rui

you meet satoru gojo on a tuesday morning when the cafe is packed worse than usual. the line stretches all the way past the entrance, your apron is covered in dried milk splatters, and your patience is basically gone.

then in he walks.

satoru gojo is the kind of guy who makes the world bend a little just by existing. cocky without apology, charming in that infuriating way that has people falling over themselves, the type who never hears no because he doesn’t give them the chance to say it. and well he’s rich, he’s brilliant, he’s everything and he knows it, which is exactly why you hated him from the second you met him.

“one of everything sweet you got back there,” he says. “extra whip, extra shots, and throw in a smile for me while you’re at it, yeah? name’s toru by the way.”

you stare at him for half a second. he can’t be serious.

“do you even know how bad that’ll taste?” you mutter, not even bothering to hide the annoyance in your voice. you start slamming cups and pumps because arguing with customers is a quick way to get written up, but god, this one makes it tempting.

the smirk on satoru’s face gets wider, those ridiculous sunglasses sliding down the bridge of his nose just enough for you to catch a flash of those too-blue eyes.

“aw, c’mon princess. live a little. i like my coffee like i like my company—sweet, messy, and a little overwhelming.”

you nearly drop the cup. the audacity rolls off him in waves and when you finally slide the drink across the counter (extra everything just like he asked), he takes one dramatic sip and makes a face.

“too sweet,” he declares as he sets the cup down. “way too sweet. you tryna put me in a sugar coma or what?”

your eye twitches, “you literally asked for one of everything sweet. that’s what you got. if you wanted plain black coffee maybe you should’ve just said that.”

he leans in closer, elbows on the counter, completely ignoring the growing line behind him. “feisty. i like that, it’s almost cute.”

“cute?” you echo. “buddy, i’m two seconds away from spitting in your next drink if you don’t move.”

satoru throws his head back and laughs, you also notice a few girls in line giggle along with him. he then pulls out his card, taps it against the reader, and winks.

fucking asshole.

“that should be it, princess. and hey—i’ll be back tomorrow! maybe you’ll get my order right next time.”

you watch him saunter out, white hair catching the light, and you mutter under your breath the entire time you’re making the next customer’s latte.

you think that’s the end of it. that he’s just another entitled campus pretty boy who’ll forget your face by the time he hits his next lecture.

but satoru gojo doesn’t forget things that interest him.

and apparently, you just became interesting.

˚⟡˖ ࣪

“hey, new hire starts today. show him the ropes when he gets here. he’s a fast learner, supposedly.”

you nod... you’ve been working at this campus cafe for almost eight months now. started right after your financial aid package came up short and you needed something flexible that wouldn’t kill your gpa. the pay is decent, the tips are better on busy days, and it beats retail. plus the free coffee reallyyy helps.

pops, your manager, has been running this place longer than most of the students have been alive on campus. he’s kind of aloof that borders on comedy, always saying the bare minimum while somehow making it sound like the most profound shit you’ve ever heard. you get along with him in that weird way where you trade sarcasm and he never takes anything too seriously.

“great,” you say, already dreading it. “i’m babysitting today basically”

pops snorts, “this one applied with a resume that looked like it belonged in a fortune 500. probably won’t last, but at least he’ll look pretty while he burns the milk.”

“so you hired him because he’s pretty?”

“i hired him because we’re short staffed and he said he could start today. pretty is just a bonus. try not to scare him off on day one, yeah? i don’t feel like doing interviews again.”

the bell above the door chimes. “oh look, there he is. right on time.”

you turn around and your stomach drops straight through the floor.

no. fucking. way.

satoru steps inside wearing the exact same black apron as you have, name tag already clipped to his chest slightly crooked.

he spots you instantly.

“morning, princess,” he says, voice carrying across the quiet space. “ready to teach me how to make that sugar coma special?”

you just stare at him, mouth half open.

“you’ve got to be kidding me,” you mutter.

satoru walks behind the counter, already rolling up the sleeves of his shirt like he’s done this a hundred times. he stops a little too close, that familiar cocky energy filling up the small space.

“what? you told me to try plain black coffee next time. figured the best way to get it right is to learn how to make it myself. plus the tips here looked decent when i was scoping the place out yesterday.”

“play nice, both of you. i don’t want to hear any screaming before ten.”

you pinch the bridge of your nose, already feeling the headache coming on. “this is a joke, right? he’s the new hire?”

“looks that way,” pops says, shrugging. “show him the basics. registers, milk steaming, the usual. don’t let him break anything expensive.”

satoru leans against the counter looking way too amused. “don’t worry, i’m a fast learner. you’ll barely have to babysit. we're gonna be real good friends."

˚⟡˖ ࣪

supervising satoru on his first day turns out to be exactly as annoying as you expected, except somehow worse.

he picks up the register faster than anyone you’ve ever trained. customers love him. older ladies compliment his “lovely smile,” frat guys clap him on the shoulder, and half the girls on campus suddenly decide they need an extra shot in their latte. every time someone tells him his coffee is perfect he makes sure you hear it, tossing the praise your way.

“did you catch that? she said it was the best cappuccino she’s had all semester. guess i’m a natural.”

“she was flirting with you, not rating your foam.”

“eh, same thing.”

he’s extra with everything too, especially the latte art. while you’re trying to keep the line moving he spends an extra ten seconds swirling hearts and little flowers into every cappuccino, sometimes even attempting tiny cats or stars. half the time they come out lopsided but he’s proud of himself.

one girl actually took a photo and posted it right there at the counter. again, satoru made sure you saw it.

“see? people appreciate the details. you should try it sometime instead of just dumping plain foam on top.”

“we’re not an art studio, gojo.”

he just laughs unbothered and keeps going. every time you correct him on something he listens for about five seconds then does it his own way anyway, but he never actually messes up. it’s infuriating how quickly he fits in.

˚⟡˖ ࣪

by the end of the first week you’re convinced satoru gojo was put on this earth specifically to test every last nerve you have left.

he shows up every single shift you’re on. the worst part is he’s actually good at the job. terrifyingly good even. 

you catch him quiet one afternoon working the espresso machine.

there’s something weirdly attractive about how easy he is when he’s focused like this. when he’s not the loud, cocky version that grates on your nerves. the quieter side. the way his shoulders relax, the small smile that sits on his lips when no one’s watching, the brightness that seems to live under his skin even when he’s not talking.

he’s stupidly pretty like that, when he's just simply existing.

it's like the whole world softens around him without him even trying. it pisses you off how much you notice it.

“you know,” he starts, “for someone who claims to hate me, you spend a lot of time staring.”

“excuse me. i’m not staring at you—im looking at the espresso machine.”

satoru steps closer to you. he’s tall, unfairly so, and he knows how to use it, looming enough to make the space between you feel smaller than it should.

“admit it, princess. you’re impressed.”

“sure, most trust fund babies last two days max.”

he laughs, “you think i’m doing this for the money? please. i could buy this whole campus if i wanted.”

did this asshole just flex on you?

“then why are you here, gojo?” you finally look up at him, arms crossed tight over your chest. “you don’t need the tips. you don’t need the experience. so what’s the angle?”

suddenly he reaches out, tucks a loose strand of hair behind your ear.

“maybe i like coffee,” he murmurs. “or maybe i simply just like seeing you. either way… i’m not going anywhere.”

your heart beats faster, traitor that it is. you slap his hand away, ignoring the way your skin tingles where he touched you.

“touch me again and i’ll steam your fingers instead of the milk.”

“violent,” he says. “i like that about you too.”

before you can fire back, the bell over the door rings again and a group of students shuffle in, saving you from whatever stupid thing was about to come out of your mouth. you turn away from him fast, busying yourself with the register.

by closing time the cafe is empty except for the two of you. pops already left an hour ago, so now it’s just you wiping down the last tables while satoru sweeps the floor.

you’re stacking chairs when he appears beside you without warning, grabbing the one next to yours and flipping it onto the table. his shoulder bumps yours on purpose this time.

“so,” he starts, casual as ever, “what are you doing after this?”

“going home, i’m pretty tired… uh you?”

“boring, you're boring," he yawns, "lemme walk you back to your dorm to be safe.”

“i’ve walked myself home for eight months, gojo. i think i’ll survive without a bodyguard.”

“yeah, but now you don’t have to.” he continues, “c’mon, princess. one walk. i’ll even try to keep the pet names to a minimum.”

you study him for a long moment.

“fine,” you say finally giving in, “annoy me again and i’m pushing you into the nearest bush.”

“deal.” he holds up both hands in mock surrender. “but just so you know… i’m really good at dodging bushes.”

you roll your eyes at that, he never runs out of bullets. the two of you finish closing up in comfortable quiet. he locks the front door while you kill the lights, and when you step out into the cool evening air together, the campus paths are mostly empty, strung with soft golden lamplight.

satoru falls into step beside you, hands shoved in his pockets. for once he’s not filling the silence with cocky one-liners. he stays at your side, occasionally glancing over like he’s making sure you’re still okay with this.

“you know,” he says after a few minutes, “i wasn’t lying earlier about liking seeing you.”

“seeing me glaring at you?”

“exactly.” he bumps your shoulder lightly with his. “it’s cute. you get this little crease between your brows when you’re annoyed. makes me want to annoy you more just to see it.”

“you’re weird, gojo.”

“and i’m also walking you home like a gentleman.”

you snort, preventing yourself from smiling. you would never hear the end of it if he sees it.

the walk to your dorm isn’t long. when you finally reach the front steps he stops, rocking back on his heels with his hands still in his pockets.

“working tomorrow, right?” he asks.

“yeah.”

“night, princess,” he says as he backs away. “sweet dreams. try not to dream of me!”

˚⟡˖ ࣪

you overslept like an idiot.

your alarm didn’t go off, or maybe it did and you smacked it into oblivion in your half asleep state. either way you’re rushing across campus because you completely missed the lecture you usually go to. now the only option left is this later section if you want any chance of catching up.

you slide into the back row just as the professor starts droning on about macroeconomic theory. you’re busy trying to catch your breath and fish out a pen when someone drops into the seat right next to you.

“well well well,” that familiar voice drawls, low enough not to draw the whole room’s attention. “didn’t know you were stalking me now, princess. following me to my lectures?”

you turn your head slowly and there’s satoru.

of fucking course he’s here too.

“you wish,” you hiss under your breath. “i overslept, this is the only section that still had seats. don’t flatter yourself, gojo.”

he leans in a little closer, “sure, sure. keep telling yourself that. but here you are, sitting right next to me when there’s like twenty empty spots further down the row. coincidence? i think not.”

“there weren’t twenty empty spots when i sat down, genius. and move your arm, you’re taking up half the desk.”

“admit it. you saw my pretty head of hair from across the room and couldn’t resist. it’s okay, happens to the best of them.”

“you’re delusional,” you mutter. “i sat here first.”

“well i was already in this section.”

the professor’s voice fades into background noise while satoru keeps up his quiet commentary, whispering dumb observations about the slides or how the guy in the front row is clearly asleep with his eyes open. it’s annoying. it’s also kind of funny, in a way that makes the lecture drag less.

by the time class ends you’re packing up faster than usual, hoping to slip out before he can say anything else, but of course he matches your pace, rushing beside you as you both head down the steps.

“shift starts in thirty, right?” he asks.

“yeah,” you say, adjusting your bag strap. “you don’t start yours till later. go do better things, please.”

“nah, i’ll come with. what if you fall asleep on the way? need to keep you in check..”

“one, that’s not gonna happen. two, i didn’t fall asleep,” you protest, “i overslept. big difference.”

“same difference when it leads to you accidentally stalking me.”

“gojo.”

“princess.”

you guys keep walking, the silence only lasts a few seconds before he breaks it again.

“so what’s your major anyway?” he asks. “gotta be something serious.”

“business with a minor in econ. figured it was the safest bet for actually getting a job after graduation. plus the classes overlap enough that i can knock out credits without killing myself.”

he hums, nodding slowly. “it suits you.”

“what about you?”

“finance, technically. heavy on the econ side too—market theory, behavioral stuff, all that. my family’s been pushing it since i could walk. boring as hell most days but the numbers click for me.”

“huh,” you say after a beat. “explains why you’re weirdly good at the register. and the latte art, actually. ever think about taking art too? you could probably minor in it without even trying.”

satoru raises an eyebrow, clearly surprised you noticed.

“...art? me?”

he continues, “i doodle sometimes when i’m bored in lectures, it’s nothing serious. but yeah… the latte stuff is kinda fun.”

“just saying you’re good at it. might be worth adding to the schedule if finance ever gets too soul sucking.”

“most people just call it extra.” 

“it is extra,” you clarify quickly. “but it’s not bad extra. customers eat it up and you don’t suck at it. if you like that kind of thing, maybe you should.”

“maybe i will. only if you sign up with me though. can’t have you missing out on watching me be naturally talented.”

you say shoving his arm lightly. “in your dreams, gojo.”

“oh it’s definitely in my dreams,” he shoots back. “speaking of dreams, did you see me in your dreams last night? did i look good? hope i didn’t flutter your heart too much.”

˚⟡˖ ࣪

it’s terrifying how easy it is to fall for satoru gojo’s charm.

you’ve been telling yourself for weeks that it’s just the proximity talking, that anyone would start to soften after seeing the same face everyday. but it’s been a month now since he first showed up and the annoyance you felt on day one is slowly fading away.

it’s disarming in a way that feels unfair, like he figured out exactly where your walls are thinnest and decided to camp there.

the thing about satoru is he never pushes too hard, even when he’s being impossible. sure, he’ll tease you about your order of plain black coffee (because he thinks you’re boring) but then he’ll remember how you take it on the days when you're stressed and slide it across the counter before you even ask. a month of this and you’ve caught yourself noticing the way his little habits. he’s a show off and obnoxiously aware of it, but he’s also the guy who stays late to help you mop even when his shift ended an hour ago, who quotes your professor’s driest slides back to you in a deadpan voice that makes you laugh despite yourself.

“morning, princess,” he greets, handing you a cup of coffee.

you smile as you take the cup, “morning, toru.”

his eyes widen just a little at the name, then the grin returns, brighter than ever.

“careful,” he teases. “keep calling me that and i might start thinking you actually like me.”

you blink. “what’d i do?”

“you just called me toru,” he says.

you freeze. “no i didn’t.”

“yes you did.”

“no. i didn’t.”

“yes you did. you said ‘morning, toru.’ clear as day. i heard it with my own two ears.”

“prove it or it never happened.”

“i heard it. that’s my proof.”

“you hear what you want to hear, gojo. it’s what they call selective listening.”

satoru straightens up, crossing his arms over his chest. a dramatic pout settles on his face. bottom lip jutting out with his brows furrowed, those pretty eyes narrowing at you.

“selective listening? really?” he huffs, the pout deepening. “i’m standing right here, princess. you said it. you finally said it and now you’re taking it back? that’s cold. that’s actually cruel.”

you bite the inside of your cheek to keep from laughing. 

“i didn’t say anything,” you reply, “you’re imagining things again. maybe you need less sugar in your system.”

he lets out a dramatic sigh and slumps against the counter. “you’re so mean to me. i make you coffee all the time, i stay late to help you close, i walk you home like a gentleman, and this is how you repay me? denying my existence? denying toru?”

the way he says his own nickname in that whiny tone is ridiculous. “say it again,” he demands, though the demand comes out more like a sulky request. “just once. call me toru again and i’ll drop it. i swear.”

“no.”

“please?”

“absolutely not.”

satoru groans, dragging a hand down his face before peeking at you through his fingers. “you’re killing me. slowly and painfully. i finally get a win… a tiny, beautiful win and you snatch it away like that.” he snaps his fingers for emphasis. “heartless… you’re heartless, princess.”

you can’t help the small laugh that escapes. “you’re such a baby when you don’t get your way.”

“i’m not a baby,” he mutters, “i’m a grown man who just got emotionally devastated by a terrible girl who won’t even admit she likes saying my name.”

you roll your eyes and finally turn back to face him, crossing your arms to match his stance. “fine, satoru. happy now?”

his pout vanishes instantly. “heh i’ll take it.”

all morning the teasing doesn’t stop. every time your eyes meet across the counter he mouths “toru” with exaggerated lips, making you glare at him. you don’t fight him with it though, that’ll be more tiring.

later that afternoon, you remember the big econ test is coming up in a few days.

“hey… have you studied for the test yet?” you ask knowing he has the same class, “the one for macro? i’ve been so buried here i barely looked at the slides.”

satoru glances over at you, one brow raised. “yeah, kinda. skimmed the chapters last night while i was pretending to pay attention in that boring finance seminar.”

you hesitate for a second before pushing forward. “did you happen to take notes for the lecture i missed last week? the one on monetary policy? my notes from the earlier section are trash and i can’t make sense of half the graphs.”

he thinks for a moment, then shakes his head. “nah, i don’t usually take notes. everything sticks up here anyway,” he taps his temple with two fingers. “but my bag’s in the back room. go check if you want—there might be some loose papers or something i scribbled on. i’m not promising anything though.”

you nod going right away. satoru’s bag is tossed carelessly on the small table near the lockers. you unzip it carefully, feeling a little weird going through his stuff even if he said it was okay. there are a couple of notebooks, some loose receipts, and a few crumpled pages from lectures.

you flip through them quickly but nothing looks like the notes you need. then your fingers brush against a smaller sketchbook tucked near the bottom. you pull it out without thinking, flipping it open to the first page. it’s an unfinished drawing—pencil lines forming the rough outline of a face. no eyes yet, no mouth, just the shape of cheekbones and the suggestion of hair falling across a forehead. it’s surprisingly delicate, the strokes careful. you can’t tell who it’s supposed to be; the features are still missing.

it’s probably just some random doodle from class, and shove the sketchbook back where you found it. no notes on monetary policy so nothing useful.

you come back out, “couldn’t find anything. your bag’s a mess by the way.”

satoru shrugs, not looking the least bit surprised. “told you i don’t usually bother. you know—” he turns toward you fully, a mischievous glint lighting up his face, “i could teach you instead. i remember most of it. we could go over the graphs and everything.”

you raise an eyebrow, suspicious. “really? you’d do that?”

“yeah, of course,” satoru says without hesitation, “i’ve got the graphs memorized anyway, also will you hate me less after?”

you narrow your eyes at him, “for the record, i don’t hate you. i just think you’re annoying.”

“same thing,” he pouts, already reaching for a clean cup to start scribbling formulas on the side with a sharpie. “consider me your personal tutor, princess.”

and just like that, satoru found another way to get closer to you.

after closing, the two of you end up at a corner table with textbooks and laptops spread out on the table. the cafe lights are dimmed low, only the warm glow of the hanging bulbs left on, and it feels strangely intimate with just the two of you.

“see this curve?” satoru says, tapping the screen of his laptop with his pen. “that’s the liquidity preference curve. when it shifts like this—” he drags his finger across the trackpad, “—interest rates drop even if money supply stays the same. ya following?”

you lean in closer as you nod slowly, even though the words are starting to blur together.

“mmm kinda… keep going.”

for the next hour he walks you through every graph, every theory, every formula that’s been kicking your ass for weeks. he’s good at it. you like that he explains things in ways that actually stick with you.

satoru has always been scary smart. even as a kid, his past teachers would vouch to that. finishing exams in ten minutes, correcting them on accident, winning academic awards he didn’t even try for. now it’s the same. he barely listens in lectures, he literally doodles instead of taking notes, he zones out half the time, and still somehow walks out with good scores. 

when you get a question right he gives you this little proud smirk that you find cute. what’s more is that he doesn’t gloat when you slump back in your chair after a while, letting out a frustrated sigh and staring at the messy notes in front of you.

“god, i wish i could remember stuff as fast as you do,” you admit quietly, “it takes me forever to get things to stick. i have to reread the same slide ten times and still feel like i’m gonna blank during the test.”

“here’s a tip,” he says, leaning forward on his elbows. “stop trying to memorize it all at once. the brain hates that. instead, explain it out loud like you’re teaching someone who knows nothing. even if it’s just to me or the wall. it forces you to actually understand it instead of just cramming the words.”

he continues, “works way better than staring at slides until your eyes cross. trust me, princess. i’ve tested every lazy method there is.”

you look at him, a tiny smile pulling at your lips despite how tired you feel.

“you’re surprisingly good at this teaching thing.”

“only because it’s you. now c’mon, pick a graph and teach it back to me.”

˚⟡˖ ࣪

you come straight to the cafe after the test, the bell above the door chiming as you push it open with your shoulder. you weren’t even scheduled today, but you wanted to tell him how it went.

“....hey? you’re not on today, right? did i mess up the schedule?"

you slide onto one of the stools at the counter giggling, “test went better than i thought. like actually good.”

his eyes light up instantly at that.

“yeah? see that? knew how fucking smart you were.”

you nod, the excitement bubbling out before you can stop it. “yeah, the way you explained everything made it click in my head during the test. i actually remembered instead of blanking like usual.”

satoru lets out a low whistle, smile widening until it takes over his whole face. “that’s my girl. told you explaining it out loud works. see?”

“genuinely thank you.” 

“stay right there. we’re doing something to celebrate.”

you end up staying until closing. when the last customer leaves and your manager waves goodbye on his way out, satoru flips the sign to closed and turns to you with a nod.

“reward time since you aced that test, i helped a little, so we’re getting ice cream.”

“that’s your big celebration?”

“c’mon, there’s that place two blocks off campus that stays open late. they have that ridiculous pistachio with the chunks of chocolate. you’re gonna love it.”

when you reach the little ice cream shop, you find a small table by the window and settle in after ordering, the sweet cold already melting on your tongue. satoru watches you take the first bite with way too much interest, chin resting on his hand.

“good, right?”

you nod, licking a bit of pistachio off the spoon.

“mhm sooo good.”

he laughs softly at first, but then his eyes drop to your mouth as you lick another slow stripe along the spoon to catch the melting edge.

his throat bobs once, “fuck,” he mutters under his breath, barely loud enough for you to hear.

you glance up, spoon still halfway to your lips. “what?”

satoru suddenly reaches out with his thumb, wiping a tiny smear of melted ice cream from the corner of your mouth.

“you can’t just do that,” he says, “licking the spoon like that, it’s unfair.”

“unfair how?” you oblivious ask. 

“because now all i can think about is how that mouth would feel on something else.” he says it so quietly, so casually too. now heat floods your face. you set the spoon down, suddenly hyper-aware of every inch of space between you and him. 

“sorry,” he murmurs, though the small smirk tugging at his lips says he isn’t sorry at all. “too much?”

you shake your head slowly, biting your lip to keep it from smiling too obviously. the warmth in your cheeks refuses to fade.

“.…i don’t mind?”

satoru’s eyebrows lift, surprise flickering across his face. “you don’t?” he echoes, leaning forward a little more, elbows on the table. “don’t do that, i’m already trying really hard to behave.”

“you never behave.”

“hey, i’ve been on my best behavior for weeks,” he protests as his hand finds yours on the table, “just waiting for you to admit i’m not so bad.”

you squeeze his fingers lightly, eyes meeting his. “you’re not.... most days.”

“most days? that’s the best i’m getting?”

“take it or leave it, gojo.”

he laughs under his breath then his free hand comes up, cupping the side of your face, thumb brushing along your jaw. “i’ll take it for now.”

satoru leans in slow enough that you could pull away if you wanted to.

just like that his mouth meets yours, and the kiss starts soft but the second your lips part he doesn’t hesitate. his tongue slips in first, sliding against yours. he tastes like chocolate and pistachio, sweet and overwhelming in the best way. you kiss him back just as eagerly, fingers tightening around his hand on the table while your other hand finds the front of his shirt, curling into the fabric to pull him closer.

satoru makes a low sound in the back of his throat, tilting his head to deepen the kiss, one hand still cradling your face.

suddenly the worker behind the counter clears his throat loudly, “sorry folks, we’re closing up. you two might wanna take that somewhere else.”

you pull back quickly feeling embarrassed while satoru pulls back just enough to laugh, not even a little embarrassed. “man sorry about that,” he says, “can’t help it. i’m irresistible and she’s a bit greedy tonight.”

you hit his arm playfully, face burning as you stand up fast. “toru!”

˚⟡˖ ࣪

the next few days were different in the best kind of way.

well nothing much changes inside the cafe itself. everything is mostly the same. but satoru? he has zero shame now, and you’ve clearly unlocked something dangerous in him.

his clinginess is a whole new beast.

you’re at the register ringing up an iced caramel latte when he appears right behind you, chest brushing your back as he reaches for a stack of lids he absolutely does not need. his chin drops onto your shoulder like it belongs there.

“missed you during that eight a.m. lecture, princess. thought about skipping just to come bother you earlier.”

you elbow him lightly, “we have the same shift, toru. you saw me forty minutes ago.”

“forty minutes too long,” he murmurs, pressing a quick kiss to the side of your neck before he pulls away. the customer gives you a knowing little smile and you feel your face heat up as you hand over the drink.

he does it constantly now.

during the slow hours he’ll tug you into the back room under the excuse of “checking inventory” and then spend the whole time crowding and kissing you.

“we’re gonna get caught,” you whisper.

“let them catch us,” he says against your mouth. “i’ll just tell pops i was giving you mouth-to-mouth.”

you laugh and shove him harder. “you idiot, he would never believe that.”

he only laughs louder and pulls you back in for one more kiss before the bell over the front door saves you.

the worst part (or maybe the best) is how he switched half his schedule just to match yours. you found out when he casually mentioned it during one afternoon, like it was no big deal.

“my advisor was pissed,” he told you, “said something about ‘not rearranging your entire academic plan for a girlfriend.’ i told her my barista girlfriend was non-negotiable.”

you stared at him. “you changed your schedule?”

“mmhm. dropped the early monday seminar and swapped it for the afternoon one. added a useless elective just so i could keep these exact shifts with you.” he shrugged, completely unbothered. “worth it. now i get to stare at you all day.”

you wanted to scold him for being ridiculous, but the way he said it made something warm bloom in your chest. so instead you just flicked his forehead and called him an idiot again. he caught your wrist before you could pull away and pressed a kiss to your palm.

how freaking adorable.

sometimes he’ll slide a stool over so you can sit for a few minutes while he handles few customers alone, shooting you little winks every time you look up from your phone.

it’s how he takes care of you.

and you like when he takes care of you.

˚⟡˖ ࣪

satoru gojo has always been pretty experienced with girls.

he’s never had to chase too hard. regular hook ups, quick flings during freshman year, girls who wanted the thrill of the rich pretty boy who never seemed to take anything seriously. he knew how to kiss, how to touch, how to make them feel wanted for a night without promising more than that. it was easy, fun, but never deep enough to stick.

none of them ever made his chest feel this tight. none of them made him nervous the way you do.

“is this okay?” he asks as his thumb brushes just under the edge of your bra, waiting, always checking even when his body is clearly aching to keep going.

“yeah…. it’s okay, toru.”

that’s all he needs.

he starts kissing you then trails his mouth down—his hands push your shirt higher, bunching it up under your arms. when he finally tugs your bra down, cool air hits your skin for half a second before his mouth is there.

satoru groans softly against you, the sound vibrating through your chest as he takes one nipple into his mouth. he’s gentle at first, lips closing around the peak. his tongue swirling before he sucks. a little harder, a little hungrier. 

your back arches without thinking, a quiet whimper slipping out. one of your hands finds his hair, fingers tightening in the soft white strands as he switches to the other side, giving it the same attention.

“fuck, you taste so good,” he mumbles against your skin, voice muffled.

“mhmm.… it’s so good baby.”

“yeah?”

he presses open-mouthed kisses across the swell of your breast. his free hand cups the other one, thumb brushing over the wet nipple he just left behind, pinching lightly.

he’s thorough with it. every little sound you make seems to spur him on.

“still okay?” he questions, “tell me if you want me to stop, princess. i’ll stop.”

you shake your head, tugging him back down by his hair.

“don’t stop,” you breathe.

satoru’s smile is slow and a little dazed before he leans in again, mouth finding your breast like he never wants to leave. he’s still careful, still checking in with every new touch, but the clingy, greedy part of him is winning tonight.

he’s making sure you feel exactly how much he’s been holding back.

clothes come off slowly after that, piece by piece, until there’s nothing between you. satoru lies back against the pillows, his hands resting on your hips as you straddle him. he’s hard under you.

you take the lead.

your palms press flat against his chest for balance as you shift your weight, lining yourself up. 

“fuck—” he breathes when you start to sink down, the head of his cock pressing inside you. his head tips back, throat bobbing as he swallows hard. “you’re doing so damn good, baby.”

you go slow at first, letting yourself adjust to the stretch. the fullness is overwhelming in the best way, once you’re seated fully, you pause for a few seconds.

then you start to move.

you roll your hips experimentally, finding a rhythm that makes pleasure spark up inside you. satoru’s hands slide up your sides, thumbs brushing the undersides of your breasts. he contains himself so he doesn’t take over. he wants to let you set the pace, let you ride him exactly how you want.

“that’s it, use me, baby. however you need.”

the words send a shiver through you. you brace your hands on his chest and start moving faster, lifting up and sinking back down. satoru’s eyes stay locked on your face, then drift lower to watch where you’re joined, the way your body takes him in again and again.

his grip tightens on your hips when you start grinding down instead of bouncing, circling your hips so his cock rubs against that sensitive spot inside you.

“a–am i doing good, toru?”

“god, yes,” he pants. “so pretty riding me like this.”

you feel a rush of confidence at his words. you plant your feet on the bed, hands still braced on his chest, and start riding him faster. your hips snap down harder and quicker as satoru’s head presses back into the pillow, a low, broken moan slipping out of him.

“you’re insane f–for this,” he groans, he sounds wrecked.

“shh you’re so big toru.” you whine too, “feel so soo good.”

you don’t slow down, continuing to ride him hard, bouncing on his cock like crazy. 

you feel the thick head of his cock kissing that spongy spot inside you, satoru’s fingers dig harder into the soft flesh of your hips anchoring himself while you use him. his abs tense and ripple beneath your palms every time you slam down.

“fuck baby, slow down or i’m gonna—” his words cut off into a guttural moan when you purposely clench around him. “oh you evil woman.”

you giggle in response letting out a high, needy whimper after. 

“im sorry,” you gasp, voice breathy.. “can feel you everywhere.”

satoru’s eyes roll back for a second. he looks a mess. his white hair sticks to his forehead, damp with sweat, and his mouth falls open on another moan.

“shit h-hahh princess, your pussy’s—ah so greedy tonight.”

you’re breathless, thighs burning, but the ache only adds to the pleasure. you brace one hand on his chest and reach back with the other, cupping his balls gently, rolling them in your palm while you keep bouncing.

oh you are so killing him.

“toru you’re twitching so much inside me,” you tease. “feels so good when you throb like that…”

he lets out a string of curses in response while your breasts bounce with every movement, nipples still shiny from his earlier attention, and satoru can’t stop staring, mesmerized and completely undone.

“i’m—i’m so close,” you say, “toru—come with me please!”

“yeah fuck, yeah— i’m right there with you, princess,” he replies, voice breaking on the last word. his thumb finds your clit, rubbing fast circles that match your crazy pace. “come on my cock, baby. mess with it…shit!”

the pleasure pushes you over the edge first, milking his cock as your orgasm hits you. satoru follows right after you, his back arches off the bed as he comes hard, thick spurts of heat flooding deep inside you. 

finally, you collapse forward onto his chest as both of you gasp for air. satoru’s arms wrap around you instantly, holding you tight against him. he presses open-mouthed kisses to your shoulder, your neck, anywhere he can reach.

“holy fuck… you just destroyed me,” he whispers, voice hoarse and awed. “never felt anything like that. you’re gonna be the death of me, princess.” 

you smile against his damp chest, pressing a soft kiss right over his racing heart.

“i think i like being in charge.”

“yeah? then next time you can tie me down if you want. just give me five minutes first. i think my soul left my body for a second there.”

you laugh softly, letting your eyes drift shut while his warmth surrounds you.

˚⟡˖ ࣪

“wait, since when has gojo been a barista?” you hear one girl say, laughing like it’s the funniest thing ever. “him out of all people? no fucking way.”

you’re drying your hands when voices filter in from the stalls behind you. two girls chatting loud enough that you can’t ignore it even if you wanted to.

the other one snorts, “i know, right? i heard from his friends that he only applied there to sleep with one of the workers.”

your stomach twists a little, but you tell yourself it’s nothing.

campus gossip is always exaggerated.

“he’s probably quitting soon anyway,” the first girl continues, “what’s a trust fund baby doing slinging lattes?”

“like play charming until he gets what he wants then bounce?”

their laughter echoes off the tiles as they leave and you're left staring at your reflection again. you rethink everything in the span of thirty seconds—was it all calculated? did he really just do everything to sleep with you? 

you show up to your shift pissy as hell, you hear satoru humming while he wipes down the espresso machine. he looks up waving at you, and normally that makes your chest warm. today it makes you want to throw a cup at his head.

“there you are,” he says, “you look cute when you’re all serious like this—did you run here or something?”

you brush past him without a word, grabbing the rag from the sink and attacking the already clean counter. satoru’s grin falters a little bit, blue eyes narrowing already picking up your mood.

“whoa, okay. bad day?” he asks, reaching out to touch you and you flinch away.

“don’t,” you mutter, keeping your eyes on the counter, scrubbing harder. “just not in the mood, gojo.”

he straightens up, his cocky energy disappearing.

“gojo?” he echoes, “what happened to satoru? you’ve been calling me that for days. did i do something? because if i did, tell me so i can fix it. i’m not above begging, princess. i’ll get on my knees right here.”

“nothing happened,” you lie, because admitting you overheard some random girls in the bathroom is affecting you feels stupid. “i’m just tired, you wouldn’t get it.”

satoru doesn’t buy it. he steps closer anyway, “try me,” he says softly, all the usual bravado dialed down. “i’m good at a lot of things, but i’m especially good at listening to you. baby, please talk to me. did someone say something? because if they did—”

“i said it’s nothing, gojo.” your voice comes out louder than you meant, and you see the way his shoulders tense just a little.

he nods, stepping back with his hands raised in that mock surrender. “alright, message received. whatever this is… we’ll figure it out later.”

well that didn’t happen.

the whole day you did your best ignoring him.

before he could even ask what you guys were doing after shift you made a cheap excuse to pops about how you felt sick (it was an obvious lie) and needed to leave early. pops just shrugged and told you to go rest. satoru watched you grab your bag, mouth opening to say something, but you were already out the door before he could get a word in.

later that night satoru is sprawled on suguru’s couch, one arm thrown over his eyes, the other gesturing wildly as he rants.

“everything was going so well, man. like actually well,” he groans, voice muffled behind his arm. “she's even initiating stuff, now she’s calling me gojo again? dude, fuck gojo. i hate that.”

suguru sits across from him, legs crossed, very used to satoru’s dramatic rants. he’s just not used to it being about a girl.

“so what happened?”

“i don’t know!” satoru sits up suddenly. “she flinched when i tried to touch her. flinched. like i’m some random creep.”

he drags both hands down his face, groaning louder.

“she even left early. made up some bullshit excuse to dip before i could even ask what we were doing after. she’s been staying at my dorm for days, suguru. my bed still smells like her shampoo. i had snacks stocked for her. and now she’s shutting down? i don’t get it.”

“you sure you didn’t do something stupid?”

“i swear i didn’t.” satoru flops back down dramatically. “i’m losing my mind. she went from soft and clingy back to hating me in like twelve hours. what the fuck did i miss? i really like her. like…. a lot. more than i thought i could.”

suguru hums, “if it’s not you, then maybe somebody else?”

“if someone said something to her i’m going to lose it,” he mutters. “i finally got her to let me in and now she’s pulling away again. i don’t know how to fix something when she won’t even tell me what’s broken.”

“look, relationships aren’t always smooth. problems come up, it’s normal. the difference is whether you actually talk about it or let it fester.”

˚⟡˖ ࣪

your morning has been irritating as hell.

you woke up cranky, then you spilled coffee on your shirt while rushing, you had to change, and still barely made it to your first lecture on time. every little thing felt like it was piling up—the crowded hallways, the professor droning on about stuff you already knew, and the constant replay of yesterday, everything was just irritating.

so by the time of your second morning class, you’re already exhausted and on edge.

you pull out your notebook when someone drops into the seat right next to you.

satoru slips into the seat beside you without a word.

he's not even in this class.

he looks exhausted, there are faint dark circles shadowing the usual brightness of his gaze, his white hair is messier than normal like he rolled straight out of bed and didn’t bother fixing it. he probably didn’t sleep much, if at all.

he doesn’t say anything at first. he pulls a small sticky note pad from his bag, scribbles something quickly with a pen, and slides it over to you under the desk.

are you still mad? :(

you glance at the note, then at him. his eyes are already on you, waiting.

you write back, keeping your handwriting small.

no i was never mad

he reads it, eyebrows pulling together. he scribbles again, passing it back.

but you were. look at your mad face right now.

you feel the irritation flare again, but you keep your face neutral and write:

you shouldn’t even be here. im. not. mad.

he huffs softly as another note slides your way.

see. you clearly are. can we please talk after?

you stare at the words for a second longer. part of you wants to stay stubborn. the other part hates how tired he looks.

later.

satoru reads it and nods before tucking the sticky notes away.

the rest of the lecture goes, but satoru stays right there beside you the whole time.

midway through, he opens his notebook and starts sketching again. first he shows you a proper drawing of you. it's the same unfinished face you had seen weeks ago when you dug through his bag looking for notes. now it’s finished. your eyes are there and your mouth curved in a smile.

you admire how pretty he sees you. then he flips the page without warning.

the next sketch is completely different—you again, but this time with a exaggerated angry face. brows furrowed deep, eyes narrowed, lips pressed into a tight line, tiny cartoon steam lines rising from your head. it’s ridiculous and accurate at the same time. he bites his lip to keep from laughing out loud, shoulders shaking quietly as he watches your reaction.

you glare at the page and he quickly flips the notebook shut before the professor notices.

when class finally ends, the two of you walk across campus until you reach a quiet stretch of grass near the edge of the field, far enough from the main paths. you drop down onto the grass first. satoru follows, sitting close but not too close, giving you space.

he reaches over and plucks a small white wildflower growing near his knee. he twirls it once between his fingers before holding it out to you, a tired smile on his face.

you look at the flower, then at him. it’s stupidly cute.

you flick it away with two fingers and the flower flutters to the grass between you.

satoru watches it fall before finally talking.

“okay,” he says quietly, “talk to me. what’s going on? you’ve been shutting me out since yesterday and i’m losing my mind here.”

you pull at a blade of grass, twisting it between your fingers.

“when are you quitting?”

satoru blinks, caught off guard. “quitting what? the cafe?”

you nod, still not looking at him.

he lets out a short, confused laugh. “is that why you’re mad? you want me to quit? because if that’s it, i can—”

“no—” you cut him off fast, finally turning to face him. “did you only start working there because you wanted to sleep with me?”

the question hangs between you. satoru’s expression changes. hurt flickers across his face before he schools it.

“that’s what this is about?” he asks, “you think this whole thing was just some long game to get in your pants?”

you don’t answer right away, the gossip from the bathroom echoes in your head again.

“is that really what you think of me?”

you swallow. “i heard some girls talking in the bathroom yesterday,” you admit, voice low. “they were laughing about how you only took the job to sleep with one of the baristas. that you’d charm your way in, get what you wanted, and then quit once it happened. it sounded… exactly like something people would say about you.”

“fuck,” he mutters. “fucking gossips.”

“look, i’m not gonna pretend i haven’t had that reputation. people assume the worst. and yeah—back in freshman year i wasn’t exactly turning down easy attention. but that’s not what this is. not with you.”

“when i walked into that cafe the first time, i was just fucking around. i saw you looking annoyed and thought it’d be fun to push your buttons. but then you pushed back and i couldn’t stop thinking about it. about you.”

“so i came back. then i applied for the job because i wanted an excuse to see you more. not to sleep with you and bounce—to actually be around you. i stayed because every shift with you made the day better. even when you were glaring at me. especially when you were glaring at me.”

you glance away, toward the empty field. “you could’ve just asked me out like a normal person.”

“and risk you telling me to fuck off on day one? no thanks. working there let me prove i wasn’t just fucking around. also you know that's not me.”

he pauses, then adds, “and yeah, i wanted you. i still do. i want all of it.”

satoru leans forward a little, elbows on his knees.

“i switched my entire schedule around for you. i told you how my advisor thinks i’ve lost it. i turned down better internships because they’d mess with our shifts. if all i wanted was sex, i wouldn’t still be here begging you to talk to me.”

“so no, i’m not quitting,” he says quietly. “not unless you tell me to. and even then i’d probably just sit outside the cafe and wait for you like a loser. but i’m not here because it’s convenient or because i’m trying to win some game. i’m here because i like you. a lot. more than i thought i could like anyone.”

he reaches out slowly, “i’m not gonna push if you need space. but tell me what you need from me right now. yell at me, ignore me, whatever. just don’t shut me out and leave me guessing.”

you stare at his open hand for a long moment. the irritation is still there, tangled up with the embarrassment of letting petty gossip get to you.

finally you sigh, shoulders dropping.

“i hated thinking it was all fake,” you mutter. “that the second you got what you wanted, you’d disappear and i’d be the idiot who fell for it.”

“not fake,” he says immediately. “none of it.”

you hesitate, then reach out and flick his open palm lightly with your fingers, enough to make him smile.

“you’re still annoying,” you tell him.

“yeah?” his grin comes back. “good.... means we’re getting somewhere.”

“you look like shit, by the way.”

“didn’t sleep much,” he admits, shrugging. “kept replaying yesterday trying to figure out what i messed up.”

“sorry for being so gullible.” you says knowing how that’s all on you.

“as long as you stop calling me gojo when you’re mad. hurts more than it should.”

you roll your eyes but the corner of your mouth lifts anyway.

the two of you stay on the field a little longer, the conversation flowing—back to classes, to stupid customer stories from the cafe, to nothing important at all.

when you finally stand up to head back toward campus, he falls into step next to you like always.

“so,” he says after a minute, voice casual again, “still mad?”

you glance sideways at him.

“not as much.”

“progress,” he declares, grinning. “i’ll take it.”

“hey,” he murmurs.

you turn to face him, he’s pouting extra hard....

“can i please kiss you now?” he pleads, “please. please. please”

instead of answering with words, you step forward, slide your free hand up to the front of his shirt, and tug him down the rest of the way.

satoru meets you halfway.

his hand comes up to cup the side of your face as his lips move against yours. he kisses you gentler than usual and you kiss him back just as softly, fingers curling tighter into his shirt.

when you finally pull apart, foreheads still touching, satoru lets out a shaky little breath against your mouth.

“thank you,” he whispers, the words barely there. his thumb brushes your cheek once more. “fuck, i missed that.”

you smile against his lips.

“don’t make me flick another flower at you.”

he presses one last gentle kiss to your forehead before straightening up.

“next rumor, i’m spreading how badly i’m in love with you and how you equally feel the same and can never live without me.”

This same eager, mildly insecure, energy permeates the green room as the band discuss highlights from the last two months on the road — riding a beer bike in Manchester, seeing the Eiffel Tower at midnight — and express how much they wish the tour could last forever. “Performing is the absolute best part,” Jake says between slurps of cup ramen he brought with him from London. “We’re always trying to find local pubs to play in because we can’t get enough.”

“That’s where it all started anyway,” explains their half-asleep frontman, Heeseung. “Playing in pubs, busking in Zone 5 shopping—

“Well, well, well,” Aeri says, appearing over your shoulder and catching you in the act. “If it isn’t Little Miss NAPE-hater drooling over a two-page spread.”

A chill runs down your spine and you couldn’t have dropped the magazine quicker if you tried. At your feet, it clatters with a flinch-inducing thud that rings throughout the deserted entrance of your local twenty-four hour Tesco. Neither you nor Aeri make any move to lift Daydream Mag’s summer 2025 issue from the speckled tile, so from its glossy cover, the face you’ve come to loathe gazes up at you through lidded eyes.

You scoff, affronted by the very suggestion. “I’m not you, Aeri. I wasn’t drooling.” And even if you were drooling, it certainly would not have been over Jay Park and his band of idiots. “It’s a four-page spread, by the way.”

“Same difference.”

Over Aeri’s shoulders, the sun’s first rays are threatening to shine through the glass on what is already an obscenely hot day for September. Dye slips from her damp hair down her face like blood, staining her white collar red, and you watch as she takes a picture of the magazine on the floor between your feet and hers before picking it up. She posts the picture to her story with one of NAPE’s songs playing and tags them so they can eventually see it and repost. They’re always doing that—reposting things fans tag them in. Satisfied, Aeri puts the magazine back in its place on the shelf, between Interview and the last copy of Dazed that has a photo of NAPE’s bassist and drummer laying together on the cover like something from a CEO yaoi. You have no idea how or when they got so popular.

Finally, leaving the band behind, you and Aeri loop your sweat slick arms and move through the aisles. You sniff and review scented candles; browse the books on the shelves, sharing thoughts on the ones you’ve read; and pick up snacks with Clubcard discounts, all on the way to find the one thing you came for at this time of night: salted caramel cheesecake cookies. Along with the rest of the internet, Aeri’s boyfriend has been raving about them since he tried them two weeks ago, and the three of you have been on high alert ever since. You even reached out to Somi’s little cousin, Riki, whose ex-girlfriend has a friend that works here to see when they’d be back in stock.

She told him to kill himself.

This is why, when you finally see them — fully stocked and still warm in their bags — you gasp. Understandably, when Aeri tries calling her boyfriend, he doesn’t answer, but you take as many as you can carry and run for the self-checkout.

Under the purple sky, you and Aeri walk all the way home, carrier bags in hand. It takes a lot not to eat all thirty cookies as soon as you cross the threshold, but, in an exercise of immense self-control, you leave them in the bread bin, and bid your flatmate goodnight.

Love her as much as you’ve come to, you often find yourself wishing it was some incredible story that brought the two of you together. A great tale of intertwined fates and instant connection. Instead, you found Aeri on spareroom.co.uk and when you deemed each other harmless enough, you signed the lease and moved in. It took a few months for you to shake off your anxiety and say more to her than, how did you sleep? but you got there in the end, and almost one whole year down the line, this flat and Aeri feel more like home every day.

As the working world’s alarms go off, you get into bed, showered and fresh-breathed, where sleep is reluctant to find you. One hundred counted sheep later, you give up and open Twitter. Now, you are mature enough to know better than to engage with content you know you’re not going to like—you’re not a critic. But… you are a hater. While NAPE haven’t yet brought forth the next strain of fandom-induced illness — à la Bieber Fever or One Direction Infection — they’re inescapable if you use the internet in any capacity. Profiles in magazines, Spotify playlist covers, constant viral concert clips: sweat-sheened skin and lidded eyes, long, thick ring-clad fingers strumming guitars or stroking mic stands. The tattooed back of their frontman populates hit tweets and Instagram Reels alike.

It’s not like you’re immune to attraction or allure. You have eyes. Eyes that widen at the sight of Sunghoon flexing his arms or Jake biting his lip. At Jay and his perfectly mussed hair that sits right at the junction of neat and messy. His two silver hoops in each ear. His dimpled cheek. How he sings with his eyes closed. The scar on his nose that you can only really see up close or when the light hits it just right. Keeping up with things like this is important because if you’re going to be a hater, you’d like to at least be an informed one. This is why, when you search for them on Twitter and the first tweet that comes up is the link to NAPE Catch Each Others Lies | Teen Vogue, you click with no hesitation.

It’s weird seeing them in motion like this, comfortable and joking around. Not singing. They’re decked head to toe in smart casual. Loose blazers and tailored trousers, fake glasses and neatly parted hair, smart shoes and polo shirts. Even though it’s different to their concert outfits and doesn’t really match what seems to be their vibe — evil-demon-fuckboy-rockstar — it suits them, highlighting their oddly perfect proportions.

From this video, you learn that Jay doesn't know any of their birthdays, Jake uses Sunghoon’s deodorant, and Sunghoon has never fallen asleep during rehearsal. Heeseung is also there. When the video ends, you fall asleep without a hitch, fresh linen and sweet dreams pulling you under.

Until you force open your heavy eyes to the sound of your phone ringing at eight o’clock—you slept for exactly two hours. It’s Aeri’s boyfriend. You can’t even speak when you answer, letting out a grumble instead. “Welcome to the land of the living, sweetheart!” he chirps, sounding much too awake for your liking. “Care to open the door?”

“Come back later.”

“But your breakfast will be cold later.” There’s a poutiness to his voice that would irk you if your hungry ears didn’t perk up at the sound of breakfast.

Turning over under the covers, you lean up on your elbows. “What’s for breakfast?” you ask slowly.

“Toad’s.”

To you — and the rest of London’s Gen Z population — Toad’s is the breakfast spot. At seven a.m. every day, there’s a queue that wraps around the corner. They recently issued a statement to request that customers stop selling their spots in line. Tired as you are, the thought of eating Toad’s without having lined up thrills you so much that you run straight to the door and fling it open. There stands Heeseung, a cup-holder in one hand and several paper bags in the other. A pair of sunglasses keep his bleach-fried hair from his forehead.

“You look nice,” he says, smiling as you step aside to let him in.

Smoothing out your hair with self-conscious palms, you inspect your face in the mirror beside him, seeing the crust lining the corners of your puffy eyes. “We are not close enough for you to speak to me like that,” you tell him, leaning into your reflection to clean yourself up a little.

Though you’re joking, mostly, Heeseung and Aeri have only been together for two months, and as her close friend, he should be on his best behaviour around you for at least the rest of his life. He frowns, apologising sincerely as he holds out one of the red and white paper bags. “Can I interest you in a forgive me choux vanille?”

The words make your heart race in your chest as you give a reverent nod, taking the bag from him.

“There’s, like, four of them in there—all yours.”

You have seen fanpages for these choux vanilles, you have been close to starting one yourself, and here, now, on a random Tuesday morning, standing in your hallway with NAPE’s frontman, you hold in your trembling hands a bag of, like, four of them. Later in life, when the time comes, you will name your firstborn after this man, probably.

“Heeseung,” you say softly. “Speak to me however you like.”

He laughs at that, as if he hasn’t just made your whole week. The soft sound breaks you out of your stupor and you help him carry all one million things he brought. “How’d you even get all this?” you ask over your shoulder, everything is still warm, perfect. “What time did you get there? What time did you even wake up?”

Heeseung follows you into the kitchen, his footsteps light against the hardwood. “Will you think I’m a prick if I say I’ve been up all night?” His question surprises you as you take in the sight of him once more—he is the picture of wakefulness with his bright eyes and glowy skin.

“Ah.” You set the goods on the counter, nodding as you take a picture of his haul. “Rockstar life, huh?”

A smile spreads over his lips as he rolls up his sleeves, tattoos appearing from under the white cotton, oddly sheepish. For an artist of his — their — size, with his — their — visibility, there’s a certain meekness to Heeseung that you thought was an act at first, but now you’re not so sure.

“Not even,” he mumbles, looking down at the dark worktop and describing the epitome of rockstar life. “We had this party thing in Soho, but it was dead so we went round this guy’s flat instead, and he stays proper close, as in the line goes by his front door—one of Jongseong’s friends…”

Whether Heeseung knows you’ve stopped listening at the mention of that name is anyone’s guess, but suddenly, your long-awaited Toad’s matcha tastes like nothing and your blood pumps thickly through your body. Loud in your ears. It’s one thing to anticipate seeing or hearing about him — watching that video before bed or bracing yourself for posters plastered in stations and around the city — but like this, so casually, from the mouth of your one person in common, it still shakes you up.

“Whoa.” He waves his large palm in front of your face. “You alright?” Concern creases his eyebrows.

An attempt at a light-hearted laugh stumbles from you. “Just sleepy.” A long, ungraceful moment dawdles by as he studies you, performing some form of assessment that you’re sure you’ve failed.

“Same, honestly,” he finally agrees, though he doesn’t seem convinced. “I’ll catch you in a bit, yeah?”

You nod, watching as he makes his way to Aeri’s room and snapping your neck in the other direction when he looks over at you. “You sure you’re alright?”

“Perfect!” you call out over your shoulder, all but sprinting to your bedroom.

In the privacy of your four walls, you sink into the chair at your desk and eat your steak, brie, and mushroom toastie. Half of it anyway, the thought of Jay is too distracting to enjoy it fully. You open Instagram before you even realise, hitting the search button and typing pzzong without a second thought. Eighteen hours ago, he made a post. A photo dump: his guitar in his lap, a blurry sunrise, a gym selfie with Sunghoon’s naked back in the mirror, a video of a lively crowd, and a piercing through his left eyebrow. Life is good, he wrote. The comments display varying degrees of thirst for Sunghoon. Blue ticks light up the screen as you scroll through them. Heart eyes from Bae Sumin. Best show ever babyyyyyyy from Yeh Shuhua.

Good for him.

Seriously.

You have committed a cardinal sin, for which you will never forgive yourself—you forgot your headphones at home. And so, like the rest of Central London, you’ve been subject to hearing the rustle of plastic on plastic in your bag as you walk down the street. As it turns out, no matter how delicious, eating thirty ginormous, sickly sweet cookies is quite difficult, so you’re taking them out to the pub where you’re meeting up with some friends.

The bell above the door at Ruby’s rings loud and clear over the radio when you step inside. For a Wednesday afternoon, it’s busier than you expect, patrons crowding the bar and tables alike, though you suppose, as one of them, that this is the way of the unemployed. Speaking of, Riki towers over everyone at the bar, oblivious or uncaring towards the pretty bartender’s fluttering eyelashes. At the sight of you though, he raises his bleached eyebrows, waving you over.

“Three p.m. tequila shots, don’t mind if I do,” you say, beaming into the rough collar of his denim jacket.

His hug is tight and brief. “Aw, yeah. I’ve got class in the morning,” he offers unhelpfully, holding up a clear shaker. “Salt?” Riki pours salt all over the back of your hand, more granules falling to your feet than sticking to the spot you licked, and hands you his wedge of lime. Holding up his shot with surprising steadiness, he says, “C’est la vie!”

Doing a shot of straight fire would burn less, but Riki isn’t fazed, grabbing you by the wrist and tugging you towards the back of the pub where the rest of your friends are. Yizhuo sees you first, peering over the booth and her face splits into a grin. You feel yours doing the same. She and Somi leap to their feet, pulling you into a hug and wrapping you up in a cloud of florals and spice and beer. “You’re alive!” Yizhuo cries out, pulling back to get a good look at you, her hand on your jaw to turn your face this way and that. “And still so beautiful!”

“Against all the odds,” you mumble, accepting the wet kiss Somi plants on your cheek with a smile. Right when you settle into the booth beside Yizhuo, texts from Aeri light up your phone screen, notification bubbles covering up the chestnut horse on your lockscreen.

aeri: heeseung said the guys can make it after all ! he promises they’ll behave

aeri: they’re not as bad as you think !!!

You groan around a long sweet sip of the cloudy IPA Somi ordered for you. “I’m meeting Aeri’s boyfriend’s friends tonight,” you mumble, sending a thumbs-up emoji in response.

“Wait.” Yizhuo pauses, looking over her shoulders before leaning over the table. “NAPE are going to be at your flat tonight?” she whispers, eyes wide and buggy.

What comes from your mouth is a disgusting sigh-groan hybrid that makes Riki flinch as you say, “The one and only.”

Somi’s entire face crumples and she hunches over, hitting her forehead repeatedly on the tabletop, making it wobble. “Why do good things keep happening to you instead of me?”

“This is public knowledge, I texted the chat like a week ago.” You lift your golden pint and Yizhuo’s dark Guinness from the table so they don’t slip off the edge. “Plenty of time, no?”

“A week ago…” Riki repeats, voice trailing off into nothing as he rubs his stomach and leans back in his seat. “That’s like an hour’s notice in employed people's time.” He sighs. “No offense, YN.”

“Okay, Big Rik.” You scoff. “You’ve had a job for ten minutes.”

He glances at his watch before squinting at you, venom written all over his cute little face. “And that’s ten minutes longer than you, is it not?”

“Did I do something to you?”

“You know what? I’m glad you br—” Somi cuts off her little cousin by shutting his mouth with her hand. “Can we please focus on the real issue, you’re partying with NAPE tonight and I can’t go.”

“Why not?”

“My mum’s up and we’re having dinner,” she says bitterly.

“Just come after.”

“Or don’t come at all!” Yizhuo butts in. “I have plans for Jake Sim tonight and I don’t need him getting distracted.”

Riki kisses his teeth, shaking his head. “I’m willing to bet a good amount of money that your plans involve staring at him from across the room, then blowing up the chat to talk about how you two caught a vibe.”

