Heyyyy

⌗ 𝑭𝑹𝑨𝑻𝑱𝑶 ! ⌣ breaks it to you that you were breaking his dresscode. He watches the smile on your face drop as you looked down almost consciously at your attire. Satoru chuckled but convinced you that you could stay here.

"You're breaking my dresscode, you know?" He asks, gesturing his chin towards your dress, "Usually, I'd kick you out for that. But, since you're like a needle in a haystack, I'll let you stay."

⌗ 𝑭𝑹𝑨𝑻𝑱𝑶 ! ⌣ doesn't realize that his words made you shudder, the feeling of dislike bubbling up already. However, before you could say anything, he pops his phone out and shows you the hundreds of contacts he has registered in his phone.

"Can I have your number?" He pops the question, sipping on what seems to be Vodka from the plastic cup.

You forced a smile out and filled the contact with a fake number so he'd back off — and he did. Winking cheekily at you before leaving, you watch him return to his group of friends, the same girls flocking towards him like a moth drawn to a flame.

What an asshole, you thought.

⌗ 𝑭𝑹𝑨𝑻𝑱𝑶 ! ⌣ only realized you left when he couldn't find you anywhere to bring you to the 7 minutes in heaven circle. Questioning people all around, everyone here knows that the party stays lit up all night.

Yet, how come your presence had faded in just mere hours? He fished his phone out and sent a short message.

Gojo Satoru:

Where are u?

(Name):

Who's this?

Gojo Satoru:

Um... Gojo Satoru? You were in my party?

(Name):

Wrong number

⌗ 𝑭𝑹𝑨𝑻𝑱𝑶 ! ⌣ clicked the pieces together and realized that you deliberately agreed to give him your number and left so he wouldn't bother you. His eyes twitched in annoyance, why would you do that? Why weren't you charmed by his words like everyone did? Fuck his words, his appearance. People liked him because he looked sexy.

So, why aren't you attracted?

"Party's over. Fuck off everyone," he mutters, pulling on the chords of the speaker in annoyance, cutting the booming music immediately. Good job, (Name), you just ruined his party.

⌗ 𝑭𝑹𝑨𝑻𝑱𝑶 ! ⌣ got his ego hurt just because some measly new girl from a new batch of students managed to fool him. He spends most of his days roaming around campus to find a glimpse of you, it wasn't even a cat and mouse game anymore. It was just him trying catch a little glimpse of you, but never once did he see you.

Satoru was starting to think that you might have transferred away after that party, but when he asked a friend, they told him that you were still enrolled and thriving.

⌗ 𝑭𝑹𝑨𝑻𝑱𝑶 ! ⌣ graduated still deprived of your presence. He stopped fucking with different girls, making parties twice per week and made it when he's in a mood to —which was almost never— and even if he hosted one, he had hoped to see you there. But, you were never there.

And to think that he never found out who invited you to the party where you both first met infuriates him to no end. Satoru held his diploma tightly, smiling for a picture with his friends that he was sure that he's never going to see anymore in 5 years time.

⌗ 𝑭𝑹𝑨𝑻𝑱𝑶 ! ⌣ hid most of his tattoos under his sleeves most of the time, now working as an influencer. Surprisingly, people find him lovely — and you wouldn't believe him if he told you that he reviews food as a living. Desserts, mostly. Starting off at big known restaurants, he now ends up to help small unknown shops around gain more people and customers.

⌗ 𝑭𝑹𝑨𝑻𝑱𝑶 ! ⌣ now, 7 years later, sat in a small restaurant in Cebu, Philippines blinked at the sight of you entering the shop. You halt, eyeing him from head to toe. He's dressed in a wife beater, a blue cap on his head, and some khakis. His tattoos were barred for the world to see and a camera was sitting on the table facing him.

His eyes widened slightly and he stood up, the stool scraping against the floor, "You!" He points at you almost accusingly.

"Me?" You replied back, confused.

"What the hell are you doing in Philippines?" He muttered.

Out of every country you could be in right now, it just happened to be in the Philippines.

⌗ 𝑭𝑹𝑨𝑻𝑱𝑶 ! ⌣ suspected that you had stalked his socials, he did say that he was going to be in the Philippines for the next couple of weeks to try the culinary there. He narrowed his eyes at you, "Did you fly from Japan to follow me here?"

See, now that's where you draw the line. At being accused of following someone you gave a fake number to 7 years ago in a frat party, "Follow you? I've been in the Philippines for three weeks for my business!"

Satoru scoffed, suspecting a lie. However, the big camera hanging by a thread around your neck said otherwise, maybe you did come here for work, "... What are you doing here?"

"I'm a wedding photographer, I didn't follow you. Can you stop suspecting me?" You retaliate with a sweet smile, noticing the looks from the owner by the cashier.

⌗ 𝑭𝑹𝑨𝑻𝑱𝑶 ! ⌣ ends up inviting you for a lunch, all while he reviewed the food. Your face on camera with him despite you trying to move away, he ends up tipping the camera closer to your face instead of his face.

"Why did you give me a fake number?" He asked suddenly, "I was actually really angry, you know?"

You groaned, "That was seven years ago—"

"Seven years of confusion and anger," he cuts you off, "I genuinely thought you were an eye candy, and I wanted to get to know you better."

You raised a brow, "After you asked for my number, you went back. With girls on you, why would I want to get close to someone who doesn't have a boundary?" He shuts his mouth.

The corner of his lips were tainted with the brown colored chicken adobo sauce, "I can't deny the love people give me—"

"There's a strong line between love and lust. Which of it are those people giving you, exactly? From what I see, there's no love. They just want the sex, and you're allowing them," you look at the camera, the red dot still signifying that it's recording, "and can you cut that. Then blur my face, I don't want drama."

⌗ 𝑭𝑹𝑨𝑻𝑱𝑶 ! ⌣ furrowed his brows and looks at the half finished plate of chicken adobo. Then he looks up at you, the creases in between his brows gradually softening at the sight of you eating slowly, "Um, yeah. I will. Of course I will, why would I let the viewers see me getting rejected..?"

You shrugged, "Influencers do anything for engagement."

"Well, I'm not those influencers. I just want people to support smaller businesses," he retorts back, chowing back down into his plate while reviewing it to the camera again with a big smile on his face.

Eventually, his recording stopped and he shoved his camera into its case, "I got a genuine question."

"Mm?"

"Can I have your real number this time?"

⌗ 𝑭𝑹𝑨𝑻𝑱𝑶 ! ⌣ tried out the number you gave him omce he reached his AirBnB, with fingers crossed, he sent the message and tossed the phone onto the nightstand. He has never been this nervous texting a girl before.

Gojo Satoru:

Is this (Name)?

(Name):

Yeah

⌗ 𝑭𝑹𝑨𝑻𝑱𝑶 ! ⌣ was elated at the sight of your one word confirmation. Even that was enough to make him happy — so happy that he went out all night and reviewed even snack stands around the area. Satoru asked you about your job and why you took a gig all the way out of Japan.

You told him it pays good. Satoru offered you to go and explore Philippines together during your free time, and this time, you didn't give him false hope and agreed to his offer.

⌗ 𝑭𝑹𝑨𝑻𝑱𝑶 ! ⌣ brought you around, relying on instincts and social skills while you followed him around. Trying out different food stalls and culinary around, and anything that looked edible was practically tried out.

By the end of the day, you were full and happy. You cleared your throat, "I ditched the party you hosted because you said something about you letting me stay just because I looked hot — and then I realized that you think of me as a gum, something you throw away when you don't find me as sweet anymore. You just seemed like that type of person."

Satoru stops, looking back at you in the streets of Cebu, "You thought I'd do that?"

You nodded.

He sighs softly, "You're not wrong about me finding you hot, but I actually do want to get to know you. I apologize if I said anything that made you uncomfortable, I promise you I'm not that Satoru anymore," he reassured with a small smile.

⌗ 𝑭𝑹𝑨𝑻𝑱𝑶 ! ⌣ lets you think there for a bit. Your eyes roamed on his face, and you nod, "You got rid of your piercings."

Satoru shrugged, "My mom was never happy with them anyways. And, I have not touched a cig in five years," he proudly states, "mom never liked that too, so I guess she helped."

⌗ 𝑭𝑹𝑨𝑻𝑱𝑶 ! ⌣ returned back to Japan after you did, his video boomed immediately. More people from different countries reaching out to him, asking for help. There weren't much that he could do for them in a short time besides promoting and making plans in the future to come.

You congratulated him for his 2 millions subscribers mile with a small cake. He told you he had a sweet tooth a couple of months ago — and you remembered.

⌗ 𝑭𝑹𝑨𝑻𝑱𝑶 ! ⌣ asked you out formally during a short hang out, finally able to spend an intimate dinner with you after 7 years. Throughout his campus life, girls were the one asking him out everywhere and he said yes. In his defense, most of them spent their money for him, and desperate times call for desperate measures.

By the time he reached your door, his hands were clammy. Even in front of the camera, he's never been this nervous — but the sight of you in an elegant dress made his heart stutter. His jaw dropped slightly, "Holy shit."

"What? Does it look old—"

Satoru shakes his head, "No. No. God, no. You look beautiful, I'm sorry — fuck, you look beautiful," he repeats and babbles softly.

⌗ 𝑭𝑹𝑨𝑻𝑱𝑶 ! ⌣ brought you to a place that he's always wanted to go to with a significant other. He's saved this place up for his special person, you. You'd never expect him to pull out the chair for you — in fact, you might have thought that he'd ask you to pull out the chair for him instead.

"I've always wanted to go here with my significant other," he chuckles, "been saving this place for years now."

"You were popular. Why didn't you have a girlfriend?" You asked, flipping through the menu that displayed prices way too high for your liking — but, guaranteed that it wouldn't even bother Satoru. At the sight of it, seems like you were right.

"They see me for my well — this," he gestured to everything on him, "not this," he continued, pointing at his heart.

"And how do you know if I—"

"You don't seem like the type."

⌗ 𝑭𝑹𝑨𝑻𝑱𝑶 ! ⌣ paid for you, he had the audacity to order for you behind your back when you had already refused the second dish. He at least spent more this night than you do a month! And that infuriating smile on his face as he watches you eat, "They said that the mochi ice cream here is the best. Should we try that too?"

"I'm paying —"

"Nu-uh," he waves his black card, "I asked you on a date. It's my job to pay and spoil you, yeah? So, don't worry and just eat."

⌗ 𝑭𝑹𝑨𝑻𝑱𝑶 ! ⌣ brought you home after a long night, he was shoeless, carrying your heels by the straps in between his fingers as he held your hand, guiding you towards your door.

"Sorry, Satoru. I didn't know it was gonna break like that—"

"Hey, it's okay. Nobody would know about that, I'm just glad you didn't sprain your ankle," he smiled at you, putting your heels down by the door, "I had a good night today. Can we do this again sometimes?"

You nod, "Thank you for tonight. I enjoyed it a lot, text me?"

"Don't bother. I'll call you, yeah?" He winked.

⌗ 𝑭𝑹𝑨𝑻𝑱𝑶 ! ⌣ continued filming his videos, flying across different countries and helping failing businesses grow. You were proud of his journey, watching as his viewers count rise day by day. And it dawned, would he throw you away when he finds someone better and more worth it? Maybe someone that's up to par with him?

Overthinking seeped in slowly inside your brain as he gained more subscribers. Gosh, you weren't even official with him! It shouldn't matter what happens next, right?

⌗ 𝑭𝑹𝑨𝑻𝑱𝑶 ! ⌣ called you all the way from Malaysia, yawning after a long day. Apparently, he had fallen down in a restaurant when his chair gave up on him during a review. He giggled as he retold the story.

"Yeah. The owner felt so bad she gave me a lot of dishes for free," he tells you, the whole camera is filled with his face, "and they're asking about my piercings. I told them I used to be a bad boy on campus. Showed them a picture and they gave me Nasi Lemak."

"Yeah? That sounds great," you chuckled.

"What's up?" He asks.

"What do you mean?" You asked back.

"You're not acting like yourself," he points out, pressing the screenshots button that notified your screen that he had taken a couple of screenshots, "what's wrong?"

⌗ 𝑭𝑹𝑨𝑻𝑱𝑶 ! ⌣ doesn't expect your question, he sat up on the bed. The frames crack under the sudden shifts of his weight.

"What do you mean if I'd hate you if I found someone up to par?" Satoru asks, his voice turning angry like he's offended that you even asked such a question, "You are up to par. I want you, what part of it is not clear to you? I'm not going to throw you like some afterthought. And if you think that, then maybe I'm not showing my love enough."

⌗ 𝑭𝑹𝑨𝑻𝑱𝑶 ! ⌣ cuts his trip in Malaysia short, after he finished filming, he flies back to Japan and ride the taxi straight to your place. Dressed in a plain shirt and pants with a luggage rolling behind him, his knuckles rapping against your door early in the morning when you're not expecting guests.

When you open the door, he lets himself in like he owns the place. Your eyes widened, "Satoru? I thought you'll be back next week—"

"And leave my girl here overthinking my love for her alone? Nah," he tossed his bag onto the couch, "I want you. What part of it is not clear enough? Who cares about these influencers and celebrities in my comments asking for a collab? I want you. I want (Name)(Last Name). I want the girl who rejected me seven years ago and gave me a fake number. I want you, (Name)."

⌗ 𝑭𝑹𝑨𝑻𝑱𝑶 ! ⌣ kissed you like there's no tomorrow, his lips were soft; contradictory of what you thought — his breaths ragged as he chased your lips despite a huff of air you needed, his fingers tangled inside your hair, pushing your head as if he was trying to mold you both together.

"Next time I film, I want you to come along so everyone knows that I'm yours and yours only, yeah? My channel is ours now, I don't care what you say," he whispers, his lips hovering of yours for a few seconds before he closed off the distance again.

⌗ 𝑭𝑹𝑨𝑻𝑱𝑶 ! ⌣ made sure that you understand his underlying love for you from 7 years ago still stands until now. His kisses, his touches, his words were unlike what he gives to girls in the past — it's different, in a good way. He touches you like a fragile being, his words soft like he's trying to physically caress you with it, his touches linger on your skin for days.

"I love you," he mumbled out against your head, "wish you could see yourself from my eyes."

⌗ 𝑭𝑹𝑨𝑻𝑱𝑶 ! ⌣ made it clear that he's yours. A new tattoo of your initial popping up right on his ring finger a few days later, now people notice and point out what it means, only to be answered with a: "love of my life".

“How long has it been?” Your friend, Shoko, asks as you poke your strawberry scone around. The menu offered a vanilla and peanut butter one, but you found yourself suspicious of the combination and turned it down.

That’s a good question. 

Your room is bare now—posters you just can’t seem to get rid of fill your closet in messy, loose rolls, rare CDs collect dust in a far corner (should you ever be in a financial bind, you’ll sell those on Depop), and faded, five-sizes-too-big band t-shirts are hung up with the nicer, store stolen fabric hangers in the darker spot of your closet. 

He’s someone you’d rather not remember.

There is one thing, though. The guitar that he lent you—the one he taught you how to play on. Marks lace the middle bout of the guitar, courtesy of years of contact. The fork goes clean through your scone as you think of him with a greater lucidity now; his hands on yours as they guide you through the most fundamental songs, the vibration of his chuckle against your back when you try to play on your own, his string calloused fingertips running across your nape to pull your hair out of the way so he can scrutinize your choppy F sharp work in all of its negligible glory.

It doesn’t matter now. It never did. That worn guitar lays under your bed, never to be touched again. Never to be played again for any ear.

Suguru Geto isn’t yours anymore.

“I dunno,” you mumble, obviously out of it. Your eyes are unfocused, so you keep them low to hide their comfortable asymmetry. “Six—five months?”

Shoko sips her matcha and looks at you from over the cup. “Right. And you don’t miss him one bit?” 

You shrug, pushing your plate to the side and taking a heavy gulp of your latte—hopefully long enough to signal to Shoko this conversation isn’t one you feel like having. Now or ever. Your tongue starts to feel numb in your mouth, and you can’t tell if it’s because of the drink’s scalding temperature or your sudden lack of verbosity.

Shoko doesn’t get the hint though, because she just stares at you until your theatrics are over. “Yes you do,” she teases with a haughty laugh and then leans back. She begins to grab a cigarette out of her pocket, but the café worker bussing the table next to yours gives her a glare. She promptly returns the box to its righteous place.

“I don’t.” You lick your dry lips and look up, mildly annoyed. The conversation was beginning to sound like one of an elementary schooler: “You so like Geto!” met with the exhausted rebuttal of “Not true!” 

But it was true. In some deep part of you, one you have long since buried, you missed him. You missed the way he held you close even in front of whipped fans, one after another begging him to sign their boobs or bare chests—his androgyny made him a particularly strong item—you missed the way he lent you all of his T-shirts to sleep in. You missed the way he ran his fingers through your hair, still listening when you were going on about nothing in particular. That’s the thing about Geto. It’s hard not to miss him, but you figured you were doing a pretty good job at it.

Shoko pinches your cheek and begins to rise from her seat, laying down a couple of bills. “I’ll pay. Your heart’s already hurting. I don’t feel like doing the same to your bank account.” You mumble a “thanks” to the lame joke and grab your bag, stepping outside of the stuffy café.

Here, she is finally free to smoke, so she lights one and sighs after puffing it. “You know,” she coughs, “Choso said Geto’s pretty torn up about you.”

“I seriously doubt it.” You laugh bitterly, tightening your hold on your bag strap. Geto? Torn up about you? “I’m sure the millions of girl fans he adores would die for just a night with him. He has options. Probably why he ditched.”

“I just don’t think he would just give up on you two. I mean, he sai—”

“Can we go?”

Shoko senses she’s overstepped a boundary, so she nods and steps towards her car. It beeps and she opens the driver's door. She pauses for a minute before ducking her head down, though, surveying your face. Looking for something. 

You don’t give her any reaction. You simply enter the passenger seat, parking your purse upon your lap, and staring out of the window into the café. The anti-smoking barista is wiping your table down. He looks left, then right, and pops your untouched scone into his left front pocket. Good on him—food shouldn’t be wasted.

The rest of the ride is silent.

—

𝐑𝐎𝐂𝐂𝐂𝐊𝐄𝐑

PLAYING @ ATLANTIS SQUARE

ON 7/8 and 7/10 MIDNIGHT

𝗗𝗢𝗡’𝗧 𝗠𝗜𝗦𝗦 𝗜𝗧

TICKETS ON SALE NOW

You pause at the glossy poster once again, for the third time this week. Plastered conveniently on the everyday walk to your apartment, it annoys you. It has been since last week. On it, there are three men: Gojo, the white-haired one stands at the front in a captivating still shot. You’ve met him before, he’s the singer and token—self-proclaimed, but still—comedian. He stands tall in the picture, wearing a well-fitted ROCCCKER tee and raising his hands up. Choso, a member you’re relatively closer to, has his face obscured by the way he’s moving his head to the beat of the drums he’s playing. The last member, the guitarist, has his bottom lip tucked in as he focuses on playing the correct strings. In this captured moment, he’s looking directly into the camera. He’s looking directly at you. This picture is old though, because the tattoo of a name—your name—around his bicep isn’t there. 

You also know this because you took the picture. 

Two years ago.

You walk away from the poster, rolling your eyes. It’s childish, you think, to keep using your pictures, old ones at that, when you have no association with the group anymore—but then again, you figured, that you were paid for your work and that you shouldn’t have had such a close relation to the group either way. 

You dig in your purse for your apartment keys. When you finally enter your living room, you flop onto the couch and begin scrolling through your carefully curated, mildly fake Instagram. Beautiful, professional pictures of cherry blossoms and fairy light-decorated city alleyways decorate each corner of your page. 

Five months ago, they were rudely punctuated by the occasional dark-set photo of a long-haired guitarist on a stage, glistening in sweat under dark blue stage lights and flame machines. They threw off the balance of your page, you knew, but you and Geto simply laughed at the juxtaposition of the scenario, poking fun at your contrast. 

You purged your page of him—and all related photos, even if they were suggestions of him—when you were told by him, verbatim, that he “can’t do this anymore.” The only things you remember are his eyes widening as you slapped him, straying from their previously bored expression and your ears feeling hot as you turned on your heels and speed-walked out of there. You didn’t turn to check if he was following you, because you thought you didn’t care. In hindsight, you regret it. You wanted to see if he would chase after you. 

If he would miss you.

Now, your page is back to being an aesthetically pleasing wonderland of tulip fields and matcha that tastes terrible but looks cute. You’ll never disturb this kind of peace and social conformity for a man ever again.

Working as a freelance photographer is nice. It’s, well, as the name suggests, freeing. As your own boss, you get to choose which clients to pick up and which ones to not. What gigs to immortalize and whatnot. In light of recent events, you haven’t necessarily taken pictures in any concerts. You usually turn them down, even if they pay well. Jobs like weddings and birthdays are much easier.

You pick your CANON camera up out of its fabric case. The personalized keychains on the zippers jingle as you open them. It was expensive—a birthday gift, so you take good care of it. Wiping down the lens and adjusting the settings, you check the reminders on your phone. 

Wednesday, July 10th

Park Engagement Photos

Ruby Ten Park

3:00 P.M.

These clients of yours are one of your favorites. They’ve been a long-time customer. From first day of school photos to eccentric birthday shoots, they’ve called you each time. It’s nice to see that they’re getting engaged. Silently, you hope that they invite you to the wedding as a photographer.

Packing what you need into a dedicated tote bag, you exit your apartment again, your rest being short-lived. The park is only about a ten-minute walk from your complex, so you choose not to call an Uber. This is a choice you begin to regret as you feel your face begin to sweat three minutes in. On days like these, Geto would’ve offered to pick you up from your apartment and drop you off, no matter the distance.

You kill that thought immediately. Should’ve called that Uber.

You take your wool cardigan off, wiping beads of sweat from your hairline and adjusting your blouse. Your clients, a couple in their mid-twenties, aesthetically sit on a checkered picnic blanket. The scene is one from your Pinterest home feed. You’ve been ordered not to be spotted until the actual proposal, so you opt to sit against a tree facing a performing stage that is commonly used for indie gigs and mini-festivals. The park is nice—the trees and shrubs are well cut, the walkways are often clear of obstruction, and the benches are relatively new, save for the chewed gum under the end bars. A five-star recreational park, truly.

When your ex-boyfriend’s band begins to set up speakers on the stage you’re facing, the park shoots down three full stars on your mental Yelp site. Two stars. My annoying, ungrateful ex-boyfriend made a surprise appearance, never go here if you are looking for peace and quiet.

You stiffen, watching Choso gesture to where he wants the drums placed, presumably, and Gojo flailing his arms around for who-knows-what. 

Then, it’s him.

Geto. The man you love—loved—ducks under a branch and sets up a microphone. He doesn’t seem to spot you though, because he runs a hand through his hair and pats Gojo’s back, going back to the bus to, probably, bring more of their supplies.

You take this opportunity to escape, opting to move to another tree. Thankfully, you begin to hear the starting lines of every engagement repeated ad nauseam:

“I feel so happy with you…” You begin to adjust the settings on your camera to reduce the sun's glare. 

“I never want to part from you…” Positioning yourself comfortably far, but not too far, from the couple on the blanket, you scrunch your face as you bring the camera up into frame, ensuring you capture the beautiful scenery.

Your finger hovers over the shutter button, and you hold your breath. The couple rises to their feet and the fiancé-to-be (hopefully) drops to one knee, pulling out a beautiful navy blue suede box. And then…

“Hey.” You take the photo. It’s beautiful—wait. 

What? 

“Hey?” That’s not “Will you marry me?” You bring the camera down, scratching the left side of your face in confusion as you turn to your side, looking for the source of this unwelcome disruption. 

Geto is standing there, with a dumb look on his face and a stickered guitar on his back. Definitely unwelcome. Your clients are kissing each other now, and you think you should get that, but you’re frozen in your spot. Your hands grip your camera and you don’t respond to Geto. You just stare. 

It’s like your tongue is inflated in your mouth and your face is numb when you finally do respond. It’s flat, though. “Hello.”

“I didn’t know you were going to be here—if I did, I wouldn’t have interrupted your work—”

“Just—it’s nice seeing you. I’m sure you’re busy.”

Geto clicks his tongue. “Right.”

You raise the camera to your face again, taking a rapid amount of pictures to compensate for the ones you lost just standing there. 

“How have you been?” Geto presses on.

You lower your camera again, refusing to give him eye contact. “Good.” You don’t bother to ask him how he’s been either because you don’t want to give him any further talking incentive. You hear him inhale, though, obviously preparing for another round of useless chitchat, and you decide to cut him off. You whip around, giving him a mildly irritated look. “It’s nice seeing you.”

Geto presses his lips together. He clenches his fist—he looks like he wants to reach for you, but he doesn’t. He doesn’t say anything further. He just stares vacantly.

The twinge in your heart intensifies as you gather your things and approach your clients, showing them the clear pictures as they fervently nod in approval of each perfectly positioned picture. Their chatter passes through one ear and through the next as your stomach churns at the interaction with Geto.

Geto is left there, staring at you in your peripheral vision, until he turns around and roughs up his hair, either in frustration or resolve, getting back to what he was doing before you.

Can he even remember before you?

—

Suguru Geto isn’t yours anymore, but was he ever? 

The journal under your bed has laid empty and untouched since the day Geto left. You stand in the shower and think of things to write each day, but when you pick up the pen, you draw a blank and end up closing it. 

Today, you write one sentence but don’t get much farther than that.

Your phone vibrates annoyingly on the ceramic of the bathroom sink, and you’re forced to get up from your bed and trudge your way back to the washroom. The name Choso is splayed across the top part of your phone. Your hand hesitates—considering recent events, something repelled you from picking up Geto’s right-hand man’s call. 

Ultimately, you decide it’s unfair to ignore Choso on that basis considering your friendship, so you pick up the call anyway. It’s loud: Choso yells something over the discordancy of the environment, and you “Huh?” multiple times before you can decipher a “hold on.” 

The sound clears up, and Choso sighs in relief when you finally return his “Can you hear me?” prompts. 

Choso silently gears up on the other end of the phone. “Are you doing anything tonight?”

Your face morphs into a scowl at the realization of how this could’ve been a text. “No,” you laconically reply, “why?”

Static picks up on Choso’s end. “We’re performing at the venue thirty minutes from you tonight. Atlantis. It’d be nice if you could come—we’re going on tour after this. Just wanna hang out with you one more time.” 

You sigh. “And tickets are free?”

“No—well, yes, for you. Just come. Shoko’s going.”

The mention of Shoko stirs you slightly. They obviously knew getting her there would get you to go. “Sure. And it’s in two hours?”

“Yeah. How’d you know tha—”

You hang up before Choso questions you further.

—

It’s midnight and you’re getting into an Uber you really hope is going to kidnap you before you make it to this venue. The collar of your shirt lays lazily across your shoulders, dipping under one. You decided not to wear a ROCCCKER band tee for this concert. You support Gojo and Choso, but… whatever.

The Uber hits the curb on the turn to the entrance of Atlantis Square, and it knocks the sunglasses on your head onto your lap. Seeing that it’s midnight, the driver gives you an inquisitive look in the rearview mirror. It’s a fashion choice, you mouth to yourself. You reposition them, murmuring a disdainful “thank you” to the driver and exiting the awkward car. 

People are lined up at the first entrance, waiting for their turn to be either accepted or denied into the concert. The name of the venue is a grave misnomer—it resembles more of a club spot than an open park. You push your way past a particularly rowdy group of people when you spot Shoko tapping her foot impatiently at the second entrance. 

“I’m surprised you showed.”

You breathe heavily. “Me too.”

Shoko shows the security guard something on her phone and gestures to the two of you before entering the pit of the venue. It is full. People holding drinks end up just handing them off to someone on the side near a trash can, people are on each other's shoulders, and the opener of the concert is being unfortunately ignored. 

Shoko pushes her way to the VIP area, which you guys use to cut the pit to be able to get barrier spots. Some pretty girls holding signs that say, in crude scribble, “CHOSO BLOW A KISS” and “GETO I’M FREE 2NITE” grumble as you apologize your way into getting somewhat close to the stage. The opening act shouts her “thank you” and waves her way off of the stage. As soon as you settle in and are able to see the stage, the lights dim.

“New York, are you ready?” Gojo’s voice reverberates through the venue—fans begin to flood your space with anticipatory screams. 

A guitar strum sounds through the venue, and just as much as you hear it, you feel it in your feet. 

You begin to feel it in your heart when the lights finally turn on, revealing the three men. Revealing Geto. Gojo is saying something into the mic, but you can’t hear any of it. All you hear is your heart threatening to thump out of your ribcage, into your throat, and out of your mouth. 

Geto scans the crowd, looking for something. His head drops to his guitar when he doesn’t find it, and he doesn’t look up from that. Shoko waves her hand around frantically, getting Choso’s attention.

Choso’s face brightens as he does a corny fist pump and waves to both you and Shoko. He steps around his drum set and whispers something in Geto’s ear. 

It’s obvious what Choso told him because Geto immediately glances in your direction and the tips of his ears redden. By now, you feel as if you’re going to projectile vomit all over the hardcore friend group in front of you. He returns his gaze to the rest of the crowd. After his unheard speech, Gojo looks at Geto, as if to ask if he’s ready. Geto nods and Gojo returns to the mic.

“Everyone,” he annoyingly yells into the already too-loud mic, “this is a song off of our upcoming album.” His announcement is met with excited cheers from your section, and Shoko’s hollers in your ears nearly deafen you.

Choso begins to tap his sticks into the mic and Geto strums a low note. The song starts, and it is loud. The crowd doesn’t know the lyrics, so instead, they opt to shout incoherencies.

You can’t lie—it’s a good song. All of them are. They go through the album one by one, and the crowd further obstructs your already limited view with phones, recording videos that will definitely be on music leak pages at the end of the night. At the start of the eighth song, Geto pushes his guitar to his back. The fretboard peeks out over his shoulder and he begins to approach the mic with a slow stride.

No.

“I’m sorry,” he breathes into the mic.

No.

He looks at you—directly at you—with a mournful countenance.

“Every single song is about you.”

He’s crazy.

You’re leaving. You’re leaving, you say to yourself, but your stubborn feet won’t uproot themselves from their place. Shoko stills next to you, and you can see her glance towards you. Fans begin to pick up on where Geto’s looking, and by the time he tears his gaze from you to check if Choso and Gojo are ready to go, it is as if a faux spotlight is on you. Your body feels hot, and you’re angry he’s embarrassed you like this.

