Hella

With a sigh, you click your seatbelt into place and flip open the menu, genuinely trying to build a case for why this is the worst decision you’ve ever made. Unfortunately, it is hard to maintain righteous regret when the menu has no prices on it. Not one. Just elegant font, artful descriptions, and ingredients arranged like poetry.

…you’d booked economy.

Economy.

But then he’d upgraded your tickets last minute like that was a normal thing a person did — insisting you fly with him. Like swapping someone’s middle seat for a first-class cocoon with a duvet and a champagne flute was just… hospitality.

“Um… Satoru?” Your brow arches as you take in the absurdly extravagant menu. “How much does this cost, exactly…?” He doesn’t even glance up. “Mm? Oh.” Flipping a page, his hand waves lazily. “Don’t worry about it.”

…

Don’t worry about it?

You are very much worrying about it. Because how the hell does an intern afford this?! You know how much interns make at your company; you’ve worked with HR, signed off on the numbers — and it is categorically not this.

But fine. Whatever. That is, somehow, the least of your problems right now. And your mind was already veering back toward the more immediate catastrophe currently taxiing toward the runway.

Your family.

“Right… well. Anyways, Satoru,” you say, setting the menu down. “We should probably establish the basics before we get to Japan and—”

“—what do you like to eat?”

You blink, lips parting.

“I—sorry…what?”

“I like sweets,” he says, turning toward you. A toothy grin spreads across his face, dimples peeking. “Let’s see… cake, cream buns, mochi…” he muses. “Oh! Especially kikifuku mochi, it’s the best.” He nods solemnly. “Honestly, I think it’s the whipped cream inside that really makes the difference.”

Your brow furrows as you stare at him.

…when did this become a TED talk about sugar? You were trying to discuss a plan, and he is out here curating a dessert menu like the most pressing crisis of the next ten hours is pastry selection.

“Okay…? That’s nice. But we should talk about—”

“Food,” he states, picking up the menu you just set down. He flips it open and angles it back toward you like that is the only sensible conversation available. “C’mon. What do you like? Not what you’ll settle for… what you’ll actually like. Ten hours is a long time, sweetheart.”

Brow knitting, you frown.

He cannot be serious. That is not the priority right now.

“That—that can wait. We need to—”

“—establish the basics, yeah.” He rolls his eyes and tips his head back against the seat, like your resistance is personally exhausting him. But then his gaze flicks back, amused. “And I’m just saying food is a basic necessity. Because you skip lunch when you’re busy, forget breakfast when you’re anxious, and then act shocked when you feel like shit three hours later. So, eat.” He places the menu back in your hands. “Preferably something that isn’t stale pretzels, yeah?”

Something hot and startled climbs your neck so fast it’s almost impressive. Your mouth opens, but whatever rebuttal is forming never makes it. Because before you can recover—

“Honestly, I gotta say… the soba is pretty good too, actually.” His face is suddenly just over your shoulder, murmuring close enough that you feel the heat of him against your ear. “If you don’t want the wagyu, that is. Wait—scratch that. Maybe ramen…?” His finger traces a line on the menu, pale lashes lowering, tongue clinking gently. “Mm… never mind. Too much broth and there could be turbulence.”

Your whole body stiffens. Because his closeness does not feel unwelcome. Which is exactly the problem.

…when did he get so comfortable?!

“…stop doing that,” you mutter, pulling back. He looks over, the picture of innocence. “Doing what?”

Your lips purse.

“I dunno. Being…”  But the word dissolves, and you're reaching for your water, needing something to do with your hands. “So… comfortable. So—” You cut yourself off with a small huff. “Like this.”

His grin is unbearable, lazy and crooked.

“Oh?” he reclines. “Like what, baby?”

You sputter into your water.

“Baby?”

You’re choking on your drink, and Satoru looks entirely too pleased with himself. He's chuckling, leaning over without a second thought, one hand settling warm between your shoulder blades.

“Awwh… what’s this? Don’t be shy now,” he hums, the picture of helpfulness, rubbing slow circles with a sigh. “We’re gonna have to get way cozier than this if I’m playing boyfriend. Just establishing the basics, yeah?”

As you straighten with a glare, you can tell without a doubt he is openly enjoying himself. That grin hasn’t moved a goddamn inch.

…asshole.

Huffing, you settle back into your seat. And it isn’t long before the plane shudders gently away from the gate, inching out onto the runway with that slow, terrible sense of inevitability that only air travel is capable of producing.

“Ladies and gentlemen, at this time please ensure your seatbelt is securely fastened… flight attendants, prepare for departure.”

The overhead announcement crackles through the cabin, too polished to be comforting. While beneath you, the whole plane seems to draw tight, a low hum building through the floor, climbing up through your seat.

You exhale, letting your eyes fall shut. Just long enough to pretend you weren’t here. Just long enough to avoid the window, the runway, and the deeply unhelpful fact that your brain liked to save all its worst thoughts for takeoff.

…like how first class wasn’t exactly known for improving your odds. Like how takeoff and landing were statistically the worst parts. Like how the engine sounded different now, probably… maybe, and—

“Hey.”

Satoru’s voice came quieter this time; enough to pull your eyes back open. When you look over, that vibrant blue is already watching you — steady, unhurried, like he has been waiting for you to surface.

“Are you… nervous?”

“What? N-No…” you lie, huffing. His brow arches, sensing your bullshit. “Okay… then why are you doing that with your hands?”

Following his gaze, your fingers had folded into fists without even noticing, in that particular way they always do when you’re trying to physically hold yourself together.

Fuck.

It’s ridiculous, really. You knew flying was statistically safe! Knew it the way you knew balance sheets and quarterly projections and the exact percentage margins that kept departments alive. And yet, takeoff had always felt like the part where logic starts losing altitude.

“Oh…” A small, awkward laugh slips out, just as the engine begins to roar. You smooth your palms over your trembling thighs, shouting over it. “It’s fine! Really! I just… um—I guess I don’t particularly like takeoff, is all!”

His expression softens in a way you weren’t braced for. But before he can answer, the plane surges forward and your eyes squeeze shut. A massive force presses you back into the seat while vibrations climb through the floor and up your spine.

It’s terrible. Completely terrible. But somewhere in the middle of it, a warm hand slides against yours. It takes you a second to register his fingers lacing between your own, and the moment his thumb brushes the back of your hand, you instinctively grip him tighter.

Your eyes stay shut, but you feel the plane lift hard and fast into the sky. And somewhere between the roar of the engines and that awful pull in your stomach, the slow circles his thumb traces against your skin become the only thing your body seems willing to trust.

By the time the pressure eases and the plane finally levels out, your lungs have only just remembered how to work. For a second, neither of you moves until—

“…better?”

His voice brushes the quiet between you. You blink your eyes open.

“Yeah…” you whisper. “Um… thanks.”

He smiles. “Sure.”

That thumb brushes one last time against the back of your hand before finally pulling away, dropping back into his lap with a simple nod like it had been nothing. And the loss of that warmth was immediate enough to sting.

Oh…

He’s… annoyingly good at taking care of you. And worse, your body had recognized it before your brain could file the proper objection — clinging first, thinking later, like comfort was something you could afford to trust.

Maybe the altitude was messing with your head…

Ten hours was a long time.

Long enough to work out the safest parts of the lie. How long you’ve been together. Where you met. Which version of the truth felt neat enough to survive one wedding weekend without collapsing under the weight of follow-up questions.

It was just… not long enough, apparently, for the parts that actually mattered.

“Soooo… question…” Satoru had stretched lazily, turning his glass between two fingers as he glanced over. “What exactly should I expect when we land?”

You kept your attention on the blanket across your lap, flattening a wrinkle. “Probably… jet lag?” you mutter sarcastically, avoiding his gaze, fussing with the fabric. “And a long enough drive to regret everything in peace.”

He snorts. “Well, yeah. Obviously.” Ice clicked softly as he tipped his glass, shifting toward you. “Not what I meant, though. I meant with your family.”

And when the warmth of his attention settled against the side of your face — you hesitated. Because it was patient in a way that only made it harder to meet. Patient in the way of someone who’s learned that pushing doesn’t work on you. Which you’re unsure is better, or worse. Because waiting means he’s paying attention, and paying attention means he’ll notice when you crack.

“We’ll just… talk about that later,” you huffed, tugging the blanket a little higher before turning toward the window. “I’m tired. Gonna try to sleep.”

Later… yeah. Later.

But by baggage claim, you were running out of runway. You had to do it soon. Get it over with. Preferably somewhere between the airport and your hotel, where you could spit it out quickly and not have to watch his face too closely while you did.

So now, Satoru yawns beside the conveyor belt, tired blue eyes skimming the slow parade of suitcases rounding the carousel. Hands in his pockets, shoulders loose, posture easy in a way that only makes you more tense. You stand there staring at the back of him, fingers hooked tight in the seam of your shirt.

Now.

“Hey… Satoru?” you mumble. “Hm?” His gaze lands on your luggage and he’s already stepping forward to grab it. “Um, well…” You hesitate. “About my family… I—"

“—oh! Look—look! There they are!”

