idk man

George was crouching down behind a bush; beside him, you were crouching too. Your sharp eyes were analysing the scene in front of you.

“I can’t hear anything,” you said after shushing him.

A day after you decided to play matchmaker and roped him into it, you had decided to first oversee the possible candidates before choosing a victi—a potential date for Nessa.

Unfortunately, George had been dragged to this stalking session with you.

He could have been planning pranks or brewing new taste products. He could have been lying on your lap while you played with his hair like he usually did before dinner. There were plenty of things he could have been doing, but he was stuck there.

Daphne Greengrass was not funny to watch.

She looked like she smelt shit all the time, her posture rigid as her younger sister braided flowers in her blonde hair.

“Haven’t you gathered enough information?” he asked, legs finally giving up, and his knees sank into the grass.

“No.” You shook your head. “I need to know more. Who is really Daphne Greengrass?”

“We are stalking her,” George whispered.

“No, we are selecting a candidate for Nessa.”

He didn’t bother correcting you, even though what you two were doing was the full definition of stalking. Rather, he turned to look at you—a much more entertaining view than that Slytherin girl.

February was coming to an end, but the relentless coldness still clung to the days with a vice grip. In just a few days, March would start, and the first month of their pseudo-dating would be concluded.

Fred had asked him if he planned to do something for their monthiversary, as he had seen many couples celebrate it. George had stared at his twin with an incredulous face once he started naming over-the-top date ideas and gifts.

Was George planning something? Yes, but not something big.

Over the course of the weeks, he had started learning what you liked and what you didn’t say you disliked. He had observed the way you beamed about what you found funny and how you just blinked and blankly stared at what you believed was ridiculous, boring or incredibly inappropriate.

So, he knew you didn’t like incredible, boisterous and unapologetically loud celebrations when they involved you as the main focus of attention.

The fireworks Fred suggested would just make you mad, and the singing dwarf would only embarrass you to the point of breaking up with him. And that is a fact you had confirmed with him when you two had witnessed a public confession with a dog, a dwarf and many balloons.

But it was fine. He didn’t have a lot of money to gift you the best jewellery or buy you an expensive bouquet, but he was putting a lot of effort into it.

After all, even if you were his fake girlfriend, you still were his first girlfriend.

You pressed your lips together, then spoke in a hushed tone. “In order to get to Daphne, we need to get Astoria.”

“Why?” George asked as he popped a lollipop you had given to him earlier into his mouth.

Slowly, you turned to look at him, your gaze flickering down to his mouth and a spark of something he didn’t dare name crossed over your eyes. They twinkled like little stars, slightly annoyed by his lack of interest, glittering with a hidden storm.

“Can’t you see just how close they are?” You pointed at them. “If we can get Astoria to help, then it’s a sure win.”

“I think we can find someone better,” he said low, earning a smack on his shoulder.

“No. They are a good match. Hufflepuffs and Slytherins will always be a good match,” you huffed.

“Oh, so you would rather be with a Slytherin,” he said, fake anger coating his tone as his face contorted in mock indignation. “I see how it is.”

Suddenly, Daphne turned her gaze to look straight at them. 

George didn’t breathe, the air hitching in his throat as he closed his eyes and looked down, as if the ground could swallow him whole and expel him on his bed.

One or two seconds passed before he lifted his gaze again. Daphne was still looking towards the bush they were hiding behind, but her blue eyes were flickering between one point and another, as if she were trying to look for something, anything.

He let out a breath when she finally looked away, her sister calling for her attention. The bush was too thick for the girl to see them crouching. 

“That was close,” you said, an air of amusement in your tone. 

“Getting caught is funny for you, hm?” He rolled his eyes. 

“A bit.” You chuckled, your hand lifted towards your face, an eye closed as you pinched the air between your thumb and index.

“And you’re a prefect?” He poked your ribs. 

He started standing up, his legs happy to be relieved from their kneeling position, but you grabbed his sleeves and tugged him to the ground. He fell almost on top of you, and you tumbled over.

His hand had landed on each side of your body, his face on your hair.

A whiff of wild berry shampoo invaded his senses, making his heart falter. His breath caught, and for a second, he forgot how to breathe.

You were frozen too; for once, he was glad he couldn’t see your face right now, or he would have died of embarrassment at how loud he had sniffed your hair. It was just that the smell was so nice and delicious that he couldn’t help himself.

“Let’s go grab something to eat,” you said promptly.

He composed himself and quickly put some distance between you two. “Uh, yeah.”

You took the hand he offered and stood up. “We still need to plan how to ambush Astoria.”

He rolled his eyes.

***

The water falling into the bath and filling it quickly was the only sound one could hear around the prefects’ bathroom. The scent of roses whirled through the room as you dumped the whole contents of the aromatic bottle onto the water.

George watched you rummaging, pacing back and forth with his feet dipped in the bath. He had a handful of Chocolate Cauldrons he had stolen from your bag in his hand and was eating them slowly, enjoying the creamy flavour of the caramel and liquor mixing.

It was the same taste he had felt on your mouth when you kissed him right before disappearing with Nessa, Gabriel and Heidi to go to class.

Between the day of your previous date and now, you both had gotten mildly used to greeting each other with a little kiss. It wasn’t something either of you did super conscious about it; it was just the natural progression of your fake relationship blooming into a full performance.

They were acting like a real couple should. As agreed upon. 

And even beyond that, George can say with much confidence that you have become one of his most trusted friends. There was a sort of aura in you that made him completely lower his guard.

You had managed to unearth things about him that only his twin knew and even things Fred didn't even know.

“We must make a plan," you said as you finally started taking off your Mary Janes and socks. “To push Nessa towards Daphne.”

“I’ve never matchmade anyone,” he said, plopping another cauldron on his mouth before offering you the rest.

“You thief." You rolled your eyes as you accepted your own sweets. “I’ve never played Cupid either! This is exciting.”

“You’ve never been a matchmaker?" he asked, raising a brow. “We’re fu—” You widened your eyes at him, a murderous look on them, so he corrected himself. “We’re doomed.” 

“No, if we put in effort, we can do anything!”

He tilted his head at your enthusiasm. “Okay, genius, how do we start?”

You dipped your feet in the water and sat elbow to elbow with him, so close you were almost touching each other.

“We know that Daphne loves Astoria,” you said, crossing your arms. “And we also know Astoria is not like those ugly Slytherins. So, the first thing we need to do is get close to her.”

“How?” he asked, resting back on his palms.

His blue eyes looked into yours, and he saw the common flickering of your pupils that indicated you were thinking of something, coming up with solutions.

“Heidi is part of the Hogwarts Orchestra,” you muttered, touching your chin. “She plays the transverse flute.”

George snorted. “Heidi plays the flute?” and when you lifted a brow, he quickly added. “Sorry, I find it unearthly.”

“Professor Flitwick roped Astoria to play the violin this year.” You smiled wickedly, then clapped your hands. “Heidi said that there are some open positions.”

“You play an instrument?” George asked as he popped one bubble that formed on the surface of the water with his foot.

Then your smile grew bigger. “Didn’t you say you used to play the piano?”

George looked at you, squinting his eyes as he examined the way your eyes shone with calculated, most bewitching mischief. “I did.”

“Perfect!” you said loudly. “You’ll join the orchestra, and I’ll be your most loyal admirer.”

He blinked. “I will not join the choir.”

“Yes, you will. And it is not a choir.”

You grabbed his hands and got them close, snuggling them against your chest. Your eyes were gleaming like rare jewels, and your lips were pursed. The sigh was devastating, rendering him completely speechless.

With sad puppy eyes, you spoke again. “Please?”

It was a breathy, low mumble, like honey dripping out of your moist lips.

“Okay.”

You smiled brightly again, throwing yourself at him and barely escaping the fate of falling into the water. “You’re the best!”

You gave him a big, sloppy smooch that left his lips hurting from the impact.

“You'd better be in all practices,” he grumbled, holding you still by the waist.

So, that was what Fred meant when he said he wouldn’t know the true extent of manipulation until he had a girlfriend.

He just never believed a fake girlfriend could have that power over him. 

***

Turns out, befriending Astoria had been as easy as holding a baby. Careful at first, but once you got away from the initial fear, it was smooth.

What hadn’t been easy had been playing the piano for Flitwick.

George was out of shape; his fingers had to relearn how to position themselves, how to be quick and precise, and how to recognise the keys and press the correct ones. Reading the music sheets hadn’t been so hard, but reading and playing at the same time had been something that took time to get the hang of.

He had learnt how to play the piano when he was very young, and one of their wizard neighbours had suggested their parents enrol him and Fred in a local Muggle after-school academy. Their mother had hesitated, but after they tried to make Ron an unknown participant in the Unbreakable Vow (Oops), she gave up and practically threw them into the academy.

Naturally, they had wanted to be together, but the academy had a strict rule of separating twins, something about developing their personalities away from each other. Fred went to sports, and George wandered through many departments.

He stumbled upon the music department by chance; he was supposed to be heading towards the electronics department when he got lost and ended up in a piano lesson where the teacher mistook him for a new student.

He continued going to the academy until he had to go to Hogwarts, and much time had passed since he last played the piano or any instrument. He was only relearning everything so you would get close to Astoria and Daphne. 

“Do your hands still hurt?” You asked, grabbing his hands and massaging them softly with your fingers.

“A bit,” he said.

“Use a heating pad before coming here,” Astoria said as she tucked away her violin.

You turned to look at her, the flower earrings that he had knitted himself to give to you during your monthiversary moving alongside your head. “Oh, we will do that.” You smiled kindly at her.

She blushed before quickly shutting the violin case. “It helped me when I was starting, too.”

“Thank you for the suggestion," you beamed at her.

George stared back at his hand, still in yours, and he blushed when he realised you weren’t massaging anymore but rather just rubbing his palms and fingers absentmindedly as you looked at Astoria.

Before the Slytherin girl could turn away, you called her name, stopping her in her tracks. Your gaze flickered towards him for a second, as if you were searching for courage inside him. And he nodded once.

He didn’t know what you were planning to do, but it had to do with the matchmaking plan.

“Would you hang out with us after practice?” you said timidly, lashes fluttering in that way that made everybody agree with you.

Astoria looked at you with a relaxed expression, but her eyes were trying to see if your question was genuine or something else. “I was going to study with my sister,” she said politely, a small, gentle smile on her face.

“Oh, Heidi and I were really looking forward to hanging out with you.”

You didn’t pout, like he knew you wanted to, but you looked a bit dejected. And the girl in front of them must have seen it too because a small frown appeared on her face, surprise mixed with a bit of hope.

George didn’t know her that much; he only saw her during practice, but he had been able to gather some information regarding her while talking with their other bandmates and seeing her during rehearsals.

She was quiet. Not quiet timid, but quiet in the calm and collected sense.

His first impression of her was that she looked like all the other snotty Slytherins, prone to sneering and always looking down their noses. But Astoria was soft-spoken, never raising her voice like many others did, never speaking when not addressed, and never stuttering mid-sentence.

She knew what to say when a bandmate suddenly felt like what they were doing was not good enough and never, ever brought blood into the conversation, even when in close contact with a Muggleborn.  

Astoria was nice, he conceded.

“Daphne and I can study later,” Astoria said slowly. She bit her lip before a soft smile relaxed her features. “What were you planning on doing?”

***

Daphne Greengrass was very protective of her sister.

You and George had picked it as soon as Astoria was out of practice and following the three of you towards the Hufflepuff common room. And Daphne wasn’t happy about strangers whisking her sister away from her watchful gaze.

As soon as the younger sister had sent the word to her older sister that she would be skipping the study session to hang out in the Hufflepuff House, she had fled towards the barrels’ door in front of the fruit basket painting.

So they had no other option but to let her in, much to your pleasure and to George’s exasperation.

You had kicked him on the shin when he had dared to roll his eyes at Daphne’s dramatic overprotection of his sister.

“I claim compensation; that hurt a lot,” he whined while rubbing the spot.

“Don’t be a meanie,” you uttered, staring at Daphne having a stiff conversation with Heidi and Nessa, sitting very close to her sister. “Remember the plan.”

“What plan?” Gabriel said, coming out from behind the love seat you two were sitting in.

Both of you jumped at that before you grabbed a cushion and bit him square in the face. “None of your business, Truman.”

“Why are the Greengrasses here?” he asked.

“Your best friend is very friendly,” George answered.

“Ah, yes. But I think there’s a fine line between being friendly and trying to have a million friends.” Gabriel patted your shoulder before sitting beside Heidi and hugging her shoulders with his arm.

“Get off of me, you filthy little creature.” Heidi pushed him away.

George turned to Nessa, who was quickly gathering her tarot cards the same way she did the first time he himself had met her. He nudged you, and you stopped trying to get Gabriel and Heidi from fighting for the third time this day.

“Do you want a quick tarot reading?” Nessa asked the two girls.

She earned a smile and a yes from Astoria.

You quickly slid from the armrest of the loveseat to his legs, surrounding his shoulders with one arm, before quickly whispering in his ear. “Bet she will interpret something that will change her perspective in one way or another.”

“A subconscious change of targets, you say?” he asked, then nodded. “Will she really stop her crushing on Rosie if the cards say she should?”

You rested your cheek against his crown and nodded. “Yup.”

He felt more than saw the big smile on your face; you quickly hid it by looking at him. Your eyes forming a brilliant, wicked idea.

“Do you know how to switch cards with others?” You whispered really low, so low he could barely make out the words you said.

“Yes,” he whispered. “Do you want me to switch the cards?”

Your head bobbed in agreement. “Do The High Priestess and The Lover.”

For a moment, George looked at Nessa, who was reading Astoria’s fate, and saw how the girl was looking at it with rapt attention. And how, despite the scowl on her face, Daphne seemed to be realising none of them had wanted to bully her baby sister.

He hesitated. “Are you sure?”

"Yes.” Your fingers played with a loose thread on his coat. “I’d rather play with fate than see Roselanna crushing Nessa under her foot.”

“And are you sure doing so won’t affect Nessa?”

After so many evenings spent with you and your friends, he had come to view them as their friends-in-law. He didn’t want to intentionally hurt her if Daphne turned out to be exactly like every other Slytherin.

“They had not once called you names,” you mumbled, a hand threading through his hair. “And everybody knows that Gabriel is Muggleborn. They don’t care.”

George sighed, resting his head against your chest. “Okay.”

They watched as Nessa wrapped up Astoria’s lecture, and then they both turned to look at Daphne, who reluctantly agreed.

“Make it quick,” she said sharply.

“Daphne doesn’t believe in tarot," her sister said apologetically.

The moment Nessa started to shuffle the cards, George flicked his wand, a barely perceptible movement that was covered by the armrest and your back. The Lovers fell onto the table. Then, as she kept shuffling, another one fell due to his magic, the High Priestess.

You placed a hand on his cheek and rubbed it with your thumb, leaving a kiss on his forehead. “Having you as a boyfriend is kind of useful,” you giggled.

George breathed in your scent as Nessa began speaking, her voice carrying a sort of eerily happy tone.

“Oh, you’re not going to like this,” she said, beaming at Daphne. “You already met the person you will fall in love with.”

There was a beat of silence before she grabbed The Lovers.

“But you don’t take them seriously.” She clapped her hands together. “And that’s going to be a problem for you.”

George snorted and quickly buried his face in your chest as the big smile threatened to break the mystic atmosphere that Nessa was trying hard to preserve. You patted him on the back, trying to snap him out of his amusement.

“What does that mean?” Daphne replied, arms crossing.

“Wouldn’t you like to know?” Nessa replied, a brow lifted.

But then she gathered the cards, and just as quickly as it started, it finished.

“It’s a passing ritual,” George said to Daphne for the first time since she arrived. “It’s their way of welcoming you into the group.”

You nodded, your hand playing with the end of your hair. “Yes, Nessa gave George a Tarot reading, too.”

“Have you figured out the meaning yet, George?” Nessa asked.

He tilted his head, then shook it. “To be honest, I forgot what you said to me during the reading.”

“Oh, I remember,” you said, looking at him, your eyes shining as you remembered it with a gleeful expression. “You were terrified.”

“I didn't; I was mature and collected,” he scoffed, hitting your thigh softly.

“Mature and collected? Please, you looked like you were about to be devoured by wolves.”

“I did not.”

“Yes, you did.”

If it weren’t because Astoria suddenly interrupted them, they would still be in their own bubble. Playfully arguing was something they had started doing recently.

“Oh, you two are a lovely couple.” She smiled. “You fit so well together.”

And that had been enough to make them shyly look away.

Because she was right; you both fit well.

Chapter One - Bad Thing

Chapter Two - Struck

Chapter Three - The Devil Wears Lace

Chapter Four - She Knows It

Chater Five - Anxiety

Chapter Six - Shackles

Chapter Seven - Like You Mean It

Chapter Eight - Nearly Break

Chapter Nine - Either Way

Chapter Ten - The Letter

Chapter Eleven - Gossip

“Ugh,” Natasha groans. “Could you creeps stop looking at her like she’s something to eat? It’s gross. She’s our friend. Our teammate.” 

Jake opens his mouth, lips already curled into his usual smirk, but Natasha puts a hand up to stop him. 

“And she’s barely younger than us, so don’t say anything weird about her age.” 

Jake rolls his eyes and lifts his beer. “Wasn’t gonna…” 

There’s a beat of silence as Bob lets his eyes drift back to you, drinking in the way you’re leaning against the bar. Elbow propped, hip cocked, one boot crossed over the other, and your head tipped just slightly as you talk to the dark-haired stranger beside you. 

“Wait,” Mickey leans forward, squinting—very unsubtly—across the bar. “Is that her date?” 

Natasha nods. “Think so. Looks like the guy she showed me.” 

Bob’s head snaps toward her, dark blue eyes wide. “She’s on a date?” 

Mickey giggles. Reuben snorts. Even Bradley has to hide a laugh behind his beer. 

“Alright,” Jake says, slapping a hand on the table in mock outrage. “Who didn’t tell Bob?” 

Natasha shoots him a flat look before turning back to Bob. “Didn’t you hear us talking about it at lunch? She met some guy on Hinge or something.” 

“Said she was gonna go home with him and let him keep her up all night,” Jake adds with a wicked grin. “Y’know, since we’re starting night rides next week—figured she’d get used to staying up late.” 

“I was intentionally leaving that part out,” Nat says, glaring at Jake. “But thanks for clearing it all up, Bagman.” 

Jake tips his beer toward her. “Anytime.” 

Bob’s jaw twitches. His teeth are clenched so tight it hurts, but he can’t relax—not with that guy’s hand on your hip, fingers digging into the soft fabric like he has some right to touch you. Like you belong to him. 

Which you don’t. You don’t belong to anyone. 

At least, that’s what Bob has to keep telling himself. 

“Easy, Floyd,” Bradley mutters beside him. “You keep staring like that, the poor guy’s gonna catch fire.” 

Bob doesn’t respond. He can’t. His voice is gone, breath caught somewhere in his throat. He’s too focused on your smile—how it flickers, just a little off. Not quite like the one you wear with them. With him. 

It shouldn’t matter. He shouldn’t care whether or not you’re giving that stranger the same bright smile or soft laugh you always give him. Because it’s none of his business. 

Who you date and what you do—none of it is his business. You’re allowed to wear tiny dresses, flirt with strangers, and laugh at guys who think they’re clever. 

It shouldn’t matter. 

But it does. 

God, it fucking matters—way more than it should. 

Because for the first time in weeks, you’re not looking at him. You’re looking at... that guy. 

And even though he tells himself—repeatedly, a thousand times a day—not to enjoy being the centre of your attention... he does. 

He lives for it. 

“You know,” Reuben says slowly, lips curled into the tiniest smirk, “this wouldn’t even be happening if you’d sack up and—” 

“Payback,” Natasha warns. “Don’t.” 

“What?” He raises both hands in mock innocence. “All I’m trying to say is, if he likes her that much, he should just ask her out. She’s clearly into him. We all know it.” 

Bob’s eyes flick between you and Reuben, his brows furrowed slightly as his thoughts tug in opposite directions. On one hand, yeah, Reuben’s logic makes perfect sense. Bob’s not blind—he sees the way you look at him. The way your face lights up when you talk to him, the quiet smile you wear just for him, the blush you try to hide when he says something low and teasing. 

But on the other hand? He just can’t do it. You’re young—too young. And he’s... well, he’s not old, but he’s older. It’s not a huge age gap, not really, but that paired with how drop-dead gorgeous you are? It’s enough to make him feel like a— 

“Nothin’ wrong with being a cradle-snatcher,” Jake chimes in, eyes sparkling as he lifts his beer. 

Bradley chuckles quietly. “Jesus, Hangman. You’re on fire tonight.” 

“Why thank you, Rooster,” Jake replies smoothly. 

Natasha rolls her eyes and downs the rest of her beer in one long swig, looking thoroughly done with all of them. 

The conversation shifts then—to next week’s night ops training—but Bob barely hears it. The pounding of his pulse is too loud, drowning everything out. And he can’t stop watching you. 

The way your hands move when you talk, how your dress sways as you shift your weight, the gentle curve of your smile. Even over the music and chatter, he swears he can hear your laughter—if he strains. 

And it kills him. Because he’s not the one making you laugh tonight. 

- 

“Wanna get out of here?” Ryan asks, his voice low in your ear, breath warm against your neck. 

But not in a sexy way. Not in the way that sends goosebumps down your arms or makes your skin prickle with anticipation. It just makes you feel warm—too warm—in the packed, overheated bar. 

Honestly, for the last forty-five minutes, while Ryan has been telling you all about his super interesting job—he's a carpenter, it’s not that interesting—you’ve been seriously considering hopping behind the bar to help Penny and Jimmy. 

“It’s barely nine,” you say, forcing a polite smile as you tilt your head. 

“Yeah,” he chuckles, scratching the back of his neck. “But I’ve got to be at work by six tomorrow morning, so I figured if we ducked out now, we could... you know, mess around a bit before bed.” 

The way he says it nearly makes you laugh. He sounds like a teenager trying to sneak in some action before curfew. 

“Look,” you sigh, laying a hand on his knee, “this has been fun, but I’m just not your girl. And honestly? I was kinda hoping this would distract me from someone else, but... you’re not him. I’m sorry. It’s not your fault—this one’s on me. But, uh... good luck!” 

He looks completely flabbergasted. Like the blank stare you’ve worn for most of the evening—or the way your gaze kept drifting across the bar toward someone else—wasn’t a hint. God, he might be even dumber than you thought. 

You slip off the barstool with a clipped smile, wishing you looked more sincere, but your body is already moving toward where you really want to be—where your squad is. 

Where Bob is. 

You’re just about to head for the booth when your eye catches on Penny—and the very large crowd waiting to be served. 

“Damn it,” you sigh, pivoting sharply and hurrying around the bar. 

You slip through the swinging wooden doors behind the bar and fall in beside Penny, listening closely to the man ordering drinks—his voice raised over the music and chatter. Without hesitation, you start grabbing clean glasses, catching Penny off guard as you begin pouring pints of golden beer. 

“Sorry,” you say with a soft laugh. “I saw the crowd and couldn’t just let you suffer.” 

She rolls her eyes but smiles. “I’d tell you to scram if you weren’t so gorgeous—and a literal lifesaver.” 

You give her a cheeky wink before lining up the beers on a tray for the man. Penny swipes his card, and he’s gone in half the time. Then the next patron steps up, and you keep working smoothly, moving effortlessly behind the bar and easing the pressure. 

Eventually, the line dies down, and Penny takes full advantage of your presence by sending Jimmy out back for more stock. You stay behind the bar while she ducks off to collect empties, keeping yourself busy wiping benches, refilling lime wedges, and unloading the freshly washed glasses. 

You’re so focused on scrubbing at a particularly stubborn stain on the bar top that you don’t notice someone approach—someone you usually have a hard time not noticing. 

“You don’t work here,” Bob says, voice light, lips twitching at the corners. 

You glance up, your heart immediately jumping into overdrive. “I could,” you say, straightening. “Maybe I should quit the Navy. Bartending might be my true calling.” 

He chuckles. “You’re one of the best fighter pilots in the country, and you think slinging drinks is your destiny?” 

You shrug, leaning forward casually—knowing exactly what you’re doing. His eyes flick down to your chest for a split second before snapping back up, fast enough to pretend it didn’t happen. 

“Hey, don’t knock it. This job is harder than it looks.” 

“Oh, I don’t doubt that,” he says softly, watching with quiet intensity as you pour him a pint of cherry soda—without him even needing to ask. 

You slide it over with a small smile. “What do you think? I’m a pretty good bartender, huh?” 

His cheeks tint pink, the flush dusting across his nose. “Yeah. I think you make a very pretty bartender.” 

You smirk. “Was that a compliment, Lieutenant?” 

He rolls his eyes and drops a crumpled ten onto the bar like it might save him from saying more. 

You shake your head. “Don’t worry, it’s on the house.” 

“You sure you’ve got that kind of authority?” he teases. 

“Penny said our drinks are free tonight,” you reply, smug. “Payment for being an excellent bartender.” 

“And for filling the tip jar faster than I’ve ever seen,” Penny chimes in as she reappears, arms full of empty glasses. 

Your cheeks heat as Bob’s gaze flicks toward the overflowing jar. 

“Wow,” he chuckles softly. 

You flick your hair dramatically and bat your lashes. “Perks of being a pretty bartender, I guess.” 

Then you turn around and bend over to grab something from the fridge—very aware of the effect—and sure enough, Bob promptly chokes on his soda. He coughs, his whole face turning red as he pounds a fist against his chest. 

“Jesus,” he mutters under his breath, “more like consequences of a skirt that short.” 

You snap upright, brows lifting and eyes gleaming with amusement. “Bob Floyd, did you just comment on the length of my skirt?” 

He blinks fast. “No.” 

You tilt your head, fighting a grin. “You sure? Because the colour in your cheeks looks a little guilty to me.” 

He straightens up, his usual walls clicking into place like armour. “Didn’t say anything.” 

You roll your eyes and plant both hands on the bar, leaning forward just enough to make him squirm. “Bob, I’m not a baby. And I’m not some virginal schoolgirl, either. You’re not going to hell just for flirting with me.” You pause, letting your gaze hold his. “Hell, if you did it more often, I might take you to heaven.” 

His throat bobs as he swallows hard, and you see the want flicker in his eyes—just before he reins it back in. 

“But if the age gap is that big of a deal to you—which, for the record, is barely anything—then maybe stop looking at me like you’re picturing me naked.” Your voice drops. “Mixed signals can really confuse a girl.” 

You hear the softest laugh from Penny, but your eyes stay locked on Bob’s—daring him to look down again, to do something other than walk away. 

He clears his throat. “Thanks for the drink.” 

Then he turns and walks away, heading straight back to the booth where all your friends are—acting like they haven’t been watching, but you know better. They’re all too nosy for their own good. 

You sigh heavily. “Men. Fucking impossible.” 

Penny laughs again, resting a hand on your shoulder. “Fighter pilots, actually. They’re a very special breed of difficult.” 

“Hey,” you giggle. “I am a fighter pilot.” 

She nods, smirking. “And there’s not a doubt in my mind how difficult you’re makin’ life for that boy right now.” 

You press your lips together and give her a flat look—because yeah… she’s not wrong. 

After all, why else bring a guy to the bar you knew your friends would be at—you knew he would be at? Why wear a dress this short? And why spend half the night with your eyes locked on him, just wishing he’d walk over and interrupt your lousy date? 

- 

Graveyard shift. Bat hours. Vampire runs. Ghost hops. Night rides. 

Whatever you want to call it—the squad hates night ops. 

It’s dark, it’s eerie, and your NVGs fog up if you so much as breathe wrong. Fatigue hits harder, the skeleton crew slows everything down, and visibility is shot—so you’re flying blind, trusting your radar and your WSO to keep you alive. 

“You know what’s great about night ops?” Mickey says, head tipped back in his chair. “Nothing. Not the dark, not the sleep deprivation, not the existential dread at two a.m. while staring into the black void wondering if your wingman ghosted you or just changed frequency.” 

You roll your eyes and take a sip of coffee. 

“It’s night one, Fanboy,” Natasha mutters beside you. “We still have four weeks of this. Are you going to complain the whole time?” 

Mickey shrugs. “Yeah. Probably.” 

“Did Mav piss Cyclone off or something?” Reuben asks. 

You shake your head. “Nah. He heard there might be a mission coming up with night flying. Figured we should get ahead of it.” 

“Or he just hates us,” Javy sighs, eyes half-shut. 

Natasha snorts. “Did you sleep at all today, Coyote?” 

“Nope,” he grumbles, shifting a glare toward Jake. “Someone had his whale noises up too loud and bit my head off when I told him to turn it down.” 

Jake shoots him a look. “They help me sleep. If you’ve got a problem, buy some earplugs.” 

“Damn,” you mutter. “Glad you’re not my wingman tonight, Coyote.” 

He shifts his glare your way and flips you off lazily before letting his eyes shut completely. 

“So, Vex,” Jake says, twisting in his seat toward you, “never did hear how that date went the other night.” 

You arch a brow. “Oh, so now I have to report back on all my dates?” 

Jake’s lips twitch, his gaze flicking toward Bob. “Dates? As in plural? Just how many are we talking here?” 

“That’s none of your business,” you reply, taking another sip of coffee. 

There’s a brief pause, and his eyes narrow—seeing through you a little too easily. “The date tanked?” 

Natasha snorts and you quickly elbow her in the side. 

“Yes,” you mutter. “It sucked. He was boring. And no, I didn’t get laid. So yes, I’m in a less-than-favourable mood.” 

Jake’s smirk turns wicked. “Sweetheart, if getting laid is what you need, you only have to ask.” 

Your brows shoot up. “That so?” 

He nods. 

You turn to Javy, who’s about one breath away from snoring. “Coyote.” 

His eyes snap open. “Huh?” 

“Want to fuck me?” 

He startles—eyes wide, mouth dropping open. “I—uh, what?” 

Laughter rumbles through the room—everyone giggling softly at poor, confused Javy. 

Well... almost everyone. 

Bob isn’t laughing. In fact, he’s not even smiling, or looking your way. His eyes are glued to his phone—even though you can see the screen is blank. 

Which means he’s definitely listening. 

You shift in your chair and give Natasha a sidelong smirk. Her brow furrows slightly—a silent question about what you’re up to—but she nods anyway, signalling that she’ll follow your lead no matter where it goes. 

“Does anyone know if Cyclone’s single?” you ask, voice light and dripping with faux innocence. 

Mickey’s eyes go wide. “Admiral Simpson?” 

You nod, as if it’s the most obvious thing in the world. “Yeah. He’s hot.” 

“Agreed,” Natasha says—and from the way her mouth curves, she’s not just playing along. She definitely agrees. 

“Isn’t he married?” Reuben asks. 

Javy frowns, still half-asleep but clearly paying attention now. “Nah, I think they divorced.” 

“So,” you say slowly, “what I’m hearing is... he’s single?” 

Bradley’s gaze flicks to Bob—just for a second—before settling back on you, reading you like a damn open book. “Bit old for you, isn’t he, Vex?” 

You shrug with a smile. “Not at all. I like older men. More experience.” 

Out of the corner of your eye, you catch the way Bob shifts in his seat—just slightly, but it’s enough. He’s not looking at you, but the tips of his ears have turned pink, and his jaw is locked tight as he keeps his eyes on his phone. Still blank. 

“I swear he’s still married,” Mickey says, clearly trying to get this train back on the rails. 

“Yeah,” Reuben adds. “Didn’t they do couples counselling?” 

“They did,” Maverick says, breezing into the room like the punchline to your joke. “Didn’t stick. So yes, he’s single.” He pauses in front of you, green eyes sparkling with amusement. “But I’m not sure how he feels about dating subordinates. Want me to find out?” 

You match his smirk with one of your own, sitting up a little straighter as you meet his gaze. “How generous of you, Captain. That would be great.” 

He chuckles, shaking his head as he moves to the front of the room and sets a stack of papers down on the desk. “Alright, aviators,” he says. “Welcome to night ops.” 

After an hour-long briefing and way too many questions about why you’re all stuck on night training, Maverick orders everyone to get ready for the first hop. You’re on deck with Jake, Natasha, and, of course... Bob. 

The four of you ride in silence across the flight line, packed into one of the motorised carts as Maverick drives you from the squadron building to the hangar. There’s a low buzz of anticipation in the air, but no one says much. It’s late, and everyone is focusing on their own little preflight rituals. 

Once you reach the hangar, the ground crew directs you toward the night ops staging area where your NVGs and gear are laid out. You’ve done enough of these late-night flights to know the drill, so you join the others in wordlessly collecting your kit and starting to suit up. 

By the time you make it out onto the tarmac, your jets are already prepped and the crew chiefs are finishing up their walk-arounds. You head over to your jet, nodding to the plane captain before starting your own pre-flight check—walking the length of the fuselage, scanning for anything off, running a practiced eye over control surfaces, landing gear, intakes. It’s second nature by now, but you don’t cut corners. Especially not in the dark. 

Once you’re satisfied, you turn to face the runway and pull your helmet on, checking the vision through your NVGs. It’s blurry—just enough to make you squint. The image is skewed, the edges fuzzy, crawling inward like shadows that shouldn’t be there. 

You mutter something sharp under your breath, reaching up to adjust the settings yourself when— 

“Don’t move.” The voice is low. Steady. Too close. 

You freeze instinctively as Bob steps in—right into your space, like you’re the only two souls on the glowing stretch of tarmac. His gloved hand finds the side of your helmet, fingers sliding into place with steady control. It should feel clinical—routine—but it doesn’t. It burns. Even through the goddamn helmet. 

“I can fix it,” he murmurs, eyes on your goggles, not your face. “Tilt your chin up.” 

You obey—barely—and he leans in, his body almost touching to yours. One hand on your cheek-plate now, the other carefully turning the tiny focus dial above your temple. You can feel his breath against your skin, warm and shallow, and it sends a pulse through your ribs that you’re trying desperately not to show. 

“Didn't this happen last time?” he asks, the corner of his lips twitching. “You jam the strap too tight.” 

“I like it snug,” you mutter, not trusting your voice with anything flirtier. Not when he’s this close. 

Bob hums, low in his throat. “Of course you do.” 

Your heart stutters. 

He adjusts something with a flick of his thumb—the pad of it grazing down along the side of your face, slow and careful. Like he's memorising the shape of you under the gear. Your jaw flexes. 

“You always get this close when you’re adjusting gear?” you ask, pretending the heat in your voice is a joke and not a plea. 

Bob stills for a beat. Just one. 

Then—very softly—he whispers, “Only yours.” 

You swear your knees nearly give. 

But before you can breathe or speak or lean the half-inch forward that would start something you probably shouldn’t want this badly, Bob finishes the final adjustment and lets his hands fall. Slowly. Like it costs him something. 

“There,” he says, voice low but distant now. “Better?” 

You blink behind the goggles. “Yeah. Clear.” 

He lingers for half a second more—just enough to feel like maybe he wants to say something else—then turns and walks back toward the others without another word. 

You don’t move. You can’t. You’re just standing there in the dark, goggles perfectly focused, heart pounding like you’re about to hit Mach 1. 

It takes an embarrassingly long minute for you to remember how to function. To stop thinking about how close he’d just been—how you could smell him, feel his heat, and how, if you’d tipped your chin up and stretched just a little… you might’ve been able to kiss him. 

But then you hear Maverick shouting across the tarmac, calling for a final rundown before wheels-up. 

You shake your head, yank your helmet off, and join the others for a quick debrief before splitting up again and climbing into your jets. You settle in, strap your helmet back on, check your now perfectly focused NVGs, and run your usual internal systems check. 

Then—after the green light from ground crew—you’re in the sky. Squinting through your goggles, seeing the world saturated in green and grey, and wondering why the fuck no one has invented a better form of night vision yet. 

“Remind me again why we’re stuck on the graveyard shift,” Jake says, voice dry. “Because as much as I love flying blind through pitch-black nothingness, I’d really rather be in bed right now.” 

“You’re not blind, Hangman,” Maverick replies. “We’ve got one of the best WSOs in the world with us.” 

“Oh, good,” Jake says sarcastically. “My life’s in the hands of Phoenix’s baby on board.” 

You roll your eyes. “I’d rather have my life in Bob’s hands than yours, Bagman.” 

His chuckle crackles through the radio. “Yeah, I know where you’d like to have Bob’s hands. And it’s not holding your life.” 

Heat rushes to your cheeks, making the cockpit suddenly feel way too hot—your flight suit practically suffocating. 

“Hangman,” Maverick warns. “Be professional.” 

Jake scoffs. “Oh, so those two can eye-fuck each other all night long, but I can’t say the obvious out loud?” 

There’s a pause—a beat where you wonder if he’s finally pushed it too far—but then Maverick’s laughter cuts through. 

“Yes. Because they do it quietly.” 

Your eyes go wide and you almost—almost—fumble a right bank. “Mav!” 

More laughter crackles through the radio, Natasha now joining in. You’re just about to tell them all to stick it when the mood shifts, and the laughter stops. 

“Vex, check your two,” Maverick says, voice sharp and low. “Something’s throwing heat.” 

“Negative,” Bob cuts in. “Let me scan it first.” 

You hesitate, holding formation, but frustration flares under your skin. Did Bob really just override a direct order? 

“Confirming IR spike,” Bob says after a beat. “Something’s cooking down there, but it doesn’t match any known signature.” 

You glance down at the blur on your MFD. “I’ll break off, check it out.” 

“Wait. Don’t.” Bob’s voice is low but tense, edged with something more than caution. 

“Why?” you snap, anger prickling your chest. 

“I... I don’t like it,” he says. “It’s not worth the risk.” 

You grit your teeth and break off anyway, flying low and steady toward the suspicious heat signature. 

“I’m going to check it out, Mav,” you say, voice tight. “Hangman, got my six?” 

“Copy,” Jake replies. 

You bank left, staying quiet as you approach the stretch of uninhabited grassland. Your HUD flickers with the steady IR pulse—a dull orange glow against the dark terrain. Too concentrated for a campfire. Too controlled for a random burn. It’s creeping north—methodical. 

You drop lower when you spot flashing lights—fire crews moving with purpose, reflective gear flickering like stars in the NVG haze. This isn’t an accident. It’s a controlled burn. 

“Mav, why is there a fire in a training zone?” you ask. “Shouldn’t that be logged?” 

“It’s just brush management?” Maverick asks, sounding almost relieved. 

“Affirmative,” Jake replies before you can. 

“Copy. I’ll flag it with air traffic—looks like someone forgot to tell the rest of us.” 

You and Jake return to formation without issue. 

“Lucky it wasn’t Bigfoot, huh Bob?” Jake says, his smug grin practically audible. “Might’ve leapt right onto Vex’s jet and dragged her into the woods.” 

There’s no response, just the soft static of the open channel. 

Then Natasha mutters, “Don’t be a dick, Hangman. He was being cautious.” 

“Well, I’m sure she appreciates the concern,” Jake says. “But she’s not made of glass.” He waits for a retort—gets none—and chuckles. “And if she’d died out there, I would’ve avenged her. Dramatically.” 

“Hangman,” Maverick sighs. “That’s enough. Bob’s got better eyes than the rest of us tonight. Maybe don’t piss him off.” 

Still, nothing from Bob. You even crane your neck, catching sight of his and Natasha's jet—nothing but a shadow at your five o’clock. Like you could somehow see him in the cockpit, tensing his jaw or rolling his eyes at Jake’s jabs. 

Frustration simmers in your chest. You know he was just being cautious—or protective—but this is your job. He doesn’t get to tell you what you can and can’t do, especially when it’s a direct order from your CO. Even if you were dating, you wouldn’t let him boss you around—well, not outside of the bedroom, anyway. He can care. He can worry. But making it sound like you’re incapable? That’s what he just did. And it makes your skin crawl. 

The rest of the flight passes without incident, but the comms stay unusually quiet—even Jake gives up his teasing—and you’re still pissed by the time you’re back on the ground. 

You move through the post-flight motions with a frown on your face and your jaw locked tight. First, the ground crew helps you out of the jet and you do a quick walk-around. Then you ditch your night gear, knock out a maintenance report, and sit through a short debrief with Maverick before jumping in the cart back to the ready room. 

By the time you walk in, the others are already gone. You’re not sure if you were too caught up in your own grumpiness to notice them pass you on the way over, but you don’t bother asking. You’re still too busy being pissed. 

In fact, you’re so busy scowling at the coffee machine as it splutters out an espresso shot you know is going to taste like dirt that you don’t notice someone step up beside you. 

“I’m sorry,” Bob says, voice soft. “About what happened up there.” 

You jump—just slightly—then twist to face him, arms crossed tight over your chest. He's standing just a few feet away—helmet gone, flight suit half unzipped with the collar tugged open just enough to make your stomach flip. 

“I didn’t mean to undermine you.” 

“Sure felt like it,” you mutter. 

“I know.” His eyes finally lift to meet yours—midnight blue, heavy with regret and something else that makes your breath catch. “That’s why I’m apologising.” 

You turn back to the coffee machine, hoping the clatter and gurgle of the old machine will cover the sudden pounding of your heart. “Look, I get you were trying to be cautious, but Mav gave me a directive. You don’t get to override that just because your gut didn’t like it.” 

“I wasn’t thinking about you as a teammate back there,” he says quietly. “I was thinking—” 

“That I’m a little kid?” you snap, spinning to face him again. “Because whatever issue you have with my age, I need you to remember that I got here the same way you did. I worked my ass off to be the pilot I am today, and I don’t need someone second-guessing me just because they’re a little older. Especially when I know what I’m capable of.” 

His frown deepens. “No, it—it’s not that at all. I just—I didn’t see what it was, it was dark, and when you went low...” He drags a hand through his hair. “I couldn’t breathe. I thought, what if something happens to her?” 

You blink, startled by the raw edge in his voice. 

“If anything had gone wrong, it would’ve been my fault,” he says, softer now. “I’m the WSO. I should’ve seen it first.” 

“Bob,” you whisper, stepping closer before you can stop yourself. You can feel the heat radiating off him now. “If I ever end up in a bad spot, that’s on me. I trust you to have my back, always—but it’s my responsibility when I make a call. And I broke off because I knew you’d be there. You and Phoenix, Mav, Hangman... I knew I had the best team in the sky behind me.” 

His jaw clenches as his gaze drifts over your face, like he’s trying to memorise every inch. 

Then he moves closer—close enough for one of the clips on his suit to catch yours—and reaches out. His fingers hook gently into the edge of your suit’s hip pocket, tugging you forward just enough to make your breath hitch. 

“You’re not just my teammate,” he murmurs. “Don’t you get that? I care about you. More than a teammate. More than a friend. I—” 

“I don’t believe it,” a familiar voice cuts through the room. “The famous Dagger Squad stuck on the graveyard shift? What’d you do, lose another bet?” 

Bob startles, stepping quickly away from you with bright red cheeks, unnecessarily adjusting his glasses. 

You turn toward the door, ready to rip into whoever just decided to interrupt the closest you’ve ever gotten to Bob... when you realize who it is. It’s Trevor—an old friend from flight school and one of the newer instructors on NAS. You’ve been meaning to catch up with him, but being in an elite squadron doesn’t leave you much time for a social life. 

“Damn,” you say with a playful smile, “who let you in the building?” 

He steps fully into the room, wearing his signature shit-eating grin. “Vex,” he says, voice full of mock disbelief. “You’re still here? I figured Maverick would’ve canned your reckless ass by now.” 

Jake swivels in his chair to look at you. “So you’re a renowned little chaos gremlin? Good to know.” 

You roll your eyes and step toward your friend. “Guys, this is Trevor—or Grinder—I’ve known him since flight school. He gave me my callsign, actually.” 

Trevor snorts. “Technically, Admiral Prescott gave you your callsign. What exactly was it he said again? That you’re a living, breathing vexation who’s going to be the sole reason for his retirement?” 

Jake and Natasha giggle from across the room, and Trevor grins proudly. 

You narrow your eyes at him. “Want to tell my squad how you got yours?” 

He tips his head, brows raised. “Maybe I should get to know them first.” 

Then his eyes flick toward Jake—grinning, handsome, utterly clueless Jake. Yep. That’s the real reason Trevor decided to drop by your squadron building tonight, because he knew Jake ‘Hangman’ Seresin would be here. The very pilot he’s had a crush on for more months than you care to remember. He’s been bugging you for ages to introduce them, even though you told him—repeatedly—that you’re not sure Jake swings that way. He wasn’t deterred though; he said he’s happy to figure it out and see if he can negotiate if not. You just rolled your eyes. 

“So, Grinder,” Natasha says, “what do you do?” 

Trevor’s face lights up and he quickly launches into a long-winded explanation of his new role as a flight instructor. He walks toward her as he talks, inching closer to where Jake is seated not far from Natasha. 

You turn back to Bob, clearing your throat. “Sorry about him. He’s... a lot. But you were saying...?” 

He shakes his head, keeping his eyes fixed on the floor. “Nothing. It’s fine.” 

You frown. “It didn’t sound like nothing.” You take a slow step forward. “Didn’t feel like... nothing.” 

“It’s okay,” he says quickly, his eyes snapping up as he forces a tight smile. “We can talk later. Really, it’s fine.” 

You hesitate, wanting to push but knowing it’s no use now—those walls are well and truly back in place. 

“Okay,” you say, nodding once. “Later.” 

- 

Unfortunately, later never comes. 

You want to talk to him toward the end of the shift, but you’re both so exhausted after the first night that you can’t find the energy to push him for answers. So you let it go and head home. 

The next night, you’re on opposite hops, which means you don’t see him until the debrief in the early morning—when, once again, everyone is too wiped out to talk and just wants to wrap up and get home. 

The rest of the week slips by the same way. Every little thing keeps getting in the way of you and Bob actually talking. Even Thursday night, after a routine hop, when you’re both finally in the ready room and the moment couldn’t be more perfect—Trevor bursts in again, and Bob shuts down. 

When you finally leave base on Friday morning—glaring at the well-rested day-shifters on your way out like it’s their fault you’re dead inside—you make a promise to yourself. You’re going to talk to him this weekend. It doesn’t matter when or how or if you have to fake an emergency just to get five uninterrupted minutes. You’re going to do it. Because whatever weird, half-finished thing is hanging between you and Bob has been living rent-free in your head all week—and honestly, it’s starting to redecorate. 

“You sure you don’t mind?” Trevor asks, even though he’s already at your door with a duffel bag and a pillow. 

You roll your eyes. “Why would I mind?” 

He shrugs as he steps into your apartment. “I don’t know. Maybe you were planning to invite that gorgeous little blue-eyed lieutenant over.” He throws a cheeky wink over his shoulder. “You know, the one with the glasses. I’ve seen the way you look at him and—oof—does the man know what he’s in for? I mean, he looks at you just the same but—actually, come to think of it… why haven’t you screwed his brains out yet?” 

You shut your eyes and let out a deep sigh. When you open them again, Trevor is already sprawled across your three-seater couch like he owns the place. 

“First of all, he’s not little—you’re just freakishly tall—and secondly…” You step slowly toward the lounge, shoulders sagging in defeat. “He’s too good.” 

Trevor frowns. “Too good? Like… too good for you or—?” 

“That. And he’s respectful,” you say, flopping onto the end of the couch. “He’s got this thing about our age gap. It’s not a big one, but it’s… there, I guess. Maybe it’s also because we’re in the same squad.” 

Trevor watches you, eyes narrowed slightly, expression unreadable. 

“Wow,” he mutters. 

You frown. “What’s that supposed to mean?” 

He shrugs. “Just never took you for a quitter.” 

You rear back, incredulous. “A quitter?” 

“Yeah,” he says, tone cool and baiting as he casually searches for the TV remote. “I mean, if I was in love with a guy—which, you’re clearly in love with him—I wouldn’t stop until he had a restraining order against me.” 

You snort. “Yeah? Well, I like my job and my squad, so—” 

He lets out an exasperated sigh. “My God, Vex. Don’t take everything so literally. The man’s in love with you too. Just fucking go for it before your whole squad murders both of you for being whiny dumbasses.” 

He finds the remote and flicks the TV on, giving you a very pointed look—brows raised—before settling in and scrolling through streaming apps. 

And God, you hate to admit it, but maybe he’s right. Maybe instead of teasing Bob, you just need to go for it. Cut through the hesitation, stop him from overthinking, and make the damn decision for him. 

“Fine,” you say, standing up with purpose. “I’m going out tonight, by the way.” 

“Good,” he replies, not even glancing your way. “Just keep it down if you bring him home. He might look like an uptight officer, but I can tell that man fucks.” 

“Trev!” 

He chuckles. “What? I’m just saying.” 

You roll your eyes, cheeks burning, and storm off toward your room. 

Tonight, the squad has decided to go bowling. Everyone wanted to shake things up from the usual at The Hard Deck, and the only thing you could all agree on was bowling. 

Even though you hate the gross bowling shoes that have been worn in by a hundred other people—and the sticky holes on the balls after grubby little kids have been shoving their nasty fingers in them. 

But when Bob mentioned that he’s actually pretty good at bowling… well, how could you protest? 

Plus, it’s still short skirt weather—Bob’s favourite, as you’ve come to notice—and bowling in a tiny skirt feels like a fun, flirty little risk you’re more than willing to take. 

All in the name of science, of course. And your hypothesis? Bob doesn’t stand a chance. 

At 7PM, Natasha picks you up, shooting a very pointed look at the flowy little sundress you’re wearing under your denim jacket. But she doesn’t say a word. 

The drive to the bowling alley isn’t far, and soon you’re walking inside with Mickey and Reuben—who arrived around the same time. Jake, Bradley, Javy, and Bob are already there. They’ve got a lane, swapped into their shoes, and Jake is busy squeezing creative versions of everyone’s callsigns into the limited-character name slot. 

“Can’t you just be ‘Roster’?” he asks Bradley. 

Bradley frowns. “Can’t I just be Brad?” 

“Ugh,” Natasha groans. “No way. You’re not a Brad. Just put Roo.” 

Jake’s face lights up like he just solved the mystery of why the sky is blue. “Good one, Phoenix. Thanks.” 

“What am I?” she asks. 

“Phone,” Javy replies, deadpan. 

Natasha blinks. “Phone? As in P-H-O-N-E?” 

“Yep,” Bradley chuckles. 

“What the fuck, Bagman?” She steps up to the little tablet where he’s typing the names. “Move. You’re an idiot.” 

You stifle a laugh and turn to Mickey and Reuben. “Want to get shoes?” 

They both nod, and you head toward the main counter—though not without catching the way Bob’s eyes drop to your legs, his throat working on a swallow as you walk away. 

You grab your shoes and rejoin the group, flopping down beside Bob just close enough to make him squirm. Then you lean forward, swapping your Converse for the white, red, and blue striped Velcro bowling shoes. 

When you’re done, you stand up and put one foot out. “These shoes are hot. Might have to steal them.” 

“You know what,” Jake says with a smirk, “I think you’re just gorgeous enough to make ‘em work. What do you think, Bobby?” 

You glance down at the man sitting beside you. The poor guy who’s basically eye-level—thanks to these ridiculously low seats—with your ass. The man whose glasses are just a little foggy by the bridge of his nose as he breathes a bit faster than usual. His cheeks are pink, lips parted, and his eyes are so wide—and so blatantly glued to your short, short skirt—that you can barely keep from laughing. 

“Bob?” you ask, voice full of faux innocence. 

He clears his throat, blue eyes flicking up to your face. “Y-Yeah. It’s a nice dress.” 

There’s a beat—everyone turns to Bob—and then they all burst out laughing. Mickey curls over, Reuben tips his head back, Jake’s face twists up, and Natasha has to hold on to Bradley’s shoulder to keep from falling over. 

Bob blinks, brow furrowed, looking back at you as the red in his cheeks deepens. “He wasn’t—we weren’t talking about the dress… were we?” 

You shake your head, biting back a smile. And with the way he’s looking at you—wide-eyed, breathless, full of heat—you feel a spark of boldness rise up in your chest. 

You reach out, pinch his chin between your fingers, and tilt his face up toward you. Then you lean in, slow and teasing, until there’s barely an inch of air between you—your voice a soft whisper just for him. 

“Don’t worry, Bobby,” you murmur. “I wore this dress just for you.” 

Then you straighten up with a wicked smile, leaving him speechless, blushing, and absolutely wrecked. 

You resist the urge to look back—even with all the teasing going on behind you—as you browse the rack of bowling balls. You pick one, mostly for its colour rather than its weight, and carry it over to the ball return where the others have already placed theirs. 

“We ready?” Natasha asks, finally tapping ‘finish’ on the tablet. 

