kitty

satoru returning to your shared home after a few days apart, nothing more than 10 days, but it felt so, sooo long when he didn’t want to touch himself because he promised he’d be good :(

poor thing comes home at 2 am and of course you’re sleeping, it’s a random tuesday without any warning from him that he’d come back tonight, why should you have stayed up?

so he gets changed, slips into his usual sleepwear — nothing more than some sweatpants because he ‘runs hot’ fucking whore.

curls up right against you, head against your chest, more than content to just fall asleep. — not without waking you up first though, because a tired satoru is not a suble satoru.

and he does! at least for an hour or two, but then he wakes up from a wet dream, one of your thighs pressed between his legs and- oh, fuck, how good that feels..

he can’t help but move his hips, the friction that shoots up his spine at that making his breath hitch and little whimpers slip past his parted lips.

he didn’t even mean to wake you up, his hands just simply curled into the fabric of your shirt and, fuck, had he really gotten that desperate to not notice how tight he was gripping?

and of course you weren’t happy, getting woken up twice by your white haired partner?

usually you loved hearing his soft, whiny breaths in your ear, seeing how desperate the strongest got for you.

but today? or rather, tonight? a bit annoying. so when he noticed you were awake and he whined for you to touch him? yeah, you weren’t the nicest.

just tugging his sweats and stupidly expensive calvin klein boxer shorts down, pretty pink tip already weeping for your touch.

and god did he moan out when your hand wrapped around him, leaning to lay more towards his back and instinctively spreading his legs a bit more though still on his side, just so you can have easier access to him.

when your thumb circled the top he whined out, arms curling around your neck. he really thought you were still going to be nice, didn’t he? boy, was he in for a rude awakening.

when you pressed your thumb down on his tip a bit harder? he whined, trying to curl his hips away, to no avail. “s-stop, agh, that hu-uuh-rts.”

when you clicked your tongue he looked up into your eyes, pouting. “should’ve thought about that before waking me up like a bitch in heat, hm?”

he whined, eyes fluttering shut when your wrist moved in the way he liked, no scratch that, loved. a moan slipped out of his lips, stomach clenching up. fuck, he was so sensitive due to almost two weeks of being pent up

“i’m sorryyy..” he whined, burrowing his head in your neck, soft sounds slipping past while he mouthed at the soft skin, attempting to mute his soft, embarrassing sounds

and of course you didn’t stop, not even when he began whining about being close. and when he did come, white hot liquid hitting your hand, he moaned out loudly

when you still stroked him through it, continuing to specifically attack the sensitive underside of his mushroom tip, he tried pulling away — and although he definitely could have, given that he was multiple times stronger than you, he didn’t really fight you

he actually began squirming though when the pleasure began to hurt, when it began zipping up his back and causing him to tug away

and while you were a tad frustrated, definitely, you still loved him. so you let go, watched as he slumped back, soft gasps and shaky breaths leaving his mouth.

The night air was crisp against your skin, a sharp contrast to the warmth that had built up from hours of running around completing the ridiculous challenges Joost had planned for the video. The day had been filled with chaos—obstacle courses, food dares, and whatever else his absurdly creative brain had conjured up. You’d spent the last few weeks filming with him and his team, each challenge more ridiculous than the last. But this one? This one had taken the cake.

“You’re not backing out now, are you?” Joost’s voice was teasing, cutting through the silence of the secluded lake where the latest challenge had led you both. The others had left long ago, their parts in the challenge completed, leaving just you and him at the water’s edge.

You hugged your arms around yourself, looking at the dark water. The moon reflected off its surface, casting everything in a soft glow. “Not backing out,” you shot back, tilting your chin up. “Just thinking.”

Joost grinned, already peeling off his hoodie. “Thinking about how cold it’s gonna be? That’s part of the challenge, babe.”

Your stomach did a little flip at the casual way he said ‘babe.’ He did it all the time—just his natural way of speaking—but something about the way it rolled off his tongue so effortlessly made your breath catch.

“You better not scream when you get in,” you warned, trying to focus on the challenge instead of the fact that Joost was now standing in just his boxers. “It’ll ruin your whole ‘I’m totally fearless’ persona.”

Joost smirked. “Oh, I’m fearless, schatje. You, though? We’ll see.”

