Jasmnne

Now, everywhere you, people's head turned, whispers erupted in a way you hoped that they were talking about the poor girl who managed to land a very hard scholarship — but, of course, no. You can't even walk to the cafeteria without people suddenly putting up their bags onto the vacant seats. You thought this was supposed to be college, not high school anymore.

From the corner of your eyes, you could see Sukuna and his group of friends. The fraternities. You never knew why the concept of frat boys are a thing, surely they could have done so much better. Like, a book club maybe? Or a spelling bee? Mathematics? Yes, it's pretty boring, but surely it's better than intimidating people on campus ground.

And as far as you go, you remembered the prices of the cafeteria food being affordable. However, today, the prices had spiked up five times than the usual. You shook your head nervously, asking the lady standing behind the counter with a meek voice, "Is there a mistake with the price . . ? Why is it so far up compared to yesterday? I bought the same thing, can you please help me check?"

The lady gave you a look of pity. She sighs out softly, "Sorry, your students number was listed this way, I'm afraid it's out of my control — you can try checking with the head of the university regarding prices. We're just inputing what is listed in the computer," it seemed that she knows what was happening — but downright refused to talk about it because she knew that she was forbidden to tell you.

You weren't stupid, this kind of things isn't the first rodeo. Clearly Sukuna had done this, and if not him then maybe someone under his commands. Stupid. And there goes your lunch savings. It was embarrassing to stand there, holding the tray of food when you couldn't pay for it at all. Putting the tray down felt even more shameful when people behind you decide to ash you down with their quiet laughter. Well, it wasn't quiet if you could hear it.

And so, you spent the rest of the day hungry. Only being able to tase something once you reached your part time workplace. Sometimes, you thank your boss for actually giving out snacks and actual "heat up" bento stocked up in the fridge.

"Hoo, you work here, huh?"

Just your luck. Fuck my life, you'd like to yell out right now if losing your job was out of the box. You couldn't understand why Sukuna Ryomen had showed up right in front of you along with another frat boy you were aware of —Gojo Satoru— standing there with a sly smirk. Sukuna dropped a couple cans of beer, a few packs of gums and mints, chips, and . . . a few boxes of condoms for God knows what.

You scanned them with awkward silence, "Do you need a bag for these—"

"Use your pretty little head," Sukuna leaned on the counter, taking out his card, "course I need a bag for these. Do I look like I want people to know I just bought condoms, eh?"

What a dick. You chant to yourself, plastering that sweet smile on your face that's special for customers spawned from hell, "That'll be—"

He cuts you off, "You know what? Since you touched my brand new car the other day," he points out, pulling his card back from your fingers, "you can go ahead and put this in the house, yeah? That's the least you could do since you're too broke to pay for my shit. You can afford beers, gums, and condoms, right?"

Before you could say anything, he was halfway through the store, already reaching out to grab the handle of the door. You caught your breath and call out to him, "No, I can't pay for beers, gums, and condoms," Sukuna halts, looking over his shoulders.

You weren't half lying when you said that — money clearly isn't your strongest area, and the bill had add up to at least a good 200 gram of wagyu steak. Why did he have to choose those brands anyways?

Satoru nudged him out of the door considering the fact that there were a couple people watching them from afar, "Leave this here for you, yeah?" he pulls out a bill from his wallet and left it on top of the basket stack before following Sukuna's steps.

You thought that would be the end of it all. The second you stepped into campus ground, the whispers grew louder — no, they weren't even making it subtle that they were shit-talking you. These people spoke and made sure that you heard every single thing about it.

How pitiful this, serves you right that. How about considering shutting up and study? Your grip on your bag strap never faltered until you reached into the first class of the day. The class felt more hollow than usual. Before everything with Sukuna happened, people didn't actually mind sitting next to you — but, the dirty look you get now when they were forced to sit there was humiliating, almost.

You felt small in this moment. Like, nobody was on your side just because you lacked the money to defend yourself. Had you came here with a bit more money, a bit richer, would Sukuna still of react that way? Or would he have brushed you off like you did nothing wrong.

"You."

Your head rose from the short slumber of 'what ifs' when your professor called out on you — he had never called out on you before, not on anyone. He specifically said that he'd rather continue teaching rather than testing his students, so why was he calling to you now? Looking side to side, the looks from students around you confirmed that your professor was indeed calling out to you.

" . . . Me?" Your voice was slow and unsure. Maybe it was the fear of getting judged just for confirming.

Your professor looked dissatisfied, his eyes narrowed, "Yes, you. I am pointing at you, correct?" You nodded, already feeling the heat of embarrassment sloshing on your cheeks, "The Tsar had sent out orders to the governments of different provinces of the empire requiring each of them to send his quota of artificers and laborers to assist to build the city. This, they could do with ease because in those days, all the laboring classes were little better than slaves, and most entirely at the disposal of nobles, who were deemed their masters. In the same manner, he sent out agents to all the chief cities in Western Europe with orders to advertise for carpenters, masons, engineers, ship-builders, and person of all other trades that are likely useful to help build the city. These men were to be promised good wages and very kind treatment, and were to be at liberty at any time to return to their homes."

What the fuck was he talking about? You fiddled with the edge of your book, folding the pages anxiously as he looks at you, "Peter the Great in 1859 has an attitude towards foreign workers described in the passage I just read before differs most strongly from that of which of the following states during the period 1450-1750? A, the Songhai Empire in West Africa. B, the Tokugawa shogunate in Japan. C, the Qing Dynasty in China or D, the Safavid Dynasty in Persia?"

What. The. Fuck. Internally, you were panicking at the sudden question. You were unsure of how the topic of World War had suddenly turned into . . . this. Swallowing the lump in your throat, you mumbled out, more of questioning him, "A?"

"Incorrect. The Songhai Empire and the Savafid Dynasty relied heavily on foreign trade to support their economy, this indicates that they are willing to cooperate with foreigners. On the other hand, the Qing Dynasty also engage in foreign trade — hence, the answer is B. The Tokugawa shogunate in Japan," he explains out roughly, scribbling on the whiteboard, "the passage describes Peter the Great offering to provide good wages and kind treatment to foreign workers, especially high skilled ones who assisted in the construction. This attitude is generally positive and consistent with his eagerness to accept foreign influence, especially Euro-pean influence, in order to modernize Russia. This attitude differs strongly from that of the Tokugawa shogunate, which adopted isolationist stance, expelling most foreigners from Japan and closed off Japan to foreign trades. Also, forbade Japanese citizens from traveling abroad. Thus, B is the correct answer."

He finished with a sharp look towards you before speaking in a gruff tone, "Read your books well next time or leave my class."

Everyone is such a dick in here. You mutter to yourself, looking back down onto your notebook in annoyance, ready to just storm off and die in a ditch. Maybe getting too excited about college applications don't always turn out well — you just wanted to crawl away and disappear right now.

When class ended, you stood up, not bothering to pack. Your books hung in between your armpit as you walked down the hall, timidly looking down. Guess, you should have watched where you're going. The next thing you know, your books were sprawled all over the floor, a soft curse escaped under your breath as you bent down to pick it up.

"Watch where the fuck you're going," doesn't take you a good look to know who it was, by the voice, you just knew you bumped into trouble. Sukuna's foot trampled over the cover of your AP History book, his crude laugh echoing when he walks by. Then more foot trampled over your belongings, your fingers twitched at the sight of your now dirty book. At least they didn't step inside.

Your fingers clawed on a book, huffing. As you went to grab the second book, another hand beats you to it. Looking up, you met Gojo Satoru's cerulean eyes. He has a cheeky smile on his face, "You alright?" He questioned like he cares, but you knew people like him all too well.

" . . . Yeah," you don't bother thanking him, immediately jolting the book out of his fingers like he's toxic.

"You're welcome," he spoke, sarcasm lacing in his voice.

Your shoulder tingled when he brushed by you with that sweet smile of his that never left from earlier. He connected back with his group of friends, laughing like he didn't just stop to help you pick up a book, the hell is this now?

Satoru briefly glances at you over his shoulder, his feet continued to bring him further away from where you stood, brushing the covers of your books. He turns to focus on his friends, "Party is gonna be awesome, can't fucking wait," Sukuna sipped on his energy drink, skipping slightly, "I call dibs on—" Satoru had lost interest then.

He knew Sukuna would talk about the new girl he's inviting to the frat house tonight. The condoms he bought the other day solely for this matter, Satoru hasn't invited anyone. Sure, he's had flings here and there every once in a while. Sure, he's had sex with different girls he doesn't bother remembering. Though, it's been at least half a year since he last slept with someone.

"You good?" A friend of his —Geto Suguru— nudged him. If Satoru were to be honest, he'd choose Suguru to hang out with rather than Sukuna.

While Sukuna's a tornado wagering down the halls with total confidence and boisterous chaos, Suguru was silent. Quiet chaos, he doesn't bother people who done him no wrongs, but Satoru does know that Suguru tends to pretend to be sweet when he's seething. A double face, not that it's any of his business.

"Just peachy, no worries."

Suguru raised a brow, he knew Satoru better than anyone. They had spent their whole high school together — they're practically two peas in a pod, "Sure? You look worse than 'just peachy'."

Satoru shrugged, "Just noticed that (Name) girl."

"The one who ruined—"

Satoru never understood why they used the word 'ruined'. He took a good look at that car and it still looks as new as when Sukuna got it, that guy just wants a reason to fuel his dickhead-ness, "Yeah," he forced himself to answer, "her."

"She's in some deep shit."

"Right?"

"Who's in some deep shit?" Sukuna asks, looking over his shoulder from the front of the group, "And why the fuck would you notice that . . . low class bitch. How do you even know her name?" It was on her nametag at work, Satoru couldn't blame anyone for looking at every single details around him. He's always been that kind of person.

"Eh, just thought she fucked up bad," Satoru shrugs his shoulder sheepishly, "it was pretty rad."

"I'm still not satisfied," Sukuna grins, almost like a maniac. Satoru's so accustomed by his shit now that he wouldn't be surprised if Sukuna turns up in prison tomorrow — or even worse, dead, "you should fuck her up."

Satoru retracts back, "Beat her up . . ?"

Sukuna rolled his eyes, "No, mess with her. Coddle her, then break her heart, it'll feel pretty fucking good," Satoru knows this type of stuff is what the pink haired love most — he's lost count of how many girls have fallen for his charms, only to be disappointed then.

"I'm not interested—"

"Not interested? Or scared?"

See now, Satoru wasn't the type of person to back down. Especially when it involves his ego, "Scared? Pfft, the fuck do I get from this?" He mutters out, wanting something physical wise to be returned to him for doing whatever the fuck this is.

"Whatever the fuck you want, I could buy," a new car sounds awesome, or maybe a new PS5? Oh, a private jet maybe? Sukuna's money is relentless — his parents own probably one of the biggest electronic company in Japan, and Sukuna's the heir to it. Of course, he has the money and power to rule over this campus, not to mention the fact that his parents are the top one donators for events.

Satoru smirked, "Could do that. No time limit?"

"Eh, just make her feel all high and then drop her, don't care," Sukuna waved his hand, walking away. Satoru has seen his fair share of dickheads, but Sukuna has got to be at the top of the list.

That should be fairly easy.

Work has been hell. First, a lady blamed you because she didn't bring the right amount of money, somewhere along, she told you it was completely your fault and that you humiliated her. Second, you burst a water bottle inside your bag, didn't know how that happened. Lastly, Gojo Satoru paid you a visit.

This time, he was alone. He drops down a few packets of chips and a cold water bottle right on the counter, you'd like to retort, "No condoms like your friend?" But, it would just spiral everything worse.

"So," he started.

Uh-oh.

"I saw your water burst," what? How did he even know that? You cleared your throat, "the door was open and I saw. Bought you another one, and the chips too."

"Um, why?" You muttered out unsure.

He doesn't say a word but slipped a bill onto the counter with a smile on his face. Satoru looks around and tapped on the bill, "Text me."

He left without another word — prick. Just as you pulled the bill, a piece of small paper fell from under it. And of course, a series of numbers were written on top of it, his number, you assumed since he said to text him. Honestly, you didn't bother with it and let the paper rest there until closing hours, where you crumpled it and tossed it in the bin.

Because, what made him think that you'd text him when his friends are complete dickheads? Somewhere deep in your mind, you knew he was just pretending to be nice. There is little to no chance that he's genuine, and you wondered what his intentions really are.

Sex? A kiss? Money? Or is it still because of that stupid fucking car of Sukuna?

Anyways, it didn't matter now. After all that, all you wanted to do was to transfer away — if money wasn't the reason, you'd totally be in a different place right now. Surely, your time will come, right?

The place you live in currently wasn't even a living area, it was a space people use to fuck. Sex workers mostly, so most of your nights were filled with the raging sounds of skin against skin, the loud curses asking for more, and different pitches of moans from left and right. At this point, you weren't even in a place to complain because the owner lets you have the room for a good price, and who were you to judge these people when you don't know anything about their lives?

Your bed wasn't even a bed. It was makeshift one, a thin mattress and under it was a piece of wood so you could just plop down with ease. Thankfully, the room has its own bathroom and a little kitchen by the corner, it wasn't much; but it was enough.

While brushing your teeth, you caught a glimpse of yourself in the mirror. You looked . . . older, and more tired. The dark circles under your eyes were worse than high school despite the fact that you were juggling three jobs in the past, and now you were juggling one job with a dozen of dickheads on your ass. No, actually — if you think about it, it's not even a dozen, the whole campus was on your ass.

Wouldn't this be considered as illegal? Professors shouldn't even be involved just because you couldn't defend yourself from some frat boys you were sure they shit talk about too. Your skin was rougher on some parts, and there were a few rashes from scratching earlier, it will disappear, hopefully. Spitting out the toothpaste, you touched your face, feeling the soft patch under your fingertips.

Sometimes, you wondered if your parents hadn't died, would you still be living in that not too big house in the very nice neighborhood, with nice neighbors, and a small yard on the back? Would people still look at you like you mattered? Or was it just another play because your world's still colors and sparkles — unlike now.

Sleep was an escape, only if you could do it longer. After work, you spend most of time tossing and turning, if this bed wasn't so thin, maybe you wouldn't feel your back aching and actually get a good night rest. But, no, this was all you could get by. And by the time you got some sleep, the alarm blared, reminding you of the mystery ahead.

Whenever you turned around the corner near campus, you find yourself taking deep breaths and chanting a mantra to be patient — being patient is so much better than spending a whole life in jail. You try to tell yourself that once this was all done, you go find an old rich guy, take his heart, and make him give all his assets to you. Boom, rich. Then again, somewhere deep in you, you knew that this was just a way for you to remind yourself to go on and keep living.