This is, to Yizhuo, the greatest offence — despite its truth — and you have to actually hold her back from leaping over the table to strangle Riki, but there’s nothing you can do about the string of insults that leave her mouth.

Somi’s ring-clad knuckles rap against your side of the table, right beside your glass. “Really sorry about Daydream, by the way. Seriously,” she says, frowning. “If it makes you feel any better, I heard a bunch of their permanent staff got laid off as well.”

Only now, with Somi’s sincerity, do you realise how long it’s been since you last saw your friends. Nearly three weeks have passed since you lost your job, and this is the first time the four of you have managed to get together. As much as you hate to admit it, Riki was right about needing loads of notice to schedule something as simple as day drinking at the pub. Your world used to revolve around your planner, with separate sections in your worn Filofax for work, personal, and social—which was, largely in part, due to your obsession with stationary. Sitting down on a Sunday night to plan out the week ahead was one of your main hobbies, pencilling in coffee dates and errand-run-hangout hybrids wherever you found an hour or two in common with one of your friends. If you didn’t live with Aeri, you’d probably never see her.

“You know what, Somi? Not really, but thank you.”

Undeterred, she beams at you. “One door closed is a million doors opened, I swear.”

“Cheers to that!” Riki grins, raising his shot glass to his cousin’s nonsensical proverb.

Pushing your doubts away, you raise your pint and toast to the possibility of a million doors opening up before you. Beautiful doors with even more beautiful things behind them, of course. You need all the luck you can get.

Somi has time to nurse another half pint before she has to leave, begging you to text her everything about tonight as it happens. You make no promises. It’s another four pints and a sunset before the rest of you get up to leave, zigging and zagging through the crowded bar out into the crisp fresh air. And because the speakers in the beer garden are playing music, different music to what was on inside, Riki makes you and Yizhuo sit shivering with him at a picnic bench so he can listen to Folded by Kehlani.

“Fuck, Riki,” Yizhuo mutters, rubbing her face with her hands when the second verse starts. “Don’t you have music at home?”

He rolls his eyes, pausing his singing to say, “I’m sure even you could appreciate that hearing a song you like in the wild is way better than listening to it at home.”

“I would love to agree with you, but I have central heating at home.” Your teeth chatter when you finish talking, and all you can think about is your bed and the multiple other ways you could be experiencing warmth at home right now. Hot water bottle. Electric blanket. Taking a bath. Cuddling with Aeri.

“You also have NAPE at home.” Yizhuo points out.

“We’re all going there, what’s your point?”

She pulls a face that you know means she’s not coming.

“We?” Riki repeats, eyes bulging out of his head. “I’m going home. There’s music at home, as Yizhuo so kindly reminded me.”

“Neither of you are coming? Are you serious?”

“As a heart attack, brother.” He nods solemnly, standing up from his seat as the song comes to an end. “None of my mutuals are going.” He pats his pockets, in search of the big three — phone, wallet, keys — before zipping up his jacket.

“Your mutuals…” Yizhuo trails off, eying him. “Riki, this is real life.”

“Also it’s literally my flat, where I live… I thought we were mutuals.”

“Ladies, please.” He holds up his hands defensively. “I can ragebait Jay Park any time, okay, I don’t need to go to your house to do that. I also think I reserve the right to sleep in my own bed tonight. Alone.”

“Who else would be in your bed?” Yizhuo scrunches her nose, pulling the fallen strap of her bag back up her shoulder.

Gesturing towards all six feet of himself, Riki licks his lips, stumbling just a little. “Have you seen me?” he asks, a smug smile curling over his mouth.

“Unfortunately, we have, princess,” you say, patting his back. “Let’s get you home.”

Ruby’s isn’t your favourite pub, but it’s the best option if you’re drinking with Riki, because he stays so close and the only way any of you will have peace of mind after a night out is if you actually see him getting into his flat and hear the lock clicking behind him. The three of you walk arm in arm with Princess Riki towering over you in the middle. It takes all of fifteen minutes to get to his place and then the station across the road. Side by side on the platform, Yizhuo bumps your hip with hers. “How are you feeling?”

Given the pile of her texts you haven’t yet returned, you have a good idea of what she’s referring to. Even so, you ask, “About?”

Yizhuo gives you a look, pursing her lips before mumbling your name. She got lucky, jumping off the slowly sinking Daydream ship in time to snag a senior editorial position at Interview. She’d encouraged you to do the same, move up in your career, but no, you just had to prove your unwavering loyalty to a company for which you were no more than a name on a list. A recipient for an email with the subject line: Notice of Organisational Changes. Hindsight, as always, is 20/20 and the signs were there before you even got to London. The Edinburgh office, where you’d worked since graduating, closed last summer for financial reasons. Transferring seemed like a no-brainer, a blessing, but if you knew you had a year left, you would’ve stayed put.

“The downtime’s nice.” Over the last three weeks you’ve fixed your sleeping schedule, started and finished eight books, gone home to see Minjeong, applied and been rejected from nine editorial positions, and played through all of Super Mario Bros. Wonder. Twice. “I do, however, enjoy receiving a salary, so it would be nice to work again. Quite soon.”

Yizhuo nods, squeezing your shoulder. “I’ll keep an eye out for openings, but it might help to get your work out there, keep you sharp and all that. Are you on Substack?”

You laugh in her face. It’s 2025, everyone is on Substack—including the two-hundred subscribers you panicked and abandoned when your page started gaining traction. “Yes, Yizhuo. I’m on Substack.”

“Perfect!” she exclaims and because this is the Central Line and Londoners do not care about anyone else, no one spares her a glance. Your cheeks burn anyway. A happy sigh falls from her lips, and she tilts her head. “Write and post, write and post. Anyone will read anything these days, just get your name and your gorgeous words online, and I promise, you’ll be rolling in opportunities.”

“Yizhuo…”

“I’m serious. Write about your crazy NAPE party tonight, God knows how many people would kill to be in your position.” She lets go of the handrail and makes a show of pointing at herself with both hands. “Just do something, okay? You’re too young to sit in your room watching TV all day. You need to leave your house and live your life and see your friends.”

“I know, Yizhuo. I know that,” you mumble, fiddling with the hem of your jacket. “It’s not on purpose or anything, I just… sometimes I need a day to do nothing, and then it’s two days and then it’s a week.” Your stomach curls in on itself at the thought. The longer you spend at home, the harder it is to leave. You had to psych yourself up this afternoon, staring at your reflection and repeating: my friends do not secretly hate me. My friends enjoy my company. I am good company.

She frowns. “I get that, really. But you don’t have to deal with everything on your own, you have friends. A lot of friends who love you and want to spend time with you.” It all sounds a bit like an affirmation tape, a YouTube subliminal, and maybe if those weren’t the exact words you needed to hear right now, you might have laughed. “Next time you’re home doing nothing, text me and we can rot together, okay?”

You nod.

“And please, please, please get some NAPE dick tonight and review it ASAP,” Yizhuo says, whispering the name of the band as if that was the worst part of her sentence.

“I’ll pass.”

“Not a request.”

“Okay, daddy. I’ll do it,” you say, which, of course, makes London’s so-called nonchalant population turn their heads in your direction.

Yizhuo’s head falls back with laughter and you look up at the map above the door. Seven more stops for you, though hers is next. She pulls you into a hug, and you hide your face in her puffer jacket, willing your cheeks to stop burning. It doesn’t work. When the doors slip open, she kisses your cheeks and says, “See you later, Kitten.”

Flustered doesn’t even begin to describe how you feel as you call out, “Text me when you’re home, okay?”

She nods and blows you a kiss before climbing the stairs, disappearing into the sea of commuters leaving the station while the doors close. The Tube chugs on, homeward bound. With Yizhuo’s words on a loop, you finish the rest of the journey home, relieved to feel the autumn wind on your cheeks when you get back outside.

Dread stirs a pit in your stomach as you hear the party before you even see your front door. And dread almost kills you as you take careful steps around the people sitting in the corridor to get inside. The music is loud but there aren’t as many people as you thought. It’s mainly just a bunch of influencers you recognise by IG handle instead of name—jenaissante and _chaechae_1 are stretched over your couch, yawnzzn laughs with you.th in the kitchen doorway.

Heeseung spots you before you have a chance to retreat to your room. He is elated and red all over, pulling you into a hug, and wrapping his warm tobacco scent around you. “Hello!” he yells into your ear, before gesturing behind himself. “Jake and Sunghoon.” NAPE’s bassist and drummer, the ones from the yaoi magazine cover you went back for a copy of, are somehow much better looking in person.

The camera doesn’t quite do justice to Jake’s large… everything. His eyes, nose, lips, and rose-tinted knuckles are so big and so beautiful. He tucks some of his hair behind his ear and smiles with all of his teeth. “Nice finally meeting you,” he says, seeming to mean it. Having a favourite member in a band where you know half of the members personally feels wrong, but Jake is that for you, and so, the tipsy fangirl-adjacent part of you gives him a hug that he graciously returns.

At his side, Sunghoon stands in a white button-up that clings to his huge biceps. Great. His hair is perfectly parted over his forehead, his tie tight and straight. His lips are plump and pink, pulling into a sheepish smile as he raises his huge hand to wave at you. The sight of it, the dimple in his cheek, sets off a flutter in your stomach and you can’t help giggling like he’s done something special. “We’ve heard so much,” he says. “I mean, J—” He groans, keeling over and clutching his ribs where Jake elbowed him.

“It’s true, Gigi’s always talking about you,” Jake finishes off like nothing happened. “Something to drink?”

Dazed, you blink at the band boy, but take him up on his kind offer of a drink in your home. Jake leads you through the sparse crowd, weaving artfully towards your kitchen and making small talk along the way. “I actually used to play in church,” he tells you, opening your cupboards and taking out what he needs. Absolut Vanilla, simple syrup. A sticky bottle of Schweppes swiped from the kitchen island behind you. “I wanted girls to like me.”

“Did it work?”

Jake looks up from the counter at you, a smile playing at the corner of his lips as he halts his mixology. “Of course it worked,” he says, disbelief written all over his face. “But I was too shy to do anything about it.”

“I see,” you say, struggling to conceal your laughter as he hands you a cup.

“Wasn’t for nothing though.” He shrugs, leaning against the counter. “I guess you could say I’m pretty confident these days.”

You’ve seen enough about NAPE online, fanwars and uproar about the personal lives of the members, to know firsthand he’s not exactly lying. This is the face of some of Pinterest’s favourite couple inspo, one half of the now-mourned JakeZuha. You’d met her once, Kazuha, at a work thing. One of Daydream’s holiday parties. She was nice, more than, even if she didn’t have much to say about anything that wasn’t her boyfriend. Their breakup in the winter had fanpages proclaiming that love was dead and that they were children of divorce.

The thought makes you laugh in his face and you’re just glad he laughs too as you clink the rims of your plastic cups together.

Armed with the sweetest vodka lemonade you’ve ever had, you head to your room, desperate to change out of your jeans. After triple checking the lock on your door, you leave your jeans in a heap at your feet, stepping out of them and towards your dresser, where you settle on your favourite grey sweatpants and resolve to only be photographed from the waist up. One large gulp of drink, a deep breath, and you pull open the door, returning to the party—if fifteen people in your flat can really be described as such.

Before you can go over and join Aeri, a knock at the front door catches your attention, though you seem to be the only one to hear it. The knock comes again and you roll your eyes, unwilling to apologise for noise at nine p.m. on a Friday night. You know your rights. At the sound of a third knock, you stomp over to the door and fling it open.

“Mrs. Kim, we—Jay?”

The last year of your life living in London has been long. A massive adjustment. Hiked up prices and supermarkets closing early on Sundays, learning Tube routes and constantly being an hour away from any given plan you’ve made. So much has changed. You have changed. You are not the same petrified grown up who left everything she knew to move here, nor are you the same lovestruck girl Jay abandoned all those years ago. Yet the sight of him, live and in person and standing at your door dislodges something in your chest. In your memories, those odd dreams you have from time to time, he always looks so grown up. Jay at twenty. Twenty-one. It had never occurred to you back then how young you both were, especially given that he was a year older. Reconciling that version of him with the 25-year-old man before you now is impossible. The last of his baby fat, those stubborn chubby cheeks you loved with everything you had are gone now.

Is there any part of him, of this stranger, that you still know?

His hair is slicked back, a few strands left down, streaking over his forehead in that handsome way. You’d always liked it back like this, though he rarely did it. Reserved it for special occasions. Grad Ball Jay. Anniversary Jay. 25-year-old Jay. Even though the sun is down, a huge pair of sunglasses rests on the straight bridge of his nose. The silver ball above his eyebrow shines in the light. Making sense of the odds in your mind is impossible. How, at once, you are pleased to see him and thoroughly disgusted by it. How after everything, he can look at you, smile, and say your name.

“Jay…” you say again, trailing off, uncertain and half-expecting him to vanish into thin air, like some hyperrealistic figment of your imagination, complete with the cologne he used to wear. Scent — his scent — that most powerful of senses that hurtles you into the past as soon as you catch it. Hurtles you long back into his soft hoodies. Into your bed where that same honey musk lingered on the sheets long after he left.

“It’s so good to see you,” he says, sincere as ever.

“I know,” you agree, stomach turning. Nervous. Nauseous. “I, uh, I do think I’m going to be sick, though.”

Before you have the chance to rush away from him, to do anything, you wretch and spew alcohol onto the doormat between his feet and yours.

Pinching yourself does nothing—this is not a nightmare to be woken from.

“Fuck,” Jay says, crouching into view. Concern drenches his features, the last thing you see before screwing your eyes shut. “Are you okay?”

Mortification creeps through every last inch of your body, settling between your bones. This is not happening. This can not be happening. Seeing Jay again was supposed to be an event of Princess Diana revenge dress proportions. You own a revenge dress! You had grand plans to make Jay Park regret the day he was born, never mind the day he dumped you. Yet here you are, in a crop top and joggers covered in your own vomit.

“Great, Jay,” you mutter. “I’m great.”

Against your better judgment, you let him take you to the bathroom where you lean over the toilet bowl. Nothing comes out, but he rubs your back and holds your hair away from your skin anyway. His gentle touch burns through your clothes. “Are you alright?”

Kneeling on the checkerboard linoleum with Jay at your side has been a real test of strength, though, even with your screaming joints, you’re certain it’s better than the alternative—actually having to look at him. Weepy-eyed and vomit-breathed. “I’m fine,” you say for the hundredth time, sighing. “You can stop asking now.”

He scoffs, an amused sound that heats your skin to hear. Behind your closed eyelids, you can picture the look on his face. Clearly see the lopsided curve of his lips, the hint of a dimple. “Alright, my bad for worrying after you threw up all over me.”

Your hair slips from his hold when you whip your head to face him, strands sticking to your neck as soon as they’re free. Frantically, your eyes search his dark jeans. “It got on you?”

Jay smiles and he is so painfully gorgeous in the warm light of your shared bathroom, sitting on the edge of the tub. Seeing him here, seeing him at all makes your heart stutter. “No, YN.” He shakes his head, quickly, voice a low rumble. “You’re all good.”

You hum, raking a hand through your hair. “I’m all good,” you agree.

Now that your level of goodness has been sufficiently clarified, Jay clears his throat. “Alright, champ,” he says, as if you are an eight-year-old little boy while helping you to your feet in much the same manner. “Let’s get you cleaned up, yeah?”

On your waist the weight of his palm, the heat of it, is dizzying, and your alcohol consumption and post-vomit fogginess do nothing to stop the room from tilting. “Don’t touch me,” you croak, wriggling out of his grip. The words are rough on your throat.

Ever respectful, he lets go at once, stepping back and apologising as he flushes the toilet. A thrum of irritation flares in your head, hammering at your skull, at how easily that word came out of him, sorry, slipping from his little pink mouth and over the smallest thing. At once, the desire to wring his neck and to press your lips against his spar in your head. Neither wins. “So that you can apologise for,” you say under your breath instead.

Somehow, the look he gives you — tilted head, wide eyes, lips ajar — is the worst thing that’s happened since he arrived. Jay pities you, his scorned lover. The tightness in your chest is immediate, a thick knot that won’t give. Before he can speak, you turn away to clutch the sink and it is a grand effort. “Don’t look at me like that.”

“Like what?”

“It’s fine, Jay. I’m fine,” you say, though it is the furthest thing from fine you can think of. “It was a big deal to me and not to you. We’re over it, we’re fine.”

In the mirror, he looks at you like you’ve grown a second head, like you are Patrick Zweig asking for Tashi Duncan’s coaching. “Not a big deal to me?” he repeats, incredulous. “Are you kidding? Who said it wasn’t a big deal to me?”

You cover your face with your hands, sighing into your palms. “We’re not having this conversation.”

“I think we need to.”

“Yeah, Jay. We did,” you agree, catching his eye in the glass. It’s a mistake. “About three years ago before you up and left out of nowhere.”

“Out of nowhere?” he says, as if he absolutely must repeat everything that comes out of your mouth. “I was always moving back here, YN. That was always my plan, you knew that.”

Your eyes sting at the corners. Tears eager to spill. He’s right. You did know that. Jay made it explicitly clear. But there had been a time back then, when you were a part of those plans too. When his tongue slipped around I and we like they were the same thing. They were. To you. When we go to London… He brought you here that last winter. You drank Bailey’s hot chocolate at Winter Wonderland and met his parents. Met Heeseung. Jay had a life here, a vibrant one, and with each day you spent together, it became harder to imagine him anywhere else. By the fireplace in his family home, he asked you if you liked it, liked London. Of course you did. The flame raged warm in his brown eyes when he asked if you could see yourself here, with him. Your heart was beating in your throat. You loved London, and you loved Jay even more. You would have moved to Aberdeen if that’s where he wanted to go.

“Jay?”

His gaze softens, gone is the harsh crease of his brow, his squinting eyes. It’s like staring the past dead in the face. Everything you wanted so badly and never got to have. “Yeah?” he says gently.

“Get to fuck.”

Jay clenches his jaw, nodding slowly. “If that’s what you want.” He closes the door softly behind him when he leaves.

It’s only now, alone, that you register the hammering of your heart, the thudding of your pulse in your ears. You cry into the sink until your head hurts. You brush your teeth. Wash your face.

Opposite the bathroom door, Jay leans on the wall. Sunglasses on. Bottle of water in his white knuckle grip. He holds it out for you to take and you sigh, far beyond the mood to hear whatever he has to say. Minted by Colgate and Listerine, the water is ice in your mouth. Refreshing. “Thanks.”

Jay flicks off the bathroom light by your shoulder. “I’m sorry,” he says.

Together, you turn down the hall and into the living room. All of the guys — NAPE, at least — lapse into silence to watch you, though Heeseung is polite enough to pretend he’s not staring. Your stomach turns. Leaning up to Jay’s ear is grossly reflexive when you ask, “Do they—” You pause, pursing your lips and knowing the answer already. “Obviously Heeseung knows, but…”

“I told them.”

No matter how evil he was / is, he has every right to talk about what happened. About what he did. It’s Jay’s story as much as it’s yours, and he can do with it what he wants, regardless of how mortifying it is to think of other people knowing. What you did with it, and intend to continue doing with it, was keep the whole ordeal to yourself, like any other mentally sound adult woman would, which is obviously very healthy and working out really well for you. Jay had to move back home and we agreed it’d be best to end things. This is the version of events everyone else in your life has heard, and it’s what Minjeong and Jaehyun would have heard if it wasn’t for your living with them.

“Sorry,” he adds in a low voice.

That word again, easier than breathing it seems. “It’s fine.”

At the sight of you, Aeri’s face lights up and she stumbles out of Heeseung’s lap and over to you, taking you into her tattooed arms like it’s been an age since you last saw each other. In a way, you can’t believe it hasn’t been. “Here you are!” With her hands cradling your elbows, she takes a good look at you, eyes latching onto every part of your face. “You feeling okay?”

“Perfect!” Your voice is unusually high, strained.

“Heeseung cleaned up.” Aeri’s gaze flickers over your shoulder and she grins. “And I see you two have met.”

“Actually—” Jay starts, but you talk over him. “Yeah!” You face him, grinning too widely and extending a hand for him to shake. “Sorry about that. I’m YN.”

Only after a moment does his confusion clear and he takes your hand in his, shaking it. His fingertips are rougher than you remember, thick callouses boiling hot on your skin. “Nice meeting you,” he says, holding onto you for just too long. Too long for a conventional first meeting, anyway. No amount of time holding Jay Park’s hand could ever be long enough.

True peace and relaxation only find you when everyone has left, trickling out into London’s night time, cluster by cluster. Heeseung and his band boys stayed behind to tidy up and get their hands on one last pint before leaving your place even neater than they’d found it.

While you wash the breakfast dishes you abandoned in your room this morning, Aeri tiptoes into the kitchen behind you, humming happily to herself and pulling you into her arms. “They’re not so bad, are they?” Unfortunately, she and the rest of the world are correct. NAPE aren’t so bad after all. In fact, they are perfectly charming, and funny, and kind. Even their evil guitarist. You hum in response and focus on keeping a firm grip on your bowl as you move it to the drying rack.

“And…” She trails off, apparently waiting for you to finish her sentence. Much to her dismay, you do not. Aeri lets go of you and leans on the counter at your side, tipping her head to see your face. “What do we think of Jay?” she asks in a sing-song voice, and if she were referring to literally any other guy on the planet, you’d have smiled along with her.

But she isn’t and the sound of his name dries your mouth. “He’s… okay,” you say after too long. “Seems nice.”

Aeri’s jaw drops. “He’s okay?” Her disbelief is palpable, expressed through every part of her. “He held your hair while you threw up in the toilet and you think he’s just okay?”

“I actually didn’t throw up at all in the toilet,” you correct her, like that makes it any better, defensive in an off-putting way that makes you cringe. “But I guess the rockstar thing doesn’t really do it for me.”

“The rockstar thing,” she repeats under her breath, shaking her head. “What about the freakishly understanding thing? Or, I don’t know, the extremely fuckable guy thing?”

A pit takes over your stomach. “You’ve fucked him?” You don’t mean to ask, or to sound so dejected when you do, but the words come out before you can help it.

“Jesus, no.” Aeri sighs. “I’m not that lucky.”

You hate how relieved you are to hear it.

“He’s, like, impressively celibate. I wouldn’t be surprised if he had on, like, a chastity belt or some shit.” She shakes her head solemnly. “A damn shame if you ask me,” she starts, though quickly changes her tune. “But, you know, I’m obviously very lucky with Heeseung… yadda yadda yadda.”

A scoff comes out of you, but you can’t help the smile on your face. “Right.”

Aeri yawns and stretches her arms out over her head. “Believe me when I say I cannot wait to see the kind of person who does it for you.” It’s the last thing she says before she kisses your temple and heads for bed.

you: I threw up on Park Jongseong tn.

minjeong: YEEEEEAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHHH

In bed, you open your phone and search for the thread you haven’t looked at in years. His contact still has a kissy face in it.

jongseong 😽: i got my shift swapped soooooo sleepover?

you: 😭😭😭 YES YES YES YES YES YES

jongseong 😽: hahaha leaving in 10 ❤️‍🔥

jongseong 😽: baby baby baby baby baby baby

Because this knife to the gut isn’t quite sharp enough, you search for the word dakgaejang, and those first messages come up.

jongseong 😽: hey yn! it’s jongseong from earlier, i hope you don’t mind me asking around for your number, i’m only now realising how creepy this is… i just wanted to make sure you were able to get home okay, and i’m really sorry i couldn’t walk you all the way back, i swear i meant to! and don’t worry about the hoodie, just hold onto it and stay cozy!!! if you have someone at home who can cook, my mom has this insane recipe for dakgaejang, that shit could cure anything, and if you don’t have someone at home who can cook, i’d be happy to whip some up for you when i get home and drop it off!!!

jongseong 😽: whatever works for you, okay? just lmk!

When you finally fall asleep, you dream of Jay. Of Jay and your university bedroom back in that freezing Edinburgh flat. At the foot of your bed, he hurriedly picked his clothes from the floor while your space heater roared into the cold. You leaned up on your elbows, but said nothing. You couldn’t speak. Finally, he saw you and froze in place. This was not the Jay of years past. Not Jongseong. It was Jay as he’d been last night. With his hair slicked back and his worn leather jacket over his broad shoulders. Still, he gave you that same look. Those same soft and sleepy eyes.

“Sorry, beautiful,” he mumbled, his voice low and thick. “I didn’t mean to wake you.”

You shook your head. “It’s okay.”

All it took was one blink, and he was right there, kneeling at the side of the bed. “I’m glad we got to see each other again, YN. I’ve really missed you.” His palm rested on your cheek, calluses on the tips of his fingers. “Get some sleep, okay? I’ll be back soon,” he said. A dimple dented his cheek when you nodded, and his soft lips grazed yours—you wake up with a start, sweat-drenched and heavy breathing. Heart pounding in your chest. Tears welling in your eyes.

When you finally manage to get out of bed, you go straight to the shower. You don’t bother drying your hair after, which you will regret. On the kitchen counter, the kettle boils noisily, but you can’t bring yourself to worry about waking your flatmate. Can’t bring yourself to worry about anything other than the fact you haven’t been able to steady your breathing in the thirty minutes since you tore yourself from your damp cheeks.

A door clicks shut down the hallway, making you flinch. Heeseung appears in the doorway wearing nothing but a pair of black sweatpants. “How’d you sleep?” he asks through a yawn.

Your dream, Jay, comes to mind quickly and with no warning. The ghost of his palm on your cheek, his lips on yours, all so vivid like he’s here with you now. Like he really spent the night. “Same as always,” you say, clearing your throat. “You?”

“Slept alright.” He shrugs and takes a glass from the cabinet by your head, filling it up with water from the filter. “Are you going to tell Gigi or should I?”

The drop of your stomach is immediate. “Tell Gigi what?”

After a sip of water, he presses his lips into a flat line and takes a moment, like he’s carefully choosing his next words. “I know it’s none of my business but—”

“Stay out of it then,” you interrupt, pulling the kettle from the element and filling your mug. Instant espresso splashes onto the counter.

“But he’s really sorry, you know?” Heeseung says as if it makes a difference.

He’s sorry? Great! The urge to punch Heeseung in the face for his crime of simply having a functional relationship with your life’s great evil is overbearing. Your clenched fist trembles at your side and a maniacal laugh rips out of you. He takes a step back. Your coffee burns your tongue. “Wow, Heeseung! Why didn’t he just say so? Holy shit, this changes everything!”

“YN—”

Desperate for this conversation to be over, to bury yourself under your duvet and start again tomorrow, you cut him off yet again. “It’s not your mistake to fix.”

“You’re right.” Heeseung sighs. “I’m sorry.”

“Look, obviously you’re going to stick up for your friend, I get that and it’s fine. It’s just that I’m not exactly—” You pause, running a hand over your face. “I have a lot I need to figure out.” The awareness of how long you’ve had to do just that, and how long you’ve spent avoiding it, weighs heavy on your shoulders.

He nods, twisting the back of the stud in his ear. “Of course, YN. It’s just… you know…” He trails off, gesturing vaguely into the space between you with both hands. “I’m your friend too, I hope. And, it’s not like I think he can justify what he did, but it might be helpful to hear why he did it. From him?” he suggests, voice tipping upwards as your eyes get progressively more squinted.

The absolute last thing you need right now, is to hear Jay wax poetic about being a true artist and unlocking one’s inner self. How he absolutely had to leave and that was it, you weren’t allowed to be upset about it, because trapping an artist in a box would be like clipping a bird’s wings. Or something.

“Just think about it, yeah?”

For lack of anything better to do, you blow on your coffee, rippling the surface before taking a cautious sip. Over the rim of your cup, Heeseung is watching you, gnawing at his bottom lip with his teeth. If not for the twinkle of hope in his ginormous eyes, you wouldn’t give in and say, “Fine, I’ll think about it.”

His face lights up like you gave him a firm yes and he claps his hands together. “Are you free on Friday night?”

You splutter, coughing into your elbow as you put down your cup. “You’re giving me thirty-six hours to make up my mind?”

“No, not at all. No rush, I swear,” he says, waving his hands frantically. “We’re playing a show at The Helmet, and I thought it would be cool if you came along.”

Disbelief tugs at your brow. “You thought that?”

Heeseung opens and closes his mouth repeatedly, saying nothing. And if you weren’t so curious, you’d drop the subject and decline, but… “I think—” He starts, cutting himself off to look at the ceiling. Then, with his hand on his heart, “All of us would be honoured to have you there. Collectively.”

You’ve seen enough clips online to know that seeing NAPE perform, seeing Jay, would do horrible things for not only your healing journey, but for feminism at large.

As if sensing your reluctance, he adds, “You can come backstage and everything!”

“That would be lovely, Heeseung. No thank you.” Right as the words leave your mouth, Yizhuo crosses your mind and you ask, “Is Jake single?”

With saucers for eyes, he tilts his head. “Pardon?”

“Is he?”

“Are you asking for yourself?”

“Would that change your answer?”

A quiet second passes, Heeseung’s actually thinking about it. “That depends.”

“I’m not going, but I have some friends, two, who would genuinely die to go backstage,” you explain unhelpfully. “I’ll speak to Aeri about it and they can all go together.”

“No can do, YN.” Heeseung purses his lips. “If you’re not backstage, then your friends aren’t either.”

“Then I guess they won’t be backstage.” You frown, lifting your coffee from the counter. The steam has cleared. “Break a leg, rockstar.” On your way out, you pat Heeseung on the back.

Poor Somi and Yizhuo.

The Helmet is a pub of relative dinginess. Each step you take is a mild effort for how sticky the floor is with God knows how many hours of uncleaned booze. And quite small compared to the venues NAPE have been selling out recently, but according to Aeri, “This place has sentimental value! They played their first ever gig here, it’s special.”

She loops her arm through yours and drags you into the throng, not caring who she elbows. And the elbowed don’t seem to mind either when they realise it’s Heeseung’s girlfriend. And you. And Somi. And Yizhuo and Riki and Jaehyun. There is no barricade between the stage and the crowd. Just a foot high elevation and a whole lot of trust from the lack of security the pub seems to boast. Despite how packed it is, it’s not difficult to get to the bar, as evidenced by Jaehyun and Riki’s trips back and forth to supply you guys with drinks.

The DJ plays a jarring mix of alt-rock and 60’s pop music and everything in between. Muse’s Supermassive Black Hole becomes Like I Love You by Justin Timberlake becomes Surfin’ U.S.A. Who the target audience is, you’re not sure, but the more you drink — and the more Riki moves his broad shoulders to the beat — it becomes easier and easier to bear.

“I went to international school with that guy!” Riki yells in your ear. “Name’s Asahi and he’s fucking crazy.”

“The DJ?”

“No, you idiot. That’s Jungwon.” Riki flicks your forehead. “I mean the bartender.”

Around you, the crowd cheers raucously when the stage lights dim. Nothing happens. The DJ continues to terrorise all of you with more insane transitions — Sugar Water Cyanide into No One Noticed — and you continue to drink.

The lights go dim and the crowd around you roars. At your side, Aeri shakes like she’s the one about to perform, grabbing your hand and giving it a tight squeeze. She doesn’t let go. Another swell of screams fills the air as a song starts playing, one of NAPE’s. No Way Back was the first and last NAPE song you ever listened to. It was everywhere—the lead single of their debut album, the title of the tour they just finished, the common song choice for TikTok OOTDs and DIMLs. They were everywhere—BBC Live Lounge, The Tonight Show, Saturday Night Live.

And, much to your dismay, they were damn good.

In the blink of an eye, the lights come up slowly and you hold your breath as NAPE appear on stage. With Aeri, you look straight up at Heeseung who smiles, leaning towards the mic and singing, “When the last sun sets…”

They are a golden spotlighted blur to your tipsy eyes, but Jay has maybe never looked so good. There’s nothing special about wearing a flannel over a plain white T-shirt, you know that, but on him, now, it’s mesmerising. He is mesmerising. Glowing under the lights and so, so close. His guitar sits right by his waistband, veins criss-crossing over the backs of his hands as he plays. Goosebumps rise along your skin, and a funny feeling ravages your stomach. Butterflies on crack, just like the first time you saw him.

It seemed unjust that someone like him could exist not only on your campus, but within walking distance of your flat without you knowing. That someone so handsome had been existing and so close to you for three years. That was all you could think back then. If only we’d met earlier. If only we had more time. It was a real cosmic injustice. You had no real plans to stay in Edinburgh, but not for lack of wanting to—there you had a roof over your head, you had friends, and you had Jay. You had nights spent curled around him, you had mindblowing sex, and you had something special and real that you will never get back.

Knowing what he has now, it would have been ludicrous for Jay to stay behind. He has a crowd screaming his name, and a flat right in the centre of London and most of all, he has accepted that things are over and his life is better for it.

When you lift your stinging eyes from his guitar, he’s already looking at you. His eyes are wide, his lips set apart. He looks like he’s seen a ghost, like he too is using this most inconvenient of moments to mourn the past. To mourn you. He freezes, fingers stilling over the strings for long enough that Heeseung casts a look in his direction.

You chew on your bottom lip until it hurts and snatch Jaehyun’s cup out of his hand to finish it. When the song ends, the crowd erupts into cheers, again.

Jay Park is a god among men.

“What you saying, London?” Heeseung says, grinning, and the crowd goes crazy over it. Over him. You can’t blame them. There’s a charm to him, like this, standing in front of you on the stage. Heeseung the idol, you the… well, reluctant fan of sorts. “We’re NAPE and we’ve got a special show prepared for you tonight.”

The crowd cheers. To his credit, Heeseung is electric on stage, and you are standing so close you can see the sweat beading along his hairline and can already predict the tweets you’re going to see later about all of this. For fear of doing something rash, like jumping on the stage and tackling Jay for a kiss, you keep your eyes trained on the reflective red of Heeseung’s microphone as he continues to speak to the crowd.

“If tonight’s your first time with us, then allow me to introduce the band,” he says, his voice low in a way you’ve never heard before as he gestures behind him. Sunghoon on the drums, Jake on the bass, and his good friend, Jay on the guitar.

“Thank you for that, good friend Heeseung.” The words leave Jay’s mouth in a slow mumble, his cheeks a little flushed as he touches his palm to his heart. The screams for him seem the loudest by far, but that might be because you’re screaming with everyone else. “It’s good to see you guys, I’m Jay. Let’s have fun tonight, London.”

They launch into the next song immediately, a funky track about how they’re always going to be there for their ex who they left in unfavourable circumstances and still love. Sunshine, another unfortunately good song that is a perfect fit for Jay’s voice. Minjeong was the one who sent this single to you when it first came out, along with a message telling you to check the credits. Jay was listed as the sole writer.

Artists take creative liberties, you know that, and it’s easy to see why an attractive guy writing about still loving his ex, no matter what, would do better than an attractive man singing about being Satan’s son. But still, it’s weird to think of the millions of listeners who think they know what happened because Jay wrote about it. Who think he is the perfect, sweet, dream man who’d do anything to be wherever you are. Unless, of course, that place is Scotland—though you can see how that might have been difficult to rhyme.

And even still, despite your growing irritation, you can’t help but look at him in awe.

They play one song after another — not saying much — and you don’t know any of them, but they only get better. The crowd gets more excited, louder somehow, and Jay only gets harder to look away from. Seeing him like this, on stage, is overwhelming. His skin honeyed under the strong lights, slick with sweat making him glow. His thick fingers move quickly over the frets, his straight teeth bite his bottom lip. When he leans towards the mic, his lips brush the top of it, eyes meeting yours. You can see how people idolise him, idolise them, because holding his gaze, staring into the eyes of the man you once knew is impossible, and it’s an effort to stay upright on your weak knees.

A song called Helium closes to raucous screams and applause and all of the members look to Jay. You do the same. As the crowd calms down, he chuckles, tilting his head. Around his hairline, damp strands stick to his face, his temples, and he leans down, mouth a breath away from the mic. “This last song is actually, uh… It’s pretty personal, you know? It’s the first song I wrote when I moved back here,” he says, scrunching his nose. Jay is clearly nervous, his cheeks and neck turning rosy.

The girl behind you says, “He’s so cute when he’s shy!” And you hate that she has learned him enough to see what you do. Hate that she has learned him enough to have formed opinions on Jay and his tendencies, while being lucky enough not to know him personally.

Lucky enough to look at him and see hardly anything more than a blank slate upon which to project her every whim and fancy. This version of Jay, her Jay, that she has gotten to know through YouTube videos and overanalysing social media captions. Who she must imagine is very clear and upfront about his feelings, if that’s what she’s into. What does anyone in this crowd know about Jay? How lucky they all are to have only a part of the picture that makes up the whole, to have straightforward positive feelings for and towards this side of him that anyone with internet access can see. Lucky not to know what it’s like to fall asleep by his side, or to be scared half to death in the middle of the night to find him sleeping with his eyes half open. Lucky not know what it’s like to miss those things. To miss him.

“We don’t really do this one live, but Heeseung wasn’t lying when he said tonight was special.” His eyes flick over to you for the longest second and Jaehyun nudges your ribs.

While the crowd erupts once again, he shows you something on his phone. It’s his Notes app, with the words, get a fucking load of this male manipulator, written in all caps and bold. And because, yeah, I’m trying to, isn’t the right response, you can only offer your friend a forced chuckle before you gulp.

“So for what I think is the first time ever, here’s Carolina,” Jay says, launching into the opening chords. There is a clear difference between this song and the rest. It’s upbeat, and catchy, sounding almost like what you imagine would happen if The Beatles had made a song you enjoyed.

It is also, quite clearly, about you—though it was your father who told you to swim before you drown.

If you had your wits about you, you would probably turn on your heels and storm out. How unfair of Jay to do this. To sing about you and your life and the heartbreak he inflicted on you without so much as a simple text to let you know. Give you a heads up. Hey, I wrote a really fucking good song about our relationship for my first EP and reduced two years to a one night stand lmao. Unfortunately, you do not have your wits about you, and so, as you stand there bobbing your head to the beat and swaying, you cannot help but bite on your lip and stare indulgently up at Jay as he sings about what a good girl you are.

“How would I tell her that she’s all I think about?” Jay sings, looking at you. “Well, I guess she just found out.”

When Jay first told you about his dream, a pang of horror punched you in the gut. Fearing that your fate would be like that of girls everywhere, that he would be your tropey boyfriend, your canon event: the privileged, untalented SoundCloud rapper, or indie artist. All you could do was nod your head and smile stiffly as he told you how much he loved his guitar and writing music. It was to your great relief that Jay wasn’t just good, he was great. You’re certain that’s why, now, as you watch him sing about your relationship for hundreds of adoring fans, there is a flicker of admiration, of awe, right alongside your annoyance.

“She feels so good,” he sings over and over, with his eyes shut. A vein presses against his forehead. His neck.

With that, and a rapturous combination of applause and screaming, NAPE give a bow and leave the stage. They do not do an encore, though a good number of stragglers wait behind for one, while Aeri drags you and all of your friends through a door marked with restricted access. The corridor lights come on one by one as you walk further and further towards another door that she doesn’t hesitate to push open. All of the members are startled by your sudden entrance, but relax quickly at the sight of her.

“Baby!” Heeseung calls out, embracing Aeri, while you and everyone else stands around by the door.

Besides her, you’re the only other person who has met all of these people, and so, you’re tasked with introductions. Jaehyun greets everyone but Jay who stands there looking at him with a straight face. Thankfully, everyone is too caught up with Somi’s huge reactions and extra enthusiasm towards Sunghoon to pay anyone else any mind. He eats it right up, nodding at all the right moments and tucking blonde curls behind her ear while she speaks. Yizhuo, whose big plans for Jake Sim involved taking him to pound town, stands in the corner and stares at him from a distance while he drinks his water.

After filing out of the back exit, you quickly learn that trying to coordinate ten drunk people to use the Tube on a Friday night is more than a bit hellish. But somehow, you manage, with your arm looped through Jaehyun’s the whole way. Jay doesn’t take his eyes off of you, even as he and Sunghoon are tasked with keeping all six feet of Riki vertical.

What Aeri refers to as The NAPE House whenever she’s visiting Heeseung, is a four bedroom penthouse apartment that could surely hold more people than the pub they just performed at. There are people everywhere, influencers and other niche celebrities, drinking and laughing and grinding on each other. Not a phone in sight—only vlogging cameras. And on the black leather living room couch, you have a front row seat. A comfortable one you share with Heeseung and a sleeping Aeri.

“Can you do me a favour?” He lolls his head in your direction, yelling. “Will you get my hoodie from my bed?”

You make a show of rolling your eyes. “You owe me. Where’s your room?”

“Always.” Heeseung smiles. “It’s the last door in the hall, straight down.”

You weave through the crowd, throwing apologies over your shoulders and trying to remember exactly which hallway he was referring to. When you get there, his door is slightly ajar, a dim glow coming from the room right at the end of the hall like he said. The sight of the bed alone, dark sheets pulled tight and waiting, is enough to make you sleepy, a nagging exhaustion you only feel now. Noticeably missing though, is his hoodie, but it’s hardly an urgent matter. Surely not. Blinking heavily, the duvet calls for you, the corn on the cob plushie begging you to hold it—a weird choice for Heeseung, but maybe Jay got it for him.

Since you’re doing him a favour — and he uses your couch more than you — you figure there’s nothing wrong with resting your eyes on the end of his bed. It would be foolish not to seize this moment now that you have it. Carpe… moment. Closing the door behind you, you find a key in the lock, and if that isn’t a sign, you don’t know what is. With the door locked, you pass the guitar rack on the way to the bed, and make yourself comfortable, facing the ceiling. Sooner than you expect, your eyes flutter shut, honey musk tickling your nose.

A soft voice wakes you up. “Hey.”

You don’t need to see Jay Park to know it’s him. If not for the American shape of the word leaving his mouth, the fresh scent of his shower gel gives him away. How annoying, knowing someone. When you open your eyes, he’s leaning over you with a smile on his face, very close. Close enough to see that his hair is damp. To see the light from outside reflecting on the droplets that cover the solid muscle over his shoulders. The scar on the bridge of his nose.

A drop of water falls from his hair, hitting your chest—you swear you hear it sizzle. “What are you doing in here?” The words come out before you have a chance to think of something less accusatory to say. Hey, might have been a good place to start. You shoo him away with your hand, sitting up and facing him, ignoring the heat in your stomach. The butterflies. It’s a mistake to look at him properly, to see all of him. His white vest is vacuum sealed over his defined torso, cinching where his waist does. With his hair flat over his forehead, he looks so young again. Looks like himself. Looks like he’s yours. Like any second, he’s going to pull you into him and press his mouth into the crook of your neck, to say, I’ve missed you, gorgeous. You can feel it already, the shape of his phantom words against your skin, the hum of them from his chest. Jesus Christ. Why couldn’t you be one of those very strong women who’d fallen for an ugly man? How was it fair that Jay could break your heart and only get better looking?

“Shouldn’t I be asking you that?”

“I’m allowed to lie on Heeseung’s bed. He’s my friend.” With that, it’s all you do to hope Jay doesn’t pass this on, you calling Heeseung your friend.

Jay eyes you, wetting his lips. His attention, having all of it, warms your skin. “I’m sure you are, YN. But this is my bed, so if I let you lay on it… what does that make me?” His eyes narrow, just a little. Just enough. There’s something behind them, a challenge to match his low voice.

Everything in your life feels so different now. You have new friends, a new address, different interests and opinions, but still, a very agitating part of you is moved by Jongseong. Charmed. “I think that would still make you my evil ex-boyfriend,” you say, more as a reminder to yourself than anything else. A mental marking of the words, do not open, on the overflowing can of worms with Jay’s name on it—a solution about as effective as sellotape around a broken bone.

He pulls air through his teeth, nodding. “Fair assessment.”

It’s been long enough that the vague dim shapes of his bedroom have sharpened into some form of clarity. The names and faces on the posters visible now: Oasis, Bon Jovi, Destiny’s Child. His desk is completely free of clutter, only housing a huge monitor, a notebook, a mouse and a keyboard. It seems in your absence, he’s gotten a grip on keeping tidy. Mounted on the wall above the guitar rack is the plastic guitar that came with the old copy of Guitar Hero you bought for him. Your heart twists in your chest.

“So this is your room,” you announce. And just like that, the pieces of Heeseung’s drunken puzzle slot into place before your very eyes—he was already wearing his hoodie.

Jay hums, a smile tugging his mouth up at the corners. “You like it?”

“Yeah, I do. I mean, I’ve spent so long wondering what your life is like here. Where you hang out with your friends, if you still smoke. I’ve been really keen to find out your life is terrible.” You have no idea why you’re saying these things, but it’s difficult to stop now that you’ve started. “Seeing it though, seeing you on stage, seeing you at all. I’m really glad it isn’t, Jay.”

The crowd screaming his name. Singing along to lyrics he wrote. Of course he had to come here. There is no universe where Jay staying in Edinburgh, staying with you, was the right decision. All of those versions of reality play out in your head, split like a kaleidoscope—you are happy, Jay is not, there is more for him than you or Edinburgh can offer, and he resents you for that. Even if his method wasn’t ideal, he did the right thing by leaving, and the realisation forces a lump in your throat.

He mumbles your name, running his hand through his hair. The water makes it stay put like gel, pushed off his forehead, and his eyebrow piercing shimmers. “I didn’t even know you stayed here.”

“It was none of your business.”

“No, I… Yeah, you’re right, it wasn’t.” Jay looks like he has a billion things on his mind, you can practically hear the gears grinding against one another. “I’ve been wanting to see you is all. Catch up.”

A laugh bursts out of you, dry and bitter, as you stand up from the bed. “To catch up,” you repeat. “What, so you could tell me all about your perfect life in perfect London? So you could thank me for inspiring your discography?”

Jay’s jaw ticks when he clicks his tongue. “Do you think so low of me?”

“Hard not to.”

This seems to genuinely hurt him and some part of you takes delight in that fact. His face drops right away, a sad glimmer in his big eyes as he steps towards you. “I just wanted to make sure you were doing okay—more than.”

“I’m great, Jay.” You don’t bother wiping the first tear from your eye, but as soon as it falls, the floodgates open and there’s nothing you can do to close them. You can hardly see anything anymore, a fuzzy blob replaces Jay where he stands in front of you. “I just let go from a job I really loved and now I’m crying in my ex-boyfriend’s bedroom. Clearly, I’m…” Getting the words out is an effort so you stop, letting the sentence die around the block in your throat.

When you take your hands away from your leaking eyes, the heels of your palms are black with mascara and eyeliner, and Jay says nothing. He’s sitting on the end of the bed, hiding his face with his hands. In your head, a tiny drunk voice wills fervently for him to take you in his massive arms and pat your back. To rest his chin on the top of your head and tell you that it’s all going to be okay. That it’s all going to be good. You hate yourself for wanting that. For wanting him.

Instead, Jay looks up at you with wet eyes. “I really am sorry. It wasn’t meant to happen like that, I swear. I had everything planned out and I just… I don’t know.”

“After all this time, you’re telling me you don’t know why you did that to me?”

“It’s not as simple as that.”

“Elaborate then.”

“Before I met you, all I did was keep to myself, study, and think about coming back to London. That was it, okay. Being in a relationship was the absolute last thing I wanted back then an—”

You scoff, cutting him off. “Good to know.”

“That’s not what I… I was sure about you, YN. From the start, I was sure about you.” The rest of what comes out of his mouth is secondary, background noise to this.

You feel those words, in your bones, with every single fibre of your being. Recognise them. Because it’s exactly how you felt. There wasn’t a single part of you that would have believed or accepted anything other than the fact that he was the one. Your one—right from the day you met, you knew you wanted him.

Jay sighs, the sag of his broad shoulders catching your attention. “But I couldn’t ask you to do long distance, it wouldn’t have been fair.”

“Fair?” you repeat, hardly believing your ears. “You think disappearing was fair?”

“I thought I was doing the right thing, that it would be easier for both of us that way.”

The thought of hearing him say anything else to defend himself turns your stomach. Worse is the fact that you actually want to hear him out, pick his brain on it. Ask all the questions you never had the chance to. Try to make sense of the mess and sort it all out. Sort yourself out, finally. You just need a minute. Need a minute to get your head on straight, and that’ll be impossible with Jay watching you the way he is, his glossy eyes boring into yours. You fling open the door to his ensuite and shut it behind you before he has the chance to keep speaking.

Heat from the shower hits you immediately, condensation lingering in the corners of the mirror. It’s a beautiful bathroom, glossy white and matte black fixings, a deep sink basin with lots of counter space and a roomy shower. His hand wash and lotion are perfectly lined up by the tap, his watch and some rings placed neatly in front of them as if he wanted to take up as little space as possible. Despite how much makeup stains your palms, your eyes don’t look as horrific as you thought they would, it’s the swelling and redness that makes you look awful. His Le Labo soap smells warm and green, lathering nicely over your fingers when you finally spot something amiss. A blister pack sits between the tap and the wall, all of the tiny white pills gone bar one. Sertraline, reads the foil over the front when you pick it up, and for the second time since you and Jay have come across each other again, you throw up in his vicinity, vomiting into the sink.

The lone tablet clatters to the floor at your feet.

“Are you okay?” Jay asks. The door does nothing to muffle his concern.

How could you possibly answer that? I’m grand! Only gone and found your antidepressants HAHAHA. His antidepressants. Just thinking the word in relation to Jay is enough to make you wretch again. Nothing comes out.

“May I come in?” To your silence, he continues, escalating from polite question to concerned statement. “I’m coming in, okay?”

While you fight for breath over the sink, Jay counts loudly from one to five before the door clicks open behind you. In the mirror, you see his eyes drift to the floor and widen. He picks up the blister pack and puts it in his pocket, aiming for subtle but being more overt than you’ve ever seen. “I saw it, Jay,” you say. “I know.”

He nods slowly like he’s coming to terms with what’s happened. As if he’s the one finding out about his diagnosis. “It’s uh… I’m okay,” he offers weakly, though his reassurance only makes you feel worse.

Your palms itch against the counter, desperate to grab him by the shoulders and shake him. To yell in his face that he doesn’t have to act like he’s alright with everything all the time. Finally, you’ve found something about Jay that hasn’t changed. What a shame it had to be this. “You’re okay,” you repeat, speaking the words more like an affirmation than anything else.

“I’m seeing someone about it and I have good people around me. I’m okay.”

A chill runs over your spine, pulls the hairs on your arms straight up, at the way he says it. This, for Jay, is simply a part of life now, as ordinary and boring as brushing his teeth before bed or tying his shoelaces before he leaves the house. You brace against the sink, screwing your eyes shut again. Nothing changes when you open them, you’re still in Jay’s bathroom and he is still depressed.

“How long?” you ask, as if his answer will make a difference.

He looks away when your gaze meets his in the mirror and shrugs, his shoulders rising and falling in a stiff motion. You don’t press him on it. Whether it’s been one year or one day, the point is that he’s unwell. And the gaping chasm between his life and yours is big enough that you had no idea. God, you’ve been so selfish.

Neither of you says anything else, but it’s not until there’s a thump at his bedroom door and a muffled apology called out through it that you realise. Both of you let out the exact same laugh, a huffed breath from your noses, which only makes the pair of you laugh properly when your eyes meet. The crinkle of his eyes is still a delight, still heats you up from the inside out.

More than anything, you are desperate for this silence to end, desperate to be saying something, making conversation. “So,” you start, clearing your throat. “About this family of mine in Carolina.”

Jay’s cheeks pinken, a sweet, rosy tinge blooming against his skin. “That was just something I thought sounded good.” He was right, unfortunately, it did sound good.

This fact, however, does nothing to stop the harsh pull of embarrassment in your stomach. “I was being presumptuous, sorry.”

“No, it was… that song is definitely about you,” Jay admits, for better or for worse. “They all are, when I write anyway.”

Jesus. You still had an entire discography to listen to, all based around the worst event of your life so far. Such is the plight of dating an artist, you suppose. In the midst of your irritation with him over that, and sick pleasure at knowing your relationship — you — had impacted him as much as it — he — had you, was a flare of curiosity. All of his unknowable thoughts, the things you wished he said, existed only a mere couple of clicks away. You could listen to them all right now, read the lyrics. Given the dedication of NAPE’s fanbase, you were certain multiple Twitter threads had been posted with line-by-line analysis.

“Great!” you say, cheeks aching with the stretch of your lips as you give him a thumbs-up. “Thanks, champ.”

His laugh is warm, filling the space between you. “I wrote it thinking about your…” Jay scratches at the back of his neck, cheeks growing pinker by the second. The colour spreads down his neck and over his chest. “You used to talk about riding camp, when you were younger. That pretty chestnut horse you rode as a kid.”

“Carolina,” you supply uselessly, the name hardly audible over the thud of your pulse in your ears.

“The one and only.”

You gulp. “And here I thought I was well behaved.”

“There was that too, of course there was.” He’s smiling, but you can’t bring yourself to do the same.

You’re not even sure if Aeri knows you went to riding camp. “I can’t believe you remembered that.” Some twisted part of you wonders what else he remembers, what other Easter eggs he’d left behind for you. For everyone.

He seems bewildered by this, his brows furrowing, head tilting. “Who could forget anything about you?” Each word is as sincere as the last, breeding a fascinating and surely singular type of hurt deep in the pit of your stomach.

“You know, I don’t usually throw up so often,” you blurt out, turning to the mess you left in the basin and flicking the tap on.

His reflection smiles in the mirror, leaning against the door frame. “Am I that bad?”

“You’re so much worse.”

“Four words every depressed person wants to hear.” He’s still smiling, his posture relaxed, slanted, but it’s the look in his eyes that gives him away, breaks your heart. How glossy they’ve become in the light.

“You’re really okay?”

Jay nods. “I’m okay.”

Every part of you aches to believe him, willing with every fibre of your being that he’s telling the truth. Okay isn’t good, but it’s a start, and soon he’ll be more than that. He has to be. Without a second thought you wrap your arms around him, feeling his warmth as he hugs you back. “I know I can’t take back or change what I did, but I really am sorry,” he mumbles into your shoulder.

And all of a sudden, it’s too much. His soft lips on your skin, the vibration into the crook of your neck. The familiar squeeze of his strong arms around you, his faint honeyed scent. The fact that despite everything, despite the frenzied red flags waving in your brain, you want to believe him. You do believe him.

You pull away, quickly, and take a huge step back, hitting your hip against the sink. “Do you have a spare toothbrush?”

Jay watches you for a moment, his eyes catching on each of your features like he’s seeing you for the first time. He clears his throat, scrunching his nose with a sniffle before speaking. “I might have a spare head for my electric somewhere.”

“Great,” you say, while he opens the cabinet with pursed lips. “Thanks.”

Those lips. You feel them while you brush your teeth alone in his bathroom, and while Jaehyun walks you home. While you shower, and while you collapse into bed. I really am sorry. God. How much easier this all would be if his belated apology fixed all of this.

jongseong 😽: Thank you for coming to the show, it really meant a lot to me having you there

you: No prob 👍

Under your face, your pillow muffles a would-be bloodcurling scream. “No prob, thumbs-up emoji…?” you repeat into the fabric, affronted by your word choice.

you: Just texted “no prob” unironically

minjeong: To who 😭

you: Rhymes with Jark Pongseong

minjeong: You should have said YES prob or ALL prob in fact you shouldn’t even have responded to whatever that freak loser (VERY DEROGATORY) said to my sweet angel girl

you: It was kind of sweet tbf, he thanked me for going to the gig and then said it meant a lot to him

Minjeong calls you immediately. You answer but can’t say anything for the genuine wave of fear that crashes over you. Through the phone you hear the click of her heels against the pavement, rumble of traffic, roaring engines and beeping horns, the soundtrack to the functioning woman’s afternoon. “You are the lostest cause of them all,” she says. “I thought you were over this insane person.”

“I am over him. I am also allowed to think he is very good looking and incredible onstage.”

“Shut up!” Minjeong sighs. “Also, did you take my coat when you stayed? The wool one?”

“I wish.”

“I’m hanging up now.” Three beeps follow her words, and her black wool coat stares at you from the open wardrobe.

The room spins around you when you sit up from bed. You can feel your brain swooshing around in your skull. Waking up hungover in last night’s makeup and outfit is never a treat, especially not when last night’s makeup is coming off of your face in crumbs every time you blink, and the outfit is a tank top and Aeri’s sequin microshorts. Somehow you make it to the kitchen where you sway by the counter and make a cup of black coffee, flinching at the sound of Aeri’s key twisting in the lock.