The moment her voice rings through the terminal, everything inside you locks. You turn, and for one wild second, you genuinely wonder if it’s too late to get back on that godforsaken plane.

Satoru hauls your suitcase off the belt.

“What about them?” he asks, turning when you stop short. Then he sees your face. “…sweetheart?” His brows furrow, following your line of sight — and there is your mother, cutting through the crowd with Trish beside her, moving with the kind of delighted urgency you aren’t prepared to see for at least another twelve hours.

No.

No, no, no.

“—oh my god, there he is!” Your mother walks straight past you — past you — and both hands are wrapping around Satoru’s like he’s who she came for. "Oh, he's handsome. Trish, look—"

It’s no surprise, really, that you’re a second thought. You’ve been a second thought since before you could name it. But that isn’t the wound that matters at this particular moment. The bigger problem is that she’s here.

…why the hell is she here?!

You were supposed to have more time—

“—oh my god,” Trish breathes to you. “Damn. girl. He’s, like… stupid handsome.” And Satoru’s grin went smug, drawling. “Oh, please, ladies. Keep the compliments coming. I’m feeling very welcomed~”

Your mother giggles. “Handsome and funny. Oh, he’s a charmer,” she says, smacking his shoulder playfully. Though the laugh lands bitter. “God. Why on earth would she keep you from me?! I mean… wow. I was beginning to think she’d die alone.”

The words hit like a slap dressed as a joke.

Satoru blinks, the smile faltering for half a second, head tilting imperceptibly.

…great.

Of fucking course she’d say something like that within the first thirty seconds.

“Mother… what—” your voice wavers, eyes falling shut with a swallow. “Sorry. I just—what are you both doing here?”

She did a tiny double take, like she’d only just remembered you were standing there. “Oh, honey…” A hand waves, scoffing. “Don’t be silly—of course we’re here to pick you up! God. I wouldn’t leave you stranded at the airport,” she snorts.

Oh, right.

So she wouldn’t abandon you at an airport. Just in another country.

…good to know there's a line somewhere.

“Besides, why don’t you both just stay with us instead?” she’s already reaching for Satoru’s hand again, bright with the idea. “We’ve got a guest room ready, and I’d love for the chance to talk to you.”

Your body goes rigid.

Oh no. Fuck no.

Anything but that.

Satoru must have seen it written across your face — that particular shade of panic —because his eyes cut to you for only half a second before he slips his hand free, turning back to your mother with a smile already in place.

“That’s incredibly kind, ma’am,” he says, tugging you into his side with an ease that shouldn’t have felt as steadying as it did. “But we’re staying pretty close to my family’s place, and I should probably swing by tomorrow morning.” He rubs the back of his neck with a theatrical groan. “It’s been a few months since I’ve seen my father, and trust me, I’ll regret it if he finds out I came to Tokyo and didn’t stop by, y’know?”

Apparently, ten hours isn’t long enough for the parts that actually matter, because…

“Oh? Your family’s place?” your mother repeats, brows lifting. “So, are they here in Tokyo too, then?” He nods. “Mm, yeah. Pretty much all the Gojos are—at least on my dad’s side. My mom’s in Kyoto.”

…

Wait.

Did he just say Gojo?

As in—

Your boss’s family?!

No. Absolutely not. Between the jet lag, the shock, and your mother still glowing beside you, your brain simply does not have the bandwidth for this. Your lips part, blinking like that might somehow rearrange what he just said into something less insane.

Nothing comes out.

“Gojo…” your mother repeats, brows knitting. “Why does that sound familiar?” Trish blinks. "Wait—like… Gojo Corporation Gojo?!"

Satoru’s grin widens. “Yep. That’d be us.”

“Ah!” Your mother snaps her fingers. “Gojo Corporation. Yes—of course! Silly me. I thought that name seemed familiar…”

And now, the hurt arrives before the shock finishes landing — ugly and precise and aimed at the exact spot that never heals right. Five years of your work, your career, your life inside that building. But she only knows it because a handsome man says it in a terminal.

You stare. “Mom… you can't be serious?” and the hurt in your own voice catches you off guard. “I’ve… I've literally been working at Gojo Corporation for the last five years.”

Fuck...

Get it together.

Out of the corner of your eye, Satoru watches you. But your mother moves on like you’re invisible.

“Oh Satoru Gojo, you just keep getting better and better.” You feel him hesitating as she tugs eagerly. “Come—come! At least let us drive you both to the hotel, hm? There’s so much I need to hear and—”

“—sorry ma’am, no.”

Satoru’s pulling you into him like the decision has already been made. And you blink while his fingers smooth gently through your hair, tipping your chin up with a long finger.

“Honestly, I’m beat…” His thumb brushes your cheek, gaze searching your face. “…aren’t you, love?”

There’s a hitch in your breath

Oh.

So… you’re not invisible?

As it leaves you in a quiet shudder, for one suspended second, there is nothing but that soft blue of his eyes and the way they’ve gone gentle for you. All you can do is nod — and a single tear slips free before you can stop it.

He tucks you against his chest, hiding your face, and flashes a grin back at your mother.

“Ugh… I appreciate you coming to get us, but we’ve been up for way too long and—” Glancing down at his phone, he lets out a small laugh. “Ah. Perfect timing! Would ya look at that—my driver’s here.” A tug of your hand. “But we’ll catch up tomorrow, yeah? Bye, ladies~”

Your legs are moving on their own, and you don’t even catch the expression on your mother’s face. Can’t. Not when your pulse is still tripping over itself. Not when his hand wraps around yours like letting go isn’t even a question.

The suitcase rolled behind you, with the airport crowd bustling. While those bright eyes flicked back, making sure you were still there every few steps.

“C’mon, pretty girl… we’re almost there,” he murmurs. “Just stay with me, okay? Eyes on me, yeah?”

And… you weren’t sure why he lowered his voice. Not when they were already well out of earshot. You only know that… it nearly undoes you all over again.

By the time the limo pulls away from the curb, Satoru had already figured out two things: your mother was awful, and somehow, he’d gotten you out of there only to realize he hadn’t fully brought you back with him.

It’s the furrow in your brow that gets him first… then the wobble in your lip — the one you think you’re hiding, the one you always think you’re hiding. You haven’t said a word since climbing into the backseat. Haven’t looked at him either. Instead, you stay toward the window, watching Tokyo slip by in blurred ribbons of light, glowing against the glass in streaks of neon. A city that has no business being that beautiful when you look that broken.

…shit. Should he crack a joke? No. Maybe not.

But asking if you’re okay feels useless. You obviously aren’t. And worse, saying it out loud feels like the fastest way to make you disappear even further behind that window — to watch you pull the shutters down the way you always do.

“Well, then…” A hand drags through his hair as he lets his head fall back against the seat. “Um… gotta say—your family really believes in making an entrance, huh? Talk about—”

“—I thought your name was Satoru Geto.”

He blinks.

“Huh?”

Your gaze finally pulls from the window, landing on him, and the hurt in it is so carefully contained it almost looks like composure. Almost. Except he’s spent four months learning to read you, and composure doesn’t tremble at the edges like that.

“…Satoru Geto,” you mutter carefully. “That’s the name on your employee record, no?”

Oh...

Right. That.

“…is it?” His gaze slips away, fingers scratching at the back of his neck. “Yeah… um. About that. Geto’s actually my best friend. I just used his last name because the initials matched.” He’s flopping back against the seat with a small shrug, one arm slinging across the top. “Made it easier to sign off on stuff that way. Gotta work smarter, not harder, right?”

And tilting his head, a crooked grin tugs at the corner of his lips.

Yours doesn’t move.

“Right,” you deadpan, turning back toward the window. “So your plan was to just let me keep calling you that.”

You don’t say it like a question.

…is it a question?

Satoru’s brow furrows at the hurt threaded beneath the words. “No… I—” he huffs, hands dropping into his lap. “Obviously I had to hide it while I was working with you, but my legal name was on the boarding pass I gave you, so it’s not like I was actively hiding it, sweetheart.”

You scoff under your breath. “Oh. Cool. So I was just supposed to… what—figure that out on my own?” And suddenly, your voice is doing this awful thing now — losing its clean, controlled shape, slipping into something thinner. Hotter.

He hears it immediately, sighing. “Sorry… but why is this the problem?” he asks, more confused than anything now. “Help me out here. I mean… I thought your mom was what had you upset back there.”

Your eyes roll. “Your name is literally on my paycheck, Gojo. How is that not a problem?”

He stares. Genuinely stares. Because for a second, he doesn’t know what to do with that. To him, his name was just a name. The company was just a company. Status had always felt like something other people got weird about first. Not him.

So, like an idiot, he goes for the joke.

“Well… technically, I think my name is on a lot of paychecks, so—"

“—Jesus Christ, am I a fucking joke to you?”

And the humor drops out of him so fast it almost startles you. Shit. That backfired tremendously. “Whoa—what? No!” He straightens, brow furrowing. “No, no, no. God, no—sweetheart, of course not. Why would you think that?”

You’re looking away before he can see what that does to your face, because you hate how quickly his voice goes from careless to cracked. Hate yourself for making it do that.

Damnit.

