akira.

Funny thing about it all is nobody seems to have noticed that he’s out of the house at certain hours throughout the week. Consistently. So really, it’s on them for not trying hard enough to find answers to their invasive little questions. 

Hm. Actually, no. On the off chance that they do ask what he’s up to on a night like tonight, he’ll just lie, say he’s at the gym or something. He’s not exactly allowed to tell, which is fine; he’s more than willing to keep a little secret. 

That little secret was tucked away in a nice apartment that had a view of the entire city. A tranquil little place— except for when he’s around.

The bed’s steadily rocking underneath the uneven weight Satoru creates. Relentless smacking— skin to skin, hips to ass, the dirty little squelch that comes with it. 

There’s a view, but it’s not the city. 

“Arch that back some more— yeaahhh, just like that.”

He pounds into you, balls hitting heavy against your clit as he pulls you back to meet each thrust. Moans spill from your lips, taking every single inch he drills into you. The stretch is insane as he works his heavy cock in and out of you like it’s nothing. 

If there’s one thing about him, it’s that he can fuck. He can go on for hours, put you in any position, have you begging and crying, dwindle you down to nothing but a babbling mess from how many orgasms he can work out of you. 

He wears you out. 

Yet still, at the end of every night—

“Kay’. We’re done here, you can leave now.” 

You are so fucking mean.

The first time Satoru heard those words come out of your mouth, he was distraught. How dare you throw him out after the backshots he had given you?! He made you cum so hard you cried! Then you just throw him out of your apartment like some useless whore– like he was nothing but a fucking slut! He had more to offer than just his dick, he’ll have you know. 

Now he’s a little less emotional and more… 

“You sure? I could stay longer and help you with chores… or something.”

You look around your room, which is spotless aside from his t-shirt and jeans scattered on the floor. “Sure. Why don’t you start by picking up your clothes, putting them on, and then getting out?”

“Oh, come on. Seriously?” he throws his head back and groans rather childishly. “That’s a little rude, no?” 

“So was the way you were talking to your little girlfriend on the phone earlier,” you hop off the bed and throw on a big t-shirt that said Modelo on it. 

Satoru gets one final look at your ass as you do so and finds himself getting oddly jealous, wondering if the shirt was actually yours or if it belonged to an ex. He ends up telling himself it’s yours, ignoring that you’ve told him how much you hated beer in the past. Delusional? Perhaps, but he’d rather not hurt his own feelings right now.

“Carmen’s not my girlfriend,” he huffs out a laugh as he tries to explain, “I don’t even know why she called me. We haven’t fucked in months.” 

He also tried to tell you that he hasn’t slept with anyone since he started sleeping with you, but you didn’t seem to care much about either. The entire time, you were just throwing his clothes at him while he absentmindedly got dressed. He continues to yap away once he’s up and fully dressed, so you grab him by the wrist and start walking towards the door. 

“And you wouldn’t believe all the shit the guys have given me for turning girls down. One of them started calling me Celibate Satoru, can you believe that?”

“I sure can.” You open the door, walk around him, and start pushing him out. 

“They don’t even know— assholes, they’d take it all back so fast if they saw you,” he huffs out a laugh, trying to cope with the fact that he’s not allowed to tell anybody about you two. 

You laugh with him. “You better hope they don’t, ‘cause if they do–”

“You’ll bite my dick off– yeah, yeah. I know.” You never said you’d bite his dick off. Satoru turns around when he’s fully out of the door to reveal the dopey grin on his face. “So, same time next week?”

“Yup! Bye Gojo.”

He scoffs. “I thought I told you to call me Sa–”

He didn’t get to finish that sentence. You shut the door in his face. 

Gojo was a nice guy… at least to you, he was. You’re sure a lot of others would say the complete opposite, judging by the way he snapped at the girl earlier for calling him and telling her to lose his number. You felt sorry for her and also felt thankful that you didn’t have to deal with a guy like him when you were 21. 

You tried not to reflect too much, it’d just end with you being disappointed in yourself for even letting him into your apartment in the first place. It’s all for fun, but still, you should know better. 

Satoru’s a piece of work. Comes from a family swimming in money and has never been told no in his life. He’s impulsive. Very hedonistic, very immature— some people grow out of it, but you have a feeling he’ll never change since he’s never had to work hard for anything in his life. 

He is the last person you’d ever want to date, and for someone who usually dated older men— preferably men like his rich father— fucking a frat boy was just embarrassing on your part.

It’s too bad he’s genuinely one of the best fucks of your life— add in the dick piercing, the stamina that came with being a rugby player, and the fact that he spends every moment with you wanting to please you, and he was hard to get rid of. 

You met Satoru at the gym. You’d think he’d go to the one at his university, but no, he just had to get a membership at the luxury gym that’s on the other side of town. The only reason why you chose to get a membership there, rather than the more affordable gym down the street, was so that you could avoid annoying ass kids. 

Spoiler: It didn’t work. 

He didn’t approach you right away. It started with a couple of stares here and there, all of which you pretended not to see since his attention was the last thing you wanted. You can admit that if he were a little older, you would’ve indulged, but it was clear he was a college student, given how he’s worn t-shirts and hoodies with his university’s name on them. Most professional settings wouldn’t allow piercings either— he’s covered in them. One on his nose, one on his eyebrow, multiple on his ears, and a tongue ring. Not to mention the one he surprised you with when he first came over.

Of course, pretending not to notice an attention whore like Satoru Gojo didn’t work, and you soon found out just how annoyingly persistent he can be.

He started going to the gym at the same time as you. It felt like the machines he used just got closer and closer to you with each visit, up until he boldly used the treadmill right next to you one day— you weren’t having that, by the way, and got off less than a minute later. You could be talking to a trainer or one of the staff members, and he’d shimmy his way into the conversation just to get you to look at him and say something, but his attempts were met with you excusing yourself. 

It got to a point where he didn’t even care about what was said, he just wanted your attention, good or bad. When he finally did get it, it was neither. You were tired of him before he even opened his mouth. 

Imagine this: the annoying little shit coincidentally goes into the sauna at the same time as you, even though you could’ve sworn you saw him walking out the door with his duffle bag thrown over his shoulder. How he managed to strip down into nothing but his slutty little rugby shorts in so little time? You have no clue. His knee was all scraped up though, so it was safe to assume that he fell during the process. 

You gave him a curt smile and closed your eyes.

He still opened his mouth.

“Great sauna, isn’t it?”

Did he just deepen his voice? Christ.

The awkward and pathetic attempt at small talk never made you want to murder yourself more in that moment. You tried not to sound as annoyed as you were when you let out a sigh. 

“It is,” you murmured back, closing your eyes again in hopes that would be the end of it. 

It wasn’t. 

“I love coming here— nice little escape from everything,” he blissfully said.

You couldn’t imagine what the hell that brat needed to escape from. If only you could say the same, you’ve spent more time dodging him than you have working out the past three weeks. 

“Name's Satoru, by the way,” he flashed you a smile. 

You’re not a heartless wretch, so you threw him a bone and told him your name, too. Which was a mistake, the one thing you’ve learned is to never feel sorry for Satoru, give him an inch and he’ll shamelessly take a mile. Minutes later, you’re internally groaning. You hated how smooth he was when asking if you wanted to grab drinks later that night. All the charm and charisma that oozed out of him would put any narcissist to shame. 

“Did you seriously follow me into the sauna just to ask me out?”

He had to pause because that’s not what you were supposed to say, but he was too emotionally invested at that point to give up. 

“Maybe,” he chirps, averting his gaze for a moment. “I swear I wasn’t trying to be weird, though.”

You smile as your eyes scan him from top to bottom, more so out of judgment than interest. “Stripping down into nothing but the male version of booty shorts isn’t weird?”

“Ugh— ok, yeah, fine— maybe it is a little weird,” he sighs, throwing a towel over his shoulders as an attempt to cover up. “Let's just.. Forget about that. Yeah?” You continue to just stare at him, and he clears his throat. “I’d still love to take you out sometime and get to know you a little better. Whatcha think? My treat.”

Age doesn’t matter, you’ll fold too once you see what he’s hiding under his “booty shorts”. Everyone does. 

You cross your arms and lean back on the wooden bench. “I’m sorry– how old are you again?”

“I’m graduating this year,” he proudly says, making your face drop in disbelief— he’s well aware that he’s too young for you, and he’s still trying?

“Right.” The judgment in your tone was loud and clear, continuing to look at him as if he were a harmless spider— there’s no fear or concern, just peeved at how it managed to find its way into your vicinity. “So you’re 21…” You tried pulling more information out of him, “since that’s the age you need to be to order a drink.” 

“Soon,” he continues to tiptoe around the truth. “Everyone knows me, though. Nobody's gonna check my I.D.” 

Besides, he has a fake. He’s had one since he was 16. 

“Oh wow.” 

You still didn’t sound very impressed, not that it stopped him. He somehow was able to go home with your number in his phone that day, mainly because he was starting to annoy you, and giving him your number was the easiest way to get him to stop— harmless spider, remember? He was probably more of a gnat at that point, though, but harmless nonetheless. 

From that point going forward, you ignored him at the gym and his text messages. You could go on your phone and scroll for a minute before seeing a text sent from your end. Now that you think about it, you only texted him back once. 

Unknown Number: i feel like im being edged rn 😔 what’s a man gotta do to get a text back??

You: typing…

You: 

You: typing…

You: turn 21

Unknown Number: bet

You read that response and immediately regretted it. 

He came back a month later, the day after his birthday, and you unfortunately gave in. 

And by giving in, you met him halfway and asked if he wanted to come over. He was hot, but there was no way in hell you wanted to be seen in public with him. Being a man as easy as Satoru, he said yes and spent the entire night putting you in every single position he’s ever imagined having you in. You swear he hit every room on purpose— just bending you over every surface and folding you up in every position. 

You’ve never had someone throw you around that much before. He fucked you like it was some god-given right. You were so far gone that you would’ve done anything he told you to; you’re just glad his only goal that night was to impress you. 

And he did, hence why you are still letting him come over a couple of times a week. Maybe more, maybe less. 

He’s tried to get you to come over to his place before, to which you refused for obvious reasons, and berated him enough to make him never ask you a question as insulting as that ever again. 

He’s also tried to coordinate your gym visits in the past. 

It was a month into whatever little arrangement you had— you say that because you’ve never made an agreement, aside from telling him to never talk to you, talk about you, or approach you in public. 

It would come as a surprise to no one if he spent the whole day there just waiting for you to show up. 

He didn’t even give you a chance to go into the locker and put your things away before attempting to walk up to you. You had just walked past the front desk— head down, phone up— and felt like there was something off, and what do you know? He was walking in a straight line towards you as if you hadn’t banned him from speaking to you in public. 

Luckily, the women's locker room was directly to your left, so you turned and walked there as fast as your legs could take you. You were pissed, slamming your duffel bag down onto one of the benches to spend a minute or two pacing back and forth. There was no way in hell you were going home, so you pulled up with messages with him and sent him a text.

You: Do not fucking embarrass me.

You: Don’t even come near me.  

S. Gojo: fine .

It wasn’t another 20 minutes until you finally stepped out of the locker room, mostly ready to spend the next 30 minutes working out. Usually, it’s 45 minutes to an hour, but you gave yourself some grace, even though you really should’ve been getting the most out of your membership with how pricey it was.

The first 20 minutes were fine— peaceful. You ended up letting your guard down as you fell under the assumption that Satoru left, given how he was nowhere to be found. Then, 2 minutes into using the stairmaster, someone got on the one right next to you, despite the entire row being empty. 

He was met with a scowl. The only response he had for it was throwing his palms out and grimacing right back at you, as if to say, I’m not doing anything wrong.

Minutes later, he’s reaching over and grabbing your water bottle to take a sip from. Mind you, he already had one with him. It had more water in it than yours. 

That was the moment you knew Satoru really wasn’t shit. 

He casually gave it back with a smile, trying to act all cute and be funny, so you sent your water bottle flying at his big head. 

“Ow!” he frowns, rubbing the side of his head, having absolutely no right to look as shocked as he did. “That hurt!”

“Suck it up,” you snapped at him in a hushed tone. “You’re lucky I didn’t lodge it down your throat and drown you.”

“Why would you do either?!” he threw his arms out.

“I don’t know— why would you reach over and drink from my water bottle when you have your own?!”

“Because I wanted water that had some of your backwash in it??” he says, as if it should’ve been obvious. 

To this day, you still don’t know if he was trying to throw you off or if he was being serious.

“If I hear one more word come out of your mouth while I’m here, even if you’re 10 feet away and talking to someone else, I’m fucking blocking you.”

“. . .” You could see the panic in his eyes as his face dropped. “Okay— 10 feet away is fucking crazy—”

“Stop. Talking.”

He opens his mouth, quickly decides he’d rather not find out if you were bluffing or not, and closes it.

You hated being strict with people— you had no other choice but to be strict with Satoru. You could draw a line, explicitly tell him not to cross it and why, and he’d walk right up to it and tap his toe on the other side, just to see if you’d say anything.

With the way you talk about him and talk to him, it’d be easy to assume that you hated him— you complain about the shit he does, you yell at him often, you look at him at times and start to wonder if he was just a sign sent by god to finally get therapy. But you don’t dislike him, let alone hate him.  

On the occasion that you don’t kick him out right after you two fuck, he’s really not that bad to be around. If circumstances were different, you wouldn’t mind being friends with him. He’s easy to talk to, easy to get along with when he’s not actively and purposely fucking around and finding out. You honestly enjoy talking to him here and there. 

Truly.

Except for when he’s talking about anything frat-related. More often than not, it’s dumb and genuinely a waste of your time to listen to. Not to mention the fact that you don’t need any more reminders of who you’ve been welcoming into your home. 

You were pushing thirty for Christ's sake. It'd be one thing if he were just a one-night stand, but he’s not. He raids your pantry when you’re not looking and, on multiple occasions, has purposely left his boxers behind as some sort of parting gift.

It’s gotten easier with time— the embarrassment that washes over you when he says something stupid, that is. Like whatever went down at some party he threw or some joke one of his “brothers” told him. It’s still a waste of your time, but you’ve grown to just let him talk about it rather than shut him down to avoid that pang of guilt you sometimes get when you’re around him. 

There’s the disappointment and the embarrassment, and lately, there’s the odd form of pity you have for him. You’ve always known you were going to have to let Gojo down one day and cut things off completely, you’re not quite sure how he’d take it, though. 

There was some hope that he’d get bored with you and move on to someone new, but that’s slowly diminishing. He’s volunteered to get tested for STDs weekly and sends you the results. He hasn’t slept with anyone else, either, which is shocking. You’ve gotten a glimpse of his phone and his messages, all of which were unopened texts from the girls he’s probably led on in the past— ignoring them all for a woman who does the same to him more than half the time.

Sometimes you wonder if he notices that, too. He has to. You say he’s stupid all the time, but he’s smarter than he lets on. 

—

S. Gojo: how’s my pretty girl doing?? ((:

You: what do u want

S. Gojo: 😭damn not even a question mark?? I didn’t even ask u for anything 😔

You: i can tell when u want something. now what is it

S. Gojo: can i come over after practice today? pretty please

S. Gojo: it ends at 3 today

You: im not even home

S. Gojo: ik i have a key

You: you took my spare key?

You: give it back

S. Gojo: today? (:

You: im not even home by then. I don’t want u there, you’re gonna make a mess

S. Gojo: wtf? I never make a mess

You: what do you even wanna come over for

S. Gojo: i don’t wanna be home later

You: why

S. Gojo: there’s a few sorority girls coming over and they don’t like me

You: why

S. Gojo: it’s just bc of some bet during freshman years

S. Gojo: they’re not over it

You: pig

S. Gojo: i didn’t even tell you what it was!

You: please don’t

You: but ya, no. go to the library or something

S. Gojo: PLEEEEEAAAAAAAAASSSSSSSSSSSEEEEEEEEEEE

S. Gojo: FUCK i’ll have takeout ready for you when you get off work ffs

S. Gojo: have some compassion these bitches are gonna try to CHOP my DICK off PLEASE

You: maybe you never deserved one to begin with

S. Gojo: BRO???

You: kiddinggg

You: have some pad thai ready for me. I also expect the place to be vacuumed 

S. Gojo: i got u

S. Gojo: i can do your laundry too if you want

You: stop trying to sniff my panties you fucking freak

S. Gojo: ):

You’re home at 5:15 on the dot, and you’re met with the lovely smell of all-purpose cleaner despite only telling Satoru to vacuum. So naturally, you’re in a good mood when you walk into the living room and hang your purse up in the hallway. 

Satoru’s on the couch, turning to look at you and doing that stupid nod he does when he doesn’t feel like verbally greeting someone. 

You slip out of your heels and walk up. “Did you clean the kitchen?”

“A little,” he hums, taking the opportunity to pretty much eye fuck you since you don’t pay much attention to him as you look into the kitchen. 

“What do you want?” you ask suspiciously, turning to look at him lounging back on your couch, half-naked. He’s got nothing but a pair of socks and rugby shorts on, and you can’t help but take a look at his thighs. You don’t ask why his titties are out on display, though, knowing he’d make a comment about how hard he worked cleaning the place. 

“Nothin’,” he shrugs, feigning innocence. The slight twitch of his lip right after gives him away, not that you give it much attention. “How was work?”

“Long,” you yawn. “Slow, too— felt like I was on my phone the entire time.”

He tilts his head, getting ready to fuck with you despite it not even being 5 minutes since you walked through the door. “Are you complaining about doing nothing at work today?”

“Uh, yeah,” you mimic his tone. “I hate looking at the clock all day.”

He huffs out a laugh. “I’m gonna remember this the next time you complain about work being too busy.”

You smile and hum. “Do that, and I’m shoving my socks down your throat.”

“Kinky.” You start to walk away, and Satoru takes the opportunity to reach over the couch, biting his lip as he strikes a palm over your ass. “What else are you tryna do to me?” 

“Choke you,” you boredly say as you walk into your room, but end up smiling when you hear him laugh. You come out a couple of minutes later in a pair of shorts and a tank top. “Where’s the food?”

“The fridge,” he responds, seemingly distracted. 

Only for him to grab your wrist right before you walk past behind him. 

You whip your head around and click your tongue. “What?” you whine, eyes narrowing as you shoot him an irritated look. 

“How hungry are you right now?” he asks, tongue in cheek as he keeps a firm grip on your wrists. 

“Hungry enough.”

“Starving?” There’s an obnoxious glint in his eyes as he asks. 

You scoff. “Does it fucking matter?” 

“Mmmmmm, a little.” He blatantly checks you out as he hums, not struggling to hold on to your wrist at all. He leans over the couch to get a better look at your shorts, his other hand reaching forward to snap your shorts against your skin. “I like these.”

“Let me guess, you’d like them better on the floor.” 

“Something like that— come here,” He stifles a laugh, pulling you closer until you're up against the couch. He snakes an arm around your waist to keep you from leaving, pressing kisses all over your chest. “Been waiting for you forever– give me a minute or two.” 

“You expect me to believe it’ll just be a minute or two?” You smile, trying to keep your breath from hitching as he gets closer to your neck. 

“Mhm. It’s a lie, though.” He places one last kiss against your collarbone, then pulls a hum out of you as he licks a slow, fat stripe up your neck. He tops it off with a couple of kisses along your jaw before nipping at your ear. “How about I work up that appetite a little, hm?”

Your lids grow heavy, each word growing breathier than the last with each kiss and touch. “My stomach’s gonna start hurting.” 

“It’s fine,” he murmurs, running his big hand down your back to your ass, giving it a squeeze before his palm lands on it. “You won’t be thinking about it.” 

He steps over the couch and starts nudging you towards your room, dick print against the fabric of his shorts on full display. 

“No?”

“Nope,” the grin on his face grows, “I’ll keep you distracted.”

And distracted you were. 

Whining as you trembled and clenched around his cock while he worked it into you. You’re at the edge of the bed— bent over for him, back in the craziest arch as he gives you the deepest strokes. The round metal studs under his tip add the right amount of pressure as it drags over your gummy spot.  

He leans back, suppressing a laugh at the sight of your fucked out face and the creamy ring already starting to grow around his base. He’s barely done anything, but he wouldn’t be surprised if he saw drool stains right where your face is pressed up against. It’s always like this, your attitude just magically disappearing the moment he gets near your pussy. Doesn’t matter if it’s his dick, his fingers, his tongue— they’ve all made the miracle of getting you to say please happen. 

“Shit,” he curses under his breath, just mesmerized at the sight of his cock disappearing inside of you. His attention only gets pulled away once he hears a soft, drawn-out moan leave your lips, his hands unconsciously moving up to your hips for him to knead. “You alright?”

“Mhm— go faster.” The demand sounds so sweet falling from your lips, how could he say no?

He rests a knee against the bed and leans over your body. Chest pressed up against your back, caging you in. You rest your head on his forearm, unknowingly letting him get a full view of the tears he’s about to give you. He picks up the pace, angling himself just right with each thrust, watching your eyebrows slightly pinch as your breathing picks up. 

“Can’t believe you wanted to wait for this,” he starts to poke fun at you, and it somehow goes straight to your core. “The hell were you thinkin’, huh?”

“I don’t know,” you murmur. 

“Were you thinking at all?”

“Shut up.” You get whinier with the change of pace. “Can you just– mmh yeah.”

“Yeah?” He grins as you lose your train of thought, rolling his hips nice and slow, working his tip right over that spot that has you curling your toes. “Like that?”

“Mhm,” you hum, fingers starting to dig into his bicep as the praises slowly fall from your mouth. “Feels so good.”

“I knoww– you’re droolin’ on my arm already,” he stifles a laugh as he mocks you, brushing some hair out of your face to grab your chin, turning your head toward him. 

He leans down to kiss you, and it’s nothing short of messy. It's all tongue and wet smacks once he held you down and crashed his lips into yours, just rough and hungry. Greed is what comes to mind once you pull away— lips all swollen and covered in spit, out of breath, heat creeping up your neck. 

It’s just selfish— who grabs people like that?

The hand on your jaw wraps around your neck, and you soon find yourself taking in a sharp breath as Satoru crashes his lips into yours again. His hips continue to rock into you, grinding every inch of himself up against your gummy walls, trying to knock the air out of you as he tries to take it for himself. 

He bites your bottom lip, and you’re giggling as he slowly pulls back, dying out at your throat once he gets back to work. His shallow thrusts grow deep, making your eyes start to glaze over as the fat head of his cock hits and rubs against a spot you’re sure only he can reach. 

“Ready?” he murmurs in your ear. 

“What are you–” 

He bites your bottom lip, then starts fucking you like you owed him your soul or something. He drills every single inch of his cock into you, the sharp sounds of his hips striking against your ass cutting through the air, nearly bringing you to tears from how overwhelming it all is.

“F-Fuck!” you choke out a whine, shoving your face down on the bed, unable to keep up with how fast he’s going. Your cunt stretches around his cock, walls fluttering and squeezing around his length as he pounds you into the bed. Low groans slip through his lips as he sees a mess of slick and cream starting to coat his shaft.

He goes faster. The obscene wet slaps of him pounding your pussy and his heavy balls slapping against your clit grow louder, messier. You’re clawing at your sheets and holding back choked moans each time he slams his tip against your cervix. Your legs start to tremble, struggling to keep them open when each thrust pushes you forward with all the force behind them. 

You start to feel something in your core begin to wrap up and coil, and you are not ready for it. You find yourself crawling forward, trying to close your thighs, all without even realizing it. Satoru lets out a laugh that fades into a low groan as your walls squeeze and tremble around him. 

He teases you as he drags you back by your hips, his ragged voice dripping in amusement.

“You running from me, baby? Where’s this pussy goin’, huh?” He nudges your thighs back apart with his knee, pulling you back on his cock and holding you in place, hips flush against your ass as he lazily grinds into you. 

“Yeah, c'mere— m’not done with you yet.” he rasps, picking up the pace back up again until a messy wet squelch can be heard between you as he pounds you out. He presses your back further down into an arch, fucking into you at a deeper angle. “Mmmm— there we go— just stay right there for me.” 

“Sa— fuck— t-toru!” Your breath shatters as you gasp, pressure starting to build all over again. 

You don’t see the way he smirks when you cry his name like that.

“I know— M’sorry, baby.”

He’s not. A hand slides up your spine to get a fistful of your hair, pulling you up against his chest in one swift go. His pace doesn’t falter as a strong arm wraps around your waist, holding you against him while his lips graze the shell of your ear. 

“Look how good I’m fuckin’ you, though— looks like you’re about to start crying.” He smiles, feeling you squeeze around him as the messy squelch in between your legs becomes more pronounced. 

“T-too much,” you sputter out.

“You should probably cum them,” he offers as if it were a simple solution. “If you want, I can work it out of ya.”

“F-fuck,” you inhale sharply. “Please.”

He lets out a low, pleased hum before he just starts slamming into you, making the bed shake as he starts to knock the absolute wind out of you. His free hand snakes down, slipping down in between your legs until the pads of his fingers find your clit. You tense as he presses on it firmly, breath faltering once he starts rubbing little circles. 

His grip around your waist tightens as he keeps going, not minding your nails as they start scratching and digging into his arm. Soon you’re let out a sharp cry, trembling as you start gushing all over his cock. 

And the way you pussy clamps down and just starts milking him has his thrust growing sloppy, fucking you both through it. 

“Fuck— fuuck,” he lets out a breathy groan, doubling over and nearly squeezing you to death when he starts pumping you full of hot cum, flooding your sensitive walls. He breathes heavy, grinding against you, giving you every last drop. “Shit— that was so fuckin’ good— are you alright?” 

You’re lying limp in his arms, nodding weakly, trying to catch your breath. “Uh-huh”

“You’re so shaky right now,” he heaves, gently letting you down on the bed. “I fucked you good this time.”

“Shut up,” you barely snap at him, “Go get me my food, I can’t fucking walk right now.”

“Fuck— I’m sorry. Don’t kick me out.”

“Get me my fucking food.”

“Yes, ma’am,” he nods, putting his boxers on and walking out of your room with a little smile on his face. 

. . .

He’s leaning against the fridge as he lets his mind run off for a bit, aside from the microwave whirring in the background, it’s quiet— a rare occurrence for Satoru. He doesn’t snap back to reality until he hears footsteps coming up behind him. 

He looks over his shoulder to see you back in the clothes he nearly ripped trying to get off you. And that you’re walking perfectly fine. 

“Thought you couldn’t walk,” he points at you, gesturing his finger up and down.

“So did I,” you shrug, wrapping your fingers around the fridge handle and pulling it open to retrieve a white claw. You can physically feel Satoru staring at you, while something in your spirit is telling you that he’s waiting for you to offer him one. 

You crack it open as you turn to look at him. 

“Can I help you?”

He doesn’t answer right away. Initially, his eyes drift to the drink in your hand and look at it quite longingly. “That looks good.”

“It is good,” you say, then obnoxiously take a sip. “Pairs really well with noodles.”

“I’m sure.” His tones flat as he looks back at the drink. 

You have no idea why he’s so set on waiting for you to offer him one, but you eventually do because you’d rather not get into some weird silent war with him. “Would you like one?”

“Yes, I would,” he says with a blissful sigh, reaching into the fridge to get one for himself. 

The microwave beeps, you open it, and take the plate out yourself. “You know you can just grab one, right?”

The can cracks and he takes a sip, then nods. “I know, I just wanted you to offer me one.”

“Yeah, you made that pretty obvious,” you laugh and walk to the living room, and Satoru naturally follows. “Do you want some of my food, too?”

“No— appreciate you asking, though.”

“Sure,” you say, before muttering, “weirdo.”

He’s the first one to grab the remote and put something on, taking advantage of the fact that you haven’t pushed him out yet, like you do 60% percent of the time. The 40% is too random for him to be able to tell when it’ll happen next. 

You weren’t planning on kicking him out too soon today, though, since he’s currently hiding from an entire group of women.

“Wait, so what did you do to get those girls to hate you?”

“Got dared to homie hop.” He casually shrugs, taking a sip from the can. “Over the course of one weekend.”

“What is wrong with you?” you ask with the utmost disappointment. 

He points to himself. “In my defense, I was 18.”

“I guess.” You stifle a laugh before feeding yourself another fork full of food. “I’m surprised they still hate you that much.”

“Yeah, I got dared to do it again last year,” he finally mentions, just as casual as the last time. 

You pause for a moment as you try to think of an answer. You never do. “Yeah, I think I’d hate you, too.” 

He delusionally brushes you off. “You would’ve loved me. I’m a great friend.”

There's a contemplative look on your face as you tilt your head, thinking of all he’s revealed to you about himself, which is probably just a 3rd of all he’s done. “I’m sure you are.”

“I am,” he scoffs. 

“Yeah— that’s what I said.” You laugh, wiping the side of your mouth off with a napkin before throwing it on the empty plate, getting up to put it away.

You're in the kitchen when Satoru raises his voice to say something to you. 

“I am your friend, right?” he asks. 

You close the dishwasher and walk back out into the living room, there’s a slight pout on his face as he walks for an answer. 

“Yeah,” you let out an amused sigh. “You’re my special friend.”

“Yeah?” He sinks further back into the sofa, looking more pleased. “Special enough to talk to outside of here?” 

“Fuck no,” you say with zero hesitation, wiping the smile off his face again. “You wouldn’t be special anymore. Is that what you want? You wanna be an average normie?”

There are two things in this world that Satoru would never want to be— average and poor.

He crosses his arms and scoffs. “You really know how to turn a situation around on other people, don’t you? That’s pretty evil, y’know that?”

You feign innocence, looking at him all concerned. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.” 

“Whatever,” he rises from his seat, accepting your evil nature and his role as your special little slut. “Can we shower together?”

You give a bored look, knowing he’s gonna try to get you to scrub his back. “Fine.”

. . .

Tonight’s just like every other Friday night. The bass of the music bouncing off the walls, loud conversations happening in every direction. Most people are having a good time, while some are crying their eyes out over something that’ll seem minuscule a couple years from now. The only thing that’s changed is Satoru hasn’t, and most likely won't, bring a girl up to his room tonight. 

For once, all of his attention is on playing his fifth round of beer pong. 

The guys will still give him shit for the sudden change, but it was never a bad thing, just odd. They’ve given up on theories as to why after realizing Satoru really wasn’t going to cave and tell them this time around. Not even Suguru. He doesn’t need to ask, though, he knows Satoru is fucking someone. With how secretive he’s been though, he’s most likely sneaking around with someone that’ll get him in trouble if word gets out. Like the wife of one of his father's very affluent and important friends, perhaps? It was on brand for him.

It wasn’t that serious. Suguru will find out, eventually. He just hopes it doesn’t end badly for his friend that’s brought enough scandals for his family, being the problem child he’s always been. Hell, he’s being problematic right now, pulling Suguru out of his thoughts as some poor girl tugs on Satoru’s shirt.

Suguru has no idea what she said to him, but he steps in a little closer, pretending to focus on the game as he listens to whatever his friend has to say. Satoru barely looks at her and responds, not only rudely, but with quite possibly the most ridiculous words Suguru has ever heard come out of his mouth. 

“Sorry, sweetheart– I like my women a little more grown.” 

Mind you, they were in the same year. 

She laughs, there’s still stars in her eyes as she looks at him. “Wait, what?”

He shortens it. “M’not interested.”

“Why?” she asks, eyes growing dull. 

And Satoru, having already lost his patience, takes a step back and looks at her from head to toe, looking for another reason. It’s quite embarrassing— standing there and waiting for someone to figure out what they don’t like about you. 

“Yeaah, no.” He takes another look at her. “You just don’t do it for me— sorry.”

You’d think it’d be fine since he didn’t point out any of her features, but being told you ‘don’t do it’ for someone that you’ve already fucked doesn’t feel very good, nor does realizing that he completely forgot that they have, multiple times. He’s gotten drunk and fucked a lot of people. Keyword: Drunk. He doesn’t remember most of the time, hence his initial confusion when she threw a drink in his face. 

Unfazed, he wipes the remnants of her drink off his face, throwing her off in the process as he treats it like it’s a common occurrence and that he’s used to it (he’s very used to it).

“You just proved my fuckin’ point,” Satoru says, still unimpressed as he takes his shirt off and continues to casually wipe himself off. “Grow up.”

The comment makes her realize he was being dead serious with his original reason for rejecting her, even though he had zero problem with fucking her at the beginning of the year. “Oh fuck you, Gojo,” she ends up cursing at him as she storms off, furious and embarrassed.

“Yeah– not happening!” he laughs and yells back loud enough for her to hear.

Suguru just laughs because fucking called it. He totally was seeing someone older, and Satoru's response gave it away. Suguru doesn’t mention it, though. “You coulda been a little nicer, y’know?”

“Whatever,” he waves him off, knowing he could’ve been ruder, but chose not to. “I’ll probably never see her again after graduation, anyway.”

Suguru shrugs. “You never know.”

Satoru ruffles his hair with the semi-damp t-shirt in his hand, wondering why his friend decided to embrace his inner Gandhi when he’s just as bad as him. Satoru literally watched him tell a girl to stop crying after he cut things off with her, then added salt to the wound by giving her some speech about how she wouldn’t run after a snake and explain how being bitten made her feel. Suguru wasn’t technically wrong, but he did not have to say all that. With that being said, he wasn’t in the mood to listen to Suguru lecture him any more though, and lets the comment go. 

“I’m gonna go wash the rest of this shit off,” he says, referring to the sheer pink stain on his hair. 

Suguru pats his back a couple of times as he continues to laugh. “Have fun with that. Try not to run into her or friends.”

Satoru hoped not, that mini-meltdown was enough for him. He wasn’t stumbling or anything, but having to walk through crowds to get to his room made him realize he was drunker than he realized, not that it made him feel any remorse for the words he said. They did not warrant getting a drink thrown in his face. 