But you feel something else. Like someone has taken your heart and stomach and is jocularly throwing them around inside of you. Your breath remains held as Gojo begins to strum—you question how he’s playing the guitar so adeptly, but then you hear the loud backtrack—and Geto begins to sing. Your eyes dry, unblinking, as you stare at him. 

Sometimes a man gets carried away

When he feels like he should be having his fun

You mumble an unheard apology to Shoko, still staring at Geto. The way his jaw flexes in the light doesn’t go unnoticed. You track his every movement.

Much too blind to see the damage he’s done

He returns your gaze while singing, and you tear your eyes from his, glossy and focused, swiftly turning around and pushing musically enthralled fans out of the way.

Sometimes a man must awake to find that

Really he has no one

You hold your throat and wince. You can’t cry here—not now. 

So I’ll wait for you, love

And I’ll burn

Will I ever see your sweet return?

The knot in your throat tautens. He’s confessing to you via song. In front of everyone. He’s sick. You’re gasping for air now and pushing through the blurs of people. You don’t know if Shoko is chasing you; frankly, you don’t care.

Oh, will I ever learn?

Oh-oh, lover, you should’ve come over

You need to get out. Out of here. Tears break the wet film of your eyes and wet your cheeks. You’re sobbing, and now, people are offering you concerned glances.

‘Cause it’s not too late

The volume of the concert muffled your sobs, but as you finally break your way out of the pit and to the quieter, roomed bar area, Geto’s song turns muffled and your sobs fill the empty, probably restricted, room. 

You fumble with your phone. Shoko is calling you. It’s only then you notice the lack of Geto’s voice in his own song—the backing track sings the filler vocals, but he is evidently gone from the stage. You can hear muffled, curious murmurs from the crowd. 

Shoko is video calling you—obviously to catch a glimpse of where you are, but you deny her request. She texts—spams—you and you defiantly put your phone on silent, propping yourself up on a bar stool and sobbing into your hands.

Yes, you were angry.

Yes, you were upset.

Yes, you were torn.

But yes, God, yes, you missed him. And you hated that. With every fiber of your being but one, you hated the way Choso baited you here, the way Shoko probably knew what would happen, the way Geto knew how to get to you.

In more ways than one, because he pushes the door open, and sees you hunched back on the empty bar counter. 

He whispers your name as he quietly approaches you, and you hic in response. 

“Please,” Geto aimlessly pleads, “just listen.”

“I don’t want to,” you sob into your hands, picking up your phone and erratically scrolling through your apps in a teary haze, “leave.”

He breathes a sigh, cautiously seating himself on the table facing your seat. “I can’t.” 

You throw your bag at him, your somber turning to rage now. Keys hit his chest and clatter against the floor. He’s only able to grab hold of the handbag, so he holds the leather near his chest. It’s greedy, but now that he has you here, in one spot where you’ll listen, he takes advantage of the setting. 

“God, ‘missed you so much...” he blurts out, low. “I know. I know. Please just stay here. Just let me speak, okay?”

He takes a deep breath, surveying your reaction, and continues as he hears your sobs quiet. You refuse to turn to face him—to let him see your face, so instead, he entreats to your back.

“I thought I didn’t deserve you,” he says in a hushed tone, “you had your whole photography thing, based here—” he gestures with his arms, making a big motion to suggest your career was taking off “—and I was never around. I was always out and touring. You’d text me and I selfishly wouldn’t respond. Nothing about us mixed. I was young and high on success.” He curses under his breath, setting your bag aside and running a hand down his face. 

You begin to shake your head, rising from your seat. You should’ve known better. “I don’t even know what I expected from y—”

“But I can make it work.” He stands as if his presence will make you stay. “God, I’ll kill myself to make it work. To make us work. ‘Was stupid—I’ll admit. But being with you made me feel so dumb. I was whipped. I’m serious, baby, please. Every time I was with you, I—” he begins to scratch his head in an almost confused frenzy “—I don’t even know what I felt like. Felt like flyin’.” 

He inhales, preparing for another part of his ramble. You hush him before he continues. 

“You could’ve told me this,” you angrily refute his pleas, “instead, you’ve left me stranded for five months. Didn’t you?”

He nods obediently at the words almost immediately, and it's as if his head is empty as he continues his begging. “I did, baby, I did,” he admits, “N’ I’ve beaten myself up every day for it.” 

Something shifts in his face, and he drops to his knees. Your eyebrows furrow in confusion. “Please,” he blubbers, “just one more shot at you n’ me?”

His bangs stick to his sweaty forehead as he looks up at you, expectant. He bites his tongue in anticipation and his palms feel clammy.

You take his face in your hands, and his shoulders relax for what seems like the first time in forever. You think of what to say. But instead, you begin to cry again, and in response, he rises to his feet and begins to wipe away your tears with a tender thumb.

Wordlessly, he allows you to cry into him—your cheek fits perfectly in the divot of his chest and for once, for the first time in five months, he feels whole. You feel whole.

The other two band members have gone back to playing their known discography. Later, on social media, you’ll begin to see circulated videos of Suguru Geto frantically leaving the stage, hopping down into a parting crowd. Fans will speculate, critique, fawn, or praise. Maybe all of the above.

You just sat there in your oversized, faded blue hospital gown, looking small and fragile as your confused gaze met his. The man froze, roughly brushing a strand of pink hair out of his face. His clothes were covered in a layer of grey dust and dried grit, looking as though he had sprinted straight off a construction site the second he got the news.

"Fucking... God. Hey, princess... fuck, don't you ever scare me like that again" he breathed, his deep, gravelly voice cracking as he took two massive strides toward your bedside, staring down at you with a desperation that made the air feel heavy.

You shrank back into the pillows, your brow furrowing. Princess? Were you in some bizarre historical simulation? Did kings and horses still exist? No, the blinking medical monitors around you disproved that immediately.

"Mr. Sukuna, please. I need to speak with you in private for a moment" a woman in her mid forties interrupted, her expression incredibly grave as she stepped between you and the huge man. She glanced at the other people lingering by the door. There was a teenage boy, maybe sixteen, who had the exact same pink hair as the tattooed man, his face streaked with tears. Beside him stood another boy with unruly, spiky black hair and a dull, stoic expression that couldn't quite hide the anxiety in his eyes. At the doctor's quiet command, they all slowly filed out into the hallway.

Left alone for a moment, you stared at the stark white walls, the untouched glass of water on the bedside table, and the crushing, dull monotony of the room.

When the door clicked open again, the female physician returned, holding a thick medical chart. The tattooed man followed closely behind her. He tried to offer you a small, reassuring smile, but it looked incredibly strained on his rugged face. His crimson eyes locked onto you, tracking every breath you took as if you might literally vanish into thin air if he dared to look away for a single second.

"Hello, y/n. I am Dr. Jennifer" the woman said kindly, stepping up to the mattress. "Do you know why you were brought here today?"

You frowned, looking between her and the towering man. "No."

The syllable was short and hollow. Beside the doctor, Sukuna’s entire frame stiffened. His jaw clenched so hard a muscle feathered violently beneath his tattoos, his knuckles turning white as he balled his hands into fists.

"Right. But you do remember your name?" she pressed gently.

"Yes... y/n I am Y/N." you answered firmly. You knew the name belonged to you, even if the history attached to it was completely gone.

"And do you know where you are right now?"

"A hospital?"

"Correct" Dr. Jennifer nodded, opening the document in her hands. "Look, I am going to explain exactly what happened, and I need you to listen very carefully, alright?" You gave a small, hesitant nod. "You were in a severe accident yesterday evening. You were walking home from the local market when a car veered off the road and hit you. It is a miracle you walked away with minor physical injuries, but the trauma to your head has caused a severe case of retrograde amnesia. Honestly, it's a surprise you even remember your name right now."

You let out a quiet hum, your eyes drifting down to your own hands resting on the thin blanket. That was when you noticed it a slender, platinum band set with a brilliant, flawlessly cut diamond resting securely on your left ring finger. It looked incredibly expensive, classy, and entirely foreign

So you were married.

"Y/n" Dr. Jennifer’s voice pulled you from your thoughts. You snapped your head up to look at her. "This man standing beside me... he is your husband."

The doctor tilted her head toward the giant. He was massive easily over six feet of raw, intimidating muscle, his tattooed face giving him a terrifying, dangerous aura. Your very first instinctual thought was that this man looked incredibly scary.

Sukuna didn't say a word. He just stood there, letting you analyze him, before he offered you a tiny, incredibly vulnerable nod. You tilted your head, staring into his intense red eyes, desperately searching for a single spark of familiarity. Did I really marry this giant?

"His name is Ryomen Sukuna, and he is going to take care of you" the doctor continued, closing her chart. "For the next few weeks, you need to let your brain rest, but you also need to gently stimulate it to try and regain those lost memories. Spending time in a familiar environment, in your own home with your husband, is going to be the best medicine for you."

You nodded mutely. You didn't exactly have a choice. You were being handed over to a complete stranger who happened to hold a legal claim to your entire life.

"Alright then. I wish you a safe and speedy recovery" Dr. Jennifer said with a final, empathetic smile before slipping out of the room.

The heavy silence that followed was suffocating. Sukuna cleared his throat roughly, taking a few slow, tentative steps toward the edge of your bed. He moved with an immense amount of caution, as if he genuinely believed a sudden movement might break you into pieces. He pulled up the small plastic chair, sinking into it.

"Hey" he said softly. Even in a whisper, his voice was incredibly manly, deep, and rough.

"Hello" you replied shortly, your eyes tracking his hands.

To your surprise, his large, scarred fingers were trembling slightly as he fidgeted with them, refusing to meet your eyes. When he finally looked up, you realized the piercing red of his irises was completely glossy, swimming with unshed tears.

"Yo... you're getting discharged today" he choked out, taking a deep, ragged breath as if the mere act of speaking was causing him physical pain. "I'm going to go sign the paperwork, and then I'm taking you to... our house. I'm going to do whatever the fuck it takes to help you remember, princess."

You stared at his rugged, tattooed face for a long moment before letting out a soft, distant hum.

An hour later, you were sitting in the passenger seat of a sleek, black Jeep, The man Sukuna kept his left hand firmly on the steering wheel while his eyes flicked toward you every sixty seconds, his intense gaze making a nervous flutter erupt in your stomach.

You stared out the window, watching the city buildings, sprawling neighborhoods, and vibrant green trees blur past. Intrigued by the warm breeze, you raised your hand, pressing your palm gently against the glass as if you wanted to touch the passing leaves. Instantly, the window smoothly rolled down. Startled, you turned your head to find Sukuna adjusting the master controls, his eyes locked onto you with an unreadable warmth.

"Can I ask you something-" you murmured softly.

"Yes." The answer came incredibly fast, almost desperate. He was hanging on your every word, practically begging for you to speak to him.

"How... how did we meet?" you asked, leaning your elbow on the door frame as the wind whipped through your hair.

"We met in high school" he answered quickly, navigating a sharp turn onto a quiet, "We've been married for seven years."

"High school?" You tilted your head, a faint smile touching your lips as you extended your hand just slightly out into the rushing air. "Were we friends back then?"

"Careful" he commanded firmly, though there was no real heat in his voice. You obediently pulled your hand back inside. A faint, nostalgic softness crept into his red eyes as he looked ahead. "Friends? no. You could say we didn't liked eachother each other when we first met. You thought I was a loud, arrogant mannerless jerk and I thought you were a stubborn, bossy brat."

He smoothly pulled the Jeep into a long brick driveway, coming to a stop in front of a breathtaking, modern two story house. It was painted a crisp, elegant white with sleek charcoal-grey accents, boasting massive, floor to ceiling windows that caught the afternoon sun.

"This is...our house" Sukuna murmured, his voice dropping an octave. "We've been living here for about four years."

He killed the engine, threw his door open, and practically sprinted around the hood of the car to open your door before you could even reach for the handle. He extended a massive, tattooed hand toward you, his palm open and waiting. You stared at his hand, your eyes traveling up the thick muscles of his forearm, before you deliberately stepped down onto the driveway without taking it.

Sukuna’s hand froze in mid-air. You watched his fingers slowly curl back into a fist before he pulled his arm away, a flash of pure, agonizing heartbreak crossing his features before he quickly masked it with a stoic expression.

As your feet hit the pavement, you looked up at the towering structure, desperately begging your brain to spark even a single ounce of familiarity. Nothing came. But as you turned around, you caught a glimpse of the man standing beside you. He was on the absolute verge of tears. His chest was tight, his jaw locked as he stared at you. You were his entire world, his beautiful wife, and yet you were looking at him like he was a total stranger. He suddenly felt a wave of profound hatred for every single time he had ever been mean or stubborn with you in the past, even in jest. He just wanted his girl back. His sweet innocent girl.

"The house is beautiful" you murmured gently, walking toward the porch.

'The house.' Not our house. The detached wording made Sukuna’s jaw clench painfully.

"Of course it is. I built the damn thing" he muttered, following closely behind you.

It was your exact dream house. Years ago, back when you were just broke college students dating in a cramped apartment, you had traced a clumsy design on a napkin, telling him you wanted a modern white house with endless windows, three bedrooms, and a kitchen large enough for the two of you to bake and slow-dance together while listening to old jazz records. Sukuna had kept that napkin. The moment he made his fortune, he hired a crew but did the vast majority of the heavy structural work with his own two hands. He had gifted you the keys on your third wedding anniversary, and he could still vividly remember the way you had wept tears of joy, throwing your arms around his neck and kissing him until you were both breathless. He wanted that smile back. He would give anything just to have you look at him the way you used to.

You stepped inside, ignoring the heavy emotion rolling off him. Sukuna quickly gathered your small hospital bags and followed you into the foyer, shutting the door behind him.

Your eyes immediately gravitated toward the kitchen. It was vast, open, and undeniably stunning, featuring a massive quartz island and a huge sliding glass door that opened directly into a manicured backyard garden. The entire layout felt strangely perfect.

"Let me show you... around" Sukuna offered quietly.

He spent the next half hour guiding you through the corridors of what was supposed to be your life. But as he showed you the grand master bedroompointing out the side of the bed where you used to curl into his chest every single night your face remained entirely blank. You felt a twinge of heavy guilt pooling in your stomach. He showed you the living room, drawing your attention to a collection of large, breathtaking canvas paintings hanging on the walls.

"You painted those" Sukuna noted, a faint trace of pride in his rough voice. "You're a brilliant artist, princess."

You blinked in genuine surprise, looking down at your hands. "I drew these?" You were suprised, you don't even remember touching a brush in your life. But this is your new life. New start.

"Yeah." Sukuna stopped at the edge of the hallway, looking down at you with completely bloodshot eyes. He hadn't slept a single second since the hospital called him about your accident. All he wanted to do was wrap his massive arms around your waist, pull you flush against his chest, and bury his face in your hair until the nightmare ended. But he couldn't. "Look... you can sleep in the guest bedroom down the hall, or you can take our bedroom and I'll stay in the guest room. Whatever makes you feel comfortable. I don't want to make you feel uncomfortable you."

"Okay" you hummed softly.

His heart broke a little more at the compliant, distant tone. "I'll go start on some dinner, and then I'll get your medication ready. If you need a single damn thing, you just call out for me, alright? Your clothes are all in the dresser, undergarments in the top drawer, pajamas in the second..."

You nodded, offering him a polite murmur of thanks before retreating into the guest room. You changed into a simple, comfortable t-shirt and sweats. A little while later, his deep voice echoed up the stairs, announcing that dinner was ready. You walked down to the dining room, sitting at the large table like a polite houseguest waiting to be served.

"Do you need help?" Sukuna asked, carefully sliding a steaming bowl of homemade chicken soup and a large spoon toward you. You shook your head, grasping the utensil and taking a quiet sip. He sat across from you, his own bowl entirely untouched as he just stared at your face. "Y/n... you really don't remember a single damn thing about me?"

His voice cracked completely on the last word, the raw vulnerability of a ruthless man exposed right in front of you. You looked up, meeting his glossy red eyes.

"No... I don't. I'm really sorry" you whispered genuinely.

He let out a slow nod, swallowing the lump in his throat as he forced himself to look away. "Don't apologize. It's not your fault."

"Do I... do I have parents? Or friends?" you asked, a sudden curiosity about your own forgotten life bubbling up.

"Yeah. You have parents. Your father—"

"Where are they?" you interrupted quickly, leaning forward. "Do they know I was in an accident? Why aren't they here?"

"They haven't spoken to you in over seven years. Not since the day you married me" Sukuna said, his tone dropping into something cold and bitter.

"Why?"

"Your family is rich as fuck. Extremely strict, arrogant aristocrats" Sukuna explained, his red eyes locking back onto yours. "They completely forbade you from seeing me because I was just a rough, tattooed bastard from the wrong side of the tracks with a criminal record and a unstable future. They told you that if you walked out that door with me, you’d be cut off permanently."

You stared at him, a sudden spark of heat flaring in your chest. "Well, that's so stupid of them. It sounds like a good thing we don't talk to them then."

The sheer, unyielding loyalty in your voice made Sukuna’s lips twitch, a genuine, heartbreaking smile threatening to break through his stoic mask. Even with a wiped memory, his sweet wife still possessed that exact same fiery, protective spirit.

"Yeah" he chuckled hoarsely, letting out a long sigh. "You have an incredible best friend named Shoko. You two are both doctors. you work in the exact same surgical unit at the city hospital. We have a ton of mutual friends we met back in our high school days. And those kids at the hospital? The pink-haired teenager is my nephew, Yuji, and the dark-haired one is Megumi, our friend's kid. They practically worship the ground you walk on, princess. You love those brats to death."

"Can I see them?" you asked, a genuine smile finally breaking across your face.

"Of course. Whenever you want." he promised, his eyes tracking the way your lips curved.

"How old are you, anyway?"

"I'm thirty two. You're thirty" Sukuna answered smoothly.

"Wow. So we're getting old," you teased gently.

Sukuna let out a sudden, rough snort, a wicked glint flashing in his eyes. "Old or not, woman... you're still completely breathtaking."

A deep, violent blush instantly stained your cheeks. You hadn't been around an attractive man or any man, for that matter in your conscious memory, and having this giant, dangerously handsome individual throw such a raw compliment at you made your heart do a chaotic somersault. You quickly looked down at your soup, missing the way his eyes softened at your reaction.

Over the next three weeks, the fragments of a life began to surround you, even if the puzzle pieces wouldn't quite lock into place.

Yuji and Megumi came over to the house constantly. Yuji spent hours enthusiastically teaching you how to make his signature protein shakes and weird jello molds, his loud laughter filling the quiet house, while Megumi sat nearby with his usual serious expression. But the moment you offered Megumi a soft, encouraging smile, his sharp features would instantly melt into something deeply tender. Yet, beneath their smiles, you could see the underlying sadness in their eyes every time you failed to remember a shared inside joke.

When Shoko finally visited, she broke down completely, throwing her arms around your neck and sobbing into your shoulder. It was a bizarre maybe stupid too, overwhelming feeling being fiercely loved by people you couldn't even remember and a heavy weight of guilt began to settle deep in your chest. You even met Toji, Megumi's father, a tall, stoic man who didn't say much but looked at you with a quiet, profound pity that made you realize just how broken your situation truly was.

And then, there was Sukuna.

Your husband spent every single day patiently guiding you through your routines, driving you past your old university, cooking your favorite meals, and trying every gentle trigger possible. But your mind remained a stubborn, locked vault. Sukuna was growing desperate furious and completely fucked up by the stagnation.

To make matters worse, just one week before the accident, you had playfully taken down every single one of your framed marriage photographs to rearrange the living room gallery wall, hiding them away in a "genius spot" that Sukuna had completely forgotten more like you didn't even told him. He had spent hours frantically tearing the house apart while you were out, searching for a single modern photo of the two of you together.

He was completely unraveling. He couldn't sleep. The woman he loved was sleeping in the room next to him, yet she looked at him with the polite, distant eyes of a stranger. He felt like a ghost haunting his own home. One evening, he sat alone in the dark kitchen and wept the third time he had ever cried in his entire life. The first had been tears of pure joy on your wedding day when he saw you walking the aisle. the second had been out of terror when the ER doctor told him a car had struck you. and now, he was crying simply because he missed his wife so damn much

His phone offered no help either. his gallery was filled entirely with candid photos he had taken of you you stepping out of the shower with a towel wrapped around your head, you laughing in a department store dressing room, or a hilarious picture of you biting into a raw lemon and making a completely disgusted face. He had no photos of the two of you together on his device, you had always been the one insisted on keeping the physical, printed albums. The only joint photos he could find were a few faded, wrinkled prints from your high school days, showing a younger, wilder version of himself wrapping his arms around you from behind while you laughed into the camera. When he showed them to you, you just stared at them blankly. It was killing him.

At the end of the third week, Sukuna was sitting heavily on the living room sofa, completely exhausted after another failed search through the house. He was mindlessly scrolling through the candid photos of you on his phone, a faint, melancholy smile touching his lips. His fingers traced your face on the photo, your bright smile. your bubbly laughter at his most unfunniset jokes, now all of that are vanished.

The heavy front door clicked open. Shoko had taken you out for an afternoon of shopping to get you out of the house, and she had just dropped you off at the curb. You stepped into the foyer, balancing several shopping bags in your arms.

Sukuna instantly locked his phone, shoving it into his pocket as he stood up, his red eyes drinking in the sight of you. "Had fun, princess?"

"Yes, I did. And thank you... for letting me use your credit card" you said softly, walking over to the coffee table and gently sliding the black card back toward him.

"You bought dresses?" he asked, pointing toward the bags. Honestly, he didn't give a single fuck about the money. you could have emptied his entire bank account and he would have gladly signed it away just to see you happy.

"I bought a few things..." You cleared your throat nervously, your fingers twisting together. "But... I actually bought something for you, too."

The words hit his chest like a physical blow. Even with her mind completely wiped, your beautiful, kind soul was still looking out for him. "Really?" he murmured, his voice thick with emotion. "Can I see it?"

You gave a small nod, walking over to the couch and tentatively sitting down right next to him. The close proximity made his heart start to hammer against his ribs like a trapped bird.

"I don't know if it's really your style, or if you'll even like it..." you mumbled bashfully, reaching into a small velvet pouch and pulling out a heavy, intricately braided silver bracelet studded with raw, brilliant red stones. "The color... it just immediately reminded me of you. Of your eyes."

You gently reached out, grasping his massive, calloused wrist to drape the metal over his skin. Oh God, if you only knew how fast his heart was racing beneath his chest. Your soft, warm fingers lingering against his pulse point was pure, exquisite torture.

"It looks incredible, Y/n. Thank you." he whispered, a genuine, breathtakingly soft smile spreading across his tattooed face as he looked down at the crimson stones.

"Thank you... for being so incredibly patient with me" you said quietly, looking up at him through your eyelashes.

Sukuna let out a long, ragged sigh, his hand hovering over yours for a fraction of a second before he pulled back. "I will always be patient with you, princess. Always."

You looked directly into his burning red eyes, and for the first time in three weeks, a warm, genuine smile broke across your face. Sukuna felt his breath hitch. he was entirely certain he was about to pass out from the sheer weight of his love for you.

"Can you stay right here for a bit? I need to go jump in the shower real quick. I'll be fast" he muttered hoarsely, his hand instinctively reaching out to gently ruffle your hair a comforting, domestic habit he had carefully maintained. You let out a soft chuckle at the gesture.

The moment his heavy footsteps disappeared up the stairs and the sound of running water echoed through the pipes, you stood up, wandering aimlessly around the quiet main floor. Your feet pulled you toward the small, cozy library nestled just off the living room. The walls were lined with hundreds of books some ancient leather volumes, others modern art textbooks. You pulled one off the shelf, flipping through the pages before sliding it back into place.

As you stepped back, your eyes caught a glimpse of something hidden on the absolute highest shelf, shoved far back into the shadows near the ceiling. It looked like a massive, heavy frame leaning flat against the back wall, obscured by a decorative ceramic vase. Intrigued, you stood on your tiptoes, stretching your arms up as high as they could go, blindly reaching for the top edge of the wooden frame.

Your fingers caught the molding, but as you pulled, the heavy ceramic vase shifted, losing its balance.

Crash!

The vase shattered against the hardwood floor with a deafening, echoing smash. Startled, you let out a sharp cry, stumbling backward as the massive hidden frame came tumbling down from the top shelf, striking the edge of the desk before landing flat on the rug. The backing of the frame split completely open upon impact, and a massive cascade of loose, glossy photographs erupted across the floor hundreds of them, scattering like playing cards across the room.

You gasped, placing a hand over your racing heart as you looked away from the broken pottery, your eyes drifting down to the sea of images covering the floor.

You froze.

Right at your feet lay a massive, professionally printed portrait. In the photograph, you were sitting securely on Sukuna's lap. You were wearing a breathtaking, flowing white lace wedding dress, holding a vibrant bouquet of sunflowers, and laughing so brightly your eyes were crinkled shut. Sukuna was clad in a sharp, tailored black tuxedo, his massive arms wrapped fiercely around your waist from behind, an absolutely massive, unbothered, triumphant grin plastered across his face.

Your breath hitched violently. You stumbled forward, falling to your knees as your hands frantically snatched up another photo from the pile. In this one, you were hoisted high up on Sukuna's broad shoulders at a crowded, flashing outdoor music festival; your mouth was wide open in a breathless scream of laughter, while his large hands were clamped firmly around your thighs to keep you safe, both of your faces painted with pure, unadulterated euphoria.

You grabbed a third photo, and the entire world stopped spinning. It was a quiet, intimate shot taken right in the backyard garden outside. You were sitting cross-legged on the green grass, wearing a simple summer dress with a soft, shy smile, while Sukuna’s heavy head was resting completely in your lap. He was looking up at you with an expression of such pure, unconditional adoration it made your soul ache, while your fingers were woven gently through his soft pink hair.

Pink hair.

The backyard.

The jazz music.

The napkin.

A sudden, violent explosion of memories ripped through the barriers of your mind. It wasn't a trickle; it was a catastrophic, roaring tidal wave. Seven years of laughter, fierce arguments, passionate late-night apologies, the smell of his skin, the exact weight of his body pressing you into the master mattress, the sound of his deep voice whispering "I've got you, princess" into the dark. It all hit your brain at once with the force of a freight train.

The sheer, overwhelming velocity of the memories made the room spin violently. Your vision blurred into a vortex of white light and crimson eyes. You let out a choked gasp, your strength entirely giving out as your body collapsed sideways onto the hardwood floor with a loud, heavy thud, the scattered photographs of your life pooling around your unconscious form.

When you finally opened your eyes again, the harsh glare of the ceiling lights was gone, replaced by the warm, dim ambiance of the living room. You were laying flat on the soft fabric of the sofa.

"She's waking up! Sukuna, look, her eyes are moving!" Yuji’s panicked, loud voice cut through the quiet room.

You blinked heavily, your vision slowly focusing. Megumi was standing right beside his cousin, his dark eyes wide and completely swimming with anxiety. Shoko was hovering over you, a small medical flashlight in her hand, her face pale as she checked your vitals.

But your heart didn't care about any of them. Your eyes frantically scanned the tight circle of people, instantly landing on the massive, tattooed man standing frozen at the foot of the couch. His pastel pink hair was damp from the shower, his chest heaving under a plain black t-shirt, and his face was a mask of pure, absolute terror.

As your eyes met his, a single, heavy tear spilled over your eyelid, tracing a hot path down your cheek. The vast, terrifying void in your mind was completely gone, replaced by the roaring, beautiful fire of your reality.

"Ryo..." you choked out, your voice a broken, breathless sob.

Sukuna froze, his entire frame visibly violently shuddering at the sound of the nickname the private, intimate name only you were ever allowed to call him.

Before anyone else could even blink, you threw yourself forward off the sofa cushions, completely ignoring the dull ache in your muscles. You lunged straight into his space, your arms wrapping fiercely around his massive neck. You buried your face in the crook of his collarbone, gripping the fabric of his shirt with a desperate, white-knuckled intensity as you pressed a hard, crying kiss directly against his tattooed jaw.

"I remember... us" you sobbed violently into his skin, your entire body trembling as the tears flowed freely. "I remember everything, Ryo... I remember you."

Sukuna’s mind completely blanked. For a single, breathless second, he couldn't even process the words. And then, a raw, ragged sound escaped his throat a mixture of a sob and a laugh. His massive, powerful arms came crashing down around your frame, pulling you so close against his chest you could barely breathe, lifting your knees entirely off the floor as he buried his face into the crook of your neck.

And there, in the middle of his living room, surrounded by his family and the scattered photographs of your love, Ryomen Sukuna closed his eyes and wept for the fourth time in his life.

"I fucking love you" he whispers

"But what if I close my ears?" another boy said, pressing his hands to them. "I can't hear anything now, miss!" he screamed, setting off a wave of sweet giggles from his classmates.

The small green ball flew his way, and the boy caught it in one hand, scowling. "Hey, miss, that's not fair!"

"That was not, I do admit," you slipped off the desk, walking around the classroom. All small pairs of eyes followed you like puppies. "But you see, in space, there would be no need to cover your ears, because there is no air or matter for sound to travel through. Even when you're sleeping, there's always something out there, right?" Your eyes met a few nodding Einsteins before drifting towards the window. "You can hear the crickets singing under your window and the wind swirling between the leaves. But in space, there's nothing. Simply an empty, endless realm stretching beyond our comprehension."

A few droplets of sweat coiled on your temple, and you quickly brushed them with a thumb. Glasses sat crookedly on your nose, hair slipped away from a pin-up, and so you pushed them behind your ear.

"Miss, the space sounds so scary," the girl with round frames sighed. "I don't want to be an astronaut anymore."

You chuckled, coming to the previous boy and stealing a soft lump of earth from his sticky fingers. "The space may feel lonesome if you're there alone. But now, astronauts usually go in groups." The ball landed back on your desk, brushing gently against the wooden spaceship. "But even if you were alone, I think the view would be worth the night spent in loneliness."

And as it would soon turn out, nothing was worth the years spent alone. On the huge spaceship, with endless darkness spreading across the little window and years spent somewhere doing God knows what.

"The sun is dying," the government envoy had said. "Can you help us save the world?"

She caught you right after one of the classes, with a half-empty cup of instant noodles and cheeks peppered with crimson chilli-oil kisses. She arrived with a tall, muscular man and a printout of the PhD dissertation, placing a copy on your messy desk.

Your forehead crinkled, eyes landed on a neat, Times New Roman formatted title, An Analysis of Water-Based Assumptions and Recalibration of Expectations.

