So here you are. 1:34AM. Snuggled up in your bed, lights off, blackout curtains drawn, and laptop open at full brightness as you scrolled YouTube, bleary-eyed and annoyed. The only light in the room is the faint blue glow of YouTube’s homepage and your will to academically succeed (read: suffer). 

You typed “bond angles” into the search bar. Hit enter, and scrolled. Then a thumbnail caught your eye.

“Predicting Bond Angles – (VSEPR Theory but not boring)” Channel: Mecha Senku Runtime: 5:28

And then you heard it.

That voice. you practically drooled at your screen. It was soft and deep, yet raspy, like he talked too much—which he did—or didn’t care if he wore out his throat explaining the same concept fifteen times. And when he rambled? Oh god. When he got caught up on a tangent about orbital hybridization—when his voice cracked just slightly because his brain was going faster than his mouth?

Yeah, you were soaked.

Kidding.

...Maybe.

You pulled your blanket tighter around your shoulders like that would protect you. Like you weren’t voluntarily listening to this man monologue about VSEPR models like it was foreplay.

You tried to focus on the science. Really, you did. He even had good diagrams—clean visuals, clear examples, actual accuracy. It was kind of annoying how helpful it was, actually. Like, did he have to sound hot while also being smart?

You watched the entire thing.

Then another.

Then another.

Before you knew it, you were five videos deep. At 2:11AM.

Your poor, old, worn-down laptop was probably overheating from the sheer amount of your spiraling. You didn’t even care.

And then… there was that video.

A short one. Barely three minutes.

“Iodine Clock Reaction – Visual Chemistry in Real Time”

You clicked on it like you were possessed.

It was simple—two clear liquids, a few drops of starch, and a timer. You knew the experiment already. You’d seen it done a dozen times in lab. You’d even done it yourself. But somehow, when he did it, it was a cinematic masterpiece.

The camera was angled just right—focused tight on his gloved hands, the faint clink of glass, the gentle pour of the liquid. His voice low, casual, like he was walking you through a magic trick instead of an actual chemical reaction.

And then—the clamps.

He adjusted the glassware with the same energy you imagined he’d use to unbutton his lab coat (which you have no idea why your thoughts immediately ran there)—methodical, focused, and totally unaware of the damage he was doing to your sanity. Forearms flexing, veins shifting, wrist angled just slightly—You blinked. Rewound ten seconds. Then watched it again.

Something dark and sinister bloomed in your chest. Something carnal. Unholy. You buried half your face in your pillow and made a sound that can only be described as a blowdryer on max output immediately followed by a deep, guttural moan. Like your soul was trying to evacuate your body in protest—but got stuck halfway out, sobbing.

You didn’t even know you had a thing for forearms.

Yet here you are. You were a mess. A high-functioning, academically driven, chemically confused mess, replaying a three-minute video about reaction rates like it was an award winning movie. Like it wasn’t educational.

“This is fine. I’m still learning.” You whispered to yourself

You weren’t.

At least, not about chemistry.

Extra notes about mecha senku!

Certified yapper; it gets so bad he just add timestamps to when he gets back on topic

Always says that stupid little catchphrase— “this is exhilarating, get excited” he can’t help himself, its like second nature

While editing his experiment videos, he add little text boxes that say “*item* acquired” ( like in the anime)

That comes in handy later

⋆.⌬ ˚𒉭 ⋆

At first, it was a side project. Something to kill time between lectures, experiments, and tutoring sessions with students who couldn’t tell a mole from a molecule if their GPA depended on it. He kept the uploads short. Clean. No face, no fluff. Just experiments and explanations—combustion, osmosis, acid-base reactions. The basic building blocks of chemistry and physics, broken down in that signature tone of his: concise, confident, and just slightly condescending.

Naturally, people loved it.

Especially college students. Especially the ones who’d seen too many dead-eyed professors stumble through half-baked PowerPoints  that they repurposed over the past 5 decades and somehow still made them boring.

He didn’t need gimmicks. Just science.

And, apparently, his voice.

The comments were... something. He ignored them, mostly. Or at least, tried to.

But even he had limits.

@lo1itado11: FLASH US!!! @freakwy: ong WE all cracking Username: i will combust and it won’t be a controlled reaction. Anotherusername: i can literally get off to his voice rn bro omg…

He sighed, deeply. Then dragged a hand through his loosely tied-up hair, fingers threading through strands that refused to stay neat. He didn’t even bother hiding the twitch in his left eye.

Degenerates. All of them.

Still, every new upload got thousands of views in under an hour. Every deep dive request was more unhinged than the last. And while he could ignore the thirst comments, he couldn’t deny the numbers.

His channel was growing. Fast. And if someone asked him to demonstrate a specific experiment?

Well.

He was a scientist.

And who was he to deny a request in the name of scientific curiosity?

⋆.⌬ ˚𒉭 ⋆

Now, Senku wasn’t exactly an avid social media user.

Sure, he had all the apps downloaded—after relentless badgering from Gen and Ryusui, who had both made it their mission to pressure him into being “normal” for once. Senku used Instagram occasionally, mostly to lurk. To like Taiju’s blurry gym selfies. To comment “inaccurate” under Chrome’s chaotic science photo dumps—half of which somehow included a blurry photo of him. 

Nothing on his own feed, though. His personal account was private, untouched, maxed out at like 26 followers—half of which were probably bots, and one was definitely just Ryusui’s alt.

However, he was used to getting notifications on his side account. His real one. The one that mattered.

@/mecha.senku.

So when he got a ping from TikTok, he didn’t think much of it. Just a red-and-white flash in the corner of his screen as he walked past a group of undergrads in the quad, huddled around a phone, laughing. Loudly.

Then it happened again. Another ping. Then another. 

People tagging him in the same comment section. Spamming him.

Weird.

It wasn’t until after his lecture, holed up in the farthest corner of the campus library, headphones in, laptop open, coffee cooling rapidly at his elbow, half-forgotten.

The notification trail led to a single video.

At first glance, it was just a cake.

A badly decorated one at that—a war crime in the form of buttercream—uneven icing, no symmetry, and piped text that looked like it was written mid-seizure. He could’ve done better blindfolded. He was about to swipe away.

Until he saw the video thumbnail again.

He squinted. Froze. Looked closer.

It was you.

Holding a handful of what looked like paper-taped sticks. Your fingers curled delicately around them, like you’d spent time choosing each one. The video hadn’t even started yet and it was already climbing in views, the likes ticking like a metronome. The top comment had nearly eighty thousand likes.

@/semioli: “I KNEW YOU’D PUT HIM FIRST OMFG”

Senku blinked. Then, almost reluctantly, pressed play.

“Okay, so this is my ‘Hear Me Out’ cake,” you said with a breathless little laugh, voice rich with amusement and just the right touch of self-deprecation. “Please don’t judge…”

You laughed nervously at the camera, your voice familiar in the way ambient noise becomes addictive. He knew you—kind of. You were popular, at least on campus. Friendly with everyone. Smart. You asked questions in class that weren’t dumb, which was rare. People actually listened when you talked.

But he never—not once—imagined you listened to him.

Until the moment your fingers—painted nails and all—planted the first stick dead center into the cake. His channel logo. Bright. Unmistakable. Front and center.

Senku sat still. Very still. His breath caught somewhere in the back of his throat.

“I don’t know what it is about him,” you went on, eyes wide and glittering like you couldn’t believe what you were admitting, “but I feel a carnal type of desire whenever I hear his voice.”

Silence.

Real, gut-wrenching silence.

Senku just stared at the screen. One brow lifted. Lips parted slightly. Blinking. Nothing.

“…What.”

It wasn’t like he hadn’t heard shit like that before. He had. The comments under his videos were riddled with deranged confessionals and late-night voice-induced breakdowns. He’d seen them. Sighed at them. Maybe rolled his eyes on occasion.

But something about hearing you say that—out loud—while staring directly into the camera, shoving his logo into a cake like it was the most natural thing in the world…Now he’s reading the rest of the comments, most of which you had liked.

“his voice scratches my brain in just the right spot i can’t explain it.” “if he ever does a face reveal it’s over for all of us.” “whoever he is irl i hope he’s single bc i’m mentally married to him already.” “i can’t even watch his videos in public anymore istg.”

A laugh, airy and sharp, passed out through his nose.

It was barely even a sound, just air. His head tilted back slowly against the chair, bones creaking lazily. One hand reached up, dragging through his hair—half-loose from the shitty tie job he’d done earlier. He didn’t even realize he was smirking. Eyes narrowed. Lashes lowered. Something wicked curled across his face, subtle but steeped in ego.

So.

You were into him.

And you didn’t even know that he sat two rows behind you in lecture. That the guy scribbling thermodynamic equations while you twirled your pen and tapped your knee was the same voice that apparently haunted your dreams.

Interesting.

Very, very interesting.

Senku closed the tab. Then reopened it not even ten seconds later, still somehow thinking his sleep deprivation was finally catching up to him. Big mistake.

You were still there—smiling at the camera, laughing like you hadn’t just shoved a stick into a cake bearing his logo and said you felt a “carnal desire” whenever you heard his voice. 

He stared at the screen like it personally offended him. It didn’t. Not really. The offense was fake—just a weak cover for something worse, something much more humiliating.

You were attractive. That much had always been obvious.

He had eyes, didn’t he?

He wasn’t blind. He noticed things. Like the way you always had some elaborate doodle in the margins of your notebook that changed depending on your current hyperfixation. Like how you spoke with your hands, too fast sometimes, expressive. Like how your voice always had a bit of a lilt when you were excited about something, like you were trying not to talk over yourself. Like how you liked sitting near the window in lecture, even if it made it harder to see the board.

He noticed everything.

Which was the problem.

Because now he couldn’t stop noticing.

Your face. Your voice. Your laugh. 

And the worst part?

You were smart.

Not smart like “gets good grades.” That wasn’t hard. No—smart like engaged. Curious. Your own brand of chaotic genius that showed up in how you argued with professors and picked at theories like they were complex puzzles meant for your hands alone.

You were confident. Passionate. Sharp.

You were…

Fuck.

He sat back in his chair and rubbed his face with both hands, groaning.

He didn’t do this. He didn’t get… distracted. He didn’t get flustered. Romance wasn’t even on the table. It was too messy. Too emotional. Too inefficient. He had research. He had goals. The last thing he needed was—

Another notification.

He glanced over. More tags. More people replying to your video.

More people joking, “@mecha.senku bro SAY SOMETHING!!! WE KNOW YOU SEE THIS.”

He hovered. His cursor blinking over the comment section.

He shouldn’t. There was no reason to. There was no benefit. No scientific purpose. No—He cracked his knuckles once. Took a slow breath. And typed.

@mecha.senku: Just a hear me out huh?

He pressed enter, then shut the laptop.

And immediately regretted everything.

Because within 30 seconds, the comment had over 2 thousand likes. The reply threads birthing entire romance novels in real time. 

“OH MY GOD HE COMMENTED OH MY GOD OH MY—” “HE KNOWS. HE FUCKING KNOWS. “NAH??? THE MAN HIMSELF??? NO WAY” “@y/n GIRL U NEED TO WAKE UP RN”

Every five seconds, your phone buzzes.

Buzz.

Buzz.

BuzzBuzzBuzz.

It starts slow—innocent. A like here. A tag there. Then, as if the universe pulled a lever, it turns into an avalanche. Your screen lights up like it’s trying to melt in your hand. TikTok. Twitter. Instagram. Even people from your group project in history are texting you like girl what the actual fuck did you DO?

You’re sitting cross-legged on your bed, charger barely keeping up, blanket wrapped around your shoulders like it can protect you from the moment. Your face is hot. Your jaw is slack. Your soul? Practically nonexistent.

You stare at the screen in disbelief.

Right there, in the comments, bolded like the laws of physics decided to write you a personalized romance book:

@/mecha.senku: just a hear me out huh

You blinked once. Then twice. Rubbed your eyes. Because—no. No way.

There’s absolutely no way that the literal voice of your academic downfall and emotional spiral just casually acknowledged the fact that you want to climb him like a fucking molecular structure.

Your mouth opens. Nothing comes out. You double-tap your phone by accident. Scroll. Scroll again. Scroll back. It's still there. You suck in a breath like it's going to help. It doesn't.

Your room spins a little—not in a dizzy way, more like the fabric of reality is reconfiguring around your phone screen. Like you’ve accidentally made a deal with a god and now the god is texting you back. Casually. In lowercase.

Your body chooses to react the only way it knows how—by laughing. Not normal laughing. That kind of panicked, unhinged, screeching laugh that sounds like it’s being wrung out of you like a wet rag. A noise clawing its way up your throat as you slowly tip sideways, dramatic as hell, into the mattress.

“Wow,” you say out loud to your empty room, chest rising and falling, heart jackhammering somewhere behind your ribs. “No way. This is such a crazy-ass dream…” Your voice cracks at the end. You sound borderline delirious.

But the comment is still there. Pinned by the original creator. Which is you.

You just close your eyes. Face-down into your pillow.

Your dignity? Gone.

Your supposed  crush? Apparently omniscient.

Your life? Ruined. Maybe. Probably.

But your phone’s still vibrating under your thigh like it’s trying to combust.

And yeah. You’re never going to be normal about this again.

⋆.⌬ ˚𒉭 ⋆

It’s a few days later when you finally have biochem again.

Your professor had sent out an email at the end of last class—something about paying attention to the partner list for the next lab. You hadn’t even looked. Too busy hyperventilating over the Mecha Senku situation. Too busy swiping through your phone at 1 a.m., rereading that comment like it might suddenly disappear, or—worse—turn into something more incriminating.

You didn’t sleep much. Or at all. You just kinda laid there, vibrating at a frequency only dogs could decipher, while mentally reviewing every second of that video and every stupid thing you’d ever said about his voice.

So when your professor calls out your name and tells you to head to the back bench to meet your assigned partner, you’re still in a daze. You adjust your lab coat, swipe lip balm on with hands that are definitely not still shaking, and make your way to the station with the dull dread of someone walking to their own execution.

And then you see him.

Senku Ishigami.

Hair pulled into that slightly messy half-up style he always wears. Safety goggles already on, sleeves rolled up, already gloved. He doesn’t look up at first—he’s swabbing the inside of a petri dish with a level of focus you reserve only for exams and existential dissociations. Then he glances at you, just a quick flick of the eyes.

“Hey,” he says, voice low, casual. A little rough around the edges, like he just got over a cold or hadn’t talked to anyone in hours.

Your spine locks. You blink. Hard.

“Hi,” you manage, but it comes out thinner than you mean it to—stretched at the edges, fraying like an old thread. “You’re… my partner?”

He glances at the roster sheet clipped to the bench as if just now confirming something he already knew. “Looks like it.” There’s the faintest twitch at the corner of his mouth—barely a smirk, more like a thought trying to become one. “Hope you’re decent with a microscope.”

You nod. Too fast. Too eager. Like your neck forgot how to move naturally. You try to smile like this is fine. Like this is normal. Like this isn’t currently short-circuiting every neuron in your academic-functioning brain.

You’ve never really spoken to Senku Ishigami before. Not really. Maybe a passing nod in the hallway. A blink-and-you-miss-it smile between lecture shifts. A polite “excuse me” when your bags bumped in the lab supply room once. But that was it. That was the whole sum of your direct interactions.

Everything else was observation. Safe distance admiration. Seeing him carry entire study groups with nothing but a half-dry marker and that ever-focused look in his eye. Taking note of how he argued with professors—calm, surgical, relentless—and somehow still walked out of every debate not only correct, but respected.

You admired him from afar. Kinda academically. Kinda not. (mostly not.)

But you’re a girl dedicated to her degree. A girl with goals, with caffeine basically in your bloodstream and deadlines stitched into the fabric of your week. You don’t get distracted. Not by things like this. Not by people like him. Or at least you didn’t. Until now.

Because working with him shouldn’t be this bad. Shouldn’t feel like the center of gravity shifted slightly under your feet, like the air got thinner and thicker all at once.

Except he rolls his sleeves up higher. Forearms peaking out. The lean muscle dusted in faint freckles, veins running like undercurrents

And then—God. The way he adjusts the microscope. Methodical. Controlled. His fingers moving like he’s done this a thousand times and still treats the equipment like it’s breakable—which it is, so you have no idea why him treating it as such is doing something to you—it all starts to blur together in your head. 

You blink again. Swallow hard. And then you start to think back.

His voice.

That same voice. The cadence is exact. Steady and sharp with a rasp that scrapes along your spine in the worst/best way. A quiet breathless ramble as he explains the agar base—like the information is too much to simply stay in his head, like he forgets other people are listening. That subtle catch on certain consonants. That dry, low huff of amusement when your glove doesn’t go on right and you curse under your breath.

And then his hands.

Long fingers. Familiar motions. The way he handles the petri dish with practiced ease, adjusts the swabs like he’s composing something. You know those hands. You’ve seen them before. Over and over. In reaction videos. In slow motion clips, 0.25x speed. In the YouTube comments people timestamp for “scientific purposes.”

You freeze.

Fully. Completely paralyzed in real time like someone hit pause on your central nervous system. The classroom noise goes muffled. Muted. The hum of fluorescent lights above you turns sharp and migraine inducing bright. Your pulse is in your mouth now—behind your eyes, in your fingertips.

Because you’re looking at him. Really looking.

And it hits you like a truck doing 90 in a 60.

That’s him.

That’s him.

Your biochem lab partner. Senku Ishigami.

Is Mecha Senku. The, Mecha Senku.

And he knows. Oh, he knows.

He’s not even looking at you right now, but you swear—swear—there’s the faintest curve at the edge of his mouth. A smirk barely there, as he slides a sample onto the tray like he didn’t just casually detonate your grasp on reality.

“Oh my god,” you breathe. Not loud. But not quiet, either.

He doesn’t say anything. Doesn’t react. Doesn’t so much as flinch. But you feel it. The moment it registers. The moment he knows that you know. Because the corner of his mouth twitches higher. Just a little. Just enough to catch onto. And then—still not looking at you, still pretending to be invested in his perfectly aligned swab placement, voice smooth and clinical like this is just another lab session—he says,

“Something wrong?”

You want to bang your head on the table. 

Instead, you choke, swallow whatever dignity you had left, and squeak out,

“No. Nope. All good. Just… thinking.”

He hums, low and amused, like he already knows what you’re thinking about.

You're going to die here. Right next to your science tutor YouTuber crush who is also your real-life lab partner crush—for completely unrelated reasons—who has definitely, 1000% seen the video where you said hearing his voice makes you feel like your guts are being spiritually rearranged.

God.

You are so unbelievably, irreparably screwed.

 ⋆.⌬ ˚𒉭 ⋆

It doesn’t happen right away.

In fact, it almost doesn’t happen at all.

Because after the Mecha Senku revelation, after the comment, after the lab, after the video—you basically short-circuit. You try to act normal in the days that follow. You show up to class. Try to pretend like it’s no big deal that your anonymous science tutor crush is also your lab partner who is also your mutual…acquaintence? Friend? You didn't know which term you fell under in this situation. You tell yourself it’s fine. It’s not weird. You’re being mature about this.

And then he likes one of your posts. One of your older ones. A video from 3 months ago where you’re ranting about a series that you were into at the time while getting ready for the day. It was a stupid, pointless video. One which he had no reason to like. But he did. 

That’s when you panic.

Not in public. But you lie in bed again at 2AM, staring at your screen like it might suddenly catch on fire. He’s watching your content. On purpose. He’s scrolling. Deep enough to find something from weeks ago, which means he’s either curious, bored, or—God forbid—interested.

You stop posting for three days.

Not out of pride. Not even out of posting strategy. Just fear. Raw, buzzing fear that anything you say or do will somehow make this whole situation worse. You delete a draft. Then another. Then six more. Your camera roll becomes a graveyard of half-filmed attempts at being funny or cute or sweet or not on the verge of a breakdown. But nothing feels right.

And meanwhile, Senku is being maddeningly normal.

He shows up to lab on time. Speaks when necessary. Makes the occasional snide remark when a burner malfunctions or a pH test fails. He doesn’t bring up the video. Doesn’t mention the TikTok. Doesn’t acknowledge the fact that you both know that this is like some weird fucked up romcom scenario that immediately got put on Tubi for its low budget. He just acts like… himself. Detached, sharp-tongued, observant, and unbothered. You, on the other hand, are barely holding it together every time he passes you a report sheet.

The dam doesn’t break until two weeks later.

You’re walking out of lecture, halfway through stuffing your notes into your bag with a granola bar half-eaten in your mouth when you hear someone fall into step beside you. Quietly synced with your rhythm, like they’d been waiting for the right second to align.

You glance over.

Senku.

Of course it’s Senku. His sweater sleeves rolled up to his elbows. Satchel strap slung lazy across his chest, and a half drunk energy drink swished in his hand. His expression is unreadable, somewhere between tired and calculating, but the fact that he’s here, walking beside you unprompted, is enough to make you question every single one of your life choices.

You’re not sure if you should say something first. Or if you should pretend not to notice the way your posture stiffens whenever he's in your general vicinity. You take another glance at him through your peripheral vision.

He still has that same unreadable expression on his face—bored, maybe. Or focused. Or just better at masking than you are. He doesn’t say anything right away, and you’re half-preparing yourself for some comment about glycolysis pathways or the upcoming quiz that you’ve been dreading over.

But then he exhales through his nose and says, “I’ve been thinking.”

Which is a terrifying sentence coming from someone who does more thinking in one day than most people do in an entire semester.

Your gaze doesn’t stray but you raise an eyebrow. “About…?”

He pauses for a beat. A way too long beat. Long enough to make your stomach drop. Then, casually: “A collab.”

You blink. “What?”

“A video,” he clarifies, like this is something completely normal that happens all the time. “A joint one. On your account. Or mine, doesn't matter to me. Mutually beneficial, wider audience reach, strategic engagement—pick whatever reason you want.”

You stop walking. He doesn’t.

“Wait,” you say, catching up. “You mean, like… a TikTok?”

He shrugs. “Sure. That’s your area. Whatever gets views. I figure if everyone is already suspecting something, I might as well do a face reveal while I’m at it.”

Silence. Pure, deafening silence. You can’t even think of what to say. Your mouth opens. Closes. Opens again.

Because it’s not just the words—it’s the way he says them. Like it’s no big deal. Like the internet hasn’t been begging for a glimpse of his face since his third viral video. Like he hasn’t been a literal science cryptid for the past three years and now he’s just… casually deciding to unmask like it’s just something to check off on his bucket list.

“Why now?” you ask, finally. Your voice sounds weird in your own throat.

Senku lifts a shoulder, a faint smirk tugging at the corners of his mouth like he’s trying to suppress it.

“Felt like the right time,” he says, glancing at you out of the corner of his eye. “Besides, you’ve already done the hard part.”

You blink. “The hard part?”

He hums, nodding once. “Making me realize it’s not that deep.”

You blink again, brain buffering like it just hit a patch of missing code. “Wait… what?”

He shrugs again, like it’s nothing. Like this isn’t the culmination of literal years of silence and mystery and curated anonymity. “People’ve been asking for a face reveal since the beginning. I always told myself it wasn’t worth it. Kept saying it didn’t matter, that it’d just mess things up. But then you…” He pauses, and there’s this barely-there curve at the corner of his mouth. Not a smile—something quieter. More dangerous. “You made it feel kind of… harmless.”

Your pulse stutters. Your stomach flips. You don’t even have time to brace for what’s next.

“I mean, it’s not every day someone from your school logs online just to say she practically gets off to—”

You don’t let him finish. You physically can’t. Your hands are already flying up, face buried before your brain fully catches up, a sound of absolute mortification ripping out of your throat.

“Oh my God,” you groan, fingers pressing into your temples like you can massage the memory out of existence. “Please don’t say it like that. This is already, embarrassing enough as it is, The whole video was like a public humiliation ritual”

He lets out a chuckle at that. Way too satisfied with your reaction. Like he predicted it. When you don’t continue further he decides to speak up again.

“Think about it,” he says before splitting off toward his next class. “You pick the trend. I’ll show up.”

And just like that, he’s gone.

⋆.⌬ ˚𒉭 ⋆

You kind of forget about the whole thing.

Not on purpose, of course. It’s just that coursework piles up, assignments stack on top of quizzes that stack on top of projects, and somewhere between stressing over due dates and wanting to evaporate from existence after another surprise pop lab, the entire conversation with Senku slips to the back burner. Not in a “never doing that” way, but more like… “I will emotionally process this after midterms or death, whichever comes first.” kind of way.

There’s just never a good moment to circle back and be like, “Hey… remember that video idea you volunteered for? Wanna hang out and pretend we’re not both chronically online and know what we’re doing?”

Yeah, no. No way.

But then the first break in your schedule opens up—a blessed, random Sunday with no looming assignments due at 11:59, no labs, no back-to-back lectures sucking the soul from your body—and before you can talk yourself out of it, you’re typing a text.

It’s short, simple, and only took you about seven drafts before you finally sent it.

hey, i got a day off and i saw this new exhibit at the museum. thought it’d be nice.

You follow it up fast, like too fast:

for the collab that is!

Smooth. Very smooth.

He replies six minutes later.

sure. what day?

That’s it. That’s the whole text. Dry. Short. And so to the point it makes you start to question if he even wants to go, but you’ll take your chances. You send him the info—location, hours, all that—and hope for the best. Hope you don’t show up alone. Hope you don’t sit around pretending not to be stood up for a date that isn’t a date but still kind of feels like one.

But of course, who would Senku Ishigami be if not maddeningly consistent? If not a man ruthlessly punctual, stubbornly dependable, and irritatingly true to his word?

He’s already there when you arrive.

Not just there— but early. Waiting outside like it’s the most natural thing in the world, casually leaned against a concrete planter with one hand in his pocket and the other scrolling aimlessly on his phone. He’s not dressed up, exactly, but there’s something about his fit that feels intentional. Dark gray-beige slacks. Cream button-up shirt, top button undone. Black cardigan layered over it. Loose tie slung around his neck—totally optional, probably just for the aesthetic. Hair half-up in that signature man-bun style, the front strands framing his face.

You stop short a few paces away, your brain stalling mid-thought as your gaze continues to flicker up and down his form.

Because you? You are wearing a plaid skirt, a ruffled cream blouse, stockings, and boots that are way too tall to pretend you didn’t also plan your outfit, and a tote bag that’s got absolutely nothing useful inside besides your phone, wallet, lip gloss, and an emotional support water bottle.

Which is exactly when you notice it.

The colors. The textures. The vibe.

Oh my god.

You blurt it out before you can stop yourself, stepping the last few feet toward him like you weren’t just frozen in place two seconds ago. “We’re kind of matching.”

Senku glances up, and there it is. That thing he does. The slow, calculated glance from the hem of your skirt to your blouse to the edge of your bag and back up again, all while maintaining that unreadable expression. Like he’s gathering data. Like your outfit’s a puzzle he’s solving in real-time. His mouth twitches, just slightly, into something that toes the line between smug and genuinely amused.

“Yeah, I guess so…” He shifts his weight, pocketing his phone. “You look nice.”

You blink. Buffering. “You—uh. You too! I mean, not that I was—uh, yeah, thanks. You look good too.” You internally wince. Recover. “I hope you weren’t waiting out here long?”

He shakes his head, “Not really. Got here early on purpose.”

You nod, awkward and a little breathless, trying desperately not to read too much into it. You glance toward the entrance, mostly just to distract yourself in something that’s not his facial structure or the way the light catches on the slope of his nose.

“Should we… go in?” you ask, gesturing toward the doors. He hums, a quiet sound, like he's still mildly amused, and nods, stepping in beside you. Not ahead. Not behind. Right beside. 

You scan your tickets at the entrance, hands just barely steady, and try not to overanalyze the exact distance between your shoulders. You try not to notice the faint smell of something clean and earthy—maybe his shampoo? Maybe something herbal?—that drifts off of him every time he turns to speak. You try, in vain, to be normal.

The museum’s quiet. Dim lighting. Cool air. Echoes of hushed conversations and soft-soled shoes against the polished floors. The first exhibit is drowned in amber lighting and filled with fossils in glass cases. You both drift to the same one without speaking, reading the plaque in tandem, standing so close your elbows almost brush.

He speaks first. 

“Cretaceous, huh,” he says, voice low and a little warm, like he’s half-talking to himself. “Not exactly cutting edge, but still cool.”

You blink at him. “Are you—are you seriously judging the dinosaur bones right now?”

He glances at you. “Just saying, there’s been more interesting finds. I’d rather see a well-preserved stromatolite, personally.”

You snort. Actually snort, and he grins, which is possibly the worst thing he could do because now you’re staring at his lips and—

“God, you’re such a nerd,” you mutter, grinning before you can help it.

“And you’re not?” He raises an eyebrow, tilting his head slightly as if daring you to lie.

You scoff, turning back to the plaque like you can hide behind a block of educational text. “Yeah, okay, fair. But at least I pretend to be normal in public.”

“Mm. Is that what this is?” he says, and he doesn’t even try to hide the smile this time. It’s subtle, just a twitch at the corners of his mouth, but it makes your stomach do a little flip anyway.

You don’t answer. Not right away. You’re too busy trying not to combust.

You keep walking, slowly, drifting from case to case. The exhibits start to blur together after a while—early mammals, glacial imprints, fossilized flora—because your brain is short-circuiting every time his voice dips a little lower to point something out, or his hand lifts to gesture near your shoulder, or his sleeve brushes your arm.

You can tell he knows it, too. Maybe not the full extent of your internal spiral, but enough to sadistically enjoy how flustered you get. He’s not smug about it, nor cruel. Just quietly observant. Like he’s keeping a mental note every time your breath hitches a little or you laugh a beat too fast.

Somewhere between the meteorite collection and the preserved taxidermy wing (which he naturally had opinions about), you start filming. Nothing extravagant. Just quick clips on your phone—soft pans over the displays. He doesn’t comment, doesn’t shy away when the camera catches his shoulder or the back of his hand. Just lets you do your thing.

You’re halfway through the museum when your feet start to ache (your fault for wearing boots with no sole support) and your stomach lets out the saddest, weakest little growl. Senku hears it, of course. He doesn’t say anything—just jerks his chin toward the small, in-museum café tucked into the corner past the rotating exhibit, and heads that way without needing a response.

You order something simple. He does the same, and somehow, magically beats you to pulling out your wallet and paying. And then you both end up at a tiny table tucked near the window, warm afternoon light refracting through the glass and shining just right. You’re pulling your phone out again before you can really think about it.

He raises an eyebrow when he sees you tying—and failing—to discretely smile at your phone.

“I know that face,” he says, stirring his coffee. “What are you scheming?”

You grin, wide and sweet and a little mischievous. “You said I could pick the trend.”

“Unfortunately,” he mutters, setting down his cup.

You show him the audio.

He watches the sample once. Then again. Then nods. “Got it.”

You give him a quick breakdown anyway—“Ok so basically we just shake hands. So you would film me first to ‘My name is Pink, and I’m really glad to meet you.’ Then you do ‘You’re recommended to me by some people.’ Then back to me: ‘Hey, ooh, is this illegal?’ And you finish it: ‘Hey, ooh, it feels illegal?’ You got that? ”

Senku just gives you that flat, unimpressed look, the one that makes it impossible to tell if he’s judging you or already planning your execution in terrifying detail.

“Simple enough,” he says. “Let’s get it over with.”

You record it in pieces. The lighting’s good, the cafe’s not too crowded, and somehow, despite the secondhand embarrassment threatening to combust your entire being, you pull it off. You film each other, trade off holding the phone, and try your hardest not to start laughing as you record Senku's deadpan face. By the time it’s done, your face hurts from holding back a smile, and Senku looks a little too smug for someone who just debuted on the internet via meme format.

You save the clips to your phone, already planning how to edit it later.

You both take your time finishing your drinks after that—talking more now. About the exhibit, about the parts you skipped, about other museums you like. The vibe’s different. It’s looser, comfortable in a way you didn’t fully expect to get this quickly. He’s still sarcastic, still has that flat tone and know-it-all quips, but now he says your name a little softer. Looks at you a little longer when you talk.

Eventually, you both stand, a little reluctant but you both know you should leave before it gets too dark. The sun’s setting once you step outside the museum, casting everything in that amber-gold glow again, and it makes his profile look unfairly cinematic as he stretches.

“You’re surprisingly tolerable company,” he says as you walk out together.

You scoff. “Wow. Thanks. I’ll be sure to put that in my LinkedIn endorsements.”

“I’m just saying,” he replies, glancing at you, “You’re not as obnoxious as most people.”

You bump your shoulder into his. “Aw, you like me.”

“I didn’t say that.”

“You implied it.”

He doesn’t argue with that, which might be worse.

The walk back is slow. Neither of you really rushing, just sort of drifting through the early evening like you're trying to stretch out the time you have together. Somewhere between chatting about your favorite childhood shows and bickering over whose major has more long-term debt attached to it (his argument: “You can’t put a price on revolutionizing orbital propulsion”), it hits you how easy this is.

And more dangerously—how fun. You can’t remember the last time someone made you feel this keyed-in without even trying. Like your brains are constantly sparking against each other like flint and steel.

Then he says something offhanded. Something completely innocent. He’s explaining something about a propulsion system prototype—specifically, fluid resistance and force ratios.

“It’s all about tension and release,” he says, absently adjusting his sleeves as he walks. “That’s how you maintain velocity without risking collapse.”

You glance at him sideways, smile sinisterly curling at the corners. “Mm. I’ve got some tension I’m sure you could release.”

He stops. Stops walking. Like his operating system just force-quit.

“…What?” 

You keep walking a few paces before turning to look back at him, mock-innocent. “What? I’m just being honest. You should be more careful with that mouth of yours, Ishigami. You’ll feed into the online delusions.”

He blinks once. Twice. Visibly buffering. You can see it—like the gears in his big science brain just misfired, unable to reconcile engineering terminology with whatever the hell that was. His ears go a little pink—barely there, but enough to clock if you’re looking for it. Which, obviously, you are.

He clears his throat, and mutters something under his breath about “not being responsible for your interpretations.”

But he keeps talking after that. He can't help it now. Neither of you can. The conversation never drops again, not even as you split off at the corner of campus, your fingers still curled around your phone like it's holding the rest of the evening in its little glowing blue-light screen.

You go home buzzing. Not from the caffeine. Not even from the TikTok you’re already editing. But from him.

Because if there’s one thing that’s true about you—it’s that once you start liking someone?

Oh, they never get to rest.

Extra notes time again! || Sorry I really didn't feel like writing out the trend and like the comments and stuff again… I physically cant think like that anymore

Anyway! Both your respective fans go crazy when the initial collab drops

Comments and dm’s begging you guys to post together more—and I mean, who are you to deny the fans?

You make appearances in all of his videos where he “needs” an extra pair of hands

And he’s always seen in your “what i do in a day” videos or weekly vlogs

The tension on camera is undeniable and everyone is always asking if there's something going on, but neither of you ever respond.

⋆.⌬ ˚𒉭 ⋆

After that, you two just… keep hanging out. Off campus, mostly. Call them dates, call them… whatever—no one’s really labeling it, but they keep happening. Even in a group, you and Senku have your own orbit. It starts with subtle things. Shared glances, half-smirks, a sarcastic “oh really?” muttered under your breath every time he says something too smug. He always responds with a coy, “Don’t look at me like that unless you want something,” and you always raise a brow and say, “Maybe I do.”

You’re both like that.

Witty. Sharp. Teasing.

During stargazing, you’re lying side-by-side on a scratchy old blanket, staring up at the sky when he starts pointing out constellations, spouting off facts like an open textbook. You interrupt mid-sentence with, “Is this your way of seducing me? Because it’s working.” 

He glances at you sideways. Doesn’t even pause. “You’re the one lying next to me under the stars. I’d say the seduction’s mutual.”

And at the beach? The energy’s dialed up even more.

You’re in a bikini under his oversized button-up, hair still damp from taking a dunk in the ocean, when you say something cheeky like, “You’ve been watching me all day. Just admit it.”

He doesn’t even blink, much less looks at you. “I’m studying gravitational pull in action.”

“Oh?” you hum sweetly. “Like, my body’s gravitational pull?”

“I meant the tide,” he deadpans. “But your ego has its own orbit, so sure.”

You throw a handful of sand at him. He dodges. Barely. And then throws a precise, infuriatingly accurate clump right at your ankle.

Even when your schedules are packed, you somehow always find time to circle back to each other.

There’s never been a conversation about what it is between you, but neither of you need one. You’ve both carved a little space into each other’s lives now—distinct, irreplaceable, and entirely yours. No one else quite fits the shape.

So it’s no surprise that you spend a lot of time in each other’s dorm—or in this case, Senku’s off-campus apartment. Sometimes for studying when the library’s full, but mostly just to hang out in the comfort of each other's presence.

You’re dressed in low-rise sweats and a tank top, now buried beneath one of Senku’s old sweaters. The one he threw at your head earlier after you started loudly complaining about the cold. The sleeves cover your hands, and the collar’s stretched from years of wear. It smells like detergent and something vaguely medicinal—like tea tree or menthol or maybe him.

He’s at his desk, deep into some spreadsheet or CAD model, muttering to himself about air resistance. You’re flat on his bed, legs swinging, phone held above your face as you scroll through TikTok with the sound barely audible. Every now and then you giggle. Sometimes you send him one. Sometimes he looks away from his screen to actually watch it.

The silence isn’t awkward. It never is with him. Just the quiet clack of his keyboard, the soft hum of his laptop fan, and whatever sound bytes your phone decides to throw at you next. It’s routine by now. Domestic, in a weird way.

He leans back in his chair eventually, spinning halfway to glance at you. “Hey,” he says, like he didn’t just finish modeling an entire turbine blade. “In class the other day—when Takahashi brought up reward pathways—you didn’t say anything. You disagree with the textbook stuff?”

You glance over your phone, one brow raised. “What, the dopamine bit?”

He nods. “And the serotonin model. You looked like you were biting your tongue.”

You shift onto your side, propping yourself up on your elbow. “I mean, yeah. Kinda. The textbook oversimplifies it. Dopamine’s not just a ‘pleasure’ chemical. It’s tied to motivation, reinforcement, emotional memory—like, the anticipation of reward, not just the reward itself.”

He’s still watching you. “Go on.”

And that’s all the permission you need. You sit up straighter, words spilling out like second nature. You talk with your hands, tangents spiraling into other tangents—sliding effortlessly into a topic you’ve buried yourself in for years. Limbic circuitry, behavioral loops, cortisol inhibition. You explain how physical touch spikes oxytocin and drops heart rate variability, how endorphins are natural painkillers, how the brain is wired to crave proximity.

Senku’s not even pretending to work anymore. His laptop’s still open, screen glowing against the side of his face, but his eyes are all on you—sharp, focused, borderline amused.

He hums. “So… theoretically,” he says, tapping his pen against his lip, “if someone were, say, stressed. Touch could help regulate that.”

“Yeah,” you nod, without hesitation. “That’s why hugging works. Holding hands, even brief skin contact; it’s all connected to emotional regulation. Even something like—”

You pause. Shouldn’t say it. But do anyway.

“—making out.”

There’s a pause. One beat. Two.

You glance at him. He’s still watching you, face unreadable. “Making out?” he repeats slowly.

You shrug, casual. “I’m just saying. High dopamine, high oxytocin, a little adrenaline from the novelty? Basically a neurochemical cocktail.”

His head tilts, expression unreadable. Then, like it’s the most normal thing in the world:

“Wanna try it?”

Your brain blanks. “What?”

“You’re the one who brought it up.” He says it flatly. Almost  like he’s bored. But there’s a twitch at the corner of his mouth, and his eyes haven’t moved from yours once. “For science. Of course.”

You stare at him. “You’re not serious.”

He shifts to stand, lazy and unbothered. “Why wouldn’t I be?”

And then he’s walking over, bracing a knee on the mattress beside you. You stay frozen. Your heart is in your throat. Or maybe your stomach. It’s hard to tell with the way it’s pounding. He leans in just enough that you can feel his breath, hovering, giving you a chance to pull away.

You don’t.

And that’s all it takes.

The kiss is warm. Careful at first. Testing. You breathe out against his mouth, one hand finding the front of his hoodie and fisting it without thinking. He shifts, deeper into it, his weight pressing into the mattress as he moves over you. Still careful, but less hesitant now. Focused. Like he's calculating every angle, and still surprised by the result.

His hand finds your waist. Yours slide up to his neck.

You’re not sure when it stopped feeling like a joke. But it doesn’t feel like one now.

He shifts again, weight fully settling over you, a knee anchoring beside your hip as he deepens the kiss. His hands are warm—calloused in the way only someone who spends too long with tools and lab equipment can be—sliding up beneath the hem of his own sweater draped over you. Fingers brushing your bare skin tentatively, like he’s cataloging each reaction, each hitch in your breath.

Your arms move to curl up around his neck, pulling him closer, and your fingers find his hair. Tugging gently, then a little harder. He exhales into your mouth like it startled him. 

You smile into the kiss—just a little. And he kisses you harder.

There’s something methodical in the way he touches you, like he’s studying even now. Testing reactions. Adjusting accordingly. But it’s not the detached, cold type of analyzing. It’s quiet intention, attentive hunger. The kind that says he doesn’t let himself want things often. But he wants this.

Wants you.

The sweater slips slightly off your shoulder. His palm follows the curve of your spine like it’s a path he’s memorizing. You’re already pulling him back down the moment he shifts to rise, needing more—needing him. He goes willingly. He always does.

His lips hover near your neck, and when he finally presses them there, it’s with purpose. A mark, claiming. You feel the heat it brings you all the way down to your core.

“You react so easily,” he murmurs, voice low and smooth, like he’s more fascinated than surprised. “Like your body’s just waiting for me to touch it.”

You hate how right he is. Or maybe you don’t. Not when his hands are gliding down, lower and lower, caressing the skin of your ribs to your hips.

⋆.⌬ ˚𒉭 ⋆

Senku almost feels bad for baiting you with that question earlier. Almost. If it weren't for the way you were staring up at him, all teary eyed, lips swollen and neck marked—courtesy of him, of course—he’d probably apologize. But he has you exactly where he's been wanting you, and you’re definitely not complaining, if the way you're squeezing around his fingers have any say in the matter. 

“Fuck… you're tightening up. Are you close already?” he’s cooing down at you, eyes gleaming with a sort of sadistic look, his lips curled into a smirk.

You can't even respond, it's pathetic really, your brain is already turned to mush and he's barely even touched you. You tear your gaze away from him. Your legs are shaking, twitching uselessly at your sides, and you can feel just how wet you are, can hear it every time his fingers sink deeper into you. 

Why did he have to be so good at this?

“You’re really that sensitive, huh?” he mummers, dragging his thumb just barely over your clit and he chuckles when your body jerks forward. Your thighs try to close but he’s already in between them, his other hand prying them open, keeping you exposed and needy under his touch.

He’s transfixed on the sight of you. Watching every twitch of your hips, every spasm in your thighs, every time your walls clench around his fingers, the way your eyes roll back when his fingers prod at a particularly sensitive spot. And, of course, the way you bite down on the back of your hand in an attempt to muffle the sounds spilling out of your mouth. 

God, it turned him on in more ways than he possibly imagined. 

Senku leaned in, his lips brushing the shell of your ear, just to watch the way you squirm. “C'mon,” he breathes, his voice barely above a whisper, “don’t hide from me. I want to hear everything.” 

You whimper at that—a soft, choked sound, and he feels it all the way down. His cock throbs in his pants, neglected, untouched, but he doesn’t care about that right now. Now when this is happening. Not when you’re this responsive, this wrecked just from his fingers. And so… Senku moans. Deep and guttural like your reaction does something to him. Like watching you get off is more satisfying than touching himself could ever be. 

The way your body moves against his hand is erratic now, your hips shifting up to match the pace of his thrusts, trembling on the edge. He can feel it in the way your walls flutter around him, can see it in the way your lashes are soaked with tears, the way you jerk with each slow curl of his fingers.

You’re close. So, so close.

So he gives it to you—just the right rhythm, the right amount of pressure, and that voice again, like a switch flipped inside of him:

“Go on, baby, it’s okay. Be a good girl and come for me.”

And you do. Practically sobbing into the sheets as your body shudders around him. Your muscles tighten,back arching off the bed, and breath hitching in your throat before it spills out in a loud, desperate moan. And Senku swears he almost loses it just watching you. Watching what he did to you.

“Fuck, that's it… just like that.” He’s a little breathless now, still working you through it, fingers moving gently as you shake and throb beneath him, blissed-out and absolutely ruined. Even as he pulls his digits out, and licks them clean, your body still hasn't stopped twitching.

You're sprawled out beneath him, brain soft and heavy, your thighs sticky, your chest heaving. There's a buzz under your skin you can't seem to shake—like your body hasn't figured out the comedown yet. Like you're still coiled tight, waiting to snap again.

Senku's still above you, propped on one elbow, eyes dragging slowly over your face like he's trying to memorize the exact expression you're wearing—ruined, flushed, lips parted, still trying to catch your breath. 

And when he speaks again, his voice is low and rough, the edge of smugness barely masking the heat beneath it. "You should see yourself right now." He leans closer, nose brushing yours, lips just barely hovering. "You came so hard, baby."

