@junuru - Tumblr Blog

BORDERSZ

art by _3aem

SYNOPSIS — five years into a once loving marriage, you're staring down divorce papers and months of no contact. the big house echoes with silence and loneliness is gnawing at you, until your best friend drags you out for drinks. a handsome younger stranger buys you another round... but when the night ends, your feet carry you straight to the door of your almost-ex-husband's new apartment.

CONTENTS — ceo!gojo x reader, heavy angst, divorce, cheating but like not rly, substance use, oral (m and f receiving), rough sex, squirting, creampie, slapping, breeding kink, struggles with infertility, miscommunication, family problems

WC — 12.2k (not proofread)

IVYAPS — this has gone through like a million different versions and i dont feel like reading it over so i hope this makes sense, based on this song

m. list

The whiskey coasts down your throat with a deliberate burn, mirroring the ache in your chest you’ve felt for god knows how long. You set the glass down on the scarred wooden bar a little too hard. The clink is louder than you intended for it to be, even in a crowded room full of voices. The stranger to your left glances over. Not long enough for you to really notice.

Instead, you stare at the amber ring the glass left on the bar, watching it spread and fade like every promise you and him ever made. Five years. A house that still smells faintly of his cologne in the closets you haven’t had the heart to empty. Divorce papers that sit unsigned on the kitchen island because neither of you could stand to be the one to sign first.

Shoko’s on your right, already on her fourth or maybe fifth drink, you’ve lost count. She’s leaning into the bar, elbows planted.

“Hey,” she says softly, sliding her empty shot glass toward the bartender. “Another round. Same for her.”

You open your mouth to protest, but the words dissolve before they form. Instead, you just nod, letting the bartender pour another without you asking.

Shoko turns to you fully now, tucking a strand of dark hair behind her ear. “Can you at least act like you’re having fun?”

You laugh. It comes out as a short, bitter sound that accompanies a smile that doesn’t reach your eyes. “Kind of hard when I’m getting divorced.”

“Then drink.”

You take a slower sip this time, letting the burn linger on your tongue. The bar is alive around you, but you feel strangely detached from it all. Sort of like you’re watching yourself from across the room.

You can almost go back to that version of yourself—the one five years younger and newly married. You’re tipsy, your weight slumped against your husband's body, his arm around your waist. The pads of his fingers digging into the exposed flesh where your shirt rides up.

You can almost feel it.

Across the room, someone laughs. You can feel the ghost of his chest shift beneath your cheek, laughing at a joke one of your friends must have cracked. As Shoko places her shot glass back on the countertop, you realize there’s nothing, snapping back to reality.

That's not him and that’s not you.

Your eyes peel away from the couple you were watching, fixing back on what’s in front of you.

You down the rest of your drink.

You should leave. You should tell Shoko you’re going home, crawl into the too big bed that still feels like his, and wait for the ache to dull again tomorrow.

Before you can, Shoko mutters something about seeing a pretty girl and makes herself scarce.

The stranger to your left shifts again, closer this time.

You catch a glimpse of him in your peripheral vision. He has dark hair, a sharp jawline, and his sleeves are rolled up to reveal his forearms. Younger than you—maybe by nearly a decade. Handsome in the effortless way that makes your stomach twist and, funnily enough, the exact opposite of your husband—ex-husband.

He doesn’t speak at first. Just orders another drink of his own—something neat and expensive looking—and lets the silence sit between you.

You turn your head just enough to meet his gaze.

He smiles. “Rough night?”

You let out a laugh that’s half-sigh, half-exhale. “You could say that.”

He leans in a little closer, voice low enough that only you can hear it over the noise. “Want to tell me about it?”

He doesn’t push when you shake your head. He just nods once, like he expected that answer, and takes a slow sip of whatever liquid is in his glass. The ice clinks softly against the sides as he swirls the crystal cup before setting it back down on the plywood bar.

“Fair enough,” he says.

He turns his body toward you a little more, one elbow resting on the bar, the other hand loosely curled around his drink.

“I’m Hiromi,” he offers after a beat, large hand extended toward you.

Taking his hand, you give him your first name in return. He repeats it back once, letting it settle on his tongue like he’s tasting it. The sound of it in his mouth makes your pulse skip.

“Nice,” he murmurs. His eyes flick down to your empty glass, then back up to your face. “You look like you could use another one. Or maybe you’re trying to slow down?”

There’s a teasing edge to it, it’s unmistakable. He’s flirting, but he does it without overwhelming you.

You shrug, glancing at the bar. “Maybe one more. Then I’ll decide.”

He signals the bartender without breaking eye contact with you. Two fingers lifted, casually and demanding. Another drink for you, same as before. When it arrives, he pushes it towards you with the back of his knuckles, letting his fingers brush yours for half a second longer than necessary.

You slip into conversation with him easily, and even though it’s been years since you’ve tried to impress a man, it doesn’t seem as scary as you thought it would be.

The banter feels effortless, dangerous in how easy it is. You’re not drunk, not yet anyway, but the alcohol is loosening the knot in your chest.

He asks small, safe things: your favorite drink (you tell him it’s whiskey, obviously), the worst bar you’ve ever been to (to which, he counters with a story about a dive in Shinjuku that still makes him shudder), whether you’re a city person or secretly dreaming of the suburbs (you dodge that one, and he lets you).

He laughs when you fire a dry question back at him—something about why a man in a perfectly tailored shirt is drinking alone on a Thursday night.

“Because the alternative was paperwork. And I’d rather talk to you.”

It’s blatant. It’s also working.

You’re mid-sentence—something sarcastic about his terrible excuses—when Shoko appears at your elbow, swaying slightly, cheeks flushed and eyes glassy.

She drapes an arm around your shoulders, heavier than usual. “Heyyy,” she drawls, voice thick with liquor. “You good?”

You turn to look at her, slumped over where her weight dips at your side. “You’re the one who’s had half the bar.”

She snorts, then glances past you at Hiromi. Her brows lift. “Oh. Hi.”

Hiromi just tips his head in polite acknowledgement.

Shoko squeezes your shoulder once, hard. “Listen. I’m… I’m gonna head out. Cab’s already coming. You—” She points a wobbly finger at you, “—text me when you get home. Or don’t. Whatever. Just don’t do anything I wouldn’t do.”

You roll your eyes. “That list is terrifyingly short.”

“Exactly.” She grins, then leans in to whisper against your ear. “He’s hot for a guy... Don’t fuck it up.”

You shove her gently off you. “Go home, Shoko.”

She laughs, stumbles back a step, then blows you an exaggerated kiss. “Love you. Bye, mystery man.”

Hiromi raises his glass to her in farewell. “Night.”

She disappears into the crowd toward the exit, leaving you suddenly alone with him.

The noise of the bar rushes back in. Your fresh drink is still cold against your palm.

“So,” he says to break the ice that’s spread from the crystal atop the bar, eyes steady on you again. “Friend’s gone. No more safety net.”

You meet his gaze, your heart kicking hard against your ribs.

“Yeah,” you say. “No more safety net.”

He sets his glass down slowly.

“I apologize if I’m being too forward,” Hiromi says. There’s a new edge to it now. His thumb brushes the rim of his empty glass once, twice. “Do you want to get out of here?”

The question lands heavy in the space between you.

You feel the heat crawl up your neck. The bar noise fades and you know you should say no.

Instead your mouth moves before your brain catches up.

“…Yeah.”

The word feels foreign. You’re not even sure you mean it until it’s already out.

He just nods once and pulls out his phone. A few taps later, he pockets it again.

