Because ever since the world has ended and you’ve matched the elusive name to face, Gojo has managed to worm his way into your life. He’s there, slinging his arm over Shoko’s shoulder as if you both aren’t glaring into the side of his head for it, dragging his friend Geto over too, the long haired boy at least having the decency to smile apologetically though not enough decency to leave.

Shoko never tells him off, which you originally assumed was her one and only tragic personality flaw until you eventually learned they’d been childhood best friends for almost twenty years. After that, it became easier to file her reactions away as a chronic, lifelong exasperation, the kind that slowly builds over decades until the only move left is to sigh and let the idiot sit down.

But did that idiot have to be Gojo? 

Ever since he entered your orbit that horrible day in March, you can’t seem to ignore his existence. You see those irritating thick-framed glasses around every corner on campus, his messy white hair something tucked beneath the hood of his university jumper sometimes not, but always ruffled like he has just rolled out of bed. His laugh follows you around, a persistent soundtrack bleeding into every conversation you try to have with your actual friends. He’s always there, hands in pockets, bulky backpack slung over both shoulders, slippers padding lazily against the pavement like he’s just walked straight out of his apartment and into your line of sight. “Relax.” Shoko tells you one afternoon as you aggressively wiped down a table, the cafe quieter now the day was slipping into that evening quiet. “You won’t have to see him ever again now that the semester is over. You can unclench.” Her advice only makes you snort, giving the table one last swipe before straightening to look at her busied behind the counter. “Not true if you don’t stop inviting him to everything. What made you even think of bringing him with us to the club last Friday?” Your best friend opens her mouth as if to defend him and that alone is enough for you to gag. “Shoko, he showed up in a dress shirt. And a messenger bag. To the fucking club!” “Not too much on him, he was coming straight from night classes.” Like that helps his case. Like being top of the cohort, effortlessly breezing through the same exams that require endless all-nighters from you, isn’t enough to satiate his greedy appetite. Like the universe hasn’t already gift-wrapped him with endless talent, now he has to go above and beyond and take night classes too. “Yeah, well. You need to separate your personal life from your work life. Work-life balance.” “I don’t see how that makes sense,” Shoko retorts drily, speaking more to the sink than you as she washes up the last of the cups. “Clubbing and Gojo are both my personal life. If anything, you’re the one bringing him into our work life right now.” “You’re the one that said being his friend is a full-time job.” She sighs. “Minimal wage, too.” You weave through the tables and duck behind the counter, tossing the rag into a discarded pile for the night staff to deal with, and squeeze Shoko’s shoulders as you pass behind her in the cramped space. “Hey,” you start, voice sweet. “Let’s cut him off.” She shoves you off good-mannerly, pushing you again in the direction of the apron rack to help you with the knot. “Cut him some slack, won’t you? Or don’t. Just forget about him. Like I said, now that the semester is over, you won’t have any reason to see him ever again.” “That’s honestly up to you. Sure, I won’t see him in classes anymore but are you going to spontaneously invite him to lunch again? He’s not coming to our Saturday cheese tasting plans, is he? What about that aquarium we wanted to check out?” Her hands pause before she loosens the knot and turns so you can untie her apron in return. “I’ll tell him no to both.” “Oh, so he asked?” “You have no idea.” As if sensing the rant already bubbling up your throat, Shoko quickly hands you your phone from under the counter. “By the way, your phone’s been buzzing the entire shift. You’re not still talking to that guy, are you?”

You take it, dragging the screen down to scroll through missed notifications. “Who?” “The double texter.” There’s the typical ones you’d expect, some Outlook emails about irrelevant study tips, some random Twitter notifications from the many inactive accounts you’ve abandoned but never bothered logging out of, and miscellaneous app alerts you swipe away without reading. Buried beneath them though, is the familiar little red icon from that forum app you absolutely should have deleted months ago, a fresh reply sitting under the thread that’s been irritating you all week. Your mouth tightens and you swipe it away before you can be sucked away into the ragebait. “Y/N?” “Hm?” You look up, realising Shoko is still waiting for a response. “Oh, no. This is… a guy from Hinge.” The hesitation isn’t lost on her but she gives you grace and doesn’t press for the truth. “Right. Just be careful, alright? I don’t know what is going on in this city anymore but there’s been way too many incidents on the news about people going missing. You know it’s bad when all the news channels are all suddenly interviewing men in tight spandex suits.” You snort, tucking your phone away to finish clocking out of your shift. “‘Men’ like there’s multiple. You mean that one spider guy, right? His superhero name is uncreative as hell.” “He shoots webs from his wrists and climbs walls, what else would he call himself?” “Anything but the first thing a five year old could come up with. That’s like pointing to a man who can fly and calling him Flying Man.” Shoko locks the cafe doors behind, the metal click satisfying after a long shift. She gives the handle two firm tugs just to be sure because the city is a mess apparently, then steps back so she can flip the sign to CLOSED, the glass catching a smear of gold from the streetlights outside. “Superhero names are hardly creative these days.” “We’re losing the ancient texts.” By now, evening has settled in properly, the campus washed in that dusky blue-orange light that makes everything look prettier than it is. You stop to take a few photos of the sunset, then slip your phone away and breathe in the cool breeze as Shoko falls into step beside you, the two of you cutting across campus out toward the busier street. “What ancient texts? There’s literally someone called Superman because he’s super.” You roll your eyes. “That is so not helping your case.” “It is helping my case because it proves people like straightforward names. Also, it helps with making merch.” “How can you be so confident and be so wrong?” Shoko bumps your shoulder lightly as you walk, enough to make you sway half a step before you right yourself and return the gesture. Cars hiss past at the intersection ahead, headlights briefly washing over the footpath. Somewhere behind you, someone shouts a name across the road and is followed by a burst of noisy laughter. There’s a kind of peace at this twilight, a sense of calm that feels despairing. “Are you sure you don’t want a lift?” Shoko asks as you both slow to a step, effectively dragging you out of a potential spiral. “I can’t imagine the bus being your favourite form of transport.” You blink at her before shaking your head, reorganising your thoughts. “It’s fine. Besides, I know you have that thing with Utahime later.” “It’s not a thing. We’re just going to a jazz bar.” “Sure, okay. But just the two of you.” “We did invite you,” Shoko reminds you with an unimpressed look. “You’re the one that declined.” “I wasn’t going to third wheel again.”

“Utahime would kill you for saying that.” “I’d be more worried that she’d kill herself if she found out you’re not labelling it as a date.” Shoko kicks a loose rock on the pavement, avoiding your eyes. “That’s because it’s not a date. It’s a jazz bar outing.” “Jazz is like, inherently romantic. Haven’t you heard ‘Careless Whispers’?” “That’s the dumbest thing you’ve said all day. ‘Careless Whispers’ is about a man cheating,” “Wait, are you serious?” You shake your head to dispel the song from playing in your mind, reining in the conversation before she can successfully deflect. “And I doubt that’s the dumbest thing I’ve said all day. I think I’ve had some better bangers.” “True, the dumbest thing that left your mouth was probably Gojo. You know, for someone who claims to hate him, you sure do talk about Gojo a lot. Don’t groan at me, I’m just saying.” “I’m complaining about him. That has to be different.” Shoko tilts her head, studying you up and down as she considers your words. She ends her evaluation with a hum. “I don’t know, people usually don’t spend that much time thinking about someone they actually don’t care about.” The implications are so frankly absurd the only thing you can do is wish her well. “I’m going to kill you.” She raises her hands in surrender, already backing away in the direction of the parking lot.“Anyway! There’s no reason to complain about him anymore. Live a little!” “Please,” you scoff. “Like I’d ever willingly think about Gojo ever again. You don’t need to tell me that.” She laughs softly, catching the words just before they disappear with the wind. You watch her back for a few seconds longer before blinking out of your thoughts. For some reason, the sound follows you all the way to the bus stop. Realistically, Shoko’s words have some truth to them. It is rather easy to forget all about Gojo and his crimes against humanity (you) when you don’t see him over the two-week break. Instead, you go to concerts with Utahime, visit art museums with Nanami and gossip and giggle over brunch with Shoko. There's a peaceful monotony as days blend into each other, until one morning when your alarm rings at an hour once familiar to you and you get up to start another semester. Checking your timetable one more time, you sigh at your misfortune. It was inevitable that your courses wouldn’t always align with the rest of your friends. In fact, it was a miracle that you even had classes with Shoko last semester considering she wasn’t even doing the same degree. You shouldn’t be too disappointed after all, when you posted a story asking if anyone else was taking this course, a few people you vaguely recognised had swiped up. They're mostly acquaintances, people you’ve met once from parties and events, but it’s miles better than being alone. You double-check the lecture hall number one last time outside the building, hoping the extra second will magically give you the cure to the brewing headache at your temples, before you finally push open the door. The buzz of conversation hits you immediately. Rows of students fill the lecture hall, voices overlapping as people reunite after the break, bags dropping onto chairs and laptops snapping open performatively. A few heads turn when you walk in, not unusual unfortunately, but you pretend not to notice, adjusting the strap of your tote as you scan the room. You spot some familiar faces sitting toward the back, relief loosening the tight knot in your chest as you begin to climb the steps. The smile on your face drops the moment your eyes drift—those traitorous things—to the front row.

Gojo slouches in his seat, the tiny fold-out table already pulled out in front of him, bag resting on top. He’s the only one sitting front row and centre, and considering how immersed he is with his phone, you doubt he has any plans to share the space with anyone else. He causally lifts his glasses with his finger in a way you thought perfectly suits his pretentious personality. His hood is thrown over his head, feet stretching out in front of him. One of his hoodie strings is kept between his lips as he absentmindedly chews at it, so relaxed, so casual, so oblivious to the world ending around you. You freeze. Someone tries to enter the hall and almost bumps into you, and it’s this near collision that finally jolts you into motion. Your instincts kick in and you hastily duck your head, climbing up the stairs where your friends are waiting. Nobara waves you closer, tucking her feet closer to her chest to let you into the row. “Hey, Y/N! It's been a while.” “Hey,” you say, hoping it comes off casual and not dripped in fear. “Yeah, I didn’t think you were doing this course too. What a coincidence. Hey, can you give me a second?" When you sink into your chair, you whip out your phone and frantically type away. you: no fucking way im going to kill myself shoko: ik u have some crazy attachment issues but u’ll get over it i promise utahime: aww i think its cute u miss us so much if not a little pathetic you: i dont give a gaf about that anymore u wouldnt believe who else is taking this course shoko: we’re not the fucking akinator guy y/n utahime: i could be if u gave me more hints guy or girl? are they a youtuber? you: it’s gojo utahime: wtf spoilers?? wait gojo oh my god LMAOO shoko: oh ure definitely gonna tweak Your eyes only tear away from Gojo when the lecturer enters the room and when the door closes behind him, you feel the sudden, irrational urge to bolt for the exit. Because was it just your imagination or was there a sense of finality to that door slam? Gojo was meant to be a nightmare for one semester, a pain in the ass for one chapter of your life and yet here he is, the back of his head just as infuriating as the front. “Welcome to neuropharmacology3211.” When the lecturer begins the lesson, you watch as Gojo barely sits up to listen. “I’ll pass along the attendance sheet now. Just for everyone’s sanity I need to let you know that these lectures aren’t compulsory, however we do encourage you to attend.” You panic. An attendance sheet. With your name on it. For all to see. You watch in despair as it begins its slow journey across your side of the lecture hall. Mournfully, you tick off your name with Nobara’s pen and pass the paper along, trying not to imagine the inevitable moment it reaches the front row.

Around and around it goes until it stops at the last person, the only person sitting in the front row on the left side of the hall. Gojo absentmindedly spins his pen, flipping the paper to the other side when he can’t find his name. He runs a finger down the list as the lecturer drones though you doubt either you or Gojo are actually paying attention. From this distance you can’t make out his subtle movements but at one point, he stops spinning his pen and looks up, glancing briefly around the room. You immediately duck down, finding something immensely interesting about your laptop. You don’t look up until Nobara elbows you gently and asks if you need any ibuprofen. You shake your head, daring to cautiously peek over the edge of your laptop. Gojo continues to face the front and you let out a small sigh of relief, straightening just enough to give off your best impression of someone who has been paying attention the entire time. It's the usual mandatory assessment outline, a rundown on everything that actually mattered in the course: midterms, finals, biweekly quizzes. You mindlessly add the dates to your calendar until the professor highlights the missing 20% of the final grade. “And finally, there is a pair presentation due in week 7.” Your eyes twitch and you cast your gaze back to the front. “The details of the assessment will be explained during this week’s lab so ask your questions then.” A group project. Even worse, in pairs. Your eyes slide instinctively toward Gojo and the dread in your stomach collapses in on itself, condensing into something dense and horrible. “Your pair and topic will be emailed to you later today.” The professor continues and when groans echo across the room, they only chuckle, undeterred. “Diversity is good for group work. Your colleagues won’t always be your friend.” You glance around the room. How many people were in this class? Many, so many. What are the chances you get paired with Gojo? Slim, at least you hope so. The moment the lecture ends, you shove your laptop into your bag, and flash Nobara an apologetic smile as you book it for the door. You keep your head down, both hands clutching your tote as it digs into your shoulder while you weave through the crowd spilling into the aisle. Freedom appears as a bright light before you, and you almost think you’re safe when— “No way.” Your pace stutters and against every instinct in your body screaming at you to keep walking, you freeze. “Y/N?” Someone knocks into your shoulder on the way out and before you can use the momentum to slip out with the rest of the crowd, a hand grabs your arm and pulls you to the side. You glare up at Gojo’s stupid face. He peers down at you, all ego and cocky exterior, like he’s discovered something entertaining. He sniffles, rubs his nose and pushes up his glasses all in one making you grimace at his apparent lack of hygiene. “God, why did it have to be you?” you grumble, more to yourself than him. You shake off his hold, pressing your arm to your side to prevent any further contact. “Don’t touch me.” “I knew I saw your name on the attendance sheet.” He smirks down at you, taking in the familiar sight of your frown. “Come on, smile a little. You’re making it look like I'm extorting you.” “Don't talk to me like we’re familiar, Gojo.” “Aren’t we?” “We aren't.” “We talk though.” “You talk, I try my best to ignore you.” “We have mutual friends.” He points out next as if this hasn’t been the sole reason for your pain and suffering. God bless Shoko’s kind, patient heart for putting up with him, but if you had to see his face at another outing you might decide to wrap your fingers around your neck and squeeze instead of staying.

“Unfortunately.” His lips only curl into that irritating and carefree smile, worse when you decide begrudgingly that it could also pass as charming. Any potential compliment dies immediately when he speaks again. “What crawled up your ass and died?” “Don’t talk about my ass.” “Come on, are you still being a sore loser over finals? You had two whole weeks to get over that.” That gets you. You exhale sharply, eyes narrowing dangerously as you lean forward to poke at his chest. “First of all,” you begin, “I am not being a sore loser over finals. The one making a big deal of things is you so if you’re trying to get my attention, there are far less tedious ways.” His eyebrows shoot up. “You think I'm trying to get your attention?” “Is there another reason why you won’t leave me alone, Gojo?” You sigh like it’s the most obvious thing. “Look, you’re not my type and that’s okay. Not everyone can be. But seriously, sticking to me like an annoying bug isn’t going to fix that. If anything, it worsens your chances, not that you had any to begin with.” He waits and when you only seethe, he prompts you, “And?” You blink, temporarily off guard. “That’s it.” “Then why did you start with‘first of all’?” Your eyes narrow. “It’s like talking to a genie with some of you people.” His grin is too easy, too casual as if you weren’t fighting for your life to restrain from murdering him, as if he isn’t standing between you and your only exit from this hell. “Hey, I just wanted to clarify,” he says, raising his hands up in a gesture of surrender that only grinds your gears further. “No need to get so pissy. It’s not a good look on you.” You grit your teeth. “No defense for the allegations though, I see.” Gojo looks around with a hum, eyes doing a lazy sweep of the emptying lecture hall, hands lowering slightly. “You’d think after all this time, you’d finally get the hint.” He casts his gaze back to you expectantly, failing to elaborate on his cryptic message and you take a moment to think. There were many things he isn’t exactly subtle about: 

flaunting his academic prowess

how much he seems to thrive off your annoyance

You pick the second. “What, that you get off to a pretty woman telling you to kill yourself?”

He presses his lips together, as if giving it serious thought. Your face immediately twists into something that can only be described as a grimace, and he laughs.

“Do you usually spend a lot of time thinking about what gets me off?”

“Do you always have to ask me stupid questions?”

“Only because you always find a way to make the answers fun.”

“I'm telling you this now, Gojo. You’ve outgrown the age where teasing the girl you like works,” you shoot back with a snarl, unable to hide your frustration.

For a moment, something in his expression shifts.

Gojo’s eyes drop and you feel his gaze burn down your neck and drag from your top to your shoes. You can’t help but shiver at the intensity of his stare and maybe he notices because he scoffs, looking away. “That hurts my reputation. You’re not my type.”

Your eye twitches. “Bat for the other team, do you?”

“How egotistical. You think just because a guy doesn’t like you he must be gay?”

“Well, there’s definitely a higher likelihood."

“You must have tested that with a small sample size because that doesn’t sound statistically significant.”

You roll your eyes, shifting your weight to edge closer to the door. “Of course you can’t help but be a fucking nerd about everything."

“Whining doesn’t exactly help your side of the argument."

“No, but it might stop me from reaching over and punting your head in.”

Gojo whistles low, the noise sharper now that most students have left. “Are you purposefully testing me? I thought we established that I liked girls who keep me on my toes.”

You wrinkle your nose. “There’s a difference between keeping someone on their toes and wanting to throttle them.” “You better be careful because it's a thinner line than most for me.” “You are disgusting.” “That doesn’t explain why you keep talking to me, though.” “Like I have a choice. You’re the one who grabbed my arm. If I miss my bus because of you doing whatever this is with me, I will put you in the ground.” “You’re still here though.” You sigh, exasperated. “Because you’re standing in the fucking doorway, you idiot.” “Oh,” he says,  but makes absolutely no move to step aside. You inhale slowly through your nose, channeling a calm you most certainly do not feel. “Move.” “Say please.” Your smile turns dangerously sweet. “I said move.” “Still not hearing the magic word.” You give up, sensing you’ll only continue to lose. Before you can suck it up and brush past him, dreading even the brief contact of his shoulder against yours, he steps closer. His gaze flutters down for a moment, something foreign passing over his face as he clears his throat. It makes your heart seize at how unfamiliar he looks, though that fades quickly when his eyes snap back up, that irritating grin firmly in place. “Actually, I was thinking. Are you free this—” Before he can finish, a loud tune sounds from his pocket and he groans, abandoning his words to pull out his phone. The smile that had been on his face scrunches up, and he absentmindedly types a response with one hand before looking back up at you. “My bad. I was going say if you’re—” But in the few seconds his attention is elsewhere, you’ve already bolted. “Hey, wait!” His voice chases after you and you press on, echoing faintly against the tiled floors as you round the corner at a pace that’s just shy of running. “I’m going to count this as my win if you run away from me!” You jam your airpods into your ears with unnecessary force, scrolling blindly until music floods your head and drowns him out completely. If the world was going to convince you it wasn’t about to end, it better start looking up for you soon.

Unfortunately, the world really doesn’t give a shit about what you think because your karmic debt piles high. Shoko had abandoned you in your time of need, leaving you to tackle the shift alone. You close the cafe door behind you, turning the key so that the handle doesn’t rattle under your palm, and sniff when the cold air immediately bites at your face. Your scarf comes up instinctively, burying your nose and mouth as a harsh wind cuts through the street now that you’re no longer protected by the warmth of the cafe. What a long day. You clutch your scarf as it flutters wildly until the wind settles, the evening air growing still enough that it stops stinging your cheeks. Nothing particularly bad had even happened today. It wasn’t overly busy though it was far from quiet. You even managed to pass the long hours when some old friends showed up, though the conversation had only lasted as long as it took to make their coffee. But when it’s still or in the moments when you wait for a customer’s order, you feel something unpleasant settle in. The air feels too stale, time clicking by too slowly and the sensation of the ground moving beneath is unnerving. Your eyes refuse to move at times and you find yourself zoning out at nothing, hands moving in autopilot as you make drink after drink after drink, the repetition slowly pulling you apart one seam at a time. Your feet find their way to the bus stop and you breathe out slowly, mist curling into the cold evening air as you look up to watch it dissipate. How freeing would it be to be up there? The wind in your hair, biting cold against your nose and the tips of your ears, the rush of air in your lungs, and that terrifying exhilaration that comes from rising and falling and rising again. You imagine being weightless, being untouchable, being above it all and finally free. You shake that nonsense thought away. It’s just one of those bad days. The bus pulls up, blowing exhaust and humid air, and you’ve only just placed a foot onto the bus when a loud crash sounds to your left. You look over just as something flies past and slams into the bus stop, the metal denting under the immense weight. It’s not your finest moment but you duck, covering your head, and let out a scream as the loud noise deafens you. The bus drives off in the chaos, certainly breaking several traffic laws, and you curse the driver when you realise you’ve been abandoned.

Peeking an eye open as the dust settles, you lower your arms and come face to face with the heavy object that had slammed against the stand.

Slowly, you ask, “...Spiderman?”

The blue and white figure coughs, hitting his chest with his fist. “You called?”

Spiderman looks up and freezes. It might be your imagination but he looks even more winded when his eyes lock on yours. Actually, you’re certain it’s your imagination because his mask completely obscures his facial expressions, save for the slight widening of the white parts indicating his eyes.

You crawl forward a little. “Shit, you went down hard. Do you have a concussion?”

The superhero runs a battered hand down his face, stopping only when it slides down to cover his mouth,  and lets out a muffled groan. “You have got to be fucking kidding.”

You blink. “Excuse me?”

Before he can say anything else, a wet, splintering crack sounds from across the street.

You look over your shoulder as he tilts to look around you. A man staggers out of gate five beside the university-run pharmacy, though stagger might be too human a word for it. Something black and shining writhes over his body, swallowing him from the neck down like spilled tar, except tar doesn’t pulse. It stretches over his arms in twitching strands and thickens into jagged unnatural muscle, back hunching with a sickening pop as he lurches forward.

You rub your eyes and stare again. “I know the feeling,” Spiderman says, pushing himself upright with a wince. “That’s my exact review too.” The thing’s head jerks in your direction. Spiderman notices before you do, wringing out his hands and doing some jumping jacks on the spot. “And that’s my cue to ask you very calmly to start running.” When the thing charges at you, there’s no time to pretend to be composed. You let out a noise somewhere between a gasp and a shriek and fling yourself backward as the thing barrels forward. A web shoots from behind you and lands on the bus stop-frame, yanking Spiderman into its path just in time to take the hit instead. He gets absolutely bodied. “Jesus Christ,” you blurt as he falls back further down the road. Spiderman slings to grab onto a nearby, and luckily deserted car, and slams it into the side of the villain, picking himself up in the few seconds he has to breathe when the figure crashes into a nearby building. “I know,” he wheezes, dusting off his suit. “Everyone says that when they see me. I’m basically the second coming of that guy.” “Are you okay? Do you need… backup?” You look around at the site. Cars have started swerving and backing away to avoid the scene and bystanders are ducked somewhere safe. You alone remain inside the heavily damaged bus stop a few metres from where the figure is now pulling itself onto his feet. Realistically, you should do the smart thing and hide, too. But one feeble attempt to get on your feet tells you what you already know; that you’ve managed to fuck up your ankle in your panic. Spiderman has his hands thrown up. “Why are you not running? I told you to run.” “Why are you losing?” “I’m not losing,” he snaps, affronted. “Are you always this difficult? Listen to the city’s superhero and get out of here.” “If this is my superhero, then I’m already cooked.” The creature roars and charges again, much alike a bull seeing red and you’re the unfortunate sole on the ground in its path. Spiderman seems to have enough sense to conclude there’s something wrong with your body and not your head as he swears, shooting two webs in quick succession, one to a traffic light pole and the other to the creature’s arm, trying to stabilise himself to swing the heavy villain sideways. It works for maybe half a second before the pole lifts off the ground and Spiderman sighs before being the one flung away. You watch as Spiderman hits the ground hard, again. Thankfully, it’s enough distraction for the figure to leave you alone but you can only grimace especially when he picks himself up. Spiderman pushes up on one knee, clearly trying to buy time, and calls, “Hey, big guy, quick question before you maul me. Is this like, a skincare thing? Because I think whatever routine you’re on is clogging your pores. There’s a pharmacy right over there. Want me to get you some pimple patches?”

The figure ignores his provocation by charging forward again and it’s you that looks back over your shoulder at the pharmacy. Frankly put, your trust in the masked vigilante is at an all time low and if there’s any chance of living beyond this encounter, you need to do something. Despite the throbbing pain in your ankle, you pull yourself up against the dented wall of the bus stop and edge closer to the campus. Then, you break into a valiant attempt at a sprint. “That’s it, get out of here!” he calls out after you. You grit your teeth both from the pain and general annoyance. “I’m not running!” “What the hell are you doing then?” “Something useful, unlike you!” Spiderman finally looks up from wrangling with the figure. “Huh?” You manage to limp to the pharmacy and wrench its fire extinguisher free from its bracket, using more effort than expected especially as you’re already winded and nearly fumble with the weight of it. You spin back around just as the creature grabs Spiderman by the throat and slams him into the side of the bus stop again. You hobble back to the scene with a sympathetic wince. My God, the thing is already gone, leave it alone. The figure looms over the fallen superhero, the goo oozing off solidifying into a slimy tendril that sharpens. It slides along Spiderman’s jaw and tilts his head up, cutting right through the fabric of his mask before stopping at his throat. The figure opens its mouth as if to say something but is cut off when you yank the pin with shaking hands. For a moment, nothing happens and you’re all about ready to apologise and excuse yourself from the scene when the extinguisher goes off in a violent burst of white foam that manages to encapsulate the figure despite the distance.

The black mass recoils with a horrible screech, the sound sharp and inhuman, like nails scratching against metal. It peels back in frantic, rippling waves, twitching and writhing away from the spray. The man underneath the goo drops to one knee, gasping as his eyes roll back down from the back of his head, and shudders before collapsing on the ground. What remains of the gunk ripples along the pavement before slithering down a gutter and leaving nothing behind, almost as if nothing had ever happened. If not for the battered bus stop and the hole in the wall. You lower the extinguisher slowly, breathless. “Maybe I should give this superhero thing a shot.” “Nah, I don’t think you have the guts for it.” Before you can even turn properly to defend your case, strong arms hook around you and the ground disappears. The sound that leaves you is less scream and more pure, humiliated terror as gravity tilts sideways. You catch a flash of white, the sharp snap of a web latching somewhere high above, and then he’s hauling you up with it, body lifting clean off the pavement. “Wait—” The city drops out beneath you in dizzying blurs of orange streetlights and rooftops, your stomach left somewhere back by the ruined bus stop. Spiderman carries you like you weigh nothing, one arm locked securely around your waist whilst the other shoots webs with impossible precision, each swing smooth despite the fact that he had been getting his ass kicked mere seconds ago. Wind tears at your scarf and shoves tears from your eyes. You clutch at him with both hands “Hold on, we need to go back and help that guy!” “I’m a superhero, not a paramedic!” Spiderman calls back, voice steady despite the speed. “He’ll be fine, help is already on the way. But there’s an unconscious guy on the ground, a destroyed bus stop, at least six insurance claims, and I’m pretty sure your bus abandoned you ages ago. You cannot stay there.” “And that’s the reason why I’m up here?” “Superhero, my ass,” he might have said but your attention is pulled in far too many directions to be sure. You make the fatal mistake of looking down. The road below is a smear of headlights and moving colour, terrifyingly far away. “Oh my God,” you gasp, squeezing your eyes shut again. “This is how I die. I’m going to become roadkill. I’m going to go splat.” “That is so hurtful after I literally just rescued you.” “I would still be grateful if you had left it there.”

His laugh is snatched by the wind, warm and infuriating and entirely too amused for someone who had looked so pathetic sprawled out on the ground. He adjusts his grip slightly when your fingers knot tighter in the front of his suit, and if he notices how hard you’re shaking, he has the decency to not make anymore comments, swinging you both up in a smooth arc. “Okay,” he relents. “Deep breaths, I’m not actually going to drop you.” You give your most valiant attempt of a snort. “Telling me to breathe deeply as I’m not already trying.” “Would you prefer shallow, panicked ones then?” “I would prefer to be on the ground!” “Your wish is my command.” After another swing and a sharp turn that nearly rips your soul from your body, Spiderman descends toward the quieter edge of campus and lands in a narrow pedestrian lane beside the university security office. It’s bright here, washed in fluorescent light, and close enough to the main road that you can already hear the traffic and voices navigating the post-chaos.

The second your shoes touch concrete, your knees threaten to fold. You grab his arm on instinct, digging your fingers in as you glance at him. “You do that every day?” You can almost hear the smugness in his voice, and something else. “It’s basically my 9-5.” It’s most definitely just your imagination but you feel as though his gaze softens, looking at you trembling like a newborn bird. He watches as you regain sensation in your legs though your hand remains on his arm. He doesn’t make any move to remove it. A baffled laugh escapes you, more air than sound. “I can’t believe I’m still alive.” “Do you need to sit down?” You shake your head softly. “I’m fine… thank you for saving me, Spiderman.” “I should be thanking you. I was getting my ass kicked out there.” “I know, I saw.” He tilts his head. “I thought you were thankful?” “Both those things can be true at the same time.” Then, you go on your tippy toes and press a soft kiss to his cheek. “But I’m definitely very thankful.” 

You feel the superhero stiffen under your touch and the white fabric of his mask widens before he jerks slightly backward, free hand flying up to hover over where you kissed. “Did you just—” There’s something about the tone of his voice, pitched higher now in surprise, that has you blinking. “You sound…” If you weren’t sure about his tension before, he most definitely freezes now, his hand pulling back down to rest over your hand on his arm and pull it off. “Oh, uh—you should head back, injured and stupid civilian. I know the people in the office. They should be able to get you home.” “No wait, hold on.” You narrow your eyes, taking a step forward that he immediately responds to by stepping back. “Do I know you?” He points at himself, backing away slowly. “Me? You might have seen me on the news or seen one of my promotional posters.” “No, because you were weird the second you saw me.” “I was bleeding out and on the verge of death,” he says. “Let’s not pathologise me.” “You looked right at me and said something like, ‘you have got to be fucking kidding’.”

He tilts his head and takes another step back. “Did I say that? Hm, no, not ringing any bells. Your ankle is injured, maybe stop walking towards me. You’re freaking me out and I don’t do well with girls.” You open your mouth to say more when he suddenly points at something over your shoulder. “Oh shit, is that a bird? A plane?” You turn instinctively. There is no one there, of course, but it’s a realisation seconds too late. Because by the time you whip back around, he’s already two steps away, web fired high above, body coiled to launch. “Oh, you asshole—” “Get home safe!” he calls, voice cheerful in a way that irks you. “Wait—” He shoots upward before the word can properly leave your mouth. You hobble forward, outrage momentarily stronger than the pain in your ankle. “You can’t just dump me here and leave!” you yell after him. “I’m literally injured! Jerk!” “Ma’am, can we help you?” You freeze and your shoulder slump even as you turn around. The staff inside the office have stepped out hearing all the commotion and you realised Spiderman can definitely leave an injured civilian here. Curse his fast thinking and kind heart.

You freeze and your shoulder slump even as you turn around. The staff inside the office have stepped out hearing all the commotion and you realised Spiderman can definitely leave an injured civilian here. Curse his fast thinking and kind heart. It’s only when the sun has lowered into a splash of pink and orange in the sky that you finish tolerating the endless questioning from both the security office staff and the police. Thankfully, they’re kind enough to drive you back to your apartment though you’re slightly annoyed the rest of the day had been wasted on telling them ‘I don’t know’ over and over again. The moment you step back into your room, your phone buzzes with multiple notifications. There’s an Outlook email from your neuropharmacology course and three texts from an unknown number. unknown: looks like you lucked out and we’re partners it’s gojo btw lets meet tomorrow @ uni library And because you genuinely cannot feel even worse than you already do, you turn your face to bury into your pillow and groan. 

You don’t end up confirming Gojo’s plans until halfway through your morning tutorial the next day when he double texts.

DO NOT ANSWER: ? don’t leave me on read you can hate me all u want but the project is worth 20% yk!!!!!!

you: ok time?

DO NOT ANSWER: ohhh so now u respond huh id hate to think im forgettable

you: time

DO NOT ANSWER: (╥﹏╥) i’ll get on campus at 12 ish so like in ten minutes

you: done

DO NOT ANSWER:  >⩊<

You push the thought that as a grown man, he really shouldn’t be texting like that away, and flip your phone back down on the table just as the class ends.

“Want to check out this new bingsu place near the station?” Utahime chatters as she shoves her iPad into her tote and picks up her coffee, watching you follow behind albeit slower with dread. “They have this new Thai tea bingsu and it looks crazy good. Shoko swears by it but—and you can’t tell her I said this—it’s crazy that she went out for lunch without us. Does she not fuck with us anymore? Who did she even go with?”

You smile wistfully at her. “I wish I could, Utahime, but I already have plans after this.”

“What the fuck, et tu?” She processes your words with a frown. “Did you take on a shift today? I thought you only had this one class today.”

“No, it’s even worse. I need to lock in for my neuropharmacology assessment.”

She pauses, cup halfway to her mouth before her lips split into a wide grin. “Oh my God. With Gojo?”

You groan, zipping your bag with more force than necessary. You sling it over your shoulder and try to hurry away from her, but it’s too late and she follows quickly after.

“Don’t remind me.”

“You’re choosing to hang out with Gojo over me?” Her voice peaks at the end, and you hate how happy she looks at the thought of you ditching her.

“This isn’t a choice I want to make at all so don’t say it like that. And don’t look so happy, freak.”

“Oh, this is rich. You were bitching about him all of last semester and now you’re choosing him over me?” Utahime giggles, pulling out her phone with her free hand. “Shoko is going to love this.”

You raise an eyebrow, catching the opening. “I thought you were mad at her for getting lunch without you? You’re so fickle.”

She hums absentmindedly, already outing your situation to the group chat, no doubt. “Our friendship runs deeper than one betrayal.”

You grin as you approach the library stairs, looking back over your shoulder. “Friendship, huh?”

She whips her head up at you, eyes flickering down to her cup where the red words written across the side spells out a cute reminder to have a good day. A flush creeps up her face. “What? Don’t say that like it’s something to point out! We are friends!”

“I didn’t even say anything!” “You’re giving me that look again. I’m not a blind masochist, Y/N. I can tell when you have something to say, and I’m not taking it lying down.” “You’re just lucky I haven’t said a word to Shoko yet.” Utahime grumbles, crossing her arms. “If you do, I’ll kill myself.” You laugh, glad to get the last word. “I’ll see you later, Utahime. Go say hi to Shoko for me!” “I will see Shoko, but only to tell her that.” “Sure,” you say, and enter the building. The library is busy, bustling with students as they lean over textbooks and clack away at their laptops. It’s not quite midterm season yet, so the fact that the library is so full should be concerning. With so many heads bent down, there is little chance you’ll find Gojo. You swallow your pride and pull out your phone. you: i’m here where are you? DO NOT ANSWER: not her eyet wa it wait smth came up You frown. He’s the one who set the time and has the audacity to be late? Typical for someone as inconsiderate as him, you decide, and choose a table near the back of the library just so he can struggle to find you when he finally arrives. You take out your laptop and start a new document, opening the tab for the marking rubric, the assessment notification, and some articles you found doing a quick search on PubMed. You even get around to dot-pointing one of them when someone dumps their bag on the table next to you. You jump. “Fuck.” “Did I scare you?” The voice alone is enough to make you freeze though you quickly snap out of it to glare up at the culprit. Gojo stands beside you, panting slightly, running a hand through his messy hair like it’ll fix his disheveled appearance. The buttons of his shirt are mismatched and one side of his collar is tucked inward. “Hey,” he greets with a lopsided smile. “How are you late when you’re the one who said to meet at twelve?” Gojo shrugs as if it isn’t a big deal and flops into the seat next to you. You had intended for him to sit across the table but you didn’t have the time to slip the words into the conversation before he starts talking. “Didn’t I tell you? I had something to do. Did you read my texts with your eyes closed or something?” “If you think I could have deciphered that from what you said, then you’re dumber than I thought. Did you run into an electric fence or something?” He smiles at you like your words had been an inside joke. “I told you after that part.” “Do you ever take anything seriously? This is worth twenty percent of our grade. You can’t just mess around and expect to still do well.” “Can’t I? It’s always worked before.” And because you don’t doubt that, it only serves to piss you off even more. He catches onto your scowl, smirk widening.

“Relax, you’ll pop a blood vessel. We still have weeks to get this done so who cares?” You roll your eyes and force yourself to be satisfied with just that, turning back to to your laptop in an effort to calm down. “Me, obviously. Look, I’m only staying on campus until two, so let’s just get this done quickly so we can both leave. I’m sure you don’t want to be here either so let’s just be adults and get this over and done with.” You take a deep breath and prepare yourself to look back at him and point out what you’ve already planned on the document but stop short when you find him already watching you. You grimace and edge away slightly. “What?” “Nothing.” He shifts to pull out his laptop and then a wired mouse. You eye the chunky device with disbelief, wondering if perhaps his bag is bigger on the inside than the outside and then at its corded pet. It’s only when he pulls out yet another accessory, a mouse pad, that you blurt, “Do you seriously carry a whole gaming laptop setup with you every day for class?” Gojo holds down the power button for a couple of seconds, the fans whirring to life and filling the library with insistent static. “Yeah, I love this thing. It can handle all my programs and I can play League on it too so what’s not to like? It can run Sims 4 and all my CC’s without any lag, it’s literally my baby.  It’s only right that I give it everything it needs in return.” You scrunch your nose. “You play into the stereotype way too much.” “What stereotype?” “What else? The nerd stereotype.” He huffs, apparently offended. “I’m not a nerd.” “Aren’t you?” You eye him up and down. “You tick off all the boxes. The glasses, the smartass attitude, the gaming laptop—” “You wear glasses.” He starts listing, holding out his hand to count. “I wear contacts.” “But you wear your glasses in the morning. For morning tutorials and lectures and stuff,” he continues, undeterred. “You carry yourself like you’re better than everyone else—” “I do not—” “Though you’re probably too broke to buy a gaming laptop so I guess it’s better to be a nerd than whatever you are.” He finishes with a smug grin that makes you want to curl your fingers into a fist and throw that right into his pretty face. “I don’t carry myself like I’m better than anyone,” you decide to clear up.

He makes an unconvinced sound. “You do.” “I don’t.” You press your lips together and sigh, breaking the eye contact though not without effort. “Stop trying to waste my time.” “You found me out. “Through the whirring of his laptop, you can make out his slight chuckle. He leans onto the table with his elbows, voice almost a childish whine. “Let’s talk. Why do you hate me so much?” Your fingers stutter on your keyboard. Sucking in a deep breath, you turn your head and face him on. “”I don’t hate you. Obviously. “Obviously,” he repeats, the curl of his lips an obvious indicator that he doesn’t believe you. “But you’re always frowning when we talk.” “We don’t talk,” you emphasise again and against your attempt at nonchalance, your brows pinch together. “And I don’t hate you.” “Right? I haven’t even done anything to you.” Your eye twitches at that. You rein it in, rein in that explosive feeling in your chest as if another word from his mouth will send you spiralling. You know it will, as inevitable as the crash-out you’ll be having to Shoko later at the cafe. “Gojo,” you start calmly. “We have four weeks to do this assessment and frankly, I still have a life to live outside this so let’s just get this over and done with, okay?” He looks at you a little longer and you would have asked what exactly he was searching for on your face, but something tells you that opening this can of worms will only confuse you more so you only stare back. “Alright,” he says finally. “Add me to the document.” You hit share and tilt your laptop towards him, watching as his long fingers dwarf your keyboard. He slides it back over and you nod, satisfied. “I already looked at some sources so you can just start off one of those.” Gojo glances back at his gaming laptop, clicking on the document. You watch as a new anonymous user hops onto the page: Anonymous Snow Leopard. He’s already typing away and when you click on the animal to find his cursor, he’s finishing off a second sentence notably not under one of those articles you had found. You frown as you read. “Hold on.” He sighs, fingers pausing. “What now?” You point to your screen at where he’s stopped typing. “You can’t just say things like this without a source.” “I’ll cite it later.” “That’s now how you research. You’re meant to find an article first and then write your own interpretation afterwards based on it.” He waves his hand dismissively. “Potato, potahto.” “Okay, no. We are not doing this.” “See, this is where your pretentiousness kicks in.” “What, because I know how to research properly?” “Because you’re trying to control every little thing.”

“I’m not being controlling, This counts to my grade too so I have a say.” “And where’s my say?” “You’re thinking too far, maybe focus on actually saying something useful first.” “See? Pretentious.” “Pot calling the kettle black.” “So you admit it?” “Maybe, do you?” He leans in, sneering. “I’ve gotten top marks doing it my way and I’m not going to change it now just because you have some inferiority complex over me.” You flush, leaning back. “Well, I’ve gotten high marks doing it my way! And I don’t have an inferiority complex, much less to you.” “Then you can use your method and I’ll use mine. We don’t have to collaborate any more than we need to.” You hate to admit that he might be right. Outwardly however, you grit your teeth and summon an inner peace. “Gojo. Find an article before you start talking out of your ass.” He groans as if deeply inconvenienced and though the sound makes you tense as if he might spit out another remark, he only turns back to his laptop and clicks open a new tab with exaggeration. “Fine, fine. Geez. You’re really annoying, you know that?” he grumbles, slouching in his seat. You’re about to drop another snarky response when something on his screen catches your eye, a tab peeking out in a red tab folder titled self indulgent. You lean forward slightly, catching the title when his cursor flicks by. It seems like an impossible task to read the words in the split second when the pop-up shows, if you hadn’t been stunlocked on that tab yourself earlier that week. hoping there’s a modification of kumamon’s line, r/digimon. “Wait,” you blurt, placing your hand on his arm. He freezes under your touch, though you pay no attention to the sensation. “What?” “Was that a Digimon Reddit thread?” Gojo doesn’t say anything for a while, and you have to look over at him to check if he was paying attention. His shoulders seem visibly tense, eyes flickering to the tab and then over at you. “…No?” You don’t wait for permission, sliding your own laptop to the side to take a hold of his. He makes a brief noise of protest, hands coming up as if to stop you, but they pause right before touching. The hesitation gives you the chance to click on the tab. The screen that loads confirms your suspicions. Your eyes widen, taking in the familiar Digimon forum, open to the exact post you’ve spent the last week arguing in the comments. “You’re in the Digimon subreddit?” “Don’t do this. You already give me enough shit about carrying a gaming laptop. Don’t ruin this nostalgia for me,” he mutters, looking away, and you finally realise that his tense shoulders might be because he’s bracing for an impact that isn’t coming. You find yourself, somewhat absently, marvelling at the sudden quietness of him. Maybe this is what people see when they talk about Gojo like he’s the second coming of Jesus.

You laugh in disbelief. He only stiffens more until you exclaim, “Gojoverrated?” “Look, I made that username when I was twelve and it just stuck, alright? I’m sure your usernames at twelve were much worse—” “So it was you that wrote that stupid rant about Kumamon’s evolution! It was like, a thousand words!” Gojo whips around to face you immediately. His eyes take you in, sweeping up and down your appearance as if trying to associate you with your words. “You pronounced Kumamon right. You know about the post? You read it?” “Are you questioning my reading comprehension skills now?” “No, I—” he stutters, actually tripping over his words in front of you which only makes your smile widen. He clears his throat and tries again. “I just meant—you read this?” “Read it? I responded to it, smartass.” There’s a long pause, and you wait for recognition to dawn. He straightens slowly, eyes opening wide. “There’s no way. You’re not—” You beam. “I’m Digimonlvr3000!”“Surprise aside, you should not be saying that username with so much pride.” But then he stares at you like the ground beneath him has just fallen through. “But shut up, there’s no fucking way.”

“You seriously hate the transition from Grizzmon to GrapLeomon?” you start, elbows resting on the table as you lean in. The same banter falls from your lips, but you refuse to acknowledge how it lacks venom.

“You can’t just go from a bear cub to a bear, and then to some mechanical lion-man, and then a unicorn-panther-headed half-nude dude.” He blinks at you even as he talks, eyes still wide as he struggles to comprehend saying these words to someone other than Suguru, considering his best friend is the only person who would at least pretend to listen.

“I mean, this is Digimon, not Pokémon. You know, digital monsters? They’re allowed to be crazy.”

“Yeah? Well, I want bears.”

“Then Pokémon might be the franchise for you.”

Gojo flinches like you’ve insulted him personally, more than any of your actually hurtful insults have ever managed to make him flinch. “Don’t even joke, Y/N. It’s not a crime to like coherent evolution lines.”

You shrug. “The randomness makes it fun. It’s Digimon’s whole brand.”

“And yet, the most iconic Digimon evolution lines come from coherent ones. You know, ones that make sense and have a consistent visual theme from Rookie to Mega. There is nothing that ties Grizzmon to GrapLeomon.” His lips quiver as he talks, eyes still wide, shock lingering. He can’t help letting his gaze sweep over you again and again. He thinks then that maybe the person who said never to judge a book by its cover had actually been onto something.

You raise a finger, drawing him out of his daze. “Um, actually, there is, though. The whole theme of grappling and fist-fighting? Does that ring a bell?” “That’s the same argument you used in your comments.” “The same comment you have yet to respond to.” You pause, thinking. “Just like right now, actually.” “Yeah?” he starts, and you know you’ve got him again. He presses on regardless. “Well, you’re the one who made that post about disliking Rhinokabuterimon more than Daipenmon.” “And I stand by that.” “Oh my god,” he says slowly, taking you in. “You’re worse in person.” “Your Kumamon rant got locked by a mod,” you remind him. “Somehow that makes sense. You’re as annoying online as you are in person.” “It was locked for too many off-topic replies, which is partially your fault.” “I wasn’t going to let you have the last word.” “Last word, huh. Great segue to—” “No, don’t bring that up, stop—” “—to your Digimon fanfiction account that you have linked in your bio.” You groan, long and low, covering your face with your hands. Warmth creeps up your neck, burning against your cheeks when you hear him laugh at your expense. You try to gather your dignity, peeking between your fingers to accuse him as you say, “How would you know? Did you read them?” “Of course I did,” he says without shame, and any thought of turning the tables back on him dissipates. He watches you suffer from embarrassment for only a second longer before resting his chin on his palm, leaning away as if to act casual. “So. Do you play the TCG?” he asks, despite the fact that he knows he’s seen your username floating around in the Digimon TCG subreddit. You pull your hands away with a start. “Do I play? Is the sky blue?” Gojo’s lips quiver upward. “Duel me.” “Okay,” you say quickly, too quickly, and you clear your throat in an effort to reset yourself. He doesn’t seem to notice, already digging through his bag for something. “Oh, you meant right now.” He pauses, looking up. “Yeah. Do you not have your deck?” “I don’t carry it on me, no.” For some reason, the thought that he does brings a small smile to your face. He visibly deflates, and a thought tries to enter your mind, though you’re not quite there just yet. Instead, you laugh softly. “Next time then,” you say, enjoying the way his smile returns to his face. “What colour do you play, anyway?” “Purple, obviously.” You roll your eyes. “Of course you’re a purple player. You saw the post about how purple wins just about every big event in EX7, didn’t you? Let me guess. Leviamon?” “Actually, I play DexDorugoramon. You?” You hum as if that makes complete sense. “I play yellow. Not for any particular reason, I just like the Digimon in the decks.” “Yellow, huh? So you’re a feelscrafter.” He bites back a goofy smile, but it shows.

“Don’t say that word like it’s a slur.” “Do you even play the meta?” You scoff. “Of course I do. But playing good isn’t even fun anymore.” Gojo laughs, and from behind him, you catch a few students looking over with narrowed eyes. He pays them no mind, leaning in. “See? Pretentious.” You lean forward too, reply on the ready, the only thing missing is the exact wording you want to use to shoot him down, when his phone goes off. Is this the second time now? Just how popular is this guy? His gaze falters before he pulls back to wrestle his phone out of his pocket. You’re left facing him, and you draw back too, clearing your throat as you turn to your laptop. What the fuck was that? Your fingers type gibberish into the document, then drag your finger across your trackpad to erase it only to type another string of incoherent letters and symbols. Your mind races through the conversation, noting the genuine joy in your voice, the amusement when Gojo responded just as enthusiastically. There’s a warmth in your stomach that’s hard to get rid of. What the fuck. You’re not eavesdropping. That’s simply not what you’re doing. Though it isn’t your fault if you happen to hear Gojo as he talks into his phone, his voice low out of respect for the library but not so low that you can’t make out the conversation. “Alright, yeah, I got it. I’m not, so don’t even start. God, shut the fuck up, Suguru. I’ll be over, give me ten minutes. Ten minutes. Yeah, probably, but you’re pissing me off, so I’ll be there in ten. I’m already doing you a favour, man, so quit it before I change my mind.” You catch him rolling his eyes, his freakishly long eyelashes lifting and falling. “You owe me.” Gojo hangs up and sighs, running a hand through his hair. “Hey, sorry about that. I have to go.” You look up at him with a start. “Go? You just got here! We’ve only been working for…” You glance down at the bottom right of your laptop screen. “An hour and a half?” He grins, though it’s small. “Time flies when you’re having fun.” “Neuropharmacology is hardly fun.” “No, but the company is,” he says, unplugging his mouse and rolling up his mouse pad. As he stuffs his enormous gaming laptop into whatever space remains in his bag, he continues, “I’ll text you when I’m free next.” “We hardly got anything done today,” you find yourself saying. “No thanks to your distraction.” “Mine? You continued it. If you really cared, you would have told me to shut up.” “As if you ever listen.” It’s far too easy to fall into a rhythm with him, you think begrudgingly. He’s grinning lazily, lifting his glasses with his knuckle and otherwise unmoving beside your table. You huff, turning back to your laptop. This feeling, at least, is familiar and comforting. “Whatever, Gojo. I’ll do my part as long as you do yours.” He watches you for a second longer before taking a step back. “I’ll text you.” You give him a half-hearted wave. Only when you’re positive enough time has elapsed for him to have cleared the building and maybe half the courtyard do you exhale, slumping in your chair. Your eyes flick to the library doors. No sign of white hair. You tell yourself you’re pissed, that that’s what is currently sitting in your chest and the reason for your sudden restlessness. I mean, really, who arrives late to a meeting they scheduled and then leaves early?

It’s a Friday afternoon, and he has you losing your mind over reports and Digimon, of all things. You should be at a bar. Or at home, in pajamas, catching up on backlog episodes of that new trash reality TV you’ve been binging, or having that bingsu Utahime mentioned earlier. What you should not find yourself doing is thinking about Gojo and how pretty his genuine smile is, especially when it’s directed at you. You scoff at your screen, type out a line, and then delete it. What a joke.

academic freak: jumping on !! let me know if u can work on our project now :3 you: sorry I'm out rn i can hop on at eight tonight though if you’re still free then? academic freak: no worries let’s do a video call then >< (6:43pm) You stare at his last text, have been staring at his last text ever since you left your friends, hovering your thumb over the screen, unsure. And now it was almost eight pm and you were still staring. It's not like this is the first time you’ve ever video called someone, and it’s not like he matters, but something akin to nervousness settles in your stomach. He's just your annoyingly good-looking, annoyingly smart project partner. Shoko’s childhood best friend. The guy that embarrassed you last semester. Nothing more. Still, you keep blinking at the message, at the double exclamation marks and all his stupid emoticons. academic freak: can i call u now? You flinch when the typing bubble pops up but you fail to swipe out before the message is sent, and the read receipt lights up immediately. academic freak: ? waiting for me? You groan aloud, running a hand down your face. There’s no dignified way out of this, so with a sigh, you hit call. The screen rings once, twice, and you suddenly jump up, nerves—or whatever the hell you want to call it—causing you to sweat. You should change, brush your hair maybe, fuck, you took out your contacts already. One time in third grade, someone said you looked different with glasses compared to without. What did that mean? Was the difference that extreme? Why couldn’t you see it? Would Gojo be able to tell? Before you can answer any of those questions, your phone flickers to life. “Hey,” Gojo says, grinning as his camera turns on. He’s a little too close at first, but after seeing your surprised face, he leans back and settles into view. His hair is slightly tousled, glasses perched low on his nose, the logo of the university peeking just into view on his jumper. “Hi.” You clear your throat, adjusting your phone so it sits upright on your table. “I wasn’t waiting for your text, by the way. You just messaged me just as I was about to message you. That’s all.” He raises an eyebrow, a knowing smile on his face. Thankfully, he doesn’t push. “Sorry for ditching you earlier, but I’m here now.” You nod, opening your laptop on the table. As it hums to life, your eyes flick back over to your phone and trace what you can see inside his room. He has a lamp on, warm light washing over his face as he leans back into view, a lollipop in his hand, and there’s an assortment of plushies on his bed behind him. You narrow your eyes. “Is that Agumon?”

Gojo glances back, then shrugs like it’s the most natural thing in the world. “He guards my bed.” You stifle a laugh. “Still getting nightmares at your big age?” “Don’t tell me you’re too cool for plushies.” He rolls his eyes, though his face quickly splits into a grin when you pull out your own plushie, placing it comfortably on your lap, its head peeking into frame. “There we go. That’s more like it.” His praise does things to you that you don’t dare put into words. You squeeze your plushie tight. You busy yourself with opening the document, taking extra long to fiddle around with opening and closing random tabs. It’s hard to focus on one thing, you see, not when Gojo is staring at you unabashedly, cheek smushed against his hand like he has nowhere else to be. You don’t look up right away, clicking through your email, Spotify, the university site, waiting for him to get bored and finally free you from his gaze, but he doesn’t. Clearing your throat, you finally drag your gaze up to his face. “We should—” you start, but cut yourself off. “What?” “Hm?” He blinks when your eyes meet. “Why’re you staring at me like that?” Gojo lets the silence drag on for a little longer until he chuckles, dropping his head to look down at his own laptop screen. “Who said I was looking at you?” You arch a brow, glancing over your shoulder, then around your room. “Is there someone else in the room with me now?” “Ask that question again when we have a Ouija board.” He types something, and you watch the words pop up on your screen. “I was just thinking how different you are when you’re not on campus. You’re quieter, for one. Less teeth-baring.” “If you want me to insult you, you only have to ask.” He grins, eyes lazy with amusement. “See? Even that lacks any bite.” “Says you. I’m surprised you haven’t made a comment on my glasses or something,” you say, unwilling to be outdone. “And what, your messy desk?” You shove your textbooks out of frame. “I knew it.” He shrugs offhandedly, returning his attention to his laptop. You follow his lead, blinking in surprise when he doesn’t continue with another snarky comment. It’s silent again for a while. “It suits you. You look nice with your hair tied back.” Your hands fly to the back of your head and close around your claw clip, mouth hanging open as you stare at him. Gojo keeps typing like he didn’t just casually compliment you, as if he hadn’t just thrown a curveball into your carefully built defences. You swallow hard, blinking as heat creeps into your cheeks. “I… you look nice too?” You wince as soon as the words leave your mouth, though you can’t completely regret them, because they’re what finally cause him to look up at you, his hands frozen over his keyboard. Then he’s laughing, and you take back that last thought just as quickly.