You should roll your eyes. Should say something back. But instead, you kiss him. It's clumsy at first—your hands reaching for him, fisting into the front of his shirt, dragging him down with more desperation than you meant to show. But he goes down willingly, groaning into your mouth like he's been waiting for it, like he's starving for you. 

His lips are warm and soft, and when his tongue brushes against yours, something in you snaps. You moan into it, tugging him down even closer, legs shifting to wrap around him until he’s fully on top of you, pressed chest to chest.

The kiss turns filthy fast. Sloppy. Hungry. You taste yourself on his tongue, feel his teeth graze your bottom lip, and when you break apart for air, there's a thin string of saliva still connecting the two of you. 

Senku stares down at you, his lips pink and wet, eyes dark with an unmistakable desire. But you don’t say anything. You just drag him back down and kiss him again. And this time, you take control.

You find the strength to gently shove his shoulder. A silent request for him to switch positions, this time with you on top. Your hands slip between your bodies, fingers tugging at his waistband, undoing buttons and zippers with trembling precision. You don't rush it, you don’t even speak. You just stare down at him, eyes locked on his, and you let your palm glide over the front of his boxers—feel how hard he is. How long he’s been holding back.

"You didn't touch yourself," you whispered against his jaw, lips ghosting down to his neck. You kiss the column of his throat. You can feel his adam's apple bob under your mouth. "You just... watched me."

Senku shudders, eyes fluttering shut as he hisses through his teeth. "Of course I did," he says, voice low, breath hitching when your hand dips beneath the fabric and wraps around him. "You think I could look away from you like that?"

You smile into his skin, lips dragging over his pulse point, before licking a small stripe against it, warm and possessive. "Then you're gonna let me return the favor."

He tries to say something, probably a snarky comment, or some teasing remark, but it dies in his throat the second you stroke him. Thumb pressing over the tip, spreading the pre-cum, watching his face go soft and slack and honest. His cock twitches in your hand, and he groans-deep and low, like he's trying to keep quiet and failing.

"You're so responsive,” you murmur, voice dipped in faux sweetness. "Bet I could make you come just like this—barely even touching you."

His head rolls back as he nods.

"You'd let me?"

"F-fuck," he breathes, biting down on a groan as your pace picks up, "I'd let you do anything right now."

And there it is-that crack in his composure. The unraveling. You've got him now, pinned under you. Your hands, your voice, your mouth ghosting back up to kiss him again while you work him with steady, torturous strokes. And you swear he looks like he's about to lose it just from that.

"You're close," you whisper, forehead pressed to his, your hand never stopping. "Aren't you?"

He nods again, faster this time, eyes wide, and dazed. You find him beautiful like this. 

“it’s okay,” you whisper, kissing the corner of his mouth, “Come for me, and don't look away."

He doesn't.

You watch each other the whole time-while his body tenses, his breath catches, and he spills into your hand with a whine—it’s with your name on his lips. And even after, when he's still trembling, breath ragged, forehead resting against yours, he kisses you again.

It’s softer now. Slower, more sensual. Like he’s trying to catch up to everything that just happened.

You climb up to adjust your position, shifting in his lap to properly straddle him, and feel him twitch beneath you. The air thickens again. You start to move—slow, subtle grind that makes both of you gasp.

“Is this okay?” you murmur, lips brushing his. “We don’t have to…”

His hands find your hips, tentative, but firm enough to tell you he doesn’t want you to stop. “Y-yeah,” he swallows hard. “Just—condom. They’re in the nightstand.” he adds, voice barely above a rasp.

You pause, looking down at him, your hair falling into his face as your lips curl in a slow, nervous smile. “I kind of just want to feel you,” you say softly. “Just you.”

His breath catches, and his grip on your hips tighten. “You’re gonna ruin me,” he mutters, tone somewhere between a joke and the truth.

“I’m on the pill,” you say, brushing your thumb along his cheek. “And I haven’t been with anyone. Not since we started hanging out…”

His gaze locks with yours—surprised, a little shy. “Me neither.”

There’s a beat. Neither of you says it—what this means, or where it’s going—but you don’t need to. Not right now.

You lean in and kiss him again, deeper this time, while he lets you settle over him fully. And when he finally lets go of whatever he’s been holding back, it’s not a fall. It’s a full body surrender.

You shift your hips, sliding your hand between your bodies. Senku watches you, wide eyed and panting, as your fingers wrap around him once more. He’s still hard, heavy and warm in your hand, and the sound he makes when you stroke him again makes your head spin. 

His hands tense on your thighs. "God," he whispers, barely holding on. "You-you don't have to—"

"I know," you say softly, guiding him to where you want him. "I want to."

You angle yourself, breath catching as you line him up. He sucks in a sharp breath, eyes locked on where your bodies meet, like he can't believe this is happening. 

And when you start to sink down—inch by inch, taking your time—his head falls back against the pillow, lips parted, throat working like he's trying to remember how to breathe.

You stop halfway, adjusting your hips, one hand braced against his chest. He feels so good stretching you open like this. You look down at him.

He nods, frantic, his voice almost breaking.

"Yeah. Just—don't stop. Please."

You don't.

You ease down the rest of the way, and when you're fully seated, hips flush to his, both of you just stay there for a second, gasping, trembling, overwhelmed. And when you finally start to move; the slow, steady rolls of your hips—his hands come up to grip your waist like he's afraid he might actually fall apart under you.

At first, it’s easy to stay in control. You set the pace, savor the friction, chase the tension building in your belly.

But it doesn’t last.

Your thighs start to burn, trembling with the effort, barely cooperating anymore. Every bounce turns sluggish, your movements dragged down by the growing heat in your limbs—but you're still moving. Still trying. Because he's looking at you like that.

Senku's laid out beneath you, hair a mess, lips kiss-bitten, and pupils blown so wide there’s barely a sliver of red left. And he’s watching you. His gaze is steady, and intense—like he sees everything. Like he’s not the one unraveling here. You are.

And through the fog in your head, it hits you that he’s smiling.

Not mockingly, just this small, breathless grin, like you’re an experiment he doesn’t want to stop testing. And the way he says your name, low, and rough, like he’s been holding in his mouth for months, sends heat crashing right through your core.

You try to keep moving, but your body stutters. Your breath shudders.

He doesn’t move. He doesn’t have to.

He just says, “You're falling apart, aren’t you?”

You don’t answer. You can’t. And then he speaks again, a little more sure this time.

"That's it, baby. You're doing so good for me... just like that."

His voice—God, his voice. It's low and thick and soaked in wonder, like he can’t believe this is real. Like he can’t believe it’s you. You nearly fold right there.

The noise you make is somewhere between a sob and a moan, your hands scrambling against his chest like you need something to anchor you, or maybe just him. Your whole body pulses at his words like they hit deeper than anything else, heat unraveling inside you faster than you can hold it together.

"F-Fuck, Senku..." you whimper, blinking through tears, hips faltering as you try to keep the rhythm. "I c-can't—"

"Yes, you can," he murmurs, fingers tightening just a little on your thighs, just enough to remind you he's there, guiding you, grounding. Not pushing—never pushing. Just wanting. "You're already doing it.”

His voice dips again, breathless. “Look at you..."

It’s awe. Pure, undiluted pleasure. Every word that falls from his lips sounds like it’s unraveling him as much as it is you. And somehow, that’s what undoes you more than anything

You bury your face into his neck, because if you look at him again you'll crumble-and maybe that's the point. Maybe that's what he wants. To break you down, piece by piece, until you're too far gone to think about anything but how good he makes you feel.

And God, he is breaking you.

He drags one hand up your back, fingers threading through your hair, just to keep you close. He needs you close. Needs you to feel how much he's coming apart beneath you. He's grounding you, ruining you, worshipping you with every tremble in his touch.

"Just one more," he whispers, lips brushing your ear. His voice is strained, like he's barely holding on. “Just give me one more…”

He's losing control fast. Your soft, whiny little sounds are killing him. Every breathy moan, every gasp, every whimper—you're driving him insane, and maybe, just maybe, that's what gives him away.

The way his voice breaks when he speaks again.

"God-you feel so good," he chokes out, hips stuttering beneath you. "You're so—fuck, you're perfect around me, I can't—"

He whines-actually whines—a raw, desperate sound ripped straight from his throat, like he doesn't know how to hold it back anymore.

"I c-can't stop," he breathes, hips twitching up into you without rhythm now. "You're—you're making me crazy—how are you so fucking—tight—?”

You make another sound—desperate and broken—and he feels it. The way you clench around him, the way your whole body answers before your mind can even catch up.

And then, softer-almost pleading:

"Let me hear you when you come, yeah?"

You whine—God, you whine—and he groans, like the sound physically does something to him. His hands are shaking now, trying to hold you steady while everything inside him unravels. 

The way you look, the way you sound, the way you're still trying to ride it out, still trying to give him what he wants even as you fall apart on top of him. It's too much.

And he wants more.

Your name falls from his lips again-raw, reverent, broken at the edges-and it hits you deeper than anything else has all night.

You try to keep moving, but your body betrays you. Your hips falter, your thighs tremble, and your forehead presses against his collarbone, like hiding might save you—but it doesn't. He's still looking right at you, and God, he's still talking.

"Just like that... you're so—fuck, you're so perfect like this."

His voice is breathless, thick with disbelief and need. "I can feel you... every time you move, I-shit—"

And maybe you don't mean to do it. Maybe you're just grabbing onto something—anything—to stay grounded. But your fingers slide up into his hair, tugging just a little. And he moans.

Full-bodied. High-pitched, desperate, absolutely shameless. His eyes slam shut. His hips jerk up into you with no rhythm, just want. "Shit–do that again—" he gasps, voice cracking. "Please–fuck—!"

So you do.

You fist your hand in the mess of his pale strands and pull.

He falls apart.

"God—I'm–fuck, I'm coming—" The words are slurred, ruined, his face pressed into your hair as he bucks into you once, twice, and then spills inside you with a choked-off moan. His hands fly to your hips, gripping tight, like he's trying to keep you locked to him, like if he lets go for even a second he'll die.

You're already shaking, breath stolen out of your lungs, your own release crashing through you. You sob into his hair, overwhelmed, while he trembles beneath you, hands still gripping, body still twitching.

When you finally still, everything is quiet. Just your breathing, his heartbeat, frantic against your chest. Your fingers are still tangled in his hair. And he hasn't stopped shaking. 

You don’t move for a long moment. You just melt into him, limp and boneless, your forehead pressed to his shoulder, your chest rising and falling against his. He’s still inside you, still warm, still twitching faintly with aftershocks. And even though your muscles are shaking and your skin is flushed and sticky, all you can do is breathe.

Senku doesn’t speak right away either. He wraps his arms around you, his hold is loose at first—like he’s not sure he’s allowed—and then tighter, like he can’t help it. Like letting go now would undo him. His voice is hoarse when he finally whispers, “You okay?”

You nod into his neck, barely moving. “Yeah. You?”

He lets out a shaky breath, something between a laugh and a sigh. “I think I’m still alive.” He says. “But barely.”

You smile, eyes closed, cheek pressed to his skin. “Was that…?”

“Yes,” he says instantly, like you needing to ask the question is absurd. “Don’t even finish that sentence.”

You laugh softly and feel him grin against your temple. There’s a pause—comfortable, heavy with the weight of what just happened—and then he shifts, brushing your hair gently away from your face.

“I didn’t… hurt you, or anything?”

“No,” you murmur. “You were perfect. Seriously.”

You finally lift your head, just enough to look at him. His hair’s a mess, his cheeks are still flushed, and his eyes are glassy—but he’s smiling. Soft. Uncertain. Happy. And for a moment, he’s not the genius, not the scientist, not the voice behind a screen. 

He’s just a boy, flushed and messy, still a little out of breath, and completely, irreversibly gone for you.

You lean down and kiss him once—just a press of lips. Nothing more. Then you collapse on top of him again with a soft groan.

“We should probably clean up,” you mumble into his chest.

He hums. “Eventually.”

Neither of you moves.

⋆.⌬ ˚𒉭 ⋆

Later, you do get up—clean up, change, all that boring post-mindblowing-sex routine—but it’s quiet. Natural. And once you're both back in bed, it’s like gravity pulls you together again without even trying.

The room’s quiet, warm, filled with the soft hum of your joined breathing. Your legs are tangled beneath the sheets, and your head is tucked under his chin, chest rising and falling against his.

Senku’s still. His hand hasn’t moved from your back, fingers lazily tracing the curve of your spine like he doesn’t know how to not be touching you now.

And then, without looking at you, he says quietly:

“…So is this the part where we pretend that never happened?”

You blink. “…Do you want to pretend that never happened?”

He’s silent for a moment too long.

“No,” he admits. “Not even a little.”

You shift just enough to look up at him. His hair’s still messy, cheeks still faintly pink,and there's a light trace of sweat on his temple, but his eyes are sharp, focused on you now in a way that makes your breath hitch.

“I’m not exactly…” He hesitates, frowning slightly. “Good at this stuff.”

You smile. “Sex?”

“No. Well—” His ears go red. “That too. But I meant… this. Whatever this is. Relationships. Wanting someone this much. Letting them in.”

You don’t say anything right away. Just reach up, gently brushing some of his hair out of his face.

“Senku,” you murmur, soft and certain, “you don’t have to be good at it. We’re figuring it out together.”

He swallows, throat tight. “…You’re not gonna run when you realize I’m not exactly the most conventional partner?”

You blink, lips twitching. “After what just happened? I’m definitely not running. I can barely walk.”

He huffs—almost a laugh. Then finally, finally, he meets your eyes again. Really meets them.

“And besides,” you add softly, “I knew how you were before all of this. I’m your friend first, always. I love you just the way you are.”

“I didn’t mean to fall for you,” he says, blunt in that way only Senku can be. You were just… there. Constant. Loud. Infuriatingly smart. Always messing with my things, always in my space.”

You raise an eyebrow. “You’re digging a really deep hole right now.”

He exhales—short, almost a laugh. “Yeah, well. Then one day I realized I didn’t want any of it to stop. I didn’t want you to stop. I think that scared me more than anything.”

Your lips twitch. “You call that romantic?”

“I’m a scientist,” he deadpans. “Not a poet.”

You grin, pushing up slightly so you can lean over him, your hands braced on either side of his head.

“Well,” you murmur, eyes soft, “guess I’ll have to be the romantic one.”

His eyes flicker to your lips, then back to your gaze.

“You always were.” 

You lean in and kiss him—slow, like it’s not a first or a second or a tenth, but something you’ve always had the right to do. He kisses back like he’s finally letting himself want you out loud. When you pull away, you rest your forehead against his again, noses brushing. His hands drift to your waist under the blanket, not trying anything, just holding.

“…So,” you say softly. “What do we call this now?”

He hums thoughtfully. “An unplanned but highly successful chemical reaction?”

You snort. “Try again, scientist.”

His mouth quirks. “Girlfriend acquired?”

You blink. “Did you just say that like you unlocked an achievement?”

“I say that every time I make something new in the lab,” he says, matter-of-factly. “Why would this be any different?”

You roll your eyes, but your heart is doing dangerous things in your chest. “God, you’re such a dork.”He shrugs under you. “Yeah. But I’m your dork now. Apparently.”

Ignore the lowk OOC last line… genuinely couldn't find another way to end this quickly

ANYWAY BACK TO THE EXTRA NOTES!

You guys both go kind of MIA for a while; one second you’re posting like normal, sometimes popping up on each other's page, then just… radio silence. 

Fans lost their minds, and during your time away, they start making these crazy long theories trying to explain what they think happened to the both of you to fill the void.

Literally ranging from, "He's secretly a serial killer and she was the last victim so he deleted his digital footprint to evade capture.”

“They eloped in the mountains. She’s pregnant. They’re living off the grid with goats.”

“She accidentally killed him during an experiment and is covering it up.”

All of these are objectively incorrect.

In reality? You’re working through your first relationship, and when you’re ready, you’ll both be back. 

an: can't blame anyone but yk I gotta be rude to my kitten whiskers bella... already tagged her though so sigh... anyways this was supposed be DAYS ago but I kept adding more stuff. this is the cycle of my life , I can not shut up for the life of me.

I also haven't written smut in a while (can you tell?) so if its bad.. yeah, I tried my best fr. lowk a closeted freak ONG do not leave me in a room with Senku he WILL end up pregnant.

ok that's it, until next time!

taglist: @lovingyeet

Yet despite the distance and darkness that swallow them, they continue moving faithfully along the trajectories written long before anyone could notice them. 

It is truly a transcendental experience to catch sight of a comet once it reappears near perihelion with enough brilliance to make humanity look up in awe—you could say it leaves you utterly starstruck.

Senku Ishigami swore his former mentor, Dr. Xeno Houston Wingfield, found the situation far too amusing once the news had reached the mission control center. Senku, currently located at the International Space Station, had accidentally discovered one, a comet, in the midst of monitoring an entirely different celestial object.

“How scientifically elegant, a long-period comet?” Xeno asked through the communication feed, eyes gleaming with amusement as he scanned the data Senku had delivered a while ago after his discovery. 

Senku clicked his tongue softly, already running a series of Newtonian mechanics and Kepler’s law of planetary motion in his head. “Yeah, yeah, let me finish the math first before you jump to conclusions.”

Xeno chuckled, eyeing his former student from the screen. “I merely find it interesting how you spotted a different celestial body somewhere between asteroid trajectory calculations and endless streams of orbital data, just because you looked away for a moment.”

He took a sip from the mug of black coffee, nursed in one hand. “You had mentioned minutes ago that it is already brighter than Hale-Bopp’s comet when it was at that stage; shouldn’t you be saying ‘This is exhilarating’ by now?” 

Senku laughed at his awful attempt to mimic a signature statement of his. “I think you should just stick to your ‘Science is elegant’. But you're right, it's exhilarating, especially after seeing how it compares to the reference data of Comet McNaught.” 

Xeno hummed and nodded along, ignoring the chatter within the mission control room about how this could possibly be one of the greatest astronomical events of the 21st century. 

“Yes…comparing it to the reference data of Comet McNaught, it is significantly brighter. Though we should've expected that after you mentioned it seems to be brighter than Comet Hale-Bopp, considering it's current stage.” 

His eyes drifted back to the screen once again. “For someone who admits that it is exhilarating, you surely do not sound like it.” 

Senku, who had finished comparing the current data he had collected and received back from Earth, snickered. “Save the doting for someone else, had enough of my old man’s already.” 

Then quietly, “...I just happen to have a history with comets.”

Xeno raised a brow, an amused smirk resting on his face. A genius wasn't needed to guess what his former student was talking about. “Right, how could I forget that you've been a victim of Eros, considering how painfully obvious your yearning is.” 

He took a sip of the mug he had in hand. “The complexity of love certainly teaches you a significant amount.” 

Senku had to stop himself from rolling his eyes, out of respect. “What are you yapping about now?” 

Xeno shrugged, yet the teasing in his voice was still noticeable. “Nothing. How did you discover it again?” 

“Felt like looking away for a moment,” Senku replied flatly, already knowing that his defenses would be useless against him. Hence, he chose not to back up any of his claims.

“The potentially greatest astronomical event of the 21st century will be named after Senku Ishigami, what an elegant alignment of variables.” 

Senku paused after hearing Xeno's words. Right, the comet would be named after him, as the official catalog protocols say. 

“Does it have to be named after me?” 

Before Xeno could even answer, another member of the mission control team beat him to it. “Once reported to the MPC and confirmed, discovery attribution would automatically fall to you, Senku.” 

Xeno gaze shifted towards the person, “I’m certain Dr. Senku is familiar with standard astronomical cataloging protocols and institutional naming conventions, no need to remind him.” 

Then his gaze returned to the screen. “He must be planning to propose an alternative designation.” 

Xeno shrugged once more. “Let him be; he discovered it regardless. I'm sure they wouldn't mind a request from him.”

Perhaps that is why Dr. Xeno had found the entire situation tragically amusing.

Because Senku Ishigami—the man who dedicated his life to moving forward, striving for the future, towards progress, towards the stars themselves—had looked back simply because he thought of you for a moment.

He had Earth—the world—beneath him, the moon on one side; he had everything he had ever dreamed of as a child within eyesight, yet he still found the urge to look back for a moment. As if part of him was instinctively searching for something else. 

And at the exact moment, something had decided to approach his orbit. And perhaps that was what made the comet feel strangely fitting. He had, after all, associated comets with you. 

Because, despite the years of distance and silence between you two, you had always reappeared within his orbit somehow. 

Ironically enough, the first time you had appeared in the orbit of his life wasn’t how he remembered it. 

If it wasn’t for Yuzuriha, who told him over a long car ride home as you slept against his shoulder after a tiring day with you and Taiju, he would’ve suspected his whole life that you first met him in middle school, a year before the first successful launch of his homemade rocket. However, his assumption based on suspicion was brought down by Yuzuriha’s confirmation after she had revealed that your trajectory toward him had begun far earlier. 

The first time it happened, you were six years old. A delusional six-year-old who happened to be curious about learning new words, as if you were collecting toys.

The playground you were always at with Yuzuriha felt like everything you could possibly need; the sky looked impossibly large above the swing set, and adulthood remained a mythical concept invented solely to confuse children. Or at least, that was how you saw it.

Unfortunately, that was also the age you had discovered the confusing concept of marriage. And you happened to take the revelation horribly.

“Why would people sign papers just because they like each other?” You asked in complete curiosity and disbelief as you kicked the ground, swinging gently beside Yuzuriha. “What if the guy turns ugly when he grows up?” 

Yuzuriha blinked at you, surprisingly taking your question into consideration. “I think that's why marriage is for adults…It's so confusing.” 

You looked up at the sky, hues of yellow blending perfectly as the sun began to set. “Well, I'm only marrying someone cute, that's for sure.” 

The declaration alone should've been enough of a warning for the future that has yet to take place, yet somehow had already been set in stone. 

Unfortunately, you have yet to realize that. Neither did Yuzuriha. You happened to be just a child with a dangerous level of curiosity at that time. 

You kicked your legs idly once again before your attention drifted to somewhere else completely. And as if the universe had decided to play a trick against you, your eyes spotted a boy around your age, walking past the park entrance with an older man beside him. 

You blinked slowly; your attention was inevitably captured. He had red eyes and a hairstyle you have yet to see before. 

Suddenly, you felt something you hadn't felt before as a child. Your heart felt strange, though it wasn't the bad type of strange. It felt as if something inside your tiny six-year-old body abruptly did a flip. 

“Oh.” 

Yuzuriha turned to you curiously. “Hm? Did you realize something again?” 

You pointed at the boy with a grin on your face. A very delusional grin. “Him,” 

Yuzuriha turned towards the direction you pointed at. “Him?” 

You nodded with full determination and confidence. “I wanna marry him.” 

There was a brief moment of silence before you heard rustling sounds beside you. Yuzuriha had nearly fallen off the swing. 

“What?!” 

You smiled brightly at her as she looked at you with pure astonishment. “He's cute.” 

“That's not how marriage works!” 

You chose to ignore her, eyes drifting towards the boy once again as he continued to walk further away. 

At the age of six, you had thought of two things impulsively. One, marriage was still confusing, yet the boy you had just seen made it less confusing for a six-year-old. Two, the boy with the gravity-defying hair was probably important somehow. You couldn't pinpoint why; it just felt like it. As if it were intuition.

Then life continued forward normally after. Years went by, years that didn't include catching a single glimpse of the boy again. 

And eventually, he had disappeared from your memory like something half-forgotten from a dream. 

Until middle school arrived. More specifically, until Yuzuriha suddenly started rambling about a loud boy whom she happened to find cute. And that loud boy happened to have a terrifyingly smart best friend who was set on building a homemade rocket. 

“A rocket…? That's lowkey insane…” You repeated after a series of blinking in disbelief. 

“Mhm!” She nodded enthusiastically while walking beside you. “Taiju-kun said Senku-kun has been working on it since he was ten.” 

The moment you heard the name, something oddly familiar tugged a feeling within you. Yet you couldn't quite tell what, considering it was the first time you'd heard of that name. 

Still, the feeling was drowned by your disbelief. A ten-year-old building a rocket? What kind of ten-year-old does that? 

“Forget lowkey, that's highkey insane.” You blurted out, staring at her with a questioning face.

She rubbed the back of her head, “Haha, it's Senku-kun after all...” 

Before you could respond, she suddenly grabbed your wrist the moment she spotted something from the corner of her eye. “There they are!” 

Your eyes trailed to where she pointed her hand after grabbing your wrist. You spot two boys leaving a convenience store, one of whom is undeniably loud while the other is opening a can of energy drink with one hand. 

Your breath caught slightly, between a quiet recognition and a loud awe as your eyes landed on the latter. It felt as if an old memory from years ago was suddenly unlocked.

He had the same questionable hair as he did years ago, same red eyes, though they were sharper compared to the soft, rounded ones you had spotted years ago. 

Your footsteps came to a stop unconsciously, making Yuzuriha turn with a confused look on her face. 

She blinked, stopping in her tracks as well. “What's wrong?” 

“That's him,” You mumbled, eyes never leaving his figure. 

“Who? Senku-kun?” She asked as her eyes drifted towards where you were looking, more confused than ever. 

You turned to her, a laugh of disbelief escaping your lips as you gripped the straps of your backpack tighter. “...The guy I told you I'd marry back then when I was six.” 

Yuzuriha blinked once before her eyes widened in delayed horror, making you laugh louder. “Oh my gosh—?!” 

You stared ahead again, eyes automatically landing on him. Your mind was already wondering what kind of trick the universe was playing on you this time. Years of silence, thinking that memory was nothing but a dream— but no, he was suddenly within your orbit again. 

Or perhaps you were within his orbit again. 

Unexpectedly, his eyes shifted and met yours. You wanted to turn away after being caught burning holes into his figure, yet for some reason, you couldn't, as a warm feeling settled within every fiber of your being. 

And still, despite everything, your verdict remained the same, besides one improvement. He was still cute in your eyes, though perhaps he was leaning more into the definition of handsome now. 

Your thoughts were interrupted by the sound of Yuzuriha’s laughter as she stared between you and Senku. 

“You remember that? No wonder he looked familiar when I first saw him.” 

You broke eye contact with Senku to look at her with a grin on your face, “Guess you could say I was very committed to the vision. I did think of him for days after.” 

She laughed again, tugging your wrist as a way of telling you to start walking with her again. “You only wanted to marry him because he met your qualifications that time, which was being cute!” 

“And?” You shrugged with a smile on your face. “My intuition was already good at that age. I was delusional with a dream and one qualification.” 

Yuzuriha visibly sweatdropped at your response while you snorted. “The feeling’s still here, y’know? Feels like it got revived, not gonna lie.” 

“A feeling?” Her eyes widened. “Don't tell me—” 

You cut her off with a nod, grin widening. “...I think I'm gonna marry him someday. My intuition’s stronger than ever.” 

And perhaps that should've been the first recorded instance in history where someone had successfully dared to challenge Ryusui Nanami’s prided sailor’s intuition with nothing but a childhood delusion and an alarming confidence. 

⋆⭒˚.⋆

Senku Ishigami had dreamed of reaching space nearly his entire life. The memory of his first rocket launches—which happened to be homemade with nothing but determination and curiosity, along with Xeno’s guidance—still lived vividly in the collection of his memories. 

Yet when he had achieved his most sought-after dream, it felt oddly incomplete. No, he felt incomplete. 

Because, despite such achievement, it felt muted in a way Senku would've never thought he could even experience. 

Every achievement that came right after, the opportunities, the launches, and discoveries that made his reputation far greater than it already was, felt unfulfilling in a way. 

It wasn't because science suddenly felt less— Senku could never consider that thought. 

But it was simply because he had already lost the first person he wanted to ramble to after each achievement. 

You had, after all, forcefully made yourself a veteran of his rambles regarding science and everything else he was passionate about. 

And perhaps that was what had drawn him to you far more than his younger self would've thought. You listened to him without complaint, without impatience, and what made him fall harder was the fact that you listened because you genuinely wanted to. 

Which was exactly why the silence left behind by your absence felt so unbearably loud most of the time. Even after three years since the breakup, and two years after the final phone call.

During the first year, he could barely process it, despite his terrifying IQ, as others say. His thoughts about it kept him up longer at night than any of his scientific ideas did. 

And when he had chosen to let you go for the second time after you asked him to, for days, he couldn't stomach his decision. Regrets swallowed him again, drowning him with the thought of reaching out against your will. And he had to fight every neuron in his head that supported the thought. 

Because Senku would rather drown countless times than to ruin you further just because he wanted to be selfish.

His eyes left the telescope, straightening his posture. He looked ahead, into the vast night sky, as if he could find an answer among the stars that stared right back at him. 

Yet not a single constellation could. With a sigh, he loosened his tie, his hands slipping off his lab coat as he heard the doors of the observatory he had built into the walls of his house. 

Chrome's voice reached his ears before Senku's eyes could even spot him. “Senku! Dr. Xeno said you discovered your own comet— that's so baaaad!”

Senku craned his neck, hand resting behind it as his gaze landed on him. “Yeah? How did you even get in here?” 

Another voice appeared, followed by a familiar figure, before Chrome could answer the question. 

“Your housekeeper let us in, Senku-chan.” Gen gave him a grin, eyes scanning the spacious observatory. “I must say, they did an amazing job maintaining the house for you.” 

Senku chuckled at Gen's remark, eyes trailing to his laptop as the confirmation email regarding the naming of the comet he had discovered. Oh, how he loved maximizing his resources. “They were recommended by François after all.” 

Chrome nodded enthusiastically. “Yeah, and your house is so baaad, man. Like seriously, a whole observatory? I saw the garden too, it was insane!” 

Gen's gaze landed on Senku, a teasing smile on his face. “Ah, he had a muse, Chrome. We shouldn't be too surprised.” 

Chrome physically halted when he noticed a takeout cup near Senku. “What are you drinking at this time, Senku? Aren’t you more into energy drinks?”

Gen’s eyes trailed toward where Chrome was looking and spotted a takeout cup, from which Senku took a sip, and shrugged, not bothering to hide the evidence of his crime. That was when the mentalist noticed the printed customized order attached to it. 

‘Ah, he must be missing her harder today.’ His eyes softened at the thought, a faint hint of pity. ‘It seems even the greatest scientist on Earth couldn’t be spared by the cruelty of yearning.’

Over the course of three years, Gen had noticed habits that formed due to Senku’s pining—the astronaut didn’t even bother to try to move on, and everyone saw through his silent grieving disguised as habits.

Such as the way he would lock himself up in the observatory of his house, staring at constellations for far too long, as if Orion could give him a direction to navigate his taunting thoughts. Or when he would order your favorite drink during nights he missed you far harder than he admitted loudly. 

Or the fact that he has yet to miss a single comet visible from Earth, especially during those three years. Because over the course of three years, Senku had watched each event, photographing it and meticulously cataloging each image with dates and observational notes. As if he were collecting them for someone.

“Why are you two even here again?” Senku asked flatly, ignoring the claims, yet he didn't deny them either. 

“Oh, Taiju said to meet up here, the others are on the way, actually. But that's half of why I'm here—” Chrome pointed an excited finger at him. “Senku, tell me about the comet!” 

The astronaut chuckled schemingly with a face that made Gen want to run out of the observatory. “About the comet, you say?” 

And that was how the mentalist had to sit through a rambling lecture about the celestial body. Gen had already been lost the moment letters became numbers, then numbers became letters; he let Chrome handle that part since he willingly dragged himself into it. 

Though there was a fondness in his voice that Gen had noticed. Yes, Senku always sounded passionate whenever he rambled about something scientific, yet this one was different. It sounded the same way he would ramble about the moon. 

And Gen had always wondered, what was there about comets that had drawn the astronaut the same way the moon did? Though he has yet to figure out why, since Senku would often dismiss it, and the only other person who knew the reason was Xeno, who refused to answer it along the lines of, “It isn’t my story to tell”. 

“Senku-chan,” he called out, earning the attention of both scientists as they stopped mid-conversation. “I thought the moon was your favorite? Had picturing every comet visible from Earth finally taken an effect on you?” 

Senku's lips curled into a soft smile, one so genuine that it surprised the two of them who saw it. “Yeah, the moon is my favorite.” 

His voice trailed off, not bothering to answer the last part as a memory played in his head. Suddenly, he was sixteen again, hands setting up his telescope on top of a hill as you stood beside him impatiently. 

“Hurry up, Senku! What if we miss it?!” You exclaimed eagerly, nearly bouncing off your feet. 

He barely spared you a glance as his hands worked on the equipment. “Hah? I calculated the timing, we won't miss it.” 

“Are you sure—” 

He cut you off softly, moving away from the telescope to make space for you. “Come here and see this.” 

With an excited face and every ounce of enthusiasm in your body, you gladly took his offer to check the telescope. 

“Whoa, I can see the moon clearly.” You spoke in pure awe as Senku snickered beside you. 

“It's a telescope, of course, you can see it clearly.” 

You felt an irk mark form on your forehead as you pulled back to smack him lightly. “Okay, wow, thanks, genius.”

He grinned, rubbing the spot where your hand landed. Then he noticed the frown that appeared on your face. 

“What's wrong?” He asked, concern was easy to spot in the tone of his voice. 

You shook your head. “Nothing, just feels weird that we won't be seeing this comet for another— how many thousands of years again?” 

“Six thousand eight hundred years, it's a once-in-a-lifetime event.” You remained silent, prompting him to speak again. “Cheer up, NEOWISE isn't the only comet you'll ever see.” 

You looked away from the telescope and faced him with a look of skepticism. “Really?” 

“Hah? Of course, really.” He looked nearly offended. “There are thousands of comets as of this year, and the number’s only increasing. Statistically speaking, you've got plenty left to see in your lifetime.” 

You huffed a laugh at his response, yet the frown returned right after. “I know, but that number isn't my concern. I don't have a telescope and know many areas where there's a little less light pollution.” 

Senku noticed it immediately and clicked his tongue. “Stop looking gloomy over comets.” 

He adjusted a knob on the telescope before he gazed at you again, serious eyes looking straight at your doubtful ones.

“I'll show you every other comet myself if I have to.” 

The way he said it sounded casual, as if it were more of a fact rather than a promise. Yet your heart still skipped a beat, as if Eros was around again. But then again, it was Senku. And promises came along easily as long as science was involved. 

And before you could respond or calm down the sudden pace of your heart, Senku's gaze shifted upwards abruptly, crimson eyes narrowing towards the sky. 

He turned to you with a grin, shifting his head as a signal for you to look too. “There it is,”

Your breath caught as your naked eye saw it, and Senku snickered quietly at your reaction. A soft streak of light stretched across the night sky, distant yet impossibly luminous all at once. 

“Whoa,” you whispered in awe. 

Beside you, Senku adjusted the telescope once more, fingers adjusting the focus and alignment with a precision that showed he had done it countless times already.  

“Look through it from here,” he nudged you lightly before crossing his arms against his chest. 

You leaned forward without hesitation. The moment your eyes met the lens, your breath nearly left you. The comet was undeniably breathtaking from the telescope. 

“It's so beautiful, Senku…” you mumbled in awe, as if you could barely believe you were actually seeing one with such focus. If it weren't for him, you really would've never. 

And perhaps it really was. Maybe comets were truly one of the most beautiful astronomical events that you could see during your lifetime. 

But Senku barely looked at it—not after he saw that look on your face that made him physically unable to take his eyes off of you. 

And before he knew it, the corners of his lips tugged into a soft smile, arms still crossed against his chest as his gaze undeniably softened.

“Yeah,” he murmured quietly as his gaze remained on you. “It really is.” 

He really should've known that was the exact moment Eros had struck him. Because from then on, every comet had him thinking of you. And suddenly, gravity no longer felt like a scientific concept, but rather something catastrophic that pulled him towards you.

He couldn't help but wonder, were you still using the telescope he custom-built for you? 

Perhaps that had been the problem when it came to loving him—you said it before yourself. His affection bled into science effortlessly, so that somewhere along the way, care translated into invention, and love became something he could build with his own two hands. 

Love to the point of invention, or whatever that mentalist said. 

And now, comets were the closest approximation of you he could ever observe again. The closest he could ever get to you was in the brief moments of the burning trails of comets as they tear across a space he could never reach. 

“You good, Senku-chan? You seem lost in thought,” he heard Gen's voice slice through his reminiscing. 

Senku chuckled quietly and shook his head. Yet before he could say something, they all heard loud footsteps before the doors of the observatory opened once more. 

“Ha ha! You outdid yourself with the architecture of this house, Senku. Are you sure you don't care about aesthetics?” Ryusui's voice reached his ears as he stepped into the room, followed by Taiju and Ukyo. 

Senku clicked the roof of his tongue. “Yeah? And since when did my house become the default meeting spot?” 

“I think since you're usually the last to respond.” Ukyo sweat dropped at him as he took a seat next to Gen. 

Ryusui ignored his questions and exclaimed loudly once again, snapping his fingers. “That's besides the point. Taiju wanted to announce something in person.” 

The said man nodded enthusiastically, fists pumped up. “Everyone, Yuzuriha and I are finally getting married!” 

⋆⭒˚.⋆

You should've seen it coming. Taiju, after all, had asked your permission to marry Yuzuriha, your best friend. Yet everything still felt surreal, as if time and growing up still felt like a concept you have yet to wrap your head around, as she tearfully asked you to be her maid of honor.

Everything simply moved too fast; it felt as if time didn't know how to stop, but that's reality, isn't it? 

One moment, the two of you were children rambling about crushes beneath the heat that eloped a playground. Then suddenly, you were standing inside an expensive hotel room—thanks to a certain Nanami—struggling to zip up a custom-made dress while your best friend emotionally and mentally prepared herself to walk down the aisle in less than thirty minutes.

Reality truly did not spare anyone. Panic had struck every nerve in your body as you desperately tried to reach the zipper, yet it was stuck. 

“Come on— seriously?!” You twisted awkwardly toward the mirror again, fingers desperately trying to reach for the zipper that was stuck halfway up your back. 

Yet it refused to budge, and your patience was running thin. An idea appeared in your head. Then, you tried to pull the dress over your head instead—keyword: tried. That turned out to be the worst idea you could think of at the moment, and you questioned if your situation couldn't get any worse. Oh, if only you knew.

The fitted material that transitioned into something flowy once it passed your hips refused to cooperate, thanks to the intricate design and specific measurements of the dress. The moment you tried to force it upward, the carefully pinned curls your stylist spent an insane amount of time perfecting, nearly got caught against the inner lining. 

You nearly shrieked in horror. You froze immediately. “Nope. Absolutely not happening after that long session of sitting still.” 

If you had ruined your hair now, you would've cried, your hairstylist would've cried harder. 

Which is why you were currently physically stuck inside of your own dress, alone inside of a hotel room you shared with Kohaku. 

Your phone had unfortunately been inside your purse—which you had asked Kohaku to bring when she headed out after you had insisted she head to the venue first. 

“Go ahead,” you told her earlier. “I just need to fix the zipper a little.” 

Right, a little. You would've truly laughed if you weren't the one stuck in your current situation, but the universe seemed to be against your favor today. 

You had to stop yourself from pressing both hands against your face. You didn't need your makeup artist crying along with you, and your hairstylist before the event itself could even start. 

“This is so stupid—” then you heard the doorbell of the hotel room ring. 

Your head snapped toward the hotel room beside you, and you nearly tripped on your own dress as you reached out to open the door. 

“Kohaku?!” Relief flooded your system instantly as you carefully kept one hand against the front of your dress to prevent anything more unfortunate from happening. For a second, that is as.

Because the moment you opened the door, you nearly slammed it shut again out of pure shock. Standing outside of your room wasn't Kohaku, no. It was Senku. The sight of him was enough to knock the air from your lungs far more than you would’ve admitted.

Your brain had entirely failed to process the fact that he was in front of you while you regretted even questioning if your situation couldn't get any worse. The universe had unfortunately decided that today, you would rival the infamous luck of Senku Ishigami himself. 

Three years— three years of not seeing his face properly, besides from the social media posts of mutual friends and news updates about the great Ishigami. Not to mention the photoshoots earlier. It couldn’t have been avoided, considering he was the best man and you happened to be the maid of honor. 

And somehow, seeing him up this close felt far crueler than all the accidental glimpses from afar during the pre-wedding photoshoots earlier. If you hadn’t decided to act maturely—emotionally mature—during those photoshoots, you would’ve truly ruined your last line of defense. 

Did you mention that the custom-tailored tuxedo complemented him so well? Yuzuriha truly outdid herself with the custom dresses and tuxedos. If it weren't for the fact that he was your ex-boyfriend for more than half a decade, you would've given your younger self a pat on the back for seeing the vision and sticking to it. 

Senku blinked before his eyes trailed downwards briefly, then he immediately understood the situation. And as if there wasn't an emotionally gut-wrenching call that occurred two years ago, he had the audacity to snicker. 

And that happened to offend you far more than your situation did, as your eye twitched at him. “Don’t laugh.”

“Wasn't planning to,” he tried to cover his twitching lips with a hand—a gold watch adorning his wrist—yet he failed miserably as another snicker escaped from him.

You narrowed your eyes, ignoring his offensive reaction and your quickened heartbeat. “Why are you even here?” 

“Gen told me to check on you,” Senku answered casually, too casually, hand sliding back into his pocket. “Apparently, Kohaku got dragged into helping at the venue.” 

Your eyes narrowed further suspiciously while you made a mental note to strike at the mentalist later on when you saw him. “...And how did you even know my room number?” 

“Yuzuriha.” He answered instantly. 

You blinked, mentally questioning if Yuzuriha and Gen had planned something between preparations. ‘Traitors. I'm surrounded by a bunch of traitors.’

You sighed in defeat as you were still half-hiding behind the hotel room door with only your head sticking out, and a bit of your torso, the rest of your body remained concealed inside the room.

An awkward silence settled over the two of you, and you visibly grimaced before clearing your throat. “Uhm…My zipper got stuck.” 

“I could tell.” He replied as if it were the most obvious observation ever. And for a moment, you swore he was trying not to snicker again.

You glared at him, which made him sigh afterward, though the amusement lingered on his face. “You gonna let me fix it, or are you planning to miss the wedding?” 

Your face burned instantly, and you nearly slammed the door shut in his face. Because logically speaking, yes, asking your ex-boyfriend to help zip up your dress after not seeing each other for three years should've felt absolutely horrifying. 

Yet somehow, with a voice so small that tried to conceal any leftover dignity, you asked him. “...Can you help me?” 

Senku's expression softened visibly, the amusement leaving his face. “Yeah.” 

You stepped aside, allowing him inside as the door clicked shut behind him softly. The front of your body faced the mirror again as you turned around carefully. You tried not to overthink the situation, really. 

And suddenly the room felt too small, too quiet. You saw him pause as he checked the situation of your zipper before his hands reached out. The movement that followed came naturally, as if he relied on muscle memory built on repeating the movement countless times. Which, truthfully, he had. 

The moment his fingers brushed lightly against your back for a second as he freed the stuck fabric. Your breath got caught in your throat as you attempted not to flinch. You hated how familiar it still felt. 

Because for years, you had tried to forget him, even when the sound of his voice haunted you with every memory and traces you had of him left, especially how he sounded that night. The desperation that was evident in his voice, the desperation that nearly made you want to try again. 

And now he was standing behind you. Close enough to feel his cold fingers, close enough to smell the cologne he always wore, close enough to realize he was there. 

“You got the fabric caught wrong,” Senku muttered as he quietly fixed it. “If you had forced it harder, you would've wrecked the stitching.” 

“...Hah, the universe seems to love me today,” you attempted to joke to make the situation lighter and more breathable. 

He let out an amused hum. Then, the zipper slid smoothly. It finished within seconds, yet somehow neither of you moved afterward. And for a terrifying moment, it felt as if three years was nothing. Three years of forcing yourself to move on, to which you failed without a doubt. 

The mirror reflected you both perfectly, and you hated how your mind compared him to the version preserved in your memories—the last version of him that you still had, the last version of him that you still knew. Not the one you no longer did, the present one standing behind you. 

What a painful reminder of love and loss, the past and the present, and the never-ending questions of what was and what could’ve been. It wasn’t fair to your attempts to move on, but then again, the heart sometimes lingers on what once was. 

He looked older, not drastically, just enough for you to make a conclusion that he had buried himself in far more projects than he had before. There were traces of change, traces that made your mind question if he was still the Senku you knew. 

Then, he took the initiative to move back first. “There, all fixed.” 

And somehow, that felt reassuring enough that he still was—or even just a part of him still was—as he has yet again, fixed something for you. Still the same Senku that your heart recognized instantly. 

You swallowed painfully, avoiding his gaze. “Thank you…” 

“It was inefficient not to.” He replied, and you nearly laughed in a bittersweet manner at how the reply sounded so much like him.

Three years. Three years, and somehow, he still sounded the same, even when there were evident traces of change. 

And a painful realization had settled through every fiber of your being. Because seeing him again confirmed something you didn’t want to admit—not because of pride, but of fear. The fear of losing yourself as he constantly chased something else. The confirmation that, despite all the time that passed, all the attempts of forgetting him, loving him had never truly become a past tense thing. 

Against your own weak will, your thoughts drifted toward the memory of the final phone call. Etched in the collection of your memories with a terrifying strength. The one with the final birthday greeting and goodbye. The one where you told him not to call again, and he didn’t.