"That's not mine," you mumbled, going back to the cup of noodles. You hadn't eaten anything for a whole day, and your stomach was already pressed against your spine, with hunger twisting your weary mind.

"That's your name, isn't it?" she said, pressing a neatly trimmed nail against the smaller letters beneath the title.

You didn't even spare her a glance and simply shook your head. "No, I think you've mistaken me for someone else."

Both she and the man sighed, rolling two small chairs from the children's desk to sit in front of yours. With eyes fixed on your face, grimacing in ignorance, and a few locks of hair slipping into the cup.

"I'm Yuki," she said, crossing her legs before looking at the man with the dullest, most bleary eyes you have ever seen. "And that's Choso. We're from a… well. Now you only need to know that we work for NASA."

And that meant one thing – trouble.

Seeing your utmost disinterest, she continued in a warm tone. "Listen, we know your dissertation was a fantastic breakthrough that the supervising committee didn't appreciate. But–"

"A small correction," you interrupted, with eyes still glued to an almost empty cup. "They did not not appreciate me, but completely failed me. My research was proven wrong, and I spent almost five years chasing something that was never there. So no, it wasn't a breakthrough or anything."

"Her long fingers clenched into a fist, and a tongue nervously filled a creamy cheek. "Listen, in our current world situation, we believe that your research wasn't pointless. The hypothesis that life can exist without water–"

"Which was ultimately proven that it cannot," slipped in a whisper, gaze still following anything but those two.

"Right," she sighed, staying shockingly patient. "But the thing is, it actually may."

And for the first time in the past five minutes, you finally looked at her. With eyes hidden behind librarian-like glasses, a white shirt neatly pressed against your body, and chilli oil still coating lower lip. You brushed it quickly with a tissue before clearing throat.

"You have five minutes."

But Yuki needed just a second.

"There are some… microbes, the nature of which we aren't yet sure, that are slowly eating the sun. If we don't do something, in thirty years the global temperature will drop enough to kill every life on Earth."

A long, heavy silence stretched between the three of you, though she was the one doing the talking. The man in a suit sat in silence. He was rather handsome, with dark hair falling long down his neck and purplish under-eye bags framing his deep, doe-like eyes.

Feeling your eyes fixed on his face, Choso wriggled in place. "We believe that you are one of the few scientists who can help in research on those microbes."

A deep sigh slipped past your lips as you took off your glasses and closed eyes. A pulsing headache was filling your mind, weighing down an already overstimulated brain. A few short strands of noodles clung to the bottom of the plastic cup, looking up at your weary eyes, pleading to go home.

You finally murmured, throwing the cup into the bin, "I don't see how that's my problem. I'm just a physics teacher, the academic environment pushed me away, and I believe there are many more qualified scientists for this role."

Yuki's forehead furrowed, lips pressed in a line. "Not your problem? The world is dying, and you think it's not your problem?"

You could almost see a grey smoke drifting above her head, eyes shining like two coffee beans. Golden hair brushed against her suit-covered breasts, with a few straight strands sticking to soft cheeks. She appeared magnificently commanding, exuding a dominant aura of someone beyond the law. Even sitting on a small children's chair, you felt goosebumps cover your bare shoulders.

You leaned back in a chair, the hard backrest digging into your spine. "I just don't understand why it should be me. This," you pointed at a three-hundred-page dissertation, "was just a foolish fantasy of my younger self. And trust me, I felt how stupid it was," your eyes fell to your fingers, playing with a soft, earthy ball. "No one treats me like a scientist anymore."

And then, Yuki stood up.

Suddenly, reaching over the desk right to your shirt, before pulling you closer with a single move. Eyes fixed on yours like a deadly viper, and a sweet note of heavy perfumes hit your nostrils.

"Try it," she gritted through her teeth. "Accept my offer till I'm still begging. I don't want things to get messy, but I really need your help on this one."

And so, feeling rather threatened, you nodded swiftly and followed the kind smile that lifted up her lips.

Now, three years later, reflecting on that time, you never felt as happy and alive as you did then. Surrounded by the world's most exceptional scientists, working on alien, new microbes – the freshest discoveries in current scientific research – spending days and nights fuelled by bitter coffee, sitting in the labs.

The time didn't matter, as long as you could work on your research. To once again feel like a valuable input to the academic environment and a student from your PhD days, when the world was most beautiful under the microscope and while collecting the newest data.

Your heart raced during the meetings as your fingers carefully noted each idea, each plan that other scientists put forward. The greatest minds in the world, flooding your own with plans and speculations you could've never thought of. Your brain fired multiple times a day, always running, always getting fed with new questions and solutions.

Why is the sun dying?

How can we stop it?

How to produce enough fuel to go all the way right to the sun?

Is that even possible?

But then it was revealed that an alien microbe was composed entirely of water, and your world collapsed. Because it finally confirmed the very point you've been secretly trying to reject for years, proving to you that cells cannot survive without water.

Your heart broke, and a wave of shame washed over your spine. The shame connected to your younger self, foolishly believing in a greatness of discovery no one has ever made. Something worth the international conferences, massive grants, Nobel Prize, and yet, you needed a single, alien cell, something not belonging to the human world, to finally prove those old geezers from your committee right.

The white, big lamp of the lab flickered; darkness spilt over the endless night. Nothing but a faint buzz of mosquitoes filled the lab, hitting the window again, and again, and again. Hungry and relentless, looking at your body hunched over the failed experiment and slightly trembling lip.

You haven't noticed someone else's presence until something cold and wet touched your cheek. Turning the head around, you noticed a can of soda and Choso's pale fingers wrapped around it.

"Thanks," escaped in a whisper, as you took the drink.

He nodded, sitting on the stool right next to you. Your lab partner, who's been through your highs and lows for the past few weeks. The biggest encouragement and life support, always reminding you to eat well and drink something other than a third coffee in a row. He was another government body, Yuki's closest friend, yet – you liked him.

He felt the most normal here, and thus, your head rested on his shoulder, while hair covered the slightly wet cheeks.

"Are you crying?" he asked quietly.

Your head shook, and a second later, a loud sniff rolled. Choso chuckled, offering a tissue.

"Thank you, Cho," you mumbled, trying to hide the streaming tears behind the wide glasses.

He nodded, waiting for you to calm down a bit. The white lamp buzzed quietly, and the screen of the computer shone bright with your PhD dissertation. The thick letters of the title, with your name written right below.

Three hundred pages of bullshit born from your silly dreams. The Nobel Prize? Dear heavens, you barely deserved to be part of the current team.

"That's not the end of the world, you know?" he said, then pressed his cheek with tongue. "Hm, no. It actually is."

You laughed disgustingly, with a snort slipping out of your nose and another wave of tears streaming down your face. "I'm sorry," slipped almost silently. "I'm sorry, I proved you all wrong."

Choso sighed, looking at your sorry state. He pushed a strand of your hair behind your ear and brushed away a single tear with a soft thumb. "No, you didn't. Now that we know what it's made of, you can think about another solution."

But there isn't another solution, you wanted to say, and instead bit down on your lower lip. The words bubbled in your throat, but a thin thread of hope still pulled at your heart. A faint wish that maybe this discovery wasn't a disaster. That the alien cell, made almost entirely of water, could somehow help with the mission.

That you could still prove yourself as a true scientist.

"Hey," Choso whispered, turning your face towards him. Deep, warm eyes shimmered with kindness as he offered a soft smile and gently pinched your cheek. "You are one of the smartest people I have ever met. I'm sure you can figure this out. Yuki believes in you. I believe in you." Staring into his eyes, you nodded with a pout. He chuckled and opened your soda with a quiet hiss. "Alright, let's call it a day and get back to it tomorrow. We still have time."

But the fact was that – you didn't.

And it was painfully obvious in how Yuki glanced into your lab every few days, asking about progress and results in halting the spread of alien microbes on the sun. Her neatly plucked eyebrows furrowed whenever you shook your head, and a short, stressed sigh escaped her rosy lips.

Try to hurry up, she would usually say, pulling a not-so-comforting smile.

Weeks went by, and everyone's stress increased. Yuki decided to set up a deadly mission, sending a team of astronauts to collect data personally.

The catch? They wouldn't return.

While there was enough fuel to reach the star teeming with alien microbes, there wasn't enough to return. Their goal was to collect the microbes, find a way to stop them from consuming the sun, and send all the data back to Earth.

The first time you heard about it, your knees almost buckled. It sounded outrageous, absolutely crazy, and the chance of finding someone mad and healthy enough to meet the requirements perfectly was already impossible.

And as it turned out, you were wrong.

The four astronauts were more than willing to sacrifice their lives for the greater good – to venture into the vast, endless space and perish there, in the company of strangers and eerie silence. To become saviours on a mission that could save the entire world.

Except, there was a risk the mission would fail.

Except, no one knew if they wouldn't lose their lives for nothing.

Because if that happened, if it turned out that all the money and sacrifices the government has invested in it would go to waste, the world would truly descend into shambles.

You stood against it from the very beginning, but You stood against it from the very beginning, but Yuki had already decided. And so there was nothing left to do but help the spaceship travel the twelve light-years towards the only star that was also dying, devoured by an alien microbe.

One hundred and thirteen trillion kilometres.

An unimaginably vast distance a simple mind could not grasp, yet you had to find a way to make it work. To figure out how to gather enough fuel to propel the massive, metal spaceship through every single kilometre.

And after a few weeks of getting yourself filled with coffee and nights spent outside the NASA base, gazing up into the endless darkness, you finally got it.

"The alien microbes possess unimaginable power," you said in one breath, looking like a madwoman. With hair twisted into a messy braid, hands shaking from too much caffeine, eyes glimmering as if possessed by Einstein himself. Your fingers gripped the black marker before drawing another black dot on the whiteboard. "You see, what we can do is allow the engines to feed the alien microbes into a reaction chamber and boil them to the point of natural breeding. This way, the cells will multiply and multiply, allowing us to use them in a much more efficient way," the black marker swooshed all over the board, drawing a crooked picture of the spaceship.

At least thirty pairs of eyes, seated in a conference room at NASA headquarters, stared into it with furrowed yet hopeful gazes. Yuki and Choso, among them, tried to understand the point you were making. The crazy discovery you had made mere hours earlier, before quickly asking for a meeting.

"Our ship doesn't need turbines, generators or heat exchangers, because there's no conventional fuel. It works as a sort of ship driven by light energy–"

"That's impossible," someone among the other scientists interrupted. "You cannot fuel a ship of such dimensions with light alone."

You nodded, whispering like a psycho under your breath, head buzzing with numbers. "Yes, you cannot do it with the sources we have here, on Earth. But," you turned back towards the whiteboard. "Our ship is not like the others, and the microbes allow us to actually use the light force as a fuel. Look, for every action there's an equal and opposite reaction. Newton's third law, we all know it, right?" A few heads nodded in unison. "Well, our ship will emit light in one direction, while Newton's law will push it in the other. I know it used to work only in theory, but with the amount of power packed into a single microbe, we can use it for our good. In short, the alien power goes into the ship, the light comes out, and we can move forward."

A long, heavy silence filled the room as you finished your little drawing. Black lines coated the board, crossing the black dots and twisting around the childishly drawn ship. You pushed your glasses up your nose and tucked a strand of hair back behind your ear.

That was it. Nothing else could've been done on your side. If none of the scientists and governmental bodies believed your crazy plan could work, there was no other way to put the ship on a direct course towards that star.

Yuki sighed and looked around nervously. While people whispered, shook their heads, or took notes, no one offered you a warm nod or made direct eye contact. But it also seemed that no one else had a better idea.

"Are you sure it can work?" "Are you sure it can work?" Yuki asked, a heavy gaze lingering as warmth crept up your cheeks. "It's over a hundred and thirteen trillion kilometres. Are you sure the ship can be fuelled only by this alien microbe?"

Something weighed on your heart. Fear, panic, years spent believing you weren't good enough to become a real scientist. Those snickers from the PhD commission stating your research was useless. The rejections from one scientific conference after another, as no one wanted to accept your proposals.

Days spent on crying and staring at your dissertation, as if looking at it long enough would suddenly make it all worth it.

And then, under the cold light of the conference room, with thirty heads staring at you in blank mimicry, you needed to make a decision.

The one that would soon turn into a weight on your life.

"Yes," finally slipped. Strong and confident, as you corrected glasses slipping off your nose. "I can make it work."

But then…

But then the catastrophe came.

The betrayal.

Yuki apologising with utmost sincerity. Choso sitting quietly in the corner of her office. Three men keeping your body down.

From the moment you saw the space crew, one thought kept lingering in your mind. You dismissed it with a casual "they'll figure it out" wave, ignoring the instinct that indicated something was off – something that should have been clear from the start.

Why didn't the space crew have the scientist?

And a day before the departure, you finally discovered why.

"I'm sorry, I'm really so so sorry," Yuki said, trying to calm your wriggling body. The man's hands dug deep into your spine, keeping the hands and knees in place, with a cheek pressed to a dirty carpet. "We don't have any choice, and you wouldn't agree if I asked–"

"Of course I wouldn't!" you screamed, trying to bite the soft hand that reached towards you. "It's a fucking suicide! I'm a simple teacher; I can't go to a fucking space–ah, can you be a bit more gentle?!" But the men's fingers were already wrapping your hands with a thick rope. "Yuki, you can't do it to me!"

The woman didn't say anything. She merely opened her office door and beckoned someone inside. Wearing a white robe and holding a syringe between their fingers.

Your mind raced, breathing became almost impossible, and your throat clenched as you fought the sudden urge to vomit on the carpet. You tried to meet Choso's gaze, but he sat in the corner with his head in his hands, avoiding your gaze since you entered the office.

"Choso," you cried, as the doctor came closer. Long, thin needle shimmered under the office's cold lamp, sending a shiver down your spine. "Choso, l-look at me. You fucking coward, you bastard!" Fat tears rolled down your cheeks as the man sat like a stone figure. "You knew about it from the beginning, right? How could you do this to me?!"

Deep, warm eyes that you spent days gazing into finally looked up. Slightly wet, a bit hazy, while taking in the miserable state you found yourself in. Your glasses slightly crooked, lying a bit away from teary face. A few strands of hair sticking to your cheeks, arms twisted painfully behind back.

His fingers dug into the leather chair, as if trying to force himself to stay back.

"I'm sorry," he whispered. "I didn't… I couldn't bring myself to tell you…"

"That I'm going for a fucking suicidal mission?!" you interrupted, still trying to kick the men off your body. "I thought we were friends! I trusted you! And you simply sold me away?"

Yuki shivered, her gaze shifting between coldness and heartbreaking warmth whenever she looked at your writhing body. She slipped her trembling hand into the pocket of her jeans before giving the doctor a small nod.

"N-No," you cried, when the man in white bent down. A sudden, sharp pain washed over your body, tickling the ends of your fingertips. "Please, I d-don't want to, I can't…"

And then, a weariness slowly filled your mind, lulling it into a deep sleep. Your body relaxed, eyes half-closed, as if weighted by the countless sleepless nights you had spent in labs.

The men lifted you up, keeping your head steady, but you didn't feel a thing. Your feet felt funny, light, as if blending into feathers. Some hushed voices started to argue, someone's warm hand brushed your cheek, and a heavy, musky smell filled your nostrils.

And before you lost consciousness, a silent save the earth sneaked into your ear.

𖥔 ݁ ˖ 𖥔 ݁ ˖ 𖥔 ݁ ˖

"Amazing," a low sigh slipped past your lips as you watched a massive ship slowly follow yours.

Monstrous, at least twenty times larger than the spaceship you called home for the past three years, which couldn't be contained within the small window you looked through. It appeared incredibly bright, almost as if it were made of glass, yet you couldn't see anything beyond the thick walls.

It's been shadowing you since yesterday, and it has been following you since yesterday, regardless of how long you travelled or how fast you went; it remained right there. Always in your line of sight from your window, constantly mirroring every move you make. 

It was… fascinating. To say at least.

A little frightening? Sure, as you were alone on a ship, with the crew long gone and drifting silently through the vast emptiness of space.

Bit still – fascinating. It marked the first time a human saw an object outside Earth. Majestic and otherworldly, it looked somewhat familiar yet vastly different. A faint cosmic glow shimmered on its diamond-like walls, casting short beams through your solitary window, as if attempting to communicate. As if the creature within tried to contact.

Still drifting slowly, you bit down on your lower lip. "Maybe I should stop?" you thought out loud, as another flicker of light hit your window. "What if they'll attack me?"

But at this point, already being alone on an impossible, suicidal mission, it seemed that an alien attack would be the least of your problems. In fact, maybe it would even sweeten your life a bit, and before meeting death, you would still have a chance to make the first human contact with life outside Earth.

"Okay," You took a deep sigh, pulling down the engine handle. "Let's see what you want from me."

Your ship stopped, and the monstrous glassed vehicle followed right away. With your forehead pressed to the window, you waited.

And waited, waited, till ten minutes passed and the ship stood still. Your tongue pressed against the soft cheek as you walked back and forth, awaiting any sign of activity. Yet, the vast galaxy outside remained tranquil, a gentle glow reflecting off the smooth, wall-like surface of the enormous ship. It lacked doors and windows, being just a glassy, shimmering exterior that–

"Oh no," your throat tightened as it drew closer. And closer, closer, swooshing towards you, something long slowly sliding out of the ship's tall wall. "Oh, that's bad, fuck."

A panic squeezed your heart, thoughts rushed through a tired mind, and there weren't enough cuticles on your nails to bite them all. The window was too small to see the thing clearly, but it seemed to be heading straight towards your ship's door. A long, shining tube swooshed closer and closer until your ship suddenly vibrated, as if gently brushing against a foreign object.

Your fingers fidgeted with the plush fabric of the shirt, while droplets of sweat made your glasses slide down your temple. With unsteady legs, you cautiously moved toward the astronaut's suit and started pulling it over your body. The zipper felt heavy under your touch, and the bubble-shaped helmet was more suffocating than usual. The oxygen backpack almost doubled your load as you headed toward the door, with heavy pounding in your chest.

Your heart was always perfectly healthy, and yet for the first time in your life, you tried to remember all the possible symptoms of a woman's heart attack.

Chest pain, severe shortness of breath, nausea, radiating pain in the neck and jaw, you counted in your mind, marking each and every sign in your current state.

"Fuck, okay," trembling, glove-coated hands squeezed the handle of the massive, metal door, before you pushed it. It opened with a low, soft creek, inviting you into the endless tunnel filled with darkness.

To your surprise, gravity worked here, and thus you dropped heavily onto the hard floor. A soft oh filled the helmet as you lifted the flashlight a bit higher. Something shimmered at the end of the darkness, yet you weren't sure what.

Your steps didn't echo from the thick walls as you slowly approached the entrance to the alien ship. Thoughts clashed painfully in your mind, questions rose one by one as you breathed with a squeezed chest under the weighty kilograms of a spacesuit.

How many of them were there?

What did they look like?

Were they friendly?

How quick and painful would your death be?

Your mind tried to ignore the last one, as the chance of a cardiac arrest before meeting an alien seemed much more likely. Fingers clutched the flashlight tighter, feet moved carefully, one step after another, sticking to the tunnel's crooked surface.

"Hello?" Your voice bounced off the walls, lined with terror. "Whoever you are, I come in peace!"

Oh, what a cheesy line, you thought, biting down on your lower lip.

After a few steps, the glimmering thing came fully into view, and only then did you notice it was a thick glass wall. Or at least something similar to glass, with a hard surface that stopped you from going any further.

Glove-clothed hand touched it, helmet bumped against it, as you tried to light the darkness spilling behind it.

"Hello?" slipped a bit louder, with your fist knocking on the glass. "Anyone there?"

A silence, dull and endless, filled an eerie tunnel. Looking back, you took a note that your spaceship was still there – safe and sound – and you let out a deep sigh. It's not as if it would suddenly float away, but–

A heavy thump suddenly shook the tunnel's floor.

Your head snapped back, breath hitched, fingers squeezed with a tremble around the flashlight.

"H-Hello?"

The light reflected off something towering and shimmering, slowly moving toward you in a relaxed, unhurried manner, nearly as tall as the tunnel itself. A bluish halo beamed off the creature's body, filling the dark space with a soft aura.

You stepped back, trying to direct a flickering beam straight at the thing coming your way, but your hand trembled too much. The heart was on the verge of stopping, and dread haunted the mind as it drew closer, revealing its height. At least two and a half metres, brushing the ceiling of the tunnel's crooked walls, filling the narrow space with its wide body.

And when the light caught on their face… oh.

The pale blue skin shimmered softly under a luminous glow. It appeared unnaturally smooth, soft, and a sudden, foolish wish to brush it with your thumb swirled inside your mind. White, snowy hair touched the handsome forehead, while nearly inhumanly pale-blue eyes gazed down at your spacesuit-covered body. You looked tiny and short in comparison, with a gloved hand once more resting on the glass wall.

The creature was dressed in a white suit, clinging tightly to its body and digging deep into the hard muscles bulging under its skin. Alien's head tilted, knees bent down, and within a second, it found itself on eye-level with you.

White lashes decorating endless, luminous blue fluttered, as if trying to take in the terror twisting your face.

"⊑⟒⌰⌰⍜," a low, manly voice crept past the glass.

Your eyes bulged like two porcelain plates, fingers pressed closer to the wall.

So he was a man.

Well, you could already figure that much based on his looks, but the warm tone slipping under your bubble helmet was evidence enough.

Your mind didn't register the language at first, but when his soft brow travelled up, and lips curled in a smile, you thought that maybe he was awaiting an answer.

"Oh, um," you took a step back, waving your hand clumsily. "Hello."

The creature's head tilted again, and he mimicked your gesture.

You blinked twice, still struggling to believe the situation you're in. "Uh, okay, what now?" you whispered. "I am..." You pointed at your head and said your name clearly and loudly. "What about you?"

"⊬⍜⎍ ☊⏃⋏ ⏚⍀⟒⏃⏁⊑ ⊑⟒⍀⟒," the creature said, and a wave of different sounds and tones once again hit your ears.

You sighed, pressing tongue against your cheek. "Right, it's not going to work."

He looked at you, and you looked at him. You, with a slightly furrowed forehead and your mind rushing through all the possible ways to communicate with the alien. He, with lips curled cheekily and pale eyes fixed on your face.

"I wouldn't mind your cooperation, you know?" you mumbled, but he tipped his head left and right, like a curious puppy.

"⊬⍜⎍ ☊⏃⋏ ⏚⍀⟒⏃⏁⊑⟒ ⊑⟒⍀⟒," the same sounds once again slipped past the glass wall.

His head was tipping and tilting, and a second had passed before you finally understood that he wanted to say something.

"What? I don't understand," you said, mimicking his movements.

And thus both of you were shaking and tilting your heads, going over and over the same ⊬⍜⎍ ☊⏃⋏ ⏚⍀⟒⏃⏁⊑⟒ ⊑⟒⍀⟒,and I don't understand.

His brows furrowed as if irritated, and large hand touched his chest. He took a deep breath – first and second – then pointed at his head and finally at yours.

Oh.

"You want me to..." you gestured as if removing the helmet. A quiet chuckle escaped him, and eyes glinted. "But I can't breathe here."

He didn't understand and thus pointed at your head once again. "⏁⏃☍⟒ ⟟⏁ ⍜⎎⎎."

Your head shook. "Whatever you say, I cannot take it off. Because I will…" Your hands slipped up to your throat before a wave of trembling convulsions bent your body. It wriggled, shook, before, with a theatrical cough, you fell down the crooked floor.

The creature was staring at you with a furrowed forehead and a gentle flicker of amusement coiling in his spectral eyes.

"Not the best first impression, I know," you muttered, swiftly standing up. "My point is, I can't breathe without it."

But it seemed he either didn't understand or was simply relentless in his pleadings. As the long fingers hit the glass wall, pointing right at your head. Another deep breath slipped past his lips, and he nodded, as if trying to say it was fine. Whatever he filled the tunnel with, you could breathe here.

And thus, the thought of what if slipped quietly into your mind.

What if he was right?

What if he really did fill your half of the tunnel with oxygen?

But what if he was wrong, and the moment the helmet would go off, you would die in inhumane suffering?

Light blue eyes shone with anticipation, lips curled into an encouraging smile, and a finger pressed harder into the glass wall.

You took a deep breath, feeling the droplets of sweat coiling at the nape of your neck. He seemed to be a highly intelligent creature, with the ability to communicate as well as you and a rather comprehensive understanding of the differences between your species. For some reason, trusting him felt almost natural, and the assuring look of his spectral gaze made you drop your head with a sigh.

When fingers hooked on the helmet's edges, your heart was nearing its death. Chest squeezed painfully, eyes closed till the eyelids dug deep into your balls. The sweat was now dripping down your spine, wetting the nape of your neck and shirt that clung to your body under the heavy spacesuit.

"Okay," you whispered, both to yourself and him, and it seemed that he was rather amused by the agony twisting your mind. When he chuckled, your brows furrowed. "Don't laugh. There's a rather big chance this air will burn me from the inside."

And so it happened – your fingers slowly unclasped the neck ring, allowing the pressurised seal to loosen with a soft puf. The bubble helmet was lifted unhurriedly, as if your lungs were still trying to grasp the rest of the oxygen swirling inside it.

With still closed eyes, you took the first breath. And the second, and the third, and then, looking back at the alien, a sweet, loud scoff slipped past your lips, and flushed cheeks.

"⌇⟒⟒, ⟟ ⏁⍜⌰⎅ ⊬⍜⎍," he chuckled, pressing his forehead to the glass wall.

Still in shock, you stepped closer, also touching the warm, crystal surface with your brows. "Sure, whatever you say."

You looked at each other for a while, with beaming smiles and foreheads almost brushing as you leaned in, a rather intimate gesture. It seemed that the first meeting with another species broke down some specific walls for both of you. The curiosity and fascination with one another blurred the lines of proper manners, breaching all the careful first steps you surely should think of.

His eyes flickered, suggesting a new idea had just come to him. He raised a finger and gestured for you to stay put. After your gentle nod, he vanished into the darkness of the tunnel, leaving you alone with your thoughts swirling in your mind.

Five minutes passed, then ten, and as you sat on the crooked floor and took off the heavy spacesuit, he finally came back, with something gripped by his hand.

You looked closer, noticing the collar-like device and a small earplug. He placed it inside his ear while wrapping the collar around the pale neck. A faint, crispy sound filled his side of the tunnel, and milky brows furrowed as he pressed onto the device in his ear.

And then, with a gesture, he asked you to say something.

"Um," your head tilted, and he sat right in front of you, waiting with a soft smile. "You are rather pretty for an alien."

His fingers still pressed the small device, and after a second, cheekiness flickered in his eyes. "Am I, question? You are the most beautiful creature I have ever seen."

To say you froze in shock would be an understatement.

Your lips parted, eyebrows nearly touching hairline, as body leaned forward before your hand pressed against the glass wall. You didn't know whether you were more surprised by either his ability to speak your language or the casual compliment that caused your cheeks to heat up.

"You can…" You shook your head, barely breathing. "But how is it…"

He pointed at his ear. "This device recognises your language," then gestured to his neck. "And connects with this. Whenever I speak in my language, this collar converts it into yours."

A soft ah slipped past your lips, eyes fixed on the thin, crystal band made of a sort of rubber material. Your finger brushed the glass wall, as if trying to feel the device beneath it.

Your brows furrowed when another issue started to bite into your curiosity. "But how do you know my language? How did you build this translator? Our species never made contact."

He sat closer, pressing his forehead to the glass again. At this point, you started to wonder whether it was a sort of typical signal from his species, carrying a special, unknown meaning. And when he beamed with joy, you noticed little white droplets shining faintly, sprinkled around his cheeks. Was this an equivalent of a blush?

"You didn't with us," he pressed a finger to yours, and only then did you see the true, monstrous size of his hand. "But the Reds had been studying you for years."

The reds…

"Oh gosh!" A gasp ripped out of your throat as you covered your mouth with a hand. His head tilted. "The Reds, you mean, Martians?"

"Why are you shocked, question?" he asked, carefully eyeing as you quickly stood up and started walking back and forth between the walls.

Your mind pulsed, trying to comprehend everything that had happened over the past hour. The strange spaceship, the first-ever human contact with life beyond Earth, the final confirmation that aliens did, in fact, kidnap people and conduct experiments on them.

"I'm shocked, because humans never made any contact with life outside our planet," you said, biting down on a fingernail. "How long have you known the Reds?"

A low hum slipped past his lips, and smooth, blue forehead creased. "Five hundred years, I say."

"What?!" Your knees buckled as you once again sat in front of him, with hands and forehead and breasts pressed tightly to a glass wall. "Five hundred years? How is that possible? Are your planets close to each other?"

His head shook, but forehead remained wrinkled. "Humans are very underdeveloped."

You chuckled softly, noticing small, adorable language mistakes the translator made here and there. It's still, robotic voice muffled the creature's deep tone, and something squeezed your heart, as you surprisingly discovered that the honeyed warmth of his tone wrapped your mind in a rather pleasing manner.

"Yes, it seems so." Your head turned, with flushed cheeks pressed to the wall. "But till now I had no idea how far behind we are."

He stayed quiet for a moment before tapping gently on the wall. Your eyes slipped back to his, noticing the droplets sprinkled across his face, radiating adorably like flickering stars.

"My name is Satoru," rolled quietly, as the shimmering dust coated his cheeks ever wider. "Your name, question?"

When you said it slowly, he nodded, still tapping on the surface. Right against your pressed hand. "That's a very beautiful name."

"Yours is not bad either."

He hummed, as if in agreement.

Your head grew heavier and heavier, and the warmth was gently trying to coax you into sleep. As you yawned, Satoru's ghostly eyes carefully followed the exhaustion clouding your forehead.

"Are you tired, question?"

His throat bobbed when you giggled. "You don't have to add a question at the end of each ask, you know?"

You assumed that, because of his grammar rules, he needed to emphasise the difference between normal sentences and inquiries. You've noticed that his language sounded much more melodic than yours, yet it lacked the upward pitch humans use.

"But I am tired, thank you for asking." Looking over your shoulder, you've noticed that your ship was, fortunately, still there. "How about I go to sleep, and we'll get back to our talk in a few hours?"

You slowly stood up and grabbed your heavy spacesuit. Glasses slipped off your nose, and hair stuck to still-warm cheeks, as you lifted up the flashlight and… oh.