The names pop up on the screen above the lane: Roo, Hngmn, Pback, Fboy, Nix, Bob, and Vex. 

“Rooster,” she calls, “you’re up.” 

Bradley steps forward, grabs a ball, and promptly sends it flying into the gutter. That’s all it takes. One terrible bowl and the trash talk ignites—like gasoline on an open flame. 

“Jesus, Rooster,” Reuben says. “My nephew could bowl better than that blindfolded—and he’s six, man.” 

“Yeah, dude,” Mickey laughs, “you sure you should be flying jets with that kind of coordination?” 

Bradley flips them off before picking up the ball again, dialling in his focus and managing to knock over seven pins on his second try. 

“Alright, losers,” Jake says, swaggering up to the ball return. “Time to watch how a real man bowls.” 

Unfortunately for everyone, Jake is obnoxiously good at bowling and casually lands a spare without breaking a sweat. But then Reuben steps up and nails a strike, which earns him an impressive amount of booing. 

“What can I say?” he grins as he drops back into his seat. “I’m just too good.” 

Next up is Mickey, who insists he has a ‘signature move that never fails’. He then immediately wipes himself out and lands on his ass as the ball rolls tragically slow down the lane. It takes everyone a solid few minutes to recover from laughing. 

Natasha follows, and—with terrifying precision—manages to hit a spare, knocking down a seven-ten split like it’s nothing. 

“Alright, Baby,” Jake says, clapping a hand on Bob’s shoulder. “You ready to show us what you got?” 

Bob rolls his eyes and shrugs off Jake’s hand, the corner of his mouth twitching as he stands and heads for the ball return. You’re not sure if it’s intentional, but the jeans hugging his ass are outrageously distracting, and it takes a considerable amount of effort to look at the pins instead of his backside. 

By the time you finally manage to drag your eyes down the lane, the pins are already gone—swept clean away as Bob turns around with just the faintest hint of a smug grin. 

“Fuck,” Reuben mutters. “Bob can bowl.” 

“Oh, damn,” Mickey giggles. “Going after that is gonna suck.” 

You shoot him a look as you push out of your seat. “Thanks, Mick.” 

Bob doesn’t sit down right away—he steps over to the ball return, picks up your ball, and hands it to you with a soft smile. 

You take it, intentionally placing half a hand over his. “Thanks.” 

He nods once, then retreats to where the rest of the squad are waiting. 

“Need a little guidance, Vex?” Jake drawls, voice low and smug. “I give excellent hands-on instruction.” 

You roll your eyes, sliding your fingers into the holes. “I think I’d rather roll a gutter ball than have you breathing down my neck, Bagman. But thanks for the offer.” 

There's a chorus of oohs behind you as you turn back toward the lane. You step forward, swing the ball back, and—thunk—release it way too late. You’re honestly surprised it doesn’t leave a dent in the floor. It wobbles down the lane before veering off and sinking into the gutter just before the pins. 

“Damn,” you sigh, turning around with a sheepish grin. “I’m going to score lower than Rooster.” 

There are a few murmured insults about your lack of bowling skill, but you barely hear them. Bob catches your eye, his lips parted like he’s about to say something—offer to help maybe—but then he just... doesn’t. 

You watch him sink back in his seat as you pick up your ball and turn to the lane—this time with a bit more intention. 

Bending lower than strictly necessary, you wiggle your fingers into the ball’s grip and line up your shot with exaggerated focus. The hem of your dress shifts just enough to tease the tops of your thighs, and you don’t have to look to know Bob’s watching. You can feel it—the weight of his stare, the sudden shift in the air like gravity is a pressing down just little harder. 

You swing the ball back and release with a cleaner motion this time. It rolls straight—miraculously—and clips five pins on the right. Not bad. Not great. But right now, you're more interested in the reaction behind you. 

When you turn, Bob’s gaze jerks up like he’s been caught red-handed. His lips are parted, cheeks flushed, and he looks absolutely wrecked—like someone just knocked the wind out of him with a feather. 

Jake whistles low. “Pretty sure what I just witnessed is actually a crime in several states.” 

Reuben leans forward, eyes on Bob. “Oh, no. I think Bob is broken.” 

Mickey snorts. “Somebody reboot him.” 

Bob blinks hard, still dazed, and mumbles something under his breath. The rest of the squad continue laughing quietly, their eyes flicking between you and the flustered lieutenant—who is now very interested in the floor.  

You smile to yourself as you walk back, fighting the urge to smirk too hard as you drop into the seat beside him. 

“You know,” Bradley says as he steps up to the ball return, “if I’d known this game was about showing as much ass as possible, I would’ve worn my shortest skirt.” 

You roll your eyes and lean back, crossing your arms over your chest. “Please. You would've blinded everyone—and that’s probably the only way you'd have a shot at winning.” 

The squad bursts out laughing again while Bradley shoots you an unimpressed glare. Then he grabs his ball, turns toward the lane, and kicks off the next round. 

You stay quietly pressed to Bob’s side while the others take their turns. And honestly? You don’t care if the game ever continues. With his jean-clad thigh snug against your bare one, you could stay right here all night. 

And Bob doesn’t seem eager to move either. He stays close, legs aligned, knees brushing, arm grazing yours—his warmth wrapped around you like your favourite blanket. 

You’re seconds away from resting your head on his shoulder when Mickey pipes up, announcing that it’s Bob’s turn. He shifts slowly, giving you a soft smile as he stands and walks toward the ball return. 

This time, instead of watching his ass, your eyes track his hands. 

You’ve always had a thing for hands—especially Bob’s. They’re just... really nice hands. Big and steady, with long fingers that look like they could touch you in ways that would rewrite your entire understanding of pleasure. You’ve imagined those hands everywhere—ghosting over your skin, gripping your thighs, digging bruises into your hips, clawing down your back. 

You’ve thought about them more than what could ever be considered healthy. You could write poetry about those hands. Recite sonnets. Start a religion. 

And when those fingers sink into the bowling ball holes? 

Well, fuck. There’s nothing PG about this game—not when your brain is spiralling into fantasies about all the downright filthy ways that Bob Floyd could ruin you. 

“Hey,” Javy nudges your shoulder, knocking you out of your Bob-induced daydream. “It’s your turn, dude.” 

You blink, shaking your head and hoping your blush isn’t as obvious as it feels as you push out of your chair and walk up toward where Bob is. 

“Do you—uh, do you want some help?” he asks, holding your bowling ball in his hands. 

You fight the grin threatening to break across your face, nodding. “Sure.” 

“Hey!” Jake calls from behind you. “I offered first.” 

Reuben snorts. “Yeah, but she doesn’t want to bone you, does she?” 

Both you and Bob ignore them. You take the ball from his hand and move up to the lane, slipping your fingers into the holes and holding it at your chest. 

“Okay, coach,” you say with a small smirk. “Tell me what to do.” 

“Alright, here,” he says, voice barely above a whisper as he reaches out and gently takes your wrists. 

His touch is light, reverent, and it makes your breath catch. He adjusts your hands around the ball, slow and precise, like he’s memorising the shape of you. How warm you are. The way you respond so eagerly to his touch. 

“Fingers like this,” he murmurs. “You want a solid grip. Not too tight.” 

Your heart stutters. His hands are big—warm and rough in the best way—and they settle over yours like they were made to. When he steps closer to correct your stance, his chest brushes your back, and you feel everything. The press of him. The tension in his thighs. The tremble in his exhale. 

“Now,” he says, gently guiding your arm, “swing back like this—smooth, steady…” 

You try to follow, but it’s hard to focus when his hands slide down to your hips, positioning them with the lightest squeeze. You swear he groans under his breath—just barely audible, like he’s suffering. 

“That’s… yeah. Perfect.” 

He freezes. 

You don’t move. Neither does he. His hands are still on your hips, his breath coming faster now, his body just slightly more rigid. 

And then you feel it. 

Oh. 

Oh. 

You shift your hips—just a fraction—and he instantly jerks back like he’s been electrocuted. 

“Shit—uh, yeah, you—you got it. You’ll do great,” he stammers, voice suddenly strangled and two octaves higher. “I—uh—I’ve got to—bathroom. Real quick.” 

You turn just in time to see him rush off, pink in the ears, tripping slightly over a chair leg. 

“Was it something I said?” you call after him sweetly. 

Jake cackles from the bench. “Nah, I think you just short-circuited the poor guy.” 

Natasha leans forward, watching Bob disappear down the hallway. “Oh no,” she says with a grin. “I think Bob is completely falling apart at this point.” 

You grin, still tingling from where his hands touched you, as you turn back toward the lane. You roll the ball and, somehow, end up getting a spare—despite your brain being completely stuck on Bob... and what exactly had made him bolt so fast. 

Bradley gets up for his turn as you move dazedly back to your seat, mind hazy with thoughts of how Bob had felt pressed against you. 

“God, you’re so gone,” Natasha says with a soft laugh. 

You roll your eyes, but the dopey smile refuses to budge. 

“It’s a shame he’s too stupid to do anything about it,” Jake mutters. 

Natasha shoots him a look. “He’s not stupid. He’s cautious.” 

Reuben chuckles. “Yeah, well, if tonight’s anything to go by, Bobby might be throwing caution to the wind pretty soon.” 

You sigh as you sink into one of the low seats. “Not tonight, unfortunately.” 

They all look at you, confused. 

“Trevor’s staying at my place,” you explain simply. 

The group gasps—everyone but Natasha staring at you in disbelief. 

You frown. “What?” 

“I thought—” Mickey glances around like someone else might back him up. “I thought you only liked Bob.” 

You and Natasha—the only two in this group with any emotional intelligence, apparently—exchange a look. 

“She’s not into Trevor,” Nat says dryly. “And he’s definitely not into her.” 

“Yeah,” you add. “He’s gay.” 

“Like, very gay,” Natasha says. “Like, into Hangman gay.” 

Jake’s head snaps toward her. “Excuse me?” 

“Ohhh,” Mickey sighs. “That makes so much sense.” 

Reuben laughs. “Is that why he’s been stopping by every couple nights?” 

You laugh too, nodding. “Yeah. He’s been stuck on nights since getting stationed here, and he’s been bugging me to introduce him to Hangman. Thought it was fate when he found out our squad got moved to nights too.” 

“Excuse me,” Jake repeats. “What exactly makes a man extra gay for being into me?” 

The whole group breaks out laughing—Bradley included as he returns from taking his turn. 

“You’re just... pretty,” Javy says with a shrug. 

“So?” Jake throws up his hands. “What’s that supposed to mean?” 

“It’s a compliment, dude,” Reuben says. “Just take it.” 

Jake huffs, but the rest of the group turns back to you. 

“So, why is he staying at your place?” Mickey asks. 

“Yeah,” Bradley adds, “and why can’t you bring someone home? It’s your place.” 

“His plumbing at the barracks is all messed up, so I offered him my couch,” you explain, before looking at Bradley. “And I could bring someone home, but I’m pretty sure he’d make it weird. Plus, I’m not exactly a fan of… being quiet.” 

Jake tips his head back with a dramatic groan. “God, why is it always the quiet nerds who get the hot freaky girls?” 

You giggle and pat his knee. “Oh, Hangman. You’re delusional if you think Floyd isn’t a freak too.” 

“Ugh,” Natasha groans. “Why does this feel like you’re talking about my brother?” 

“She’s right, though,” Mickey says, thoughtful. “Bob’s got something about him.” 

The rest of the squad nods, unspoken agreement passing between them while Jake’s eyes flick around in horrified disbelief. 

“What’d I miss?” Bob asks, suddenly reappearing at the edge of the group. 

Everyone falls silent. 

“Hangman’s stalling,” Natasha says coolly, “because he realised he’s going to lose.” 

Jake narrows his eyes at her as he stands. “You’re going down, Trace. This next one’s a strike.” 

He stalks off toward the ball return, and the game resumes. 

Thankfully, Bob doesn’t question the odd look Mickey gives him as he sits down beside you. Only this time, he keeps his distance—at least an inch between your bodies, careful not to let even the fabric of his shirt brush your arm. He doesn’t look at you, either. His gaze stays locked on the lane, watching each turn with intense focus. And he definitely doesn’t offer any more hands-on guidance for the rest of the night— though the blush on his cheeks stays stubbornly in place. 

After two games of bowling, a round of hot dogs, and more shit-talking than could possibly be quantified, everyone decides to call it a night. It isn’t even that late, but with your wrecked sleep schedules, you’re all starting to feel a little loopy. 

You swap back into your own shoes, return the bowling pair, duck into the bathroom, and head for the door. Everyone but Bob is already outside, but like the gentleman he is, he’s still inside—waiting by the claw machine with his nose buried in his phone. 

“Hey, superstar,” you say as you approach. “How’s it feel to be the best bowler in the squad?” 

He glances up with a soft smile. “One of the best,” he corrects. “I only won the first game.” 

You smirk, confidence flooding your gut. “Was it first-game luck or my skirt that threw you off during the second?” 

His face flushes bright red, eyes going wide like he’s just been caught in a lie. “I—uh, no, I just—” 

You roll your eyes playfully. “I was joking, Bob. Calm down.” 

He presses his lips together and nods, eyes flicking down to your bare legs for the briefest second before returning to your face. 

You nod toward the doors. “Come on. Let’s get out of here before the others get suspicious.” 

He nods and gestures for you to lead the way—so you do, swinging your hips just a little extra. 

He hesitates for a beat, and you can feel his gaze sear into the exposed skin of your legs before he doubles his steps to catch up and walk beside you. 

“I was wondering,” you say quickly, forcing the words out before you lose your nerve. “Did you—um,” you clear your throat, “want to hang out tomorrow night?” 

He glances at you, blue eyes swimming with something you can’t quite place. 

“Just us,” you clarify, voice dropping. “Kind of like… a date?” 

There’s a pause. An awkward pause. 

The hairs on the back of your neck rise and your stomach twists. 

“Um,” he drops his gaze to the ground, brows knitting. “I—I can’t tomorrow. I’ve got—I mean, I haven’t done laundry like… all week with the shift change, and I really need to catch up before Monday.” 

Heat floods your face, embarrassment settling heavy and sour in your gut. 

“I’m sorry,” he mutters, still staring at the floor. 

You dip your chin and blink hard, swallowing the burn rising behind your eyes. “No problem,” you say, keeping your voice even. “Hope you have fun doing laundry.” 

Then you double your pace and slip out the doors, not bothering to hold it open. You cross the parking lot quickly, making a beeline for Natasha’s car without so much as a glance toward the others. You yank the passenger door open, slide in, and slam it shut. 

- Bob - 

“What’d you do?” Natasha asks, arms crossed and eyes narrowed. 

Bob takes a slow breath as he drags his eyes up to meet her glare. “Nothing,” he mutters. 

“Yeah?” She arches a brow. “So, Vex will say the same thing when I ask her?” 

He pinches the bridge of his nose, rubbing the spot where his glasses sit. “Probably not, Phoenix. But you know what? I don’t really feel like explaining myself to you right now, so please—just drop it.” 

She rolls her eyes and lets her arms fall to her sides, keys jingling in one hand. “I really thought you were one of the good ones, Floyd. I’m a little disappointed.” 

Then she turns and mumbles goodbye to the rest of the squad—who are all watching with wide eyes—before walking to her car and climbing into the driver’s seat. 

Bob can still feel your glare through the windshield, even if the dark night doesn’t let him see you clearly inside the car. 

As soon as Natasha peels out of the lot, Bob feels the shift—the boys’ eyes snap toward him. 

“So,” Jake says, brows raised, “what did you do?” 

Bob exhales and leans back against his car, arms crossing over his chest. “She asked me out,” he says quietly, “and I told her no… because I have laundry to do.” 

There’s a collective intake of breath. The atmosphere sharpens with something unspoken but easily understood: Bob fucked up—bad. 

“You what?” Reuben asks, leaning in. 

Bradley lets out a low chuckle. “Holy shit, Floyd. That was dumb.” 

“I know,” Bob huffs. 

He’s not sure why he couldn’t tell Natasha but has no issue telling the others. Maybe because Natasha was about to get in a car with you and hear the story anyway—so why bother? Or maybe it’s because he’s a little afraid of Nat. And he knows, deep down, that he messed up. He just didn’t feel like getting chewed out by his sharp-tongued pilot tonight. 

“Why the hell wouldn’t you say yes?” Jake frowns. “She’s so into you—it’s almost a joke. And she’s gorgeous. Who cares about the age gap?” 

Bob’s eyes snap toward him, brow furrowed. “You’re the one who always has something to say about it. You literally call me a cradle-snatcher, like… once a week.” 

Jake rolls his eyes. “Because it’s fun to get a rise out of you. I don’t actually mean it.” 

“Yeah, dude,” Javy adds. “If we thought it was wrong, we’d say something. We make fun of you both because it’s obvious you’re obsessed with each other.” 

“Honestly,” Mickey pipes up, “I thought you two were already dating and just keeping it from us.” 

Bob buries his face in his hands, the heat in his cheeks burning against his palms. “For fuck’s sake.” 

“Oh, wow,” Reuben mutters. “Bob just swore.” 

Bradley drops a hand on Bob’s shoulder. “Maybe you should call her. Or—I don’t know—go see her tomorrow. Apologise. You don’t have to date her, but if that’s how you feel, you need to be clear. Don’t lead her on. And you definitely owe her an apology for that shitty laundry excuse.” 

Bob nods slowly, letting his hands drop. “Yeah. I know.” 

Mickey chuckles, pulling his keys from his pocket. “Good luck, dude.” 

They all say their goodbyes and head for their cars, leaving Bob still leaning against the side of his own, a far-off look in his eyes and guilt twisting in his chest. 

He barely sleeps that night. 

Every time he closes his eyes, he sees the profile of your face after he said no—the way your eyes glossed over, your jaw clenched, and your lips pressed into a thin, unshakable line. The memory cuts through him like a blade. 

He hates the thought of hurting you. But more than that, he hates himself—because he knows he did. He knows you cried, whether it happened in the car or the moment you got home. Either way, the result is the same—he made you cry. And that thought alone makes him feel sick. 

Before the sun even rises, he’s out of bed. Sleep abandoned, guilt gnawing at his insides, he laces up his shoes and goes for a run—trying to outrun the tight knot in his chest. He knows he’ll have to sleep later and stay up again tonight, thanks to another stretch of night shifts. But that doesn’t matter. What matters is talking to you. This morning. If you’ll even let him. 

After his run, sweat still cooling on his skin, he finally works up the nerve to text you: ‘Hey, sorry about last night. Are you free this morning?’ 

An hour passes. Nothing. 

And he knows you’re ignoring him—because you’ve reacted to a couple of messages in the group chat. You’re awake. You’re just not answering him. And honestly, he doesn’t blame you. 

By ten o’clock, he can’t stand it anymore. 

The ache in his chest is unbearable. His head is pounding. The guilt in his stomach is curling tighter with every passing second. But it’s not just guilt. It’s not just the regret of hurting a friend’s feelings. 

It’s worse—because it’s you. 

You’re his favourite person in the whole damn world. He can admit that now. You make him laugh. You make him feel like himself. And as much as he’s tried not to need you… he does. Desperately. 

The age gap isn’t the real problem—it never was. Maybe it’s just an excuse, something to hide behind because deep down, he doesn’t think he deserves you. But that’s not good enough anymore. He has to fix this. Even if you never forgive him, even if things can’t go back to how they were—he has to try. 

Because Robert Floyd knows now, without a doubt, that he’s in love with you. 

And God, he hopes he can say it out loud—because it might be the only thing that can save him now. 

Before Bob even knows exactly how he’s going to say everything that’s been spinning through his head, he’s already outside your apartment building. He knows where it is because he helped you move in after the Dagger Squad was made a permanent unit at North Island. 

He still thinks about that day, too. About the exercise tights you wore—how they clung to your ass like a second skin. About the loose tee you eventually peeled off because you were overheating, leaving you in nothing but a sports bra. And when you finally took a break, beer in hand on your new balcony, he watched you cool down… and watched your nipples pebble beneath the Lycra fabric. 

Bob felt like a total creep that day, but that hasn’t stopped him from—repeatedly—getting off to the memory of you on that balcony. Cheeks pink, lips wet with beer, eyes so wide and innocent, even though he’s pretty sure you knew exactly what you were doing to him… 

He shakes his head and forces his feet to move—into the building, into the elevator, and up to your floor. The hallway feels both way too long and not nearly long enough as he approaches your door. Then, with a deep breath, he raises his hand and knocks three times. 

His heart is caught in his throat, hammering like it’s trying to escape. He’s felt pressure in the cockpit, but nothing like this. This is worse than pulling 8 Gs. 

The door swings open, and he opens his mouth to immediately beg you to hear him out—but… it’s not you. 

“Bob,” Trevor says with a sleepy grin and a wicked glint in his eye. “What a surprise to see you here.” 

His hair’s a mess, his cheeks are flushed, and his eyes are half-lidded. He looks like he either just woke up… or just got done doing something naked and personal with someone else. Which might explain why he’s shirtless, wearing nothing but a crooked pair of boxers that—at least in Bob’s opinion—aren’t leaving much to the imagination. 

“I—uh, Trevor?” 

Trevor nods, brow furrowing slightly. “The one and only. You good, man? You look like you’ve seen a ghost.” 

Bob wishes it were a ghost. Because what he’s seeing right now is ten times more horrifying than anything spooky or undead. 

He clears his throat. “Y-Yeah, I’m good. I just—um, I was going to ask Vex if—” 

“Who is it?” you call groggily from deeper inside the apartment, your voice thick with sleep. 

Trevor smirks over his shoulder. “Floyd!” 

“What?” 

He nudges the door open a little wider, revealing you in nothing but an oversized U.S. Navy tee. Your hair is mussed, your cheeks are flushed, and your eyes are narrowed—definitely not surprised. Just… pissed. 

“What are you doing here?” you ask, arms crossed tight against your chest. 

Bob stares, wide-eyed. You’re not shocked. You’re not flustered. You're still mad. How could you still be mad at him now? 

“I—uh, well—” He shakes his head and steps back, his stomach swirling nauseously. “Nothing. It’s fine. Just—forget it. You two have fun.” 

Then he turns on his heel and practically jogs down the hall, mashing the elevator button hard enough to hurt. He can hear your voice behind him, Trevor’s too, but he doesn’t care. He doesn’t want to care. He just wants to get the hell out of here before he goddamn cries over the fact that the woman he loves just jumped into bed with the next guy right after he turned her down. 

Does he have any right to be this angry? Probably not. But still—why couldn’t you see it from his point of view? Why couldn’t you understand he was just… hesitant? That he needed some time to wrap his head around it? 

But no. You couldn’t be patient. You couldn’t wait. 

Because maybe you’re not as into him as everyone keeps saying. Maybe you never were. 

God, he should’ve known. He should have known it was too good to be true. Why would someone like you want someone like him? And why would you waste your time waiting—when you could have just about any man you wanted? 

- You - 

“What was that about?” Trevor asks, his head still half-stuck out the door like Bob might suddenly come back. 

You drop onto the couch, shoving aside the blanket Trevor had been using. “Don’t know,” you mutter. “Maybe he was thinking about apologising for being a jerk, but then decided to just keep being one.” 

Trevor turns to you with a puzzled frown. “What?” 

“You heard me.” 

He shuts the door and walks slowly toward to the lounge. “Yeah, but I didn’t understand you. What’s with the attitude?” 

You sigh, rolling your eyes. “I asked him out last night.” 

Trevor gasps—loudly. 

“But he said no.” 

He rears back, brows drawn. “What? Why?” 

“Because he has laundry to do.” 

Trevor’s eyes go wide, his mouth falling open. “No.” 

“Yup,” you mutter, sinking deeper into the cushions. “That’s what the attitude is for.” 

He nods slowly, still staring. “Right… but then why did he show up here?” 

You shrug. “Maybe to apologise. Or maybe he was going to let me down for good. Tell me to stop flirting with him, or whatever.” 

Trevor frowns again, his eyes glazing over like he's lost in thought. 

You nudge his knee with your foot. “What’s that look for?” 

“Nothing,” he says quickly, though the curiosity stays fixed on his face. 

“Trevor…” 

He exhales a short breath. “I mean—do you think he thought… you and I…? You know?” He gestures vaguely between the two of you. “He knows I’m gay, right?” 

You snort. “Yes, Grinder. Bob Floyd, along with all of North Island, is very aware that you’re gay. I was literally talking about it with the squad last night.” 

He nods. “Good. ‘Cause if he didn’t, me opening the door shirtless and you in that ridiculously oversized tee might’ve looked real bad.” 

You barely hear him as he continues to rant about men and miscommunication. Instead, you flick on the TV, letting the background noise of old cartoon reruns wash over you while the memory of last night replays on loop. 

You let yourself feel it—let your chest ache with it—and hope it’s enough to kill off this stupid crush once and for all. 

But deep down, you know the truth. 

Whatever this is, it stopped being just a crush a while ago. 

And you’re starting to fear that maybe—just maybe—you’ve accidentally fallen in love with Bob Floyd. 

You spend the rest of the day sulking on the couch like it’s your full-time job, while Trevor obliterates your kitchen trying to make homemade macarons to ‘cheer you up.’ Normally, you’d be in there with him, correcting his technique and keeping the apartment from burning down, but not today. Today, you’re tired and heartbroken. 

The two of you stay up late trying to adjust to the coming week of night shifts, but by two a.m. you’re passed out on the lounge… and promptly woken at four by Trevor’s snoring. That’s when you give up, throw on your shoes, and go for a run—hoping to burn through enough energy to sleep through the day before shift. 

Trevor is gone by the time your alarm goes off at eight p.m., giving you an hour to tidy the apartment before showering and heading off to base. You stopped living on base when the Dagger Squad was made permanent at North Island, same as most of the others. It’s nice not having to share bathrooms or constantly wonder whether you’re going to get all your socks back from the laundry room. But you’d be lying if you said you didn’t miss running into your friends all the time—running into Bob. 

The sky is dark and the base is quiet as you park your car and make your way to the squadron building. Your stomach twists nervously at the thought of seeing not just Bob, but your whole squad. You know they’d all know by now—that you asked Bob out and he shut you down. 

Honestly, you wouldn’t even be surprised if Maverick knew. 

“Hey,” Natasha says, meeting you by the stairs before you enter the briefing room. 

You give her a tight smile. 

“Feeling any better?” 

You shake your head, lips still pulled into a watery smile as you push the door open. 

Bob is already in his usual seat—because of course he is—but he doesn’t look up when you walk in. He doesn’t give you that soft smile he usually does whenever he sees you. 

Instead, he keeps his eyes locked on the lid of his travel mug, jaw tight as he flicks the little tab open and closed. 

Natasha gives you a sidelong glance, her brows drawn curiously. She knows what happened—you told her—but you haven’t yet filled her in on the part where he showed up at your apartment and then left in a hurry. 

You shake your head, giving her a silent look that says you’ll fill her in later. Then you turn and make your way to the back of the room, sinking into one of the furthest possible chairs from where Bob is seated. 

It isn’t long before Maverick walks in and starts the briefing. He rambles on about a possible mission on the horizon, which means upcoming hops and drills are going to be more purpose-driven. He wants to work closely with the WSOs, having them and their pilots fly point to spot anything the night might hide from the F/A-18E drivers. 

You’re not particularly bothered by that, because after tonight, the rest of your hops are scheduled with Reuben and Mickey. Which means you only have to deal with Bob for one night. Just one. You only have to pretend to listen to him for one night. Then you get almost a full week’s reprieve. 

“Alright,” Maverick says, shutting his notebook. “Phoenix, Bob, Hangman, Vex—you’re on deck. The rest of you, head to the ready room.” 

Everyone shuffles out, the group splitting down the corridor as half of you head outside and the other half veer toward the ready room. 

You let Natasha and Bob take the lead, half-listening to Jake whine about how much he hates NVGs and how night shifts ruin his gym schedule. 

Then the cart ride is silent—tension so thick that even Maverick doesn’t bother breaking it. 

Once at the hangar, you start gearing up and going through the motions—chatting with ground crew, checking your jet, adjusting your equipment, running internals. You wait until it’s your turn to be taxied out, then climb into the cockpit and try to settle your nerves. 

You take a deep breath and call on every ounce of focus and maturity you have just to stop yourself from shutting off comms. You might be pissed right now, but this is your job. The job you worked way too hard for to let some ridiculously gorgeous lieutenant break your heart badly enough to get you grounded. 

Tonight, the sky is clear but moonless—the darkness heavier than usual. You check your instruments twice—three times—and remind yourself it’s just another hop. You’ve done this a thousand times before. 

But still, your hands stay tight on the controls. 

You fly in relative radio silence for the first twenty minutes, squinting through slightly misaligned NVGs. You’d fiddled with them on the ground until you gave up and told yourself your vision was good enough. It’s quieter than usual, and you’re not sure if that’s because no one has anything to say—or because the night feels eerily still. 

Natasha and Bob are flying point, with you and Jake in the second element. Maverick is out here too, but only observing—watching closely as you run a low-level, terrain-following route meant to simulate a high-risk strike. 

You’ve done this kind of thing a hundred times, even at night. But something about this hop feels off. Or maybe it’s just you, flying like you’ve got something to prove—to yourself, or to someone else. You haven’t decided yet. 

Then Bob’s voice crackles through the comms, steady and low. “Vex, you’re a little wide on your spacing.” 

You don’t answer, but you adjust—barely. 

“Maintain visual, Vex,” Natasha adds, voice firm. “Don’t ride solo tonight.” 

You bite the inside of your cheek and flick your radio toggle. “Copy.” 

You fall back into formation as the terrain-following manoeuvres begin—tight dips, sweeping curves, a mock run on radar targets ahead. You lock in, gripping the stick, head tipped forward, forcing your focus to drown out the simmering frustration. 

It’s not an easy run, but you’ve done it before. You know the tricky spots, and you’re watching out for your team, flying just a little closer than what’s usually comfortable. You’d be flying almost perfectly—if it weren’t for Bob’s corrections crackling through the radio. His voice in your ear every few minutes, low and steady. Commanding. It’s making your skin crawl and your pulse race. 

You know you’re better than this. You’ve trained to handle the worst. To stay sharp pulling 10 Gs, to keep cool weaving through canyons at Mach 2. And yet somehow, Bob Floyd’s maddeningly smooth voice telling you and Jake how not to crash is what’s making you consider pulling the damn ejection handle. 

“Vex, you’ve got a ridge coming up,” Bob says, his tone sharper now, more urgent. “Drop throttle. Adjust heading five degrees right.” 

You hesitate. Your altimeter says you’re good, and your gut says you’re fine. You think—no, you know—you can hold it. 

“Vex—” he tries again. 

“I’ve got it,” you snap, breathless as you press on, trying to hold your line. 

Jake cuts in with something sharp, but you don’t catch it—because suddenly the warning tone in your headset screams. 

Your heart lurches. 

Terrain. Too close. Too fast. 

“Pull up! Pull up!” Bob’s voice slices through the comms. “Vex, you’re too low!” 

You grit your teeth, trying to correct, trying to climb—but it’s too dark, too fast. Everything is a blur. 

“Vex, listen to me—pull up!” His voice cracks. “You’re going to hit—” 

“Eject!” Maverick shouts, raw panic in his tone. “Vex, eject now!” 

“I can save it,” you mutter, voice strained. “I can—" 

Then you see it. A flash of jagged terrain through the cockpit glass—a dark silhouette where there should be sky. And in that split second, the truth hits you like a punch to the chest. 

You’re not going to make it. 

Your hand flies to the ejection handle, pulling it hard. 

The canopy blasts away with a deafening crack, wind slamming into you like a freight train. The violent jolt of the seat launches you skyward, your body wrenched into the dark as the jet disappears in a blur of motion below. 

Then—freefall. 

The sky spins. The world tilts. The parachute deploys with a brutal yank that rattles your spine. 

But you’re too low. Far too low. 

You don’t even have time to brace. 

You hit the ground hard—a bone-snapping impact that knocks every breath from your lungs. The force slams through your leg with a sickening pop. 

White-hot pain detonates through you. 

Your vision flashes. Your stomach turns. You can’t even scream. 

And then… everything goes still. 

Muted. 

Quiet. 

Like the world took a breath—and left you behind. 

- 

You wake to the steady beep of a monitor. Your eyelids are heavy, your mouth is dry, and there’s pain everywhere. It’s not as excruciating as it had been right before you blacked out, but it’s there—dull and throbbing, a bitter reminder of what had happened when you ejected from your jet. 

It feels like it was only seconds ago, but you know better than that. You’re not that out of it. 

The sharp sting of antiseptic hits your nose. There are low murmurs nearby, the shuffle of feet across tile, and the distant sounds of other beeping machines. Even before you manage to open your eyes, you know—you’re in a hospital. 

The white and blue walls are almost blinding, but after a few sticky blinks, your vision finally sharpens. You roll your tongue against the roof of your mouth, searching for moisture. 

You try—and fail—to sit up. Your body is too heavy against the crunchy hospital pillows, and your right leg is pinned down even more by a thick black-and-white brace. 

“Ow,” you mutter, voice hoarse and barely audible. 

There’s a sudden gasp beside you, then a quick shuffle of movement. 

A warm hand wraps around yours as dark blue eyes swim into focus above you, wide and full of concern—rimmed red, with deep purple shadows underneath. 

“You’re awake,” he says, voice rough before he clears his throat, like he's trying to swallow down something heavier. 

“Bob,” you whisper, lips cracking as they stretch into a soft smile. 

He doesn’t say anything. He just looks at you. His face is pale, exhaustion carved into every line, his eyes scanning your face like he’s trying to memorise it. Or maybe—trying to recognise it. Because whatever softness was there fades fast, replaced by something harder. His lips flatten into a thin line. His hand tightens around yours… then lets go. 

He stands straight, jaw clenched, and turns to the wall to press the nurse call button. 

You frown, but before you can speak—if you even could with how dry your mouth is—a nurse rushes in. 

“Oh, you’re awake!” she says brightly, green eyes lighting up as she stops beside the bed. “How are you feeling?” 

You clear your throat. “Thirsty.” 

She nods and quickly wheels the little table over, pouring water from the pitcher into a small plastic cup. She then hands it to you before using the bed remote to ease you into a more upright position. 

“Thanks,” you rasp after a few sips, your voice clearer now. 

The nurse smiles softly, her eyes flicking between you and Bob. “He didn’t leave your side. Not for a second.” 

You turn to look at him, but all traces of warmth are gone. He looks almost angry, his gaze fixed straight ahead—not at you or the nurse, but at the wall. His jaw is tight, his shoulders tense, and his hands are clearly balled into fists in his pockets. 

He’s still in his flight suit, which means he’s been with you since the second search and rescue found you. 

“I’ll give you two a minute,” the nurse says. “I’m just going to grab the doctor, alright?” 

You nod, not even looking at her, and she shuffles out of the room, swinging the door half shut on her way. 

Bob’s eyes flick to you. “Are you in pain?” 

You shift slightly, the dull throb in your leg pulsing back to life. “Yeah,” you wince. “A little. But it’s bearable.” 

He doesn’t move. His whole body is tense, only his eyes locked on you—sharp and unrelenting. 

“You have a hairline fracture in your femur,” he says. 

You glance down at the brace wrapped around your leg. 

“You’re lucky it wasn’t a full break,” he adds. “You’d have been grounded for at least six months—or longer. Probably would’ve had to requalify, if you even got cleared again.” 

You swallow hard. He’s angry—really angry. The way he’s looking at you, it’s like he’s torn between wrapping you in his arms or walking out the door and never looking back. 

“You didn’t listen,” he says, voice cracking as he takes a step forward. “You were supposed to listen to me, and you didn’t. I—I told you just last week that if something happened, it would be my fault.” 

Tears sting your eyes, blurring your vision. “This isn’t your—” 

“No,” he snaps. “It’s not. This is your fault. Because you were reckless, and cocky, and too caught up in your own shit to listen to a perfectly sound call from your WSO.” 

You blink, warm tears slipping down your cheek. “Bob, I—” 

“Don’t,” he says, voice low and raw. “Don’t say my name like that. Don’t look at me like I’m the only person you want to see right now.” He lets out a shaky breath, dragging a hand through his hair. “I’ve been here for two days. I haven’t slept. I haven’t eaten. You scared the shit out of me. I thought you were dead. You went down so fast, you—you—” 

The door swings open and a middle-aged woman with white-blonde hair pulled into a tight bun steps in. “Lieutenants,” she greets briskly. “Sorry to interrupt, but there are a few things we need to go over.” 

Bob straightens immediately. “Thank you, Doctor. I’ll be leaving now.” 

Her brows knit together, but she doesn’t stop him as he turns and walks out. 

His footsteps are heavy. Forced. Like it’s taking everything he’s got to walk away and not look back. 

After a whirlwind of doctors, nurses, and a long debrief with the flight surgeon, you're finally discharged. You can’t drive—of course—so they pack you into a general escort car with your leg still in the brace and a pair of crutches tossed in beside you. Fantastic. 

Once you’re home, you collapse into bed and immediately pass out. But it’s not exactly restful. Your brain won’t shut off—won’t stop replaying the way Bob looked at you, the anger in his voice, the exhaustion written all over his face. How he never left your side. How he still hasn’t responded to your text thanking him for staying. Or the one where you apologised for not listening to him in the air. 

You want to talk to him. Need to talk to him. Because you're not planning on staying grounded forever, and when you’re back on your feet, you’re not transferring out. The Dagger Squad isn’t just a group of friends—they’re your family. Bob included. In a completely non-incestuous way, obviously. Even though there are definitely some things you’d like to do to him that would make a family dinner wildly uncomfortable. 

But first, he has to reply. He has to acknowledge that you exist. 

When you wake again, it’s dark, and your phone is lit up with a flood of messages from the team. You take your time replying to each one, then hobble into the bathroom, ditch the brace, and take the hottest, longest shower your body can tolerate. 

The next few hours are spent on the couch, anxiously watching the clock until Natasha finally texts you to say they’ve been dismissed. Which means Bob is off. Which means he has no excuse. 

But still—nothing. You call. He doesn’t answer. Then Natasha texts again to let you know she watched him decline it. 

Great. Another win. 

Two whole days pass, and still no word. 

You’re supposed to be on bed rest for two weeks before the flight surgeon clears you for light duties, but you’re going stir-crazy. With the squad on night shifts and your circadian rhythm completely fucked, you haven’t spoken to anyone but Trevor—once, over the phone—in forty-eight hours. Unless you count text messages, which you don’t. 

All you want is to talk to Bob. Ask him why the hell he came to your house that day. Why he was so pissed at you that night. And why he thinks it’s okay to spend two full days sitting beside your hospital bed and then just vanish like none of it happened. 

At this point, you don’t even care if he professes his undying love for you—though you’d strongly prefer it—you just want an explanation. You want to know what you did to hurt him so badly, and how to make it right. Because more than anything, you need him. And if friendship is the only version of him you’re allowed to have... then you’ll take it. 

Even if it kills you. 

By the third day… or night—you’re not even sure anymore—you decide to take matters into your own hands. 

Your alarm blares at four a.m., an hour before you know the squad will be dismissed, and you wriggle out of bed and into a loose pair of sweatpants before securing your brace over the top. Then you tug on your stupidly oversized U.S. Navy shirt, grab your crutches, and hobble out the door. 

You know where Bob lives—in the least creepy way possible—because you all moved out of the barracks around the same time, and you helped each other move. So, you call an Uber, hauling your injured self into the back seat with grim determination and only a small amount of whining. 

It’s barely a ten-minute drive, which gives you about half an hour to crutch your way up the fire stairs—because of course the elevator requires a swipe card—to his apartment. 

You know it’s ridiculous. You could’ve just waited in the lobby. But you don’t want to give him the chance to run away—again, in the least creepy way possible. The plan is to corner him at his apartment door, and maybe guilt-trip him a little with how much effort it took just for you to get there. At the very least, he’d have to escort you back down to the lobby with his swipe card… and maybe you could ‘accidentally’ sabotage the lift so it broke down. Then he’d be stuck with you. 

Jesus. Thirty-six hours alone and you’re already in full-blown serial killer mode. 

It takes twenty minutes to reach his floor, with plenty of breaks along the way, but eventually, you make it. You hobble down the hallway and lean against his door, dropping your head back with a soft thunk. 

Not even a minute later, Natasha texts you to say they’ve been dismissed—because of course you filled her in on your plan. 

And then you wait. With a racing pulse, a throbbing leg, and about a thousand thoughts spiralling through your brain. You wait. 

At one point, a neighbour emerges from a nearby door, startling you. They give you a deeply dubious look before slipping into the elevator, and you make a mental note to tell Bob that they might warn him about a crazy, broken-legged woman lurking outside his apartment. 

Your breathing picks up as the minutes pass—faster and faster until it feels impossible to catch. You feel dizzy, like you might pass out just waiting for him. But then—ding. 

The elevator doors slide open, and Bob steps out. 

Seeing him for the first time in three days shouldn’t feel like a religious experience—but it fucking does. God, he looks good. Even sleep-deprived, rumpled, and sporting messy helmet hair, he’s a walking wet dream in a flight suit deliberately designed for your destruction. 

“Hey,” you say quietly, not wanting to startle him. 

He jumps anyway—just a little. His feet still, eyes widening behind his glasses, brows pulling together. 

“What are you doing here?” 

You push off the door, steadying yourself on your crutches. “Good to see you too,” you say dryly. “I’ve been alright. A little lonely, borderline insane. My leg’s killing me after a thousand stairs. But hey—you look... tired. How’s the squad?” 

He studies you for a moment. His frown softens, and you swear the corner of his mouth twitches. 

“I am tired,” he says. “The squad’s fine. Also tired.” 

You nod. “Cool. So... everyone’s tired.” 

He pulls his keys from his pocket and starts walking toward you, closing the distance. 

“That all you came to talk about?” he asks. 

You roll your eyes and shuffle aside. “What do you think?” 

He sighs. “I think I’m not going straight to bed anymore.” 

The door swings inward and he steps through, holding it open for you—wide as possible. 

“That would be correct,” you say, flashing a grin as you hobble inside. 

He shuts the door behind you and slides the chain lock into place. 

You try not to appear as awkward as you feel, but crutches aren’t exactly graceful—and you haven’t had much practice. You make your way past the kitchen toward the small living room, where a plush cream sofa waits with perfectly fluffed pillows and a decorative throw draped neatly over the back. You’re just about to drop onto it when a warm hand catches your elbow. 

“Here,” he says softly, his other hand reaching to take the crutches from you. 

He’s so close you can feel his warmth. You catch his scent—clean linen, a hint of jet fuel, and something subtle and spicy that’s so unmistakably him. 

“Thanks,” you murmur, eyes locked on his lips. 

He helps ease you down slowly onto the couch before straightening and setting your crutches aside, leaning them against the wall beside the TV cabinet. 

“Let me just get changed,” he says, already turning toward his bedroom without a second glance. 

He’s gone less than a minute. When he returns, he’s wearing dark blue joggers and a white sleep shirt worn so thin it’s almost translucent. 

“Water?” he asks, detouring into the kitchen. 

You shake your head. “I’m good—but thanks.” 

He’s stalling. You know it. But you can be patient. 

He pours himself a glass, drains it, then pours another before finally making his way back into the living room. He sits at the very end of the chaise lounge—about as far from you as possible. 

“Okay,” he says. “You want to talk?” 

You nod, adjusting your posture even though you're already stiff with nerves. 

“Look,” you begin, eyes dropping to your lap. “I know why you’re mad about the accident—I get it. It was stupid. I was reckless. I deserve to be in this stupid brace. I shouldn’t have ignored you, and I shouldn’t have let personal shit bleed into work. I’m sorry.” 

You glance up, but he doesn’t react—doesn’t move. He just blinks. 

Still, you press on. “If I could go back, I would. If there was anything I could do to make it up to you—or the squad—I’d do it. But we’re here now, I feel like shit, and the accident is on my record. I’m just glad none of you, or Mav, are in trouble because of me.” 

He’s still silent, but you can see it now—his eyes keep flicking down to your shirt, his frown darkening each time. 

“What I don’t get,” you say, your voice tightening, “is why you were already mad that night. Why you came to my apartment that morning but ran off without—” 

“That’s irrelevant,” he cuts in, voice low—lethal. 

You frown. “What do you mean irrelevant? The whole reason I was in a bad mood that night is because you rejected me and then acted like I did something wrong.” 

His eyes widen. “Oh, so it’s my fault now? That what you’re saying?” 

“No,” you snap. “Of course not. God, Bob, none of this is your fault. It’s mine. It’s all mine. I was the idiot who asked you out, the idiot who got mad when you said no, and the idiot who let it affect her at work. I’m not blaming you. I just want to understand.” 

He takes an infuriatingly calm sip of water, gaze still fixed on your torso. 

“You want to know why I said no when you asked me out?” 

You shake your head. “I know why you said no.” 

His brow creases. “You do?” 

You sigh, eyes falling to your fingers as they toy with the hem of your shirt. “Because you don’t like me. That’s it. And I need to accept that. I shouldn’t have pushed it, or forced myself on you, and—” 

He scoffs—sharp and dry—cutting you off. “You’re joking, right?” 

You look up, blinking slowly. “Um… no. Not really.” 

His laugh is sharp—bitter and cracked—so not Bob. 

“You think I don’t like you?” he says, voice rising—unsteady now. “Are you insane?” 

He stands suddenly, running a hand through his hair as if trying to keep himself from flying apart. 

“I have never cared about anyone the way I care about you. You are the only damn thing I think about. I can’t sleep, I’m not hungry, I can’t focus—I just want you. All the time. Do you know how maddening that is?” His eyes are wild when they meet yours. “And yeah, I said no when you asked me out, but that wasn’t because I didn’t want to. God, I wanted to. I wanted to say yes so badly it hurt. But I was scared.” 

He paces now, voice building like the pressure in a cockpit. 

“It wasn’t about your age—that was just a dumb excuse. It was you. You’re gorgeous, you’re smart, you’re funny, and you’re so sharp. You walk into a room and everything shifts. And I kept thinking, how the hell does someone like you want someone like me?” 

His voice cracks, and he stops pacing, facing you full on. “So yeah. I panicked. I said no. And the second you walked away, I regretted it. I hated myself for it. And that morning—I came to tell you. I was ready to throw it all on the table.” He swallows hard, jaw flexing. “But then he answered the door. Like he lived there. Like he belonged. And you—” 

He gestures at you, helpless. His eyes—dark blue and burning—shine with the storm he’s been holding back. 

“You just stood there. In his shirt. Like you hadn’t just ripped my heart out and stepped over it. Like I was nothing. Like I’d missed my shot and you’d already moved on.” His voice dips—raw now. “And now? You’re here. In the same goddamn shirt.” 

He laughs again, broken this time. 

“And I know I had no right to be angry. I know it. But Jesus Christ, do you have any idea how fucking hard it is to look at the woman you love knowing you’re the one who ruined it? Who let her go?” 

He’s panting now, standing between the couch and the coffee table with wild eyes and flushed cheeks. Just looking at you. Waiting. 

You swallow hard, blinking fast to keep the tears from falling. Your pulse is racing, pounding in your ears like a war drum. You can feel your heart hammering against your ribs, threatening to break bone. You can’t breathe. You can barely think. There’s only one word echoing in your head. 

“Love?” you whisper. 

He rubs his hands down his face, letting out a shaky breath. 

“Yes. Love.” His arms drop to his sides as he meets your eyes again. “I love you.” 

Your heart lurches into your throat. 

“But that doesn’t change anything,” he adds quickly, dropping onto the couch—closer this time, close enough that his knee brushes yours. “I don’t expect it to change anything. I let you down, and you moved on. You had every right to. I should never have been angry about it—and for that, I’m sorry. Just…” He sighs again. “Just give me some time, okay? Just let me—” 

“Trevor’s gay,” you blurt, louder than you mean to. 

He blinks. “What?” 

“Gay,” you repeat. “He’s gay. Like, so incredibly gay he’s into Hangman.” 

Bob’s lips part, a soft breath slipping out. 

You lean forward, brows drawn tight. “His callsign is Grinder. I mean, yes—partly because he’s a hard worker—but mostly because he got caught on Grindr before a briefing once and... it just stuck. But—Bob, I thought you knew—” You cut yourself off, eyes going wide. “Oh my God. You were in the bathroom when I told the squad.” 

The room falls into a heavy, eerie silence. 

The air between you crackles—so thick, so charged, the smallest spark could burn the whole damn building down. 

“Hangman?” he whispers, nose scrunching just slightly. 

You nod. “Hangman.” 

He blinks slowly, wide eyes swimming with emotion. “So, you didn’t—” 

“No,” you snap, frustration flaring hot beneath your skin. “Is that what you thought? That I asked you out, and when you said no I just ran off to find the nearest guy who’d fuck me?” 

He cringes—actually cringes. “That’s just how it looked, I—” 

“So you assumed?” you cut in, voice sharp. “You didn’t even ask. You just decided to get all broody and jealous and pissed off, even though you’re the one who rejected me?” 

You want to pace like he did, storm out, slam a door, something—but you can't. Not with your stupid leg. 

“I know I had no right,” he mutters. 

“Damn straight you didn’t,” you bite out. “You think I’d do that? You think I’d throw myself at someone else just because you said no? Jesus, Bob, I’m looking at a decade-long mourning period after you. I’m in love with you. Do you really think I could move on? Ever? Let alone the next fucking—” 

His mouth is on yours before the word leaves your lips. 

It’s not a kiss—it’s a collision. A detonation. A goddamn freefall. 

His hands are in your hair, on your jaw, trembling as they try to hold you steady while his lips crash into yours with blistering need. It’s hot and desperate and unrestrained, all teeth and tongue and pent-up ache, every ounce of frustration and longing he’s carried igniting in a single breathless second. 

You gasp, shocked by the force of it—your lips parting, letting him in. 

And then it’s chaos. Raw, searing, beautiful chaos. 

His touch is everywhere, frantic and reverent, as if he’s trying to memorise you with his fingertips and palms. Your hands claw into his shirt, his shoulders, his hair, dragging him closer, gasping into his mouth like you’re both trying to breathe each other in. 

You feel like you’re on fire. Like this kiss could split you in half. 

There’s a sharp pain in your leg from how hard you’re leaning in, but you don’t care. You’d burn your whole body just to keep this going. 

Because he kisses you like it’s the last thing he’ll ever do. Like stopping would kill him. And you kiss him back with the same reckless hunger—because you’ve wanted this forever. Because he’s yours. And you’re his. And nothing else exists anymore but the way he’s holding you like he’s afraid you’ll disappear. 

“I love you,” he breathes against your lips. “I love you. I love you. Please don’t go. Don’t ever leave.” 

You press your forehead to his, a breathy laugh slipping out. “I’m not leaving.” 

“Good,” he murmurs, then kisses you again—soft, lingering. 

His lips find the corner of your mouth, then trail down the line of your jaw to your neck. Your skin ignites beneath every brush of his mouth, like your whole body is wired to spark beneath his touch. 

Your stomach flips like you’ve been dropped from a height. Your thoughts dissolve into haze. Limbs weightless, breath shallow. All you can feel is the hot press of his lips and the growing ache in your stupid leg. 

“Bob,” you whisper, broken and breathless, as his tongue traces the hollow where your shoulder meets your neck. “Bob, m—my leg.” 

He jolts back like he’s touched a live wire, eyes wide. The sudden loss of him leaves you cold, shivering in the space he’s no longer filling. 

“I’m so sorry,” he gasps. 

You shake your head quickly. “It’s fine. I’m okay.” 

He looks so heartbreakingly beautiful it makes your chest tighten. His glasses are askew, his cheeks flushed, lips kiss-swollen and wet. His eyes are wild and wide, pupils blown so far they swallow the blue. 

Then he frowns, glancing down at your shirt. “So... whose shirt is that?” 

You blink, then glance down. “Oh. No idea. Barracks laundry mix-up, I think. Makes a good sleep shirt, though.” 

He chuckles softly, the pink in his cheeks creeping all the way to the tips of his ears as his eyes lock on yours. “It looks good on you,” he murmurs, voice low and rough, “but I think I prefer the short skirts.” 

Your heart trips, racing straight into your throat. “Bob Floyd,” you gasp, eyes wide with faux scandal, “did you just admit how much you love short skirt weather?” 

He rolls his eyes, all sheepish charm. “Only when the skirts are on you.” 

“That so?” Your lips curl into a slow smirk. “Well, unfortunately, I think this—” you tap the brace on your leg “—means short skirts are officially out. For now, at least.” 