The one that left you both grieving opposite ends of the same loss and future. 

You wondered if he still remembered it— no, without a doubt, he did with that absurdly good memory of his, but did he think of it the same way you did? The same way you did on nights that felt quieter and heavier, caused by the constant grieving of what once was and could’ve been?

You wondered if the words exchanged that night haunted him the same way they haunted you in an endless cycle. And the thought hurt far more than it should have.

Senku had noticed the deafening silence that you had as he glanced at his wrist watch. “We should head down before they send someone else to check on us this time.” 

You blinked and stared at him for a brief second. Then you nodded, quickly looking away as you fought the sting building in your eyes.

“...Yeah,” you murmured, blinking away the tears that threatened to blur your vision. “Let’s go.” 

⋆⭒˚.⋆

The wedding reception somehow felt even louder than the ceremony itself as the after-party bled through the night. 

Music echoed throughout the ballroom, while laughter continuously flowed throughout the room, as well as the clinking of glasses and distant chatter from different tables. 

There were more people than you thought. You were surprised—at the same time not—when you spotted Byakuya and Xeno talking from a distance before they called you for a brief moment. Stanely was kept occupied by Ryusui, as the younger man kept asking him questions about aviation and aim. Which you found insane, considering it was all for the younger Nanami’s prize possession of games that his older brother programmed. 

Honestly speaking, it should've felt comforting. It was, most of the time it was. You've lost count of how many packets of tissues you went through while trying not to ruin your makeup as you cried at the scene of your best friend getting married. 

Not to mention the speech you had to say. Though you had gone through a whole glass of champagne before you did, it barely helped as your voice cracked at the first word of your speech. 

And after that, a certain thought that you successfully held down throughout the ceremony had broken through your defenses once the after-party started. 

The first time it appeared was when you saw him walking down the aisle as the best man. And for a brief moment, you couldn't help but wonder, what if he had been walking down the aisle of his own wedding—your wedding?

He could've been walking down the aisle to wait for you, you could've been walking down the aisle to meet him, toward a lifetime of quiet devotion disguised as efficiency and practicality. Toward fixed problems before you could even notice them. Toward customized inventions. Toward a lifetime of gazing at the stars and astronomical events with him, and promises spoken so casually as if he could make them come through with a snap of his fingers. 

And suddenly, all you could think about was the gut-wrenching thought that there was once a version of your life where that could've been real. And that version still haunted you more than the present you were living in. 

Perhaps that was why you were aggressively set on proving Ryusui wrong as you participated in a drinking game with him, one filled with rounds of expensive whiskey and a forgotten round of Uno—to which you still questioned who randomly pulled up with a deck.

Still, it ended after a long hour of one round, after Gen tried to change the rules numerous times, after Tsukasa had fallen victim to the plus four cards for a terrifying amount of time, and after friendships nearly ended. Now, the two were a few tables away, watching as Chrome tried to learn a certain dance from some guests all the way from America: Max and Carlos.

Of course, Taiju wanted to join in and learn it as well. Which led to Yuzuriha looking for you and her other bridesmaids.

“You're losing momentum!” Ryusui laughed loudly from across the table with scattered Uno cards, clearly enjoying himself far too much. “What happened to all the confidence earlier?” 

You slammed your glass down aggressively, already plotting to ask Sai to hack his games later on. “Shut up, Ryusui.” 

Ukyo visibly sweat dropped as he picked up the cards across the table. “This is clearly not going to end well.” 

Somewhere within all the noise, Senku remained quieter than everyone else. He had initially been nursing a drink offered to him by Xeno, and refilled by his old man after he was told to loosen up. 

Though you had noticed him, and of course, you tried to ignore him every single time you did. 

Another cough escaped through your lips suddenly as your hand clutched the edge of the table. Your throat burned afterward, and you questioned if the alcohol was that strong. 

Ryusui noticed, as well as the painful lingering glances that were indirectly exchanged between you and his other friend. He pointed a finger at you accusingly. “Oi, you've been coughing for nearly an hour now.” 

Your brows furrowed as you stared at him. “Hah? I'm fine.” 

His eyes narrowed suspiciously. “You also said that while shivering twenty-six minutes ago.” He turned to Ukyo. “Am I wrong?” 

Ukyo shook his head, to which you shot him a glare and mouthed, “I thought you were on my side.” 

You then returned your gaze to Ryusui. “The temperature of the event room is too cold, of course, I'll be shivering, considering I’m not wearing full sleeves like you men.” 

Ryusui's eyes trailed farther behind you. They landed on Senku, and immediately, the two communicated through eye contact. 

You didn't say a word, barely noticing that he was communicating with Senku, not until someone took the newly refilled glass in your hand before your lips could make contact with it. 

You blinked, the alcohol fogging up your brain, making a dangerous combo with the feverish headache you were having. “...Hah?” 

You turned immediately and blinked again when you saw him stripped from the tuxedo jacket, which he held with one hand while the other held your glass. 

“You've had enough.” He declared softly, leaving no room for argument—you tried anyway.

You frowned instantly. “No, I haven't.” 

“You have,” he repeated flatly as Ryusui looked far too entertained across the two of you. 

Your frown deepened. “Since when do you decide that?” 

“Since you started coughing like your lungs were filing a complaint for your liver.” He shot back, hands already reaching out to wrap the jacket around your frame. 

Ryusui snorted loudly while Ukyo had to stifle his laugh. You still glared at both of them. 

You faced Senku with a determined look on your face. “I can still drink.” 

You were, however, completely ignored as he pressed the back of his hand against your forehead. Your entire body froze at the familiar gesture. Far too familiar. 

His brows furrowed as he confirmed his suspicion. “You're burning up,” 

You shook your head. “No, it's the alcohol—” you were cut off by a harsh round of coughs, your hand instinctively reaching out for the vest around his waist, clutching the fabric for support. 

His hands held you in place as you coughed violently, pushing your hair away from your face gently. “That checks out another thing.” 

He signed heavily afterward before grabbing your belongings nearby, to which Ukyo gladly assisted him. He grabbed your purse, then your lip gloss that somehow made its way out of your purse, then your smartphone, then the abandoned heels you had removed hours ago after your feet begged you to sit down. 

It was genuinely frightening how effortlessly he slipped back into taking care of you, as if three years were merely nothing in the eyes of Senku Ishigami. 

“I can walk on my own,” you argued weakly, already standing up. Yet the moment you did, your knees betrayed you, and you reached for the nearest support, which happened to be his arm. 

“Yeah…I don't think that's happening.” Ukyo remarked silently beside Ryusui, who was snickering. 

“That didn't count.” You argued weakly again. Senku merely stared at you blankly, one hand holding your purse along with your heels. 

“Sure.” He replied flatly.

That was when Nikki had appeared with a stern look on her face, though she was tipsy herself. “And where exactly are you taking her?”

“To rest,” Senku replied without sparing her a glance as he adjusted an arm against you. 

Her eyes narrowed. It was honestly hard to even consider Senku doing something weird. He was undeniably far from Ginrou, who had tried to flirt with other female guests earlier. Yet still, her concern for you swallowed the thought. 

“...You better not do anything suspicious, Senku.” 

Senku looked at her with an unimpressed look. If anything, he looked offended, too. “Seriously? She's running a fever of around thirty-eight degrees and can barely stand.” 

That was all Nikki needed to hear. And before another argument could start—especially from you— Senku had lifted you into his arms. 

You blinked, confused. “...Huh? Aren't you a twink? How?” 

And you swore you saw his eyes twitch visibly as Ryusui and Nikki burst out laughing far too loudly than they should've. 

“Physics and astronaut training teach you a lot.” He responded flatly as he adjusted his grip around you once again before staring down at you with a softness in his eyes that a somehow sober part of you wished he didn't have. “You're sick, argue tomorrow.” 

You felt your face burn warmer than your body as you instinctively clutched onto him, hiding your face into his shoulder blades and definitely staining his dress shirt with your makeup. And he didn't mind, of course, he didn't. 

The moment you and Senku had successfully exited the ballroom, Ryusui looked around at the sober parts of the crowd who pretended as if they weren't listening to the whole interaction that had just unfolded. 

Well, unfortunately for some—specifically Gen and Yuzuriha—weren’t exactly so slick at it as they somehow appeared at a closer table than before. 

With a confident grin, Ryusui declared loudly. “I bet a hundred thousand yen they'll reconcile by tomorrow!” 

⋆⭒˚.⋆

The pounding headache arrived before your memories did, as your consciousness finally returned. You felt a relentless ache throb the second you did, followed by a weak groan from your throat. Your body felt unbearably warm despite the cool air surrounding the room, and your throat felt painfully raw from coughing all night. 

Slowly, your eyes cracked open as your hand reached out for the bedside table instinctively. However, for some reason, you couldn’t feel it, as if it was farther from what you were used to. Your eyes shifted, and it was indeed farther away. 

Then you halted as a realization settled through as your hands touched the bed weakly. The bed was king-sized, and as far as you remember, your hotel room had two double beds since you shared it with Kohaku. 

A wave of confusion washed over you as you propped yourself up against the soft pillows; the sudden movement shot pain through your limbs instantly. Instinctively, you grasped the comforter tightly as you took a moment to focus, trying to make sense of the overwhelming sensations and your new surroundings. 

Soft morning light seeped through the curtains, painting pale streaks across the floor and the desk near the window. And that was when you finally noticed him. Senku Ishigami sat slumped in a chair, legs stretched slightly on top of the desk as his head tilted awkwardly against the backrest. One arm rested loosely across his stomach while the other hung limply at his side. 

And if it weren’t for your baffled and horrified expression, you would’ve nearly grimaced at the sight of the uncomfortable position he was in. How could someone as logical as him just settle for a sweater and sweatpants to protect him from the cool temperature of the room, not to mention the deeply uncomfortable position he was sleeping in? 

Bits and pieces of what had unfortunately unfolded last night resurfaced through the haze in your head. The after-party. The drinking competition with Ryusui, that obviously would lead to your doom, yet you were too stubborn to back down. The memory of Senku having to physically stop you before you fully gave in to self-destruction. 

Your mortification burned hotter than your fever as you recalled how you nearly vomited on him after a round of painful coughing. Yet based on the memory that returned, he was as patient as ever when it came to taking care of you. 

Your eyes lingered on him again, and faint traces of dark circles settled beneath his closed eyes, more visible than usual due to the soft morning light. His brows remained slightly furrowed even in his sleep, suggesting that he hadn’t rested properly at all. 

Had he stayed up late because of you?

The thought made you frown as a wave of guilt struck you hard enough to make your chest twist painfully. You were no longer his responsibility, hence why? 

Carefully, you tried to move toward the edge of the bed even as pain shot throughout your body. The mattress creaked from your sudden movement. Just then, Senku stirred awake, his eyes snapping open with an alertness built from a restless night.

His eyes immediately landed on you, his exhaustion vanishing almost instantly that it shocked you. 

“...Hey,” His voice sounded rough with sleep as he stood up. “Don’t move around too much.”

Your stomach flipped slightly at how fast he reacted, already moving toward you with an undeniable concern that made your grip on the comforter tighten. And for a moment, your heart was speaking louder than your head. 

“You’ve got a fever, a terrible cough, and a hangover that could’ve been completely avoided if Ryusui didn’t indulge you in his acts.” He muttered while walking over. “Lie back down before your condition worsens.”

“Senku—” You tried to call out, yet your voice cracked midway and triggered another cough. 

The moment you doubled over slightly, Senku’s expression sharpened instantly. “Easy,”

A hand gently held your shoulders to steady you while the other grabbed a bottle of water positioned and untouched on the bedside table—already prepared. 

“Slowly,” He instructed softly while bringing the bottle closer to your lips. 

You took a few careful sips before finally managing to speak again. You gazed at him with confused eyes. “...Why am I here?”

Senku blinked once while twisting the bottle cap back on. Though before he could respond, you beat him to it with another remark. “This isn’t my room…”

“Yeah, obviously. It’s mine.” He replied, a faint hint of amusement evident in the tone of his voice as he met your bewildered gaze. 

You nearly shrieked. Unfortunately, what came out instead was another terrible, violent coughing fit. The pain tore through your throat as your cough happened to be dry.

Senku clicked his tongue immediately as he pushed the strands of your hair that fell and covered your face. The gesture felt so natural it nearly made your heart ache again. “You really aren’t beating the ‘barely functioning’ allegations right now.”

“Why am I in your room?!” You rasped out between coughs as you briefly glanced at him. 

His eyes softened as they stared straight at you. “Your room was farther, your condition was and is still terrible, the others were drunk and in no fit condition to take care of you— Do you want me to keep going?” 

He crossed his arms; the tone of his voice held a mix of concern and annoyance. Though the annoyance was overshadowed by his concern and the way he gazed at you softly. 

“Kohaku got drunk and lost your keycards. Ryusui took time to fix the situation, and my room was closer.” He spoke so matter-of-factly as if the situation didn’t sound absurd at all. 

You stared at him. “You could’ve just left me there—”

“Yeah?” he cut in immediately. “And who would’ve taken care of you?”

You opened your mouth, yet nothing came out. You could still recall how most of your friends were too busy enjoying themselves—and you knew how useless it was to argue against Senku when logic was involved.

He moved back to grab the thermometer on the bedside table, which made you curious about where he got it. 

Your eyes followed his movement with curiosity. “Where did you get that? Do you just have one lying around anytime?”

He shook his head and sat on the edge of the bed, near you. “Made Gen and Ryusui take a trip to the nearest store.” 

If it weren’t for the weight of your current situation, you would’ve snickered at his answer. 

Then, he moved closer to check your temperature. “Your fever reached thirty-nine degrees last night after you coughed loud enough to wake half the floor. You nearly threw up on me twice.”

You stared at him in horror. “Twice? I only remember once.”

He softly flicked your forehead, “That’s the alcohol messing with your brain after that nonsense with Ryusui.”

You groaned and buried your face in your hands. Part of it was from embarrassment from the stupid act, and another part was from remembering the reason you indulged in it in the first place. 

“Tch. Don’t do that.” He immediately pulled your hands away from your face before you could rub your eyes. “You’ve already got enough health issues, no need to add more to the list.”

The familiarity of the motion has made your chest tighten again, and you couldn’t muster the strength to look at him. Well, not until another realization washed over you. 

“...Why am I wearing different clothes?” You blurted out as another horrified look settled on your face. And you swore you saw him pause briefly. 

“Relax before your brain starts making dumb assumptions.” He replied with a flat tone. “I called Nikki to bring your pajamas and help you change after Ryusui dealt with the keycards situation.”

The tension in your body dissolved so quickly it nearly made you dizzy. You exhaled in relief as you felt the stress lift from your shoulders. Though there was still a quiet, heavy weight that remained in your chest from the thought that he still cared after all this time. 

Another painful reminder of the ache of unspoken words lost to time. 

Senku narrowed his eyes at your expression. “The hell were you assuming?”

You quickly shook your head, triggering a painful throb from your headache. And as if it were a chain reaction, that made him click his tongue. “I told you not to add more problems to your list, didn’t I?”

You ignored his scolding as your eyes shifted to the chair he was initially at. “You slept there the whole night?”

He tilted his head, and you pointed at the chair behind him. His head turned before returning to meet your concerned gaze. He nodded casually, “Yeah.”

And before you could ask why, he was already on his feet again. “Focus on recovering first and don’t move too much.”

He walked toward the desk and grabbed his keycard before shoving it into his pocket. “Then, he turned to you one last time. “I’m getting breakfast. Don’t leave the room.”

“You don’t have to—”

“You need to eat something before taking meds.” He interjected firmly, leaving no room for an argument as his figure faded from your vision. And the last thing you heard was the soft click of the door closing. 

⋆⭒˚.⋆

If there was something Senku should’ve taken into account, it should’ve been your terrifying stubbornness. Especially when the situation involved you locked in a room, alone with your thoughts that refused to go down without a fight. 

You had lasted exactly ten minutes, on the dot. Ten minutes of staring at a television that played the morning news, yet you were barely listening to it. Instead, you were thinking—thinking far too hard for someone suffering the weight of a headache. 

Because what exactly were you supposed to do right after this? Pretend none of it happened? Pretend he hadn’t been sleeping upright in a chair just so he could give you the whole bed to yourself? Pretend he hadn’t stayed awake monitoring your condition when the evidence was visible on his face? Pretend he hadn’t somehow made the task of moving on infinitely harder within the span of a single night? 

Because how were you supposed to just move on again after this?

The thought made your chest ache far more than your head did. 

With a frustrated sigh, you forced yourself to leave the bed even when your body was practically telling you not to by shooting pain throughout your muscles. Your hand reached out for your cardigan that you found on the room's sofa. You had assumed Nikki must’ve brought it last night. 

You wrapped your body around it before quietly slipping out of the room, ignoring the voice in your head that was running through the possibilities of how a certain Ishigami would react. 

As you made your way to the ground floor with the interest of checking the hotel gardens and everything that appeared in your way—anything to take your mind off of him, really. 

The hotel grounds were quite peaceful, which didn’t surprise you since noon was still a few hours away. Most of the wedding guests were either sleeping off their hangovers or enjoying the amenities scattered around the place. Though you could easily guess that the majority of them chose the former.

You found yourself wandering toward the outdoor pool area before you could reach the gardens. You hoped the change of scenery and the far lessening feeling of being caged in a room would help. 

News flash, it didn’t. Especially since a familiar voice entered your line of hearing. 

“I was expecting you to still be asleep, or Senku-chan was hovering around you like a doctor.”

You nearly jumped, one hand clutching the fabric of your shirt around your chest area as you turned to Gen. “He is a doctor.”

“Yes, in astrophysics and chemistry.” He grinned, eyes scanning your state, which clearly screamed that you were sick. “I meant a medical one.”

Your nerves calmed down as you hit him weakly as the two of you began walking together. “Thought you knew he got a degree in biology too, out of curiosity.” 

Gen sweat dropped beside you as he sipped his cup of coffee. “Don’t worry, I haven’t forgotten how he wanted to major in all sciences for fun.”

There was a moment of silence that enveloped the two of you as you walked past the pool area, with far more greenery entering your line of sight. The silence wasn’t heavy, unlike your thoughts that refused to remain silent. 

Gen slowed his pace to match yours. The last thing he wanted to encounter was having to explain to an overprotective scientist why you’d return looking ready to collapse. 

“You shouldn’t be out here, you know?” His voice cut through the peaceful silence.

Your head shifted to stare at him. “I’m trying to escape my thoughts about him and him. Please stop sounding like him.”

He blinked before realization settled over his head. “...You didn’t tell him you went out?!”

Your eyes narrowed at his sudden, horrified reaction. “I thought you knew I didn’t? Do you think Senku would let me leave?”

He waved his hands frantically. “I considered that thought, but I also considered the thought of him letting you get fresh air!”

Then, he tried to turn your direction back to the hotel by grabbing your shoulders, “We should head back before your doctor kills me!”

You pulled away, wrapping your cardigan tighter around you. “He’ll be mad either way since I already left when he told me to stay still.” 

Then you looked at him with a tired expression on your face, eyes pleading faintly. “...Just accompany me and do your psychological mentalist stuff, please.”

He sighed before nodding along. “He must be losing his mind right now if he has already returned.”

You hummed; a trace of guilt was evident. “He went to get me breakfast, and I’m sure he went to Francois since he used to have a modified list of foods for whenever I was sick.”

Your hands brushed against the rows of flowers slightly. “It gives me enough time to clear my thoughts about him before returning.”

“And enough time before he sends a full search team?” Gen added with a dramatic tone.

You snickered, “Hey, I doubt he’ll react that excessively.”

Then, with a sudden, serious yet soft voice, Gen spoke, “Can I say something I shouldn’t?”

You glanced at him briefly and grinned softly. “Go ahead, I asked for your psychological mentalist stuff, didn’t I?”

He paused for a moment before smiling faintly. “...I think everyone was shocked when you two ended.”

Your grin faltered as you averted your gaze, casting your eyes toward the expansive view.  Gen sensed the shift in your mood and chose to continue carefully after your reaction. “It wasn’t because relationships ending was unusual, that’s normal in life.”

“But because you two felt strangely permanent.” He added, voice laced with nostalgia. 

And somehow, the last part made your chest ache once again. Now you were starting to question how many more of those you would have to go through for the remaining time of the day.

You halted for a moment, sensing the emotion in his voice. “The way you say it makes me think you grieved our relationship, too.” 

He wheezed slightly, hand covering his mouth. “Hah…You should’ve seen how Chrome reacted to it, especially on the night of Senku-chan’s first birthday after the breakup. He was set on knocking some sense into him.”

A bitter snicker escaped your lips, tinged with sarcasm. The memory of the final phone call burned in your head. “You make it sound like we died, Gen.”

“Maaaybe a little,” He admitted lightly, but the teasing glint in his eyes softened. “You should’ve seen how he was after the breakup.” 

You raised a brow, a weak laugh escaping you, laced with disbelief.“That bad?”

He frowned, shaking his head slightly. “Don’t act like it wasn’t for you as well. Yuzuriha filled me in on what happened on your side.”

You abruptly halted, a dangerously suspicious expression settling on your face. “Is that why you sent him to my hotel room yesterday? I knew it, you and Yuzuriha were plotting something.”

Gen merely took a slow sip of his coffee, acting all innocent as you glared at him. “Whatever could you mean? We were just worried about you, you know?”

Your glare intensified, and you lightly jabbed his side. “I also haven’t forgotten that you tried to manipulate your way into changing the rules of Uno last night.”

With an exaggerated shrug, he smiled innocently. “Details, details.”

Then, his voice dropped into something far more serious. “I’ve never seen him so incomplete after you.” 

Your gaze softened, yet your fingers gripped the hem of your cardigan tightly, a familiar pang tugging at your heart. “...You give me too much credit, Gen. Senku is still Senku without me.”

For a fleeting moment, Gen was tempted to disagree and argue. Because yes, Senku was still the Senku that everyone knew. He still chased science with the same frightening intensity. He still spent ridiculous hours inside laboratories. Still reached for the future of science with both hands—

But Gen had known and observed the scientist for far too long. He saw the way his excitement barely lingered around the same way it used to, the way his achievements felt more like checkpoints than victories. 

Gen saw the way his silence settled in places that used to be filled with your laughter, even when he was constantly moving forward. Constantly moving forward with science, but never from you. 

Yet Gen had to swallow the urge to play cupid for now because he saw the way your body was still physically recovering. And he was certain the mad scientist would come for him if he had done something to aggravate your condition. 

Hence, he chose not to push further. That was when he looked ahead and spotted familiar figures. “Ah, there they are.”

You mimicked his action the second the golf course came into view. Further ahead, you caught sight of Ryusui and Stanley playing while Xeno stood nearby, nursing a cup of tea. 

“This hotel seriously had everything, doesn't it?” You murmured to Gen as you two approached the three.

Gen nodded knowingly right next to you. “It is owned by the King of Greed himself. Of course, he would desire to have everything in his hotel.” 

The two of you shared a laugh before reaching the spot where the three were. 

Ryusui noticed you immediately and grinned. “Well, well! Look who survived! I was starting to think the alcohol hit you well last night.” 

You playfully rolled your eyes as you adjusted your cardigan. “Nice joke, Ryusui.” 

Xeno’s eyes studied you briefly before he struck a question. “Tea? It can help soothe your symptoms.” 

You tilted your head, wondering how he knew. And as if he had read your mind, he spoke again. “Ah, Senku spoke of them an hour after the after-party.” 

Now you were beginning to question just how long he stayed awake last night just to take care of you?

Somehow, you had agreed to Xeno's offer for tea as the two of you sat beneath a shaded area overlooking the golf course. Gen had chosen to stay with the other two to watch their friendly match. 

For a while, the conversation remained surprisingly casual. It was easy to talk to Xeno, considering how you had known him since your earlier years spent in high school after you found out that Senku had a mentor across the world. 

The conversation circled around the wedding, your current career path, and then the deadly combination of a fever, cold, and hangover. 

Until it no longer circled around those, and somehow took a turn into a topic you've been avoiding. 

“You and Senku remain painfully obvious, by the way,” Xeno stated flatly while stirring his cup of tea with a teaspoon. 

Though his statement made you nearly choke on the tea you were drinking. So much for apparently “soothing” your symptoms.

“Hah?!” You let out a violent cough while quickly setting your tea cup down. 

Yet he continued as if you weren't close to choking. “Your pupils dilate every time his name is mentioned or every time you glance at him from across the room. You didn't think you were subtle, did you?” 

You stared at him in disbelief before attempting to dismiss his observation. “I don't know what you're talking about.” 

His eyes narrowed down at you. “What a poor attempt to lie. Your nervous system doesn't lie, science doesn't lie.”

You let out a frustrated groan, aggressively sipping your tea while choosing to ignore his response. 

Xeno exhaled out what sounded like an exhausted sigh. “Truthfully speaking, I can't quite tell if Senku's painfully obvious yearning is worse than yours. It was insufferable having to see it with your own eyes whenever he was in America.” 

You blinked, hands slowly placing your tea cup down to your lap. “...Yearning?” 

He let out a look of disbelief, mentally questioning if you couldn't get any more oblivious. “You didn't assume he was yearning for you to come back?” 

Your face twisted into something taken aback. “Well, I hate assuming unless stated—” 

He interjected firmly, “Not even after he nearly begged for you to try again that night?” 

Now you were bewildered at his choice of words. “Begged is a strong word, Senku doesn't exaggerate like that!” 

Xeno looked baffled at your comment. “I expected that you, of all people, would know the lengths he would go for you.” 

He placed his tea cup down with a sigh. “I was aware of it myself, considering he spent quite a long time in America for his doctorate. However, he surprised me further with that comet stunt he pulled.” 

Your confusion only grew further, completely unaware of what he was talking about now. 

Xeno blinked. “Are you not into comets? I can vividly recall Senku informing me that you adored watching them.” 

You looked down silently. “Yeah, I used to— Well, I still do, I just don't watch them anymore because they remind me too much of him.” 

You glanced at him briefly. “He was the one who got me into them, y’know?” 

He visibly paused. “How tragic…The same goes for him.” 

You tilted your head, confused yet again. “Hah?” 

Xeno leaned forward, “Say, are you aware of the new potentially greatest astronomical event of the 21st century?” 

You narrowed your eyes in confusion. “I'm not updated with any of those. Senku used to be the one making my calendars.” 

“Of course he was.” You heard him mutter out before continuing. “There's an extremely bright comet bound to reach perihelion in two years or so. Senku was the one who discovered it. 

“At NASA, we follow the standardized naming guidelines, such as naming it after the discoverer.” He then stared straight at you. “Though Senku named his comet after you.” 

Your brows knit together instantly, nearly dropping the teacup in your hand. “...He what?” 

“He named the comet he discovered after you.” He repeated casually, as if he didn't just drop a bomb of information right at you. “Truthfully speaking, he managed to easily request it after negotiating with the higher-ups. What a romantic way to make use of his reputation, don't you think so?” 

You were far too baffled to answer. “...Why would he do that?” 

Xeno adjusted his glasses. “You'd have to ask him yourself. Though if I were to hypothesize— he was thinking of you.” 

He gazed at you again. “Were you not always like a comet in his life? Disappearing then returning to his orbit after years. He had always considered you as someone who brightened up his days, even when he didn't admit it out loud. It was evident enough.” 

“I need you to understand the weight of the information.” Then, he leaned back and took a slow sip of his tea. “He was in the ISS when it happened. He had the world beneath him, the moon near him, the vastness of space surrounding him— and yet he thought of you.” 

Your breath caught as your brain was slowly processing the large pieces of information suddenly given to it. Yet your heart was pacing faster than ever. 

For the last two years, you had thought he had moved forward with his life after the final phone call. How couldn't you after hearing his name on the news every now and then? He had achieved far greater things even without you—how could you not think he chose to move forward after you told him to? 

Your chest ached painfully. How could it not after learning that even after everything, the breakup, even after achieving the dream he had spent almost his entire life chasing—a part of him still curved back to you? 

Xeno glanced at you, observing your reaction. He knew his mentee would not be pleased to know that he chose emotional psychological warfare so early in the morning, considering your condition. 

Yet what had to be done had to be done. 

He paused, thinking over the next set of words he was about to tell you. 

“It's such a shame the ring was never used.”

His words hung in the air, heavy and suffocating, and your entire body stilled as you stared at him with something unreadable. You swore you felt your heart falter for a moment as the weight of his words settled through. 

“...What?” You managed to blurt out, though your voice was faint.

His eyes narrowed slightly behind his glasses. And this time, he was also confused. It had been almost four years since the ring had appeared in the picture; shouldn't you have known it by now? 

“You still don't know?” 

The world seemed to stop as every other sound became distant. Everything blurred together, yet your heartbeat didn't as it slammed violently against your ribs. 

“What…?” You repeated painfully. 

Xeno's brows furrowed as his realization washed over him. You were clueless, genuinely clueless that it caught him off guard. 

“You really don't know.” He confirmed loud enough that the three who were pretending not to eavesdrop heard. 

You looked back at the other three as they exchanged knowing glances. And that was enough for you to conclude that they knew. They knew information that involved your own life, yet you didn't. 

“What ring?” Your voice came out sharper this time. Desperate and demanding for an answer. 

“What ring, Xeno?” You repeated desperately as panic began to build up within your nerves. 

He paused as he carefully considered whether he should answer your question. Because he was aware that one wrong move could potentially kill the remaining chances of mending what had been broken. 

Then finally, he exhaled while silently hoping the decision he made was the right one. “The engagement ring he traveled across three continents to make.” 

Everything felt like it stopped this time for real as you stared at him with eyes that blurred from the burning tears that threatened to fall—the burning tears you failed to notice. 

For a moment, your brain simply refused to acknowledge what he had just told you. It absolutely couldn't. You had spent years convincing yourself of a different reality, and now you were hearing information that contradicted the whole thought completely. 

“He was planning to propose…?” Your voice finally cracked through as you held back a sob that threatened to escape. 

Your stomach twisted violently after hearing your own words. Because suddenly memories were resurfacing—memories that connected the dots you failed to notice. 

Multiple memories burned through your head, yet the ones that burned the most were his promise to show you every other comet, the news that he built the house you had talked about over what you thought was just a forgotten memory in his head, and the way he sounded desperate to try again during the final phone call. 

He was planning to propose, yet you had given up on him before he could. 

“...I believe,” he began slowly as he placed his tea cup back on the table. “It would be better if Senku answered that for himself.” 

You stood so abruptly that the chair nearly toppled over behind you. And for a moment, the world tilted. The sudden movement sent a violent pulse of pain through your head, making your vision blur for a brief moment. 

Your fever and headache immediately protested, yet they weren't enough to silence the burning adrenaline that seeped through every nerve in your body, as well as the violent pounding of your heart that was seeking for an answer to the question Xeno had refused to answer. 

“...He was planning to propose?” 

Your own question burned inside your head, desperate to be answered, as well as the memory of another question. 

“What ring, Xeno?” 

Your legs were already moving before your mind could catch up. The golf course disappeared behind you as the garden came into your view once again. The neatly cut grass blurred together with the pathways of the hotel as you broke into a run. 

Immediately, your body rebelled against your action as it was in no state for the sudden physical movement. Pain shot through your limbs again, yet you kept running out of desperation.

Out of the desperation for answers—answers that you needed to hear from him.

The other three decided to break their silence as they approached Xeno, who watched as your figure disappeared from his view, as if he was calculating something in his head again.

“Xeno-chan!” Gen’s frantic voice was the first to break the silence. “Why would you tell her that?!”

Stanley lowered his golf club before glancing sideways at Xeno. “Won’t your mentee be furious at you for that?”

Gen whipped his head towards Stanley, “Furious is an understatement! I stopped myself from overstepping because of her condition and the fact that Senku-chan would definitely come for my throat!”

Ryusui couldn’t even tell if he found the situation concerning or amusing. “Seriously! She’s still sick, Xeno.”

Xeno calmly adjusted his glasses, entirely unbothered by the accusations thrown his way. “Exactly, I calculated for these specific conditions.”

They all stared at him with matching confusion and disbelief. 

Xeno let out a sigh, as if his answer should’ve been painfully obvious by now. “Senku is currently at peak emotional concern for her condition. Which significantly heightens the probability of honest communication once they encounter each other again.”

“You manipulated the timing on purpose.” Stanley deadpanned as soon as he understood what Xeno was trying to say. 

“Correct.” He didn't even bother denying it. 

All three of them stared once again as the scientist simply took another sip of his tea. 

“You make it sound like you're proud of that,” Gen groaned dreadfully. 

“I am. I calculated the timing perfectly.” 

“Xeno-chan!” 

“What?” Xeno replied flatly. “Would you have preferred another year of this?” 

The question silenced Gen because, unfortunately, he had a point. A terribly honest point. 

“For three years, they've remained mutually attached to one another.” He began listing with his fingers. “Neither has moved on, neither has entered a new relationship, both continue to yearn for one another painfully without knowing it.” 

Then, he folded his arms. “Yet neither of them attempted to resolve the situation. Well, if we don't consider Senku’s attempt two years ago, which truthfully I think he should've tried harder.” 

He paused and raised a brow at them. “Tell me why exactly I should continue tolerating that? Though it doesn't affect Senku's work efficiency, it does affect his silence.” 

Gen opened his mouth, only to close it after a moment. He opened it again and sighed. He knew Xeno was right; he confirmed it with his debriefing sessions with Yuzuriha every now and then regarding both sides of the relationship. 

Stanley gazed upon the hotel, then at Xeno. “Still doesn't explain why you told her about the ring.” 

Ryusui nodded in agreement. The expression on his face was suddenly serious. “Stanley's right. Senku hasn't even told her closest friend, Yuzuriha, about it. I doubt Gen and the others would've known too if they hadn't noticed it.” 

Xeno gestured for them to sit down. “The comet wasn't enough.” 

Gen blinked in disbelief. “You literally just told her he named a comet after her…” 

He nodded. “That I did, however, she already knew he still cared.”

“He took care of her the whole night simply because she was sick,” he took another slow sip of his tea. “The comet only supported that idea far greater, as well as confirmed that he still thought of her.”

“The ring, on the other hand, confirmed that he had planned a future with her.” He continued with a scheming look on his face. “The moment she heard of the proposal, every assumption she had built over the course of three years collapsed. Which forced immediate confrontation since she's seeking answers from him now.” 

Ryusui grinned at him, though his disbelief was still evident. “Haha! You're insane, Xeno!” 

Gen groaned dramatically into his hands once again. “Senku-chan is going to come for you— for us, for not interfering too.” 

He turned his head at Xeno. “You told his ex-girlfriend about the proposal he never got to give, he's going to drown us in acid!”

Xeno merely shrugged. “I doubt it. I've already considered his reaction.” 

“Once they reconcile, he will be too occupied to remain angry.” Then, with a scheming smile, he spoke. “Or the second he sees her running back to him, crying and demanding answers, he'll significantly have larger concerns than drowning us in acid.” 

The silence that followed lasted exactly three seconds. Ryusui was the first to break it as he doubled over laughing. Gen stared in disbelief, wondering how he dragged himself into this, while Stanley fought the urge to laugh, though a smile broke through.

“You planned his reaction too?!” Gen yelled, horrified at the insanity of the conversation. 

Xeno merely hummed. “Of course, I had to keep everything precise in order to win the betting pool. And if the latter happens, it gives me enough time to orchestrate a plan in case the worst-case scenario happens.” 

“I can't believe you orchestrated that because of a bet! Can’t believe you joined it too!” 

“Correction, that's merely forty percent of my reasoning. Truthfully speaking, my main objective was to save both parties another year of watching and suffering their painfully obvious yearning.”

He smiled smugly. “Senku had another two years to improve his emotional intelligence. I'm certain he won't screw this up this time.” 

⋆⭒˚.⋆

The elevator ride felt far too slow.

Every second dragged unbearably as your thoughts spiraled for answers faster than your body could keep up with. Your fever still burned beneath your skin, your head still throbbed painfully, and your lungs protested instantly the second you halted when you reached the elevator. 

Yet your adrenaline continued to drown everything out. Because all your head could think—all you could hear were fragments of memories: the engagement ring, the proposal that never occurred. 

“I’ll show you every other comet myself if I have to.”

“No, don’t say that.”

“I'm sorry I kept making you wait.” 

“Will your life be better if I remain out of it?”

“I’ve never seen him so incomplete after you.” 

“You'd have to ask him yourself. Though if I were to hypothesize— he was thinking of you.”

“It's such a shame the ring was never used.”

Your hands trembled violently as you stumbled through the hallway, nearly missing the room number entirely before stopping it. And before hesitation could or the pain could stop you, your hand tapped the keycard on the door, and shoved it open with the remaining strength that you had. 

Inside the room, a disheveled Senku immediately turned towards the door the second he heard the abrupt sound. He stood beside the desk, phone pressed against his ear. 

The relief on his face appeared instantly. So immediate and genuine that it nearly hurt you far more than it should have. 

“There you are,” he breathed out sharply, relief overshadowing the concern in his eyes.

His shoulders visibly loosened as if he'd been holding tension in them the entire time you were gone. 

On the other side of the call, you heard Kohaku's concerned voice. “Is she back?!”

Senku dragged a hand down his face. “Yeah, she's here already. I'll call you back later.” 

Then he ended the call. The moment the phone lowered from his ear, his expression shifted again—relief was quickly overtaken by concern as he took in your state properly. 

He noticed your uneven breathing, your flushed skin, your trembling fists as they clutched near your sides. And the tears that gathered in your eyes. He immediately frowned, questioning why there were tears in your eyes. 

He clicked his tongue softly, already striding towards you. “What the hell were you thinking wandering around while running a fever and a hangover? Your lungs were still filing a complaint earlier and—” 

“Senku.” You cut him with a voice that cracked badly enough to stop him, staring straight at him with eyes that burned with tears. 

Your hands clenched tighter at your sides as the emotions and everything else in between felt too much. First, the proximity because of the wedding, the fact that he took care of you the whole night because you were sick, the yearning, the comet—and now, the ring. 

You swallowed hard as your heart violently pounded against your rib. “...What ring was Xeno talking about?” 

Silence. You were met with complete silence the second the words escaped from your lips. It was almost horrifying when you noticed the way he went still with a slight frown. 

Yet before you could say another word, his expression shifted into something else as his focus changed entirely. Because, despite the situation, his main concern was still you. 

“Tch,” he stepped forward again, brows furrowing further. “Sit down first before you pass out.” 

You shook your head, and your voice cracked harder this time. “No, answer my question.” 

His jaw tightened faintly. “Did Xeno seriously tell you that while you're sick?” He muttered under his breath, sounding half irritated and half horrified.

He moved closer until his hand could reach out and touch your forehead, expression turning far more visibly concerned. 

“You're burning up again,” his voice lowered. “Did you seriously run all the way back here with your condition?” 

You swatted his hand away weakly, and your eyes watered harder. “Answer me first.”

A cough suddenly tore through your throat before you could stop it, making his expression immediately darken as he grabbed a hold of you gently. 

“See? This is why you shouldn't have wandered around.” He grabbed the nearest water bottle and pushed it near you. “Drink first.” 

You stared at him with disbelief. “How can you still avoid the question right now?!” Your throat burned harder at the sudden rise of your voice. 

“Because your condition's getting worse by the second.” He shot back immediately, eyes narrowing at you. “Your fever had already hit thirty-nine degrees earlier, and then you went ahead and wandered around the hotel on your own—” 

You fought back the cough that threatened to escape. “Were you going to propose to me?” 

He went silent once again, that even the faint trace of irritation on his face disappeared as you stared at him with pleading, teary eyes.

“...Answer me,” you demanded weakly as your breathing shook unevenly. 

He remained silent and turned his head away. And that alone shattered you further because he rarely looked away from situations, especially the difficult ones. 

“Please,” your voice broke completely. You needed to hear it from him. “Please just answer me, Sen.” 

Though before he could speak, another rough cough broke through from your throat. Far worse than the previous ones, as you had to hold onto his arms to steady yourself. 

And instantly, he held you tighter as his eyes finally returned to you again

“Easy,” his voice dropped into something softer. “Don't push yourself too hard.” 

Your eyes remained locked onto him desperately. Your heart needed to hear the answer from him before it completely tore itself apart. “Were you?” 

Then finally, after what felt like an eternity of forcing the answer out of him, he exhaled shakily through his nose. 

“...Yeah.”

The single word was enough to destroy you completely; your face crumbled instantly as your tears finally spilled. A broken sound escaped your throat this time, and your knees suddenly felt weak. 

Senku caught you immediately, his grip tightening again. “Hey—” 

Another cough hit you harshly, followed by a sharp shot of pain through your head, painful enough to make you squeeze your eyes shut. 

He clicked his tongue, adjusting his hold on you as panic flickered onto his face. “Your condition's getting worse, you need to lie back down—” 

But you clutched onto the fabric of his sweater before he could move you away. Your lungs felt tight, your chest hurt—everything hurt. Because suddenly, the last three years no longer made any sense.

“Why? You cried out weakly. “Why didn't you tell me?” 

Senku didn’t answer again as he held you in his arms carefully, as if he could stop you from falling apart completely because of him. His touch bled through the fabric of your sleeves, grounding and painful all at once. 

Your hands clutched onto the fabric tighter, enough to wrinkle it. “Why didn’t you say anything? First the house, then the ring— Why didn’t you tell me any of it?”

“When I said I couldn’t do it anymore…The first time, three years ago, the second time, when you called two years ago…” You spoke around another sob. “Why didn’t you stop me?”

His expression shifted slightly, so subtly that most people would miss it. But you didn’t, because after loving him for so long, you had learned every version of his silence. 

And this one—this one looked painful. 

“Why didn’t you try to make me stay…?” Your breathing staggered. “I would’ve— I would’ve stayed— I would’ve returned back to you if you tried.”

His throat bobbed harshly, and for several seconds, he didn’t say anything. Then, finally, 

“...You were crying.” The answer came out barely above a whisper. It sounded raw, immediate, yet honest. 

“You were crying so hard you could barely breathe.” His voice sounded rough as his eyes held regret. “All I could think about was the fact that I caused it.” 

“You looked exhausted.” He let out a laugh that sounded weak and bitter. “Like being with me was wearing you down.” 

And truthfully speaking, it did.

Your chest physically ached when you heard him say that. It triggered another set of tears to roll down your face. 

“I wanted to stop you, ten billion percent wanted to.” He confessed, the regret in his eyes mixed with longing. 

“But every conclusion pointed towards the same thing.” He continued, voice growing quieter with every word. “If I made you stay…You would've kept pushing yourself past your limit.” 

His right hand reached out closer to your face, thumb gently wiping away your tears. A gesture far too familiar. 

“That would've been worse than losing you.” 

To everyone else, his words would've sounded like another one of his logical solutions, calculated after weighing the variables of the situation. But you knew better. You knew better because you knew him. 

You knew what he was trying to say behind the weight of his words. He had let you go, not because he had stopped loving you, not because he thought chasing you was irrational—not because he wanted to. 

All you could hear was the confession buried beneath a facade of logic. 

I let you go because I loved you too much to keep hurting you. 

A broken sob escaped you instantly, and before you could stop yourself, you moved with the remaining strength you could muster. 

Your arms wrapped around him desperately, almost collapsing into him from the sudden movement and the sheer weight of everything hitting you all at once. 

You felt him freeze as your fingers curled into the fabric of his sweater, your face buried into his shoulders as your body trembled against him.

“For someone so smart, you're an idiot at this.” You cried brokenly. “I would've said yes if you asked.” 

Senku inhaled sharply as you sobbed violently on his shoulders. 

“I would've said yes even if you proposed even when I was falling apart because I loved you so stupidly that I wouldn't care at all— I would've said yes to you every single time.”

For one horrible second, he didn't move. But then he did. His arms wrapped around you, gentle yet firm, as if restraint itself had snapped completely.

One hand pressed against the back of your head, while the other held your shaking body close against his. The way he held you felt careful, desperate, almost disbelieving. Like a man mourning something he thought he had permanently lost. 

For a moment, your sobs were the only thing that could be heard as he held you in his arms. But then, a cough suddenly ripped through your throat again. And immediately, his hold shifted. 

He clicked the roof of his tongue. “Your condition's really getting worse.” 

You shook your head weakly against his shoulder, hugging him tighter. “I don't care.” 

“Yeah, well, I do.” His tone was firm, leaving no room for debate.

And before you could even muster a retort, he lifted you in his arms and strided across the room almost instantly. 

“Hey—!”

He sat you down on the chair in the desk area, and that was when you noticed a tray of food with a plate that was covered with a cloche. 

“Before you ask again like last night, it's basic physics and training.” He shot flatly, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world. 

His hand moved to adjust your cardigan, then to your face once again as he wiped the remaining tears away. And finally, he pushed your hair back from your face, fingers making contact with the skin of your forehead. 

“... You're literally burning up,” he remarked softly. 

You tried to laugh weakly through tears. “Yeah, you've mentioned that a lot today.” 

“Because it keeps getting worse.” His hands moved to remove the cloche, and the aroma of a warm, comforting soup reached your nose almost instantly. 

“You're suffering a fever, a hangover, and a cough.” He took the utensils in his hands. “How the hell did you even manage to leave and run back like that?” 

