— aelin

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the afternoon light was fading when you got home, the apartment quiet, the familiar scent of whatever satoru had been cooking still lingering in the air. you dropped your bag by the door, kicked off your shoes, and padded into the living room.

satoru was on the couch, as he so often was these days, his laptop open on the coffee table, a textbook balanced on his knee. he looked up when you walked in.

“hey,” he said, closing his laptop. “how was class?”

“fine,” you said, sinking onto the couch next to him. your shoulder brushed his, though neither of you moved away. “long. i’m tired.”

“you’re always tired.”

“you’re always annoying.”

he gave you a small grin. “fair. want to watch something? i was thinking about that movie you like. the one with the—”

“the one with the terrible special effects?”

“the one with the charming special effects.”

you laughed along with him, momentarily forgetting about the world around you. for a moment, everything was easy.

your phone buzzed in your pocket. you pulled it out, glanced at the screen.

suguru🫶🏻: free tonight? want to come over? i found that book you were looking for.

you stared at the message for a moment, something twisting in your chest. you thought about suguru’s apartment, his quiet room, his patient hands. you thought about the way he’d look at you when you said not tonight again. you thought about the way he’d say okay, and mean it, and not ask for anything more.

you typed back: can’t tonight. really tired. tomorrow?

his reply came quickly. of course. get some rest. text me when you’re free.

you put your phone down, face-down on the couch cushion, and leaned back against the cushions.

“everything okay?” satoru asked. his voice was casual, but you could feel his gaze on you, sharp and searching.

“yeah,” you said. “just suguru. he wanted to hang out tonight.”

“and you said no?”

you shrugged. “i’m tired.”

satoru was quiet for a moment, before murmuring, “you’ve been tired a lot lately.”

you turned to look at him. his expression was unreadable, that careful blankness he wore when he was trying not to show what he was thinking. “what’s that supposed to mean?”

“nothing,” he said quickly. “just— you used to go out with him all the time. now you’re always here. i’m not complaining,” he added, when you opened your mouth to respond. “it’s nice. having you here. i just—” he stopped, ran a hand through his hair. “i just want to make sure you’re okay. that’s all.”

you looked at him for a long moment. he was sitting close enough that you could see the faint shadows under his eyes, the way his jaw was set just slightly, the small furrow between his brows that appeared when he was worried about something he didn’t want to admit to.

“i’m okay,” you said, which you meant. mostly. “i just… i don’t know. things are good with suguru. really good. but sometimes i feel like—” you stopped, not sure how to finish the sentence.

“like what?”

you thought about suguru’s patience, his understanding, the way he never asked for more than you were ready to give. about the way you’d been avoiding something that should have been natural by now, something that should have happened weeks ago. about the way you’d been using satoru’s presence as an excuse, even when he wasn’t there.

“like i’m holding back,” you said finally. “and i don’t know why.”

satoru was quiet. when you looked at him, his expression had shifted into pensiveness.

“maybe you’re just not ready,” he said, his voice was strange and careful. “there’s nothing wrong with that.”

“i know. but it’s been months. and he’s so—he’s so patient. he never pushes. and i keep thinking, what if he’s waiting for me to make a move and i’m just—” you made a frustrated sound. “i don’t know. maybe i’m overthinking it.”

“you?” satoru said, a hint of his usual humor creeping back into his voice. “overthinking? never.”

you laughed, swatting at his arm. “shut up.”

“i’m just saying. you’ve always been like this. you get in your head about things, and then you spiral, and then you convince yourself there’s a problem when there isn’t one.” he bumped your shoulder with his. “if suguru says it’s fine, it’s fine. he seems like the kind of guy who says what he means.”

you considered this. it was true, you knew it was true. suguru didn’t play games, didn’t hide his feelings, didn’t make you guess at what he was thinking. if he had a problem with the way things were going, he’d tell you.

wouldn’t he?

“yeah,” you said as you tried to sound convinced. “yeah, you’re right.”

satoru was looking at you again, that unreadable expression back on his face. “you really like him, don’t you?”

the question caught you off guard. you looked at him, trying to figure out what he was asking and what he wanted to know. “yeah,” you said slowly. “i do. why?”

he shrugged, looking away. “no reason. just—i want to make sure you’re happy. that’s all.”

“i am happy,” you said. it was true. you were happy with suguru and with the way things were.

you just weren’t sure if it was the kind of happy that would last.

satoru picked up the remote, pointed it at the TV. “good. that’s good.” he paused. “you want to watch that movie?”

you smiled, letting yourself lean into his shoulder. “yeah. that sounds perfect.”

he started the movie and you settled into the couch, melting into the familiar rhythm of his breathing beside you, the warmth of his body against your side. your phone was still face-down on the cushion, dark and silent, and you didn’t pick it up. you tried very hard not to think about suguru’s patient hands, or his quiet apartment, or the questions you hadn’t asked each other.

later that night, after the movie had ended and satoru had gone to his room, you lay in bed staring at the ceiling. your phone was in your hand, suguru’s message still open on the screen.

you should have said yes tonight. you should have gone over, should have let yourself fall into the warmth of him, should have let things progress the way they were supposed to. you liked him. you wanted him. there was no reason to keep holding back.

except there was. there was a reason, and you knew what it was, even if you didn’t want to name it.

you thought about the way satoru had looked at you today. you thought about the amusement park. the ferris wheel. the way he’d looked at you. you thought about yuki’s face when she’d walked out of your apartment, the way she’d snatled at you, the words she’d said.

and you thought about suguru. the way he’d looked at you that night on the quiet street, when you’d told him you’d been in love with your best friend for three years. about the way he’d said take your time. i’m not going anywhere.

you closed your eyes, let the darkness settle around you and you tried not to think about any of it.

you tried.

suguru met you on a tuesday.

that’s what he would tell himself later, when he was trying to pinpoint the exact moment his life had split into before and after. a tuesday. a grey tuesday in autumn, the kind of day that promised rain and then didn’t deliver, the kind of day that should have been forgettable. he’d walked into advanced sociology late because he’d gotten lost on the way— new transfer student, still learning the layout of the campus, still learning the rhythm of a place that wasn’t his yet. he’d slipped into the first empty seat he saw, and you’d turned to look at him, and you’d exchanged a couple of words and that was supposed to be it.

but then you’d sat down next to him, and you’d looked at him with those eyes— curious, open, a little bit wary, like you were waiting for him to do something— so he’d said more and you’d laughed.

it was the laugh that got him. that was the first thing he noticed, the thing that lodged itself somewhere in his chest and didn’t leave. it was a surprised laugh, like you hadn’t meant to let it out. it was warm and honest and it made him want to hear it again.

suguru geto was not a person who fell easily. that was something he’d always been proud of, in a quiet way. he’d watched his friends cycle through crushes and heartbreaks and messy, complicated entanglements, and he’d always been the one on the outside, the one who observed, the one who waited. he’d dated, sure— a few people here and there, people who were nice and interesting and easy to be around— but he’d never felt that pull, that gravity, that sense that someone was rewriting the laws of physics just by existing in the same room as him.

he’d thought, maybe, that he was immune to it. that he was too practical, too grounded, too aware of the ways people could hurt each other to let himself be swept away.

then you’d smiled and he’d realized he wasn’t immune at all. he’d just been waiting for the right person to make him vulnerable.

he liked you. he liked you immediately, in a way that surprised him with its intensity. he liked the way you listened, really listened, when people talked to you. he liked the way you thought before you spoke, like you were weighing each word, making sure it was the right one. he liked the way you’d get animated about something you cared about, your hands moving, your voice quickening, your whole face lighting up. he liked the way you’d go quiet when you were thinking, your brow furrowed, your lips pressed together, and he’d find himself watching, waiting for you to come back.

he liked you and that was the problem.

because he could see it; fuck, he could see it from the beginning, from the first time you mentioned gojo. the way your voice changed when you said his name— softer, warmer, like you were speaking a language that belonged only to the two of you. the way you’d get distracted, sometimes, in the middle of a conversation, your gaze going somewhere he couldn’t follow. the way you carried something heavy, something you were trying to put down but couldn’t quite let go of.

he saw it the first time he met satoru. he’d known, walking into that restaurant, that this was a test. not one you’d set for him, but one he’d set for himself. he’d wanted to see what you saw in him, this person you talked about with that voice, this person who had taken up residence in your heart and didn’t seem to know it.

and satoru had been… everything he expected and nothing he expected. he was loud, brash, the kind of person who filled a room without trying. he was charming in a way that felt like a performance, but underneath it, there was sharpness, watchfulness, an eye that was looking at suguru the same way suguru was looking at him. sizing him up. measuring him against a standard that suguru didn’t yet understand.

and then satoru had looked at you and suguru had understood everything.

he’d seen it in the way satoru’s gaze followed you across the table, in the way he leaned toward you when you spoke, in the way his whole posture changed when you laughed. he’d seen it in the flash of something— jealousy? longing? fear? —that crossed satoru’s face when suguru’s hand found yours. he’d seen it in the way satoru talked about your shared apartment, your shared history, the years of memories that suguru would never be part of.

he loves her, suguru had thought. the realization had landed somewhere in his chest like a stone dropped into still water. he loves her and he doesn’t even know it. or he knows it and he’s too scared to do anything about it.

you were sitting across from him, your hand in his, and you were looking at satoru with an expression that suguru recognized because he’d been wearing it himself, in quieter moments, when he thought no one was looking. the ache of wanting something you couldn’t have. the exhaustion of carrying a feeling that had no place to go.

he’d walked you home that night and he’d asked you about satoru and you, being so very startled and scared, had told him. you’d told him you’d been in love with your best friend for three years, and your voice had cracked on the words, and suguru had felt something twist in his chest—not jealousy, not exactly, but more like loss.

he’d kissed your knuckles that night, he’d said “take your time. i’m not going anywhere,” and he’d meant it.

he did.

the weeks that followed were the happiest he’d been in a long time. that was the cruel part of it— the way you made him happy. being with you felt like the most natural thing in the world, like his life had been waiting for you to step into it and now that you were here, everything made sense.

he loved the way you’d text him in the mornings, before you’d even had coffee, your messages a little disjointed, a little sleepy. what are you thinking about? you’d ask sometimes, and he’d tell you, and you’d tell him what you were thinking about, and the conversation would stretch into the day, into the evening, into the night, and he’d fall asleep with his phone in his hand and a smile on his face.

he loved the way you’d get excited about small things. a book you’d found at the used bookstore. a song you hadn’t heard in years that came on the radio. a bird that landed on the windowsill of your apartment. you’d tell him about these things with the same enthusiasm you’d tell him about anything, like every detail of your life was something worth sharing, and he’d listen, and he’d feel something expand in his chest, something that felt dangerously close to everything.

he loved the way you looked at him sometimes, when you thought he wasn’t paying attention. your gaze would go soft, thoughtful, and you’d have this small smile on your face. he’d pretend not to notice because he wanted to hold onto that moment, to see how long it would last, to know what you were thinking when you looked at him like that.

he loved kissing you. he loved the way you’d lean into him, your hands finding his shoulders, his chest, his face. he loved the sounds you made, small and soft, like you were surprised by how much you wanted him and how much he wanted you. he loved the way you’d pull away sometimes, breathless, and look at him with eyes that were dark and bright at the same time, and he’d want to say something— i love you, maybe, or stay, or please don’t go back to him— but he’d swallow it down, because it was too soon, because you weren’t ready, because you were still in love with someone else.

he told himself it was okay. he told himself he could wait. he told himself that you were with him, you chose him, every day you spent together was another day you were moving away from satoru and toward him. that eventually, given enough time, enough patience, enough love, you’d forget. you’d let go. you’d wake up one morning and realize that the person you’d been carrying for three years had finally been replaced by someone who was there, someone who wanted you, someone who wasn’t too scared to reach out and take you.

he told himself that and sometimes, in the moments when you were curled against him, your breathing slow and even, your hand tangled with his, he almost believed it.

but there were other moments, when he’d catch you staring at your phone, your expression distant, and he’d know, without asking, that you were waiting for a message from satoru. moments when you’d mention something from your shared history— a joke, a memory, a place you’d been together— and your voice would go soft in that particular way, and he’d feel something cold settle in his stomach. when you’d pull away from him, physically or emotionally, and he’d see the wall come up, the careful distance you put between the two of you, and he’d know it wasn’t about him. it was about something you were protecting.

he’d lie awake some nights, after you’d gone home, and he’d think about it. he’d think about the way you’d avoided being alone with him in your apartment, the way you’d always have an excuse when things started to go too far, the way you’d pull back just when he thought you were going to let yourself fall. he’d think about the fact that you’d been dating for months and you hadn’t— you wouldn’t— and he’d tell himself it was fine, that you weren’t ready, that you needed time.

yet an ugly part of him, a part he didn’t like to acknowledge, that wondered if it was more than that. if you were holding back because some part of you was still waiting. if the reason you couldn’t give yourself to him was because you were saving yourself for someone else.

he hated that part of himself. the jealousy, the insecurity, the way he’d lie in bed and turn things over in his mind, looking for evidence, for confirmation, for anything that would tell him he was wrong. he hated the way he’d started watching you, cataloguing your moods, trying to read your thoughts. he hated the way he’d started watching satoru, too, looking for the thing he already knew was there, the thing that made his stomach clench and his hands curl into fists.

he was angry at himself. that was the truth of it, the thing he didn’t let himself say out loud. he was angry at himself for letting this get to him, for caring so much, for being the kind of person who could fall in love with someone who was in love with someone else. he was angry at himself for not being able to walk away, for staying when he knew, when he’d always known, that he was competing with a ghost.

he could have left. that was the thing he came back to, again and again. he could have met you that first day and let you be a passing attraction, a classmate he sat next to, someone he smiled at and forgot. he could have seen the way you looked at satoru and recognized it for what it was and stepped back, made space, let you figure out your own heart without him tangled up in it.

but he hadn’t, because you made him happy. when you were with him and you looked at him with that smile and you laughed at his jokes and leaned into his touch and said his name like it meant something— he couldn’t let that go. he couldn’t let you go. even knowing that he was second, that he was practically a distraction, that he was the person you were with because you couldn’t be with the person you really wanted.

he couldn’t let you go. and that, more than anything, was what he hated about himself.

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you’d been quiet all afternoon, restless. you’d been checking your phone more than usual, your gaze drifting to the window, your responses to his questions coming a beat too late. he’d asked if you were okay, and you’d said yes, but your voice was distracted, your eyes somewhere else.

he’d made you tea. he’d put on music, something soft, something you liked. he’d tried to draw you back, to pull you into the present, into him. for a while, it had worked. you’d curled up next to him on the couch, your head on his shoulder, your fingers tracing patterns on his chest. you’d talked about nothing, about everything, about the book he was reading and the class you were taking and the plans you had for the weekend. you’d been there, with him, present in a way that made his heart ache with how much he wanted to keep you there forever.

then your phone had buzzed. you’d looked at it and he’d seen your face change.

it was subtle. anyone else might have missed it, but he’d been watching you for months, had learned the geography of your expressions, knew the difference between the smile you gave him and the smile you gave the world. this was the smile you kept for satoru.

you’d typed back quickly, your fingers moving before you’d even finished reading the message, and then you’d put your phone down. you’d turned back to him and you’d smiled— a different smile, one he recognized, one that was for him— and you’d said “sorry. that was satoru. he wants to know if i want to get dinner later.”

and suguru had said “of course,”

you’d chuckled and said “you could come too, if you want,” and he’d responded “no, that’s okay. you two should catch up. i have some reading to do anyway.” then you’d kissed him, quick and grateful, “you’re the best, you know that?” and you’d meant it, he knew you meant it. that was the worst part.

you’d left an hour later. you’d kissed him goodbye at the door, and you’d said “text me later,” and you’d smiled, and then you were gone, and he was standing in his apartment, alone, the tea growing cold on the counter, the music still playing softly in the background.

and he’d thought: she’s never going to forget him.

it wasn’t a new thought. it was one he’d been pushing down for weeks, shoving into the dark corners of his mind where he didn’t have to look at it. but tonight, in the silence of his apartment, with the echo of your footsteps still in the hallway, he let himself feel it. all of it.

you were never going to forget satoru. you were never going to look at him the way you looked at satoru. you were never going to light up when his name appeared on your phone, never going to have that smile for him, never going to carry him in your heart the way you carried satoru.

he’d known that, he’d known it from the beginning. since that night on the quiet street, when you’d told him you’d been in love with your best friend for three years, and he’d promised to wait. he’d met satoru and seen the way you looked at each other, the history between you, the thing that neither of you would name but that was there, always there, in every glance and every silence.

he’d known and he’d stayed anyway, because you made him happy and being with you, even like this, even knowing he was second, was better than being without you.

but tonight, standing in his kitchen, watching the steam rise from his cooling tea, he wondered if that was true. he wondered if he’d been lying to himself this whole time, telling himself that patience was enough, that eventually you’d wake up and see him and choose him and he’d have won.

although he’d told himself it wasn’t a competition, it was. it had always been and he was losing.

he saw it clearly now. he didn’t know why it had taken him so long, why he’d been so determined to look away. maybe because seeing it meant accepting that he’d never have what he wanted. maybe because seeing it meant admitting that he’d been fooling himself.

but it was there, in every interaction, in every glance, in every moment that passed between you and satoru when you thought no one was looking. satoru loved you. satoru was in love with you, had probably been in love with you for years, and was too scared or too stupid or too cautious to do anything about it. he saw it in the way satoru looked at you when you weren’t paying attention— that raw, unguarded longing that he’d recognize anywhere because he felt it himself.

and you— you loved him back. you loved him back so deeply, so completely, that you didn’t even know how to stop. you’d been carrying it for so long that it had become part of you, woven into the fabric of who you were. you could date other people, could kiss other people, could tell yourself you were moving on, but that love was still there. it was always there and it always would be.

he’d been so sure, then, that he could wait.

but your love wasn’t fading. it wasn’t going anywhere. he was starting to realize that it never would.

he thought about leaving. he thought about it a lot, in the days that followed. he’d sit in his apartment, or walk across campus, or lie in bed at night, and he’d turn it over in his mind like a stone, looking for the smooth side, the easy way out.

he could just… go. tell you it wasn’t working, that he needed space, that he’d realized he wasn’t ready for something serious. he could make something up, something that would let you down easy, something that wouldn’t make you feel like it was your fault. he could walk away, and you’d be sad for a while, maybe, but you’d have satoru. you’d always have satoru. and eventually, maybe, you’d stop thinking about him. maybe you’d forget him the way he was starting to realize you’d never forget satoru.

but every time he got close to making a decision, he’d see you. you’d text him something or you’d show up at his door or you’d look at him with those beautiful eyes, and he’d forget why he was trying to leave. he’d remember the way you laughed, the way you said his name, the way you fit against him when you were tired. he’d remember that you made him happy, that being with you was the best thing that had happened to him in a while, that he’d rather have half of you than all of anyone else.

fuck, he was pathetic. he knew he was pathetic. he’d spent his whole life being the steady one, the patient one, the one who watched and waited and never let himself want too much. and now he wanted, and it was destroying him.

he couldn’t stay. he couldn’t leave. he was caught between the two, suspended in the space between wanting you and knowing he couldn’t have you, and he didn’t know how to get out.

the final realization came on another tuesday. a grey tuesday, like the one when he’d met you, like the universe was trying to tell him something about circles and endings and the way things came back to where they started.

he was walking across campus, his hands in his pockets, his head down against the wind, and he saw you. you were sitting on a bench near the library, your phone in your hand, your face lit up in that way it did when you were talking to someone you loved. and standing in front of you, leaning against the bench, was satoru.

you were laughing at something he’d said. satoru was grinning, that big, stupid grin that suguru had come to hate and envy in equal measure. and between you, there was something that suguru had been trying to ignore for months, trying to pretend wasn’t there, trying to convince himself he could compete with.

but it was always there and in that moment, watching you from across the quad, suguru saw it clearly for the first time.

you and satoru were in love with each other and nothing— no amount of patience, no amount of waiting, no amount of hoping— was ever going to change that.

and suguru was standing in the middle of it, trying to build something that would never be as strong or as deep, never be what you really wanted.

he stood there for a long time, watching you. you were so beautiful, sitting there, laughing that melodic laugh, not at something he’d said, but satoru. your whole face split in a smile, your body turned toward him, your hand reaching out to push his shoulder the way you did when he said something ridiculous. and satoru was looking at you like you were the only thing in the world that mattered.

suguru turned away. he walked back across campus, his hands still in his pockets, his head still down, the wind cold on his face. he didn’t look back. he didn’t let himself.

the apartment was empty.

that was the thing that would stick with you later, the small detail that felt like it meant something. the apartment was empty. satoru had texted you earlier— out with friends, don’t wait up— and you’d stared at the message for a moment, something flickering in your chest that you didn’t want to name, and then you’d texted suguru.

come over?

he arrived around eight, bringing wine and his quiet, steady presence that had become so familiar to you. you’d ordered food, eaten it on the couch, talked about your days. it was normal. it was comfortable. it was the kind of evening you’d had a hundred times before, peaceful and nice.

but tension that hummed beneath your skin, that made you lean into him a little more than usual, that made your hand linger on his arm when you reached for your glass.

you told yourself it was nothing. you told yourself you were just tired, just distracted, just— just something.

when the food was gone and the wine was low, you moved to your room. it wasn’t unusual, you’d spent plenty of nights here, the two of you, curled up on your bed with the door closed, the rest of the apartment quiet around you. it was familiar and safe.

you kissed him first. you weren’t sure why—maybe because you wanted to, maybe because you were trying to prove something to yourself, maybe because you could feel him pulling away, just slightly, and you wanted to pull him back. you kissed him and he kissed you back, his hands found your waist and yours found his hair, and for a moment, it was good. it was easy. it was the way it was supposed to be.

his hands moved under your shirt, which you welcomed with a sigh. his mouth found your neck, and you let him suck at the skin there. his weight pressed you back against the pillows, making you melt.

then his hand slid lower, and his fingers found the button of your jeans, and you froze.

it was the same as always. the same small moment of hesitation, the same instinctive pull back, the same voice in your head saying not now, not yet, wait. you caught his wrist, gently, the way you always did, and you said “suguru—”

he pulled back like he’d been burned, his hands leaving your skin, his body shifting away from yours. he sat up on the edge of the bed, his back to you, his shoulders tense, and the air in the room went cold.

“suguru?” you sat up too, your heart already starting to race. “what’s wrong?”

he didn’t answer for a moment. he sat there, his hands on his knees, his head bowed. you could see the tension in his jaw, the way his fingers were curled into fists.

“suguru,” you said again, reaching for him. “talk to me.”

he moved— not away, not quite, but he didn’t lean into your touch the way he usually did. he sat very still, and when he spoke, his voice was low, barely controlled as if he was holding something back.

“it’s him, isn’t it?”

you went cold. “what?”

“him.” suguru turned to look at you. his eyes— his eyes were different. they weren’t the warm, patient eyes you’d grown used to. they were sharp, dark, something burning underneath that you’d never seen before. “satoru. it’s always been satoru.”

your mouth opened. nothing came out.

“you’re still in love with him.” it wasn’t a question. his voice was flat, certain, like he’d known for a long time and was only now letting himself say it. “you’ve been in love with him this whole time. while you were with me, while you were kissing me, while you were lying here in my arms— you were thinking about him.”

“that’s not—” you started, but the words died in your throat. because what were you going to say? that he was wrong? that you’d forgotten satoru? that you’d moved on, let go, replaced three years of loving your best friend with something new?

you couldn’t say it because it wasn’t true.

suguru laughed. it was a hollow sound, bitter, nothing like the laugh you’d come to love.

“i thought if i was patient enough, you’d forget about him.” his voice cracked on the words, just slightly, and something in your chest splintered. “i thought if i was there enough, if i was good enough, if i just waited long enough—”

“you are good enough,” you said, but your voice came out wrong, desperate, pleading. “suguru, you’re—”

“then why?” he turned to face you fully, and his face— you’d never seen him like this. the calm stripped away, the raw hurt underneath, which you have caused. “why can’t you let me touch you? why do you always pull away? why is there always something holding you back?”

you opened your mouth, then closed it. tears were burning in your eyes, and you didn’t know how to answer him, didn’t know how to explain something you couldn’t even explain to yourself.

“it’s him,” suguru said. his voice was quieter now, but somehow that was worse. “it’s always been him. i saw it. i saw the way you talked about him, the way you looked at him. i saw it that first night, when we went out together. and i thought—” he stopped, pressed the heel of his hand against his eyes. “i thought i could compete with a ghost. i thought if i was just patient enough, just—” his hand dropped. “i’m such an idiot.”

“you’re not,” you were crying now, tears sliding down your face. “suguru, you’re not. i care about you. i do. you make me so happy, and i—”

“happy,” he repeated, the word bitter on his tongue. “you’re happy. but you’re in love with someone else.”

you sat there, on your bed, your lips still swollen from his kisses, and you couldn’t deny it, because it was true, it had always been true.

“i tried,” you sniffled, your voice breaking on the words. “i tried so hard to—to let go, to move on, to—”

“you can’t try your way out of loving someone,” suguru said. there was exhaustion in his voice now, a bone-deep weariness that made him look older, made him look tired. “believe me. i know.”

the silence that followed was heavy, suffocating. you could hear your own breathing, wet and uneven. you could hear the distant sounds of the city outside, the world going on, oblivious to the fact that yours was falling apart.

“suguru,” you started, reaching for him again, and maybe that was what did it— maybe that was the thing that pushed him over the edge, the fact that you were still reaching, still wanting, trying to hold onto something that was already breaking.

he stood up. the movement was sudden, abrupt, and you flinched. he was standing in the middle of your room, his chest heaving, his hands shaking, and he looked like he didn’t know whether to scream or cry.

“i love you,” he half-whispered, the words coming out like a wound, something he’d been holding inside for so long it had festered. “i love you, and i thought—i thought that was enough. thought that you’d—”

he stopped. pressed his hands to his face. when he spoke again, his voice was muffled, broken.

“i can’t do this anymore. i can’t keep being the person you settle for because you can’t have the one you really want.”

“that’s not—” you started, but you were crying too hard now, the words coming out in gasps. “you’re not—i don’t—”

“don’t,” he cut you off. “don’t tell me i’m not. don’t tell me you don’t. we both know it’s true.”

he was right, and you’d known it, you’d always known it, and you’d let him love you anyway. you’d let him be patient and kind and understanding, and you’d taken everything he gave you, and you’d given him back— what? half a heart? less than half?