You swallowed hard, heart hammering in your chest. It wasn’t the water you were nervous about. It was the fact that once you stripped down, there’d be no fabric, no safety net—just you, the water, and Joost. And while this was supposed to be for the challenge, there was no denying the way the air between you crackled with something unspoken.

Before you could second-guess yourself, you reached for the hem of your hoodie, yanking it over your head. Joost’s eyes flickered down to your exposed skin, and for the first time since you’d met him, he was speechless.

“Damn,” he muttered, mostly to himself, before quickly turning toward the water. “Right. Time to jump in before we both get hypothermia.”

You laughed, nerves melting away as he waded into the lake. With a deep breath, you followed him in, the cold biting at your skin instantly.

“Holy shit,” you gasped, wrapping your arms around yourself. “Why did we think this was a good idea?”

Joost turned to face you, hair already damp from the water. “Because it’s fun?” he suggested, wading a little closer. His voice was softer now, less teasing, more… something else. Something that made your stomach clench in anticipation.

You let yourself float slightly, kicking your legs beneath the surface. The water made everything feel lighter, hazy. Joost was watching you, his usual playful expression gone.

“You good?” he asked, voice quiet.

You nodded. “Yeah. Just… this is nice.”

His lips curled into a softer smile, nothing like his usual cocky smirk. “Yeah. It is.”

Silence stretched between you, filled only by the gentle lapping of water and your steady breathing. You drifted closer, only realizing how near you were when Joost reached out, brushing his fingers over your wrist. The touch sent a shockwave through you, despite the cold.

“I’ve been wanting to do this for a while,” he admitted, his voice barely above a whisper.

Your breath hitched. “Do what?”

He didn’t answer, just leaned in, giving you enough time to stop him if you wanted to. But you didn’t. Instead, you closed the remaining space between you, lips meeting his in a kiss that was slow, deliberate. The kind of kiss that made you forget about the cold entirely.

Joost’s hands found your waist, pulling you closer. The water made everything feel dreamlike, like none of this was real. But the way he kissed you—deep, desperate, as if he’d been holding back for far too long—made it clear that this was very real.

“You know,” you murmured against his lips, “I don’t think this part is making it into the video.”

Joost chuckled, resting his forehead against yours. “No,” he agreed, fingers tracing patterns along your bare skin. “This part’s just for us.”

His hands, still slick from the water, traced slow circles on your skin, sending shivers down your spine that had nothing to do with the cold. You tangled your fingers in his damp hair, pulling him in for another kiss, this one more urgent—like neither of you wanted to waste another second.

Joost groaned softly against your lips, his grip on your waist tightening as he pulled you flush against him. The sensation sent a fresh wave of heat through you, a stark contrast to the chilled water around you.

“You’re dangerous, you know that?” he murmured against your jaw, lips grazing your skin between words. “This was supposed to be a challenge, not a distraction.”

You laughed breathlessly, tilting your head back as his lips trailed down your neck. “Oh, so I’m a distraction now?”

He hummed, his hands sliding lower, fingers pressing into your hips. “The biggest one.”

You felt weightless in his arms, lost in the moment as the night wrapped around you. The water rocked you both gently, rippling with every movement, every shift in his touch. Your heart pounded in your chest, each beat echoing in your ears as Joost’s lips met yours again, more insistent this time, like he was staking his claim.

Somewhere in the back of your mind, you knew you should stop—knew that if you didn’t, you’d never look at Joost the same way again. But as his fingers traced patterns along your spine, as he whispered your name like it was something sacred, you realized something:

You didn’t want to stop.

Joost’s fingers trailed down your back, the cool water amplifying every touch, every sensation. His hands found your thighs, pulling you gently against him as he deepened the kiss. The lake was vast, endless, yet you felt like the only two people in the world.

Then, without warning, Joost tightened his grip and pulled you under, the water swallowing you both whole. When you resurfaced, gasping, laughter spilled from your lips, only for Joost to silence you with another kiss. This wasn’t just a challenge anymore. It was something deeper, something neither of you wanted to end. The night was still young, but the air around you was thick with something unspoken, something that only seemed to grow heavier the more time you spent in each other’s company. As you both stepped out of the cool night air and into the hotel, the quiet hum of the lobby felt distant, almost surreal compared to the charged atmosphere between you.

Joost’s hand found yours again, a quiet gesture, but one that made your pulse race. His fingers intertwined with yours, squeezing once, then pulling you toward the elevator. He didn’t speak, but the way his eyes darted to you, holding that intense gaze, said everything.