You know that wasn’t fair. He had just gotten you out of there. Seen you unraveling in that airport and stepped in without making it worse. Without making you ask. And still — somehow, in the span of twenty minutes, the whole world had shifted under your feet. Him, your mother, that last name. This damn… wedding.

…why does everything feel so hard to sort through right now?

“Just…” You swallow, shifting towards the window, blinking back tears. “Sorry. Don’t talk to me right now.”

His expression softens. “C’mon… no,” he murmurs. “Please… please don’t be like that. I’m sorry you found out this way. I should’ve told you sooner.”

The crack in his voice makes everything unbearable, and outside, Tokyo keeps sliding past in fractured light. So, you look at the window because it’s easier than looking at him. Easier than trying to untangle the mess that is your life. Easier than naming what specifically hurts so much.

And easier than asking yourself what, exactly, had been real and what had only ever been off the record.

Clearly, the universe looked at the absolute clusterfuck of this trip and decided it wasn't finished with you yet.

Because apparently, your fake boyfriend had a limo. Your fake boyfriend, who can upgrade your tickets to first class like it’s nothing. Your fake boyfriend who is also, apparently, your boss — and decided to book you at a luxurious five-star hotel in Tokyo while somehow neglecting to mention that part too.

Whatever. Either way, you're too tired to care. Or maybe just too tired to forgive him — despite the way the marble floors and soft gold light whisper luxury around you like an apology you didn’t ask for.

All you know, is that by the time the two of you make it upstairs, your silence was beyond awkward and hardened into something heavier. More deliberate. So, the moment the suite door clicks open, you’re beelining to the bedroom.

“Goodnight.”

You mutter it under your breath, shutting yourself into the bathroom before he can answer you. And when you change into your pajamas, you try not to linger in the mirror — because your whole face feels tight from holding yourself together, from trying not to cry for what feels like the hundredth time tonight. And as if that weren't enough, the wedding is tomorrow.

…how the fuck are you supposed to get through that too?!

With an exhausted sigh, you push open the bedroom door, reach back to kill the light, and—

“…what are you doing?” you deadpan, stopping cold in the entryway. Because at the foot of the bed, you find Satoru in sweats, crouched on the floor, carefully spreading a blanket across it. He smooths the corner flat and those blue eyes flick up, then drop back down.

“Making myself comfortable?”

…

That explains absolutely nothing.

Your brows pull together. “Okaaay…? Clearly. But—why?” Rolling your eyes, your arms cross. “Don’t tell me you fucked up the reservation. I mean, you’re the one who booked this place. Don’t you have your own suite?”

“Yup. I do.”

He says it so easily it almost irritates you more. You watch him fluff the pillow and set it on the floor like this is perfectly normal behavior for a man who can apparently summon private drivers and spend obscene amounts of money at the drop of a hat.

Your teeth grit. “Great. So go lay in your bed.”

Exhaling through his nose, he lowers himself onto the marble like it’s no different than a mattress. One arm tucks behind his head, the other rests over his stomach, all lazy limbs and impossible calm.

“Nah,” he says. “Think I’ll sleep here. Promised you wouldn’t be alone this trip.”

And the universe, apparently, hadn't taken quite enough from your dignity yet. Because you find yourself genuinely speechless.

For a moment, you just stand there looking at him — at the ridiculous length of him stretched out across the floor, at the fact that he has a whole bed somewhere else and was still choosing this — and at how he somehow managed to make the gesture feel casual enough not to embarrass you and sincere enough that it did anyway.

“…suit yourself,” you grumble, stomping over to your bed.

You yank the covers back and climb in with an irritated sweep, reaching over to find the light. Darkness folds over the room in one soft rush, and for a while, there’s only the low hum of air conditioning and the distant glow of Tokyo bleeding dimly through the curtains. Somewhere beneath it all, you can hear the faint rustle of fabric from the floor, the small settling sound of him getting comfortable.

…

Or trying to.

You lie stiffly on your side, facing away from the edge of the bed that he lays, staring into the dark like you can force your mind to shut up if you just do it hard enough.

Ugh…

Despite how tired you are, sleep feels impossible.

Rolling your eyes, you pick up your pillow and shift to the other side of the bed with an annoyed little huff. And there’s the broad line of his back in the dark. One arm folded under his head, the other sprawled carelessly over the blanket, like this is all perfectly normal. Like sleeping on the marble floor in a five-star hotel is not objectively unhinged behavior.

“…you’re actually gonna sleep down there?” you mutter into the dark.

“Mm.” His voice comes easy, amused. “You should be sleeping, missy.”

“So should you,” you huff. “In a bed.”

Chuckling, he shifts onto his back, sprawling out like a starfish. He hums. “Nahhh,” and an exaggerated exhale breathes out of him, tired. “The floor’s fine. I’m reconnecting with the earth. Re-centering. Some might say it’s very… grounding.”

You can hear that pleased little smirk of his, even in the dark, and it pulls a snort out of you before you can stop it. “…wow, seriously?” Biting back a grin. “You’re so stupid.”

He laughs under his breath. “Yeah… maybe. Wouldn’t be the first time I’ve been called that. Probably won’t be the last, either. But…” With a tired sigh, he drapes his arm over his face, half-hiding in the dark. “…guess I’d rather be stupid than leave you alone, though.”

The words slip out, and the room goes strangely quiet. Something tender and awful pulling tight in your throat as you stare down at him for a second too long.

…what are you even supposed to do with that? With him?

He’s down there on the floor, keeping a promise you never asked him to make.

Swallowing, your fingers tighten on the blanket. “…hey, Satoru?” That low hum answers, and you hesitate, staring at the dark shape of him on the floor, your heart doing something stupid and uncomfortable against your ribs.

“Come up here,” you blurt.

…

Silence.

“Wait… huh?”

Your eyes squeeze shut.

As if saying it once wasn’t bad enough.

“I-I mean…” you’re shifting onto your back, staring hard at the ceiling because looking at him suddenly feels impossible. “I just… there’s plenty of room, so just—come up.”

…

He’s quiet just long enough to make your face burn hotter. And when he’s pushing himself onto one elbow, even in the dark, you can feel the disbelief radiating off of him like heat.

“Uh… right,” he laughs awkwardly. “I think the jet lag’s getting to me, because there’s no way I heard that right unless you’re fucking with me.”

You cover your face with a groan.

Oh, for fuck’s sake. “Christ, stop making this harder—” you snap, voice rising. “I’m serious you idiot! Because you’re not making me feel worse tonight by sleeping on the goddamn floor—so hurry and get your ass up here before—”

“—yes ma’am.”

He’s moving before you can rethink the entire thing, despite how your pulse is suddenly loud in your own ears. You scoot over, clutching the blanket to your chest, and the mattress dips beneath his weight — the sheets rustle. His body shifts. And then everything goes still.

…too still.

All you can do is lie there. Stiff. Acutely, helplessly aware of him. But it’s dark — mercifully dark — and thank god for that, because you don’t think you could survive seeing his face right now. Not this close. Not after that. Not with your own invitation still echoing back at you like something you’d like to physically retrieve out of thin air.

“Soooo…” he mumbles, fingers tapping the mattress. “Um… for the record, this is like… significantly nicer than my original arrangement. Way less marble.”

Despite the nerves, his words loosen a laugh from your chest. “…yeah? Well, good,” you mutter, tugging the blanket a little higher. “Because honestly, the level of commitment you were showing that floor was a little concerning.”

He chuckles. “True, true.” And suddenly, you can hear the lazy stretch of a grin in his voice. “Buuuut I mean… I wasn’t about to lose our first fight—not as your boyfriend.”

Your breath catches. “W-Wow…” You huff like that’ll cover it. “You—um… got real comfortable with that word fast,” you mutter, trying for dry and missing by a mile.

A low hum. “I'm a committed man. What can I say?” and his voice is all smug velvet and sleep-rough warmth. “Mmm… I kinda like the sound of it, actually.”

The words land lower than they should. Because that should not sound as good as it does.

“D-Don’t… don’t say it like that,” you stammer.

The mattress dips.

“Mm?” he whispers. “…well, how else should I say it, princess?”

…

Fake.

Fake boyfriend.

The word lands somewhere quiet and ugly under your ribs, and all at once the warmth of the bed feels strange against your skin. Because that's what this is. What it has to be. A role. A weekend. A lie with soft edges and an expiration date. And…

“Just—nevermind…” you mutter, shoving it down, repositioning your pillow. “Laying in a bed with my boss was not really on my bingo card for this trip. Or finding out halfway through it, apparently.”

He scoffs. “I’m not your boss. My dad’s your boss.” A humorless breath leaves you. “Yeah? Well, that is not as comforting a distinction as you think it is, Gojo, when your name is still on my—”

“—Satoru,” he corrects softly.

You blink into the dark.

“Wait. Sorry… what?”

A small huff leaves him, almost annoyed, almost something softer. “It’s just…” he grumbles, shifting against the sheets, “I like it a lot better when you call me Satoru…” And even without seeing him, you can hear it.

Is he… pouting?

