🖤

Tech paused, eyes flicking back to the holoposter. “I suppose not… after all, I was successful on Serolonis.” He states with a sense of small pride. 

Your grin widened, practically glowing. “Exactly. And this time, nobody’s life is hanging in the balance.”

Tech tilted his head slightly, conceding the point but only partially. “We would still need to inquire about the application process. I imagine there are restrictions—”

“Already covered,” you interrupted, holding up your datapad with a triumphant flourish. His brows knit in that adorably precise way. 

“You signed me up before I agreed.”

“Mm-hm,” you said, rocking back on your heels with fake innocence. “But don’t worry. You’ll thank me when you’re standing on the winner’s podium.”

Tech’s frown deepened, though his lips twitched that were half scolding and half smirking. “You can not simply—”

“Oh, come on, Tech,” you teased, nudging his arm lightly. “If there’s anyone I can always win over, it’s you.”

He opened his mouth, ready to argue the semantics of ‘always’, but then faltered. His silence said it all. You weren’t entirely wrong.

With a faint sigh, one that sounded suspiciously like reluctant amusement, Tech adjusted his goggles. “Very well. But if I crash and perish due to your insistence, you will be the one explaining it to Hunter.”

“Deal,” you said, slipping your datapad into your bag and falling into step beside him. “But you won’t crash. I know you.”

Tech shot you a sidelong glance, “Confidence in one’s abilities is… acceptable. I will endeavor to meet your expectations.”

“Oh, you’ll do more than meet them,” you said, letting your tone dip just enough to hint at friendly mischief. “I’ve got faith in my pilot.” 

He didn’t respond, just kept his eyes forward, jaw tight and a subtle shift in his posture.

When the two of you walked to where the race was being held, the pit area buzzed with noise. Engines were roaring and mechanics were shouting. The crowd in the stands thunder with cheers before the race even began. 

You stood just off to the side as Tech ran one last diagnostic sweep on his borrowed speeder. As you glance around at everyone else's, pristine and modified, you can’t help but feel he’s been shafted with this old rust-bucket. 

He had his helmet off as his fingers moved across the console and you saw the way his eyes glaze over his competitors.

Some of them carried themselves with the air of cockiness, already sharing smug nods and handshakes, as though the outcome was predetermined. And as you take your eyes off him to look at the crowd, there were even many banners made for the other racers. Tech was just a newcomer. 

You caught Tech’s subtle frown at the sight, his grip on the edge of the cockpit tightening for just a beat too long.

“Hey.” You stepped closer, your voice pitched just for him. “Don’t overthink it. If you don’t win, it’s fine. This is just a bit of fun. And the credits are only a bonus.”

Tech didn’t look up right away, eyes still fixed on the racers, but his tone carried a quiet protest. “You have not even seen me race before. You are placing faith in an unknown variable.”

That earned a soft laugh from you, “Maybe. But I did hear about your last one. Omega would not shut up about you after you basically saved Cid. Said you were faster than anyone out there. I’m excited to see it for myself, honestly”

That made him glance up sharply. His expression shifted as something uncertain flickered on his features before he quickly masked it. Still, he couldn’t stop the faint warmth creeping across his cheeks. Compliments were… not something he ever really knew how to handle.

Before he could reply, you reached out and brushed your hand against his arm. A small, grounding touch. “Just be careful. And have fun with it, Tech.”

The gentle pressure of your hand lingered against the fabric of his sleeve. His throat bobbed with an unspoken response, but the announcer’s booming voice cut through the moment:

“ALL RACERS TO POSITIONS. THE RACE WILL BEGIN SHORTLY!”

“Well that’s you!” You drop your hand and bend down to grab his helmet, slotting it over his head before he could even fathom what was happening. You also grabbed a comm that you were allowed to use to communicate with Tech during the race. 

Your hands lingered on both sides of his helmet as you give him a reassuring nod. “Show them who’s boss.” You wink at him.

As you dash towards the stands, Tech mentally prepares himself as he slides into his speeder. 

The crowd roared to life as the racers shot off the starting line, the massive holoscreens above the arena flickering to life with split views of each speeder. You found yourself pressed against the railing, heart hammering as Tech’s speeder swung around the first bend. A wave of boos went up when he cut cleanly in front of one of the local favourites.

You cupped your hands to your mouth and shouted over them, not caring about the dirty looks you get in return. “That’s it, Tech! Show ‘em how it’s done!”

The boos only grew louder when he overtook a second racer. Gasps rippled through the stands and you couldn’t tear your eyes from the screen.

On the second lap, a crimson-painted speeder sidled up on his left flank. With a deliberate swerve, the racer slammed into Tech’s vehicle, forcing him dangerously close to the jagged wall. Sparks shrieked from durasteel grinding against stone as the racer kept their weight leaned in, determined to destroy Tech.

Your heart lodged in your throat from the stands, but Tech’s voice came through calm and clipped over the comms: “Unrefined and predictable.”

Instead of fighting the push, Tech seemed to calculate the angle and watched the rival racer’s pattern. He eased his throttle and then, precisely at the apex of the next corner, Tech slammed his brakes.

The racer, not expecting the sudden drop in speed, lurched forward, their side panel scraping free of Tech’s hull and straight into the rear of another competitor ahead. A catastrophic collision of sparks, twisted metal and smoke exploded as the two speeders locked together.

Tech shot through the chaos untouched, his patched-up cannons rattling but still holding. 

Then, on the final stretch, he pulled a maneouver that made your stomach drop. Engines screamed, one speeder spun out in a cloud of smoke, and Tech slipped neatly through the gap to cross the finish line first.

The arena erupted into chaos! Cheers, groans, stamping feet, but you barely heard any of it. A flutter took root in your chest as you realised just how impressed you were. He wasn’t just good –he was extraordinary.

By the time the announcer declared his victory, you were already pushing your way down the steps back to the track. You weren’t the only one though. A handful of kids darted past you and swarmed Tech before you could reach him.

“Did you see that move?!” “You’re awesome!” “Can I have your autograph?”

Tech froze as if they’d hit him with a stun blast, standing stiffly as they tugged at his gloves and legs. His mouth opened but shut again, completely unprepared for this kind of adoration. He took off his helmet and held it against his hip as he spots you, silently pleading for help.

You laughed under your breath, stepping forward to rescue him. “Careful, you’ll knock him over. One at a time.” You placed a steadying hand on Tech’s arm and looked up at him with a grin. “Congratulations. I knew you could do it.”

His gaze tilted down at you, and for a moment the chaos around you seemed muted. The edges of his mouth tugged into the smallest smiles, an expression he almost looked guilty for wearing.

The announcer’s booming voice broke in again. “AND OUR WINNER—THE MYSTERIOUS NEW RACER! COME CLAIM YOUR PRIZE!”

The children scattered as the official strode forward, carrying a heavy case. He handed it to Tech with a flourish, the latch springing open to reveal neatly stacked credits. Five thousand, just as promised.

“And of course,” the announcer added, theatrically gesturing toward the sidelines where a second attendant held up a sealed envelope, “the mystery luxury prize provided by our generous sponsors!”

The crowd whooped as Tech accepted it with a polite nod, still visibly uncomfortable under the weight of so many eyes, while you clapped and leaned closer with a conspiratorial grin.

“See? Totally worth it.”

The roar of the arena dulled into memory as you and Tech slipped through the exit. At his side, the case of winnings bumped gently with each step, but it was the slim white envelope in his other hand that seemed to hold his attention.

He unfolded it as he read aloud: “‘Congratulations. Your mystery luxury prize entitles you to one night’s stay in the Grand Juniper Inn, Penthouse Suite—complete with all amenities and private accommodations.’”

You blinked, a laugh bubbling up before you could stop it. “Wait—you’re telling me the mystery prize is an actual penthouse suite? That’s… that’s ridiculously good.”

Tech only hummed, as though the offer were mildly inconvenient instead of extravagant. “Unfortunately, it will go unused. We are expected to return to Pabu at first opportunity.”

You frowned, lips pursing, until a thought sparked. “You should still claim the prize, Tech. Pick someone to go with you.”

He didn’t even look up from his datapad, fingers gliding rapidly across the display as though your suggestion was just background noise. “Luxuries of that nature are not something I am particularly interested in… nor would I even know who to invite.”

You tilted your head, searching his profile. “What about Phee? You two are, uh… close, no?”

That stopped him in his tracks. His goggles lifted from the datapad and fixed squarely on you, eyes widening behind the lenses. “What makes you say that?”

The sudden edge in his tone made your stomach flip. “I just noticed you’re quite chatty with her, is all?”

Instead of brushing it off, Tech’s mouth pressed into a frown. He didn’t deny it either, which made your chest somewhat tighten uncomfortably for a moment.

“I do not think I will be doing that,” he said at last, turning to walk again. His pace was brisk, decisive.

You sighed and fell into step beside him only for him to suddenly stop. “Would you not want to have it?” he asked abruptly.

“Have what? The prize you won?” A laugh slipped out, half disbelieving.

He adjusted the case at his side, tucking the envelope under one arm. “You were the one who signed me up for the race. Statistically, that makes the victory and its subsequent reward partially your doing. Therefore…” He hesitated, throat working as though he were choosing every word with care. “We could attend together.”

The laugh you’d started to smother came rushing back, light and surprised. “Wait—you’d pick me? Over Phee?”

It was meant as a tease, but Tech stiffened, goggles tilting slightly away. “You have been in my company far longer than she has,” he said at last, voice quiet but deliberate. “That makes you the more valued friend, in my estimation.”

Your grin softened instantly, heart flipping at the blunt sincerity of his words. “Tech, I was teasing,” you admitted gently. “But it sounds fun, so why not? But what about heading back to Pabu?

“I’m sure I will be able to come up with an excuse to prolong our visit here.”

Veering away from the Marauder’s docking bay, you made your way to the Inn. Luckily it wasn’t located too far away from your current destination so getting there was easy enough. 

Once you get inside you noticed that the lobby was vast and practically made of all marble and glass. Plush couches lined the waiting area, and a fountain burbled at the center. The receptionist sat behind a curved desk, a man dressed in sharp navy with a too-bright smile that faltered the second his gaze landed on you. His eyes lingered longer than they should have, but you ignored it, standing just behind Tech as he approached the counter.

“We are here to redeem this,” Tech spoke, sliding the envelope across the counter.

The receptionist’s attention flicked reluctantly from you to Tech. He opened the slip, glanced it over, and then back up. “Ah, yes, the Penthouse Suite. And… are the two of you together?” His gaze darted between you and Tech with obvious implication.

You tilted your head toward Tech, curious how he’d handle it.

“No,” he answered immediately, his tone flat with precision. “We are simply two friends.”

The receptionist blinked as though the words had short-circuited his brain. Unbelievably, he leaned forward, eyes still on Tech as if you had disappeared entirely. “Really? Is she single?”

Your mouth fell open, a hot flare of irritation rushing up your spine. “I can answer myself, you know?” you shot back, brows pinched in disbelief.

The man smiled, leaning his elbows on the desk in a way he clearly thought was charming. “Very well, little lady. Are you single?”

Your frown deepened. “No.”

That shut him up. He blinked, recoiling like you’d slapped him, and muttered something under his breath as he fumbled for the room fob. With stiff hands, he slid it across the desk to Tech, avoiding your eye now.

Beside you, Tech hadn’t moved, his goggles fixed squarely on you as though he was running your answer back in his head again and again. Surprise flickered behind his gaze, but he said nothing and took the fob.

“Thank you,” he said curtly to the receptionist, and with a sharp adjustment of his grip on the credits case, he turned on his heel toward the lift.

You fell into step beside him, pulse still thudding from the rude exchange. Out of the corner of your eye, you caught Tech sneaking another glance your way and you can’t help but notice the confusion written all over him. But, he kept his questions locked behind his teeth.

The two of you stepped into the lift, the doors sliding shut with a soft hiss. You stand with your arms folded loosely, the adrenaline of the encounter at the desk still filling you with irritation. Beside you, Tech stood with his helmet tucked under his arm. He was silent—too silent—and out of the corner of your eye, you saw his mouth part slightly as if he were about to speak.

But then he stopped. Closed his lips again and adjusted his grip on the helmet.

You raised a brow faintly and tilted your head his way. “What?” you asked, voice breaking the stillness. “You were about to say something.”

His hand lifted automatically to fix his goggles, an almost nervous tell. “I was merely going to state that… I was not aware you were in a relationship.” His tone was careful but the words carried a strange weight.

A sharp laugh left you, and you rolled your eyes. “I’m not, Tech.”

That seemed to puzzle him even more. “Then why did you say so?”

You sighed, shifting your weight against the railing behind you. “Because it was easier. If I told that sleazy receptionist I was single, he’d just keep pushing. Saying I wasn’t available was the fastest way to shut him down.”

Tech tilted his head, processing that. “Ah.”

You glanced at him, a small smile tugging at your lips. “Honestly, if you hadn’t jumped in so quickly with the ‘just friends’ comment, I probably would’ve agreed to pretend we were together. Would’ve saved me the headache.”

That made him still like you’d just dropped a wrench into the gears of his mind. His fingers flexed on the edge of his helmet, shoulders drawing a touch straighter. His silence stretched long enough for the lift to chime.

You raised your brows. “What, too shocking a thought?”

He cleared his throat, adjusting his goggles again though they didn’t need it. “Not shocking,” he murmured at last, voice low. “Merely… unexpected.”

Your brows are now knitted togethe, curiosity sharpening. “What do you mean by that?”

Tech shifted his weight, the faintest flicker of discomfort breaking through.

“I simply mean,” he began, his words unusually halting, “that within our unit, scenarios involving… fabrication of relationships, particularly for the sake of infiltration or deception, generally fall to Hunter or Wrecker. They are perceived as more approachable. More desirable.” His tone tightened on that last word, clipped like he wanted to finish quickly and be done with it. “I have never participated in what Omega would call ‘fake dating.’ Nor have I ever been asked to. It is not a role I fit.”

You blinked at him, mouth parting, a dozen retorts sparking in your chest at once. But before you could choose one, before you could tell him how wrong he was, the lift chimed.

The doors slid open with a ding! and Tech immediately strode out without so much as a backward glance. 

By the time your boots carried you after him, the words you’d wanted to say they were already trapped back in the lift.

The doors slid open again but this time to the penthouse suite. It was stunning.

Polished wooden floors that gleamed, a wall-length window, curtains so heavy they probably cost more than anything you even own. This was luxury. This was the nicest place you had ever set foot in without contest.

Tech, of course, just adjusted his goggles, scanning the room, “Hm. Pleasant.”

You stared at him. Pleasant. 

Your awe evaporated however when your eyes landed on the centerpiece of the suite. The bed.

One bed.

A sprawling, pristine, feather-soft monstrosity, dressed in crisp white sheets and enough pillows to bury yourself in. Your breath hitched in horror rather than delight.

Slowly, you glanced toward Tech, waiting to see his reaction. But he wasn’t even looking. He was already crouched by the wall terminal, scanning the amenities menu. You looked back to the bed, then to the sofa across the room. It was plush yet nowhere near long enough for Tech. Maybe not even for you.

Your stomach flipped. He had won this after all. Logically, he should get the bed. But still…

“…It seems the holoscreen provides a decent selection of archived holo-films,” Tech was saying, tone verging on animated as he scrolled. “Documentaries, historical records, tactical reenactments—fascinating. We could—”

“Tech.”

He glanced over his shoulder, blinking at your tone. “Yes?”

