When you shuffle to the breakfast table with Satoru, Shoko’s eyes glint over the rim of her mug.

Out of all his friends, she feels the hardest to read. Aloof. Neutral. And dangerously observant — like she’s already written your character analysis in her head. You try not to squirm under the weight of it.

“Good morning!” Yuji chirps, scooting over and patting the floor cushion beside him. “C’mon, sit. Nanami made pancakes. It’ll get cold.”

But Yuji’s kindness?

Effortless.

It’s like he’s already decided you belong, no questions asked. His warmth is instinct, not something you have to deserve.

God. You’re not sure if that makes you feel better… or worse.

“I—uh, thank you.” You offer a sheepish smile, taking a seat as Nanami sets down a plate in front of you with surgical precision.

“Eat,” he commands, wiping his hands on his apron. “You’ll need the energy. The time change is brutal,” and he sits across from you with a sigh. “Plus, being around Satoru is exhausting enough.”

“Excuse you?!”

Satoru flops onto the cushion beside you, close enough that you can feel the heat of him — but not close enough to touch.

“I’m a delight. A gift. A national treasure,” And with zero shame, he snags a piece of bacon off Nanami’s plate like it’s his god-given right.

“Itadakimaaaasu~”

You smile, because you’re supposed to. Because last night you cried into the snow, and this morning you’re apparently someone’s girlfriend.

“Oh, hey!” Satoru grins, mouth full. “What’s the occasion, Kento? Pancakes?? Shit. Must be my lucky day – you never make my favorite.”

“That’s because you never clean up after yourself,” Nanami deadpans.

But Satoru shrugs, completely unabashed, diving in.

“The pancakes were Yuji’s idea,” Megumi mutters around a bite. “He thought it would be right to do something special.”

“Yup!” Yuji beams, nudging the syrup your way. “Had to commemorate the occasion! Right?! Welcome to Japan!”

You blink.

Ugh…

It’s sweet. Too sweet. And that’s the problem.

Because the more comfortable they make you feel, the worse it feels to lie.

But… lying’s what Satoru does best, isn’t it?

Your chest tightens as you plaster on a tight smile. This trip wasn’t what you’d thought it would be. And that… hurts. You wish things were different.

As you reach for the syrup, Satoru does as well, making your fingers brush. The contact is brief, nothing like the way you woke up tangled together. And as that memory floods back, your cheeks burn and—

“S-Sorry…” you murmur, pulling back. “Oh… s’fine,” he says softly, eyes on his plate.

Shoko’s gaze flicks between you and Satoru — once, twice — like she’s clocking something invisible.

Fuck.

Now you’ve made it weirder. Perfect. You’re really not a good liar. Not since you were six and tried to convince your mom the fucking cat ate your homework — even then, you burst into tears before you finished the sentence.

But you’re already in it now. And Yuji, at least, is still oblivious.

“Man… this is great!!” he beams, gesturing at you both with a fork. “It’s not every day Satoru is honest in the romance department!”

Satoru chokes on a strawberry. You hold back a snort.

Honest?

Now that is comedy. Because if this is honesty? You’d hate to see what he calls lying.

Though, hearing that… kind of intrigues you. The petty part of you wants to ask — what exactly has he lied about before?

You can’t help yourself. Glancing up sweetly, you slide your fork through syrup-slick pancake.

“Oh, really?” you ask smugly, trying not to smile. “Aww… that’s so sweet. Honesty is so important in our relationship. Isn’t that right, ‘toru?”

Satoru clears his throat. “Obviously,” he says, forcing a crooked smile. “With you? I’m honest to a fault. Ask anyone.”

“Oh, totally,” Yuji snorts. “The Gabumon scarf told me everything I needed to know.” He grins at you, shoving in another bite.

And you tilt your head while Megumi adds, “Yup. Only, like… four people on the planet even know he’s a closeted nerd. He wouldn’t tell just anyone.”

…

Huh?

Your brows pinch as you glance over at Satoru. His gaze is fixed on his plate, rearranging his strawberries like it’s a fucking art project. He doesn’t say a word.

Weird…

Because the Satoru you know? The one who texted you memes and rambled about Digimon lore at 2 a.m.? He’d be bragging right now. Insisting Gabumon is S-tier, end of discussion.

Wait, wait, wait…

Now that you think about it, Satoru has always been proudly nerdy in your chats. Him being a nerd is like… the only thing you believe to be true. Hell, he once sent you a ten-minute voice memo breaking down Naruto filler arcs. He ranked Pokémon gym leaders with scary precision. He’s got takes on the Star Wars prequels that would get him cancelled on Twitter.

And now Yuji’s calling him closeted?

“Anyways,” Yuji continues, breaking your thoughts, “m’sorry if Sukuna came off kinda intense last night. Hope he didn’t make you uncomfortable—”

“Wait—WHAT?” Satoru snaps, so fast you jump. “The fuck did he do this time?” And his head whips toward you, eyes narrowing. “He say something to you, sweetheart?”

The heat behind his tone makes you blink. There’s a sharpness you’ve never heard. Not the typical teasing cadence, where you could hear his lopsided grin. No. It’s just a raw, immediate protectiveness. One that doesn’t feel like a lie.

You’re not sure why you feel the need to reassure him but—

“O-Oh! No, it’s really not a big deal,” you rush out, waving a hand. “He didn’t make me uncomfortable. He just… caught me off guard, is all.”

But Satoru’s already scanning the estate, not buying it.

“Where is that asshole, anyway…” his jaw clenches. “Swear to god, he—"

“Relax,” Shoko drawls. “He had an early shift. Where else? Otherwise, he’d be here being loud as hell.”

“The idiot works mornings and still parties like he’s nineteen?” Nanami mutters, cutting into his pancakes. “Unbelievable…”

“Yeah…” Yuji chuckles, rubbing the back of his neck before glancing at you. “Sukuna’s my brother, by the way. I know he can be… a lot. But he means well. Usually.”

“Debatable,” Satoru mutters, stabbing his pancake like it insulted his mother.

And you glance between them, unsure what to say.

Because even on the phone, Satoru’s rants were more dramatic than serious. Hell, even last night, after everything you said to him —the names, the accusations — he’d stayed gentle. Apologetic.

But now, he looks… angry? Bitter?

The silence stretches thin. Cutlery clinks. A throat clears.

Awkward.

Then, Yuji’s phone buzzes. He pulls it out, thumbs a quick reply.

“Oh hey! Guess what?” he brightens, turning the screen toward you. “Sukuna said he convinced his boss to let him leave. Wants to celebrate you coming! Isn’t that great?!”

Satoru stiffens.

“Oh—um, really?” You blink at the unreadable kanji, offering a polite smile. “That’s nice of him. I’m sure he—”

Before you can finish, Satoru’s on it.

“Hey, uh. Babe!” he blurts, snapping his fingers like he just remembered something vital. “Didn’t I… uh. Promise you a tour today?”

“O-Oh!” You stammer, thrown off by the sudden shift. “Um… tour?”

“Y-Yeah! Don’t you remember?” He’s already in motion, steamrolling ahead like he’s speed running an escape room. “Our big, romantic tour! Let’s see… spiritual enlightenment. Scenic views. Tourist traps. Maybe a cat café?”

His hands are flailing through the air, ticking off imaginary bullet points, and you scramble to catch up.

“R-Right! Of course! Our tour!” You echo. “How could I forget?!”

Fucking hell. It feels like a bad improv scene. No script. No direction. Just panic. And everyone at the table is frozen, stoned face. Clearly not buying this bullshit. But then, Satoru’s fingers curl around yours — warm, unyielding — and you hate the way it makes your heart flutter.

…because it’s the same hand that held you steady when you were falling apart.

“This has been so much fun, guys,” he says with fake cheer, tugging you upright. “But I promised her the best of Japan. And if we stay, Nanami’s gonna make us scrub dishes like it’s team-building.”

He’s ushering you away, and Nanami scowls.

“Satoru Gojo,” he scolds, setting his cutlery down with a disapproving glare. “You will be doing the dishes when you return.”

“Huh?” Satoru calls, already halfway down the hall. “Can’t hear you Nanamin~ Bye-bye~”

You watch Satoru’s back as he tugs you, like he’s dragging you out of a fire he doesn’t know he started.

“What was that about?” you stumble, trying to keep up with his pace. “I mean, seriously Satoru… what the hell. That was a disaster. A tour?”

You’re still dazed, still reeling — still pretending this isn’t the weirdest day of your goddamn life. And your fingers tingle where his hand is wrapped around yours, like your body hasn’t gotten the memo that you’re supposed to hate him now.

No. Instead, your heart is doing something traitorous — twisting, fluttering, reaching. And you can’t stop thinking about how protective he got at the mention of Sukuna.

Does… he not want you near him? Does he hate his guts? Or is it something else?

Jealousy?

Possessiveness?

You don’t want to think it. But you do.

And worse — some foolish part of you wants it to be true. Because some aching piece of you is starving for proof. That he felt it too. That this—whatever this strange, tangled thing is—wasn’t just some elaborate game to him. That he didn’t just play with your heart and leave it out in the cold.

But then, he drops your hand, shoving both into the pockets of his hoodie like nothing happened.

“Yeeeah… um. Sorry,” he says, rubbing the back of his neck as he drops his gaze. “That was just an excuse to get you out of there.”

Your chest tightens.

“…really?”

There’s a softness in your voice, a hitch. And god, you hate it. Hate how hopeful is sounds, how obvious. He must hear it too – because his gaze flickers toward you, then away.

“Yeah. I—I mean…” he fumbles, exhaling through his nose, almost like he’s scolding himself. “A deal’s a deal, right? I was gonna introduce you to Suguru today. Needed an excuse to get you away from them.”

Oh...

Right. Of course that’s it. Of course that’s all it was. If he wanted you, he wouldn’t be setting you up with someone else. If he wanted you… he wouldn’t have lied.

“Great… sounds good.”

You look away, blinking hard. Your hand is still tingling.

Stupid.

Why would it be anything else?

With that, you’re layered up in silence — scarf, gloves, coat zipped to your chin — trailing after Satoru as he leads you through Kyoto’s backstreets.

He parks near a quiet plaza, and you shuffle through the snow, winding between shrines and vending machines, until you reach some weathered wooden storefront. A noren flutters gently in the winter air, painted with kanji you can’t decipher.

When he pulls the curtain back, you blink. “Is this a bakery?” you ask, stepping in. And he grins. “Yup! Only the best one in the city.”

Shelves glisten with sweets behind polished glass, and the scent of sugar hugs the air, blanketing you in warmth. You can’t help but think of all those late-night calls where he’d ramble about dessert with the passion of a food critic.

It makes you snort. “Typical,” you huff, unwrapping your scarf with a shake of your head. “I should’ve known you’d bring me to a bakery of all places.”

The playfulness in your tone slips out, like muscle memory. And he grins, crooked and charming.

“Uh—excuse you little missy?” he gasps, hand to chest. “What’s that supposed to mean? This isn’t your typical bakery. It’s life-altering, okay? I should be charging you for the honor, brat.”

You scoff. “Charging me? Nah, I think I paid my dues hearing you whine on the phone about craving mochi at 3 a.m.”

“Wow.” He points a dramatic finger. “That was a genuine crisis, thank you very much.” And suddenly, his whole face is lighting up, boyish and bright. “But seriously, the shikifuku mochi here? It ruins you. Nothing else compares. The outer layer’s perfectly chewy, and the inside—god, don’t even get me started—”

Too late.

He’s started, and you can’t help but grin as he spins around to face you, walking backward as he launches into full rant mode.