“suguru,” you said. it was barely a whisper if anything at all. “i’m sorry. i’m so sorry.”

he looked at you then. the anger was still there, but underneath it was something worse. something that looked like goodbye.

“yeah,” he said quietly. “me too.”

the front door opened.

you both froze. the sound of keys in the lock, the creak of the door, footsteps in the hallway. satoru’s voice, bright and slightly slurred, carrying through the apartment: “hey, i’m back! i brought—”

he stopped in the doorway of your room. his keys were in one hand, a paper bag from the convenience store in the other. his face was flushed from the cold, his hair slightly disheveled, his sunglasses pushed up into his hair. he was smiling, that easy smile he wore when he’d had a good night and was looking forward to coming home.

the smile died on his face when he peeked into your room and saw you.

you were still sitting on the bed, your face wet with tears, your shirt wrinkled, your whole body shaking. suguru was standing in the middle of the room, his fists clenched, his chest heaving, his face a mask of barely controlled fury.

for a moment, no one moved. no one spoke.

satoru’s expression quickly changed. the confusion, the surprise— it all drained away, replaced by coldness you’ve never seen before.

his eyes moved from you to suguru. the paper bag dropped from his hand, the contents scattering across the floor.

“what did you do to her?” his voice was low, controlled, nothing like the satoru you knew. he took a step into the room, and then another, and you could see the way his hands were shaking, the way his whole body was coiled, ready.

“satoru,” you started, your voice still wet. “it’s not—”

“what did you do?” he yelled again, the unfamiliar tone of it making your blood run cold.

suguru laughed. it was the same hollow, bitter laugh from before, but the relief you heard in it only confused you.

“me?” he said. “i didn’t do anything. i’m just the idiot who thought he could compete with you.”

satoru’s jaw tightened. “what are you talking about?”

“you know exactly what i’m talking about.” suguru’s voice was rising now, the control he’d been holding onto finally starting to crack. “you’ve always known. you’ve known from the beginning, and you’ve done nothing. you’ve just stood there, watching, waiting—”

“i don’t know what you’re—”

“she’s in love with you!”

the words hung in the air, sharp and terrible. you stopped breathing. satoru stopped moving. suguru stood in the middle of the room, chest heaving, hands shaking, and you could see the moment the words landed, the moment they settled into the space between the three of you and became real.

“she’s been in love with you for years,” suguru continued, his voice fully cracking now, all the things he’d been holding inside finally spilling out. “and you—you love her too. i’ve seen it. everyone’s seen it. the way you look at her, the way you can’t let her go, the way you broke up with your girlfriend because she couldn’t compare—”

“shut up,” satoru muttered. his voice was strangely hollow, as if he was trying to separate himself from what was happening.

“you’re in love with him,” suguru said. now he was looking at you, his eyes bright with something that might have been anger or grief or both. “and you—” he turned back to satoru, “—you’re in love with her. and i’ve been standing in the middle of it, pretending i didn’t see and i could wait it out—”

“suguru, stop—” you tried, but he wasn’t listening.

“i won’t do this anymore, i just won’t.” his voice went small, all the anger draining out of it, leaving something raw and exhausted. “i can’t keep watching the two of you dance around each other and pretending it doesn’t kill me.”

“suguru—”

“i love you,” he said, turning to face you fully. he stepped closer and through your own tears, you saw that his face was wet; he was crying too. “i love you. i thought if i just loved you enough, you’d forget him. but you never will. and i can’t—” his voice broke. “i can’t be the consolation prize.”

you stepped on your feet, reaching for him again , but he was already moving back, putting distance between you.

“don’t,” he said, his voice quiet, exhausted. “don’t. really. i can’t— i can’t do this. i can’t watch you choose him. i can’t be here when you finally realize what you’ve known all along.”

he looked at satoru. there was something in his eyes that might have been hatred, or understanding, or something in between. “take care of her,” he said. “don’t make me regret this.”

and then he was gone. the sound of his footsteps in the hallway, the front door opening, closing. the silence that followed was deafening.

you stood in the middle of your room, shaking, tears still running down your face, and you couldn’t move. you couldn’t breathe. the door was closed. suguru was gone. and satoru was standing in front of you, his face pale, his hands still shaking, his eyes fixed on your face with an intensity that made your heart stop.

the silence stretched between you, thick and terrible. the paper bag was still on the floor, its contents scattered— two cans of your favorite soda, a bag of the chips you liked, the ones from the convenience store down the street that you’d mentioned once, months ago, and that he’d remembered.

your chest ached. everything ached.

satoru was looking at you like he was seeing you for the first time. like everything suguru had said was still hanging in the air between you, waiting for someone to acknowledge it.

you opened your mouth. closed it. you didn’t know what to say. you didn’t know what came next. you only remember closing the door on satoru’s face and standing in the ruins of your room, alone.

.

.

.

the days that followed were the longest of your life.

you didn’t leave your room. that was the first decision you made, the only thing you could control. you locked the door and you didn’t come out. not for food, not for water, not for the classes you were supposed to be attending. you lay in your bed, the curtains drawn, the room dark, and you let the days bleed into each other.

the first day, you cried. you cried until your eyes were swollen and your throat was raw and there was nothing left in you but a hollow, aching emptiness. you cried for suguru— for the way his voice had broken, for the look on his face when he said the things that were true. you cried for yourself, for the mess you’d made, for the way you’d hurt someone who only wanted to love you. you cried for satoru, too. for the look on his face when suguru yelled about your feelings, for the way he’d stood there, frozen, like the ground had opened up beneath his feet.

you cried until there was nothing left. then you lay in the dark, your face pressed into your pillow, and you felt empty.

the second day, you only thought about suguru.

you couldn’t stop thinking about him.

you’d done that to him. you’d taken someone calm and beautiful and soft— someone who had never asked for anything more than you were willing to give— and you’d worn him down. you’d taken his patience, his kindness, his understanding, and you’d stretched it until it broke. you’d made him snap. you’d made him cry. you’d made him stand in the middle of your room with his hands shaking and his voice cracking and say i love you like it was a pressure on a fresh wound.

you were so sorry. the words kept looping in your head, a prayer you didn’t know how to offer. i’m sorry, i’m sorry, i’m sorry. you said them to the dark walls of your room, to the empty space where suguru had stood, to the memory of his face when he’d said goodbye.

but there was anger there too. not at him— never at him— but at the way he’d done it. the way he’d said it like a weapon, like a grenade pulled from his chest and thrown into the space between you. she’s in love with you. he’d said it to satoru, he’d said it like it was something to wound, as if that would finally make you face what you’d been running from.

you understood why he’d done it. you understood the desperation, the exhaustion, the need to make someone else feel the weight of something you’d been carrying alone. but it didn’t make it hurt less and feel less like a betrayal.

you thought about calling him. you picked up your phone a dozen times, stared at his name, your thumb hovering over the screen. but what would you say? i’m sorry? you’d said that already, and it hadn’t been enough. i didn’t mean to hurt you? you had, though. not intentionally, but you’d known, somewhere deep down, that you were hurting him. you’d known and you’d let it happen anyway.

you put the phone down. you rolled over. you stared at the wall.

the third day, you thought about satoru.

you’d been avoiding him. that was the other decision you’d made, the one that felt less like you were in control and more like survival. you’d heard him that first night, after suguru left. you’d heard his footsteps in the hallway, his voice through the door— hey, can we talk? please? just—can you open the door?— and you’d sat on your bed, your knees pulled to your chest, and you hadn’t answered.

he’d knocked again the next morning. and the afternoon. and the next. you’d heard him standing outside your door, his footsteps pacing, his voice tentative, then worried, then desperate. you’d heard him say your name, over and over, like he was trying to pull you back from somewhere you’d gone that he couldn’t follow.

you didn’t answer. you couldn’t. because every time you heard his voice, you heard suguru: you’re in love with her.

was it true? you’d spent three years convincing yourself it wasn’t. three years of watching him date other people, break other hearts, move through the world like he was searching for something he’d never find. you’d told yourself that if he loved you, he would have said something. if he loved you, he wouldn’t have let you spend three years aching for him in silence. if he loved you, he wouldn’t have come home with yuki on his arm, wouldn’t have looked at you with that easy, uncomplicated affection that was so far from what you wanted that it felt like a different language.

but suguru had seen it. suguru, who was calm and perceptive and never said anything he didn’t mean. suguru had looked at satoru and seen something you’d not been able to see for years.

you thought about yuki’s face when she’d left your apartment. you’d thought she was being cruel, lashing out, looking for someone to blame. but what if she’d seen it too? what if she’d been dating satoru and realized, somewhere along the way, that he was in love with someone else? that he’d always been in love with someone else?

you pressed your face into your pillow and tried not to think about any of it. you failed.

… the fourth day, you thought about everything.

you thought about the beginning. the years that followed, the friendship you’d built, the way you’d woven yourselves into each other’s lives until you couldn’t tell where you ended and he began.

you thought about the night you turned eighteen, the cheap cake on the roof, the way he’d looked at you with frosting on his lip. you’d been in love with him ever since. three years, two months, and however many days. you’d been carrying it so long you’d forgotten what it felt like to not carry it.

you thought about suguru, you thought about the way you’d pulled away, every time, when things got too close. you thought about suguru’s hands on your skin, and the way you’d frozen, and the way he’d finally, finally snapped.

it’s him, isn’t it?

yes. it had always been him. it would always be him. that was the thing you’d been running from, the thing you’d been trying to escape by building something with someone new. you couldn’t escape it. you couldn’t outrun it. you couldn’t love it out of yourself or replace it with something cleaner and simpler and something that didn’t hurt.

you were in love with satoru gojo. you’d been in love with him for three years, and you would probably be in love with him for the rest of your life, and that was just— that was just the shape of you now. there was no changing it. there was no getting over it. there was only learning to live with it.

and maybe— maybe suguru had been right about that too. maybe satoru loved you back. maybe he’d been standing on the other side of the same wall, waiting for you to make the first move, for you to say something, and waiting for you to see him the way he saw you.

or maybe that was just wishful thinking. maybe you’d spent so long wanting it to be true that you’d convinced yourself it was. maybe suguru had seen something that wasn’t there, something he wanted to believe because it made leaving easier.

you didn’t know. you didn’t know anything anymore. you lay in your bed, in the dark, and you let the uncertainty swallow you whole.

… on the fifth day, you got up.

you woke up and the walls of your room felt too close, the silence felt too heavy, and you couldn’t stay there anymore. you showered for the first time in days, the water so hot it left your skin red and raw. you put on clean clothes. you opened your curtains, the sunlight blinding, and you stood there for a long moment, letting it hit your face, letting it remind you that the world was still there, that you were still in it.

you had to move or it would move without you.

you checked your phone for the first time since that night. there were messages from your professors— concerned, then impatient, then formal. there were messages from friends— hey, you okay?— that you’d ignored. and there were messages from satoru. a dozen of them. more. they started desperate and got worse.

please talk to me.

i’m sorry. i don’t know what i’m sorry for, but i’m sorry.

i’m not going to stop knocking. you know that, right?

please. just let me know you’re okay. that’s all i need. just tell me you’re okay.

you scrolled through them, your chest tight, and then you stopped at the last one. it was from yesterday. it said: i’m here. whenever you’re ready. i’m not going anywhere.

you put the phone down. you took a breath. and then you got your bag and you walked out of your room for the first time in five days.

the apartment was empty. you’d known it would be— you’d unconsciously waited until you heard satoru leave, his footsteps in the hallway, the front door closing. you couldn’t face him yet. you didn’t know if you ever could, but you could face this. you could go to class. you could sit in the lecture hall you’d been avoiding. you could— you could try.

.

.

.

advanced sociology was in the same room it had always been, at the same time, on the same day. you walked in ten minutes late, your heart pounding so hard you could hear it in your ears, and you scanned the room for an empty seat.

there was one next to suguru.

you stopped. he was sitting where he always sat, his notebook open, his pen in his hand. he looked tired— there were shadows under his eyes, a set to his jaw that hadn’t been there before. he was looking at the front of the room, at the professor who was already mid-lecture, and he didn’t see you.

you could have sat somewhere else. there were other seats, scattered around the room. you could have taken one of them, could have slipped into the back, could have avoided this for another day, another week, another month.

but you were tired of running and hiding. you were tired of the weight of everything you hadn’t said, everything you hadn’t faced.

you walked down the aisle. you sat down next to him.

he turned. his eyes met yours, and you saw it— the surprise, the wariness, the flicker of something that might have been hope or might have been fear. you didn’t know what your face looked like, what he saw when he looked at you. you just knew that you were here, and he was here, and that was something.

“hey,” you whispered.

he stared at you for a moment. then he nodded, once, and turned back to the front of the room. you did the same.

the lecture was a blur. you couldn’t have said what the professor talked about, couldn’t have taken a single note if your life depended on it. you sat with your hands in your lap, your heart beating too fast, hyperaware of suguru’s presence beside you. his pen moved across his notebook, steady, methodical. his breathing was even, controlled. he didn’t look at you again, not once, but you could feel him there, solid and real, and something in your chest loosened just slightly.

when the lecture ended, the room emptied around you. students packed up their things, voices rising, the shuffle of bags and chairs. you didn’t move. suguru didn’t move. you sat there, side by side, as the noise faded and the room grew quiet.

finally, he closed his notebook. he put his pen down. he didn’t look at you.

“why are you here?” he asked. his voice was quiet and neutral.

you opened your mouth. closed it. you’d been thinking about this moment for days, rehearsing what you would say, but now that it was here, you couldn’t remember any of it.

“i wanted to see you,” you said.

he was quiet for a moment before he exhaled a breath, long and slow, and you saw some of the tension in his shoulders ease.

“okay,” he said.

you sat there for a moment longer, then you gathered your things and he gathered his, and you walked out of the classroom together, into the grey afternoon light.

you ended up at a coffee shop near campus, one you’d been to before. it was quiet at this hour, mostly empty, the kind of place where you could sit in a corner and not be overheard. you ordered drinks— your usual, his usual— and you sat across from each other at a small table by the window, and for a long time, neither of you said anything.

the silence heavy and fragile. you could feel the weight of everything that hadn’t been said pressing down on both of you, and you didn’t know how to break it.

suguru was the one who spoke first.

“you look like hell,” he said. it might have been concern or might have been an attempt at humor. you weren’t sure.

you laughed. it was a wet, broken sound, nothing like your real laugh, but it was something. “yeah. you too.”

he huffed out something that might have been a laugh. his fingers wrapped around his cup, and as you watched him, you felt the tears building behind your eyes again.

“suguru,” you said, your voice cracking on his name. “i’m so sorry.”

he looked at you. his eyes were tired, but they were the same eyes they’d always been— warm, patient, seeing too much. “you don’t have to—”

“yes, i do.” your voice was shaking now, the words spilling out before you could stop them. “i’m so sorry. i’m sorry for—for what i did to you. for letting you—for making you think—” you stopped, pressed the heel of your hand against your eyes. “you were so patient. you were so good to me. and i just—i took everything you gave me, and i didn’t give anything back, and i knew—i knew i was hurting you, and i didn’t stop, and i’m so sorry.”

“suguru—” you were crying now, the tears you thought you’d cried out days ago coming back, hot and relentless. “you didn’t deserve any of that. you didn’t deserve to be someone’s second choice—i—”

you couldn’t finish. you were crying too hard, your face in your hands, your shoulders shaking. you heard the scrape of his chair, felt his hand on your wrist, gentle, pulling your hands away from your face.

“hey,” he murmured, his voice softer now, softer than you deserved. “hey. look at me.”

you looked at him. his face was blurry through your tears, but you could see his expression— the same expression you’ve seen a million times, filled with patience and kindess.

“i’m sorry too,” he said.

you shook your head, tried to pull away, but he didn’t let go of your wrists. “you don’t have anything to be sorry for. i’m the one who—”

“i hurt you,” he said, guilt coming through his tone. “i was angry. i was hurt. and i said things that weren’t mine to say. i outed you. i used your feelings like a weapon, and that wasn’t fair. to you or to him.”

you stared at him. “suguru—”

“i knew what i was getting into.” his voice was steady, with a pinch of regret. “i knew from the beginning that you were in love with him. i saw it, and i chose to stay. i chose to wait. and that—” he stopped, took a breath. “that wasn’t fair to you. you never asked me to wait. you never asked me to put my life on hold for something you couldn’t give me.”

you were crying harder now, the sobs shaking your whole body. “i should have told you. i should have been better from the beginning. i should never have—”

“you tried,” his voice was so gentle it broke something open in your chest. “you tried to love me. i know you did. and that— that meant more than you know.”

“but it wasn’t enough.” your voice was small, broken. “i wasn’t enough.”

he was quiet for a moment. then he let go of your wrists, and instead, he reached across the table and took your hands in his. his fingers were warm, steady, the same way they’d always been.

“you were enough,” he said. “you were more than enough. you were—” he stopped, and you saw grief flicker across his face. “you were the best thing that happened to me in a long time. and i don’t regret any of it. not a single moment.”

“how can you say that?” you asked, your voice breaking again. “after everything— after how i treated you—”

“because i loved you,” he said simply. “because you made me happy. because even knowing how it would end, i’d do it again. i’d do it all again.”

“i’m sorry.”

“don’t be,” he whispered. “don’t ever be sorry for loving someone. it’s the most human thing there is.”

you stared at him, tears streaming down your face, and you didn’t know what to say. there was nothing you could say that would be enough. nothing you could give him that would make up for what you’d taken.

he squeezed your hands. “i’m not angry anymore,” he said. “i was. i was angry, and i was hurt, and i said things i shouldn’t have said. but i’m not angry now. i just—” he exhaled. “i want you to be happy. that’s all i’ve ever wanted.”

you shook your head. “i don’t deserve—”

“stop,” he said firmly. “don’t do that. don’t punish yourself for something you can’t control. you can’t help who you love. and you can’t—” his voice softened. “you can’t spend the rest of your life apologizing for it.”

you looked at him, at this person who had been so patient, so kind, so understanding, even when you’d given him every reason to walk away.

“what do we do now?” you asked, your voice small and lost.

he looked at you for a long moment. then he smiled, and it was the same smile he’d given you that first day, the one that made you feel like maybe you were worth something after all.

“we figure it out,” he said. “we take some time. we heal. and eventually—” he squeezed your hands one last time, and then he let go. “eventually, you go after him.”

you blinked. “what?”

“satoru,” he nodded with certainty. “you’re going to go after him. and you’re going to tell him how you feel. and he’s going to say it back. because he’s in love with you. he has been. and i think—” he paused. you saw sadness flicker in his eyes. “i think you’ve both waited long enough.”

you stared at him, your heart pounding, your hands empty where his had been. “i don’t—i don’t know if i can. i don’t know if he—”

“you know,” he said. “you were just too scared to say it. and i get it. i do. but don’t let fear be the thing that stops you. not anymore.”

you opened your mouth to argue, to deflect, to say something that would push this moment away. but there was nothing left. no more walls, no more excuses, no more reasons to hide.

you looked at suguru, and he looked back at you, and you saw in his face the shape of something that might have been, in another life. something that could have been beautiful. but this was the life you had, and this was the choice you had to make.

“thank you,” you said, the words feeling small and inadequate. “for everything.”

he nodded.

you sat there, in the quiet of the coffee shop, the afternoon light fading around you. for the first time in days, the weight in your chest felt lighter. and that, you thought, was something.

you left the coffee shop together. outside, the evening air was cold, sharp. you stood on the sidewalk, facing each other. it seemed like neither of you knew how to say goodbye.

“i’ll see you around?” you looked up at him unsurely, hope unhidden in the question.

suguru smiled tiredly and nodded, “yeah,” he said. “you’ll see me around.”

you nodded. you wanted to say something else—something that would capture everything you were feeling, everything you couldn’t say. but there were no words for this.

so you took a step forward and hugged him. it was quick, the way you wrapped your arms around his waist and buried your face in his chest so he wouldn’t see your expression fracturing again. you felt his arms come around you with no hesitation, one hand cradling the back of your head for a few seconds before you pulled back.

his eyes were bright, glistening under the fading light.

“go,” he said, his voice steady. “go home.”

you nodded. you turned away. you walked down the street, toward your apartment, toward whatever was waiting for you there. you didn’t look back. you couldn’t.

but you felt him there, behind you, watching you go and you carried that with you— the warmth of him, the weight of everything he’d given you, the shape of a love that had been patient enough to let you go.

you walked home. the streets were quiet, the city settling into the grey hush of early evening, and you moved through it like a ghost, your footsteps echoing on the pavement, your breath clouding in the cold air. one foot in front of the other, following the familiar route back to the apartment, back to the place where everything had fallen apart, back to him.

your keys were in your hand before you realized you’d taken them out of your bag. you stood in front of the door for a long moment, your heart pounding so hard you could feel it in your throat, and you thought about turning around. you thought about walking away, finding somewhere else to be, somewhere you could hide for a little longer, somewhere you didn’t have to face what was waiting for you on the other side.

but you were tired of running and you were tired of hiding. you’d spent five days in your room, five days avoiding the world, five days pretending you could outrun the truth. and it hadn’t worked. it had never worked.

the apartment was dark. the lights were off, the curtains drawn, the only illumination coming from the street outside, filtering through the blinds in thin, pale stripes. it smelled the way it always smelled and something in your chest cracked open at the familiarity of it.

and then you saw gojo.

satoru was sitting on the couch. his hair was disheveled like he’d been running his hands through it. his glasses were off, set on the coffee table next to an untouched cup of coffee, and in the dim light, you could see his face.

his eyes were red-rimmed. there were shadows under them, deep and bruise-like, the kind that came from days of not sleeping. his hands were in his lap, his fingers twisting together, fiddling, restless, like he didn’t know what to do with them. he looked up when the door opened, and for a moment, he didn’t move. he just sat there, staring at you, and you saw a flood of emotions flash across his face— relief, fear, hope, all of them tangled together, none of them quite winning.

you closed the door behind you. the sound of it clicking shut was loud in the silence, final. you stood there, your back against the door, your bag still hanging from your shoulder, and you looked at him. he looked at you. neither of you said anything.

you took a step forward. that was all it took.

he stood up. his hands were shaking, you could see them shaking, and he opened his mouth, and it seemed like the dam broke.

“i didn’t know.” his voice cracked on the words, raw and rough, like he’d been shouting or crying or both. “i swear to god, i didn’t know. i didn’t—if i had known, i would have—” he stopped, pressed the heel of his hand against his forehead, his whole body trembling. “i didn’t know.”

you opened your mouth to say something, but he was already talking again, the words spilling out of him like water from a broken pipe, unstoppable.

“i thought—i thought you didn’t see me like that. i thought it was just me. i thought i was the one who—” his voice broke, and he laughed, a hollow, broken sound that made your chest ache. “i’ve been in love with you for years. do you know how long? do you know how stupid i’ve been? how many people i dated because i was trying to—to find someone who made me feel the way you make me feel? and no one did. no one ever did. because it was always you. it’s always been you.”

he was pacing now, his hands in his hair, his voice rising and falling, the words tumbling out faster than he could control.

“and suguru—that guy, that—he saw it. he saw it before i did. before you did. he looked at me and he knew. and i was so angry, i was so—” he stopped, turned to face you, and his face was wet, you realized, his eyes bright with tears he wasn’t bothering to hide. “i was so jealous of him. i hated him. i hated the way he looked at you, the way you looked at him, the way you’d leave and spend hours with him and come back smiling and i couldn’t—i couldn’t stand it. i couldn’t stand that he got to have you and i didn’t.”

you wanted to say something, wanted to stop him, wanted to tell him that you understood, that you felt the same, that you’d been carrying this for so long you’d forgotten what it felt like to not carry it. but you couldn’t. the words were stuck in your throat, and he was still talking, still pacing, still falling apart in front of you.

“i broke up with yuki because she wasn’t you. i’ve broken up with everyone because they weren’t you. do you know what that’s like? to be with someone and just—just wish they were someone else? to close your eyes and see someone else’s face? to lie next to someone and think about how much you wish it was—”

he stopped. his voice caught, and for a moment, he just stood there, in the middle of the living room, his chest heaving, his hands shaking, his face wet with tears.

“i thought about telling you,” he said, his voice quieter now, the desperation giving way to something rawer, more vulnerable. “so many times. i thought about it, and i couldn’t. i couldn’t because i was so scared. i was scared you wouldn’t feel the same. i was scared i’d lose you. i was scared i’d say the wrong thing and you’d look at me differently and everything we had would just—” his voice dimmed. “you’re my best friend. you’re the most important person in my life. and i couldn’t—i couldn’t risk that. i couldn’t risk losing you.”

he took a step toward you. another.

“and then suguru said—he said that you—” he stopped, swallowed. “is it true? is it—do you—”

he couldn’t finish. he didn’t need to.

you crossed the space between you before you could think about it. your feet carrying you forward, your hands reaching for him, and then you stood in front of him, close enough to see the tears on his face, close enough to feel the warmth of him, close enough to touch.

“yes,” you said, your voice shaking as much as his, the word coming out like a breath. “yes, it’s true. i’ve been in love with you since we were eighteen. since—” you laughed, a wet, broken sound. “since the beginning, maybe. i’ve been in love with you for years, satoru. and i didn’t say anything because i was scared too. i was scared you didn’t feel the same. i was scared i’d lose you. i was scared—”

he kissed you; desperate and messy, his hands coming up to cup your face, his lips crashing into yours like he was drowning and you were air. you kissed him back the same way, your fingers curling into his sweater, pulling him closer, pulling him in, like you could make up for three years of waiting in a single moment.

his mouth was warm, his lips slightly chapped, and he tasted like tears and coffee and something that was just him. his hands were shaking against your face, and you could feel his heartbeat, or maybe that was yours, pounding against your ribs, loud in your ears.

when he finally pulled back, he was breathing hard, his forehead pressed against yours, his eyes glistening with unshed tears.