The fabric rustles again as he shifts. “Look…” he says after a beat, and the teasing has gone out of his voice now. “I’m sorry I didn’t tell you sooner. I just…” He exhales through his nose. “I didn’t think hearing my last name would make you start acting like I was suddenly somebody else...?”

Your lashes flutter as he scoots closer, and this time, your breath catches. Because a thin line of moonlight slips through the curtains, cutting across the bed just enough to catch him there. The loose fall of white hair over his forehead, the softened line of his mouth, the pale blue of his eyes gone dim and almost silver in the dark.

“And…” His voice lowers, softer now. “I guess I didn’t realize how much I liked just being Satoru to you..." Those blue eyes dip to your lips, just for a second, before lifting back to yours. His breath hitches.

“Y’know I’m still me… right?” He whispers.

As his breath fans across your face, you feel fingers slipping over yours, careful enough to feel like a question, and your pulse does something wild. Because for one suspended second, he doesn’t look real. He looks like something half-dreamed.

Beautiful.

“Right…” you breathe, the word thin. “I know that, and… I-I’m sorry for lashing out at you earlier. I just… I wasn’t expecting any of this, and then everything at the airport and—and god—and then my mom and—"

The words are tumbling out now, too fast, too loose, and even in the dark you feel laid open by them. Bare in a way that makes you want to snatch every one back. Because there he is, looking at you with that same unbearable patience, thumb brushing over the back of your hand in slow, absent strokes, his mouth tipped in a smile so soft it almost feels private.

…yours.

And that’s what’s terrifying. He feels like something you could lean into. Like warmth can be simple. Unconditional. Real.

But…

Nothing in your life has ever taught you how to lean into warmth without waiting for the condition beneath it. Without turning it over, looking for the fine print. So, perhaps that’s why, when his thumb brushes over your hand again, you pull away.

And his frown is instant.

“I-I…” Your eyes squeeze shut as you clear your throat. “Sorry.” The word comes out frayed. “I want you to know I appreciate you doing this. Genuinely. But…” You swallow hard around the ache pressing at the base of your throat. “Tomorrow is it.”

The room goes so quiet you can hear the air conditioning hum.

His brow furrows, pushing himself up on his elbow. “Um… what are you saying?” He scoffs, lips pulling into a disbelieving grin. “I don’t understand. Why are you acting like everything—”

“—after this is over,” you blurt, chest rising. “You can just—forget all this happened, okay?” And your voice thins. Blinking back tears, your eyes flick away. “That’s it. You’ll forget about me. You go back to your life. I go back to mine. Just like we agreed and—”

“—I don’t remember agreeing to that.”

Your eyes glance back from the hurt in his voice, and somehow that only makes it worse. Because...

Why?

Why does he have to look at you like that?

You exhale shakily. “I think we both need sleep more than we need this conversation, so…” The blanket is already up at your chin by the time the words leave you. “Let’s… leave it at that. Okay? I’m exhausted," you whisper. "Goodnight, Satoru.”

Shifting away, you roll onto your side before he can say anything else, before he can make this harder than it already is. The bed gives with a quiet creak behind you.

“Goodnight, sweetheart.”

And you lie there, holding yourself rigid, as if that could undo the part of you that almost turned back.

Still. Despite how tired you are… sleep feels impossible.

a/n. oof. sorry for leaving you on the angst 😭 but this felt like the right place to split it so part 3 can be fully wedding-focused. tysm for reading! i'm blown away by all your support. he's literally so patient and attentive, whaaa. i wanna eat him up 😭

You, curled up on the couch with your knees tucked under you, a blanket draped over your lap. You, laughing at the terrible special effects, your nose crinkling in that way that made his chest ache. You, wearing one of his hoodies — the black one with the worn-out sleeves, the one you'd borrowed three months ago and never given back.

Not that he wanted it back.

Not that he'd ever ask for it back.

Not when you looked like that — soft and cozy and so unfairly beautiful that he couldn't concentrate on anything else.

"Satoru." Shoko's voice cut through his thoughts. "You're staring."

He blinked, tearing his eyes away from you. "I'm not staring."

"You're literally staring."

"I'm looking. There's a difference."

Shoko raised an eyebrow, taking a slow sip of her drink. "Uh-huh. And what's the difference?"

He opened his mouth. Closed it. Opened it again.

"Shut up," he said finally.

Shoko snorted, but mercifully, she didn't push. She just gave him a knowing look — the kind that said we're talking about this later — and turned back to the screen.

Satoru let out a breath and tried to focus on the movie.

He failed.

Because you shifted beside him, pulling the blanket higher, and your shoulder brushed against his arm. Just a touch. Just a second. Just enough to send electricity shooting through his entire body.

"Get a grip," he told himself. "It's just a movie night. It's just her. It's just-"

You yawned.

A small, soft sound, barely audible over the screaming on screen. Your eyes fluttered, lashes casting tiny shadows on your cheeks. You blinked once, twice, and then your head started to droop.

"Oh no," he thought. "Oh no no no."

Your head landed on his shoulder.

Satoru stopped breathing.

You were warm. So warm. Your hair smelled like flowers — something soft, something sweet, something that made him want to bury his face in it and never come up for air. Your hand, limp with sleep, had somehow found its way to his chest, fingers curled loosely against his shirt.

"Don't panic," he told himself. "Don't-"

His heart was pounding so loud he was sure it would wake you up.

"Panicking," he admitted. "I'm panicking."

He looked at Shoko.

Shoko was watching him with an expression of pure, unholy amusement.

"Don't," he mouthed.

She smiled. She actually smiled. Then she pulled out her phone and started typing.

"I will kill her," he thought. "I will actually kill her."

But he didn't move.

He couldn't move.

Because you were right there, asleep on his shoulder, and if he moved — even slightly — you might wake up. You might pull away. You might realize how close you were and think it was weird and stop falling asleep on him and he would never feel this again.

So he stayed perfectly still.

The movie played on. Shoko typed away on her phone, probably telling Geto exactly what was happening. The others laughed at the screen, oblivious.

And Satoru sat there, heart racing, breath shallow, completely, utterly undone.

PART TWO: THE FIRST HOUR

Twenty-three minutes.

That's how long it took for his arm to fall asleep.

Not that he cared. His arm could fall off entirely and he wouldn't move. Not when you were nestled against him like this, your cheek pressed to his shoulder, your breath warm against his neck.

You'd shifted in your sleep at some point, curling closer. Your hand had slid from his chest to his arm, fingers loosely wrapped around his bicep. The blanket had slipped, and he could see the curve of your shoulder, the way his hoodie gaped just slightly at the collar.

"Don't look," he told himself.

He looked.

"Stop looking."

He kept looking.

You're being creepy.

He was absolutely being creepy. He didn't care.

You made a soft sound — not quite a word, not quite a sigh — and burrowed deeper against him. Your nose pressed into the crook of his neck. Your breath ghosted across his skin.

Satoru's brain short-circuited.

"This is fine," he thought, as his entire nervous system went up in flames. "This is normal. Friends do this. Friends fall asleep on each other all the time. It's fine."

His heart was beating so fast he was genuinely concerned it might give out.

"She can feel that," he realized suddenly. "She can feel my heartbeat."

He tried to slow his breathing. Tried to calm down. Tried to think about anything other than the fact that you were right there, warm and soft and so close he could count your eyelashes if he wanted to.

(He wanted to. He wasn't going to. But he wanted to.)

"Satoru."

He jumped. Shoko was standing in front of him, arms crossed, looking down at him with an expression that was equal parts amused and exasperated.

"What?" he whispered.

"You need to breathe."

"I'm breathing."

"You're hyperventilating."

"I'm not-" He took a breath. Then another. "Okay, maybe a little."

Shoko shook her head, but there was something soft in her eyes. Something that looked almost like sympathy. "You've got it bad, huh?"

He didn't answer. He didn't need to. They both knew.

"Just tell her," Shoko said quietly.

"And risk this?" He glanced down at you — at the way you trusted him enough to fall asleep on him, at the way your face was soft and peaceful. "I can't lose this."

Shoko was quiet for a moment. Then she sighed. "You're hopeless."

"I know."

She walked away, and Satoru was alone again.

Alone with you.

Alone with the weight of your head on his shoulder, the warmth of your hand on his arm, the quiet sound of your breathing.

He tilted his head, just slightly, and rested his cheek against your hair.

"Just for a second," he told himself. "Just one second."

He closed his eyes.

One second stretched into two, stretched into five, stretched into something that felt like forever and not long enough all at once.

"I love you," he thought. "I love you. I love you. I love-"

You stirred.

He jerked his head back, heart pounding, terrified that you'd heard him somehow. That you'd felt the words in the way his body tensed, in the way his breath caught.

But you just shifted, mumbling something unintelligible, and fell still again.

Satoru let out a shaky breath.

"You're pathetic," he told himself.

He didn't disagree.

PART THREE: THE TEXT MESSAGES

His phone buzzed.

Then buzzed again.

Then buzzed a third time.

Satoru grabbed it with his free hand — the one not currently trapped under your sleeping form — and glared at the screen.

Satoru typed back with one thumb, his movements careful and quiet.