It seemed that you missed the sudden sorrow deepening between Satoru's brows. Eyes widened in panic, big palms plastered to the wall with lips just slightly opened, as he looked with a fearful expression at your attempt to move away from the wall. From him.

"Satoru–"

"Can you please sleep here?" His voice trembled, although the translator's robotic tone remained unwavering.

You looked around the tunnel, feeling the crooked ground bending beneath your feet and the dark walls emitting a deep, earthy smell. "I don't think that's a good idea, Satoru." A warm smile lifted your lips as you turned towards your spaceship. "But don't worry, I'll be back. Sleep for a bit, and before you'll notice, I'll–"

"Please," the anxiety filling his shaken voice stabbed right through your heart. "Please let me watch you sleep."

You glanced over your shoulder, seeing him in the same position. With hands pressed against the wall and eyebrows furrowed deeply.

"Watch me sleep?"

He nodded. "I… I didn't watch my crew sleep. The crew died. Satoru has been alone for the past forty years." Your lips fell open, but he quickly added, as if afraid you'd refuse again. "I watch you sleep, you won't die."

Seeing his face – filled with anxiety, pure fear, and misery – you could only smile softly and nod. As the mere thought of this man spending over forty years in space all alone tore your heart apart in the most inhumanely painful way.

"Yes, okay," barely pushed past your lips, before you cleared your throat. "Just let me bring my stuff."

You quickly changed into pyjamas, gathered a few blankets, a pillow and enough water for the night, before going back to the warm tunnel.

And then, as you drew closer to the glassy wall, you noticed a slight change in its shape. As during the five minutes you were gone, Satoru had prepared a special shelf for your body to lie right next to him. With his own feather-like blanket, he lay on his side, waiting for you to slip into the long space and hug him.

You giggled, filling the space with your own things. "That's quite intimate, Satoru."

His body was much taller than the width of the tunnel, and thus, he curled his legs a bit before trying to get even closer to you. "What does intimate mean, question?"

With head hitting the soft pillow and blanket covering your body, you turned his way. Nothing but a thick crystal wall kept you away from brushing noses with each other.

"It means that you're trying to be romantic with someone," but then you thought he might also not understand what romantic means. "Hm, it's when you do nice things for a certain person that you wouldn't do for anyone else. For example, make a special bed to be closer to someone."

A soft crease wrinkled his forehead, and the peacefulness of his eyes told you that he was deeply thinking. "I wouldn't do it for anyone other than you."

The sincerity beaming from his eyes was enough to assure you of the innocent truthfulness of his words. So you sighed, nuzzling deep into the pillow, hoping he didn't notice the warmth on your cheeks.

"That's very romantic, you know? Something you would say to your special someone."

"To your mate, question?"

You hummed, softly closing eyes. His presence somehow made your body tingle with a pleasant warmth, allowing the sleep to haunt your mind in a much softer, calmer way. In a way, you didn't feel for a long, long time, spending days in loneliness and a maddening need to feel someone else's warmth again.

You couldn't feel Satoru's heat, yet your heart fluttered fondly as his gaze truly watched you sleep.

"Yes, although humans don't mate."

"Why, question?"

When you giggled – sweetly, kindly – droplets coating Satoru's cheeks lighted up. Solely for a second, but it was enough to make him slip closer, and closer, and closer, till the glass wall was digging painfully into his body, and his heart still rushed your way.

You bubbled something under your nose. An answer he could not hear. With your lips falling open and a crystal string of saliva dripping down the soft pillow.

His finger pressed against the glass, as if wishing to brush it away.

And when another five minutes passed, a soft snoring filled your side of the tunnel. Breath calmed down, and body drew closer to his. Trying to curl into his – big, burning hot, utterly dangerous for yours.

"I watch you sleep," he whispered, brushing the glass with your pressed cheek. "You never die."

𖥔 ݁ ˖ 𖥔 ݁ ˖ 𖥔 ݁ ˖

Satoru was much more intelligent than you expected.

It's not that you treated him as beneath you, but the true power of his mind exceeded your expectations.

And as it turned out, he was in the same situation as you – researching the alien microbes that were also eating his sun. Except that his species discovered the problem forty years before yours, and thus a wave of panic washed over your mind. Because if a creature like Satoru couldn't find the solution to the problem that apparently touched not just Earth but the whole universe, you wouldn't do it either.

One difference between you and Satoru was that, as an engineer, he could actually do things himself. Simply produce them, with all the glassed walls and tiny models of planets made from a strange, gluey substance that rolled off his fingers. He wasn't a scientist like you, so when he heard that you were the "brain" of the crew, his eyes flickered. 

"We can work together," he proposed, already considering the path to the only planet not consumed by alien microbes. Since it wasn't infected, it suggested there was something in its atmosphere that enabled it to withstand the lethal bacteria. "You will be the mastermind of the entire operation, I will develop the sources. Also, I have spent forty years here, so I know how to navigate."

His eyes were fixed on creating another little planet, rolling the gluey strings between his pads, moulding them into a ball and waiting until the substance dried into a crystal orb. After a few days, your glassy wall had advanced enough to have a small opening for a shelf where you could exchange little presents.

Although you forgot that Satoru's atmosphere was close to boiling lava in temperature, when your hands accidentally brushed, a nasty, red bump was left on the skin of your thumb.

He put the ball on the shelf and moved his hand away so you could grab it.

"Which planet is it?" you wondered, brushing the crystal surface.

He tsked – something he learnt from you mere hour ago – and mumbled. "The earth, of course."

A scoff escaped your lips, and warmth spilt over the heart. "We're not that small."

"I believe you are."

"And we have more greenery."

He wondered, this time building a small spaceship. Your spaceship. "I would like to see it."

Some things have become clearer after spending the past few days in Satoru's presence. His planet was one of the closest to the sun, wrapped in a dense atmosphere that protected its inhabitants from being burned alive. As Satoru said, the days merged with the nights, and it was always rather dark – hence the pale, almost spectral eyes he and other inhabitants had. There was little to no greenery, and the water system had long been sustained by technologies developed by engineers like him.

"A lot of sand", he once said, and you wondered whether it would look like anything close to the climate of Arab countries.

His head tilted then, and eyes flickered with curiosity. "How do Arab countries look, question?"

You tried to describe the endless desert plains, the crimson sun, the curling droplets of sweat on your neck, and the nights filled with beaming joy as best you could. The feel of warm sand under your feet, sea brushing the skin sweetly and fresh dates melting on your tongue in sugary pleasure.

He listened, with eyes following the curve of your lips and fingers fidgeting with the hem of your shirt.

"I would love to see it," he muttered, poking the glass wall with his finger. "It sounds beautiful."

You giggled, following the pale blue of his skin. Soft and shiny, it reminded you more of a region bitten by cold than of the merciless atmospheric temperature of over two hundred degrees Celsius.

"You're rather pale for someone living right next to the sun."

He scoffed, with fingers still creating the small spaceship. In the meantime, you leaned against the crooked tunnel's wall, with a laptop on your thighs, trying to plan the route towards the only "safe" planet.

"I'm not pale. I'm blue."

"That was a joke," you shoot him a glance, seeing the irritated squint of his eyes. "It means that the thing I say is supposed to be funny. You should laugh."

A low, awkward chuckle rolled off his lips, and you couldn't help but burst out laughing. Satoru knew how to express his joy, but it seemed he didn't quite possess the humour you did.

The moment has passed, and a comfortable silence stretched between the two of you. He was mapping the galaxy, while you tried to work out whether your ship still had enough fuel to travel that far. It would take you months to reach that planet, but there seemed to be no other choice. After that mission, the fuel will run out, and you, just as planned, will die here – somewhere in the embrace of endless space.

A low sigh slipped past your lips, catching Satoru's attention. "Are you tired, question?"

Your head shook, and a few strands of hair fell loosely from a pinup. "I would love to invite you to my ship. There's a room where we can watch movies and stuff. I'm sure I can find something about Egypt."

And so…

You've also learned over the past few days that Satoru took everything seriously.

In the most genuine and firm understanding of this word.

Two weeks have passed since your meeting. One morning, as you stood in front of the bathroom mirror, dressed in nothing but panties and a loose shirt while brushing your teeth, a deep, gravelly rumble shook the entire spaceship.

Your heart leapt into your throat, eyes bulged, and you dashed out of the room with wet hair and bare feet. With all the prayers you've learnt as a child repeating in your mind over and over again, as you run towards the entrance of the ship.

Did you somehow get unsealed from the tunnel?

Did something hit the ship and cause the irreparable damage that would cost you your life?

Fuck, did–

But when you finally got into the room connected with an entrance, with toothpaste smeared all over your cheek and glasses falling crookedly off your nose, a low gasp slipped past your lips.

"Satoru?!"

Because the pale-bluish creature himself stood in the middle of your spaceship, locked in a…

"And you're in a ball?" Like a hamster, wanted to join, but he probably wouldn't know what a hamster is.

Standing right in front of you, fully upright, with long legs wrapped in a white suit and a muscular back bulging under the stretched material – he appeared even more monstrous than usual. A creature over two metres tall, looking all over your place with amusement shining in his eyes, his gaze following all your dirty panties spread across the floor.

"Yep, so I won't die in your atmosphere," long fingers knocked the crystal ball, before lips curved in a cheeky smile. "Can I smell it, question? I want to know how your body smells. Put it to the shel–"

A sudden warmth had hit your cheeks, and throat tightened around the remnants of the toothpaste. "Absolutely not! It's very not polite of you to ask such things."

He started walking around in a large ball that barely fit the corridors of your spaceship, its hard walls brushing against each and every machine, piece of furniture, and console on its way. He strolled freely, dropping different comments here and there, while you followed him and picked up all your clothes.

"So dirty," he snapped, pushing a loud scoff from your throat.

"I didn't expect the guests!"

But he ignored you, as your bedroom appeared somewhere within the line of his sight. Blue cheeks shone with crystal droplets, and white, fluffy hair almost stood on end with excitement. Before you could stop him, long legs swiftly moved towards your bedroom, taking in every little, dirty, detail – more panties, a small mattress, a few books lying scattered all over the floor.

"Is that our nest, question?" He looked around before parking his ball next to your mattress. He sat down, leaning against the floor, and finally shot you a look. "I like it."

With a deep, weariness-filled sigh, you returned to the bathroom, cleaned yourself, and re-entered the bedroom. Soft light reflected off the glistening droplets on his cheeks as he probed the fabric of your panties with his finger. Only then did you realise that the ball, despite being firm, was quite flexible, enabling him to slide his fingers through its surface, which was covered in a sticky, shimmering coating that shielded his skin from the oxygen.

You took the material away from his curious gaze and pushed it back into your bag.

"Satoru, what are you doing here?" slipped rather harshly as you sat down on your bed.

He seemed to be confused by your tone, tilting the fluffy head with a furrow. "Are you mad, question?"

You knew that getting angry with him, while he was still learning to recognise human emotions, was silly. Stupid, even, and you felt as if you were shouting at the poor puppy. Except that this puppy was much taller than you and probably weighed twice your weight.

With a sigh, you fell back on the mattress and covered your face with an arm. "Sorry, I'm not mad. Just… surprised. I didn't expect you would come up my ship."

He tried to roll closer, but the space was too small to allow him any other movements than going back and forth from the entrance to your mattress. So he stayed in place, trying to observe the expression on your face.

"I can't see you like that," he noted.

Another thing you've learnt about his species was how important contact and intimacy are. Not even sexual ones, but rather a simple need to always be with someone. To communicate while looking right into their eyes, to feel their skin on theirs, and to follow the movements of their lips. To feel the presence of another creature next to them, even if the only thing you did was sleep next to each other.

So another sorry slipped past your lips, and you sat again, showing Satoru your face. He slightly lightened up before pressing a hand to the crystal ball.

"You said, and I quote, I would love to invite you to my ship," he noted with utmost seriousness, and you rolled your eyes. "So I came."

Well, he was right. You did say that, and you did wish there were a way to bring him into your ship. Travelling together would be much easier if both of you were on one ship, so amidst the pure chaos and shock he caused, you quite enjoyed the fact that he could live here.

With you.

"Okay," your hand pressed to the ball, filling half of his palm. "But we need to set up some rules first. First, we don't sleep in the same bedroom–"

"But I must watch–"

"Satoru," you interrupted him, seeing the pale eyes slip into the sorrowfulness. "You have excellent hearing and even more excellent sight. I'm sure you can watch me sleep while staying next door." A grim twisted his face, and a low mumble filled his little bubble. Too quiet for the translator to catch, so you chuckled sweetly, seeing his brattiness surface. "Okay. The second rule – you can't sniff my panties. It's something… reserved only for mates."

And, well, if that didn't fire him up – with eyes suddenly beaming in excitement and droplets twinkling one by one, like a tiny mingling stars. You felt as if you had challenged him, and thus quickly added. "And because we are not mates, you cannot do it. It's too intimate."

"I want to be intimate."

A sudden flush hit your cheeks, and warmth spread beneath your chest. "No, Satoru, you don't understand. It's about sexual intimacy. Something you share while…" saying it out loud felt like giving a biology lesson to elementary school kids. "Mating… with your special someone. When you, well, have sex and stuff. Do you know–"

He chuckled low, a sly smile lifting his lips. "I know what mating is."

Something in your lower belly bubbled, seeing him like that. Tall and strong, spreading a slightly possessive and dominating aura. With eyes full of bratty cheekiness and something, something, slightly sensual dripping from his voice.

"Well, so you know that we can't do it," You moved back, taking your palm away from the crystal ball. "Let's work on our plan and try to find a way to save the world."

And with a slight dissatisfaction, Satoru finally agreed.

But the next months spent in his presence were… interesting. To say at least.

Every day brought new surprises, which sometimes ended with your body blushing from head to toes, sometimes him getting shy and flustered, while still trying to keep up the cocky demeanour.

He was nothing less than excellent when it came to engineering and helping with the travel itself, also being an amazing companion for the long, daring journey.

Soon he resigned from constant stay in a ball and filled the interior of your spaceship with long corridors of crystal, making himself at home. Whenever you were – he was right next. Be it a bedroom, control room, kitchen or…

"Satoru!" You quickly covered your breasts with your hands, seeing him walking into the bathroom with the most casual demeanour.

A plate of some weird substance, he was always eating for supper, and a white suit half unzipped, showing off his muscular, blue chest. He leaned against the door, spectral eyes slowly following your naked body. From legs up to hips, staying longer on the gentle swell of your ass and the mould of your pussy, before going up, and up, to the breasts covered by your trembling fingers. "Sweetheart is the most beautiful creature I have ever seen."

"Sweetheart" because he really wished to call you something human pairs use for each other. Even though at least three times a week, you needed to remind him that you, in fact, were not a pair.

A muffled, surprised scoff escaped your lips. You pointed to the exit with one hand, forgetting it was clutching one of your breasts. When the silky swell smoothly slipped from your grasp, bouncing gently before his eyes, he moved closer, already pushing a finger through the stretching wall.

"Can I–"

You smacked it, once again showing the exit. "Satoru! You can't walk on me while I'm naked."

"Why, question?" he asked, relentlessly trying to get closer to your body. With a finger poking the wall, that unfortunately couldn't stretch enough to even brush your skin. "Come a bit closer."

Something in your belly bubbled, warmth spread across your chest, and a single, dirty thought of letting him touch you bloomed in your mind. After all, sexual needs and anatomy were among the things all researchers wished to know about foreign species. And because Satoru was of the same, curious kind as you…

"It's too early, out!"

His head tilted, and lips curved into a foxy smile. "It's eight in the evening."

"No, I mean, we're not close enough to do such stuff."

He knocked on the crystal wall. "Sweetheart, but I can't get closer."

Oh god.

You sighed, finally letting the other tit bounce softly too. Leaning against the small shelf, you glanced at him with a frown. He, however, looked anywhere but into your eyes. Rude.

"Our relationship is not on that level…" yet. "What you want to do is too intimate. Sexual." And then, a sudden curiosity spiked your mind. "Satoru, how does the… mate thing look like among your species?"

His eyes finally slipped up to yours. "We choose one mate for a whole life."

Well, that was rather clear.

"What about the, you know…" You gestured awkwardly, partially at your still naked body.

"The mating," he finished. But as if feeling the spike in your curiosity, with round eyes ogling his naked chest and slipping shyly towards his hips, he bubbled a low chuckle. "Come closer, and I will show you."

What a brat!

With the last tsk and a dirty look shot his way, you turned back towards the mirror and finished your quick, morning "shower". Even while using rinseless soap and water pouches to clean your body, you still felt Satoru's presence behind you.

Deep blue eyes following the curve of your body, back muscles working beneath the soft skin, and when you bent over to rinse your face, a sudden, sharp breath escaped his throat.

You didn't have to look back to know that he was looking straight at your pussy.

"It's wet," he mumbled, coming closer. And closer, until his finger once again tried to evade the stretching wall, too short to even brush the swell of your ass.

You hummed, trying to hide an embarrassed warmth kissing your neck. "It's a natural lubrication. It usually happens when a woman is…" oh fuck it. "Excited."

He seemed charmed, completely bewitched, and some part of you wished the temperature between your bodies wasn't over two hundred degrees Celsius. As the moment Satoru's hands touched your skin, you weren't sure whether calling it the third burn would be enough.

"Why is sweetheart excited, question?"

With your body leaning forward and hands resting on the shelf, you looked back, eyes slightly hazy, wetness dripping down your thigh. A silken droplet swirled down your leg, and Satoru's always oh-so-attentive eyes, of course didn't miss it.

"I want the taste," he mumbled, and only then did you notice a bulge, trying to rip free from beneath the white spacesuit covering his hips.

You took a deep breath, bending yourself lower and lower, till he could clearly see your cunt shining with silky wetness.

"I'm excited," you started, voice dripping with sensuality. "Because of you."

As if awaiting this exact answer, his eyes, for just a second, ripped themselves away from your soft pussy and looked up. To cross with yours – slightly teary, a bit too warm.

"I want to–"

You turned around, once again leaning against the shelf. A low groan escaped his throat, as he no longer could see your pussy in its fullness. The little pout twisting his lips made you giggle, but a tricky, dirty thought has slipped into your mind.

"How about this?" You took a step, then another, until you stood right in front of him. Much closer than before, but not close enough to let him brush your skin. "I will let you touch me. Watch me…" You coughed, feeling this wind of bravery leave your body as quickly as it had come. "Masturbate. And you'll let me do it too."

Satoru's lips fell open, eyes sparkled in excitement. "I thought the intimacy was only for mates. Are we mates then, question?"

"Let's call it friend with benefits."

His eyes narrowed. "We don't do such things with friends."

You scoffed, pushing your hip to the side and biting the inside of your cheek. "Well, we do, so you can either accept it or not."

And seeing that this time his bratty stubbornness wouldn't work, Satoru nodded.

A few minutes later, you found yourself in the most embarrassed, going-straight-to-the-grave position you could imagine. With elbows supporting your body on the bedroom's mattress, legs spread open, and pussy pressed against the crystal wall. The slippery juices coated the surface, making Satoru breathe much, much harder than before. With fingers wrapped around the biggest, most monstrous cock you've ever seen.

You needed a moment to take in the sight that sprang up in front of your eyes after he took off the rest of the suit. Massive, veiny shaft, with a swelled protrusion at his base, probably used while mating. The blue skin was peppered with similar droplets sprinkled on his cheeks, and shimmered faintly whenever he looked down at your cunt.

Small and fluttering, with your hole squeezing around nothing and clit swelled from excitement.

The penetrative gaze of his made you warm up even more. "Satoru, touch me," slipped like an order.

His long finger brushed the crystal wall and pushed – gently, carefully, till he felt a soft button under his pad and heard a low moan escape your lips.

He dreamed of feeling the gummy structure of your pussy. To roll the clit between his fingers, without any surface protecting his body. To lower himself down and smell, lick, taste the dripping cum that in his mind was sweeter than anything he had ever tried.

And it should be noted that he had quite refined taste buds.

His other hand pumped his massive cock in slow strokes, enjoying the sight spreading in front of him much more than the feeling of his fingers wrapped around the dripping shaft.

"Does it feel good, question?" He asked, hearing another moan fill the small bedroom.

"Y-yeah, ahh, try to make gentle circles," slipped faintly, as you started to roll nipples between your fingers.

His thumb pressed against your clit harder, making your feet curl and legs spread even wider. As if trying to invite his massive cock, that would surely rip you in half.

Maybe the fact that you couldn't touch each other wasn't that bad. Because if he somehow found a way to fuck you with this size, you sure would feel it up in your throat.

And thus you enjoyed the sight spreading in front of your eyes – his beefy thighs bulging whenever you jolted under his thumb, pearly cum dripping down the blue skin, long fingers squeezing the veiny meat as he still oh-so-carefully rubbed your clit.

"It's getting wetter," he noticed, biting the inside of his cheek. "I want to taste you."

His low voice made your body melt under his fingers, forcing your thighs to spread wider and wider, while chasing the pleasure bubbling in your belly. Your hole fluttered around nothing, and a sheer sight of his cock spun your mind in crazy wish to get yourself stretched around it. To feel every vein scratch your tight walls, till the drenched head would kiss your swelling womb.

"Fuck, wait, I have an idea," you backed out, crawling towards your bag.

Crazy, stupid, nasty plan slipped into your head, as you took out a mid-size, creamy dildo. With a sucking pad at the end, and a slightly curved head. It wasn't yours, as you somehow found it among the things… oh well, does it really matter? It was clean and had been bathed in antiseptic spray multiple times; thus, using it was not disgusting at all.

But when Satoru saw it, his breath hitched. Eyes slipped down to his cock, and forehead furrowed. "Why is it so small, question?"

You chuckled, sticking it to the crystal wall. "I'm sorry to disappoint you, but that's the average size of a human's dick."

He followed your body as you once again spread your legs open and brushed the silicone cock through your folds a few times. Drenching it all in your juices, and Satoru, since learning the meaning of jealousy, felt something unpleasant bubble in his heart. Because he wished to be the one making your pussy flutter around his head and push it inside, till your sugary walls would clamp around his fat cock.

Your forehead furrowed, eyes glistened from prickling tears as his thumb once again landed on your clit. But this time, the pleasure was twice as intense. With a silicone dick stretching your tight pussy and his finger rubbing you in slow, maddening circles.

"I could make you feel better," he groaned, hearing another pitched moan slip past your lips. "This pathetic thing is now worthy to be inside my sweetheart."

With rising irritation, he pressed your clit harsher. Till a tremble washed over your body and back hit the mattress, as you rolled your cunt to feel the dildo go deeper. But Satoru was right – his cock would indeed make you feel better.

Your hands slipped up to your breasts, pinching the hard buds and chasing the maddening pleasure bubbling in your lower belly.

A deep frown creased Satoru's forehead, and he gently squeezed your clit. "I can't see your face."

"R-right, sorry–ahhh," A cry rolled off your tongue as you once again leaned on your elbows. "Satoru, it feels so good, mhmm."

His cock was more flushed than before, with a cherry tip spilling the heavy, thick droplets all over his hand. He pumped it madly, never once taking his eyes off your lovely face. With pleasure twisting your brows and teary eyes fixed upon his.

"S-Satoru, I, fuck, I'm going to cum," the silicone cock kissed your cervix, smooching it wetly with hefty, gluey cum sipping from your hole.

You tried to imagine getting split open on his cock. Being filled by his cum, with creamy saps stuffing your swelling womb and pumping your belly full. Getting manhandled by his muscular arms and wide back, as he would fold you into a mating press and push into the mattress. Till each and every spring would painfully dig into your spine.

So with a final cry, you came.

With a loud cry, spine arching into the sweetest curve, and a sprinkling of sweetness gushing all over his thumb, although it was a true pity that he couldn't feel it. Your body trembled and lips fell open, seeing a furrow cloud his forehead and fingers tightening around his cock.

And then, an idea slipped quietly into your mind.

"Wait a minute, don't cum yet," you muttered, taking a pair of panties lying on your bed. With a single, dirty move, you rubbed them against your drenched folds, gathering all the creamy cum and honeyed sweetness.

Satoru… dear heavens.

When a flimsy material landed inside the shelf, quite similar to the one he installed in a tunnel, Satoru's fingers snapped forward and snatched it. He brought it closer to his nose, lips, feeling your precious wetness and the rich flavour burst right onto his tongue, as a low, primal groan escaped his throat.

"Mhmm, s-so, ahh, tastes so sweet," a muffled cry was almost incomprehensible with your panties filling his mouth.

The head of his cock pulsed, massive balls constricted whenever his tongue took another lick of your fresh cum and eyes… oh, eyes stayed on you.

On your breasts coated in sheer sweat, thighs still spread open and a little, minx smile twisting your lips. Satoru was sure he could cum only at the sheer sight of your angelic face, and thus, after a few more harsh pumps and muffled cries, he came. Loud and heavy, with creamy ropes shooting all over his glimmering skin and fully emptying everything he has been keeping far too long.

What a waste, you both thought, wishing it landed somewhere far, far sweeter and warmer. Deep inside your womb, preferably.

A moment has passed, with a small bedroom filled with your heavy breaths and shy glances, looking everywhere but at your cum-coated bodies. With a faint cough, you finally closed your thighs and covered yourself with a blanket.

Blooming loveliness crept up your cheeks, and suddenly looking at Satoru required far more courage and calm than it had merely thirty minutes ago.

Before you could ask whether he needed a towel, his low voice spoke first. "Are we mates now, question?"

He said sheepishly, lifting your panties with a finger.

You groaned and fell on a mattress with his chuckle tickling your burning ears.

You didn't want to destroy this moment, even though you knew your mission would end with you dying in space. That he would go back to his planet safely, while you would float and float and float, while eventually dying of hunger.

And so, sharing this sweet moment of intimacy, with warmth spreading beneath your chest, you nodded. "Yes, Satoru. Let's become mates."

𖥔 ݁ ˖ 𖥔 ݁ ˖ 𖥔 ݁ ˖

The next few months were filled with nothing but joy.

With movies playing on repeat in the small, cinematic room, Satoru watches each of them with his lips agape. Enjoying the landscapes of Earth, you could project them into a closed space, with a blue sky spreading across the ceiling and tall Scottish plains stretching beneath your feet.

With the golden sand of Thai beaches shimmering in the sun and coconuts falling from the palms, the chirping of birds perched high in the lush trees of the Amazon Forest, and the endless plains of the Sahara Desert.

When you joked that the three pyramids in Giza you were just looking at were believed to have been built by aliens, he only hummed and nodded as if in agreement. A scoff rolled off your tongue, and his head snapped towards you.

"Why are you nodding? Of course they weren't!"

Plush, bluish lips curved in a sly smile. "Is sweetheart sure, question? It looks like something we have on our planet."

An unbelievable shock crossed your face as you stared at him, speechless. "No, you don't!"

"Yes, we do."

"You're fucking with me."

His head tilted. "I thought we can't fuck."

You rolled your eyes, resting your head against his shoulder. Or at least against the crystal surface he was pressed against. "Forget it."

"I can't, my memory is excellent."

And that was indeed true, as Satoru seemed to remember every single thing you said or did over the past few months. The plan you devised to obtain a sample of the planet's atmospheric gas to discover why it was immune to deadly microbes was etched into his mind with meticulous precision.

Truly mesmerising creature he was, especially as he also remembered which buttons to push, to make you cum faster.

What you had also discovered was that Satoru loved to talk about your future.

Particularly during the late nights, when you were curled up under the warm blanket, lying on a mattress in a dimly lit room, with him cuddled up against your side.

He couldn't brush your soft cheek pressed against the wall, but it was fine.

For the look of your lovely face, he watched with warmth blooming in his chest, was enough.

On such nights, when both of you longed for each other's warmth, he enjoyed dreaming. Of you returning with him to his planet, building you a small, private island with oxygen, and fulfilling all your wishes. You teaching the children of his species physics – as you did on Earth – and him continuing to serve as the most valued engineer on his planet.

Of you and him living together in a small seaside cottage, spending days loving each other and lying on the soft beach till darkness would spill over the ocean's horizon – the only his planet had, the one he was ready to fully give into your hands. Having sex all day and night, to which you responded with a sweet, faint giggle, as sleep slowly slipped into your eyes.

"And how would we do it, hm?" you mumbled, pressing against the crystal wall.

A soft furrow haunted your forehead, and he imagined calming it with a gentle roll of his thumb. "The atmosphere of my planet allows us to use a special technique," through the glass wall, he traced the curve of your lips. "It wraps my body in a thin barrier, but I would be able to touch you," soft lips touched to the point where your nose pressed. "And kiss you. And hug you, make love with you, although we wouldn't have children."

You understood why and giggled softly, slowly opening your sleepy eyes to meet the endless, pale blue. "You really want to get even closer, huh?"

It was a joke, and yet a warmth bloomed behind his spectral eyes, forcing your heart to skip a beat. His hand pressed to the part where your chest met the wall, before he leaned his forehead against "yours". "If I could, I would make you live inside me. So nothing in this universe would ever rip us apart."

A faint oh rolled past your lips as you bit on the soft inside of your cheek. "Satoru, I don't know how long your species live, but… I don't have as much time as you think."

A sudden panic swelled behind his eyes, and thumb slipped out of the crystal wall to brush your lower lip. "My best friends have been mates for the past hundred and sixty years. How many can you give me, question?"

Something ripped through your heart. Cut it with painful slashes, till a crease on your forehead deepened. "Not a lot, Satoru. Maybe seventy years?"

His thumb paused, an ache spreading across the vast, pale blue plains. "I've lived three hundred years without you," he said, warm lips pressing into the wrinkle between your "brows". "I won't survive another seventy."

But the endless honeymoon couldn't last long.

For there was a reason why both of you found yourselves in space. Why the mission was tagged as suicidal, and why there wasn't enough fuel to get you back to Earth. And while Satoru's dreams indeed sounded tempting, you knew that it simply wouldn't work out.

For you breathed oxygen, and he needed ammonia gas.

Your body stayed cool at thirty-six degrees Celsius, while his was burning up to over two hundred.

He was three hundred years old – you twenty-seven.

But he didn't have to know all of that. Over the past twenty-seven years, no one had made you laugh, enjoy, and love life as much as he did. Even if those brief moments of happiness were only meant to last a few months, they were enough.

After the mission, he could go back safely to his home, and you… well.

And you would need to watch him die.

It was truly unpredictable, and none of you could foresee how the situation would turn out. You finally arrived on the planet, prepared to collect the necessary samples of the antidote. You didn't know, however, how dense its atmosphere would be.