He exhales hard, gaze dropping for just a second before snapping back to yours—burning now. There’s a hunger there, dark and open and unfiltered, something you’ve maybe only glimpsed before. It sparks heat low in your belly, your thighs aching to clench—if it weren’t for your stupid goddamn injury. 

Then, low and shameless and deadly serious, he asks, “What about sex?” 

The question punches the breath right from your lungs. Your cheeks flush hot as you bite your lip to hide the grin already threatening. 

“Can you be gentle?” you ask, voice barely above a whisper. 

“I can try,” he mutters, so deep and rough it settles right between your legs and spreads like wildfire. 

Your head is spinning. Logic fading fast. You don’t care how sore your leg might be—you want him. All of him. Finally. 

So you lean in, brushing your lips to his in a soft, teasing kiss as you murmur against his mouth, “Then what the fuck are you waiting for, Floyd?”

You had never ever ever understood the appeal. Workplaces seemed to love the idea of forcing people who already saw one another every day to make torturous small talk, when they could be doing anything else to prepare for the already busy holiday season. It wasn't productive for anyone, really, but your workplace, Hastings Research Institute, seemed eager about this holiday season. You supposed you would have to grit your teeth and go along for the ride.

The initiation to this time of frustration came on a clear December 4th. Everyone was gathered in the cafeteria, where people sat in their normal places for lunch. You normally clustered on the end of a table where similar secretaries and lab assistant sat, one elbow hanging off, so you sat there, blending into the crowd as you normally did and excited chatter flowed in one ear and out the other. After everyone was seated, a sharp tap to the microphone up front drew everyone's attention to the front of the room.

"Hello, everybody. Good afternoon." The man up front gave a short, small smile at everyone. "I'm sure some of us aren't very eager to be wrenched away from our important work, but this holiday season is an important time. It's a time where we can all remember what a team we are here at Hastings, and how we work best when we work together."

You knew of at least three people at your table who secretly hated and bad mouthed each other, in secret, frequently. If this place was a team, you were as good as the worst sports team out there.

"This year, as I'm sure you're all aware, we'll be doing our annual Secret Santa!" The man raised up a large bowl. "We've gathered everybody's names into this bowl. The rules are simple, as always—draw a name, keep it to yourself, and get a secret gift for that person. On our holiday party before Christmas, everyone will get their gifts from their Secret Santa!"

Ah, yes, so simple. How convenient that he did not mention how difficult it was if you got someone you didn't know at all. You were already mentally preparing yourself for some smelly soap to go straight into your garbage bin at home.

People formed a line, called table by table to retrieve little slips of paper. Everyone in Hastings seemed determinedly set to their task, which surprised you. It was your first Christmas there, and despite getting to know people here and there, you clearly hadn't learned enough about them, because even the guy who never said thank you when you brought his group coffee looked excited to do this.

You didn't look at the paper you received until you returned to your seat. Paper half-crumpled in your hand, you rolled it open and cupped it secretly to the side as you read over the name.

Calvin Evans

Your head slowly raised.

Oh no.

You craned your head as nonchalantly as possible to figure out if the man was even there. After a moment, you spotted him, sitting as close to the door and as far from others as possible.

Calvin Evans, the ghost of the Hastings Research Institute.

You had spoken to him twice—only brief interactions, a "Good morning" and an "Excuse me" that could hardly constitute as true conversation. You had seen him plenty more times, of course. He would approach the building in sweaty gray joggers on the dot every morning as you sat in your car and told yourself to stand the hell up and go inside.

He was revered among your coworkers because he funded the place. Because he was brilliant—silently light-years past the work everyone else did.

He was hated among your coworkers because, apparently, he was weird.

Maybe he's just introverted, you thought as the line finished and you stuffed the paper into your pocket. This was, of course, wishful thinking, but a girl could dream.

"Did you get someone you liked?" Your coworker nudged your arm—a nice lady, Marion, who was always pleasant to talk to and normally listened when you told her how you were. "I got that handsome man I talk about all the time."

"Rory?"

"Yes." She grinned. "Isn't it fate? I'll have to think of something nice to give him—not overly romantic, but something that says I notice, y'know?"

"I'm sure he'll appreciate whatever you give him, Marion." You watched people begin to file out. Apparently in the midst of your thoughts you had missed the closing words from your boss. You would get all the details later.

"It can't help to be thoughtful." Marion put a hand delicately over her heart and batted her eyelids. "After all, isn't that what a man desires?"

You knew she was joking, but something about it still made your nose wrinkle. "If I ever start acting like that, poison me."

Marion gasped your name dramatically. "What? Oh, come on, you would never!"

"I know I wouldn't." You stood. "Which is why it would be concerning if I ever did."

You faced a very dangerous obstacle ahead of you. About four weeks to Christmas, and you had absolutely zero plan.

You laid out your options a few days later, scribbling idly on scrap paper.

Option 1: A safe gift. A generic gift. Some kind of candy, or nuts, something easily disposable… yet disappointing and entirely unexciting.

Option 2: Something science related. Like a book or a decor item—something easy and job related, something you'd already heard others planning to do. Yet, still, not very personal.

Option 3: Actually try. Try to get close enough to the living enigma of the Institute in order to get him a good Secret Santa gift.

You'd never been one to turn down a challenge. Option 3 it was.

You got your first chance at infiltration later that day. Deliveries were bi-weekly unless there was some particular accident that cleared supplies from the place. The delivery driver came late, flustered and annoyed because of something happening in his own workspace. You sympathized with him—the holidays got to everyone—and offered to help carry boxes around. This was a blessing, eventually, because after working through the load, you finally arrived to the final box. The box to be delivered to Calvin Evans.

"You've been working so hard the past hour, you could always let someone else grab it." A secretary—Marie? Maddie?—lounged over her desk, watching you stoop to pick up the box. "God knows those boys in the lab could use a walk from time to time."

"I've got it," you said. "I really don't mind, helps me test my memory."

"If you insist."

Calvin Evans' lab was a bit further removed from the others, down a long corridor as a door that others seemed to steer around if they needed to pass it. There was a handwritten sign plastered on the door talking about DO NOT DISTURB, but both for the sake of your research and your aching arms, you managed to knock on the door.

The door swung open around three seconds after you knocked. The man in front of you was noticeably taller than you had ever really taken note of, his hair short and slightly curled in front of his face as the nicest blue eyes you'd ever seen focused straight on you.

"Hi." You greeted.

"… hello." Calvin blinked at you, then the box. "It's Thursday already." This was not a question.

"Yes, it is." You hefted the box a little higher. "Apologies that I'm not the normal delivery man, he got… indisposed, I guess? Something about route mix-ups."

"You've managed to deliver the correct box competently to my door, so I see no reason why it makes any difference." Calvin blinked a few times, not exactly making eye contact but clearly trying to look at you nonetheless. "You're…" He said your name slowly. "… right?"

You nodded. "Yeah. That's me."

"Come in." He offered suddenly, stepping aside.

Though you questioned if this had ever happened before, and if you were perhaps the first person to see the inside of this lab since he had taken residence, you accepted the invitation with a gracious nod and stepped inside. You had seen all the labs in Hastings except for his, and it was… not what you expected. Sure, there were the normal things—beakers and a chalkboard with scribbled notes in handwriting you could slightly catch, but there was also a mess. An abominable mess. And a million crumbs that seemed to be related to nuts.

You stood there for a moment, vaguely bewildered, but Calvin brushed past you. "Come, come here, I have somewhere you can set that."

"Of course." You followed him to the clearest counter, watching him absentmindedly brush aside nut shells. "Do you… want any help organizing them?" Organizing your whole lab, perhaps? You'd worked as some mix of secretary and lab assistant over your year-ish of working at Hastings, which led you into the familiarity of how the other labs were organized. It would be easier, probably, considering Calvin's lab was all his own, but—

"Don't you have anywhere else to be?" Calvin asked. He crooked an eyebrow in your direction, and you faltered, before he barreled on, suddenly switching gear. "Actually. Yes. I… yes. Your help would be appreciated."

You stared at him for a moment and then nodded. You were… afraid to touch anything. Or move, really. Every purpose and reason you were there had sort of been thrown out the window. Your eyes flicked over everything, slowly, slowly, before you took in a deep breath.

You had a mission, right? You had to focus. Stupid, annoying, dickish Secret Santa.

"Do you like nuts?" You blurted.

Calvin looked at you. "Are you being sarcastic?" He asked, a vague twitch to the corner of his mouth.

The switch of expression relaxed you a little. You pushed back slowly as Calvin opened up the box of supplies. "I suppose I'm curious why such a precise chemist has scatterings of nuts all over his lab."

"You're calling me a slob."

"I think it's funny."

"Hmm." He had started you passing you things, and you were mindlessly taking them and setting them aside without really realizing the rhythm the two of you had fallen into. "I do like nuts. They're my lunch."

"Every day?"

"Every day."

You blinked a little. That couldn't really be healthy, could it? You studied him from the corner of your eye for a moment—he looked healthy enough. Pretty, really, with that shaped nose and the vaguest thoughtful frown on his face at all times, like everything was a mystery to him.

"Are you really that constantly at work that you can hardly pause for lunch?"

Calvin made a motion like a shrug as the two of you finished unpacking the box. "Science never stops."

"The human body does." You scratched at your neck slightly. "Isn't the recommendation for calories per day somewhere around 2000 calories for men? I don't think nuts really get you that high up there."

He frowned slightly at you. "I don't think—"

"Oh, what else, you also need proteins and enzymes and vitamins, especially since we are in the winter months." You started ticking off on your fingers. "Vitamin C, protein, minerals like iron and zinc…"

Calvin was just staring at you. "Are you… suggesting I change my eating habits?"

"I'm just saying that Hastings Research Institute's best chemist should have the right diet to keep him up and running. We wouldn't want all this—" You gestured to him. "—to break down, would we?"

He slowly shook his head. "… no. We wouldn't."

"Glad you agree." You gestured to the set-out items. "Now, let's work on these?"

There wasn't much conversation that passed between the two of you for a time. You were pretty sure you'd thrown Calvin off a little, but he didn't seem to mind it, or you, which surprised you. For about a year, all you had heard about him was gossipy whispers about his weird ways and aversion to other people.

Maybe he was just lonely, you thought, watching him from the corner of your eye as he lined up beakers in his supply room.

When you had finished helping him organize his supplies, you cleared your throat in the vague silence. "Well. There you are. If there's nothing else I can do, then I can leave."

He said your name, which made you pause. When he stepped closer, his eyes were very focused on you.

"Do you have specific recommendations for how to improve my diet?" He asked bluntly.

You stared up at him, then smiled. "Are you asking for more help?"

Something like a flustered expression passed over his face, brief as a flash, but he tilted his head. "Are you offering more help?"

You hummed, considering. "Tuesday night. I will come to your house and make you dinner, and we will talk about balanced diets." You stuck your hand out, unsure where this boldness had come from, yet unwilling to back down now. "Deal?"

Calvin smiled, just a little bit, and shook your hand. "Deal."

Three weeks to Christmas, and you had all your holiday shopping done.

Christmas Eve, you would spend with your family. This was the same every year, on the dot, no matter what. They lived close, yet you didn't see them too often, everyone wrapped up in their own life, so you relished the yearly chance to be close, even for a night. It was one night you could at least not worry so much about everything else.

You had a bit more money this year, too. Working at Hastings provided you with a decent enough salary that you could purchase some things you truly wanted to buy, which included Christmas gifts. The one problem was that your car was tiny, so your entire back seat was mostly crammed with the gifts you'd bought.

Calvin Evans found you two hours after you arrived at work, hovering all tall in his crisp white lab coat as he watched you slap at a typewriter like it had insulted you.

"Hi." He said after a moment.

You jumped slightly as you spun to him. "Goodness—what is wrong with you? How in the world did you sneak up on me, you're massive!" You gestured to him.

"You seemed focused on… assaulting a typewriter." Calvin said, tone somewhat teasing as his gaze moved between you and the machine.

"Yes, well, it's not working, so maybe it deserves a smack or two."

"Or seven."

"Hey." You frowned at him ruefully. "Can I do something for you, Dr. Evans?"

He straightened. "I was… wondering when you were planning to come over. To my house."

"Oh." You smacked your lips. "Well, after work, I have to go buy groceries, so I'll buy those and then come over."

"Okay." Calvin paused for a moment. "May I come with you?"

You stared at him for a moment and tilted your head. "You could, if you would like." You smiled. "Is there a reason why?"

"Well, I don't drive, first of all."

"You don—"

"I believe it would be more beneficial if I were able to lead you to my house more directly," Calvin continued. "and I am also curious what choices you'll make towards dinner. If the process of a good diet starts at a grocery store, I believe I should start there with you as well."

The way you were going, you were pretty sure you were going to get him a cookbook for his Secret Santa gift. Either way, there was something endearing about the linear logic of the chemist and the way he seemed so solid and certain, so you nodded.

"Alright, then. Once we get off work, we can go. Sound good?"

"Yes." Calvin rounded on his heel, then paused and gave you a little smile and a thumbs-up.

You tried to ignore the dumb smile over your own face and the little thump in your chest.

When Calvin bent his way into your car later, you saw him cast a curious glance over his shoulder at the numerous Christmas presents in the back.

"For my family," you explained. "I actually have money this year, so… I kind of went a little overboard?"

"Do you like buying gifts for others?" Calvin asked as he fastened his seatbelt.

You blew out a small breath as you pulled out from Hastings' parking lot. You don't know the half of it. "I don't find it easy. But I do like it."

"Finding a path to the heart." Calvin muttered.

You snorted. "Yeah, exactly. Good gifts are… simple, right? Something that makes that connection between people. That shows them you noticed." You tapped your fingers on the steering wheel. "But I still find it so hard, you know? How do you balance the materialistic with the, uh, idealistic? Or—or with a possible experience? It's so easy to just wrap something, but what if what someone needs or wants is bigger and less solid than wrapping?"

Calvin remained silent, though he hummed softly. You glanced at him from the corner of your eye and found that he was simply watching you, taking in all your words.

"I want to try," you continued after a moment. "I want to do good, especially during Christmas. Gifts shouldn't mean nothing, you know? They shouldn't be a pointless workplace exercise, either. Secret Santas are stupid sometimes. Sometimes you barely know your coworkers, and you're, what, supposed to buy them a present? Just for fun? Just because? If I exist in someone's space, I want to know them before I buy them something or create something for them. It doesn't feel complete or right otherwise."

Silence lingered for a long, long moment. Then Calvin spoke.

"If the amount of presents in this car means anything, I think you are very good about giving people the right gifts."

Your shoulders eased marginally.

"I think you have a more optimistic and passionate look on it than some people." He shifted. "Christmas doesn't carry the same connotations for everyone."

"What does it carry for you?" You asked quietly.

He paused for a moment, staring out the window instead of at you, hands curling and uncurling in his lap. You pulled into the grocery store parking lot and turned off the car, yet did not move, waiting for his answer.

"I'm usually alone for Christmas." Calvin said quietly after a long silence. He was factual about it, yet you saw a new crease between his eyebrows, something that marred his pretty face with evidence of a pained past you had no idea about. "I would… I would like to put thought into gifts, yet I have very little people to achieve that with. Christmas feels very distant from me. Working is easier."

You looked at him for a moment and then extended your hand, resting it on his shoulder. "I'm sorry you've not had good experiences so far in your life," you said. "but this year, I'm here, and I'm going to teach you how to eat well, and we're going to buy a garland and put it up in your house, and we're going to sing along to Christmas songs."

Calvin blinked at you. "… thank you." he said, then— "In my house?"

"In your house."

He sighed. "Lovely." His fingers brushed over your own as you pulled your hand away and he reached for it at the same time. There was a hesitance there, a sort of in-between, before he exited the vehicle. "Let's go, then."

You had a small little list in your head. Both of ingredients and the plan. The Plan. Trademarked. Underlined three times. Calling it something other than Secret Santa Present made it feel more important, more declared.

And it was important. Because Jesus Christ, Calvin Evans was indeed the world's loneliest person. He was alone, and nobody should ever feel alone on Christmas, so you had decided without really deciding that you would be the guide to the greatest Christmas ever. And also so you could figure out what to get him for the Secret Santa.

The grocery store run was pleasant and strangely domestic. Calvin trailed after you like a lost puppy, never too close and certainly never too far. You talked nearly the whole time, your mouth running words, but you talked about food. You talked about nutrition and balance and flavors and how things did and didn't go together. Sometimes what you talked about went into your cart and sometimes it didn't, but Calvin paid attention the whole time, and if you stopped talking you would start feeling self conscious, so you kept going.

By the time the two of you were checking food out, you found yourself staring at the rising price of the food with an increasingly anxious look.

"Move." Calvin murmured near your ear. You blinked up at him, confused, just in time to watch him pass money to the cashier.

"Calvin—" You hissed.

"Don't worry about it. You're grabbing food for me." He insisted as he looked down at you. "Let me pay for my food, yeah?"

You shut up pretty quick under that firm look.

Calvin led you with perfect geographical instructions into his driveway. His house was lovely—simple yet well-sized in a lived-in neighborhood. Had you not known he was alone in life, you would've assumed he would be married with two children and a pet in this kind of house.

"Let me take some of those." He scooped up bags of groceries and helped usher you into his house, which was neat and plainly decorated. Lived in, but not breathed in. You noted a record player that you passed by on the way in and quirked a lip thoughtfully as the two of you began unpacking groceries.

"I saw a record player." You looked at him. "A fan of music?"

"Oh." He blinked, then nodded. "Yes, I am, I like Charlie Parker."

"You're a jazz fan?" This delighted you, though you couldn't put your finger on why. When Calvin nodded, seemingly puzzled by your grin, you just smiled wider and giggled as you lined ingredients up for dinner. "I love jazz, too. You wanna put a record on? We could use some music while we cook."

Charlie Parker's complex harmonies floated around the two of you, enveloped in the warm light of Christmas spirit. Calvin helped you chop vegetables and mix ingredients, watching with rapt attention as you rattled off to him steps in creating tonight's meal—soup and homemade bread, because a way to win someone's heart over was obviously with homemade bread. His attention was easily the thing that startled you the most—though he often didn't make eye contact and his responses could be blunt and unapologetic, it was clear Calvin Evans was a man who took in every word that was said.

Once, you had heard someone describe him as haughty. A holier-than-thou scientist who thought he was so much better than everyone else.

Now, as you watched him push bread into his oven, a concentrated crinkle to his brow, you thought that he was better than everyone, but he certainly wasn't haughty over it. He was lonely and thoughtful and brilliant, and you'd only properly known him for about a week now.

"Now what?"

You were shaken from your thoughts to find Calvin watching you as he dried off his hands.

"Well," you hummed. "The soup is gonna simmer, the bread needs to bake… we don't have anything else to do for a while."

"Would you like to talk?" Calvin asked quietly.

You stared at him. "Would you like to?"

"I wouldn't offer—" He stepped forward, a little closer than normal, and looked down at you. "—if I didn't want to."

"Garland, then," you said, weaker than you wanted to be. "and talking."

Calvin didn't even need a ladder. He just needed your direction as he stretched up high and explained, breathlessly, his latest science project to you.

"I've been going over things in my head repeatedly. Trying to think of new routes, you know? New directions. Everything in chemistry may seem like it has been done already, but that is not true. There's always new directions to be stretching, as long as the mind allows it."

"To the left a little for that hook."

"Thank you. So," he inhaled. "I've gone back to the basics, really. On what we think of as the modern truth of chemistry. When you think of other great scientific discoveries such as those by Galileo, he did not make those discoveries by simply cruising along and assuming all modern assumptions were correct. Amino acids, for example—those are such a basis for the modern day, but what if it's more complicated, more immense than modern scientists imagine? I'm trying to… expand from that. Combinations, equations, trying to send out in all directions in the hopes that I snag onto something."

"It sounds rather a lot like faith to me," you said curiously. "but I like your reasoning. Do you really think that by simply casting some kind of line out, you'll get a tug?"

"I can't hope for anything but." Calvin finished attaching the garland and finally turned to you, brushing askew strands of hair away from his face. "When science seems to have hit some kind of dead end, that's when you know something is wrong."

The two of you lounged on his couch for a while and just… talked. You couldn't remember the last time you had gotten to know someone, and from the clunky yet endearing way Calvin navigated the conversation, you knew it was the same for him. He was incredibly intelligent in more than just chemistry—he talked about his neighbors, all Black Americans in a world that rejected them. He talked about the intricacies of public law that he had dipped his toe into at one point. He talked about how religion was interwoven into so much that it made people blind, especially considering science.

You liked to hear him speak. You thought that you could listen to him speak forever, with that warm, intelligent voice with a cadence like warm water.

Just as the two of you were cutting the bread into slices, you remembered the mission all over again. It had flitted from your mind in this warm haze of a growing friendship, but now it was back, and you cleared your throat as you set the table.

"So," you started casually. "do you have any Christmas wishes, then?"

"I don't exactly have anyone to give me gifts." Calvin remarked.

"If you did, though." You glanced up at him. "Or if you're buying things for yourself. Anything on the plate?"

Calvin considered this question for a moment as he ladled soup into his bowl. "I would like more casual clothes," he said. "for when I'm home. I also need a second workout outfit."

"You mean your 'I'm running from work to home twice in a day' outfit?" You asked, lips pulled into an amused expression.

He shot you a look. "Yes. That one."

"I think more than one pair of consistently sweat-covered clothing is likely a good idea if you like smelling decent." You said with a nod.

Calvin was giving you a look, but that stopped the instant he ate the first spoonful of soup. You saw his eyes flick to the bowl, then to you, as his eyelids fluttered slightly.

You smiled a little, tentative yet hopeful. "Good?"

"This is…" He ate another bite. "Delicious."

You laughed. "Don't let me stop you, Mr. Genius. Dig in."

Calvin ate with enthusiasm, which encouraged you. You also could not remember the last time you'd shared a meal with someone, so to sit across from a very nice man and speak with him about both foolish and interesting things was really, incredibly, delightful.

"Do you have no other wishes besides clothes?" You asked, poking softly at your mission. Your mission, your mission, was this entire dinner and trip and talk because of your mission, because you were trying to be a good coworker—?

"I like books. And music," Calvin said quietly. "I've tried to look for the last Charlie Parker record I don't have, but it's impossible to find."

"What kind of books do you like?"

"Fiction and nonfiction alike." Calvin dipped some bread into his soup and took in a breath like he hadn't eaten in days. "My favorite book is Great Expectations."

"That's a lovely book. It's been a few years since I've read it, though." You said with a nod. "Okay, okay, let me rephrase the question—do you read to escape or learn?"

Calvin blinked at you. "What?"

"Oftentimes when I ask people about their reading likes and habits, I notice that you can usually group a person on two sides—they read to escape life, or they read to learn."

"Can it not be both?"

"It can," you said. "but normally a person tends to lead. Nobody's ever right and straight in the middle. And it's not like there's a right or a wrong. It's just personality, you know?" You pointed to him with your spoon. "As I asked—escape or learn?"

"… learn," Calvin said after thinking. "I think. I always say that a good book never stops teaching you, y'know? Even a nonfiction book can teach you something, tell you something, give you a lesson or an idea or an out. I like learning."

You smiled a little. Endearing. "I do believe that's your science brain talking."

"I do believe," he repeated, half-teasing, half-mocking. "that you may be right. What about you, then?"

"Escape, mostly. I like fiction and stories. I like the lessons you can get from them, but I also like submerging into someone else's world and problems so I can get away from my own."

Calvin was studying you as you said that, all soft-eyed and quiet. His blue eyes didn't look so blue all the time, you had realized. They looked more brown now, though you knew it wasn't true. Either way, he was listening. This realization, though it had come and gone repeatedly and many times, continued to settle lower in your gut.

"What books do you like?" Calvin asked softly.

You responded in a mumble, something about stories that you never really had shared with anyone before, but he didn't make you feel dumb for it. He just nodded, smiling a little, as he finished his soup.

"I've heard of those." He folded his napkin onto the table. "I think I'll have to take a look at them, when I have some free time."

"Do you ever have free time?" This was the first time you'd ever thought of or experienced him outside of the lab. You realized you'd been thinking of this as an exception.

"That sounds like that one question." Calvin chuckled a little, the sound warming your stomach more than the soup had. "The, ah. 'If a tree falls in the forest and no one is around to hear it, does it make a sound?'."

You huffed. "What would your answer be to that question, then?"

"Of course I make a sound." Calvin said. "I'm a human, and very alive."

"What about the tree, then?"

He scooped up your bowls with a smile down at you. "I'm not a philosopher. I'm a chemist."

"Rude."

He laughed—actually laughed—for the first time, and you just frowned at his back as a million realizations crashed down onto you.

You were not merely doing this for the Secret Santa mission anymore.

One and a half weeks until Christmas.

You liked taking notes. It was an idle habit, but you liked carrying around a small notebook, something that could fit most places inside uniforms and clothing. Small notes, small doodles, average thoughts. You wrote a poem, you doodled a leaf, you did small diary entries, you wrote a grocery list. Your current notebook had been with you for the better part of three years, and thanks to the near-constant use, it was growing close to being finished.

Today, you returned to the four-page section devoted to the mission. Specifically, you were looking at page 3 of this section: POSSIBLE CALVIN GIFTS

-Charlie Parker record

-Great Expectations something?

-Another book of some kind

-Cooking supplies??

-Cookbook

-A coupon for me to cook him dinner I would do that for him anytime he asked actually never mind

-Something really personal that he really really wants.

You sighed and leaned back from the notebook, scrubbing at your face. The party was a week away and you were no closer to deciphering the heart of the man you'd spent every day talking to. You were blaming yourself for that, too. Despite trying to stay focused on what you had to do, every interaction with Calvin Evans turned into something more. Like the fact that he had a comfy chair in his lab that was great for you to rest your legs, or the fact that he had started eating actual lunch in the cafeteria at a table with you. He talked to you in murmurs about science and he never minded your presence, and you felt like an idiot because after everything, you were still going to be the worst Secret Santa to him ever.

The sound of your name made you jerk from your thoughts and slam your notebook shut in the same motion. Calvin stood over your shoulder, blinking curiously at you.

"Hi." You breathed.

"Hi." He repeated, tilting his head. "Could I… have the assistance of an experienced lab assistant?"

"Oh, I don't think we have any of those." You propped your head in a hand and shrugged. "You see, we're very low on intelligence here at Hastings."

"Is that so?" Calvin looked around, shoving an idle hand in his coat pocket. "That's very strange, I could have sworn there was a certain someone here that was incredibly intelligent."

"Hmm. You might've missed them."

Calvin shot you a look. "I don't think I did."

For some reason, you warmed a little. His hand brushed slightly against your back, and you were suddenly shooting up in your seat with a barely restrained squeak as you spoke.

"Wow, I think you've suddenly discovered a great candidate to help you, Dr. Evans! I would be ever so pleased to assist you."

If Calvin noticed how you had said it all in one breath, or that your face felt warmer than usual, he didn't comment on anything, just smiled.

"Wonderful. I appreciate your assistance."

When you pushed inside Calvin's lab, you stopped dead in your tracks.

The inside was clean. Organized. Orderly. Nut remnants swept away, beakers lined, notes organized and spread across counters in a way that wouldn't drive anyone crazy.

Not only was it clean, but there were Christmas lights hanging around the space.

Calvin Evans had fucking decorated.

Your mouth fell open. "Oh my god."

"Do you… like it?"

"Oh my god, Calvin!" You spun around, arms flung up in the air. "You fucking cleaned! Did you do this for me?"

"I…" The scientist suddenly looked very nervous as he closed the door and fidgeted with a pencil in his hands. "I thought that for all the time you spend in here now, you deserved a nice place."

"The thing that made this place nice was you, you silly man, but I like it." You took a glance around and looked at him. "Do you like it?"

"I do." He said quietly. "I did it for myself, too. I just… didn't realize I needed it until you."

You smiled at him. Big and grinning and heartfelt in a way that had been foreign to you for so long. You wanted to fling your arms around him and take all of him in—breathing, breathing, like nothing else mattered.

Still, you held yourself back. You were just friends. Guilt tugged at you, the idea that you were only friends anyways because of a Secret Santa thing. You'd tried not to think about after Christmas, if anything would be the same, or if he would suddenly reject you because of your likely terrible gift.

Maybe you were being silly. Or maybe you were just afraid of losing something you'd just gained.

You shoved the thought away and tried to focus on the present. "This is lovely. I'm glad I could… encourage you, you know? To do something like this."

Calvin nodded. His gaze was soft, lingering on you in a way that had been changing over the last couple of weeks.

"Thank you." He said.

"No, thank you." You said with a smile. "Now—is there anything I can do in here so I don't get accused of slacking?"

"Hmm." Calvin pressed his mouth together. "I need to get some things measured before my final experiment of the day." He looked around and groaned. "There's no—god, I need a watch, what time even is it?" He looked back at you. "Yes—I certainly need some quick help."

"Well, that sounds like a job for a lab assistant." You reached for a drawer and found that you now instinctively knew where he kept his gloves. You smiled to yourself and pulled a pair on. "Where do I start?"

You stood in front of your mirror, turning this way and that as you studied yourself with a small frown.

It was always hard to decide what to wear to holiday parties. Holiday parties were dumb, first of all. There was always some dumb game or drawing that unexpectedly happened that people had to do or watch. The food was usually mediocre. The drinks were oftentimes lukewarm and flat. You could always see it in people's eyes when they started counting down the time until they got home.

And yet there was always a performance one had to put on when attending parties. The first main obstacle being how you dressed.

You were fairly satisfied with the outfit you'd finally settled on. Sweater, slacks, shoes. Things that started with S as an outfit could lead you to no wrongs. It fit you, it looked good, you were fine.

So why were you still nervous?

That was a dumb question, you thought as you started up the car and drove towards Hastings. You know exactly why you're nervous, you fool, it's because of the gift wrapped up in that jacket of yours.

In the backset, covered by your jacket, was your present for Calvin. It was wrapped in deep red wrapping paper with little dogs and Santa Clauses running across. Dog chasing Santa. Santa chasing dog. You chasing nerves.

He would like it, you told yourself. He would like the bow and the present and he would love it because you had tried. Was trying enough for him? He, who tried and excelled in so many brilliant ways?

You wanted to bang your head against the steering wheel. Now was not the time to lose it. You could always cry away your feelings once you got home.

Hmm. Alcohol at home. The thought soothed you as you stepped out of your vehicle into the cool night.

Despite the chill outside, Hastings was lively and well-lit. There was music playing somewhere, and the cafeteria had been arranged differently, giving way to seating to the side and a dance floor of sorts in the middle, which a few people were surprisingly engaging in. You discreetly dropped your present off on the Secret Santa table and glanced around the room for any sign of Calvin, but the only person you located was Marion, who was dancing with Rory. She grinned at you as he spun her around, and you gave her a thumbs up. Christmas miracles did happen.

You found Calvin only because he found you. You caught each other's eye from across the room and you stiffened, straightening slightly and restraining the urge to wave. You furiously fought back the nerves as he got closer, smiling that wobbly and lovely smile at you.

He looked good tonight. So good it made your chest hurt. He'd done something a little different with his hair, slightly more curled yet still neat, and he wore a neat, nice suit in a deep jeweled tone.

"Hi." He said, a complimentary greeting.

"Hi." You said back, a complimentary response. "Get here safe?"

"I'm here." He was standing very, very close, and both of his hands were shoved in his pockets, which was funny, because he normally didn't do that. "I took a bus."

"No running today?"

"I was carrying cargo. Couldn't let it get damaged."

"Ah, right." You nodded to the Secret Santa table. "It's a colorful haul. Looks like Santa came early."

"Santa Claus is not real, but people's effort is."

"I mean… some of it likely can't be called effort, right?" You said as you shot him a look. "I think some people are going to get some great garbage stuffers tonight."

Calvin snorted lowly. Something about it was more distant than usual, which only made the anxiety in your chest spike.

"… everything alright?" You asked quietly.

"What? Yes, of course it is." Calvin blinked down at you. "Why wouldn't it be?"

"You seem… I don't know. Off."

"I am a bit apprehensive," Calvin admitted. "and I don't like loud gatherings like this."

"Yeah, I hear you." You sighed. "I was just fantasizing about being at home and having a drink and, like, relaxing, y'know?"

"That sounds nice," he said softly. "I could go for that kind of thing right now too."

You would be welcome. You thought quietly, but before the thought could leave you, another sharp and fateful tap to a microphone drew everyone's attention to the front of the room.

"Alright, everyone, well. I know it certainly isn't Christmas yet, but tonight we're having a very Hastings Christmas!" Your boss, who had clearly been drinking, was smiling as he stared at everyone. "We've got a table over there of Secret Santa presents. Everyone was instructed to write their recipient's names on the gift somewhere, and to write their own names inside the packaging or gift, so it should be easy for everyone to find their own gift and know who gave it to them." He waved a hand. "Aside from that, we'll have a few fun games to play throughout, but I know everyone's been excited for the presents, so—get at 'em!"

There was a flurry of motion not unlike pigeons descending down upon seeds. You and Calvin stood in the corner of the room, blinking as people rummaged through the pile of presents as if on a treasure hunt, people eventually flaking off as they found what was addressed to them.

You glanced up at Calvin in that moment of observation, watching his face. His long, pretty eyelashes, the curve of his jaw, the steady bob of his throat as he swallowed. You had never been so nervous and so hopeful about a reaction in your life, you thought, which was strange.

Or maybe it wasn't so strange. You were rather endeared by Calvin Evans, after all.

"Should we…?" Calvin gestured, and you nodded, following him. You searched around, finding your present to Calvin, and you turned to him.

"This one has your name," you said with all the nonchalance you could muster. "here you go."

"Thank you." He murmured, his hands closing delicately around your present. A moment or two of searching later, and you found a present with your name on it. Simple candy-cane-stripe paper wrapped around something rectangular, tied with silver ribbon. A smile ghosted over your face at the wrapping before you stepped back from the table and caught Calvin's eye.

The man was searching around the cafeteria with a vaguely scrunched nose. When you called his name, his eyes moved to yours, and you jerked your head towards the doors.

"Wanna go somewhere quieter?"

The front hall of Hastings was quiet, unlike the cafeteria. The two of you settled on the nearby stairs, illuminated by the decorations, gifts in your laps as you sat in a simple silence.

"This is a lot." You said after a moment.

"What is?"

"All of it. Christmas."

Calvin hummed. His arm brushed against yours as he leaned back with a slow sigh.

"This has been… a very good Christmas season for me," He said quietly. "because for once, I've not felt entirely alone during it."

Your heart gave a little tap dance in your chest at that. "I'm glad I've been making it better."

"You don't even know how much better." Calvin swallowed noticeably, eyelids fluttering slightly as he looked down at his lap and opened his mouth, stumbling over his words. "I just—it means—I—"

"It's alright." Your hand landed over his for a moment, and you both paused as your eyes met. You smiled at him, searched his expression.

"I get it," you whispered. "and I'm happy you're here with me."

"… yeah," he said, voice low and thick. "me too."

"I… we should—" You ripped your gaze away, down to the present. "We, should, uh—"

"Right. Yes." Calvin straightened slightly, clearing his throat. "On three?"

You smiled a little. "Of course. One… two…"

"Three." Calvin finished for you, and both of you tore into the presents.

Calvin opened presents like he was operating on a patient. You would have to teach him how to properly unwrap. Your attention, surprisingly, was ripped from Calvin when your eyes fell on your gift.

It was a notebook—sleek and expensive-looking, your initials on the front. As you flipped the first page open dazedly, you noticed familiar handwriting, tentative and neat on the first page.

"For my note-taker, my assistant, my culinary instructor, my listener, and the one who has reminded me this month that for all the loneliness I have suffered, it has all been worth it to know you."

Calvin

You jerked your head up at the exact same time that Calvin's head whipped up.

"It was you—" You both started saying, before you both stopped and stared at each other.

Calvin was cradling a watch in his hand. He'd needed a new one, of course. He told you two weeks ago that his old one had broken on a random day and he'd been completely distraught since. You'd gone to great lengths to research this one, and those lengths had gone far, especially with the quote on the back of the watch.

You must never be fearful of what you are doing when it is right.

You had a note in there. You knew it was simple, sweet. "To the man who is brilliant, smart, funny, and interesting in every way. Thank you for entertaining and caring about me."

The realization clicked into place very slow and very sweet.

You had gotten each other as a Secret Santa.

You began to laugh. One second it was giggles and the next it was soundless laughter, laughing so hard that tears sprang to your eyes. Or maybe the tears were because you loved this gift and you loved the man next to you.

"Why are you—" Calvin was laughing now, too. "Why are you laughing?"

"Because—" You wiped a tear from your eye. "Because this is so funny and you are so amazing and I love you and this gift so much—"

"You love me?" Calvin stared at you, lips parting.

Your laughter hitched, your breath stalling in your lungs. Your fingers clutched tight around the notebook in your lap, and you bit down on your lip as you managed a slow nod.

It was like a dam had broken inside of Calvin. His shoulders eased as a breath slid from his lips like it had been waiting for permission.

"That's—that's really good," he managed. "because I am quite positive that I love you too—"

You leaned forward and kissed him.

He was warm, and he smelled even better up close. His hand was cupping at your cheek and your neck, thumb along your jaw, tilting his head with a low, rumbling sound.

You both pulled back from the kiss. "Come to Christmas Eve," you panted. "with my family? Please?"

"Okay," Calvin agreed, and you dove back into each other again.

You were making out with Calvin Evans on the staircase of a building with an incredible Christmas gift in your lap and you were positive this was the greatest Christmas party ever.

"I'm guessing you like it, then?" He murmured between kisses. "I was—I was scared, I think, worried that you wouldn't like it—"

"I love it. I love it so much, Calvin, you don't even know how much it means to me." You shook your head, grinning as you peppered small little kisses all across his face. "So brilliant and observant, you know that?"

"I love this too. I've gotta—honey, hold on, I have to—" He was torn between continuing to kiss you and wrapping the watch around his left wrist. "The quote's so—how did you even—?"

"Research." You said smugly against his lips.

Calvin groaned softly. "That sounds… very hot when you say that." He kissed you again.

The two of you leaned back after a few moments, sprawled on the stairs. You would have to shower later, of course, you didn't trust where your coworker's shoes had been, but right now you were on cloud nine and nothing else mattered.

"… you're very hard to buy for, you know that?" Calvin murmured, playing with your hand.

"You are too," you protested. "I mean, what was I supposed to get, soaps? It took me forever to pinpoint the right—"

Calvin laughed and shushed you, kissing your knuckles. "I am joking with you," he murmured. "I enjoyed shopping with you. A little too much, actually."

You stared at him for a moment. "… what does that mean?"

Calvin glanced over at you, searching your face. "… spend Christmas with me?" He asked softly. "Please?"

A slow smile spread over your face. "Of course I will. Absolutely."

"Good." He rubbed your arm up and down. "I ended up buying you lots of presents."

Your eyebrows shot up. "… I did too. For you."

"No shit?"

Calvin swearing took you off guard, but you giggled and nodded, and he smiled and kissed you again, and for once, everything was right in the world.

"Oh, I mean it." He said when he leaned back from you, studying his new watch and then looking like you like you were worth billions. "This has been my best Christmas ever."

"Merry Christmas, Calvin." You said as you brushed your thumb along his cheeks.

He shivered slightly, but leaned into your touch. "Merry Christmas." He repeated, lower. His eyes moved to your lips again.

"Do you think I have more time to show my appreciation for the present?" He asked hopefully.

You smiled. "I don't think we'll be missed."

"Good." A hand pulled you closer by the sweater, and you thanked the Christmas spirits for blessing you with the hottest chemist alive. "I think I have a lot to thank you for."

"Merry Christmas indeed." You said with a giggle.

His lips closed over yours again, and in the crook of the Hastings building's stairway, the two of you pressed together, close and warm and happy, and celebrated new love and the right kind of connection the Christmas way.

A/N part 2: Guys I am sooo soooo insanely happy I got this done but also DAMN! So much writing! I wrote most of this today!

Thank you for all the support in 2025. This is the first year in a while that I've put my writing out there, so to see all the support and love pouring in means a whole lot. Thank you all for reading and engaging :) I'll see you all in 2026!! Much love!!

(come talk to me here or on twitter @/lostglassguitar)

Coworkers and acquaintances buzzed around Takuma Ino’s living room with alcohol that was much too strong for Kento’s taste, music loud enough to make his brewing headache worse, and, worst of all, little bags ranging from white powders to green nuggets to round pills.

And come morning, we’re supposed to arrest people for having drugs in their possession, Kento thought, shaking his head.

He would have left.

He would have told everyone that he wasn’t a fan of parties, that after working his ass off through a slew of sleepless nights and caffeine-fueled days to reunite a missing little boy with his parents successfully, he needed to rest.

But he stayed.

All because you were there.

Kento walked past a slumped over white-haired man dangling across the couch who he knew to be Satoru — shook his head in disappointment at his impaired state — and made his way over to where you stood by the makeshift bar and buffet, or rather, a wide variety of tall glass bottles and little cans, along with chips, pizza, meaty sliders stacked high, and wings, all spread out along a foldable table.

Kento walking past where Satoru laid made the off-duty detective loll his head to the side to see who was walking so close to the couch.

Those unfocused, bleary eyes with shades of unfading red surrounding the blue of them followed Kento, and eventually, they drifted away from Kento himself, and towards the beautiful woman now standing at his side.

“Holy shit. That woman’s beautiful. Fuck, she’s hot.” Satoru’s breath was heavy with undigested liquor, mind perhaps fogged from the illegal party favors being passed around. Suguru, who sat in the chair diagonal from the couch and made it his personal responsibility to watch over his friend, wasn’t certain what all was running through Satoru’s system. “See-Suguru, see that- see that woman?”

Suguru turned his head, then turned it back. His black eyes reflected admiration. “Yes.”

“She’s hot. She’s so . . . now that is a woman I want.”

“She’s married.”

“Pft,” Satoru slowly waved his hand dismissively, his right leg tossed across the back cushions of the couch. “Marrieddd shmarrieddd.”

Suguru knew it was rather useless to talk some sense into the man given his current state, but he tried anyway. “Satoru, she’s married to Ryomen Sukuna.”

“Relaxxx, I’m just sayin’ she’s hot. She’s . . . was-what’s she doing here anyway? I don’t know her. You know ‘er?”

“No, I don’t. She could be friends with Kento. It’s his birthday party. Takuma, maybe.” Suguru sat back in his chair, sipping on a glass of beer.

Rolling over — and nearly rolling off the couch itself — Satoru craned his head back to stare Suguru in the eye, and ran his hand slowly through his messy white hair. “No woman that hot is just friends with any guy, bet you-I bet you tennnn . . . twenty . . . thirty . . . forty . . . forty dollars he wants to fuck her. I bet he does.”

“You’ve had too much to drink. I’m hoping alcohol is all you’ve had.”

“Pleaseee, you think I’m wrong? I’m never wrong, I’m so smart. I know everything. I’m the best-best detective in town. Better than you. God, she’s so fucking hot. Sukuna sh-s . . . he should keep ‘er locked up somewhere. I bet every guy in here wants a piece of that, women too, probably. You think Shoko likes women? I heard she . . . Suguru, I bet you wanna fuck Sukuna’s wife too, yeah? You want her too, don'tcha? You’ll have to fight me for her.”

Suguru felt his cheeks grow warm, reddening upon hearing the words his drunken friend dared to speak, and he took another sip of alcohol, not because he wanted it, but because he needed to give his hands something to do, his mind something to focus on. He gulped. “If you flirt with that woman, you’ll probably die.”

“No one dies from flirting, dumbass. ‘S not even possible.”

“That’s not what I . . .”

Suguru’s words fizzled out, dying on his tongue like a flat soda, all because you started to walk by.

Satoru’s head snapped in your direction like a dog hearing a whistle.

You were stumbling in your black heels. Your clumsy, unsteady body would have been one with the wooden floor beneath your feet if it weren’t for Kento’s large hands gripping your shoulder, guiding you towards the exit.

“Let’s get you home. I don’t think your husband will be happy to know how much alcohol you’ve had,” he said.

“But it’s my birthday, Kenny!” Your little whine came with yet another stumble.

“No, it’s my birthday.”

If Kento didn’t value his life, he would have scooped you up bridal style, but should Sukuna get word of him performing such an intimate gesture with you, he was certain he’d end up with a bullet hole in his head.

Instead, he only guided you towards the front door as best as he could, redirecting your attention towards the exit when you felt the urge to wander off.

Satoru hopped to his feet unsteadily.

With worried eyes, Suguru looked up at the swaying man, and he said, “Satoru, don’t.”

“But I want her.”

There was a piece of Suguru’s soul that had yet darkened — and it wouldn’t yet, not for a few minutes, at least — and that piece of unpoisoned spirit still had the ability to care about others. It still viewed Satoru Gojo as a friend. It would have never led him to kidnap an innocent woman. To frame someone else. To despise living in someone’s shadow. To let the years of witnessing the aftermath of the cruelest crimes seep into his mind in the dead of night and corrupt him.

Suguru rose to his feet because, right now, he did not want to see Satoru flirt with the wrong woman and get himself killed. He had heard too many stories about Ryomen Sukuna doing that to a mouthy fellow once or twice.

But, there was a part of him that was looking out for you too. Right now, he did not want to see a drunk, married woman endure what he would assume would be the raunchy pick-up lines from a drunk, unmarried man.

“Oh my god, move, you cockblock,” Satoru started to shove past the friend that planted himself in front of him like a boulder. Over Suguru’s shoulder, Satoru watched the object of his affection move further, further, and further away. “She doesn’t even want youuu, Su. She's mine.”

“Get ahold of yourself, Satoru,” Suguru tried again, but it was pointless.

The only reason Kento stepped away from you was because he thought Satoru was trying to make his way through, that his impaired state led him to pick the oddest route to, say, the bathroom or a hallway, and that he would simply squeeze between you two and scooch on by with an apologetic mumble of excuse me, sorry.

Kento wasn’t smiling to begin with, but the corners of his lips dipped into an even deeper frown, blonde eyebrows pinched themselves a bit closer together, all upon witnessing Satoru plant himself behind you.

He wrapped his arm around your waist and pulled you close, back against chest. Then, those lips that slurred words slipped out from in between hovered above your ear, warm, liquor-coated breath patting against the shell of it.

“You let me know if that ring ever comes off, yeah? ‘Cause . . . ‘cause I want you all to myself. I want to take off this dress and-”

A large hand gripped his upper arm.

“Enough,” Suguru said, pulling him away from you. His eyes flickered from Satoru to Kento. “Kento, get her out of here.”

Kento didn’t waste a second. Now, he was moving with haste, ignoring Satoru’s protests.

When you were out of sight, and therefore, Satoru’s hope and dreams had been crushed and destroyed right before his eyes, he turned his head towards Suguru. No longer were his blue eyes filled with lust, but with anger.

Even so, Suguru did not expect to feel Satoru’s hands on his chest, to be pushed until the back of his legs collided with a coffee table and he nearly fell over it.

If the pushing didn’t catch the attention of nearby partygoers, Satoru’s loudly spoken words did.

“Will you just fuck off, Suguru? God, you’re always doing shit like this. Always, always, always, always. Not my fault if no one fucking wants you. Doesn’t mean you gotta-you gotta fucking get in the way when . . . you’re just doing this ‘cause you want her, don’t want me to have her, jealous ‘cause you know I have a chance. You’re such a-a fucking . . . just a fucking loser.”

Suguru Geto smiled. It wasn’t a happy grin. It was a twist of his face that resembled one, yes, one seen when he greeted his coworkers in the morning or expressed his thanks towards cashiers and servers, but there was something about this grin that, even given his current state of a general lack of social awareness, made a shiver shoot down Satoru’s spine.

Suguru tilted his head a bit. A black strand of his dark hair shifted across his face.

He whispered, “Alright.”

Satoru awakened that morning with a pounding headache, nausea, and regret swirling around in his empty stomach, and without memory of what had taken place the night before.

Oh, but Suguru remembered.

The coworkers who attended the birthday party would forget momentarily for the week or so that followed, up until they saw Suguru himself on the television in the open office space at work accuse Satoru of being behind all of it, and then, they would remember.

They would think to themselves, Wait, Satoru does know the victim, I remember! He wrapped his arm around Ryomen Sukuna’s wife! Suguru and Kento tried to get him away from her, then Satoru pushed and yelled at Suguru, all because Suguru wanted to protect her from him. I saw it all!

How humorous it was to think that, in a lot of ways, what had happened to you, to Satoru, all began with a night he couldn’t remember.

—

CURRENTLY

It was horrifyingly funny — how the small towel that was dragged across your dirt-covered forehead was plush, soft, and warm. It reminded you of the expensive washcloths your husband stocked the bathrooms of his resorts with.

It was horrifyingly funny — how, the dark-haired man who had you lying on a dirty, cold floor cleaned your face with a towel you had only associated with steamy spas, hot showers that soothed every muscle, and comfortable lounge chairs before now.

The layers of grime were wiped off your skin. It turned that white, luxurious towel into an unforgiving shade of black, but the blank eyes that stared at you and yet, reflected nothing, were darker.

Suguru’s fingertips curled around your chin. He dragged the towel across your left eyelid, voice soft and gentle as he spoke. “Tell me, did you grow up relatively normal, sweetheart? Did you hear about a certain fairytale, Beauty and the Beast?”

You didn’t answer.

That was unsurprising to him. Rarely did you ever speak.

And he continued on. The towel graced your cheek. “Here I go, asking questions I already know the answer to. You’re a fan of Belle. In your diary, one year and three months ago, you wrote about coming across an interesting discussion post online analyzing the film. What is rather interesting about the story is that many, many people question whether Belle’s predicament is actually that of Stockholm Syndrome. Some say it is, because she falls in love with the very beast who held her captive. Others disagree, stating that she had more freedom than a typical person held captive and didn’t fall for the beast until he changed his ways. I see both sides. In a way, I, myself, am both. I want you to love me even if I hurt you. I don’t know why, I just . . . you’re so beautiful when you cry. And yet, here I am, cleaning you a bit, all because I want you to love me, and I don’t think you ever will if I continue to punish you.” He brushed the soft cotton material across your trembling lips. “But, maybe there is a chance. At best, you’re a woman who was a fan of a story detailing a mean monster who takes a beautiful, kind woman captive and they fall in love. Your husband is a murderer, a torturer, with more money than he could ever spend in a thousand lifetimes. So, tell me . . .”

The hand that held the towel was empty for a moment, dirty washcloth dropping to the floor with a tiny thud, but that hand wasn’t void of something for long, as he then wrapped his fingers around your neck, squeezing. “Is it totally unbelievable to think that you’d love me, even when I treat you this way?”

Tears started to build up in the reddened waterline of your eyes, though not yet falling. The only form of breath you knew was his, the gentle pat of his air against your cheek, but to your screaming lungs, breathing was nothing but a memory now, one your body squirmed and twisted and kicked and clawed to get back to.

Suguru tilted his head, dark hair shifting from across his shoulder.

“Hm, I guess not. In the first few pages of your diary, you bragged about how great sex with that man happens to be, but how it took quite a long time before he found the courage to be a little rough with you in bed. Manhandling, was it?” He squeezed tighter. “So, you married a man who treats you gently, too gently, hm? But this is too much for you?” Tighter. “Which is it? Do you like being treated gently or harshly? Make up your mind.”

The nails that dug into the flesh of your neck didn’t pull away until your tears came into contact with his fingers. They had traveled from your bloodshot eyes to his hand, dripping onto his skin, and he smiled.

Oh, how terrifying that grin was.

“There they go. So pretty. So, so, pretty.” He watched your tears like a man under religious psychosis might eye holy water, and he whispered, “Can I tell you a secret? You know how, sometimes, a child does not want a toy until they see another child playing with it? Then, they get jealous? They might cry, lash out? Well, that is how I feel about you in a lot of ways. You always belonged to Ryomen Sukuna. That was fine with me, but, it wasn’t until I realized my best friend’s affection for you that I realized I wanted to view you in a romantic light as well. I imagine it’s because he always gets everything. Credit, admiration, when I’m the detective who usually deserves it. So, part of me must want something he wanted, hm? It’s odd and also funny, though, because part of me also hates you deeply. It’s because of who you are as a person. Your role in this town. Your husband terrorizes, kills — and as a detective, I’ve seen it all. I’ve seen the crime scenes he leaves behind, I work for and with the people he pays off to keep their mouths shut — and yet, what do you do? You bake cookies. You feed the homeless. You walk around like you’re this-this innocent angel and it . . .”

He didn’t realize his hand had found your neck once again until your eyes fluttered closed.