Your eyes drifted away guiltily for half a second because you could audibly hear the concern in his voice. “...Adrenaline?”

He stared at you in disbelief before grabbing the other chair to sit next to you. “You need to eat first and drink medicine.” 

You opened your mouth to argue immediately. “We still have a lot to talk about—” 

“And we will,” he cut you off softly, bringing the spoon full of soup close to your lips after he checked the temperature of it. “After your condition gets better.” 

Bonus: 

The medicine worked slowly, but enough to bring down your temperature and fade the ache in your head, and your cough had finally lessened. 

Senku stood near the desk as you lay on the bed again, covered beneath the comfort of blankets. He had to answer a call after your condition had finally improved. 

You shifted slightly after half-listening to him speak to a co-worker, to which you were barely interested besides hearing his voice. 

“Senku…” You softly called out to grab his attention. 

He hummed and tilted his head as he shoved his phone back into his pocket. “Yeah?” 

You hesitated for a brief moment. “...What happens now?” 

He remained silent for a few moments as if he was thinking about the question you asked. Then, he replied. “Depends.” 

You tilted your head this time, brows knitted slightly. “Depends on what?” 

His gaze remained on you. “...Whether you'd still choose me again.” 

You blinked for a few seconds before your face twisted in absolute disbelief. “You’re really an idiot…” 

And before he could process it properly, a pillow hit him square on the face. 

“Oi—” 

“For someone with a ridiculously high IQ, you seriously suck at this!” You snapped, tears already forming around your eyes again. 

The pillow landed on his foot, and you continued. “You're really asking me that— After all of this?!” 

He stared at you silently, genuinely caught off guard at your sudden outburst.

You angrily wiped your tears away. “It was so hard trying to move on from you— Avoided any mention of you at all costs, kept convincing myself ending things was for the better—”

You looked away, embarrassed by how emotional you suddenly sounded again, then looked back just to glare at him. “And you're standing here, indirectly asking me if I still love you? Jerk.” 

He stayed still for another second, but then, you heard a soft snort, followed by a laugh. Your anger nearly rose again at his reaction as he walked towards you, hand covering his mouth as he tried to conceal his laughter. 

You threw a decorative pillow at him this time. “Stop laughing! I'm literally having an emotional breakdown because of you!” 

He caught it before it could land on his face again. Then, he sat near you on the edge of the bed and noticed that there were still tears on your face. 

His hand instantly reached out again to wipe them away. With a soft voice, he said, “Stop crying already.” 

“I hate seeing you cry,” his knuckles brushed gently against your cheek. “Especially because of me.” 

“Glad you're self-aware.” You spat out, yet you didn't pull away from his touch. 

He snickered, gaze softening at your words as a smile settled on his face. 

Then, a question appeared in your head, making you shift closer to him. “Can I see the ring?” 

His reaction was immediate. He stared at you as if you had asked him to travel and inspect the core of the sun— or the edge of the observable universe.

“No.” He replied firmly. 

Your face fell. “What do you mean, no?”

He shook his head and repeated, “No.” 

Your jaw dropped. “What— Why?!” 

Senku looked genuinely offended by your question. “You literally just gave me the possibility of proposing again.” 

You felt your left eye twitch. “But I want to see the ring!” 

The bastard had the audacity to turn away. “Request denied.”

You gasped dramatically and grabbed a pillow to smack him this time. Yet he barely reacted. 

“Xeno said you traveled three continents to make it. I want to see why!” 

He clicked his tongue in annoyance. “Xeno told you too much. I'm having a talk with him later.” 

You whined and grabbed his arm. “I want to see the ring.” 

“And I said no.” He replied, far more firmly this time. 

Then, he reached for his tablet on the bedside table. “I have something else to show you instead.” 

You moved closer eagerly. “Is it the 3D design of the ring?” 

He frowned and clicked his tongue again. “Why are you so eager to see it?” 

“Because you were supposed to propose with it. Can't you sense the weight of that?!” 

He didn't answer; instead, he tapped on the screen before handing the device to you. 

You blinked, confused, before taking it from his hands. That was when your eyes landed on countless photos of comets. Each image contained the comet's name, the date, coordinates, and other observation details. 

Your throat tightened as you looked up at him. He was already staring at you with a soft gaze that made your heart falter for a moment. 

“I told you I'll show you every other comet, didn't I?” 

A memory flashed in your head for a brief moment as you froze. The hill, a telescope, NEOWISE, and “I'll show you every other comet myself if I have to.”

Your vision blurred instantly as you set the tablet down on your lap. “...Hah, and you kept saying I was the sappy one.” 

He snickered softly, making you jab his arm weakly as your voice cracked between your next words. “You kept your promise— Gosh, I hate you so much!” 

You jabbed him harder this time, earning a small yelp from him. He raised a brow at you, rubbing the spot. “That's what I get in return?” 

You glared at him through tears. “You documented comets after we broke just to show me, and then you named one after me, too.” 

His eyes narrowed in annoyance. “I'm definitely having a talk with Xeno after this.” 

You ignored his statement and wiped your tears away with the sleeves of your cardigan. “I could kiss you right now if I weren't sick and contagious.”

You muttered out, using the term he used to use whenever you were sick back then. 

He chuckled lightly before moving closer to cradle your face with his hand. Then, his thumb slowly wiped a stray tear away. And before you could say anything else, he leaned forward and pressed a soft kiss on your forehead. 

“You're acting like I haven't shown you comets before, idiot.” 

It wasn't any of those painful moments you wished you could selectively erase from your memory, even if it meant erasing the last memory you have of him. 

It was afterward, in the quiet, deafening silence. During the hollow moments that felt heavier than the weight of the world, left by the absence of him and the mourning of what could’ve been.  

Because for the past year, your mind has been nothing but a graveyard of your what-ifs; your mind entertained each one even when your heart begged for it to stop.

What if you had stayed as his friend instead?

What if you had chosen to simply remain as the girl who sat beside him during lunch as he discussed rocket engines as if they were his second nature?

What if you had chosen to be selfless instead of selfishly pushing your feelings onto him all those years ago in high school, merely because the silent act of loving him began to hurt? 

Perhaps then you wouldn’t have to bear the weight of losing him entirely—with nothing left of him for you to hold on besides the burning blend of memories that haunted you constantly.

Perhaps then you could’ve remained in his life alongside everyone else, even if that meant cheering and watching him from a distance instead of being right next to him.

If that had been the case, perhaps then the 4th of January wouldn’t feel like a funeral full of mourning, heavy with the reflections on what could have been and what was lost, hidden beneath the facade of a joyous celebration.

Had you truly understood Senku better than anyone else—or were you simply deluded by the fantasy of loving him meant understanding him? 

No. You did understand him. You understood that science would always come first among anything else, even when he repeatedly told you a relationship with him would feel like war against his love for science, after your stubborn acts of love. 

You understood that loving Senku meant a battle of sacrifices in their rawest, most merciless form. 

Though that may possibly have been the problem. Maybe you had spent years understanding him, that neither of you had noticed the cracks that began to form.

The calls were once a regular part of the routine you both shared, gradually reduced in length; conversations that were once flowing easily, depleted into quick exchanges as you fought for a space between rocket simulations and research deadlines. 

“You’re still awake?”

“I wanted to hear your voice, Sen.”

“It’s two in the morning there.”

“Yeah, and it’s the only time I can talk to you.”

At first, the distance felt survivable—it was nothing against the stubborn trait of yours that Senku loved the most about you. It was painful, yet manageable, for you thought love could prevail any distance as long as you were patient enough.

Because, despite being oceans apart, Senku still sounded like the Senku that made you fall victim to Cupid’s arrow. 

Still remembered to text you when deadlines changed. Still rambled absentmindedly about his aerospace engineering theories in ways for you to understand easily. Still made the effort to make it up to you after postponing dates, with a gesture as simple as ordering your favorite food or sending you a new invention or scientific solution of his.

And perhaps that was why you failed to notice the subtle shift that began to slowly kill you from within, like a silent poison seeping through your veins, eroding the strength you once had.

It happened slowly—cruelly slow as if you were stabbed and left to bleed out, alone.

“Sorry. The meeting about the research funding ran longer than expected.”

“Again, Sen?”

“...Yeah.”

Over time, plans became tentative and hung in the air, waiting to be fulfilled yet constantly postponed.

“Can we move tonight’s call?”

“You said that for the third time this week, Sen.”

“...Yeah. Got stuck running experiments.”

Conversations that once lasted through hours dwindled into less than ten-minute check-ins, slowly turning into something scheduled, then forgotten entirely as an argument surfaced instead.

“You’re making this a bigger deal than it already is.”

“That’s because it is a big deal, Sen. You said you’ll fly back in time for our anniversary— Do you even miss me?”

“That’s a stupid question to ask, of course I do.”

“...Then why can’t I feel like you do?”

Another month, another project, another delay. However, how much more could you take before you fell apart completely? 

The most painful part wasn’t the constant battle for his attention—no, it was the fact that you knew that he had never meant to hurt you. You knew that. You knew that better than anyone else. 

Yet you should’ve known that a battle where all you did was bleed while constantly trying to be the bravest soldier, was doomed to end before you could even reach the frontlines. Especially while he remained oceans away, chasing stars instead of wars.

The events of the last time you saw him, heard of him, and from him, replayed in your mind constantly; a thought you could never push down despite the numerous attempts. 

Because how could you possibly forget the last memory you shared with him? How, when it was the moment you wiped the joy on his face from finally seeing you after months spent oceans apart, with a simple, “Senku, I can’t do this anymore.”

The memory kept burning through your head throughout the whole morning and afternoon of January 4th. You thought it would eventually numb you by repeatedly playing, but no: each repeat felt worse than the last, as the memories of all the previous 4th of January bled through, offering an awfully painful combination that you didn’t ask for. 

“I should’ve bought a strong dose of melatonin and slept the whole day.” You groaned into your hands, body falling in defeat against the couch. 

Your energy had been completely drained after a whole day of distracting yourself from your thoughts—to which you failed miserably. Your bookshelf suddenly felt interesting to clean, a long afternoon walk suddenly felt productive, heck—even cleaning out your phone’s storage did. 

Though, of course, you avoided the locked album with a pin you were too familiar with, it became an instinct. 

Mustering the remaining energy you had, your hand reached out for your phone on the coffee table, fingers scrolling for a certain group chat:

You guys wanna crash at my place tonight? Please bring anything but alcohol. I need to stay sober, or else I’ll do something stupid. (╥_╥)

And that was exactly how Yuzuriha, Kohaku, and Nikki ended up in your apartment at 7 PM, with every food that could bring you comfort. 

“How long do you plan to pretend your phone doesn’t exist?” Nikki pointed out, her voice slicing through your self-destructing thoughts. 

You turned to her with a weak smile that tried to casually shrug off the weight of the question. “Hah? What are you talking about?”

Her eyes narrowed. “You aren’t exactly subtle about it.” 

Yuzuriha’s hands offered a glass of water after you emotionally went through a bag of chips on your own. “Right. We could see you trying not to check your phone every five minutes, y’know?’’

Kohaku sighed beside you. “I can’t imagine her and subtle in one sentence. It’s especially worse when it comes to Senku.” 

Your body froze, heart skipping a beat at the mention of his name. You tried to brush it off, really. “Who said it was about him?”

All three of them looked at you with faces that screamed: Are you hearing yourself right now?

There was a brief moment of silence before you raised your hands in the air, expressing your guilt. “Okay, okay, it’s about him. Please stop looking at me like that before I have the emotional breakdown I’ve been trying to hold in since I woke up today.”

The three of them exchanged looks before their gazes landed on you again. Not judgmental, not annoyed, just gazes that held a painful understanding of your situation. Which somehow made your chest hurt worse.

Yuzuriha was the first to soften, her hand already reaching out for your shoulder to give it a gentle squeeze in hopes of anchoring you down. “It’s okay to miss him, you know.”

A laugh escaped from your lips, shaky and barely steady as you tried to joke. “Yeah, well, I’ve been missing him for almost a year straight, so I’m kinda getting tired of it.”

There was another silence that filled the gloomy atmosphere. 

You pulled your knees closer to your chest as if you were trying to comfort yourself. Your eyes stared blankly at the now untouched food on your coffee table. 

Outside, the city lights glittered quietly through your apartment windows. And somewhere out there, Senku was celebrating his birthday— without you for the first time in over a decade. 

He never made birthdays a big deal before you forcefully waltzed into his life. Apparently, it was just a regular day except for the fact that he was a year older—his words, of course. 

Though the stubbornness in you refused to acknowledge the fact that birthdays were meaningless to him. Because to you, they were the total opposite. Hence, you made it your personal mission to always celebrate his birthday, to show him it wasn’t just a regular day.

Perhaps that is why January 4th lingered in your mind like a persistent whisper that refused to be silenced. You always went above and beyond to plan a celebration, no matter the distance between the two of you. 

Whether he was oceans away or just a short walk down the street, you always willingly greeted him at exactly midnight to ensure you were the first person he would receive a “Happy birthday!” from. 

You meticulously gathered the friends he merely “tolerated”, ensuring that their presence made him realize it was more than a regular day, and your hands would always be the ones to clutch the candlelit cake, standing proudly at the center of it all.

And despite the way Senku would always say you did too much, the warm smile on his face said otherwise as he gazed at you instead of the cake you held out. Because even when everyone’s gaze and attention were on him, his remained on you. 

You ran a hand across your face, eyes staring at your friends slightly. “Why didn’t you guys attend the party? I’m sure Ryusui planned one.”

Kohaku crossed her legs. “He did. With Gen, too, actually. We chose not to go.”

You tilted your head in confusion, though part of you was happy that they kept the celebrations going even when you, the person who made the biggest deal out of it, was no longer part of it. 

“Why? Knowing Ryusui, it must’ve been grand. Why would you guys skip potentially amazing food and alcohol?” You tried to joke. None of them laughed.

Nikki raised a brow and grinned. “You think we’ll leave you alone to drown in your own thoughts? Not a chance.”

You faked a frown. “Nooo, I wanted to ask you guys if I passed down the torch successfully.”

And for the first time since they’ve arrived at the comfort of your home, they actually laughed. 

“Ryusui and Chrome most likely posted everything on their insta stories by now,” Kohaku said, to which you all agreed without a fight. 

“We could check them if you’re so eager to find out if you succeeded,” Nikki suggested carefully. 

You turned to Nikki with a small laugh escaping your lips. “You know, if I were drunk, that would’ve sobered me up instantly.”

Everyone shared another laugh at your comment. It was the kind of laughter that existed only to keep heavier emotions from crumbling completely. 

The scent of takeout lingered warmly in your apartment living room, though none of you had touched the food in several minutes.

And despite your best efforts in dismissing Nikki’s idea, your mind wouldn’t let you. It felt pathetic, honestly. You weren’t even sure why you badly wanted to see whatever Ryusui or Chrome posted online. Were you seeking reassurance that Senku wasn’t celebrating alone? Or do you just want to see him again?

With a sigh, you heard Nikki’s voice slice through your reverie again. “Hey, if you wanna check the stories, you should.”

“That’s basically telling her to ruin her progress in moving on!” Kohaku argued, to which Nikki shook her head. 

“Maybe, but that wasn’t my intention. We all know she won’t stop thinking about it, and it will kill her for days after this if she doesn't check.”

You groaned into your knees, “I hate that you're absolutely right, Nikki.” 

She chuckled, hand already reaching out to unlock her phone. For a moment, she exchanged glances with Kohaku and Yuzuriha before returning to you. 

“Are you sure about this?” 

You paused, head slowly rising up from the comfort of your knees. “...Yeah, sure. Whatever makes me sleep tonight.” 

A few seconds passed with just the dialogue from a forgotten movie on your television screen, filtering the atmosphere. 

And then, you heard it. The loud, familiar voices singing— no, screaming happy birthday. Or so at least you could distinctly hear the loud voices of Taiju and Chrome singing their hearts out. 

“Wow, they're as loud as ever,” Kohaku commented as she peeked through from Nikki's shoulder.

Yuzuriha's laugh diluted the forgotten dialogues. “I heard from Taiju that they wanted to make the celebration extra loud and special since Senku had just returned from space today.” 

Nikki's eyes narrowed in disbelief. “Man is really making the distance from space look like he's just flying from America back to Japan, huh.” 

You laughed, something between genuine amusement and hurt. Perhaps you were proud too that he had finally achieved his dream, even if it was when you were no longer in his life. “It's Senku we're talking about. We really shouldn't be surprised.” 

Your eyes couldn't be taken off Nikki's phone screen despite your chest tightening painfully. It was the first time you saw his face in almost a year—except for the moments you found yourself scrolling through a gallery of what were once happy memories—Gosh, were you that hurt mentally that it started to hurt physically again?

Your mind was wandering how he somehow looked more mature in a span of a year, or perhaps it was the exhaustion that hid behind the facade of his eyes and the signature smirk of his. Yet you knew him long enough to know the truth. 

Then, you noticed something. “Hey, why isn't anyone holding out the cake?”

Their gazes lifted from the screen and landed on your questioning gaze. There was a brief pause before Yuzuriha spoke out. “Ryusui said it was out of respect for you since you always held out his birthday cake.” 

You blinked, body desperately fighting out the tears that threatened to surface. “Hah…I guess I really passed the torch down successfully.” 

There was a faint crack in your voice, as if you were gathering every last ounce of your strength and self-respect to avoid breaking down completely.

A year ago, you were the one holding the candlelit cake close to his face, smiling the widest among everyone else, promising a lifetime of birthdays to spend together. This year, you were just staring at the celebration from a digital screen, miles away. How quickly for the tides to turn and for promises to end. 

“Hm, Chrome mentioned something about Senku looking for a lot area to build a house while he was visiting Ruri. Apparently, he and Gen tagged along when Ryusui helped Senku in sourcing out for one.” Kohaku added, eyes drifting back to you. 

Nikki turned to her, confused. “Why would Senku want to purchase a lot? And to build a house? I thought he was an apartment type of guy.” 

Yuzuriha nodded. “Yeah…Senku never seemed like the type to live in a house. He's always traveling between continents for his research, too.” 

Their voices began to fade as the realization hit you like a speeding truck with broken brakes. ‘Lot area? House?’ 

Your heart stumbled painfully at the thought because deep down, you knew that there was only one possible reason—unless you were pooled by delusion instead of remembrance—that Senku Ishigami would ever consider purchasing land over a convenient apartment.

And suddenly, you were fresh out of university again, lying across Senku’s bed at nearly midnight while the soft glow of his desk lamp illuminated the dark room. 

The rhythmic scratching of his pencil against paper filled the quiet silence that settled in the room as a blueprint lay flat on his desk. 

“You should be asleep already. Is the light too bright?” He asked without looking away from the blueprint, yet he moved the lamp closer to him and farther from your eyes.

You shook your head, “No.”

“Tch. You’ve got work tomorrow, get some sleep.” 

You chose to lie flat on his bed instead, eyes staring directly at the ceiling with barely attached glow-in-the-dark stars. “But you’re working right now, and I want to watch.”

A soft click of his tongue followed, and even after years, the sound still made you feel warmth blooming stupidly without permission in your chest. 

You shifted again, legs nearly tangling with the soft blanket. Your chin rested atop a pillow as you watched him silently with nothing but love and admiration in your eyes. 

And truthfully speaking, you could spend hours doing this. Just silently existing beside him as he got lost in the field he was most passionate about. Because even when he worked, he never made silence feel lonely. 

“I just wanna spend time with you, Sen.” You mumbled sleepily, fighting the urge to close your eyes. “Even if it’s just watching you work.”

Finally, Senku’s eyes left the blueprint as he glanced at you. His expression softened faintly; it was brief yet enough. 

“What a sap.” Despite his insult, his hand reached out, sliding beneath the blanket to reach out for your hand, intertwining it with his as his gaze remained on the blueprint. 

You paused, blinking once, then twice, before a smile appeared on your face. Lazily, you traced shapes with your thumb against the back of his hand.

“Hey, Sen?”

He hummed, signaling you to continue, to which you did. “If you ever settle down one day, would you rather live in an apartment or a house?”

“Apartment.”

You blinked at the lack of hesitation in his voice. “That was way too fast. Did you even consider the other option?”

He nodded, scribbling something on the paper. “Less maintenance. More efficient and strategically better if I’m traveling constantly.”

Your eyes narrowed in disbelief. “Wow, that sounds incredibly romantic, Sen.”

He chuckled quietly, briefly glancing at you with a smirk on his face. “Should I become a poet and quit being a scientist then?”

You snorted at his joke, rolling your eyes playfully. But then, he said something with a voice softer than before. 

“But I’ll leave the decision to you.” 

Your heart skipped a beat almost instantly. “Wait— What?”

Senku hummed once more in response, making you pause as your mind gathered the next set of words you were going to say. “...You see me in your future?”

Finally, he looked at you properly. The blueprint and pencil momentarily forgotten as his chair turned to face you. And then, the fond gaze that settled in his eyes nearly melted you alive. 

“Of course I do.” His hand slipped out of your hold as he moved it higher to flick your forehead softly. “What made you even question that?”

Your chest felt embarrassingly warm right after. Yet despite that, a grin spread across your face easily. “Are you sure I’m the sappy one?” 

He didn’t answer. Instead, he clicked his tongue in annoyance, hand intertwining with yours again as he returned to his precious blueprint. 

However, you weren’t done. You sat up excitedly, more awake than ever, and the grin never left your face. “Okay then, I want a house with a huge living room with tall windows and really high ceilings.”

“And here I thought I was ambitious.” He mocked softly. 

You ignored his mocking response. “And a garden outside with all sorts of plants and flowers.”

“The maintenance would be hell.”

You ignored that as well. “And a library too,” you added with the biggest smile on your face. “Like one of those pretty libraries with ladders that slide across the shelves.”

He didn’t say anything this time, allowing you to ramble endlessly. 

“And obviously a huge lab for you with every equipment that you need, and an observatory so we could always stargaze together.”

“And you question who’s the sappy one?” He scoffed playfully in pretend disbelief. 

You laughed softly. Then, a sudden gasp escaped from your lips. “Can we have a weeping tree in the backyard?” 

Without even glancing at you, Senku replied immediately. “No. That’s a bad idea.”

You frowned, shifting closer to him. “Why?”

“Their root systems are highly invasive and seek ridiculous amounts of water constantly, which can destroy plumbing and septic lines, have a short lifespan, are pest and disease-prone—” 

You cut him off before he could list another issue, “Okay, okay, I get it, genius.”

He chuckled in victory, eyes briefly glancing at you. That was when he saw the look on your face, which clearly meant you were far from done. 

“Can’t you come up with one of your scientific solutions to fix those issues?”

Senku looked mildly offended at your question, and you heard him click his tongue. “Stubborn as ever, aren’t you? Obviously, but it would still be inefficient to plant one.”

“Fine,” You huffed dramatically. “A wisteria then. Or cherry blossoms.”

“Hm. Acceptable.”

You grinned triumphantly before squeezing his hand once. And despite Senku’s focus on his blueprint, he returned the gesture instantly. Soft, firm, and grounding. As if the future you had described had already become his to accomplish, too. 

The voices around you faded into nothing but muffled noises you couldn’t hear as your mind echoed violently with memories that resurfaced with cruel clarity. 

Your chest tightened painfully again, as if your ribs were one squeeze away from crushing your lungs and heart. Because you had genuinely thought that conversation had only mattered to you—that maybe Senku had forgotten it beneath the pile of rocket launches, research papers, and years spent chasing stars that made you feel he was beyond your reach. 

Yet no, he remembered. He remembered that he actually started looking for land. And that realization hollowed whatever was left from inside you. 

You could hear Kohaku’s voice sounding distant as she called out your name, though you didn’t reply. 

Your eyes remained fixed somewhere past your coffee table filled with untouched food, past the forgotten television, past the city lights that continued to glow outside of your apartment. 

You were physically present. Your body was there, yet it felt like you were mentally trapped years ago inside of Senku’s apartment as he held your hand while listening to you ramble about a future that wasn’t given a chance to exist. 

Back when loving him was as easy as breathing.

You could hear Nikki’s voice come closer as she tried to get your attention. Still, you barely reacted. 

Your breathing started feeling strangely uneven, as if your lungs had suddenly forgotten how to function properly. 

A hand touched your shoulder as Yuzuriha called out your name, louder and clearer. 

You blinked more than once as reality seeped through, all at once. The warm lights of your apartment, the untouched food scattered across the coffee table, and your friends staring at you with worried faces.

Yuzuriha’s brows furrowed as her hand remained on your shoulder. “You’ve been spacing out since Kohaku mentioned the lot.”

Silence. You remained silent. Your lips parted slightly, yet no words came out. And suddenly, as if the last line of defense had been breached, your vision blurred. 

‘No— not now out of all times—’

You tried to inhale sharply, yet it came out shaky instead. You instantly looked away while rubbing your eyes quickly before a tear could fall.

“Sorry,” even your laugh came out shaky. “I’m fine, just—”

Your voice cracked, and that was all it took before the dam broke completely. 

A tear slipped down your cheek before you could stop it, followed by another. Your hand flew to your mouth as if you could physically force all of the emotions that had escaped back inside of yourself again.

Except you couldn’t. You no longer could. The grief felt too unbearable as you mourned the future that almost existed— could’ve existed. 

Yuzuriha immediately moved closer, arms already reaching out to hug you tightly as if she could keep whatever remained intact. 

“I’m sorry—” you whispered shakily as you fought back a sob, shaking your head quickly. “I don’t even know why I’m crying this much. It’s been so long since I did. It’s stupid—”

“It’s not stupid,” Nikki said softly, eyes exchanging glances with the other two.

You wanted to stop, you really did. You didn’t want them to see you weak and crying again, as if the wound left by the breakup was still fresh. Perhaps it was, perhaps it had never been healed at all.

“I wish…” Your voice cracked badly. “I wish I could just hate him so moving on could’ve been easy—but no, it’s so hard to hate him at all.” You spoke out between heavy sobs. 

A shaky laugh escaped through your sobs. “I don’t know how to stop—Gosh, I still miss him.”

Nobody tried to interrupt, offering their silent presence as comfort. They didn’t try to fix it because they knew there was nothing fixable about loving someone correctly at the wrong time.

“I really don’t know how to stop missing him— or loving him,” you finally admitted the truth that you constantly buried beneath a facade of distractions. “I don’t know how to stop missing him or loving him just because I have to.”

You wiped your tears aggressively, something he would most likely scold you for. “He’s still the first person I want to call when something good or bad happens.”

“Gosh, I even tear up whenever I pass by stores selling instant ramen because I remember how messed up his eating habits are. It’s no wonder he stayed a twink during university.” Another shaky laugh slipped from between the tears and your cracked voice. 

Your weak attempt to insult Senku didn’t go unnoticed by them as they snorted slightly. 

Nikki was the first to snort. “Okay, calling a literal astronaut who happens to be the most sought-after scientist too, a twink sounds insane now that his training paid off.”

Kohaku crossed her arms with a smile of amusement. “At least his progress had started to show.”

Yuzuriha let out a soft laugh, arms still holding you tight. “I still remember him forgetting to eat unless you physically handed him food.”

A broken laugh escaped you again as the memory appeared in your mind.

“Why am I even laughing and crying over instant ramen? I’m going crazy, aren’t I?” You asked them with tears flowing down your face while laughing with a broken smile. 

Despite the situation, that managed to earn a genuine laugh from them as Yuzuriha hugged you tighter and Kohaku walked to your kitchen to grab some tissues.

“No, no, you aren’t going crazy,” she soothed quickly as one hand reached out to lean your head on her shoulder. “Definitely heartbroken, but not crazy.”

Nikki sat beside you, “Honestly, this is healthier than whatever you thought was better to do for the past year.” 

“Which was repressing everything,” she added. 

“I really wish I could just hate him, not because I want to, but because maybe it’d be easier if I did.” You buried your face in the palms of your hands. “But then I also remember how hard he worked, how excited he looked while talking about space and rocket engineering as if the universe had personally asked him to.” 

A tear slipped down your cheek, “But how could I hate him for that? How could I hate him for simply dreaming?”

Kohaku returned quietly with a box of tissues. Then, she turned to you. “If it makes a difference, Senku actually loved you.”

Nikki’s eyes widened, “Kohaku—”

Kohaku blinked, staring at all of you with a confused look. “What? It’s true.”

Your head snapped upward as Kohaku frowned slightly before she continued. “He’s terrible at expressing emotions and might be the most affectionately constipated jerk on the planet, but he loved you. We all saw it.”

Your eyes watered dangerously again as you stared at her with wobbly lips. “Kohaku, I love you, but why would you tell me that right now?!” 

Yuzuriha rubbed your shaking arms gently as she panic-laugh beside you. “Haha…though it’s the truth, we should’ve worked on the delivery .”

Kohaku nodded, faces already running with guilt as she apologized. “You’re right, I’m really sorry. I just wanted to help.”

You laughed through your tears, smiling at her attempt as Nikki rested her head lightly against yours. “You know, sometimes people can love each other and still not know how to grow together.”

Your eyes squeezed shut at her comment. Maybe that was exactly the fate you and Senku fell victim to. He kept reaching for the stars, and somewhere between the ocean and skies, you stopped being able to reach him completely.

⋆⭒˚.⋆

Senku Ishigami had long accepted that his friends were both his greatest source of headache and one of the few things that kept him sane. Though he’d rather spend a lifetime with them than to admit it out loud.

According to the greediest man on the planet, Ryusui Nanami, every celebration deserved excess. Senku knew better that he just wanted another excuse to have all kinds of alcohol in one room for a night. 

Which could explain why Senku currently sat in a private lounge, owned by Ryusui, as his friends drowned themselves in expensive whiskey around him. 

The cake that was once glowing with a soft flame stared at him mockingly from across the table he was at. Nobody had dared to touch it, to hold it out for him as they sang happy birthday—and Senku didn’t need to calculate rocket science to figure out it was out of respect for you, the one who used to hold out the cake for him.

“Cheers!” Ryusui boomed loudly as he refilled everyone's drinks. 

Chrome was already tipsy along with Taiju as Ukyo tried to control their alcohol intake. 

Gen, however, remained close. His eyes observed the scientist in front of him, who nursed another glass of whiskey. At this point, the mentalist had lost count of how much Senku had drunk already. 

“Senku-chan, are you trying to break your record immediately after stepping into the Earth’s atmosphere?” Gen asked, wearing an expression of amusement and worry.

Senku, who had just drunk from his glass, raised a brow at him. “Hah? What are you talking about, mentalist?” 

Ryusui appeared again with a different bottle of alcohol in his hand as he offered Senku a lazy smirk. “Not to mention the constant checking of your phone, Senku. Waiting for someone, are we?”

Senku clicked his tongue in annoyance. “Tch. Shut up.”

Ryusui and Gen instantly shared a laugh as Senku muttered something along the lines of, “I should’ve stayed in outer space.”

For a moment, the sound of their snickering lingered in the air before Gen leaned forward with narrowed eyes at Senku. 

“You’re waiting for her birthday greeting, or even just a message from her, aren’t you?” 

A dangerous silence filled the atmosphere between the three of them. Then, Senku exhaled through his nose and took another sip. 

“...Yeah.” He gulped down another sip, and the burning feeling that ran through his throat began to numb. “It’s selfish considering how things ended.”

For a while, nobody spoke. Ryusui and Gen exchanged glances as the music in the bar suddenly sounded louder than before. The silence wasn’t awkward, just heavy with the regrets that constantly taunted Senku. 

Gen swirled the drink inside the glass he was holding; the intention of changing the topic appeared in his mind. “How’s the construction for the lot that you had recently bought, Senku-chan?”

Senku raised a brow, hand reaching out for the bottle near Ryusui to refill his glass. 

“The one near the outskirts,” Gen added. “Has construction started yet?”

“Nah.” Senku leaned back further into the cushion of the couch, an arm lazily draped over the backrest while the other held his whiskey glass. 

The familiar burning sensation met his throat again as he took another sip. “Still finalizing the design.”

Ryusui hummed, a brow raised as well. “Oh? I thought you had finished the draft weeks ago.”

“I did.”

“Then what’s the hold-up, Senku-chan?” Gen asked as he reached out for cola instead of whiskey.

“Had to revise the window structure,” Senku replied flatly.

“Window structure?” Ryusui repeated with a laugh of disbelief. “Since when did you start caring about aesthetics, Senku?”

“Natural lighting efficiency,” Senku answered instantly. “Large windows reduce daytime electricity usage.”

Ryusui hummed in response, though Senku knew from the grin on the sailor’s face that he knew more than he let on.

Gen blinked suspiciously, eyes shifting between the two before landing on Senku. “And the giant library? Why did you design a two-story library again?”

Senku didn’t answer, which enhanced Gen’s suspicion. Then, the mentalist’s expression transformed abruptly as realization slammed into him. 

“Oh.”

Senku clicked his tongue hard while Ryusui’s grin widened. The sailor even had the audacity to laugh behind his glass. 

“Have you finally figured it out, Gen?” He asked, eyes teasingly shifted towards Senku. 

Gen stared at Senku with an incredulous look on his face. “...The ideas for the house were never yours, were they, Senku-chan?”

Senku didn’t answer immediately. Instead, he chuckled bitterly as he stared quietly at the amber liquid swirling inside his glass before he downed it again. “...Yeah.”

Ryusui turned to Gen with another grin on his face. “You should’ve seen him compare land locations based on sunlight exposure, soil and terrain conditions, flood and hazard zones, distance from the city—”

“Yeah, yeah, no need to expose me further, Ryusui.” Senku cut him off in annoyance, though he didn’t deny anything.

Senku Ishigami—the man who dedicated his entire life to chasing the stars—had been planning a home permanent enough to always return to. And somehow, before construction could even start, he had already lost the part that made it feel like home.

“I want to call her. I want to apologize for being the biggest jerk on the planet— screw that, the whole of the Milky Way.” He admitted bluntly, making the other two stare at him in shock, though part of them already expected that Senku would say something like that. 

“Has the alcohol finally caught up with you, Senku-chan?” Gen teasingly asked. 

Senku shook his head. “Nah. I’m not stupid enough yet to act selfishly and ruin whatever progress she made in forgetting me.”

Ryusui leaned forward, hand placing his glass down. “But do you want to?”

Senku let out a laugh that sounded like a mix of honesty, bitterness, and disbelief. “Yeah, ten billion percent do.”

“Will you ask for Ryusui’s strongest bottle then, Senku?” Ukyo asked teasingly as he appeared out of nowhere and sat between Gen and Ryusui. His teasing tone earned a snort from both of them as they looked far too entertained at the situation bound to unfold in front of them.

Senku snickered behind his glass. “How much have you heard, Ukyo?”

“Enough to know that you could also be a love-sick fool.” He offered Senku a smile. 

Ukyo’s answer made the other two laugh out loudly as Senku playfully rolled his eyes before finishing the rest of his drink.

“Tch, you people are ten billion percent annoying.”

“And yet you’re here, Senku-chan.” Gen pointed out with a smug look on his face.

“Ryusui kidnapped me immediately after I landed. Didn’t even bother to say anything as he did.” Senku deadpanned.

Ryusui laughed loudly with a proud grin on his face. “Don’t ruin my reputation, Senku. I did what any other good friend should.”

Senku merely clicked his tongue, hand already reaching for the bottle before anyone could. 

“Oi,” Ryusui called out, a faint laugh hiding his concern. “Are you seriously trying to speedrun self-destruction immediately after returning from the ISS?” 

Gen chuckled nervously, “He already looks like he’s halfway there.” 

Ukyo sighed softly as he eyed the scientist with amusement and concern. “You do realize your alcohol tolerance isn’t infinite, right?”

Senku raised a brow. “Hah? Obviously.” 

“That’s not reassuring.” The other three said in unison.

Though Senku ignored them completely, quietly checking his smartphone for the hundredth time since he landed. And as if he didn’t hear Ukyo’s recent warning, his hand was already reaching out for an unopened bottle and opened it himself. The amber liquid reflected against the dim lights of the private lounge as silence eloped them briefly.

Gen leaned lazily against his palm before speaking. “For someone who claims that he doesn’t want to ruin her progress…Your actions say the opposite. How many times have you checked your notifications?”

Senku snickered before responding. “It’s called multi-tasking, Gen. Pretty basic skill.”

All three of them gave him a look that clearly said: Easy for you to say.

Ukyo leaned back, eyes studying Senku’s exhausted expression that he tried to hide. “You know, I think this is the most emotional we’ve ever seen you. Besides when your rocket first successfully launched into space, that is.”

“That was the happy type of emotional Senku; this one is the sad and regretful one.” Gen added beside Ukyo, earning a snort from Ryusui. 

“Must be the lowered gravity from space messing with my brain.” Senku reasoned casually. 

Ukyo and Gen sweat dropped visibly. “Sure, let’s all agree to blame NASA and JAXA for that.” 

Taiju suddenly appeared out of nowhere from behind Senku, voice suddenly serious as if he wasn’t drunk moments ago. “But do you still love her, Senku?”

Senku was faintly surprised— no, all of them were when Taiju suddenly joined the conversation. Yet a small smile appeared on Senku’s face, the softness, regret, and certainty hidden beneath the facade of his smugness. 

“That’s the dumbest question you could ever ask me, big-oaf.”

“Then why let her go if you still do, man?” Chrome asked out of nowhere as well, suddenly sober. Randomly appearing the same way Taiju did.

Senku blinked, eyes shifting between the two flatly. “Where the hell did you two even come from?”

“That’s not important right now!” Chrome shot back, climbing the couch from behind to sit next to Senku.

“It kinda is…” Ukyo sweat dropped.

“We heard everything, man!” Taiju added, far louder than chrome as he mimicked his actions.

Senku looked mildly annoyed as he downed a glass of whiskey. “Yeah? You two got Ukyo’s insane hearing now?”

The other three laughed instantly at the joke, looking far too amused at the growing crowd around Senku.

Chrome, however, wasn’t laughing. He had a frown on his face and looked too serious for someone who had been drunk minutes ago. “Honestly?” He glared at Senku. “That wasn’t a cool move from you at all, Senku.”

That made everyone glance at Chrome, and Senku looked at him with mild offense. “Hah?”

Chrome clicked his tongue out of frustration. His hand suddenly slammed his glass down, and a bit of whiskey splashed out. “You just let her go like that!”

The atmosphere shifted into silence instantly. Chrome rarely sounded angry at Senku. He was always admiring him. 

“I mean, c’mon,” Chrome continued roughly. “You’re literally one of the smartest guys on the planet— heck, the smartest.”  

“Tch, that's ten billion percent debatable.” Senku shot flatly.

“You’re the only guy on the planet who built a homemade rocket at the ripe age of ten!” Chrome snapped back. “How could you not come up with scientific solutions to keep her?!” 

A heavy silence followed Chrome’s frustrated outburst. The others remained silent as they watched his anger unfold. Because, despite how irrational Chrome sounded, he was logical in the language of love.

Chrome ran a hand through his hair. “If Ruri asked me to leave her someday, I won’t be able to do it. Even if she argues that it’s for the better— I just can’t do it.”

He looked genuinely devastated now, as if he was grieving a relationship that wasn’t even his. Then, he continued. “Because if you love someone, aren’t you supposed to fight for them?” 

Everyone saw how Senku’s expression faltered. It was barely noticeable, yet they saw it and knew that one hit him harder than his failed rocket launches.

For a moment, Senku remained silent as he looked at Chrome with an unreadable expression. With a voice that lacked his usual sarcasm, he admitted, “I did.”

Then, his gaze shifted towards his glass of whiskey. A bitter laugh followed right after. “You think I didn’t try?” 

“She genuinely looked so hurt and exhausted when she told me she couldn’t do it anymore.” He paused briefly. “I kept telling her and myself that things would calm down after every project.”

“I tried fixing it the same way I tried fixing everything else.” 

Everyone in the room knew that Senku expressed his care or love differently compared to others. He was never vocal about it; his actions always spoke out for him. Be it when you complained about winter being too cold, hence he modified thermal fabric and mailed it to Japan along with custom heatpacks. Or the time you told him you missed stargazing with him and his telescope, he custom-built a compact telescope to fit your apartment balcony and wrote a calendar of astronomical events for you. 

They were never just scientific solutions— no, that was just the way Senku Ishigami knew how to love. 

Gen, who was quietly listening the whole time, sighed softly as he had already decided to lend their dearest astronaut a hand. “In Senku-chan’s language, that was how he showed his version of devotion.”

Senku scoffed in annoyance. “Don’t make it sound weird, mentalist. Devotion is a strong word.”

“But it’s the truth, isn’t it?” Gen countered softly.

Then, he turned to the other scientist. “Chrome, most people would write poems or say ‘I love you’”, his gaze briefly returned to Senku. “But Senku-chan solved her problems as if it were rocket science.”

Ryusui snorted softly. “In other words, Senku modified science as a love language.” 

Gen dramatically pointed a finger at Senku. “He would rather rebuild modern civilization from scratch than to vocally express affection.” 

Somehow, that earned a laugh from everyone, even Senku himself. 

“The problem was,” he continued softly. “That she stopped needing solutions— she just wanted him.” 

Senku didn’t deny Gen’s conclusion; he knew he was right. He, himself, knew that the most. He could find a solution to anything as long as he dedicated himself to it.

But emotional reassurance? Senku could learn every complicated topic in the world, yet he would still lack the knowledge to give you what you needed the most.

It wasn’t the lack of love or effort that slowly made loving him hurt— no, it was the fact that two people were speaking different love languages. 

⋆⭒˚.⋆

The apartment was now occupied by silence again— except for the loud thoughts that refused to die down without a fight. 

Yuzuriha, Kohaku, and Nikki had returned home half an hour ago. You insisted they did despite their refusal. It was late, and you wanted to retire for the night, was the reason you gave them.

Yet you find yourself staring at your bedroom ceiling as if it could magically solve your problems. And of course, you didn’t need to be sober to realize it couldn’t. Though perhaps he could— no, scratch that, he was the problem you were currently facing. 

Sleep wasn’t coming around easily, nothing was really. You’ve tried about everything: a warm shower, walking around every corner of your apartment, wearing your comfiest pair of sleepwear, changing the temperature of your thermostat—yet nothing worked. 

Somehow, the sound of your clock on the bedside table was getting louder, as if it was personally mocking you as you resisted the urge that resurfaced countless times throughout the day. The urge to greet him happy birthday.

Your eyes shifted towards your phone that lay flat on the bedside table, next to your clock. If you weren’t spiraling, you would’ve laughed at the combination. 

There were exactly fifteen minutes left before January 4th ended. And for some reason, you couldn’t exactly tell if time was going by slowly or fast.

Your eyes shut close as you felt the pain in your chest start again. You repeatedly reminded yourself not to do it, not to ruin the progress you fought tooth and nail to build. 

Your fingers curled into the soft fabric of your blanket as your thoughts continued to clash against one another. Part of you didn’t want to, yet a bigger part of you wanted to. Because it’s his birthday. You had continuously greeted him for more than a decade, when you were merely a teenager who admired him, when he had yet to love you back. 

You used to stay awake until midnight just to ensure you were the first to greet him. And of course, Senku complained about it. Something along the lines of ruining your sleep schedule just to acknowledge that he was a year older. 

Yet he always sounded pleased despite it. 

And now, a year has passed without a single word from you or about you reaching him. Or perhaps there was, and you were just unaware. Gen and Taiju would’ve most likely informed him even if he didn’t ask.

Was it cruel of you to suddenly disappear after forcing yourself to be a constant in the equation of his life?

That seemed to have done it as your hand abruptly reached for your phone before a second thought could form. You opened your messages and scrolled till you reached his contact. 

Your throat felt dry as you hesitantly unlocked him, your last message mocking you silently.

Senku, where are you? 

Can we talk?

Your fingers trembled against your keyboard. Maybe it was selfish, selfish to suddenly appear after disappearing for so long. Maybe it was cruel to reopen wounds that barely healed at all. 

Then, more thoughts formed, far more cruel than the previous ones. What if he doesn’t reply? What if he does, yet he replies coldly? What if—

You quickly typed out “Happy birthday, Senku.” And clicked send before another thought could form. Then, you tossed your phone across the other side of your bed and buried your face flat against your pillow. 

Your pulse rose violently. You felt stupid, yet relieved and everything in between.

⋆⭒˚.⋆

Senku was halfway through Ryusui’s strongest bottle, now fully aware he was starting to feel tipsy. He wasn’t the type to drink often, yet he had been exposed to numerous chemicals already that his body had slowly grown immune to them. Or perhaps he just had a high alcohol tolerance.

He usually tested his tolerance with Ryusui, who wanted to test out every available alcohol out of greed. That same Ryusui was currently refilling everyone’s glass as François appeared with a new tray of food. This time, it was sushi. 

Senku was about to swallow the sushi in his mouth when he heard a specific notification that nearly made him choke as everything around him seemed to halt, the chopsticks falling out of his hold. 

Taiju, who was next to him, heard it. “What was that, Senku? Are you choking?!” 

Ukyo didn’t need to be next to him to hear and recognize that specific sound, after all, it was he who pointed out before that Senku set a custom notification sound for your messages. The genius reasoned that it was efficient.

“Is that…?” Ukyo asked with wide eyes. 