Once inside the elevator, the space between you seemed to shrink even more. Neither of you said anything, and the soft hum of the elevator seemed to amplify the rapid beating of your hearts. You could feel the heat radiating off him as he shifted closer, his lips brushing your ear for a split second.

“You know,” he murmured, voice low, “I don’t think I’ve ever wanted someone like this before.”

You turned to look at him, eyes locking with his in the reflection of the elevator mirrors. There was something vulnerable in his expression, something raw that made your breath catch. His usual cocky confidence was gone, replaced by something else—something softer, more unsure.

Before you could respond, the elevator doors opened, and Joost’s hand shot out to grip your wrist, pulling you toward his room. The door clicked shut behind you, and the moment the lock slid into place, Joost’s lips were on yours again—fierce and needy this time.

He pushed you back toward the bed, his hands fumbling with the hem of your shirt as he kissed you with a hunger that left you breathless. You could feel his body trembling slightly, not from fear, but from desire. He was letting you take control, his usual dominant persona slipping away as he let himself fall into your rhythm.

You pulled away for a moment, breathless, and looked down at him. “You want this?” you asked, your voice barely a whisper.

His eyes were wide, full of want, but there was a vulnerability there, too. He nodded quickly, his breath shallow. “More than anything,” he admitted, his voice rough with need.

You smiled, your thumb brushing over his jaw before leaning in again, kissing him slowly this time—teasing. He moaned softly against your lips, his hands pulling you closer, as though he couldn’t get enough.

Your fingers made quick work of his shirt, tossing it aside as his hands explored your body with a careful urgency, as though afraid of pushing too hard. When your hands slid down his chest, feeling the tension in his muscles beneath your touch, he shivered, his breath hitching.

You pressed him back onto the bed, straddling him, your hands trailing down his body, teasing him as you kissed his neck, your lips leaving small marks on his skin, each one a claim. Joost gasped, his fingers tightening on your hips as you kissed your way down his chest, each kiss slow and deliberate, building the heat between you both.

“I want you,” he whispered, his voice barely above a breath. There was something in his tone, a vulnerability that made your heart skip. “But… I need you to… I need you to take the lead, okay?”

You stopped, looking down at him. His eyes were wide, his lips parted, and there was a sense of surrender in the way he looked at you. Joost had always been the one in control, always the one making the jokes, pushing the boundaries. But here, now, in this moment, he was letting go—letting you have the reins.

The day had been exhausting. You could feel the weight of it pressing down on your shoulders, tightening in your chest, leaving you feeling small and out of place in your own skin. It wasn’t just one thing, not just one moment—it was a hundred tiny paper cuts, each one stinging in its own way. The cashier calling you “miss.” The stranger correcting your pronouns when someone else got them right. The way people hesitated before addressing you, like they were second-guessing what they saw. By the time you got home, it felt like too much.

Joost was already there, sprawled out on the couch, a lazy smile tugging at his lips when he saw you. “Hey, handsome,” he greeted, as casual as anything, as if he didn’t even have to think about it. And maybe he didn’t. Maybe, to him, it was just obvious. You were a man. You were his man. No hesitation. No second-guessing.

The tightness in your chest loosened just a little.

You sighed, kicking off your shoes and flopping onto the couch beside him. “Rough day,” you muttered.

Joost didn’t ask. He didn’t need to. He just hummed in understanding, shifting so he could tuck you against his side, his arms warm and solid around you. “Do you want to talk about it, or do you want distractions?”

You thought about it for a moment, staring at a loose thread on your sweater. “Distractions,” you decided.

“Alright, distractions I can do.”

Joost pulled you in closer, grabbing the remote and flipping through channels until he landed on some ridiculous reality show—one of those competitions that made no sense but was hilarious to watch. He provided a running commentary, complete with exaggerated impressions of the contestants, making you laugh despite yourself.

At some point, he got up and disappeared into the kitchen. You heard cabinets opening and closing, the hum of the fridge, and the soft sound of something sizzling. When he returned, he had two bowls of instant ramen, each one carefully prepared just the way you liked it. “Fuel,” he said simply, handing one to you.

You took it, warmth seeping into your fingers. “Thanks.”

“Of course,” he said, nudging his knee against yours. “It’s a scientific fact that noodles cure all ailments.”