The first thing he does when he gets to his room is kick out a couple making out on his bed, throwing a couple of insults and threats their way as they scurry out of his room. Then he walks into his bathroom to wash his hair off in the sink, which leads to him completely stripping down in frustration and hopping in the shower, in hopes that it’d sober him up a bit. 

It doesn’t— it just makes him want to call it a night. 

He dries himself off and throws on a pair of boxers and sweats before sitting down on his bed with his phone in hand. His thumb hovers over the call button as he stares at your contact. The room continues to spin as he wonders if you were even awake. It was pushing midnight. 

After spending way too much time wondering if you’d answer, his thumb hits the screen. The phone rings once. Twice. Then a third time.

“What do you think you’re doing calling me this late?” you immediately grill him, your smooth and unhurried tone making you sound more amused than anything. 

He smiles as he stifles a laugh. “I can’t call you and say what’s up now?”

“People don’t usually call someone at midnight to say what's up.”

“M’not like other people,” he chuckles, though you know deep down inside, he wouldn’t dare put himself in the same category as a regular person. There isn’t one mirror he’s walked by and hasn’t looked at— the way Satoru looks at his own reflection could send anyone into a crisis, wondering if their spouses really did love them as much as they claimed.

“Yeah, you’re real different,” you respond blandly, coming off as trying to knock him down a peg, when really you’re just trying to move on. “Anyways, what do you want?”

“You should let me come over,” he doesn’t hesitate to say, slurring his words slightly. 

“No.”

He pulls his phone away from his ear and looks at it with his brows pinched together, all hurt from how you didn’t even bother thinking about it before giving him an answer. 

“Why not?” he grumbles, finding himself more offended than usual. “I miss you.”

He’s reminded that you don’t actually hate him when you begin to laugh at how endearing he can be, even when he’s just complaining. “I saw you two days ago.”

“What can I say, baby?” he murmurs, the stupid grin on his face widening when he hears you click your tongue. “You make it hard not to with that tight little p—”

Are you drunk right now?” You cut him off, wiping the smile right off that little pervert's face. 

“Maybe.” 

He hears you let out a disgusted scoff on the other side of the phone. “Ew, no. I don’t wanna fuck you when you’re all drunk and sloppy.”

At first, he lets out this noise that can only be described as what a pout would sound like if you could hear it. “First of all, I’m not sloppy. Second, I wasn’t asking to fuck, just let me spend the night. It’s loud here— buncha’ hooligans running around.” 

“So you can fuck with my sleep?”

“Baby, I would never fuck with your beauty sleep,” he swears. “I’m a beast— not a fuckin’ monster.”

“You are such a fucking loser.” You pinch your nosebridge as you sigh and mutter under your breath. “You’ll be fine. Just take another shot and put some earplugs in.”

“I don’t have any!” 

“Headphones then,” you curtly say. “Anyways, I’m going to bed now—”

“No, wait—”

“Good night~”

Click.

Satoru’s left staring at the wall in disbelief, jaw all the way to the floor. Surely you could’ve offered him a couch— but you didn’t bother, and the thought adds to the betrayal that’s already exacerbated from all the shots he’s taken earlier. It doesn’t go away, it just simmers once he’s processed the fact that you basically told him that he could suffer and fucking die, for all you cared, before hanging up. 

The music’s so loud that the walls are fucking shaking, there’s no point in noise cancelling headphones when he can feelhow loud it is. His eyes dart between his phone, his dresser, and the door before finally getting up with an irritated sigh. 

“Fuck this.”

. . .

Instead of sleeping, like you said you would when hanging up on Satoru, you continued to watch what you put on the tv prior to answering your phone. Though with how late it was, your eyes inevitably grew heavier with each blink, and you found yourself beginning to doze off. 

Until a knock on the door and the muffled sound of your name being called snaps you right back to reality. 

“I swear to god if that’s—” you begin murmuring to yourself as you walk up to the door, cutting yourself off because no shit it’s Satoru. You can’t think of anybody else who would still come over despite being told no.  

You swing the door open, annoyed that it doesn’t swing outwards, it would’ve been nice to hit him with it. He’s leaning against the entryway to stop himself from swaying in place, as carefree as ever. 

“What are you doing here?!”

Immediately, he begins to beg. “You have got to let me sleep here— some nasty couple fucked on my bed and there’s a group of psychos hunting me down with pitchforks.”

He was not going back there, and if a little truth-twisting is what it takes to get you to let him, then so be it.

Your face twists in annoyance. “Hunt you down for what?!”

“For turning one of them down.” He throws his arms out, pretending to be outraged. “Threw a drink in my face and everything just because I wouldn’t fuck her! And now my bed smells like rotten fish—”

“Just get inside,” you snap at him, feeling an incoming headache starting to form from his theatrics.

“Thank you.”

Despite showering and brushing his teeth, you can still smell some of the alcohol radiating off of him as he walks past you. Irritated, you shut the door a little too harshly, missing the way the man flinched as he stood there and waited for you. You completely ignore him, walking to the coffee table and picking up the remote to turn the T.V off. You walk off to your room after, with Satoru following right behind you like a lost puppy. 

The decorative pillows get plucked off the bed one by one. The only reason why he doesn’t ask if you need help with anything is that he is a little too scared to ask. You pull the duvet back and whip your head around to look at him. 

“Get in,” you order, and he quickly walks around to the other side, pulling his shirt over his head and leaving his sweats on. “And do not wake me up tonight.”

“Kay’,” he says quietly, slipping the covers. 

You follow, after killing the lights, sighing as you lay your head back and close your eyes. He awkwardly lies there at first, arms pulling the blanket up to his chest, staring at the ceiling. It’s not how he sleeps, and frankly, he is really fucking uncomfortable. He’s also scared to move right now.

But Satoru is Satoru, and at the very last minute, turns and snakes an arm around your waist, pulling you back against his chest. He slides a leg in between yours, and you open your mouth to protest, only to get cut off by his slightly nervous voice. 

“Good night.” 

. . .

Satoru wakes up twice. 

Once at 6:00 am to a pounding headache. He got up to look for an over the counter painkiller. Luckily, he found some in the first cabinet he opened in your kitchen and downed more than he should’ve before getting back in bed, throwing an arm and a leg over you, and falling back asleep. 

Then again, at 11:00 am, when he hears some shuffling around the room and realizes you are no longer next to him. 

He opens one eye and mumbles, “Where are you going?” 

You’re in a hurry as you put a pair of socks on. “To a pilates class.” 

“Can I come?” he pops his head up and asks, struggling to open both eyes.

There’s an incredulous look on your face when you pause and look at him. “Absolutely not.”

“Why not?”

“Well, for one, you look like a fucking mess right now.” He didn’t really need to hear that, he already figured it out since he feels like one right now. “Two, I don’t need you sitting alone in the corner, watching me for an hour straight.”

“That’s mean as fuck.”

“Not one lie was told,” you argue back, getting the last sock on and rising to your feet. “I’m not kicking you out just yet, so you can stay if you want.” 

“Oh, I fuckin’ will.” It comes out as if kicking him out was never an option to begin with, earning himself a little side eye that he was too busy stretching his arms out to notice. You quickly let it go, figuring the hangover was doing a number on him. “Do you have food?”

“Yeah, just look around in the fridge.” You look at your watch, then throw your bag over your shoulder after realizing you’re just barely running on time. “I’ll be back in like an hour.”

“Kay’,” he yawns, lying back against the pillow and closing his eyes once you're out of view. 

As much as his head hurts, he’s glad he’s suffering here and not at the house. It’s quiet, your bed’s comfy, time actually feels like it’s running slow for once. There are another 15 minutes of peace before it is ruined by the ring of his phone. 

Before he reaches for it on the nightstand, he takes a few seconds to shove his face into the  pillow and let out a slew of curses. He picks up the phone and answers, as if his head wasn’t pounding more than ever. 

It’s Suguru, who’s not as concerned as he is confused. “Hey, so— you’re not home.”

“M’not,” Satoru mumbles. 

Suguru gives him room to explain, but speaks again when he realizes Satoru’s not going to take any of it. “Where are you then?” Again, not concerned, just confused.

“At a friend’s,” Satoru vaguely says. Even in his current fucked up state, he still remembers that you don’t want him talking about you at all. 

“...and this is the friend that you’re not fucking and avoiding everyone for, right?”

He lets out a laugh. “Exactly.”

At least Suguru’s smart and is able to read between the lines, meaning that was enough information for him. “Alright.” He laughs with him. “I’ll let you go then. Have fun with your friend.”

“I will.”

Right after he hangs up, he hears another notification go off that’s not from his phone. He hears the ping a couple more times and quickly realizes it’s your phone hiding under the sheets. You were in too much of a rush to realize you forgot to bring it with you. 

Satoru’s not one to look through someone else’s phone. He never has, never cared to, never felt the need to. So fighting the urge not to was not only something new, but incredibly fucking difficult. It’s literally right in his hand. He even knows your passcode from the one time he watched you unlock it because his memory’s perfect. 

One minute. He’ll just give himself one minute to take a peek. 

. . . 

It’s been several. 

Putting it down, while he’s in the middle of scrolling through a particular conversation, feels impossible. Even when he knows he’s just ruining his own morning by looking at it, he continues to read and make mental notes. 

His names Shiu. 37 years old. Moderately successful. 

Boring as fuck. 

He can tell when someone’s forcing themselves to keep a conversation alive, and can’t wrap his head around why you’d even bother when it’s over shit you have zero interest in. Shiu hasn’t even complimented you once. Nothing about you physically, not even the bare minimum of making a comment about how he enjoys talking to you, since it’s you carrying all of these dry, meaningless conversations. 

It's like he just expects you to talk to him. 

He continues to scroll, getting closer to the more recent messages, and Satoru finally sees something interesting. Not for you or Shiu, but for him. Reservations for your date next weekend. The first date. 

And also your last.

. . . 

Before you met him, Shiu wasn’t someone you’d ever imagined yourself being with. He’s calm, quiet, and more of a listener than he was a talker. Not much of a joker or a gossiper. 

He was just stable. Rooted. Shiu is a man who couldn’t be moved. 

He was a safe choice. A smart one. A mellow man with a successful career. Given your track record of failed relationships with men that you chose based on how exciting you found them, maybe it was time to be smarter.

Some may say it was settling, but you say it’s being practical and choosing what’s best for you. 

After a few weeks of casual texting, you were finally having dinner with him tonight. You weren’t exactly excited, but you weren’t nervous either— maybe this is him rubbing off of you. 

You’re not sure, honestly. 

It feels like there’s something missing, and in its place is the weight of something that refuses to show itself to you, as if its sole purpose was to burden you with confusion. 

You take one last look at yourself before you leave, smoothing your hand over the long, tight black dress you chose to wear. Flattering, not too revealing. The same for your shoes, just simple black kitten heels. 

At the last minute, Satoru manages to squeeze his way into your mind as you randomly recall the last time you saw him, which was exactly a week ago. The only thing that was off was his supernatural ability to bounce back from a hangover in under an hour. He was fine by the time you got home— at least fine enough to follow you into the bathroom for some shower sex. 

You haven’t heard from him since he went home that day. You should be relieved, you wanted him to get bored with you and pull away, yet here you are, wondering why you haven’t heard from him. 

. . .

Shiu wasn’t a man who couldn’t be moved— that would require being passionate about something, and so far, he’s about as dry as a matchstick.

And maybe there is something that he’s passionate about, but you doubt it. It’s not necessarily a complaint, just a change in the way you saw him. Shame on you for building up a false idea of him in your head. 

At least he’s still calm and quiet— you’re just hoping that all there is to him. 

As for now, Shiu was like a constant stream of water that never changed in temperature. He was a place on earth where the weather never changed. A solid 70 degrees, every single day. Acceptable. Easy to digest. Nothing out of the ordinary is ever likely to happen with him. 

He’s still a safe choice.

You’re not exactly sure how it’d be what’s best for you, though. You liked surprises— they turned an ordinary day into a day worth remembering— a life without them was just a forgotten past and pointless future. 

You could be acting a little dramatic over it right now, but you are honestly sick and fucking tired of getting absolutely nowhere with all the guys you’ve dated and spoken to.

Which is why you push yourself to consider that Shiu could just be a little shy, it's only 15 minutes into your date after all. You remind yourself that opening up takes time, for reasons that make only you feel better. 

You haven’t had a quarter life crisis yet, but learning that you’ve spent all this time swinging sledge hammers and wrecking balls at a safe that’s been empty from the start might finally take you there. 

You take a sip of your wine and set it back down. “Do you know what you’re gonna order?” 

He slowly shakes his head, humming  indecisively. “Not yet.” 

You wait for him to say something else, but to no one’s surprise, he doesn’t. “You mentioned it’s your 9th time coming here. Do you have any favorites that you reorder?” 

He hums again. “Nah. The food here’s decent, but I haven’t had anything that’s stood out to me just yet.” 

It’s not often people leave you speechless, especially on first dates, but here you are. Tight lipped, eye threatening to twitch. 

“Wow— you’re 9th time here, and you still haven’t found a dish that left you satisfied at the end of the meal?” 

You’re really hoping he backtracks and corrects you. Coming to a restaurant you don’t like that many times was one of the most ridiculous things you’ve ever heard. 

“Not yet,” he smiles and shakes his head, as if wasting his time and money on a restaurant he didn’t like was just a silly little quirk of his. “Maybe today will be the day.” 

Why the fuck would he take you here?

“Fingers crossed,” you force out a light laugh, feeling your patience start to fade.  “So you’re just gonna keep coming here until you’ve gone through the entire menu?” 

“Yeah, I guess,” he chuckles, not catching the slight irritation in your tone. “What can you do, you know?” 

“I mean… you can always try new restaurants,” you suggest. 

“Nah.” He waves a hand as if that's doing too much. “Easy to stay here. I already know what to expect.” 

It took the amount of discipline a sergeant had to hold back on saying that this wasn’t the doctor's office or the fucking barber shop. 

You can absolutely check other places out.

Does this guy not understand free will exists? 

“Makes sense,” you lie, pushing out all the enthusiasm you’re able to put forward. “No point in fixing something if it’s not broken, you know?” 

“Exactly,” he proudly nods. 

“There you two are!” 

…You were going to kill yourself if it’s who you think it is. 

At first, you ignored the familiar voice and instead took an extra big sip of wine. 

He hates being ignored though, so instead of pulling up a seat between you and your date as he had originally planned, he sits right next to Shiu and smiles at the way you instantly freeze. 

You hate to admit how good he looked tonight. His hair’s styled for once, loosely brushed back with some expensive styling cream. You can’t help but notice how much sharper his eyes look with his hair out of his face. More rough and intimidating. He was in a white button up, tailored to perfection, rolled up at his elbows, leaving the top buttons of the shirt unbuttoned to show off the chain he always wore. Grey tweed trousers, also tailored to perfection. 

“My bad— ran into some traffic on the way here.” 

Satoru turns to Shiu, who’s even more confused than you, and holds his hand out for a handshake, giving him a veryformal introduction. 

Afterwards, Satoru proceeds to pluck the menu out of your date's hand. 

“Alright, Shiu, what are we getting tonight?” 

Shiu is visibly appalled when he looks at you, but doesn’t say anything because he’s never had a stranger do that before. Especially when the stranger’s as eccentric as Satoru. 

“I— I don’t know.” Your date stumbles on his words at first from the surprise of Satoru’s sudden appearance. “I didn’t get to finish looking through the menu.” 

“Wait— really?” 

Satoru looks at his watch and sees how you two have been here for nearly 20 minutes, and he still hasn’t picked something. He doesn’t wait for a response and hands the menu back since he already found what he liked, which sucks for you because now he can direct his attention elsewhere. 

He leans back and nods at you, because you haven’t spoken at all yet. 

“What’re you getting?” You catch the split second his entire expression darkens. He is fucking pissed.

“The cod and asparagus,” you murmur. 

“That’s fucking disgusting,” he says through a smile, playing it off as a joke even though you both know it’s not. “Your palate sucks though, so I’m not surprised.” 

“Yeah, no— it’s fucking awful,” you let out a laugh. “I need to start eating better— feels like I’ve been eating nothing but junk the past few months.” 

His face drops, and just before he’s about to say something 10x ruder, Shiu cuts in. 

“I’m sorry, I’m still confused,” he takes several steps back to about 5 minutes ago, “was there some sort of mix up here? I thought this was a date-date, not a dinner with… friends.” Shiu looks back at you, and you’re no help, you’re just glaring. 

“A date?” Satoru huffs out a laugh, making the man look like an idiot for even thinking this was a date. “It’s been dinner this whole time. You’re the one who booked a reservation for four, our other friend couldn’t make it.” 

Shiu's face twists in confusion. “What? No, no, no— I booked the reservation under two.”

“No, you didn’t. It was booked under four,” he sadly breaks it to him. “You can go ask the receptionist if you want, but I swear it’s four.” 

Shiu gets up from his seat to go talk to the receptionist, because he knows he booked it for two— he’s not fucking crazy. 

And it’s true, he’s not. Satoru’s the crazy one here.

He’s still gonna go home believing he is though, since the receptionist got paid to change the booking information and lie to him. 

Satoru laughs just thinking about it, then downs the rest of Shiu’s wine, ready to gaslight him over that, too. 

Finally, he looks back at you and feels a sick sense of satisfaction. You’re angry… baffled, in complete and utter disbelief— you’re looking at him like you’re two seconds away from jumping over the table and strangling him. 

Though in the end, you gather yourself together as you finally ask: “What are you doing here, Satoru?” 

“Why the fuck are you on a date with someone right now?” His tone clipped, it sounds like he’s about to throw a fit.

“I—“ you stop for a moment, reminding yourself not to yell. “Satoru, we’re not in a relationship.” 

“Fine, then,” he decides to rephrase it, “why are you trying to replace me? And with him? Seriously?!” 

“What’s wrong with him?!” 

“He looks like a sleazy pornstar from the 80s!”

“Not everything is about looks—“

He laughs and cocks his head to the side. “Ok, what is it then? Is his dick bigger than mine?”

Your brows pinch together. Of course, he’s worried about that. “No— I haven’t even seen it yet.” 

“Yet?!” his voice broke. 

“I didn’t mean it like that.” 

You try to use a more stern tone to get him to relax, but you don’t think it’ll work. Satoru looks fucking devastated.

“What’s next, you're gonna have babies with him?”

Your jaw drops at his conclusion. “What? No! Do you not realize how dramatic you sound right now?” 

“I’m being replaced by a man with fucking pornstache!” he points to himself and says. 

“Excuse me?” You’re both interrupted by a timid waitress. “Um– the man that was here earlier just left.”

“I’m not surprised,” you mutter until your breath. 

“Yeah…” she sighs, almost apologizing for it. “Were you guys ready to order?”

You glance back at Satoru, and he’s looking away with his arms crossed. “Could I just get the bill for the drinks?”

“Oh, no worries about that! It’s all been covered already by Mr. Gojo. You can just head out when you’re ready.”

“Okay. Thank you.”

“Of course! Have a good n–” she cuts herself off, knowing damn well you weren’t. “Take care.”

You would’ve laughed at how timid she was if you weren’t so irritated, and instead just nod and smile. You look back at the date crasher, contemplating whether you should thank him or not for trying to cover the bill, but hold off, knowing he probably only did it to assert even more dominance over your date than he already has. 

“We’re leaving.” You rise up and grab your purse. Satoru doesn't even look at you, let alone move an inch, because he’s throwing a fucking tantrum, so you slam your hand on the table. “Get up.”

He gets up.

There’s a slight pout on Satoru’s face as he follows you out of the restaurant and into the parking lot. His hands are shoved in his pockets, dragging his feet. 

“Where’s your car?” you ask. 

“There,” he mumbled and nodded in its direction, then suddenly, you’re pinching his ear and yanking on it. 

“Ow—”

“Walk,” you say through gritted teeth, pinching harder. 

“Ow– fuck– I am,” he chokes out. “Ow, ow, ow.”

You continued to drag him through the parking lot, ignoring his pleas for you to let go. 

“Suck it up,” you coldly respond. “You were asking for it when you crashed my date.”

“I’m sorry, I… ugh— I’m really not, he was lame as fuck, but still— your nails, ow.”

“Exactly, so get over it,” you continue to scold him. “Can’t believe you fucking did that.”

“Because you—”

“I don’t wanna hear it,” you cut him off, giving his ear one last tug, leaving him next to the driver's side door of his car. “Take me home. Now.”

gojo when reader said she hasn’t seen it “yet”:

Yunho still believes in dating you. Not because the relationship needs saving. Not because he thinks grand gestures are the secret to lasting love. He simply refuses to let the person he loves become someone he only sees between meetings.

Which is how you end up here. The restaurant glows with warm amber light reflected across crystal glasses and polished cutlery. Conversations dissolve beneath soft piano music, waiters glide silently between tables, and every detail, from the pressed linen to the wine list, whispers the kind of quiet luxury people spend weeks trying to reserve.

Yunho booked it the moment he found an evening that belonged to neither work nor obligation. Not because it's exclusive. Because he missed you.

Across the table, you shift for what must be the third time since sitting down. His eyes flick briefly beneath the table before returning to your face.

"The shoes?"

You sigh dramatically. "They're trying to kill me."

"They look beautiful."

"They're weapons."

"They're beautiful weapons."

You can't help smiling.

"You say that because you're not the one wearing them."

"No." His gaze lingers for just a heartbeat longer than necessary, warm enough to make your cheeks threaten a blush. "I'm the one who gets to look at them."

You shake your head, hiding your smile behind your wine glass.

The conversation slips easily into familiar territory after that. His latest project. Your week. A trip the two of you keep promising to plan and never quite finding the time for.

Somewhere in the middle, you mention a singer that's apparently impossible to escape these days.

Yunho frowns thoughtfully.

"I've never heard of them."

You look at him over the rim of your glass.

"You're making your age very obvious tonight."

"I've spent forty years carefully building that privilege."

"You could at least pretend to know."

"I could." A beat. "I'd rather have you explain it."

You laugh quietly, shaking your head.

"You're impossible."

"So I've been told."

There's something wonderfully unfair about the way he says it. Completely unbothered. Never defensive. Never trying to convince you he's younger than he is. He wears the years between you with the same quiet confidence he wears one of his tailored suits, as though neither has ever occurred to him as something needing justification.

You tease him because it's easy. He lets you because he likes the sound of your laugh.

By the time your starters appear, you've somehow moved from music to books to the strange corners of the internet that never seem to find their way onto Yunho's phone.

He only understands about half of what you're talking about. You know because he tells you. And yet he never stops listening. His attention never wanders. 

Every now and then, you catch him looking at you over the candle between you. Not saying anything. Just watching with that quiet, unwavering fondness that has always belonged to the two of you. 

It never feels like being observed. It feels like coming home.

The interruption slips so easily into the evening that, at first, you don't think anything of it.

"Yunho?"

He looks up.

For the first time all night, surprise brightens his face before settling into a smile you haven't seen since you walked into the restaurant.

"...Wow." He stands almost instinctively. "It's been years."

She laughs as she steps closer, arms already opening. Yunho returns the hug without hesitation, one hand resting briefly against the middle of her back before they separate again. Easy. Familiar. The kind of greeting that belongs to people who've crossed paths enough times for formality to disappear.

"You look exactly the same."

"So do you."

"No chance."

"I've become a much better liar."

He laughs, and something inside you softens.

Of course he knows people. He's spent twenty years building a career that seems to exist somewhere between boardrooms, charity galas and airports. It would be stranger if old acquaintances didn't recognize him.

She fits naturally into that world. Elegant dress. Confident smile. Around his age. The sort of woman who never looks intimidated by expensive restaurants because she's been having dinners like these for years.

They fall into conversation without effort. Fundraisers. Old colleagues. Someone retiring. Someone getting married. Names you've never heard and places you've never been.

You let yourself fade into the background for a while, content to listen. You know Yunho likes introducing people properly rather than interrupting conversations halfway through. He'll get there.

"I haven't seen you at anything lately," she says eventually.

"I've been hiding."

"Still?"

He smiles.

"Work."

She shakes her head, pretending to be disappointed.

"What a shame."

There's something in the way she says it that makes you glance up. Not inappropriate. Just interested. Interested enough that, without realizing it, you find yourself waiting.

Surely now. Surely this is where Yunho smiles, reaches across the table, brushes his fingers against yours and says the simplest sentence in the world.

I'm here with my girlfriend.

He doesn't. Instead, he answers whatever she'd asked next, completely unaware that you've stopped following the conversation.

You tell yourself not to be ridiculous. He's just being polite. Another minute passes. She laughs again.

"So you finally found a reason to leave the office?"

"I try."

"I was beginning to think you'd married your work."

"I've considered divorcing it."

She laughs harder than the joke deserves. You smile politely. Still waiting. Still giving him the chance. Then, almost as an afterthought, she turns to you.

"And you?"

You blink. "Sorry?"

"What do you do?"

You answer, and she listens with genuine interest. She asks about your work, compliments it, tells you it's impressive.

For one brief moment, the knot inside your chest loosens. Then she looks back at Yunho.

"You've always had good taste." He raises an eyebrow. "In people," she clarifies with a smile. "You always surround yourself with interesting company."

Yunho nods once.

"I've been lucky."

Lucky. That's all. No glance toward you. No quiet smile that says she's mine. No effortless correction. Nothing.

The conversation moves on, but something inside you doesn't. Because the awful part isn't that she's flirting. The awful part is that she has absolutely no reason not to. She's speaking to a man she believes is single. And the only person who could have told her otherwise keeps choosing not to.

When she finally excuses herself, her fingers brush lightly over his sleeve.

"You should come to the gala next month."

"We'll see."

"I'd love to catch up properly."

Her smile lingers for a heartbeat longer before she disappears into the restaurant. Yunho watches her leave with the absent familiarity of someone remembering an old colleague. Then he sits back down, reaches for his wine and smiles to himself.

"She's exactly the same as she was ten years ago."

"Mhm."

You smile because smiling costs less than speaking. Because saying what you're actually thinking would ruin the evening. 

"As I was saying..." He settles back into his chair, picking up the conversation exactly where he'd left it. "The board wants to move the launch to September, which makes absolutely no sense because we'd have to renegotiate every supplier."

His voice fades into the background. You hear it. You just aren't listening anymore. Not really. You're still sitting at the same table as him, but your mind is trapped five minutes in the past, replaying every smile, every laugh, every opportunity he had to choose you out loud. All you can think is how easy it would've been. One sentence. One look. One absentminded reach for your hand.

Anything that said she's with me. Instead, for ten long minutes, you felt like the centerpiece on the table. Beautiful. Expensive. And entirely decorative. Less like the woman sharing dinner with him and more like someone who happened to be sitting at his table.

"That's nice."

Yunho pauses. He mistakes the tightness in your voice for exhaustion. Or maybe he notices it and decides to give you space. Either way, he lets it pass.

"I wouldn't call it nice."

You blink, as though you've only just remembered he's speaking. "What?"

"I asked what you thought."

You shrug lightly. "I think you should do whatever makes you happy."

His brows knit together.

"Dove."

"Hm?"

"I stopped talking about work a while ago."

"Oh." You take another sip of wine, buying yourself a second. "I must've missed it."

His eyes stay on you. Long enough that you almost think he's going to ask what's wrong. Long enough that a tiny, hopeful part of you waits for him to.

Instead, a waiter stops beside the table. Perfect. This is the moment you decide you’re done being mature. Which is unfortunate. Because you’re usually very good at it.

You look up with a smile so bright it surprises even you.

"Sorry," you say, almost apologetically. "Can I ask you something?"

He's young. Pretty in the effortless way university students always seem to be.

You ask about the desserts. Then whether the cocktails are actually worth ordering. Then which dish he likes best. 

He answers easily. You laugh at one of his jokes. It isn't even that funny.

Yunho watches the exchange in silence. Not because there's anything inappropriate about it. Because there isn't. Which somehow makes the knot in your chest tighten even more. You're doing exactly what he did. Being polite. Being friendly. Nothing more. 

When the waiter finally excuses himself, Yunho doesn't say anything straight away. He waits until the young man disappears around the corner. Only then does he look at you.

"What was that?"

You tilt your head. "What was what?"

"You've asked him more questions in two minutes than you've asked me all night."

"I was being polite."

"You were interviewing him."

"He seemed nice."

"I'm sure he did."

You smile into your glass. "I liked his smile."

Silence. You don't need to look up to feel his eyes on you. When you finally do, his expression has changed almost imperceptibly. Not jealousy. Confusion.

"You liked his smile."

"It was a nice smile."

He studies you for a long moment. Like he's waiting for the punchline. Like he's convinced this version of you can't possibly be real. Eventually he shakes his head, choosing not to take the bait.

"So..." he tries again, "I was thinking maybe we could..."

You pick up your phone. His voice stops. You unlock it. Scroll. You couldn't say what you're looking at if someone asked. The screen is just somewhere else to put your eyes.

"Dove."

"Hm?"

"Put the phone away."

"Why?"

His patience holds. Barely.

"Because I'm talking to you."

You don't look up. "So?"

The word hangs there. Small. Careless. Sharp enough to cut.

"So..." He exhales slowly, choosing every word with visible effort. "I'd appreciate it if you listened."

You laugh quietly. "I listened to her."

Silence. Real silence. The kind that empties the space around it.

"...What?"

You finally meet his eyes. "I listened very politely."

Something flickers across his face. Not understanding. Recognition.

"You've been upset ever since she left."

"I'm not upset."

"No?"

"No."

"You've barely looked at me."

"I've looked at you loads."

You punctuate the sentence by stealing a bite from his plate. Not because you're hungry. Because it's his. Because you know he'll stop you. 

His fingers close gently around your wrist before your fork reaches the food. Not enough to hurt. Just enough to make you stop. He looks down at your hand. Then back at you.

"...Really?"

You smile with infuriating sweetness. "I wanted to know if yours tasted better."

"You ordered the exact same thing."

"It does."

"Dove..."

"It tastes different."

"It's the same recipe."

"It isn't."

"It objectively is."

"It isn't to me."

He lets go of your wrist with a slow breath, rubbing a hand across his mouth as though he's physically trying to hold onto the last thread of his patience.

"You are being impossible."

"I'm eating dinner."

"No." His eyes don't leave yours. "You're trying to punish me."

The words catch you off guard. For just a second. Long enough for him to notice.

"I haven't argued with you once," you say quietly.

"You don't have to." His voice drops lower. "You've spent the last fifteen minutes trying to make me feel something."

You force another smile.

"What exactly am I trying to make you feel?"

"I don't know." There's frustration there now. Real frustration. "That's the problem."

He leans back, studying you with the same expression he wears when something at work refuses to make sense. Like he's looking at all the pieces and none of them fit.

"I know you." His voice softens despite himself. "This..." His eyes search yours. "...isn't you."

Something twists painfully inside your chest. You could tell him. You could end this right now. You could say, You made me feel invisible. Instead, you swallow it. Smile. Tilt your head.

"I don't know what you're talking about."

And for the first time all evening, Yunho stops trying to continue the conversation. Because whatever happened to the woman he walked into this restaurant with, he has no idea how to reach her anymore.

You know you're being unfair. You know this isn't you. But the version of yourself that spent the last ten minutes feeling invisible is louder than the one who usually knows better.

You just want him to look at you. 

You casually drop your napkin and bend down to retrieve it, taking just a second longer than necessary to adjust the strap of your heel. When you straighten again, Yunho is already looking at you.

"Something wrong?" you ask, all innocent eyes.

"Nothing," he replies, a little too quickly.

"Hm."

You smooth your napkin back across your lap as though you've finally decided to behave. Yunho almost believes it. Then you reach for the dessert menu.

"I think I'm getting dessert."

"We haven't finished dinner."

"I like planning ahead." Your finger drifts lazily down the list before you smile to yourself. "This one sounds nice."

Yunho doesn't even look.

"What one?"

"The vanilla mille-feuille." You tilt the menu toward yourself. "I've heard the chef is very generous with the cream." 

His fork stops halfway to his mouth.

"Dove."

"What?" You glance up. "I like cream."

His jaw flexes. "You know exactly what you're doing."

"I do?" Your eyebrows lift with practiced innocence. "I'm ordering dessert."

"You haven't ordered anything."

"I'm thinking about it."

His jaw tightens.

"Think about something else."

You hum as though you're genuinely considering the suggestion.

For a heartbeat, neither of you speaks. Around you, cutlery clinks against porcelain, conversations drift lazily through the restaurant, and somewhere a bottle of wine is uncorked.

Only your table feels painfully quiet. You smile into the menu.

"I just want something sweet."

His eyes finally meet yours. "You are testing my patience."

"No." You lower the menu carefully. "I'm participating in the conversation."

"Dove."

"You said I wasn't talking enough."

"I also said to behave."

"I am."

"You've never looked less convincing."

The corner of your mouth twitches.

"Really?" you say with a shrug, crossing your legs slowly under the table, letting your foot brush against his calf. "I'm just enjoying dinner."

His breath hitches at the contact, and he pulls his leg away slightly. "Don't."

"Don't what?" you ask, voice dropping to a whisper as you lean closer. "Don't touch you? Don't talk about dessert? Don't breathe?"

"You're playing games," he accuses, but his voice has lost some of its edge.

"I'm just being myself," you reply with a small smile, tracing patterns on the tablecloth with your finger. "Unless you'd prefer I be more like her?"

Yunho's jaw tightens at the mention of the other woman. "That's not what I said."

"Then what did you mean?" you challenge, your foot finding his leg again and staying there this time.

For the first time that evening, something flashes across Yunho's face. Not anger. Not yet. Impatience. The kind that only exists because he cares enough to keep trying. And somehow, that only makes some childish, wounded part of you decide that's still not enough. 