"You never texted me."

Not even inside campus grounds, yet. You pretend it was just the wind and continued walking. Satoru pops a smile and matched your steps with ease, damn his long legs, "So, I waited all night and never got one. Did you intend to do that or were you just too shy to text me?"

Your steps slowed down into a halt, "Do I even know you?"

Satoru shook his head, "Why'd you think I gave you my number, sweetheart? I want you to know me, and I want me to know you," he points at your head, "so? Why'd you not text me?"

"Because I didn't see a number," you lied through gritted teeth.

He cocked his head, "Oh," no, Satoru's not stupid, of course he knows you're lying. He saw it with his own eyes that the paper had fallen and you left it there — no worries, he left after, "let's rephrase that, sounds a bit bland. How about, to prevent that from happening again, you put your number in my phone. Or mine in yours, your choice."

"Don't have a phone," you mumbled.

"Lies, people have phones—"

You pulled out the old flip-phone passed down from your former grandmother, which managed to shut him up deliberately, his blue eyes looking in awe at the device, "Oh, you actually meant that, are you that broke?" He spoke in a sympathetic tone that made you despise him even more, "I can buy a new phone for you—"

"Absolutely not, do I look like I need a new phone?"

He looks at you, "Um, yeah. Who still uses . . . flip phones? Unless, you're ninety or dead," okay, he's an obnoxious little brat who's obviously choking on daddy's money, his parents are to blame!

"Leave me alone, Jojo."

Satoru blinks, "Gojo," he corrects, "I prefer Satoru, or baby works too."

"Jojo it is."

You've never noticed that he sits in the same AP History class as you do — no wonder he followed you in, his steps matches yours. People stared you down, girls especially. Burning in jealousy at the sight of you walking beside what they thought is one of the hottest person on campus. And right then, you'd already decided that you're utterly more fucked than before, "Can you . . . not sit beside me?"

"Why not? I'm trying to flirt, can't you give me a chance before deciding?" He puts his chin on top of his palm, looking at you.

You grumbled, moving away slightly only for him to follow your movements, inching his body closer to yours, "I am uncomfortable with you being so close to me, can you move away?"

Satoru inched slightly away with a teasing smile. Your professor, today, decided it was another day to humiliate you even more, "(Name)," he calls out to your name, surprising that he even knows it to begin with, "In Philosophy of Manufactures, steam engines furnish the means not only of their support, but of their multiplication. They create a vast of demand for fuels and while they lend their powerful arms to drain the pits and to raise coal, they call into employment multitudes of miners, engineers, shipbuilders, and sailors and cause the construction of canals. Therefore, in enabling these rich fields of industry to be cultivated to the utmost, they leave thousands of fine arable fields free for the production of food to man, which must've been otherwise allotted to the food of horses. Steam engines moreover, by the cheapness and steadiness of their action — fabricates cheap goods, and procure in their exchange a liberal supply of the necessaries and comforts of life produced in foreign lands."

You scratched the back of your head, his words already leaving your brain. Worse, you don't even know what he was talking about, "The passage I just read is best seen ad evidence for which of the following? A, the implementation of the factory system led to increased demand for skilled laborers. B, the limited supply of fossil fuels led to innovations in transportations. C, the rise of industrial technology improved living conditions for all members of society; or D, the development of machines led to increased agricultural production and population growth."

God, all you wanted to do now was to throw a book straight to his bald head and call it a day. As you were about to shoot and try your luck, a tap on your thigh under the table made your eyes look slightly to the paper Satoru was holding, 'D'.

It wasn't much of a help when you're skeptical about it too, but at this point, you'll take it. With a slight tremble in your voice, you answered, "D?"

To your surprise, your professor looked fairly satisfied. He nods his head and turns towards the whiteboard, "D is correct. The passage I just read claimed that advances in transportation and mechanical production allowed for more intensive agricultural cultivation, thus D is correct. Good job, (Name), I expect a lot from you."

The burden on your shoulders visibly lifted up and you coaxed yourself to look at Satoru, who had a smile on his face, proud of himself, " . . . Thanks," you mumbled out, as much as you hate it, he did just save your face from another round of humiliation.

"No problem, sweetheart. I guess I get a free pass to sit next to you from now on then?" He whispers softly, with a cheeky smile.

"Don't push your luck."

"Won't stop trying."

Satoru is a leech. You could see his group of friends sitting in another corner, but they didn't seem like they cared about Satoru sitting away from them; which made you suspicious about the whole thing. Satoru seemed to notice, clearing his throat, "What class do you have after this?"

You shook your head, "None."

"Sweet, wanna hang out?"

"Got work."

Satoru puckered his lips, "After work then?"

"Too late."

"The Weekend?"

"Rest day."

Satoru chuckled under his breath at your vague answers, he was honestly confused to why you weren't affected by his charms like all others would, "I'm free whenever," because you're rich, why can't he just understand that he's practically saying that he's so rich so he doesn't have to break bones and work all night long, "so, just shoot me a letter. I can write my address—"

"My flip-phone can text fine," you retort back a bit offended.

"Well, why didn't you say so, input my number then," he scribbled down on your notebook, his writing is messy, like him, "text me for real this time, yeah?"

No, you did not text him. You didn't know why you'd text him — his friends are a group of bullies, and he probably is one too! You stood by the counter of the cashier, tapping on the metallic surface in a random tune, "So, I've received no texts so far from you, sweetheart."

"I don't have anything to ask you, nor am I interested in texting you," you replied back, ringing his sandwich and energy drink.

"Why? Is it because I'm Sukuna's friend?" He was smirking widely, like he knows it's part of the answer.

You narrowed your eyes at him, "Yes, that's one. Two, I know you want something from me, I just don't know what. Three, you're not as . . . charming as what people portray you to be, anyone who is friends with bullies and douchebags makes them the same. And all three points to you," he blinks, suppressing his smile from growing wider.

Satoru finally laughs, "You haven't even gotten to know me."

"Don't need to, I judge books by the cover, and your cover isn't really the best—"

"I can name a few books with shit covers that has treasures inside," he offered in a challenging tone, you furrowed your brows in annoyance, "one—"

"I don't need a fucking list, you're holding up the line," Satoru looks back to see nobody standing behind him, "fuck off."

"Ouch, harsh."

He slides the sandwich and energy drink towards you, "I don't need your pity."

Satoru raised a brow, "What's your definition of pity?"

"You, giving me these—"

Satoru cuts you off, "Pity. Noun. The feeling of sorrow and compassion caused by the suffering and misfortunes of others. Example, he looks at me with pity because I just lost my wallet," he defined with a lop-sided smirk, "and I," he slowly spoke again, "don't feel sorrow because you have a shitty life — I actually do care for you, you're different. Unlike people on campus who flocks over my extremely good looks, you actually hate me. And it's fresh, this is not pity, it's love."

You grit your teeth, "There's a borderline difference between love and lust, and you seem like the type to sugarcoat your words to lay a girl. Is that what you're trying to do? Did your jerk of a friends tell you to do this just because you helped me pick a book up the other day? Do I look fucking cheap to you?"

Satoru shrugs, "Believe what you want, all I'm saying is that —" he gestures to himself then at you, "I'll try my best to earn your trust, then I'll officially court you after, cool? And who cares about what they say, I'm probably not going to talk to them after we graduate anyways."

You look at the sandwich, "I ate."

"Then eat more."

"Can't."

"Heat it up for tomorrow then, breakfast, silly," he flicks your forehead, making you stare at him in an uncanny way that he raised both his arms in defense, "personal space, got it."

"You bring it home or I throw it away," Satoru raised his brows, grinning, "I'm serious, Jojo."

"Gojo. Let's start there . . . Gojo," his finger flicked to himself, "(Name)," his finger flicks towards you, "not so hard, right? Gojo and (Name)."

What the fuck does he want? You asked yourself internally. Frankly, you've stopped listening to what he has to say after 'Gojo and (Name)', the smile on his face burnt the already raging fire in you. You just wanted to wipe that off his face, "Alright, I'll make one thing clear, I am not interested in you nor do I want anything to do with you."

"Like I said," he sighs, "I'll try my best. Which means, I'm not gonna stop until either you do trust me — or I get tired, a man can't always run, you know?"

Does he think saying that made him look cooler? You cringed back slightly, "Go home."

"Yes, ma'am. Also, bring home the sandwich, I'm not taking it home!" He waves his hand, walking out of the store.

"Morning!"

You would have turned back and leave if you know another way to reach campus — turning around the usual corner, you never expect to see Gojo Satoru leaning on the wall, air pods stuffed in his ears. He wore a bright yellow colored hoodie and a grey jogger. In an instant, you were left silent, not knowing what to say.

"I'll just pretend you said hi back, alright, let's go to campus—"

You brushed by him, walking inside the gates. Satoru huffed, swinging his bag over his shoulder, "C'mon, can't we at least speak like normal humans? Or are you seriously going to ignore me the whole time I'm trying to talk to you?" He walks beside you.

No matter how fast you try to go, he was matching your speed with ease. Quietly whistling a tune you assumed was the melody from his air pods. Thankfully, you got no class with him today — so, he was left stranded outside your class, "Thematic and Social History 201 on Thursdays, got it," he calls out to you.

You halt, a feeling of dread like a blanket over your shoulders. Fuck. Now he knows where you go to on Thursday, "Don't worry, I'll just have to slip out faster than usual," you reassured yourself.

No. By the time the class ended, even being the first one to escape it doesn't make Satoru lose sight of you. In fact, he had already been waiting outside since half an hour ago because his professor ended class earlier, bouncing his head to the beat. The second the door pops open, his eyes were intently looking for you.

You walked the other direction and he pushes himself off the wall, excusing himself through the sea of humans, "Excuse me, sorry," he slithered his way to your side, a sly smile on his face as he leans down close enough to your ear, "boo!"

The sight of your jolting body made him giggle, "What the fuck is wrong with you? Can you stop bothering me?"

"I'm not bothering you, I'm trying to earn your heart," he shrugs.

"You're patronizing me."

Satoru clicked his tongue, "Patronizing. Adjective. Apparently kind or helpful but betraying a feeling of superiority or condescending. Example, I occasionally experienced patronizing attitudes from teachers around," he defines again, how annoying, "I'm not patronizing you, I'm teasing you — it's my love language. Teasing."

"Don't define it."

"Since you insist. Teasing. Adjective. Intended to provoke or make fun of someone in a playful way. Example, Gojo Satoru's teasing (Name)(Last Name) to show her his love," he grins. A stupid grin, "if I perchance, shower you with gifts, and expensive items, or luxurious vacations, would you go out with me?"

See now, the topic of financial stability made you feel ashamed. You knew he wasn't (probably) intending on going that way, but something in you just wanted him to leave you be, "Expensive items? Luxurious vacations? Gifts? Am I that cheap to you that you think my trust could be earned by burning money? Huh?"

Satoru held back a smile, "Well, no. But, that's my other love language, giving gifts to my significant other. And I'm trying to make you one, in case it's not noticeable."

"Yeah? It's pissing me off, I get it, I'm poor, you're rich. Wow, money," you mutter.

Satoru finally clicks the puzzle, "Oh, I'm not trying to go that way. You need to understand I don't give a flying fuck about my woman's money . . . because I'm gonna be paying for you anyways, that's how I do it," he smugly said as if it was something to be particularly proud of.

"How egotistical," you rolled your eyes, pushing the doors to the cafeteria open.

"Egotistical. Adjective. Conceited or absorbed in oneself, in other words, self-centered. Example, he is so full of himself, he's egotistical! Arrogant. Adjective. Having an exaggerated sense of one's own importance or abilities. Example, Gojo Satoru's not arrogant, he knows his worth and he doesn't look down on (Name)(Last Name)."

"What's the difference?" You mutter, grabbing a tray.

"Example, an egotistical person will talk about his hobbies only. However, an arrogant person will come up to them and tell them that their hobbies are stupid, that's the difference," for a fraternity boy, usually laced with stupidity and haughty, Gojo Satoru doesn't lack in anything (you hate to admit), "and I'd like to remind you that, I, Gojo Satoru will never tell you that your hobby is stupid."

For awhile, you forgot about the raise of prices on your student number. Sukuna probably was the main reason — Satoru noticed the way you were about to put your tray back onto the stack, "I'll pay, grab anything you want. I want you to not skip lunch just because you touched someone's car and he thinks you ruined it."

Your head turned towards him, "So, you're admitting that I did nothing and all I've received the past few weeks were straight up menace and bullying?"

Satoru shrugs, "Between you and I, yes."

"And you've said nothing to defend me at all? Even when you admitted you wanted to get to know me? How cool of you, and no, I don't need you to pay me. I can feed myself, thank you," you swat his hand away, putting the tray down and leaving the line.

Satoru bit the inner of his cheek, already feeling the frustration bubble up. Why were you being so hard?

"What the hell was that?"

Suguru appeared right by his side, holding a tray. He had pushed himself to the middle, where Satoru was. Satoru grumbled under his breath, "Nothing," but nothing sounded like something.

"Mhm, guess you won't be getting that perk from Sukuna—"

"Yes, I fucking will. She's easy, I'll just have to say stuff, sugarcoat words, and boom, she'll fall for me in no time," Satoru found himself rambling out to his best friend, even if, a part of him maybe did want to get to know you better. He was just too scared to admit the fact that his friends would probably make fun of him for being interested in someone like you, "thank God, there's no time limit."

"Break a leg."

You end up sitting in a store nearby, eating a sandwich that felt stale — for a cheap price, you weren't surprised. This was so much better than eating rice with water. The sun was shining brightly contradicting your mangled feelings; somehow it felt like the sun was taking part in assaulting your feelings. It was humiliating to say the least, your skin burnt, but you will take every second of it before you find yourself in that damned hellhole of a campus where everyone thinks of you as an obstacle because Sukuna said so. His car doesn't even look good!

Thursdays were officially your most hated day. You've got a total of three classes from 8 to 5. This probably meant a higher chance of Satoru following you around with his tail wagging — which is the worse case scenario.

Walking back into campus felt like a chore, you just wanted to go in a hole and stay there for the rest of the day. Halfway down the hall, someone tapped on your shoulder, you turn back, ready to accept the fact that it was Satoru. But, no, this time, it wasn't. It was a girl — whom, you don't recognize at all. She has a small smile, "Hi."

" . . . Hi."