“i’m sorry,” he muttered. “i’m sorry it took me so long. i’m sorry i was so scared. i’m sorry i made you wait. i’m sorry—”

“stop,” you whispered. “stop apologizing. i’m here. you’re here. that’s—that’s enough. that’s more than enough.”

he let out a sound that was half-laugh, half-sob, and he pulled you into his arms, his face buried in your hair, his arms wrapped around you so tight you could barely breathe. you held him just as tight, your face pressed into his chest, his heartbeat steady under your ear, and for the first time in five days, you felt like you could breathe.

you stood there, in the middle of your apartment, the lights still off, the city still grey outside, and you held each other. you didn’t know how long you stood there. minutes, maybe. hours. it didn’t matter. nothing mattered except this— his arms around you, his breath in your hair, the solid, real weight of him against you.

he was the first to pull back, just enough to look at your face. his hands were still on your cheeks, his thumbs brushing away tears you didn’t remember crying. his eyes were red, his face blotchy, his hair a mess, and he was the most beautiful thing you’d ever seen.

“i love you,” he said, the words exhaled like he’d been waiting his whole life to say them. “i love you so much it scares me. i love you and i’m not going to waste any more time pretending i don’t.”

you laughed, or cried, or both. “i love you too. i’ve always loved you.”

he smiled. it was the same smile he’d given you that first day, the one that made you feel like you were the only person in the world, and something in your chest that had been tight for years finally, finally loosened.

“yeah?” you smiled at the the childlike wonder in his voice, like he couldn’t quite believe your words.

“yeah,” you said. “always.”

he kissed you again, softer this time, slower. his lips moved against yours like he was learning you, memorizing you, like he had all the time in the world and he was going to use every second of it. you kissed him back the same way, your hands sliding up into his hair, feeling the soft strands slip through your fingers, feeling him shiver at your touch.

you finally felt whole.

when you finally broke apart, you were both smiling. stupid, ridiculous, tear-streaked smiles, that made your cheeks hurt and your heart ache in the best way.

“so,” he said, his voice hoarse but lighter now, some of the weight lifting. “what now?”

you looked at his hopeful face. you thought about suguru, about the coffee shop, about the way he’d let you go. you thought about the years you’d spent waiting, wanting, aching. you thought about the door that had finally opened.

“now,” you said as you took his hand, threading your fingers through his, feeling them steady under your touch. “now we figure it out. together.”

he squeezed your hand. his eyes were still wet, but he was beaming and it was like watching the sun come up after days of darkness.

“together,” he repeated. “i like that.”

you pulled him toward the couch, and he let you, stumbling slightly, still holding your hand like he was afraid to let go. you sat down together, the way you’d sat a hundred times before, but this time was different. this time, when he pulled you into his side and you leaned into him, when his arm wrapped around your shoulders and his lips pressed against your hair, everything felt different.

the apartment was still dark. the city was still grey. there was still so much to figure out, so much to talk about, so much to heal.

the evening settled around you like a held breath.

neither of you moved from the couch for a long time. you sat together, his arm around your shoulders, your head against his chest, your legs tangled together in the way that had always been yours, the way that felt like coming home.

but still something hummed beneath your skin, electric and new. his fingers traced patterns on your arm— circles, lines, shapes that didn’t mean anything and meant everything. his breathing was slow, steady, but you could feel his heart under your ear, beating faster than it should have been.

you talked, eventually. about the days you’d spent locked in your room, the meals you hadn’t eaten, the classes you’d skipped. about the way he’d stood outside your door, his hand raised to knock, his voice calling your name. about the way he’d sat on the couch at night, staring at your door, waiting for it to open. about the way he’d texted you, over and over, even though he knew you weren’t reading them.

“i thought you hated me,” he said, and his voice was quiet, rough. “i thought—after what suguru said—I thought you’d never want to talk to me again. i thought i’d ruined everything.”

you lifted your head, looked at him. his eyes looked incredibly blue with the redness surrounding them.

“i could never hate you, satoru,” you said. “i tried. believe me, i tried. but i couldn’t. i can’t.”

his hand came up to your face, his fingers tracing your cheekbone, the line of your jaw.

“i’m sorry,” he said. “for all of it and for—”

you kissed him. his lips were warm, slightly chapped, and he made a sound against your mouth— a small, surprised thing that turned into something else when you pressed closer.

when you pulled back, he was looking at you with an expression you’d never seen before; hunger that made your stomach flip in your belly.

“we should probably go to sleep,” you said, your voice coming out breathier than you intended.

“probably,” he agreed. but he didn’t move. neither did you.

you must have fallen asleep at some point, because you woke to the feeling of being lifted, of strong arms under your knees and around your back and being carried through the apartment. you blinked, half-aware, and saw the familiar lines of satoru’s jaw, the soft fall of his white hair, the way his face was relaxed in the dim light from the window.

“satoru,” you mumbled, your voice thick with sleep. “what are you—”

“shh,” he shushed you, his voice low and gentle. “going to bed. you fell asleep on the couch.”

you wanted to protest, to tell him you could walk, but you were too tired, too warm and too comfortable in his arms. you let your eyes close again and let yourself be carried, felt the moment he pushed open your door with his shoulder and crossed to your bed.

he laid you down carefully. your mattress was soft under your back, your pillow cool against your cheek, and you heard him pull the blanket up over you. his fingers brushed your hair away from your face.

“goodnight,” he whispered. you heard him hesitate, felt the air shift when he was leaning down.

his lips pressed against your forehead softly.

then he was gone, the door clicking shut behind him, and you were alone in your room, in your bed, your heart beating too fast and your face warm and your lips curved into a smile you couldn’t have stopped if you tried as you drifted off to sleep.

.

.

.

morning came slowly, the light filtering through your curtains in pale gold stripes, the kind of morning that felt like a gift. you lay in bed for a long moment, blinking at the ceiling, and the memories of last night came back in a rush— satoru’s face, his words, his hands, his mouth on yours. you buried your face in your pillow for a second to scream into it hysterically before coming up to breathe.

you listened. the apartment was silent, the way it was when satoru was still asleep. you could picture him in his room, sprawled across his bed, his hair everywhere, his mouth slightly open, the covers twisted around his legs. you’d seen him asleep a dozen times, a hundred times, and you’d always had to resist the urge to touch his face, to smooth his hair, to press a kiss to the corner of his mouth.

now, you thought, maybe you wouldn’t have to resist.

you got up. your feet were bare on the cold floor and you shivered as you padded to the bathroom, your mind still hazy with sleep, your body still warm from the blankets. you flicked on the light, blinked at your reflection— messy hair, sleep and tear swollen eyes, a smile that you couldn’t quite wipe off your face— and reached for your toothbrush.

you were halfway through brushing your teeth when you felt another a presence in the doorway. you looked away from your reflection.

satoru was leaning against the doorframe, his shoulder propped against the wood, his hair a wild white cloud, his eyes half-lidded with sleep. he was wearing an old t-shirt, the neck stretched out, and his sweatpants were slung low on his hips, and he was looking at you with an expression that made your heart stutter in your chest. too much for a peaceful morning.

he looked so soft! no other word could describe him in the moment: soft and sleepy and unbearably cute, his face relaxed, his lips slightly parted. his ridiculously blue eyes were fixed on you with a kind of quiet wonder, like he couldn’t quite believe you were real.

you stared at him. he stared at you. neither of you said anything.

then he pushed off from the doorframe and crossed the bathroom in three lazy strides, his feet silent on the tile. he stopped next to you, so close you could feel the warmth of him, and reached for his toothbrush.

you stood side by side in front of the mirror, two toothbrushes moving in tandem, two sets of eyes meeting in the glass. despite you both doing the most mundane thing in the world, your heart was pounding like you were running a marathon.

he caught your eye in the mirror. his mouth was full of toothpaste foam, and he smiled— a small, crooked, toothpaste-y smile— and you had to stop brushing for a moment because you were laughing a quiet, breathless laugh that made your shoulders shake.

he raised an eyebrow at you, questioning, and you shook your head, still laughing, and went back to brushing. but you couldn’t stop looking at him. the way his hair stuck up in seventeen different directions. the way his eyes crinkled at the corners. the way he was watching you, too, his gaze flicking from your face to your hands to your reflection and back again. you finished brushing first. you rinsed your mouth, wiped your face, and when you looked up, he was still brushing and watching you.

you stood there, leaning against the counter, as you watched him finish. he rinsed, wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, and then he turned to look at you, and you were standing in your bathroom, in your apartment, in the morning light, and everything was different and nothing was different and you didn’t know what to do with your hands.

he solved that problem for you though, as he reached out, his fingers finding yours, and he tugged you out of the bathroom and down the hallway toward the kitchen.

you moved like you were glued together. his hand was in yours, your shoulders brushed, and when you stopped in the kitchen, you stood so close that you could feel the warmth of him seeping onto you through your clothes. it was ridiculous. you’d lived together for years, had shared this space a thousand times, had made coffee and breakfast and late-night snacks without ever thinking about it. but now everything was charged, electric, every accidental touch sending a jolt through your system.

you made the coffee; measured the grounds, filled the water, pressed the button, and the familiar sound of the machine filled the kitchen, grounding you into the moment.

satoru got the cereal. you watched him from the corner of your eye— he opened the cupboard without looking, pulled down two bowls, the way his fingers moved automatically to the box he always bought, the one you both liked. he poured the cereal, found the milk in the fridge, and by the time the coffee was ready, there were two bowls on the table, two spoons, two napkins folded the way you liked them.

he’d always done this. he’d always made breakfast, made coffee, made sure you ate before you ran out the door. you’d never thought about it before, not really, not beyond the easy gratitude of someone who was being taken care of. you poured the coffee. you brought the mugs to the table. you sat down across from him, the way you’d sat a hundred times before, and you ate your cereal in the morning light, and everything was different.

you caught his eye over your spoon. he looked away first, his ears pink, and you smiled into your bowl.

it happened again. and again. a glance, a look away, a glance back. your eyes meeting over the rim of your coffee mug. his sharp gaze catching yours when you reached for the milk. a smile, small and secret, passing between you like a message in a bottle.

you finished your cereal and your coffee. you sat there for a moment, the empty bowls between you, and you didn’t want to move. you didn’t want to break the spell, the quiet magic of this ordinary morning, of sitting across from the person you loved and knowing, finally, that they loved you back.

but you had to get dressed; you had to face the day, the world, the things you’d been avoiding. you stood up, carrying your bowls to the sink, and when you turned to go to your room his hand caught yours gently, tentativeness in the way he held it as if you might want to pull away.

“what?” you said as you turned back to look at him, your voice hoarse from disuse.

instead of answering, he stepped forward, closing the space between you, and his hands came up to frame your face, his fingers sliding into your hair, thumbs brushing your cheekbones. his eyes were very clear this close and you could see the question in them, the hope, the fear, the love.

“i just—” he said, his voice rough, sleep-soft, and then he kissed you.

slow and sweet, his lips moving against yours with a tenderness that made your knees weak. he kissed the corner of your mouth, your jaw, the spot just below your ear, and you made a sound you didn’t recognize, a small, helpless sound that made him smile against your skin.

he kissed your forehead. your eyelids. the tip of your nose. he kissed your cheeks, one and then the other, and you were giggling now, utterly breathless, your hands fisted in his t-shirt.

“satoru,” you exhaled. “what are you doing?”

“kissing you,” he said, and his voice was muffled because he was kissing the corner of your mouth again, then the other corner, then the center, a series of soft, quick presses that made your heart stutter. “i’m kissing you. is that okay? is this allowed now? can i just—”

he kissed your chin. your jaw. the hollow beneath your ear. he was everywhere, his lips mapping your face like he was learning a new language, and you were laughing, really laughing now, the sound bright and strange in the quiet kitchen.

“yes,” you said as you pulled back just enough to look at him, to see his face and the way he was smiling, the brightness of his eyes, the way his hands were still cradling your face like you were something precious. “yes, it’s allowed. it’s more than allowed. it’s—”

“good,” he said, and he kissed you again, longer this time, deeper, making you forgot what you were going to say.

when he finally pulled back, his forehead resting against yours, you were both breathing hard and you were both smiling.

“why are we acting like we haven’t lived together for years?” you asked, your voice still a little breathless, giddy.

he chuckled, bright and easy, “i don’t know,” he said, grinning now, that stupid, beautiful grin that you’d loved since you were eighteen. “i don’t know. it’s different now. everything’s different. i look at you and i can’t—”

he didn’t finish, opting to kiss you again, because he could now; because you were here, because you were his, and you kissed him back, because he was yours, because he always had been.

“we should get dressed,” you mumbled. obviously, you didn’t mean it, not even a little.

“in a minute,” he said and kissed you again.

“we have things to do,” you tried as he stole the word “things” off your lips.

“in a minute, baby,” he repeated, his voice was a murmur against your mouth, and his hands were sliding down from your face to your shoulders to your waist, pulling you closer, so you stopped arguing.

when you finally did separate— because you had to, eventually, the coffee was cold and your lips were swollen and you were both grinning like idiots— he took your hand, his fingers lacing through yours.

“so,” he said, his voice was light and teasing. “this is a thing now? us? we’re doing this?”

you squeezed his hand. “we’re doing this.”

“okay,” he said, nodding minutely. “okay. good. that’s—that’s good.”

you huffed. “yeah. it’s good.”

he looked at you for a moment, something shifting in his expression, wonder or relief or the simple, overwhelming joy of finally having what you’d always wanted.

“i’m going to kiss you like that every morning,” he said assuredly. “every single morning. just so you know. you’re never going to brush your teeth in peace again.”

you grinned. “is that a threat?”

“it’s a guarantee.”

you tugged on his hand, pulling him toward the hallway, toward your rooms, toward the day that was waiting. “okay,” you said. “but first, we get dressed. and then—”

“and then what?”

“and then we go to classes,” you said. “and do what we always do?”

“yeah, okay,” he said as he pulled you down the hallway, and you went willingly, laughing, your hand in his, your heart full.

.

.

.

you’d walked the route to campus a thousand times, your footsteps worn into the pavement, the streets as familiar as the back of your hand. but today, satoru’s hand was in yours, his fingers warm and solid, and the world looked different. the grey sky seemed brighter, the cold air seemed sharper, the ordinary noise of the city seemed to fade into background hum, leaving just the two of you, walking side by side, your shoulders brushing, your steps falling into sync.

he kept glancing at you. you kept catching him. every time you looked over, his eyes were already there. he’d smile and you’d feel your face warm, your lips curve in response, your heart do that stupid, wonderful flip it had been doing all morning.

“you’re staring,” you said, after the third or fourth time.

“so are you,” he countered as he squeezed your hand.

you couldn’t argue with that.

you had separate classes first thing— something about scheduling and the mundane reality of university life that hadn’t rearranged itself to accommodate your new reality. you parted ways at the main building, and it felt ridiculous, the way you hesitated and his hand tightened around yours before letting go.

“see you after?” he asked, hope laced in his tone.

“see you after,” you promised.

he grinned, quick and bright, and then he was gone, disappearing into the crowd of students streaming toward the humanities building. you stood there for a moment, watching him go, and you felt like you were floating.

your first class passed in a blur. you sat in the back, your notebook open, your pen moving across the page, but you couldn’t have said what the professor talked about. your mind kept drifting— to the morning, to the kitchen, to the way satoru’s lips had felt against yours. to his hand in yours on the walk here. to the fact that he was in a building across campus, that in an hour you’d see him again, that there was no more waiting, no more wondering, no more weight in your chest.

you smiled at your notebook. you couldn’t help it.

you met him outside your second class. he was already there, leaning against the wall, hands in his pockets, sunglasses pushed up into his hair. he was talking to someone— a classmate, maybe, someone you didn’t recognize— but the moment he saw you, his attention shifted, his whole face lighting up, which wasn’t new but nonetheless

he excused himself mid-sentence. he didn’t even wait for a response. he just pushed off the wall and walked toward you. you met him in the middle of the hallway and he took your hand like it was the most natural thing in the world.

“hey.”

“hey.”

you stood there, in the middle of the crowded hallway, students streaming past on either side, and you grinned at each other like idiots.

“how was your class?”

“no idea,” you said honestly. “i wasn’t really paying attention.”

he laughed, the sound of it light. “me neither.”

you walked into your shared class together. you found seats near the back, the ones you always gravitated toward, and he sat next to you, close enough that your arms touched, close enough that you could feel the warmth of him through your sleeve. he didn’t let go of your hand until the professor started talking.

you tried to pay attention, you really did. but it was hard when his knee was pressing against yours under the desk and his hand was inches away, when every few minutes he’d glance at you and you’d glance at him and a small, secret smile would pass between you.

at one point, he pulled out his phone. you watched him type something out of the corner of your eye, and then your phone buzzed in your pocket.

you pulled it out, careful to keep it low, and looked at the screen.

catoru🐈: you’re distracting me

you bit your lip to keep from smiling. you typed back: i’m not doing anything

his phone buzzed. you saw him read your message, his lips twitching, and then his fingers were moving again.

catoru🐈: you’re existing. it’s very distracting

you stared at your phone for a moment, your face warm.

maybe you should pay attention to the lecture

his reply came immediately.

catoru🐈: maybe you should stop being so pretty

you looked up. he was looking at you, his eyes bright, his expression caught somewhere between teasing and sincere. his messy hair, his soft sweater, the small smile playing at his lips— as you stared at him you thought about how many classes you’d sat through next to him, how many hours you’d spent pretending you weren’t aware of every breath he took, every time he shifted in his seat, every accidental brush of his hand against yours.

you’re one to talk

his smile widened as he read your text, and then, very deliberately, he put his phone away and turned back to the front of the room, but his hand found yours under the desk, his fingers lacing through yours, and he didn’t let go for the rest of the class.

when the lecture ended, you walked out together. the hallway was crowded, loud, the usual chaos of students changing classes, but you moved through it like you were the.

“what’s your next class?” he asked.

you checked your schedule. “i’ve got a gap. nothing until two.”

he grinned. “me too.”

you raised an eyebrow. “you don’t have anything until two?”

“i have a class at one, actually,” he admitted, and his ears went slightly pink. “but i was thinking maybe i’d skip it.”

“satoru,” unfortunately, you didn’t sound nearly as disapproving as you should have.

“what? i’ve got priorities.”

you shook your head, but you were still laughing, and he was pulling you toward the doors, the cold autumn air and the benches where you’d sat a hundred times before.

you ended up on a bench near the library, the one with the good view of the courtyard, the one you’d claimed as yours years ago. you sat close, your legs pressed together, his arm along the back of the bench behind you, his fingers playing with the ends of your hair.

for a while, it was everything it had always been, except it wasn’t.

because when you talked, he was looking at you differently. not the way he’d always looked at you, with that easy, uncomplicated affection that you’d learned to read as friendship. his eyes were softer, warmer, and there was something in them that made your words stumble, like a useless teenager.

there was nothing to hide anymore so when he talked, you let yourself look at him the way you’d always wanted to; trace the lines of his face, the curve of his lips, the way his hair fell across his forehead. you let yourself notice the small things— the way his nose crinkled when he laughed, the way his hands moved when he talked, the way he was always, always angled toward you, like you were the center of his gravity.

you talked until his phone buzzed with a reminder about his one o’clock class. he looked at it, made a face, and put it away.

“you should go,” you said, even though you didn’t want him to.

“i should,” he agreed, yet he didn’t move.

he was already leaning in, his hand coming up to cup your face, his lips brushing against yours in a kiss that was soft and slow and sweet.

when he pulled back, he looked a little too breathless.

“okay,” he said, his voice was a little rough. “okay. i’m going. i’m going.”

he didn’t move.

you laughed, pushing at his chest. “go.”

“i’m going,” he said again and kissed you one more time, quick and light, and then he was standing, pulling away, backing toward the path that led to the humanities building.

“i’ll meet you after!” he called loudly when he was far away enough. you nodded and relishing in the final smile he gives you before disappearing.

you leaned back against the bench, closing your eyes contentedly. you were still sitting there when he came back, forty-five minutes later, his bag slung over his shoulder, his face breaking into a smile the moment he saw you.

the idea came to him on a tuesday. or maybe it was wednesday. the days had blurred together a little, everything running together in a haze of your hand in his, your mouth on his, the simple, staggering fact of you.

he was lying in bed, that suddenly felt too big and too empty, and staring at the ceiling, thinking about you. he was always thinking about you, that wasn’t new; what was new was that he was allowed to think about you like this.

he wanted to take you on a date and he wanted it to be perfect.

he started planning that night. he lay in the dark, his phone glowing in his hands, and he scrolled through restaurants, through reviews, through menus and photos and the kind of places he’d never bothered to look at before. he texted shoko at one in the morning— hey, you know that place on fifth? the one with the rooftop? is it any good?— and she replied with a string of question marks and then, after he explained, a series of increasingly aggressive exclamation points that he took as approval.

he thought about flowers. what kind did you like? he’d seen you pause in front of a florist once, months ago, looking at a display of peonies. he’d noted it without thinking, the way he noted everything about you, filed it away in the part of his brain that was reserved for you, the part that was bigger than he’d ever admitted. he’d buy you peonies. white ones, the ones you’d stopped to look at.

he thought about what to wear. he tried on three different shirts before settling on the one you’d complimented once, months ago, when he’d worn it to a party. you’d said it looked good on him, and he’d spent the rest of the night trying not to think about it.

he didn’t sleep much that night or the next night. he was nervous— actually nervous, in a way he hadn’t been since he’d realised how easy it was to be him.

he didn’t tell you, but that was the important part! he wanted it to be a surprise, to see your face when you realized, wanted to do something that was just for you, so you would feel special.

he waited until saturday morning, when you were both in the kitchen, you making coffee, him pretending to read something on his phone while he watched you move around the familiar space. you were wearing one of his hoodies— you’d taken it months ago, before any of this, and he’d never asked for it back— and your hair was messy, you were humming something under your breath, and he loved you so much it made his chest hurt.

“hey,” he said, and his voice came out casual, easy, the way he’d practiced. “what are you doing tonight?”

you glanced over, your eyebrow raised. “tonight? nothing, i think. why?”

he shrugged, trying to look like he wasn’t vibrating out of his skin. “i was thinking we could go out. somewhere nice. there’s this place i’ve been wanting to try.”

you turned to look at him fully, the coffee forgotten for a moment. “go out? like… out out?”

“like out out,” he confirmed. “wear something pretty.”

your expression shifted, “something pretty,” you repeated.

“something pretty,” he grinned, even though his heart was pounding. “it’s a date.”

you stared at him for a moment before beaming at him and nodding. “okay. it’s a date.”

he spent the rest of the day in a state of controlled panic. he saw you only at seven; you’d been in your room for two hours and he’d been pacing the living room, checking his phone, checking his reflection, checking the peonies he’d received from the delivery and hidden in the kitchen. he’d changed his shirt twice. he’d fixed his hair three times. he was a mess, and he didn’t care, because you were about to come out of your room, he was about to take you on your first real date and he wanted it to be perfect.

eventually, your door opened and you stepped into the hallway, effectively causing him to forget how to breathe.

there weren’t words for what you were. you’d dressed up, the way he’d prompted, and you’d done something with your hair, and you were wearing something he’d never seen before, something that made his mouth go dry and his hands clench at his sides. you were beautiful. you were always beautiful, every day, in every way, but now you were radiant, luminous.

and you were— god, you were sexy, making his brain short-circuit and his thoughts stutter and stop, made him want to cancel the whole night and just keep you all to himself.

“what?” you said, your voice a little uncertain. “is it too much? you said dress up, i wasn’t sure—”

“no,” he said, his voice rough. “no, it’s…”

he crossed the room in three steps, his hands finding your waist, pulling you close, and he kissed you. you made a sound against his mouth, surprised and pleased, your hands coming up to his chest to hold on. he kissed you until he couldn’t breathe, until his own head was spinning and he had to pull back or risk never leaving this apartment.

“okay,” he said, breathing hard, his forehead pressed against yours. “okay. we’re going to be late.”

you were laughing, breathless, your eyes bright. “you’re the one who—”

“you’re beautiful,” he murmured.

your hands slid up his chest to his shoulders as you pulled back just enough to look at him. “you’re not so bad yourself.”

he kissed you one more time and then pulled away, grabbing your hand, tugging you toward the door.

“come on,” he said. “i have flowers for you. and dinner reservations. and a whole night planned. and if you keep looking at me like that, we’re not going to make it out the door.”

you were still chuckling when he handed you the peonies, helped put them in a vase, helped you into your coat and led you out into the cold night air. you teased him when he opened the car door for you, poked him when he slid into the driver’s seat and went silent when he caught you looking at him with that soft, wondering expression that made his heart stutter.

“what?” he said.

you shook your head, still smiling. “nothing. just—you got me peonies.”

“you like peonies.”

“i didn’t know you knew that.”

he looked at you, the flush on your cheeks. “i remember everything about you,” he said, and it was the truth.

you reached across the console and took his hand, your fingers lacing through his, and you didn’t let go the whole drive.

the restaurant was perfect. he’d planned it that way— the rooftop view, the string lights, the table in the corner where you could see the city spread out below you. you’d said something about wanting to try this place months ago and now here you were, sitting across from him, the city lights reflected in your eyes.

the food was good, despite how he barely tasted it. you were both trying to be serious— trying to be the kind of people who had elegant, sophisticated dinners at rooftop restaurants— but you kept breaking. you’d catch his eye across the table, one of you would start laughing, or you’d talk loudly, getting weird glances, or you’d make a comment about some balding idiot from another table, he’d continue, and eventually you were both laughing, giggling like teenagers, like the whole world hadn’t shifted beneath your feet.

“stop,” you said, at one point, your hand over your mouth, your shoulders shaking. “stop looking at me like that. i’m trying to be serious!”

“like what?” he couldn’t stop grinning.

“like—” you gestured vaguely, your face flushed. “like that. like you’re—”

“like i’m what?”

you dropped your hand, “you know what,” you said quietly.

“well, you’re just going to have to get used to me looking at you like that.” he shrugged.

the city hummed below, the string lights flickered overhead as you looked at each other across the table. everything was exactly where it was supposed to be.

“this is nice,” you said softly.

“yeah?”

“yeah.” you smiled, “i’m glad our first date is here.”

“me too,” he said. “i wanted it to be perfect.”

you tilted your head. “is it?”

“yeah,” he said. “it was.”

.

.