“Alright, alright, let’s just work on our project,” you mumble, ducking your head. He’s still laughing, and you grit your teeth with effort. “If you keep laughing, I’m going to hang up on you.” Gojo’s laughter lingers, soft and amused, as he savours the heat on your face for a second longer before nodding. “I’ll stop, I swear.” His fingers return to the keyboard, but you catch the flicker of something like warmth—or maybe surprise—in his eyes before he lowers his head too. You take a breath and refocus on your document, with only the sounds of shuffling and keys clacking disturbing the space between the two of you. Every now and then, he asks a question about a point you’ve made, or corrects something you’ve written. His criticisms lack any heat, and you find yourself accepting his words without the usual spike in blood pressure. Every now and then, his attention slips and he starts scrolling on Twitter in another tab, his snickering making you lift your head. Gojo immediately catches the movement and flips his laptop around to show you, letting you share a laugh with him. He tells you about the Discord server he runs for hosting Digimon TCG games. You listen, asking for an invite when his voice quietens near the end, and the smile he beams at you makes your stomach flip. You tell him about your hobbies, how you’ve had to let go of piano because of your academic pursuits. He tells you he wants to hear a piece, your favourite piece to play, and you think for a moment that you might want to pick it up again. At one point, light floods across the screen and you watch as he grumbles, lifting an arm to block the sudden brightness. A voice sounds through your phone speaker distantly, and you recognise it as Geto. You hadn’t realised they were roommates. “You free tonight, Satoru? Haibara’s having a get-together in a few hours. He asked me if you wanted to come along since you ditched halfway through the—oh.” Geto’s voice trails off, as if he’s only just noticed Gojo’s pinched expression. “You’re on the phone to someone. Who? Let me see.” “It’s none of your business!” He throws you a frantic glance and you shrug. “And knock first!” “You never knock.” You hear the shuffle of someone entering the room. “And you have three friends, and I’m one of them. Is it Nanami? Shoko?” You hear Gojo’s protests as something hits the phone and it swirls, landing face-up toward his ceiling. You notice he has light-up neon stars stuck haphazardly across it. Your heart squeezes. Cute. Then a hand covers the screen and it’s a blur of black and red. “Back off, Suguru, I’m not going to Haibara’s party—” “Is that a girl?” “Hey!” There’s a whirl, and then you blink, biting your cheeks at the face suddenly staring back at you. Hesitantly, you raise a hand. “Hey, Geto.” Geto stares at you for a second before laughing, a low melody that has you shifting nervously in your seat. “Y/N? I didn’t know you and Satoru were so close. I always thought you two had this rivals thing going on—” He doesn’t finish his sentence because Gojo snatches his phone back, and you watch a tilted view of the interaction. “Tell Haibara I won’t be showing up.” “Something more important to do, Satoru?” The world shifts again as Gojo flops back onto his bed, placing you upright on his table once more. He glances sideways at his roommate, directing his words at him even as his hands work to steady his phone. “It’s not what you think. We’re working on our group project. It can’t just evolve past Rookie stage on its own.” You watch as he shoots a quick glance at you, eyes searching as if to ask, Did you catch that? You can’t help but grin a little, biting back a laugh. “Sure, that’s all. I’ll go tell Haibara you’ll come to the next one.” The light dims slightly and you assume Geto is closing the door. “You owe me.”

When the light finally fades, Gojo turns back to you with an apologetic smile. You’re thrilled to see him glance at you, then away, his hands coming up to run through his hair, an uncharacteristic shyness that makes your heart squeeze again. “Sorry about that.” “No, it’s okay. You guys seem close.” You absentmindedly rub at your chest, wondering if this is a sign of cardiovascular disease. “You two dorm together?” “We moved out together at the beginning of second year. He lived, like, three hours from campus and needed a roommate. He asked me and I said yes.” You rest your cheek on your palm, watching him through the small screen of your phone. “I never knew you two had so much history. I guess that makes sense, considering I never see you two apart.” “Hey, it’s not that bad.” “Isn’t it? Gojo and Geto, Geto and Gojo. There’s even a name for you two. Goge, though I prefer Gego.” He frowns, brows pulled together. “There’s a difference?” “Yeah,” you say, and leave it at that, unwilling to explain the difference. Reading over his last few words, you highlight them with your cursor. “Gojo, this doesn’t make sense. The rebuttal team will definitely have something to say about this.” Gojo huffs, and you watch as he backspaces the sentence. “You know, I almost miss the days when you were comfortably mediocre. Now it’s like I’m back to being ten years old and getting taught long division by my dad.” You snort, reaching for something to snap back with. Instead, you feel that sticky ball of unease in your stomach. Clearing your throat, you settle for, “What a universal experience.” He looks up at that. “What, not going to tell me to kill myself for comparing you to my dad?” “Was that an insult? You’re losing your touch.” “Says you. You don’t even seem mad.” He squints at you, and you wish your Wi-Fi would give out so he could count the pixels on his screen instead of the thoughts threatening to burst free. “You okay?” You pause, bracing for the usual deflection to leap off your tongue. But there’s something about the way he’s looking at you, something about the warmth wrapping around your shoulders, something about the brief glimpse into his private world that has you fidgeting to say something else. You let out a thin laugh, eyes fixed on the words on your laptop screen. “Guess I didn’t really care for grades back then.” He snorts. “Seriously? And you still beat me on that quiz that one time? You make fun of me for being a prodigy, but I fear the call is coming from inside the house.” You don’t move. “It was just luck.” “And all your nineties since then? That all luck too?” You shrug, but your mind screams the answer. Gojo frowns, as if sensing that this goes deeper. “What is this really about, Y/N?” For once, you’re thankful for his directness. When he says it like that, you find that you can’t as easily hide behind an excuse. A part of you aches to be seen, to tell someone else something that might otherwise follow you to the grave. “It’s nothing serious. I guess I’m just a little worried that I’m too late to be good at this for real.” His head tilts on-screen. “Huh?”

Heat creeps up your neck. “You know, neuroscience. I never cared about my classes until last semester because I never cared for science. But then I realised how much I liked neuroanatomy and I started trying, and it paid off. But we’re in our last year. I feel like I’ve wasted too much time.” When he doesn’t immediately say anything, you barrel on. “You’ve always been…” You gesture vaguely at him, still not meeting his eyes. “Good. Effortless. And I’m just now cramming to keep up. Like, what’s the point, you know? Maybe I’ll never catch up. Even if I do, it’s too late for it to matter. Maybe that’s why I was always annoyed at you. I wish I started caring like you did way back in first year or whenever it was that you decided you knew what to do.” You try to laugh it off, but it comes out small and brittle. Gojo doesn’t answer right away. His usual smirk is gone, replaced with something more thoughtful. Finally, he leans forward, chin resting on his palm. “You don’t give yourself enough credit. You really think you’re behind me?” “Well, aren’t I?” He snorts softly, but there’s no bite to it. “You’re the one who wrote the outline to this report. You’re the one reading through and correcting everything. Half of this project looks as good as it does because of you.” Your stomach flips. “You’re exaggerating—” “I’m not.” His tone sharpens just enough to make you stop fidgeting and look up at him. His mouth is curved as if to soften the words, but his gaze is sincere, coaxing you to take in every one. “Look. Who cares when you started? You’re here now. And you’re good at it, like ridiculously good. Not because you lucked into it, but because you put in the effort. You work hard because you want this, and it shows. That’s more than most people ever figure out, even if they’ve been trying since day one.” “You don’t know that for sure.” “Don’t I?” “It’s easy for you to say. You’ve got it all figured out.” His eyebrows shoot up. “You’re serious about catching up to me?” The heat creeps back up your neck, hot flushes spreading across your back. “Forget it. Just forget everything.” “No, wait, I didn’t mean it like that.” He runs a hand through his hair, forcing the surprise back. “I thought you knew the feeling was mutual, that I’m making sure to catch up to you. If anything, you’ve been making me work harder than I ever have. If this is you ‘too late,’ then I’d say you’re exactly where you’re supposed to be.” Your stomach knots at that, a mix of disbelief and something warmer curling under your ribs. You force your gaze back to the words on your screen, blinking against the sting building at the corners of your eyes. “…You’re ridiculous,” you murmur, more to your laptop than to him. Across the screen, his grin slips back into place, lazy and self-assured, but not mocking. “Ridiculously right, you mean, since you know I always am.” You shake your head, biting back the urge to argue—and to smile. This time, the silence stretches comfortably, neither of you rushing to fill it. Your cursor blinks steadily on the half-finished paragraph, but your focus is caught on the strange buoyancy in your chest, the faint echo of his words playing on repeat. When Gojo finally speaks, it’s in his usual drawl. “So, am I supposed to fix the discussion section, or are you going to keep having an existential crisis about being secretly smart?” You let out a shaky laugh, the tension finally breaking. “Shut up and start writing, Gojo.” “Yes, ma’am,” he says, already clicking away, but the small smile tugging at his mouth lingers longer than his usual jokes. You pretend not to notice how your chest feels lighter than it did a minute ago.

The weekend has slipped through your fingers quickly, leaving much to be desired, and before you know it, you’re waking before the ass crack of dawn to shuffle to the university café. The streets are empty this early out, with only the hush of the wind and the distant hiss of a bus pulling away filling the campus. Not for the first time, you regret picking up the opening shifts, and you haven’t even clocked in yet. When you look up to behold the café in all its glory, you freeze. There’s someone standing just outside, leaning against the brick wall and absentmindedly kicking a pebble along the footpath. At first, the figure is just a silhouette. But then you walk close, and the picture clarifies. Spiderman kicks another loose stone, both hands shoved into the pocket of his hoodie that hides the bright blue and white design of his tight-fitted suit. He’s leaning against the wall of the cafe and you hope you’re not misunderstanding that he’s waiting for it to open. “It’s you!” you exclaim, walking faster. “You jerk, you ditched me!” Spiderman pushes off the wall in a heartbeat, body snapping upright with practised reflexes even before he lifts his head. He looks at you in silence and you take the chance to close the gap. Before he can make the smart move and leave, you’re already grabbing his hand. “You left me to talk to the police for hours after that day! Do you know how many questions I answered with ‘I don’t know’?” “Oh, great,” he mumbles, voice low and muffled by his mask. “Just what I needed. What are you doing here?” “That’s my question. I didn’t think our cafe was famous enough to be visited by a superhero. Are you checking out the student discount or something? Are you a student here too—” He cuts you off. “Guessing my identity kind of defeats the purpose of the whole masked hero thing.” You squint at him. “Can you even breathe in that?” “I’m still standing here, aren’t I?” You raise your hands in surrender. “So, what, you’re here to sightsee?” “Do you think I have the luxury for that?” When you only raise your eyebrows pointedly and shrug, he continues. “I was supposed to meet someone here.” There’s only one other person who works morning shifts. “Shoko?” Spiderman seems to pause. “The answer isn’t no.” “Shoko’s doing closing shifts now so I’ll be taking over the morning shifts. Also, you know Shoko? And she didn’t tell me?” “Secret identities will do that to you,” he groans. “I can’t believe you tortured that information out of me.” “If anything, you confirmed it out of your own volition.” He shrugs, taking a step forward as if to leave. You look over at the cafe door beside him. “You’re here for a drink, right? Give me a couple minutes to open and I’ll get started on your order for you.” He shifts, almost imperceptibly shrugging. “Forget it. You really shouldn’t be involving yourself with me.” Before he can take another step, you reach out and grab his wrist. The movement is firm enough to make him pause, though if you thought he couldn’t pull away, you’d be sorely mistaken. “Don’t be shy. Come on, get in here. I’m not letting you leave that easily again.”

He lets out a small, embarrassed noise, half sigh and half grunt, as if caught somewhere between annoyance and resignation. You tug him gently towards the door again, though the look in your eyes is nothing if not fierce. Finally, the steadiness of his stance gives way into a reluctant step and you’re able to pull him inside. The warmth of the cafe hits you immediately, a stark contrast to the brittle cold outside. Your breath stops leaving your lips as mist, the windows already dewy from the lack of ventilation inside, and the air smells like yesterday’s coffee grounds. Spiderman hovers awkwardly by the door where you’ve abandoned him, rocking on his feet. You pretend not to notice how he’s poised to bolt the moment you turn your back and for that reason, you never do. “You can sit, you know,” you say lightly, switching on the espresso machine. “You’re allowed to touch the furniture.” “I’m good here,” he mutters. “Where did all your spark go, Spiderman?” He shifts at that, his weight rocking between his feet. “You make me sound like a rescue dog.” “You’re acting like one,” you note with amusement. “You’re all twitchy and skittish. Should I put out a bowl of water? Or, better yet, you can tell me your order and I’ll get started on that for you.” He pauses. “Iced matcha chai with vanilla cold foam and brown sugar syrup. And a caramel rim. That’s the best part.” Your mouth hangs open, ink bleeding into the side of the cup as you try to process his words. “Are you kidding? That’s literally just pure sugar. Are you insane?” “Someone has to protect the city, sweetheart.” As if emboldened by your surprise, Spiderman walks up to the counter and leans against it, watching you reluctantly write the shorthand for his order on the cup. “And whoever is doing it needs something to keep the sleep away.” You shoot him a look as you cap the pen and get started. “When was the last time you slept?” “Two nights ago. For, like, four hours.” “You know, you should be sleeping seven to eight hours every night otherwise your brain isn’t able to clear proteins. When those accumulate they turn into the amyloid plaques and tau tangles they talk about in neurodegenerative disease.” “Oh my God,” he groans, waving your clinical concern away. “Does this cafe only hire worrywarts? Shoko never shuts up about that.” You look up sharply. “So you do know her.” His hands come up in a placating gesture. “I thought you already came to that conclusion.” “No, because you dodged it. How the fuck do you know Shoko? And why the hell has she never told me?” You let out a thoughtful hum as you create his disgusting drink. “Maybe she was embarrassed to know you.” His hands come down slightly as if baffled. “I saved your life and the only thing leaving your mouth is criticism. The public loves the suit, I’ve gotten no complaints until now.” You narrow your eyes as you reach for the syrup bottle. “So you are dodging.”

“I’m protecting the innocent. I hope you know that you also need to keep a tight lip about me.” “Spare me, Spiderman. You’re really not all that.” “You’ll be surprised.” He makes a show of stretching and flexing his muscles in the tight suit. “I’m irresistible.” You bark a short laugh despite yourself, setting the cup down harder than necessary. “One of these days you’re going to look at yourself in the mirror and reconsider why exactly you chose tight spandex as the go to material for your suit. You know what people are doing on the streets these days? Catching print.” “What’s that?” You swirl whipped cream on the top of his drink and drizzle it in caramel before forcing a dome lid on top. Plucking a straw from the dispenser, you slide that and the drink over to him. He catches it easily enough, eyes not yet looking away from you. “Here’s your drink. Next time, just get more hours of sleep instead of torturing your local barista.” He lifts his mask just enough to sip, bunching it up under his nose, and you catch the barest flash of his grin before it’s covered again. His shoulders relax, like he’s settling in despite himself. “Still good,” he murmurs, almost to himself. Then, louder: “At least you didn’t mess it up.” “That’s the thanks I get?” You rest your elbows on the counter and lean in, your eyes narrowing at him. “This is your job, isn’t it? Why should I thank you?” “I thought since you did unpaid labour for the city, you’d know just how good a thanks feels.” He chuckles, reaching into his pockets to pay. His fingers close around his phone before freezing, the faint weight of realisation settling in. He doesn’t carry cash, and he can’t pay contactless like he usually does with Shoko, because then you’d recognise his phone case. You notice his hesitation. “Unpaid labour indeed.” “Caught me,” Spider-Man admits easily, leaning against the counter. “So, what are the chances you put this on my tab?” You laugh under your breath. “Just make sure to bring cash next time.” There’s a beat of quiet before he tips his head, considering. “Next time, huh?” You shrug, busying yourself with a rag on the counter. “Didn’t you say you needed that sugar bomb to stay awake?” “Touché,” he says, lifting the cup to take another long sip. The room falls into a quieter rhythm, the hum of the machines filling the silence. You watch as he lingers by the counter, fingers drumming against the cup as he enjoys his drink. It’s surreal seeing him so close, joking like he’s just any other person and not some masked figure who swings through the city on webs. You speak up again when the silence drags on a little longer and you begin to worry that the moment might get interrupted by another customer. “You gonna stand there all day or actually do some superheroing?” He makes a thoughtful noise. “Depends. Doesn’t seem like there are any damsels in distress right now.” “Oh, really? Well, I still need some floors mopped and napkins restocked, so—hey!” Before you can blink, he’s already tugging his hood back up and slipping towards the door, the same restless energy in his shoulders that he came in with. “And that’s my cue to leave.” “Don’t forget,” you call after him. “Cash next time!” He lifts a hand without turning, a half-wave, half-promise, before opening the door. He flicks his wrist towards the nearest streetlight and, with a tug, shoots forward with a burst of speed that leaves you blinking, impressed. “Show-off,” you mumble fondly, a small smile tugging at your lips as the door swings closed behind him. His presence is quickly forced to the back of your mind as another customer walks in, and you fall back into the familiar rhythm of your work.

The opening shift quickly becomes the bane of your existence. The grumpy customers clicking in for their own early mornings, the rush of orders that arrives before you’ve even fully woken, the relentless beep of the espresso machine—it all feels like a punishment for having the audacity to leave your warm bed before the sun has even risen. And yet, despite the predictable chaos and your own bleary-eyed resentment, you can’t stop the small smile that tugs at your lips as you hop off the bus. The front of the cafe is quiet when you step up and shove the keys in, though you know that calm won’t last long. A sudden movement behind you makes your stomach tighten, and a voice murmurs close to your ear. “I thought the cafe opens at six.” You turn to see Spiderman hanging upside down, both hands holding onto his web, feet pressed together to keep balance. “It does,” you say in lieu of greeting. “Really? So why did you only get here at 6:13am?” You roll your eyes and turn back around to let you both in. The masked vigilante lets go of his web and smoothly drops down, sauntering in behind and catching the door when you let go. “I could report you for tardiness, you know. And being mean to your customers.” “I didn’t know you were a snitch,” you tease back. “What can I say? I care about the university’s upkeep,” he says as he leans against the counter to watch you start up the shop. Ignoring his gaze on your back, you begin to multitask, one hand grabbing a cup to get started on his drink while the other flicks on switches. The whir of grinders hum to life, filling the space between you. “Another deathly sweet drink for you I’m assuming?” “Someone has to keep this city up and running.” There’s a brief silence as the espresso machine whirs and you do your job. You recall the first few times this unexpected customer had dropped by, the tension between the two of you neither friends nor strangers, and how his face had seemingly dropped when you slid his drink across the counter the moment he walked in. “Oh,” Spiderman had started, the whites of his mask flicking from you to the cup. “You already made this for me?” “Yeah. Unless you’re planning to grab something new today.” His fingers had curled around the cup, mumbling something that sounded like, “No, that’s fine. This is fine.” He had hesitated by the counter until you urged him to pay. He did, albeit slowly, and when he even stalled after the money had passed into your hands, you giggled. “I’m not going to kick you out just because you have your drink now. You can stay. I like talking to you when I open.” His face had immediately brightened, or at least you assume so from the way his head shot up and the grip on his cup tightened almost imperceptibly.

Since then, Spiderman has taken it upon himself to stay throughout the duration of making his drink, and thirty minutes after that too. “You know,” he muses now, conversational and casual. “I feel like you know more about me than I know about you. You know how I like my drinks, my work, my name. Which is terrible because I’m the one with the secret hidden identity.” You roll your eyes, lifting the steamer to pour into a cup with his superhero name on it, something he had insisted you do when you once poured his drink into an empty, unmarked cup, saying the true cafe experience included a named cup. So, in order to give him said full experience, you spell his name wrong every time. Today, it’s ‘Spy x Derman’. “You also know where I work,” you say, topping his disgusting drink with cream and another drizzle of sweet sticky syrup. “And my name. But honestly, it’s your fault for being so naive and open.” “I’m trying to say I want to know more about you.” “And I’m trying to tastefully deflect the conversation elsewhere.” He chuckles. “What harm is there if you tell me something? It doesn’t have to be anything crazy. This isn’t a first date.” “Hey, that’s my line.” You stick a paper straw into the lid and slide his drink over the counter. He catches it with ease, not breaking eye contact to take a sip. “Fine, I’ll bite. What do you want to know? He shrugs, looking around the place. “Surprise me. I wouldn’t even know where to start. “Well, first of all, I’m a normal person. Which means my coffee order isn’t diabetes in a cup. “Tell me your order, then.” You’re surprised to see him so interested in something so mundane and useless. “I guess I usually get a vanilla soy latte. Oh, but if they have matcha or something, I’d get that instead.” He hums. “Personally, I usually get an iced matcha chai with vanilla cold foam and brown sugar syrup with a caramel rim.” You laugh, wiping up the counter after yourself as you’ve been trained to do. “I never asked, and yes, Spiderman, I know. Trust me, it hurts my pure barista hands to make your drink every time.” He chuckles softly with you, eyeing you, toying with the paper straw in his mouth. You know that in about ten minutes, if he stays that long, he’ll start complaining about how the paper has already begun to deteriorate in his mouth, and you will be his unwilling recipient for the venting. When he opens his mouth to speak next, you brace yourself for an onslaught of surprisingly childish whining.“So, any plans this week?” he asks, leaning over the counter. You wonder if it would be a workplace hazard to invite him to the other side.

You catch onto his words after a few blinks. “Not really? I guess I have an assessment due next week so I’ll be grinding for that.” You pause, assuming the silence that follows after is because he’s waiting for more. “You?”

“The usual. Saving cats from trees, escorting senior citizens across pedestrian crossing, the typical.”

“Does that actually happen? Cats getting stuck in trees?”

He shrugs. “Not really. If anything, it’s usually street poles they find themselves in. Anyway, so you’re otherwise free this week? Say, super random day that means absolutely nothing—Tuesday?”

You pause, taking in his faux innocence. He even makes a show of looking at his nails as if he could see them through the fabric of his white gloves. “I mean, I guess I am, for the most part. Why?”

He straightens a little, looking over at the dessert display. “No reason.”

You narrow your eyes at him, a little wary. “Are you sure? I feel like you wouldn’t ask that question unless there was something going on.” “No, I’m just wondering what the average citizen’s schedule looks like.” “Oh, really?” You clean off the steamer with an unimpressed look. “Verdict?” “Boring!” He stretches out the word, loud in the acoustics of the near empty cafe. “Do you even know how to have fun?” You scoff, wiping your hands on a nearby towel before leaning against the counter to talk to him. Somewhere along the way, the distance between the two of you has shrunk and you find yourself gravitating towards him. He stays on the other side, lifting up his mask as he usually does to take a sip. “It’s not my fault the exam period is coming up,” you say, trying to subtly memorise the bottom of his face without seeming weird. “And I definitely do know how to have fun. “Right, sure you do. What do you do for fun, then?” You bite the inside of your cheeks. “You first.” “Need time to think?” “This is so unfair, you can literally fly! Obviously what I do for fun isn’t going to be as fun as leaping through the air and shooting webs from your wrists!” “Not with that attitude you won’t. But come on, humour me a little. Tell me what you usually do in your free time.” “Are we on a bad first date right now? What’s happening?” “Deflect all you want but I’m immune to it by now. Come on, just tell me,” he coaxes you with a grin, straw between his teeth. “Do you, again super random and means nothing at all, go to anime related events?” You narrow your eyes at him slightly. “I guess I do.” “Okay.” He looks around as if inspecting the interior design. “Have you heard about that thing that’s happening at the main city library?” You, in fact, have. “Sure. I saw the post on their Insta.” “Was that something you wanted to check out?” “With… you?” Spiderman laughs like you’ve said something particularly funny. “You’re joking right? Obviously not with me. Spiderman doesn’t do outings, sweets.” “Forgive me for assuming that when you literally asked me when I would be free mere minutes ago.” “I told you, I’m just curious about what normal people get up to.” You eye him, noting how relaxed he now seems and how there’s a silence that drags out after his last words. “Were there any more questions you wanted to ask, or just the one about when I’m free and if I wanted to check out the shounen showcase at the library?” “No, that was it.” You nod, slowly. “Right.” The quiet stretches, just the hiss of the espresso machine and the soft drumming of his fingers against the counter as he muses over your previous words. You roll your eyes and straighten, turning to fiddle around and move forward with the transition of shooing him away.

Just as you’re about to tell him to go do his job or something, the doorbell chimes and you look up instinctively like an activated sleeper agent, plastering a smile on your face to greet the customer. It hasn’t been long since you started morning shifts but it was rare for anyone to show up within the ten minutes you open. You spare Spiderman a glance as if to tell him to leave, but he’s not looking at you. A man stumbles in, unsteady on his feet, eyes darting around like there’s someone watching him from the corners. At first, you assume he’s simply clumsy or perhaps nursing a killer hangover so you steel yourself for a tricky conversation. “Good morning, what can I get started for you today?” you start, looking him up and down subtly to see if he’s a member of the university staff or a stranger who has somehow wandered onto campus. The man slams his hand down on the counter and you jump, heart skipping. Up close, you can make out the sweat beading on his pale forehead and the way his lips move like he’s saying something, though no sound leaves his dry lips. You try again. “Sir?” “Coffee,” he rasps. You force another polite smile because of course you want a coffee from a cafe, don’t waste my time, and reach for a cup. “Of course. Would that be a cappuccino or latte or something else?” Instead of answering you, his head jerks to the side as if hearing a conversation you can’t. In doing so, his eyes meet Spiderman’s and they widen almost comically, his body jerking away. Spiderman stiffens, shoulders tensing as he shoots the customer an incredulous look. “Woah, chill. It’s just me.” The man staggers back another step, chest heaving, breath rattling like something is crawling up his throat. You frown. “Sir, you’re looking a little pale. Maybe you should sit down and—” His head snaps toward you so sharply you swear you hear the crack of his vertebrae. His eyes, wild and bloodshot, fix onto you with a sudden intensity that makes you pause. His lips peel back from his teeth into a nasty snarl, and you realise with a cold shiver that he is talking to himself. You quickly correct yourself. He wasn’t talking to himself, but to something else. The man’s head jerks to the side again, harder this time. “Won’t stop… won’t stop talking…” You swallow. “I mean, it’s kind of my job to ask you.” His answer comes out distorted, two voices overlapping. “We said leave him alone!” His hand suddenly shoots out, slamming into the counter so hard the marble cracks. A slick, black sheen ripples up his arm, coating his fingers like tar before forming claws.

His hand suddenly shoots out, slamming into the counter so hard the marble cracks. A slick, black sheen ripples up his arm, coating his fingers like tar before forming claws. You stumble back, dropping the cup in your hands and making a sharp noise that has the man turning to you, eyes pitch-black. “Um, Spiderman?” you whisper, hands clutching the side of the counter as you back away from the man. “Want to do your job or…?” Before you can even process what’s happening, the man lunges across the counter at you, knocking over your carefully stacked paper cups. You make an embarrassing sound, half-surprise, half-protest as you instinctively attempt to back away though it’s not enough considering the feral determination the man has in reaching you. In a blur, Spiderman leaps and lands on his hands and feet on the ceiling, flinging his arm toward you to latch a web around your torso. He yanks you to him, the world tilting for a fraction of a second as the web wraps around your arms and pins them to your side. The momentum spins you round and round until you finally settle, slowly rotating. Blood rushes to your head and a nearby crash makes you jolt, eyes widening to pinpoint the danger. Turns out, Spiderman has wrapped you in a cocoon of web and left to dangle like a pinata from the ceiling. “Hey!” you protest, struggling against the web. The movement only causes you to spin around and you hastily jerk your body to the side to watch the scene. “Let me down!” Spiderman drops to the floor, one hand splayed across the ground, the other tense and alert in the air. He momentarily breaks his focus to give you a double take. “What the—I’m keeping you safe. Stop wiggling!” You can hear it then, the sound the man’s making. Not quite a growl, at least not a human one, but a low, guttural rasp that vibrates through his chest. Panic and fear only grow within you, and you struggle with a little more determination to get down and run for the hills, when the man emerges from behind the counter. He lunges again, this time faster, propelled by a strength that is definitely not human. Black tendrils burst from his back, flinging chairs aside like toys. Spiderman dodges easily, flipping over a table and ducking behind it, firing a web that snaps against the man’s shoulder. It doesn’t hold. The black substance simply absorbs it, melting it away like cotton candy in a river. “Okay,” Spiderman mutters, kicking the table into the man too and watching as he easily smacks it away. “That’s new.” The creature lets out a distorted laugh. “Spiderman,” it sneers. “That’s me. Have we met before?” Spiderman doesn’t wait for an answer, slinging a web at the man’s wrist and yanking him hard into the counter. The espresso machine crumbles under the intense weight and puffs out a powerful blast of steam as it malfunctions. The figure avoids the steam with a sharp hiss, black tendrils catching from the bulk of the fall and throwing himself back up, grabbing onto the mini fridge display and hurling it back at the superhero. You gasp when you rotate to face the chaos. “You’re wrecking my cafe!” “Seriously? That’s what you’re focusing on right now?”  Spiderman shoots back, ducking. “File an insurance claim or something!” He swings a chair into the side of the figure and you watch mournfully. “My chairs…”

“Again, there might be bigger things to worry about!” A giant fist surges forward from the black gunk oozing down his chest and knocks Spiderman back. The superhero lets out a punched-out gasp, slamming into the wall of the cafe and knocking down some purely-for-interior-design-aesthetic fake coffee bean bags. Spiderman tries to sling himself onto the arm and swing around, but the substance only consumes the webbing, swallowing it before it can take hold. “Spiderman!”  You twist uselessly in your cocoon, the web binding your arms tight to your sides. Your brain scrambles for something, anything that could possibly help. Your eyes lock onto the man as its gooey limbs swell and stretch, pulsing with inhuman strength. Another fist forms, held back in the air as if winding up, clearly aimed at the gasping Spiderman on the cafe floor. “Is this another tactic of yours? I think you fight better on both feet!” Spiderman spits blood through the cuts of his mask. “Yeah,” he wheezes, “That’s the plan.” The fist hands there for one awful second, huge and glistening and very much about to redecorate the floor with Spiderman’s internal organs. Your gaze snaps wildly around the cafe, desperate for anything useful beyond the humiliating fact that you are currently trussed up. You make a mental note of everything, the counter, syrup bottles, cups, broken glass, ruined pastries, the espresso machine wheezing its last breath in the corner, split open and spitting angry jets of steam every few seconds. “Spiderman!” you blurt. Spiderman, still flat on his back and one near-death experience away from becoming part of the floor plan, tilts his head weakly. “Can this wait? I’m in the middle of something.” “The espresso machine!” “What about it? Do you want a latte before I die?” “The steam, you idiot!” The creature finally slams its fist down, cracking the granite flooring and thankfully not squishing a spider. The superhero rolls onto his side with a pained hiss, flicking his wrist to wrap web around the nuzzle of the steamer. “Okay,” he starts. “And how do I use this exactly?” The man quickly regains its bearings and starts for Spiderman again as the superhero uselessly fiddles with the steam wand. You jerk in your cocoon. “The knob! Turn the silver knob on the side!” Spiderman slaps the wrong thing and a burst of frothy milk sprays across the counter and onto the floor. “Is that it?” “The other one!” He twists the correct knob just as the creature lunges. The machine screams as it blasts a vicious plume of steam straight forward. You watch as he yanks the steamer around at the last second, aiming it right into the thing’s chest and face. The black mass recoils with a horrible, scraping cry that makes you wince, and begins to peel back from the man’s skin in a movement not unfamiliar to you. The tendrils make one last feral swish, slamming into shelves and sending coffee beans, ceramic mugs, and one very expensive grinder crashing to the ground.

Spiderman cranks the wand harder, and the machine gives one final screech before coughing out another blast of steam. The goo convulses, writhing up the man’s neck and shoulders almost as if hesitating. The man underneath drops to his knees gasping, his face finally visible beneath the slick black sheen. Spiderman doesn’t hesitate and fires a web at the industrial kettle behind the counter, yanking it straight off the shelf and hurls it at the goo. The kettle smashes into only the creature and bursts with boiling water, prompting the symbiote to let out another inhuman sound before tearing free and sliding away. For a few seconds, all you hear is your own pulse in your ears. Spiderman staggers to his feet, a faux-casualness to his posture that is betrayed entirely by the way his eyes never leave the man. “Okay,” he pants. “Crisis averted.” You glare down at him from your cocoon, still swaying gently. “Did you have to take out half the café to do so?” “It was a necessary evil.” When the man doesn’t move, Spiderman finally relaxes and places his hands on his hips, letting out a slow exhale. “Jesus, that really sucked. The worst part is, even after all of that, the real enemy still managed to escape. But no casualties, no broken bones this time, and I saved a citizen. I’d call that a job well done.” He grins up at you. You pull your lips into a smile. “Great. I’m so happy for you. Can you please get me down now?” Spiderman tilts his head thoughtfully. “True. This isn’t your best angle.” “Spiderman.” “Alright, alright.” He fires a quick web and you drop. Before you can scream, he catches you in his arms and starts cutting through the web with a small knife. “You okay?” he asks softly, his mouth ghosting the shell of your ear. You nod, your heartbeat still racing from it all. When he pulls away, the webs falling off you like they had never clung to you at all, the two of you survey the café. Distantly, you hear the cry of multiple sirens. “What is that thing, seriously?” you whisper. If you had a penny for every time you had come face to face with an ooey, gooey monster, you’d have two pennies—which wasn’t a lot, but it was strange that this had happened twice. You turn to Spiderman for answers, but he looks just as blank.

“I think it’s something like a symbiote. Takes over a human host and all that, like a parasite.” Catching your frightened look, Spiderman straightens. “Hey, don’t look so glum. You handled that better than most.” “I’d rather never be in the position to find that out in the first place.” He reaches over and ruffles your hair playfully, ignoring both the involuntary wince that escapes him as he raises his arm and your feeble protests. “You did great. The steam idea saved us.” “The steam… the espresso machine!” You hastily pull away to look around the café again, this time properly taking in the damage. “You broke everything!” “I saved your life?” he offers, edging away subtly. “My manager is going to have my head!” As if on cue, you feel a vibration against your thigh. Reaching down into your pocket for your phone, you read through the notifications with a growing sense of dread. manager: ?? what’s going on why am i seeing a news reporter outside my cafe why am i seeing it on the news right now why is the door off its hinges is that a hole in my window? y/n pick up You wince. “Spiderman, mind explaining to my manager what happened—Spiderman?” When you turn around, you’re met with nothing, just the sight of tables and chairs on their side and the glass of the window shattered. The sirens get closer and something like deja vu creeps in. “You fucking jerk!”

you: hey!! so ik ure oh so busy but i think we should meet up to rehearse our speech before we present r u free 12pm today?

toru: woahhh u texted first ?!

you: and probably meet at the library oh what the hell u replied so fast

toru: maybe i was waiting for ur text all day

you: wait why did i grimace anyway are u down?

toru: sure i’ll try! meet u at our usual table ><

You climb the stairs up to the library, chuckling softly at the memory of Gojo’s texts. Surprisingly, Gojo is already sitting in his seat when you arrive. He pauses his typing and pulls down one side of his headphones, looking over his shoulder at you. His eyes light up and you offer him a small wave, watching as he responds enthusiastically.

“You didn’t stand me up.”

You chuckle drily, pulling out your seat beside him and sitting down. “What is this, some bad first date?”

Gojo grins like you’ve said something particularly funny. “Is that your go-to line or something?”

“What?”

“Oh, uh. Nothing.” He looks away, swiping his finger across the trackpad.

When he doesn’t say anything else, you take it as your cue to take out your things, still eyeing him. “Didn’t bring your mouse today?”

“You remembered?”

You make a face at his sudden hopeful expression. “You’re being weird.”

He slumps back into his chair. “Yeah, I gave myself the ick. I’m just nervous.”

“About?”

He hums, looking away at the rest of the library. “Stuff.”

You let that sit for a moment, then try to steer things back toward the reason you’re both here. For a while, you make a decent attempt at studying. You open your laptop, pull up your notes, ask him a question about the assessment that he answers after a beat too long. But it quickly becomes obvious that whatever is making him weird hasn’t gone away. He keeps glancing down at his notes only to stare straight through them, then out the window, then back at his laptop. Every few seconds he finds a new way to fidget: tapping his pen, rubbing the back of his neck, shifting in his chair, bouncing his leg under the table.

By the time he starts clicking his pen open and shut, you give up pretending not to notice. You lean back slightly and raise an eyebrow at him. “Something else you’d rather be doing?”

He stills at once, like he’s been caught. “Maybe,” he admits after a second. “Kind of.”

You narrow your eyes. “Kind of?”

Gojo huffs out a breath and glances at you, then away again. “Okay, don’t laugh, but there’s this shounen manga pop-up showcase at the central library right now. And I thought—since we’ve talked about Digimon and all that stuff—maybe you’d want to go check it out with me.”

You blink. “Go together?”

He scratches the back of his head, suddenly finding the edge of his laptop intensely interesting. “I mean, yeah. Not like a date or anything. Just as friends. Or whatever. We’ve both been staring at the same five pages for the last twenty minutes, so I thought maybe we could take a break before coming back. I heard they’ve got themed pastries at the ground floor café too, and I’m pretty sure there’s a huge stand of that one character you like.”

You can’t help but laugh softly. “Friends, huh? Alright, sure. Sounds like fun.” The relief that flashes across his face is immediate and almost embarrassingly obvious. He leans back in his chair, grinning so widely it’s hard not to laugh again. “Really? Alright, cool. Cool. Friends. Totally casual.” He slams his lid close and starts shoving it into his case. You blink before mirroring his gesture with your own belongings. “Oh, you meant right now?” He looks up, already halfway done packing.“Is there any better time than the present?” There probably is, considering you had both technically come here to study, but the fond exasperation that thought should bring never fully arrives. Instead, you find yourself closing your laptop too, slipping your charger back into your bag as he waits with barely restrained excitement. If you told the version of yourself from a few months ago that you’d willingly abandon studying to follow Gojo somewhere, you would’ve laughed in your own face. But the walk turns out to be fun. More than fun, actually. He talks the whole way, hands moving animatedly as he jumps between topics and drags you along with him, and by the time the central library comes into view, you’re almost disappointed the walk was so short. Gojo’s eyes are bright as the automatic doors slide open. He looks almost boyish like this, all open excitement and easy chatter, and you’re still watching him when that expression falters. You follow his gaze around the corner and toward the signs for the display, your own smile quickly dropping. It’s underwhelming, to put it lightly. A small corner of the library has been cordoned off, just a few tables with stacked manga, a sparse display of badges pinned to a board against the wall, and a few posters of famous shounen series plastered against the nearby walls. Gojo slows, his shoulders slumping as the excitement drains from him. “Oh. Uh.” He takes in the scene though, it doesn’t take long due to the size of the exhibit. “It’s… smaller than I thought.” “That’s what she said.” You glance at him, trying to mask your own surprise at the tiny setup. “Hey, it’s okay. Maybe there’s more elsewhere!” He follows you like a lost puppy as you explore the nearby areas, though it quickly becomes clear there’s nothing more than the original display. Even the café at the entrance is lacking. It only has one themed dessert, and it’s a poorly designed cake pop of Happy from Fairy Tail, his tiny round chocolate eyes seemingly staring off to the side where a normal chocolate chip cookie sits. Gojo winces at the cake pop and you offer to buy it for him. He shakes his head, hesitant to separate it from the cookie since it seems like it wants it so badly. When your feet circle back to the pathetic tables, even you struggle to stay upbeat. He shakes his head, a small, defeated grin forming. “Man, that sucks. I guess I just imagined it being a little more… epic. You know, life-sized statues, endless merch, chaos everywhere, not”—he gestures to the badges—“badges.”

“Badges can be cool,” you try, tracing the edge of one. “There are only badges of all the mainstream anime,” he mumbles, coming up to stand beside you. Due to the tiny display, you’re shoulder to shoulder, your arm brushing his. “God, this fucking sucks. My bad, Y/N. I was hoping we could look at all the manga together, but all I managed to do was waste your time. We can just go back to the library and continue studying.” You frown at his dejected tone, and when you look over, he’s pouting. His shoulders are slumped, his hands absentmindedly fidgeting with a badge, spinning it back and forth with no real interest, and his lips are jutted out in an almost cartoonish pout. When his eyes shift at your attention, you quickly look away and hope he didn’t catch the slight quiver of your lips. Then, before you can think better of it, you grab a badge off the display and pin it to his chest. When he starts to look down, you lift his chin with your finger instead. He blinks at you, owlish, and you can’t help but smile at the clueless look in his eyes. “Ask me a yes-or-no question,” you say. “To try and guess what character’s badge I just pinned on you. C’mon, I bet you won’t get it.” For a moment, you think your forced enthusiasm has put him off and that he won’t play along. But then he suddenly scoffs, his lips tugging up. “Are they a girl?” “No.” It’s contagious and you find yourself smiling back. He purses his lips, and you recognise the signature glint in his eyes when he’s concentrating. He hums, thinking a little more seriously. “Is the series he’s from released before 2020?” “Yes.” “Is he part of a trio?” “Seriously? We’re talking about shounen right now. Almost every shounen series has a trio.” You giggle. “But no, he isn’t.” He rolls his eyes. “Is the character the main character of the series?” “No, but I’d say a lot more people like this character over the actual main character.” “Is he from a sports anime?” “No.” “Could he be in a sports anime?” That catches you off guard and you scrunch your face up in thought. “I honestly can’t imagine him doing any sport. He might be a perma-benched player that’s only there for strategy.” “Is he, like, a mentor character?” You pout a little at how on-the-nose his question is. “Yes.” “Does he have powers?” “Yes.” He clicks his fingers. “Ah. Does he have a signature weapon?” “Well, he uses a gun often, but his powers aren’t related to his weapon of choice.”

“So his powers aren’t offensive?” “Exactly.” He hums, a smile growing on his face. “Is the manga based in the modern era?” “Yes.” “Is he dead?” “No, but there was a moment when everyone was freaking out because it almost seemed like he was dead.” “Brown hair?” “Yes.” Gojo clicks his fingers in realisation. “Okay, I’ve got it. Is it Dazai?” He might as well have shouted eureka. His face brightens, hanging on your next words to confirm or deny his victory. You giggle, nodding, and the smile he gives you is full of childlike wonder. “Close your eyes. It’s your turn.” You do so. “I bet I can guess it with fewer questions than you.” He snorts. “You’re on.” A few customers shoot you dirty looks when they walk past, clearly not appreciating your giggles as you and Gojo take turns playing your own chopped version of celebrity heads. Time seems to pass quickly over laughter and jokes until you finally reach up to unpin the latest badge to place it back. He stops you, hands covering yours. “Let me buy that for you,” he says with a lingering smile. You raise an eyebrow but let him take it off your hands. “Who said I even want this?” “Come on, it’ll be like we’re matching.” “They’re not even from the same series.” “Not to anyone else,” he muses, thumb stroking the front of the badge like it’s something precious. “But we'll know they’re connected and that’s good enough to call them matching.” You turn away, suddenly far too aware of the warmth rising to your face. Clearing your throat, you gesture toward the manga shelves down the aisle. “Let’s go see what else they’ve got. Sure, we came for the pop-up, but we’re still in a library.” He follows after you, noticeably lighter on his feet than before, and you let out a small sigh of relief. Then, almost immediately, you berate yourself for the tiny flutter in your chest. Why does that even matter? you scold yourself, brushing the feeling aside. Before you can dwell on it for too long, he pinches your sleeve and tugs you gently toward him when your pace slows. “Have you read this?” “Not yet,” you admit, though a small smile creeps onto your face at the sight of his enthusiasm. Without missing a beat, he launches into an animated explanation of the series, waving his hands as he talks. Sometimes it feels like he’s speaking more with his fingers than with actual words, sketching out invisible diagrams in the air as he links characters and plot points together. His sentences tumble over each other as he rambles about character motivations, why one of them is a complete fraud, and why the plot veers dangerously close to deus ex machina territory, only cutting himself off with an apologetic smile right before he spoils something major.

“And I swear the author gave up halfway through the series. The manga finished in 2023, by the way, but I think by the end he’d already landed a deal for a spin-off and started putting all his effort into that instead. You know what I saw on Twitter recently? People were hyping up this one line like it was amazing foreshadowing, but it’s not even good foreshadowing because, come on, the final fight was so cheap. Like when—” He stops himself abruptly. “Oh, wait. You can’t know that yet.” You nod along, trying to keep up with the flood of names, locations, and arc points that mean absolutely nothing to you, but the sheer energy in his voice is contagious. Somehow, it’s impossible to be annoyed or bored when he’s like this, completely in his element. Eventually, you stop trying to follow every detail. Instead, your attention drifts to him. The way his hair keeps falling into his eyes, forcing him to run a hand through his bangs only for them to slip right back into place seconds later. The way his brows knit together when he rants, only to lift again the moment he gets to a part he genuinely loves. Despite the noise of the busy library, his voice rises above everything else, clear and captivating, demanding your attention without even trying. It’s almost impressive how quickly his mouth keeps up with his thoughts. You squint slightly, watching the shape of his lips around each word just to confirm that yes, it really is him speaking that fast and not some video playing in the background. You realise a second too late that he’s stopped talking. You blink and look up at him. His brows are furrowed, though not in the same way as before, and you hate that you now know the difference. “Uh, you still with me?” You blink a few more times, then shake your head slightly as if to clear the haze. “Yeah. Yeah, I’m here.” Gojo tilts his head, clearly amused. “Really? Because you look a little dazed.” Heat rushes to your face and you quickly drop your gaze to the manga in his hands, as if that had always been the focus of your attention. “Yeah, of course I was listening. Something about deus ex machina, right?” He snorts softly. “I finished talking about the ending minutes ago. You don’t have to pretend if you weren’t paying attention.” You roll your eyes, hoping your embarrassment isn’t as obvious as it feels. “Fine. Maybe I got a little distracted.” His grin widens at that, though it softens around the edges as he steps a little closer. “Distracted, huh? By what?” You hesitate, heart doing something strange at the way he’s looking at you. “Nothing.” “Really?” “Really,” you shoot back. “Alright then,” he concedes, though the glint in his eyes never fades. “I guess I’ll just have to step up my explanations next time so you don’t get distracted again.” He slides the manga carefully back onto the shelf, nudging the surrounding volumes aside to make room and making sure none of the pages bend as he slots it into place. There has to be something wrong with you, because even that small gesture makes warmth bloom in your chest. You make a mental note to check the series out when you get home. Gojo turns back to you and gestures for you to lead the way. “Your turn.” He listens as you tell him about one of your favourite manga series, and the embarrassment of getting caught fades quickly as you explain exactly why it’s a masterpiece. When it’s his turn again, you make a conscious effort to pay attention and not drift off into another daydream. So when he asks if you were actually listening this time, you huff and answer every one of his questions with ease.

He grins at you like you’ve handed him the world. Eventually, the two of you leave the library with less merch than you’d expected walking in, but with two badges that mean more than you’d ever dare admit. He doesn’t fasten his onto the front of his bag with the rest of his pins and accessories, mumbling something about wanting to keep it safe, so you keep yours in your pocket instead, your thumb brushing over its smooth surface as you walk. You expect him to call it a day after that, maybe peel off with some excuse about having things to do, but instead he tugs lightly on your sleeve. “C’mon.” “Where?” “Cafe run. My treat.” You raise a brow. “Since when do you buy me coffee?” “Since you saved this disaster of a day,” he says matter-of-factly, already steering you toward the street with a hand at your shoulder. “Besides, it’d be cruel not to feed you after I made you listen to my manga rants for hours.” You snort, but you don’t fight him on it. The truth is, coffee does sound nice, even if you remain slightly mystified by the idea of going with Gojo of all people. You frown a little when the thought doesn’t leave you disgusted. You’re still mulling over the drink options when Gojo steps up to the counter to order. “Can I get an iced matcha latte—” He cuts himself off awkwardly, rubbing the back of his neck. “Just an iced matcha latte, thanks. Oh, and a vanilla soy latte.” You eye him as he thanks the cashier, pays, and nods toward the waiting area. Seeing no reason not to follow, you move to stand beside him again. “Are you drinking two drinks?” “Stupid.” He pokes your forehead in a way that, annoyingly, you can’t bring yourself to hate. “One of them is for you.” “The… vanilla latte?” “Yeah.”You dip your head, trying to catch his eye. “Why aren’t you looking at me all of a sudden?”

He shrugs, suddenly fascinated by the blank wall behind the counter. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

You study him for a second before letting out a small laugh. “Well, you got lucky. That’s kind of my go-to order. How did you know?”

“I guess you just look like you’d want something like that.”

You stare at him. “Oh yeah? I just have the look of someone who likes vanilla lattes?”

He only hums in response.

You frown a little as you take him in properly: the way he rocks back and forth on his feet, hands tucked into his pockets, trying very hard to look unaffected. All he needs is a whistle to sell the act. Thankfully, one of the cashiers calls out his number, and he eagerly slips away to collect the drinks.

When he comes back, he hands you the vanilla latte. You take it with a small thanks, then pause as something occurs to you. “Oh. Send me your bank details. I’ll transfer you for the merch and the coffee,” you say, already reaching for your phone. When he doesn’t mirror the gesture, you look up. “It’s fine. I got it.” “What? No way. I don’t want to owe you anything.” “You don’t owe me anything,” he says. “I got it for you because I wanted to.” Slowly, you take your hand back out of your bag. “You did? That doesn’t sound like you.” “I would’ve thought you’d know me a little better after today,” Gojo says, finally looking at you with a smile. Then he gestures toward the door. “Come on. You’ll miss the bus back to the dorms.” “You’re being very weird, you know.” “I have no idea what you’re talking about,” he says with the kind of smile that only proves your point. He brushes past you, not unkindly, and takes the lead toward the bus stop. You stare at his back for a moment before letting out an amused huff and hurrying after him. “So you’re a matcha person, huh? How performative.” “Please. I liked matcha before it was cool.” “So you’re claiming to be an OG, then? Quick, name every matcha brand.” “That would take forever. I can tell you where this one came from, though.” Gojo takes a sip of his drink and hums in exaggerated thought. “This matcha was ground from the soils of Shizuoka Prefecture. I can even give you the row and column of the specific tea leaves used to make this drink.” You snort. “What is it then?” “32C, 82G.” “Are we playing Battleships?” The two of you share a short laugh at the bit, and the thought hits you strangely hard: you never imagined one day you’d be joking around like this with Gojo of all people. By the time you reach the station, the two of you stop beneath the shelter. “What number are you catching?” you ask, pulling out your phone to check the bus times. “Oh, I’m not catching the bus. I take the train.” You look up at him, incredulous. “What? Then why are you here?” He tilts his head, straw slipping from his mouth as he looks at you like you’ve said something ridiculous. “To make sure you get on the bus safe, obviously. It’s fine, I’m already here anyway. I’ll just wait with you until it comes.” “That’s… actually really nice of you.” Gojo shrugs. “I guess I just really care about the wellbeing of others.” “Wow. Your compassion for helping citizens would go crazy on a superhero résumé.” He laughs, though the sound comes out slightly off somehow, enough that you notice even if you can’t place why. “What? That’s insane. You think I’d make a good superhero? Me? That’s ridiculous. I’m a clutz and a nerd and hardly cut out for the whole saving-the-world thing.” You think back to the cricket incident and giggle softly. “Don’t count yourself short. I think you’re a lot more capable than you give yourself credit for, Gojo.” At that, he turns his head quickly and takes a sharp sip of his drink. “Satoru.”

“Hm?” You look up at him, wondering if the slight flush at the tips of his ears has anything to do with the late afternoon sun. “Everyone calls me Satoru but you,” he says, still not looking at you. “You might as well just call me Satoru too. It’s weird if you don’t.” It takes a few seconds for the words to fully sink in. By then, he only seems to shrink further into himself, taking long, noisy pulls from his straw. By the time you recover enough to smirk, his cup is almost entirely ice. You lean in slightly, trying to catch his eye. “What a cheesy thing to say. Don’t tell me you’re—” The rest dies on your tongue when he finally glances down at you. The same pink tint at his ears has spread across his cheeks. He frowns despite it, brows drawing together. “Forget it. I knew you wouldn’t take me seriously.” He pulls the straw from his mouth and shakes the cup for more drink, only for the ice to rattle uselessly. With visible annoyance, he takes the shot and tosses the empty cup into the bin. “Sorry for dragging you all the way out here today. Your bus is probably coming soon, so I’ll head off—” You gape at him. “Wait!” He freezes and turns back slightly. “Going to tease me? Save it for tomorrow.” “No,” you say quickly. “I was just surprised you wanted me to call you by your first name. I thought you hated me.” “Me?” he scoffs, turning around fully now. “You have to be joking.” “I’m serious,” you insist. “You were awful to me. I mean, you literally went out of your way to embarrass me when we barely knew each other.” He runs a hand through his hair and exhales. “Yeah, I know. I was… bad at that. I never hated you, Y/N. I just didn’t know what to do with you.” “The moment you start making sense, the world is going to end. I’m sure of it.” He laughs quietly, then looks at you again. “I’m trying to say that when you showed up and started showing me up, beating me and everything, I got a little intimidated. And maybe you were right all along, but I wanted you to notice me the way I’d started noticing you. So yeah, maybe I did start tugging on your pigtails just to get your attention. You were just so—” He cuts himself off, jaw tightening. “Never mind.” “Hold on,” you say, stepping closer. “You can’t do that. Finish it.” “Sorry. Free trial’s over. If you want me to keep going, that’ll be 200 diamonds—” “Satoru.” He closes his mouth immediately, eyes widening a fraction before he sighs. “Damn. I should’ve never asked you to say that.” You tilt your head, catching his gaze. “Please?” Something strained flashes across his face, like the word is lodged somewhere painful in his chest. “You were just so…” He exhales through his nose, defeated. “So bright that it was annoying. I couldn’t ignore you, even if I tried. Every time you laughed, my head would already be turning, and I hated it because you weren’t smiling at me.” You laugh awkwardly. “We weren’t exactly friends.”

“No,” he says softly. “That was the issue. But even then, I wouldn’t have been satisfied.” For a moment, neither of you says anything. The confession settles between you, large and impossible to ignore. You’ve given up trying to look at him because there’s a strange tightness in your chest making it hard to breathe, and Satoru looks like he’s doing everything in his power not to bolt. “Does that bother you?” he asks. Unable to speak, you shake your head. “Okay.” He exhales slowly. “Then can I try something?” You look up just as he reaches out to tuck a strand of hair behind your ear. His hand hovers there for a moment, giving you an out. You don’t take it. Mostly because your feet feel rooted to the pavement beneath you. “Satoru,” you whisper, and he seems to find whatever answer he was searching for in your eyes. He leans in slowly, like he’s afraid the moment might shatter if he moves too quickly. Your breath mingles. He hesitates, and you give him the smallest encouragement by leaning in too. Your noses brush with a ticklish little bump, and the whole world narrows to the space between your mouths— Then a sharp buzz cuts through the quiet. It doesn’t register properly in your mind at first. You only know it sounds ugly against the stillness. But Satoru knows immediately. He freezes. So do you.bThen comes the second vibration. His shoulders sag. His forehead drops forward and bumps lightly into yours. “You’ve got to be kidding me,” he mutters. “Everything okay?” you ask, though you already know the answer. He pulls back just enough to take his phone out and glance at the screen. Whatever he sees drains all the softness from his face, replacing it with that familiar unreadable tension. “Yeah,” he says, forcing a crooked smile. “I, uh, have to go. Family emergency. Again.” You smile back. “I hope everyone’s okay.” “Right. Yeah.” “You should probably go.” “Right.” He lingers for another beat, phone held uselessly in his hand, before clearing his throat and stepping back. “I’ll call you tonight?” “Yeah. Tonight.” “Cool,” he says. “Cool, cool, cool, cool. Get home safe, yeah?” “Yeah.” You keep smiling even as he starts to walk away. “Thanks for today.” You watch him go for far longer than you should, long enough that his figure starts to blur into the movement of the street beyond the bus stop. Only when he disappears properly do you let your smile falter, your hand tightening slightly around the paper cup. It hits you then, all at once and without mercy, how badly you are in trouble. You stare down at your coffee like it might offer guidance and find none. Oh, you are so doomed.

Spiderman’s muscle strain against the cold sticky goo binding his wrists behind his back, the sharp bite of them digging into his skin as he knelt on the rough warehouse floor. His suit clings to him like a second skin, torn across his chest and down his thigh from the brutal fight. There’s a gash above his eyebrow that’s dripping blood into his eyes, but for some reason his vision is clear. The amazing Spiderman makes it his purpose to never stay down for long. This time, however, he wonders if he even wants to get back up. Venom looms over him with a maw of jagged teeth and eyes like void fixed down on him with predatory amusement. “Spiderman down on his knees. What a sight.” Gojo smirks under his mask even as his knees ache and cold air brushes the exposed skin around his mouth. “I hate to break it to you but I’m not into oversized ink blots,” he spits. “And don’t get so cocky too soon. Haven’t you played Darkest Dungeon? Overconfidence is a slow and insidious killer.” “There’s always a response rearing to go from that tongue of yours, isn’t there?” Venom hisses. “Always so self-assured, always so prepared. I wonder how long that peace you know will last.” “If I wanted my fortune read I would have gone to a tarot card reader.” Venom laughs and the sound is suddenly so achingly familiar that Gojo freezes, something primal overturning into his stomach telling him to run. But there’s nowhere to run, not when his wrists are tied behind his back, not when he’s kneeled at the feet of his archnemesis, and especially not when the tendrils of the villain slowly pull back to reveal a humanoid form Satoru knows far too well. The black mass ebbs back from Venom’s face, appendages retracting with a wet slurp, revealing— Her. You. The girl from the 5th floor of the campus library that he kept seeing that one finals season a whole year ago, the one he once told Geto about until he saw you again with his childhood friend and decided you were firmly off-limits. The same girl he suddenly couldn’t miss in the crowd when 5pm hits and the tired students pour out seeking night outs or cozy night ins, the same girl who when he finally had a class with, had quickly cut him down with a glare that sent a jolt right through his body. The face he thinks about when he’s alone in the dark of his room, one hand down his pants and the other holding his phone. Your pretty lips now curl into a smirk as your piercing eyes that he just loves to pretend to hate, locks onto his, full of mocking triumph. The symbiote suit hugs your curves like liquid, accentuating every sway of your hips as you step even closer. Wait, what the fuck? Gojo opens his mouth to say something but his breath hitches and the quip dies on his tongue.