You let your other foot join the first, the expensive Louboutins he bought you last month now hidden under the tablecloth. The ones he always says make your legs look endless. The ones he loves seeing you in when he's buried inside you.

"Dove," he warns, his voice tight.

"Yunho," you mimic, your voice syrupy sweet as you apply more pressure with your foot. "Problem?"

Your pointed toe traces the seam of his trousers until you reach his balls. You press gently, just enough to make him shift in his seat. His knuckles turn white on his fork, but he doesn't look away from you. 

Yunho keeps acting as if everything is normal. But his jaw tightens almost imperceptibly. He has a thing for your heels, always has. The way they look on you, the sound they make on marble floors, the marks they sometimes leave on his thighs when you're riding him.

"Behave," he grunts under his breath.

You blink innocently. "I am behaving."

His eyes darken. "No, you're not."

You smirk slightly. "Don't you like it?"

Yunho doesn't push. Not yet. Because you’re in public. Because he trusts you. Because he likes it when you want him. Because maybe you're just having fun. And god help him, because his dick is already responding to your touches.

"Remember when you fucked me in these?" you whisper, leaning forward. "How you said they should've been illegal?"

Yunho remembers. He also remembers paying for them. Looking back, he should've left them in the shop. 

He grows increasingly tense. Because this isn't you. Because something is wrong. Because you’re choosing a spectacularly inconvenient time to express it. And because despite his concern, he's getting painfully hard.

Then you cross the line. Not maliciously. Desperately, your foot travels higher, the pointed toe now rubbing against his length. You can feel him twitch and grow under your touch. His jaw clenches, but he doesn't look away from you. He's trying to win this silent battle, trying to pretend you're not affecting him.

"Stop," he mouths, his eyes dark with fury and arousal.

You just smile, rubbing your foot against him in slow, torturous circles. "Make me."

His hand shoots out under the table, fingers wrapping around your ankle in a grip that's both punishing and possessive. 

"Enough," he growls, his voice low and dangerous. "You need to stop."

His voice is low enough that nobody else hears it. You do.

The hand around your ankle loosens almost immediately, his fingers sliding away as though he's only just realized how tightly he'd been holding you. The warmth of his palm lingers against your skin for a second longer than the touch itself.

Neither of you moves. Neither of you says anything. The restaurant keeps existing around you. Glasses clink. Someone laughs two tables over. A waiter walks past carrying a bottle of wine as if the world hasn't just tilted on its axis.

Yunho looks at you. His breathing is uneven. His jaw is locked so tightly you can see the muscle jump beneath his skin. There is still frustration written all over his face, but underneath it, buried somewhere deeper, is something that twists painfully in your chest.

Worry. Not embarrassment. Not annoyance. Worry.

He pushes his chair back.

"Come with me."

You don't answer. He leans down instead, close enough that only you can hear him.

"Now."

The word isn't loud. It doesn't need to be. Yunho has never raised his voice at you. He doesn't have to. 

You stand without another argument. His hand finds your wrist first, then slips lower until it settles against the small of your back, guiding you through the restaurant with a firmness you've never felt from him before. Every step keeps you tucked against his side.

The walk feels endless. Your heels catch against the polished floor more than once, forcing you to stumble to keep up with his pace. Usually he'd notice. Usually he'd slow down immediately, his hand tightening instinctively around yours before asking if your feet hurt.

Tonight he doesn't. Not because he doesn't care. Because his mind is somewhere else entirely.

"What were you thinking?"

His voice is quiet. Controlled. Which somehow makes it worse.

You swallow. "I don't know."

A humorless laugh escapes him through his nose.

"Clearly."

The word lands harder than if he'd shouted. You flinch.

The bathroom door clicks shut behind you, sealing away the music, the conversations, the comfortable illusion that tonight had started as a date.

Silence settles immediately.

Yunho turns to face you. His tie sits slightly crooked. His hair is messier than it was twenty minutes ago. The picture of composure is still there, but only if someone doesn't know where to look.

You do. His jaw is set so tightly it almost hurts to see.  For a long moment, he simply looks. Like he's trying to recognize you again.

"Explain."

"I..."

Nothing.

He waits. Not impatiently. Expectantly. When you still don't answer, he exhales through his nose, rubing a tired hand across his face. 

"Talk to me."

You stare at the floor. 

"I didn't like her."

"I gathered that."

"You were flirting with her."

His expression doesn't change. "No."

"You were."

"I wasn't."

"You laughed at everything she said."

"I was being polite."

"You hugged her."

"She hugged me."

"You let her touch you."

"And?"

The question lands harder than if he'd argued. You stare at him.

"You never stopped her."

For the first time, Yunho goes quiet. Not because he doesn't have an answer. Because he's finally hearing the one thing you've been trying so desperately not to say. He studies your face for a long moment before speaking again.

"...There it is."

Your throat tightens.

"What?"

"That's what this has been about."

You look away before he can see your eyes burn. He notices anyway. He takes one slow step closer.

"Dove." You keep staring at the floor. Another step. "Look at me."

You hate how difficult that suddenly is. When your eyes finally lift to his, your voice comes out so much smaller than you intended.

"You never told her."

A small crease appears between his brows.

"Told her what?"

"That I was your girlfriend."

Silence. Real silence. Yunho blinks once. Not because he's caught. Because the thought genuinely never crossed his mind. You let out a brittle laugh.

"...See?"

"Dove."

"No."

You shake your head before he can interrupt.

"She looked at me like I was... I don't know... your assistant. Someone you brought because you didn't want to eat alone."

His face changes. Just enough.

"I don't care what she thought."

"I do."

The words break apart on the way out.

"I do because you never gave her a reason to think anything else."

Yunho's shoulders still. His eyes search yours. Not defensive. Thinking. Working backwards through the evening. Then, very quietly...

"Is that what you believed?"

You don't answer. Because answering would make it real. He watches you for another second. Then your whisper finally comes.

"Sometimes..." Your voice almost disappears. "Sometimes it feels like you keep me separate."

He doesn't answer. Which somehow hurts even more. Instead, he closes his eyes. Only for a heartbeat. When they open again, something inside them has shifted.

You fill the silence yourself. "Maybe you're embarrassed."

His head lifts. "No."

"Maybe you don't want people wondering why you're dating someone younger."

"Dove."

"Maybe you think they'll look at you and..."

"Stop."

The word lands like stone. Certain. He closes the distance between you in two measured steps, stopping just close enough that you can feel the warmth radiating from him. One hand wraps gently around your forearm. Grounding. Not restraining. His thumb strokes your skin once. 

"Don't do that."

Your eyes finally spill over. "Do what?"

His own jaw tightens. 

"Don't tell me what I think." A beat passes between you. "Don't tell me what I feel." His voice is still calm. Still measured. But it cracks ever so slightly around the edges. "Especially when you're so wrong."

You don't argue. You don't defend yourself. Because for the first time that evening, you hear your own words the way he heard them. And they're ugly. You weren't accusing him. You were telling him you'd believed, even for a little while, that the man who loves you was ashamed to stand beside you.

The fight drains out of you all at once, leaving nothing behind except embarrassment and the quiet realization of how badly you've needed him to understand. 

Yunho sees it happen. He watches your shoulders fold inward. Watches your eyes drop. Watches the bravado disappear as quickly as it arrived. And in that instant, the irritation he's been carrying since the restaurant slips away almost completely.

Because you were never trying to make him miserable. You were trying, desperately and terribly, to ask one question you didn't know how to put into words.

His hand loosens around your arm. His shoulders drop with a tired exhale. When he speaks again, the steel is still there. But now it's wrapped around something infinitely softer.

"...Do you really think so little of me?"

The question steals the air from your lungs. Not because he's angry. Because he's hurt. Because beneath every stern word since you walked into this bathroom had been something else entirely.

Fear. Fear that something had happened to you. Fear that he'd somehow missed it. Fear that the woman he loves had spent an entire dinner convincing herself she wasn't enough.

You drop your eyes. 

"I'm sorry."

"No." His voice is gentle now. "I am sorry."

You look back up confused. He reaches out then, brushing a loose strand of hair behind your ear. His fingertips linger for just a second against your cheek, almost hesitant after everything that was said.

"I don't talk about my private life at work."

You frown. "I know."

"No." His thumb strokes your cheek once. "I mean..." He searches for the right words, his eyes never leaving yours. "I don't talk about it. Ever."

The confession sounds strangely vulnerable coming from him. Yunho always knows what to say. Except now.

"I don't talk about my parents. I don't talk about my brother. I don't talk about holidays." A faint smile pulls at one corner of his mouth, humorless this time. "Half the people I work with barely know anything about me."

You listen quietly. Because it's true. You've heard him dodge personal questions before. Seen him redirect conversations so smoothly people never realized he'd done it. You'd just never put yourself in that category.

His hand slips from your cheek to the side of your neck, warm against your skin.

"I've spent years building that habit." His thumb moves absentmindedly beneath your ear. "So naturally..." He lets out another slow breath. "I did the same thing tonight."

Your chest tightens. He isn't defending himself, he's retracing his own steps, trying to find the moment he got it wrong.

A sad smile tugs at one corner of his mouth.

"I thought I was protecting my peace." His gaze softens. "I didn't realize I was asking you to carry the cost of it."

Something inside you gives way. Not all at once. Quietly. Like ice finally cracking under spring sunlight.

"I should've seen it," he murmurs. "I should've realized what that looked like from where you were standing. I should've introduced you." Your eyes close for half a second. "I should've made it obvious."

The first tear escapes before you can stop it. Yunho catches it with the pad of his thumb almost instinctively. Not because he found the perfect explanation. Because he isn't looking for one. He's simply standing in front of you, taking responsibility for a hurt he never intended to cause.

"I'm sorry, Dove."

You laugh weakly through the tears.

"You never apologize."

"I do."

"No, you don't."

"I do," he repeats softly. "When I'm wrong."

The corner of your mouth lifts despite yourself. Relief flickers across his face so briefly you almost miss it. He studies you for another moment, then sighs, the last of the tension leaving his shoulders.

"You scared me tonight." The confession is barely above a whisper. "I didn't know who I was sitting across from."

Shame crashes over you all over again.

"I'm sorry..."

"I know."

He doesn't answer right away. Instead, he leans forward until his forehead rests lightly against yours. The contact is warm. Familiar. The kind that always slows your breathing before you even realize it's happening.

Then he kisses you. Softly. Nothing like the way he kissed you earlier. Nothing demanding. Nothing that steals the air from your lungs. Just a slow press of his lips against yours, gentle enough that it feels less like desire and more like reassurance.

I'm still here.

When he pulls away, he doesn't move far. One hand is still cradling your jaw, his thumb absentmindedly stroking your cheek as though letting go isn't something he's ready to do yet.

"You really aren't embarrassed?" you ask quietly.

The question slips out before you can stop it. You regret it immediately. Yunho's eyebrows draw together so quickly it almost hurts to watch. 

"Embarrassed?" He searches your face as if he's trying to understand how your mind could've built that conclusion. "Of you?" He lets out a quiet, disbelieving breath.

His other hand comes up to cup your face, leaving you held between both of his palms as though you're something far more fragile than either of you would like to admit.

"Are you out of your mind?"

Heat rushes to your cheeks. You want the floor to open beneath your feet.

"I just..."

The words refuse to come. Instead, another question does. Quieter this time.

"You still love me?"

Yunho simply stares. Not because he's offended. Because he genuinely can't believe that's the question you've been carrying around.

"That's your question?"

You look away instantly. "I shouldn't have asked."

"No." His fingers guide your face back toward him before you can hide. "You don't get to run away now."

His thumb brushes beneath your eye again, wiping away another tear before it falls.

"After everything we've just talked about..."

He smiles then. Small. Disbelieving. So full of affection it makes your chest ache.

"I love you." Simple. Certain. No hesitation. "I loved you when we walked into that restaurant." His thumb strokes slowly across your cheek. "I loved you while you spent an hour driving me out of my mind." The corner of his mouth twitches despite himself. "And I'm still standing here loving you now." Your breath catches. "There isn't a room in this world where I'd be embarrassed to stand beside you."

His forehead rests lightly against yours.

"If anything..." He continues with a quiet smile. "I'm usually wondering what I did to deserve being the man who gets to walk in with you."

Your eyes close. Not because you're crying anymore. Because your heart simply doesn't know what to do with that.

"You are not something I hide." A beat. "You are the best part of my life."

The silence stretches comfortably between you. This one doesn't hurt. This one heals. 

Then Yunho leans forward, pressing a lingering kiss against your forehead. Another against your temple. One more against your cheek, each one slower than the last, as though he's trying to erase every ugly thought you'd carried into this room. 

You smile despite yourself. It lasts all of two seconds. Because when he leans back, there's something new in his expression. The misunderstanding is gone. The hurt has been named. You've forgiven each other.

Which means there's only one thing left to deal with. The spectacular disaster you created out there. And judging by the look Yunho gives you, you're not getting away with that conversation quite so easily. 

"You caused me a great deal of trouble tonight."

The words aren't harsh. They're quiet. Which somehow makes them impossible to hide from.

You drop your gaze. "I'm sorry."

"I know." His hand finds yours again, turning it over gently until your fingers rest against his palm. "I forgive you."

Hope flickers across your face. Then he continues.

"But forgiveness doesn't erase the problem."

Your breath catches. You look back up at him. His expression is unreadable. Calm. Patient. Completely in control again.

"What... problem?"

Yunho pulls your hand and places it against the obvious tension beneath the expensive fabric of his trousers. Heat rushes into your face as you inhale sharply.

"Oh."

"Oh?" Yunho lets out a quiet, disbelieving laugh. "You knew exactly what you were doing." 

You immediately look away.

"I said I was sorry."

"You did." His fingers tighten around yours, pressing your palm more firmly against the hardness beneath his trousers. "And I accepted your apology."

You swallow. "Then...?"

"Then we address the consequences." His voice drops lower.

He steps closer. Your back finds the wall. Not trapped. Just nowhere else you'd rather be. Yunho reaches up, thumb brushing lightly across your jaw. Patient. Composed. Entirely too in control.

"You started this, Dove." His eyes darken. "Now you're going to finish it."

You bite your lip. "Here?"

"Where else?" His thumb traces your bottom lip. "You wanted to play games in public. Let's see how well you play when the stakes are real."

Your knees feel weak. "Yunho..."

"Unless you'd rather I take care of this myself?" He challenges, his voice low and rough. "But I don't think that's what you want, is it?"

You shake your head slowly, unable to form words.

"No." His hand moves from your jaw to the back of your neck, fingers tangling in your hair. "I didn't think so."

He leans in closer, his breath hot against your ear. "You wanted my attention? You have it. All of it. Now, are you going to fix what you broke?"

You nod, your heart pounding. "Yes."

"Good." 

The word has barely left his mouth before he's pulling you toward him.

One hand remains firm around the back of your neck, fingers spread wide beneath your hair. The other lands at your waist with enough certainty to steal the breath from your lungs, drawing you flush against him in a single, decisive movement.

"Now, be a good girl and show me how sorry you really are. Come here."

It's the last warning you get.

His mouth crashes into yours. The kiss is deep before you have time to think, your startled gasp swallowed immediately as he claims the space between your lips. There isn't an ounce of hesitation in him now. No careful testing. No gentle reassurance. Every slow, measured restraint he's held onto since dinner seems to disappear into the kiss instead.

Your fingers instinctively clutch at the front of his jacket, wrinkling the expensive fabric beneath your fists as your balance disappears beneath the force of him.

Yunho doesn't let you drift away. His hand tightens at your waist, keeping you exactly where he wants you, his breathing rough against your cheek every time the kiss breaks for the briefest heartbeat before he finds your mouth again. Like he's still angry. Still relieved. Still trying to convince himself you're here and that you're finally letting him in.

By the time he finally pulls back, neither of you is breathing properly. He doesn't give you room to recover. His forehead settles against yours almost immediately, his grip on your waist never loosening, your bodies still pressed together so completely you can feel the rise and fall of every uneven breath.

His eyes stay closed for a long moment.

"So stubborn," he murmurs, the words almost disappearing between your mouths.

His thumb presses once against your side, firm enough to remind you exactly whose arms you're standing in. 

The silence between you changes. The misunderstanding is gone. The tenderness is still there, buried somewhere beneath everything else. But what hangs between you now is heavier. Tighter. The kind of tension that makes the room suddenly feel too small to contain either of you.

Before you can smile, before your arms can find their way around his neck, his hands shift. One slides to the small of your back. The other gently catches your wrist. With one smooth movement, he turns you until your back meets his chest.

His body follows yours immediately, close enough that you feel the warmth of him through the fabric of your dress as he guides you forward. Two careful steps. Then your thighs meet the cool marble of the sink, and he stops behind you.

"Hands on the counter," he commands, his voice a low rumble against your ear.

You comply, your palms flat on the stone, your heart hammering against your ribs.

"You are a dangerous woman," he mutters against your shoulder before he bites down harshly, teeth sinking into skin where your dress won't cover it.

"Yunho," you whimper softly.

"Spread your legs," he commands.

You don’t have time to comply. He kicks your feet apart with his own, widening your stance. 

His gaze drops to your feet, still encased in the shoes he bought you. 

"Still wearing these," he murmurs, his voice rough with desire. "The ones that were torturing me all night. Every time you crossed your legs, every time you tapped that fucking heel against the table... I wanted to bend you over right there."

His hands are rough as they hike your dress up, bunching the fabric at your waist. The cool air hits your exposed skin.

"Look at you," he murmurs, his gaze predatory in the mirror. "All dressed up, and so beautiful but so, so misbehaving."

"Sorry," you whisper, your voice shaky.

His hand comes down hard on your ass. The sharp smack echoes in the tiled room. You cry out, more from surprise than pain.

"Louder."

"Sorry!" you repeat, stronger this time.

Another smack, this one on the other cheek, leaving a warm sting. "Good girl."

His hand comes down twice more in rapid succession, the sharp smacks echoing in the tiled room. Your flesh stings when he digs his nails into the sensitive skin, scratching hard enough to leave faint pink trails that make you whimper.

Yunho hooks his fingers into the waistband of your panties. Instead of sliding them down, he grips the delicate lace and pulls with brutal force. 

The fabric tears with a sharp sound, your knees trembling at the violence of it. Before you can collapse, he bucks his hips forward, pinning you more firmly against the cold marble of the sink.

"I'll be keeping these," he states. "A reminder for you to behave next time we're out."

He spreads your ass cheeks, exposing you completely. 

"Teasing me all night got you this wet? Such a messy girl for me."

He spits, watching the saliva trickle down your cleft before using two fingers to rub it over your clit and entrance. You push back against his hand, a desperate whine escaping your lips.

"Ah ah," he tuts, withdrawing his hand. He brings his glistening fingers to your mouth, his eyes locked on yours in the mirror. "Open. Taste yourself."

You obey, parting your lips as he slides his fingers into your mouth. You suck greedily, swirling your tongue around them, tasting your own arousal, mixing itself with the wine from dinner. His eyes darken as he watches you.

"Fuck," he groans, pulling his fingers from your mouth with a wet pop. "You don't get to dictate the pace. Not tonight. Tonight, I use you."

The sound of his belt buckle clinking open makes your heart race. Then the slow rasp of his zipper being lowered follows, each tooth releasing with agonizing slowness that has you trembling with anticipation.

He frees himself with one hand, the other pressing down firmly between your shoulder blades, keeping you bent over. He rubs the head of his cock through your wetness, coating himself in your arousal but not entering.

"Please, Yunho," you beg, trying to push back onto him.

He delivers another sharp slap to your ass.

"I said no."

He lines himself up with your entrance and, without warning, slams into you in one brutal thrust.

You both groan. He's impossibly deep like this, the angle unforgiving. The marble digs into your thighs with the force of his entry.

He gives you no time to adjust, setting a punishing rhythm from the start. Each thrust is hard, fast, designed to stake a claim. The sound of skin slapping skin is obscene, mixing with your helpless whimpers and his low grunts. 

Your high heels tremble dangerously beneath you, the stiletto points scraping uselessly against the tile as your legs struggle to support you under the force of his movements.

He captures one of your wrists, twisting it behind your back and pinning it there. He uses the leverage to push you further down, until your face is inches from the mirror, your breath fogging the glass.

His other hand finds your hair, winding it around his fist. He pulls, just enough to arch your back and force you to look at your reflection in the mirror.

"Watch," he growls, his hips never ceasing their assault. "Watch me fuck you. See how you take it? How desperate you are for my cock?"

Your eyes are glassy with tears of pleasure and pain, your mouth slack.

He looks so powerful behind you, his expression dark with lust, his expensive suit still perfectly tailored and pristine while you’re  a mess beneath him.

"You teased me all night," he pants, his grip on your hair tightening. "Rubbing your little foot on my dick. Making me hard in front of everyone. This is what you wanted, isn't it? To be fucked like the little brat you are?"

"Yes!" you cry out. "Yes, I'm sorry!"

"You will be." He releases your hair only to grab your hip, his fingers digging into your flesh as he pistons into you. Your legs start to shake, but he continues his relentless pace, driving into you again and again.

He lowers his body, the expensive fabric of his suit brushing against your back as he leans down.

His tongue traces a path up your spine, making you shudder. He licks the exposed skin of your neck, then bites down on your earlobe, just enough to make you gasp.

Then he places his lips against the back of your head, not kissing, just pressing there to keep you in place and muffle his own moans.

"Fuck," he grunts against your hair, his voice muffled. "So tight. So perfect for me."

He presses a soft peck to your hair before straightening up, his gaze fixed on where you two are connected. His hand comes down hard on your ass once again. Then he grips the reddened flesh tightly, spreading your cheeks apart to watch himself disappear inside you with each powerful thrust.

Your forehead presses against the cool glass of the mirror, eyes closed as you focus on the sensation of him filling you so completely.

Each thrust sends waves of pleasure through your body, his length hitting that perfect spot inside you that makes the coil in your stomach tighten, ready to snap. 

"I'm gonna… Yunho, I'm close..."

"No, you're not."

With a sudden, cruel movement, he pulls out of you completely, leaving you empty and aching. You cry out at the loss, your body trembling with the denied release.

"Yunho, please..."

"Please what?" he growls, wrapping his hand around his slick cock and stroking himself a few times. Your juices glisten on his length in the dim light. 

"You don't get to come yet. You haven't earned it. You're going to take what I give you, and you're going to thank me for it."

His hand comes down hard on your left cheek, then your right, two rapid, harsh smacks that echo in the tiled bathroom.

The sharp sting makes you gasp, your flesh blooming red under his touch. He soothes the burning skin with his large palms, the contrast of roughness and tenderness making your head spin.

"Such a pretty color on you," he murmurs appreciatively before gripping your hips again.

He slams back into you without warning, even deeper than before. Your legs nearly give out. He slows his pace slightly, making each thrust more deliberate, more punishing.

"You wanted to act like a bitch? Fine. Now you're getting fucked like one. No relief. Just me, using this tight little pussy until I'm satisfied."

The bathroom door swings open. You freeze, a gasp caught in your throat as humiliation washes over you. Through the mirror, you see the woman from earlier pause in the doorway, her eyes wide with shock.

Your hands fly back, trying to push Yunho away, to create any distance between your bodies, but your arms feel like lead.

His arm circles your chest, pulling you upright against him until your back is flush with his chest. The new angle allows him to drive into you even deeper, his hips snapping with more intensity. 

Defeated, you rest your head on his shoulder, your eyes rolling back involuntarily, your mind going blank with overwhelming pleasure. You can't think, can't speak. You can only feel him filling you so good.

"Don't get embarrassed now," Yunho snarls in your ear, his thrusts never faltering. He doesn't even look at the intruder. His eyes are boring into yours in the mirror, a silent, possessive challenge. "Let her see who makes you feel this good. Let her see what my woman looks like when she's being properly fucked."

Your hand shoots out, gripping his wrist desperately to maintain your balance as your knees threaten to give out. Your other hand presses flat against the sink surface, fingers splayed wide as you try to anchor yourself. 

The woman watches for another second before muttering an apology and backing out quickly, pulling the door closed behind her.

Yunho lets out a dark chuckle. "Good girl. You did so well."

When one particularly loud moan escapes, he covers your mouth with his hand.

"Shhh, baby. I know, believe me, I know." He groans low when you squeeze around him involuntarily. "You know I love hearing you, dove, but I'd rather not have security escort us out of a restaurant I spent three weeks getting reservations for." 

Then he replaces his hand with two fingers in your mouth. You immediately suck and lick them, drool falling down your chin. He bites his own lip as he watches you, his eyes dark with hunger.

"Fuck," Yunho groans, his eyes darkening with pure devotion and angry lust. "That's it. So pretty."

He guides your chin toward the mirror, forcing you to look at your reflection. 

"Look at you," he murmurs against your temple. "So beautiful when you're falling apart for me." 

Your body is like putty against him, your dress disheveled with one strap fallen down your shoulder, your hair a mess, mascara smudged beneath your eyes.

He removes his fingers from your mouth, slick with your saliva, and traces them over your lips. 

"Watch," he commands softly. 

Then his hand slides down your body, finding your clit. He begins circling it, watching how easily you respond to his touches in your reflection with such intensity it feels like he's devouring you. Your hips buck against his hand, against his cock still buried inside you.

"Now, since you were so good... you can come," he pants against your lips. "Come for me, Dove. Squeeze my fucking cock."

That's all it takes. Your orgasm tears through you, violent and overwhelming. You scream his name, your body convulsing as your vision whites out.

He follows you over the edge a minute later with a guttural groan, burying himself to the hilt as he spills inside you, hips jerking with the force of his release. 

He grabs your hair, pulling just enough to tilt your head back. He cradles your face with his other hand, forcing you to meet his gaze as he continues to thrust through his orgasm.

"I love you," he breathes, desperate and raw. "God, I love you so much." he grunts as he pulses inside you.

"Love you too," you whisper, tears in your eyes. "So much."

Before you can say more, his mouth crashes against yours. It's not a kiss of gentleness, but of raw, overwhelming need. It's sloppy and desperate, filled with spit and drool as your tongues clash. 

He kisses you like he's trying to breathe you in. It's uncoordinated and filthy, a perfect counterpoint to the tender words just spoken, a testament to the storm of emotions raging between you.

He stays there for a moment, breathing heavily against your mouth, the only sounds in the room your ragged breaths.

Then, as quickly as the intensity began, it softens. He pulls out gently, and you feel his warmth leave you. He uses a handful of tissues to carefully clean you up, his touch impossibly tender now. 

"Can't have my perfect girl leaking all over her pretty dress," he teases softly.

He helps you stand, your legs trembling, and pulls your dress back down into place. He turns you to face him, his hands cupping your cheeks as he wipes away the tear tracks and smudged mascara with his thumbs.

"I've got you," he murmurs, pressing soft kisses to your forehead, your nose, your lips. "You did so good for me. So perfect."

He helps you fix your hair then. The same fingers that had tangled mercilessly through it only minutes ago now move with impossible care, smoothing down loose strands before tucking them neatly behind your ear.  

He straightens the stubborn strap back to your shoudler, brushes an invisible crease from your waist, then steps back to inspect his work with quiet satisfaction.

Only after deeming you presentable again does he adjust his own tie and smooth his jacket, slipping effortlessly back into the composed man who walked into the restaurant. 

"There."

Your hand flies instinctively to your shoulder.

"Oh, absolutely not."

Yunho catches your wrist before your fingers reach the mark. His mouth twitches.

"You did that."

"I think it suits you." 

You glare at him. He doesn't look remotely sorry. A quiet laugh rumbles in his chest as he leans in, pressing one last lingering kiss to your forehead.

"My beautiful girl."

The words settle warmly beneath your ribs.

"So now you'll fuck me in public," you murmur, "but I'm not allowed to hide the evidence?"

His smile is small. Unapologetic.

"No."

The answer is so simple, so certain, that your heart forgets how to beat for a second.

When you step back into the restaurant, Yunho reaches for your hand without hesitation. His fingers weave through yours naturally, like they've done it a thousand times before. Firm enough that you couldn't pull away if you wanted to. Gentle enough that it feels less like possession and more like certainty.

You barely make it a few steps before your free hand flies to your shoulder.

"This is awful."

A quiet laugh escapes him.

"You seemed very enthusiastic about it five minutes ago."

"Yunho."

His smile only deepens. You try to pull your hair over the marks blooming across your skin. Yunho simply brushes it back over your shoulder again, his fingertips lingering for the briefest second.

"Stop."

"No."

"They're going to see."

His eyes flick toward you, warm with something that makes your chest tighten.

"I know."

You stare at him. He doesn't elaborate. He doesn't need to. The meaning settles somewhere beneath your ribs before you can stop it. 

Then you see her. Still sitting at her table. Still talking to the people around her. Your entire body locks.

"No."

Yunho doesn't even slow down.

"No."

"Dove."

"I am not walking past her."

"You are."

"I'll die."

"You won't."

You make one last pathetic attempt to hide behind him, but he only chuckles softly, giving your hand a reassuring squeeze before lifting it between you. His lips brush across your knuckles. Your breath catches.

Before you can recover, he leans down and presses another absentminded kiss against your temple as you walk, the gesture so effortless it almost feels unconscious. Like this is simply what he does when you're together. Like loving you has become muscle memory.

The woman looks up. Recognition flashes across her face. Her eyes fall to your joined hands. To the kiss. To the way Yunho never once lets go of you. 

Heat rushes to your cheeks so quickly you're convinced the entire restaurant can feel it. But Yunho keeps walking as though nothing remarkable has happened, guiding you back to the table with the same calm confidence he'd walked in with an hour earlier.

This time, however, he pulls your chair out first.

His hand lingers briefly against the back of your seat before he walks around to his own, settling opposite you with infuriating composure.

You reach for your wine immediately. Desperately, because you need it. Bad.

"You never finished your risotto."

You blink over the rim of your glass.

"That's your concern right now?"

"It’s expensive."

You stare at him, waiting for the joke. It never comes. His mouth twitches just enough to betray him as he reaches for his own wine.

Around you, the restaurant carries on exactly as it had before. Cutlery clinks against porcelain. Conversations overlap. Someone laughs near the window. You're convinced every single one of them knows.

Yunho, meanwhile, opens the dessert menu as though the last twenty minutes never happened. He flips a page, the corners already beginning to curl beneath his fingers.

"So," he says, glancing up briefly. "Do we want the tiramisu?"

You swirl the last of your wine around your glass.

"Do we?"

His mouth twitches.

"Good point." He turns another page. "Chocolate soufflé?"

You don't answer. You simply keep looking at him. Long enough that he eventually lowers the menu, meeting your eyes over the edge of it.

"What?"

You tilt your head, pretending to consider the question.

"I kind of hate you."

A quiet smile pulls at one corner of his mouth. Small. Certain.

"No," he says. "You really don't."

You roll your eyes, but the warmth in your chest betrays you before your face can.

For the first time all evening, silence settles comfortably between you. No misunderstandings hiding beneath it. No sharp edges waiting to catch. Just the familiar quiet that has always belonged to the two of you.

You shift in your chair, wincing almost imperceptibly as the heels remind you how long you've been wearing them.

Yunho notices immediately. His eyes drop beneath the table for half a second before returning to your face.

"They're hurting."

It isn't a question. You sigh dramatically.

"A little."

Without another word, he extends one hand beneath the tablecloth, palm open.

"Give me your foot."

You eye him suspiciously.

"...Didn't we already establish that was a terrible idea?"

A slow smile appears at the corner of his mouth.

"Which is why I'm asking for your foot." His eyes meet yours. "Not your ideas." 

Heat creeps up your neck.

"Yunho."

"I'm choosing to believe you've learned from the experience."

You wisely keep your mouth shut. Judging by the look in his eyes, the only thing Yunho enjoys more than winning is watching you realize you've lost. 

His hand pats his thigh twice, waiting patiently. "Foot." 

You know that tone. The one that isn't asking because it already knows you'll give in. 

With an exaggerated sigh, you shift in your seat. One leg first, then the other. A moment later, both feet are on his lap. The movement is practiced. Unremarkable between you now, which is its own kind of problem.

"This time I'd like you to keep it above my knee."

You nearly choke on your wine.

"Yunho."

"Too soon?"

You can hear the smile in his voice long before you see it.

His hand settles around your ankle, thumb pressing slow circles into the sore skin. Then, almost absent-mindedly, his fingers find the tiny buckle fastening your heel.

You frown.

"...What are you doing?"

"Fixing the problem."

Before you can protest, he unfastens the delicate strap with practiced fingers, easing the shoe from your foot as carefully as though it were made of glass. He sets it beside his leg beneath the table, then repeats the motion with the other one.

The relief is immediate. A quiet breath escapes you before you can stop it. Yunho pretends not to notice.

He simply settles both of your bare feet across his lap again, one broad hand wrapping gently around your arches while his thumb works patiently at the muscles that have been aching since you left the apartment.

It's so automatic. So unceremonious. Like this isn't an act of devotion at all, just another item on the list of ways he takes care of you.

You watch him for a long moment. He doesn’t look up. That, more than anything, makes you smile.

“You’re being weird.”

"Hm?"

"You're... affectionate."

That earns you his attention. He looks up from the menu, genuinely considering the accusation.

“I’m always affectionate.”

You give him a look. 

"You are." You hesitate, searching for words that don't sound quite so vulnerable. "Just... not where people can see."

Something shifts in his expression. Because he's realizing you aren’t accusing him. You’re simply telling him how lonely you felt.

His hand stays on your ankle.

“Maybe I should’ve been.”

The words are quiet enough that no one else could hear them. They don't sound like an apology. They sound better than one.

Across the room, your eyes catch the woman for just a second. Her eyes dip beneath the table for just a moment, lingering where Yunho's hand rests around your ankle as though it's the most natural place in the world for it to be. 

For a heartbeat, you wait for the embarrassment to come. It doesn't. You look back at him instead.

"So. Chocolate soufflé then?" Yunho asks.