“Car’s three minutes out,” he says. “We can wait inside, or…”

You’re already sliding off the stool. “Outside.”

He follows without another word.

The night air hits you like a slap. The street is quieter here, just the low hum of distant traffic and the occasional burst of laughter spilling from the bar door behind you.

Hiromi steps close. He’s close enough that you feel the warmth radiating off him. You turn toward him without really deciding to, and then his hand is on your jaw—gentle at first, thumb grazing the corner of your mouth like he’s asking permission.

You don’t pull away.

He kisses you.

It’s rushed and hungry. Rough in a way that makes your knees lock. His mouth is hot, demanding, teeth catching your bottom lip just hard enough to sting. One hand slides to the back of your neck, fingers threading into your hair, tilting your head exactly how he wants it. The other finds your waist, pulling you flush against him until there’s no space left for second thoughts.

It’s nothing like the way he used to kiss you.

Your husband—ex-husband, almost—kissed like he had all the time in the world. Slow. Like every brush of lips was something sacred he was afraid to break. Hiromi kisses like he’s trying to devour you. Like he wants to fill every empty thought inside you right now.

Your hands fist in the front of his shirt. You kiss him back just as hard. You’re desperate, angry at yourself for wanting it, for letting it feel good even for a second.

Headlights sweep across the street. A black car pulls up to the curb, engine purring.

Hiromi breaks the kiss first, breathing uneven against your mouth. His forehead rests against yours for half a heartbeat.

“Ready?” He murmurs.

You open your eyes.

And the ache slams back into your chest, sharper than before.

You step back, breaking contact.

“I—” Your voice cracks. You swallow hard. “I can’t do this.”

He doesn’t move. He watches you, expression unreadable in the dim streetlight.

“I’m sorry,” you say, and it comes out small. “I thought I could. I really did. But I—”

You don’t finish the sentence. You don’t have to.

Instead, you lean in one last time and press a brief, closed-mouth kiss to the corner of his lips. A goodbye more than anything else.

“Goodnight, Hiromi.”

You turn before he can answer.

The car door is still open. The driver glances back, expectant.

Hiromi stays where he is, hands in his pockets now, watching you.

He doesn’t call after you and he doesn’t try to change your mind. Just lets you go.

You slide into the backseat. Pull the door shut. Give the driver an address.

The car pulls away.

Through the tinted window, you watch Hiromi’s silhouette shrink in the rearview until the street curves and he’s gone.

Your fingers press to your lips. They still taste like whiskey and someone else’s want.

The tears are rolling down before you even realize they’re hot on your cheeks, blurring the streetlights into smeared halos through the car window.

The fog of your breath swirls into the air. You breathe in and out again, slower, trying to steady the tremor in your hands.

You fish the old access card from the bottom of your purse—the one you never quite got around to returning, the one that still works because neither of you remembered to deactivate it. The black plastic is worn smooth at the corners from years of use.

You press it to the reader beside the outdoor elevator. A soft beep, a green flash.

The doors open.

You step inside.

The mirrored walls throw your reflection back at you: mascara slightly smudged from earlier tears, lips still faintly swollen from the kiss, hair tousled by the wind and someone else’s fingers. You look like you almost did something reckless. You look like you’re about to do something even more reckless.

The elevator climbs the thirty-two floors in seconds. Your stomach drops the way it always did, even when you lived here.

You lean against the cool metal wall, close your eyes for a second, and let the memory flood in uninvited: coming home late from a long shift, him waiting with takeout and a half-smile that said I missed you. The way he’d pull you into the shower before you could even kick off your shoes, kissing the exhaustion off your skin like it was something he could fix.

The doors open onto the private foyer.

You step out.

The front door is ajar.

Your heart slams against your ribs so hard you’re sure he can hear it from wherever he is.

You could turn around.

The elevator is still open behind you. One step back, and you’re gone and no one would ever know you were here.

Instead, you push the door wider with your fingertips.

The apartment opens up in front of you—the same layout from when you started dating, same view of the Tokyo skyline glittering through floor-to-ceiling windows.

The city looks smaller from up here.ou always liked that, and right now, you wonder if he remembers that about you—if that’s why it’s still the same.

He’s on the couch.

His back is to you, slouched, one arm draped over the backrest, a glass of something dark resting on his knee. The TV is on but muted—some movie he doesn’t care about. His tie is loosened and sleeves rolled to the elbows.

He doesn’t turn at first.

Then he does—slowly, like he’s not sure he trusts what his peripheral vision is telling him.

His eyes find yours.

For a long second, neither of you moves.

You’re still tipsy enough that the room tilts faintly when you blink and your tongue feels loose.

“Hi,” you say. Your voice cracks on the single syllable.

He sets the glass down on the coffee table without looking away from you. You realize it’s chocolate milk.

“You’re drunk,” he says, not accusing.

“A little,” you admit. You take one step inside, then another. The door swings shut behind you with a soft click. “I… I was at a bar with Shoko. And then I—”

You stop.

What are you even going to say? I almost went home with someone else, and it made me realize I still want you?

He stands.

“You shouldn’t be here,” he says, but there’s no heat in it. Instead, his words strike you cold and you finally become aware of the temperature in the room.

“I know.”

He crosses the room in three long strides and stops just out of reach. Close enough that you can smell the faint trace of his cologne. Close enough to see the way his throat works when he swallows.

“Why are you here?” he asks.

You shrug.

The motion feels childish, like you’re ten years old again and caught somewhere you don’t belong.

Without answering, you bend and slip your shoes off one by one. The cool marble bites into the soles of your bare feet, grounding you just enough to keep the room from spinning. You flex your toes against the floor.

“I’m sorry,” you whisper.

Your name slips off his tongue. He probably meant for it to sound stern and authoritative, but it comes out longing instead.

Or maybe you’re just hearing what you want to hear.

He exhales through his nose and turns away for a second like he needs the distance to breathe.

“Why are you here?” He repeats, quieter now.

“I don’t know, Satoru.”

The name feels too big in your mouth after so many months of silence.

He sighs, turns on his heel, and makes his way down the hall. That’s the direction of the kitchen.

You hear the soft clink of glass, the rush of the tap, ice cubes dropping into water.

When he comes back, he’s holding a tall glass. He presses it into your hand without touching your fingers.

You kind of wish he did.

“Drink,” he says. Not a request.

You take it, and the cold shocks your palm, sending a shiver down your spine when combined with the chill in the air. You sip once, twice.

He guides you, his head nudging in the direction toward the sectional.

You sink onto the leather.

He doesn’t sit beside you, taking the armchair across the coffee table instead, elbows on his knees and hands clasped so tight the knuckles turn white.

“You should go,” he says. “Whatever you need to say, you can say it to my lawyer. That’s what we agreed.”

The words land hard.

You stare at the water trembling in your glass.

“That’s all you’ve said to me in months,” you murmur.

He doesn’t even try to deny it.

You lift your eyes to his. They’re the same blue you used to drown in every morning.

“You used to know me better than anyone,” you say. The sentence cracks in the middle. “You used to know when I was lying to myself before I even opened my mouth. You used to know when I needed you to hold me even when I said I was fine. You used to—”

Your voice gives out. You swallow hard.

He flinches.

“Sober up,” he says. “You don’t mean any of this. I’ll get you something to eat and call you a car.”

The casualness of it cuts deep.

You stare up at him. “That’s it? That’s all you’ve got?”

He doesn’t look at you as he walks toward the kitchen. “You’re drunk. You showed up unannounced at 2 a.m. What do you want me to do, exactly? Rewrite the last two years because you had a bad night?”