“What the—Y/N? What are you—” He cuts himself off when you laugh, soft and familiar, a sound far too beautiful for a grungy place like this. “What’s wrong, Spidey?” you purr, voice lilting with mock innocence. “You look like you’ve seen a ghost. Or maybe—” He’s almost certain he stops breathing altogether as you roughly tilt his chin up with one long tendril, staring at your face because there’s nothing else to do. “You see something you like?” He splutters. “This is bullshit. You’re not Venom, you can’t be. This has to be some kind of symbiote mind-fuck trick.” “What’s wrong? You’ve lost your composure all of a sudden.” Gojo growls, a feral sound dragging up his throat. “Don’t fucking look into my mind. Stop looking like her!” You coo, lips pretty and downturned. “Stop? How can I? Spiderman, I am her.” Your words make him shudder and you press on. “Ah, so it’s about that, is it? Poor, little Spiderman, torn in so many little directions. You can’t decide whether to be Satoru or this silly attempt at being a superhero.” He flinches when his name slips from your lips, remembering how soft it had sounded when you first said it, cheeks pink and eyes fluttering down. Seeing you standing over him now, eyes harsh and unforgiving, he feels a stirring in his gut that only pushes him closer to the edge. “No snarky response this time?” “You can’t be her.” “Why not? I could be anyone.” You lift a foot and press it against his thigh, pushing it outwards casually. “Why don’t we be truthful for once, hm? And stop hiding behind all these secrets? It’s not that I can’t be her, it’s that you don’t want me to be. You’ve always vented to Suguru about how nice it would be to have it both but this is the one thing you don’t want to share with Spiderman. Me. And yet, you go against yourself and seek me out as both. Why?” Gojo grits his teeth. “I don’t have to explain anything to you. You know nothing about me.” “Oh, but I promise you I don’t miss much.” Your foot trails higher, nudging now against his inner thigh and despite the situation, he flinches, that unfamiliar feeling spilling into something scarily recognisable.

“Hold on—” “Looks like you’re still not being completely truthful, Satoru,” you purr and he hisses. Your foot presses against the bulge straining his suit, the pressure firm and deliberate. Gojo’s hips jerk involuntarily, a sharp exhale escaping him as you drag your sole along his length. “Get off me,” he growls, but it sounds more like a plea, his voice husky and ragged. He tries to shift away, wrists twisting futilely in the bindings, but his body betrays him and he leans into the friction instead. Your boot works him slowly, the leather cool against the heat building under his suit. “Make me,” you taunt, eyes gleaming with wicked amusement. You don’t let up, your foot dragging slowly now, tracing the outline of his cock with teasing precision and his hips respond but bucking up involuntarily, pleasure sparking hot and fierce. He clamps his jaw, trying to stifle the sound, but it rumbles out anyway. “This…” His eyes flutter as you press down particularly hard, forcing a smirk even as his breaths come out ragged. “This is your master plan? You’re more of a—ngh—pervert than I thought.” You tilt your head, eyes sparkling with amusement. “Master plan? Do I need a reason to do any of this? Maybe I’ve finally decided to do something about all that eye-fucking you’ve been giving me in class. Thought I wouldn’t notice?” Your boot grinds down harder, the ridged sole catching on the zipper of his suit, right over where his cock throbs insistently. He bites back a moan but it slips out anyway, loud and guttural, his thighs quivering under the pressure. His face flushes deeper, those blue eyes narrowing in a mix of defiance and desperation. “You’re… not her. Can’t be. She'd never—” His words cut off as you twist your ankle, dragging the boot’s toe along his balls through the tight fabric, making them tighten and draw up. “Never what? Touch you like this? Make you beg with just a foot?” You lean in closer, whispering in his ear so soft he almost can’t hear over his pounding heartbeat. “Admit it, web-head. You've jerked off thinking about me pinning you down, haven’t you? All those stolen glances in the hallway, pretending you didn’t pop a boner every time I called you out.” Gojo’s breath hitches, his cock leaking pre-cum that soaks through the suit, darkening the material. He shakes his head but it’s weak, his hips rolling up to chase the friction despite himself. “Shut up. Just—hah—fuck off.” The growl lacks bite, cracking into a whine when you lift your foot slightly, denying him the pressure for a torturous second before pressing back down, slower this time, stroking from base to tip with deliberate drags. You chuckle. “Such a pretty liar. Look at you, kneeling there, dick pathetically hard. Bet you’ve never even been touched like this before, huh? Who knew Spiderman was all talk and no action.” Your boot circles the head of his cock, smearing the wet spot wider. He groans, loud and unrestrained now, his head tipping back as pleasure coils tight in his gut. “N-not… your business.” But his body’s honest, thighs spreading wider on their own and inviting more. Sweat beads on his forehead, trickling down his temple, and he forces his eyes open to glare at you, trying for a smirk. "If this is your idea of a fight, you’re losing. I could…fuck, I could break out anytime.”

You grin, a tendril slashing his suit to free his cock. it springs free, hard and leaking, tip flushed and begging to be touched. Gojo’s eyes flutter again when you touch him bare, a soft whine escaping despite his efforts. He rolls them back slightly, fighting the wave crashing through him, but his hips roll forward, chasing the pressure. “Admit it feels good. Or are you going to keep pretending you’re not leaking over my boot right now?" He bites his lip hard. “Feels like…feels like nothing. Barely notice it.” Total bullshit. Every drag sends sparks up his spine, his cock throbbing insistently, begging for more. He can't even seem to focus on what you’re saying anymore, not when you’re twisting your ankle like so, rubbing his sensitive tip and he can’t hold back a throaty moan, his body arching into it. “Nothing? Your dick’s twitching like it’s got a mind of its own.” “I could break these cuffs anytime,” he mumbles again as if convincing himself as if his hips aren’t thrusting up greedily, fucking into the rhythm. “Break them then. Or don’t. We both know you won’t.” The friction builds up relentlessly, up, down, the ball of your foot grinding against his mushroom head on every pass, sweat beading under his mask, eyes rolling back fully now as the coil winds tighter, pleasure bordering on overload. “Oh, fuck—” Gojo rasps, voice a wrecked mess of gasps and moans. “Too much? Gonna cum for me?” He shakes his head frantically, but the denial crumbles into a choked sob when you drag your heel along the underside, pressing firmly over the vein that throbs with every heartbeat. His cock jumps, tip flaring red, and a spurt of pre-cum leaks out, coating your shoe in glossy trails. “Come on, pretty boy. You're so close,” you coo. “No… shit, I—fuck!” His words fracture as you speed up, pumping his length in firm, unyielding strokes, up to smear over the sensitive ridge, down to crush against his balls, rolling them gently before lifting to repeat. His balls draw tight, heavy and full, aching for release, and he grinds his teeth in an effort to hold back but the pressure mounts, a white-hot knot twisting in his core.

You curl your fingers in his mask and yank it off, his white hair spilling down to reveal his wrecked expression, eyes rolling back and drool dripping from the corner of his lips. you grin, pure evil and glee before you tug his hair to make him look up at you. “Come on, Satoru,” you purr. “Show me how much you hate this, how much you need it.” The command shatters him. His entire body seizes, back arching off the cold floor as the orgasm rips through and his cock erupts in thick, forceful jets that splatter across your boot, your calf, even arcing up to hit his own abdomen. He cries out, voice breaking into a raw, uninhibited moan that echoes off the warehouse walls. “Fuck, yes—oh God, Y/N!” His hips jerk helplessly as you keep stroking him through it, dragging every last shudder from his body until he’s wrung completely dry. He’s whimpering by the end of it, oversensitive and trembling, head fallen back against the pillow, chest rising and falling in ragged pants. Cum spills down the front of his suit in sticky, obscene streaks, and still you don’t let him hide from it, your hand only slowing once he’s been pushed so far past pleasure it borders on cruelty. “Not bad for a virgin,” you murmur, voice sweet in that way that makes humiliation burn twice as hot. “Bet you’ve never made yourself cum that hard, huh? All those lonely nights jerking off to thoughts of me, and this is the best you could do?” Gojo’s face burns crimson, shame and bliss tangling together until he can’t tell one from the other. “Shut up,” he breathes, though it comes out broken and weak. “That didn’t mean anything.” “Really?” you ask, and the smile you give him is devastating. “Then why are you hard again? His gaze drops before he can stop it. Sure enough, his cock is already thickening back to life, flushed and twitching against his stomach as if his body has decided to betray him completely. When he looks up again, you’re licking your lips slowly, deliberately, and his mouth goes dry enough to hurt “Want me to show you what you’ve been missing?” you ask. “Or are you still going to pretend?” Gojo isn’t a weak man, he really isn’t. But with your foot still by his thigh, body so close and promises of warmth and softness beyond his filthies fantasies, and that look in your eyes like you already know exactly how this ends, he can feel himself caving. The word is already there, already rising up his throat, yes, yes, please— And then his eyes snap open. The darkness of his room hits him like cold water. For a second he can’t move. He just lies there, disoriented, heart hammering against his ribs hard enough to hurt, the last traces of the dream still clinging to him in flashes too vivid to shake. Your voice, your mouth, the heat of your body. The sight of you above him, cruel and beautiful and impossibly close. Then reality settles in, humiliating in its clarity. He’s alone. Flat on his back in a bed that’s too warm now, sheets tangled around his legs, boxers sticking damply to his skin. His cock throbs untouched, leaking embarrassingly through the fabric, still hard enough that the loss of the dream feels almost physically painful. He drags in a breath and it catches somewhere in his chest, shaky and shallow. He groans, burying his face in his pillow, cheeks burning even though no one is there to see it, and lies there in the aftermath of his own disgrace, hard and aching and still haunted by the sound of your voice. 

Gojo is unfair. He knows he’s unfair. It’s hard not to when the reminder comes as easily as catching his own reflection in the dark screen of his laptop, or running a hand through his hair in frustration and knowing that, at the very least, having silky, soft, gorgeous white hair isn’t on his list of worries. It’s as easy as checking his grades at the end of every semester, his eyes drifting from an episode of Frieren on his laptop to the screen of his phone. When his gaze skims over his marks and settles on his final grade, Gojo knows he’s unfair. A crash in the street, someone yelling for help, and he’s already pulling on the blue-and-white mask and swinging out the window, because apparently good looks and a big brain weren’t enough. The universe had to make him Spiderman too. He knows what he is: smart, strong, and kindhearted (that last one might be a sneak). That robbery he stopped two weeks ago before his cardiovascular final? Yeah, no biggie. Did he just save a hijacked bus the morning of this very neuropharmacology tutorial? Yeah, but no sweat, he’ll still pass top of his class like always— “97%?” He watches you freeze and immediately slam the lid of your laptop down. You whip around to face the culprit who aired out your grade, temporarily stunned when it’s someone you don’t recognise. Gojo narrows his eyes. “How did someone like you get a 97?” His words come out too harsh to be surprise and lacking any warmth to come off as a congratulations. Because you don’t look like the kind of person who’d flash their grades around or fish for praise. If anything, you look horrified to have been noticed at all, eyes wide and shoulders tense like you’d been caught doing something embarrassing rather than scoring nearly full marks on a quiz the class had been stressing over ten minutes before it began. “What the fuck does that mean?” you hiss back. “Do you mind? Don’t look over my shoulder like a creep.” He smirks warily but it doesn’t reach his eyes. “It’s a 97. That’s something to gloat about. Didn’t think it would come from someone like you though.” “So you’ve been saying. What does that even mean? I don’t look like the type of person to get a 97?” “Yeah,” he says bluntly, an answer seemingly as obvious as asking if grass was green or if the sky was blue. You press your lips together to avoid cussing him out in the chatty classroom. “Do I even know you?” “It would be hard to miss me,” he shoots back. “I’m the one that's been topping these quizzes since the semester started.” “Fell off, did you?” “Please, this was a fluke, princess.” You practically hum with irritation at the nickname. “And what did you get?” He puts up a firewall immediately. “That's nunya.” “What?” “None of your business.” He grins. You grimace at his evidently childish nature. “I don't think you can say that after shoving your ugly face into my business.”

You decide to take things into your own hands, standing up from your chair to reach back and snatch his laptop. He blinks at the sudden movement, momentarily distracted at your choice of words before it registers. And Gojo is Spiderman. He could easily grab your wrist and stop you before you get too close but there's something making him hesitate. You smell nice, he notes faintly, like vanilla and something artificial but sweet. It's your perfume no doubt, he just can't wrap his head around why it smelt so good. Your fingers successfully reach close around his laptop and lifts it off the table, placing it onto your thighs as your finger slides across the trackpad. You let out a victorious, “Hah!” which has him blinking out of his daze to follow your gesture and observe the damage, seconds too late from preventing it. His mark stares back at him. 92%. Gojo notices you then, which is embarrassing because he doesn’t even know your name. All he knows is that ever since the finals season began, you’ve taken his spot on the fifth floor of the library, head down, brows furrowed in that cute way indicating your immense concentration as you try to visualise what you’re learning by tracing words and formulas in the air. He doesn’t stay for long but the next day you’re still there in his spot, and then the next, and then the day after. He stopped caring about getting his spot back on the fifth day. He finds you everywhere else, chatting with friends on the lawn outside the north biological science building, giggling over brunch in the cafeteria, the smile you flash to your friends far kinder than the one you swung at him like a weapon that day in the tutorial room. You’re unfair. Gorgeous, always put together, nails adorned with charms and chrome, the confident click of your heels against the pavement introducing your entrance into every building with no shame. His ears always tune him into your conversations, and on the day that he discovered you had a sense of humour—a good one too, God forbid—he only seemed to hate you more. Because he is unfair, yes, he knows that. But there’s something restless in his chest and you’re unfair in a similar way, but finding a fault in you would be an impossible task. And that doesn’t swing with him. Because sometimes, Gojo feels like a stick adrift a river. Sometimes the currents are fierce and he sways here and there, a puppet to its frivolous nature, and sometimes the waters are calm though he is no less at its mercy than before. He’ll duck his head when people talk to him, do their part in the assessment because it’ll be as easy as opening his laptop and writing the first thing that comes to mind. He doesn’t care what anyone says about him, doesn’t care that they think he’s quiet when truthfully, his mind is always whirring to talk to someone.

He has his friends, he has Geto, he has Shoko. And recently, it seems he has you too. Bright, sweet, funny. You're beautiful and you don’t even know it. He leans in to the sound of your laughter, wants to feel your palm against his cheek, feel your soft pink lips against his eyelids and on his cheeks. He wants to lose himself in your voice, whether it’s to scold him or praise him he doesn’t care, just wants to be close again. “Satoru?” Gojo flinches, jolting up right, his hand slipping from under his chin to push up his headphones and knocking them clean off his head. They're connected by wire so he catches it easily enough, but they fall down to knock against his hand awkwardly. He looks up, meeting your bemused eyes as you stare down at him, the sun behind you, your hair tumbling down your shoulders. “Hey,” he says, breathlessly. “Oh, uh, want to sit? I mean—what are you doing here? I thought you were going for lunch with… Shoko.” His words trail off uselessly when you take him up on his offer, sliding a hand to smoothen your skirt as you sit, thighs brushing his. “I’ve been trying to get Shoko and Utahime together for ages so I thought this might be a good time. Besides, I saw you from up there.” You point up at one of the taller buildings and he mentally cheers for remembering your timetable right, fist bumping his past self for picking this spot to sun bathe. “Stalking me?” he teases softly, eyes searching your face. You bump your shoulder against his. “As if. This is a chance meeting.” He chuckles, unable to take his eyes off you. “So you're free for the rest of the day, then?” “Should be.” “Okay.” You look up at him and he whips his gaze forward. “Are you?” “Sorry?” “Are you free right now, Satoru?” “Uh—yeah! Yes, I am. Free, that is. I’m free right now.” He clears his throat when his voice comes out a little gravelly, ears burning as his own words come back to him. “Sorry, I’m just…” Thankfully, you laugh, eyes curving into cute little crescents and he thinks that even though you’re always pretty, this might be the best look on you.  “Just what?” you ask, tilting your head. There's something unbearably fond in your expression, so unlike the start of the semester when you’d barely give him the time of day. “Nothing,” he lies instantly. Your brows lift and he caves under the weight of that look almost at once. “Not nothing. I mean—” He drags a hand down his face, groaning under his breath. “I’m sorry, I’m just being weird today.” “Please, you’re always weird.” He turns to you, scandalised. “You always say such nice things.” You smile. “You know what I mean.” He does, and that’s the problem. He knows what you mean when you call him weird, knows the exact shape of your affection when you look at him like this, all soft around the edges, voice gone warm enough to sink into. He’d call himself weird if he was in your position, perhaps crueler words, but you don’t say them even if he’s deserving. It makes his chest feel too full, like there’s something alive in there clawing to get out.

For a moment, neither of you say anything. the campus hums around you in the distance, voices drift past, the rustle of leaves overhead, the low grind of a bus somewhere beyond the gates. But here, tucked away on the bench half drowned in sunlight, it feels strangely private. You glance down at his hands. “You okay? You’re fidgeting.” He looks too. His fingers are indeed twisting the headphone wire around and around, enough that it’ll probably knot if he keeps going. He stills them immediately. “Am not.” You give him a look. “Nervous?” He lets out a laugh at that, because it’s either that or admit the truth and simply die on the spot. “What would I be nervous for?” Your shoulder brushes his again when you shift, and it is such a small thing, so accidental it may as well be nothing, and yet he stops breathing for a second anyway. “I don’t know,” you murmur. “You tell me.” Gojo stares at you. There are moments in life, he thinks, that split everything into before and after. Like how there’s before he got bit and after he got bit, those grandiose moments that define his life. This might be one of them. Maybe there will always be the version of him that sat on this bench with his heart halfway up his throat, and the version after, whatever that may look like. He hopes that version of him is smiling by the end of it. He swallows. “Actually, I've been trying to.” Your expression changes, playfulness softening. “Trying to tell me something?” “Yeah.” His voice comes out rougher than he means for it to. “Yeah, I—” He stops. should he really start this off with ‘yeah’? "I’ve kind of been meaning to say—no, that sounds equally as stupid.” He squeezes his eyes shut for a moment. “Not stupid, just—I had this whole thing in my head, and it sounded way better in there, so now I’m trying to find it again and it’s just—” You’re staring at him like he’s hung the moon which makes things infinitely worse. Maybe that’s your default look. You do always look so pretty. You open your mouth to say something but he beats you to it. “No, wait, I can do this.” He sits up a little straighter, like the posture alone will save him. "I just need one second because I know what I want to say, I do, it’s just every time I look at you, I forget how words work. Which is honestly humiliating and I probably shouldn’t have said that, so if you could stop being—stop looking at me like…” “Like?” You have to be messing with him at this point. “Just—can I say something mean?” You huff, pulling back a little. “What the fuck?”

“I just—I feel like I could fight with you for hours over stupid lab questions, and I always know exactly what to say then, but now—” He shakes his head, cheeks hot. “Now I can’t even get through one sentence. So maybe if I just say something mean like I always do, I'll—” You place a hand on his arm. “Don't ruin this. I’m not rushing you. You can take your time.” His body stiffens under your touch, fingers tightening around the wire in his lap. He loosens them forcefully only to tighten them again. “I think,” he starts, then winces. “No, I know that when I’m with you, everything just feels different. Like, way better. I like being around you, I like hearing you talk even when you’re telling me I’m annoying, which you do a lot, by the way. I like when you laugh at me and when you give me that look on your face right before you say something mean because you look like you want to kill me and that’s—something I probably deserve.” His mouth twitches despite himself. "I like walking you home. and I like when you ask me things you could’ve easily googled just because you know I'll know the answer.” There’s a small smile on your face as you lean in again, hanging off his every word. “And I—” he stumbles over the word, heart pounding in his chest. "I th-think, maybe, what I’m trying to say is that I—” He cuts himself off with a frustrated exhale, pressing the heel of his hand against his forehead. “Jesus Christ." A laugh slips out of you and he blushes. “Don't laugh,” he says, mortified. “I’m not laughing at you.” “You're definitely laughing at me.” “Okay, but only a little.” You smile wide. “But didn’t you say you like that about me?” He groans, covering his face with his hands. “That wasn’t originally in the script.” “Satoru.” There’s something in the way you say his name that makes him look up again at once. You’re close now, pretty face taking up his field of vision, and he hadn’t even realised you’d moved closer. Or maybe he’s the one who did, unable to resist your gravity. Your gaze drops to his mouth and then lifts again, and the world seems to narrow until it is only this bench, this sunlit patch of afternoon, the space between you shrinking into something fragile and unbearable. He tries once more, because he has to, because if he doesn’t say it now he never will. "I want to kiss you,” he blurts, the words tumbling out, crooked and breathless. "I really, really want to kiss you, and i’ve been trying not to notice for a while now because I wasn’t sure if I can and I wasn’t sure if you—if you maybe—and I know this is probably not the smoothest way to say this but I just—”

Wait a minute, did he end up saying ‘I like you’ or did he just out that he’s been staring at your lips for the past five minutes now? It doesn’t seem to matter because you lean forward and kiss him. There's no great sweep of music, no fireworks, no impossible cinematic pan out encapsulating the sun. Just you, leaning in as if it is the most natural thing in the world, one hand coming up to cup the side of his face, your lips soft against his. Gojo stops thinking immediately. His whole body goes rigid for one stunned second before every thought in his buzzing head simply dissipates. Heat floods him all at once, sharp and dizzying, all the way up to the tips of his ears. He's only vaguely aware that he’s stopped breathing and that his eyes are open, and that he has absolutely no clue what to do with his hands. When you pull back, only just, your thumb brushes over his cheekbone. He stares at you. You stare back, mouth curving into a shy smile that nearly kills him where he sits. “Sure,” you say. “You can kiss me.” He opens his mouth but nothing comes out. His face must be bright red by now because your smile grows, softer and softer, and God, if he could bottle this moment and live inside it forever, he would. “You kissed me,” he says at last, intelligent as always. "I did.” “On purpose?” You laugh, and he thinks he might pass out. Oh yeah, he really does like it when you laugh at him. “No Satoru, by accident.” He makes a strangled noise somewhere between disbelief and delight. He can feel the heat of his face, knows he probably looks ridiculous, but for once he cannot bring himself to care, not even a little. All he can do is look at you with his heart in his throat and try, with limited success, to remember how these things should go. “Oh,” he says. Your brows pinch together in a fond little crease. “Oh?” “Sorry, I’m still stuck on the part where you kissed me.” “Do you need me to do it again?” you offer, smiling. “Though first, I think there’s something you still need to tell me. Want to give it another try?” Before he can answer, before he can even begin to think of an answer that wouldn’t make him sound completely insane, his phone vibrates sharply in his pocket. The sound cuts through the moment like a blade. He freezes, recognising the sound from one of two phones he always carries with him. It continues to vibrate, and there’s only one thing he can think of as his stomach drops.

No. Not now. You glance down toward the noise. “You should probably get that. It sounds urgent.” He nearly says no, nearly ignores it completely. But the device buzzes again, more insistently this time, and cold dread starts threading through the remains of his daze. He fumbles for it with clumsy fingers still not entirely his own, and glances down at the screen. suguru: venom sighing @ west park or one of his goons get over there All the colour drains and for one awful second, he just stares until the phone turns black and reflects his distraught expression back at him. You’re watching him now, the softness in your expression touched through with concern. “Everything okay, Satoru?” He forces a laugh that sounds thin even to his own ears. “Everything's fine, I just…” his mind scrambles wildly for something plausible, something ordinary, something that won’t make you look at him any closer than you already are and find the gaps in his lies. "It’s Suguru. He needs me.” That at least is believable. Suguru has needed him for stupider reasons. “Right now?” Guilt crashes through him so hard it almost makes him dizzy. Because your lips are still pink from kissing him, because he hasn’t even had a chance to kiss you back properly, because this is the moment he’s wanted for so long and now it’s slipping through his fingers before he can hold onto it. But people will get hurt if he doesn’t go. “Yeah,” he says, quieter now. “I’m sorry.” “Hey.” Your hand finds him again. “It’s okay.” It is absolutely not okay. Still, he nods. “I just—” He swallows. “Can I…can we…” You smile, though he wonders if it’s truly genuine. “Yes, idiot. We can talk later. Only if you promise to call me tonight.” “I will,” he’s quick to say. “I promise.” He stands too quickly and nearly tangles himself in his own headphone wire. You hide your laugh behind your hand and he feels a fresh wave of heat climb up his neck. “Smooth,” you quip. “Be nice to me,” he mutters, trying and failing to sound offended. You stand too, close enough that he can smell your perfume, can see the tiny details of your face that he’s spent far too much time pretending not to memorise. Now that he’s up, now that he’s about to leave, it feels close to impossible, almost absurd like every part of him is pulled to you. “Go,” you say softly. “Before Suguru gets himself in a mess.” He huffs out a breath. Then, because he’s greedy and because you’ve ruined him since a few minutes ago, he leans down and presses the quickest, clumsiest kiss to your cheek. It's barely there, gone almost as soon as it lands, but the look on your face after makes his heart stutter all over again. “I’ll definitely call you tonight. Please wait for me.” Gojo backs away before he can embarrass himself further or worse, before he changes his mind and decides the rest of the world can burn for ten more minutes. He wants to do something stupid like run back and kiss you properly this time like all the good movies do, but his phone feels heavy in his pocket, dragging him back to the version of himself you still don’t know. But even as urgency takes over, even as the river current catches him by the ribs and yanks, there is one bright impossible thing lodged firmly in his chest. You kissed him. You kissed him. And for the first time in a long time, Gojo thinks maybe he doesn’t mind being swept away at all.

Like a girl experiencing the lows of a situationship, your phone remains mercilessly silent the entire night. It’s the first thing you check the moment your eyes open to a new day, reaching over to check your notifications. Outlook emails, reddit notifications, and nothing from the only person you want to hear from. That’s fine, maybe the issue with Geto ended up being more serious than you initially assumed. Maybe he got caught up with a family emergency and passed out the second he got home. Maybe his phone died, or maybe he’d been too busy to send anything more than a mental apology into the universe and hope it reached you by divine. That is to say, you hear nothing from him all night. None of these excuses stop the ugly little feeling from settling in your chest. Your hand closes over your phone, open to your messages with him and embarrassingly showcases or last text to him left on delivered. For a moment, you wonder if the situation is appropriate enough to double triple text considering he’s already ignored your other texts, but eventually settle on nothing because no, actually, he can make the first move for once in his life. He had been the one stammering through half a confession, the one looking at you like you all devote and in awe while you only stared back mildly concerned he was going to burst a blood vessel, the one to kiss your cheek and promised to call all sweet-like. If he wants to disappear after that, then he can deal with the consequences without your help. The presentation goes just as well as you thought it would considering you’re running on an accumulated two hours of sleep and you’re missing a partner. Considering the assessment is a pair presentation, that seems pretty bad. You do your section first, voice steadier than you feel, though when you reach the point where he’s supposed to take over, there is a split second where your whole mind goes blank. Humiliation flashes through you hot and clean because this was meant to be the two of you and everyone can see it is not. Because beneath the frustration and embarrassment, there is something much worse curling inside you now. When you finish, the tutor thanks you with a sympathy that makes your skin crawl. As you hurry out of the lab, every sensation is suddenly all too much. the feeling of your tote under your arm, the clacking of your shoes against the floor, the bustle of students all around and you groan when you see just how many other people are leaving the building. Your pace slows against your wishes as you attempt to weave the crowd. He didn’t show up. You bite your lip, hard. He didn’t show up. You glance down at your phone and swipe. No new notifications. He didn’t show up. All that talk had been nothing. He never took you seriously at all. Something akin to betrayal fills your chest and you wonder if you’re really going to start crying over a boy who has a digimon keychain on his bag. Said it gave him personality, said it was something like a photo of loved ones glanced at during a war. It's stupid, you’re stupid, you think, because how could you seriously think something new was budding there, that something was actually happening? A hand catches your wrist in the crowd and tugs you hard to the side. You gasp as your shoulder brushes someone on the way past, the ground shifting under you before you’re pulled into the narrow strip of wall between two noticeboards and a vending machine.

“Wait!” You wrench your arm back on instinct, breath already halfway to a sharp insult, only for it to die the second you look up. Gojo stands in front of you, chest rising and falling too fast like he ran all the way here. His hair is a mess, his glasses slightly crooked, and there’s a stiffness to his movements. not that you care, not after this. “Am I—” “You’re late,” you blurt, all venom and wounded pride. “Actually, you’re absent because late implies you cared to show at all.” His expression crumbles. “I know.” “Do you?” “Yes,” he swallows, voice rough. “I know.” “Then what are we doing here?” People move around you on both sides, students flowing past in little groups, too absorbed in their own conversations to notice how your whole world has narrowed down to this one stupidly tall boy standing in front of you like he hasn’t just ripped out your heart and stomped all over it. “Something came up,” he says. “I couldn’t help it.” You laugh, ugly and tired. “That’s crazy because something came up for me too. Does the presentation ring any bells?” His jaw tightens. “I’m serious, something did come up otherwise I would have been here. Look, I know how this looks but my phone broke.” The excuse lands heavy in the silence that follows. You stare at him incredulously. Was he really giving you that excuse right now? You start to turn around from his bullshit, not trusting yourself to speak, but he reaches out and holds you there by the wrist. “I know how it sounds, trust me, I wouldn’t believe you either If I were you—” “You’re right, I don’t believe you.” “That's not fair,” he says, desperate. You take a step back, but the wall is there and the crowd is there and he is still there, looking at you with that same helpless expression from yesterday like he can plead his way back into your good graces. “You dropped your phone? What else did you drop, your common sense? Your sense of responsibility?” “Come on, that’s not fair. You’re not even letting me apologise.” “You don’t have a choice,” you snap back. You take a deep breath to reset your thoughts, exhaling out any emotion leaving your voice empty. “Look, I get it. We didn't start off on the same side and maybe you never really stopped feeling that way, even when I thought we were friends. “Y/N—”

“Maybe it was my mistake for ever thinking that. So I’m sorry I’m so gullible.” Once you start, you find the words rushing out without much thought. Briefly, a small voice wonders if you’re really going to crash out like this in the middle of the busy science building, but oh well. There’s a twisted kind of satisfaction when you watch his face crumble. “I almost believed you really cared about whatever the fuck was happening between us, friendship or—whatever the hell it was. If this was revenge for everything that’s happened before, then you’re a real piece of shit, Satoru.” “I said I was sorry.” “And I’m supposed to do what with that exactly?” “Believe me.” You scoff. “Why should I?” His eyes widen a fraction and you press on. “Seriously, why? You say things and you disappear and every time something important is about to happen, you leave. You act like I matter and then the second I start to believe it, you’re gone again. So why should I believe you now?” “Because I’m here now,” he says, sharper than before. You laugh. “Now. You’re here now.” “I came as fast as I could.” “And I was supposed to know that how?” His nostrils flare. “What do you want me to say?” “Well, what am I supposed to think?” you demand. “Because right now it kind of looks like you freaked out after yesterday and decided avoiding me was easier. So it's fine. I see now that you don’t care about anything that was happening between us so, whatever. I don’t care either.” “That's not true.” Gojo forces out through clenched teeth. his face tightens and for a second, he looks angry too, and the sight of it sends a mean little thrill through your chest because good. Good. Let him feel bad. “I do care.” “But not enough to show up to the day of the presentation?” You make noise of disbelief. “Not showing up doesn’t even have anything to do with us, it’s just common sense if you care about your grades like I know you do!” “Exactly, so do you really think I wanted to miss out? Obviously I didn’t want to miss out on 20% too!” You can’t help it, you feel petty and latch onto his words. “Oh, so that’s your biggest concern after all, huh?” “Don't twist my words, you brought it up first.” He runs his free hand through his hair. “What are we even… look, I didn’t want to make you present by yourself. Something just  genuinely came up.”

You find a small part of yourself believing him. “What came up? a family emergency?” He doesn't say anything. You laugh. Nothing about this is funny. You feel like you’re losing your mind. “Okay. Sure. Something came up. You definitely didn’t do this to piss me off.” He groans. “Not everything is about you.” The silence after is immediate and total. His eyes widen almost at once, horror flashing across his face like he can hear himself only after the words are already out in the world. He takes half a step forward. “Wait—” “Okay, great.” “I didn’t mean to say that.” “No?” Your laugh comes out thin and shaky. “Because it sounded pretty clear to me.” “Y/N.” “I’m not making this about me, Satoru. You made it about me the second you promised something and then disappeared.” Your voice catches, but you force it steady again. “All I did was believe you.” He steps forward again, hand circling your wrist. You move to pull away but when you look up, you freeze. He looks awful up close. Paler than usual, lips chapped, a faint shadow purpling the skin just above the collar of his shirt where fabric has shifted just enough to expose it. His hand on your wrist is warm, too warm, and his fingers are shaking. A smarter, calmer version of you would ask why. This version however, only notices that he still won’t answer. “What?” you ask, because your voice has to be empty or you will break. “What exactly do you want from me?” He stares at you like the answer should be obvious. “Time,” he says at last. “Just give me more time.” For one beat, two, you can’t even process his words. Then something hot and sharp tears through your chest. “You cannot be serious. more time?” you repeat disbelief making the words go thin. “You say you care, you say you were trying, and then when I ask for one actual answer you tell me to wait. Again. Gonna tell me you’ll tell me later again too?” “Just listen to me for a second.” “No.” You take a shaky breath and it does nothing to steady you. “No, I am so tired, Satoru. I am tired of feeling stupid around you, I always have. I’m tired of guessing and I’m tired of every conversation with you ending like this, with me standing here waiting for you to stop looking at me like there’s something you’re dying to say but you won’t say it.” “That's not what this is.” “Then tell me what it is!” “I can’t!” The outburst turns heads this time and people slow as they pass. He notices a second too late and drags a hand over his face, breathing hard. When he speaks again, his voice drops, but it is no less intense for it. “I can’t,” he repeats. “Not here. Not like this.”

You press your lips together. “Then maybe whatever this is isn’t worth it.” The words shatter the conversation. You don’t mean them and you know you don’t mean them the second they leave your mouth. But you’re too proud, too hurt, to take them back and Gojo has gone still. You watch the moment it lands, watch him stop moving altogether, even to breathe. His mouth parts then closes, and he looks at you like he doesn’t recognise you for half a second, the sight making regret flash hot and immediate through your body. “Satoru—” A ringtone cuts through the air and you both freeze. The sound of the ringtone is so familiar by now, a haunting melody that signals the end of almost every conversation you’ve had with him. Your eyes follow the sound to his pocket. He told you his phone broke. Something in you just gives. You scoff at first, then laughter quickly follows. His face falls and he knows he’s lost you even before you shake his hold off, stepping back and looking away. His hand moves toward his pocket and stops. “Okay, I know this is really bad but please just wait.”“Enough, Satoru. I don’t know why you’re even making this that big of a deal,” you choke out, crossing your arms over your chest like it’ll succeed in placing something stronger than your self-restraint between the two of you. “The project is over whether you cared to show up or not.”

He flinches and you can practically see him split in two, body angled toward you while something else keeps him from moving. His jaw is tight, hand flexing uselessly at his side, eyes on yours like he’s trying to hold the moment together through sheer force.

“Listen to me—”

“I need to get home,” you say.

He steps forward. “I’ll walk you to the station.”

You actually laugh and when you speak, you hate how tired you sound, how flat. “Why would you do that? I said the project is over, Gojo. And so is any reason for us to talk.

Gojo stiffens, arm falling slack to his side.

For a second, you think he might stop you or say something more. Instead, he just stands there, the phone finally gone silent in his pocket, his face stricken and too pale beneath the fluorescent lights.

You make it out of the building with your hands clenched and your mouth pressed into a thin line. The walk to the bus stop feels unreal, like moving through water. By the time you get there, your phone buzzes once and your heart lurches so hard it hurts.

shoko: u okay???

That bastard probably texted her about the situation. Of course he did. Somehow he could make time for that, but not for you. Something bitter and awful curls in your stomach.

You type back: “of course!!!!!!” because lying is contagious apparently, and add enough exclamation marks to make it look convincing before shoving your phone into your bag and sitting down when the bus pulls up to the curb.

The doors fold close and still, stupidly, some part of you looks up expecting him to be there.

Gojo should have known the two of you wouldn’t talk after the argument. There are no late-night calls anymore, no accidental lingering in the same space, no easy back-and-forth that used to slip so naturally between you, no watching you from the corner of his eye when he thinks you aren’t paying attention. The silence that settles in the space left behind is slow and heavy and Gojo feels like he’s drowning. He tells himself it’s for the best. Maybe he flew too close to the sun and now he’s melting and falling and nothing, not his spider instincts nor his web, can catch him. You’re simply too radiant and too civilian for someone of his status quo. But then if that was true, why does it get under his skin every time he sees you with Suguru, laughing together somewhere on campus? Why does something in him still ache whenever he comes across a tweet he knows would make you laugh, only to remember you’ve blocked him? And why can’t he stop thinking about how easy it used to be between you, back when you looked at him like he was someone worth knowing, before everything got so complicated? And if he truly believed having you is as impossible as it seemed, then why was he following you back home? Spiderman shakes his head, wishing he didn’t have this restrictive masks on so he could run a hand through his hair and shake out his thoughts. Because he doesn’t have any ulterior motives as he follows close behind, rooftop to rooftop, as you make your way back from campus, no matter how sinister it sounds. No, he’s simply making sure a kind, helpless civilian gets home safe now that the sun has set and night creeps in. After all, you’re walking alone with your hands buried deep in your pockets and your shoulders curled in against the cold. He catches the slight shiver that runs through you, the quiet sneeze you try to stifle, the irritated little kick you give a loose rock after it nearly sent you stumbling. You look tired, closed off in a way he isn’t used to, and it hurts him to believe it might be his fault. “This is stupid,” he reasons. “I look like a creep.”

Despite the truth of his words, he lingers above you anyway, haunted by the contrast of it all, the way you once smiled at him so easily, the way your face fell when he disappointed you, the softness of your voice when you left him. You look at Spiderman with a warmth and openness you no longer spare Gojo, and he hates how selfishly relieved he is to get even that much. Fine. If you won’t have him as Gojo, he’ll take being Spiderman. 

Spiderman drops down in front of you in one smooth motion, feet hitting the pavement with a soft thud. “Hey—”

You move instantly, lunging forward to grab the back of his neck, other hand on his tricep, and hook your leg behind one of his. He blinks, standing upright one moment, before you pull his leg out from under him and he’s flipped onto his back on the ground. 

Your face softens as you look down at your perpetrator. “What the—Spiderman?”

You quickly let go and step back before realising you should at least help him up. He takes your hand, standing up and rubbing his shoulder. 

Kind and helpless civilian, my ass. 

“Are you okay?” you fuss, hands hovering uncertainly. “I mean, that was kind of your fault for scaring me though. But are you okay? Seriously, don’t do that ever again you could get hurt. But are you hurt?”

He winces, rolling his shoulder once more before chuckling. “There goes any worries I might have had about you.”

“What are you doing here? Don’t you have a city to save?”

Spiderman drops his hands to his side. “It’s strange because it sounds like you don’t want me to be here.”

“It took you this long to realise?” you tease with a smile. 

“Actually,” he says, quieter now, “I wanted to thank you.”

That catches you off guard enough to still. “For what?” 

“For all the help recently.” He lifts one shoulder in a careless half-shrug, but there’s something more deliberate under it, something oddly sincere. “I don’t usually do sidekicks. They steal all my thunder, and everybody knows the side characters end up more popular than the lead anyway. Bad for morale. But you came pretty close.”

“That was…” You blink. “Almost nice. Thanks?” 

“Don’t get used to it. I have a reputation to maintain.”

“Is that what this is?” you ask. “A gratitude tour?”

“God, no. I do enough free labour as it is.” He watches you laugh for a moment, eyes softening behind his mask before he says, “So. Are you free right now?”

You narrow your eyes immediately. “Is this another deeply scientific survey on how normal civilians spend their evenings? Because your sample size is getting weirdly specific.”

He huffs a laugh and rocks back on his heels. “Not exactly. Although for the record, your data has been invaluable. Very compelling stuff. Lots of sarcasm. Mild threat level. Surprisingly strong upper body.”

“Flattery is not going to save you here.” You study him for a second. “What do you mean, then?”

He gestures vaguely down the street, then up at the skyline like he hasn’t fully committed to the idea himself. “I mean… you look like you’ve had a rough week, and I’ve had a rough week, and I thought maybe we could do something that doesn’t involve property damage or mutual yelling.”

You raise an eyebrow. “Geez, that narrows it down a little, doesn’t it?”

“I’m being serious.”

The joking edge in his voice softens into something a little more fragile and when you look at him more carefully, at the mask, at the battered suit, at the way he’s trying to sound casual about something he clearly thought through before showing up, you feel something warm blossom in your chest. 

“And what,” you ask slowly, “does Spiderman do when he’s not concussed?”

He spreads his hands. “Tonight? He was hoping to take a very pretty girl on a low-budget date.” 

You stare at him stunned before laughing softly, looking away before flickering your gaze back. “I bet you only say stuff like that behind the mask.”

“That was smooth, you can be honest.” He grins behind the mask, you can hear it in the shape of his voice. “But that complaint doesn’t exactly sound like a no.” 

You look away again, toward the empty stretch of pavement ahead, the city washed in evening light and the first hints of neon waking up around you. You think of the hollow room waiting at the end of this street, your cold sheets and tear-stained pillow, and then of how light you suddenly feel standing here with him. It is not enough to erase everything, but it is enough to loosen something in your chest that has been wound painfully tight for days.

When you look back at him, you’re smiling despite yourself. “I’m free.”

“Great,” he says immediately, a little too fast, then reins himself back in. “Great. Cool. Cool, cool, cool. You said yes. That’s good, that’s great, even.” 

You snort. “So where are we going?”

He steps closer, lowering his voice like he’s about to let you in on a secret. “That depends. Are you going to scream if I say I had something less walkable in mind?”

It takes a second for the meaning to land, and when it does you gesture sharply upward. “Please don’t tell me you’re slinging me up there again. That’s happened to me twice now and neither of those experiences were fun.”

“I wouldn’t sling you,” he says, offended. “That sounds so careless and crass. I’d hold you very, very securely. In my arms, even.” 

“Can you even hold me? I just flipped you onto your back.” 

He laughs, then offers you his hand, gloved palm open between you. “Come on, just one swing. I’ll take it slow this time.”

You eye his hand, then his mask, then back to his hand. “You didn’t take it slow last time.”

“In my defence, we were under attack by sentient goo both times. Be gentle with me.” 

You hesitate before gently placing your hand in his. “Fine. But if I die, I’ll come back as a supervillain and haunt you specifically.” 

His fingers curl around yours, warm even through the suit. 

“No promises.”

Before you can second-guess yourself, he steps in, one arm sliding around your waist with practiced ease. The closeness knocks the breath from your lungs more effectively than the sudden lift when his feet leave the ground. You make a sharp noise and grab at his shoulders. 

“There it is,” he says, voice bright with delight and close to your ear. “That’s the exact reaction I was hoping for. My masculinity is doing just great, by the way.”

“Do not make this about you,” you snap, though the words come out thinner than intended.

“Bit hard not to,” he says lightly. “You are, technically, in my arms.”

His web catches somewhere high above with a sharp thwip and you only have a moment to gasp out the beginnings of a final protest before the pavement drops away beneath you. 

The city opens under you in one dizzying rush, all glowing traffic and dark rooftops and windows lit gold against the deepening blue of the evening. Your stomach lurches so violently you’re certain it gets left behind somewhere around the second floor of the nearest building, and your grip on his shoulders tightens with enough force to probably leave bruises through his suit. 

“Oh my God,” you choke out, voice snatched by the wind. “Oh my God, I’m flying. Oh my God, this is how I die.” 

He laughs, shameless and much too pleased with himself for someone who is holding your life in his hands. “That’s a little grim. If you’d only open your eyes, you’d see how beautiful it is.” 

“Open my eyes?” you repeat, incredulously. “Spiderman, my eyes will dry out and roll out of my head!”

His hold shifts just slightly, firmer at your waist as he catches another web and swings you both into a smoother arc. “Trust me,” he says, quieter this time, the teasing still there but softened around the edges. “Just for a second. Look.”

You crack your eyes open in narrow slits, and for one disorienting beat all you can really see is him—mask blurred at the edges, the line of his jaw beneath it, the hood rippling back with the force of the wind. Then your gaze drifts past him, out and down and everywhere at once.

Below, the harbour stretches out, black-blue and endless, broken only by the ribbons of reflected light from the bridge and the waterfront. Boasts sit like small, blinking stars, bobbing in the gentle waves, and the skyline curves around the edge of the bay, glittering and frankly unreal. 

“There,” he says, gentler now. “That’s better. I told you I’d take it easy this time.”

“You said a lot of things,” you mutter, though some of the panic has begun to leak out of your voice replaced by quiet awe. “Most of them were stupid.”

“Yeah, but were they charming stupid or just regular stupid?”

That manages to pull a short, unwilling laugh out of you, the gesture tipping your head back to look at the sky. The first stars are visible now, faint but there, and above them the clouds are smeared thin and silver. Then you look down at the water again, at how impossibly far below it is, and somehow that distance no longer terrifies you quite as much.

The water below catches the lights in broken gold, and he swings you through another perfect arc, close enough now that you can hear the faint slap of waves against the pylons. The city around you glitters as the sky deepens. His arm around your waist stays firm and sure, and with every swing your fear ebbs a little more, making room for something warm and foreign. 

He must feel the change in you because after a moment, he turns his head just enough for his voice to reach you clearly. 

“Okay,” he says. “Now that you trust me a little more, let me take you somewhere.” 

You lift your head to look at him. “Somewhere? I thought this was the date.” 

“This is the foreplay.” 

You grimace, wishing you weren’t being held hostage miles above deep water to pull back. “And just like that, I’m dry.” 

He laughs, the sound warm and easy. “But your complaining has finally stopped so I’d take that as a win. And for the record, I meant there’s more I still want to show you. I’m not blowing my entire budget on just one dramatic entrance.”

The next arc carries you around the edge of a low building, and then the shape of it begins to emerge properly. The amusement park stretches out in front of you, lights flickering on as dusk settles fully. The ferris wheel looms overhead, its metal frame catching the last of the sunset, and with most of the rides closed, the whole place feels strangely eerie in its emptiness. But then the water catches the light in soft ripples, the sky deepens into indigo, the first stars begin to blink into view, and it becomes something quietly beautiful. 

Spiderman watches you from the side, the light from the nearest streetlights in your eyes. His body is uncharacteristically still, mask tilted toward you. 

“Woah,” you breathe out at last. 

His shoulders relax just a fraction. 

“Yeah,” he says softly. “Thought you might like it. And look, I reserved the entire place out for you. It’s all yours for the entire night.”

“That’s because it’s closed.” 

He grins and holds out his hand. “Come on. I know a way for you to get a view of the city high up and without your eyeballs drying out on you. I’m trying to be accommodating now that I know you’re apparently very fragile about flying.”

“As any normal person would, I fear.” 

You eye his outstretched hand and then at the pier around you. The place feels suspended in time, the shuttered stalls, the way the lights glow without the usual crowds to dull them. 

“You’re very confident for someone who almost got flipped onto concrete five minutes ago,” you say, but take his hand anyway. 

“What can I say?” he shrugs, fingers warm as he interlaces them. “I trust you not to do it again. We’re close like that, right? But seriously, can we stop bringing that up? It’s a sensitive topic for me.” 

He leads you past a locked gate, showing off his lockpicking skills which prompts a raised brow and not the fawning he had initially expected, then to another gate to which you just had to look away from while he broke in. You walk beside him until he’s standing beneath the ferris wheel, metal bones creaking softly. 

Spiderman glances up then looks back down at you, holding out his hand in a flourish. 

“My lady,” he says, dipping his head. “Would you care to have a go?” 

“Real original,” you say but don’t protest when he guides you into one of the empty carriages. 

It sways slightly as you settle in, the door closing with a soft sound. Then the wheel jerks once, twice, then starts moving ever so slowly. Your breath catches as the ground drifts away, the pier shrinking beneath, lights blurring into a soft constellation of their own. There’s no rush like when you were swinging, just a gentle, steady climb lifting you above the city skyline.

You lean forward, hands gripping the edge of the carriage as the city opens up before you. It stretches out endlessly, lights scattered like spilled glitter, the dark water reflecting everything through a dreamy haze. 

“Is this what you see everyday?” you ask. 

Spiderman hums, relaxing into the seat opposite you “Maybe something close adjacent.”

“Well it’s gorgeous. I can’t believe I forgot how freeing it feels to go to amusement parks. There’s just something about being so high up, you know? But I guess I don’t need to be telling you that.” 

“Enamoured already? We haven’t even reached the top yet.” He stares at you for a moment. “Okay, pop quiz. Which do you like better, the ferris wheel or the swinging?” 

“Definitely the ferris wheel.”

“That hurts.”

You glance back at him over your shoulder to shoot him a cheeky grin. “Why are you sitting on the other side? Is the view better over there?”

He tilts his head and looks at you for a beat too long. “Yeah,” he says at last. “It’s pretty.”

He doesn’t pull his gaze away from you and it takes a second for the words to land properly, and another second for the warmth in your face to catch up with them. You laugh softly, more because you need somewhere to put the sudden nervousness than because it’s especially funny.

“You’re really pulling out all the stops today, aren’t you?” Your gaze flicker from the view back to him. “Is this something you do with all the civilians you save? I’d hate to embarrass myself by thinking I’m special.” 

“Would you compliment me back if I said it was just you?” 

“Maybe. Are you telling the truth?” 

“Yes.” He turns his body slightly so he can rest his elbow on the back of the seat, unabashedly staring right at you. “It’s just you.”

The carriage creaks softly. The wheel keeps turning and somewhere below, music too faint to make out drifts from some unseen speaker, somewhat staticky and distant. 

With nothing else to do, you laugh again, buying you some much needed time to figure out what to say next. “If you needed a boost to your ego, you could have just said so. You didn’t have to bring me to a half-abandoned amusement park and make me stare at the harbour to get it.”

“And the compliment?”

“I guess you’re not as annoying as I initially assumed you were.” 

“My ego definitely does not need the help,” he says easily. “And what kind of compliment is that? Give me something a little more impersonal.”

“You’re humble,” you observe with a good mannered snort. 

“It comes with the whole superhero thing.” He continues to watch you until he realises that this prolonged eye contact should come with some form of conversation.

Spiderman sits up a little, crossing one leg over the other. HIs ankle dangles and bumps into yours, a mere accident that makes you freeze so your body doesn’t move away.

“How have you been doing?” he asks, and the question comes out with an almost awkward plainness to it, stripped of the usual easy swagger. A second later he seems to hear himself and tries to recover, lifting one shoulder. “You seem a little quieter than usual. Not that I’ve been paying attention or anything. I just have, you know, a lot of care for the citizens of this city.”

The ferris wheel creaks as it carries you both a little higher, the lights of the pier shifting below in soft, sleepy colours. He watches you for a beat too long, and you know the joke gave him cover, but not much. The question is still sitting there between you, small and strangely careful.

You glance at him. “That was subtle. Really invisible work there.”

“Thank you,” he says. “I pride myself on my restraint. I could’ve been much creepier about it.”

“I’m sure that was difficult for you.”

“It was,” he says with a sigh. “You have no idea how hard I’m working right now to seem normal.”

You look back out over the water, the lights trembling across the surface. “I’ve been fine. That’s the official answer.”

“I think I’ve earned myself the unofficial answer,” he says quietly. 

You fold your arms loosely over your middle. “It’s ridiculously stupid. Like, who hangs out with a superhero and starts ranting about their situationship?”

He makes a little choked sound which makes you look over in concern. He quickly covers his mouth and waves you on. “Situationship? I didn’t know it would have counted as a situationship.”

You frown because what exactly does he know about what ‘it’ is? “It’s 2026, everyone’s idea of love is warped. If it doesn’t have a label then people will just slap the word ‘situationship’ over it and pray for the best.”

“Right, right. Please continue.” 

“Well, there was someone. Obviously.” You stop and let out a sigh, slumping. “Or maybe there wasn’t and I just made him into someone in my head. I can’t really tell anymore, it’s all just so messy. I thought maybe there was something there, I thought that was what everything was building up towards and then… we had this argument and it was honestly embarrassing looking back at it and now we don’t talk. So.” 

“Did you want there to be something?” 

Ignoring the fact that you’re having a love life talk with Spiderman, of all people, you answer honestly. “Of course. I wouldn’t be this annoyed if I didn’t.”

Spiderman lets his head knock against the window as he groans. “Okay. That makes sense. That makes a lot of sense. Of course you wanted something, of course.”

You glance sideways at him. “Why do you sound like that?” 

“Second-hand sorrow.”

“I think they call that empathy.”

“I just think,” he says, his voice a little rougher now, “it would’ve been easier if you’d said no. I’m only saying that because I’m looking out for you, obviously. As a public servant.”

You snort despite yourself but the heaviness settles back in quickly enough. “It would have been easier if he just kept being an asshole like when it all started. If he’d just kept being a dick, then fine, whatever, I could have lived with that if I never found out the kind of guy he is. But he wasn't, he ended up being kind. And funny. And actually decent and that really pisses me off. He made me hopeful and I think that might be the worst part.”

Spiderman goes very still across from you, shoulders pulling tighter and chin dipping just slightly so he’s staring a hole through the floor of the carriage. When he finally speaks, his voice has gone quieter. “Yeah,” he says. “That does sound pretty bad. Especially if he knew what he was doing.” You frown. “I don’t even know if he did. I can’t tell if he was just oblivious, or if he really did mean something by it but then freaked himself over nothing.” “That’s not better,” Spiderman retorts. “That makes him sound very pathetic.” You look at him properly now, the dim lights from below catching on the higher points of his face. “You’re taking this really personally for someone who doesn’t know him.” He lets out a short laugh. “Maybe I just have strong opinions about men disappointing women. Somebody has to, the bar is in hell.” You exhale a laugh through your nose. “Exactly.” The carriage gives a small creak as it keeps moving and for a few creaky moments, neither of you say anything. The quiet isn’t awkward, and he hasn’t said enough to put you in your thoughts, but it’s quiet anyway. Then Spiderman clears his throat and leans forward, elbow braced on his knees. “Okay, I’m going to say one more thing about it and then I’m going to stop being so emotionally available. It feels a little off brand to what we have going on.” You snort. “Sure, go for it.” “I think,” he starts carefully, “that if someone made you feel seen and hopeful for more and then disappeared, you’re allowed to think he’s a jerk. You don’t have to make excuses just because he also had some good qualities. Because being kind in some moments doesn’t cancel out making you feel abandoned in others. But maybe…” He takes a breath. “Don’t give up on him. Please.” For some reason, the sincerity in his voice makes you pause. Damn, so even superheroes experience situationships? Because he sounded really invested just then in a way that can only be explained as first-hand experience. You wonder what kind of person could break Spiderman’s heart like that. “Thanks for the love advice, Spiderman.” He nods solemnly. “No problem.” And because the entire situation is simply too ridiculous to keep a straight face, you laugh. He smiles too, watching you for a moment before letting out his own laugh. “There you are,” he says. “I was wondering what other crimes I’d have to commit tonight to fix the mood.” “We’re going to have to circle back and talk about the lockpicking eventually.” “As long as it isn’t today.” The carriage gives a gentler, longer groan as it continues descending. You let your head tip back against the seat and, almost absentmindedly, your eyes drift out toward the skyline again. You frown. “Oh.” He looks out too. “That sounded like a bad oh. What kind of oh was that?”