A/N. Satoru typed: "i hate both of you" !! :D

Satoru shoved his phone back in his pocket, ignoring the next buzz (and the buzz after that). He didn't need them teasing him. He was doing a perfectly good job of tormenting himself.

Because you'd shifted again.

Your hand had slipped from his arm to his hand — his hand — and your fingers were loosely intertwined with his. Not holding, exactly. Just... resting. Like it was the most natural thing in the world.

"She's asleep," he reminded himself. "She doesn't know it's you. She could be holding anyone's hand."

But she wasn't holding anyone's hand.

She was holding his.

And that meant something.

"Does it, though?" a nasty little voice whispered. "Or are you just desperate?"

He was desperate. He'd been desperate for years. Maybe longer. Maybe since the day he met you, when you'd looked at him — not as Gojo Satoru, the strongest, but just as Satoru — and smiled.

He'd been a goner ever since.

He looked down at your hand, at the way your fingers curled around his. Your nails were bare — no polish, no acrylics. Your skin was soft. There was a small scar on your knuckle, probably from cooking, and he wanted to kiss it.

"That's weird," he thought. "That's definitely weird."

He wanted to do it anyway.

He didn't, of course. He wasn't a complete creep.

(He was, actually. He was absolutely a creep. But he was a creep with self-control.)

Instead, he just sat there, holding your hand, counting your breaths, and trying very, very hard not to think about how much he loved you.

He failed at that, too.

PART FOUR: THE DANGEROUS THOUGHT

Two hours and eleven minutes.

That's how long you'd been asleep on him.

The movie had ended. Everyone else had left — Shoko with a knowing smirk, Geto with a quiet "good luck," the others with various degrees of obliviousness. The apartment was quiet now, the only sounds the hum of the refrigerator and the soft rhythm of your breathing.

Satoru should wake you up.

He knew he should wake you up.

It was late. You'd be sore if you slept on the couch all night. Your neck would hurt. You'd regret it in the morning.

"Wake her up," he told himself.

He didn't move.

Wake. Her. Up.

He tightened his arm around you, just slightly. Just enough to feel the warmth of you through his hoodie.

You're making it worse.

He knew.

He didn't care.

Because this — this — was everything he'd ever wanted. You, soft and sleepy and trusting. You, curled against him like he was somewhere safe. You, breathing quietly, your heart beating against his side.

"This is what it would be like," he thought. "If you were mine."

He could almost see it. Waking up next to you every morning. Making you coffee the way you liked it. Holding your hand in crowded streets. Kissing your forehead before bed.

"Stop," he told himself. "Stop. You're torturing yourself."

But he couldn't stop.

He tilted his head, looking down at you. Your face was peaceful in sleep — no worry lines, no tension. Your lips were slightly parted. Your lashes fanned across your cheeks.

She's so beautiful.

He wanted to kiss you.

Not in a passionate, sweeping way. Not in the way people kissed in movies. Just... softly. Gently. A whisper of a kiss against your forehead, your temple, the corner of your mouth.

"Just once," he thought. "Just once. She'd never know."

He leaned in.

Just a little. Just enough to feel your breath on his lips. Just enough to count every single one of your eyelashes.

"This is wrong," a voice whispered. "She didn't consent. She's asleep. This is wrong."

He pulled back.

His heart was pounding. His hands were shaking. His lips were tingling with want.

"You almost did that," he realized. "You almost actually did that."

He was disgusted with himself.

He was also still in love with you.

Both things could be true.

He closed his eyes and rested his head against the back of the couch, trying to slow his breathing. Trying to calm his racing heart. Trying to forget how close he'd come to ruining everything.

"You need to tell her," he thought. "Not like this. Not while she's asleep. But... soon. You need to tell her soon."

He wasn't sure he believed it.

But he knew he couldn't keep going like this — wanting you, aching for you, loving you in silence.

Something had to change.

"Tomorrow," he promised himself. "Tomorrow, I'll tell her."

Tomorrow came far too quickly.

PART FIVE: THE MORNING

You woke up slowly.

First, there was warmth. Warmth everywhere — against your cheek, your chest, your hands. Then there was sound — a steady rhythm, like waves, like breathing.

"Someone's heartbeat," you realized.

Then there was smell — something clean and familiar, something that smelled like him.

Satoru.

Your eyes fluttered open.

You were on the couch. The TV was off. The apartment was dark, lit only by the faint glow of the streetlights outside. And you were...

Oh.

You were lying on top of him.

Your head was on his chest, right over his heart. Your legs were tangled with his. Your hand was tucked under his hoodie — his hoodie, the one you were wearing, the one that smelled like him — pressed flat against his stomach.

He was asleep.

His head was tilted back against the couch, his blindfold askew, his mouth slightly open. His arms were wrapped around you, holding you close like he was afraid you'd disappear.

"He's beautiful," you thought.

He was. Even like this — disheveled and vulnerable and nothing like the confident, annoying Gojo Satoru the world knew. Especially like this.

You should move.

You knew you should move.

But you didn't.

You just lay there, listening to his heartbeat, feeling the rise and fall of his chest, memorizing the way his arms felt around you.

"I love you," you thought. "I love you. I love you. I love-"

His arms tightened.

You froze.

"Satoru?" you whispered.

He didn't answer. His breathing didn't change. He was still asleep.

But his arms held you closer, and his head tilted until his cheek was resting against your hair.

"He's dreaming," you realized. "He doesn't know it's me."

Or maybe he did.

Maybe, even in sleep, he knew exactly who he was holding.

You closed your eyes and let yourself have this — just a few more minutes of pretending he was yours.

"Five more minutes," you told yourself. "Then I'll move."

You stayed for twenty. Maybe longer.

PART SIX: THE WAKING

He woke up to sunlight.

Bright, obnoxious sunlight, streaming through the window and hitting him directly in the face. He groaned, squeezing his eyes shut, and tried to remember where he was.

"Couch," he remembered. "Movie night. Shoko. Suguru. And-"

You.

He looked down.

You were still there.

Still asleep on his chest. Still wearing his hoodie. Still warm and soft and so beautiful it made his chest ache.

His arms were still wrapped around you.

He hadn't let go. Not once, all night.

"You're an idiot," he told himself. "A complete, utter idiot."

But he didn't move.

He couldn't.

Because you were right there, and this might be the last time he ever got to hold you like this. The last time he could pretend, even for a moment, that you were his.

Wake her up, he thought. You need to wake her up.

He raised his hand — the one that had been resting on your back — and hovered it over your shoulder.

Do it.

He couldn't.

Coward.

He was. He was a coward. He was the strongest sorcerer in the world, and he was too scared to wake up the girl he loved.

Pathetic.

Just as he was about to drop his hand back down — his phone buzzed.

Once. Twice. Three times.

He grabbed it with his free hand, squinting at the screen. 7:11 AM.

He sighed, typing back with one thumb.

He shoved his phone back in his pocket, shaking his head.

What he didn't notice — what he couldn't have known — was the way your breathing had changed. The way your fingers had curled, just slightly, against his chest. The way your heart had skipped a beat when the phone buzzed.

You were awake.

You'd been awake since the first buzz — the vibration against his chest, right where your cheek was resting. You'd felt it. You'd seen the glow of the screen.

"Did u sleep on the couch all night."

Your heart was pounding now, but you kept your eyes closed. Kept your breathing slow. Kept pretending.

He dropped his hand back to your back, defeated.

And then you felt him shift — just slightly. His hand came up again, hovering near your shoulder. You could feel the warmth of his palm, inches from your skin.

"Is he going to wake me up?" you wondered.

But he didn't.

His hand dropped back to your back.

And then — he spoke. So quiet you almost missed it.

"I love you."

Your heart stopped.

"You have no idea how much I love you," he whispered, his voice barely audible. "And I'm too scared to tell you. I'm too scared to lose this. I'm too scared to lose you."

You wanted to open your eyes. You wanted to tell him you felt the same. You wanted to kiss him and hold him and never let go.

But you were frozen.

And then he shifted again — and you felt his breath on your forehead. Warm. Soft. Close.

Is he going to —

His lips brushed your forehead. Just barely. Just a whisper of a touch. A kiss so light you almost missed it.

Then he pulled away.

You felt his heart pounding under your cheek. You felt his arms tighten around you, just slightly. You felt the weight of his words hanging in the air between you.

"He loves me," you thought. "He actually loves me."

You should say something.

You should open your eyes and tell him you heard everything.

But you were scared too.

So you kept pretending. Just a little longer.

A few minutes passed. Or maybe it was longer. You couldn't tell. Your heart was still racing, your mind still spinning.

And then — you felt him shift again. His hand came up, this time to your shoulder. Gentle. Careful.

"Hey," he said softly. "Wake up."

You let your eyes flutter open — slowly, sleepily, like you were surfacing from deep water.

You blinked.

He blinked back.

"Hi," you said, your voice soft and rough with sleep.

"Say something normal," he commanded himself. "Something casual. Something-"

"Hi," he said.

Hi? his brain screamed. HI?!

You smiled — a small, sleepy smile that made his heart stop. "Did I fall asleep on you?"

"Yeah."

"For how long?"