“Ugh, the show was perfect, YJ! It really sucks you couldn’t make it, but I know they’ve got some other gigs coming around the city so I’ll text you deets, alright?” she says. “I dropped my film off after yoga this morning, but I was so drunk last night… not hopeful.” Her voice gets louder in the hallway, an ear-splitting squeal sounding through the flat as she approaches and blows a kiss down the phone before appearing in the doorway. “Hey, you!” The grin on her face is wide and shows all of her teeth.

“Hey,” you say, it’s the only thing you can muster as you watch her lean in the doorframe, decked out in a matching brown workout set that ALO sent her in PR.

Her eyebrows give a suggestive wag as she says in a singsong voice, “Guess who I had breakfast with?”

The full scope of Aeri’s circle is still unclear to you, so the answer could be anyone. Playing it safe, you simply ask, “Who?”

“Your boyfriend! Almost boyfriend.”

“And that would be…”

“Don’t be coy, YN. Jay told me all about last night.”

“Jay?” It’s a wonder that your eyes don’t fall from their sockets—it would’ve shocked you less if she’d suggested that Byeon Wooseok was your boyfriend.

“I wanted to put in a good word for you, but he already wants you bad. Never seen anything like that, he asked a million questions about you. If I didn’t have to get home to shoot I’d still be there telling him about your commute.”

“He doesn’t. At all.” You clench your fists behind your back, denting half-moons into your palms with your fingernails. “We dated for a few years at uni, but he…” The sting isn’t enough to distract you from the swoop in your stomach, so you settle instead for clawing at the back of your hand. “He had to move back home and we agreed it would be better to end things.” No matter how many times you say it, it doesn’t get any easier.

Aeri’s face flickers through the full spectrum of human emotion, never quite settling on one.

“I know I should have said something earlier, it’s just…” Embarrassing. It’s embarrassing that not only can Jay live without you, he can thrive. Meanwhile, you can’t even secure a job interview. “I don’t know.”

Finally, she pulls you into a hug, all citrus and sweat, and you sink into her arms. “I have two pieces of good news and one piece of bad news. What do you want first?” she asks, pulling away just enough to look at you.

Clearing your throat, you ask, “Can you do good news, bad news, good news? Like a sandwich?”

Aeri leans against the island opposite you, smiling. “Okay, good news: you don’t owe me, or anyone else, every last detail about your life, and given the whole me dating your ex-boyfriend’s best friend thing, I get why you kept that from me, alright? You don’t need to apologise for that. The bad news is that said ex-boyfriend is definitely still in love with you, but — and this is the next good part — you guys broke up because he didn’t think he could have London and you, right?”

Put simply, “Yes.”

“You’re in London now, you’re both single…” Aeri lets her eyes and hands spell out the rest of her sentence.

“Jay doesn’t… It’s not like that.”

“Okay,” she says, though you can tell she doesn’t buy it. “What about you? Do you still want him?”

What you really want, more than anything, is to feel secure. To feel like the people in your life won’t just up and leave at any given moment. You want to be with someone you can rely on, someone dependable. A person you can call and know they’ll answer—or at least call you back. You’re not sure if that person is Jay.

“I don’t know,” you admit.

“You don’t need to know that right now. What you need is to sit down,” Aeri says, guiding you by the shoulders to one of the stools under the island. “Watching you sway like that is giving me a hangover by association. I’ll make you something to eat.”

She makes you a cup of herbal tea and some fruit topped French toast with bacon. You inhale it before she shoos you out of the kitchen. “You need to sleep this shit off, okay? We need to leave at eight tomorrow morning.”

Fuck. She’d agreed to let you tag along on her work day tomorrow so you’d finally have something interesting to post on Substack. You didn’t realise that would involve facing the public so early in the day. “Of course!”

yizhuo: dear sweetcheeks bubblegum fairy woman consider this our final correspondence as i’m literally about to die idk who the fuck was sick near me but they got me brother stay safe also tell that fuckface riki he can stop praying on my downfall ok it worked.

you: i’ll pass that message along for you… get well soon angel pie dream lady :( do u need me to bring anything by for you?

yizhuo: jimin’s playing sexy nurse this weekend dw i’m right wehre i wanna be 🤤🤤🤤🤤🤤🤤🤤🤤🤤🤤🤤🤤🤤 in other more relevant news, interview is opening another office…….good day for the unemployed, look how many openings there are !!!

Her next message has fifteen links, and those are just the jobs you’re qualified for. These must be the millions of doors Somi was talking about. In a full-bellied haze, you write a new cover letter and apply to every last one of them. After that, with renewed pep in your hungover step, you climb back into bed and watch as many episodes of Pretty Little Liars as you can handle without breaking the screen in half at the sight of Mr. Fitz and his minor-student-girlfriend Aria. It’s two. You manage two episodes and sleep for the rest of the day.

At eight in the morning, when Aeri is ready to leave, you have, unfortunately, reached the end of your life. And as it turns out, Jennifer’s Body had it all wrong, hell is not a teenage girl. If only. Hell, you’re learning, is whatever strain of the common cold is currently nerfing your immune system.

Shivering under your duvet, you scroll through the pictures you took after the gig, smiling, laughing, completely oblivious to the fact that those would be some of your last moments on this mortal plane. Probably you’ll never, ever drink again. Never do anything again. Your throat is swollen. Raw and painful when you swallow. A dull ache reaches all of your joints, weighing them down. Swallowing ibuprofen is a tear-inducing, Herculean task, but you manage, and finally, sleep comes over you.

For the next few hours, you fade in and out of slumber until you quit trying. Your throat still hurts, but the swelling is down. When you blow your nose into your last tissue, your ears pop and the thumping in your head is actually at the front door. The Grim Reaper here to… well, reap, you suppose. He even knows your name and yells it incessantly like some sort of evil, murderous baby who’s just learned a new word. Gun! Knife! YN! It’s only after your fourth, weak, attempt at calling out for Aeri that you remember she’s not home, and quickly resign to your fate, dragging yourself out of bed and then all the way to the door. Against the wall you catch your breath before pulling it open.

“I’m not here to bother—” Jay stops short.

“Jay?” He is hazy and beautiful in front of you. His sunglasses hold his hair away from his face, and none of the three buttons on his black polo shirt are done up, exposing just enough of his collarbone and chest to make your cheeks heat up. He is the cruel mirage of an oasis in the desert. “Jay,” you say again, reaching out your aching arm to touch him.

Against your fingertip, he is completely solid and real, which is more than a little mortifying. He looks down to where your hand touches his chest, where your hand is still, for some reason, touching his chest. He grabs your wrist, his touch soft but scorching through your long sleeve, and puts your arm back down at your side carefully. “You’re sick.”

“A little.”

“Okay,” he says slowly, wearing his thinking face. Head tilted, tongue poking out between his soft pink lips, the same way he would when he was trying to calculate how long it might take your food delivery to reach your place, and if there was enough time for the two of you to share the shower first. “I just need to get Heeseung’s computer and then I’ll be out of your hair. You need to put on something warm.”

You step aside to let Jay into the flat and he goes straight to Aeri’s room, coming back with a laptop tucked under his arm. He inspects you from head to toe and frowns. “Drink some tea, okay? Lemon and ginger with lots of honey.” It’s the last thing he says before he disappears.

Heeding Doctor Jay’s advice, you use the last sliver of your energy to hobble into the kitchen so you can make yourself a cup of lemon and ginger tea with lots of honey. Equipped with a steaming mug, you go back to your room where you pull a jumper on and stuff yourself into your dressing gown, before crawling back into bed. As soon as your head hits the pillow, you fall asleep, lemon and ginger tea with lots of honey cooling down on your nightstand, untouched.

It’s Jay’s gentle voice that rouses you out of your thick sleep, saying your name over and over until your eyes open. “Hey,” he says, his palm massive on your arm. His glasses slip down the straight bridge of his nose but he doesn’t push them up. “Aeri gave me her keys and I—”

“Aeri’s at work,” you say, correcting him.

He smiles. “Yeah, I just saw her.”

“She’s on the other end of the city.”

“So here’s the cool thing about London — and you might not know this — but we have this thing called the Tube and it got me there and back.”

“But it’s so… it’s like an hour one way.”

Jay waves a dismissive hand, his smile unwavering. “Forty-five minutes.”

The words he’s saying are all words you’ve come across. Words for which you know the dictionary definition and spelling, but it’s taking a lot for your brain to make sense of them and their implications in these particular sequences, coming from him. Fuzzy-headed, you lie back down, sinking into the pillow and screwing your eyes shut.

“You okay?” When you open your eyes, he’s watching you with an arched brow, inspecting you like you are fungi on a petri dish and not his dying ex-girlfriend.

“The common cold doesn’t normally kill people, right?”

Instead of laughing or being charmed by these, your final words, he tilts his head. “Well, it can lead to more severe forms of sickness like pneumonia or sepsis, which could, quite easily, kill you, yes,” he says, delivering the information to you in a tone that suggests he was reading about this on the way over.

This had been one of your favourite things about Jay, his insatiable curiosity and willingness to share what he’d learned with whoever was around. He could talk about any subject for hours and you were always keen to listen. It got to the point that you would direct your queries to him instead of the Google search bar, just for a reason to text him. Hey Jay, is thirty minutes too long to cook a steak? Way too long??? I’m coming over. Hey Jay, what’s the name of that Bon Jovi song you played for me? Hi beautiful, it’s called Always :). Hi baby, would you still love me if I was a worm? I’m always going to love you, YN. No matter what.

“Great, Jay. Thanks.” You lean up on your elbows, coughing with your mouth open like a child. “Still a fount of knowledge, I see.”

Bright red blooms over his cheeks and neck. “As always,” he says, though he doesn’t seem happy about this fact, scrunching his nose. “I… uh… I made you some soup.”

“Your mum’s dakgaejang?” you whisper. To his sheepish smile, you mumble, “That shit could cure anything.”

“It always did,” Jay agrees, lifting the steaming bowl from your desk. He gasps at something, putting the bowl back down and holding up a magazine for you to look at. The magazine, with him and the rest of NAPE on the cover. “Wow, I had no idea you liked us this much,” he says, flipping through the pages to find the article.

It hurts to roll your eyes, but you do it anyway. “Don’t flatter yourself, Park. I bought it because it was my first printed write-up.” And last, you do not add.

The lump in your throat is immediate and all-consuming. Seeing the magazine was a real shock, knowing that — though uncredited — you had left a mark on the world, no matter how small. And that thousands of NAPE fans around the country, and in all nations that print Daydream Mag, had you to thank for transcribing the interview. It wasn’t much, but it was yours. Jay’s eyes turn glassy and his gaze falls to the pages once more, running his finger over the words, your words. The thud of your heart in your ears pads the silence. You wonder if he’s thinking what you were, that you’ve both made it. Both of your dreams unspooling before your very eyes, and somehow, after all these years, your paths found a way to cross again. In print, no less.

At least, that’s how it felt before you lost your job.

“Wow,” Jay whispers. “This is really special, YN. You’re amazing.”

The article wasn’t much to write home about. And sure, when you found out, some of your work friends treated you to drinks that evening, and got a celebratory cake made. And yes, you called your mum in happy tears from the office toilet. But seeing Jay make a fuss over it on your behalf is nothing short of humiliating. Your cheeks burn at the sight—a chart-topping artist praising the ex-girlfriend he ghosted over some paragraphs no one else knew she wrote.

God, what a joke.

“You’re the one who said all the words, and the guys.” You fiddle with the loose thread at the top of your duvet cover. “All I did was read some notes, watch a recording and type it all up.”

He shakes his head and in a blink, he’s crouching by the side of your bed, looking up at you with huge eyes. “That was our first big feature, my mum cut out the parts about me and stuck them to the fridge. Heeseung’s parents got it blown up and framed for the living room.”

“Anybody could’ve written it.”

“I know, but ‘anybody’ didn’t write it.” Jay’s eyes search yours, like he’s begging you to see where he’s coming from, that he means it. “You did.”

It’s only when you cough, a harsh rattle in your throat, that he seems to remember himself, remember the situation and the dakgaejang on your desk. Without a word, he helps you sit up in bed, propping your pillow up before bringing the soup over on a tray. Steam curls up from the bowl, heating your face, and the first spoonful is rich and spicy and perfect. Tender shredded chicken and soft vegetables. A long, contended hum rumbles out of you. “Holy shit,” you murmur, already feeling your blocked nostrils starting to open up. It tastes more like a memory than anything else. Like Jay’s broad shoulders in the kitchen, standing over your stove. His hoodie over your shoulders and the soft hum of the washing machine as you watched him cook. Like cuddling on the couch with a stranger and asking him to stay. Whether it was period-induced sensitivity or that food really was the quickest way to someone’s heart, you fell for him that night.

Jay gives a firm nod. “Alright, I know I’m not exactly who you’d want to spend your time with, so is there someone I could call to look after you? At least until Aeri gets off work?”

Hearing it from him, the reminder that he has a life and things to worry about that no longer include you stings the backs of your eyes. Another cold symptom, probably. You take another glorious spoonful of rice and soup, chewing slowly.

“I’ll call Riki when my phone’s back on.”

As if on cue, your phone starts to life, a black and white film strip of you and Aeri staring up at you from the lockscreen. Jay chews his lip, watching you with his hands on his hips, clearly eager to leave, and, to his luck, Riki answers on the first ring. “Yo, YN. What you saying?” he asks, delighted as the music in the background comes to a stop.

“Are you busy?”

“Not really — ow — okay, yeah, I’m kind of busy. What’s good, though? You alright?”

Your cuticles sting where your thumb bothers them, picking at the raw skin unthinkingly. Terrified of admitting to Riki that you need him, you say, “Yeah, no, I’m fine. Talk later, yeah?”

“Safe,” he says and cuts the phone.

Jay raises a brow. “It’s okay to ask for help when you need it. You know that, right?”

“I know,” you say, trying to convince yourself. “I’ll call Somi then Jaehyun.”

“No!” he blurts out, covering his mouth with his palm as if he can push the words back in. “I mean, you don’t need to bother him when I’m here, I could stay. If you want me to stay, I can stay.”

There’s no time to overthink his reaction, nor is there time to overthink the flutter in your chest at the sight of it, because as soon as he’s done speaking, you’re already saying, “You can stay.”

He only nods and stays there, standing over you. He is very still. It doesn’t even look like he’s breathing. Or blinking. Unless he’s blinking at the exact same time you are.

“You can also sit on the bed if you want,” you offer.

He gestures vaguely towards his body. “These are my outside clothes.”

You could have laughed at that, the idea that maybe his smart trousers and the Ralph Lauren polo shirt tucked into them were his casual inside clothes. Unfortunately, because he is Jay, and you are you, you’re too busy being struck by his remembering such a mundane detail to joke around. A silly thing you’ve since grown out of worrying about. You point him towards the drying rack in the living room where Heeseung had left some laundry. You’re not sick enough to tell Jay he can change in front of you, but you are sick enough to picture it as he closes your door behind him.

Sick enough to picture the smooth expanse of his back, muscles flexing while he pulls his T-shirt over his head. The cinch of his waist, the unfairly round curve of his ass, his Calvin Klein boxer briefs clinging to him like a second skin. His toned arms and thighs. It only takes a second for him to come back, fully dressed, in Heeseung’s grey sweatpants and white Henley that hugs his biceps. You open your mouth to say something casual like, I wasn’t picturing you naked, or you look nice in clothes, but he uses the bottom of his shirt to clean off his glasses and the sight winds you. Dark ink sticks out of his waistband, round edges touching his waist.

“You…” The sentence dies on its way out, your finger shaking as you point at him. “When did you get that?”

“Get wha—Oh.” He looks down at his side, the tips of his ears burning pink. “Two years ago? Last year? I don’t really remember.” Putting his glasses back on, he lifts the left side of his shirt properly, tugging at his waistband too. Only a little, only enough to make your heart race and show the word, nape, written in huge swirling cursive. “Hurt so bad, but it’s pretty, right?”

Pretty sexy, more like. “Yeah. Pretty,” you agree, willing for him to stop showing off his skin before you do something unwise.

“I actually have a couple now.”

The rest of Jay’s tattoos, all one of them, are very tiny and very him—a treble clef behind his right ear. He blushes when you tell him you like it, giving a sheepish smile as he gets under the covers beside you, careful not to knock your bowl over.

“You’re not scared of getting sick?”

“Nah.” Jay shakes his head. “I’m sure you’ll take good care of me if I do.”

“Whatever,” you mumble, focusing on your dakgaejang instead of your blushing cheeks.

When you finish eating you take a nap, eventually waking to the long set sun and Jay bringing over a cup of tea and some paracetamol. He crouches by your side and feels your forehead with the back of his hand. “How’re you feeling, sleepyhead?”

“Is Aeri home?”

“She texted saying she was going to crash at ours. With Heeseung.”

“Do you think you could stay over?” you ask slowly.

Jay tilts his head, eyebrows meeting in the middle. He’s as taken aback by your request as you are. For a long while, he simply stares up at you, like he’s waiting for you to take it back. You don’t. And so, finally, he nods and says, “I can stay over. Absolutely, I can stay over.”

After a surprisingly restful night of sleep, your second day with the cold begins with your head on Jay’s chest and your leg around him. Neither of you says anything about that.

For breakfast, he makes toast soldiers and beans, and you can’t contain your excitement, even though it hurts your throat to speak. “This was, like, the only breakfast I ate when I was little,” you gush, taking a picture to show your mum. “Especially when I was sick. This is perfect, Jay. Thank you.”

From the other side of the table, he watches you dunk a strip of buttered toast into your dippy egg with a smile on his face. “I know, YN. I’m just glad you still like it.”

You sniff, ignoring the heat rushing to your cheeks and neck—Yizhuo was right, this cold is no joke. Rubbing your hands together, you let crumbs fall to your plate and pull your dressing gown tighter around yourself, redoing the belt.

Back in bed, you warm your hands against a cup of tea while Jay opens your laptop. He insists there is a YouTube video you must see, but when he opens the site, the very first video is NAPE Swap Favourite Snacks | Snacked, uploaded fifteen minutes ago. Great. As it turns out, you had it all wrong, hell is not the common cold. Hell, you’re learning, is whatever the fuck is happening to you right now. This cannot be real life. All you did was watch that stupid video of them spotting each other’s lies. And then the one where they played most likely to with Variety. And showed Glamour what was on their phones.

Every inch of your body burns. “I didn’t put that there,” you blurt out. “Should we watch it ironically?”

A shudder racks through Jay and he scowls. “I kind of do not like to… look at myself. At all. So, no. Thanks though.”

Nothing about his tone or demeanour suggest that he’s joking. The thought that someone so beautiful, that Jay, could feel that way seems senseless. “If I had that face…”

“You’d what?” His straight teeth dent his bottom lip, curious eyes roving your face. Whatever insecurities plagued him a second ago are long forgotten now apparently. To your silence, he says, “I’m glad you don’t have my face, I really like yours.”

When this is all said and done, you’ll have to see a doctor about whatever part of the cold is making your heart race like this. “Just show me the video,” you mumble.

“Yes, ma’am.”

What if forks were made of salt? is eight minutes and twenty-four seconds of some white guy asking and answering what you now feel is an essential question. What if forks were made of salt? Would every bite of steak be perfect? Glossing over the mild existentialism at the end, the video is uplifting, awe-inspiring.

So much so that you and Jay discuss it for an hour before he says, “I bought one.”

Your jaw drops. “No way.”

“Yeah way! I’ll let you try it ou—” Jay’s ringing phone cuts him off and steals the smile from his lips. “Fuck,” he mutters, wiping his face with his palm. “Sorry. I’ve been ducking our manager’s calls, kind of, so I have to take this.”

Nosiness gets the better of you. “Put it on speaker.”

Jay obliges, screwing his eyes shut like he’s bracing himself. Through the phone, his manager’s voice is soft, kind, when he launches straight into his spiel. “I’m trying to bear with you here. I get it, I swear, but if you don’t have lyrics, can you just tell me that? We’ll figure it out, but you need to let me help you.”

Immediately, you regret asking Jay to put the phone on speaker, feeling your stomach drop.

He lets a quiet second pass before sighing. “I don’t have lyrics, Sunoo.” At this, the groan that comes through the phone is never-ending. “Yet,” he adds, rubbing his temples.

“I really did not want you to say that.” Sunoo sighs. “But it’s okay. See, you told me the truth and nothing bad happened. We’ll work something out, okay. Just take it easy, talk to your bandmates, and answer your fucking phone when I call you.”

“Got it.”

Sunoo cuts the phone abruptly and Jay hides his face in his hands, ears burning red.

“Ar—” He utters your name, interrupting you. “Yeah?”

“I don’t really want to talk about this right now.”

You reach out for him, palm resting on his knee and giving it a squeeze. He rests his calloused palm over your hand, locking his fingers with yours. There goes your heart, racing again. And what’s left of the day passes in half-awake snippets. The opening scene of The Matrix here, some spoonfuls of hot soup there, until you finally settle down for the night next to Jay. He falls asleep first, his strong arm around your shoulders holding you close. The thump of his heart is soothing as a lullaby. His chest rises and falls steadily with his slow breathing, in stark contrast to the shallow breaths you’re fighting for, until finally, you fall asleep too.

Hours later, a coughing fit wakes you up, skin damp with a cold sweat as you lean over your side of the bed. It’s relentless, each wheezy hack aching a spot in the back of your skull—your throat has never hurt so much in your life. Jay rushes out of the bed and comes back with a cup of water, rubbing circles on the wet fabric of your t-shirt with his palm while you try to catch your breath. When you manage to, you drink the water in gulps, finishing it quickly while he squints at the boxes on your nightstand before opening one of them—antiseptic throat spray. He pushes your hair away from your face, tucking it behind your ears and watching you with worry in his massive eyes. “Can you open up for me, baby?” he asks softly. When you do, he positions the nozzle between your lips and clears his throat. “It’s going to be a little uncomfortable, yeah?”

You nod, blinking with heavy eyelids. He sprays it three times and it takes a lot of work not to gag. A little uncomfortable might be the understatement of the century, but already the menthol is soothing your throat.

“There you go,” he murmurs, taking the spray out of your mouth. “Atta girl.” His large palm rests on your cheek, his thumb wiping your tears.

At this, at all of it — him being here, doing this for you with no complaints — your stomach is in knots. You wrap your fingers around his wrist, keeping his hand in place. “Why are you being so nice to me?” you croak.

In the lamplight, his eyes flicker over every part of your face before he sniffs. “Let’s try and get some sleep.”

“Jongseong…” His full name slips out of you, like you’re back in uni. Like you’re back together—still together.

He says nothing, only closing the lid on the spray and helping you lie back down before joining you in bed. He doesn’t say anything when you curl into his side or when he wraps his arms around you.

Then, right when you blink for the last time, you feel the rumble of his chest against your ear. He says, “You make it so easy.”

It’s another three days before you feel better and Jay spends all of them at your side. At the end of it all, though there’s no reason for Jay to stay any longer, hugging him goodbye is bittersweet. But in all of your time apart, your phone doesn’t get much rest from seeing his name on it. And you don’t get sick of texting him back. Texting him first.

you: We’re having a movie night on Friday!!! Heeseung is coming so I was wondering if you wanted to come along too? Also it would be nice to see you again if you’re not sick of seeing me

you: Or just sick in general… how are you feeling actually?

jongseong 😽: That sounds really nice!!! I’d love to join you guys thank you for thinking of me ❤️

jongseong 😽: Who could ever be sick of seeing you? If anything I’m surprised you’re not sick of me

jongseong 😽: This is a serious emergency ik it’s 8am but please text back

jongseong 😽: HIIIII can u reply rn

jongseong 😽: Heeseung said you liked the choux vanilles from Toad’s so I picked some up for you even though you did NOT reply in my time of need. Are you home? I’ll leave these at your doorstep and get out your hair

you: THANK YOU THANKY OUU THANK YOU THANK YOU

you: You can come in! I’m getting ready to meet Yizhuo for breakfast but maybe we can head out together?

jongseong 😽: Sounds goood!!!

jongseong 😽: It was really nice seeing you yesterday morning, even if it was only for a little bit. I didn’t mean to make it weird and ik that doesn’t make it any better but I’m really sorry

you: Noooo!!! I swear you didn’t make anything weird, I had a lot of fun with you and I wish we could have spent more time together!

When Heeseung arrives for movie night an hour early, he arrives alone—not counting the two bottles of wine and three pints of ice cream he brought with him. “Hey!” he says, smiling from ear to ear. “You look well, I’ve heard awful things.”

You roll your eyes, taking his offerings and letting him in. “Trust me, it was much worse than whatever you heard.”

“Five days with Jay though, how was that?” he asks in a sing-song voice, following you into the kitchen. At this, your smile is immediate and very wide, so much so that he raises his brows, beaming too. “Wow, that good, huh?”

You turn away, putting the wine in the fridge and the ice cream in the freezer, trying your best to look any less elated. “Did you ask him?” you ask, genuinely curious.

Heeseung shakes his head, sinking into one of your dining chairs at the table. He is quiet for long enough to make you wonder if you’d imagined that second night, what he’d said. You make it so easy. Five simple words that your mind has allowed to colour the rest of the week, and all of your conversations since, rosy. To think harder about how Jay cooked an endless supply of dakgaejang for you and Aeri, restocking your groceries afterwards. How you sat with your back to the bathtub while he washed your hair over the edge of it.

Five simple words that may have been nothing more than that.

Finally, Heeseung says, “I didn’t have to ask, he was texting me nightly updates and gave me a full debrief when he got back.”

“Wow,” you repeat. “That good, huh?”

Shrugging off his jacket, he nods. “Better—” He stops short at the sight of Aeri in the doorway. She’s in her pyjamas, scrunching her wet hair in an old T-shirt and holding her phone to her ear. A great big grin tugs his lips up at the corners, scrunches his eyes. “Hey, baby,” he says, pulling her into his arms, splashes of pink hitting his white T-shirt when he leans down to peck her lips.

She seems just as delighted, holding the speaker against her chest as she looks at you to ask, “Is it you that hasn’t tried that mussels from Lilly’s?” When you nod she puts the phone back to her ear. “Could you add another portion of mussels and black bean sauce to the order, please? Okay, perfect, see you at eight!”

Just the mention of food makes your stomach grumble, hunger taking over as if you didn’t have a bowl of rice and stew an hour ago. From the mini charcuterie board you’d been preparing before Heeseung arrived, you eat a slice of smoky chorizo. And another. Aeri joins you, lifting the wedge of cheddar you bought earlier and taking a bite straight out of it. She hums, pleased, while you watch in horror.

“So that’s actually for sharing,” you point out belatedly.

“It’s only you two.” Shrugging, she puts the cheese down, cutting off her teeth mark. “And Jay,” she adds, looking around as if he might pop out from behind something. “Where is he anyway?”

“On his way. Probably?” Heeseung suggests.

“Probably? You live together, what do you mean probably?” Aeri asks.

“I’ve been out all day. Shall I ring him and see?”

You shake your head. “We’re not watching anything until eight o’clock, he’s got half an hour.”

Armed with snacks, you all set up the living room together. Charcuterie plate in the middle of the table for easy access while you wait for dinner, chilled wine and carton of apple juice, the coveted final packet of salt & vinegar crisps which you plan to steal so Jay can have them. Aeri’s in control of the remote, so the three of you watch YouTube videos of eighteen-year-olds playing Dress to Impress on Roblox while you wait for food and Jay to arrive. Eight p.m. comes quickly and with no sign of either, though it seems like you’re the only one to take notice as Aeri and Heeseung are fully locked in on rating the looks coming down the runway.

“One star.” He groans, gesturing at the TV with both of his palms, furious. “The theme was sea monster, why are you wearing a beret and holding an ice cream cone?”

It’s half-eight when your takeaway arrives, and your phone lights up in your lap.

jongseong 😽: Can’t make it tonight

jongseong 😽: Sorry

Not many things can wipe the Lilly’s-induced smile from your face, but this does the job. In a split second. Worsened by the fact that he doesn’t say anything else. Beside you, Heeseung and Aeri open every container, humming with increased volume and enthusiasm at the sight and smell of each new part of your meal.

jongseong 😽: Tied up with recording but I would’ve loved to see you!

You split a pair of wooden chopsticks, stealing a salt & chilli covered chip from the box in Aeri’s lap. She doesn’t stop you. Nor does she complain when you take more. Heeseung hands you an oil-spotted brown paper bag, chicken balls, but still, the stir in your stomach persists, disappointment rather than hunger.

jongseong 😽: Are you free in the morning? Coffee date?

jongseong 😽: *coffee run

you: No worries!!!!! A coffee date sounds really nice :)

you: *coffee run

jongseong 😽: :)

Locking your phone, you tuck it under your thigh and reach over to open a bottle of the wine Heeseung brought. “Jay can’t make it,” you say, hating how small and upset you sound. Heeseung frowns and Aeri squeezes your knee. You’re the one who presses play on the remote, and Superbad’s opening credits start up, while the empty spot to your left gets colder and colder.

jongseong 😽: Hiiiii sorry again about last night, are we still on for this morning?

jongseong 😽: Ik it’s so early hahaha

You almost drop your toothbrush in the sink at the sight of his name in your phone, rushing to text back.

you: Wowwwww Park, are you trying to bail on me already…? Again? Sick.

jongseong 😽: No way! I’ve already left the flat!!!

Right away, a picture of Jay on the Tube appears in the thread, his smiling cheeks and eyes poking out over the top of a thick black scarf. You heart-react to the picture then remove it, replacing it with a friendly thumbs-up instead—there is, however, no fix for the butterflies in your stomach. The heat in your cheeks. You gargle mouthwash and pack your bag before running off to go meet him at once. So excited, so jittery, you can’t even read the thriller you packed for the commute.

Through the café window, you see Jay before he sees you. He’s drumming his fingers against the table, lips pressed together, his eyes on the door. His hair is short and styled so it sits up off his forehead, spiky sort of. You’ve never seen it as short as this. It’s good, you think, that you’ve seen him first, because now you can turn on your heel and go home to address the thump in your chest. As if feeling your eyes on him, he turns around, gaze meeting yours right away, and a grin breaks out over his face. Crinkles his eyes. Dimples his cheek. Takes your breath away. You can’t help but smile too as you hurry inside. He’s standing when you reach the table.

“Hey,” Jay says, pulling you into a hug that smells like honey and smoke and doesn’t last nearly long enough. “I really am sorry about last night.”

“Don’t worry about it, you’re here now.”

He nods, grinning. “I like your jacket, it’s cute.”

“Right? It’s Minjeong’s.” You look up at him, overwhelmed by the closeness of his face to yours, by the handsomeness of said close face. “You cut your hair,” you say, because it’s the only thought you’re having that has nothing to do with how good he looks and smells.

Jay’s lips curl into a sheepish smile. “Thanks for noticing.”

“Of course.” You nod. “You look like a baby.”

And there it is again, that grin. A laugh. “Great, because that’s exactly what I was going for. Thank you, YN.” He gestures to the table, at the steaming mug across from his seat. “I got you a latte.”

He really did! And the art on top of it is really normal!! It’s a love heart!!! And your actual heart is beating at a rate others might hear and think: wow, she’s being really normal right now! Hey, everybody!! Come take a look at how normal she’s being!!!

“Are you ageist?” you ask, taking your seat. To his furrowed brows, you continue. “There’s nothing wrong with looking like a baby. I was a baby once, you know.”

Jay sits down slowly, studying you over the rim of his cup and taking a long sip before he says, “I was too.”

Something about it all, seeing him like this, in a café and not studying, is strange. Jay was big on brewing his own coffee, steeping his own tea—exam season was the only justifiable time to splurge on delicious multi-hyphenate beverages. You take a sip of your own drink and try to come up with something normal to say, settling on, “I can’t believe we’re getting a coffee and it was your idea.”

“I don’t really drink anymore, my medication doesn’t… like that very much.”

“Jay, it’s nine o’clock,” you point out. “Oh… my God.” You cover your hand with your mouth, horrified, and leap to make things better. “I’m not judging you.”

“I didn’t mean I’d drink at this time. Jesus, YN. I’m not Scottish.”

“Okay, so you’re judging me.”

“I can’t help it, that’s just my God given right as a… sort of English person. Asking me not to judge you would be like asking me to kill myself.”

“Really desirable?” You sigh as soon as the words come out. “I’m sorry,” you whisper, guilt washing over you.

Jay’s eyes widen and his jaw drops, a surprised, contagious, laugh rushing out of him. He covers his face with his hands while you watch in horror. “Anyway, I was going to ask, how long do you have to stay somewhere before you can claim it?”

He’s still smiling. Your heart is still racing.

“I think it’s more of a feeling,” you say finally.

“Yeah, I think you’re right.” Jay lifts his notebook from the table, stuffing it into his jacket pocket. “You look a lot better since I last saw you, I was starting to think there was something about being near me that was making you sick, you know? Three times is a pattern and all that.”

“We saw each other two days ago.”

“For ten minutes,” he points out.

Ten minutes that you spent the rest of the day poring over, recounting every single detail, every little thing that led to him kissing your cheek when he said goodbye.

“Well, I only just got here, so I’m not sure we can rule it out yet.” Racing heart, turning stomach, breathlessness—symptoms of post-acute infection, apparently. You offer a weak chuckle. “Thanks again for looking after me, you really didn’t have to.”

“I wanted to. And besides, it was nice spending time with you.” Jay smiles. “How’ve you been?”

“Just the usual.”

“I don’t really know what your usual is these days,” he admits too casually for the weight of it all.

“Right… uh, I’ve been—” You try to think about it, wondering what usual means to you. It used to be so simple. Your usual used to be studying with Jay before and after classes. Sharing every meal you could when time permitted. Ending the night together at his place or yours, even if you’d spent the day apart. He used to be your usual.

“I had an interview yesterday morning. At ‘Interview,’ and I think it went well,” you say, voice high pitched and trailing off towards the end. Worried about jinxing yourself, you hadn’t told anyone about it, not even Yizhuo who sent you the job posting. But now that you’ve said the words out loud, to Jay, you can’t bring yourself to stop. “But my friend told me they’re interviewing until the end of the month, so it might be a bit before I hear anything. I’m feeling good about it though, my portfolio is strong, and it’s versatile — at least that’s what the recruiter said — so I should have a shot for a few of the jobs there if I don’t get this particular one.”

Jay’s face lights up with every word you say, as if you’ve let him in on something secret, something precious.

“I didn’t mean to talk your ear off,” you say, hiding behind a warm sip of coffee.

His smile takes over his face, ear to ear and so delighted. Pink kisses the tips of his ears, the apples of his cheeks. “Luckily I have two ears, and they really love your voice so…” He trails off, ducking his head like he’s embarrassed by his own sincerity. “I’m really happy to hear that, YN. I want all of your good news. And the bad stuff too—everything.”

Suddenly sheepish, you direct the question back towards him, asking what’s been keeping him busy lately. His smile is immediate and wide. “I’ve been writing like crazy since I last saw you.” Jay tilts his head, chewing on his bottom lip, but his smile doesn’t budge. “It’s stupid but it sort of feels like I can… see or something now, again. If that makes sense.”

“Not at all.” You can’t help but smile too. “Tell me everything.”

Pressing his lips together, Jay lets his gaze flick towards the window, looking out at the quiet street. Across the road is a deserted play park with swings that sway in the wind. A fish-shaped spring rocker does the same, bobbing gently. A man pushes a pram. Jay opens his mouth and says, “It’s like I’ve been walking around blindfolded for the last few years and someone finally took it off of me, and now I can see and there’s—” He stops short, biting his lip as his eyes fall on the swirls in his coffee. And then flick up to meet yours. “Well now there’s so much light again.”

You clear your throat, your mind a storm, thoughts unclear over the rush of your blood, the pounding of your heart in your ears. The latte he got you, while delicious, does nothing to calm the raging waters. It feels so pointed, too pointed to ignore. You were startlingly aware of how your five-day fever dream had blurred a line or two in your head. Spending all that time together, letting him look after you — Neo opening the door, following the white rabbit — flipped the switch in your head and turned your ifs into whens. If / when we’re alone, if / when we kiss. Turned you back into an eighteen-year-old, waiting by the phone for Jay to text you back.

It’s only when his smile falters, just a touch, that you realise you haven’t said anything. “That’s kind of extremely beautiful,” you say finally, massively understating it.

“Yeah.” He nods. “I thought so too.”

After finishing your drinks, you sit for a while longer, rehashing uni gossip you bled dry years ago, until the staff start giving you increasingly dirty looks, all but begging you to leave.

Jay holds the door open for you. “So what are you up to today?”

“This is—” Cold wind scrapes your neck, cutting you off as you button your coat to the top. “This is what I’m up to today.”

An amused breath slips out of him, a white cloud by his nostrils, and he takes his scarf off, wrapping it around your neck instead. “I mean after,” he says, unmoved by his gesture. Meanwhile, you’ve got an inhale full of his scent and the exposed column of his neck, his heart-shaped birthmark, on your mind like a thirsty vampire. To your silence he waves his large hand in your face. “Earth to YN.”

“Right here, Park.” You swat his hand away, clearing your throat. “What are you up to after this?”

“I have a session in about an hour, come with?” he offers. “I should warn you though, it’ll be really boring.”

“Boring? I could tell you hated your job and all of your fans.”

“No, I mean for you.” Jay nudges your shoulder. Despite the layers, your heart stumbles at the contact. “Because you kind of just have to sit there and be quiet, which I know will be difficult for you.”

Heat floods your cheeks, pools at the base of your spine. “Shut up,” you mumble, turning away from him.

“What?” Genuine confusion pulls his voice up a few octaves. “Oh,” he says after a beat, figuring it out for himself. “I didn’t mean it like that, but when did I ever complain? I like it.”

“Please stop talking.”

Jay stands to attention, saluting you. “Yes, ma’am.”

“Fuck, if you’re going to beg me then, fine, Jay. I’ll come to the studio with you.” You sigh, struggling to fight a smile. “I can’t catch a break with you.”

His head tips back with sweet laughter and he loops his arm through yours, tugging you and the butterflies in your stomach down the road towards the station. “No, YN. You really can’t.”

On the empty platform, you stand side by side, looking at the massive NAPE poster plastered on the wall. Jay, who usually has no shortage of things to say at any given moment, stares at it in silence. The poster is taller than you are, with No Way Back Tour written at the top in blocky red sans serif. In the centre is a four cut photo strip with a picture of each member, that’s thresholded to oblivion, and the bottom lists a bunch of different venues around London.

“What do you think?” you ask. “I think it’s cool, the portraits look good with the red on them like that.”

Jay snaps back into motion, turning to face you, his teary eyes finding yours. He smiles. “I think I had something else in mind when Riki told me there was a huge poster of my face in the station.”

“What? Just your face?”

He shrugs. “Yeah, just my face.”

“Park Jongseong,” you utter, shaking your head. “Where is your team spirit?”

Jay rolls his eyes but can’t hide his smile. “Dead and gone. Take a picture? Please.” He holds his phone out for you to take and stands by the poster, poking the cheek of his large, printed face.

“Celebrities…” You sigh, though you can’t ignore the swell of pride in your chest. You’ve taken a thousand pictures of Jay standing by posters for movies and artists he enjoys, so this feels almost full-circle in a way you’re struggling to wrap your head around. “Can I take some on my phone?”

He nods, and you slip his phone into your bag, reaching for yours—“This is not happening right now!” A uniformed teenage girl is standing right behind you when you turn around. The strap of her backpack has a can badge with NAPE written on it. Her face and neck and ears bright red as she points a trembling finger at him. “You’re—you’re… Jay fucking Park!”

“Hello,” Jay says, he’s smiling too. He is also turning red. “Good morning.”

“Hello?” she repeats, incredulous. “Hello, yourself, Jay Park. Holy shit!” Everything she says sits at the junction of whispering and screaming as your eyes flick back and forth between the two of them.

“I really slept in this morning and I was like ugh, I don’t want to go to school, so I almost didn’t leave the house, but then I finally did and I was like, I don’t want to walk, so then I came down here, which I literally never do and then I saw you and I was like, she’s so pretty, and then you were taking pictures of literal Jay Park. This is like literally a sign,” she continues, all in one breath. When she shows you her lock screen, she’s listening to Carolina. “My top song for the last two years.”

You’ve never met a celebrity before, as a fan anyway, so you can’t say for sure how you’d react, but her coherence is impressive—you’re not sure you could stand in front of Michael B. Jordan without crying or screaming or proposing, never mind recounting the events that led you there in the first place.

Jay’s entire face is smiling, looking down at this sweet girl like she hung the moon and the stars—he looks like the fan here, hanging onto her every word. “It must be a sign. A great one. I’m really happy to meet you.” A beautiful mix of intrigue, delight, and timidness colours his tone and his wide eyes, straightens his spine.

You feel equally mesmerised by each of them.

“Same,” she says simply, extending a hand for both you and Jay to shake, the picture of composure all of a sudden. She’s amazing. “I’m Wonhee. No one at school’s going to believe this at all, holy shit.”

“Wonhee,” he repeats, to her utmost elation. “Do you want a picture, Wonhee? So everyone at school believes you?”

Wonhee’s jaw drops. “Are you kidding?”

When she says it’s okay, Jay puts his arm around her shoulders, a boyish grin scrunching his sweet face. He looks even more like the fan in all one million live photos you take on Wonhee’s phone. “Wow,” she utters, swiping through the pictures. “Wow!” A glorious, giddy laugh comes out of her and she bolts away up the stairs, leaving the station—so much for school.

“She was so cute,” you coo, unable to keep the smile off your face.

“Yeah.” Jay’s gaze stays on the stairs like she might come back. “Yeah, she was.”

“Look at you, my little celebrity!”

This makes him look away, his eyes falling to his feet, ears and neck just as red as Wonhee’s were. “No, not really,” he mumbles. “Or, not universally, which is a relief. I don’t really get noticed like that, and I think it was only because I was standing next to a giant picture of my face.”

And what a lovely face it is. “You’re her lockscreen, Jay. I’m sure she’d recognise you if she only saw the back of your head.”

“I’m her lockscreen?”

You nod, liking the giddy smile he wears. Liking the flutter in your stomach at the sight of it. The warmth in your chest. “Isn’t it so crazy that you’ve made her day, maybe even her week, and all you did was take a picture?”

“Not really, she’s made my day too.” Jay shrugs, blush still lingering on his skin. “I was already having an amazing day with you, of course. So meeting Wonhee’s just the cherry on top of a great day that already had a cherry on it.” His words come out rushed, one big run on word with no breaks to breathe or think. Like everything he says is coming out of him as soon as it crosses his mind.

“Great,” you say through a breathy laugh. “I’m having a good time too.”

“Washington State is actually the top producer of sweet cherries in the States, did you know that? I was starting to miss them, being away so long—and now I have two cherries on my wonderful day.” Jay is grinning from ear to ear like some sort of adorably Cheshire Cat / Joker hybrid, rocking back and forth on his feet. He might be the most excited person in the whole world at this very moment. Second to Wonhee at least.

You can’t think of the last time you saw him so excited about something. It’s interesting to see a celebrity so thrilled by parts of the job that seem so normal from the outside looking in. Something you’d think he’d be used to by now, two years and millions of streams in. Regardless, you’re just happy he’s happy.

And because you can’t resist teasing him, you say, “I get it, Jay. You’re having the best day of your life because you got attention from a pretty girl. Congratulations.” You give him a slow round of applause.

Undeterred, he tucks some of your hair behind your ear, his warm touch lingering on your skin. “I’m not trying to brag or anything, but I’ve gotten attention from two pretty girls today.”

Your cheeks burn. “Even better.”

Behind you, the Tube whooshes to a stop and the doors slide open right in front of where Jay’s standing. A distraction, finally. “And look at that,” he says, pointing to the doors. “Three cherries.”

NAPE’s room at Laughing Kitty Studios is a large wood-panelled rectangle and you two are the first to arrive. Jay takes his shoes off by the door, so you do the same, stepping in after him. Plaques and posters line the walls, streaming milestones and Nirvana. A worn leather couch sits in the middle of the room with a long table and two chairs at its back. Jay gestures around him and says, “This is where the magic happens.” He gives you a tour when you ask, showing you the huge monitor and lots of expensive mixing equipment that all looks the same to you. In the vocal booth, he shows you the controls and the locked cabinet where they keep snacks.

Helping you out of your coat, Jay hangs it up on the rack beside his and watches as you sink into the couch. “Do you prefer working here or at home?” you ask.

He takes a beat, thinking it over with his hands on his waist. “I guess it depends where we’re at. If we have a deadline or just want to get shit done, we work better here. And it’s nice having, like, a base, I guess, where other writers or producers can come to work with us.”

“That makes sense, it’s like a safe space, kind of.”

“Mmm, safe space,” he repeats. “I like that.” Jay sits too, leaving a small gap between you. “Most days though, especially when the weather’s shit, I prefer working at home.”

“Ah, see, I hated working at home; too many distractions.”

“Sunoo takes all our phones if he’s with us, so no distractions for NAPE at the studio.” Jay licks his lips, eyes meeting yours. “Not normally.”

Your awareness of Jay peaks. Of the spread of his thighs, of his hand grazing your leg when he lifts it from the couch cushion. Every cell in your body zings with this awareness, humming, and even though you’re smiling, even though your heart is a second away from beating out of your chest, you roll your eyes at him, cheeks on fire.

“Will you show me what you’ve been working on?” you ask. “Since I’ve come all this way?”

A boyish grin takes over his face as he nods. “But only because you’ve travelled all of fifteen minutes to get here, my strong, strong girl,” he says, taking out his phone and plugging it into the speaker behind the couch.

His strong, strong girl. Your sanity slips, just a little. Though you suppose it’s this alleged strength that keeps you sitting where you are, rather than jumping into his lap and kissing his stupid, handsome face.

Jay’s thumb hovers over the play button and he hesitates, seeming to second-guess himself before giving a hurried preface. “It’s just a demo, you know? Me and my guitar. I threw it together last night so the final thing probably won’t sound anything like this, alright?”

“You don’t have to play it for me if you don’t want to,” you say, squeezing his knee. “I’m sure it’s amazing though, because you wrote it.”

His ears go bright pink and he scratches the back of his neck. “It’s important to me that you hear it,” he tells you, sounding very certain for someone so clearly nervous. There’s something about it, his certainty, that makes your heart pick up, just a touch as you nod. He presses play and immediately the sound of his guitar fills the room, humming against the couch. Just like he did at the show, how he used to on the end of your bed, he picks a pretty melody. The image comes quick and clear—Jay at twenty. Twenty-one. Sitting in his underwear with his acoustic in his lap, picking the same notes over and over until they either sounded right, or you managed to convince him to get into bed instead. A knife to the gut would hurt less. And then he starts to sing. At first, in some of the most beautiful gibberish and lalalas you’ve ever heard. You open your mouth to compliment him anyway, but the lyrics come in, actual real words with actual real meanings, and everything you wanted to say falls to the wayside.

“You make my heart beat for you. I always cry too often, but I put too much in your hands. So much regret in the end,” Jay sings.

Through the speaker his voice is full and sincere and gorgeous as ever, all while he sits next to you with his bottom lip caught between his teeth. In your chest, your heart does an ungraceful tumble. If he can hear it, your thumping heart, he is polite enough not to comment, instead watching you closely, trying to gauge your reaction, maybe. Trying to read your mind.

“It’s a shame for you, it’s a shame for me. Is the blame on you? No, YN, it’s all on me.”

Oh.

A demo and a confession.

His thoughts laid bare at last, the vulnerability you used to beg for handed over on an acoustic platter. Curling around the room and filling the shortening gap between your bodies until your knee presses against his thigh, or the other way around—you can’t tell who moved. You don’t remember. You don’t care. Not when his lips are parted like that, not when he’s close enough for you to feel the heat radiating from his body. Close enough to kiss. The voice in your head says his name over and over. Jongseong. Jongseong. Jongseong. Your favourite nine letters stuck on the tip of your tongue. There are too many things to say, and too many ways to say them, so you don’t say anything at all.

Luckily, Jay says it all for you—sings it. “Wish I knew how to make it right. Just wanna look into your eyes, tell you the truth that I can’t hide, I love you so much.”

Answering seems so simple, but when you try, your mind blanks. Fills, rather, buzzing with all the wrong things. Thoughts and memories. Everything that’s happened over the last three weeks, the time you’ve been together again. Back in each other’s orbit. How he dropped everything to look after you, chose you.

How he finally chose you.

There’s a lightness in your chest, like some persistent weight has been lifted at long last. And now, looking at him, Jay. Your Jay—Jongseong. The freckles on his cheek, how the skin is tinted rosy. Pinched pink. His eyes, dark and wide and staring straight into yours. The only thing on your mind is: I love you, I love you, I love you. You tip your chin, and the space between your lips and his becomes little more than a technicality. His breath is warm against your skin, close enough to feel when it hitches. Close enough to see each of his eyelashes, to count them. To see how they flutter when he blinks, gaze falling to your mouth. Yours does the same, latching on the smooth pink skin, desperate now. Resisting seems futile, so you give in, pressing your lips to his and hoping it’ll be enough to tell him everything.

Jay’s relief is immediate. Clear in the shuddered breath that slips out of him, caught between kisses as he melts against you. His hand finds your jaw, fingers slipping into your hair behind your ear just like they used to. Tongue brushing up to tickle the roof of your mouth and make you smile like always. It feels like it’s been two minutes since your last kiss, not three years. Feels impossible that you went that long without this.

Without Jay.

His grip on your waist is gentle, but his fingertips sear your skin. He pulls you closer, and closer, each point of connection setting off a blaze in its wake. Mouth to mouth. Chest to chest. Knees to the sides of his thighs as you sink into his lap. Like this, under you, the sight of Jay is too much—flushed cheeks, plump lips, ragged breath. The feel of him, all solid muscle and huge palms slipping under your skirt. Nails digging into the curve of your ass. You lean in, lips catching his jaw, finding the side of his neck. His skittering pulse. His birthmark. Sucking on the warm skin there makes him groan, makes his hips buck. His dick strains against his jeans, hitting the exact spot that makes you putty in his hands, moans slipping from both of you as you work up a rhythm.

Your name trails off into a sigh when he tries to say it. “What does this mean?” he asks, breathless.

“I don’t know,” you admit, and for a long while afterwards, the only sound in the studio is the two of you trying to catch your breath. “Do you want to stop?” you ask, terrified for the answer.

Jay says nothing.

Your fingers slip easily through his hair, playing with the tickly short strands on the sides of his head. His question feels heavier the longer he goes without speaking, the longer you stew on it. What does this mean, if anything? There’s an uncomfortable swoop in your stomach, how could this possibly mean nothing? Nothing more than a spur of the moment makeout, never to be spoken of. A unanimous mistake.

On an inhale, Jay’s chest puffs out, touching yours for a heartbeat and he shakes his head. “Not for anything,” he whispers, leaning up to kiss you again.

And this time, when he rocks his hips, his grip on you tightens and he pulls you down to meet them. It’s too much all at once, heat lashing at you from every angle. Increasing with each brush of your tongues, with each press of his covered dick between your legs. Need burns a flame at the base of your stomach, tugs a whine out of you.

Against yours, Jay’s lips quirk into a smile, a smirk. “Needed this just as bad as me, huh, baby?” he asks, voice a low rasp.

“More,” you breathe.

To this, he pulls away, looking up at you with furrowed brows. He shakes his head and says, “No way.” Jay’s heavy palm cups your cheek, his eyes round and wide. A burst of tenderness in the midst of all the heat as his hips freeze under you. A flutter in your stomach. Warmth in your chest, on your cheeks.

“Absolutely, no way,” he says and once again, his lips come up to meet yours. Slow this time, gentle and sweet.

Until laughter erupts from the door, and forces the two of you apart. As if being caught in this position isn’t bad enough, a string of spit attaches you to him when you pull away. There are two guys standing in the doorway, one of them still laughing, the other one pressing his lips in a flat line, as though seeing the two of you like this is disappointing but not surprising.

Frustration and embarrassment wash over you in equal measure, a wave with the force of an eighteen-wheeler casting its great shadow above you. Only death could fix this, of that, you are certain—you can’t laugh at a dead person. At least not right away, surely there’s a buffer period of some description.

The amused one speaks first. “I thought you said you moved the couch off the wall so they wouldn’t fuck on it.”

“Yes, Jungwon. That was the general idea.” Stepping into the studio, shoes off, the disappointed one points at the sign above the light switch—a short list of forbidden things that has, no sex in the studio, written in bold, red letters at the top of it.

Great.

Maybe under different circumstances, if Jay had shown it to you, you might have laughed at the sign, thinking of what had to go wrong to lead to such a notice existing in the first place. For sex to rank over smoking and playing ball games on the list of things not to do in there. Now, like this, sitting in Jay’s lap with only a few layers of clothing between his erection and your dripping cunt, it makes you want to die.

Already, you had a whole host of things to stew over in bed tonight — spending all morning with Jay, the song, the kiss — and now you get to add being walked in on to the roster.

The rush of blood in your ears is disorienting, warbling Jay’s voice when he says, “It’s a great sign, Sunoo.” Completely unconcerned, he wears a great big smile and keeps his hands under your skirt. “But it says nothing about kissing.”

Your breath catches. Sunoo. His manager. Even better.

Without another thought, you stand, straightening your skirt. Jay doesn’t move, he just sits there with his hands on his thighs, eyes trailing over every inch of your body as if you’re still alone. As if now that he knows he can, he wants to use the opportunity to the fullest.

“Yes,” Sunoo agrees, sinking into one of the spinny chairs by the monitor and rubbing his temples. “And I’m coming to regret that.”

Silence hangs over the room as Jungwon steps inside, closing the door after himself. He runs his finger over the sign, following the words one at a time like he’s sounding it out or studying it. How nice it must be, not to have a stake in this moment. You clear your throat, deciding that if the universe isn’t going to answer your pleas for sudden death, you might as well perform good and normal social niceties. “I’m YN,” you announce, so loud that Jungwon flinches by the door. “It’s… nice to meet you both.”

“Likewise.” A genuine smile covers Sunoo’s face, scrunches his eyes—it’s like looking at an angel. “I can see why Jay talks about you so much.”

“Sorry for…” You trail off, unsure how best to put across whatever the hell you and Jay were doing—sorry for having a reconciliatory dry hump on your couch, doesn’t exactly roll off the tongue. “That,” you say finally.

He laughs and the sound is delightful, a dismissive wave of his hand accompanying it like he wasn’t just losing his mind. “Please, that wasn’t even the worst thing I’ve walked in on this week.” Sunoo shudders, seeming truly disturbed. “First time offence for Jay though,” he adds thoughtfully, which is oddly reassuring.

Jungwon claps his hands, one loud smack as he sits on the other end of the couch, a bright smile on his face like he’s solved some pressing matter. “So what if the sign says, no partners in the studio, instead?” he asks, nudging Jay.

His emphasis on the word partner sets off your stomach, steadily fluttering butterflies flying around a swirl of heat. Is that where this might have led? Where you and Jay could end up? Partners. Again? Casual-workplace-dry-humpationship isn’t a relationship status you’ve had before, or heard of, but now, the thought of it being as far as things go here, with Jay, is a horrible weight on your shoulders, a pressure in your chest.

Sunoo sighs. “I love this band, I really do, but the horny fuckers would just kiss each other.”

At this, you all laugh. All but Sunoo, anyway.

It’s straight to work when the rest of the guys arrive, and Sunoo settles on the other end of the couch, typing away at his laptop and pausing to give his opinion when they ask. Sunghoon sits with his knees to his chest, picking at his lip as he stares at the screen, clicking this and that, playing it back over and over, no matter what imperceptible change they’ve suggested.

Standing over his shoulder, Heeseung tilts his head. “Actually, yeah. Your way’s better, cut that.”

“I think quiet for half a bar instead of fading out—everything off just vocals, and then back on full force for the last chorus. Louder,” Jake suggests, so Sunghoon does just that and plays the whole thing over again. You can’t hear the difference, but all of the guys hum in approval.

Heeseung riffs. Jay does the same on his guitar, and he was sort of right. Maybe if you were less fascinated by him, you would be bored. But he’s kind of extremely good at this. All of them. They manage to lock in for hours at a time, bouncing ideas around and executing them perfectly in a matter of two or three takes. Late in the afternoon, Jungwon orders pizza and they stop working to eat before getting right back to it. It’s the only break they take all day.

“Look, I know you want to, but you don’t need to take a new song out with you—not yet anyway.” Sunoo stands up from the couch, putting his laptop into his bag. “You still have time to decide on the encore show, but maybe after all the travelling you’ll have a few finished songs. New setting, new inspiration.”