You push yourself to your feet. The room tilts once, then steadies. “I want you to stop pretending you don’t care.”

You follow him into the kitchen.

He opens the cupboard and pulls out a bag of pretzels. “I’m not pretending anything. I’m being realistic. You’re emotional. Tomorrow you’ll wake up hungover and embarrassed, and you’ll text your lawyer again. Same as always.”

You wrap your arms around yourself, nails digging into the skin of your biceps. “You really think that low of me?”

He pours the pretzels into a bowl.

“Say it,” you whisper. “Say you hate me. Say you resent me for whatever I did. Just stop acting like this is nothing.”

He slides the bowl across the counter to you. “I’m not having this conversation with you right now.”

“Satoru.” His name comes out cracked, pleading. “I just want to talk.”

“No.” The word is quiet, final, a door closing. He turns away, bracing both hands on the edge of the sink like he needs the support. “If you won’t leave, you can sleep in the guest room. If you still want to talk, we can talk tomorrow.”

Tomorrow.

The promise of it hangs there like a threat.

You stare at the pretzels. Salt-dusted. Ordinary.

He doesn’t even like pretzels.

Satoru’s stash of snacks consisted of cookies and candy and various types of ice creams and mochi stacked in the freezer—until he met you. He met you, and you liked chips and pretzels and a lot of salt.

What if he kept them here for you?

You decide not to touch them. You’re deluding yourself.

You feel the sob build low in your chest. It’s slow at first, then it feels brutal. It rips out of you before you can swallow it back.

He doesn’t turn around.

“Why won’t you even look at me?” The words come out broken. “What did I do that was so unforgivable?”

His shoulders tense. The knuckles on the sink whiten once again.

“You didn’t do anything,” he says to the window, to the city lights beyond it.

Tears blur the bowl in front of you. You swipe at them angrily. “Why haven’t you signed the papers? Why do you still wear your ring if I’m so easy to ignore?”

He laughs once. “Because forgetting you would be the kindest thing I could do for both of us. And I’ve never been kind when it comes to you.”

You push off the counter, legs unsteady. “Then be cruel. Tell me to go. Tell me you don’t love me anymore. Tell me anything real.”

He finally turns.

“I can’t.”

You take a step closer. Then another. Until you’re close enough to see the tremor in his hands.

You reach out and rest your palm against his chest. His heart is racing beneath the thin cotton of his dress shirt, betraying every calm word he’s said.

He pries your hands away gently, the way he’s always been with you.

“I’m going to bed,” he steps away from you. “I trust you know where the guest room is.”

You nod, and he’s disappeared out of the kitchen and into the dark hallway.

Your mind wakes first, sluggishly, your body following reluctantly—limbs heavy, mouth dry, a dull throb behind your eyes. You pry your lids open, expecting the familiar flood of pale morning light pouring through the floor-to-ceiling windows of the house Satoru built for the two of you.

Instead, grey walls stare back at you. A single narrow window in the corner is swallowed by thick blackout blinds. The bed beneath you is too small and too firm, the sheets smelling faintly of someone else’s laundry detergent.

Right.

The night before crashes back in fragments.

Fuck. What have you done?

You curse Shoko in your head. She knows you have never made good decisions with alcohol in your system.

You wait for the regret to settle in, but instead you feel almost… relieved?

You roll out of the guest bed and pad barefoot across the cold floor. Sweat causes the fabric of your dress—the same one you wore out the previous night—to stick to your skin. Your fingers gently pry the clothing off of your body, adjusting as you make your way to the corner of the room.

The blinds are stubborn; you wrestle them open with a soft rattle.

A navy sky greets you. It’s not the bright afternoon sun you had been looking forward to.

What time is it?

Three steps back to the bed, you reach for your phone, but it’s dead on the nightstand. Of course it is.

Even if you had a charger on you, you were too upset after your conversation in the kitchen to remember to plug it in.

You slip into the hallway, following the faint glow of the living-room lamps. The wall clock reads 6:17 p.m. You’ve slept the entire day away.

What a waste.

Then you hear it—your name, soft, almost surprised or posed like a question, called from somewhere deeper in the apartment.

You follow the sound.

Satoru is standing in the open kitchen, still in the charcoal suit he must have worn to the office. Tie loosened, top button undone, sleeves rolled to the elbows. He looks like he hasn’t slept either—hair messier than usual, shadows under his eyes darker than they were last night. He’s holding a glass of water.

You imagine he was about to bring it to you.

“Oh,” he says, voice carefully neutral. “You’re still here. I thought you would’ve left by now.”

The words sting more than they should and you realize you’re deluding yourself once again.

You shake your head slowly, attempting to go of any negative thoughts in the process. “I just woke up.”

He hums, almost non-chalant enough to make you wonder if this really was the man you married.

His lips wrap around the rim of the glass, taking a sip as you fiddle with your fingers.

He sets the glass down. “Hangover?”

You shake your head again. “I must’ve slept enough to avoid it.”

He nods once in response.

Then, nothing.

Silence with Satoru used to be something comforting to you. Something you now find yourself reminiscing in—the way his eyes would find yours, or how he could read you without you uttering a single word.

Now it feels almost tantalizing, almost cruel.

He used to be someone you could tell anything to, but now you’re at a loss for words—completely unsure how to break the silence.

The one thought slides through every crevice in your mind, and despite your better judgement—the part of you that knows bringing up the flaws in your marriage right now wouldn’t mend them—you let it seep through the tissue, until the words tremble at the tip of your tongue. They can barely hold themselves back from the fall.

“You finish work early?”

He looks up, his glossy blue eyes meeting yours.

It’s only for a brief moment. So quick, you would have missed it if you weren’t already looking at him.

His gaze averts back to the counter, lips pursing as if he’s bothered by the question.

“Nah,” he breathes in. “I usually leave the office by 5:30 if there’s no meetings.”

“Oh,” the sound falls more disheartened than you intended.

“We just signed off on the merger with Infinity Air,” he explains. “So…”

“Oh, congratulations.”

You always imagined the one thing that killed your marriage was the hours Satoru worked.

You knew what you were getting into when you first met him—the obnoxious, but dreamy business major in your ethics lecture, who you much later found out was the heir to one of Japan’s biggest airline companies: Gojo Aviation.

With graduating came responsibility, and Satoru had to step into his father’s shoes. Still, he always found his way back home before you finished the day at your internship.

It wasn’t until you were married for three years, and the incident occurred that you would get text messages from him apologizing for missing dinner, that he would make it up to you, that he missed you.

It only took a month or two for you to become accustomed to your new routine—falling asleep without him, waking up to his side of the bed slept-in but empty, hardly talking anymore.

There weren’t anymore messages apologizing or warnings of his absence before hand. It became normal.

If he wasn’t the same man who spent almost a decade doting on you, praising you, teaching you what it meant to really, really love someone, you would’ve thought he was cheating.

But he was Satoru, and from the moment he met you, he breathed for you—his heart beat for you.

It was almost ironic, how now that you were apart he seemed to be able to work regular hours. But you only hope that this is what fixes the two of you.

He mutters something incoherent in response—probably a thank you—before your mouth, once again, is moving quicker than your mind.

“Since when?”

Your curse yourself mentally.

“About…” his eyes flick up to the left as he trails off in thought. “About a month after we separated."

Oh. You decide not to pry. Maybe it’s a coincidence.

“Are you busy tonight?” You ignore the tremble in your voice. You’re not sure anymore if you’re hurt or nervous or maybe a bit of both.

He looks up at you through his white eyelashes. This time longer than a beat.

“…to talk,” you continue, quietly.