He glanced at the window, at the sunlight streaming through the blinds. "All night, I think."

Your eyes widened. "All night?"

"All night."

You pushed yourself up — just enough to look at him, your hands braced on his chest. Your face was inches from his. He could see the faint crease on your cheek from where you'd been pressed against his hoodie. He could see the sleep in your eyes, the softness in your expression.

"Why didn't you wake me up?" you asked.

"Because I'm selfish," he thought. "Because I wanted to hold you. Because I'm in love with you and I'm too scared to say it."

"You looked comfortable," he said instead.

You stared at him for a long moment. Your eyes searched his face, looking for something — he didn't know what.

"Satoru," you said finally.

"Yeah?"

"Were you watching me sleep?"

His face went red. "No."

"Liar."

"I wasn't- I was just- my eyes were open and you happened to be in front of them-"

You laughed.

A real laugh, bright and warm, the kind that made his chest ache. Your nose crinkled. Your eyes squeezed shut. Your hands pressed against his chest as you shook with laughter.

And Satoru forgot how to breathe.

Because you were beautiful.

Not in the way the world meant it — not polished or posed or perfect. But in the way that mattered. In the way that made him want to wake up next to you every morning for the rest of his life.

"You're so weird," you said, still laughing.

"I'm not weird."

"You're very weird."

"I'm quirky."

"You're something," you said, and your voice was softer now. Gentler. Your hands were still on his chest, and you hadn't moved away.

Neither had he.

Neither of you moved.

The sunlight crept across the floor. The birds sang outside. The world woke up around you, oblivious to the two of you frozen on the couch, inches apart, hearts pounding.

"Satoru," you whispered.

"Yeah."

"Tell her," he thought. "Tell her now. This is the moment."

"I-"

His phone buzzed.

Loud and obnoxious, shattering the moment like a stone through glass. You jumped. He jumped. Your hands slipped from his chest. His arms loosened around you.

The spell was broken.

He shoved his phone back in his pocket, face burning.

"We should-" you started.

"Yeah," he said. "Yeah, we should."

Neither of you moved.

Then you stood up, stretching your arms above your head. His hoodie rode up, just a little, and he caught a glimpse of your stomach — just a flash, just a second, just enough to make his face go red.

"I'm gonna..." you said, pointing toward the kitchen.

"Yeah," he said. "I'll — yeah."

You walked away.

And Satoru sat on the couch, alone, heart pounding, hands shaking, and thought about what he'd almost said.

I love you.

I love you.

He'd almost said it.

"Next time," he promised himself. "Next time, I'll actually say it."

But as he sat there, staring at the kitchen doorway, he realized something.

He was tired of next time.

He was tired of almost.

He was tired of watching you walk away and wondering what if.

So he stood up.

His legs were shaking. His hands were shaking. His entire body was shaking.

"Don't think," he told himself. "Just move."

He walked to the kitchen.

PART SEVEN: THE CONFESSION

You were standing by the counter, drinking a bottle of water. The morning light was streaming through the window, catching the edges of your hair, painting you in gold. You were still wearing his hoodie — his hoodie — and you were trying very, very hard to calm your racing heart.

"He loves you," a voice whispered in your head. "He said it. He kissed your forehead. He loves you."

But then why hadn't he said anything when you were both awake? Why had he just... let you walk away?

"Because he's scared too," you realized. "Just like you."

You heard footsteps behind you.

You turned.

He was standing in the kitchen doorway, looking at you with an expression you'd never seen before. Soft. Vulnerable. Nervous. His hands were shoved deep in his pockets. His shoulders were tense. His eyes — those stupid, beautiful eyes — were fixed on you like you were the only thing in the room.

Your heart stopped.

"This is it," you thought. "This is the moment."

"Satoru?" you said, your voice coming out smaller than you meant it to. "What's wrong?"

He didn't answer.

He just stood there, looking at you like you were something precious. Something he was terrified of losing.

"Say something," you begged silently. "Please, say something."

"Satoru," you said again, quieter this time. Your hands were shaking. "You're scaring me. What's wrong?"

He swallowed hard. His jaw tightened. For a moment, he looked like he was going to make a joke — deflect, the way he always did.

But then his shoulders relaxed.

And he said, "I think I've been in love with you for years."

The water bottle slipped from your fingers.

It hit the counter with a dull thunk — water spilling everywhere, dripping onto the floor — but neither of you moved to clean it up. You couldn't. Because the only thing you could see was him. The only thing you could hear was the sound of your own heart pounding in your ears.

"He loves you," a voice whispered in your head. "He actually loves you."

"I don't- I can't remember when it started," he continued, because once the words started, he couldn't stop them. His voice was steady — almost steady — but his hands were shoved deep in his pockets, and you could tell he was gripping them tight. "Maybe it was the first time you laughed at one of my stupid jokes. Maybe it was the first time you looked at me like I was just... Satoru. Not Gojo. Not the strongest. Just... me."

You weren't moving.

You weren't saying anything.

Your lips were parted. Your cheeks were flushed. Your eyes were stinging with tears you didn't even know were forming.

"You already knew this," you told yourself. "You heard him say it on the couch. Why are you crying?"

But hearing it now — with his voice steady and his eyes scared and his hands shaking — was different. It was real. It was happening.

"I know I'm not- I know I'm a lot," he said, and his voice cracked — just a little, just at the end. He cleared his throat quickly, like he was trying to cover it up. "I'm loud and annoying and I never shut up. But when I'm with you, I don't have to be any of that. I can just... be. And I- I don't want to lose that. I don't want to lose you. But I can't keep pretending that I don't-"

You moved.

You didn't even realize you were moving until you were standing in front of him, close enough to feel his breath on your skin, close enough to see the way his eyes were searching yours — hopeful and terrified all at once.

"Tell him," the voice whispered. "Tell him now. You already know he loves you. So tell him."

"Satoru," you said, and your voice was shaking. "Are you- are you saying what I think you're saying?"

He swallowed again. His hands came out of his pockets, flexing at his sides like he didn't know what to do with them. "That depends. What do you think I'm saying?"

"He's scared," you realized. "He's scared you don't feel the same way. He doesn't know you heard him on the couch. He doesn't know you've been in love with him for years."

"I think you're saying you love me."

"There it is," he thought. "The words. Out loud. Hanging in the air between you."

He took a breath. Held it. Let it out.

"I love you," he said. "I've been in love with you for- I don't know- months? Years? I don't even remember anymore. I just know that I can't- I can't keep pretending I don't-"

You didn't let him finish.

Instead, you stood on your tiptoes — because he was tall, so stupidly tall, and you were not — and pressed a soft, gentle kiss to his cheek.

Right on the curve of his cheekbone. Right where his skin was warmest. Right where you could feel him freeze beneath your lips.

You pulled back, just enough to look at him.

His eyes were wide.

His mouth was slightly open.

His face was slowly turning red — from his neck to his cheeks to the tips of his ears.

"You-" he started.

You were smiling. A small, shy, trembling smile that made your heart feel too big for your chest. Tears were streaming down your face — happy tears, the kind you couldn't hold back even if you tried.

"I love you too, you idiot," you said. "I've been in love with you for years. I thought you knew. I thought-"

His eyes glistened.

Just for a second.

Just a flash of something wet and bright before he blinked it away.

But you saw it.

He's crying, you realized. He's actually crying.

"You love me?" he asked, and his voice was so small — smaller than you'd ever heard it. Softer than you'd ever imagined. "You really-"

"I really do."

He didn't let you say anything else.

His hands came up to cup your face — gently, so gently, like you were something precious, something fragile, something he was terrified of breaking. His thumbs brushed across your cheekbones, wiping away tears even as his own spilled over.

"Satoru," you whispered.

"Yeah?"

"You're crying."

"I'm not crying."

"Your eyes are leaking."

"Allergies."

"It's winter."

"Winter allergies."

You laughed — a wet, shaky, beautiful laugh — and he stared at you like you'd hung the moon.

"I love you," he said again, like he couldn't help it. Like the words were pouring out of him and he couldn't stop them. "I love you. I love you. I-"

You kissed him.

Or maybe he kissed you. You couldn't tell anymore. All you knew was that his lips were on yours, and his hands were in your hair, and his heart was pounding against your chest.

Not gentle. Not soft.

Desperate.

Like a man dying of thirst who'd finally found water. Like he'd been holding back for years and the dam had finally broken. His lips slanted over yours, hungry and searching, and you gasped against his mouth — your hands fisting in his shirt, pulling him closer.

"This", he thought. "This is what I've been missing."

"This," you thought. "This is what I've been waiting for."

When he finally pulled back — both of you breathless, both of you flushed, both of you smiling like idiots — he didn't go far. He rested his forehead against yours, his nose brushing against your nose, his hands still cradling your face like you were something precious.

"Say it again," you whispered.

"I love you."

"Again."

"I love you."

"Again."

"I love you. I love you. I love-"

You tried to kiss him again — you could feel him leaning in, his lips brushing against yours — but he pulled back just enough to make you chase him. Just enough to make you want.

"Uh-uh," he murmured, a teasing smile playing on his lips. "I'm not done saying it yet."