Jake furrows his brows. “Meaning?”

“Meaning, I think we’re cutting it a bit thin. I mean this is your last full week off — bar rehearsal — before tour starts, and I don’t want you so stressed about something with an easy fix.”

At the mention of the word tour, Jay stiffens. You do the same.

Jungwon takes his headphones off and turns to face the room, laptop in hand to show the screen. “Do we like these T-shirts for the U.S. shows?”

“Yeah, but…” Sunghoon squints, getting closer. “They look just like the Australia and New Zealand shirts.”

“Which look just like the Europe ones,” Heeseung points out.

Every sentence makes things worse and worse. They’re going on tour in a week. Jay is leaving in a week. Going to the U.S., to fucking Oceania, and this is how you’re finding out. The tightness in your chest, the ache in your stomach, is immediate. Instead of looking at you, Jay bites at his nails. Scrunches his nose.

“If we could kindly get back on track,” Sunoo interrupts, pulling his jacket on. “You have Live Lounge when you’re back in March, VEVO Studios in April—much better opportunities to showcase new music. I know you want something special for fans, but maybe we can shoot a performance video of… Royalty? And release it on Valentine’s Day?”

Jay hides his face in his hands. “Okay.”

“Just think about it, okay. It’s up to you, and I promise I’ll support whatever you decide. For now, though, I have carbonara and an episode of Lovely Runner waiting for me at home, so I’m away, yeah?”

With that, Sunoo leaves and Jungwon is quick to follow. The guys sit in silence for a bit before getting back to work. By your side, Jay hunches over his guitar, resting his chin on the body, picking at the strings aimlessly. Across the room, Heeseung, Jake, and Sunghoon crowd around the monitor, nitpicking.

While their demo plays through the speakers again, louder than before, Jay finally speaks. “You and your friends can come if you’re up to it, to the London show. Whoever you want. On me,” he mumbles, looking at the fretboard instead of you.

“Okay.” You nod, though the thought of having to tell Minjeong that Jay has upset you again, that you’ve let him close enough to be upset by him again, is too grim to bear, so you text the chat, inviting them along instead.

you: Nape concert next Friday night on me (on the band) who’s there?

somi: me me me me me

yizhuo: Will Jake be there?

riki: will jake be at his concert.

riki: what happened w you and jimin 🤔

yizhuo: No further questions your honour (she only wants to hookup HAHAHHAHA).

riki: my apologies twin (Go Get Your #Man).

you: Oh okay bc I thought you all had very important jobs right . Right. MY FUCKING BAD.

And just like that, all three of them stop texting.

It’s ten p.m. by the time you and Jay reach your flat, and neither of you have said anything since you said bye to the other guys back at the studio, ten Tube stops ago. You search in your bag for your keys, desperate to end this silence by disappearing inside. Jay has other plans though, apparently, because when you twist your key in the lock and step over the threshold he sighs, saying your name. You don’t look at him.

“I swear to God, I was going to tell you about the tour, okay? I wouldn’t just leave like that. Not again.” Though his credibility where telling you things is concerned is shaky at best, you nod and he continues. “I’ve known for ages, obviously, but I wasn’t sure when to tell you or if you’d care.”

“You weren’t sure I’d care that you’re leaving for two months?” you ask, hoping he can hear how absurd that sounds.

“Three months,” he corrects, mumbling an apology when you squint at him. “I didn’t want you to get the wrong idea about what I thought this was or could be, by talking about my short-term plans like you’re my girlfriend or something.”

Your scoff echoes through the hall, an accurate reflection of the irritation that heats you from the inside out. “Sure, Jay. Give me the right idea then.”

He takes a beat, his eyes catching over all of your features. “You’re cross with me,” he states simply.

Cross, he said. As if that even begins to cover it. Maybe if you were any less cross with him, the Briticism might have made you smile. “Very.”

“I’m sorry, YN. I should’ve told you sooner.”

“Sunoo told me. You didn’t say anything.”

“Look, I didn’t mean to—” Jay pauses, pressing his eyes shut with his fingers until his nails turn pale. With a shaky breath, he tries again. “We didn’t have hard conversations at home. My parents would just make up their minds and do shit, you know. I found out we were moving to Seoul when my dad came into my room with a bunch of boxes, and told me to fill them up.”

The words rush out of him, each of them a blade to the heart, deeper than the last. Twisting. You’ve seen all of his childhood photos, the calendar his parents had made when he was eight. His permed curly hair and bright smile, those big round eyes that never failed to melt your heart no matter how many times you saw the pictures. Hearing that his parents could raise him that way, their only child, to change his life at the drop of a hat, like he was just another thing to put in a box and cart away, stings the backs of your eyes. From what you remember, he’d gone from the U.S. to Korea, then London, all so quickly—and now you know, with no warning.

“London was the same, back to Tacoma, same thing, and back again. I never really…” He trails off, chewing on his lip before he starts again. “I thought Edinburgh would be like that too, it was supposed to be. But then I met you, and for the first time, the thought of leaving was terrifying. I thought it was about the band, what my parents might say, but it was you, YN. I never had a home to leave until I met you, and I didn’t realise that until it was already too late.”

The realisation sets in with deep unease. His room in Edinburgh was completely bare when you met him, just the essentials, the stuff you can only assume was easy to move with. It was only after the two of you had been together for a while that his room started filling up. Posters and knick-knacks. Snowglobes and postcards from whatever holiday Minjeong had planned for you, her and Jaehyun. At the end of it all, by the time it had been two weeks since Jay left your place and never looked back, his flatmate Wonbin handed you a box with these things in it. To your confusion, to your upset, he only raised a brow and said, I thought you agreed it’d be better to end things? With him moving back home and that…

“And even after I left, I had a million and one chances to reach out to you, to explain, apologise, all of it, but I—I really let you down, and I’m sorry. I’m not that person anymore.” He looks down, shaking his head. “I don’t want to be that person anymore.”

Your body reacts before your words can, hand reaching out to his cheek, cupping the smooth, flushed skin. His eyes flick up to meet yours, and the only thing you can say is, “You’re not. It’s okay, I promise.”

“It’s not, YN.” He presses his lips together, biting the skin until the pressure turns the pink pale. “I just want you to be happy.”

Again, the words are right there, twisting painfully in your throat and stuck to the tip of your tongue. I love you. I still love you. It’s you, Jay. It’s always, only you. But you can’t get them out, can’t bring yourself to say them. “I am happy, Jay,” you say instead.

Jay’s lips quirk up at the corners, not quite a smile but close. “You’re happy,” he repeats, nodding his head as he seems to consider this. The silence is awful, turning your stomach and when he finally opens his mouth to speak, you’re so certain he’s going to wish you a goodnight that you rush to speak first.

“When are you leaving?”

“Saturday.” One day after the London show. Ten days from today. “Manchester’s Tuesday, then Glasgow, Dublin…” He trails off, but you know the rest—Paris, Hamburg, Stockholm… Auckland, Brisbane… You studied the order from the poster Jungwon showed you.

“When can I see you again?” you ask quietly.

“I’m not sure.” Jay tilts his head. “Want me to send you my Google Calendar?”

He’s kidding, you know that much, but still, you say, “Please.”

At this, he pulls up the app on his phone, multi-coloured blocks filling the screen. “Looks like I’m free at 3 a.m. tomorrow,” he says, clicking the share button and pasting the link in your text thread, where your contact is saved as MY ❤️. Still. Jay hits send on the message and again his calendar fills the screen. “And right now.”

“Me too…” You trail off.

To your surprise, it doesn't take much more to get Jay into the flat, into your room. To have your back against the bedroom door and his lips on yours, not even separating to push your coat down your shoulders. His hands span wherever he can touch, slipping under your shirt to press your body closer to his.

Jay tugs at the waistband of your tights. "Want these off."

"Later." You chase his kiss, desperate not to lose momentum, not to give either of you an opportunity to think about this and what it means.

Relenting, his hand slips under them instead, grabbing your ass. Bucking forwards, you feel his thick cock against you, a swirl of heat ravishing the base of your stomach. He sighs into the kiss, parting your legs with his thigh and guiding you over the solid muscle.

It's not enough. "My tights," you say, changing your tune. "Rip them, Jay.”

He moans on a shaky exhale, pulling away to look down at you. "Are you joking? I can't tell if you're joking." His eyes are blown and frantic, searching your face. As soon as you shake your head, he tugs at the thin fabric until it tears, making a hole. Cool air rushes against you, forcing you to draw a breath. "Now what?”

You push your damp underwear to the side, fingers parting your slick folds before you rock your hips once more. Painfully slow. The feeling of his thigh, the rough denim of his jeans grazing your clit, makes you whimper into the space between you. Jay's lips quirk up at the corner, his bruising grip guiding your hips back and forth.

"So needy, aren't you?" He pushes his thigh harder against you. "What am I gonna do with you, beautiful?"

Holding his gaze is an effort, but you'd die if you missed the way he looks right now, half-lidded eyes looking down at you, his bottom lip pulled between his teeth. Even blinking feels like a waste. "Anything, Jay. Do anything."

"Bed?" As soon as you nod he carries you over, setting you down.

You lean up on your elbows to watch him undress—his jacket comes off first, falling to the floor. Then his T-shirt, pulled over his head, triceps huge when he bends his arms. A lick of need burns your core at the sight of his tattoo peeking out over his waistband, the thick dark hair under his belly button. You have to chew on your lip to hold a moan, but he notices.

"Like what you see?" He smiles, freeing his belt from the loops of his jeans.

"Mhm."

Jay's eyes trail over your body, skin ablaze wherever his gaze lands. "Not as much as I like you." He leans over and kisses you. "Your pretty little mouth," he murmurs, lips trailing your throat. "Your neck, your shoulders." At your chest, he takes his time. Sucking and licking your nipples through your tank top, urging whimpers out of you with each bite and tug. It's only when he continues down the rest of you that you remember the point he's making, a kiss pressed by your belly button. "Your stomach, thighs. Everything, baby. Love all of you.”

Love all of you. You can't breathe. Love all of you. His hands slip under your skirt, pulling off your panties and torn tights in one go. Love all of you. You might die here, now, like this.

He gets up to take off his pants, leaving only his tight grey underwear and the dark patch in the centre, where the fabric clings to his leaking tip. "Want you on me, YN." He licks his lips before a breathtaking smile spreads over them, slow and feline. A smirk, more like. "Sound good? You wanna sit on d—my face?" Even the thought of riding his face, of the word he stopped himself from saying, hitches your breath.

Saying, please, is a measured effort, though he wastes no time getting between your legs. Just the feel of him under you, his built shoulders and solid chest, thick arms wrapped around your soft thighs; seeing him like this, eyes half-lidded and stuck on your cunt, is dizzying and he hasn't even touched you yet.

"So pretty everywhere." The words are a low whisper, warm and sudden, before he licks you from back to front.

A burst of pleasure arches your back, coursing through you immediately as you grind down on him, rutting against the tip of his nose. Dipping into you, his tongue moves slowly to match the roll of your stuttering hips—he's kissing you, making out. And loving every second of it if his groans are anything to go off of. It is, at once, too much and not enough. His pouty mouth finds your clit, licking it in circles, driving you crazy.

"Fuck," you whine. "Like that."

When he hums in response, it rumbles through you, forcing a moan from you as you tug at his hair. At the feeling of it, he groans, burying his face deeper and deeper. Tipping his chin towards you. In his enjoyment of it all, in his actions, he makes no effort to be quiet—squelches amplified and filthy, with his exaggerated movements of his mouth against your soaking cunt.

Your orgasm creeps up on you, slow to start but quickly overbearing. "Jay." From your lips, his name is a wobbly cry. "Jay," you repeat. Falling forwards, your hands grip fruitlessly at the sheets, whole body trembling in his hold. Pure bliss washes over you in harsh waves, whiting the dark behind your closed eyelids. How could you ever go without this again? How did you manage in the first place? You can't even voice it, warn him, that you're close, that you're there, unthinkable heat hitting you from every angle as you gush all over him. He doesn't let up, only humming and licking more feverishly, quicker, harder, and pressing the entire bottom half of his face to you, drinking up your release.

Catching your breath is an impossibility, your legs and stomach twitching as he cleans you up with his tongue, murmuring praises against you. Thank you, baby, as his nose hits your clit. Missed this pretty pussy, after he licks your clenching hole. So good for me, when he sucks at your inner thigh. Jay looks a mess when you finally sit up, glancing down at him. Ruffled hair. Slow blinking eyes. Everything from his straight nose down is slick and shiny, cum slipping over his jaw, and a smile curving his swollen lips. A handsome mess.

You clench around nothing.

Later, you share the shower and lots of kisses, teeth bumping under the spray as Jay whimpers, coming in your hand before getting into bed. He strokes your hair, twirling the ends around his fingers, and opening his mouth to speak but says nothing. Minutes pass like this until you finally ask, “What is it?”

He shakes his head, smiling too. “It’s nothing.”

“Tell me, baby.”

“I just… I kind of feel like I’m dreaming or something,” he admits softly, though you feel the words in every part of you.

Stuck for what to say, scared to say anything, you lean up and kiss him instead. Kiss him until your stomach starts to flutter. Until you’re gasping for breath, legs tangling together under the duvet, because if this really is a dream, you don’t want to have any regrets when you wake up.

@.gigiseung: DUDEEEEEE JAY GOT A GIRLFRIEND 😭😭😭 I USED TO PRAY FOR TIMES LIKE THIS THE MUSIC IS GONNA BE HAPPY !!!!!!! FINALLY!!!!!!!!!!

112 replies | 675 retweets | 5.6k likes | 752 bookmarks

@.nojayback: no one moved 🙄

@.gigiseung: girl im really sorry but your boyfriend has a girlfriend and it’s not jake or you… i retweeted…

@.sunghoon67: I SAW JAY AT MOONSTRUCK ON A DATE WITH A BEAUTIFUL WOMAN THIS IS NOT A DRILL WATCH THE FUCKING VIDEO 😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭

400 replies | 4.2k retweets | 25k likes | 2.3k bookmarks

@.nojayback: WHY DID HE PUT HIS SCARF ON HER LIKE THAT WHO TAUGHT HIM THAT ??? WHO EVEN IS SHEEEEE 😭😭😭

@.sunghoon67: IDK WHO SHE IS I JUST KNOW SHE’S HOT AND HAS AN ACCENT

@.nojayback: AND LOOK AT HIS OUTFIT HE MET WONHEE IN THIS OUTFIT DID THIS GIRL TAKETHAT FUCKING PICTURE??? @.jaykeyaoi wake tF UP RNNNN DID YOU MEET HER TOO???

@.NAPEisFOUR: So friendship between a man and a woman isn’t a thing anymore? This fandom never fails to disgust me.

@.gigiseung: @.NAPEisFOUR GOODBYEEEE a sex tape would be less incriminating.

minjeong: Oh girl I can’t defend you anymore send my fucking jacket back TODAY

you: What jacket ???

Her next message has ten pictures. And then another set of ten pictures. And then another.

minjeong: Lie again. Asking “what jacket” DUDE I SEE YOU WEARING IT AND WITH YOUR FUCKING SATANIC EX TOO… Killing you would not be enough.

All of the pictures are Twitter screenshots, threads of NAPE fans trying to solve a mystery by the looks of things. Several photos of you and Jay, a video, even. All from yesterday morning.

@.hojumilkpuppy: ALL THESE FUCKING PICTURES AND NOT ONE SHOT OF HER FACE ??? ARE WE KIDDING RN WHO IS THIS AND WHERE DID SHE GET THAT JACKET

@.gigiseung: OP said she has an accent and jay said he studied in edinburgh right?

@.hojumilkpuppy: Are You Trying To Tell Me This Is Miss Carolina.

@.jaysnape: am i the only one who thinks filming them like this is weird af idk it’s nice seeing him all smiley and in love but idkkkkk it feels weird seeing this when they clearly have no idea they’re on camera

@.ClubNAPE: If you’re feeling distressed by the video, it’s ok. But please take care of yourself. Step away from social media for a couple of days. Don’t attack or criticise Jay, too much money and time went into publicly harassing him and it finally paid off for those people.

@.jm4pjs: Thanks for trying to encourage us, but I’m so sad and furious at the same time…For now I’m empty… I hope he uses condoms…

@.ClubNAPE: Trust me when I say he doesn’t go that far with her. Just, please trust me.

@.hojumilkpuppy: You are an adult.

Each thread follows a similar pattern, hundreds, maybe thousands, of NAPE fans freaking out over the video. Posting detailed body language analysis to prove and disprove the true nature of your and Jay’s relationship. The split seems even enough—half of them happy for Jay, for you; half of them affronted by the mere suggestion that Jay might have feelings for any woman in a way beyond friendship. The worst part of it all, by your standards at least, is that you’re just as confused as them and it’s your relationship.

The original video, sunghoon67’s pinned tweet, has over a million views. In all of her replies, she goes to bat for you, insisting that the whole time she saw you and Jay, the two of you seemed comfortable and happy, and that she was not stalking him, but happened to be at the café studying for over an hour when you arrived.

somi: YOU AND JAY???

yizhuo: Do Not even get me started.

riki: you told them about uni? i thought that was a secret yn u made me feel special…you okay though? this is kind of extremely crazy 🤔

yizhuo: What the fuck do you mean UNI

somi: ???

riki: ning yizhuo you have a degree i know ykwtf uni is.

You mute the groupchat, putting your phone on Do Not Disturb.

What Twitter user #hoonjay real’s deep analysis of it all says about them, you’re unsure. An odd mix of delight at the thought of other people perceiving you and Jay as happy together, and discomfort at the thought of someone studying you so closely, filming you without your knowing, clash in your head. The more tweets you read, thanking OP for sharing, and bashing OP for the same thing, the more confused you feel. You spend an hour like this, laying in the bed Jay left this morning, scrolling through Twitter and Reddit, refreshing the timeline to read new responses as they come in. More and more people claim to have seen you together, inventing stories about you yelling at Jay in Notting Hill, or kissing him in Piccadilly. All the while, Minjeong continues to text.

minjeong: And you did it in the street WEARIGN MY FUCKING JACKET THIS IS HOW I FIND OUT YOU STOLE MY JACKET??? This is SO embarrassing for me imagine all the people that think I’m Park Jongseong’s fucking girlfriend because they saw you in my jacket

you: Imagine all the people that think I’M his girlfriend ???

minjeong: You’re not?

you: Define girlfriend.

minjeong: A frequent or regular female companion in a romantic or sexual relationship

you: Define frequent.

minjeong: I really don’t have time for this YN.

minjeong: Are you okay though? Fr

you: I’m good! People think I have nice hair and good taste in jackets, over the moon rn 🥰

Three dots appear on her side of the chat and your phone vibrates in your palm. Jay’s name and an old photo of him with his hair bleached take over your screen. Jay at twenty-one—fast asleep in your childhood bed, cuddling your worn Snoopy plushie. “Hey, are you home?”

“Mhm.”

A sigh comes through the phone, he sounds relieved. “Please open the door.” He’s standing on the mat when you do, chewing furiously at his lip. He hugs you and apologises into the crook of your neck. “Are you okay?”

“Yes, Jay,” you mumble into his chest. “Are you okay? Are you coming in?”

Jay sighs again, letting his shoulders fall. He assesses your face, still holding you close. “Wish I could, baby. I’m on a potty break,” he says, completely earnest.

“Potty break?”

“Like, restroom? It’s a long story, but the suits made a slidesh—” His phone goes off loudly in his pocket, buzzing between your bodies and making him sigh. “I’ll tell you later, alright? I have to get back.”

“Later today?”

Jay shakes his head, pecking your lips. It’s not enough—there’s no such thing with him, so you pull his bottom lip between yours. “Don’t want you… staying up just for me,” he mumbles, the words warm against your mouth as his hand comes up to hold your cheek.

“You’re worth it, Jay,” you admit.

He draws a breath, pulling away just enough to look at you. His face softens, a smile on his lips, his eyes on yours. “You’re cute,” he says softly, thumb brushing over your skin. “I’ll think about it.” When his phone goes off this time, it rings. A call. He mutters a curse, pressing his forehead to yours like he might ignore it, like he might stay, then he kisses you once more. “I really have to go.”

“How about you text me when you’re done and we’ll see if I’m still up?” you suggest.

“Alright, princess. We’ll see.”

And by fire, by force, you are still up at two in the morning when he texts you to say he’s all done at the studio. You open the door to usher a tired Jay to the kitchen, sitting him down at the table where you’ve heated up leftovers for him. A slow smile lights up his face and he eats quietly, only breaking to chug water.

Aeri comes into the kitchen, greeting you both with a tired hum before filling her bottle with water from the filter. On the way out, she smacks Jay over the head with a flat palm. “My loyalty is to YN before it’s to you or Heeseung, okay?”

He winces, clutching the back of his head and nodding. “Got it.”

After food, you wash his dishes while he showers, and he climbs into bed with damp hair, pressing a kiss to your temple. “Thank you, thank you, thank you,” he mumbles against your skin. “Thank you so much, baby.”

“Thank you for coming over…” You trail off. For making time for me, you think but don’t say.

“I really am sorry about this whole thing. The photos, people talking… Jesus.” Jay sighs, rubbing the back of his neck. “I don’t want you worrying about any of this, it’ll die down, alright? I promise, shit like this, it always dies down.”

“I’m not worried about any of it, Jay. Promise. It’s kind of cool how much your fans care, a lot of people really love you,” you say. “I’m just happy you’re okay and that you’re here.”

His lips spread into a smile against your temple. “I’m happy I’m here too,” he murmurs, pulling you into his chest. Though naturally, because you are you, and he is Jay, your lips find each other anyway. Kissing for an hour like a bunch of teenagers before you fall asleep.

It’s perfect.

Mostly.

The days leading up to the concert go by similarly, with you and Jay meeting up after his studio sessions or rehearsals. Some nights you hook up, most nights you cuddle and watch the newer seasons of Formula 1: Drive to Survive, which he pauses every two seconds to add his own — very necessary — commentary. Neither of you mention the concert or what’s going to change when he leaves the day after. Its first mention is on the day of, when he sends you a text.

jongseong 😽: We have about an hour or two downtime before the show if you want to head over during that? So around like 5, yeah? Sunoo can come and meet you and bring you up

you: Sounds good see you sooooonn!

jongseong 😽: See you babyyyyy got soundcheck so talk in a few :D

At a pub you’ve never been to, you meet up with Yizhuo to nurse a pint and eat truffle mac‘n’cheese. So much has changed since you last saw her and it’s only been a week and a half. Life has a way of doing that—flipping things on their head when you least expect it.

“Have you heard back from anywhere?” she asks, clearing her plate. “From Interview?”

You deflate, sipping sweet golden nectar from your glass. “Not yet.”

“Try not to look so worried, it’ll be good news. I can tell.”

“What if it isn’t?” The words are impossible to say, a pathetic mumble over the speakers. It feels a bit like admitting defeat. You’d been relatively optimistic at first, but hardly anyone gets the first job they apply for. Or the first thirty. Creative jobs are hard enough to come by as it is, and after all the difficulty of securing one, the only thing anyone leaves for is the grave. “I can’t wait forever, Yizhuo. I’ve got maybe two more months before I need to go and stay with my parents again.” And that’s if you stop using your redundancy pay for frivolous things like groceries and rent.

“It won’t get to that. You’re capable, you’re smart, you’re qualified.” Yizhuo says firmly, squeezing your hand over the sticky tabletop. “Just because things are bad now doesn’t mean they’ll be bad forever. Soon, we’ll look back at this moment and laugh about it at work drinks. I promise.”

You hope she’s right. You need her to be right.

When you meet up with Sunoo, he leads you through the venue’s back entrance and to the green room, where Jay and Riki are the only people inside, bickering on the couch. At the sound of the opening door, they quit it, and Jay greets you with a bright grin. His tight-fitting black long sleeve is tucked into his dress pants, and a pair of wire-frame glasses sit on the bridge of his nose. It’s like seeing God. He hugs Yizhuo first, though in light of #JaysGF-gate and your sharing of the full story, she’s not his biggest fan at the moment. You however, as evidenced by the last week you’ve spent joined at the hip, are more than eager to have Jay’s arms around you.

“Hey, beautiful. How’s your day been?” he asks, pecking your lips.

“Good, Jay. How are you feeling?”

He was a nervous wreck this morning, pacing the length of your bedroom until the absolute last second he had to leave. Now though, he seems relaxed, like he’s left with only excitement for tonight. “Better now that you’re here,” he admits. It doesn’t sound like a line when he says it, but Sunoo mutters, Jesus fucking Christ, before he leaves.

You tease him too, rolling your eyes despite the smile on your face. Despite the fact you feel the same way.

Unfazed, he only smiles wider, holding your jaw and kissing you. He tastes like spearmint, like Jay. “Want me to show you around, baby?”

“Yes!” Riki says before you have the chance. “I’ve never been backstage before.”

Yizhuo has to grab him by the sleeve, stopping him in his tracks. “Not you, weirdo.”

“You don’t know that.” He yanks his arm from her hold, straightening his denim jacket over his shoulders and running a hand through his hair.

Jay takes you by the hand to give you a tour. Just you. Dressing room, catering, the wings. One small lounge for each of the members. There isn’t much inside: a vanity, a couch, a coffee table. His guitar and his bag. All the while, a nervous flicker turns your stomach, anxious like you’re the one about to perform in front of thousands of people.

In the privacy of his locked room, he holds you in his arms, looking down at you. His eyes trail your body, a sweet smile curving his lips. “Look amazing, baby. Always so pretty,” he says, tucking your hair behind your ears.

A different kind of nervousness sets in, classic giddy fluttering, mind racing and trying hard to think of the perfect thing to say at the perfect time. It’s reassuring, feeling like this again, warm and happy—bitten by the lovebug you’d long stopped believing in. No matter what happens tomorrow, when he leaves, at least you know that feeling can still exist for you. The thought is scary now, but most of those big truths always are in the abstract. Until they happen.

You smile up at him, desperate to live in this moment forever, pushing his hair back from his forehead. “Thank you, Jay. So do you,” you say. “My handsome baby.”

Pink tints his cheeks, eyes wide for a split second. “You mean it?”

“Mhm. Love these glasses too, they make you look all serious, like a sexy professor or something," you joke, startled to find you mean it. “Tell me more about changing the subject of a formula, Mr. Park.”

“No way,” Jay mutters, his hips bucking towards yours. “Can’t do this with you right now, baby.”

“Can’t do what, Mr. Park?”

He sighs and shakes his head. “Be good, YN. Please.”

“Yes, sir.”

And like you’ve scalded him, Jay steps away, biting his lip. With his eyes screwed shut, he grabs at the crotch of his pants, adjusting himself before sitting on the couch and patting the cushion next to him. Stepping out of your boots, you curl into his side, playing with his fingers. “You never told me what happened with the song you guys were working on,” you say, hoping not to pressure him after what you heard at the studio.

Luckily, your question seems to do the opposite, and his face lights up. “We finalised it this afternoon! You’ll hear it tonight, baby. I really hope you like it.” A knock on the door punctuates his answer, and he has to disappear for hair and makeup while you wait in the green room.

The boys aren't gone for long, but you don't get any time alone with Jay before he has to go on stage. No time to properly process how good he looks with his hair all spiked up. His freckles aren't covered at all, and his black long sleeve fits like a second skin, clinging to every curve and contour on his torso and arms. You can't help but touch him, feeling his sculpted chest and racing heart against your palms.

"You look..." There's no single word you could use to describe him right now, as he looks at you through matte black sunglasses. "I think you're going to have to surgically remove my mouth from you later," you say pressing a kiss to his soft lips, already picturing your evening plans. As if overhearing, excited as well, the crowd roars before starting to sing along to whatever Jungwon is playing through the speakers.

“Good, baby. That’s good to hear, I’m looking forward to it.” Jay’s grip on your waist is firm, holding you as close as possible, tickling the roof of your mouth with his tongue. A breath comes out of him, flustered, eager, happy, and he rests his forehead on yours. “Wish me luck?”

Giddy butterflies turn in your stomach, your smile impossible to contain. “Good luck, Mr. Park.”

“Mm,” he hums, kissing you again. “I have no plans to go easy on you later, darling.”

It’s Sunghoon who finally has to pry Jay’s grip away from your waist, a firm tug that does little to quell the burning heat on your cheeks and neck. His transformation takes a split second, going from Park Jongseong, the guy you’ve known and wanted all this time, to Jay Park from NAPE, golden under the amber spotlight and singing his heart out. If he wasn’t so good, you’d have more time to process how strange it all is, how clear it is that he comes alive on the stage. All of them do. Like they’re finally doing the exact thing they were put on earth to do.

Song after song, it becomes clear what they mean when they talk about themselves and the fans and the energy. How they meet in the middle, feeding off of each other. Watching it like this, backstage with your friends, it feels like you’ve been let in on something unthinkably special. That feeling sticks around for the length of the entire two hour set, amplifying.

The crowd boos when Jay announces that they’ve reached the end of the show. “But we have one last song for you tonight, something very new and very dear to me—” he says, grinning into his mic when they cheer again. “—I’ve been going through a bit of a funk, I guess,” he admits.

In the front row, you see very pretty women frowning, touched to hear about Jay’s hardships — no matter how vague — like they’re taking them on themselves. Somi squeezes your hand, pointing them out to you and mumbling that they’re so cute. You agree.

“But a couple weeks ago, something really special happened for me, and when I finally figured it all out, what it meant to me, I sat up all night working on this song. And the guys and I have been grinding to get it done, so it’s been a long time coming, and we hope you love it. This is Out Sick.”

All of the lights go dim, save for a stark spotlight that shines straight on Jay. The venue holds its breath, and he looks over his shoulder, craning his neck just a bit to find you. When his eyes meet yours, he gives you a smile, soft and warm, your Jongseong in that moment. Your smile is immediate, a second of calm in your pounding heart as he strums the first chord and turns back to the crowd.

You know this song already, its shape. As familiar as the back of your own hand. As Jay’s lips on yours or his hands under your skirt on the couch at Laughing Kitty. Your stomach plummets to the floor, eyes stinging with tears. Sunghoon comes in slowly on the drums, Heeseung and Jake’s guitars following to make it warm and round and full.

And then, Jay sings, “I don’t have to try to love you, it comes easy to me…”

His demo. Complete. And performed so beautifully. His voice is raw, vulnerable, as he bares his soul for everyone, for you, to hear. Heeseung’s harmonies are simple, sweet, a perfect anchor for the song. They’re amazing. They are actually amazing. All of them.

As the final note rings out, the lights go dim once again, and applause erupts backstage, your friends squealing and hugging each other while you wait. NAPE don’t take long to appear behind the curtain, all four of them a blur of black clothes and adrenaline. Jay doesn’t stop to speak with the crew or with the other guys, he comes straight for you. Short strands of his hair slick with sweat, his glasses fogging up as he pulls you into his arms.

“It was perfect, Jongseong. You were perfect.”

He doesn’t say anything, but you feel him smiling into the crook of your neck as his heart thuds against your chest.

Tearing Jay away from the tour kick-off party is easier than you expected. Largely in part due to the fact that he’s the one dragging you through the crowded flat to his bedroom. Music muffles through his door and as soon as the lock clicks shut, you sink to your knees at his feet and Jay gulps when you look up at him, a gentle look on his face, in his eyes, that makes your heart trip in your chest—that he could look so tenderly at you in this moment seems unreal. Slowly, you unbuckle his belt, unsure who you're teasing more. You undo his zipper. The button.

He cups your cheek with his palm, clearing his throat. "Only if you want to, baby." His voice is soft, delicate as he traces your lips with the pad of his thumb.

You nod. You need to.

Jay's trousers give easily when you pull at them, falling to his ankles. His white underwear stretches over his erection, a dark patch where he leaks onto it. You can't even pretend to resist, tongue finding the spot immediately, and taking his tip between your lips, sucking on it through the wet fabric. Precum seeps into your mouth, the taste of it heady and familiar, leaving you hungry for more.

His hips buck forward, stuffing more of his clothed dick into your mouth, groaning. "My beautiful girl," he mutters, tucking your hair behind your ears. "Still so dirty and all for me, yeah?"

White-hot desperation buzzes along every inch of you. You can't wait any longer. Jay shivers when his leaking tip smacks his stomach, leaving a streak on his toned skin. Oh, my God. When you take him by the base, your hand only just wraps around him, thumb and index finger brushing. "Let me help you, YN." One of his hands covers yours easily, the other holding your head still. "Want my help, don't you, baby?"

All you can do is nod, watching Jay stroke himself—help you to stroke him.

"Say it. Use your words."

"Want you to help me—" Your mind blanks, that five letter word burning on the tip of your tongue. "Jay," you say instead.

His dick twitches in your fist as he brings his slit to your mouth, spreading hot, sticky precum like gloss over your lips. "Good girl," he whispers, thumb tracing your cheekbone. "Always so good for me."

Molten need pools between your thighs. "Only for you," you admit, words muffled against his tip.

Jay's breath hitches, fingers curling in your hair, then, finally, he stuffs your mouth—starts to. At an agonising pace. Inch by torturous inch, he pulls you towards him. Watching with furrowed brows and holding his breath as the stretch starts to ache your jaw. Only when his tip brushes the back of your throat, making you gag, does he let out a breath, a ragged, whiny thing, torn from him. Hearing him like this, being the cause of it, never gets old. Never fails to flip your stomach.

Chest heaving, eyes fluttering shut, he throbs in your mouth when you stroke the part of him that won't fit. "Fuck," he whispers. "Fuck, baby. Too good, need a — fuck — need a minute." He pulls out, looking down at you like he's confused, like he can't make sense of the thick string of spit and precum that attaches your lips to his tip.

Can't make sense of the way you kiss it anyway, lapping up the mess from his slit with your tongue. Every word that follows is a whined curse, his legs shaking as his grip on your hair lets up. Your name comes out of him, a stern mutter that makes you press your thighs together. Even so, you keep going, licking a strip from his tip to his base, thick hair tickling your face when you suck on his balls.

"Shit, YN," he mumbles, watching you with squinting eyes, shivering while you stroke him. "So good, baby."

Kissing your way back up to his tip, you take him in, letting your hollowed cheeks pull him further. He's twitching already, erratic on your tongue, low grunts and shallow breaths coming from him. This time when he says your name, it's gentle, sweet, as he rocks his hips to fuck into your mouth in shuddered strokes. Over and over, he moans for you, the sound of it lighting you up, spurring you on to take him deeper, quicker.

His stomach tenses, thighs shaking until he bucks hard against you, coming straight down your throat, hot and thick, without warning, making you cough. It leaks from the corners of your mouth, rolling down your chin, warm on your chest. Jay moans at the sight, licking his lips while you swallow what you can, still working your fist over him. Bracing against the door behind you, he lets out a cry of your name that drives you mad, loud and unbidden, as he trembles.

When he pulls out, his dick hits his legs with a loud squelch. Spit and cum drip off of him, wetting your thighs and making a mess.

You can hardly catch your breath or wipe your mouth before Jay's kneeling in front of you, pressing his lips to yours. Pressing your body to his. "My sweet, sweet baby," he mumbles, licking into your mouth. Teeth bump teeth. Tongues on tongues. "Way too good to me." He pulls you into his lap, cock wet under you. Something about the feeling of it like this, soft and pressed against your thong, twists your stomach.

Taking him in your fist, you thumb at his slit, and he whimpers. "Need it. You, Jay," you tell him, stroking desperately.

At this point, the wet smack of his mouth on yours can hardly be described as a kiss, but he keeps at it. "I'll give you what you want, I promise," Jay says, pushing your hand away and running his finger over your slit. "But I can't right now." He sounds truly apologetic, distraught and whiny as he presses on your clit.

Relief comes immediately, but it's not enough, when he slips his finger into you and fills you to the knuckle. Still, you chase pleasure, fucking yourself on his thick digit, humming at the stretch of another finger pressing in. "Yes, right now."

Against your mouth, Jay smiles. "Want you ready, yeah? Don't wanna hurt you," he coos, a third finger joining the rest.

"You won't," you whisper. "Please, Jongseong."

On this, he concedes. On not using a condom, however…not so much. Laying you down on the bed, he undresses you before pulling his own shirt off. Now that he's had a beat to collect himself — free from your eager hands — he's hard again, standing up taller than before. His tip not just flushed but angry red and leaking. At the very least, he lets you roll the condom onto him before joining you under the covers and hiking your leg up over his hip.

"You're gonna kill me," he mutters into your neck, pressing himself against you, right between your wet folds. So close yet so far. "Gonna die if you keep this up."

"If you're going to die anyway, you might as well take the condom off," you point out, rocking towards him. "For old time's sake, you know? Last night, two nights ago—the good old days." It was a lack of condoms that led you there, to Jay whispering sweet filth in your ear while he spilled into you.

"Very funny, YN." His breath fans your skin when he chuckles. There's no humour in it, but he throbs between your legs, rolls his hips back to match your rhythm. "Can't keep chancing it." You can hear his resolve fading, his lack of conviction.

"Don't you think I'd look pretty? All nice and full?"

His teeth sink into the crook of your neck, making you cry out. "Don't," he mumbles, soothing the bite mark with his tongue.

"Used to — fuck, Jay — talk about it all the time." You're panting more than you're talking, eyes fluttering shut as your sweat slicked skin slips over his. "Lost your shit when I'd call you da—" He cuts you off with his dick. Finally.

You moan in unison, eyes screwing shut as he thrusts into you, filling you up with one shaky stroke. There's no getting used to the size of Jay. Whether he's fucking you with it or sending a video, it shocks you every time. It's like he's trying to split you in half to make room for himself, thick heat spreading, unbearable, from between your legs out. He doesn't move yet.

"All good, baby? Feels good?" he pants, burying his face into your throat.

You nod into his pillow, gasping for breath, only managing to say, "Uh huh."

A low groan heats your neck when you claw at Jay's back and he pulls almost all the way out before thrusting right back in. "So good for me, YN. Fit so good, baby. Always fit so good." He fucks you with the same strokes each time, even when his breath turns ragged, pulling you closer and closer to the edge. Tip on the burning knot in your stomach, nudging it undone, one deep thrust after the other.

You bury your face in the pillow, biting down on it, as he brings you to your orgasm like this. Finger pressed to your clit, teeth nipping your neck, hips rutting frantically. He fucks you through it, wet and overwhelming, scorching heat tearing through you. The memory foam muffles your mewls and whiny babbles, and he groans when you tug his hair, muttering, oh, my God, over and over, until he finishes with a loud cry of your name, shuddering in and out of you.

Calming down is difficult, but Jay's hand stroking your hair is a comfort. Lips pressing sweet kisses to your jaw and muttering praise into your skin. Again, you find those three words on the tip of your tongue, eight letters eager to make their way out. They don't have a chance, thankfully, because he pulls out slowly, moving just enough to kiss your lips. His tongue brushes yours, wiping your I love you away, taking it for himself, and smiling against you like you actually said it. Like he's saying it back.

Sleepiness overwhelms you, eyelids heavy, lips lazy on Jay's. After you pee, he wipes you clean with a warm towel, kissing your knee while he does. Falling asleep is easy in his arms, with the steady rise and fall of his chest under your head, butterflies swirling in your stomach, and the knowledge that the terrifying and uncertain tomorrow is still hours away.

When you wake up, no music seeps into Jay’s room, no heavy footsteps in the hall. No doors slamming shut, no yelled conversations. The flat is completely still. Even the street outside is quiet through the open window, London’s morning running on silent. Soft cotton kisses your skin, detergent and sweat float around you. Sunlight streaks the wall, slipping through the gaps in the blinds. Jay’s fingers twirl the ends of your hair. His voice, low and gravelly from sleep, asks, “You sleep alright?”

Alright isn’t enough of a word for how well you slept. You’re not even sure if perfect would suffice, but you nod anyway. “Did you?”

“Mm.” He squeezes your shoulder, holding you closer. “Perfect, darling.”

I wish we could just stay here forever, you think. Saying it is another story. “Do you really have to go?” you ask instead, knowing he’ll have to leave soon to make his flight.

You hear the spread of Jay’s lips and see the curve, his perfect teeth, his smile lines and dimple, so perfectly clear behind your closed eyes. His hand is heavy on your arm, his fingertips warm and calloused, dragging senseless patterns into your skin. “I’ll be back before you know it,” he mumbles. “Promise.”

Resting your arms on his chest, you finally get a proper look at him. His hair sticks up in tiny spikes all over his head, pointing this way and that. A smile creeps over his lips, slight and sleepy, but warm all the same. How desperately you want this all to be something, to mean something. Now and when he gets back. The soft look in his eyes, the relaxed lull of his breath, chest rising and falling slowly under you, his hand on your back. How desperately you want this to be something more than simply blowing off steam before he goes on the road.

“What is it, baby? What are you thinking?” Jay asks, using his thumb to smooth out the crease over your brow. His touch is unthinkably gentle, but it ties your stomach in knots.

The words are right there, slipping from your mind and taking their juvenile shape on the tip of your tongue. What are we? It seems absurd to think that he could leave, even if only for a few months, without asking that question—but picturing yourself asking him is worse.

“It’s nothing.”

Jay’s lips curl downwards and the sight tugs at your heart. He kisses the palm of his hand and presses it to your forehead like a stamp, making you giggle, before his fingers find your hair, scratching your scalp. You could fall asleep again, your eyelids weighing more and more with each graze of his nails against your skin. He smiles, finally, he smiles when you lean into his touch.

“You could always come with me,” Jay suggests. “If you want.”

If you were even a little more secure about your place in his life, those three words — if you want — wouldn’t be so jarring. Wouldn’t turn your stomach or make you want to roll your eyes and ask, what the fuck kind of an answer is that?

“What do you want?” you ask instead.

“I want you to do what you want.”

You sigh, a deep breath torn out of you and into the silence.

“What do you want me to say? What am I getting wrong?”

Feeling bad, you shake your head. “Nothing, Jay. It’s nothing, I swear,” you try to assure him, but you can see his thoughts passing through his head. You can’t stand it. Can’t stand to think about whatever comes after this, after he leaves.

You lean up and kiss him to stall the inevitable, warmed by the low sound he makes, by the way he pulls you into his lap. Warmed by the feeling of him under you, hard already. His lips are slow against yours, tongue licking lazily into your mouth and sighing when you roll your hips over his.

“Tell me, baby,” he says, lips barely leaving yours. “Can’t fix it if you don’t tell me.”

When you pull away, his eyes search yours, a million questions written all over his face. His cheek is soft beneath your palm, thumb stroking his skin, and it’s all you can do to hope this won’t be the last time. “Fix what, Jay?” Your voice comes out small, frightened. “What is this?”

Say it, you beg silently. Say you want me. Say that this is everything.

He bites his lips instead. Says nothing.

“Do you still want me?” you ask around the lump in your throat. “Properly?”

Jay’s brows knit together. “I feel like I should be asking you that. I don’t know how else to show you.”

“I can’t go with you, Jay.” Saying it feels final, like you’ve drawn a line under whatever the hell you two have been doing, and he will leave for his tour and come back and this will still be over.

“I didn’t ask you to.”

Before you can help it, your face falls, lips curling downwards, and Jay wraps his fingers around your wrist to keep your hand on his cheek. He jumps to take it back, to fix it, but you’re not sure if he can.

“That’s not what…” He sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose. “I shouldn’t have said it like that. Can we just… Can we take a second?” His cheeks are flushed, skin rosy and warm under your hand, his eyes wide, pink lips pressed together. “I just need a minute,” he adds softly. “I’ll be right back, yeah, baby?”

You nod and Jay kisses you quick, gentle, before slipping into the bathroom and locking the door behind him. It doesn’t take long for you to make up your mind. To put your clothes on and stuff your bra into your bag, turning your phone off on your way out of the flat.

At home, you get straight into bed, pulling the duvet up to cover you completely.

Twenty-year-old you would be mortified if she could see you now: twenty-three, unemployed, and still worrying about the same problems you had three years ago, about the same guy. Surely by now, having known him all this time, known yourself, you should have seen this coming a mile away.

Sleep comes easily like this, moping under your covers like a kid.

By the time you wake up, it’s well into the afternoon and you turn on your phone to one new notification. A text from Aeri asking you to check if her parcel has come yet. Nothing from anyone else, from Jay. He and the rest of the guys are probably in the security queue, fumbling laptops out of bags and shoes off of feet. Chatty and excited and too busy to spare you a second thought, to send a text—which, maybe, given how you walked out, that’s what you deserve. You’re even now though, you and Jay. And it doesn’t feel good at all.

As if you’d willed it, wished it so much it came to be, your phone vibrates next to you on the mattress. Not a text, an email. It’s from Interview, with the subject line: Offer of Employment.

The smile that breaks over your face is instantaneous and aching, tears welling in your eyes as you read and reread the first line of the email. As you read and reread the whole thing, closing the app and opening it again, waiting for something to change, for a second email to come in saying there’s been a mistake. But no. The word congratulations stays right where it is. A job. An actual job that you get to start in a month when the office renovation is complete. It’s a weight off your chest, a blinding ray of light in the face of countless rejection emails.

When you open the phone app, Jongseong 😽, is right at the top, and it takes your thumb hovering over it to even realise what you’re doing. This week-long instinct, relearned and deep as marrow. I need to call Jay, I need to tell Jay, now your default thought. Again, your default thought.

The silence of the flat feels greater, bed bigger without him in it. As quickly as it came, your delight sours, curdling in the pit of your stomach. Everything you’ve been working towards, the fruit of your efforts finally reaped, and the one person you want to tell all about it, is the one person who’d care the least.

Locking your phone, you press the cool top of it to your forehead and take a deep breath. This is okay. You’re okay. You’re great! You have a job, finally, an actual named and recognised role. And it’s all yours.

Feeling lighter, if only a little, you get up to check the mail room, stuffing your feet back into your boots and pulling the front door open. Jay is there. Here. He looks like he’s run a marathon just to stand on your welcome mat, cap on backwards and his suitcase at his side. Sweat shines on his upper lip, his neck. His eyes are wide, brows raised like he’s surprised to find you here, at your flat, where you live. Nothing comes out when you open your mouth to speak, but your name comes from his in a whisper.

“I can’t go.” His voice cracks when he says it, making him smile. “I couldn’t, we got to the gate and I—I can’t leave if we’re like this. I love you, YN. I do. So much. I’m a coward, okay? I’m a coward and I’m awful at all of this, but I love you.” The words leave him in a rush, and he sighs after like he’s relieved, like the words have been weighing on him all this time. “I know how much I’ve hurt you, and I know I can’t make it up to you, but I’d like to try.”

Your heart races in your chest like it’s trying to burst out, thoughts scattered, too fast to latch onto, to process. You need to say something, you know that much. “I wanted to call you,” you utter, pointing at him as though maybe he doesn’t know to whom you’re referring. “I got the job at Interview.”

To this, he lets out a sound you’ve never heard him make. A half-laugh, half-sob as he takes your pointing hand in his, pulling you in. “Of course you did,” he says, the words a warm mumble against the top of your head. “Fuck, YN, that’s—that’s amazing. You’re amazing.” He holds you so tight you can feel the frantic pounding of his heart against your chest. The frantic pounding of your own heart. For a long moment, you bury your face in his chest, taking it all in. His scent, honey and detergent and sweat. The grounding feel of him, his arms around you, his palm stroking your back, mouth kissing your hair.

Reality, everything he’s just said sinks in, slow and heavy. Jay, here, with you, again. At last. And saying all the right things, saying almost everything you’ve been waiting years to hear. Meaning them. Too good be true surely, the job and now this, and all in a matter of minutes. You pull back, only enough to look at him with your palms flat on his shoulders, and wait. For the other shoe to drop. For Jay to glance at his watch and realise he can still make his flight if he leaves right this second. It doesn’t come. He doesn’t even look over his shoulder, his eyes are stuck on you. Only you.

“What are you—what do you want?”

“I want to be with you, and I want you to want that too. Still, again, whatever, just… you’re it for me,” Jay says decisively. “You’re always going to be it for me.”

Whether he knows it or not, he changes your life with those words. He changes everything. Quiets the years of chaos in your mind and finally, finally calms the storm.

“Yes, Jay. Whatever you’re saying or asking, my answer is yes, okay? I love you, Jay. I love you too, I love you still, all of it.” You tip your chin to kiss his smiling lips, and after all this time, your heart falls back into its natural rhythm.

Jongseong, Jongseong, Jongseong.

© zreamy (2026), all rights reserved. do not repost, translate, or plagiarise my work. do let me know your thoughts !

“By two minutes. Come on, that’s hardly anything.”

“More than enough time to get on my nerves.”

“I love it when you talk to me like that.”

Behind you, someone coughed—probably trying to hide a laugh.

“And I love it when you stop talking,” you shot back.

His laugh came through the radio, warm and amused. “Someone’s feisty today. Is the coffee in the tower that bad again?”

“Coffee’s fine. It’s the pilot that’s giving me a headache.”

“Mmm. I like it when your voice gets all defensive, beautiful.”

There it was again. Beautiful.

Always beautiful. Never ‘ma’am’ or ‘tower’ or even your call sign like every other normal fucking pilot with a shred of professionalism would do. With Gojo, it was always pretty, or beautiful, or—God help you—honey. Like he was talking to a date he wanted to charm, not calling for airspace clearance on public frequency.

You’d corrected him once early on. “Use proper radio protocol,” you’d said, but all he replied was, “Sorry, Control. Slipped. Won’t happen again, pretty.” 

It had happened again. And again. And again.

You leaned back in your chair, staring up at the ceiling and entertaining the fantasy of reaching through the frequency and strangle him with your headset cord. Instead, your fingers found the stress ball on your desk and squeezed until your knuckles went white.

“You don’t even know what I look like,” you said, frustrated.

“Your voice tells me everything I need to know. And I’m betting you’re even more beautiful than you sound.”

“Is that why you like hearing yourself talk so much? Because your voice tells you how pretty you are?”

He laughed. “Ouch. You’re brutal today, Control. Permission to land before you completely break my poor heart?”

“Flight 447, you’re cleared to land, runway 24L. Wind 240 at 8 knots. Try not to crash while you’re busy thinking about how charming you are.”

“Copy that, beautiful. And for the record? I wasn’t thinking about myself.” His voice dropped lower, not caring at all that he was on public frequency. “I was thinking about you.”

Heat crept up your neck. Around the tower, a few heads turned your way once more—grinning, and you wanted to punch them in the face. 

You were silent for a few seconds and you could basically hear his grin forming on the other end of the line.

“Looks like I’ve got you blushing. Well then, see you on the ground, Control.”

More heat crept up your neck. You yanked off your headset and slammed it down on the desk, resisting the urge to scream into a stack of paperwork. Goddamn it, he made you want to quit your job. Or strangle him. Or both.

You looked out the tower’s window just in time to watch his plane break through the clouds and touch down. A fucking textbook perfect landing. Of course it was. Captain Satoru Gojo was, without question, the most infuriating pilot you’d ever had the displeasure of guiding in. And unfortunately, he was also the best.

It had started a few months ago when he began regularly flying the international routes from Japan to Central Europe—the very same routes you’d specifically requested when you transferred to Haneda. 

The 2 AM flights? The twelve hour shifts from hell? The ones that made most controllers question all their life choices and develop an unhealthy, codependent relationship with the espresso machine? 

You loved them.

These were the long flights where pilots were usually dead tired and just wanted to get home. Communication was professional and efficient. No small talk, no unnecessary chatter, just vectors, altitudes, and a few polite acknowledgments. You could guide a Boeing 777 from Tokyo to Frankfurt with maybe twenty lines of dialogue, max. That was the dream.

These pilots had been airborne for twelve hours or longer—the last thing they wanted was a chatty air traffic controller stretching out their shift with unnecessary conversation. And the last thing you wanted was to listen to their rambling. You loved those quiet and professional pilots—the ones you barely had to talk to, just guide them in and call it a day. Great. Easy work. You loved your job when it was uncomplicated.

While your colleagues dealt with the chaos of domestic flights—tight turnarounds, grumbling pilots, weather complaints, gate drama and all that shit—you got the stern and serious long-distance flyers.

Until Captain Satoru Gojo.

The first time you handled Flight 447’s approach out of Prague, you braced for the usual. Someone who’d been flying for thirteen hours straight and just wanted to land, deplane, and find the nearest bed. What you got instead was a happy voice that sounded like the man had just woken from the greatest nap of his lifetime and could easily fly for another thirteen hours.

“Tokyo Control, Flight 447 requesting descent. And might I say... what a beautiful night it is up here.”

You blinked at your radar screen. It was 2:03 AM. Cloudy skies. Visibility barely above minimum levels. Nothing about it was beautiful.

Most pilots at this hour could barely remember their own call signs. But not Gojo. Gojo sounded wide awake and relaxed—and, unfortunately, talkative. 

God, he talked so much. Always cracking jokes, always so cocky, always dragging out what should’ve been a thirty second exchange into a five minute monologue over the radio.

“Flight 447, descend and maintain flight level 240.”

“Descending to 240. Had to adjust our approach three times tonight because of wind shear. Amazing how much the atmosphere changes in just a few thousand feet. Did you know that—”

“Flight 447, contact Tokyo Aproach on 119.7.”

He sighed. “Copy that, beautiful. Always a pleasure chatting with you.”

It started professional enough—well, as professional as someone could be while constantly calling air traffic control ‘beautiful’—but overtime, he got more and more flirty. Somewhere around the fifth or seventh flight, you guided him in, he stopped sounding like a pilot and started sounding like a man leaving voicemail notes to his girlfriend. 

“Good morning, gorgeous.”

“Did you miss my voice, honey?”

“Until next time, beautiful.”

Maybe it was his personality, as if he simply couldn’t help himself—like he’d physically explode if he didn’t borderline sexual harass his ground crew and was naturally incapable of having a normal conversation. But goddamn, did it annoy you.

He’d never even seen you. Didn’t know your name, wouldn’t recognize your face if you passed him in the terminal. He probably couldn’t even point to the tower from his cockpit window. And yet, every transmission felt like he thought he was on private frequency with you, and not broadcasting on public monitored by half the airspace.

And oh my God, the rambling—the fucking rambling. And, of course, you were his favorite audience.

“You know, Control, I was reading this article about albatrosses during my layover in Warsaw and it got me thinking. Did you know they can fly for years without ever touching ground, like literally sleeping while they fly? Can you imagine? They use these tiny wind gradients over the waves to do that. Makes our fuel consumption look pretty inefficient, doesn’t it?”

You already felt your soul leaving your body.

“Although I bet you could optimize their route better than they can to save even more energy. You’ve got such a lovely voice for giving directions. Very authoritative. I like that—”

Sometimes he’d yap for minutes until you got so annoyed that you’d rip off your headset before he could finish whatever outrageous story he was about to finish and waved at Ijichi to take over. Poor Ijichi—an actual saint and unfortunately still a rookie, so he was your victim—would sigh, slid on his headset and took over the frequency to reply to Gojo’s rambling about birds in a very distinctly male, distinctly unimpressed voice.

“Flight 447, this is Tokyo Control. Please state your current altitude.”

A pause. “Oh. Um. Flight level 380. Sorry—Is the other controller… did she…?”

“Flight 447, maintain current altitude and heading. Contact Approach on 119.7.”

Out of the corner of your eye, you saw Ijichi shoot you a pained look and mouthed, “Your boyfriend’s looking for you” while you pretended to be very busy with paperwork, highlighting the same line of a weather report you’d already read four times.

You’d complained to your supervisor, of course. Marched into Yaga’s office with a list of incidents and timestamps of what you considered to be highly unprofessional behaviour that was interfering with air traffic operations.

Yaga had listened, occasionally nodding, while you explained in detail why Captain Gojo’s voice should be banned from all airspace. When you finished, he’d leaned back in his chair and given you that look—the one supervisors gave when they were about to tell you something you didn’t want to hear.

“Has he ever caused a delay?” Yaga asked.

“Well, no, but—”

“Missed a radio call?”

“No, however—”

“Failed to follow vectors or altitude assignments?”

“That’s not the point—”

“Has he ever said anything explicitly inappropriate? Sexual harassment, offensive language, anything that would violate communications protocols?”

You’d opened your mouth, then closed it. You were fighting a losing battle.

Yaga had shrugged and pointed out that Gojo never said anything explicitly inappropriate, never caused delays, and had the cleanest safety record of any pilot flying commercial routes in Japan. Zero incidents, zero violations, zero passenger complaints. He was the perfect pilot.

“The guy’s annoying but harmless,” Yaga had said at last, and slid your complaint folder back across his desk.

Harmless. Right.