“It’s this stupid good black sesame filling that just melts on your tongue,” he says, animated and unfiltered. “I used to hoard, like, six at a time. Honestly though? Could’ve eaten like, twenty. Easy.”

You roll your eyes. “You’re gonna die of a sugar overdose and I’m not dragging your dramatic ass to the hospital.”

“Pshhh. Worth it.”

For a second? It’s like nothing’s changed.

“I’m tellin’ you,” he says, nudging your shoulder lightly. “I know sweets aren’t usually your thing, miss salty girl. But… I think you’d love it.”

“…yeah?” your smile softens. And he matches yours, humming, “Mhm! I mean… I used to come here all the time with Suguru and—"

That’s all it takes.

Stopping himself, you see it; the hitch in his breath, the way his mouth stills like it’s said too much. Like something warm and instinctive slipped out before he could rein it back in.

“O-Oh… um. I mean…” He’s clearing his throat, suddenly distant. “Suguru’s always loved this place…” he mumbles, gaze sliding away as he gestures toward an empty table. “Anyways. C’mon. Take a seat.”

And just like that, the moment collapses while both of you remember why you’re here. And it shouldn’t hurt — but it does. Worse than if he’d never let himself soften at all. Because it’s one thing to miss what you had. It’s another to glimpse it before he pulls away like it never meant anything.

This isn’t a date. Not with Satoru.

“Right…” you slide into the corner booth, unzipping your coat. “So… is he here then?” you murmur.

“Nah… but he’ll show up. Probably,” and he’s striding toward the counter, shouting. “Just stay put, kay? I’ll be right back!”

You frown.

…Probably?

What does that even mean?

And while his back drifts father away, you try to get it together. But your breath is uneven as you tug your sleeves over your hands.

It’s stupid. You don’t know why you’re nervous. This whole damn trip’s already gone off the rails. You’ve already been lied to, catfished, humiliated, and now? Emotionally whiplashed. What’s one more twist in this sitcom from hell?

Still…

When you glance toward the counter — at Satoru’s silhouette, laughing softly in Japanese as he chats with the barista — something in you twists. Because… you used to talk about everything.

Favorite books that wrecked you. Childhood dreams you forgot you had. The ache in your chest when certain songs came on. Hell, even the reason you haven’t spoken to your dad in three years.

And now?

The silence between you is unbearable — swollen with all the things your heart still aches to say, but knows it wouldn’t survive hearing spoken out loud. Why bother? You’ve humiliated yourself enough. And he’s a damn good liar, unlike you.

He’s playing you. No other reason makes sense. Because someone that good looking, wouldn’t need to catfish you.

What other reason is there?

You’re still stewing in that thought when—

“Alrighty then…” Satoru saunters over, carrying two drinks and a plate stacked with mochi. “—told ya I’d be right back!”

You blink, startled out of your spiral, while he sets one glass down in front of you with far too much flair. A drink you certainly didn’t request. And wouldn’t. Because it’s murky. Pale greenish-brown. Completely unappetizing.

“…what is this?” you ask, nudging it like it might grow legs. And he grins, smug. “Trust me,” he says, sliding into the booth like he settling in for a show. “It’s Suguru’s favorite. He comes here almost every morning.”

Your brow creases. “So… it’s for him?”

“Nope.” He sighs, reclining like it’s some elaborate plan. “It’s for you, sweetheart.”

Your frown deepens. “Okay. I’m confused.” And he pops a mochi into his mouth, chewing like a man with a mission. “Here’s the thing,” he says, voice muffled, propping an elbow on the table like you’re about to get educated.

“Suguru’s, like… really into fate. Like, weirdly into it. Thinks the universe talks to him through coincidences.”

You blink. “You’re joking.”

“Oh, I wish,” he huffs, holding up a finger mid-chew. “Same music? Cosmic. Same drink order? Boom. Soulmates.” His head tilts. “Oh! Bonus points if you share hobbies. Maybe you surf too?”

“…what? No.”

He frowns.

“…but you’re from California.”

“And?”

He deadpans. “Doesn’t everyone surf there?”

You roll your eyes, lifting the drink to your lips; and against your better judgement, you take a sip.

Only to immediately gag.

“Oh my god—” you choke, pushing the glass away like it’s radioactive. “What the fuck?” And Satoru is already snickering, nearly spitting out his drink.

“Awww, what’s wrong? Not a fan?!”

You cough wheezing. “No!” And you’re smiling now, because his laughter is contagious. “God, why the hell would anyone voluntarily drink this? It tastes like… expired matcha and regret had a lovechild.”

“Yup.” He sighs dreamily, smug as ever. “That’s the one~”

But it’s not long before he’s stiffening. His eyes flick toward the entrance, past the hanging noren, and the playfulness drains from his face.

“Shit,” he mutters, straightening. “Okay. Showtime. He’s here.”

And you blink, still catching your breath. “Wait—what?” But before you can look over, Satoru’s already rising. “Stay here,” he says. “I’m gonna act like we ran into each other. Then I’ll bring him over.”

What he’s saying doesn’t make any sense, and the nerves instantly return.

Panic spikes through you. “Satoru—wait, wait—” you grip his sleeve before he leaves. “He doesn’t know he’s meeting me?! I-I thought you were setting us up!”

“This is me setting you up.” He flashes a grin that’s equal parts charming and chaotic. “I told you—the guy’s obsessed with fate. So? We’re giving him fate.”

Your stomach twists. Fuck.

That definitely doesn’t help your nerves.

Lying more?

When he tries to leave, you pull him again.

“S-Satoru…”

Your expression is pleading, and his smile softens.

“Shhh. Relax, sweetheart.” He pats your hand, before backing toward the entrance. “Just remember—you love that drink, you love surfing, and you definitely love hiking. Act natural.”

Act natural?

That’s not you. That’s not natural!

And as he slips toward his ex-best friend, you take one last sip of the abomination he calls a drink — and try not to choke on the taste of your own bad decisions.

Suguru Geto.

Not the name you saw popping up on your phone, but the face of the man you’ve been imagining every time it did.

And god, he’s beautiful.

But not in the same way Satoru is… it’s something quieter. Like someone carved out of calm, with long raven hair pulled into a low bun, a few loose strands brushing his cheekbones.

You’re already staring.

And you know you shouldn’t be — fuck, you’re supposed to be acting natural, remember?

“え？久しぶりだな、傑。” (Eh? It’s been a long time, Suguru.)

Satoru steps forward, and a small smile curves Suguru’s lips.

“悟…久しいな。元気だったか？” (Satoru… it has, huh? You been well?)

Satoru chuckles, rubbing the back of his neck.

“まあね。” (More or less.)

You watch, curiously, as they fall into the rhythm of people who once moved in sync, with just enough distance to let silence rest without tension. You can’t understand a lick of what they’re saying, but there appears to be no coldness, no edge. Just a gentle, unspoken awareness of shared history.

You’re trying not to gag on the world’s worst drink, until suddenly, Satoru glances over at you. When his eyes meet yours, something about the way he smirks makes your stomach twist worse than the drink itself.

Fuckfuckfuck.

They’re headed this way.

“Suguru, I wanna introduce you to someone,” Satoru says, in English now. They stop at the table, and Satoru shoves his hands in his pockets, grinning. “This is my cousin, from the States. She’s visiting for the holidays.”

Cousin?

Fucking hell. More lies? How are you going to keep track of them?

Those violet eyes shift to you, and suddenly, you’re holding your breath. “H-Hi,” you manage, trying to smile while your hands wrap around the glass, hoping it’ll save you from drowning. “It’s really nice to meet you.”

“Likewise,” he says with a soft smile. “Welcome to Japan. Hope you enjoy your—” but then his gaze flicks down to your drink, and his eyes widen. “Wait… is that—” he gestures toward your glass. “Matcha shōga tonic?”

You blink down at it. “Oh. Um… yeah?”

And for the first time since he walked in, Suguru genuinely lights up.

“What?! No way!!” he huffs in awe, lips curling in pure delight. “That’s awesome! It’s my all-time favorite! Though I haven’t met anyone else who orders it, because most people can’t handle it.”

Yeah. No shit. You’d rather drink battery acid. But somehow, you force a smile so wide it borders on manic and raise the glass in a toast.

“What can I say?” you chirp, lying through your damn teeth. “It’s soooo good.”

And somehow, miraculously, that works. He brightens even more — like you just passed some kind of obscure test.

“That’s really cool…” he murmurs. “Dude, what the hell?” he glances at Satoru, but his eyes keep drifting back to you like candy. “You never mentioned you had a cousin from the States?”

“Huh… I didn’t?” Satoru shrugs innocently as he flops into the seat across from you. “Weird. Thought I did. She just got in a few days ago from California.”

Satoru lies so easily; you almost believe it.

“California?!” Suguru repeats, lighting up all over again. “No way. I’ve always wanted to go. You guys have everything there—beaches, cliffs, trails. I’ve heard the climbing out there is supposed to be insane.”

“Oh, totally,” you say, swirling your drink like it’ll whisper instructions. “Yosemite’s a classic. And, uh, Joshua Tree—real… gritty stone. So many… rocks.”

Wow. Great job. Your description is so vivid.

But to your surprise, Suguru’s somehow more intrigued.

“Yeah?” His brows lift. “So do you rock-climb then?”

Your brain is blue-screening, but you barrel on. “Oh. Yeah. For sure!!” you say way too fast. “I’m a huge climber. Big… rock person. Love the rocks. Boulders. I mean, obviously. When I’m not trail running. Or—y’know—surfing. Chasing the waves. Being one with the ocean. And chillin’ with the sharks, I guess, but like—spiritually.”

Shut up, shut up, shut up.

You sound like a walking Sporting Goods catalog had a stroke. What’s next? Saying you love sitting in LA traffic because it gives you “time to reflect”?

But Suguru’s interest only grows.

“Wow… surfing too?”

“Mhm!”

Your pitch jumps, and before your brain can pull the emergency brake, you take another brave sip of the drink, just to sell the lie.

Instant regret.

“I—” you wheeze, half-choking, blinking through the burn. “I surf. I hike. I’ll… climb anything that moves!”

Why.

Why would you say that.

Why are you like this.

You want to melt into the floor. You want to slide under the table and never return. But to your shock? He’s…

Laughing.

It’s a gentle, genuine laugh that’s almost…

Charmed?

“You’re really funny,” he says, grinning as he pulls out his phone. “Hey, can I get your number? There’s a climbing spot I’ve been dying to check out. Was thinking of going tomorrow—if you’re free?”

You blink.

He’s kidding, right?

But he’s not. He’s smiling. He’s hot. And he’s asking for your number like this is normal. Like you’re normal.

“Oh—yeah! Totally!” you say, nearly knocking your drink over as you fumble for your phone. “Let me just—yep, here—there you go!”

And with that, numbers are exchanged. Smiles, too.

“Cool,” he says, sliding his phone into his pocket. “Anyways… uh. It was nice seeing you, Satoru.” He lifts two fingers in a casual wave, then turns back to you with a warm, lopsided smile. “I’m really looking forward to tomorrow. I’ll text you, yeah?”

“Sounds… rockin’.” You blurt. “I’ll, uh… climb ya later then!”

…oh no.

Please. Please stop talking.

“…climb you later?” Satoru echoed, deadpan. “What the fuck was that?”

This? This is why you don’t lie.

You don’t know what’s worse: the mortifying words that came out of your mouth… or the fact that now you actually have to follow through on them. Because you can’t actually climb. Not the wall, not a rope, not even a pull-up bar without getting a little dizzy and needing to sit down with your head between your knees.

Satoru, to his credit, didn’t laugh at you. You’re not sure why.

“Don’t worry…” he assured. “I’ll teach you.”

And he did.

Immediately after meeting Suguru, he dragged you to an indoor climbing gym.