She has got no business to be talking to you, either she's here to make fun of you, or she wants something. You wait for her to speak, "I'm Professor Hanami's student assistant, you're in his AP History class, right? He told me to find you. I tried asking about your schedule to the information desk, and they told me you have a class in a bit, they wouldn't give me your phone number since it was private information. I was hoping to find you before then, been walking around non-stop since before," she waves her hand, "anyways, he's telling me that he wants you to participate in a competition with two others. He'd like to talk to you right now."

A competition? Me? You asked yourself. However, you were ready to decline when she pulls you down the hall, jogging. You try to halt her into a stop, "I'm not interested in a competition," you tell her.

But, she doesn't seem to care. And you were starting to think if this is true, why was she so adamant? Plus, you've never actually seen her in AP History, "I've never seen you in AP History."

The girl looks back, "Oh, yeah. Because I'm not really his student assistant. Sukuna paid me to do this, sorry about it. You seem like such a sweet girl, but my reputation is on the line," she pushed you inside a room.

It was empty. And it stinks of time long ago, the cobwebs on the corners of the ceiling seemed to show how the room had been stuck like this for a while now. The soft click from the lock told you that you'll be stuck in here for a while, so why not just enjoy it? Someone will eventually find out and open the door for you, right?

Wrong. When the fourth hour passed by, you began wondering if someone did hear you knock on the door; or they prompted not to care after hearing because in a way, they were probably too scared to open the door because Sukuna pointed the girl to do this. You couldn't blame her, he was a prick for gosh sake.

The small rectangular window that poured a bit of light in began to dim, which signified the sun setting. The room gradually grew darker by the passing second, and you sighed, trying the switch. Flipping it up, then down, then up again, then down — in a way, you're trying to convince yourself that the switch was malfunctioning and that it will work the third time. Third time's the charm, right?

Again, wrong. Third time is in fact not the charm. The light was completely busted. You felt the growing puddle on the back of your shirt from how humid the room is, fanning yourself. In the first hour, you contemplated in calling the cops, but honestly, you'd just have more attention to yourself, and the whole campus would probably find out. You thought these kind of things only happen in movies or drama series, this is stupid. Rich people are stupid.

Your flip-phone was not a good use. Your contacts only had three people in, your boss and two of your co-workers, none which you could ask for help from. Though you did send a call to your co-worker asking to cover a shift and that you will cover hers tomorrow because you were stuck in a room — she doesn't believe you at first, but the blurry picture you sent her made her worried. She was asking if she should come, but you didn't want to bother her and said no.

When the room grew pitch dark, the dim light from the window being the only source of light. You walked right under the light, pulling your bag open. You fished out a notebook and flipped to the latest page, there was Satoru's number right on top, still messy and still intact.

Your thumb began punching in his number. Much to your annoyance, maybe you do need his help right now. The call went through, ringing once, ringing twice, thrice— then, "Hello?" his voice was bland and unwelcoming.

"It's (Name)."

The he beams, "Ah, seems like you finally used my number for a good use. What can I do for you sweet thing?" For someone who was deemed as Sukuna's friend, he's sure clueless of what the pink hair does daily.

"Are you still on campus?"

"No, why would I? It's like . . . nearly six, the last class ended like an hour ago. Why? You wanna hang out or something?" He teases out, singing his words like all of this is fun. Well, he doesn't know the predicament you're in, can you blame him?

"I've been locked inside this room for hours."

" . . . What?"

"Like . . . at one, I think. I was walking to class and this girl came up to me saying she's Professor Hanami's student assistant, she said he wanted me to join some kind of competition, I was about to say no but she dragged me away. Told her I've never seen her in AP History and . . . well, she kinda just threw me in here," you fessed up, "nobody opened the door even when I knocked."

It was hard to keep it together because why were you in this predicament to begin with? Surely, touching a car shouldn't mean this kind of attitude from everyone on campus? The other line was silent for a bit, and for a second, you thought that he had hung up on you, "You're serious? Right?"

" . . . Why would I be lying?"

"Can your flip-phone send locations?"

"No."

"I'm coming, wait," he muttered, hanging up.

You sat under the moonlight, looking up the ceiling. It took another half an hour for a call to come up, you accepted it, "Hello?"

"First floor?"

"Yeah. It's an abandoned room or something — it stinks here," you add.

"Knock on the door for me."

You stood up, walking to the door and your knuckles rapped against the smooth surface. The other line was filled with rustled noises, and then he perks up, "Hear you, I'm coming, wait there."

The door bursts open, and Satoru stood there like he had just ran a marathon. With ragged breaths, he stepped towards you. His expression contorted into one of anger as his hands gripped your shoulders, shaking you lightly, "Why didn't you call for help sooner?"

"Sukuna told her to do it, you could have been a part of it," or maybe you just forgot you had his number.

"Don't bullshit me, you know I don't fuck with his ways. I told you before, why didn't you fucking call me, (Name)?" He angrily questions you.

You mumbled, "I forgot I had your number."

His eyes softened, "You idiot . . . Did you even know how fucking worried I was? You were stuck here for what— six hours? Almost six? Doesn't make it any better. You were here alone, what if I nobody opens it until tomorrow? Huh?"

Your brows furrowed, you didn't need a lecture. All you want to do now is go home, get a cold shower, and sleep. You had missed two classes because of his friend. And the only reason why you called him was you were forced to, or you would probably be stuck here until tomorrow. Or worse, the next few days, "I don't need a lecture."

"I just saved you. You're welcome."

"So, you wanted something in return? Name it, I'll give it to you—"

He snaps at you, "That's not my fucking point and you know it. My point is that you could have called me sooner and you could have been out! You worried me, that's my point," he looks at you from head to toe, "and look at you. Look how tired you look, how sweaty you are. I'm walking you home, no questions. I don't care what you say."

"I can walk home just fine."

"Nu-uh, not after what happened," he grabbed your bag, swung it across his shoulder and grabbed your wrist, "I gave you my number for a reason. Yes, I want to get close to you, but I don't want you to feel like that's the sole reason why I gave you that. I want you to rely on me and call me whenever you need help without thinking that I want something in return."

His thumb brushes over your wrist gently, "Please?"

Immediately you pulled your arm away from his grip, "Don't touch me. I don't like getting touched," he still stood close to you, keeping a good small space in between, "and . . . thank you for helping me."

Satoru didn't know if he was more surprised at the fact that you were still as stubborn as ever or the fact that you said thank you to him. He parts his lips slightly, but nothing comes out, so he just nodded his head as he walks alongside you, "You haven't eaten, I assume?"

You shook your head, "I got instant ramen."

"Uh-uh," he shook his head, taking out a handkerchief from his pocket and wraps it around his hand, "technically, the cloth will be touching you — so, I'm not the one— yeah, well you get me. I'm not touching you, so don't pull away," he grabbed your hand again.

"Why do you have a handkerchief —"

"I get sweaty. And it's a drag if I have to use my shirt to wipe my sweat all the time," he said.

"Jojo—"

"Gojo," Satoru clarified with a small smile as he brought you out of the campus building, "and I'm bringing you to eat. What are you craving? Steak? Sushi? Sashimi? Ramen? Wagyu? Burgers? Mention it, I'll treat you to anything."

You mumbled incoherently, "Don't need you to treat me. I can cook."

"Yeah, instant ramen? No."

You tried to pull your hand away from his grip, but his grasp on you was tight. Satoru whistled softly as he brought you down to the nearest ramen shop, it was crowded considering it's almost dinner time. He sat you down in the bar seat, taking the honor to order for the both of you. Then he faces you, "I'll talk to Sukuna about it."

"About what? Him locking me in that room? I'm fine," you retort back, "and for the record, I don't have the money to fix his car—"

"There's nothing wrong with it. He just needs a reason to make fun of you, and that's unfair," he sighs softly, pulling his handkerchief away, "listen, I'll talk to him and tell him to stop whatever the fuck this is. Hopefully, it will knock some senses into him. I'm afraid his audacity has been shoved up so far up his ass that the cops don't really scare him anymore."

"Yeah? Tell me how it goes," your voice was laced with sarcasm.

"Sarcasm. Noun. The use of irony to mock. Example, (Name) used sarcasm to show that she doesn't believe that I'll talk to Sukuna," he grins sheepishly, "I'm gonna prove it to you. No worries."

"Are you going to define everything I say?"

Satoru looks at you, "Everything. Pronoun. All things or a current situation. Example, (Name) asked if I was going to define everything she says, but to answer you, no, I just do it when I feel like it," he shrugs.

"How do you even know all these—"

"I studied."

"I died," you mutter.

A sly glint appeared in his eyes and he said again, "Died. Verb. Past tense of die, shows when a person, animal, or plant stops living. Example, (Name) said she died, in reality she's still alive — maybe she is dead inside," you rolled your eyes at his example, looking down at the table.

Satoru noticed the sudden change and blew out a soft sigh, "Does this all bother you?"

"The defining?"

"Sukuna," he clarifies.

Who am I kidding? Your face contorts into one of disbelief, "Yes, it is. It bothers with my daily life and my academics, if you haven't noticed," yet again, he's not surprised by the sarcasm lacing under your voice . . . and the slight annoyance too, "and to think that everyone can't do anything just because his parents contributes a lot to the university. If I were to tell my testimony here, I promise you it's gonna be the end of this school and his reputation."

"Think he'd be scared of that? People have tried, you know?"

Were you surprised? No. Were you intimidated? Maybe. However, you masked your worry with anger, "So, what? Everyone should bow down to him every single time? Like you? You keep licking his shoes like he owns you—"

"I'm not scared of him," Satoru cuts you off, offended.

"So?"

He cleared his throat, "It just happens to be that . . . I need this diploma for the occupation I'm aiming for, and if he were to hold a grudge on me, he'd definitely suspend my diploma," in other words, Sukuna is a big dick, "I'm not scared of him hurting me. I'm scared of him suspending my diploma."

"But, you got money."

"Why would I waste money to fight over my diploma when I can just study well? That dick's going to spend how ever much money until I give up," He muttered, "I can use the money for different things. Plus, his parents contributes more to the campus — they'd definitely choose him over my family."

"Who's them? The campus?"

Satoru rolled his eyes, "Well. Duh, silly. The campus."

"You got the money to transfer, why not?"

"It'd be a waste to start from the first semester."

Satoru watches as the old man served you the first bowl of ramen before eventually serving his. The steam brushes over your face like a gentle caress, and your mouth started visibly watering at the sight of the creamy bone broth. Not everyday that you could get a taste of savory, rich, and creamy broth like such — the most broth you've eaten was salt broth mixed with water and rice.

Even it tasted like heaven. As much as you hate to admit, you wanted more of this, being able to eat what people normally eat without feeling guilty of actually spending money. Satoru stared at you, "You know? I actually just ate dinner, wanna have some of mine?" You looked at him slowly, eyes narrowing, a piece of noodle stuck in between your lips, "I swear, not doing this to make you like me, I'm just really full. I'm not much of a big eater."

"You play basketball."

"It doesn't mean that I eat much," he snarkily replied back to you, a smirk appearing on his face, "please? Or I'll just throw it away—"

You immediately shook your head, "Give it to me."

"Listen, I need you to stop fucking with her—"

"What?" Sukuna yelled, the music in the background clearly drowning the voice belonging to Satoru on the other side of the line, "Can't hear ya' dude, shoot me a text or something."

Satoru scowled, ending the call. His thumbs moved in a rush.

Gojo Satoru: Stop fucking with (Name), makes it harder for me to get close to her, since she doesn't trust me Sukuna: That's part of the challenge, ps ur rich enough for a new porsche Gojo Satoru: Why waste money when u can buy it for me? Sukuna: Haha, sick fuck Gojo Satoru: Told her I'll make u stop fucking with her, just for a couple of months bro, for my porsche Sukuna: Whatever lol

Satoru grinned, giddy. Knowing that 'whatever' means Sukuna was agreeing — even annoyed. Satoru had dropped you off approximately ten minutes ago, the apartment you lived in was disgusting. Horrendous, he wondered if people actually could find peace in that cramped space. Not to mention, the very thin walls. It was lively even at this hour, the more doors he walked by, the more he gets disgusted.

How could you even live in this hell? Satoru remembers the days his maids come with noise cancelling headphones the second it starts getting too noisy, whether it being the rain or just windy. He did ask you if you could sleep with all the . . . lewd noises happening. You bluntly put out that you were somehow accustomed to sleep with those, they were practically white noise to you now.

Satoru felt a pang of guilt when he looks back over his shoulders. The worn out building looked abandoned from where he stood, and if it weren't for the lights to signify life, he would have thought it was abandoned in the first place. But, he shook his head and continued walking back home.

He had the call log still stuck to the top of his logs, other than your number, all the other rows were occupied by either Suguru or Sukuna. He tapped long enough on your number to press on the edit contact, naming it after you, "(Name) porsche". Eliciting a smile on his lips at the thought of a brand new car.

You stood by the railing, eyeing his back. Just seconds ago, you tried calling out to him but stopped when he had already disappeared into the night. Satoru had took off jacket and forgotten it during his very short stay, apparently the noises were too much for him that he had decided to leave quickly, chugging his tea down. In the heat of moment, the thought of his jacket left his mind.

I'll just give it to him tomorrow.

Actually, you thought of calling him. But, opted not to because he would definitely make fun of you for calling him after he had just dropped you off. For the first time, you slept an actual sleep — maybe it was the ramen that helped you, instead of the store's leftover goods that are way too close to the expiry date or a few days ahead of it. They were delicious nonetheless.

When the sun spilled in through your window, you awoke from a deep slumber. For the first time after so long, you were refreshed. Remnants of time stocked in your body still aching — but, you were definitely a bit livelier than yesterday, or the week before. You brushed your teeth, narrowing yourself at the sight of your reflection. Still the same, but somehow different if you squint the slightest bit.

"Morning, cutie."

You walked by Satoru, "Don't call me that."

"You're not telling me to go away," he follows you, "have you accepted me? Have I been promoted to friend status? I told Sukuna to stop bothering you, have I been promoted to bestie now?"

You scoffed softly, "No."

" . . . Friends, then?"

You pondered a bit before sighing, "No, we just talk. Is that even considered as friends—"

"Yes, so we're friends," he pumped his fists slightly, "we can start hanging out then. Mind if I start bombarding you with texts and calls? Actually, I think I prefer calling rather than texting—"

"I don't use my phone a lot."

Satoru grins, "Considering you can't really do anything with it, if I was in your shoes, I wouldn't use it as much too," he bluntly puts out, as if indirectly saying how the flip-phone you owned practically is up to no use, "can I bring you to class?"