“Oh yeah? Got a study to back that up?”

“Babe, I am the study.”

You snorted, shaking your head, but the warmth in your chest was spreading now, untangling the knots of tension bit by bit.

But even with the distractions, the weight of the day still clung to you. You must have tensed without realizing it because Joost turned to look at you, his expression softer now. “Hey,” he said, quieter this time. “You know you’re real, right?”

Your breath hitched. You looked at him, and he held your gaze without hesitation, his eyes steady and sure. “You’re real,” he repeated, reaching up to tuck a strand of hair behind your ear, fingers lingering at your jaw. “You’re a man. And you don’t have to prove that to anyone.”

You swallowed hard. “I just… I hate feeling like this. Like I have to fight for it all the time.”

“I know,” he murmured. “And it’s bullshit that you do. But you don’t have to fight with me.” He pressed a kiss to your temple, gentle but firm. “With me, you’re just you. No doubts. No questions.”

Something in your chest cracked open at that, something raw and aching. You closed your eyes, leaning into him, letting yourself be held. Joost’s hand found yours, his fingers lacing through yours like it was the easiest thing in the world.

“You’re my boyfriend,” he said. “My ridiculously handsome, stupidly cool, completely badass boyfriend.”

A laugh escaped you, wobbly but real. “Stupidly cool?”

“Oh, yeah. Just the coolest.” He grinned. “You got the whole package. Coolness, hotness, awesomeness—”

“You’re making up words.”

“And you love it.”

You did. You really did.

The weight on your chest didn’t disappear completely. It never did. But with Joost beside you, grounding you, reminding you who you were—not just in his eyes, but in reality—it felt a little easier to breathe. And for now, that was enough.

The two of you stayed like that for a while, the soft hum of the television filling the quiet. Eventually, Joost shifted, grabbing a blanket and draping it over both of you. “Let’s stay here,” he murmured, voice low and warm. “Just for a bit.”

You nodded, letting yourself sink into the moment, into him, into the quiet understanding between you. Maybe the world outside wasn’t always kind, but here, in Joost’s arms, you were safe. You were seen. And that, more than anything, made all the difference.

After a while, he reached for your hand again, lacing his fingers through yours. “You know,” he mused, “I think the universe got one thing right.”

“Oh yeah? What’s that?”

“You existing,” he said simply. “And me getting to love you.”

Your breath caught in your throat, emotion swelling in your chest. He always knew just what to say, in just the right way. You turned to face him, pressing a kiss to the tip of his nose. “I think the universe got one thing right too,” you murmured. “You.”

Joost grinned, his arms tightening around you, pulling you flush against him. “Damn right.”

And in that moment, you knew—no matter how hard the outside world tried to shake you, this was unshakable. You were real. You were loved. And you were enough.

Later, long after the credits had rolled on whatever show was playing, Joost spoke again. “We should do something nice for you this week.”

“Like what?” you asked, your voice soft with drowsiness.

“Something that makes you feel good. A spa day? A shopping trip? Hell, we can just go somewhere and let you yell into the void if that helps.”

You smiled at that, shifting so you could rest your head against his chest, listening to the steady rhythm of his heartbeat. “Maybe just a day together,” you murmured. “Something low-key. I just… like being with you.”

Joost’s fingers brushed gently through your hair. “Then that’s what we’ll do. Just us. No nonsense. No second-guessing. Just a day where you’re completely, one hundred percent you.”

That sounded perfect.

Joost had always been larger than life, a firecracker in human form, electrifying any room he stepped into. That night was no different. The energy of the concert still buzzed in the air, thick and intoxicating, as the group stumbled into the bar, laughter echoing between the walls. You had been by his side all night, as usual, drawn to him like a moth to a flame, unable to help yourself.

He was your best friend. And yet, he was so much more than that.

The bar was packed, bodies pressed together in a haze of neon lights and music that pulsed through the floor. Joost was in his element—soaking in the attention, bouncing between people like he was made of pure energy, feeding off their admiration. You trailed behind, always a step away, watching him with a mix of fondness and something heavier, something that sat bitter on your tongue.

It started with the shots. You had nursed one drink for the past hour, but Joost and the others were on a mission, one that involved as many tequila shots as possible. His laughter was contagious, loud and uninhibited, his head thrown back as he downed another round. His cheeks were flushed, his movements loose and carefree.