You’re picking at the skin by your fingernails. A nervous habit Satoru always hated.

“We can still do this through lawyers. I haven’t messaged mine yet, but—”

“No.” You cut him off, sharper than you mean to. “I was serious last night.. About talking. About fixing things.”

He opens his mouth—maybe to argue, maybe to agree—but before the sound can form, the bedroom door behind him opens.

The bedroom that also used to be yours when you first moved into his apartment. The bedroom that was yours until you both moved out a year into marriage.

A woman steps out.

Utahime Iori.

You recognize her immediately—newest member of the executive board at Gojo Aviation, the one who’s been in every quarterly photo Satoru’s PR team blasts across LinkedIn—as the daughter of the vice-president of Infinity Air.

Her hair is damp from a shower, dark strands clinging to her neck. She’s wearing one of his hoodies—the oversized black one from university he used to let you steal when you both still lived in the dorms. It drowns her frame the same way it used to drown yours.

Your mouth falls open.

She smiles—small, polite, kind even. “Hi. I didn’t know you were here.”

You don’t smile back.

The air in the apartment thins to nothing.

Satoru’s shoulders go rigid. He doesn’t look at her. He looks at you.

“I—” Your voice is barely there. “I’m sorry. For coming over. For… everything.”

You turn before he can speak.

Your bag is still slung over the arm of the couch where you dropped it last night. You snatch it up, fingers shaking so badly the strap slips twice.

“Hey—wait,” his voice cracks behind you. “Wait, please—”

You don’t.

The front door is only ten steps away. You cross them, and even though you feel as though you’ve run out of oxygen, you make a break for the stairs—deciding running down thirty-two floors is better than waiting around for the elevator.

“Satoru,” Utahime says softly from somewhere behind him.

You can’t tell her tone of voice, and you’re not even sure you want to

You don’t look back.

The hall outside is too bright, too quiet.

You can hear your heart hammering in your chest, each beach only getting more desperate with your descent down.

You make it almost 10 floors before your legs give way, and your thighs meet the cool floor.

You press your forehead to the wall and let the tears come—silent at first, then choking, ugly sobs that echo in the small space.

He didn’t chase you. It was over—really over.

The Satoru you fell in love with would have followed you to the ends of the earth without you even asking.

The Satoru who fell out of love with you couldn’t even put his ego aside to follow you down a flight of stairs.

You often thought yourself a fool, but never as much as you have right now. You should’ve known he would move on. That he wouldn't wait around forever.

A divorce was to end a marriage. You had to face that it was over years ago, no matter how much you wanted it to be him.

The empty house is haunting.

Every wall, every piece of furniture, every atom in the house taunts you—mocks you even.

The ghost of a younger you—a happier you—lingers in every corner. You think it’s almost humiliating how deeply Satoru’s absence now affects you.

The house he’d gotten built from the ground up seems to agree with you, the way it still looks as lived in as it had 4 years ago.

After finally picking yourself up off the floor at your old apartment complex and calling a car home, you thought the hardest part would be leaving him behind.

But there was the threshold he once carried you over, the kitchen where he’d make you breakfast while you still slept, the nursery you both painted—a pastel yellow colour that would never be enjoyed by a child—, the living room where you’d make love to each other when you were too impatient to make it upstairs.

The whole space screams Satoru’s name.

It’s a museum full of memories—the good, the bad, the in-between. The throw blanket he draped over your shoulders that first winter you spent here, still folded on the couch arm. The framed photo on the entry console of the two of you laughing in the rain outside that tiny ramen place in Shibuya, the coffee mugs he insisted on buying in pairs because “we’re a set, aren’t we?”

It’s all proof he loved you once.

And— if anything—keeping his things here would only be proof you’ll love him forever.

And you can’t afford that kind of attachment anymore.

A sob rips through your throat. You press the heel of your hand to your mouth like you can trap the sound inside, but it’s already too late. The grief has teeth tonight.

You make your way up the stairs on legs that feel borrowed.

His closet is the first place you attack.

You yank open the double doors and the smell hits you like a fist—his cologne, his laundry detergent, the faint trace of skin that used to live against yours. You start pulling things off hangers without thought: the navy wool coat he wore on your last anniversary dinner where you hardly spoke, the soft grey cashmere sweater he’d let you steal when you were cold, the white button-downs still creased from the dry cleaner. You fold them roughly, no care for neatness, and shove them into the largest suitcase you can find from under the bed.

Next come the gifts.

The delicate silver bracelet he gave you for your birthday two years into saying, the one with the tiny engraved star because he said you were his destiny. The perfume he picked out in Paris that you only wore when you wanted him to lose his mind. The silk scarf he tied around your eyes once during a game that ended with your legs atop his shoulders, being pummeled into the mattress. You drop them into the suitcase one by one.

Your vision is blurred from your tears, and in all honesty, you have no idea what is going where.

You move to the nightstand onhis side. The book he never finished, spine cracked. The candle he’d light at night… because even past thirty he was still scared of the dark. The small velvet box containing the earrings he bought you “just because.” You hesitate only once—fingers brushing the lid—before you drop the whole thing in.

You’re crying steadily now, not like before. Silent rivers carving tracks down your cheeks, dripping onto the carpet. Your chest hurts like someone’s sitting on it and breathing feels optional.

You hate how much you still love him.

You hate how much it still feels like betrayal to pack him away.

A few minutes past midnight, the doorbell rings.

You freeze, suitcase half-zipped.

You aren’t expecting anyone. Shoko would’ve texted. Your parents live provinces away. The delivery guy doesn’t come this late.

You ignore it.

Thirty seconds later there’s sharp, insistent knocks on the front door.

You wipe your face with the sleeve of the hoodie you changed into—his hoodie, fuck—and drag yourself downstairs. Your reflection in the hallway mirror is a wreck: eyes swollen, nose red, cheeks blotchy. You look like grief personified.

You open the door anyway.

Satoru stands there.

He’s lost the suit, now clad in white T-shirt stretched across his shoulders, grey sweatpants slung low on his hips, white hair mussed like he’s run his hands through it too many times.

He sees your face.

The moment stretches—two heartbeats, three—and whatever armor he walked here wearing cracks wide open. His expression melts.

The hard line of his mouth softens, his brows pinch, his eyes go liquid and the bright blue almost dulls like he’s looking at something fragile he’s terrified of breaking.

“Fuck,” he says. Instinctively, his calloused hands find your shoulders, pulling you flush against his chest. His left leg kicks the door closed. “Oh, baby.”

You don’t reciprocate his actions right away. You just stand there, his hands cradling your head now.

“Fuck,” his voice is almost sympathetic… if you didn’t know any better. “I did this to you. Didn’t I?”

“Fuck you,” you say, but the sounds comes out muffled.

You almost feel like crying again. Instead, you bring your arms up around your head, hitting his chest repeatedly. Attempting to wriggle out of his grasp.

His grip around you only tightens, much to your frustration.

“It’s okay,” he coos. “Take it out on me, baby. I can take it.”

“Don’t call me that.” You manage to slip out from under him before you succumb to his touch. “Why are you here?”

“You wanted to talk.”

“Because…” you almost hesitate. But, what else do you have to lose. “I thought we could fix this.”

He hums. You know his mind is probably going a million kilometres an hour, and you finally look at his face.

His eyes are slightly red, his bottom lashes damp.

You swallow. Your throat is sandpaper.

“Have you been crying?” you ask. Flat.

His gaze leaves yours, fixating at a spot on the wall.

“Have you?”

Your shoulders slump. You avoid the question.

It’s a pretty obvious answer.