.

the drive home was slower. the city was quieter, the streets emptier, and he didn’t want the night to end. he wanted to keep driving, keep holding your hand, keep the two of you suspended in this moment where everything was new and bright and full of possibility.

but the apartment came too soon and eventually he was parking the car, you were getting out and he was following you up the stairs, his eyes on the back of your head, on the curve of your neck, on the way your dress moved when you walked.

you were at the door. you were unlocking it. you were stepping inside. he couldn’t stop himself anymore.

the door closed. you were turning to face him, your face was flushed from the cold and the wine and the night, your lips were slightly parted. you were looking at him with something in your eyes that made his blood run hot.

he stepped forward. you stepped back. your back hit the wall as his hands found your waist and he was kissing you before he could do anything but feel.

slowly, his lips were moving against yours like he had all the time in the world. he kissed the corner of your mouth, your jaw, the spot below your ear that made you shiver. his hands slid from your waist to your hips, pulling you closer, and you made a soft, breathless sound. he thought he might lose his mind.

“you’re so pretty,” he said against your skin, his voice rough. “you’re so pretty, and you’re mine.”

he kissed you again, harder this time, and your hands slid up to his shoulders, your fingers tangling in his hair as he backed you against the wall, his body pressinh against yours. he couldn’t get close enough, couldn’t get enough of you, couldn’t stop touching you, kissing you, wanting you.

“we should—” you started, between kisses, and he kissed the words off your lips.

“we should what?” he murmured, his mouth on your neck now. your head tipped back against the wall invitingly, you were making those sounds again, the ones that made him want to do things he’d only let himself imagine in the dark.

“we should probably go to bed, satoru,” you managed, your voice coming out breathless. he only remembered nodding in agreement.

satoru’s hands were shaking. he noticed it distantly, as he lowered you onto the bed and he was acutely, painfully aware of every point of contact between you. his hands on your waist. your legs bracketing his hips. your fingers tangled in his hair, pulling him down, pulling him closer.

he pulled back just enough to look at you. you were spread out beneath him, your hair a dark halo on his pillow— it was his room, he realized, his bed, the sheets still rumpled from the night before. having you here, in his space, in his bed, made his chest flutter with a tenderness he didn’t have words for. your lips were red and swollen, your cheeks flushed, your chest rising and falling in quick, uneven breaths. you were looking at him with an open, wanting, trusting expression.

“sweetheart, we don’t have to do anything if you don’t really want to,” he started, because he needed you to understand that he would wait. he’d already waited years, he could wait longer if you needed him to.

but you were already shaking your head, your hands sliding up his chest to his shoulders, your fingers curling into the fabric of his shirt. “i want to,” you said, your voice steady and certain. “i want you. i’ve wanted you for so long.”

he kissed you again, slower this time, deeper, trying to pour everything he felt into the press of his lips against yours. your mouth opened under his, letting him taste you— the wine from dinner, the salt on your lips, something that was just you, something he’d been dreaming about for longer than he cared to admit.

his hands moved, sliding from your hips to the hem of your dress, his fingers brushing against the warm skin of your thighs. he felt you shiver, felt your breath catch and pulled back to look at your face.

“okay?” he asked.

you nodded, your eyes dark, your lips parted. “okay.”

he pulled the dress up, slow, savoring the reveal of skin, the way your stomach tensed under his fingers, the way your hands came up to help, impatiently pulling the fabric over your head and tossing it somewhere into the dark of the room. and then you were beneath him in nothing but your underwear, your skin warm and soft under his hands, and he had to stop for a moment. he had to stop and look at you, had to let himself see you, really see you, the way he’d been wanting to for years.

“fuck,” he said, voice heatedly hoarse. “god, you’re gorgeous.”

your hands were on his shirt now, tugging at the buttons. he helped you pull it over his head, hissing as your fingers touched his heated skin, leaving trails of fire in their wake. you sat up, just enough to press your mouth to his shoulder, his collarbone, the hollow of his throat, and he made a sound he didn’t recognize, something low and desperate, his hands fisting in the sheets beside your thighs.

“toru,” you breathed against his skin, the name sending a shudder through him.

he pulled back, looking at you, memories leading him to all the times he wanted to hear you say his name like that, to be the one who got to have you like this.

“say it again,” he said, and his voice broke on the words.

your hand came up to cup his face, your thumb brushing his cheekbone. “toru,” you said again, soft as a promise. “toru, i want you.”

“i know,” he said. “i know. let me— let me—”

he kissed his way down your body. your neck, your collarbone, the soft swell of your breasts. he took his time, savoring every inch of you, the way you gasped when his mouth found sensitive skin, the way your fingers tangled in his hair, the way your hips lifted off the bed, seeking more. he wanted to map you, memorize you, learn every sound you made, every place that made you shiver, every secret language your body spoke.

he reached the waistband of your underwear, and he looked up at you, asking without words. you were watching him, your lips parted, your chest heaving, and you nodded, once, your fingers tightening in his hair.

he pulled them off, slow, and soon you were bare beneath him. he had to close his eyes for a moment, taking a breath to steady himself against the overwhelming tide of want that crashed through him. when he opened them again, you were still watching him, the complete trust in your expression melting his insides.

as the cool air hit your overheated skin, he felt the way you shivered beneath him, saw that trust brief flicker into self-consciousness. he didn’t give you time to retreat into it.

he leaned in, pressing a slow kiss to the inside of your knee, then higher along your thigh. he took his time with and he relished in the way your body reacted, the subtle tension, the shift in your breathing. it sent a quiet satisfaction through him.

“so pretty,” he murmured against your skin, his voice low, letting the words linger as much as the touch. he felt the way your muscles tightened in response, since you reacted to even the smallest things. “relax for me, baby.”

you tried— he could see it, feel it— but you were wound tight, every breath shallow, your chest rising and falling too quickly. your body gave you away long before you said anything.

“you have no idea,” he whispered reverently. “you have no idea what you do to me.”

he kissed his way up, his lips brushing against your skin, his hands holding your hips. he could feel you trembling, could hear your breathing quicken, could smell you— warm, sweet, the scent of your arousal making his mouth water.

when his mouth finally found you, you cried out, your back arching off the bed. he held you steady, his hands firmer on your hips, and he lost himself in you. the taste of you, the sound of you, the way you said his name— toru, toru, please— like a prayer and a plea all at once.

he worked you with his mouth, his tongue, learning the rhythm of your pleasure, the way you tightened around him, the way your thighs shook against his shoulders.

your thighs trembled around him as he exhaled softly against your skin, satisfied.

every sound you made fed something in him. the way your breath caught, the soft, helpless noises you tried to swallow down— it all pushed him further. he didn’t rush, but he didn’t hesitate either, letting instinct take over as he shifted lower, higher, wherever your body responded the most.

when he finally pressed a finger inside you, it was slow. he felt the way you reacted instantly, your body tightening around him. his breath caught for a split second, his forehead pressing briefly against your thigh.

“fuck…” it slipped out under his breath, unfiltered, his voice low and rough. he could feel how warm and responsive you were and it affected him more than he expected. “so tight… so wet… all for me?”

you didn’t answerbut he didn’t need you to. your body said everything.

he added another finger, carefully, watching your reaction, feeling the way you adjusted around him. there was a brief resistance, a flicker of tension, but it melted quickly, replaced by pleasure that made your whole body shift beneath him.

he curled his fingers, testing, searching— and when he found that sweet spot, he knew; your reaction was immediate, sending an equally sharp thrill through him.

he kept you there, working that spot with slow precision at first, then building pressure, rhythm, intensity. his mouth followed, never stopping, never giving you a second to come back down, pushing you higher and higher. satoru was having the time of his life. everything else faded— the room, the air, time itself— until it was just this. just you, reacting beneath him, and him, completely focused, entirely consumed with the way your body responded to him.

he wanted to make you fall apart. he wanted to be the only one who made you feel like this, wanted to be the only one who ever got to see you like this— so open and vulnerable, his. he thought about all the times he’d watched you from across the room, all the times he’d wanted to touch you, hold you, have you. he thought about the years he’d spent wanting and waiting, never letting himself believe that this could be real. and now you were here, beneath him, your hands in his hair, your voice breaking on his name, and he was going to worship you. he was going to spend the rest of his life worshiping you.

you came with a cry, your body arching, your fingers pulling at his hair, and he held you through it, his mouth still on you, his hands still steady on your hips, not letting go until the last tremor faded and you collapsed back against the pillows, boneless, breathless, your chest heaving

he crawled up your body, lips leaving a trail of kisses up your stomach, your ribs, the space between your breasts. when he reached your face, you were looking at him with glazed eyes, high on the afterglow of your first orgasm.

“satoru,” you said, your voice wrecked, it was the most beautiful thing he’d ever heard.

he kissed you so you could taste yourself on his lips, and your arms came around him, pulling him closer, your legs parting to let him settle between them. he was hard, aching, his body pressed against yours, and he could feel the heat of you, the wetness, the way you were already moving against him, seeking more.

he pulled back, just enough to look at you.

“we can stop at this, you know?” although he wasn’t sure if he could.

but you were already shaking your head, your hands sliding down his back, your fingers finding the waistband of his pants. “i want to,” you said, your voice steady. “i want you. all of you.”

he helped you push his pants down, his boxers, and then there was nothing between you, skin against skin, and he had to breathe deeply to stop himself from losing control right there.

you reached down, your hand wrapping around him tentatively, making his hips jerk, a groan tearing from his throat. you were watching his face, your expression intent, curious, and he realized again that this was new for you too. that you’d never done this with anyone, that you’d been waiting too, holding back, keeping yourself from wanting.

he had to catch your wrist to stop you and get himself under control before he did something embarrassing.

“if you keep doing that, baby,” his voice was strained, “this is going to be over very fast.”

you laughed, soft and breathless, and the sound of it made him smile even as his heart was pounding and his hands were shaking. he kissed you again, softer, and reached for the nightstand, for the drawer where he’d put things.

he took his time. he wanted to be careful, wanted to be gentle, wanted to do this right. his fingers found you again, testing, making sure you were ready, and you were— you were wet and warm and you made the most incredible sound when he pushed inside, just one finger, then two, stretching you properly.

“toru,” you said, your voice urgent, your hips lifting, seeking. “please. i’m ready. i’ve been ready. i’ve been waiting—”

he couldn’t wait anymore. he positioned himself above you, his weight on his forearms, his face inches from yours. he could see every detail of your face, every fleck of color in your eyes, every freckle, every line. he could see the trust there, the want, the love, and it undid him.

he pushed inside, slow, and the feeling— god, the feeling. you were tight and hot and perfect. you were both breathing, ragged, uneven, your hands on his back, your legs wrapped around his waist, and he was inside you, finally, after years of wanting, of waiting, of dreaming.

“you’re crying, satoru,” you said, your voice wondering, and he realized that his eyes were wet, tears sliding down his face from the corners of his eyes.

he laughed, or sobbed, or both. “i am? i’m just—” he started, but couldn’t finish. he was, undoubtedly, a little overwhelmed. because you kissed him, soft and sweet, and your hands cradled his face, thumbs brushing away his tears, and you looked at him like he was the only thing in the world that mattered.

“i know,” you said. “i know, me too.”

he moved. slow at first, gentle, savoring every moment, every sound, every feeling. your hands were everywhere, your nails dragging down his back, your fingers tangling in his hair, your palms flat against his chest, feeling his heartbeat. and he was watching you; couldn’t stop watching you, the way your face changed with every thrust, the way your lips parted, the way your eyes fluttered closed and then opened again, like you needed to see him too.

“toru,” you whined into his mouth. “toru, i—”

he kissed you, swallowing the words, and moved faster, harder, his hips driving into yours, the bed creaking beneath you, the headboard hitting the wall. you met him thrust for thrust, your legs tight around his waist, your heels digging into the backs of his thighs, pulling him deeper.

he was losing control. he could feel it slipping, the careful restraint he’d been holding onto, the need to be gentle, to be careful, to be everything you deserved. but you were pulling him under, your hands, your mouth, your body, and he couldn’t hold back anymore.

he shifted, changed the angle, and you cried out, your back arching, fingers digging into his shoulders. “there— toru, there—”

he drove into you, again and again, chasing your pleasure, his own forgotten in the face of yours. he wanted to see you fall apart, wanted to feel you come undone around him, wanted to be the only one who gave you this, who made you feel like this.

he’d had sex before, obviously. he’d thought he knew what it was, what it felt like. he’d been wrong. he’d been so wrong. this wasn’t sex. this was something else. something that had stripped him bare, that had torn down every wall he’d ever built, that had left him shaking and crying and more alive than he’d ever been.

you came with a scream, your body tightening around him, nails raking down his back, and he followed a moment later, his face buried in your neck, your name on his lips, everything going white and bright and then— then there was nothing but the two of you, tangled together, breathing the same air, hearts pounding in the same rhythm.

he collapsed on top of you, his weight pressing you into the mattress. he couldn’t do anything but lie there, his face pressed into your hair, his arms wrapped around you, his body still trembling with the aftershocks.

you were shaking too, he realized. or maybe that was him. maybe you were both shaking, both coming down from something that had been building for years and finally crested.

your hands were in his hair, soft, gentle, stroking through the damp strands. your voice was soft, murmuring something he couldn’t quite hear.

he held you. you held him. the room was dark, the curtains drawn against the city, the only light a thin line of silver where the moon slipped through. outside, the world was still turning, still spinning through its ordinary rhythms, but here, in this room, in this bed, time had stopped. there was no before. there was no after. there was only this: your breath against his chest, the weight of your hand on his skin, the quiet, sacred space between you that was finally, finally closed.

his hand moved to your back, tracing the curve of your spine, the dip of your waist. your skin was warm under his fingers, soft, and he wanted to wanted to learn every inch of you the way he’d learned the shape of your laugh, the cadence of your voice, the small, quiet sounds you made when you were thinking.

“what are you thinking about?” you asked. your voice was drowsy, the words slurring at the edges.

he smiled into your hair. “just you.”

your hand moved on his chest, your fingers finding his heartbeat, pressing against it like you were trying to feel it from the inside. “it’s fast,” you murmured.

“it’s been fast since the day i met you.”

you laughed again, softer this time. the sound made his chest vibrate, his arms tightened around you. you snuggled closer, your face pressed into his neck, your breath warm and even against his skin.

“i’m tired,” you mumbled.

“sleep.”

“you’ll still be here?”

his heart clenched. the question was small, quiet, like you were afraid of the answer. like you still thought he might disappear, might wake up and realize this was a dream, might go back to being the person who stood in doorways and didn’t knock.

he kissed your forehead. your temple. the soft skin below your ear. “i’ll still be here,” he said. “i’m not going anywhere.”

you made a sound— soft and content— and your body relaxed against his, your breathing slowing, your hand going still on his chest. he lay there in the dark, your weight a warm, steady pressure against him, your heartbeat a slow, even rhythm beneath his hand.

he thought about the years he’d spent waiting. the years he’d spent wanting. he thought about the nights he’d lain in this bed, in the room next to yours, and imagined what it would be like to hold you like this. his imagination hadn’t come close. nothing had come close.

he pressed a kiss to the top of your head.

“i love you.” he whispered to your sleeping face.

you shifted in your sleep, your hand curling against his chest, your lips parting in a soft sigh. he smiled. he closed his eyes. for the first time in as long as he could remember, he slept without dreaming.

🏷️ taglist: @rikiswifeyyy @tbzzluvr @stvrw1tch @blablabluh @beereadzzz @amzpinkchick @gabstee45 @gojoskeychain @piercddprincess @heyhihellowhatsup @itzeeeee @xznyana @yourvoicesareperfect @minionnnnnsworld @tojis-side-chick @mydeardove @satones @queenofbeingvain @tkyotokyo @astutetwilight @neutralizeeverymaninsight @twiddledoom384 @neougly @gooseloosecaboose @anakinlovers333 @julieno1lover @fluffy-ay @telurkicap @qb48xnap101nr @cupc4keics (i just tagged nice people in the comments and some from tags)

"i'll make a deal with you. i'll pierce your heart, sure," he smirks and holds back another cackle "but you must name your first born after me."

"oh my god, no."

"second?"

"no!"

"thi-"

"satoru!" you huff, and he looks down at you with mock offence. "you said anything! how dare you talk to a divine being such as myself so hastily. i have it within my rights to refuse you now, unpleasant girl."

you let out a dissatisfied groan. all the fairytales of the great cupid gojo being a kind and giving soul were definitely all falsities.

"how about i spread your name? every dinner i hold, every ball i host, your name on my tongue to all the important people of this land. how does that sound? good word will do more for you than a banner or my first born."

"hmmm..." he pretends to ponder, then sticks one finger in the air. "okay! you've got yourself a deal. chuck in a tapestry in your master bedroom and i'm sold!"

"i swear to-"

"now, now! no swearing on my good lords name. i will do as you wish, just cross your fingers when you're about to say your vows, and i'll appear right away to seal the deal. yes?"

"yes."

"perfect." he smiles, jumping off the soft grass to hoist himself suspended in the air, flapping his feathered wings.

"i'll be watching!" he calls as he flys into the clouds above, you let go of a breath and tip your head to the sky, hoping and praying to god that this works out.

~

that afternoon you trudge back to your room in the castle, sour from the many fittings for a wedding dress you'd had to endure all day.

as you're about to swing the door open to your room, who other than ryomen is sitting in the centre of your bed.

"and what do you think you're doing here?"

"can i not see my bride to be? i yearn to make us at least friendly before this wedding." he smiles, jumping to his feet and ushering over to you, taking your hand to press a warm kiss to your knuckles.

now, to say you'd never seen him before would be a lie. you'd seen him in portraits sent to your castle from his as a sort of present, and he wasn't bad looking. but, he definitely looked bad looking now that you see him in the flesh. with black ink covering his enter body in tribal patterns, and his dress wear hardly put on correctly, he seemed more like a commoner than a royal prince. he wasn't bad looking, but he was bad looking. hm.. nothing a few classes in etiquette couldn't fix, you supposed.

"i wish to make no such connection with you. i have a plan in mind that doesn't require any of..." you vaguely gesture to his hand holding yours, still. "this."

he sucks in a breath through gritted teeth and lets go of a breathy chuckle.

"they said you'd be hard to swoon, but i'll have you know, i'm quite the gentleman."

he smirks, his strange facial markings bend and move with his skin as his cheeks scrunch up, markings you'd never seen before. he was from a land where people thought marking meant power, and for a man with so many, you'd guess he had quite a lot.

you couldn't say you weren't a little scared of him. after all, he was said to be quite cruel to those who crossed him, earning him the name the king of the cursed.

great choice, dad.

he was bigger than you'd imagined, stronger, too. nevertheless, you naturally wanted to know more about your future husband.

"although i don't think we should bother with formalities, i would like to get to know you better... on a deeper level."

he seems to enjoy that, because he cracks a grin and falls back into your bed. his manners were appalling, but you wouldn't say he was completely un-endearing.

"so would i, princess." he shoves over, then pats a spot next to him on the mattress.

you look from him to his hand, to the spot. sitting on a bed with a man? that's definitely new..

you shook your head and decided that if you were to be reckless, at least it would be with your future man. you slip into the spot, suddenly very aware of his large he is.

"what do you wanna know?" he yawns, leaning back on his arms.

you giggle at the way he was so careless in front of you, and decide that maybe it's time to get rid of the stuck up princess agenda. you mimic him, and hesitantly lean back on your arms as well, (something he finds absolutely adorable).

"i guess i'd just like to know your story, what life was like where you came from." you ask curiosly, "and what's with the markings." you cheekily add.

"oh? we can't be friendly but you'd like to know my life story? cute."

never mind, you were going back to the whole stuck up princess thing.

"why, your attitude is absolutely—"

you're cut off by his finger to your lips, you flush, then quiet down as he starts to answer your questions in full.

he talks for what seems like hours. about his own kingdom, how he grew up, how he got his 'tattoos' (not called markings, apparently.) and you sit and listen, surprisingly. he was an interesting soul with an elaborate story to tell, you were always fond of stories.

he, in turn, lets you talk about your own life. your roles as princess, your favourite maid, your crazy dictator dad.

"he sounds horrible. bet you're glad i'm becoming the new king, huh?"

"i'm not too sure you'll be much better."

"oh shut your— ahem —shoosh."

you muffle a laugh at that, at least he was trying to rid his vulgarity.

you find yourself inching closer to the man as the night grows old, each sentence from his mouth pulls your closer to his being like an ever-pulling magnet.

"cats? what are cats?" you annunciate every letter like a child learning how to speak, and he gawks at you like you'd just killed his, well, cat.

"they're like.... like a cow, but way smaller, and skinnier. and they have a flatter face? sort of more like a rat, really. if you were to smash together a cow and a rat and gave it a skinnier body, then—"

"—you've lost me."

he stops with his mouth wide open, then melts into a smile. "i'll have a cat sent here. just for you, my lady. you must have one... we must have one."

flattering, he'd pay all that money just so you could experience an animal. maybe he wasn't shaping up to be so bad.

"i'd like that."

the dark of night creeps in through the tall windows until the candles are doing most of the work keeping you alight. servants aren't passing by the door anymore and chatter from down the hallway dissipates and draws quiet. not you, nor sukuna remember the dinner you were supposed to attend.

you’re now sitting with your shoulders brushing against one another on the bed, your legs tucked under with skirts creasing and folding beneath you. your crown sits resting on the table, abandoned the second you started settling in properly, and your future king noticed immediately.

“you always ditch it that fast?” he queries.

“mhm, gives me a headache.”

“funny,” he says. “it looks real heavy.”

“it is.”

he seems to lean into you more, and drops his voice a decibel. "when i'm king, i'll have you need not wear it. or, i'll fashion a crown not so hefty."

"what a gentlemen. at this rate, we'll be chummy enough to get married of our own accord."

“now, that wouldn't be so bad, would it?” he smiles.

"suppose not." you reply, nudging his shoulder with your own. he laughs, then pushes you back harder, turning your peaceful chat into a shoving brawl, with each of you taking turns play fighting with one another.

"oi! that hurt!" he squirms as you jab a finger into his chest, and retaliates by grabbing your waist and tickling the sensitive nerves.

"excuse you! that is no place to touch a princess." you halfheartedly scold, and this seems to flip a switch.

he stops tickling, and instead moves to straddle you, pushing you up and trapping you against the head of your bed. you huff a breath in surprise as he so boldly leans down to look you straight in the eye.

"i think you forget a prince holds more weight in the royal hierarchy, my lady. i'd watch your mouth, if i were you."

you're stumped for words, staring at this man as he casually cages you to your own bed, in your own room. the look in his eye is serious, and you're slightly on edge at the potential he had at the moment.

he drops the serious act as soon as he sees that sliver of fear in your expression, bursting out in laughter as he pulls away.

"your reactions are just too good, m' sorry, [name]. i'm just joking around."

you pretend to scoff, turning your head away as to hide the heat radiating from your skin, and he taunts you further.

"gonna have to get used to that, m' afraid. seeing you all embarrassed really does it for me." he chuckles.

god, how could someone be so endearing, yet so annoyingly annoying. you couldn't decide weather or not you liked his constant bipolarness or not.

"i can already tell you're a handful and i've only just met you." you throw at him.

he laughs at that, then lets the silence sit and stew for a while. eventually, your conversation starts back up, and he end up talking some more.

about the food where he’s from, how everything is well spiced and eaten with hands, how his mother used to smack his knuckles when he stole from the pot too early. about the first fight he ever won, the first one he lost, and about the scars he didn’t bother to mark over with tattoos.

you listen to each and every word, becoming more and more interested with each moment he spoke of home.

not once do you interrupt him, roll your eyes. you don’t do the polite nodding thing you were taught, no. you just listen with your chin in your palm and your pretty eyes on him.

“you’re quite a good little listener, aren't you,” he smiles.

“not normally. most other people bore me, is all. it's' a good change.”

that earns you a curious look, then another one of his accomplished smiles.

“good,” he looks from your eyes to your lips. “i’d hate to be like most people.”

hm.

hours pass by, one thing after another. you tell him about sneaking sweets under your mattress as a child, and about the horrible english tutor you made cry a few times. about how you learned to read faster than anyone expected and then hid it because you liked knowing things no one else did in a world where girls were supposed to be illiterate.

that intrigued him. a girl with smarts, that absolutely sucked him in.

now he knew he didn't have to dumb himself down for you like his father had asked him to, in fear of 'scaring the princess off with your need for deeper understanding.' that sounded like a semi-compliment, but nothing from his dad ever was, so he tried his best to stay moderately mid-range.

but now, he was asking you all sorts of weird and wonderful questions. two am hits, and he's just finished listening to you explain why your favourite piece of literature was The Decameron, and not The Romance of the Rose, which you'd justified rather well, he'd admit. maybe you didn't like the same books, but he was definitely fond of your ability to speak your mind and share your own insight, a trait so rare in royal blood of the time.

"i do admire your perspective, although you're wrong all the same."

"uhm. thanks?"

"you're welcome."

when your voice starts to drag out and get all slurred at the ends of your sentences, sukuna has no problem pointing it out.

“you’re tired.”

“i’m fine.”

he shakes his head. “what a little liar.”

you glare at him as he looks as if he's about to stand.

“hey.. stay,” you say, quiet yet firm.

“i wasn’t planning on leaving,” he says just as quietly. "just getting comfortable in my new bed." that last part was cocky, and he shifts until his body is flatter against the bed.

"your new—what?—" you scoff.

but you're shut up real quick when his hand sprawls over your own, intertwining your fingers together like a woven basket. you sigh, but don't pull away from him. you move to lay next to him, your head hitting the soft pillow with about half a meter between the two of you, connected by your interlocked hands.

"good night, [name]."

"good night, ryomen."

you watch as the flickering of candles dance across his cut face, the lines of his tattoos such a perfect contrast in this lighting.

you couldn't possibly sleep, not with a man in your bed, this was all far too foreign. was it normal to feel this hot?

as you're arguing internally on weather or not to close your eyes, one of sukunas opens. “jeez, stop staring and sleep,” he breathily laughs. “i’ll be here for you to oogle tomorrow, y'know. can't exactly disappear.”

you're too flushed to reply, only nodding in response, and squeezing your eyes shut.

now it was his turn to stare.

~

you wake the next morning to find him in the courtyards.

he's got on a new set of strange foreign clothing, his hair's loose, and he's laughing with your guard, toji, like they’d known each other for years. he spots you and straightens up immediately, his expression lightening up like a mask sliding into place.

“morning, princess.”

“you’re still here?”

“that’s usually how the whole 'staying' thing works.”

you huff, but you don’t tell him to go.

he follows you everywhere that day, like a maid would. carrying things when you gesture at them, stepping in when someone annoys you too much about the upcoming wedding prep, and walking at your pace without comment on the way you sort of diddle dally.

not bad, you could get used to this.

by the second day it feels strange when he isn’t immediately nearby you.

where is that man...

you think, strutting about the halls of the castle in a mood at the lack of finance by your side.

just as you're about to round the corner into the grass yards, you're jabbed in the side.