How the wind would violently hit your ship, tossing it sharply left and right as you stepped outside in your spacesuit and carried Satoru's sampling device back onto the ship.

He told you to leave it. When you almost fell off the ship, he begged you to come inside. Hit the wall with hands, screamed right into the speaker inside your helmet, pleaded to leave the sample and just come back.

But you simply couldn't do it. Because leaving it here, after Satoru spent decades in space trying to seek the solution, would be simply foolish. Egoistic, and thus, after a few harsh currents, you grabbed the box filled with antidote cells and went back to the ship.

But then, it started spinning. And spinning and spinning, wish wind smacking it in violent currents, and you found it almost impossible to get back onto the normal route. Every single light inside the control room shimmered red. Satoru tried to calm you down, but there was nothing he could truly do from behind the glass wall.

You pushed and flickered every button, every controller, but after one sudden, brutal tug of the ship, your face hit the console.

Eyes filled with red, a nasty crack came from the nose, and the gaze became a bit hazy. You tried to push one last button that would help the ship get away from the planet's strong current, but you were simply too weak. With blood slowly covering your whole face and belts still pinning you to the chair.

Satoru shouted something, but you couldn't hear him clearly. Was it because of the red lamps and an alarm filling the control room? Or maybe because of the sudden sleepiness that blanketed your eyelids?

His fists hit the glass wall, spreading the dull echo around the control room. A soft sweetheart sweetheart sweetheart rolled past his lips, but you simply had no energy to look up. As if you did, the sigh of his trembling, panicked face would rip your heart apart.

His large fists wanted to break through the wall, eyes looked at the blood dripping down your face, body filled with helplessness and desperation, trying everything in his power to get close to you.

With a single finger, you still strained to push that last red button. To get the ship back on track, at least allow Satoru to be safe, and finish the mission that would help save his planet. But your body couldn't handle the gravitational force caused by the spin, which pressed you into the console. The slow crushing of your lungs, mind filling with fogginess, throat crushed beneath the flickering buttons.

So with a soft, almost inaudible I'm sorry, your eyes closed.

A second has passed, a minute, with mind registering the crying alarm and… and a shatter of glass.

A sudden pain washed over your body – burning and stinging every nerve. Someone lifted you up, carefully, slowly, trying to wrap you in blankets and clothes, anything to keep you from the lethal touch.

Quiet, you'll live, sweetheart will live, sweetheart, sweetheart, keep your eyes open, amid violent waves of coughing and painful moans, filled the corridors of your spaceship. When your eyes opened a little, you saw nothing but thick steam evaporating from something. 

Someone.

"Satoru?" slipped out in a whisper as, from beneath the curling steam, a blue, familiar face looked down at you, wet-cheeked. "Satoru, no, y-you'll die–"

"Shhh, sweetheart, it's okay, it's okay, sweetheart will live," he repeated like a mantra, hugging your wrapped body closer to his.

Fiery skin burned through the thick layers of blankets, leaving burns all over your bloodstained skin. Your body hit something, and before you noticed, an automated medical care robot soon filled your vision. The mechanical arms pressed the oxygen mask to your face before an IV needle slipped beneath the skin of your arm.

"Satoru," you mumbled weakly, trying to find those familiar, pale eyes.

And he was right there, offering you the most painful, heart-tearing sight. Tears ran down his cheeks, white steam curled tortuously from his body, and gaze slowly grew weaker. He could barely breathe, yet still stood right there.

Over your barely warm body, making sure that you would live.

"I watch you–"

"No, S-Satoru," barely pushed through your squeezed throat. With crystal tears swirling in your eyes and fingers trying to push him away from the table. "Go back, p-please, or–"

"No, I watch you sleep." his fingers grabbed the hem of your shirt. "You won't die".

You were too weak to fight him. In too much pain, with your head pounding, skin burning from his touch and anaesthesia slowly kicking in.

And so, with a last look into the eyes your heart laughed for, you fell asleep.

There was no way to tell how much time had passed. How long you stayed under the mechanical clutches of the medical robot.

How long Satoru needed to suffer, to make sure you would be alive.

But when you finally woke up and ripped yourself away from the needles, he wasn't there.

He wasn't in your sight, but something else, something burned, marked the floor. Dark traces of blue dust led further inside the spaceship. Still weak, with the last traces of blood dried on your cheek, you followed them, your heart pounding. And a little grain of foolish hope bloomed inside your heart, fresh tears already swirling in the corners of eyes.

The ship was back on a normal route, carrying you through the galaxy at a slow, peaceful pace. Thanks to Satoru.

The blue dust led you through the control room, down into the basement, kitchen, bathroom, and finally to the bedroom, as if he tried to, for the last time, see every part of the ship. Just to make sure everything was working. That after waking up, you wouldn't have to bother yourself with anything.

And so another wave of crushing sob bubbled in your throat. A pain ripping you open as you entered your shared bedroom and saw him there – curled on the mattress, the upper part of his body already slipped inside his crystal corridor. As if he didn't have the strength to crawl in fully. Too busy watching you sleep.

"Oh, Satoru," a cry finally escaped your throat, as your knees bent beside his body. "You fool, so stupid, you're–oh!" A hysterical lament filled the small bedroom as you touched his cold body. "Satoru, how c-could you leave me alone?"

Face, always beaming with so much warmth and joy, lay in dead silence. With your loving, blue eyes closed behind the curtain of white lashes and lips more pale than usual.

Gathering every last ounce of strength still boiling in your body, you brought his ball back. In such a tight, ammonia-filled space, the chance of his recovery was much higher.

Opening it was almost impossible, so you cut a hole big enough to, with pain ripping through your muscles and sweat dripping down your spine, somehow push him inside. And then you glued the walls tight, with a prayer dripping off your lips, and your body cuddled into his crystal ball.

"I'll watch you sleep," you whispered, brushing the surface with his pressed cheek. "You won't die."

𖥔 ݁ ˖ 𖥔 ݁ ˖ 𖥔 ݁ ˖

The sun spilling through the curtain tickled your cheeks. The chirping of birds made you sigh deeply, and the gentle sea breeze coated your skin with soft kisses. The shoulder, the soft line of the spine, the slightly sweating neck, with a salty fragrance slipping sweetly into your nostrils.

You tried to stretch, waking up your stiff body from a deep slumber, but something locked you in place.

Something heavy and long, curling around your waist and pulling you closer to another stony wall.

Or, maybe you should say, stony chest.

Looking over your shoulder, you've met with a cheeky smile curling your husband's lips and still-sleepy, pale eyes. He pulled you closer, until your head found itself under his chin and your legs entangled with his.

"Good morning," you giggled, turning in his arms. "Did you sleep well?"

Satoru hummed, pressing a soft kiss to your forehead. The thin barrier wrapping his body glimmered under the spilling sunlight. After years on his planet, you no longer needed a translator to understand his language. And so you kissed his blue neck, tracing the kisses up, and up, along his jaw and chin, until finally locking your lips with his.

"Apologies, I didn't watch you sleep."

You chuckled, biting gently on his lower lip. "Were you that tired after last night?"

"Mmm," a soft, satisfied hum escaped his throat when you felt something hard poking your belly. "Forgive your husband, he didn't realise he had a tigress and no wife at home."

You chuckled sweetly, forcing his lips to curl in a sly smile.

"Does my wife need anything? Do you want Suguru to lower the temperature?"

Tracing the sharpness of his jaw, up to the curve of his lips, your head shook. "No, it's warm enough. Maybe you can ask him to lower the birds' chirping a bit. I think they're a bit louder than yesterday."

He nodded, pulling you even closer. Till your bodies tangled in one, and a slow, peaceful pounding of his heart beat against your breasts. "Mhm, sure. But let's sleep a bit longer, and then you can jump on me as much as you want, hm?"

So with the last, soft kiss between your brows and heart swelling from feeling the heaviness of your body on his, Satoru allowed you to cuddle into his muscular chest and watch him slowly slip into a deep slumber.

©liahcharms all rights reserved. Do not copy, plagiarise, feed AI, translate or modify my works.

His hair is freshly trimmed, the ash blond strands still slightly damp from his shower, pushed back messily from his forehead. The sleeves of his black compression shirt cling to his shoulders and arms while the expensive button-up he plans on wearing hangs neatly from the bathroom door beside pressed slacks he spent way too long picking out earlier. Even his watch sits carefully beside the sink instead of abandoned somewhere random like usual. The entire thing feels too deliberate. Too polished. Too much like he gives a shit.

Which he doesn’t.

Obviously.

Except his stomach has felt weird since he woke up this morning.

Not nervous. Definitely not nervous. 

He can’t pinpoint the exact moment he clocked off hero work or how much time he spent at the gym so he could show off a pump tonight, nor can he try to convince himself it isn’t for the reason he doesn’t want to admit. He just wants to look good.

And that’s it. Simple as it sounds. No reason for him to choke on stuttering breaths.

The razor scrapes harder against his jaw this time as he rinses it aggressively under the sink. Hot water rushes over his fingers, turning the tips of them pink.

The celebration dinner is stupid to begin with, if you ask him.

Shoto gets ranked top two after the downtown incident last month, Endeavor immediately turns it into some flashy media spectacle about family legacy and hero society, and somehow all of Class A gets invited because the public still eats up that “golden generation” garbage years later. Old classmates pretending they all still keep in touch more often than not. The entire thing sounds exhausting.

But you’re gonna be there.

That’s the problem.

For all he cares, it’s been—what? Three years?

Three fucking years since he’s properly seen you.

Not in passing through articles online. Not blurry photos people tag him in accidentally after hero events. Not hearing your name mentioned by Mina or Sero every couple of months when they gossip over drinks.

Actually seeing you.

As in, In person.

Close enough to touch.

Because when him and you were no more, instead of running back to him like you’d always do, you moved out of Japan, got a job somewhere else in the world. You blocked him on all socials, blocked his number —even the agency landline— and for a while, he didn’t care to contact you. He didn’t care to check up on you, because who checks up on someone who said they wished they never met you? He went out of your life as quietly as you went out of his. Not caring if his last words hurt you, like you did.

Katsuki braces both hands against the sink and stares downward as water drips steadily from the faucet. His reflection blurs at the edges from the steam still clouding the glass, turning him into something distorted and unfamiliar.

Pathetic.

The worst part is he doesn’t even know what version of you is walking through those doors tonight.

Maybe you’re angry.

Maybe you barely look at him.

Maybe you’ve become one of those calm, polished heroes that smile perfectly for cameras now, the kind that know exactly how to navigate crowded rooms without making enemies out of everyone in them.

Or maybe you’ll look through him entirely.

That thought digs somewhere unpleasant beneath his ribs.

Fair enough, honestly.

He earns that.

The memory still crawls up on him sometimes when it gets too quiet. Usually late at night after patrol when he’s too exhausted to keep his thoughts from wandering somewhere ugly.

In all honesty he did try to talk to you. Last year, after he found out he wasn’t blocked anymore. But he was angry, vulgar, everything you’ve ever said you hated about him. And for better or for worse you had only told him you knew he’d never change. And he had left it there, not pressing anymore, not needing anymore proof to accept you just weren’t coming back.

Maybe this is why he won’t wear the polished clothes he’s picked out for tonight. Maybe the Nike sweats he tumble dried this morning and a t-shirt will make him look more casual, put together in a way fancy clothes won’t.

Because tonight is casual to him. It should be, at least, amidst picking up Kirishima and Izuku in his new car. He shouldn’t even care that you’re going to be there.

He keeps staring at himself anyway.

Like maybe if he looks long enough, he’ll suddenly figure out why this feels so fucking strange.

The bathroom light washes his skin pale while steam curls slowly around the edges of the mirror, softening the sharpness of his reflection. Katsuki barely recognizes the version of himself standing there sometimes. Not because he looks different—he does, obviously, older and broader and rougher around the edges—but because somewhere between twenty-two and twenty-five, the anger inside him changed shape.

Less explosive.

Much more exhausting.

He reaches for the towel hanging off the counter and drags it roughly over his face before tossing it aside. The nick near his chin still stings faintly. Tiny. Irritating. His eyes flick toward the button-up hanging from the bathroom door again, then away immediately.

Abso-fucking-lutely not.

The idea of showing up looking like he spent hours trying to impress you makes something hot crawl up his neck. It feels pathetic now. Worse now, somehow, after standing here spiraling like an idiot for nearly forty minutes over a dinner he doesn’t even want to attend.

Katsuki grabs the hanger off the door and shoves the expensive shirt deeper into the closet on his way back into the bedroom.

Fuck that.

The softer lighting from his room settles easier against his eyes compared to the harsh fluorescent buzz of the bathroom. Outside the windows, the city glows orange and blue beneath the darkening sky, traffic crawling between towering buildings while distant sirens echo somewhere far below. His apartment sits high enough that most nights the noise blends together into background static.

Tonight it all feels too loud.

He yanks open a drawer harder than necessary and pulls out the black t-shirt he wears for training. The fabric stretches tight across his shoulders when he changes, outlining muscle built from years of relentless schedules, combat drills, patrols, sleepless nights at the gym whenever his head gets too crowded to sit still inside his own apartment.

Not for you.

Obviously.

The thought comes so defensive it almost makes him scoff at himself.

The sweats are clean at least. Black Nike joggers fresh from the dryer this morning, soft at the inside, fitted enough that Kirishima once called them “boyfriend material clothes” before Katsuki threatened to blast him through a wall. Casual. Comfortable. Like he isn’t thinking about tonight at all.

Like he didn’t spend an embarrassing amount of time earlier deciding between watches.

His jaw tightens again.

This is ridiculous.

You’re just another person he used to know.

That’s it.

Three years changes people. Hell, maybe you aren’t even the same woman anymore. Maybe you cut your hair shorter now. Maybe you picked up some accent overseas since your Japanese seemed too weird the last time you talked. And— and maybe, like the thoughts that used to consume him before he ever reached out to you last year, there’s somebody else waiting for you back home after tonight, somebody softer than him. Somebody easier. Someone your shared friends know about but won’t let him know of.

That thought lands badly, like he woke a dragon from a millennial slumber. His chest immediately feels too tight for it.

Katsuki snatches his car keys off the counter before he can sit with the feeling any longer.

His hone buzzes again from the kitchen table as he passes by. Probably Kirishima. Maybe Deku. Maybe another last-minute reminder about tonight’s schedule.

He ignores it.

The kitchen still smells faintly like coffee from this morning, dishes abandoned beside the sink because he hasn’t had enough energy lately to care about cleaning immediately after meals. There’s protein powder spilled near the toaster from breakfast. A hoodie tossed over one of the dining chairs. Tiny signs of somebody actually living here instead of the spotless, polished apartment magazines keep trying to photograph whenever reporters sneak glimpses during interviews.

For a second, his eyes drift unconsciously toward the balcony.

You used to stand out there all the time. Especially during storms.

Wrapped in one of his hoodies with your arms folded over the railing while Musutafu lit up below you in blurred neon reflections. You always complained the city looked lonely from this high up.

Katsuki used to think that was stupid. Now he gets it.

His throat feels strangely dry.

“Fuckin’ hell,” he mutters under his breath.

The worst part is he genuinely has no idea how tonight’s gonna go.

Maybe you’ll smile politely at him like he’s an old coworker and he’ll have to be casual about greeting you, though he doesn’t want to.

Maybe you’ll avoid him altogether.

Maybe Mina’ll force everybody into some obnoxious group photo and suddenly he’ll be standing beside you for the first time in years pretending his heart isn’t punching against his ribs hard enough to bruise merely at the thought of it all.

Or maybe—

Maybe you’ll just look heavenly good.

That’s the real problem, honestly.

Because he already knows you will.

Not because of makeup or clothes or whatever expensive shit pro heroes wear to these events now. You always looked good to him in ways that annoyed the hell out of him. Half-asleep in his shirts. Sitting on his kitchen counter eating takeout straight from the carton. Yelling at him from across the apartment while he ignored you on purpose just to hear you get louder.

Three years later and his body still remembers stupid things about you automatically.

The sound of your laugh.

The weight of your legs thrown over his lap.

The smell of your peachy shampoo lingering on his pillows after arguments where one of you stormed out dramatically only to come back two hours later.

Katsuki grips his keys tighter.

Nope.

He’s not doing this tonight. He’s not showing up already halfway dragged into the past because of somebody who made it painfully clear they didn’t want him in their life anymore.

That should matter.

It does matter.

And honestly, he understands why you left.

Back then he was still angry at everything. Angry at hero society. Angry at himself. Angry at how badly he wanted somebody and how terrified he is of needing them at the same time. Every conversation between you eventually turned into him snapping before you can get too close to whatever ugly thing sits underneath his ribs.

You called him cruel once.

Not loudly. Not even during a fight.

Just tired.

And somehow that had struck him worse than any screaming ever could. That’s when it clicked to him, that no matter how much you said you saw the good in him, you never truly could. Even if one of your last sentences to him was that you loved him, he didn’t believe you could ever love someone you thought was cruel, someone you wish you never met. 

Katsuki locks the apartment behind him harder than necessary before heading toward the elevator.

The hallway lights flicker softly overhead while he waits, fingers tapping restlessly against his thigh. His reflection stares back at him from the metal elevator doors—broad shoulders, tired eyes, black compression shirt clinging too tightly against muscle that suddenly feels more like armor than confidence.

Casual.

Tonight is casual.

Just old classmates catching up. Nothing more.

Then his phone vibrates again.

EIJIRO: don’t be weird tonight bro

A second message immediately follows; something about sitting shotgun in his new car.

Katsuki stares at the screen for a long moment. Then another vibration.

IZUKU: Kacchan are we still meeting downstairs in 20?

His jaw flexes hard enough to ache.

Because somehow, despite everything, despite all the years and silence and blocked numbers and ugly last conversations—

A part of him still feels twenty-two again. Twenty-two and convinced that no one could love the way he expressed himself.

______

By the time Katsuki parks outside the izakaya, the knot in his stomach has already settled into something meaner. Sharper. Musutafu glows around him and his friends in streaks of reflected neon against rain-dark pavement while a valet moves between cars beneath the izakaya entrance. The place itself is ridiculously upscale even if it is just traditional, all warm golden lighting spilling through enormous glass windows and polished black stone.

Kirishima lets out a low whistle from the passenger seat as he climbs out. “Can’t wait to see everyone.” 

“Shut the fuck up,” Katsuki mutters automatically, already slamming the car door closed harder than necessary.

Cold evening air immediately brushes against the back of his neck. Somewhere nearby, traffic hums steadily through the city while muffled laughter spills from the izakaya entrance every time the doors open. Izuku smooths anxiously at the sleeves of his suit beside the car, glancing toward the building with that same nervous energy he’s carried since high school.

“Do we think Todoroki planned all this himself,” he starts, adjusting his tie, “or do you think Endeavor hired—”

“Deku,” Katsuki interrupts flatly, shoving his hands into his pockets, “if you start analyzing anything, i’m leaving.”

“I wasn’t gonna analyze the—”

“You literally were.”

Kirishima snorts loudly beside them, and normally the familiar bickering would loosen something in Katsuki’s chest. Tonight it barely registers because his attention keeps drifting toward the entrance before they even reach it, heartbeat strangely steady in a way that feels worse than panic. Like his body already knows something his brain is still trying to avoid.

The hostess opens the doors with a practiced smile, and warm air immediately wraps around them alongside the low hum of conversation and clinking glasses. The restaurant is crowded with heroes, old classmates that are lingering discreetly in sorted tables near the back, all surrounded by polished wood and amber lighting that makes everything glow soft and expensive.

Katsuki barely notices any of it.

His eyes find you almost instantly.

Of course they do.

You’re seated near the center of the room beside the girls, half-turned toward Mina while Ochaco laughs at something across the table. The lighting catches warmly against the side of your face, softening the curve of your expression while gold jewelry glints subtly against your skin every time you move. Your hair is longer now than the last time he saw you in person, falling over your shoulders while one hand curls loosely around a sake glass. You look comfortable there. Relaxed. Like you belong in rooms like this now.

And for one awful second, Katsuki genuinely forgets how to breathe.

Three years vanish instantly beneath the weight of recognition. His body remembers you before his brain does, something visceral and humiliating tightening beneath his ribs before he can stop it.

Fuck.

You look different, but not enough to feel unfamiliar. Older, maybe. Sharper around the edges in the way everybody becomes sharper with time. There’s confidence in the way you sit now that wasn’t fully there before, something steadier beneath your posture. You carry yourself like someone who’s finally learned how to exist without apologizing for taking up space.

Then Mina notices them entering.

“Oh my god, finally!” she calls immediately, waving dramatically across the room. “You guys are late as hell!”

Several heads turn at once.

Including yours.

Katsuki feels it immediately, that split second your eyes land on him from across the room. It happens so fast he almost convinces himself he imagined it. No widening. No visible surprise. No anger flashing across your face. Your gaze settles on him briefly before moving smoothly toward Kirishima instead.

“Oh, Eiji,” you smile warmly, standing slightly from your pillow as the group approaches. “Hi.”

The knot in Katsuki’s stomach twists tighter.

Kirishima grins instantly. “There she is. Damn, it’s been forever.”

“It literally has,” Mina groans dramatically. “This bitch abandoned us internationally.”

You laugh softly at that, embarrassed enough to duck your head slightly.

The sound lands somewhere dangerous in Katsuki’s chest.

Ochaco immediately stands to greet Izuku while the others start talking over each other all at once, greetings and questions colliding noisily together after years apart. You converse with everyone easily. Kirishima gets pulled into a quick side hug while you squeeze Ochaco’s hand excitedly across the table. You ask Izuku about agency work overseas, laugh when Kaminari nearly trips over a table trying to sit down, you smile politely at Jirou when she teases your accent sounding slightly different now.

But Katsuki gets nothing.

At first he tells himself maybe you just haven’t gotten there yet. Maybe it’s awkward. Maybe you’re nervous too and trying to settle into the conversation before acknowledging him properly.

Then Kirishima nudges him lightly with his elbow.

“Oi,” he mutters under his breath, “say hi, silly.”

Katsuki’s jaw tightens immediately.

His eyes flick toward you again, but you’re already sitting back down beside Mina, smoothing your sleeve absentmindedly while listening to Momo speak. Completely relaxed. Completely normal.

Like he isn’t even there.

Something hot immediately crawls beneath his skin, but it doesn’t feel like anger. Anger would’ve been easier to deal with. Easier to understand. This feels uglier than that.

Because you aren’t being cold.

You aren’t glaring at him or avoiding eye contact dramatically or making the tension obvious for everyone else at the table.

You’re just indifferent.

Clean, casual, effortless indifference that makes it painfully obvious you’ve already figured out how to exist in the same room as him without it affecting you at all.

Katsuki pulls form to his seat harder than necessary across from Kirishima, the sharp scrape of the table flinching away from him against the floor briefly cutting through the table conversation. Nobody reacts except Mina, whose eyes dart toward him automatically before flicking carefully toward you.

You don’t even look up.

Jesus Christ.

His chest suddenly feels too tight.

“You look good, by the way,” Mina says suddenly, leaning dramatically against your shoulder. “Like suspiciously good. What the hell are they feeding you overseas?”

You laugh quietly, almost embarrassed by the attention. “Literally just less stress, probably.”

The joke lands casually around the table. Kaminari laughs. Jirou snorts into her drink. Ochaco starts teasing you immediately about abandoning Japanese work culture.

Nobody else notices anything strange about the comment.

But Katsuki does.

Of course he fucking does.

Less stress.

Like loving him had exhausted you so thoroughly that leaving the entire country became the healthiest thing you’d ever done for yourself.

His fingers curl tighter around the edge of the menu sitting untouched in front of him.

“Still working with that rescue agency?” Izuku asks curiously.

You nod. “Mostly disaster relief now, yeah. It’s quieter than here.”

“Quieter?” Kaminari repeats incredulously. “Why would you want quieter?”

“Because some people enjoy peace,” Jirou answers dryly.

“Exactly,” you laugh.

And there it is again, that strange feeling pressing heavier against Katsuki’s ribs every time you smile. Because you do seem peaceful now. Not forced. Not pretending. Actually peaceful.

Your posture stays relaxed through every conversation. Your smile comes easier than he remembers. Even your voice sounds lighter somehow, no longer carrying that constant tension that used to sit beneath your words whenever the two of you argued. Back then, loving each other always felt loud. Intense. Like every conversation teetered dangerously close to becoming a fight neither of you knew how to stop once it started.

Now you just seem… calm.

Katsuki suddenly feels too large in his seat. Too rough around the edges for this version of you. His broad shoulders, his obnoxiously loud voice, the constant restless energy simmering beneath his skin all feel painfully obvious in comparison to the quiet ease you carry now.

Mina notices it first.

Her eyes flick carefully between the two of you once. Then again.

Her smile falters slightly.

Because now it’s becoming noticeable to everybody else too.

You still haven’t acknowledged Katsuki properly once since they entered the izakaya.

Kirishima notices next, judging by the awkward way he shifts beside Katsuki before clearing his throat.

“So, uh…” he starts carefully, eyes darting between you both. “Crazy seeing everybody together again, huh?”

“Mm,” you hum politely before taking another sip of your drink.

That’s it.

No tension sharpens your voice. No bitterness leaks through your expression. Nothing about your reaction feels forced or emotional at all. Katsuki Bakugo has somehow become just another former classmate sitting at the table across from yours instead of the man you once shared a bed and apartment and entire future with. 

You used to tell each other that by the time you’re twenty-five you’d surprise your friends and old classmates by popping a kid out of the blue in one of these events. You used to laugh at the thought of him flaunting a baby bump on you, dreaming that you’d hide your engagement ring from everyone until it was the right time to announce you’d get married.

In another life, it may have been different.

Instead of that, you and him are forcibly strangers now; the realization settles, once again heavily in his stomach.

At least showing hatred towards him would mean he still mattered enough to ruin your evening.

This indifference feels like being erased entirely.

______________

The longer the night settles around the izakaya, the more Katsuki realizes he completely misjudged what this dinner was supposed to be.

Not some polished, high-class event packed with cameras and stiff hero society bullshit.

Just an izakaya. Despite how fancy it is.

A crowded, noisy, familiar little place tucked between glowing Musutafu storefronts where the tables are too close together and the air smells like grilled meat, fried oil, spilled beer, and cigarette smoke clinging faintly to old wood. Somebody in the back is laughing loud enough to echo over the music while waiters squeeze through narrow spaces carrying trays overloaded with skewers and drinks. Half the group’s jackets are already tossed carelessly everywhere.

Casual.

Comfortable.

The kind of place Class A used to practically live in after internships.

Which somehow makes this worse.

Because you fit into it too naturally even if you’ve missed the majority of it.

Time passes eerily as Katsuki watches from across the table while Mina complains dramatically about agency interns stealing her skincare products, and you laugh so easily at something dumb Kaminari says that for a split second it genuinely feels like no time has passed at all.

Except it has.

He notices it in tiny things.

You don’t interrupt people as much anymore. Back then you used to talk over everyone whenever you got excited, eyes bright and hands moving while you argued passionately about absolutely everything. Now you lean back when people speak, quieter in a way that feels more intentional than shy. You still smile the same, though. That part hits him unexpectedly hard.

Same slight squint around your eyes. Maybe a few subtle wrinkles now, that still manage to look good on you.

Same habit of hiding your laugh behind your drink or your hand sometimes.

It’s awful how quickly he notices all of it.

A waiter slides another round of drinks onto the table, glass clinking loudly against wood.

“Bakugo,” Sero grins from farther down the booth, already flushed pink from alcohol, “you’ve been weirdly quiet all night. You sick or somethin’?”

“I’m always quiet,” Katsuki answers flatly before taking a long sip of beer.

The table immediately erupts.

“That is literally not true,” Jirou snorts.

“Shut up! It is!”

“Me when I lie” Mina snorts.

“You used to start fights with strangers in restaurants,” Kaminari points out.

“Correction,” Kirishima says, grinning, “he used to start fights with strangers everywhere.”

“I remember that guy at karaoke—”

“He deserved it.”

“You didn’t even know him!”

Katsuki barely listens.

Because across the table, you’re smiling into your drink again, shoulders shaking slightly with quiet laughter while Mina nearly falls sideways into Ochaco from laughing too hard.

And you still won’t look at him.

Not really.

Your gaze passes over him occasionally in that absent, polite way people acknowledge furniture in crowded rooms, but nothing lingers. No awkwardness. No tension. No visible effort to avoid him either still, which somehow stings too much.

It’s like you already adjusted to his presence within the first five minutes of arriving.

Meanwhile he feels painfully aware of every movement you make.

The way your rings tap softly against your glass.

The faint crease between your brows whenever you listen closely to someone speaking.

The small scar near your wrist he remembers kissing once while you laid half-asleep across his chest.

His stomach twists hard enough to make him irritated with himself all over again.

This is fucking ridiculous.

“Bakugo.”

His head lifts automatically.

Momo’s looking at him from across the table. “Did you hear me?”

“No.”

“I said,” she repeats patiently, “Shoto wants everyone at his agency anniversary event next month too.”

“Absolutely not,” Katsuki answers immediately.

Kaminari groans. “Dude, you say no to everything.”

“Because everything sounds terrible.”

“See?” Mina points accusingly toward you. “This is why our sweetie over here escaped the country. We’re emotionally exhausting.”

The comment is obviously meant as a joke and the table laughs.

Even you smile.

But Katsuki feels the words land somewhere unpleasant anyway.

Before he can stop himself, his eyes flick toward you.

For the first time all night, you finally look directly back at him.

It lasts maybe two seconds!?

Three, max.

Then, when Kirishima opens his mouth it’s as if he can’t stop being a moron. Like he never could have guessed what the context of ‘time and place’ is. He points at you, then Katsuki.

“Remember when you guys sneaked out during the winter festival and everyone thought you were kidnapped?”

The entire table immediately erupts.

“Oh my god.”

“They were gone for HOURS—”

“Because SOMEONE turned their phones off,” Kaminari wheezes.

“You guys came back looking guilty as hell,” Mina accuses dramatically.

Katsuki feels his shoulders tense instantly. He sees you shrink into a timely creature in your seat.

Back then, you’d dragged him behind the gym building because you were freezing and irritated and insisted his body temperature was “unnaturally useful.” He remembers pinning you against the wall afterward just to shut you up after you laughed at how red his ears got.

He remembers kissing you until neither of you could breathe properly. 

The memory hits hard enough to feel physical. Youthful kisses, teenage love— he remembers how it felt when he kissed you first and when he had kissed you then. He remembers making out in your dorm late at night when he should’ve been resting his injuries after the war.