“Please forgive me,” he said, words barely audible as you gasped for air, drowning them out with noises that sounded almost inhuman; it was the wheezing, sobbing, and gasping of someone who not only couldn’t breathe, but couldn’t handle this brand of torture much longer.

“F-Forgive you?” You mumbled, throat angry and aching with every gentle word.

“Mhm. You see, after I kill you in a few days, I . . . I have to keep your body here, with me. I won’t be able to let go of you, sweetheart. I love you too much. I’m sorry.” He stroked the tears that continued their journey down your face. “There you go, keep crying, darling.”

“Please stop hurting me.”

He laughed. Then, it stopped suddenly as he peered down at his wrist and caught a glimpse of his watch. “Oh, look at the time. It’s two A.M., sweetheart. Time to go upstairs.”

Time to go upstairs.

Time to go . . . upstairs.

Oh, how you wished he said it was time for you to die instead, for death would have been easier. Quicker. No, more than that. It would have been a great, treasured relief from what awaited you upstairs.

You’d happily accept a gunshot to the head, a knife to the heart, or a plunge into deep waters with screamless smiles and a parting thought towards Ryomen: see you in the afterlife, my love.

Suguru reached out. You jerked away, shaking your head rapidly.

“No, I’m begging . . . I’m begging you.” Your tears soaked your skin, increasing the speed at which they fell from your eyes, and you tried — without hope, but even so — to scramble away from the smiling man, shoving yourself into the furthest corner of the depressing, dirty room as if it was a paradise you refused to be dragged out of.

In a lot of ways, it was. Compared to going upstairs, it was.

Suguru unlocked the rattling chain around your ankle.

He saw it. The way you instantly tried to bend your leg and get one foot underneath you to push yourself off the ground and make a break for the door, but that devastatingly familiar hand wrapped around your ankle much like the chain had done moments before, and he yanked you back down. Your body smacked the ground hard enough to decorate your weak body in new bruises and to create aches that would last for days. But that was nothing new nowadays.

Despite the waves of throbs that coursed through your body, despite the tears that blurred your vision, despite the tightening hand around your ankle, you tried to crawl.

Your nails scraped against the ground that yielded nothing to hold on to. Your free leg had a bullet hole in it that sent an explosion of throbbing, nauseating pain through your thigh with every kick. And while you kicked air for the most part, every now and then, it would connect with Suguru’s body, but not so much so that he stopped dragging you out of the room.

“No, no, please! Please, leave me alone, please, please, please, no!”

It was pathetic, truly. Your attempts to fight him off had only made him laugh like he was kicked back on a couch with a beer, watching a comedy skit on television.

But what was even more pathetic, more hopeless, more pointless, than fighting, was the unlikely scenarios your mind cooked up: Ryomen Sukuna bursting into the room at the last minute, killing this man, and saving you from what you were about to endure upstairs.

You imagined it all. The sweet way he’d talk to you. The cuddles you needed more than you needed to breathe. The warm food arranged on a plate. The next few episodes of a show you were both watching together before your disappearance ready to be played on the living room television above the fireplace keeping you oh so warm, but not as warm as his muscular body wrapped around yours. He’d kiss your cheek. He’d hold you. He’d hold you, He’d . . .

But he never appeared.

You hated yourself for the scenario your mind cooked up next: Ryomen Sukuna sitting on that same couch with another lover.

That fucking wife of mine was driving me crazy. I’m glad she’s gone, he’d say. What stupid bitch lets herself get kidnapped?

He’d never say it. Never. You knew it, but even so, he hadn’t found you yet, had he? Perhaps he wasn’t looking. Perhaps he had given up. Perhaps the entire town did, from your friends to that white-haired detective.

Was everyone relieved to know that you were gone? Had you annoyed everyone during your time within their presence by talking too much about your favorite song? Sending too many texts? Pictures of latte art that impressed you? Did they secretly celebrate your disappearance? Did no one want you around except for the man who currently tossed your weak body over his shoulder?

No.

It couldn’t have been the truth. It couldn’t have.

But why hadn’t anyone saved you?

Why did this have to happen to you? Why? Why? God, why?

You caught the door frame, fingers curling around the decaying wood, though it was pointless. With every step, he pulled you away. With every step, you cried louder and begged harder. With every step, you screamed for your husband to come and save you, until your sore throat, raw from the endless shouting, could only manage to mumble a weak: “Sukuna, please . . . please save me.”

—

There was a burning ache so great, so terrible, that instead of screaming out, Satoru Gojo could only snap his tired blue eyes open and silently scream. His face reddened. He nearly swallowed his own tongue, choked on his own spit.

An unpleasant, wet warmth followed, soaking the side of his leg and thus, his pants. He groaned. His trembling fingers found the source of the wetness, of the burning ache, and it was a hole. A perfect, sizzling, bullet-sized hole right in the side of his calf.

Sitting up with a whine, he yanked his fingers back — touching it made it hurt like hell — and he stared at the fresh blood.

Funnily enough, it sat on top of your blood — which still stained his fingers hours later — like a fresh coat of paint.

“What-” Satoru groaned again, but as he darted his eyes to the side, the question he was tempted to ask fizzled away from his mind and throat.

The source of pain was standing right outside of his jail cell.

Ryomen Sukuna peered at him with unblinking eyes. He raised the gun he used to fire a bullet in Satoru’s leg at his sweaty head now.

“You couldn’t wake me with a simple good morning?” Satoru joked breathlessly without humor, chest and shoulders rising and falling. Tears fell from his eyes. To think that being shot hurt this much only worsened the guilt he felt over shooting you.

Perhaps, getting shot in the head wouldn’t be such a bad thing. He’d then be free of it.

He sat up as best as he could along the bench — it certainly wasn’t a goddamn bed — and he laughed, smearing his blood between his fingertips, mixing it with the dried specs of yours.

“I thought you’d kill me soon as I step outside of this place,” Satoru paused. “I didn’t think you’d actually . . . you’d actually find your way in here.”

It made sense.

Sukuna shoved money into the pockets of everyone he could benefit from, be it a line of customers in front of him at the grocery store when he didn’t feel like standing around and rolling his eyes, waiting for a slow cashier to get a move on, or those who worked for law enforcement.

And right now, it was the middle of the night. Aside from the bare minimum staff needed to respond to 3 A.M. emergencies or watch over those who were locked within the holding cell on the property, such as Satoru, everyone else had gone home.

Oh, he could see it now: Ryomen handing Slackoff Shane a couple thousand to let him creep down the hallways of the department and keep his gum-chewing mouth shut and half-lidded eyes closed.

A puddle of blood started to pool around Satoru’s foot, soaking his shoes, socks, and staining the floor.

He shot me in the leg because I shot her in the leg, Satoru thought. To know that I put that woman through this much pain . . . maybe I should let Ryomen fucking kill me. My life’s over already, isn’t it?

“Tell me where my wife is.”

“I don’t know,” Satoru mumbled. Oh, how funny it was, to think that just a little while ago, he was the one questioning Sukuna.

A short, dry laugh escaped the man with the gun. He shook his head.

“I’ve thought about all the ways I could torture you, detective. Cut you up, fill you with bullet holes, yank out your teeth and nails, maybe. But, how about we make a deal? You tell me where she is, and I won’t make you suffer. I’ll make it nice and quick. You’ll be reunited with your golden retriever, Max, a basic fucking name by the way, who died eight years ago. You’ll see your grandmother, your father, and your favorite aunt. Remember that homemade apple pie you used to love?”

“Did you learn all that by stalking me online or looking through my house? Guess it doesn’t matter. Digging through my past won’t help you find your wife, ‘cause I don’t have her.” Satoru looked Ryomen in the eyes with a sorrow-filled gaze. “I didn’t do it. It was Suguru. He’s framing me.”

“I saw the pictures-”

“C’mon, Ryomen, you know how this goddamn shitty-” Satoru laughed with sorrow. “You know how framing works better than anyone. Illegal, diabolical bullshit is your area of expertise, isn’t it? He’s framing me. He’s framing me, he’s framing me, he’s framing me. He made me shoot her in the leg, he- I . . . did you or anyone even bother to question why I’d have a woman I supposedly kidnapped in the front seat of my car where anyone could see her? Wrapped in a blanket? Eating fucking potato chips? Did anyone see how I looked scared outta my goddamn mind in those photos? There’s so much about it that doesn’t make sense, but no one cares, right? No one cares because it’s easier to blame me!”

“Huh,” Ryomen paused. “Sounds familiar, like how you wanted to blame me more than you wanted to find her. Makes me wonder if that’s what this is all about. Kidnapped my wife just to blame me, just to get a bad guy off the streets. What’d I do to you? Kill your friend? Fire your cousin?”

“Ryomen, you gotta believe me-”

“You’re the one who told me people don’t tell the truth when they have a gun to their face, right?” Ryomen moved the gun around, thinking, wondering, pondering over which body party to shoot next.

A frown graced Satoru’s face of pure exhaustion. “I was leaving Kento’s house when I found her. She ran out from god knows where, I almost accidentally hit her with my car but I didn’t. I picked her up, went to the gas station, told Suguru about it all because he’s my partner, and next thing I know, I’m driving to the hospital and his car comes outta nowhere. He had a gun to my back and forced me to shoot her and put her in his car. She was hungry, sick, beaten black and blue, and . . .” A tear rolled down Satoru’s cheek, one that was created upon the sound of your screams replaying in his memory. “She told me she ran away, she, uh, said she knew you weren’t the person who was doing this to her because your hands felt different. At one point, she was scared outta her mind over the idea of me going into the gas station, but not so scared that she’d turn down the idea of snacks.” He paused yet again, reminiscent. “I was about to call you before Suguru showed up, I swear I was. She asked once, then was too shy to ask again, but . . . all she wanted was for me to call you. She just wanted you more than anything. You gotta believe me. If you don’t, he’ll get away with it all and you’ll never save her.”

There was a look within Ryomen’s cold stare, one that Satoru couldn’t quite understand the meaning behind. Was it sympathy? Belief? Anger so great, it made his eyes glassy?

In truth, the look was one of uncertainty. After all, Satoru’s description of your behavior was composed of you in every way.

You would shove aside your fear in favor of your favorite chips.

You would desire hearing Sukuna’s voice more than anything else in the world, but feel too shy to ask twice.

“Eh, I could always kill you later if I find out you’re lying to my face. It’s not like you’ll be going somewhere anytime soon, punkass.” Ryomen lowered his gun. “So, your coworker wants my wife because he’s fucked up. Why does he wanna frame you, though? What aren’t you telling me?”

Satoru’s leg started to shake.

Ryomen’s eyes darted down to it, noting his nervous habit, and he knew he was on to something.

That gun was raised just as quickly as it was lowered moments before.

“Talk,” he demanded.

“He’s after my job. We’re both detectives, yeah, but I’m the one who-who gets all the credit and attention and pats on the back after we solve a case. Truth is, he’s smarter than me, but he’s less of a partner and more of a glorified assistant, you know? It must be frustrating to know you’re the brains behind cracking every big case, but someone else steals the spotlight. It’s like someone copying your essay and writing their name at the top.”

Oh, what a lie.

Well, there was a bit of truth to it — Suguru did live in Satoru’s shadow. He often was the key to solving the big cases, but news articles and congratulatory words often uplifted Detective Satoru Gojo, not his quiet partner.

But the jail cell had given Satoru time to use his tactical brilliance to pick apart every little conversation he held with Suguru over the last few days, from the soft accusations to the way Suguru eyed him with side-eye glances whenever Satoru spoke of you, and he knew.

He knew that Suguru knew everything. That the thought of you, the idea of you, made Satoru’s heart skip a beat.

It would make a lump form in his throat. Sometimes, and he hated himself for it, truly, it would make his pants feel tight as his cock would harden at the sight of your pictures.

He’d force himself to quickly rub one out — and try to do so without thinking about you — only so he could get back to work without a hard bulge being visible to all of his coworkers, and push the feelings and thoughts away as if they were intrusive and not a reflection of his true feelings for a helpless victim.

And that was why. Part of it, at least.

Uncomplex scripts for mystery movies and simple dialogue for novels within the same genre often would have one believe that sick, twisted people who do sick, twisted things have one motive. One reason why they shot their spouses or snatched up a person in a deserted parking lot.

But years in the field had taught Satoru that such things weren’t always the case, and weren't always so simple.

Two things, multiple things, could be true at once.

That was what was happening now, he knew it, though he was still trying to put the puzzle together. At least he had all the pieces. In his mind, he imagined himself looking at a checklist and ticking off the boxes of everything that reigned true.

Did Suguru Geto hate living in Satoru Gojo’s shadow? Check.

Did Suguru Geto know Satoru Gojo wanted you? Check.

Did Suguru Geto want you all to himself? Check.

And there it was. The puzzle complete. He could have it all this way. He could have you all to himself and ruin Satoru, the man he hated for more reasons than one, all at the same time.

“Does Suguru even care that Kento, his coworker for years, an innocent man, died because of what he's done?” Satoru mumbled to himself.

“What the hell are you mumbling about?” Ryomen grimaced.

“Nothing, uh,” Satoru snapped back to reality, hoping and praying that Ryomen bought the half-truth he told.

Because if Ryomen Sukuna knew that Satoru was yet another man who looked at his wife with lust glistening within those blue irises of his, he was as good as dead. Whether or not he was the kidnapper wouldn’t matter, not to Sukuna.

Sukuna looked at Satoru with an unreadable expression, but in the end, he lowered his gun.

“Piece of shit’s your partner. Any idea where he’d keep her?” Sukuna ran a hand down his exhausted face. “You said he’s the smart one, but there’s gotta be some part of your brain that fucking works, yeah? Tell me something, detective.”

“I don’t know right now, but, if you get me outta here, I’ll help you. I know the general direction he drove off with her. You know how criminals think, I know how detectives think. We could . . . make a . . . god, did you have to fucking shoot me?” Satoru paused, his mind unable to focus on anything except the pain in his leg. “We could make a pretty good team.”

Sukuna scoffed. “Not with that leg of yours. Besides, I doubt you’ll be able to stomach anything I’m about to do.”

He started to walk away, and with him, Satoru’s only chance of freedom.

“Wait,” Satoru called out, his voice echoing down the quiet halls. “You need me. I’m your best chance and you know it. I’ll use a wheelchair, stay in the passenger seat of a car, doesn’t goddamn matter to me, just . . . you need me. She needs me.”

His footsteps came to a halt. “Don’t you ever say my wife fucking needs you. Who the hell do you think you are? And I don’t need help from anyone.”

“Ryomen-”

“You had her and you fucking lost her.” He never turned back to face Satoru, to glare at him through the bars of his cell as he spoke, and Satoru was grateful for it. As much as he hated Ryomen, seeing the shine of teary anger and grief gloss over his eyes would have been too much. Sukuna continued, “Maybe you didn’t take her, maybe you’re a good guy getting framed by your buddy, but you still lost her. I should kill you just for that right there! And you think I’m gonna let you help? Help?”

“She’s in the woods.”

Now, as if it couldn’t be helped, he turned to face him. But Satoru’s eyes were glued to the bloodied floor below him. Not to avoid Sukuna’s gaze necessarily, though that was a bonus, but because his mind was overworking itself, and he was lost in thought, thinking, thinking, and thinking.

“What?”

“Suguru’s a big nature guy. He doesn’t head to bars or arcades or the movie theater after work unless me or Shoko invites him. Anything you can do in town? He’s not interested for the most part. He goes on hikes or swims in lakes or reads books underneath trees. He’s always been great at investigations that took place in the woods, ya know.” Satoru heard footsteps. He looked up to see that not only had Sukuna turned his back to him again, but he had started to walk away.

Satoru tried to hop to his feet, but the worst pain he ever felt shot through his leg, and his knee buckled, forcing him back down on the bench. Not that it mattered. The only places he could go were from one side of the cell to the other.

“Wait, I’m not making this up,” Satoru called out, desperation coating his vocal cords. “You’ve investigated every building in the city. Kento’s situation is a clear sign you’ve started going through people’s homes when they’re out and about for the day. But I bet you haven’t checked the woods, have you? Because you assume that if you find her in the woods, then you’re too late, because everyone knows you only check the woods when you’re looking for a buried, dead body.”

“She’s alive.”

“She is, but for how long? Seriously, how long?” Satoru released a shaky breath. “Let me help.”

Sukuna’s bruised fist clenched and unclenched repeatedly at his side. Hearing the desperation in the voice belonging to the supposed best detective in town gave him pause. He truly considered tossing money at someone to give him a key, all to free the person he had shot just moments before, but memories of that news broadcast flashed throughout his mind.

Oh, he thought he was going to have a heart attack when Toji Fushiguro approached him, his phone in hand.

Sukuna was in the middle of sorting out some cold hard cash into multiple brief cases that would soon be handed off to shady individuals in law enforcement who would then swear on their lives that they had no idea who paid someone to escort Kento Nanami out of the building, all the while a car drove by and someone leaned a gun out of the passenger seat window and shot the man in the head.

“For a man with a son who’s about to drain your pockets dry getting ready for college, you sure aren’t working hard,” Sukuna said, glancing up from one of the briefcases to see the black-haired man gazing at his phone instead of helping him sort money.

“Ryo, you'd better come see this.”

Toji walked over, and there it was. The news broadcast. Sukuna saw your photographed self on the little screen, scared, dirty, thinner than you were supposed to be . . . and the gun. The pained look on your face. The blood. And Satoru Gojo, the best detective in town, causing it all.

He cried.

He flipped over a table, green cash flowing in the air and briefcases tumbling to the ground, and he cried.

Sukuna’s fist shook at the memory.

Even if he was forced, none of this would have happened, Sukuna figured, if the white-haired man had any balls to begin with. If he never, not once, let his guard down.

Without casting yet another look his way, Sukuna mumbled, “Someone will come by and take care of that leg.”

And with that, he was gone.

—

Left Kento Nanami’s house. Stopped at the gas station. On the way to the hospital.

Those were the little details Satoru told Sukuna, and he replayed them in his head as he drove his car down the road.

There were around three gas stations between Kento’s house and the hospital.

Based on the background scenery which more than likely consisted of trees rather than fast food restaurants and dentist offices, which hinted at which road Satoru might have been on when he was stopped by Suguru — and common sense — Satoru stopped at the first gas station that would appear a little ways down the road when one left Kento’s neighborhood.

After his little visit with Satoru, Sukuna stopped and picked up Toji, who now sat in the passenger seat of his car despite the early morning hour.

Toji was his right-hand man above all else. But, in truth, he was also the closest thing Sukuna had to a friend. A best friend.

And that was why he didn’t bother to wipe away the single tear that fell from his eyes though he was in the presence of another man’s company.

Toji saw Sukuna’s knuckles, trembling with sheer anger, turn white as he gripped the steering wheel. Then, though it was relatively dark as the sun hadn’t yet truly risen, he turned his head and, thanks to the various lights from Sukuna’s navigation system, was able to see that tear.

“Gonna take her to that fancy steakhouse she likes?” Toji broke the silence. He turned his head to look out the window as if to give Sukuna as much privacy to cry as he could. Then, though he wasn’t the best at comforting people — he was the sort of man to tell people to suck it up — he spoke. “Bet you’re planning a buncha ways to pamper her once you get her back. Spas, a nice, long vacation, I’m bettin’ somewhere out the country.”

“She wants to go to Greece,” Sukuna said. “She doesn’t like to ask me for stuff directly. Shy type, even after all these years. She’ll leave little hints, though, like change her lock screen to a picture of where she wants to go. But I doubt that’s what she’d want to now.”

“Why?”

“It’s my fault she’s missing when you sit and think about it. We were having a great night. Then, we got into a big fight, one I didn’t tell the police about because I didn’t wanna make myself look worse. Dumb idea on my part, but I knew they’d just target me even more if they knew about our fight and not look hard enough for the guy who really had her. But I don’t even know how the fight happened. She told me I was too overprotective, that she was sick of me hurting people most of all, and you know what I told her? I told her, fine. I’ll stop giving a damn about you. I didn’t mean it, you know how I am when I get pissed off. She wanted me to be less protective, so I got rid of our security, turned off the cameras around the house, just put on this . . . whole fucking show to show her that I didn’t care. It didn’t even last an hour. Hell, not even half of one. I tried to find her and apologize, but she left the house. I should’ve followed her. I didn’t, ‘cause our entire argument was about me being overprotective in the first place, but . . . damn it. Damn it. What kinda man just lets his wife leave like that?”

Toji waited a moment before speaking again, taking in Sukuna’s words. “I doubt she’s gonna care about a fight you two had after all she’s been through. All couples fight.”

“If I weren’t being a fucking asshole, she never would’ve left the house. What if that sick freak kills her, and the last thing I said to my own wife, the love of my fucking life, was that I don’t care about her?”

“Stop blaming yourself. Some fuckin’ crazy guy snatched her up. He’s the only one anyone should blame.” Toji looked at the side of Sukuna’s face. “Trust me, she’s not mad about that fight anymore. Not durin’ all this.”

“Think she’ll be mad that I killed Nanami? Huh?” Sukuna glanced at him and away from the road. “Not only did I kill an innocent man, but her goddamn friend.”

“I’ll take the blame.”

Sukuna frowned in surprise.

Toji shrugged. “What? Hell, I was drivin’ you, wasn’t I? We’ll think of a reason why later. Some kinda accident or misunderstanding, I don’t know. Just tell ‘er it was me.”

“You’re fine with my wife thinking you killed her friend? Why?”

“When we find her and all of this shit is over, she’ll not only have to try and cope with whatever that bastard’s done to her, but she’ll have to grieve her friend on top of it all. You wanna add on to her suffering by havin’ her know you, her own husband, did it? Besides, it’s not like either one of us will go to prison for it, so I’m not gettin’ you out of a life sentence or nothin’, just givin’ your wife one little less thing to grieve about.”

“It’s a fucked up lie.”

“Tell ‘er the truth in due time if you want, just not when you get ‘er back,” Toji spoke with a softness Sukuna wasn’t used to hearing from him. “I’m bettin’ she’s tryin’ to make it through by holdin’ on to the thought of you. You don’t wanna ruin that by givin’ her something to hate ‘cha for. Then she’ll have no one. That kinda thing can be someone’s final straw in life, ya know?”

That familiar silence arrived once again.

One could barely consider it a smile, but a whisper of a grin tugged at Sukuna’s lips.

“I think you just earned yourself a raise,” he said. “Tell Megumi when he heads to college, he can afford that VIP, MVP meal plan, or whatever that overpriced one’s called. I’ll make a phone call and get him his own dorm room, roommate-free.”

“You bein’ for real?”

“Of course I am.”

Toji smiled. “Thanks, man.”

—

The owner of the gas station first glanced out of the windows to admire the incredibly nice car pulling into the parking lot, then furrowed his brows as he questioned what such a person might need from a gas station at this hour. But, as he shrugged his shoulders and thought, well, we’re open twenty-four-seven for a reason, he caught a glimpse of the man stepping out of the vehicle.

It was him.

The bell above the door chimed as Ryomen Sukuna stepped in, Toji lingering behind him.

“O-Oh, Mr. Sukuna, welcome!” The store owner laughed nervously, gripping the handle of his broom with such force that it was rather fortunate it didn’t break. “Would you like some snacks or a soda?”

“I need to take a look at your outdoor camera footage.”

“Of course! Whatever you need.”

“Yeah, yeah, get a move on, old man. I’m in a hurry.”

High-quality footage of cars and people zooming in and out of the gas station was displayed on a screen in a backroom. Sukuna directed the nervous man to what he assumed would be the proper time, and together, with Toji watching just as eagerly, they waited.

Then, that familiar head of white hair was shown emerging from a car.

“Stop, stop, rewind,” Sukun commanded.

The store owner went back to the very moment Satoru’s car pulled in next to a gas pump.

“There she is,” Sukuna whispered, his heart pounding rapidly at the sight of you in the passenger seat.

“Definitely doesn’t look like she’s scared of him,” Toji commented. “That all the proof you need?”

Sukuna watched it all. Studied his and your mannerisms. It certainly wasn’t that of a kidnapper and his victim.

Satoru was telling the truth.

He was almost done watching the footage when he saw it. Satoru’s thumb graced your cheek to wipe away your tear, his touch lingering a bit too long for it to be a simple moment in which a detective comforts a victim.

A familiar heat of anger washed over him, that typical seed of jealousy being planted that had always, without fail, resulted in Sukuna hurting or killing someone, but he couldn’t afford to worry about such trivial matters right now.

The desire to punch Satoru in the face for stroking his wife’s cheek would have to be swallowed down and replaced by something greater; the need, want, desire, and desperation to torture and kill Suguru Geto.

“Let’s go,” Sukuna said to Toji.

And with that, the men left and headed for Sukuna’s home.

—

Ryomen would have been a goddamn liar if he said he cared about the innocent lives that would be lost tonight.

Sorry, but as he flickered his eyes between the hundreds of guns in his home armory, such a thought never crossed his mind.

One thing, however, did: I don’t need any fucking guns. I need bombs.

Yes. Bombs would do. Bombs would teach everyone a lesson: this is what happens when you mess with his wife.

—

Satoru Gojo knew what the rumblings were without witnessing the explosion of orange flames decorating the night sky, or the tsunami of debris from collapsing buildings in the heart of the city.

Even from within his cell — though it wasn’t surprising, given that the department was right within the portion of town that was being destroyed — Satoru could hear the screams.

“What was that?” An officer who parked his ass behind the front desk and refused to give Satoru any water — he never liked the white-haired detective even before accusations — rose to his feet.

His fellow coworkers rushed to the nearest windows like scrambling ants.

Satoru only sighed.

It could have been a result of the strong pharmaceutical drugs one of Sukuna’s little minions had given him running through his veins — which helped out tremendously when it came to his patched up bullet wound but also made his head incredibly foggy — but Satoru could not find the energy to give a damn.

He watched as his coworkers made calls to the bomb squad, paramedics, the fire department, gathered their guns and gear, and tried to make sense of what the hell was happening when yet another rumbling occurred.

This one knocked over the parked-ass officer’s coffee mug. The harsh fluorescent lights flickered steadily, then shut off completely.

Now, the only source of light came from the growing fires that took place within the streets outside.

“Dear god,” a female detective gulped. “Sukuna’s lost it.”

“How do you know he’s behind this?” Another person asked as they dragged the woman away from the window, sweat trickling down from his forehead. His name was Jimmy or Jeremy or something like that. Satoru couldn’t remember.

“It’s his town. Who else would do something like this?” The woman started to tremble. “He’s sending us a message. His wife is missing and he’s punishing us for it. And it’s all Detective Gojo’s fault.”

Eyes were on Satoru. He sighed again.

“For the eightieth time, I’m innocent.” He paused. “Also, kinda cruel to leave a guy in a cell when the town’s being blown to bits, right? Anyone got a key?” He lazily folded his arms across his chest.

Some scoffed. Others rolled their eyes.

“Guess not,” Satoru said.

The final, third explosion created a crack in the ceiling.

Bits of dust sprinkled down onto Satoru's head, but that was the worst of it.

For the department at least.

But, outside, the streets were alive with fires, cracks that divided roads, and buildings that had collapsed like a house of cards.

Even come morning, the air was still foggy from dying fires.

And even within a house hidden deep in the woods, Suguru Geto could smell the smoke.

—

“Good morning. You didn’t sleep long. Was it peaceful, at least?”

You coughed. Slowly, your eyes opened to the sound of that voice you knew all too well. That was familiar.

The amount of sunlight shining into your eyes wasn’t.

In truth, it wasn’t all that bright. Nothing more than the morning sun shining through drawn kitchen curtains. But having been kept in the dark for . . . oh, who knew how long it had been, you certainly didn’t . . . even the smallest amount of light would have made your eyeballs feel as if they were lit on fire.

The exposure made you squirm, though it was pointless. You weren’t chained to a wall this time, but your wrists were tied together with rope, and the ache from the gunshot wound in your leg killed off a desire to run.

It took a while for your eyes to adjust. There was a wooden table in front of you. You were sitting in its matching chair.

“You’re not hallucinating.” Suguru smiled, then continued to stir around cracked eggs in a bowl. “You’re in the kitchen.”

A sizzling noise followed his words. He poured eggs into a skillet. The sound made you nearly jump out of your skin, and he laughed.

“Aren’t you just the cutest?” He started to scramble the eggs. On the counter nearest the sink — below the window that was the source of the nauseating light — coffee started to slowly drip into a pot. “You’re probably wondering why you’re in the kitchen. Well, I needed someone to talk to, sweetheart. There are a lot of things on my mind. Your husband isn’t exactly behaving as I’d hoped, you see. I was certain he’d visit Satoru in jail, Satoru would convince him to release him, perhaps by using logic, or maybe, Sukuna would check for evidence that would suggest Satoru to be innocent, gas station footage perhaps, and they would work together to find us. I would have killed you then, you see. It would have been perfect. You dying when Satoru escapes from jail? It would have looked like he had done it. It would have been the perfect touch to those photos I took of him shooting you. But, he’s still in jail, and I imagine it will stay that way. That’s fine, it only means that, when I do kill you, I get to keep your corpse with me like I’ve wanted, and Satoru will spend the rest of his life in prison either way once I get rid of certain pieces of evidence. Though, to be honest, I think I’m leaning towards a different plan entirely, one that I favor the most. A fate worse than death. But, I’ll keep the details a secret for now. I am such an indecisive man.”

Softly scrambled eggs were scooped out of a skillet and onto an orange glass plate. He grabbed a fork and approached you.

“Correct me if I’m wrong, but your last taste of food was unfilling chips Satoru bought you the night you escaped. Before that, it was whatever you last dined on before I kidnapped you, hm?” He ran his thumb over your trembling lips. “You must be hungry. You poor, poor thing. I’m sorry. I know you’re feeling feverish as well. My sweet girl just can’t stop sneezing and coughing, can she? I’m glad my immune system is relatively strong.”

He grabbed the fork. He gathered a bite of fluffy eggs onto it. And he raised it to his own mouth, never yours.

You were too dehydrated to soak your face in real tears, which was devastating, mainly because it was the closest you could come to washing your face, but had you still had the ability to sob, you would have. No longer were you a stranger to various forms of torture at the hands of Suguru Geto, and a few of them lasted without an end in sight. One of them being hunger.

“Anyway, Ryomen has bombed some buildings in town. It’s his idea of sending a message. Quite the temper tantrum, hm?” He took yet another bite, then with a sigh, he set the plate down. “I truly try my best to only hurt you during upstairs time, but I have to break the rules right now and send your husband a message as well.”

With a jerk, your body was pulled out of the chair. You found yourself spread across the table as if you were an entree being served, but then, Suguru appeared within your line of vision, a knife in hand and an apron tied around his frame, and you realized that a better comparison would have been meat in the possession of a butcher.

He raised your shirt slowly.

You became aware of too many things then: how cold the kitchen was. How you were forced to take in your own odor. How it took him a moment to find the perfect spot along your stomach to press his knife into, as most of your skin was already bruised and battered.

He started to cut. Carve.

The sound of your screams had become his favorite genre of music as of late, jazz be damned.

There was too much blood at the moment to admire his artwork. It started to slide down the sides of your stomach and pool onto the table beneath you, but soon enough, the word MINE would reveal itself.

“Beautiful!” His smile brightened.

But he wasn’t finished.

Right below your festering, untreated gunshot wound, he carved his initials into your thigh: S.G.

And now, should your body end up buried in the surrounding woods, stored away for him to look upon forever, or even someday lying beside your husband in the warmth of your bed years into the future, your skin would forever bear the markings he forced upon you.

MINE

S.G.

—

“Any chance the charges are fake?”

Satoru gasped at the sound of Shoko’s voice.

It was the dead of night yet again, this area of the building void of life, and he leaned up off the bench quickly and stared at the woman standing outside of his cell.

His blue eyes widened in surprise. “They all are. You’re staring at an innocent man right now.”

“And an injured one.” Her eyes darted down to the dried blood staining his pants. “What happened to you?”

“Ryomen.” He said. Then, he gave her a certain look. One he often gave when he wanted the last bite of her food, or for her to distract his boss when he had shown up to work late and needed to sneak past his office. This time, however, it was more intense. More desperate.

“Shoko . . .”

“No. You can stop trying to bat your pretty eyelashes at me. The answer’s no.”

“Shoko, please.”

“I’ll lose my job. Worse, I’ll end up taking your spot right in that cell,” she folded her arms across her chest. “I don’t even have a key.”

“You know who does.” Satoru gave her a cheeky grin. “I could blackmail you, you know. I know about all the skeletons in your closet that could get you fired anyway. Counted them myself.”

Shoko frowned. “Threaten me all you want. No one would believe you if you told them the sky was blue right now, detective. You’re screwed, big time.”

“But you know I didn’t do it. You wouldn’t be talking to me right now if you genuinely believed I kidnapped someone. Listen, I don’t have time for lawyers and investigations and they’re gonna move me to a proper jail tomorrow and . . . I need to get out of here. I don’t know if Ryomen will be able to find her or not, but I can’t just fucking sit here, do nothing, and get blamed for all this. If you don’t let me out, Shoko, you could be the reason an innocent woman dies.”

She couldn’t decide if he was being dramatic or not. It wasn’t her place to do so to begin with. It took her smoking an entire pack of cigarettes while pacing back and forth in her living room to decide that she didn’t believe what she saw on the news that day, and it took an extra three cigarettes for her to calm down enough to decide that she’d visit the man.

But now, with no cigarettes and one hell of a headache, she had to make the biggest decision of all.

Her body stiffened.

“Very persuasive,” she whispered.

Shoko left. But, she returned, and when she returned, it was with that key. Satoru nearly cried upon seeing it within the grip of her polished dark blue nails.

She inserted it, and the cell opened with a squeak.

Though the pain meds helped, Satoru had to use all the strength he possessed within his injured, exhausted body to fight through the tormenting aches that shot through his leg when he rose to his feet.

“Thanks,” he said through gritted teeth. “I . . . I owe you one.”

“I want that security footage cleared and a pack of cigarettes,” Shoko closed the cell. “If I go down because of this, please believe me when I say I will dissect you.”

“I know better than to cross someone whose entire career revolves around picking apart bodies. I’ll toss in a new coffee mug,” Satoru said.

“I would never say no to my favorite brand of medium roast while you’re at it.”

Satoru nodded with a small smile and started to limp away.

“Are you going to kill Suguru?”

Her question made him pause.

But he didn’t answer.

For a while, they both existed in silence.

But he didn’t answer.

And that silence only ended due to the sound of him starting to walk off yet again.

—

Unbeknownst to them, Satoru and Sukuna were both combing through the woods at the exact same time, though not in the same area.

The detective had to first head home and find a flashlight and a spare gun he kept in his hallway closet. He didn’t bother changing his clothes, even though the blood on his skin and pants irritated him so badly, he wanted to scratch his skin off to the bone, but he stopped for a moment to dig through his endless supply of work-appropriate buttoned shirts in search of a hoodie. His rushed movements made it so he couldn’t find one.

Shit, he thought, then settled on a cap.

Anything that would make him stand out less in public was worth it.

But here, in the woods, he wasn’t worried about coming across a random civilian who had seen the news. He was worried about coming across Suguru Geto or stepping on a hand belonging to your dead body.

All of the walking through the unsettling woods had awakened the pain in his leg. It ached badly enough to bring tears to his eyes, but he held them back.

Leaves crunched underneath his shoes as he approached a lake. It was Suguru’s favorite place for swimming or reading.

If there’s an underground cellar somewhere, it would be around here, Satoru thought, shining his flashlight on the sticks and leaves below him. But he’d know I’d check here, wouldn’t he? No, no he wouldn’t. He still thinks I’m locked up, half-crazy because no one believes it when I say I’m innocent, and the only people who know how much he loves the woods would be Shoko and me, so she’s here. She’s here because he’s betting I wouldn’t be . . . right?

It felt wrong.

His logic. It was flawed. It was wishful thinking.

But as he searched the surrounding area, desperation growing as he used his skillful eyes to scan for clues that would either lead him in the right direction or tell him he was too late, that wishful thinking was all he could hold on to.

He recognized the sound of those footsteps before he heard his voice. That was just how strong their bond used to be.

“So, Ryomen let you out after all? That’s excellent news.”

Satoru whipped his head around to see the smiling man who spoke to him. He raised his gun, and this time, he swore to himself he’d never lower it.

“He didn’t,” Satoru's voice was calm, but his eyes widened in surprise. In hatred. “Mind telling me why that’s excellent news?”

Neither the flashlight shining into his eyes nor the gun aimed at his head seemed to bother Suguru in the slightest.

In fact, he turned his back to Satoru, and said, “Come with me. I want to show you something.”

“I’m not going anywhere with you, you goddamn bastard. Where the hell is-”

“I’m taking you to her.” He glanced over his shoulder. His smile widened. “Unless, of course, you decide to shoot me. You could do it. Clearly, you’re close to where she is if I’m here. You could kill me and find her all on your own. You could be the hero, like always.”

The hand that held his gun started to tremble. Why? He wasn’t certain. He wanted to blame it on the pain meds. The adrenaline. The lack of hearty, nutritious food. The lack of quality sleep. Thirst. His injured leg.

But, in truth, he was frightened.

“You think I won’t do it? Let me guess, you’ll lead me to her, have me do something horrible, all the while you take your pictures and create another sob story for everyone to watch on the news?” Satoru gritted his teeth.

“Maybe. Maybe not. You wouldn’t have to worry about any of it, if you killed me here and now. You’ve had to shoot your fair share of people in this profession, Satoru. You’re no stranger to killing. Why can’t you do it?”

Satoru gave a bitter laugh. “Smiling with a gun aimed at you, huh? Let me guess. You’re betting I won’t shoot you because you’re my friend. But, if I do, it ties in perfectly to the narrative you’ve built. Satoru the kidnapper. Satoru the killer. It’d make sense to everyone that I killed you, right? Because you claimed you saw me kidnap and shoot someone, then exposed me?”

Maybe there are more hidden cameras around, and a partner of his will come by and get the footage later, Satoru thought. “Is he really that crazy, though? Would he be willing to die just to frame me? What the hell is this guy up to? Do I shoot him? What if he’s right? What if I can’t kill him because he’s my friend? What if-”

“Interesting theories,” Suguru replied, and only then did Satoru realize he wasn’t thinking, but voicing his thoughts aloud. “How about you do as I said, and just follow me?”

Suguru started to walk off with, apparently, little care if Satoru was following him, or if Satoru would put a bullet in his back.

And Satoru hesitated for what felt like forever. There was a thin line between curiosity and stupidity, and Satoru was certain he had ventured far into the side that would leave him full of regret over his dumb decision, but he followed him, telling himself with every step, so long as I keep my gun to him, it’ll be fine.

It wasn’t an underground cellar. No, it was a house, a brown, wooden, two-story home that was rather beautiful, unassuming, and nicely decorated on the outside.

“I didn’t bring her here until she escaped.” Suguru spoke as if their current situation were the most ordinary one in the world. “I kept her in my deceased mother’s basement before. I thought it was far enough away from town, but, after what happened, I realized she was much too close to the city. But out here, if she escaped, she could run for miles before coming across another person. I’d be able to catch her before then. Sounds thrilling, doesn’t it? But I think I favor a different outcome entirely. It sounds more appealing by the second.”

Why are you telling me this? Satoru thought, but he didn’t voice it.

They stepped into the house.

Suguru flicked on the light switch, and what stood out among the neat, tasteful decor — vases of flowers, pictures of painted scenery on the wall — was the dried blood stains on the wooden table within the open concept kitchen.

“It’s around three in the morning. She and I have what I like to call upstairs time around two. I haven’t had the chance to bring her back down just yet. She’s still up there. Would you like to see her?”

He made his way towards the stairs, speaking to Satoru as if he had just adopted a new puppy and was eager to show his friend, and Satoru’s eyes could only widen at the other man's sheer insanity.

“What the hell is upstairs time?” Satoru questioned, though he, truly, did not want to know.

Suguru tilted his head a bit, smiling — though he had never stopped — and said, “I’m glad you asked. Upstairs time happens twice a day, and what happens during changes based on my mood.” He paused as he started to go upstairs, and Satoru followed. “Unfortunately, I wasn’t in a great mood today.”

He led Satoru down a short hallway with many doors. Some led to bedrooms, others to hallway closets and bathrooms, but the smiling man guided him towards a closed door.

When he twisted the knob, opened it, and allowed Satoru to enter the room, Satoru was certain that he was staring at a dead body.

He subconsciously lowered his gun out of shock. His shoulders fell in defeat. Tears started to brim in the reddened waterline of his blue eyes.

“Isn’t she beautiful?” Suguru whispered from behind him. “I would say I’ve committed the perfect crime.”

You were hanging from the ceiling by your bound wrists. He could only imagine the great, terrible ache in your shoulders, twisted in ways that looked inhuman, must have felt. The number of cuts and bruises along your skin seemed to have doubled since the last time Satoru saw you. Beneath the layers of dirt and dried blood along your bare legs, he could make out Suguru’s initials carved into your thigh, and with it, the infected, swollen, oozing bullet wound.

There was a thick pillow case fastened with rope draped over your cocked head.

That was the only reason Satoru had no idea that your eyes were wide open.

It wasn’t just Satoru’s hand that trembled, but every part of him. Except for one thing: his resolve.

The choices he had to make that were filled with uncertainty, the conflicting options that he battled with before now, had seemingly melted away in an unwavering decision.

He’d kill his best friend.

Satoru turned around before he could think it through and talk himself out of it, but before he could aim his gun at him and pull the trigger his finger was laced around, Suguru shot him first.

The sound of his knees hitting the ground created an unpleasant thud, but it was the sound of his gun falling out of his hand and sliding away that broke him.

“When will you learn to shoot me?” Suguru laughed.

He had shot him in his right bicep, and yet, despite the searing pain, Satoru tried to practically launch himself at his gun, but the smiling man got there first.

He stepped on the weapon lying uselessly on the ground and slid it to the side nearest the wall. “Aht, aht, aht, nope. You had your chance.”

Warm blood seeped from the man who now had two gunshot wounds. Beads of sweat decorated his pale forehead. His chest rose and fell unsteadily, and, all the while, Suguru spoke to him calmly.

“You should know that the woman hanging from the ceiling behind you is still alive, Satoru. But, interestingly enough, she’s had no reaction to the noise around her. Not a shout, not so much as a little flinch. Something tells me she may not be alive for long. I wonder what’ll kill her first. Slow suffocation seems likely. If not that, it might take a while, but I imagine this worsening, untreated illness of hers, or her infected wound. Oh! Or, dehydration, starvation, blood loss, who knows?” He raised his gun at you. “I could also simply decide to kill her now-”

“No.”

Suguru looked down and smiled at the bleeding detective.

“You really care about her,” Suguru said, then lowered his gun.

The room was empty for the most part, with the exception of a rusty bucket in the corner. Suguru approached it. “Satoru, tell me. Would you rather have me chop off two of your fingers, or hers?”

“You sick piece of-”

“Please answer the question.”

“Mine. Take mine, alright? Just don’t . . . don’t hurt her anymore.”

His response came without hesitation. Suguru raised his eyebrows in surprise, then hummed, as if satisfied with the response. He wrapped his hand around the handle of a knife within the bucket.

“Interesting. As you wish.”

He didn’t approach Satoru, not yet.

He approached you first. Satoru’s body absentmindedly tried to move on its own as if wanting to stop Suguru from touching you, but his body had taken quite the hit, and right now, he could barely muster the energy to blink.

Suguru cut the rope around your neck that secured the pillow case around your head. He yanked it off.

“Still with us, sweetheart?” Suguru said. “You remember Detective Gojo, hm? This kind man said he would willingly lose two fingers to keep you from losing any. Isn’t that sweet?”

Your eyes weren’t focused on him, or anyone. They only gazed at the floor with such hopelessness, near lifelessness, that you might as well have been dead already.

“I think you should witness this,” Suguru tapped his knife against your abdomen as if to get your attention.

Then, he approached Satoru with that very weapon.

—

Ryomen Sukuna and Toji Fushiguro had been walking through the woods for hours upon hours, weapons and flashlights drawn.

They had walked slowly, not wanting to overlook anything of great importance, but when the bright moonlight seemingly shone upon what appeared to be a house in the far-off distance, the two men didn’t know what awaited them, but they started to run.

—

How . . . how much blood can a . . . can the human body lose? Lose? Clues? News? Booze? Snooze? Snooze . . . snooze, you lose! Satoru looked at the spot on his left hand where his index and middle fingers used to be, and he laughed at his thoughts — no, mumbles, perhaps. He wasn’t certain anymore. He didn’t care.

“Losing your marbles, are we? The way you ran towards the wall and collapsed against it after the first finger was pathetic. I thought you’d take it like a man, since you volunteered and all.” Suguru kneeled in the puddle of blood forming beneath Satoru’s exhausted, kneeling body. “You’re in a tremendous amount of pain right now, Satoru, all for a woman who doesn’t even remember your first name.”

Suguru tilted his head. “I have a closer relationship to her than you do, and yet, you willingly gave up two of your fingers to spare her. How romantic. Shall we keep play-”

The sound of a bullet being fired interrupted Suguru, but not because the noise technically interrupted his speech, but rather, because said bullet was being fired into him.

Satoru had wanted to shoot him in the chest.

But, after losing his first finger, when he purposely stumbled and staggered towards the wall and collapsed on top of his gun that Suguru kicked away after Satoru failed to shoot him earlier, the weapon was positioned awkwardly under his bent leg, and he had to shoot Suguru anywhere he could in order to beat the man’s quick reflexes and take him by surprise.

He wasn’t certain where he shot him, truth be told. His blurry vision didn’t show him much beyond the spew of blood and Suguru’s body staggering backward, but considering the man hadn’t flat-out died, he clearly failed to hit a vital spot.

Suguru half-ran, half-dragged himself into the hallway as if to recuperate there.

Satoru slowly rose to his feet, putting weight on his uninjured leg first, and staggered in the direction of the blood trail the man was leaving behind.

He had collapsed nearest the steps when Satoru appeared in the dark hall. He struggled to reach for something, his own gun perhaps, when Satoru rushed towards him as quickly as his body would allow him to move, pressed his foot against his shoulder, and kicked him down the stairs.

He fell down the wooden steps without slowing. When his body tumbled off the very last one, Suguru didn’t cry out in pain. He laughed.

Satoru descended the stairs with his gun drawn.

But, just before he could fire a bullet into his best friend’s skull, Ryomen Sukuna wrapped his large hand around his wrist.

Satoru’s eyes widened in surprise. He hadn’t even heard the man kick the door open.

“Don’t,” Sukuna whispered darkly, and he stared at him with frightening eyes, ones filled with such terrifying insanity, Satoru was certain the man’s face would appear in his nightmares for weeks. “I want him to suffer. Then, I’ll be the one to kill him. He’s mine.”

Despite lying in a pool of his own blood, Suguru gazed at Sukuna and cheerfully said, “Welcome!”

Sukuna’s hand was no longer wrapped around Satoru’s wrist. Instead, it was pulled back, then swung right into Suguru’s grinning face, smashing his nose.

The next punch was fired into his jaw.

Satoru wasn’t certain where the next few landed, as he had clumsily moved away from the scene and towards a chair at the kitchen table. He needed to sit down.

“Where the hell is she?” Sukuna shouted in between the life-threatening punches he delivered. “Where the fuck is my wife?”

Suguru didn’t respond. He only stared at him, almost as if he enjoyed the sight of the angered man before him.

Though it hurt to do so, Satoru started to say, “Sh-she’s upstairs, but-”

He didn’t get to finish before Sukuna was making his way up the stairs.

Toji was certain Suguru didn’t have the energy to raise his left eyebrow, let alone raise a gun, but he snatched Suguru’s weapon away from him anyway.

But, even despite the beating, perhaps Suguru wasn’t as worn out as one would assume, because as Sukuna climbed the steps and opened each and every door in search of you, Suguru shouted.

“Did you ever question why I didn’t decide to move her somewhere far, far away? Did you ever question why I did not bother to kill the one person who could easily tell you that it was me all along? Who knows where I like to spend my free time? Do you know why even a man as unintelligent as yourself, Ryomen Sukuna, found me oh so easily?”

As he continued on and on, Sukuna stepped into the room you were in, and his jaw fell open at the sight. “It’s because, no matter how the story ends, the damage is already done! You can kill me, save your wife, but you’re all forever ruined. No matter what happens, I’ve already won. She’s bound to me forever in unspeakable ways none of you can comprehend! For the rest of her life, she’ll think of me! Not her husband, not the detective who is so in love with her he let me chop off two of his fingers, but me! I’ve won! I-”

Satoru grabbed the vase of flowers in the center of the kitchen table and launched it at Suguru’s head.

The man now soaked in water as well as petals slipped into a realm of unconsciousness.

“Oh my fucking god,” Sukuna whispered. His bloodied hands reached out for the unrecognizable woman he knew to be his wife. They landed on your hips. Tears welled up in his eyes, and those very eyes tried to look up into your open ones for a sign of life, but he couldn’t tell if you were still alive.

He couldn’t.

“What the hell did he do to my . . . oh my god.”

He moved quickly, grabbing whatever he needed to free you, such as the blood-covered knife he found on the floor — whatever else he had reached for, he wasn’t certain. All he knew was that he held his breath until he felt you in his arms again.

Sinking to the floor as he held on to you, he cupped your face gently. “Baby? Can you hear me?” He shook you. “I need-I need you to answer me. You gotta . . . answer me.”

Your eyes were on the ceiling. Not him.

But he saw the unsteady, gentle, rise and fall of your chest.

A tear fell from his eye and plopped onto your cheek.

That made your dazed gaze slowly roll to the side, and finally, your eyes were on him.

The corner of your mouth twitched.

The old you would have wrapped your arms around him, but the new you couldn’t feel them.

The old you would have called his name, but the new you couldn’t speak.

The old you would have recognized that this was someone who cared for you, someone who went to hell and back and made the town resemble the burning inner circles of that place of eternal doom, but the new you could only focus on the fact that hands were touching you, and lately, the only hands to touch your skin were hands that wanted to harm you in sinister ways.

Ryomen held your face closer to his, as if the smaller distance would help erase the look of uncertainty within your gaze.

He didn’t care about your overwhelming odor. He didn’t care about how you now barely resembled the woman he fell in love with, but something horrifying.

“Baby, it’s me. It’s your husband,” he said softly. “You know I’d never hurt you. It’s me.”

The uncertainty was still there, but a tear rolled down your cheek. Your eyes seemed to dart across the features of his face as if you were putting the pieces of a puzzle together, and you gasped, mouth agape.

You snuggled closer into him as if your trembling frame wanted to seek out his warmth and comfort.

“I know, I know, I’ve got you.” He held you closer, but not tighter, all too aware of your injuries. “I found you, baby. It’s okay. It’ll be okay. It’s all over now.”

He was pressing a kiss against your forehead when he heard the click of a gun, ready to be fired.

It was his. And it was within your grasp.

It could have fallen out while he was freeing you. Or, you could have reached for it just now, when Sukuna refused to gaze at anything that wasn’t your face.

Given the condition your arms and shoulders were in, moving your limbs must have been the greatest torture known to man, but your desire to die must have been stronger.

You pressed the cool end of the gun against your temple.

In a sick, twisted, bittersweet way, Sukuna had your injuries to thank. Had it not been for the insane amount of pain that slowed your movements, you would have been quick enough to fire a bullet into your skull before your husband’s lips parted with your forehead.

But even trying to pull your finger back made you cry out in pain, and Sukuna grabbed the gun with haste, pulled it away from your head just in time to save you. But a bullet was still fired.

It shot a hole through his hand. Had he held it up in front of his face, he would have been able to look through it and see you on the other side, but that, the pain, the blood, it didn’t matter right now, but he reflectively snatched his hand away from the gun, and you, once again, aimed it at your temple.

Satoru had rushed up the steps upon hearing the first gunshot, though his body screamed at him with every movement, big or small.

He wrapped his hand around your wrist and forced the gun in another direction. A bullet was fired into the ceiling.

“You don’t wanna do this, Mrs. Sukuna,” Satoru grabbed ahold of the gun with the hand that was missing two fingers, and he tossed it far out of your reach. “Try to calm down.”

—

Try to calm down.

Try to calm down.

Try to calm down.

Those same words were repeated over, over, and over again like a broken record once you entered the hospital. Medical staff swarmed you in ways that felt like a pack of predators starting to devour their prey. Outside of the hospital walls, news reporters crowding near the see-through automatic doors tried to make their way into the building, held back only by police officers, but that didn’t stop them from attempting to snap photos of you.