“Look,” he begins. His shoes flip off his feet, and he starts heading towards the living room, his long fingers wrapping gently around your wrist as he drags you behind him. “I’m ready to talk—to try and… I don’t know.. Fuck. Fix this?”

He sits down on the sofa. You take the seat across from him.

“No lawyers?”

“No, sweets,” he starts. His elbows are on his knees. “I’m going to lay everything on the table. I can’t hurt you ever again.”

“Okay,” you whisper. You don’t really believe him. Your eyes don't meet his.

It takes a few minutes before he speaks again, the silence stretching out between the two of you as he tries to collect his thoughts.

“Utahime…” he begins. Unsure. “Nothing happened.”

You raise your eyebrows in disbelief, but your eyes still don’t meet his. You’re afraid of how you might react if you do.

He exhales, sharp and frustrated, his head meeting his palms. His right hand drags farther, through his hair until it stands up in wild tufts.

“We went to check out some more cost-effective oil choices today,” he starts again, quieter, like he’s reciting facts to a jury instead of trying to reach the woman he married. “Some new supplier pitch in Yokohama. She spilled some on herself—literally, like half a sample vial down the front of her blouse. It was disgusting. She was only in Tokyo for the day, flying back tonight.”

You don’t look amused.

“She’s on the board, baby. I couldn’t let her go back to Kyoto like that.”

“Okay.” You’re not sure what more to say.

“I promise,” he starts again. Longing. “I was in the kitchen the whole time—you saw me. I didn’t step foot near the bedroom.”

He pauses, searching your profile for something—anything—that says you believe him.

You finally lift your eyes to his. They’re red-rimmed, glassy, exhausted.

“You let her wear your clothes,” you say. Your voice is small, but it cuts.

“I didn’t think,” he admits. Raw. “I wasn’t thinking about how it would look to you because I wasn’t expecting you to still be there. I was trying to be professional.”

You stay silent, but his expression is almost like it’s cutting through him.

“I know how it looked,” he says. “I know exactly how it looked. And I hate that I let it happen. I hate that I gave you even a second to think I’d moved on. I haven’t. I can’t.”

“You… can’t?”

“No,” he runs a hand through his hair again. “You could cheat on me, divorce me, never talk to me again—fuck.” His voice cracks on the curse. Almost sounds like he’ll cry again. “But, you’re the only woman for me.”

“What?”

“I’m serious.” His hand runs down his face. “If we go through with this, I’ll never marry anyone again. Moving on with someone else isn’t even an option.”

If.

So there is a chance to fix this.

You blink back a few tears, but you’re not sure if you ever did stop crying.

“Why’re we getting divorced, Satoru?”

His posture changes, his spine stiffening as the rest of his body stills. You’re not surprised when he doesn’t answer right away.

“You were the one who wanted one.”

“Satoru,” you whisper his name. “You said it was over for a while when I asked. So, why?”

He’s avoiding eye contact. He looks uncomfortable—almost small—which is so unlike him it makes your chest ache. Once again, he doesn’t answer. Your quick-witted, “always has something to say” husband, is at a loss for words.

“Was it the incident?” Your mouth curls downward and the memory rises up like bile. It was the worst thing you’ve ever gone through. “Did that make you stop loving me?”

The words have barely left your lips when he flinches—wide eyes snapping up from their usual position on the floor, fixating on your face. He looks horrified.

“No.” It’s the fastest response he’s given you all night. “No way. God—no. Baby, do you actually think that?”

He scoots forward in his seat, hands reaching out before he catches himself and drops them at his sides again.

“I—”

He stands up. Satoru’s always been better at thinking on his feet.

“I’m sorry,” he continues. “I’m so fucking sorry. I never—never—thought that. I would never stop loving you because of that.”

You stare at him, throat tight. “Then, why? You started working late right after. You’d come home after I’d fall asleep waiting for you, leaving in the morning before I’d wake up. You stopped touching me. You stopped talking to me.”

You swallow, hoping the bob of your throat will pull back the tear in your chest as well.

“You stopped seeing me.”

He breaks.

The sound that leaves his throat is gut wrenching—a sob he tries to swallow but can’t. His knees buckle ever so slightly and he catches himself on the back of the couch, head dropping forward. Hot tears fall on the ashe flooring before he can stop them.

“I thought—” His voice is wrecked. “After my family found out… about the fertility stuff… they started pushing. I don’t know why an airline company needs an heir, but they really wanted one. Every dinner, every meeting, every phone call. They just wouldn’t let it go.”

He drags a shaky hand across his face, desperately swiping away at the tears.

“I thought if I just… gave them enough of my time, enough of my attention, they’d leave you alone. You were already going through so much. The doctors, the tests, the grief. I didn’t want them piling on top of that. I didn’t want them making it worse for you. So I stayed late. I took every meeting. I let them control me. I thought I was protecting you.”

He looks up at you then, eyes red.

“But we stopped talking. You stopped talking to me. And I thought… I thought you resented me. For not being able to be the husband I promised. For not being able to fix it. For not giving you the family we both wanted. I thought you were ashamed of me—of us. So I kept my distance. I thought if I stayed out of your way, you wouldn’t have to see me as a failure.”

You feel something inside you crack wide open.

“I thought you didn’t love me anymore,” you whisper, voice trembling. “Because I couldn’t have children. I thought you were embarrassed of me and that I wasn’t enough. So I started avoiding you too. Pulled away so you wouldn’t have to pretend. So you wouldn’t have to look at me and remember what I couldn’t give you.”

His face falls. And in a second he’s crossing the room over to you, kneeling in front of you as his arms engulf your body, crushing you to his chest.

“I’m so sorry,” he chokes out against your hair.

You’d hug him back if you could.

“I’m so fucking sorry. I never stopped loving you, not once. Not even for a second. You’re still everything. Okay? You’re still all I want. Kids—or no kids.”

You let out a sob against him, but despite that you’re smiling.

“I just…” he continues. “I fucked up. I thought I was protecting you, but I ended up breaking us.”

You cling to him, fingers digging into the back of his shirt now that his grip on you has loosened.

“I didn’t want to lose you,” you mumble against him. “I thought if I let go first, it wouldn’t hurt as much when you finally did.”

He pulls back just enough to cup your face, his thumbs brushing away the hot tears on your skin.

“I’m not going anywhere,” he says, voice finally steadying. “Not without you at least.”

A wet, shaky laugh escapes you.

He rests his forehead against yours, breathing you in like he’s been starving for you.

“Can I come home now, baby?” he asks, closing his eyes.

You nod, bring your hands up to cup his face in return.

“Yeah,” you whisper. “Come home.”

The words barely leave your mouth before his lips find yours.

It starts soft, like he’s testing whether this is real or if he’ll wake up alone again.

But the second your fingers slide into his hair and tug gently, something in him breaks open. The kiss turns hungry, desperate, all teeth and tongue and months of longing. Suddenly his hands are everywhere—gripping your waist, sliding under your shirt to press hot palms to bare skin, pulling you flush against him until there’s no space left.

You gasp into his mouth when he lifts you without warning, your legs instinctively wrapping around his hips. He walks backward, never breaking the kiss, navigating the hallway by memory alone. You feel the wall at your back for a second. His body pins you there while he kisses you deeper, slower.

“Bedroom,” you manage to breathe against his lips.

He doesn’t need to be told twice.

He carries you the rest of the way, kicking the half-open door wider with his foot. The room is dim, lit only by the hallway light spilling in, and the open suitcase on the floor catches his eye immediately.

He stops short, still holding you up, and lets out a soft, startled laugh against your mouth.

You pull back just enough to follow his gaze.