Harmless if you didn’t count the fact that he was actively driving you insane and making you seriously consider changing careers. Or at least requesting a transfer to cargo flights, where the pilots were too busy dealing with departures every thirty minutes to spend time talking about stupid bird flyting techniques.

But damn it—you worked so hard for this position. You were a certified, professional air traffic controller with five years on the radar and an impeccable safety record. You’d studied for two years to pass the brutal exams, survived months in training simulations and clawed your way up from ground control to tower to approach and finally to the international routes. 

You directed aircraft worth billions of dollars, carrying hundreds of lives, through some of the most complex and congested airspace in Asia. You coordinated with air traffic controllers in twelve different countries, handled language barriers, time zones, techchnical delays, and medical emergencies—all while being always fucking calm and polite. 

Okay, scratch the polite part. But you got the job done, and that’s what mattered. And you were not about to throw it all away because one stupid, obnoxious pilot with an equally stupid, attractive voice was too dense to tell the difference between air traffic control and fucking Tinder.

Okay, forget about the calm part, too.

It didn’t help that your colleagues found the whole thing all too amusing. Your colleague Maki—who handled mostly domestic routes and therefore dealt with normal, professional pilots—had already labelled Gojo your ‘work husband’.

And every time his flight number popped up on the radar, she’d make kissy faces in your direction and sing, “Oh, your boyfriend’s calling,” to which you’d reply “He’s not my boyfriend.” Or worse, she’d lean over your shoulder while he was in the middle of yet another monologue, whispering when you’d finally ask him out. Of course, she knew he’d hear every word on the other end of the radio, prompting him to tease you with, “She’s right. When will you finally ask me?”

“Flight 447, turn left heading 090, descend to flight level 200.”

“Left 090, down to 200. And might I add that you sound particularly lovely today, Control? Did you do something different with your… well, I can’t see your hair, but I bet it looks very pretty.”

Maki would choke on her laughter like a middle schooler watching her crush talk, and you’d have to clench your fists to stop yourself from punching them both.

And it didn’t help that everyone loved him, of course. 

Everyone except you, apparently.

The ground crew basically fought over who got to service his aircraft. You’d see a swarm of orange vests crowding Gate 7 whenever Flight 447 rolled in—like teenage fangirls waiting backstage for their favourite boy band. It was ridiculous.

You’ve seen how the gate agents would always check their hair and straighten their ties. Hana from passenger services bought new lipstick “just in case” she ran into Captain Gojo during a layover. 

Even the janitors—the fucking janitors—somehow developed a sudden obsession with the floor around Gate 7. Mr. Takeshi, who’d been mopping this place since the airport was built, now took his sweet time in that exact area. Like. What the fuck.

It was like the entire airport had developed a collective crush on a man most of them had never even spoken to. All based on stories and the occasional glimpse of him walking through the terminal in his pilot uniform.

You’d never actually seen him. In the months he’d been flying your routes, your shifts always ended right before he arrived—or you were stuck up in the tower when he was on the ground. Like you existed in parallel universes. You guided his plane through the airspace, but never actually crossed paths on the ground.

Everyone said he was stupidly pretty—so damn dreamy and everything. You could’ve looked him up, googled him, stalked the airport intranet. But you didn’t. For all you knew, he was sixty with a beer belly and balding. But unfortunately, he also had an infuriatingly attractive voice over radio communication.

Which only made it worse.

── ⟢ ·⸝⸝

It was one of those days where everything had gone wrong the moment you’d stepped into the tower. The coffee machine was broken, spitting out something between coffee grounds and mud. Your computer crashed twice during the morning shift, erasing twenty minutes of logged flight data. And to top it off, Ijichi had called in sick, leaving you to handle both international and domestic flights with only Maki as backup—who was currently tied up managing a medical diversion across three different frequencies.

So when Flight 447’s call sign appeared on your radar screen a full twenty minutes ahead of schedule, you felt your eye twitch.

“Tower, this is Flight 447 requesting vectors for approach.”

You glared at the radar. Of course he was early. And of fucking course he was screwing up your carefully timed arrival window. You’d scheduled him between two other flights, and now you had to rearrange everything yet again.

“Flight 447, turn left heading 180, descend and maintain 3,000 feet.”

“Left 180, down to 3,000. You sound tense, Control. Long shift?”

Deep breath. Remember, violence is not an option.

“Just doing my job, 447.”

“Ouch. That’s definitely tension. Let me guess—computer crash? Did someone steal your lunch? Ah wait, I know—the coffee machine spat out mud again, didn’t it?”

You blinked at your screen. How could he possibly—

“Flight 447, maintain current heading and altitude.”

“Come on, don’t be like that. I brought you something from Zurich. Might help improve your mood.”

You paused, finger hovering over the radio button. “You… brought me something?”

“Mhm. You know those famous Swiss chocolatiers? Heard they make the best chocolate in Europe, so I picked some up for you.”

You stared at your screen for a beat, unsure whether to feel weirdly flattered or wildly uncomfortable. Probably both.

“You don’t even know who I am.”

“I know enough,” he said, still annoyingly casual. “I know you prefer late international routes because they’re usually quiet and professional. I know you drink your coffee black, because I’ve heard you complain—more than once—that no one washes out the cream dispenser in the break room, and that it will one day cause a biohazard. Which, judging by your mood today, I’m guessing no one’s done that in a while, so now the good machine’s off to maintenance again, and you’re stuck with that old one that just spits out grounds.”

A pause.

“And I know you stay late to help train the newbies, because I’ve heard your voice in the background on calls. I have to say, you’ve got this calm, patient tone that makes it almost sound like you’re not seconds away from strangling them. It’s kind of adorable, really.”

You sat up straighter. How did he know all that? And more importantly, why had he noticed all that?

You didn’t respond right away, unsure what to respond at all. Then, finally, you clicked your radio.

“Flight 447, turn right heading 240. Contact Approach on 119.7.”

“Wait, that’s it? No ‘thank you’ or ‘wow, you’re so thoughtful for bringing me treats form overseas’? I declared that stuff at customs, you know. It was a whole ordeal.”

Despite your awful morning, your lip twitched. “You declared chocolate at customs?”

“Had to. They were weirdly suspicious about a pilot carrying so much chocolate in his carry-on. I told them it was for someone special, and they got all sentimental and waved me through.”

“You told customs agents I was special?”

“I told them the truth. …Though I may have implied you were my girlfriend to avoid further questioning.”

“You what?”

His laugh crackled through the headset, way too pleased with himself. “Relax, beautiful. Customs agents don’t exactly hang out with air traffic controllers. Your secret identity is safe.”

“Flight 447, I’m transferring you to Approach. Stop inventing fake relationships with me at international borders.”

“So we’re not dating? Huh. That’s news to me.”

“I’m doing my job.”

“Yeah. And your job involves listening to me, technically speaking.”

“My job involves keeping you from colliding with other planes, not entertaining your delusions.”

“See? You care about my safety. Such a good girlfriend, Control.”

You could almost hear the smirk through the static. Across the tower, Maki—finally free from her emergency—was trying desperately to look anywhere but your direction. She was listening too, you realized, her face reddening as she barely held in her laughter.

“Flight 447 switch to Approach now, or I will reroute you to Osaka instead.”

“You wouldn’t dare. You’d miss me too much.”

“Try me.”

“Okay, okay, I’m switching,” he said, still laughing. “I’ll make sure the chocolate gets delivered to your gate. It’s got your name on it. Well… your call sign, anyway. Couldn’t exactly ask for your real name without sounding like a creep. Oh, and there’s a little something extra in the box, too.”

Your finger froze over the transmit button. “What kind of extra?”

“Just a little something. See you on the ground, beautiful.”

The line went silent as he switched to Approach, leaving you staring at your screen with a whole lot of annoyance, curiosity, and something dangerously close to anticipation swirling in your head.

Maki rolled her chair over without missing a beat. “Did he just say he brought you chocolate? From Switzerland?”

“Apparently.”

“And declared you his girlfriend to customs?”

“I hate him.”

“And there’s something extra waiting for you at the gate?”

You gave her a warning look. “Stop that.”

“You realize most guys don’t even text back. And he flew across eleven time zones and smuggled in fancy chocolate for you. Yeah, no one does that unless they’re into you.”

“It’s creepy.”

“Sure,” she said. “So creepy that you’re smiling about it.”

“I’m not smiling.”

“You absolutely are.” She leaned closer. “And you’re totally going to check the gate during your break.”

You turned back to your screen. “I have work to do.”

“Right. Want me to cover for you while you go see what the handsome pilot brought you?”

“I’m not—” 

Your radar lit up. “Tower, this is Flight 892 requesting vectors for approach.” Saved by traffic, or whatever. You put your headset back on, thankful for the distraction, and focused on the radar. 

You were definitely not thinking about Swiss chocolate.

Or whatever extra he brought.

Not even a little.

Okay, maybe a little.

── ⟢ ·⸝⸝

You waited until Flight 447 was safely out of range and someone else’s problem before making your move. The tower had quieted into its usual evening rhythm—slower, calmer, manageable. Most of the midday traffic was gone. And you? You were definitely just walking to the gate to, you know, get your steps in. Obviously.

“Off to investigate your love offerings?” Maki called as you headed for the elevator.

“Gate operations check,” you tried, but you couldn’t fool her.

The box was sitting right there at the international gate desk—impossible to miss. It was white and elegant, wrapped with a dark green ribbon, and with your controller call sign handwritten on the tag. Hana, the gate agent on duty, lit up the moment she saw you.

“Oh! You’re Control Seven! Captain Gojo dropped that off a few hours ago. He was very specific that it had to go to ‘the controller with the most beautiful voice in aviation.’” She giggled like a schoolgirl. “He’s so romantic.”

You stared at the box. It was bigger than you’d expected with a fancy logo that suggested the box probably cost more than your monthly food budget.

“Did he… say anything else?”

“Just that you’d had a rough day and deserved something sweet.” Hana sighed. “He’s so thoughtful. And his eyes? Like a winter sky.”

Winter sky? My god. You swore everyone around here was losing their goddamn minds over this man. You were so fed up with the collective swooning, you were starting to wonder if you were the only one left immune to his bullshit.

“Right. Well. Thanks.”

Back at your console, you set it down and stared at it as if it were a ticking bomb. Maki appeared at your side, peering over your shoulder.

“Holy shit. Is that from that famous Swiss brand? Do you even know how expensive that place is?”

“It’s just chocolate.”

“Just chocolate?” Maki carefully lifted the lid. Inside, each handmade confection was perfectly nestled in its own spot. “These are, like, forty bucks each. There’s at least thirty pieces in here.”

Ijichi gave a low whistle. “Your pilot boyfriend just dropped twelve hundred dollars on chocolate for you.”

“He’s not my boyfriend.” But your eyes were still glued to the box, your brain struggling to process the fact that someone had just casually spent more than your rent on Swiss truffles. Someone who’d never even seen your face.

“Oh my God, try one,” Maki said, already plucking out a champagne truffle. “Don’t be shy.”

You picked a dark chocolate filled with salted caramel and bit into it. It was... really good. Incredible, even. Probably the best thing you’d ever tasted. Which, somehow, only made this entire situation worse.

“Girl, you are so lucky,” Maki sighed, popping another piece into her mouth. “A hot pilot who brings you fancy chocolate? Where do I sign up for that kind of harassment?”

“He’s probably not even attractive. I’ve never actually seen him.”

Both Maki and Ijichi froze, their mouths full of chocolate.

“Wait,” Maki said slowly. “You’ve never seen him?”

“Our shifts don’t overlap. I’m always in the tower when his flights come in.”

“Oh my God.” Maki turned to her computer. “I’m looking him up. The airport has photos of all the regular pilots for security, right?”

“Tower, this is Flight 234 requesting vectors for approach,” crackled your headset. 

You grabbed your radio. “Flight 234, turn right heading 090, descend and maintain 4,000 feet.”

You moved quickly back to your station, eyes fixed on the radar screen. Behind you, you could feel Maki and Ijichi staring at you, clearly waiting for you to come back to them to gossip, but you waved them off without turning around. 

As you guided the aircraft in, your hand absently toyed with the ribbon around the box, and that’s when you noticed the ‘something extra’. Tucked beneath the chocolates was a postcard that showed the Swiss alps. You turned the card around.

“For the voice that always guides me home. Thank you for keeping me safe up there.” — S

You shivered.

Out of annoyance. Obviously. Not because of the note. Or the postcard. Or the very stupid, very warm feeling creeping up your neck. Nope. Pure irritation. And maybe a tiny bit of cardiac distress. From rage. Clearly.

── ⟢ ·⸝⸝

You’d barely slept the night before. Every time you closed your eyes, you’d thought about stupidly expensive Swiss chocolate, that annoyingly sincere note, and the way his voice had softened when he’d called you special. It was infuriating. You were a professional, rational adult, not someone who lost sleep over a cocky pilot with a bedroom voice that was clearly a walking red flag.

Yet here you were at 12:28 PM, exhausted and surviving on your fourth cup of awful Tower coffee because an emergency landing had turned your normal shift into a fourteen hour marathon. A passenger going into labour during a flight from Beijing had caused half the Pacific to be rerouted, and by the time the situation had been handled, the night shift was understaffed and you’d agreed—more or less voluntarily—to stay and help out.

The tower had gone still in the way airports only do at night. Just you and your collegue Kai on shift, and him busy on a separate channel, handling a delayed cargo inbound. Somewhere below, the terminal lights flickered as the cleaning crews did laps. You rested your chin in your palm and tried not to hate everything.

“Tower, this is Flight 447 requesting approach clearance.”

It took your brain a second to catch up. Flight 447. He’d just arrived from Paris. Of course. You took a breath.

“Flight 447, unable to clear for approach at this time. We have outbound traffic. Maintain current altitude and turn left heading 270 for holding.”

“Copy that. Left 270. Long night down there?”

You rubbed your eyes. “Medical emergency earlier. You’ll be in the hold for about an hour.”

“Roger. Hey—did you get the chocolates?"

Despite your exhaustion, you felt heat creep up your neck. Damn him. “Yes. Thank you. They were... unnecessary.”

“But good?”

You exhaled. “Really good.”

“Knew it. You sound tired, Control. How long you been on?”

You checked your watch. “Fourteen hours.”

“You shouldn’t be pulling shifts that long. You always look after everyone else but you’ve got to take care of yourself too, you know.”

You paused, the words hitting you sideways. Maybe it was the fatigue making you soft, or maybe it was the fact that, for once, he didn’t sound like he was trying to get a rise out of you. He sounded genuinely concerned—and it threw you off more than any flirtation ever had. You didn’t even have the energy to fight him on it.

“Someone had to cover.”

“Not at the cost of your own health. You drinking water? Eating real food? And I don’t mean the sandwiches they sell in the vending machines in the gates.”

“I did eat something a few hours ago. I’m okay. We had a pregnant passenger go into labor. Coordinated three hospitals and rerouted six aircraft, then landed them priority.”

“Is she okay?”

“Baby girl, born healthy. I heard from the flight attendant that they’ve named her Sky. It’s kinda cheesy.”

“That’s beautiful.” His voice was soft. “You helped bring a little life into the world tonight.”

“It’s just part of the job.”

“It’s not just your job, you know that,” he said gently. “It’s you being the person people count on when it really matters.”

“I don’t know…”

“You know why I always ask for this route?”

“Because you like to annoy me?”

He laughed quietly. “Because your voice is the best part of my day. Doesn’t matter what went wrong, how difficult the passengers, or how many delays we had to deal with—the moment I hear you on frequency… I know I’m okay. I know I’m home.”

You blinked. Words tangled somewhere between your chest and your mouth, but none made it out. How could they? Not with your heart thudding like it was trying to escape. Not with your lungs suddenly feeling too small. 

It was silent in the tower. Kai was still busy on the other frequency with his cargo flight, leaving you alone with nothing but Gojo’s soft breathing in your headset and the pounding of your pulse. 

You pressed your forehead to your arms on the desk, willing your heart rate to slow. Eventually, quietly, you said, “Why? Why are you being so… like this? You don’t even know me.”

“I know enough. I know you work too hard and care too much. I know you’re calm even when the tower’s on fire. I know you have the most beautiful voice I’ve ever heard, and you use it to keep people safe.”

You could barely breathe.

“You deserve more than what this job takes from you, you know,” he added, almost like an afterthought.

“You’re so stupid,” you whispered, the insult so soft it barely had teeth.

“You’re exhausted. Lie to me tomorrow.” A pause. “You know, the cherry blossoms along the Seine were beautiful in Paris.” His voice grew wistful, and you closed your eyes, letting the sound wash over you in the quiet tower. “I’d love to show you someday.”

“Your girlfriend probably wouldn’t appreciate you taking other women on romantic trips to Paris.”

“I don’t have a girlfriend,” he said without hesitation. “I wish you were my girlfriend.”

You took another deep breath, slower this time, but it didn’t help. Your face felt hot, your pulse wouldn’t settle, and worst of all, you couldn’t even pretend it wasn’t happening. What the fuck were you supposed to do with that information? 

Normally you would have hung up by now, would have found some cutting remark to shut down whatever this was becoming. But maybe it was the exhaustion seeping into your bones, or the way his voice had gone so unsual gentle, that made you let it happen—this slow unraveling of the careful distance you’d built between yourself and the voice that had somehow become more important to you than you wanted to admit

“You’re insane.”

“You’re beautiful.”

You pressed your forehead deeper into the crook of your arm, as if you could bury the whole situation under your sleeves. As if he couldn’t still hear every shaky breath of yours over the radio.

“What? No comeback?” he teased. “You really must be tired.”

“I hate how you say stuff like that,” you mumbled into your sleeve, “when you know I’m too tired to fight back.”

“Sounds like good timing, then.”

“You’re the worst.”

“Mhm. I like when you sound all sleepy,” he said, lower now, almost like he was smiling. “It’s really cute.”

“Shouldn’t you be asking if I have a boyfriend or something?”

“Sounds like you want me to ask you.”

“I don’t.” You exhaled slowly, turning your head so your cheek pressed against your arm. “I’m not looking for anything.”

“Good,” he said. “So no boyfriend. Because it would be really awkward for me to take you to Paris if you had one. Boyfriends tend to get weird about that sort of thing.”

A soft laugh escaped before you could stop it. “You don’t even know me. Why are you so persistent?”

It was silent for a while—so long it made your skin itch. You glanced at the console. Still active. But then his voice returned.

“Because for months, your voice has been the only thing that’s felt like home,” he said. “Every flight, every approach, every time you say my call sign... it feels like coming home. And maybe that’s stupid. Maybe I’m just a pilot who’s spent too many nights alone in hotels, wondering what it’d be like to hear you say my name—my real name—just once, but I…”

The tower felt impossibly still around you, save for the sound of his soft breathing in your ear and the heavy press of something strange in your chest.

“Flight 447—”

“Can I ask you something? And you can say no.”

“…What?”

“Do you want to switch to a private frequency?”

You shouldn’t. It was a clear breach of communication policy. You knew that. But the tower was empty, Kai was distracted, and there was something in the way he said it that made you want to say yes so terribly much.

“Frequency 121.9,” you said.

“Copy that. Switching now.”

Your heart thudded. You flipped over to the private channel, palms slightly clammy against the controls, and waited.

“Tower, this is Flight 447 on private frequency.”

“I’m here.”

You could hear the smile in his voice when he answered. “Tell me something about you.”

“What do you want to know?”

“Anything. Doesn’t matter. I just want to listen to your voice.”

You went quiet for a beat, still resting your head on your arms, the headset cord wrapped loosely around your fingers. Your body was heavy with exhaustion, but something warm had started to bloom low in your chest.

“That’s… I don’t know what to say.”

“Start simple. What did you have for breakfast?”

Despite everything, you almost smiled. “Coffee.”

“Just coffee?” He groaned. “That’s terrible for you. You need read food.”

“Says the man who probably only eats airplane food and orders hotel room service.”

“I make great scrambled eggs, actually,” he said, a little smug. “Secret ingredient is a little cream cheese folded in at the end.”

“You cook?”

“Mhmm. And I make the best carbonara.”

“According to who?”

“According to me. And I’m a very reliable source.”

You smiled again. “Very humble, too.”

“Absolutely. So, what about you? What do you do when you’re not busy keeping pilots from crashing into each other?”

You surprised yourself by answering. You told him about the pottery class you barely had time for on weekends, how you were trying to teach yourself guitar but could only play three chords and a more or less decent version of ‘Wonderwall’. You admitted to watch trash reality TV while folding laundry, and how your poor balcony basil plant had died three times and counting despite your best efforts. 

It just... flowed. And it felt good. Comforting, even. 

You found yourself sharing more than you meant to, your voice softer than usual in the quiet of the tower, like the distance between you made it easier to be honest. 

You hadn’t realized until now how much you’d come to like hearing his voice. Not the cocky, smug tone he usually used on open frequency—but this version. Soff and warm in a way that felt almost intimate. Like he actually cared about your answer. Like he actually saw you, even from thirty thousand feet away.

You were quiet for a moment, then asked, “Why did you become a pilot?”

A breath passed. Maybe two.

“I had a little sister. She died when she was twelve—leukemia.” He paused, and you could hear the slight hitch in his breathing. “She was obsessed with those National Geographic documentaries, always making plans about all the places she wanted to see—the Andes in Peru, hiking the Highlands in Scotland, and seeing the Northern Lights in Iceland. She had this whole notebook full of destinations she wanted to visit, with pictures cut out from magazines.”

You didn’t move, afraid even a shift might break the moment.

“She never left Japan. Never even got on a plane. But the day before she died, she made me promise I’d see the world for her. That I’d go to all the places and tell her about them.” Another shaky breath. “So I became a pilot. And every flight, every city, every sunset high above the clouds—she’s with me. I take pictures for her. Collect postcards.” His laugh barely held. “Probably sounds crazy.”

“It doesn’t sound crazy at all.” You sat up straighter in your chair and rolled your sleeves down, suddenly feeling the night air’s chill. “So the postcards from Zurich…”

“I brought one for her, and one for you. I thought... maybe you’d like it too.”

“Flight 447,” you said softly, unsure what else to do with the weight in your chest.

“She would’ve liked you,” he added. “She always said the most important people are the ones who make you feel like home—even when you’re thirty thousand feet in the air, circling your home airport at in the middle of the night because you cannot land.”

You were silent for a while, unable to find words.

“Control? Can I ask you something else?”

“…Yeah.”

“Would you like to go out with me?”

You didn’t say anything at first. Didn’t even breathe at first, hand hovering near the console, but instead of replying, you slowly set your headset down and stood—legs unsteady. You crossed the small space behind your chair, ran a hand through your hair, tried to get your lungs to work again.

You weren’t ready. Not for this. Not for him sounding that sincere. He was still up there, circling in the dark, waiting for something you weren’t sure you could give. You braced your hands on the edge of the desk, heart pounding, and finally lowered yourself back into the chair. Slipped the headset on again.

“I…” you began, but the rest of the sentence never came. Your throat tightened too much.

“You don’t have to answer now. Just think about it, okay?”

Then Kai’s voice cut through your main frequency. “Control Seven, runway’s clear for your holding traffic.”

You switched back to the private frequency, your voice steadier than you felt. 

“Flight 447, you’re cleared for approach, runway 24L. Wind 180 at 5 knots.”

“Roger, cleared for approach runway 24L.”

You hesitated, your finger trembling slightly on the radio button, then softly, “Land safe, Satoru.”

Silence stretched between you, each moment an unbearable weight as you waited for him to speak, with only the soft static of the frequency for company. When his voice finally came back, it was barely above a whisper.

“You’re so unfair, Control. How am I supposed to sleep now that I’ve finally heard you say my name like that?”

Your chest tightened, a fragile tenderness settling in your chest, and you closed your eyes, lost in the sudden intimacy of the moment.

“See you on the ground, Control… and sleep easy tonight.”

── ⟢ ·⸝⸝

After that night, everything changed.

What had once been the most frustrating part of your job had quietly become the part you looked forward to most. You told yourself it was just the routine, the familiarity. A comforting voice between the chaos. But when Flight 447’s call sign popped up on your radar, your chest would do that stupid flutter before your brain could stop it. And the professional distance you’d worked so hard to maintain began crumbling piece by fragile piece.

“Tower, this is Flight 447 requesting vectors, and good morning to my favorite controller.”

You didn’t even try to hide your smile anymore. “Good morning, Captain. Turn left heading 180, descend and maintain 4,000.”

“How’s that terrible tower coffee treating you today?”

“Still tastes like mud. But it’s keeping me awake.”

“You really need someone to bring you proper coffee sometime.”

“Flight 447, contact Approach on 119.7.”

“Will do, beautiful. Save me a cup of that mud, will you?”

You caught yourself still smiling after he’d switched frequencies. 

Your colleagues noticed the change immediately. Maki would glance over with that knowing grin the second his call sign blinked onto your screen. Sometimes she didn’t even say anything—just raised her eyebrows and took a dramatically loud sip of her green tea.

Even Ijichi who was usually so quiet and reserved, seemed to soften. Now, he’d offer a small, genuinely happy smile when Satoru’s voice came through the speakers, like a younger brother observing something inevitable unfold.

The conversations with Satoru grew longer, more personal. He’d tell you about the cities he flew to—the morning mist over Prague’s cobblestone streets, the way the late afternoon sunlight painted the Alps during his approach to Munich, the bustling markets in Vienna that smelled like roasted chestnuts and warm strudel.

“There’s this little bakery in Prague,” he said once. “Sells cinnamon sugar spirals on a stick that taste like sugar bread. I picked some up for you and will drop them by your gate when I land, though they might be a bit smushed from the flight, but I swear they’re really good.”

You imagined him standing there, maybe still in his uniform, coffee in one hand and some pastry in the other, sunlight filtering through narrow European streets. You wished you could’ve been there with him.

One Tuesday evening, he came on frequency a few minutes early. “I saw the Northern Lights last night for the first time,” he said, skipping all pretense of small talk. “Over Helsinki. It looked incredible. I took about a hundred photos, even though they don’t do it justice, but… I tried.”

“Your sister would’ve loved that.”

“Yeah. She would have.” His voice grew soft. “I wish you could have seen them too. With me.”

You hadn’t planned on any of this. You didn’t know where it was going. But every word felt a little easier than the last. Like you were building something one flight at a time, stitched together from shared late night conversations, shared silences, and a voice that had somehow made its way under your skin. And you hadn’t even seen his face.

At some point, the flirting had stopped feeling like a game. You weren’t sure when the shift happened, only that it had. One day you were rolling your eyes at his compliments, and the next… you caught yourself smiling before he even switched on the mic.

He’d compliment your voice and your hair he’d never even seen, and you’d toss something sharp right back at his ego. He’d ask about your day like it mattered, and you’d ask how the clouds looked up there in the sky. 

Somewhere between the banter and clearance codes, you stopped resisting the warmth that bloomed in your chest every time he called you beautiful. Stopped pretending it didn’t matter. Stopped pretending you didn’t wait for his call sign, or feel the flutter in your stomach when he said your call sign like it was something he’d been waiting all day to say.

“You sound tired today,” he said one afternoon, somewhere over the East China Sea, his voice laced with concern.

You stifled a yawn. “Double shift. Someone called in sick.”

“That’s the third time this month. You need to take better care of yourself.”

“I’m fine.”

“When’s the last time you took a day off? And I mean not just sleeping in because you worked late, but actually doing something for yourself?”

You paused, thought about it, and realized you couldn’t remember.

“That settles it. When I get back from the Zagreb route next week, we’re going somewhere. Somewhere with decent coffee and food that doesn’t come from a vending machine.”

“Is that a request or a demand, Captain?”

“It’s a promise.”

Late night conversations on the private frequency became your favorite kind of bad habit. You told yourself you weren’t abusing the system—you just happened to monitor 121.9 a little more closely on nights when you knew he was in the air.

When the tower thinned out to near silence, leaving only the hum of the monitors, and his overnight flights aligned perfectly with your shifts, you always found a reason to switch channels.

“Can’t sleep up there?” you’d ask when his voice came through the static.

“Autopilot’s handling the boring parts. Thought I’d check on my favorite insomniac instead.”

“I’m not an insomniac,” you’d say, leaning into the console, exhausted but smiling. “I’m working.”

“It’s 3 AM. You should be in bed, curled up with a blanket and binge some Netflix.”

“Someone’s gotta guide the pretty pilots through the night sky.”

He never missed a beat. “Just one pretty pilot in particular, I hope. Otherwise I might get jealous.”

And you let him win these little exchanges. Because the truth was, the static of 121.9 had quietly become where you truly felt yourself. A place where your voice softened, where the walls came down, where you weren’t Control Seven—you were just you. Tired, overcaffeinated, sometimes frustrated with everything—but somehow still able to breathe easier when his voice filled your headset.

You didn’t have a name for what was growing between you—but it was there. Steady. Constant. Cruising at altitude and waiting for the moment one of you was brave enough to land.

Those conversations could last hours—him circling above the Pacific while you guided other aircraft, both of you stealing moments between official duties to talk about everything and nothing. He’d tell you about passengers he’d met, you’d share stories about the quirky new controller in the tower. He’d describe the view from his cockpit, you’d explain what the radar looked like from your perspective.

“Do you ever wonder what it would be like if we’d met differently?” he asked one night.

“How do you mean?”

“If I wasn’t a pilot, and you weren’t up in a tower. If we just... bumped into each other at a grocery store or something.”

“Would you have still talked my ear off about arctic birds?”

“Probably.” He laughed. “Though I might have started with the weather like a normal person.”

“I don’t think you know how to be normal, Captain.”

You found yourself looking forward to his flights. When Flight 447 appeared on your radar, it was like a switch flipped on inside your chest. And when his route changed and he wasn’t there you caught yourself glancing at the flight board more than necessary. If his flight was delayed by weather or mechanical issues, you’d feel it settle heavy in your chest like stones until his call sign appeared on your screen.

“Miss me?” he’d tease whenever your shifts missed each other and the silence stretched too long.

“You wish.”

“I do, actually. Horribly.”

You rolled your eyes, even though he couldn’t see it. “The frequency’s been blessedly quiet without you. You wouldn’t believe how efficiently I can work without your constant interruptions.”

“Liar. You were bored as hell.”

“Flight 447, I’m transferring you to Approach before your big ego causes your plane to crash.”

“Don’t you think it’s a little to late for that, Control? It’s this big since you said my name that one time.”

You groaned, pressing your palm to your forehead, but you were smiling. Always smiling. And he knew it. You both did. And pretending otherwise had started to feel pointless.

“…I missed you.”

You leaned forward, arms crossed on the edge of your console, and hunched your shoulders, trying to shake off the shiver that traced down your spine at the sound of his voice in your ear.

“Approach is waiting, Captain.”

A few weeks had passed since that first private frequency conversation, and you still hadn’t given him a direct answer about the date. But somewhere between his stories about sunrises over the Himalayas and your chaotic work anecdotes, the question had become less about whether and more about when. Even if you didn’t have the courage to admit it yet.

“So,” he said one Thursday evening, while preparing for approach, “about that date…”

Your heart stuttered in the smallest, stupidest way.

“I know a little café in Shibuya. It’s away from the main tourist spots and makes the best matcha lattes in Tokyo. Perfect place for two hardworking colleagues to grab a coffee.”

“We are colleagues, Flight 447.”

“Colleagues who happen to enjoy each other’s company.”

“Colleagues who work together professionally.”

“Colleagues who talk on private frequencies at 2 AM about the Northern Lights and their horrible exes.” His voice carried that familiar teasing note. “Come on, what’s the worst that could happen? I promise not to talk about aircraft separation minimums the whole time.”

“The worst that could happen is that it gets complicated.”

“It’s already complicated.”

You were quiet for a moment, knowing he was right. You shifted slightly in your chair, fingers idly twirling the cable of your headset.

“Flight 447, contact Approach on 119.7.”

“The café’s called Blue Mountain,” he said before switching. “Saturday afternoon. If you’re free.”

“I’ll think about it.”

Later that night, you lay on your back in the dark, staring at the ceiling of your apartment as the last traces of twilight faded from deep purple to black outside your open window, and replayed every conversation, every laugh, every time he’d called you beautiful.

You were a grown woman. A professional. You managed emergencies, rerouted aircraft in storm systems, made decisions in mere seconds that kept hundreds of people safe every day.

And here you were. Heart in shambles over a man you’d never even seen in person.

It didn’t make sense. Pilots are arrogant. That’s a universal truth you’d learned over the years in air traffic control. They walked through airports like they owned the sky, had egos the size of their aircraft, an attention span of a goldfish when it came to relationships, and probably a different girlfriend in every city.

Satoru was a pilot. 

Therefore, by the sacred logic of the universe, he was a bad idea.

You’d learned that lesson the hard way—given your heart to people who’d seemed so sure, so persistent, so convinced they wanted forever until they didn’t. Until the reality of loving someone flawed and human became too much work, too complicated, too real.

But now here was him—persistent, charming, relentless in his pursuit of something that existed only in radio waves and imagination. All he had was your voice and whatever fantasy he’d constructed around it. And fantasies, no matter how beautiful, eventually shattered when they met reality.

You didn’t know much about him. Not his favorite movie, or if he was the type to do laundry right away or leave it on a chair for three days. You didn’t know who broke his heart last, or what he looked like when he was nervous. You didn’t even know if he wore glasses or if his hair curled when it rained.

For all you knew, he talked like this to every controller on every route. Maybe you were just one more frequency he’d tuned into. A novelty. A nice voice to pass the time.

Yet you knew he brought you gifts from cities you’d never visited. You knew he worried when you worked too many hours. You knew he talked to his dead sister through postcards and photographs, and somehow let you be a part of that grief. You knew the sound of his breathing thirty thousand feet above you, and sometimes wished you could fall asleep to it.

But this wasn’t real. Whatever this was—chemistry, attraction, some strange radio wave Stockholm syndrome—it couldn’t be real. Real relationships required proximity, shared experiences, mundane Tuesday mornings and arguments over who left the bathroom light on. Not conversations between approach vectors and weather reports in the middle of the night.

He’d never seen you laugh until your sides hurt, never witnessed you cry out of frustration. He didn’t know that you were shy in crowds, that you overthought everything, that you had trust issues wrapped around your heart like scar tissue.

This was in between. A connection built in the air, not on the ground. And you were being smart by saying no. You were being practical. Responsible. You were doing what made sense.

But why did the idea of never knowing the warmth of his hand in yours make your chest ache like you were already grieving something that hadn’t even had the chance to exist?

You rolled onto your side, pulled the covers up higher, and pressed your face into the pillow.

── ⟢ ·⸝⸝

It was one of those graveyard shifts where the world felt like it had gone still. Most of the world was asleep, save for you, a few stray cargo flights, and the quiet static of Flight 447 holding steady somewhere over the ocean. And him. Always him.

You were back on private frequency. What began, as it always did, with talk of altitudes and airspeed, soon shifted to stories of cities and people he’d met in Dublin and that little bakery he’d found in Budapest, that he’s sure of you’d love.

And then he told you about his ex-girlfriend who’d left him because she couldn’t handle the distance, the loneliness of hotel rooms. He spoke of his parents, who’d always expected him to run the family’s company, and how they still didn’t understand why he’d chosen to spend his life in the sky.

You found yourself sharing more than you probably should, as you always did in these hushed moments—your failed engagement to a man who’d wanted you to quit air traffic control because it was ‘too stressful’, your complicated relationship with your mother, and how sometimes, even now, it still felt like your worth came with conditions.

“I’ve never told anyone that before,” you said softly after confessing how you’d chosen this career partly to prove you could handle something your ex-fiancé thought was too difficult for you.

“I'm glad you told me,” Satoru’s voice was soft through the headset. And despite the exhaustion, your chest gave that familiar, traitorous flutter. “I love listening to your voice, especially when you’re being honest about things that matter.”

“Satoru…” you said, without thinking—his name slipping out in a whisper that carried more weight than it should have.

“Say that again.”

“Your name?”

“Yes,” he breathed, the single word aching. “Please.”

You hesitated. Not because you didn't want to—but because speaking it aloud meant acknowledging the weight it carried.

“Satoru,” you said again, slower this time. His name felt warm on your tongue, like something meant to be spoken softly, like a confession wrapped in a name.

On the other end of the line, silence stretched long enough to make your heart stutter.

“Satoru?” you asked. “Are you there?”

“I’m here. I was just… thinking.”

“About what?”

A beat.

“About how much I want to kiss you right now.”

Your breath caught so fast it hurt. Heat flooded your face and you pulled your headset off for a moment, pressing your palms against your burning cheeks.

You stood for a second, pacing a few slow steps behind your chair, trying to shake it off, to convince yourself you hadn’t heard what you just heard. But your heart wouldn’t stop racing, a wild bird trapped in your ribs, like your body was reacting to something your mind hadn’t even begun to process, let alone given permission for.

Because part of you had desperately wanted to hear those words. And part of you didn’t know what the hell to do with them now that they were real. You stared at the headset in your lap, hesitating. Wanting. Dreading.

After a few seconds, you slipped the headset back on.

“Did I scare you with that?”

“No,” you said quietly. “It’s… it’s fine.”

“I mean it, you know. I really do want to kiss you.”

“This is insane. We’ve never even met.”

“It doesn’t feel that way to me. Feels like I’ve known you forever.”

His words settled deep, heavier than the silence that followed. Something about them felt like a confession hanging between earth and sky, between personal and professional, between safe and what if.

“Satoru…”

“I know how you take your coffee. I know how you sound when you’re tired, and what makes you laugh when you’re trying not to. I know you bite your lip when you’re concentrating—because I can hear it in your voice. And I know you put everyone else ahead of yourself even when you shouldn’t. I know enough to care. And enough to want more.” A pause. “What else do I need to know?”

“What I look like, for starters.”

“I don’t care.”

“You don’t care?”

“No, because it’s your voice I think about at night. That’s what drew me in. The rest… it never mattered.”

You sat there, heartbeat loud in your ears, not sure how to breathe, let alone how to respond.

“Say something,” he whispered. “Please.”

“I don’t know what to say.”

“Say you’ll have coffee with me. Say you’ll give me a chance to see the woman I’ve fallen for.”

Your breath caught again. “Fallen for?” you repeated, like maybe saying it aloud would help you believe it.

“Yes. Completely, hopelessly fallen for.”

Your hands lifted—without thinking, almost desperate—and pressed against the headset like you could pull his voice closer—pull him closer. Part of you wanted him to say it again. Needed to hear it, to make sure it was real. And another part wished he hadn’t said it at all. Because now it was alive between you. Irrevocable.

“I…” You stopped, swallowed, tried again. “I have to—” You panicked and switched back to the main frequency. “Ijichi? Can you take over Flight 447 for me? I need to step out for a second.”

“Everything okay?” Ijichi’s voice sounded concerned.

“Yeah,” you said. “Just need a bathroom break.”

You yanked the headset off and fled to the small restroom down the hall, slammed the lock shut, and leaned back against the door as if afraid his words might follow you in.

You turned on the faucet, splashing cold water onto your face. Droplets clung to your lashes and slid down your neck. Still, the heat in your skin wouldn’t go away, chest rising and falling too fast.

What is happening? 

He couldn’t be serious. He couldn’t just… fall for your voice. That wasn’t how this worked. That wasn’t how any of this worked. You hadn’t even met him. You didn’t know what his laugh looked like when it reached his eyes. He didn’t know how you looked when you weren’t exhausted. And yet—

Yet here you were, breathless in a dim airport bathroom in the middle of the night, heart racing like you were the one who’d made the confession.

This is insane. He is a pilot. Probably talks like this to every other control tower from Berlin to Bangkok. But why—God, why—did you want to kiss him back so badly?

── ⟢ ·⸝⸝

You took a week off without telling him.

It was cruel—you knew that. But you needed time. Time to breathe. Time to think. Time to stop feeling like you were going to fly apart every time you heard his voice. But distance didn’t feel like space. It felt like ache.

You spent most of that week alone in your apartment, curled into corners of yourself you hadn’t visited in years. You rearranged your bookshelves. Watered your plants twice in one day. Cleaned your windows until they gleamed like they haven’t in years. 

And still, none of it helped. You ended up lying on your back in your bed, just… thinking. Wondering if he was worried. If he noticed the silence. If he regretted saying what he did.

You replayed the conversation endlessly, like a scratched record stuck on the moment his voice had dropped, tender and fragile with something like a confession. 

Completely, hopelessly fallen for. 

You could still hear it. Still feel the way your lungs had stuttered.

You hadn’t meant to fall for him. But you had.

Maybe it started the moment he told you that your voice felt like coming home to him. Or maybe it was the first time he opened up about his sister, the way his voice caught halfway through the sentence, like he was still learning how to hold that grief in his mouth. Or maybe it was even before that, when he brought you chocolate from Zurich and called you special to customs agents he’d never meet again.

You wanted to kiss him then. You want to kiss him now. And that terrified you more than anything. Not because it wasn’t real, but because you’d wanted it to be real for so long without even realizing. But wanting and admitting were two different things. 

So instead, you wrapped yourself in quiet and waited for the ache to fade. It didn’t. You thought it would. You thought time would create space, and space would give you clarity. But it didn’t, and the ache only grew stronger.

By day three, you caught yourself checking the flight tracking apps, wondering if he was flying the skies above you, if his voice was somewhere out there asking another controller for vectors. If he’d call them ‘beautiful’ too.

By day four, you were questioning whether radio silence was mature or just cowardly, and by day five, you were actively pacing your apartment, cursing yourself for disappearing and cursing him for making you feel this way in equal measures.

You heard the familiar drone of an aircraft passing overhead through your open window and stopped your pacing instantly, tilting your head toward the sound as it grew louder, then began to fade.

Was that him? His flight cutting through the darkness with some other controller guiding him home? Someone else’s voice in his headset? The thought made you sick.

Your phone buzzed against the kitchen counter. A text from Maki. “Your pilot boyfriend keeps asking where you are.”

You stared at the message for a long time. Not because you didn’t care, but because you didn’t know what to say. Because how could you possibly say I miss him without it sounding like you were already halfway in love. And maybe you were.

****

You returned on day six. Not because you were ready, or because the questions had answers, or your chest had stopped aching when his name passed through your thoughts, but because Tokyo’s sky was falling apart and there was no more time left to hide.

The call came at 3:42 AM—all available controllers needed immediately. Level four emergency.

You barely had time to pull on your uniform, hair still damp from the shower, as you rushed past stranded passengers sleeping on benches and gate agents with phones pressed to both ears, while overhead an urgent announcement looped in four languages. 

A massive weather front had swept across the Pacific, turning Tokyo’s airspace into chaos. Delayed flights, emergency diversions, aircraft running low on fuel circling in holding patterns, waiting for safe corridors to open. But when you reached your workstation, you stopped.

Flowers. 

A small, beautiful arrangement of white roses and baby’s breath in a clear glass vase.

“He sends them every day,” Maki said, appearing beside you with a stack of weather reports. “Asks if someone can place them on your desk. In case you come back.”

You couldn’t speak, only stared at the petals, watching one tremble in the air conditioning draft. Something fragile inside your chest pulled taut. 

Six days. 

He’d been sending flowers to an empty chair for six days.

“You okay?” Maki asked.

“I’m good,” you managed, swallowing hard. “I need to—” But there was no time. 

“Tower, this is Flight 892, requesting immediate vectors around weather cell bearing 270.”

For the next three hours, there was no room left for feelings. You were too busy handling all the alternate airport requests, fuel emergencies, and missed approaches that required immediate rerouting.

“Flight 315, turn right heading 180, descend to 8,000. Moderate turbulence ahead, advise caution.”

“Flight 726, negative climb, maintain 12,000. Traffic conflict. Standby for alternate routing.”

Every call you answered felt like a life being tossed into your hands. You held on tight. You didn’t shake. At least, not on the outside. 

A sudden, blinding flash from outside momentarily bleached the room, then plunged it back into deeper shadow as rain lashed heavily against the tower’s windows.

And then, between the tangle of signals and storm interference, a call sign you knew like your own name lit up your screen. 

Flight 447.

“Tower, this is Flight 447 requesting vectors through weather, and—” He paused—like he’d caught the shaky breath you hadn’t meant to let slip through. “Control, is that you?”

It shouldn’t have undone you like that. But it did. Your knees went weak under your console. Relief flooded through you at the sound of his voice, alive and safe. Your throat tightened around a dozen things you wanted to say, but there was no time.

“Flight 447, turn left heading 090, descend to 6,000. There’s a gap in the storm cell at your two o’clock.”

“Roger, left 090, down to 6,000.” A beat. “It’s good to hear your voice again.”

You wanted to respond, to explain, to apologize for disappearing like a coward, but four other aircraft were calling for attention at the same time and the storm was intensifying still.

“Flight 447, be advised, severe turbulence ahead. Recommend immediate deviation right, heading 130.”

“Negative, we’re already committed to this approach. We’ll ride it—”

Then nothing. The radio snapped to static, then went silent.

You stood up so fast your chair rolled backward and bumped into the console behind you. One hand clutched the headset tighter to your ear, the other braced against your desk.

“Flight 447, come in.”

No response.

“Satoru, do you copy?”

Still nothing. Only white noise.

Lightning split the sky outside, followed by a deep, rattling roar of thunder that vibrated through the control room. But all you could hear was the terrifying silence where his voice should’ve been.

Your hand trembled as you keyed the mic. “Flight 447, please respond.”

Then, finally, cutting through the noise, “Control. I’m here. Lost comms for a moment there.”

You sank back into your chair like your legs had stopped working, the adrenaline suddenly too much to hold. You rested your forearms on the edge of the console, hands trembling slightly as you leaned in, pressing your forehead against them, trying to steady the frantic beat of your heart against your ribs. 

“What’s with the silence now,” he whispered softly. “Were you worried about me, love?”

Love.

He’d never said that before. Beautiful, gorgeous, honey—but never this. Not like that. Not so soft and tender, like you’d been his love for so long that saying it was simply acknowledging what already existed, what had been waiting patiently in his chest for the right moment to slip free. And never had you been so stupidly, helplessly happy to hear a single word.

He is alive. He is safe. And he’d called you love.

“Flight 447, confirm you’re okay.” 

“We’re fine. Bumpy ride, but nothing we can’t handle.”

Neither of you said anything for a moment.

“I’ve missed you.”

Your throat tightened. Six days of silence. Six days of waiting, wondering, and avoiding the thing you were most afraid to admit. Six days of white roses waiting for your return, and here he was, relieved to hear your voide again like you were something precious he’d thought he’d lost. 

As if your absence had mattered. 

As if he’d missed you the way you’d missed him.

“Thank you,” you said. “For the flowers.”

“You don’t have to thank me. Just… don’t go quiet on me again, okay? It’s hard to feel like I’m coming home when you’re not the one guiding me there.”

You closed your eyes, the ache blooming hot behind your ribs. Coming home. How could he say things like that so easily? How could he make you feel like you were drowning and flying at the same time with just a handful of words spoken through radio static?

And the worst part was how easily he said it—like you really were his home, his anchor point in all that vast sky. Like this thing between you wasn’t just something imagined, but something real enough to miss, something worth coming back to.

“I won’t,” you said, barely above a whisper.

“Promise?”

“I promise.”

And you meant it. Whatever had made you run, whatever fear had driven you to take that week off—it felt so stupidly irrelevant compared to the relief of knowing he was safe. Of knowing somewhere above the clouds, he’d been looking for your voice.

“See you on the ground, beautiful.”

And then the line went silent.

Your eyes stayed locked on his radar symbol, unwilling to look away, tracking his descent as if your gaze alone could guide him safely down. Your eyes drifted to the flowers beside your console, your chest tight with guilt because you’d been too much of a coward to face what you felt for him. 

What was holding you back when he was right there? Wanting you, missing you enough to notice your absence, calling you love so tenderly. What was so terrifying about someone who made you feel like the most important voice in his sky?

He missed you. Wanted you. And you missed him like the sky misses his stars in daylight. Now he was descending through storm clouds, almost within reach, and you still didn’t know how to say any of it.

You watched his altitude drop.

8,000 feet. 

6,000.

4,000.

Each number bringing him closer to solid ground—closer to you.

Then another violent gust tore across the runway. A sharp gasp cut through the tower, everyone suddenly stood and looked out the windows as Flight 447 broke through the storm clouds, lurching violently sideways. The plane’s wings tilted at a sickening angle, fighting against the crosswind as it dropped like a stone before catching itself.

Your heart flatlined.

“Maki, can you cover for me?” you asked, voice tight, already moving.

She looked away from the window. “What? Yeah, but—” 

You were gone. Down the tower stairs, past security who barely glanced at your badge, through the restricted access door and straight into the teeth of the storm. Didn’t matter that you were soaking wet or that this was completely against protocol. All you knew was you had to see him.

Rain hit you immediately like ice, instantly soaking through your uniform, but you didn’t slow. Across the runway, Flight 447 was coming in hard. You watched it slam onto the wet asphalt—one heavy bounce, then another, the aircraft struggling to find purchase on the waterlogged asphalt before finally coming to a halt with a loud screech of brakes.

Not a crash. But rough enough to stop your breathing.

You ran faster, shoes splashing through puddles as emergency crews rushed past you toward the plane. The aircraft had stopped crooked on the runway, passenger stairs already being rolled into position as ground crew in bright orange vests hurried around the scene.

 It was stupid, so stupid. You didn’t even know what he looked like. But then—

You saw him. For the first time in your life.

He stepped out of the cockpit door, tall and undeniably handsome even amidst the chaos. His hair was drenched form the rain, plastered back from his forehead, his pilot’s uniform soaked and wrinkled. He was looking around slowly, searching through the crowd with a furrowed brow and eyes the exact impossible blue you’d somehow always known they’d be. And then—

And then his gaze found yours. And everything stopped. No thunder. No wind. No roar of engines or shouts from the crew.

Your eyes met across the storm, and the world fell away. You had never seen this man before, but it didn’t feel that way. It felt like remembering. There was no question, no doubt, no moment of uncertainty—you knew it was him the same way you knew your own heartbeat.

The voice you’d fallen for belonged to this man, this beautiful and insufferable pilot who was staring at you like he’d just found something he’d been searching for his entire life. 

And now he’d found you.

You ran toward him through the chaos, feet splashing through more puddles, rain streaming down your face. He moved toward you too, taking the metal steps down from the plane two at a time, his hand sliding along the wet railing. 

You met in the middle of the runway, both out of breath, both drenched to the bone. Rain clung to his white lashes as he stared at you—those impossible blue eyes you’d imagined a hundred times now real, locked on your face like you were the only thing in the world. And yes, they were just as blue as a winter sky. Up close, he was somehow even more beautiful than you’d let yourself believe.

You opened your mouth, then closed it again, suddenly at a complete loss for words. “Would you like to go out with me?” you finally managed, having to raise your voice over the wind and rain.

Satoru blinked, his hair plastered against his forehead. A slow, handsome smile spread across his face.

“Yeah,” he said, voice rough with emotion. “I’d really like that.”

And then he was moving, one hand sliding around your waist while the other came up to cradle your face, thumb brushing away raindrops—or maybe tears, you couldn’t tell anymore. He pulled you closer, bridging the last inches like he’d been waiting forever to do it.

When he kissed you, it was like coming home after being lost for years. Desperate and tender, months of longing finally given form. His lips were impossibly soft against yours, warm despite the cold rain, and you could taste the storm on his mouth, feel the way his breath caught when you kissed him back.

Rain poured around you as you finally, finally kissed the voice that had become your everything.

When you broke apart, both breathless, he rested his forehead against yours. His hands trembled slightly where they held you, like he still couldn’t believe this was real.

“God, you’re so beautiful,” he whispered.

Then he was kissing you again, deeper this time, pouring months of missed chances and sleepless nights into the space between your lips. His grip tightened on your waist. Without breaking the kiss, he lifted from the ground and spun once, twice, in the pouring rain like you weighed nothing at all.

Storm clouds churned overhead and emergency crews moved around you, but it felt like you were the only two people in the world—suspended in this perfect moment between earth and sky and the the feeling of finally being found.

── ⟢ ·⸝⸝

A few weeks later.

“Careful with that,” Satoru warned as you briefly touched a panel of switches, his hand catching your wrist gently. “Unless you want to explain to the airline why we accidentally activated the emergency slides in the hangar.”

You were perched in the captain’s seat of his Boeing 777, legs tucked beneath you as you took in the array of countless instruments, screens, and controls that made up his office thirty thousand feet above the ground. The cockpit was smaller than you’d imagined, more intimate, every surface covered with buttons and displays that somehow made sense to him.

“You actually understand all of this?”

“Each and every switch, gauge, and warning light.” He leaned over you from where he stood beside the captain’s seat, his chest brushing your shoulder as he pointed to different instruments. “See this? It’s the primary flight display—shows our altitude, airspeed, heading. That’s the navigation display, weather radar here…”

You could smell his cologne, feel the warmth of his body as he leaned in closer to point out the next display. You loved watching him like this—the way he lit up when talking about his aircraft, completely absorbed in every detail with that endearing kinda nerdy side of his. But being this close to him made it hard to focus on anything he was saying when all you could think about was the way his voice rumbled low near your ear.

“And this,” he continued, reaching around you to tap a small screen, his arm caging you in against the seat, “shows exactly how beautiful my air traffic controller looks in my chair.”

You turned to find his face inches from yours. His sky blue eyes caught the gentle light like glass, impossibly clear, and for a second, you forgot how to breathe.

“That’s not what that screen shows.”

“No? Then why can’t I look away from it?”

“You’re stupid.” But you were smiling, tilting your head back against the headrest to maintain eye contact. “Show me something else.”

“Demanding little controller.” His fingers trailed along the overhead panel, flipping switches as he spoke. “These control cabin pressure, air conditioning, electrical systems…”

You sank deeper into the chair, letting his soothing voice wash over you.

“These are the autopilot controls.” His hand moved again. “This button engages the system—basically tells the plane to fly itself according to the flight plan we’ve programmed.” His finger moved to another switch. “This one controls altitude hold, and this manages our heading.”

“But here’s the most important thing.” Satoru reached toward a small compartment near the instrument panel and pulled out a photo of the two of you from that stormy night—completely drenched, kissing in the rain. It was blurry as hell and underexposed, and absolutely perfect.

“I still can’t believe Hana managed to get this shot,” you said, taking it from him. “She really thought ‘Oh, what a perfect time for a picture’ while there was literally an emergency evacuation going on.”

Satoru laughed. “But aren’t you gald she took it?”

“We look absolutely stupid.” 

Your hair was plastered to your face, his uniform wrinkled and soaked, but you both looked happy. Really happy.

“You look perfect,” he said, leaning closer. “And you were so cute when you had that total meltdown thinking something happened to me.”

“I did not have a meltdown—”

“You ran across an active runway. In a storm.” He traced the edge of the photo with his finger, smiling. “My professional, composed controller lost her cool because she was worried about her pilot.”

“You’re insufferable.”

“I’m just saying—” He leaned back against the instrument panel, clearly enjoying this. “For someone who spent months pretending to hate my guts, you certainly changed your mind when you thought I might be hurt.”

“I was worried about you.”

His smile softened. “You didn’t have to.” He paused, then reached out, gently cupping your face. “No matter how rough the storm or the landing, I’m never really lost—not when I know you’re there. You always guide me home safely.”

“You’re stupid.”

“Stupidly in love, yeah,” he murmured—and then he kissed you.

What started soft and slow quickly turned heated. You pulled him closer by his tie, and he braced his hand against the seat beside your head, his tongue sliding against yours as his mouth pressed hungrily to yours.

“Controller,” Satoru said between kisses, his voice already rough. “What exactly are you starting here?”

“I’m not starting anything,” you said, even though your fingers were already working his tie loose.

“Clearly.”

You rose from the chair and tugged gently at his loosened tie and he followed without resistance. With a gentle push to his chest, you guided him down into the captain’s seat. He let himself fall back into it, eyes locked on yours. Without a word, you climbed into his lap, straddling him. His hands found your waist immediately, pulling you close as his mouth met yours again like he couldn’t stand another second apart.

“My break’s over in fifteen,” you murmured against his lips. “And the plane’s grounded for another hour. No one should be around.”

He pulled back just enough to give you a look. “Wait… did you check the maintenance schedule before coming here?”

“Maybe.”

“God,” he groaned against your mouth, his hands gliding up your back. “Do you even know what you do to me?”

“I’m just making efficient use of our time, Captain,” you whispered, rolling your hips slightly and feeling him tense beneath you. “Isn’t that what good air traffic control is about? Proper scheduling and all that?”

His laugh came out breathless, strained. “Pretty sure this isn’t in any manual I’ve read.”