“The bed.”

“The—?” He followed your gaze, goggles glinting as he adjusted them. “Oh. Yes. A single sleeping arrangement.” His voice was utterly calm, as though he was just announcing the weather. He turned back toward the terminal.

You opened your mouth, then shut it again. Was he not… bothered?

But then the thought finally caught up. His head turned back, a faint crease forming between his brows. “…Ah. I understand now why you might find this awkward.”

“You think?”

“Well, as we are not in a romantic relationship, the implication of sharing a bed could be misconstrued. Socially speaking, it would appear unconventional.”

“Unconventional?” you repeated.

“Yes. Though, in terms of practicality, I do not foresee an issue. The area of the mattress is sufficient for both of us to maintain personal space. It is, after all, just a bed.”

You pressed your lips together, fighting a laugh. Just a bed. Leave it to Tech to make the most mortifying situation sound like a logistical problem.

Heat crept up your neck the longer Tech stared at you. You cleared your throat and rubbed your temple, suddenly wishing you could rewind the last minute. “I… guess I made a bigger deal of it than it really is. We’ve been on a ship together for months now, cramped quarters and all. A bed’s not much different, right?”

“Precisely. It is no issue.” His voice softened just slightly, as though to reassure you, but then slipped seamlessly back into his earlier train of thought. “Now, as I was saying, there is quite a respectable archive of films available. If you are interested, we could watch something later.”

That tugged a smile from you before you could help it. You honestly couldn’t remember the last time you’d just sat back and watched something for no reason. “Yeah,” you said, tone warm. “I’d like that.”

The two of you drifted into a comfortable silence, breaking off to explore opposite ends of the suite. You wandered toward the minibar, tugging open the cabinet doors and nearly groaning aloud. Rows of tiny gleaming bottles, neatly wrapped snacks, things you hadn’t seen in forever, all laid out like treasure.

“You want a drink?” you called over your shoulder.

Tech looked up from the console where he was still poking at the holoscreen settings. “I don’t see why not.”

You pulled out two glasses, filling them up before carrying them over. He met you halfway and as you offered him one of the glasses, your fingers brushed against his as he took it.

The contact was so brief but it sent a small current through your hand all the same. Tech didn’t react though, he was already tilting his head and inspecting the amber liquid in the glass. You tried to mirror his nonchalance, swallowing quickly and pretending nothing at all had happened.

“Here’s to… mystery luxury prizes,” you quipped, raising your glass.

Tech smiles and touched the rim of his glass to yours. “To mystery luxury prizes.”

Night had settled outside and the two of you had migrated to the couch, half-lounging with your drinks while the holoscreen flickered in front of you. You’d told Tech to put on anything—so he had, naturally choosing some old documentary about… well, you weren't too sure what it was about. 

You hadn’t complained, though. Mostly because he’d stripped out of his armour earlier and was now in just his civs. It wasn’t often you saw him without layers of gear, and you couldn’t deny it.. it was a nice view. 

The movie droned on in the background as you began to rifle absently through your bag at your feet. Your fingers scraped the bottom, tugged at a spare ration wrapper, then nothing. No sleep clothes. No change of anything. Your stomach dipped a little as you glanced from your half-empty bag to the bed across the suite, then back to Tech.

“Uh… Tech. We should’ve made a quick stop back at the Marauder.”

He looked over., “Why is that?”

You exhaled, embarrassed to admit it. “Because I didn’t pack anything to sleep in.”

For a moment, Tech simply regarded you, one gloved finger lifting to pinch his chin. You could almost hear the calculations turning over in his head. Then he gave a small decisive nod. “I see. Fortunately, I always carry a spare shirt with me. If that is of any help.”

Your brows rose. That was actually perfect. “You do?”

“Of course.” He was already setting his glass aside and heading toward his kit. “It would be illogical not to, given the number of unpredictable environments we find ourselves in. Like this one.”

He produces a folded black shirt and when he held it up, you realised with a tiny flutter of relief that it looked long enough to cover your dignity if you wore it on its own. “Will this suffice?” Tech asked simply, offering it over.

You blinked at it in his hand as the thought of actually wearing something of his own caused your stomach to do an odd flip. “Yeah,” you murmured, taking it. “Yeah, that’ll work.”

Your fingers brushed his again as you accepted it. Once more, he didn’t react, eyes already drifting back toward the holoscreen. But you felt the touch linger long after. What was going on?

You slipped the shirt over your arm, mumbling a quick thanks, and padded toward the ‘fresher. Inside, you let out a breath you hadn’t realised you were holding. 

You look down at the top in your grasp, the soft fabric covering your hands. It had been worn, maybe once or twice since the last time it was washed. You didn’t know what possessed you but the sudden urge to sniff the collar was at the forefront of your mind. “Okay, no. None of that.” 

When you stepped back into the suite after tugging it on, Tech turned his head automatically at the sound of your footsteps and paused.

His goggles tilted up, following the hemline of the shirt, then back to your face. He didn’t say anything, of course, but there was a flicker of surprise in the way his brows lifted, just the smallest tightening of his jaw before he looked quickly back to the holoscreen.

You cleared your throat, tugging self-consciously at the hem. “So? Passable?”

“Functional,” he said evenly, though his voice carried a touch more weight than usual. “It is covering, and… suits you well enough.”

You huffed, biting back a smile because for Tech that was practically a compliment. You rounded the couch to reclaim your seat beside him, curling up with your legs tucked under you.

After another hour or two, the glow of the holoscreen faded into the quiet hum of the suite and the promise of a proper night’s sleep tugs at your bones. You stretched with a little groan and turned to Tech. “Bed?”

He agreed and the two of you made your way to the foot of the impossibly plush mattress. You hesitated there, hands still fidgeting at the hem of his borrowed shirt. “Uh… which side do you want?”

Tech’s goggles flicked to the bed, then to the door. “The side nearest the entrance. In the event of an intrusion, it would be more efficient for me to intercept.”

Your eyes widened that he even considered the possibility. “Wait, intruders? You actually think we’re going to be attacked in our sleep?”

“Do you not recall the racer who shouted threats as we departed? While perhaps not statistically probable, dismissing the possibility outright would be unwise.”

You let out a laugh, shaking your head. “That was just some sore loser. He probably already forgot about us.” Still, you shrugged. “But fine, closest to the door’s yours. Makes sense.”

You slipped into your chosen side, sinking into the mattress with a sigh. Before you could get too comfortable, Tech excused himself, retreating into the ‘fresher. A moment later you heard the hiss of the shower.

You frowned at the ceiling, suddenly second-guessing yourself. Maybe you should have taken one first. Biting your lip, you furtively glanced around as though someone might catch you in the act, then dipped your chin to sniff under your arms. 

Okay. 

Fine. 

Passable. 

The door to the refresher clicked open, and you had to force yourself not to gape. Tech stepped out, towel draped around his neck, hair damp and curling slightly at the ends. He was bare from the waist up, abs defined in the soft glow of the suite’s lights, his skin still glistening from the heat of the water.

He rubbed the towel through his hair. “I did not bring a spare sleep shirt,” he explained simply, “as the only one I carried has been… repurposed.”

Your mouth opened, closed, and opened again. “O-oh. That’s… fine.”

“Good.” He gave a curt nod, as though you’d just signed off on a mission report. 

True to his prediction, there was just enough room for the two of you when he slipped into the bed. He was an arm’s length away but close enough to feel the warmth of his body radiating across the space. 

You lay there for a moment, staring at the ceiling in the dark, trying not to think too hard about the fact that Tech was shirtless and in the same bed as you.

It was ridiculous. This bed was easily the most comfortable surface you’d ever laid on, but sleep just wouldn’t come. 

You turned over for what felt like the hundredth time, tugged the blanket up to your chin, tried closing your eyes. Nothing. Every nerve ending was aware of him: the sound of his breathing, the faint rustle when he shifted, the way the mattress dipped minutely with his weight.

After what felt like an eternity, Tech finally broke the silence. “I cannot seem to achieve rest either.”

You huffed out a breath, relief mingled with nerves. “Good. I thought it was just me.”

For some reason you spoke without really planning to. “It’s been a while since I’ve shared a bed with anyone. Especially a guy.”

The quiet stretched a beat longer before Tech answered, voice thoughtful. “I have never shared a bed with a woman before.”

That didn’t really shock you. But then he added, “In truth, I have not engaged in any physical contact of that nature at all.”

That, however, surprised you. You rolled your head on the pillow to look at him, though the room was dim. “…At all?”

His reply was simple. “No.”

You sat with that for a moment, lips parting, before a little half-laugh escaped you. Gentle, not mocking. “Does it bother you?”

“I am not saddened by it,” Tech replied, though you could hear the defensiveness layered beneath. “It is merely fact.”

You hummed, remembering his words from the lift earlier. “Still… you shouldn’t put yourself down about not being desirable. That’s just not true.”

There was another long silence before his voice reached you again, softer now. “Do you, as a woman, find me desirable?”

Your breath caught, pulse jumping as if he’d just asked you the most dangerous question in the galaxy. Slowly, you rolled over to face him.

His goggles were gone. In the dim light, you could see the faint lines pressed into his skin where they’d rested for so long, the almost-bruised marks framing his sharp features. He was lying on his back, his head turned toward you, watching with a stillness that made your heart hammer.

You bit your lip, the tiniest tremor in your hands as your thighs pressed together beneath the sheets. Your voice was soft, but there was no mistaking the honesty. “Yes. I do.”

His throat worked as he swallowed, and you caught the faintest rise of his chest. For once, he didn’t immediately follow with data or analysis. He just lay there, taking in your answer.

A sudden draft crept through the room, the kind that felt sharper for no reason at all, and you instinctively curled tighter beneath the thick duvet. It helped but not enough. The chill still found its way in, raising goosebumps along your skin. You tucked your knees up slightly and huffed a faint breath.

Beside you, Tech shifted, as though aware of your discomfort. His voice came carefully, almost like he was stepping across uncertain terrain. “If you are cold,” he began, “I could suggest… you move closer.”

Your eyes flicked toward him again, half disbelieving and half amused. Was he actually flustered by his own idea? He certainly looked it—the faint furrow in his brow, the way his mouth tightened like he already regretted saying anything. You held back a smirk, deciding not to make it harder for him, and instead scooted across the mattress until your arm brushed his.

The proximity startled him; you could tell by the slight jerk of his breath. Your head almost rested on his pillow instead of your own, and the warmth radiating from him was immediate.

“I… ah,” he cleared his throat, his voice defaulting into lecture mode, “the human body naturally regulates temperature through thermogenesis. Shared contact, particularly within a confined space, is proven to be efficient for conservation of heat. In fact, there are studies showing—”

But you weren’t listening. Not really. His words blurred into a gentle hum as you inched closer, soaking in his warmth, and then another shiver chased down your spine when a fresher wave of cold air brushed over you.

This time, Tech noticed. His body turned toward you, his long frame shifting until he faced you fully. His voice was quieter now, “Would it… would it be permissible if I put my arm around you?”

You swallowed, your teeth almost chattering from the lingering chill, and nodded quickly. “Please.”

There was a beat of hesitation but then his arm slid around you and drew you closer into the steady warmth of his chest. The duvet tucked around both your bodies more snugly, and finally, the cold ebbed away.

His touch wasn’t practiced. It wasn’t smooth or bold. But stars, it was earnest. And it made your pulse quicken more than any confident gesture ever could.

He closes his eyes and hesitantly, you felt his hand begin moving in slow, steady strokes along your back. Up, then down: Soothing and almost hypnotic.

You let your hand settle against his chest in return. Your fingertips traced soft patterns, absent-minded little swirls and glides, until you found yourself focusing on the pounding thud of his heart. It was racing. He was as wound up as you were.

But neither of you commented on it.

The duvet cocooned you in shared warmth, but the real heat was coming from him and from the bare skin of his chest beneath your fingertips. 

Then, your lips hovered near his neck, close enough to feel the shiver that went through him, and in a whisper you said, “It was fun watching you race today.”

His eyes stayed shut as if he was afraid to open them. His hand paused for a fraction before moving again, slower now. He said nothing, but the way his throat worked, the way his chest lifted under your touch — he’d heard you.

So you leaned closer, lips brushing the sharp line of his jaw, and let the truth spill out, quiet but cutting through the dark.

“It kind of turned me on.”

His breath hitched hard, a sharp inhale that shook against your ear. The hand on your back stilled completely, fingers pressing into you like he needed to anchor himself. Then, slowly, he drew you tighter to him until your whole body molded against his.

Chest to chest. Bare skin to fabric. His heat seared through you.

“Y-you…” His voice cracked, faltered, as if he couldn’t make the words obey him. “You found that arousing?”

You bit your lip, thighs pressing together without thinking, and whispered, “Yes.”

His eyes opened at that and his expression… stars, you’d never seen him look like that before. Wide-eyed, dark, almost disbelieving.

Something broke loose in him. The logical walls. The self-doubt. All of it.

The shift was subtle at first, almost like you were just getting more comfortable — until one of your legs slid over his, draping heavy and close, pulling you nearer. His thigh pressed up between your legs, higher than you expected. The contact made your breath stutter, a low sound nearly slipping free as you tried to hold it back. 

Stars, you should’ve known better than to take off your panties when you’d slipped into his shirt. Now, every tiny move had you trembling.

You buried it under words, quiet praise that slipped from your lips. “You really were incredible today… I mean that.”

Tech’s breathing grew unsteady, shallow but quick, as if every tick of silence pushed him closer to a decision.

His hand rose, brushing gently through a lock of your hair until he tucked it neatly behind your ear. His fingers lingered, the pads trembling faintly but then his palm curved against your cheek.

The caress stole the air from your lungs. His fingers start to travel, his eyes trained on wherever his digits land. And when it grazed your lips, the sensation was enough to make you part them just slightly. Without thinking, you let them purse against his thumb, the smallest, silent invitation.

His eyes snapped up to search yours, gauging every detail and scanning for refusal but found none.

Then, with a breath he didn’t seem to know he’d taken, Tech leaned in and kissed you.

At first, it was only a brush. Lips barely touching, pulling back, then meeting again with hesitant and shaky breaths. It was as though either of you could startle and retreat at any moment. But neither of you did.

The kiss deepened slowly and you found yourself chasing the shape of his mouth, pressing a little firmer each time. His hand, the one cupping your face so carefully, slipped lower with an almost reluctant drag. It curved down the line of your jaw, traced along your neck, then settled all the way down at your hip. The weight of it grounded you until, with a cautious tug, he drew you flush against him.

A shiver ran down your spine at the contact, your chest rising against his. You shifted, your leg tightening where it lay over his until you could press yourself even more against his thigh. The sudden friction made you hot and needy. You swallowed down the sound that rose in your throat, but a small moan still escaped, muffled against his mouth.

Tech froze for half a second, the noise shocking him, but then his lips moved more urgently against yours. His hand squeezed your hip once, anchoring you there, before his thumb began stroking in slow, restless circles at the hem of his own shirt draped over your body.

His thigh stayed firm between yours, and without meaning to, you ground against it again, softer this time, yet still desperate enough that your breath caught and broke against his lips.

Your fingers curled tighter against his chest when his hand began to wander higher, slipping beneath the thin fabric of the shirt you wore. His hand shifted lower and his breath hitched sharply when he realised bare skin greeted him where fabric should have been. 

The sound that left him was barely there, more like a stifled groan pressed into your kiss, but you felt it all the same. His palm lingered against the curve of your arse, squeezing instinctively before he jerked back as if burned.