You look past him, past the window, toward the stretch of harbour and the city beyond. “I think we missed the top.” He blinks. “What?” “The peak,” you say, sitting forward. “The very top of the ferris wheel? We were talking and I didn’t even notice we’d already gone over it.” “Oh wow, that guy is the worst. He stole your ferris wheel climax too.” “Is it also part of your superhero job description to ruin every moment with some sexual innuendo?” He lifts both hands. “Okay, fair, I’m having a bad wording night. But this is hard on me okay? I arrange a beautiful nighttime ferris wheel, I listen supportively while you talk about another man, and still somehow I’m the bad guy.” “Right? How do you do it?” The carriage is nearly at the bottom now. Below, the pier glows in soft strings of light and you feel a strange sense of finality when it shudders to a stop. Before you can maneuver around a ‘thanks for tonight, see you first thing in the morning!’, Spiderman leans forward. “Don’t look so ready to go just yet, there’s still the aftercare part.” You sigh but don’t berate him. “There’s still more? Someone save me.” The carriage door clicks open with a soft metallic sound. He stands first and offers you his hand again, less theatrical this time, and more sincere. “Come on,” he says, voice soft in the wind. “Don’t go home yet. Stay with me a little longer, that’s all I’m asking. Let me be the part of tonight you remember better.” You look at the hand he’s still holding half between you. Then, before you can overthink it, you slip your hand into his. “But only because I’m curious what exactly counts as better.” He turns his hand, catching yours properly, and something in your stomach flips at the gesture. “Good,” he says, low and warm. “Because I’ve been trying very hard all night not to ask too obviously.”

You lied before. Swinging is leaps and bounds better than sitting stationary in a small carriage inching along at a snail’s pace. It’s exhilarating and freeing, and yes, your eyes still hurt when you open them too wide, but you’ve figured out the perfect amount of squinting to keep them from tearing up. Instead, you whoop and cheer as he swings you in high arcs and dramatic drops, skimming close enough to the ground that you might believe the end of your life is waiting there, if not for your growing trust that Spiderman will always pull you back up. Half your screams are still terror, though. Spiderman isn’t silent either. He laughs right into your ear when you cling to him tighter, praises you when you throw your head back and cheer, and points out his favourite places to sit and watch the sunrise. He complains that the city’s architecture doesn’t cater nearly enough to his swinging needs, as though that should have been a priority in urban planning. He carries you over a football stadium and you marvel at its size, the bright field below looking almost unreal from up here. “Think you can handle a little more?” he murmurs against your ear. High on adrenaline, you nod against his neck. Then he drops you. His arms slide out from under your knees and he quickly unwinds your hands from around his neck. One moment you are safe in his hold, and the next you are falling, a heavy body surrendered to gravity as the ground rushes up to meet you. Your scream could wake the whole city if it were not already awake. You look up. The sky above is vast, endless, strewn with stars so beautiful they almost make you forget the terror roaring through you. The wind screams in your ears, your clothes snapping against your body, and somewhere inside the panic there is a strange, suspended calm that feels almost like freedom. Just before the ground can meet your back, Spiderman swoops in from the side and catches you cleanly in his arms. The force of it steals another cry from you, but then he is already pulling you upward again, the momentum sweeping you into another great arc before gravity draws you back, over and over until the motion finally begins to slow. For one suspended moment, the two of you dangle in the air, saved from certain death by nothing but the web shot from his wrists. Metres above the ground, your life held so easily in someone else’s hands, you find that you feel no fear at all. In fact, you are laughing. It starts as a breathless, disbelieving sound, then spills into something uncontrollable, and he chuckles at first before his own laughter joins yours. You laugh until your lungs ache, until your face hurts, until all you can feel is the warmth of his breath against your cheek and the solid certainty of his arms around your back. He makes no move to set you down or sling you back to safety. Instead, he only keeps you there, held against his chest, his masked face angled down toward yours. You want to believe he is looking at you the way you are looking at him, full of wonder and something even softer than that, but it is hard to be certain when his face is hidden. Your laughter dwindles into one last helpless giggle as you peer up at him. “Nice catch.”

Your gaze drops from the white of his eyes to the shape of the mask stretched over the bridge of his nose, the faint outline of his mouth beneath the fabric. There has not been a single moment in your strange, ridiculous friendship with Spiderman when you have been so curious about who he is under that mask. “Thanks,” he says, his voice warm and low. “I kind of do this for a living.” You laugh softly, and he shivers when your breath mists against the fabric over his lips. “Do you remember when you first saved me?” you ask. “Yes, I slammed into a bus stop and ruined it forever. I also remember telling you to never mention that again,” he says immediately. You nod, fighting the urge to roll your eyes. “We were so different back then. I almost thought you were shy the amount of times you ran away.” He is quiet for just long enough to make your chest tighten. Then, softly, “Pretty girls fluster me.” You snort, but there’s no hiding the warmth that spreads across your face, and for once you make no move to cover it. Let him see it. Let him know the effect he has on you, just how fiercely this thing burns within you, this aching desire to hold him close, to whisper his name and feel him shiver beneath your touch. Slowly, as if afraid to snap the fragile thread of tension between you, you pull your hand away from your chest and trail it up the side of his neck, your touch feather-light. You hear his breath catch. Feel it, too. Your fingers drift higher until your palm cups his cheek through the mask. “I want to know who you are,” you say softly. He flinches. “You can’t.” “Why not?” you ask, voice gentle. “You don’t trust me?” “That’s not it.” “Really?” Your thumb brushes the edge of his jaw. “Because I would’ve accepted that as an answer.” He goes oddly still. “What?” Spiderman’s stunned silence makes you smile, and a quiet laugh slips out of you at how easy he is to read despite the mask. “What’s wrong? I’ve read the comics. I’ve seen the movies. I know what happens when the superhero reveals his identity.” You tip your head, eyes never leaving him. “Something bad always follows. It’s like punishment for their hubris. The main companion dies, or the hero has to choose between their lover and the world. It always ends in tragedy.” He recovers quickly enough, his arms tightening around your waist as if instinctively holding you closer. “You think I couldn’t save both you and the world?” You ignore the implications of his words, biting back a smile. “And that would be the hubris part.” He scoffs, though the sound comes out a touch too strained to be convincing. “That’s not why I can’t tell you my identity, princess.” “Then tell me why.” Your voice drops lower, soft as breath. “Because right now it feels like you’re making up rules as you go.” He hesitates. It is brief, but not brief enough. “You wouldn’t…” He swallows. “You wouldn’t feel the same. It would change things. It would change whatever this is.” You go quiet at that, mulling the words over. Then your hands drift from his neck to rest lightly against his chest, feeling the steady rise and fall beneath the suit. Looking up at him, you hum. “Do I know you?” Spiderman flinches again. “No.” You laugh softly at how bad he is at lying. “Alright. Are we friends?” He doesn’t react quite as strongly to that, which tells you enough to keep going. “Do we not get along?” “Hold on—” You immediately compose a mental list of all those who had once wronged you in some way. Some were easy to recall, their offences more recent like the cyclist that had rode past you one morning and knocked your coffee out of your hands leaving you confused and uncaffeinated for class, or your neighbour who is always throwing parties. Maybe it’s someone closer to you than that, like Naoya, or Toji, or Mei Mei, or that old lady that always comes in at 8am on a Thursday and routinely complains about her coffee not being hot enough. You frown at that last thought and Spiderman catches it, opening his mouth to stop you. “Are you a student, or—”

He hisses loud enough to cut you off. “Don’t guess. Don’t you dare. If you have to know, it’ll be because I told you, not because you stumbled into it by accident.” He pauses, then adds, more mutinously, “And I definitely don’t need to hear who you think I am. I’m sure you can imagine how terrible that might be for my ego.” You tilt your head, amused. “I get that, but I was only going to ask if—” “No.” “But I—” “I said no.” “Spiderman.” Your tone sharpens just enough to shut him up. “I was going to ask if you’re that old lady who always demands her coffee be molten before I hand it over. You know, the one who acts like I personally invented workplace safety regulations.” Spiderman doesn’t say anything for a long while. “What?” You laugh under your breath. “I definitely told you about her before. Or—” you pause, smiling to yourself, “told you about you, maybe. The one who always comes through drive-thru.” “Princess,” he says dryly, “I am not sixty years old.” “Perfect,” you reply. “Then I’m sure I wouldn’t otherwise care who you are.” And then he’s laughing. It bursts out of him bright and helpless, so sudden and genuine that it makes something in your chest go warm and dizzy. His head tips back, the white lenses of the mask curving with the shape of his smile, and you have to bite the inside of your cheek to keep your own grin from widening too much. If he laughed in your face every day for the rest of your life, you think you might let him, if only to know that this—him, here, now—is real. He’s talking again, you realise belatedly, his mask shifting with the movement of his mouth, but the words barely register. You’re too busy watching the fabric stretch and crease, too aware of how close he is, how little separates you now. Your fingers trail back up the side of his neck, and that silences him instantly. Despite all his earlier objections, he stills completely when your hand settles there. Your thumb grazes the seam where mask meets suit, and you stop, glancing up at him. “Can I?” “You can’t,” he whispers, just as softly, though he doesn’t move away. If anything, his hand only tightens on your waist. “I won’t look, I promise.” Your thumb traces small circles against his neck, your gaze locked on his. “I just want to touch you.” He shivers. You feel it run through him, sharp and involuntary. He says your name in a low rumble, the sound almost enough to undo you on its own. “This is a bad idea.” “If you tell me to stop, I will.” Looking down, you slip the tip of your finger beneath the narrow break between his bodysuit and the edge of his mask. “My arm is going to cramp,” he mutters weakly, and the attempt at humour only makes your smile deepen. You begin to peel the mask back. Just a little at first, just enough to reveal the bare line of his neck and feel the tense muscle there. Your fingertips glide over the exposed skin, and his breath catches again, but he still doesn’t stop you. You wonder how far he’ll let you go. You lift the mask higher, over the line of his jaw, and your eyes snag there before they can help it. Then over his mouth, where you pause for the briefest second, struck silent by the sight of him, before leaving the fabric gathered just beneath his nose. He tries for a smirk and you watch it form. “Was that all you wanted to see?” You lean in slowly, stopping just short of him to gauge his reaction. When he doesn’t move away, you close the distance until your nose brushes his. “For now,” you whisper. His eyes search yours through the mask, and whatever he finds there makes his mouth flatten into something almost pained.

“I’m not going to do anything you don’t want,” you murmur, and though you mean it, there is a terrible hollow ache opening in your chest now. Gojo’s face flashes uninvited through your mind and you shove it back, determined to bury it, though it’s clear enough from the way Spiderman goes tense that you haven’t done nearly as good a job as you’d hoped. You don’t want to use him like this. Over the past few months, Spiderman has become something steady in your life, a source of comfort in ways you never expected. Maybe it is because he has no face, no fixed place in your world, no history to complicate things. Maybe that’s why you have been able to tell him things you can’t even bring yourself to say to your friends. And now you are asking him for something you cannot take back. Still, your fingers curl into the fabric of his suit. “Please.” He moves before you can prepare for it, leaning in so suddenly your breath catches, your startled yelp cut off by the harsh press of his lips against yours. For one disorienting second, all thought disappears. Then he kisses you again, harder this time, and your hand flies up to hold him there, fingers tangling against his neck as though you can keep the moment from slipping away. His mouth is warm and real and a little clumsy with restraint, like he wants more and is trying very hard not to take it. The hand at your waist tightens, enough to make your pulse jump. And then he groans into the kiss, fierce and guttural before pulling away. The break leaves you both panting. You don’t speak at first but neither does he. You just stare at one another, lips swollen, breath unsteady, the last minute catching up all at once in a rush so overwhelming it feels almost unreal.You are already leaning in again before you fully register it, drawn by instinct more than thought, wanting to close the distance and do it all over— When suddenly gravity shifts. You let out a startled scream as the ground drops from under you and you pitch forward into him. His arms close around you automatically, holding you flush against his chest as the city begins to move beneath you. “What are you—” “I’m taking you back,” he says, voice rough. “What?” You twist, trying to look up at him, but he keeps you tucked in tight against him. “Wait a minute!” “I’m dropping you back at your dorm.” “Hold on a second!” “I can’t.” The words come out strained, almost frayed at the edges, and because his voice sounds like that—because the kiss is still there between you, lingering like heat—you let your protests falter.

The flight back is too quick. When he finally sets you down outside your dorm, your legs feel unsteady for more reasons than one. The second your feet hit the ground, your hands shoot to his arms, keeping hold so he can’t just disappear again. “You didn’t want it?” He doesn’t answer immediately, but with the mask still pushed halfway up, you see the way his jaw clenches. The truth hits you all at once, sharp and humiliating and you find your lips, once pressed against him, now forming the sound of an apology. “I’m sorry it was bad.” He makes a vague movement, like he wants to run a hand through his hair and has only just remembered the mask. “That’s not it.” “Then what is it?” The desperation in your voice makes you cringe the moment you hear it, but it’s too late to take back. He looks at you for a long, silent moment, and when he finally speaks, his voice is unbearably soft. “You said it yourself, didn’t you? Revealing my identity would only hurt you.” Your grip on his arms tightens. “I’m fine with that. I don’t need to know who you are. It doesn’t matter.” The words rush out now, tripping over each other. “The one I—” You falter, heart hammering. “The one I care about is you.” Spiderman watches you wordlessly as you trip over your own tongue. Then, after a beat that feels much longer than it is, he says, “I never said it was your mistake.” You inhale sharply and, before you can think better of it, lean in and steal a kiss from his lips. There isn’t enough time to consider what the hell you’re doing because he answers immediately. Whatever hesitation he’d been clinging to burns away the second your mouth meets his, seared off by heat and want and the unmistakable fact that this is really happening. This kiss is nothing like the last. It is harder, hungrier, and when his hand catches your wrist to pull you closer, it still doesn’t feel like enough. A low groan tears from him into your mouth, impatient and wrecked, and then he’s biting lightly at your bottom lip as though restraint is already slipping through his fingers. You gasp, and he takes the invitation immediately. His tongue sweeps into your mouth, coaxing every breathless sound from you until your whimpers are swallowed down by him. Still, it isn’t enough. How could it be? Not when he finally has you in his arms like this after wanting you for so long, after all the distance and hurt and wrong timing. His body urges you back a step, then another, until your shoulders brush the wall and he follows, crowding you there.

His hands slide up your waist and back down again, settling hard at your hips, while the other cups your jaw to hold you steady for the fierce, dizzying press of his mouth. You cling to him like he is the only solid thing in the world, and maybe right now he is. Your knees have gone weak enough that you don’t trust them to hold you without him. A crash sounds somewhere in the alley below. You jolt, teeth catching accidentally against his lip. He groans at the sting but pulls back, shooting the darkness beyond the window a withering glare like he could kill whatever interrupted him. You follow his line of sight, but nothing else happens. The alley settles back into stillness. After a second, he exhales and leans down until his forehead rests against yours. “You should probably check that out,” you murmur, more to break the thick, dizzy silence than out of any real conviction. He hums, the sound warm against your skin. “Then why aren’t you letting me go?” Only then do you realise your fingers have curled tight into the front of his suit. They only tighten further, pathetic and needy in a way you’d usually hate, but his answering chuckle is filthy and starved enough to make warmth bloom through you. “Stay,” you whisper. “Okay,” he says softly. “I won’t go.” You shake your head and lift it just enough to meet the white gaze of his mask, your own eyes dropping to his mouth for the briefest second. “No. Stay.” He doesn’t need to be told twice. His hand slips from your cheek and a second later a web shoots from his wrist and catches on the frame of your third-floor window. His other arm locks around you and suddenly he’s lifting you with him. Getting through the window is clumsy and breathless and far less graceful than the way he moves through the city. One of your shoes catches on the ledge, his shoulder bumps the frame, and you have to slap a hand over your mouth to stop yourself from laughing too loudly. It feels absurdly scandalous, sneaking through your own window like this, and the absurdity only makes it worse. He climbs in first, then turns immediately and offers you his hand. You take it with less hesitation than before, and he guides you through carefully, steadying you the moment your feet touch the floor, and for a second he doesn’t let go. He just keeps hold of you, standing close in the dimness of your room, eyes fixed on your face. “Are you sure?” he asks. You don’t hesitate. “I wouldn’t have kissed you if I wasn’t.” Something in him softens at that, though his voice stays low. “I still can’t let you see me.” You shake your head and close your eyes before your nerve can fail you. Your hands rise to the seam of his mask. “Trust me.” And because he does, he lets you pull it away. Truthfully, there’s a moment where temptation almost gets the better of you. He's right there, close enough to touch, close enough that you can feel the warmth of his skin and the shape of his mouth. You’re touching him, your tongue has been inside his mouth and now you know his taste intimately. All it would take is a moment of weakness and the opening of your eyes to finally know who has been under the mask this entire time. Just one peek, one action to end the curiosity. Still, you hold yourself back. Don’t ruin the moment.

A soft chuckle brushes your lips, his bare breath warm against them now that the mask is out of the way. You steady your hands against his chest and feel the frantic pound of his heart beneath your palms. He shivers at the contact. He tries to be patient, he really does. Tries to make this moment careful, almost reverent, like you deserve. But Gojo is greedy. He’s greedy for your attention, for the spark in your eyes to flare up the moment his eyes lock on yours, he’s greedy for your touch, the brushing of fingers when you pass him his coffee in the morning, for that smile that you only ever seem to give him when he’s Spiderman. He is greedy for this version of you, soft and wanting and close enough to ruin him. His brow twitches, something cruel twisting in his stomach and he traces the seam of your lips with his tongue, pushing in even before you open your mouth to him. His tongue finds yours again before he can stop himself, the kiss turning deeper, hungrier. He presses you back against the window, one hand bracing against the sill behind you so the edge doesn’t dig into your spine while the other settles hard at your waist. He devours you completely, nothing tentative about him now. He kisses you like he’s starving as all his late night fantasies, your name on his tongue and his hand wrapped around his cock, become finally realised when he tastes you. You lightly tap his arm, and he pulls back to let you breathe but his lips don’t leave you for long. “God, I've wanted you for so long.” he nuzzles your neck, inhaling your scent deeply. His hardness presses against your thigh, leaving you with no doubts about his words. "I can’t stop thinking about you, every time I close my eyes, you’re there. You're haunting me.” He continues to confess between heated kisses along your jawline. The utter longing in his voice, the depraved desperation as he presses impossibly closer, hands wanting to trace up your side but to also push you up into him, the heat of his mouth against your pulse point, it’s all too much and you let out a whimper. He groans softly against your skin, his restraint fraying even further at the noise. “Stop teasing me,” you gasp, tilting your head to give him more room and hating how needy you sound. His answer is rough and low. "I can’t help it.” Deciding you’ve had enough of him making you melt where you stand, you push at him instead. He lets himself be moved, following your blind guidance as you walk him backwards toward where you think your bed is. When the backs of his legs hit the mattress, he sits, and his fingers curl around your wrist to tug you closer between his knees. Your hands find his face again, fumbling slightly as they trace bare skin for the first time. The line of his cheekbones, the bridge of his nose, the shape of a face you still refuse to see. He lets you explore him in silence, stilling beneath your touch in a way that feels almost unbearably intimate, pressing a kiss to your palm when your hand drifts closer to his mouth. Your fingers linger on the warmth of his skin, tracing the soft curve of his lips before dipping lower, brushing against the sharp line of his jaw. He's so still under your touch, like he's afraid one wrong move will shatter this fragile moment, and it sends a thrill through you—the power you hold, even blinded. With your eyes closed, it blocks out everything but sensation, heightening every graze of your fingertips, every hitch in his breath. You can feel the rapid thump of his pulse beneath your palm, matching the frantic beat of your own heart.

He tilts his head slightly, nuzzling into your hand like a dog seeking affection, and the vulnerability in that small gesture makes your chest tighten. This masked hero, the one who swings through the city saving lives, is reduced to this—panting softly, body tense with barely contained need. It's intoxicating, knowing you can unravel him like this. “You're killing me,” he murmurs, voice rough and low, laced with that desperate edge that makes your core clench. His hands slide up your thighs, thumbs pressing into the soft flesh just below the hem of your skirt, not pushing further but holding you there, grounding himself. “Please don’t stop here, touch me more.” Your finger grazes his boner through the tight fabric of his suit and he hisses, bowing inward. “Shit!” You pause. “A thought has occurred.” He lets out a long suffering sigh. “Please don’t ruin the mood.” You laugh softly, dragging your nails over his erection over and over, drinking in every flinch you feel from where you’re pressed against him. “I can’t help you if you’re still in this… spandex.” Spiderman huffs again but you feel him pull back and unzip his suit, wherever that zipper might be. “I’m so glad you can’t see me right now. There was no way I could get out of this suit in a hot way.” “Trust me, my imagination isn’t doing you any favours either.” You pause. “Do you have to wear a thong under your suit?” “The mood was really good five seconds ago. Don't ruin it because you’re curious about what I’m wearing underneath.” You giggle and your nerves evaporate. Sure, you’re about to have sex with the friendly neighbourhood Spiderman and that might forever change the trajectory of your relationship with him, but at least it’s still him. When he sits back on the bed and guides you forward, you follow him without a second thought and kneel between his legs. “What are you—oh fuck.” He inhales sharply, hands never leaving you for long as they find purchase in your hair. “Fuck, you look so pretty.” His thumb traces your bottom lip, feeling it give way under his touch. He curses again. “I need your mouth on me, pretty girl.” You laugh at his eagerness and reward his honesty with your hands down his chest, breath quickening when he lets out a small sigh as your fingers graze his lower stomach. You allow yourself the time to trail a finger down his bare chest now that he is free from his spandex, marveling at the muscle you find tensing under your touch. Eventually, you find the waistband of his boxers. “So you do wear boxers?” “Y/N, please. The mood.” You tug his boxers down, slightly upset you can’t see the way his cock swings up, finally free from its restraints. The sounds he makes compensates and you find it hard to stay disappointed as he groans, the hand in your hair closing around to tug you impatiently towards his dick.

“Sorry,” he mumbles, eyes heavy-lidded as he watches you. Despite his apology, he doesn’t make an effort to loosen his hold that much.  You drag your hands up his thighs to find where they converge. You wrap your fingers around him, feeling out his shape. If he asked in that narcissistic way of his, you’d tell him he’s average size. Truthfully, he’s thicker and longer than you’d dare to admit, the slight curve a feature that has you pressing your thighs together. He bucks involuntarily, a whine escaping his lips that sounds so damn needy it makes you wetter. “Take your time,” he manages to grit out though it’s breathless. “I’m not going anywhere.” You wonder who he’s talking to because you’re sure as hell not going to take your time. Instead, you lean in closer, your breath ghosting his length and smell him—musky and hot after being trapped in that suit for so long. “You’re shaking already,” you whisper. “Haven’t you ever had a girl on her knees for you?” He doesn't answer, just lets out a shaky exhale, his hands fisting the sheets beside him. The silence is answer enough, and it makes you laugh, hard enough to be distracted by the pathetic twitch his cock gives at his own humiliation. “No way? The amazing Spiderman gets no game? My god, I almost feel sorry for you,” you coo mockingly, tongue flicking out to lap at the bead of pre-cum on his tip. He jolts, a strangled gasp ripping from his throat, you smile against his flushed skin. “All that heroic web-slinging but no one’s ever taken care of this?” Before he can respond, you take him into your mouth, lips sealing around the head as you suck gently. He tastes salty and slightly bitter, but the way he gasps all high and desperate makes you hum in approval, the vibration drawing another shiver from him. Your hands brace on his thighs, nails digging in as you bob your head, taking him deeper inch by inch. He’s not huge but he’s certainly responsive, hips twitching like he can’t help it, fucking shallowly into your mouth. “Shit—oh God, your mouth!” His words dissolve into a groan, his hand tightening in your messy strands. You hollow your cheeks, tongue swirling around the underside, tracing the vein that pulses against it. With your eyes closed, every sensation is amplified, the wet sounds of your sucking, the salty drip down your throat, the way his cock twitches on your tongue. You pull back slightly, letting spit string from your lips to his tip, and pump him with your hand, remembering to twist a little at the top. “There’s no way you’re going to cum already, are you?” Once again, you desperately wish to see him, to see him writhing under your touch, flushed with his eyes rolling back. “Don’t stop,” he begs, voice cracking. You oblige, leaning back down to swallow around him, nose brushing the coarse hair at his base. He smells like sweat and arousal, and you gag a little when he thrusts too eagerly, but you don't pull away. Instead, you moan, letting him feel how much you want this, how his desperation turns you on.

His free hand claws at the bed, knuckles white, and you can feel the tension coiling in his body, the way he's fighting not to come too soon. You speed up, slurping obscenely, one hand slipping down to cup his balls, rolling them gently. He cries out—actually cries out—head thrown back, and you feel powerful, desired, even as the mean streak in you wants to edge him until he breaks. But you’re aching too, pussy throbbing with neglect and its slickness soaks your thighs. You pop off him with a wet sound to which he whines in protest, hips jerking forward seeking more. “Not yet,” you say breathlessly and rise to your feet to push him back fully onto your bed. He goes willingly, sprawling out with the audible sounds of his pants. You climb over him, straddling his waist, and grind your soaked panties against his thick length. The friction makes you both moan, his hands flying to your hips to hold you there. “Please,” he pants. “Let me touch you. I need to—” You cut him off with a kiss, letting him taste himself from where your mouth met his cock. It’s messy and you rock against him harder, chasing that pressure on your clit. But it’s not enough. You need more. Pulling back, you guide one of his hands between your legs, pressing his fingers against your clothed pussy. “Feel how wet I am? It’s all for you. Now do something about it.” His fingers tremble as they slip under the fabric and brush against your folds, making you hiss at the contact. He’s clumsy at first, virgin nerves showing in the hesitant circles he rubs over your clit, but the sensation burns with your eyes closed, turning every awkward stroke into fire. You grind down to guide his rhythm and he learns fast, thumb pressing firmer, two fingers finding your entrance. “Like this?” he asks, voice small and eager, and you nod, biting your lip to stifle a moan as he pushes inside. He’s not skilled, all bumping knuckles, but God does the stretch feel good. You clench around him, riding his hand, the wet squelch filling the room. “Faster,” you demand, and he obeys, curling them experimentally, hitting that spot that makes your thighs quake. Sensory deprivation turns it overwhelming, leaving you drowning in the slide of his fingers, the heat of his palm grinding against your clit. You whimper as the pleasure builds and he drinks in every sound, pumping harder, thumb flicking relentlessly. “You’re so tight,” he murmurs in awe, free hand roaming your body, squeezing your breast through your shirt, pinching the nipple until you arch. “So wet for me. Fuck, I could do this all night.” But you can’t wait anymore. You shove his hand away, panting, and fumble with your clothes, stripping off your top and skirt, panties last. He helps, clumsy but enthusiastic, suit peeled down to his hips. Naked now, you feel exposed and vulnerable, but his hands are everywhere—stroking your sides, cupping your ass, pulling you down. He positions himself between your legs, leaning down to kiss you deeply while his hands memorise your curves, gliding them over your soft skin. It’s not enough. You roll your hips against him, trying to press him in, seeking that friction you desperately need. Spiderman lets out a low groan against your ear, his control slipping at your eager movements. He pulls back to watch, to drink in the sight of you writhing under him, at your hands fumbling desperately at his arms to draw him back in. “Give me a second,” he mumbles. “I want to take my time with you.” “Please don’t,” you whine. It’s infuriating, having him so close you can feel his heat against your skin and yet, it only emphasises the emptiness inside you. “Please just touch me.”

“I’ve got you, baby.” Unable to resist your needy sounds any longer, he finally gives in. He readjusts his position, guiding himself to your entrance. He thrusts up slightly, his dick gathering your slick at his tip, the both of you moaning at the friction. “Tell me what you want, Y/N. I need to hear how badly you need me.” He all but pleads, repeating the action over and over, eyes closed shut at every nudge against your clit. You whimper, fingers finding purchase on his biceps. “I’m not going to beg you, jerk.” He ruts up, the tip catching on your entrance and you almost believe it’s in until it slides right past. “Beg me,” he pleads again, mouth planting desperate kisses at your neck. The teasing drags on, his cockhead slipping through your folds, bumping your clit with every shallow thrust, but never filling you. It's torture, the heat of him so close, the slick sounds obscene in the quiet room. You buck up, trying to impale yourself, but he holds your hips down, chuckling breathlessly against your throat. “Come on,” he whispers, nipping at your earlobe. “Just say it. Tell me you want my cock inside you.” Your pride wars with the ache until it’s finally too much. “Fine,” you gasp, nails raking his back. “Fuck me. Please, just—put it in. I need it.” The words break him. With a guttural moan, he lines up and thrusts in, burying himself to the hilt in one smooth motion. You're stretched full, walls fluttering around his thickness, and you cry out, legs wrapping around his waist to pull him deeper. “Oh God, yes,” he groans, stilling for a moment to adjust, forehead pressed to yours. “You’re perfect. So fucking tight.” You clench around him deliberately, and he whines, that puppy-like desperation surfacing again. “Move,” you plead as you rock up, and he does, pulling out halfway before slamming back in. The pace starts slow, experimental as his inexperience shows in the uneven rhythm. But it builds, thrusts deepening, the bed creaking under you. Each snap of his hips grinds his pubic bone against your clit, and with your eyes closed, it’s all you can focus on: the slap of skin, the wet glide of his cock, the way he fills you completely. He buries his face in your neck, kissing and sucking marks into your skin, hands gripping your thighs to spread you wider. “Feels so good,” he mumbles between thrusts. "Like you were made for me. Can’t believe—fuck—” The tension coils tight in your belly, pleasure spiking with every plunge. He’s hitting deep now, tip kissing your cervix, and you arch sharply. But he’s greedy, wanting more, always more. One hand slips between you to find your clit again, rubbing in tight circles that make stars burst behind your eyelids. “Cum for me,” he pleads, voice hoarse. “Wanna feel you squeeze my dick. Please, Y/N.” The command, laced with desperation, tips you over. You shatter, pussy convulsing around him, milking his cock as waves crash through you. He follows seconds later, thrusting erratically before spilling inside, hot spurts painting your walls. He doesn’t even stop then, instead opting to slowly grind against your ass to push it all in. Finally, he collapses onto you as you both pant, bodies slick with sweat.

For a moment, there’s only the aftershocks and his softening cock still twitching inside you. Then he lifts his head and kisses you softly, reverently. “That was incredible,” he whispers. You smile lazily, fingers tracing his jaw once more. “Yeah?” He doesn’t pull out right away, staying buried deep as his breathing evens out, like he can't bear to leave your warmth. His hands roam lazily now, no longer frantic but exploratory as he maps out the dip of your waist, the swell of your breasts. You must possess some kind of iron will because you keep your eyes closed even then such that you can feel every callus on his palms, every tremble in his touch. It’s intimate, this post-climax haze, and it stirs something softer in you despite the teasing edge you cling to. “You're still hard,” you murmur, shifting your hips experimentally and feel him twitch inside you. He groans, low and needy, burying his face in your shoulder. “Can’t help it,” he admits, voice muffled. “You feel too good. Like... I don’t want to stop. Ever.” The confession hangs there, vulnerable and raw, and you can’t resist poking at it. “Aw, puppy,” you coo, running your fingers through his hair. He nips at your collarbone in retaliation, but there’s no bite to it. “You like it,” he says, confidence peeking through the desperation. “The way I beg. Admit it.” You huff, but your body betrays you, clenching around him again. He takes it as an invitation and starts to rock slowly, shallow thrusts that keep him seated deep. It’s lazy and sensual and builds up friction without urgency. “Maybe,” you concede breathlessly, hands guiding his head. “But don’t think it makes you special.” “Liar.” He chuckles against your skin, the vibration sending tingles down your spine. His pace picks up slightly, one hand sliding down to where you’re joined, thumb circling your oversensitive clit. You gasp, the pleasure sharp after your orgasm, but he doesn’t stop, drawing out whimpers you can’t suppress. The room fills with the soft sounds of your shared breaths, the wet slide of him moving inside you, the occasional creak of the bed. He kisses up your neck, lips brushing the edge of the blindfold. “Is this okay?” he asks. “Yeah,” you whisper, turning your head to capture his mouth. The kiss is slower this time as you focus on simply exploring and memorising his taste. He pulls back eventually to sit up and change the angle, hooking your legs over his shoulders. The stretch is deeper like this, his cock hitting new spots that make you moan. “God, you’re beautiful,” he breathes. “I always thought you were but when you’re like this… fuck.” The praise warms you and you reach for him blindly, fingers finding his chest. “Shut up and fuck me harder.” He laughs, but obeys, snapping his hips with renewed vigor. The position lets him grind deep, balls slapping against your ass, and you feel another climax building. His hand returns to your clit, rubbing in time with his thrusts, and you shatter again, crying out, though not with his superhero name because that feels a little impersonal. He follows and spills with a whine, collapsing beside you this time. Now, when the darkness creeps in from the edges, it’s not because you’re making the conscious decision to keep your eyes closed. The afterglow lures you to sleep and he holds you throughout it all.

But Spiderman—no, Gojo—lies there with his heart still refusing to slow, greed silent for only a moment but never truly gone. His fingers trace absent patterns over your back as if committing every inch of you to memory like the repetition might somehow make this enough. As if this version of the night, this version of you, can be folded up and hidden somewhere safe for later. Because he knows, even now, that this is the only way he gets to have you. Not in daylight, not with your eyes open and knowing. Not as the boy who sits two rows away and grins when he beats everyone to the answer. Not as Gojo, all sharp edges and arrogance and every stupid mistake he’s made with you piling up behind him like a wall. He presses a kiss to your hair before he can stop himself. It is a stupid thing to do, indulgent and dangerous, but there is no one here to catch him at it, no one but the sleeping girl in his arms who doesn’t know the shape of his face and trusts him anyway. That makes it worse, makes his heart hurt so badly he has to take in a shuddering gasp to calm it, if only slightly. As Spiderman, you had pulled him inside your room by hand. As Spiderman, you had touched his face with your eyes closed and trusted what you found there. As Spiderman, you had kissed him like you meant it, let him close enough to hear the soft wrecked sounds you make when you say his name. It should feel like a victory. Some ugly, secret part of him has wanted this for too long not to recognise the shape of triumph when it finally arrives. And yet it settles strangely in his chest, tangled up with something meaner and sadder. He tips his head back against your pillow and stares up at the dark ceiling, one arm still curved protectively around you. Outside your window the city hums low and distant, all traffic and wind and sirens dulled by height and glass. Somewhere out there, the rest of his life is still moving along with deadlines, classes, the version of himself you will face tomorrow and maybe hate a little more than you did today. His throat tightens. You shift against him again, this time with a sleepy little sigh, and his eyes close at once. If he were better, he thinks, he would leave now before the night can twist this into something cruel, before staying turns this into something impossible to explain later. Before morning puts light on all the parts of him that he intentionally leaves in the shadows away from your gaze.

He tips his head back against your pillow and stares up at the dark ceiling, one arm still curved protectively around you. Outside your window the city hums low and distant, all traffic and wind and sirens dulled by height and glass. Somewhere out there, the rest of his life is still moving along with deadlines, classes, the version of himself you will face tomorrow and maybe hate a little more than you did today. But Gojo is a weak man so he stays. Long enough for your breathing to deepen fully and for your body to grow loose and heavy with sleep beside him. Long enough that he starts to imagine, against all reason, what it would be like if he didn’t have to move at all. If he could still be here when your eyes opened. if he could watch you wake and let himself be seen, just once, just enough to catch the flicker of emotion across your face. Would you be happy? Mad? Disappointed? But the universe is rarely this forgiving and patient, and he eventually pulls himself up on his elbows. You’re still asleep, face half-buried in the pillow now, hair spilled across the sheets, mouth parted slightly on a soft exhale. The sight of you unguarded in such a way makes something ache low and hopeless inside him. There’s a mark near your collarbone he has to drag his gaze away from before he becomes truly pathetic. “Don't do this to me,” he whispers, though whether he means you or fate or himself, he isn’t sure. Obviously, no one answers him. It would be easier if you weren’t like this. If you were messy or careless or cruel in your sleep. If you took up too much space, kicked him in that old wound that still refuses to heal. If you snored. If you drooled on the pillow. If there were anything in the world that made leaving you here feel less like carving something out of himself with his own hands and leaving it on the pillow next to your head. But there isn’t. So Gojo leans down and presses one last kiss to your temple. Before he goes, he stands beside the bed for one suspended moment, looking down at you with all the wretched fondness he never manages to contain well enough. “I'm sorry,” he whispers softly. Then he’s gone, slipping back through the window into the thinning dark before dawn. Morning comes gently. You wake slowly, feeling the ache of too little sleep and something duller lower down, soothed by the warmth trapped under your blanket. It’s a gloomy day outside and faint grey light slips in through the curtains. For one sweet, stupid second, the memory of the night before reaches you before your eyes properly open, and your mouth almost curves with it. You reach out to touch him and find nothing. Your eyes snap open. “Spiderman?” The name sounds ridiculous in the morning quiet. The space beside you is empty, no lingering body heat, no weight in the mattress, no messy shape of someone else, just rumpled sheets and a half-opened window blowing a chill into your room. It all looks so unbearably ordinary for a place where your life had felt, only hours ago, like it was tilting into something secret and miraculous. Something strange moves through you then, too tangled to name cleanly. The first is an easy one to decipher, disappointment, sharp and immediate. Then embarrassment, because some soft foolish part of you had expected to wake up and find him still there. Perhaps not unmasked, maybe not staying forever, but at the very least there to share the same sense of sheepishness you feel. Enough to prove last night hadn’t been a beautiful, selfish thing borrowed from the dark. You reach out and smooth your hand over the cold sheet once, as if you might find traces of your common sense there and regain some rational thought. It doesn’t, to no surprise. All it does is confirm what you already know. Your bed is empty.

Has the sun always felt so good on his skin? 

Gojo swings through the city as he does every morning. It’s a habit that comes from the obligation, something Geto had said in passing about the responsibilities of being a superhero—or something. Satoru never really listens when Geto scolds him and he certainly doesn’t care enough now to pull those words to the surface. 

His morning patrols are little more than a guilty pleasure anyway. To be above the city made everyone else seem like ants, feeble things that needed saving every minute of every day. But it’s fine. 

Because speaking of guilt, that’s what he should be feeling right now. But he doesn’t. In fact, Satoru is having a rather fine and dandy day. 

He high fives the police chief when they start scolding him on the mess of webs he left behind during the car chase. He tips the convenient store cashier when he pays for his energy drink, forgoing the whole ‘leave the store and then web cash to the worker’s chest’ bit that he always does. He smiles at the senior citizens when they eye him even though he knows the gesture won’t show through the mask. 

He finger guns the kids as they ride by in scooters and bulky, too-big helmets. He graciously rescues a balloon from a tree. He pets a dog on the way to class. 

His phone buzzes in the pocket of his jacket that he wears to keep away the winter chill, the new personal phone that he got, not his work phone, and that does a really good job of extinguishing his mood. 

Gojo settles down on the ground and ducks into a thin alleyway, pulling out his phone to check. 

It’s a calendar notification reminding him that today was the big outing, some aquarium outing he had to beg Shoko to be invited to. Once, he had looked forward to it but now, all he can think of is the hurt in your eyes, the way your mouth falls open in soft pleasure, the slight flutter in your eyes as you arch against his—

He shoves his phone back into his pocket and hurries back to his dorm. 

Ignoring Geto's casual greetings, Gojo opts to instead ceremoniously flop into his top bunk the moment he slings in through the open window. 

“How was patrol?”

“Don’t ask me stupid questions.”

“Okay.” Geto looks up from his book, turning in his chair to look up at the blue and white lump. “What’s wrong with you?” 

Gojo tugs off his mask, ruffling his hair as it falls messy before faceplanting back into his unmade bed. “Nothing.”

“You left the dorm beaming like everyday is just sunshine and rainbows to you, and now you’re back sulking. I wouldn’t call that nothing.” He pauses when he receives no response, before sighing. “Just make sure to ditch the attitude before we meet up with Shoko. And don’t take it out on Y/N.”

Gojo can’t help it, he chokes on his own breath. Geto , of course, notices. 

“What was that sound?” 

“That’s just how I breathe.” 

“You don’t always sound like a kicked puppy when you’re breathing.” His roommate stands to peek over the frame of the bunk bed, raising an eyebrow when he’s met with Gojo's devastated state. “Is this about your tragic loss to Venom? Look, he’ll come back and you’ll get another shot at being a good superhero, I promise.”

“It’s not that.”

“Is it Y/N then?”

Gojo lifts his head just enough to give him an incredulous look. “How did you…?”

“I saw what you were reposting on Tiktok.”

Gojo flops onto his back, hands over his face, feet kicking about in frustration. “God, even when she’s not around she drives me crazy!”

“Not that I’m not super sympathetic about your situation, but maybe it’s not the best idea to freak out about your normal civilian life when you’re Spiderman-ing. It’s better to keep those things separate, you know?” 

Gojo grabs his pillow and shoves it over his face. 

“Was that an agreement or an act of rebellion? Satoru, I’m serious. You can’t mix your personal life and your superhero activities together.” 

He stays quiet, or maybe he’s suffocated himself. Gojo kind of hopes it’s the latter if it’ll save him from telling the truth. 

Geto shakes his shoulder. “Dude, stop moping. We have that thing to go to and Shoko won’t be happy if you flake.”

Gojo remains limp and after a few more shakes, Geto frowns with the tiniest hint of worry. 

“Okay, out with it. What did you do?” 

At this, Gojo finally turns his head to look at his roommate mournfully. A slow, sinking sensation of dread drops in Geto's stomach as he searches this thin glimpse of his roommate’s face. 

“Please tell me you didn’t.”

“I did.”

“How bad? Does she know?”

Gojo lets out a long, suffering sigh. “Worse.”

“You kissed her.” 

“Worse.” 

Geto's mouth drops open. “You fucked her? Satoru, what the fuck?”

“I don’t know, okay, it just happened!” 

Geto pulled his hand back as if burnt. “Just happened? These things don’t just happen! Sex doesn’t just happen!”

Gojo groans into his pillow. “We were both consenting adults in this, Suguru, it’s not a big deal!”

“That’s not the issue! She doesn’t know who you are, Satoru!”

“I know that!”

“Do you? Because if you did I don’t think you would have done that!” He runs a hand through his hair. “How does she not know?”

“She kept her eyes closed,” Gojo says.

“You kinky bitch.”

“It was the only way she wouldn’t see!”

“Really? Because I can think of other ways. Have you considered the tactic of just not fucking her in the first place?”

Gojo frowns as if in genuine thought before shaking his head. 

“Hell. This is my superhero. We’re all fucked.”

“Suguru, you have to help me.” Gojo sits up, head ducked slightly so as to not hit his head on the ceiling above. “I fucked up okay, I know I did. But it’s complicated, alright? Y/N and I aren’t… good right now. I thought we were and then I dropped my phone and then we fought and now she’s blocked me on everything. Even Linkedin. And Spotify!”

“Satoru, I help you with Spiderman stuff. I help you with last minute homework deadlines because you were too busy saving the world. I help you with lying to our friends about why you disappeared during a bathroom break for an hour that doesn’t involve emptying your guts into a toilet. I’m not helping you when you fumble a girl.”

“But what if I fumbled her because I’m Spiderman. I feel like that counts, right?” 

Geto turns and drops himself into his chair, the seat turning slightly at the momentum until he plants his feet down. He sighs, running a hand through his hair. “You still haven’t told me what happened.”

“Y/N and I broke up.”

“You weren’t dating.”

“A friendship break up then. A situationship break up.”

“Fine, whatever you want to call it. What even happened? Because every time we talked about her before that it sounded like things were going well.” 

“Things were going well. I almost kissed her like, five times. The sixth time would have definitely been the charm.”

Geto makes a face.”I feel like that’s an indication that things aren’t going well, but okay.”

“Anyway, remember when venom showed up a few days ago and I broke my phone?”

“And how you were knocked out for a night? I remember.”

“Right well,” Gojo takes in a deep breath that indicates he’s about to ramble, “because I broke my phone I wasn’t able to tell her something came up and I wouldn’t be able to make the presentation. I only woke up after we had to present, meaning she had to do it herself and now she hates me because she thinks I don’t take her seriously. and I can’t clarify that I do take her seriously because, again, she blocked me on everything. She also unadded me on every Google Doc she shared to me.”

“Damn, she’s serious.” For a moment, Geto seems genuinely apologetic. “That sucks man, I’m sorry you were cockblocked by Venom.”

“Well, it comes with the powers and responsibility and all that.” Gojo falls back onto his bed, starfished as far as his limbs can go before they hit the sides of his bunk bed. “You always have a solution to everything. Can’t you fix my love life too?”

“I can’t perform miracles, dumbass.”

“That's not your line. You’re meant to be sympathetic and helpful. Do you even care about me?” 

“No,” Geto says mournfully. “Unfortunately you’re the only one saving our city these days so I kind of have to stick around to make sure you don’t mess that up.” 

Gojo grabs his Agumon plushie and throws it down over the side of the railing. He doesn’t have to look over the edge to know it hit its target. “I’m serious, Suguru.”

Geto catches the plushie with ease and gives it a pat on its head, placing it gently on his lap. “I’m serious too. Maybe this is a good thing. I keep telling you that you have to keep your superhero life and your boring, normal person life separate. This just shows you what happens when you don’t do that.”

“Woah, thank you, Mr sunshine and rainbows.”

“Life isn’t sunshine and rainbows.”

“It is when you have the eyes to see it,” he sighs dramatically. “Is it too much to ask that I can just be Satoru and Spiderman without losing anything?” 

There’s something in Gojo's voice that makes Geto pause. Maybe it’s the lack of that whiny tilt to his cadence, maybe it’s the fact that he’s shoved his face into another plushie on his bed, voice muffled and hiding the desperate sound. 

Geto wants to tell him the truth, that if the world was good and just he could be every side of him, that he shouldn’t have to pick between being a weapon for the city’s safety and an actual person with hopes and dreams and wants. Geto wants to tell him that he shouldn’t have to pick being a superhero over being a person, but he can’t tell him that. Because as the world stands right now, Gojo simply can’t have both. 

“There's still that outing,” Geto finds himself saying. “Look, it sounds like you really hurt Y/N but she’s not unreasonable, you know that. I’m sure if you talk to her you can clear things up. Or just apologise now that time has settled.”

Gojo shuffles a little and sits up to look down at his roommate. "Weren't you just telling me I shouldn’t mix personal and work life?”

“You see Spider-Man as work?”

“Answer my question, man.”

Geto sighs. “The part of me that just wants to make sure you’re not hurt doing this whole superhero thing wants to tell you that. But the part of me that’s your friend doesn’t. It sucks that in this world no one can be their genuine self. But I mean it when I say that I want to see you happy and if you’re happy with Y/N then I hope things work out between the both of you.”

No one says anything for a while. Geto looks up. 

“Dude, what did you eat today to make you sprout all that feelings bullshit?” Gojo mimes throwing up. 

Geto rolls his eyes, grabbing the plushie on his lap to throw it back up at him. Gojo catches it, his Spiderman instincts never letting him down, and when he puts it down on his bed, he’s smiling. 

“So, any tips?”

“Just be yourself.” 

“I was and look how everything turned out.”

Geto hums. “Then maybe let’s start with your wardrobe. If you’re going to win Y/N back, you can’t show up to the function wearing the same one shirt.”

The aquarium is a shitty place to take someone you’re no longer on speaking terms with. 

It seems even the fish have figured out how to move around without touching. Silver fish turn as one body and never collide. Stingrays glide past each other like silk dragged through water. Even sharks know how to circle without making contact, all smooth instinct and measured distance, and that would be deeply meaningful if you weren’t currently trapped in a dark blue tunnel feeling like shit. 

It is, Shoko had said in the groupchat three days ago, supposed to be a fun, normal outing. You should have known then that something demonic had possessed her. 

The tunnel curves overhead in a long arc of glass, seawater casting wavering patterns of light over the floor and over the faces of people passing through. Children press their sticky palms to the glass, and a baby somewhere up ahead lets out a delighted shriek at the sight of some broad, ghostly thing drifting above. Couples walk slowly enough to be irritating, stopping every two steps to point things out to each other in soft voices. 

The entire place is built for wonder and you are having a terrible time. 

“Look,” you say from beside Shoko, pointing upward with none of the enthusiasm the gesture should probably contain, “a fish.” 

“I think that’s obviously a shark,” Utahime says, squinting upward. 

Geto hums, a telltale sign that he’s about to launch into his typical ragebaiting. “I’m pretty sure sharks are fish though, so what do you mean by that?”

“Oh come on, Geto. You know what I mean. There’s fish, and then there’s shark. If I say fish, no one is picturing that. They’re thinking of, like, a normal fish. Small, swimmy, not that giant thing above our heads.” 

“So now we’re racially profiling fish and sharks?” Geto pauses as if in deep thought. “So then by your logic, is a stingray fish-looking fish or shark-looking fish.” 

“A stingray is its own thing,” Utahime snaps. “Don’t piss me off in public.” 

“Seems complicated. Not very obvious then, is it?” 

On any other day, there’d be nothing more joyous than joining in and annoying Utahime. Today, however, you’re still figuring out how to move around without being touched. 

“At least give yourself the chance to have a good time,” Shoko remarks from beside you, none too impressed with your sulky mood. 

You know it isn’t fair to her but to say you’re in a bad mood is an understatement. Every voice only serves to grind your gears and the way people shove past you here and there makes you want to rip off your skin. 

Maybe because you got approximately no sleep. Maybe because your body still feels the phantom touch of another, the roughness in his voice as he utters your name all deprived and pleading. Maybe because Gojo is still six inches to your left, all long limbs and damp shadows under his eyes, and every time the crowd bottlenecks in the tunnel, you catch the faint clean scent of his soap like he took a shower earlier this morning. 

The tunnel narrows as it curves, forcing all of you into an untidy line. Shoko and Utahime end up leading, Geto just behind them, pointing out silly little things that pisses her Utahime and makes Shoko laugh. You had slowed down for all of three seconds to let a family with two children pass and made the tactical error of allowing Gojo to fall into step beside you. Now the two of you are trapped by the flow of bodies moving through the tunnel at exactly the kind of sluggish, reverent pace that grates against your frayed nerves.

Above, something glides over the glass. The baby up ahead screams again, only louder, such that it echoes down the winding tunnel.

“See, that wouldn't be a fish,” Geto is saying from up ahead.

You can hear utahime through the murmur of the crowd. “I figured.”

“Can’t be too sure.”

There's another shuffle of people from up ahead as if the presence of the stingray is a thing to fawn over, a stop-start of prams and schoolbags and a father trying to explain in a stage whisper why no, his child cannot touch the stingray, and the whole line compresses.

Gojo’s shoulder brushes yours.

You stiffen before you can even try to pretend it had no effect on you and he shifts back, creating what little space he can in a tunnel full of tourists and toddlers. You can feel his hesitation without even looking at him, that careful slouching in on himself he's been doing all day.

“Sorry,” he says quietly. 

You don’t bother with a response, looking in the opposite direction as if you had suddenly gained a deep appreciation for marine life. 

Shoko glances back over her shoulder to make sure she hasn’t lost either of you, and catches the way the two of you repel from each other. Her eyes flick from your face to Gojo’s, and narrow. 

Great, so not only are you miserable, but now you’re probably going to get grilled. 

“You two are weirdly quiet,” she cleverly deduces. 

“We’re in an aquarium,” you reply. “The whole point is to be quiet and to look at the fish. Or the sharks or—whatever.” 

“Are you at least having fun?” she tries again, though judging from her look, it’s clear she already has an answer in mind. 

“Definitely,” you mumble at the same time Gojo says, “So much fun.” 

You keep your mouth shut, refusing to look over at him. And Shoko, bless her patient heart, only tries again. 

“We’re about to reach the actual shark section. You love sharks, don’t you, Y/N?”

“Partial at best.”

“Or we could divert to look at the rock pools and touch some starfish. Doesn’t that sound like fun, Gojo?” 

“I guess.” He kicks at the ground, stubbornly glaring at the path. 

Shoko rolls her eyes, dropping her gentle parenting act just as the tunnel begins to open up again. The two of you separate like magnets of the same charge when there’s space to move, only heightening her annoyance. 

“You both are impossible! You’re acting like kids! Let’s age check real quick, how long are you two going to keep up this silent treatment act for?”

Gojo sighs, running a hand through his hair. “Can you just drop it, Shoko? It’s really none of your business.”

“Woah,” Shoko says. “Gojo’s arrived.” 

“I’m serious.” He grits his teeth. “Leave it.”

Shoko looks over at you for your input but you keep quiet, hiding your own guilt by looking away. You’re acting like a kid, you know you are, but it’s hard not to when you have this man child walking beside you. 

And because Gojo has never won an argument against with Shoko, never has in the many, many years they’ve known each other, she grabs your hand and his arm and pulls you both together, positive versus positive charge be damned. You visibly flinch when his skin brushes yours, but her hands keep you together. 

“I don’t know what happened between you two,” she says, “but you’re going to sort it out right here right now, you hear me? The shark section is up ahead. I don’t care what happens in there, but when you walk out of it, you’re both going to get along. Understood?”

Gojo looks up from where he’s staring at the point of contact where your bodies touch. 

“I said, understood?” Shoko presses, drawing you both closer. 

You grimace and relent. “Fine, fine. Just let go, won’t you?”

She doesn’t, turning her fierce gaze to Gojo. “Your turn.”

“Shoko,” he starts, but his eyes are fixed over her shoulder. “Let go.” 

“I won’t until you tell me the two of you are going to start behaving like adults again." 

“Shoko, seriously—”

“Gojo, I’m not letting go until—”

You let out a frustrated exhale. “Just get it over with and say that you will.” 

“That’s not it.” 

His voice sharpens so suddenly that the three of you freeze. His hand closes around your arm, knocking Shoko’s grip off him in one abrupt movement, and you almost wince at how tight his fingers are. 

“Duck!” 

Considering you’re at an aquarium and not a zoo, his words confuse you. But the word barely leaves his mouth before the world ends, or at least the tunnel does. 

One moment you’re upright and irritated, and the next you’re on the slick aquarium floor with Gojo half over you, his hand clamped around the back of your head as glass bursts somewhere overhead in a noise so violent it seems to deafen you. Water follows half a second later, a freezing, roaring wall of it that slams into your legs and floods the corridor in one breathless rush. 

You gasp, inhaling panic with it. For one awful second, all you can see is dark water and something silver whipping past your face so quickly you can’t process whether it’s debris or fish or some secret third option. Gojo’s arms tighten around you just before the current hits full force, shielding you from the bulk of it. 

When the initial wave passes, he pushes himself up first, still braced over you, blinking the water from his eyes. “Are you okay? Actually, don’t answer straight away because then you’re probably lying. Are you hurt?”

You stare at him for half a second with your chest heaving, before snapping back into your body. “I think so. Was that enough time to seem genuine?”

“Yeah,” he says, then grabs your hand and hauls you upright with startling efficiency. 

A jagged hole has been torn through the glass overhead and water is still pouring through in punishing sheets, waves upon waves lapping at your feet. You ignore it all. 

“Shoko!” you shout immediately. “Utahime? Guys?”

“We’re here!” Shoko’s voice comes from somewhere to your right, thin through the alarms and the water. “We’re all okay!”

Through the flashing red light and beyond a rush of water you can’t imagine brushing past, you spot them.

Shoko has one arm around Utahime’s waist and the other braced against the wall, her hair plastered to her face by spray. Utahime is upright, but only just, one hand pressed over her calf where blood is already mixing into the water in thin red ribbons. Suguru is beside them, shoving a fallen display sign out of the way so a knot of panicked visitors can force themselves toward the nearest exit.

“We’re fine!” Geto yells. “Utahime got cut by the glass, but she can walk. We’re heading for the side stairs.”

Shoko twists back, catches sight of you and Gojo still standing there, and immediately cups her hands around her mouth. “What are you two doing? Move! I paid money for this outing and frankly I’d like at least four of us to live!”

Before either of you can answer, something booms deeper in the aquarium hard enough to rattle the glass beneath your feet. All around you, people are still trying to push toward the exits in a mess of uncoordinated panic. One aquarium staff member is shouting for everyone to stay calm in a voice already fraying at the edges and there’s a child sobbing somewhere to your right. Another tank further down the hall has cracked into a spiderweb of fractures that spread wider with every violent thud from beyond.

Gojo tenses, sensing something you can’t before he turns to you, hands on your shoulders. “Get to the exit.”

“Right, okay,” you say automatically, already reaching for his hand to drag him with you. Your fingers slide around his wrist and tug. “Come on.”

He doesn’t move.

You look back at him. “What are you doing?”

“You go with them,” he says, already looking past you toward the ruined hall. “I’ll follow after you.”

You stare at him in disbelief. “Um, no?”