"No," you rejected.

You never understood why he was so intent. For the next few weeks, he continuously trailed after your steps. Even waits for you outside the door of your classes, and shows up at your work place, buying sandwiches and rice bowl sets along with different beverages, only to give them to you. To this point, you still don't understand why he was doing that. Surely, he's got a motive, right?

"I told you, I want to court you. So, if you feel comfortable enough to let me in, I'll gladly do it," you stare into his eyes. He doesn't waver at how intensely you seem to be looking into his eyes, unblinking. Satoru stands there right outside your apartment with you, "so, I'll wait as long as possible until you say yes."

"I don't like people who party."

Satoru shrugs, "I'll stop."

"And I don't like piercings."

"I'll get rid of them."

"And I hate people who smoke."

"I'll get rid of them. I'll stop smoking."

"And drinking."

"Haven't drank in weeks — actually, ever I started chasing after you," he smugly said.

It was the truth. He had stopped appearing in Sukuna's party (with a side note that he texts them to say that he's with you, and they understood why). He hasn't drank alcohol along those weeks, and as much as he wanted to, he thought that the car was more important than some cheap ass alcohol off from the convenience store.

"Okay."

Satoru raised a brow, "Okay as in . . ?"

"We can start slow, right?"

He couldn't actually believe the fact that you were agreeing to him, after weeks of chasing and rejections. You had finally agreed. Technically, he still had to show you and ask you to be his girlfriend, but this makes it so much easier now that you're actually cooperating, "Really . . ?" He made sure.

You look away, "I'm not good at this. It's the first time someone's actually chased after me, so I'm sorry if it's not up to your expectations."

Satoru felt his heart ache, " . . . Don't worry, we could go slow," he murmured, a tinge guilt actually washing over him.

But, he shook his head, "I'll . . . see you tomorrow then?"

You nodded, waving, "See you tomorrow."

He watches you walk inside the building. Until you finally disappeared into the elevator, he fishes out his phone.

Gojo Satoru: She said she'll let me court her, ur totally buying me the porsche lol Sukuna: Good for u

For some reason, the smile slowly faded away at the sight of Sukuna's text the longer he stares at it. The wave of guilt slowly blanketing him like a cocoon, Satoru shoved his phone into the depths of his pocket before he walks home.

More weeks go by. Satoru noticed the change in you, the way your smile grew wider the more time you spent together. If he were to be specific, he'd stop showing up in Sukuna's party for the past month he's been hanging out with you. His piercings were all out. He had threw his cigarettes away. And he hasn't drank alcohol the whole time.

"Listen, all I'm saying is that, you look pretty in that outfit. No fingers crossed, no strings attached," he compliments the sight of you in that beautiful outfit he had gotten in the mall — in his defense, he thought that it would look great on you, so he bought it.

"How much did it cost?"

Satoru scoffed, "Didn't see the tag. Just bought it."

"You're crazy."

"For you," he winks, "do a little spin."

You complied, a smile on your face. He stared in awe, smiling at you, "I should bring you more outfits often. You look fucking crazy, in a good way. In a you look fucking beautiful way," your cheeks felt warm at his compliment, "alright? Let's go."

Ever since he started courting you, he has made it his job to provide. Even when you forced him not to — he forced you back that he insists. In a way that he has suddenly paid for your electric bills, water bills. God knows how he knew the number, but it all came back paid every month, never a day too late. In a way he sends you food and drinks at random times of the day to your apartment. In a way he sends you random pictures, that you can barely see through your flip-phone. Believe me when he tried to buy you a more modern phone, and you had to physically restrain him from doing just that.

In a way he's suddenly out of your door holding bouquets of flowers that you never thought you'd receive from anyone. In a way that he whispers sweetness and delight to make you feel important. Satoru had shown you love in so many different ways that you had forgotten about what it felt like to be lonely.

"Satoru?"

"Mm?" He asks, chin on your head.

"Why me?"

Satoru was blank in flash. What was he supposed to answer? That he wanted a new porsche from Sukuna? He chuckled, his chest vibrated against your back gently. His hands were flat against your stomach, "Why I chose you? Or . . ?"

You nodded, "Why do you choose me? There are so many girls out there that could match you—"

He shushes you softly, rubbing the skin under your shirt. Satoru shook his head, "I chose you because I want you, you don't see me as just a pretty face and sex. You see me as me, and that itself means a lot to me — people flock to me for money, for my face, for the sex. But you? It took me weeks to actually earn your trust and months for you to fully trust me to take care of you. Even then," he breathes out softly, "you still never let me pay for anything unless I do it quietly. I like that. I like giving, but not when people ask for it. You never ask for anything, and I want to just . . . take care of you."

You look up, Satoru pressed a kiss to your forehead gently, "I'm glad that we're each others' first real ones then," Satoru's smile faltered slightly, but he forced them to rise up.

Satoru buried his face into your hair. Refusing the fact that he's starting to feel guilty about this. Does this car really balance your real feelings towards him? Was it worth the exchange? You squirmed slightly, "You okay?"

Satoru hums softly, "Mm, why'd you ask?"

"Just worried."

Worried, he thought. Has his past significant other ever been genuinely worried for him? He knows that they were with him mostly for his money — and yet, he still stayed. Satoru's has grown so accustomed to the fact that people in his life stay only for 3 things: face, money, and dick. And if he thinks about it, it's pretty sad.

"Don't worry about me, baby. I'm just thinking," he chuckled softly against your skin, shutting his eyes.

"Thinking about?"

"You."

You groaned, "You're so cheesy."

"That's 'cause I love you," he coo softly, his fingers inching under your shirt, "you love me anyways," he grin, digging your fingers into your sides, pressing on your flesh almost in a cheeky way.

You laughed loudly, "Hey, no tickling!"

Days have been brighter ever since he was by your side. Satoru wouldn't admit it directly, but ever since he hung out with you, he had put more time in his grades and less on spending his money on useless things like party needs and alcohol. He'd say that this was totally the best outcome he could get from this.

Satoru frequently spends his days in your worn out apartment. Actually, if you take a good look, it doesn't look half bad as when you first moved in. He had taken the time to paint the walls so it looked brand new, and while the paint dries, he brought you to his house. Apparently, he lived hours away from his parents because of work — though, they visit sometimes. Satoru had learned and remembered your schedule, and while you were gone, he added some additional things into your apartment.

Whether it being a new dresser, a new simple bedframe, and a new fluffy mattress that doesn't hurt your back when you lie down on it. He even bought new bedcovers for you. And he'd gotten all that done in barely four hours in a day. Smaller things such as utensils, accessories, and simple labels he bought before he comes by your apartment.

It doesn't even look like the cheap apartment you bought at first. At first, Satoru offered you space in his house — asking you to move in with him, but you blatantly refused and told him that it would be a burden. He doesn't even feel like you're making any sense. You? A burden? He'd love to laugh.

"Baby, what do you think about this?" He raised a little picture frame, "I wanna put our picture in it. In your room apartment, by the television."

You took a glance at the frame, "Oh, the baby blue one is cuter. Matches you, I like it."

He wastes no more seconds and grabbed a couple of the blue colored ones, only leave one left on the shelf. You walked down the aisle with him, "I'm glad I decided to give you a chance."

Satoru froze on his spot, watching you walk down the aisle with a big smile as you check out different things. His heart fluttered gently at the sight of you — since when have you been this beautiful? His fists opened and closed a few times. His steps slowly followed yours, " . . . I'm glad you gave me a chance too."

He doesn't remember when the last time he felt like he's had this much fun. With a big smile, he follows you.

For the next few months, Satoru had completely forgotten about the whole porsche. Anytime Sukuna or Suguru sent a message, asking him to drop by a party, Satoru declined with a made up excuse. First, it was him under the weather, then it was him not feeling like parties, then it was him having to travel hours away to meet an old friend. Then, Sukuna finally realized that they were just made up excuses.

"You know, funny thing is that you told us that you had to drive hours away two days ago —" Sukuna smirked, scrolling through his phone, "why were you with that loser? Decided to ditch us for her, eh?"

Satoru looks at Sukuna, " . . . And if I did?"

"Downgraded. Could've had that hottie from the marching band," Sukuna reminded of the girl whom he had invited — and not to mention, who seemed to be interested in Satoru very much. Satoru couldn't give a shit about her, he doesn't even remember her name to begin with. To top it off, she had tried to flirt with him all night and her jokes were ridiculous. It was obvious that she's trying to get into his pants all night, every time he moves away, she followed.

"Think you have fallen?"

Satoru blinked, looking at the apple slices that you gave him this morning. Soaked in salt water to prevent it from oxidizing, he didn't know what to say. Has he fallen? How does he know that? Satoru bites into the apple, letting it crunch under his teeth, "Fallen for what?"

"Her."

Sukuna was relentless, smirking. He knew the answer damn well, but he wanted to hear it directly from Satoru. He's a prick, and he knows it, "I don't know," Satoru replied.

"That's what confused people say," Satoru glares at him.

"The fuck do you want me to say?"

"Can't hurt to be honest."

"And so what if I love her? Why the fuck does it matter, huh?" Fuck Sukuna, and fuck that diploma if he were to sabotage it — Satoru had the money, and why should he give up either when he can actually earn both.

Sukuna lets out a loud cackle, "Her? Out of all people?"

"Yes, her out of all people."

Sukuna raised a brow, "Yeah, what will you say if she finds out about the whole bet, huh?" He threw an arm around Satoru's shoulder, "Think she'll stay around once she finds out you're datin' her for the brand new porsche?"

Satoru froze, "She doesn't have to know . . . That's all in the past, I love her for who she is," he muttered out, munching on the apple, "you guys wouldn't mind if I invite her to the frat house to party, right?"

Sukuna stood up, "Don't mind. You know who'd mind though?"

Satoru stays quiet, as if asking him to continue. Sukuna stared at someone behind him with a sly smirk, "Her, probably."

Satoru looks over his shoulder slowly, his cheek puffed out from the apples he had been shoving into his mouth relentlessly. His eyes widened at the sight of you standing there with a tray of food — that he paid for every month through your student number, so you could get the food you needed during your free time, "(Name), hey baby," he stood up, shutting the lid of his —your— lunchbox, leaving a couple of apple slices inside.

Sukuna left with his friends —and Satoru's— cackling loudly. Satoru wiped his hands on his pants, stepping towards you to help you with your tray. But, you stepped back, "Really?" You asked him, your eyes were filled with betrayal and resentment.

You knew you hadn't gone crazy because the last time you checked, your ears were working just fine. Initially, you were trying to find him to spend your free time together, d found you was the truth Satoru had kept silent throughout the past few months while you were together — you knew something was wrong, but you gave him a chance anyway. Screw his sweet talk and actions.

Satoru's eyes stared into yours, waiting for you to speak. You didn't, you put the tray onto his table and walked out of the cafeteria. Satoru was frozen, the apples were a mush on his tongue. After a few seconds, he chased you out of the cafeteria, catching you right out side the lobby, "(Name)," he breathes heavily.

You pulled your hand away in anger, "I knew something was fucking fishy about you, I stayed anyways. Fuck you, Gojo."

The use of his surname instead of the usual 'baby' or 'Toru' made his heart ache. His hand shoots out to grab your hand again, but in reflex, your palm swung against his cheek. The action itself shocked you as well, his face was strewn to the side. Satoru said nothing, but he slowly coaxed his head to turn towards you with a solemn look, and for a second, you thought that he was angry.

"I deserved that," he whispered, guilt lacing in his voice, "I wanted to tell you. I knew you'd get angry and it'll change everything we worked on — I didn't want you to leave me, so I figured that I should just keep my mouth shut and go on like nothing happened . . ."

Your brows furrowed, your palm stung. Looking down at the red skin, you bit your lip, "I didn't mean to do that."

"It happens, I'm okay," he murmurs out softly, reaching out for your hand yet again. But, the second you pulled it away out of his line of sight — he understood that he was crossing a boundary, so his hand went limp and fell back to his side, "can I explain?"

You clenched your fists, "Explain what, exactly?"

"Why I did this—"

"For the brand new porsche, I get it, congratulations on your new car," he grit his teeth in annoyance when you implied on it, "don't ever come near me again, I wish I never gave you a chance. Should've known you're just like them!"

His heart sank when you said that. And he watches you walk down the street, turning around the corner where he always waits for you. This time, he was rooted to where he stood — he doesn't chase you, he doesn't know if he deserved to. His feet wouldn't move, and the sting on his cheek was a constant reminder of his fuckaroo.

By the next two days, a box was delivered to his house. It sat there on his porch. Satoru doesn't remember ever ordering anything, but when he slit the tape open with a box cutter, his heart races just a little quicker. The box was filled with the accessories he had bought for your apartment, starting from the smallest trinkets he used to silently sneak in on your shelves to the biggest frames.

He never expected that he'd actually see a whole television, deconstructed shelves, and an actual mattress on his porch. In a fit of disbelief, he reached for his phone, dialing your number. On the third call you answered him, "What?"

"Why?"

"Why did I return your things? Because I'm petty—" You were cut off by his words.

"I bought them for you."

"To earn my trust so you could get your porsche, I'd say you didn't buy it from the heart, Gojo. Let's just make one thing clear, don't ever talk to me again from this point on," Satoru bit his lip in anger, "it was a mistake. And this shouldn't have happened, I knew you were just messing with me. But, this was disappointing because I genuinely thought you liked me, you know?"

Satoru mutters out, "I genuinely love you. I don't care about the fucking car, I just want you, please," his fingers were hurting from how hard he was gripping the phone, "please, (Name). Can we please talk about this?"

"Whatever electrical and water bill you paid for me, I will give it to you back by cash. And the paint money, and my lunches, I'll need time to return it all. But, I'll have it sent to your house," your voice leaves no room for an argument, and then you hung up.

Satoru stood there for a little while, his lips trembled at the hanging tone. What the fuck just happened?

The young bartender—who he knows means well—sends a knowing smirk that sets Nanami’s teeth on edge. How many times has he found himself here, drowning his frustrations in amber liquid? Far too many, he thinks, as a tall glass of whiskey appears before him like a mirage in the desert.

Nanami snatches the Stetson hat from his head, slapping it onto the bar with a force that sends a small cloud of dust into the air. His fingers, calloused from years of handling a gun and reins and rope, curl around the glass, lifting towards the bartender in question. The young man simply shrugs as he cleans a cup with a dirty white towel.

“You drank an entire bottle two days ago, Sheriff. Gotta save some whiskey for the rest of us.”