So now you’re here — at the base of a thirty-foot climbing wall with your shoes too tight, your palms too sweaty, and your dignity hanging by a carabiner. Pretending your harness isn’t the only thing holding you together.

Across from you, Satoru’s in his gym clothes, strapping himself in like he’s done it a hundred times. Confident. Casual. Chatting with the instructor in Japanese, when you glance over and—

Oh…

As he adjusts the waist strap, his shirt rides up, and you pause, because—are those…

Abs?!

You promptly forget how to breathe as you take sight of the sharp lines, carved into his torso like it has no fucking business on a man who once earnestly debated which is better, Pokémon or Digimon, for twenty minutes.

His sleeves are shoved up, too, and you’re blinking, face growing hot as you admire his forearms flexing while he tightens his buckle. How can you be normal about this? How is he normal?! He’s just casually fiddling with his harness like his body isn’t actively lighting your brain on fire – like you’re not staring.

Which you are.

Fuck. You definitely are.

“Hey.” His voice cuts in. “C’mere.”

You blink, face burning like you’ve been caught red-handed.

Shit. Get it together.

He’s a liar. A catfish. You’re not here to ogle the subtle definition in his shoulders or wonder how his voice would sound against your neck while his hands are your hips and he—

“Oh, sweetheart?” he hums, clearly entertained now, crooking two fingers at you. “I said c’mere. What’s the deal? Don’t make me beg. Gotta check your harness, yeah?”

Oh, fuck you.

“R-Right!” You stammer, stepping forward. And when you’re in front of him, his fingers are already on you. Warm, gentle hands… tugging at your straps, checking for tension.

“Jus’ a little more…” he murmurs, more to himself.

You catch sight of a pink little tongue, peaking out the side of his lips, and those pale lashes are low behind his glasses. But when they flick up briefly, checking in while his fingers tug the buckle, you catch sight of that blue.

Soft. Startling. Stupidly beautiful, it steals the breath out of your chest.

“There,” he breathes. “It’s… not to tight, is it?”

His voice is quiet, and he’s close, too close. Warm breath fanning your skin.

“Mm-mm…” you mumble, shaking your head, unable to hold his gaze. He’s not tugging anymore… but his hands linger on your waist.

“You… um,” he whispers. “Nervous?”

You are.

Of the wall. Of falling. Of the way your chest feels like it’s come loose from its hinges, fluttering wildly at his touch — like something has come unfastened, and it sure as hell isn’t the harness.

You’re nervous of the fact that this man is starting to feel like a goddamn contradiction. Dangerous and safe… in the same breath.

But instead?

“Oh… nope.”

You lie. Again.

Satoru gives the rope a gentle tug, testing the tension.

“Alright! Let’s show ‘em what you’ve got, California girl.”

The second your foot leaves the ground, regret sets in. Your balance is questionable at best, and your fingers tremble while you grasp the first hold. Satoru stands below, spotting you with that infuriatingly cheerful tone.

“Thaaaat’s it,” he calls. “Niiice and slow… don’t overthink it, ‘kay?”

Easy for him to say.

He’s not the one whose legs already feel like they’re vibrating out of sheer spite.

You push yourself higher, one shaky hold at a time. And to your surprise, you make some impressive distance. But by the time you’re fifteen feet up, everything starts to blur — your sense of control, your breathing, your grip on reality.

Perhaps the altitude is messing with your head. So naturally? You look down.

Big mistake.

“Ohmygod—shitshitshit,” you gasp, clinging tightly to a red handhold as your foot scrapes, slipping just enough to send your heart into freefall.

“Nope. Nope. Absolutely not. I can’t do this. I’m gonna die. I’m gonna—”

“Hey—hey,” he cuts in quickly, voice gentling. “Stop that. You’re okay, you hear me? I’m right here.”

Shutting your eyes, your breath stutters, too fast, too shallow. Your heartbeat is trying to climb out of your ribs and your palms are sweating.

You’re not built for this. You’re built for flat, horizontal surfaces.

“I’m… really high,” you whimper. “Like… alarmingly high, Satoru.”

You hear him sigh below; not annoyed, not exasperated, but soft and laced with quiet concern. Like he’s trying to mask how much he wants to climb up there and carry you down himself.

“Okay, well—just… don’t look down, yeah?” he says gently, like you’re negotiating a minor inconvenience instead of impending doom. “Let’s just… look at the wall. Or better yet—talk to me.”

You close your eyes, pressing your forehead to the plastic. “About what?”

“Anything,” he says. “Distract yourself. I’m all ears.”

“I—I…”

You try. You really do. But your thoughts scatter the second you reach for them — your breath coming too fast, your chest too tight, panic slipping through you like water through your fingers.

“I can’t—” your voice cracks, eyes building with tears. “I can’t do this. Ohmygod, I—"

“Okay, okay—counterpoint,” he jumps in smoothly. “Did you know they released a Digimon Tamagotchi in 1997? And the only way to evolve your Greymon into SkullGreymon was to neglect him?”

Your eyes snap open.

“W-What?”

And before you know it, he’s racing ahead of your spiral.

“Yeah… shame I couldn’t get my hands on one,” he huffs, mock offended. “Like… you had to mistreat your virtual pet to get the cool, edgy one. No care. No affection. Just emotional abandonment.” He hums thoughtfully. “Isn’t that fucked up?”

The absurdity of it punches the breath out of your lungs — and this time, not from fear.

You choke on a laugh. “S-Satoru—” and your body trembles in relief. “I… ugh. I can’t with you,” you manage, giggling through sobs as you sag against the wall, head shaking with something dangerously close to affection. “You’re seriously doing this right now?!”

“What?” he calls back innocently, like this is a totally appropriate moment for virtual pet lore. “It’s injustice! SkullGreymon literally got abandoned, and became metal. Talk about childhood trauma, y’know?”

Huffing another laugh, you press your forehead briefly to the wall, before lifting your head up again. Your grip has changed without noticing. Less white-knuckled desperation, more… trust. A foothold.

Suddenly?

The top doesn’t feel so impossibly far.

You’re moving again, and sure – your arms burn, your legs tremble, but each hold comes after the other. Because for the first time since leaving the ground—

You can breathe.

“Okaaayyy—there we go! Look at you?!” he laughs, pride unmistakable now. “Atta girl. Didn’t I tell you? Keep going—juuuuust like that.”

When your fingers curl the top, victory has never tasted so sweet. You pull yourself up, chest heaving, heart pounding — but smiling.

“I—I made it,” you breathe, disbelief flooding your voice. “Look, Satoru! I—”

But when you straighten? The bottom is all you see.

The gym tilts. The wall drops away. Your knees buckle as your vision blurs — and the last thing you hear is Satoru shouting your name.

Satoru doesn’t remember climbing. He scaled that wall like it owed him answers. Like it had stolen you. Because one moment, you were standing at the edge, blinking too long, and the next? Dropped back like a puppet.

“Hey—shit—hold on, I-I’m coming!” he calls up, fingers scrambling against holds. “Sweetheart?? You there? You okay?”

When he finally hauls himself over the ledge, relief hits him so hard it almost knocks him over. You’re on your back, limbs slack, staring up at the ceiling lights like they’re stars. But you’re conscious. Breathing.

Alive.

“Oh—thank fuck,” he groans, voice cracking as his knees hit the mat.

Adrenaline is screaming through his veins while he stumbles over, dropping both hands to brace beside your head, while his legs cage you beneath him – needing to be close, needing to shield you from whatever just stole your strength from within.

“H-Hey…” he pants, hovering. “There she is… look at me, yeah? You with me?”

“Oh…” Your gaze drifts for a moment, unfocused — before finally settling on him. You blink. His glasses are fogged, blue eyes blinking wildly, with snowy white hair, curtaining your face.

“…hi.”

Your whisper is so quiet, so casual. Like nothing just happened. And his chest tightens painfully.

“Hi?” he breathes out a shaky laugh, frayed at the edges. “Hi yourself. You scared the absolute shit outta me,” he mutters. “Don’t… don’t ever do that again. Ever.”

His admission is playful, but you can hear the underlying concern underneath. And your lips twitch faintly, like you’re trying to smile, but haven’t quite found the strength.

“Sorry…” you whisper. “Everything just went… weird.”

Satoru swallows. Because… yeah. It did. Hell—it is.

You’re here, under him. Real. Warm. Close enough that he feels your breath mingling with his, close enough that it would take just one stupid tilt of his head to—

“U-Um… okay,” he murmurs, forcing himself back into focus. “How’re you feelin’ right now? Dizzy? Nauseous?” He pulls back a bit. “Think you can stand? We still gotta get you down…”

“…don’t wanna” you mumble, wrinkling your nose as you let your head fall sideways against the mat. “Jus’… abandon me here,” you sigh, closing your eyes. “This is the end for me.”

He huffs something between a laugh and a groan.

“Wow…” he rolls his eyes, because your pout is too cute. “And here I thought I was dramatic. You trying to one up me?”

Your lips twitch into the faintest smirk, and before he can stop himself, his hand lifts, brushing the stray wisps of hair from your face.

Your breath hitches, eyes flicking back to his before you exhale.

“Yeah… well. If I’m lucky,” you murmur, the grin returning — lazy, a little loopy, but bright. “Maybe this is how I finally evolve. Am I metal yet?”

And the words shake Satoru to his core. He’s blinking in awe, because how? How are you still smiling up at him, dazed and soft and teasing through the aftermath, like it’s the most natural thing in the world to meet him beat for beat.

It’s not fair — he’s so stupidly fond of you it almost scares him.

Because despite everything, despite this entire ridiculous day, despite literally being on your back, motionless, you continue to speak his language; never calling him childish, never making him feel like he’s gotta grow up and out of the things that kept him alive when the world started hurting.

Why are you so perfect? He wants to kiss you so badly it almost hurts.

“I always knew you had it in you,” he huffs softly, trying to match your grin. “You’re definitely digivolving.”

You hum. “Yeah?” and he chuckles. “Yup… probably’ll get lasers or a missile chest, or somethin’ real badass. Trust me.”

With fluttering lashes, your lips part, and Satoru can feel the tension so thick now, he’s holding his breath. But when you murmur—

“Trust you…” with a lilt, soft and teasing as you snort innocently. “Mmm… mmkay. Trust the guy who catfished me, huh?”

It’s like reality slams him straight in the chest. There’s no cruelty to your words, but still… they burn. Burn with the reminder of what he’s done, how really, you wanted Suguru. Not him. And he knows this is for the best, because he has no right to have you.

“Yeah…” he murmurs, smile faltering as he nods, eyes dropping. “Yeah… but c’mon. We should head back.”

And his hands slip away from your sides as he pushes himself up.

“It’s getting late,” he says. “And… you’ve got a date to catch.”

Your journey home is quiet — the kind of quiet that doesn’t settle, but smolders. Like Satoru’s pulled back from you entirely.

Not that you blame him. You’re the one who said it — that dumb little joke that knocked all the air out of the moment. It just slipped out. You didn’t mean it to land like that. You didn’t mean to hurt him. But now… he won’t even look at you.

And as the silence between you thickens, you can’t decide what’s worse — the guilt for hurting him, or the fact that you want to apologize for something he did.

What is wrong with you?

Always saying the wrong things. Feeling the wrong things. Twisting yourself into shapes for people who never ask — and still managing to fall short. Perhaps, it’s like some part of you still thinks love is a trick mirror — one wrong move and you’re the joke again.

Because sometimes, he gives you this look — like he’s not sure he’s allowed to enjoy your company. And you… you’re not sure you’re allowed to want him.

Now, as the streetlights blur past the car windows, all you can do is sit in the wreckage of almost, trying to breathe through the ache of what was never supposed to happen.