“Oh,” you say, cheeks heating. “I… was kind of in the middle of packing your stuff.”

He laughs again. “You were doing a shit job of it,” he murmurs, nodding at the suitcase. “You packed my favorite sweater. The one you always steal.”

“I was going to burn it,” you lie, lips twitching despite yourself.

“Liar.” He kisses the corner of your mouth.

“Shut up,” you mutter. You tug at his shirt, impatient now. “Put me down.”

He does—slowly, letting you slide down his body until your feet touch the floor. Then he’s backing you toward the bed, hands already working the hem of your hoodie up and over your head. It hits the suitcase with a soft thud.

You push his shirt up next, palms greedy against the warm, familiar planes of his chest, the faint scars you’ve traced a thousand times. He helps you yank it off, tossing it somewhere behind him—probably onto the growing pile of things you were supposed to be getting rid of.

When the backs of your knees hit the mattress, he follows you down, catching himself on his forearms so he doesn’t crush you.

He pauses there, hovering just above you, blue eyes searching yours.

“Fuck, I’ve missed you,” he says quietly.

You reach up, fingers threading through his hair, pulling him closer until your lips brush his.

“I’ve missed you too,” you whisper.

His lips find yours again, softer this time but just as urgent. It’s slow and deep, your tongues sliding together in a rhythm that feels achingly familiar. Your fingers tighten in his hair, pulling him closer, and he groans against your mouth.

He breaks away only long enough to breathe your name.

Your hands cup his face in response, pulling him back down to you.

He kisses the corner of your mouth, the hinge of your jaw, the sensitive spot just below your ear. You tilt your head back instinctively, giving him more access, and he takes it greedily. Open-mouthed kisses trail down the column of your throat, teeth grazing lightly, then soothing with his tongue.

His lips drag their way across your collarbone, down toward the valley between your breasts. He pauses there, nose brushing your skin, inhaling like he’s trying to memorize you all over again. His hands slide up your sides, thumbs brushing the undersides of your breasts before cupping them gently, reverently. He kisses one nipple, then the other, slow swirls of his tongue until they harden under the wet heat of his mouth.

You arch into him, a soft whimper escaping before you can stop it.

“Missed the sounds you make,” he murmurs. “Missed every single one.”

He keeps going.

“Toru…” you mumble.

He kisses down the soft plane of your stomach, lingering over the faint scar from the surgery years ago—the one that changed everything. He presses his lips there deliberately.

Your breath catches.

He looks up at you then, holding your gaze as he hooks his fingers into the waistband of your panties and dragging them down your legs. You lift your hips to help him; he tosses the fabric somewhere behind him without looking.

Then he settles between your thighs, broad shoulders spreading you open, hands sliding under your hips to lift you just enough that he can get the angle he wants.

“Give me all of you, baby,” he says, placing a kiss on the fleshy part of your thigh.

Then another, on the other side.

His breath is hot over where you need him most. You squirm, your hips lifting toward him—he backs away and you whine in response.

“Patience, sweets,” he murmurs against your inner thigh. “Been touching myself to the thought of this pussy for over a year now. Gonna take my time.”

You shake your head, pushing yourself into the pillow behind you.

“Please,” you plead. Your hands come up, attempting to push him downwards.

“Use your words, sweets,” he resists. “What do you want?”

“You.”

Under normal circumstances, he would’ve teased you more. But that was all it took for him to place a soft, wet kiss on your clit.

Then his tongue licks a sow strip up your center.

Your back lifts off the bed as a broken moan tears out of you.

His hands move to lightly grip your wrists, bringing them down to the base of your stomach as his head inches away from you.

“Spread yourself open for me, m’kay?” he says, breath ghosting against your folds.

You nod, your fingers finding your pussy and pulling apart.

His arms hook back under your legs, and his mouth is back on you.

He groans at the taste of you, like he’s finally getting something he’s been starving for. His hands tighten on your hips, holding you exactly where he wants you as he dives in properly—lips closing around your clit, sucking gently, then harder, tongue flicking in relentless circles.

He alternates between slow licks and quick, fluttering flicks against your clit.

He slips two fingers inside you, curling them just right. He remembers the exact spot that makes your head go empty.

You clench around his digits, and he moans in response, the vibrations driving you closer to the edge.

“Satoru—” Your voice cracks on his name.

He keeps working you with his mouth and fingers until your thighs are trembling around his head and your hips are grinding against his face without shame.

“That’s it,” he says. It comes out muffled, his mouth against your pussy. “Ride my face.”

Your hands move from their earlier position, once again finding their way threaded into his hair.

“Satoru,” you breathe. “So close.”

“Cum for me,” he rasps against you, voice wrecked. “Please, baby. Let me feel you. Let me have this.”

That undoes you.

You cum hard, crying out his name as pleasure crashes through you in waves. He doesn’t stop until you’re shaking, oversensitive, tugging weakly at his hair to pull him up.

He crawls back up your body, kissing every inch of skin he passes, until he’s hovering over you again. His lips are shiny, chin wet, eyes glassy.

He kisses you, letting you taste yourself on his tongue.

You break the kiss first, breathing hard, and push at his shoulders.

“My turn,” you murmur.

He blinks. “Baby—”

You don’t let him finish. You hook a leg around his and roll, flipping him onto his back beneath you. The mattress dips under his weight; he lands with a soft huff of surprise, white hair fanning across the pillow.

He looks up at you.

“You don’t have to—” he starts,one hand coming up like he’s going to stop you.

You lean down and kiss him quiet. When you pull back, you press your palm to his lips.

“Shut up, Satoru.”

He exhales a shaky laugh against hand. “Bossy,” he tries to say but it comes out muffled.

You smile and slide down his body.

You take your time, mirroring the way he did with you. His hands fist the sheets when you drag your mouth over his chest, tongue circling one flat nipple, then the other. He hisses, hips jerking once.

Lower.

You trace the faint lines of muscle on his stomach with open-mouthed kisses, feeling the way he tenses under your lips. When you reach his hips, you slow even more. You place teasing licks along the sensitive skin, teeth grazing.

He’s hard—painfully so—curved up against his stomach, flushed dark at the tip, already leaking. You wrap your fingers around him, slow stroke from base to head, thumb swiping over the slit to spread the bead of precum. He groans, head tipping back into the pillow.

“Fuck—baby—”

You don’t answer with words.

You lean down and take him into your mouth—slow at first, just the head, tongue swirling around the sensitive ridge. His hips buck; you press a hand to his thigh to hold him still. Then you sink lower, taking him deeper, hollowing your cheeks as you slide back up, tongue pressing flat along the underside.

He curses, fingers threading into your hair.

You set a rhythm. Sucking him deep, then pulling back to tease the tip with flicks of your tongue.

Every time you take him to the back of your throat, he makes a sound that goes straight between your legs: moans, pleas, your name broken into syllables.

“Look at me,” you murmur against him, pulling off just long enough to speak. Your lips are swollen, shiny with spit and him.

His eyes snap to yours. He looks wrecked—completely at your mercy.

You hold his gaze as you take him deep again until your nose brushes his pelvis. His whole body locks up; a tremor runs through him.

“Fuck—fuck—sweetheart—”

You hum around him, the vibration making his hips jerk again. You pull back, stroking the bottom half of him with your hand while your tongue works the head in quick, filthy circles. Then you sink down once more, faster this time.

His breathing turns ragged. The hand in your hair tightens.

“I’m—baby, I’m close—”

You take him deeper, letting him feel every slide of your tongue, every suction.

When he cums, your name is torn out of him like a confession.