Your lips parted with his retreat, plump and swollen from the kissing, and heat rushed to your face. “Is this…” his voice was husky, unsteady, “is this all right?”

You blinked up at him, chest rising and falling against his, and nodded before words could even form. 

Something flickered in his gaze — relief, hunger, disbelief all tangled together. Then, with a low sound that might have been your name under his breath, Tech surged forward again, chasing your lips.

This time there was no hesitation in the kiss. His mouth was hot and greedy against yours, his hand sliding back over the curve of your body as though he needed to feel you, to confirm that this was real.

You shifted with a rush of boldness, swinging a leg over until you were straddling him fully. Tech startled, a muffled sound caught in his throat as he instinctively sat up to meet you, his hands catching at your hips

Your knees sank into the mattress on either side of him and you couldn’t resist giving an experimental grind of your hips against his lap. The response was immediate as you felt him stiffen beneath you, the hard line of his cock straining through the thin barrier of his clothes.

His breath caught audibly, a low, broken noise escaping his lips as his fingers dug tighter into your hips. You smirked, leaning in until your lips brushed the shell of his ear.

“Fuck,” you curse, your voice warm and teasing, “you feel… big.”

His entire body seemed to jolt at your words, a flush creeping up his throat as though you’d just short-circuited his entire brain. “I—” he started, but the words faltered into a strangled exhale when you rolled your hips again, slow and deliberate, dragging along the rigid length beneath you.

You smiled against his lips, savouring the shudder that went through him. Tech swallowed hard, his hands trembling as they gripped your waist tighter, torn somewhere between stopping you and begging for more.

You pulled back from the kiss with a wet parting sound, your tongue dragging languidly across his lower lip before letting go. His chest rose and fell in sharp, uneven breaths. His wide, startled eyes locked on you as though he wasn’t entirely convinced this was real.

Your fingers toyed at the hem of the borrowed shirt, tugging it up just an inch, then letting it fall again in playful teases. His gaze followed every flick of movement. 

“Do you want to see more of me, Tech?” you purred, your voice sultry.

He swallowed so hard you saw the muscles in his throat jump, his lips parting as though the words were stuck in his chest. For a moment he just stared, stunned silent, before he nodded quickly. 

He even rubbed at his eyes once with the heel of his palm, as though trying to confirm this wasn’t some fever dream.

You couldn’t hold back a smirk. “So polite,” you teased, your voice low as you hooked your fingers under the hem and began to lift. His breath caught audibly.

The shirt slid up inch by inch, his eyes devouring every bare strip of skin you revealed, hunger written across his face as though he were starving. You could practically feel his restraint pulling taut. And then, with one slow, deliberate movement, you peeled the fabric over your head and tossed it aside.

Your breasts fell free, soft and full, bouncing slightly with the motion, your nipples already tight and aching. Tech’s breath hitched sharply as his eyes snap to your chest, then back to your face, as though he wasn’t sure where to look, too overwhelmed by all of you at once.

You were completely bare for him.

The air felt cool against your skin, but his gaze was molten heat and burning over you. His mouth opened slightly, a quiet, choked sound escaping before he bit down on his lip, as if that might keep him grounded.

His mouth practically watered at the sight of you, his hands twitching at your hips as though he didn’t dare move them without permission.

Tech pulled back slightly, the flush in his cheeks deeper than before. “I’ve never…done anything like this before,” he admitted, voice low and hesitant.

You let out a soft giggle, brushing a stray lock of hair from his forehead. “I know, Tech,” you whispered, your fingers brushing along his jaw. “But, do you still want to?”

“I do.”

Your chest swelled at the certainty in his tone, heart thudding in your ears. Then, almost shyly, he asked, “May I touch you?”

The simple words nearly made you melt, a soft whimper escaping as your knees pressed closer against his. You leaned in, voice barely above a breath, “Yes… touch where feels right to you.”

His hands were warm, trembling slightly, as they found your face and cupped it gently. The touch was reverent and your knees went weak beneath you. He could have touched you anywhere, but he chose your face. 

The kiss was entirely different this time. His tongue nudged against yours, probing gently at first, begging entrance, and you couldn’t stop the soft moan that escaped your throat. Your hands twined into the nape of his neck, guiding him closer as the kiss deepened, your hips pressing flush against his lap.

Every touch, every press of lips and tongue, was a lesson and a thrill. For you, his inexperience only makes the heat between you more intoxicating.

Tech’s lips started to drift lower, tracing a slow, warm path along your jawline. Your breath hitched, a soft whimper escaping as he nuzzled against the softness of your skin. 

“Maker, you’re… sensitive,” he whispered, almost in awe as you let out a small whimper when his kisses moved to your neck.Your body shivered at the intimacy, a hand threading into the short hair at the back of his neck to pull him closer.

Then he moved lower, just at the swell of your breasts, pausing for a heartbeat. One large hand cupped your chest, “You’re  incredible,” he murmured against your skin before placing tender, featherlight kisses across the curve of your breast.

A giggle bubbled from your throat at his delicate approach, but the moment his lips met your nipple, the teasing and testing, your head fell back, and a soft moan slipped past you. His tongue flicked lightly, almost experimentally at first, gauging your reaction, and you could feel him twitch below you at the sound you made.

“Does that feel good, darling?” he asked, breath warm against your skin. 

“Yes…” you murmured, your voice trembling. “It feels… perfect.”

Encouraged, he grew bolder, swirling his tongue around the nipple, sucking gently while teasing with soft, precise flicks. You arched into him, letting your hands wander to his shoulders, your fingers digging.

He paused, lifting his head to see your reaction, then whispered huskily, “I like this. I want to make you feel… everything.”

You shivered at the confession, letting him continue, your own moans growing more insistent as his mouth continued to worship the other breast in the same attentive, teasing rhythm.

“Tech… please… don’t stop,” you breathed, hips shifting minutely against him as he explored your reactions, learning what made you shiver, what drew your moans, and what made your fingers clutch at his shoulders in desperate need.

His inexperience lent an almost reverent quality to his touch; slow, precise, tentative yet full of intent. Every flick of his tongue, every gentle suck, and every tender nibble feels deliberate and intimate.

You could feel the tension coiling in your stomach, the heat pooling between your legs, each sound of pleasure from your lips only urging him further.

Unable to resist, your own hand drifted down, fingers sliding slowly over the slickness gathering between your thighs. The warmth and pressure of his lips and hands made the sensation almost too much to bear. A soft, breathy moan slipped past your lips as you began to rub yourself lightly.

“Mmm Tech… your lips… your hands… they feel so… good,” you whispered, voice trembling with need. Each word seemed to spur him on.

A thumb circled your nipple with a slower, firmer rhythm now, and he added gentle pinches, testing your reactions. You gasped, arching into his touch, letting him feel how responsive you were. “D-don’t stop…” you murmured, your own fingers circling your clit.

He paused just briefly to watch your reactions, eyes wide and fascinated, and murmured lowly, “You’re responding beautifully."

Your moans grew a little louder, shaking, but still soft enough to feel intimate in the quiet of the suite. You leaned into him, lips brushing his jaw as you whispered, “You… you’re making me… feel so good.”

He adjusted, one hand slipping lower to graze your hip and side while his lips and tongue alternated between both breasts.

You could feel your own fingers moving faster, slick coating them as you drew yourself closer to the edge, every flick of his tongue sending shivers through you making you shiver uncontrollably.

Your voice grew shakier, soft gasps and moans falling from your lips, your words scattered, “Tech… right there… mmm… ah… just like that… yes…”

You pressed your hands against his jaw, gently but firmly guiding his lips away from your breasts. The sudden loss of contact made your body shiver. Not yet. 

You let your chest rise and fall, gasping softly into his mouth.

“I want to save it,” you breathed, lips brushing his as you looked into his eyes. “Do you want your cock sucked?”

Tech blinked, momentarily caught off guard, his composure faltering under the haze of arousal. His voice came out low, hoarse with desire: “I… I… yes… I want that,” he admitted, a heat creeping to the tips of his ears.

The combination of his hesitance and desire made your pulse spike, and you leaned closer, pressing your forehead to his, lips just hovering over his as you whispered, “Then let me show you how good it can feel.”

You could feel his heart hammering against your chest as he adjusted slightly beneath you, anticipation and nervousness radiating off him in waves. Every small movement of your body, every subtle flick of your fingers over his skin, had him tense and waiting. You smiled softly, enjoying the heady mix of shyness and lust that clung to him.

Moving carefully between his thighs once he freed himself, you brush a hand over him. Tech’s cock is hot in your grip, swollen and throbbing with the head already glistening and begging for attention. You can see his uneven breaths as he watches you with a mix of awe and desire.

“You’re so perfect,” you murmur, fingers curling around him and giving a gentle squeeze. The words make him shiver under your touch, and you can’t help but smile at the way his hips twitch against your hand.

Leaning in, you lick your lips, letting your warm mouth hover just above him. Slowly and deliberately, you wrap your hand around the base again and move it up and down in tandem with teasing motions and a low, startled groan slips from him.

Heat rises in your own chest as you watch his reactions. His hands clench at the sheets, the slight trembling of his hips betraying how much he’s enjoying this. You take your time, tracing soft, warm circles with your fingers as your mouth hovers closer, letting the tension build with every deliberate stroke.

Tech’s voice comes out shaky, hesitant, but full of desire: “I never knew y-you were such a tease.” His jaw goes slack, head tilting to the side as he watches you. “I’ve never…felt like this before.”

You hum softly, “Let me show you,” you murmur, before slowly closing the distance, lips brushing against the tip.

You can see the way he’s struggling to stay in control, every shiver and hitch of his breath a testament to the pleasure you’re coaxing from him.

Tech’s hand hovers over your hair, uncertain, as if he’s both eager and afraid to interfere. His breathing staggers as you finally take him in—slow, shallow, just the head at first. You wanted him to adjust to the unfamiliar sensation.

“Tech…” you moan needily against him, tongue flicking softly over the sensitive tip. His hips jerk involuntarily, a surprised groan slipping past his lips. 

You then let your mouth close over him again with a slow motion, sliding just a little farther down this time. His eyes close, brows furrowing. Every small movement makes him tremble against your lips, and you can feel how hard he’s already grown.

“You’re amazing,” he gasps softly, voice almost a whisper. His hands finally move, gently pressing your head closer, guiding you but hesitating with each careful motion, as if afraid to overstep.

You hum around him, the vibration making him shiver. “Just relax… let me take care of you,” you whisper. His body responds immediately, hips shifting slightly, pressing into your mouth despite his attempts at restraint. 

When you glance up at him, you're almost breathless. 

His eyes half-lidded, sweat beading at his temple and breaths coming fast. You give a teasing swirl with your tongue, letting your lips slide over the sensitive head before backing off slightly, giving him a moment to adjust. His hand twitches, gripping your hair a little more firmly, guiding you almost instinctively now. “Darling,” he groans and then whimpers your name deliciously. 

You smirk against him, now letting your hand mirror your mouth. You stroke him slowly as you then start to take more, his tip hitting the back of your throat. The combination of your hand and mouth makes him shiver violently, a strangled groan escaping him as he slowly loses more control.

Tech’s mind seems to whirl as every touch you give him brings another tremor, another gasp. His eyes search yours as if to make sure this is okay, and you give him nothing but encouragement.

“I… I can’t wait to taste you,” he murmurs, voice low and strained, not used to saying things like this but desperate to let you know. His words make your stomach flutter, and you give him a small, teasing smile.

“I can’t wait to let you,” you purr as you change tactics and slide down just a touch. Softly, your lips brush against the sensitive skin of his balls. His breath catches with a surprised sound as you take one into your mouth, sucking sweetly

Tech brings one hand to your shoulders, gripping as he lets out a shaky moan. “Ah—fuck… that’s perfect,” he stammers, voice trembling as he shifts slightly, pressing closer. 

You hum around him, rolling him gently between your lips. Every careful movement draws another sharp intake of breath, another strangled groan from him, and you can feel the shiver running down his spine.

“Such a pretty mouth,” he whispers as his hips twitch involuntarily. You take it slow, letting him adjust to every sensation, rewarding his words with gentle, teasing licks and slow, deliberate suction.

You lift your head just enough to look at him, eyes sparkling with mischief. “I like hearing you talk like that,” you tease, gently kissing his inner thigh and giving him a moment to breathe. Though the tension in his body makes it clear he doesn’t want the pause to last long.

He swallows hard, eyes dark with want, a faint quiver in his chest. “Don’t… stop,” he whispers, almost pleading.

You move your lips back to his cock, groaning against him as you move your head up and down. “I… I can’t—” he starts but then chokes off into a strangled groan. His hips jerked again, betraying the rapid pulse of pleasure building.

He whines in a way that’s both desperate and sweetly innocent, his chest rises and falls so fast you know he’s close.

“Please… I—fuck—don’t stop,” voice strained and words tumbling over each other, his control slips. You hum around him, letting your lips tighten just slightly, rewarding him with that pressure, his hands clenching your hair in desperation.

He thrusts into your mouth despite his attempts to hold back, and his voice breaks into loud, shaky moans. “Ah! Oh stars, fuck.” The words trail off as he loses control entirely, his release spilling hot and thick into your mouth. You don’t pull back, letting him ride out every pulse, your hands still steady and attentive, coaxing him through the overwhelming wave.

He collapses back slightly, breath ragged as stars cloud his vision. Hands were still tangled in your hair whilst he was unable to speak for several long seconds. You swallow every drop, panting softly as you release him.

Tech’s eyes were half-lidded and glazed with the aftershocks of pleasure. “I didn’t warn—” he starts, but you cut him off with a soft laugh, pressing your forehead to his. “Shh… you did amazing,” you murmur. His hand moves to your hip, still lingering as if needing your presence to ground him.

For a few minutes, you simply lie there beside him, letting the heat of your bodies and the rapid pulse of his heartbeat calm down. Tech’s free hand finally drops, resting gently over yours that sat on his chest. 

“My turn.” 

Tech got off the bed and then suddenly, he reached down and grabbed you with such strength and care, he lifted you into his arms. In a blur you were off the bed and across the suite, your back pressing to the cool surface of a wide dining table as he set you down. His eyes burned, unblinking, as if he’d been possessed by a thought too intoxicating to ignore.

“I have always fantasised about this,” he admitted breathlessly, his lips curling as he licked them, gaze dropping between your thighs. “Enjoying… oral sex with a woman laid out before me, like this.”

Your breath caught, heat scorched across your face and spread down your chest as his hands slid up and down your legs. 

You watch in awe as Tech dragged a chair forward and sat down, sliding close until he was level with your hips.  He looked like he’d been presented with a feast. 

“I must warn you,” he murmured, his voice low and reverent, “I am not an expert. But I am a quick learner.”

You were about to reply, to reassure him, but your words were swallowed in a sharp gasp when his tongue darted out, running a long, wet stripe up your folds.

“F–fuck, Tech—” your back arched, hands flying to clutch the edge of the table.

He groaned at the taste, his eyes closing. Then, his lips latched onto your clit, sucking with gentle, exploratory pressure. He hummed against you as though testing the reaction, adjusting the angle of his tongue, cataloguing every twitch and moan you gave him.

One of his hands slid higher, holding you open for him, while the other pressed lightly against your hip to keep you from squirming away. He pulled back just for a second, voice low and rough with desire:

“You taste incredible.” He cooed, kissing your pussy briefly, “I must have more.”