Nanami doesn’t offer a remark because he has been drinking a lot more lately. While he’s never been one to be too many sheets to the wind, lately, consuming until his vision is fuzzy seems to turn off his thoughts. He takes a generous sip, the whiskey burning a familiar path down his throat but doing little to ease the sting of failure. As he watches the strong alcohol slosh in its glass, he gets lost in its color. The flaxen hue morphs into the fluttering of long lashes and mocking eyes, of a form quick and nimble—always just out of reach.

“You’ll catch ‘em eventually, Sheriff,” the boy offers, more out of habit than conviction. He’s seen Nanami here too many times, that frustrated look etched on his face, chasing something far too fast for him.

Nanami huffs an admonishing chuckle. “Maybe,” he concedes, the word tasting like ash in his mouth. “Or maybe I’m chasing the wind.”

He takes another swig, the alcohol doing little to dispel the sour taste of defeat or replace the thrill of the chase, the satisfaction of justice served. But it’s all he has right now. As the waning daylight stretches long and hazy into the sky, somewhere out there, a thief laughs at the law’s futile efforts—at his futile efforts.

He downs the rest of his whiskey, slamming the glass on the counter and ignoring the eyes of patrons who dart up to him from the mild disturbance.

“More,” he demands, sliding the glass across the counter to the bartender. As he watches the whiskey pour, he wonders, not for the first time, if he’s lost more than just a criminal in this endless game of cat and mouse. His integrity, his purpose, his peace of mind—all sacrificed on the altar of justice. And for what? A town that still suffers, and a thief who dances just beyond his grasp.

While the whiskey offers no answers, it at least dulls the ache of what he can’t achieve. But that comes at a price. As his mind fades from the present, it ruminates on the past. On how he grew increasingly disillusioned with his responsibility to protect. It broods on that fateful day when a bullet tore through his dear friend’s body, losing momentum enough to strike Nanami’s badge with a dull thud—a cruel reminder of how close he’d come to joining Haibara, and how utterly he’d failed to protect him.

For a time, he disappeared, carving a new life miles away on his family’s ranch. It was quiet there, peaceful and free of the failure he feels now on a daily basis. But eventually…it wasn’t enough. It was one too many desperate souls who stumbled upon his doorstep, knowing that he would be the only one to help, that he finally decided to come back.

Not that it’s made any difference.

Nanami’s reputation precedes him—the best sheriff this side of the state, a lone wolf who gets results. His name alone makes outlaws think twice before darkening his town’s doorstep. Or at least, it used to.

These past few months, a shadow has been making a mockery of him. A bandit, cloaked in night and silence, slips through his fingers like smoke. Jewels, coins, and the like—all vanish under the cover of darkness, present one morning and gone by the time the sun rises again.

The most maddening part? It’s a woman. He’s caught glimpses—the curve of a hip, a mask of charcoal smudged behind alluring eyes, a whisper of a deep laughter on the wind. She’s a riddle wrapped in black leather, a ghost that haunts his waking hours and torments his dreams.

In all his years, he’s never encountered a more elusive creature.

He lifts his glass, ready to down the contents and ask for more when the rays of sun catch, making the amber gleam like a beacon. The flash of light makes him turn to the saloon’s grimy windows, eyes squinting against the sudden blinding glare.

That’s when he sees you.

Framed by the dusty window pane, across the street, you stand in the golden rays, a vision that seems to part the haze of whiskey and self-pity that’s been clouding his mind. Your smile always seems to make his breath catch; it’s warm and genuine and lights up your face when your smooth lips curl at anything you hear. Right now, he sees it as you bid farewell to your students. They swirl around you like an autumn breeze, their laughter permeable through the glass.

The pink-haired boy—Yuji—who loves to follow Nanami around, wobbles from around the schoolhouse, both hands on the reins of your beautiful Palomino Morgan mare, Buttercup, as he yells to you with a toothy smile.

Nanami blinks, realization slicing through his slightly alcoholic haze like a sharp knife. He’s lost track of time, nearly forgetting his daily ritual that you both share. With a muttered curse, he pushes away from the bar, throwing a few coins on the wood and leaving the half-empty glass behind.

The sudden brightness of the outdoors makes him wince, eyes adjusting to the shift, but never leaving your form. With a soft click of his tongue, Nanami’s handsome chestnut stallion, Flint, nickers at his approach on the side of the saloon, nuzzling his master’s cheek as Nanami strokes his mane and grabs his reins. The horse’s hooves kick up small clouds of dust with each step, matching the steady rhythm of Nanami’s spurs. As he crosses the dusty road, he hides his gaze beneath the shadow of his Stetson to take you in fully.

Nanami’s seen many pretty women in his lifetime. Delicate desert flowers that bloom and wither with the changing seasons. And for the sake of not being the hopeless romantic that Deputy Gojo makes him out to be, you are different. From the moment he laid eyes on you, stepping off that dusty stagecoach with determination set in your jaw and hope shining in your eyes, he knew you were something else entirely. It took him weeks to even speak to you.

Your hair, usually neatly pinned back for teaching, has come slightly loose after a long day with energetic children. A few curly strands dance in the hot breeze, catching the sunlight. Your dress, modest but well-fitted, flows down your body in pale blue, the hem slightly dirty from the grass and dirt. You stand with a posture that commands attention—an undeniable grace in the way you move and Nanami is victim to the call of your hips when they sway.

There’s a smudge of chalk on your cheek, dusty white against smooth brown skin that glows in the sun, and the slight furrow in your brow makes the side of his lips flinch to fight a smile. You’re tired—happy to have another day with children, but ready to get home and relax. You’ll probably take a bath, brush Buttercup’s mane, and try a new pie recipe. It’s little details about you that he’s learned over the years since you moved here, the small moments you’ve both shared that seem to make his heart pound faster than what it should when he’s near you.

Your beauty isn’t just the curve of your cheek or the curl of your lashes. It’s the gentle patience in your voice as you help a struggling student. It’s in your laugh, rich and uninhibited, ringing through his ears when he has the blessing to be near you. It’s in the fire that burns in your voice from ranting about yet another student leaving school to help his family’s farm, a passionate frustration that both terrifies and mesmerizes him.

The sun in this small town is unforgiving, but it paints you in hues of amber and gold, careful with its rays so as not to burn you. Nanami realized a long time ago that ‘pretty’ doesn’t begin to cover you. You’re breathtaking, in every sense of the word. A force of nature wrapped in pale blue calico and lace, stealing his breath and his weary heart with each passing day.

You ruffle Yuji's hair, taking the reins from him and nudging his shoulder to move him along, smiling as he takes off down the street towards his home. Sensing his approach, you finally turn to meet his gaze.

For a moment, Nanami feels exposed. Surely you can’t see the slight cloudiness in his irises from the whiskey? Hopefully, you can’t smell the alcohol that carries in the wind from his breath. Your smile only widens, a hint of knowing in your eyes, and his heart skips in his chest, missing a beat.

“Sheriff,” you greet him, a harmonious voice carrying a note of warmth that bubbles like hot oil in his belly. “I was beginning to think you’d forgotten.”

Nanami clears his throat, fighting the rush of blood to his cheeks. “Never,” he manages, one hand resting on his horse’s flank.

“Still in the whiskey?” you tease, lifting an elegant brow. “My, my Sheriff, I didn’t imagine you to be the man.”

It’s easy for you to slice him open and leave him exposed to the open air, vulnerable. Nanami has never been one to be caught by surprise, but you always have him on his toes. In a gesture as old as the West itself, Nanami reaches up and removes his Stetson, holding it respectfully to his chest.

It’s a mechanical response, born from years of ingrained politeness from parents that have long gone, but it’s also more than that. The removal of his hat is an unspoken apology, a show of respect, and a moment of vulnerability all rolled into one.

He falters, unsure and throat tight as he struggles for something to say. To prove to you that he’s a good man and not the drunkard he feels like the mornings after a failed chase. He’s sure he looks like a schoolboy caught in mischief. But as he opens his mouth to defend himself, you chuckle, a rich timbre that makes the bubbling in his belly drip in thick rivulets down his pelvis.

“I’m only teasin',” you insist, stroking Buttercup’s mane, a mischievous smile doing little to help Nanami’s resolve.

Relief washes over Nanami’s face and he visibly relaxes, still not used to just how much you kid with him when you’re both together. He can’t bring himself to answer you or admit that drinking was exactly what he was doing. So he simply clears his throat, offering a gentle pat to your horse.

“Shall we?” he offers, moving to help you mount.

You nod, holding your breath as Nanami’s strong hands encircle your waist. With seemingly effortless strength, he lifts you onto Buttercup’s back, watching to ensure you’re secure before returning to his own horse. He swings himself up onto the saddle with ease, sliding his Stetson on carefully parted blonde locks. Side by side, you begin the ride home, your horses falling into a comfortable trot.

You never speak much, content to bask in your surroundings as you both walk together, but to him, just being close is everything he could ask for. He wishes he could whisk you up onto his horse and nuzzle his nose into the soft skin of your neck as you recall your day. He wishes he could smell the lavender soap you bathe with and the rosemary oil from your silky strands that he’s seen you buy at the general store. When he’s around you, he wishes for so much—he wants.

But an unmarried woman and man, both of position no less, would only garner gossip that he refuses to make you the center of. And his job is a dangerous one, filled with brutality and misery, of justice that seems to never be fulfilling, and he won’t be a man that leaves you in pain when he’s unable to come home.

As you both walk, the familiar sounds of the town surround them—the distant laughter of children, the creak of wagon wheels that pass them on the dirt road, the rhythmic sounds of hoofbeats and the occasional jingle of Nanami’s spurs, the smell of fresh-baked bread that floats in the cooling breeze, mingling with the earthy scent of dust and grass.

“How were the children today?” Nanami asks, trying to break through the self-inflicting resignation that clouds his mind.

You smile, launching into a story about Yuji's latest escapade with a frog in the classroom. Nanami listens, a small smile tugging at the corners of his mouth as he imagines the always enthusiastic boy causing a fuss. He marvels at the way your eyes light up when you talk about your students, the passion evident in every word.

As you speak, Nanami can’t help but think of all the times over the years he’s wanted to ask for more. To invite you for dinner, to teach you to shoot on the acres of his ranch, to ask for a dance at the town social when you’re sitting alone, clapping along as Yuji, Megumi, and Nobara scuttle wildly in the lantern-lit barn. The words have been on the tip of his tongue countless times, but he always swallows them back. Content to tell himself he’s doing something noble even as every fiber of his being screams the opposite.

Your laughter pulls him from his thoughts, guttural and melodic in the air, and he realizes he’s missed part of your story. It feels like a crime to not be fully in your presence.

“I’m sorry, what was that?” he asks, feeling the flush return on his cheeks. His mind has only wandered off for moments, but already your house is in view, the front door signaling another end to a conversation with you. Another walk over, another day done. But you’re safe, and for now, that’s enough for him.

“Sheriff, do you actually listen to me when I speak?” you begin, playful in your accusation.

“Of course I—”

“Or you just like hearing me speak?” you interrupt, a smirk growing, mirth sparkling in beautiful eyes that always make his throat dry. “I didn’t realize my voice was so alluring.”

Nanami chuckles softly, dismounting Flint when you reach the gate on the side of your one-story house. “I’m not sure I can answer truthfully, ma’am.”

You hum, pursing your lips as you smooth the invisible wrinkles off your dress. He refrains from tracing the movement of your hands as they ebb and flow generous curves that rest beneath the fabric. “So you just like me then?”

I do.

Is what he wants to answer. Because he wants, and wants, and wants.

Instead, he guides you down from Buttercup, savoring the meat of your waist between his fingers, the warmth of your body in his hands. He waits patiently as you guide her through the gate and inside the stable behind your house. When you return, he can’t help but note the subtle disappointment in your eyes, the way one side of your lip pulls in as you bite into it. He wonders if his own face conveys the same, if you can see the subtle sag in his shoulders of having to leave you so soon.

“Same time tomorrow?” you ask, eyes simmering with what he wants to think is hope.

“Because I like to hear you speak,” he unwittingly teases, a small smile playing at the corners of his mouth. “Wouldn’t miss it for the world, ma’am.”

As he moves to mount his horse, you’re transfixed by the fluid grace of his movements. He places one scuffed boot in the stirrup, strong corded hands gripping the saddle horn as he swings himself up and onto the Flint’s back like it’s nothing.

Atop his chestnut stallion, Nanami cuts an impressive figure. His sheriff uniform fits him perfectly. A tailored deep blue shirt with long sleeves rolled to his elbows and tucked into denim around a lean waist. A sturdy brown leather vest creased from long days under the sun emphasize his broad shoulders. On one side of his chest rests a gleaming tin star, a symbol of authority and responsibility with a bullet-sized dent beneath the words that signify him. On his left hip, a lasso is coiled neatly, ready for action at a moment’s notice. On his right, his gun rests in its leather holster—a weapon you’ve seen him use a few times—and a constant reminder of the dangers he faces to keep the town safe.

The late amber light casts a warm glow over his features, highlighting the strong line of his jaw and the tiny creases at the corners of his eyes—a man who’s seen both laughter and hardship. Laughter he gives you when he can, hardship he refuses to indulge. His Stetson sits low on his brow, casting a shadow over umber eyes that make his gaze seem even more intense as he looks down at you.

No matter how many times you are both together, you are always struck by how handsome Nanami is. Rugged and weather-worn, yet with a gentleness in his eyes and kindness in his warm voice that makes your heart flutter. He’s the embodiment of everything a cowboy should be—strong, capable, and undeniably attractive.

As if sensing your admiration, he clears his throat loudly, dramatically, the corners of his lips twitching as you blink back to the present.

You retaliate in the only way you know how. “And stop calling me ma’am, as if we haven’t known each other for a few years.”

You insist on this every single time the title slips past his lips. And like every time before, Nanami smiles softly, reaches up, fingers grasping the brim of his Stetson, and tips his hat to you in a gesture that’s both gallant and a little playful.

“Have a good night, ma’am.”

You roll your eyes, mouth pulling into a small smile, heart beating like a drum in your chest, before you huff. “Goodnight, Sheriff.”

He watches you enter your home, waiting until the door closes behind you before clicking his tongue and shifting his weight, setting Flint into motion. The ride back to his office seems longer somehow, the town sounds a little dimmer as he gets closer, and the alluring smell of fresh bread he noted on the way to your house is now replaced with an enticing whisper of more whiskey now that you’re no longer by his side.