The harsh lighting you weren’t used to after being kept in the dark more often than not messed with your vision and made it difficult to see the owners of the hands reaching out for you.

For all you knew, and it was what your mind told you, every single pair of hands belonged to him.

It was why, despite your horrid condition, you used the last of your energy to kick, scream, sob, and struggle against the people who moved you onto a stretcher as if you weighed nothing.

“Stop touching her! Get your fucking hands off of her!” That voice belonged to Sukuna, who saw your terrified state, but you couldn’t see him. Your head turned every which way in search of your husband, but he was out of sight.

He was in the distance, dizzy, shoving away emergency medical staff who tried to treat his injured hand as he fought to make his way over to you.

“Ryomen, they need to medicate her and calm her down,” Satoru replied weakly. “They also need to get that bullet out of her. You need to stay over there before you bleed out.”

Among the unfamiliar faces you could barely see, one that was somewhat familiar peered down in front of you. Satoru removed his cap, hoping his hair color would give you a clue as to who he was, and after a moment, you began to recognize the white-haired detective.

“Shh, shh, hey,” Satoru started, softly, and gave you a tired smile. You seemed to quiet down just a bit, and he continued. “You remember me? We met a few times so far, including tonight. I’m Detective Gojo. Sukuna’s right over there, and none of us are gonna let anything bad happen to you ever again. Your husband’s right here with you, I promise. Just hang on a little longer, and I’ll get you those chips you like, yeah? Whatever you want. Just hang on a little longer.”

You gave a sharp cry as a needle was forced into you.

—

He was a hypocrite.

To lecture Sukuna about blood loss. To worry about your bullet wound.

For he was on the brink of death himself, body yet not feeling the full extent of his injuries due to adrenaline, not until you were sedated, rolled off into the surgical floor, and he could finally breathe.

It was rather unfortunate that being able to relax, just a bit, meant his eyes rolling to the back of his head as he collapsed to the ground.

But, even with two gunshot wounds, two missing fingers, and an insane amount of exhaustion to treat, Satoru’s eyes fluttered open to stare at the ceiling of his hospital room long before yours did.

In fact, he was able to clear his name with the help of Sukuna, take some time off from work, get into a steady routine of resting, cleaning his wounds, medicating his body, eating somewhat properly, and rehooked his detective badge to his belt all before you awakened.

You drifted in and out of consciousness for a while. Each time, you caught a glimpse of your husband’s face. Then, when you had fully awakened from your coma to the sound of beeping machines and concerned gazes, it wasn’t a glimpse of his face, but him in his entirety, right beside your bed.

He leaned forward. “You’re awake. Finally, you . . . I can’t even begin to tell you how much . . . I’ve missed you so, so much. I know you get sick of me being overprotective, but I can’t let you out of my sight again after this. I never should have to start with, and I’m sorry. I’m sorry about our fight. I’m sorry it took so long to find you. I didn’t know if . . .” He swallowed thickly. “Once you’re better, we’re going far away, just you and me. We’ll see every part of Europe until you forget what this goddamn city looks like, and I promise, I promise, no one will ever hurt you again.”

Your lips parted a bit, but you didn’t speak.

“Did you hear me?” He asked, worried that, perhaps, you were still in too much of a medicated state to listen.

But you nodded.

He smiled sadly.

“It’s okay if you don’t wanna talk. We don’t gotta say anything.”

He reached out to touch your bandaged hand, but you moved yours away.

The look in your eyes told him what you failed to say with words: Don’t touch me. Not yet.

—

“She’s mute.”

The doctor flickered his sad, albeit professional, gaze between Satoru and Sukuna.

“What? Mute?” Sukuna frowned.

The doctor placed a binder packed with private patient information on the surface of a counter behind him in the hallway of the hospital, and he sighed. “I’m afraid she’s experiencing trauma-induced mutism as a result of her circumstances. She isn’t choosing not to speak to you, she physically can’t. Her brain is protecting her, you see. After everything she has been through, speech can shut down temporarily as a response to tremendous stress. Rest assured that it is only temporary.”

“What about . . . everything else?” Satoru asked.

“Yes, well, her severe dehydration has been treated, but her case of the flu seemingly turned into a case of pneumonia. We are still treating her injuries and keeping her medicated for illness, pain, and anxiety. She will continue to deal with permanent damage to certain body parts, such as her wrists and shoulders for example, and the infection to her leg was . . . it has given her and us some trouble, to say the least.” The doctor stared intensely at them. “We would like to move her to the psychiatric floor in the near future. In the meantime, we’ve documented the results of every mental and physical evaluation for the police department. We’ve reported everything we know about what her body has told us he’s done to her. As for everything else, we have to wait until she’s ready to tell us her story. Or, write it down, at the very least.”

His eyes focused on Sukuna. “I must warn you that, should you decide to read through the evaluation reports yourself, knowing what all he had done to her will be traumatizing for you, sir.” The doctor gave the two men a sad parting smile. “Have a good day.”

Sukuna leaned his back against the wall, eyeing the two security guards he ordered to stand outside your door. The interior windows to your room were open, giving you a full view of everyone who might walk by, as well as giving the nurses at the nearby station full sight of you.

“My coworkers are out looking for Suguru,” Satoru said, leaning against the wall next to the other man. “I remember seeing Toji drag him away that night, before we called 911 and came to the hospital. You don’t gotta tell me where he is, just tell me if he’s dead or alive.”

“He’s alive for now,” Sukuna shrugged. “I’ll spare you the details, detective.”

Satoru eyed him for a moment, noting the way his eyes didn’t seem to glow with satisfaction, but rather, as if he had an itch he couldn’t quite scratch. “You don’t look happy.”

Sukuna gave a bitter chuckle. “I can make that bastard scream, and in the end, he’ll go right back to smiling.” Looking at him suddenly, Sukuna said, “He wasn’t lying. I got my wife back, but a big part of her? Gone. This kinda bullshit is worse than death. It’s no wonder she tried to blow her own brains out.”

“She just needs time.”

They were silent for a while. Then, as Satoru casually put his hands in his pockets, Sukuna broke the silence.

“Satoru?”

“Yeah?”

“Why . . . and how . . . are you in love with my wife?”

He tried to lie and keep his voice steady as he did so. “I’m not. It’s my job to protect people. I’d sacrifice two fingers to keep anyone safe.”

“You think I believe you?”

Satoru only sighed. “Are you gonna kill me?”

“Nope. Not today, anyway. I will if you try something, but it doesn’t matter right now. She’s gone.” Sukuna stared at your sleeping figure through the interior window, and his hands started to shake with an anger he was all too used to, but one that hadn’t yet died out, nor dulled in intensity. “What all did he do to her? What did he do?”

—

At one point, you began to wonder why every detective known to man had appeared in your room hoping to coax you into revealing more of your story beyond you writing down Suguru Geto did it, but your dear friend, Kento Nanami, hadn’t yet stopped by.

You grabbed your little notebook and pen, flipped to an open page, and wrote, Kento?

You held it up in front of you for Sukuna to read, and looked up at him with the saddest, curious eyes.

Satoru was in the room at the time. He saw the way your husband battled with the truth versus a rehearsed lie, and Satoru stepped forward, and told you, simply, that he had been killed.

For the moment, amidst your cries, you assumed it was a job-related accident. He was a detective in a big city, after all.

Satoru saw the guilt overcome Sukuna’s face, and, out of some odd need to comfort the man he once hated, he wanted to tell him that Kento wasn’t innocent. He didn’t kidnap his wife, that much was true, but he delayed the investigation. He was obsessed with you. His house was a hidden showcase of such affection.

But Satoru bit his tongue, because he himself was no better.

He wanted the victim he was meant to save. You were missing, and yet, he was clouded by both hatred for your husband and lust for a kidnapped woman, so much so that he failed to conduct the investigation properly. In more ways than one, and even in ways he himself couldn’t remember, his actions led to Suguru’s.

Then, there was Sukuna himself, who only added to your pain by killing the wrong man — who was your friend, though, he wasn’t worthy of being so, but no one would ever tell you such a thing — and he kept the details behind the night of your disappearance hidden. And, of course, the fight that took place moments before that led to you leaving the safety of your home in the first place.

Suguru Geto might have been the guilty one, but the other three men were rather far from innocent.

—

Sukuna knocked at your door to announce his presence before entering your hospital room several days later.

“Good afternoon, baby,” he greeted, approaching your bedside with two small containers, two plastic spoons, and a few napkins. “I got you ice cream. This is the nice kind that doesn’t taste like the carton it comes in. No disrespect to their cafeteria, but do they expect any fucking person to feel better with that crap?”

He had come to expect silence from you, but he still paused, just in case there was the slightest chance you’d respond. But you only watched as he took the lid off your ice cream.

He gathered a spoonful of ice cream and guided it towards your mouth.

You ate it, but before he could scoop out more, you shook your head.

He nodded, put the ice cream down, then continued to speak. “The, uh, the nurses told me you won’t let ‘em help you get cleaned up. I could help you, if you want. Whenever you feel comfortable with me touching you.”

Though he knew you inside and out, he wasn’t certain what the look in your eyes meant.

But you reached for his hand all of a sudden. It was a move so surprising, he nearly flinched.

You guided his hand underneath your hospital gown, letting him feel your thigh first. Then your stomach.

And he traced the very letters carved into your skin, and pieced together the word and initials that made him certain he would go to where he was keeping Suguru Geto and force him to endure a thousand cuts tonight.

“It’s not true, you hear me? You’re not his. None of it is-”

Though moving your arms still gave you trouble, and perhaps it would for the rest of your life, you placed a hand over Sukuna’s lips as if to shush him, and you shook your head, as if to reduce his words into nothing but lies.

Tears fell from your eyes.

The rich man who was feared by everyone in town, the man who killed and tortured and got what he wanted, but above all else, worshipped you, said, “Can I hold you?” Then, because he knew it was difficult, because he knew you needed time and the last thing he wanted to do was push your boundaries, he mumbled, “When you’re ready?”

You released a shaky breath.

And it wasn’t easy, but you would have been lying if you told yourself you didn’t want to feel Sukuna’s touch.

You didn’t hug him exactly. Having your wrists bound so often made it so you hardly ever wanted to spread your arms out, pain aside, so you didn’t exactly wrap your arms around him, but you leaned forward and let him pull you across his lap and hold you close.

His touch meant warmth. The size of his hands meant safety. The healing hole above his palm represented love.

How could a man capable of choking the life out of others hold you so gently? So lovingly? You could never wrap your mind around it, but, yet again, you felt those lips of his kiss your forehead softly, as if the only thing he ever knew was to be soft with you.

“I love you,” he announced.

You cried, but yet, even through the slew of tears, you could make out the white-haired detective standing a short distance away outside of the interior window.

He placed three bags of your favorite chips on the counter belonging to the nurses’ station to be given to you later, as promised.

Then, with his three-fingered hand, he waved, not as a greeting, but a silent goodbye.

The man you locked eyes with gave you a sad, knowing smile. Then, he vanished from your view, walking down the halls of the hospital to never be seen by your eyes again.

The famous case of the missing woman will forever be known as Satoru Gojo’s last one. He quit his job as a detective, and though his town had come to learn that he was innocent, people still made u-turns with their grocery carts when they saw him walking down the aisle or crossed the street sooner than they had planned upon seeing him standing on the sidewalk.

Therefore, he moved away, not to avoid seeing the faces of his former coworkers and neighbors, but to never risk the chance of coming across yours again.

Throughout the decades that followed, hotshot directors made films about your story, but none of them ever got it quite right on the big screen. After all, you kept the details of what you had to endure all to yourself. Doctors, society, and even your own husband could only forever make educated guesses.

Furthermore, no one truly knew how your story ended, as Suguru Geto — who history referred to as The Smiling Man — was never found again, dead or alive.

Some say he was killed. Youtubers with conspiracy theory channels suggested he was somewhere in hiding.

In truth, he died in an underground cellar as a result of the torture Sukuna put him through. And he died with that same, sick smile on his face.

Following your hospital stay, Ryomen Sukuna did as he promised. He took you to see all the most mesmerizing sights of Europe, and an extra amount of time was spent in Greece.

All the while, he waited for you to speak again. The doctors swore that your mutism was only temporary, that soon, it would return.

In the end, both you and Ryomen passed away as elders, decades upon decades fluttering by, in which you never spoke another word.

Your eyes flick from the amused guard to your new ‘friend’ who gets one last pull-up in before dropping two socked feet to the ground with a grunt. You swear the fucking ground rumbles. He turns towards you and your knees wobble as his shadow over takes you.

Red eyes. Half of his face is mutilated, marred by a fire from long ago, you can surmise. His face tattoos match his body. He’s tall, you wouldn’t even be able to reach the height of his makeshift pull-up bar on the tips of your toes.

You stiffen as he sizes you up like the other inmates did on your way in. You hope you wrapped your chest tight enough. A woman in an all male prison? Not a good idea for too many reasons.

“Hi—” you clear your throat of the high pitched tone, adopting a fake, deeper one, “Hey, bro. It’s uh— cool to meet you— or whatever.”

You could slap yourself. Who are you kidding? You don’t know how to talk like a guy. You should have told Gojo ‘No, no amount of money would make me spend a year in a male prison.’ You shouldn’t have drank so much and stupidly agreed that night at the bar, because now, the best case scenario here is that the guard takes you away and they throw the real you into a women’s prison for trying to ‘fool the system.’

The man takes a step forward, and you’re already tensing for a blow— but he just shoulder checks you on the way out. You stumble a little, immediately going to rub your shoulder.

The guard looks properly amused, holding back a laugh. “Here,” he kicks off the wall, pushing some supplies into your arms. Another guard must have handed these over to him as you greeted your cellmate.

“Have fun,” he makes his brows jump and moseys away.

You deeply exhale through the nerves in your chest, walking towards your bed, if you can even call it that. You drop the supplies onto the thin mattress. Sheets, blanket, toothbrush, etc.

You’ve never been one to pray, but you’re considering it right about now. You shake your head and give yourself something to do: put on your sheets, organize the few toiletries you have on your desk.

After fifteen minutes, some kind of bell rings through the prison and you watch inmates filter out of their cells.

You stand and lean out of the cell curiously. You catch one of them muttering about ‘green beans’ and you realize it’s dinner time.

You enter the crowded mess hall and you’re immediately overwhelmed, clattering trays and chaos. The smell of old meatloaf and sweaty man fills the room.

You keep your head down as you get in line, adopting a slight slouch in hopes to avoid accidental eye contact that could be perceived as a threat. The second you’re pulled into something like a violent altercation, you’ll likely be exposed as a woman quite fast.

Dinner is slop with a side of slop on a metal tray, and you’re realizing why Gojo wanted to avoid this place so adamantly. A fucking paid vacation, he’d said.

You scan the mess hall with the tray in your hands, heart racing.

You spot two guards leaning against the entrance, watching you with amusement— like they’re waiting to see what happens to you, who will pick the runt of the litter. You’re the entertainment. You must look like a little meek boy, shaking in your boots.

It’s packed. Big men in little stools. It reminds you of highschool clicks but worse. You spot your pink haired cellmate, sat alone at the only empty table, but one mean glance up with those red eyes and you’re searching elsewhere.

“Who do we have here?” A deep voice sings as a heavy arm drops around your shoulders.

You glance up at him to see a blue haired man with scars all over his body, like he’d previously had poorly done stitches. He smiles at you with dead eyes.

Some of his friends surround the two of you, bored and idle— but their bulky presence only makes you nervous.

“Need somewhere to sit?” he hums tauntingly, tilting his head down to your level. “My name’s Mahito.”

“Oh, I—”

“Shhh little pet, I’ve got you now. I’ll take you under my wing! You don’t even have to thank me or anything.” His smile makes your spine tense with chills as he moves to stand in front of you.

Do you have another choice? You’re afraid of offending him and his scary friends if you decline.

Mahito continues, as if your acceptance is a given. “Let’s just get some things straight before—”

He’s interrupted by a large fist slamming into his jaw, knocking him right off his feet and onto his ass. Your hands tense around your tray, eyes wide as your gaze snaps to see who just punched Mahito into a limp, dream state.

It’s your pink haired cellmate, looking down at his victim while ringing out his fist like it’s just another Tuesday.

Fights must be common around here, because when you look around, no one seems surprised. Most of the men just mind their business and continue eating their food. Even the two guards are whistling, turning the other cheek.

You gulp. Mahito’s friends don’t even try to defend him, they just back away— like hyenas in the presence of a lion. You hear one of them mutter a name, ‘Sukuna.’

You wonder if anyone is even going to bring Mahito to the infirmary, but when Sukuna’s roaming gaze sweeps over you, all thoughts freeze in fear.

You hold his gaze a beat too long, unsure, until you see a flicker in his expression, a subtle tightening of the corner of his eyes. In a breath, you fold inward, chin dipping down to your chest in retreat.

He breaks the tension first, adjusting his neck as he turns away. He settles back into his seat with his meal, relaxed and borderline bored.

You have no clue what his intentions are, or what saving you signifies. Regardless, you’re relived to not sit with Mahito.

With no other option, you inch your way over to the only empty table where Sukuna sits. He remains focused on his food, ignoring your presence completely as you sit as far away as possible— on the literal side edge of the seat.

You cautiously take a bite, peeking at him defensively, but he remains indifferent.

__________________

Lights out, 9:10 pm.

You lay in your uncomfortable little bed, staring at the dirty ceiling. The cell door clanged shut at exactly 9 pm and when the guard made his final round, flashlight shining through the corridor— he passed by with a slow, deliberate glance followed by a wink that made you feel uncomfortable.

You can’t sleep, tossing and turning for 10 minutes. You shift on your side, unable to lay in one position for longer than two minutes due to this stone of a mattress.

“Quit. Moving.”

You freeze at the demand coming from your cellmate, who probably hasn’t been able to sleep with all of your loud movement.

“Sorry,” you chirp quietly, pressing your lips together between your teeth.

He exhales, deeply. You peek at him and he’s facing the opposite wall, naked back towards you.

You don’t know prison etiquette, are you meant to do something specific if someone saves you from a group of scary individuals like he did earlier? Maybe give him half of your lunch from now on or he’ll take you into the back and beat the teeth out of you?

“Um,” you whisper, practicing your ‘boy’ voice.

You feel the energy in the room shift, like when you were a child sharing a bunk with your sibling and you’d start spouting nonsense to each other after 3am.

“Thank you.”

You feel relief when a silent moment passes, maybe he’s asleep and didn’t hear you, because now that you’ve actually said it, you regret it. How stupid and naive could you be? You reckon gratitude like this may not apply in prison.

He grunts as he adjusts his position, and you cringe at the ceiling, subtly inching your thin blanket up to your chin. Oh. He definitely heard you.

You nod off after too many minutes of silence and you wake in the morning to the sound of the breakfast bell. You all but squeal opening your eyes to see your sweaty cellmate looming over your bed.

You quickly clear your throat, sitting up and glancing around at your surroundings. You kick your ‘boy’ voice up, trying to recover from your girly scream. “Morning.”

He throws a small towel over his shoulder and walks off, unbothered by the strangeness of standing over someone’s bed before they’ve even awoken.

Your breast wraps are still in tact when you peek down under your shirt, so you don’t think he saw anything he wasn’t supposed to.

Breakfast is uneventful, thankfully. Mahito, who has fresh dark bruises along his face, doesn’t even look your way. You sit alone at Sukuna’s table, the same acceptable distance as before.

Things are just okay, you think.

That is, apart from the whole using the bathroom thing. You’ve been putting it off. But, it’s unavoidable.

After breakfast, you peek into your cell where the shared toilet is, only to see Sukuna casually reading a scroll with one hand and doing one armed push ups with the other. The image of using the toilet in here makes your face sour. That’d be a type of humiliation you’d rather avoid, and that’s not even accounting for keeping your gender a secret.

Instead, you settle for the shared bathrooms connected to the showers in one large tiled, communal room.

Standing in front of the toilet stall, you curse Gojo’s entire family line. Because of course the stalls don’t have doors. Somewhere far away, Gojo suddenly feels shivers race down his spine in the middle of his little mochi date.

Apart from the unsettling experience of using the bathroom surrounded by large men shaving and brushing their teeth, you overheard interesting information as you did your business. You had to translate male prison gossip lingo, but apparently Sukuna and Mahito’s little altercation yesterday wasn’t random.

They have history. Something about ‘daring to touching his soul’ — whatever that means. You think soul is code for a drug supply, maybe.

Yesterday’s incident was a ‘checking’ as your fellow inmates say. Mahito was trying to force you, someone weak and new, into his group, which made him look strong among the lower ranks. But when Sukuna stepped in, punching his lights out in front of everyone, it was a show of power.

Mahito dominates people like you, small and submissive by nature, to stay on top, but Sukuna operates on a whole nother level. In that simple act, he showed everyone that you’re on the bottom, people like Mahito are in the middle, and Sukuna reigns on top.

You’re already cringing at your naivety thanking him last night, like he was some knight in shining armor.

Once you get back to your cell, Sukuna’s still reading, this time, sat on his bed all glistening with sweat having finished his workout.

You ignore your nerves walking past him to sit on your own bed with your back against the wall.

You’d scored a notebook and pen from the recreation room, and begin idly drawing the time away. Seeing how he’s the only thing there is to draw in this place, you start sketching Sukuna’s profile.

His nose is particularly a unique shape, reminiscent of the Greek God statues. You glance up for the millionth time to get the particular slope of his bridge committed to memory, and startle to see him looking back at you with a glare.

You slouch into yourself, your face growing hot having been caught staring and you force your eyes back down.

“You keep thinking you’re allowed to do that.”

Your heart rate kicks up at his scary gravelly tone, like a demon having come back to life in the form of his vocal cords. You naively thought he didn’t notice your glances, since he never even spared you a look.

“Sorry,” you mutter quietly.

“Look at me,” he demands in a way that you wouldn’t dare consider disobeying. Fuck. You were hoping he’d just let it be.

You clench your eyes shut for a brief moment, squeezing your pen in your palm before slowly sitting up and peering at him.

“Pitiful. Truly.” He scoffs, looking at your entire form with disgust. “Do you have no honor? Stand.”

You hesitate, gaze flicking, feeling like you’re playing a game of simon says.

“I said,” his tone rumbles as he moves to sit at the edge of his bed, chin resting on his fist, “stand.”

A passing inmate side eyes your open cell, but he minds his business as if it holds a sleeping monster within.

You gently toss your notebook to the side and your brows twitch as you push yourself up to stand, socked feet meeting the cold floor.

You aren’t even sure if you’re meant to be looking at him still, gaze uncertain.

“Now kneel.”

A flashback of how hard Sukuna’s fist met the bone of Mahito’s jaw makes you slowly bend and drop to your knees.

You spot a flicker of satisfaction in his eyes before a judgmental expression takes over, like your obedience is simultaneously sickening and mandatory to him.

“You hold your head quite high,” he hints at your lack of respect, and if putting your forehead on the dirty floor is all he makes you do for disrespectfully staring, you’d probably be lucky.

Your brows pinch in a pout, grossed out with the prospect of it but still, you inch your head down.

“Good,” he drawls the word out with a whispery rasp, “Go on. All the way down.”

Once you’re in a fully seated bow, like a servant in the old ages, he exhales slow and deep. Cathartically.

A long moment passes with his red eyes on the back of your head. The floor smells like dirt and a trace of bleach. You’re completely vulnerable in his position, with the back of your neck exposed and blinded.

Honestly, you’re wondering if Sukuna is still there. It’s so quiet, all you can hear is the subtle mumble of the others outside of the cell in the main area and the tick of the clock.

You prepare to speak by taking in a small breath, and that’s all it takes for Sukuna to snap at you.

“Did I say you could speak?”

You gulp.

“You’re new,” he complains, “The next time you disobey me, you won’t enjoy what I do.”

You hear the bed creak from him standing, but he doesn’t take a step in any direction. Just stands above you.

“Lick the floor.”

Your lips part in shock, blinking at the floor in confusion. You can’t even begin to imagine the disgusting things that line this floor after decades of men coming in and out. You’ve seen the guy who cleans the floors, he’s blind— literally. Humiliation is the only benefit to making someone do something like this, to knock them back into their place. You don’t have another choice.

“Show me,” he snaps, making you flinch. “Your tongue.”

Fuck this place, you obey. Slip your tongue out and slide it against the floor, eyes clenched shut to cope with the taste of everything horrible and bitter.

Pushing your palms to the floor, you lift your head, giving him the pathetic display of your twitching tongue.

The light above halo’s his pink head like a dark angel, and you see his lips curl into a diabolical smile. Pleased with your submission.

He squats, lining his mouth to your ear— not touching, but close enough to hear. “The hell are you looking at?”

Your eyes clench shut as fast as his words come out and you almost flinch when you feel the tip of his finger brush against your clavicle. Your breast wrap is right there—not impossibly close, but too close for comfort. It’s like he’s bringing attention to how frail your bones are, brushing the bone so lightly.

“Speak.”

“You— I’m sorry,” is all you know to spit out around the taste of the bitter floor in your mouth.

He tuts like your answer is just average, a boring C- at best. It seems to be all you know how to say, that and thank you.

“I don’t want trouble— I didn’t know I couldn’t look at you,” you stupidly explain.

“Have a little crush on me?”

You gulp, shaking your head. “N-No.”

He stands. “Why are you here?”

“Because you told me to—” your uncertain gaze flicks around his face but never connects to his eyes.

He interrupts you, repeating himself in a rougher tone, “Why are you here?”

You realize he’s asking why you were locked up.

“Speak. My impatience is not passive you’ll soon find out,” he snaps at you when you don’t immediately answer.

“I— I lost a bet. I needed money.” Technically not a lie, but you can see how your words imply that you robbed someone or something.

He uses a socked foot to nudge at your tummy, and you tense, praying he doesn’t lift it or lower it in either direction.

You’re bracing for a kick, a shove, something. Instead, he simply runs his foot down your abdomen until his toes brush the clothed skin above your pussy. You shiver in anticipated worry, looking up at him through your lashes like he’s a god given the right to deciding your fate.

Just when you think this is it, he’s going to push just an inch lower and notice your lack of dick— he loudly sniffles and walks out like nothing happened.

________________

Later, 11:25 am.

Your one reprieve after your humiliating morning is the library. Everyone has a job in prison— a 0.25$ paying job— but it’s better than nothing. You’d been lucky to land a job sorting books. Pushing a little cart around, organizing the collection of educational texts, self-help, religious, even things like the hunger games— it was nice.

That is, until your heart drops down to your ass when Sukuna pushes you against the shelf, chest pressing into your back.

You gasp, dropping the book in your grasp. Your mind immediately flicks to movies you’ve seen, involving a homemade shiv and a lot of blood, people who have nothing to lose and kill just for the hell of it. You’re an easy target too, smaller than the rest.

“You’re welcome,” he says casually into your ear. He’s not even pushing into you in an overtly sexual manner, just pinning you to the shelves.

You knew he was awake last night. But, he definitely didn’t intentionally protect you from Mahito, no, it had nothing to do with you. He’s taunting you.

You let out a shaky breath, daring to speak just above a whisper. “F—for what?”

“This is how it’s going to work,” he explains, hard hand gripping the back of your neck, “I’m going to fuck your ass, use you until that gratitude dries up and in return— no one will touch you.”

Oh shit. Your face pales. He’s explaining the concept of being a ‘bitch’ to you because it’s your first time in prison. Was it that obvious? (Yes.)

You let out a fearful whine under your breath, so quiet, but being so close, he hears it.

“What’s wrong? Thought you wanted to thank me,” he mocks you, hot breath fanning your ear. Maybe in another universe, you’d beg the domineering man fuck you— as you. But if you want your gender to remain a secret in here, you have no choice but to get out of this.

“I— but,” You grip the shelf harshly, thinking of any excuse, “I’m a virgin!”

A pause. Did that actually work? You’re not an actual virgin, but you’ve never done anal— technically not a lie.

Your bated breath halts when he lets out a boisterous laugh. “Oh?” he drawls like a king on a throne.

You can almost guarantee he feels your heart thumping through your fucking back.

“You’re just a hole. Meant for use. Doesn’t matter to me, I truly don’t care.”

“I— please, I can’t do that for you. I want to— I really want to! But I can’t,” you breathe, hoping you haven’t offended his ego— which you assume is larger than this building. You want to be able to say yes, just so that you don’t have a target on your back.

“Tch,” he clicks in distaste, “I won’t injure you. Is that enough to address your concerns?” You think he mutters a ‘loser’ under his breath but you aren’t sure.

The fact that he’s even trying to quell your fears is surprising, and gives you a spec of hope. It also allows you to consider the idea of what his protection in exchange would mean. Everyone clearly fears Sukuna, you’d get through this year untouched— aside from the obvious.

“Uh—uhm,” you gulp, side glancing back at him as much as his grip will allow. “I’m insecure about uh.. my dick.”

His brows lower into a furrow, looking at you with judgement. “Fine,” he rolls his eyes, “your little cock won’t come out of its confines. Satisfied?”

Are you actually going to do this? Can you even pull this off? The fact that this man even wants to fuck you in the first place is completely out of the blue. You knew things like this happened in here, but from this guy?

You shift. “Why do you want this— with me?”

“I’m not gay,” he scoffs, “Fool. I simply need a flesh light.”

“Oh, and,” he pushes his nose into your head, behind your ear, and sniffs, “you smell nice, like a woman.”

You shiver. It’s horrifying that he can actually smell that on you without knowing it.

“Deal?”

You clench your eyes shut and nod.

He finally pushes off of you and mutters a ‘good’ before walking away and out of the library.

___________

You’ve never been one for the concept of anal. You’d glare whenever a boyfriend would even bring it up. It’s always felt inconsiderate, like you’re just being used when a more pleasurable hole is right there. You’re kind of nervous, but part of you is relieved.

Since you made the deal, Sukuna has ‘claimed’ you. He makes you grab his meals for him, sit across from him in the cafeteria, visible signs of ownership. The other inmates avoid you completely; even a minor bump into your shoulder in passing earns an apology. You’re his now, and everyone knows it. Off limits.

As for your end of the deal, you aren’t sure when Sukuna is going to be in the mood to fuck. You’ve been stealing peeks at him, watching too closely, hoping for a signal, but Sukuna noticed. After that time you practically jumped when he stood up from his bed, he gave you a glare that made your knees weak. Instead, you’ve decided to just wait for him to tell you when he’s ready.

A few days after your library talk, Sukuna finally gives you the signal.

It’s morning, and you wake to see him hovering over your bed once again.

You startle, sitting up quickly as you rub your eyes. “Wh— what happened?”

He tosses you a little bag of chips, the type you can only get from the confectionery, and your brows furrow down at it.

“Um,” you glance at him, unsure, “thank you.” It sounds more like a question than a statement.

“Library, 12 pm. There’s a spot with no cameras in the back.”

Your eyes flicker in recognition, and your heart races as you nod. “Okay, I’ll— um— I’ll be there. That’s great. Sounds good.”

He deadpans at your pathetic attempt at speaking and walks off.

You can’t help but feel a weird affection placing the bag of chips under your bed, rolling your eyes at yourself. It’s a bag of chips, and you have more to worry about than catching feelings for this guy.

You have to prep.

The communal showers are sectioned by half walls and curtains. You’ve been able to shower, dry yourself, wrap your breasts, and get dressed all inside of the little shower section without anyone seeing your important body parts since you’ve been here. Still, you’d rather some privacy as you do what needs to be done today.

Thankfully, it’s empty when you check the showers while breakfast is taking place.

You stand there naked under the water, toes curling in nerves as you slowly bring the empty bottle up to fill it with water. A homemade douche. It’s mildly humiliating shooting water up your ass but it’s a necessary evil.

About a few hours later, you’re sorting books like your job entails, while anxiously glancing at the door and wall clock every two minutes with anticipation.

At 12:03 he pushes the door open, and you immediately turn your head back to face the shelves.

You hear him snap at the only person reading at a table, forcing them to leave. Your heart races when you hear him lock the entrance door behind them.

You stupidly pretend you’re deciding which shelf the book in your hands belongs on as his heavy footsteps close the distance between you.

He settles right beside you and you peek up at him.

“Come.” He nods his head, gesturing you to follow as he turns and leads you to the last isle, all the way to the back of the room.

“Right here?” You glance at the camera in the corner.

“Right here.”

You gasp when he grabs your hips and manhandles you over to the very corner of the isle, pressed into the shelf with your back to him. “It’s a blind spot.”

“Okay,” you lick your lips nervously, fumbling with the hem of your sweatpants. “I— how do we— should I just—?”

He squeezes his big hands over your shaky ones, stopping you. “Relax,” he snaps. “Ass fucking is not that difficult. It’ll be a lot easier for you than it is for women.”

You gulp at that, his (rude) reassurance means nothing considering the obvious.

He swats your hands away and you squeak when he pulls your sweatpants down enough to expose your ass to the chilly air.

You curiously glance back when you hear a click of a cap opening. He squirts an ungodly amount of lube into his palm and tosses it aside. (How did he even obtain lube in here?)

“Pretty fucking ass,” he says as if it’s an insult, using one hand to spread your cheek and slide a glob onto your hole with two fingers.

You cringe at the cold feeling of the gel as he rubs your hole, anticipating him shoving his finger in there.

“It’s gonna hurt,” you say wearily, “right?”

He rolls his eyes, using his middle finger to push at the resistance of the rim.

You gasp when it pops in. He slowly massages your insides in a manner to loosen the very edges, preparing the most taught of the muscles to stretch. It’s more weird than uncomfortable feeling something wiggling around in there.

“You’re lucky I’m doing this,” he rasps, “Virgin.”

“Thank you,” you squeak. He uses his free hand to shove your hips out a bit more.

He whispers as he pulls his finger out, “How’s it feel knowing you’re about to get fucked in the ass? Feel the shame yet?”

You gulp and clench your eyes shut when you catch a glimpse of his hefty cock being pulled out of his sweats. A large, scary winding vein catches your eye.

“Slow,” you chirp as he presses the tip to your ass, “please go slow.”

He notches his chin over your head, wrapping one arm around your tummy to push your back into his chest and grunts, “I will.”

His large body envelops you, like a hard hug. If it weren’t for his tip forcing your asshole to open up, you’d probably enjoy being held by a big man like this.

You hiss, unable to keep your hands from snapping back and digging your nails into his hips. The intrusion is uncomfortable, so odd and unnatural to have something this big pushing into your backside.

He doesn’t seem to mind your nails, undulating the tip around in circles within the very inside so you can get used to the feeling.

“That’s it,” he drawls, “open up.”

You let out a high-pitched whine and your ‘boy’ persona is thrown out of the window, completely irrelevant as he inches the rest of it in. He’s fully seated.

“Okay, okay,” you gasp, frantically tapping his hip and toned back, “don’t move yet.”

He exhales deeply, like he feels relaxed having finally mounted a warm hole. His warm huffs of breath calm you as they steadily fan the side of your head.

“Tick tock,” he hums after a minute of your hole pulsing around him in attempt to cope with the intrusion. “It will hurt less if I move.”

“Fuck,” you whimper, shaky hands moving to brace against the shelves. “Okay, fine.”

“Good.” He wraps one hand roughly around your mouth and his other arm holds your midsection taut to his front.

You squeal behind his hand when he pulls out and barrels back in with one hard rut. It hurts, but somehow, his large dick has reached your g-spot through your ass. You likely have a bulge in your tummy from the way his tip is angled to push down against your vaginal canal through the back door.

“Ahhh.” He tilts his head and rumbles an exhales right into your ear, like he’s dipping into a nice, warm hot-spring.

It doesn’t take long for him to set a rhythm, rocking his hips in short, hard thrusts. The contact of your cheeks meeting his hips creates a loud ‘plap,’ bouncing off the books in lewd repetition. His harsh breaths are the most you receive from him in terms of vocalized pleasure, but sometimes he offers a grunt.

Your feet shuffle with every hit, toes barely touching the ground as his strong hold keeps you up in the air like you’re just a human sized flesh light. He’s using you, and you can’t deny his incidental abuse of your g-spot feels good.

“You moan like a fuckin girl,” he hisses into your ear as he pounds your ass.

You can only moan under his palm, confirming his what he thinks is an insult. The jackhammering is short and mean, barely a few inches of his base exiting your puckering hole before stuffing it back inside.

“This ass is mine,” he grunts as your clit throbs with need, “Pathetic fuck. Letting a guy bend you over.”

Your legs shake as he grows frantic and mean, putting horrifying strength behind each thrust. You’re fucking like bunnies, your body frantically jostles up and down and you’d be embarrassed if it weren’t for how he’s completely dominating you. A few books fall right off of the shelf and clatter to the carpeted floor with the force of it all. You wonder if he’s fucking you this hard because he thinks you’re a man, that you can and should be able to handle it.

You exhale sharply out of your nose, eyes clenched shut as you take his last few slams.

“Fuck!” He grunts, throwing his head back as his grip on you grows so harsh you’ll have bruises on your waist later. You feel his dick pulse as he dumps his load as deep as he can go into your ass, keeping his hips still against your irritated asscheeks.

Finally he sighs as he slides out, making your hole clench shut the second the intrusion is gone.

You practically stumble for balance as he lets you go, knees buckling. Pussy dripping and confused while your ass aches.

You want to just collapse right here, take a much needed rest, but you can’t risk an accidental flash of your pussy. You pull your sweatpants up, out of breath.

He tucks his dick back in, glancing down at you with a glow of physical relief on his face. “You took me well,” he licks his top teeth, tilting his head. “Did you enjoy getting your cherry popped?”

That was almost a compliment. Your insides are still screaming for an orgasm and a break simultaneously. You feel your face rise in temp, pathetically, and you can’t help but tuck your chin to your chest.

“Just fucked you and you’re getting shy.” He snickers with a look of disgust. “I think i’ll play with you again and again until I tire of this.”

He doesn’t even give you a chance to respond before moseying out of the library, adjusting his dick in his pants as he goes.

Somehow, you’d gotten away with the first fucking without revealing your secret. Aside from not having a chance to finish the job and rub yourself to a much needed orgasm, you’re quite proud of yourself.

Sukuna doesn’t speak to you more than usual following the act, he’s just not the type. Does one speak to their flesh light between uses?

That night, you almost believe you’re dreaming when you wake up to Sukuna’s weight lying directly on top of you. You couldn’t sleep comfortably on your sore ass, so you’d had to sleep on your tummy, giving him a perfect opportunity.

“Again,” he rasps into your ear, grinding against your ass. You must have done well earlier if he’s already back for more, or he’s fond of how your asshole feels.

You tiredly whine and lower your groggy tone to say, “But the guards will hear— and the others.”

He ignores your concerns and crawls down your body, yanking your sweats down. You squeak, pushing a hand under yourself to keep your pants up at the front.

You glance over your shoulder. “What are you— oh!”

He spreads your ass and licks a stripe up your asshole, terrifyingly close to your pussy. So close your pussy clenches in anticipation, having a sweet mind of its own.

He pauses as he looks down at your hole with furrowed brows. It’s dark enough that he won’t be able to see the feminine parts of you, you hope.

He doesn’t say a word about his pause, just brings his face back down and pushes his tongue into your ass. He wriggles it around and you cringe, gripping the sheets as he stimulates your sore hole. You can’t even tell if it feels good to have your ass ate, or if it’s the concept of this man with his face in your ass, or the fact that you’re just fucking horny and begging for scraps.

After one last lick from your hole all the way up to your lower back, he crawls up to lay on you with his lips to your ear.

“Why the fuck is your ass sweet?” he asks as he lifts his hips to yank his cock out. Your brows raise, almost letting out a snicker. It must be due to your pussy leaking wetness down to your ass all day since the library.

“I— I don’t know,” you mumble as he holds one of your cheeks open and slides his tip against your hole.

“Just,” he grunts as he pops the tip in, not even waiting before pushing in to the hilt, “stay quiet and I’ll be done in a second.”

You whine under your breath, fisting the sheets as your toes curl. His legs surround the outsides of yours as his arms wrap around your neck in a loose headlock. You aren’t sure you can stay quiet if he pounds you like he did before without his hand covering your mouth. Getting caught with his dick in your ass doesn’t sound so great.

But fuck, you suddenly don’t care because his abs clench as he lifts his hips and slides back in, already gaining a stead rhythm. It’s slower than before, but hard. Your eyes roll back at how passionate it is, fingers pressing into his pulsing arms around your neck. You can’t remember the last time a man truly put his heart into fucking you.

You think you may be able to enjoy this little arrangement after all, considering his dick is big enough to pound into your g-spot with every hump. Maybe his claim on you, the free use of it all, is charming too.

But then, he begins to slide a hand down under you and you freeze.

He’s reaching for your nonexistent dick.

You snap your hand down to grip his wrist, stopping him, but you know that he could bypass your frail hold if he really wanted to.

“D-Don’t touch,” you breathily murmur through his continued thrusts.

“Tch,” he grunts in distaste, “Won’t see your ugly dick. You should be thanking the gods that I’d even try to touch you.”

You wish you could allow him to touch, rub your clit, finger you, fuck you the proper way. But no matter how horny you are, you have to have a clear head about this. If he knew you were a woman, he could tell the guards— or worse, tell the other inmates and let them have a turn with you. That’s just the tip of the iceberg of the horrible things that could happen to you if you’re exposed.

“I know, I know,” you gulp, lips parting as he manages a particularly nice thrust, “just— next time. Okay? Next time.”

He huffs, exasperated and gives up, moving his hand away and instead uses it to dig into your hip to get a better angle.

“Fuuck,” you breathe in a particularly girly way as he reaches deeper, and he hisses in your ear in obvious pleasure. He seems to enjoy the way you ‘moan like a woman.’

“Good,” he thrusts, “little,” thrust, “hole.”

He cums with a last few pitiful humps and rubs his hips against your ass in a circle as if to make sure his cum is deeep in there.

You feel utterly spent when he pulls out, two loads in your ass just from today and you’re clocking out.

He doesn’t even give you another look as he gets up and stretches with a yawn, wet dick still hanging about his thigh.

You pull your sweats up with a grimace at how sore your asshole feels. If you weren’t so horny, you might be annoyed how beat up your insides feel.

You exhale in relief when he passes out the second he flops down into bed like any average man does. You’re already thinking of some way to fool him into thinking you have a cock by the next time he wants to fuck.

_______

You’ve stolen a cucumber from the kitchen. It wasn’t easy, but you managed.

Sukuna has you up against the cell bars and has grown quite confident in his ability to fuck you within an inch of your life. He doesn’t seem like he’s all that invested in you, after all, he still thinks of you as some boy he’s using to get off. But you’re still enjoying it as much as any woman can reasonably enjoy anal.

He definitely seems to enjoy fucking you too, because you can feel his thighs shake as he pounds into you.

He kicks your feet wider and reaches around you to grab at your ‘dick.’ “Gonna let me touch it now?”

You gulp, peeking down at his hand that finds the cucumber and grips it.

“Jesus Christ, you’re fucking hard.”

You would laugh in his face if he wasn’t obliterating your insides with heavy humps.

He slowly begins to knead your ‘cock’ and the only way you know that, is because the tip of the cucumber incidentally rubs against your clit with every one of his strokes.

“Oh shit,” you breathe, brows raising and blinking into an eye roll of surprise pleasure. The stimulation to your clit and g-spot is like heaven after two days of being pent up.

“Don’t— don’t stop,” you beg, making his brow quirk.

The second you start fucking back into his cock, like an auto-masterbater, Sukuna’s eyes roll and his orgasm appears in the distance.

He sinks his teeth into your shoulder, indifferent to the pain he could be causing and meets your thrusts half way. There’s no way you’re not waking the entire cell block with the slapping sound bouncing off the concrete walls.

You sigh in disappointment when he lets go of your ‘dick’ and uses both hands to grip your hips, thrusting harder than ever.

He hisses an inhale like it hurts, a string of saliva connecting your shoulder to his teeth— and cums as his feet slightly shuffle.

“Phew,” he exhales, pulling out and tucking his dick back in. He crashes right into bed, just like before, and leaves you throbbing and needy. Again.

_____________

Sometime in the middle of the night, Your cell.

Sukuna has turned ravenous, he wants to fuck everyday, at least twice. It’s a bit much because you have to prep the same day before anal, and you’ve had to turn him down. Not without worries of how he’d take the rejection with little explanation, but thankfully, all he did is tsk and walk off.

One day of no sex, and he’s been staring at you through the entire day. When you wake up, in the cafeteria, on walks, while you draw on your bed. It’s frightening since you can’t read his expression that’s always resting in a threatening way. Would it be stupid to ask what he’s feeling?

Honestly, you just wanted him to wait until you could prep, and then he could have at it— but he didn’t get the message. And it’s not like you can just tell him, ‘Hey Sukuna, you can fuck my ass anytime now. Clock’s ticking!’ That’d mean you’re actively seeking anal, and that’s ridiculous. Right?

You shrug it off and decide to ignore his stare, focusing your attention on the book in your hands. He’s a big boy, if he needs something, he’ll ask for it.

And ask for it, he does.

You gasp when you’re suddenly pushed down flat to your bed, strong hands spreading your legs so Sukuna can rest between them as your book clatters to the floor. You hadn’t even heard his footsteps, or the creak of his bed as he stood.

“Jesus Christ,” you breathe, looking up at him with your heart racing out of your chest. “You scared me.”

His clothed bulge is hovering just above your pussy, but if he rested his weight down a few inches, you’re fucked. Maybe literally.

He must have just showered, his hair is damp and dark pink. He looks down at you hungry, like you’re not a person but a fucktoy with a timed lock on it that’s almost ready to use again, licking his bottom lip. “Does this fix your problem? Can I fuck you now, princess?”

Your brows furrow, an obvious question mark on your expression. You ignore the pet name meant to taunt you, because you’re not a man with toxic masculinity.

He rolls his eyes. “I’m not kissing you. Missionary is as romantic as I’ll get. Take it or leave it.”

What? He must have misinterpreted your rejection as a desire for more intimacy and affection when you have sex. The idea of missionary with Sukuna makes your tummy flutter— but you can’t.

You press your lips together, concealing a laugh. “Oh. Um— no,” you gently press against his chest, “I like how we usually do it.”

“You know,” he leans into your face, “I’m getting real tired of you bossing me around.”

“I’m sorry,” you say, recalling your excuse for keeping your dick out of sight, “I just feel— uh—insecure.”

“Fuck that,” he grunts, grabbing hold of the hem of your sweats, “Only way to get over that shit is to face it.”

You grasp his wrist, nervously. It’s not like you don’t want Sukuna to know you’re a woman so you can fuck the way you want to, it’s just too complicated and risky.

“I— really, let’s just do it against the wall, like we always do!” you attempt to convince him as he pulls against your hold.

He doesn’t say a word, just squints at you like he can smell bullshit in your words.

Suddenly, he yanks your pants all the way down until they fall to the floor and you immediately cup your sex, trying to hide from him. You twist your lower half to lie on your side, legs bent around his side so they can stay together.

He glances down at your lower half and grips your thigh. “Show me,” he snaps, more suspicious than warranted if he actually believed your lies of insecurity.

You shake your head stubbornly, clenching your eyes shut.

“Now,” he allows the word to reverberate against the walls of the cell, and you swear you can feel the vibrations in your chest.

That domineering tone is like a frequency that emits a wave of submission in timid people like you, like a lions roar to a cornered bunny.

Still, you don’t open your legs.

He scoffs a huff of air, like he’s in disbelief of your sudden ability to grow balls. Pun intended.

You peek your eyes open when you feel him shift to crawl down your body until his breath is fanning your hand covering your pussy and naked asshole.

You squeak when he slides his tongue against your fingers. “Open up,” he taunts, giving your asshole a little lick as well.

You whimper as he begins licking at your hand and your thighs, resolve dissolving with every warm, wet touch.

“I’m— I’m scared,” you admit with panic, though you’re being too vague for him to actually console you even if he wanted to.

He takes a big bite out of your thigh and you gasp, pussy clenching in need from the sting. Your wetness has made your hands slippery, and the second he takes another bite, this time a deep one on your fingers, your hand slips away with a sting and a hiss.

He takes the opportunity to yank your legs apart, spreading them over each of his thighs till you’re on full display in front of him. Like a plate.

Your wide eyes flick from your exposed pussy, to his red eyes trained down between your legs. You quickly reach to futilely cover yourself once again.

“Aht!” he scolds, pinning your wrists to the bed on either side of your body before they can cover your sex again. “Don’t fucking move,” he snaps, inches from your face.

You must have the expression of a small animal being prepped for slaughter as he closely eyes you because that’s exactly how you feel. You watch his face shift as he realizes your features aren’t just girly, you’re a fucking girl.

“Please.” You plead him, but for what exactly?

He exhales into you, ignoring you to observe your body. He lets go of one wrist to slowly raise the hem of your shirt up to your collarbones, revealing a tightly wrapped chest.

As if he needs to make sure, he rips it away and blinks at your bouncing tits. One last look at your pussy and he huffs harshly, gazing into your eyes like he just won the lottery.

“Holy shit.”

You’re mute, afraid and frozen in place as your legs clench around his hips, trying to close them around him even though it’s impossible.

“Why are you here?”

He watches you with equal parts curiosity and amused awe.

“I— I made a deal. A stupid fucking deal,” you breathe in your natural feminine voice. It’s not hard to assume the deal was money for time in prison.

He shakes his head, laughing airily like he can’t believe his eyes. “Now this is so very interesting. A woman in my cell.”

He leans into your ear, making your chest and tummy erupt in goosebumps. “I knew your little asshole was too good to be true.” He nips your ear and you whine.

“Don’t— please don’t tell anyone.”

Your quiet request makes him burst out laughing, head tossing back as he hovers over you territorially.

“Tell them?” A vein in his forehead pops as his gaze manically flicks back and forth from each of your eyes, “No, you foolish little thing. You’re all mine. You’d have to fucking kill me to share this pretty pussy.”

You aren’t sure if you should feel relived or scared. You’ve grown fond of Sukuna’s cock, but that look in his eye is downright diabolical.

“You’re,” you begin with a swallow, “not gonna hurt me?”

“Ohhh,” he breathes cathartically like he’s battling aggression seeing something so small and delicate beg not to be broken. “No, no. I’m not gonna hurt you. You’re safe with me.”

You aren’t so sure, if that glint in his eye and tone in his deep voice tells you anything. Like mouse encountering a perfect piece of cheese suspiciously sitting in the middle of the kitchen floor, begging to be eaten.

He leans in and lays a soft kiss to your cheek, making you blink.

“See?” he hums smiling, “I know exactly how to handle with care.”

He presses his nose to your neck and starts sniffing you loudly, like a dog— down to your breasts, your tummy, and finally he takes a good long sniff of your pussy.

You slap your hands to your face in embarrassment and he groans loudly on an exhale, jaw pinching as he clenches his teeth. “Fuuuck. Nothing quite like it. Your pussy smells very nice,” he trails off with a manic laugh, licking his lips.

His eye catches on your pinched brows once you hesitantly pull your hands away to grip the sheets and he leans into your face with a careful kiss to your jaw. “Deal still on, baby?”

You absolutely have no choice, you need his protection now more than before. Without this deal, there’s no telling what he’d do— no matter what he says. And even if he keeps his word, who’s to say no one else will find out your secret? It helps that he’s hauntingly sexy with a big dick he knows what to do with.

You gulp, nodding. “Yes, please.”

“Goood,” his lip curls as he drawls the word out, “That’s very good.”

He licks a wet stripe up the side of your face, making you grip his biceps.

“Are we going to have sex? My— You want my—”

He interrupts your stutter by humming against your cheek with amusement. “Oh yes. I want your pussy. I’m gonna take it over and over again.”

You exhale a sigh, eyes slightly rolling back, enjoying his words a little too much for the situation at hand.

“I’m not on birth control,” you warn him weakly as he begins to suck on your neck.

He hums nonchalantly, slowly sliding his hand down your tummy.

Your hips jerk when he cups your entire sex, long cold fingers pressing into your warm folds that are just begging for love.

“We don’t have condoms,” you add, biting your lip as he uses two middle fingers to carefully brush from your slippery hole up to your clit.

He chuckles against your neck, wickedly, like he’s enjoying every aspect of this conversation.

“No, we don’t,” he agrees with a smile you can literally hear on his voice.

Your jaw drops as he starts rubbing leisurely circles against your throbbing clit, back arching to press your abdomen into his hard abs.

“You have to pull out,” you whine in a broken moan.

“Okay,” he agrees with ease, moving to press his lips to yours.

You barely kiss him back, as his lips slide and suck on yours.