Your voice comes out louder than you mean it to, sharpened by the cold and the adrenaline and the immediate, furious certainty that no, absolutely not, you are not doing this with him again. Not here, not now, not when the floor is flooding and the walls are breaking and he still thinks he can look you in the face and say I’ll follow after like you were born yesterday.

“Do you have a death wish?” you demand. “Come on, the water is rising!”

“Look, I can handle myself.” His fingers tighten once against your shoulder, almost pleading. “I know what I’m doing so just wait outside. Don't worry about me and go.”

It is such a stupid thing to say that for a second you can only look at him.

Don’t worry about me.

As if that has ever worked. As if you haven’t spent weeks trying to ignore him and failing every single time. As if he hasn’t somehow made himself your problem since the moment he had called your grade out in the middle of that irrelevant tutorial room.

You glare at him, at his stupid fluffy white hair gone damp at the edges, at the thick-framed glasses he always pushes up his nose when he starts rambling about something ridiculous, at the stupid blue eyes that seem to shift colour with his mood and are now fixed on the corridor behind you instead of properly on you.

“I can’t,” you say.

His head snaps back to yours. “What?”

“I can’t just ignore you.” The words come out thinner than you want them to, but there’s no taking them back now. “I’ve tried and I just can’t.”

“This isn’t the time for that,” he says, brows furrowed in that way he gets when he’s annoyed.“Don’t be ridiculous, you could get hurt.”

“You could get hurt.”

“That’s different.”

“Is it?” you scoff before looking back at him. “You know what your problem is?”

He rolls his eyes with a sigh. “Oh, here we go. Tell me, tell me what my problem is—”

“Oh, I will. I’ll tell you what your fucking problem is—”

“Oh yeah, you’ll tell me? Cause you know me better than I know myself?” 

“Someone has to,” you snap, stepping toward him, daring him to take a step back. “Because clearly you’ve got no clue what you’re doing. Not with this, not with women, certainly not with me.”

He exhales. “Yeah? Well, you’re stuck up and impossible to control and you piss me off.”

“Are you a kid? You sound so dumb right now—”

A crash tears through the corridor hard enough to shake the ground beneath your feet and whatever insult you’ve both had gearing up immediately dies. You both look toward the corridor then to each other. 

“Probably not the best time for this,” you say. 

“Yeah,” he says. “Let’s shelf this for later.”

“I’m still not going to ditch you so get that through your thick skull and whatever vast air bubble hugs your brain.” 

For one ridiculous second, despite the alarms and the flooding and the horrifying sounds of public infrastructure being turned inside out, Gojo actually looks like he wants to laugh. 

“Did you just call me an air head?” he asks, the words breathless and almost fond. “You’re never going to make things easy for me, are you?” 

You shoot him an incredulous look. “People are dying, Satoru. Lock in. What’s the plan?” 

He shakes his head like a dog. 

“Okay,” he says, back in motion now, words quick and sharp and all business because he clearly doesn’t trust himself to stay in the other mode any longer. “New plan. We get everyone we can to the exit, and then if you still want to tell me what my problem is, I’ll stand there and let you monologue. But don’t leave my sight and don’t try to be self-sacrificing.” 

“You’re telling me?” You snort. “Says the guy who was just about to run off and do exactly that.”

You brush past him, heading towards the tunnel where the sound originated. 

Despite every instinct telling him to grab you and pull you out, Gojo finds himself just standing there. He’s always been weak to you, this revelation is not one that comes with any surprise. All you’ve ever really had to do was look at him—properly look at him, with that sharp little glare that says he’s annoyed you again—and some pathetic part of him was already halfway to heel, tail practically wagging. It’s degrading almost, the Spiderman, reduced to nothing but a desperate man in love, but for some reason Gojo can’t find himself hating it completely. That was just how far he had fallen. He drags a hand through his hair and exhales sharply through his nose as he catches up behind you. The mask in his pocket feels impossibly heavy, like it knows better than he does, like it’s already calling him toward the moment he’s been putting off for too long. But he doesn't yet, and settles instead for following behind, every muscle bracing for the second this goes wrong. 

You are having much less sophisticated thoughts. You wonder to yourself as you trudge through the ankle deep water, what the fuck are you doing?

Your shoes are full of cold, disgusting salt water and what is, realistically, probably fish shit, when the safe outside had been right there within reach moments ago. You could have left. You could have gone with Shoko and Utahime and Geto and let the staff and the police and whoever else handles aquarium disasters deal with the rest. Instead, you had willingly walked back into where disaster struck. And for what? A boy?

Well, you think. At least you have the experience of fighting off two villains now. One and a half. Okay, more like two halves. That made one. So you’ve had one (1) moment of experience. That was enough, right? 

“Don’t worry,” you tell Gojo, noticing his uncharacteristic silence. “If anything happens, I’ll protect you.” He opens his mouth to reply, but whatever smart thing he had lined up dies the second the tunnel widens into the main shark gallery.

A man in a torn aquarium polo staggers through the burst corridor with black slick crawling up one arm and along the side of his throat, jerking in wet, ugly pulses under the emergency lights. A member of staff, who looks maybe nineteen and one bad shift away from quitting forever, is trying to wave people toward the side exit while very obviously trying not to cry.

Gojo is already moving, ignoring the way the room shudders when the symbiote host slams his fist into a pillar.

“I’m going to distract it so the people have time to get out of here. Stay here or go help them but do not get in the way.” 

He doesn’t check to see if you’ll agree before grabbing the nearest floating wet floor sign and hurling it at the man’s face with a pitcher’s accuracy. It smacks the figure’s shoulder and bounces away harmlessly, but it does the important thing. 

The ex-aquarium staff turns toward him and subsequently, you. 

“Okay,” you mutter, already moving. “Looks like you’ve got it from here!”

The host makes a low, distorted sound, half growl and half wet static, and barrels toward Gojo with one blackened arm swelling grotesquely around the elbow. Gojo ducks the first swing, grabs the edge of an overturned brochure stand, and yanks it into the path of the next. It shatters immediately, but the delay buys the nearest cluster of trapped visitors just enough time to break into motion.

You hurry to the sobbing staff member, a girl with her short black hair tied to one side, two hair clips holding her bangs away from her eyes. “Hey, hey, it’s okay! Just think of all the hazard pay you’ll get after this. For now, grab those two and head to the side exit.” 

She blinks at you, tears still flowing freely down her cheeks, but eventually nods. “What about you?” 

You jab a thumb behind you. “I’m kind of stuck here with this idiot. Now hurry.” 

Behind you, there’s a huge crash followed by Gojo saying, “You know, this is why no one likes staff team building exercises. There’s always one guy who takes it too far.”

The villain seems to not enjoy Gojo’s commentary because it roars. You turn in time to see Gojo skid sideways through the floodwater, one hand catching the low railing to keep from going down entirely. The black slick lashes for him again and misses, carving a line of ugly cracks through the decorative panel behind him instead. 

It’s not hard to tell that Gojo is losing and in fact, you’d be severely deluded if your nerd situationship sort-of close friend would win against a seemingly inhuman sentient black goo. At least he isn’t losing without dignity. He makes valiant attempts to shove the thing back a step, ducking under a swing only for the next to catch him high in the shoulder and throw him sideways into the viewing rail. 

Your heart drops to your ass quick, watching as Gojo drives himself back upright with a wince and a desperate glare for you to stay there. 

The symbiote host lurches toward him again, blackened arm distending with a wet, horrific ripple. 

Your brain finally catches up. 

Okay. Okay, think. 

You have seen this stupid black goo twice before now, which feels like two times too many. The first time, you used a fire extinguisher. The second, the steam wand from the cafe had done enough to make the goo retreat. So this thing clearly does not enjoy pressure or heat. 

You spin in place, eyes skittering wildly over the wrecked shark gallery. 

There’s debris everywhere, broken signage, upside down benches and a cardboard cutout of some mascot shark swims past you in ankle deep water. There’s a staff-only closet near the back, more brochure stands, maps on the wall, when your eyes finally see it. There, near the entrance of the tunnel, is a thick industrial hose line feeding into one of the side filtration systems, its pressure valve mounted low on the wall, bright red against the blue gloom. 

One of the sanitation steam lines that run along the upper maintenance track has ruptured where debris struck, hissing softly in the rumble of the crumbling aquarium. White vapour coughs out in fitful bursts, weak now but still there. 

“Satoru!”

He glances your way at the exact second the host slams him in the chest, sending him skidding through the water on his back. You wince. “Oh, sorry. Whenever you have the time.”

“I’m fine,” he chokes out, rolling out of the way in time to avoid a second blow. “Thanks for asking.”

You splash toward the pressure valve, shoes slipping against the tiles. “Shut up and use the environment! There’s a pressurised line here and steam up there. You’re just going to have to trust me on this one but I think I have an idea!”

The host, as if sensing your plan, turns towards you. Gojo curses, any sarcasm vanishing in an instant. 

“No! Don’t get closer!”

“Too late!” you yell back, already grabbing the valve wheel. “You’re getting your ass beat, Satoru, I’m not going to stand here and just let your ego handle it!” 

He rises to his feet, running to you though in the water, it’s only a pathetic sloshing that almost gives you the ick. “My ego? And you think your pride will handle it any better?”

No. 

“Yes!” 

You wrench at the valve and, because your life has always been full of miracles and good fortune, nothing happens. 

The host lunges in your direction again. Gojo catches him from the side, arm hooking around his neck for one desperate second before the black slick ripples up and flings him off. He crashes shoulder-first into the low barrier by the shark viewing glass.

He gasps and coughs, eyes blearily finding yours. “Get—get out of here. Now, Y/N.”

“I’m not giving up.” You brace one foot against the wall. “No pressure, literally.”

You yank at the wheel again but nothing still happens. There’s got to be a safety catch, a pin or latch or something. Your eyes dart over the assembly frantically even as the figure draws itself back on its legs. 

“Y/N!” Gojo calls out again, water sloshing around his body as he tries to follow. 

Your eyes skim frantically over the valve housing, over rusted bolts and warped metal and a tangle of pipes slick with spray, until they finally catch on a metal locking pin bent half-flat against the side.

Without another thought, you lunge for it and wrap both hands around the pin. 

Behind you, there’s a sharp, ugly sound—Gojo sucking in a breath through his teeth—followed by the violent splash of him slamming back into the host. You risk a glance over your shoulder just in time to see him catch the thing by the arm, twist with the momentum, and drive a punch into its face hard enough to make black slick spray across the floodwater.

Pulse spiking, you put your whole weight into the pin. And finally, it gives all at once, slipping free so suddenly you nearly fall backward into the floorwater. 

“Got you!” you hiss at the valve before throwing yourself against the wheel. 

This time, it turns. The line shudders to life with a deep, violent thump and water pressure surges through the pipes hard enough to rattle the wall. 

“Satoru!” you shout, looking up wildly. “To your left! Bring him here!” 

He turns his head fast, sees the line, sees you, and somehow understands immediately despite looking one bad hit away from passing out. You suppose he isn’t a genius for nothing.

Gojo stands with more purpose, moving in a tight arc through the floodwater, letting the thing follow. His movements are messier than they should be, attributed to the wounds he’s sustained. You can see it every time he favours his right side, every time his mouth tightens with every dodge. 

But he still keeps moving, still keeping the thin on him, keeping it away from you. Trusting your ridiculous plan that was concocted in under a minute. 

“Come on,” he calls, breathless and taunting all at once. “Come on and get me, you big ugly thing. I’ve had worse nights.”

The host lunges under the broken steam line. 

“Now!” you shout, a command for just yourself really, and crank the pressure line open fully. 

A brutal blast of high-pressure water erupts across the gallery and catches the host broadside, slamming into its blackened shoulder and neck with enough force to wrench it half off its feet. At the same time, a fresh burst of steam hisses from overhead where the damaged line gives way under the renewed vibration. And just as you’d hoped, the black slick convulses.

It peels back in twitching bands from the host’s throat and shoulder, recoiling from the steam with an ugly, wet shiver. It starts to back away on unsteady feet. 

“There!” you yell, voice cracking with triumph and panic all at once. “Again, use it again!”

Gojo doesn’t hesitate. He grabs the dangling steam pipe with both hands and yanks hard enough to shear the remaining bracket loose. The line drops lower, shrieking vapour across the host’s side.

The thing—not the man, but the thing—lets out a shrill cry, a sound so wrong it feels like it goes through your bones instead of your ears.

Gojo uses the opening immediately, slamming his shoulder into the host’s chest and driving him back into the support beam beside the shark viewing glass. The whole gallery shudders under the impact, but this time the host goes down hard, knees buckling under him as the black slick writhes and spasms under the steam.

You don’t realise you’ve moved until you’re already splashing toward him, relief making you stupid and light all at once. In your head, it should have been graceful, some dramatic run into his arms after shared survival and mutual competence. In reality, the water turns it into a pathetic, uneven waddle that Gojo, in an act of true mercy, only pretends not to notice.

“We did it!” you say, breathless and bright with adrenaline. “That was insane, but we did it. And I’m taking at least seventy percent of the credit, by the way, because without me you were just getting beaten up in a public aquarium—”

He smiles, just barely, and turns to look at you.

“Yeah,” he says, chest heaving. “I guess we—”

Something moves in the corner of his eye.

It isn’t the frantic, wild sort of movement from before, but something uglier for how deliberate it feels. A last-ditch effort. The host drags one arm free of the steam and the floodwater just enough for the black slick to surge violently down its length and gather into one long, brutal lash of muscle and tar.

It comes not for Gojo, but for you.

Gojo sucks in a sharp breath at the sight, his whole face changing before you can even register why. His mouth opens around the start of your name, warning already there, panic rising faster than the sound can leave him.

You are still a few crucial seconds behind.

By the time you catch the movement in your peripheral vision and start to turn, Gojo is already lunging forward. But the thing is too fast, the distance too wrong, and you can see the exact instant he realises he won’t make it to you in time as himself.

You turn just enough to see it.

Ah.

So this is how stupid people die.

Something white snaps through the air.

The strike jerks violently sideways before it can hit you, yanked off course so hard it slams into the side wall instead, cracking the tile with a wet, horrible impact. A scream tears from your throat, loud and sharp in the aftermath, but the thing barely registers to you now, not even when the goo gives one last shudder and forms something like a trembling fist aimed in your direction.

You don’t care about that anymore.

Instead, your eyes track the white line stretched taut across the gallery.

You follow it all the way back.

All the way to Gojo.

He stands there with his arm still half outstretched. His face is stricken with lingering panic, but there is something else there too, something like resignation, like he knows whatever happens next might end his world right here in a crumbling aquarium.

You look from his face to his wrist and then back again.

“What,” you say, finding no other words that fit the moment. “What the fuck.”

Gojo lowers his arm very slowly. Water drips from his sleeve, from his fingers, from the impossible thin connecting him to the wall beside you. 

“This is not how I wanted to tell you,” he says, his voice suddenly rough in a way you recognise far too well.

The host roars, and it’s that sound that snaps both of you back into motion.

Gojo’s hand goes to his pocket and comes back with the mask—of course it’s the mask. Blue and white, worn at the edges, and, hell, maybe you’re hallucinating now, but is that still the little tear you left in the fabric that night?

He hesitates just before pulling it over his head, eyes darting back to you as he says, “Please wait for me. Just this once, please wait.”

There is no time to process the fact that his eyes look almost frightened. No time to process the fact that the voice you’ve heard in your ear and the voice that has said your name in two different ways now belong to the same infuriating man. There is really no time to process anything at all.

So, shockingly, you do the mature thing.

You nod.

“Okay,” you say, and your voice sounds strange to your own ears. “Okay. Go.”

You watch as Gojo stares at you, hopeless and pleading all at once, the mask slipping over his face. But now that you’ve seen him—seen him bare and vulnerable and desperately hoping—the blue and white can no longer hide it.

Spider-Man keeps looking at you even as he slings onto the adjacent wall, the sticky material catching with a faint smack.

“I’m going to explain everything,” he says. “I promise. Just—please. Please still be here when I come back.”

He doesn’t wait for your response, not properly. Maybe because he’s worried whatever words leave your gaping mouth will be a rejection. Maybe because if he waits another second, he’ll stay here looking at you until the whole room caves in around you. 

Spiderman slings out onto the adjacent wall, the web catching with a faint, sticky smack, and for one absurd second all you can think is that even upside down and half-bleeding he’s still showy. 

Then he launches and whatever restraint Gojo had been fighting with until now is gone. 

The host lunges towards you but you don’t flinch. There’s simply no fight in your body anymore. Not that it matters because Spiderman meets him in the centre of the gallery. 

What had looked clumsy and desperate when Gojo was still trying to pass for your average citizen becomes something else entirely now that he’s abandoned his facade. His body understands the room in ways you never could, every rail, every shattered edge, every unstable surface becomes a part of him when the web attaches to it, part of the fight. He lips under the host’s first strike and plants a hand against the flood tile, driving both feet into its chest hard enough to send it skidding backward through the water. 

He flicks his wrists out before the host can recover, pinning one arm to a fractured support beam, another line catching its ankle. 

The black slick surges and peels away from the first web, but it's too slow. Spiderman is already gone from where he was, slinging upward into the steam and dropping back down from above with enough force to slam the hose into the floor. 

The black mass writhes and lashes and tries to reform over the host’s body, but now there is no hesitation in the man fighting it, no room left for restraint. Spiderman moves with frightening precision, using every opening, every recoil, every half-second where the thing peels back under heat and sound. He webs one wrist, then the throat, then the opposite shoulder, dragging the host back into the pressure line each time he tears free. The slick recoils violently, shrieking, trying and failing to hold together.

Was it just you but did it look like Gojo was taking his frustration out on this thing? 

Your mind keeps trying and failing to fit the pieces together. It all comes together anyway, the way Gojo had always disappeared at the wrong times, the way Spiderman’s voice had felt familiar even when you told yourself that was ridiculous and known things about you he couldn’t have. The way he touched you, the way the other never quite did, not completely, as if afraid of what would happen if he started. 

All of it was him. Every humiliating, infuriating, impossible piece of it. 

The host tears free one last time, black goo surging over his chest in a final desperate wave. But by now, it should learn that doing something over and over again is a sign of insanity because Spiderman is already there. 

A webline catches high overhead and with a yank, the hanging steam pipe drops lower. Another shot takes the alarm cable and rips it loose in a shower of sparks. He drives forward, one hand wrapped around his web, the other braced against the host’s chest, and hurls him back into the flooded floor beneath the full force of the steam. 

The black mass writhes and shrieks then tears free all at once. It peels from the man’s body in one final, violent shudder and streaks away through the fractured wall paneling, vanishing into the dark beyond the gallery even as Spiderman attempts to stop it. 

Then the host collapses, dead. 

Then nothing. Of course, not complete silence as the alarms still ring and water still drips. But between the two of you, across the room now suddenly empty of the thing that had stood there, there is a different kind of stillness. 

Spiderman straightens slowly. He stands in front of the steam and the ruin and the broken shark glass, chest heaving, mask still over the face you now know too well, and even from here you can see the way his body sags just slightly under the cost of what he’s just done.

You stare at each other, the gap between endlessly vast until you decide to close it. 

Your shoes drag through the floodwater, sending up ugly little splashes with every step, and by the time you reach him, any dignity you might have salvaged from the reveal is long dead and buried beneath three inches of fish water. He stands there waiting, one hand hanging at his side while the other presses hard against his ribs. 

Your hands fist the front of his hoodie and he lets you.

“You are the biggest liar I have ever met in my entire life,” you say, voice trembling with the weight of everything. 

Spiderman—Gojo—lets out a weak laugh. “That sounds about right.”

You yank the mask up without another word. 

It catches for half a second on his nose before sliding free, damp and warm in your hand, and there he is. Just Satoru now. He’s pale, soaked through, hair plastered to his forehead, lips parted around the hard pull of his breathing. There’s blood at the corner of his mouth and more blooming darkly beneath his hoodie where he’d been hit, but his eyes are on you and only you with that same awful, naked openness they had before he put the mask on.

“Satoru,” you say, and his name comes out rough, almost wounded.

His eyes lift to yours at once, terrified of what he might find there. 

You slap him. And honestly, compared to everything he went through less than a minute ago, compared to what he deals with everyday, you’d call the slap a puny, pathetic hit. Still, the hand from his side flies up to cup his cheek, looking more startled than in pain. 

“That,” you start,” is for lying to me.”

He gapes at you wordlessly. 

Then all at once, the rest of it rises inside you—the fear, the relief, the horrible rush of seeing that black strike coming at you and knowing, with perfect clarity, that Gojo would throw it all away to save you, even if it meant revealing his identity. 

You lift your hand again but this time not to strike. Instead, your fingers brush his jaw, trembling against the damp skin there, tracing the shape of him you thought you knew so well. You feel his pulse leap, hear his breath catch. 

“This,” you whisper, steadier now that you know this is what you want, “is for saving me.” 

You go up on your tippy toes, lean forward, and kiss him. 

Gojo freezes, arms held out in the air as he pieces together the scene. You’re not mad, well maybe you’re mad, but you’re over that now because you’re kissing him. Wait, you’re kissing him? Then what is he doing just standing there? 

A soft, startled sound escapes him, swallowed immediately by your mouth, before he’s drowning in it. The kiss turns desperate, all relief and fear and weeks of restrained feeling collapsing into one reckless, aching moment. 

One wraps around your waist and the other catches at your back, hauling you flush against him with desperation. You feel the wound in his ribs in the way his body tightens, the way his breath catches sharply through his nose, but he ignores it completely, pressing you closer like he needs the proof of you there, solid and real and choosing him.

When you finally pull back, it’s only because breathing becomes a necessity again. 

His forehead knocks against yours, his eyes fluttering close as he rests there, panting. 

The alarms are still going off somewhere beyond the ruined gallery. Water still laps around your ankles, cold and foul and full of things you would rather not identify. Security is shouting in the distance, voices getting closer, but here, in this stupid little pocket of aftermath, the world has narrowed down to the heat of his hands on you and the shape of his breath fanning over your mouth.

When he finally opens his eyes again, he looks a little dazed. Not concussed, though probably that too.

“You kissed me,” he says, and his voice comes out low and rough and almost disbelieving. “After everything?”

You stare at him. “Do you want me to take it back?”

His hands tighten instinctively at your waist. “No!” The answer leaves him quickly before he swallows, eyes flickering over your face to gauge your response. “No, please don’t do that.” 

“I’m still angry at you, you know.” 

“I know.”

“You lied to me.”

“I know.”

“You kept lying to me.” You stop. “You also knew. This entire time you knew and you just played me twice over.” 

He winces a little at that. “Yeah. That one’s harder to defend.”

His gaze drops to your mouth for half a second before climbing back to your eyes, slower this time, more careful.

“I kept thinking there’d be a better time to tell you,” he says. “A version of this where I could do it right. Then every time I almost said something, it got harder because the longer I waited, the worse it got, and I knew that. I knew I was making it worse, I just—I was scared. It was easier for me that way but I also know it was cowardly and I’m sorry.”

You nod once. “And?” 

“And?” he repeats before he catches the disapproving look in your eyes and starts scrambling for more. “And… I’m sorry for—well. Actually I’m not sorry about that part.”

You hit him lightly on the arm. “Say you’re sorry for deceiving me.”

“Right, right. Sorry for deceiving you.” 

“And that you won’t do it again.” 

“And I won’t have sex with you in the Spiderman suit again.”

You hit him again but your mouth twitches before you can stop it, the familiarity of the banter easing the uncertainty. He catches it, of course, that tiny almost-smile, and his expression softens.

“I really am sorry,” he says again. “For all of it. The disappearing. The missed presentation. The lies. Being me, I guess.”

“Being you is, unfortunately, one of your biggest issues.” You pause, eyes flickering down to his lips. “But I think I’m willing to work around that one.” 

You watch his eyes drop to your mouth in turn, watch the decision happen in him, quiet and unmistakable. He leans in first this time, just enough for his breath to warm your lips, just enough to make your pulse trip over itself—

“They’re in here somewhere!”

The shout tears through the gallery from the corridor behind you, followed immediately by the unmistakable chaos of multiple people splashing through floodwater at once.

“Please save them!”

“Utahime,” Suguru’s voice says, strained and much closer now, “if you scream at the police one more time, they’re going to leave us here—”

You jerk back so fast you nearly headbutt him and then his maybe concussion would have been a definite one.

Gojo blinks at you, dazed and breathing hard, his mouth still parted from the kiss you almost had before he too regains his senses and pulls back just enough to stop sharing the same air. Then, the both of you turn to that tunnel.

Utahime barrels into the gallery first, wild-eyed and soaked,hands cupping around her mouth as she calls your names, the wound on her leg now wrapped up. Shoko walks in right behind her with a tight expression that immediately crumbles at the scene. Geto is just behind them followed by two officers and what appears to be the entire remaining aquarium emergency staff.

You shove the mask still in your hand into your pocket, fingers fumbling once against the wet fabric, but don’t do much more to break away from the incriminating position. His hand is still on your waist, your own fingers are still hooked into the front of his hoodie, and your chest is pressed flush against his. 

Shoko is the first to say something. “Well. I guess you guys did make up after all.” 

“Did this happen before or after you took the crazy madman down?” Utahime says, deciding that is the most important detail to clarify. 

“Are you two not done yet or should we come back in a bit?” 

It’s Geto’s words that finally has you pulling apart, blushing madly and eyes looking frantically away from each other.

And when the police finally reach the two of you, shouting over one another and very tactfully ignoring your swollen lips, you feel something brush against your hand. Gojo’s fingers curl carefully around yours, warm and tentative despite everything, and, more importantly, despite the very audible snickering coming from your right where your friends have been herded aside to let the officers work, you lace your fingers through his without hesitation.

Because with Gojo’s thumb brushing against the side of your hand while an officer asks if either of you can walk unassisted, it’s hard to feel like the world is ending anymore. You had spent so long acting like meeting Gojo Satoru on March 15th at 10:12am was the beginning of your personal apocalypse. Granted, he is still infuriating and he is still a liar. But standing there in a flooded aquarium with his hand in yours and his blood on his shirt and a superhero mask hidden in your pocket, you can’t help thinking maybe you’d been a little dramatic.

Or maybe not. Maybe the world really had ended when you met Gojo Satoru. It’s just that, now that you’ve survived the aftermath, you’re starting to think the next one might be better.

a/n: PHEWW thank u for making it to the end! this has been the unwanted child in my drafts for three whole years and rewriting it was a pain considering how unfunny i was but if there’s one less lonely girl in the world then it’s worth it <3 this was a lot longer but i had to cut down for tumblr’s character limit ☹️ rip to all the shoko + utahime silly scenes and the injured spiderman scene and the lab satoru scene and the—[GUNSHOT] regardless !! shoutout to flatline as always and to all the national days we missed the deadlines to <3 see you guys on the 28th for national burger day on this fine burger month 🍔

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SIX YEARS AGO. It was well past midnight. You and Sunghoon were sitting in Hana’s enormous kitchen while everyone else slept upstairs. The two of you had snuck downstairs after Yunah’s birthday sleepover because neither of you could sleep, and helped yourselves to candy from the massive walk in pantry. Most of it was Heeseung’s favorites too, which meant morning would come with a very grumpy Heeseung.

“Hey!” You threw a wrapper at him. “I don’t like your tone. You’re literally supposed to sit there and listen to me complain until we die.”

“Yeah, yeah. And this rate, that’ll be tonight, because you’re going to bore me to death.”

Before you could even gasp and say How dare you, Sunghoon leaned in and bit the candy string right out of your hand. He sat back, and you wondered if he noticed how your cheeks flushed red. You kicked his foot under the table and tried to act normal. “You’re so annoying.”

Because Sunghoon was your bestfriend and knew you too well and also knew it was truly his job to sit there and listen to you complain, he sighed and gave in. “Fine. Go on. Bore me to death.”

You rolled your eyes but went on anyways. “Shut up. I mean, okay… It’s not like I was ever going to do anything about Jake. But I was at least going to, like, think at him very strongly from across the room and send him brain signals. And now he’s with someone, so there’s no point. It’s never going to happen, and I’m going to die alone.”

Sunghoon raised a brow. “You’re literally sixteen.”

“So?”

“So maybe, i dunno, relax? You’re not going to die alone.”

“I’m afraid relaxing is not on the menu for me, Hoonie. Your ass knows I’ve always wanted to fall in love young and then stay in love forever like my parents.”

“Oh, you don’t say.” he said sarcastically, though his eyes remained fond.

The conversation kept going, and it was only a matter of time until you started talking about your parents again. Your parents were the most sweetest evidence that love existed and wasn't simply a romantic fiction concept. (which, of course, you thoroughly enjoyed reading.)

You told him all about how at dinner they always split the last dumpling, or the last piece of whatever else happened to be the final thing left on the table. And somehow, no matter what it was, it was never yours. Which reaaaallllyyyy should have annoyed you considering you were their only daughter, and also a foodie. But it actually never did, because you liked liked knowing your mother was always your father’s top priority.

That was how it should be, you thought.

Because they chose each other before you or your brother were ever born, and then they kept choosing each other again and again.

You shrugged and played with a gummy bear. “That’s what love is, I think. It’s not even really the big stuff, like I’m not stupid, I love grand gestures too… duh. But in real life it’s the little things people don’t notice.”

Sunghoon listened very passionately the whole time.

Once you got started on love, everyone else just had to deal with it. Sunghoon specifically. He knew your favorite line from Jane Austen because you had said it to him so many times it might as well have been carved into the inside of his brain at that point.

If I loved you less, I might be able to talk about it more.

Nope, wait. Wrong one.

“And If I fall in love,” you chirped, pointing at him with a gummy bear. “it’s going to be forever.”

“There it is again.”

You ignored his dramatic whiny ass. “I’m not doing the whole halfway thing or like, dating someone just to date them. I want the real thing.”

“And what if the real thing doesn’t happen for everyone?” he asked.

“It does.”

“No, it doesn’t. Love isn’t that simple.” Sunghoon muttered.

“Yes, it does, and yes it is,” you insisted, sitting up straighter now because this was one of your core beliefs and you were prepared to defend it like a lawyer… (hello, that was already very much the plan for your life.) “It really is simple. You meet someone, you love them, and then you keep choosing them every day for the rest of your life. That’s literally it.”

Sunghoon was silent for a moment, a glint of somberness passing through his eyes. “You make it sound like anyone can have that.”

“Anyone can.”

“Not me,” he said quietly.

Your heart twisted. If it isn’t the subject of agony and despair, you thought.

That of which being that one day in his early twenties, he would be married off to some random heiress he’d have no say in choosing. It was what came with being Park Jaejoon’s only son with an empire that size already waiting on his shoulders.

In your world, that sort of thing was treated as normal, even though to your core you despised the concept of arranged marriages… because marriage is not something that should be robbed of it’s autonomy. Which was exactly why your parents had always been your standard too since they had chosen each other for love, not because two families wanted to polish a business deal.

“You could always refuse that stupid crap, you know.” you said.

Of course, you were not stupid. Despite being a hopeless romantic, you knew life was not a fairytale. However, please factor in the fact that you were sixteen… so you were still a little naive about it.

“I couldn’t,” Sunghoon shook his head. “That’s not how it works. My father has got potential families fully lined up and everything. When I turn twenty three, the papers will be signed, and that’ll be it.”

“Okay, but that’s literally sick,” you muttered. “There’s always another way.”

“Not for me. I’m a Park… Everyone else gets to want things and I—" He stops there like he’s biting down on something, eyeing you earnestly. “I only have skating to myself. But… whatever. I don’t want to get married anyways.”

“Even if it was someone you loved?” you ask quietly.

He goes still and looks at you then, but he doesn’t respond at all. He absentmindedly reaches for the last pepero and softly pushes it across the table to you then.

“So why did you never tell Jake you liked him?” he asks, changing the subject. Though it didn’t really sound like a question.

You reach for the pepero Sunghoon slid to you, and break it in half to give it to him without a thought. See, the real answer is simple and already on your tongue…

“Because when it’s just the two of us like this, I forget anyone else exists.”

Though you don’t say that out loud, of course.

Truthfully, you’d been insistent that anyone can have that fairytale love because you wished for him to change his mind about his ideals on love.

You had put Sunghoon so high in your heart that there was no room left for you to stand beside him. Deep down, you already knew he would never really be allowed to love you back anyway, even if you were the perfect girl and probably even the perfect choice for his stupid father in terms of those stupid arranged marriages. But what did that matter when his family hated yours?

So you did what you always did… which is that you shoved it down and pretended to be perfectly fine, like the avoidant little girl you are.

You told yourself you liked Jake, and you let everyone think you did, and then, well, would you look at that… somewhere along the line you realized you might actually like Jake.

Because Jake was safe. He was easy.

Sunghoon wasn’t.

He was already promised to a future that had no room for you, and you loved him too much to risk losing the small part of him you were allowed to keep.

You grimaced at what Sunghoon had said, using humor to distract yourself from your thoughts. “I would rather be shot in the head sixty seven times than ever give a boy the satisfaction of knowing I like him.”

“Damn, okay.” Sunghoon snorts. “Bit dramatic.”

“Oh, but I’m soooo serious. Why would I ever be the first to confess? I want… someone who knows me because they’ve actually paid attention instead of me having to like spoon feed them, ugh. I want—” You break off, shaking your head and laughing softly. “God, listen to me. I sound fucking ridiculous. I’m never going to find anyone, am I?”

“You will.” Sunghoon says very surely.

You narrow your eyes at him. “How do you know?”

“I just do. I promise.”

And when you open your mouth to argue, he’s already holding his pinky up between you.

“Hoonie,” you gasp, “the pinky is too sacred for you to gamble it away like this.”

“That’s how sure I am that you’ll find someone who deserves you.”

“Then I’ll offer you a less risky promise.”

He raises an eyebrow. “Hmm?”

“If I’m thirty and still single and miserable and pathetic—”

“You won’t be.”

“Let me finish,” you said, pinching his hand. “If I’m thirty and still alone, and somehow you’re still alone too, and your father hasn’t sold you off to some equally miserable heiress—”

“He will.”

“Oh my God. Hoonie.” You glared at him. “I said let me finish, you idiot!”

“Sorry.”

“As I was saying, if all that ends up being our fate, or if things just don’t end up working out somehow,” you declared grandly, “We should just marry each other instead.”

He blinks, looking a bit flustered. “What?”

You nudge him. “It’s a foolproof plan. You’re my best friend. I’ll keep you from being trapped in an arranged, loveless marriage, and you’ll save me from dying alone. But… we’d have to move to Paris, though.”

Sunghoon tilted his head. “Why would we move to Paris?”

“Because your parents would absolutely have me killed.”

And so Sunghoon interlinked his pinky through yours, and the two of you had very sheepishly secured that promise.

Later that week, you’d tell yourself it was all just a joke and you’d laugh about it whenever you brought it up because that’s easier than remembering how much you hoped for it to happen. 

What you never realized at the time of making that promise is that he did too. 

Because to him, that stupid little promise was the only version of the future where the two of you could exist without his last name ruining it.

After a while of talking about everything and nothing, your head slowly dropped onto your forearm and you fell asleep right there on the table. You were still holding the unopened banana milk carton in your hand, so Sunghoon carefully took it from you before he woke you up to take you upstairs.

But first, he shook it three times, because that was how you always did it. You had once said three times was a charm and good things would happen, which he had thought was silly, but he remembered it anyway and thought he should honor your… superstition of sorts. He set the carton back down beside you even though it would probably get thrown out in the morning, and even though you didn’t notice.

He did it anyway.

The same way he kept loving you anyway, even knowing nothing would ever come of it.

It was almost exactly like that thing you just told him about your mother leaving a mug out for your father when she was away on business.

“Even if he never saw it, the love was still there.” you’d said.

BY NOW YOU should have been home with your phone (preferably with Wonyoung next to you so you could tell her all about this and feel sane but), but instead, you were still at Heeseung’s house because Hana had been impossible to refuse (as always).

Whatever. The distance from your phone was probably doing wonders for your blood pressure.

The real misery was that you had been separated from your extremely specific ten step skincare routine. Though Hana had stocked the guest bathroom with enough products to keep you from fully losing your will to live, so you supposed you would survive.

It’s a Saturday, anyway. Hana had said as she smiled a motherly smile, also telling you that it had been years since you’d all been under this roof together and she simply will not allow any of you to go home.

Jake, though, had already left before you’d even woken up. He had apparently been called away for something about his father and the embassy.

So that left you, Heeseung (who was still half asleep in his room, or probably gaming.) and, of course, painfully and regretfully, Sunghoon. 

With a sigh, you set the plum Dyson Airwrap down on the counter and looked up at your reflection in the mirror, which was just a blur due to the stream from the shower you’d just had, and maybe that was better, because you really didn’t feel like looking at yourself right now. 

As if you were not already feeling nostalgic enough because of everything else (the banana milk, the strange simplicity of being back in this house, and that stupid memory of you and Sunghoon at sixteen) Hana then walked in carrying a pile of your old pyjamas she had somehow kept from all those years ago.

Nostalgia is such a bitch.

It’s not like Hana expected you to actually wear any of it. The clothes were from when you were like fourteen… But after your shower you had thrown them on without thinking, just for the few minutes of windows between doing your body care routine and doing your hair.

You obviously made a mental note to change before going downstairs, because the shorts were basically useless. They fit your teenage self fine, but you are now twenty one with an actual ass, so every time you moved they rode straight up your curves. The tank top was even worse. It clung to your chest so tightly that you could see the outline of everything through the thin fabric, nipples included, and no amount of tugging the neckline up helped because the top was tiny and determined, and truuuuuly outmatched against the size of your chest.

God had not exactly built your boobs with discretion in mind.

Anyway.

Wow. You’re actually at the Lee’s mansion right now.

You do not feel out of place in the slightest, considering you used to spend almost every weekend at this house back before Yunah moved to the US — It was basically the designated hangout house for all of you.

It wasn’t like the other families you grew up around at all whose homes looked more like museums than places people actually lived in, but it was filled with a warmth that didn’t exactly fit with the world you were born into.

The Lees always reminded you of your parents.

Not just in the dynasty sense, which Mr. Lee’s was built on hotel chains and a sprawling business conglomerate. It was more that they felt normal by your standards, or as normal as anyone could be in your world. Mr. Lee was ridiculously kind and humorous (No DNA test needed for him and Heeseung, really) and actually ate dinner with the staff and opened doors himself on the rare nights he was home. And Hana was one of the only women in your parents’ circle who had never once looked at your mother like she was only pretending to like her because of her status.

Maybe that was because she didn’t have to, considering your mother and Hana had grown up together, just like your fathers had.

And isn’t that the dream? Two pairs of best friends who somehow ended up marrying each other, which only made the Lees feel less like family friends and more like an extension of your own.

Then your mind went somewhere else.

So was Sunghoon… Or at least the Sunghoon you knew.

Though his was singular, as in just him minus his parents. Growing up, you swore he felt more like a son to the Lee’s than he ever did his own parents. Park Jaejoon’s relationship with Mr. Lee was never anything like your father’s. The Parks were just weirdly fucking reserved and serious, which was not news to anyone. But even then, business is business and society is interlinked either way… Meaning his family had always been in your circle’s as well as the Lees’, even with all the weird tension and old resentment and whatever the fuck else, so you and Sunghoon have practically known each other since you were babies.

Sunghoon and Heeseung were raised in a very private, hyper focused academic little world their parents curated for them, and then all three of you ended up at the same strict private school anyway somewhere down the line. You were always at the Lee house long before that, because of your mother and Hana and the million playdates best friends with daughters around the same age arranged, which meant you were always seeing little Sunghoon too.

He was just sort of there from the very beginning.

Recalling those memories had managed to put a real smile on your face, which was nice while it lasted… because then your deeply unhelpful brain, being the absolute enemy that it is, immediately dragged you right back to the fondness of Sunghoon of your childhood to Sunghoon from last night, and your smile vanished.

Last night might as well have been a fever dream. Or some sick little psychological experiment the universe cooked up specifically to ruin your evening as far as youuuu were concerned, so no, you do not care how much Sunghoon sounded like your best friend again, or about the utter care and concern etched in his voice when he spoke to you.

(Bullshit.)

You can’t lie to yourself about not caring about the bruises you saw near his collarbone in that alley, though.

You caught sight of them again last night after his shower, and they did not look like they came from some simple fight, no matter what he said. Sunghoon does not exactly go around getting into fights, to your knowledge. But whatfuckingever, maybe he was telling the truth. You told yourself it was none of your business. Which it isn’t, so fuck off, brain.

Literally think about Jake instead and stop self sabotaging.

Jake and his boyishly handsome, wholesome sweet, sweet self.

Ugh. But then there was also the matter of that guilty, dismissive look on Jake’s face when you asked if he had opened the partition on purpose last night… and the way his smile dropped when Heeseung pointed out that he had been lying about where he was.

To be fair, Heeseung was drunk out of his mind and on a completely different plane of existence at that point, considering he was rocking a water bottle like it was an actual baby. But you are cursed with being the most perceptive person in the world, so it’s not like you have not noticed the pattern of weirdness.

One thing you can say for certain that you do not care about is whatever dick measuring contest seems to be going on between Jake and Sunghoon.

Actually, you do not give a fuck about Sunghoon himself, even.

The bathroom door swung open then and broke your train of thoughts, and…

Speak of the fucking devil.

Sunghoon stood there in the doorway with a glimmer of boredom flickering through his facez

See, now it’s no secret that Park Sunghoon was all lean muscle and handsomely defined lines, but if it were… let’s just say the disgustingly tight white tank top he is currently wearing would have outed said secret very very openly. And, because God clearly had forsaken your soul, he had paired it with grey sweatpants. Why did peace never want anything to do with you?

You jerked your gaze away from checking him out and glared at your own reflection. Girl, get a fucking grip.

“Do you not knock?” you sneered at Sunghoon.

“I didn’t realize you cared about privacy,” Sunghoon muttered, raising a brow. “Why the hell would I even knock? This is literally my bathroom.”

This fucking jackass and his territory kink. It was truly fascinating how one single phrase from him could make you want to throw the nearest object at his head.

What was even more fascinating, though, was his insistence that this particular bathroom and guest room were somehow his now when they had always been yours growing up. Well, technically yours until Yunah moved away, but still. The point stood. And you kind of didn’t want to think too hard about that that meant, and why he’d taken over your room.

You physically felt your cheeks burning up now at the insinuation behind his privacy comment, though anger was rising up too fast for you to focus on one thing. “What did you just say?! And it’s not your fucking bathroom— this is my— Please don’t start this bullshit again, because I will kill you.”

He dragged a hand down his face exasperatedly. “Shut up,” he groaned, moving past you toward the sink. “My head is killing me.”

“Ohhhhhh, look at me I’m Park Sunghoon. My head is killing me due to my own drinking choices. Boy, I don’t give a shit about you and your head. Get the hell out.”

He ignored that completely, running the tap. “You were hogging this bathroom for a fucking hour.”

“Yes, and? there are like, six other bathrooms in this house… on this floor alone!”

He gave you a sarcastic look. “Good job, you can count.“

You genuinely cannot do this back and forth with him right now, so you simply just picked up your straightener with your eyes still on him, and angrily began straightening your hair.

Sunghoon looked at you with his brows raised, and you felt more than noticed how his eyes darkened once he actually took you in. His eyes dragged over you slowly, from your face to your throat — lingering on the hickeys you’d tried to ignore in the mirror — to the full curve of your chest, and then down to your shorts.

Though, he didn’t say anything.

A flicker of something washed over his face that looked far too nostalgic, then he only picked his toothbrush up from the counter and squeezed a stripe of toothpaste across the bristles, and started brushing his teeth, bending over the sink as if you weren’t even there.

You kept staring at him. You told yourself it was to confirm he was really there and not some stupid hallucination your brain had conjured to punish you. (Yes, that was definitely why.)

Your eyes moved before you could reason with yourself further, tracing the way his hand gripped the toothbrush and made it look cartoonishly small in comparison to the size of it, as he had with anything else he ever held. Then your eyes lingered on the faint press of veins that stood out when he flexed his wrist and when he brought it to his mouth, his stupid fucking bicep tightening with every back and forth of the brush.

You kept watching even as he tilted his head forward and spat into the sink.

He flicked his tongue out to catch the last of it on his lip after, and it pulled at something low in your stomach, and you swallowed before you even realized you were doing so.

Now why the hell are you fantasizing about this man’s spit at the ass crack of the morning? Please, for the love of God, just stop.

Clearly, this is the underworld, because instead of stopping your consciousness… your eyes went lower, right over to the bulge in his pants. To be honest, you really didn’t mean to look that low.

(Bullshit x2)

It was actually fucking obscene how visibly and painfully hard and hung he was. Oh, God—

“You’re going to burn your hair.”

You blinked, snapping out of your idiocy. “What?”

“You know you’re doing your hair, right?” he said very smugly, nodding toward your hand. “You’ve been going over the same spot for, like three minutes now.”

You swore you saw him smile a little. Smug bastard.

“Shut up,” you mutter, looking away too quickly, and the dent in your hair from where you’d miserably failed to straighten it properly wasn’t helping your case at all.

Sunghoon scoffed. It looked like he was expecting you to move when he stepped closer, which made you all the more determined to stay in place.

“You’re in the way,” he said.

“You’re the one getting in my space, you idiot.”

“Then move.”

You did no such thing. “Just grab your stuff and go. It’s not that serious, Jesus Christ.”

Sunghoon took his sweet time, of course.

He opened the cabinet above the sink, realized what he wanted was probably in the other cabinet you were standing directly in front of, because he came short empty handed.

Oh, how you’re about to weaponize being absurdly petty.

You met his eyes in the mirror and gave a mocking smile that didn’t quite reach your face, as if to say i’m not fucking moving until i’m done doing my hair, so enjoy suffering, bastard. Then you picked up your comb, parting a section of your hair with all the fake calm you could muster.

“Get out of my way.”

“Just step around me or fucking get me out of the way yourself, cause i’m not moving.”

Sunghoon stepped forward, though he wasn’t directly behind you. He was more off to the side, his chest angled toward your shoulder, his hip brushing just barely against yours. His hands were so warm against your skin when they closed around your arms just under your shoulders, palms hot against your skin. His fingers flexed once gently, as if he were testing how much you’d let him touch you.

Then he leaned in.

Too close, God, he was too fucking close.

He smirked. “Do you even want me to move?”

“I want you to die, actually.”

“Hmm. Funny,” he said, his thumbs moving slowly over your sides. “You keep calling me names, but you still haven’t actually told me to get away from you.” His fingers slid up and caught the loose strand of hair over your shoulder. He gave it the slightest tug, just enough to tip your head back a little. “Do you want me to pull you out of the way?” he murmured near your ear. “Pin you there? Pick you up and move you myself? Tell me. When you look at me like that, what exactly do you want me to do?”

“Fuck off,” you said, but it came out as a whisper.

Then his hand slipped lower, just above your ribs now, under the hem of your shirt but not quite touching anything.

Just like that, whatever honorable fight your brain had been putting up to avoid imagining the most obscenely filthy scenarios of him fucking you right there gave up almost instantly and went straight down the shower drain.

“Look at you,” he practically groaned in your ear. “Fuck...” he shook his head once, and he looked as if he could read exactly every filthy little thought that was rattling through your brain right now. “Do you really think I’m some fucking animal who would just take you right here like some amateur just because you’re standing there looking at me like you want me to? If I wanted to, you’d already be bent over that fucking sink.”

“I don’t fucking want anything from you,” you snapped at once. “You disgusting little—”

“Who said you could talk?”

“I did? I’ll talk if I want to—”

“Shut up.”

“You shut up. Stop interrupting me!”

You twisted around furiously, the heat of the moment catching up to you. Which very much made everything worse.

Because now you were fully facing him, and you could feel him against you just enough to make your whole body go hot.

His mouth tilted lazily like he knew exactly what that did to you. “You know I’d take my time with you.” he purred. “I’d make you use your words and beg for it, Instead of standing there thinking whatever filthy little thing you’re thinking every time you look at me like that… which by the way, try to be less obvious about, hmm?”

Bitch? As if he wasn’t hard as a fucking rock right now.

But before you could retort and bite back with that very thing, his voice from a few days ago rang loudly in your ears.

“You’re just easy to rile up. If I wanted to use you to take the edge off, I wouldn’t lose sleep over it—that’s all you’d be. A way to blow off some steam. Nothing else.”

And that, on top of the last three years and on top of the way he could stand here and act like a stranger when he had a thousand versions of you written into him, provided you with enough fury to shove him right the fuck off.

“Get off me, Sunghoon,” you said finally. “We’re done here.”

HEESEUNG LIFTED HIS HEAD his head from where he had it on the table, sniffed like a bloodhound where the housekeeper had just set down a piece of banana bread, and reached for the one on your plate instead of being normal and taking his own piece.

You smacked his hand, but he looked up at you with his Bambi eyes, and said, “Please?”

Why he wanted your specific one was a mystery to you, but you still broke him a piece.

“Fuck yeah,” he moaned, chewing around it. “That’s what I’m talking about.”

“You’re actually so odd.”

He leaned back in his chair, rubbing the heel of his hand over his eyes, the sleepish gaze still lingering in his eyes. “You know, when I came down and saw you here, I thought I was still dreaming. I did not think I’d ever see you in here again without your parents.”

“Yeah,” you murmured, picking at the crust of the banana bread. “You and me both.”

“Man, you and Sunghoon fell out so bad I thought we’d never be like this again.”

“Like this?” you echoed. “What do you even mean by like this?"

He shrugged, still chewing. “You know. Sitting around, eating banana bread. Just… us? Girl, don't glare at me like that. We'd come pretty close to it last night, that's what I mean.”

You shook your head, voice a bit defensive when you spoke. “Don't be an idiot. We’re never going to be who we were before, Hee.”

“Okay, damn. I was just saying.”

“Yeah, well, don’t.”

“Are you like... sure though?”

Your glare intensified. “I'd say I'm pretty fucking sure.”

He studied you for a second, a thousand questions lingering in his eyes. “Do you really hate him that much?”

“You were there. You know exactly what happened.”

“Yeah,” Heeseung said with his eyes on the table. It seemed like he wanted to say something else but didn’t, because he opened and closed his mouth approximately twice. Then he added, softly, “Still… you could be easy on him, maybe. I dunno.”

You narrowed your eyes at him, suspicion arising at the hint of him knowing something you possibly don't. “Me? He’s the fucking one who— are you taking his side now?”

Now, he fully picked up the piece he’d taken from your plate and pointed at you with it. “Hell no, girl. Don’t start that taking sides bullshit again. I’m a grown ass man.”

“Is that my piece—”

He quickly shoved the whole thing into his mouth. “You’re seeing things.” Then when he swallowed it, he added on, “For the hundredth time, I’m not taking anyone’s side or saying who started what. I’m just saying… things aren’t always what they look like… sometimes people go through stuff, and they don’t really know how to come back from it.”

You frowned a little. “What’s that supposed to mean, you banana bread thieving fool?” 

He cleared his throat, rubbing the back of his neck. “Nothing. Forget it.”

“No. Tell me.”

But Heeseung shook his head and insisted it was nothing, reaching over to take a sip of his coffee and then changing the subject to talk about how he preferred matcha these days. You really wanted to push further regarding the Sunghoon thing, but his tone made it clear he wouldn’t tell you more even if you asked.

AFTER A WHILE, Hana came downstairs with Sunghoon. He looked freshly showered and deeply irritated about being manhandled into daylight, though notably not at her. His hair was still a little damp, his black T-shirt sat clean against his frame. Hana was actively fussing over him, setting food down in front of him and telling him to eat.

Two housekeepers came in then, balancing trays on their hands filled with cut fruit, small pastries, and glass bowls of snacks. They moved quietly, setting everything down on the table. One of them placed a small carton of banana milk in front of you and smiled before stepping back.

“Oh, lovely,” Hana chirped. “Ah. You kids are always going through such a tough time. And now that you’re older, I barely see you anymore like this.” Her voice softened. “So, I want you to just unwind here for a bit. You know the rules here.” She glanced at Sunghoon and then softly added, “Don’t think too much about anything.”

Right. Like it could ever be that easy.

But you did know the rules here. The rules were to just be yourselves and relax, and make yourselves at home.

Beside you, Heeseung perked up. “Wait a second, Mom,” he said, offendedly as Hana asked the staff to prepare Sunghoon’s favorite meal. “Why am I not getting this level of treatment right now? I’m your actual son.”

Hana reached over and flicked his forehead. “You’re not getting any.”

He groaned, slumping forward in his chair. “Ow, my head! I’m actively recovering from a terrible headache!”

“You have no one to blame but yourself,” Hana retorted.

“And Sunghoon!” he huffed, pointing across the table at him. “Why does he always get off so easy?”

“You wanted to drink,” Sunghoon said.

“Huh? You practically forced the first shot into my mouth, bro. I mean—ehhhhh, sure, maybe I had like five… or ten or twenty to thirty after that, but the first one is the one that counts, bro.”

Sunghoon’s mouth twitched. “Eh. You still wanted to drink it yourself.”

“I did not.”

“Did too.”

“Did not!”

“Did t—”

Hana groaned, pinching the bridge of her nose. “Alright. Considering the two of you know how I feel about drinking, it’s incredibly brave of you to be having this conversation in-front of me. Just because I’m not that angry, it doesn’t mean I don’t care. If your fathers saw the state you two were in last night, they’d have my head and then yours. You’re not children anymore. You have names that mean something, and every time you go out acting like you don’t, it reflects on all of us.

“And you,” she said, turning to Heeseung. “I still cannot believe how the two of you acted last night when you had her with you. It’s no different than if Yunah were there.”

Heeseung straightened up immediately and put on his best innocent face as Hana kept scolding him, and Sunghoon did the exact same thing.

It’s what they deserve, you thought very happily.

As warm as Hana was, she could also be genuinely terrifying when she was annoyed. Very similar to your mother, actually, back when she used to scold your brother for coming home drunk after partying with his best friends like the family’s disappointment.

Could never be you, thank God.

Partly because you were a woman and the standards in your world were deeply unfair. But also because you had very little interest in getting sloppy. (The only real risk to your dignity was being left alone with Sunoo and his criminal ability to turn one drink into seven.)

You reached out to pick a grape up from one of the plates, but Sunghoon did so at the same time, and your fingers briefly brushed each other, so you withdrew your hand. You watched as his hands wrapped around a whole bunch of grapes from the platter like it was nothing, and your throat went dry so fast you nearly coughed.

God, his hands are so big...

Now wait a damn minute. Nope, nope, nope. Stop. What the hell is happening to you today?

Mind you, you're sitting at a table with Heeseung, Hana, the mortal embodiment of Hades and staff moving in and out of the next room.... so maybe don't be horny.

So you very firmly shut that thought down before it could fully bloom into something filthier. Then you reached for one of the strawberries in front of you and picked it up by the stem, and when you bit into it, the juice slipped down to your knuckles. You absentmindedly licked at then wiped your mouth with your thumb and sucked it clean before going in for another bite. It dripped again, and your finger caught the trail right from the dip of your chin. You brought it to your lips and licked it off without thinking.

When you looked up, you found Sunghoon watching you.

He was staring at you very intensely with his mouth set in a hard line, and his jaw clenched once, the muscle ticking there before he looked away like he was actively forcing himself to. Then he reached for his water glass and took a long drink with the kind of grip that made you instantly, and very unfortunately, need to stop having thoughts forever.

He talked a big game about what youuuu were thinking of in that bathroom, but what the hell was he thinking of just then?

Then Hana’s phone started ringing from where it was on the table, and you exhaled a breath you didn’t even know you were holding in as the four of you looked at it all at once.

“Oh, look! It’s your mother, Y/N.” Hana exclaimed, smiling as she picked her phone up. “My Aesun! We were just talking about you a while ago—” she paused. “Wait, wait. Yes. I’m with her right now. Why, what’s—”

The smile on Hana’s face disappeared entirely.

“WHAT DO YOU MEAN it’s already spreading? Can’t we just say it’s AI or some shit?” Heeseung said, his brows knitting together as he looked between you and Sunghoon. “Surely there’s a way to spin this shit—”

“There’s nothing to spin,” you snapped. “Literally just take one good look at the photo again, Hee. It’s so fucking bad. I— I didn’t— this is—”

“Okay. Okay, so let’s breathe.”

“Don’t tell me to breathe!”

“Girl, okay?” Heeseung said. “Then don’t breathe, damn.” 

You frowned and pushed up on your elbows from where you were on the couch. “Give me your phone.”

He winced. “I don’t know if that’s a good idea.”

“Just give it to me.”

Heeseung mutters a curse under his breath but gives you his phone anyway, and when you unlock it, it’s already on the article.