And then she appeared.

She was pretty—there was no denying that. A confident kind of pretty, the type of girl who knew she could have anyone in the room if she tried hard enough. And Joost, being absolutely wrecked, didn’t even notice her until she was already draped over him.

You watched from a distance, gripping your drink a little too hard as she leaned in close, whispering something in his ear that made him laugh, his arm automatically slipping around her waist. His body swayed with hers as the music thumped, and you felt something crack inside you.

He wasn’t doing it on purpose. You knew that. Joost was always touchy when he was drunk, always affectionate with everyone. But that knowledge didn’t stop the jealousy from curling in your stomach, hot and ugly. It didn’t stop the way your chest ached at the sight of her fingers trailing down his arm, at the way he let her.

He wouldn’t even remember this in the morning.

You left before he could see the way your expression twisted, before he could see the way your hands trembled when you set your drink down and pushed through the crowd. You left before he could see you break.

Avoiding Joost wasn’t easy. It was damn near impossible, actually, considering how intertwined your lives were. But you tried. You ignored his texts, gave half-hearted excuses when he asked to hang out, and made yourself scarce when you knew he’d be around. It killed you, but seeing him, talking to him—it hurt more.

Joost, for all his obliviousness, noticed.

The first time he confronted you, it was with a laugh, ruffling your hair as he said, “What, you got a secret double life or something?”

You had forced a smile, shaking your head. “Just been busy.”

He had accepted that answer—for a while. But Joost wasn’t stupid. And more importantly, Joost knew you.

The second time, his tone was more serious. “Hey, did I do something?”

You had waved him off, heart hammering. “No, of course not. Just... stuff going on.”

The third time, he didn’t let you run.

It was late when he showed up at your door, unannounced. The knock was firm, insistent, and when you opened it, he was standing there with his hands shoved into the pockets of his hoodie, looking at you with something close to frustration.

“You’ve been avoiding me.”

Your throat tightened. “No, I haven’t.”

Joost let out a sharp laugh. “Bullshit.”

You swallowed, looking away. “I just needed some space.”

“From me?”

You didn’t answer.

Joost sighed, running a hand through his hair. “Look, if I fucked up, tell me. Just—just say it. I can’t fix something if I don’t even know what’s wrong.”

Your nails dug into your palms. “It’s nothing, Joost.”

“It’s not nothing,” he shot back, frustration bleeding into his voice. “You barely look at me anymore. You barely talk to me. And don’t think I didn’t notice you leaving that night.”

Your stomach twisted. “I just wasn’t feeling well.”

Joost stepped closer, his voice softer now. “Then why does it feel like I lost you that night?”

You clenched your jaw, willing yourself not to break. “It’s not your fault.”

“Then whose fault is it?”

You hesitated. The words were right there, clawing at your throat, demanding to be spoken. But saying them meant exposing everything—meant admitting to feelings you had spent so long trying to bury.

Joost studied you, eyes searching yours. And then, quietly, he said, “Was it because of her?”

Your breath hitched. You should have denied it. Should have laughed it off, turned it into a joke. But the look on his face—he already knew.

“You were jealous.” It wasn’t a question.

Your mouth opened, then closed. Heat flooded your face, shame curling around your ribs. “I wasn’t—”

Joost took another step forward. “Why didn’t you just tell me?”

You looked away. “Because it’s stupid.”

“It’s not stupid.”

You let out a hollow laugh. “It is, Joost. We’re not even together. I have no right to feel that way.”

Joost was silent for a long moment. Then, he reached out, hesitating before his fingers brushed against yours. “Hey,” he murmured. “Look at me.”

You did. And in his eyes, you saw none of the ridicule you expected. None of the rejection you feared. Just warmth. Just understanding.

“Do you really think I’d care about some random girl?” he asked, voice quiet. “Do you really think she even mattered?”

You swallowed hard. “I don’t know.”

Joost exhaled sharply, shaking his head. “You idiot.”

You frowned. “Excuse me?”

He gave you a lopsided smile, his fingers finally lacing with yours. “You’re the only one that matters to me.”

Your heart stuttered. “Joost—”

“I love you,” he said simply. “I thought you knew.”

You stared at him, struggling to breathe. “You what?”

Joost laughed, squeezing your hand. “I love you. Have for a while now. Kinda thought it was obvious.”