“Then I guess you’ll have to improvise.” You threaded your fingers through his white hair and pulled him closer. “You’re good at handling unexpected situations, aren’t you?”

Whatever he was about to say dissolved as he caught your lips again, urgency building in the small space between your bodies. One hand slipped beneath your shirt, warm fingers tracing the curve of your lower back, while the other gripped your thigh possessively.

You started undoing the buttons of his shirt with trembling fingers, impatience bleeding into every movement. Fabric slipped from his shoulders as you pushed it off. You pressed your hands against his bare chest, feeling the rapid thud of his heartbeat under your palms and traced slowly down over his abs, earning a rough groan of his against your lips.

“Why do I get the feeling this was your plan all along?” 

Satoru tugged at your shirt, easing it off your shoulders as his lips trailed along your collarbone, then down to the strap of your bra, pushing it aside to press kisses to the skin beneath.

“Says the man undressing me in his cockpit,” you managed, though your voice caught when his mouth found your neck and sucked lightly.

“I can’t believe you let me ramble about navigation systems for ten minutes straight when this was your plan.”

“You’re cute when you’re being all professional and nerdy.”

“You’re terrible.” 

His hands gripped your hips, pulling you closer until you could feel him hard and pressing through his uniform. A soft sound escaped your lips before you could stop it, and his mouth crashed back onto yours, like he was trying to steal every moan before it left your lips.

“Careful. Don’t want us getting caught, right?”

You barely heard him. Your hands dropped to his belt, leather unfastening fast. It didn’t take long to push aside everything that wasn’t necessary. You were both nothing if not efficient, after all. And the last threads of restraint snapped as Satoru’s hands slid up your bare thighs, fingers hooking beneath your underwear and pulling it aside.

His head tipped back against the seat, breath catching as you moved against him. “Fuck,” he whispered, hands gripping your waist and pulling you closer as you found your rhythm together. His mouth on yours again, swallowing the soft sounds neither of you could hold back.

Surrounded by the controls and countless displays, the cockpit windows slowly fogging from your heated breathing, you couldn’t help but think about how it all started. This was where it began—thirty thousand feet above the world, suspended between earth and sky in the place where his voice had first found yours. From that very first radio call, from the moment he’d called you beautiful, it had always been leading here. 

As if inevitable.

Now, with your hands mapping his skin and your name falling from his lips in soft moans, it felt like coming full circle. From air traffic control to this. From ‘Flight 447’ to ‘Satoru.’ From guiding him home to finally being home.

And that felt pretty damn good.

── ⟢ ·⸝⸝

Six months later.

“Tower, this is Flight 447 requesting permission to land and take my gorgeous girlfriend out for dinner tonight,” came the voice you loved through your headset, smooth as always despite the late hour.

You rolled your eyes, though you smiled. “Flight 447, you do realize the entire tower can hear you, right?”

“Even better. Let them all know how lucky I am.”

Around the control tower, your colleagues had long since stopped pretending to be annoyed by Satoru’s radio flirtations. Maki still teased you about how cute you both sounded over the frequency, and even Ijichi had gotten used to the intimate banter without blushing like a teenage boy who’d accidentally walked into a lingerie store.

The gifts never stopped coming. From Vilnius, he’d brought a handwritten pierogi recipe from an elderly woman he’d chatted with during his layover—and it was surprisingly good when he made it for you on the weekend. He did not lie when he told you he’s a good cook. 

From Faro came a hand painted pot for the basil plant you’d surely kill again, but it didn’t matter as he’d secretly replace it in the middle of the night so you’d think you’d finally managed to keep a plant alive and see your happy smile. Seville brought oranges he’d handpicked from the city gardens, and Barcelona brought a gorgeous Picasso art book.

And, of course, every trip came with two postcards. One for you, and one for his sister. You’d started framing the ones meant for her and hanging them throughout his apartment for him.

“You know you don’t have to bring me something from every city,” you’d told him after he’d brought more expensive chocolate from Zurich.

“Let me spoil my girl,” he’d replied simply, watching you take a bite. “Besides, all you see is that boring tower all day. You deserve a little treat.”

The radio banter had only gotten worse—or better, depending on your perspective.

“Tower, Flight 447 requesting vectors to your heart.”

“Flight 447 keep it professional or I’m diverting you to Osaka.”

“Oof. Brutal. But if you send me to Osaka, you’ll never see what I brought you from Rome.”

Your colleagues had started keeping a list of his most ridiculous radio calls. ‘Flight 447 requesting visual on the prettiest controller in the hemisphere’ was Maki’s current favorite, while Ijichi still cringed about the time Satoru had asked for ‘Requesting altitude adjustment because I just fell for you—again.’

Yeah. It was absolutely cheesy.

Moving in together happened gradually, then all at once. Your clothes moved to his closet, your coffee mugs replaced all of his ugly ones in the kitchen, and suddenly your shift schedule was magnetted to his refrigerator beside his flight rotations. One day, you realized you were planning your lives around each other without ever having had the conversation.

“Your apartment’s bigger,” you’d pointed out, when you finally made it official.

“Yours has the better balcony. But mine’s closer to the airport.”

“So, your place then. But I’m bringing my good coffee maker.”

“And won’t let me see that adorable little wince you do at my terrible coffee in the morning? You’re heartless.”

But the real adjustment wasn’t space or schedules. It was learning each other’s bodies with the same intensity you’d spent months learning each other’s voices. After all, with falling in love through radio static, there was a lot of missed physical intimacy to make up for.

Some weekends you didn’t even make it out of your shared apartment, too consumed with discovering each other all over again. Your back hit the mattress with a soft thud, sheets warm beneath you as he settled over you, pressing kisses to your jaw, your neck, your collarbone like he couldn’t decide where to focus first.

“I used to fantazise about this,” he murmured between kisses.

“About what?”

“This.” His voice dropped lower, lips bruising your throat. “What you’d sound like when you weren’t trying so hard to be professional… imagining the sounds you’re making now, how you’d moan my name with that pretty voice of yours.”

You pulled him closer, lips finding his again, his tongue hot against yours.

 “Yeah?”

He smiled against your mouth. “You have no idea how many nights I imagined the taste of your skin. How many times I lay awake wondering if your thighs would shake when I fucked you hard enough.”

Your breath stuttered, hands gripping his shoulders like they were the only steady thing left. “Good thing we’ve got time now to find out.”

“Yeah. And I plan on making up for all of it,” he whispered—just before his fingers slipped between your thighs, and you forgot how to speak altogether.

And you did make up for lost time. Learning that he was somehow even more affectionate and thorough in person than over the radio. 

In the quiet of your bedroom, with the curtains drawn and the world hushed beyond the walls, you discovered each other slowly.  

How he always shivered when you traced patterns across his abs. How you had a small scar just below your ribcage from a childhood fall that he found with his lips, kissing along your skin until you arched beneath him. How your body tensed and then melted completely when his mouth worked between your legs, drawing sounds from you that made him groan against your skin.

You learned the weight of his arm draped over you, holding you close when he was moving from behind, and how soothing it felt when his fingers traced lazy patterns on your shoulder until sleep claimed you both. Discovered that lazy morning sex, followed by his surprisingly good scrambled eggs, was the perfect way to start any day.

You spent hours like this, days even, learning the language of each other’s bodies with a thoroughness that left no inch unexplored and no fantasy unfulfilled.

“You know,” he said one evening, pulling you into his lap while you tried to review approach procedures on the couch, “I spent so many nights wondering what it would be like to touch you while you worked.”

“And now?”

“Now I get to find out what happens when I do this—” His lips found that sensitive spot on your neck, making you gasp and completely forget what you’d been reading. “While you’re trying to be all professional.”

“That’s unfair.”

“That’s what makes it fun.”

The night everything changed started like any other. Weather delays had backed up traffic for hours, leaving Satoru circling above the Pacific in a holding pattern while you worked through the endless stream of aircraft. It was past midnight, the tower hushed and dim, when you finally switched to private frequency.

“Bored up there, Captain?”

“Never bored when I’m talking to you. Though I was thinking…”

“Dangerous pastime for you.”

“We’re both stuck here for the next few hours. You, managing this beautiful chaos from your tower. Me, alone with the stars at thirty thousand feet.” His voice carried that familiar warmth that always made something flutter in your chest. “Feels like the perfect date to me.”

You ended up talking for three hours, switching between official vectors and private topics, guiding other aircraft while Satoru described the city lights below and the way clouds shimmered like winter frost in the moonlight.

“Strange how this all started, don’t you think?” you mused during a quiet moment. “Two voices falling for each other over radio frequency.”

“You’re not having second thoughts, are you?”

“No. It’s just… kind of crazy, isn’t it? All of this.”

He was silent for a beat. When he spoke again, his voice was different—nervous, almost fragile.

“Can I ask you something?”

“Of course.”

“Will you marry me?”

Your heart stopped.

“I know it’s not how this is supposed to go. I know it’s not normal. But then again, nothing about us has been. I’m thirty thousand feet in the air, you’re down there keeping the world together, and all I can think about is how much I want to spend the rest of my life with you.”

Time stretched thin in the control room as you struggled to process what he’d just asked, your heart thundering so loud you were sure he could hear it through the frequency.

“Yes,” you whispered, the word barely more than a breath as you leaned forward, elbows braced against the console. Your hands trembled as you pressed them to your face, overwhelmed by the rush of joy and disbelief.

“Yes?”

“Yes. I’ll marry you.”

He let out a heavy breath. “God, I love you. You just made me the happiest man alive. I swear, if I could pull down every star from up here and give them to you, I would.”

You blinked back tears, smiling. “Just come home safe, you idiot.”

“Always,” he said, and his voice had never sounded more sure. “Your voice guides me home, remember? It always has.”

You thought you’d mapped every corner of him after six months of living together—every habit, every sleepy morning routine, every sound he makes when he cums.

But then came the private jet revelation over scrambled eggs on a random Friday morning.

You’d known he came from money—the expensive gifts, the way he never seemed to stress about finances and had this really fancy apartment—but you hadn’t grasped the scale until he casually mentioned his father’s company owned a fleet of corporate aircraft.

“I was thinking we should take some time off and explore the world a little,” he said, like offering to fly you around the world was the same as suggesting takeout for dinner. “We could take one of the jets.”

“Wait wait wait… you have access to a private jet?”

“Technically, I have access to several.”

Your spoon slipped out of your hand and landed in your eggs.

The first time he took you somewhere—a long weekend in Kyoto for cherry blossom season—you finally understood why he’d fallen in love with flying. 

Up there, suspended between heaven and earth, everything felt different. The world spread out below like a map, cities reduced to scattered lights and rivers threading silver through green landscapes. You watched his hands move over the controls, the same hands that traced gentle patterns on your skin at night, now guiding you both through layers of cloud and sky.

“So this is what you see every day?” you asked, staring out at clouds that looked close enough to touch.

“This is what I used to see.” He glanced over at you. “Now I only see you.”

It started with short weekend trips, then longer stays overseas when both your schedules allowed it. He took you everywhere you wanted to go.

Venice, he bought you both gelato and told you stories about the Murano glass blowers. Barcelona, where you got lost in Gaudi’s wild architecture and found tiny tapas bars nestled in medieval alleyways. And Iceland, where the Northern Lights painted the sky green and purple while you kissed in a natural hot spring—finally experiencing all the places he’d described to you over radio waves. But now you experienced them together.

“Your sister would have loved this,” you said Reykjavik, wrapped in his arms under the dancing aurora.

“She would have loved you,” he replied, pulling you closer in the warm water. “She always said the best adventures were the ones you shared with someone who made you feel at home.”

“Remember when you used to tell me about this place?” you asked one evening in Prague, watching him order those cinnamon sugar spirals from the same bakery he’d told you about months ago over the radio.

He handed you the warm pastry with a smile. “I remember wishing you were here when I first tried it. I used to imagine what you’d say about the cobblestones, or if you’d laugh at my terrible pronunciation when I tried to order something local.”

You took a bite, sugar melting on your tongue. “And now?”

“Now I get to see your face when you taste it for the first time.” He pulled you close, the golden hour painting everything warm around you. “Now I get to hold your hand instead of describing how the sunset looks over the Charles Bridge. I don’t have to imagine anymore.”

Each trip revealed new layers of him—and new ways to make up for all those months of being just voices to each other. 

Somewhere over the Atlantic, you learned just how good he was at multitasking—okay, autopilot might have helped—his hands tangled in your hair, mouth on yours, while the stars streaked past the windows. Long afternoons in Parisian hotel rooms, rain drumming against the windows while you learned exactly how sensitive he gets when overstimulated. Sunset on private beaches in Thailand, where he discovered the sweet sounds you make when he uses three fingers instead of two. 

“I used to get hard just from hearing your voice,” he admitted one night in Santorini, pushing in deep while the Aegean sparkled below your terrace.

“Just from my voice?”

“Especially when you’d get that stern controller tone. ‘Flight 447, maintain current heading.’” His breath caught as you clenched around him, fingers finding yours and intertwining where he pressed them into the mattress. “You have no idea what that did to me.”

“Show me what it did to you.”

He did, thoroughly and repeatedly, until you understood exactly how much he’d wanted you during all those professional exchanges.

The wedding happened a year later, simple and perfect in a garden overlooking Tokyo Bay. Satoru insisted on writing his own vows, and when the moment came, he pulled out a piece of paper that looked suspiciously like a flight plan. 

He promised to pull down the stars for you if you ever wanted them, and you vowed to always be his voice guiding him home.

Years passed like this.

At some point, your story was known by everyone at the airport. Everyone was swooning over the perfect love story of two people who fell in love over their voices alone.

But the best parts were always the quiet moments. Morning coffee in your shared kitchen while he planned routes and you reviewed approach procedures. Afternoons when he’d surprise you at the tower with flowers and terrible jokes that made you ground and your colleagues laugh. Evenings curled up together planning the next adventure, his pilot charts spread across the coffee table next to approach manuals and takeout containers.

“Where to next?”

“Anywhere you want,” was always his answer. “As long as we’re flying together.”

And through it all, some things remained beautifully constant—the flutter in your  stomach when his call sign appeared on your screen, his voice calling from the sky, yours answering from the tower, and the way he still brought you something from every city.

“Tower, this is Flight 447 requesting permission to kiss my beautiful wife once I land. And yes, I know this is a public frequency, and yes—I want everyone to hear it.”

“Flight 447, you’re the worst.”

His laugh crackled through the radio. “I love you,” he said, still completely, hopelessly in love.

And every time he landed, every time you watched his plane touch down safely on the runway, that same warmth bloomed in your chest, just like it had from the very first day. Because no matter how many flights he took, how many cities he visited, how many years passed—he always came back to you.

After all, your voice had been the one calling him home from the very beginning.

The End

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author's note — wait ! before you go ! if you enjoyed this story, i’d be forever grateful if you’d consider gifting me a few minutes of your time to participate in a research survey for my master’s thesis in psychology (if you haven't already) <3

here's the link.

it’s completely anonymous, but just a heads-up: the survey touches on nightmares and emotional wellbeing, so it may be sensitive for some. please feel free to stop at any point if it doesn’t feel right for you.

thank you for flying with insufferable pilot gojo airlines ! please make sure your heart is in the upright position before disembarking. hope this brought you as much joy to read as it brought me to write hehe. somehow i love this idea so much of pilot gojo being completely smitten over a voice alone :')) <3

and sorry that this got unexpectedly horny at the end, my apologies lol. until next time, this is your author signing off. safe travels !

ps: if you want to get notifications for future updates, you can join my taglist here.

tags — @fayuki @starmapz @starlightanyaaa @sxnkuna @cocomanga  

@nanamis-baker @rosso-seta @sugurbo @chiyokoemilia @janbannan  

@bloopsstuff @snowsilver2000 @ihearttoru @momoewn @yokosandesu  

@90s-belladonna @fairygardenprincesss @juneslove21 @glenkiller338 @gojossugarcandy  

@wiserion @moucheslove @nanasukii28 @sugucultfollower @leuriss  

@raendarkfaerie @yeiena @rainthensun @yvesdoee @amayaaaxx  

@cristy-101 @bnbaochauuu @markliving @strawberryswtchblaxe @whytfisgojosohot  

@bloodandnix @zanayaswrld @noble-17 @soapyaya @ethereal-moonlit  

@beaniesayshi @etsuniiru @candyluvsboba @iglb12 @doobybopbop  

@kamuihz @katsukiseyebrows @ezrazra @kalulakunundrum @torusbbg  

~

the next morning, your back was the first to ache. not in the 'i-slept-weird-on-a-frat-house-couch' way, but in the 'i-did-things-last-night-that-shouldn’t-have-ever-fucking-happened' way. your legs were sore, your thighs tight with that post sex ache, your arms heavy like youd just benched mike tyson's pr over and over again.

you started up at the ceiling in that wanna be girl interrupted way, head still pulsing with whatever cocktails and smoke had been floating around last night. unfamiliar posters swam in your vision. the mattress beneath you wasn’t yours, and the hoodie tangled in your legs definitely wasn’t either.

you rolled over and found him there.

choso. shirtless, inked, calmly sitting on the windowsill with the curtain half-drawn, a shittily rollled joint perched between his fingers like it belonged there more than you did in his bed.

his hair was messy. less of the usual half-up thing, and more like he’d run his hands through it a hundred times. his eyes flocked to you through the tense air, then back out the window like he hadn’t just watched you fall apart in his lap last night.

you stilled. your heart started racing, slow and sick.

'what the fuck did we do?'

the memories came back in colossal waves, sticky and bright and wayyy too much. his mouth on your neck. your dress slipping down. your knees on either side of his hips, breath mixing with smoke and rum and the sweet, dangerous sound of his voice when he said your name like it meant something.

‘fuckkk y/n. i’m gonna-‘

you sat up too quickly, the pain in your body confirming every blurry detail. choso didn’t say anything straight away, just leaned back against the wall, exhaling a soft cloud.

you slept with choso kamo.

your friend. your best friend! your stoner, inked up, vinyl-collecting, frat boy friend who you’ve known since sophomore year. the same one who always passed you the blunt first, who piggy backed you back from parties when your heels gave up, who watched you flirt with guys and never said a word.

he was your person, almost painfully so.

and now you'd crossed the line you both swore you never would.

you’d always thought he was attractive, obviously. anyone with eyes and a pulse would. he was stupid hot in a way that didn’t make any sort of sense. like he should’ve been mean or cocky, but instead he was quiet and extremely thoughtful, always just there in the background, impossibly cool without ever trying.

you never thought this would happen. because that wasn’t your dynamic. you were part of the same chaotic, messy friend group. him, you, gojo, geto, shoko, yuki, the list goes on. the rest of the walking disasters who made your college life loud and unpredictable. you and choso were a calm little pocket in the middle of all that shit. safe and familiar.

until now.

he glanced over again. his pretty face was unreadable, eyes dark, lips parted slightly like he wanted to say something but didn’t know how. the smoke curled around him like it knew all his secrets.

“yo,” he said finally, voice hoarse and quiet.

you swallowed, throat dry. “h-hey.”

he stubbed out the joint in the little ceramic tray on the windowsill and stood, the one you made him, walking over to the desk and rummaging through a drawer without looking at you. he pulled out a folded t-shirt and a pair of sweatpants and placed them on the edge of the bed.

“figured you didn’t wanna go back to your place in that dress,” he said, voice low, like he was trying not to wake something.

you pulled the blanket tighter around yourself. “hm, thanks.”

he nodded. still not meeting your eyes.

you didn’t move. neither did he. the silence stretched between you like a wire pulled tight.

then he sighed, rubbing the back of his neck, and finally looked at you. “m' sorry, y/n.” the words hit harder than you expected. your stomach flipped.

“forrrr?” you asked, even though you already knew.

his eyes dropped. “last night. i was high and… i didn’t mean for it to go that far. you didn’t seem like you regretted it or anything, but… i shouldn’t have let it happen.” you flinched. not because he was wrong, but because it was too honest. much too raw for your mind right now.

you looked down at your clammy hands, fingers curled in the blanket. “yeah. no. it was… it was a mistake.” his jaw flexed. just barely. like the word had cut deeper than he thought it would.

you didn’t mean to sound cold. you were just trying to survive the awkwardness. to box it up and shove it somewhere you wouldn’t have to look at it every time you walked into a party and saw him laughing with gojo or rolling his eyes at geto.

you both just stared at the floor for a minute. despite being the crack of dawn, down stairs in the frat it was beginning to get noisy again. this was the kind of house where nothing stayed secret for long.

“we’re not telling anyone,” you said, maybe too fast. choso looked up. “no. of course not.” you nodded quickly. “like, ever.”

“yeah. for sure.”

another second passed. you reached for the clothes and stood carefully, clutching them to your tight chest. he turned around without you asking, facing the wall, giving you space like he always did. like he still cared, somehow, even if he was trying to pretend this was nothing. you got dressed in silence. his shirt smelled like weed and his cologne. the same faint cedar and smoke you always noticed when he sat too close on the couch.

when you were done, you hesitated near the door, fingers on the knob.

“thanks,” you said quietly. you didn’t even know what you were thanking him for. the clothes? the silence? not making this worse than it already was?

“i’ll uh… see you around, cho.”

he didn’t turn around, but his voice was soft. “yeah.”

you opened the door. the hallway was warm and chaotic, sunlight spilling in through the windows, voices echoing from the kitchen. it felt like the world had gone on without you.

you stepped out, closing the door behind you.

and choso stayed inside.

~

the second the door clicked shut behind you, choso hissed through his teeth and. “holy fuck,” he muttered under his breath, voice rough, like it hurt to say it.

he ran a hand down his face, then collapsed back onto the bed like his body had finally given up. his sheets still smelled like you, your perfume, your skin, that faint trace of whatever lotion you always used. the scent hit him all at once and made his chest ache, made something low in his stomach tighten until it burned. you.

his dick twitched under the waistband of his sweats.

“f’real?” he groaned to himself, covering his face with one arm. he hated how fast his body remembered you, how it didn’t care that this was the exact opposite of what should’ve happened. he wasn’t supposed to fuck his friend. he wasn’t supposed to fuck you. and yet here he was, already hard again just thinking about the way you sounded when you moaned his name into his neck.

guilt sat heavy in his throat, thick and bitter. not because it hadn’t felt good. it felt too good, like it had cracked something open in him, but because now he couldn’t go back to pretending.

he never should’ve touched you.

but he’d wanted to for so long.

he remembered the first time he saw you, all bright eyes and big energy, standing in gojo’s kitchen with a solo cup in one hand and a rhinestone clip in your hair. you were laughing too loud and dancing in socks, and you looked unreal. like you didn’t belong in a room full of drunk frat guys, like you were somehow floating just above it all.

and he knew. 

he told himself it was just a crush. that it would pass. you were his friend. you were part of the group. too close to even consider.

but then it never went away.

he started noticing every little thing you did. the way you’d lean into him when you were tipsy, whispering jokes against his shoulder. the way you’d twirl your straw in your drink when you were thinking. the way you’d defend people at parties who couldn’t defend themselves. the way you looked at him when you didn’t know he was looking back.

there’d be whole nights where the group was in full chaos, gojo yelling about some marketing project he half-plagiarized, sukuna trying to out-drink toji, yuki stealing everyone’s vapes, shoko dead asleep in the middle of the floor, and choso would be sitting in the corner, barely listening, just watching you.

always you.

last night was supposed to be harmless. that’s what he told himself when you showed up to the party wearing that dress, skin glowing under the shitty LED lights, smile a little crooked from the weed you bummed off geto. he tried not to stare. tried not to think about the way your thighs looked when you sat down next to him on the couch.

you were leaning on him more than usual. laughing softer. fingers brushing his when you passed the joint. your perfume was stronger than usual and it was making him stupid. and when you asked him to come upstairs with you to “get away from the noise,” he followed you without even pretending to hesitate.

it wasn’t supposed to go that far. not like that.

he just wanted to be alone with you. to talk. maybe kiss you, if it felt right. something slow for now.

but then your hands were under his hoodie, tugging him down on top of you, and his brain completely short-circuited. he couldn’t say no. not when you looked at him like that. not when you were whispering his name like it meant something. not when you were biting your lip and asking him if he wanted you.

he fucking did. more than anything. more than he’d ever wanted anything.

and shit, the way you moved against him, the way you felt… he hadn’t been the same since. it was like you got under his skin and started rewiring things. now all he could see was your skin, your mouth, your thighs tight around him, the way you clenched around him when you came, how you said his name like you were breaking open.

and now it was over. and you were gone. and he was supposed to forget about it. pretend it didn’t matter. pretend it wasn’t everything. he rolled onto his side, groaning softly, heart pounding under his ribs.

he shouldn’t have apologized. or maybe he should’ve said more, but he didn’t know. it was all tangled up now. he could still see the way your eyes dropped when you called it a mistake. still feel the coldness of those words. mistake. like it hadn’t meant anything.

but it did mean something. at least to him.

and now he had to carry that. carry the way you felt, the way you sounded, the way you looked curled up in his bed wearing nothing but his hoodie and sleep in your eyes. and he had to pretend it didn’t gut him. he stared up at the ceiling, jaw tight, one hand fisted in the blanket where you’d been lying just ten minutes ago.

he was so fucked.

he wanted to text geto. or maybe shoko. someone who wouldn’t judge him for hardcore crashing out. but he couldn’t, because none of them knew, and they weren’t supposed to.

you’d both said it: no one could know. not gojo, not shoko, not even nanami. not after the way everything had already gone to hell. not with how tangled your group already was. he was alone with this now. and it was killing him a little.

he’d told himself for so long that he didn’t need more than friendship. that it was better this way. that he’d rather have you in his life in some way than ruin everything by wanting too much. but now he’d had it. a piece of you. a night with you. and it wasn’t enough. not even close.

he turned his head and stared at the door.

you were just on the other side of the house. maybe slipping out the front quietly. maybe running into gojo in the kitchen and pretending like everything was normal. maybe already texting utahime about brunch later like you hadn’t just been falling apart in his bed.

he dragged his hand through his hair and let out a shaky breath. he couldn’t do this, he really couldn’t. so he just laid there, guilt and heat crawling under his skin, and let himself ache.

~

a few hours later 

brunch wasn’t even your idea. it was yuki’s, which meant it came with strong coffee, sunglasses inside, and zero room for being emotionally soft.

“we’re getting drunk,” she said instead of hello, sliding into the booth next to you like she hadn’t just had to climb over utahime’s legs to do it. “none of this hangover whispering shit. i want eggs and champagne.”

“mimosas?” utahime asked, already scanning the menu.

“vodka sprite in a mug,” yuki replied. “keep the brunch theme alive.” shoko snorted into her iced coffee as she lit a cigarette, ignoring the passive-aggressive look from the waiter. “you’re so dramatic in the mornings.”

“shut up shoko.”

“don’t start with me.” it was like this every time. sorta comforting in a way only girls who knew all your baggage could be. easy and loud and so fun to hang around. or at least it was supposed to be.

you tried to lean into it, pulling your hoodie sleeves down over your hands (not choso’s hoodie, thank god) and smiling like your brain wasn’t still stuck in his bed. like you aren’t fucking reeling from last night. a pain that stung so deep you felt like throwing up. not drinking fucking mimosas.

it was fine. everything would be fine.

until shoko kicked her feet up on the booth seat across from you and went, “so are we all just pretending we haven’t been raw dogging half the city or…?”

“oh my god,” utahime said, like she was scandalized, but she was laughing.

“i mean, i’ve got a rotation,” yuki said casually, picking at her nails. “it’s mid, though. i need someone who can make me cum without making me talk about their crypto portfolio after.”

“your standards are so inspiring,” shoko muttered, deadpan. yuki just shrugged. “i have needs.”

“same,” shoko said, blowing smoke out the side of her mouth. “but mine are just dick and silence.”

“dick and silence,” you repeated, laughing behind your cup. “poetic.”

“tell me i’m wrong.”

“unfortunately, you’re not,” utahime admitted, hiding behind her menu. then yuki turned to you, grinning. “what about you? anyone on rotation?” your breath caught for half a second too long — a little hiccup of panic that made your heart stutter. you played it off with a sip of coffee and a raised brow. “what, like i’m just out here collecting bodies?”

you tried so hard to sound like you weren’t about to cry.

“you used to be,” shoko said, not mean, just observational. “you’ve been quiet lately.” you laughed. too loudly. “yeah, well. i’m tired.”

“but what about toji?” utahime asked suddenly, squinting over her mimosa. “isn’t he still around?”

and there it was, the actual reason you shouldn’t have come to brunch. toji. them. all of it.

toji fushiguro. tall, smug, and older than he should be to still be hanging around frat basements, but hot in a way that made it hard to think straight. he’d been a problem from the beginning, all hands and hungry eyes, cocky and cold and impossible to hold onto. the kind of man who didn’t ask, just took. you hooked up a few times. it was messy. dramatic. honestly? kind of hot.

and now he was part of the group. just like everyone else. you rolled your eyes and leaned back in your seat. “god, no. that’s been over.”

“shame,” shoko said. “he’s hot in that ‘ruin your life and not even say sorry’ kind of way.”

“because he is,” you muttered, and they all laughed.

“was the dick at least good?” yuki asked, tilting her head like she was taking notes. you gave a little shrug, forcing a smirk. “huge.”

“see, this is why i can’t settle down,” shoko sighed. “none of the guys i’ve fucked have ruined my life orhad massive dicks. i feel robbed.”

“that’s ‘cause you sleep with guys who drink protein shakes out of jars,” yuki said.

“they have clean insides.”

“they also cry after sex.”

“one time!”

they kept laughing, and you laughed too, pressing your nails into your thigh under the table to ground yourself.

because the truth was, yeah, toji had some good dick. and yeah, it was kind of big. and yeah, it was fun while it lasted. but it wasn’t like last night. not even close. toji never looked at you like you were soft. he never touched you like you could break. he never whispered your name like he was trying to memorize it. and now, sitting here, smiling and gossiping and trying to act like your brain wasn’t spinning… all you could think about was choso.

the way he sounded when he came. the way he kissed you like he was finally allowed to. the way his fingers trembled when he helped you into his hoodie this morning. the way he looked at you, like he didn’t want to let you go.

and here you were, talking about another man’s dick like it meant anything.

“you okay?” yuki asked suddenly, knocking her knee against yours under the table. “you went quiet.”

“yeah,” you said quickly. “just… thinking about brunch.”

“this is brunch,” shoko said.

“then i’m killing it.”

they laughed again, and the moment passed, but your throat was clammy.

you didn’t mention that you were sore. or that you hadn’t slept. or that you’d left choso’s room this morning with shaky hands and a pit in your stomach that still hadn’t gone away. you didn’t mention that every time someone said his name, your whole body felt like it was trying not to flinch. you didn’t mention how you didn’t know what the fuck you were supposed to do now.

instead, you smiled and sipped your coffee and let the conversation drift back to the safer kind of drama, who got kicked out of the bar last weekend, who sent a risky text at 3am, who ghosted who first. normal shit. but in the back of your mind, he was still there. shirtless. quiet. holding out a hoodie and not meeting your eyes when he said we should forget about this.

you weren’t sure how.

and you weren’t sure if you even wanted to.

maybe it would of done you good knowing choso was feeling the exact same damn way far across campus.

~

school felt slow this time of day. the sun was out, the grass was too green, and everything moved in a smoosh like the world was waiting to exhale. choso walked like he didn’t have anywhere to be, like time bent around him. hood up, rings glinting, blunt behind his ear even though he hadn’t lit it yet. his shirt was old and soft and smelled like weed and laundry detergent.

geto was next to him in his usual oversized jacket, hoodie strings dangling loose, one earbud in and a lazy smirk stretched across his mouth like he’d just thought of something inappropriate and wasn’t gonna share.

they looked like they hadn’t cared about anything since birth. too hot to be this detached. the kind of guys that made people nervous just by showing up. gojo trailed behind them talking a mile a minute, energy too loud for how chill the other two were. he was spinning a vape pen in his hand, sunglasses on even in the shade, already laughing at his own story.

they were cutting through the back path, half shade, half overgrown weeds and cigarette butts. they always met shiu here, dude never moved from the same damn bench. shady as hell, but he had the best weed on campus. choso wasn’t gonna argue with a good deal.

“bro, i swear to god,” gojo was saying, “nanami caught me at like, 3am trying to air-fry pizza rolls in a beer helmet. said if he sees me in the kitchen again he's beating my ass.”

“satoru, i really fucking hope he does,” geto said, voice smooth and quiet like he only spoke when he really had to.

“you’re not even surprised?.”

“no, you're that annoying.”

"bro just sybau."

choso said nothing because his mind wasn’t really here. he walked with his hands shoved in his pockets, shoulder brushing geto’s every few steps. he kept thinking about last night like it was on loop in the back of his skull, like maybe if he replayed it enough it would make some sort of sense?

you in his bed, your skin, your mouth, your pretty laugh, your voice soft in the dark saying his name like it meant something much different now.

he hadn’t smoked yet today, didn’t trust himself to get high without completely spiraling and texting you to come over again. but his brain still felt foggy as hell, like he’d just woken up in a dream he couldn’t shake.

“yo,” gojo said suddenly, elbowing him. “you even listening cho?”

choso blinked. “no.”

geto snorted.

“dickhead,” gojo grinned. “you need to loosen up. you look tense.”

“he needs to nut,” geto added, flicking his lighter open and closed just to fidget. “man’s backed up.”

“exactly,” gojo said. “you’ve been walking around like someone stole your bong.”

choso rolled his eyes, slow and exaggerated. “i’m fine.”

“nuh uh."

“he’s lying,” geto said, still not looking at him. “cho, when’s the last time you got laid?”

choso shrugged.

“nah, don’t do that,” gojo said. “don’t shrug like you’re not hot. you’re literally the blueprint. you should be drowning in pussy.”

“gross,” geto muttered, lighting his cigarette.

“am i wrong?”

choso didn’t bite, he was used to this kind of shitty banter, gojo hyping him up, geto cosigning in his own chill way, but today it felt like a spotlight. like they were pulling words out of his mouth he didn’t want to say.

“you’re tall, quiet, you’ve got those hands, the rings, the voice,”

“what voice?” choso muttered.

“that one!” gojo shouted. “god. and the tats? that's fucking lethal.”

“you need to take an 'am i gay' quiz,” geto told gojo flatly.

“whatever! im just saying man, you need to get laid,” gojo shot back at choso. “you’ve got all this tension and nowhere to put it.”

“i’m not tryna hook up with randoms.”

“why not?” geto asked, smoke curling from his mouth. “it’s not that deep.”

“not my thing.”

gojo groaned. “you could have anyone. seriously. you think people aren’t looking at you? you’re like… brooding sex in a hoodie.” choso looked at the ground. his jaw was tight. he tried to keep his expression bored, unreadable, but the inside of his chest felt like it was buzzing. buzzing with regret and longing for you. always you.

he hadn’t even meant for it to happen like that, with you. he just wanted to touch, finally. he thought it might be soft. maybe slow. maybe something that’d feel less like a mistake. but it wasn’t soft, it was heat and teeth and nails and your voice breaking apart on his name.

he wanted to do it again. fuck.

“what about y/n?” geto said lazily, like he was just throwing the name out. “you ever think about her?”

choso stopped breathing. he’d thought about you too much. too often. in too many ways that weren’t fair. not for the kind of friend he’d been to you, and not for the kind of friend you’d been to him.

you were close, always had been. the kind of close that meant late-night calls when you were crying and didn’t want to explain why. the kind of close that had you half-asleep in his lap on the couch during group movie nights, tears on your cheeks and his hoodie pulled over your knees. he’d held you through heartbreaks, through fights with your parents, through the night you found out your ex cheated and you collapsed into his chest like he was the only safe thing left.

he never asked for anything back. he never would.

you weren’t just his friend, you were everyone’s. gojo called you his “ride or die” and dragged you into chaos with that sparkle in his eye. geto said you were the only person who could out-vibe him. the three of them always kept you close. you were part of the mess, part of the house, part of the family. you got high with them on rooftops and played bartender at their parties. you were always somehow there.

and that’s what made last night so fucked up. because he was your friend. not your hookup. not your one-night thing. you trusted him. you let him see the parts of you that were fragile and afraid and oh so real. and then he touched you like he’d been starving for it, because, well, he had been.

“gross man she's like our bestest friend.” gojo interrupted chosos thoughts and rolled his eyes. “but yeah, she’s fine as hell. like stupid hot.”

“for real,” geto added, nodding. “i’d hit.” choso kept his face still, he didn’t react although he wanted to.

“yeah ew... but same,” gojo said. “she’s got that thing. you know. like she knows she’s hot but doesn’t have to try.”

“dangerous combo,” geto murmured.

“she's definitely the favourite in our little group. like a pretty little magnet.” choso’s jaw flexed. his hands were clenched in his pockets now, tight enough that his knuckles ached. “she’d ruin you,” gojo said to choso, teasing but dead serious. “you wouldn’t make it out.”

“he’d fall in love,” geto added.

‘too late. already there.’

“nah,” choso muttered, voice low.

“you wouldn’t hit?”

he shrugged, trying not to feel anything. “dunno.”

gojo laughed. “you’re a liar. you think about it. i know you do.” geto side-eyed him. “we know you do.”

he didn’t say anything. what was he supposed to say?

'yeah, i’ve been in love with her since the night we all stayed up on the roof and she fell asleep next to me in my hoodie? that i think about her when i jerk off and it fucks me up every time? that i ruined everything last night and i don’t even really regret it?'

“whatever,” gojo said, waving it off. “she’s probably not into guys like us anyway.”

“speak for yourself,” geto said, smirking.

“oh please.”

they laughed together, that stoner-lazy cadence that always made them sound like they were high on more than just weed, yet choso didn’t join in. he couldnt when his throat was dry and his chest felt so so heavy. he couldn’t stop picturing your bare legs tangled with his sheets for the life of him and it was seriously screwing up his brain chem.

shiu came into view then, perched on his usual bench looking half-dead and smug as all hell, pretty typical for him.

thank fuck.

choso was already reaching for his lighter. he needed to be somewhere else. outside his own head and far far away from the way your adorable laugh sounded. the way your eyes fell when you said goodbye earlier.

he really needed to forget, but he knew he wouldn’t, no matter how much he smoked.

shiu didn’t react too much when the three of them approached, he never really did. just sat there on that beat-up wooden bench behind the science building like he was posted up for fun, all decked out in black, a cigarette dangling from his mouth, rings stacked and sunglasses pushed into his hair.

“th’ fuck took you so long?” he asked, barely glancing up as geto ploppped onto the bench beside him.

“had to drag cho here,” gojo said, jerking a thumb toward choso. “he’s been brooding lately. more than usual.”

shiu raised a brow. “didn't know that was possible.”

choso ignored them, he didn’t sit just leaned against the wall with his arms crossed, watching smoke curl out of shiu’s mouth like he could hypnotize it. geto handed over some cash and shiu slipped a fat ziplock into his palm smooth as anything. the exchange was muscle memory.

gojo clapped his hands. “you’re the man.”

“always,” shiu said with a lazy grin.

choso stepped forward. “you got anything else?”

shiu paused. one brow lifted. “like what?”

“something heavier.”

before he could even blink, gojo spun around and grabbed chico's shoulder. “nopeee.”

choso looked at him, jaw clicking ever few seconds.

“no fucking way,” gojo said, already shaking his head. “you don’t need any of that. blunt’s one thing, cho. i’m not letting you get fucked up on some other shit.”

“you're not my fucking dad.”

“don’t care.”

geto side-eyed choso but didn’t say anything, just lit another cigarette and let the silence fill itself. shiu looked between them and shrugged, like, 'hey, not my business.' he pulled out a tiny white bag anyway, just for show.

“nah,” gojo said again, voice firmer now. “put that shit away.”

shiu chuckled, flicked ash to the side. “party police over here.”

“damn right,” gojo replied. “cho’s got enough going on in that pretty little head of his.” shiu laughed, low and amused. “you still throwing that party this weekend?”

“for sure. our house on aturday night,” gojo grinned, instantly shifting gears. “you’re invited, obviously. bring that good shit and maybe someone hot.”

“noted,” shiu said, tucking his goods away. “what’s the theme?”

“‘cops and robbers,’” geto said without looking up. “satoru even made a flyer.”

“i did not.”

“you literally drew it in class.”

“it was just for jokes!.”

choso wasnt listening, his arms were still crossed, and his head tilted back against the building. the weed in his pocket felt heavier than usual. he could feel gojo still eyeing him.

then...

“yo.”

a voice behind them that rung much deeper than any of theirs.

toji.

he emerged from around the corner like he’d been summoned by the dilf gods up above. he was toweringly tall, very broad, and dressed in comfy clothing like he’d just crawled out of someone else’s bed. sunglasses pushed up into messy hair, a smirk on his lips like he was always two seconds from ruining someone or something. (or both)

“what’s up, old man,” gojo greeted with a grin.

“fuck off,” toji said, bumping fists with him, then geto. when he got to choso, the air shifted.

they dapped up much slower than what would be seen as usual. very firm and wayy too long. not friendly.

toji’s eyes flicked over him like he knew something, and maybe he did. “you buying?” shiu asked, already pulling out more product. “you know it,” toji said, still starijg at choso. “just need a little for the weekend.”

“for our party?”

“mhm, wouldn’t miss it.”

choso stayed staring at toji, his shoulders didn’t move, didn’t drop, didn’t flinch, but his fingers twitched like he was really trying to hold something back. choso knew about you and toji, not all the yucky details, not the messy timeline, not how it started or how it eventually ended, just enough to know you used to fuck pretty often, to know toji never treated you right, but you kept going back regardless.

the mistreatment was the kind of thing literally no one talked about out loud, not even bubbly you. not even to choso, and he was the one who used to hold your hand through the hangovers and the regret. he’d always just been there, sitting on the floor outside the bathroom while you cried behind the door, walking you home from a party when you were too drunk to lie about how much it still hurt.

so yeah. he had a reason to hate the guy. but it wasnt the loud kind of hate that starts fights in kitchens, just a simmering thing that lived in his chest every time toji walked into the room like he owned it.

and now, after last night, it all felt... pretty disturbing?..

because now there was something in choso that toji could get to. something the both of them both knew. and the way toji looked at him like he’d caught the scent of a secret, made choso want to crack his knuckles straight through the guys thick jaw. he watched as toji finished up whatever conversation he was having with geto and peeled away.

“see you boys saturday.”

he turned, walked off without another word. gojo whistled. “he’s definitely gonna fuck somebody’s girlfriend.”

“again,” geto added.

choso didn’t reply.

yeah. it was gonna be a long weekend.

~

choso accented down the staircase slowly, his sleeves shoved up giving everyone a clear look at his sexy tattoos. he’d been upstairs finishing a blunt alone with his headphones on, just letting the music smooth out the nerves in his chest. he moved past people muttering soft apologies.

“yo, there he is. thought you were gonna ghost the whole thing,” sukuna said, showing a grin and slapping the seat next to him. choso flopped down on the couch beside him, his long covered legs stretched out with his head tipping back like he couldn’t even be bothered to pretend to be sober.

nanami stood in front of them with his big arms crossed, always looking like he was two seconds away from upping and leaving. “we need to talk about cleanup tomorrow. the last party, someone put a hole in the upstairs hallway.”

“wasn’t me,” sukuna said, which definitely meant it was. "wasn’t me either,” choso added lazily.

“wasn’t me!” gojo said suddenly, appearing from nowhere with a cup in each hand, one of which he immediately passed to choso. “also, what’s a hallway if not a place for holes?”

“profound,” nanami muttered, already regretting being here among these grotty simpletons. geto leaned against a wall, sipping something amber from his own flask. “i like the new decorations though. adds a lot of character. broken drywall’s very punk, y'know?.”

“reminds me of toji,” sukuna said with a smirk.

“speak of the devil,” shoko said from the hallway as she entered with yuki and utahime behind her. “he’s outside body-slamming frat guys into beer pong tables again.”

“he’s contributing in his own way,” yuki added, looking far too good in a leather jacket and combat boots for someone just here to smoke and chill. the room watched as the front door creaked open again and your voice rang out through the entryway, a bright, happy thing that always turned heads and made people feel good.

“hey! anyone alive in here or did you all pass out before ten?” you stepped in wearing something short and very pretty, hair styled just enough, makeup smudged from pre-party drinks and far too much laughter. gojo whooped the moment he saw you, immediately waving you in like the house wasn’t already wayy over capacity.

“she's finally arrived!" he said dramatically, throwing his arms open.

“shut upp,” you laughed, but let him hug you anyway. choso’s eyes found you without even trying. you were all glowy glitter and chat with your cute cheeks always flushed, lips glossy, with that little smile on your face like you had no idea what you’d done to him the night before.

you looked at him once, much too quick, for chosos liking, and then looked away. he stared almost sadly, the music and lights of the function fading away for a good hot minute. he was somewhere else, back in his car with you. the windows rolled down as cool night air brushed past the stars the only distraction.

the stereo pumping some niche indie song on the ofset station, but it was the lovely silence between you that really filled out the comfortable space. city lights disappeared behind you as you drove out to that cliff you’d found sophomore year, the one no one else but you two knew about.

“you ever think about how weird it is?” you said, voice always so pretty and soft,“like, how we’re here. just… like this. not trying to be anything but whatever we want.”

choso glanced over and almost choked at the sight of the way your hair fell loose across your face, the way your fingers tapped absentmindedly on the pink steering wheel. “mhm,” he said quietly. “i think about that a lot. how we don’t have to explain shit. how you get it without me saying anything.”

you smiled, “it’s like we’re on the same wavelength. you and me. always have been.”

“always,” choso agreed. “you’re the one person i can just be… me with. no bullshit. no trying to be someone i'm not.”

you sighed, “i don’t want to lose that.”

“you won’t,” he promised, voice low, eyes steady on yours. “not ever.”

and for a minute, nothing else mattered but the way you looked at each other in that quiet space, the trust that ran deeper than words. the kind of friendship that could have been anything if you’d let it…

then the memory broke and choso was back in the party, watching you smile too quick and look away, like a secret was hanging between you, waiting to explode and pull down absolutely everybody with you.

“everyone’s in the back room,” yuki said, nodding toward the den. “we’re about to pass the bong around if you’re down.” you were. of course you were, so you followed them, and somehow, without meaning to, ended up sliding onto the floor next to choso. your thigh brushed his. he didn’t move and nor did you.

geto lit the bowl first, inhaling deep, head tipped back like it was some sort of amazingly epic and cool performance. he passed it to shoko, who didn’t even blink before pulling twice and coughing like a chain smoker.

“fuck,” she muttered, handing it off to sukuna, who just laughed and cleared the rest of it without as much as a tick of the jaw.

“jesus,” utahime said, waving the smoke out of her face. “y’all smoke like it’s your major.”

“it basically is,” choso murmured, gojo nodded, already relighting. “facts. if i could minor in weed, i’d graduate on time.”

“you’re not graduating at all,” nanami deadpanned. yuki grinned and elbowed you playfully. “how high do you think choso is right now? like, on a scale of one to outer space.”  you laughed, but it came out softer than usual. “he’s been on saturn since like… yesterday.”

choso looked over at you then. the bowl passed to geto again, sukuna lit another joint, shoko leaned her head back on yuki’s shoulder, and the room settled into that smoosh, the late-night lull. you weren’t touching anymore, but your knee was almost against his, and you could feel the warm of his skin even through the fabric of your nice jeans.

“so quietttt,” gojo teased, looking between the two of you with narrowed eyes. “not like you, y/n. what, did someone finally shut you up last night?” you kicked him in the shin “die.”

geto smirked around the joint. “bet it was toji.”

“double die,” you muttered, but you smiled when you said it, no one clocked that it was fake except for the boy sitting next to you.

.

“yo, what’d i miss?”

toji’s booming voice entered the room just as geto was mid-hit, pulling the joint from his lips with a smile. toji strolled into the room like he'd bought it, big and broad and dressed in black, sunglasses tucked into his shirt collar, a new bottle of whiskey dangling from one of his big strong hands.

“you missed me schooling these kids in life philosophy,” sukuna muttered, half-sprawled on the floor, already tipsy and grinning like a menace.

“you missed nanami threatening to leave like, six times?” gojo added.

“you missed utahime threatening to kill gojo eight times,” shoko said from the armchair, flicking ash into an empty cup.

toji just raised a brow. “sounds like i’m right on time.”

he dropped into an empty spot on the couch, way too close to where you were now trying to casually sit without making eye contact with choso.

“we should play something,” gojo said suddenly, eyes lighting up like that was never a good idea.

“what, like a board game?” nanami deadpanned.

“no,” yuki said, sitting up a little with a mischievous glint. “like drink or share.” groans. laughter. someone already grabbing the bottle of tequila from under the table.

“oh my god yes please.” sukuna said, practically rubbing his hands together. “can we actually?”

“oh brother you’re the worst with this game,” utahime dreaded.

“someone write a list of questions,” shoko said, already scrolling through her notes app. “i have like thirty saved from last time.”

“of course you do,” geto chuckled.

they arranged the group in a big loose conversation pit/circle. couches, floor cushions, wherever there was space for.

gojo went first. “nanami. drink or share: have you ever hooked up with someone in this room?”

nanami didn’t even blink. “no.”

“lameee,” sukuna muttered.

“shoko,” yuki said next. “drink or share: have you ever had a threesome?” shoko raised a brow and sipped her drink without a word. the room howled.

“i knew it!” gojo shouted, laughing so hard he spilled his beer.

“you’re all degenerates,” nanami muttered.

“you love us,” yuki grinned.

“sukuna,” utahime said sweetly. “how many people have you fucked and ghosted?”

he shrugged, then drank.

“at least own it, coward,” gojo teased.

“choso,” geto said next, voice slick with smoke. “you ever send a dick pic?”

choso leaned back lashes uttering shut. “only once.”

“was it unsolicited?” you asked with your eyes narrowing.

“nah,” he said, “they begged for it.” he side eyed you for your reaction, you almost choked on your drink.

“of course they did,” yuki said, fanning herself.

“geto,” sukuna grinned. “ever fallen for someone who only saw you as a friend?” geto tipped his head to the side like he was actually thinking about it. then he drank.

the game rolled on, getting louder, dumber, much much messier. you learned toji had once been banned from a party for punching a frat boy for calling him “daddy” unironically. gojo admitted he’d hooked up in the university library stacks, twice?. nanami revealed he’d had a secret relationship freshman year that no one had known about.

and then...

“y/n,” sukuna said, smiling like he already knew it was coming. “drink or share… who’s the last person you slept with?”

silence.

your stomach dropped. your hands tightened around your cup. you felt every pair of eyes in the room tilt toward you.

toji’s gaze was suddenly fixed on you with curiosity.

gojo made a noise like he was about to start laughing.

choso didn’t look at you. not directly. but his fingers were curled tight against his knee, and his jaw was locked.

you opened your mouth. then closed it.

you reached for your drink and knocked it back in one long burning swallow.

the room exploded.

“what?” gojo said, laughing. “wait, wait! wasn’t it toji?”

“i thought it was toji,” yuki said, glancing around. “i mean, you guys used to, right?" sukuna asked, his voice all lazy provocation, that smug look on his face like he lived to stir shit. the room buzzed with weed smoke and cups, laughter shattering off the walls until it suddenly didn’t.

toji leaned back against the wall, drink in hand, a slow smirk pulling at his mouth. “mm,” he hummed, tilting his head toward you. “we did.” his voice was casual but his eyes weren’t. they were watching you. hard. “so what’s the big secret?”

you laughed too loud and farrr to fake. your throat was extremely dry. “there is no secret,” you said quickly but your fingers tightened around your cup.

“then why’d you drink??” shoko asked, brow raised as she flicked her lighter and lit the end of the blunt sukuna passed her. “you could’ve just... said his name?"

you shrugged, but it wasn’t really that convincing. “maybe i didn’t want to boost his ego.”

toji laughed. “too late for that, sweetheart.”

choso sat still but you could feel his shoulders tense up.

inside, his head was so, so chaotic.

you didn’t say toji? you could’ve. you always used to. he remembered nights you disappeared from parties and came back with your lip gloss smudged and smooshed and toji sticking nearby. he remembered brushing off the tightness in his chest, telling himself it didn’t matter because you weren’t his, you were just friends, he had no right. but tonight, when you didn’t say toji's name, everything got so much more real in his very confused mind.

geto leaned forward, “so it’s not toji,” he said smoothly, glancing at you with a look that was way too observant for your comfort. “but you’re also not saying who. that's interesting.”

“maybe it was someone new,” yuki teased. “someone outside the circle.”

“nah,” sukuna cut in, smirking as he dragged on the blunt. “you don’t drink like that unless you’re trying to hide something.”

“damn, sukuna,” utahime said, rolling her eyes. “what are you, a human lie detector now?”

“i’m just saying!" he laughed, blowing smoke upward. “i just really fucking love this game, and shit’s weird.”

toji took a sip of his drink. “whatever,” he muttered, but his tone was tight now, not as relaxed as it was before. “was probably just some random frat guy.”

“doesn’t really feel like that,” nanami said, voice calm but thoughtful. “feels more personal.”

your stomach smooshes together uncomfortably. sugurus eyes slip like a snake towards choso, yet he didn’t say anything.

gojo, who’d been watching you this whole time, suddenly leaned back with a grin, voice bright, trying to save you from this obvious emotional turmoil. “yo! maybe it was nanami!”

everyone laughed. nanami sighed, long and very exasperated. “don’t start.”

but choso didn’t laugh because he was much too busy thinking hard about the way you’d looked a few nights ago underbeath him, around him, your hands in his hair, the way you’d gasped his name like it meant something sacred.

“maybe it’s not that deep,” you said finally, “i just didn’t feel like sharing with you assholes.”

“maybe,” toji said quietly, his eyes were locked on choso now.

“alright,” shoko said flatly, taking a long drag from her cigarette like she was clocking out of work and clocking in for drama. “can we please get back to the important stuff? who’s eating ass.”

wowww. real good save shoko.

everyone groaned and laughed at once.

“oh, come on,” shoko said, waving her hand. “like i’m the only one wondering. grow the fuck up.”

“define eating ass,” gojo said, way too quickly.

“you know exactly what it means,” utahime muttered.

“i mean, is it, like… tongue fully in there? or just a soft graze?” gojo kept going, leaning forward now like he was about to host a TED talk. “because i feel like there are layers."

“you’ve absolutely done it,” yuki accused him, pointing her drink at him.

gojo grinned, unapologetic. “of course i have. i’m a giver.”

“more like a nasty rat,” sukuna muttered.

“my god,” utahime groaned, putting her face in her hands.

the room cracked up again, laughter bouncing off the walls, drinks being passed, shoko already reaching for the bottle like she had another round locked and loaded.

“alright. next one’s real,” shoko said, leveling her gaze across the circle. “who here’s faked an orgasm?”

“oh definitely me,” utahime said instantly.

“you’d be surprised,” yuki said, sipping her drink.

“you?” shoko asked you suddenly.

your mouth opened and then closed again.

“i mean... yeah?...” you said eventually, trying to sound chill. “hasn’t everyone?”

choso suddenly stiffened a tad.

'hope she didn't fake on me.'

“choso?” gojo grinned, nudging him. “you ever been faked on?”

choso exhaled slow, smoke curling around his mouth. “really hope not.”

“of course not,” shoko muttered.

“figures,” sukuna rolled his eyes. “the emos get all the real orgasms.”

“i bet he does,” yuki said under her breath with a little smirk, eyeing him with fake scandal. “you got the lazy stroke game that ruins other men.”

choso didn’t respond he only smiled a little like he knew exactly what she meant and wasn’t giving anything away. but you saw how his fingers tapped against his thigh like he was deeply contemplating the meaning of life.

you felt yourself heating up at the mention of him in bed, the memories flooding back of just how good he had dicked you down. they really weren't wrong...

gojo butted in "nah, apparently this guy doesn't fuck around with girls."

sukuna snorted "so he's fucking with guys?"

"not what i meant?"

“alright, new one,” gojo said, leaning forward with a gleam in his eye. “if you had to fuck one person in this room, who would it be?”

“nope,” nanami said immediately. “not happening.”

“it’s theoretical!” gojo laughed.

“it’s gross,” nanami corrected. “and i’m not playing.”

“boringgg, i'm going y/n,” yuki sang.

"facts." sukuna replied.

“geto,” shoko said suddenly, completely deadpan. “he looks like he’d light candles and not speak the entire time.”

“jesus christ,” geto said, but he looked vaguely flattered.

“you?” yuki asked you, smiling innocently.

you blinked. heart thudding.