"Then say it faster."

He laughed — a real laugh, bright and warm, the kind he only ever gave you. "I love you. I love you. I love you. I've been wanting to say that for years. I've been wanting to kiss you for years. Do you know how hard it's been? Watching you wear my hoodie? Watching you fall asleep on my shoulder? Watching you smile at me like I'm not-"

You kissed him.

You couldn't help it.

You stood on your tiptoes yet again, and pressed your lips to his — cutting him off mid-sentence.

He melted into you.

His arms wrapped around your waist, pulling you flush against him. His head tilted, deepening the kiss. His fingers pressed into the small of your back, holding you like he was afraid you'd disappear.

When you finally broke apart — both of you gasping for air, both of you grinning like fools — he didn't let go. He kept his arms around you, kept you close, kept his forehead resting against yours.

"I love you too," you said against his lips. "I love you so much it scares me."

"Good," he said, pulling back just enough to look at you. His eyes were red-rimmed, his cheeks were wet, but he was smiling — that real smile, the one he only gave you. "Be scared with me. We can be scared together."

You laughed — a real laugh, bright and warm, the kind that made his chest ache in the best way. Water was still spilled on the counter. The sun was still streaming through the window. Neither of you had eaten breakfast or brushed your teeth or done any of the normal morning things.

"I'd like that," you said.

"Yeah?"

"Yeah."

He kissed you again — soft this time, gentle, a promise.

And then he kissed you again.

And again.

And again.

His turn now. His choice. His lips on yours, over and over, like he was making up for lost time.

He didn't care about the water on the counter. He didn't care about the sun rising higher in the sky. He didn't care about the world waking up around them.

He had you.

That was all that mattered.

PART EIGHT: THE GROUP CHAT (EXTENDED)

EPILOGUE: FIVE MORE MINUTES

Later — much later — you were curled up on the couch again.

The same couch. The same blanket. The same hoodie (still his).

But this time, his arm was around you deliberately. This time, your hand was in his on purpose. This time, when your head drifted to his shoulder, he pressed a kiss to your hair instead of holding his breath.

"I love you," he said, just because he could.

You smiled against his neck. "I love you too."

"Hey."

"Yeah?"

"How long were you pretending to be asleep this morning?"

You went very still.

"Satoru-"

"Because I know you," he said, tilting his head to look at you. "And I know you're a light sleeper. There's no way you slept through my phone buzzing at 7:11 AM."

You buried your face in his neck. "I don't know what you're talking about."

"Liar."

"Am not."

"Are too."

"Am —" You lifted your head, glaring at him with flushed cheeks. "Fine. I woke up when Shoko texted you the first time."

His eyes widened. "That was- that was at 7:11. That was like an hour before you 'woke up.'"

"Mmhmm."

"You were awake for an hour?"

"I was comfortable."

"You were-" He stared at you. "You heard my heart pounding."

"Loud and clear."

"You felt me almost-" His face went red. "You knew I almost-"

"I knew you almost kissed me, yes. Twice, actually. Once in the middle of the night, and once that morning."

His mouth fell open. "You — both times?"

"Both times."

"Satoru-"

"I was waiting," you said softly. "I wanted to see if you'd actually do it."

"And when I didn't?"

You shrugged, a small smile playing on your lips. "I figured I'd give you until the kitchen."

"The-" He blinked. "You planned this?"

"I prefer 'manifested.'"

He stared at you for a long moment.

Then he laughed — a real laugh, bright and warm, the kind that made your chest ache in the best way.

"I love you," he said. "You're insane."

"You love it."

"I love you."

You smiled, leaning up to kiss his cheek. "I love you too. Now shut up and hold me."

"Yes ma'am."

He pulled you closer, wrapping both arms around you, and rested his cheek against your hair.

"Hey," you said after a moment.

"Yeah?"

"Five more minutes?"

He smiled into your hair.

"Five more minutes," he agreed.

But you both knew it was a lie.

It was never five minutes.

It was always forever.

A/N. THIS WAS SO PRECIOUS OEMJI !!! it took me so long to write this, but i am NOT complaining 😭😭

Your eyes roll back down.

“Mhm.”

"And it was such a good question.”

You turn a page. "Really?”

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

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

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

It had not.

Nothing about Satoru had ever suggested he could be contained.

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

…

Wait.

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

Fucking great.

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

You narrow your eyes.

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

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

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

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

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

Oh.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Lips parting, you blink.

…why is he so observant?!

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

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

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

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

Oh.

Way too observant.

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

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

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

You blink.

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

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

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

Last month, you still answered her phone calls.

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

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

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

“Oh—uh, hi mom!”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"—have you booked your flight yet?"

Your mouth flattened.

Clearly, your half of this conversation is optional.

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

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

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

Every week is a crazy week?

Yeah. No shit.

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

You’re the one people relied on.

Just… never the one people chose.

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

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

…

Keep forgetting?

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

How convenient that she forgot that.

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

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

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

No thanks.

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

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

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

Shit.

“I-I—I didn’t say—"

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

“—Mom, I—"

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

Love?!

Who has time for that?

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

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

And she was off.

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

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

Click!

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

‘We’ve been so worried.’

…

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

Funny how that works.

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

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

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

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

But…

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

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

“Huh?”

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

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

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

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

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

“Mm... nah. Just yours, sweetheart.”

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

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

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

Why does he sound… bitter?

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

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

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

Your lips purse.

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

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

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

You frown.

What the fuck are you supposed to say!?

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

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

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

“But I—”

“Drop it.”

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

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

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

God.

Of all the places to hit.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Satoru…” your breath hitches. “I-I—"

“Oh, finally.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

It doesn’t.

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

Un-fucking-believable.

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

…

He could fire Kento.

Should he fire Kento?

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

'Grow up, Satoru.'

'Apply yourself, Satoru.'

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

There’s a sharp inhale. “…who?”

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

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

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

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

…

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

Frowning down at the invoice, he stamps it harder.

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

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

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

He’s been her intern for that long.

That’s the question, right?

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

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

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

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

"…sorry. Who is thi—"

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

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

📞 Mom

Oh.

Oh, shit.

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

"Uh…” he backpedals. “Wait. I—"

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

"Stop. I-I really think—"

“—Satoru, what are you doing?’

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

Oh, fuck.

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

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

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

"Mom."

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

"I'm at work. Gotta go."

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

Click!

The phone sits in your hand like evidence.

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

You stare at him.

He stares at you.

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

“Sooo… funny story…”

“—what did you do?!”

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

Great. Fucking great.

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

But cry?

Never.

And this had his fingerprints all over it.

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

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

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

God. How fucking humiliating.

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

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

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

God. Stop it.

Stop it stop it stop it.

Think.

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

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

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

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

Single.

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Huh… okay."

Okay what?

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

No biggie?

Your mouth dropped.

That wasn’t even an option, was it?

…is he crazy?

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

You stared at him. Genuinely stared.

Oh. He wasn’t kidding.

Yup. He’s crazy.

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

“Yeah. For like… another six hours?"

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

"…that is not the point."

“Mm… feels a little like the point."

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

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

…

His family’s in Japan too?

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

But…

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

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

"Okay… but you can't fix my mother."

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

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

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

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

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

Shit…

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

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

His name, you learn from scouring the internet, LinkedIn pages, and a lot of embarrassing research (a Myriad of student organizations and Instagram mutuals), is Satoru Gojo. He’s a second year, like you, but in the physics department. He has an unreasonable number of followers for a college student. He once won a regional swimming tournament at eighteen, and there are photos. Lots of photos.

A person with dignity would share none of this with their friends, but because you have none, you share all of this with your friends. 

Not long after, the group chat is buzzing about your parasocial relationship with Satoru. Aya sends a screenshot of him from the university’s physics department website.

aya: your future husband looks confused in this photo you: he is NOT my future husband.

…

you: yet

The group chat is then filled with wedding ring and at least 10 kissing emojis.

You put your phone down on your bed and try to study for the exam you have tomorrow. But you have no self-control, and pick it back up thirty seconds later.

To preface, you’re minding your own business, sitting in the back corner of the 4th floor in the library. Your headphones are in, and your notes are spread sporadically across the table. 

You were minding your business until he sat down across from you. Satoru Gojo is so close that when you glance up from your screen, you are looking directly at him. He’s got a yellow pad open and squinting at whatever problem he’s trying to solve.

He never looks up. You spend the next thirty minutes reading the same page of your textbook, you barely pick up your pen to write notes, and if you did, they are completely illegible. 

To your dismay, he leaves before you do, yellow pad tucked under his arm, but on his way out, he glances over at you and gives you a friendly nod... and then he’s gone. 

You text the group chat immediately.

you: i need you guys to know that i am not okay

You spent the entire winter break convincing yourself you’re over Satoru Gojo. Pining over a man for a whole semester when he doesn’t even know your name is useless. He’s just a person… A very tall person with a handsome face and an unfair laugh, and definitely not an angel… A person. 

You’ve been back on campus for the spring semester for only four hours before you see him crossing the quad with a latte in each hand, handing one to the boy next to him, all while telling a story that makes the entire group around him laugh. He’s wearing a black puffer, sunglasses perched on his head despite the gloomy January sky, and he looks so unreal that you’re paranoid you made him up-

You walk directly into a trash can. 