Because love is messy.

Love is slow.

Love is… hard.

a/n. okay... don’t hate me for ending on an angsty note 🥲 i promise pt. 3 will deliver the happy, fluffy, smutty payoff you deserve, hehe 😉 you'll see that this is where i will begin to shift from the movie a bit - bc the movie fully leans into the chaos of the plot, and i want to focus more on the characters and their dynamics, simplifying the storyline so i can really dig into the emotional beats i love most. i hope you all enjoy my rendition of this story, and tysm for reading and for all the love on pt 1. every single comment has filled my heart sm 💖 kisses! part 3 >>>

“Uh... thanks. I think?” 

You weren’t entirely sure if that was praise or exploitation — because with Mei-Mei, the line was always blurred. 

“Of course, baby!” she cooed. “Your ratings are exceptionally high. But... let’s kick it up a notch, shall we?” And grinning like a cheshire cat, she slid a detailed spreadsheet in front of you encouragingly. 

“We need a story so massive before Christmas. Don’t ask me why, but holiday trauma performs extremely well. I expect your report by early-December. Get back out there, hm?” 

Apparently, love is dead. Because people live for drama. For tragedy. It’s unfortunate, but it gets the clicks. And despite all the ‘new material’ you’re looking for? A part of you still aches — still yearns — for love. 

So, like a well-trained masochist, you swipe. Again. 

| Brett, 27 — Los Angeles, CA |   “Hey, kitten. I’m Sapiosexual. An INTJ. Love your profile. Let’s chat, yeah?” 

Sent a dick pic and texted “U up?” at 3:17 a.m. on a Tuesday. (You weren’t) 

Swipe. 

| Colin, 32 — Santa Monica, CA |   “Sup. I’m just a nice guy. Totally not like other guys.” 

Sent a three-paragraph spiral about how nice guys finish last due to unrequited love. (With his childhood best friend.) 

Swipe. 

| Naoya, 22 — Orange County, CA |   “What do you do for fun? Because let me set the record straight. I love a woman who knows their place. Preferably, three steps behind me. Or in the kitchen.” 

You reported him. Twice. (Just to be sure…) 

Swipe. 

| Greg, 25 — San Francisco, CA |   “Hey. Uh... I’m married btw. But it’s complicated, u know?” 

You almost admire the honesty. (Almost.) 

Swipe. 

Swipe. 

Swipe. 

You were about five more red flags away from joining a monastery when suddenly, you got an idea. Perhaps... it’s just California? You’ve been living here your whole damn life. Let’s try escaping the endless sea of self-proclaimed “entrepreneurs” — the gym bros, the surfer stoners. The men who think that being emotionally available is a liability.  

So? You expand your distance radius. 

Like...  

Way out.  

Just to see what would happen. 

| Satoru, 26 — Kyoto, Japan |   “Hey. I’m not here to play games. Unless it’s Mario Kart. But don’t cry, because I’d totally win, sweetheart.” 

It’s a miracle. Because for once, there’s no shirtless mirror selfie. It’s just a guy on a front porch, wearing a hoodie. There’s a coffee cupped in his hands, with long raven hair falling against the violet hue of his eyes.  

He has gauges, a sleepy smile, and oh my god he’s— 

…gorgeous.  

And not the curated, flex-for-attention kind of gorgeous you’ve learned to dodge. No. There’s something… approachable about him. Soft. Stupidly warm. Like if you sat beside him, he wouldn’t talk — he’d listen. 

~  ♡ ︎ You’ve matched with Satoru Gojo!  ♡ ︎  ~  ...typing  Satoru: Did you know that the universe is 13.8 billion years old? There are billions of galaxies. Trillions of stars. And yet… here we are. Matched on a dating app.  Satoru: So… hi! Satoru: Wanna test fate?  You: lol 😂 You: well then... You: that’s one way to say hello!! 😝 Satoru: Yeah... figured I’d lead with existential dread instead of wyd 😉

He was... normal. 

Stupidly normal. Maybe a bit nerdy.  But somehow? It worked. He made you smile. 

...typing  Satoru: Okayokayokay... but REAL question...   Satoru: Do you pour milk before cereal??? 🤨 Or are you a functioning member of society?  You: 😨😨 You: excuse you!!   You: what kind of monster do you think i am??? 😒 Satoru: Phew 😩 Satoru: Just needed to be sure!! People have surprised me before 

And just like that, you were hooked. 

You talked while brushing your teeth. On your lunch break. In bed, half-asleep, phone screen dimmed but still open to his thread. He’s got opinions on everything. 

Anime, horror movies, why candy canes are overrated, the superiority of old-school consoles, and the tragic fall of Yahoo Answers. 

One day he asked: 

...typing  Satoru: Are you more of a salty girl or a sweet girl? 

You paused, halfway through folding laundry, holding one sock while you reach for your phone. 

...typing  You: hmmm..... You: are we talking snacks?? or personality type?  Satoru: 👀 Satoru: Well shit... Satoru: Now I wanna know the answer to both...  You: hehehe 😇 You: what do YOU think i am?  Satoru: Oh, hell no... Satoru: I’m not falling for that Satoru: Bc if I guess wrong, you’ll never let me hear the end of it.  You: pshhh...  You: that response answers for me 😛  You: but hmm... i guess i’m both? You: bc it depends on the day... OR the person.  Satoru: Okay cool Satoru: Soooo... I’m either incredibly lucky, or you’re about to ruin my life in a really interesting way. You: ruin you?? You: never!! You: ...you're one of the few people i actually wanna be sweet to ❤️  Satoru: ❤️  Satoru: Guess it's a good thing that I'm a sweet guy 😉 both snack AND personality wise Satoru: Which brings me back to the important question... Satoru: Snacks Satoru: Salty or sweet. Answer wisely, sweetheart. You: hmm...  Satoru: This data could make or break us 🤨 You: imma salty kinda girl Satoru: ...  You: but i don’t dislike sweet things! 😘 Satoru: Siiiiiigh...  Satoru: Fine. I respect it Satoru: Even though it’s OBJECTIVELY the wrong answer 🙄 guess I’ll just have to be the sweet one in this relationship

Somehow, it never felt forced. You didn’t have to explain your jokes. You didn’t have to shrink yourself or play dumb or brace for silence. He got it. He got you. And he made you laugh — constantly. But more than that… he made you feel safe. 

It was easy to forget you’d never seen him move. Never heard his laugh in real life. 

Until you started calling each other. 

What started as a five-minute “just wanted to hear your voice” spiraled into two hours. Then three. Now it’s just… what you do. The sound of his voice has become background music — familiar and warm, the kind of thing you could fall asleep to. Soft, a little raspy, warm around the edges when he laughs. 

He talks fast when he gets excited — usually about Digimon lore, bad anime dubs, or some absurd theory he read online at 3 a.m. He jumps from tangent to tangent like he’s chasing thoughts through constellations — but somehow, never leaves you behind. 

And when he’s really into something, you can hear it. His voice lifts like gravity can’t hold it. 

“Hmm… if we were two particles traveling at the speed of light,” he murmured, “do you think we’d still find each other in another timeline?” 

“Oh my god…” you smiled against your pillow; voice thick with sleep. “Is this your version of ‘Would you still love me if I was a worm’ Satoru?” 

His laugh was soft and breathy, wrapping around your ribs like ribbon.

“Pshh… no,” he scoffed, and you could hear the pout in his voice as he shuffled against his own bedsheets. Then, with a huff he drawled. “This is my scientifically superior version of that question.” 

“Mmm… I see,” your hum was sleepy, curling deeper under the blanket. Grinning, your eyes fluttered closed as you murmured. “Yes. I think we would”

A comfortable silence settled, and you could hear the line crackle softly as he exhaled.

“I wish…” he said after a beat, “…we could spend Christmas together. It’s not fair you’re so far away.”

His voice was quiet, like he was afraid to say it too loud. And somehow, it landed harder than any confession. You pressed your ear closer to the phone, like maybe, if you try hard enough, you’ll feel the weight of him on the mattress beside you.

“Yeah…” you whispered. “Me too.”

You’d been talking to Satoru for a month now — and honestly, every other man you come across can’t hold a candle to him. So, when Mei Mei saunters to your desk December 1st, silk blouse pristine and judgment already locked and loaded, you know she’s not going to like what she finds.

“It’s officially December, my dear,” she hums, lowering herself into the chair across from you, tilting her head in that familiar, patronizing way. “So. Where are my lines?”

Your fingers still over the keyboard. Time to come clean.

“I know, I know…” you say, rubbing at your temples before finally looking up. Your heart thumps harder than it should. “And… don’t be mad. But… just hear me out. What if this year… I don’t write about heartbreak?”

It’s like you might as well have told her you quit. The silence is deafening while she blinks at you, deadpan — like you’ve grown a second head.

“Darling,” she says coolly, with a bitter laugh. “Christmas is in three weeks. I don’t need pleasantries — I need pain.”

“But that’s just it, isn’t it?” you push gently, sitting a little straighter in your chair. “Christmas is supposed to feel… good. Warm. Like something you lean into, not brace yourself against.” You gesture vaguely toward the window, the gray sky.

You’ve always been alone for the holidays. No family. No one asking when you’ll be home.

“I mean… people are… tired. Stressed. Lonely. The world already feels cold enough without another reminder that love is awful. Right?”

Mei scoffs, flipping her hair over one shoulder, repulsed by the suggestion. “That mushy shit doesn’t sell…” And her eyes sharpen, flicking back to you. “You sound dangerously sentimental. Very unlike you, darling.”

Your mouth opens. Closes.

Little does she know… this is you. Or at least, the you that’s been kept hidden your entire career — doing something that feels so… empty. You’re tired. Tired of pretending that love is dead. For once, you want to believe in it. Believe that all this with Satoru — the potential for love — could be real.

“…I met someone.”

That gives her pause.

“Oh?”

Her snobbish tone is hard to ignore, but you don’t let it diminish the excitement you feel from the thought of him.

Satoru.

“Yeah… he’s—” you begin with a breathless laugh, tucking your chin into your palm like it might hide your grin. “Ugh. He’s good, Mei. Like… really fucking good. Funny… smart… thoughtful…”

But Mei’s sculpted brow arches as you continue to gush.

“Ohmygod and so handsome too,” you breathe, face lighting up. “Like. It’s unfair how good-looking he is, I swear. Plus, he remembers the little things I say, and he always checks in when I’ve had a rough day. It’s like…” you pause, breath catching as your heart aches with longing.

“It’s like… he sees me, Mei.”

At that, a knowing hum rumbles through your boss.

“I see…” she nods, lips tugging upward. “Well. Can you show me a picture, then?”

“Oh, sure!” you chirp, already digging for your phone in your bag. Your heart flutters at the sight of his photo, and after navigating to his profile, you hand the device over to her.

Her eyes narrow, then flick back to you. “This guy is in Japan…” and you can already hear it, that condescending tone, syrupy sweet. “I wonder… have you seen him yet?”

“W-What?” you blink, crossing your arms, instantly on guard. “Well… no. But it’s a sixteen-hour time difference! It’s hard to line up video calls, but we talk all the time and—”

“Mm.” That’s all she needs. She’s handing the phone back with a noise you’d describe as infuriatingly smug. “No way he’s that perfect,” she says, already rising to her feet. “I bet he’s catfishing you.”

Your heart drops.

God. That’d be just your luck.

“What?! N-No!” you argue, unwilling to entertain the idea. “It’s real, Mei. He’s real.”

“Mmm. So is Santa Claus~”

You scoff, brows furrowing.