The church bells chime softly as you settle into your usual pew, absentmindedly picking lint off your lavender Sunday dress. You nod politely to Mrs. Watson, the baker’s wife, as she shuffles past with a hand on her youngster’s shoulder. Your eyes, soft and inviting to all who meet them, scan the congregation with practiced nonchalance.

Pastor Roberts steps up to the pulpit, black hair slicked with too much pomade, enormous silver rings on too many fingers, his voice booming through the small church. “Before we begin, I’d like to thank everyone who contributed to our new railroad station fund. And I’d like to give a very special mention to Mrs. Thompson, whose generous donation has brought us significantly closer to our goal. Your generosity truly embodies the spirit of our little community.”

The crowd breaks into genuine praise and applause. Mrs. Thompson, always seated in the back pew in her faded but clean dress, ducks her head modestly with a sheepish smile. Your heart clenches in despair, knowing she works grueling shifts at the general store just to make ends meet, her children practically raised by her neighbors. You’re sure that she’s only going above and beyond so her husband, who works many miles away, can come home often. She probably has nothing left—you just know it—and the thought makes your blood boil.

“Now, regarding the final sum we need,” the pastor continues, clearing his throat, “I’m sure we can count on our more…fortunate members to help us reach our goal.”

From the front pew, Mrs. Jones pipes up, her haughty voice carrying over the congregation. “Oh, we’d love to help next time, Pastor! We would’ve contributed more, but we had an unexpected expense with some…essential purchases this past week.”

She adjusts the luxurious new fur draped over her shoulders, seemingly oblivious to the irony of her words. You glare at the offensive garment, boiling blood now thickening with unquestionable anger.

Like so many other wealthy families in this town, the Jones are always eager to flaunt their excess, parading their luxury with heartless disregard for those who sacrifice their last penny for the common good. Content to take what they want, they turn a blind eye to those who truly need help, their indifference as cold as the coins they keep to themselves.

To others like them, poverty is a personal failing. In their minds, if people like Mrs. Thompson would try harder, work longer, or simply stop being sad and hungry out of sheer will, they too could reach the heights of wealth and respect. Preaching a gospel of bootstraps and self-reliance, willfully ignorant of the walls that keep the poor trapped.

Stepping foot in this sweltering church each Sunday is a test of your patience and resolve. But, you push through, hidden behind a mask of piety. As the pastor’s words fade into a monotonous hum, your attention shifts to the whispered gossip around you, ears poised for information that might prove useful. If Mama was still alive, she’d probably scold you if she knew your true intentions.

“Shameful,” Mrs. Clark mutters to her friend, her tone leaking with disdain and disbelief. “The Jones had enough for that fancy social at their house last week and an entire shipment of new furs, but not enough for something that we were all asked to contribute to? Just shameful, I tell you.”

“And here’s Mrs. Thompson giving what little she has just so her man can come home more often.”

You shake your head as you pretend to join in the gossip, your resolve hardening by the second.

Bingo.

After the service, you linger, making small talk with a widow about her new rhubarb pie recipe, when you spot your target.

“Oh, Mrs. Jones,” you call out, your voice dripping with misplaced sweetness. She turns around to face you, regal in cosmetics, a shade too bright, her fur sitting nicely on her neck even as she sweats like a sinner. “I meant to tell you earlier. Your fur is lovely.”

Mrs. Jones preens, her chest puffing like a peacock, basking in the attention. “Why thank you!” she gushes, dripping with false modesty. “Got them fresh last week. I would love for you to see the rest when I’m back in town. Jimmy and I leave for Millbrook and we’ll be gone for a week or two. It’s so refreshing to meet someone who appreciates fine things.”

You offer a small smile, excitement filling your body of your plans unfolding before you. “You’ll surely be missed. I do hope you have a wonderful time.”

She beams again, red lipstick cracking down the middle. “Make sure you stop by when we return, won’t you?”

You do stop by, but it’s a day after the Jones leave, a shadow among shadows. Buttercup leans into your touch when you brush a gloved hand along her glossy mane. You hop on her back, clicking your tongue to urge her into the night.

It’s further out of town, which makes this better for you—the fewer eyes, the better. The Jones estate looms ahead, dark and silent. You leave Buttercup a few yards away, patting her side as she lowers her head to graze. “I’ll be right back, girl. Just wait for my call.”

You circle to the back of the Jones’ house, glaring at the clean paint and beautiful greenery. A flickering light from a first-floor window catches your attention, and you duck down on impulse—the night watchman, no doubt. The Jones have enough money but spend too excessively to afford a maid. While this is a hindrance you can easily deal with, it’s still a thorn in your side. Patience has always been your ally, but tonight, it’s tested.

You know the town’s law enforcement, led by Sheriff Nanami, has been increasing patrols around wealthy homes because of your activities. The thought of him potentially catching you always sends a confusing concoction of thrill and dread through your veins.

Still, you wait, hidden in the shadows and the lush greenery around you, watching the guard’s routine. He leaves every ten minutes to patrol the house, returns, and scratches the sparse hair of his beard before plopping in his chair. His yawns grow more frequent as the night wears on, but he seems to alert himself with each distant noise. It takes a few more patrols and a few deep breaths to soothe your anxiety when you think you hear hoofbeats in the distance, but eventually, he settles one final time, his chin dropping to his chest as he dozes off, and you make your move.

A few windows over, a trellis catches your eye—perfect. Years of practice have taught you to distribute your weight evenly to avoid creaks as you climb the lattice. At the second-story window, you pause, listening. From your vantage point, the only source of light dimly from the living room below is the guard’s open door. The sound of his distant snores sets you back in action.

With ease, you manipulate the window latch, easing it open slowly to avoid any squeaks. You slip inside, your feet silent as they land on a plush carpet. The lavishness is an immediate assault on your senses—the air tinged with rose and peppermint, your eyes widening at the guest bedroom walls covered in paintings and deer heads. You grimace. Extravagant niceties that those less fortunate would give their soul for the value.

You pause at the top of the stairs, eyes scanning the house around you for anyone else, ears straining for any sound from the guard below or, worse, the approach of patrol outside. Satisfied, you ghost through well-decorated hallways towards the master bedroom. Without a moment to waste, you scan the ornate space. You know to secure your exits, and your entrances, and you smirk when you spot a sturdy chair on the other side of the room.

Silently, you wedge the chair under the doorknob, its back legs lifted slightly off the ground. It’s not the best, but it should buy you precious time if needed. You turn back to the master bedroom, eyes narrowed as you move on to your next step.

You’ve seen it all before, and no matter what, they keep their valuables in the same predictable places. A bookshelf with too much space that you can push against to open a second compartment. A floorboard slightly elevated than the rest. But for the Jones, it’s the garish family portrait above their bed—the same one Mrs. Jones boasted about at church weeks ago. Another unexpected but essential expense.

Your fingers work quickly as you carefully remove the painting, revealing the gleaming safe behind it. You press your ear against the cool metal, your fingertips ghosting over the dial. With precision, you begin to turn it, listening intently for the telltale clicks of the tumblers falling into place.

First to the right, slow and steady. Click. Back to the left, past the first number. Click. Right again, slower this time, feeling for the slightest resistance. Click.

Your breath catches as the final tumbler falls into place, heart racing with the promise of success as you slowly turn the handle. The safe door swings open with a satisfying creak, and inside, illuminated by a sliver of moonlight streaming through the window, sits your prize. Stack of crisp bills and glittering jewels, a physical manifestation of the good that they can do in the right hands.

As you transfer the wealth into your satchel, a floorboard creaks downstairs. You freeze, every muscle in your body taut as a bowstring, lungs seizing in your chest. You hear the rustle of clothing—the guard stirring in his chair. It feels like seconds stretch into an eternity as you wait, hand hovering over the gun on your hip. Just as your lungs scream for air, his snoring resumes, and you exhale slowly, your racing heart gradually steadying.

You’re hyper-aware of every sound as you work. The whisper of the bills, the soft clink of jewels—each seems magnified in the stillness of this gigantic house. You’re nearly finished, only two more stacks, when another creak echoes through the house, this one closer, more deliberate. There’s no settling floorboards from a new house or snoring night guard.

Someone’s here.

Suddenly, the doorknob jiggles violently, a voice on the other side booming through the previously silent house. You know the voice anywhere, one that haunts both your waking hours and your dreams.

Your heart picks back up, ice water filling your veins as the hairs on your neck stand up straight, but your hands remain steady as you gather the last of the valuables and ease the safe closed. Even in the face of being caught, you have to remain calm. It’s what’s kept you unnoticed and alive this long.

You replace the painting, your eyes already scanning the room for escape routes. You can easily go back out through the window, but the trellis you came upon is in the guest bedroom a few doors over. The jump from this window won’t be damaging, but it’ll hurt, and you don’t have time to use your rope to help you down.

Banging erupts against the door, the wood jumping from the force of the assault. “Sir! I’m here!” The night guard’s voice joins in beneath the noise, and you hear his hurried gait up the stairs.

You don’t have time for schematics. Time’s up. You throw the satchel around your shoulder and bolt for the window, only seconds before the door frame splinters from the strength of two men, the chair tumbling across the floor.

“Freeze!” A deep baritone barks, harsh and volatile, but you’re already halfway out the window, your leather boots pressed to the paneling, your hands holding you up like a spider monkey. You can’t help but pause, your wide-brimmed hat and black bandana obscuring most of your features. Coal-smudged eyes, their true color blending with the blackness surrounding them, meet the gaze of the man before you. He’s never been able to get a photo or any sort of evidence from you, not in times like these. He’ll never know who you are. But you know exactly who he is.

Sheriff Nanami Kento stands in the moonlit room, his stance wide and authoritative. Protector of the town, your number one purser, and a man who, despite your best efforts, has made a permanent home in your thoughts.

Mysterious mahogany eyes, usually kind and warm when they look at you during the day, now burn with determination and anger. That gun that you’ve seen him use to shoot targets and make Yuji laugh now points directly between your eyes.

As you look at him—the tension in his broad shoulders as they rise and fall beneath his shirt and vest, the dark circles under his eyes that speak of sleepless nights chasing your shadow—a pang of guilt slithers down your chest. Maybe if you take a small break with your escapades, he could get some sleep. You hate it when he’s tired, especially when you’re the cause.

But these thoughts are dangerous. Over the years, you’ve let him get too close, allowed him to see much of the real you, and now you’re beginning to feel the consequences.

But you can think about this another time; you’ve stayed longer than necessary. Right now, you have a job to finish. With a hitch in your breath, you drop to the ground. You land with a thud, your ankles absorbing the impact. A sharp pain shoots up your right leg, but you grit your teeth and push through it. You can’t afford to stop now.

The wild grass is thick as you sprint through the open fields, the satchel of stolen valuables bouncing heavily against your hip. Your breath slices through your lungs in short gasps, the cool night air burning in your chest. Behind you, you hear the chaos of pursuit. Nanami’s commanding voice mixes with the night guard’s confused shouts, and the sound of boots hitting the ground tells you they’ve made it out of the house.

You ignore the ebbing pain in your ankle, pushing yourself harder, faster. The grass gets taller with every inch you gain, whipping at your leather-clad legs as you tear through the field, the darkness both a hindrance and a shelter. You use the moonlight to guide you, your eyes scanning the landscape for the rock face you left Buttercup at on your way here.

A distant whinny in your ear cues you instantly. You whistle for her sharply, praying your faithful steed is close enough to hear. Her thundering hooves answer your prayers, growing louder by the second as she matches your sprint.

She appears like magic, slowing enough for you to leap onto her back and urge her into a gallop with a click of your tongue and a squeeze of your knees. With your view no longer obscured by the tall grass, you turn back to the disappearing estate, your heart dropping when you spot several riders—Nanami’s men, no doubt—headed toward you.

Gunshots pop through the air, the whoosh of silver bullets whizzing past your ears and missing their mark. But they’re getting closer. You hold your breath, absorbing the minute fear that blooms in your chest as you risk another glance behind you. Nanami is now at the front, his face grim and emboldened.

A snort from Buttercup turns your attention ahead. You fold low over her neck, your thighs contracting and relaxing in harmonious sync with her thunderous gallops. You taught yourself how to ride after Mama died, determined to do whatever it took to make it through the world. You found Buttercup then, neglected and forgotten, a mirror of your own lost soul. Now, years later, you both move as one, you anticipating her every move born of trust and time, she responds to the smallest shift of your weight as if reading your very thoughts.

Up ahead, the path narrows, winding through a rocky formation that makes you pull in your shoulders on reflex, as if you’re squeezing to fit. You guide Buttercup with a slight shift of the reins and a coo to her twitching ears.

There’s a fallen tree a few yards away, blocking most of the path and making it almost impassable. But you know what you can do. With a click of your tongue and a minuscule pressure of your knees into her sides, she reads your message immediately, huffing before launching over the thick oak in a magnificent leap. She lands with grace on the other side, hooves kicking up dirt in victory. It buys you the seconds that you need, but it won’t be enough. Nanami and his men will find their way around, and you need this chase to end. Now.

Ahead, a boulder ten times your size, with jagged edges and thick cracks, creates a fork in the path. You form an idea that is risky but will buy you the time you need to get home safely.

You guide Buttercup down the left path, your hand reaching for the pistol on your hip. You wind up the reins in one hand, squeezing the leather to hold you steady as you swiftly turn in your saddle to face the dusty world behind you. With the change in position, your hips work against the momentum of Buttercup’s stride instead of with it, and your tweaked ankle stings with every slap against her side. But you’ve practiced this before, and your balance is perfect, hand steady even as you move at breakneck speed.

Nanami and his men emerge from the curve of the path, eyes locked on you with deadly intent, and in that split second, you take your shot.

You’re not aiming to kill or even injure—your target is the lanterns that hang from each saddle horn. Amidst the bucking of your hips and the wind that whizzes past your ears, you hold your breath—forcing your heart to slow as your vision tunnels, and your finger squeezes the trigger. Before Nanami and his men can even reach for their guns, the air cracks, gunshots from your firearm hitting their mark to make the lanterns explode. It has its desired effect—their horses are startled, bucking onto their back feet as they whine in fright.

Nanami doesn’t want to, you can tell from the look in his eyes, but he has no choice but to look away. His eyes leave you as he tries his best to console his stallion and the rest of his gang. You take advantage of the chaos and twirl back around, relaxing your hand on the reins and exhaling the painful breath that was lodged in your lungs.

“Good girl,” you murmur, patting Buttercup’s neck as you coax her into a more fierce gallop and disappear into the night, the sounds of pursuit fading behind you. The satchel on your hip bucks with your mare’s kicks, reminding you of a job well done.