"hey!" you yelp, but you're soon soothed by big arms wrapping around your waist.

"guess who." a deep, raspy voice announces.

"don't you think it's a little early in our acquaintance to be touching me so fondly?" you tut, leaning back into him regardless.

"not at all. in fact, we should touch more." he replies, letting go of your waist but grabbing hold of your wrist; pulling you towards the 'secret garden' you'd shown him yesterday on your stroll.

"and where are you taking me?" you giggle while being dragged. he just shakes his head and pulls you faster, faster, until you're sat on a toppled over log resting atop fluffy grass.

your garden was beautiful. behind a crumbling wall and adorning a central water fountain, the flora and fauna thrived uninterrupted here.

with whistling birds overhead and towering wildflowers blooming from every direction, the sanctuary felt perfectly you. wild and beautiful.

"i admire how well you've kept this place, especially all by yourself without anyone else knowing of it's existence." sukuna chuckles, turning on his heels to take in every angle of the wonderland he'd first seen yesterday.

"hm? you're saying you're surprised i'm competent enough to tend to plants?" you tease, he just clicks his tongue and swivels around to grab a fallen trunk off the floor.

out of his pocket comes a small carving knife, you look at him curiously.

he sits on the grass with a thump, and begins carving at the thick, palm sized piece of wood.

"what are you up to?" you query.

"making my princess a gift. carving is very sentimental where i'm from, my love."

you flush at the name. you'd realised recently that he did that to fluster you, and/or shut you up. either way, it felt nice having someone talk so openly to you without fear of being beheaded by your father if they were to say the wrong thing.

a present, huh? well, it's only fitting you make him something too.

you kneel in a grass patch a few meters away from him, one with daisies spotted in the green. you begin picking, twisting, and tying.

"aw, copying my idea?" he throws over his shoulder at you, winking when you catch his gaze.

"flower crowns are hardly reminiscent of carving." you explain.

this seems to shut him up, because for the next half an hour you two spend the time crafting away, slipping closer and closer until you're sat side by side at the foot of the toppled over log.

once you’ve strung the last flower into place, you look up at the man besides you to find he's already staring, happily. he holds up what he'd been working on, a heart shaped carving with swirls and indentations etched into the surface. such a breathtaking make for a man you only though was all looks and wit.

"for you, my lady." he holds the heart out, waiting eagerly for you to take it.

you smile, and do just that.

you examine each and every orifice of the thing, it was expertly done.

"this is the prettiest thing i've ever seen... you're very talented, ryomen." you compliment, finding the biggest smile plastered across his princely face.

"not quite as pretty as you, love."

okay, you walked into that one.

setting the heart aside, you take one of the daisy crowns from your lap, push a few locks from his face, then rest it softly against his head.

he looks at your hands as you do, fascinated by your gentleness.

"i must say, this one suits me much better than my real one, y'know." he jokes, watching as you remove your crown and replace it with your own flower one.

"i agree. instead of fashioning me a new crown in our future kingdom, we should spend each morning making a daisy one. hm?" you suggest. it was just a throw away comment, really, it was. but the certainty in sukuna's eyes paired with his enthusiastic nod tells you he's planning on doing just that.

"you're a genius." he triumphantly claps, "a hot genius."

"hey, what did i say about being so forward—"

"a hot, sexy, genius!"

~

the next few days follow a similar pattern.

wake up, find sukuna, walk the palace, and bond over anything and everything.

today, five days after meeting, you're speaking of the flowers you'd like at the wedding.

"first i was keen on white roses, but now i think i'd like large daisies... what do you think?" you asked, arm in arm as you both strolled through the front gardens.

"aw, you'd change your mind because of a moment we shared making flower crowns? you sure are cute." he'd tease in his husky voice.

you roll your eyes, nudging him with your elbow, but all he did was pull you in closer by the arm.

"i think that's a wonderful idea. white daisies to commemorate the day we decided to abolish real crowns. quite poetic, i think." he smiles.

"must you always find deeper meaning in everything i say?" you throw back at him, and he lets out a half laugh.

"but of course, i'm nothing if not an over analyser."

"i think the term you're looking for is: paranoia—"

"semantics! anyway." he suddenly stops, pulling a small box from his pocket and turning to face you.

"i've chosen your wedding gift, by the way. i wanted to give it to you on the day, but i'd much prefer if to see you in it now and the days leading up." he announces, chucking you a smirk before pulling you in closer by the waist so you're mere inches apart.

you'd since figured out your future king was physical touches biggest advocate, with his hands wondering all over you whenever he wanted you near.

you blush all the same, your eyes dilating as you peer into his redder ones.

you watch as he opens the small, mysterious box, then let out a gasp at the piece he pulls out.

a necklace made from your preferred rare metal, a delicate heart pendant hanging from the centre that glimmered with gems that refract the rays of sun.

he turns it in his palm, letting you get a closer look. "...so?"

"it's stunning..." you breathe, still in awe at the way it casted diamonds of light across his marked skin.

"i'm glad you like it, since you'll be wearing it until the day you die." he jokes, slinging the clasp open and draping the thin chain over the back of your neck.

"a pretty necklace for an even prettier girl."

you feel the newly fastened gift, pinching it in your fingers and twisting it with care. this felt almost like a peace offering, like this single treasure was the beginning of something a little more than just an arranged marriage.

"i love it, ryomen. but whatever will i get you? i haven't anything prepared."

"give yourself to me and we'll call it even." he winks.

there's that heat in your stomach again...

~

that night, there's no guards stomping past your door, nor is there maids whispering in the hallways. you felt at ease in your quarters.

there's the faint crackle and pop of the fireplace or the occasional owl calling from beyond the open balcony as you’re sat at your vanity, fixing up your hair in slow maneuvers, the thin straps of your silken night gown slipping over your shoulders every time you move.

it’s far shorter than what you’d normally wear, much lighter, too. the fabric's soft against your thighs as you stand to finish the last of your self maintenance.

you catch your reflection in the beautiful wooden vanity and pause. the necklace rests against your chest, the heart pendant glimmering faintly in the candle light, it really was gorgeous.

you're startled when there’s a knock at your door.

you stiffen up for a second, then relax when the knock comes again in a special tune only sukuna had been rapping.

“come in,” you call.

ryomen steps inside, stopping dead in his tracks when his eyes fan over your body. his stare drags from your face down to the cut of your nightgown, then back up again just as quickly.

“i—” he clears his throat with a choppy laugh. “i didn’t realise you were… ah... if you’re uncomfortable, i can leave.”

you sigh, “don’t be ridiculous,” you say, setting your hair brush down. “you’re to be my husband in a matter of days. it hardly matters what i’m wearing.”

his lips twitch upwards into a very small, very cheeky smile.

“hardly matters,” he echoes under his breathe, looking amazed with himself at the vision in front of him.

“are you planning on standing in my doorway all night? it's cold in the hall."

that snaps him out of it, and he shuts the door behind him and walks further into the room, he's a little nervous now, he’s hyper aware of where he’s placing his feet.

"why'd you come, hm?" you question with genuine curiosity, no judgment.

“js' wanted to see you,” he admits, rubbing the back of his neck bashfully. “guess i couldn’t sleep.”

“again?” you tease.

“again.”

you watch him as he approaches your bed, sitting down at the edge of it with a small exhale. he looks less princely and more man tonight.

his eyes flick to your chest, and before you can comment, his hand reaches out, fingertips brushing the heart pendant.

“you’re wearing it,” he says, softer than you’ve ever heard him.

“..of course i am.”

“even to bed?"

“well, it is important to me.”

you try not to coo at his shy expression. you'd reduced the great ryomen sukuna to a pleased, blushing mess.

“i’m glad,” he says with a cheesy smile.

“lay down,” you offer, nodding to the pillows.

he arches a brow, still grinning like a madman. “bold tonight, aren't we."

“mhm, don’t ruin it for yourself.”

he chuckles and stands long enough to shrug off his coat, then the heavier layers of vests and undercoats beneath. you try not to gawk at his newly exposed biceps as he folds the fabrics over a chair, the short sleeves of his undershirt stretching over his thick arms when he moves. he climbs onto the bed, settling on his back with a loud sigh.

“there,” he says. "m' comfortable.”

hm.. should you capitalise on the opportunity? i mean, he’s been bold all week with the teasing, the arm and hand holding, dragging you into lush gardens and corners of the castle.

maybe it’s your turn.

you climb onto the bed and crawl over to him, the skirt of your gown bunching beneath your knees and riding up your pretty thighs. he watches you the entire time with his red eyes turning dark and curious.

“what're you doing,” he asks gently.

“returning the favour.”

you slide up beside him, pressing your body hot against his side and resting your head just below the crook of his shoulder. your hands spider across his chest until they're resting on his pec.

you'd think he'd gone mute by the way he adorably jitters to a sudden stillness. then, after a minute of adjusting to your heat, he whistles. “well. this is new.”

“don’t look so disdained,” you whine.

“i’m not! i'm not. i’m.. impressed.”

“by what?"

“by you.”

you roll your eyes, but you don’t deprive him of this newfound touch.

his arm comes around your back, fingering the silk of your nightgown slowly, then with more conviction when you don’t protest his advances. his fingers thread into your hair, stroking ever so gently along your scalp.

it feels good. you try and fail to suppress a content moan, and he gets choked up at the pretty sound.

“oh wow, did you just—”

“shh.”

he laughs at you quietly and resumes his ministrations.

“comfortable?” he asks.

“mhm.”

“perfect.”

silence settles, but it’s not awkward or anything. your hand taps and scratches against his bulky chest, you're feeling the steady rise and fall beneath your palm with a solemn smile.

“ryomen,” you say.

“hm?"

“if we’re married…”

he tilts his head slightly so he can see you better against his shoulder. “when.”

“when,” you correct. “we need to agree on something.”

“urgh, that sounds serious. i'm having a good time right now.” he jokes, although he knows, that you know, that he loves talking seriously with you.

“it is.”

"go on, then." he insists.

“we have to respect one another,” you say. “fully. if one of us wants something, or doesn’t want something, we listen. no forcing each other and absolutely no weird hidden resentment.”

he does a once over of your face for a few seconds before nodding.

“alright,” he says. “that’s fair.”

“and,” you continue, “if this doesn’t work. if we don’t… if we don’t end up loving each other.”

the words feel all twiddled up and strange in your mouth, “we could see other people,” you finish. “quietly, of course. discreetly.. as long as it doesn’t embarrass the crown or my father.”

you regret saying that as soon as it comes out, but you know some ground rules need to be set before anything gets too serious. and if your current feelings were reciprocated, you'd say it was getting pretty serious.

his hand stops brushing your hair entirely.

“you’d be alright with that?” he asks with an unreadable drawl.

“it would be practical. for the both of us.”

“practical,” he repeats.

you cringe but continue. “i don’t want either of us trapped,” you admit. “it's just... i’ve had enough of that.”

...

“if that’s what you wanted,” he says carefully, “i’d entertain it.”

entertain? you're then reminded that he will in fact be king, and you his mere wife. was this all coming from a place of self righteousness? was this inappropriate to be discussing with someone who would soon hold more power than you? you didn't want to dive into that right now, you had to scope his feelings out a little more.

“and you?” you ask cautiously.

“what, if you couldn’t stand me?” he gives a small huff of laughter. “i suppose i’d have to do the same. quietly, though."

the idea of him with someone else rips your heart clean in two. you hate to picture another girl at his side, laughing at his jokes.. wearing a special necklace he bought her.

god, you really don’t like that.

like a moth to a flame you scoot closer to him shyly.

“hmm?” he murmurs.

“nothing.”

he resumes petting your hair and staring off into the roof littered with paintings of intricate star constellations.

“i don’t want that,” he says after a minute.

“want what?"

“other people.”

you look up at him, “you just agreed to it?"

“i agreed because you asked,” he replies. “doesn’t mean i want it.”

oh, wow. okay.

“i don’t either,” you confess quietly.

his thumb brushes along your temple, slow and thoughtful.

“then we won’t need to if that's what fate wants,” he says, and you nod against him.

fate.

you're pummelled in the face with that stupid word, now flashes of cupid sift thought your mind.

satoru.

goodness, you’d nearly forgotten.

cross your fingers when you say your vows, and he’ll appear. he’ll pierce your heart, then seal the deal.

this marriage had to work out, you had the god of love on your side.

but you begin to wonder, did you really need a divine intervention? was this connection so shallow that you'd need a god to help you fall in love with a man you were sure you'd already fallen for?

you glance at the necklace resting between you, at the carved wooden heart sitting on your bedside table that you'd admired every night since he'd given it to you.

maybe it already was working...

maybe you didn’t need divine interference at all.

you smile to yourself, pressing your cheek more firmly against his chest.

“what’s that look for,” he whispers.

“nothing.”

“hm? but you’re smiling so hard.”

“am i not allowed?”

“you are,” he says, voice softer now. “i guess it just means i’ve done something right.”

you tilt your head up enough to meet his eyes.

“you have,” you admit.

he masks the triumphant smile that almost breaks out with a small smirk.

“careful, keep talking like that and i’ll think you’re falling for me.”

you hold his eyes captive as you answer back. “and what if i already have?”

you got him there, he doesn’t have a witty reply.

his hand cups the side of your face instead, thumb brushing lightly over your cheek.

“then, good,” he mutters quietly.

you close your eyes listening to the badump badump rhythm of his heart beneath your ear, feeling the warmth of him surrounding all of you.

gojo’s arrow will only make this connection stronger, you tell yourself.

it will only enforce what’s already there.

..right?

you hold him a little tighter.. just in case.

~

it's time.

the bells are ringing and floating through the air over the cliff face your wedding was held, white drapes adoring an arch that looked over the views of your soon to be kingdom.

you thought this day would bring stress, hardships, agony for your future. but instead? you can only feel the sheer and utter excitement and hopefulness for what this day means for you and ryomen, the man you'd come to adore.

just before the big reveal, he'd pulled you aside to admire your beauty in his lonesome. his mouth stayed slack as he took you in for the first time.

"holy... wow." he sighed, grabbing for your hand and spinning you around, gawking over every part of the beautiful white dress adorning your body.

"you look.... oh my good lord." he was utterly in awe. a feeling that multiples ten fold when he spots the necklace around your neck.

"had to make sure i wore my favourite pendant." you smiled.

"you're not real... you're a myth, a goddess created by those who wish to see me pathetically infatuated with someone." he whines, shaking his head as he stares at you up and down.

you thanked him after he'd gotten it out of his system, hugging him softly before being ushered off to start the ceremony.

and now here you stand, under the bow of the arch, hand in hand with your ryomen, feeling everything good in the world pulsating through your veins.

but, as the officiate was about to prompt you to say your vows, you feel a presence appear somewhere above you, high in the sky.

he was here, satoru.

you gulp, and weigh out your options.

sukuna stands there proudly, like he's eagerly ready for his long awaited life with you to finally begin.

you wanted him, his love, his support, his guidance thought this marriage. you might of already had it, so what harm could a little push from a divinity do?

you take a deep breath, smiling sweetly at sukuna, then you do it. you twist your fingers over one another as a signal for gojo to pull the arrow back, and shoot it through your heart. the first person you laid eyes on, sukuna, would be the one you'd fall head over hells for and vice versa.

gojo had been waiting patiently, preparing his bow to be shot, checking everything was in proper order. despite being a menace who was severely disliked among all the gods, he did take his craft seriously.

he spots the signal from his place in the sky, then smiles readily to himself. he had a perfectly clean shot, you were in perfect view, this couldn't go wrong.

well, that's was the plan, at least.

as your pointer crossed your middle, you awaited the sting, standing there with your eyes glued to sukuna who was, in his own head, planning where he would take you for your honey moon.

only, said sting never arrived. the only thing you felt was a hard knock to your chest against the pendant that sat flat against your chest..

was this how it was supposed to go? you weren't feeling any different than before...

the only thing that felt out of the ordinary, was the now very watchful eyes of a deity shooting through you from up above. you nervously grit your teeth, peering up quickly to see what the big idea was, and you lock eyes with him, with satoru, who's iris flash a pretty pink before dilating like he'd seen something utterly enthralling.

and he had, you.

because unlike any other time he'd done this before, gojo satoru, god of love, had messed up...

his aim must've been off, or maybe it was the wind? but the arrow had gone off track completely. instead of piercing your heart, it instead hit the sparkling heart pendant hanging around your neck in such a way that it ricocheted off, diverting its path, and darted straight back towards him. though his heart in place of yours.

you stand still, your eyes blown wide with both rage and an unfathomable sense of... love? oh god... was this adoration? it'd seemed the arrow was working in it's full effect.

sukuna squeezes your hand, softly pulling you from your daze to look back into his eyes, exactly like you were supposed to be doing. he mouths a quick, "you okay?" before you nod and smile falsely.

you gulp, then the officiate gives the go ahead to read out your vows.

ryomen softly recounts his first, you to listen, you really do, but all you can focus on is the blooming feeling of immense need to be closer to the man in the sky, the one no one but you could see right now.

your mind was a hazy field, with gojo standing on one end and sukuna on the other, gojo had a rope tied to your wrist and sukuna a thin chain. both felt equally as wrong in a moment like this, what the hell were you supposed to do?

endure. that's what.

there was nothing you could do to stop this wedding, your father wouldn't allow it and nor would the people who needed a new king and queen.

so you bit the bullet, pushing aside the feelings you'd rather not name to spew out the vows you'd spent nights curating.

~

"what's going on?"

the look on sukuna's face genuinely makes you sick to the stomach. you can tell he's confused, distressed, not knowing why the girl he'd poured so much of himself into was acting like she'd rather be dead than with him.

all you want to do is collapse in his arms and tell him everything, that you still love him, that your feeling haven't changed, only now there was another bucketload of affection waiting to be poured all over gojo, some stupid god you never should of spoken to.

"i'm sorry, ryo. i'm just not feeling too good." you lie trying to break away from the grip he had on your wrist, "i... i need a moment." but sukuna’s fingers tighten when you try to pull away.

“a moment?” he spits. “right now?”

people are still trying to mingle with the two of you. the wind is still dragging white fabric against the grass in beautiful wisps and licks of movement. some important officials are standing by waiting to speak with you, and your father stares from across the way at you expectantly. and you’re staring at your husband like he’s some faraway stranger.

“please,” you whisper.

that does it.

he lets go, just drops your hand as if your skin was made of molten lava. the look on his face is worse than anger, much worse than if he were shouting, it’s purely blank shock. his mouth parts like he’s about to say something funny or clever but he just.. can’t.

you scurry away from all the commotion, running as far into the forest that teetered the cliff side as you could.

you bend over with your hands on your thighs trying to make sense of this atrocious mess, trying your best to breathe without thinking about him. hell, about either of them.

“well,” a voice floats down softly from above. “this is… not ideal.”

the rate on which you snap your head up is impressive.

he’s descending slowly with no theatrics and no obnoxious grin. his sizeable white wings folding in on themselves as his boots touch moss and feathers scatter across the grass as he touches down.

satoru looks wrecked. the pink hue in his once blue eyes seems to darken as he gawks at you.

“what the hell did you do?" you spit out harsher than you’ve ever spoken to a god, harsher than you’ve ever spoken to anyone, for that matter.

“i didn’t mean to,” he explains quickly. “i swear to you. the wind caught it, or maybe the angle was off or—”

“you missed. you fucking missed and shot yourself! what kind of a god misses?!"

“technically.. it ricocheted.”

“off my necklace?”

“yes.”

“then why not aim where the jewelry was not?!"

he cringes with absolutely no excuse ready to throw back at you, “i am so, so sorry.”

“sorry?” you staunch toward him. “i'm married, satoru. i just stood in front of my entire kingdom and vowed myself to a man i—” you groan, your hands flying to massage your aching temples, “—i love.”

oof, that stung. he thought.

you start to feel a horrible and magnetic pull towards gojo, your heart feels so full of adoration yet so empty of any real love that it hurts to breathe. you know he feels it too, the idiots basically twitching wanting to reach out and pull you against his body.

“fix it,” you demand. “undo it, this instant!"

you grow angrier when you watch him gulp.

“i can’t.”

“what.”

“it’s not a simple enchantment,” he pleads with you to understand. “it’s not a ribbon i can just, untie. it can't, i can't—” he stops himself before he spills any godly lore you're not supposed to know about.

“i don't care, break it!" you snap. “you’re cupid, for gods sake. you meddle with love, just.. just meddle again!"

he looks at you like you’ve just asked him to rip out his own heart.

“there are only two ways to sever it,” he says quietly.

you cross your arms as if to say, 'go on.'

“either one of us dies.” he starts.

“that’s not funny.”

“i’m not joking.”

your head starts to throb.

“and the second, you need another love,” he sighs. “one strong enough to overwrite this one. sort of like... a love confession, a true one. all your feelings laid bare for someone else, and they must feel the same. if the heart chooses something greater than magic, the arrow loses it's hold.”

you laugh pitifully, “so i just… fall in love with someone else.?

“no,” he says sharply. “you're already in love with someone.”

you shake your head. “yes, but, what if he doesn't—”

“he loves you,” gojo says, and it’s the most miserable you’ve ever seen the giddy god. “that’s why this hurts the way it does. if he didn’t, you wouldn’t be fighting this so hard, and my love wouldn't feel like it's being shared with someone else.” he exhales and forces his hands to drop.

“i don’t have anyone else,” he says bitterly. “there is no other love waiting to confess to me. i am the one who shoots the arrows, i don’t get shot.”

“clearly you do.”

he almost cracks a smile but decides now's not the time.

“it has to be you,” he says. “you have to confess to him, and he has to return your feelings, that’s the only thing that can get rid of this.”

your mind flashes to sukuna’s stunned face when you pulled away/

god.. that confusion, you feel sick.

“and if i can’t?” you ask solemnly.

“then i will live like this,” he says. “in love with a married woman. watching from the sky, i guess."

the earnest tone in his speech almost pulls you into his arms, you want so horribly bad to run off with this god, but he steps away before your otherwise influenced mind can make that decision.

“go,” he says roughly.

“you’re telling me to leave?”

“yes.”

“even though—”

“yes,” he snaps, wings flaring up once before flattening out. “even though every part of me wants to keep you here with me.”

your heart pounds in your ears.

“i didn’t mean for this, i meant to give you peace. i meant to give you love. not… not this.”

“i do love him,” you sigh.

gojo nods.

“i know.”

“and this—” you gesture weakly between you “—this isn’t real.”

his eyes soften as that familiar smile ghosts his pink lips.

“it’s real,” he says. “it’s just not chosen.”

you step back, then force your feet to move.

“stay away,” you tell him.

he nods once.

then you turn, and you run.

again.

back through the branches, the torn silk from your dress and scattered petals from your own veil, back toward wedding bells and your groom. and when you break the edge of the trees, you find sukuna standing offside watching over the cliff, away from the guests and the ruckus.

you march straight to him and grab his white sleeve.

“come with me.”

when he realises its you, it seems like he'd like to smile on instinct but refrains. "sure."

you drag him away, down the edge of the cliff, away from your family, the guards and your father’s brutal stare. far, far away until it’s just the wind and ocean below as you stand embarrassed in front of ryomen.

he pulls his arm free once you’re alone.

“talk,” he sighs.

you look up at him softly. “i need you to listen,” you start. “and i need you not to interrupt me, okay?”

"okay."

...

"i went to see another man."

“what- who?” his face goes red and he rubs his neck nervously.

“i said don't interru-" you sigh, "never mind. i met with cupid.”

that gets his attention and his brows draw together.

“before the wedding,” you continue quickly. “two weeks ago. i sought out his skill, i asked him to shoot me.”

sukuna goes very still.

“l-look.. i didn’t want to grow old resenting you,” you say. “i didn’t want this to be some stupid duty and politics based marriage. i couldn’t stand spending the rest of my life with a loveless bond and separate beds. i thought if i could force my heart to love you, if i could guarantee it, then everything would be so much easier for the both of us.”

"but?"

"but i was so, so wrong." you admit, "i didn't need that cocky gods help. i didn't need him to come and tie our hearts together. i came to find that over our time spent with one another, i love you without any sort of divine intervention."

he contemplates that statement for a good minute, then adds his two cents with a calculating stare. "look, that's sweet and all... but if you got the guy to shoot us, why did you suddenly disappear and seem like loving me was the last thing on your mind? did he not go through?"

you groan softly and drag both of your hands down your face, still careful as to not ruin your makeup any further. "oh, he went through with it all right... but he messed up. his arrow ricocheted off of the pendant you gave me and re-routed to pierce him instead."

your husbands pretty red eyes widen with shock as he runs his fingers over the stubble of his chin. "that's... convenient. and so fucked."

you let go of a huffed laugh, "tell me about it." your face returns to it's longing look as you continue "look, ryo... even after i was hit, i couldn't shake this other feeling in my head. there was my new fondness for gojo up there, sure. but alongside it was the immense love i felt for you."

you take a breather and see his expression isn't one of anger or judgment, but one of care and understanding. this prompts you to spit out what you've been itching to say.

"i love you, ryomen. so much so that not even cupids dumb, divine powers could make me forget the bond we'd formed in such little time... please, won't you forgive me for trying to force something that was destined to be there regardless..."

he doesn’t let you get the last word out, he grabs your face so you stop talking. “look at me,” he says, and you oblige. “so.. you went to a god because you were scared you wouldn’t love me.”

you gulp. “yes.”

“then you fell in love with me anyway.”

“…yes.”

“then the god fell in love with you.”

you wince. “mhm.”

his mouth twitches despite himself. “that’s insane.”

“i’m aware."

“did you love him?” he asks, and that’s the question that really matters right now.

you shake your head immediately. “no.”

“don’t answer fast just because you think it’s what i want to hear, [name].”

“i don’t love him,” you repeat. “what i feel for him is fake. it’s so intrusive..”

he watches your eyes closely for any kind of deceit.

“you feel it right now?” he asks.

“…yes.”

“and you still came back to me.”

“well, of course i did,” you say offended. “where else would i go?”

he cracks a small grin at that, then he pulls you closer to him by your shoulders.

“say it again,” he asks.

“say?...”

“that you love me.”

you don't even try to hesitate.