Hot cum spills over your tongue; you swallow everything, milking him through it until he’s shaking and oversensitive.

You pull off slowly, pressing one last soft kiss to the head before crawling back up his body.

He’s panting, flushed from chest to cheeks/

You settle over him, straddling his hips, and he immediately wraps his arms around you, pulling you down until your chests are pressed together.

He kisses you—slow and tasting himself on your tongue without hesitation.

When he pulls back, his voice is wrecked. “You’re gonna kill me one day,” he murmurs against your lips. “And I’m gonna die happy.”

You laugh and rest your forehead against his.

“Good,” you whisper. “Because I’m not done with you yet.”

He rolls you under him again in one fluid motion, pinning your wrists above your head with one hand while the other drags down the center of your body. His mouth follows the path: biting kisses along your throat, sucking into the soft skin below your collarbone.

You’re gasping his name, begging for more.

“Say it again,” he says. “Tell me I’m home.”

“You’re home,” you breathe. “You’re so fucking home.”

He places a soft kiss under your breast, letting his mouth linger for a second before something in him snaps.

He releases your wrists only to flip you onto your stomach in a single rough movement. You barely have time to brace on your forearms before he’s yanking your hips up, knees spread wide, ass in the air. One big hand presses between your shoulder blades, keeping your chest pinned to the mattress while the other spreads you open—fingers digging into the meat of your thigh, holding you exactly where he wants.

“Look at you,” he mutters. “Still dripping for me. Still so fucking wet after I already ate you out.”

You whimper, pushing back against his palm. “Satoru—please—”

He doesn’t tease this time. You feel the head of his cock rub against your folds.

Once. Twice. Three times.

Then, he lines himself up and slams into you, no warning. The stretch burns so good your vision whites out for a second. You cry out, but the sound comes out muffled into the sheets.

He doesn’t give you time to adjust. He pulls almost all the way out and thrusts back in harder, setting a rhythm with the way the headboard slams against the wall.

“Fuck, so tight,” he hisses through clenched teeth. “Missed this pussy so much. Missed my pussy so much.”

His hand slides up your back, fingers tangling in the roots of your hair. He yanks your head back enough to arch your back deeper, changing the angle so he hits that spot inside you with every stroke.

You scream, nails clawing at the sheets.

“That’s it,” he pants, hips snapping forward. “Scream for me, baby. Let the whole fucking neighbourhood know how good you feel.”

He reaches around, fingers finding your clit and rubbing fast, messy circles while he fucks into you. The dual sensation is too much; your thighs shake, your whole body locks up.

“Gonna cum,” you gasp, voice cracking. “Satoru—fuck—I’m—”

“Cum baby.” His teeth graze the shell of your ear. “Cum all over my cock. Milk me. Show me how much you missed this dick.”

Before you can say anything else, your vision spots black, a gush of wet heat soaking his thighs as you convulse around him. He doesn’t stop. He fucks you through it until you’re oversensitive and whimpering and trying to crawl away.

He doesn’t let you.

He flips you onto your back again, hooks your legs over his shoulders, folds you in half until your knees are by your ears. The new angle is devastating and you can feel the pull in your hamstrings—he bottoms out so deep you swear you feel him in your throat.

“Look at me,” he orders.

Your eyes flutter open.

He slows and it feels almost torturous. Long, dragging thrusts that let you feel every thick inch sliding in and out of you.

“Say you’re mine,” he demands, thumb pressing hard against your clit again, rubbing it in small circles.

“I’m yours,” you sob, small tears leaking from the corners of your eyes. “Always yours. Only yours.”

He groans and picks up speed again, pounding into you so hard the bedframe creaks like it might break.

“Gonna fill you up,” he rasps. “Gonna pump you so full of my cum you’ll feel me for days. Gonna mark you inside and out so you never forget who you belong to.”

“Yes—please—Satoru—”

He slams in one last time and cums with a relieving moan. His hot, thick cum floods inside of you, triggering another smaller orgasm that has you clenching even harder around him,

He keeps rocking into you through both your highs, smearing everything between you.

He collapses half on top of you, still inside, cock still twitching. His forehead drops to yours.

You’re both shaking.

He presses his lips to yours.

“More?” he whispers against your lips.

You nod, fingers tracing the line of his jaw.

“Please.”

He rolls you both once more—still half inside you—until you’re straddling his hips again. His hands settle on your thighs, thumbs stroking slow circles over the sensitive skin.

You brace your palms on his chest, feeling the thump of his heart beneath your fingers, and start to move.

Slow rolls of your hips at first, grinding down so he feels you clenching around him. He’s already thickening again, stretching you open.

“Fuck,” he groans, head tipping back into the pillow. “Just like that, baby. Use me.”

You pick up the pace—lifting and dropping. Your thighs burn, but you keep going.

His hands slide up to grip your waist, guiding you harder and deeper, until you’re bouncing on him with wet, filthy slaps of skin on skin.

He watches you the whole time—eyes flicking between your face, your tits swaying with every thrust, the way your stomach tenses when you grind your clit against his pelvis.

“Gotta be dreaming,” he pants, voice wrecked but teasing. “Gonna wake up tomorrow and you’ll be gone again. Just me, alone, jerking off to the memory of this—”

You stop moving.

He knows he’s in trouble.

“Too soon?” he tries to laugh it off.

His eyes widen for half a second before you rear back and slap him across the face. Not hard enough to bruise, but sharp enough that the sound is present.

The room goes still. And you realize what you’ve done.

Then his cock twitches violently inside you.

He turns back slowly, eyes blown black, pupils swallowing the blue. His tongue darts out, licking the corner of his mouth like he’s tasting the sting.

“Fuck,” he breathes, voice dropping an octave. “Do that again.”

Your heart slams against your ribs. Heat floods your core.

You slap him once more—lighter this time. His hips buck up hard, making you gasp.

“Harder,” he growls, fingers digging into your hips so tight that he won’t be the only one with bruises tomorrow. “Fucking mark me, baby. Make sure I know this is real.”

You do.

Another slap. His moan is broken. His cock throbs inside you, leaking steadily now.

You lean down, bracing one hand beside his head, the other gripping his jaw to force his eyes on yours.

“This is real,” you hiss, rolling your hips. “You’re not going anywhere. I’m not waking up alone. You’re gonna cum inside me again, and tomorrow we’re seeing our lawyers and telling them this—the divorce—is not happening.”

Satoru nods, surging up, arms banding around your waist, flipping you so you’re still on top but he’s sitting up now. You’re chest to chest, mouths crashing together in a messy, desperate kiss. He thrusts up into you hard, using his grip on your hips to slam you down onto every brutal stroke.

You claw at his shoulders, nails leaving red trails down his back. He bites your bottom lip hard enough to sting.

“Gonna fill you up again,” he pants against your mouth. “Gonna stuff you so full you’ll be leaking me for days. Gonna breed this pretty pussy until you can’t think about anything but me inside you.”.

You grind down harder, clit rubbing against him with every thrust.

“Cum with me,” you beg.

He buries his face in your neck, teeth sinking into the soft skin there as he slams up one last time.

He cums with a choked groan, hot and thick, pulsing inside you in long, endless spurts. The sensation tips you over—your orgasm crashes through you, walls fluttering and squeezing around him, milking every drop while you shake and sob his name into his shoulder.

He doesn’t pull out.

He holds you there, still seated deep, arms locked around you

You stay like that until your breathing evens out and the room smells like sex.

Eventually, you slump onto him, falling asleep.

It’s a little over two months later, and you feel like you can breathe again.