Around the table, everyone’s still laughing.

Except you.

You’ve gone still beside Mina, fingers tightening almost invisibly around your drink before you take another sip.

Then, calmly, casually—

“So,” you interrupt smoothly, turning toward Ochaco and Tsuyu instead, “how’s hero life treating you two?”

Clean cut. Effortless for anyone who can’t read behind your eyes.

The conversation immediately shifts away from the topic entirely.

Like you did it on purpose. Like the memory embarrasses you now.

Katsuki drops whatever sits at the top of his tongue like it stung too much to be spoken out loud. Like he was given a sound reminder that his words are always unnecessary.

___________

Everyone eventually becomes too careless despite the fragility of the situation.

Alcohol warms the tables steadily, loosening voices and posture until conversations start overlapping loudly across the cramped izakaya booth. Kaminari is practically hanging halfway over Sero now while arguing about hero rankings nobody else cares about, and Kirishima’s laugh keeps booming loudly enough to earn irritated glances from nearby tables. Even more empty beer glasses crowd together beside greasy plates streaked with sauce while waiters weave expertly through the narrow aisles carrying fresh rounds of skewers and drinks.

Normally Katsuki would be right in the middle of it all.

Tonight he barely said a word, even if he found himself at your table for some reason.

Because every single time the conversation drifts naturally toward old memories involving the two of you, you choose to redirect it before it can fully land.

Always subtle enough most people probably don’t notice.

But he notices.

Every single time.

When Mina starts retelling the beach trip where the two of you once again disappeared from the bonfire for over an hour, you smoothly interrupt to ask Jirou about her latest music project overseas. When Kirishima almost brings up the apartment you used to share in the heart of the city, you casually wave down the waiter and ask if anyone wants another round of drinks before he can finish the sentence.

And the worst part is how effortless you make it look.

You aren’t visibly uncomfortable. You aren’t tense or bitter or awkward every time his name comes up paired with yours. You navigate around him cleanly, naturally, like you’ve already spent years learning exactly how to exist comfortably in spaces where even if Katsuki Bakugo is present, he can simply be erased.

The notion starts irritating him more with every passing minute. It sits tighter beneath his ribs by the second. Makes his heart beat in fragile, irregular beats.

A doctor had once told him to keep track of arhythmic beats like this. 

Tonight he does not. But usually, he does.

Across the table, you tilt your head back slightly while laughing at something Ochaco says, fingers still loosely wrapped around your glass. The soft amber lighting from the hanging lanterns catches against your face warmly enough that Katsuki immediately looks away afterward, jaw tightening hard.

Then your phone lights up beside your plate.

His eyes catch it automatically, assumption quick to replace every spec of vermilion in his irises.

A name flashes briefly across the screen before you casually turn the phone face down against the table.

It’s a nickname paired with a heart.

It could be a friend, but for that he’s unconvinced.

Something twists violently low in Katsuki’s stomach.

Immediate. Sharp enough to genuinely piss him off.

Three years.

Obviously there’s somebody else now.

What the hell did he expect? That you spent years overseas grieving a relationship that ended with both of you saying things cruel enough to permanently carve into each other?

His fingers curl tighter around his beer glass.

Mina notices instantly.

Her eyes flick carefully between him and you before she awkwardly clears her throat. “Okay, wow,” she says carefully, trying to laugh through the tension, “this table energy’s getting kinda weird.”

“Only because your face gets louder every time you drink,” Jirou answers dryly without looking up from her glass.

“No, seriously,” Mina insists now, glancing more cautiously toward Katsuki. “Everybody’s acting strange.”

“Nobody’s acting strange,” you answer calmly before finally looking directly at Katsuki for the second time all night.

And somehow that feels worse.

You really are fine. Not pretending. Not secretly emotional underneath the surface. Fi—ne. Almost too cold.

You are completely, genuinely fine sitting across from him after three years apart.

Something reckless rises inside his chest almost immediately.

“You got somethin’ to say?” Katsuki asks suddenly, attention fully turned to you. “Then say it to my face.”

For once, he manages to keep your eyes in his.

The table quiets.

Not completely, but enough that nearby conversations and clinking glasses start bleeding awkwardly into the silence between your group.

Your brows pull together faintly before rising. “What?”

“You’ve barely looked at me all night.”

“Why would I?”

When you respond, Kirishima visibly winces beside him.

“Bakugo,” he mutters quietly under his breath.

An effort for calmness that pays out fruitless soil. Katsuki barely hears him now that the irritation’s already pushing its way out.

“No, seriously,” he continues, eyes locked onto yours. “What’s the deal?”

The atmosphere around the table shifts immediately.

Mina looks horrified. Izuku suddenly looks like he wants the floor to physically open beneath him—he hasn’t said anything about you up till now. Not on the phone, not in the car when Katsuki snapped like broken glass at every single thing. He didn’t even say anything about you when Katsuki told him that if he treats everyone like they’re special, then no one really is special to him. (When does Katsuki ever get so emotional?)

Even Kaminari goes quiet for once.

You stare at Katsuki from across the table for a long moment, expression unreadable beneath the warm restaurant lighting. Then you blink slowly before setting your drink down carefully against the table.

“…There’s no deal. You made sure of that.”

The calmness in your voice instantly makes his irritation worse.

“You’ve been ignoring me all night.”

“No,” you answer evenly, “I’ve been talking to everyone.”

“Except me.”

The silence afterward settles heavily between you both.

Around the table, nobody moves. The noise of the izakaya suddenly feels distant compared to the pressure building in the booth. You lean back slightly in your seat, eyes finally holding his properly instead of sliding politely past him like earlier.

“What exactly are you expecting from me here, Katsuki?”

The question catches him off guard immediately.

Not because of the words but because of the exhaustion in your tone that has completely replaced anger.

“I dunno,” he answers flatly, defensive before he can stop himself. “Basic acknowledgement maybe.”

You stare at him another second before letting out a small breath through your nose. Not dramatic. Not emotional. Just tired.

“I said hi when you walked in.”

“No,” Katsuki says immediately, “you said hi to Eijiro.”

Kaminari audibly mutters “oh my god, bets. Bets now!” under his breath before Mina immediately kicks him hard beneath the table.

Your fingers tap once lightly against your glass before stilling again completely.

Then, finally, something shifts in your expression.

And it’s not sadness.

Just plain right resignation. Like you’ve already given up.

“You want honesty?” you ask quietly.

Something inside Katsuki’s chest tightens instinctively.

Because now everybody at the table is looking literally anywhere except the two of you. Kirishima suddenly becomes very interested in his drink. Ochaco stares fixedly at the condensation sliding down her glass. Even Sero awkwardly clears his throat under his breath.

“Fuck yeah, stop playing games.”

You hold Katsuki’s gaze the entire time when you speak again.

“I ain’t got shit to say to you in front of everyone.” You say, bluntly, “but since you say we don’t have to play games, I didn’t ignore you because I hate you,” you continue. “I ignored you because every single time I look at you, I remember the last conversation we had.”

The words land directly against his sternum. Heavy. Sharp like a swirly blade and enough that for a second he genuinely forgets how to respond.

The memory crashes back immediately whether he wants it to or not.

Rain hammering against pavement outside the apartment.

You crying so hard your voice kept shaking despite how badly you tried hiding it.

Him saying things he knew would hurt before they even left his mouth.

You standing there afterward like he’d physically reached inside your chest and twisted something apart with his bare hands.

“I wish I never met you.”

Katsuki remembers that part perfectly.

Worse, he remembers exactly what he said right before to make you say it. Something cruel. Something calculated. Something along the lines of “you’re lying to yourself when you say you love me.”

Because back then hurting each other always came easier than admitting how badly neither of you wanted things to end.

Across the table, your expression remains composed, but now he notices the strain sitting carefully beneath it. The effort it’s taking you to stay this calm. To keep your voice level instead of letting old wounds split open in front of everyone.

“I’m not trying to make tonight uncomfortable,” you continue more quietly now. “I came because I’m back in Japan and I missed everyone. That’s all.”

Everyone.

But not specifically him.

The distinction settles ugly and heavy enough inside his chest that he and everyone else in this room are short of words

The atmosphere around the table changes only when the emergency hero alert rings on everyone’s phones.

Around you, everybody moves at once.

Years of training erase the awkwardness almost instantly. Drinks abandoned. Jackets pulled on. Conversations cut short mid-sentence while tables scrape across wood flooring. The emotional wreckage sitting between you and Katsuki gets shoved violently aside beneath instinct and urgency.

You stand automatically too.

And for one humiliating second, relief floods through you so fast it almost makes your knees weak. Because now you don’t have to stay sitting across from him anymore.

You don’t have to survive whatever expression is currently sitting on Katsuki’s face after what you just said.

You don’t have to keep pretending your heart isn’t beating so hard it physically hurts.

The group spills out into the cold Musutafu night in a rush of noise and movement. Sirens already echo faintly somewhere ahead, reflecting red against rain-slick pavement while civilians stop to stare at the sudden crowd of pro heroes flooding onto the sidewalk.

You breathe in sharply the second cold air hits your lungs.

It helps. Barely. Your hands still feel shaky and so fucking stupid..

Because the worst part—the genuinely humiliating part—is that none of what you said was a lie.

You did ignore Katsuki because looking at him hurts.

But not in the way everyone at that table probably assumed. Everyone, including him, thinks it’s because you stopped loving him.

And honestly that—would’ve been easier.

The problem is, that standing across from Katsuki after three years still feels dangerously close to standing too near an open flame. Like one wrong moment of weakness could drag you straight back into him before you remember all the reasons you left in the first place.

And God—you wanted to.

That’s the pathetic part.

The second he walked into the restaurant tonight, broad shoulders filling the doorway, looking so pretty even if all the boyish charm had abandoned his face for good, while his eyes immediately found yours across the room, something inside your chest reacted so violently you almost forgot how to breathe.

Three years.

Three whole fucking years.

And your body still recognized him instantly.

You hated that.

Hated how good he looked. Hated how familiar his voice sounded. Hated that even now, after everything, some traitorous part of you still wanted to walk straight across the room and touch him just to prove he was real. Kiss him so you at least be able to go back to your friends overseas and let them know you got the kiss of closure you’ve been wanting so desperately. 

But you knew better now.

You had to know better now.

Because loving Katsuki always felt like standing too close to an explosion and convincing yourself the heat wasn’t burning you alive.

You pull your hair back quickly while jogging after the others down the crowded sidewalk, the heels of your boots striking wet pavement hard enough to ground you back into the present. Neon signs blur overhead while people move aside hurriedly at the sight of pro heroes rushing past.

Beside you, Ochaco glances over briefly.

“You okay?”

The question is gentle enough to make your throat tighten unexpectedly.

“Yeah,” you answer immediately.

Too quickly.

Ochaco’s expression softens in that awful way people look at wounded animals they aren’t sure how to help. That facade that all heroes put on when they’re helping a missing child find their mommy.

You look away to let her go before she can say anything else.

Ahead of the group, Katsuki is already moving faster than everyone else, irritation practically radiating off him in waves while sparks crackle faintly against his palms. The familiar sight hits somewhere deep in your chest with painful precision.

God.

There he is— Still carrying himself like the entire world personally offended him for existing.

And somehow you still love him enough it makes you feel sick.

You wonder briefly if he knows.

If he’s always known and if so, why he’s denying it.

Maybe that’s what made the breakup so unbearable in the first place. Katsuki understood exactly how much power he had over you, and every time he got scared of needing someone that badly in return, he lashed out before you could hurt him first.

________

The robbery cleanup drags longer than expected.

Statements. Damage reports. Civilians needing reassurance. Media helicopters circling overhead long enough to become irritating background noise.

By the time everything finally settles, the sky above Musutafu has turned that heavy shade of black and blue. The streets are quieter now, washed silver beneath streetlights while exhausted civilians slowly reclaim the sidewalks. Neon signs remain glowing in the background of it all.

Katsuki feels wrung out.

Not physically, though. Physically he’s fine. His heart, at least, has finally stopped palpitating. It’s everything else which isn’t his heart that's clawing at the inside of his chest that’s making him tired.

After an agonizing thirty minutes of broken communications on splitting the bill with everyone else, he gets dragged into easy conversation.

“Alright, alright,” Kaminari groans dramatically while stretching his arms over his head. “I’m officially declaring tonight cursed.”

“You declare everything cursed,” Mina replies instantly.

“Because everything is cursed.”

Kirishima snorts beside them while Izuku adjusts the strap of his gauntlets. “At least nobody got seriously hurt.”

“Yeah,” Katsuki mutters distractedly, digging his car keys from his pocket.

His mind hasn’t stopped replaying the familiar sound of your voice through your conversation for the past twenty minutes. The kind of familiar that dug straight under his skin and stayed there.

Katsuki hates how much those words affected him. Hates that part of him wanted to turn around and ask what the hell that tone meant after everything that’s happened between you before leaving for his hero duties.

Instead, he shoved it down where everything else goes. The pit of his dropping stomach.

The group behind him, after enthusiastically rejoicing and pleading for even a sight of his car, reaches the parking structure entrance together with him, footsteps echoing faintly through the concrete levels while fluorescent lights buzz overhead. Mina’s still talking about how good the food was. Kirishima’s half-listening while Denki complains loudly about tomorrow’s paperwork.

Normal. Everything feels painfully normal again.

Izuku has already left to chase after Ochaco. Katsuki gets to go home with one less friend to lash out on and half a heart.

“Later, man,” Kirishima says to a far away Izuku raising a hand.

Katsuki barely listens while waving him off with a lazy flick of his hand.

Then he sees you. And every thought in his head immediately cuts clean in half.

You’re standing beside his car. leaning against it casually. Not waiting in some cinematic pose.

Just there.

Hands tucked into the pockets of your jacket while cool garage lighting spills softly across your face. You look tired now. More tired than you did at dinner. Hair slightly messy. Faint smudges of eyeliner still near the corners of your eyes.

Real. That’s the first thing that hits him. Just you. Waiting for him.

Kirishima notices you first from the whole group.

“Oh, hi.”

Mina stops talking.

Denki’s eyes widen slightly before darting rapidly between both of you like he accidentally walked into live explosives.

Katsuki’s pulse kicks hard once against his ribs and his neck.

You look at him quietly before speaking.

“…Can we talk?”

Simple words. Calm voice. And somehow they hit harder than that joke of an argument earlier.

Nobody moves for about two seconds. Then Katsuki clicks his tongue sharply without taking his eyes off you.

“Oi.”

Kirishima straightens immediately. “Yeah?”

“Get lost.”

Denki nearly chokes.

Mina looks openly offended. “Wow? Rude.”

“I said leave.”

“Actually,” Kaminari says nervously, already backing away, “I think that’s a fantastic idea.”

Kirishima hesitates longer.

Katsuki notices it instantly.

The concern. The don’t blow this up worse look sitting all over his face.

“Tch,” Katsuki mutters. “I’m not gonna start shit in a parking garage.”

“That’s not super reassuring when you phrase it like that,” Mina says.

You huff out the faintest breath beside the car—almost a laugh.

The sound catches Katsuki off guard badly enough that his eyes flick toward you automatically. Because he forgot for a second what it sounded like when your amusement wasn’t forced. He’s forgotten what it was like when he used to make you laugh, being so caught up in the destruction of it all.

Kirishima notices too. Something in his expression softens before he finally sighs heavily and throws his hands up. “Alright, alright. We’re leaving.”

“But if either of you commits emotional crimes,” Mina warns dramatically while walking backward toward the elevator, “I’m intervening.”

“You say that like you’re emotionally qualified to help anybody,” Katsuki shoots back automatically. “Or like you have to wait around here.”

“See? This is why therapy should be mandatory for heroes!”

The elevator doors of the garage close over the sound of Denki cackling.

And then they’re gone.

Silence settles almost immediately afterward. Not awkward exactly.

The parking structure hums quietly around you both, fluorescent lights buzzing overhead while distant traffic echoes faintly from outside. Somewhere farther down the level, water drips steadily from a pipe into concrete.

Katsuki shoves one hand into his pocket to stop himself from fidgeting.

You still haven’t moved from beside his car.

Up close now, he notices the exhaustion sitting beneath your eyes properly. The careful composure from dinner looks thinner somehow. Like tonight finally wore through it.

For a moment, neither of you speaks. Then—

“You really think I hate you?” you ask quietly.

The question lands so directly he almost flinches.

Katsuki’s jaw tightens automatically. “You ignored me for four fuckin’ hours.”

“I ignored you because I was trying not to ruin my own night.”

That catches him off guard enough to shut him up briefly.

You look away first, arms folding tighter across yourself.

“I spent three years trying to get over you,” you admit quietly. “Do you understand how humiliating it is that seeing you again almost reset all of it instantly?”

Katsuki feels something sharp twist low in his chest.

Because your voice still doesn't sound angry. It  sounds like you’re simple frustrated with yourself.

“I didn’t know what version of you was gonna walk into that restaurant tonight,” you continue. “And honestly? I was scared that if I talked to you normally for even five minutes, I’d forget why we broke up in the first place.”

The parking garage suddenly feels too small, too warm. Katsuki stares at you, heartbeat starting to thud harder beneath his ribs again in a way that has nothing to do with fighting anymore. He starts thinking of every single moment today where his thoughts remained the same as yours.

You laugh softly then, but there’s no humor in it.

“And the worst part is,” you murmur, eyes dropping briefly toward the concrete floor, “I still wanted you to come sit next to me. I keep thinking I want the goodbye kiss that I never got. I can never fully leave you behind and I think it’s just because I don’t want to. Last year when you messaged me, I found myself excited at the thought of us getting back together.

The words hit him harder than any fight tonight did.

Just honest enough to split something open clean down the middle.

Katsuki stares at you like he genuinely forgot how to move for a second. Because he’d prepared himself for anger; —resentment, perhaps. Even the mischellanious instant where you’d be maybe telling him you moved on and he was pathetic for still carrying pieces of this -you- around like shrapnel under his skin.

He didn’t prepare himself himself for this right now in any of his overthinking scenarios.

You standing in front of him at nearly two two in the morning, exhausted and vulnerable and still admitting you wanted him back once too. The million dollar question is: do you still?

The fluorescent lights of the parking lot above you the two of you flicker faintly.  Somewhere deeper in the garage, a car alarm chirps once before falling silent again—Katsuki barely hears any of it.

“When I saw your message,” you continue more quietly, “I remember staring at my phone like an idiot for an hour before answering.” A weak laugh leaves you. “My friend literally had to pry it out of my hands because I kept rereading it.”

His chest tightens painfully.

Because he remembers sending that message.

Sitting alone in his apartment after patrol with alcohol burning down his throat while he typed and deleted different versions of I miss you for nearly twenty minutes before settling on something colder instead. Something easier.

“Why would you fucking unblock me?”

Pathetic.

“You sounded angry,” you admit softly. “But I still kept hoping maybe underneath it… maybe you missed me enough to try again.”

Katsuki looks away sharply, jaw flexing hard.

He did.

That’s the worst fucking part.

He remembers pacing around his kitchen waiting for your replies like his life depended on them. Remembers the stupid spike of hope every time his phone buzzed. Remembers ruining the entire conversation because the second things started feeling vulnerable again, panic crawled viciously straight up his spine and turned everything mean.

Same old him as always.

“You told me I never changed,” he mutters roughly.

Your expression shifts slightly at that. Not regret exactly. Something sadder.

“Because you hadn’t.”

The honesty stings immediately because part of him knows you’re right. Back then he’d still been treating love like a fight he needed to win before somebody could abandon him first. Katsuki drags a hand hard down his face before laughing once under his breath. Bitter. Exhausted.

“Yeah,” he mutters. “Probably deserved that one.”

Silence settles again after that. Raw, void of the hostility every other silence between you tonight. However, this time, the hostility of any previous silence between you tonight, is missing. Everything is raw and open like an oozing, fresh wound.

Had that been the case, he’d known better of.

You’re still standing near his car with your arms folded tightly across yourself like you’re physically holding your own chest together. Katsuki notices your fingers trembling slightly against your sleeves.

You’re nervous.

That realization hits unexpectedly hard too. Because he also forgot what it felt like knowing he could still affect you like this.

“I hated you for a while,” you admit suddenly, voice quieter now. “Or—I tried to, at least, at least.” You shake your head faintly. “I wanted to, anyway. It would’ve made moving on easier.”

Katsuki doesn’t interrupt.

Doesn’t trust himself to.

“But then stupid things kept happening,” you continue, eyes unfocused now like you’re talking more to yourself than him. “I’d hear someone laugh like you at work and my whole day would get weird after. Or somebody would burn coffee and suddenly I’d remember your apartment.” Another soft, embarrassed laugh. “There’s this hero overseas that yells exactly like you during meetings. I almost walked out the first time because I started tearing up.”

Something dangerously warm starts spreading low in Katsuki’s chest.

Not ego. Not satisfaction.

Something worse—Hope.

Small and so fragile and so, so terrifying. and plainly—

You finally look back up at him then, expression open in a way he hasn’t seen in years.

“And honestly?” you say quietly, “I think part of me kept waiting for you to come after me.”

That one nearly knocks the air clean out of him.

Because he wanted to.

God, he wanted to.

He remembers standing in airports during patrol assignments wondering what country you were in. Remembers opening your chat box dozens of times— knowing which one it was simply by how many weeks ago was your last conversation— just to close it again before typing anything. Remembers seeing your name finally appear in his Instagram chat box instead of ‘User’ and feeling his stomach drop so hard he had to sit down.

But wanting something and knowing how to hold onto it were always two different things for him.

Katsuki swallows hard before speaking.

“You said you wished you never met me.”

Your face changes instantly. Pain flickers there, between your worried brows so quickly he almost misses it.

“I know.”

“You meant it?”

“No,” you answer immediately.

Too fast for it to not be honest. Katsuki would crack up a cocky smile if the sound of its admission didn’t hook directly beneath his ribs.

You inhale shakily afterward, eyes dropping again.

“I said it because I wanted to hurt you back,” you admit. “And because you’d just spent an hour making me feel stupid and calling me a liar for telling you i loved you.”

The words land heavy between you both. Katsuki feels nausea twist unpleasantly in his stomach because he remembers that night perfectly now more than any other time.

Not just the fight.

Your face.

The way you looked at him like you were begging him to give you one reason to stay softer with each other instead of turning everything into a bloodbath.

And he had spectacularly failed, spectacularly.

“You really thought I didn’t love you?” you ask suddenly, quieter now.

And since the answer to your question is humiliating, Katsuki’s throat feels tight.

“…Yeah.”

You stare at him for a long moment after that. Then you laugh again, but this time it sounds closer to heartbreak.

“Katsuki,” you whisper softly, “I moved across the world and still couldn’t stop loving you properly.”

That one hurts.

Not in a bad way.

Worse.

Because suddenly all three years between you feel unbearably visible at once. Every missed call never made. Every airport not boarded. Every message typed and deleted. Every lonely apartment. Every night spent pretending this wasn’t still sitting unfinished between you both. It never actually had to be that way. 

Katsuki looks at you standing there beneath harsh garage lighting with tired eyes and shaky hands and too much honesty spilling out at once and realizes, with horrifying clarity, that if you were to claim your goodbye kiss; if you so as kissed him right now, he genuinely doesn’t think he’d survive it quietly.

Neither of you says anything for a while after that.

The parking garage hums quietly around you, fluorescent lights buzzing overhead in uneven intervals while rainwater drips somewhere deeper in the structure with slow, hollow echoes. The city outside has started slipping into that strange hour between night and morning where everything feels softer around the edges. Traffic is thinner now. The distant sounds of Musutafu blur together into something low and tired beneath the concrete silence.

Katsuki can hear your breathing.

Not because the garage is particularly quiet, but because he’s standing too close to you again after three years and his body keeps locking onto every tiny thing automatically.

The way your shoulders rise slightly every time you inhale. The faint tremble still lingering in your fingers. The exhaustion sitting beneath your eyes.

You look nothing like the polished, untouchable version of yourself he built up in his head over the past few years. Standing here now, you just look human again.

Real enough to ache over.

To you… Does he look that way too?

“Let’s go, I’ll take you home.” Katsuki shifts his weight once before dragging a hand through his hair roughly. “We should probably get outta here before Mina decides to come back and interrogate us.”

The corner of your mouth twitches faintly. “That implies she never actually left.”

“She’s probably hiding behind a concrete pillar right now.”

“She absolutely is.”

The tiny bit of shared amusement loosens something dangerously fragile between you both.

Katsuki unlocks the car with a sharp click of the key fob. Then you glance toward the passenger side before looking back at him again, uncertainty flickering briefly across your expression like you’re second-guessing whether this is a good idea.

Honestly, he’s wondering the same thing.

Because every second around you tonight has felt like standing near something unstable with no self-control left to keep his hands off it.

Still, he opens the passenger door for you anyway.

You hesitate only a second before climbing inside.

The interior of the car smells faintly like leather, rain, and burnt caramel coffee from whatever drive-through Kirishima dragged him through earlier this week. Soft dashboard lights glow low against the dark while droplets of rain slide slowly down the windshield overhead. The city reflects across the glass in blurred streaks of neon and gold.

Katsuki rounds the front of the car slowly, pulse thudding heavier with every step.

By the time he slides into the driver’s seat, the air inside already feels too warm.

You’re sitting angled slightly toward the window, arms folded loosely across yourself while the glow from passing streetlights softens the side of your face. Your makeup’s mostly worn off by now. There’s still a faint smear of eyeliner and mascara at the corner of your eye.

He has to physically stop himself from reaching over to wipe it away.

Silence settles again, but it’s different inside the car.

The enclosed space presses everything tighter together until even breathing feels too noticeable.

Katsuki rests one hand against the steering wheel without starting the engine. “So what now?”

You let out a quiet breath through your nose before leaning your head back against the seat. “I don’t know.” you sigh “I didn’t really think this far ahead.”

“Yeah,” he mutters. “Me neither.”

Rain starts tapping lightly against concrete again. Thin at first. Then steadier.

Your eyes drift toward the sound automatically. “It always rains when we talk about serious shit.”

Katsuki snorts softly before he can stop himself. “That’s because you always picked fights during storms.”

“I did not.”

“You absolutely did.”

A small laugh escapes you then, quieter than before but real enough that something in his chest twists painfully around it. God, he missed that sound. Missed sitting beside you while conversations slipped this easily between silence and teasing without either of you forcing it.

A newer realization scares him a little; It would be so easy to fall right back into this. Too easy.

You turn toward him slightly then, knees shifting against the seat. “Can I ask you something?”

“Tch. You usually do anyway.”

Your eyes narrow faintly at the automatic attitude, but there’s no real heat behind it now. “Why didn’t you come after me?”

The question settles heavily into the space between you both.

Katsuki’s jaw tightens immediately.

Outside, headlights slide briefly across the windshield before disappearing down the garage ramp. He watches the reflections fade instead of looking directly at you.

“Didn’t think you wanted me to.”

“That’s not what I asked.”

Of course it isn’t.

You were always annoyingly good at pulling honesty out of him even when he fought it.

Katsuki exhales slowly through his nose before speaking. “Because I thought if I showed up and you looked happier without me…” He laughs once under his breath, rough and humorless. “Didn’t think I could handle that. It’d just fucking prove i’m hard to love and you’re better without me.”

The space between you afterward feels fragile.

When he finally looks over, your expression has softened into something unbearably tender.

Fuck, fuck—Fuck.

“You’re an idiot,” you murmur quietly.

There’s no cruelty in it. Maybe a tad of acceptance. A smear of sadness.

Your eyes flick downward briefly then back to his face, and suddenly Katsuki becomes painfully aware of how close you’re sitting. The center console feels too small now. The air feels thick with old history and exhaustion and everything neither of you managed to bury properly.

His gaze drops to your mouth before he can stop it.

He notices immediately when your breathing changes.

Slight.

Barely there.

But enough.

The tension inside the car shifts all at once after that.

Not explosive and immediate, like he’s used to. It’s slow and dangerous. Like something pulling tighter inch by inch.

Katsuki’s fingers flex once against the steering wheel. “Tell me to stop looking at you like that.”

Your throat moves subtly when you swallow.

“You first.”

Fuck. Shit!

The flirtiness in your tone hits him hard enough to feel somewhere low in his stomach.

Rain streaks slower down the windshield now, blurring neon lights outside into smeared ribbons of color while the heater hums faintly beneath the dashboard. The whole car feels suspended outside time somehow. Separate from the rest of the city. With nothing left to do but park at the side of the road, Katsuki swerves the steering wheel towards his new direction.

When he shuts off the engine, you’re the one who moves first.

Barely.

Just enough to lean a little closer and more tentative toward him. You’re giving him room to pull away if he wants to.

Katsuki doesn’t. Neither pull away, nor want to.

His hand reaches for your face almost automatically, rough palm settling carefully against your jaw like muscle memory never left him at all. The contact pulls a shaky breath from you instantly, and that sound alone nearly destroys whatever restraint he still has left.

He kisses you before he can think too hard about it.

And it feels exactly like coming home to something he convinced himself no longer existed.

Warm.

Familiar.

Devastating.

You make this tiny broken noise against his mouth the second the kiss lands properly, fingers grabbing instinctively at the front of his shirt like you need something solid to hold onto. Katsuki feels his entire chest cave inward around the feeling of you kissing him back just as desperately. His lips ache with buzzing numbness and he tries his very best to even remember the steps to a kiss he’s trained to fit perfectly into.

Three years of missing each other crashes together all at once inside that kiss.

His other hand slides against your waist, pulling you closer over the center console while rain drums steadily overhead. Your lips part against his almost immediately, breath shaky and uneven as the kiss deepens into something messier. Hungrier.

Katsuki kisses like he’s starving.

Always has.

Like every emotion he doesn’t know how to say properly gets forced violently through his hands and mouth instead.

You remember that instantly.

He feels it in the way your fingers tighten against him. The way your breathing starts breaking apart every time he kisses you harder. The way you lean into him like you missed this just as badly as he did.

When you finally pull back for air, neither of you gets very far.

Your forehead rests shakily against his while both of you breathe the same recycled air inside the dark car. Katsuki’s hand is still cupping your jaw. Your fingers are still twisted tightly into his shirt.

With one swift movement, Katsuki’s hand forces your jaw right into his, your lips slamming against each other's once again.

The kiss turns rough immediately.

Not careless —Never careless with you.

Katsuki’s just overwhelmed by the sheer force of finally having you this close again after years spent trying to convince himself he could survive without it.