“No, seriously. He said he wanted to spend Christmas with me. I was actually thinking of surprising him — flying out and —”

“Oh, that sounds wonderful,” she interrupts, saccharine and sharp. “Flying to Japan? To meet a man you’ve never met?” a loud pompous laugh bursts out of her lips, making your blood boil. “Ahhh… what a story! I expect lines, my dear~”

And as her heels are clicking away, you glare after her, cheeks hot, heart thudding with equal parts embarrassment and fury.

That… bitch.

Fine. You’re going to prove her wrong.

You must.

It hadn’t taken much convincing to get Satoru’s address.

You told him you wanted to send a Christmas present. He teased you, of course.

“A present? For little old me?” he drawled. “Awh… what is it? Is it scandalous? Oh!! Is it Digimon related??” You could practically hear the grin in his voice. And sure enough, a minute later, he sent his address with a laughing “Fine. But only if it’s Digimon-related, sweetheart.”

Little does he know…

It’s you you’re sending.

(Though yes, he’s still getting something Digimon-related too. You spent two weeks hand-knitting a Gabumon scarf hat — complete with floppy ears, tiny claws, and a ridiculous little horn. It’s absolutely absurd. You hope he’ll love it.)

Kyoto is blanketed in snow when you land — your breath visible in the air as you drag your suitcase outside the airport, gloved fingers fumbling with your phone. You manage to request a car (thank god for global apps), but the second the driver steps out and starts speaking rapid-fire Japanese, your brain goes static.

“Uh…. sumimasen?”

It’s the only word you know that seems remotely polite. That, and arigatou. Oh, and you know, baka, (thanks to Satoru’s anime rants about how “sub is superior to dub.” He swears by it, so naturally, you’ve started watching anime. In sub. Maybe because it feels like holding onto a piece of him.)

As you enter the car, you press your face to the frosty window and Kyoto whirls past — ancient shrines nestled between sleek buildings, power lines framed by snow-laced branches, vending machines glowing like beacons in the dark. The city is beautiful. Foreign. Dreamlike.

But then, the car pulls up to his house — and suddenly, you’re the one who feels foreign.

Because what the hell.

The place is huge.

It’s walled off with an iron gate, and a winding stone path leading up to a home that looks like a cross between a modern compound and a high-end ryokan. He’d told you his family was well off, but you didn’t realize well off meant a fucking dynasty.

Great. Now you’re standing here with your thrifted suitcase, the handmade gift for him, wrapped in a flimsy bag, wearing your own knitted scarf and a coat you borrowed from your roommate because your own has a busted zipper. You’re suddenly hyper-aware of every chipped nail, every dollar you don’t have in your bank account.

God. What are you even doing here? This man seems ever more too good to be true. What if he’s playing you? What if… Mei’s right. Does he even want you? What’ll he do when he sees you? What’ll he say?

Fuck.

You take a deep breath, tugging your scarf a little higher, gripping his present like a lifeline. It’s fine. Whatever. You came all this way. No turning back now, right?

When you ring the doorbell, a faint chime echoes inside the estate. The air bites at your cheeks while voices murmur on the other side. Footsteps near the entrance and then—

Click!

The shoji slides open. You’re grinning nervously — heart hammering in your chest, steadying yourself as a figure comes into sight. A figure whom is—

A woman.

“えっ…誰？何かご用ですか？”

She stands with one hand on the frame, backlit by the warm glow of the house behind her. Dark hair pulled into a lazy bun, a cigarette balanced between two fingers, smoke curling lazily into the night air. She’s tall. Cool. Effortlessly poised in a way you’ve never been. And she looks… young. Maybe your age.

Mei’s laugh is echoing in your goddamn ears.

Double fuck…

Did Satoru lie? Is this his girlfriend? His wife? A casual fling he forgot to mention? God. Is this why he never video chatted you?

It feels like a kick to the chest.

What the hell were you thinking?? Flying across the world for a guy you’ve never met in person?!

 “ちょっと、聞こえてる？”

She’s still looking at you, head tilted slightly, eyes narrowed with vague curiosity — and you realize with a jolt you haven’t said anything. Not a word.

“Oh! I—uh—sumimasen?” you stammer, fumbling with the little Japanese you know. “S-Sorry, I… I don’t speak Japanese,” you laugh, awkward and breathless. “I think I have the wrong house, though. I was looking for someone named Satoru but—” with a glance past her, you try not to look desperate.

God. You’re such an idiot.

“Uhhh… never mind,” and clutching your suitcase, you attempt to retreat. “I’m so sorry. This was a mistake.”

Though her hand shoots out, catching your sleeve.

“Oh. Satoru? That idiot?” she says casually, in English this time — voice smooth, tinged with amusement. She flicks ash off the edge of the porch. “Yeah, you’re at the right house. He’s just at the FamilyMart with Yuji right now. Craving strawberry shortcake, apparently.”

As your brain begins to short-circuit, she takes one last drag of her cigarette, then steps aside, gesturing toward the entryway.

“C’mon. You’ll freeze your ass off.”

“Oiii,” Shoko calls. “We have a guest, guys! Say hello to—oh, um… sorry, what’s your name again?”

Before you know it, you’re stepping inside – toeing off your shoes at the entrance. Your feet pad against the tatami as you round the corner, and you’re greeted with a group of three other men sitting casually around a low table, with an abundance of snacks at the center.

Though, despite how laid-back the room appears, with pillows and drinks and half opened bags – there’s an underlying tension so thick, you swear it could cut glass.

They’re all staring at you with stone faces.

One man is blonde, with a chiseled jawline and a stern demeaner. Another has bubblegum-pink hair and tattoos crawling up both arms, and the third is a teenager with messy black hair who looks like he’d rather be literally anywhere else.

Are these Satoru’s… friends? Family? He’s never mentioned them before.

Shoko takes another drag from her cigarette, unfazed. “I’m Shoko, by the way,” she says lazily, exhaling smoke toward the ceiling. “Known Satoru for years. Unfortunately.” She smirks. “This is Kento, Sukuna, and Megumi.”

“H-Hello…” you murmur, gripping the handle of your suitcase as you hold a tight, nervous smile. “Nice to meet you. Sorry for… dropping in like this. I just flew in from America and… I was hoping that — well, Satoru would be here?”

“Gojo?” Sukuna gruffs, leaning back on one elbow. He plucks a piece of pocky from the snack tray and chews it without breaking eye contact. “And who the fuck are you supposed to be? His secret girlfriend or somethin’?”

The words hits harder than it should.

Girlfriend? Secret?

God, what are you to him?

And now, it dawns on you that they haven’t a clue who you are either. Of course, they don’t. Why would they?

You feel your cheeks heat. “O-oh, no. No, it’s not like that,” you say quickly, waving your hand like it’ll brush the embarrassment away. “I mean… we talk. We’ve been talking. But—”

You trail off and they’re all looking at you with raised brows.

“We don’t have a label or anything. We’re just… friends.”

“Friends?” Sukuna perks up, grin widening. “So lemme get this straight. You flew twelve hours across the globe for that pretentious dick?” He scoffs. “And he hasn’t even put a label on you?”

There’s something dangerously amused in his tone now, and he tosses the half-eaten pocky stick back onto the tray.

“Damn. Lucky bastard.”

You blink, unsure whether to feel insulted or embarrassed or both.

"Don’t you worry sweet thing. You decide to stay and I can show ya how a real man can take care of ya, hm?"

Kento shifts, cutting him a glance. “Sukuna…”

“What?” he says, raising both hands innocently. “This girl is hot as fuck. And I’m just saying — if it were me? I’d at least make sure she knew what she was walking into. Or out of. I'm not like that asshole.”

You blink again.

Is he… hitting on you?

“Great... here we go…” Megumi mutters.

And Kento sighs, removing his glasses to rub the bridge of his nose. “Please ignore him,” he tells you, voice calm but firm. “Everything is a pissing contest with Gojo where he’s concerned.”

“Okay, first of all — fuck you,” Sukuna snaps, sitting up straighter now, suddenly defensive. “It’s not about competition. I’m just not blind. Look at her!”

You blush subtly, and Megumi mutters, barely glancing up.

“Don't take him seriously... trust me. He says that. But every time Gojo brings a fangirl around, he's always trying to take her home like it’s a fucking game.”

...fangirl?

The word slams into your chest like a hammer. Is that what they think you are? You stiffen, heart dropping. Because that proves it. You shouldn’t be here. Of course someone like him would get dozens of women throwing themselves at him.

What made you think you were any different?

You shouldn’t have come.

“I-I’m sorry,” you whisper, grip tightening around the suitcase as you fumble to gather your things. “I shouldn’t have… I didn’t mean to barge in. I’ll just—”

And bowing your head, you spin on your heel, until suddenly you collide into someone. But it all happens so quickly; you don’t register who. Because with a gasp, you stumble backwards, entirely focused on how your giftbag slipped from your grip, making Satoru’s scarf fall to the floor.

“W-What… what are you doing here?!”

“Shit, I’m sorry.”

'Sorry' must be your go to word tonight. You’re too embarrassed to look up and see more of Satoru’s friends judging you. You’re dropping on your knees, scrambling to gather things with shaking hands mumbling under your breath.

“I’m leaving now… god, I shouldn’t have come. Please don’t tell Satoru I was—"

“WHOA, is that Gabumon?!” a new voice exclaims, bright with curiosity. “Hey Gojo, who’s this?”

At the mention of his name, you freeze.

Your head slowly lifts, eyes tracing up to catch sight of another pink-haired boy, peeking out from behind the man directly in front of you.

But… the man doesn’t look like Satoru. Not the Satoru you’ve come to know.

No. He has snowy-white tousled hair, tucked beneath a beanie, with bright blue eyes, blinking behind thick-rimmed glasses.

Nothing like his profile pictures.

“Satoru?” you breathe.

His mouth parts, speechless while he’s looking at you like you’re a ghost.

“Dude, that’s so cool! Did you make that?” Yuji asks, eyes sparkling. “Gojo she’s a keeper, huh?”

“Mmm… clearly.” Nanami glances over. “Because since when do you let girls know you like Digimon?”

“About damn time,” Shoko snorts, already lighting another cigarette like this is the most amusing thing she’s seen all week.

“And, she flew here for you,” Sukuna laughs from the back, sounding far too smug for someone uninvolved. “Shit, I’ll marry her if you don’t, asshole.”

The voices layer over each other — praise, laughter, awe. But it’s too bright, too loud, and you’re frozen in the middle of it. Feeling completely detached from reality while the blatant truth stands directly in front of you.

He lied.

And the worst part? You believed him. You came all this way. Mei Mei was right.

Love is dead.

“Um, actually. I—I left something outside,” you blurt, shoving the scarf back in the bag and clutching it to your chest, blinking back the tears. “Excuse me a moment.”

And before anyone can stop you, you’re slipping past them — out the door, out of breath — your chest aching with something you can’t yet name. While behind you, footsteps follow as he calls your name.

“Wait—shit. Wait!”

Satoru knows he fucked up. And by the time he barrels out the front door, you’re already halfway down the street, boots crunching through the snow like you’re marching to war.

He feels like a grade A idiot. Because somehow, against all odds, you — this ridiculously perfect girl — came all the way to Japan thinking he was someone worth showing up for.

And now he’s watching you walk away.

“Waitwaitwaitwait…” he groans, jogging after you, breath puffing white in the air. “Slow down and just… can you just—fuck. Just stop for a second?!”

“Stop?!” You whirl around, eyes wet and furious. “Why should I? Who the fuck even are you? What kind of psycho catfishes someone for months and then just lies to their face?!”

He blinks, defensive instinct kicking in before his brain can catch up.

“W‑Well—what kind of psycho flies across the country and shows up on someone’s front lawn?” he fires back, hands flailing. “In Japan, might I add!”