“I thought you said you didn’t want to kiss me,” you say, muffled as your legs tremble.

He moves his middle fingers down and slides one into your core, making you gasp into his mouth.

He abruptly shoves his tongue into your mouth, sliding and flicking against your tongue. He peeks the tip of his pointer finger in to join his middle inside you, and once your initial ring of resistance gives, he shoves it in like a glove.

“Oh,” you whine, brows pinching and toes curling. “Your fingers are so— fuck— they’re big.”

“Oho,” he breathes as he unhurriedly rocks them in and out, “You’ve been so unsatisfied, haven’t you? Getting ass fucked with not one touch to your pretty, crying little pussy.”

You nod erratically, “I was just so scared if you found ou— oh god.”

He gradually puts weight behind his thrusts, fingering you at an angle to abuse your g-spot.

“You thought I would want to hurt you,” he assumes with a pitying smile, “No, no. I just wanna fuck the shit out of you.”

You reach down and grip his wrist, but his hand in motion makes it difficult.

“Please make me cum,” you beg, “I’d be really— so grateful.”

“Yeah?” He presses a peck to your lips and crawls down to stuff his face between your legs. “Finally,” he sighs to your pussy.

He glances up at you and pecks your jumping clit. “Gonna eat your pussy. You want that?”

Your eyes roll back and you nod pathetically. “Oh my god, yes.”

He doesn’t waste time. He makes a pursing motion with his lips and basically sucks your clit into his mouth like a vacuum, gently suckling on it with his eyes blissfully closed. His free hand rests around your hip and flat against your lower tummy.

Your brain is fucking buzzing, toes curling in the air as you breathe short, pathetic breaths. You’re delightfully surprised he knows you need your clit stimulated to cum; a man in prison just isn’t the type you’d expected to know what most women need.

You use both hands to gently curl into his pink hair, watching his lips envelop your clit as the motion of his hand rocks into you.

“That feels good,” you affirm, voice shaky, making sure he knows he’s going a good job so he doesn’t feel motivated to stop.

He doesn’t answer you, just flicks his tongue against your clit with horrifying stamina, like his tongue is as trained as the rest of his body. You don’t feel a second of lag in his force behind his tongue and that yummy suction.

You melt when he transitions into thorough, flat tongued licks, the kind that nudges your clit in a way that’s not too overstimulating— but genuinely pleasurable in a sustainable way. You could actually cum like this. You rub his head like a masseuse, kneading the skin affectionately, making his brows and forehead slightly move with your massage.

He eats you like he hasn’t eaten his favorite meal in a long time, and considering the slop in the cafeteria, your delirious mind thinks it makes perfect sense that he’s probably soo hungry. It’s not his fault he’s so eager.

Your toes curl as your abdomen clenches inward, honing your focus to find an orgasm in the distance with every specifically pressurized slide of his tongue.

He tilts his head idly, side to side and the second he finds that perfect angle to the left, you gasp and yank his head impossibly closer.

“Right there, huh?” is the last thing he says before repeating the motion perfectly, over and over and over while his hand continues at ample speed. It’s about 27 licks in when the white blinds your sight and you give in to the ecstasy of an orgasm.

“Thank you, thank you, thank you— fuck!” you stupidly babble the one phrase you can’t seem to stop repeating to the man ever since you met him, voice strained and slurring as your brain short circuits and cuts off the connection between your motor skills and brain signals.

Even when you fall limp with fading euphoria, frailly whining, ‘no more,’ his big mouth attaches to your entire slit like a fucking milk pump, despite acknowledging your orgasm passing by discarding his wet fingers to join his other hand on your hip/tummy area.

It’s an interesting sight— your weak, spasming body jerking in overstimulation as he blissfully hallows his cheeks and enjoys your cunt with all kinds of tongue techniques. The type of techniques a stupidly rich man has learnt after so many wine tastings to get the full taste profile of every berry inside to layer over his every tastebud. Getting his full money’s worth of this favorite thing.

But fuck if it doesn’t feel good to be licked, even with the ultra sensitivity of an after glow.

“Sukuna— please,” you whimper, “Aren’t you gonna fuck me?”

That’s what makes him pause, flicking open his relaxed, heavily lidded gaze.

He unsuctions your warm folds, letting go in one popping motion and you exhale sharply when the cold air hits you.

He crawls up your body like a predator, more than twice your size. He slides his arms under your back to hold you flush to his body, hugging you in a possessive hold. One hand wraps around the back of your neck, fingers almost meeting at the front, and the other massages your lower back.

“Am I popping your pussy cherry too?” he hums, lips brushing yours as he speaks into your mouth.

“No,” you huff, “Is that a deal breaker?”

He nips your lower lip. “I’m gonna eat you whole,” he expresses how deeply he wants to fuck you— how small a concern like being a virgin would be to him.

You shiver, and maybe even start to consider why he’s in prison in the first place. Eat you.. whole..?

“Can we fuck first?”

He licks his teeth as his metaphorical tiger tail flicks behind him— like a bunny has triggered a tigers instinct to play while in the midst of a chase. If he could purr, he would be right about now.

Interrupting your little moment, the breakfast bell rings. Sukuna must have made his move an hour before six while you were reading the night away and neither of you noted the time. Sukuna had thought it’d be a 10 minute ass fuck, but now that he’s stumbled upon gold in the form of a woman, he’s gotten distracted.

You’re expecting Sukuna to be frustrated that you have to stop before you even reached the main event, but surprisingly, he just helps you get dressed and then stands lazily by the cell bars to cover you while you wrap your chest so no one eyes his plaything.

The guard just passes by boredly, doing morning checks, nodding at Sukuna in brief greeting.

Once the guard is out of sight, you huff in exhaustion and sit up on your bed. After all the fear of being exposed as a woman and having an orgasm like that, all you want is to sleep. You literally nod off as you sit there, listening to the ruffle of Sukuna throwing on some new clothes.

Two taps to your cheek makes you startle, slurping up some drool as you open your eyes. Sukuna squats in front of you, holding your knees.

“Breakfast,” he reminds you, “get up.”

You pout at his tone, having hoped he’d soften up to you after learning you’re a woman. A woman he desperately wants to fuck and protect and own.

“Can’t you bring it to me?”

He blinks at you, deadpanning. “The fuck did you just say?”

You flinch a bit, chin tucking into your chest. You grow even more alert as he stands and pushes over you, making you lean back in bed with your palms behind you, supporting your weight right beside his own larger ones.

“Does this pretty little thing want to be punished?”

You immediately bite your lip, smiling as he pushes his head into your neck to nip at it.

“Mhm, keep doing that,” you encourage his panty dropping neck kisses.

Oncoming footsteps leading closer and closer to your cell make your heart jolt, and suddenly he roughly pushes you down flat with a veiny hand tight around your throat.

“Begging for a beating so early in the morning are we, boy?” he rasps, menacingly, as the inmate walks past, peeking at your altercation briefly before scurrying off in fear of becoming involved in Sukuna’s business.

You smile.

Oh. This’ll be fun.

______

SORRY edged you there, didn’t I?

Also not sure if this counts as gender bend? Lmk if I should add it to the warnings!

Who could blame you after a lifetime of suffering at the hands of those who you once believed loved you? For the first time in your miserable life, you had someone willing to keep you from harm rather than do unto you what you feared the most. You would be an idiot not to bask in it. In the end, the only complaint you had was that Johnny’s constant presence made it hard to indulge in the handful of books Jenny and Mariah had provided, all loaded with written erotica. A few days into his guard duty, while quietly lounging in your mailroom, Johnny had curiously picked up one of your gifted novels and flipped through the pages when he believed you weren’t looking. Within seconds, his face turned a deep shade of red and he dropped the book into a nearby drawer, closing it with his knee. You watched him clear his throat, followed by an awkward scratch under his eyelid.

You doubted he would be able to share a room with you so shamelessly reading such a subject. The concept made a playful smile twitch onto your lips, though you had yet to act on the idea. Lucky Johnny.

Today was different, however. Instead of Johnny waiting for you in the hotel lobby to walk you to work, there was no one there. You weren’t concerned in the slightest. Yesterday, he had informed you that he had a PR stunt planned for today, so he’d be busy for several hours, likely well into the afternoon. Despite his desire to stay near you, there was no denying he enjoyed the attention that he was sure to get. He had even practiced his speech for you, dramatic flair and all. Your applause left him practically glowing with excitement, confident in his ability to impress the people of New York — no, the world, you were quick to amend for him.

At that, Johnny had softened and sat on the edge of the desk you had your feet resting on. “Eh, I’ve already impressed the one person who matters, anyway.”

“Franklin?” You asked, hoping that wasn’t who he meant, as selfish as that was.

Johnny laughed, reaching over to ruffle your hair, only for you to scoot out of reach. He matched your playful expression with one of his own. “You know who.”

The funniest part about it was that you did know, and it made your heart soar.

After Tim’s arrest, a handful of women came forward with enough allegations to lock him away for a very long time. Sue assured everyone who had spoken up, and to the ones who couldn’t, that she would make sure of his guilt in a court of law. She was a woman with vast amounts of political power and wealth, two assets she intended to use for good. Anyone who wished to testify would have the Fantastic Four’s protection, and access to their lawyers, in order to get the justice they deserved. Later, Sue had asked if you would be willing to testify as well when the court date arrived. You agreed, albeit awkwardly, unsure if you had the right to do so. Tim hadn’t gotten far with you, though the intent was there. Not to mention that you weren’t particularly shaken up over the ordeal. Once she reminded you that your testimony would help those that were affected by his actions, you agreed without a second thought.

Despite the distinct lack of company by your side, you made your way to Baxter Building with a skip in your step. About halfway through the hotel's lobby, you felt it. The undeniable weight of every eye in the room on you, boring holes into your skin like burrowing worms. A mix of concern, disgust, and, most prominently, judgement lanced against your spine. Though, every time you tried to meet someone’s gaze with your own, silently questioning, they would turn away. You shivered ever so slightly, determined to ignore the strange feeling in your gut. For some reason, you felt that everyone knew something that you didn’t, which only served to stoke the nervous flame in the back of your skull.

Standing outside, you stared upwards toward the sun and inhaled a deep breath of the morning air. Petrichor, damp and earthy, a scent that you had never experienced until you came to this planet, filled your senses as you desperately tried to release the tension in your frame. It was cold now, but you filled your skin with chlorophyll so that you could feel heat from the distant star deeper than ever. It gave your skin a greenish tinge, not that you cared. You needed it now more than ever. Especially considering that the stares had followed you out of the lobby and into the streets of New York. People were whispering now, whether they were in groups, or alone to a passing stranger. You were far too fascinating not to, apparently. Perhaps this was a delayed reaction to your status as an alien, or so you tried to tell yourself.

There was no denying that you were the subject of great attention before. This was different, however, leaving you feeling hollowed out, as if you were the subject of ridicule rather than curiosity. It wasn’t the sharp stare of a scientist, nor the dullness of a scholar, the eyes on you were filled with a sickening mixture of pity and barely concealed revulsion. Gooseflesh rose on your arms as you realized what this meant.

They knew.

There was no ship in the atmosphere, but that didn’t mean that Dione and Sarvo weren’t here. They could have parked in the orbit of the moon, the ship you grew up in small enough to remain unseen by the naked eye. By your sides, your fists clenched tight enough for the tips of your fingers to bury into your palms. The pain did little to steady you.

They all knew.

Your breathing picked up as you began to run, your head swimming, leaving you unable to truly think. People gasped when you tore through the crowd, barely able to pay attention to the walkways, or the honking that followed your frantic sprint. Even now, you could feel it, that haunting sensation of fear and understanding. The acknowledgment of your pitiable existence.

You stopped when you reached your destination, and you wished that you had kept running. Even now, despite knowing this was the last place that you would rather be, you sought out the comfort and safety that Baxter Building provided. No matter what happened with Tim, you found yourself drawn to this place, your heart clenching rather than beating inside of your chest. A single man couldn’t take that from you, no matter how hard he tried. If you could just get to your mailroom, you would be okay.

It was stupid. Irrational in a way only a child could be, your brain stunting back into an immature desire for comfort rather than logic. If people on the street knew, if strangers were the ones who looked at you in such a humiliating way, you could only imagine what information the Fantastic Four were privy to. What they would do when they saw you. Bile tasted sour in the back of your throat and you did all that you could to swallow it. With your head down, you sped toward the elevator, careful not to look at anyone.

Felix noticed, of course, and left his post to follow. “Hey, wait up!”

You could hear his footsteps, barely audible behind every call of your name. While you didn’t stop, you did look over your shoulder as soon as you heard him falter. There was a strange bit of disappointment settled in your chest that you refused to examine. Not right now, anyway.

Felix was talking into the receptionist’s phone, her own gaze jerking between you and him. Unable to make out what he was saying, you steeled yourself to do what was necessary the second you got to the mailroom. Once you were safe inside, you would compromise the elevator enough so that no one could follow you for at least a few hours. That was enough time to get your bearings, and enough time to run if you found the need for it. If anyone tried to use the stairs, you would block the door with as much furniture as you could and hide in the storage closet until they left.

Your plan was just that, simple and easy. All you could manage through the static arcing between your squirming folds of gray matter. It was foolproof, you thought, knowing full well you were being an idiot.

A part of you wondered if you wanted to be found.

Inside of the elevator, you crouched low in order to curl into a tight ball. There was always the likelihood that someone would join you inside, and the fear of embarrassment did little to make you unfurl. Your body shook, your breath coming out in harsh pants. How could this have happened? You had been so careful, or at least, you thought you had been. Maybe it was finally over. When the Fantastic Four found you, your parents would be by their side, filling your friends’ heads with lies. Before you could stop it, a whimper pulled from your throat. You were unaware that the elevator was moving up rather than down, hardly even recognizing the bioscanner, too lost in your own spiraling thoughts to look anywhere aside from blankly ahead.

It was all over. You stood, determined to… do what? There wasn’t any point anymore. Anxiety gave way to numb acceptance, spreading through your limbs like lukewarm gel. Your vision turned fuzzy as your brain went limp, relaxing into ooze in your skull.

There was no point. Not in getting upset, not in running, not in hiding.

That was the truth in the end, and this was the end.

There was no point.

The elevator doors opened and instead of being met with your mailroom, you were met with Reed Richards. He was a few feet out from the elevator, his lab behind him. The sight of it made you startle and you felt yourself falter even more. There was an experiment waiting for you here, you knew that for certain. Reed didn’t see you as complex any longer, no more than a subject to be prodded until they broke so thoroughly, there was no reason to show mercy.

What surprised you though was that he was alone. Neither Dione nor Sarvo stood behind him, their sterile instruments ready to perform. It was only Reed and he looked worried. Awkwardly so, but worried all the same. Confusion made your pupils waver.

“Come in.” He coughed, an attempt to clear his throat as he gestured to a nearby set of plush chairs. On the table next to the larger one was a cup of steaming liquid and today’s newspaper. You heightened your senses to see if you could scent out any hidden Lantoids, but all you smelled was the stink of Reed’s nerves. “Please, sit. I have some topics I wish to speak with you about.”

Your lips parted to question his motives, though your mouth was too dry to voice anything. With a lame nod, you shuffled to the empty seat, across from the one that was evidently his, and sunk into the plush cushions. Distantly, you thought that you must look ridiculous. So small, and barely able to do anything but fold in on yourself as Reed took his spot across from you.

He reached for the newspaper before thinking better of it. “First, I believe it is appropriate to begin this by asking. How do you feel?”

“Please don’t hurt me” You murmured, your voice no more than a whisper.

Discomfort flitted across Reed’s features, and underneath even that was the barest hint of anger. He tried to quell it the best he could. Reaching to the mug, he offered it to you with a smile that was more of a grimace. “This is Ben’s favorite blend of tea. He insists upon its calming properties. I think you should drink some.”

You were careful not to touch him, sure that he would be disgusted, now more than ever. The mug was warm, steam rising from the liquid inside and filling your sinuses with a sweet, herbal scent. It helped your mind grow a little firmer, even if the worry that Reed was drugging you was in the forefront of your instincts. It wouldn’t be the first time you had awoken, disoriented, upon the vivisection table, body broken already.

There was no point in fighting it, you would wind up there sooner or later. You brought the mug to your lips, the hot liquid warming your chest in a way that comforted rather than frightened. How would you be able to live without this now that you knew what you were missing? You would never have tea again, never be held, never experience laughter or sweet compliments again. None of this was fair. You wished you were dead.

“Thank you.”

Reed shifted in place, his gaze continued to flit between you, nursing your tea, and the newspaper by his side. He inhaled a deep breath, seemingly steeling himself. Whatever you expected him to ask, it wasn’t this. “How often do you have thoughts of suicide?”

You choked on your drink. “W— What?”

Reed sighed and looked to be silently admonishing himself. “I apologize, that was tactless. What I mean is… Well, no, that is what I meant.” Quieter, he muttered to himself, “If only Ben was here.”

“Why would, um… What does that have to do with anything?” Quietly, you swirled your tea, staring into the depths as if it would save you. This was the last conversation you expected to have, especially right now. While you continued to be on edge, you felt yourself relax ever so slightly.

He shifted in his seat, his eyes firmly on yours, filled only with concern rather than detachment or malice. Dione and Sarvo weren’t here, instead you had another monster to contend with: your own bad habits.

“Have you seen today’s headline?”

When you shook your head, he picked up the newspaper on the table and showed you the front page. Written in big, bold letters was a string of words that filled you with both relief and dread. No one knew what you were yet and that made you loosen. Unfortunately, whatever positivity that this brought on was firmly stifled by the realization that your brief moment of vulnerability was on full display.

Back in the interrogation room, when you had been arrested, you had broken down at the thought of the Fantastic Four betraying you. The officers had lied to you in order to weasel out a confession, told you that your friends believed you to be a killer. In your despair, you had, well, for lack of a better wording, torn yourself in half and begged for death. It was an embarrassing memory, one that you had believed would be kept private. Naively so, considering the headline you were staring at.

‘NEW YORK’S RESIDENT ALIEN: FRIEND OF THE FANTASTIC FOUR OR UNHINGED AND SUICIDAL?’

Pictured beside those damning words was an image taken from security footage of you sobbing, midway into tearing yourself apart. You felt your face grow hot.

“I— I, uh—” Stammering, your hands began to shake. Your gaze shifted over to Reed, who seemed to be taking this meeting incredibly seriously. For the first time, you understood why. “I was under duress. It’s not a big deal, Reed Richards.”

“I am aware you were under duress, most of the interrogation was leaked.” Reed folded the newspaper back up and set it back on the table, his face contorting into a frown. “Rather, the parts that made you look unstable were leaked.” He let out a breath and awkwardly placed his hand on yours. Only for a second before his discomfort took precedence and he pulled back. “No one in my family intends to judge you for the hardships that you have faced, on this planet, or any other. However, I, at the very least, intend to take your mental health with the seriousness it deserves. It has become glaringly evident, enough so that I would consider myself negligent if I did not address it, that—”

“I do not want to talk about this.” The idea was to shut Reed down, keep him from going any deeper into territory that you would rather not tread.

It didn’t work.

“I know,” he acknowledged. “I know you don’t, and I know I am not the best man to broach this topic with you, but I would regret it if I allowed this conversation to end here.” Reed watched you hunch in on yourself, a bit of guilt in the downturn of his lips. Out of everyone, you knew that he would be blunt with his theories, and out of everyone, you knew he would be the closest to being correct. “I am aware that you have experienced trauma, and I am aware that said trauma is connected with experimentation. Likely forced or coerced. At first, I believed you that your family was unaware of the abuse that you have endured, that perhaps you were kidnapped or your assailants were trusted colleagues who enacted violence against you under their noses…”

A ringing in your ears drowned out the rest of Reed's explanation. Your eyes burned, the wetness on your cheeks the only sign that you had begun to cry. Hearing it all laid out for you, spoken so plainly — abuse, violence, trauma — it made your head spin. It was one thing to realize this on your own, it was another to hear someone you trusted spell it out for you. Your chest shuddered when you exaled, your bottom lip wobbling.

A call of your name caused your gaze to settle back on Reed. He swallowed hard, staring down at your barely contained weeping, his remorse ever so slight, but there all the same. It didn’t stop him from damning you, however, “Your parents were the perpetrators, weren’t they?”

You couldn’t stop it now. The damn broke, and in an instant, you dissolved into heaving, body rattling sobs. Unable to do anything but move your head, you alternated between denial and affirmation, unsure of which ruined you more. No part of you wanted to look at Reed, so you curled forward and buried your face into your knees. It wasn’t until you felt him wrap a blanket around your shoulders did you realize that he had moved.

“M’sorry.” That was all you could say, muffled and repeated as Reed hovered nearby.

However long you cried, he remained silent through it all, only moving to cover you back up when your trembling had managed to shift the blanket off of your shoulders. After what felt like a lifetime, you ran out of tears, left sniffling into your jeans and shaking so hard, your teeth had begun to chatter.

“I cannot imagine how you feel,” Just as stilted, Reed started again. You lifted your head to see he was in front of you, crouched so that he was eye level with you. A part of you wondered if he read a step by step book on how to comfort another person. The thought amused you enough to warm the chill that had seeped into your bones.

It took a moment to find your voice, soft and shuddering, “I’m so afraid. Always. I am so afraid because they are coming for me and they will never let me go.”

“If you think Johnny is going to let them take you away from here, let alone Sue, or Ben, or I…” He trailed off, seeming unable to think of what else to say that couldn’t be construed as insulting.

At Johnny’s name, you jolted up to clasp Reed’s hands. He flinched at the contact, but, to his credit, he didn’t pull away. “Please, no one else can know.”

While Reed may have come to the conclusion of your parents’ active role in your suffering on his own, there were still aspects that he was unaware of. You blinked, realizing that he didn’t know a majority of what you had endured. All Reed knew was that you had been experimented on, as vague as that was, and your parents were the culprits. He didn’t know why, or what that entailed. Deep down, there was a screaming, gnawing desperation to tell him. Thankfully, the logical part of you won out.

“I… I mean…”

Reed nodded and stood. With his hand in yours, he used his other to pick up the mug of tea that you spilled after your loss of control. “This is all very personal, and I understand that you don’t want anyone else to know. That said, my family will have questions in regards to what was published in these papers. Eventually, the truth will come out. What I want to ask is if you would rather it come from you or me.” When you didn’t respond, aside from watching the tea spread across the wood floor, he added in an effort to comfort you, “I won’t offer any more information than what is necessary.”

The truth was that you could never hope to admit who had hurt you so terribly without crying. After he cleaned the spill, you allowed Reed to lead you to the elevator without bothering to ask where you were going. If Dione and Sarvo waited for you at the end of your journey, at least you wouldn’t have to witness what came next. Although, despite your irrational fears, you doubted that would come to pass. Not after this.

“I would rather it be you.”

“I can do that.” Reed pressed the button for the ground floor. In his hand was the key to the Fantasti-car. “There is someone I would like you to meet. It took a little bit of searching, but I feel as though she is the perfect fit for your situation.”

“Who?” Your voice sounded smaller and more distant than ever.

He swallowed hard, nervous in a way that gave you the impression that he thought you would run. “I think you would benefit greatly from therapy. Doctor Fletcher is a trauma specialist, you’ll like her.” When he saw you tense, he winced. “Anything you tell her, she is obligated to keep it a secret at the risk of her losing her job and professional reputation. The only exception is if she believes that you are at risk of harming yourself or others.”

“Okay,” You murmured, allowing him to lead the way to where the Fantasti-car was parked.

Maybe this was for the best. As humiliating as this whole experience was, it ended much better than you could have ever expected. With your eyes distant, you stared out of the window. Reed was quiet during the drive, much more cautious behind the wheel than Johnny was. You watched the scenery pass by. Not quickly, there was far too much traffic for that, though it blurred together all the same. Your hand balled the fabric of your shirt at your gut, fabric tight between your fingers. Nausea rolled inside of you. While you were very much aware that no one knew the extent at which you had been abused, they knew who had done it all the same. The fact that it had been people who you had so brokenly pretended loved you made you feel sick.

How pathetic.

Maybe in the end, what you feared the most was that if the people who raised you saw how rotten you were inside, was that you deserved it. It was only a matter of time before everyone else saw whatever stain on your soul there was. There was an idea, deep down where you kept it locked away, that you were inherently bad, that what your family — save for Jannah — believed of you was true.

You were incomplex. An organism who only knew mimicry, not depth. What if… What if—

“Why do you not want anyone else to know?” Reed’s voice broke you from your thoughts and you head snapped to face him. His fingers drummed against the steering wheel as he searched for a place to park. “If we know, we are more equipped to help you. There was always the possibility that, if we never knew who your abusers were, that we would allow you to leave with them without a fight. Why risk that?”

When you saw the perfect place for him to parallel park, you pointed at it before you could respond. You didn’t know how to articulate everything that bubbled inside of your skull. Even if you had a million years at your disposal, you doubted you would ever find a perfect way to say it.

“I thought that… Parents are supposed to know everything, right? What if they saw something horrible in me that nobody else could see? What if when they pointed it out, you saw it too?” You felt yourself begin to tremble again, your voice becoming squeaky. “What if you believed them over me?”

“We wouldn’t. I… I know that no amount of assurance will change your mind, not without work, but…” He trailed off so that he could focus on squeezing the car into the open space on the curb. You watched his throat bob, awkward as ever. It made your lips twitch. “But I can tell you with certainty that we all trust you. No one else. Nothing will change that.”

“Thank you,” that was all you could manage before you walked into Doctor Fletcher’s office. It was a thin brick building with ivy growing up the side. By the door was a plaque with her name on it. Reed led the charge inside with you hot on his heels.

The waiting room was up a short set of stairs and the receptionist was friendly enough that you barely noticed the layout, let alone the points of exit. Though Reed did most of the talking, she greeted you with no small amount of warmth. It was your first appointment here, and thankfully, in spite of your lack of health insurance, Reed offered to cover this, and all following appointments in the future. If you so decided, of course. You had to fill out several forms, and while some of the questions confused you, Reed was steadfast by your side to provide succinct answers to everything you asked.

There was no one else in the waiting room. Apparently, this had all been timed and planned perfectly so that you wouldn’t get overwhelmed. The amount of care that was put into this appointment made your heart swell, tears welling in your eyes once again. This time, they were happy, not the miserable wailing from earlier. How sweet these humans were, you truly didn’t want to give them up.

As soon as you finished filling out the forms, Doctor Fletcher entered the room with a kind smile, her body language open and nonthreatening. She was an older woman, likely around fifty or sixty, with crows feet and smile lines that gave her a sort of beauty you hadn’t expected. Her blonde hair was cropped short, a pair of tiny hoop earrings dangling from each ear. When she gestured for you to enter her office, you caught sight of a sleeve of tattoos under her blazer.

You only had an hour. At first, you became flustered, unsure what to talk about, only for Doctor Fletcher to assure you that there was no rush. If you decided that you liked her and felt you would benefit from her care, you could come back as much as you wanted. You knew what therapy was, and you knew it was her job to listen, but you found yourself wanting to be the best patient she had. With an awkward laugh, you told her that, earning a chuckle in return and an assurance that you weren’t the first person to tell her that specific desire.

For a first appointment, it was simple. All she wanted to do was get to know you. Doctor Fletcher was open with the fact that Reed had told her quite a bit about you. He had informed her that you were an alien with shapeshifting abilities, a fact that he had, apparently, been worried might have led to the development of some identity issues, along with a few of his theories in regards to what could have happened to you before you came to Earth. All of that could be explored later, what was important was if you were angry at Reed about this. You shrugged, unsure if you could be mad after he had done something so kind for you.

That made her laugh and shake her head. “You’re allowed to be angry, no matter how nice someone is to you.”

You met her smile with one of your own. “I think that it takes quite a bit for me to be truly mad at someone.”

In the end, you decided that Doctor Fletcher was someone that you liked. You weren’t quite sure you could trust her not to keep your secrets yet, but you believed that Reed did an exceptional job in finding her all the same. When the hour was up, not much got done, though she had taken quite a few notes. You glanced down at the papers. It made your spine tingle, reminding you more of Dione and Sarvo than you cared to admit.

“Is it… Is it possible if you do not take notes in front of me?” Even voicing this small request made you feel small. Nerves bubbled in the back of your throat, only slowing when Doctor Fletcher smiled and set her clipboard aside. “My parents— They would do that too. It made me feel…”

“Dehumanized?” She provided, careful to keep the door shut to respect your privacy. “In that case, would you mind if I recorded our sessions? No one else will have access to them, I promise you.”

You nodded, your smile tenser now. “Yes. That is acceptable.”

As you followed her back to the waiting room, she turned to you, neither expectant or forceful. “Will I be seeing you again sometime soon?”

“Yes,” You said. It was better than you felt in a long time. When the day came that you trusted her, having an official confidant would be nice. The weight on your shoulders already felt a little lighter.

Not even a second passed after you stepped into the waiting room when you heard a familiar voice call your name. A pair of warm arms wrapped around your shoulders, squeezing you tight against a firm chest. Your hands were trapped between your bodies, palms close enough to feel a beating heart. The scent of campfire made your muscles unclench and a sense of anticipation build in your bones.

“Hello, Johnny.” By the grace of god, you managed to squirm your arms around him to return his hug. One of his hands cradled the back of your head, practically stuffing your face into the crook of his neck.

He exhaled a shuddering breath as he tightened his grip ever so slightly. “How are you feeling?”

Behind you, Doctor Fletcher and Reed discussed your next appointment. Honestly, you were glad that they took initiative. Given how Johnny was holding you, every part of you doubted he would be letting go any time soon.

“Warm,” You answered truthfully.

That got him to place his hands on your upper arms so that he could take a step back and meet your eyes. His expression was stern, though no less relieved. “You know what I meant.”

“Why are you here? Don’t you have an event to attend?” Not that you weren’t happy to see him. That didn’t mean you were any less confused, however.

He raised his eyebrows in disbelief. “I cut it short as soon as I saw the papers. Did you really think I wouldn’t come running the second I saw that?”

“It isn’t as if anything would work if I tried,” you attempted to joke.

That must have been the worst response you could have conjured because anger flashed in Johnny’s eyes. Through grit teeth, he guided you towards the stairs and back outside. “We need to talk.”

Reed gave you a questioning glance over his shoulder, but when he saw Johnny’s expression, he quickly looked away. Not before he gave you an apologetic grimace. Your lips pulled back to match Reed’s, practically pushed outside and towards a set of benches near where the Fantasti-car was parked.

“I feel better now,” you attempted to assure him to no avail.

Johnny sat next to you, his entire body taut like a bowstring. His face was set in frustration. “What do you mean that even if you tried, it wouldn’t work? Have you tried before?”

“… Not seriously.” With a nervous shrug, you used your shoe to play with a pebble on the sidewalk. Johnny covered his face with one hand and let out a groan that almost sounded pained. Guilt tasted sour behind your tongue. “Like I said, it’s not as though anything would work, so there’s no point in a serious attempt.”

“But if there was would you try?”

You shook your head. “I— I don’t think so. Not right now, at least.”

“But when? I need to know what to look out for!” This time, his voice came out as a bark, his emotions getting the better of him. You looked away while he tried to calm himself.

“You… You wouldn’t be around for it. It would be when I’m gone, I think. The day I leave this planet.”

His hands found your shoulders, gripping you tighter than you thought was possible. Desperation was etched into his every pore. “Then you’re not leaving! I don’t care if you want to, or if you fight me, I will follow you and bring you back no matter what it takes!”

“That’s very nice, but—”

“I don’t care what your parents do! They can go kick rocks for all I care! If leaving is going to upset you so badly that you—” Unable to say it, he swallowed hard and closed his eyes to get a better hold on himself. You felt him relax, and when he looked at you again, the blue of his irises blazed with determination. “I won’t let you go. I promise.”

Quiet descended upon the two of you. Johnny searched your expression, neither satisfied by the glassiness of your eyes, nor the set of your jaw. Taking a deep breath, he released you and ran his palms along the thighs of his pants. You wanted to respond, though you weren’t sure how.

He let out a dry laugh as he ran a hand down his face. “What kind of parents were they to make you feel like that?”

“Bad ones.” Those two words took more out of you than you cared to admit. Despite swallowing several times, saliva pooled back into your mouth in seconds. You felt like you were about to vomit. “They don’t even like it when I call them mother and father. I only ever call them that when I’m alone. They’re not… They’re not actually my parents.”

“What?” Johnny lifted his head to stare at you.

The more you spoke, the more your stomach churned. You could feel it rising in your throat, Ben’s tea mixed with bile. “More like my capt—”

With a gag, you doubled over and puked onto the sidewalk. It was a poisonous shade of green, sticky against your lips and burning the inside of your mouth. Distantly, you recognized Johnny was rubbing your back as another retch brought up even more undigested bile. This was what you got for talking so badly about Dione and Sarvo. You regretted it already.

“… Your captors?” When your body heaved again, Johnny seemed to decide this was a conversation better saved for later. “Right. Right. Now I’m definitely not letting you go anywhere with those freaks.”

“Reed was going to tell you anyway,” You managed between gags.

There was a lot he wanted to ask, but he thankfully kept most of that to himself while you struggled to control yourself. It took a few minutes of dry heaving for you to be certain you wouldn’t puke anymore. You wiped your chin clean with the back of your hand and sat back. Your gaze flickered over to the Fantasti-car and you saw Reed sitting in the driver’s seat, fidgeting with his watch. How long had he been there?

“Do you really want to kill yourself?” It seemed this conversation was far from over, much to your chagrin. You weren’t sure how much more vomiting you could take.

Of course, the words got caught in your throat and you worried you would puke onto his lap this time. Thankfully, all you managed to cough up was a small, “Sometimes.”

From the way Johnny reacted, you’d have thought you hit him. His face crumpled, visible for a split second before he covered it with his hand. You heard his breathing rattle, only for him to pull his hand away and look at you with the eyes of a puppy dog. One that you just brutally kicked into a storm drain. “Why?”

“Sometimes it just… feels like the better option,” You managed past the tightness in your throat.

Johnny looked about ready to cry. “Than what?”

“Feeling like I do.”

He sat up and scrubbed a knuckle into the corners of each of his eyes. Once he pulled away, the glassiness was gone, even if his concern was stronger than ever. “I don’t want to lose you.”

“You’ll lose me no matter what.”

“Even if they took you back, it wouldn’t be for long.” Conviction filled Johnny’s every word, his stare heavier than you had ever seen it. “You’ll wait. You’ll wait for me to rescue you. Promise me.”

“Johnny, I—”

“Please.” It was the closest to begging that you had ever heard from him. Taking a deep breath, you nodded, and his body slumped. Not for long, though. There was more, there was always more. At least he looked as hesitant as you felt. “I’ve noticed something else.”

Looking at Johnny, your expression was tired. “And that is?”

“That you hurt yourself.” You felt the blood drain from your face, exhaustion forgotten. Another retch built in your throat, though you managed to swallow it down. Now, his voice was low, as if he believed you would be overheard. Thankfully, the street was deserted. That didn’t mean that you didn’t appreciate the effort, despite your blatant horror. He took in your pallor with a frown. “I’m going to stop you when I notice it. Just so you know.”

“It helps me,” You murmured as you played with your fingers. It was hard to fight the urge to begin dislocating them, or to peel back strips of skin. A part of you felt like you needed to be punished.

He must have recognized that look in your eyes because he took your hands in his and began tracing the patterns of your palm. “I don’t get how it could ever help, but…” You must have looked humiliated, causing Johnny to cut himself off with a sigh. “Listen, there are a lot of things I don’t get right now. That doesn’t mean that I’m not here for you. I’ll be here to listen when you need it, and take care of you, and protect you, even though I’ve been doing a terrible job of it. Don’t you dare think I’ll ever sit back and let you hurt yourself, not if I can do something about it.”

“I— I’ve spent my whole life de… dehumanized,” You used the word Doctor Fletcher had taught you today, trying to explain yourself the best you could. “For a very long time, pain was all I h— had.” At your admittance, Johnny’s face hardened, though his hold on your stayed soft. In contrast, your grip on him strengthened, unwilling to let him go. “You and your family… this planet… you all make me believe that I am alive.”

He nodded, his eyes not leaving yours. “I won’t let anyone take that from you. Not in a million years, space cadet.”

I’m not sure that you can stop them, you thought to yourself. I’m not sure you can stop me.

Despite this, you smiled and allowed Johnny to wrap you in a warm embrace.

His hand found your hair, stroking in slow, comforting motions. “I swear it. Those monsters will never put their hands on you again.”

In the end, you wished that you believed it.

A/N: Good news! I like this chapter quite a bit more than the last one. I’m still not entirely sure it’s perfect, but literally nothing will ever be perfect to me, so fuck it, we ball. But yes!!! Finally, we have gotten to one of the big reveals of this fic, at the very least, for Reed and Johnny. Realistically speaking, Reed will likely have a private discussion with Sue and Ben in regards to Y/N’s parents, so I can’t imagine their immediate reactions will be seen. However, next chapter, I intend to have both of them, likely separately, speak to Y/N. I’m a little worried that this particular reveal was underwhelming?? Desperately hoping it’s not, like fingers AND toes crossed in prayer, I didn’t want to make it too ridiculously dramatic, while also keeping character’s reactions realistic. That said, there WILL be other reveals in regards to Y/N’s past in the future. None of the Fantastic Four really know what level of abuse Y/N suffered, definitely not that it classifies as literal torture. Slowly, they will be able to open up about what they have endured and everyone will react accordingly. It just got to a point where Reed is 100% smart enough to figure out the culprits and if he didn’t know for much longer, I fear it would be incredibly out of character.

Along with this, I love Johnny to pieces, but there is no denying that he’s a kisses scars and “please stop… for me…” boyfriend. NOOOOO DENYING. I don’t think he’s ever dealt with a suicidal loved one before, so he’s literally taking 3 d10s of psychic damage through the entire conversation. This white boy cannot handle all of that in the slightest. You know his ass took Y/N to Top Golf after this and tried to casually take his emotions out on the field. Why is Y/N with him, you ask. Well, bold of you to assume the Fantastic Four is leaving them alone for quite a while after this. They’re all very worried, and while they know that Y/N is virtually indestructible, no one wants to find out the extent of that. Johnny is spearheading this movement, and if it wasn’t for Blake, he’d move into their hotel. He’s so worried guys.

But yeah, again, feedback on this chapter would be cool! I hope and pray that this wasn’t anticlimactic or anything :( As always, if you have any questions, feel free to ask me here, or on my tumblr! Thank you for reading gamers!!!! Stay cool <3

still, you strutted down the pathway leading to the campus café—miu miu cropped knit in a red so sinful it should’ve come with a warning label, the tiny matching buttons straining against the shape of your chest in a way you knew made nanami rub his forehead like he suddenly had a migraine from “dealing with you,” which translated directly to “you look too good and it stresses him out.” your black alaïa pleated mini skirt swayed with each unapologetically privileged step, wolford sheer tights hugging your legs like a second skin, white miu miu socks folded just right above your glossy chanel mary janes, each click of your heel on the pavement sounding like a verdict—everyone else was underdressed.

you held your iced latte—oat milk, two pumps of vanilla, and emotional superiority—raised delicately between manicured fingers as if the cup itself was beneath you, but unfortunately necessary for survival. the tiny vintage chanel handbag slung over your shoulder bounced against your rib as you walked, and you didn’t even bother pretending you were rushing because punctuality was for people with nothing better to do. truthfully? you didn’t even go to class today. like hell you were going to drag your soul out of your egyptian-cotton-bed cocoon before noon just to listen to some underpaid academic talk about things google could teach you in five minutes. but nanami didn’t need to know that. your boyfriend would give you that glare—the one that could make a country surrender—and you really weren’t in the mood to be lectured by the only man who could make discipline sound like intimacy.

you approached the café, a place plagued by the aesthetic curse of trying too hard to look indie and failing spectacularly. the outdoor seating was crowded with students who thought reading murakami made them profound, but your eyes zeroed in on the table by the glass wall—the round one far too small for six people, which was exactly why those idiots chose it. gojo’s white hair was like a flag of chaos even from a distance, geto lounged like the cult leader he could easily become, shoko looked chronically done with everyone including herself, and haibara radiated optimism like a deranged labrador. but none of them mattered the second you saw nanami’s back.

the black short-sleeved knit polo you picked for him stretched over his shoulders like the fabric was praying for mercy, the sleeves hugging his biceps tight enough that your teeth tingled with the urge to leave evidence. his arm rested on the table, forearm flexed casually, veins visible—disgustingly attractive. he sat so straight, so composed, like he personally invented posture and everyone else should pay him royalties. even from behind, you could sense that irritating calm aura of his—your own personal grounded planet you orbited, even if you’d rather die than admit it out loud.

you didn’t slow down. you didn’t greet them like a normal person. no, normalcy was too cheap for you.

your free hand slid onto nanami’s shoulder the moment you reached them, fingers pressing into the warm, firm muscle like you were checking if heaven was solid. you leaned forward just enough to cast your shadow across their conversation, smiling like a disney villain in silk gloves.

“afternoon, children,” you said, voice honeyed and teasing, because you knew how to command a room without even trying.

gojo looked up first, his grin instantaneous. “look who finally decided to grace us with her presence,” he said. shoko muttered something you didn't bother to hear, but you were already sliding into place, which meant you didn’t have to answer.

nanami turned, eyes already giving away that quiet mix of exasperation and affection he reserved solely for you. you leaned down, pressed a kiss against his cheek like you were marking territory, murmuring, “hi, baby.”

he hummed low in his throat, one arm looping around your waist in automatic surrender. the other hand—warm, steady—rested on your thigh, thumb brushing over the sheer fabric of your tights like he was reminding you to behave, though you both knew that was a lost cause.

“you’re late,” he said quietly.

“i’m fashionable,” you corrected, twisting slightly so you could face the table, still perched neatly on his lap. “there’s a difference.”

gojo snorted into his drink. “yeah, about three hours’ worth.”

“you can count? proud of you, sugarcube.”

haibara laughed, bless his innocent heart, and geto just smiled behind his cup like he’d seen this play a hundred times before. nanami’s fingers tightened on your thigh, not enough to hurt, just enough to remind you that the show had an audience.

you tilted your head, looking down at him. “you missed me?”

he didn’t look up, but the smallest smirk tugged at his mouth. “you were gone for four hours.”

“and that’s four hours too long,” you said, leaning in until your lips brushed his jaw. “don’t be shy, you can say it.”

his eyes flicked to you—sharp, restrained, golden under the café light. “behave,” he murmured, just for you.

you smiled sweetly. “no.”

shoko groaned. “if you two start making out, i’m leaving.”

“then leave,” gojo offered. “less witnesses.”

“you’re all disgusting,” shoko said flatly, sipping her drink anyway.

you grinned, cheek lean on nanami’s head. “we’re adorable.”

“you’re unbearable,” nanami corrected.

but his hand didn’t move from your thigh.

you basked in the warmth of him, the way his presence steadied you even as you tried to poke holes in it. he was too serious, too controlled, and you were everything he shouldn’t have fallen for—spoiled, dramatic, perpetually five minutes away from chaos. it wasn’t that you wanted to make him jealous or tired or undone. it’s just that you loved watching the cracks form in that composure. loved being the one person who could unmake him.

the conversation at the table moved around you—movie plans, class gossip, haibara’s endless optimism—but your focus stayed where it always did. the steady rise and fall of his chest beneath you, the quiet flex of muscle under his sleeve, the pulse that beat steady against your thigh.

gojo squinted at you over the rim of his iced matcha like a nosy suburban aunt pretending to be subtle, which, obviously, he wasn’t. his sunglasses were perched unnecessarily on his head despite being indoors, because he had a disease called “attention-seeking,” and he leaned forward with that shit-eating grin that made you want to shove his face into the table.

“question,” he announced, finger pointed at you like a courtroom accusation, “why didn’t i see you anywhere on campus today? don’t tell me you skipped again.”

you didn’t react at first. you simply blinked, slow, turning your gaze towards him as if he had personally offended your bloodline. then, with the grace of a woman who knew silence was powerful, you dragged your eyes from gojo to nanami—very slowly—because if anyone was going to kill the mood, it was the tax-paying adult you were dating.

nanami’s profile was stoic, but his head turned just a fraction, not enough to be dramatic, just enough to say: i heard that. answer correctly if you value your life. his hand remained on your thigh, thumb frozen mid-stroke, waiting. he didn’t speak—nanami didn’t need to. his expectation sat in the air like a guillotine.

you shook your head quickly, too quickly, a little too eager to throw the lie forward before anyone could breathe. “no,” you said, voice falsely innocent, like a kid denying stealing cookies while covered in crumbs. “i did not skip class, actually. thanks for the concern, satoru, really. very touching.”

your friends reacted like you’d just given the worst performance in the history of lying. haibara tried to hide his laugh behind his hand, geto smirked into his drink, and shoko—who didn’t believe in sugarcoating unless it was on donuts—snorted so loud the table next to you turned.

“you definitely skipped,” shoko said flatly, deadpan as if stating the weather. “i was looking for you in lecture earlier and you were nowhere. not even in the bathroom pretending to cry so someone would comfort you.”

you gasped at the accusation and placed a hand on your chest, clutching invisible pearls because real pearls would’ve required more wardrobe planning this morning. “excuse me? i did fucking not skip.”

geto didn’t even look up. he just lifted a brow lazily. “yeah? then where were you?”

your mouth opened… and absolutely nothing came out. your brain went to file excuses and found the cabinet completely empty except for a metaphorical moth. you inhaled sharply, turned away from all the eyes staring at you, and reached for nanami’s drink like it was diplomatic immunity. you took a sip—an unnecessarily long sip—as if green tea could save your soul from the social execution happening around you.

nanami let you drink it, which should’ve been a red flag in itself. he only let you touch his drink when he was either (1) too tired to argue or (2) preparing to lecture you.

you placed the glass back, very gently, very slowly, the way one disarms a bomb, and then turned to face nanami with your sweetest, most weaponized smile—the one that got you out of legal consequences once.

“baby, listen—”

he didn’t raise his voice. nanami didn’t need theatrics. his disappointment alone could level civilizations.

“you skipped class.”

“i— no, i didn’t skip, i just… didn’t attend,” you argued, hands moving in useless little gestures as if rearranging air could make your excuse sound less idiotic. “there’s a difference.”

nanami blinked once. slowly. the way a man does when mentally calculating if prison is worth it. “and what,” he said, tone calm to the point of terrifying, “is the difference, sweetheart?”

gojo leaned in like a hyena. “yeah, educate us, princess.”

you shot satoru a look that could curdle milk. “the difference,” you said, straightening your back on nanami’s lap, as if delivering a thesis, “is that skipping sounds intentional and irresponsible. i simply chose peace and preserved my mental health by not exposing myself to academic distress. self-care. you should try it.”

shoko wheezed. geto covered his smile with his hand like a scandalized victorian woman in church. haibara actually clapped quietly, the traitor.

nanami stared. “you overslept.”

“i—” you lifted a finger, offended, “no. i rested.”

“until one in the afternoon,” nanami clarified, because of course he checked.

you clicked your tongue, rolling your eyes and looking away because you refused to be wrong in front of an audience. “god, you say that like it’s a crime.”

“it is when you’re paying for courses you don’t attend,” nanami replied, adjusting your position on his lap like he was grounding you into sanity. “do you intend to graduate, or do you plan to survive on generational wealth alone?”

gojo grinned. “i vote for generational wealth. it suits her.”

“shut up, satoru!” you snapped, smacking his arm across the table.

nanami caught your wrist mid-swing—gentle, firm, thumb pressing into your pulse like a warning. he leaned in, voice low enough that it curled down your spine like expensive silk. “behave.”

and your friends, the demons you called family, burst into laughter like they’d been waiting for that exact moment.

your face heated—not embarrassed, because you didn’t do embarrassment—just… strategically annoyed. “are you all done enjoying my suffering, or should i perform a tap dance too?”

geto raised his cup. “please do, bonus points if you fall.” you scowled, sinking further into nanami’s chest, arms crossed like a brat, mumbling, “you’re all mentally ill.” shoko took a drag from her vape and exhaled smoke right over your hair. “and yet, we go to class.”

six of you slipped back into conversation, the kind that required zero brain cells—mostly gojo lying, geto enabling it, haibara believing it, and shoko regretting her existence—but it was comfortable chaos, and nanami’s arm around your waist grounded you, thumb tracing slow circles on your thigh in that absent-minded you’re mine, don’t start way he did.

and then she appeared.

a girl materialized beside the table with the unwanted presence of an unsolicited ad popup. weird bangs—like she cut them during a psychotic episode or let a blindfolded toddler do it—long black hair, cardigan buttoned wrong like a cry for help. she beams at gojo first, all teeth, dimples, and misguided optimism.

“gojo-kun! hey!”

of course she knew him. everyone with bad decision-making skills did.

gojo lit up like a dumb golden retriever who just saw its leash. “ohhh, utahime! guys, this is utahime! she’s in my and nanamin’s major.”

you zoned out at the name because it sounded like a villain from a discount fairytale. irrelevant. what wasn’t irrelevant was gojo pulling out a chair for her—the chair right across from nanami.

oh. so this is the type of day we’re having.

“utahime, this is geto, shoko, haibara, and—” gojo gestured vaguely at you and nanami, “—nanami and his girlfriend.”

you lifted your hand with the grace of royalty blessing peasants. “hello.”

she glanced at you for half a millisecond, uttered a bland “hi,” then turned fully to nanami like you were an aesthetic prop that came with the table.

“nanami, right? i think i’ve seen you around in the literature department.”

you stared at her like she’d grown a second head. you were literally sitting on his lap and she still managed to mentally crop you out of the frame like a bad ex. the audacity smelled like drugstore perfume.

nanami nodded politely, because unfortunately he was raised with manners. “yes, we share a few lectures.”

she smiled at him. smiled. like she had teeth specifically for him. “i thought so. you always look very focused. it’s impressive.” your eyelid twitched. impressed? what was he, a circus act?

nanami, oblivious to your growing homicidal aura, replied with that calm, respectful tone that made professors love him. “i just prefer not to fall behind.”

gojo elbowed geto under the table, whispering loudly, “she’s so into him.”

geto hummed. “dead on arrival. she has no idea who she’s messing with.” shoko exhaled smoke into the shape of a middle finger. “she’s brave. or stupid. likely both.”

utahime didn’t hear—tragedy. she settled in, and somehow, like a cursed domino effect, the conversation shifted. you were mid-complaint to shoko about how leggings weren’t pants when you noticed nanami and utahime were… talking.

like, actually talking.

animated.

engaged.

she asked about some assignment or some book, and nanami—your nanami, the man who rationed his words like they were wartime supplies—responded with actual sentences.

you narrowed your eyes. suspicious.

you tuned back in when you heard utahime say, “you’re part of the campus horticulture and sustainable agriculture society, right?”

you blinked. the campus what?

nanami nodded. “yes. the horticulture and sustainable agriculture society—HSAS. we’re focusing on soil health improvement this semester. most students ignore the foundational care required for—”

“soil health,” you repeated blankly under your breath, like the words themselves gave you indigestion.

shoko chuckled. “oh look, your boyfriend’s having his plant ted talk.”

utahime leaned in, elbows on the table, chin in hands, like nanami was reciting poetry in italian. “that’s fascinating. i’ve been wanting to grow herbs in my apartment but everything i touch dies. what soil do you recommend for beginner plants?”

nanami actually warmed up. warmed up. his voice gained depth, like she just unlocked npc dialogue level two. “well, herbs require well-draining soil. most beginners overwater because they assume more water means faster growth, but it increases the risk of root rot—”

you stared. root rot? this man barely used more than five words with anyone and suddenly he was the david attenborough of basil plants?

gojo leaned toward you with a grin that deserved jail time. “look at nanamin go. bro’s flirting plant-style.”

you hissed, “one more sound and i will shove your matcha straw so far up your nose you’ll taste grass.”

haibara laughed nervously. “guys, be nice…”

geto sipped his drink, amused. “this is fantastic. i’ve never seen nanami talk so much to anyone who wasn’t her.” he tilted his head at you. “how does it feel to be replaced by fertilizer talk?”

you glared at him, jaw tightening. “i’m not bothered.”

you were absolutely bothered.

it was like watching your golden retriever boyfriend suddenly become conversational with a passing pigeon. who the fuck was she to get this much dialogue from him?

nanami continued, utterly unaware of the storm brewing on his lap. “if you’re new to plants, start with mint or rosemary. they’re resilient and don’t require much intervention.”