 "Get both," you murmur, nodding toward the menu.

His grin is immediate. "I was hoping you'd say that."

You laugh, shaking your head as his thumb absentmindedly traces another circle over your skin.

Dessert arrives a few minutes later. Your feet never leave his lap. Neither does his hand.

Conversation returns as though it had never been interrupted. Work. Travel. Which wine is better. Ordinary things. Comfortably ordinary.

And somewhere between the first spoonful of tiramisu and the last sip of wine, you realize the knot in your chest is gone. Not because the evening had been perfect. Because when it stopped being perfect, the two of you chose each other anyway.

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The engine gave out hours away from her hometown. She was on her way back from a short vacation, only to get stuck in the middle of nowhere.

At first, Y/N barely noticed it. The steady hum beneath the hood faltered for a split second before the entire car lurched forward, the dashboard lighting up like a Christmas tree. Her grip tightened around the steering wheel as she instinctively eased off the accelerator, hoping the engine would somehow recover on its own. It didn't. Instead, the old sedan lost what little momentum it had left, forcing her to guide it onto the narrow shoulder of the road while the rain continued to fall in an endless, gray curtain.

Silence settled around her the moment she turned the key again.

Once.

Twice.

A third time.

Each attempt was answered by nothing more than a weak, metallic clicking sound that echoed through the empty cabin, before fading into the rhythmic tapping of raindrops against the windshield.

For several long seconds, she simply stared ahead in disbelief.

"Are you fucking serious right now?" She groaned, letting her forehead fall against the steering wheel, before frustration finally got the better of her. "No. No, no, no... Come on."

The car, unsurprisingly, remained just as lifeless as before.

With a tired sigh, she reached for her phone, only to grimace when the battery icon flashed an unforgiving five percent. The signal was barely strong enough to load a webpage, but after what felt like an eternity of buffering, the search results finally appeared.

Most of the nearby repair shops were either permanently closed, had terrible reviews or couldn't tow vehicles until the following day.

Only one name kept appearing over and over again : JY's Garage.

Every review sounded strangely similar, almost as though hundreds of strangers had agreed to tell the same story.

"If your engine's dead, he's the only one who can bring it back."

"The guy works miracles, but don't expect small talk."

"Biker who rarely smiles, but does the job perfectly."

"A mechanic who fixes cars everyone else has already given up on."

"Pretty sure he likes motorcycles more than people, but his services... Top tier."

The reviews were oddly dramatic for someone who repaired engines for a living, painting the owner less like a mechanic and more like the subject of some local urban legend.

Y/N couldn't help rolling her eyes.

She had never been intimidated by the reputation people built around difficult men. In her experience, they were usually just ordinary people with an exaggerated myth surrounding them.

Still, with no better options and a rapidly dying phone, she called for a tow truck.

The driver who eventually arrived didn't have much to say. After securing the sedan onto the flatbed, he glanced toward the destination displayed on his screen, before letting out a quiet whistle.

"JY's Garage, huh?" He said, climbing back into the truck. "Guess your car's in good hands."

"You know the owner?" She asked.

The man shrugged. "Never really talked to him. Most people haven't. But everyone knows him."

That cryptic answer did little to reassure her.

Nearly twenty minutes later, the truck slowed to a stop in front of what looked far less like a repair shop and far more like the hideout of someone who preferred engines to conversation.

Rainwater dripped steadily from the corrugated metal roof as flickering neon signs cast streaks of red and blue across the wet pavement. Through the large garage doors, she could make out rows of beautifully restored classic motorcycles lined up with almost obsessive precision, their polished chrome reflecting the dim workshop lights. Somewhere deeper inside, old rock music played through worn speakers, blending with the metallic clatter of tools and the low growl of an engine being tested.

And then she saw it.

Parked directly in the center of the garage, as though everything else had been arranged around it, stood a matte-black motorcycle.

Its bodywork gleamed beneath the fluorescent lights without a single unnecessary detail, carrying the quiet confidence of something built for performance rather than attention. Even standing perfectly still, it seemed to command the entire room.

It looked beautiful. Arrogant. Expensive. Probably just like its owner.

The rhythmic clink of metal against metal echoed from somewhere in the back of the garage. It was the only warning Y/N received before someone emerged from the shadows.

Her breath hitched slightly. He was younger than she expected, tall enough that she instinctively lifted her chin to meet his gaze, his broad frame filling the doorway as though he belonged there as naturally as the motorcycles surrounding him. A white polo with deep crimson stripes clung to his shoulders, the sleeves carelessly rolled to his elbows, exposing forearms dusted with grease and dotted with tiny cuts that spoke of years spent working with stubborn machinery. Platinum-blond hair fell across his forehead in effortless disarray, partially obscuring a pair of dark eyes that carried the permanent expression of someone thoroughly unimpressed by the world around him.

A silver wrench rotated lazily between his fingers, so practiced that it looked less like a tool and more like an unconscious habit.

He looked attractive, but arrogant, charming, but stubborn.

His gaze landed on her, then shifted to the smoking sedan waiting on the tow truck, then returned to her.

"Can I help you?"

His voice was low and completely flat, stripped of anything that could remotely resemble warmth. There was no greeting, no polite smile, not even the faintest hint of curiosity.

Y/N folded her arms across her chest, standing her ground. "My car died."

His eyes drifted toward the vehicle again. "Clearly."

One eyebrow twitched. "What I meant was that I need you to fix it."

He leaned one shoulder against the doorframe, the movement so relaxed it bordered on dismissive.

"Tomorrow."

She blinked. "What?"

"The garage closes in ten minutes."

For a second, she genuinely thought he was joking. Well, he wasn't.

"You're seriously telling me... " She started slowly, trying, and failing, to keep the disbelief out of her voice. "That you're leaving me stranded because your workday ends in ten minutes?"

One shoulder lifted in an indifferent shrug.

"Your car should've broken down earlier, I guess."

Y/N stared at him in complete disbelief. There it was, without question, the most ridiculous thing anyone had ever said to her.

She took another step closer.

"People online said you were the best mechanic in town."

"I am."

Surprisingly, there was no trace of arrogance in the way he said it. That was somehow worse. It wasn't boasting. It was simply a fact, delivered with the confidence of someone who had no reason to prove himself.

"And yet..." She continued. "You're refusing to help a customer."

"I choose my customers."

"Oh." She let out a humorless laugh. "So you're difficult on purpose."

For the first time since he'd appeared, something shifted. The corner of his mouth lifted into a smirk almost imperceptibly.

"Most people figure that out faster."

She narrowed her eyes. He was infuriating. Completely, undeniably infuriating.

For several seconds, neither of them spoke. Then his attention drifted toward the thin stream of steam escaping from beneath her hood. A long sigh escaped him. It wasn't the sigh of someone convinced. It was the sigh of a man accepting an inconvenience he already regretted.

"Open it."

Y/N frowned. "Excuse me?"

"The hood." He caught the wrench in his palm before spinning it again. "Unless standing in the rain arguing with mechanics is your favorite hobby."

She blinked. "I thought you were closing."

"I am."

"Then why are you helping me?"

This time, when he met her eyes, there was the faintest trace of amusement buried beneath the indifference. "Because if you keep talking, the entire neighborhood is going to hear you. You've got quite the mouth on you, sweetheart."

Her jaw clenched at the sudden term of endearment, her eyes narrowing dangerously. She opened her mouth, wanting to say something, but deciding against it. After all, she needed his help, not the other way around.

Without another word, she marched back to the sedan and pulled the hood release. The latch clicked open as she lifted the heavy metal panel, stepping aside as Yunho approached.

The teasing vanished the moment he reached the engine. His entire demeanor changed. Every movement became deliberate, efficient, almost mechanical in its precision.

He leaned over the engine bay, brushing damp strands of platinum hair away from his face with the back of his wrist, before his grease-stained fingers began moving from one component to another. Hoses. Belts. Wiring. Coolant reservoir. Every inspection followed a pattern so fluid it was obvious he'd repeated it thousands of times before. He didn't waste a single motion. He didn't hesitate. He barely seemed aware of anything except the engine in front of him.

"So..." She cleared her throat. "Do you always treat customers like they're inconveniences?"

The only response was the soft metallic click of his wrench. Y/N huffed, shifting her weight.

"Or did I win some sort of special prize?"

Still nothing.

"Do you actually speak?" She snapped.

"Unfortunately." He replied, his voice flat as he was mostly invested in the engine in front of him.

After another minute, he straightened, grabbing a worn rag from his belt to wipe the grease from his hands.

"How long has it been making that noise?"

"What noise?" She frowned.

His eyes lifted to hers. "The one telling you your engine was begging for mercy?"

"I... It wasn't that bad."

He stared at her. Not dramatically. Not accusingly. Simply... stared.

"Did you ignore the check engine light?"

Silence.

"Maybe...?"

"You ignored it."

"It came on about two weeks ago."

For the first time all evening, an actual emotion crossed his face. He closed his eyes. Not in frustration. Not in anger. In disappointment. Pure, exhausted disappointment.

"I was busy, ok?" She defended.

"No." His voice remained perfectly calm. "You were irresponsible."

She folded her arms again. "Oh, and you're charming."

"I'm not paid to be charming."

"With customer service like this, I'm amazed people still come here."

Without looking at her, he nodded toward the illuminated sign hanging above the entrance.

"I do just fine."

She followed his gaze. He wasn't wrong.

Even now, nearly closing time, motorcycles and cars occupied almost every available space outside the workshop. Some looked freshly restored, their paint gleaming beneath the neon lights. Others had clearly been sitting there for weeks, waiting patiently for parts or attention. Inside, every tool hung in perfect alignment. Every drawer was labeled. Every workbench was spotless despite the grease and oil. Nothing was out of place. Nothing about him was careless.

A few more minutes passed before Yunho lowered the hood with a firm click. His expression hadn't changed.

"Well?"

"It's bad."

Her stomach tightened. "How bad?"

"Depends on what you consider bad."

She forced a smile. "Try me."

"You won't be driving it tonight. Nor tomorrow."

The rain suddenly sounded deafening. She laughed once, hoping he was joking.

"Very funny."

"I'm not joking."

The smile disappeared from her face.

He turned toward the garage as though the conversation was already over.

"The radiator's gone. The engine overheated and I won't know the full extent of the damage until I take it apart."

She hurried after him. "How long?"

He stopped without turning around. "Four days."

Her eyes widened. "Four days?"

"Maybe five."

"What am I supposed to do for five days?"

Another indifferent shrug. "Not ignore warning lights."

She stared at the back of his head in complete disbelief. "This can't be serious."

"It is."

"No, seriously, I need my car."

"So does everyone who brings one here."

She stepped in front of him, forcing him to stop. "You can't just tell me that and walk away!"

This time, something finally cracked. Only slightly. A flicker of irritation darkened his expression as his eyes locked onto hers.

"What exactly do you expect me to do?" He asked, his voice sharper than before. "Magically repair parts I don't have?"

The question hit harder than she'd expected. There was no sarcasm. No arrogance. No attempt to belittle her. Only facts. Simple, inconvenient facts.

For the first time since arriving, she found herself without an argument.

Yunho walked past her. "Come back tomorrow afternoon. I'll know more after I open the engine."

She watched him reach the garage controls. "Wait."

He paused. "What?"

"I don't even know your name."

For a moment, he said nothing. The metal shutter groaned to life, slowly descending between them. He rested one hand on the control panel before finally speaking.

"Yunho." Another pause. "Jeong Yunho."

The shutter reached the ground with a heavy metallic thud. And just like that, he was gone.

Y/N remained standing alone beneath the rain, soaked to the skin, stranded hours away from home and thoroughly irritated by the most impossible man she had ever met.

She should have been thinking about hotel rooms, repair bills and how she was going to explain all of this to her friends and family. Instead, all she could think about were a pair of cold, unreadable eyes... and the impossibly beautiful hands that had moved through the engine with the same effortless precision an artist reserved for a masterpiece.

By the time Y/N woke the next morning, she already knew the day was determined to test her patience.

The motel she'd settled for the night before had been the definition of good enough, if good enough meant peeling floral wallpaper that had probably survived three decades, a mattress that seemed designed to punish anyone foolish enough to sleep on it, coffee that somehow tasted both burnt and watered down and a shower that appeared to have a personal vendetta against hot water. She had spent the better part of the night tossing and turning, alternating between cursing her luck and mentally calculating how expensive the repairs were going to be.

Neither exercise had helped.

The morning hadn't improved much by the time she left the room. The motel was a 25 minute walk from Yunho's garage, which wouldn't have been so bad if only the roads hadn't been intentionally designed to confuse people who weren't from the area. Trudging along, the realisation that she was completely at the mercy of the most insufferable mechanic she'd ever met finally hit her.

Wonderful.

By the time she reached Yunho's garage, the overcast sky still threatened rain, leaving the pavement slick beneath her shoes. Before she even stepped inside, the familiar scent of motor oil drifted through the open garage doors, mixing with warm metal, coffee and the lingering smell of rain-soaked asphalt.

The place looked entirely different in daylight.

Larger.

Busier.

Alive.

Three vehicles occupied the service bays, each in a different stage of repair, while motorcycles lined one wall with almost military precision. Shelves packed with meticulously labeled boxes stretched nearly to the ceiling, every spare part arranged with almost obsessive care. Tool cabinets stood perfectly organized, each drawer closed, every wrench, socket and screwdriver resting exactly where it belonged.

There wasn't a speck of clutter anywhere.

The immaculate order only made yesterday's encounter with the owner even more irritating.

She hated admitting it, but the place reflected him perfectly : efficient, disciplined and frustratingly composed.

Classic rock played softly from the aging radio somewhere deeper inside the workshop, occasionally drowned out by the hiss of compressed air or the distant whir of power tools.

But Yunho was nowhere in sight.

"Hello?" She called, her voice carrying through the spacious garage.

No answer.

She took a few cautious steps farther inside, her gaze sweeping across the workshop.

"Excuse me?"

A sharp metallic clang echoed from somewhere beyond the nearest service bay. Then came his voice.

"Customers wait at the front."

Flat.

Calm.

Already mildly annoyed.

Y/N stopped in her tracks before following the sound. Only then did she notice the pair of worn work shoes sticking out from beneath her sedan, which was suspended several feet off the ground on a hydraulic lift. The rest of him remained hidden beneath the car, accompanied only by the steady rhythm of a ratchet turning somewhere above him.

A familiar wave of irritation immediately resurfaced.

"Good morning to you too."

The ratchet clicked again.

No response.

"You told me to come back today."

Still nothing.

She shifted her weight onto one hip and folded her arms across her chest.

"And technically..." She added, glancing toward the open garage door. "It's afternoon... somewhere."

The turning of the wrench stopped.

A moment later, Yunho slid out from beneath the car on a mechanic's creeper, pushing himself upright with practiced ease.

Grease stained his hands and traced dark smudges across his forearms, evidence that he'd likely been working for hours already. Gone was yesterday's striped polo, replaced by a fitted black tank top that revealed lean, well-defined muscles earned through years of lifting engines instead of weights. Loose gray sweatpants sat low on his hips, making him look unexpectedly... domestic.

It was an oddly unfair look on someone who seemed so determined to be difficult. You bit the inside of your cheek, forcing yourself not to stare too much... Or at least not make it so obvious.

His platinum-blond hair was even messier than it had been the previous evening, several strands falling stubbornly into his eyes as though he'd abandoned any attempt to tame it before sunrise.

Yet despite the change in clothes, one thing remained exactly the same. That perpetually unimpressed expression. As if the entire world had become a minor inconvenience before he'd even finished his first cup of coffee.

"You came early."

"You noticed."

Yunho didn't bother looking away from the engine. "I have eyes."

She let out an exaggerated sigh, rolling her own in response. "You're impossible."

He shrugged, setting the ratchet aside and reaching for a clean rag, methodically wiping the grease from his fingers before finally turning toward her. "The engine's worse than I expected."

The lightness she'd been forcing into the conversation disappeared instantly, her stomach tightening.

"How much worse?"

For a moment, he seemed to weigh the answer, as though mentally sorting through a list of possibilities.

"The radiator's done."

"I knew that."

"The head gasket may have gone with it."

"Which means...?"

"More work."

"How much more?"

"It depends."

She threw both hands into the air. "Everything with you depends on something."

He folded the rag neatly before setting it beside the toolbox. "Because reality works that way."

She stared at him. "Has anyone ever told you that you make normal conversations feel unnecessarily complicated?"

"Frequently."

"And?"

"I've never found it to be my problem."

She resisted the overwhelming urge to throw the nearest socket wrench at him. Instead, she wandered closer to the lift, looking up at the exposed underside of her car.

"Fine, so... what happens now?"

"I ordered the parts this morning."

"When are they getting here?"

"Tomorrow."

"And after that?"

"I install them."

"That's your entire plan?"

A brief pause. "It usually works."

She couldn't help letting out a disbelieving laugh.

It was ridiculous. Everything about him was ridiculous. His answers were painfully short, almost irritatingly literal and he possessed a remarkable talent for making every conversation feel like she was pulling teeth.

And yet... There was something strangely reassuring about him. He never exaggerated. Never promised miracles. Never softened the truth just to make someone feel better.

When he spoke, there was an unwavering certainty behind every word, as though failure simply wasn't something he considered possible once a machine was in his hands.

Almost against her will, her eyes wandered around the workshop. The daylight revealed details she'd missed the evening before.

Framed photographs covered one section of the wall. Some showed vintage motorcycles lined up at race tracks. Others captured groups of riders standing shoulder to shoulder, helmets tucked beneath their arms, grinning at the camera.

One face appeared in nearly every photograph.

Yunho.

Younger in some. His platinum hair shorter in others. Always dressed in black. Always towering over everyone around him. And, almost without exception, looking as though he'd rather be literally anywhere else.

A smile tugged at the corner of her mouth. She doubted he'd willingly admit those pictures existed.

"Do you race?" She asked.

The effect was immediate. The rag stopped moving. The workshop seemed to fall strangely quiet. Even the music from the old radio faded into the background.

Yunho didn't answer right away. When he finally did, his voice was quieter than before.

"Not anymore."

Two words. Short. Final. An unmistakable end to the conversation.

Interesting.

Y/N leaned back against the workbench, folding her arms.

"So you really are a biker."

His jaw tightened almost imperceptibly. "I own motorcycles."

"That's not what I asked."

"I wasn't aware this was an interview."

She smiled, refusing to let him escape so easily.

"And I wasn't aware mechanics were legally required to have terrible personalities."

His eyes lifted to meet hers. For the briefest fraction of a second, she thought she saw something soften. Not a smile. Not quite. Just the faintest flicker of amusement hiding behind the usual indifference. It disappeared before she could be certain it had ever been there.

The bell above the entrance jingled.

An older man stepped inside, removing his cap as he looked around.

"Morning, Yunho!"

Yunho gave a small nod. "Morning, Mr. Han."

"Bike still running alright?"

"Fixed it yesterday."

"I figured you had." The older man laughed warmly. "You're a lifesaver, kid."

Kid?

Y/N bit the inside of her cheek to stop herself from laughing. The man finally noticed her standing nearby.

"Oh!" He smiled politely. "New customer?"

Before she could answer, his expression shifted into one of knowing amusement.

"Careful with this one, miss." He jerked a thumb toward Yunho. "He looks grumpy enough to scare people away, but he's got a good heart."

Silence.

Yunho continued cleaning his tools as though the conversation had absolutely nothing to do with him.

Mr. Han chuckled. "He's been fixing everything in this town since he was barely an adult. Cars, motorcycles, tractors... Doesn't matter what breaks." He looked back at her. "Best mechanic for miles."

"So everyone keeps telling me." Y/N replied.

"They're right." The older man lowered his voice conspiratorially. "He only pretends to hate people."

Without lifting his head, Yunho spoke.

"I can hear you."

"Good." Mr. Han laughed. "Means your hearing still works."

He accepted the keys Yunho slid across the counter, thanked him once more and disappeared through the front door, the bell chiming softly behind him.

The garage settled into silence again.

Y/N turned toward Yunho.

"So."

He continued arranging his sockets by size.

"Does that mean you secretly have a heart?"

Without looking at her, he placed the final wrench into its slot.

"Your car will be ready when it's ready."

She sighed dramatically. "That wasn't the question."

He walked past her toward another workbench.

"Do you always ask this many questions?"

"Do you always avoid answering them?"

This time, he stopped. Slowly, he turned to face her. Their eyes met. There was something different in his expression now. Not annoyance. Not boredom. Something quieter. Something almost... challenging.

"Do you always come to mechanics just to annoy them?"

She smirked without hesitation. "Only the rude ones."

A heartbeat passed. Then, the tiniest twitch pulled at the corner of his mouth. Gone almost before it existed.

Y/N stared.

No.

She had definitely seen it.

Small. Practically microscopic. But real.

Her eyes widened in triumph.

"Wait." She pointed at him with exaggerated accusation. "You almost smiled."

Yunho calmly returned to organizing the tools on the shelf. "I didn't."

"You absolutely did."

"No."

"You're denying physical evidence."

"The evidence is unreliable."

She folded her arms with an exaggerated huff.

"You're impossible."

"And yet..." He took a single step forward. It wasn't much. Barely enough to close the distance between them. Yet somehow it changed everything. His broad frame eclipsed the light above her, leaving her caught in the shadow of his taller body. She hadn't realized how close they'd been standing until there was suddenly nowhere else for her eyes to go except his. "You're still here."

His voice remained as calm as ever, low enough that it barely carried beyond the space between them.

Y/N tilted her chin, refusing to give him the satisfaction of backing away. "So are you."

He frowned. "I work here."

"Convenient excuse."

One corner of his eyebrow lifted. "You expected me to leave my own garage?"

"I expected you to admit you don't mind my company."

A quiet scoff escaped him. "That's a generous interpretation."

She grinned. "You haven't told me to leave."

"I've considered it."

"But you didn't."

"No."

The word lingered between them. Neither of them moved. The garage had grown strangely quiet. Somewhere outside, rain tapped softly against the metal roof, while the old radio crackled through another classic rock song. It should have been ordinary. Instead, the air felt unexpectedly heavy.

Y/N became acutely aware of how close he was. Close enough to catch the clean scent of soap beneath the unmistakable traces of engine oil and metal. Close enough to notice the faint freckles scattered across the bridge of his nose, details she'd missed yesterday beneath the dim lights and rain. A stubborn strand of platinum hair had fallen over his forehead again and before she could stop herself, her gaze lingered there for a fraction too long.

"You stare a lot." His voice pulled her back instantly.

"I do not."

"You've been looking at me for the last ten seconds."

"I was observing."

"Is there a difference?"

"There is when the subject is particularly..." She looked him up and down. "Interesting."

For the first time, Yunho didn't answer immediately. His dark eyes searched hers, unreadable as always, yet somehow softer around the edges. Neither of them spoke. His gaze dropped briefly, just briefly, to her lips, before returning to her eyes. It happened so quickly she could almost convince herself she'd imagined it. Almost.

The silence stretched. Neither seemed willing to be the first to break it. Then, without warning, Yunho reached past her shoulder.

His arm brushed lightly against hers as he grabbed a wrench hanging from the pegboard behind her, the movement forcing them even closer for the briefest moment.

"You're in the way." He sighed.

Y/N looked over her shoulder at the now-empty hook before turning back to him with a knowing smirk.

"You could've just asked me to move."

"I did."

"When?"

"You're in the way."

She snorted, shaking her head and moving aside.

For the first time since she'd walked into the garage, Y/N realized she wasn't counting the minutes until she could leave. And judging by the fact that Yunho hadn't once told her to go home... Neither was he.

The following morning arrived with clear skies for the first time since she'd broken down.

Sunlight streamed through the motel curtains far earlier than Y/N would've liked, dragging her from sleep before her alarm had the chance. She stared at the ceiling for several seconds, mentally debating whether she should wait until the afternoon like Yunho had originally suggested the first evening they met.

She lasted exactly twenty minutes.

The excuse she settled on was perfectly reasonable. She was simply checking whether the parts had arrived. It had absolutely nothing to do with wanting to see a certain mechanic again. Absolutely nothing.

She reached his garage just as a delivery truck was backing into the loading area behind the workshop.

The driver jumped down first, followed by Yunho, who was already signing paperwork without wasting a second on unnecessary conversation.

Unlike yesterday, he wore faded blue jeans and another black tank top, a pair of worn work gloves tucked into the back pocket. Morning sunlight caught the pale strands of his hair, making them almost silver against the darker interior of the garage.

She shouldn't have noticed. She did anyway.

The driver laughed while handing over another clipboard. "You're the only mechanic I know who gets excited over radiator hoses."

"They're the correct ones."

"See? Exactly my point."

Yunho ignored him.

Within minutes, cardboard boxes were stacked neatly beside the service bay.

He crouched beside them, slicing through the packing tape with a utility knife in one smooth motion before inspecting every component one by one.

Radiator.

Gaskets.

Coolant lines.

Bolts.

Every item was examined with almost obsessive attention before he finally nodded to himself. Only then did he notice her standing nearby.

He sighed. "You came back."

Y/N folded her arms. "You sound surprised."

"I am."

"You told me the parts were arriving today."

"I didn't expect an audience."

"I'm making sure you don't replace my engine with cardboard."

He regarded her for a long second. "Reasonable."

She blinked. "Was that a joke?"

"No."

"It almost sounded like one."

"It wasn't."

"Liar."

"I don't lie."

"You've smiled once and joked once."

"I've done neither."

She shook her head, visibly amused. "You really commit to the bit."

He picked up the new radiator and walked toward the lift. "It's called consistency."

She followed him. "I thought it was emotional constipation."

He stopped walking and slowly turned his head.

"I beg your pardon?"

"You heard me."

"I wish I hadn't."

She smiled sweetly. "I know."

Yunho stared at her for another second before shaking his head almost imperceptibly and continuing toward the car. "You enjoy provoking people."

"I enjoy provoking you."

"I noticed."

"You keep responding."

"I keep hoping you'll get bored."

"Oh." She clasped her hands dramatically. "So you do pay attention."

His only response was a nearly inaudible sigh. It sounded suspiciously fond.

Later that day, the garage settled into its familiar rhythm.

Power tools whirred.

Compressed air hissed.

Classic rock drifted lazily from the old radio while Yunho disappeared beneath the hood of the sedan once again.

Y/N perched on a nearby stool, watching despite herself. She'd never seen anyone work the way he did. There was no hesitation, no wasted movement. Every tool was picked up without searching. Every bolt loosened in exactly the right order. Even something as simple as setting a wrench back onto the workbench looked practiced enough to become muscle memory.

It was... Oddly attractive.

She hated that.

"You know..." She said after several minutes, grinning smugly. "Most people charge extra if someone's going to stare at them while they work."

"I was wondering how long it would take."

She frowned. "For what?"

"For you to start talking."

"I've been quiet for almost ten minutes."

"A personal record."

She rolled her eyes. "You timed me?"

"I didn't have to."

She climbed off the stool. "I could leave."

"You could."

"But?"

"I didn't say there was a 'but.'"

"You implied one."

"I did no such thing."

"You wanted me to."

He looked at her then. Really looked at her.

"You assume a lot."

"You don't deny much."

For a brief moment, neither of them spoke.

The sunlight filtering through the open garage doors illuminated tiny flecks of dust drifting lazily through the air.

Somewhere outside, a motorcycle rumbled past. Inside, everything felt strangely still.

Yunho reached for a socket wrench without taking his eyes off her. "You've got grease."

"Hm?"

He nodded toward her cheek. "Right there."

Instinctively, she rubbed the spot.

"The other side."

She frowned and tried again. "This one?"

"No."

She sighed dramatically. "You're terrible at giving directions."

"So I've been told."

"Well?"

"Still there."

She huffed. "Fine." She looked around for something reflective. "Where's a mirror?"

"There isn't one."

"Helpful."

Without another word, Yunho stepped closer. Close enough that she could hear the quiet rustle of his shirt as he moved. Close enough for the familiar scent of soap and engine oil to settle around her again.

She stopped breathing for half a second.

"You missed." His voice was quieter now.

Before she could answer, he lifted one hand. Slowly. Giving her every opportunity to pull away. His thumb brushed lightly across her cheekbone, wiping away the dark streak of grease with surprising gentleness.

The touch lasted barely two seconds. It felt much longer.

"There." He stepped back immediately. "Better."

Y/N remained perfectly still. "Thanks."

"You looked ridiculous."

"I was wondering how long it'd take before you ruined the moment."

"I improved it."

She laughed despite herself. "You absolutely did not."

"I removed the grease."

"You added an insult."

"They're complimentary."

She shook her head. "I genuinely don't understand how anyone puts up with you."

"They usually don't."

"But I do?"

The question escaped before she could stop it.

Silence followed. Something unreadable flickered across Yunho's face. Small. Almost invisible. Yet somehow more revealing than any smile.

His gaze lingered on her for just a heartbeat too long, before he cleared his throat and looked back at the engine. "I should finish this."

His voice sounded just slightly rougher than before.

Y/N swallowed. "Yeah... Probably."

Neither of them moved immediately.

Outside, the wind stirred the leaves lining the street. Inside, the distance between them suddenly felt much smaller than it had any right to. Neither of them acknowledged it. But for the first time, it wasn't only the engine running hot.

The next day disappeared almost without either of them noticing. Somewhere between replacing the damaged radiator and checking the cooling system for leaks, time simply slipped away.

The garage remained comfortably noisy. Wrenches clicked against metal. Compressed air hissed every now and then. The old radio drifted lazily from one classic rock song into another.

Y/N had long since abandoned any pretense of being there purely for updates. She sat cross-legged on an overturned crate near the lift, absentmindedly scrolling through her phone without actually reading anything. Every few minutes her attention wandered back to Yunho instead.

Not intentionally. It just... happened.

He had changed into another shirt somewhere during the afternoon, although "changed" wasn't entirely accurate. The black tank top remained, but now a faded charcoal work shirt hung open over it, the sleeves rolled carelessly to his elbows.

She'd noticed. Unfortunately.

The fabric shifted every time he reached for another tool, exposing the lean muscles in his forearms as they flexed beneath skin marked by tiny scars earned through years of stubborn engines refusing to cooperate. But it was his hands that made it hard to look away. Heavy, pronounced veins roped across the backs of them, trailing down to his knuckles and pulsing with every movement. His fingers were distractingly long, rough and oil-smudged, wrapping around the cold tools with a slow, deliberate possession. There was something unfairly captivating about the raw, effortless strength in his grip, the way those thick veins shifted under his skin every time those long digits handled the heavy steel.

Her mouth went suddenly dry as her thoughts drifted into dangerous territory. She didn’t even realize she was openly staring until his eyes snapped up, catching her dead in the act.

"You've inspected me more than the car."

She looked up without missing a beat. "The car doesn't move."

"It also doesn't stare."

"I wasn't staring."

"You've said that before."

She smiled innocently. "And you've been wrong before."

"I haven't."

"You have."

"When?"

"When you assumed I'd get bored."

His wrench paused for barely a heartbeat. "Fair."

Her eyebrows shot upward. "You admitted I was right."

"I admitted nothing."

"You literally–"

"I said 'fair.'"

"That's practically an apology."

"It absolutely isn't."

She snorted. He didn't.

By early evening, thick gray clouds had begun swallowing the remaining daylight.

Y/N wandered toward the open garage door, folding her arms against the cool breeze. "I think it's going to rain again."

Yunho didn't look up from tightening the final bolt. "It is."

"You checked the weather?"

"I looked outside."

She sighed. "Of course."

A low rumble echoed across the sky. Seconds later, rain began falling. Not gently. The heavens simply... Opened.

Within moments the street disappeared beneath shimmering sheets of water, the downpour loud enough to drown out the music entirely.

Y/N stared. "Well."

"Hm?"

"There goes my walk."

"Hm."

"I don't think I can walk back to the motel like this."

"You probably can."

She turned toward him. "You call this weather?"

"I call it Thursday."

She rolled her eyes. "You're impossible."

"So you keep saying."

A jagged flash of lightning threw the workshop into sharp, sudden relief, followed by the deafening roar of rain pounding against the metal roof. She pulled her phone from her pocket, her screen confirming the worst. Absolutely no public transportation was running.

​She let out a heavy, dramatic sigh.

"Fantastic."

​The silence that followed was thick. She braced herself, fully expecting a biting, sarcastic remark or for him to simply turn his back and ignore her existence entirely.

​But the biting remark never came. She looked up to find him watching her. He had stopped working, a heavy wrench resting loosely in that grease-smudged grip. His dark eyes locked onto hers, narrowing slightly as he weighed his options. A muscle feathered in his jaw, betraying a silent, frustrating argument with himself. Finally, he dropped the tool onto the workbench and let out a rough, chest-deep sigh of absolute defeat.

​"Fine." He muttered, his voice a low rumble barely carrying over the storm. "I'll take you."

She blinked. "What?"

"I said I'll take you."

She frowned. "How–"

His gaze shifted toward the center of the garage. Toward the matte-black motorcycle.

Oh.

Right.

​"Absolutely not." She blurted out, her voice pitching slightly higher than she intended. She took a quick step back, shaking her head. "Nope. There is zero chance I am getting on that death trap with you."

​He slowly turned his head back to her, an irritatingly calm expression settling over his features. "It’s a motorcycle, not a bomb."

​"It's a two-wheeled hazard and we are in the middle of a torrential downpour!" She argued, gesturing wildly toward the open bay doors where the storm was raging. "I am not riding that thing. I would rather walk the twenty-five minutes in the mud."

He didn't blink. He didn't argue. He just slowly raised a hand and gestured toward the open garage doors. "Be my guest."

​She stared at him, her jaw dropping slightly. He was actually going to let her walk. She spun on her heel stubbornly, marching toward the exit with every ounce of dignity she could muster. She made it exactly three steps before a deafening crack of thunder shook the concrete floor, followed immediately by a violent gust of wind that threw a sheet of freezing rain right into her face.