PARK GROUP SUCCESSOR PARK SUNGHOON AND HAN EMPIRE HEIRESS Y/N Y/L/N SEEN LEAVING LAST NIGHT’S FUNDRAISER AT THE LOTTE EARLY TOGETHER. Exclusive: Eyewitness claims the pair “looked intimate” before leaving together.

And right underneath it was the photo.

It’s of the two of you in the parking lot. You’re half bent forward, trying to help him into the car, and he’s leaning into you with his hands on your waist. Your ruined Valentine dress had forever been immortalized on the internet, and if that is not already bad enough, Jake’s jacket is hanging loosely over your shoulders.

From any angle (hell, even from yours) it looks wrong.

No.

No, no, no.

Not this, not him, not you. 

Fuck. You were barely even standing upright in that parking lot. Your brain was somewhere else entirely, and you swear to God you didn’t even notice anyone there other than the two bodyguards.

Heeseung leaned in again. “How bad is it actually?”

You turned the screen so he could see, and he winced. “Oh, you’re royally fucked.”

He flinches when you raise your hand to shove him, and then he pouts and just steps a bit further away.

Your mom had called Hana as soon as it dropped, and they both had to call you approximately ten times before you believed it was real. Your parents said they were handling it, and you almost laughed because what the fuck did "handling it" even mean when it was already everywhere with a picture like that stapled to it?

You scrolled a bit further down until you saw the comments peeking.

[+492, -30] they definitely fucked. look at the way he’s holding her. ㅋㅋㅋㅋ [+402, -55] she’s not stupid enough to date him. She knows better than to become Park property [+379, -100] Get your fcking hands off my man dirty bitch [+581, -66] they’re both adults. aren’t they friends? [+112, -54] ah fuck she’s too good for him. but look at how big his hands are on her waist. ㅠㅠㅠㅠㅠㅠ [+200, -39] can you imagine being y/n? park sunghoon giving you attention like that… ahhhh must feel like winning the lottery. [+203, -13] ^ what the fuck are you even saying? She is the damn lottery. seriously, you’re all fkcing stupid for this dumb boy ㅋㅋㅋㅋ [+98, -17] I don't know why everyone’s pretending to be shocked. All of the chaebol kids sleep around in their circles. 

“Are those the comments? What are they saying?” Heeseung leaned in a bit closer from where he was, and he rested his head on your shoulder. “We pass each other around? Why didn’t anyone pass me anything? OKAY, okay. OW.”

You jabbed him with your elbow. 

[+111, -20] Why do people care so much about these stupid spoiled chaebol kids? I was in a parking lot last night too. Where is my headline? [+300, -10] ^ ??? no one knows you. ㅋㅋㅋㅋ [+200, -33] Park jaejoon has spent twenty years buying journalists and still can’t stop one photo. Lol must be true news

You scroll and scroll and scroll until the words blur. 

[+300, -8] some of us have to work in the morning. [+121, -70] He’s so fcking hot i can’t breathe. Fuck my stupid life. [+78, -59] Oh shit. they’re a bit cute together hah… Visual couple… [+177, -60] His father probably staged this to distract from the Park Group embezzlement rumors ㅋㅋㅋ [+55, -20]  No way his family lets him marry her. I can’t even comment that this is PR because they wouldn’t even choose her to be a part of the PR. [+33, -9] ^ Are you fcking crazy bitch? Sunghoon is lucky if he ends up with Y/N. His reputation is fcking wasted  [+77, -88] Hasn’t his father been shopping for a match for years now? Looks like a perfect match… engagement? 

“Engagement?” you laughed humorlessly, anger coiling through your veins. “These people have actually lost their minds.”

“Okay, that’s enough doomscrolling.” Heeseung said and immediately pried the phone out of your hand.

Truth be told, that was a mercy from him. One more comment and you would have done something drastic.

From the moment Hana had told the two of you, Sunghoon had gone terribly silent and immediately reached for his phone to call his father. Which is what he was still doing right now, in the corner of Heeseung’s living room.

Then you turned toward him without meaning to.

“That fucking bastard doesn’t even care,” you muttered, looking at Sunghoon. “This is all his fault. No, seriously, look at him. He’s standing there like a fucking robot, and the entire fucking country’s calling me a fucking whore because of him.”

Heeseung followed your gaze, then looked back at you, sighing through his nose. “Y/N, it’s been what? Twenty minutes? He’s probably getting ripped to shreds over there handling his dad right now.”

“Hee, I love you and I would fight the heavens and hell for you, but I swear to God if I hear the word handling one more time tonight, I’m going to kill you specifically.“

Then Heeseung’s phone starts ringing, and he glances at the screen before groaning under his breath. “It’s my dad,” he said, already heading for the door. Before he steps out, he looks back at you gently. “Don’t worry, Y/N-nnie, okay? This’ll all pass, and I’m sure they’ll fix it.”

After a few minutes, Sunghoon finally gets off the phone with his father. He slipped his phone back into his pocket and let out a terribly tired sigh. “It’s been handled.”

That stupid fucking word.

“No it fucking hasn’t.”

“Yes it has. My father’s team is having it taken down and wiped clean as we speak. This one just wasn’t on our payroll, apparently. It was spread from a group chat or something. They’re not exactly sure.”

“Wiped clean?” you repeat, shaking your head. “Do you even hear yourself right now? The damage is done, Sunghoon. It’s already fucking everywhere.”

Your mother’s voice floats up, and you try to anchor yourself to the warmth of her comfort to keep yourself from punching Sunghoon in the face.

“It’s okay, honey. We’re already taking care of it. Don’t worry about anything. It looks bad, but this happens. It’ll be forgotten by next week, so all you need to do is wait it out. Just don’t go online. I know how you get.”

And you’d believed her for the few minutes you were on the phone.

But now you’re here, and it’s him, and suddenly your heart is racing in your chest as though it's trying to get out.

As much as you pride yourself on your name and your legacy, you’ve never liked being perceived publicly in the eyes of the media like that.

“My mom said it was okay,” you whisper mostly to yourself, because you need to hear it out loud. “She said they’re taking care of it, and that I didn’t do anything wrong.”

“Exactly. You didn’t,” Sunghoon says, and for a second his voice almost sounds softer. But when he speaks again, it’s not. “So stop fucking whining. It’s done. I’m telling you.”

“Do not talk to me like that.”

Sunghoon clenches his jaw and says nothing.

“No, actually, fuck that,” you snapped. “You do not get to stand there and tell me to stop whining like this is some minor inconvenience. My name is getting dragged through hell right along with yours, and all you’ve done is act like I should sit down, shut up, and let the men fix it. Maybe you have the luxury of not caring because you’re just reckless enough to live with this shit, and because you’re just a fucking man, but I’m not.”

“Don’t be stupid.”

“Oh, fuck you.”

“No, fuck you,” he retorted, stepping closer. “Do you think I get to walk away from this? My father has me by the throat because of that photo. If he weren’t in Japan right now, he’d have dragged me in front of the board already and made me apologize for embarrassing the company before dinner.”

“So that gives you the right to be an asshole to me?”

“No. I’m being an asshole because you keep fucking whining like you’re the only one who is getting dragged through hell here.”

“Well maybe I would know otherwise if you ever said anything like a normal person.”

He laughs at that. “Why the fuck do you care?”

“I don’t,” you bite back defensively. “But it’s our names together, OUR PICTURE? isn’t it? Huh? I just need to feel like I’m not… I’m not al… I don’t know!”

“Not what? Not alone? Not part of it? Not like you were there too? I didn’t fucking drag you into helping me. You chose to be there.”

“You’re such a fucking asshole.”

“Yeah, well,” Sunghoon shrugged. “It runs in the family.”

“I’m scared,” you whispered. “I hate this. I hate people looking at me. I hate that they can see me like this.”

“You have the perfect fucking family,” he mutters. “Don’t start with me about being seen or being scared. You don’t get it. You never get it. You have everything. Your parents love you, people love you, you can do whatever you want. Your last name means something clean, and you fucking take it all for granted.”

“What the fuck is your problem?”

“You,” Sunghoon said, “You’re my fucking problem.”

Sunghoon took a step forward, and you took one back.

“Try being raised to be looked at and paraded like a fucking trophy.” He took another step closer. “At least your parents care enough to tell you what to do or tell you that it’s okay. All my father said just now was warn me what I’d potentially cost him.”

You try to speak, but he keeps going, like he’s been holding this in for years.

“You think my father gives a shit about me? He’s only mad because a headline like this might make him look weak. Because some stupid fucking blurry picture of us might drop his company’s stock by barely half a point. He didn’t even ask where the fuck I disappeared off to last night. Or why I’m being held up in that photo.”

“Well, it doesn’t take a fucking genius to figure out you’re fucking drunk in the ph—”

Sunghoon cut in, anger flashing his face. “Don’t fucking talk. Don’t you fucking dare stand there and tell me about being scared. I’ve been scared since the day I learned what my name was worth.”

You flinched at how his voice rose, though it only fueled your anger more. “Oh, spare me the tragic little woe is me routine, you spoiled bitch boy. You’re doing such an incredible job proving how terrified you are by getting blackout drunk last night and dragging us right to that point.”

“Again, I didn’t fucking ask you to take care of me.”

You didn’t exactly have an answer to that, so you just went with what you knew best. “Fuck you, Sunghoon.”

Sunghoon stepped even closer, to the point where he backed you straight into the wall behind you.

“You know, it’s funny how you’re worried about being seen,” he says quietly, “considering you didn’t seem too worried about it last night.”

Your brows knitted together. “What the hell does that mean?”

“You know what it fucking means.” he leans in and whispers, planting his hand beside your head. “The screen wasn’t closed.”

A wave of nausea washed over you, and when words fail to find their way to your mouth, Sunghoon goes on, eyeing your expression.

“Yeah. That’s right. I heard you. You fucked him less than three feet away from me, and now you want to pretend you care about being seen?

“You were actually listening?” you hissed angrily.

“Hard not to,” he said. “You had your back arched up like a whore, while making filthy fucking sounds like you wanted someone to hear you… so you weren’t exactly quiet.”

“What the fuck did you just call me?” you shove at his chest, though he doesn’t budge.

“You heard me,” he shrugs. “I called it how I fucking saw it.”

“You’re fucking disgusting. You’re not any better yourself, you piece of shit.”

“Disgusting?” he murmurs. “Fuck, okay, do you want to talk about disgusting? Do you know what I did after?”

You open your mouth to tell him to fuck off, but he presses his palm straight over your mouth.

“I said stop fucking talking.”

As rough and angry as he sounds, his grip over your mouth does not mirror that. It’s careful, but it’s still enough to shut you up, making your back press harder into the wall with your hands curled into fists by your sides.

“You’re all I can fucking think about. And I fucking hate it.”

Oh.

It’s as if the earth stops spinning. At least yours does.

“I can’t stop hearing you,” he went on. “You’ve been in my head since the car. Since the bathroom. Since you stood in my doorway with your tits out like you wanted me to see exactly what he did to you… and I hated it,” he shook his head. “I hated how badly I wanted to put my mouth on you and make those bruises darker until they covered his. I hated that I got off in the shower still furious with you, still thinking about you, still fucking my hand to the image of your lip shaking while your hand was wrapped around him.” His voice dropped even lower. “You know what’s disgusting? I was thinking about how you’d sound if it were me, and how hard you’d try to stay quiet for me.”

Fuck.

Okay, so now would be a perfect time for you to spontaneously combust. Your insides pretty much were.

“If you were with me in that car you wouldn’t have made a fucking sound unless I told you to. And I would have made you come before you even fucking thought of getting me off.”

His hand drops from your mouth slowly, knuckles grazing your jaw softly, and yet you still don’t speak. What the hell could you possibly say?

“And then there was the shit you pulled in the bathroom today in those tiny little pajamas…” His breath brushed your cheek. “I had to come downstairs after jerking myself off again like some fucking idiot and sit there pretending to be normal while you licked strawberry juice off your thumb like you had no idea what you were doing to me. And all I could think about was how you’d taste.”

You hate him for being so close, and you hate him all the more for speaking to you like this. 

So why haven’t you shoved him off?

Sunghoon dragged a finger across your lips. “And what I’m thinking right now is that if you keep looking at me like that, I’m going to put my hands on you the way you so desperately need. But you need to tell me what you want.”

Your gaze flickers past his shoulder to the doorway and then back up at him. You’re half hoping someone walks in and stops this and half hoping no one ever fucking does.

“Do you want to know what I want?”

Sunghoon’s hand moved from your mouth to your cheeks, cupping your face now. “Yes.”

You laugh under your breath. “Fine. I want to hit you. I want to slap that smug look off your stupid fucking face. I want you to shut up. I want you to stop getting under my skin every time you walk into a room. I want you to stop playing these fucked up little games with my head, and—” You shake your head and laugh under your breath. 

Oh, God. You were going to say something really stupid.

“I want you to either touch me right now or get the hell out of my sight.”

His gaze darkens, and then his thumb slides along your jaw again. “You want me to touch you?”

You nod.

“Use your words.”

“I just fucking did, didn’t I? I told you to touch me. So shut up and just fucking do it, cause I’m bored—”

You don’t get the rest out because his hand slides behind your thigh and hooks it high, rough enough to jerk a whimper out of your throat. He slots his hips between yours, and your mouth dries because you can feel how hard he is. His hand frantically drops from behind your thigh and comes to the front of your pants between the two of you, sliding down until he palms your pussy fully through the fabric. You hiss in a breath, and your thighs snap shut around his hand on instinct as his palm rolls against you. He starts circling your clit through the fabric with enough pressure that your legs twitch around his wrist.

It is actually sick how precise he is for someone still doing this over clothes.

“Oh my god,” you breathe, but your voice barely comes out as your hips buck desperately against his hand to get something more out of it. 

He grins against your neck at the sound of your pleasure. “Not God. Just me.”

Your fingers dig into his shoulders as you try to stifle your sighs as Sunghoon continues to rub your clit in motions through your pants, and you do so because… you know, considering you’re in the middle of Heeseung’s fucking living room.

But Sunghoon’s hand stills completely.

Your eyes fly open, head snapping up from against his neck. “Don’t… don’t you fucking dare stop.”

He laughs under his breath. “Stop? I haven’t even fucking started. But you still haven’t told me what you want.”

“I told you I’m bored. And I don’t want to be bored.”

“You’re being a brat.”

“And you’re being a bitch.”

His gaze darkens. “Ask for it. Tell me what you fucking want, or I’ll leave you right here.”

“Then go,” you snap, looking down at his boner. “Have fun fucking your hand again like a fucking bitch—”

His free hand catches your jaw again before you can finish. “Do you really think I won’t leave you standing here all wet and needy and dripping just to prove a fucking point? Turn it over in your head, princess. You know I will.”

Oh, he definitely will. You squeeze your eyes shut, torn between your pride and the burning need building between your legs.

Your whole body is wound so tight you feel like you might snap in half, and yet your pride outmatches the earth shattering horniness flowing through you right now.

It only gets worse when he leans down and brushes his soft lips right against your throat, right before he sucks on it, slowly and open mouthed. He sucks on it again and then circles the spot with his tongue, and the heat that pools in your stomach is so fucking violent you can’t stop your hips from pushing into him, like every nerve ending is tuned to him.

“Yeah? Do you like that?” he mutters against your skin when you whine, sucking another spot right onto your bare neck.

“Fuck, yes—”

Despite your very enthusiastic moan in response (which you failed to muffle) the bastard actually pulls away from you because he’s still not satisfied with the communication on your end, and you immediately grab him to keep him there.

“Hmm? Are you going to ask for it?”

You throw your head back against the wall in frustration loud enough that it thuds, and your grip on him tightens. “I want all of it,” you whine. “Your hands, your mouth, your cock. I want you everywhere. I want every part of you on me, in me, making me feel it. So stop fucking talking and do something about it.”

Sunghoon groans enthusiastically at the sound of you finally giving him exactly what he wanted, and perspective is everything if you twist it right. In a very real sense, he was the one begging for you to beg him. Which means your pride is not technically dead, just… creatively reframed. (Nice try on that reframe, babe, you’re the one who whined just now.)

Sunghoon’s fingers slide right back to your soaked cunt through the fabric of your sweats, and he immediately starts pressing merciless circles that have your pussy throbbing around nothing and your mind absolutely going blank, while he kisses at your neck, dragging filthy little whimpers out of you that you fail to keep in by the minute.

You sound like a pornstar, and he hasn’t even touched you properly yet. Why the fuck hasn’t he fucking gotten to the point?

“Stop fucking around,” you snap, shoving your hips harder into his hand. “What is this? Do you have some weird pathetic little obsession with keeping me in my pants? Jesus Christ. I said I need your fingers inside me!”

Sunghoon merely laughs at your frustration, and now his mouth is close enough that if you moved even a little, you’d be kissing him.

You try not to think about it.

“I told you, I’m gonna take my fucking time with you.”

Sunghoon’s shifts his hips, and you feel his cock against your thigh through his sweats. Every slow grind syncs with the merciless way his fingers are working your clit through the damp fabric. His mouth finds your neck again, and he bites down around it hard enough that you gasp, and your hand flies into his hair — tugging hard enough that he grunts in pain right against your throat, and the sound of it is so filthy and needy that you moan loudly in response before you can stop yourself.

It’s not your fault you really, really like it when men get vocal.

He groans again. “Fuck… you’re so hot. Keep your fucking voice down.”

You reach for his sweats before you can even think, fingers slipping past his waistband and into his boxers, and—

Holy fucking shit. Your fingers twitch like they might close around his cock, but your brain genuinely refuses to process what you’re touching at first because there is just no fucking way. He feels thick and heavy and so, so hard under your palm, every inch of him straining there with a kind of weight that makes your whole body burst with excitement.

Oh, he’s big, big.

But before you can even move your wrist, Sunghoon’s grabs your wirst and slams it against the wall above your head.

“Don’t get greedy,” he growls. “You don’t get to touch until I say so.”

He pulls back just enough to look at you, and whatever smart thing you were about to say dies on the spot. For a second, the two of you just stand there breathing like complete freaks and staring at each other.

Then you remember exactly where you are.

And who you are.

And who he is.

As if either of you could even stop this if you wanted to.

Sunghoon breaks the eye contact when his eyes drop lower, looking down at your chest. His hand is right there with it, yanking your tank top aggressively and dragging the neckline under your bra.

You’re wearing your lace bra, which does absolutely nothing to cover what’s underneath. It’s the same one you wore last night.

And your tits are still all marked up of course, thanks to Jake.

You savor the way Sunghoon’s whole face darkens at the sight of the marks Jake left on your tits. He already admitted he hated them much to your delight, but seeing that flash of jealousy cross his face in real time is even better.

Then he leans in slowly and presses his mouth right where Jake marked you on your breast, exactly as he said he would.

Jake had been gentle, but Sunghoon is anything but that right now. He is furious, and you can feel it in the way he sucks at your breast. His hips grind into yours at the same time, his teeth scrape just enough to make you gasp, and his tongue drags over the hickey like he is trying to not only suck it out of existence but also make you forget anyone else ever touched you there.

His other hand slides under your bra and finds your nipple.

Your nipples have always been stupidly sensitive, so a broken sound slips straight out of your mouth when he starts squeezing and rolling them just right, while his tongue works over your other nipple, sucking on it hard enough to make you forget quite literally everything ever.

“Shit, Please… Feels so good, Hoonie.”

Sunghoon freezes.

For a second, you want to hit him for stopping.

Buuuuuut then you realize what you’ve said. You haven’t called him that in forever.

Not since—

God, not since before.

He moves away entirely, and your eyes snap open as your cheeks burn up due to that fact, and he’s looking at you as if that stupid little nickname just knocked the air out of him. His expression has changed completely, with all the darkness replaced with something regretful. Sunghoon then presses his forehead to yours, and you feel his breath brush your lips again, but he still doesn’t kiss you. 

“I can’t do this,” he mumbles softly. “I can’t…”

Your stomach twists. “What?”

“I said I can’t do this,” he repeats, backing away from you so he looks into your eyes. “Not if you’re going to say shit like that. Not if you’re gonna— Fuck, not like this.”

“Don’t be ridiculous. It was just a stupid nickname.”

“Not from you.”

You ignore the terrible wave of nausea once again rushing through you. “Oh, don’t be a fucking pussy.” you hiss.

“If we’re gonna fucking do this, you can’t say that. You can’t fucking call me that. I want you to hate me.”

There is a moment of silence as the two of you just stare each other.

“I need you to hate me. Because I don’t want to be decent with you, and I have no intention of being soft with you. I want you fucking furious, and I want you to tell me you hate me between every goddamn fucking breath… and then I want to fuck you anyway.”

You’re not breathing.

“And it doesn’t mean anything to me,” he said, and it did not sound like he was saying it to you this time, but to himself. “You have to fucking understand that.”

What the fuck was his problem? As if this meant anything to you beyond wanting to feel good and get it over with. As if you were standing here hoping for some deeper meaning instead of just trying, for once, to shut your brain up.

To stop thinking.

To stop remembering.

To stop feeling every stupid thing all at once.

Because yes, maybe once upon a time in your perfect pretty world it would have meant something when you called him that.

But that was before everything went to hell.

You swallow down the ache and the anger climbing up your chest from what he just said and the way he said it, and force yourself to focus on far more immediate issue here, which is that you A) you’re horny out of your mind, and B) pertaining to point A, you want him to fuck you roughly through this goddamn wall right here, hard enough to knock every thought clean out of your head with every pounding of his hips into yours.

You refuse to think about the past, or adding any stupid little meaning to this. You’re not that girl anymore… you do not need meaning or love right now.

What you need is oblivion. (Aka… dick.) (His, specifically.)

So you reach up and grab a handful of his shirt and drag him into you.

“Didn’t I literally just say I was bored?” you pout, mocking him slightly. “I hate you. It’s all I feel when I look at you. Is that what you want to here? Hmm? You’re over here acting like I’m the difficult one because I said some stupid nickname, but if you want this to happen, then maybe remember that I get bored very easily unless I’m being properly entertained. So stop talking and fuck me, Park Sunghoon. That’s all I want from you.”

It’s as if relief washes over his face.

But before Sunghoon can say anything, obnoxiously loud footsteps you immediately recognize echo down the hall, and both of you freeze.

“What the hell— Jesus fucking Christ, heaven above, why? Why is this happening? Why are you two doing this in front of my favorite couch? Of all places, my favorite couch? Have you both completely lost your minds?”

You jolt so hard you nearly hit your head against the wall, and Sunghoon’s hand is instantly tugging your shirt back up, his other hand braced against the wall as he shifts forward to cover you completely.

Heeseung is just standing there in the doorway looking genuinely unwell. “Oh, no. Nope. Absolutely not. Uh-uh.” He gags a little. “I’m going to kill myself. Not in my living room, bro. Hoon you literally have a room… no, no you both have access to, like, multiple rooms. There are five spare bedrooms in this house. There is also OUTSIDE. Are you like aware that there is a whole world outside?!”

Your mouth drops open. “Heeseung—”

“Get the fuck out,” Sunghoon grits.

Heeseung once again looks around as if he is looking for hidden cameras. “This is my house!”

“I said, get out,” Sunghoon snaps back, shifting forward to cover you more properly.

Heeseung turns away. “No, you two are actually rabid. Holy shit. I leave you alone for, what, ten minutes? Jungwon owes me a million won. I fucking knew it. Ohhhhhhhhh, his ass is going to be furious. He was so smug too. Oh, I cannot wait to ruin his day.”

Then Heeseung is gone.

“They fucking bet on us?!”

You finally manage to wiggle out from under Sunghoon’s arm. You straighten your shirt, and do your best to look like you weren’t just two seconds away from getting your brains fucked out in this living room. Sunghoon does the same, but you also notice he’s trying so hard not to laugh, which is terrible because it makes it harder for you to bite down yours too.

“Don’t you fucking dare laugh,” you warn, pointing a finger at him.

“I’m not. I’m—” his lips curl into a nostalgic smile, “I’m really fucking trying.”

You, on the other hand, very terribly fail to hold back your laugh. “Hoon—”

And then you realize you fucking said it again, because you couldn’t help yourself.

He looks wrecked.

His smile dies down, and he drags a hand across his face. “I’m going to go,” he says.

“Don’t,” you snap, your hand shooting out before you can think, fingers wrapping around his wrist. “I’m literally standing here asking you to fuck me, Sunghoon. I’m ‘using my fucking words,’” you mock him. “What part of that don’t you understand?”

He shakes his head. “You don’t want that from me.”

“Don’t tell me what the fuck I want.”

He yanks his wrist free.

“You don’t want that from me,” he says again. “You can tell yourself this is just about sex all you want, but I know you better than that. You’re soft. What you want is the version of me that doesn’t exist anymore… but I’m not that boy anymore. And I’m not going to pretend I am just because it would make it easier for us to fuck.”

Soft?

There was nothing soft about how you felt towards him. He made sure of that a long time ago.

“I fucking hate you.” you whisper.

“Good. Hold onto it. Find me when it’s all you have left to give me.”

YOU TOOK A COLD SHOWER the second you got home.

You didn’t even go back to your own apartment and instead went straight to your parents’ house, because sometimes you just needed to go home and let yourself be someone’s baby again.

Your mother had gotten your phone for you and when you checked it, you had over a thousand texts waiting for you. Even people you had not spoken to in forever had suddenly developed deep concern for your wellbeing, which was like the very last thing you needed. You could not bring yourself to answer any of them except Wonyoung and Sunoo.

So now you’re back in your comfortingly perfectly polished cute pink room, perched up with your phone in one hand and your nighttime tea in the other, while Bridgerton plays on your TV because sometimes the only thing to do in a crisis is let beautiful people with accents distract you. And love.

It would be soothing if you weren’t actively sabotaging yourself by typing your full name into every search bar on God’s internet like the crazy ass masochist you are.

Despite the fact that your parents had given you a one hour rundown of reassurance, telling you it would all be okay once again, it did not seem to stick and you had a gut feeling that something would go terribly wrong.

Every site says the same thing. Some of them have already pulled the story and it only shows the content unavailable boxes, but what the hell does that matter when there are screenshots still spreading everywhere?

It’s on fucking Reddit of all sites, Twitter (you refuse to call it by its disgusting new name), and stupid gossip accounts with stupid fucking usernames like @itstimeforseoul. Girl, more like it’s time for you to get a job, maybe.

So yeah, that’s fun! But do not worry, it doesn’t stop there.

Sunghoon’s crazy ass fangirls seemed to have crawled out of whatever crypt they’ve been hibernating in since his figure skating days and joined forces with the newer batch of girls who are obsessed with him for the much more unserious reason of him simply being rich and hot… and together, they’re just tearing you to shreds right now.

Yay! Now that’s the real fun right there!

Good thing you were a master of detachment. Because 1) you’re you and they’re them, and 2) you genuinely could not give less of a fuck what anyone on the internet thinks.

The one thing you cannot seem to detach from, even after the cold shower, is Park Sunghoon himself. More specifically, what almost happened in Heeseung’s living room.

Even after you very furiously got yourself off in the shower afterward. (And no, the voices in your head do not get to judge. You would have done it too if Park Sunghoon moaned into your boobs and sucked on your nipple like that.)

Fuck. You two actually almost fucked. … And so what? It doesn’t mean anything.

Sunghoon is genuinely stupid in the head if he thinks you are still that same girl, or that you somehow did not grow teeth of your own after all these years.

You do hate him, and it’s not even in the convenient little way he seems to want so it can be easier for the two of you to fuck, either.

You just fucking hate him, and that’s it.

The reasoning is simple: He is everything you hate in a person, which is… Arrogant. Smug. Cruel. Cowardly…. and Fully aware of how attractive he is.

Most of all, he is the opposite of who he used to be.

“Find me when it’s all you have left to give me.”

If it’s hate he wants, he already has it.

It’s all you’ve had left ever since the summer of 2022.

He turned at the sound of your voice, and his grin grew wider. “Y/N,” he slurred softly, holding out his arms a little. “You came!”

You crossed the kitchen, frowning at the bottle. “What are you doing?”

“Noooothing,” he said in a sing-song manner. “Why? What’s it look like?” he hiccuped in between the words. “Uh oh. You look mad. Am I in trouble?”

You reached for the bottle without saying anything, but he tipped it out of your reach, swaying slightly with the motion.

"Give it to me, Hoon."

He pouted and tucked the bottle tighter to his chest, as if he were a child and you were trying to take a toy from him. “Nooo,” he slurred, shaking his head again. “It’s mine. Go get… your own."

You sighed, “I’m fifteen, I don’t drink. And you literally don’t drink either. Come on, just give it to me.”

He stuck his tongue out playfully. “Make me.”

He stepped closer, and your breath caught stupidly. “I’m serious.”

“So am I,” he leaned down just enough that your shoulders brushed and lifted the bottle higher, his arm wobbling. “C’mooooon get it, then.”

You rolled your eyes and reached again, and this time he tried to sidestep, but his balance betrayed him. His foot caught against the leg of the counter stool, and he stumbled, making the bottle slip from his fingers as he went down with it.

“Shit. Sunghoon!”

The glass shattered against the tile and scattered everywhere, and you managed to catch his arm before he fully hit the floor. He hissed, trying to push himself up from the edge of the counter, and when you grabbed his hand, you saw a thin line of red blooming along his skin.

“You’re bleeding. God, you're such an idiot—come here.”

“It’s fiiine,” he tried to wave it off. “Don’t worry. You’re here… taking care of me. So m’fine.”

His steps were clumsy but easy enough to guide, and he wouldn’t stop leaning close while half yelling, “Oh, you liiike meee! Y/N liiikes meee!”, dragging the words out in a sing-song voice that echoed through the hallway of Heeseung's house. You hushed him, rolling your eyes, but his laugh just spilled out louder, and you were smiling too by the time you managed to get him inside the bathroom. You sat him down on the edge of the tub. You turned on the tap, wet the corner of a tissue, cleaned the blood from his skin with hands that shook a little, more from how he was looking at you than from the cut itself. (You were rather squeamish around blood.)

He stopped swaying his legs against the bathtub and hissed. “Ow. Ow, ow. That hurts.”

“It’s nothing,” you said gently, blowing on the skin like that would soothe it. “It's just a baby cut. You’ll live.”

“Not if you’re mad at me." he said softly. “Please don’t be mad.”

Sometimes you can still see it when you close your eyes. 

The way his cheeks were flushed pink and how his hair was falling into his eyes, how even with the alcohol softening every line of him, he still looked at you like it mattered to him what you said. Back then, you never thought about how one day it might not be like that, because in this memory, you’re only shaking your head and laughing under your breath as if he’d said the most ridiculous thing, as you squeeze his hand softly and blow gently over the cut one more time. And he’s still watching you with that heavy-lidded warmth that made your chest feel delighted, and you remember how easy it was to believe in the way things were without ever once thinking you could lose it.

“I could never be mad at you,” you’d hummed.

You couldn't fathom a reality where Park Sunghoon would ever do something to you worth getting mad over.

“You’re lucky it’s not deep,” you said, frowning at the smear of blood that kept reappearing. “Why would you even—”

“I wanted to know,” he interrupted, “Why people like it. Why my…” He trailed off, biting down on the rest, and his thoughts drifted in a way that had nothing to do with the alcohol.

“You don’t need it.” 

“I know.” He smiled at you again, almost shyly. “I have you.”

“Then promise me you won’t drink again?”

“Mmm. Promise.”

When you’d finished wrapping it with the makeshift bandage, you sat back on your heels, wiping your hands on your skirt. He was still staring, a little drunk, a little dazed (maybe too drunk, actually), and when you held up your pinky finger between you, he blinked down at it, then at you.

“Promise me properly then."

A low laugh slipped out of him. “Um, we’re not eleven anymore.”

“Do it,” you said, nudging your finger towards him further.

Sunghoon shook his head in defeat and lifted his pinky. He hooked it through yours, pressing his thumb to yours the way only the two of you ever did.

“For you.” he mumbled, eyes still locked on you.

You hadn’t thought about that night in years.  The boy in the kitchen with his flushed cheeks had felt so far away for so long that you almost believed you’d imagined him. But now, standing in the back alley of the Lotte with the cold pressing in around you, with Sunghoon too drunk to hold his head up straight, you almost saw him again.

Heeseung, of course, was no help. He was swaying worse than Sunghoon, throwing his arm around both of you.

“Look at us,” he exclaimed, “The golden trio is back at it again juuuuuuuuuust like old times… except Hoon is… a fucking psychopath. M’still perfect, and you—” he tried to poke your cheek, missed, and jabbed your ear instead, “—are still bossy as hell.”

You swatted his hand away. “I said stop talking.”

“See? You're soooo bossy.” He giggled at his own words, “I’m just saying. If y’don’t want to take care of us, you can always let me die here. But I’ll haunt you. On GOD I will!”

“Shut up before I actually leave both of you out here.”

Heeseung grinned, though he glanced at Sunghoon and considered it for a second. “You wouldn’t.”

“Try me.”

His eyes widened. “Ohh mannnn. Ohhhh. You so would!” he gasps, genuine concern etched in his voice, “Mann..I have tickets for the Weeknd next year. You can leave his ass, I don’t give a shit—”

Sunghoon shifted against the wall, his shoulder brushing yours, and the movement tugged your thoughts back to what he’d said earlier about his father and a tie. It sat somewhere in the corner of your mind, and you didn’t have the space to think about it properly—not with his weight leaning into you and everything else pressing in… and more specifically the sound of Sunghoon gagging.

“M’gonna throw up,” Sunghoon muttered against the wall, leaning away from your shoulder.

“Oh hellllllll no. Dude, if you throw up, I’ll throw up! Oh—” Heeseung gagged aswell and clutched his stomach, “I’m finished. I’m gonna throw up just thinking about it—”

“Both of you shut up!” you snapped, “If you throw up and you throw up, then I’ll throw up, and then who’s gonna drag your asses home? Huh? Not me. I’ll leave you right here.”

Heeseung pointed dramatically at you, finger wobbling in the air. “Mmm. No. I thought about it again, and I decided you love me too much to leave me out here.” 

“I don’t,” you said flatly. 

“You do,” he sing-songed, “You love me. I’m your brother—I’m basica—Hello? Don’t look away from me! Just admit it. Say it right now before I die.” he leaned his whole body weight onto your shoulder until you stumbled. “Say it back. Tell me you love me. Look at me. Y/N. Look at meEEEeeeEEee.”

“Mmm.” Sunghoon whined, eyes half-closed, “I think she loves me more.”

“Let me say this again since I don’t think you’re comprehending it up here,” you pointed at your head, “I will leave both of you here,” you threatened slower this time like you’re speaking to toddlers, and turned to jab a finger at Heeseung, “And you. Stop fucking gagging.”

Heeseung paid you no mind and continued making retching noises. “Ughhh, I can’t stop picturing him throwing up. I’m dying. I’m actually dying. It’s over.”

You bit down on the urge to cry out of anger and shoved the water bottle you’d managed to grab before coming out here into his arms. “Just shut up and drink this.”

He blinked at it, then at you, then back at the bottle before he took it. 

Sunghoon lowly laughed from where his head was tipped against the wall, and when you glanced over at him, he was grinning at you like this was the funniest thing he’d seen all night. And then, as if it wasn’t enough that you had to be out in the cold babysitting these two idiotic grown men, his knees buckled, and he slid down the wall and landed hard on his ass with a dull thud.

“Oh, for fuck’s sake,” you groaned, pinching the bridge of your nose. “Heeseung, get him—”

When you turned back to look at Heeseung for help, you immediately regretted it, because he was now rocking the bottle of water you gave him—still unopened—back and forth in his arms like he was lulling a newborn.

“Shhh, it’s okay, baby,” he whispered, pressing his cheek against the glass. “The bossy mean lady won’t hurt you.”

“Unbelievable,” you muttered, crouching down to Sunghoon—despite every bone in your body wanting to turn around and leave him here. You hooked an arm under his and tried to haul him up for the thousandth time tonight. “What the fuck did you two even drink—no, actually, this has to be mushrooms or something. Are you on drugs?” 

“No drugs,” he mumbled as you tugged him back to his feet, breathing warm against your cheek. “Just you.”

“Would you stop talking like that?!”

“Can’t help it when you’re wearing th—”

Suddenly, you both hit the ground in an ungainly mess, his elbow catching your ribs as his full weight crashed into you.

The rain had left the asphalt slick and dirty, and the second you looked down, your stomach dropped. Mud and street water were already soaking through the hem of your dress, turning the white fabric a dull, ugly brown in smears.

“My dress!! Oh my god. It’s fucking white—” you shoved at his shoulder uselessly, scrambling to push yourself up from underneath his weight. “Do you know how much this costs?”

He groaned something incoherent against your shoulder, and you swore you could feel the faintest vibration of a laugh, which only made you want to shove him harder. 

And you did.

“M’gonna buy you another one. Buy you soooooooooo many. Milan, Paris, wherever. They’ll send them before sunrise if I call.” He hiccuped, grinning wider. “But then I’ll ruin it myself when I—”

You froze mid-motion as you were trying to brush the dirt from your dress, heat rushing straight to your face as you silenced him by placing your hand over his mouth before he could continue. “Shut the fuck up.”

His lashes fluttered as he muffled something against your palm, and then his tongue dragged lazily and wet across the heel of your hand.

You jerk back and wipe your hand furiously on his jacket. “Did you just lick me? You freak!”

He licked his lips shamelessly, “You taste good.”

“Get off me.”

He scrunches his face like a sulking kid. “Don’t wanna.”

“You’re drunk.”

“Mmm. You’re so smart, Y/N.” He said, nuzzling his face into your shoulder.

“And you’re stupid,” You try to shove him off and fail, “How are you this heavy?!”

He pouts properly now, little stubborn furrow between his brows. “M’not stupid.”

“You are.”

“Am not.”

Your patience was thinning. (If it even existed at this point.) “Shut the hell up—” 

“You’re stupid!”

“I’m not stupid!”

“You so are—”

“I will kill you. Get. Off. You bastard—”

Through a hiccuped laugh, he garbles, “Ifyou’restupidsaywhat.”

“What?!” you barked, and then it hit you. He quite literally had said that as if here a twelve-year-old, and for a second you nearly left him there for the sake of your own dignity.

“You said what!” he repeats delightedly, pointing and looking towards Heeseung, who had gone suspiciously quiet behind you. “She fell for it!”

God, he’s truly fucking impossible. And so familiar to a boy you once knew. He reeked of alcohol so badly it made you want to hurl your insides out, but you still couldn’t stop your eyes from catching on the way his jacket had slipped down his shoulder. And then, just above the collar of his jacket, a faint spot of purple bloomed across his skin.

Your hand moved before you even thought about it, fingers brushing gently over it. “What’s—”

His face twisted despite his state, and his hand shot up immediately, catching your wrist before you could touch it further, as if the mere act of you spotting the bruise sobered him up. “S’Nothi—Nothing.” 

Your brows knit together in concern. “Sunghoon, is something going on at h—”

“I got into a fight.” He cut you off.

You sat back a little, biting down on everything that rose in your throat.

Is he telling the truth? You didn’t want to press. And you would like to say that you do not care, but then again, it was him sitting in front of you. It was worse somehow because you knew that by tomorrow, he’d be the same but all too different, the boy who twisted your chest in a different way.

Your teeth found the pad of your thumb, biting down absently.

He tugged your hand down softly. "Stop doing that."

You paused for a moment, studying him as the gentleness in his touch stilled you.

“You said… you’d never be mad at me,” he hiccuped after a while. 

Your breath stalled. The words hung right there in the air between you, and for a second, you weren’t sure you’d heard him right. How drunk was he? 

“…What?” your voice came out as a whisper. 

“Back then,” he started, almost like he was talking to himself. “You said… you’d never… be mad.” He let go of your hand and raised his pinky weakly, and you hated that he knew exactly which part of you would answer to that. “This used to mean… something.”

Something inside you went hot.

This impossible, putrid, vile, all too confusing piece of shit in front of you was sitting there drunk and sloppy and holding up his pinky like the version of him that last did that to you years ago hadn’t burned himself out of existence. 

Like he hadn’t spent years treating you like you were dirt stuck to the bottom of his stupid, putrid, obnoxious, expensive shoes.

“You don’t get to do this,” you hissed, shoving his pinky away, “You don’t get to sit here drunk and play at being my—” you stopped yourself. “—him again. You don’t get to say this stuff to me now and then go back to treating me like shit when you’re sober.”

He tilted his head against the wall and shut his eyes, exhaling through his nose. “Shut up.”

“Don’t tell me to shut up!”

“Too loud… much... No more yelling today. Don’t wanna hear anymore. ’M tired.”

“Look, baby!” Heeseung’s voice came up behind you, and you nearly jumped. 

You turned towards him, “Heeseung, what the hell are you—”

There really was no easy way to describe the sight in front of you. 

Heeseung was swaying, still clutching the bottle of water you’d shoved at him earlier, and then he stretched it out towards you. “This is Mommy!” He jabbed the bottle at you, then he pointed it at Sunghoon. “And that’s Daddy!"

Yup. Verdict is out, folks. You have died, and this is hell.

“They’re always fighting,” Heeseung went on, squinting at the bottle like it might answer him. “But wait. If he’s your dad... and I’m your dad… What would that make me?” he wagged a finger at Sunghoon, almost toppling over “—no homo. I’m just daddy number two... But like… Y/N is basically my s-sister…” His eyes went wide. “Okay, baby, clearly we have a lot to talk about…”

“No, genuinely, what the fuck did you two drink?”

Heeseung covered the bottle’s ears (or that’s what it looked like he was doing.) “Hmmmm. Everything.” He started counting on his fingers. “Gin. Whiskey. Wine. Beer. Champagne. Some old guy’s flask Sunghoon copped. But shhh, don’t let the baby hear about drinking—bad influence.”

He rocked the bottle again like a cradle, and you truly think you were never meant to witness anything of this sort in your life. “You’re actually stupid in the head.”

Heeseung gasped. “Don’t call me that in front of my child!”

“I will break that stupid bottle over your head, Lee Heeseung.” You motioned at your dress, then your surroundings, “I’m fucking freezing, my dress is ruined, and I’m stuck babysitting you two dimwits! We can’t go back inside like this. Call someone. Call Jake, maybe he'll—”

“No.” Sunghoon groaned. “Don’t call him.”

You stared at him with a baffled expression. “Why not?” 

“’Cause I don’t want him here.” Sunghoon said.

There was a bluntness in the way he said it that made your mouth go dry, though you still scoffed. "Oh, okay. Lovely reasoning, though it has a major flaw in it. Like, genuinely, does it look like I give a single flying fuck what you want? Huh? What is giving you the impression that I care what you think?"

“Try it then,” he muttered, “Call him, and see what happens.”

You reached for your pockets to spite him, expecting your phone to be there, and then realized you don’t have pockets and that your phone was tucked in your purse in the ballroom. (You kept that to yourself, though to make Sunghoon squirm a little.)

“Are you… Is that like a threat or something? You’re threatening me? Bitch, you can barely even stand. Tell me what to do then!”

“Don’t yell,” Sunghoon groaned again, dragging a hand down his face. “My head’s… killing me.”

“Good. I hope it kills you. Like, actually.”

Heeseung coo'd at the bottle. “You hear that, baby? Daddy and Mommy are soooooo toxic, but Daddy number two’s gonna raise you right.”

“Shut up, Heeseung,” you and Sunghoon said at the same time. 

“See what I mean?”

You stare at him for a beat, then at the bottle in his hands. “Give me that.”

“What?!” Heeseung protests, wobbling. “That?! She has a name—Nooo.”

You finally managed to twist out from under Sunghoon’s weight and snagged the bottle from Heeseung before he could protest properly, and then shoved it towards Sunghoon’s face. “Drink.”

He whines, fumbles with the cap, and fails, then pushes the bottle away entirely. 

Unfuckingbelievable. You’re too angry to think straight at this point, so you snatch the bottle back, your chest tight with everything crowded in there…

One being your mother probably wondering where you were, then Jake, and how insanely damned you’d be if you walked back into that ballroom filled with vultures who are practically sitting at the edge of their seats and waiting for you to slip up with two stupid drunk boys trailing after you... Maybe you should just leave them here.

But you twist the cap off and hand the bottle to Sunghoon anyway. You grip his cheeks with both hands, tipping his head just enough to get the bottle against his pink lips. “Drink it,” you said again.

And he did, finally. His Adam’s apple bobs, and his stupidly beautiful eyes fix stubbornly on yours the whole time.

Your heart thunders a storm in your chest. For a long moment, it feels as if the two of you are the only people on earth. You’re so caught up staring at him that you almost miss the muffled sound he makes against the rim. “M’done."

“Oooooohhh, look who it is. Jakeyyyyy.”

Your stomach dropped before you even turned. You let go of Sunghoon and straightened too fast, wiping your palms on your dress as if to erase the trace of how you had just held his face in your hands.

Jake stood at the mouth of the alley with his hands shoved in his pockets, his brows knit in confusion, and his expression pulling tighter the longer he looked at you. 

“What the hell happened to you three?” he said, looking at you, and then where you had just been with Sunghoon.

Heeseung clutched the bottle (where the fuck did he get that back from?) to his chest. “Family time,” he declared, and started pointing the bottle towards each of you, “Daddy, Mommy, and Daddy number two. Baby, meet Uncle Jake.”

You closed your eyes briefly, sighing as you dragged a hand down your face. “He’s drunk.”

“Yeah,” Jake said. “I can see that." He studied you for a moment before adding, “And you?” he added, “Are you having fun?”

You gave him a look. “Do I look like I’m having fun?”

His mouth twitched, but it wasn’t really a smile. “You look good, though. You always do.” His eyes cut briefly toward Sunghoon when he said that. Then Jake stepped closer, “You really shouldn’t be out here like this, it’s freezing,” he murmured, taking his jacket off to put it over your shoulders. “You keep robbing me of my jackets, pretty.”

You didn’t answer him and only moved to tug it tighter around yourself, and you caught the faintest flicker of a smile tugging at his mouth—satisfied, smug, something in between. “You make it sound like I planned it.”

“Looks better on you anyway,” Jake glanced toward the other two, his brow furrowing. “Where the hell did they even manage to get this drunk?”

You sighed. “I have no idea.”

Behind him, Heeseung perked up from where he was. “Uncle Jake is lyingggggg,” he slurred, wagging a finger. “You were with us, and then you left because you said you were gonna—”

“Shit, you’re right. I should’ve stayed,” Jake cut him off, then he turned to look at you , and the corner of his mouth lifted as his tongue swept across his bottom lip. “Had my hands full with something else.”

Heat rushed up your neck so fast it almost made you dizzy.  “Jake,” you hissed under your breath in warning.

From beside you, Sunghoon groaned low in his throat as he forced himself up.

Jake leaned down and pressed a soft kiss to your cheek, and then he stepped past you toward Sunghoon. He bent slightly, one arm ready to sling under him. “C’mon, let’s get you sobered up.”

Sunghoon’s jaw clenched hard the moment Jake came close, and somehow he managed to straighten almost perfectly. “Don’t need your help, man.”

Jake ignored him, slinging his arm under him anyway. “Yeah, you do. Don’t make it harder than it is.”

Sunghoon’s lip curled, and he shoved Jake’s arm off with more force than he had any right to muster in his state. “Said I don’t need it.”

Then he took a step forward on his own... and it actually seemed like he didn't need any help at all.

And then, just like every other time tonight, his foot caught, and he stumbled hard, and your body moved to catch him before your mind caught up.

Sunghoon looked at you for a long second, and you saw anger and something else twist in his face when his gaze flicked down to take in how Jake’s jacket was clinging to your shoulders, and then what was trailing on your neck that you had so desperately tried (and failed) to cover from when you two…

You swallowed down the thought and held his gaze and didn’t move.

Jake saw the whole thing unfold, and you could swear you saw his jaw twitch when you looked at him. “Y/N. Come with me,” he said, “Let’s get you inside. I’ll come back for them.”

“I’m not leaving... them like this,” you said. You had almost said Sunghoon.

“Then I’m not leaving you,” Jake said as a matter-of-fact.

“God, you’re all so exhausting, it’s sobering me up,” Heeseung muttered, hugging the bottle to his chest. “Can we do this somewhere else? My baby’s getting cold.”

You felt the words forming before you’d even decided to care about how you hadn’t stopped to ask yourself why you were holding him up at all. You didn’t have an answer you liked, so you didn’t look for one. “Fine. Jake, take Hee.” You jerked your chin at Sunghoon. “I’ll bring him.” 

Jake raised a brow. “You sure? I can handle Sungh—”

Sunghoon’s fingers tightened on your arm. “She’s sure."

Heeseung gagged loudly. “Uh-oh.”

You turned just in time to see him bend at the waist. “Hee. Please don’t fucking throw up.”

Only, he did. 

You flinched back on instinct, yanking Sunghoon with you. Jake swore under his breath and jumped sideways, shoes scraping the ground.

Heeseung wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and squinted at the mess. “Uh-huh. Yeah. That definitely sobered me up.”

“God, kill us all right now,” you muttered, looking anywhere but at him cause he was still gagging, and because you could feel your own throw up coming. “Don’t fucking do it again.”

“Oh, I’m good,” he said weakly. “I’m so good. I’m—” He gagged one more time, caught himself, forced a thumbs-up. “See?”

Jake dragged a hand over his face, then slipped his phone from his pocket with the other. “Fuck this. Okay. For starters, we’re not walking anywhere,” he muttered, already dialing. “There are too many cameras out in the front entrance, so we’ll take the VIP exit. I’ll call the embassy driver to swing around back. And I’ll get the hotel liaison to send towels or something.”

Right. Of course. Back entrance or not, you were still you, and there were far too many vultures coiled around the block like second skin. You shifted anxiously on your feet because you could practically feel the press at the curb.

Jake put his phone back in his pocket after a brief call. “They’ll be here in a second, told me to use the service elevator by the banquet pantry. Security knows not to look.”

A back door opened up at the far end of the alley, and two men slipped out in black suits, black gloves, and one of them had a stack of hot towels and a trash bag, the other had a radio clipped to his ear, and the face of a man who looked like he’d seen things you were afraid to name.

“Miss,” the towel man said to you, eyes kind. “We’ll handle the spill.” He handed Jake a towel first, then you. You let go of Sunghoon and pressed yours to Heeseung’s mouth (despite your gagging) like a mother bird, and he actually let you, eyes big and sorry.

When you all made your way back inside the hotel again, the service elevator arrived with a soft chime. You and Jake got Heeseung inside first, then Sunghoon. When you backed him against the rail, you braced your palm on his chest for half a second longer than you should have, then let go. 

“Hey,” Heeseung whispered to the same water bottle. “We’re going down, baby. Wheee.”

You shook your head and laughed despite yourself. “I’m actually going to lose my fucking mind.”

Jake’s shoulder brushed yours. “I’ve got them, baby,” he said, and your heart skipped a beat at the way he so casually called you that. “I’ll take you back inside. Find your mom. Get your things. Say your goodbyes.”

Your brows knitted. “I can’t go back inside.” You motioned down at the dirt streaked hem of your dress. 

From the corner, Sunghoon let out a sharp exhale through his nose. “Do you really think that dragging her through there in that dress is a good idea? Let me answer that for you right now: they will practically eat her alive.”

Jake’s mouth pulled into something close to a smile, though it looked as if he were taunting Sunghoon. “You suddenly care about how she looks in front of everyone, Hoon?”

“I don’t.”

“Right.” Jake smiled properly this time.

“You just don’t understand how our world works,” Sunghoon sighed, dragging a hand down his face. “I’d be caught in… It’s my image—my father’s. I can’t be seen with her.”

You’d just hauled his ass out of that stupid fucking gala and risked your own image for this bastard, and this is how he repays you? Your fists curled at your side, “Then don’t. Nobody asked you to be seen with me.”

“Little out of options aren’t we, huh?” Sunghoon said.

Jake just shook his head. “Bro, you’re the one who decided to get shitfaced at a fundraiser crawling with half of Seoul’s press and half the board of your father’s company. Three hundred cameras pointed at you—and you think she’s the liability?”

“Half of those cameras are on our payroll. Don’t act like you don’t know how this works. This—” Sunghoon jerked his chin at you, “—is different.” Sunghoon’s eyes moved back to you, dragging over your dress, Jake’s jacket on you, and specifically the scarf that had slipped just enough to bare the skin of your throat with purple markings peeking through more clearly now.  “You look ridiculous. If you think anyone isn’t going to notice—”

“Yeah? And whose fault is that?” you snapped, “Why do you even care? You’ve made it very clear what you think of me when you’re sober.”

A long, stretched moment of silence passes between the four of you, right before Heeseung breaks it by saying, “I would like to add that I’m very uncomfortable right now."

The doors finally slid open to the dim light of the parking lot. “Wait,” Heeseung groaned. “Help. I think I’m gonna be sick again.”

You slid under his arm on reflex, steadying him for three steps while threatening to kill him if he threw up again, until Jake reached in and took the weight. “I’ve got him."

You don’t know why you looked back, but when you did, Sunghoon had his head tipped against the elevator wall with his eyes shut, and his face scrunched like the lights were too much. Without really thinking (mostly because you just wanted to get the hell out of here) you reached forward and tugged at his tie.

“Can you walk?” you asked, though you sounded annoyed.

He dragged a hand down his face, shaking his head. “My head...”

Your fingers then curled into his jacket, giving it the slightest tug. He came off the wall too easily, stumbling straight into you. “I didn’t offer to hold you." you hissed.

"Shhhh."

You contemplated dropping him right on his ass and walking off without looking back. But instead, against all judgment, you hitched your shoulder under his and steadied both your steps. 

A different pair of men in black suits were already waiting in front of the tinted parked car Jake was leading Heeseung towards. They didn’t seem to react when they saw who you were holding or how you were holding him; they were simply just there, efficient and expressionless. Of course they were. This was normal, and you fucking hated that it was normal to them.

For a second, you thought of your parents and immediately cringed. If they found out about this… God. It’s not that they’d be furious or anything; they’d understand. You just couldn’t stomach another one of your father’s half-hearted lectures, the kind where he tried to look serious only because your mother was watching. But either way, it wasn’t like you’d been much use up there. What were you supposed to do, exactly? Walk back in with dirt on your dress and half-faded hickeys up your throat, smile that perfect smile they’d taught you, and pretend nothing was out of place? 

Yeah, no. That wasn’t what they needed tonight. Their only daughter showing up like this wasn’t going to hold up the warm image they worked so hard to keep. You’d already done your part and charmed half the people your father lined up for you in the car ride over, anyway.

“Miss, let us—” one handler reached forward towards you and gave a polite incline of his head as if to take Sunghoon from you.

You shook your head once. “It’s fine.”

Jake helped Heeseung—who had surprisingly gone quiet now, his arms folded tight around that stupid bottle—into one of the single seats in the middle row. You stopped short before taking the next step because you suddenly felt the floor tilt under you and your vision flickering at the edges, almost as if your body was reminding you that you hadn’t eaten since… what? Literally all day?

The stumble was small, but Sunghoon nearly lost his balance with you, then he caught himself and shifted his weight away so he wasn’t leaning on you so heavily. 

“Are you okay?” Sunghoon asked softly.

“I’m fine,” you managed.

His hand moved clumsily, finding your face. His palm was warm against your cheek, and his thumb brushed faintly. “Look at me. What’s wrong?” He said even sorter, and he almost sounded concerned, but then he quickly slurred, “If you’re gonna fall, let go. Don’t take me with you.”

Jake was already closing the car door, but when he turned back, he caught the moment and how Sunghoon’s hand was still lingering softly near your face. The look he gave was unreadable, but heavy enough that you straightened, shaking Sunghoon’s hand off as if you hadn’t noticed it there. By the time Jake stepped closer, his hand was already reaching for Sunghoon. “She doesn’t need to drag your dead weight around anymore, Hoon. Lemme handle it.”

“Didn’t ask you to,” his voice was low and rough, but no longer slurred.

“Don’t have to,” Jake only raised his brows and smiled. “That’s what friends do.”

Clearly, there's some weird ass tension between these two idiots, you thought to yourself. And you, in particular, have absolutely zero interest in finding out what all of this is about. (As if you could care about men and their dick measuring contests when you have enough to worry about.) Pfft. Please.

Sunghoon let out a low huff at that but didn’t pull away when Jake reached for him. Your hand, which was still resting on his to keep him steady, lingered a beat too long before you finally let go. His fingers twitched after, flexing once like he could still feel where you’d been holding him. It was the smallest unconscious movement, but you saw it. 

You cleared your throat, dragging your eyes away from Sunghoon. “I’m not going with you guys,” you said finally, voice steadier than you felt. “Jake, can I borrow your phone? I left mine inside.”