And then his mouth was on you again, hungrier this time, his tongue moving in firmer strokes as though he couldn’t get enough of you.

His lips sealed over your clit, sucking hard, tongue flicking in short desperate bursts that had you crying out. He moaned into you at the sound, messy slurps filling the room as though he didn’t care how unrefined it was. 

“Tech, baby...” you gasped, unable to stop yourself.

The single word had his entire body twitch, his hips shifting against the chair as though you’d jolted him with a live current. He pulled back just long enough to kiss the soft skin of your inner thigh, saliva glistening where his mouth had been. His breathing was ragged, lips swollen.

“‘Baby’,” he repeated, almost unbelieving. “You called me ‘baby’. Do you have any idea what that does to me?”

He didn’t wait for an answer. 

He ducked back down, sucking at you hungrily. His tongue flattened, dragging long strokes up your pussy before circling your clit, then back again, never settling in one place for long. It was clumsy and perfect. 

Then, with his lips still latched around you, you felt his finger sliding up, hesitating at your entrance. He pulled back, his voice trembling but firm.

“if I may,” he whispered, kissing just above your mound, his nose brushing you, “I want to give you more. I want to feel you… inside.”

“Do it,” you whimpered, hips rolling up toward him.

His breath shuddered, and then he pressed his finger slowly into your heat, his lips returning to your clit as though he couldn’t bear to leave it.

“Oh… you are so tight,” he groaned, almost to himself, his forehead pressing to your thigh. “My hypothesis was correct. You feel indescribable. Better than anything...”

Your toes curled, thighs shaking as his finger began to pump, careful but eager and curling as though searching. He muttered against your skin between hungry licks:

“Tell me… what you need. Tell me how to perfect it. I want to learn you—completely.”

Another moan ripped from you, and you reached down, tangling your fingers in his hair, tugging gently as you gasped, “You’re perfect already, Tech. Kriff, you’re making me lose my mind.”

He groaned into you, the sound vibrating right through your clit, his messy mouth and that insistent finger making your whole body quake. You could feel how careful he was, how he paid attention to every gasp, every twitch of your thighs. But as your hips rolled, greedily seeking more, something inside him snapped.

His motions quickened, from measured strokes to sharp thrusts that made your breath stutter. A second finger slipped inside before you even registered it, stretching you deliciously as his mouth sealed back around your clit.

“Tech—oh f–fuck, Tech!” you sobbed, your nails scraping the table as his fingers pistoned in and out, faster, harder, the wet slap of his palm against your cunt echoing through the suite.

He pulled back just enough to gasp against your soaked folds, his voice rough and wrecked: “Grind on me. Grind that perfect pussy against my hand, against my mouth. I want you to use me. Please.”

The raw desperation in his tone made your stomach twist with heat. Your hips obeyed before your mind caught up, grinding down on his face, against the thrust of his fingers, slick smearing over his chin. 

“Cum for me. Cum on my face—please, I need it, I need to taste it.”

That was it. You broke.

Your cry tore through the room, high and raw as your body seized, your thighs clamping around his head. He held you down, his fingers thrusting mercilessly, his mouth latched to your clit as if he’d die without it. White-hot pleasure ripped through you, wave after wave crashing until you thought you’d unravel entirely.

He moaned into you like it was his own release, his lips soaked wet as you rode out every last tremor against his hungry mouth and eager fingers.

And still, even as you shook and whimpered from the overstimulation, he whispered into your slick folds:

“You taste exquisite.”

Your body still quivered from the orgasm when Tech finally pulled his mouth from you. His eyes are wild and yet tender.

He stands as you sat up on the table trying to catch your breath as he gently steadies you, his thumbs stroking your waist. His sweetness disarmed you, even in the haze of lust.

“How… did I do?”

Your heart fluttered. Maker, this man. Even with his mouth still glistening from you, he was innocently asking for feedback. You smiled lazily, brushing his jaw.

“You were perfect, Tech. Better than perfect.”

He wipes his face and leans in slowly, kissing your lips so sweetly you could cry. 

You gasped softly when you felt his cock, hot and heavy, brushing against the inside of your leg as if demanding your attention. You bit your lip, eyes dragging down to see it. Long, flushed, desperate. Your thighs clenched in anticipation.

“I’m ready,” you then whispered, voice soft as you met his gaze again. “If you are.”

His breath stuttered, but his grip on your waist firmed, pulling you closer to the table’s edge. One hand shifted lower, guiding himself, his cock sliding up and down your soaked folds. The friction made you whimper, made your hips chase him instinctively.

“Stars, Tech,” you moaned, nails curling into his shoulders. “I couldn’t have imagined us end up fucking like this.”

A sound left him, half a laugh, half a groan. He leaned down and captured your mouth in a kiss, swallowing the heat of your words, his tongue moving with uncharacteristic boldness against yours.

You thought he was about to push into you, every nerve sparking with anticipation as the thick head of his cock nudged your entrance. But instead, he drew back suddenly. Without warning, his arms slid under you, lifting you off the table.

You gasped, clinging to him, your thighs instinctively wrapping around his waist.

“Tech—!” you laughed breathlessly.

“I want you comfortable,” he said with quiet determination, carrying you as though you weighed nothing.

Your stomach swooped as he carried you back to the bed, your body pressed tight to his, his cock brushing against your thigh with every step. You purred, voice husky with both admiration and lust. “Didn’t know you were this strong,” you teased, your lips brushing his ear.

He laid you down gently on the mattress, his body hovering over yours. His eyes drank you in like you were his whole galaxy. “Strength,” he murmured, crawling over you, “is not exclusive to the battlefield.”

His cock pressed against your folds again as he settled between your legs, and you shivered, your hands running over his bare chest.

Tech positioned himself with such intent it made your breath hitch. His cock nudged against your entrance again, slick and hard, and this time he didn’t pull back. He held himself steady with one hand braced on the mattress by your head, the other guiding his length but his eyes never left yours. “I am going to proceed slowly,” he whispered, voice thick, like he was trying to talk himself through this moment. “Tell me if it is too much. Please.”

You nodded quickly, already trembling with anticipation. 

And then he pressed forward.

The head of his cock stretched you open, dragging a whimper from your throat as your head fell back into the pillows. Inch by inch, he slid inside, his jaw dropping open as though he couldn’t quite believe what he was feeling.

“Oh… Maker,” he exhaled as his whole body shuddered, hips stalling for a moment as your walls clenched around him. “You are—gods, so warm. It is—” he broke off with a ragged moan, lowering his forehead to your shoulder.

Your fingers dug into his back, nails raking lightly over his trembling muscles. “Tech—Tech, please… move,” you whispered, your voice wrecked. “I need you to.”

He pulled back just enough to see your face, his eyes wide and searching, like he was memorising every twitch of your expression. His hips rolled slowly, easing himself deeper until he was fully seated inside you. You gasped, clutching him closer.

“Perfect,” he breathed, his words hot against your ear. “You fit me perfectly, mesh’la. As though you were designed to. I cannot…” His breath hitched as he began to withdraw slowly, the drag of his cock sending sparks through your body. “…I cannot believe this is real.”

You moan softly which spurs him on. “You make such beautiful sounds,” his voice trembles with reverence and lust all at once. His pace stayed slow, almost torturous. “Each one… mine. All mine.”

“Tech—” you whimpered, scratching lightly down his back again, hips rolling to meet his. “Feels so good, baby, please—harder, I can take it.”

His lips parted, and he let out a groan so raw it made your walls flutter around him. He gasped, thrusting just a little deeper and a little firmer. 

Your hands slid up to cup his face, pulling him down into a desperate kiss, moaning into his mouth as his cock filled you again and again.

Your teeth caught his lower lip in a gentle bite, nothing more than a tease, but it undid him. Tech’s breath stuttered against your mouth, his hips rolling instinctively, burying his cock deeper in the slick heat of your pussy. His whole body pressed flush against yours, his weight grounding you, as though he couldn’t stand a single inch of space between you.

“Fuck, mesh’la,” he whispered against your lips, the word in Mando’a rumbling like velvet from his chest. His hips moved in slow, controlled thrusts, every drag of his length inside you tender but devastating. “So beautiful.”

He kissed along your jaw and throat, until he reached the swell of your breasts again. With a shaky groan, he cupped one in his hand and bent to kiss it, lips brushing featherlight across your hardened nipple. You gasped at the touch, your fingers tangling in his hair instinctively.

“Ohh, Tech—” you moaned softly.

He hummed against your skin, the vibration making your nipple pebble harder before he opened his mouth, tongue swirling in an experimental circle. He flicked over the peak, then drew it between his lips and sucked gently. The sensation ripped a whimper from your throat, your hips lifting to meet his.

“Darling,” he whispered in awe, switching to your other breast with careful attention, licking and kissing the hard peak as though it were something to be worshipped. “I have… dreamed of this. Dreamed of you…of having you this way.”

His words spilled out without thought, unfiltered confessions meant only for you. At his admission, your pussy clenched tight around him, squeezing him so hard he groaned against your breast. His hips faltered, stuttering inside you, before he dragged back in slow, sweet thrusts again.

“Oh—fuck, baby,” you whispered breathlessly, clutching his head closer to your chest as your body trembled under him. “You’ve dreamed about me? About us?”

His tongue dragged wetly across your nipple again, followed by another suck that made your toes curl. He pulled back just far enough to pant.

“Yes,” he admitted in a husky whisper, his hips rolling deeper as though to emphasise the truth. “Every night I wanted to know how it would feel to be inside you. To feel you—clenching around me like this.” His lips sealed back around your breast.

Your head tipped back into the pillows, a soft cry breaking free as his words hit you as hard as his cock did. The tenderness of his pace, his whispered Mando’a, his lips at your chest.

“Tech,” you breathed, cupping his jaw and forcing his brown eyes to stay on yours. “Let me ride you. Please, I wanna ride your cock.”

His eyes widened, lips parting as though he’d never even considered such a thing. But when you rolled your hips, squeezing around him he swallowed hard and nodded. “Y-Yes. Whatever you wish, cyar’ika.”

You smiled, before pushing gently at his chest. He let you roll him over without resistance, his back hitting the mattress as he watched you climb above him. Your hair was mussed, your tits bouncing with every movement, and his pupils were blown so wide they nearly swallowed the iris.

You hovered over him, grabbing his cock and stroking it once, slick with both of you. He groaned at the sight, fists gripping the sheets tight, chest rising and falling in uneven breaths.

“Stars,” he whispered shakily. “I can’t believe this is happening...”

You smirked and lined him up, lowering yourself slow until his thick length filled you all over again. Both of you moaned, the sound tangled between you—his low and broken, yours high and needy.

“Tech,” you gasped, biting your lip as you sank down to the hilt, “Fuck, you feel so good.”

His head dropped back against the pillows as his mouth fell open in a groan. “Oh—ohhh. Maker, mesh’la. You are... You’re so—tight, ahh!” You started moving, your hips lifting before sinking back down, setting a steady rhythm. Your moans came quicker, your body already greedy for him, but your eyes never left his face.

“You like watching me, baby?” you teased between moans, bouncing a little faster. “You can’t stop staring at me, can you? Don’t even wanna blink.”

He nodded frantically, voice breaking with every upward drag of your pussy around him. “No—no, I cannot. You’re… mesmerising. Stars, you’re—” His words dissolved into a loud moan, his fingers twisting the sheets so hard they might tear. 

There was something about watching such a confident and talkative man suddenly struggle for words.

You leaned forward, bracing your hands on his chest as you picked up the pace, your tits bouncing with each thrust down. “You’re so fucking big, Tech—ahhh, fuck. Filling me up so good.”

His chest vibrated with another groan, hips jerking up to meet yours involuntarily. “Cyar’ika, I—I cannot hold back when you speak this way.”

“Good,” you panted, smirking down at him through hooded eyes. “Don’t. I want it messy, baby. I want you messy for me.”

His eyes rolled back, his breaths turning ragged. You rode him harder, sweat slicking your skin, until the pressure coiled sharp in your belly.

“Spank me,” you begged suddenly, desperate. “Please, Tech—spank me.”

He groaned as though the request ripped through him, his hands immediately leaving the sheets to grab your arse. His long fingers squeezed, spreading your cheeks, before he gave you a firm, open-handed smack. The sharp sting made you cry out and clench around him, sending shockwaves through both of you.

“Ohhh, yes! Fuck, just like that!” you moaned, grinding down harder.

Tech’s lips parted on a ragged moan, his hips snapping up into you as he spanked you again, firmer this time. “You’re—so responsive. So perfect—”

“Harder, baby. Spank me harder.”

He obeyed without hesitation, another sharp smack echoing in the room. Your pussy fluttered around him, your cries growing louder as his grip alternated between spanking and guiding your hips down onto his cock. His moans grew desperate, shaky, every sound raw and unrestrained.

“Mesh’la,” he gasped, voice cracking. “Watching you riding me… feelin’ you—it’s… oh, stars, it’s divine.”

You leaned down, kissing him rough and needy, your words muffled against his lips as you moaned, “You were made for me, Tech. My perfect man.”

That praise alone nearly undid him. In a blur of strength, Tech sat up, grabbed your waist, and lifted you clean off the bed. You gasped in surprise, your legs automatically wrapping around his lean frame as his cock never left your dripping cunt. His lips were on your neck before you could catch your breath—open, bruising kisses marking you as he pressed you hard against the wall.

“Ohhhh! Tech!” you cried, head falling back as his hips snapped up into you, each thrust slamming deep, the sound of your bodies obscene. “Oh fuck, you’re so good—so fucking good!”

He moaned against your throat, his breath hot and ragged. “Maker, you make it easy. So responsive, so beautiful—I cannot stop myself—”

You clung to him, nails digging into his back as your cunt squeezed around him tight. “Don’t stop, baby—please, don’t stop—”

His pace grew erratic, his moans vibrating against your skin as he panted into your neck. “Darling you should not praise me so—it—it makes me—ahhh—” Another sharp thrust, and you cried out, your legs trembling around his waist.

You laughed breathlessly through the moans, your lips brushing his ear. “For a beginner, you’re so fucking good. You’re ruining me.”

Something primal flickered in his eyes, and with a groan, he tore you away from the wall and carried you back to the bed. The world tilted before you landed soft against the mattress, Tech above you, not once letting his cock slip free.

He adjusted, grabbing your leg and hooking it over his arm, angling himself deeper as his hips ground against yours. His voice was a husky growl, unlike anything you’d heard from him before.

“Little cockwarmer,” he muttered, almost reverent, almost feral. “That’s what you are.”

Your cunt pulsed at the name, a broken moan spilling from your lips. “Fuck—Tech—”

His hips shifted again, finding a new angle that made your body jolt with every thrust. He pinned you with his hand gripping your thigh, holding you open for him. It was a dominant way that made you dizzy.

“I’m going to—” His voice caught, his moan guttural. “I am going to fuck you harder, cyar’ika. Hard enough that you—cry my name.” His teeth caught his lip as he bent close, pushing further into you with wild eyes. “And then I will spill my seed into you. Fill you…make certain you never forget your first time with me.”

The promise alone made your pussy clench desperately around him, your eyes glassy as you gasped, “Mmmm yes, Tech, harder—”

He groaned raggedly and pulled back before slamming into you again, the bedframe groaning with the force. Your cries rose higher, raw and broken, every thrust dragging you closer to the edge again as he held your leg tight, owning every part of you.