​She froze, the cold water instantly soaking the front of her shirt.

​Behind her, she heard the heavy, rhythmic thud of his shoes. He stopped right beside her, the heat radiating off his body a stark contrast to the freezing wind. Without a word, he shoved a heavy, matte-black helmet into her chest.

​She instinctively wrapped her arms around it, glaring up at him as water dripped from her eyelashes.

​"You're not walking in that and we both know it." He said, his voice a low, gravelly rumble that cut straight through the noise of the storm. He reached past her, grabbing a heavy leather jacket off a hook and tossing it over her shivering shoulders. "Put the jacket on. Fasten the helmet. And if you want to live, you hold onto me and you don't let go. Understood?"

She swallowed hard, her previous bravado washing away completely with the freezing rain.

"Fine..." She muttered, the word barely audible over the howling wind.

She shoved her trembling arms into the sleeves of the leather jacket. It was absurdly large on her, the heavy material swallowing her frame and falling past her hips, but it was incredibly warm. The collar carried his scent, a heady, intoxicating mix of dark leather, motor oil and a faint, sharp note of cedar.

She pulled the helmet over her head, the thick padding instantly muffling the deafening roar of the storm. Her fingers, already stiff from the sudden blast of cold, fumbled clumsily with the strap under her jaw, failing to get the clasp to lock.

With a short, impatient exhale, he stepped closer, brushing her hands away. "Let me."

Even through the chill creeping over her skin, the drag of his rough knuckles against her throat sent a sudden, traitorous spike of heat straight into her chest. His long, calloused fingers worked the strap with effortless precision, grazing her jawline before he pulled away.

He didn't wait for her to recover her breath. Turning his back, he swung a long leg over the motorcycle and settled into the driver's seat. The heavy machine dipped under his weight, the suspension groaning slightly. He gripped the handlebars and instantly, the lean muscles in his forearms flexed. She watched those thick, heavy veins ridge against his skin all over again, highlighted perfectly by the harsh garage lights.

He kicked up the stand and looked over his shoulder, his dark eyes fixed on her through the open visor of his helmet. "Get on."

She took a steadying breath, stepping up to the bike and awkwardly swinging her leg over the back. The seat wasn't just small, it was angled in a way that practically guaranteed zero personal space. The moment her weight settled, gravity slid her forward until she bumped into a solid wall of muscle.

"Arms." He ordered, his voice vibrating deeply.

Hesitantly, she reached around his sides, pressing her palms flat against his stomach. He was rock-solid beneath his shirt, radiating a furnace-like heat that seeped straight through the oversized leather jacket she wore.

"I said hold on, not hover." He grunted.

Before she could adjust, he reached down, his large hands covering both of hers. He gripped her wrists tightly, forcefully pulling her arms all the way around his waist and locking them there. The movement dragged her forcefully forward, flattening her chest flush against his broad back. Her thighs aligned perfectly with the outside of his, eliminating every single fraction of an inch of space between them.

He released her hands, his long, oil-smudged fingers lingering on her wrists for just a fraction of a second longer than necessary.

"Don't let go."

With a sharp twist of his wrist, the motorcycle roared to life. The engine released a deafening, guttural growl that vibrated through the metal frame and straight into her bones. He shifted gears, the heavy boot of his left foot clicking into place and then they were shooting out into the torrential, blinding darkness, leaving her absolutely no choice but to cling to his heat exactly as she had been told.

Y/N had expected the ride to be terrifying.

Instead, it felt strangely peaceful. Every time they rounded a corner she instinctively held him a little tighter. And every time she did so, he noticed. He never commented. Not once.

The motel appeared far sooner than she wanted it to. Yunho parked beneath the small overhang outside reception, before switching off the engine.

The sudden silence was deafening, broken only by the heavy, relentless drum of rain against the plastic corrugated roof of the overhang. Without the guttural vibration of the engine beneath them, the world felt entirely too still.

In that quiet, Y/N became hyper-aware of everything: the steady, even rise and fall of his chest beneath her arms, the furnace-like heat radiating from his back and the undeniable fact that her hands were still firmly locked together over his stomach. She was clinging to him like a lifeline.

Slowly, reluctantly, she unclasped her hands.

Pulling her arms back felt like stepping into a freezer. The chill of the night air instantly bit at her damp clothes the moment she lost the protective shield of his body. She swung her leg over the back of the bike, her shoes hitting the wet concrete with a soft thud. Her legs felt completely unstable, whether from the vibrations of the ride, the freezing temperature or the adrenaline still humming through her veins, she wasn't entirely sure.

Yunho kicked the heavy metal kickstand down with his heel and shifted his weight, turning slightly in the seat to look at her.

She reached up to unfasten the helmet. This time, her numb, trembling fingers managed to pop the latch. She pulled it off, shaking out her flattened, damp hair and held the heavy matte-black helmet out to him.

He took it from her hands, his long fingers brushing against hers and set it effortlessly on the fuel tank. His dark, assessing gaze swept over her. She knew she had to look like a disaster, shivering, soaked and entirely swallowed up by a leather jacket that was at least three sizes too big for her, but his expression remained completely unreadable.

"Uhm... Thanks." She said, her voice sounding a little too breathy. She reached for the heavy zipper of his jacket, preparing to take it off. "For the ride. I really appreciate–"

Before she could tug the zipper down, his hand moved. His long, calloused fingers wrapped firmly around her wrist, stopping her mid-motion. The heat of his grip seeped instantly through the thick leather sleeve, halting her breath in her throat.

"Keep it." He said. His voice was low, a quiet rumble that barely competed with the rain.

Y/N blinked, looking from his large hand gripping her wrist up to his dark eyes. "What? No, it's freezing out here, you need–"

"I'll be fine." His thumb brushed absentmindedly over the seam of her sleeve, before he dropped his hand, letting her go. The ghost of his grip still burned where he had held her. He shifted his weight back toward the front of the bike, grabbing the handlebars. As his fingers locked around the grips, the lean muscles in his forearms flexed and those heavy, prominent veins ridged against the backs of his hands under the dim motel lights. "Take it inside. You can give it back to me tomorrow when you come to get your car."

She swallowed hard, pulling the collar of the jacket just a fraction tighter around her neck, trapping his scent against her skin.

"Ok." She murmured softly. "Thank you, Yunho."

He didn't smile, but the hard, defensive set of his shoulders seemed to ease just a fraction. He gave her a single, curt nod, flipping the ignition switch back on.

"Go inside." He grunted, the engine roaring back to life with a deafening growl beneath him. He kicked it into gear, looking straight ahead into the blinding rain. "Before you catch pneumonia and find another reason to complain."

She smiled, the first genuine, unforced smile she'd worn all day, despite the biting wind. "I wouldn't dream of it."

He didn't look back, but as the heavy motorcycle shot forward, tearing out from under the motel overhang and slicing back into the torrential downpour, she could have sworn the massive engine revved just a fraction louder than necessary.

She stood there for a long moment, watching him drive off. She tracked the red glow of his taillight as it blurred through the sheets of rain, waiting until it vanished completely into the pitch-black streets. The storm raged on, throwing cold mist over the sidewalk, but wrapped inside his oversized jacket, she couldn't feel the chill at all.

Crossing her arms over her chest, she hugged the heavy leather closer to her body. She buried her cold nose into the thick collar, breathing in that dark, heavy scent of cedar, rain and motor oil one last time, before finally turning toward the flickering neon sign of the motel lobby.

The storm from the night before had completely washed away, leaving the morning air crisp and the sky an obnoxiously bright blue. Walking back into Yunho’s garage, his heavy leather jacket neatly folded over her arm, Y/N felt an unfamiliar, nervous flutter of anticipation in her chest.

But the moment she stepped through the open bay doors, the temperature seemed to drop.

Yunho was already at work, leaning deep under the popped hood of her car. The rhythmic click-click-click of a socket wrench echoed sharply in the cavernous space.

"Morning." She called out, stepping into the dim light of the shop.

He didn't look up. "Morning."

The word was clipped, rough and entirely devoid of the quiet heat that had existed between them just hours ago.

She hesitated, her fingers digging instinctively into the soft, worn leather of his jacket. "Is it... is it almost done?"

He finally straightened up, pulling a filthy shop rag from his back pocket to wipe down his hands. Those hands, the same ones that had forcefully locked her arms around his waist last night, were completely rigid. The thick, prominent veins ridged sharply against his knuckles, heavy and pulsing with a suppressed, restless energy. But his dark eyes were shuttered, completely unreadable as they briefly flicked to her, before instantly looking away.

"Almost." He muttered, tossing the rag onto a nearby tool chest. He didn't acknowledge the jacket in her arms. He didn't really look at her at all. "It'll be ready by late afternoon."

Late afternoon.

The words landed between them with the crushing weight of an anvil.

Ready meant finished. Finished meant the engine would turn over, the tires would hit the asphalt and she would drive away. Having her car back meant she had absolutely no logical reason to stay in this town or in his garage for another minute.

The realization seemed to crash over them both at the exact same second. The charged, magnetic pull from last night was still there, humming beneath the surface, but it was suddenly suffocated by the glaring reality of her impending departure.

Yunho’s jaw tightened until the bone showed white. A muscle feathered visibly in his cheek before he deliberately turned his back to her, reaching for another tool with stiff, aggressive movements.

"You can wait at the motel if you want." He grunted, his broad shoulders tensing defensively beneath his dark t-shirt. The lean muscles in his forearms flexed hard as his long, grease-stained fingers locked around a heavy steel wrench. "It's gonna be a few hours. Keep clear of the bay, I need to focus."

He was shutting her out.

The shift was so sudden, so deliberate, that it felt like a physical blow. He wasn't just working, he was retreating. He was wrapping himself back in that abrasive, unapproachable armor he’d worn the day they met, forcefully carving out space between them so he wouldn't have to deal with the inevitable moment she left.

Y/N stood there for a long moment, the ghost of his scent rising from the jacket pressed against her stomach.

"Wait at the motel?" She frowned. "Why can't I wait here, as usual?"

He stopped moving. The wrench in his hand hovered just above the engine block, suspended by sheer, rigid tension, before he slowly lowered it.

"Because there's no point." He said, his back still to her. His voice was low, harsh and tight. "You're out of here in a few hours. Go pack your things."

"I'm already packed." She shot back, her voice shaking slightly with rising indignation. Instead of retreating, she stepped further into the garage, closing the distance between them. "I've sat on that same crappy metal stool for days, Yunho. Why is it suddenly a problem now?"

"Because it just is!" He snapped, finally spinning around to face her.

The sudden violence in his movement made her flinch, but she held her ground. He threw the heavy wrench onto the nearest metal workbench. The deafening clang echoed sharply off the concrete walls, ringing in the sudden silence.

"I need you out of my workspace." He ground out, stalking toward her with heavy, predatory strides. All the careful distance he had tried to keep evaporated in a matter of seconds. "I need to finish this damn car so you can get on the highway and go back to your life. That’s what you wanted, isn't it? To get the hell out of here?"

"Stop trying to push me away!" She yelled. Frustration bubbled over, hot and blinding. She dropped his heavy leather jacket onto a nearby chair and stepped squarely into his space, refusing to be intimidated by his size or his temper. "You're acting like yesterday didn't happen! Like last night meant absolutely nothing to you!"

"Like it meant nothing?" He repeated, his voice dropping into a lethal, vibrating growl. He leaned down, crowding her, his face mere inches from hers. His dark eyes were completely entirely unshielded now, blazing with a chaotic mix of fury, exhaustion and something utterly desperate. "Do you have any idea how much it takes for me to keep my hands off you right now? I am literally putting the engine back together that is going to take you away from me, Y/N."

"Then why are you the one shoving me out the door?" She demanded, her voice rising to match his intensity. She didn't back down an inch, even with his towering frame caging her in. "You're the one telling me to go to the motel! You're the one acting like I'm just some annoying distraction you can't wait to be rid of!"

"Because you are leaving!" He roared, the sound tearing out of his chest, echoing violently against the concrete walls. He threw his hands up, those long, grease-stained fingers gesturing wildly toward the open bay doors. "You have a life in a city three hundred miles from here, Y/N! A job. A schedule. You don't belong in a run-down garage in a town you couldn't even stand a few days ago!"

"Don't you dare tell me what I want or where I belong!" She fired back. Frustration made her reckless. She closed the last fraction of an inch between them, her chest brushing against the solid, immovable wall of his as she tilted her chin up defiantly. "You don't get to decide that for me. And you don't get to use my car as an excuse to play the martyr just because you're terrified of actually letting someone in!"

Yunho flinched as if she had struck him. His breath hitched, his chest heaving violently against hers. He stared down at her, his jaw locked so tight she thought the bone might shatter. His heavy, vein-ridged hands flexed at his sides, curling into tight, white-knuckled fists as if he was physically warring with his own instincts.

"I'm not playing the martyr." He rasped, his voice dropping an octave, turning rough and deadly quiet. "I am being realistic. Tomorrow morning, you're going to wake up, realize this was just some adrenaline-fueled mistake and drive away. I'm just saving us both the collateral damage."

"You're a coward." She breathed, the words slipping out before she could stop them.

His eyes darkened instantly, a dangerous, possessive heat flashing in his irises. "Excuse me?"

"You heard me." Her heart was hammering a frantic rhythm against her ribs, but she held his furious gaze, her voice dropping to an unsteady, challenging whisper. "You fix broken things all day long, but the second something gets complicated, you push it away. If you really want me gone so badly, Yunho... then tell me to leave right now. Look me in the eye and tell me you don't want me here."

Silence slammed down around them, thick and electric. Yunho stared at her, the air between them practically vibrating with unspoken words. The muscle in his jaw feathered wildly. He looked at her defiant eyes, down to her parted lips and back up again. The rigid control he had been clinging to all morning was visibly fracturing, cracking right down the middle under the weight of her challenge.

"Tell me to leave!" She pushed, her voice breaking slightly, eyes welling with unshed tears.

He said nothing.

The silence stretched between them, agonizing and absolute. Yunho just stood there, his jaw locked so tight a muscle jumped frantically beneath his skin. His broad chest rose and fell with harsh, shallow breaths, his dark eyes stormy and completely torn, but his lips remained stubbornly, agonizingly sealed.

He couldn't say the words. But he wouldn't ask her to stay, either.

The silence was an answer in itself.

A hot, humiliating tear spilled over her lashes, tracing a searing path down her cheek. The fiery indignation that had fueled her just seconds ago completely evaporated, leaving behind a hollow, aching chill that settled deep in her chest.

"Right." She whispered, her voice barely a thread. She let out a shaky, broken breath and nodded once. "Message received."

She broke his gaze, spinning on her heel. The heavy rubber of her boots scraped against the concrete as she turned her back on him, wrapping her arms around her own stomach. She closed her eyes, blinking away the stinging wetness and started walking toward the door. She was done fighting for a man who refused to fight for himself.

She made it exactly three steps.

She didn't hear his boots move. She didn't hear him cross the space between them. He was just suddenly there.

A large, rough hand clamped around her wrist. The grip was startlingly firm, the calloused pads of his fingers biting into her skin, heavy and undeniably possessive. Before she could even gasp, Yunho yanked her backward, spinning her around with a sheer, desperate force that threw her completely off balance.

She collided squarely with the solid wall of his chest and before she could even look up, his hands were in her hair, tilting her head back as his mouth crashed violently down onto hers.

It was an explosion. There was absolutely nothing gentle, nothing restrained about it. It was a punishing, desperate collision of lips and teeth, built on days of unbearable tension and the terrifying reality that he had almost let her walk out that door. The impact knocked the breath straight out of her lungs and he took immediate, ruthless advantage, parting her lips and kissing her with a raw, demanding heat that sent a jolt of pure electricity straight to her core.

Y/N gasped against his mouth, her hands flying up instinctively. Her fingers grabbed fistfuls of his dark, grease-smudged t-shirt to keep her knees from buckling.

Yunho kissed her like he was starving. His hands were everywhere, frantic and heavy. One hand wrapped around the back of her neck, his thick, vein-ridged fingers tangling deep into her hair to hold her exactly where he wanted her. The other hand dropped to her waist, his long fingers gripping her hip hard enough to bruise as he backed her forcefully against the nearest metal pillar.

He pressed his massive frame flush against hers, crushing her between the cold steel and the furnace of his body, effectively sealing off any chance of escape. He tasted like dark coffee, mint and pure, unfiltered desperation, completely obliterating her tears and proving exactly what his stubborn silence couldn't say.

For a split second, shock held her completely frozen. But the sheer, overwhelming force of his kiss, the desperate, undeniable way his mouth moved against hers, shattered whatever was left of her resolve.

She kissed him back.

The moment she yielded, sliding her hands up from his chest to wrap tightly around his neck, Yunho completely lost his mind. A low, guttural groan tore from his throat, vibrating intensely against her lips. His arm tightened like a vice around her waist, lifting her up onto her toes until she was molded entirely against him, erasing every single fraction of an inch he had spent the whole morning trying to build.

His hands were relentless. The thick, calloused fingers that had been so precise and controlled with his tools just moments ago were now frantic. They mapped the curve of her spine, pulling her closer, as if he physically couldn't get enough of her. She tangled her fingers into the thick, dark hair at the nape of his neck, pulling him deeper, matching his chaotic desperation beat for beat.

With a violent, sweeping motion of his free hand, Yunho cleared the nearest heavy metal workbench. Wrenches, bolts and a metal tray went crashing to the concrete floor in a deafening clatter, but neither of them flinched. The noise was instantly swallowed by the heavy, ragged sound of their breathing as he lifted her effortlessly, setting her down onto the cold steel edge.

He stepped right between her thighs, crowding her, his massive frame caging her against the bench. The cold metal at her back was a shocking contrast to the furnace of his body pressing flush against hers.

His hands, those rough, impossibly capable hands that had been the focal point of her distraction all week, were frantic now, gripping the hem of her shirt. He pulled it over her head and tossed it blindly into the shadows of the garage. The cool air hit her skin for only a fraction of a second before his mouth replaced the chill, tracing a searing, open-mouthed path down her jaw, her neck and over her collarbone.

Y/N gasped, her hands completely abandoning his hair to grip his broad shoulders, her nails digging into the heavy, lean muscles flexing under his dark t-shirt. "Yunho..."

"I'm not letting you go." He rasped against her skin, his voice a dark, vibrating rumble that sent a tremor straight down her spine. "Not today. Not tomorrow."

A soft cry escaped her mouth as he wrapped his lips around one of her hardened nipples, suckling gently. Her hands moved to the back of his neck, tugging gently at the hair of his nape as she arched into his touch.

He groaned softly, pulling back just long enough to grip the hem of his own shirt, tearing it over his head and throwing it to the floor. The sight of his bare chest, sculpted by years of raw, physical labor, marked by faint scars and a light sheen of sweat, completely stole the breath from her lungs. His chest was heaving, his dark eyes entirely unshielded and blazing with a chaotic mix of possessiveness and absolute surrender. The abrasive, walled-off mechanic was gone, replaced by a man completely undone by his own need.

Unable to resist the magnetic pull of him, she slowly reached out. Her trembling fingers brushed against the furnace of his skin, trailing upward over the hard, rigid muscles of his stomach to the broad expanse of his chest. She mapped the faint scars with a feather-light touch, mesmerized by the sheer, radiating heat of him.

When her palm finally flattened directly over his heart, she could feel the violent, erratic hammering of his pulse echoing against her hand. A harsh, ragged shudder ripped through his massive frame the second her fingertips lightly traced the sweat-slicked skin over his collarbone. His eyes darkened impossibly further, the last remaining thread of his control splintering completely under her touch.

He reached for the button of her jeans, his thick, calloused fingers working with a desperate efficiency. He popped the metal closure, dragging the heavy denim and lace down her legs until they pooled completely on the concrete floor.

​He didn't pull her flush against his chest this time. Instead, Yunho’s hands, rough, large and unbearably hot, slid up the backs of her thighs. He gripped her firmly, dragging her right to the edge of the cold steel workbench, making her gasp. He pushed her legs wider apart, settling himself firmly between her knees, his gaze burning into hers with a predatory intensity.

​"Yunho..."

​He didn't give her a chance to finish the thought, lowering his head. The moment his warm, wet tongue first made contact with her swollen center, Y/N let out a sharp, strangled cry, her fingers digging painfully into his shoulders.

He didn't hesitate, burying his face against her drenched folds, inhaling the intoxicating scent of her arousal before his tongue began its relentless assault. He lapped at her with long, slow strokes, savoring the sweet, musky taste of her nectar. Every flick of his tongue was deliberate, teasing the most sensitive parts of her anatomy until Y/N felt like she was coming undone.

"Oh, god... Yunho..." She gasped, her head tossing back as her spine arched sharply. Her hands flew from his shoulders to his hair, her fingers tangling in those platinum strands, not to push him away, but to pull him even deeper against her.

A deep, guttural groan vibrated from Yunho’s chest, muffled against her damp skin. "Fuck." He rasped, his breath hot and ragged against her inner thigh. "You taste so fucking good... so sweet, so perfect."

The praise only served to ignite the fire already raging inside her. She let out a broken moan, her hips bucking instinctively against his face, seeking more of that devastating sensation.

He growled, sealing his lips around her clit, suckling gently, causing her eyes to roll in the back of her head.

Reluctantly, almost painfully, Yunho pulled his face away from her soaking wet core. A thin, glistening thread of saliva connected them for a fleeting second, before he broke free. He looked down at her, his eyes hooded and dark with a feral kind of hunger, his jaw tight as he fought to catch his breath.

Y/N let out a frustrated, needy whine, her legs trembling uncontrollably from the sudden absence of his touch. She reached down, her fingers shaking as she fumbled with the waistband of his jeans, needing to feel him, needing to bridge the agonizing gap between them.

With a desperate tug, she managed to slide his denim down his powerful thighs, releasing his cock from its confinement. As it sprang free, it pulsed with a life of its own, heavy and imposing. She gasped softly, her eyes widening as she took in the sheer size of him. It was thick, impressively long and mapped with prominent, throbbing veins that spoke of the blood rushing through him in his state of extreme arousal.

Y/N's breath came in shallow, uneven pants as she stared, mesmerized by the sight of him. He was beautiful in a raw, intimidating way, a testament to the hunger he held for her.

"Mmm, so big and and hard for me." She purred, wrapping one hand around him, stroking lazily.

The sound of her voice, that honeyed, possessive purr, seemed to strike a chord deep within him. Yunho let out a choked sound, halfway between a growl and a gasp, as her small, delicate hand closed around his length. Even her lazy, languid strokes felt electric, sending waves of white-hot pleasure straight to his brain.

He groaned, his head falling back for a moment as he braced his hands on the metal workbench behind her, his knuckles turning white. He watched her through heavy lids, his pupils blown wide, watching the way her fingers curled around him, the contrast of her pale skin against his flushed, tensed muscle.

She bit her lip as she locked eyes with him through her dark lashes. Her gaze was heavy, hooded with her own mounting lust. Slowly, deliberately, she dragged her thumb across the weeping, sensitive tip of his cock, catching the bead of pre-cum and smearing it over the smooth skin.

Yunho’s entire body jerked at the touch, a harsh, broken sound tearing from his throat. Seeing her look at him like that, so hungry yet so composed, was driving him to the brink of madness. He reached down, his large hand covering hers, pressing her palm tighter against his pulsing shaft, guiding her stroke with a desperate urgency.

"Don't stop." He rasped, his voice a gravelly wreck. "Fuck, please don't stop."

Y/N smirked, a flash of dominance crossing her features as she increased the pace, her thumb continuing to swirl around his crown, collecting more of his slickness.

The sound of his breathy voice sent a fresh wave of heat pooling between her thighs. She loved the way he crumbled under her touch, the way this powerful, commanding man was reduced to begging by her fingertips. She leaned forward, her breasts brushing against his chest as she brought her face close to his, her breath hitching.

"Do you want it, Yunho?" She whispered, her voice a silken trap. "Do you want me to take all of this?"

Before he could answer, she shifted her grip, her fingers tightening around the base of his cock as she guided the broad, blunt head toward her entrance. She was already slick, her own juices coating her folds, making the transition seamless.

Instead of taking him inside, Y/N slowed her movements, choosing instead to tease him with maddening precision. She pressed the broad, weeping head of his cock directly against her swollen slit, dragging it slowly upward. The friction of his velvety skin against her hypersensitive folds made her whole body tremble, a low, needy whimper escaping her lips.

She didn't stop there. With a wicked little smile, she tilted her hips, grinding the pulsating tip directly over her clit. She rubbed him against that tiny, engorged nub, circling him in slow, torturous motions that left him gasping for air.

The teasing was too much. The sight of her rubbing his aching length against her dripping heat, mocking his need, snapped something inside him. A low, dangerous growl ripped from his chest, a sound of pure, unbridled possession.

In one swift, fluid motion, his hand shot up, his long, veiny fingers curling around the delicate column of her throat. He didn't squeeze to hurt, but the pressure was firm, authoritative, pinning her head back against the workbench and forcing her to meet his blazing, predatory stare.

"Enough playing, princess." He rasped, his voice vibrating with a terrifying level of lust.

The sudden weight of his hand around her neck sent a shockwave of pure electricity through Y/N's spine. It wasn't fear that raced through her, but a wild, dizzying rush of submission. She looked up at him, her eyes wide and glazed with arousal, chest heaving as she struggled to draw air around his firm grip.

Yunho didn't give her a moment to adjust. He used his other hand to grab her thigh, hiking it high over his shoulder to expose her completely to him.

With her leg hooked over his shoulder, Y/N was completely vulnerable, her soaked folds bared to the cool air of the workshop and his burning gaze. The position forced her hips forward, presenting herself to him like an offering.

Yunho gripped the base of his cock, the veins standing out in stark relief against his skin and lined the weeping head up with her entrance. He paused for a heartbeat, staring down at where they met, enjoying the way her small, tight opening twitched in anticipation of him.

"Look at me." He commanded, his thumb pressing slightly harder against the side of her neck, a reminder of who was in control.

Y/N obeyed instantly, her eyes locking onto his, dilated and swimming with a mixture of reverence and raw, animalistic need. She saw the absolute claim in his expression, the way he looked at her like she was the only thing in the world that mattered and the only thing he wanted to break.

Slowly, with agonizing deliberation, Yunho began to push. He sank into her, the broad head of his cock stretching her tight, slick walls as he breached her. Y/N let out a loud, broken sob, her fingers clawing at the metal workbench behind her as she felt herself being filled, stretched and claimed.

"Mmph... Yunho."

As he buried himself deep within her, bottoming out with a dull, satisfying thud against her cervix, Yunho didn't pull away. Instead, he leaned down, his face inches from hers, his breath ghosting over her lips as he watched her expression shatter under the pleasure.

"That's it, baby... take it all." He murmured, his voice a soothing balm against the roughness of his earlier command. His hand on her neck softened, his thumb tracing the line of her jaw with unexpected tenderness. "You're doing so well for me. So fucking perfect. Look how tight you are around me... you were made for this."

The praise acted like fuel to the fire already consuming her. Y/N let out a series of short, breathless moans, her head lolling back as she surrendered to the overwhelming sensation of him filling her so completely. Each time he withdrew, she felt a hollow ache, only for it to be replaced by a burst of searing pleasure as he plunged back in, hitting that sweet spot deep inside her again and again.

"More... please, Yunho, more." She pleaded, her voice cracking with desperation. She wrapped her arms around his neck, pulling him down, wanting to feel the crushing weight of his body against hers.

He obliged, his thrusts becoming faster, harder, more primal.

"Kiss me..." She panted, her voice a broken, desperate plea. "Please, kiss me."

Yunho didn't make her wait another second. He crashed his lips against hers, the kiss tasting of salt, sweat and pure, unadulterated lust. It wasn't gentle. It was a collision, his tongue invading her mouth just as aggressively as his cock invaded her body.

Between the frantic, bruising kisses, he kept murmuring against her lips, his words a continuous stream of worship.

"Taking me so good, sweetheart." He growled into her mouth, his breath hot and ragged. "My good girl... such a fucking good girl for me."

At his words, a wave of pure, liquid heat flooded Y/N's senses. The affirmation, paired with the punishing rhythm of his hips, pushed her closer to the edge than she had ever been. She melted into him, her body molding to his every curve and angle, her mind spinning in a haze of bliss.

"Yes..." She breathed against his lips, the words barely a whisper, yet carrying the weight of her total devotion. "Your good girl... Yours."

The admission seemed to snap the last thread of his restraint. Yunho's thrusts became frantic, almost violent, driven by a need to lose himself entirely within her.

His teeth grazed her lower lip, a sharp sting that only fueled the fire, before he pulled back just enough to stare directly into her soul. His eyes were no longer just dark, they were abyssal, swallowing her whole.

"Mine." He growled, the word vibrating against her skin, heavy and undeniable. "Every inch of you. Every moan, every drop of your sweetness... it all belongs to me."

He punctuated the declaration by slamming his hips forward, burying himself to the hilt, his fingers digging into her soft flesh as if he were physically branding her.

The sheer intensity of his possession, combined with the relentless, deep pounding of his cock, finally shattered her. Y/N's vision blurred, the edges of the garage dissolving into a kaleidoscope of white light. A strangled, high-pitched cry tore from her throat as her internal muscles clamped down on him in a series of violent, rhythmic spasms.

"Ah... Oh god, Yunho!" She gasped, her back arching off the workbench as the orgasm ripped through her like a tidal wave. Her entire body convulsed, her legs shaking uncontrollably around his waist as she drowned in the pleasure, her release flooding him with her incredible heat.

Feeling her walls tighten around him in those desperate, milking contractions, Yunho lost all semblance of control. The sensation of her clenching around his pulsing length was the final trigger. He stiffened, his muscles locking tight and a loud, tortured roar escaped his throat as he drove himself into her one last time, burying himself as deep as possible.

He came with a violence that shook his entire frame, his seed erupting deep inside her, hot and plentiful. He pumped into her repeatedly, his body jerking with each powerful spasm, filling her so completely that she could feel the warmth spreading within her.

For a long minute, the only sound in the cavernous garage was the ragged, echoing cadence of their breathing. It was a harsh, broken rhythm that slowly began to sync as the adrenaline bled out of them. She could feel the violent, erratic thud of his heart hammering directly against her own, slowing fraction by fraction with every deep exhale that expanded his broad chest. His large hands, usually so restless and aggressive, were perfectly still where they rested on her bare skin, his thumbs absentmindedly tracing the curve of her waist. The air in the shop was thick, practically vibrating with the unspoken weight of what they had just done.

​"Don't." He whispered roughly. The word was jagged, completely stripped of his usual abrasive armor. He slowly opened his dark eyes, the raw vulnerability in them pinning her right to the spot. He shifted his right hand, bringing it up to cup her face. His thumb, rough and calloused, brushed softly over her cheekbone, wiping away the lingering trace of the tear she had shed just minutes ago. "Don't leave." He whispered, his voice dropping into a heavy, pleading rumble.

​Y/N swallowed hard, her heart threatening to beat straight through her ribs. She looked up at him, her fingers still resting against the warm skin at the back of his neck. "Yunho... my car..."

​"I'll take the whole damn engine apart again." He breathed, leaning in until his lips brushed against hers with every word. His grip tightened protectively on her waist. "I'll lose the parts. I'll throw the keys in the river. I don't care. Just... tell me you're staying."

Y/N stared up into his dark, desperate eyes, the sheer absurdity of his threat finally cutting through the heavy haze in her mind. A breathless, disbelieving laugh escaped her lips, the sound echoing softly in the quiet garage.

"You'd throw my keys in the river?" She murmured, her thumb gently tracing the tense line of his jaw. "The same keys you've spent days complaining about having to look at?"

"In a heartbeat." He answered without a fraction of a second of hesitation.

The raw, unfiltered sincerity in his voice made her chest tighten all over again. He rested his forehead against hers, closing his eyes as a shaky, uneven exhale left his lips.

"I'll do whatever it takes." He rasped, his thick fingers lightly flexing against her hips. "Just don't get in that car today. Nor tomorrow. Nor anytime soon."

She let her hands slide from his neck down to his bare, broad shoulders, her fingertips resting lightly against the heavy, sculpted muscles she had been admiring all morning. The city, her job, her meticulously planned schedule, all the things she had been so desperate to get back to, suddenly felt a million miles away. None of it mattered compared to the overwhelming, anchoring weight of his hands on her skin.

"You don't have to break my engine, Yunho." She whispered softly.

His eyes snapped open, a flash of pure panic tightening his features until she leaned up, pressing a soft, lingering kiss to the corner of his mouth.

"Just put the tools down." She finished, her voice steady and entirely certain. "I'm not going anywhere."

The absolute, visceral relief that crashed over him was instantaneous. A deep, ragged sigh tore from his chest as the remaining tension finally drained out of his massive frame. He didn't say a word. Instead, he simply crushed her to him, wrapping both arms securely around her back and burying his face in the crook of her neck, holding her tight as if she were the only thing keeping him tethered to the earth.

When he finally pulled back, the abrasive, defensive mechanic was completely gone. In his place was a man looking at her with a quiet, burning intensity that made her breath hitch all over again. The ghost of a smirk finally tugged at the corner of his lips, the first real, genuine smile she had ever seen him wear.

"Good." He murmured. His calloused thumb brushed a stray lock of hair behind her ear. He dropped a quick, hard kiss to her lips, then effortlessly lifted her off the cold metal workbench, letting her slide down his body until her feet hit the concrete floor.

He reached down, picking up his discarded t-shirt from the dust and pulling it over his head, the lean muscles in his back flexing sharply with the movement. Y/N grabbed his oversized leather jacket from the nearby chair, slipping it over her bare shoulders.