Your breath catches sharply against his mouth when he kisses you deeper this time, fingers twisting harder into the front of his shirt while the center console digs awkwardly against your hip from how far you’ve leaned toward him. Rain continues sliding steadily down the windshield outside, blurring neon lights into streaks of gold and red across the dark interior of the car.

Katsuki barely notices any of it anymore.

All he can focus on is you.

The warmth of your mouth.

The familiar way you melt and tense at the same time whenever he kisses you too hard.

The shaky inhale you keep failing to steady every time his thumb brushes beneath your jaw.

His chest feels unbearably tight.

Because this isn’t nostalgia anymore.

It isn’t just memory. You’re actually here. Actually kissing him back with enough desperation that it almost hurts.

A strained sound escapes him before he can stop it, muffled against your lips while he pulls you even closer over the console. His hand slips from your jaw into your hair, fingers curling carefully at the base of your neck like he physically cannot stand another inch of distance between you both.

You break the kiss first this time, but only barely. Only enough for more air.

Your lips still brush his when you speak.

“Katsuki—”

His name falls apart halfway through your breath, soft enough that he nearly loses whatever remains of his self-control entirely.

Because you still say his name the same way.

But now he knows it means something. He can accept it means something.

Katsuki’s forehead presses hard against yours while he tries and fails to regulate his breathing. The inside of the car suddenly feels too hot, thick with condensation and recycled air and of unresolved feelings collapsing violently into each other all at once.

“You gotta stop lookin’ at me like that,” he mutters hoarsely.

Your brows pull together faintly. “Like what?”

“Like you and i will—” He cuts himself off immediately, jaw tightening hard enough to ache.

The words refuse to come out cleanly.

You stare at him for a second too long after that, your expression softening into something that almost looks painful.

“Katsuki,” you whisper quietly, “I literally just told you I couldn’t move on.”

Yeah. He knows.

And somehow hearing it still doesn’t feel real.

“But if we y’know—now,” he coughs “maybe you’ll regret it.”

His eyes search your face automatically like he’s trying to find evidence that this is temporary. That you’ll wake up tomorrow and realize kissing him again was a mistake. That eventually you’ll remember all the reasons loving him became unbearable in the first place.

The fear must show somewhere across his expression because your hand suddenly lifts toward his face.

Your fingertips brush against the side of his jaw where the faint razor burn still sits from earlier tonight, and the tenderness behind the touch nearly destroys him more effectively than the kissing did.

“Katsuki, are you talking about sex?” you murmur softly, whispering the last word extensively. 

A weak huff of laughter leaves him despite himself. His lower lip pouts out.

“You always get this line between your eyebrows whenever you get shy like this.”

Your thumb smooths unconsciously against the spot moments later like muscle memory. Katsuki feels his stomach twist painfully around the familiarity of it.

God.

He missed this.

Not even the kissing specifically. Not even the sex. (And he’s missed these two plenty)

Just this.

You knowing him so instinctively that his body reacts before his brain catches up.

“I wouldn’t regret it. I’ve wanted it so much even though I was convinced it’d never happen again. I can’t regret doing something that I want to do.”

Your words settle heavy enough in his chest that suddenly he needs to kiss you again before he says something humiliating.

His mouth crashes back against yours harder this time.

You make another soft noise into the kiss immediately, one that sounds dangerously close to heartbreak, and Katsuki swears he feels the sound straight through his ribs. His hand tightens carefully at the back of your neck while your fingers slide upward into his hair, slightly damp strands catching between your knuckles.

The angle is awkward across the center console.

Neither of you cares.

Your knee bumps clumsily against the gear shift while Katsuki leans further toward you, broad shoulders pressing you deeper into the passenger seat unintentionally from the sheer force of how badly he’s kissing you now. Every breath between you feels uneven. Messy. Shared.

Three years disappears frighteningly fast like this. Just temporarily drowned beneath the overwhelming relief of finally touching each other again.

Katsuki feels your hand trembling slightly where it cups the side of his face.

The realization makes him pull back barely enough to look at you.

Your lips are swollen now. Eyes glassy beneath the dashboard glow while your breathing comes apart in shallow bursts that mirror his almost exactly. Then your expression shifts suddenly, something vulnerable flickering across it fast enough to make his chest tighten again.

“What if we do this again?” you ask quietly. “What if we try again and it ruins us worse this time?”

The question lands hard because it’s real. Not dramatic or hypothetical. You’re genuinely afraid. Because it’s been over three years since you’ve kissed, even more since you were intimate with each other, since you held an actual conversation.

And honestly? So is he.

Katsuki stares at you in the dim car lighting while rain taps softly overhead, your fingers still resting against his jaw like you’re scared to let go completely.

Then, slowly, he turns his head just enough to press a kiss against the center of your palm,vermillion eyes locked in yours..

The gesture feels strangely vulnerable coming from him.

“I think,” he says roughly afterward, eyes still fixed on yours, too sceptical, “it already ruined us the first time.” His thumb brushes carefully against your waist, then, sensually across your ribs “Didn’t stop either of us from wanting it again.”

It feels strangely fragile now that the adrenaline of finally kissing each other has settled slightly. Not awkward exactly. Just painfully real in a way neither of you can hide from anymore. 

Neither of you seems fully willing to let go first.

You look mentally exhausted. The kind of exhaustion that seeps into your bones and bleeds across the surface of your skin; heart beating fast, eyes wide open and desperate. Katsuki, for worse luck despite it all, probably looks the same.

Your eyes drift downward briefly before you let out a small breath through your nose. “This is probably a terrible idea.”

Katsuki huffs quietly. “Yeah.”

“But I really don’t care right now.” you admit “do you?”

“Hell nah!”

Katsuki Bakugo Masterlist

~All rights reserved: @/strawberry-nugget, 2026. Please do not copy, over write or steal my work //

Likes and reblogs are so appreciated but if you you liked this you can let me know in the comments <3

“Hey” you breathe, stepping up behind him as he stands at the door. You slide your arms around his waist and press yourself close. Your palm spreads across his abdomen, his skin warm through fabric, familiar and missed. 

You feel it instantly, the way his body stiffens, muscle going rigid beneath your touch. A hitch in his breath, a small warning. His fingers twitch, itching to pry you off.

You pretend not to notice.

You lean in anyway.

“You think you could come home at lunch?” you murmur, voice dipped playfully low, trying to inflect it with as much obvious desire as you could. “I need a little… self-care.”

You feel his breath change before he speaks.

“No. That’s not possible.”

Curt and flat, like you expected. 

He peels your arms away like they burn, steps out of your hold without looking back. The space he leaves between you feels cold. He bends to pull on his shoes, laces them with neat, practiced precision, the same way he does everything. Controlled and methodical.

You stare at his broad back. At the way the muscle shifts beneath the sky-blue shirt he favours. The sword holster already strapped in place. A horrible reminder of everything that took him from you, and what brought him back wrong.

“Please, Kento—” you start softly, reaching out, fingers barely grazing his shoulder before he shrugs you off.

The rejection hurts more than you expect it to.  

“I’m busy.”

He stands, reaches for his tan suit jacket and slips it on, one arm, then the other. And then, like he hasn’t just pushed you away, like he hasn’t fractured something delicate in your chest, he turns, presses a brief, chaste kiss to your cheek.

You don’t react. You just watch him walk out the door without another word.

He’s been like this since he came home. Since the bandages came off.

Before that, before he could see himself clearly, he let you care for him. Let you sit close, touch him. He watched you quietly while you changed his wrappings, while you smoothed creams and lotions into puckered skin with slow, careful hands.

Then something snapped. A switch was flipped, clean and final.

He no longer holds you when he sleeps. Turns his back instead, a blank wall of cool distance. Even when you curl up behind him, content to be the big spoon, breathing him in, he finds an excuse to leave the bed. The bathroom. The kitchen. Anywhere but stay with you.

He doesn’t reach for you anymore.

No gentle love-making against the counter. No lazy mornings tangled in sheets together. No lingering touches, no heat, no hunger.

Everything…just gone.

You’d tried not to let it bother you, tried to tell yourself that you had to wait, that he’d been through something life changing, something that had left him with injuries, mental and physical, that you couldn’t even begin to understand. But the detachment, the complete lack of intimacy, watching him drift away and become a stranger was unbearable. 

You’d gotten your husband back, but only in the flesh, not in soul. 

…

By midday, your thoughts are spiralling, a self destructive loop you can’t escape. The house is too quiet. No footsteps. No breathing that isn’t your own. The silence presses in, makes everything louder.

You lift your phone. Your finger hovers over his name in your contacts.

You want to hear his voice. You need it. Need him to say it, to reassure you that everything is fine, that this morning meant nothing, that he still loves you. That you haven’t already lost him.

But the memory of his cool rejection stops you. The way he’d pulled away. The flatness in his usually warm voice.

Your hand trembles.

You scroll lower instead, thumb tapping Shoko’s name before you can overthink it. It rings once. Twice. Then her voice filters through the speaker, soft, breathy, echoing slightly.

“Shoko here.”

You can hear the chaos around her. Metal clattering. A wheeled tray squealing across tile before crashing to a halt. You’re on speaker, of course you are. You can just picture her phone propped somewhere unholy while she peers into some poor soul opened up upon her table.

“Hey… it’s me” you say quietly. The words feel intrusive the second they leave your mouth. Embarrassment curls tight in your chest. You shouldn’t be calling her with this. “Um…never mind, pretend I didn’t call. Sorry for bother—”

“I’m not busy” she interrupts gently. “Talk. I can tell something’s wrong.”

A sickening crack sounds through the phone, followed by a wet, visceral squelch.

“It’s Nanami” you say softly. Your free hand hooks around the nape of your neck, fingers pinching skin hard enough to ground you. To keep your voice steady.

“Is he injured?”

Of course that’s where her mind goes. She was the one who stitched him back together. Who scraped him and Gojo off the battlefield and made them whole again.

“Not physically.” You pace the room, nails worrying at your skin, a nervous habit you can’t seem to stop.

The sounds on her end cease abruptly. Latex snaps. Footstep louder as she nears the receiver, her hand closing around the phone, and suddenly her voice is closer. Focused.

“What’s going on?”

“He’s… distant.” The word feels inadequate. You struggle to hold yourself together, throat tightening. “He doesn’t… touch me anymore.”

She exhales slowly. Weary. “Well. He’s been through a big… change.”

“I know—” You rush the words, afraid she thinks you’re selfish. “I understand that. I just…I don’t understand why he’s distant with me. I was there through it all. Through all the treatment. And I’d never see him as anything other than perfect—” Your voice falters, breathless, embarrassment bleeding in through the cracks.

She laughs softly, just a gentle puff of air. “I know you were. You were very brave.” A pause. “I think you just need to give him more time. I’m sure he still loves you. He’s just… tender right now.”

“I miss him.” The words shake as they leave you. Tears burn behind your eyes, gathering fast. Your throat burns, constricting as you try to swallow. “I feel like I’m losing him”.

“Tell him that” she says gently. “I’m sure he’s not doing this intentionally. As long as he knows you’re still there, that you still love him, that you still need him, body and soul, it should help.”

You nod even though she can’t see you. Tears spill over, slipping across your cheeks and down over your lips, seeping into the corners of your mouth. You sniff, wiping your face with the back of your hand.

Her voice softens further. “Don’t cry. He’d hate to know he’s causing you this much pain.”

“I’m so lonely” you gasp. Your knees give out and you slump onto the couch, sinking back into the cushions. The tears come freely now. “I miss him so, so much.”

She stays with you. Listens. Lets you cry for fifteen long minutes, offering soft reassurance, quiet advice, gentle encouragement, until there’s nothing left in you but exhaustion and salt-stung skin.

The house is still quiet, but at least you’re not alone in it anymore.

… 

You find the rum shoved into the back of a cupboard, dust clinging to it’s glass shoulders. You crack it open, bring it to your nose. Sharp and sweet, like forbidden caramel. You hesitate only a second before deciding it shouldn’t hurt.

You make yourself a rum and coke. Then another. The pours are heavy, more rum than mixer, barely diluted. You sit at the kitchen table and nurse it, watching condensation bead and slide down the glass. Ice chimes softly each time you lift it. Your thoughts buzz, a low hum under your skin. The tightness in your shoulders loosens. Your body softens before your heart can catch up.

He comes home the way he always does. Quiet, and careful. Like he’s afraid to disturb you no matter what you’re doing.

Now, you wonder if it’s something else entirely.

If it’s avoidance.

Avoiding you, your eyes, your questions. Your hands.

You take another long swallow, the thought burning through you like acid.

“Kento” you hum when he steps into the kitchen. He pauses, surprise flickering across his face when he spots you sitting there in near darkness. “Welcome home.”

His voice is cool, detached. “Why are you sitting in the dark?”

His hazel eyes flick to the bottle. Then to the glass in your hand.

“Because…” you wave vaguely. “Atmosphere.”

He flicks on the light without acknowledging you. You wince as it floods the room, stinging your eyes. He moves in immediately, takes the bottle from the table despite your protest and pours the rest down the sink. You watch it disappear. He rinses your glass quickly and sets it on the drying rack.

Clean, quick, and final.

He turns, hands gripping the counter, lower back braced against the hard edge. “What are you doing?”

You scoff and stand, the world tilts. You plant a palm flat on the table, waiting for the room to stop swaying. When there’s only one of him again, you move toward him, unsteady, hands landing on his waist, twitching against the warm muscle.

“Oh…” you breathe, melting into him. “I missed you.”

You nuzzle your face into his chest like a cat seeking warmth, breathing him in. “You smell good, I missed you so much”

“And drinking helped for what reason?”

“Self-medicating” you laugh softly.

This is the closest he’s let you get in days. You’re drunk on the sensation alone, your cheek rubbing against his chest, his heat soaking into you. “Nanami” you breathe, saying his name over and over, helpless to stop yourself.

“Stop that” he grunts, hands closing around your arms. He pulls you back. “You’re drunk.”

“Oh, Nanami, please” you whimper.

You rise onto your toes and kiss him, sloppy and uncoordinated. His lips are stiff beneath yours, permitting, but not returning the action. You mouth at him desperately, teeth catching his lip, hands clawing at his neck, trying to pull him closer.

He doesn’t move, stood like a stone wall. 

His hazel eyes look at you like he doesn’t know you.

You don’t notice. You can’t. Want roars too loud. Your fingers fumble with his buttons, lips leaving his mouth only so you can see what you’re doing. You reach the fifth button before he catches both your wrists in one hand and stops you cold.

“Stop. I’m not in the mood.”

You do, for a second. You stare down at where his grip holds you, your drunk, touch-starved mind screaming at you to keep going. You surge forward again, mouth crashing back onto his, teeth nipping at his lip in your clumsiness.

“I said stop”. He snaps the words and shoves you away

The sudden force, combined with your unsteady footing, sends you stumbling back. Your hip collides with the corner of the table. Pain flares white-hot before you come to a stop, braced against it.

For a moment there’s only silence.

You freeze, hands splayed on the table. The shock sobers you in an instant.

His hands lift, hovering, reaching for you. Then his gaze flicks to his own hand, the scarred one, the webbing along his skin, and whatever he sees there makes him pull back. His arms drop to his sides.

“I’m sorry” he says. Exhausted. Worn thin. “I shouldn’t have—”

“No. I’m sorry.” The humiliation burns, a feeling you never thought he’d make you feel “I shouldn’t have… jumped you like that.”

You shake your head, push hair back from your face, fighting to stay composed. Fighting not to cry again. 

“Are you okay?”

“Yeah.” You can’t look at him. You can’t stand the weight of his eyes on you. You turn away, hiding the tears, the bitten, bloodied lip, the shame burning across your face. “Don’t worry.”

An awkward silence fills the air, you have the desperate urge to hide.

“I’m going to shower” he murmurs.

He slips past you, pausing just long enough to press a kiss to your temple. You flinch. Not fully, but enough. Your shoulders curl inward, your head drops, hair falling like a curtain between you and him.

And once again, he’s gone, slipping into the bathroom, the soft click resonating round the kitchen.

You stand there for a moment, unmoving. Your heart pulses hard in your chest, uneven, like it’s lost its footing. It feels as though the bottom has fallen out of you entirely. You don’t know what to do with your hands, with your body. 

The taste of rum lingers on your tongue, and thankfully, the alcohol blunts the worst of it. 

Just enough.

You know tomorrow will be different. Morning will strip you bare. You’ll feel it all at once.

You turn on the faucet, cold water rushing loud in the quiet room. You splash it over your face, gasp at the chill, cup your hands to sip some slowly. Then you shut it off and lean over the sink, elbows locked, water dripping from the tip of your nose.

You stare down at the plug hole.

Your thoughts twist together, a tangled mess of shame, confusion and longing, too knotted to separate. 

Later, when he’s showered and slipped into bed, when the usual kiss to your cheek never comes, you stand in the doorway. 

Hovering. Caught on the precipice of a decision that feels far too heavy and final.

You could cross the room. Crawl in beside him. Reach out and press your fingers to his warm back, just to be sure he’s still there.

But you can’t.

You can’t take the expanse of his back turned to you. The way his wheat-coloured hair fans across the pillow. The way his body goes rigid whenever you get too close.

So you turn away.

You tuck your nightgown tighter around yourself, chasing warmth that won’t come. You choose the couch instead. Curl onto your side beneath a blanket pulled from the linen closet, staring at the walls washed dark blue by the night.

The distance between you and him has never felt so vast. A chasm you keep reaching across, only to be pushed back every single time.

And you don’t know how many more times you can survive the fall.

…

Your decision comes the way most of them do.

Not dramatic.

Not loud.

Just blank. Heavy. Settled into your bones like something inevitable.

You tried.

You kept reaching for him, again and again. Small, careful touches. Fingers brushing his hand. Quiet reminders that you loved him. That you were still here. Waiting, hoping he’d take your hand, pull you in, hold you like he used to.

He didn’t.

He left you alone.

You’d wanted the weekend. Something simple. The beach, maybe. Salty air and blazing sunshine. Time to remember each other. You touched his hand when you suggested it.

He flinched. Actually flinched.

Mumbled something about work. About being called in. Wouldn’t meet your eyes. Then, later that afternoon, Gojo called, cheerful and oblivious, asking for Nanami.

That’s when it hit you.

He hadn’t been called away. He’d chosen to leave. To avoid you.

He was gone, and you were clinging to what was left behind. A shell. A familiar shape, but empty inside.

You didn’t confront him. There was no point. It felt like shutters slamming closed around your heart, an act of self-preservation more than cruelty. You couldn’t survive being gutted like this anymore.

So you chose to leave.

Being alone was better than being with someone who made you feel lonely.

The door opens softly. Like always. Shoes scuff as he toes them off. Keys clink into the bowl by the door. The whisper of fabric as he loosens his tie. Normal sounds on a normal evening.

You steel yourself.

These are the words you’ve only ever heard in your nightmares.

He senses it immediately, that there’s something wrong. Maybe it’s your face. The way your shoulders are set. The manila envelope on the table, stark and out of place.

“Y/N.”

It’s the first time he’s said your name in a while. It sounds strange from his lips now. 

You swallow. Trying to pick your words carefully, everything you’d rehearsed vanishes. “I… I’m leaving.”

“Where are you going?”

“No.” Your voice shakes. “Kento, I’m leaving… you.” The words nearly choke you. Your gaze drops to your knees. “I want a divorce.”

The silence that follows is thick. Heavy. Neither of you move. You wonder if this is it, if he’ll just nod, go to another room, sign the papers like it’s a task and be done with you.

“What— I don’t understand.” He steps forward, breathless, then stops short of you. “Why would you— I don’t want this— no, you can’t—”

“I don’t understand either” you whisper. Somehow, your voice holds. “I don’t know how we got here. I’ve tried, Nanami.”

He winces at the name. At the distance you’ve put between you.

“I feel alone” you continue, the words finally spilling. “All the time. I reach for you. I try to kiss you. To touch you. I’ve thrown myself at you like some—some common whore.” Your hands clench, nails biting into your palms to keep the tears back. “And you push me away. Every time. You don’t even look at me anymore.” Your breath stutters. “When was the last time we fucked?”

He looks wrecked. Jaw tight. Hazel eyes wavering. He shakes his head, like he’s holding himself back from saying something worse.

“You don’t get it” he says finally.

“What don’t I get?” Your voice rises despite you. Tears blur everything. “I can’t live with this distance. I miss the love we used to share. I miss being wanted by you.” Your voice breaks completely. “But more than anything…I miss you, so much…it feels like I’m dying”

He goes still. Confusion drains into despair. He moves closer, his eyes redden with every breath.

“When I first saw myself in the mirror after treatment…” His voice is rough. Unsteady. “All I could think was how you’d regret this. Regret me… surviving.” He swallows hard. “I didn’t want to see it in your eyes. I thought it was better if I pushed you away instead.”

He looks at you then. Really looks at you. Tears cling to his lashes.

“I mean…look at me.” His brows tremble, folding in pain. “Who would want this?” A broken laugh. “Actually, maybe it is better if you leave. Find someone else. Stop wasting your life on someone already broken.”

Something inside you ruptures.

It feels like you’re bleeding internally, waves of emotion ripping at your soul. Sobs tear out of you, violent and uncontrollable. Your head throbs. Burns. Everything hurts, like he’s taken a blade and split you open from throat to stomach.

You realise you’re wailing.

Your hands claw at your face, covering your mouth as the sound pours out of you.

He tries to stop you, grabs your wrists, tries to still you, but you thrash, the agony too big to contain.

“Why?” you scream. “How could you think that of me?”

“Y/N” he gasps, fighting to hold you, finally pulling you hard against his chest. Holding you there. Anchoring you. “Stop”

“I love you” you sob, fists knotted in his shirt. “I’ve never loved anyone but you. Nothing…nothing will ever change that.”

“You loved who I used to be” he whispers, his voice breaking as it brushes the crown of your head.

“No.” The word snaps out of you, sharp and sudden. You shove him back, hands pushing hard at his chest. “Don’t. You don’t get to say that.”

Your breath comes fast, jagged, lungs burning as you force the words out. “When I saw you on that table, I thought I was going to die. I just wanted you back.” Your voice cracks but you don’t stop. “I’ve never wanted anything more in my life. And then you woke up, and I swore I would make sure you knew, every moment of every day, that I love you.”

“Y/N” he exhales, helpless, as you struggle through tears, hyperventilating around every syllable.

“No” you cut in again. “Stop talking. Just listen for a second”

You grab his hand, the one latticed in scars, he instinctively tries to pull away but you refuse to let him. Your grip tightens until he finally gives up.

“I adore these scars” you say fiercely. “Every day I look at them and thank the heavens because they are what brought you back to me. You survived. You’re here.” Your thumb presses into his palm, grounding him. “You came home. To me. To your family.”

His breath stutters. A single tear slips free, tracking slowly down his cheek, catching in the uneven scar tissue before falling.

“You’re beautiful” you whisper. “You survived. I love every last inch of you.”

You lift your hand, hesitate, just for a heartbeat, before pressing your palm to his cheek.

He doesn’t pull away.

The skin beneath your fingers is soft. Textured. Rippled and puckered. But real. Your chest aches as your heart swells, the sensation of him, alive, warm, here, feeling impossibly precious beneath your touch.

“Please” you breathe. “Kento. I love you.”

“I love you too” he gasps.

He surges forward suddenly, arms wrapping around you with desperate force, pulling you flush against him. Your face presses into the scarred side of his throat, breath catching against warm skin.

“Please don’t leave me…” he chokes. “I don’t want a divorce—”

“I don’t want one either” you whisper, lips brushing his scarred flesh. “I thought I had no other option. I love you, and the pain of watching you fall out of love with me hurt too much.”

“I never did” he breathes fiercely, holding you tighter. “I never stopped loving you.”

This was just a random dream for my delusional brain which refuses to acknowledge Nanami's death! IT DIDN'T HAPPEN!

Please don't steal, reproduce, feed into AI, or repost without my consent.

“must’ve really scared him, huh?” you nod proudly and he suggests getting ice cream to celebrate.

childhood friend! suguru rushes out of his house when he hears yells from yours next door. he knows you prefer to leave the house when your family decides to fight, despite the countless times he has told you how unsafe it is to be out so late. he grabs his bike and sets out after you.

childhood friend! suguru, whose heart finally settles when he finds you on the swing in the park you frequent. he rings his bell, and you look up at him. everything feels alright again. he gets up and walks up to you, his eyes never leaving yours as he grabs you by the hands and seats you on the backseat of his bike.

you wrap your arms around his waist and lean your head against his back as he cycles to his house, your sanctuary.

childhood friend! suguru is doing his work, seated at his desk in your freshman year of college, when you latch your arms around his neck, showing him the text you just received.

"the guy from orgo lab asked me out on a date."

he instinctively grabs the phone out of your hands, grip tightening. he stops writing and looks up at you with a look you can’t quite catch.

“are…you?” he asks. you shrug, smiling unsurely. this marks the first time you’ve been asked out— the first time suguru has let his guard down enough for another guy to ask you.

“should i go…?” you hesitantly mumble. even though being desired should have filled you with giddy, you found yourself feeling a little strange.

he bites his lip, pausing before averting his gaze back to his sheet. his fingers start moving again. “if you want to.”

it’s not the answer you want. you look up at the clock hung on his wall, it’s a few minutes before curfew. sighing, you detach yourself from him.

“okay.” he doesn’t catch the disappointment in your tone, you pat his shoulder before you start for the door.

you look back at him. "and before you ask, i can walk back alone."

“then text me when you reach your room.” he gently smiles.

“night, suguru.”

“night, angel.”

he waits until the door clicks behind you before he crumbles the page of scribbles he had just written.

holy fuck. he messed up.

childhood friend! suguru balls up his fists at the posts your guy, neo, shared of him and you. you ended up going on that date.

he narrows his eyes as he zooms into the guy’s face. he thinks he looks normal. nothing special, he’s not even close to being worthy of you.

but he starts questioning, is he your type? that lame little guy?suguru lifts his head to look at his reflection in the wardrobe mirror in front of him, analyzing his face before shortly groaning and rolling his head back. “should’ve picked a class that didn’t coincide with her lab.”

he blocks the guy.

childhood friend! suguru greets you with unusually short answers when you ask about plans for the summer. he can't meet your eyes, he can't look at you without acknowledging how big of a mistake he made.

childhood friend! suguru has been distant ever since, no longer knocking on your dorm room, no longer walking you to classes, bringing you leftover food from club events, asking you to join him and satoru on the latter’s shenanigans, and just straight up humming with disinterest whenever you end up together.

childhood friend! suguru forgets all about his regretful sentiments when your friend calls him at 10 pm to ask about your whereabouts.

“she isn’t with you?” he’s already gathering his things to leave his study group.

“no-no, we were at the bar, it’s crowded and-”

“send me your location.” he hangs up.

it takes him five minutes to get there and only two to find you. you’re sitting at one of the corner tables with three guys around you, one’s hand is on your shoulder, seeming to make small talk except you seem far from interested. there’s an uncomfortable look in your eye and suguru doesn’t miss it.

“hands off, motherfucker.”

irritated, the man looks behind before realizing who the voice belongs to. he takes his hands off and looks away as he moves aside.

you look up at him with surprise, and you almost smile but he only returns a disapproving look.

“let’s go.” he grabs your wrist and marches the two of you out of there.

childhood friend! suguru can’t seem to get words out as you confront him about his distant behavior lately. he stays silent, still walking as you exasperatedly ask him from behind.

“i mean, you can’t even talk to me.” you’re desperate but he doesn't respond. he’s set on not saying a word, but that changes when there's a splash followed by sudden silence. he looks back and you’re not where you just stood, but in the river you were walking alongside.

childhood friend! suguru “why would you do that?” he asks angrily once he pulls you out, searching in your eyes for a possible reason. “was that on purpose? why would you walk so close to the ledge?” his voice is filled with confusion, frustration, worry, anger. you’d never seen him so furious before. he takes your hands in his, getting down on his knees to be on eye-level with you.

his voice is softer now. “they were bothering you, and you didn’t call me. since when did you go to bars? since when did you stop sharing your location-”

“you don’t like me anymore.” you cut him off, you’re trying not to tear up but it happens anyway. “you’re my only family suguru, nobody loves me like you. i can’t stand what’s happening between us, it’s so fucking lonely and i don’t know what to do.”

his heart twinges and he wastes no time engulfing you into a hug, eyes filling up with guilt as your muffled sobs get louder. he backs up momentarily to remove the wet strands from your face, getting a clearer look at your tear-stained face, and it only hurts him more. you feel like this because of him.

“we’ve been side by side for all our lives, i really can’t stand you not loving me anymore.” you quietly say.

“i’m not angry at you, okay?” he assures you, caressing your cheek. “i was angry at myself. I’m sorry. i love you, i swear i’ll always love you, i promise.” he apologizes as he takes off his jacket, draping it over you before turning around to get you on his back.

childhood friend! suguru takes you back to his room, handing you one of his shirts and shorts to change into. he’s pleased that you’re back with him again. he hates to admit it, but he's happy his presence meant that much to you.

“didn’t i leave a change of clothes here last time?” you ask, scanning through the stacks of clothes in his closet.

“might’ve thrown them in the wash with my laundry.” he lies. he wouldn’t miss an opportunity to see you in his clothes.

childhood friend! suguru is slightly taken aback when you start changing in front of him. sure, you had done that since you were kids, but things were different now. ears fully red, he turns away, asking where all your modesty had gone as you hush him by launching your wet shirt at him.

childhood friend! suguru starts drying your hair as you slowly lean back on his chest, goosebumps forming when the back of his hand brushes against you. you’re suddenly aware of the feeling that accompanies the proximity between you.

childhood friend! sugur is equally as happy as he is nerve-stricken that you seem to sense the tension between you, finally. after some hesitation, you gaze up at him, and he looks at you the way he always does, but there’s more longing, more hope, an end goal he sees only in your eyes. you catch it this time.

but suguru doesn't want to get his hopes up.

“how’s it going with neo?”

“huh?”

“how’s neo been treating you?”

you abruptly shake your head and that’s when it all falls into place. he’s jealous.

“suguru i haven’t been on another date after the last…i didn’t like him, i just,” you look down and fiddle with his fingers. “I guess I wanted to see how it felt like, being asked out.”

“oh.” he bites his lips to restrain the smile forming on his face. “i see.”

you smile to yourself as you lift your head to meet his eyes again. "you relieved?"

he laughs lightly, "just thought you didn't need me anymore."

you frown at him, reaching for his face, and he automatically leans into your touch. "don't be an idiot, suguru. i'll always need you, i needed you then," you trail off, careful with your next words. "and i need you now."

he nods as he takes in the information, trying to quietly swallow the lump in his throat. "you do?"