A raw need made his hips piston into you perfectly. The slap of his balls against your soaked pussy echoed in the room, filthy and wet, the sound alone enough to have you keening.

Your leg trembled in his iron grip as he held it high, opening you wide for him. His thrusts were so deep you could barely breathe.

“Oh—oh fuck, Tech!” you cried, your hands clawing at the sheets as your tits bounced with every slam of his hips.

His other hand left the sheets and moved to your chest, groping and squeezing your breasts as if he couldn’t get enough of them. His fingers pinched your nipples harshly, rolling them between his fingers until you yelped in pleasure.

“That’s it,” Tech groaned, briefly wiping the sweat from his forehead. “Maker, you take me so perfectly.”

You whimpered his name, legs shaking, body already begging for release.

His grip on your breast slid down, hand moving with precision to your swollen clit.

“I am going to touch you here,” he rasped, “I want to feel you convulse around me when you cum.”

And then his fingers were on you—fast, clever, circling and rubbing your clit with the same intensity as his thrusts. The double assault made you scream, your hands flying to his forearms for something to anchor yourself against.

“Tech! Oh stars—don’t stop—fuck, please don’t stop!”

His hips snapped hard, balls smacking wetly against your cunt with every thrust. “Cum for me,” he begged, still pinching your nipple with his free hand. “Cry my name. Let me feel you milk me dry. I want—ahh—I need to see you lose yourself on my cock.”

Your whole body tensed, fire coiling tight in your belly as the messy, relentless rhythm of his cock and fingers dragged you to the edge.

Your orgasm tore through you so violently it was almost unbearable.

Your back arched off the bed, mouth falling open on a strangled cry as your cunt clenched down around Tech’s cock like a vice. Another wave of white- heat ripped through your body, more powerful than before as you spasmed helplessly around him.

“F–fuck—Tech!” you sobbed, eyes rolling back as stars burst behind your lids.

But Tech didn’t stop.

If anything, the sight of you unraveling only spurred him harder. His hips kept rutting into you with deep thrusts. Your whole body shook, overstimulated and raw, tears threatening at the corners of your eyes as his cock dragged every ounce of pleasure from you past the point of sanity.

“Cyar’ika…” he groaned, his forehead dropping to yours, his breath ragged. “You feel... I don’t want to stop yet. I cannot—I need you longer.”

Your words came out slurred, weak, desperate and totally cockdrunk. “P-please fill me up, baby… I can’t—oh stars—I can’t anymore…”

The pleasure began blurring into near pain—but you wanted it, wanted him, even as your body writhed helplessly under his relentless pace.

His groans are raw as he cooed your name when his hips stuttered, cock pulsing deep inside your soaked heat as he finally let go.

With a guttural moan, Tech buried himself to the hilt, grinding his pelvis against your overstimulated clit as his release surged hot and thick inside you.

“Maker—yes—take it all. Stars above, you were so good for me…” he whispered hoarsely, his voice shaking as he pumped every drop of himself into you.

You gasped weakly, legs trembling around him, your nails dragging along his back as his cock pulsed deep, filling you until you could feel it leaking down your thighs.

Tech held you close through the aftershocks, chest pressed to yours, lips brushing your damp cheek as he whispered almost reverently, “Cyar’ika… ner kar’ta… you’ve undone me entirely.”

You let out a shaky breath, feeling the warmth of the aftermath settle over you. The room was quiet except for your ragged breathing and Tech’s soft, anxious murmurs. He rolled over briefly, grabbing his goggles from the night stand and adjusted them back on.

“Was that… pleasant enough?” he asked, almost as if he needed your approval to believe it himself.

You rolled your eyes playfully and leaned forward to press a tender, lingering kiss against his mouth. It was slow but full of affection and warmth. Pulling back slightly, you whispered against his lips, “You did so well…”

A soft, almost whiny sound escaped him, his body visibly trembling at the praise. He wanted to bask in it, let it rattle him further—but the moment he remembered you, concern immediately took over.

“I did not hurt you… correct?” His hands hovered over you, unsure whether to touch or fuss, his words tumbling out in a rush. “Was it too much? Too fast? Did I—did I overwhelm you?”

Your eyes soften so you run a hand along his cheek. “I’m fine, Tech. Really. That was amazing,” you reassured him, voice gentle, coaxing him to relax.

Even as he let out a faint sigh of relief, his protective instincts didn’t subside. He reached down, lifting you into his arms effortlessly, holding you close against his chest. Your head rested on his shoulder, heart hammering, as he continued to fuss, his voice laced with concern and admiration.

“Your legs… are you sore? Your back? Please, tell me. I want to know if you’re okay… truly.”

“Tech, you’re fine. I’m fine.” You soothe, tracing a hand over his chest. He nodded slowly, though his eyes betrayed the way he was still processing everything. “Good… good,” he breathed, pressing a kiss to the top of your head before burying his face in your hair. “I just wanted to be certain as I have never-”

You shook your head, smiling as you tightened your hold around him. “I know, Tech. But you did wonderfully. I don’t think I’ve ever felt like that before.”

Even in the aftermath, the closeness and the warmth of him holding you felt almost intoxicating.

After a long, tender cleanup, the two of you found yourselves side by side in the suite’s shower. The warm water cascaded over you both, steam curling around your bodies. 

Tech’s hands were careful, almost shy as they moved along your shoulders and back, washing away the remnants of your shared intensity. You mirrored him, letting your fingers trace the lines of his chest and arms, feeling the steady beat of his muscles beneath your touch.

It was sweet and even almost comical at times. 

Tech fussed over the soap and hair products while you laughed at him. The intimacy wasn’t rushed or overtly sexual this time; it was simple and comforting. 

Afterwards, wrapped in the plush towels, you returned to the bed. The sheets were cool against your skin, but the warmth of Tech pressed against you quickly erased any chill. You lay side by side, limbs occasionally brushing. 

You spoke about everything and nothing. Hours passed like this, the night stretching peacefully around you. When sleep began to take over again, you cuddled closer to him. 

As dawn’s early light spilled into the suite, you pressed your lips lightly against the curve of his shoulder and whispered, “I’m really glad I saw that holoposter…”

Tech turned his head slightly, eyes still heavy with sleep, a soft smile on his face. “So am I.”

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it's just— when life started to turn into one of catastrophe, you two were never there to be the pillar of one another; both you and satoru existence in each other's life was only in sight during joyful moments. the moment things get tiring, you two are nowhere in one another arms. simply because the vision in which you both hold dear wasn't aligning. time wasn't exactly in favor of yours and satoru's relationship.

someone on the internet said it's bound to happen. two souls who are hungry for achievement, to oneself, and are walking work-machine pathways with each other will be anything but smooth. a total, messy rocky road, to be precise.

for the two of you to be able to live life to the fullest—ending the pain you cause to each other—both of you decided to end things with peace, like the mature adults you two are. being a thorn in one another's life, hurting yourself and his with another disappointment added to the pile isn't something you two want for one another.

you shifted from where you're sitting on the couch, the pair of eyes you behold has been locked on the shelf at your living room for quite a while now. precisely dead-set at the lego set which you built with satoru brick by brick together, a year ago, before everything ended.

the ticking sounds coming from the clock indicate, as well as a reminder, of the time that has passed—wasted, even—since you pour all your attention to the lego display some distance away from you.

it's two in the morning and your soon-to-come packed schedule is screaming at you to head to your room, taking a well needed sleep on the comfort of your bed. yet you can't seem to find it in you to drift your gaze away from a memory which keeps surfacing.

as you're lost in the sight of it, pages after pages from the book of your life are flipped until it arrives at the very words arranged when you two build the lego set, while you relieve back in time when he was on the floor of your apartment, laughing alongside you.

[ page 296 ]

“satoru, that isn't the right piece …” you grumbled at the man sitting beside you. your lower lip slightly pushed forward in the mannerism of a sulking child as satoru let out a hearty, deep laugh. “stop laughing!“

hearing your words, the man you shouted at raises his hand defensively with the amused and cocky expression of his in full-view for you to scoff at. one thing about satoru gojo is he absolutely loves to tease his girlfriend, using everything that he is.

“it's not my fault they look similar, baby, do blame the company.” his hand finds its way to tuck strands of your silky lock behind the ear, wanting to see clearly how you're cursing him under your breath. “you know that i can hear everything you're saying, right?” satoru uttered, his brows raised in a teasing demeanor.

you repeat his words with a mocking tone, emphasizing each one by dragging the last letter alongside clicking the puzzle piece to their match. “out of sight, out of mind.”

mistake number one.

satoru hummed lowly, “not for long.” before he leans in closer to you, erasing the space every movement passed until his face is only an inch left from yours. the man, ever his annoying self, decided to pop his face right in front of you— which causes you to startle a little, laying one of your palms on his face out of reflex. “jeez, don't do that!”

the man didn't let any more words slip between your lips before wrapping his arms around your waist, pulling you towards his embrace, then letting himself lay flat on the ground. except he forgot the existence of your lego set and hit the bricks sprinkled across your apartment floor. “ouch, ouch, ouchie,” he whined, overly so.

“satoru, oh my god! baby, you ruined the arranged ones!” you protested with your hand tapping over his shoulder, a hint of panic laced your exasperated tone.

“your boyfriend just got injured in his way of showing his love to you, and all you care about is these plastics?” the man looked betrayed. any facial expression wouldn't be enough to describe how so over-amplified satoru looks as he questions you. “unbelievable. i should die.”

you rolled your eyes the moment his words caught your ears. “you're being ridiculous. you know very well there's lego pieces right in front of me. you attention seeker,” you joked, head shaking in an unapproved mannerism.

“yeaaah? a man can never have a break. i understand what people are saying now. rest in peace freedom—” before the man was able to finish his sentence, you acted quickly and pressed your lips against satoru's for a peck. taking away his words effectively. “what? what did you say?”

and oh, it works. miraculously, a little. not as if it's actually that surprising, since this has happened more than you can keep in count. you'd never complain about doing it, though, due to the very reason in which you adore kissing this six-foot-three man and watch the way his eyes blow wide. accompanied by a rosy tint painted on his cheeks.

“hellooo? is someone in there?” you chuckled when he just glared at you and stayed in silence; letting the words he wished to say lingered on the tip of his tongue while he savored the moment to thread it into his brain, tucked between other memories he has made with you, safe and kept in-warmth.

“that's cheating. absolutely foul. you should be sent to jail for that act alone, you hear?” he whispers. the tone in which he uses shows that he was torn on wanting to strangle you lovingly or just let himself fall deeper into the love that's you.

sounds of giggles coming from in-between your lips wrapped the whole apartment in a loving, warm blanket as satoru nuzzles his face against your cheek, with kisses delivered to it once in a while. “you should be punished for this crime, missy,” he mumbled against your skin.

“mhm, is that right? what punishment are we referring to?”

“watching. every. single. season. of. miraculous.”

you gasp aloud right when his sentence comes to register in your mind. “no way! it's basically a death sentence, much torturous. i swear a shiver just ran through me thinking about it,” you protested as satoru just hummed to each of your words. “that show should, absolutely, be banned for mental health purposes or at least came with a warning.”

he laughed, then. amusement sparkling brightly in that blue-sky pair of eyes that's his and his only. it's as glittering as the stars which painted the night sky outside of your cozy apartment; letting everyone that sees know of their existence in this darkness in which envelopes some part of the world.

“it's fun,” the man counters. satoru raises his eyebrows—rather mockingly—when you shot a glare to his way. “you can't say the slow burn isn't exciting, baby. it's a thrill itself, you know.”

“thrill? a 'horror' would be the perfect word to use. that thing could murder me singlehandedly with how much frustration it drowned me in.”

“you can't say that about a masterpiece.”

a scoff left your mouth as you push him further away to the ground. the reality of your lego set laying beneath his back unfortunately drifted from your mind after the banter exchange between you two, which goes the same case with satoru who now let out another noises of pain, and an 'ouch' slipped his lips repeatedly which causes you to sit up in panic.

“wait, wait— i didn't mean to do that!” you exclaimed, hands shooting up to help him raise from where he lay a minute ago. “did it hurt so much?”

“you're evil …” he mumbled. a pout graced his lips as his eyes look away from where you're sitting before him; unwilling to look at you in the eyes or else he might laugh and the putting-up-an-act of his will goes down the drain. he doesn't want this acting of his to receive a kiss from you to fail, if it isn't obvious enough.

you shifted closer to where he sits, face contorted into one of concern— everyone and their mother knows that lego bricks send pain like nothing could ever be, so it's safe to say that you feel more than guilty at how you accidentally hurt this man who's pouting like there's no tomorrow.

reaching your hands out to gently cradle his face, you leaned in and erased the distance between the two of you little by little before capturing his lips in a gentle, yet deep kiss. a soft smile decorated the sulky man before he returned your kiss with everything that he is, pouring all the love in him to your bucket of love. overflowing it until it spilled and tainted every surface there is to exist.

“you suck,” satoru whispered, against your lips. his hands find their ways back into where it belongs since the beginning of this universe created; your waist. his way of anchoring himself to you and only you.

and you didn't respond. not that it's needed, anyway, for both you and satoru. what matters in this single moment is how the world revolves as well as hovering itself in the love shared in the air that's heavy with a deep, intertwined affection to exist between you two.

[ page 329 ]

“i know why you want to see me,” satoru voice out. his voice low and heavy with resolve as well as uncertainty that's suffocating the two of you.

you stay silent, at first.

“… is that right?” you heard yourself muttering. it's all you can muster yourself to say at this moment where you're torn apart and feel as if you're thrown into the ocean; letting the sharks devour every scattered piece of you which floats around in wish for someone to arrange it back for you.

another beat of silence hit both you and satoru like it's always there. only this time, rather than running from it, you two acknowledge it and let the haunting stillness speak for itself. it has been clinging to both of your shoulders for a long time, after all.

“you don't need to say it out loud, if it hurts in some way. though, i'm sure it does.” his fingers are fidgeting with one another. truly a show for satoru gojo who's every fiber in his being always seems to scream confidence and cockiness. “i understand … and it's fine.”

“really? is it really fine?” you retorted. the voice of yours that always held a sense of unfaltering now trembles with a reality that's settling in. “do you think— we can't save us or anything?”

satoru inhales deeply, closing his eyes for a moment to not let the facade he built himself, which has been cracking since he took a step inside of your apartment shattered in front of you. this place is one of the shelters as well as witness to both his love and yours, alongside where his home belongs, protected safe and sound; you.

when he let out the breath, exhaling his way out of the resolve that started to crumbles down the path, satoru could swear he almost stand up from where he is and just tangle himself with you. it took everything in him to not do that the moment his gaze fell to yours which has been set on his since the beginning.

no one wants to let this chapter of the two lovers end.

“we're better off parting ways. for now, at least,” he paused for a moment. trying to arrange his words that wouldn't cause you any pain and all the aftermath following its trails. “in the future, i'm sure, we will meet again with the best version of ourselves.”

you open your mouth, however no words come out of it. because in the deepest part of you, relies this feeling of conviction where you two will find each other again, somehow. not only due to the very truth that both you and satoru work in the same field—in a way—there's just something which keeps tugging you to trust his words; to believe that time will help your relationship with satoru.

in truthfulness, for some souls, time does heal things we never have the ability to speak about. letting the heaviness wear itself out without touching it. recognizing what's there to feel and have the time itself help you out, unsaid.

“… okay.”