Yunho stepped up behind her, wrapping his arms around her waist and pulling her back flush against his chest. He rested his chin on the top of her head as they both looked out at the almost-repaired car sitting in front of them.

"So..." Y/N murmured, leaning back into his solid embrace, entirely content. "When do you think it'll be ready for good?"

She could feel the low, gravelly rumble of his laughter vibrating against her spine. His thick, prominent-veined hands linked securely over her stomach, locking her exactly where she belonged.

"Next week." He drawled, his voice thick with a lazy, possessive warmth. "Maybe next month. Or next year. Depends entirely on how distracting you are."

Three years ago, you and Simon got married. It wasn’t anything flashy or big - fuck, how could it have been when you didn’t even love each other? But, military law forbade an unmated omega from joining the ranks, and Simon was seen as a wild-card alpha, too headstrong and violent, too hard to control. So, the brass laid out an ultimatum: mate, get married, or be discharged. Both you and Simon had worked too hard for too long to get where you were, so discharge was entirely off the table. There was no courting, no dates, and the wedding, if you could call it that, was little more than signing papers - three signatures on a thick piece of A4 government paper, one from you, one from Simon, and one from your witness, Captain John Price. You didn’t even exchange rings or vows. It took less than five minutes. 

After all was said and done, you and Simon went back to your lives. Of course, you were respectful to one another, and you spent one or two heats and ruts together, but you both maintained a distance away from each other. Neither of you were thrilled with the idea of being tied down, of being mated. The mating bond between you felt more like the neck of a too-tight sweater than it did a comfort, feeling each other’s emotions more of a chore than something you looked forward to. Sure, you worked well together, fluid and deadly like a well oiled M2 on the field. Always had. But there was a stark difference between working well together, and being mated.

So that’s how you ended up here. You had lost twenty pounds. Your skin was sallow and pale, your eyes sunken in. When you looked in the mirror, you could count your ribs, the knobs of your spine, even when they were hidden under the bruises that bloomed across your sickly skin.

You had thrown yourself into work, and when there was no work, you were challenging any living thing to go for a round with you on the sparring mat. But, you were weak; the bond sickness sapped all of your energy and strength faster than you could ever hope to replenish it. Your scent, which was once a warm and spicy caramelized vanilla, now smelled like sugar burnt to the bottom of a pot - acrid and rotted. You were dying, and you knew it. But your pride was far too great to ever go crawling back to Simon, the very man who caused the sickness to infiltrate every cell of your being. It had been months of this torture. Simon, your alpha, had all but abandoned you. You had been without his touch, his scent, anything and everything that the very base instincts of your omega craved from its mate for far too long. It didn't matter to your omega that this marriage, this mating bond was nothing more than a way to keep both you and Simon in the service. Instincts couldn't be fought with fact, and now you were reaping the consequences of the neglect of the bond. You had thought bond sickness was a myth, a fear-mongering tactic to keep alphas in line. However, you were now aware that there was far more truth than you could have ever imagined to that story that is told. 

You had seen the concerned looks of your team as they watched you haunt the halls of the base like a spectre. Soap had started to bring you chocolates and drinks, anything in hopes to get you to eat. Gaz took a different approach, always being the one to take you up on your sparring requests, the beta knowing that at the very least he could be gentle with you while still giving you an outlet. The Captain had made sure to keep you off any truly strenuous missions and tasks, mainly relegating you to the medbay or to training recruits. If you were any stronger, you would be pissed, but right now you took it as a blessing. At least he hadn’t kicked you off the team for your weakness. But Simon? Simon was nowhere to be found. He continuously was the first volunteer for the most dangerous missions, keeping him away from base for weeks to months at a time. When he came back bloody and bruised, he would avoid the medbay like the plague, only coming in to get fixed up by another combat medic when he knew Soap or Gaz had forcefully pulled you away. If you two happened to be walking in the same hallway, Simon would duck out of your sight without even so much as a word. You had long since given up on running after him. 

So color yourself surprised when you were standing in front of the mirror in your bathroom and the screen of your phone lit up, a text from Simon blaring on the too-bright screen. You had every intention of ignoring it, but your pride was no match for the dying ache of your omega. 

Come to my quarters.

The text was simple. Demanding, even. And all it did was make you angry. 

You quickly tugged on a pair of sweats and forced a tank top over your bruised and feverish skin. You thought briefly for a moment about tugging a sweatshirt on over your mottled skin, but, fuck it, let him see all that he has done to you. Maybe he would give you the one blessing you had hoped for over the last few months of neglect, and finally sever the bond between you. 

You trudged through the hallways of the base, every soldier you passed giving you a wide berth. You were certain you looked like death froze over, and the rage-filled expression set over your brows and your lips certainly did not help. When you reached his door, you didn’t even bother to knock. You just shoved your copy of the key in the door and slammed the door open. 

Simon barely even looked up from where he was lounging on the bed. His shirt was off, a rare sight, even for you, but even more shocking was the fact that he wasn’t wearing his mask.  He didn’t look much better than you - his once-bronzed skin paled, his own scars raised and reddened, and his musculature slightly less defined.

“You came.” He didn’t seem surprised, the rough timbre of his voice as unchanging as if he had remarked on the weather, which only increased the volatile rage that had flooded your system. His arms lazily opened in an invitation to lay with him. “No use just standin’ in the doorway.”

You, in all of your rage, just stood stockstill in the still-open doorway. Even as your omega side cried to jump into his arms and let his scent and his touch wash away all the pain, you refused with a defiant jut of your chin. You didn’t know why he had called you here, and the only thing your mind could conjure up is that Price, or Laswell, or fuck, even Soap, had sat him down and forced him to do this. And you wanted nothing to do with this or with him if he actually was not trying to change.

“I don’t want your pity. And I sure as hell don’t want your affection just because Price told you that you had to fix me,” you replied, your voice shaking with weakness and pain, even as you tried your damndest to keep it steady, strong. 

Simon growled lowly at the sound of your rage-filled pain, the sound of an alpha not used to having somebody fall immediately into line. His arms were still open, but you could see the way his muscles clenched, his own anger rising. “It ain’t about pity. It’s about basic biology,” he bit out, the words short and angry. 

That made you laugh, the sound short and sardonic before it morphs into a cough that shakes your entire, frail being. You brought a shaking hand up to wipe your lips before you fixed him with a glare hard enough to freeze an ocean. “Basic biology?" you mocked. “Yeah, for sure. But it’s also basic biology to not let bond sickness even be a worry for your omega, but looks like you fucked that one right up, didn’t you!?”

Your words made something in Simon snap. Your rage, the vitriol, clenched his hands into fists as he quickly swung his powerful legs over the edge of the bed, crossing the space between you in the space between one of your breaths and the next. He was in your face now, just enough space between you to not be pressing completely against you. You averted your gaze, knowing that if you didn’t, you might continue yelling at him, or worse. 

“Look at me,” he ordered, using the same tone he does on the battlefield. His hands are still clenched into fists, but they are shaking. Why?

That tone made your eyes harden, the instincts of a hard-bred soldier kicking in. Even through the fraying of your bond, your sickness, you knew that voice. You listened when given an order. You allowed your head to loll back to look up at him, but your expression was still set in that same hard glare. You weren’t on a battlefield. You were on base, far away from the acrid explosions and hot gunpowder. How dare he pretend otherwise? “Why?” you bit back in response. “This isn’t some tactical decision, Simon. Don’t treat me like one of your fuckin’ rookies.” 

He took a sharp breath through his teeth, obviously trying to control himself. He knew you were weak, the bond sickness taking so much more from you than it ever did him. But your defiance, your spirit despite the bond sickness was making his alpha go crazy. Even with you glaring up at him, he stared down at you with fierce eyes as his hands gripped your hips, shoving you out of the doorway and pressing you against the wall right beside it. Taking one hand off of your hip, he shut the door with a resounding click before his grip, and his attention came back entirely to you. “I ain’t treatin’ you like a goddamned rookie,” he growled out, his cold brown gaze entirely focused on your own broken one as one hand slams into the wall by your head. Even through your rage, he can see it. Feel it. He had broken you. And that knowledge caused his alpha to writhe in pain. “I’m treatin’ ya like my fuckin’ omega.” 

As he caged you in, growled those words at you, your own expression hardened. Your lips curled up to reveal your smaller omega fangs, a low growl of your own reverberating from your chest as your hands clenched into fists. It’s hard to ignore the sheer size difference between the two of you as he towers over you, his head dipped low to keep your attention. However, that did nothing to stop your rage, in fact, it increased it tenfold. 

“Oh, right. I forgot. Being your omega means less than being one of your rookies, silly me.”

You knew the second the words left your mouth that you just opened a Pandora’s box. You saw it in the way his eyes instantaneously darkened, in the way his hand left the wall before you could even blink, his fingers crushing your jaw between them in a bruising grip, forcing your head back against the wall as he brought his face ever closer to yours. However, as his face got closer, you could see the glint of something else in his eyes. Triumph. His alpha was revelling in watching you snap and get fiery again. It was a victory, in his mind, to see you able to be so angry after the bond sickness had taken so much from you. “Watch it, sweetheart,” he muttered, his voice low and gruff. “I know that attitude of yours will always be there, but careful.”

His words sent another wave of anger through you, and as he forced your head back, you jerked your neck, snapping your teeth at him, your small omega fangs glinting in the low light of his quarters. It was a clear message. Fuck the bond sickness, he had no right to touch you right now. You did not forgive him, and he has to work to even begin to earn that, and if he won’t? You would dissolve the bond without him, whether or not it risked your life. 

“Don’t sweetheart me,” you growled out, glaring up at him even as the bruising grip of his fingers squished your cheeks together, slurring your words. “Not after everything.”

His alpha instincts flared again, the desire to force you into accepting his help clear as his eyes flashed in irritation at your anger. He pressed you further into the wall, his body now flush against yours as he snarled right back. “Then do something about it,” he challenged. “Get mad. Fight me. Let it all out. But, you’re not leaving this room until you let me fix this.”

As much as you hated it, hearing Simon’s permission gave you the ability to let it all out. No matter how much you wanted to pretend that you were unaffected by him, the knowledge that he wanted you to fight, wanted to fix this broken bond between you, allowed you to finally and truly get all of the anger out, and maybe, just maybe, give the bond a chance to heal. 

And so you did. Your body jerked against his, your sallow cheeks flushing red as you bared your omega fangs and growled at him again. Your eyes held the faintest spark of life, a far cry from what they used to have, but there was something there now. 

When Simon saw that spark, the faintest hint of his omega coming back, he chuckled gruffly, his eyes glinting with a possessive heat. 

“Yes, spitfire. I want you t’ fight me. Hit me, scream, yell at me, tell me how shit of an alpha I’ve been. I don’t care. Just don’t. Hold. Back.” 

As soon as the words left his mouth, the dam inside of you broke. Months worth of anger, agony, grief, pain, and aching sadness flooded your veins like a hot, volatile drug. It felt like a living, breathing thing as the emotions curled around your lungs, your muscles, your heart. Tears pushed at your lash line, the aching pain making itself known through the rage. 

You held his cold brown gaze for a moment, your eyes searching his. When all you saw in return was steely determination, you did the only thing you could think of. Before he could even move out of the way, you shut your eyes and cranked your head back as far as it would go, and drove your forehead straight into his nose. It wasn’t nearly hard enough to break it, but definitely hard enough to hurt and make the blood start flowing. 

He staggered back from you, his hands coming up to cup his nose, but the alpha was far from angry. In fact, he was grinning, the blood pouring from his nose coating his lips and teeth. A low growl of approval rumbled from his chest as he stared at you, approval glinting in his eyes. “Good girl,” he muttered lowly, the praise slipping through so naturally. 

As his praise washed over you, you felt your stomach flip. It shouldn’t feel that good. Not after the months and months of neglect so bad that you were literally dying. But, you couldn’t help the small ember of warmth that bloomed through your chest as that muttered praise of good girl flowed through your veins like a warm blanket settling over you. 

But, you were still angry. And hurt. And countless other emotions that you couldn’t even begin to name, all just culminating into a neverending ache. And as you saw the blood marring the plush flesh of his lower lip, something inside of you snapped. 

He had made his worst mistake. He had let go of you, and now you could truly fight. 

You crouched down, using your smaller stature and power legs to kick your leg out, and you swept it across the ground, knocking the much-bigger alpha off of his feet. You watched as his massive frame hit the ground, shaking the walls, a bloom of satisfaction erupting in your chest. Adrenaline was pumping through your veins now, the only thing allowing you to move, and before he had the chance to become reoriented, you were on top of him, straddling his hips as you punched at his chest. Your tears of anguish were falling freely now, sobs breaking free with your yells. 

“You have broken me! Broken! I used to be so strong, so happy, and you destroyed that! Ripped it away from me! All because you were too fucking caught up in your own shit, your own fucking fear, that you couldn’t even be half of the alpha you needed to be!”

Simon grunted in pain as his back collided with the cold, hard tile of his quarters, his hands automatically coming up to grab at your hips. Not to shove you off, no, but to keep you on top of him. He knew he deserved this. Every punch, every pointed word, every tear. It was his penance for all of the pain and agony he had put you through, even if it was ripping his heart to absolute shreds. 

“I know, I know,” he growled softly, his voice thick with regret. “I know I did.”

You shook your head, tears and snot flying from the force. You were so angry, so hurt, but the adrenaline was quickly running its course, leaving behind only bone-deep exhaustion and pain. Your punches slowly weakened, until you were barely able to lift your hands. Instead, they came to rest on his bare chest, your omega claws digging sharply into the thick muscle that covered his chest, one of your hands directly over his heart, needing him to feel a fraction of the agony that coursed through your own. 

“Don’t you agree with me! Don’t you dare! Gods, you do this to me for months, and you… you have nothing to say for yourself!? I tried! Tried to be a good spouse, a good omega! I tried to give you your space, to be unobtrusive, even though that killed my omega! And all I fuckin’ got in return is this fucking bond sickness that is killing me! Tearing me apart from the inside out!” 

His body shuddered as your claws dug into his chest, his skin breaking under the tiny points. It hurt in every way that it could, but the tiny pinpricks of blood that welled around your claws were nothing compared to how he had hurt you. He knew that he deserved this, every inch of your wrath, of your anger, and the pain it brought for him. It was the least he could do - to bear this for you. But, Gods, it didn’t stop your words from tearing into his heart in a way your claws couldn’t even begin to touch. 

“I know, sweetheart, I know,” he repeated, his words thick with the guilt that was threatening to choke him. “And I’m sorry. I’m so damn sorry.”

His apology broke what little strength you had left. The bond between you was fraying, seconds away from snapping completely, and you had never felt more lost. A sob broke free from your lips, the force of the sound causing your body to lurch forward. But, Simon was there. For once, he was there. His chest caught your head, your tears wetting his skin almost instantaneously as your claws scratched down his torso, leaving thin, raised red lines down his scarred skin. 

He hissed softly in response to the pain, but he made no attempt to move, to shy away from it. You had completely given up on your ego, your omega so desperate for your alpha, no matter what he had done. But, you were still so hurt, your omega so wounded that you had no idea how you were going to come back from this. 

“Just… just tell me why. Why did you do this? Why did you treat me like this?” you sobbed out into his chest, your sour, distressed omega pheromones wafting around him like a shroud of despair. 

His alpha writhed in pain at your scent. It was wrong, so, so wrong, but he had done this. His neglect, his apathy, had taken his once strong, ferocious omega and reduced her down to this. He had never seen you like this. And he never wanted to again. He could feel the bond between you slipping between his fingers, and fear rose to take its place. He wrapped his arms around you, cradling your tiny, trembling form against him, his nose burying into your hair as he pressed a featherlight, shaking kiss into it. He swallowed harshly against the lump in his throat, his heart clenching in fear. In pain. In anger at himself. “I was a coward, love.” 

You sobbed harder against his chest at his admission, shaking your head jerkily. Your body felt like it was freezing and burning up at the same time, as the frayed edges of the bond dug into you like poisonous thorns. You could feel your mind shattering, your heart stuttering as the bond sickness continued to take hold. You were dying, and you knew it. But at this point, you would almost take death over the amount of pain you were in. “That’s not a good excuse,” came your shaking reply, the words thick with tears and agony, but they were strong with conviction. “Tell me why, Simon. Tell me why, or break the godsdamned bond.” 

The words that left your lips felt like they were suffocating the alpha. Break the bond. His arms tightened around you until you were completely pressed against him, and he could feel every shudder, every quiver in your weakening body. A low growl rumbles from his chest, the sound full of pain but also a desperate desire to comfort. He had to try - to even attempt to explain, even if he wasn’t sure it would do anything. But the thought of losing you without even trying made his heart shatter, his alpha howl in protest. 

“Because I was afraid,” he murmured, his voice thick with regret and honesty as his knuckles ran across the knobs of your spine. That caused him more pain than you would ever know, feeling how you had atrophied from his neglect. How his dismissal, his abandonment had caused his once strong, beautiful omega, to waste away before his very eyes. “Afraid of getting caught up in you, in this. Of loving you, of giving you part of my heart. I didn’t know how to keep you safe. I didn’t think I was worthy of having something like that, like you. I still don’t.” 

“Then break the bond,” you whimpered out, the pain of the bond sickness, of your own emotions, and what little of Simon’s you could still feel through the barest threads of the bond ricocheting through your body, reduced you to little more than a husk lying on top of Simon. Your heart was shattering along with the bond, the broken edges of each splintering in a way that made it hard for you to breathe. Your breath pushed and pulled achingly achingly against your chapped lips like broken glass, just another thing ripping your very being apart. 

“If you can’t do this… I’ll… I’ll figure it out. The brass’ll let me stay, at least for a little bit. But, I can’t… I can’t keep doin’ this. ‘M not asking for love. ‘M not asking to be a real marriage, but I can’t be apart of a bond where ‘m not… where ‘m not bein’ taken care of. I can’t.” 

Your words were slurring, little more than a broken and pain-filled whimper against his broad chest, and Simon could practically hear the way his heart shatters beneath you. He did this. He did this. And yet, the selfish part of him couldn’t bear the thought of losing you, no matter how much pain he had put you through. The alpha snarled as he wrapped his arms around your ever-weakening frame impossibly tighter, as if he was afraid that if he didn’t hold you tight enough, you’d slip away from him forever. 

“No, baby, no,” he replied softly, but the words were filled with a growl of conviction, of promise. “I was stupid. I was so stupid, and I hurt you. Let me… let me fix this, okay? Please, baby. Lemme fix you. Just for right now.” 

Simon was begging. You didn’t know if you had ever heard him beg before, but here he was, begging you to allow him the chance to fix you. Your exhausted, wounded omega perked up a bit at his conviction, but you couldn’t help but feel like this was far too little, far too late. “I… I don’t know, Simon. How can you… how can you fix this?” 

The pained gasps between your words drove a stake of fear through Simon’s heart, his alpha whimpering painfully. He swallowed harshly against the ever-growing lump in his throat, as he knew that he had to be the pillar of strength. If he broke right now, there was no hope for you. His lips brushed against the top of your head as he inhaled your sour, rotted scent in despair, his hands running up and down your back in a vain attempt to soothe you. 

“Let me… let me have a chance,” the alpha, your alpha, pleaded. “Please baby, let me fix this. I’ll do better, I promise. Gods, I’ll do anything. Just… just let me get you better,  baby, please. And then, if you still want to break the bond, we can, okay? Just… I can’t lose you. I can’t let you die. Not like this. Never like this.”

You felt, more than heard, his words wash over you. You could feel your body failing, the bond sickness taking what little was left of you. Even with Simon’s touch, with his promises, you had a brief moment of clarity where you just knew that this still might be it, that the bond had been strained too far, the cavernous distance between the two of you still too great, that this bond sickness might still kill you, despite his promises to fix you. 

You were so tired. So, so tired. The pain is too much, your eyelids too heavy, and it felt like what was left of your shattered heart wasn’t pumping nearly enough oxygen through your veins. You were teetering on the edge, and all you wanted to do was sleep. 

“Just… just let me sleep. In here. With you. Please?” you mumbled, the words soft and slurred. Any fight, any pride you had just a few minutes ago was long gone, and if you were going to die, your omega wanted it to be right here, in your alpha’s arms, taken peacefully in your sleep. “I need… just, please, Si.” 

Simon’s resolve shattered at the nickname that fell past your lips. He instantly sat up, gathering your frail, fragile body in his arms as he nodded, his own tears finally breaking free. 

His fault. All his fault. Always his fault. 

He quickly stood up, your body light (too light, too light) in his arms as he carried you to his bed. He was terrified. He could feel how slow your heartbeat was, how weak your body was, how slurred your words were. He shushed you softly, gently, but the sound warbled against his own tears. 

“Shhh, shhh, baby. I got you. I got you. Just… just sleep, okay? I’ll be right here. Right here. Never leavin’ your side again. I promise. I’ll be right here when you wake up. Just sleep.” 

ceo! satoru, who keeps people at arm's length, especially women. they whisper his name like a prize—because everyone wants something from him: money, attention, his title, a seat at the table. so? he gives them nothing—flirting without intent, touching without feeling, fucking without consequence. 

love is a transaction. intimacy? a liability. and gojo satoru? he’s tired of being collateral.

so, he stays perfect on paper—sharp in the spotlight, hollow behind closed doors. if he gives them nothing, then there’s nothing to take. 

untouchable, unbothered, and lonelier than he’ll ever admit.

ceo! satoru, who notices you the moment you don’t notice him. you’re new—his father’s latest hire. just another name slipped into a calendar invite he didn’t read, another title he forgot before the ink dried. nothing remarkable. not at first glance. you keep to yourself, all neutral tones and clean lines. head down, posture straight, buried in your work like it’s the only thing keeping you tethered. 

boring, uptight. 

that’s his original impression of you. 

until he makes some offhand comment in a meeting—low, careless, designed to make the room laugh. but this time, you glance up, meeting his eyes with a scowl.

“...are you finished?” you mumble. cold. quiet. unamused.

the fuck? 

it’s always his father. it’s only ever his father. and yet here you are—desk-bound and barely blinking—making him feel like he’s overstayed his welcome—in his own kingdom, mind you.

oh. he’s gonna give you hell.

ceo! satoru, who makes it his personal mission to get under your skin. so, he starts dropping by your office more often. for no real reason—papers he could’ve emailed, questions he already knows the answers to. 

“hey miss secretary,” he drawls, dragging the words like velvet across glass. “miss me?”

he pushes. you push back. he reroutes your calendar and you reroute his meetings. he leaves three unsigned forms on your desk just to watch you chase him down the hallway with your heels clicking like gunfire.

“try doing your job sometime,” you hiss. 

satoru lives for the moments you slip. he’s used to women shrinking beneath his name. you don’t shrink—you scowl. and it’s addicting. because all that politeness you wear in front of his father is paper-thin around him, and your patience is stretched tight over something sharper. 

ceo! satoru, who notices you’ve been late three times this week. not by much—seven minutes, ten at most. but still, late. unusual for someone like you.

you—who normally arrives fifteen minutes early. you—who color-codes schedules and double-checks logistics like it’s second nature. you—who never lets a single thread unravel.

“this company runs on discipline, not excuses,” his father lectures you. “apologies sir… my babysitter has a habit of running late.”

and just like that, the room changes. 

ceo! satoru, who said nothing at the time—just watched. you’re a single mom? he’s thinking about the way you never mentioned a child. the way you never once asked for accommodations. the way you kept your head down and your performance sharp, even when your personal life clearly wasn’t giving you much room to breathe. and for the first time, he wonders if he’s been looking at you all wrong.

because it’s easy to call someone uptight until you realize they’re holding the world together with both hands and no help.

you square your shoulders, taking his father’s lecture like you were used to it. why did it seem like you had practice with swallowing apologies you didn’t owe? that doesn’t sit well with him…

ceo! satoru, who didn’t see it coming. not really. one moment his father is mid-sentence, gesturing over untouched steak and quarterly projections. the next, there’s a tremor in his voice—a hand that doesn’t settle, a breath that doesn’t finish. silver clattering to the floor. staff rushing in. panic rising in the air like heat.

he doesn’t remember the walk to the ambulance, only the stillness of his own father’s body.

ceo! satoru, who knows the answer before the doctor speaks. it’s in the look. the way the nurse steps back. the way no one can meet his gaze.

“it was a heart attack… i’m sorry. he didn’t make it.”

he nods. once. what is he supposed to do—to feel? he doesn’t know what to mourn. the father he feared? the man he resented? the stranger who lived down the hall of his own childhood? the man who spent his entire life, trying to mold him—now undone by something even he couldn’t control. 

there was no grand ending. no dramatic farewell. just silence. 

and satoru—left with all the noise that came after.

ceo! satoru, who stares down at the stipulation in his father’s will like it’s a ghost. and honestly? maybe it is. maybe this is how his father haunts him—not with memories, but with demands.

to inherit full control of gojo corp and the family estate, satoru must be married. with a child. within one year.

he blinks once, then laughs—quiet, disbelieving. of course. of course the man who never trusted him in life wouldn’t trust him in death. control, even from the grave—his father’s final move, final manipulation.

ceo! satoru, who isn’t prepared when it’s you who offers a solution. no dramatics, no buildup—just a simple, “let’s get married.” it takes him a full breath to process it. a fake marriage. a clean deal. a contract that helps you both. 

you—already a mother, already the picture-perfect illusion his father wanted him to build. you—who has everything the will demands, and nothing he’s ever had to pretend to want. for a moment, he’s stunned into silence. because you’re not offering him love, you’re offering him freedom.

ceo! satoru, who doesn’t trust easily, but maybe he trusts you? because you’ve never wanted anything from him, never asked for his attention. you’re practical. smart. tired in the same way he is (he’s just better at hiding it).

and sure, maybe what you’re offering isn’t customary. no emotional attachments, no strings. just terms, signatures and survival. it’s not what his father would have wanted. but fuck it, that’s the point.

ceo! satoru, who is not prepared for the way you kiss him at a public event. he tells himself it was just the heat of the moment, knowing you only kissed him to play your role. he tries to conveniently ignore the way your lips part first, slipping your tongue in, sighing against his mouth, leaning into him like you’re his—like he fucking owns you.

but… this is just a charade, marriage of convenience—nothing more. shit. then why the fuck is he rock hard remembering the taste of you?

ceo! satoru, who only meant to jerk off to you once—just to get it out of his system, okay?! clearly that’s all he needs right? he lasts maybe five minutes before he’s groaning your name, hips lifting as he’s spilling cum all over his abs, shuddering as he fucks his own fist thinking about you. 

there. that’s it. out of his system—no more, right? (wrong)

ceo! satoru, who doesn’t know what’s worse—the fact that it happens again, or that it happens easier. it doesn’t take much now—just the sight of you leaning over the dining table in a robe, a bare leg bent, hair tangled from sleep. the curve of your neck when you tilt your head. the flash of skin when you reach for something too high.

what the fuck is wrong with him?!

you’re not even doing anything. not really. you’re just there—folded into his space like you belong there. moving barefoot through his estate in oversized sweaters and quiet hums, curling up on the couch without a clue what you’re doing to him.

ceo! satoru, who’s never felt this out of control. not in boardrooms. not in interviews. not even in the middle of his father’s most ruthless lectures. but with you? with you, it’s all unraveling—you’re like gravity.

and now it’s routine—fucking his hand to the thought of you, slipping into his bedroom, pants pushed down, fist tight around his twitching cock, muttering curses into his palm to keep from moaning too loud, because you’re always asleep in the room next door.

it’s just stress relief, he tells himself. a coping mechanism. a release.

taking care of a kid is harder than he expected. the pressure’s always building as ceo of gojo corp. and you—you’re always close. always soft. always there.

ceo! satoru, who imagines you on your knees, in his office, tucked under his desk like a dirty secret. he’s slapping his dick gently against your cheek, rubbing his precum all over your pretty little mouth, encouraging you to part your lips before feeding you his cock, inch by inch.

schlick. schlick. schlick.

his filthy faps echo off the bedroom walls—sprawled out on expensive sheets, cock flushed and leaking down his knuckles as his wrist works faster, panting, groaning, lost in the addicting image of you.

“s-shit—fuck—” he breathes, head tilting back, hips rocking forward. “j-just like that… so good f’me, baby… so fuckin’ good—”

your muffled moans would sound so cute, gagging around his cock, drool dripping down your chin as you blink up at him, teary and beautiful. he’d stroke your hair back, whispering praise, thrusting lazily down your throat.

“fuuuck—look at you, so pretty—s-shit…” he’s fraying at the edges, nearly breaking as his strokes grow faster, messier. “p-please—fuck, need it—need your mouth, please… just wanna—nngh…”

ceo! satoru, who fantasizes about cuming across your tongue—your eyes fluttering closed as he tells you to swallow. and you’d swallow it all, wouldn’t you? looking up at him with ruined lips, cum streaking your chin, smiling all coy with those pouty lips he dreams about every night.

“fuckfuckfuck—” his voice cracks, stomach tensing, cock jerking in his hand. “‘m gonna cum— ‘m gonna—fuck—" he gasps, hips lifting off the edge of the bed as his orgasm crashes through him like a tidal wave.

and it wrecks him.

cum spills over his fist in hot, desperate spurts, leaking between his fingers, dripping down his wrist, painting his abs, his shirt, his thighs in thick creamy streaks.

“g-god… yes… f-fuck, baby… f’you, all f’you…” he whimpers, eyes fluttering shut as your name slips from his lips, over and over again like a prayer.

ceo! satoru, who lies there afterward, sweating and spent, staring at the ceiling like it might tell him what the fuck he’s doing. you’re not actually his—you were never meant to be.  sure, you’re his wife, but only on paper, nothing more. so… why do the lines keep blurring? thinning. you’re already under his skin. already in his sheets. in his head. on your fucking knees every time he closes his eyes.

and it’s not just lust anymore.

it’s the sound of your voice when you’re half-asleep. the way you talk to your daughter in that soft, maternal tone, tugging at something deep in his chest. the gojo estate used to feel like a museum. all cold marble and high ceilings, every corner echoing with the absence of something warm. he never realized how empty it felt until you started filling it. slowly. quietly. without trying.

now there’s a pink toothbrush beside his in the bathroom. a collection of tiny socks and hair ties on the entryway table. a soft giggle in the morning light and the scent of syrup in the kitchen air.

your daughter’s toys spill out across the living room rug. your coat hangs next to his in the foyer. your voice carries down the hall like it belongs here.

he wants you like a home he never thought he deserved.

and... that’s the most terrifying part of all.

love is a transaction. intimacy? a liability. if he gives you everything—his time, his trust, the bruised, aching thing in his chest he swore no one could touch—what would you do? would you break him?

a/n. awww... for those that have read the fic it was fun to go back to the start of this story to see how far this pair has come 🥹 i figured ceo deserved his own headcanon, i love my pookie. chapter 10 is in the works. if you enjoyed this teaser consider checking out this fics full masterlist here! i will also be reopening this taglist.

taglist:

@geniejunn @fortunatelyfurrygiver @rosso-seta @acowboykisser @mikyapixie

@shokosbunny @fire-child-kira @aluvrina @laviefantasie @kurookinnie

@poopypipi @painted-hills @stillserene @mira-lol @k-kkiana

@sebastianlover @blueberrysungie @kalulakunundrum @doireallyhavetonamthis @lingophilospher

@ichikanu @artist1936 @christianacj27 @watermelon-online @jkbangtan7

@angelina7890 @aruraa @han11dh @jonesmelodys @k1ttybean

@a-trashbag @jotarohat @khaleesihavilliard @tsukistopglazer @elliesndg

@maskedpacific @that-redheadd @lovelyartemisa @eolivy

@valleydoli @voids-universe @sukunadckrider @aishies-stuff

@saccharine-nectarine @ilianasau @pinksaiyans @gojoslefttoenail

The sickening crack of brass knuckles against bone splits the air, followed by a wet, choking cough. The man kneeling before Toji jerks forward, lungs fighting for air they don’t have room for. His arms are bound behind his back, wrists cinched so tight his fingers have gone blue.

And his face?

Well, not much left of it now. One eye swollen shut—the other, barely tethered to consciousness.

He isn’t alone—two others lie slumped beside him, bodies twisted in the way only pain can shape—blood pooling beneath them like spilled ink. Toji hasn’t glanced at them since they dropped. They’d served their purpose.

This one, though? Still breathing.

The room is dim and airless, the kind that holds onto heat and old violence. A flickering overhead bulb swings gently above, casting shadows that crawl across the walls with every shift of movement. The smell of sweat, blood, and something metallic lingers—heavy, but familiar.

This isn’t a room meant for conversation.

It’s a room meant for remembering your place.

“P-please,” then man rasps, wheezing. “I—I told you everything, I swear—”

His knees scrape the floor as he bows, forehead nearly touching Toji’s boot. Shame, surrender, desperation—it’s all there, thick in the air like humidity before a storm.

But Toji doesn’t blink. He just watches. Shoulders rolling, fingers flexing. The brass glints under the low light. His head tilts slightly—calculating.

“Mm… that so?”

“Yes-yes,” the man nods desperately, breath hitching. “I swear. Please, I swear.”

Toji’s lips curl slightly, not in amusement, but in something far less kind, and with no warning, he fists a hand into the man’s blood-matted hair, yanking his head back like a drawn bow.

“Wait—p-please!” the man jerks, his good eye wide with panic, spine pulled tight.

Arching a brow, Toji observes him like a purchase that didn’t hold up.

“You were in his house,” he states simply.

“Y-yes,” a frantic nod. “I—I was—”

Toji hums. “Breathing his air...”

The man nods again, breath shuddering with a quiet sob, his shoulders convulsing involuntary.

“Walking his floors...”

Another nod, another breathless sob.

Toji clicks his tongue, pondering. “…makes you valuable, doesn’t it?”

And there it is. That flicker.

Hope.