Senku, however, didn’t answer as he swallowed the sushi in his mouth, hand already reaching out for his phone so quickly he nearly knocked over his drink. 

And there it was, a greeting from you. 

Funny how that was all he needed to sober up, or at least he thought he did. And before anyone else could say something, he was already standing and rushing out of the room.

Gen visibly perked up, everyone did. “Senku-chan—?” 

Senku was already out of the private lounge. 

His heart was beating loudly, drowning the worried calls of his companions. Yet for a moment, that didn’t matter as his thumb hovered over your message.

He blinked once, then twice as if he was waiting for the message to disappear. Though to his surprise, it didn’t. It was still there, waiting for a reply. 

Unfortunately, or fortunately—he couldn’t quite tell anymore—the alcohol made him reckless. Or maybe just honest. 

Because before any logic could catch up, he pressed call out of desperation. 

The phone rang more than once. And somewhere else in Tokyo, your stomach dropped painfully at the sound. 

You immediately sat up, hands reaching for your phone that rang violently. You stared in horror once you saw who was calling you. It was him. 

Your breathing became uneven, hands shook as they held the device with the little strength you had left. He wasn’t supposed to call. 

Your mind fell into a dilemma. Were you going to answer him or not? What were you even going to say to him? That you’ve been spiraling over greeting him the whole day? About reaching out?

And before you could come to a decision, the call ended. Then, a message appeared. 

Answer me.

Please.

Another call rang out a second after you read the messages from him. Once, twice, then you finally clicked the green button before you could rethink your decision. Perhaps it was out of instinct—the instinct to answer whenever he called. 

You were met with the muffled sound of music from somewhere far. Then it was heavy and uneven breathing mixed with disbelief. Like he had run somewhere despite his mind still processing. 

And finally, you heard his voice. “...You actually picked up.”

You felt your chest tighten physically, which made you lean against your headboard, eyes staring straight at the ceiling as if it could instruct you on what to say this time. 

His voice sounded lower and rougher than usual. And if you weren't hearing things, it sounded slightly slurred. 

You shut your eyes briefly, hand tightening around your phone. “You rarely say please…Are you drunk?” 

A faint snicker from him reached your ears, weak yet filled with amusement. “Hah, that's the first thing you chose to say to me after a year?” 

“You sound terrible. I'm assuming that's Ryusui's doing.” You remarked, already thinking of what to tell Ryusui for letting him drink that much. 

“Tch. Compared to earlier, I'm basically sober right now.” 

This time, your stomach twisted painfully. “Just how much did you drink?” 

You heard soft movements from the other side of the line, enough to make a guess that he was leaning against a wall. 

With a casual voice, he said, “Dunno, Ryusui kept bringing new bottles…The refilling part was on me.”

You felt your stomach drop as you frowned. Despite everything, you were still concerned about him. “Didn’t you just return from space and you're already trying to destroy your liver?” 

And you hated that you still are. Hated how naturally concern came to you when it was about him. Hated how even after everything, it was still your instinct to question if he was taking care of himself, if he was overworking himself again. 

He snickered. “Must’ve left 90% of my logic in outer space. The remaining 10% evaporated when you texted me.”

You sighed, hand running through your hair. “I shouldn't have messaged you—” 

“No,” He interrupted softly, voice suddenly sounding desperate. “Don't say that.”

Silence eloped the two of you as you didn't know how to reply to that. Your knees curled closer towards your chest as your mind fought to think of what to say. 

And before you could say anything, he beat you to it. Voice suddenly sounded low again. “...I was waiting for you.”

Your vision blurred right away at his words. Was it because he sounded so genuine? Was it because this was your first conversation in a year? Or was it because he said he was waiting for you when your relationship used to revolve around you waiting for him?

A soft chuckle escaped from his lips, stripped off from his usual confidence. “I kept checking my phone like an idiot all night. Gen and Ryusui noticed first and kept bothering me about it. Then Ukyo appeared, followed by Taiju and Chrome.” 

You felt a tear slip, hand instinctively rushing to cover your mouth before a sob came out. Gosh, must he tell you that?  

“...You shouldn't have waited for me.” 

“I know.” He murmured. “But you used to greet me constantly at midnight for over a decade. Couldn't help it.” 

You inhaled sharply through your nose. “That was before, Senku…Things changed.”

“I know,” he repeated quietly. “But I happened to be selfish tonight.” 

Now you were really wishing that you hadn’t called, because his response was telling you that he was thinking of you. How were you supposed to move on quietly after that? 

The noise from the bar began to fade further away, as if he was walking farther from everything else. 

“I screwed up.” 

Your eyes burned with tears as you clutched your phone tighter than before after it threatened to slip out of your hold after hearing his words. 

A sharp exhale from him followed after. “I really thought I had more time.” 

“After the next launch, research, experiment, conference, project— I assumed I'd have more time.” He continued, voice filled with the regret that had been piling up for a year. 

You laughed weakly despite the tears silently falling. “I never doubted your love for me, Sen.” 

“I knew you loved me; everyone knew you did, even if you were the most affectionately constipated person in the group.” You added before he could respond. 

You aggressively wiped away your tears with the back of your hand, a sniffle escaping through your defenses. “I saw that you loved differently. I saw it whenever you patiently taught me topics I found confusing, when you built things for my convenience, or when you fixed things without me having to ask.” 

Your voice and defenses had failed you completely halfway. Your sobs broke through your words, and that broke something in him as he had to listen to you cry because of him again.

“But eventually,” you sniffled again. “I stopped needing your inventions or scientific solutions.” 

A painful silence settled briefly. “...I just needed you, Sen.” 

The line grew terrifyingly quiet afterward that for a second, you considered the call had disconnected. 

Then finally, a shaky exhale came from the other side of the line. “...I know.” 

And the way he said it nearly destroyed you. There was no defensiveness behind it, no excuses or attempts to justify himself. It was just the raw truth of realization and understanding. 

“And that's what's been screwing me up for the past year,” he let out a weak laugh. “Building rockets was easier than when I kept thinking of that.” 

Your lips parted slightly, though nothing came out because of how stunned you were. How could you not be? What were you supposed to even answer to that? The Senku Ishigami sounded lost for the first time, as if he had run out of scientific solutions to use, defeated over love. 

“I kept thinking if I worked hard enough,” he admitted quietly as regret laced his voice. “Then eventually I could give you everything that you wanted.” 

“The house, your ridiculously hard-to-maintain garden, your two-story library— the future you wanted.” 

At Senku’s side, he stared beyond the city lights behind the window in the hallway of the building he was in. And for a moment, he could see the future that failed to occur: your laughter filling the silent hallways, the warmth that radiated from your smile making the house feel like home.

And now that he could finally start the future you asked for, you had already left his side.

His grip tightened as his gaze lowered. “Failed to realize you needed something way simpler that time.” 

The call went silent again right after he said that. You were nearly speechless, your tears halted. The heel of your palm pressed against your forehead as you managed to let out a weak laugh. 

“Senku,” you called out, voice weak with a painful amusement and disbelief. 

“I was willing to attend a hundred funerals of every version you would grow up to be if it meant I could stay by your side forever—” your breathing shook unevenly. “The high school student who launched a homemade rocket to space, the university student who tried to survive on instant ramen, the doctoral student pursuing a doctorate at MIT,” 

You continued on listing every version you saw of him, built on the ambition that made you fall for him, yet was the very same ambition that made loving him hurt. 

“...The scientist worldwide agencies and governments wanted, the astronaut in training. Somehow, between the listings, your tears found you again as you tried to choke back a sob. “But I didn't realize those versions of you would kill me too.” 

Another heavy silence settled, and it was suffocating. Afterward, he said the most unexpected thing you could hear from him. 

“... I'm sorry.” 

You blinked painfully, “Senku—” 

“No, I mean it.” He cut you off softly. 

His voice sounded rougher than before. “I'm sorry I kept making you wait.” 

“Stop.” You pleaded, the heel of your palm pressed harder on your forehead than before. 

“I'm sorry I made you feel alone—” 

You interrupted this time. “Senku, stop. You're making this harder for the both of us.” 

“That wasn't my intention,” his response was immediate and firm. “You spent years trying to understand me, least I could do is acknowledge how badly I screwed up.”

You paused, unaware of what to do now. If anything, how this conversation was leading felt like tearing open wounds that never truly healed in the first place. 

Because hearing him like that, apologizing with dangerous self-awareness, made a part of you want to stay. To try again. 

And that terrified you. The thought of how things ended, the thought of losing yourself while trying to love him, scared you. 

You tried to push every ounce of hesitation back down before speaking. “I think this should be our last conversation.”

You tried to say it properly, you really did. Yet your voice still decided to crack halfway through. 

The response came instantly after a sharp inhale from him, barely any hesitation in his voice, unlike yours. “No.” 

You inhaled sharply through your nose, eyes shutting once again. The situation was hard enough, and he was making it far harder. “Senku—” 

“You're saying that as if it's strategically the best outcome for the two of us.” 

His tone shifted into something quieter right after. “...Is that what you really want?”

You were speechless again. You could hear it, the dismay in his voice. 

“Will your life be better if I remain out of it?” He asked quietly. 

No. You thought immediately. It wouldn't. You weren't even sure if time could heal the wounds left by over a decade of loving him. 

You fought back a sob, yet your voice cracked again anyway. “Yes.”

Senku went physically still at your response, and you had to muster any remaining strength in your body. “I think our relationship fell the moment I started missing you even when you were right in front of me.”

“You would still be working even when you were home.” You added painfully. “At first, I was okay with it. But then the distance started to feel as if you were still thousands of miles away.” 

You pressed your lips into a thin line, fighting back a sob. “Loving you didn't feel as easy as breathing anymore…It felt like I was losing myself instead, while you were constantly going.” 

With a shaky breath, you concluded. “...And I don't think I can go through that again without completely losing myself.” 

A long silence followed your words, the longest one yet since he called. And you knew that he was calculating every possible variable that could somehow change your mind and the outcome you gave him. Yet he couldn't. 

“...I see.” He said quietly. You heard a faint sound of shifting, not out of agitation, but out of resignation. “Can't really argue about that, can't I?” 

That was the part that made him feel ill to his stomach. Because he knew that the old version of himself would've, he would've calculated something, debated against it. 

But the present Senku couldn't. Not when he heard you admit about losing yourself again, because of him, out of all people. 

You shook your head as if he could magically see it. “No, you can't.” 

Your hand clutched the soft fabric of your bedsheets, and the painful realization that this was really the end settled through. “Take care of yourself, Senku.” 

He gave you a chuckle as an attempt to hide his dismay. “I should be the one telling you that.” 

You smiled bitterly, a tear escaping silently. “Hah? I wasn't the one living on instant ramen throughout my undergraduate degree.” 

He snickered. “As if your eating habits were any better.” 

You laughed, genuinely this time. Afterward, you called out for him using the nickname you developed after establishing your relationship with him. 

“Sen,” 

He hummed, already knowing where it was leading to. 

You hesitated, suddenly feeling weak again. This was it, there will be nothing else left except grieving the future you could've had again.

“...Happy birthday, please don't call me again.”

Senku's eyes shut right after. He saw it coming, so why did it still hurt him so much? Far worse than the impact of a moving train with its highest velocity. 

“I really loved you, y’know?” You sniffled. “I really admired you, too. You were always so amazing in my eyes, and I knew you could achieve anything with that never-ending dedication of yours.” 

“...I hope space felt like everything you ever wanted.”

And with that, you ended the call with trembling hands. Your body completely shook right after, as you hugged your knees tighter again out of desperation, your phone slipping out of your hand. 

The tears fell continuously, and each sob was louder than the previous one. At first, it was a strangled sound, then you were fully sobbing before you knew it. 

You fell sideways on your bed, body curling instinctively as you wrapped your arms around yourself as if you could keep yourself together, but you couldn't. Everything came crashing down, and nothing stayed in place anymore. Not your breathing, not your thoughts, not your tears.

Your hand reached for your phone again, part of you hoping that Senku would magically take back his words and go against your decision; however, you knew how his mind and logic worked. You still hoped anyway.

Yet no new call appeared, and silence still remained. And perhaps that was the cruelest proof that he truly loved you.

The act of choosing to let you go, even when he desperately didn’t want to, simply because losing you hurt less than ruining you further. 

January 4th had come to an end, making way for January 5th. His birthday ended, and somewhere between midnight and the last call, the two of you did too. 

Bonus:

The call ended at exactly 12:15 AM. And if anything, Senku thought the universe was mocking him.

For a long while, he just stayed where he was. Eyes glued to the floor after a tear had escaped without his permission. His jaw was clenched, and so was his fist. 

His mind replayed the conversation, especially the last thing you told him before ending the call. 

“...I hope space felt like everything you ever wanted.”

He wanted to respond and tell you that it didn't, it didn't feel like everything he ever wanted. Not when the only constant variable in the equation of his life had completely disappeared in the process of achieving it. 

The conversation hollowed him completely. The alcohol he had consumed earlier no longer aided him. 

Then, he heard the familiar heavy footsteps of Ryusui come closer.

“There you are!” Ryusui announced loudly as he walked towards him. “We thought the alcohol had finally caught up, and you passed out somewhere.” 

Senku clicked his tongue automatically. “Tch, as if.” 

Ryusui noticed how it was all bark and no bite. Yet he didn't ask, as Senku just followed him back to the private lounge where everyone else was waiting. 

When they entered, Taiju was the first to ask. “Senku! How was—?!” 

Taiju wasn't even cut off by Senku vocally, no. He was interrupted by his astonishment as Senku strided into the room, hand reached out for the bottle of Ryusui's strongest whiskey as well as his glass, already downing a glass full before anyone could say anything else. 

Everyone stared in shock at what had just unfolded. 

Ukyo frowned immediately. “Senku, you've had enough.” 

He didn't answer. He simply ignored the warning as his body slid back to his initial place before the call, the hand that didn't hold the glass folded to cover his eyes. 

Then, he chuckled bitterly, with every ounce of regret and dismay. “I screwed up badly.” 

Across from him, Gen's expression shifted. “That bad, huh.” 

Senku laughed again, but it was humorless before he took another gulp. “Hah, she told me to never call her again.”

The table fell silent. There was nothing to argue about, just the acceptance of the two people who loved each other deeply, yet still failed to see each other till the end.

After a moment, Ukyo gently leaned to take the bottle away from Senku, and unlike earlier, he didn’t fight back. But that was mostly because something in his pocket felt unbearably heavy. 

That was when Chrome noticed something from the pocket of Senku’s pants, how come he had yet to notice it after hours of being in the same room?

“Senku, what’s that—” he halted, eyes went wide as his voice left him out of shock. 

That caught everyone’s attention as they shifted closer to have a look. Taiju was the first to see what it was since he was sitting next to him. 

“Is that?!” 

Senku snickered next to him, head falling back against the couch as if he was admitting defeat. “...Yeah, a ring box.”

The entire table froze, except for Ryusui, who looked at Senku with empathy, not bewilderment.

Chrome nearly choked, his hand flung up in the air. “The hell?!”

Everything suddenly made sense in a horrifying way. Why Senku was always overworking himself, the obsession over stability, projects, and the insane amount of pressure he placed on himself.

Ryusui sighed and finally decided to say something. “I told you waiting was a terrible strategy, Senku.”

Gen’s head whipped towards him instantly. “You knew?!” 

“Of course,” Ryusui’s eyes shifted from the shocked faces staring at him before they landed on Senku again. “Who do you think he dragged across three continents to look for the best lab that makes diamonds?”

Senku laughed in defeat, eyes meeting Ryusui’s. “Yeah, yeah, my calculations failed me on that one.”

Gen’s head returned back to him. “How long have you had the ring— and when were you planning to propose?!”

Senku sighed lazily, eyes drifting towards the ceiling. “Six months before she wanted to end things. I was planning to after my first trip to space, y’know, the sappy ‘I love you to the moon and back’ that she likes.”

Then he chuckled miserably. “Kept it with me ever since that night…It even made it to space.”

The moment the third period came to an end, Senku dragged you out of class without saying anything. You had grown used to it, hence you let him tug on your wrist softly without asking questions. 

He guided you swiftly through the bustling hallway. The two of you reached his locker, and before you could peek to check what he was reaching out for, he handed you a small milk carton. It was still cold.

He clicked the roof of his tongue out of annoyance. “Your glucose levels crashed halfway through the third period. How many times do I have to tell you not to skip breakfast?” 

You gave him a cheeky smile, already familiar with the gesture. “Thanks, Sen. I woke up late again, okay?” 

Behind the two of you, Taiju and Yuzuriha watched the interaction. Both were clearly shocked, however, for two completely different reasons. 

Taiju aggressively pointed at the milk carton in your hands, “Senku! How did you keep it cold?!” 

“Insulated water bottle and ice. She won't drink it unless it's cold.” He said so casually while reading something on his phone. 

Yuzuriha, however, wasn't curious about the science behind the cold milk carton. No, she was curious about the scientific explanation as to why you acted as if this was normal. How Senku acted as if this was normal. 

“Was that really normal? I don't think it was…” she asked when it was just the two of you; her voice remained soft and polite. 

Senku had made his way to the science laboratory while Taiju was eager to see another fascinating experiment of his. 

You hummed, “Yeah, that's just how Senku has always been. I call it his acts of science. He says it's to keep me efficient.” 

Senku always did things like that. He had a knack with his small gestures, weaving them into the fabric of your daily life.

It wasn't strange or new to you. Not really. Not when he's been consistently doing it for years. 

⋆⭒˚.⋆

You constantly complain about headaches almost every afternoon, especially during study sessions. Muttered complaints fell from your lips easily, and rubbing your temples became a habit. 

“You're dehydrated.” You heard him say from across you while working with a circuit board, one that was too complex for you to understand. It wasn't a question; it sounded like a statement from his observation.

You lift your head up, tired eyes meeting his striking red ones. With a weak smile, you muttered out, “Thanks for the diagnosis, doc.”

“Tch.” 

He didn't say anything else as he pulled out a water bottle from his bag, followed by a pack of electrolyte powder. 

He pushed the opened bottle forward, the bits of electrolyte powder already dissolving into the water. “You’re inefficient when your body is malfunctioning.” 

You gave him a knowing smile before he continued to work on his circuit board. Senku's focus returned to it, or so you thought. 

“And your caffeine intake is garbage. Stop consuming it like a lifeline.” 

Your smile faltered. “Hey, you're acting like you don't drink coffee too, genius!” You retorted, frustration lacing your tone.

Without even glancing up from his circuit board, he shot back, “Unlike someone, I don't rely on it to function properly.”

You threw an eraser at him, to which he dodged effortlessly, a smirk tugging the corner of his lips.

Still, despite your banter, there was an undeniable truth. Senku always seemed to notice everything before you did.

Yet you never asked. That was just the way he was—always too observant. Always a step ahead.

Right?

⋆⭒˚.⋆

The science laboratory always smelled like chemicals, metals, and something burning whenever Senku felt like it. 

It was enough to remind students passing by that Senku Ishigami was inside—most likely taking something apart or fixing it, mixing chemicals, or accidentally blowing something up. 

The laboratory wasn't just occupied by him; there were multiple other students working on something. Though they were never as over-the-top as the ones Senku worked on.

In the middle of it all sat Senku, who had recently cleaned up after a chemical experiment. The sleeves of his lab coat were now rolled, revealing his forearms as he worked on the blueprint of his next rocket model. 

The room around him hummed with conversation, though most people knew better than to interrupt him while he worked. 

Which was why a question from another student caught everyone off guard. 

“Hey, Senku.”

“What?” He replied flatly. 

The student hesitated briefly before pointing at Senku's wrist. “What's with the hair tie?” 

Every head in the science laboratory turned immediately because now that someone was brave enough to mention it, there really was a black hair tie looped around his wrist. 

It wasn't unusual at first. Not until people started noticing months ago that Senku always had one on his wrist. They assumed it belonged to him, perhaps to tie his hair during experiments—but no, his hair defied the laws of physics. 

And he never used it. Not even once. 

The student leaned back against the table, a grin on his face as he asked, “You got a girlfriend or something?” 

The room instantly erupted as the question flew out of the students’ mouths. 

“No way! Senku? Seriously?” 

“As if! You really think he has any time for romance?” 

“There's no way, are we talking about the same Senku Ishigami?” 

“That's what a hair tie means, though!” The student argued defensively, pointing at Senku's wrist. “It's literally a thing, guys wear them when they're taken.” 

Senku didn't even bother to look up from the blueprint he was working on, though an irritated look was evident on his face. 

“Dumbest thing I've heard all day.” 

“So that's a no, Senku?” 

“Tch, idiots. Use your brains for once.” 

That unfortunately didn't answer anything. However, everyone seemed to be too interested and eager in the conversation. 

“So is it someone's?” A student from a corner asked. 

Senku finally looked up from his blueprint, clicking the roof of his tongue. “Obviously. Why would I use one when my hair defies gravity and is never in the way?” 

The room went silent before, 

“OHHHH?” 

“No way?!” 

Senku looked far more annoyed after hearing their reactions, which, unfortunately, only encouraged everyone further. 

“It's basic efficiency." He deadpanned. “Unlike you idiots, I account for predictable patterns to avoid unnecessary situations.” 

Then, the doors of the science laboratory suddenly opened. 

“Senku?” Your voice cut through the room of chaos, completely unaware of the chaos you've interrupted and caused. 

Everyone turned to the door, not just Senku. 

You blinked, feeling uncomfortable at the unexpected attention from everyone. “Why is everyone looking at me like that?” 

“No reason,” half of the room replied in unison before pretending to focus on their work again. 

You frowned suspiciously, eyes settled on Senku as your facial expression asked him questions. He didn't say anything, just stared back as you walked towards him. 

You stopped next to him and allowed the suspicion to simmer down as you remembered the reason you were there. “Do you have a hair tie?” 

Without saying a word, he lifted his wrist toward you, as if by muscle memory. Your fingers moved automatically and reached out for it. 

“Lost another one? You're too careless, idiot.” 

You ignored his remark, and with one smooth motion, you slid it off his wrist before tying your hair with practiced ease.

“Thanks, Sen.” You gave him a grin. “I'll see you after school.” 

“Hm.” 

Senku returned to his blueprint without saying anything else the moment you left. 

The room stayed silent for three seconds after you closed the door behind you before erupting into chaos once more. 

“What was that?!” 

“I knew it was her!” 

Senku ignored their loud chaos, his hand already reaching out for the pocket of his pants, and pulled out another hair tie, slipping it onto his wrist. 

“Tch, you people are seriously annoying.” 

⋆⭒˚.⋆

You never questioned Senku's acts of science. Never. Not even when Yuzuriha’s teasing became a little too frequent. 

It was normal; you were used to it for years. Why bother to question it now?

The sound of rain suddenly falling from the skies sliced through your reverie. You halted, staring at the building window next to the staircase, before a groan escaped from your lips. 

“Great. Just great.” You had forgotten your umbrella. Although you always forget to bring it, this time was different. You had asked Senku to go home without waiting for you. The same guy who never forgets to bring an umbrella and checks the weather forecast. 

You made your way down the stairs, and your mood was a perfect match with the gloomy weather outside. 

“Took you long enough.” 

Your head snapped up toward the familiar voice, and your gaze immediately landed on him, Senku. One hand in his pocket while leaning against a wall near the staircase.

Your mouth fell open in shock. “Sen—?! What are you doing here?!” 

“I was waiting for you, what else?” He answered casually. Too casually, as if you didn't ask him not to wait for you. 

He walked closer to you, his lab coat hanging on one shoulder while his bag hung on the other. An umbrella settled on one of his hands. 

“I told you not to wait!” 

“And?” 

“It's raining, and it's late!” 

“Yeah, no kidding. I'm not blind.” 

Without waiting for your response, he threw the lab coat on your shoulder, catching you off guard again. “Wear it, you'll get cold if you don't.” 

You frowned, yet slipped on his lab coat. “You should've gone home.” 

“Yeah, and leave you here with a 10 billion percent chance of being stranded? You never bring an umbrella or check the weather forecast, idiot.” His tone was completely matter-of-fact, like the answer should've been obvious.

He watched as you struggled with the sleeves. He clicked the roof of his tongue before walking closer, hands already hovering over yours. 

“You're hopeless.” He spoke with a tone that was softer than before. Then, with quick, efficient movements, his hands adjusted the sleeves and collar of his lab coat. 

Your breath got caught in your throat for a brief moment because of the proximity. “You really didn't have to wait for me, y’know?” Your voice sounded small.

“You get sick too easily. You have the immune system of a Victorian child.” The tone of his voice remained soft as he buttoned the coat properly, ensuring it was secured around your body. 

You laughed at the last part, eyes admiring the way his hands moved with the same precision he had when working on an experiment. 

He took a step back after he was done. "Besides, Byakuya would never let me hear the end of it if he found out I left without you.” 

You grinned, already hooking your arm with his. “Yeah, he would probably say he raised you better than that. Let's go home, Sen.” 

That evening, the two of you walked home through the wet streets and drizzling rain. Yet you remained dry. Senku's lab coat protected you from the raindrops as well as the umbrella he held tightly above the two of you. 

You never said anything regarding the proximity or the gesture. You were used to him acting like this. It was normal in your vocabulary. 

⋆⭒˚.⋆

Your mother's loud knocking on your bedroom door finally woke you up from your slumber. 

“Aren't you hanging out with Senku today? Why are you still sleeping?” She asked as she entered your room, eyeing your sleepy figure, who had just woken up.

“Hang out with Senku…?” 

Your eyes shot open in realization. You were supposed to help Senku purchase an engine component for his new rocket model today.

You immediately got out of bed, nearly tripping over your blanket, and ran straight to the shower, one of your hands grabbing your towel on the way there. 

“Be careful!” Your mother yelled out of concern.

After a shower, you scrambled to get ready. Your clothes were everywhere after you forgot to prepare an outfit the night before. After selecting one, you searched for a pair of socks before rushing downstairs. 

“Senku's already outside.” Your mother said as she watched you hastily put on your socks, hands already reaching out for your sneakers. 

You bid your mother goodbye, already making it past the front door. Your eyes spot Senku, who was waiting for you. 

He turned right before your hands fell to your knees for support, panting and out of breath after you practically ran while getting ready. 

“You should consider using an alarm.” His voice was laced with amusement as he knelt down, hands already reaching out to tie your shoelaces. 

“You could've tripped over your shoelaces again.” 

Your heart skipping a beat didn't help you at all. It was normal, you swore to yourself. He fixes your shoelaces all the time. It was just efficient.

Your breathing finally returned to normal. “I did, I slept through it.” 

He chuckled before standing up, hand reaching out to flick your forehead. “Idiot, did you sleep late again?” 

You raised a brow, hitting him playfully. “You're one to talk, genius.” 

⋆⭒˚.⋆

Senku's experiments were a constant source of fascination. You were always interested and could hardly take your eyes away whenever he was mixing his colorful array of chemicals in the lab.

“You're too close,” he said, voice edged with concern.

“Huh?”You replied, momentarily distracted.

Before you could process his warning any further, you felt Senku's hand grab your wrist, pulling you behind him right before the Erlenmeyer flask erupted,  bubbles frothing violently at the surface.

Your eyes widened in curiosity as you peeked from behind him. “Whoa,” 

His grip never left yours, never loosened; it remained steady around your wrist.  “Exactly why I told you not to stand too close.” 

You couldn’t help but chuckle softly, “You say that every single time, Sen.” 

“And you're stubborn every single time.” He countered back, his grip tightening around your wrist, ensuring you wouldn’t inch any closer.

His grip felt firm, protective, and undeniably comforting. It felt like a silent assurance that you were safe in his presence. You didn't question it; after all, Senku always did things like that, didn't he?

⋆⭒˚.⋆

One of the perks of living near Senku meant you could always crash at his place, and Byakuya allowed you to do so. Especially whenever he's busy training to be an astronaut on the other side of the world. 

The living room of the Ishigami household was lit by the television screen across you, as well as the faint light coming from the windows. Senku's presence was near and grounding as the two of you watched another move that you picked, of course.

You didn't realize you were crying—not at first. The dialogues bled with a soundtrack that was clearly designed to hurt you slowly. 

Beside you, Senku exhaled through his nose. He couldn't comprehend why you kept choosing movies that clearly tugged at your heartstrings.

“Statistically speaking, you've chosen emotional damage 6 times in a row.” He spoke, voice flat as he stared at the screen with a look of boredom. He wouldn't be watching these movies if it weren't for you.

“Shut up, Sen.” You laughed through your flowing tears. Your voice was shaky as the soundtrack was starting to affect you harder. 

That was when he finally looked at you, a frown appearing on his face as he saw the tears streaming down, your hands already hovering above your eyes to rub them. 

You were crying again. Rubbing your eyes on top of that, too. 

“Stop doing that.” He said immediately, tone firm.

You blinked, “Huh?” 

“Tch,” his hands reached out, pulling yours away from your face before you could even process it. His grip was gentle, quick, and precise. 

“You’re going to irritate your corneas if you keep rubbing your eyes,” he continued, as if a doctor was scolding their patient. “Damage delicate blood vessels, make the inflammation worse— do you want me to continue?” 

He warned, and you shook your head. “I'm just—” 

“Crying and rubbing your eyes.” He finished for you, clearly unimpressed. 

His hands never released your wrists. With a sigh, he pulled them down gently. “Why do you always choose movies that do this to you? It's stupid.” 

You opened your mouth, ready to argue and defend your choices. “It's part of the experience, Senku.” 

“Yeah, right, I believe you,” he mocked softly. 

He shifted closer, hands releasing your wrists. And with the same irritating precision he used for everything else, he reached out for your cheeks, gently wiping your tears away with the pad of his thumbs. 

His touch was careful, almost too careful. As if it were another adjustment made to a system that had slightly fallen out of equilibrium. 

“The movie wasn't even great,” he muttered, yet his thumb didn't stop. “Crying over a predictable plot outcome?” 

You glared at him with angry tears, yet he smiled in return as you lunged to attack him. 

“Stop watching them with me if you're only going to judge me, you menace!” 

His chuckle filtered the dialogue from the movie, letting you tug at his hair all you want. 

“Who will stop you from damaging your eyes if I stopped?” He countered casually—too casually, as if it was a natural response. 

You halted, your hands frozen in his hair for a moment before he gently pried them away. 

“What?” He asked, red eyes already staring into yours, the light from the window behind you reflecting on it. “You're acting like I don't do it often.” 

Right. He does. He does it so often that it has always felt natural. And somewhere along the way, you stopped noticing it entirely. Perhaps you’ve noticed, yet dismissed the thoughts. Never allowing yourself to look further into what those actions actually meant.

Because it was Senku. 

Senku Ishigami, the genius who treats inconveniences as problems to solve for the sake of efficiency. However, he was also the boy who remembered things nobody else did. 

And still, despite everything, you never called it anything else. It was just Senku's acts of science. You chose to dismiss the feeling of your chest tightening painfully as the realization was coming closer. 

No, it was just his acts of science, right?

⋆⭒˚.⋆

Wrong. 

You were wrong, utterly wrong. Or at least you thought so, as the realization refused to be dismissed any further after being buried from years of excuses, the familiarity of routines, and the comfort that you understood Senku's nature. 

Because that was easier. It was easier than confronting the terrifying realization that maybe everyone else had been right all along. 

Perhaps it was never purely about science. Maybe it wasn't just about efficiency, logic, or the fact that Senku disliked being unable to solve inconveniences. 

Maybe—

Your breath got caught in your throat again, between your tempting realization and the reflex to push it down. The thought settled painfully; it felt almost impossible to make it go away. 

Your memories weren't much help either, as they replayed endlessly without permission, refusing to stay harmless. 

The reminders, the way he noticed things before you did, the way he was always prepared for your inconveniences as if he had already calculated them, the way he always remembered. 

The realization was everywhere, taunting you dangerously. You could see it in everything you dismissed as his acts of science.

Which was why the sight of the small metal tube of lip stain on your hands felt almost unbearable as it weighed and catalyzed your realization. 

“Try it already,” Senku spoke from his desk chair across from you, who sat on his bed, your usual spot. He sounded mildly annoyed at your silence. 

You couldn't really blame him. You've been silent for too long, buried in your thoughts that refused to go quiet. 

It was almost funny, really. A lip stain was all it took to catalyze your realization. However, it wasn't just any lip stain. It was a replica of the one that you've been searching for endlessly for the past few weeks. 

The same lip stain you cried over with embarrassing levels of devastation after losing it, especially since it was discontinued everywhere. You could recall the countless times you brought it up whenever you were with Senku. How the shade was your favorite since it suited you so well, and how you couldn't find any alternatives. 

“You…made this?” You spoke out softly, finally finding your voice again.

He clicked the roof of his tongue. “Yeah? Why are you acting so surprised as if I hadn't made things before?” 

Your eyes refused to leave the lip stain in your hands. The metal surface felt cool against your fingers. You noticed the engraving of your name on the packaging, which wasn't like the packaging of your previous lip stain with stickers that wore out easily after a few uses.

You heard the wheels of his desk chair roll closer towards you. “I changed the packaging since you always complained about the lettering wearing off easily.” 

“How did you remember the shade?” You looked up at him, and your eyes immediately met his again. He was already looking at you. 

He gave you his signature laugh. “That was the hard part. Learning cosmetology was 10 billion percent easier. I had to rely on information and pictures online, as well as yours.” 

“I would've finished it within a week if you had tested out the shade samples yourself.” He smirked, “Byakuya kept whining that it'd ruin the surprise.” 

You tilted your head, “Byakuya knew about this?” 

“Of course. He caught me watching a cosmetology crash course at 2 AM.” 

You found yourself laughing at his response. Your grin was wide, so wide that it made your cheeks hurt. You were genuinely so happy.

You kept smiling even when you were no longer laughing. Senku raised a brow, mirroring the previous tilt of your head. “What?” 

“You're—” your grin appeared again, your cheeks were really starting to hurt. “You're so sweet, Sen.” 

He paused in disbelief. “Hah? What are you talking about—” 

Your sudden hug caught him off guard, and your added weight pushed the desk chair backward slightly. Your arms were wrapped around his neck, one hand still gripping the lip stain tightly. 

“Thank you, Sen. Seriously, I don't know how to thank you enough.” 

He clicked the roof of his tongue again, acting annoyed, yet the smile on his face said otherwise. As well as his hand that steadied you against him, returning the hug. 

“You can thank me by actually trying it. How else am I supposed to know I got the shade right?” 

The grin on your face remained as you pulled away. “Okay,” your voice became strangely soft. 

You were about to use your phone screen as a mirror when Senku reached out to grab the lip stain from you. “It has a built-in mirror. Less hassle.” 

You stared at him in awe. “Oh my gosh, you really considered the design of the packaging.” 

He shrugged, handing the lip stain back to you. “The original design was inefficient. You would need a separate mirror each time.” 

He didn't say anything else as he watched you apply it to your lips. A satisfied smile formed on your face, and Senku nearly exhaled in relief. He didn't fail; he succeeded in reviving your favorite lip stain. 

Your eyes shifted to meet his again, your smile refusing to leave your face. “How do I look, Sen?” 

He paused for a second, “The same but with a different shade of lip color.” 

You gasped and hit him playfully. “How rude! You learned cosmetology but not about how to compliment a girl?” 

He shrugged, leaning back in his chair. “Why would I waste my time with the latter?”

You rolled your eyes before admiring the shade with the built-in mirror. “You could at least say I look prettier.” 

“You always do,” he responded too quickly, without any hesitation in the tone of his voice. It was too straightforward, as if he were reciting a fact.

You short-circuit for a few seconds, cheeks burning up slightly as you look away.

“You're really amazing, Sen...” You mumbled, admiring his creation while trying to ignore the warmth from your cheeks.

“Yeah?” A quiet chuckle escaped from him. 

“I've built rockets, and this is what impressed you the most?” He added, a teasing grin on his face. 

“Well, this one is the most unexpected thing you would do, y’know?” 

He shook his head with another chuckle. “You're welcome.” He moved himself using his chair, a hand reaching for a notebook on his desk. “I haven't tested the transfer resistance yet, but it stains better than the original.” 

“Why not?” 

“Do you expect me to wear it?” 

You laughed out loud, “Wouldn't you do it for science?”

“Nice joke.” He deadpanned. “I did it for you, not for science, idiot.” 

Somehow, that confession hit harder than anything else. 

“The Senku Ishigami is doing something that isn't for science? Is the world meeting its doom soon?” you joked mockingly. 

“That's worse than the previous one.” He deadpanned again. 

You giggled, hands reaching out to pull his chair closer to you, a mischievous idea had already appeared in your head just seconds ago. 

“What are you doing?” 

You didn't answer. Instead, you tugged his head down, closer to your face. With a swift motion, you pressed a quick kiss on his cheek. 

You pulled away, satisfied with your results. There was a clear mark from the gloss, yet no pigment. The only pigment you found was the burning ears of Senku, dusted with a faint red. 

“Results concluded, it's transfer proof.” You grinned at his frozen state. “You can log the results in your notebook now.” 

A teasing smirk formed on your face as you eyed his silent and flustered figure. “You good, Sen?” 

“Yeah…” he muttered out after snapping out of his frozen state, voice low as he turned away from you to reach for a pen. 

Oh, you were savoring every moment. That was your payback after he made you spiral over his acts of science.

Perhaps the two of you wouldn't talk about it further for now. However, you were—as Senku would say it—10 billion percent sure there's time for that in the future. 

For now, you'll mainly appreciate his acts of science, or his way of showing that he cared far more than you thought. 

⋆⭒˚.⋆

Bonus:

“Where did you learn how to make cosmetics, Senku-chan?” Gen’s curious question hung in the air, capturing Senku's attention. 

The scene unfolded in front of the two of them, along with Suika and Soyuz, who were gathered around Amaryllis and you. Together, you were meticulously applying makeup on Kohaku’s face in preparation for the selection. 

“It's chemistry, mentalist.” His gaze briefly flickered towards Gen and deadpanned. 

Gen sweat dropped. “Yes, but I never expected you to touch that part of chemistry, Senku-chan…” 

The scientist shrugged, dismissing the comment. And before Gen could question him further, you suddenly walked to Senku with a bright grin on your face. 

“Sen, can you make my lip stain again? I've been missing it lately.” Your eyes sparkled with enthusiasm, something Senku could never say no to.

‘Ah.’ Gen's question had been answered the moment the words fell from your lips. The mentalist wasn't even surprised anymore. ‘So this is the so-called acts of science Yuzuriha-chan was talking about.’

"rude." he pulled himself through with that athletic grace that came so naturally to him—the same grace that made him captain of three sports teams and the golden boy of the neighborhood. your parents loved him. his parents loved you. everyone thought you two were just childhood friends who grew up in houses side by side.

nobody knew about the midnight visits.

"i have a perfectly good front door," you reminded him as he landed softly on your carpet, all six feet of him suddenly taking up so much space in your small room.

"where's the fun in that?" he was already close, too close, he backed you up until your legs hit your bed. you could feel the warmth radiating off his body. "besides, your dad would make me sit through another lecture about college applications."

"It's almost winter, satoru. that tree is going to be too icy to climb soon." you tilted your head back to look at him properly, noting the way his pupils dilated slightly in the darkness, how his breathing had picked up just from being close to you.

"guess I'll have to come more often before then." his voice dropped lower, softer, as his hand came up to cup your face. his thumb traced your cheekbone with devastating gentleness. "couldn't sleep without seeing you anyway."

your breath caught. It always did, no matter how many nights he showed up. "you saw me literally eight hours ago. at dinner. at your house."

"exactly. eight hours too long." his other hand found your hip, fingers slipping just under the hem of your sleep shirt to touch bare skin, and you felt goosebumps rise in the wake of his touch.

and then he was kissing you, soft and sweet and entirely unfair. his other hand slid to your waist, pulling you closer as you fisted your hands in his hoodie—the one you'd stolen last week and he'd stolen back yesterday. he kissed you like he had all the time in the world, even though you both knew he didn't.

when he pulled back, you were breathless, your lips tingling. his forehead rested against yours, and you could see the satisfied smirk playing at the corners of his mouth. "you can't keep doing this."

"mm, you say that every time." he pressed a kiss to your forehead, lingering there, then your nose, making it scrunch up, then the corner of your mouth where you could feel his smile. "and yet, you always open the window."

"because I'm an idiot." your fingers were still twisted in his hoodie, holding him close even as you protested.

"because you like me." the smugness in his voice made you want to shove him, but he caught your hands before you could, lacing his fingers through yours. his hands were so much warmer, completely enveloping yours. "say it."

"you already know." you tried to look away, but he ducked his head to catch your gaze again.

"say it anyway." those blue eyes were unfairly soft now, vulnerable in a way he only ever was here, in the safety of your dark room where no one expected him to be perfect. his thumb rubbed circles on the back of your hand, a nervous gesture that betrayed his confident tone.

"I like you, satoru. happy?"

"extremely." he kissed you again, deeper this time, walking you backward until you both tumbled onto your bed in a tangle of limbs. he propped himself up on his elbows, hovering over you, and just looked at you like you were something precious.

"what?" you whispered, your fingers trailing down to trace the line of his jaw.

"just thinking about how lucky I am." his voice was rough, honest in a way that made your chest tight. "the girl next door turned out to be the girl of my dreams. pretty good odds."

"weirdo." but you were smiling, your thumb brushing across his cheekbone.

"your weirdo." he nuzzled into your neck, and you ran your fingers through his soft hair, scratching lightly at his scalp the way he loved. within minutes, you could feel him relaxing, his breathing evening out.

"you can't fall asleep here," you warned, but your voice was already fond, your fingers still carding through his hair in a steady rhythm.

"just five minutes," he mumbled against your skin, his lips barely moving, his body going heavy and pliant on top of you.

It was never just five minutes. but you always let him stay as long as possible, until the sky started turning gray and he had to slip back through your window before the world woke up.

eventually, reluctantly, you'd have to shake him awake, watch his eyes flutter open confused and sleepy before reality set in. he kissed you one more time before he left, slower, sweeter, his hand cupping your face like he was trying to memorize the shape of you, like he was trying to memorize the taste of you.

"text me when you get home safe," you said, like his house wasn't literally fifty feet away.

"always do." he was halfway out the window when he paused, looking back with that boyish grin that made your heart skip. "same time tomorrow?"

"you're impossible."

"Is that a yes?"

you tried to fight your smile and failed, wrapping your arms around yourself against the cold air streaming through the open window. "It's always a yes."

his grin widened, bright enough to rival the sun that wasn't even up yet. "that's my girl."

he swung one leg over the windowsill with practiced ease, his hand gripping the frame as he prepared to make his usual graceful exit. but then—because satoru could never just leave like a normal person—he paused. looked back at you.

like you'd hung every star in the sky that stretched out behind him. that devastating softness in his eyes, the one that made your chest ache, the private smile playing at his lips that was so different from his usual cocky smirk.

"satoru, the tree—" you started, because you could see him getting distracted, see the way he was starting to lean back without watching where he was going.

"you're so beautiful," he murmured, almost to himself, still staring at you with those ridiculous blue eyes that seemed to glow in the pre-dawn darkness. his hand reached back for the branch without looking. "how did I get so—"

CRACK.

the sound was sickeningly loud in the quiet morning. you watched his eyes go wide, watched his hand grasp at empty air where the branch should have been, watched his whole body pitch backward in slow motion that was somehow still too fast.

his arms windmilled, trying to catch something, anything. for a split second he looked completely baffled—satoru gojo, who'd never been clumsy a day in his life, who could probably do a backflip off your roof if he wanted to. that surprised "oh" expression on his face would have been comical if you weren't absolutely terrified.

he went down hard, back first into the grass below with a thud that you felt in your bones. the impact seemed to echo in the stillness, way too loud, and your heart stopped completely. "oh my god, oh my god, oh my god—"

you were already moving, climbing out your window in your pajama shorts and tank top, not even thinking about the cold or the fact that you were barefoot.

"satoru! satoru, please—" you dropped the last few feet, stumbling as you landed, and scrambled over to where he lay sprawled on his back. the grass was wet with dew, soaking into your knees as you dropped down beside him.

he was just... staring up at the sky. blinking slowly. his chest was moving—thank god, his chest was moving—but he looked completely dazed.

"are you okay?!" your hands were shaking as they hovered over him, afraid to touch him, afraid he'd broken something. "can you move? does anything hurt? oh my god, should I call an ambulance? should I get your parents? satoru, please say something—"

"I fell," he said, his voice distant and wondering, like he'd just discovered something profound about the universe.

"duhh, you fell, you idiot!" relief and anger crashed through you in equal measure. "I told you that branch was getting weak, I told you—"

"I was looking at you." he turned his head slowly to face you, and despite the fall, despite everything, that grin was starting to creep back onto his face. wonder and amusement mixing in his expression. "I was looking at you and I fell."

"this isn't funny! you could be seriously hurt!" your hands were still shaking as they moved over him, checking for obvious injuries, blood, broken bones. "what if you'd landed on your head? what if—"

"I think my pride is hurt," he interrupted, sitting up with a groan that made you flinch. he rolled his shoulders experimentally, wincing. "and maybe my ass. definitely my ass. that's gonna bruise."