[ current page ]

you forcefully tore your gaze away from the lego that's sitting on the shelf. pondering about the past, one that has him in it, is the true example of sprinkling bits of salt to one wounds.

he was right. you did become a better individual, one that a lot of your friends said and acknowledged. time did its very best to change you into a finer person in the times that whisked away while both you and satoru didn't dragged each other down, unintentionally. a person that you can feel delighted to be—thankfully—and someone you're sure he would be proud of, as well.

but, your skin and soul are missing for a touch, for a feel of his.

a graze of the fingertips would suffice this desperation which had been hounding you for a while now. you're missing him in a way that you never thought would be possible for a human to bear; out of the world, even the universe couldn't fathom this longing you endure for him.

screw all of this, you whisper in your head.

with one last glance to the proof of his love and yours in the past, you strode to your bedroom after being left wandering back in time, for a moment that felt endless. eternal.

you have a job lining later the day that'll cause more distress to your flowing desire of satoru's affection and attention. after all, you'll be meeting him after quite some time apart. it would cause a stir in your heart and the internet, you're sure. it's meant to happen when two people who used to be inseparable breathe in the same air again.

today sounds like hell already, for some reason. one that you still refused to acknowledge, stubbornly.

you sigh for the umpteenth time today, slightly frustrated at the fact that you're assigned to cover tonight's boxing match between your dearest ex-boyfriend who you've been missing, satoru, and his opponent, suguru geto.

tonight's match is a rematch proposed by suguru, who lost against satoru in their last match. the infamous match where satoru bites geto’s ear. one that goes viral all around the world and eventually leads to the match that's held today. safe to say, it was a hot topic for quite a long time and it still causes riots every so often.

geto himself proposes this match, wanting to get back at satoru. he's not pleased with the results of the last match, that's for sure. who would be satisfied being humiliated for the world to make fun off, after all? not a single soul. he was turned into a meme on the internet for getting his ear bit and geto didn't want to be remembered as the man who got his ear bitten, if that isn't obvious enough.

if someone asks whether you're nervous or not, the answer is going to be a simple no. you already know that satoru will win this match, like any other bout he has participated in; it's to be expected by anyone, truthfully. when compared to one another, satoru is the strongest one, when being put against suguru geto.

satoru is an honorable boxer whose abilities are at the top of among today's boxers. when he's in the ring, whoever is in front of him will be taken down with no mercy, and it's something every soul in this stadium knows and acknowledge. he isn't the heavyweight wbc champion for nothing— the man truly lives up to the title bestowed upon him.

inside the stadium filled with waves of humans, noises of people chattering are loud and clear for your ears to catch on. especially when most of them seem to be interested in a topic regarding you and satoru. the athlete and the journalist are a pair everyone loves to speak about. it's thrilling, in a way. particularly if those being mentioned are only some distance from where one soul sits.

ah … it's becoming uncomfortable to listen, you thought.

while the people surrounding you has been occupying themselves with your name and satoru's rolling out from their tongue, you've been busy minding your own business. your hand has been non-stop moving, arranging one word after another to your notebook in the purpose of covering all things to be written about. you've talked to both coaches for satoru and geto, as well as people who're watching to get the story straight on this match.

today's match will be held in 5 rounds— or until someone drops dead on the ground—it depends. not literally dead, of course, just a saying. nonetheless, if it does happen, it won't be the man with his snowy, soft locks who's been eyeing you since the second you walked inside the stadium. you know that.

it wasn't long after you're finished writing down everything before your co-worker gently tapped your shoulder to get your attention. “it's starting,” shoko said, pointing to the ring in front of you. her eyes are seeing right through you as if she knows that you've been keeping yourself busy as a bee to not look at your ex-boyfriend, the main character of this match.

you've been so engrossed in making sure that you didn't let this feeling that has been nagging engulfed you, to the point that your senses were left dulled while your mind dive into your notebook and washed away other existence. “thank you, shoko,” you thank her, voice low and a little raspy.

professional … i need to be professional. this is a job, you repeat to yourself.

the notebook is now closed and secure in your bag before your gaze falls to the ring. and may god help you, because your pair of eyes immediately dead-set on satoru's figure. while everyone is watching as both satoru gojo and suguru geto enter the ring from their assigned corners, you unconsciously enter and are trapped in your own world. a world that used to be his as well.

roaring voices inside the stadium, somehow, still got their way to your ears amidst this chaos you're left to face. and it got your mind fuzzy, since your hearing senses decided to tune in only for one name: satoru gojo.

satoru will win, that's for sure. you've seen all the training he did for the purpose of this rematch and it only increased your belief that he'll take home the victory, once again. he won the last match with no pressure or problem like it's no competition to begin with— satoru will safely accomplish glory in this match against geto, again. not that you're demeaning suguru geto efforts at all, it's just a known fact to the world in which satoru would succeed.

you hold your breath as the referee checks on both fighters gloves and mouth guards. satoru as well as geto make their way to the middle of the ring for final instructions, touch gloves and step back again to their sides, their corners. both of the fighter eyes are piercing through to one another with competitiveness and one thing in mind; victory.

the bell rings.

both fighters started to move around the ring, closing distance slowly but surely with one another before satoru landed a punch on geto's face, causing the man to back off, who then returned it in a matter of seconds. 'it's becoming messy' is one of the many ways to describe this scene that takes place some feet away from where you're to behold.

adrenaline which runs through both satoru and geto can be seen clearly to anyone who watches. sweat is forming on the skin of theirs, glistening under the heavy light that's surrounding the whole stadium. and sounds of gloves thud with one another becomes something you can only hear— taking over all your senses as you watch them hit each other.

satoru went his way to do a jab and cross at geto, the heavyweight wbc champion gaze that you found yourself lost to was screaming as if it's just a walk at the park in this distance. the man then bob and weave away from geto, taking around a quarter step back, before positioning himself to land a hook on suguru geto's body.

it's looking that the victory will be indeed taken by the none other satoru gojo from peoples eyes. and when the next hit launched by satoru was met with no resistance or defense from suguru geto, it was deemed over for the man; satoru gloves hit geto's head exactly four times before the referee stopped him.

the man who's punched, suguru geto, is knocked down to the ground from satoru's punch. he was left to fall to the surface of the ring before trying to stand, only to meet with a futile end as he's unable to do so. with what's happening in full-view for everyone to see, the referee who was counting to ten in the background finally met the end number for geto to have another chance, meaning that the heavyweight wbc champion once again struck a win opposed to suguru geto.

satoru last punch to his face was a nail to the coffin. in just some measly—for the man—minutes on the clock, satoru gojo secured his victory like every soul already predicted since the beginning of this match announced.

you stand up from where you're sitting as a sense of thankfulness in the deepest part of your heart starts blooming, because satoru indeed wins. he once again show that the man is a champion for a reason, he has the ability to achieve it; the strongest, the honored one among a bunch. your certainty is proved right at this moment where everyone is screaming, relishing the fact that satoru gojo won in just one round.

a sigh of relief left in-between your lips, eyes never leaving satoru's figure even once. and it's right at this second when he returns your gaze, locking his eyes to yours from where he stands. this staring contest you both found yourself participating in is a whole language itself. one that you and satoru have become used to in the years you two have knowledge of each other.

once again, your world slowly became his to infiltrate.

“you're interviewing him!” you heard shoko screams at you amidst the loudness that's enveloping the stadium. and the loudness of her words is the reason you find yourself halted abruptly and left frozen in place. not a single bone moving, even an inch, while your brain tries to process the sentence that just left shoko's mouth.

sorry? what is she even saying, you panic in your head.

before you were able to respond, your other co-worker already handed you the mic, pushing you towards the crowds of people that's wandering around to satoru's sides, understandably so. although for your case, it can be considered as an outrageous exploitation of a relationship, because there's almost no way they would make you do this if you weren't the winner of this match ‘ex-girlfriend’— there's another crew from your company beside you and shoko, after all.

and this isn't football, why are we already rushing towards them? your mind keeps screaming at you.

on the other side, though, satoru who's still reeling on the victory he just achieved and being swarmed by many journalists became as still as the water inside his untouched water bottle on the ground, the moment he saw you walking towards his way. the man was not expecting you to be the one interviewing him from your company, assuming it would be someone else due to the situation between you two.

well, satoru also catches you exchanging a conversation with the coaches and a few spectators. he was sure your job is finished as you're already done with your part of the job, yet now you're making your way to where he stands? he's not prepared. more with the fact that you two were just talking with one another through looks alone.

time really stops for you and him in this single moment. making amend to the time that was lost for the two souls, but not wasted.

everyone and their mother breath catches on their throat as their peering eyes are fixed on the ex-lovers. cameras are out in an instant when people realize you'll be the one that interviews him— something unexpected and truly out of the box to come up with. it seems that people love causing drama, to even think of the idea about setting you up in a conversation with satoru in front of many people to see.

“… so, um, congratulations on the victory, gojo. how are you feeling?” you ask almost immediately to the man, after clearing your throat countless times while walking to where he is.

satoru stay silent for a moment, before flashing you a crooked smile. “thank you, i appreciate that. i feel extreme bliss right now, if it makes any sense,” he reply after a moment of stillness between you two. “how are you?”

“bliss, you say? that's an interesting choice of word. and i'm great, thank you for asking.” you clear your throat once again, feeling as if a fish bone stuck behind your throat. “uh, what was, um … inside your head when you land the punches to your opponents?”

“victory. i was trying to impress someone in the crowd,” satoru stated. his head tilted to the side slightly, pondering his next answer that's ready to slipped in-between his lips. “a little curious on how she thought about it now,” he then continued. leaving people struck at his words and letting out variety of gasps: soft, quiet, and all.

you blink once. twice.

it's you he's referring to, you know that. no one needs to tell you once more, you can feel the familiarity of the tone he uses vibrating through your body and it's difficult to ignore. shrugging it is almost impossible to do, even.

“oh, that's … intriguing. how do you guess, or perhaps, wish this person thought about today's match?” you commented, gaze darting away for a second as if you're running away from the conversation. from him, to be extremely precise and honest.

the man let out a soft hummed at your question, straightening up his posture. “i hope she's proud, at the very least,” he paused for a beat there, eyes trailing you from head to toe. “are you proud of me?”

oh, right. one of the things people might not know of satoru is that he doesn't own a single bone of nonchalance in his body. this man cares too much, sometimes. that, with no shame to run course his veins.

“that's highly unprofessional, i'm afraid.”

“i love your outfit today. you match it to the press credentials like always, huh? it goes well, you nailed it.” satoru brushes off your words aimed at him, like it never left your parting lips.

this man … you huffed inside your mind.

“thank you. however, i highly think we should go back on track,” you spluttered. the grip of the mic in your hand tightens a fraction. “how did your preparation go for this match? was there any difference from your usual one?”

“not really. well, actually there is— you weren't there to support me by my side. all's well, though, since you're here to watch me win.” he takes a step closer to you, causing you to take a step back out of reflex; making the people which is circling the two of you back away as well. you almost forgot that countless of people are hearing your conversation with him.

satoru smile blown wider at how your eyes twitch in annoyance. he loves to tease his girl with everything that made him the person he is. and that part of him shines blindingly today, for people to see clearly. it's not just a glimpse to a side of him that's never been disclosed; satoru was left bare under the spotlight with his heart in hands, in front of you, for everyone to see.

“i'm hurting right now. are you really not gonna treat my boo-boos? i feel like i'm gonna die, it's actually piercing through my skin— ouch, ouch, ouchie.”

“... can you not?”

“what? can't i ask my best, pretty girl to treat me in front of the whole world?” he feigned offense, hand shooting to clutch against his heart while he looks at you as if there's no tomorrow. the world is indeed yours and his only, at the moment shared between you two.

“please shut up,” you breathed out. you sounded far from exasperated, much to your dismay. the corner of your lips tugging upward at his action, unable to resist the warmth that's flooding your chest from how he speaks and stares at you like you're the only thing that matters.

because for satoru you're, truly, the only thing that ever mattered. nothing has come close to being on the same level as important as you in his life, ever. and it shall stay that way forevermore.

he ran his hand through his hair with one of his eyebrows raised at you. “does dinner together sound good or should i just jump off a cliff?”

and you let out a soft huff at his words. it's so him to say that in front of these prying eyes and desperate ears, although you're not complaining, obviously. you're far too deprived of his warmth and silliness to say a word about it. so, like any other day when your pages of story were still filled with him, you found yourself saying: “you're ridiculous, you attention seeker.”

satoru laughs, then. the corner of his eyes crinkles from how the edge of his lips are pulled due to your way of saying 'yes' like it's embarrassing for you to even consider. “you love that about me,” he whispers.

the pages in your story of life, as well as satoru, now have each other's names scattered across it like it always meant to be, back to the way the chapters are supposed to have one another inside it. and in front of countless souls, the lost love blooms in the air once again, as if it never truly faded.

well, simply because it never left. and the way the two (ex)lovers stare at each other for them to see, it's as clear as the stars raining on the black, blueish canvas of a sky outside the stadium that covers them. not that they need to go outside to confirm it. they didn't need to.

ah, right, it's safe to say the exchange between the pair of athlete and journalist; you and satoru, causes an uproar throughout the internet.

steponmepls: HELLOOO??? FUCK I NEED THIS ENGRAVED IN ME

blurblurbo: he's a keeper fr 😩

getonumberone: did my man just got fucking hit and all for these two to get back together what???

⤷ satorugojodefender: your man sucks, live with it 🥀

atotalmenmans: dude knows where his priorities lay … i respect that 🫡🫡

⤷ needmesomelove: FR, HE JUST WINS A MATCH AND GETS THE LOVE OF HIS LIFE BACK. BRO IS LIVING THE LIFE

spaghettispighittie: crash the camera fuck why am i such a loser in love

whatyoulookingat: they're so disgustingly in love omg i'm gonna shoot myself wtf 😭

[ ✦ ] let's pray rockstar!satoru will be out within this week! also, i post once in a while due to the frustration of seeing my drafts pile increases whenever i breathe 💔

—

the first note was a triumph.

gojo had spent approximately forty-seven minutes agonizing over it, which was forty-six minutes longer than he'd ever spent on anything romantic in his entire life. he'd gone through three different types of paper— too formal, too basic, too aggressively scented because apparently some of his stationary had been sitting next to an old candle— before settling on a simple pink sticky note.

his usual script was messy, impatient, the letters slanting forward like they were trying to escape the page. but for this? for you? he'd slowed down and shaped each character with the kind of care he usually reserved for, well, nothing.

your quiet laugh in class today made my whole week. can’t stop thinking about it. - s.

suguru had said not to go too intense and this felt like the right balance— specific enough that you'd know it was real, vague enough that you'd have to wonder. gojo read it seventeen times, folded it into a neat square, and tucked it into his palm where his sweaty fingers could clutch it like a talisman.

the delivery itself required a level of stealth gojo didn't know he possessed. lecture break. you'd gotten up to refill your water bottle— he knew this because he'd been tracking your movements with the focus of a nature documentarian observing a particularly skittish woodland creature— and you'd left your bag on the floor beside your chair, unzipped like always. an invitation, almost. a sign from the universe that this was meant to be.

he slipped out of his seat, crossed the three rows between you in what felt like slow motion. his heart was slamming against his ribs so hard he was genuinely worried other people could hear it. his hands, usually so steady, were shaking. gojo satoru, who had never been nervous a day in his life, who approached everything with the unshakable confidence of someone who'd never truly failed at anything, was trembling over a pink sticky note.

he dropped it in your bag quickly, then he returned to his seat, dropped his head into his hands, and spent the next three minutes trying to remember how to breathe properly.

you came back, sat down, didn't notice anything amiss.

gojo spent the rest of the break staring at the back of your head with such intense concentration that he was genuinely surprised your hair didn't catch fire.

eventually, the class resumed. the professor launched into a lecture on syllabic meter in traditional japanese poetry versus free verse—whatever, honestly, who gives a fuck— gojo heard approximately none of it. he was too busy watching you, watching the way you idly reached into your bag for a highlighter and paused. felt around. pulled out something small and pink.

your head tilted, a tiny furrow appearing between your brows as you unfolded the note.

gojo forgot to breathe.

he watched your eyes move across the words— once, twice—and then watched the most beautiful thing he'd ever seen happen in real time.

the blush started at your neck, crept up your throat, flooded your cheeks in a wash of rose pink so perfect it should have been illegal. you bit your lip, which only made it worse. your mouth was doing this almost-smile you were clearly trying to suppress, and your eyes darted around the room like you expected to catch someone watching.

you were looking for him. you didn't know it was him, but you were looking.

gojo slumped lower in his chair, pulled his sunglasses down from his forehead to cover his eyes, and tried very hard not to scream. victory. complete, total, absolute victory.

you tucked the note into your jacket pocket, the one right over your heart, like it was something precious, something worth keeping, and for the rest of the lecture you were visibly distracted. you checked the note twice more before class ended. your leg bounced under the desk. you chewed on the end of your pen and stared into the middle distance with that tiny secret smile still hovering at the corners of your mouth.

gojo felt like he was going to ascend directly into heaven.

score one for satoru.

he told suguru everything that night, sprawled across the couch while their takeout ramen went cold on the coffee table. the color of the note, the angle of his approach, the exact sequence of expressions that had crossed your face. he reenacted your furtive glance-around-the-room with such dramatic flair that he nearly rolled off the couch cushions.