"i do.” you clear your throat, pulling your hands back from his warm face, afraid he’d sense how nervous you are. a small pout forms on his face at the loss of contact and you send him a teasing smile. “so what was that earlier? you love me?”

he pinches your cheek, glancing away momentarily. “you know i’ve always loved you.”

he's right. he’s always shown you love, but you’re curious if it’s the innocent kind you’ve shared since the first day of kindergarten, or the kind you recently realized he makes you feel.

you shift a little. “in what way?”

your question catches him off guard and he brings his eyes back to yours again.

childhood friend! suguru finally gathers enough courage to do what he has wanted to since the second year of middle school.

“this way.” he gently cups your cheeks and you stay frozen in place, hearts beating in synchrony as he closes the distance between you, and you’re more than happy to reciprocate it.

boyfriend! suguru doesn’t sleep a wink with you in his arms, his heart simply won’t allow him. he thanks the world for the conveniently timed thunderstorm that makes you nuzzle closer every time it strikes. it takes him a while to accept that it’s real, you’re in his arms, not as a friend, but as his girlfriend.

he runs one hand through the strands of your hair while the other fumbles for his phone. his screen lights up brightly before he adjusts it, glancing down at your sleeping form to make sure it hasn’t woken you. But he finds you too cute to look away yet, so he presses gentle kisses to your skin in hopes it would satisfy the urge to hold you closer than humanly possible.

he then opens instagram and unblocks neo.

you unlock the door. you step inside and he steps inside right behind you. you turn your head slowly. “…why are you coming in?”

he blinks like you’re the one being weird. “because i walked you to your door,” he says.

“okay…” you say. “you can walk me and then leave.”

he nods like you’re being reasonable. then he steps past you anyway. you watch him walk straight to the living room like he’s on autopilot. he looks at the ugly chair then he looks at you.

“you still have this?” he says, offended.

you drop your bag. “yes. because i bought it.”

he squints at it. “it’s ugly.” but he immediately relaxes, legs stretched out, head tipping back.

you stare. “you hate it but you’re sitting in it.”

he closes his eyes. “i can hate it and still use it.”

you scoff. “you’re unbelievable.”

he hums, already half asleep.

“what do you want?” you ask quietly.

he doesn’t answer right away. the room is quiet. too quiet.

then his voice comes out softer. “your mom worries about you” he says.

you blink, turning back slowly. he’s still leaning back, eyes closed.

you whisper, “so she sent you.”

he hums. “she didn’t send me.”

you narrow your eyes. “yes she did.”

he smiles a little, eyes still closed. “she just… told me” he says. “and i came.”

that hits you. you hate that it feels like the same old thing.

you swallow hard, “…okay.”

satoru hums, like he’s satisfied. then he mumbles, half asleep already, “your chair is still ugly.”

you stare at him. “you’re literally falling asleep in it,” you mutter.

he smiles without opening his eyes. you bite your lip so you don’t laugh. you hate that you almost do.

you grab a blanket from the couch, not even thinking. “go to sleep” you mutter.

he hums like he’s smiling. “okay” he says.

and you stand there for a second, looking at him slumped in your ugly chair like he never left. your ex-husband. your problem. your mom’s favorite. your almost-forever.

you start toward the hallway, trying to be normal, trying to let him sleep. then his voice follows you again, softer now, still half asleep. “hey” he says.

you stop. you don’t turn around. “hmm?”

there’s a pause. then he speaks like it costs him something.

“if it means a lot to you” he says quietly, almost reluctantly. “i’ll try to get along with your boyfriend.”

you stand there for a second, frozen. because it’s so him but you can hear the effort.

you swallow. then you say it, simple. “thanks.” there’s another pause.

then he hums, like he can finally sleep. “yeah” he murmurs.

𖡼.𖤣𖥧𖡼.𖤣𖥧𖡼.𖤣𖥧𖡼.𖤣𖥧

ex husband gojo! still thinks “getting along” means being unbearably charming.

it starts the next morning. you wake up to the smell of coffee and something sizzling, and for one terrifying second, you think you time traveled.

then you remember. divorced. still haunted.

you drag yourself into the kitchen, hair a mess, hoodie hanging off one shoulder.

satoru is at the stove, in your kitchen, in your space. wearing his stupid little apron that says kiss the cook he bought for a joke and never stopped using it.

he’s wearing the same clothes from last night, jacket tossed over the armrest, hair a mess in that unfair way that still looks good.

he looks over his shoulder, bright as ever. “good morning,” he says.

you blink. “why are you cooking?”

he flips something in the pan like he’s on a cooking show. “because i’m nice,” he says.

you stare at him. “you’re suspicious.” he smiles. “you’re mean.”

you shuffle closer, peeking at the pan. eggs. perfect. of course.

you squint. “did you… sleep here?”

he hums. “kinda.”

you deadpan. “in the ugly chair?”

he nods like it was a luxury resort. “yeah.”

you open your mouth to argue, then close it.

“did you sleep okay?” he asks.

you blink, caught off guard. “yeah,” you lie.

he nods like he knows you’re lying. you walk closer, grabbing your water.

he leans his hip against the counter. “are you gonna tell me what happened yesterday?” he asks.

you pause before taking a sip. you don’t look at him. “nothing happened,” you say.

he nods slowly. “mhm.”

you glance at him. “what?”

he smiles like he’s enjoying you being defensive. “you were crying,” he says.

you choke a little. you cough. “i wasn’t crying.”

he raises a brow. you glare. “i wasn’t.”

he nods again, calm. “okay.”

you hate him because he doesn’t push, he doesn’t tease, not about that. he just reaches out, gentle, and tugs your sleeve a little like he’s checking if you’re real.

you freeze. your heart flips so hard it makes you dizzy.

“you okay?” he asks quietly.

you swallow. you want to say no but you want to say yes. you want to say i hate you. you want to say i miss you.

you settle for the only safe thing. “i’m fine,” you whisper.

satoru looks at you for a second before he nods and lets go.

the coffee finishes, he pours it into your mug then he slides it toward you like an offering. you take it. your fingers brush his. and it feels like a memory.

𖡼.𖤣𖥧𖡼.𖤣𖥧𖡼.𖤣𖥧𖡼.𖤣𖥧

ex husband gojo! tries to be civil with your boyfriend and it’s the most unnatural thing you’ve ever witnessed.

it starts with a text. your phone buzzes while you’re sitting on the couch, staring into your coffee like it’s gonna tell you the meaning of life.

you check it.

your boyfriend: hey, can i come over later?

your stomach twists. you type: yeah

then, before you can stop yourself, you add: gojo’s here.

you stare at the message. you consider deleting it but you don’t. you send it and three dots appear instantly.

your boyfriend: why is he there?

you exhale. you type: long story.

your boyfriend: can you tell him to leave?

you stare. you don’t answer right away. because you should. because he’s right, because satoru shouldn’t be here.

because this isn’t normal. because your life is a mess.

you glance up. satoru is sitting at your table, scrolling on his phone, legs crossed like he’s waiting for room service.

you type: he’s leaving soon.

your boyfriend: okay.

you lock your phone and stare at the wall. satoru looks up.

“boyfriend?” he asks, voice casual.

you don’t look at him. “yeah.”

he hums. “what’d he say?”

you deadpan. “none of your business.”

satoru smiles like that’s fair. then he stands up. you blink.

he walks into your hallway. you hear drawers open. you frown, following him. “…what are you doing.”

he’s at your coat closet. your coat closet. like he knows it.

he pulls out his sweater from yesterday. then he pauses. and you watch him, slowly, deliberately, pull out something else. a small gift bag.

you blink, “what is that?”

satoru looks at you, his expression is unreadable for once. “i’m trying,” he says simply.

you stare, “trying what?”

he lifts the bag a little, like he’s presenting it. “to get along,” he says.

you blink, then you scoff. “what is in that?”

he shrugs. “a peace offering.”

you stare at him like you can’t believe what you’re seeing. because it’s satoru. he doesn’t do normal, doesn’t do mature. because he doesn’t do anything that doesn’t involve teasing you until you throw something at him. and yet, he’s standing in your hallway holding a gift bag like a suburban dad.

you slowly reach out. you take it. you peek inside and it’s a bottle of expensive whiskey.

you stare, then you look up at him, “is this for him?”

satoru nods once.

“you bought my boyfriend whiskey…?” you whisper.

he shrugs. “he looks like a whiskey guy.”

you stare. “you don’t even know him.”

satoru smiles. “exactly.”

you blink. “that makes no sense.”

satoru’s smile turns softer. “it does,” he says quietly. “i’m just trying not to be… me.”

your chest tightens. you look down at the bag again. then back at him. “…thank you,” you say, before you can stop yourself.

satoru’s eyes brighten. like you just gave him a treat. “you’re welcome,” he says, pleased.

then he leans closer, voice low. “but if he sucks,” he murmurs, “i’m taking it back.”

you glare. “satoru.”

he grins. “kidding.”

you stare. he pauses. then he adds, honest, “mostly.”

𖡼.𖤣𖥧𖡼.𖤣𖥧𖡼.𖤣𖥧𖡼.𖤣𖥧

ex husband gojo! meets your boyfriend in your living room like he’s interviewing him for the position.

later that evening, your boyfriend knocks. you open the door and force a smile.

“hey,” you say.

your boyfriend leans in, kisses your cheek, and steps inside. then he stops because satoru is sitting in your ugly chair again. of course he is.

your boyfriend’s jaw tightens. satoru looks up from his phone and his face does something you’ve never seen before. he looks… polite.

you blink, almost laughing. satoru stands up. “hey,” he says, calm. “good to see you.”

your boyfriend blinks like he’s buffering. “…hey,” he says.

satoru steps forward, holding out his hand. your boyfriend hesitates, then shakes it. and satoru does not squeeze too hard. he does not hold it too long. he does not smile like a villain. he just shakes it normally.

you stare at him. your boyfriend looks at you like he’s confused. you look back like you’re confused too.

satoru releases his hand. then he turns and gestures to the gift bag sitting on your counter.

“i got you something,” satoru says, voice casual.

your boyfriend looks at the bag. then at you. then back at satoru. “…for me?” he asks.

satoru nods. “yeah,” he says. “as a peace offering.”

your boyfriend slowly walks over and looks inside. his eyebrows lift. “this is… expensive,” he says.

satoru shrugs. “i have money.”

you close your eyes. your boyfriend laughs awkwardly. “…thanks,” he says.

satoru nods like he’s proud of himself. “you’re welcome,” he says. then he adds, polite and deadly at the same time, “take care of her.”

your boyfriend nods quickly. “of course.”

you swallow. your heart is beating too fast. because it feels like a goodbye. because it feels like satoru is being mature. because it feels like he’s doing what you asked. and for some reason, it hurts more than when he was being annoying.

𖡼.𖤣𖥧𖡼.𖤣𖥧𖡼.𖤣𖥧𖡼.𖤣𖥧

ex husband gojo! leaves like he’s giving you space, even when it kills him.

it happens quietly. no dramatic moment. no argument. no teasing.

you’re in the kitchen with your boyfriend, pretending you’re normal. and you glance toward the living room. satoru is standing by the door, jacket on. he’s looking down at his keys. like he’s trying to build courage.

you blink. “…you’re leaving?” you ask.

your boyfriend looks up, surprised. satoru looks at you. his eyes are bright. too bright. but his voice is easy.

“yeah,” he says. “i should.”

you stare at him. you don’t know what to say.

your boyfriend clears his throat. “uh… thanks for the whiskey.”

satoru smiles. it’s polite. real. “no problem,” he says.

then he looks back at you and something shifts. he steps closer. not too close. just close enough. his voice drops, just for you. “i tried,” he murmurs.

your throat tightens. you nod. “i saw,” you whisper.

he smiles a little. then he does something that makes your chest crack open. he reaches up and he tucks a piece of hair behind your ear. slowly, gently. like he’s memorizing you.

your boyfriend is right there but satoru doesn’t care. or maybe he does and that’s why he’s doing it.

you freeze. you don’t pull away. you don’t lean in. you just stand there, breathing.

satoru drops his hand. then he steps back. he looks at your boyfriend. “bye,” he says simply.

your boyfriend nods. “bye.”

satoru opens the door. and before he leaves, he looks at you one more time. his eyes hold yours. and for a second, you see it. everything. the life you almost had. the family, the houses, the kids you said you were glad you didn’t have. the mornings, the sundays, the drives, the chair.

you swallow. satoru smiles. soft but sad. then he leaves. the door shuts. and the silence he leaves behind feels heavier than his presence ever did.

𖡼.𖤣𖥧𖡼.𖤣𖥧𖡼.𖤣𖥧𖡼.𖤣𖥧

ex husband gojo! leaves you sitting with your boyfriend, but your heart stays with him.

you stand there for a moment, staring at the closed door. your boyfriend shifts beside you. “…that was weird,” he says.

you blink. you force yourself to breathe. you turn, looking at him, trying to smile. “yeah,” you say softly. “it was.”

your boyfriend hesitates before he reaches out, touching your arm. “are you okay?” he asks.

you swallow. because you want to say yes. because you want to say no. because you want to say i think i’m still married to him in my head.

you look at your boyfriend but you think of satoru’s hand tucking your hair behind your ear. you think of his voice last night. you think of him sleeping in your ugly chair like it’s his. you think of him leaving like he’s doing the right thing.

and you realize something. something you’ve been avoiding. you whisper, barely audible. “…i don’t know.”

your boyfriend’s face softens. he nods slowly. “okay,” he says gently. “then we can just… sit.”

you nod. you sit on the couch. your boyfriend sits beside you. you stare at the tv, not really seeing it. and all you can think is— satoru tried and it hurt.

because you didn’t want him to try. you wanted him to fight. you wanted him to be selfish. you wanted him to be your problem again. and now he’s gone. and the house feels too quiet. and the chair looks too empty.

𖡼.𖤣𖥧𖡼.𖤣𖥧𖡼.𖤣𖥧𖡼.𖤣𖥧

ex husband gojo! has you thinking about him even after he leaves.

you watch your boyfriend for a second. you feel… guilty. you know why. you just do.

he looks at you, and you quickly look down. “do you still love him?” he asks quietly.

your stomach drops. you stare at him. your throat tightens. you don’t answer fast enough. and that’s an answer in itself.

your boyfriend nods slowly, like he already knew. “okay,” he says. your chest aches.

“i’m sorry,” you whisper.

he shakes his head. “don’t be.”

you blink. “don’t be?”

he looks at you, eyes tired but kind. “i knew,” he says softly. “i just didn’t want it to be true.”

you swallow hard. you reach for his hand. he lets you. you squeeze.

“i don’t want to hurt you,” you say.

he nods. “i know.”

you both sit there for a second.

𖡼.𖤣𖥧𖡼.𖤣𖥧𖡼.𖤣𖥧𖡼.𖤣𖥧

ex husband gojo! texts you later like he can’t help himself.

it’s almost midnight when your phone lights up. your boyfriend already left an hour ago and the house is dark, your heart is still awake. your phone lights up and you check it.

satoru: did he like the whiskey

you stare at the message, your chest tightens.

you type: yeah

then you add: thank you

three dots appear.

satoru: you’re welcome

another pause.

satoru: are you okay

you stare at it before your throat tightens.

you type: yeah

then you delete it.

you type: i don’t know

you stare, before you hesitate. then you send it.

three dots appear again, then nothing.

satoru: me neither

you blink. your eyes sting.

you type: go to sleep

satoru: can i come over

you freeze. you’re staring at the message before you start to type.

you: no

he replies instantly: yes

you: that’s not how that works

satoru: it is for me

you: i’m going to block you

satoru: ok. i’ll just knock

you: i hate you

satoru: liar

your throat tightens.

you type:

you: i miss you

there’s a pause, then:

satoru: i’m outside

your heart drops. you look up so fast you almost hurt your neck. and there he is, you see him outside your window, standing on your porch with his hands in his pockets. tall. familiar. you don’t move. you don’t even breathe.

then your phone buzzes again.

satoru: open the door

you stare at the screen. your hands are shaking but walk to the door anyway. 

you open it and he’s right there. his eyes are bright, his face is soft. he looks… too real.

you swallow. “hi,” you whisper.

satoru smiles. “hi,” he says back.

you stare at him.

then you say, quietly, “you can’t keep doing this.”

his smile fades but he nods once.

“i know,” he says.

you blink, your throat tightening.

“then stop,” you whisper.

satoru looks at you for a long moment. then he steps closer, not touching, just close enough that you feel him.

“i can’t,” he says honestly, his voice quiet. 

your eyes sting so you look away.

you hate that your voice shakes, “why?”

satoru’s gaze stays on you and when he answers, it’s so soft it almost hurts. “because you’re still my home.”

you freeze, your chest aching so sharply it feels like it’s settled in your bones.

you stare at him. then, before you can stop yourself, you whisper: “come inside.”

and he does, the door shuts behind him. you don’t know what you’re doing and neither does he. but he’s here. again.

and this time, you don’t think either of you is going to pretend it’s harmless.

𖡼.𖤣𖥧𖡼.𖤣𖥧𖡼.𖤣𖥧𖡼.𖤣𖥧

ex husband gojo! sits in your ugly chair like he’s about to confess something that will ruin both your lives.

you’re standing in front of him, arms crossed, heart racing. he’s sitting back, legs stretched out, looking up at you like he’s memorizing your face.

“you can’t keep showing up,” you say again, quieter.

satoru nods. “i know.”

you blink. “then why are you?”

he’s quiet before he says, voice low, “because you keep letting me.”

your stomach flips, you’re staring at him. you want to argue but you can’t because he’s right.

you swallow hard, whispering, “what do you want from me?”

satoru’s eyes soften. and for the first time in a long time, he looks… serious. no teasing, no smile, no sunglasses. just him.

“i want you back,” he says.

your chest tightens and your throat closes. you stare at him like you don’t know how to breathe.

“you can’t just say that,” you whisper.

satoru’s jaw tightens slightly. “why not?” he asks. “i’ve been saying it without saying it for months.”

you blink. he’s right. you hate him for being right.

you take a shaky breath. “i have a boyfriend,” you say.

“i know,” he says, nodding, “and i hate him.”

you let out a laugh that sounds like it might turn into a sob “satoru.”

he leans forward slightly, elbows on his knees. his voice gets quieter.

“i’m not asking you to cheat,” he says. “i’m asking you to choose.”

you freeze. your stomach drops. your chest aches so bad.

you whisper, “that’s not fair.”

satoru’s eyes flicker, “i know,” he says.

then he adds, even quieter: “but neither was losing you.”

silence. your house feels too small. your heart feels too loud.

you blink hard, looking away. your voice comes out thin.

“i don’t know what i want.”

satoru nods, like he expected that. then he stands up slowly, he steps closer, not touching you but close enough that your body remembers him.

his voice is soft, “then i’ll wait.” 

you stare at him, “you’ll wait?” you repeat.

satoru smiles a little but it’s not smug, it’s sad. “yeah,” he says. “like i always do.”

your eyes sting, heat prickling at the corner. you whisper, “you don’t get to act like you’re the victim.”

satoru’s smile fades but he nods once.

“i’m not,” he says. “i’m just… still here.”

you swallow hard. you hate how much you want to collapse into him. you hate how much you want him to hold you. you hate how familiar he feels.

you blink just as your phone buzzes. the sound makes you both freeze. you glance down. your boyfriend’s name on the screen—your stomach sinks.

satoru’s eyes flick to the screen then back to your face. he doesn’t smile, he doesn’t tease, he just looks… quiet. like he’s waiting to see what you do.

your hand trembles as you answer. “hello?” the word barely leaves your mouth.

your boyfriend’s voice is gentle. “hey,” he murmurs. “i just wanted to check on you. you seemed really sad before i left… are you okay?”

your chest tightens painfully, suddenly it’s getting hard to breathe. “yeah,” you whisper. “i’m okay.”

there’s a pause, then your boyfriend says, softly, “is he there.”

you freeze, your throat tightens. you don’t answer fast enough.

and again— that’s an answer. your boyfriend lets out a slow breath. “okay,” he says quietly.

your eyes sting and you blink hard. “i’m sorry,” you whisper.

your boyfriend’s voice stays calm. “don’t be,” he says. “just… be honest with me.”

you swallow hard, you look at satoru. he’s watching you like he’s holding his breath.

you whisper into the phone, “i don’t know what i’m doing.”

your boyfriend goes quiet. then he says, voice breaking just a little: “i think i do.”

your chest aches. you press your eyelids together, holding back more than tears. “i’m sorry,” you whisper again.

your boyfriend exhales. “i’ll talk to you tomorrow,” he says.

and then the call ends. you stare at your phone, your hands shake. you look up and satoru is still there, still close, still quiet. he looks at you like he wants to say something but he doesn’t.

you blink, tears spilling. your voice comes out small, “i’m a horrible person.”

satoru’s expression changes instantly, he steps forward, this time he touches you, he cups your face gently, his thumbs wipe your tears like it’s instinct.

“no,” he says firmly. “you’re not.”

you shake your head. “i’m hurting him.”

satoru’s eyes soften, corners lifting ever so slightly. “i know,” he whispers.

 a sob, catches in your throat. “and i’m hurting you,” you whisper.

satoru’s mouth twitches. “yeah,” he admits.

you laugh through tears, “so what do i do?”

satoru stares at you then he leans his forehead against yours, his voice is quiet.

“tell the truth,” he murmurs.

you close your eyes. you breathe him in. his shampoo, his warmth, his stupid familiar comfort.

your chest aches, as your voice trembles. you whisper, “i don’t know if i can.”

satoru’s voice turns even softer. “you can,” he says. “you’re stronger than you think.”

you swallow, the burn in your eyes refusing to fade. “i… miss being married to you,” you whisper, words trembling.

satoru freezes, breath hitching. he exhales slowly, the words sinking into him. his hands grip your face gently but firmly. his voice rough, strained: “don’t say that,” he murmurs.

you blink. “why?”

he closes his eyes, a small tension in his shoulders. “because i’ll forget how to act,” he murmurs.

your heart pounds, hot and fast. “then forget,” you whisper, words trembling.

satoru opens his eyes and the look in them makes your stomach flip.

he stares at you like you’re the only thing in the world.

then he leans in, slowly, carefully, like he’s asking, like he’s afraid and you meet him halfway.

your lips touch. softly, briefly. and then it deepens, like a dam breaking, like something coming home.

your hands grab his shirt without thinking. his arms wrap around you. tight, possessive, desperate. like he’s been starving.

you pull back, breathless. your forehead still against his, “we shouldn’t.”

satoru’s breath is warm, his voice is low. “i know,” he says.

you swallow. “but i want to.”

satoru’s eyes flicker, softening slightly. “i know,” he says again.

you stare at him then you whisper, terrified: “what if we do this again and it ends the same?”

satoru’s expression softens. he kisses your forehead, then he whispers the most honest thing he’s said in months.

“then i’ll still come back,” he says.

you close your eyes, your chest aches.

you whisper, “you’re insane.”

satoru smiles, breathless, eyes soft. “i know,” he murmurs.

and he kisses you again. this time, you don’t stop him.

𖡼.𖤣𖥧𖡼.𖤣𖥧𖡼.𖤣𖥧𖡼.𖤣𖥧

ex husband gojo! makes you choose, but he also makes sure you’re not alone when you do.

the next morning is quiet. too quiet. you wake up tangled in him on your couch, blanket half on the floor, your neck sore, your heart sore, everything sore.

you stare at the ceiling for a second, remembering and your stomach drops.

you sit up fast, satoru’s arm tightens around your waist immediately. “don’t,” he mumbles, voice sleepy.

you freeze.

“we… we shouldn’t have,” you whisper, voice catching. 

satoru opens one eye, then the other. he looks at you, no teasing, no smile, just him. “do you regret it?” he asks quietly. 

you stare at him, your chest constricting. you shake your head slowly. “no,” you whisper.

satoru exhales like he’s been holding his breath for years. “okay,” he says.

you blink, tears pricking at your eyes again. “but i feel horrible,” you whisper.

satoru sits up too, rubbing his face, then he looks at you, serious. “then we fix it,” he murmurs.

you swallow. “how?”

satoru’s jaw tightens. “we do it the right way,” he says. “no more dragging him along.”

your chest aches, heavy and tight. you nod whispering, “i have to break up with him.”

satoru nods once. “yeah,” he says quietly. “you do.”

you stare at your hands. you feel sick, you feel guilty, you feel relieved, you feel everything at once.

you whisper, “he’s a good guy.”

satoru’s mouth twitches. “i know,” he says.

you look up, shocked. “you do?”

satoru sighs. “yeah,” he admits. “that’s why i hate him.”

you let out a laugh that turns into a sob and satoru pulls you into his chest immediately. tightly, safely. your voice breaks. “i’m so messy.”

satoru kisses your hair. “yeah,” he murmurs. “but you’re mine.”

you pull back, fingers brushing your tears. “don’t say that,” you whisper.

satoru pauses then he nods, like he understands. “okay,” he says. “you’re… the person i love.”

your throat tightens.  “better,” you whisper, barley audible.

satoru smiles softly. “better,” he repeats.

𖡼.𖤣𖥧𖡼.𖤣𖥧𖡼.𖤣𖥧𖡼.𖤣𖥧

ex husband gojo! drives you to do the hardest thing, because he knows you’ll chicken out alone.

two hours later, you’re in the passenger seat of your own car while satoru is driving it. it’s quiet, it’s calm but tensions are high. 

your boyfriend is waiting at a café. he texted you earlier, asking if you wanted to talk. you said yes and said you’re were coming. but you didn’t say satoru was coming with you.

he pulls into the parking lot. you sit frozen, hands trembling. satoru looks at you, voice gentle. “you can do this.”

“what if i can’t,” you whisper.

satoru’s voice stays steady, like always, “then i’ll hold your hand under the table,” he says. “and you’ll do it anyway.”

you stare at him, whispering, “i hate you.”

satoru smiles a little. “i know,” he says.

you take a deep breath before you finally get out and you walk inside.

𖡼.𖤣𖥧𖡼.𖤣𖥧𖡼.𖤣𖥧𖡼.𖤣𖥧

ex husband gojo! waits outside because he’s always got your back.

you spot your boyfriend immediately. he stands when he sees you. he looks hopeful, it makes you feel sick.

you sit down across from him, fingers twisting nervously in your lap. his gaze lingers on your face.

“hey,” he murmurs softly.

you force a smile. “hey.”

he hesitates. “is… is he here?”

 your chest tightens. a swallow, a nod. his expression drops. “i’m sorry,” comes out in a whisper.

he looks down, then back up. his voice is quiet, almost a whisper. “did you sleep with him?”

you close your eyes., shaking your head once, barely. you almost did. 

your boyfriend exhales and it sounds like something breaking. “i didn’t mean to hurt you,” you whisper softly.

he nods, like he believes you, which makes it worse. “i know.”

“you deserve someone who’s sure,” you mutter, voice shaking.“and i’m not.”

his eyes sting, glancing away before meeting yours again. “are you choosing him?” 

your throat tightens, a pause stretching too long. “i think i always was,” you admit.

your boyfriend flinches like you slapped him.

“i’m so sorry,” you whisper again.

he nods slowly, forcing a smile that doesn’t reach his eyes “okay,” he murmurs quietly. “okay.”

you sit there, heart pounding, your boyfriend stands up, looking down at you one last time. “i hope he doesn’t hurt you again.”

your throat tightens, “me too.”

your boyfriend leaves and you sit there, shaking.

𖡼.𖤣𖥧𖡼.𖤣𖥧𖡼.𖤣𖥧𖡼.𖤣𖥧

ex husband gojo! walks in like he’s about to save the day. 

a few minutes later, satoru steps inside. he scans the room immediately and his eyes land on you.

he walks over fast, sitting down across from you and for once, he looks… nervous?

“did you do it?” he asks quietly.

you nod. “yeah,” you whisper. “i did.”

satoru’s breath catches, he stares at you. then he reaches across the table and grabs your hand, tightly. like he’s grounding himself. like he’s grounding you.

“are you okay?” he asks, voice low.

you shake your head, “no.”

satoru nods, like he expected that. then he says, quietly, “okay.”

you blink. “okay?”

satoru squeezes your hand. “yeah,” he reassures. “you don’t have to be okay right away.”

tears sting your eyes, you swallow gingerly. “i feel like a monster,” you whisper.

satoru’s eyes soften. “you’re not,” he says firmly.

you stare at him, “i chose you.”

satoru freezes, his grip tightens, voice coming out rough “yeah.”

you blink, tears spilling, “say something.”

he stands up abruptly, pulling you up with him. you stumble into him and he wraps his arms around you, tight. too tight. like he’s been waiting for this for months.

he buries his face in your hair and his voice is barely a whisper, “i’m sorry.”

you freeze, pulling back slightly, “why are you sorry?”

satoru’s eyes are bright, his smile trembles. “because i’m so happy,” he admits. “and i feel like i don’t deserve it.”

your chest aches, a lump in your throat before you whisper, “do you want me back?”

satoru’s throat bobs, he nods once, then again. “yes,” he says, voice breaking slightly. “more than anything.”

“then earn me.”

satoru’s eyes widen but his smile breaks, soft and real. “okay,” he says. “i will.”

you’re shaking. for the first time since the divorce, it feels like something is actually changing. not just circling. not just haunting. but actually changing.

𖡼.𖤣𖥧𖡼.𖤣𖥧𖡼.𖤣𖥧𖡼.𖤣𖥧

ex husband gojo! drives you home like it’s the first day of your marriage.

you watch the road, it’s quiet, you haven’t spoken, “what now?”

satoru glances at you. “now,” he says softly, “i take you home.”

you blink. “and then?”

satoru’s jaw tightens. “and then i do it right.”

you whisper, “i don’t know if i can trust you.”

satoru nods. “i know,” he says.

you stare out the window, “i still love you.”

satoru’s grip tightens on the wheel. he doesn’t look at you but his voice comes out gentle, “i know.”

“say it back.”

satoru exhales slowly, then he looks at you and his eyes are so open it scares you. “i love you,” he admits. “i never stopped.”

your chest aches in a good way, “okay,” you whisper softly, smiling.

satoru nods. “okay,” he repeats.

and the car keeps moving, the future feels terrifying and for the first time, it also feels possible.

𖡼.𖤣𖥧𖡼.𖤣𖥧𖡼.𖤣𖥧𖡼.𖤣𖥧