“i love you, ryomen.”

his hand moves to your waist firmly, “do you know when i started loving you?” he asks quietly.

you shake your head.

“the first night,” he says. “when you tried to pretend you weren’t interested in my stories but asked a million questions after each time i spoke.”

you go shy and purse your lips in embarrassment.

“n' when you put that stupid flower crown on my head,” he continues. “and acted like it was some obligation instead of just wanting to see me wear it.”

you open your mouth to deny it but he cocks a cocky brow.

you shut it..

“when you told me we could see other people,” he adds, voice lowering. “and then got jealous at the idea before i even finished agreeing.”

you glare weakly. “shut up.”

“it was adorable, you being all territorial.”

you cross your arms. “i was not.”

he steps into your space fully now, uncaring of how close you are teetering to the cliff’s edge.

“you were,” he says simply. “and i adored it.” his thumb hooks under your hot chin, lifting your face.

“i love you,” he returns your notion from earlier. “and it's not because you’re a princess or that i'm being forced to. i love you because you’re clever and stubborn and just... so sweet.”

don't cry, don't cry, don't cry.

“and if some lovesick idiot in the sky thinks he can compete with that,” he adds, glancing upward briefly, “he’s welcome to try.”

despite everything, you laugh and it breaks the tension clean in two.

“it’s not a competition,” you giggle.

“mm, it is to me.” he leans his forehead against yours with a cheeky grin. “does he know how you snore?” he asks.

you gasp. “i do not!”

“does he know you hide sweets under your mattress still.”

“you're so annoying.”

“does he know the exact face you make when you’re about to argue.”

you squint at him.

“that one,” he says immediately.

your laugh turns shaky with the tears that sting at the corners of your eyes.

“you’re mine,” he says with a nice sense of certainty. “and i'm yours. at least, i'd hope you'd think so after choosing me over that sky prick.”

“of course i do,” you whisper.

“yeah? say it properly.”

you frown. “i just did, dummy."

“no,” he says. “not ‘i love you.’ tell me you choose me.”

you inhale, and that annoying pull towards the sky tugs at your heart again, faint and ever so insistent, but you ignore it.

“i choose you,” you say.

his mouth somehow pulls into an even larger smile, “good.”

then he kisses you tenderly, pouring every ounce of need and want and pure love into your being. you kiss him back with the same passion, and like a rubber band pulled too tight, the string that was connecting you to someone in the sky was broken. the second tether that didn’t belong in your mind loosens and dissolves like mist in bright sunlight.

“…it’s gone,” you pull away breathless.

“what is?”

“the feelings i had for... y'know."

the air of complete and utter smugness that brushes his face is laughable. “so, i beat a god,” he says. “embarrassing for him.”

you scoff. “that’s what you took from that?”

“what else am i meant to take from it. you chose me, sky boy lost. sounds pretty cut and dry to me.”

you smack his broad chest but he barely flinches.

“i was going through it, asshole,” you mutter. “i thought i ruined everything.”

“you kinda did,” he says sternly.

your heart drops, then he grins. “ruined his chances.”

urgh, you hate him.

“you’re insufferable,” you mumble.

“and yet,”

he cups your face with the big pads of his thumbs brushing under your eyes where your makeup is starting to smudge, and he kisses you again.

“you look wrecked.” he says after pulling off.

“i chased a cherub through a forest in heels.”

“mm, that tracks.”

he pulls the loose pieces of veil off your shoulder and flicks a petal out of your hair.

“you’re still so unfairly pretty,” he adds casually. “even when you look tussled.”

“very romantic.”

“i try.”

he grabs your necklace, rolling the chain between his fingers, "crazy how this little thing helped us out in the end. i'd much rather be naturally attracted to you."

"mhm, best gift i've ever gotten. and i've gotten a lot of gifts."

you both laugh sweetly and intertwine your hands.

"well, cupid aside, we're married now." your husband wriggles his eye brows. "and i, for one, can't wait to spend the rest of my life with you."

"yeah? well, so am i. very excited, in fact." you reply just as just.

and you do,

you spend the rest of your days rejecting the heavy crowns your father likes to polish and parade around. they sit in bejeweled glass cases somewhere in the palace collecting dust. you both make and wear the flower ones in place, just like you'd promised. the lopsided ones you weave badly and shove onto his head while he complains about looking ridiculous, but still, he never takes them off until the petals start falling apart.

you rule side by side, not from separate thrones but from the same side of the long table, knees knocking playfully under the polished wood while advisors pretend not to notice.

you both steal sweets from the kitchen even though you don’t have to hide it anymore. you still sneak them under the mattress out of old habit, and he still steals them every time and eats one just to see that annoyed look on your little face.

at night there are no weird separate chambers, god no. sukuna would never stand for that. you're curled into him each and every time as he holds you tenderly.

on anniversaries he pretends to forget, just to see you get all crazy and dramatic about it. then, not even a minute later, he hands you some over the top gift and showers you in affection.

"i could never forget the day i married the girl of my dizziest day dreams."

"you're so corny."

"give me that back."

sometimes you catch yourself thinking about divine love arrows and how close everything came to crashing down in the wrong direction. but he always notices when you get that kind of sad.

“don’t think about that shit, sweetheart,” he says, nudging your chin up.

“i’m not.”

“you are.”

you sigh and rest your forehead against his shoulder. “i’m just glad i could break it.”

“hm, well. it was always gonna be me,” he smirks.

years pass, and flower crowns wilt and get remade. the forest becomes your special place, the towering cliff where you'd spent the most important hours of your life. people tell stories about the courageous king who could've fought a god, and the queen who outran one.

one evening, when you're both settled, you sit with him on that same cliff. the ocean roars and bellows below as the moon shines in full, your crown made of small white blooms.

“still choosing me?” he asks, not looking at you, but the sky.

“every day,” you answer.

he smiles.

“good, because m' not giving you back.”

A/N: this was supposed to be for v'day but we both just couldn't get our parts out LMAO anywaysss be sure to check out rie's part when her's comes out! collab m.list

Everything’s slowing down. Even the pain. Even the panic.

Sam’s voice joins in, urgent and scared. You try to move, to reach for either of them, but your body is numb.

This is it, you realize.

You’re dying.

You can feel your soul detaching, unmoored, weightless. You see the ceiling of the abandoned church above you, a shattered stained glass window letting in streaks of moonlight. Dust floats in the air like snow.

You wonder if you’ll haunt this place.

Then..

“Y/N.”

Castiel’s voice cuts through the fog like a blade of light.

You see his face above you. Pale. Determined. Blue eyes shining with something desperate.

“I’m sorry,” he says. And you barely have time to register the way his hand presses against your forehead before the world disappears.

It’s not blackness.

It’s light.

It burns.

And then you’re gone.

The light is endless. Not warm. Not cold. It is simply… everything. A breathless, searing presence that wraps around every nerve in your body and pulls you into a place that has no shape, no sound, just him. Castiel isn’t speaking. He doesn’t need to. His presence vibrates through you like a stormcloud threatening to split. He is in your veins, your lungs, your bones, coiled inside your soul like he belongs there. But it doesn’t feel like possession. Not exactly. Not yet. You think it should hurt. It doesn’t.

What hurts is the memory of dying. The fear. The knowledge that this, whatever this is, was the only choice left.

You open your eyes and find darkness.

Your lungs seize in a gasp, like you’ve surfaced from deep water, and you lurch upright before your body remembers how. Air claws at your throat. Sweat beads along your temple. The couch beneath you groans as you move. You know this place, the Men of Letters bunker, but it feels foreign, unfamiliar. Distant. Like seeing it through someone else’s eyes.

Then you realize you have.

You know things you shouldn’t. You feel things you shouldn’t. The weight of thousands of years clings to your ribs. It’s a whisper in the back of your skull, memories like feathers brushing your mind, falling, falling, falling from Heaven.

Castiel’s fall.

You close your eyes hard and squeeze your fists against your temples, like pressure might silence the thoughts that don’t belong to you. But one of them flares brighter than the rest: your name, spoken like a vow. Y/N. His voice in your chest, not your ears. You gasp again, this time softer, and look around.

Dean is in the war room just down the hallway, speaking to Sam in that harsh, too-loud voice he only uses when he’s trying to keep himself from falling apart. You can’t make out the words. You don’t care.

Because he’s there.

Castiel is sitting in the corner chair. Trench coat abandoned on the table beside him, sleeves rolled, hands folded between his knees. He looks like a man waiting for judgment. Like he already knows the verdict.

His eyes meet yours.

And you don’t breathe for three whole seconds.

You see the lines under his eyes first. The tension in his jaw. The faint shimmer of remorse in every breath he doesn’t take.

“You’re awake,” he says.

The sound of his voice, real and quiet and his, shatters something inside you. You feel it crack down your spine like thunder.

“What did you do?” you ask.

His expression doesn’t change, but you see the flicker of pain in his eyes. “You were dying.”

“You possessed me,” you whisper, and even as you say it, it doesn’t taste right. Too clean. Too simple. It doesn’t account for the after.

“There was no time,” he says. “I..yes. I entered your vessel. It was the only way to heal you before…before you slipped away.”

Your body trembles once, subtle and deep in the bones. You grip the edge of the couch like it might anchor you. “And now?”

Castiel stands. His shoulders are taut, unreadable. “I left.”

“Did you?”

The words escape before you mean to say them, but you know they’re true. He didn’t fully leave. You feel him. Not like another person riding shotgun in your head. It’s subtler than that. He’s… in the seams. In the places that cracked open when you almost died. He left a part of himself in you, and now your soul remembers him like a scent that never fades.

His eyes drop to the floor. “Not all of me,” he admits.

You breathe in deep, and it rattles in your chest. “What does that mean?”

“I didn’t take all my grace with me when I left.”

You blink. “Your grace? But I thought…after Metatron, you don’t-”

“This grace is borrowed. Stolen.” He looks up, and now there’s fire in his expression. Anger, grief, shame. “I thought I could control it. I couldn’t. When I pulled you back, part of it… stayed. In you. I tried to remove it, but your body, your soul, it held onto it.”

You wrap your arms around yourself, chilled. “So I’m… what? Part angel now?”

“No.” He says it quickly. “You’re still human. Entirely. But some of what I am, what I was…is inside you. It will fade. Eventually.”

Your head spins. Not from fear. From weight. From the knowledge that something celestial is knotted inside your bones and you didn’t ask for it. Didn’t consent to it.

You sit with that.

You sit with him.

And then you ask, softly, “What did you see?”

Castiel’s breath hitches. He turns away from you for the first time, as if the answer is too heavy to speak facing forward. “I saw everything. Every memory. Every scar. Every time you prayed and no one answered. I saw the first time you held a weapon. The first time you wanted to die. The first time you chose to live again. I saw your mother’s hands. Your first nightmare. I saw the day you met Dean. And the way you looked at him like he was your last chance.”

Your throat is tight. You hadn’t expected him to answer. Not like this.

“And then I saw the way you looked at me.”

You don’t speak.

He doesn’t ask forgiveness. He just lowers his head, and for the first time, Castiel looks small. Like he’s trying to fold himself into something less monstrous. Less divine.

“I didn’t mean to take it all,” he says. “But I couldn’t bear to let you go.”

The silence that follows is vast.

“I still dream,” you whisper. “Even now. But they’re not mine.”

He nods, slowly. “No. They’re mine.”

You step forward. “I saw angels falling. I felt the wind. The light. The fire. You were afraid.”

He doesn’t deny it. “I still am.”

There’s a pause so thick you could choke on it. Then you say, “You said you left me. But you didn’t. Did you?”

His answer is not in words. It’s in the way he looks at you like he’s been carrying your name in his mouth for centuries. In the way his hand trembles before he reaches up to his own chest, as if checking to see whether you are still inside him, too.

And maybe you are.

Maybe that’s the cost of this kind of salvation.

You don’t ask him to leave. You don’t ask for distance. Instead, you step closer. He doesn’t move. His gaze follows you like a tether.

When you stop in front of him, you whisper, “Next time, ask.”

He nods once. “I will.”

But you both know that if it happens again, if it’s your life on the line, he won’t.

Because angels don’t pray. They act.

And Castiel has already decided that your soul is worth damning himself for.

You feel his grace flicker inside your chest like an aftershock.

And for the first time since you woke up, you feel safe.

You hate that.

You hate that you want to feel him again. That the part of him inside you makes your own thoughts feel less alone. That your soul, cracked open and bared to Heaven, has started to ache when he’s not near.

But it’s the truth.

And even now, you think he knows it.

Because his hand twitches like he almost wants to reach for yours.

He doesn’t.

Neither do you.

Not yet.

He doesn’t touch you.

But he thinks about it.

Not in the crude way humans often mean it. Not with desperation or lust or anything so small. His longing is older. Purer, in a way that terrifies him.

Because Castiel has touched the face of God and felt nothing. He’s stood at the edge of time and watched stars blink out one by one. He’s borne witness to miracles and catastrophes, creation and decay, and never once has he ached for any of it. But when he looks at you, fragile, bruised, still holding pieces of him inside you like shards of forgotten light, he feels that ache everywhere.

Your soul is louder now. He can feel it even when you leave the room. Like a hum beneath his ribs. The part of him he left inside you didn’t just heal your body. It bound him to you. Not completely. Not magically. But intrinsically. Like recognition.

Like belonging.

You don't understand it yet. You barely look at him without suspicion lingering behind your eyes. You still feel the wrongness of what he did, even if it saved you. And he knows that. He carries that guilt with the same reverence he once carried a sword.

But you haven’t pushed him away.

Not entirely.

And that, somehow, is worse.

Because you speak to him softly now. Ask him questions you wouldn’t before. You stand a little too close when you’re angry, and much too close when you’re not. You press your palm to your chest when the grace flickers inside you like static, and your eyes find him every time it does. Like you know he’s still there, watching. Waiting.

He dreams now, dreams of you. Not stolen memories. Not echoes of your pain. His dreams. And they are quiet, always. Simple. You, sitting on the stairs. You, laughing at Dean with your chin tipped to the side. You, asleep beneath a blanket with your fingers curled against your throat like a child. You don’t speak in these dreams. You don’t need to. The silence between you is its own language, and Castiel understands it perfectly.

There’s a moment, in one dream, where your hand brushes his. No intent. No urgency. Just contact. Skin to skin.

He wakes up shaking.

It isn’t desire, exactly, not the way Dean would call it. It’s yearning. A need so total it eclipses everything else. He wants to protect you, yes. But he also wants to understand you. To memorize the curve of your mouth when you frown. To trace the way your soul flares when you lie. To know every thought you’ve ever had, not to own them, but to honor them. To kneel at the altar of your existence and swear he would never deserve to touch it again.

But he already has.

He’s been inside your soul.

He knows the shape of your hope and the weight of your grief. He knows which memories you bury and which you cling to. He knows what it felt like the first time you held someone as they died, and the sound you made when you realized you couldn’t stop it.

He carries those memories like prayers.

He shouldn’t want more.

But he does.

He wants you.

Not just to protect. Not just to serve. Not just because he made a choice in a desperate moment.

He wants to be known. By you.

Wants you to look at him, not with pity, not with fear, not even with gratitude, but with that softness he’s seen you give Sam when he’s overwhelmed, or Dean when he’s pretending not to cry. That human gentleness. That silent permission to stay.

But Castiel is not gentle. Not really. He is wrath in a borrowed body. He is a soldier who forgot how to stop marching. His hands were made for killing. His voice was forged in Heaven. He is not built for softness. Not for love.

And still…

He finds himself watching you when you sleep.

Just for a second. When he’s certain you won’t wake.

The grace inside you hums differently when you dream. It mirrors your heartbeat. It calls to him. And sometimes, just sometimes, you whisper his name in your sleep.

Not loudly. Not pleading. Just… soft. Like it’s the safest word you know.

Castiel doesn’t breathe when that happens.

He doesn’t move.

Because if he does, if he breaks that fragile moment, he’ll ruin it. Ruin you. And he’s already taken so much.

So he stays still. He listens to the sound of your breath. He lets the longing rise and crest and fall inside him like a wave.

And when he can no longer bear the ache, he slips quietly from the room.

Not because he doesn’t want to stay.

But because he wants it too much.

And Castiel knows, when angels want something, they destroy it.

So he waits. Not for forgiveness. Not for permission.

He waits for you.

Because if you ever reach for him again, truly reach, he won’t have the strength to say no.

And in the quiet, shadowed corners of the bunker, with your name etched into every corner of his grace, Castiel lets himself hope for the one thing he’s never dared to ask for:

That one day, you might want him back.

It begins with your jacket.

You leave it draped across the back of a chair in the library, absent-minded. A small, careless thing. You’d come in from the rain, exhausted, soaked to the skin after a salt-and-burn gone sideways. Castiel hadn’t gone with you, Dean hadn’t asked, and Castiel hadn’t volunteered. He knew better than to impose himself now.

But he watched the door until you came through it.

You didn’t see him. Or maybe you did and said nothing.

Your voice was tired when you told Sam you were going to shower. Just your voice, no bitterness. No fight. And that worried him more than anything.

Because exhaustion, for you, was rare. Even battered, bloodied, you were always present. Always fighting. But now, your voice had nothing left in it. Like something inside you had finally bent too far.

So you left the jacket, and Castiel found himself beside it.

He tells himself he shouldn’t touch it.

He touches it.

The fabric is damp, heavy with water and smoke and the faint scent of salt. But beneath it, beneath all that, is you. And something inside him stutters. It’s not carnal. It’s not human. But it’s real.

Because in that moment, all he can think is I carried you once.

Not in the physical sense. In the soul-deep, eternal sense. He held your life between his hands and pressed you back into being. He breathed borrowed grace into your dying lungs. He knows you.

He wants to un-know you. For your sake. For his.

But he can’t.

He sits in the chair and holds the jacket in his lap for a second too long.

And then he hears your footsteps in the hall.

He doesn’t move in time.

You walk in, towel-drying your hair with one hand, wearing a loose t-shirt and sweatpants that don’t belong to you, probably Dean’s, by the size. Your eyes land on him, and they narrow, not unkind but surprised.

And then they drop to your jacket.

To his hand still resting on the shoulder of it.

Your lips part.

Castiel doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t make excuses. He simply meets your gaze and waits for you to speak.

But you don’t.

Instead, after a long breath, you step further into the room and sit across from him.

You lean forward, elbows on your knees, studying him the way he studies galaxies.

And then you say, “Do you ever wish you hadn’t done it?”

It takes him a moment to answer. “No.”

Your throat bobs. “Even though it changed everything?”

“It saved you.”

“That’s not what I asked.”

His voice is lower now. “I would rather carry the weight of what I did than live in a world where you don’t exist.”

Something in you stumbles at that. Your face softens. And the room falls quiet.

Castiel wonders if you can hear it, the thunder of his longing.

Because it’s louder now. Less contained.

You’ve been different these last few weeks. Not open, not exactly, but unguarded. Less careful. You watch him longer. You ask more. You let the silences stretch out like bridges, instead of breaking them.

You’re still angry. Still haunted. But you choose to be near him.

And that, more than anything, undoes him.

Because he can feel the moment approaching. The moment when all the tension he’s buried beneath borrowed grace and dying light will fracture. It’s close. So close. He sees it every time your eyes linger on his mouth instead of his hands. He hears it in the way you say his name now, not reverent, not distant. Human. Soft.

He almost breaks that night.

Because you fall asleep in the chair across from him.

Head tilted. Breathing slowly. And when you shift in your sleep, the grace inside you pulses, reaching for him like a hand in the dark.

And Castiel, who has resisted war and wrath and temptation unimaginable, leans forward.

He doesn’t touch you. Not yet.

But he kneels in front of the chair, lowering himself as if in prayer, and watches the shape of your breath. His hand hovers above your knee, inches from contact.

His mouth opens. No sound.

Because what could he possibly say?

I am no longer an angel of the Lord. I am something smaller now. But everything I am, I left inside you.

He shouldn’t speak.

But he does.

Just barely.

“I think I was made for this.”

You stir, just slightly. Not awake. Not quite.

His voice is almost nothing. “Not Heaven. Not orders. Not grace. Just this. You.”

And then, your head shifts. Your eyes flutter.

He vanishes before they open.

Not out of fear.

Out of devastation.

Because if you had looked at him in that moment, with anything other than complete understanding, he would have fallen all over again.

And this time, he wouldn’t survive it.

He tries to stay away after that.

For three days, he doesn’t enter a room if you’re in it. Doesn’t speak unless spoken to. Avoids the sound of your voice like it might burn through what little self-control he still possesses. He patrols in the early hours. Answers prayers without comment. Watches the sky from the roof of the bunker as though the stars will give him permission to feel what he already does.

They don’t.

They never have.

On the fourth day, Dean corners him in the hallway with a sideways glance and a half-hearted scoff. “You and Y/N have a fight or something?”

Castiel doesn’t answer.

Dean shrugs. “Could’ve fooled me. She’s been quiet. Weirdly quiet. And that’s saying something.”

Castiel almost tells him. Almost says I’ve made her a vessel and I ache when she breathes. But he doesn’t. He just nods once and disappears.

By sunset, he's in the war room, pretending to read a lore book he’s already memorized, when your voice hits him from behind.

“You don’t have to avoid me.”

It’s not angry. Not accusing. Just honest.

And it hurts.

He closes the book. Doesn’t turn around.

“I wasn’t avoiding you,” he lies, gently.

You step closer. He hears it, the soft sound of your socked feet on the stone floor. You stop a pace behind him.

“So what are you doing?”

Castiel lifts his eyes to the book. Blank pages. Meaningless ink. “Trying not to want something I can’t have.”

The silence after that is so long it echoes.

When you finally speak, your voice is low. “You’re talking about me.”

He turns then.

And the way he looks at you, it could crack glass.

“Yes.”

You exhale like you’ve been holding your breath for hours. “Why can’t you?”

“Because I touched your soul without permission. Because I altered you. Because I made you carry a part of me you never asked for. And because wanting you on top of that would make me cruel.”

Your eyes are wet. Not crying. But raw.

“I don’t think you’re cruel.”

“You should.”

He steps forward now, slowly, like he’s approaching something sacred. His eyes never leave yours.

“I was not made for this,” he says softly. “I was not made to want. I was made to obey. And I have disobeyed Heaven, God, even myself, but nothing has undone me like you.”

Your hands tremble.

Castiel sees it.

He does nothing.

Because if he moves, if he breathes, if he reaches, it’s over. He will not survive it.

But then you close the distance for him.

Not fully. Just one step. Enough.

“Do you think I don’t feel it too?” you ask.

His heart, what’s left of it, shatters quietly.

“Every time you leave a room,” you whisper, “I feel it. That silence. Like something holy just left. You think I don’t hear it when the grace inside me wakes up at the sound of your voice?”

He flinches.

You keep going.

“I was angry. I was. But I’m not anymore. Because whatever you gave me that day…it didn’t just bring me back. It opened something. I can feel you even when you’re gone.”

He says your name like it’s the last word he’ll ever be allowed to speak. “You don’t understand what you’re saying.”

“I think I do.”

“No.” He steps back, breath harsh. “If I break this…if I let this happen, you won’t come out of it the same. You’re human. You feel. You love. And I consume. I will burn you without meaning to.”

You reach for him.

And this time, he doesn’t stop you.

Your hand, small and trembling, brushes the side of his face. His eyes fall closed like the weight of your touch is too much. Like grace itself is bending under it.

“I’m not afraid of you, Castiel.”

He opens his eyes.

There is a storm in them now.

Not rage. Not wrath.

Longing.

Absolute.

And he shatters.

He takes your wrist gently, reverently, and draws your hand from his face to his chest, pressing it over his heart.

“I don’t have a soul,” he says. “Not in the way you do. But if I did…this is where it would live. And you’d be inside it.”

You can’t breathe.

Neither can he.

And for a long, perfect moment, nothing moves.

Then, with the softest voice you’ve ever heard him use:

“Tell me to stop.”

You don’t.

You whisper, “Don’t you dare.”

And that’s it.

That’s the breaking point.

He kisses you like a vow. Not desperate. Not greedy. Just full. Of all the things he’s never said. Of the light he buried in you. Of the war he lost when he realized he couldn’t stop loving you.

He moves slowly, like gravity is pulling him toward you and all he’s doing is giving in. His eyes fall to your mouth and then back to your eyes again, asking you one final time without words.

You answer by leaning closer.

When his lips touch yours, it isn’t rushed. It isn’t sharp or wild or hungry.

It’s devotion.

It’s the first time he’s touched something with the full intent of keeping it.

He kisses you like you might vanish. Like you’re made of glass and scripture. His hand comes up to cup the side of your jaw, his thumb brushing lightly beneath your cheekbone, and the contact sends a pulse of heat through both of you, grace and soul, meeting at the seam.

You inhale sharply against his mouth. Your fingers curl into his coat, holding on, not to pull him closer, not to demand more, but because your body finally has permission to feel him.

And Castiel feels it too.

Your heartbeat, steady but straining. Your breath, faltering like a prayer half-said. The way your lips part under his, like you’re offering him something you’ve never given anyone else, and you don’t even realize it.

He deepens the kiss, but only barely.

Because this isn’t about possession.

This is remembrance.

You, alive. You, whole. You, choosing him, even after all of it.

And when you finally part, the space between your mouths is so thin it hums.

He leans his forehead to yours.

Your breath is still trembling. So is his.

And in that moment, Castiel, angel, rebel, vessel of grace, knows peace for the first time in his existence.

Not in Heaven.

Not in order.

But here.

“I fucking love your tits,” Sebastian groaned deeply, large palms pressing against warm, supple skin, feeling the coolness of studded nipples below.

Rosie squeaked when he squeezed hard then followed it with a deep laugh when he licked his lips like she was a cone of ice cream waiting to be devoured.

He nudged her back on the bed, head landing with a thump.

Sebastian’s tongue landed on her neck, studded tongue swiping the sheen on sweat she’d accumulated beneath her ear working in the yard in the hot, summer sun.

“Sebastian!” Rosie whined, twisting her neck to get away from his onslaught, somewhat because it was gross but mostly because it tickled.

He shook his head, black hair from his head falling to her cheek, adding to the soft, tickling sensation starting to pulse through her whole body.

Finally, after lots of pleading, Sebastian sat back on his heels, eyes raking over his girlfriend’s body.

Her shirt was sweat-laden and sticking to her torso, cotton shorts covered in dirt, riding up her equally as dirty thighs.

“Stop it,” Rosie squirmed. “I should shower first. I’m filthy.”