Even with the adrenaline of success thrumming through you, your mind always wanders back to the ‘why’ of it all.

When the guilt tries to curl in your chest when you least expect it, you remember Mama’s sunken face as she divided a molded loaf of bread between the two of you. You remember the hollow eyes of your neighbors too proud to beg. You remember the day you and Mama stood outside the general store in your hometown, staring at a display of fresh fruit, its price more than your weekly earnings. You remember being shooed away by the store owner, muttering about “ill-bred women,” lowering the tone of his establishment.

That night after Mama finally fell asleep, you stole for the first time. So skinny that you could slip through the gap in Mr. Thornton’s fence of his apple orchard. You took only one—a small, slightly misshapen apple covered in dirt—fear rattling your bones at the thought of being caught. But its sweetness, shared with Mama the next morning, was everything you could have asked for.

The concept of right and wrong has always been blurred for you. You’re certainly not right in the eyes of the law, or perhaps even in the eyes of God that Mama believed in so much. But when you distribute your spoils in the dead of night, slipping money through house doors. When you see the disbelief turn to joy on a widow’s face because she can feed her children another week. When you watch a frail old man cry over a warm coat that will see him through the winter—you sleep a little better.

The world isn’t fair. You learned that lesson far too soon in your life. But in your own way, with these midnight heists and heart-pounding adventures, you’re trying to balance some sort of scale. It’s not justice…but it’s something. Something that lets you look at yourself in the mirror each morning, that calms the angry, helpless, and hungry child still living in your memories.

Tomorrow, you’ll begin distributing this wealth to those who truly need it. Yuji's grandpa will have enough to buy his grandson new clothes. Mrs. Thompson will have enough to make up for the remaining savings she gave to the church. And come Monday, you’ll greet Sheriff Nanami with a warm smile as he walks you home from a day’s work at the school, your secret safe for another day.

The thrill of every heist, the satisfaction of outwitting the law, the knowledge that you’re helping those in need—it all mingles in your veins like the sweetest whiskey you tease the Sheriff for indulging in. As the stars twinkle overhead as you wash the coal from Buttercup’s nose that hides her white markings, you allow yourself a moment of pride. It’s probably not much in the grand scheme of things, but to someone in this town, it’ll mean the world.

“Did you hear about Mrs. Jones’s place?”

“Ma says the bandit struck again, cleaned them out in seconds!”

You keep your face carefully neutral as you pick up on your student’s conversations that dance on the hot air, but you’re filled with pride and guilt. You can’t help but think of Sheriff Nanami, of the frustration you see etched on his handsome face so often. Even yesterday, those determined eyes flickered with hints of shame. For a moment, doubt creeps in, whispers in your ears like a tease, threatening to unearth everything you’ve worked for.

But then you look at Sarah’s new turquoise ribbon that compliments her wheat-colored hair as she twirls in a circle on the dusty road. You remember Tommy’s gait as he said goodbye to you just minutes ago, no longer wobbly now that his toes have room to move in new shoes.

The whispers of your students and how surprised and elated they were to find money under their doorstep make you steel yourself. Despite the risks, despite the growing complexity of your feelings—it’s always worth it.

Your life is a study in contrasts. Mornings are quiet affairs—a cup of coffee, a soothing hand down Buttercup’s mane as she eats her breakfast, the silence of an empty classroom. Afternoons explode with energy—eager questions, laughter, and the occasional disagreement amongst your students. You think of Mama, how she read to you as a child, planting seeds of knowledge that would one day bloom into your passion for teaching. It’s another way you give back—maybe some form of atonement you aren’t ready to address—but to fill another generation’s head with knowledge is a gift you wouldn’t trade.

Coming to this town years ago was an escape—from the pain of Mama’s death, from the constant fear of your life as a thief. You only meant to stay a few months, take what you needed, give it back to those like you, and vanish. But loneliness has a way of anchoring a soul.

Months became years. A solitary existence morphed into friendships with neighbors and an undeniable connection with the stoic sheriff who walks you home, an unspoken affection blossoming between you.

Years of experience have made you attuned to the whispers in town. You know how much Mr. Fletcher has hidden away in his safe. You know what date and time certain shipments come in and who they are going to.

Lately, though, whispers of a different sort have caught your ear. Tales of a hidden treasure in the old mine outside of town. Yuji talks about it almost every day, how his grandfather is convinced the treasure is real. The town’s cobbler rolls his eyes at the rumor, often grumbling about how the citizens should focus on earning revenue through hard work and no shortcuts. The more adventurous of the town have scoped the plains around this town time and time again. But it’s never bore any fruit.

Even you have dismissed it as just another local legend. But the thought nags at you, a persistent itch you can’t quite scratch. While you do not doubt the well-meaning residents of this town, they may not have your experience. They may not know how to scale a rocky mountain or where to look. But you do.

You’ve spent years justifying your actions, convincing yourself that the end justifies the means. That it’s a necessary evil in a world that turns a blind eye to suffering. To walk away now feels like the biggest betrayal of everything you’ve fought for, everything your Mama taught you about standing up for those who can’t stand up for themselves. Even last night, you went through your routine of reiterating that what you’re doing is for a good cause.

But the twinge in your ankle when you woke up this morning. The bleariness in your eyes from little sleep. The exhaustion weighs heavily on you. The loneliness is more palpable every morning when you roll over to an empty bed. Because you can’t share the darkness of your secrets with anyone. Is it selfish to want a normal life after being exposed to the rotten core of it? To want stability, a future untainted by the shadow of your past, to want love? Or is it more selfish to continue on this path, risking everything—including the hearts of those who’ve come to care for you—for a cause that seems never-ending?

The infinite revolving of these thoughts makes you think twice about those rumors. So…what if the treasure is real? What if there’s enough hidden away to help everyone in town, to right all the wrongs you’ve seen? Enough to let you hang up this hidden life for good, to just be the schoolteacher—no more lies, no more risks, no more seeing the weight of failure in Nanami’s eyes.

Hours later, after your students have long gone, you’re atop Buttercup, having decided an afternoon ride might clear your head. You break through the bustle of town, the sun painting the landscape of open plains. As you crest a small hill, you scan the horizon, absorbing every detail with practiced observation that’s served you well in your double life.

You remember it all from your first few weeks here—a dilapidated shed outside of town, a small lake where wild animals drink from to the north. But with more focus, to the West, you spot unfamiliar rocky terrain. What catches your eye is how the rocks seem to fit together—not stacked with the random chaos of nature, but with an almost deliberate precision. It’s as if the hands of a giant stacked them long ago, their edges now overgrown and softened by wind and time.

If you were to slowly move the rocks over time, you could find an unexplored cave on the other side—not a mine like the rumors claim. Whatever it could be, it’s definitely worth investigating. You make a mental note of its location, your innate sense of direction and topography—honed by years of midnight runs—ensuring you can find it easily again.

As you make one last sweep across the landscape, your ears pick up on the stressed mooing of cows and the yells of men. After riding toward the source for a few minutes, you finally spot the commotion. Mr. Williams’ well-maintained fence is broken with wooden boards sprawled on the plains as a group of cattle amble and run free. They shuffle as fast as their heavy bodies will take them, mooing loudly in distress.

You’ve done some wrangling as a young girl, a grueling job that paid you very little to feed you and Mama, so you immediately hone in on the weak points of the fence and the patterns of the cattle’s movement.

You spring into action, clicking your tongue and squeezing your thighs around Buttercup to make her take off. The wind whips through your hair, loosening curls from your usually neat bun. As you draw closer, your heart leaps in your chest.

There, in the midst of the chaos, is Nanami. He sits on his stallion with an easy grace that makes your mouth go dry. Eyes narrowed with determination, cheekbones glossy with sweat and dirt. His vest is gone, and you note the navy long sleeve that squeezes his thick form, his forearms exposed and veiny. His strong biceps flex as he twirls his lasso, long fingers cinched tight around the base of the noose, wrist twirling in a motion you’ve thought about late at night with your fingers buried deep inside of you.

Gods, he’s handsome. Even that first day when you both met in front of the general store, Nanami reaching down to collect the books you had dropped, you knew then he would be your undoing. He has proven to be the one constant in your mind when you should be thinking about your goal.

He’s the kind of man that you could bring home to Mama, though you’d have to keep a watchful eye on her so she doesn’t flirt herself. He’s the kind of man who can work the fields and protect a town, that can fend off criminals and walk children the school, that can come home after a long day and kiss you until your eyes roll into your skull. That can grunt in appreciation from the fingernails that dig into his back, your legs wrapped around his waist as he buries himself to the hilt and—

“Need a hand, Sheriff?” you call out, shaking yourself back to reality, swallowing the saliva in your mouth. You can think about him later. Right now, that adventurous itch comes to life at the base of your spine. You love being a teacher, but you miss things like this—the thrill of the ride, the tingling sensation of a challenge, and Nanami’s presence all combine to create a heady rush of adrenaline through your veins.

Nanami’s head turns at the sound of your voice, deep brown eyes widening in surprise. The movement of his wrist stops, and his lasso plops on his head, musing perfectly parted blonde locks as the rope smacks the sides of his face. There’s a flicker of something in his eyes—surprise, yes, but adoration and something more pungent that makes your skin tingle.

“Ma’am, this isn’t exactly—” he starts, but you’re already taking off.

A whistle from your lips springs Buttercup into action, galloping a wide birth around the scattered calves. You free your own rope from your saddle horn, the weight in your hands a comforting reminder of late nights practicing in your stable. You hitch up, bunching your thighs with hidden strength, twirling the lasso once, twice, feeling the perfect balance of it.

Then, with a fluid movement, you send the rope flying towards the calf closest to you. It arcs through the air before finding its mark, settling around the calf’s neck with perfect precision. You ignore the feel of Nanami’s eyes on you as you wrestle to rebellious calf back into Mr. Williams’ yard. The man himself is already releasing the rope and ushering the calf away from the fence that is slowly being repaired by his ranch hands.

“Where did you learn to do that?” Nanami asks when you pace up next to him. The lasso is still haphazard over his head, lips parted in astonishment.

“Are you implyin' that I shouldn’t know how to do that, Sheriff?” you tease, guiding Buttercup in a slow trot around Nanami and his stallion. He fumbles to correct himself, cheeks heating as he pulls at the rope around his neck and shoulders. “Should I only know teachin' and how to care for a home?”

“N-now you know that’s not what I—”

You cut him off with a sharp chuckle, making another rotation around him and his steed, a mischievous glint in your eye. “You’re so gullible.” He throws you a wary look, finally pulling the lasso off his body in a huff. “Now, are you gonna help me, or not?”

You and Nanami fall into sync, working in tandem to herd the cattle back into Mr. Williams’ enclosed space. It’s perfect choreography—when Nanami moves right, you’re already swinging left.

Before long, you spot a flash of white in your peripheral vision. Deputy Gojo leans against the fence, his shock of white hair practically reflective in the sun. He’s been practically absent up until this point and, unlike you and Nanami, seems in no rush to join the action. He eyes you with a charismatic smile, flirtatious in his gaze, but you’re quick to roll your eyes playfully and get back to the task at hand.

There’s a grace to Nanami’s body as he works. His hips roll with each movement of his horse, the rock back and forth, a rhythm hypnotic and alluring. The muscles in his denim-clad thighs flex as he grips his mount, powerful and thick. His face maintains his usually iron-faced composure, focused on the task, but an undeniable beauty to his concentration. The setting sun enhances his features, the shadows accentuate his strong jaw and cheekbones. A bed of sweat traces a tantalizing path down his neck, disappearing beneath a collar that’s three buttons undone.

As you drive a cow forward, Nanami is there to lasso and guide it home. The way he hands his horse, the quiet commands and clicks, the subtle shifts of his body, and the grunts that leave his form when he throws his lasso—it all speaks of a man completely in control, and you find it mesmerizing…and utterly arousing. There’s something primal and enticing about watching him move, about being in such perfect harmony with him. It’s a blaring reminder of the attraction that’s been simmering between you.

At one point, you end up riding side by side, so close that your legs brush against each other. The contact, even through the layers of your dress, is scalding. You steal a glance at Nanami, darting through the disheveled curls in front of your eyes, only to find him already looking at you. Those dark eyes are smoldering—intense with an emotion that radiates from you both and squeezes your throat tight.

As the last cow meanders through the repaired fence, you both are panting from exhaustion, guiding your horses to a slow stroll. Mr. Williams jogs towards you both, followed closely by Gojo, a lazy saunter and an ever-present mischievous look on his face.

“I had no idea you could wrangle so well,” Mr. Williams exclaims, waving enthusiastically as he reaches up and takes the reins of both your horses to lead them towards a water trough. “That was incredible. I have no idea how to repay you.”

You wave him off, trying not to preen under the praise. Gojo's incredibly rare and well-bred snow-white Quarter Horse saunters up to you, the animal indignant in his strides just as much as its owner.

“Well,” Gojo drawls, crystal blue eyes sweeping appreciatively over your form. “Didn’t think a schoolteacher had fine lasso skills. Any other skills I should know about? You can show me at the town festival in a few weeks.”

It’s undeniably forward, enough to make a dignified man turn beet red in anger and a fragile woman faint. But it’s Deputy Gojo Satoru—uncaring of the world that he feels revolves around him.

“Gojo,” Nanami snaps, harsh and biting with an undercurrent that makes your spine straighten. “For once in your life, stop pestering every woman within a few feet of you.”

You can’t help but chuckle, shrugging dismissively and patting Buttercup’s neck as she drinks. “No harm done, Sheriff. I’m sure Deputy Gojo here was just being friendly, weren’t you?” You ask, voice laden with a double meaning that makes Gojo smile warily, suddenly apprehensive. “Though I’d caution against mistaking friendliness for interest. Wouldn’t want you to get the wrong idea and end up disappointed…again.”

Gojo's jaw drops, Mr. Williams chokes on a snort a few yards away, and you hear Nanami stifle a harsh grunt that cracks on the edges.

Gojo sputters, pale white cheeks burning, his usual confidence faltering in the night air as he flaps his gills. “I’ll have you know, I’ve never been disappointed in matters of the heart.”

You hum nonchalantly, pursing your lips in disbelief. “Oh? So that wasn’t you I saw sulking behind the saloon last month? What was it you were muttering? Something about Geto turning you down for the second time?”

At the mention of Geto's name, Gojo's blue eyes widens, a squeak eeping from glossy lips. Nanami, unable to contain himself any longer, lets out a bark of laughter.