“she was flustered, man,” he said, his voice gone reverent and breathless. “like, blushing like a tomato. the cutest tomato. i didn’t know tomatoes could be cute but she was. she’s revolutionized my entire understanding of tomatoes.”

suguru chuckled, low and fond, twirling cold noodles around his chopsticks. “don’t screw it up.”

“screw it up? me? i’m literally incapable of screwing up.” he paused. “what if i screw it up.”

“you won’t.”

“but what if i do.”

“satoru.”

“okay. okay. i won’t. i’m not going to. the note was perfect. she liked the note. she put the note in her pocket, suguru. her chest pocket. that’s basically, like, the human equivalent of a treasure chest. i’m in the treasure chest.”

suguru just shook his head, but he was smiling. gojo counted that as a win too.

…note two came three days later, timed for maximum impact.

he’d done his research. or, more accurately, he’d done three days of very casual, very not-obvious stalking that definitely didn’t count as stalking because it was romantic and suguru said it was fine as long as he didn’t follow you home or something. he’d learned your schedule through careful observation and one innocuous question to the poetry professor about whether there was a shared class calendar available. there wasn’t. but he’d gotten what he needed anyway.

thursdays. you worked the evening shift at the campus library, reshelving returns and manning the front desk when the student staff was short. thursdays, 4 to 8 pm. he’d borrowed a book from the section you always restocked first— a slim volume of translated contemporary poetry he’d grabbed at random, the cover tastefully minimal with a single bird silhouetted against fog. he’d checked it out properly and everything. he was committing to the bit.

the note went inside the front cover, positioned so it would flutter out the moment you opened the book. cream paper this time, slightly textured, because pink felt too repetitive and he wanted you to know that s was paying attention. that s noticed things. that s put thought into these details in a way that was definitely not obsessive and completely normal.

saw you recommending that novel to the freshman. your passion for stories is captivating. wish i could learn more from you. - s.

he lingered in the stacks afterward, pretending to browse manga he’d already read three times. his heart was doing that aggressive thing again, his palms were sweating. he was pretty sure he’d been staring at the same volume of attack on titan for twelve minutes without processing a single word.

eventually, though, you found it.

you were shelving returns, your cart parked at the end of the aisle, and you pulled the slim poetry volume from the stack with efficient, practiced hands. the note fluttered out. you caught it and unfolded it with shaking fingers.

your eyes widened, a soft gasp escaping you, barely audible even in the relative quiet of the library. that shy, beautiful smile, the one that was trying so hard to stay hidden and failing completely the other day, appeared again. your fingertips traced the words. once, twice, as if you were memorizing them by touch.

you slipped the note into your apron pocket. the same pocket, he noticed. the one closest to your heart.

you glanced over your shoulder, scanning the aisles, searching for a face to match the initial. gojo ducked behind a shelf so fast he nearly gave himself whiplash, pressing his spine against the cold wood and holding his breath. his heart was going to kill him, fuck, it was going to burst right out of his chest and flop around on the library carpet like a dying fish and you would find it and know everything and he was not ready for that yet.

he waited until your cart moved to the next aisle before he peeled himself off the shelf and practically fled the library.

you were flustered all shift. he knew because he circled back twenty minutes later— for research purposes, purely for research— and watched from behind a display of new arrivals as you shelved books with distracted hands, pausing every few minutes to touch your pocket. to press your palm flat against the paper inside and to smile at nothing in particular.

pure gold. absolute, undiluted, one hundred percent pure gold.

he floated home that night, feet barely touching the pavement, texting suguru a string of heart-eyes emojis so long it fractured into three separate messages. suguru replied with a single eye-roll emoji, which gojo chose to interpret as enthusiastic support.

“she’s so cute, god,” he announced the moment suguru walked through the door from his TA gig. he was upside down on the couch, legs draped over the backrest, phone balanced on his stomach. “suguru, she kept touching the note like it was magic. like i’d written her a spell instead of, you know, some nice words.”

“nice words, huh?” suguru set down his bag, eyeing him warily, but there was something soft underneath it. something that looked almost like hope. “just don’t overdo it. valentine’s day is next week. you need to either escalate or reveal.”

“patience, grasshopper.” gojo tossed the cushion aside, already reaching for his phone to start brainstorming note three. “you can’t rush art. this is a delicate process. we’re building anticipation. we’re establishing narrative tension. we’re—”

“you’re going to give yourself an ulcer.”

“—crafting a love story for the ages. now shh, i need to concentrate. do you think ‘your hair smells so good and also i want to marry you’ is too weird or the right amount of weird?”

suguru stared at him for a long, long moment. then he walked to his room and closed the door.

gojo took that as a maybe.

part 2: valentine's catastrophe (and chaos)

the notes kept coming, each one a tiny arrow straight to gojo's ego, which was already dangerously inflated to begin with. by the end of the second week, he'd left eight of them scattered through your life like breadcrumbs leading directly to his stupid, hopeful heart.

eight notes. eight perfect little moments of watching you react.

note number two had been slipped into the sketchbook you always carried to your open studio sessions on wednesdays. gojo had done reconnaissance— casually asked around, discovered your art minor, your preferred medium (charcoal, apparently, which he'd had to google), your habit of leaving your supplies unattended while you went to rinse your brushes. easy access. he'd written it on a piece of textured cream paper this time, something that felt artistic, and folded it into the exact page you'd been working on last week.

that smile of yours? weapon of mass distraction. - s.

he'd watched from the doorway of the studio, pretending to be on his phone, as you returned to your seat and found it. your hand had flown to your mouth. your cheeks had gone that perfect shade of rose again, and you'd looked around the room with those wide, searching eyes, and gojo had to physically restrain himself from doing a victory lap around the entire fine arts building.

note number three found its way onto your locker, held in place by a tiny piece of tape he'd borrowed from the campus library desk when the librarian wasn't looking. he'd waited until you were in class— he knew your schedule now, duh, had memorized it like exam material— and stuck it there with shaking hands, heart pounding at the sheer audacity of doing something so unlike him.

there is no better way to describe you other than: you're art. - s.

you'd found it between second and third period. he'd positioned himself at a bench across the quad, sunglasses on, pretending to read a textbook that was definitely upside down. you'd stopped in front of your locker, spotted the note, and hid your beautiful smile behind your hand. it didn't work. you'd looked around, he'd ducked behind his book, and then you'd carefully, so carefully, peeled the note off and tucked it into the pages of the poetry anthology you always carried.

note number four was probably his favorite, if he was allowed to have favorites, which he definitely was because he was the one writing them.

he'd followed you to your usual café— the one with the good matcha and the terrible lighting and the cat-shaped napkin dispensers on every table. you'd sat in your usual corner, ordered your usual drink, pulled out your usual book. gojo had ordered an iced coffee he didn't want(too bitter) and sat three tables away, watching over the rim of his sunglasses as you read, occasionally looking up with that soft, distant expression you got when you were thinking about something in the text.

when you'd gone up to order a second drink, as you were clearly settling in for a long study session, he'd made his move. quick, efficient, heart trying to escape through his throat. he'd written the note on a napkin from the dispenser at your table, tucked it under the sugar packet where you'd definitely see it, and retreated to his seat just as you were coming back with your cup.

he heard you humming today. made my heart skip a beat. - s.

you'd sat down. reached for the sugar. paused. picked up the napkin. and then—and this was the part gojo replayed in his head approximately eight hundred times that night—you'd laughed. a real laugh, not the quiet one he'd mentioned in the first note, but something brighter, surprised, delighted. you'd clapped your hand over your mouth immediately afterward, but it was too late. he'd heard it, he'd literally catalogued it! he'd added it to the growing collection of your sounds that lived in his brain rent-free.

every time he left a note, he found a way to watch. across the quad, through the library stacks, pretending to study at a nearby table, lurking in doorways like the world's most obvious secret admirer. he was not subtle. he knew he was not subtle. but somehow, miraculously, you never noticed him. you were too busy blushing, too busy smiling, too busy showing the notes to your friends with that excited, wondering expression that made his chest feel too full.

and your reactions? pure gold. absolute cinema. better than anything he could have scripted.

your shy smiles— the ones you'd been giving the world since he first noticed you— had transformed into full-on grins that you'd try to hide behind your hand, behind your hair, behind whatever book you happened to be holding. it never worked. the joy leaked out around the edges, visible in the crinkle of your eyes, the way your shoulders lifted, the tiny bounce in your step when you thought no one was watching.

once, he caught you showing a note to your friend in the art lounge. he'd been "coincidentally" walking past— he'd waited outside for twenty minutes for this coincidence to occur —and through the window he'd seen you pull out the collection of them, spread them on the table like evidence, your hands moving excitedly as you talked.

"who do you think 's' is?" you'd asked, and even through the glass, even from this distance, he could see the genuine curiosity in your face.

you looked so happy, so intrigued. so completely, utterly unaware that the idiot responsible was currently pressing himself against a wall outside to avoid being seen, grinning so hard his face hurt.

gojo floated through classes on cloud nine after that. he aced a quiz he hadn't studied for because the universe was clearly on his side. he helped an old lady carry her groceries and felt genuinely good about it. he even did his share of the dishes without being asked or yelled at, which made suguru check his forehead for fever.

"you're gonna get caught," suguru warned him for the fifth time, watching gojo practice his signature on a scrap of paper. the final note, the big reveal. he'd been working on it for days.

"worth it," gojo said without looking up, adjusting the loop of the s in his name. "totally, completely, absolutely worth it."

"you're not even trying to be subtle anymore."

"subtlety is for people who have something to hide. i have something to share. there's a difference." gojo held up the note, examining his handwriting with the critical eye of an art connoisseur. "this is the one, suguru. she's going to read this and her heart is going to explode with romance and then i'm going to walk in and she's going to realize it's been me all along and we're going to live happily ever after and you're going to be the best man at our wedding."

"you haven't even spoken to her yet."

"i've spoken to her! i said 'excuse me' that one time in the coffee shop. we have a history." gojo waved this away. "the point is, this is happening. valentine's day. tomorrow. i'm ready."

suguru looked at him for a long moment, something unreadable in his expression. "and if it doesn't go the way you're planning?"

gojo's pen paused. "what do you mean?"

"i mean, what if she's not into you? what if she's been enjoying the mystery and the reality is disappointing?" suguru's voice was gentle, because he knew he was poking at something soft. "you've built this up a lot in your head. just... be prepared for any response. okay?"

gojo was quiet for a beat, but after a second, he grinned, bright and blinding, the armor sliding back into place. "she's going to love it. she's going to love me. i'm lovable, suguru. statistically, it's very likely."

suguru didn't push. he just nodded, clapped gojo on the shoulder, and went back to his own work. but the worry stayed in his eyes, tucked away behind his usual calm.

… valentine's day dawned crisp and sunny, the kind of perfect february morning that made everything feel possible. the sky was that particular shade of blue that only happened in early spring, the air carried the faint smell of something blooming, and gojo satoru woke up feeling like the main character in a rom-com. which, in his mind, he absolutely was.

he stood in front of his closet for forty-five minutes, trying on and discarding approximately seventeen outfit combinations. too casual. too formal. too try-hard. too whatever the opposite of try-hard was. he finally settled on something that looked effortless even though it had taken genuine effort: black jeans that fit him well, a simple white button-down with the sleeves rolled up, his favorite sunglasses perched on his head. he looked as approachable as always, plenty charming and handsome enough for it to get to his head.

the final note was a masterpiece. he'd written it on proper stationary this time, pastel blue-colored with a slight texture, and folded it into an envelope with your name on it in his neatest handwriting. inside, the words he'd rehearsed a hundred times and a place and time.

all he had to do was get the note into your poetry class folder— the shared folder you and suguru used for group assignments, which was admittedly a little risky but also kinda clever— and then intercept you after class for the big reveal. you'd open the folder. you'd find the note. you'd read it. and then he'd be there, leaning against the doorframe, sunglasses pushed up, smile in place, ready to say the line he'd been practicing in the mirror for three days.

all this time, it was me, sweetheart. (or maybe not sweetheart, yet? though you definitely are a sweetheart, the prettiest girl ever— okay, shut the fuck up, satoru.)

you'd melt, obviously. there was no other possible outcome.

gojo skipped his morning lecture to plant it. the humanities building was quiet at this hour, most students still in bed or nursing hangovers or actually attending their classes like responsible people. he slipped into the classroom where your shared poetry elective met on tuesdays and thursdays, found the shelf where the class kept their shared materials, and located the folder with your name and suguru's name on the tab.

his heart was hammering. his hands were shaking.

he slid the envelope inside, positioned it so you'd see it immediately when you opened the folder and stepped back to admire his work. the culmination of two weeks of careful planning and romantic genius.

"game on," he whispered to the empty classroom, and absolutely nobody was there to witness the dorky little dance he did on his way out.

now all he had to do was wait.

three hours until your class started. three hours until you found the note. three hours until everything changed.

gojo spent those three hours in a state of escalating nervous energy, texting suguru approximately forty-seven times with updates on his emotional state ranging from "i'm fine this is fine" to "what if she says no what if she already has a boyfriend" to "suguru why aren't you answering me are you dead if you're dead who's going to be my best man" to "okay class starts in ten minutes i'm going in wish me luck".

suguru's response, when it finally came, was characteristically brief: shut the fuck up.

gojo pocketed his phone, took a deep breath, and made his way toward the humanities building.

toward whatever happened next.