That earned a low growl from Sebastian’s chest.

“I truly don’t give a fuck,” he murmured, hands moving to the hem of her shirt. “In fact…” he lifted it up and shimmied it over the arms she had raised above her head, “it makes it even hotter.”

She gasped when he yanked her upright, mouth finding her neck again as he reached behind her back and unclasped her bra one handed, a skill he’d become rather adept in since they started dating.

The shirt and bra were tossed to the side, Sebastian’s own shirt quickly followed, then Rosie heard the jingle of his belt being unfastened. He pushed her back down and brought his lips back to her neck. But Sebastian didn’t linger for long. He took his tongue and began to drag it over her collarbone, down the dips in her chest, chasing every inch of sweat until he found her pierced nipples.

There was something about the way Rosie squirmed when he paid them particular attention, flicking his tongue over the right one while his hand couldn’t bear to leave the left one unattended, gently pulling the nipples between his fingers and rolling the piercing gently.

“ Fuck… fuck… oh, FUCK!” Rosie screamed.

The last “fuck” wasn’t particularly one of pleasure though and Sebastian pulled his head back to ask what was wrong, but then he was quick to realise what the problem was.

When he pulled away, he felt his tongue nearly get yanked out of his mouth.

“Oh. Thuck…” he whispered.

Okay… okay. Don’t panic. The piercings are tangled, just… detach yourself quickly and slowly.

He could feel Rosie’s panicked breathing against his chin.

“Iths okay. I’ll juthst do thith,” he informed her, bringing his fingers up to his mouth and attempting to detangle them blind, given he couldn’t see just what the fuck he was doing.

But his fingers weren’t doing him any favours. If anything, every clumsy attempt made it worse and Rosie hissed louder.

“Sebastian! Ow, don’t— ow!” she squeaked, her hands hovering uselessly around her breasts, too afraid to move in case they tore something precious.

He tried again, slower, but the piercings were well and truly locked together. Almost like they were fused.

“Hwat the thfuck do we do?”

“What?” Rosie groaned.

“I thaid hwat the thfuck do we do?”

“I don’t fucking know! Get some pliers and cut off your piercing!”

Sebastian scoffed, “I'm not cutthing my pierthing off! You cut yourths!”

“I’m not risking a fucking nipple!” Rosie bellowed.

Hm. She was right, Sebastian certainly didn’t want to sacrifice her perfectly perky and pink nipples either.

“Then call the thfucking dthoctor,” he instructed. “I cthan’t do it, I thsound ridiculousth.”

“Yeah, you do sound ‘ridiculousth’, you fucking donkey. Where’s your phone?”

“In the loungth room,” Sebastian gestured vaguely behind him.

“You mean to tell me,” she said slowly, “we have to waddle through the house, tongue-to-tit, to get to your phone?”

Sebastian shrugged, well, as much as he could in their current position without compromising an important body part. “Unlessth you’vthe got one hidden in your underwearth, yeths.”

Rosie groaned, but began to shuffle sideways to get off the bed with Sebastian still crouched atop of her.

“Eathsy, eathsy. Ow, fuck, eathsy, I sthaid!” Sebastian hissed.

“You think I’m trying to make this worse?” Rosie snapped, grabbing a hold of his head to lock it in place while she stood up.

Now she was standing, the tugging got worse. Sebastian was significantly taller than Rosie, so he was now crouched over, trying to keep his head planted to her chest to avoid any more unnecessary pain.

Rosie began shuffling toward the door with her arms half-wrapped around his head to hold him still.

“Thithss iths stho humiliating,” Sebastian muttered.

“Shut the fuck up” Rosie shot back, fumbling for the doorknob over his head. “This is your fault, for being so fucking insatiable!”

“You have great tiths, hwhat can I thsay?”

Rosie groaned and clipped him over the ear as she pulled the door open and shuffled into the hallway awkwardly until they reached the coffee table.

“Maybe—” Sebastian paused, “—ith I tilt my head like thiths,”

“No!” Rosie barked. “You do not move!”

“But my panthsts keep sthlipping!” he protested, grabbing blindly at his jeans that were sliding down his hips.

Rosie bent awkwardly at the waist to let him reach toward the coffee table where his phone sat. Unfortunately, the motion caused the piercings to twist just enough for both of them to yelp in perfect harmony.

Sebastian slapped his palm over the phone and managed to unlock it with a smear of his thumb.

“Who are we calling? Dr. Harvey? A piercer? An undertaker for when I murder you?” Rosie demanded.

“Asth much aths I like the idea of deatsh right now, I think Dr. Harvey isth probably our bestht sthot at being sthaved.”

“Are you purposely picking every single word that has an S in it? You sound fucking ridiculous.”

Sebastian scowled, or at least he tried to, given how hard it was to pull a face with your tongue attached to a nipple and drool pouring down your chin. “I’m trying to sthave your nipple, tsthank you very much.”

Rosie huffed, “Fine. Call him.”

Sebastian thumbed through his contacts one-handed, awkwardly holding the phone flat against Rosie’s chest, right in front of his eyes, so it wouldn’t slip.

He clicked on the number for the clinic and put the phone on speaker.

“You have to thtalk,” Sebastian instructed, passing the phone to Rosie.

“I wouldn’t expect Sylvester the Cat to make the call now, would I?”

“Thfuck off.”

“Why? Did you see a ‘puddy tat’?”

Rosie grinned wickedly at her own joke, which only made Sebastian roll his eyes. Well, as much as a man with his face plastered to a boob could roll them.

Before he could fire back, the call connected.

“Dr. Harvey’s clinic, this is Maru speaking.”

Oh. Oh shit. Fuck. No. No. No.

“Uh, Maru, heyyyyyyy ,” Rosie grimaced.

“Rosie! Hey, what’s up? Are you hurt?”

Only my pride , Rosie thought.

“No, just… uh, can you put Harvey on?”

Maru clicked her tongue, “Ah, sorry, Rosie. He’s in with Alex, he’s got his annual checkup today. Can I leave a message?”

Sure! Your brother is currently attached to my tits by the mouth and is drooling all over me!

Thankfully, her mouth went for something marginally more socially acceptable than her brain’s explanation.

“Uh… it’s kind of urgent,” she said, glaring down at Sebastian who was even more redder in the face than before.

“What kind of urgent?” Maru asked.

“Medical. Just… not the kind I can explain over the phone.”

Maru paused, “I mean, you’re ringing the clinic, I assume it’s medical. But if it’s so urgent I’ll need to interrupt the checkup, I kind of need to know what’s going on so I can tell Dr. Harvey. I am a nurse, everything is confidential.”

“Okay, uh… Sebastian’s got his tongue piercing caught.”

“Oh, like on a shirt or food or something? You can bring him in and I’ll—”

“Not on a shirt , Maru…”

There was a beat of silence on the line, “…Where, then?”

Rosie shut her eyes, inhaled slowly through her nose, and muttered, “My nipple bar.”

Another pause, then she heard a high pitched choking noise.

Sebastian groaned, his forehead pressing harder into Rosie’s chest. “Justht thfucking kill me now.”

“Right,” Maru coughed. “I… see. That’s… certainly a first for me.”

“Yeah, well, it’s a first for us too,” Rosie grimaced as she spoke. “Look, is Harvey going to be long?”

“I’ll make sure he’s there as soon as he’s done here. And in the meantime I’d suggest just staying put… don’t tug or pull.”

Rosie scoffed. “Oh, don’t tug or pull? Wow, thanks, Maru, that never occurred to me.”

Sebastian snorted against her, which only earned him a sharp tug to his hair and yelp from them both when he flinched and didn’t take Maru’s advice and pulled.

“Okay, see you at home tonight, Seb,” Maru said with a croak to her voice, then the line went dead.

“She’s so telling your mom,” Rosie cackled.

Sebastian groaned, burying his face deeper into Rosie’s chest, “I think we thshould get a towel.” He cupped his hands beneath his chin, catching the copious amounts of drool that was now pouring from his mouth, though it wasn’t of much use. The floor and his jeans that were now halfway down his thighs were soaked.

Rosie agreed, her own wet shins weren’t too happy either.

She gripped either side of his head to hold him close and began to back up towards the kitchen, dragging him with her until she reached the oven and swatted wildly behind her, craning her neck to grab a dish cloth.

“Here,” she said once she’d located it, shoving it under his chin. “Clean yourself up, you look like a dog.”

“I thsthought I thsounded like a cat.”

“Both,” Rosie said plainly, gripping his head again and walking him back to the lounge. “Okay, we need to open the front door so Harvey can get in, then we can sit down.”

“Sthit down? How?”

“You sit on the sofa and I’ll sit on your lap.”

Sebastian nodded, then winced, then let the woman with her hands fisted in his hair guide him blindly around the place until the door was unlocked and his calves hit the sofa.

Gently, he sat, Rosie following him until he was able to rest his aching neck against the back of the couch.

Then he became innately aware of how suspicious they looked. Sebastian was on the sofa, mouth open Rosie’s boob. They were both shirtless. His pants were now around his ankles and Rosie was perched on top of him… kinda looked like…

“Sebastian! You’re a fucking animal!” Rosie screamed, shifting her hips up when she felt something hard press against her thigh.

“Hwhat? This is exacthtly hwat we’d be doing if we didn’t get sthtuck!”

Before she could scold him any further, there was a knock at the door.

“Hello! Doctor!”

“Thfuck, can you… maybe sthit down so he doesthn’t sthee?”

“No!” Rosie said loudly. “You’re the one who thinks this is hot! Deal with it!”

Harvey gently nudged the door open and Rosie turned her head just in time to see his eyes blow wide when he took in the sight in front of him.

“So, uh… what happened?”

“Well, clearly , we were trying to have sex then someone’s stupid tongue piercing got caught on my nipple piercing,” Rosie said loudly and sarcastically, like the raging boner in Sebastian’s underwear wasn’t telling enough.

Harvey’s eyes flicked between Sebastian’s drooling, tethered tongue and Rosie’s mortified face, and then down to the obvious bulge pressing against Rosie’s thigh. He cleared his throat awkwardly, “Right… well, this is definitely a new one.”

Sebastian shifted uncomfortably on the sofa, willing the bulge in his pants to deflate faster than it was, cheeks burning nred hot. “I’m sorry for ththis. It wath a mistake.”

“Yeah, ‘mistake’ is one way to put it…” Rosie mumbled.

Harvey cleared his throat again and set his bag to the side, pulling on some disposable gloves and kneeling beside them. “Okay, let’s see if we can get this untangled without too much pain. Although I have to say, this might be the most intimate consult I’ve ever had.”

Rosie groaned when he gave her nipple bar a little tester-twist.

Nope. Didn’t budge.

She watched as Harvey manoeuvred his head around, trying to see the underside of Sebastian’s tongue without copping an eye-full of saliva.

“Rosie, do you have any pliers?” 

Rosie blinked, then glanced around the room as Sebastian whimpered softly, clearly worried by what pliers actually meant. “Uh… toolbox, top cupboard in kitchen.

Harvey gave a small nod and located said toolbox, returning with the supplies he needed. “I know it sounds odd, but sometimes a pair of needle-nose pliers helps to gently loosen the piercing. Don’t worry, I’m going to be very gentle. We just need to loosen the ball.”

Sebastian let out a shaky breath and squeezed his eyes shut, feeling Rosie’s fingers tighten in his hair.

He felt Harvey’s gloved finger begin to move his tongue around, then flinched when the pliers touched the tip of his tongue.

“Almost there…”

A second later, Harvey announced he was done and Rosie let go of Sebastian’s head that fell immediately back against the sofa.

His tongue felt heavy as he tried to pull it back inside his mouth but at least it finally moved freely, no longer tethered to Rosie.

“Ththank you,” he muttered, still not having full speech-control with his tongue that now felt naked without a bar through it.

Harvey smiled, “No problem. Though, I’d recommend paying attention to non-pierced parts of Rosie’s body from now on, hm?”

Sebastian’s cheeks burned bright red, “Yeah, lessthon definitely learned.”

Harvey packed up his bag and started to stand. “If you notice any swelling, pain or anything in the next few days, come by the clinic. Piercings can get irritated easily, especially after something like this. I’ll send my bill for 1000G tomorrow.”

“Got it,” Rosie said, mortified and now with Sebastian’s spit-covered dish rag against her bare chest.

Harvey left and Rosie turned quickly on her heels.

“Where are you going?” Sebastian asked.

“To shower.”

He jumped to his feet quickly, “Ooh, can I come?”

It was yet another night up in the mountains. Cold. Quiet. Smelled like pine and broken dreams. I crouched in front of our house— the one Mom so proudly built with her bare hands, sheer willpower, and probably several illegal zoning violations— shielding my list from the wind like it was the last ember of civilization. It flickered, hissed, then caught, and I lit up.

Cigarettes were certainly a bad habit. Yes, yes. Boo hiss. I’d heard it all before. Everyone in town acted like I was actively spitting in the face of wellness every time I lit one. But I didn’t care. My life was already a bit of a dumpster fire rolling down a mountain. What’s one more Marlboro tossed in for flavor?

I blew out a long stream of smoke. It curled like a lazy ghost into the starry abyss. Then the front door creaked behind me. 

“There you are. Oh, Sebby! You’re stinking up the porch.” Mom exclaimed, fanning her face like I’d farted joy directly into her soul.

She loomed above me with her usual mix of maternal concern and mild dismay, hands on her hips like she was about to announce a surprise intervention. There was a pause— the kind where you could practically hear the unspoken lecture getting organized in her head.

I glanced up, already tired in the bones. Emotionally, spiritually, cellularly exhausted. Mom noticed. Her whole demeanor softened. She sighed and leaned against the house with a worn smile— the kind you give your kid when you’re not mad, just disappointed by how aggressively they’re trying to run their lungs. 

“There’s leftovers in the fridge, when you want some.” She said, “You know, I understand how hard it’s been for you with Demetrius, but could you try to get along?”

I made a face, equal parts disgust and disbelief.

“Why is it always my fault?” I grumbled, dragging out the cigarette.

She gave another sigh— this one with extra weight, like she was releasing all her material patience into the cosmos one puff of air at a time. “Come in soon.” She said, voice gentle as she closed the door.

Not angry. Just tried. That stung more, honestly. When Mom got mad, at least I could fight back— fire for fire. But tired? That meant I was the cause of weariness in someone I actually loved. Brutal stuff. We’d fought over the years, like gladiators in a kitchen arena armed with passive aggression and sarcastic spoons. She never backed down, and I never shut up. A match made in mutually assured frustration.

A rustle caught my eye.

Movement down by the lake.

I squinted through the darkness, smoke trailing from my mouth. Two figures, crouched, fishing in the murk like raccoons dressed as humans. 

“This late?” I muttered, cigarette dangling from my lip like a rebellious toothpick. 

On closer look— and let’s be honest, I had absolutely nothing better to do unless I was itching to get into a another philosophical debate with Demetrius over whether rice counts as a real meal— it was Linus and the new farmer.

Of course. Who else would be enthusiastically scooping sludgefish out of a cursed lake at 11 p.m. on a Thursday?

I turned away. None of my business.

Unless they caught something with eyes.

Then came Sam-- wide eyes, bouncing off the walls, going on about how "awesome" you were. That didn't mean much, honestly. Sam likes everyone. I'm still convinced the only person he holds a grudge against is the Governor, and that's mostly because the guy once said pop music was "culturally shallow."

Still. I listened.

Then Abby mentioned you. That got my attention.

Abby doesn't hand out compliments. If she thinks you're weird, she'll say it to your face-- and apparently, that's exactly what she thought of you. "A little weird," she said. "But cool."

I laughed. Of course you were weird. I already figured that out, watching you wade into the lake with a smile like that.

It didn't take long before it felt like the entire town knew you. Pierre mentioned you. Alex said something about you deadlifting a keg. Even Demetrius looked vaguely impressed. Everyone had a story. A quip. A reason to like you.

Except me.

And that was the par that bothered me--- although at the time I wouldn't admit it.

I kept wondering: why hadn't you said anything to me? You stopped by my mom's shop more than once. I knew that much. But somehow, I was the one person you hadn't introduced yourself too.

Not that I blamed you. I'm not sam-- loud and lovable. I'm not Abby-- mysterious and sharp. I'm just... me. Moody. Smoke-stained. Too quiet. Too honest. Even half my family only tolerate me on good days.

So no-- it didn't surprise me that you never made the effort.

And it shouldn't have stung. But it did.

Which is exactly the moment the universe decided to make things worse.

I'd gone deeper into the mines than I should've. Nothing heroic-- I wasn't chasing treasure or trying to prove anything. Just needed quartz. Simple. Stupid.

Then I tripped over a rock and fell hard, the edge of it slicing through my jeans and my leg beneath. The pain came fast and sharp. I scrambled back, adrenaline doing a poor job of numbing anything, while the slime in front of me pulsated like it was preparing for its next meal. Namely: Me.

I didn't even have a weapon. Just a very loud internal monologue about how this was a deeply embarrassing way to die.

And then, out of nowhere--- splat.

You stood there.

Sword in one hand like it weighed nothing. Backpack slung over the other shoulder. You didn't even spare me a glance at first-- just knelt to collect a sample of the slime, muttering under your breath. Casual. Efficient. A little bit cocky, if I'm being honest.

And then you turned.

Your eyes met mine and you blinked, startled.

"Oh my Junimo, I didn't even see you there. Are you okay?"

I wanted to say, You just saved my life, Dummy. But I bit it back.

You hauled me up with one arm-- just one. Like I weighed nothing. Your arms were... a lot. I tried not to notice. I definitely noticed.

Behind you, a horde of monsters began to stir.

"Can you climb?' You asked, mentioning to the rickety ladder behind us.

I nodded, breathless. "I think so."

You exhaled hard, "I hope quick, too. I'm way too low on health to deal with a mob right now."

I blinked. "Do you see life as a video game?"

You grinned, unbothered. "Always. More fun that way. I'll go up behind you-- make sure you don't fall."

We made it to the top. My leg throbbed and my face burned from the shame of it all, but you didn't say anything cruel or smug.

You knelt and wrapped a bandage around my left with practiced hand.

Then you smiled. "Not a word, right? My lips are sealed. Although... next time? You should really bring a sword."

You handed me one. Rusty. Dented. Definitely pre-loved. But yours. No lecture. No judgement. Just a quiet kind of generosity.

I took it, my fingers curling around the hilt.

The wind carries the scent of ripening wheat through the valley — golden, sun-warmed, and cruelly unchanged.

You step out onto the porch, boots crunching against the worn planks. Same as always. Chickens cluck faintly from the coop, waiting. The cows nudge at their fence. Your watering can is already full; you filled it last night, half on purpose, half from dread. The routine comes first now. If you think, you’ll feel. If you feel, you’ll break.

It’s been a year since the divorce.

Shane is back at Marnie’s. You see him sometimes, blurred and distant, walking down to the bus stop or back from Joja with a six-pack in a plastic bag, head down, hands deep in his pockets like he’s afraid of holding onto anything too tightly. Like he might crush it.

You used to hold his hand so tightly he’d laugh about circulation.

You don’t laugh much anymore.

One Year and a Half Ago

You were married in the fall. The leaves turned that rich copper-orange, and he looked at you like you were everything he’d never believed in. He wore a suit that didn’t quite fit and stumbled over his vows but made up for it by crying at yours. It was… good. Maybe even great.

The winter was quiet but warm. The fireplace in your cottage was always burning. He helped with the animals. You cooked breakfast together. He smiled more than you’d ever seen. And in spring, when the baby chicks hatched, he cried again — softer, quietly in the coop, where you pretended not to notice.

But you noticed when he started coming home later.

You noticed when the empty cans reappeared in the trash, hidden at first, then carelessly tossed.

You noticed when the warmth of his hand faded from yours, and his voice became shorter, clipped — until it broke entirely.

“I guess you weren’t enough to fix me, huh?”

You’d argued, sure. Over the mess, over the drinking, over the way he stopped trying.

But that sentence?

It wasn’t just a wound — it was a revelation.

Because you had been trying to fix him. And he knew. And he hated it.

And maybe, a tiny voice whispered, he hated you for trying.

You didn’t leave the Valley after the divorce. That would’ve felt like defeat. Besides, the land loved you. It remembered how your hands first touched the soil, how you brought life back to a place everyone else had abandoned.

But something hollowed out inside you.

You care for your animals like a nurse dressing old wounds. The crops still thrive, but you plant them by numbers now, not instinct. You rotate your fields because you should, not because you want to.

The villagers notice. Penny still says hello, gently. Evelyn brings cookies sometimes. Leah leaves flowers on your doorstep on rainy days. You say “thank you” and smile just enough that they don’t worry.

Just enough.

But you don’t attend festivals anymore. You don’t dance at the Flower Dance. You don’t watch the jellyfish with wide eyes like you used to. You don’t go near the saloon.

You don’t see Shane, not really.

But you feel him.

Like a pulled tooth, phantom pain. Like the ghost of a song you used to sing in the kitchen, with your hands in soapy water and his head on your shoulder.

Sometimes you catch glimpses — a flash of his blue jacket behind the general store, the drag of his boots on the gravel. You hear from Jodi that he’s still at Joja. And sometimes he shows up drunk to the saloon again. Sometimes he doesn’t show up at all.

You think about him more than you mean to. It’s not longing. Not anymore. It’s just… an echo.

Summer, Year Three

You find an old photograph behind a drawer while cleaning the kitchen. It’s from your wedding. You’re both laughing — really laughing. He has one hand at your waist, the other tangled in your hair. You remember how happy he looked that day.

You stare at it for a long time.

And you don’t cry. You thought you might. But your tears dried up somewhere between the barn and that night he said those words.

You just sit there, still, with a knot in your chest that never unties.

Marnie’s Ranch

You drop off eggs sometimes. You never mean to see him, but today, he’s there. Sitting on the porch, hunched forward, elbows on knees. A beer bottle in his hand.

You freeze.

He doesn’t look up at first. Then he does.

He blinks.

“…Hey.”

You haven’t heard his voice in months. It sounds cracked. Softer. Tired.

You nod.

“Hey.”

Silence, thick and awkward.

“You look good,” he says, like it’s a question.

You don’t answer.

He takes a swig. “Didn’t think you’d still be here.”

You shrug. “Didn’t think you’d still be drinking.”

That hits. He flinches like you threw something.

“Right,” he mutters. “Fair.”

You look at him for a long second. At the man you loved. The man you tried to save. The man who didn’t want saving — at least not from you.

“You still working at Joja?” you ask.

He nods. “Still blue. Still soulless.”

It’s almost a joke. You almost smile.

But you don’t.

He looks at you like he wants to say something. Maybe everything. Maybe nothing. But instead, he just says, “I’m sorry.”

Your breath catches.

You want to scream. You want to laugh. You want to ask, Sorry for what? For loving me? For letting me believe it was enough? For breaking me with one sentence?

But you don’t.

You just nod.

“Okay.”

You turn. You leave the eggs. You walk away.

He doesn’t call after you.

You don’t look back.

The sun sets slow in Stardew Valley. It paints the hills in amber and lavender, gold and grief. You watch it from your porch most evenings. Your animals sleep peacefully. Your fields are full. The stars come out one by one.

You still get up early. Still work the land. Still tend, still care.

But not like before.

Not like when love made the soil feel sacred, when every tomato tasted like laughter, when your hands smelled like hay and his cologne.

You’re still here.

But something isn’t.

And maybe that’s just how it is when love ends. When fixing someone costs you parts of yourself you don’t get back.

You don’t smile.

But you don’t cry either.

And for now… that’s enough.

“You should run for mayor,” Shane hums, taking another swig of his beer. You stare ahead at the horizon, looking at the moon and the stars. It takes you several moments to comprehend his remark, but once you finally do, you laugh. 

Shane stills at your side and you chance a glance at him, only to realize that his expression is entirely sincere. “Oh, you’re serious,” you realize aloud. The air seems to fall still around you, as you consider the statement. “I’ve never thought about it. Besides, I’m kind of new to town…” you trail off. After all, you only moved to Pelican Town a few years ago. It’s a bit of a crazy thought—it feels as if you’ve been here your whole life. Everyone is so kind and supportive. 

“So?” Shane huffs. “You’ve done more in the few years you’ve been here than Lewis has done in his entire lifetime.” There’s a strange resolve in his eyes as he stares out at the horizon. The two of you are sitting at the edge of the beach, overlooking the sparkling blue waters. It’s quiet here at night, save for the sound of cicadas buzzing. 

“That’s an exaggeration,” you argue weakly, once you can find the words. 

“You fixed the Community Center,” Shane starts. “Built Pam a house. Created new paths and improved infrastructure. Not to mention, you pretty much single-handedly revived Pelican Town’s economy. And you helped to get rid of Joja.”

That’s all true, but it doesn’t mean you’re qualified enough to be the mayor. You take a deep breath and try to focus on the quiet waves, the dark sky above… anything but the proposition you’re suddenly faced with. “I don’t know…” you break off. You’re very uncertain, truthfully. Being the mayor seems like a lot of responsibility—with plenty of room for failure.

“Besides, then Aunt Marnie and Lewis wouldn’t have to hide their relationship,” Shane proposes, taking another swig of his drink. You nearly spit yours out at the casual remark. 

“You knew?” you choke out. When you had first stumbled upon the pair leaving the tavern arm-in-arm, they made you promise not to tell anyone. You had assumed no one else knew. 

“Are you serious?” Shane remarks with amusement. “Lewis is at our house almost every day at this point. Of course I knew.” …You suppose that makes sense. Shane has probably noticed the mayor come and go frequently. 

“Lewis has run unopposed for decades,” Shane continues, when he notices you have nothing more to say. “And he didn’t help Pelican Town when it was struggling. The Community Center fell to shit, Joja moved in…” He breaks off, staring out at the water. Anger briefly flickers across his face, before he sighs resignedly. 

“Maybe you should run for mayor,” you suggest with raised brows. 

Shane just scoffs. “Hell no.” Safe to say, the conversation changes directions after that. 

You don’t expect Shane to remember that late-night discussion, much less for him to ask you about it a few days later. “Have you given any thought to running for mayor?” Shane questions as you’re walking along the shore of the beach. Thankfully, no one is around to hear you now—you don’t want this to reach anyone else’s ears. Rumors spread like wildfire in a town as close-knit and small as Pelican Town. 