“hmmm,” you said with a smile. “i’m drinking on that one.”

a chorus of boos followed but you raised your cup anyway, tossing it back.

“now i’m very curious,” shoko said.

you shrugged, grinning. “aww too bad.”

“what about you, choso?” gojo asked, grinning like he already knew the answer.

choso stretched out his legs, leaned back, eyes half-lidded as he exhaled smoke through his nose (so sexy bruh urghhh) “not sharing.”

“cowards, the lot of you,” shoko declared.

the game rolled on an on with more gross questions many more drinks and much more laughter, but that undercurrent of tenseness never really left, every time your eyes flicked to chosos fingers all you could do was remember where they’d been. not good...

and even when everyone was laughing too loud, shouting over each other about threesomes or handcuff stories or who’d hooked up in the staff bathroom, you couldn’t stop thinking about him.

and he couldn’t stop looking at you.

“alright, alright,” shoko said, reaching for the bottle again. “i got one. choso.” he looked up slowly.

“who was the best head you’ve ever gotten?” the room whooped like it was a sports match. a few people banged on the table. gojo laughed so hard he snorted.

 choso blinked once. “no comment.”

“nah, don’t cop out!” gojo called, “we need to know. this man probably ascended.”

“come on,” yuki grinned. “spill.” but choso just stood up. slow and oh so calm, not dramatic, but final.

“yo,” gojo said, half-laughing, “was it a bad question or something?”

“i’m tired,” choso said, brushing his hand through his hair, already moving toward the door. “i need air.” the room went real quiet for a sec, you didn’t move. gojo looked at geto. geto just nodded and stood, and they followed right on after him. the brotherly thing to do.

~

upstairs, choso pushed open the door to his room and stepped inside like the air burned his lungs more than any blunt or shitty vending machine cigarette could. his hand went to his temple like he was trying to massage out a bad headache as well as ground his ever racing brain. gojo and geto slipped in behind him, cautious now.

“yo,” gojo said, a little more gently. “you good?”

“no,” choso mumbled softly, rubbing the back of his neck. “fuck, man.”

geto sat on the edge of the desk. “what happened?”

...

“i slept with her.”

gojo blinked. “wait-"

“slept with who?” geto asked.

"y/n?" gojo questioned.

choso nodded once. “mhm.”

gojo’s eyes went wide, but not in a teasing way. more like he couldn’t believe it. “...when?”

“the other night,” choso muttered, dragging his hands down his face. “after the tau party.”

“holy shit...” gojo whispered.

“was it… like… planned?” geto asked carefully. choso let out a hollow laugh.

“no. it just… happened. and now everything feels fucking weird.”

gojo sat on the bed. “so that’s why you’ve been all moody.”

“i’m not moody.”

“you’re moody,” geto said, but his voice was calm, extremely understanding. “because you care.” choso didn’t respond. he just sat, shoulders slumped like it was too heavy to keep pretending.

“we were friends. that’s all we were. and now i feel like i broke something real good.”

“did you?” gojo asked.

“she said we shouldn’t tell anyone. that we should forget it.” that quieted the room.

geto sighed. “do you want to forget it?”

choso looked down. his ringed fingers twisting in the hem of his long sleeve. “no.” it came out far too fast. he dragged a hand down his face like he regretted saying it already.

but gojo didn’t laugh, geto didn’t prod. they both just looked at him, the same way they had a hundred times before. on bad nights, after worse ones, when he couldn’t say what he needed and they already knew anyway. he sighed and sank back onto the edge of the bed, arms on his knees, his pretty head hanging low.

“i can’t forget it.” quiet again.

“why's that?” geto asked softly.

choso let out a breath that sounded like it hurt.“because it wasn’t just some random hook-up,” he said finally. “it was her. and i’ve wanted her since sophomore year, man. when she showed up at kappa. remember?”

gojo snorted. “bro. yeah. she looked insane.”

choso smiled, barely. then it fell.

“i remember watching her talk to everyone that night. she was all over the place. dancing, laughing, spilling water on yuki’s shoes. but then she came and sat next to me, totally chill, like it was nothing, and handed me a capri sun from her bag.” geto raised a brow. “capri sun?”

“yeah,” choso muttered. “she said she didn’t trust the punch. she never drinks anything she didn’t pour herself. i thought that was smart.” his voice got quieter.

“she’s always been smart like that. she plays dumb at parties, but she sees everything. she remembers what you say when you’re too high to know what day it is. she always makes sure people get home safe. she used to text me every sunday asking if i ate.” he laughed to himself, bitter yet light.

“and i’d pretend it was no big deal. but no one else ever asked.” gojo looked over very quiet now, not grinning.

“i’ve been friends with her this whole time. held her hair back when she was sick. let her cry on my chest when her ex cheated. we used to lay in my bed and watch that stupid baking show she liked, the one with the british dudes?”

“yeah,” geto said. choso’s knee bounced. his fingers tapped restlessly against his thigh.

“and then she started messing with toji.” his voice darkened.

“and i hated it. every time she’d talk about how hot he was, or how he texted her at two in the morning, i’d feel like someone was sitting on my chest. and i couldn’t say anything, because we were just friends. and toji-” he stopped. jaw tightening.

“he’s always had that thing. that presence. everyone looks at him. girls want him. and she... fuck, she looked at him like that too. and i’d sit there like an idiot, telling her she deserved better, that he wasn’t gonna treat her right, while she tried to act like it didn’t matter.”

gojo leaned back on his hands. “you were in love with her.” choso didn’t answer. geto spoke up. “you still are.” choso finally looked up. his eyes were heavy. not red, not glassy but tired and raw in a way he didn’t usually let anyone but his pillow see.

“and now it’s all ruined,” he said. “we had that night. and it wasn’t supposed to go like that. i just wanted to kiss her. hold her a little. maybe? i don’t know. maybe just say it without saying it. but she looked at me like she needed it, and i couldn’t stop.” he swallowed and carefully shook his head.

“and now she won’t even look at me. won’t talk to me properly. and it’s like we’re strangers again, and i fucking hate it. i don’t even know what she’s thinking. i don’t know if she regrets it, or if she just doesn’t feel the same way, or.."

“maybe she’s scared?..” geto said. gojo nodded. “she doesn’t just hook up with people either, you know. she acts like she does, but she’s picky as hell.”

“you’re the first one she’s been with since toji,” geto added and choso stared.

“yeah,” gojo said. “she told yuki and shoko that at brunch. said she wasn’t hooking up with toji anymore. they were all shocked.”

choso’s throat tightened. “you think she feels the same?”

geto shrugged. “doesn’t matter what we think." gojo smirked. “but i do think she’s not over you.”

“she was acting weird all night,” geto added. “sat next to you even though there were other spots. didn’t say much. drank instead of telling sukuna the truth.”

“you think she didn’t want to say my name?” gojo and geto looked at each other. then back at him.

“what do you think?” gojo asked.

choso rubbed his hands over his face again. leaned back on the bed and stared at the ceiling like it might offer some answers.

“i think i need another fucking blunt.”

gojo laughed and geto smiled.

but neither of them said anything else, they just sat with him, let him be in it. let him spiral in peace. and in the room below, the party kept goin, voices, music, chaos, but in here, it was just the three of them, and choso’s heart still beating too fast over something that might already be gone..

~ 

meanwhile you were still in the room downstairs. 

one second you were finishing your drink, and the next you were half-sunk into the cushions between sukuna and nanami, knees pulled up, eyes glazed, your head a bit too heavy from the alcs and smoke.

you didn’t know where the rest of the group had wandered, probably off getting refills, crowding the kitchen, maybe dragging someone into a dumb drinking game. but here it was quiet and mellow, and at least toji had disappeared.

safe, if you ignored the fact that sukuna kept watching you like he knew something deep and philosophical that you didn’t/couldn't understand if you tried.

“you’re real quiet all of a sudden?” he said, flicking ash into a nearby beer can.

“mm,” you hummed, noncommittal. nanami raised a brow. “you’ve had, what, four drinks?”

“five,” you corrected.

“so you’re lying and counting. noted.” you rolled your eyes, but it made you smile. they weren’t the worst company... nanami was calm and unbothered all the time with dry sarcasm and a very firm judgment, and sukuna was sukuna: an asshole, but a funny one. the kind of guy who reallyy got under your skin just because.

“so,” sukuna started, voice lazy, “about earlier...?" you groaned. “don’t.”

“whatt?” he grinned. “you’re the one who dodged the question like your life depended on it. got the whole room wondering.” nanami shook his head like he wanted absolutely no part of this shit. "sukuna...” you warned.

“c’mon, we’re all adults here. was it that bad?”

“you’re so annoying just sybau.” you muttered, tipping your head back against the cushion.

“you’re deflecting.” he leaned in a little “was it someone we knoww?”

your mouth opened to tell him to fuck off, but nothing came out. not because you didn’t want to say it, but because for the first time all night, the words just caught and sat in the back of your throat.

maybe it was how nanami turned slightly toward you with his blonde sculpted brows drawn in a small lick of... concern?.. or the way sukuna’s smirk dropped just a teensy little bit like he’d poked too hard without realizing how close he was to something blowing up in his and everyone else's.

but suddenly you weren’t laughing anymore.. you were blinking too fast, your fingers twisted in the hem of your skirt. and your chest started to ache in that stupid, awful way that told you you’d been bottling too much for too long and it all needed to come pouring out or you'd-

“it was choso.” you slapped a hand over your mouth.

nanami didn’t react much but sukuna stilled. you huffed out a weak laugh, staring at your knees. “it was choso,okay? and i wasn’t gonna say anything because we’re not like that. we weren’t supposed to be like that.” sukuna leaned back a little, eyes softening. “since when?”

“since… recently..?” you mumbled. “since too recently. i don’t even know what the hell happened. one minute we were just hanging out like always, and the next he was... he was touching me like he wantedme, and i let him.” you gulped.

“and it was good. like, really good. and that’s the biggest problem.” you looked up at them now, eyes glassy. “he’s my friend. he’s choso. i used to go to him after i hooked up with toji, for fuck’s sake. and now i can’t even look at him without remembering how he sounded, how he held me." you stopped yourself.

nanami sighed softly. “you think you ruined the friendship.” 

“i know i did.”

sukuna snorted. “you didn’t ruin shit. if anything, you probably just scared him.”

you looked at him. “what the hell is that supposed to mean?”

he shrugged, flicking his lighter open and shut. “choso’s not exactly a casual kind of guy. you think he fucks his friends and moves on? he’s been lowkey obsessed with you for months. we all knew it.”

your stomach twisted. “huh?! you’re lying.”

“nah,” he said easily. “he doesn’t flirt, doesn’t chase. but you? he’d show up wherever you were. always sat next to you, lit your joints first. laughed at your dumb jokes.”

nanami nodded once, like that wasn’t news. “he talks about you more than anyone else. you stared at them both. heart pounding.

“you’re messing with me.”

“i’m not,” nanami said plainly.

“and i don’t care enough to lie,” sukuna added. you didn’t say anything for a moment. your drink sat warm and untouched on the floor beside you.

“so what do i do now?” you asked quietly.

“talk to him,” nanami said.

“or just fuck him again,” sukuna offered, earning a sharp look from nanami.

you smiled a little but it faded again way too fast.

because now it wasn’t just the guilt, the confusion, it was hope. stupid, dangerous hope that maybe choso did want you back. and you didn’t know what was worse: losing him, or getting your hopes up only to fall even harder.

“he looked at me tonight like i didn’t exist,” you whispered.

“or maybe like he couldn’t stand to look at you,” sukuna said, dragging smoke slow through his teeth.

“because he’s in over his head.”

~

upstairs, chosos blunt had gone out in his fingers again, ash floating up from the tip. geto laid beside him like he didn’t have a single bone in his body, hoodie bunched around his shoulders, socked feet kicking slowly at the air. gojo sat in the rolling chair backwards, arms crossed over the top like he was leading some kind of group therapy session and not slowly spinning back and forth.

“dudee,” the white haired male chirped, dragging the word out like he’d been holding it in for way too long. “you need to text her.”

choso didn’t open his eyes. just muttered, “shut the fuck up.”

“no,” gojo said, unbothered. “because this has gone from, like, sad-boy-joint-smoking to full-on greek tragedy. geto, back me up.”

“he’s out of it,” geto agreed calmly. “like, badly spiraling. the worst kind. the kind that ends in a really shitty mixtape.”

“i’m not out of it,” choso said, finally clipping his eyes open to glare up at them. “i just… i don’t know.”

“you don’t know if you should talk to her?” gojo asked. “you, who has known her for literal years?”

“i fucked it up,” choso muttered. “i don’t even know what i’d say. ‘sorry for rearranging your guts and then emotionally shutting down about it’?”geto snorted. “maybe start softer?..”

“jesus,” gojo groaned. “it’s not even that deep. you two were friends. you hooked up. big whoop. fix the vibes.”

"urgh i hate you."

“she looked good tonight,” gojo said suddenly, tone gentler. “like, not to make you weirder, but… you noticed, right?”

choso didn’t even pretend not to. “yeah.”

“you miss her?” geto asked, softer now too.

“like a fuckin limb,” choso admitted. “i miss her all the time. not just the… whatever. the night. i miss when we’d go on 7/11 runs at midnight just to buy slurpees. i miss watching bad horror movies and her hiding under the blanket. i miss walking her home when she was tipsy and holding her phone ‘cause her purse didn’t have space.”

gojo leaned back a little, lips pressed together. “so text her.”

choso shook his head. “it’s not that simple!. we weren’t just friends. she was… different. i’ve known her since sophomore year. before she got with toji. before she knew how to run a party like it was second nature. she used to be shy, y’know? she’d hide behind y’all at parties. then suddenly she was glowing all the time and everyone wanted her.”

“including you,” geto said.

choso nodded. “yeah. but i didn’t want to ruin anything. so i just stayed her friend. stayed close. held her when she cried over him. told her he wasn’t shit. and then… one night it just happened. it wasn’t supposed to be like that.”

gojo sat up straighter. “you keep saying that. like you regret it.”

“i don’t regret touching her,” choso said, voice lower. “i regret that i wasn’t in the right place to do it right. i wanted it to be soft. i wanted her to feel… wanted. not just fucked.”

geto blinked slowly. “you know, for a guy who barely talks, you’ve got a lot going on up there.”

“yeah,” gojo said, grinning. “and you said you weren’t spiraling.”

“you two are so fucking annoying,” choso muttered.

“and you’re in love with her,” gojo shot back. “so what now?” choso fell quiet once more. he stared at the lighter in his hand, thumb brushing over the wheel like he was thinking of relighting the blunt. he didn’t.

“you really think texting her helps?” he asked finally.

“you don’t gotta confess your love, romeo,” geto said. “just hang out. be friends again. smoke a joint. eat some shitty takeout. just… be normal.”

“she might not want to,” choso said.

“she might,” gojo countered. “especially if she’s spiraling half as hard as you are.” choso let out a slow breath, like all the weight in his chest was trying to escape through his mouth. he reached for his phone. hovered over your name. it felt weird to see it in his contacts now. like he didn’t have the right.

but he typed.

choso [1:03am]: yo. u home tmrw?

“there you go,” gojo said. “smooth.”

“god help us if she actually replies,” geto murmured. choso didn’t say anything. he just stared at the message. he didn’t unsend it. he didn’t add anything else.

"wait fuck, what if she's still downstairs right now." choso said sliding a hand down his face. gojo chuckled and patted his back. "don’t worry, sukuna texted me ages ago telling me she'd left." choso sighed, he just waited.

“you think she’ll answer?” choso asked

“yeah,” gojo said softly. “i do.”

“and if she doesn’t?” he asked.

geto shrugged. “then we roll another blunt and try again next week.”

choso almost smiled. almost. but the weight of your name in his inbox was enough to keep him grounded, it wasn’t over yet.

~

you saw the text while curled up in bed, knees tucked up to your chest, blanket pulled over your head like it could shield you from the rest of the shitty unfair terrible world.

your makeup was still a little smudged from last night, and your phone was lighting up with snaps and stories and blurry videos from the party, everyone drunk and laughing and high off whatever they could get their hands on. and then there it was. his name.

choso [1:03am]: yo. u home tmrw?

your stomach dropped. what?!

you stared at it for a really long time. you hadn’t stopped thinking about him since the second that stupid game ended and he stood up and walked out like he didn’t even care.

except maybe he did?.

this was all so confusing !

you pulled the blanket tighter and stared at the message like a crushing highschooler... it was weird, the way just his name made you feel dizzy. not in a good way, no, in a too-much-history kind of way.

and to be honest? it hurt. you thought about the old times. sophomore year. back when everything was still so so easy. when you didn’t know how he’d taste, or how he’d sound when he groaned into your mouth, or what it would feel like to wake up in his bed aching all over and pretending like nothing ever happened.

you thought about your midnight slurpee runs. him showing up outside your dorm with two energy drinks and absolutely no explanation.

lying on the floor of his room listening to his cool music with your feet pressed to his wall. falling asleep next to him on the couch at geto’s place after a long night out, his arm draped casually over your shoulder like it meant somethikg only if you wanted it to. (you did.)

he was your friend.

hell be was your best friend.

and then he kissed you. and touched you. and wrecked you in every single way and then didn’t say a word after. didn’t fight for it. didn’t even look at you at the party until he had to. like he regretted it. like you were the one who’d ruined things.

you hated that he could still make your heart race with a text that short. you resented that your thumb hovered over the reply button because no matter how mad you were no matter how humiliated or confused or heartbroken you felt, you really, really missed that stupid moron.

you missed his ridiculously lazy and bored smile. his dumb little goofy shrugs. the way he never ever ever judged you for anything, even when you were a crying, puking mess.

you missed the way he made you feel safe. even when nothing else made sense. you exhaled through your nose, phone resting against your chest for a second like the weight of it was too much. then you unlocked it again and typed.

you [1:22am]: yeah, come over whenever

you didn’t add a smiley. didn’t add anything too nice. you didn’t even know what kind of vibe you were trying to give off. cool? detached? open? you didn’t feel like any of those things. you sorta just felt weird. something open and waiting to be hurt again?

you locked your phone and threw it onto the other side of the bed, burying your face in the pillow right after.

oh my god...

~

you didn’t expect him to knock, you’d been pacing all morning incase he'd just barge in.

you checked your phone every five minutes like some pathetic love drunk loser. you’d made coffee. cleaned your desk. redid your makeup even though it wasn’t like he hadn’t seen you cry at least a dozen times before.

when you finally opened the door and saw him standing there, hoodie on, hands in his pockets, looking down at you with that calm expression… your stomach still flipped like you were eighteen and seeing him for the first time.

“yo,” he said, voice low.

“hey.”

he stepped inside politely and waited for you to shut the door before stepping in any further. this always used to feel exciting and homey.

now, it felt like a complete and utter stranger standing in your space. he floated near the door while you went to grab the coffee you’d poured for him almost thirty minutes ago. it was lukewarm now, but whatever.

you offered it to him anyway and he took it, whispering a quiet thanks. he sat down on the edge of your twin bed like it wasn’t too small for this much tension.

“you uh… you good hun?”

you nodded, sipping your coffee even though it tasted like nothing. silence stretched between you. awkward. empty. and you really fucking hated it, because it never used to be like this. never.

you and choso could sit for hours without speaking and it was never weird. you used to sit on your floor with his legs stretched across yours, high out of your minds, just passing a joint back and forth and listening to some obscure playlist he swore by. now even looking at him felt like a mistake you couldn’t take back. he finally broke the quiet. “so…” you met his eyes.

“are we good?” the words were careful. cautious. like if he said them too loud, the whole thing might crack again. you blinked. “i don’t know. are we?” he looked down into his coffee and didn’t answer.

“because i’ve been trying to figure out if i’m just overthinking all of this or if things really are fucked up between us now,” you said. “and if they are, i don’t know how to fix it. i don’t know how to get back to what we were.” choso was quiet for a minute. then he said, “it’s not like i planned for any of this to happen.”

“i didn’t either,” you said, voice tight. “but it did.”he ran a hand through his hair, the motion slow, frustrated. “hm.. i know.”

“so what now?” he didn’t look at you. “i don’t know.” you scoffed. not because it was funny. because it hurt.

“great,” you said. “cool. really helpful.”

“what do you want me to say?” he asked, finally looking at you. his face was tight with confusion and frustration, you could see the flicker of something there. guilt maybe?. or worse... apathy.

“i want you to say how you feel,” you said. “you always do this, choso. you sit there like nothing touches you, like everything just rolls off your back, and you expect everyone else to fill in the blanks.”

“i don’t know how i feel.”

“bullshit!” he flinched.

“you’re not stupid. you’ve never been emotionally dumb. so don’t act like this is suddenly much too complicated for you.”

he looked away again. took a long sip of coffee he clearly didn’t want. “it’s not complicated. it’s just… fucked.” you stared at him. “you think us sleeping together fucked everything up?” he didn’t answer. but his silence was louder than anything. your throat went tight. “right, perfect. cool.”

“it’s not like that,” he said quickly. “i just… we were friends.”

“were,” you echoed. “past tense?" he shook his head. “i didn’t mean it like that.”

“then how did you mean it?”

he pressed his thumb to the bridge of his nose like he had a headache. “i don’t know, okay? i’m trying here.” you folded your arms. “no you’re not. you’re just trying not to feel anything.” he looked up at you, and for the first time, there was a flash of something sharp in his eyes. “you think i don’t feel anything?”

“i think you bury it so deep even you forget it’s there.” you regretted it the second it came out. but you didn’t take it back. couldn’t. he stood up. slowly. like he was still debating whether or not to walk out. “maybe this was a mistake.”

you felt something cave in your chest. “you mean coming here or sleeping with me?!”

“don’t do that,” he said quietly. “don’t make it sound like it was just sex or something. you know it wasn’t.” you blinked. hard. “you’re the one acting like it ruined everything.”

“’cause it did,” he said, voice flat, like it hurt to admit. “look at us.” you wanted to scream. cry. kiss him. something.

“we used to hang out every day,” you said, voice cracking. “we used to order the same shitty takeout and watch bad movies and walk to class together hungover like dumbasses. now i can’t even look at you without feeling like i’m gonna throw up.”

his mouth twitched. not a smile. just something sharp and quiet. “yeah. me too.”you stared at him. “so what, you regret it?” he ran a hand through his hair, dragging it back out of his face. “i regret that we’re like this now. i regret that i can’t stop thinking about it. and i regret how i acted after, yeah.”

“but also how fucking bad i wanted you.” you froze.

he kept talking, almost like he hated himself for it. “i swear, you always looked so good. always. but that night? you walked in and i swear to god i forgot how to breathe. that dress. your hair. the way you sat next to me like it wasn’t a big deal. like your leg wasn’t pressed up against mine for half the night. i was high as shit and still couldn’t stop thinking about how fuckable you looked.”

your mouth dried up really fucking quick.

“i didn’t even mean to go there,” he said, shaking his head. “i was tryna be chill, like always. keep my shit together. but you were laughing at my jokes, biting your straw, leaning into me like you didn’t even know what you were doing—”

“i didn’t,” you cut in, heat rushing to your cheeks. “i wasn’t trying to—”

“i know,” he said, quick. “that’s what fucked me up.”

“you looked so good it pissed me off,” he muttered. “like, i’d spent years being your friend, right? years just keeping it cool. not touching you. not saying shit. not letting it show. and that night you made it so fucking hard not to lose it.” your throat felt tight. “so what, you blame me for how it happened?” he looked at you then. “nah. i blame myself for not being stronger than that.”

“you weren’t even supposed to be thinking about me like that.”

“you think i don’t know that?” his voice rose slightly, not angry, just frustrated. “you think i wanted this to go down like it did? i wanted to touch you, yeah. i wanted to fuck you. i wanted to see how you sounded when you moaned my name, but i didn’t want to ruin everything. i didn’t want to be here with you looking at me like i’m someone you don’t even recognize.”

you flinched. “maybe i don’t.”

that did it. something in his jaw twitched.

“cool,” he said, standing suddenly. “then i won’t bother you anymore.”

you stood too, heart racing. “that’s what you’re doing now? just walking out?”

“what do you want from me, y/n?” he turned to you, eyes dark. “you want me to say i love you or something? that i’ve been obsessed with you since sophomore year and now i don’t know how to breathe when you’re not talking to me?” you stared at him. your silence said enough.

he laughed. quiet and bitter. “yeah. didn’t think so.” you took a step forward. “don’t turn this around on me like i’m the one who broke it.”

“you didn’t break it,” he said, voice sharp now. “we both did.”

neither of you said anything for a second. just stood there, chests rising, air charged and crackling and too much. and then he was gone. again. and it felt worse this time. because this time, it really sounded like goodbye.

~

choso slammed the door behind him, his head was spinning like a storm was about to break loose. every nerve ending in his body was buzzing, too much noise in his head, too much ache in his tightly couled chest. he hated how raw everything felt, how the fight twisted in his gut like a knife he couldn’t pull out. he wasn’t about to let it break him. not tonight. definitely not like this.

he stumbled down the hall, each step heavier than the last, and after a long walk ended up outside shiu’s spot behind the science building. the place smelled like burnt leaves and cold air. choso lit a smoke, dragging deep and steady, trying to slow his racing thoughts, but it only made the ache louder. he needed something stronger. something to silence the noise.

“shiu,” he said, voice low and rough. “i need something… stronger. something to knock me the fuck out.” shiu looked him over, eyebrows raised. “you sure, man? gojo’s been watching you. he don’t want you mixing up shit.”

choso’s jaw flexed. he looked off to the side, eyes tracking the cracks in the pavement like he needed something else to focus on. something that wasn’t the way your voice had cracked or the way his chest had felt like it was caving in after he stormed out. he dragged a long, slow breath through his nose.

“gojo doesn’t need to know,” he muttered, tone flat but tight at the edges. shiu raised an eyebrow. “that ain’t really what i asked.” choso shot him a look, eyes sharp under heavy lashes. “and i didn’t come here for a conversation.”

the silence stretched for a second, heavy and taut. a muscle jumped in choso’s cheek as he looked back down at the ground. “i just need something that’s not gonna make me feel like i’m gonna rip my fuckin’ head off. you got that or not?” shiu stayed still, watching him closely now. “look, man, if this is about a girl or some party shit...”

“don’t,” choso cut him off, voice edged in steel. “don’t make this a thing. i didn’t come here to unpack it.”

he was trying to keep cool, like always. trying to stay in that chilled-out, unfazed mode everyone knew him for, but his voice cracked slightly on the end of that last word, and he knew shiu caught it. he fucking hated how close it all was to spilling out. hated how his hands wouldn’t stop twitching at his sides. he wasn’t supposed to be this messy. not over anyone. not over you.

shiu sighed, already reaching into his jacket. “fine, man. i got something that’ll take the edge off. just don’t be dumb w' it.” choso watched him, face set, but his fingers were already digging into his pocket for cash. he shoved the bills into shiu’s hand, almost too hard. “this doesn’t leave us,” choso said. it wasn’t a request. shiu nodded slowly. “you got it.”

choso took the small container, didn’t even glance at it before stuffing it in his jacket. his mouth was tight, his gaze already turned back toward campus. “appreciate it,” he muttered, almost like an afterthought, then walked off without looking back.

he didn’t want to think about how pathetic he felt, or how badly he wanted to forget the look on your face when he walked out. he just wanted the silence. wanted everything to go still for a while.

anything but this.

~

your room was much too quiet. this quiet made your ears ring and your chest ache like your body didn’t know what to do with all of the sudden solemn silence.

you were curled up under your blanket, knees hugged to your chest, trying not to cry again. trying not to fall apart for the third time that day. but it kept hitting you in waves. the fight. his voice. the way the door sounded when it shut behind him. loud and final.

you missed him. god, you missed him.

not just the version of him that had kissed you with his hands shaking. not just the one that pressed his forehead against yours like it hurt to let go. you missed your best friend. the one who used to show up to your dorm with red bull and snacks when you were cramming for exams. the one who let you wear his hoodie for two whole weeks straight without saying a word. the one who always listened, who always got it, even when no one else did.

and now he was gone. just walked out like it didn’t mean anything. like none of it mattered.

you pressed your face into your pillow and let out a long, frustrated sound. it wasn’t fair. you didn’t ask for things to get this complicated. you didn’t mean for any of it to happen. it was supposed to be one night. one stupid, selfish, soft little night. and now everything was fucked.

you felt the tears coming back but blinked them away, he left. he didn’t even try to talk it through. he just stood there looking at you like you were too much, like he couldn’t be bothered to fight for any of it. and maybe you didn’t say the right thing. maybe you pushed him too hard. but it wasn’t supposed to end like this. not with slammed doors.

you missed feeling safe with him. and now you didn’t know if you’d ever get any of it back.

~

later that night, choso was cooped up in his room, and absolutely fucking wasted. he didn’t even know what shiu gave him, but he was gone. mumbly, heavy, head falling from side to side like he couldn’t even hold it up anymore. his fingers were slack around the half-empty baggie on the nightstand. he felt like he was underwater.

the knock on the door barely registered. he didn’t even move.

“yo,” gojo’s voice came through, followed by the door creaking open without waiting for permission. “you alive in here?” choso slowly blinked. slowly.

he turned his head just enough to see him step in, all tall and white, hair messy like he’d been out back smoking or maybe pacing in the hallway. gojo’s eyes landed on the bag, then on choso’s face. he stopped walking.

“the fuck is that?” gojo asked flatly, already moving to snatch it off the table. choso didn’t even flinch, just let it happen. “don’t worry bout' it.”

“don’t-” gojo laughed, but it wasn’t the usual loud, chaotic sound. it was short and very annoyed. “nah, don’t pull that shit. what even is this? where’d you get it?” choso didn’t answer. he dropped his head back again, staring at the ceiling, trying not to gag from the way the room tilted sideways.

“don’t tell me shiu gave you this,” gojo said, sniffing the bag like he might recognize it. “are you fucking serious?”

“not a big deal.”

“not a big deal?” gojo’s voice cracked. “bro, you’re drooling on yourself.”

“shut up,” choso muttered, wiping his mouth with his sleeve.

“nah. no, you don’t get to do that. you don’t get to act like this is nothing,” gojo snapped, pacing now. “i’ve seen this shit go left, choso. you think you’re just vibing, zoning out, but you don’t know what the fuck you’re taking. you could’ve died, dumbass.”

gojo ran a hand through his hair again, pacing harder now, feet dragging across the rug like he was trying not to explode. “you think this shit makes you deep or something? makes you, what, mysterious? tragic? nah, bro. it makes you fucking reckless.”

choso stayed quiet, slumped back against the headboard, “you know we’re not built like that. we’ve seen too many people get fucked up on the hard shit, too many people do dumb shit and not come back from it. and you?” he jabbed a finger at him, “you’re better than that. you’re smart. calm. you’re the one that’s supposed to have your shit together when we don’t.”

he dropped down onto the bed next to him with a heavy sigh, voice dropping low. “i don’t care if you’re sad. i don’t care if you’re heartbroken or guilty or fucked up over her. you don’t ever get to check out like this. you get high, fine. we all do. but you do not disappear into some sketchy shit just because life got too heavy for you to handle.”

choso still didn’t look at him. he was breathing slow as gojo leaned back, staring up disappointed at the ceiling. “you wanna crash out, fine. but not on my fucking watch.” he paused, voice going rough. “i need you, man. geto needs you. the frat needs you. don’t do that shit again. i’m so serious.”

he sat up again, finally glancing down at him, eyes sharp but not unkind. “next time you wanna drown it out, you come to me. i’ll roll for you. i’ll sit with you. i’ll talk you through it. but you don’t pull this lone wolf junkie thing. that’s not who the fuck you are.”

choso blinked slow, finally meeting his gaze. gojo just stared. “don’t make me bury you, dude.”choso dragged a hand over his face, groaning. “can we not do this right now?”

“we are doing this right now.” gojo tossed the bag across the room, out of reach. “you think i care if you’re upset about y/n? you think that justifies this?” at that, choso finally looked at him. his eyes were bloodshot and glassy, but there was a flicker of something else in there. shame... anger, hurt.

“you don’t get it,” he said quietly. “then explain it to me,” gojo shot back, folding his arms. “because from where i’m standing, you ghosted the girl you’ve been in love with since sophomore year, fucked up your whole friendship, and now you’re trying to numb it out with whatever the hell this is. that about right?” choso didn’t say anything in reply. gojo ran a hand through his hair, exhaling hard. “you think you’re the only one hurting? she’s in her dorm crying over you, bro. yuki told me. she’s a wreck. and you’re up here trying to disappear.”

“i didn’t mean for it to go like that,” choso muttered. “i just… i miss her. and everything’s fucked now.” gojo softened. just a little. enough to step forward, sit down on the edge of the bed, lean in like he actually wanted to understand.

“you wanna be with her?” choso’s jaw clenched. “i wanna have her back. i wanna make it right. but i don’t know how.”

“then sober the fuck up,” gojo said, less harsh now. “get outta your head, stop tryna erase the pain, and just talk to her. tell her the truth.” choso let his head fall into his hands. his heart was pounding, his limbs felt heavy and useless.

“i don’t wanna lose her.”

“then don’t,” gojo said. “but you will if you keep doing dumb shit like this.” choso didn’t move, didn’t answer. he just sat there breathing through the weight of it all, trying not to cry in front of him. gojo leaned back, sighed, and muttered, “i’m getting you water and food. stay the fuck here.”

and he did. not because he wanted to, but because for the first time all day, the room didn’t feel like it was spinning as harshly anymore.

choso let go of a big breath, dragging his fingers over his face like he could rub the shame out of his skin. “i didn’t mean to go that far,” he said finally, “just wanted to stop thinking for a minute.” gojo let out a short breath, half-laugh, half-sigh. “bro, you’re not the only one thinking too much. get in line.” choso shook his head. “it’s not just that. it’s her. it’s everything. i feel like an asshole.” gojo leaned back on his hands, shoulders relaxing a little. “you’re not an asshole. you’re just in love and emotionally stunted.”

choso cracked the tiniest smile. “yeah, fuck you.”

“nah, for real,” gojo said, nudging his knee. “you think we haven’t noticed? the way you look at her?”

“yeah, well,” choso whispered, rubbing his thumb along the seam of his jeans, “i fucked it up. i always fuck it up.” gojo frowned. “you didn’t fuck it up by loving her. you fucked it up by not talking to her. by pretending like it didn’t mean something.” choso looked away again, eyes glassy. “it wasn’t supposed to mean something.”

gojo tilted his head, voice softer now. “but it did. so what are you gonna do? run from her forever? numb yourself out until you forget what it felt like to be close to her?” choso didn’t answer. just stared at the floor like it held the truth he couldn’t say out loud.

gojo nudged him again. “you got a choice. keep hardcore crashing out, or man up and try and try again.” choso looked at him, slow and heavy. “and what if she doesn’t want to try again?” gojo shrugged. “then at least you tried. but you’ll hate yourself if you don’t.”

there was a long silence. just the sound of choso’s breathing, still a little unsteady, and the buzz of the fridge downstairs. then choso finally nodded, slow and defeated. “yeah. okay.” gojo gave his thigh a smack, then stood. “good. now drink some water, take a fucking shower, and get the chemicals outta your system. you smell like a dead vape.”

“you love me,” choso muttered.

“unfortunately,” gojo said, already heading for the door, “i do.”

~

groupchat “dni”

gojo [6:17 pm]: ok listen up you degenerates

gojo [6:17 pm]: we’ve all been personally invited to a very exclusive rooftop party tonight

geto [6:18 pm]: “personally invited” = you begged a sophomore with a wristband

gojo [6:18 pm]: incorrect. i flirted with a sophomore with a wristband

yuki [6:18 pm]: is this gonna be like last time when we got kicked out before the music even started

shoko [6:19 pm]: that was because sukuna tried to fight the dj over a frank ocean request

sukuna [6:19 pm]: shut up ho

nanami [6:19 pm]: respectfully i’m not coming

gojo [6:20 pm]: respectfully yes you are

gojo [6:20 pm]: i already told people my hot finance friend was coming

utahime [6:20 pm]: nanami i’ll bring edibles if you go

nanami [6:21 pm]: fine

gojo [6:21 pm]: god i love peer pressure

yuki [6:21 pm]: who else is going

shoko [6:22 pm]: i’ll come if i can bring molly

geto [6:22 pm]: you do that anyway

shoko [6:22 pm]: i like to at least ask

utahime [6:23 pm]: i’m in if nobody lets gojo near the aux

gojo [6:23 pm]: shut the fuck up my music is goated

sukuna [6:23 pm]: you exclusively play bass boosted lorde remixes

gojo [6:24 pm]: and yet you all still dance

yuki [6:24 pm]: because we're normally fucked up by then

geto [6:24 pm]: fr

you [6:25 pm]: what time?

gojo [6:25 pm]: so nice of you to join us

gojo [6:25 pm]: 10. dress code is slutty apparently

utahime [6:26 pm]: where is it

gojo [6:26 pm]: that bougie building near campus with the glass elevator. guy at the door is named dante. tell him i sent you

sukuna [6:26 pm]: dante knows you as “that guy who stole a lava lamp”

gojo [6:27 pm]: i liberated it

geto [6:27 pm]: anyone bringing alcohol or should i be the dad again

nanami [6:27 pm]: just don’t bring that fucksss artisanal whiskey shit. no one appreciates it but you

geto [6:28 pm]: it’s called having taste

gojo [6:28 pm]: bring the whiskey suguru. some of us have trauma to repress

yuki [6:28 pm]: i’ll bring vodka.

shoko [6:29 pm]: i’ll bring molly

utahime [6:29 pm]: you're actually addicted

shoko [6:29 pm]: sybau

gojo [6:30 pm]: choso, toji respond rn

choso [6:31 pm]: what

gojo [6:31 pm]: that’s not a yes

yuki [6:31 pm]: sounds like someone’s sulking again

geto [6:32 pm]: whats wrong

choso [6:32 pm]: just tired

sukuna [6:32 pm]: toji wya

gojo [6:33 pm]: someone play “creep” by radiohead

toji [6:33 pm]: it's literally my frat mf ofc im going

choso [6:33 pm]: fantastic

you [6:33 pm]: stop

gojo [6:33 pm]: 👀

shoko [6:33 pm]: oh we’re back to cryptic again. love that for us

utahime [6:34 pm]: just make sure no one dies this time

gojo [6:34 pm]: no promises

yuki [6:34 pm]: see you all at 10. i expect to see a lot of skin

gojo [6:35 pm]: we never disappoint 😛😛😛😛😄😄

gojo [7:50 pm..]: yeah cool just leave me on read idc

gojo [9:30 pm...]: i hate all of u.

seen ✔️

~

after the group chat had died down, chosos was in his room with a deep ache in his chest. he wanted to reach out, ask if you were comfortable with this whole thing, ask if you were okay with him coming along to a party after the two of you had your falling out only a few days prior. he knew you two were in bad terms but fuck, he just wanted to make sure you were okay i with it.

choso [7:04 pm]: i saw ur going tonight

choso [7:06 pm]: i won’t if you don’t want me there

choso [7:10 pm]: just say the word

you [7:17 pm]: do whatever you want

choso [7:19 pm]: ok

choso [7:19 pm]: see yhu

he groaned and flopped his phone face down into his bed. 'fucking perfect.'

~

the window’s cracked, blunt long burned out in the ashtray. chosos half-dressed, standing in front of the mirror, shirtless, jeans low on his hips, chain resting against his collarbone. he doesn’t know why he’s putting in this much effort. doesn’t know who he’s trying to be tonight. cool? unbothered? the kind of guy who can stand in the same room as you and pretend like you didn’t ruin him without even trying?

the shirt he pulls on is black, open just enough to show the ink on his chest. sleeves short, tight across the arms. tattoos peek out like they’re watching everything, curling over his ribs, his biceps, his throat, it’s hot. intentionally. he tells himself it’s for the party. definitely not for you.

he tugs a ring onto each finger. slow. deliberate. the silver’s cold. his hands aren’t. his heart’s been pounding since you texted him back.

'do whatever you want.'

not no. not don’t come. just… nothing. silence, dressed up like some sort of permission.

'do whatever you want.'

he thinks about turning around. taking off the shirt. crawling into bed and pretending none of this is real and smoking until he passes out, but he knows he won’t, because you’ll be there. and he’s too fucking weak to stay away from you any longer that he already has...

there’s a knock at the door. “don’t,” choso mutters, not loud enough to be heard yet it opens anyway.

“you look hot,” gojo says casually strutting in, choso doesn’t turn around. “you're too flattering.”

“still true,” gojo shrugs stepping inside. he’s wearing black slacks, loose button-up open too far, a silver chain dangling down his chest like a shiny invitation for whatever girl can keep up with his personality. sunglasses pushed into his hair. rings stacked. nails painted. he looks like he’s about to ruin someone’s night. he looks at choso like he’s trying to gauge whether it’s gonna be his.

“you goodd?” he asks, “we’re not doing the spiral thing again, right?”

complete and utter silence.

“’cause last time i had to stop you from snorting mystery powder from shiu, and i really don’t want a repeat of that intervention,” he adds. choso scoffs once. “you’re so over the top. abs dramatic.” he adds.

“and you’re emotionally constipated. we all have our thing.” gojo steps towards choso and leans a shoulder against the wall. he watches him in the mirror.

“you gonna talk about it or just stand here looking like a sad stripper?” choso exhales through his nose. “it’s really fine.”

“cool. love that answer. super healthy.” a beat passes. gojo drops the lollipop into the trash and wipes his hands on his pants like he’s prepping for something bigger than this.

“she’s not avoiding you because she hates you,” he says. choso doesn’t flinch. but his eyes flicker. gojo shrugs. “she’s scared. you know that.” choso looks down. presses his palms into the dresser like it might hold him up.

“yeah,” he says quietly. “well. so am i.”

“she looked at you different after it happened,” gojo says. almost soft. “not bad different. just… like it mattered.” choso stares at the floor. gojo nods once, then backs off. "come to the party. wear that shirt. smoke a little. drink a little. maybe talk to her. or don’t. just don’t disappear on me.” choso looks up. “i’m not gonna fall apart.”

“yeah,” gojo smirks. “but if you do, at least you’ll look hot doing it.” he tosses him a hoodie, something black and oversized, just in case choso changes his mind about being seen.

“let’s go, romeo,” gojo says, already walking out. choso watches him go. breathes in. breathes out. then grabs his lighter, his keys, and follows.

~

outside the party – 9:56 pm

warm night, rooftop breeze, lyrics already bleeding down the block. gojo’s parked two blocks away like it’s some elaborate strategy despite there being parks much closer by, like making people walk increases anticipation. he

in the distance they spot geto sukuna and toji in their respective slutty fits.

gojo whistles when he sees them. “look at you motherfuckers.” sukuna smirks. “took you long enough.”

geto nods at choso. “you clean up.” choso shrugs. “preciate it man.” toji glances him up and down. “tight shirt,” he says. “someone expecting attention?” choso doesn’t blink. “depends who’s looking, i guess.”

gojo claps his hands once. “jesus christ. the testosterone levels here are fucking suffocating.” geto smirks around his cigarette. “we’re waiting on anyone else?”

“nah,” gojo says. “nanami’s coming later. yuki and the girls are already inside.” toji raises a brow. “and y/n?”choso’s jaw flexes. “what about her." geto eyes him. says nothing.

gojo waves it off. “she’s inside. drinking something pink and ignoring men like her life depends on it.”

“sounds like her,” sukuna mutters.

then they walk in, five-deep, hot enough to ruin the entire vibe. and somewhere inside, you’re already trying not to look.

the boys step in like they own the night. heads turn. someone near the bar actually mutters holy fuck under their breath when they catch sight of the group.

gojo’s grinning like he knows it. geto’s already scanning the crowd, sipping from a flask. sukuna nods to someone across the room like he’s clocking future damage. toji lights his cigarette with no urgency. and choso? choso’s not looking at any of them.

he sees you before you see him. you’re by the back wall, half-lit by a string of hanging bulbs, drink in one hand, one heel hooked behind the other like you’ve never been nervous in your life. you’re laughing at something yuki said, mouth glossed and tilted just enough to make his chest hurt.

you’re wearing a cheetah print dress. short. backless. deep neckline. cinched tight at the waist with gold jewelry layered at your neck and wrists, like you weren’t just trying to look good, you came to ruin people. your legs look endless. skin glowing. hair curled and pinned behind one ear to show off that delicate line of your throat. you look expensive. dangerous. like sex in stiletto form.

and choso forgets how to breathw for a second, the music flows to a distant thump. the smoke clears. the crowd drops out. it’s just you, golden and gleaming, and him, sweaty palms, heart in his throat, standing frozen like he’s seen something holy.

you haven’t noticed him yet. you’re twirling your straw in your drink, lip caught between your teeth. the same thing you always did when you were thinking. or nervous. or trying to act like you weren’t.

gojo nudges his shoulder. “yo.”

choso doesn’t move.

gojo follows his gaze, then huffs a breath. “oh.”

you look over a second later, you feel it. his eyes. maybe the heat of them. and you see him. your expression doesn’t crack. not really. but your fingers tighten slightly around your glass. your lashes lower just a little. and you look away like it didn’t gut you to see him like that, in that tight black shirt, rings catching the light, tattoos half-visible up his throat, mouth set in something halfway between regret and want.

choso swallows. slow. jaw tight.

toji watches the exchange, smirks around his cigarette. then, in true toji fashion, he leans toward sukuna, voice just loud enough to carry. “yo,” he mutters, nodding toward you. “she looks so fuckable tonight it’s insane.” pause.

gojo’s face shifts instantly. from buzzed amusement to bro what the fuck in 0.2 seconds. sukuna snorts once, unbothered. “that dress is lethal.” toji grins. “makes me wanna do something i’d lie about later.”

and choso, choso doesn’t react at first. not visibly, he just stands there. stone-still.

his fingers twitch at his sides like he’s holding himself back from doing something really stupid. .

but the way toji said it, like you were just a body, a dress, a thing to fuck. it makes choso’s stomach turn. makes something mean start to rise in his throat.

gojo catches it first. glances at choso sideways. “hey. breathe.” choso doesn’t react.

geto, across the group, clocks the tension and sighs into his drink like he already knows how this ends. “he’s trying to get in your head,” gojo murmurs.

"ts' not working,” choso says. flat. a lie. gojo looks at him. “then why are your hands shaking.”

choso drops his gaze and fists his fingers into the hem of his hoodie. he wants to hit something. wants to grab toji by the collar and ask him if it makes him feel big to talk about you like that. if he remembers what you looked like crying in someone else’s arms after he left you on read for three days straight.

instead, he just turns. looks at you again. you’re laughing now. at something yuki said. unaware. untouched by the storm building across the room. you look radiant, and so far away.

choso exhales slow. rubs a hand down his face. gojo steps in front of him. blocks his line of sight like he’s redirecting a loaded weapon. “you’re not here to fight him,” he says. “you’re here to see her.” choso sighs. “what if she doesn’t wanna see me?” he asks.

gojo shrugs. “then drink something strong and stand in the corner like a sexy ghost. but don’t let him take up more space in her head than you already do.” choso doesn’t reply.

but when he looks back over, your eyes meet again. this time, you don’t look away. you just hold it. tense. charged. everything unsaid humming in the space between.

10:50 pm

the music’s dirtier. people are pressed together, limbs loose, inhibitions all gone. people are yelling instead of talking. laughing too hard. dancing like they don’t plan on remembering any of this. and you? you’re glowing. you’re perched on a high stool near the drinks table with yuki, shoko, and utahime gathered around you like satellites. your legs are crossed, drink in hand, jewelry catching the lights. that cheetah print dress hasn’t moved, hasn’t slipped, but it still looks like it’s barely hanging on.

your heels are off now, tossed under the table. you’re barefoot, but you somehow look more powerful that way. yuki’s halfway through a blunt, one hand in your hair, fixing a loose curl behind your ear like she owns you. shoko’s got her chin in her hand, eyes glassy, listening to you talk like she’s watching a movie.

utahime’s arguing with you about whether or not someone near the speakers is hot or just tall. you’re laughing. loud. unbothered. you’ve had just enough to feel good, not sloppy, not numb. just warm in your chest, loose in your hips, relaxed in a way you haven’t been since the last time he kissed you.

you haven’t looked at him in a while. not directly. but you can feel him. like a splinter in your spine. choso is sunken deep into a beaten leather couch across the rooftop, legs spread, one arm slung over the backrest, the other gripping a drink that’s barely touched. the lights throw shadows across his face, making him look even more like the problem he is. he hasn’t smiled once tonight. hasn’t danced. hasn’t moved from that couch in an hour. he’s just been watching. not just you. not really. he’s been watching the whole group unravel.

cataloguing all the little ways things feel out of control. gojo and geto are on either side of him, like emotionally chaotic bookends. gojo’s halfway through a dramatic retelling of how a girl asked him to do shots off her collarbone. geto is barely listening, drink in one hand, his focus drifting toward the dancefloor.

“if you sink any deeper into that couch you’re gonna become it,” gojo says, nudging choso’s shoulder.

“you’re brooding so hard you’re fucking up the feng shui,” geto adds.

choso doesn’t answer. doesn’t blink. doesn’t move. because he’s watching them now. toji and sukuna, standing way too fucking close to you. they’re leaning against the drink table now, on either side of you, like some fucked up little devil-on-each-shoulder situation.

sukuna’s got his arm resting behind you on the back of your chair, his rings brushing the back of your neck when he shifts to say something in your ear. toji’s standing in front of you, looking you up and down with zero shame, saying something that makes you roll your eyes, but you’re smiling, a little. they’re too close. too familiar. toji bends down slightly to say something low, right in your ear. his hand brushes your knee, barely there, but enough. sukuna laughs, low and slow, and tucks a stray piece of your hair behind your ear with one finger like he has the right. you don’t push them away. you don’t move. and choso sits frozen, drink heavy in his hand, chest tight. geto follows his gaze, sighs.

“jesus.”

gojo squints across the room.

“yep. there it is. spiraling has entered the building.”

choso doesn’t say a word, but his knuckles are white around the cup. his jaw’s clenched so hard it looks like it might crack.

“she’s not into them,” gojo says carefully.

choso doesn’t respond.

“she’s just beingg...” he gestures vaguely, “hot. in public. while we all suffer.”

geto watches him.

“you good, man?”

“i’m fine,” he mutters.

“you’re glaring like you wanna body slam them off the roof,” gojo says. “i mean i support it, i’m just saying. it’s noticeable.”

choso looks away. but not before he sees sukuna lean in close again, lips damn near brushing your cheek as he says something that makes you tilt your head and laugh. and something in choso’s chest goes tight. ugly. possessive. deep. he finishes the drink in one pull and tosses the cup to the floor.

“you’re not gonna fight toji,” geto warns.

“i’m not,” choso mutters.

“or sukuna.”

“i’m not.”

gojo tilts his head.

“but you want to.”

choso doesn’t answer.

meanwhile, little to choso’s knowledge, you hate every second of this.

toji’s too close. his cologne is overwhelming, his breath is hot against your cheek, and his hand keeps brushing your knee like it’s some kind of fucking game. sukuna’s behind you, practically caging you in with that smug arm slung across the back of your stool, his rings tapping the metal as he leans in to say something that smells like whiskey and smoke. you laugh at something one of them says, but it’s hollow. thin. fake as hell. because you can feel him watching. and you wish to god he’d do something.

choso’s sitting across the rooftop like some tragic movie still, legs spread, all in black, eyes dark and unreadable. he hasn’t smiled. hasn’t moved. hasn’t looked at you like he used to. and you hate it. you hate how much you want him to care. you shift away slightly when toji reaches for your hand, pretending like you’re adjusting your drink.

you laugh again when sukuna teases something at your neck, even though your skin crawls. you don’t hate them. not really. they’re just being drunk and flirty and awful in the way guys get when they’re bored and a pretty girl’s nearby. but they’re not him. and that’s the problem. because no matter how hot you look, no matter how expensive, how unbothered, how sparkly and golden and “look at me” you are tonight, the only person you want looking at you like that is him. and he’s over there acting like you’re invisible.

he doesn’t smile at you anymore. doesn’t joke. doesn’t talk to you unless someone else is around and even then it’s like pulling teeth. he used to tell you things. little things. boring things. “what song this reminds me of.” “what kind of sandwich i got.” “i saw a dog today.” shit that didn’t matter but came easy. and now? now he can’t even hold eye contact for more than three seconds. you don’t know what changed. not really. you slept together. fine. you got drunk, things got messy, bodies got too close, and you let yourself want something. let yourself believe he might actually want it too.

you woke up in his bed and thought maybe it was real. maybe this meant something. and then he just… stopped. he pulled away so fast it gave you whiplash. and now he just sits across rooms like this. like you didn’t fall asleep on his chest. like you didn’t run your fingers through his hair while he held your thigh like it grounded him. like he didn’t look at you like you meant something. you toss back the rest of your drink, throat burning. yuki side-eyes you as you slam it down on the table.

“you good?”

“yep,” you lie. utahime raises a brow.

“you look like you’re gonna launch a man off this roof.”

“just one,” you say.

shoko hums.

“he’s still staring.”

you don’t ask who. you already know. you don’t even know what you want. no. that’s a lie. you want him. the version of choso who used to lean into your space just to smell your perfume. who used to hold eye contact like it was a secret between you. who used to text you late at night about nothing just to make sure you weren’t falling asleep sad. you want before. before everything got quiet and tense and full of looks that don’t last long enough. but he’s not that version anymore. he’s just a closed-up, beautiful, miserable mess on a couch pretending you don’t exist. and you’re done pretending it doesn’t hurt.

~

1:42 am

toji’s breath is warm against your ear, words too low, too close, too intentional. you smile like it doesn’t bother you, sip your drink, and pretend you didn’t just flinch on the inside. then, the music shifts, like the party takes a breath. something dark, slow, throbbing with bass comes on, the kind of song that makes people close the distance.

hips pressed, sweat slicked, voices lost in the sound. laughter gives way to sighs. hands start wandering. lights blur. everything feels drunker, hazier, a little dangerous. you’ve lost track of your cup. lost track of toji, sukuna, even your girls. everyone’s dancing now. even the too-cool ones, the emotionally distant ones, the heartbroken ones pretending not to look over their shoulder. even choso. he’s on the edge of the crowd, near the speakers, arms loose at his sides, hips rolling low to the beat. shirt sticking to his chest. chain catching in the light. his hair’s a little messed up, half out of its tie, and there’s a glint in his eyes that wasn’t there earlier, like he finally let go of something, or gave up fighting it.

he looks stupid hot, and he hasn’t looked at you once. you’re moving too. barely. just swaying. sweat glistening at the base of your throat, breath shallow, your dress rising every time your hips shift. people brush against you, but you barely notice. and then, like gravity snaps, like the whole party shifts around the two of you, he’s in front of you. face to face. you don’t know who moved first. maybe no one did. maybe the music dragged you here. his eyes meet yours and don’t leave. not this time. he’s close. closer than he’s been in weeks. one hand half-raised like he thought about reaching for your waist but didn’t finish the thought.

he’s breathing hard. jaw tight. pupils blown wide. your mouths are inches apart. you don’t speak. you just start moving. slow. heavy. together. not grinding. not showing off. just that hypnotic, instinctive kind of swaying, like your bodies remember each other before your brains do. his hand finds your hip. not all at once. just fingers grazing, then settling tentative, almost reverent. your hand comes up to rest lightly on his chest, over that same beat you felt once with your head on his shoulder. he breathes like it hurts, your eyes flick to his mouth, his eyes flick to yours. and neither of you closes the gap.

you roll your hips to the rhythm, and he follows, barely touching, but there. every movement brushing something: the curve of your thigh, the edge of your hand, the inside of your wrist. you’re not sure who leans in first, but your foreheads almost touch. his nose skims yours. breath to breath. cheek to cheek. he smells like skin and heat and the kind of cologne that clings to sheets. and god, you missed this. not just the closeness, but the feeling. the way he never looks away.

the way his hand on your waist says things his mouth never does. the way he holds you like he might shatter you if he pulls too hard. he holds you like he might shatter you if he pulls too hard. but god, he wants to. your hips are still moving — small, controlled sways that roll you against his thigh, your stomach brushing his shirt with each beat. his hand tightens at your waist. not rough. not greedy. just… needing. like he’s memorizing the curve of you again. like if he closes his eyes, he wants to still feel this exact shape in the dark.

your hand slides up from his chest to his shoulder. fingers graze the edge of his neck. your nails skim his pulse and his breath stutters against your cheek. you don’t pull away. neither does he. your mind spirals as he guides your hips ‘this is cruel.’ this is cruel and slow and exactly what you said you wouldn’t let happen again. not like this. not with him so quiet. not with all this space between what you want and what you’re allowed to ask for.

but his hand is on your hip. his breath is at your throat. he’s looking at you like he’s afraid you’re about to disappear. and you missed this, you missed him. even like this — closed off, quiet, hurting — you missed being near him. the way he watches you like he’s not sure you’re real. the way your bodies always fit together without trying. he’s so close now you can feel the heat of his skin through his shirt. every time you shift, your thighs brush. your lips are just inches from his jaw, and the way he’s looking at your mouth. god, you shouldn’t want him like this. not again. not still. but you do. his mind is just as scattered.