“Why not?” Jake’s voice was soft, as if you two were the only ones standing there. “Just come with us, baby. I’ll get y’home.”

You hated that your eyes flicked to Sunghoon at that.

You shook your head softly, ignoring how Sunghoon’s jaw clenched, and forced a small smile at your mouth. “I don’t think that’s a good idea. I’ll just…” You trailed off, mind running through your options. (Well. Option, singular.) “I’ll just call my driver."

“You could,” he said easily, hands still braced around Sunghoon as if he weren’t listening. “Or you could just let me take care of you. What’s the difference?”

The difference was everything, but you didn’t say that.

Sunghoon looked terribly annoyed. “For fucks sake, just let her go. You don’t have a family name like ours that could collapse with one singular headline.” His lip curled. “You’re just—what? The son of a politician?”

Your mouth dropped open. “Don’t be a fucking asshole.”

“It’s fine,” Jake smiled, looking at you instead of him. “He’s drunk. Says things he doesn’t mean when he’s drunk.”

And then you thought of all the things Sunghoon had said tonight, and how you’d probably think about them for a while after tonight, even, and your stomach twisted at the thought. You couldn’t stop thinking about which words he did mean, and which ones he didn’t. 

Maybe Jake was right, maybe he didn’t mean any of what he had said. 

No, not maybe. He definitely hadn’t meant it.

Your chest tightened, but you forced the thought away, clinging to the flicker of something meaner, pettier inside you. 

Sunghoon didn’t want you there? Fine. 

“Actually? Fuck it. I’ll come with you guys.”

What could go wrong?

You were fifteen minutes into the car ride when the driver’s voice came low through the intercom.

“I apologize, sirs, miss. There’s been a pile-up on the Gangbyeonbuk-ro. Police have closed three lanes. We may be looking at… an hour. Possibly more.”

That. That could go wrong.

A beat of silence passed in the car, because you thought Heeseung and Sunghoon were asleep from where they sat in front of you—each of them sank into their own seats in the second lounge row, separated from you by another tinted divider. You could still see the faint outline of their heads through the glass.

Then, Heeseung stirred in his seat, his voice muffled through the partition as he groaned, “Oh my god, God strike us down NOW. I don’t even have three minutes left in me to be in this shit.”

A muffled rustle followed, then Sunghoon’s voice came roughly, “Shut the fuck up, ‘M trying to sleep.”

You closed your eyes as though you could will yourself anywhere but here.

Really, were you truly this petty to end up in a situation like this simply out of spite? 

As if the entire night hadn’t already gone in a direction you never would have imagined for yourself—at least not when you were who you were now and… 

You shook your head and turned slightly to look at Jake, who was bunched up comfortably right next to you, his thigh pressed against yours despite all the space the two of you had in the back—because he’d insisted you sit next to him, which was funny, because where else would you have sat? 

He was part of the reason you’d bent your principles and gotten into this stupid, suffocating car in the first place, anyway.

He was humming and tapping his knee in a rhythm when you sighed,  “It’s so late,” you whispered, careful not to disturb the boys in the front. “And it smells like fucking shit in here.”

He turned to look at you, a lazy grin tugging at the corner of his mouth. “‘Least we’re stuck here together, hmm?”

You didn’t answer right away, your chest tightened a little when you caught the half-smug look on his face, and heat crept up your neck before you could stop it.

“You’re annoying,” you whispered, a faint smile tugging at your lips.

His grin widened. “Still sitting next to me.”

“Because you told me to.”

“Because you wanted to.” He corrected you with a nudge. 

You shook your head and nudged him playfully, tilting your head back against the seat.

You’d called your mother on Jake’s phone ten minutes ago, and she’d picked up on the first ring, her voice soft and perfectly even with the kind of concern etched into it that never tipped into panic but somehow still made you feel like a child. 

Where are you? Why did you leave so early? Who are you with? Someone said they saw you walking out with the Park boy? What on earth happened? Were there cameras? Reporters?

And you’d told her. Sort of.

That you were fine.

That Sunghoon and Heeseung had too much to drink.

When you’d mentioned Heeseung’s name, her tone had softened instantly, the worry bleeding out of it. 

Hee is with you? Oh, thank God, we were worried. Yes—honey, of course we were worried about you too—Oh, that fool’s mother—Hana would have a heart attack if she heard. You know how she worries herself. Just make sure he gets home safe. Please, darling. You’re the most responsible one. 

You’d smiled faintly at the way she still said his name like he was the same boy she used to scold for sitting cross-legged on your carpet, peeling tangerines and staining the rug when you were kids—before things got complicated. Before you all grew up into people with names that carried too much weight.

But you hadn’t told her about Sunghoon and how his drunken words had wound themselves tightly around your mind and refused to let go, or the fact that you were oh so scandalously sitting here in the backseat of this van next to Jake, in a ruined two hundred million won gown with your hair a mess and your throat marked up like a fucking scandal waiting to happen.

No—those details didn’t belong to her right now. They belonged here, in this other world, the one that felt like freedom to you on the surface but always left you more trapped than the one you were born into.

“Don’t think I’ve ever seen you this quiet,” Jake said softly, voice just above a whisper but still loud enough to get you out of your head. “Should I be worried?”

“I’m so tired,” you murmured. “It’s been such a long day.”

He nodded, eyes glinting faintly under the passing lights. “Yeah,” he said. “You were a pretty little hero back there, you know. Holding Hoon’s drunk ass up like that.”

You chewed your lip. “Someone had to.”

“And it had to be you, huh?”

There was something in the way he said it—half teasing, half sincere—that made you press your lips together and stare at him instead of answering.

A beat of silence passes, and then he shifts in his seat and leans towards you in the slightest, “Tell me what’s on your mind, pretty girl.”

You rubbed your thumb against the fabric of your dress, breathing out softly before you gave him a lazy smile, “Jake,” you whispered after a moment, “it really does smell like shit in here. I don’t know—just thought I’d be home sooner and out of this mess.”

He huffed out a quiet laugh and grinned. “You’re thinking about home right now?” he said, almost amused. “That’s cute.”

“Why? What are you thinking of?” You raised your brow in mock curiosity.

You weren’t stupid. Though you did enjoy teasing him. You could tell what he was thinking by the way he kept shifting in his seat, the subtle clench of his jaw, and the way his fingers tapped against his thigh and hovered over yours only to stop midway. You could also tell simply because he was Jake Sim. 

His eyes dragged over your face. “Not home,” he said low enough that only you could hear. “Definitely not home.”

You turned your head to face him fully, narrowing your eyes at him. “Then what?” 

You were doing it on purpose, really. 

He hummed. “Don’t act like you don’t know.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” You shrugged, lips curving into a small, teasing pout as you shifted in your seat, fingers toying with the hem of your dress until it rode a little higher against your thighs.

“Such a fucking tease, I swear.” Jake’s gaze lingered, his tongue pressing against the inside of his cheek. Then he leaned in close enough that you could feel the warmth of his breath near your ear, and his voice dropped lower. “What if I just remind you?”

His hand slid down slowly, brushing the fabric of your dress before settling on your bare thigh. The warmth of his palm made your breath catch, and it took everything in you not to jolt at the contact.

You pressed your lips together, pulse quick and uneven against your throat. Sure, you liked to tease—maybe a little too much sometimes—but you hadn’t actually thought he’d do something about it here. 

“Jake—” You shot him a look, then tilted your chin toward the dark partition ahead, where the silhouettes of Sunghoon and Heeseung sat slumped against their seats. “Hello? They’re right there.”

He only hummed and traced circles on your thigh, “They’re out. Heeseung doesn't know what year it is, and Hoon? He couldn’t wake up even if he tried. Trust me, I know how he is when he drinks this much.” he shifted even closer, “Just like I know a way we can pass the time.”

You opened your mouth to say something, but he leaned forward so his lips brushed your jaw and added,

“Don’t act like you’re not thinking about it.” 

You were thinking about it. You shouldn’t be, not here, not now, not with the only thing separating you from those two idiots asleep less than three feet away being a thin stretch of space and glass.

You swallowed, throat tight. “That’s not— I’m not.”

“Sure it isn’t,” Jake said, his tone almost sweet. “But I’ve got a feeling you like the idea of it. You liked it before, too, didn’t you? Back there. Knowing people could walk in. Or hear your filthy little moans.” 

Your thighs pressed a little closer together on instinct, your words failing you.

He squeezed your thigh, “Shit—you can’t be doing that. C’mon.” His voice was low, coaxing, threaded with that neediness that always caught you off guard. “Just a little. I need you. Fuck. Sitting here, all quiet, acting like you don’t know what you do to me—fuck, baby, I can’t even think straight. Wanna feel you.”

Your mouth went dry, eyes flicking toward the front again. Both of them are so unmoving, and both are oblivious to how severely you were contemplating this right now.

You swallowed hard and raised a brow, trying to look composed even as you were burning under his touch. “Hold it then. Not here. You actually can’t be serious.”

Jake tilted his head, studying you in the dim wash of the streetlights through the tinted glass. “You think I’d joke about this shit? You’re killing me, baby,” he breathed, hand sliding higher on your thigh. “My dick physically hurts. I’ve been hard all fuckin’ night. All I can think about is how you felt around my fucking fingers and how tight you’d fuckin’ feel around my cock—”

“Shut up,” you hissed, your chest hot, but you didn’t push him away. 

Jake’s mouth brushed the edge of your jaw again, “Sit on my lap.”

Your eyes widened, but you couldn’t help the smile that tugged at your lips. “You’ve lost your fucking mind,” you said, barely audible.

“Then lose it with me,” he whined, “Please. Baby. I’ll beg, I don’t care. That's what you want? Please. Sit on my cock. Right here—”

You leaned in and caught his mouth with yours to shut him up.

Jake groaned into your mouth, the sound low and needy, his hands sliding up your sides until his thumbs brushed the edge of your breasts. He gripped your waist and pulled you closer, and you could feel how desperate he was by the way his hands moved over you like he needed to touch everything at once.

His tongue brushed yours, tasting, coaxing, taking, and every slow drag of his lips made your stomach twist. You could feel the heat rolling off him, the hard thud of his heartbeat under your palms, the way his breath hitched when you tugged at his bottom lip with your teeth.

You tried to be quiet. You really did. They were only a few feet away, their silhouettes still and heavy against the seats in front of you, but Jake made it impossible to think or even care about anything else. He dragged his other hand up to the back of your neck and held you there while the other slid down from under your breasts and pressed against your hip, guiding you closer until you felt him hard against your thigh, and he broke against your mouth with a strangled, breathy sound that sounded like a moan.

It was filthy, desperate, and whiny, and it made you want to hear it again.

“Fuck,” he breathed against your lips, barely pulling back. “You taste so good. I’ve been thinking about this all fucking night. Was leaking through my fucking pants, almost went to the bathroom to finish what we couldn’t.”

“Be quiet,” you hissed, your breath trembling, but your fingers were already at his shirt and fumbling with the buttons just to feel skin. “The screen’s closed, but it’s not soundproof.”

Jake bit his lip, then leaned in again—this time lower—pressing his mouth to the side of your neck. The air left your lungs in one shaky exhale as his teeth grazed your skin, then his tongue followed, slowly dragging up until your head tipped back against the seat.

“God, let me be inside you. Right here. Let me fuck you with them passed out two feet away. Let me feel you squeeze around me.”

“Jake,” you whispered, but it came out as a moan as he sucked on your neck.

“Thought you said quiet? Tsk,” he whispered against your neck. “You want them to hear, don’t you?”

You almost laughed and shoved him off because there was no way, knowing yourself, you could possibly stay quiet—but then his hand cupped your pussy through the thin fabric between your legs, and every thought and worry you had melted into static. 

Maybe you deserved this again after the night you had. 

You swallowed hard, breath shaking as his fingers slipped past your panties and found you again. He wasted no time and immediately started dragging his thumb over your clit in lazy circles that made your stomach twist and your throat tighten, and you bit the inside of your cheek, fighting to stay silent, the effort almost painful.

“Last chance. Tell me to stop,” he whispered. “I’ll stop. But you have to mean it, baby.”

You didn’t say anything.

“Dirty fucking girl.” He smiled against your mouth before he kissed you, slipping one finger into your pussy, “Didn’t think so.”

You swallowed down a moan and frantically moved for his belt before you could even think about it, and his breath hitched—his hips instinctively jerked forward when your knuckles brushed against the hard tip of his cock through his pants. 

“Shit—no—fuck this,” he rasped, and his head dropped against your shoulder as you were working his belt. “I need you on my lap. Please. Please. Wanna feel you on my dick. No, fuck. Let me inside you.”

You kissed him again to shut him up, your hand sliding up to grab his jaw, forcing him to look at you. “I’ll stop if you say that one more time,” you murmured, tugging his belt loose in one smooth pull with your other hand. “You’re lucky you’re even getting this.”

“Fuckkkk,” he hissed when you tugged his pants down enough to free him, your mouth watering at the sight of it even though you could barely see it in this lighting. “That fucking mouth. I should just stretch your fucking pussy out on my cock right here ‘n make a point.”

His cock was throbbing desperately in your grip now, precum drooling steadily from the angry, swollen pink head as you stroked his length—and then you made him wait. 

You held him steady in your palm and slowed your pace to torturous strokes. His mouth fell open in a silent plea, a choked whimper catching in his throat.

"Don't. Make. A. Sound." You emphasized each word with a firm squeeze, using your thumb to spread the slick wetness all over his sensitive tip in slow circles. 

"F-fuck.. Y/N..." he breathes, his hips bucking helplessly as he tries to fuck your tight grip, and you can feel every thick vein pulsing against your palm as you milk more precum from him. “I’ll beg. I’ll do any—Shit—Please let me fuck you, I don’t care—”

“What did I say?”

“Shit—fine. Sit still,” he whispered, panting as you picked up your pace around his cock. “No—ride me. I mean, ride my thigh. Fuck, do it.”

You obeyed before you could think, mostly because he shifted under you, pressing his thigh right against your clit—hard enough that you had to grit your teeth to keep quiet. Then you rolled your hips down into him, his cock brushing thick and hot against your thigh where your hand still held him.

His fingers were making ridiculously obscene, wet sounds—too loud in this stupid fucking car, you thought—but you didn’t have half a mind to stop him. They pumped in and out of you, curling up to hit that perfect spot, his thumb working your swollen clit in quick, practiced circles. His other hand gripped your ass hard, dragging you closer so he could get deeper and grind on him harder, and you bit down on his shoulder to stifle the moan threatening to tear out of your throat.

“Fuck—So fucking dirty—I don’t give a shit… don’t hold back, pretty girl. You sound so fucking good,” he murmured, but you were too gone in the feeling of trying to stay quiet with his fingers buried deep inside you and your hand still working his slick cock in the dark to properly process what he was saying. “Shit. They’re right there. If they saw how—Ah—Bet you’d let me fuck you right here, too. Should fucking make him watch.”

Your breath hitched. “What—”

Then—Sunghoon’s head stirred once against the screen in front of you, the faint rustle of his jacket, and you went completely still, your pulse so loud in your ears you thought he’d hear it somehow.

But Jake didn't stop—if anything, he increased his pace, driving his fingers deeper. Your free hand flew to your mouth, trying to muffle the whimpers you couldn't contain, and he slid his fingers out of you slowly and pushed them back in all at once, and this time you couldn’t hold back the muffled moan that slipped out. “Say it. Say I’m the only one who could get you like this.”

You only whimpered against him in response and shook your head.

He stilled.

"Fuck off. Y-you're the only one," you managed, barely a whisper, your hand tightening around his thick length to steady yourself as his fingers worked faster. “Jake—”

“Louder.”

Another rustling sound from in front of you, and this time you could almost swear you saw Sunghoon's shoulders tense. Was he awake?

Maybe you were imagining it. Maybe you were just paranoid. But even through the haze, your brain tugged at the last bit of sense left in you, enough to make you reach for Jake’s arm.

"Mmmmff—wait." You bit down on his shoulder, reluctantly pushing his fingers away from your pussy despite how amazing it felt. "Too much. I wanna focus on you. Let me make you feel good."

His fingers slipped free and left you empty in a way that made your stomach twist, but his cock twitched hard in your grip as you leaned forward to kiss his swollen tip before he could say anything, "You’re—Holy shit—" his words fail him as you slowly drag your tongue from the tip of his head down to the base, tasting the salty precum coating it. 

You squeeze the base of his cock once and glare at him to be quiet, and his hips jerk into your mouth as you take him deeper, hollowing your cheeks and setting a rough pace, your tongue tracing along every throbbing vein on his thick cock.

Your hand works what won't fit in your mouth, twisting and stroking in time with your bobbing head—then you realize how loud, too loud even, your mouth is around his cock, and how he’s absolutely making zero effort to stay quiet, so you pull off with a wet pop, jerking him fast while you lap at his sensitive tip. 

"Wh—So fucking close—baby keep going—Need your pretty mouth—” he whispers, hands finding your breasts and roughly kneading and pinching your nipples through your dress. 

You bring your free hand to place it over his mouth while your other hand continues its pace, “T’was too loud.”

He muffled a groan against your palm, his hips lifting off the seat as he tried to chase your hand. "Don’t fucking care.. Want— let— hear—God, I need to be inside you. Gonna cum—" he warns in a strained groan, grip tightening on your tits, and you double your efforts in turn, stroking faster. “Y/N. Baby, Don’t fucking stop—”

His whole body goes rigid as his cock swells and pulses, and right before he comes, you lean down to take him in your mouth, bobbing your head a couple of times more before he floods it with hot spurts of cum all at once. You swallow eagerly, not letting a drop escape as you milk him dry with greedy final strokes around the base of his cock.

Only when he's completely spent do you release him with a satisfied smile, giving his sensitive tip one last kiss, and licking your lips clean as you bring your head back up to him. 

Jake’s head fell back against the seat, chest rising and falling hard as he tried to catch his breath. “You’re gonna fucking kill me, pretty.”

You smiled faintly, licking your lips again, tasting him still there, and it took a second for your eyes to adjust again—to remember where you were, what you’d just done. 

And then you saw the screen in front of you.

You could’ve sworn it had been closed the whole time. You were sure of it. But now, there was a gap—small, just barely there—but enough to see the faintest line of light spilling through from the other side. Not that it was soundproof to begin with, but still…

It was one thing to have it closed. Another thing entirely to have it slightly open.

You turned your head slowly toward Jake, your stomach tightening, “Did you—?”

He blinked at you, that same lazy grin he always had plastered on, tugging at his lips once more, “Weird,” he said softly as he tucked himself back into his boxers. “Must’ve slipped.”

You opened your mouth to say something, but the words barely left your tongue before a voice came from the front.

“Stop the fucking car.”

For a second, everything in you went still, and the air in the car felt heavy, like it had been sucked out all at once. Jake’s hand froze where it was on his zipper, his grin faltering. You blinked at the tinted glass in front of you, heartbeat rising into your throat, because you could see his shadow moving properly now.

The driver must’ve hesitated, because Sunghoon said it again—louder this time, followed by three loud knocks from in front of you. “I said stop the fucking car.”

Jake sat back slowly, dragging a hand over his face. You couldn’t see Sunghoon’s expression through the screen, but you could hear the sound of something shifting, the low rustle of movement, and a quiet, frustrated groan. Then the car jerked to a stop, not gently either, and the sudden halt made you grip the seat beside you to steady yourself.

When the door opened, you turned your head to the window just enough to see Sunghoon stumble out into the traffic on the side of the road, one hand pressed against the side of the car as he leaned forward. 

For a second, he looked like he was trying to catch his breath. Then he bent over and threw up right on the side of the road.

You blinked, wide-eyed, then looked at Jake. He was watching him too, his face unreadable. Heeseung hadn’t even moved. He was still slumped in his seat, probably unconscious. 

Your fingers were still resting on your knee, knuckles pale from how tightly you’d been holding them together. You didn’t even realize you were holding your breath until Jake exhaled quietly beside you.

“Well,” he said, “Guess that killed the mood.”

Out of everything you’d done tonight, this was the moment where you could practically hear Wonyoung, Sunoo, and Riki’s collective gasp echoing in your head when you’d tell them all about tonight—that horrified, drawn-out “Why on earth would you do that?” that only they could pull off. But you did it anyway.

You frantically straightened yourself out, pulling your dress down where it had ridden up, your fingers trembling a little more than you wanted them to. You didn’t dare look at Jake. You didn’t have to. You could feel his eyes on you, lingering, and just… there. You grabbed his jacket from beside you and pulled it over your shoulders again as if the mere fabric covering you could make you decent again.

Without another word, you reached for the handle and stepped out of the van.

You hesitated for a second, your fingers curling around the hem of Jake’s jacket. You could’ve just stayed inside, pretended you didn’t see him. But he was standing there all alone in the middle of the road with his head bowed and one hand braced against the side of the car. 

So you went.

Your voice came out softer than you meant it to. “Are you okay?”

He turned slowly.

For a moment, he didn’t say anything and just looked at you. His face was pale, his hair stuck to his forehead, his tie was loose, and his shirt was wrinkled. His eyes met yours for the briefest second, red and glassy, and it hit you all at once how awful he looked—devastated, even.

There was something hollow in the way he stared at you, like he wasn’t really seeing you at all. His jaw flexed once, his throat working, and then he looked away, dragging the back of his hand across his mouth.

“Go back in the car,” he muttered, voice hoarse.

You stayed where you were, your heart pressing against your ribs, unsure if it was pity or something else that rooted you in place.

“I’m serious,” you said again, quieter this time, “Are you okay?”

He exhaled through his nose and dragged his hand through his hair. “Do I look okay?” His voice was rough, and he leaned against the car like he couldn’t quite keep himself upright. “Fuck, my head’s spinning.”

“You should drink water,” you said after a pause, unsure of why you even said it.

He let out something that sounded like a laugh, though there was no humor in it. “Why are you here?” he said, barely above a whisper.

You blinked. “What?”

“You shouldn’t be out here right now.”

You didn’t have an answer. You just stood there as the wind brushed your hair into your face. “I don’t know,” you said after a moment. “You looked—” You stopped yourself. What were you supposed to say? You looked like you needed someone? Even so, Why would that someone be you?

“I looked what?” he snapped quietly, his words slurring just a little. “You looked at me and what—felt bad for me?”

You frowned. “That’s not what I said.”

He leaned back against the car, his knuckles going white where he gripped the handle. “I don’t need you to fucking pity me. I don’t need anyone to—” he shook his head and clicked his tongue. 

You felt something twist low in your stomach. “You’re drunk,” you said, forcing the words out steadily. “I’m not doing this with you. Just get back in the car.”

“Why did you come out here, Y/N?”

You opened your mouth, then closed it again. “Because you’re out here throwing up in the middle of traffic?” you said finally. “Because I was trying to be decent, despite everything, unlike you?”

“Decent,” he repeated, his voice almost mocking, though it came out too quiet to sound cruel. “Right. And that’s all it is?”

“What else would it be?”

He flicked his brow up, “Nothing,” he exhaled, and rubbed a hand down his face. “You should go back in the car,” he said, “I don’t want you here.”

“Fine.”

He hesitated just for a second, but it was enough. His mouth opened, then closed again, his jaw clenching.

“Good. Go,” he said, but it came out hollow.

You took another breath, steady but shallow. “You don’t even sound like you mean that. Stop being so fucking impossible and just let me help you— I have water—”

“I do mean it.” His voice cracked right through the middle. “I do, Y/N. Just—” He stopped himself, running his tongue across his teeth, looking at anything but you. “Please.”

Silence passed.

He was still clearly drunk, not as insanely as before but still half out of his mind, and definitely drunk enough for this to just be piled up on the list of one of the many stupid, reckless, and extremely questionable things he’d said and done tonight.

You wanted to say something, maybe to ask what he meant by that, to ask what he’d seen, if he’d heard anything—but the sound of the van door sliding open again cut you off.

Jake stepped out, his shirt still unbuttoned halfway, and he shoved his hands into his pockets. “Everything good out here?” His voice was rough, and it made your stomach twist because you could still hear what that voice had sounded like a few minutes ago against your mouth.

You turned to look at him, but he wasn’t looking at you. He was watching Sunghoon — head tilted, eyes glinting faintly with something you couldn’t name. “You good, man?” Jake asked.

Sunghoon’s jaw tightened. “I’m fine.”

Sunghoon didn’t give him a chance to say anything in response. He just pushed off the car, steadying himself against the door for half a second before brushing past his shoulder and climbing back inside without another word. 

When you finally climbed back into the van, you pulled Jake’s jacket tighter around you, trying to fix your hair, your dress, anything that would make you feel normal again. But then your eyes adjusted to the dark, and you stopped short.

Sunghoon wasn’t in the front anymore. He was sprawled out in the back now, where you and Jake had been, his head tilted against the seat with his eyes half-shut. 

The driver’s voice calmly came through the intercom again. “Is everything alright, sir?”

Jake leaned forward and pressed the button beside him. “Yeah,” he said, “Keep going. We’ll be fine.”

“Yes, sir.” The line clicked off.

You sat stiffly, fingers gripping Jake’s jacket where it hung loose around your shoulders, trying to ignore how close Sunghoon was beside you now. Why on earth had he moved back here?

You let out a breath you hadn’t realized you were holding and tried to think about anything else, anything but the way the car felt too quiet. Then Jake’s phone buzzed from the cupholder, lighting up the space between you, and you froze when you saw the name on the screen.

You grabbed it quickly, “Mom?”

“Y/N? Honey?” Your mother’s voice came through, tight and worried. “Wait—whose number is this again? Are you still with them?”

You slumped back against the seat. “No, Mom, I’m actually not. You’re hallucinating this call.” 

She sighed, and you could practically see her pressing two fingers to the bridge of her nose. “Don’t be ridiculous. Where are you?”

You pressed your lips together, glancing out the window at the endless line of brake lights ahead. “Don’t even know. We’re stuck in traffic.”

“Ah,” she said, her tone softening. “So are we. We’re right by the bridge—it’s a mess. Apparently, a freight truck overturned near the interchange. Some chemical spill or something—police have blocked three main roads.”

“Chemical spill?” you repeated, straightening a little in your seat. Jake glanced over, eyebrows raised.

“That’s what they’re saying on the radio. Your father’s been yelling at someone on the phone for the past twenty minutes—he’s insisting I say hello—honey, stop, she can’t hear you—” 

You heard rustling, your dad's muffled voice, your mom sighing, then she put the phone on speaker.  “Honey–Hi, where exactly are you right now?” Your dad asked.

You turned your head toward Jake. “Where are we?”

He leaned forward and tapped the intercom. “Mr. Kang, where are we right now?”

The driver’s voice came through the speaker. “Still near Hannam Bridge, sir. The lanes ahead are completely blocked.”

You repeated it to your dad, who hummed thoughtfully for a beat, then said, “That’s close to Lee’s neighborhood,” he said. “Just tell the driver to reroute and take you all there. I’ll make a call, and the police will let him through. It’s safer. No one knows how long this will last, and it’s better if you’re off the road sooner.”

Sunghoon’s shoulder brushed yours when he shifted slightly. “Wait—”

“Y/N, The press vans are already circling. It’s better if you stay put somewhere private until this clears up.”

You frowned, “You think people care where I go?”

“I think people care too much,” your mother said lightly. “There are already articles about the gala, about Park Jaejoon’s boy—and if anyone gets a picture of you wandering home at midnight with those two boys, it won’t look good for any of you. Especially not for your father.” She paused, softer now. “Or for you.”

You bit the inside of your cheek, forcing your eyes to stay on the window. “You really think going to Heeseung’s is better?”

“No arguments, Y/N. It’s too late.” His tone softened, but only slightly. “You already ditched the gala irresponsibly halfway through; the least you can do is listen to your parents now. Ah. That sounds funny even as I say it out loud—but anyway, the city’s a mess, and the bridge might close entirely if that spill spreads. You’ll all be safer if you stop at theirs for the night. Their place isn’t far. Heeseung is there, right?”

“Yeah.”

“Can you put him on the phone?”

You turned in your seat. Heeseung was slumped forward with his chin almost touching his chest, mouth open, drool catching on the seatbelt. You poked his shoulder through the crack in the screen, just to be sure. Nothing.

“He’s not here, actually,” you said.

“I thought you said he was.”

“Physically,” you said, watching him snore softly. “Mentally, not so much.”

“And Jaejoon’s boy?”

“Mmm,” you said, ignoring every instinct to turn and look at him. “And Jake.”

There was a pause. “Jake Sim?”

You bit down on your lip to keep from smiling, and you avoided looking at Jake, who you felt perk up the second he’d heard his name. “Yes, Dad. Jake Sim.”

“Jake Sim,” he repeated, like he needed a second to process it. “As in—Jake Sim? The boy you’ve—”

You fumbled for the volume, lowering it quickly. Sunghoon’s head turned slightly, and you didn’t have to look to know he was listening. “So help me God, I will run into incoming traffic if you finish that sentence.”

“There’s no incoming traffic,” he said dryly. “It’s not moving. Anyways, as I was so dramatically about to proclaim—as in the boy you’ve li—”

“CUTTING… OFF… in a tunnel.”

“You are literally on Hannam Bridge,” he scoffed. “The boy you’ve lik—” You heard rustling on the other end, then— “Ow! Aesun—”

“I’m never telling you anything again,” you groaned, sinking lower in your seat. “You’re unbearable.”

“I’m delightful,” he countered. “Anyway, tell Jake—”

“Dad.”

“—tell him I said hi.”

You groaned again. “I’m not doing this.”

“Hi,” he repeated, this time in a flat, mock-serious tone. “Not the same kind of ‘hi’ I usually tell you to give Sunoo. I like Sunoo. There’s a difference. Throw a slight threat in there. Make sure he gets that.”

“Dad, I’m not translating your tone.”

“I’m just saying—ow! Don’t pinch—Honey, wait, I’m not done—”

Your mother sighed, and then it was off speaker. “My love, I already spoke to Hana earlier. I’ll call her again and tell her you’re all heading there. Just spend the night, okay? Like old times.”

Like old times. Right.

You blinked. “You called Mrs. Lee?”

“Half an hour ago,” she said simply. “Word got around that the three of you left early. Someone saw you. There’s already talk, but it’s not in the media as far as I’m aware.”

You shut your eyes for a second, the weight of it sinking in. Of course, there was talk. There was always talk.

“Did you tell her about Heeseung?”

“Of course I did. I can’t keep anything from her, you think she wouldn’t find out either way? I told her you were keeping an eye on the boys, which brought her some relief. She said you’ve always been the sensible one between those two idiots.”

“Mom.”

“What?”

You exhaled softly, trying not to smile. “You don’t have to—”

“—interfere?” she finished for you. “If I don’t, who will? I raised you, and I practically raised Hana’s boy, too. You really think I’m letting either of you wander around Seoul at midnight in this state? No. So do me a favor and just stay put there, alright? I trust that house more than the idea of you on the road at this hour.”

“Fine.” You hummed softly in acknowledgment, staring out the window again, and the line stayed quiet for a few seconds, just the sound of your mother breathing faintly on the other end.

“Alright, darling,” she said finally, “We’ll call when we’re home. Text when you get there, okay?”

“Okay.”

“And Y/N?”

“Yeah?”

“Try not to worry so much, and don’t let the boys make you clean up after them.”

You let out a quiet exhale through your nose. “Right. Bye, Mom. I love you.”

“Goodbye, honey. Love you.”

You stared at Jake’s phone for a beat longer before setting it back into the cupholder.

Jake was already watching you, his elbow propped against the seat. His mouth twitched into a small grin. “Guess we’re going to Heeseung’s then.”

Before you could answer, there was a low groan from the row in front of you, and Heeseung’s head lifted just enough for you to see how his hair was sticking up in every possible direction, his jacket half off one shoulder.

“What day is it?” he mumbled, eyes barely open, lips dry and parted.

The Lee household was exactly as you remembered.

Not that it had been a lifetime since you were here or anything, no, you were here a few months ago for a family barbecue. But the last time you walked in with Sunghoon and Jake beside you felt like another lifetime.

You stood in the hallway now, and Mrs. Lee—who’d spent twenty minutes insisting you call her Hana, like she always did, and you’d spent twenty minutes swearing Auntie Hana was the best she’d get, to which she’d grinned widely and said that is all she’s ever dreamt of hearing ever since you were little—was still talking softly with the housekeeper somewhere down the corridor. 

The walls looked the same, except for a few new picture frames lined neatly in a row, and there was one photo in particular that caught your eye—her handwriting was visible in small, neat cursive across the bottom of the golden frame: Hee’s 12th!

Everyone in it was covered in frosting. You stood beside Heeseung and Yunah, a fork in one hand, your face half hidden behind a laugh. Heeseung was grinning so wide his eyes had disappeared, his cheeks smeared with blue icing, a paper crown falling off his head. Behind you, a smaller Sunghoon wasn’t looking at the camera at all. He was looking at you.

You must’ve stopped walking, because Jake’s voice came softly from behind you.

“That you?”

You blinked, swallowed, and nodded. “Yeah.”

He hummed, leaning closer to get a better look. “And look at Hoon in the back. Cute.”

You rolled your eyes, stepping past him and down the hall. “Shut up.”

The house looked almost the same as it did when you were kids—same gold-framed mirror in the foyer, same pale carpet, same faint dip in the couch from where you, Yunah, Heeseung, and Sunghoon used to squeeze in after dinner. You could almost hear Mrs. Lee’s voice calling for you from the kitchen, could almost see the four of you rushing to wash your hands before she caught you sneaking bites.

Now it was quiet. Too quiet.

Mrs. Lee’s was still smiling when she reappeared from upstairs, “You must all be exhausted. I told the staff to set up the rooms thirty minutes ago, so everything is ready. I took Hee upstairs—barely made it to his bed, stupid drunken boy. And Hoon-ah—” her voice softened on his name, “Make sure you drink your water and freshen up.”

Sunghoon had barely spoken since you arrived. He’d thanked Mrs. Lee when she pressed a bottle of water into his hands, but that was it.

He’d spent so many nights here when you were kids that it almost felt like he belonged more to this house than his own. You still remember the first time you realized that—when you were ten and came down for a glass of water, and he was already asleep on the very couch he sat on now, curled up under one of Mrs. Lee’s quilts. You remembered how her voice had softened when she told you to let him sleep, that he was tired and had a long day. You remembered many things lately, it seemed.

Even now, years later, she still looked at him and talked to him that same way, like he was still that same little boy. With that quiet kind of tenderness that came from knowing what someone needed before they ever said it out loud.

Your eyes flicked to the corner where he was sitting now, slouched into the couch with the water bottle resting against his knee, staring blankly at the rug. He didn’t look up, but the faintest smile tugged at the corner of his lips.

Mrs. Lee followed your gaze, and for a second, something passed through her expression. Concern, affection, maybe a little sadness, and she pressed her lips together like she was holding something back, then turned toward you.

“There’s tea on the stove if you want some, and food in the fridge. Make yourselves at home, alright? None of that shyness here. We do it differently.”

Jake nodded politely. “Thank you, Mrs—uh, Hana.”

She pressed her lips together like she was hiding a grin and then looked up at you again. It was a brief look, but you felt the message in it, and heat rushed to your cheeks immediately. Your mother had definitely reminded her exactly who this Jake Sim was. Of course, she had.

“Heeseung’s old room for you, Y/N. Or the blue guest next to it if you decide you want more space.” She said it as if you didn’t already know where you always slept. “Sunghoon, yours is the same. I put a new humidifier in there. Don’t argue with me.”

“I wasn’t going to,” he said, quietly. It almost made you smile.

Then her eyes moved to Jake. “And Jake, dear—could you do me a favor?”

He straightened a little. “Of course.”

“Heeseung’s out cold. He’s upstairs, you know where his room is, right?” Jake nodded, so she went on, “Lovely. Just stay with him tonight, will you? He tends to get sick a lot when he drinks, and I’m afraid he’ll choke in his sleep—it would be a shame if that happened, cause then I wouldn’t be able to kill him myself when he wakes tomorrow.”

Jake laughed at that, then hesitated, though he was polite as ever. “Uh—sure. Yeah, I can do that.”

He looked at you then, a quick glance that said everything he didn’t say out loud. You tried not to smile, tightening your grip on your heels.

“Perfect.” She brushed her hands together and smiled, “Go on, wash up. I’ll be in the study for a while if anyone needs anything, though if I’m not there you can ask the staff for help.”

Then, Mrs. Lee, with years of practice, kept Jake there a while longer with ten gentle questions about his parents and whether he still took his coffee too sweet. He had no hope of escaping. You almost laughed.

You stood there for another beat, the silence closing in again, and then Sunghoon finally looked up. Not at you, exactly. Just past you. He took a breath like he was going to say something and then didn’t. You were already turning toward the stairs.

“Eat,” he said, low.

You didn’t look back. “Shut up.”

You stepped into the kitchen, and the warm light felt like the first normal thing all night. The housemaid had already laid out a small plate by the counter and, with a soft nod, lifted the lid to show a simple tray of rice and soup steaming in the air.

You sank onto a stool, fingers cold against the bowl, and let the house settle around you for a second.

You envied Heeseung for being fast asleep in his bed right now.

Hell, you envied every fucking man in this house, and it was the only fucking time you’d admit to envying any man—simply because none of them had to deal with the agony of peeling off layers of foundation and mascara or trying to pry out stupid contacts that felt like they’d fused to their eyeballs after the day you’d just had. You were sticky with perfume and sweat and anxiety, and the simple thought of dragging a cotton pad across your face right now made you want to curl up and die. 

You’d wandered into the room you always used to stay in when Yunah was still in Seoul without even thinking about it. Everything was the same as it was, and the air smelled faintly of detergent and lavender, and the shower was running through the door connected to the bedroom. You didn’t think much of it. You sighed and tugged off Jake’s jacket, crawled under the covers, and told yourself you’d get up in ten minutes. Just ten. That’s it. Just enough to breathe, to stop thinking, to pull yourself back down to earth before you did anything stupid. To let this stupid ache in your knees settle for a bit until you get back up.

It was a stubborn routine you couldn’t bring yourself to quit, no matter how many times it ended the same way—with you passing out right as you were and waking up approximately twenty minutes later.

And that was exactly what happened.

When you woke up again, your head felt heavy and your throat dry. You brought your hand up to your face to check it as if your makeup would have magically disappeared during this interval, but it was unfortunately still on. You groaned into your pillow, then reached toward the nightstand to grab your phone, then remembered you didn’t have it with you, and for a moment, you just lay there, staring up at the ceiling, the weight of the day pressing down on you like a blanket you couldn’t kick off.

You thought about Jake.

What the fuck had gotten into you today? It was stupid. You were stupid. Maybe you didn’t even like him. Maybe you just liked… the idea of him. The distraction. 

No, that was a lie. You liked him too much for your own good. 

You sighed, pressing your face deeper into the pillow, trying to will the heat away from your cheeks. 

And then—you heard it.

The water.

At first, it was just the steady hiss of the shower through the bathroom door, and for a second, you were suspicious of yourself, thinking maybe you’d turned it on and forgotten about it, but Mrs Lee had been fussing before you went upstairs, talking about how she’d already run hot water for you so you could freshen up. So you assumed that was what you were hearing.

But after a few seconds, your brow furrowed against the pillow. There was something off about the rhythm. A faint thud. Another. The sound of the spray changing pressure like someone was leaning their back against the tiles.

You rolled onto your side, eyes still half shut. Too tired to think about it properly, but you knew this guest room connected to the other one through the same bathroom. And you also knew the one person who’d be in there right now was… 

And then you heard it again. Quieter this time, muffled under the water but clear enough now that your heart stuttered. 

A low, hoarse sound. A grunt.

“Fuck.”

You froze.

There was more movement. The sound of skin against tile, the soft slap of wet rhythm. A breath caught and released roughly through teeth. You could almost see his palm working over himself through the wall, slow at first, then faster. Another broken groan left him, lower this time, like he was trying not to let it out at all.

You were wide awake now.

You pressed your lips together, staring up at the ceiling in utter disbelief, your whole body wired and hot. You shouldn’t be listening. You knew that. You should’ve turned over, should’ve covered your ears, should’ve done anything else—No, fuck that. This wasn’t on you. Why the fuck was he fucking jerking off so loudly in the middle of the night, not even in his fucking house at that? What kind of fucking freak does that? 

You turned your head toward the bathroom door like you could burn a hole through it with your glare. The absolute fucking nerve of Sunghoon. 

You pressed your palm against your face and groaned quietly into it, because what were you supposed to do? Knock and tell him to shut the hell up? Pretend you didn’t hear it?

Another sound came through the wall — wetter now, rougher, the rhythm picking up. A deep, shaky exhale that bled into a quiet moan.

“Ah—Shit—”

Your breath hitched before you could stop it.

No. No, you were not doing this. You were not lying here, in Heeseung’s house, listening to Park Sunghoon getting himself off in the shower like some kind of deranged pervert.

Your throat went dry. The more you told yourself to ignore it, the clearer it seemed to get — the water shifting, the faint smack of his hand, the low, almost pained grunt that followed. You could practically picture it now, the way his head would tip back, his mouth falling open, water running down his hair and onto his neck, his hand moving slowly, firm, desperate.

Dear God.

You squeezed your eyes shut, furious with yourself. This was insane. You should’ve gotten up. You should’ve walked out. Instead, your thighs pressed together, tight, and you wanted to smother yourself with the pillow.

You fucking hated his ass.

You threw the blanket off you and sat up so fast the room tilted for a second. Your pulse was pounding in your ears, partly from anger, partly from whatever the fuck that was. You rubbed at your face hard and muttered a string of endless curses to yourself under your breath, but you were already swinging your legs over the side of the bed. Then you immediately reached for the zipper of your dress, fingers clumsy, yanking it down halfway before realizing it was stuck. Another curse slipped out between your teeth as you tugged harder, until it finally came loose. You exhaled shakily.

If you’d had the sense to look around properly, you would’ve noticed the neatly folded towels and the set of men’s clothes laid out across the couch. Buuuuuuuuut you didn’t. You were too busy heading for the mirror, catching the first clear look of yourself under the dim light.

You looked wrecked. There was truly no other word for it. Mascara smudged under your eyes, hair fallen out of whatever style it was even supposed to be in earlier, lipstick faded to a soft smear of nothing.

Your collarbones were littered with marks. Deep red and purple, some faded into your skin, others brand new—you had been so fucked out on Jake’s fingers and so anxious about being quiet, you hadn’t realized just how terribly he’d marked you down.

“Fucking freak,” you whispered, dragging your fingers over one just under your jaw. You actually didn’t remember him doing that. Or maybe you did and just hadn’t cared.

You kept tracing them—the one on your shoulder, another at the base of your throat—until you caught sight of the worst of them. They ran down to your chest, dark and angry against your skin, half-hidden under your bra.

Maybe if you hadn’t been so mindlessly busy doing whatever the hell it was you were doing, you would’ve noticed the sound of the shower had gone quiet. Buuuuuuut again, you didn’t.

You just hooked your thumb under the zipper at your side again and started tugging the dress down slowly till it was just below your breast. The white lace of your bra was thin, stretched tight over the swell of your breasts—full and flushed—and the cups barely did anything to cover them.

Your reflection looked back at you through the mirror, eyes wide and hazy. You didn’t even recognize yourself for a second, and you weren’t sure if it was because of how you looked or because of how you were feeling or who you were thinking of and what you were thinking of, and your gaze stayed locked on the curve of your chest, the faint rise and fall with every breath.

And that’s why you didn’t hear it at first— the sound of the bathroom door opening, steam spilling out into the room.

You turned, startled at the sudden motion of the door opening from the mirror, heart still thudding unevenly against your ribs.

And then he stepped out.

For a second, you honestly thought you were hallucinating. You blinked once. Twice. Maybe even three times.

Sunghoon stood there, towel slung low around his hips, water still running down his chest in lazy rivulets that trailed over the hard lines of muscle and disappeared beneath the fabric. His hair was dripping wet, strands plastered to his forehead, and his shoulders—fuck, his shoulders—looked broader than you remembered. His skin was pink from the heat, slick, and his forearms flexed when he reached up to rub the back of his neck. The muscles in his arms bunched and moved, veins catching the light when he dropped his hand again.

You froze, halfway through pulling your dress back up, the fabric bunched in your fists under your breasts.

He blinked, just once, eyes sweeping over you slowly, taking you in inch by inch. His jaw tensed, then his gaze lifted back to your face. And then back down.

“What the fuck were you doing in there?” The words slipped out before your brain could stop them.

He stared for half a beat. His voice came out rough, lower than usual. “Showering.”

“Oh, I’m sure,” you shot back, glaring at him even as your pulse jumped. 

His eyes narrowed slightly. “This is my room.”

“No, the fuck it’s not—this is mine.” You gestured wildly, like that proved anything. “I’ve slept here every single time—”

“You haven’t slept in here in years.” 

You opened your mouth to argue, to say something smart, but the words got stuck halfway out because that’s when your brain caught up to what the fuck was actually going on. You were standing there, tits practically out, dress pooled around your waist, skin flushed from heat and embarrassment, and he was standing there like that. Half naked. Still wet—and his gaze was still down.

You looked down, too, and your stomach dropped when you realized what he was actually seeing. The sight of your dress half undone, hanging low, the top bunched around your waist. Your lace bra—thin, white, fucking useless—barely covering you, the bruises Jake had left glowing like fucking neon signs across your chest. You froze again, heat crawling up your neck.

“Don’t look at me like that,” you snapped, even though you were the one staring now. Because fuck, he was standing there—bare chest gleaming, towel barely holding on, broad shoulders flexing as he shifted his weight.

You swallowed hard, and your tongue darted out before you could stop it, wetting your lips.

His mouth twitched, the faintest smirk pulling at one corner. “Like what you see?”

You scoffed too fast, too loud. “Burn in hell.”

“Mmm,” he said, tilting his head. “Still staring.”

“I’m not—” you started, but the lie tripped in your throat because you were staring. His chest rose and fell, muscles shifting under his skin, biceps flexing as he dragged his hand through his hair again. There was still water clinging to the curve of his shoulder, a bead trailing down the center of his chest, catching on the line of his abs before vanishing under the towel. You physically couldn’t look away. What the fuck was happening tonight?

When you glanced at his biceps again, you tried—really, you did, tried so fucking hard—not to picture how he’d probably been positioned in the shower just a few minutes ago, head thrown back against the tiles, thick fingers wrapped around his throbbing cock as he stroked himself with desperate need. You could practically still hear the deep, primal groans rumbling in his chest as he fought to stay quiet and failed miserably, his massive body trembling as he worked himself closer and closer to the edge. The way his abs would clench, thighs flexing, cock weeping as his hand moved faster and faster… What the fuck were you thinking of?

Your cheeks burned with shame even as arousal pooled hot and heavy between your thighs, and you truly wanted to slap yourself for it. It took everything in you to finally look away and fumble with the top of your dress to yank it back over your chest, the zipper half-caught in your shaking fingers.

“You could at least—” you hissed. “You could at least look somewhere else, you bastard.”

He let out a soft huff and shrugged. “Can’t,” he said simply. “You’re standing there half-naked.”

That made you blink. “Then don’t fucking look.”

“I’m trying.” He wasn’t.

He moved. Just one step at first, but it was enough to make your breath catch. The towel around his hips shifted with the motion, sitting even lower now, and you didn’t even move, too caught between wanting to hurl a fucking pillow at him and wanting to take another look. He took another step closer, and your pulse jumped so hard it almost hurt.

“Relax,” he muttered, eyes still on you as he walked past—except he didn’t really walk past. He stopped right beside you, close enough that you could feel the heat radiating off his damp skin and so that you could smell the faint mix of cleanliness on him. He bent down to grab the pile of clothes on the couch, the towel tugging dangerously low on his hips as he did, and you couldn’t stop your gaze from following.

When he straightened again, your eyes flicked down—and that’s when you saw it. The fucking towel was tented. The outline of his bulge under the towel was clear, heavy, impossible to ignore, and it looked like the damn thing was barely holding together, thick enough that your mouth went dry before your brain even caught up.

Your breath caught. “You—”

“Get out,” he said. His voice was low, almost a growl.

You blinked, unsure if you’d heard him right. “Excuse me? This is MY—”

He clenched his jaw. “Y/N,” it almost sounded like a prayer falling off his lips, knuckles whitening where he gripped the clothes in his hands. “Get the fuck out. Because if you keep standing there, I will do something about it.”

He stepped closer, slow enough that you could hear the faint squelch of water still dripping from his hair onto the floor. 

“And if I start,” he said, “I’m not fucking stopping.”

You scoffed, but it came out shaky. “You’re disgusting.”

Then you spun on your heel and yanked the door open, stepping through the connecting bathroom without looking back. The door clicked shut behind you.

You leaned your back against the door for a second and let out a laugh that sounded like a sob. 

And when you finally drifted off that night, the last thing you remembered was the sound of his voice in your head.

FEEDBACK & REBLOGS ALWAYS APPRECIATED ( ˘⌣˘)♡(˘⌣˘ )

𝓝 ⟢ honorary song mention of this chapter (all i had on repeat while writing): Heavy in your arms by Florence + The Machine // Cardigan + My Tears Ricochet by Taylor Swift … entered a state of psychosis unprecedented to mankind while writing this chapter 😭 can you guys tell drunk heeseung is my favorite or do i have to spell it out LAWL. AS ALWAYS!!! thank you for reading!!!! & i would love to hear what everyone thinks hehehe i love you all so much ( ˘͈ ᵕ ˘͈♡)੭🌷

Instead you ended up on your side with your cheek in the pillow while Wonyoung groaned into hers and kept telling you to turn your stupid brightness down while you watched the typing bubble blink in and out. His messages had started soft and normal — pretty girl, tell me how you feel, let me make it up to you tomorrow night, gonna take you out properly — and then somewhere around two am, they shifted entirely. Not so normally.

He said he couldn’t stop thinking about that noise you made and that he wanted to kiss you again properly, then a couple other lines that sent jolts straight to your core, and you’d let out this ridiculous silent laugh into your duvet because your stomach had just dropped straight through the mattress.  You smiled at the thought of it while you made your way back to your apartment after your two classes of the day, hitting the crosswalk as your driver just dropped you off, and for a spare second your brain tried to reroute and drag you back to a moment in a room that you’d promised yourself you wouldn’t enter again in your mind.

This was the deal you’d made with yourself last night under your breath while Wonyoung’s hair tickled your cheek and it was simple:

You decided you didn’t have to revisit your entire history just because your skin remembered the shape of a hand that shouldn’t have touched you in the first place. You were allowed to want what you wanted without apologizing for the way your stomach reacted to a voice you once knew.

So…

Jake. You could finally start something with him and keep it simple. You could wear something cute tonight to go see him, maybe another one of your skirts, seeing how Jake liked that one so much because he’d told you that several times last night in the endless thread of texts. You could let him kiss you again and let it consume you wholly this time without feeling guilty afterwards. You could take it slow. You could take it fast. You could decide in the moment without making it a referendum on your entire character. 

Most of all, you could stop grading yourself on a curve nobody else could see.

The marble of the lobby floor clicked under your shoes as you crossed to the elevators of your complex, polished to a shine that reflected the little bouquet of flowers someone had dropped off with the doorman. Light pink peonies. They reminded you of the vases your mom used to fill every summer because they were your favorite, cutting stems too long on purpose so they’d droop dramatically out of the glass. 

Your apartment was waiting in its usual way with sunlight spilling through the tall floor to ceiling windows, catching against the glass dining table, throwing sharp patterns across the rug. Everything smelled faintly like whatever candle of yours Wonyoung had lit last night—vanilla and something woodsy. You love your apartment down to every corner of it, though It was always a little jarring how big the place felt when you were by yourself. High ceilings, wide rooms, and far too much space for one person. But Wonyoung filled it just fine when she crashed occasionally, her things trailing in little evidence piles from the couch to the bathroom counter. Again — Alone, it felt cavernous which is exactly why you spent most of your days at hers or Sunoo’s or your parent’s when they were home.

“Sweetheart, is that you?”

You nearly gave yourself whiplash turning around.

And there your mother stood, in your living room like she owned the place —technically, she does — a scarf knotted elegantly at her throat as she set a wrapped box down on your coffee table, like she hadn’t just literally materialized out of thin air.

“Oh my god. Mom!” you squealed, though your brain was still catching up. “What the—you’re back? are you trying to send me into cardiac arrest? How did you even get in here?”

“With a key, obviously.” She said with a warm smile on her face. “Don’t be silly.”

You paused. “Didn’t I literally change my locks while you were in Paris?”

“And didn’t I literally give birth to you? I’ll always find a way in. Plus, I’m kidding. I used the fingerprint, silly.”

Before you could respond, she pulled you into her arms, all warmth and the faintest trace of airport air still clinging to her clothes, though she looked unfairly put together for someone who’d clearly just stepped off an hours on end flight, lipstick intact, hair smooth, eyes crinkling in that smile that always felt like home, no matter where you were.

You were still buried in her shoulder when another voice came through from behind you. “Jesus, there’s only banana milk and two cans of olives in your fridge—who lives like this?”

You managed to turn your head a little. “Dad?”

“Hi, honey,” he said, strolling in with that boyish grin plastered across his face, a half empty carton of banana milk in one hand and the container of prepped berries—you specifically sought out—which you’d been saving for later in the other.

“You’re back—Wait—Hey!” you cried, darting over. “I was saving tha—Those were expensive!”

“Expensive?” He popped a berry into his mouth, “I’d know if they were expensive,” he mocked your voice, “-since it’s my card paying for them. And is this how you greet your old man after a whole month apart? By accusing me of petty theft?”

You walked over to him. “Okay, first of all, as far as I’m concerned, the second that money hits my account, it’s mine. Hard earned and all.”

He pointed a berry stained finger at you. “From what? You haven’t worked a day in your life.”

“Excuse me,” you gasped, “are you undermining my full time job as the most perfect, beautiful, beloved daughter in the world? Because that’s a position I take very seriously. I take great offense to such slander. I shall take you to trial for defamation!” 

Your mom laughed from behind you, shaking her head. “She truly gets those theatrics from you.”

“Oh, she gets everything from me. You simply never stood a chance,” he said smugly, before tugging you into a hug so tight you almost squeaked. “My sweet princess,” he cooed in the most obnoxious voice he could muster, tightening his grip further until you actually wheezed. “My very expensive, fridge neglecting princess. If only I’d known you’d grow up to rob your own father blind. Should’ve left you in the hospital and taken home the other baby they offered us.”

“Dad!” you yelped, shoving at his chest as he kissed the top of your head with ridiculous exaggeration. “Your money will be fine. Let me go before I suffocate!”

“Maybe then you’ll stop spending my money,” he sighed dramatically, refusing to loosen his hold. “Shhh. It’ll all be over soon, sweetheart.”

Your mom rolled her eyes but she was smiling like she’d seen this scene a thousand times before. “Don’t kill her please. I didn’t haul myself across the Atlantic just to show up to the gala without my daughter.”

At that, you froze. “…Wait what?” 

You finally pried yourself loose from your father’s grip and stumbled back a step, fixing your shirt where he’d wrinkled it. He looked far too pleased with himself, already reaching for another berry, while your mom just shook her head with that fond, loving, patient look she’d been aiming at him for most of their marriage.

You eyed the wrapped box she’d set on the coffee table suspiciously. “Is that a bribe I’m seeing?”

“It’s a gift.”

“So… bribery.”

“Open it,” your mom urged, ignoring you entirely.

With a huff, you pulled the ribbon loose and pushed the lid back, and tissue paper crinkled, then your fingers sank into silk. In your hands you held a white gown with a sharp V neckline, bare sides down to the flare of the skirt, hem cut in clean slits, and a soft scarf detail trailing from the straps. You recognized it instantly.

“Oh my god. Is this…? This is that one vintage Valentino dress I love!”

“Perfect, isn’t it?” she said, already fussing with it as though she wanted to dress you right there in the living room like a little girl. “Had it custom tailored for you so you could wear it tonight.”

“Tonight?” you blinked at her, then you remembered your plans with Jake. “Wait—tonight tonight?”

Your mom raised a brow at you like you’d said the most ridiculous thing in the world. “Honey, there’s only one tonight as far as I’m aware. It’s a Gala at the Lotte with major donors and half the board your brother’s been charming in New York. I’ll spare you the details since it already looks like you’re about to shut me down—which I won’t let happen.” 

You dropped back against the couch with a groan loud enough to echo off the high ceilings. “Mom… Dad,” you whined, as if he might save you. “I have plans!”

“Cancel them,” your father shrugged, like it was already settled.

“But—”

He shoved his hands into his pockets, trying to sound serious, even though seriousness never sat right on him. “No buts.”