A bitter scoff tears out of you. “You said—and I quote—‘I wish you were here with me for Christmas,’” your arms fold tight across your chest like you’re holding yourself together. “Why the hell would you say that if you didn’t mean it?”

He backpedals immediately. Because fuck — he did mean it. Every late‑night call. Every laugh. Every stupid wish whispered into the dark.

But instead of admitting that, panic takes over.

“L‑Look—that’s just—something people say, okay?” he rambles. “Like… ‘your baby’s so cute,’ or—um— ‘my diet starts tomorrow,’ or—”

He’s waving his hand, scrambling for humor — something to soften it — but the words die on his lips when he sees your face drop. You blink hard, like something inside you just broke. And the sight of it makes his stomach twist into knots.

Great. Now he feels like even more of an asshole.

“Shit… okay,” he blurts, voice softer now. “That was... yeah. Um. That was a dick move. I know...”

“Fuck you…” you mutter, turning back around.

“Hold up! Please… just come inside, yeah? We can talk it out. If you'll just let me explain—"

“I don’t want to talk to you. Ever again.”

He can hear the hurt underneath the edge of your voice, and he stands there, watching you trudge through the snow – your figure getting smaller against the snow-washed street. He knows there is no salvaging this. He fucked it up. But still… reality slams into him all at once.

You don’t speak the language.

You don’t know the city.

You don’t have a car.

Fuck. Do you even have anywhere to go?

“Fuckfuckfuckfuck… fuck!” he breathes, running a hand through his hair as he begins to jog back toward the house, bursting through the door.

“Guys, I’ll be right back!” he shouts to no one in particular as he grabs his keys off the counter, hands shaking. “She left something at the airport!”

Then, he’s gone again. Chasing the only girl who ever made him feel seen.

It’s cold. Too cold for someone with no plan and no fucking clue where you’re going. But the cold doesn’t sting as much as your heart does.

You don’t even know how far you’ve walked. Five minutes? Ten? Your fingers are numb, your phone battery is nearly dead, and your boots are soaked through.

By pure luck, you stumbled into some sort of Japanese bar. And the kanji on the glowing sign outside might as well be ancient runes, but the warmth spilling through the door felt like something close to safety. Like maybe if you just stepped inside, you’d stop feeling so fucking alone.

Because hey, at least the sake tastes good.

You have no Wi-Fi, no plan, not a single ounce of pride left. All you have is the stupid hope that maybe if you drown yourself in enough of this bitter rice wine, it’ll burn the ache out of your chest.

The edges of the bar blur slightly. Everything’s warm and loud. Someone’s laughing too hard in the corner. Across the room, beyond the haze, there’s a man with a dark bun and violet eyes, sipping from a bottle with his head tilted back.

Beautiful.

Almost like…

The photos on Satoru’s profile?

Are you delusional? Drunk? No... that is him. Right??

You’re blinking through the blur, trying to make sense of it. But then? The room begins to spin and sure enough, nausea hits.

“Shit—” you whisper, grabbing the edge of the bar.

You’re pushing off your stool, stumbling outside the icy curb, before you double over and hurl into the snowbank.

Great. Fucking perfect. Can this day get any worse?

“Hey—hey! There you are!”

Oh, yeah. It can.

Tires crunch as a car jerks to a stop beside the curb. The door flies open, left swinging in the cold and Satoru rushes out, barely remembering to throw the gear into park before he’s crossing to you, boots skidding slightly on slush.

“Jesus—fuck. Are you okay?” he drops beside you, crouching low. “What the hell happened—”

“Don’t touch me,” you snap, pushing at him weakly while your body sways. He pulls back like you burned him.

“I’m fffine,” you slur, though your stomach still churns and your face is damp with cold sweat. “Gooo away.”

He sighs, exasperated.

“You’re not fine. You’re pale and shaking and—wait. Are you… drunk?” He exhales, brushing his hand through his hair like he’s trying not to lose it. “Come on. Let me take you home.”

“Home?” you laugh, bitter and sharp, scoffing as you shove at him again. “You mean your home?”

“No. I meant… wherever you’re safe. I just—can we not do this right now? Please?”

You snort, head lolling as you stare at the ground. “You’re a liarrrr,” you mutter, voice thick and sloppy. “Jus’ like everyone else.”

The words land heavier than he expects. Wind howls between you, carrying the smell of snow and alcohol and regret. Satoru opens his mouth—closes it. For once, he doesn’t have a smart comeback.

“I’m gonna stay right here,” you announce suddenly, sliding down until your back hits the wall. You cross your arms, chin lifting like it’s some kind of moral victory. “I don’t need you.”

“…in the snow?” he asks flatly.

“Yup,” you nod, blinking too hard. “Maybe I’ll meet someone who doesn’t lie for fun.”

“Jesus, woman—” he drags a hand down his face. “You’re in a foreign country. You don’t speak the language. You’re drunk off your ass. I’m not just gonna abandon you in an alley behind a bar you can’t even read the name of!”

“Pffft... well I liiike this bar,” you say bitterly, voice cracking. “S'greeat. They poured the sake fast. And nobody lied to me.”

Every time you say it, it hurts him even more. Satoru exhales hard, pacing a few steps like if he stops moving, he might actually lose it. But when he turns back, ready with another argument — another plea — he freezes.

Because you’re... crying.

Not quiet tears. Not dignified ones. Ugly, shaking sobs that pull from somewhere deep in your chest, shoulders hitching as you scrub at your face with the sleeve of your coat.

“I hate you,” you mutter, voice wrecked.

His chest tightens. He doesn’t know what to do with that. With this.

“I really liked you,” you continue, words tumbling out now, unstoppable. “Like—really liked you. I don’t do this. I don’t fly across the world for people. I don’t—” you hiccup, laughing wetly through the tears. “S'bullshit…” you mutter bitterly.

He blinks, lips pressing in a thin line like he’s unsure what to say. The cold wind blows as you sniffle.

“Plus… you’re hot as fuck. I don’t get it. Like… you didn’t even need to lie…”

You mutter, shifting in the snow. And that one makes him flinch.

“S’stupid… you could’ve jus' been you,” you say, gesturing vaguely at him. “But no. Instead you make up this whole fake version. Lying about everything. Liarrr. And now I can’t trust you. Betcha lied about liking me too, huh? All of it.“

He opens his mouth.

Nothing comes out.

Because that’s the cruel part.

He didn’t lie about everything.

He thinks of the way people’s eyes light up when they recognize his last name. The way conversations shift the second they realize he’s that Gojo. He thinks of years spent being wanted for the wrong reasons — money, status, face value.

And you’re the one person who ever made him feel like it’s okay for liking what he liked. The nerdy, cocky, compulsively sarcastic guy who collects Digimon cards and corrects Wikipedia entries in his spare time.

“Oh yeah… ya know who I saw in there?” you suddenly say, jerking your thumb toward the glowing doorway behind you. “That hot guy from yer pictures.”

Satoru stiffens.

“Uh… Suguru?”

“Oh,” you sniff. “So he’s a real guy?” You laugh again, hollow and dizzy. “Figures. Y’know what? He looks like he wouldn’t lie. Bet he’s honest. Bet he doesn’t make fake profiles and pretend to be someone else.”

You’re too drunk to notice the flinch in his jaw, the way he shifts his weight like the words physically hurt. 

“Maybe I’ll go back in and see if he’ll take me home, huh?”

You try to shove off the wall and nearly trip again, but Satoru steadies you without thinking — hands warm and steady under your arms.

“Look…” he murmurs, voice gentler now. “I know you’re mad. And I deserve it. But I’m worried about you.”

His grip adjusts — one hand rising to gently cradle your elbow, the other slipping around to the small of your back as he lowers his head to meet your bleary, mascara-smudged eyes.

“It’s cold,” he says, voice pitched just above a whisper. “It’s late. You’re probably jet-lagged out of your mind. Just… come back to the house with me, alright? Sleep it off. And if you still hate me in the morning—fine. I’ll even help you hook up with Suguru… if you want.”

Your head jerks back slightly, eyes narrowing. “W-What?” You squint at him, breath curling white between you. “Seriously?”

He shrugs with the ghost of a smile, though it doesn’t reach his eyes. “I mean, me and him used to be friends. I’m your best bet.”

“That’s insane,” you mutter.

“I’m aware,” he says dryly. Then, more cautiously: “All I’m asking is that you pretend to be my girlfriend. Just until Christmas is over.”

You scoff, half stumbling again as you try to push away from him. “Why the hell would I do that?”

He hesitates. Then breathes out through his nose, gaze flicking away for a second.

“Because… you saw how excited my friends were to meet you. I don’t have a great relationship with my family, okay? Those guys… they’re all I have. I’ve spent holidays alone more years than I haven’t.” His voice cracks a little, just a hair. “I don’t wanna ruin this one… please?”

Something in your expression softens. It hits you all at once, stupid and sharp: how close he is. How blue his eyes are. Maybe it’s the crack in his voice, or the tired honesty in his face, or the fact that for the first time tonight, he doesn’t look like a liar. He just looks… sad.

“…okay,” you whisper. “Fine. Let’s just… go.”

But when you step forward, you falter slightly, ankle twisting in the snow, and he moves without hesitation — an arm looping under yours, the other bracing your elbow as he helps you upright.

“Shit—okay. Easy, sweetheart. I got you,” he murmurs, adjusting his grip.

And maybe it’s the alcohol, or the heartbreak, or the fact that your guard’s been sanded down to nothing. But for a second? You let yourself lean into him. Just a little. Just enough.

He guides you carefully toward the car. The passenger door creaks open. He ducks down to guide you in, one hand braced above your head so you don’t hit it on the frame. His other hand lingers at your lower back. You glance up at him in the doorway.

“Do you… really think Suguru would like me?”

There’s a flicker in his expression. Then a tight smile.

“I think… he’d be lucky if he did.”

You frown, unsure how to read that. But you don’t press.

He closes the door behind you, gently. And as he rounds the car to take his seat, you rest your head against the window — watching snow dust the windshield like ash.

It’s going to be a long Christmas.

The drive home was quiet. When Satoru glanced through the rearview mirror, he realized you were out cold before he even hit the second red light. Your head was tilted against the window, lips slightly parted, breathing deep and even.

You looked impossibly beautiful.

By the time he pulled into the driveway, the snow picked up again, soft and powdery in the glow of the porch light. Satoru kills the engine and glances at you one more time.

“Hey… uh. We’re here?”

But you don’t wake. And honestly, he can’t find it in his heart to wake you himself. So instead, he sighs, “C’mon, sleeping beauty…” climbing out and circling the car. “Right… well. Up and at ‘em.”

He lifts you gently, bridal style. And your head lolls against his shoulder, warm breath ghosting across his collar. When he adjusts his grip, you snuggle closer, burrowing into the crook of his neck. And he tries to act like his brain wasn’t short-circuiting.

As he approaches the estate’s entrance, the door slides open before he can knock. Yuji stands there with a bag of chips in one hand and a soda in the other.

“Woah. Dude. She okay?”

“What?! Of course!” Satoru huffs. “She’s fine. Just—tired. Long flight. Jet lag hit her hard, y’know?”

Yuji nods solemnly. “RIP.”

Satoru rolls his eyes. “Move. Gotta put her to bed.”

Yuji moves. Nobody presses further. Satoru doesn’t stop in the hallway, just takes the stairs two at a time, heading straight for his room, nudging the door open with his foot while he eases you inside.

He lowers you onto the bed slowly, like you might break. Your coat bunches beneath you, and he hesitates — then gently shrugs it off your shoulders, exposing some of your bare skin. You murmur something incoherent, head rolling to the side.