—

poetry class dragged for you, but in the best way possible. the minutes ticked by slowly because you were counting them, because your brain was elsewhere, because for the past two weeks, tuesdays and thursdays had become something you actually looked forward to instead of just another obligation on your schedule.

it was all because of the notes.

the mysterious "s" notes that had started appearing in your life like little gifts from the universe, folded into your things with such care, such attention, such perfect understanding of exactly what would make your heart stutter.

they'd begun right after you and suguru had bonded over haikus last month— that moment in class when the professor had asked for volunteers to share their attempts at the traditional form, and you'd both looked at each other with identical expressions of please don't make me do this, and somehow that shared terror had cracked into laughter, into light conversation, into a small friendship that made the class infinitely better.

sharing the class with suguru made sense, you'd told yourself. he was easy to talk to, calm in a way that balanced out your nervous energy, always ready with some insightful observation about the readings that made you see them differently. he had that quiet smile, the kind that crinkled the corners of his eyes, and he never seemed to mind when you rambled about a poem you loved or asked him to explain a concept you hadn't quite grasped.

the notes mostly seemed like they where him. the timing and the location and your shared schedule.

that was the thing you couldn't stop thinking about. the handwriting wasn't his— you'd seen enough of suguru's scrawled notes passed across the table at the library to know he wrote like a doctor with somewhere better to be— but the content was poetic and sweet and observant in a way that made you feel seen, really seen, not just noticed.

whoever "s" was, they paid attention to the small things: your laugh, your blush, the way you hummed when you thought no one was listening. they never pushed, never asked for anything, just left these little affirmations tucked into your life like secrets.

your stomach had been doing this thing lately, fluttering and swooping. and the butterflies, god, the kind of butterflies you'd read about in novels but never really believed in until now. every time you thought about the notes your insides turned into something warm and liquid and terrifying.

because whoever "s" was, they saw you, they saw all the awkward edges and quiet quirks, and they liked it. they liked you.

class ended eventually, the professor's voice fading into the background as students began packing up, chairs scraping against floor, the usual end-of-lecture chaos. you were slower than everyone else, distracted, your eyes already scanning the shelf where the shared folder lived.

an envelope, your name written on the front in handwriting you'd memorized by now, even though you'd only seen it on seven previous notes. this one was different though— proper stationery instead of sticky notes or napkins, something that felt significant, important.

your hands trembled slightly as you pulled it out, as you opened it, as your eyes found the words inside.

every note, every smile i caused: it's because i'm crazy about you. meet me by the oak tree after class? —s.

your breath caught in your throat. today. he wanted to meet today. right now, probably, since class had just ended and the oak tree was only a five-minute walk across the quad. your heart was pounding so hard you could hear it in your ears, feel it in your temples, in your throat, in your fingertips where they clutched the paper like it might disappear.

okay. you could do this. you could walk to the oak tree and find out who "s" was and—

and if it was suguru, you'd have to let him down gently.

the thought made something twist in your chest, uncomfortable and guilty. you liked the notes. you liked the attention, the validation, the feeling of being seen. but the person you'd been thinking about lately, the one who made your pulse skip for reasons you couldn't quite explain, the one who'd been orbiting your life like some kind of beautiful disaster… that wasn't suguru.

that was the tall one. the one with the sunglasses perpetually perched on his head, even indoors, even on cloudy days. the one with the white hair that looked deliberately messy but probably took actual effort to achieve. the one who laughed too loud in public spaces and made terrible jokes and seemed to exist in a permanent state of chaotic energy that you found yourself strangely, inexplicably drawn to.

gojo satoru.

you didn't even know him, not really. you'd exchanged approximately five words with him in your entire life, most of them apologies for the coffee incident that had stained his sneakers forever. but ever since that day, you'd been noticing him everywhere. in the quad. at the library. at your café, of all places, sitting three tables away with an iced coffee he barely touched, his sunglasses doing nothing to hide the fact that he kept looking in your direction.

you'd caught him watching you during poetry class, too. multiple times. you'd pretend to be absorbed in your notes, but you could feel his gaze on the back of your neck, warm and heavy, and whenever you'd risk a glance over your shoulder, he'd be looking away too fast, a flush creeping up the back of his neck that he probably thought you couldn't see.

it was confusing, it was annoying, and it was also, against all logic and reason, completely endearing.

so if suguru was "s"— and it made sense, it really did, the timing and the sensitivity and the way he always seemed to know when you were having a bad day— you'd have to tell him the truth, gently and kindly. you'd have to explain that you valued his little friendship too much, that you hoped this wouldn't change things, that the notes were beautiful but your heart was already leaning in a different direction.

toward someone who was probably going to break it, if you were being honest with yourself. someone who flirted with everything that moved and would never look twice at someone like you. (except he did, don’t give up, reader-chan!!)

but still, your heart wanted what it wanted.

you spotted suguru across the room, gathering his books with his usual unhurried grace, long hair falling over his shoulder as he bent to pick up a pen he'd dropped. now or never. you had to know.

"suguru?"

your voice came out smaller than you intended, barely above a whisper, and you felt the familiar heat already creeping up your neck, flooding your cheeks. you approached his desk like you were walking toward an execution, the envelope clutched in your hands like evidence.

he looked up, and there it was— that warm surprise in his expression, the slight lift of his eyebrows, the way his mouth curved into something gentle and questioning. "hey, everything okay?"

no. yes. you didn't know. you fidgeted with the envelope, unable to meet his eyes, words tumbling out before you could stop them.

"the notes. the ones signed 's'. i think—i mean, are they from you? it's valentine's, and this one..." you held it out, mortified, determined, your hand shaking slightly. "i just need to know. because if they are, i need to tell you something, and i don't want to hurt your feelings but i also don't want to lead you on, and—"

suguru blinked. once. twice. and then his eyes went wide in a way you'd never seen before, something between realization and alarm flickering across his usually composed features.

"notes?" he said slowly. "wait—"

he stopped, looked at the envelope in your hand. looked at your face, suffering matching his own face flushed and anxious. looked toward the door, where you realized distantly that someone was standing, someone tall with white hair and sunglasses pushed up and an expression on his face that you couldn't quite read from here.

suguru looked back at you. opened his mouth, then closed it.

and then he did something you'd never seen him do before—

geto suguru, calmest person you'd ever met, put his face in his hands and started laughing.

—

gojo lurked outside the lecture hall like the world's most obvious secret agent, which is to say he was doing a terrible job of being subtle about it. he was bouncing on his heels, shifting his weight from foot to foot, hands shoved deep in his pockets to stop himself from doing something insane like pacing or screaming or both. his sunglasses were firmly in place because they were his armor, his shield, the only thing standing between the world and the absolute mess of emotions currently ricocheting around inside his chest.

any minute now. any minute now you'd emerge from that classroom, having found his note, having read his words, having realized that the mysterious "s" had been right there all along. you'd look around with those wide eyes, searching for whoever had left you that envelope, and he'd be here, waiting, ready to deliver the line he'd practiced in the mirror approximately eight thousand times.

all this time, it was me.

you'd probably swoon. people swooned around him all the time, statistically it was very likely.

he checked his phone. checked the door. checked his phone again. bounced on his heels some more. a few people walking past gave him weird looks, but that was fine. he was used to weird looks.

the door opened.

gojo straightened immediately, heart launching into his throat, as he failed to hide—

you stepped out of the classroom with geto. his geto, his roommate, his best friend, the voice of reason who had helped him plan this whole stupid scheme in the first place. you were walking close together, too close, your head tilted up toward him, your mouth moving animatedly. and in your hand, clutched like something precious, his envelope.

gojo's stomach dropped through the floor, through the ground, through the earth's core and out the other side.

no.

no no no no no.

this was not happening. this could not be happening. he was dreaming. he had to be dreaming. any second now he'd wake up in his beanbag chair with suguru yelling at him to do the dishes and this would all have been a terrible nightmare.

he didn't wake up.

suguru was shaking his head at whatever you were saying, his expression doing that thing it did when he was very fond of someone. and you were smiling. shyly, sweetly, that soft smile gojo had been cataloguing for months, the one that made his chest hurt in the best way. you were gesturing with your free hand, the envelope waving slightly with the movement, and you looked so hopeful, so earnest, so—

suguru's hand came up, rested on your arm, gently and comfortingly.

or flirty?

gojo's brain, which had already vacated the premises, officially short-circuited.

the realization hit like a truck: you thinks it's suguru. of course you thinks it's him. poetry class—you shared it, you'd bonded over haikus or whatever, suguru had mentioned that—suguru had those in spades, the long hair, the calm demeanor, the way he looked at people like he could see right through them. the perfect "s." suguru, not satoru. his roommate, not him, the idiot currently having a crisis outside the lecture hall.

and now you were confessing? on valentine's day? to his best friend? with the note satoru wrote still in your hands?

panic clawed up gojo's throat, sharp and immediate, stealing his breath. he couldn't—he wouldn't—not like this. not after two weeks of perfect notes and your smile and the way you'd tucked each one into your pocket like treasure. not after he'd spent forty-five minutes picking out stationery and another hour practicing his handwriting and another three days rehearsing a single line.

not after he'd fallen for you so hard and so completely that he couldn't remember what his life had looked like before you stumbled into it, literally, iced coffee and wide eyes and apologies tumbling from your lips.

his legs started moving before his brain caught up.

he burst between you and suguru like a, slightly out of breath, definitely out of his mind, grabbing your wrist lightly, enough to stop whatever was happening.

"they were from me!"

the words came out louder than intended, echoing slightly in the open space. several heads turned. a couple of passing students stopped walking to stare. gojo didn't care, his sunglasses had slid crooked on his face, revealing one wild blue eye, the other still hidden behind smudged lens. he took them off, hissing at the pain briefly, before shoving them into his pocket and continuing.

"the notes," he gasped, because he was still out of breath from sprinting, because his heart was trying to escape through his throat, because you were looking at him with an expression he couldn't read and it was terrifying. "the 's'—all me! not suguru!"

you froze, your body going still as a statue. your eyes, those beautiful eyes he'd been dreaming about for months, went impossibly wide. the envelope crinkled in your grip.

"w-what?" your voice came out tiny, disbelieving. "gojo?"

suguru stepped back, both hands behind his back, and he was smirking, that he absolute menace. he was smirking like he'd known this would happen all along, like he'd been waiting for this exact moment.

"took you long enough, satoru."

gojo ignored him, because you were still looking at him with those wide eyes, still holding his note, still close enough that he could see the way your pulse fluttered at your throat, the way your lips had parted slightly in surprise.

"please don't tell me you like suguru." the words tumbled out in a frantic rush, unstoppable now that he'd started. "i saw you two talking, and the note, and it's valentine's day, and you were holding my envelope, and—oh god, you were gonna confess to him, weren't you? after all my hard work? i did it all because i like you! like, like you. a lot. don't pick him!"

you were staring at him through the absolute, complete, terrifying silence. suguru was watching with barely concealed amusement. somewhere in the background, a bird chirped, completely oblivious to the fact that gojo satoru was currently having a full emotional breakdown in the middle of the quad.

a few seconds later, you started laughing. soft at first, barely there, like you weren't sure you were allowed to let it out. but then it grew, bubbled up from somewhere genuine, your hand coming up to cover your mouth even as your eyes crinkled at the corners. it cut straight through gojo's panic like sunlight through clouds, although he wasn’t sure what you were laughing at.

"no, gojo." your voice was muffled behind your hand, but he heard it. heard every syllable. "i thought it was suguru because of poetry class. but i wasn't confessing." you lowered your hand, and your smile, full and warm and directed at him, made his knees feel weird. "i was gonna reject him."

gojo blinked. processed. failed to process. tried again.

"reject... him?"

"yeah." you held his gaze, even though your voice got more vulnerable. "the notes were really sweet, and whoever wrote them obviously put a lot of thought into them. but..." you swallowed. "my heart was already kinda taken. by someone else."

someone else.

someone else.

not suguru. someone else.

gojo's brain, which had been through quite enough today thank you very much, struggled to catch up. someone else meant—it couldn't mean—was it possible—

your fingers reached for his hand.

the one still hovering near your wrist, gentle and tentative. you laced them together, soft and warm, and gojo forgot how to breathe. your palm against his, your fingers slotting between his fingers, your skin, warm and real and actually touching him.

you stretched up on tiptoes.

time slowed, the hall faded, the staring students disappeared. suguru ceased to exist. there was only you, rising up, your face coming closer to his, your breath warm against his cheek as your lips brushed his skin.

a quick, feather-light kiss. barely there and yet absolutely, completely earth-shattering.

gojo's world tilted on its axis.

heat flooded his face, rushed through his entire body, turned his bones to jelly and his brain to static. his knees actually wobbled. gojo satoru, who had never been weak in his life, who had never been at a loss for words or composure or confidence, felt his legs turn to liquid beneath him.

she kissed me.

the thought echoed through his skull, bounced around, refused to settle.

she kissed ME.

stars burst behind his eyes. like in cartoons, like in movies, like in all the ridiculous romantic comedies he pretended to hate but secretly loved. his grip on your hand tightened instinctively, the only thing keeping him upright and keeping him from floating away entirely on a cloud of pure, undiluted joy.

a dopey grin spread across his face.

"you... you like me?" his voice cracked on the last word. "like, me?"

you nodded, and then you were hiding half your smile against his shoulder, your face pressed into the fabric of his shirt like you were embarrassed, like you hadn't just turned his entire world inside out with three seconds of contact.

"yeah, satoru." your voice was muffled against his shoulder, but he heard it. "all this time."

satoru. you'd said satoru. his name, in your voice, with that shy smile hiding against his shoulder. gojo—satoru—felt like he might actually explode.

suguru cleared his throat, loud and pointed. "you two are disgustingly cute. i'm out."

satoru barely registered the wave, barely noticed his best friend disappearing into the crowd. all his attention was on you, on the way you felt against him, on the way your hand was still tangled with his, on the way his cheek was still tingling where your lips had been.

he pulled you closer, like he'd been waiting his whole life to hold you and hadn't known it until this exact moment.

valentine's day was saved, no, better than saved. it was perfect. better than any plan he could have made, any note he could have written, any line he could have rehearsed. because you liked him back.

"so," he managed, voice still slightly wrecked but improving, "does this mean you'll still meet me at that place by the oak tree? because i had this whole thing planned, you know. romantic. candles, maybe. i don't actually know if they allow candles on campus, i didn't check, but i was gonna figure something out."

you laughed against his shoulder, and the vibration of it traveled through his entire body, settled somewhere warm in his chest.

"i'll meet you anywhere, satoru."

"and you'll have dinner with me?"

"yes."

"and maybe let me hold your hand again? because this is—" he squeezed your fingers gently, marveling at them, "—really nice. like, really really nice. top five hand-holding experiences of my life, easily."

you pulled back just enough to look at him and your smile made his heart stutter.

"only top five?"

"okay, top one. definitely top one. the only one, actually. i've never held hands with anyone before. that was a lie. but this one is the best one, i can already tell."

you rolled your eyes, but you were still smiling, still holding his hand, still standing close enough that he could count your eyelashes if he wanted to, which he kind of did, actually.

"you're ridiculous."

"and now i’m yours," he countered, and then immediately flushed because that was cheesy, that was so cheesy, what was wrong with him—

but you ducked your head again in that way that made his chest ache, and he knew he’d said something right.

"yeah," you whispered. "you are."

and standing there in the middle of the quad, surrounded by curious stares and the distant sounds of campus life, with valentine's day sunlight warming his shoulders and your hand in his and your laughter still lingering in the air between you—

gojo satoru decided this was the best day of his entire life.

so far, anyway. he had a feeling it was only going to get better from here.