Thin as thread.

Pathetic, really.

Toji lets it bloom, just long enough to see it shine in the man’s good eye—let him believe. Then, leaning in, his voice drops to a murmur.

“So why?” he asks, almost curious. “Why do you still look so fucking useless to me?”

There’s no time to answer. The man crumples, folding in on himself as Toji’s fist drives into his ribs—sharp, direct. A wet crunch. Then, without so much of a glance, Toji steps over his body without looking down. It’s just dead weight on the floor. The others had figured it out too—right before the end.

They’d begged.

It hadn’t mattered.

With a slow exhale, he approaches the table, where Mei sits, thumbing through yen with that same detached grace. She doesn’t glance up as he reaches for the glass of sake beside her. But as Toji brings the glass to his lips, taking a sip, he catches movement in his peripheral, and behind him, the grunt coughs—wet and raw.

…he’s still trying?

With a tilt of his head, he turns, watching the man drag himself forward through blood and spit. Ugh… it’s always the ones who stay conscious that think they’ve earned something.

“He’s still breathing,” Mei hums, unmoved. Her eyes stay on the cash, more interested in the spoils than the suffering that paid for them. “That’s a bit generous, Toji.”

“Yeah yeah…” he takes a swig of sake, exhaling, “…not for long.”

Suddenly, the door creaks, and Naoya strolls through its opening. Smooth strides, like it’s just another business report. Golden eyes scan the room, moving from the bodies on the floor to the blood smeared across the boards, then to the one poor bastard still crawling like it might matter.

Huh. Nothing unusual.

“Yo,” his hands shove into his pockets, tilting his head with a smirk. “You’re working late.”

Lifting her chin, a smirk plays at Mei’s lips like the edge of a knife.

“Evening, Naoya.”

He returns the gesture with a lazy tilt of his head, but his attention shifts almost immediately to the table—to the scattered aftermath of whatever poor bastard had made the wrong move tonight.

Gold chains. Scattered bills. Watches stripped from the wrists of men who thought they had more time.

Spoils of failure.

“Having fun?”

Reaching for the next stack, Mei hums.

“More than them.”

Naoya drops into the chair beside her, kicking his feet up like this is a poker night and not a graveyard.

“Well, well,” he exhales, gaze cutting toward Toji. “If I knew it was open season, I’d’ve brought popcorn.”

Lifting his sake, Toji watches it swirl in the glass. He doesn’t spare Naoya a look. Doesn’t say a word.

Naoya waits.

And waits.

And… waits?                    

Eventually, Toji sets the glass down with a soft clink, rolling his shoulders, exhaling. Then, he turns back toward the crawling man—who’s made it, maybe, four inches from where he started.

The fuck?

Naoya frowns slightly, eyes narrowing.

“Psh... not even a hello?” he scoffs, shifting in his chair like he’s brushing off the tension. “Cold, even for you.”

Still no answer.

Just the dull sound of Toji’s boots against the floorboards as he closes the space again.

Then—

A punch.

Then another.

And another.

Each one lands with a dull, final force, like closing a door that shouldn’t have been opened. Bone crunching. Flesh splitting beneath steel-plated knuckles.

As Naoya watches, a subtle unease creeps in—threading through his amusement like a hairline crack in polished glass.

“You’re in a mood…” he offers lightly, rocking his boot idly against the edge of the table.

Toji’s fist drives into the man’s ribs, followed by a wet, wheezing gasp.

“Am I?”

It’s almost conversational.

Almost.

Another hit follows. Harder. Meaner. And Naoya exhales, stretching out in his chair like he’s not watching someone die.

“Yup… quieter than usual,” he muses, clicking his tongue. “Bad news? Or just bad company?”

Toji hauls the man upright, his body sagging like it’s already given up.

“…both.”

Naoya hums, like he’s got a fix for that.

“Well… maybe I can help with that. Got something on Gojo today.”

At that, Toji’s grip loosens—the man dropping to the floor with a heavy thud, and Naoya perks up. Encouraged, like a dog who thinks it’s being tossed a bone.

“Heh… thought you’d appreciate it,” he leans back, legs stretching further, “y’see… I took a little… initiative.” He says it like he wants a fucking gold star. “Dropped by Gojo’s place. Figured I’d get ahead of things.”

Toji’s back stays turned, but he tilts his head, barely—just enough to feed Naoya’s ego. Mei raises a brow, knowing better.

“Gotta say… his security wasn’t much,” Naoya goes on, waving a hand lazily. “Paid them off. Walked right in,” he pauses, his smirk stretching. “Got into his office and poked around. Grabbed a few files… contracts, statements… stuff that’ll sting once we’re in court.”

Toji nods. Slow. Thoughtful.

Too thoughtful.

“That so?”

Naoya’s grin grows—he can’t help himself. “Yup. Even got photos of everything. There was a safe I didn’t crack, but we can go back. Who knows what kind of dirt’s buried in there?”

Toji hums low in his throat. Like he’s thinking. But he’s not.

Why? Because he already knows.

Without warning, his fist swings again—one final, devastating blow. The man’s body jerks violently. Then stills. Toji grabs him by the collar again, lifting him halfway—checking.

But there’s nothing. No breath. No twitch.

Dead.

Behind him, Naoya’s smirking like an idiot.

“Damn. Poor bastard…” he says, half-laughing. “Can barely even tell he had a face.”

“Huh… you’re right,” Toji muses, giving the corpse a second look. Then, he drops it without ceremony, wiping his knuckles off on his shirt, slow and methodical.

“Guess you can’t even tell he was one of yours.”

Naoya blinks.

“…huh?”

Toji finally looks at him, flashing a smug grin. “Oh, yeah,” he nudges the body onto its back with his foot, revealing the ruined mess of a face. “Didn’t you know? These are your men.”

Something shifts—not the blood, not the bodies, but something else, something that had been slowly, steadily unraveling and Naoya had missed it.

“…w-what?” he blinks, speechless, forcing out a dry laugh. “The hell you mean, my men?”

Toji says nothing. Just begins rolling up his bloodied sleeves—one fold at a time—like he’s getting ready to mop the fucking floor.

“Gojo fired his entire staff tonight.”

A pause, because that’s it—that’s enough. Enough to let Naoya know how deeply, irreversibly he’s fucked up. The men Toji beat to death were Gojo’s old employees—their moles.

But Naoya just scoffs. “Tch… you’re fucking with me.” he leans back, arms crossing like he’s trying to hold something in place. “I mean… c’mon. Gojo fired his staff?” 

Toji looks at him, gaze flat. “Did I stutter?” An unnerving pause. “All of them,” he adds casually. “Kept Remi though.”

Jaw ticking, Naoya’s fingers twitch against his bicep.

“Paranoid bastard…” he mutters, too dry, too short. He swallows. Tries to laugh. “Doesn’t mean shit. Just means he got spooked. We knew there was a risk.”

Toji’s head tilts a fraction deeper, a shadow passing through his expression.

“…we?”

That word is a hammer. Naoya stills, because Toji’s voice is calm, but the weight of it drops like a fucking lead pipe.

“Let’s see… if I recall correctly…” he says, stepping closer, voice steady, cold, “I never fucking asked you to go into Gojo’s house, isn’t that right?”

“Well… but…” Naoya stammers. Then tries a shrug, rolling his shoulders like it’ll shake off the weight. “I did what needed to be done. We needed leverage—”

A cruel laugh cuts him off.

Toji shakes his head in amused disbelief, then moves—snatching the dead man by the collar, hauling him up like a ragdoll and slamming him down onto the table in front of Naoya.

The table jolts. A stack of yen shifts slightly. Leaning in, Toji presses a hand to the corpse’s face, twisting it toward him.

“…honestly?” his voice drops to a razor-thin edge. “This is how your fucking face should look right now.”

He holds it there, letting Naoya see every ruin of it. Then lets go, letting the corpse slump back into the table.

“But…” Toji sighs, wiping the back of his hand along his jaw, smearing blood like it’s no more than sweat. “Lucky for you… I need you lookin' pretty. So they don’t catch on.”

Naoya is stunned, frozen, desperately trying to piece together what the fuck to say, while Mei hums, still thumbing through her cash, unfazed. He tries to roll his shoulders back, to remember who the hell he is, but the tension sits thick in his bones.

C’mon now…

He didn’t mess up. Right? Not really.

He was just doing what needed to be done. That’s what he tells himself—over and over, even as his gut twists tighter. After all, breaking into Gojo’s house wasn’t a mistake. It was necessary.

Strategic. Calculated.

He had to find something to use against that smug bastard. Had to find something to remind you what happens when you step out of line.

Clearly it's not because he cared. Not because he gave a shit about what you were doing. Just leverage. Just... business.

That’s all it was.

…except it wasn’t. Not really.

Clenching his jaw, Naoya hates the flicker of truth that stirs under the layers of justification. Because he hadn’t been looking for evidence. He’d been looking for you.

For proof you were miserable without him. For proof you hadn’t actually slipped free. Because Naoya was a man who didn’t lose. Not women. Not anything. It was second nature—the way they folded. Under his voice. His anger. His hands. And you—you had been no different.

Until you were.

Until you walked out without permission. Until you looked him in the eye and told him no.

The thought curdles hot in his blood.

You were supposed to be broken without him. Begging. Waiting. Not smiling. Not building a life. And sure as hell not fucking Satoru Gojo.

So… maybe he hadn’t gone into Gojo’s house for leverage after all. Maybe he’d gone in because he needed to remind himself he still mattered. Still had power. Control. Because if you had really moved on—really slipped away—what does that make him?

Weak? Forgettable? Nothing?

Naoya grits his teeth so hard his jaw aches.

Fuck no.

Naoya Zenin doesn’t lose. Not to you. Not to anybody.

The silence lingers, and as Toji straightens slowly, his gaze drops, catching on something—just a flicker of red lace peeking from the edge of Naoya’s pocket. He shifts.

“What’s this?” and Naoya tenses as he reaches down, two fingers hooking the fabric from his pocket.

Panties.

Holding them up, Toji’s lips press together in a flat, humorless line.

“…this what you brought back?” he asks, voice dry, tossing the panties onto the table, inches from the corpse’s hand. “Jesus fucking Christ, Naoya…”

Across the table, Mei’s brow lifts, flicking through another bundle. “Classy,” she hums, amused.

Naoya straightens abruptly, chair scraping across the floor. “It wasn’t like that,” he blurts. “I—”

“Don’t.” Toji raises a hand, palm open. His voice doesn’t rise, but it slices through the room.

He looks down at the lace again.

“Let’s see if I’ve got this right…” he says slowly. “…you break into Gojo’s house without my permission… stir up shit we weren’t ready to stir—” His gaze snaps back to Naoya, seething. “And you come back with that?”

Naoya scoffs, brittle and defensive. He fumbles for his phone, tapping the screen like it proves something.

“Look, ‘cuz—this wasn’t about her. I got real shit. Photos. Documents. Things we can actually use. I know we needed leverage—”

“We didn’t need shit.”

Toji’s voice is like ice. He snatches the phone from Naoya’s hand, tossing it onto the table with a heavy clack. It spins, landing crooked against the corpse’s elbow.

Leaning in, the weight of him towers above Naoya, like a shadow.

“We agreed to use her to take him down. Clean. Quiet.” He pauses. “You went off script.”

Naoya shifts, stiff, shoulders tense.

Toji doesn’t back off.

“This isn’t about Gojo anymore,” he says, quieter now. “It’s about you, Naoya. You can’t see straight. You’re too caught up in your fucking toy.”

Blinking, Naoya opens his mouth, only to close it again—jaw flexing. He’s speechless, and Toji nods slowly, as if confirming something to himself. Pulling away, he exhales—running a hand through his hair, contemplating.

“…you know why I’ve let her stay breathing this long?”

Naoya’s brow furrows, “…why?”

Toji’s mouth curls into something that isn’t quite a smile. “Because you wanted her.” He shrugs. “Just me being a nice cousin, I guess.” He leans a knuckle on the edge of the table. “Plus… figured letting Gojo have her would keep you focused. Make it personal. Y'know... keep your edge sharp.”

Mei doesn’t stop counting, but there’s a faint twitch at the corner of her lips as Toji lets the silence stretch. The room holds its breath.

“Buuut… she’s clouding your judgment that badly, huh?” he mutters, rolling his neck, slow and lazy. “…maybe I should just kill her.”

Naoya jerks forward so fast the chair scrapes across the floor again.

“Don’t,” he snaps. “She’s mine to—”

Toji’s fist is moving before his last word is even fully out—straight to Naoya’s chest—brass knuckles biting deep.

Gasping, Naoya doubles over. The air rips from his lungs in one crushed breath, and he grabs the edge of the table, knuckles white, wheezing. But Toji doesn’t even look angry. He just brushes a drop of blood from his wrist, flicking it to the floor.

“That’s the last time you raise your fucking voice to me…” he says quietly, leaning one hand flat on the table. “Get your shit together. Start thinking with your head—not your fucking dick. You’re not the one who makes the calls. I’m the one running this clan, are we clear?”

Naoya doesn’t answer. Can’t. He’s still wheezing, hunched over the table like the air might never fully return to his lungs. Straightening, Toji refills his sake glass—slow, unhurried—as if the conversation’s already over. And across the table, the red lace sits exactly where it landed. Bloodied, silent—still sitting in plain sight.

Mei picks up a ruby ring, turning it under the low light.

“Well…” she sighs, slipping it onto her finger, “if we’re taking votes, I’d love to kill the bitch. She’s getting a little too cozy in my house.”

Taking a slow sip, Toji doesn’t answer. His eyes are still locked on Naoya’s crumpled figure—like he’s weighing whether this was a warning or the warmup.

Propping her chin in her palm, Mei watches the ring flash red as it catches the light.

“She walks the halls like she owns them,” she murmurs. “Like she thinks she’s safe.”

Toji’s gaze flicks back to the lace on the table.

“She won’t be for much longer.”

A deep breath pulls through Naoya’s teeth, rough and shaky. He wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, then plants an elbow against the table—trying to think.

There’s blood in the air, metal in his teeth. The corpse on the table is already cooling, but the heat in Toji’s glare hasn’t faded.

You die if he slips again. And… if you die before he wins—before you look him in the eye and regret leaving—before he gets to make you need him again—then he loses forever.

And Naoya Zenin doesn’t lose.

Straightening, his breath finally steadies, and he forces the words out like they were always part of the plan.

“…she agreed to meet me,” he mutters.

Toji glances at him. Just a flick of the eyes.

“Did she?”

“Yeah…” Naoya nods once. “Tomorrow. The park by the river.” A pause. “She… thinks I want to talk.”

It sounds steadier than it should.

Because the truth is? He’s not sure what the fuck he’s doing anymore. He tells himself this is strategy. A setup. Another angle in the plan.

But in reality?

It’s need. It’s obsession. It’s him clawing at the fraying ends of something he used to hold in his hand like a leash.

Mei hums, unimpressed, setting the ruby down again.

“If she’s dumb enough to show up,” she shrugs, “she’s dumb enough to disappear.”

Naoya scoffs, jaw twitching.

You'll come.

“I never said she was smart.”

Mei smiles faintly, flipping a coin between her fingers. “No. Just smart enough to run before you tightened your leash.”

Leaning back, Naoya’s chair creaks under him.

“She still listens when I talk, doesn’t she?” His voice is low, mean. “Still flinches when I go quiet. Means she remembers her place.”

For a second, he almost believes it.

Mei glances at him, sideways.

“And yet… here you are,” she says. “Fumbling for control like a man who’s already lost it.”

Naoya’s glare snaps sharp, hot.

“Fuck you, Mei. She’ll come crawling back. Just you wait. She still wants me.”

Toji exhales through his nose, sharp and tired—like he’s heard this all before and it’s not worth the energy anymore.

“Oh, shut the fuck up—both of you.” He sets his glass down with a soft clink—a sound that lands heavier than any fist. His gaze cuts to Naoya—sharp, certain. “So. Tomorrow. You set this up?”

Hesitating, Naoya’s hand tightens around the edge of the table. The tension in his shoulders is like a drawn wire.

“Yeah…” he says finally.

Toji watches for a beat—then nods, like the final piece has just slotted into place.

“Alright. Then we’ll use it.” He steps forward, planting both hands on the table—casual, but weighted. “You show up. Smile. Play the part. Whatever version of ‘sorry’ she still falls for.”

Leaning in, Naoya’s eyes narrow. “Okay… sure. And where will you be?”

Toji smirks. “In the trees.” he rises, adjusting the cuffs of his sleeves. “We take her. And once she’s gone, Gojo will lose his goddamn mind.”

Mei perks up slightly, glancing up from her stack of bills.

“That’s the fun part.”

Toji nods. “If there's no mother, there's no custody. She vanishes—and before the hearing? The court eats that shit up alive. They’ll label her unstable. Reckless. Unfit.” He looks at Naoya. “Haru goes to you. And so long as you don’t fuck this up, you’ll get to keep your toy.” A beat. “And Gojo? He’ll fall apart trying to find her. Every camera. Every connection. He’ll tear his whole fucking empire down just to get to her.”

Naoya’s lip curls. Smug. That’s what he wants. But Toji doesn’t let it breathe.

“And when he’s desperate enough…” Toji steps closer. His voice drops. “He bends. He crawls. For her. For the kid.”

Mei smirks faintly, thumbing through another bill.

“Break the girl, break the man.”

Toji nods once. The final move in a game he’s already won. His eyes drop to the red lace still crumpled between the yen and the corpse’s elbow.

“Once you say the word, Naoya. We move.” He straightens, pulling his jacket off the back of the chair and sliding it over his shoulders. “We’ll be sure to wire you in the morning.” His voice is cool. Measured. “I’ll be listening in. Just give me the signal—

a pause

—and I take her.”

ꨄ

A knock at the door.

Haru stiffens beside you, her small fingers curling tight into the hem of your hoodie. You’re still barefoot, still warm from sleep, but something in you mirrors her instinct—your spine straightens, breath pausing at the thought of who’s on the other side.

“That’ll be them,” Satoru is already rising with a low stretch, dragging a hand through his hair as he strides toward the hallway.

The door swings open a moment later.

Nanami Kento.

He stands framed in the entryway like a man sculpted from stillness—tall, clean-cut, his suit so crisply pressed it looks like it could cut glass. Blonde hair swept neatly back, glasses catching the light, his expression unreadable.

Reserved, but not cold—the kind of man who makes silence feel like structure.

Surveying the room, he nods, stepping inside with measured ease, placing his suitcase down by the door. A moment later, Suguru follows behind him, all relaxed posture and familiar warmth—scarf loose, coat half-buttoned, hands tucked casually into his pockets.

“Mornin’,” Suguru greets softly, a quiet knowing nod.

You nod back. “Morning…”

Satoru shuts the door and leans into it, grin already tugging at his lips.

“Well, shit,” he drawls, eyes sliding toward Nanami. “You actually came.”

Nanami exhales like he’s already regretting it. “…you texted twelve times.”

Satoru pushes off the doorframe with a little whine, his steps lazy and exaggerated. “Yeah, well. You weren’t answering your phone,” he pouts. “I was starting to think you finally blocked me.”

“If that worked,” Nanami says dryly, “I’d have done it ten years ago.”

“Aww, you say the sweetest things, Nanamin~” Satoru beams, clapping a hand around his shoulder, giving him a warm, too-familiar shake. “Still stiff as a board, I see. What gives, Malaysia didn’t loosen you up?”

Exhaling, Nanami adjusts his jacket, like he’s resetting the moment.

“…I thought I was retired.”

Behind him, Suguru hums, unwrapping his scarf and hanging it over the rack.

“Was.”

Satoru’s grin broadens, playful as ever.

“You love me too much to stay gone.”

“I regret it already…” Nanami mutters.

“You should,” Suguru adds, smirking as he slips off his coat. “But we’re grateful you showed up.”

“Yes… well,” Nanami smooths a crease from his sleeve, voice quieter now. “…you said it was important.”

Satoru pauses, his smile shifting—quieter now, less playful.

“It is...”

His gaze flicks to you. Then down to Haru, still clinging to your leg like a koala. Straightening, his cocky smile returns—just enough to cut the weight in the room.

“Nanami… meet the only people on earth who still tolerate me,” he gestures grandly, a magician presenting his final trick. “My girls.”

Turning fully towards you, Nanami’s head dips in a small, courteous bow.

“Mrs. Gojo,” he says, voice even. “It’s a pleasure. I’m Kento.”

“Kento,” you echo with a nod, offering a soft smile. “Nice to meet you too.”

Your hand moves gently along Haru’s back, a quiet reassurance she doesn’t take. She’s glued to your leg, her little body half-hidden in the folds of your hoodie, face tucked into the fabric like it’s a shield.

Smoothing a hand down in slow, comforting strokes, you glance up at Nanami with a small, apologetic smile.

“She’s a little shy around new people…” your gaze dips down to her. “Haru? Sweetie… can you say hi to Mr. Nanami?”

Lowering his gaze, Nanami studies her in silence. He doesn’t step forward. Doesn’t crouch. Doesn’t crowd. Just waits—still and calm.

Haru peeks. Then retreats.

“Nanamin, c’mon man…” Satoru groans behind you. “You trying to scare her into a lifetime of therapy?”

Nanami doesn’t even blink. “I… haven’t said anything?”

“Exactly,” Satoru sighs, rubbing a hand over his jaw. “She’s timid around serious people. And you, my friend, look like you do taxes in your sleep.”

But glancing down at Haru, Satoru hesitates—just for a beat.

Because there are still days—quiet, strange days—when he’s unsure how to comfort her. When her small flinches echo louder in his chest than they should. When he wonders if he’s failed before he’s even begun. When her silence makes him feel like he’s still standing on the outside of a door he desperately wants to be let into.

Sometimes he wonders if he’s more stranger than safety.

But then, he breathes out, settling on the rug beside her, careful not to startle. He doesn’t speak at first. Just reaches out, resting a hand gently against the small of her back—steady, grounding.

“Haru…” he murmurs, softer, more measured. “Sweetheart…”

She doesn’t look up.

Leaning closer, he keeps his tone light. “Hey… this is my friend. Nanamin.”

She peeks. Just a flash of her eye.

“…Nanamin?” she murmurs, muffled against the hoodie.

“Mhm,” Satoru nods, grin softening as he gently brushes a knuckle along her cheek. “He’s gonna help protect you and Mommy for me.”

Blinking, her grip shifts, loosening your hoodie slightly.

“He’s not scary,” Satoru whispers, conspiratorial now, as if sharing a very important secret. “Promise. He doesn’t eat kids. Just spreadsheets. And sometimes bad guys.”

That earns the softest giggle—thin and breathy, curling beneath her lips like something fragile finally surfacing. And Satoru’s chest warms with it—like sun cracking through a cloudy morning.

With a heavy breath, his hand settles over her back again, reassuring. She doesn’t flinch this time. Clearing his throat, Nanami brings your attention back to him.

“…may I?” he asks you, removing his glasses, gesturing to the space on the rug in front of her.

“Oh, yes.” You nod, caught a little off guard by his gentle tone. “Of course.”

Crouching slowly, the fabric of his suit whispers against itself as he settles into the space. Not too close. Just close enough.

“Hello there,” his voice is low and warm. “…may I ask your name?”

Hiding her face, Haru grips your sweater tighter. Refusing to answer.

“It’s okay, sweetheart,” you lean down, soothing her. “Go on. You can tell him.”

A pause.

Then, she tentatively whispers, “…Haru.”

Nanami nods, like she’s given him something sacred.

“That’s a beautiful name, Haru.”

She doesn’t respond. Not with words, at least. But her fingers loosen, and her eyes lift—still cautious, but no longer retreating.

From it, Nanami reaches into his coat pocket. There’s something about the gesture—precise, but quiet—that draws Haru’s attention. When his hand reemerges, he’s holding a folded crane. Pale blue paper patterned with tiny clouds. He sets it gently on the rug between them, like it’s always meant to be there.

“I made this on the train,” he says simply. “I thought you might like it.”

Haru blinks, slowly lowering herself to her knees, studying the crane with wide eyes.

Still crouched nearby, Satoru raises a brow. “Wait. You made that?”

Nanami doesn’t look at him. “Yes.”

“Origami?”

“Yes.”

“…the fuck?”

Behind him, Suguru’s voice drifts in with a faint laugh. “He’s been folding paper since middle school. You never noticed?”

Satoru whips his head around to look at him, genuinely affronted. “How have I never known this?!”

Suguru shrugs, unbothered. “Because you were too busy getting suspended for throwing erasers out the window.”

Nanami doesn’t react. Just keeps his focus gently on the little girl in front of him.

“You can keep it,” he tells her. “If you’d like.”

Looking up at him, Haru slowly stretches forward, picking up the crane like it’s something precious, like it might fly away if she touches it too roughly. Something meant for her.

“…it’s pretty,” she whispers.

Satoru rises with a groan, stretching as he leans against the wall beside Suguru, arms folded, eyes narrowed in mock betrayal.

“…she warmed up to him faster than she did to me.”

Suguru grins. “She’s got good taste.”

Satoru pouts, muttering, “I make her waffles…”

But before Suguru can toss another jab, the soft click of the front door handle breaks the moment—the familiar twist of metal, the hush of hinges swinging open.

The energy shifts. And then—Remi steps inside.

Her heels tap lightly against the floor, coat draped perfectly over her shoulders, a scarf knotted at her throat with practiced elegance. She pauses in the entryway, looking surprised to see so many people in the foyer, but it fades quickly behind a polished smile.

“Hi Haru!” she calls brightly, saccharine sweet.

Haru’s head whips up, eyes wide.

“Remi!” she gasps, nearly dropping the paper crane in her hands—taking off in a rush of quick footsteps, throwing her arms around Remi’s legs, giggling. “You’re here!”

Crouching down to return the hug, Remi softens with a familiar ease. “Of course I am, sweetheart,” her fingers tuck a curl behind Haru’s ear. “I’m excited to play with you today!”

From his place near the wall, Satoru straightens, unfolding slowly from where he’s been leaning—expression neutral, but watching closely.

“Ah, Remi…” he says, tilting his head slightly. “Meant to text you earlier. Should’ve mentioned.”

You glance toward him, brow furrowing. And she glances up, blinking once.

“Oh?”

“Yeah, sorry you came all the way down here. But you’re not needed today.” He gestures loosely towards you. “My wife’s staying home. So go ahead and take the day off, yeah?”

You blink, startled. He didn’t mention that. Usually Remi stays to help, regardless. Still—

…you guess it makes sense, doesn’t it?

You’re home. Haru’s home. So... of course you wouldn’t need the nanny. Brushing the surprise off, you tuck it away.

Remi hesitates just a second too long—her lashes flickering, eyes jumping from Satoru to you… then drifting, just barely, toward the unfamiliar man crouched on the rug beside Haru.

Nanami is already rising, adjusting the cuffs of his sleeves with quiet, deliberate calm. And for a moment, you feel it—a ripple beneath the surface. Nothing you can name. Just a shift.

Remi’s smile returns quickly, but there’s a brittleness to it now. “I see,” she smooths her coat, standing upright. “Well…” she shifts her purse on her shoulder. “I’ll just—leave you all to it, then.”

But Haru, still clutching her hand, pulls her back with the urgency of someone who needs to share something important. “Wait! Look!” she holds up the crane, beaming. “Nanamin made this for me!”

Remi blinks, eyes dropping to the crane, lingering for a second too long, and when she looks up again, her smile doesn’t quite reach her eyes.

“How lovely…” she murmurs. “You take good care of it, alright sweetheart?”

“I will!” Haru chirps, already turning back toward Nanami, fingers curled around the little wings.

Releasing her hand, Remi steps back, moving toward the door. Her heels tap gently against the marble as she passes behind Satoru, casting a fleeting glance in Nanami’s direction. Then she leaves—the door closing—a soft, decisive click.

“Nanamin,” Haru says brightly, lifting the crane with both hands. “What’s his name?”

Leaning forward, Nanami’s forearms rest gently on his knees.

“He doesn’t have one yet… but I think he’s waiting for you to choose.”

Tilting her head, Haru’s eyes flick between the delicate folds of the crane and Nanami’s face.

“But… I don’t know what he wants to be.”

Nanami hums, studying the little paper bird. “Hmm… he looks like a Sora to me. That means ‘sky’ in Japanese. Peaceful. Light. Brave. Seems fitting… don’t you think?”

Haru’s eyes brighten. “Sora…” she repeats softly, looking down at the crane with newfound reverence. “Okay! That’s his name.”

“A very good choice,” Nanami smiles gently.

Beaming, she inches closer, holding the crane up between them like an offering.

“Can you help me make one?”

You chuckle under your breath, looking down at your daughter.

“She’s going to want a whole family of them by the end of the day…”

Nanami looks up, giving you a wry smile, and you glance toward Satoru, still leaning against the wall. His arms are folded, but there’s something softer in his eyes now. Something almost protective.

His gaze is on Haru, but then it flicks to you. And you know—without him saying a word—he’s relieved. And honestly? You are too. Because Haru’s earlier anxiety has dissolved entirely—like mist lifting from the floor. You hadn’t even realized your shoulders were still tense until now. Because you weren’t sure what to expect with this Nanami Kento… but if he’s someone Satoru is trusting you with? Then… you will trust him too.

“Do you have paper?” Nanami asks you, then turns his attention back to Haru. “If we have paper, I’d be happy to show you Haru.”

“Yay!!” she squeals, scampering off—voice trailing behind her as she rambles about colors, wingspans, and how the next crane should have a name that means rainbow.

Starting to rise, you instinctively begin to follow her, but a familiar voice draws you back.

“Well then… we’re gonna head out,” Suguru calls from near the door, adjusting his coat with one hand.

Satoru groans as he pushes off the wall, stretching his arms overhead. “Duty calls…” he mutters, dragging a hand over his face before walking toward you.

“Oh… right.” Nodding, you meet him halfway—him stopping in front of you. As your eyes meet, there’s something different in the way he holds your gaze. Something gentler.

“Hey…” his hand lifts to tuck a piece of hair behind your ear—fingers lingering a beat too long. “You’ll… be alright?”

“Yeah…” you nod once, but the gesture carries weight. A dozen things you don’t say. That you’re still a little nervous. That you know he’s been trying to keep you at ease. That you hate this. That you wish he wasn’t leaving. That you know why he has to.

That despite everything… you have a gut feeling why he hired Nanami. And that… you trust him, unconditionally.

He’s studying you—really studying you—gaze moving across your features, searching, as if trying to read the things your mouth won’t form. And when your eyes flick away—when your lips press into something tight and fragile—he exhales.

“Hmmm…” his arms warp around your waist, swaying. “If I tell Naoya to go to hell and cancel this… would you be mad?”

You blink up at him, startled. “Wait… what?”

“I’m serious,” he says, eyes narrowing. “Give me one reason. I’ll stay.”

You pause, caught between the earnestness in his voice and the way it cracks your chest open. A soft breath escapes your lips—a laugh, small but real. And that alone makes his shoulders ease just slightly.

“Satoru…” you say, gently. “You… you can’t,” you sigh, swallowing. “For the custody battle… for Haru. You have to go talk to him.”

“Yeah… I know,” he mutters, exhaling. “Still doesn’t mean I like leaving… especially not when your face looks like that.”

You pause, lifting a brow. “Oh? What face?”

“The one that makes me want to deck him twice before we’ve even said hello.”

A light giggle slips past your lips, and that smile, that sound—it’s everything he needs, every assurance that tells him it’s going to be okay. You’re going to be okay.

...right?

His hand moves again, brushing a knuckle down your cheek, thumb tracing your jaw. Then, slowly, he leans in, pressing a kiss to your forehead—slow, steady. Like a vow. Like he’s sealing something in the silence.

But as he lingers there, words begin to build behind his lips—the urge to say it.

I love you.

It’s there. Pressing hard against the back of his throat. Lingering. Long enough to consider saying it. But…

No. Fuck… not here. Not yet. Suguru’s watching. Nanami’s waiting. Haru’s nearby, chattering about paper cranes and rainbows like it’s the most important thing in the world.

So instead, he swallows it down, tucking it somewhere safe, resting on something smaller.

“Be back soon…” he murmurs into your hair, a little hoarse. “…I’ll miss you.”

You nod, but your fingers curl into the front of his coat, grounding him for just a second longer. “I’ll miss you too,” you murmur.

Pulling back, a slow smile tugs at his lips—quiet, lopsided. The kind he only ever gives you. Then, reluctantly, he steps away, turning toward the rug where Haru is—Sora in hand.

“Bye, sweetheart,” he crouches beside her, brushing a lock of hair from her face. “You be good for Mommy and Nanamin, okay?”

“Okay…” Haru nods, clutching her crane to her chest. “Bye-bye, ‘toru.”

Chuckling, he taps her nose gently, rising—adjusting the hem of his coat. Nanami is already at the door, waiting with a quiet kind of stillness that feels more like assurance than impatience.

Satoru joins him. But before stepping past, he turns for one last look.

You’re seated now on the rug, watching Haru chatter excitedly about crane friends and rainbows. Your hands guide hers through another fold, her head bows in concentration. And while you’re there, smiling at her, nodding at whatever she’s saying, something about it… roots him.

For a moment, he just stands there, watching. Quiet. Still. Then, without turning away, he speaks to Nanami.

“I’m trusting you with my family.”

Nanami blinks, not answering at first. Satoru’s voice is quiet. Stripped of his usual wit.

Honest.

He hesitates. Not because he’s unsure—but because he knows the weight of that statement. Because he hears something in it that Satoru Gojo rarely gives: vulnerability.

After a moment, Nanami nods. “…I know.”

And Satoru nods back, something faint and unspoken passing between them. A trust that didn’t need proving—but was given anyway.

Exhaling, Satoru steps out as Suguru pushes the door open beside him.