Your mind reeled. “But—”

“No buts,” he interrupted. “You’re not losing me. And I sure as hell don’t want to lose you.”

Something inside you cracked wide open. And this time, you didn’t run.

Instead, you let yourself fall into his arms, into the warmth that had always been waiting for you.

Your fingers tremble as you hold your phone to your ear, the silence stretching out as if the universe itself is waiting for you to speak. You swallow hard, pressing your back against the cold wall of your bedroom, knees drawn to your chest.

“Joost,” you start, voice barely above a whisper. “I—fuck, I don’t know how to say this.”

You suck in a shaky breath, pressing your palm against your forehead. The tears have long since dried on your cheeks, leaving behind the raw sting of salt and grief. Your whole body feels hollow, like something inside you has been scooped out and discarded.

“They’re gone.” Your voice breaks, and you close your eyes. “My grandparents. There was a car crash. They didn’t make it.”

Saying it out loud feels like slamming into a wall at full speed. The words don’t feel real. They feel like something you’re reading off a script, something that belongs to a tragic movie, not your life. But they are real. They are suffocating.

Your breath shudders. “I don’t know what to do, Joost. They were all I had. My parents don’t—” Your throat tightens. “They don’t care. They never did. And now I don’t have anyone.”

You laugh, but it’s a hollow, broken sound. “I mean, I have friends, I guess. I have my roommate. But it’s not the same, you know? They were my home. My only home. And now they’re just… gone.”

You squeeze your eyes shut, gripping the phone so tightly your knuckles turn white. You shouldn’t be saying this. You shouldn’t be dumping all of this on him like this, in a fucking voicemail, of all things. But you need to say it. You need him to know.

“I was getting better,” you whisper. “I was really trying. But now… I don’t think I can do this. I don’t think I want to.”

Your free hand drifts down to your wrist, tracing over the faded scars that mark your skin. You swallow hard.

“I just—” Your voice cracks again. “I just wanted to hear your voice. I just wanted to know that someone cares. That you care.”

The screen of your phone flickers, and your heart stops as you see the battery warning pop up—1%.

“No, no, no, please—” You scramble to your feet, reaching for your charger, but it’s too late. The phone dies in your hands, the voicemail unsent, your words lost to the void.

The silence in your room is suffocating. The phone in your hand is nothing more than a dead weight, the unsent voicemail mocking you in the darkness. Your breath is shallow, your heartbeat thrumming too fast, too erratic. The weight in your chest doesn’t lessen. If anything, it grows heavier, pressing against your ribs like something is trying to crush you from the inside out.

You should try again. You should plug in your phone, wait for it to charge, and send the message. But the thought of hearing Joost’s voice, of him knowing how broken you are, makes something inside you recoil.

Maybe it’s better this way. Maybe it’s better if no one knows.

Your hands shake as you push yourself up from the floor. You don’t even remember standing, don’t remember making the decision to walk toward the bathroom. The world feels distant, your body moving without your permission. The door creaks as you push it open, the dim glow from the hallway casting eerie shadows against the tile.

The mirror above the sink reflects someone you barely recognize—hollow eyes, a face gaunt with exhaustion, lips pressed into a thin, bloodless line.

You look away.

Your hands move automatically, reaching for the cabinet above the sink. Your fingers tremble as they push aside bottles of painkillers and bandages, the weight of old habits pressing down on your shoulders. You shouldn’t be doing this. You swore you wouldn’t. You promised.

But promises don’t mean anything when the pain is too much to bear.

Your fingers curl around the small, familiar object hidden behind the stack of folded towels. Cold, unforgiving metal glints under the dim light. The weight of it in your hand is almost comforting.

You don’t hesitate.

The first cut is shallow, a mere scratch against your skin. A test. A whisper of something familiar, something that used to ground you when nothing else could.

The second is deeper.

The third makes your vision blur.

It’s not enough.

It’s never enough.

Your breath hitches as you press down harder, the sting sharp and immediate. The sight of red blooming against your pale skin is hypnotic, almost mesmerizing. It pools, slow at first, then faster, dripping onto the cool bathroom tile in silent, damning proof of your weakness.

You were doing better. You were supposed to be better.

But better never lasted.

A wave of dizziness crashes over you, and you sway, gripping the edge of the sink to steady yourself. Your heartbeat pounds in your ears, too loud, too fast. Your vision tunnels, dark spots dancing at the edges.