“Shhh… time to get some rest, sweetheart…” he breathes. “Lay back for me, yeah?”

As you lay back, he slips your boots off next, one at a time, fingers brushing your ankles. And god, your feet are freezing.

But as he’s reaching for the blanket—

“Mmmph.”

Your hand fumbles blindly and finds his shirt, tugging him down with you. He stumbles forward slightly, one knee landing on the edge of the bed, catching himself on his palms as you tug him down. Your arms wrap loosely around his waist, burying your face into his chest.

“W-Woah—hey,” he breathes, voice cracking a little. “You’re—uh. Kinda clinging there, huh?”

You don’t answer. You just… sigh. Sleepy and content. He lies beside you, unsure where to put his hands, heart racing. You’re cold. He can feel the way you press into him, like he’s the warmest thing in the world. Your fingers bunch his shirt. Your nose nuzzles the fabric.

“Mm… s’toru…”

His heart flutters, and he knows you’ll probably hate him again in the morning, but he doesn’t move.

Because he likes the way you cling to him. Because he’s selfish. Because the girl he lied to for weeks is now curled up in his bed, face pressed to his ribs, saying his name like she’s dreamt it a hundred times.

So, he sleeps beside you that night. Pretending, just for now, that none of it was a lie.

‘I keep thinking… if this is what you’re like over the phone, what the hell am I gonna do if I ever see you in person?’

You’re dreaming again.

Of his voice — that voice. Warm and easy. The one that used to call you at midnight, laughing through the line like it was nothing, like you weren’t slowly losing your mind for a stranger you’d never met.

‘Cause… I really love talking to you. Might just get addicted to you, sweetheart.’

You sigh, stirring slightly against the warmth pressed to you. It’s a heavy, encompassing warmth – like you’ve been swaddled in sunlight and something sweet. There’s an arm draped languidly around your waist, and a thumb twitching against your lower back.

Dreaming.

“Mmph…”

Your thighs are warm, tangled, clinging to something… hard. You wiggle your hips as the rhythm of breathing ebbs and flows beneath you. And that movement makes a low, sleepy sound rumble against your chest.

“Fffuck…”

The groan isn’t innocent, and your brow furrows with a whimper as something firm twitches between your legs. Beginning to grow. A hand flexes at your back, and you instinctively press your thighs tighter, making him gasp.

“Unngh… b-baby…”

As your eyes flutter open, fluttering against his skin, you’re greeted with the slope of his throat, pale in the gray morning light. And the throbbing heat between your legs makes it undeniable now.

This isn’t a dream. This isn’t your bed. This isn’t your blanket. And your thighs are straddling Satoru’s hips with his morning wood right there and holy shit—

“S-Satoru?!”

You squeak. And his brow twitches, snowy lashes fluttering, lips parting on a sleepy inhale. When his hazy gaze focuses, you’re met with that blue. Bluer than the sky, bluer than anything should be this early in the goddamn morning.

But then, awareness sinks in, and he stutters. “H-Huh…?” gaze flicking down to the very compromising position you’re both in.

“Shit!” his voice cracks as you shove at his chest, face molten.

“Oh my god—why the hell are we sleeping together?!” you shriek, and he’s desperately trying to explain. “I—You—” he wheezes as you push his again. “Ow, okay, damn, don’t commit a felony! You literally pulled me into the bed when you were drunk. And then you passed out on top of me! I’m the victim here!”

Your hands are still on his chest, mid-push. But you stop. Breath catching. Eyes locking.

You stare at him.

He stares at you.

You both look down at his dick.

“…so,” he mutters, throat bobbing as his eyes flick back up to your face—very carefully avoiding your chest, failing miserably. “You, uh… gonna move?”

“R-Right!” your cheeks erupt in flames as you scramble off him like he’s on fire, nearly tripping over the bed. “Shit—sorry—I didn’t mean to…”

“No, it’s uh… fine. Totally fine.” He mumbles with an awkward laugh. “I mean… not that I’m complaining… but damn. If this is how you serve breakfast in America? I might need to move and—”

“Don’t.” You snap, making him freeze. “Don’t say that…”

Your arms are crossed as you stand, pressing your lips together tightly. His expression instantly drops, the humor fading. And god. You want to be mad at him. You should be mad.

But mostly?

Last night comes flashing back – your drunk, pathetic sob story. And really, you just feel… humiliated.

“You don’t get to make jokes right now,” your tone trembles as you try to hold it tight. “Not after last night. Not after I flew across the world for someone who doesn’t exist. For some who—” you trail off, failing to find words that don’t sound even more pathetic. And scoff. “God… I’m such an idiot…”

There’s a long pause. Satoru’s quiet, but then you hear him sigh.

“…you’re not. You’re not an idiot.”

Your eyes flick over as you watch him shift upright, pushing a hand through his messy hair. His expression softens, vibrant eyes dimming with a tenderness. And for once, it doesn’t feel like he’s reaching for some smartass line to soften to blow.

“I told you… I shouldn’t have lied. Okay? I know that…” he scratches the back of his head, knowing there’s no excuse he can give you that’ll make him sound any less pathetic. He exhales, pushing on. “Look… just stay until Christmas. Please? I’ll do everything I can to make it up to you. Even… hook you up with Suguru, like I said.”

He hesitates as he says it. But that’s what you want… right? After all, you expected him. You expected Suguru.

You blink, mouth parting as your conversation at the bar comes crashing back towards your foggy memory. You’d said it to spite him. You were drunk and stupid and humiliated, and you just wanted to wound him.

Because you liked him.

You really, really wanted it to be real.

Your mouth parts. You’re about to answer when your phone buzzes.

Mei: How’s Japan, darling? Is he real? I expect those lines~

You stare at the screen. Something twists in your chest — not quite a laugh, not quite a sob. And with a bitter smile, you tuck the phone away.

“Right…” you mutter, rubbing your arm nervously. “Uh… sure. I guess I’ll stay.”

a/n. hello my darlings. merry christmas, i hope you all are enjoying your holiday! i will have pt 2 out before the end of december, lmk if you wanna be tagged. this fic kinda gives me supermodel! gojo vibes? at least with the message it's exploring. hehe. anyways, love you all. thanks for reading 💖

you check in on your appearance in one of your mirrors—it’s obvious that you’re not doing well.

yet why is he so blind to it?

the nibbling on your lower lip is a habit caused by stress, biting your lips open until little droplets of blood coat your tongue in a bitter taste.

a knock on the door tears you out of your thoughts. his disapproving scowl the first thing you see once you step out of your shared bedroom and you feel his cool fingertips tilt your chin upwards. “i also told you to stop biting on your lip” kiyoomi mumbles, the disappointment painfully obvious.

you swallow thickly in an attempt to keep your tears at bay, “i-i’m sorry.”

“it’s as if you got nothing else to tell me but apologies” he sighs and lets go of your face to take your hand and pull you towards your kitchen. “dinner is ready.”

kiyoomi steps beside you a moment after you sit in front of the table, a warm cloth in his hand that he offers you to clean your lips on.

you take it wordlessly and carefully stop the bleeding before you barely touch the food on your plate.

and what we had is dead inside

you’re acting like it’s still alive

and you still wanna make it right

i know

by now your body yearns for his touch. no, it yearns for any form of acknowledgement. once you’re done with cleaning sakusa takes one of the mugs placed on the countertop and walks over to your table, most likely to finish his own studies.

your tea stands in front of you. usually he’d carry both mugs over to the table and invite you to sit with him. your eyes roam over his figure. his messy curls and tired expression, it draws you toward him. causes your hand to carefully run through his wild hair. “omi…” you mumble, tears already filling your eyes again.

his sigh is lethargic “i need to finish this before my game on friday.”

“oh-, i-i’m-”

sakusa’s eyes shoot up the second he hears your attempt of apologizing again. it cuts you off immediately, his words before dinner ringing inside your head. you force a smile to adorn your features. “i just wanted to talk to you for a moment.”

“you had your chance over dinner,” he mumbles and returns to writing in his notebook. “maybe later…”

you barely manage a hum out of your throat as you turn on your heels and hurry out of your living room to lock yourself in your bedroom. tears run free the moment the door falls shut, wetting your cheeks as the salt begins to leave a stinging pain on your skin.

it’s only three hours later that the door opens and he steps inside your little cavern of blankets, pillows and the stuffed weasel he got you back in high school.

your face is illuminated by your nightstand lamp. it almost mockingly rubs your tear stained face and his failure into kiyoomi’s skin.

sakusa kneels in front of your side of the bed, hand brushing a few strands of hair out of your face before he plants a kiss on your forehead. with that he gets back up, turning off the lamp and walking over to his side to lie down beside you.

but i've been the hardest to love

you're tryna let me go

and i can see it, i can see it

wednesday’s start slower than any other day as you both got the morning off from uni.

but today the bed is empty when you wake up. his side long gone cold, pillow and blanket neatly placed on top of the mattress.

you force yourself out of bed, to take a shower and dress yourself. at least you attempt to look presentable with a pair of light washed jeans and a white turtleneck, hair styled back into a low bun and your usual make up highlighting your features when you hear the door closing.

you step out of the bathroom to meet kiyoomi’s sweat drenched figure coming home from a run. it’s clear as day that he’s freezing cold. “i thought wednesday’s were your rest day?” you grab a towel and reach out to try and place it over his hair, but instead he stops your advances by wrapping a hand around your wrist.

kiyoomi takes the towel out of your fingers and rubs his face off, his thanks getting drowned by the soft fabric. with that he steps out of his shoes and makes his way to the bathroom, leaving you alone for another thirty minutes as he gets ready for the day.

you stand in front of your kitchen counter, cup of coffee in hand while you try to distract yourself with your phone. checking in on your uni deadlines and any good message, anything to finally lighten your spirits—to no success. your eyes shoot up to watch him open the fridge once you notice his footsteps.

“kiyoomi” you try once more.

at least his full name has an effect on him as he closes the fridge and turns around. finally facing you with a cold tea in hand. he studies your features and his brows furrow slightly in answer. “you never call me by my full name.”

“i never had to beg so much for your attention before,” you admit in return. eyes raking over the suddenly more than interesting looking countertop.

when you at last feel his hand on the small of your back your walls begin to crumble. you lean against his chest as you finally share your troubles. “my professor told me i had no chance to get that internship… and i got more rejection mails sitting in my inbox.”

a low rumble vibrates through his chest as a hand comes up to rest on top of your head. “it always seemed too far fetched to rely on getting that internship.”

your fingers clutch into the fabric of his shirt while your head tilts lower, almost as if seeking his comfort but also trying to get away from his touch. the shaking of your shoulders is all you offer him once you try to keep your sobs down.

but it’s yet another sigh from his lips that finally has you push him away and walk out of the room—not even sparing another glance at kiyoomi.

“where are you going?” he follows your retreat, voice sounding more strained than before.

you shrug on your coat, slip into your boots and grab your bag—not one word leaving your lips as you get ready to go out.

“talk to me.”

your eyes shoot right—immediately meeting his gaze. “do you really care where i go? you should be happy that i finally give you your peace and quiet.”

“i don’t wan’t–”

“why can you only kiss me when you think i’m asleep?”

kiyoomi’s eyes widen slightly as he is lost for words for the first time in what seems like forever. he frowns shortly after and approaches your figure, “i’m just–, i got a lot on my plate with volleyball and university.”