“You remember that?” you can’t help but ask. You had assumed that the alcohol bolstered that conversation, but it seems you were wrong. You scuff your shoe against the sand, satisfied with the granules that are kicked up into the air. 

“Of course,” he responds with a wry smile. 

“I don’t know,” you admit, shoving your hands in your pockets. You look at the water in the distance and take a deep breath, before turning to look at Shane. The two of you have momentarily stopped in your pacing, leaving you standing near the edge of the docks. “I don’t want to make Lewis mad, or make things inconvenient for everyone else.”

Shane hums in understanding. For a moment, you think the conversation will end there. But a few seconds later, Shane continues speaking. “You should ask around, see what everyone thinks of the idea,” he suggests. “You may be surprised by what you hear.”

You consider the thought. After all, merely asking around isn’t anywhere near an explicit commitment to running for mayor. Besides, it would be good to get a feeling for whether you would even have a chance in an election against Lewis. Shane doesn’t seem to think you’ll actually do it, because his eyes widen when you nod. “Maybe I will.” 

Then a smile overtakes his face. He looks lighter, less stressed, than you’ve seen him in a while. With Joja’s disappearance and his hard work towards curbing his addiction, he’s been doing a lot better. The casual drinks you had the other day may have been the first ones he’s had in several weeks. And Shane made it abundantly clear that he doesn’t intend to start drinking heavily anytime soon. You’re sure it’s been immensely difficult for him, and you’re proud that he’s gotten to this point. It makes you happy to see him happy. 

“You should,” Shane asserts, breaking you out of your thoughts. It takes you a few moments to focus on the conversation again, instead of your distracting tangent on Shane’s growth and happiness. Fortunately, Shane doesn’t seem to mind your lapse in attention—as the two of you fall into a comfortable silence as you walk down the shore of the beach. Eventually, you have to part ways: Shane with an easy smile on his face; and you, struggling not to mimic the gesture. Once you’re alone as you head back to your farm, you don’t fight off your feelings anymore—and a small smile graces your lips. 

It takes you a few days to summon the courage to speak to the villagers about your potential candidacy as mayor. And, safe to say, you aren’t expecting the positive responses they give you. Truthfully, you weren’t expecting much of a response at all. But when you first bring up the idea to Sebastian, Abigail, and Sam, they exchange victorious smirks. Immediately fearing for your life, you’re quick to ask them if they expected this—to which Abigail explains that they had a conversation along those lines the other day. 

“I mean, you’ve done so much for the town, so it makes sense,” Sam shrugs, as if it’s the natural conclusion to make. Sebastian and Abigail both nod in evident agreement. You look over the three of them one more time, still unable to convince yourself they’re being genuine. But time passes and none of them interject with the claim that the entire conversation is a prank, so you think you’re safe to assume they’re serious. Of course, that brings up something just as frightening: the idea that you have a responsibility to the citizens of Pelican Town, that they’re already expecting things from you. You eventually push away all those thoughts and decide to get some more opinions. After all, Sam, Abigail, and Sebastian are some of the younger residents. The majority of Pelican Town is older than them—and you’ll need to survey that populace if you want to have any chance of winning the election. (It frightens you how easily you’ve accepted this idea… but you decide not to question it.)

Over the next few days, you try to slip the idea into your conversations as naturally as possible. Of course, you’re not the best at subtlety, so most people see right through your attempts. But regardless, everyone responds very positively. When you mention the idea to Willy, he nods in agreement. “If you’re half as good at being mayor as you are at fishing, you’ll be just fine.” 

Then you mention your potential interest in being the mayor as you pick up an Energy Tonic at Harvey’s clinic, and you’re endlessly amused by his reaction: as he tips his head down and his glasses fall right off his face. He quickly reassures you that you’d be a great candidate, and that he’d vote for you without hesitation. 

Next you run into Emily as you’re heading to Pierre’s for some seeds and she almost seems to expect what you’re going to say. (Pelican Town doesn’t get much news. So when something does happen, everyone seems to know about it.) To your surprise, she pulls you into a hug and runs off with the promise that she’ll knit some apparel for you to use for your campaign. You stare after her in bewildered amusement. Ultimately, you’re starting to get the feeling that everyone is prepared for you to run for mayor: everyone except you. But you’re warming up to the idea with each conversation you have. Hell, if you even have George’s begrudging approval, you’re certain you have a good chance at winning the election. 

“So?” Shane asks the next time you see him. 

You just shake your head in disbelief, at a complete loss for words as you recount all the conversations you had. 

Shane shoots you a sympathetic smile. “I told you they’d go for it,” he remarks, something far too close to pride gleaming in his eyes. You avert your eyes for a moment, suddenly feeling flustered by all the faith and trust he’s showing in you. Why is he so convinced you’ll succeed? 

You hear yourself blurting out your thoughts before you can stop yourself. “Can I ask you something?” you ask. Shane blinks and nods, crossing his arms over his chest. “Why are you so passionate about this?” Shane has been super dedicated to helping you out with all of this, and while you’re immensely grateful for the support, you have to wonder just what he’s getting out of it. 

To your surprise, a flush rises on Shane’s face and he looks away for a moment. “Honestly?” he asks. “I just want you to be happy. And I think you definitely deserve the position. Plus, it would be a better reflection of just how much you’ve done for this place,” Shane continues. “For us.” For me goes unsaid, but you somehow hear it anyway.

“Well, if it means that much to you…” you choke out, suddenly feeling fidgety and restless. You shove your hands in your pockets to prevent yourself from doing something stupid, like reaching out to hug him. Shane’s never been one for physical contact, after all. 

“I mean, don’t do it just because I’m suggesting it,” Shane sighs, averting his gaze for a moment again before looking at you with renewed focus. “But don’t think I haven’t noticed: your only objections so far have been on the behalf of others. What do you want? That’s all that really matters.”

You stare at him for a few moments in complete disbelief. “When did you get so wise?” you ask, unable to keep the fondness from your voice. Ah well. Your friendship was nice while it lasted. 

But Shane only huffs and looks away, a blush rising on his face. “Shut up.” You poke fun at him a little more, before the conversation moves towards other things. Shane tells you what’s been going on at the ranch and you listen with rapt attention. The look on his face just a few minutes ago flits about in the back of your mind, never quite leaving your thoughts. 

Within a few days, you’re officially running for mayor. The process for entering the election is obscenely straightforward: you just have to go to Gunther and declare your intent, before signing a quick form. It’s frighteningly easy, and you can’t help but wonder why no one bothered to try running against Lewis in the past. When you return to Shane with the news that you’re officially a candidate in the mayoral race, he smiles at you with glittering eyes and your heart skips a beat. 

Immediately, you’re immensely thankful that Pelican Town is a small town—and that elections aren’t a huge affair. You already know everyone in town, so you don’t necessarily need to go door-to-door to introduce yourself. Furthermore, the news of you being a candidate spreads quite fast. Before long, the election seems to be all the town's talking about. After all, there hasn’t been a genuine election since Lewis was elected years ago. That strikes you, but you don’t have time to scrutinize it—not in the wake of the preparations you have to make and the speech you have to write for the upcoming “debate.” 

Shane is, as always, a godsend. He sits on the front steps of your house as you rehearse your speech and gives you pointers. The two of you discuss some of the things that could be improved in Pelican Town and try to incorporate the views of the people you’ve spoken to. After all, you’re not running for mayor for the title—you want to ensure that Pelican Town is flourishing and prospering for years to come. 

When the day of the debate finally arrives, you’re so nervous that you contemplate not going to the event at all. Thankfully, Shane appears at your doorstep an hour before you’re scheduled to speak and practically drags you through getting ready. He helps you decide on an outfit and, after you change into it, he promptly whistles and earnestly compliments you in a way that makes you feel profoundly embarrassed. From there, you practice your speech once more before it’s finally time for you to head over to the town square. Apparently, Robin managed to set up some sort of stage with podiums for Lewis and you to speak at. The thought makes you unspeakably nervous, despite your unfounded conviction that everything will go well.  

Admittedly, you do freeze before stepping onto the paved path leading to the town square—at which point Shane talks you into continuing towards the stage. You’re hit with yet another wave of panic when you see that nearly every resident has shown up for the event, but you manage to talk yourself out of the slippery slope of anxiety running through your mind. You make sure to thank Shane for accompanying you, before heading to the stage and taking your place alongside Mayor Lewis. Shane takes a seat near the back of the group, and you resolutely pretend that you aren’t sneaking glances at him the entire time. It certainly doesn't help that, every time you look over at him, he notices and sends you a reassuring smile—the rare one that nearly knocks the breath from your chest whenever you see it. 

The remaining townsfolk file in and finally, the debate begins. You manage to highlight all the talking points you had hoped to go over and when you finish your speech, you’re shocked to hear scattered applause from the group. Your hands may be shaking behind the podium, and you may be clenching your fists so hard that bolts of pain are sliding down your fingers, but you get through it nonetheless. That night, you treat Shane to a home-cooked meal and the two of you stay up late talking about everything and nothing. When Shane leaves, you’re left with a fuzzy feeling in your chest… and you’re inexplicably compelled to think back on your life since you first moved to Pelican Town. 

You wanted to escape the urban prison of your old life, and you did. You inherited your grandfather’s farm and whipped it into shape with a lot of elbow grease. You began planting and harvesting crops, raising animals, exploring the mines, completing Mr. Qi’s mysterious requests, donating to the local museum, fishing in the salty waters of the ocean, foraging for natural materials… You truly adjusted to life as a farmer. 

Of course, that adjustment came with a ton of assistance. You’re immensely grateful for all the kindness you were shown from the very beginning—from Robin’s consistent presence and offers of construction to Lewis’s daily walks to collect what you left him in the shipping bin and sell it for you. It didn’t take long for you to fall in love with Stardew Valley for the same reasons you’re sure your grandfather did. 

You’ve come a long way, you realize. Everyone was so helpful and welcoming. Now, you can only hope to repay their kindness—to change the town for the better. You like to think that maybe, just maybe, you’ve started to do that already. And, with any luck, you’ll continue to do it once you’re mayor. 

It takes you a bit longer than normal to fall asleep that night, as thoughts of the election and memories of conversations with Shane flow through your mind. When you finally do fall asleep, Shane follows you into your dreams—and you wake up disoriented, looking down at your hand for a ring that isn’t there. You try to shake off the thought and devote your attention to your animals—but brief flickers of Shane wearing an elegant suit, standing across from you on the altar, refuse to leave your mind. 

As days pass, the prospect of election day voting grows ever closer. The night before the election, you’re practically frantic—regretting every decision you made that led you to this very moment. You toss and turn for two hours before abandoning the idea of sleep, moving out to your front steps and looking out on the darkness settled over your growing crops. 

You strongly suspect Shane has telepathic abilities, because the moment you begin to think about him, he appears. At first, you’re convinced you’re seeing things—and you rub at your eyes roughly, expecting to wake up beneath your covers. But when you open your eyes again, Shane is still standing in front of you. He bends to take a seat next to you on your steps.

He’s wearing his trademark blue sweatshirt and he zips it up before shoving his hands in his pockets. “Can’t sleep?” Shane asks you. 

You nod. “What are you doing here?” you then ask. “You should be sleeping.” 

“Figured you could use some company,” Shane responds easily. “Besides, I don’t go to bed early.” 

“Right,” you remember. “Well, do you want to come in?”

“Sure,” Shane says. The two of you slowly migrate to the couch in your living room, and with each minute that passes, you feel more comfortable and less stressed. Before long you’re fighting off sleep, blinking hard as you attempt to stay awake. You don’t want to be rude and doze off in the middle of conversation, but it seems like the universe has other plans for you. Shane’s calm voice only makes things worse, leaving you to seep into the couch cushions and fall into an easy slumber. 

You wake in the morning to a brief bit of back pain and a blanket draped over you. You blink dazedly, slowly recalling the events of the previous night. You and Shane had moved inside, and the two of you were talking on the couch. You must’ve fallen asleep at some point. The thought is immensely embarrassing, and you can only hope Shane doesn’t think you were being rude. Upon second thought, though, you know he won’t read into it—he knew you were struggling to sleep when he first visited. 

Any of your remaining doubts quickly fade into obscurity when you find a note on your fridge, reading: 

Sorry for leaving—I promised Jas I’d take her to the park this morning. See you this afternoon.  - Shane

It’s such a simple note, but the fact that he thought to explain his departure is rather heartwarming. You can’t help but smile as you take the note into your hands, holding it with unusual care. After staring down at it for several seconds, you decide to keep the note and place it in your nightstand drawer for safekeeping. You’re a bit embarrassed that you’re keeping it, secretly. But no one has to know. 

Today is the day of the election: the moment you’ve been waiting for. Voting opens at 8 a.m., and there will be a vote count at 4 p.m.. You try to keep yourself busy on the farm all day, so that you’re not thinking about the election and how embarrassing it will be when you lose and don’t get any votes—

You shake your head and break yourself out of the negative spiral. Now’s not the time to regret your actions. You focus your attention on caring for your animals, harvesting your crops, and planting some new seeds in the greenhouse. Somehow, these efforts eat most of the day away. By the time you’ve finished setting up your newest batch of seeds in the greenhouse, it’s 2 p.m. In exactly two hours, you’ll learn if you won or lost the mayoral election. Nervous can’t even begin to describe how you’re feeling. You head inside to shower, before beginning to pace around restlessly. 

True to his word, Shane stops by at around 3:15 p.m. He doesn’t poke fun at your unease, instead endeavoring to help you prepare and ultimately ensuring that you don’t have any unnecessary stress. Virtually everything about today is making you nervous, so when you emerge from the bathroom in the fine-trimmed suit you had prepared, you’re very self-conscious. 

“How do I look?” you ask hesitantly. 

Shane’s head snaps up and his lips part in surprise. His cheeks flush pink and he averts his eyes for a moment, before looking at you once more. “You look…” Shane breaks off, as if unable to trust whatever he says next. “You look incredible.” You feel a flustered smile growing on your own face and you thank him for the compliment. Tension settles in the air. You’re not sure if you want to break through it or not. 

“Um, your collar…” Shane then says, his brows furrowing as he swiftly breaks the distance between you and reaches out to smooth it down. Your heart is racing so quickly you feel like he can hear it, but Shane is fixated on straightening out your collar. For a moment, he almost seems to linger at this close distance—before he blinks and shakes himself out of it. “There. All better.” 

“Thanks,” you say, your voice a little strained. You take a slow breath. “And thank you for all your help, I really appreciate it.”

“Any time.” Shane smiles. Time almost seems to stop as you look at one another, some sort of silent comprehension passing between you two. Before you can dissect it any further, Shane is shaking his head ever so slightly. “We should probably get going.” Yet neither of you move to leave.

“Right,” you eventually answer. It takes a strange amount of effort to get yourself to move, to walk past him and pretend as if that conversation hadn’t happened. You can only hope you can address it after the election. It’s been a very busy day, after all. 

The two of you walk over to the town square, where Robin is setting up chairs for the audience. You help her out until there’s a general formation, and then head up to the seat left for you on the stage. Lewis arrives soon enough; but you’re too nervous to do much more than exchange pleasantries with him. As people begin to file in, your hands start to shake and your heart roars in your ears. You occasionally glance at Shane—the sight of him reassures you each time. You try not to think about the implications of that. 

Once everyone arrives, Gunther addresses the group and announces that the votes have been counted. Virtually the entire town is here, waiting on pins and needles as the counts are about to be revealed. The man seems to sense everyone’s anticipation, as he cuts to the chase. “Lewis has received…” Gunther trails off. There seems to be a collective inhale of breath as he looks down at his placard. “Six votes.” 

You blink in complete surprise. Six? That’s nowhere near half of the town. Your heart starts to race in anticipation. You don’t want to get your hopes up, though, so you focus on Gunther once more. You bite the inside of your cheek and try to ground yourself to reality. Nothing has been decided yet; this doesn’t mean anything. 

“And his opponent,” Gunther says, uttering your name. For what feels like an eternity, there’s nothing but tense silence. You’re struggling to keep your composure, feeling the powerful urge to fidget and do something with your nervous energy. Finally, Gunther takes pity on you and continues. “Nineteen votes.” 

Several people cheer, Shane included. You stare ahead in complete disbelief. Nineteen votes. That can only mean… 

“Congratulations to the new mayor of Pelican Town,” Gunther says, beckoning you to the center of the stage. You get up mechanically and head over to him, shaking his proffered hand and settling at the podium.

“Speech!” You hear several people yell. “Speech!”

“Oh, Yoba…” you murmur before you can stop yourself. There are a few laughs. You take a few moments to inhale and exhale slowly. The difficult part is over. “Well. Thank you, first of all. I know I’m relatively new to town, but I’ve grown to love it here.” You want to keep it short and sweet, so you decide on one last sentence. “And I just hope to change Pelican Town for the better.”

“You already have,” Shane remarks. You stare at him and suddenly, it feels as if you two are the only ones on the planet. Everything fades to the background and you know you’re staring, but you can’t seem to tear your eyes away from him. Shane has a genuine smile on his face—not just a wry quirk to his lips. It almost looks… adoring. 

There’s another round of applause and the moment is broken. You express your gratitude before retreating to the back of the group. Everyone breaks off into their respective friend groups and you take a deep breath. Within a few seconds, there’s a hand on your shoulder and you flinch. It’s not Shane, but Lewis—staring at you with a polite smile. “Congratulations,” he says. You’re surprised to notice that it’s entirely sincere. 

“You’re not angry?” you hear yourself ask hesitantly. You had never really spoken with Lewis about your plans.

“Of course not,” the former mayor answers. You feel some of the tension bleed out of your shoulders. “It’s clear that you’re a great fit for mayor. Besides, it’s about time for me to retire. Take some time to myself, relax.” His gaze falls to Marnie and you smile. Lewis blinks and notices you looking at him, quickly trying to explain himself. 

“You don’t need to explain,” you interject. You then urge him to approach Marnie, which he does—with a grateful smile on his face. Seeing them together brings a smile on your own face. 

Several people approach you and congratulate you on your win, to the point where the smile on your face is starting to hurt (even though it’s still completely genuine). You shake hands with Demetrius, hug Evelyn, exchange remarks with Robin, banter with Emily and Leah, talk with Elliott and Alex… But you’re still looking for someone. And each time you chance a glance around the group, you don’t see him. 

But then there’s that familiar voice. “Hey.” You turn around to find Shane smiling at you. You feel a smile growing on your own lips and, before you can contemplate the consequences, you’re rushing forward and hugging him. To Shane’s credit, he doesn’t so much as flinch—instead embracing you back unapologetically. His hands fall to your waist and you idly wish you could just drown in this moment forever. 

“You did it,” Shane says when the two of you break apart, a proud quirk to his lips. His left hand lingers at your hip and you’re sure you’re doing a horrible job at hiding your feelings for him. As if remembering that you’re both in public, Shane withdraws his hand with a sheepish quirk to his lips. 

“We did it,” you clarify. “I couldn’t have done any of this without you. I’m serious.” You insist, when an expression of disbelief crosses his face. “I hadn’t even considered the possibility before we had that conversation. And… you really inspired me,” you finish. 

“Well, you deserve this,” Shane asserts with unshakeable confidence. “All of it.”

“Thanks, Shane.” You smile. 

Before you can even begin to stumble through changing the subject, there’s a sudden rush of movement at your side. You watch in surprise as a small figure moves past you and tugs at Shane’s hand. Shane and you both look down, only to find Jas staring up at her godfather with sparkling eyes. 

“Jas?” Shane asks, looking down at his niece. There’s a bright smile on her face and she breaks eye contact with Shane to look at you, before looking at Shane once more. You’re confused by the girl’s unexplained expressions and gestures, so you decide to remain silent until you can get a good idea of what’s going on. 

Jas tugs on Shane’s hand insistently and widens her eyes purposefully. Shane looks down at her with a knowing expression, and you swear you can see him beginning to panic. Then Jas speaks. “Now kiss!” Jas interjects, pointing at you before tugging on her godfather’s hand again. She’s pulling at Shane’s arm rather hard, and it almost looks as if she’s trying to pull him into you. Shane seems to notice that at the same time you do, as his eyes widen and he flushes.

“Um—” He tries to say, looking completely helpless. 

You’re similarly flustered. “Well—” You stammer, suddenly nervous. Jas then reaches out and grabs your hand too, trying to tug you towards Shane. 

Thankfully, both of you are saved from responding when Marnie—evidently overhearing the conversation—hurries over. “Jas, don’t say that!” The woman is quick to reel Jas in, bringing her away from Shane and you with an apologetic smile on her face. Jas tries to resist, but Marnie pulls her off to the side and scolds her. 

You stare at the mother and daughter for a moment, unable to quite rationalize Jas’s sudden remark. “Sorry about that,” Shane chokes out, sounding embarrassed. You look back at him, realizing that he’s avoiding eye contact. 

“Don’t apologize,” you’re quick to respond, “It’s not your fault.” Silence drags on for what feels like far too long. 

“So—” you choke out. 

“Um—” Shane says. 

The two of you break off and stare at each other expectantly. “You first,” you then say. A million microexpressions seem to flicker across Shane’s face, before he seems to steel his nerves and nod resolutely. 

“Can we go somewhere a little more… private for this?” the man asks, glancing to the left and right. Indeed, you’re somewhat surrounded by other Pelican Town residents. Anything you say here will make it through the grapevine quickly. 

“Sure,” you agree. Admittedly, you have no idea what Shane needs to tell you. You place a hand on his shoulder and point behind him, to a secluded area behind the cover of trees. Shane looks at you for a long moment, as if studying your expression, before nodding and leading you over there. 

“What’s wrong?” you ask, once the two of you are successfully concealed behind trees and shrubs. 

“Nothing’s wrong,” he’s quick to reassure you. His words still don’t explain the strained expression on his face. Shane takes a deep breath, evidently summoning the courage to continue speaking. “The truth is… I care about you. A lot. In a way that is… more than platonic.”

“And Jas noticed,” Shane continues, pinching the bridge of his nose. “I told her to keep it a secret, because I didn’t want to bother you with it. But… she’s only seven years old, and she’s not very good at keeping secrets yet.”

“When we first met, I was such a dick to you because I was attracted to you… and it scared me,” he admits. “So I tried to push you away, but it didn’t get rid of the feelings. And they only grew stronger the more I got to know you.” He sighs. 

“I hope this doesn’t change anything between us,” Shane says with inexplicable certainty. “I’ve been—I’ve been burying those feelings, because I’d much rather be friends than strangers.” It doesn’t even appear as if he’s perceiving you at all—he had a preconceived notion of how this conversation would go, and he’s assuming that it must be true. But you haven’t had a chance to speak up yet. 

“Shane,” you say. He doesn’t respond, instead turning on his heel and moving to walk away. You make a grab for his wrist and gently tug him back, before quickly releasing his arm. He looks at you quizzically. “I’m attracted to you too.”

There’s a long pause. “Very funny,” Shane eventually scoffs. 

“What?” you ask incredulously. “I’m not joking,” you maintain, your heart thundering away in your chest. 

“Sure you aren’t,” Shane sighs resignedly. He glances over your shoulder and looks across your immediate surroundings, as if searching for something. “Did someone put you up to this?” he asks. 

“No—” you try to say. 

“I thought you were different,” Shane interjects, his voice cracking. The betrayed expression on his face makes you nauseous. No matter what you say, he’s not listening. It seems words aren’t what you need right now. And you’re feeling brave tonight—what with the mayoral election going well and Shane confessing his feelings for you. You don’t try to explain it again. Instead, you surge forward and kiss him.

For an awful moment, he stiffens and you quickly pull back—afraid that you’ve just made a grave misstep. Then, just as things seem to be clear-cut, Shane tugs you closer and embraces you. Your hands find his shoulders and he immediately reciprocates, a hand cradling your cheek and another tangled in your belt loop. He’s pulling you so close you feel as if you’re going to fall into him, but his grip is strong and unwavering. 

You’re breathless when you break apart. “I’m serious,” you say, somewhat winded. Something in your eyes must convince him that you’re being genuine, because he stares at you for a moment before understanding passes over his face. He leans in closer and just as you’re about to close the distance between you again, there’s the harsh sound of a stick snapping underfoot.

“...Hey guys,” Abigail grins. Shane and you quickly move away from one another, but you get the feeling it’s far too late. 

“Don’t pretend to hide it,” Sam adds, only confirming your suspicions that pretense is futile.  

“You three don’t look very surprised,” you say, squinting at them skeptically. Indeed, the group looks smug. You swear you see Abigail elbow Sam in the side and mutter something about a bet, but you quickly forget that as the conversation continues. 

“It was obvious,” Sebastian pipes up. Sam nods in agreement. 

Meanwhile, Shane is stiffening at your side. You know that Abigail, Sam, and Sebastian are just joking around, but you don’t want Shane to feel uncomfortable. “Okay, that’s enough—!” you interject, before any more damage can be done. “Thank you all for your input.” You promptly shoo them away. 

When you turn your attention back to Shane, you find him studying the ground with unusual interest. You resist the urge to laugh, but you must not hide your amusement very well, because Shane turns back around and squints at you. “What are you laughing at?” He asks, something reminiscent of a pout rising on his face. 

“Nothing,” you say. “You’re just cute,” you blurt out before you can stop yourself. 

“...Really?” Shane squints at you, as if you’re lying. 

“Yes,” you respond easily. Shane hasn’t been complimented many times before, judging from his skeptical reaction. Fortunately, you’re more than willing to shower him in endless praise—and you plan to do so for the foreseeable future. As if sensing your thoughts, Shane pulls you into another kiss and you promptly forget what you were going to say.

endnotes: Shane and Marnie are just mayoral catnip.

And Jas ships it. She’s a mastermind, let’s be real.

y’all i’m so gone for shane it’s NOT EVEN FUNNY. This wasn’t supposed to be this long but I COULDN’T STOP WRITING. i need this man so bad. SO. FUCKING BAD.

…anyways here’s some vote tallies: Voted for you: Abigail, Alex, Caroline, Demetrius, Elliott, Emily, Evelyn, George, Haley, Harvey, Jodi, Leah, Maru, Penny, Robin, Sam, Sebastian, Shane, Willy Voted for Lewis: Clint, Gus, Kent, Marnie, Pam, Pierre Didn’t vote/didn’t care to vote/too young to vote: Dwarf, Krobus, Leo, Linus, Jas, Wizard & Lewis and you aren’t allowed to vote, since you’re candidates.

thanks for reading! <3

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