You’ve gone too far.

The realization barely registers before your legs give out. The cold tile meets your skin, but you barely feel it. The razor slips from your fingers, clattering against the floor. The sound is distant, muffled, like you’re hearing it from underwater.

You’re so tired.

Maybe if you just close your eyes for a second…

The last thing you hear before the darkness swallows you whole is the distant sound of a door and the muffled voice of your roommate calling your name.

The first thing you notice is the smell.

Antiseptic, too clean, too sterile. It burns in your nose, sharp and artificial, nothing like the familiar scents of home.

The second thing is the beeping. Slow, rhythmic, distant at first, but growing louder as awareness claws its way back to you. It pulses in time with the dull, aching throb in your arms.

You don’t want to open your eyes.

You don’t want to wake up.

But consciousness drags you forward anyway, pulling you from the depths of whatever haze you were lost in. Your eyelids are heavy, like they’ve been forced shut for too long. When you finally manage to pry them open, the world is too bright, a harsh contrast to the darkness you last remember.

Fluorescent lights. White walls. The faint hum of voices just beyond the door.

Hospital.

The realization settles like a stone in your chest.

You blink slowly, trying to piece together how you got here. The last thing you remember is the floor—cold against your skin, your heartbeat sluggish, everything slipping away. And then—nothing.

Your fingers twitch against the sheets, the movement sluggish and uncoordinated. There’s an IV taped to the back of your hand, a slow drip feeding into your veins. The pinch of the needle is dull compared to the deeper sting on your arms.

You don’t want to look.

But you do.

The bandages are stark white against your skin, wrapped tightly around your forearms. Too neat. Too precise. Someone cleaned you up, erased the mess you made, patched you back together like it was that simple. Like you weren’t the one who did this.

A lump rises in your throat.

You were supposed to go deeper. You were supposed to—

No.

You can’t think about that now.

A sound pulls you from your thoughts—the soft creak of a chair shifting.

You turn your head, sluggish, and see your roommate slouched in the chair by the window. They look exhausted, dark circles under their eyes, their arms crossed over their chest. Their face is tight with something unreadable, but their eyes—when they meet yours—are filled with something dangerously close to relief.

“You’re awake,” they murmur.

Your throat is dry, raw, like you’ve swallowed sandpaper. You don’t respond.

They sigh, running a hand through their hair before sitting up straighter. “You scared the shit out of me.”

You look away, guilt settling like lead in your stomach. You don’t know what to say to that.

Your roommate exhales sharply, shaking their head. “I found you on the bathroom floor. You lost a lot of blood. The doctors said—” They stop, jaw clenching. “They said if I’d found you any later, you might not have made it.”

Your fingers tighten around the sheets.

You don’t know how to feel about that.

There’s a long silence. Then, their voice softens. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

It’s not an accusation. It’s not anger. It’s something worse.

It’s hurt.

You stare at the ceiling, blinking hard. “I didn’t want to bother you.”

Your voice is hoarse, barely more than a whisper.

Your roommate lets out a humorless laugh. “Bother me?” They shake their head. “Jesus, you think this is bothering me? You almost fucking died.”

Your stomach twists. You wish they would yell. You wish they would be angry. It would be easier to handle than this quiet, broken kind of pain.

They sigh again, rubbing a hand over their face. “I called someone,” they say after a moment. “I thought you’d want them to know.”

A flicker of unease runs through you. “Who?”

Before they can answer, there’s a knock at the door.

The knock at the door is soft, hesitant. Your body tenses instantly, heart stuttering in your chest. The hospital room suddenly feels too small, the walls closing in.

Your roommate shifts in their chair, glancing at you before standing. “I’ll get it,” they murmur.

You swallow hard, throat still raw. You don’t ask who it is. Some part of you already knows.

The door creaks open, and your roommate steps aside.

You can’t breathe.

Joost stands in the doorway, his usual energy dimmed, his expression unreadable. He’s dressed in a hoodie and jeans, his hair slightly disheveled like he ran his hands through it too many times. His eyes—those bright, familiar eyes—are shadowed with something heavy. Something raw.

You want to look away, but you can’t.

For a moment, neither of you speak.

Then, in a voice barely above a whisper, he says, “Hey.”

It’s such a simple word. Such a normal thing to say. But it shatters something inside you.