“wow,” utahime said softly, eyes big enough to irritate you on a spiritual level, “you know so much.”

you could feel your soul leave your body, hover above the table, and consider flipping it.

shoko leaned over and whispered, “you gonna let her herb-flirt with your man like that?”

“i’m unbothered,” you repeated, nails digging into nanami’s thigh hard enough to pierce through his soul. nanami’s hand tightened on your waist—not painfully, just enough to say behave without interrupting his fucking spinach seminar.

geto smirked. “you look seconds away from committing eco-friendly homicide.”

you whispered through a closed-teeth smile, maintaining your princess composure, “i swear to god if that girl asks him one more plant question, i’m ripping the rosemary out of her hypothetical garden and making her eat it.”

gojo cackled. “i will literally pay to see that.”

and nanami, sweet plant-talking, politely smiling nanami—was still answering her question about sunlight exposure like he wasn’t currently sitting under a girlfriend-shaped nuclear bomb.

you inhaled, slow, deliberate, eyes narrowing as utahime leaned closer to him again.

your grip on nanami’s thigh tightened, nails sinking in.

he paused mid-sentence, finally turning his head just enough to look at you, brow slightly raised—only a millimeter, but on nanami that equaled what are you plotting.

you smiled, all teeth.

if he didn’t stop this herbal bonding session soon, you were about to water that girl with holy water and bury her in “well-draining soil.”

as everyone left the café to walk toward the cinema, the situation deteriorated with the same speed as your patience. what was supposed to be your afternoon—your boyfriend, your friends, your post-class movie date—had now been hijacked by the bangs-gone-wrong herbal witch who somehow glued herself to nanami’s side like an unwanted sticker on a luxury bag.

you should’ve known gojo was capable of this level of treason. he was skipping ahead like a golden retriever who found a ball, proudly leading utahime into your circle as if he’d discovered fire. the bitch was now walking in front, beside nanami—beside your nanami—talking about plants. still. they were still talking about the horticulture club (you mentally renamed it the horti-culture-of-ruining-your-day-club), her voice full of curiosity and fake academic interest, while nanami nodded and responded like he was a responsible mentor in a children’s education program.

normally, nanami would hold your hand, walk beside you, adjust your pace like you were the center of his orbit. now? you were behind him. behind. like a side character. a background extra. a cautionary tale.

gojo slung an arm over your shoulder, grinning like he was waiting for popcorn to watch you combust. shoko walked on your other side, hands in her pocket, already scrolling her phone. behind you, geto and haibara chatted about something that wasn’t nearly as important as your personal crisis.

you crossed your arms over your chest, eyes drilling holes into the back of utahime’s skull. maybe if i stare hard enough, a giant plant pot will fall on her head from a cosmic balcony and she’ll go back to photosynthesis permanently. you were not wishing for her death—you were merely manifesting a gardening accident poetic enough to send her away.

gojo glanced down at you, smirk widening. “you look like you’re planning a homicide using fertilizer.”

“don’t tempt me,” you muttered, voice low, venom-dipped. “i’m one intrusive thought away from repotting her six feet under.”

shoko snorted without looking up. “you’re dramatic.”

you whipped your head toward her, offended. “i am realistic.”

gojo gasped in exaggerated betrayal. “so you’re jealous.”

you turned slowly, face blank, tone flat but dangerous. “jealous? of who? of that… bangs-with-a-personality-disorder? please. the only thing i envy is the delusion she has that she belongs here.”

geto actually choked on air behind you.

gojo wiggled his eyebrows. “she’s just talking to nanami. they’re bonding.”

“over fucking soil, satoru. soil.” you hissed, voice cracking like your sanity. “tell me why my boyfriend is suddenly the plant whisperer for an outsider? what is he, some kind of agricultural tinder? people swipe right and he waters their basil?”

shoko sighed. “you’re spiraling.”

“i’m descending,” you corrected, gesturing passionately with one hand while the other murderously clutched your chanel bag. “this is a free-fall.”

nanami glanced back briefly—just a fraction—to check if you were keeping up. normally that look would soften you, but today it made your rage glitter. he didn’t even offer his hand. he just turned back to the demon-spawn herb girl and resumed discussing mint infestations like he was the ceo of oregano.

you leaned in to your friends, voice dangerously polite. “look at them. walking together. talking. breathing the same oxygen. disgusting.”

haibara, sweet innocent soul, tried to reassure you. “i’m sure nanami is just being polite—”

“polite?” you snapped softly. “he is my boyfriend. the bare minimum is him being rude to other women. loyal men don’t discuss rosemary ratios with anyone except their girlfriend. i should be the only herb in his life.”

gojo wheezed. “you did not just call yourself a herb.”

“shut your mouth before i season you with salt and eat you alive.”

utahime laughed at something nanami said. oh, she laughed. she laughed like she understood him. like she had the right. your eye twitched so hard it could’ve powered a light bulb.

“i hope,” you said calmly, like a villain making a vow, “she tries to plant basil and it sprouts a fungus. i hope her rosemary wilts. i hope her soil becomes a cursed wasteland. and i hope nanami’s watering can leaks all over his shoes so he remembers this betrayal every time he walks.”

shoko stared at you. “…girl. therapy is right there.”

you ignored that. “and him.” you gestured toward nanami, voice rising an octave of offended royalty. “he should know better. he shouldn’t look at other women—”

“he’s not,” haibara pointed out gently, “he’s literally staring at the pavement while talking.”

“bare minimum!” you shriek-whispered. “he shouldn’t talk to other women either! silence is free!”

gojo hummed. “so you want nanami to be mute to everyone except you?”

“yes,” you said without hesitation. “and to plants, apparently, since that’s his thing now.”

geto laughed quietly. “you’re insane.”

“i’m in love,” you corrected, nose in the air. “there’s a difference. love makes you gracious and kind.”

shoko stared. “you literally manifested a potted-plant accident five minutes ago.”

you shrugged. “compassion has levels.”

ahead of you, utahime giggled again—at something plant-related—and nanami, sweet oblivious nanami, slightly nodded along like he was a guest speaker at a gardening conference. you inhaled sharply. “i’m about to photosynthesize rage.”

you kept walking, seething so loudly it was a miracle the concrete under your feet didn’t crack from the sheer force of your offended aura. the world should’ve stopped. the sky should’ve darkened. alarms should’ve gone off. your boyfriend was talking to another woman—and about botany, of all the unsexy, grandma-coded subjects—and everyone around you was acting like this wasn’t a catastrophic betrayal of romance, loyalty, and personal branding.

you sped up half a step so you could hear them better—because how dare he have a conversation you weren’t the main character of—and the words “nitrogen fixation” drifted back to you like a personal insult.

you gagged dramatically. “jesus christ, he’s talking about soil nutrients. does he want to get cheated on? because that’s how men get cheated on.”

gojo raised both brows, arm still lazily over your shoulder. “wow. plants are now infidelity?”

you turned to him, eyes wide with religious conviction. “plants are a gateway drug to emotional affairs, satoru. first it’s rosemary, then it’s sharing gardening tools, and next thing you know she’s repotting her heart into his hands.”

shoko made a noise that was half-laugh, half-choke. “you’re sick.”

you ignored her diagnosis.

up ahead, utahime tucked her limp tragic hair behind her ear, leaning a little too close to nanami as she asked something about photosynthesis like it wasn’t common knowledge taught to six-year-olds with crayons and carrot sticks. nanami answered with that calm, informative tone he used when guiding lost children or explaining tax forms to you so you wouldn’t cry.

he didn’t look at her—no eye contact, bare minimum, congratulations—but he responded. willingly. completely. as if she deserved personalized nanami tutoring services.

you stared at the back of his head like you were trying to set his hair on fire telepathically.

“i can’t believe this is happening,” you muttered, crossing your arms tighter, suffocating in betrayal and your own expensive perfume. “this was supposed to be our movie time. our date. our quality time with the background characters we call friends. and now?? now we’re the supporting cast in gojo’s charity show-and-tell featuring some stray cat with bangs.”

gojo snorted. “be nice, she’s new.”

“and she can stay new,” you shot back. “new and far away. new and outside the group. new as in return to sender.”

geto chimed in from behind, amused. “you realize she can’t hear you, right?”

you whipped around so fast your hair nearly slapped him. “trust me, if she could, she would compost herself on the spot.”

haibara, ever the sunshine idiot, tried to calm you. “maybe she just wants to make friends?”

“oh, please. look at her.” you gestured violently at utahime’s back, nearly elbowing gojo in the ribs. “she’s walking like she’s auditioning to become the new moral compass of this group. we don’t need a moral compass. we barely need a compass. we are lost and we like it.”

shoko raised a brow. “you? moral compass? please. you’d sell this group for a birkin bag.”

you blinked. “shoko. don’t be ridiculous.” you paused. “it would have to be a limited edition birkin. crocodile leather. gold hardware. preferably one-of-one.”

“see?” shoko mumbled.

you ignored the truth because it was inconvenient.

you focused on your boyfriend again—your gorgeous, infuriating, plant-talking boyfriend who should’ve been holding your hand, kissing your temple, ignoring every female organism in a 50-meter radius—and instead he was giving unsolicited gardening advice like some attractive greenhouse consultant.

you hissed under your breath, “he shouldn’t be talking to her. he shouldn’t be talking to anyone. he should be carrying me like a princess and stepping on rose petals while doing it.”

gojo actually laughed. “you want nanami to be your servant?”

“i want nanami to act like a man in love,” you snapped. “not a walking national geographic episode.”

geto added, “you could just walk next to him, you know.”

you gasped as if he suggested you lick hospital floor tiles. “i will not chase him. i am not a golden retriever. i am the ball. people chase me.”

shoko pinched the bridge of her nose. “you are not the ball.”

“i am the ball, the player, the coach, and the entire damn tournament. everyone attends because of me.”

you said this right as utahime laughed again at whatever nanami said and your blood pressure skyrocketed so hard you nearly astral projected.

“i hope,” you said with the serenity of a cursed prophet, “that she wakes up tomorrow and every plant she owns is dead. i hope the leaves turn black. i hope her basil commits suicide. i hope her fertilizer expires. i hope her watering can cracks. and i hope nanami—”

gojo perked up. “ooo, what do you hope happens to nanamin?”

you inhaled deeply. “i hope nanami’s plants grow mold. i hope his little gardening gloves shrink. i hope his stupid herb club—”

“horticulture society,” haibara corrected softly.

“—i hope his STUPID herb club,” you emphasized, “loses funding and they have to sell carrots on the street like failed vegetables.”

shoko stared at you, dead-eyed. “seek help.”

you ignored that. again.

“he should only discuss plants with me,” you muttered, wounded, betrayed, dramatically heartbroken. “i don’t even like plants. but he should only talk to me about them.”

and with that, you stared ahead, at the back of your boyfriend walking beside another woman, and you thought, in the most poetic, dostoevsky-meets-deranged-princess way possible:

if this is what love is, no wonder russian literature is full of suffering.

when you all reach the theatre entrance, the neon lights flickering like a cheap attempt at glamour, gojo’s arm is still slung over your shoulder, the weight of it both grounding and irritating because it wasn’t the arm you wanted. nanami was still walking beside utahime, still talking, still breathing the same air as her, and your eye twitched so violently you were convinced you developed a new facial tic.

gojo followed your burning stare, eyes darting from nanami to you, and with a dramatic sigh—like he was babysitting a rabid raccoon in couture—he tugged you toward the ticket counters. “come on, princess,” he muttered, steering you away, “let’s just forget about him. ignore him too.”

he didn’t even wait for your response, just dragged you away, and you let yourself be pulled only because your body had entered that numb, offended, heart-bruised autopilot that happened once every blue moon—specifically when nanami kento, the one man in the universe who never, ever, not even for one second, failed to give you attention—shifted it to someone who wasn’t you.

you looked over your shoulder at them, your steps slowing, just to witness nanami tilt his head slightly toward utahime as she spoke, his hands in his pockets, posture polite but relaxed—not intimate, not flirtatious, just… engaged. it wasn’t even what he was saying. it was the absence of what he usually did with you—glancing at you, checking if you were next to him, adjusting your bag strap, brushing your hair behind your ear, telling you to watch your step, holding your waist in crowded places.

those things didn’t exist right now.

you faced forward again, jaw locking. you tried not to care, truly, you tried to swallow it with the dignity of a queen who refused to crumble in public, but the petulant, deeply spoiled part of you—the part nanami privately adored and publicly tamed—was clawing at your ribs like how dare he.

nanami had never denied you. not attention, not affection, not his time. you were the center of his carefully organized galaxy and he orbited you with steady devotion. and now? one afternoon of neglect and you felt like the moon had been kicked out of the solar system.

and the worst part? beneath the rage, beneath the jealousy, beneath the desire to poison a plant so it symbolically represented your emotional suffering—there was something softer, uglier, something you hated admitting even to yourself: it hurt.

after gojo paid for the tickets—because you sure as hell weren’t taking out your card for anything under a thousand dollars—he pulled you toward the concession stand where shoko, haibara, and geto were gathering with popcorn and drinks.

the moment they saw you approach—quiet, stiff, lips pressed together—they exchanged glances like doctors diagnosing a terminally ill patient who still thought she had the flu. geto’s eyes flicked over your shoulder, confirming the sight of nanami still with utahime before his gaze returned to your face.

he leaned closer, voice low, non-judgmental but smug enough to rankle. “are you actually upset about them?”

you didn’t trust your voice, so you hummed—short, flat, unimpressed—lifting one shoulder like an attempt at nonchalance, but the tension in your jaw exposed you like a confession written in blood.

geto hummed back, almost sympathetic, handing you a drink like it was medication. “then talk to nanami. if you feel ignored, tell him.”

of course, gojo—diplomatic as a drunk pigeon—ruined the moment.

“oh please,” he scoffed, snatching a handful of popcorn with his free hand, “she feels ignored when a houseplant gets more sunlight than her. miss spotlight here needs constant admiration or she wilts.”

you elbowed him in the stomach, sharp and precise, making him grunt. “shut the fuck up, satoru, before i rearrange your ribs into modern art.”

shoko snorted into her drink, haibara coughed to hide a laugh, and geto smiled behind his cup like he was enjoying a theatre show that didn’t require tickets.

you inhaled sharply through your nose, lifted your chin, and let the dam break.

“he should give me attention,” you snapped, keeping your voice low enough not to cause a public scene but sharp enough to cut god, “he is my boyfriend. my boyfriend. i shouldn’t have to beg for it like some charity case. i shouldn’t have to tap him on the shoulder like a fucking waiter asking for the bill. attention is part of his job description. loving me includes looking at me.”

your words were venom-wrapped silk, but your fingers—clenching your straw, the slight tremble at the tips—betrayed the vulnerable thread under the rage.

geto exhaled through his nose, head tilting, his voice kinder this time, “it makes sense you feel that way. you’re used to him being… very present with you. he set that standard, so it’s normal you expect it.”

you blinked at him, thrown off for a second by the emotional validation that hit you like someone offering you a blanket mid-tantrum.

but geto wasn’t done.

“just… maybe give him a minute? she’s new, he’s trying to be polite—”

you scoffed instantly, an unhinged, offended laugh escaping. “polite? no. no. absolutely not. nanami does not get to be ‘polite.’ he is not a community library. he is not available for public use. if he wants to be polite he can hold the door, say thank you, and move the fuck on. conversation is intimacy and intimacy is mine.”

gojo burst out laughing, a hand slapping his knee. “oh my god. you sound like a medieval king guarding his royal concubine.”

you raised your cup and pointed the straw at gojo’s throat with threatening precision. “say one more word and i will introduce your face to the popcorn machine and butter you like a croissant.”

gojo, shaking with laughter, held his hands up in surrender. “fine, fine—jealousy looks adorable on you. like a chihuahua guarding a yacht.”

“i’m a rottweiler,” you growled.

“you’re a poodle with diamond fur,” he corrected.

you glared at him, then turned to geto, voice dropping, unfiltered, raw, but still dipped in drama.

“if my boyfriend wants to suddenly audition for earth’s next top botanist with bangs mcgee, he can enjoy watering plants alone in his dorm for the rest of his natural life. because i swear, if i have to tell my boyfriend to notice me? to look at me? to choose me? i would rather swallow fertilizer.”

shoko blinked slowly. “please don’t.”

you shrugged. “depends on how long they keep talking.”

and geto, annoyingly calm, annoyingly wise, annoyingly right, just corrected quietly, “you don’t have to ask him to choose you. he already does. every day. you just haven’t told him you feel ignored.”

you hated that logic.

you hated that he was right.

you hated most of all that it made your anger taste like sadness. and you crossed your arms, chin raised, choosing violence over vulnerability—for now.

the popcorn machine hummed behind you, the smell of butter thick in the air, sticking to your skin and your mood alike, and you stood there rigid, spine straight, arms crossed so tight across your chest your bracelets dug into your skin, like your body was trying to hold your ego together before it shattered on the sticky cinema floor. geto’s words lingered like a bitter aftertaste—annoyingly sensible, nauseatingly calm, the verbal equivalent of someone placing a warm blanket on you while you’re trying to commit arson.

you stared at him, lips curling, because if there was one thing you hated more than utahime’s haircut, it was being psychoanalyzed correctly.

“oh look at you,” you muttered, shifting your weight onto one leg, jutting your hip out, your manicured nails tapping sharply against your bicep, “dr. phil reincarnated with a man bun. how poetic. how wise. how about you diagnose my foot up someone’s ass too while you’re at it?”

geto didn’t flinch—he never did, which made him infinitely more punchable in moments like this. he held your gaze, eyes soft, voice level, his cup cradled loosely between his palms like he was warming his hands on the heat of your fury. “you’re allowed to feel ignored. anyone would be upset if their partner suddenly shifted attention. it’s valid.”

you scoffed, dramatic and sharp, head tossing back as if you’d been insulted by god personally. “oh great, thank you, priest suguru, for telling me my feelings are valid. how groundbreaking. next you’ll tell me water is wet and gojo is stupid.”

gojo, who was now sipping his drink like he was watching a romcom unfold, lifted a lazy hand. “both true.”

you ignored him and leaned closer to geto, your voice lowering into that venom-laced whisper reserved for emotional emergency or homicide, whichever came first. “validation doesn’t fix shit. i don’t want to feel better about being ignored. i want him to stop fucking ignoring me.”

you felt your throat tighten—not enough to show, never enough to show—but enough to force you to look away, down at your own fingers gripping your cup like it might explode if you loosened your hold. you repositioned your stance, shifting the weight of your body just slightly so you leaned against the counter, but even that wasn’t relaxed; it was defensive, closed off, chin tilted up in futile superiority.

geto exhaled through his nose, elbows resting on the counter, leaning a little closer so you couldn’t run from the truth he was about to drop like a boulder onto your fragile, dramatic ego. “you’re hurting because you expect the version of nanami who’s always glued to you. but he’s allowed to exist as his own person too. you want devotion, not a hostage.”

your brows flew up, disbelief etched across your face as you pointed your straw at him like a weapon. “first of all, how dare you speak logic to me when i’m actively spiraling. second, nanami being obsessed with me is not hostage behavior, it’s romance. third, don’t stand there with your jesus hair and tell me to be understanding. i’m rich. i don’t do understanding. i do receiving.”

gojo wheezed.

shoko pinched the bridge of her nose, already exhausted.

haibara looked like he was watching a car crash in slow motion.

geto, still impossibly calm, still infuriatingly kind, lifted a hand in surrender. “fine. you don’t have to understand. but talk to him. he doesn’t know you feel this way yet.”

you gave him a slow, sarcastic blink. “wow. brilliant. stunning. inspiring. what a fabulous idea. i should talk to my boyfriend. how revolutionary. no one in the history of existence has ever thought of communication before. should we hold a press conference? maybe write a thesis?”

geto raised a brow. “so you won’t talk to him.”

you inhaled sharply through your teeth. “of course i will not talk to him. talking requires vulnerability. vulnerability requires humility. i have neither.”

gojo cackled. “at least she’s self-aware.”

you snapped your head toward him, eyes blazing. “self-awareness is not the virtue you think it is. it’s the burden of the elite.”

geto sighed but the corner of his mouth twitched, because even when you were insufferable, you were entertaining. “he cares about you. deeply. you know that.”

you bit down a bitter laugh. your throat felt tight, your stomach twisting, nails scraping lightly against your arm through your sweater sleeve. “yeah? well he should show it. i shouldn’t have to perform emotional gymnastics to earn the attention he used to give freely. if i wanted to beg for scraps, i’d date a man who makes minimum wage.”

shoko actually choked on her drink this time, coughing. “jesus christ.”

geto stared at you. “you do realize nanami is allowed to have conversations with other women, right?”

your head snapped toward him so fast your hair whipped over your shoulder like a weapon. “and you do realize i don’t give a singular microscopic fuck about what men are ‘allowed’ to do, right? he is my boyfriend. my emotional support adult. my legally binding emotional investment. if he wants to discuss rosemary with another woman, that woman better be me in a wig.”

haibara blinked slowly. “why would you need a wig?”

you waved him off. “for dramatics, haibara, please keep up.”

and there it was—the truth sitting on your tongue, bitter and humiliating, but ready to spill because no amount of sarcasm could bury it forever.

you exhaled shakily, your voice dropping half an octave, quieter but no less sharp. “i just… i shouldn’t have to ask to be seen.”

and the silence that followed was loud—accompanied only by the violent popping of kernels in the machine behind you, like applause for the tragedy of your own making.

the waiting area outside the theatre was cramped and buzzing, the kind of space where the floor was sticky with decades of spilled soda and regret, circular tables placed close enough that strangers’ conversations bled into each other. all six of you crowded around one of those round tables, chairs stolen from nearby like barbarians claiming land. the digital screen above the hallway flickered with “screen 4 – seats cleaning, please wait”, and everyone settled into that pre-movie limbo — except you, who sat with your back painfully straight, pretending nanami wasn’t sitting right beside you with his hand on your thigh like he owned real estate there.

you tried to ignore him. ignore the warmth of his palm through the sheer wolford tights, ignore the weight of his fingers curving around the top of your thigh like you were his favorite page-turning novel, ignore the small absent-minded circles his thumb drew — gentle, steady, familiar — the exact type of touch that usually melted you, soothed you, tethered you to him.

but right now? it felt like salt on a wound.

because while his hand was on you, his attention wasn’t. nanami was still talking to utahime. still. like the universe hated you personally.

you stared at the table, chin tilted slightly away, refusing to give him the satisfaction of seeing your eyes, while on your left, geto raised his brows at you, a silent talk to him written across his face. you shook your head once, small, stubborn, your lips tightening, and he sighed, leaning back like he was watching a predictable tragedy unfold.

nanami didn’t seem to notice your emotional apocalypse. his posture was relaxed, other hand resting on the table, his voice low and polite as utahime asked him something about club meetings or plant pots — you didn’t care, you refused to care, but it clawed at you anyway.

you snapped.

you slowly leaned in, one elbow on the table, your body turning toward nanami, your hair falling like a curtain over your shoulder, your voice dipped in honeyed poison. “what were you two talking about?”

nanami turned instantly — and god, you hated that your heart reacted before your brain could block it. his gaze softened the moment it met yours, that small, warm smile appearing — the one that was just for you, the one that made you feel chosen, the one that usually cured every storm inside you.

his knuckles brushed your cheekbone, tender, affectionate, familiar enough to make your inhale stutter. “just some things about the plants,” he dismissed gently, thumb brushing your skin like he was smoothing your irritation away. “utahime is thinking of joining the horticulture club.”

the club again. as if the word itself didn’t sound like an allergy.

you hummed, but your eyes didn’t soften, and your jaw was wired tight. “what things?” you asked, voice light to the untrained ear, but razor-edged if anyone listened with their soul. “tell me.”

it wasn’t a question. it was a command masked as a request. you wanted him to elaborate, to include you, to bring you into the conversation where you belonged — beside him, not outside of him.

nanami exhaled, a small barely-there laugh from his nose, the kind a man makes when he thinks you’re cute for being ridiculous. “you wouldn’t understand, sweetheart,” he murmured, tone meant to soothe, not belittle — yet it sliced through you cleanly anyway. “don’t stress your pretty head about it.”

and then — the fucking bastard — he turned his attention back to utahime as if you hadn’t just spoken. as if your opinion, your presence, didn’t demand the gravitational pull it always had.

you froze.

your frown carved in deeper, lips pressing so tightly together your lipstick nearly cracked. your chest hollowed in that humiliating, nauseating way pride bleeds when pricked. and from the corner of your eye, you caught it — the smallest twitch of utahime’s lips. not a smile. a smirk. subtle, fleeting, but you saw it. the kind of expression one makes when they think they’ve been chosen over someone else.

you bit the inside of your cheek so hard the metallic taste of blood bloomed on your tongue.

nanami kento had just dismissed you. in public. in front of people. for plant girl.

humiliation and fury tangled inside you like barbed wire.

you didn’t speak. you couldn’t — because to speak now would be to either cry (never allowed) or stab (socially frowned upon). your pride was a spoiled, overfed beast, raised in luxury, pampered with attention, never starved a day in its life — and suddenly nanami had fed someone else first. your ego didn’t know how to process deprivation. it was built on the unshakeable fact that you were the exception to rules, not subject to them.

nanami had always been one of those things placed into your palms without effort — not because he was easy, no, he was one of the only things you actually wanted badly enough to hold with care — but because he chose you endlessly, without hesitation, without question, making you believe his devotion was fixed, guaranteed, unshakable.

and now? now he had shifted his attention for a moment too long, and it felt like a throne had been pulled an inch from under you. not enough to fall — just enough to wobble, enough to threaten your crown.

your voice finally emerged, low, venom-soaked, each syllable enunciated like a curse. “you know,” you said, staring at the table because if you looked at him you’d either combust or kiss him and both would be humiliating, “i must be delusional to expect my boyfriend to act like he gives a shit when i’m sitting right next to him.”

nanami blinked, head turning slowly back toward you, brows gently knitting, confusion and concern surfacing in equal measure. “i do give a—”

you cut him off, a cold laugh escaping you, sharp enough to slice the air. “really? because you’re acting like i’m some decorative throw pillow you keep around for aesthetics. should i sit on the floor so you can focus better on your little garden club recruitment?”

geto sucked in a breath. shoko mumbled “oh, fuck.” gojo was already grinning like a hyena at a feast.

nanami’s hand on your thigh tightened, firm, grounding, not rough but authoritative enough to demand your gaze — so you turned, finally meeting his eyes, and god, you hated that the warmth there made your chest ache.

“i wasn’t ignoring you,” he said softly, calmly, trying to stay level-headed like he always did with you. “she asked questions. i answered. it wasn’t meant to make you feel left out.”

you tilted your head, smile slow and poisonous. “well congratulations, you failed. gold star. ten out of ten on the ‘make my girlfriend feel like a side character in her own life’ scale.”

nanami sighed — not annoyed, not angry — but patient, because of course he was patient. “i’m sorry you felt that way. but you know you’re important to me.”

your lips curled again, a mocking echo of sweetness. “important? i’m not asking to be important, nanami. i’m asking to be prioritized. you can’t treat me like the main course one day and a mint garnish the next. pick a menu.”

and even as you stabbed him with your words, your chest throbbed with something awful, something you didn’t allow to surface: you were scared. scared of being replaceable. scared of indifference. scared because nanami was the one person you didn’t know how to exist without winning.

he held your gaze, thumb rubbing soothing circles again — this time not absent-minded, but intentional. “i should’ve paid more attention to you,” he admitted quietly.

you wanted that to fix it.

it didn’t.

not yet.

and that line — “i should’ve paid more attention to you” — should’ve knocked the fury out of your bones, wrapped you in silk, lulled you into that soft spoiled-brat slumber where you win simply because nanami surrendered first. it should’ve been enough to stop the spiral dead in its tracks.

because nanami didn’t deny you, didn’t gaslight you, didn’t tell you you were “doing too much.” he validated you. he handed you the crown back with his own hands, kissed your ego gently and placed it on the throne again — no resistance, no argument, no double meaning. pure, steady sincerity.

but you?

you were a dramatic piece of shit.

your entire existence was built on ego the way temples were built on sacred ground — your pride wasn’t a personality trait, it was the spine you walked with. one microscopic moment of humiliation felt like being stripped naked in public. you weren’t wired to crumble gracefully. you were wired to explode, self-destruct, resurrect, and then deny it ever happened.

you prided yourself on being untouchable, above nonsense, above insecurities. you prided yourself on being that girl — the one who didn’t flinch, didn’t break, didn’t chase. the one who ignored gojo’s existence for an entire freshman year because he annoyed you and you refused to give his ego oxygen. you were a monument of indifference when you wanted to be.

so admitting something got to you? that a girl with tragic bangs shook your composure enough to make you feel?

fucking humiliating.

you were supposed to be the one people cried over — not the one hiding tears.

and the worst part was knowing utahime heard you argue, saw you demand attention, witnessed the crack in your armor. she should’ve been the one feeling threatened by you — not you feeling anything over her.

your chair scraped back sharply, the sound slicing through the table’s chatter. nanami’s hand instantly reached for your wrist, instinct kicking in, but you jerked your hand away like his touch burned. the shock that flickered across his face — brief, quiet, wounded — nearly broke something inside your ribcage, but you bit down on it, rose to your feet with your chin high, spine rigid, and walked away.

you didn’t look back.

you refused to give them the image of your eyes shining.

you could hear footsteps behind you — one pair, steady, controlled (nanami), another lighter and lazier (gojo), and a third too bored to hurry (shoko). you prayed it wasn’t nanami, because if he saw your eyes, saw the crack, saw the tear that fought to slip free, your pride would shatter so loudly the universe would hear it.

you pushed the bathroom door open with more force than necessary, the fluorescent lights too bright, mirrors too reflective for fragile emotions. it was empty — stalls open, silence echoing off the tiles — a sanctuary for humiliation to decompose in peace.

you braced your palms on the counter, head tilted up toward the ceiling like you were begging gravity to pull the tears back into your skull instead of down your face. you grabbed tissues, folding them like they were fine linen napkins, pressing them beneath your waterline carefully — because you would rather die than let mascara betray you. ugly crying on top of public humiliation? no. you had standards, even in breakdowns.

your shoulders trembled once — quickly — the way a spoiled princess shakes only in private, only for a second, only before putting the mask back on.

the door creaked open. shoko entered, leaning against the sink beside you, arms crossed, chewing her gum like she was watching a circus she didn’t buy tickets for.

“that was dramatic as hell,” she sighed, like this was episode twelve of a show she couldn’t stop watching. “even for you.”

you snapped your head toward her, eyes glossy but sharp, whisper-hissed so your voice wouldn’t crack, “shut the fuck up, shoko, unless you want to be the next victim in my emotional homicide spree.”

she raised both brows, unimpressed. “i’m just saying — storming off mid-conversation like a telenovela villain after her husband cheats with the maid? iconic, but dramatic.”

you glared, aggressively patting the tissue under your eyes with the precision of someone defusing a bomb. your voice was tight, vibrating with swallowed rage. “i am trying not to cry, okay? if uta-fucking-hime makes me cry just by breathing in the direction of my man, i’ll bury her in the community garden next to the fucking carrots.”

shoko huffed a laugh, shaking her head as she grabbed another tissue and handed it to you. “you’re insane.”

“i’m territorial,” you corrected sharply, dabbing at the corner of your eye, making sure your eyeliner stayed crisp. “and i refuse to let some no-name, middle-class herb girl with a discount shampoo routine see me cry. she will not get that satisfaction. i will set myself on fire first.”

shoko shrugged, leaning next to you in the mirror. “you know nanami didn’t mean to hurt you.”

you threw the tissue away like it offended you. “he dismissed me, shoko. me. in front of her. do you know how humiliating that is for someone with my upbringing? i grew up in a house where the sun rose when i woke up. i am not emotionally equipped to be treated like… like fucking background noise!”

shoko sighed, but there was something gentler in it this time. “you felt replaced for a second. it happens.”

you clenched the edges of the sink, knuckles white, nails digging into porcelain. “i don’t get replaced.”

your voice broke on that line — just slightly, enough that shoko’s gaze softened — and you sniffed, anger and vulnerability tangling in your throat like poison.

“i don’t get replaced,” you repeated, quieter, like you were reminding the universe. “especially not by basil-enthusiast barbie.”

shoko handed you another tissue, her tone flat but honest. “you won’t be. nanami’s obsessed with you. it’s gross.”

you swallowed hard, eyes lifting to your reflection — furious, wounded, beautiful, trembling. you whispered, voice shaking but trying so hard not to break, “then why did it feel like i was… optional?”

the door creaked again, interrupting the moment before your throat could fully tighten around the confession, and a voice—annoyingly recognizable, obnoxiously casual—floated in:

“you’re not optional.”

you closed your eyes like god was testing you personally. shoko didn’t even react—meaning she expected this circus act.

gojo stepped in, sunglasses pushed up on his head like a headband, hair a mess like he styled it with electricity. he took in the scene—your glossy eyes, shoko leaning like a bored therapist, tissues everywhere—and he sighed dramatically.

“jesus, you’re really in here having a main-character mental breakdown in a bathroom,” he muttered, walking closer. “and not even a luxury bathroom. this is tragic. i expected better from you.”

you glared at him, voice already cracking with rage and humiliation. “fuck off, satoru.”

he didn’t. he reached out, plucked the tissue from your hand with surprising gentleness, and guided your chin upward with two fingers so you were forced to look at him. his movements were slow, almost annoyingly tender, as he dabbed beneath your lashes to catch the tears before they could fall.

“nanamin is disgustingly obsessed with you,” he said, tone matter-of-fact, almost bored. “like, clinically. it’s gross. if he could lock you in a little glass display case so no one breathed the same air as you, he would. he’s feral about you.”

you scoffed, voice trembling not from disbelief but from how badly you wanted to believe him. “this is my fucking fault,” you muttered, shoulders curling inward as you snatched the tissue back just to shred it between your fingers. “all my fucking fault.”

gojo hummed. “yeah. kinda.”

shoko’s head whipped toward him. “satoru—”

but you raised a hand sharply to stop her, because weirdly, you needed the honesty, even if it sliced. “no. he’s right. it’s my fault because i let myself get… bothered.” the word felt dirty, like weakness, like rust on a crown. “i shouldn’t be this… affected. i shouldn’t fucking care. i’m me. i don’t do insecure. i don’t do threatened. but here i am—crying in a fucking cinema bathroom like a side character in a netflix teen drama.”

you gestured around wildly, voice rising again, hysteria bubbling because once you started, you couldn’t stop. “and not even a nice bathroom! do you see the tiles? this place looks like it was decorated by a depressed cockroach. if i have to emotionally collapse in public it should at least be inside a hotel restroom with marble counters and a couch.”

gojo nodded seriously. “you deserve chandeliers with your breakdowns.”

“exactly!” you snapped, pointing at him like he was the only person with IQ in the room. “i am too expensive for this kind of emotional scenery.”

shoko leaned against the counter, arms crossed, watching you unravel like yarn. “you’re spiraling.”

you shot her a glare through the mirror. “i am aware. now shut up and let me spiral with dignity.”

you turned back to gojo, eyes burning. “and it’s your fault too.”

gojo blinked. “my fault? how did i enter the chat?”

you jabbed a finger into his chest with the force of an entitled squirrel on caffeine. “you brought that farm-fresh disney side character into our group. you let her tag along. you encouraged her. and now i’m crying over miss herbal-essence-reject because she dared to breathe within ten inches of my boyfriend.”

gojo’s lips twitched. “okay, fair, i’ll take partial responsibility for releasing the eco-friendly demon into our circle.”

shoko snorted.

you ran both hands through your hair, pacing a small circle, your heels tapping aggressively against the tiles, movements sharp, emotional energy radiating like static. “i am so embarrassed. do you understand? embarrassed. i do not feel. i make other people feel. i do not chase, i get chased. i do not compete, i get worshipped. and suddenly i’m… this.” you gestured to yourself like you were a cursed portrait. “this pathetic puddle of emotional goo because my boyfriend decided to talk about fucking plants with someone who isn’t me.”

gojo placed a hand on his chest, tone solemn. “plants are disrespectful like that.”

you nearly laughed—almost—before the ache returned, tightening your throat.

“i hate that i care,” you whispered, eyes dropping again, thumb rubbing at the tissue in your hand like you could scrub the feeling away. “i hate that she got under my skin. i hate that he let her. i hate that she saw me crack.” you swallowed, voice thinning with raw embarrassment. “she’s not even on my level. i shouldn’t feel anything. she should feel inferior, insecure, irrelevant — not me.”

and there it was again—your truth, ugly and spoiled, but honest.

gojo’s voice softened just slightly, just enough to cut through your tantrum. “you care because he matters. that’s not pathetic. it’s just… love. the messy, vomit-inducing kind.”

you clenched your jaw, lip trembling despite your effort to kill it. “i don’t want love to make me look stupid.”

shoko spoke this time, voice dry but real. “yeah, well… that’s kind of the default package. love fries brain cells.”

you stared at your reflection. eyeliner still sharp. mascara intact. lipstick only slightly smudged. you looked angry and beautiful and fragile and terrifying all at once. you exhaled shakily, like forcing out poisoned air, “if loving someone means i cry in a public bathroom that smells like buttered trauma, then i want a refund.”

gojo stared at you for a moment, the playful glint in his eyes dimming just enough to reveal something almost… human. sympathy, guilt, the faint wrinkle of someone realizing oh shit, i accidentally kicked a puppy while trying to pet it. he let out a breath, long and uncharacteristically genuine, his hand settling briefly on your shoulder—not heavy, not mocking, just there.

“okay,” he said quietly, “i’m sorry. i didn’t think bringing her would… you know, make you feel like this. i didn’t mean to dump emotional compost on your royal garden of delusion.”

you sniffed, wiping the corner of your eye with a new tissue as if dabbing at expensive wine spilled on silk. “as you should be sorry.” your voice was hoarse but sharp. “you’re lucky i’m emotionally unstable right now or i’d be charging you for emotional damages. and trust me, my invoices come with interest.”

a small laugh puffed out of him, but he nodded. “i know. you come first. always. dramatic loyalty oath or whatever.”

you flicked your wrist like a queen accepting tribute. “good. as you should choose me first. imagine picking her.” you scoffed like the idea itself was beneath language. “ew.”

gojo leaned back against the sink next to shoko, crossing his arms, shoulders slumping, expression turning thoughtful in a way that made him look borderline competent. “you know,” he said, head tilting, “if i did actually like her—like like her—I’d be spiraling, too. probably worse than you.”

you gestured at him with the damp tissue. “exactly. you are the blueprint of being a dramatic clingy bitch in this friend group. i learned from the best.”

shoko snorted, arms crossed as she leaned beside him. “he’s dramatic, not psychotic. your issue is… more advanced.”

you didn’t hesitate. you threw the crumpled tissue at her face with perfect aim.

“shut the fuck up, shoko, or I’ll flush your vape down the toilet.”

she caught it mid-air, dropped it in the trash, and exhaled like dealing with you aged her in dog years.

you turned back to gojo, brows furrowing as you wiped under your eye again carefully, preserving the wing of your eyeliner like it was a fragile national treasure. “seriously, though. how are you not losing your shit? miss herbal shampoo is out there flirting with nanami in 4k, and you’re just… breathing. like normal. aren’t you supposed to be performing a one-man telenovela by now? throwing yourself dramatically over the concession counter? faking a fainting spell? something?”

gojo shrugged, pushing his sunglasses further into his hair as he examined his nails like he was filing his feelings away. “i mean, i don’t really care-care. she’s cute, but not ‘cry-in-a-bathroom’ level. the crush wasn’t crushing, you know?”

you gawked at him, scandalized. “so you brought a girl you didn’t even like like into our sacred circle of dysfunction? you contaminated the ecosystem for a lukewarm crush? are you deranged?”

he lifted both hands, palms out. “in my defense, my standards are confusing even to me.”

you threw your hands up. “so you emotionally derailed me for absolutely no fucking reason except your brain short-circuited and thought ‘hey let’s invite the human embodiment of a compostable tea bag to movie night’?”

he opened his mouth. closed it. then nodded. “yeah that sounds about right.”

you gasped, pressing a hand to your chest like a heart-broken victorian widow. “i swear to god, satoru, if i ever commit a felony, you will be the reason.”

shoko muttered under her breath, “you’ll commit a felony no matter what.”

you shot her a look. “not the point.”

you turned to the mirror again, tilting your head to assess your reflection—puffy waterline, makeup still salvageable, lashes intact, lip gloss slightly faded but fixable. good. you could still walk out there and look untouchable. but the humiliation? still boiling.

your voice softened—not weak, but the kind of softness anger uses when it starts eating itself.

“i just… i hate that someone like her got under my skin,” you admitted, picking at your thumbnail, your reflection looking back at you like a stranger you didn’t consent to be. “i hate that i cracked over something so… beneath me. she’s not even competition. i shouldn’t have felt anything.” your throat bobbed, your pride bleeding slowly. “i’m supposed to be the storm. not the one caught in it.”

gojo bumped your shoulder lightly with his. a rare, gentle gesture. “storms still get tired.”

you stared at him through the mirror, eyes narrowing as if evaluating whether to accept the comfort or set him on fire.

“i don’t get tired,” you muttered.

he arched a brow. “you’re literally crying next to a hand dryer.”

you inhaled sharply, scanning your reflection once more, lifting your chin a millimeter higher, as if that alone could glue your dignity back into place.

“fine,” you said, swallowing pride like poison. “maybe i got… temporarily… inconvenienced by emotion.”

shoko snorted. “inconvenienced? you sprinted out of there like nanami announced he was marrying utahime on wednesday.”

you pointed at her again. “keep talking and i will bite your face.”

but your reflection didn’t lie: you were shaken, cracked, and scrambling to rebuild the throne inside your chest before anyone else saw the fracture.

you weren’t done spiraling—but you were done being seen falling apart.

and just as you braced your palms on the sink to steady yourself, the bathroom door opened again.

this time, footsteps were steady. familiar. slow.

nanami.

the sound of those footsteps—measured, unhurried, familiar in their quiet certainty—slithered under the bathroom door crack and hit your spine before the door even opened. nanami’s footsteps always sounded like intention, like calm inevitability, like consequences arriving dressed in beige and self-restraint.

the door pushed open with a soft click. gojo and shoko both straightened, not out of respect but because nanami Kento entering a bathroom while you were mid-breakdown was the emotional equivalent of a nuclear inspector walking into a live warzone.

nanami stepped inside, closing the door gently behind him, his eyes scanning the room until they found you. his posture was composed, hands in his pockets, shoulders squared yet soft, like he was approaching a frightened animal he didn’t want to spook. his gaze moved from your blotchy waterline to the tissue shreds on the counter, and something in his expression shifted—pain, regret, a flicker of guilt tightening the muscles of his jaw.

gojo cleared his throat, stepping slightly in front of you like a bodyguard wearing clown shoes. “hey, we’re having a very important emotional meltdown here—private screening, by invitation only.”

nanami didn’t look away from you. “step aside, gojo.”

gojo opened his mouth to argue—then saw the look in nanami’s eyes and decided he valued his life. he lifted both hands in surrender. “roger that. therapist daddy mode activated, we’ll leave.” shoko followed him out, but not before patting your shoulder like she was petting a traumatized cat.

the door shut again. silence fell, thick and suffocating as expensive velvet.

nanami took one step closer. you instinctively straightened, lifted your chin, wiped the corner of your eye with a sharp swipe like erasing evidence. your arms crossed over your chest, your body angling away from him—not quite running, not quite ready to forgive, suspended in the ugly in-between of pride and pain.

he spoke first, voice low, steady, the kind that softened even when saying hard things. “you walked out. can we talk?”

you scoffed, avoiding his gaze in the mirror, fixing an imaginary smudge on your eyeliner. “wow, you noticed. truly a christmas miracle.”

he exhaled slowly, stepping closer but leaving enough space so you didn’t feel cornered. “i noticed the second you stood up.”

“congratulations,” you muttered, tossing the ruined tissue into the trash with surgical precision. “a little late though, don’t you think? maybe if you had noticed i existed five minutes earlier, we wouldn’t be starring in this bathroom drama.”

he ran a hand through his hair—once, a small tell he was gathering patience. “i wasn’t ignoring you.”

you spun around to face him fully, arms still crossed, heart still bleeding but covered in barbed wire. “you dismissed me, nanami. in front of her. i asked you to include me and you basically told me to go play with crayons because my stupid little brain couldn’t understand your plant science shit.”

nanami’s brows knit, genuinely pained. “that’s not what i meant. i wasn’t belittling you. i thought you were frustrated already and—”

“oh, so now i’m fragile? delicate? mentally allergic to academia?” your laugh was dark, humorless. “please, enlighten me, professor horticulture—explain how telling your girlfriend ‘don’t stress your pretty head’ while turning your back to her isn’t dismissive. i’ll wait.”

he closed the distance by half a step, hands lifting but not touching you yet, as if waiting for permission you would never verbally give. “i was trying to keep the conversation light, not make you feel inferior.”

your throat tightened. you hated how badly you wanted to believe him. how much you wanted him to fix the bruise he caused.

you turned away again, pacing a small line near the sinks, heels clicking like punctuation to your rant.

“do you have any idea how humiliating that was?” your voice cracked before you forced it steady again. “i don’t do… this.” you gestured angrily to the bathroom, your face, your reflection—your vulnerability. “i don’t get affected. i don’t compete. i don’t chase attention. i am the attention.”

nanami’s voice softened. “you are.”

you ignored the way that hit you. “and suddenly i’m crying in a public bathroom that smells like expired mops because some random girl dared to speak to my boyfriend like she—” your breath wavered, “like she was entitled to his time.”

nanami’s shoulders softened, and he stepped closer again, slow, deliberate. “you are not optional. you are not second to anyone.”

you snapped your gaze to him, eyes burning. “then why did i feel like a placeholder? like a side character sitting there while you entertained fan mail from some herb-obsessed homewrecker apprentice?”

nanami pinched the bridge of his nose, exhaling, then met your eyes again—direct, unwavering. “i should have put my attention on you. i should have noticed you were upset. i got caught up in answering her questions and didn’t see how it affected you. i’m sorry.”

his apology wasn’t defensive. wasn’t performative. wasn’t sugar-coated.

it made it worse.

because now you had no villain to fight but your own fear.

you scoffed to keep from letting it soften you. “sorry doesn’t un-humiliate me. sorry doesn’t make her forget she saw me beg for attention like some common mortal.”

“you didn’t beg,” he said firmly. “you asked. because it mattered to you.”

you bit back the ache behind your teeth. “well, it shouldn’t have. i shouldn’t care this much. tears over plants? is this what i’ve become? an emotionally unstable salad?”

nanami’s lips twitched—not mocking, but like he wanted to smile at the sheer absurdity of you. “you care because you love me.”

you rolled your eyes so fast you saw heaven. “don’t say it like that. it makes me sound weak.”

“loving someone isn’t weakness.”

you scoffed, pacing again, resorting to sarcasm like armor. “easy for you to say. you weren’t the one crying next to the tampon dispenser.”

nanami took another step, closing the gap, his voice low. “i love you. i am allowed to talk to others, but you are the one I choose. always.”

you swallowed, hating how your pulse reacted to hearing him say it plainly.

you lifted your chin, clinging to the last shard of drama left. “you better. because if i have to keep sharing your attention with some botanical disney princess, i swear i will uproot her entire bloodline, replant them, and watch them wilt.”

nanami nodded, dead serious. “noted. i’ll make it clear to her that we won’t be having more one-on-one conversations.”

you blinked. “…oh.”

your ego perked up like a spoiled cat being offered caviar again.

his hand finally reached for yours—slow, giving you time to pull away if you wanted—but you didn’t. he held your fingers carefully, like they were something precious he almost dropped once and refused to lose again.

“you come first,” he said quietly. “if i made you feel anything else, i’ll fix it.”

and for once, you had no witty comeback ready.

your pride hated how good that felt.

and yet—because you were you—you sniffed, wiped under your eye again, and muttered, “you better, because i refuse to cry in a 2-star bathroom twice in one day. my reputation can survive one mental breakdown per quarter at most.”

but here’s the universal truth mothers should stitch into baby blankets so no girl grows up delusional: men are fucking liars. even the good ones. even the morally-upright, self–righteous, tax-paying, cardigan-wearing, philosopher-souled species of man. the ones who read books without pictures, the ones who sort their recycling, the ones who speak gently to old people and cats.

yes—even nanami kento.

your precious boyfriend, the man who lectured you about honesty like it was a religion and he was the last pope standing—turned out to be a man with a mouth capable of lies. small ones, yes, but lies nonetheless. lies sprinkled in moral salt. lies marinated in good intentions. but lies.

because after all that cinematic bathroom telenovela meltdown, after all the comforting, the forehead kisses, the “i’ll fix it,” the “you come first”…

utahime was still there.

not only there.

everywhere.

the bitch multiplied like mold in humidity.

somehow, she burrowed into nanami’s horticulture club like a tick with a dream. and because the club wasn’t just weekly—it was meetings, garden maintenance, farmer’s market volunteering, seed exchange events, greenhouse cleanup, weekend plant fairs—she was suddenly permanently glued to his schedule like ivy choking a wall.

every time you turned a corner on campus—she was there. carrying a watering can. laughing too loudly. holding seedling trays like they were newborns.

every time you looked out the window during class—you saw her walking with nanami to the greenhouse.

every time you checked instagram—someone posted a story of the club and guess who was standing too close to him?

every time you waited outside his lecture—she walked out with him, talking, giggling (yes, giggling—like you didn’t threaten to bury her under a basil farm).

she joined the same library study group.

she sat two rows behind him in lectures she didn’t even take.

she suddenly found “reasons” to be in the cafeteria when he got lunch.

the girl was haunting your life like a stalker ghost with bangs.

and worse? nanami didn’t shut her down like he promised he would.

so you did what any self-respecting spoiled princess with injured pride and an inflated sense of self-worth would do:

you ignored him.

full commitment. full silent-treatment olympics. gold medal performance.

you didn’t text first.

you didn’t sit next to him in class.

you left his messages on read and sometimes—just to inflict psychological warfare—delivered.

you walked past him in hallways with your chin up like a widow attending the funeral of a husband who died in dishonor.

and the audacity of nanami?

the man noticed and chased.

today, he cornered you outside the library, hand gently curling around your wrist—not forceful, just enough to halt your dramatic strut. his voice soft, tired, laced with concern.

“you’ve been ignoring me.”

you turned slowly, sunglasses on despite being in the shade, chewing gum like violence, your posture dripping with aristocratic disdain. arms crossed, hip popped, chin lifted—your entire body language declared: try me, peasant.

you took a long, theatrical breath. “ignore you? no, darling, i simply redirected my attention. i’m sure utahime is thrilled to receive the overflow.”

nanami’s jaw flexed—a tell. “you know it isn’t like that.”

you barked a dry laugh, head tilting with enough sarcasm to slice a man. “really? because from where i stand, it looks exactly like that. she’s glued to your side like you’re the last functioning brain cell on this campus.”

his brows knit, his hand loosening slightly on your wrist so he wouldn’t hold you if you pulled away. “she keeps approaching me. i’m not entertaining anything inappropriate. i’m just being courteous.”

you ripped your hand out of his hold, stepping back like his touch burned. “courteous? you were supposed to make it clear—your words, not mine—that there would be no one-on-one interactions. ring a bell or do you need me to write it on your forehead with permanent marker?”

nanami sighed through his nose, the way he did when he was trying so hard to remain patient with your unfiltered psychopath era. “i didn’t want to embarrass her in front of the club. she’s new. she hasn’t done anything wrong.”

your head snapped back as if slapped by the stupidity of that sentence. “not done anything wrong? existing near you is wrong enough for me. breathing your air is a felony in my book.”