You’re barefoot in the kitchen, still in the pajamas you put on last night—shorts and an oversized shirt that was Satoru’s in college.

The clock on the wall reads 2:17 p.m., and your breakfast (which is really just iced coffee and a cinnamon bun from Satoru’s stash in the fridge) sits hardly touched on the island. Sunlight pours in through the floor-to-cieling windows, warming the room naturally.

The divorce papers were shredded and burned in the backyard a week after you and Satoru got back together. He moved back in the next night.

Your marriage has never felt stronger. Sure, the scars of the past are still there, but you both talk until one in the morning, fuck until three, and fall asleep tangeled in eachothers limbs like no time had passed at all.

You’re so caught up in it all that you don’t hear the front door open or his briefcase hit the floor.

You don’t hear his footsteps as his long legs carry him through the house. Not until his arms are suddenly around your waist and you’re being lifted clean off the ground in a spin that makes you shriek and dissolve into helpless giggles.

“Hey! Toru—put me down.”

Instead, you feel the cold of the countertop against the backs of your thighs as he places you down and settles between your legs. His face finds the crook of your neck/

“Missed you,” he mumbles against your skin.

His arms stay looped around, chin hooked over your shoulder as your hands find their place on his back.

You twist just enough to kiss the corner of his mouth. “You’re home early.”

“Left after my meetings,” he says, pulling back to look at your face. His hands slide down and still when they reach your thighs. “Kept thinking about you in these little shorts. Made it hard to stay focused.”

You roll your eyes, but you feel the heat creep up your cheeks anyway.

He goes quiet for a second. His hold on you tightens, and you can feel the shift in his energy before he even speaks.

“Hey,” he moves back a smidge. “Can we talk about something?”

You use the space to slide off the counter.

“You’re not thinking of divorcing me again, are you?”

He chuckles in defense, hands cupping your face, and his lips planting a small, wet kiss on your forehead. “No, baby. Never.”

His expression returns serious.

“I know we talked about it. About… kids. Or not having them. About it just being us…” He trails off.

You nod slowly, pressing your back up against the counter. “We did. And I meant it. I’m happy, Satoru. Really happy.”

“I know,” he swallows. “I know you are—and I am too. But… there’s something I need to ask you. And I’ve been thinking about it for a while.

He takes your hands in his, thumbs brushing over your knuckles.

“One of my mechanics, Toji, got sick a while back.”

His eyes start to wander. He’s nervous.

You realize. “Oh my god. I’m so sorry.”

He nods, jaw tight. “He was a good guy.” He’s silent for a few seconds before continuing. “But, he came from a really bad family. He left behind a kid, and I’ve been visiting him at the group home they placed him in.”

He pauses, eyes flicking down to where your fingers are laced with his.

“I can’t leave him there. Not with the family that’s trying to get custody just so they can collect whatever benefits come with him. He’s… he’s a good kid, baby. He doesn’t talk much, but when he does it’s thoughtful. He loves animals. Reads too much. Reminds me of—” He stops, laughs once. “Reminds me of myself, a little.”

You squeeze his hands. “Satoru…”

“I know we said no kids,” he continues quickly, like he’s afraid you’ll stop him. “I know we were okay with it being just us, but I also know how badly you wanted to be a mother. And if you say no—if this is too much, too soon—I’ll respect it and I’ll figure something else out. But… I can’t stop thinking about him. And I can’t stop thinking about what it would look like if he had a real home. With us. With you.”

He finally meets your eyes again.

“I want to take him in. I want us to take him in. If you’ll have him. If you’ll have this.”

Tears prick your eyes, but they’re good ones this time.

You step closer, rise on your toes, and kiss him.

“Yes,” you whisper against his lips. “Yes. Let’s take him in.”

His breath catches. His arms tighten around you like he’s afraid you’ll take it back.

“You mean it?”

“I mean it.” You pull back just enough to see his face. “I want to meet him.”

Satoru exhales—shaky and relieved—and drops his forehead to yours.

“Thank you,” he says, voice thick. “God—baby—thank you.”

You smile through the tears. “When can we meet him?”

“Tomorrow?” he asks, almost shy. “I told him I might bring someone special. He… he didn’t say much, but he didn’t say no.”

You laugh softly, brushing your thumbs under his eyes where they’re suspiciously shiny.

“Tomorrow,” you agree. “Bring him home.”

He kisses you again and when he pulls back he’s smiling.

“I love you,” he says, like it’s the easiest thing in the world.

“I love you too.”

The conference room at the law firm smells funky.

You sit at the long polished table with Satoru on your left, Megumi on your right. The boy is quiet as always—dark hair falling into his eyes, hands folded in his lap, school uniform still on because he insisted on coming straight from class. He hasn’t said much since you picked him up, but every now and then his knee bumps yours under the table.

Satoru’s hand rests on the back of your chair, thumb brushing slow circles against your shoulder blade through your blouse. He’s in a charcoal suit today.

Megumi’s file sits open in front of the empty chair across from you.

The door opens.

You look up.

And your stomach drops.

Hiromi Higuruma steps in, briefcase in one hand, tablet in the other. He’s in a sharp navy suit, glasses perched on his nose, hair neatly combed back the way it was that night in the bar. He hasn’t changed much.

He pauses when he sees you.

Just for a second.

Long enough for recognition to flicker across his face, quick and private, before his expression smooths into professional neutrality.

“Good afternoon,” he says, voice calm and even. “I’m Higuruma. I’ll be handling your finalization today.”

He sets his things down, takes the seat across from you, and opens the file.

“Mr. and Mrs. Gojo,” he says, voice calm and measured. “And this must be Megumi.”

Megumi gives a small nod.

“Everything’s in order. The home study cleared last month, the background checks are complete, guardianship papers from the state are signed off. We’re just here to execute the consent forms, witness the affidavits, and file with the court. Should be straightforward.”

Hiromi clears his throat and slides the first document toward Satoru.

“If you’ll both review and sign where highlighted. Megumi—” He softens his tone, addressing the boy directly. “You don’t have to sign anything today. But the court will want to speak with you next week. Just to make sure this is what you want.”

Megumi looks up at him, then at you, then at Satoru.

“I want to stay,” he says quietly, looking down like he doesn’t want to admit it.

“Yeah,” Satoru says. “We want that too, kid.”

You squeeze Megumi’s hand. He squeezes back.

Hiromi nods once, expression unreadable, and passes you the next set of papers.

The rest of the meeting passes in a blur of legalese and signatures. Satoru signs with his usual flourish. You sign with careful, deliberate strokes. Megumi watches everything with wide eyes.

When the last page is done, Hiromi gathers the documents and stands.

“I’ll file these this afternoon,” he says. “You should receive confirmation from the court within ten business days. Congratulations.”

He hesitates, then looks at you again.

“It’s good to see you again,” he says quietly.

You press your lips into a thin smile and bid him farewell. Then Hiromi is gone, the door closing softly behind him.

Satoru exhales, then pushes his own chair back, rising.

“So,” he says, grin sliding back into place. “Ice cream to celebrate? Or straight to the arcade?”

Megumi rolls his eyes, but there’s a tiny smile tugging at his mouth.

“Ice cream first,” he decides.

You laugh, standing, scoping Megumi up from his seat beside you.

“Ice cream first,” you agree.

And the three of you walk out of the lawyer’s office together. As a family.

EXTRA EXTRA READ ALL ABOUT IT

ok so i basically wrote the majority of this on a plane on my phone, i tried to fix most of the typos and stuff but i got lazy el oh el! ive been working on this for like more than a month so i rlyyyy hope u guys liked it :p this is also based on the song by zayne okay bye

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