Your fingers curl into the stiff hospital blanket, your whole body screaming to retreat, to disappear into the sheets and pretend none of this is happening. You’re not ready for this. You’re not ready to see the look on his face, the quiet devastation in his eyes.

Joost glances at your roommate, and they seem to understand without words. They nod once, then step out into the hallway, pulling the door shut behind them.

Now, it’s just the two of you.

Silence stretches between you, thick and suffocating. You can’t bring yourself to meet his eyes. Instead, you stare at the IV in your hand, the bandages wrapped around your arms, the sterile white walls—anywhere but him.

“I got your voicemail.”

Your stomach twists.

You almost forgot about that. Almost. But of course, he heard it. Of course, he knows.

“I—I was going to call you back,” Joost continues, voice tight. “But your phone was off. And then…” He exhales sharply. “Then I found out what happened.”

Your hands tremble against the sheets. “I didn’t mean for you to find out like this.”

His laugh is short, bitter. “Yeah? How was I supposed to find out, then? When you were gone?”

Flinching, you squeeze your eyes shut. Shame burns through you, hot and unbearable. You shouldn’t have called. You shouldn’t have left that message.

Joost takes a step closer. The chair your roommate was sitting in scrapes against the floor as he pulls it up beside your bed. When he sits, his knee brushes against the mattress, close enough that you could reach out if you wanted to.

But you don’t.

For a long moment, he doesn’t say anything. He just looks at you.

“Why didn’t you tell me?”

It’s the same question your roommate asked. But from Joost, it feels different. He’s not just asking why you didn’t call. He’s asking why you didn’t let him in.

You force yourself to meet his gaze, and the look on his face nearly undoes you.

He looks wrecked. His jaw is tight, his brows furrowed, but it’s his eyes that get you. There’s something behind them—hurt, frustration, something dangerously close to fear.

Your throat tightens.

“I didn’t want you to worry,” you whisper.

Joost exhales sharply, running a hand through his hair. “That’s bullshit.”

You flinch.

“I mean it,” he says, softer this time. “That’s bullshit, and you know it. You didn’t want me to worry, so you just—what? Kept it all inside? Pretended you were okay until you couldn’t anymore?”

Your lip trembles. “I was okay,” you rasp. “For a while.”

He shakes his head. “Yeah, and then what? You thought you could just handle it alone?”

“I had to,” you whisper. “I didn’t have anyone.”

His expression twists, something unreadable flickering across his face. “You had me.”

Something inside you cracks.

You shake your head, vision blurring. “You don’t get it.”

“Then make me get it,” Joost pleads. His voice is quiet, but there’s an urgency beneath it, like he’s fighting to keep himself together. “Help me understand.”

You bite the inside of your cheek, blinking rapidly. “It’s not that simple.”

“Then make it simple.”

Your breath stutters. Your pulse thrums painfully against your ribs. He’s waiting—really waiting. Not pushing, not forcing, just waiting for you to say something.

And maybe it’s the exhaustion, or maybe it’s the way he’s looking at you like he won’t leave until you let him in, but the words slip out before you can stop them.

“They were all I had.”

Joost’s brows furrow.

“My grandparents,” you clarify, voice barely above a whisper. “They were all I had. My parents—they never cared. Never wanted me. But my grandparents did. They took care of me. They made me feel like I mattered.”

Your fingers dig into the blanket, gripping it like a lifeline. “And now they’re gone.”

Joost is silent.

You shake your head. “Do you know what that’s like? To lose the only people who ever made you feel safe?” Your throat tightens. “I was getting better, Joost. I really was. But when they died, it was like—like something inside me just… stopped working. Like all the progress I made didn’t matter anymore.”

A tear slips down your cheek.

Joost reaches forward, hesitating for only a second before taking your hand in his. His fingers are warm, steady, grounding. You don’t pull away.

“I just wanted to hear your voice,” you whisper. “That’s why I called. I just—” Your breath shudders. “I just needed something to hold onto.”

Joost squeezes your hand gently. “I would’ve picked up.”

Your throat aches. “I know.”

Another silence stretches between you, but this time, it’s not as suffocating.

Joost glances at your bandaged arms, his grip on your hand tightening slightly. He doesn’t say anything about it—doesn’t ask why, doesn’t ask how bad it was. But the look in his eyes tells you he doesn’t need to. He already knows.

Instead, he just holds onto you.