"satoru—"

"no, seriously." he shifted, trying to look at his own backside like he could assess the damage. "I think I landed right on my tailbone. do you think it'll bruise in the shape of that rock? that would be sooo lame."

"you're actually insane." but you were still checking him over anyway, running your hands down his arms, feeling for breaks or swelling, checking his pupils to make sure they were the same size. "nothing's broken? you can move everything?"

"everything works." he caught your hands, stilling their frantic movement, and brought them to his lips, pressing kisses to your scraped palms. his eyes were sparkling with barely suppressed laughter. "you made me fall out of a tree."

"I didn't make you—"

"you did though." he said it like it was the most romantic thing that had ever happened to him, reaching up with one hand to cup your face while the other kept hold of your fingers. "I was so busy looking at you, being all gone for you, that I literally fell out of a tree. do you know how unusual this is? I have perfect coordination. I'm captain of three sports teams."

"you're an idiot is what you are." but your voice cracked slightly because you'd been so scared, and now he was sitting here making jokes and looking at you like falling fifteen feet was just another fun adventure.

"just my dignity that's broken then." his thumb traced your cheekbone, and his expression softened. "hey. I'm okay. look—" he moved his arms, rotated his shoulders, turned his head side to side. "all in working order. takes more than a little fall to damage this perfect specimen."

"a little fall? satoru, you fell out of a tree!"

"yeah, because of you." the grin was fully back now, smug and adoring and infuriating all at once. "you're so pretty you're literally dangerous. I'm a hazard around you. did you see how worried you looked just now? so cute. all panicked and sweet."

"I hate you," you say, but you were checking his head now, fingers carefully feeling through his soft hair for bumps or cuts. pieces of leaves and small twigs fell out as you went, and you picked them out gently.

"liar." he tried to stand and immediately winced, face scrunching up in actual pain. "okay, yeah. definitely bruised something. maybe several somethings."

"serves you right." you stood too, getting under his arm to help him up, letting him lean his weight on you. he was warm and solid and alive, and you were still shaking slightly from the adrenaline. "come on, romeo. let's get you home before someone sees and we have to explain why you're in my yard at four in the morning."

"will you kiss it better?" he was hobbling slightly, and you could tell he was trying not to show how much it actually hurt.

"absolutely not."

"not even a little—ow, ow, okay, okay!" he laughed even as he winced when you jabbed his ribs. "so mean to me. I risk my life climbing to your window every night, I fall out of a tree because you're too beautiful for my brain to function, and this is the thanks I get."

"that's the only thing you'll get from me," you muttered, but you were careful with him as you walked him across the yard, your arm tight around his waist, supporting his weight, making sure he didn't stumble.

his window was thankfully on the ground floor of his house—unlike yours, which made his nightly visits a bit more complicated. before he climbed in, he turned to pull you close one more time, both arms wrapping around your waist despite the obvious discomfort it caused him.

"hey." his voice was soft, his breath warm against your forehead.

"what?" you looked up at him, and in the growing pre-dawn light, you could see a smudge of dirt on his cheek, grass stains on his hoodie, the slightly dazed look still lingering in his eyes.

"I'd fall a hundred more times if it meant you'd look at me like that." his voice dropped, going sincere in that way that always caught you off guard. "all worried and panicked. like I matter. like you'd actually miss me if something happened."

your heart did something complicated in your chest. "of course you matter, you absolute idiot. why do you think I was freaking out?"

"yeah?" the vulnerability in his voice was subtle but there.

"yeah." you reached up to brush the dirt off his cheek, gentle. "just... use the front door from now on, please? my heart can't take watching you fall again."

"where's the fun in that?" he kisses you again, soft and lingering and gentle. his lips moved against yours slowly, like he was savoring it, his hand coming up to cradle the back of your head. like he hadn't just fallen out of a tree because he was too busy staring at you. like you had all the time in the world instead of mere minutes before the sun came up.

when you finally pulled apart, your lips tingling, you shook your head at him. "you're lucky you didn't break anything."

"I'm lucky I have you." he climbed through his window with a theatrical wince, moving gingerly, one hand pressed to his lower back. "same time tomorrow?"

"front door, satoru."

"window?"

"front door."

his grin was unrepentant even as he was clearly favoring one side, leaning against his window frame for support. "we'll see, pretty lady, we'll see."

you sigh, he's definitely going to use the window again.

(you were only there for an assignment. philosophy 301: observing scientific rhetoric. you needed to write three pages analyzing how scientists communicate to non-specialist audiences. he was convenient, scheduled during your free period. you didn't even know his name.)

"..as this research shows how we can never predict the radioactive decay from any nucleu-" his voice wavered in shock - somebody actually admired him? not just listens or understands but admires..?. he tried really, to force his words that were scrunched deep into his throat but as he persisted "i.." nothing seemed to leave his now dried up mouth - like someone dehydrated him and left him seeking for refuge, desperately needing one single droplet of water in the heat of a desert.

that look of admiration shifted into confusion then annoyance. how could you have such contradicting emotions into one expression?

you raise an eyebrow in interest, eyes rolling—barely, but he caught it—and the message was clear: who let this awkward man on stage? that made him wince internally.

he interpreted your intensity, your white-knuckled grip, your laser focus as admiration— you were infact analyzing him like a specimen, cataloging his failures with the clinical detachment you'd been taught in your philosophy classes. observation without investment. criticism without cruelty, but also without care.

that destroyed him completely.

· · ─ ·ʚɞ· ─ · ·

the haunting 101

the weeks after the presentation, satoru learns what it means to be haunted.

not by ghosts. by memory. by a single moment that plays on loop every time he closes his eyes—your face, your expression shifting from what he thought was fascination to unmistakable disappointment. the eyebrow raise. the eye roll so slight anyone else would have missed it.

he didn't miss it. he sees you three days later.

he's crossing the quad, backpack heavy with textbooks he's been trying and failing to read, when he spots you on a bench under one of the old oak trees. the afternoon sun filters through the leaves, dappling your face in light and shadow. you're laughing at something on your phone, earbuds in, completely unaware of the world around you. the breeze catches your hair, moves it across your face. you brush it back absently. you look comfortable. happy. alive in a way that makes his chest hurt.

his heart stops.

then starts again, too fast, painful against his ribs like something trying to escape. his palms go instantly sweaty, the textbook slipping slightly in his grip. his mouth goes dry—that same desert feeling from the presentation, like all the moisture has been sucked out of his body and replaced with sand and panic.

he changes direction so sharply he nearly walks into someone. mumbles an apology without looking up. takes the long way around the science building even though it adds ten minutes to his walk and makes him late for his advisor meeting.

you never look up. you never see him.

· · ─ ·ʚɞ· ─ · ·

the haunting 102

tuesday morning, 9am. he needs coffee or he's going to die and leave a wallowing corpse on the university floor.

the campus coffee shop is packed with the usual morning crowd—students who actually sleep at night and wake up at reasonable hours, professors with their worn leather satchels and perpetual air of being slightly annoyed by existence. the space is small, cramped, claustrophobic. the espresso machine screams and hisses like it's being tortured. it smells like burnt coffee and sugar and that underlying scent of too many bodies in too small a space—deodorant and perfume and the faint tang of stress sweat already at 9am.

the line moves slowly. someone ahead is asking detailed questions about milk alternatives. the barista looks like she wants to die. satoru's been standing here for five minutes, staring at his phone, trying to ignore the way his stomach is eating itself.

then he hears your voice.

"black coffee, one sugar. and one of those croissants if they're fresh."

his entire body locks up.

you're ahead of him in line. three people ahead, but close enough that if he took five steps forward he could touch you. close enough to smell your perfume—something floral and light, completely at odds with the heavy coffee shop air. jasmine maybe, or something sweeter. it cuts through the burnt coffee smell like a knife.

the barista calls your name. your full name, clear and bright in the crowded space.

you grab your coffee, check your phone, turn—

he's already moving. slips out of line, out the door, into the cold november air that shocks his lungs and makes his eyes water. or maybe that's not the cold. his heart is pounding like he's just run a marathon. his hands are shaking so badly he has to shove them in his pockets. there's a slight ringing in his ears.

he doesn't get coffee.

goes to his 10am lecture running on zero caffeine and three hours of sleep and the taste of panic coating his tongue like metal.

sits in the back row and can't focus on anything except the way your voice sounded ordering coffee. one sugar. not two, not zero. one. exactly one. he writes it down in his notebook like it's important data. like he's conducting an experiment.

later, alone in his apartment, he looks you up properly. finds your instagram—private, but the profile picture is enough to make his chest hurt. you're laughing, mid-motion, caught in a moment of genuine joy. finds your philosophy department profile. reads that you won an award last year for an essay on phenomenology and consciousness.

he downloads the essay. reads it three times. it's brilliant. of course it's brilliant. you're brilliant and he's an idiot who fell apart in front of you and you've forgotten he exists.

he closes his laptop and doesn't open it for two days.

· · ─ ·ʚɞ· ─ · ·

the haunting 103

the library becomes dangerous territory.

he sees you there on a thursday afternoon, second floor, east wing where the philosophy and literature sections live. the afternoon sun streams through the tall windows, illuminating the dust motes floating in the air like tiny galaxies. you're at a table surrounded by books with intimidating titles—being and time, critique of pure reason, the phenomenology of spirit. you're taking notes in a notebook covered in stickers—coffee cups and planets and tiny mushrooms. your pen moves quickly across the page, then stops. you tap it against your bottom lip—three times, pause, three times again—while you think.

he's on the third floor, supposedly working on his dissertation. he's been standing at the railing for forty-five minutes, partially hidden behind a bookshelf, just... watching.

the way you chew on your bottom lip when you're concentrating. the way you push your hair behind your left ear when you're frustrated—always the left, never the right. the way you stretch your neck, rolling your shoulders like you've been sitting too long. the way you take a sip of coffee, make a face because it's gone cold, but drink it anyway.

you never look up. never see him standing there like a creep, cataloging your existence. he watches you for two hours. writes nothing.

his phone buzzes.

his advisor: where are you? we had a meeting scheduled. fuck.

when you finally pack up and leave, he feels the absence like a physical thing. the space you occupied goes empty and the library feels cavernous, too big, too quiet. the dust motes keep floating but they're not beautiful anymore, just particles suspended in empty air.

he stays until they kick him out at 2am.

· · ─ ·ʚɞ· ─ · ·

his roommate suguru finds him staring at his laptop at 3am on a cold saturday.

the apartment is dark except for the blue glow of the screen. the heating's broken again—has been for a week—so satoru's wearing two hoodies and still shivering. the cold seeps up through the floorboards, makes the whole place feel like a tomb. there's the smell of old coffee and the takeout containers neither of them has bothered to throw away—something with a hint of garlic from three days ago, slowly rotting. the refrigerator hums its broken-compressor hum, a grinding sound that never quite stops. outside, someone's car alarm is going off, shrill and insistent, has been for an hour.

"you're doing it again."

satoru doesn't look up. his eyes hurt from the screen glare—actually hurt, that gritty, burning feeling that means he's been staring too long. his neck hurts from sitting in the same position for hours. his hands are cold. everything hurts. "doing what?"

"that thing where you pretend you're working but you're actually having an existential crisis." suguru's voice is rough with sleep. "I can tell the difference now. it's been three weeks of this."

"I'm fine, suguru."

"you've typed three words in the last hour. I can see your screen from my bed—the glow is keeping me awake. that's not fine, that's catatonic."

suguru sits up. his bed creaks loudly in the quiet apartment—old springs that sound like they're dying. he turns on the lamp beside his bed. the light is warm and yellow and makes everything look softer than it is, makes the mess of their apartment look almost cozy instead of depressing.

"also you've been wearing the same hoodie for four days and you smell like depression and old coffee. so. talk."

satoru closes his laptop. the sudden darkness is disorienting. his eyes struggle to adjust. "nothing to talk about."

"bullshit." suguru's wearing his glasses, the ones he only wears at night when his contacts come out. they're crooked. he pushes them up. "is this about your presentation? because dude, everyone bombs presentations sometimes. it's not—"

"it's not about the presentation."

"then what?"

how does he explain it? that there was someone in the audience whose opinion somehow mattered more than the entire scientific community's? that you've looked at him with what he thought was admiration and it turned out to be analytical disdain? that he can't stop seeing you everywhere, that his entire world has reorganized itself around avoiding and seeking you in equal measure? that he's in love with someone who doesn't know his name?

wait. no. not love. he's not—

"nothing. forget it."

suguru is quiet for a long moment. the car alarm finally stops outside. the silence is somehow worse. "you know what your problem is? you're brilliant with particles and completely useless with people. whatever this is—whoever this is—you need to either deal with it or let it go. you can't keep—" he gestures at satoru's entire situation with a flick of his wrist, the laptop and the dark circles and the way he's curled in on himself. "—whatever this is. it's not sustainable."

"I know."

"do you? because from where I'm sitting, you're driving yourself insane over something that probably isn't even as bad as you think it is."

it's worse. it's so much worse. because it wasn't a moment of humiliation he can recover from. it was a moment of connection he imagined completely. he invented a story where you cared, where you were fascinated, where he mattered.

and reality showed him otherwise.

reality showed him that he's just another awkward academic to you. forgettable. already forgotten.

"I'll figure it out," satoru says.

"when?"

"eventually." he huffs

suguru sighs, long and disappointed. "you're impossible." he turns off the lamp. darkness again. the apartment settles back into cold and silence. "get some sleep, satoru. you look like death."

satoru doesn't sleep.

he opens his laptop again in the dark and stares at the cursor blinking in his dissertation document. types: element 119. deletes it. types: radioactive decay. deletes it.

types your name. stares at it for ten minutes. deletes it.

· · ─ ·ʚɞ· ─ · ·

the haunting 104

he starts taking different routes to class.

the long way around the quad that adds fifteen minutes—past the science buildings on the east side, around the maintenance shed that always smells like gasoline and cut grass, through the parking lot where the asphalt is cracked and weeds push through. it avoids the bench where he saw you that first time, the oak tree with its sprawling branches, the patch of grass where students sit when the weather's beautiful.

he learns your schedule without meaning to. or maybe he means to and won't admit it. just by avoiding you, he maps your movements like he's charting the orbit of a celestial body. tuesdays and thursdays you have class in the philosophy building at 2pm—he knows because he saw you walking there once, twice, three times until the pattern was undeniable. so he makes sure he's nowhere near there during those times. takes his lunch at 1pm or 3pm, never 2pm. uses the bathrooms on the opposite side of campus.

mondays, wednesdays, and fridays you're usually in the library in the afternoon. second floor, east wing, by the windows. he knows this because he's checked. accidentally-on-purpose walked past. saw you there once and now avoids that entire section like it's radioactive.

but the campus is only so big. avoidance only works until it doesn't.

he sees you anyway.

he needs a textbook for his advanced quantum field theory seminar. the bookstore is warm—too warm after the biting cold outside. it smells like new books and tea from the cafe in the corner, that specific scent of paper and binding glue and the cinnamon from someone's latte. the fluorescent lights are too bright. there's pop music playing over the speakers, tinny and grating but addictive.

he's in the science section, running his finger along the spines. quantum field theory, advanced particle physics, statistical mechanics. the books are expensive. he's trying to decide if he can get away with using the library copy or if he needs his own.

then he sees you.

three shelves over, in the historic section. you're reaching for something on the top shelf, and you're not quite tall enough. you're on your toes, stretching, your whole body extended upward. your jacket—that green one, the one he's seen before—rides up with the movement.

he can see a sliver of skin at your waist. just an inch, maybe two. the curve of your lower back. the waistband of your jeans.

his brain short-circuits.

you're still reaching, fingers just barely brushing the spine of whatever book you're trying to get. you make a small frustrated sound—he can hear it from here, this soft "come on" that's half-muttered to yourself. you stretch higher. more skin. he can see the shift of your muscles, the flex of your body trying to extend just a little further.

someone should help you. someone should offer to get the book down. that's what a normal person would do.

he stands there frozen, staring, heart pounding so hard he can feel it in his teeth. his palms are instantly sweaty. the textbook in his hands might as well weigh a thousand pounds.

you give up, lower down onto flat feet. your jacket falls back into place. you're looking around now, maybe for an employee, maybe for someone tall enough to help.

your eyes are sweeping the store. they're going to land on him.

panic floods his system like molten ice. he's already moving—backwards first, then turning, abandoning his textbook on a completely wrong shelf. introduction to organic chemistry sitting where quantum field theory should be. he doesn't care. he's walking fast toward the exit, weaving between displays, nearly knocking over a rack of university-branded t-shirts.

the cold air outside hits him like a slap. his breath comes out in clouds. his heart is still racing.

he walks three blocks before he stops, leans against a building, tries to remember how to breathe normally.

that night he goes back to the bookstore twenty minutes before closing. buys the textbook from a bored employee who doesn't look at him twice. walks home in the dark, thinking about that strip of skin, that frustrated sound, the way you moved.

he's so fucked.

· · ─ ·ʚɞ· ─ · ·

the haunting 105

he's been in the lab all day. it's past 7pm and he hasn't eaten since... he can't remember. his advisor kept him late going over data, pointing out inconsistencies, asking questions satoru couldn't answer. he feels hollowed out. exhausted. his hands smell like latex gloves and whatever chemical he was working with.

the dining hall is bright and loud and overwhelming after the quiet of the lab. it smells like institutional food—something with tomato sauce, garlic bread, that underlying scent of industrial cleaning products and steam tables. the noise is incredible. hundreds of students talking, laughing, the clatter of trays and silverware, the hiss of the soda machines.

he gets food without really looking at it. some kind of pasta. garlic bread. water. his tray feels heavy. everything feels heavy.

he's scanning for an empty table, somewhere quiet, preferably in a corner where he can eat quickly and leave—

and then he sees you.

you're at a table in the middle of the dining hall. surrounded by friends—three other people, all talking over each other in that comfortable way that suggests they've known each other for years. there are textbooks pushed to one end of the table, dinner spread out, someone's laptop playing music he can't hear from here but can see the glow of.

you're animated. laughing. your hands move when you talk—quick gestures that punctuate whatever story you're telling. you're wearing a sweater he hasn't seen before—dark red, oversized. your hair is different today. pulled back somehow. he can see the line of your neck.

one of your friends—a girl with dark curly hair—says something. he can't hear it over the dining hall noise. but he sees your reaction.

you throw your head back, laughing so hard you have to cover your mouth with your hand. the movement is unconscious, natural, beautiful. your shoulders shake. your eyes squeeze shut. the laugh is loud enough to carry across the dining hall even through all the other noise. it's bright and genuine and unselfconscious.

it's the most beautiful sound he's ever heard.

it makes him feel like he's swallowed glass. like something sharp and broken is lodged in his chest, cutting him from the inside. his hands tighten on his tray. the plastic creaks.

you're so... alive. so present. so comfortable in your body, in your space, in your friendships. you belong here. you fit.

he doesn't fit anywhere.

he's still standing in the middle of the dining hall, holding his tray, staring at you like a creep. someone bumps into him—"excuse you"—annoyed. he needs to move. needs to find a table. needs to stop looking at you.

your head is turning. you're looking around the dining hall. maybe looking for someone. maybe just people-watching.

your eyes are going to land on him.

he moves. fast. back toward the exit. out the door he just came through. the cold air hits him again—it's snowing now, light flurries that melt on contact. his breath comes out in clouds. he's still holding his tray.

there's an outdoor seating area—empty because it's december and snowing and no one eats outside in december. metal tables and chairs covered in a thin layer of snow. he brushes off a chair. sits. the metal is cold even through his jeans.

he eats his pasta. it's gone lukewarm. the garlic bread is soggy. he can't taste any of it. he's just putting food in his mouth, chewing, swallowing, because his body needs fuel and this is fuel.

the snow falls. his hands go numb. he can see his breath.

through the dining hall windows, he can still see you. still laughing. still warm. still living a life that doesn't include him and never will.

and when he gets back to his apartment, suguru takes one look at him and says "you look like someone died."

"no one died."

"then why do you look like you're grieving?"

satoru doesn't have an answer.

· · ─ ·ʚɞ· ─ · ·

the haunting 106

he's walking to his quantum mechanics class. it's 1:47pm. the class starts at 2pm. he's cutting it close but he needed to stop by his apartment to get the problem set he forgot this morning, and then there was a line at the coffee shop, and now he's practically jogging across campus with his too-hot coffee sloshing in its cup.

the air is brutally cold. the kind of cold that stings your lungs when you breathe. the sky is that pale gray that promises more snow. the wind cuts through his jacket—he didn't dress warm enough this morning. his ears hurt. his hands are numb even wrapped around the hot coffee cup.

there are other students moving between classes. everyone hunched against the cold, moving fast, breath coming out in clouds.

and then he sees you.

you're walking toward him. not directly toward him—you don't see him. but you're on the same path, coming from the opposite direction. earbuds in. you're nodding your head slightly, moving to music he can't hear.

your breath makes clouds in the cold air—little puffs of white that dissipate immediately. you're wearing that green jacket again—the one from the bookstore. it's not warm enough for this weather. you're hunched against the cold, hands shoved deep in your pockets. your nose is pink. your cheeks are flushed.

you look cold and miserable and somehow still beautiful.

you're maybe twenty feet away now. fifteen. getting closer.

you're going to see him. you're going to look up and recognize him—except you won't recognize him because you've never known him. you'll just see some random guy staring at you. you'll think he's a creep.

or worse. worse. you might recognize him. might suddenly connect him to the presentation. might remember where you've seen his name before. might realize—

his heart is pounding. he can feel it in his throat, in his wrists, behind his eyes. his palms are sweating even though his fingers are numb. his mouth goes dry, tongue sticking to the roof of his mouth.

ten feet. you're humming now. he can almost hear it under the wind.

fight or flight. every time it's the same choice. every time he chooses flight.

there's a path to the right. barely a path—more like a gap between buildings. he's never noticed it before. he takes it.

the gap is narrow. he has to turn sideways in one spot where someone's left recycling bins. it smells like old beer and something rotting. the ground is icy. his coffee sloshes, burns his hand through the cup. he comes out on the other side of the building, completely disoriented.

he's on the wrong side of campus. the opposite side from where his class is. he checks his phone. 1:53pm.

he's going to be late. he's never late.

he runs. actually runs, coffee abandoned in a trash can, backpack bouncing against his spine, his breath coming in white clouds. his lungs hurt from the cold air. his legs hurt. everything hurts.

he makes it to class at 2:04pm. professor yaga gives him a look but doesn't comment. satoru slides into his seat in the back row, heart still pounding, hands shaking.

he can't focus on anything. can't hear the lecture. can't take notes. he's just sitting there, breathing hard, thinking about the way you looked in the cold. the way you hummed. the way you were just... existing. walking to class. living your life.

and he ran away from it. again. like a coward. like someone who's afraid of a girl who doesn't even know his name.

--

every time, his body has the same response.

heart rate spikes—he can feel it in his throat, in his wrists, behind his eyes. physical and undeniable. his pulse in his ears like a drum. palms sweat even in the cold. even when his fingers are numb. even when it makes no sense. mouth goes dry, tongue sticking to the roof of his mouth. he can't swallow. can't speak. can't think.

fight or flight. the oldest response. the most basic survival instinct.

he always, always chooses flight.

he's twenty years old. he's discovered a new element. he's been to stockholm. he's published in nature. he's given lectures to rooms full of nobel laureates.

and he's running away from a philosophy student who doesn't even know his name.

running away from the girl who destroyed him six months ago with a single look.

running away from the only person he's ever wanted to run towards.

· · ─ ·ʚɞ· ─ · ·

twenty-four weeks. six months.

he's gotten good at avoiding you. expert level. knows your patterns better than his own. your routine is mapped in his brain like a formula—tuesday/thursday, philosophy building, 2pm. monday/wednesday/friday, library, afternoon. coffee shop, mornings when you have early classes. that bench under the oak tree when the weather's nice.

he's an expert at existing in your orbit without ever colliding.

and then one night, 11pm on a wednesday, he's in the library because where else would he be?

the main entrance is all glass and steel, modern renovation grafted onto a building from the 1960s. automatic doors that whoosh open, letting in blasts of february cold that the heating system can't quite compensate for. there's a security desk just inside where a obnoxious guard scrolls through his phone, barely glancing at student IDs.

past security, the entry hall opens up—high ceilings, fluorescent lights buzzing their persistent electrical hum, the smell of old books and new anxiety mixing with stale coffee and dry heating and that particular scent of stress that no amount of air freshener can cover. the carpet is industrial—blue-gray, stained in places, worn down to threads in high-traffic areas. it smells faintly of mildew when it rains.

the main floor is organized chaos. rows of study tables, mostly full even at this hour. computer stations along the walls, all occupied. the circulation desk is closed but the returns bin is overflowing. there are vending machines in the corner—humming their refrigerator hum, offering caffeine and sugar for $3 a hit. someone's phone is ringing unanswered. someone else is typing like they're trying to kill their keyboard.

it smells like desperation in physical form. coffee—always coffee, in travel mugs and disposable cups and the expensive reusable ones. energy drinks, the chemical-sweet smell mixing badly with the coffee. someone's eating something with too much garlic. the heater is blasting hot, dry air that tastes like dust and old building, making everyone's throat scratch, making the whole place feel like a desert.

the sound is what gets you. it's not quiet. it's the absence of the right kind of noise. no conversations—those are banned. just the persistent hum of HVAC pushing air through old ducts. fluorescent lights buzzing, especially the dying ones. keyboards clicking. pages turning with aggressive, frustrated whisper-shouts. pencils scratching against paper. the occasional cough.

the bathrooms are in the back, and they smell like industrial cleaner trying and failing to cover decades of academic stress. the water pressure is bad. the hand dryers are loud enough to damage hearing.

satoru is on the third floor—the quiet floor, the serious floor. up here the carpet is even more worn. the study carrels are individual fortresses, little wood-paneled cells where PhD students go to slowly lose their minds. the stacks are dense—floor-to-ceiling shelves of books that haven't been touched in decades. it smells more like old paper up here, less like coffee. mustier. the air doesn't circulate as well.

he's got a table near the window. can see the campus below—streetlights making pools of yellow, the occasional student hurrying between buildings. his laptop is open. he's been staring at the same paragraph of his dissertation for an hour.

and then you walk in.

he sees you before you see him. you're three floors down but he can see you through the central atrium—the library's design means all the floors are open in the middle, creating this vertical space where you can see all the way down to the ground floor.

you're walking like someone who's exhausted. backpack weighing you down. you're wearing that green jacket again. you look frustrated. defeated.

you head for a table on the ground floor, third row back. drop your bag with a heavy thud he can't hear but can see. pull out a textbook.

physics for non-majors.

even from three floors up, even at this distance, he can see the defeat in your body language. the way you slump in your chair. the way you press your palms against your eyes.

you're struggling.

he should stay up here. should maintain the careful distance he's cultivated for six months. should protect himself from another opportunity to be seen and found wanting.

but you're struggling with physics.

and he knows physics.

and you look like you're about to cry.

and before he can think better of it, before he can stop himself, before his brain can catch up with his body—

he's gathering his stuff. closing his laptop. walking toward the stairs.

his heart is pounding. his hands are shaking. every step down feels like walking toward something inevitable. something that's going to hurt.

but you need help.

and he can help.

and maybe—maybe—this time will be different.

and just like that, everything changes.

just like that, he gets his second chance.

just like that, he's more fucked than ever.

· · ─ ·ʚɞ· ─ · ·

you're in the library at 11pm again, physics textbook open, on the verge of tears because nothing makes sense and your exam is in two days.

the library at this hour is a special kind of purgatory. the fluorescent lights buzz overhead with that persistent electrical hum that burrows into your skull after enough hours. they cast everything in a sickly blue-white glow that makes everyone look half-dead, which is fitting because everyone here feels half-dead. the heating system clanks and groans through old pipes, either blasting you with dry air that tastes like dust and desperation or leaving you shivering in your hoodie.

it smells like old books and new anxiety. the musty paper smell mixing with stale coffee, energy drinks, and that particular scent of stress sweat that no amount of air freshener can cover. someone three tables over is eating something that smells aggressively like ginger. your stomach growls in response even though you're too stressed to be actually hungry.

the silence isn't really silence. it's the sound of dozens of students slowly losing their minds in unison. keyboards clicking. pages turning with aggressive whisper-shouts of frustration. pencils scratching. someone's pen clicking obsessively—click click click click—until someone else hisses "stop" and there's a brief, tense pause before it starts again, quieter.

you've been sitting in this uncomfortable chair for three hours. the plastic digs into your spine in a way that guarantees tomorrow will hurt. your coffee went cold an hour ago but you keep sipping it anyway because the bitter, chalky taste is something to focus on besides the swimming symbols in your textbook.

the words on the page have stopped being words. they're just symbols now, meaningless hieroglyphics mocking your inability to understand basic motion. you've read the same paragraph on newton's second law six times and it's somehow making less sense with each repetition.

you press your palms against your eyes until you see stars. the pressure helps somehow. when you open them again, the equations haven't magically become clearer.

"you're using the wrong equation."

you look up, disoriented, eyes adjusting. white-haired guy at the next table over. you hadn't really noticed him before—the library at 11pm is full of ghosts, everyone hunched over their own personal disasters. but now that you're looking, he's hard to miss.

white hair that catches the terrible blinding light and somehow makes it look intentional. pale skin that suggests he might be as nocturnal as the rest of you. dark clothes—black shirt, black jacket slung over his chair. the kind of deliberately neutral outfit that says he doesn't want to be perceived but is too striking to pull it off.

he's not looking at you—eyes fixed somewhere over your shoulder like making direct eye contact might physically hurt him. but he's clearly talking to you, fingers fidgeting with the edge of his laptop, knee bouncing under the table in a nervous rhythm that makes the table vibrate slightly.

"what?"

"problem twelve." he gestures vaguely at your textbook, and you notice his hands are shaking slightly. "you're using the equation for uniform acceleration but the problem states non-uniform. you need calculus for that one."

his voice is quiet, careful, like he's afraid of taking up too much space in the air between you. there's something fragile about it. something that makes you think of glass about to crack.

you stare at your textbook, then back at him. he's still not meeting your eyes. a muscle jumps in his jaw. his fingers tap against his laptop—tap tap tap tap, anxious rhythm.

"we haven't learned calculus. this is physics for non-majors."

"oh." he finally meets your eyes for a brief, electric second before looking away again. his adam's apple bobs as he swallows. "then... the problem is probably mislabeled. or it's extra credit. can I—" he hesitates, fingers drumming faster against his laptop. "can I see?"

you should probably say no. it's weird, right? random guy commenting on your homework from across the library? but you're desperate and he seems harmless—awkward in that specific way physics majors tend to be awkward, like he's more comfortable with particles than people. like every word costs him something to say out loud.

and there's something else. he looks as exhausted as you feel. dark circles under his eyes that suggest he's as much a creature of this fluorescent nightmare as you are. his coffee cup is empty but he keeps reaching for it anyway, hand closing around nothing, like the muscle memory of caffeine is all he has left.

"sure." you angle your textbook toward him, and you don't miss the way he tenses. like you've asked him to do something monumental instead of just look at a physics problem.

he doesn't move closer at first. just leans slightly in his chair, and you can hear it creak under the shift of weight. he's squinting at the page, and you realize he's trying to read it from where he is, too nervous to actually close the distance.

"you can come closer," you say slowly. "I don't bite."

the look he gives you is startled, almost frightened, before he schools it into something neutral. "right. yeah. okay."

he closes his laptop with a soft click that sounds too loud in the library quiet. stands up, and he's tall—you hadn't registered that before—all long limbs and careful movements like he's constantly aware of how much space he takes up and apologizing for it.

he sits in the chair beside you, and you can feel the heat coming off him in the over-air-conditioned library. he smells like coffee and something clean—laundry detergent maybe, or shampoo. something normal and almost comforting in this place that smells like academic suffering.

but he's still not quite close enough to see the problem clearly. he's left almost a foot of space between you, perched on the edge of his chair like he might need to flee at any moment.

"I'm not going to murder you," you say. "you can actually sit like a normal person."

"sorry." he shifts incrementally closer. his knee is still bouncing. "I'm just—sorry."

he says sorry like punctuation. like it's the baseline state of existing in proximity to another person.

his finger traces the problem text, and his hands are interesting—long fingers, neat nails, the slight calluses that suggest lab work. they're still trembling slightly. nervous. everything about him radiates nervous energy, that vibrating tension of someone who wants to be anywhere but here but can't quite make himself leave.

"okay, so..." his voice is steadier when he's talking about physics. like the math gives him something to hide behind. "they're asking about acceleration but they've given you a velocity function that changes with time. see? it's not constant."

you lean in despite yourself, and you catch him holding his breath when your shoulder nearly brushes his. he smells like he's been in this library for days. that specific scent of someone who's been breathing recycled air and stress for too long.

"I... think so?"

"here." he pulls a blank sheet from his own notebook, and you see his papers are covered in equations that make your textbook look like elementary school math. his handwriting is surprisingly neat—precise, careful, like everything else about him. "the question is badly worded for an intro class, but what they probably want is..."

he starts writing, and something shifts. the nervousness doesn't disappear but it redirects. flows into the movement of his hand, the scratch of pencil on paper—that specific sound that's become the soundtrack of this library, of these late nights, of slow academic death.

his explanation is... different. not like your professor who lectures at the board like he's addressing a conference he'd rather not be at. not like the textbook that assumes you already understand and is just going through the motions.

he's breaking it down into pieces, checking your face for confusion. and he's good at reading faces—when your brow furrows, he stops. adjusts. tries again from a different angle.

"wait." you stop him, and he flinches slightly at the interruption. "go back. why did that equal that?"

no impatience. no condescension. just: "right, okay, so..." and he explains it again, differently, his knee still bouncing under the table, fingers still drumming against the paper between sentences.

until something clicks.

"oh my god." you sit back, and the chair creaks loudly in the quiet. someone shushes you from across the room. you lower your voice. "oh my god, I actually understand it."

the smile that crosses his face is brief but genuine—surprised, almost shocked, like he wasn't sure it would work. like he's as relieved as you are. "yeah?"

"this textbook is absolute garbage at explaining things. you did in two minutes what I've been trying to understand for an hour." you look at him properly now. really look at him.

he's objectively attractive in that specific way that cartoon characters are attractive—features almost too perfect, too symmetrical. the white hair should look ridiculous but somehow doesn't. and his eyes, now that you're really seeing them, are striking. pale blue, almost gray in this terrible lighting.. and are those just frames? the lenses are nearly clear. "are you a physics major?"

"yeah." he's already retreating slightly, physically pulling back like he's worried he's overstayed his welcome. "sorry, I shouldn't have interrupted your studying, I just—"

"no, please." you touch his arm without thinking, then immediately pull back. "I have seventeen more problems and my exam is thursday and I'm completely lost. can you—would you—" you pause. "do you tutor? I can pay you."

something complicated crosses his face. "you don't have to pay me."

"I can't just take up your time for free."

"I'm already here." he gestures at his laptop, his scattered papers. "I'm just working on... research. it's fine. I can help."

there's something in the way he says it—like he's trying to convince himself as much as you.

you don't leave right away. you work through more problems. he keeps helping, getting more comfortable, more animated when he's explaining physics. you notice things: the way his whole face changes when he's talking about something he loves, how he automatically adjusts his explanations based on your reactions, that he's patient in a way that feels genuine, not performative.

it's almost midnight when you finally pack up.

"I'm here most nights," he says, closing his laptop. "if you need help again. for the exam."

"most nights? do you sleep?"

a half-smile. "not really."

you laugh, but you're also mentally cataloging this information. library. late night. physics help available.

"I'm here tomorrow night. same table?"

he pauses, something flickering across his expression. then, "same table."

he doesn't ask your name. he already knows it—saw it on the attendance sheet that day six months ago, looked you up in the student directory afterwards like some kind of masochist, tortured himself with your social media presence, your philosophy department profile, the awards you've won for your essays.

you don't ask his name either. you'll realize this later, embarrassed, and have to awkwardly ask tomorrow.

but there's something and he's so completely, utterly, hopelessly fucked.

· · ─ ·ʚɞ· ─ · ·

library session one

you show up the next night with two coffees.

"i didn't know what you liked," you say, setting one down near his laptop. the cup leaves a faint ring of condensation on the wooden table. you can feel the heat radiating from it, see the steam curling up in lazy spirals. "so I got you what I get. If you hate it I can—"

"it's perfect." he wraps his hands around the cup like it's precious, like you've handed him something infinitely more valuable than a $4 coffee. his fingers curve around the paper sleeve, and you watch his throat work as he swallows. his eyes meet yours—soft and startled and grateful in a way that seems disproportionate to the gesture. "thank you."

it's too sweet. the sugar hits his tongue wrong, cloying and heavy, coating his teeth. he hates sweet coffee—always has, takes his black when no one's watching. but he drinks it anyway, every drop, feeling the too-hot liquid burn down his throat. and he orders the same thing for the next three months until you finally catch him making a face, his nose wrinkling involuntarily, his mouth twisting into something between a grimace and a smile when he thinks you're not looking.

you settle into the chair beside him—the same configuration as yesterday, close enough to share the textbook but not quite touching. your elbow is maybe three inches from his. you can feel the heat of him in that small gap, smell that clean eucalyptus scent mixing with coffee and old books. "i realized I never got your name. I'm—"

"i know." He says it too quickly, and you watch color bloom across his cheekbones—a faint pink that spreads to the tips of his ears. he catches himself, blinking rapidly, and you can see him scrambling for recovery. "i mean—you're in the student directory. i looked up who else was taking physics this semester. for... study group purposes."

a lie. a terrible lie. his voice pitches slightly higher at the end, and he won't quite meet your eyes. but you accept it with a small laugh, the sound bright in the quiet library.

"creepy, but efficient. i'm impressed." you pull out your notebook—the pages are getting dog-eared now, filled with his handwriting mixed with yours. the spiral binding catches on your sleeve with a small metallic whisper. "so, mysterious physics major who stalks the student directory—what's your name?"

"satoru. gojo satoru."

something flickers across your face—brief, confused, like you've heard the name before but can't place it. your eyebrows draw together fractionally. your lips part like you're about to say something, then close. the moment passes. "satoru. okay." you test the name in your mouth, the syllables unfamiliar on your tongue. "ready to save me from newton again?"

you had written his name in your assignment. subject: Gojo Satoru, Physics PhD candidate. but you'd written twenty pages that semester, cited dozens of names. they all blurred together—just another brilliant mind reduced to a footnote, a reference, a line in your bibliography that you'd never expected to materialize into a person sitting beside you smelling like eucalyptus and drinking coffee he hates.

he nods, pulls your textbook closer, and you both pretend this is just about physics.

the pages make a soft rustling sound as he flips through them. His finger traces down the chapter index—you notice he has long fingers, pale and precise, the nails neatly trimmed. there's a callus on his right middle finger from holding pens.

It takes you forty-five minutes to realize you're not actually struggling with the homework anymore. youu're asking questions just to keep him talking, watching the way his hands move when he explains angular momentum—sweeping arcs through the air, fingers tracing invisible orbits—the way his eyes light up when you actually understand something. they go brighter, more vivid, and his whole face transforms. he leans closer without seeming to realize it, and you can see the individual lashes framing his eyes, pale at the roots and darker at the tips.

"you're good at this," you say. "teaching, i mean. You should be a TA or something."

his laugh is short, almost bitter. the sound catches in his throat, comes out rough. "i'm not good at teaching." his hands drop to the table, fingers curling against the wood.

"you're literally teaching me right now. and I actually get it for the first time all semester."

"that's different. this is..." he gestures vaguely between you, and you feel the air move with the motion, watch the play of muscle and tendon in his forearm where his sleeve is rolled up. "one on one. small. when there's a crowd, when people are watching, I—" he cuts himself off. his jaw tightens. you can see the muscle jump beneath his skin.

"stage fright?"

"something like that." His voice is quiet. he's looking down at the textbook now, at the equations that probably make perfect sense to him, that he could solve in his sleep. his fingers tap against the page—once, twice, a nervous rhythm.

you want to push, but something in his expression stops you—a guardedness, a door closing. instead you say: "well, lucky for me you're good at the small scale stuff." you bump your shoulder against his gently, and feel him tense for a fraction of a second before relaxing. the contact is brief but you feel it echo through your whole arm, warm and electric.

lucky for him too, he thinks. or maybe the worst luck in the world. He hasn't decided yet. your shoulder is still warm where it touched his, and the library suddenly feels too small and too large all at once, and he can still taste that too-sweet coffee on his tongue and he doesn't hate it as much as he should.

· · ─ ·ʚɞ· ─ · ·

library session four

it's been two weeks. your exam came and went—you got a B, which felt like a miracle.

when you'd told him, breathless and disbelieving as you'd stared at the grade on your phone, his whole face had transformed. the careful composure he usually wore had shattered like glass, replaced by something incandescent. his eyes had gone wide and bright, crinkling at the corners, and he'd smiled—not his usual half-smirk but a full, unguarded grin that made him look years younger. "i knew you could do it," he'd said, voice rough with something that sounded almost like pride, and then softer, almost to himself, "i knew it."

his hand had twitched at his side like he'd wanted to reach for you, to pull you into a hug or grab your shoulder or something, but he'd caught himself, fingers curling into his palm instead. the wanting had been written all over his face though—transparent as glass, obvious as gravity. you'd felt the phantom warmth of it anyway, the almost-touch lingering on your skin like static electricity.

you should probably stop coming to the library at 11pm now that you don't need help anymore.

you come anyway.

the library smells like old paper and lemon cleaning solution and the particular mustiness of a building that's never quite warm enough. your sneakers squeak against the linoleum as you approach your usual table—the one by the window that overlooks the quad, where the fluorescent lights flicker every forty-seven seconds (you've counted).

"i don't have physics homework tonight," you announce, setting down your bag with a soft thud that echoes in the near-empty third floor. your coffee (black, one sugar) and his (too sweet, but he won't admit it) are already on the table, still steaming faintly. the bitter-sharp scent of your coffee mingles with the almost cloying sweetness of his—you can smell the caramel syrup from here.

satoru looks up from his laptop, and something cautious crosses his face—a subtle downward twitch at the corners of his mouth, a fractional widening of his eyes before his expression smooths into something carefully neutral. his fingers pause on the keyboard, hovering over the keys. the brightness from three days ago when you'd shown him your grade is gone, replaced by something guarded, braced for impact. "oh. okay." his voice is even, but there's a tight quality to it, like he's holding his breath.

"buuut I have a philosophy paper due friday, and I work better when someone else is around. so." you pull out your laptop, feeling the cool metal against your palms, hearing the familiar click as it opens. "is it okay if I just... work here?"

the relief that floods his expression is almost comical. his shoulders drop at least two inches. the tension around his eyes—you hadn't even noticed it was there—melts away, and his mouth curves into something that's trying very hard not to be a grin and failing. that incandescent brightness returns, softer this time but no less real, warming his features from within. "yeah. of course. i'm just running simulations anyway." he says it too eagerly, words tumbling over each other. his hands resettle on the keyboard but don't actually type anything—just rest there, fingertips barely touching the keys, trembling almost imperceptibly.

you settle into what's become your chair—the one with the slightly wobbly left leg that you've learned to compensate for. the vinyl is cracked and cold through your jeans until your body heat warms it. for twenty minutes, the only sound is typing—his rapid and rhythmic, yours more hesitant—and the occasional sip of coffee. yours has cooled to the perfect drinking temperature. you can feel the caffeine hitting your system, sharpening your focus.

after a moment of silence, he speaks, "what's your paper about?" his voice cuts through the silence, softer than usual.

you glance over. he's not looking at his screen anymore. his laptop displays rows of numbers and graphs, but his eyes are on you—a pale, crystalline blue that's almost unsettling in its intensity. the overhead lights catch on his white hair, making it glow like a halo. or a warning. "Heidegger's concept of 'being-toward-death.' super cheerful stuff."

"the idea that awareness of mortality gives life meaning?" he's leaning forward slightly now, elbow on the table, chin propped on his fist. you can see the individual creases in his shirt sleeve, the faint shadow of exhaustion under his eyes.

you blink. "you know Heidegger?"

"i know some philosophy. mostly philosophy of science, but." he shrugs, and you hear the rustle of fabric, catch the faint scent of whatever detergent he uses—something clean and sharp, like mint or eucalyptus. "I read."

"physics majors don't usually read continental philosophy for fun."

"i'm not most physics majors."

it's not said arrogantly. just... factually. like he's stating something obvious about himself that you should already know. his gaze is steady, unwavering, and there's something almost vulnerable in it—like he's offering you this piece of himself and waiting to see what you'll do with it.

"okay, übermensch, what do you think about being-toward-death?"

he considers this, fingers drumming against his coffee cup—a soft, rhythmic tap-tap-tap that you can feel more than hear. his eyes shift away, focusing on something in the middle distance. the fluorescent lights flicker. forty-seven seconds. "i think it's incomplete. Heidegger focuses on the subjective experience of mortality, but he ignores the physical reality. entropy. decay." his voice takes on a different quality when he talks about physics—more animated, his hands starting to move, sketching invisible equations in the air.

"the universe itself is being-toward-death on a cosmic scale. every system tends toward disorder. every particle is running down. we're not special for dying—we're just... participating in the fundamental nature of reality."

you stare blankly at him. his face is earnest, completely serious, eyebrows slightly drawn together in concentration.there's a small furrow between them that you want to smooth away with your thumb. the thought startles you. "that's the most depressing thing i've ever heard."