“you’re being unreasonable,” he murmured gently.

your spine straightened, chin lifting a millimeter higher, eyes narrowing into slits of diamond-cut rage. “don’t you dare call me unreasonable. i am extremely reasonable for a woman who hasn’t committed aggravated assault yet.”

he stepped closer, voice lower. “i understand you’re upset. but i’m doing my best to handle this without causing unnecessary conflict.”

you scoffed, folding your arms tighter across your chest. “newsflash, nanami: conflict is necessary. humiliation isn’t. and you let me look like a clown that day. so now? i’m protecting my dignity.”

his expression softened in that maddeningly stable nanami-way. “you’re not a clown.”

you shrugged, indifferent mask slipping back on. “maybe not. but i felt like one. and you didn’t stop it.”

a beat of silence.

the truth sat between you like a wounded animal.

nanami’s voice came quieter, careful, the way a man sounds when stepping on emotional landmines. “i should’ve set boundaries more firmly. i thought I could handle it politely, but I see now that it hurt you. I’m sorry.”

and god, he made it so hard to stay angry when he did that—when he offered accountability instead of excuses.

but you weren’t done bleeding yet.

you clicked your tongue, looking him up and down like he was a disappointing purchase you were considering returning. “sorry isn’t enough this time. fix it. or i swear i will start a rumor that you and your plants are in a polyamorous relationship.”

nanami blinked. “that… doesn’t even make sense.”

you smirked coldly, leaning closer, voice dropping to a whisper of rich, spoiled poison. “watch me make it make sense.”

and then, because pride demanded a dramatic exit, you turned on your heel and walked away—leaving the scent of expensive perfume, ego, and emotional carnage in your wake.

but here’s the cruelty in the universe that no one warns you about because it would make little girls grow up violent: men will swear on their grandmother’s grave that they won’t do something… and then go do that exact thing with clean conscience and a student-discount coffee in hand.

and nanami kento — your nanami, the man built from ethics and moral consistency, the man who looked like he’d file a police report if he saw someone cut in line — turned out to be a man, too.

a man capable of promising and then failing.

after the cinema meltdown, after the bathroom breakdown, after nanami held your hand and said the equivalent of you’re my priority, after he placed metaphorical rose petals on your ego and vowed to do better…

utahime didn’t disappear.

no, the bitch multiplied.

like she was photosynthesizing off your rage.

and the worst part? she wasn’t just present. she was strategic.

she was everywhere nanami was — like she subscribed to his personal movement calendar.

everywhere, meaning: when you went to meet nanami after class? utahime was there, “coincidentally” packing her bag slower than a glacier melts. when nanami had club duty in the greenhouse? she was already inside with gloves on, hair clipped back all “i’m such a hardworking little plant fairy” aesthetic.

library study sessions? somehow she “didn’t understand the homework” and asked nanami for help. she sat next to him — next — not across, not diagonally. group lunch with your friends? she slithered in like a side character trying to make herself relevant, tray in hand, pretending she “just happened to be here too.”

and your friends saw it. gojo saw it first (and enjoyed it like live theatre). geto sighed like a disappointed parent. shoko made nicotine-laced commentary. haibara tried to “give her a chance” until you threatened to drown him in fertilizer.

you did what any self-respecting, pride-soaked, ego-driven, spoiled girlfriend with an image to protect would do: you went full cold war.

if nanami wanted politeness, he could enjoy silence instead. you ignored him with the elegance of a duchess excommunicating a traitor. and nanami noticed immediately because you didn’t just ignore — you withdrew.

you didn’t sit next to him in class — you sat between gojo and your bag like a chastity belt.

you didn’t touch him — no hand on his arm, no kiss on the cheek, not even a hair tuck.

you didn’t text first — and when he texted, your responses were so short they were practically Morse code:

him: are you free after class?

you: busy.

him: can i call you?

you: no.

him: are you upset with me?

you: ask your club member.

you left his “goodnight”s on read.

you left his “are you okay?” on delivered because read would be too generous.

in the group, it was worse — because nanami tried public damage control, which was humiliating for you and painful for him.

like earlier today, all of you were at your usual table in the campus café. you arrived last, sunglasses on, iced latte in hand, a picture of uninterested royalty. nanami pulled out the chair beside him for you — your usual seat — and you walked right past it and sat between shoko and geto instead, crossing your legs like a throne had been rolled under you.

nanami’s hand hesitated mid-air before lowering. everyone saw.

a muscle in his jaw ticked, but he said nothing — at first.

then, after ten minutes of group chatter, he tried to join your space.

he leaned slightly toward your side of the table, voice low enough for you but audible to others, “you’re quiet today.”

you didn’t look at him. you sipped your drink, adjusting your sunglasses, and responded with a tone dry enough to produce drought:

“maybe i’m photosynthesizing.”

gojo choked on his muffin. shoko coughed to hide a laugh. geto stared into his drink like it was a portal to escape reality.

nanami inhaled, patient but cracking. “can we talk later?”

you smiled — cold, polite, corporate-HR-email kind of smile. “why? so you can politely ignore me again in favor of plant girl? i’m busy later. very, extremely, unprecedentedly busy.”

“you’re upset,” nanami said softly — and god, he sounded like he was trying not to touch a wild animal, “and I understand why, but i told you, i’m not entertaining anything. she’s new and i’m trying to be decent.”

you turned your head just enough to look at him over the rim of your sunglasses — only the lower half of your gaze visible, dripping with contempt and luxury.

one brow lifted. “decent? don’t use words you clearly don’t understand. decent would’ve been keeping your promise.”

geto winced. haibara whispered “oh no.” gojo grabbed popcorn like entertainment had begun.

nanami kept his voice steady, though his fingers tapped once against his cup — a tiny crack in composure. “i didn’t break the promise. i haven’t spoken to her alone outside of club responsibilities, and when she—”

you cut him off with a laugh — sharp, cruel, aristocratic. the kind a queen gives when a peasant offers excuses.

“club responsibilities,” you repeated, mockingly. “what a sexy phrase. truly. i’m so thrilled you found a morally sound loophole in your vow. maybe next you’ll say ‘we only breathed air in the same vicinity for charity reasons.’”

his brows pulled together — he was trying, really trying. “you’re twisting my words.”

“no,” you said, leaning back with one arm draped over the back of your chair, looking him dead in the eyes, “i’m repeating them. just slower. so they sound as stupid as they actually are.”

nanami exhaled, steady but strained, and the worst part? he still validated you because he loved you like it was a discipline. “i understand why you’re hurt. you’re right to feel neglected. i should’ve enforced stronger boundaries.”

you shrugged, inspecting your nails like the conversation bored you. “words, words, words. if i wanted rehearsed accountability, i’d date a politician. i wanted results.”

nanami’s voice dipped lower. “i’m trying to fix it.”

you stared at him, expression blank, voice sugar-poisoned, “try harder.” and after that, you went back to ignoring him — because you weren’t done punishing him yet. your pride demanded interest.

nanami kento, for all his monk-like patience and buddhist-level self-control, was still a man with limits, and you—blessed, cursed, loved, unbearable you—had been kicking those limits like a toddler on a sugar high. he missed you. painfully. he missed the chaos, the clinginess disguised as entitlement, the way you demanded affection like it was your birthright, how you’d climb into his lap without asking because why the fuck would you ask, the iced coffee orders you shoved into his hand when he picked you up, the kisses you gave like they were currency and he was the only bank that accepted them.

he missed you so much it made him irritable, and nanami kento being irritable was a rare supernatural event—like the northern lights or a government official being honest.

so he did the only logical thing: he showed up at your stupidly large house.

the house you didn’t call a mansion because “mansion sounds tacky” but where the staff wore uniforms and the ceiling height legally required a parachute. the kind of house that had wings—plural—as in east wing, west wing, wife’s-attitude-control wing.

the workers knew him by now. the butler gave a respectful nod. one of the maids greeted him by name. none of them questioned the expensive, tall, blond man walking through the front door like he paid the mortgage. nanami climbed the spiraling staircase—custom marble, cold under his palms when he used the railing—and walked the long hallway to your room at the far end, because of course the princess needed isolation and acoustics for dramatic exits.

your door was ajar just enough for him to push gently, and he entered quietly.

there you were.

sitting in the center of your ridiculous, king-plus sized bed like a pissed-off deity. silk pajamas clinging to your shoulders, the color soft and expensive, the kind of fabric that looked like it refused to touch poor people. your hair damp from a recent shower, strands falling around your face, lashes dark against your cheeks, skin still warm from steam. you looked soft enough to hold and sharp enough to stab—your default state.

you looked up, saw him, and rolled your eyes so hard it was a miracle you didn’t see your brain. you didn’t say a word. not “why are you here,” not “go away,” not even “fuck off.” nothing. the silence itself was an insult.

nanami closed the door behind him with a quiet click that echoed in the large room, and walked further in, footsteps slow, gaze steady on your face—even if your expression screamed i hope you step on lego barefoot for eternity. he took a moment to just look at you, as if memorizing your resentment was better than not seeing you at all.

you snapped, voice sharp and flat: “what.”

nanami hummed, that infuriatingly calm, deep hum of his. “can we talk?”

you scoffed, leaning back on your palms, chin tilting with aristocratic disgust. “i don’t talk to pieces of shit. and you’re a big one. like, family-sized. extra value pack.”

nanami blinked once, head tilting a fraction, absorbing the insult without flinching. “i’m a piece of shit?” he repeated, tone so soft it made the words sting more.

you crossed your arms tight over your chest, silk rustling. “yes. obviously. congratulations on finally joining the rest of your gender.”

instead of defending himself like most men would—loudly, stupidly—nanami did something worse.

he accepted it.

he quietly dragged one of your chairs—one of those stupidly soft velvet ones meant for “decorative reading” you never actually used—across the floor and set it directly in front of you. he sat down, knees spread slightly, forearms resting gently on his thighs, posture straight but not intimidating. it was the posture of a man prepared to listen, not fight. which made your chest tighten and your temper spike—because you wanted to be angry, not understood.

he met your eyes, unwavering, voice low, even, heartbreaking in its steadiness.

“then tell me why,” he said. “why am i a piece of shit?”

and just like that, the floor was yours—your stage, your arena, your battlefield. and nanami kento sat there, ready to let you stab him with every word.

you stared at him for a long moment, the kind of stare that wasn’t silent—no, it was loud, screaming, accusing, trembling at the edges with wounded pride you refused to show. your jaw tightened, your fingers curled into the silk pooling around your thighs, and when you finally spoke, your voice came out low, cracked with disbelief and venom.

“do you ever think,” you began slowly, eyes narrowing at him, “how fucking humiliating it was for me to sit there—your girlfriend—fighting for your attention against nobody but uta-fucking-hime?”

nanami didn’t flinch, but his throat bobbed.

you continued, leaning forward, one finger stabbing the air at him like you were pointing at a suspect in court, “she’s not even competition. she’s a filler character, a background extra with tragic bangs and soil under her nails. i shouldn’t have to compete with that. i shouldn’t have to try. but there i was, reduced to fighting for scraps like some desperate peasant dog waiting for the king to drop crumbs from the fucking banquet table.”

nanami opened his mouth, but you kept going, steamrolling him because if he spoke now, you’d crumble, and weakness was not on tonight’s agenda.

you huffed a humorless laugh, sitting upright again, crossing your arms tight across your chest, chin lifting with aristocratic disgust. “do you understand how degrading it felt? i don’t fight for attention. i’m used to being the center of gravity. people orbit me. planets shift because of me. i don’t beg. i don’t chase. i don’t sit there like some forgotten decorative pillow while you—” your voice sharpened, “—politely entertain some herb-collecting homewrecker apprentice.”

nanami inhaled, eyes soft but steady. “i never expected you to fight for my attention. i’m sorry you felt you had to.”

you scoffed, rolling your eyes and looking away because his softness was a knife to your ribs. “yeah, well, congratulations, you put me in that position. so yes, you’re a piece of shit.”

you extended a hand toward him like you were listing charges in court, each finger flicking upward with another bullet of rage.

“one: you dismissed me. like i was some stupid little decoration on your arm. like i was a shiny accessory you forgot to polish that day.”

nanami sat straighter, hands clasping gently between his knees, voice calm. “i didn’t intend to dismiss you. i thought—”

“wrong,” you cut him off, glare sharp, “your intentions don’t fucking matter if the result still makes me want to drown myself in fertilizer.”

nanami pressed his lips together, accepting the hit.

you held up a second finger.

“two: you told me you would set boundaries. you said you’d stop the little one-on-one herb therapy sessions with her. and guess what? she’s still glued to you like mold on bread. if this is your definition of ‘boundaries,’ i fear what chaos your freedom must look like.”

nanami exhaled a long, controlled breath. “i did limit our interactions. i haven’t spoken to her outside the club and—”

you barked a laugh that was almost a choke. “oh, outside the club—wow. such discipline. such restraint. truly, a saint among idiots. i’m so touched. should i nominate you for boyfriend of the year or just frame your bullshit and hang it in a museum?”

his brows pulled together, a muscle flexing in his jaw—but he stayed calm, infuriatingly so. “i’m telling you the truth. i’m not entertaining her.”

you leaned closer, voice dropping to a slow, lethal whisper. “you don’t have to entertain her for it to still feel like betrayal. the bare minimum for a boyfriend is to make sure his girlfriend never questions whether she comes first. and you didn’t do that. you left space. you left opportunity. you left room—and she ran into it like a stray dog finding an open door.”

that one hit. nanami looked down for a second, breath steadying, his hands loosening on his thighs as if unclenching invisible tension. “you’re right. i shouldn’t have left any room for doubt.”

and god, the way he agreed so easily made your anger burn hotter—not colder—because part of you needed him to fight back so you could keep throwing knives. his accountability cornered you into feeling instead of yelling, and you hated it.

your voice wavered very slightly, and you looked away quickly to hide it. “and three,” you whispered, throat tight, “you made me feel small. and i don’t get to feel small. ever.”

nanami’s head lifted, eyes on you instantly, body leaning forward just enough to reach you if you needed grounding. “you’re never small to me. not for a second.”

you swallowed, back stiffening, legs crossing and uncrossing because the vulnerability made your skin itch. “well, that’s what it felt like. and feelings are facts now because mine are expensive.”

nanami nodded once, accepting your twisted logic as truth because to you, it was. “then i’m sorry. for every part of this that made you feel less.”

you blinked hard, jaw clenching, because his calm acceptance was suffocating in the most disarming way.

you wanted to stay angry. you wanted to scream. you wanted him to beg. but he just sat there—quiet, steady, unshaken—offering himself as the place for your rage to land, not deflecting it.

and that—somehow—was worse.

so instead of softening, you scoffed again, looking away with a shaky breath, because god forbid he sees the crack forming.

“you should be sorry,” you muttered, voice smaller than you meant, “because if i ever have to feel that kind of humiliation again, i’m burning down the greenhouse with you both inside. i’m not joking, nanami. i will commit arson in the name of love.”

you weren’t done—oh no, your rage had chapters, footnotes, an appendix, and a director’s cut. and nanami sitting there so calmly, giving you space to unravel, only fed the fire.

you pushed off the mattress and sat up straighter, the silk of your pajama shirt sliding against your skin as you hugged your knees loosely to your chest, posture defensive but regal, like a dethroned princess still wearing the crown out of spite. your fingers dug into the soft duvet, knuckles whitening as the words clawed up your throat.

“and another thing,” you snapped, pointing at him again, your voice shaking—not with fear, but with insulted pride, “you made me look fucking stupid.”

nanami’s brows drew in, but he didn’t speak—he knew better than to interrupt when you were winding up.

“do you have any idea how that felt?” you continued, your tone rising in waves, “you made me sound like some brain-dead bimbo who couldn’t comprehend the basic concept of sunlight and leaves. like i’m incapable of understanding the most entry-level plant shit. me. you treated me like i’m stupid.”

nanami shook his head, voice quiet, “that wasn’t my intention.”

“but that’s what you did,” you shot back immediately, not letting softness leak in. “i asked what you two were talking about at the cinema—my boyfriend, talking to another girl—and you dismissed me. like i was some annoying toddler interrupting grown-ups having a cultured conversation. like i couldn’t hold a single fucking sentence about your club.”

your voice cracked, and you hated that it did.

your fingers curled tighter into the blanket, nails sinking into the velvet fabric.

“before,” you went on, quieter for a second, “when i asked about your club, when i tried to show interest in the nerd shit you like, you’d tell me things. short things, but still things. and i listened. i tried.”

nanami opened his mouth slightly, and you saw the apology forming, but you didn’t let it land—you surged forward, fueled by humiliation you hadn’t digested yet.

“but the moment uta-fucking-hime bats her dollar store lashes and asks you something?” your voice rose again, bitter, sarcastic, acidic, “suddenly you’re hosting a fucking TED Talk on soil acidity and root trauma. suddenly you’re plant Jesus delivering parables. suddenly you found the fucking words you never bothered using with me.”

nanami’s chest expanded with a slow inhale, his elbows resting lightly on his knees, fingers intertwined—not defensive, not reacting, just listening, which somehow made it worse.

you dragged a hand through your damp hair, pushing it back sharply, pacing a few steps in front of him like your body couldn’t contain the indignation.

“do you know how fucking humiliating that was?” your voice trembled as you paced, silk pajamas swaying with every sharp turn. “you didn’t just ignore me. you made me feel like i wasn’t smart enough to be included. like i didn’t belong in your world when i’m the one who’s supposed to be in it the most.”

nanami finally spoke, tone soft but steady, “i didn’t share more with her because she’s special. i did it because she asked specific questions, and i—”

you spun on him, eyes burning. “so when i ask, what? my questions aren’t specific enough? sorry for not speaking fluent Plant Nerdish. should i learn latin and photosynthesis formulas to earn basic politeness?”

he shook his head immediately, “that’s not what I—”

“because it sure as hell felt like it,” you spit out, arms crossing again, hugging yourself without wanting to look like you needed comfort. “felt like i wasn’t worth the same energy. like you didn’t think i’d care. like you assumed i’m too shallow to understand anything that isn’t shopping, lipstick, or chaos.”

nanami’s eyes softened further—the exact softness you avoid because it disarms you. “i never thought that of you. i know you can understand anything you want to. i just didn’t want to bore you or overwhelm you when you already seemed upset.”

you stared at him, chest rising and falling quickly, the fight still trembling inside you like a caged animal.

he continued gently, “with utahime… i wasn’t thinking about you in that moment the way i should have. i should’ve noticed how it made you feel and prioritized you instead. i’m sorry.”

and because your pride was a skyscraper—tall, expensive, reinforced with ego—you refused to let his sincerity dissolve your anger.

you scoffed, wiping under your eye with the back of your hand before the tear could fall. “you better be sorry. because if i ever have to watch you give some other girl a powerpoint presentation while i get the toddler-version explanation again, i’ll personally make sure your precious rosemary never sees sunlight again.”

nanami actually huffed a quiet breath—half a sigh, half a disbelieving laugh.

you leaned in slightly, eyes narrowing like a warning blade, voice low and lethal:

“try me, kento. i’ll turn your little greenhouse into a botanical graveyard.”

he stared at you gently, the smallest curve at the corner of his lips—not mocking, but full of something unbearably tender.

“i believe you,” he said.

and for a split second, the room pulsed with something that wasn’t anger—but you shoved it back into its cage before it could soften you.

you sat down on the very edge of the bed, like the mattress might swallow you whole if you dared to sit properly, silk pajamas pooling around your thighs, your spine stiff and your hands gripping the duvet so tightly the fabric bunched under your fingers. your legs were tense, knees angled inward, like you were holding yourself together through sheer ego alone. your chin trembled—not enough to expose you, just enough to betray the strain of holding everything in.

your eyes burned, lashes wet, vision blurring in that humiliating way that felt like defeat. you blinked rapidly, refusing to let the tears fall because crying in front of him felt like handing over your crown—but your voice betrayed you, coming out raw, cracked, furious.

“do i have to learn fucking plants now?” you snapped, glaring at the floor because looking at him would break you. “is that it? i have to memorize soil pH and fucking photosynthesis just so you don’t have to talk to uta-fucking-hime?”

nanami inhaled, slow, steady, as if bracing himself to not crumble at the sight of you unraveling. “no,” he said gently, “you don’t—”

you cut him off with an unhinged laugh, bitter and broken at the edges. “because apparently that’s what it takes to get your attention these days. maybe i should start growing basil out of my ass too. will that help?”

nanami’s eyes widened a fraction—not at your vulgarity (he was used to that) but at the complete sincerity under the sarcasm. he took a slow breath, leaning slightly forward in the chair, hands clasping together, his voice careful. “you don’t need to learn any of that. i don’t want you to change. you don’t have to pretend to care about something just because I do.”

your head snapped up at that, eyes flashing, jaw clenched so tight it hurt. “aren’t i already pretending?” your voice wavered, then steadied through force. “i sat there, listening to you talk about leaves and soil and mint like it was the fucking cure to cancer, trying so goddamn hard to look interested, to support you—because it mattered to you, so i made myself care.”

nanami’s face softened, guilt pooling in the lines of his expression, but you continued before he could speak.

“and the one time—ONE TIME—I ask to be included, to be part of your little plant world, you shut me out like i’m some airheaded idiot you have to protect from botany knowledge.” your hand flew to your chest, pressing there like the pressure could keep your heart from cracking open. “what is that? what do you think i am?”

nanami’s voice dropped, quiet but urgent, “i didn’t shut you out because i think you’re stupid—”

“no?” you snapped, leaning forward, your anger trembling with hurt. “then why did you treat me like i’d break a nail if you explained what fucking soil is? why did she get the encyclopedia version while i got the kindergarten summary with sparkles and crayons?”

his brows pulled together, jaw tightening, but his voice stayed gentle—too gentle. “i thought I was making it easier for you. i didn’t want to overwhelm you with details when you were already upset.”

you scoffed again, wiping under your eye aggressively with the heel of your hand, smudging nothing because your skincare was too expensive to budge. “then you should’ve shut up, not dumb it down. i don’t need you to simplify the world for me like i’m some fragile porcelain doll who’ll shatter if exposed to big words.”

your throat tightened painfully, words spilling before pride could stop them.

“i’m not broken,” you whispered, then louder, sharper, “i’m NOT stupid.”

nanami’s face softened entirely, his voice warm and low and infuriatingly tender. “i know you’re not.”

your lips trembled, but you forced them still.

he tried to reach for your hand, slow and deliberate, giving you time to pull away—but you did, snatching your hand back to your lap, your body curling slightly inward, shoulders tightening, like you were trying to shrink away from the hurt without letting him see the wound.

“i don’t want to learn about plants,” you spat, voice thick with tears you refused to let fall. “i don’t want to join your stupid club. i don’t want to talk about soil or herbs or whatever the fuck rosemary trauma you deal with. i just…” your breath shook, “i just want you. and i shouldn’t have to study for the role of being your girlfriend.”

nanami’s eyes softened further—dangerously, heartbreakingly so—and he leaned forward just a little, elbows on his knees, voice steady in a way that threatened to unravel you completely.

“you already have me.”

you laughed—ugly, shaky, self-mocking. “do i? because it sure as hell didn’t feel like it when you were looking everywhere but at me.”

the tear finally escaped.

you swiped it away so fast it barely had time to fall.

he saw that tear—just one, microscopic, fast—but nanami was the kind of man who could feel an earthquake from a single tremor. his expression shifted, softened, his breath leaving him in something almost pained as he leaned forward, elbows braced on his knees, hands clasped loosely like he was holding the weight of this carefully, terrified of crushing it.

“i’m sorry,” he said quietly, voice low, raw, without any of the neat composure he’d tried to maintain. “i hurt you. i shouldn’t have dismissed you, and i shouldn’t have allowed room for you to feel replaced or lesser. that was my failure.”

you scoffed instantly, curling further away from his sincerity like it burned. “oh, wow. an apology. revolutionary. should i clap? maybe roll out a red carpet? you want a medal for saying sorry like a big boy?”

nanami accepted the jab without flinching. “i’m not asking for praise. i’m telling you the truth—i’m sorry.”

“yeah, well,” you muttered, sniffing harshly as you dragged the sleeve of your silk pajama top across the corner of your eye before the next tear could betray you, “sorry doesn’t erase the fact that i looked like a fucking clown.”

nanami’s brows pinched at the word, but his voice stayed steady. “you didn’t look like a clown.”

you laughed—sharp, bitter. “don’t lie to me now. i humiliated myself for a man—you, unfortunately—and she watched. that’s worse than death. i should fake my own disappearance and move to monaco under a new name at this point.”

he shook his head, leaning closer on instinct, like his body couldn’t stand the space between you. “you reacted because you care about us. there’s nothing humiliating about caring.”

you snapped your gaze to him again, fury flaring through the heartbreak. “stop saying caring like it’s cute. it’s pathetic. i don’t do pathetic. i’ve never been pathetic. i don’t cry over boys. boys cry over me. that’s the natural order of the universe.”

nanami’s voice softened even more—a tone you hated because it saw right through you. “you’re not pathetic. you’re hurt. because I made you feel like you weren’t valued. that’s on me.”

you shook your head fiercely, hair falling forward, fingers tugging at the silk on your thigh like you needed something to anchor you. “you made me feel like some… irrelevant, dumb, useless accessory. and i know i’m spoiled and dramatic and ridiculous but—” your breath broke again, “but i shouldn’t have to beg to matter to the one person who’s supposed to love me most.”

nanami swallowed hard, and when he spoke again, his voice was quieter, thicker. “you never have to beg for that. you never should have felt you did.”

you scoffed again, but weaker, because his sincerity was cracking your armor. “well, congratulations, you made me feel exactly that. you can add it to your achievement list: hurt your spoiled girlfriend enough to make her almost learn about basil.” you sniffed deeply, then glared at him like it was his fault oxygen existed. “do you know how low that is? i almost googled plants for idiots. that’s rock bottom.”

nanami blinked, then exhaled a breath that was almost—almost—an amused disbelief, but he restrained it because he knew laughing now was equivalent to suicide. “you don’t need to learn anything for me. i don’t want you to pretend interest for my sake.”

“but she asked,” you hissed, leaning forward, hands dropping to the mattress, gripping the edge as if the bed would levitate otherwise, “and you gave her the whole encyclopedia of plant shit like you were teaching a masterclass. meanwhile, when i ask, i get don’t stress your pretty head. do you hear how insulting that is?”

nanami closed his eyes briefly—guilt flickering across his features like a shadow—and when he opened them, he held your gaze firmly. “you’re right. that was condescending. i thought i was protecting you from stress, but i see now that it sounded like I was belittling you. that wasn’t my intention, but it doesn’t change how it made you feel.”

you stared at him, breath shaky, throat tight, and your voice dropped into something almost small—but still edged with venom because you refused to hand him the pure version of your pain.

“i don’t need protection from information. if i don’t understand, i’ll ask. i’m not fragile.”

nanami leaned forward more, hands loosening, as if fighting the urge to reach for you but respecting the invisible wall you kept between you. “i know you’re not. you’re strong, sharper than anyone I know. i should’ve respected that instead of trying to soften things for you.”

the compliment, the acknowledgment, the correction—it hit somewhere deep you didn’t want him to reach, so you snapped, defensive:

“you should have. because now? now i look like the stupid girlfriend who can’t keep up, while miss horticulture homewrecker gets the professor edition.”

“you’re not stupid,” nanami repeated, firm enough to anchor the air around you.

you looked away again, jaw clenching, your voice barely above a whisper: “but you made me feel like i was.”

he inhaled deeply, voice steady but pained. “then i failed you. and i’m sorry.”

this time, the apology didn’t feel like words— it felt like weight. and your pride, your last line of defense, forced your chin up, even as your voice cracked, “you should be. because if you ever make me feel like that again, i’m ending us both. emotionally, socially, and possibly legally.”

he apologized again—soft, steady, without flinching—and you opened your mouth, ready to snap back with one of your signature lines that would absolutely emotionally assassinate him and then ruin your life five seconds later, but he lifted a hand ever so slightly.

not commanding.

not silencing.

asking.

“can you… listen to me first?” he said, voice low, gentle, the kind that didn’t demand obedience but somehow earned it.

you hated that tone.

because for all your unhinged chaos, you weren’t heartless—you weren’t immune to the way nanami spoke when he genuinely needed you to hear him. his voice dipped lower, his posture leaned in—not towering, not intimidating, not challenging—just close enough to show sincerity, far enough to give you space to breathe.

you clenched your jaw, eyes narrowing, but you nodded once—sharp, reluctant—like you were granting an audience to a criminal on trial.

your body language screamed i’m listening against my will, but you stayed quiet, arms still folded, nails digging into your silk sleeves, your chin tilted up just a fraction as if to remind him you were still pissed, still wounded, still royalty on her throne of spite.

nanami exhaled, relieved you didn’t storm out or throw a pillow at his head.

his voice stayed calm, steady—because he was talking to a hurricane, not a person, and he knew it.

“i didn’t handle things correctly,” he began, his tone soft but anchored. his hands rested on his thighs, fingers relaxed now, not clasped tight like before. “i thought I was doing the considerate thing. you were upset that day, and I didn’t want to overwhelm you with details or make you feel out of your depth. i thought simplifying things would help. i see now it came across as dismissive and condescending.”

your lips twitched—because yes, that’s exactly what it was—but you held yourself back, biting your tongue, letting him continue because you agreed to listen and your pride wouldn’t let you break your own rule.

he kept going, breathing slow, every word careful:

“with utahime, I didn’t realize how it looked. she kept asking questions, and I answered because I thought I was being polite, not because I found her more deserving of my time.”

he swallowed once, eyes softening as they held yours. “but intention doesn’t erase impact. and the impact was that you felt second. that’s on me.”

the words hung in the room like incense—heavy, honest, impossible to ignore.

you shifted on the bed, uncrossing your arms just to cross them again tighter, because your heart tried to soften and your pride screamed no, not yet. your foot tapped once against the floor—restless, emotional energy leaking out in movement because sitting still with feelings was dangerous territory.

nanami continued, leaning in a little—not invading, just closer, grounding:

“you felt replaced. dismissed. stupid. and that’s the last thing I ever wanted you to feel. you’re the person I respect most. you’re the person whose attention I cherish, not hers. you matter to me more than anyone else does.”

your throat tightened. you looked away, staring at the edge of your vanity table, anywhere but at him, because if you looked directly at the warmth in his eyes you would break.

he let the silence settle a moment—not awkward, not rushed—just enough for his words to land, to breathe, to reach the place in you that still cared through all the rage.

“i should’ve shut the conversation down sooner,” he admitted quietly. “i thought staying polite would avoid unnecessary tension, but it cost you peace instead. and that isn’t worth it to me.”

your hands loosened just a little in your sleeves—barely—but enough for him to notice.

nanami breathed out, voice softer:

“I’ll fix it. properly this time. not just with words, but with action. I won’t let you feel sidelined again.”

you sat there in silence for a few seconds, your heart pounding against your ribs like a prisoner demanding release, your pride fencing every emotion like a guard dog on steroids.

and because you can never sit in vulnerability without throwing a knife to feel balanced, you finally muttered, voice low, biting, but thinner around the edges:

“if you start defending her, i swear to god i’ll shove your plants up your ass root-first.”

nanami blinked, then nodded, dead serious, as if you hadn’t just threatened him with horticultural assault. “i’m not defending her. i’m explaining myself to you, because you deserve that.”

your jaw clenched again, and though the rage was still there, the ice around it had begun—just barely—to crack.

you sighed, dramatic, exhausted, wiping at your lower lash line with your thumb like the tears were dust you could remove and pretend never existed.

“okay,” you muttered, still refusing to fully face him. “go on. i’m listening. finish the monologue before i change my mind and kick you out.”

and nanami—ever patient, ever steady—continued. and the more he spoke, the harder it became to keep your armor intact. his voice wasn’t trembling or begging, he wasn’t groveling or panicking — no, that would’ve been easier to reject. instead, he spoke in that devastatingly calm, steady, nanami way, the way that slipped past your defenses because he wasn’t trying to win, he was trying to understand you.

“you don’t deserve to share space with doubt,” he said, tone low, warm, maddeningly sincere. “you don’t deserve to question your place in my life. you are the person i choose, every day, in every room. i should’ve made that impossible to doubt — especially for you.”

you swallowed, your throat clicking, jaw locked so tightly that your teeth ached. you looked everywhere but at him: the chandelier reflection in your mirror, your perfume bottles arranged like a shrine to your vanity, your silk pillowcases, the edge of your nail on your thumb — anything that wasn’t his eyes because you knew one direct second of eye contact would flatten you.

nanami didn’t move closer, didn’t reach out, didn’t try to touch you before you allowed it — and that alone made your chest twist painfully. he knew pressure would make you bolt, so he simply sat there, giving you space to break at your own pace.

“i love you,” he continued, voice smoothing out like velvet pulled taut, “and i don’t expect you to hide your feelings or pretend you’re unaffected. you feel deeply — loudly — and it’s overwhelming sometimes, yes, but it’s also one of the things i adore most about you. you love in color. in flame. in extremes. i would never want to dim that.”

your lip trembled — actually trembled — and you pressed your teeth into it to physically punish the weakness.

nanami’s voice gentled even more, if that was somehow possible. “i will make sure you never feel like a second option again. i will be clearer. firmer. i will not leave room for anyone to assume my attention is available. i’m yours. you don’t need to fight for that.”

you breathed out — a fragile, uneven sound that almost wasn’t a breath at all. something in your ribcage shifted.

your shoulders sank an inch.

your fists loosened.

your vision clouded.

you hated it.

you hated how easily he could peel your rage back and expose the soft, shaking thing beneath. hated how his calm didn’t belittle your chaos — it held it. hated how he didn’t match your fire with ice or irritation, but with something worse: understanding.

you blinked, and a second tear slipped — traitorous, slow, warm against your skin. you swiped it away angrily, like it offended you. “fuck you,” you muttered — not hateful, not sharp — just broken. “fuck you for talking like that. i can’t stay mad when you talk like that.”

nanami’s gaze softened so achingly you had to glance away again. “i don’t want you to stay mad. i just want you to feel safe with me.”

your breath hitched — actually hitched — and suddenly the space between you felt unbearable. the absence of his touch felt like a scream against your skin.

you slid forward on the bed — once, hesitantly, like pride was clinging to your ankles — then again, knees brushing his, breath shaky, silk whispering across your thighs. nanami didn’t move, didn’t reach first, didn’t break the fragile consent of your approach — he waited, letting you choose him.

you moved that final inch — your knees between his legs, your hands trembling as they reached for his shoulders — and then you climbed into his lap, settling with your legs curled around him, your forehead pressing into the warm column of his neck like you were hiding in him, not hugging him.

the moment you made contact, nanami’s arms came up — slow, careful, then firm — wrapping around your waist with the kind of hold that said i’m not letting you go unless you ask me to. one hand cradled the back of your head, fingers sinking into your damp hair, the other anchored at your spine, steady, grounding, warm.

the first sob was silent — a sharp inhale into his shirt, your nails clutching at his shoulders like you were falling and he was the only surface left on earth. the second made a sound, a small broken one, like a wineglass cracking.

nanami tightened his arms around you, one thumb stroking the back of your head, his lips brushing your temple, voice low against your skin. “i’ve got you. i’m here.”

you hated how safe it felt — hated how quickly you melted — hated that after all your swearing and threatening arson and botanically themed murder monologues… you were crying in his lap anyway.

you sniffed against his neck, voice muffled, angry even through tears: “you’re still a piece of shit.”

nanami nodded into your hair. “i know.”

you curled tighter into him, your pride bleeding into his shirt, your voice cracking, “but you’re my piece of shit.”

his hand stroked your back, slow, intentional — the kind of touch that rebuilt things quietly. “always.”

and just like that, the storm inside you finally collapsed — not because he forced it to, but because he sat in it with you until you could breathe again.

it took a while—long enough for your breathing to steady, long enough for your fists to unclench in the fabric of his shirt, long enough for the heat behind your eyes to settle into a dull throb instead of a storm. you stayed in his lap even after the crying slowed, face tucked into the warm crook of his neck, your weight fully resting on him now like your body had finally surrendered to the truth that you felt safest with the same man you threatened to bury alive with his plants.

his palm stroked your back in slow, absent circles, the kind that weren’t meant to hush you but to anchor you. it was disgusting how much it worked.

after a long stretch of quiet—your kind of quiet, the heavy kind where pride is still limping around the room—you exhaled against his skin, voice rough, reluctant, and grudgingly soft.

“…i shouldn’t have… lost my shit like that.”

nanami didn’t speak, just hummed, a subtle vibration against your cheek that meant i’m listening.

you shifted slightly on his lap so you could look at him, but you didn’t move far—you stayed close enough to breathe the same air, your fingers still curled lightly over his shoulder, your forehead almost touching his. your voice stayed low, as if it would break if you raised it.

“i was fucking mean,” you muttered, eyes darting away because eye contact made honesty more painful, “i insulted your hobby like it’s stupid and i know it’s not stupid. it makes you happy. it gives you peace or whatever. and i shit all over it like a bitch having a tantrum.”

nanami cupped your jaw with one hand—not forcing you to look at him, just holding you gently, thumb brushing your cheek with steady warmth. “you were hurt. you reacted from that place. i don’t take it personally.”

you rolled your eyes with a watery scoff, wiping your face with the sleeve of your silk top, smearing your expensive moisturizer but not caring for once. “you should take it personally. i called you soil jesus. who even says that? what the fuck is wrong with me?”

the corner of his mouth twitched—the ghost of a smile—but he kept it small, respectful of your fragile dignity. “you’re passionate. and dramatic. it’s part of who you are.”

you glared half-heartedly. “that’s a diplomatic way to say i’m a fucking menace.”

“you are,” he agreed evenly, brushing a strand of hair away from your face and tucking it behind your ear with maddening tenderness. “but you’re my menace.”

you inhaled sharply, offended at how easily that softened you again. “stop saying things like that. it makes it hard to stay mad and i deserve to be mad for at least another six business days.”

nanami leaned in just enough that his forehead almost touched yours, his voice dipping lower, sincere in a way that stripped you bare. “you don’t need to punish yourself for feeling jealous. or threatened. you’re human.”

you clicked your tongue. “i don’t want to be human. i want to be a god. untouchable.”

nanami’s thumb stroked your cheek again, slow, grounding, annoyingly gentle. “i don’t want an untouchable goddess. i want you. spoiled, dramatic, sharp-tongued, mean when you’re hurt, soft when you think no one is watching—you.”

your chest tightened again, but this time it wasn’t painful, it was warm and terrifying.

you sniffed once, shifting again in his lap to hide the growing softness in your features. “i’m still sorry for being… like that. insulting your club. your plants didn’t deserve that verbal abuse.”

“no,” nanami said calmly, “they didn’t.”

you glared, offended that he agreed so easily. “you’re supposed to say ‘no, baby, you were totally valid in threatening my rosemary.’”

nanami’s lips curved slightly. “you weren’t valid in threatening my rosemary.”

“fuck you,” you muttered, but it had no heat. “i’ll poison your basil first.”

he nodded, indulgent. “i know.”

you sighed—heavy, dramatic, collapsing your full weight against his chest like the universe exhausted you. your fingers fisted lightly in his shirt for stability as you mumbled into his collarbone, voice muffled:

“i am such a bitch sometimes.”

nanami’s hand slid up your back, resting at the nape of your neck, his thumb rubbing small, rhythmic circles there that made your muscles melt one by one. “yes,” he said softly, honestly. “you can be… very mean.”

you jerked back just enough to glare at him, eyes still glossy, mouth open in disbelief. “you’re supposed to disagree, you emotionally constipated goldfish!”

nanami held your glare without flinching. “you asked me to listen and be honest.”

you blinked at him, then let out a short, incredulous laugh. “…i hate that you’re right.”

“i know,” he repeated, with infuriating calm.

you stared at him a second longer, lips parted, then shook your head slowly, your voice lowering into something almost vulnerable, almost small.

“and you still want me? like this? spoiled, mean, psychotic gremlin behavior and all?”

nanami didn’t hesitate. not even a breath.

“i like my girl spoiled and mean,” he said, voice warm and sure, eyes steady on yours. “i love you exactly as you are.”

something inside you cracked again—but this time it didn’t shatter into sharp pieces.

it softened. melted.

you swallowed, heat burning behind your eyes again, but you didn’t fight it this time as you leaned forward and rested your forehead against his, your voice breaking in a whisper, “you’re still a piece of shit.” nanami smiled—small, real, adoring—and whispered back, “i know.”

you end up horizontal without even remembering the transition — one moment you were sitting on his lap falling apart like a wet cupcake in the sun, the next nanami was lying beside you on your absurdly large bed, both of you under the soft weight of your overpriced duvet. the room was dim now, only the soft bedside lamp on, throwing a warm gold across his cheekbone and making him look disgustingly gentle, the kind of gentle that made your chest ache in that embarrassing, sentimental way you would sooner die than admit in daylight.

you were curled against him, your head on his chest, your leg thrown over his like you owned every square inch of him (you did), and his hand was in your hair — fingers combing through the damp strands slowly, over and over, like he was memorizing the texture of you. his other arm was wrapped around your waist, palm splayed over your back, thumb tracing slow circles beneath the silk that made your skin warm.

your voice came out small, muffled against his shirt, “are you staying tonight?”

you hated how you sounded — soft, almost shy, like a child asking if the thunder would stop — but nanami didn’t tease, didn’t smirk, didn’t make you regret vulnerability. he tightened his arm around you, his nose brushing your hair as he answered, voice low enough to settle into your bones,

“yes. i’m not going anywhere.”

you exhaled, long and slow, your fingers fisting lightly in the fabric at his chest, not in anger this time but in that instinctive don’t leave yet way that made your throat squeeze. “good. because if you left after all that emotional nonsense i’d actually pull a juliet and poison myself.”

he huffed a laugh against your forehead — quiet, warm, fond — and pressed a soft kiss there, his lips lingering like he was sealing the promise into your skin. “please don’t poison yourself. it would ruin the sheets.”

you swatted his chest weakly, raising your head to glare at him with no heat left in your body. “i hate you.”

he tipped his head slightly, eyes half-lidded, soft in the lamplight as his thumb brushed your cheekbone. “you love me.”

your lips twitched. “tragically.”

he smiled — a real one, warm and a little tired from the emotional hurricane you put him through — and he pulled you closer, tucking you just under his chin so he could speak against your hair. “i love you more than i know how to say. more than anything.”

his fingers traced lazy patterns along your back, not stopping for even a moment, like he needed the contact as much as you did. you let yourself melt into him fully now, all the claws retracted, all the sharpness dimmed. it was embarrassing how good it felt to be held like this — safe, wanted, adored — and you hated how much your body relaxed because of him.

“i missed you,” you murmured into the fabric of his shirt, and this time your voice didn’t come out defensive or dramatic — just honest, soft in a way only nanami ever got to hear. “i was so pissed at you and i still missed you the whole time.”

he angled his head down, his lips brushing your temple again, then your hairline, then the corner of your forehead — as if he was following a map of where to place comfort. “i missed you too. more than i expected. i didn’t like the distance. not from you.”

you shifted up just enough so that your face hovered near his, your nose brushing his jaw, your fingers moving to lightly trace the line of his throat — slow, absent, intimate. “you better never do that again,” you whispered, soft threat with no teeth left behind it. “i can’t handle missing you and being mad at you at the same time. it’s emotionally exhausting. i could’ve died.”

nanami smiled into your hair, one hand sliding down from your back to your hip, resting there with a protective weight that made your heart turn into warm pudding. “i won’t. i’ll do better. i promise.”

you sniffed, leaning up to press a tiny, barely-there kiss at the corner of his jaw — feather light, like your lips were shy now that they weren’t arguing. “good. because you’re mine. and i’m yours. and i don’t share.”

his grip tightened at your hip, gentle but firm, like the words hit him somewhere deep. “i know. and i don’t want you to.”

you hummed, content now, your body molded against him like you were crafted to fit there. his hand drifted up again, sliding into your hair, fingers massaging your scalp slowly, like he wasn’t even thinking about it — just needed to touch you in some way, any way, constantly.

“you’re very clingy,” you whispered, eyes growing heavy.

he kissed the top of your head again — slow, deliberate, warm.

“only with you.”

you smiled — soft, sleepy, safe — and buried your face in his chest again, breathing him in like warmth, like home. for once, you didn’t feel like you had to perform, or prove, or defend, or win. you just existed in his arms, and he held you like that was enough.

it turned out nanami wasn’t just a man who talked pretty—he actually followed through, which was infinitely more dangerous for your heart because now you couldn’t even stay mad at him for fun. the very next day, when you showed up at the greenhouse after class — not because you suddenly cared about plants, but because you needed to see his promise in action — he proved himself in 4k HD.

you arrived looking like sin among seedlings: hair perfect, lip gloss expensive, outfit curated to silently declare “i own the man in charge here”. the greenhouse smelled like damp soil and mint and academic overachievement. nanami was inside, sleeves rolled up, forearms flexing while watering something green you didn’t know the name of but decided to internally call “future pesto.”

he noticed you instantly — his entire posture softened, jaw unclenching like you were oxygen. he put the watering can down and walked straight to you, one hand sliding around your waist with a confidence that made your pride purr. he pressed a brief kiss to your temple in greeting, low enough for only you to hear when he murmured, “hi, sweetheart.”

and then—she appeared.

utahime and her tragic bangs, holding a notebook like she was auditioning for a role in “botany for people with no charisma.” she approached, clearing her throat, and launched into yet another question, voice way too chipper for a woman who should’ve learned fear by now.

“nanami, can you explain again why the rosemary is wilting even though i watered it twice? i think i’m still doing something wrong—”

nanami didn’t even let her finish.

he turned slightly, keeping you tucked to his side, his hand on your waist tightening possessively — polite, but unmistakably boundary-marking — and said in a level, courteous tone that somehow carried a scalpel:

“i’ve explained that twice already. i’m spending time with my girlfriend now — you can ask one of the senior members for help.”

the silence that followed was delicious, like a gourmet dessert made of karma.

utahime blinked, startled, clearly not expecting the polite brick wall. “oh, i— right. sorry, i didn’t mean to—”

you smiled sweetly, leaning your head onto nanami’s shoulder, nails tracing along his forearm as you added, voice dripping with honeyed poison:

“maybe try listening next time. watering every time you feel emotional isn’t how plants work, babe.”

utahime stiffened. nanami squeezed your waist — warning, but gentle — though you could feel him trying not to laugh. she retreated toward some other helpless club member, and nanami turned his face into your hair for a second, exhaling like he was holding back amusement.

“be nice,” he murmured.

you scoffed, pulling back to look at him. “i was educationally constructive. i’m contributing to the learning environment.”

he kissed your cheek. “you’re impossible.”

you smirked, looping your arms around his neck. “and you like it.”

later that week, the friend group witnessed Proof #2: nanami’s boundary olympics.

you were all at your usual table — coffee, snacks, gossip, geto reading something philosophical he didn’t understand. you sat on nanami’s lap, his arm around your waist like a permanent seatbelt, your legs draped over his like you owned the throne and the king.

utahime walked into the café — of course — and spotted you all. either god hated you or you were starring in a sitcom. she approached, smiling like she wasn’t the antagonist in your personal novella.

“oh! i didn’t know you guys were here. do you mind if i join?”

already pulling a chair. already delusional.

before you could unsheathe your verbal knives, nanami beat you to it — politely, gently, firmly.

“we’re having quality time with our friend group right now,” he said, voice almost warm but with an iron spine. “maybe another time.”

shoko, sipping her iced coffee, didn’t miss a beat. “yeah, we’re trauma-bonding. it’s exclusive.”

gojo grinned with all teeth, draping himself over the back of his chair. “also we’re at maximum capacity for straight-laced energy. one more person with no sense of humor and we’ll combust.”

geto added thoughtfully, “we reached our quota of new people three years ago.”

haibara waved apologetically, “maybe next time! like… next century.”

utahime froze, blinked, and did the walk of shame back to the counter.

you leaned in, whispering into nanami’s ear with prideful satisfaction, “i could kiss you right now.”

nanami didn’t hesitate — he turned and kissed you softly in front of everyone.

gojo gagged loudly. “okay but i didn’t mean in front of me, have some respect for my single trauma.”

you flipped him off without looking.

and the thing is — nanami didn’t just do it once for show.

he kept doing it.

day after day, little actions stacking like bricks rebuilding trust. when utahime approached him during club, he redirected her to literally anyone else. he kept you close — hand at your back, fingers intertwined, lips brushing your hair, gentle touches that said mine without needing to say it

he included you deliberately in plant conversations, explaining things properly — not simplified, not dismissive. he sent you photos of his plants with captions like “this is thriving. like us.”. when people asked about his schedule, he said, “i’m with my girlfriend,” like it was a valid unbreakable appointment (it was). he texted you good morning and goodnight like rituals of devotion. he left club early to walk you to class, iced coffee in hand, your order memorized down to ice quantity and foam thickness

and slowly — painfully, annoyingly, wonderfully — your anger had nothing left to feed on. nanami didn’t leave space for doubt anymore. he made it obvious — to you, to your friends, to utahime, to the plants, to the universe — that you were his priority.

one evening, as you curled into his side again, your voice barely above a whisper, you muttered, “…you’re still a piece of shit.”

nanami kissed your forehead, fingers tracing your spine.

“i know,” he murmured, “but i’m yours.”

‘A tall man, long dark hair, amethyst eyes, he’ll be quiet and kind, oh and he’ll want children, he’ll want family. He’ll be strong and smart, and just a little on the eccentric side – we can’t have him too boring.’

Your sister had giggled at you, when you had picked up purple petals that you imagined of his eye color, grinning as your sister ran over. 

‘Amethyst, that’s such a crazy color!’ She'd said, touching the petals with you.

‘Well, he’s not real so – he can be as beautiful as I imagine.’

It’s just long black hair you tell yourself, you're being ridiculous! So he's tall, okay… that’s the only similarities. 

Your heart is racing just a bit in your chest, nervously shifting as the girls tug you along even closer, into the living room just dusted a bit from drywall and sawdust.

“Papa, papa!”

He’ll have a deep, husky voice.

“Girls,” he turns around then, and you pause in your tracks, thighs trembling, breaths quickening just a bit.

His eyes.

They’ll be amethyst.

You’d said it dreamily as a little girl underneath the full blood moon, but even then you never thought, never imagined that maybe it could be real. It can’t be surely, even if his eyes are amethyst, even if his dark silky hair falls a bit over his shoulders, and you see his bare chest, chiseled and cut, your eyes trail down it before you can stop yourself, flushing hotly.

He pauses as he eyes you, seeing the heat on your cheeks, something about you making him – Suguru Geto – falter just a moment, a man never lost for words and completely at ease, paused.

You’re dressed casually, soft and cozy, smelling like the autumn itself, hints of the apple orchard and cinnamon, but mostly, it’s how you just look at him like that.

Who are you?

Suguru long ago gave up on women, he had love once long ago, to the mom of these two little girls, and he couldn’t help but focus solely on them. She was lost so tragically.

Not that he doesn't see women as beautiful – especially you. He loves beauty, after all, yet nothing has stopped him in his tracks like this.

How can he pinpoint it? You're beautiful but it's not that… it's something around you, real and tangible, making his fingers twitch with the need to just touch your skin.

Mimiko is giggling and tugs you down to whisper in your ear - “Papa must think you're pretty.”

You blush even more, clearing your throat a bit, finally taking a breath and holding out your hand. “Hey new neighbor, I'm the witch next door.”

He chuckles then, a sound he's hardly made in ages it feels like, aside from when the girls do something too adorable. Little troublemakers that have him wrapped around their little fingers, always batting their lashes and looking too adorable to punish.

But to chuckle from someone else?

He sobers a bit then, realizing how easy that had been, how pretty your necklace sits between your collacollarbone. Some pendant he can't quite place, tilting his head a bit to study it, before realizing his attention was right on your breasts.

The girls run around now giggling and you smile just a bit, leaning over and touching the necklace ever so delicately. “Do you like it?”

“A witch talisman, huh?” He smirks a little and then turns, snatching up a sweater and sliding it over his head, abs flexing when he moves it across his chest. You heat up at the action, managing to stay casual instead.

“Of course it is,” you tease. Yet it was indeed just that – rose quartz, glittering a soft pink. “So your name?”

“Suguru Geto,” he's trying to be friendly, holding out a hand for you to shake, yours rests in his now, biting down on your lower lip and staring. His hand overtakes yours, swallowing it in his calloused grip.

Something about the touch lingers in his mind that night after you leave. He can't help but toss and turn, looking out the window after pacing around his room for a while. In the quiet he thinks too much, sighing and pressing aside the blinds, just to see you under the glittering light of the almost full moon in your garden.

“Hmm,” he tilts his head, sighing when you look over toward him, as if you can see the crack in the blinds. You smile just a little, turning in a little circle before bouncing back in. “Maybe she is a witch.”

*

You may or may not dress just a little sexier with hot dad neighbor across the street - it certainly isn’t intentional at all!

It’s also just coincidental that you put a little charm spell on yourself to look just a bit more ‘enchanting’ if you will. That you bat your lashes that have a little bit of mascara on them lately when you borrow a cup of sugar, or come over with extra donuts for the girls.

It’s just to be a friendly neighbor! It has nothing to do with the fact that Suguru Geto is the epitome of that love spell you made when you were a little girl, down to the smirk and how his eyes get just a bit lidded in amusement when you show up. The house is progressively coming together more and more every day you walk by, Suguru seems to be quite the handy man.