“I—that’s not—how did you—” Gojo stammers, looking between you and Nanami with wide, suspicious eyes. You simply shrug, glancing at Nanami. There’s a glimmer of amusement there, a shared moment of mirth at Gojo's expense. At some point, Gojo grows tired of entertaining you both, clicking his mouth in annoyance and taking off towards town. You snort at his retreating form, giggling with the rush of excitement of the evening.

When Mr. Williams sees you both off, the night is a cool blanket around you both. The moon sits high, a silver pendant on the velvet black sky, while the stars twinkle like scattered diamonds. For awhile, you both ride in silence, the rhythmic clop of hooves a soothing melody to your turmoil from earlier in the day. The air carries the scent of grass and wildflowers, mixing with the sweat that lingers on your skin. It’s Nanami who breaks the quiet, his deep voice a relaxing current of electricity down your spine.

“He will only take your wit as a challenge,” he muses, mildly amused.

“Gojo will forget all about me the minute Ms. Foxworth bats her eyelashes at him.”

The corners of his eyes crinkle, casting his face in a brief flash of masculine flirtation that makes your heart skip. “And Ms. Foster,” he adds, catching onto your game.

“And Ms. Chamberlain,” you continue, shoulders shaking with suppressed laughter.

“And I’m pretty sure Mrs. Jones,” Nanami finishes, snorting to himself because she’s married, and that’s never stopped Gojo before.

Your eyes meet, scandalous realization settling over you both, and in that moment, the ridiculousness of it all bubbles up inside. Laughter erupts from you first, a released cascade of glee as your head tilts to the night sky. The sound of Nanami’s deep chuckles mingles with your giggles, creating a harmony that seems to resonate in your very bones. It feels good to laugh with Nanami. Just like any other time you spend with him. It takes your mind off the thought of leaving this town—of leaving him—forever.

The night is cool against your skin, but your chest blooms with warmth. You’re about to comment on the beauty of the star-studded sky when you notice Nanami reach into his vest pocket. He pulls out a cigarette, lips wrapping around the filter with a firm but gentle grip.

Your heart sinks, a leaden weight pulling it further down your rib cage. You’ve noticed he only smokes when he’s particularly stressed, and the sight of it now, after such a wonderful evening, makes you frown. You know it’s because of his work, the harshness he sees every day, and his relentless pursuit of the bandit—of you—only makes it worse for him. The remorse gnaws at your insides like a rabid animal.

Doing your best to mask the torrent of emotions threatening to consume you, you aim for a teasing approach. “Stressed, Sheriff?” you ask, quirking an eyebrow and hoping he can’t hear the slight shake in your voice.

Nanami pauses, the unlit cigarette dangling from his lips. He looks at you with a flicker of embarrassment, highlighting the tired lines around his eyes that you wish you could smooth away with your fingertips. “Ah, my apologies,” he says, moving to put it away. “The smell—”

You wave him off. “I don’t mind. Not much of a smoker when I need to relax.”

He hums but doesn’t respond, striking a match and cupping large hands around the flame. The brief light illuminates his face, casting shadows across his face. You find yourself transfixed by the way the flame reflects in his dark eyes, like embers in the night.

He takes a long drag, the tip brightening in burnt orange and gold. Nanami exhales, the smoke curling seductively from his nose and into the air, the sight more enticing than it should be. “So, when do you smoke, ma’am?”

His voice is entirely too low, entirely too deep. You playfully glare at the use of ‘ma’am’ for what feels like the nth time since you’ve known each other. You decide to be mischievous, precariously throwing caution to the wind.

“Oh, you know,” you say airily, looking up at the sky as you try to emit an air of faux innocence. Nanami looks at you cautiously, raising a dark blonde eyebrow expectantly, eyes narrowing as he picks up on the teasing tilt in your voice. “You smoke when you’re stressed. I smoke to unwind from a job well done. Preferably, after taking a good man for a ‘ride’.”

Heat simmers beneath your skin as you speak, low and husky and loaded with suggestive humor that surprises even you.

It’s an immediate effect and more satisfying than you could have ever imagined. Nanami sputters, choking on the smoke. His eyes go wide, and crimson erupts up the glimpse of open chest and neck, visible even in the moonlight, spreading to his cheeks in a way that makes you want to trace its path with your lips.

You can’t help but giggle as he coughs. “You make it too easy sometimes, Sheriff,” you say between laughs.

Nanami clears his throat repeatedly, desperately trying to regain his composure. But you catch the corners of his mouth twitching, fighting a smile that makes you bite into your bottom lip. His chest heaves as he takes in deep breaths, and your eyes watch the way his shirt stretches across his wide shoulders with each inhalation.

“You’re trouble, you know that?” he finally manages in a rough voice, glaring at you with a mix of exasperation and fondness that warms you from the inside out.

“So I’ve been told,” you reply with a wink, reveling in the way his breath catches again at your boldness. He shakes his head with a chuckle, turning back to the open plains in front of him.

You notice that some of the tension has left Nanami’s shoulders, his posture relaxed once more. Your guilt eases a little, knowing that, at least for this moment, you’ve managed to lighten his burden rather than add to it.

“Gojo likes trouble as much as he likes wit. Stay away from him and pick someone else.” He pauses, opening his mouth as he weighs his next words with delicacy. “I imagine you have a line of suitors with far more promise than Gojo hoping to escort you to the festival.”

Nanami’s voice is soft, almost wistful, wrapped around an overwhelming cluster of resignation that makes your heart clench painfully in your chest. His eyes are fixed on the horizon as your horses walk side by side, but you can see a tightness around his mouth, a tension in his jaw that speaks volumes.

“I haven’t really paid much attention, to be honest,” you admit, surprised at his sudden remark. You try to keep your tone light and nonchalant, praying he can’t hear the slight tremor, the silent truth that threatens to spill from your lips—that the only man you truly notice is him. Every day, all the time, from sunup to sundown, it’s always Nanami Kento.

Nanami hums thoughtfully, fingering the sharp cut of his jaw. “That fellow from the saloon a few weeks back? He seemed taken with you.” He pulls in a deep drag, sunset orange ebbing to life at the tip.

You can’t help but roll your eyes. The memory of that particular encounter was both amusing and exasperating. “He was three sheets to the wind, Nanami. Claimed to know my drink of choice and got it wrong when he recommended scotch, of all things.”

Nanami exhales a smoky breath, the wisps ghosting around a smirk that makes him look statuesque with the rolling plains behind him. “You prefer moonshine,” he muses, “The kind Kilmer makes, if I’m not mistaken.”

Your heart skips a beat at his casual observation. Moonshine isn’t exactly legal in town, but when the bartender Kilmer works the saloon on Wednesday nights, most of the residents ask for his prized moonshine if no deputies are around. Of all the things for him to pay attention to, your drink of choice seems like such a small, insignificant detail.

You bite the corner of your lip to keep from breaking into a wide smile, belly warm at the thought.

“Not like I can admit to that,” you tease, digging your teeth harder into your bottom lip as the simmering grows in your stomach. “Aren’t you supposed to be upholdin’ the law?”

As soon as the words leave your mouth, you want to snatch them back. You’re aware of how much pressure the sheriff places on himself. How he feels unworthy of the badge on his chest. There has never been a day in your knowing him where you felt he was undeserving. Of the town, of all of its citizens, of you. If you could turn his face to a mirror and stand by his side while you tell him just how deserving he is, you would in a heartbeat.

Nanami’s smile fades slightly, a heavy weariness etching onto his features. He takes another drag and turns his head away as he exhales. “This town is small, and times are hard. Sometimes…moonshine is all someone can afford if they need to get away from the world for a while.” He pauses, his eyes meeting yours in the moonlight. “A good lawman knows when to look the other way for the sake of his people.”

It’s times like these when you admire the man Nanami is. He’s rough around the edges and stern with the law, but he’s also empathetic enough to know when some rules should be lax based on those they affect. Maybe he could think the same about you? Maybe he could understand your self-imposed noble acts and forgive you for causing him so much pain.

Nanami clears his throat, seemingly eager to change the subject. “The man at the general store two months ago? He could hardly string two words together around you.”

“He was at least five years younger than me,” you counter, giggling at his persistence. “Hardly appropriate. What will the town think?”

“That you’re incredibly picky—” he starts, but you cut him off with a playful swat to his arm.

“Or maybe,” you chuckle with a playful roll of your eyes, “they’ll think I have standards. Is that so wrong, Sheriff?”

“Not at all. Though, I can’t help but wonder what those standards might be.”

Oh.

You’re immediately aware of how dangerous this conversation has become. You’ve never flirted so blatantly before, never with such clear intention. The banter between you and Nanami has always been a harmonious push and pull, as natural as breathing, even though you both treat it as a forbidden dance. But this shift now—it’s palpable, exciting, and terrifying all at once. But the night air, the lingering adrenaline from the cattle drive, that pump of electric fire that pulses through your veins when you can feel free for a moment, all of it makes you bold.

“Someone kind,” you begin, your voice barely above a whisper, as if speaking any louder might shatter the moment. “Intelligent also helps, dedicated to his work and cares about the people around him.” You risk a glance, hiding beneath the curtain of your curls. Your heart races, each beat echoing the recklessness that coats your tongue with every word. “Someone who notices the little things…like a lady’s drink preference.”

The words hang in the air, heavy with implication. It’s as if you’ve finally given a voice to the undercurrent that’s been flowing between you, transforming your ocean of subtle flirtation into something more tangible, more precarious.

Nanami’s gaze, usually so controlled, molds before your eyes. In the flickering embers of his cigarette, you see something molten, a desire that slides down your body with liquid arousal. His lips purse around his cigarette, your eyes flickering to the muscle that curls around the filter, watching with rapt attention as he inhales deeply, slowly.

When you slide your eyes up to meet his, your breath catches at the still-burning intensity. Your vision tunnels to the reflective desire in his eyes, the moonlight on his face, the tension that crackles between you like lightning before a storm. It’s almost too much, your chest tightening with still stolen breath in your lungs.

But just as quickly, he looks away, severing the connection and turning to exhale a plume of smoke into the darkness.

“He sounds like a fool.”

The tension breaks like a dam, and you find yourself choking on a surprised laugh, chortling at the full smile he shoots your way as if bashful. He seems like a flirtatious teenager, basking in the attention from his crush, and you hold on to the sight—to the way it’s making you feel.

As your laughter fades and he puts out his cigarette on the heel of his boot, the atmosphere shifts again. The sizzling lust that danced around you both softens into something more intimate, more tender.

The moonlight catches in Nanami’s hair, turning the golden strands liquid silver. No longer the pristine part he maintains, the strands fall in gentle tufts around the tops of his ears and over his eyebrows. Your fingers twitch on the reins of Buttercup, itching to reach out and brush those disheveled strands away, to feel if they’re as soft as they look.

Nanami, soft when he speaks again, almost reverent. “You’d be surprised, you know,” he murmurs, looking at you once more. “Just how many people notice you.”

His words sway in the air, loaded with meaning. You find yourself frozen, caught in the earth of his gaze, the sincerity making your throat dry. Even as your hips move with Buttercup’s trot, it feels like the world narrows to just the two of you, eyes on each other as everything else fades into insignificance.

Suspended in time and bathed in moonlight, you wish you could push a little further, draw out a confession, or make a declaration of your own. You want to stretch this moment into eternity, to live in this space where you only exist as a schoolteacher, and Nanami could put his own happiness first, just for once.

But reality intervenes, as it always does, with a painful wave of guilt that crashes over you. The weight of your secrets, of your double life, of your part in his pain, settles heavily on your shoulders like lead. So, instead of the words you long to say, you offer only a gentle smile, letting the serene silence of the night envelop you both.

As the first glimmers of the town’s lamplights come into view, you allow yourself this moment of peace. You bask in Nanami’s presence beside you, in the rhythm of the horses’ hooves, in the soft ‘plop’ of his Stetson against his back with each step. You breathe in the memory of shared laughter and adventure, storing it away like a precious treasure.

It’s dangerous—this indulgence—you know. Every shared moment, every word, every loaded glance yanks you further into a web of feelings you can’t afford to have. But as you ride side by side through the moonlight, you can’t bring yourself to regret it. Not tonight.

Instead, you hold this memory close to your heart, a keepsake against the long, lonely nights ahead. It’s a bittersweet reminder of what could be, in a world where you aren’t who you are—a world that exists only in these fleeting moments under the vast, star-studded sky.

By the time you clamber up to your doorstep, Buttercup is already resting in her stable, and that terrible feeling of guilt and confusion roars to life in your chest. You wrap your hand around your doorknob before turning to look at Nanami. He’s still there, with messy hair and sweaty skin, as he reaches into his vest for another cigarette. Handsome and otherworldly and right there. He catches your stare as he places the filter between his lips, one eyebrow quirking up in concern.

“Everything alright?” he asks, the unlit cigarette dangling as he speaks. “I’m not leaving until you’re safely inside.”

You wish you could relish in his concern, bathe in his care, and savor the warmth that blooms in your chest. But you’re not sure you’ve even earned it.

“I’m goin’, I'm goin',” you joke, cracking the door as you step one foot inside your home, still angled to him.

“Well, hurry along then,” he insists, a gentle demand lingering beneath. He lights the cigarette, cheeks pulled in as he inhales full-chested and exhales a deep plume of smoke. Through the haze that dances around him, you find mischief as he smirks. “Ma’am.”

The laugh leaves you before you can stop it, rolling your eyes at his deliberate use of the title he knows annoys you. With a final wave, you step inside, closing the door behind you.

The laughter dies on your lips as soon as the door clicks closed and you press your forehead against the cool wood, eyes stinging with the promise of tears. The clop of Flint’s hooves slowly fades as Nanami gets further away from you, and the only thing you wish at this moment is to yank open the door and run to him. To run away from your terrifying thoughts and forget everything.

Next week, when Mr. and Mrs. Phillips leave town, you have another heist planned. It should feel promising. Another chance to do good, to make others happy at the expense of your safety. But the thought sits heavy in your stomach, the lightness you felt moments ago with Nanami leaving in a flourish.

That nagging feeling from this morning, the festering loneliness born from your decisions, finally breaks free now that you have nothing else to distract you. It makes everything so much harder now. The thrill that once drove you feels muted now, overshadowed by something else—something warm and achingly intimate that’s taken root in your chest.

You slide down to the floor, back against the door, bottom lip quivering as conflict rages like an inferno within you. Tomorrow, you’ll have to start preparing. But tonight, you can’t help but wonder if your heart is truly in this anymore.