like it was piling up—the crowded hallways, the professor droning on about stuff you already knew, and the constant replay of yesterday, everything was just irritating.

so by the time of your second morning class, you’re already exhausted and on edge.

you pull out your notebook when someone drops into the seat right next to you.

satoru slips into the seat beside you without a word.

he's not even in this class.

he looks exhausted, there are faint dark circles shadowing the usual brightness of his gaze, his white hair is messier than normal like he rolled straight out of bed and didn’t bother fixing it. he probably didn’t sleep much, if at all.

he doesn’t say anything at first. he pulls a small sticky note pad from his bag, scribbles something quickly with a pen, and slides it over to you under the desk.

are you still mad? :(

you glance at the note, then at him. his eyes are already on you, waiting.

you write back, keeping your handwriting small.

no i was never mad

he reads it, eyebrows pulling together. he scribbles again, passing it back.

but you were. look at your mad face right now.

you feel the irritation flare again, but you keep your face neutral and write:

you shouldn’t even be here. im. not. mad.

he huffs softly as another note slides your way.

see. you clearly are. can we please talk after?

you stare at the words for a second longer. part of you wants to stay stubborn. the other part hates how tired he looks.

later.

satoru reads it and nods before tucking the sticky notes away.

the rest of the lecture goes, but satoru stays right there beside you the whole time.

midway through, he opens his notebook and starts sketching again. first he shows you a proper drawing of you. it's the same unfinished face you had seen weeks ago when you dug through his bag looking for notes. now it’s finished. your eyes are there and your mouth curved in a smile.

you admire how pretty he sees you. then he flips the page without warning.

the next sketch is completely different—you again, but this time with a exaggerated angry face. brows furrowed deep, eyes narrowed, lips pressed into a tight line, tiny cartoon steam lines rising from your head. it’s ridiculous and accurate at the same time. he bites his lip to keep from laughing out loud, shoulders shaking quietly as he watches your reaction.

you glare at the page and he quickly flips the notebook shut before the professor notices.

when class finally ends, the two of you walk across campus until you reach a quiet stretch of grass near the edge of the field, far enough from the main paths. you drop down onto the grass first. satoru follows, sitting close but not too close, giving you space.

he reaches over and plucks a small white wildflower growing near his knee. he twirls it once between his fingers before holding it out to you, a tired smile on his face.

you look at the flower, then at him. it’s stupidly cute.

you flick it away with two fingers and the flower flutters to the grass between you.

satoru watches it fall before finally talking.

“okay,” he says quietly, “talk to me. what’s going on? you’ve been shutting me out since yesterday and i’m losing my mind here.”

you pull at a blade of grass, twisting it between your fingers.

“when are you quitting?”

satoru blinks, caught off guard. “quitting what? the cafe?”

you nod, still not looking at him.

he lets out a short, confused laugh. “is that why you’re mad? you want me to quit? because if that’s it, i can—”

“no—” you cut him off fast, finally turning to face him. “did you only start working there because you wanted to sleep with me?”

the question hangs between you. satoru’s expression changes. hurt flickers across his face before he schools it.

“that’s what this is about?” he asks, “you think this whole thing was just some long game to get in your pants?”

you don’t answer right away, the gossip from the bathroom echoes in your head again.

“is that really what you think of me?”

you swallow. “i heard some girls talking in the bathroom yesterday,” you admit, voice low. “they were laughing about how you only took the job to sleep with one of the baristas. that you’d charm your way in, get what you wanted, and then quit once it happened. it sounded… exactly like something people would say about you.”

“fuck,” he mutters. “fucking gossips.”

“look, i’m not gonna pretend i haven’t had that reputation. people assume the worst. and yeah—back in freshman year i wasn’t exactly turning down easy attention. but that’s not what this is. not with you.”

“when i walked into that cafe the first time, i was just fucking around. i saw you looking annoyed and thought it’d be fun to push your buttons. but then you pushed back and i couldn’t stop thinking about it. about you.”

“so i came back. then i applied for the job because i wanted an excuse to see you more. not to sleep with you and bounce—to actually be around you. i stayed because every shift with you made the day better. even when you were glaring at me. especially when you were glaring at me.”

you glance away, toward the empty field. “you could’ve just asked me out like a normal person.”

“and risk you telling me to fuck off on day one? no thanks. working there let me prove i wasn’t just fucking around. also you know that's not me.”

he pauses, then adds, “and yeah, i wanted you. i still do. i want all of it.”

satoru leans forward a little, elbows on his knees.

“i switched my entire schedule around for you. i told you how my advisor thinks i’ve lost it. i turned down better internships because they’d mess with our shifts. if all i wanted was sex, i wouldn’t still be here begging you to talk to me.”

“so no, i’m not quitting,” he says quietly. “not unless you tell me to. and even then i’d probably just sit outside the cafe and wait for you like a loser. but i’m not here because it’s convenient or because i’m trying to win some game. i’m here because i like you. a lot. more than i thought i could like anyone.”

he reaches out slowly, “i’m not gonna push if you need space. but tell me what you need from me right now. yell at me, ignore me, whatever. just don’t shut me out and leave me guessing.”

you stare at his open hand for a long moment. the irritation is still there, tangled up with the embarrassment of letting petty gossip get to you.

finally you sigh, shoulders dropping.

“i hated thinking it was all fake,” you mutter. “that the second you got what you wanted, you’d disappear and i’d be the idiot who fell for it.”

“not fake,” he says immediately. “none of it.”

you hesitate, then reach out and flick his open palm lightly with your fingers, enough to make him smile.

“you’re still annoying,” you tell him.

“yeah?” his grin comes back. “good.... means we’re getting somewhere.”

“you look like shit, by the way.”

“didn’t sleep much,” he admits, shrugging. “kept replaying yesterday trying to figure out what i messed up.”

“sorry for being so gullible.” you says knowing how that’s all on you.

“as long as you stop calling me gojo when you’re mad. hurts more than it should.”

you roll your eyes but the corner of your mouth lifts anyway.

the two of you stay on the field a little longer, the conversation flowing—back to classes, to stupid customer stories from the cafe, to nothing important at all.

when you finally stand up to head back toward campus, he falls into step next to you like always.

“so,” he says after a minute, voice casual again, “still mad?”

you glance sideways at him.

“not as much.”

“progress,” he declares, grinning. “i’ll take it.”

“hey,” he murmurs.

you turn to face him, he’s pouting extra hard....

“can i please kiss you now?” he pleads, “please. please. please”

instead of answering with words, you step forward, slide your free hand up to the front of his shirt, and tug him down the rest of the way.

satoru meets you halfway.

his hand comes up to cup the side of your face as his lips move against yours. he kisses you gentler than usual and you kiss him back just as softly, fingers curling tighter into his shirt.

when you finally pull apart, foreheads still touching, satoru lets out a shaky little breath against your mouth.

“thank you,” he whispers, the words barely there. his thumb brushes your cheek once more. “fuck, i missed that.”

you smile against his lips.

“don’t make me flick another flower at you.”

he presses one last gentle kiss to your forehead before straightening up.

“next rumor, i’m spreading how badly i’m in love with you and how you equally feel the same and can never live without me.”