"but accurate." he meets your eyes again, and there's a hint of a smile now—barely there, just a slight upward curve at one corner of his mouth.

"i can't put that in my paper. my professor would have an existential crisis."

"your professor should have an existential crisis. it's good for philosophers." the smile widens. you can see his teeth now—straight except for one canine that's slightly crooked, overlapping the tooth next to it.

you laugh—really laugh—and the sound bounces off the high ceilings, fills the empty library with something warm. something in his face softens, his whole expression opening up like a flower turning toward sunlight. the harsh fluorescent light suddenly seems warmer. his eyes are doing that thing again—going bright and unguarded, looking at you like you've just handed him something precious. "you're weird, satoru."

"yeah." he says it like he's heard it before, like it's a fact he's made peace with. But there's something in his eyes—a flicker of old hurt, quickly buried. "i know."

you don't say: i like that you're weird. but you think it, the words forming in your mind with crystalline clarity. he sees you thinking it—you can tell by the way his breath catches, barely audible but you're close enough to hear it, by the way his fingers still on the coffee cup, by the way his pupils dilate just slightly. the air between you feels charged, electric, like the moment before a storm breaks.

you end up staying until 2am, your philosophy paper forgotten, talking about entropy and meaning and whether the heat death of the universe negates all human achievement. your second coffee has long gone cold in its cup, bitter dregs at the bottom. you can feel the exhaustion in your bones, but your mind is racing, alive with ideas. it's the kind of conversation you usually have with your philosophy classmates, except satoru brings equations into it, grounds it in thermodynamics and quantum mechanics, makes the abstract terrifyingly concrete. his voice is hoarse from talking by the time you finally pack up.

when you finally leave, he walks you to your dorm. says it's on his way.

(it's not on his way. it's twenty minutes in the opposite direction. you don't know this. you probably never will.)

· · ─ ·ʚɞ· ─ · ·

library session eight

you're halfway through a problem set when your pencil rolls off the table.

you both reach for it.

his hand gets there first, fingers brushing against yours for maybe half a second—barely contact, just the ghost of touch, skin on skin—but you both freeze. the pencil clatters to the floor, forgotten, the sound absurdly loud in the quiet library. rolling, rolling, until it hits the table leg with a hollow tap. you can feel the warmth of his hand even after he's pulled back, a phantom sensation that lingers on your knuckles. your nerve endings are firing like they've been shocked, hyperaware of that tiny point of contact. his fingers had been surprisingly warm, slightly rough at the tips like he bites his nails or writes too much.

"sorry," he says, voice slightly rough, catching on the word. he clears his throat. "i'll—" He leans down to grab the pencil from where it's rolled under your chair, and suddenly he's in your space, close enough that you can feel the warmth radiating off him. you catch a whiff of that eucalyptus scent stronger now, mixed with something else. clean laundry. mint toothpaste, maybe. the coffee on his breath—still too sweet. he surfaces with the pencil, holds it out to you between two fingers, and his ears are pink again. bright pink, the color spreading down his neck, disappearing under his collar.

you take it, careful not to let your fingers touch this time, though part of you wants to. the wood is warm from his hand, smooth under your thumb. "thanks."

the silence that follows is different from your usual comfortable quiet. charged. electric. the air feels thick with it, pressing against your skin. you can hear everything—the hum of the fluorescent lights overhead, sixty cycles per second, that slight buzzing that usually fades into background noise. the distant sound of someone shelving books on the first floor, the soft thud of spines against wood. the heating system clicking on with a low mechanical groan, air starting to whisper through the vents. your own heartbeat, loud in your ears, faster than it should be. his breathing, slightly uneven.

"so," you say, too loud. your voice seems to bounce off every surface. "angular momentum."

"right. Yeah." he blinks, refocuses on the textbook, but it takes him a moment. you watch his eyes track across the page, not quite reading. His finger finds the relevant equation but he has to read it twice before speaking, lips moving silently the first time. "so the key thing about angular momentum is that it's conserved in a closed system. like—you know when figure skaters pull their arms in and spin faster?"

you nod. watch his mouth form the words. he has a small scar at the corner of his lip, barely visible, a thin white line maybe half a centimeter long. you've never noticed it before. wonder distantly how he got it. his lips are slightly chapped—it's getting cold out, everyone's skin is drying out. you can see where he's been worrying the bottom one with his teeth.

"that's conservation of angular momentum. same principle applies here, just..." he trails off, and you realize you're staring. He's staring back. his eyes are doing that thing again—that impossibly blue, catching the harsh fluorescent light and somehow making it soft. his pupils are dilated in the dim library, making his eyes look darker. you can see yourself reflected in them, tiny and inverted. "just more mathematical."

"right," you echo. you have no idea what he just said. the words entered your ears but didn't process, got lost somewhere between his mouth and your comprehension. all you can think about is that his knee is three inches from yours under the table and your hand is still tingling.

he runs a hand through his hair—a nervous gesture you're starting to recognize. it leaves the white strands standing up slightly, messy, catching the light like fiber optic cables. you want to smooth them down. want to know if they're as soft as they look. "should I explain it again?"

"no, I—" you look down at your notebook, at the equation he's written there in his precise handwriting. the numbers blur slightly. you blink hard, force your brain back online. focus on the physics. the math. something concrete. "i think i get it. so if the radius decreases, the velocity has to increase to keep L constant?"

"exactly." his face lights up—that transformation again, the one that makes your chest feel tight, like someone's wrapped a hand around your lungs and squeezed. his whole expression opens, eyes crinkling at the corners, mouth curving into a genuine smile that shows that slightly crooked canine. "exactly, you've got it."

the praise sends an unexpected flush of warmth through you. you duck your head, pretending to write in your notebook. "good teacher," you murmur.

"good student," he replies, just as quiet. his voice has dropped lower, intimate in the empty library.

your phone buzzes against the table—a harsh vibration that makes you both jump. you glance at it—12:47am, the numbers glowing blue-white in the dimness. you have class at nine. you should leave. get at least six hours of sleep. you make no move to pack up. your textbook stays open. your notebook stays on the table. his laptop is still running simulations, the screen casting a pale glow on his face.

"can I ask you something?" the words are out before you can stop them, before you can think about whether you actually want to know the answer.

he goes very still. you see every muscle tense—shoulders, jaw, hands. even his breathing seems to pause. "sure." the word is careful, guarded.

"why do you always have coffee waiting? you're always here before me. do you just... camp out at the library every night?"

something crosses his face—caught, almost guilty. his eyes dart away, focus on a point somewhere past your shoulder. "i like the quiet. good place to work." the words come out rehearsed, like he's prepared this answer.

"at 11pm."

"i'm a night owl." he's fidgeting now, fingers tapping against the edge of his laptop. tap-tap-tap, an irregular rhythm.

"every night?"

"most nights." he's not looking at you anymore, studying the textbook with sudden intense focus, like the diagram of rotational motion is the most fascinating thing he's ever seen. "it's not—i mean, i'd be here anyway. the coffee's just... it's on the way. there's a 24-hour place near my dorm."

(another lie. the 24-hour coffee shop is twenty minutes in the opposite direction from his dorm, tucked into a corner near the engineering building. he leaves at 10:15pm every night to make sure he gets there, gets the coffee—yours black with one sugar, his disgustingly sweet because you bought it that way once—and makes it to the library before you arrive at 11.

he's timed it down to the minute. knows that if he leaves at 10:17 he'll be two minutes late. knows which route has the fewest streetlights out. knows that the barista working nights on thursdays always gives him an extra shot of espresso for free.)

you let it go. file it away with all the other small things you're starting to notice. the way he remembers how you take your coffee. the way he always walks you home, even though he claims it's on his way. the way he looks at you when he thinks you're not paying attention—like you're a theorem he's trying to prove, a puzzle he can't quite solve, something precious and fragile and just out of reach. the way his breath catches when you laugh. the way he leans in when you talk, like he doesn't want to miss a single word.

"i'm glad you're here," you say instead, the words softer than you intend. "the nights, i mean. it's nice. having company."

his eyes snap to yours, wide and startled, unguarded for just a moment. for a heartbeat he looks almost scared, like you've just said something dangerous, something that could detonate in his hands. his lips part slightly, and you watch his throat work as he swallows. then his expression softens into something that makes your stomach flip, that sends heat pooling low in your abdomen. something warm and open and achingly vulnerable.

"yeah," he says quietly, voice barely above a whisper. "it is."

you work in silence for another hour. the numbers start to blur together on the page. your hand is cramping from writing. at some point your knee bumps against his under the table and neither of you moves away. the contact is barely there—just a point of warmth through two layers of denim—but you're aware of it with every breath. can feel the solid presence of him, the small movements when he shifts his weight. t

he table is small enough that you're constantly almost-touching—elbows nearly brushing, hands coming close when you both reach for the textbook. the air between you feels charged, like static electricity before a storm.

when you finally pack up at 2am, your brain fuzzy with exhaustion and caffeine and something else—something unnamed that sits warm and heavy in your chest—he does that thing where he pretends walking you home is on his way. closes his laptop with a decisive click. stretches, and you try not to watch the way his shirt rides up, exposing a thin strip of pale skin above his jeans.

the october air is cold enough now that you can see your breath, small clouds that dissipate in the darkness. the campus is dead quiet except for your footsteps on the pavement—his heavier, yours lighter, falling into an easy rhythm. your shoulders brush occasionally when the sidewalk narrows. the streetlights cast long shadows, turn everything orange and surreal. somewhere in the distance a siren wails. a dog barks. the normal sounds of a city at night, but they feel muted, distant, like you're walking through a bubble that contains just the two of you.

"hey satoru?" you call out.

"mm?" he turns his head to look at you, and the streetlight catches in his eyes.

"next time you don't have to get the coffee. we could just... I don't know. meet here and then go get it together or something."

you feel more than see him go still. his footsteps stutter for just a moment before resuming. "together?" the word comes out strange, like he's testing it. tasting it.

"yeah. I mean, if you want. seems fair since you always—" you gesture vaguely, breath clouding in the cold. "you know."

"i want to," he says, too quickly. then, more carefully, like he's trying to dial it back, "that would be good. yeah."

there's something in his voice—relief and longing and something almost like fear. you glance at him but he's looking straight ahead, jaw tight, hands shoved deep in his pockets.

when you reach your dorm he does that small wave thing, hands in his pockets, breath clouding in the cold air. the motion makes him look younger somehow, uncertain. "see you tuesday?"

"tuesday," you confirm. wave back, your fingers already numb from the cold.

inside, the lobby is overheated and smells like stale popcorn and floor cleaner. you climb the three flights to your floor, legs heavy with exhaustion. your roommate is asleep, the room dark except for the glow of her phone charging. you drop your bag, go to the window.

he's still there. standing under the streetlight, looking up. the light turns his hair silver-bright, makes him look like something otherworldly. a ghost. an angel. something not quite human. he stands there for a long moment—thirty seconds, a minute—just looking. you can't see his expression from here but something about his posture seems lonely. small, despite his height.

then he turns and starts walking, not toward the direction he said his dorm was, but the opposite way. east instead of west. you watch his figure get smaller, watch him pass under streetlight after streetlight, until he finally disappears around the corner by the physics building.

huh, you think.

you stand at the window for a moment longer, breath fogging the glass. your fingers are pressed against the cold pane. below, the street is empty. just pools of orange light and darkness.

you don't mention it on tuesday.

but when you get to the library at 10:45—fifteen minutes early, your heart beating faster than it should—he's already there, two coffees on the table, looking up with that soft, startled expression like you've just appeared out of nowhere.

like he's been waiting for you.

(he has.)

· · ─ ·ʚɞ· ─ · ·

library session ten

it's thursday and you're not doing physics.

"I have a philosophy presentation tomorrow," you say, dropping into your chair with a heavy sigh that seems to echo in the empty third floor. your bag hits the floor with a thud—heavier than usual, stuffed with books you've been hauling around all day. "i need to practice it out loud but my roommate's asleep and I—" you pause, suddenly uncertain. "would it be weird if I just... presented it to you?"

satoru looks up from his laptop, and something flickers across his face. Interest, maybe. or concern—you can't quite read it. "what's it on?"

"Sartre. existence precedes essence. the whole 'we're condemned to be free' thing." you pull out your notes, pages covered in highlighter and frantic marginalia from when you'd been trying to make sense of Being and Nothingness at 3am. the pages are crinkled, coffee-stained. "it's only ten minutes but I keep losing my place and—"

"yeah," he interrupts, too quickly. then, softer, "i mean, yes. I'd like to hear it."

there's something in his voice. eagerness, carefully restrained. like you've just offered him something he didn't know he wanted.

you stand up, smooth down your shirt even though there's no one here but him. clear your throat. the fluorescent lights buzz overhead. "okay. so. um." your hands are already shaking slightly, papers rustling. "Jean-Paul Sartre argued that—"

"wait." he closes his laptop with a quiet click, pushes it aside. turns his chair to fully face you, giving you his complete attention. his eyes are steady on yours, patient. "okay. go ahead."

something about the way he's looking at you—focused, interested, no judgment in his expression—makes your shoulders relax slightly.

"Jean-Paul Sartre argued that existence precedes essence," you begin again, and this time your voice is steadier. "unlike objects, which are created with a purpose—a chair is made to be sat on, a knife is made to cut—humans exist first, and only afterward do we define ourselves through our choices and actions."

you glance at your notes, lose your place, find it again. your finger traces down the page, smudging the highlighter. "this means that we have no predetermined nature. no essence handed to us by God or biology or society. we are, in Sartre's words, 'condemned to be free.'" you look up, checking if he's still with you.

he's leaning forward now, elbows on his knees, chin resting on his laced fingers. completely still. listening with an intensity that makes you feel pinned, examined. but not in a bad way. like every word you're saying matters.

"the condemnation comes from the weight of that freedom. We are entirely responsible for who we become. we can't blame God, or fate, or our upbringing. every choice we make is a choice we're making not just for ourselves, but—" you flip a page, the paper catching on your thumb, "—for all of humanity. because in choosing, we're saying 'this is what a human should do in this situation.'"

"but that's not quite right," satoru says, and you stop.

"what?"

"sorry." he sits back slightly, looking almost apologetic. his hand comes up, rubbing the back of his neck. "i don't mean to—you're explaining it well. i just meant Sartre's argument. the idea that every choice is a choice for all of humanity—it's too broad. too... abstract." his eyes are distant now, thinking. "when I choose to have coffee at 11pm, i'm not making a universal statement about humanity's relationship with caffeine."

you can't help it—you laugh, the sound bursting out before you can stop it. "that's exactly what my professor said. well, not about the coffee. but that Sartre's ethics are too demanding. that they lead to paralysis because every tiny choice becomes this huge moral weight."

"so what do you think?" he tilts his head, genuinely curious. "do you buy it? the whole condemned to be free thing?"

you set your notes down on the table, presentation temporarily forgotten. "i think... i think there's something true in it. the part about how we define ourselves through our choices. but the weight of it—" you gesture vaguely, trying to find the words. "i don't know if i believe every choice is that significant. sometimes you're just tired and you want coffee. sometimes you're just trying to pass physics."

his mouth quirks into a small smile. "sometimes you're just trying to help someone pass physics."

"right. like—" you pause, something clicking into place in your mind. "those choices still mean something. they still define who you are. but maybe not in this grand universal way. maybe just in a... smaller way. a personal way."

"the small scale stuff," he says quietly, and you remember—lucky for me you're good at the small scale stuff.

"yeah. the small scale stuff." you repeat.

the silence that follows is comfortable. thoughtful. you can hear the heating system, the distant hum of computers in the lab downstairs. your coffee has gone cold in its cup.

"you should keep going," he says after a moment. "with the presentation. you were doing well."

"was I?" you pick up your notes again, suddenly self-conscious. "i feel like I keep going off on tangents."

"you do," he agrees, and there's amusement in his voice. "but they're good tangents. you're not just reciting facts. you're actually thinking about them. engaging with them." he leans back in his chair, and you hear it creak slightly. "your professor will like that. even if they disagree with your conclusions."

you study him for a moment. he's relaxed now, more than you've seen him. usually there's a tension in his shoulders, a guardedness in his expression. but right now he looks... comfortable. content. like this—sitting here at 11:47pm in an empty library talking about existentialism—is exactly where he wants to be.

"okay," you say. "from the top?"

"from the top."

you present the whole thing twice more. he doesn't interrupt again, just listens, nods at certain points, makes small encouraging gestures when you stumble over words. by the third run-through, you're not even looking at your notes. the arguments flow naturally, and you can see the through-line of your own thinking clearly for the first time.

"that was perfect," he says when you finish. "seriously. you're going to do great."

the praise makes something warm bloom in your chest. "thanks for listening. i know this isn't exactly—" you gesture at his laptop, at the equations you can see on the screen. "your area."

"i liked it." He says it simply, like it's obvious. "i like hearing you talk about things you care about."

the words hang in the air between you. you can feel your face heating, are grateful for the dim lighting that hopefully hides it. "i like hearing you talk about physics," you offer, then immediately feel stupid. "even when I don't understand half of it."

"you understand more than you think." he opens his laptop again, but slowly, like he's reluctant to break whatever spell has settled over your corner of the library. "want to do some actual homework now, or are you too philosophized out?"

"i should probably—" you glance at your phone. 12:15am. "i should probably look at my physics reading. we have that quiz on Monday."

"chapter seven?"

"yeah. rotational dynamics. which i definitely, totally understand and am not at all terrified of."

he grins—quick and bright and almost playful. "liar."

"okay, yes, i'm terrified. Are you happy?"

"very." he's already pulling up the textbook pdf on his laptop, turning the screen so you can both see. "come here, i'll walk you through it."

you move your chair closer—close enough that your shoulders are almost touching, that you can feel the warmth of him along your left side. the screen glows blue-white in the darkness. his fingers move over the trackpad, pulling up diagrams and equations, and you try to focus on the physics and not on the way his voice drops lower when he's explaining something complex, the way he smells like eucalyptus and coffee and something uniquely him.

"so the moment of inertia depends on the distribution of mass," he's saying, and you can feel his breath on your shoulder when he leans in to point at something on the screen. "the farther the mass is from the axis of rotation, the larger the moment of inertia. that's why figure skaters—"

"spin faster when they pull their arms in," you finish. "conservation of angular momentum. you already taught me that."

"just making sure it stuck." he glances at you, and he's close enough that you can see the individual shades of blue in his eyes. not just one color but layers—pale blue near the pupil, darker at the edges, with flecks of something almost silver. "did it stick?"

"yeah," you say, quieter than you intend. "it stuck."

you're staring at each other. the laptop screen has gone dark from inactivity, plunging you into deeper dimness. the only light now is the fluorescent glow from the main library area, filtering through the gaps in the bookshelves. you can see the exact moment his eyes drop to your mouth—quick, involuntary, like he couldn't help it—before snapping back up.

he pulls back slightly, breaking the moment. clears his throat. "we should—the quiz. let me pull up some practice problems."

"right. yeah. practice problems."

but neither of you moves to turn the laptop back on. not for several long seconds. not until someone laughs on a lower floor and the sound echoes up the stairwell, breaking whatever was building between you.

the rest of the night is quieter. you work through practice problems while he runs his simulations, and the silence is punctuated only by the scratch of pencil on paper, the click of keys, the occasional question and answer. but something has shifted. you're hyperaware of every almost-touch, every shared glance, every moment when his hand gets close to yours on the table.

when he walks you home at 2am, the cold october air biting at your exposed skin, you walk closer together than usual. your arms brush with every third step. neither of you mentions it.

at your dorm, he does his usual wave. waits until your light comes on. you watch from the window as he walks away—the correct direction this time, you note. or maybe he's just gotten better at the lie. maybe he walks the correct way for three blocks and then doubles back. maybe he's been doing that all along.

you don't know.

(you're starting to want to.)

· · ─ ·ʚɞ· ─ · ·

library session twelve

it's tuesday and satoru is wearing a different shirt.

this shouldn't matter. it doesn't matter. except you've seen him in the same rotation of clothing for weeks now—three button-downs in various states of wrinkled, two sweaters with holes in the sleeves, that one hoodie with the faded logo—and tonight he's wearing something new. dark blue, fitted, the sleeves rolled up to his elbows in a way that seems deliberate. intentional. like he thought about it.

"hey," he says when you arrive, and his voice is slightly higher than usual. nervous.

"hey." you set down your bag, and your hand trembles slightly when you reach for the coffee he's already gotten you. your fingers brush the cup and it's still warm—which means he got here even earlier than normal. "new shirt?"

you watch color flood his cheeks, spreading down his neck. "oh. yeah. the... the other ones were all dirty."

(a lie. you're getting better at spotting them. his shirts were fine. he did laundry on sunday like he always does, you've seen him in the same blue button-down twice since then. this is new. this is for you.)

"it's nice," you say, and your voice comes out softer than intended. "the color. it's... it's good."

"thanks." he's not looking at you, fingers drumming against his own coffee cup in that nervous rhythm you've memorized. tap-tap-tap-pause-tap. "how was your presentation? friday?"

"oh." you'd almost forgotten. "it went well, actually. got an A. professor said I had 'interesting insights on Sartre's ethical implications.'" you smile at the memory. "pretty sure that's academic speak for 'you went off script but I liked it.'"

his face does that thing—that full, unguarded smile that transforms him completely. "I knew you'd do well. you were—" he pauses, seems to catch himself. "it was a good presentation. when you practiced."

there's something in the way he says it. something weighted. like he's saying more than just the words.

you sit down, and somehow end up closer than usual. your chair scrapes against the floor and you end up near enough that your knees are almost touching under the table. you notice it. freeze for a half-second. shift slightly away but not all the way. neither of you acknowledges it but you can feel the space between you like a physical thing. charged. electric.

"so what are we working on tonight?" he asks, pulling his laptop closer. his fingers are shaking slightly on the trackpad. you've never seen his hands shake before.

"chapter eight. torque and equilibrium." you pull out your textbook but you're hyperaware of where he is in space. the exact distance between his elbow and yours on the table. "but I should probably warn you, I'm completely lost."

"you're not lost. you just think you are." he pulls up the chapter on his screen, angling it so you can both see, and you catch a whiff of his detergent—he changed it, or maybe you're just noticing it more. something clean and fresh with a hint of cedar. "torque is just... it's rotational force. you already understand force. this is the same thing, just spinning."

"just spinning," you echo. "why do you make everything sound so simple?"

"because it is simple. once you see the pattern." he points at a diagram on the screen and you both lean in at the same time. his shoulder brushes yours—just for a second—and you both jerk back like you've been burned. there's a pause. a weird charged silence. "see?" his voice is slightly strained. "force times distance. that's all torque is."

you're trying to focus on the diagram but your skin is still tingling where he touched you. "so if I want to open a door, I push far from the hinges to maximize torque."

"exactly." he turns his head to look at you and you realize suddenly how close you're sitting. close enough to see the faint freckles across his nose. close enough that if you leaned forward just a few inches—

you don't lean forward. neither does he. but you both seem to realize the proximity at the same time and there's a moment where neither of you moves. frozen. his eyes are very blue.

then he clears his throat and looks back at the screen. "you do understand. you just don't trust yourself."

"maybe I just like having you explain things," you say without thinking, and immediately want to take it back. too honest. too revealing.

his fingers still on the trackpad. "oh," he says quietly.

the silence that follows is thick. awkward. you can hear your own heartbeat, loud in your ears.

"so," you say too brightly. "practice problems?"

"right. yeah. practice problems." he's typing too fast, making mistakes, having to backspace. you pretend not to notice.

you try to focus on the physics. you really do. but you keep getting distracted by stupid things. the way his fingers move over the keyboard. the way he worries his bottom lip when he's thinking. the way his hair falls into his eyes and he pushes it back with an impatient gesture.

and you keep almost-touching. reaching for the same pencil. both moving to point at the same equation. every time there's contact—just a brush of fingers, a bump of elbows—you both pull back like you've been shocked. apologize. avoid eye contact.

it's searing.

"are you okay?" he asks after the fifth time you've lost your train of thought mid-sentence.

"fine. just—" you scramble for an excuse. "tired. long day."

"we can stop if you want." there's something in his voice. disappointment, maybe, buried under concern.

"no. I want to stay." too emphatic. you try to dial it back. "I mean, I need to understand this for the quiz monday."

"right. the quiz." he runs a hand through his hair, messing it up. you want to smooth it down. you don't. "let me show you another example."

he pulls the textbook closer to him, which means closer to you. you're sharing the book now, both leaning over it, and you're acutely aware of every place your bodies almost touch. his arm next to yours. his knee a centimeter from your knee. the warmth radiating off him.

"so the system is in equilibrium when the sum of all torques equals zero," he's explaining, and his voice is slightly unsteady. his finger traces the diagram and you're watching his hand instead of the physics. "which means—are you listening?"

"yes," you lie.

"what did I just say?"

"...something about equilibrium?"

he laughs—quiet and a little breathless. "you're not paying attention at all."

"I am. I'm just—" you meet his eyes and forget what you were going to say. he's looking at you with an expression you can't quite read. something soft and uncertain and almost scared. "distracted."

"by what?" it comes out barely above a whisper.

you should say something about the quiz. about being stressed. instead you say, "I don't know," which is somehow more honest.

he swallows hard. you watch his throat work. "me too," he admits quietly. "I've been—for weeks now, I can't—" he stops. takes a breath. "never mind."

"no, what?" you're leaning closer without meaning to.

"nothing. it's—" he shakes his head. "it's stupid."

"tell me anyway."

he looks at you for a long moment. you can see him weighing something. deciding. "I think about you," he says finally, so quiet you almost miss it. "when you're not here. more than I should. more than makes sense for—" he gestures vaguely at the textbook. "for physics homework."

your heart stops. starts again, harder. "oh."

"yeah." he laughs awkwardly, won't meet your eyes. "so. that's—I'm probably making this weird. sorry. we can just—"

"I do too," you interrupt. the words tumble out before you can stop them. "think about you. I mean. when I'm not here." you can feel your face burning. "I see something and wonder what you'd say about it. or I check the time and start getting ready to come here even when I don't have homework and—" you stop. this is too much. too honest.

he's staring at you now. "really?"

"really."

"oh," he breathes. and then: "I wore this shirt because—" he stops. starts again. "you said you liked this color once. weeks ago. on someone else's shirt. I don't even know if you remember."

"I remember." your voice is shaking. "I wore this sweater because you said green was your favorite color on me."

the silence that follows is deafening. you're both just looking at each other, and the air feels thick, hard to breathe. his eyes drop to your mouth—just for a second—and your stomach flips.

then someone laughs on a lower floor and you both startle, jerking apart. the spell breaks.

"we should—" he starts.

"yeah. physics. right." you're not looking at each other now. both staring determinedly at the textbook.

but your hand is on the table between you and so is his, and they're very close. almost touching. you can feel the warmth of his skin. see his fingers twitch like he wants to reach over. you want him to reach over. your pinky moves closer. so does his.

you're both pretending to read the textbook but you're not reading anything. you're focused entirely on the shrinking distance between your hands.

his pinky brushes yours. the contact is feather-light. barely there. but neither of you pulls away.

you shift your hand slightly. now your fingers are overlapping. not quite holding hands but not not holding hands either. your heart is racing so fast you feel dizzy.

"so torque," he says, voice strained, not looking up from the book. "is equal to force times distance."

"right," you manage. your hand is tingling where you're touching him. "force times distance."

"and when the system is in equilibrium—" his index finger curls around yours. still casual. still deniable. "—the net torque is zero."

"zero," you echo. you have no idea what you're saying. all your focus is on the point of contact. his finger hooked around yours.

you sit like that for several minutes. pretending to study. hands linked between the coffee cups and physics textbook. not acknowledging it. both terrified that if you acknowledge it, it will stop.

eventually you have to turn the page and the spell breaks. you both pull back. there's an awkward pause.

"I should—" you start. "it's late. I should probably—"

"oh. yeah. of course." he sounds disappointed. "I'll walk you back."

"you don't have to—"

"I want to."

the walk back is torture. you're walking close enough that your arms brush occasionally. every point of contact feels massive. significant. you're both talking too much, too fast, filling the silence with nervous chatter about nothing. philosophy and physics and the weather and anything except what just happened.

at your dorm, you both stop. stand there awkwardly.

"so," he says.

"so," you echo.

"same time thursday?"

"yeah. thursday." you pause. "thanks for—for the help. with physics."

"anytime." he's looking at you with that soft expression again. "I mean it. anytime."

you should go inside. you're both just standing here. "okay. good. I'll—thursday."

"thursday," he confirms.

neither of you moves.

"I should—" you gesture at the door.

"right. yeah." he takes a step back. "goodnight."

"goodnight, satoru."

you're halfway through the door when he calls your name. you turn back.

"I—" he stops. seems to lose his nerve. "sleep well."

"you too."

you watch from your window as he walks away. he makes it to the corner, pauses, looks back at your building. stands there for a long moment before finally continuing on.

you touch your fingers where his had been. they're still tingling.

this is bad, you think. this is going to be a problem.

you can't wait until thursday.

· · ─ ·ʚɞ· ─ · ·

library session fourteen

it's thursday and satoru isn't here.

you arrive at 11pm exactly—maybe a minute early, maybe you were eager, maybe you'd spent an extra ten minutes picking out your shirt (green, because he likes green on you, because you're just as bad as he is)—and the table is empty. no laptop with its familiar array of stickers (a periodic table, a cat with glasses, something in japanese you can't read). no coffee cups sweating condensation onto the wood, leaving those overlapping rings you've both stopped bothering to wipe away. no satoru with his messy white hair and nervous hands and that way he looks up when you arrive like you've just made his entire night worthwhile.

you wait.

you sit down in your chair—the wobbly one you've gotten used to—and pull out your textbook. chapter nine, angular momentum. you read the same paragraph three times without absorbing a single word.

11:15. nothing.

the library is almost empty. there's someone on the first floor, you can hear the distant sound of pages turning. the fluorescent lights hum their endless sixty-cycle song. the heating system clicks and groans. outside the window, campus is dark except for the scattered orange glow of streetlights.

11:30. you text him. you coming?

you watch the message deliver. wait for the read receipt. nothing.

your leg bounces under the table. you bite your thumbnail, a nervous habit you thought you'd broken in high school.

11:45. you try calling. it rings once, twice, three times. your heart sinks with each ring. four, five, six.

"you've reached gojo satoru, leave a message."

his voice on the recording is awkward, formal. you can hear him cringing at himself even through the recording. there's a pause before the beep like he forgot what he was supposed to say next.

beep.

"hey, it's me. just—wondering if you're okay? you're usually here by now. call me back." you try to keep your voice light, casual, not like anxiety is already coiling in your stomach like a snake.

you hang up. stare at your phone. the screen shows your wallpaper—a photo you took last week of the autumn leaves on the quad, gold and red against grey sky. you'd almost changed it to the selfie you'd convinced satoru to take with you three days ago (he'd looked terrified of the camera, you'd both been laughing, it was perfect) but that felt like too much too soon.

by 12:15 you're packing up your untouched textbook, anxiety fully transformed into something sharper. fear, maybe. what if something happened? what if he's sick? what if he got hit by a car or mugged or had some kind of lab accident with radioactive materials—

or what if he finally got tired of spending every night tutoring you? what if tuesday was too much, too weird, too intense? what if he went home and thought about your fingers tangled with his and realized he didn't actually want this, didn't want you, what if he's avoiding you—

no. no, he wouldn't do that. not without saying something. not after the way he looked at you, not after that soft confession about thinking about you when you're not there.

but what if he would?

you pull up the student directory on your phone. your hands are shaking slightly as you type his name. gojo satoru, physics phd candidate. there's a dorm listed. warren hall, room 447.

you shouldn't go. it's creepy. invasive. stalkerish. he probably just fell asleep or his phone died or he's busy with research and forgot and you're being completely irrational—

you're already walking.

the cold october air hits you like a slap when you exit the library. it's gotten colder in the past few hours—probably in the low forties now, cold enough that you can see your breath, cold enough that you wish you'd brought a heavier jacket. you shove your hands in your pockets and walk fast, partly for warmth and partly because if you slow down you'll lose your nerve.

warren hall is on the far side of campus—a solid twenty-five minute walk from the library. past the humanities building (dark, locked, silent), past the student center (a few lit windows on the upper floors, the distant thump of music from someone's room), past the science quad with its modern glass buildings that glow blue-white from the emergency lighting inside.

warren hall is newer than your building—maybe ten years old instead of fifty. all key card access and security cameras and a front desk that's unmanned at this hour. you catch the door when someone leaves—a tired-looking grad student with a messenger bag and dead eyes—slip inside before it closes. the lobby is too warm, overheated in that way institutional buildings always are. it smells like carpet cleaner and instant ramen and the particular musk of too many people living in close quarters.

the elevator has an "out of order" sign taped to it. of course it does.

you take the stairs, your footsteps echoing in the concrete stairwell. someone has taped inspirational posters to the walls at each landing. "you got this!" "don't give up!" "almost there!" they get progressively more deranged as you climb. by the fourth floor it just says "why?" with a picture of a cat looking existentially exhausted.

fourth floor. the hallway is long and narrow, painted that specific shade of beige that exists only in institutional buildings. the carpet is dark blue, industrial, stained in places you don't want to examine too closely. the hallway smells like microwave popcorn and old socks and someone's weed brownie experiment gone wrong.

you find 447 at the end, past doors decorated with whiteboards and name tags and one very elaborate fantasy map. satoru's door is plain. just the number. no whiteboard, no decoration. somehow that feels very him.

you hesitate with your hand raised to knock.

what are you doing? what if he's here with someone? what if he's asleep? what if he doesn't want to see you? what if you're completely overreacting and he's going to think you're unhinged for tracking him down like this—

you knock before you can talk yourself out of it.

nothing.

the silence is absolute. you can hear your own heartbeat, loud in your ears. can hear someone's tv through the wall to your left, canned laughter from a sitcom.

you try again, louder. your knuckles sting from the impact. "satoru? it's me. are you okay?"

more silence.

you try the handle—just to see, just to confirm it's locked so you can leave and tell yourself you tried—and it turns.

unlocked...

your heart jumps into your throat, pulse suddenly racing. unlocked. his door is unlocked. what if something's wrong? what if someone broke in? what if he's hurt inside?

"satoru?" you push the door open slowly, every horror movie you've ever seen playing in your head. "I'm coming in, okay? I just want to make sure you're not dead or—"

the room is empty.

you let out a breath you didn't know you were holding.

it's small—barely bigger than your own dorm. maybe ten by twelve feet, most of it taken up by furniture. a single bed in the corner, neatly made with plain navy sheets and a pillow that looks flat and sad. a desk absolutely buried in papers and textbooks and coffee cups in various states of empty. a small bookshelf overflowing with physics texts and actual literature—you spot dostoevsky and camus and, inexplicably, a collection of poetry by mary oliver. a tiny kitchenette area with a microwave and electric kettle. a closet with the door half-open, showing a depressingly small collection of clothes (lots of white and blue, everything rumpled).

barely any decoration except a periodic table poster on the wall above his desk—the kind where each element is color-coded by category—and a small succulent on the windowsill that looks half-dead, its leaves brown and shriveled. there's a single photo taped to the wall by his bed: satoru and an older couple, possibly his parents, all three of them squinting into the sun. he looks younger. happier. less tired.

his laptop is open on the desk, screen still glowing with that pale blue light.

you shouldn't look. you absolutely should not look. this is a massive invasion of privacy. this is wrong. this is—

but what if something in there tells you where he is? what if there's a note, a calendar entry, something to explain why he didn't show up? what if he's in trouble?

you move closer, shoes sinking into the thin carpet. the desk is chaos—printed papers covered in equations you can't begin to understand, lab notebooks with coffee stains and scribbled margin notes, a mug with cold coffee and a film on top, three different pens (blue, black, red), a calculator that looks like it costs more than your textbooks, a stack of grant applications paper-clipped together.

the laptop screen shows a document—academic formatting, double-spaced, dense with citations and technical language that might as well be a foreign language.

your eyes catch on the title at the top.

Synthesis and Characterization of Ununennium (Element 119): A Novel Approach to Superheavy Element Creation Through Modified Hot Fusion Reactions

Gojo, S., Department of Physics, Graduate Program in Nuclear Science

Nakamura, T., Department of Physics

Submitted to: Physical Review Letters

your brain stutters. stops. tries to process. fails.

element 119. synthesis of a new element. ununennium.

that lecture. the one from your assignment at the beginning of the semester. that brilliant, awkward physicist who'd discovered element 119 and could barely string two words together in front of a crowd. who'd rushed through his slides like he was being chased, whose hands had shaken so badly the laser pointer kept jumping around the screen. who'd gotten flustered at questions and stammered through answers and looked like he wanted the earth to swallow him whole.

who'd made you write in your paper: there's something deeply humanizing about seeing a scientist—especially one who made such a groundbreaking discovery—be so genuinely uncomfortable with public speaking. it reminds us that brilliance doesn't come with confidence pre-installed. that the person who just expanded our understanding of atomic physics is still just a person, still nervous, still human.

you scroll down, hands shaking. the abstract is full of technical terms you don't know. isotopes and decay chains and cross-sections and beam energy. but you catch fragments:

...successful synthesis of element 119 through the fusion of titanium-50 and berkelium-249...

...detection confirmed through alpha decay chain analysis...

...represents a significant advance in superheavy element research...

there are dates. the experiment was concluded in july. the lecture was in september, right before the semester started. right before you'd been assigned to write about a recent scientific advancement. right before you'd sat in the library at 11pm struggling with physics homework and a white-haired, blue-eyed stranger had asked if you needed help.

"oh my god," you breathe.

you scroll further. more documents in his recent files. drafts of papers. data analysis. emails from his advisor about publication timelines and conference presentations. an email from someone at berkeley asking him to give a talk. an email from CERN with the subject line "research opportunity."

and then—

a folder labeled "papers to read."

you click it without thinking, without considering that this is wrong, that you're violating his privacy, that you should stop—

your philosophy paper on heidegger. saved as a PDF. dated from three weeks ago.

you open it. the margins are full of comments in his handwriting—small, precise, the letters cramped.

this is a really interesting point about authenticity

hadn't thought about it this way before

I wonder if this connects to what you said about entropy that night? both about finding meaning in the face of inevitable ending?

you close it with shaking hands. scroll further.

an article about sartre's concept of bad faith from a philosophy journal. bookmarked. highlighted in yellow—something about self-deception and avoiding freedom.

an article about the ethics of artificial intelligence that you'd mentioned wanting to read during one of your late-night conversations. saved.

a PDF of mary oliver's wild geese with one line highlighted: you do not have to be good.

and then—

a document titled simply "notes."

you shouldn't open it. you absolutely should not open it.

you open it.

it's not dated. just... observations. fragments. a running list.

—takes coffee black with one sugar, always waits for it to cool to exactly 140 degrees before drinking (I timed it, approximately 7 minutes after purchase)

—gets frustrated when she doesn't understand something immediately but won't ask for help until she's tried at least three times on her own

—chews on her pen cap when she's thinking, has probably consumed a concerning amount of plastic

—birthday in -your birthday month- (mentioned it when talking about spring break plans, specifically, same as the ides of march and she made a joke about betrayal)

—wants to go to grad school but isn't sure where yet, keeps changing her mind between continental philosophy and ethics

—thinks I'm weird but in a good way??? (she said this. I have replayed this seventeen times in my head. "good way" means positive. probably.)

—laughs with her whole body, throws her head back, it's the best sound I've ever heard

—she wore the green sweater again today, I think she knows I like it, or maybe I'm reading into things, I'm definitely reading into things

your heart is hammering against your ribs so hard it hurts. you scroll further and there are more notes, going back weeks. the first entry is from early september.

—asked me for help with physics, looked at me like I might actually be able to help, like I wasn't just the weird guy who can't talk to people. maybe this semester won't be completely terrible.

then more, scattered observations:

—she came back. didn't have to. chose to.

—remembers things I say, brought up something I mentioned about quantum tunneling three days later

—bit her lip today when she was concentrating and I forgot how to explain angular momentum

—I think I'm in trouble

the most recent entry is from tuesday. two days ago.

—she wore the green sweater. she remembered. she REMEMBERED.

—held her hand for 4 minutes and 23 seconds before she had to turn the page. wanted to do it again immediately. wanted to never stop. wanted to—

—I think about her constantly. when I'm running simulations I imagine explaining them to her. when I read something interesting I mentally compose how I'd tell her about it. when I'm falling asleep I replay conversations, thinking about what I should have said, what I wish I'd been brave enough to say.

—she makes me want to be less afraid. she makes me want to be brave. she makes me want to be normal even though I've never been normal a day in my life and I don't know how to start.

—I'm in love with her. I think. I don't have a reference point. but if love is wanting someone else's happiness more than your own, wanting to know everything about them, wanting to be better for them—then yes. definitely. unequivocally.

—I'm terrified she'll realize I'm too much. too intense. too weird. that she'll—

it cuts off there. like he couldn't finish the thought.

you're staring at the screen when you hear footsteps in the hallway. voices.

"—just need to grab my laptop and then we can go over the data from tonight's run. the decay chain is slightly different from what we predicted—"

the door opens. satoru freezes in the doorway.

he's wearing his lab coat—white, rumpled, stained with something that might be coffee or might be chemicals you don't want to think about. his hair is more disheveled than usual, standing up like he's been running his hands through it for hours. he has safety goggles pushed up on his forehead. there's a smudge of something dark on his cheek. he looks exhausted—eyes shadowed, shoulders tight with tension.

there's an older man behind him—late fifties, greying hair, wearing an identical lab coat and carrying a stack of folders thick enough to be a weapon. professor nakamura, you recognize him vaguely from around campus. he's apparently somewhat famous in physics circles, though you couldn't say why.

satoru's eyes—those impossibly blue eyes that you've memorized in every shade and mood—go wide. then wider. his face drains of color, going from pale to absolutely bloodless in the span of a heartbeat. his mouth opens. closes. opens again. no sound comes out.

his eyes dart to his laptop. to you standing in front of it. back to you. the recognition and horror that crosses his face is almost comical. almost, except you can see real fear there too.

"I—" he starts. his voice cracks. "I can explain."

professor nakamura looks between you with barely concealed amusement, one eyebrow raised, a small smile tugging at his mouth. "I'll just—" he clears his throat. "I'll wait in my office. room 342 in the physics building. bring the data when you're ready, gojo. take your time."

the emphasis on "take your time" is meaningful. he's definitely laughing at satoru.

he leaves, closing the door behind him with a soft click that sounds deafening in the sudden silence.

you and satoru stare at each other for what it seems like hours.

he still hasn't moved from the doorway. his hands are clenched at his sides, knuckles white. you can see him trembling—just slightly, but definitely trembling. his eyes are doing that thing where they jump around, looking at you then away then back, like he can't decide whether to maintain eye contact or flee.

"you didn't show up," you say. your voice sounds strange to your own ears. distant. like you're underwater. "I was worried."

"I was in the lab." the words come out in a rush, defensive. "we were running the particle accelerator and it took longer than expected and I lost track of time and my phone died and I—" he stops. swallows hard. you watch his throat work, watch him try to gather himself. "you read it."

it's not a question. it's a statement of fact, heavy with resignation.

"element 119," you say. "you made element 119."

"yes." barely a whisper.

"you synthesized a new element. you discovered—no, created—something that has never existed before in the universe." your brain is still trying to process this. "you were the one. the lecture. the one I wrote my assignment about."

"yes." he won't look at you now. he's staring at the floor, at his shoes (scuffed sneakers, the laces on one are coming untied), anywhere but your face.

"why didn't you tell me?" you're not angry—you should maybe be angry about the invasion of privacy, about the secret-keeping, but you're not. you're just baffled. genuinely confused. "when I mentioned that assignment, when I talked about that lecture—why didn't you say it was you?"

"because—" he runs a hand through his hair, agitated, messing it up even more. the safety goggles fall off his forehead and clatter to the floor. he doesn't pick them up. "because I didn't want you to know. I didn't want you to—" he makes a frustrated gesture, hands cutting through the air. "everyone knows. everyone in the physics department, everyone who follows particle physics, everyone at conferences. I can't go anywhere without people wanting to talk about it or asking me questions or treating me like I'm—"

his voice rises slightly, gets tighter. he's breathing faster now, working himself up.

"—like I'm some kind of genius or prodigy or—or like I'm not a person. like I'm just this thing that made a discovery. this achievement. not satoru who likes bad coffee and can't give presentations without wanting to die and who's read the same mary oliver poem seventeen times because it makes him feel less—"

he cuts himself off. bites his lip hard.

"and when I met you, you didn't know." his voice drops back down, goes quiet. "you just thought I was some weird physics student who hung out in the library too late. you looked at me like I was normal. like I was just... a person. a regular person who happened to know physics."

he finally looks at you. his eyes are bright, maybe with unshed tears, definitely with emotion you can't quite name.

"I liked it. I liked that you didn't know. that you weren't impressed or intimidated or weird about it. you were just—you were just talking to me. not the person who synthesized 119. not gojo satoru, the youngest person to create a superheavy element. just... me. just satoru."

the silence that follows is heavy. you can hear everything. the buzz of his laptop. someone's music three doors down. your own heartbeat. his breathing, still uneven.