“My butt,” you muttered to yourself, then you sat up straighter and clasped your hands like you were praying. “My dear, sweet father… you know I love attending these fancy little… galas or whatever, I do! I really do! Especially with Valentino at hand. But I fear you’re not understanding the severity of these plans of mine.” You wagged a finger slowly at him, also putting on your best serious face. “I simply can’t cancel them. You’ll just have to go on without me! Plus I believe you’d be better off without me there anyway, because I’d spread negative energy so severe in that ballroom if you all kept me from my plans, and they’d change the motivation of the entire gala and start raising funds to get me out of your care and into the best psychiatric care possible.”

He turned to your mother. “That little head of hers holds so many… interesting things. We don’t need a gala to raise funds, let’s take her now.”

“Stop encouraging her,” your mom smacked his arm without looking away from you, the corners of her mouth twitching like she was fighting a smile. “Honey, we’ve been away for so long, so you’ll get to spend some time with us, and you’d look breathtaking in that dress. Don’t think I didn’t see the way your face lit up when you saw it, baby.”

You dragged yourself up and held the dress against your body in the mirror’s direction, and it caught the light like magic, and you hated how much you loved it, and just how well your mother knew you. 

“So then, judging by that look on her dear sweet face, I’m assuming the bribe worked?” your dad beamed.

You dramatically sighed. “See, I knew it was a bribe. You guys don’t care about me.”

“Bribe, gift… semantics,” he said, with a mouth full.

“You’ve never complained about Valentino before,” your mom added smoothly. “Perhaps I should just take it away then?”

“No! Ugh—You’re both conspiring against me.” You let out another groan, collapsing back into the couch with the dress bunched tightly against your chest, careful not to wrinkle it. “This is emotional manipulation. I hope you’re proud.”

“Immensely,” your dad said cheerfully. “Although, about that fridge of yours, sweetie are you—”

You glared and proceeded to stuck your tongue out at him, and he held up his hands like he was surrendering and made a motion as if to say his lips are sealed, before walking back into the kitchen. Your mom just shook her head, soft with laughter, and came to sit beside you. She smoothed the gown across your lap, fussing until it laid just right, then reached up to tuck a loose strand of hair behind your ear. Her eyes searched your face, her hand warm against your cheek.

“You look so tired,” she murmured. “Have you not been sleeping again? You know how bad that is for you, my love.”

You just leaned into her palm, and your voice came out soft, deciding to deflect. “Do you know I missed you so much?”

“I missed you too,” she whispered. She pressed a kiss to your temple, thumb brushing over your cheekbone like she could smooth the exhaustion out of you. “Have you been okay?”

You swallowed. “Yeah.”

From the kitchen, your dad’s voice piped up again. “What about me? Did nobody missed me?”

“Not at all,” you snorted. “Your trip was too short, actually.”

A second later, he appeared in the doorway, “Brat,” he said, then jabbed a finger at your mom. “I’ll give you that. She gets that from you.”

“Are you calling me a brat?” your mom asked, brow lifting.

He put his hands up quickly, a small smile tugging at his mouth. “No ma’am.”

“Mm,” your mom hummed and turned back to you, playing with your hair. “Later we’ll sit down, and you’ll tell me all about how this semester has been going, and what you’ve been up to. I’ve been away at work long enough.”

You didn’t mean to think of him, but he crept in anyway. You shoved it down quick, and huffed a laugh instead, tilting your head toward the dress. “Why do I even need to go to this particular one? I mean, don’t get me wrong, I do love going but… my plans…”

Your mom’s brow arched like she’d been waiting for that exact line. “You always ask that, as if the answer is going to change…”

“Taehyung never has to go to these things,” you argued, fingers still picking at the fabric.

“He’s in New York,” your dad furrowed his brow.

“And? Correlation?”

“Well, I don’t know, sweetie—I’d say geography?” He looked genuinely baffled. “Your brother physically cannot be present—”

“Right, and how’s that my problem?” you shrugged. “He still gets to not be there.”

Your dad squinted. “You know, the other day I saw a video on tic tac—”

“TikTok,” you corrected immediately, bracing yourself for whatever he was about to say.

“That’s what I said. Anyways, I saw this video about… ragebaiting?” He said it like it was a foreign word on his tongue, glancing between you and your mom like one of you might correct him. “Whatever, is quite the trend amongst… you know.” He gestured at you with his cup. “People your age. Is that what you’re doing to your old man?”

You dropped your face into your hands and turned to your mother “Why do you let him have a phone?”

Your mom chuckled. “It’s not about this particular gala… but more so that it’s important you show up with us, honey,” she said, her voice gentler now. “These are your circles too, and at your age, people expect to see you at our side. You don’t have to follow our path exactly as is… you know we’d never ask you that, but seeing as you want to yourself, it’s better if you’re there.”

Well, you really can’t argue your way out of this one. Then your mind went to Jake, and the thought of telling him you couldn’t see him tonight made your stomach twist. Why was it that every time you tried to make plans with him, something got in the way? It was always something. Either the universe working against you, or—no. You cut yourself off before the thought could go further.

“You’re so lucky I love you two so much. And that I’m a well behaved daughter.”

Your dad shook his head as he playfully laughed, “Oof. Let’s not go throwing words like ‘well-behaved’ around—”

“Enough out of you,” your mom cut him off, sparing him a glance—to which he threw his hands up in surrender, and then she pulled you into a tight hug like you were still small enough to tuck under her arm. “Truly the loveliest daughter in the world. Now, go get ready before I call the stylists in because I know you like to take your time. I’ll order us dinner— and don’t worry, I’ll have boxes of your banana milk sent over, and your favorite berries — Ooh! and maybe some of those little macarons you love… and obviously I’ll have someone restock the pantry, because what on earth were you even living on?”

You shot her a glare, and she only raised her brows at you.

“What? your father was right, honey.” She was already digging in her bag for her phone. “Don’t tell him I said that though.”

Your father looked around and raised a brow. “I’m kind of still here, y’know.”

You groaned, stretching as you got up from the couch. “You two are actually making me go to this thing like I don’t have a life outside of this house.”

“Do you?” your dad shot back instantly, one brow cocked like he already knew the answer. “Wonyoung alone doesn’t count.”

You opened your mouth to argue— “Neither does Sunoo. Or the little tall kid always trailing him,” he added. 

You gave him a look. “I refuse to speak without a lawyer present.”

He tapped his chest. “Well it’s a good thing your old man is the best in the country.”

“Second best,” You raised a finger matter-of-factly, “To mom—I’d rather have her represent me.”

“Ok. That’s cool. It’s no big deal. Your mother literally stop practicing, but okay.” He pressed a hand to his chest like you’d shot him where he stood, staggering back a little for dramatic effect. “Your brother is my favorite child anyway.”

Your laugh slipped out easy, but it softened into a smile when your eyes drifted to your mom. She was still on the phone, murmuring about restocks and a new chef she wanted to try and whatever else she had on her list. And for a moment you just watched her and your father, and it hit you all at once how much you’d missed this. — The noise, the warmth, the way your dad filled every corner with his ridiculous theatrics just to make you laugh, the way your mom carried all the small details of you like they were second nature. You’d grown up in love that was so steady it never had to be questioned, in a house where you and your brother could be loud and messy and still be met with nothing but care. That feeling was home, and they only ever built a home where love came first.

You’d missed the ease of simply being their kid again, instead of someone who had to hold up the weight of the world on her own.

The smile on your face stayed, following you all the way down the hall to your dressing room.

As if it wasn’t enough that your head was still spinning since you’d slept at five and woken up at seven, your mom had insisted that her hairstylist twist your hair into a tight, though flawless updo, pinned into place with not a strand out of order.

“It’ll be the best pop to your necklace, and it’ll frame the back of the dress,” she’d said.

You’d groaned when she’d brought it up, but you couldn’t argue with her when you caught sight of yourself in the mirror. The low, intricate back of the dress really did deserve its own separate scene.

And now, the ballroom stretched out in front of you as you settled into it, every single pair of eyes feeling heavier than the diamonds around your neck, and your dress clinging tight to your body as if it had been sewn into your skin—the scarf detailing trailing behind you with every step.

You were all immediately welcomed warmly by a man with a badge pinned to his chest, and before you’d even finished nodding politely, your father was swept off by another man you didn’t recognize. That left you and your mom to be ushered toward the seating plan projected on a big screen, surrounded by a ridiculous arrangement of hydrangeas.

“Ah! You’re table three,” he said with a small clap of his hands. “Follow me, please!” You watched the way his eyes flicked from the screen to your mother and then off toward the tables, but when your mother didn’t move, he shifted his weight awkwardly on his feet.

Your mother gave him one of her polished smiles and said lightly, “We’ll wait for my husband to accompany us,” and that was that. He nodded, politely hovering still.

And since you were painfully nosey—your mother just as bad—you both leaned in at the same time to read the chart for yourselves.

Your eyes skimmed over the names on your table. Your father’s partner and his wife. The Chois. Heeseung and his father. Another man. Another man and his wife. And—

Wait. What?

You blinked, once, twice, and thought that surely you’d read it wrong. Surely it didn’t actually say what you thought it did. 

Park Jaejoon.

Park Jiwoo.

And right there, clear as day, his name was placed directly beside your own.

Park Sunghoon.

Your face didn’t so much as twitch, even as every muscle in your body wanted to recoil. You forced a polite, practiced smile into place, and reread the list one more time, like maybe the letters might shuffle themselves around into something else.

They didn’t.

You turned to look at your mother, only to find her already staring back at you, and when she saw the horror in your expression, she pressed her lips together like she was fighting back a laugh, only for it to escape anyway—a tiny puff of amusement she immediately smothered with a forced, polite smile aimed at the poor man in front of you.

“Do you think this is funny, Mother?” you asked through your own smile, as the man visibly shifted under both your gazes and quickly looked away. “Is something funny?”

Your mother cleared her throat lightly. “Not at all.”

“Then why are you laughing?”

“I did no such thing.”

“You literally just laughed.”

“I most certainly did not,” she whispered, eyes locked forward now, the corners of her mouth twitching.

You leaned a little closer, your voice sharp but hushed. “This isn’t funny. Don’t laugh.”

“I said I’m not.”

“You won’t be laughing when I taint the family name by killing—”

Her hand came up to gently touch your arm, calm as ever, though you could see the corner of her mouth tugging in the slightest. “What did we talk about in the car, Darling?”

“The talk in the car never accounted for this,” you hissed back, a smile still plastered on your face for the man’s sake. “This is a joke.”

Her eyes flicked back to yours, somehow with all the warmth in the world but also heavy enough to make you straighten. “Sweetheart, behave.”

You squeezed her hand tight, huffing through your nose. “I’ll behave if that putrid prick—”

“Actually,” she cut in immediately, still smiling at the attendant as if you weren’t about to explode, “we’ll just go ahead to the table. It seems my husband has been stolen from us.”

The man practically sighed in relief, stepping forward to lead the way, and you bit down hard on the inside of your cheek. You followed a step behind your mom and kept your chin lifted like you weren’t on the verge of grinding your teeth down to dust.

The Parks weren’t there yet. 

Their names glared back at you from the little gold placards neatly arranged around the centerpiece, like someone had taken pleasure in planting them there on purpose—even though on paper, technically, Park Jaejoon and your father were on “good” terms. That’s what the press said, what the handshakes at gatherings like this pretended to prove. 

But you knew how badly that deal years ago had ended, how much your father hated the word ally when it was tied to the Parks.

You felt your thumb under your nails again. All day long, you’d done so well. You’d refused to think about him, shoved it down into the little box in your brain filled with things you avoided every time his face tried to crawl back into your mind. You’d even managed a whole morning without seeing him in the edges of everything.

And then this. Of course, the universe had other plans.

Then you felt your mother’s hands against your thumb, gentle but firm, pressing it flat against the linen. “That never did you any good,” she said softly.

Since the table was still empty, you let yourself speak freely. “You’ll have to sit in front of Jiwoo the entire night.”

“And?” Your mom’s brows lifted, but the glint in her eyes told you she knew exactly what you were getting at.

“And you know how she is. I don’t think that woman has ever formulated a single sentence toward you without the wrath of a thousand devils hanging off every word.”

“And what do I always tell you?” she hummed, tilting her head, and when you didn’t respond, she went on, “Hmm, sweetie?”

“Yes, but—”

“Tell me, Y/nnie.”

You let out a sigh, “You never know what people are going through at home.”

“Exactly,” she said softly, “Don’t think that that means you should ever allow someone to be unkind to you. If someone makes a habit of it, you simply don’t give them the satisfaction of a reaction. Ignore it. That is all.”

You pressed your lips together in a tight line. Right. Ignore it. As if you’d ever been good at that. Still, you nodded, brushing your thumb gently over her hand in reassurance.

“Besides,” she went on, lowering her voice so only you would hear, “the Parks are too…” she paused, as if searching for the right word, “Performative. Jiwoo only bares her teeth when no one’s looking.” Another quiet pause, her mouth curling ever so slightly. “Though I suppose even in public she can’t resist trying to cut me down when she thinks she can get away with it.”

Your mom went on, “I’m still holding onto the fact that we’ll be getting coffee tomorrow and talking about all this soon—but her son, Sunghoon,” you hated how you almost flinched at the sound of his name, “last you told me he was your partner for Dr. Kim’s class—is he still the same as he was?”

You tilted your head, blinking at her. “If by the same you mean an obnoxious, putrid, narcissistic, egotistical freak—”

She squeezed your hand, cutting you off with a knowing smile. “So I’ll just take that as a yes.”

You groaned quietly, leaning back in your chair. “I’ll save my words for your sake.”

“Honestly, sweetheart, it makes me sad to think about,” she hummed, thumb brushing over your knuckles like she could smooth the thought away. “He was such a respectful boy when he was younger. I don’t know what changed.”

Does anyone? 

Your brows tugged together before you caught yourself, forcing them smooth again, shoving the thought down and tucking it neatly into that box in your mind of things you refused to touch tonight. “No one does,” you said, “And I certainly don’t care to find out.”

Your mom studied you for a moment, the kind of look that felt like she could see past every wall you built, but she didn’t press. “Well, with a father like Jaejoon and a mother like that, I suppose I shouldn’t be surprised. Cruel men rarely raise kind sons.”

She left it there, not bothering to add anything about his mother, because the two of you would be sitting at this table until morning if she had.

From the corner of your eye, you spotted the Lees approaching, and immediately your face lit up, smoothing your hands down in a silent little signal for your mother to look. 

You rose just as they reached you, your father right behind them, his hand clasped warmly over Mr. Lee’s shoulder. They all bowed politely. Heeseung wore a fitted suit that caught the light with subtle detailing, and his father stood there grinning, voice booming as he greeted your mom. 

“Aesun!” he beamed, his voice loud enough to turn a few heads nearby. “How lovely to see you again—” he turned toward you, grin widening, “—and who might this young lady be?”

“We found her wandering outside, poor thing,” your dad said. “took pity and decided to let her tag along. You know, good deed of the day.”

You groaned immediately, swatting at his arm. “Dad.”

Mr. Lee barked out a laugh, clapping him on the back. “Always the saint, aren’t you? Truly, Seoul’s greatest philanthropist.” He turned to look at you again with a grin. “I kid, I kid. How have you been, Y/N? Yunah asks about you all the time. Are you still as sharp-tongued as your father tells me?”

You gave him a warm smile. “Depends on who’s asking.”

That made Heeseung laugh under his breath, quiet but clear, and when you glanced his way, he ducked his head just slightly, as if to hide it.

You felt a smile tugging at the corner of your mouth once more at the familiarity of seeing your dad with his arm slung over Mr. Lee’s shoulder, the two of them laughing loud enough to turn heads—though they never cared, and your mom shooting daggers with her eyes as if to remind him to behave. It was warm, familiar, the kind of noise you grew up with—

And then someone cleared their throat from behind them.

When your father and Mr. Lee broke apart, Park Jaejoon stood behind them perfectly composed, cold as ever, expression unreadable—though the faintest irritation lingered at the edges of his face. “Gentlemen.” He said with a tip of a bow.

Your father shifted just enough to face him, his hand already outstretched, “Chairman Park.”

“Chairman Y/L/N.” Their hands met, firm and measured, and Mr. Lee stepped forward next.

Everyone dipped their heads in unison, the kind of bow you’d done since you were old enough to stand at your parents’ side, and only when you lifted your head again did you see him. His eyes were already on you. It felt like the weight of his eyes sank straight into you, burning holes into your skin. 

Sunghoon wore black from head to toe, his suit tailored at the shoulders so it framed his figure with cruel precision, pulled in all too neatly at the waist and his hair fell just right, dark strands falling delicately into place across his pale skin like spilled ink, and you hated the way your teeth clenched at the sight of him, and how easy it was to admit that he was beautiful—devastatingly so.

In this light, he didn’t look like a person at all, but more a figure God and all his angels might dream up just to fill ballrooms like this.

But that kind of beauty only worked if you were unaware of the rotten parts crawling under his perfect composure, and you in particular for better and for worse, couldn’t bring yourself to ignore them, especially not when the memory of how he had you pressed against a wall days ago with his breath ghosting over your ear still threaded through your head when you tried to sleep.

But where was Jiwoo?

And then, almost like he could feel the question hanging in the air, his father added, “My wife won’t be joining us tonight. She’s feeling under the weather.” 

You caught the twitch in Sunghoon’s jaw at that. Barely there, so small anyone else might’ve missed it, but you didn’t. Then it was gone, and he started his own round of greetings and pleasantries with everyone around you . It was all so neat. He truly is upholding the perfect image of the perfect son.

His eyes landed back on yours, and your skin burned under something that felt ridiculously close to anticipation.

“Good evening, Ms. Y/N.” His voice was polite and stripped clean of anything else, but the formality of your name on his tongue sounded heavier than it should have.

Your teeth pressed into the inside of your cheek to keep from scoffing. “Evening.”

Out of the corner of your eye, you caught Heeseung tipping his head back, staring up at the ceiling with a sudden fascination that could only mean he was swallowing down a laugh. 

It seems everyone found this humorous but you.

You slid into your chair, smoothing the gown under you. You fixed your gaze on your mother, who was already leaning toward your father’s partner’s wife, her hands moving gracefully as she spoke. You almost lost yourself in watching her until a low whisper came from beside you. 

“Mr. Park.”

It was so quiet you almost thought you’d imagined it, but when you turned, Sunghoon was leaning just the slightest bit closer, expression unreadable except for the faint crease between his brows. 

You blinked at him, then glanced around the table, as if to make sure he hadn’t aimed that at someone else. When you looked back, your voice stayed low, and you bit down the urge to call him a schizophrenic prick, “Congratulations? You know your own name?”

“Your manners.” He said, even lower. “That’s how you should address me.”

You stared at him for a long moment, something bubbling in your chest that you forced down before it could come out as a sneer. Instead, you smiled sweetly enough that anyone glancing your way would think you were the poster child of grace. “Why are you even talking to me?” you whispered, though it came out as a hiss.

“Someone needs to teach you how to behave,” His gaze slid deliberately around the table before settling back on you. “In public.”

You let out the faintest laugh under your breath, “Surely I’m mistaken, and you aren’t the one saying that to me.”

“I addressed you properly.”

Your eyes narrowed, though your smile didn’t falter. “So what? You want me to get up and clap? Grab you an award from over there, maybe?”

“I want you to remember your place.”

Your nails pressed lightly into your cuticle, picking at the skin. “Trust me, I’m very aware of my place right now.”

He didn’t answer, and you flicked your gaze back to him only to realize he was staring at your bloodied thumbs. You quickly shoved it under the table.

Mr. Lee had already leaned forward, his voice booming as always, though softened now for the sake of the setting. “So, Y/N,” he started, eyes flicking between you and Sunghoon, “your father tells me you’re taking Dr. Kim this semester.”

You straightened a little in your seat, nodding. “Unfortunately, yes.”

That earned a laugh, deep and knowing. “Judging by that answer, I believe he hasn’t changed one bit then. Ah. Sadist through and through. Did you know he taught us back in our day? My first and only ever failure I’ve received. Same miserable bastard then as I’m guessing he is now.”

Your dad huffed a laugh beside him, shaking his head. “You’re forgetting he failed you twice.”

“Twice?” Mr. Lee clutched at his chest like it still hurt. “See? I stand by my words.”

You smiled, unable to help it. They always stood out in rooms like this—so loud, so alive, refusing to shrink themselves into the stone masks everyone else wore. You’d grown up watching it, and sometimes it felt like the only proof that people in this world could actually breathe.

“I like his classes.” Sunghoon said. He shifted forward slightly in his seat as he spoke, and that was when his knee brushed against yours under the table.

Mr. Lee lifted a brow, “Oh? That so?”

Sunghoon gave the smallest shrug. “He’s strict because he demands precision, and he’s actually very passionate about his material. I don’t mind it. I say this with all due respect to you, Mr. Lee and Mr Y/L/N, of course, and mostly with our particular class in mind,” His gaze slid back to you, “But maybe the professor isn’t the issue.”

Your brow arched on instinct, but you didn’t give him what he wanted. Instead, you smiled sweetly at him. “Maybe that’s because he’s obsessed with you.”

Heeseung coughed into his fist, eyes flicking between the two of you, and you caught the twitch at the corner of his mouth when he looked up at the ceiling once again as if to act oblivious.

Sunghoon’s eyes didn’t leave you as he spoke. “He’s not the only one.”

Your chest tightened, but you kept your chin high like none of it reached you. Then you turned your head to find his father staring at the two of you.

He didn’t bother to hide the disgust in his eyes, as if even entertaining this exchange was beneath him.

Your father eyed him too, and tried to pry the mood up a notch like he always did. “Chairman Park,” he said lightly, though you didn’t miss the faint edge under it. “Tell me, what do you make of Dr. Kim these days? Surely he hasn’t gotten any less merciless since our time.”

Park Jaejoon didn’t look away from you as he spoke, and his answer came almost like an afterthought. “Mercy doesn’t produce results.”

The table went heavy with silence, and you shifted awkwardly in your seat, fingers brushing at the edge of your napkin. You looked toward your mom to find that she was already watching you — warm as always, but her brows pulled in just enough to crease with a look of concern only you’d be able to recognize.

She leaned toward your father then, the two of them sharing an intimate smile as her fingers fuss at the knot of his tie even though it was already perfectly in place. You’ve always loved that love lives in the smallest spaces between them. Like, fixing something that doesn’t need fixing just so you can touch the person you adore, or as an excuse to say I’m here.

Your eyes drifted across the table again, to the empty chair beside Sunghoon’s father. He didn’t seem to care one bit about the absence of his wife, or maybe he did; you could never tell with him. But he was carrying on with his wine as though her absence wasn’t glaring in the space she should’ve filled.

Before anyone could fill the silence, the clink of trays broke through, and a waiter stepped in with a flourish, delicately laying out plates of appetizers one by one. The salads were dressed so beautifully they looked like they belonged in a painting: little arrangements of greens, bright slices of fruit, and thin curls of something pickled. 

And then under the table, Sunghoon’s knee found yours for a third time.

Fuck this. You kept your eyes down on the plate, on the neat circle of greens and the smear of sauce across the glass, and let your voice come out low enough that only he could hear.  “Move.”

He didn’t. “Address me properly, maybe I will.”

Your lips curved as you picked up your fork. “I told you we don’t need to talk outside of class.”

“Behave first.”

A quiet breath slipped through your nose. “Don’t tell me what to do.”

“Someone should.” He glanced at your father and pointed his fork at him, “Clearly, no one ever did.”

Says the one with the absent mother, you thought. “Try behaving yourself first.” You shoved at his knee just enough to push him off, careful not to draw anyone’s attention.

He eased back half an inch, but then he came right back, brushing your knee again like he wanted you to know it was a choice this time.

He’s literally acting like a fucking twelve year old boy. You set your fork down, finally turned your head, and met his eyes head on. “Stop.”

“Address me properly.”

Was he still on that? God, he was insufferable.

“If you don’t move, I swear to God—”

“You’ll what? Make a scene right here, in front of everyone?”

You stabbed a piece of fruit with your fork harder than necessary. “I’ll break your fucking leg under this table.” 

“Mmm. Say it louder.” 

At that exact moment, a waiter arrived with another tray of porcelain plates steaming, and he moved between you and Sunghoon, and the two of you separated by measured politeness. The waiter set the plates down with a practiced smile and went on.

“Thank God,” Heeseung muttered under his breath and then, louder, a little slurred, “Praise the heavens. You two need help.”

The rest of it passed in pieces, with Sunghoon’s father occasionally uttering a few cold remarks as if this whole thing was beneath him, your father countering with a laugh that didn’t quite land, little patches of small talk blooming and withering, and the silences in between being heavy enough that you had to count your breaths to sit through them.

By the time you excused yourself, murmuring something about touching up your makeup, your chest already felt tight. No one stopped you. They just let you slip out, which is how you ended up at the bar tucked into the corner of the hall.

It wasn’t really an escape—not when every few steps someone stopped you, hand brushing your arm, smiling a little too wide. You heard it over and over again.

You look just like your mother. You’ve grown up so well. How is school going? What do you plan on doing next? 

The words piled up like appetizers on a tray, shiny and empty, until all you could do was smile and nod, let them wash over you, thank them politely even when you didn’t know half their names.

By the time you finally reached the bar, you needed the cool edge of the counter under your palms just to steady yourself.

The bartender looked at you expectantly, but you only asked for water, fingers wrapping around the glass when he set it down like you needed something solid to hold onto. You didn’t drink, you didn’t even really want the water. You just needed to be anywhere but back at that table for a moment.

“There you are, sweetheart,” a voice suddenly came from behind you. “I’ve been looking for you.”

You turned, and your stomach flipped when you saw Jake standing there with that familiar grin tugging at his mouth.

He also wore a black suit, and where Sunghoon looked devastatingly carved, Jake looked like he’d brought light with him. His jacket was open at the collar so you could see the line of his throat, and his hair was pushed back but loose at the front, skin catching the light so beautifully it was almost unfair, and he was smiling at you like he already knew the effect he had.

“Jake?” you said, blinking like you weren’t sure if you were actually seeing him. “What are you doing here?”

“I put two and two together after what y’told me and pulled some strings,” he said, grin deepening as his eyes dragged over you slowly and shamelessly, “Told my father I could make it tonight after all.” A beat. “Worth it.”

He shifted a little closer, “You look… yeah. That’s—Wow.” His gaze flicked down and back up again. “You’re kidding me. This dress? You’re trying to kill me.”

“Blame my mother,” you said, trying and failing to sound bored. 

“Remind me to thank her.” He let that sit, his smile going softer as his eyes found yours. “Hi.”

You felt yourself exhale, shoulders dropping the inch you hadn’t realized they’d climbed. “Hi,” you echoed.

“Missed you.”

Your smile grew wider. “It’s been a day.”

He shrugged. “Exactly. What have you done to me?” he dramatically clutched his chest and pointed at you mockingly. “You’ve got me under some kind of spell.”

You couldn’t help the laugh that slipped out. “You calling me a witch?” you asked, brows tugging up at him.

“No, ma’am.” He leaned in just a little, voice dropping, “Saying I can’t stop thinking about you.”

Your lips pressed into a thin line as your eyes darted around the room. Too many people, too many eyes—you weren’t about to be openly flirting in front of all of them. But when you looked back, he was still watching you, steady.

“Where are you seated, pretty?”

“Uh, table three. With—”

“Hee? And Sunghoon?”

You nodded once. “Yeah.” You bit back the word ‘unfortunately’ before it could leave your mouth.

Something in his expression shifted, the faintest twist, before he said, “I just talked to Hee, actually.” He turned slightly, “He’s right over there."

He glanced back fully and gave a small wave, and when you followed his line of sight, you saw Heeseung—and Sunghoon stood right beside him. 

“Oh,” Jake added casually, “and Sunghoon.”

Heeseung's attention was elsewhere, but Sunghoon’s gaze was fixated on you like maybe he’d been watching longer than you wanted to know. 

He pressed his tongue against the inside of his cheek, that faint smile tugging at the corner of his mouth as his gaze flicked once to Jake. Then he raised his glass in a slow, deliberate toast, eyes locked back on you.

Your eyes were still on him when Jake leaned in even closer. “Can I steal you for five?” he asked, “Or ten? I’m flexible. Or,” he added, “I can just stand here and tell you how beautiful you look until you get bored and kick me back to the diplomats. Though they’ll bore me to death, and I’d much rather be with you.”

“Flatterer,” you said, but you were smiling now.

“Accurate reporter,” he corrected, eyes dipping once more to the neckline of your dress before he caught himself, a quiet laugh slipping out. “Sorry. Not sorry. You’re… yeah. Distracting.”

Here, it was just him, the clean heat of his cologne, and that open, flirty focus that always made you feel like the rest of the room had been turned down.

“Five minutes,” you said.

“Deal.” he smirked and offered his hand, “Lead the way, pretty.”

You looked down at his hand, then back up at him again, arching a brow. “Are you crazy? Someone could see us. Just… follow me. Stay behind.”

“Shit,” he murmured with a low whistle, “I like it when you tell me what to do.”

You didn’t dignify that with a response, just turned and started walking, heels clicking softly and even against the marble, keeping your chin high and every single movement practiced. 

For a second, you almost thought to look back to see if Sunghoon was still watching the two of you. But you didn’t.

You slipped past a server balancing a tray of champagne and turned down one of the narrower corridors, quieter, tucked away. You knew your way around here to know that at the very end sat a bathroom most people would pass by without a second glance.

You pushed the door open and stepped in alone, shutting it behind you just long enough to breathe. Your reflection stared back from the mirror—hair pinned perfectly in place, dress clinging to your skin beautifully.

The door opened again, and Jake slipped in without hesitation, shutting it behind him with a quiet click.

“Fuck, needed you to myself the second I saw you,” he started immediately, “You have any idea what you look like right now?”

“Jake—“

“Remember the last thing you texted me? And then you show up here looking like…” his gaze trailed down, lingering on the neckline, the bare sides of the dress, the way it hugged your waist. “…that.” His jaw flexed. “You really are cruel for doing this to me.”

“Well, I do remember.” you swallowed, forcing yourself to hold his stare in the mirror. “M’just Making you work harder for it.”

“Oh, I plan on it.” he stepped right up behind you.  “Question is, sweetheart…” he dipped his head, “…how quiet can you be?”

A beat of silence passed.

You held his gaze in the mirror and tilted your head. “Who said I wanna be quiet?”

That made him groan. “Shit.”

His hands found your waist, thumbs riding the dip. “Say the word and I’ll stop,” he murmured, breath warm at the base of your neck. “You want me to touch you?”

You hated how fast it came out. “Yes.”

“Good girl.”

His eyes caught yours in the mirror and held them as his hand slid lower, following the seam of your dress to where the slit began, knuckles grazing your inner thigh.

Your breath stuttered. “That’s it… Look at me,” he whispered, dragging his fingers a little higher. “Keep looking at me.”

You couldn’t. Your lashes fluttered, breath breaking out of you in a shaky sound as he pushed up against you just the slightest.

“Eyes on me,” he said again, softer this time, almost coaxing. “Let me see how bad you want it.” He paused just shy of where you were already hot and aching. “Say it again. Tell me what to do.”

“Please—touch me,” you whispered, breath shaking.

“Louder, baby.” His voice tightened, almost a whine. “Say my name. Need to hear it.”

“Okay—fuck—Jake.”

That was all it took. He finally slid his fingers up, pushing the thin fabric aside with a slow drag of his knuckles until he found your clit, and immediately circled it—enough to make you jerk, then pressed a little harder, rubbing slow, tight circles.

A small sound slipped out of you, caught between a whine and a moan, and Jake let out one of his own, head tipping forward like the sound alone had undone him. “Ohhh, fuckkk—You’re fucking soaked. Tell me you’re wet for me.”

You forced your eyes open, holding his gaze in the mirror even as your lips parted. “Always.”

He groaned, “Jesus Christ. You’re gonna kill me.”

His mouth found your jaw, then your neck, teeth scraping lightly before he soothed it with his tongue. His other hand came up to cup your breast through the dress, thumb dragging over your nipple until you gasped and your head tipped back against his shoulder.

“Mm, no—eyes, baby. Watch.” His hand left your breast for your jaw, firm enough to turn your face forward again, making you watch yourself in the mirror while his fingers pressed harder against your clit, rubbing slowly and deliberately.

“Jake…” your voice broke on his name, lips falling open.

“That’s it.” He kissed the side of your mouth, open and messy, not caring about the lipstick smearing across both your mouths. “You sound so fucking good. You have no idea what you do to me.”

Maybe if you had half the mind left, you’d tell him to stop marking you, to stop sucking so hard at the side of your neck that you knew it would bloom purple by morning, to not fuck up the makeup your mom’s makeup artist spent so long touching up. You’d tell him you couldn’t afford to walk back out into that ballroom with proof of him on your skin. But the second his finger finally slid past your folds and pressed into your pussy, all you could manage was a filthy, broken moan.

“Fuuuck—” you gasped, nails scraping lightly against the porcelain sink as your thighs instinctively tried to close around his hand. He stopped them easily, his knee sliding between yours to keep you open, the sound of your wetness filling the room as he started moving his finger inside you.

“God, listen to that,” he groaned against your ear. “So fucking wet already—” he pulled back almost all the way and then sank his finger in again, slower this time, “I’ve thought about this so much, baby. Thought about your pretty pink pussy while I had my fist wrapped around my cock. All those nights you teased me and left me hanging—fucking tease.”

“Not a... Not a tease.” 

He pulled back just enough to force your face forward again, hand gripping your chin until your eyes met the mirror. “I said watch—Yeah, just like that.”

Then the sudden emptiness he left behind made your hips twitch forward, clenching around nothing for a moment. “Wh—” you started, but he turned you around and gripped your thighs, hauled you up like you weighed nothing, and set you down on the edge of the sink.

“Spread your legs for me,” he breathed, crowding in between your knees, his forehead pressing to yours for just a second before pulling back to look at you properly

You spread for him slowly, the slit of your dress falling open with every inch, and he just stood there for a second, drinking you in like a starved man.

“Fuckkkkk,” he groaned, running a hand through his hair, “God—I wanna fuck you so bad. You don’t even know.”

Your head tipped back against the glass. You should’ve laughed at how insane he sounded, at how desperate he looked, but your brain was mush. You wanted to say something sharp, tease him for whining, but all that left you was a shaky, “Jake…”

He leaned in, nose brushing yours, his breath frantic. “Yeah, baby. Say it again. Say my name when I’m inside you.” His fingers slid back up your thigh, and then pressed over your slick again. Your whole body shuddered when he spread your folds apart with two fingers before he finally had it in you again. “Look at this pussy. All this for me. While everyone’s out there.”

Your hips jerked, and he grabbed your jaw with his free hand. “Open. Tongue out.”

You blinked, dazed, but did it anyway. He brought his hand up again and pushed the finger he’d had inside you past your lips, and the taste of yourself hit your tongue.

“That’s it,” he rasped, watching like he’d never seen anything so obscene. “Suck it for me.”

You hollowed your cheeks slowly just to tease him, and his whole body jolted. “God, you’re perfect. Nobody gets this but me.”

Again, if you’d had half the mind, you’d argue, tell him he was insane. But you were too far gone, too hot, too wet, and had spent nights thinking about him having you like this far too long to argue. You just wanted him to keep going, to keep saying all of it, even if you didn’t believe a word.

Jake’s hand left your jaw only to tug at the neckline of your dress, pulling until the fabric slipped low enough for your breasts to spill free. His breath hitched, a ragged groan falling out of him before his mouth latched onto one of them, sucking until your nipple pebbled against his tongue.

“Mmmphhh—” he moaned into your skin, squeezing the other with his free hand. “So round, so full, so fucking—Been thinking about these every night, baby. Shit—If he—anyone—saw you like this—”

His teeth grazed lightly before he soothed it with a wet kiss, sucking hard again until you gasped and arched into him.

He pulled back just long enough to look at you and clicked his tongue, “This won’t do,” he panted, “Talk to me, baby. I need to hear you.”

Your lips parted, but all that came was a shaky whimper, and he kissed you before you could even try again, catching your mouth in his, hot, open, desperate, his tongue sliding against yours like he wanted to swallow every sound you made.

You made a muffled noise against his mouth, pushing at his chest weakly. “Jake—my makeup—” you breathed, lips already smudged pink against his.

“Don’t care,” he muttered, biting at your bottom lip before sucking it between his own, “Don’t fucking care. Just want you.”

“You’re being so needy—God, you’re obsessed—”

“Fucking am,” His hand slid back down between your legs, spreading you open wider, his thumb brushing slick circles over your clit while his mouth stayed locked to yours. He grabbed your wrist with his other hand and dragged your hand down between you, “Fuck, feel me,” he hissed against your mouth and pressed your palm against his thick bulge straining against his pants, grinding into it like he couldn’t help himself.

You sucked in a sharp breath, your fingers twitching against him. He was so hard and thick you couldn’t think straight, and when you squeezed a little, he groaned right against your lips, forehead falling against yours.

“Yeah,” he rasped, hips jerking once into your hand. “Shit—fuck, tell me where you want it.” His hand covered yours, forcing you to rub him harder, dragging your palm along the length of his cock until you felt the thick head through the fabric.

“Here, baby? In my pants? Fuck—You want me to ruin my suit for you right here? Let everyone out there see me walk back dripping because of you?” he curled his finger inside you at the same time, pressing up into that spot that made your thighs tremble, then dragged it back out slowly just to shove it in again. “Or do you want me buried in this tight fucking pussy, fucking you stupid while you watch yourself come apart in that mirror?”

“You—Aaah—you talk too much,” you gasped, hips rocking down on his fingers shamelessly as he continued his motions. “Just fuck me—please, J..Jake—just fuck me—”

“Holy shit—Y/N—don’t say that to me right now, I’ll lose it—” his forehead pressed to yours as his fingers picked up a filthy rhythm inside you. Curl, drag, curl again—each thrust hitting that spot so perfectly you swore the sink under you rattled. His thumb circled your clit, faster now, slick sounds and moans filling the small bathroom you were sure anyone passing by would have heard. “Shit— You want everyone out there to hear?”

“I thought… I said I don’t give a shit—let them.”

He growled, actually fucking growled, before sucking at your throat so hard you knew it’d bruise. 

Your thighs trembled around his arm, your breath coming out ragged. “Jake—oh my god—I’m—fuck—”

“That’s it,” he groaned, kissing at your open mouth, your jaw, anywhere he could reach, all too sloppy. “Shit, you’re squeezing me. Come for me, pretty, let me feel it, let me fucking feel this pussy—fuck—I need it—”

Your whole body tightened and then snapped, a moan ripping out of your throat before you could stop it, louder than it should’ve been, your cunt clenching so hard around his fingers you almost saw white.

“Good girl—so good—my perfect fucking girl—” He kept fucking you through it, his thumb never leaving your clit until your thighs squeezed his wrist tight and your whole body sagged against him—

And then, your phone started ringing inside your purse on the counter.

It was so cliché it almost made you laugh, except the sound of your ringtone—the one you’d picked out for your mother—physically yanked you back into your body, back into the reality of where you were. Your heart jumped, panic threading through the haze as you smacked at his chest weakly, “Oh my god—Jake—what time is it?”

He just kissed you again, hard, like he could shove the question right back down your throat.

Then his jaw flexed, and he muttered against your mouth, “Ignore it.”

“Mmpph—” You managed against his lips, “Jake—my mother—“ he kissed you again, “what time—” he kept planting kisses on your mouth.

For a second, you gave in, letting yourself sink back into it, into the heat of his cock in your hand, squeezing him harder just to hear the groan it tore out of him.

And then his phone started ringing inside his pocket.

He tore away from your mouth with a guttural groan, head dropping into the crook of your neck. “You’ve got to be fucking kidding me.” His hips still rocked into your fist like he couldn’t stop, “Swear the whole goddamn universe doesn’t want me inside you.”

You let out what sounded like a giggle, “Maybe it’s a sign,” you whispered, though your hand betrayed you, tugging at his belt until the buckle clinked loose, and then toyed with his zipper, “Answer it.”

Jake raised a brow, but his gaze dropped instantly to where your hands were brushing the band of his boxers, and the corner of his mouth twitched, before he reached into his pocket and pulled his phone out with a sigh.

The second you pushed his briefs down, your lips parted around a quiet, shaky sound. He was so thick your fingers barely wrapped around him, precum glistened at the flushed tip, and you couldn’t stop yourself when your tongue darted out to wet your lips.

You were smoothing your thumb over the bead of precum at his tip, spreading it slowly across the velvety skin, when he answered the phone.

Jake’s throat worked as he swallowed hard, phone pressed to his ear, his eyes locked on you like he’d come undone if you so much as squeezed. “Y—yeah,” he stammered when you dragged your fist down the length of his cock, watching the muscles in his jaw tighten as he tried to keep his composure. “I’m here, Father. No, no– I’m with Sunghoon.”

Your breath hitched at the mention of his name, but you shoved it down. Jake was barely listening to whatever his father was saying, his knuckles white around the phone, his other hand braced on the counter like it was the only thing keeping him steady. You dragged his boxers down enough to free him, and fuck—up close he looked even thicker, and your mouth watered, pressing a kiss just under the head. His whole body twitched, and he muttered something into the phone that wasn’t an answer at all.

His hips jerked, a hiss slipping between his teeth, guiding you closer, desperate, needy, cock twitching in your hand as he pulled his phone away. “Pretty little mouth—God, I’m gonna—”

You licked your lips anyway, dragging your tongue over the tip. “Oh, fuck. Shit. Hold on—" His free hand shot down, tangling in your hair—careful enough not to mess up your updo, but just enough to hold you back just before you could take him into your mouth. “Y-yes, father, I’ll be there for the announcement. I’ll come back now.”

“Wait—” you started, but then your phone rang again.

Maybe it truly was a sign, you thought. 

Jake hung up fast and looked at you. “Shit—we gotta go.”

“Yeah,” you muttered, followed by a curse under your breath, and stood quickly, turning around to take your reflection in—and you immediately panicked. You looked insane—lipstick smudged, skin flushed and damp, dress wrinkled around the edges. You dug into your bag with trembling hands, powdering over the blooming marks on your throat, grabbing your scarf from the counter, and tugging it up high to cover what wouldn’t fade.

Jake was still muttering under his breath, buttoning his jacket crookedly. “Shit, I can’t fucking walk out there like this. My fucking dick’s throbbing—fuck—I need to cum.”

You smoothed your dress one last time, tugged the straps back into place, and glanced at him through the mirror, “You’ll live.”

He cocked a brow. “Oh, so now my pretty little thing’s got a mouth on her?”

The way he said my so casually made your heart stutter. “Forgive me if I’m not exactly thinking straight enough to speak while you fuck my brains out with your fingers.”

Jake let out a low groan, dragging a hand down his face like you were actually killing him. “I’ll throw you back on that sink and fuck you stupid right now.”

You brush past him, fingers flat against his chest, and click your tongue,  “Aren’t you all talk? Duty calls, Ambassador’s son.”

“Such a brat,” he breathes, but he doesn’t stop you. Instead, he cups your jaw and drags you in for one last hard kiss—smudging the makeup you’d just fixed, earning him a swat to the chest. He only grinned against your mouth, and you kissed him back anyway.

“Next time,” he murmured, “I’m not stopping for anything.”

By the time you slipped back into the ballroom, the crowd had thinned toward the stage, your father and the others nowhere in sight. When you’d finally answered your mom, she’d said Dinner’s starting, where are you—come sit, but when you reached your table, she wasn’t there either.

Only two figures remained, half-sunk into their chairs. Heeseung lounged back, collar loosened, his hand draped lazily over his wine glass. Beside him, Sunghoon sat straighter but not quite steady, his gaze fixed on nothing in particular until you slid quietly into your seat again.

Heeseung grinned. ears red, “Oh, great heavens above,” he drawled, leaning forward on one elbow, “I’mm so happy to see you. He was about to mill me—kill me to death—talking about—”

“Shut your stupid mouth.” Sunghoon groaned, his cheeks looked flushed.

You hissed under your breath, glancing around to make sure no one was paying too much attention to them, and to how you kept fidgeting to fix your scarf. “Oh my god. Are you two drunk?”

Heeseung blinked at you, then grinned again. “Nooo. Just a little. Little drunk. Very little.” He tilted his head like he was considering something deeply important. “Oh… wait. Did you say two? As in plural. Meaning me and…” He jerked his chin toward Sunghoon. “Oooh. Yeah. He’s drunk two. too.”

“You two are actually—“ you narrowed your eyes, “Here of all places? Heeseung, your dad is going to kill you two.” The irony of you policing them about being in public was not lost upon you.

“Too? Was that plural or no? Wait—My dad has killed someone before?”

You shot Sunghoon a look. “Why would you let him—How many drinks have you had?”

“None of your business.” Sunghoon shot back lowly, “I’m fine.”

Heeseung snorted loud enough to earn a glance from the next table. “He’s not fine.”

“He’s so not fine,” Heeseung sang, tipping the last of his glass into his mouth before pointing a finger across the table. “He started drinking the second Jake—OW! Mother of God—help me—”

You blinked as Sunghoon lowered his hand back to the table, face smooth like he hadn’t just smacked Heeseung across the shoulder hard enough to make him jolt.

“What the hell?” Heeseung whined, rubbing at the spot dramatically. "In front of a lady? Have some shame.”

“Anything but a lady,” Sunghoon muttered under his breath.

Your head snapped toward him. “What did you say?”

He turned then, and the weight of his gaze made your stomach lurch. He didn’t blink, just let it burn through you until he flicked his fingers lazily towards his own neck. “Missed a spot.”

Heat shot up your throat so fast it almost made you dizzy. Your hand flew up on instinct, tugging the fabric higher, cheeks blazing. “You—” you didn’t have the right words.

Heeseung, oblivious, tipped his head back and groaned, “What is happening right now? Someone explain to me. Hello.”  he mumbled, half to himself, half to the ceiling, “I’m surrounded by ungrateful bastards. I provide entertainment, I provide warmth, I provide charm—what do I get? Abuse.” He jabbed a finger at Sunghoon. “You don’t even laugh at my jokes. 

“Because they’re not funny,” Sunghoon said flatly, still looking at you.

Heeseung gasped like he’d just been stabbed. “Not funny? Not—” He pressed a hand to his chest, swaying a little. “Y/N, tell him. Tell him I’m hilarious. I can’t breathe.”

You forced your eyes away from Sunghoon, “You’re hilarious, Hee. Drink some water,” you said dryly, hoping the weight in your chest would ease if you just didn’t look back.

Heeseung brightened immediately, his grin stretching ear to ear. “See? She loves me. I knew it. My little mister—sister. You’re just a stone wall, Hoon—cold, heartless. Meanwhile, me?” He thumped his chest, “Full of life. Warmth. Generosity.”

Sunghoon finally leaned back, a faint smirk curling at his mouth. “Full of shit,” he muttered.

For a second, you almost laughed because the whole thing was stupidly familiar, but you pressed your mouth into a flat line and let your gaze drift off instead to scan the room.

And then your eyes caught on Jake across the ballroom. He was standing near men who looked all too important, his smile charming enough to earn soft laughter from the older man beside him. His hand gestured once, smooth, and your stomach clenched so hard it hurt because all you could see was those same fingers buried inside you not ten minutes ago. The heat hit your cheeks before you could stop it.

You swallowed and dropped your gaze quickly, only to find Sunghoon watching you still, like he hadn’t looked away once. His eyes weren’t… dark the way they usually were. Softer, but heavier somehow, like he could see straight through the scarf at your throat, straight through the flush in your cheeks, straight through to the memory you were trying not to choke on.

“What?” you hissed.

Sunghoon shifted beside you, leaning just a little too close to the point where you smelled the alcohol in his breath. “You’re doing it again,” he slurred, chin tipping toward your lap, and when you followed his gesture, you realized you’d picked your skin bloody. “S’gonna hurt if you keep picking like that.”

“Excuse me?” 

He blinked, slow, his gaze dragging from your hands back up to your face. “You always do that.” There was no bite to his words — only a strange softness. “When you’re nervous. You used to…” He trailed off, lips twitching, “Bad habit.”

It was ridiculous how fast your mind betrayed you. 

One second, you were sitting in this glittering room with its chandeliers and beautiful silverware; the next, it flicked back to a different version of you, a younger girl sitting cross-legged on a polished wooden floor, stinging thumbs tucked into her palms while a boy a little older than her swatted at her hands for the fifth time that hour. You could almost feel the brush of his knuckles again, and how in the end he’d always give up and bring out a pack of crumpled bandages from his pocket he always kept in there instead, for this exact reason, kneeling awkwardly in front of you to cover the raw skin with careful fingers, and not saying anything about it while you stared at the top of his bent head. 

It was a small, traitorous memory, and it hit you hard enough to make you pull your hands back into your lap, curling them tight like maybe you could hide them from him, from yourself, from how your brain kept creeping up the past on you.

“You’re drunk,” you muttered, forcing your eyes forward, anywhere but him.

“M’not blind.”

At that, you looked. “Don’t pretend to care, Sunghoon.”

He studied you for a moment, then muttered, “I know you too well to pretend.”

Heeseung suddenly leaned forward, squinting between the two of you, “What’s going on here?” he demanded, blinking slow. “Hello? Are we fighting again? I don’t want t’fight… I miss you guys… No more. I swear to god, you two have been fighting for like—four years? I have a better F… suggestion.. Just… just fuck already. Or something.”

You snapped your head towards him. “Heeseung—”

Sunghoon let out a laugh—he actually laughed, soft around the corners, and shook his head, 

“You’re unbelievable,” you murmured, looking at them both.

“I’m a visionary,” Heeseung said proudly, sitting back with a flourish that nearly tipped his chair. He pointed between you and Sunghoon again. “What? Don’t look at me like that; I’m just saying what we’re all thinking.”

“We’re not all thinking that,” you hissed, heat crawling all the way up your neck.

He brought his fingers up to count. “Speak for yourself. Me, Jungwon, Y-Yunjin, Yunah, Jay, Jake—“ he shook his head, blinking hard. “Wait, I counted wrong… Shungwon—”

“You’re drunk out of your mind.” You reached forward to steady the base of his wine glass before he could knock it over. But when you turned back, Sunghoon was already tipping sideways in his chair, elbow slipping off the armrest.

“Shit—” you caught his arm before he could slide further, his weight heavier than you expected as he leaned into you.

He blinked at you, slow, unfocused. “M’fine.”

“You’re not fine,” you muttered, trying to straighten him back up, but he didn’t budge, shoulders slack against your side. His head tilted just enough that you could feel the brush of his hair against your arm. “Why the fuck do you drink this much?”

Heeseung pointed at the two of you, “See? Look at that. She’s already taking care of you. My work here is done.” He raised his empty glass and looked up to the sky. “God? Am I a prophet? Give me a sign.”

You glared at him over your shoulder. “Drink your water before I shove it up your asshole.”

Heeseung gasped, and grabbed his ass where he sat, “My— freak.” He drank his water carefully, “No touching my ass.. No..”

You ignored him, “Sunghoon, sit up.”

But he only hummed, low and almost content, and let more of his weight settle into your shoulder.

“Y’keep calling me—that.” His reply was muffled, lips barely moving near your shoulder. 

“Your name? Well, no shit—“

“Still not addressing me properly.” He hummed, then clicked his tongue. “Brat. I’m older than you.”

For a second, you just stared at the chandelier above the table like maybe it could swallow you whole. “You’re so fucking drunk, Jesus, you reek.” 

“I said m’fine,” he slurred, trying to brace himself with his hand, elbow on the table, but it slipped, sending him pitching forward until his head practically landed in your lap.

His cheek hovered dangerously close to your thigh, and the panic clawed up your throat before you wrestled him upright again.

“Sunghoon,” you hissed, shoving him, “Get your shit together. People are going to see.”

“M’tryin’,” he mumbled, his hair fell across his forehead as he blinked up at you. 

You shoved at his shoulder again, hissing under your breath, “Sunghoon, get up, your tie’s—” you tugged where the silk had caught on your bracelet, “—it’s stuck.”

He let out a low laugh, breath warm against your neck. “Mmm. Least my old man’s not here to see…”

You frowned, trying to pry him off. “Shut up—“

“Knotted my tie wrong once.” His voice slurred, dipping lower, like he was talking more to himself than you. “He—he didn’t like that. Said a Park’s only as good as his presentation. Couldn’t move m’neck for days.”

You stilled. “What did you say?”

But Sunghoon only blinked at you, unfocused, as if he hadn’t realized what he’d just said. “You smell nice.”

Your head was spinning. “Sunghoon—What—Oh will you just get up.”

He only tilted his head, “Address me properly.”

Heat rose up your neck. “You’re out of your mind.”

“M’not getting up until you say it.”

Across the table Heeseung said something—probably another dumb comment—but you didn’t catch it, your focus was on Sunghoon’s weight against you, the way his head lolled dangerously close again. 

You shoved lightly at his shoulder, trying to pry him off. “Sunghoon,” you hissed through your teeth, the smile you forced on your face practiced when you glanced up—because people were already watching.

“Say it,” Sunghoon muttered again, heavier this time, like he actually meant it. 

You clenched your jaw. “For fuck’s sake—”

“No. Try again.” he pushed.

Your cheeks were hot, your smile still plastered on for the few people glancing your way. “Fine. Mr. Park,” you hissed under your breath, “get the fucking fuck up.”

That finally made him move.

“Was that so hard?”

“Shut up.”

But then the scrape of wood made your stomach drop. His chair tipped too far back, his balance completely gone, and before you could catch him, Sunghoon slid right off, landing on the floor with a dull thud.

“Fuck—” you shot up from your seat immediately, heat rushing to your face as a few heads turned your way. “Heeseung, help me,” you hissed, already crouching down to grab at Sunghoon’s arm.

Heeseung just blinked at the sight, wide-eyed for a second before letting out a laugh that made you want to strangle him. “Oh, this is so bad. So, so bad.” He half-spilled out of his chair anyway, reaching down with both hands. “Ohhhhhh. The Weeknd, if you can hear me... Save me the weekend. The Weeknd, if you can hear me—”

“Shut the fuck up and help me,” you snapped, looping your arm under Sunghoon’s to haul him upright. He came up heavier than expected, all lean muscle gone slack, and before you could adjust, he was already clinging to you, face pressed into the curve of your neck like he belonged there.

“You’re so heavy,” you hissed, trying to peel him back, but his breath was warm against your skin, hair brushing your jaw.

“Mmm.” His voice was muffled, thick with alcohol. “Why’d you wear this dress…” His lips grazed the edge of your scarf, and he blinked up at you slowly. “You look… s’good.”

Your pulse hammered in your throat. “You need air.”

“Need you,” he slurred, and you froze so hard that Heeseung nearly toppled into both of you.

“Here he goes again,” Heeseung muttered, his laugh turning wheezy as he pried at Sunghoon’s other arm. “M’gonna need five more drinks after this.”

Sunghoon shifted against you, his words tumbling out, “Don’t… don’t letm— go. Please.”

His weight was heavy, but the words were heavier. They dug into you, confusing, traitorous, something you weren’t ready to pick apart—not here, not now. 

“Stop talking.” But you tightened your grip on him without thinking, your hand curling at his wrist, steadying him like it was the most natural thing in the world. You didn’t even question why. Didn’t stop to wonder why you cared, or why you weren’t embarrassed, or why it felt more instinct than choice to keep him upright, ignoring the way it made your chest burn hotter than it had than when you were in the bathroom.

And if you’d bothered to look around—if you hadn’t been entirely too focused on him—you would have noticed how Jake was watching you from across the room.

But you didn’t.

REBLOGS ALWAYS APPRECIATED ( ˘⌣˘)♡(˘⌣˘ )

𝓝 ⟢ AAAAAAAHHHHHHHH SHE’S FINALLY HERE !!!!!!!! ꒰ᐢ>⩊<ᐢ꒱ so, lots of things to unpack… read between the lines, yall. ALSO MEET DA PARENTS!!!!!!!! do you understand why she is the way she is now… heol… also hello smut debut… sunghoon girlies please do not waver… you will be fed beyond words when the time comes. this? this was nothing. fr. and yes… also taehyung as her brother... yall done made the wrong bitch an author why is taehyung the bus driver all of a sudden? i'm picturing song hyekyo as her mother and gong yoo as her father… obviously you’re free to picture whoever but that’s my silly little casting. and her mother’s name is aesun because of when life gives you tangerines 🍊 yes, i’m normal about my interests!

TELL ME ALL YOUR THOUGHTS AS ALWAYS, MY ANGELS !!!!!!!! thank youuuu for reading, i love you endlessly mwah (｡>﹏<｡)♡