It makes an embarrassingly loud noise that makes a few people look over. You keep walking. 

You are not over it.

It’s snowing lightly, but the kind that doesn’t stick. You’re in line at the convenience store on campus, holding a cup of instant ramen when he walks in.

You become extremely interested in the nutrition label on the cup. Sodium content, fascinating. The fat content? Riveting. 

You hear him line up behind you. You are so normal. You are going to be so normal about this, so normal that you’re going to keep reading the ingredients list on a cup ramen at 11 oclock at night. 

“Those are good,” he says.

You look up. Satoru Gojo is pointing at the cup in your hands, and he’s also apparently talking to you.

“Yeah.” You croak.

“Spicy miso,” he says, nodding, “good choice. The beef one is depressing.”

You let out a sound that might be a laugh, you’re unsure right now. He smiles, then the line moves, and you pay and leave before your face can betray the feelings you’ve had for him for the last six months.

You stand outside in the cold, under the snow, and pull your phone out.

you: he talked to me you: 12 words you: im going to hurl aya: TWELVE????? oh we’re framing this

The campus bar closes at eleven. You know this because post-exam celebrations have been here enough times for you to memorize the way the lights get a little brighter at around 10:45, the owner’s subtle cue that it’s time to start wrapping up.

But the corner booth still has your friends piled into it, Rei’s pink cheeks and happy on her birthday, Sora giggling at Suzu belting the song playing over the speakers, and the table scattered with empty glasses and crumpled napkins. 

You’re unsure when he got here.

Aya spots him first; she always does. It’s her superpower, you think. She essentially gives you warning signals not to do something embarrassing. This time, she kicks you under the table without saying anything. You look up. 

Satoru Gojo is at the same bar as you are, with a few people you don’t recognize, a half-finished beer in front of him, leaning on one elbow and talking with the confidence of someone who has never once felt out of place in their life.

Someone says something funny, and he tips his head back, laughing, and the bar lights catch the white of his hair and the line of his throat just like it did back in the early fall. 

You’ve thought about this way too many times. In a joking way, a fun way, the way you text the group chat about him and make it into something light, poking at your own parasocial tendencies. But sitting here right now, watching Satoru Gojo exist from across the bar at 10:40 a tonight, it doesn’t feel like a joke. 

“You okay?” Rei asks quietly beside you.

“Y-Yeah.” You hum.

She follows your gaze and doesn’t say anything, which is somehow worse than if she said her usual, absolutely not. 

You look away. Then you look back. To your dismay, he’s still there. He’s still going to be there until the lights completely turn on and the servers start collecting cups, but you’re going to sit in this booth and do absolutely nothing about it, which is exactly what you’ve been doing for the whole school year, and that is fine. You are fine. That was always the plan. 

The song overhead starts to play something older and slow, and you hear him even from the other end of the bar, starting to sing along. He has always been unselfconsciously himself, from obnoxiously laughing in the quad, nodding at you in the library, and making small talk about cup ramen. Satoru Gojo has never apologized for being himself. 

Aya leans over. “You should go say something.”

“I did once. We talked about ramen.”

“Babe.” She looks at you with an expression that is both fond and sad. “That is not the same thing.”

“I know.”

She doesn’t push. She fills your shot glass instead, Sora starts a new story, your booth gets loud again, and for a moment you’re back in it, laughing at something, leaning into the warmth of your friends, forgetting all about Satoru Gojo. 

The bar gets louder after the last round of drinks is called. Someone in the back booth cheers, Sora knocks over a glass (it thankfully doesn't break), and Rei's birthday sash ends up around her neck like a scarf. 

It’s the type of loud that makes you feel invisible. It makes you slip out of the booth quietly to get air.

The bar door swings shut behind you, and suddenly the sound of the music is muffled, the street is cold and dark, and you let out a long breath, watching it fog up in front of you.

You feel your phone buzz in your pocket.

aya: GO TALK TO HIMMM aya: NOWWWWW

The door opens again behind you. You don’t look up; you assume it’s Suzu or a stranger needing air. But then they stop next to you and lean back against the wall the same way you are, and you can’t help yourself from looking over.

Satoru Gojo.

He’s got his black puffer on now, hands in his pockets, looking straight ahead. He’s looking out at the street, squinting slightly at nothing in particular, like he also just needed a second, like maybe he also felt invisible. 

You put your phone away. For a moment, neither of you says anything. The bar noise bleeds faintly through the door, and somewhere down the block, someone is laughing. 

"Needed air?" he asks, still looking at the street.

"Something like that."

He nods like that's a reasonable answer. "Fun night in there."

"Yeah." You glance over at him. "Your friends seem fun."

He turns his head then, just slightly, enough to look at you from the corner of his eyes. "You know who I am."

It isn't a question. Your face goes warm despite the chill.

"Campus is small," you say, which is kinda true, and also not really an answer.

Something shifts in his expression. “How small?"

"Don't make it weird."

"I'm not making it anything." But his voice has that rhythm to it now. "I noticed you, too, you know. In the library."

You look at him then, because you can't not. "The library..."

"You had your headphones in. You were highlighting everything on the page." A pause. "I don't think you were actually reading anything."

Your mouth opens. Then closes. "I was reading-."

"Sure."

"I was." 

He's fully smiling now, and you are going to combust on this sidewalk, right here, outside this bar, in front of everyone. The door swings open behind you, and a group spills out, loud and laughing, popping the bubble of quiet you've both been standing in.

You both shift slightly apart without meaning to. And then Aya's head appears in the doorway, her eyes finding you immediately.

"We're heading out," she says. "Rei's calling it."

You look back at him. He's watching you with his hands still in his pockets.

"I'll see you," you say.

"Yeah," he says, quietly. "You will."

You follow Aya inside. She grabs your arm the second the door closes and makes a sound directly into your shoulder.

"I know," you say.

"DO YOU?" she hisses.

Things happen after that night. Small things.

He texts you (you still aren't entirely sure of how he got your number, and when you asked him, he just said, I asked around like that was a completely normal thing). The texts are causal, nothing things, observations, and the occasional questions. But they come at odd hours, and he responds fast, always, and you've stopped pretending that it doesn't mean anything.

He finds you in the library again. Same table, same corner. But this time, he sits next to you. You spend two hours not really studying. He steals your highlighter and doesn't give it back, you don't complain.

Aya asks almost daily if you've told him.

You haven’t.

You’re at the same bar, the one that closes at 11. Two months later, a different birthday, but the same corner booth, and the same low lighting.

Satoru invited you. He texted four days ago.

satoru: suguru's bday friday, you should come satoru: invite your friends too!

You'd stared at the text long enough that Aya took your phone and typed we'll be there before you could overthink it. You've been equal parts grateful and furious with her since.

The two tables pushed together hold everyone easily, his friends folding into yours. Suguru is being roasted every twenty minutes. Rei has already swapped jackets with someone she met an hour ago. Aya and Suzu complain about a class they have together.

Satoru is beside you again. He talks to everyone, laughs loudly at the table, but he keeps coming back to you between all of it, small whispers, things meant only for you. 

By 10:30, the table has spread itself around the bar, Suguru pulled toward the birthday shots, Aya deep in conversation with someone you don't know, Rei on the dance floor, and it's just you and Satoru in the corner, and it's just been the two of you for long enough now that it doesn't feel awkward. It feels like the most natural arrangement in the world, which is its own kind of terrifying.

It's almost 11. The lights haven't gone bright yet, but the energy in the bar has lowered. You slip away from the booth toward the back of the bar, and the line for the bathroom is longer than it should be for a Tuesday night. You join it nonetheless, checking your phone, and thirty seconds later, someone slots in behind you.

You don't have to look to know.

"You're following me," you say, without looking up.

"I also have to use the bathroom," Satoru says, unbothered.

You look up at him over your shoulder. The hallway is narrow, which means he's closer than he would be anywhere else, which means you are suddenly extremely aware of the exact (or lack of) distance between you.

"Hi," he says.

"Hi," you say back.

His eyes stay on yours, and there is absolutely nothing casual about the way he's looking at you right now, and you should say it... right now. You've seen his face a hundred times. You have tattooed it to your memory, in stolen glances, in your peripheral vision, in the glow of a physics department webpage you visited way too many times for someone who doesn't take physics. 

Up close, in the narrow red-lit hallway, he is genuinely unfair. The angles of his face make you feel lightheaded. His jaw, the line of his throat, all of it lands on your heart like a bomb.

You are so down bad. You have been so down bad since the first time you saw him. You are down bad in the bathroom line of the only bar open on campus on a Tuesday, and he is looking at you like that, and you think, with the last functional part of your brain... say it.

"Satoru-"

"I know," he interrupts.

And then he kisses you. 

His hand finds your jaw, and he kisses you like he's been working up to it for longer than tonight. When he pulls back, you're pressed between him and the wall, and you can't quite remember how that happened.

"You could have said something," you manage.

The corner of his mouth lifts. "So could you."

You’re going to drop dead... you think.