“do you think i’m not stressed as well? am i just a loser to you? kiyoomi–” fresh tears stop your response.

i've been the hardest to love

it's hard to let me go, yeah

and i can feel it, i can feel it

once his hands come up to carefully take a hold of your shoulders you flinch in order to retreat out of his reach as you shake your head. “you’re just never here-, never for me, with me...”

if he’s not here for you, then what is he doing? he rakes his brain, trying to figure out your struggle since—as far as he can remember—he actually did nothing wrong.

he always attends his classes, always gives his all during practice and games. he goes grocery shopping—with or without you, he never forces you to tag along. he cooks more often than you do, often because his classes end early and he already got a nutrition plan, but still. he also cleans the apartment you go on dates at least twice a month despite his schedule.

the thoughts bring rage to boil over inside of him. you’re the only person to actually mess with his emotions and it sadly shows more often in negative ways than positive.

“at least i am working on my career to achieve my dreams…” it falls from his lips faster than he can think of the actual meaning of his wording. but it’s the silence after that makes it all the worse.

your eyes remain glued on the floor as your head bobs up and down slowly. the feeling inside your chest subsides from pain to almost nothing while a bitter smile spreads on your lips.

“i guess i'm not part of your dreams anymore” you quietly admit once you look up at his surprised face. “sounds like i’m just holding you back, don’t i?”

the dead smile on your usually pretty face causes kiyoomi to stand there dumbfounded, staring at you instead of interrupting you—correcting you. “maybe you should be with someone who’s not a failure then.”

“no,” he finally breaks the silence, shaking his head slightly as his dark eyes fill with pain by the mere thought of losing you. one of his hands cards through his previously styled hair—messing up his relatively new side parted look.

whenever he’d do that you’d correct him playfully, teasing him about looking like his high school self again. “i told you to stop doing that…” you repeat his usual words in an almost ironic tone a moment before you open the door and leave for the day.

i don't feel it anymore

the house i bought is not a home

together we are so alone

sakusa waited for you at dinner. table set with two pairs of chopsticks, two bowls of rice, two plates, two cups of water. but the door didn’t open that night, or the morning after.

he tried calling you, but got directed to voicemail. his messages left on read before they couldn’t get delivered anymore. at least your instagram profile showed him that you were okay, or at least alive.

it’s only when he comes home from another game that the apartment feels different. the usually stuffed entryway half empty. all your shoes and coats gone. his bag drops from his shoulder, feet carrying him to your bedroom in a hurry. only to confirm his suspicion once he opens your side of the closet.

he turns around, eyeing your bed to see every silly pillow or plushie gone as well. it’s a frenzy of ‘no no no no’ in his head as he rushes out of the bedroom to grab his phone from his gym bag and open your instagram chat. he types a mess of a question, panic fueling his mind as he begs you to tell him where you are.

until he realizes you’ll probably block him on here as well if he hits send.

can he lose that? that little insight in your life? the only option he still has to know you’re okay?

kiyoomi swallows hard before he closes the app and instead opts to call your best friend.

it’s no surprise that it’s a fruitless try.

don't regret the day we met

don't forget that time we spent

forget that we're in different beds

i know

shortly after you left him, kiyoomi started sleeping on your side of the bed. trying to desperately hold on to your scent that lingered in your bed sheets until it was time to change them.

it didn’t take him long to understand how much of a distanced asshole he was. how much he actually struggled to be what someone else deserves. not when he relives your relationship every spare minute of his day.

and even three months later he’s unable to move on. yes, he cut himself off from other people, other social interactions and started hiding his feelings. at least he manages to go through his day unbothered. being a crying mess suits atsumu better than him.

so his group of friends might know that you guys broke up, but nothing more. and nobody would dare to have him open up, to annoy the already distanced opposite hitter.

—————

right now kiyoomi is anything but cold or distant as he’s scrolling through your instagram feed at 2am on a friday night. he’s never used the app as much as he does now, since your break up. trying to keep up with you.

he never meets you on campus or walks into you on accident anymore. unlike how you two did back in high school when it felt like you were around every corner of itachiyama. it left him no other option but to ask you out shortly before graduation day.

since then he never assumed to lose you, to lay alone in what was supposed to be your haven from the world—with mere 21 years.

after seeing your post of a date you had with one of your friends; a picture of you guys stuffing your faces with crepes from another ‘social-media-worthy’-shop. he can’t help but click on the message option. well, with his slightly shaky fingers it ends up being your icon and the stories you’ve posted that day.

your little giggles send a new wave of pain to his heart as your friend recorded a comparison of your face next to the crepe. the goosebumps crawl up all over his skin as he keeps on looking at your posts. boomerangs of diverse gacha machines, clothing items and performers. you seem happy, like you do incredibly well without him.

what he doesn’t know is that your friend practically forced you to go out and post something new to your feed—to possibly attract a new lover. she deemed it was time for you to finally get over your messy relationship.

and her experiment seems successful, until your most recent updates from only thirty minutes ago. it’s the playground right next to a bar you always go to with your friends. yakiniku and sake for a fair price. the perfect place for students.

the camera is shaky as you’re seated on a swing. kiyoomi can manage to make out your legs from his memory. but your voice is the centre of attention, little mumbles about how you used to come here with your ‘omi-omi’.

when your friend finally finds you, sakusa sees the angle of the camera shifting. your figure looks up at your phone, which must now be in the hands of your friend. she giggles and sakusa deems her as drunk as you.

your friend asks you mockingly what a loser like you is up to on a swing for children.

ah, the word loser brings memories back the moment he hears it. he remembers you calling yourself a loser before you disappeared out of his life.

and it seems like you remember the exact same scene as your face falls from drunk giggles to a broken expression, starting to nibble on your lower lip before you ask her where sakusa is, you never go out without him.

well, went out.

your drunk mind seems to have struggles remembering your break up. until your best friends catches up; the one that ignored sakusa’s call all these months ago. after a few complaints from your voice in the background about wanting ‘your yoomi’ to pick you up the stories cuts.

it’s only now that he realizes his wet cheeks, blinking furiously to keep the tears from spilling out of his eyes further as his lips press into a thin line.

his heart is still stuck on your voice crying out for him, yet his mind fights with his emotions. he tries to stop himself from messing with you further, tries to let you be.

'cause i’ve been the hardest to love

you're tryna let me go, yeah

and i can see it, i can see it

i've been the hardest to love

yet his body moves on its own.

by now you should be home, right? it’s 3am as he leaves his apartment to make his way over to yours. it’s the only info he found out, thanks to your letters still being delivered to his doorstep.

the cold night bites in his face, urges him to stay home—especially at an hour like this—but for once in his life he’s not acting rational.

a shaky breath leaves his lips. it evaporates into thin air like his confidence the moment he stands in front of your door. you won’t be awake.

what is he doing here in the dead of night?

why is he knocking on your door like some creep?

he’s about to turn on his heels and make a run for his life, but the little light shining on his features has him freeze on the spot. heart pounding in his ears as his shocked eyes roam along the door to see you.

you, in all your drunk little glory.

kiyoomi’s features soften upon the memories coming to his mind about the giggly thing you usually turn into once the alcohol reaches your bloodstream.

“why do you open the door in the middle of the night!?” is the first thing actually leaving his lips—a little too harsh to be quite frank—but his voice quiets down once he realizes you’re dressed in one of his shirts. you still look as if you’re his, his love and future.

“y-yoomi…?” you mumble, slightly confused the moment your eyes get used to the dark and roam over his figure.

curse your puppy gaze, it always had sakusa turn to a silly little fanboy whenever you used it.

where did it go the last months of your relationship?

was he too blind to notice it—to notice you?

it’s second nature for him to take a step forward and cup your face, to tilt your chin up as his worried expression roams over your perfectly imperfect features that make you you.

“are you okay? i-i saw your stories…did someone try something funny with you? why were you calling my name?” his touch is gentle, almost as if you’d break as he’d use more strength.

you finally manage to shake your head with slightly furrowed brows. “am okay… just tired.”

a soft sigh leaves his lips with his eyes quickly darting up into your hallway and back down to your face, noticing your eyebags at last. “why are you even awake?”

a shrug is all you offer kiyoomi in return, teeth sucking your lower lip in the moment you lose yourself in your head.

“hey-,” he softly rips you out of your thoughts, dark eyes looking intently into yours. “what’s going on in your tipsy little mind?” his head tilts slightly, curls beautifully framing his face as a little smile decorates his lips.

it's hard to let me go

and i can feel it, i can feel it

you take a deep breath, the invitation of “come…” almost inaudible the moment you breathe it out with the air you held in your lungs and step inside your apartment. your hands clutch around his bigger one, slightly tugging at his form to have him understand what you want.

sakusa follows.

what he doesn’t expect is your use of the genkan to your advantage to wrap your arms around his neck and pull yourself close against his body.

trembling fingers ghost over your waistline as he whispers “y-you remember that we broke up, right?” scared of the outcome if he were to actually remind you of your split.

it’s awfully quiet after his question.

i can't, can't believe you want me

after all the heart breaks, after all i've done

no, i can't, can't believe you trust me

kiyoomi's heart is racing against your body while his fingers take fistfuls of your shirt’s fabric before he holds you even closer.

“i miss you in waves and tonight i’m drowning” you mumble against his skin.

it’s part of a poem you posted not too long ago, the lines burned themselves into his memory the moment he saw them. sakusa bites his lower lip this time, tears filling his lash lines once more as he hides his face in your messy waves of hair.

“can’t be without you…” you admit “can’t be with you…” it’s nothing more but a whisper. your own little message written on his neck and washed away with your tears once you cuddle your body closer to the familiar scent of his perfume and unmistakable scent.

you’ve never heard sakusa kiyoomi cry before. never felt his body shake as he tries to fight the tears but now it’s all that fills your mind. his beautiful sobbing, the voice crack and the hiccuping as his throat tightens further. one hand cradles the back of your head, nuzzling his face further into your hair to drown in you instead of facing the consequences of his appearance on your doorstep.

“need you, want you, miss you” is the incoherent mess of mumbles between your own tears. “just tonight…?”

“just tonight…” his shaky voice repeats a moment before he picks you up. his foot closes your door without much care as he carries you to your bedroom. kind of guessing where exactly it’s located based on the familiar night lamp—it used to illuminate your shared bedroom in a lavender tone—coming from one room.

after all the rough days, you still call me up

'cause i've been the hardest to love

the morning greets you with a harsh light shining through your open blinds and an immediate pounding against your temples. you groan in discontent and pull your covers further above your head.

but something rustles in your kitchen.

after contemplating about ignoring a possible intruder or fighting for your safety, you get up and make your way towards your little kitchen nook. you take in the state of your couch, a blanket lying on top of it neatly folded—something you’d never do—next to a pillow from your bedroom.

your eyes dart over to the stove before your body can fully rotate. the sight forces you to hide behind the wall, pressing your eyes shut as your shaky fingers fidget with the hem of your shirt. soon the chewing of your lower lip follows suit as you push yourself off the wall and face the man.

kiyoomi is still busy with the hangover soup he prepares for you while a bowl of rice is already waiting on your table.

his figure leaves you frozen, trying to edge the memory of him preparing food for you into your head as it will all end the moment he steps outside of your apartment. until he finally notices you. his lips form into a little pout once he directs his attention toward you.

the sound of his coffee mug meeting the tabletop jolts you awake. you meet his nervous gaze, appreciating his tousled hair and soft expression.

“i-i’ll leave… you seem bet—” kiyoomi starts, fingertips nervously drumming against the counter before you interrupt him by knocking the air out of his lungs.

your arms wrap tightly around his midsection, almost squeezing his ribs beneath your grip as you hide your face in his chest, eyes shut tightly.

trying to drag the end out for as long as possible...

— OIKAWA TOORU.

— IWAIZUMI HAJIME.

— MATSUKAWA ISSEI.

— HANAMAKI TAKAHIRO.

— KYOUTANI KENTAROU.

— KUNIMI AKIRA.