‘don’t fuck this up. don’t fuck this up.’ ‘she’s right here. she’s letting you be close again. she’s swaying with you like nothing’s broken, like that night never happened, like you didn’t spend weeks convincing yourself she didn’t want you.’ ‘her hand’s on your neck. her fingers are shaking just a little. she’s looking at you like she remembers.’ and fuck, he remembers everything. your breath in his ear. your leg hooked over his waist. your voice breaking when you said his name like it meant something. he wants to say something. anything.

but it’s like his throat’s gone numb. like his body remembers how to touch you, but his mouth forgot how to tell you why. he’s always been better at wanting you in silence. but your hand is sliding to the back of his neck now. fingers curling into the roots of his hair. and he thinks, ‘maybe this is enough.’ maybe just this. your breath. your body. this impossible, unspoken thing between you. you shift forward, and his forehead touches yours, you both stop moving. just standing there, breath mingling, swaying barely in place.

your nose brushes his. your lips part like maybe, maybe, but neither of you moves. not yet. your fingers are still curled in his hair. his thumb is rubbing slow, slow circles into your waist like he doesn’t even realize he’s doing it. his other hand floats just behind your lower back, not touching, like if he does, you’ll vanish. he’s never been this close to you without kissing your cheek in a friendly gesture apart from that night. and you’ve never been this close to him without yearning for more.

your eyes flutter shut. his jaw flexes, and everything in both of you is screaming. ‘please. just say something. do something. fix this.’ but you’re both still too scared to be the one who breaks it first, so you stay there. barely not kissing. barely not breaking. still burning.

you don’t know how long you’ve been swaying with him. every second stretches, honey-slow, pulling you deeper into the space between his breath and yours. his hand is still on your hip, gentle, barely there, like he’s afraid he’ll lose you if he presses too hard, and maybe he will. your fingers are curled at the back of his neck, tangled in the roots of his hair. his forehead rests against yours, your lips close enough that one shift, one breath, would close the gap. your heartbeat is in your mouth. his breath is at your cheek. and for one fragile, terrifying second, you think: maybe this is it. maybe you’re finally going to stop hurting.

then,

“yoooo, what the fuck are you doing over here looking like a victoria’s secret ad?”

gojo’s voice cuts through the music like a knife. choso jolts, eyes snapping open like he’s come up for air too fast. you both turn just as gojo and geto descend like a pair of drunk, well-dressed hurricanes, laughing and glowing and absolutely oblivious. gojo claps a hand on choso’s back, dragging him slightly out of reach. geto’s sipping from a red cup, clearly tipsy and amused.

“dude,” gojo says, grinning. “we’ve been looking for you—oh.” he stops when he sees you. geto does too. their faces drop, the laughter bleeding out of them as they realize they’ve just stepped into something private. something sacred. something they weren’t supposed to interrupt.

choso clears his throat and steps back. the shift is immediate and jarring. his hand leaves your waist. your fingers fall from his hair. the warmth between you extinguishes like a match in water. you stare at him. he won’t meet your eyes.

“shit,” gojo mutters. “sorry. we didn’t know you guys were—”

“we weren’t,” choso says, too quickly. “it’s fine.” the words hit like a slap. you take a step back. your arms fold across your chest. you don’t know where to look, so you don’t. you just turn and walk away.

he doesn’t follow. not when you disappear into the crowd. not when you vanish near the drink table. not even when you start drinking with reckless abandon. shot after shot. sugary, awful, fluorescent drinks you don’t even taste. you laugh too loud with yuki. you squeeze shoko’s arm too hard when she asks if you’re okay. you brush off utahime’s concerned expression and throw another drink back like it’ll fix the ache in your throat.

you don’t cry. not yet.

~

thirty minutes pass. the rooftop is hotter now, air thick with heat and bodies and music that won’t let up. the lights blur at the edges of your vision, too warm, too gold, too close. your dress clings tighter than it did an hour ago, every shift of fabric against your skin feeling like friction. your earrings feel like anchors. your heels like punishment. every part of you feels overstimulated, overexposed, over it.

you’ve been sipping something pink and sweet and pointless. you stopped tasting it a while ago. it’s not about the drink. it’s about the motion. about keeping your hands busy so you don’t wring them. about putting something between your teeth so you don’t say what you actually want to scream.

because choso’s still across the room. sitting on that damn couch like the last half hour didn’t just happen. like he didn’t hold you like you were breakable. like his lips weren’t a breath from yours. like your entire chest didn’t split open when he stepped back without a word.

his head is low, elbows resting on his knees, hands clasped tight like he’s praying or punishing himself. he’s not talking. not laughing. not even drinking. he looks like he’s trying to disappear into the dark leather, like if he stays still long enough he might become furniture. he looks like a contradiction—tense but crumpled, quiet but screaming. and maybe he is. maybe in that big, locked-up head of his, he’s spiraling too.

you wonder if he’s thinking about you. you wonder if he regrets it. you wonder if he’s going to get up and fix it. he doesn’t. and you feel like you’re going to burst out of your own skin.

you’re sick of it. sick of the back and forth, the glances across crowded rooms, the way he only touches you when no one’s looking and then pretends it never happened. sick of biting your tongue, sick of swallowing every single thing you want to say because you’re afraid he’ll confirm your worst fear—that you don’t matter. sick of the silence. the pretending. the way he’s right there, ten steps away, and still feels miles out of reach. and worst of all, you’re sick of missing him when he’s right fucking there.

your stomach is tight. your chest is worse. everything inside you is buzzing, frantic, like a fire alarm that won’t shut off. you slam your cup down on the sticky plastic table so hard someone nearby flinches. the noise cuts through the beat for just a second. you don’t even apologize.

you push through the crowd, weaving between couples and swaying bodies and clouds of perfume. people talk at you, smile, reach, but it all blurs. your vision is getting hazy, but not from the alcohol. your breath is too shallow. your hands are shaking. it feels like your skin doesn’t fit right anymore, like you’ve been holding something in for too long and your body doesn’t know how to contain it.

and underneath all of that rage and heartbreak and ache is the one terrifying thing you can’t ignore anymore. you still love him, and he still hasn’t fought for you. he hears you coming before he sees you. his head lifts. his eyes widen. then your hand is around his wrist. “come on,” you say, your voice cracked and sharp. he blinks. “what?”

“get up.”

“what are you—”

“get up, choso.”

he starts to protest, your name half-formed on his lips, but then he sees it. the tears in your eyes. the ones you’re trying so hard to keep back. that familiar glassy sheen, your lashes clumping together just slightly, your jaw clenched to hold everything in. it shatters something in him.

because he remembers. he remembers when those same tears used to fall freely into his chest, when your fingers would clutch at his hoodie and you’d cry into him like the world was ending. he’d hold you through it all, whispering that it was okay, that he had you, that no one was going to hurt you.

and now he’s the one who did.

you look at him like you’re holding the whole world back behind your teeth, grief, fury, humiliation, and it makes his stomach twist. he can feel it, like guilt blooming in his throat, sour and thick and impossible to swallow. he doesn’t know how to fix it. he doesn’t know if he even has the right to try.

so he stands. quietly. without question.

you grab his hand and drag him through the crowd, and he lets you. his hand stays in yours, warm, heavy, unmoving, like he’s afraid that if he lets go, if he even breathes too wrong, you’ll disappear. that you’ll change your mind. that he won’t get the chance to explain, to do something. to be something to you again, even if it’s just the person you scream at.

people glance as you pass, some curious, some surprised, some too drunk to care. but choso doesn’t notice them. all he sees is the back of your head, your hand gripping his, your shoulders tense. all he feels is the weight of what he’s done. and the way you’re holding yourself together, barely, just to get out of here.

it breaks him.

you don’t stop until you reach the stairwell. the door clicks shut behind you, and the music dies. the world goes still. cold fluorescent lighting hums above. the stairwell smells like cigarette smoke and dust and something old. you let go of his wrist like it burned you. you step away, crossing your arms, facing the wall so you don’t have to look at him. he’s still staring. still silent.

“you don’t get to do that,” you say finally. your voice is thin, shaking. “you don’t get to hold me like that, and then pretend it didn’t mean anything the second someone looks at us.” he doesn’t move.

“you don’t get to act like i’m yours, like we didn’t—” you cut yourself off. “like that night didn’t happen. and then walk away. and say it wasn’t anything.” he opens his mouth. you shake your head.

“i heard you. you said it wasn’t. like i meant nothing.”

“i didn’t mean it like that,” he says, voice hoarse.

“then how did you mean it?” you snap. “because you haven’t looked at me in weeks. you haven’t talked to me like you used to. you used to tell me everything. even the dumb stuff. and now you just look at me like you’re scared to remember what we were.”

“i’m not scared of you,” he says. “i’m scared of me.” you go still.

“i thought you didn’t care,” he says. “you left. you didn’t say anything. i thought… i thought if it meant something to you, you would’ve stayed.” you blink hard, trying to stop the tears. “i didn’t know what to say,” you whisper. “i was scared if losing you for fucks sake.”

“i’ve been scared since the second i touched you,” he says, stepping closer. “and i’ve wanted to do it again every day since. you look up. your breath catches. he’s closer now. close enough to touch. but he doesn’t. his hands hover at his sides like he’s still waiting for permission.

“i didn’t know if i was allowed to want you anymore,” he says, quieter. “after how i left it. after how i made you feel. but i never stopped.” your eyes search his face. there’s nothing but honesty there. regret, yes. sadness. but something else too. that quiet, aching kind of love he never knew how to say out loud. “i’m tired of pretending i don’t want you,” he says. “i’m tired of pretending i didn’t fuck it all up.”

“then stop pretending,” you say. and the tears finally fall.

he moves.

his arms wrap around you and pull you in, tight, warm, grounding. you collapse into his chest like you’ve been waiting all night, maybe longer. you bury your face in his shirt and finally let go. not loudly. not dramatically. just a slow, steady unraveling of the weight you’ve been carrying since that night. his hand comes up to cradle the back of your head. he breathes into your hair.

“i’m sorry,” he whispers. “i’m so fucking sorry.” you don’t answer. you just hold him tighter. you don’t know what happens next. you don’t know what this means tomorrow. but right now, his arms are around you, and you’re not alone in the ache anymore. and for the first time in weeks, it feels like maybe everything might not be broken forever. before you two can say another word, the door slams open.

“guys,” shoko says, calmly holding a half-finished drink and a dead vape, “shut the fuck up for two seconds.” because that’s when they all see it.

you and choso. wrapped around each other. quiet. still. the stairwell humming with tension that’s not quite sadness anymore, but not exactly peace either. you’re buried in his chest, arms around him like it’s the only thing keeping you upright. choso’s chin is resting on your head, one hand cradling the back of it, the other clutched in the fabric of your jacket like he’s afraid if he lets go, you’ll vanish again. for a second, the entire group freezes like a glitch in a rom-com. then—“oh my god,” geto says, slow and dramatic, like he just witnessed a soap opera finale. “no way,” yuki breathes. “are you kidding me? now?!”

“this is so embarrassing for both of you,” sukuna deadpans, arms crossed, standing one step above everyone like the world’s most judgmental gargoyle. “wait, is this happening?” gojo hisses, turning to nanami with wide eyes. “are we witnessing a real-time emotionally repressed breakthrough? am i hallucinating? did shoko lace my drink again?” nanami just blinks. “i think we’re witnessing long-overdue emotional consequences.”

“i know choso looks like he’s about to cry,” shoko mutters, chewing gum and squinting. “that’s the same face he made when his favorite ramen place shut down.”

“choso?” toji scoffs, brow arching like he’s already got a problem. “seriously? didn’t you say you were done with this shit?” choso doesn’t move. just tightens his arms around you. you don’t move either. not until you hear gojo whisper, “should we clap?” like it’s the final scene of a school play. you lift your head slowly, blinking at the harsh stairwell lighting, and choso follows, still holding onto you, but looser now. reluctantly. everyone stares. you stare back.

then yuki breaks the silence. “so,” she says, hands on her hips, “did we just witness a breakthrough or did you two finally realize you’re in love with each other after emotionally spiraling for three months?”

“yuki,” nanami sighs, rubbing his temples. “what?” she says. “i’m just saying—it looks like growth.” you wipe your eyes with the sleeve of your jacket. “we’re… talking again.”

“gross,” sukuna says. “i liked it better when you were avoiding each other like the plague.”

“you literally bet money that they’d have a breakdown by the end of the semester,” shoko says. “yeah. and i still find it disgusting.” he bites back.

“can you all shut the fuck up?” choso mutters, voice low and lazy. “jesus fuck. it’s two a.m.”

“nope,” gojo grins. “not until you tell us everything.”

“seconded,” geto adds. “we earned this. we’ve suffered through weeks of unresolved sexual tension and emotional repression.”

“you two were being weird as hell,” utahime mutters, adjusting her coat. “you ruined the vibe of every group hang.”

“you made eye contact across a beer pong table and i thought the world was ending,” nanami deadpans.

“every single dinner party felt like a breakup scene,” yuki adds. “and now you’re just… hugging in a stairwell like we don’t all have to emotionally recover from the mess you created?”

choso exhales, slow and annoyed. “damn. y’all really have nothing better to do?”

“we’re all going the same direction anyway,” shoko shrugs. “uber bus is waiting.”

you groan into your hands as choso scratches at his temple like this is the most socially taxing thing he’s done all year, and the two of you follow the group—who are now walking down the street like a chaotic parade of unsolicited commentary.

~

on the sidewalk, 2:37 a.m.

“so what was that?” gojo asks, dramatically jumping over a curb like he’s in an early 2000s teen movie. “like… an ‘i miss you’ hug? or a ‘i finally admitted i fucked everything up’ hug?”

“it was complicated,” you mutter.

“awww,” yuki coos. “nothing like emotionally devastating closure to end a night.”

“closure,” sukuna coughs. “sure.”

“he called himself emotionally unavailable like it was a confession,” you add, rolling your eyes. “like that was supposed to be romantic.”

“it kinda was,” choso mumbles, tone lazy and unbothered. “in a mentally ill way.”

“you’re just saying that because you’re stoned,” geto says.

“maybe,” choso shrugs. “but i meant it.”

“and you,” toji cuts in, nodding toward you, “just drag him out like that in front of everyone? after all that ‘we’re just friends’ shit? come on.”

you blink. “you were watching?”

“yeah. i saw you,” toji says, voice sharp, eyes cutting. “kinda hard not to when someone’s getting manhandled out of a party.”

“wasn’t like that,” choso says coolly, not even looking at him. “it was chill.”

“looked like a fucking soap opera to me,” toji mutters.

“looked like closure to me,” yuki teases.

“closure with full body contact,” shoko says.

“you two had a whole ‘no one wants to be the first to say it’ standoff,” geto says. “like, just say you give a shit.” you and choso glance at each other.

the group gasps.

“wait- you didn’t say that either?” yuki screeches. “what the fuck were you doing in that stairwell?”

“hugging,” you mutter.

“processing,” choso says with a yawn. “you know. healing or whatever.”

“you sound like you haven’t slept since tuesday,” nanami mutters.

“probably haven’t,” choso replies, lighting a cigarette.

“i hate this,” sukuna says.

“he did say something close,” you add. “he said he didn’t know if he was allowed to want me anymore.”

the entire group groans in unison.

“that’s so emotionally tortured,” utahime mutters. “god. no wonder i thought you were both depressed.”

“we were depressed,” choso agrees. “still are. just… less now.”

“and now you’re just… like… maybe talking again?” gojo says, blinking.

“not officially,” you and choso say at the same time, then glance at each other again.

everyone groans louder.

“you people are exhausting,” shoko says. “just kiss already and let me die in peace.”

“kiss in the uber,” yuki suggests.

“yeah, traumatize the driver,” sukuna snorts.

“better than traumatizing us again,” geto adds.

you sigh. “you know what? we should’ve stayed in the stairwell.”

“you should’ve,” toji mutters. “would’ve saved us all the headache.”

“wait—choso,” gojo says suddenly, turning around mid-step, “are you gonna, like, write her a poem now?”

choso stops walking. the group turns to him.

“you better not,” sukuna warns. “i swear to god if this turns into a sadboy mixtape era.”

“not a poet,” choso shrugs. “just sad.”

“gross,” toji mutters.

now everyone waited in anticipation as the uber bus arrived.

“okay, nobody tell the driver we have eight people,” gojo whispers as the black party van pulls up. “i already told him it was five and that we’re all very small.”

“you’re six foot three,” nanami says.

“yeah but i have aura. i can make myself compact.”

“you are the least compact person i’ve ever met,” utahime snaps.

as everyone crams into the van, you end up squished between choso and shoko. he reaches for your hand without thinking. you squeeze it. the group is still talking.

“so are you guys gonna go back to someone’s place or just stare at each other until the guilt sets back in?” yuki asks.

“we haven’t figured that out,” you say.

“we haven’t figured anything out,” choso adds, leaning back with his eyes half closed. “we’re vibing.”

“figuring it out together,” gojo fake cries. “so beautiful.”

“i hate all of you,” choso mutters.

“no you don’t,” shoko says. “you love us.”

“nah.”

“you love me,” you tease.

choso looks at you, one eye squinting open. “yeah,” he says lazily. “i do.”

the van goes dead silent.

then:

“oh my fucking god,” geto yells. “we missed the actual love confession?!”

“you couldn’t wait five fucking minutes!” yuki wails.

“why would you drop that shit in a moving vehicle fuck faces,” sukuna rolls his eyes.

“we’re all gonna crash and die,” utahime mutters. “and i’m gonna be mad in the afterlife.”

gojo starts singing the titanic theme. nanami takes off his glasses. you lean your head against choso’s shoulder.

he leans his head on top of yours.

“worth it,” you whisper.

he taps your knee with two fingers.

“yeah,” he says, soft and tired. “felt right.”

and for the first time in a long time, everything feels just a little less heavy.

a little more at home.

He looked familiar. His eyes were a deep amethyst, his smile was soft and kind. His dark and shaggy hair was tied behind his head in a small bun, and his ears were adorned with multiple piercings. Although many at Oxford, especially the men, tried to appear as blank as usual, he seemed apt and content with going against the stuffy and old notions. 

You must have seemed confused because the man stuttered as he introduced himself. 

“I’m Suguru,” he restarted, his hand leaving his side as he extended it to shake yours, “I think we had the same English survey course last semester.” 

Your confusion melted away into a wide smile as you shook his hand, his own eyes crinkling around the edges as he grinned back, letting out a breath of relief as you nodded insistently, shaking your head at your own self. 

“Right, right, Suguru! I remember you!” You exclaimed, setting your cup down to the side as you watched him tuck a strand of loose hair behind his ear, “You sat a little bit in front of me, right?” 

His head ducked down momentarily as he chukked, putting his hands in his pants pockets as he nodded. 

“I did,” he chuckled slightly, “Right in the line of fire for when Howard needed to pick on someone.” 

Your lips quirk up slightly as you nod, remembering how the professor you work for now used to terrorize your class and quiz random students on particular syllables and grammatical imperfections in the reading they were supposed to have done. 

The class was small, as were most major-specific courses you were taking. Although you didn’t have many of your friends in the class, you had gotten a good sense of who was in there and who Dr. Howard preferred to pick on. Suguru, for the most part, did the reading and did his work, so he came out unscathed compared to some of the other students. He sat near the front with some of his own friends, and you had talked to him in passing a couple of times when the class as a whole would band together to compare comments on assignments. He was kind, from what you remembered, which is probably why you felt your shoulders growing less tense the more you two talked. 

“That’s her style,” you say, shrugging as you fiddle with your fingers. “It took a while to get used to it,” you admit. Suguru rolls his eyes at your humility, remembering clearly just how much Dr. Howard favored you, but he doesn’t say anything as he lets you continue, “I don’t know if you’ve had Creemer yet, but he’s worse with his cold calls and isn’t half as nice.” 

“I have him right now for rhetoric and grammar,” he said with a sigh, shaking his head in dismay, “He’s…sadistic, I think.”

You giggle, nodding feverishly at the statement as you recall your past couple of classes with the hellish professor, an infamous name for many English majors and someone that you try to avoid at all costs if possible. 

The party, or gathering, as it said on the invitation, drones on in the background as you look around to see if anybody is looking in your direction. Most of the time, you can do what you want, but seeing that Dr. Howard had warned you before tonight that somebody from the department might want to swarm you to ask questions that you most likely didn’t have answers to, had put you on edge. 

“Are you enjoying yourself?” He asked, motioning to the rest of the people with a knowing glint as you politely smile, shrugging your shoulders as your lips press tightly together. Whether it be your shy nature or how you preferred smaller crowds, it must’ve been evident on your face that you weren’t necessarily having the most amount of fun. 

“I am,” you answer, wincing at the way your voice sounded warbled, “I’m trying to make the most of these opportunities, I guess.” 

Suguru’s head dipped in understanding, taking a sip of his drink as he bit the inside of his cheek, leaning in slightly as he lowered his voice. 

“These things drag on for a bit, though, yeah? I’m feeling my fingers prune from how long I’ve held this glass.” 

You let out a sigh of relief, sharing the same sentiment as the two of you share a knowing look. 

“I…I, um, I heard that Howard chose you to research with her, though, right? That’s gotta be pretty cool,” Suguru asked after a beat, bringing you back to the conversation as his head tilted slightly, and you felt heat rush to your cheeks as you swallowed. He seemed kind, not asking the question bitterly as some other people have. 

You nodded again, trying to contain your smile as you leaned against the stone pillar next to you. Letting out a small hum, you swallow again, trying to scope out what sort of place he was coming from. 

“It is,” you answered, biting on the inside of your cheek as you were still reeling from being selected from such a wide pool of applicants and such a rigorous interview process to work on her next paper analyzing More’s work through a modern lens, “It’s…strenous, sometimes, but I’m having a lot of fun working with her,” you fidgeted with your fingers, “So yeah, it’s pretty cool.” You say sheepishly. 

Suguru smiled at your hidden enthusiasm, the tip of his boot nudging something on the ground. He went to usher you to continue before his eye caught something behind your shoulder, his eyebrows shooting upwards in surprise as his smile grew even wider, his hand raising in a wave. 

“Sorry,” he apologetically muttered, and you craned your neck around to see what it was, or rather who it was that Suguru had seen, “I think my friend just arrived.” 

That’s when you felt your breathing stop. 

The bustling group of students and faculty members almost seemed to part theatrically for the man walking towards the two of you, but you couldn’t even blame them. 

He stuck out like a sore thumb, with his icy white hair and strikingly beautiful eyes. His lengthy frame made him nearly a head taller than even the tallest man in the room, and his wide shoulders helped him wade through the bodies as he navigated to his friend. His face seemed stoic, bordering on bored, but you couldn’t help but widen your eyes in shock at seeing the most devastatingly gorgeous man to ever exist. He adjusted his glasses over the bridge of his nose, his lips moving in quiet apologies as he tried to move through the people without bumping into them. 

You suddenly became hyper-aware of the fact that it had been days since you had last had a good night's sleep and that the bags under your eyes were most likely even more evident in the dim lighting of the old hall, and how your sweater was lumpy from being shoved in the back of your closet for so long. You swallow thickly as Suguru quickly excused himself as he stepped away and walked a bit away to hug the stranger, exchanging some words with each other as you stood awkwardly to the side. 

You watched them silently as they talked for a little bit more before Suguru stepped away, his hand on his friend's back as he, for some horrifying reason, seemed to guide him towards where you were stiffly standing as the two of you made eye contact before you became aware of the way your eyeballs felt in your socket and how heavy your tongue was in your mouth. 

When Suguru finally pulled away from the modern-day Adonis, you felt like a creeper and a loner as you wondered whether or not to leave or stand in the corner while they talked, but ever the kind person that he was, Suguru led the man by the back to where the two of you were with a wide smile on his face. 

“Sorry about that,” Suguru abashedly apologized, chuckling deeply as he rubbed the back of his neck, “But this is my friend, Satoru,” he said brightly, pushing the man a little harshly towards you as you stared at him silently.

The man, Satoru, gives you a tight-lipped smile, nodding once in your direction as he looks around, looking uncomfortable and shifty. Suguru rolled his eyes, sighing deeply as he patted his friend's back. 

You grinned back, swallowing the spit in your mouth as you felt him stare at you once he was done looking at the room, your cheeks heating up. You felt his eyes drift over your outfit, at your posture, and the way your hands were clasped tightly together. This stranger assessed the way you swayed slightly, awkwardly, not knowing how to fill the silence as you tapped the tip of your battered shoes on the ground. When he was done, his chin lifted again, his stare lingering on your blinking face as you glanced between him and Suguru, waiting for somebody to say something before you imploded and left with the lingering scent of your vanilla body spray. 

Seeing that he was fine with checking you out, you took the time to do the same. He seemed like one of the generational students of the school, the ones whose parents and grandparents and cousins and siblings all came and went and made something important with their lives. They weren’t hard to detect, especially him, with his steamed jumper and his creased pants. His leather shoes were shining back at you, and though his hair was somewhat messy, it seemed to be classily messy, unlike what you and some other students would call freely messy.

“I force him to come to these things with me,” Suguru explained, but you could barely hear him over the rhythm of heartbeats in your ear as you tried to fly, appreciate the man a few feet in front of you, “Our friend Shoko sometimes comes, but she had things to do tonight.”

The man’s nose wrinkled ever so slightly, his brows drawing tightly together as he glanced at his friend with a look. 

“I had things to do too,” he muttered, his voice deep as you felt your heart stupidly tumble at the sounds. 

Suguru snorted, shaking his head as he shrugged indifferently. 

“Sure,” Suguru replied sarcastically and glanced at you, his brow slightly raised at the way you had gone silent, his lips quirking slightly when he noticed the way you couldn’t stop staring at his friend, not voicing anything as his hand on Satoru’s shoulder loosened, “Just act like you want to be here for twenty minutes, yeah?”

You bit your teeth into your cheek, a finger raising slightly as you pointed to the newcomer's face. 

“I like your glasses,” you said brightly, your smile gentle as you fidget with your own, watching the way his striking eyes moved over to you again, squinting slightly as his hand raised upwards, as if he had forgotten that his glasses were even there, “They frame your face really well.” Your head tilts a little as you try to place something, “Where’d you get them? If, if you don’t mind me asking. Mine is so old and dingy, and the rims are basically glued on, and I’ve only had them for a few years.” 

“Erm, well, thank you,” Satoru says stiffly, not used to the direct attention and compliments, his cheeks slightly dusted with pink as Suguru watches his friend struggle for words, taking the glasses off as he turns them to the side, trying to read the logo, “These are, erm, from Cartier. But I usually wear contacts, anyway.”

You let out a startled laugh, not a stranger to hearing students at this place don expensive items, but this being the first time you’ve seen one of them bashful about it. 

You nod, your smile still there, softer as you take in his slightly awkward nature and let him put the glasses back on before you continue. 

“Contacts are more practical,” you agree, even though you’ve always had a phobia of things touching your eyes and would never wear contacts unless somebody forced you, shrugging as you say, “But I’ve always appreciated the look of glasses.” 

Satoru gnaws on his lips, nodding quietly as Suguru starts talking about his friend's major (biochemistry, you came to find out), and how long they’ve known each other, but you could only feel your stupid feelings when Suguru stayed, his friend included, and talked with you for the rest of the evening. 

That was your sophomore year. 

Nearly two years passed after befriending Suguru alongside his small group. He introduced you to Shoko after that night, swearing up and down that the two of you were destined to be near each other. And we weren’t wrong, not in the slightest. You two girls bonded strangely fast, as if you were twin flames that were being fanned out. Suguru and Satoru seemed to mirror the two of you, but the group functioned as a whole, for the most part. You spent so many nights over at their dorms that you could walk around blindfolded and still find your way to the others with no issue. It was fun, it was what you had dreamt of for so long. It was something that you were fine with, more than content with, ending your university career in a couple of months. 

Well, everything for the most part, you could consider it as such if it wasn’t for your debilitating and soul-crushing feelings for the stranger you met that night. 

It’s been four semesters, and you still don’t think Gojo Satoru has a clue. Which, in all honesty, is for the better. 

Although his stoic nature spares nobody, it feels as though you're always on the worst end of it. With his lingering stares that seem to border on questioning why you were even there whenever he sees you, to the way he grows dim and quiet around you, it feels like you’re actively attempting to hurt yourself the more you fall in love with the little things you hadn’t noticed the day prior.

Even worse, you know deep down that such feelings are most likely, under this sun and every other universe, with most certainty and heavy grief, unrequited. 

But you’re fine keeping it down. 

You were fine until recently.

—

“I’m debating switching majors.” 

Shoko declared from the couch, her legs hanging off the side, knocking occasionally on your shoulders as you crane your neck back on the cushion form where you were seated on the ground to look at her upside down. 

“To what?” 

She shrugged, rubbing at her eyes as she held her neuroanatomy textbook in one hand, her phone in the other as she scrolled through the different majors Oxford offered, as if she wasn’t a semester away from graduating. 

“Film?” She read out, and you snorted, rolling your eyes at the prospect of Shoko going into film, “Hm…maybe art history?” 

“Gave up on the med school dream?” Suguru quips from the other side of the couch, knowing fully that Shoko was just going on another one of her tangents as she shifted slightly to shove him harshly with her socked foot. 

“I’m sure your counselor wouldn’t mind,” you reply, looking at her as she glares, her eyes falling back to her phone as she peers at the screen. She looked boredly a little bit before her eyes flitted upwards slightly, squinting as she read the new notification. 

“Satoru said he’s going to be here in a few minutes,” she muttered, reading the next message, “And that he wants you,” she nudged Suguru with her foot again to motion that it was him that Satoru was referencing in the text, “To move to your bed so that he can do his work on his side of the couch.” 

Suguru peeked up from his doom scrolling to look at Shoko, his eyes narrowed in a glare as he let out a huff of annoyance. 

“His side?” 

Shoko shrugged, her knee knocking on the side of your head as you knock it back, the book you were reading resting in your hands as you listened to Suguru mutter distastefully about how this was his dorm and that Satoru had no right claiming his couch, but you heard him shuffle to his feet nonetheless. 

You tried not to show any peek of interest when the infamous name was called out, but it was hard not to. It had been two grueling years of mulling over your childish crush, yet the sound of his name could still send pulses to your veins that you were sure were minor heart attacks. 

Because it was Gojo Satoru. You wanted to bang your head against the coffee table just hearing it. 

Truth be told, you weren’t a stranger to having crushes. It was normal, it was human. Or at least, that’s what you convinced yourself when you were sprawled out on your bed, staring blankly at the ceiling as you tried not to think about the way his fingers ever so slightly grazed your wrist when he handed you some chopsticks earlier at the restaurant. 

But your crushes came few and far between, and you preferred keeping it that way. Seeing that you were too terrified to ever admit them, and the few, very few times you have, they’ve backfired horrifically, you try not to catch feelings as much as possible. But there was something about Gojo, something beyond reason, that pulled you to him. 

At first, you bargained. You tried convincing yourself that it was just his appearance that was drawing you in, his suave looks that made people’s heads turn whenever he entered a room. But you have seen him at four in the morning with his old band tees (a sight that still made you swoon), with his hair crusted with glitter and his eyes pink with eyeshadow as Shoko attempted to put him in drag. Even then, he was insanely gorgeous, so you knew it had to be beyond that. 

When you had finally accepted that it was a mind-numbing and life-ending crush that you were feeling towards him, you finally gave in and decided to admire the tall brute from afar. It helped that the two of you had gotten somewhat closer over the past two years, but out of everyone in the group, he was the one you talked to the least. In your defense, he didn’t have much to say to anybody, and that was just his nature. He spent most of his time studying and researching, and the other time watching, observant as other people gossiped. It wasn’t his forte, and nobody pushed him. 

So you took in his quietness and his stoicism, appreciated his god-like looks and his overwhelming presence. That was fine. 

What made it even worse was that he was so unattainably perfect in other ways that your crush festered into something that made you scream into your pillows and throw your balls of clothes at the wall as you wallowed in self-pity. 

Everyone at this damned university was intelligent, and you had made amends with them early on. But you loved men who were smart, guys who could actually hold a page down and dissect it and make the most of it. And worst of all, Gojo Satoru was probably the most intellectual person you have ever met, and will ever meet. It seemed like his memory was photographic, his mind working twenty thousand times faster than the regular brain as he computed formulas and equations at speeds that you couldn’t fathom. He made biochemistry seem easy, something that you sometimes felt guilty for not pursuing. And sure, it didn’t help that you were on the other side with your texts about Russian classics and books diving deep into the restoration period, but even Shoko, who could rival Gojo at times, would begrudgingly admit under her breath just how stupidly genius he was. 

Therefore, when you put those things together, his charming looks, his bookish self, his brooding structure, and just everything else, it made him unattainably perfect.

And that’s when you get the man you’ve been hopelessly in love with since the moment you saw him at that wretched party that wasn’t a party. 

So, when Shoko read off his texts, there was good reason why she looked at the top of your head, a knowing look in her eyes as she playfully nudges you again, watching as you threw her a dark glare to just keep it down seeing that she was the only other soul who knew, despite you trying your best to hide it, about your feelings towards her other friend. 

“Did you hear that Toji is graduating a semester late?” Suguru asked, leaning back against his pillows, his long legs strewn along his bed as he chewed on some gum. 

You and Shoko both hummed, not looking up from your respective tasks, having found this information out weeks in advance. 

Suguru groaned in annoyance, his chest vibrating with the noise as you snorted, rolling your eyes as he threw a small pillow at your head. It bounced off the side of your face, but you didn’t look up from the page you were on, too engrossed to hear the door behind you click open and heavy footsteps suddenly thudding through the dorm. 

You shuffled against the couch, your back feeling stiff as you tried to get comfortable, not knowing that the man of your dreams was moving around somewhere behind you as he hung his coat up (vintage leather, something you found out as he grumbled about getting it wet when Shoko and Suguru insisted on walking in the rain once), kicked off his shoes, and slung his bag around as Shoko craned her neck to see what he was doing. 

“Hey,” Shoko called out, and your eyes widened slightly when you heard a familiar voice grunt back a tired greeting, trying not to look as your ears suddenly sharpened to pick up on the sound of him pulling on his sweatshirt as he rounded the couch, standing at the opposite end as he plopped his backpack on the cushions. 

You finally allowed yourself to peek over, your eyes following his figure upwards until they landed on his face, and your fists balled in frustration at how pretty he was even when he was simply existing. 

Gojo sent you a small, tight-lipped and courteous nod, polite and curt as he looked between you and Shoko, glancing back at the bed where Suguru was lying, his fingers barely lifting from his phone as he gave his childhood best friend a lazy three-fingered wave. 

“Why’re you here?” His blunt question was directed at Shoko, something that held no bite but mere wondering as he situated himself on the soft cushions, his large hands feeling around his bag as he opened up the zipper to get his laptop. 

“I thought that it was allowed,” Shoko replied dryly, “Apologies.” 

You chuckle softly, flipping the page, trying not to let his signature cologne distract you from the words in front of you. 

“How was your lab?” Suguru asked, sounding monotone as his thumb swiped on the screen. 

You watched as Gojo gave him a glare, his nose wrinkling, something he often did when he was frustrated but didn't want to ruin his outward appearance, and rubbed at his tired eyes. His hair was messy with goggle indents lining the upper half of his face. 

“An offense to my intelligence,” Gojo grumbled, his face illuminated by the glow of his laptop as he clicked around a little bit, “I can’t believe some people have made it this far.” 

You flipped another page, not fully having read the contents of the last one, but in an attempt to seem indifferent, tried to keep up with your regular reading pace as if anybody was keeping track. 

Watching as he riffles through his bag again, you know, almost like clockwork, what he’s going to pull out. His routine is one that you’ve familiarized yourself with despite your best judgment, and you know that what comes next are his glasses. 

Glasses are normal. You have your own pair that you only wear for lectures and outings, but forgo them for times like this because they sit a little too heavy on your nose. But his glasses are something else. 

They elevate his face ever so slightly, but so much so that it makes you want to keel over and scream. They accentuate his perfect nose with the perfect crook and his freckles that sometimes sit just beneath the frames. He looks even more dashing, if that was even possible, with the way he looks up sometimes, and the lenses make his eyes seem even more blue. 

He took them off for labs and put them somewhere safe. In moments like this, you were reminded of just how truly stunning this man really was. 

Gojo unfolded the two prongs, holding them up to a source of light as his nose wrinkled again. 

Smudges. 

You watch silently as he dives back into the bag, his long fingers searching through his pockets for something you knew you always kept on hand for yourself and deep down, for him. 

After a few seconds of not finding the microfiber cloth that you both silently cherished, you gave in, pulling your own bag towards you as you unzipped the smaller pocket, pulling it out stealthily and motioning for Shoko to hand it to Gojo. 

He took it, his face going so far to relax momentarily as he went to clean the lenses, his head nodding once in quiet appreciation in your direction as you allowed yourself a nod in return. 

Shoko looked at you with a raised brow, and you chose to hide behind your book.

“Was it Lainey?” Suguru asked, looking over at his friend, the name piquing your interest as you cast a quizzical look at Shoko, but she shrugged, watching Gojo as his expression soured. He handed you back your little cloth, muttering a thanks under his breath as his bitter gaze found Suguru, as if he was cursing him silently for bringing up the sensitive subject. 

“What do you think?” He grumbled out, his right eye almost twitching as his fingers stretched out, typing something quickly as Suguru huffed out a laugh, noting how you and Shoko were both confused, and his smile only grew. 

“You didn’t tell them?” Suguru asked, a gleam in his eyes as he shuffled to sit upwards, his back resting on the headboard, “Oh, this is class. Do you two know Lainey? Lainey Andrews?” 

You cast a look at Shoko, your lips pursing as your eyes squinted, trying to recall the familiar name. 

“The ginger?” Shoko asked, her head tilting to the side, her hair falling around her shoulder, “Pixie cut?” 

Suguru nodded, his shoulders raising as your brows furrowed before your mouth slightly fell open when your head bobbed quickly, snapping as you matched the face to the name. 

“Oh, Lainey!” You exclaimed, “She’s really pretty,” you added, remembering her bright green eyes and the spattered freckles that made her look like a painting, “She’s also crazy smart - she’s double majoring in bio and poli sci."

Shoko laughed softly under her breath, giving you a small look because this was somewhat typical of you to know random people, with nearly everyone on campus having had a conversation with you at some point during your four years here. 

Suguru raised a brow, clicking his tongue as he pointed his phone at Gojo, seeming like he was already anticipating one of his sly comments.  

“She’s also just crazy,” Gojo muttered, looking above his laptop, above his wispy lashes at you and then to Shoko, “She spent half of the lab playing with my hair.” 

Your book almost fell out of your hands as Shoko sat up with a barking out a stunned laugh, your hands mirroring each other as they flew to cover your mouths in shock, and Suguru nodded again, his eyes wide as he clicked his tongue. 

Another thing about Gojo? He hated being touched. Despised hugs, only suffered through quick handshakes, and shuddered at the thought of someone touching his face. You’ve seen the way he pulls back whenever someone approaches him with open arms, seen the way he tries to brush people off of him. He can tolerate Suguru and his insistent bear-hugs from time to time, can sometimes allow Shoko to swat a fly away from his face, and for some reason, doesn’t grumble whenever you try to fix his ties before events, but whenever a stranger or someone he isn’t close to attempts to touch him, he grows reclusive for the rest of the day.

“I told her to stop, too,” he adds, his big frame seeming to grow in frustration as he thinks back to it, “It was only after I had to shove her off that she got the hint. I forgot my disinfectant too, so I was just…” he shuddered, his eyes fluttering shut as he shifted uncomfortably, and you watched him let out a restrained exhale as he dropped it and went back to work.

But, after studying him for as long as you have, you know that he probably washed his hands and his face a couple of times after that. You know that he also wouldn’t feel complete without some sanitizing wipes and a good shower, so you do the closest thing to that and fish out a hand sanitizer from your bag, an item that you refused to move around without due to your own cleanly nature, which was ironically something else that you and Gojo silently shared, and passed it to him, knowing that he was probably itching till he was able to shower again.

Your friends sometimes joked that you had a Mary Poppins bag, but it came in handy for times like this. 

Gojo’s ears perked up at the sound of your rumaging, his eyes almost brightening at the sight of the hand sanitizer, and you pinched it between two fingers before throwing it his way, watching as he effortlessly caught it and began spraying his large palms with the lavender scent. 

“Thank you,” he mumbled again, his voice slightly losing the edge it had from before as he passed it back to you, and you smiled, nodding once before you zipped it back up. 

You tried to ignore the way Shoko was staring at you.

“Lucky us that we don’t have labs, huh?” Suguru called out, throwing another tiny pillow in your direction, but this time you dodged it, moving your head down slightly so that it would miss. You huff a bit, looking over at Suguru as he shrugged, winking as he went back to his phone. 

Suguru was another English major, the reason the two of you got familiar in the first place. He liked to say that the two of you balanced out Gojo and Shoko, but you just thought that it pushed you even further down the list of potential people your pathetic crush could be interested in. 

There were a couple of things that you had come to terms with if you were going to crush on him. One was that you had to know in full certainty that nothing was going to come from it. You weren’t going to risk the friendship, no matter how small, by going and confessing and having everything be messy. Two, was that you weren’t going to feel, or at least try not to feel, jealous if he entertained the idea of pursuing something with someone else. And three, was that Gojo Satoru was so incredibly picky when it came to potential partners, that it might be impossible for even the most amazing people to snag a chance. 

“I don’t know,” you mumbled, eyes squinting as you tried to make out what one of the characters was saying, “You didn’t have to do that project with Armie.” 

Suguru hummed, his brow raising as he thought back to your shared class and the project that paired you up with people you didn’t know, Suguru getting the better end of the stick while you were stuck with someone who insisted on plugging the project prompt into a generator. 

“Didn’t you report him?” Satoru asked, his eyes still trained on his work, but the question was now directed to you given the fact that he had sat in on a couple of your tirades in which you would drone on about how the boy was nearly about to graduate and still couldn’t cite sources when he, in one of his brief moments of providing comments, would reiterate to report it to the professor. 

You sank into your spot, giving him a suppressed look, one where your eyes met before you shared a glimpse with Suguru. Your friend rolled his eyes from across the room, shaking his head in annoyance as Satoru looked between the two of you. 

“She said that she didn’t want to ‘be a bitch’,” Suguru said, restating the words as his fingers move up and down in the air, quoting the statement you had said to him moments before you had to present the assignment in front of the class, shushing him as you pushed him away, insisting that even though you had done the entire project on your own, that it wasn’t worth the hassle to make a report with the professor and potentially have someone out for you, “I said otherwise, but she,” Suguru gave you a pointed look, “Said she’d cut my hair if I made it a ‘big deal’.”

Satoru’s eyes lingered on the side of your face, and you purposefully kept your head ducked and the book closer, so close that it was nearly touching your nose, as you tried to shield away their judging eyes in embarrassment. 

“You need to stop caring about what other people think,” Shoko said as she shoved you with her knee, this time just a little bit harder because she knows you and knows what you hide in the fear of making others think something of you that wasn’t good, “I really think your professor would’ve heard your case if you made it.”

You groaned, swatting at her leg with your book as you shuffled away, backing into another corner as you tried to readjust to the new position. 

“Yeah,” Suguru added, resting his phone momentarily on his chest, “I think it would help if you were more selfish.” 

You rolled your eyes, shaking your head at the prospect. 

“I just hate confrontation,” you murmur defensively, gnawing on your bottom lip as you flip a page, “And, plus…you have to give me some credit - at least I told him that he was being frustrating,” you say, pretending to ignore them, your eyes re-reading the same word over and over again until you were confident that they were going to drop this subject, this horse that they’ve beaten multiple times, one that ended with you assuring them that you were going to speak up more until it all looped back again to times like this.

“Speaking of confrontation, did you ever get a refund for that ticket?” 

There was a beat of silence before you let out a frustrated groan when Shoko reminded you of the one task you had forgotten to do in the past couple of days, your head falling to your knees as your palms jammed into your eyes. 

“No, oh my god, you’re so right,” your voice is muffled as you bookmark your page, your fists clenching at your own mistake as your eyes crack open, “Oh my god, I can’t believe I forgot to follow up on that!” 

Shoko chuckled, rolling her eyes as Suguru and Satoru shared a look, them now sharing confusion as you writhe on the floor at the thought of knowing you could’ve saved a couple of bucks had you not forgotten to call up the school of drama help center for accidentally buying an extra ticket to the showing of The Beggar’s Opera. And, seeing that it was Tuesday and just days before the theatre program, one that needed funds, was about to perform, the deadline for your refund was most likely up.

“So does that mean you need me to come with you next Saturday?” Shoko offered, her lips quirking up slightly as your head shot up, nodding quickly as your hands flew to hers, shaking them feverishly. 

“Would you? Would you really?” You ask, and her laughter grows, shoving you off playfully by pushing your forehead back to where you were sitting. 

“I’ll see what I can do,” she says with a sigh, winking at you before she goes back to her phone, and you settle back in your seat as you gnaw on your lips, thinking back to how on earth you could have possibly messed up so bad when you so usually only buy one ticket for yourself, but you push it aside, thankful that your dearest friend was at least going to make use of it. 

You, Suguru, and Shoko shared a small laugh and went on with the conversation, but you heard a low, deep noise, something only you could hear, as Suguru and Shoko returned to bickering about which major Shoko was best suited for. 

The sound made you glance up briefly, looking over the pages to see Gojo still staring at you, his lashes fluttering before he snapped back to it and went back to doing his work. 

Minutes turned into a few hours, and the room was filled with the occasional story and laughter, but mostly the four of you worked together on different assignments, sometimes looking up as you would recall something from the past couple of days that you were saving to tell them in person. 

It seemed like everything was going smoothly until Suguru got a notification on his phone, his face lighting up as he swiveled out of his bed, jumping onto the floor as he tugged his shoes on, not explaining anything as the three of you glanced up, waiting. 

“My food’s here,” he said over his shoulder, practically gleaming as he cocked his head in Shoko’s direction, “Come down with me, will you? I need some help.” 

You scoff, smiling to yourself as you try to imagine just how much food he had ordered, but careful not to be too loud because you knew he would be sharing it with you all after some choice complaints were heard. 

Shoko grumbles, but obliged, lifting up from the couch as she stretches, nudging you playing with the tip of her foot as she throws a pillow your way, walking towards Suguru as he holds the door open for her, the two of them calling out some brief goodbye as they head down to the lobby.

When the door clicks behind them, you’re suddenly aware of the fact that it’s only you and Satoru left, and you let your stare linger on the wall for a bit before you look away, suddenly sheepish when you catch his glance from his seat on the couch.

He clears his throat, eyes flickering from his screen to the book in your lap, the highlighters strewn around you, sticky notes sticking out from between the pages, and he points a finger at it. 

“What’re you reading?” 

Your brows raise slightly, and your chin ducks down to the book, and you sit up a little straighter as you place a bookmark in the middle of your page you lifting the cover, letting him read the cover as he adjusts his glasses over his eyes. 

“Oh,” he says, his voice holding a lithe of acknowledgement as he slowly sets his laptop to the side, shifting slightly closer, “I’ve read this, I think.” 

Your head tilts a little, lips quirking a little bit at the sides with a small smile as you look back at the cover.

“You’ve read The Norton Anthology, Volume C before?”

His mouth parts, closing it before he gapes at you, and your grin turns into a big smile, waving it away as you shake your head, shrugging at his stammering expression. He’s so cute when caught in a lie. 

“I’m only kidding,” you swear, setting your book down, your knees pulled towards your chest, arms wrapping around your legs, “I’m sure you’ve had to read something like this for one of your previous classes.” 

“You’re bothersome,” he murmurs, but his voice holds no bite as you let out another barking laugh, rolling your eyes as he tries not to smile, “I’m only trying to be polite.” 

You purse your lips together, giving him a questioning look as he shoots you one back. 

“I didn’t know politeness was in your artillery,” you quip, and he scoffs, moving his glasses upwards as he rubs at his tired eyes, resting backwards into the cushions as his legs part, and you try not to let your eyes linger on his thighs. 

“I have a reserve for choice people,” he says, opening his eyes back as he looks back at you, yawning as he moves on, “How was your presentation?” 

Your smile falters for a second as your stare turns questioning, chewing on your lips as it turns into something sweeter, something smitten because he’s asking about the presentation you had mentioned once in passing the last weekend you had hung out, stressing over your slides and sources, and trying to seem nonchalant as you finger traces little patterns on the floor. 

“It was good,” you tell him, trying not to seem too prideful as you murmur, “My professor said it was exactly what he was looking for.” 

His face shifts, no longer annoyed as you try not to appear bashful, but his teeth shine as his rosy cheeks pull upwards as he gives you one of those smiles that makes you feel warm and happy and giddy. 

“Yeah?” He asks, shifting a little bit as he waved his teasingness off, rolling your eyes as you groan, nodding exaggeratedly as you go back to organizing your highlighters and pens, but he seems intent on pushing this: “Didn’t you say it was the hardest assignment of the class?”

You look up at him from above your lashes, trying not to smile again as you shrug indifferently, done with arranging your stationery based on colors as your knees knock together, throwing a pillow his way that he effortlessly catches.

“I mean, everyone told me that it was really, really hard, so-” But you’re cut off by the door swinging open, and the two of you crane your necks around to see Shoko and Suguru arguing over something irrelevant, food nestled in their hands as they close the door behind them with a slam. 

They start telling you two about the delivery fee and the outrageousness that one of the containers had tipped over, but you’re still busy thinking about how Satoru remembered something so trivial, giving them quiet hums as they spread out the food on the small coffee table, and trying to act normal. 

Like you have for the past two years.

—

The week passed as it usually does, with papers, readings, and assignments that needed to be completed at an unmanageable rate. 

You had expected the usual and mundane things, and for the most part, that’s what came your way. Nights spent in each other's rooms as you finish up your work, spliced with moments where you would all talk, days filled with going to lectures and walking around campus till you found a quiet study spot. Things that you could predict and plan for. 

For the most part.

Another thing that your little group would occasionally do was meet up at the end of the week at one of the pubs around campus, most of them serving mediocre food and somewhat better drinks, and offer you all a time to reconvene after a usually stressful couple of days. 

The pub was small and quaint, but you enjoyed the warmth and laughter that muddled together to make the ambiance somewhat private. Either Suguru or Shoko would arrive there early and try to secure the usual spot at the booth near the end of the establishment, seeing that either of them didn’t have classes on Fridays, while the other three would meet up outside of Satoru’s biophysical chemistry class and walk there together.   

Which is why you found yourself back on that Friday, sitting next to Shoko, settling into your seat as she clambered in after you. Suguru almost pushes Satoru in, impatient to sit down and get back to talking, and you watch as the white-haired man sits in front of you, his hands clasped together as he stares at the wood-grain of the table. 

“How were classes?” Shoko finally asks, looking between you and Satoru as she takes a sip from her drink. 

You sigh, shrugging as your fingers play with the bottom of your cup, the condensation slipping down as you rub at your tired eyes. 

“Fine, I guess,” you say, drinking some water as you wipe at the corner of your lips, “My professor could’ve ended the class, like, twenty minutes earlier than he did.” 

She nods solemnly, patting your thigh in solidarity as she passes the bowl of crisps towards you, nudging you to take one to help settle your stomach after having back-to-back classes, knowing how hangry it made you.  

“Is this the professor who needs you to see a classical play?” Suguru asked, taking some of the snack as his arms crossed on top of the table, leaning in slightly as you licked some of the salt from your lips, nodding. 

“Yeah,” you heave another sigh, elbowing Shoko as you continue, “Which is why I’m seeing Beggar’s Opera next week. I mean, the theatre program did a couple of Shakespeare ones earlier this semester, but…ugh, I just can’t watch another performance of Romeo and Juliet.” You murmur with a groan, resting your chin on the palm of your hand as Suguru hums in agreement. 

“You don’t like Shakespeare?”

Your eyes shift over to the man in front of you who asked the question. 

Your brows furrow slightly in the middle, lips pulling into a small pout as you shake your head, playing with the ring of water your drink had left as you itch your nose, trying not to focus too hard on the pretty pink color on Gojo’s cheeks because of the slightly toasty feel of the room. 

“I do,” you say slugishly, “It’s just that when the only work of his that tends to be popular isn’t The Tempest, I get a little annoyed.” 

Suguru snorts, shaking his head as his fingers wag at you. 

“That’s not even nearly his best stuff,” he argues, and you roll your eyes, your head tilting badly in annoyance after knowing what this was going to lead to, “I can’t believe you still think that it outweighs Richard II.” 

Satoru and Shoko’s eyes bounce between you and your ink-haired friend. 

“I’d rather die on the hill of petty magic versus royal family drama,” You quip back, your brow slightly raised. 

Suguru huffed, shaking his head in dismay as he lightly shoved your foot underneath the table, a small smile on both your faces. 

“Is Tempest the one with the shipwreck?” Gojo asks, his head tilting slightly as his glasses lean on his nose bridge. You nod, grinning at the fact that someone in the group was able to identify such a classic piece of literary work. 

You open your mouth to agree, but Suguru beats you to it. 

“How do you know that?” He glances sideways at his friend, his brow raised in slight shock as Shoko snorts. 

Gojo shrugs, his elbows resting on the table as the fabric of his sweater tightens around his arms, making him look delectable and otherworldly. You have to tear your eyes away from it before it becomes too noticeable. 

“We went to the same secondary school,” Gojo argues, saying it as if it were the most obvious explanation in the world, “I paid attention…clearly more than others,” he adds under his breath, causing you to drop your hand to your mouth to hide the satisfied grin from when Suguru deflated in slight embarrassment. 

“Oh, speaking of blast from the past,” Shoko shuffles, looking at her phone screen as if suddenly remembering something, “Vi’s coming back for break.” 

You watch as Gojo and Suguru stop their silent bickering by messing with each other's stuff as they look up to Shoko. Suguru’s thin brow shoots upwards, his mouth turning into a surprised line as Gojo stares blankly, an unreadable expression on his face as you poke Shoko’s thigh, shaking your head in confusion. 

“Who?” You murmur, your eyes squinting as Shoko looks at you, her mouth slightly dropping as she also remembers that you didn’t grow up with them. 

“Vivienne March,” Suguru explains, beating someone once again to explain something because he could never hold onto a piece of information for longer than three seconds if he knows that somebody in his vicinity doesn’t know it, “She went to school with us for, what? Five, six years?” He looks between Gojo and Shoko, and they both nod, Shoko unlocking her phone as she goes to pull up the girl's instagram to show you what she looks like, “She’s his ex,” he murmurs as if secretly, pointing at his friend next to him as you feel something in your gut shift, but he clearly doesn’t tell because he leaves that point entirely. 

“But I thought she preferred to stay in America till her spring semester was over?” He asks, confused, waiting for you to be done looking, as he waits for Shoko to explain it. 

You take her phone gingerly, looking at the girl's account as you carefully click through her posts. You’re greeted with an aesthetic array of photos, some of her friends, some of her cat, and pretty pictures of old brick buildings and fall trees. But your eyebrows slowly move up your face when you see her. 

Your thumb swipes through each post as you see her stunning hair framing her face in freshly done curls, her eyes striking and delicate as she wanders around a bookstore. Her outfits are always perfectly curated, and her makeup delicately done to accentuate her already natural beauty in a way that makes a part of you, something you tried to bury and starve, twist with envy at the effortlessness of her perfection. 

“Guess she had a change of heart this year,” Shoko says, taking her phone back from your outstretched hand, turning it off as she placed it face down on the table, “She texted me this morning saying that she was ‘gonna be here for December and some of January and that she wanted to catch up.” 

“You would like her,” Suguru directs his attention back at you, his words matching the genuine smile on his face, “She’s super bright and bubbly. And she’s so funny. Oh, and she's, like, insanely smart. She graduated from Cambridge when she was nineteen, and she’s doing grad school at Harvard.”