"I read your notes," you say quietly. "about me."

if possible, he goes even paler. "that's—those were private. I wasn't—" he's spiraling now, you can see it happening, panic taking over. "I know it's weird. I know I'm weird. I just—I wanted to remember things about you and I have a terrible memory for anything that's not physics so I write things down and I didn't mean for it to be creepy I just—"

he's talking faster now, words tumbling over each other.

"—you're always on my mind. you're always—god, all the time. when I'm in the lab I think 'she would find this interesting' or 'I should explain this to her' or 'I wonder what she's doing right now.' when I read something I think about how you'd analyze it, what connections you'd make. when I'm trying to fall asleep I replay our conversations, every single one, and think about all the things I should have said differently or better or—"

he's pacing now, three steps one way, three steps back, gesturing wildly.

"—and tuesday when you held my hand I thought I was going to combust. literally. spontaneous human combustion. I couldn't breathe properly for the rest of the night. I've been thinking about it nonstop for two days. four minutes and twenty-three seconds. I timed it because of course I did because I time everything because I'm obsessive and weird and I—"

he stops. puts his hands over his face.

"I know I'm too much. I know I get too intense about things. my advisor says I need to learn to be normal about stuff, to have boundaries, to not throw myself completely into everything but I don't know how to be normal about anything, I never have been. especially not—"

his voice drops, muffled behind his hands.

"—especially not you. you're—you're the first person in years who's wanted to spend time with me for me and not because of what I can do or what I've discovered or because they want something from me. you just—you just wanted to pass physics. and then you kept coming back. you kept choosing to be there. and I—"

he lowers his hands. his eyes are definitely wet now.

"I'm in love with you. I think. I don't know. I've never—I don't have a reference point for this but I think about you constantly and when you're not around everything feels wrong and when you smile at me I forget how to think and I—"

his voice cracks.

"—I'm sorry. I'm sorry, I know that's too much too fast but I don't know how to be anything other than too much and I don't know how to pretend I'm not—that I don't—"

you cross the room in three strides and kiss him.

he makes a shocked sound against your mouth—high and surprised, almost a squeak—and freezes. his hands hover in the air beside your shoulders, not touching you, like he doesn't know what to do with them. like he's afraid to touch you. like he thinks you might disappear if he does.

his lips are slightly chapped. he tastes like coffee—the cheap lab coffee, bitter and burnt—and something mint, maybe gum. he's completely still, not kissing back, apparently short-circuiting.

you pull back just enough to speak, your lips still brushing his. "you should've told me sooner."

"what?" his eyes are unfocused, dazed. his pupils are blown wide, making his eyes look almost black. "I—what?"

"about the element. about the lecture." you're smiling now, you can't help it. your hands are on his chest and you can feel his heart racing, hammering against his ribs like it's trying to escape. "I always thought you were brilliant. finding out you literally synthesized a new element doesn't change that. if anything it just—"

you laugh softly.

"—it makes sense. of course you did. of course you're the person who did that. you explain physics like.... it's poetry. you see patterns in everything. you think about the heat death of the universe the way other people think about what to have for dinner."

you reach up and push his hair back from his forehead. he leans into the touch like a cat, eyes fluttering closed for a second.

"of course you created something new. something that never existed before. that's just—that's you."

"you're not—" his voice is barely functional. "you're not mad?"

"why would I be mad?"

"because I didn't tell you. because I let you write an assignment about me without saying anything. because I—" he gestures helplessly at the laptop, still open, still showing his notes about you. "because I keep notes about you like a creep."

"satoru." you put your hand on his cheek. he leans into it, turning his face to press his lips against your palm—just for a second, quick and unconscious. "I wore a specific sweater because you once mentioned liking the color green. I look up your schedule so I know where you might be between classes. I change my coffee shop route on tuesdays and thursdays because there's a chance I might run into you."

you meet his eyes.

"I started coming to the library at 11pm even on nights when I don't have physics homework because I know you'll be there. I think about you when I'm supposed to be paying attention in class. I read philosophy papers and imagine what you'd say about them. we're both a little creepy."

he laughs—shaky and breathless and slightly hysterical. "yeah?"

"yeah." you lean up and kiss him again, soft and quick. his hands finally move, coming up to grip your waist like you're the only solid thing in his universe. "and for the record? I always thought you were adorable."

"adorable," he repeats weakly, like the word doesn't compute.

"adorable. even when—especially when—you got all flustered during that lecture. I wrote in my paper that it was humanizing. that it made this incredible discovery feel real because the person behind it was so—"

you search for the word.

"—so genuine. so awkward and brilliant and human. you couldn't get through your presentation without stumbling over your words but you'd just done something incredible. something that expanded human knowledge. and you were just—you were just a person. nervous and brilliant and real."

his hands are trembling where they grip your waist. "I've wanted to kiss you for six weeks."

"then why did you not act on it?"

he kisses you again, and this time he kisses back. his hands slide from your waist to your back, pulling you closer. one hand moves up to cup the back of your head, fingers tangling in your hair. he kisses you like he does everything else—intensely, thoroughly, like he's trying to memorize every detail. like he's been thinking about this for weeks and now that it's happening he wants to get it exactly right.

you make a soft sound and feel him shiver. his grip tightens. when you finally break apart you're both breathing hard. his forehead rests against yours. his eyes are closed. he looks almost pained.

"tell me about it," you say.

"about what?" his voice is rough.

"the element. 119. how did you make it?" you press your lips to the corner of his mouth. "I want to know."

"now?" he sounds strangled. "you want to know about particle physics now?"

"I always want to know about particle physics when you're the one explaining it." you explore his jaw. feel the muscle jump under your lips. "tell me."

"I—" he tries to gather his thoughts. difficult, apparently, when you're kissing along his jawline. "we used hot fusion. titanium-50 beam and berkelium-249 target."

"what's hot fusion?" you kiss just below his ear and he makes a soft sound, a sound close to a whimper.

"it's—fusion of—" he has to stop. breathe. "fusion of a lighter beam nucleus with a heavier target. as opposed to cold fusion which uses similar masses. hot fusion produces more neutron-rich isotopes which—which are more stable—"

you pull back to look at him. "keep going."

his eyes are half-lidded. he's looking at your mouth. "the titanium beam is accelerated to about 5 MeV per nucleon and—and fired at the berkelium target—"

you kiss him again, slow and deep. he makes a desperate sound in the back of his throat.

"and then?" you prompt against his lips.

"and then—if the energy is right—the nuclei fuse. create element 119 for—for approximately 0.9 milliseconds before it undergoes alpha decay—"

his hands are moving restlessly on your back, like he can't quite figure out where to put them, settling for pulling you impossibly closer.

"—we detect it through the decay chain. element 119 decays to 115 which decays to 111 which—which—"

you're kissing his neck now. he's completely lost his train of thought.

"which what?" you murmur against his skin.

"I—I don't—what was I saying?"

you laugh softly and he shivers. "decay chain."

"right. right. decay chain. each—each alpha decay releases a specific amount of energy. we measure that. it's like a fingerprint. tells us what element we created."

his voice is getting progressively less steady.

"the tricky part is the half-life. less than a second. so we need incredibly sensitive detectors and—and—"

you bite gently at his pulse point and he gasps.

"—and fast data acquisition. which is why—why we use—"

he gives up. cups your face in both hands and kisses you desperately like he's got something to prove.

"you're evil," he says when you finally break apart. "you're trying to kill me."

"I'm trying to learn about superheavy elements."

"you're trying to make me lose my mind."

"can't I do both?"

he laughs—breathless and genuine—and kisses you again. softer this time. sweeter.

"four minutes and twenty-three seconds," you say when you pull back.

he groans. "you're never going to let me live that down."

"you timed how long we held hands."

"I have a very accurate internal clock."

"you're such a nerd."

"you like it." he's smiling now—that full, unguarded smile that transforms his whole face.

"I do," you admit. your hands are fisted in his lab coat. "I really, really do."

"I need to—" he glances at his laptop, then at you, clearly torn. "I need to bring data to my advisor. he's waiting. we need to analyze the results from tonight's run."

"alright." you respond in a whiny tone — like a child slowly brewing up a tantrum.

"but after—" he pauses. his hands are still on your face, thumbs stroking your cheekbones. "do you want to come back? we could—we don't have to do physics. we could just—"

"talk?" you offer. "like normal people?"

"I don't know how to be normal."

"good." you kiss him once more, quick and sweet. he chases your mouth when you pull away. "I don't want normal anyway."

he makes a soft sound—want and frustration and something that might be relief.

"go," you say. "do your science thing. I'll wait."

"you'll wait?" like he can't quite believe it.

"I'll wait."

his smile could power the entire campus. could probably power the particle accelerator. could possibly be visible from space.

"okay. okay. I'll be fast. twenty minutes. maybe thirty. definitely less than an hour—" he's already moving to his laptop, saving documents with shaking hands, ejecting a USB drive from the port.

"satoru."

"right. going. I'm going." he shoves the USB in his lab coat pocket, grabs a notebook from the desk. pauses at the door. turns back. "you're really—you're not mad about the notes?"

"I'm keeping a mental catalog of every time you do that thing where you push your hair back when you're thinking," you tell him. "I think we're even."

he laughs—bright and genuine and surprised, like the sound was pulled out of him. it fills something in your chest you didn't know was empty.

"twenty minutes," he promises. "thirty tops. I'll—don't leave. please don't leave."

"I'm not going anywhere."

he kisses you one more time—quick and clumsy and perfect—and then he's gone, the door closing behind him with a soft click.

you sink onto his desk chair, surrounded by his papers and research and the evidence of his brilliant, chaotic mind. the room still smells like him—eucalyptus and coffee and something clean. his bed is right there, neatly made. his books are within arm's reach. his laptop is open in front of you showing his notes, his observations, his confession.

'I'm in love with her.'

element 119, you think. he synthesized element 119 and was too nervous to tell you. he created something that never existed before in the universe—expanded the periodic table, pushed the boundaries of human knowledge—and what scared him was admitting he liked you.

you're smiling so hard your cheeks hurt.

you touch your lips where you can still feel the ghost of his mouth. remember the way he kissed you like you were precious. like you were the real discovery.

· · ─ ·ʚɞ· ─ · ·

date session one

it's thursday and everything is different.

you arrive at 11pm—exactly on time, not early, because you spent fifteen minutes in the bathroom of the science building giving yourself a pep talk in the mirror like a lunatic. your reflection had stared back at you, slightly wild-eyed, while you'd whispered "it's fine. it's the same as always. except you're dating now. except you've kissed him. except he told you he's in love with you and you kissed him again and—"

okay. it's not the same as always.

your hands are sweating. you wipe them on your jeans as you climb the stairs to the third floor. the stairwell smells like old books and floor wax and someone's leftover chinese food. your footsteps echo. your heart is hammering so hard you can feel it in your throat.

you're being ridiculous. this is satoru. this is the person you've been spending almost every night with for three months. nothing has changed.

everything has changed.

the library is quiet, nearly empty. third floor is completely deserted except—there. your usual table by the window, the one where the fluorescent light flickers every forty-seven seconds. and there he is.

satoru looks up when you approach and his whole face does that thing—that transformation you've memorized in excruciating detail, the way his expression shifts from focused (eyebrows slightly drawn, mouth in a concentrated line) to soft (eyes widening, mouth parting slightly) to incandescent (full smile, the one that crinkles the corners of his eyes and shows that slightly crooked canine) in the space of a heartbeat.

but now there's something else there too. nervousness. uncertainty. his hands are fidgeting on the table, fingers drumming that familiar rhythm. tap-tap-tap-pause-tap. like he's also been giving himself a pep talk. like he's also terrified.

"hey," he says. his voice cracks slightly on the single syllable. the word breaks in the middle, goes higher than intended. you watch his face flush, color spreading across his cheekbones and down his neck.

"hey." you set your bag down with a soft thud that echoes in the quiet space. there are two coffee cups on the table already, still steaming. you can see the heat waves rising from them, smell the bitter-sharp scent of your coffee and the tooth-achingly sweet caramel of his. yours and his. the familiar ritual. "you're here early."

"I'm always here early." he's fidgeting with his pen, clicking it open and closed. click-click-click. the sound is too loud in the silence. his thumb is pressing the button compulsively, a nervous tic you've never seen before. "I just—I wanted to make sure—"

he stops. you're both just standing there, on opposite sides of the table, like there's a force field between you. like you've forgotten how to be normal around each other. his laptop is open, screen glowing blue-white with some physics paper covered in equations. there's a stack of books next to it—three library books about quantum mechanics and one collection of poetry by mary oliver that definitely isn't for his research. his coffee cup has a ring of condensation around it. his hair is slightly damp, like he showered recently. you can smell his shampoo from here, that clean eucalyptus scent mixing with the coffee and old books.

this is excruciating.

"so," you say. your voice sounds strange. too high.

"so," he echoes. he sets the pen down. picks it up again. sets it down. his knee is bouncing under the table, making his whole body vibrate slightly.

"are we going to be weird about this?"

"I don't know. maybe?" he runs a hand through his hair, leaving it standing up in messy white spikes. "I don't know how to—I've never—"

"me neither."

"oh. good. okay." he takes a breath. you watch his chest expand, watch him hold it for three seconds, release slowly. a calming technique. "so we're both being weird."

"extremely weird."

"great. perfect. that makes me feel better." he's smiling now, small and tentative, just the corner of his mouth quirking up. "do you want to sit down? or we could keep standing here awkwardly. both options are valid. equally valid. I'm fine with either. whatever you want."

he's rambling. you've never heard him ramble quite like this before.

you laugh—relieved and genuine, the sound bursting out of you—and the tension breaks slightly. like a string that was pulled too tight suddenly loosening. you move to your chair, the wobbly one with the cracked vinyl, and sit. the seat is cold through your jeans. he sits too. you're in your usual positions—him on one side of the table, you on the other—except now you're hyperaware of the distance between you. eighteen inches. maybe twenty. you could measure it in the length of the physics textbook lying closed on the table. too far.

you both reach for your coffee at the same time. your hands move in sync, close around the cups (yours still warm, heat seeping through the cardboard sleeve, his probably already cooling). both lift to your mouths. both take a sip. the coffee is perfect—exactly the right temperature, bitter and strong. both set the cups down in the exact same moment. the slight thud of cardboard on wood, perfectly synchronized.

you catch each other's eyes and laugh—nervous, slightly hysterical.

"I have physics homework," you say, desperate for something normal. something that feels like before.

"of course you do." there's affection in his voice now. warmth. the kind of warmth that settles in your chest like sunlight. "what chapter?"

"ten. rotation and angular momentum. again. I don't think I actually understood it the first time."

"you understood it fine. you just don't trust yourself." he's pulling his laptop closer, but slowly. his movements are careful, deliberate. his eyes keep darting to you and then away, like he can't decide whether to look or not look. "same problem as always."

"maybe I just like having you explain things."

the words hang between you. that's—that's flirting. you're flirting. you've flirted before, danced around the edges of it for weeks, but now it means something different. now you're allowed to mean it. now it's not subtext, it's just text.

his ears go pink. bright pink, the color spreading down to where they disappear into his hair. "yeah?"

"yeah."

the smile that breaks across his face is devastating. it's unguarded in a way you've rarely seen—no careful control, no attempt to play it cool. just pure, undiluted happiness. his eyes crinkle at the corners. his whole face lights up. "okay. good. I—okay." he opens his laptop fully, the screen casting pale light on his face. pulls up the textbook pdf with slightly shaking hands—you can see the tremor in his fingers as they move across the trackpad. "come here then."

the words send a jolt through you. come here. not stay there. come here.

you stand up. the chair scrapes against the floor, too loud. walk around the table, your footsteps muffled by the old carpet. he pushes his chair back slightly—the wheels squeak—and you hesitate for just a second before sitting down. not in your own chair, but on the edge of the desk right next to him. close enough that your leg is pressed against his arm. you can feel the warmth of him through two layers of fabric, feel the solid presence of his shoulder against your thigh.

he goes still. like he's afraid to move, afraid to breathe. you can feel the tension in him, every muscle locked. the way his breathing changes—shallower, faster. his hand on the trackpad freezes mid-movement.

"is this okay?" you ask quietly.

"yes." his voice is rough, scraped raw. "very okay. extremely okay." he swallows hard and you watch his throat work, watch the bob of his adam's apple. "you can—you're welcome to sit closer. anytime. always."

you lean over to look at his screen and your hair falls forward, brushing his shoulder. the strands whisper across his shirt—he's wearing that blue one again, the new one—and you hear his breath catch. actually hear it, a sharp inhale that he tries to cover with a cough.

"so," he says, slightly strangled. his voice has gone up half an octave. "angular momentum. L equals I times omega." he points at the equation on the screen but his hand is trembling slightly.

"I remember." you're not really looking at the screen. you're watching him, cataloging every reaction. the way his throat works when he swallows. the way his fingers are gripping his pen too tight, knuckles white. the way a muscle jumps in his jaw. the faint flush spreading down from his ears to his neck. "moment of inertia times angular velocity."

"right. and—and if there's no external torque, angular momentum is conserved, which—"

he loses his train of thought completely when you lean closer. your shoulder pressed against his now, your arm brushing his. you can feel his heartbeat, impossibly—or maybe that's your own heartbeat, you can't tell anymore. the heat of him seeps through your clothes. you can smell his shampoo stronger now, eucalyptus and something else. mint maybe. clean and sharp and distinctly him.

"which means what?" you prompt. your voice comes out softer than intended, almost a whisper.

"which means—I don't remember. what was the question?" he turns his head to look at you and suddenly your faces are very close. three inches. maybe less. you can see the individual shades of blue in his eyes, pale near the pupil darkening to something almost cobalt at the edges. can see the faint freckles across his nose that you never noticed before. can count his eyelashes if you wanted to. "what were we talking about?"

you laugh softly and he makes a pained sound, something between a groan and a whimper.

"you're doing this on purpose," he accuses, but there's no heat in it. his eyes are dark, pupils blown wide.

"doing what?"

"being distracting. sitting this close. smelling good. existing." he turns his head to look at you properly and suddenly your faces are very close. close enough that you can feel his breath on your lips, warm and coffee-scented. "it's cruel. you're being cruel to me."

"I can move—" you start to pull back.

"don't you dare." his hand comes up, fingers catching your wrist gently. his touch is warm, careful, like you're something fragile. his thumb finds your pulse point, presses there lightly. you wonder if he can feel how fast your heart is racing. "I'm just—I'm trying to figure out if I'm allowed to—if we're—"

"satoru."

"yeah?" he's staring at your mouth now, not even trying to hide it.

"you can kiss me if you want to."

"we're in the library," he says weakly, but his eyes have already dropped back to your mouth. his tongue darts out to wet his lips—nervous habit.

"we're on the third floor at 11pm on a thursday. there's literally no one here." you can hear how empty it is, just the hum of fluorescent lights and the distant sound of the heating system and both of your slightly-too-fast breathing.

"what about the physics homework—"

you cup his face and kiss him.

he makes that sound again—soft and surprised and pleased, high in his throat—and then he's kissing you back. his hand comes up to tangle in your hair, careful, gentle, fingers threading through the strands like he's trying to memorize the texture. like you're something precious. the kiss is soft. sweet. chaste, almost. nothing like the desperate kissing in his dorm room two days ago. this is—tender. exploratory. like you have all the time in the world. his lips are soft, slightly chapped. he tastes like that terrible sweet coffee and mint gum. his hand in your hair is trembling.

when you pull back his eyes are still closed. his lips are slightly parted, kiss-swollen. his cheeks are flushed pink. he looks dazed, slightly drunk in love and moonstruck. his hand is still in your hair, fingers tangled in the strands like he forgot to let go.

"hi," you whisper.

his eyes flutter open slowly. they're darker than usual, pupils blown wide. "hi."

"better?"

"so much better. can we—can we do that again?"

you kiss him again. and again. soft, brief touches that make your stomach flip every time. his hand is warm on your jaw, thumb stroking your cheekbone in that way that makes you shiver. he kisses like he's savoring it, like he wants to memorize every detail. each kiss is slightly different—this one a bit longer, this one with his bottom lip caught gently between yours, this one with your noses bumping and both of you smiling.

"okay," he says when you finally pull back for real. his voice is wrecked, rough like he's been using it for hours. "okay, we need to—physics. we should do physics."

"should we?"

"yes. definitely. you have a homework assignment due monday and I promised to help and I'm not going to be the reason you fail physics because I can't stop kissing you." but even as he says it, he's leaning in again, pressing a kiss to the corner of your mouth. then your cheek. then your jaw.

"pretty sure the kissing was mutual."

"extremely mutual. dangerously mutual." but he's grinning now, looking younger and happier than you've ever seen him. "but seriously. homework. I'm going to be responsible about this. I'm going to be the most responsible—"

you give him a chaste kiss and he makes a defeated sound.

"you're not making this easy," he complains against your mouth.

"you're such a nerd."

"you like it."

"I really do."

you slide off the desk—reluctantly, muscles protesting, you realize you were tensed up without meaning to be—but instead of going back to your own chair, you pull it around to his side of the table. the wheels squeak and catch on the carpet. squeeze it in next to his so you're sitting shoulder to shoulder, thighs pressed together, both facing his laptop screen.

"this works too," he says quietly. his hand finds yours under the table, fingers lacing together. his palm is slightly sweaty but you don't care. "this is—yeah. this works."

it works better than works.

you spend the next hour actually working through the physics homework. he explains the problems with his usual careful patience—that way he has of breaking down complex concepts into manageable pieces, of finding the perfect metaphor or analogy to make things click—but now there are differences. his thumb traces circles on your palm while he talks, absent and constant. when you get an answer right, he kisses your temple—just a quick press of lips to skin but it makes you lose your train of thought every time. when you're stuck on a concept, he tilts your chin up to look at him while he explains it in a different way, and you get lost in his eyes instead of the physics.

"you're not listening," he says fondly.

"I am listening."

"you're staring at my mouth."

"I can do both."

"that's—" he laughs, breathless. "that's not how attention works."

"says who?"

"says neuroscience. you can't fully focus on two things at once. the brain doesn't multitask, it task-switches rapidly which—"

you kiss him and he forgets whatever he was saying.

the physics gets mixed up with soft touches and softer kisses. his hand on your knee, steady and warm. your fingers playing with the hair at the nape of his neck, making him shiver. at one point you end up in his lap somehow—you're not even sure how it happened, whose idea it was—his arms around your waist, both of you looking at the textbook propped on the table.

you can feel his heartbeat against your back. steady and strong. his chin is hooked over your shoulder, cheek pressed to yours. every breath he takes moves both of you.

"this is not efficient study methodology," he murmurs against your shoulder. his lips brush your skin through your shirt and you feel it everywhere.

"are you complaining?"

"absolutely not. just making an observation." his arms tighten around you, hands splaying across your stomach. "you're going to ace this homework though. you understand this better than you think."

"good teacher."

"biased student."

you turn in his lap to face him—careful, slow, giving him time to object. his eyes go wide, hands automatically moving to your waist to steady you. you're straddling him now in the library chair, face to face, and his breath hitches.

"hey," you say.

"hi.." his voice is barely there. his hands are trembling where they grip your waist.

"I have a question," you say.

"about physics?"

"about you."

"oh." his hands settle more firmly on your waist, uncertain. his thumbs stroke small circles there, probably unconscious. "okay."

"when did you know? that you—" you pause, suddenly shy. heat flooding your cheeks. "that you liked me?"

he's quiet for a moment. his eyes search your face like he's trying to memorize it, like he's cataloging every feature. you can see him thinking, see the exact moment he decides to be honest.

"the first night," he says finally. "when you asked me for help and you looked so frustrated and determined and you said 'I'm going to fail this class' like it was a personal offense to you. like physics had insulted you personally and you were going to fight it."

his voice goes softer, drops to almost a whisper.

"and then when I started explaining vectors you actually listened. really listened. you didn't just wait for me to give you the answer. you asked good questions. made connections I hadn't thought of. saw patterns. and I remember thinking—"

he pauses, swallows hard.

"—I remember thinking 'oh no. oh this is bad. I want to explain things to her forever.'"

his thumb strokes your waist, a nervous gesture.

"and then you came back. the next night and the night after that. you kept choosing to be here. with me. not because you had to, not because I was your only option, but because you—because you wanted to. and every night I'd show up early and get the coffee and tell myself this was probably the last time, you'd probably realize I was too weird or too much or just—too—"

his voice cracks.

"—but you kept coming back. and I think—I think I knew then. or started to know. that this was going to be a problem."

"a problem?"

"a good problem." he leans forward and rests his forehead against yours. his eyes flutter closed. "the best problem. you're—you're the first person in a long time who wanted to know me. not the person who discovered element 119. not gojo satoru the prodigy. not the guy who made physics weekly at twenty-three. just—satoru. the weird guy who likes physics too much and can't give presentations and drinks terrible coffee."

"your coffee is genuinely terrible."

"I know. I hate sweet coffee."

he says it casually but you pull back to stare at him.

"what?"

"I hate sweet coffee. always have. I take it black normally. black with two sugars if I'm being fancy but usually just black." he won't meet your eyes now, embarrassed, pink spreading across his cheeks and down his neck.

"but you've been ordering it sweet for—" you stop. do the math. "three months. you've been drinking coffee you hate for three months?"

"yeah."

"satoru, that's—" you don't have words. "why?"

"because you got it for me that way. the first time. you didn't know what I liked so you got me what you get, and you looked so—" he swallows hard. "you looked so nervous when you handed it to me. like you were worried I'd hate it. and I took a sip and it was too sweet, way too sweet, coating my teeth. but you were watching me with these big hopeful eyes and I just—"

he shrugs helplessly.

"—I said it was perfect. and then it became our thing. our ritual. you'd bring me sweet coffee and I'd drink it and I couldn't change it without explaining why and I didn't want to—" his voice drops. "I didn't want to ruin it. I liked that we had a thing. I would have drunk battery acid if it meant—if it meant—"

he stops. you can see him struggling with the words.

"—if it meant you kept coming back."

you kiss him. hard. desperate. pouring three months of feeling into it. he makes a surprised sound—high and breathless—and then melts into it, hands coming up to cup your face. his fingers are trembling. you can feel wetness on his cheeks and you're not sure if it's from him or you.

"you're ridiculous," you say against his mouth when you finally need air.

"I'm aware."

"three months of terrible coffee."

"worth it." he kisses you again, softer. "so worth it. I'd do three years. three decades. I'd—"

"satoru."

"yeah?"

"next time, just tell me." you scold him with a sigh.

"noted." but he's smiling, wide and genuine. "filed away for future reference. communication is important. I'm learning."

you kiss him again because you can. because you're allowed to now. his hands slide from your face to your waist, pulling you impossibly closer. one hand moves up to tangle in your hair, fingers gentle. he kisses you like he's been starving for it, like every kiss before this was just practice.

you're thoroughly distracted—lost in the taste of him, the feeling of his hands on you, the small sounds he makes when you bite his bottom lip gently—when someone clears their throat. loud. pointed. deliberately awkward.

you both jerk apart like you've been electrocuted. satoru's hands fly off you. you nearly fall off his lap and he catches you, steadies you, both of you breathing hard.

there's a security guard standing at the end of the aisle—older guy, maybe sixty, with grey hair and a tired expression. he looks like he's seen this exact scenario about a thousand times and is deeply, profoundly unimpressed with both of you.

"library closes at 2am," he says flatly. his voice is gravelly, bored. "it's 1:47. start packing up."

"yes sir," satoru says. his voice is slightly strangled, higher than normal. "sorry. we were just—studying."

"uh huh." the guard's expression says he's heard that line before. probably tonight. probably from three other couples. "sure you were. thirteen minutes. don't make me come back."

he walks away, his footsteps heavy on the carpet, his radio crackling with static.

you and satoru look at each other. you're still in his lap. his hair is messed up from your fingers. his lips are red and swollen. you probably look the same.

"oh my god," you say.

"that was—"

"mortifying."

"so mortifying." but he's grinning. his eyes are bright with laughter. "worth it though."

"absolutely worth it."

"do you think he knew we weren't actually studying?"

"satoru, I was literally in your lap."

"right. yes. that's—that's pretty damning evidence." he's still grinning. "in my defense, you got there."

"you didn't object."

"I would never object. you can sit in my lap anytime. all the time. it's encouraged. I'm making it a standing offer—" you kiss him to shut him up. he makes a pleased sound.

you climb off his lap—reluctantly, legs slightly numb from sitting weird—and start packing up your stuff. he does the same, but slowly, like he's trying to stretch out the time. every movement deliberate. he closes his laptop with careful precision. winds the charger cord methodically. stacks his books just so. you watch him watching you, stealing glances every few seconds.

when you're both ready, bags packed, coffee cups thrown away (yours empty, his still half-full of coffee he hates), you just stand there. neither wanting to be the first to leave. the security guard walks by again, pointed, and you both start moving.

the library is emptying out. you can hear other people packing up, heading for the exits. voices and footsteps and the beep of the security gates.

"so," satoru says when you reach the stairwell.

"so."

"I'll walk you back."

"it's not on your way."

"it's never been on my way. I think we both know that at this point." he holds out his hand, palm up, offering. "worth it though."

you take his hand. his fingers lace through yours perfectly, like they were designed to fit together. like you've been holding hands for years instead of days.

the walk back is different from every other time. you're holding hands the whole way, fingers intertwined, swinging slightly between you. he walks closer than before, your shoulders bumping with every few steps. you can feel the warmth of him all down your left side. every few steps he looks over at you like he's checking that you're still there, still real. like he's afraid he'll blink and you'll disappear.

it's colder tonight. properly cold. you can see your breath in white clouds, can feel the bite of wind against your exposed skin. the campus is mostly empty—just a few people hurrying between buildings, hunched against the cold. the streetlights cast everything in orange and shadow.

"can I ask you something?" he finally speaks when you're halfway to your dorm, past the science building, past the student center.

"always."

"do you—" he pauses. starts again. "are you okay with this? with us? I know I can be—a lot. intense. and if it's too much or too fast you can tell me. I won't—I don't want to mess this up by pushing too hard."

you stop walking. turn to face him fully. he looks nervous in the orange streetlight, vulnerable in a way that makes your chest ache.

"satoru," you say carefully. "I kept coming back. every night for three months. I could have studied anywhere. could have gotten a different tutor. could have given up on physics entirely."

you squeeze his hand.

"I came back because I wanted to be there. with you. and that hasn't changed just because we're—" you gesture between you. "whatever we are now."

"boyfr—" he starts, then stops. clears his throat. "are we—is that—can I—"

"yes," you say, saving him from the question. "if you want to be."

the smile that breaks across his face is incandescent. "I want to be. very much. extremely. I've never—I've never been anyone's boyfriend before but I want to be yours."

your heart does something complicated in your chest. "then you are," you say simply.

he kisses you right there on the sidewalk, in the middle of campus with the cold wind biting at your faces and the orange streetlights casting long shadows. his hands come up to cup your face, fingers cold against your skin but gentle, so gentle. the kiss is soft and sweet and full of promise—unhurried, like you have all the time in the world. like he's savoring it. his lips are slightly chapped from the cold, moving against yours with a tenderness that makes your chest ache.

when he pulls back—just far enough to see you, foreheads still touching—his eyes are bright. definitely bright, catching the streetlight, reflecting it back like they're glowing from within. maybe with tears—you can see the shine of moisture gathering at the corners, making his lashes clump together—definitely with emotion. his breath comes out shaky, visible in white clouds between you. his thumbs stroke your cheekbones, a repetitive soothing motion like he's trying to convince himself you're real.

"you have me," he says. fierce and certain, voice rough. "for—for as long as you want. I'm—I'm all in. I'm terrible at doing anything halfway and this—"

he gestures between you with his hand holding yours tight, the other still creating soft circles on your cheek.

"—this I want to do all the way. completely. no half-measures. no holding back. if that's—if that's okay. if that's not too much too fast I just—I need you to know that I'm—I'm serious about this. about you. about us."

"that's okay." you reach up with your free hand and push his hair back from his forehead. it's cold and slightly damp from the night air. "that's more than okay."

he kisses you again under the streetlight. slow and sweet and perfect. his lips move against yours with careful attention, like he's memorizing this. you can feel him smiling against your mouth—actually feel the curve of his lips pressing differently against yours. can't help smiling back, until you're both just pressing grins together, breath huffing out in small laughs.

his free hand comes up to cup your face, palm warm despite the cold. his thumb strokes your cheek in that gentle repetitive motion that makes you feel precious. the kiss tastes like bad coffee and possibility—the lingering sweetness of caramel mixing with bitter espresso and something that's just him.

when you pull apart you're both grinning like idiots. can't stop, even when you try to school your expression into something less ridiculous. his eyes are crinkled at the corners, those small lines you've memorized appearing, making him look younger somehow despite being markers of his smile. his cheeks are pink—from cold or emotion or both, you can't tell. the color spreads down his neck, disappearing under his collar, and you can see where his ears have gone red too. he's breathing hard, white clouds puffing between you, and he can't seem to stop looking at your mouth.

at your dorm, you linger in the doorway. neither of you wants the night to end. you can feel it, the weight of goodbye even though it's just for a few hours.

"same time next week?" he asks. then catches himself. "wait, no—"

"next week?" you interrupt, mock-offended. "what about tomorrow?"

his face does something complicated. hope and disbelief and joy all at once, flickering across his features in rapid succession. "tomorrow?"

"I have a philosophy paper to work on. you could—you could read while I write? if you want. we don't have to do physics. we could just—"

"be together," he finishes. his voice has gone soft, barely above a whisper. vulnerable. like the words themselves are fragile things he's afraid to speak too loudly in case they shatter.

"yeah." you agree. the word comes out quieter than intended, but weighted with meaning. with promise.

"I would—" his voice cracks. he clears his throat, tries again. "yes. tomorrow. definitely tomorrow. and the day after that. and—and as many days as you'll let me. I'll—I'll bring better coffee. actual good coffee. coffee I don't hate. we can—we can figure out what I actually like."

"it's a date."

"a date," he repeats, testing the word. his smile is incandescent. "yes. a date. tomorrow at 11?"

"or earlier. if you want."

"earlier. definitely earlier. I'll—how about 10? 9? I can do 9. I'll bring dinner. or—or snacks. do you like snacks? what am I saying, everyone likes snacks. I'll bring options—"

"satoru."

"yeah?"

you kiss him just one last time. slow and lingering. "goodnight."

"goodnight," he breathes. he's still holding your hand, like he can't quite make himself let go.

"you have to actually leave for it to be goodnight."

"right. yes. leaving." but he doesn't move. just stands there, looking at you, fingers tangled with yours. his thumb is doing that absent tracing thing on your palm again. his eyes are soft and slightly dazed, like he's forgotten what leaving means. like the concept of walking away from you has become fundamentally impossible.

"satoru," you prompt, but there's no real urgency in it.

"mhm." still not moving. his lips are still slightly parted, kiss-swollen. you can see him swallow.

"you have to let go of my hand first."

"do I though?" but his fingers loosen slightly, reluctant.

you squeeze his hand once—firm and grounding—shake your head with a smile you can't quite suppress, a quiet giggle escaping despite your best efforts. the sound makes his whole face do something soft and wondering. you slip inside, the warm air of the lobby hitting you after the cold outside.

you take the stairs up to the third floor—faster than usual, slightly breathless. your roommate is asleep, room dark except for the green glow of her alarm clock. you drop your bag and go straight to the window.

he's still there. standing under the streetlight where you left him, looking up. the light turns his hair silver-bright, makes him look ethereal. unreal. like something out of a dream.

he stands there for a long moment—thirty seconds, a minute—just looking up at your window. even from three floors up you can see his expression. soft and amazed, like he still can't quite believe this is real. like he's trying to memorize the sight of your building, your window, this moment.

then, slowly, he starts walking. not toward his dorm immediately, but in a small circle, like he has too much energy to contain. you see him stop, run his hands through his hair, look back at your building one more time. he's smiling—you can tell even from here, can see it in the way he holds himself.

finally, he turns and starts walking. the right direction this time—toward his dorm, the route you'd looked up weeks ago when you first started noticing. but he only makes it ten steps before he stops, turns around, looks back up at your window one more time.

he sees you there—you're not even trying to hide now—and his whole face lights up. he waves—enthusiastic, almost goofy, his whole arm moving. not the small casual wave from before. this is unguarded. happy. real.

you wave back, pressing your palm against the cold glass.

he stands there for another moment, just looking up at you, and even from three floors up you can see his expression. joy and wonder and disbelief all mixed together. like you're something impossible. something he can't quite believe he gets to have.

finally—reluctantly—he turns and walks away for real this time. you watch his figure get smaller, watch him pass under streetlight after streetlight. at each one he looks back. every single time.

when he finally disappears around the corner by the physics building, you sink onto your bed, heart still racing.

you ignore shoko & her bitter response. you’d rather die than argue with a bitch & her bad bob. you lean to rest your head on suguru’s shoulder, who’s much more empathetic & strokes your hair lovingly.

“isn’t he tutoring right now?”

and he is. somewhere across campus, in a cramped corner of the scott library, gojo satoru is bleary-eyed & suffering.

he’s supposed to be explaining calculus to confused first year yuuji itadori. but his phone, face-up & gleam-screened on the mahogany table, hums and vibrates with desperation.

1 new message: princess 🧸💗 1 new message: princess 🧸💗 1 new message: princess 🧸💗

satoru’s jaw is tight. there’s crescent shaped crevices in his palms & his knuckles rouse rash red. his focus flickers. he catches a glimpse of your latest message: the preview of a selfie, that low adorable angle where you’re peering at your phone from under your lashes & your lips jut out in a ‘where are youuu’ pout.

fuck.

“uhh, gojo?” yuuji’s biting his pencil again before he points it at the vibrating device. “aren’t you gonna answer that..? i dunno, it looks important.”

it is important. it’s you. but if satoru answers now, poor yuuji’s paid tutoring session would immediately be over.

“it’s fine, yuuji. let’s focus on finding the derivative.”

and it is fine. because gojo satoru is a man of logic. a man of discipline. a man of pa—

princess 🧸💗: i always knew you’d get tired of me one day

princess 🧸💗: it’s okay. thank you for everything toru 👍

gojo satoru grabs the phone faster than you can say go pandas! his thumbs fly over the screen, ever precise, ever trembling.

toruu: Baby, please don’t say that.

toruu: I’m almost done. I’ll be with you in ten minutes. I’ll buy you that Drake meal you wanted.

toruu: I love you. Please wait for me?

back at the mall you’re reading his text. and god, your heart bubbles up like soda pop. “he’s coming,” you murmur into suguru’s shoulder, scrolling past his text without a reply.

“great!” shoko cheers with fake enthusiasm, taking a puff of her vape (suguru’s complaining that the pineapple & kiwi she blows make his poutine taste sour-ish, & she shouldn’t be vaping anyway, but guess what? shoko doesn’t care!)

“now can we stop acting like it’s the summer hikaru died?”

“no.”

instagram’s algorithm is always on your side. you’ve opened the reels tab to find a video of a rainy window, a quote captioned over it: ‘if he wanted to, he would. silence is a choice.’ simple. short. effective.

you add it to your story. suguru catches a glimpse of your screen & chuckles.

“y/n,” he sings your name, tutting. “you’re gonna give the boy a heart attack before he even hits the common area.”

“he deserves it.”

satoru gojo has already viewed your story. he shows up within the next five minutes.

III. PRINCESS MELTDOWN #167: BABY, I’M BORED.

time : 3:58 pm. location: science & engineering building

there’s solution bubbling pink in a flask. in lab four, the air’s sticky with the sweat of too many boys with glasses & a half-drunk energy drink rotting in the corner.

gojo satoru is huddled over a circuit board with two other boys who look like they haven’t seen sunlight in days.

nerd #1 points at the monitor : “if we adjust the frequency here,” he’s muttering, “the entire wave function collapses. it’s an impossible solve, gojo.”

“it’s not impossible. you’re just missing the constant.”

gojo satoru is the god of lab four; formulas on his fingers & equations on his tongue. he’s leaning over now, fingers on the screen when the heavy steel door swings open,

“hi, toru!”

you’re all soft perfume & clicky heels & smile as sweet as sugar. satoru’s head snaps up instantly—his glasses slip down his nose, & he flicks them back upward, eyes glimmering in the fluorescent light.

“hi sweetheart,” he breathes, “you’re here early.”

the other nerds are staring now, and for good reason. how did gojo satoru—who’s paperbacks & friday nights spent bent over research papers—pull a pretty thing like you ?

“are you doing science ?” you’re already across the room, arms around his neck as his palms press you flush against him from the side. your perfume’s sticky in his lungs. “why’s that line so squiggly? you guys should make it straight. it’d be much prettier.”

nerd #4 winces. “actually, that’s a representation of—“

“you’re right, baby. it would look prettier. have a seat, okay?”

you hum an okay! & plop yourself down on his lap. nerd number 3 & 2 exchange glances. nerd #1 asks, god, me when ?

the group discussion starts up again. satoru is half-science half-yours—his thumb traces circles on your thigh as your feet kick in his lap, & you’re asking one too many questions while satoru tries—tries to pay attention.

“toru, what does this button do?”

“that’s the power supply, baby. please don’t touch it.”

“but it’s glowing. can you make it glow pink ? i think it should glow pink.”

“noted. you’re squirming, princess.”

and you are. nerd #4 wonders how you’re still balanced. the discussion continues but you’re a constant background noise of ‘toru, look at this tiktok’, and ‘baby, i think the lighting’s washing me out.’ you try to touch a wire. gojo catches your hand mid-air & cups it with a kiss.

you flop against his chest. “satoru, i’m bored.”

& satoru is tired. exhausted, really. he’s fighting the rash creeping up his neck as nerds one to four watch you pout in his lap like a spoiled child. “i want matcha. can we go get some?”

you can’t. because this is a project due in twelve hours. because satoru has only so much time to lock in—

“alright, let’s go.”

nerd #3 is distraught: “huh—?! gojo, you can’t leave now, we’re in the middle of a breakthrough!”

satoru doesn’t even look around. he’s smoothing your skirt after you hop off his lap, your bag already slung over his shoulder. he’s leading you out by the hand; “sorry guys. i’ll send my solution to the group chat. brief me on the updates later?”

the door swings shut. nerds one to four are in awe.

“holy hades. what just happened?”

“may God protect them from my jealousy.”

“wallahi i need a bad bitch on my lap.”

“you can’t say that, man. it’s ramadan.”

# UNIKAISEN

princess meltdowns , end.

© HEARTKAJI. do not steal, copy, edit, translate or reupload

of course, karasu had to return every one with a sly little grin of his own, eyelids hooded in intrigue at your adorable hatred.

he was your self proclaimed rival, and who was he to deny you?

especially after the look of smug triumph you sent him after the professor publicly praised you for acing the exam and returning to your comfortable spot as first in the class.

yes. karasu was sure that was a sign of war.

the two of you kept this up all semester long. you spent countless hours studying material, reading textbook chapters over and over, writing notes until your fingers cramped and eyelids went numb.

but it didn’t matter. it all paid off when the grades came back.

you noticed the change immediately. karasu had swiped first place by a mere 0.4 points, and you had your nose buried in your study guides when a cup of coffee was placed on the table in front of you.

looking up, your brows knit together when you saw karasu leaning over your table with his lips pulled back in his signature smirk. his grin was intoxicating. you hated how much it made your heart race.

“drink up,” he drawled, pushing the cup closer to you with his knuckle. “gonna need yer energy to win back first.”

“earn first, you mean,” you snapped back, pulling the cup closer and taking a sip. your favorite. how had he known?

you almost thanked him before remembering yourself, and karasu smiled almost fondly when you humphed and turned away from him. “be gone. you’re distracting me.”

the use of ‘be gone’ had karasu’s head tipping back in laughter. “yeah, yeah. don’t study too hard. it’ll hurt more when i crush ya.”

that was all the motivation you needed, and when the test results came back, you openly cheered when you reclaimed your spot as top of the class.

it was strange, though. when you looked back to flash a smug grin at karasu, he was smiling fondly at you from his desk. almost like he was proud.

your interactions kept getting stranger after that.

you noticed early on that your chest didn’t burn with rage as it usually did when you passed him by in the hallway. your stomach didn’t recoil in indignation when he stayed later than you to study. in fact, some nights you found yourselves studying together.

strange.

strange, until karasu kissed you at the bus stop one night.

in class, your classmates remained split (team tabi vs team y/n) for who deserved first place, and it was an unspoken rule between you and karasu that you keep up the rivals facade.

with you in the lead, you noticed karasu staying later and later to study, attempting to steal first from you. it was cute, really, and when no one was around, you’d sneak candies on his table and shoot him little “don’t study too hard~💙” texts.

he didn’t listen and ended up scoring 2 points higher than you on an assignment that brought him up to first.

surprisingly, you caught yourself smiling as the teacher announced the class ranking. behind your hand and away from prying eyes, of course, but one set seemed to see right through you.

“i’ll earn it next time,” you mouthed from across the room, and your boyfriend’s smirk was smug despite the soft sparkles in his eyes.

“i know you will.”