“Try not to give her a spreadsheet to color, kay?” he waves, half-grinning as he steps out.

Nanami lifts a brow. “…I’ll do my best.”

And then they’re gone.

The door clicks closed behind them, the house exhales. The warmth returns, but underneath it… a stillness lingers. Like the moment before a thread pulls taut.

You shift on the rug beside Haru, who’s holding out a new sheet of paper in both hands like it’s a treasure.

“Nanamin!!” she calls. “This one’s gonna be Sora’s friend. Can you help?”

And settling beside her, they begin again.

“Of course, Haru.”

ꨄ

“You’re staring at the ceiling like it owes you money.”

Slouching in the limo’s leather seat, a low hum rumbles in Satoru’s chest—like he’s tuning Suguru out entirely. One leg stretches out, the other hooks casually over his knee. His head is tipped back against the headrest and his arm is tucked lazily behind it—sunglasses perched in his snowy hair haphazardly.

As the car glides beneath them, smooth and muffled, the outside world is reduced to shapes behind tinted windows. Across from him, Suguru sits—phone in hand, thumb idly scrolling. But his eyes linger on Satoru, drawn to the quiet focus in his best friend’s expression.

Suguru sighs, nudging the sole of Satoru’s shoe with the tip of his own.

“Oi!”

Satoru startles just enough to be annoyed. “The hell—”

“I’m talking to you,” Suguru deadpans.

“You could’ve just said my name like a normal person…” Satoru huffs.

“I did. Twice. You ignored me. Kicking you was plan B.”

A long, exaggerated exhale drags through Satoru’s nose—long suffering. He shifts, arms crossing loosely as he leans back into his seat again, eyes fluttering closed like maybe if he fakes sleep, Suguru will let it go.

He doesn’t.

“You’ve been quiet for five whole minutes,” Suguru muses. “Should I be worried?”

Smirking, Satoru cracks a blue eye open. “Wow. You want me to talk more? Frame this moment. Call the press.”

Suguru rolls his eyes. “I’m just saying…” he shifts, slipping his phone into his coat pocket, leaning an elbow on the armrest. “…I’m not used to seeing your mouth closed. It’s unnerving.”

Satoru’s smirk stretches deeper. “Yeah?” he lets his eye fall shut again, shifting deeper into the seat with a low, amused hum. “That’s rich coming from the guy who used to make me sit through his existential philosophy rants after two beers,” he murmurs.

Clicking his tongue, Suguru grins. “Yeah, well. At least I shut up when the beer runs out.”

“Mmm… touché,” Satoru chuckles.

For a moment, the silence returns—lingering as Suguru glances at him sideways, reading between the lines. He sighs.

“C’mon… what’s really up?” he asks, tilting his head. “You’ve got that expression again.”

Raising a brow, Satoru’s eyes open.

“What expression?” he plays dumb.

Suguru rolls his eyes, seeing straight through his bullshit.

“The one where your brain’s running a marathon and none of us are invited.”

Giving in, Satoru exhales—long, deep. Like it’s the first real breath he’s taken in minutes.

“Dunno,” he mutters, arms dropping, fingers running back through his hair. “Just… thinkin’, I guess.”

His gaze shifts toward the window, and the city slides past in streaks of motion blur—gray buildings, flashes of glass and steel. Everything feels like it’s moving too fast and not fast enough all at once.

Suguru doesn’t push. Just watches—tracking the shift in his tone. He already knows where this is going. There’s only one thing that’s been able to slow Satoru Gojo down lately. Only one person.

“…about your wife?”

Satoru’s eyes flick to him, a hum slipping from his throat—low, almost sheepish.

“Yeah…” he says quietly. “She’s in my head a lot lately.”

Leaning back in his seat, Suguru’s arms fold loosely across his chest.

“You’re different with her.”

A slow smile curls at Satoru’s mouth, wry and self-aware. “Psh… is that your way of saying I’m whipped?”

“No,” Suguru replies dryly. “That’s my way of saying you’re not acting like a complete jackass for once. Never thought I’d see the day.”

“Wow,” Satoru gasps, clutching his chest with mock betrayal. “Touching. Really. Remind me to put that on a plaque.”

“Yup. With her, your… serious. Less obnoxious. Honestly?” Suguru pauses for effect. “Slightly tolerable.”

“Jesus,” Slouching deeper into his seat, Satoru tosses one arm over his face with theatrical flair. “I’m being bullied,” he whines, muffled. “Bullied in my own limo. Suguru, say something nice before I cry.”

“No,” Suguru corrects, barely holding back a grin. “This is an intervention.”

Satoru peeks out from under his arm, his pout barely hidden beneath the feigned theatrics. “You used to be nicer to me.”

“Yeah, well,” Suguru shrugs, resting his head lightly against the tinted window. “You used to be single.”

That pulls a low laugh from Satoru’s chest, his hand dragging through his hair as he sighs—deep, thoughtful. The humor lingers, but so does something heavier beneath it.

“I dunno…” he mumbles, scratching the back of his neck. “It’s not like I haven’t been with people. But with her…” he trails off, struggling to articulate something that still feels too big, too personal.

Suguru fills in the blank for him.

“You don’t want to fuck it up.”

Satoru huffs a breath that’s almost a laugh. “Yeah… that.”

“She’s got you all twisted, man,” Suguru says, shaking his head with a grin. “You, the guy who ghosted a girl for bringing a toothbrush.”

Satoru groans like he’s already regretting ever telling him that story. Grimacing, he tosses a hand in the air. “That toothbrush was aggressive…” he mutters, like that justifies everything. “She left it in my sink on the second date.”

“Right… and now here you are, firing your entire staff after someone steals your wife’s panties?”

Groaning loudly, Satoru drags both hands down his face. “Don’t start.”

Suguru snickers, clearly enjoying himself. “I’m just saying—when Satoru Gojo starts launching internal investigations over lace? That’s not casual.”

“Fuck off,” Satoru groans again, voice muffled by his palms.

Leaning forward slightly, Suguru rests his chin in his hand.

“It’s just…” his expression softens. “I’m pretty sure this is the most serious you’ve ever been about anyone.”

For a moment, Satoru says nothing. His eyes flick toward the passing city again—then shift back to Suguru, and when he speaks, the joking tone is gone. There’s no smirk, no dramatic pout. Just truth, laid plain.

“Yeah… well…” he murmurs, voice low. “She’s it, y’know?”

He holds Suguru’s gaze.

“…she’s my one and only.”

That makes Suguru pause.

Something in his face stills. It’s not like he didn’t know—but hearing it like that, from Satoru, who never says anything like that? It lands.

“Well… damn,” Suguru mutters.

Satoru nods, slow and firm, like he’s still trying to believe it himself. Like saying it out loud makes it more real.

“Last night…” his eyes fix on the skyline again. “I told her I loved her.”

Suguru blinks. A beat of stunned silence settles between them.

“…holy shit.”

A faint smirk tugs at Satoru’s mouth. He nods again, almost sheepish.

Suguru straightens, brow arching. “She say it back?”

Satoru snorts under his breath. “She was asleep.”

Suguru stares. “You confessed to a sleeping woman?”

“I didn’t plan it, alright?” Satoru groans, flopping back against the seat like it physically pains him. “It just came out. We were talking… I was lying there with her in my arms, and it just—happened,” he scrubs a hand over his face, dragging it down in frustration. “And after I said it, I looked down and she was already out. Just… totally asleep.”

Suguru stares at him for a moment, then shakes his head with a quiet laugh. “You’re a fucking idiot.”

“Thanks,” Satoru deadpans.

“So… now what?” Suguru asks.

Leaning forward, Satoru’s forearms brace against his knees, palms rubbing together like he’s grounding himself. His voice drops again—quieter, more measured.

“I guess… I wait? Or try again,” he sighs, pausing. “But… I want to do it right. This time, I want her to hear it. I want her to know I mean it...” His hands fall still, eyes dropping to the floor. “She deserves that… a real proposal. A real wedding. Not… whatever the hell I dragged her into.”

For a moment, neither of them speaks. The limo hums along, the gentle rhythm of the road filling the silence like background music to something neither of them wants to admit feels heavy.

Then—click—the intercom above the driver’s seat crackles softly to life.

“We’re about five minutes out,” Ichiji’s voice chimes through, polite as always. “Approaching the south entrance of the park now.”

Satoru blinks, dragging a hand down his face like the sound physically yanks him out of his thoughts. Leaning back, he eyes the window again—but the skyline has faded now, replaced by iron railings and leaf-heavy trees, blurring past.

Suguru exhales, straightening in his seat.

“So… remember what we discussed,” Suguru murmurs. “You want me to start?”

Satoru shifts, pulling his sunglasses from where they’re perched in his hair, sliding them into place over his eyes. His expression hardens, smoothing into something unreadable.

It’s like watching armor click into place.

“I’ll start,” he declares. “If he gets mouthy, feel free to step in and hurt his feelings.”

Suguru huffs a laugh, pulling his long hair into a lazy bun at the nape of his neck. “Sounds like a plan. Just… don’t underestimate him. Stay alert, this is the yakuza we’re dealing with. And try not to lash out. Anything you say, he’s gonna try to use against you.”

"Yeah..." Satoru nods once, slow. His jaw ticks. "I know..."

And he'll do whatever's needed, whatever he needs to do.

For you.

ꨄ

The wind bites through the trees with purpose, and Naoya adjusts the cuff of his coat, eyes fixed on the empty path ahead, foot tapping against the stone beneath him. His nerves are fraying—not that he’d admit it—but this waiting game has never suited him. Waiting implies he’s not in control. And he is in control. Always has been.

Glancing down at his watch, he exhales, irritated.

Where the fuck are you?

You said you’d come.

And you always do, don’t you? Compliance is a habit. He made sure of that. And when you show up today—alone, nervous, eyes soft with apology—it’ll confirm everything. That you’re his.

That’s why you’re coming today… right? Because deep down, you want to come back. You still need him.

And he’s not unreasonable, okay?! God, he’s not cruel. Not unless you push him. Not unless you make him be. He only ever raised his voice because you forced him to. He only grabbed your wrist because you weren’t listening. He had to yell, to break you when you left him no choice.

You’re just being difficult. You’ve always been a little emotional, haven’t you? Fragile. Confused. You run away, cry—then crawl back. Right now, you’re just spiraling—latching onto anything that feels safe. And maybe Gojo feels safe to you right now. Sure. He’s got the money. The house. The image.

But given time, you’ll remember who you belong to.

He almost convinces himself of it, and then, as a black limo rolls into view—tires crunching over gravel—he straightens, lips curling in amusement.

Finally.

Well… that is, until the door opens with a hiss and two silhouettes step out.

Satoru. Fucking. Gojo.

White hair catching the gray light, hands shoving in his pockets, like nothing here is serious enough to touch him. That stupid, lazy grin already on his face. And beside him, Suguru Geto—all quiet control, eyes scanning the space.

Naoya stills. No you.

…where the fuck are you?

You said you’d come. His lips pull back into a snarl.

“God fucking dammit…” he mutters, jaw clenching as the door closes behind them.

The earpiece in his collar clicks. “What?” Toji’s voice filters through.

Naoya doesn’t answer right away—eyes narrowing as Gojo lifts his hand in a lazy wave, like this is some social call, like greeting an old friend. Like Naoya’s the punchline.

“They didn’t bring her…” he growls. “It’s just Gojo and Geto.”

There’s a beat. Static hums.

“Mmm. Yup.” Toji replies. Flat. Like he saw it coming. “Figured this might happen.”

The two men begin their approach, shoes tapping over the stone in slow, deliberate steps—dragging the moment out, letting it stretch. They’re making it a fucking show. And every second of it grates under Naoya’s skin.

Growling, Naoya’s hands curl into fists inside his coat pockets.

“Fuck the plan,” he mutters. “We should just end it here, yeah?”

Toji huffs, unimpressed. “You wanna jump ‘em? In broad daylight?”

Naoya’s jaw tightens. “No one’s around. We move fast—”

“No.”

That single word lands sharp.

Naoya bristles. “What?”

“You heard me. Don’t fuck up again. Remember what happens if you do?”

Naoya falls silent and Toji grins.

Good.

Eyes narrowing, Toji watches them approach—perched in his hidden vantage point, one with the trees. He’s not worried about a fight—he’s just not stupid enough to pick the wrong one.

Gojo’s got that cocky swagger, sure—but it’s not just for show. There’s balance in his stride. Stillness in his arms, even with his hands stuffed in his pockets. His weight shifts like someone who knows where to brace if things go sideways.

He’s not posturing. He’s ready.

Because Satoru Gojo isn’t just some heir with a punchable face. Takemi made sure of that. He didn’t raise a son. Raised a successor. Something sharp in a soft coat.

And Geto—fuck, Toji hates the quiet ones. Geto’s not looking at them—not even pretending to care. Which means he’s watching everything. Lawyer or not, that kind of calm means one thing: he’s broken someone’s nose before, and didn’t lose sleep over it.

Toji could take them. Maybe. Probably.

But this isn’t about if.

It’s about when.

And where.

And what the fallout looks like.

You were easy.

One snatch. Clean. Quiet.

But this? This is different. Two men trained to react, both alert, in a public park?

That’s not control. That’s noise.

And Toji doesn’t like noise.

“They’re right here,” Naoya snaps, again. “C’mon, let’s just end him. This whole thing’s a joke if we don’t—”

“I said, no.”

This time it lands like a gunshot—sharp, final—wind moving through the branches, brittle and dry.

“I’m not here to fight him,” he exhales. “I’m here to break him. Ruin him.” He pauses, a wicked grin stretching across his lips. “And… that takes patience, ‘cuz. Our day will come.”

ꨄ

Satoru’s grin pulls slow across his mouth as they near, all teeth and lazy ease.

"Appreciate you makin’ time for us," he hums, stepping forward without a care in the world, hands tucked deep into his pockets, like he’s strolling through this encounter instead of walking into a confrontation.

Naoya’s jaw ticks.

“You’re not the one I came to see.”

Tilting his head, Satoru studies him with a laziness that’s almost mocking. His grin lingers, but there’s a shift—something colder bleeding in around the edges.

“You really thought I’d let you get within ten feet of my wife…?”

Wife.

The word detonates in Naoya’s blood, cracking through the cold air like a whip.

“Tch. What a load of shit…” he scowls. “She was never wife material to begin with.”

Shifting his weight lazily, Satoru hums, tapping his chin like he's genuinely thinking it over, just to be an asshole about it.

“I’d say it suits her,” he muses. “She looks better beside me. Softer. Happier.” He lets it hang, watching Naoya grind his teeth. “Almost like… she smiles more when you're not around.”

Naoya’s nostrils flare, body tightening under his coat like he’s one wrong word from snapping.

“She’s just clinging to you because she’s scared to be alone,” he spits, stepping forward a fraction, trying to reclaim ground he’s already lost. "Always trembling for attention... doesn’t mean she actually wants you."

Satoru’s grin doesn’t slip. If anything, it deepens—slow, wicked.

"Naaah…” he shrugs, closing the space between them without hurry, savoring it. “She trembles because I actually know how to touch her.” He quirks a brow, grinning. “I just make her feel good, in more ways than one."

Naoya’s eyes flare as Satoru casts him a lazy wink—like twisting the knife is part of the fun.

“Fuck you.”

Satoru laughs. “Did I hit a nerve?” he tilts his head, slowly. “Y’know… she leaves things with me. In my nightstand. Little things. Keepsakes. It’s kinda our thing.” He shrugs, smug. “Weird when they disappear…”

He lets it hang there for a moment.

“…you ever notice when something’s just… not where you left it?”

In Naoya’s ear, the comm hisses softly.

“Don’t react. Don’t take the bait.”

Naoya scoffs, trying to roll his shoulders loose.

“You lose something, or are we just makin conversation?”

Satoru’s grin curves slow, sharp at the edges.

“Nah… not lost. Just gone. There’s a difference.”

Studying Naoya, Satoru’s gaze flicks downward—to his hand—to the bandage wrapped around his palm. Clean, precise, fresh.

“Huh…” he hums softly. “That looks recent.”

Tensing, Naoya glances down at his hand before shoving it back into his coat pocket—like it’s nothing.

“Glass,” he mutters. “Broke something. Cut my palm.”

Satoru nods, contemplative. “You know…” he drawls slowly. “I couldn’t help noticing a bit of blood in my wife’s bedroom the other day.”

“Oh… yeah?” Naoya murmurs.

“Mhmm…” Satoru’s eyes narrow. “Strange, right? Seeing as none of my staff seemed hurt.”

The comm clicks again.

“Push it off you. Change the subject.”

“You’re sounding a bit paranoid Gojo,” Naoya scoffs, shifting. “If this is how you handle losing a memento, can’t imagine how you’ll handle losing in court,” Naoya straightens, smirking. “Figures she’d send her fucking lapdog to speak for her today. Little bitch was always good at pretending she was the victim. Won’t even face me.”

Satoru’s expression hardens instantly—that lazy grin vanishing in a blink. But as he feels Suguru’s hand on his shoulder, he shifts, glancing at his best friend.

Suguru is smiling, wide and unbothered—sliding between them like it’s his turn on the chessboard.

“Come on now, Naoya…” he hums, light with mock sympathy. “As a fellow lawyer, you know how this works.”

Gritting his teeth, Naoya glares. “Suguru Geto…”

“Yo.” Suguru lifts two fingers in a lazy wave. “Long time no see.”

He lets that hang for a moment before continuing.

“There’s a case open. Custody-related. Which means you shouldn’t be anywhere near my client… right?” Suguru reminds him, head tilting in amusement. “So, you’ll be directing all communication through me moving forward. I’ll be representing y/n.”

Naoya huffs, rolling his eyes. “What happened, Geto? Couldn’t cut it in real courtrooms, so you’re doing babysitting gigs for Gojo now?”

Suguru chuckles softly. “You can question my résumé if it helps you sleep at night,” his grin stretches, sharper. “Won’t change what’s coming. This case will be over faster than your career ever was.”

“Pfft. Yeah?” Naoya laughs bitterly. “Good luck building a case on her.” He sneers. “She can barely hold it together for five minutes without crying. Weak, whiny little bitch.”

Satoru’s jaw locks, heat radiating off him. “Hey. Watch your fucking mouth.”

Peering back, Suguru lifts a hand—calm, watchful.

“Satoru...”

But Naoya keeps going.

“You think you won something?” he spits. “She’s nothing but a fucking burden. Always was.”

Satoru’s blue eyes darken into something dangerous.

“I’m serious…” he steps forward, voice lowering. “You better watch your fucking mouth…”

“…that so?” Naoya raises a brow.

Bingo. He just got an idea.

Shifting on his heels, he crosses his arms behind his head lazily.

“And why’s that, Gojo? Did I hit a nerve now?

Exhaling slowly through his nose, Satoru tries to hold himself steady.

“You’ve got some fucking nerve… I’ll tell ya that.” He lowers his glasses to the bridge, glaring into Naoya’s eyes. “She carried everything you couldn’t handle… and you have the nerve to call her a burden?” he scoffs. “Tell me—did you even try being a father to Haru?”

The comm crackles in Naoya’s ear. Toji’s voice, low and amused:

“Careful. You’re about to get punched.”

But Naoya grins. Because that’s exactly what he wants.

“Don’t even get me started on her as a mother,” he scoffs. “Pathetic. A fucking failure. Can’t handle a kid, can’t handle herself. Sure—she’s got a pretty face, a hot body…” He shrugs. “But that’s it. Nothing underneath.”

Satoru’s shoulders rise, slow and stiff. Suguru shifts again.

“Satoru. Don’t…” he mutters carefully.

But Satoru’s eyes hold Naoya’s. Glare sharpening.

“I’m telling you now…” his fist clenches. “You don’t get another warning.”

Smirking, Naoya shrugs again—like he’s tossing scraps.

“Well… at least she spread her legs good,” he sighs, shaking his head. “Decent fuck. Though even then, she couldn’t finish unless someone told her she was worth the mess. Pathetic little—”

The punch lands hard. A sharp, wet crack as Naoya’s head jerks sideways—blood blooming at the corner of his mouth. Stumbling back, he hits the concrete with a thud, grinning. And Satoru surges forward again, but Suguru’s already there—arm around his chest, pulling him back firmly.

“Hey. Hey—enough.”

But Satoru’s not done.

“You say another word,” he growls, fighting Suguru’s hold, “and I swear to God I’ll bury you so deep in the ground, your own fucking clan will forget you existed.”

With an exaggerated groan, Naoya lazily wipes the blood dripping from the corner of his mouth with the back of his hand.

“Ouch…” he winces, looking up, grinning. “My poor lip… I don’t think the judge is gonna like this little outburst.”

Satoru freezes, and Naoya’s grin stretches—lip split in a red smile.

“What do you think?” he muses mockingly, pulling out a recording device from his pocket. “My daughter’s stepdad… threatening to kill me in a public park.” He tsks softly. “Not exactly a good look.”

Fuck.

Satoru’s stomach drops. For a second, he just stands there, breathing hard—eyes widening. Then, without thinking, he lunges—hand shooting toward the recorder, full of blind instinct.

“Give me that! You fucking—”

But Suguru’s arm is already across his chest, yanking him back hard.

“Alright,” he mutters sharply, “that’s enough. Let it go, Satoru.”

Rising from the ground, Naoya laughs softly, dusting off his pants.

“Aww… don’t be a sore loser,” he says lightly, holding the device up mockingly. “You gave me a gift.”

Satoru’s lips press together—he’s seething. But before he can say or do more, Suguru is dragging him by the arm, heading towards the limo.

“Right then, anyways,” Suguru shouts back, waving lazily. “See ya in court, Naoya. Good talk. Till next time.”

“Sure, sure,” Naoya calls after them, voice lilting. “And you should work on your temper Gojo!” He chuckles, waving. “Afterall, it looks bad in court. Especially for someone around a kid.”

ꨄ

The limo door slams shut—so hard even Ichiji flinches from the front seat.

“Fuck,” Satoru mutters, plopping into his seat. “Fucking fuck…”

With a flick of his wrist, he tosses his sunglasses across the console. Both hands rake through his hair, tugging at the roots in frustration.

“This is bullshit…” he grits.

Exhaling through his nose, Suguru settles into the seat across from him with infuriating calm—folding one leg over the other, like he’s already miles past what just happened.

“You got blood on your cuff,” he says casually, nodding at Satoru’s sleeve.

Satoru’s gaze snaps up.

“I should’ve done more,” he growls. “Fucking prick. You heard what he said!”

“I did,” Suguru nods. “And so did your right hook. Pretty sure that’s why he was grinning through the blood.”

Groaning in defeat, Satoru runs both hands down his face.

“Shit…” he quiets. “I fucked that up…”

“Mmm… I wouldn’t go that far,” Suguru hums. Calm. Assured. “He had that punch coming. You just beat me to it.”

Peeking at him through his fingers, Satoru gives him a flat, exhausted stare.

“Dude… what the hell. You were supposed to stop me. Why didn’t you stop me?”

A slow grin tugs at Suguru’s mouth.

“You think I didn’t know he was baiting you?” he shrugs. “I figured you’d hit him. He figured you’d hit him.”

Satoru blinks. “…seriously?”

“Don’t worry about it,” he sighs, pulling a sleek black recorder from his inner jacket pocket. “Our version will hold up better in court.”

Satoru’s entire body stills. He stares down at the recorder like it’s divine intervention.

“…you were recording too?”

“I’m always recording,” Suguru replies smoothly, leaning back with a faint smile. “Especially when you’re involved.”

“Oh thank God…” Satoru’s expression softens with relief.

“It’s gonna be fine,” Suguru waves it off, shoving the recorder back in his pocket. “Your little death threat won’t matter much once the judge hears him call your wife a whore and a failed mother. Among other things.”

Satoru exhales, slumping further into the leather like all his tension has finally snapped free. His eyes close.

“…I owe you.”

“I know.”

“Like—big time.”

“You do.”

Cracking one eye open, Satoru mutters, “What do you want? Beer? Blood? My firstborn? I’ll sit through one of your 3 a.m. philosophy rants if that’s what it takes.”

Suguru’s grin widens, just slightly.

“Mmm… I’ll let you know when I think of something properly excruciating.”

Satoru huffs out a tired laugh, shaking his head.

“…thanks, man.”

ꨄ

As the limo’s tail lights disappear into the dark, Satoru stands still for a moment at the Gojo estate’s entrance, keys in hand, shoulders tight.

With a sigh, he pushes the front door open, greeted in stillness—the lights low, a soft flicker from the TV illuminating the living room in gentle color. You’re curled up on the couch, blanket tucked under your chin, eyes half-lidded as the glow washes over your face. Your hair’s a little messy, your feet barely peeking from under the throw, remote resting loosely in your hand.

You glance over as the door clicks shut behind him.

“Welcome home…” you say softly.

With a wry smile, Satoru takes a breath, like the sight of you has completely anchored him back to earth, knocking the tension out of his chest all at once.

You’re safe.

From the hallway, Nanami steps forward, hands in his pockets, as if he’d been standing quietly nearby this whole time. Watching. Not looming—just present.

“Hey…” he greets with a nod. “Haru’s asleep. No issues.”

Satoru drops his keys on the endtable. “Thanks…”

Glancing past him, Nanami’s eyes narrow on the still-closed front door briefly.

“So… everything handled?”

Satoru’s jaw tenses for a second. Then relaxes.

“Yeah…” he scratches the back of his head, shrugging. “More or less.”

“Great.” Nanami gives the barest nod. “I’ll be in my room, then.” He says, stepping back into the hallway. “Call if you need me.”

“Got it.”

And with that, Nanami disappears quietly down the hall.

Turning back to you, Satoru stands there for a beat, letting the silence wrap around him, drinking in the sight of you all cozy on the sofa. Then finally—with a soft grunt—he crosses to the couch and drops beside you, landing with a dramatic sigh, head lolling to the side to look at you with those vibrant blue eyes.

You peek over your blanket.

“…you okay?”

He smiles, tired. Lopsided.

“Yeah…” he mumbles. “Now I am.”

Shifting slightly, you lift the edge of the blanket in silent invitation, and he slides under without a word, settling in beside you, shoulders brushing. You feel the tension still clinging to him, like static.

“So…” you ask softly. “How’d it go?”

His head falls back, staring at the ceiling for a second.

“Well…” he sighs. “I only punched him once. So…” he shrugs. “Pretty good I guess.”

You blink. “Wait—you punched him?”

“Yup.”

“Like… in the face?”

He glances at you, deadpan. “Hard.”

You stare at him for a beat. “…was that part of the plan?”

He shrugs. “Define plan.”

You snort, but the edge of your smile fades as you see his expression doesn’t change—still flat, still tired. He’s spent.

“Mmm,” he sighs again, rubbing the back of his neck. “Honestly? You’re lucky I didn’t commit a felony. Fuck that guy.”

The way he says it—low, bitter, coiled with something deeper—makes your chest tighten. You don’t need to ask. You already know.

“That bad… huh?”

Exhaling again, his voice softens, like his words are slipping out without thinking.

“Yeah… I didn’t think he could piss me off more than he already did…”

Glancing over at him, you see he’s not joking anymore. He’s not even mad. He’s just quiet. And… tired.

“But, seeing it…” he goes on, barely above a murmur. “Hearing the way he talks about you. About Haru. Like none of it mattered. Like you don’t matter.” He shakes his head once, sharply. “I knew he was garbage. But now… I get it.”

Looking down, his jaw flexes.

“And… I hate that you had to live with that. Every day.”

You don’t speak right away—just slide your hand under the blanket and find his, fingers curling through his gently. You squeeze. He squeezes back.

“I… hated it too,” you whisper.

A silence settles between you—not heavy. Just full. Full of everything that doesn’t need to be said right now.

Then, after a beat, Satoru mutters:

“…next time I’m aiming lower.”

You snort. “Satoru…”

“What?” he says, mouth twitching into a grin. “I’ll break his fucking dick. Piece of shit.”

A surprised, soft laugh slips through your lips—but it tapers off too quickly. Because the weight of what’s happened—what he’s done—lands a little heavier now. The joke fades, and the silence that follows feels different.

Shifting, you adjust the blanket a little higher around your shoulder, voice dipping quieter.

“I… hate that you had to do this for me.”

Satoru’s brows lift slightly, turning to face you more fully.

“What? What are you talking about?” he says gently. “Sweetheart… I didn’t have to. I wanted to.”

“Yeah…” you murmur. “I know.”

But your tone doesn’t lift. His smile slips, frowning.

“Alright… what’s going on in that pretty head of yours this time?” Nudging your leg with his knee, his brow furrows in concern. “Hey… look at me.”

You do, hesitantly, meeting his gaze.

“Well… it’s just…” you breathe out slowly. “You shouldn’t have to clean up my mess. He’s my past. My mistakes. And now you’re the one taking the hits for it. I guess I’m just feeling…. useless.”

Satoru’s expression softens.

“Hey now…” he says, voice dipping. “You’re not a mess, and you’re not useless. You didn’t cause any of this—he did. All you did was survive it.”

Blinking, your throat aches with a tightness that you try to swallow down.

“But… now he’s your problem too…”

He snorts, not unkindly, leaning in just a bit.

“Sweetheart…” he says, quiet but firm, “the second he said your name like it was something to spit out? He became my problem.”

Holding your gaze, his blue eyes shimmer, steady and certain.

“Because… you’re mine now. And no one talks about you like that. No one—you hear me?”

Your chest aches in that breathless, blooming kind of way—so full it almost hurts. And before you can stop yourself, before you can think, you’re leaning forward and kissing him.

The moment your lips meet, the tension bleeds from his body like steam. He sighs, inhaling as you’re tugging him closer, his hands finding your waist under the blanket. As your lips move, he begins to shift, groaning from the taste of you.

Your stomach flips as you chase that sound, and suddenly you can’t stop touching him. His breath hitches as your hands explore down his chest, across his stomach, the smooth ridges of his muscle beneath your fingers.

The moment you dip lower, cupping his dick through the fabric of his pants, he whines in your mouth.

“Fuck…” he mutters, hoarse and frayed. “Baby…”

He’s panting against your lips, twitching in your hand as you rub him gently, ocean blue eyes half lidded, framed through snowy lashes.

His hips are shifting underneath your touch, and you surge forward, kissing him harder, working him gently through his pants. It’s electric. Consuming. But then—

Just be good for me.

Freezing, your hand stills, and you break the kiss with a soft gasp—forehead leaning gently against his, breath trembling.

Immediately, he stills too.

“What is it…” he pants quietly, blue eyes searching your face, “…you okay?”

You nod. But it’s not convincing.

“I’m okay… I just…”

Trailing off, there’s a shake in your voice, and you hate it. Hate the way it trembles, hate that he can hear it. But he doesn’t press. He waits.

You’re not even sure how to describe it. The knot in your chest. The way your skin feels too tight for your body. The way the air still tastes like a memory you never asked to keep.

So you settle for, “Sorry… it’s stupid.”

His brows furrow.

“Nothing you feel is ever stupid.”

You glance down, fingers tracing the thick outline of his cock beneath the fabric of his pants. There’s heat there—real, tangible heat—but it’s not just lust. It’s this aching, burning need to give him something. To take care of him. Because he’s done everything for you. He’s seen every version of you—messy, scared, shut down—and never once flinched.

“I just…” you breathe, fingertips ghosting down his length, “…want to make you feel good.”

Satoru groans like you’ve just unraveled him. “Uh… you are?” he pants, eyes fluttering shut. A breathless laugh slips out. “Do you not feel how fucking hard I am right now just from kissing you?!”

Eyes flicking up, you still—holding onto the restraint burning through his gaze. Something wobbles inside you. Not from him, but from the voice that still whispers at the back of your mind.

Just be good for me.

You hate it. Hate how much power those words hold over you. Hate how they’ve sent you spiraling back into an old story you thought you had finally closed the book on. One panic attack, one flashback, and it was like you’d been dropped back into the hollowed-out shell he left you in. And yet—Satoru never looked at you like you were broken. He didn’t need you to shrink yourself to be lovable. He didn’t demand, didn’t take. He waited. He held you through it.

But what do you give the man who’s given you everything?

“What if… I disappoint you?” you whisper. “What if… I’m not good enough?”

Satoru’s expression softens in an instant. His hand lifts gently, brushing a knuckle along your cheek before cradling it in his palm.

“This again? Baby…” he murmurs, low and steady. “You don’t have to prove anything to me. I’m not him.” His thumb sweeps across your jaw. “…you’re already everything I want. Whatever the fuck he expected of you, whatever he made you believe you were supposed to be… fuck that. I don’t want perfect. I want you—as you are. Smart, stubborn, brave as hell. You hear me?”

Your chest aches—so full it almost cracks. Because for the first time in so long, you feel seen. Fully. Not just the parts of you that shine under pressure. But the ones that tremble. That doubt. And this man—this beautiful, loving man—is yours.

Nodding, his hand falls away as you shift, and suddenly you’re easing yourself off the couch, sliding onto your knees in front of him.

“Oh, fuck.” Satoru stills, pupils darkening instantly.

“I just…” your fingers work the button of his slacks with a quiet click, “…wanna take care of you, Satoru.”

“Shit…” Satoru is so wrecked he’s trying not to combust. “Fucking hell… you on your knees for me? Fuck. I could die happy.”

You giggle, tugging his pants and briefs down just enough to free him—and when his cock springs out, thick and flushed, your breath catches.

“…God. You’re big.”

The moment the words slip out, you realize what you’ve said, face heating as your eyes flick up to meet his. And of fucking course—he’s smirking. White hair falling into his gaze as he tilts his head, looking down at you affectionately.

“Mmm… ‘course I am,” he hums, smug and glowing with amusement. “But please… keep the compliments coming.”

“Cocky shit…” you mumble, but your hand wraps around the base of him, your thumb brushing over the glistening tip—and Satoru hisses through his teeth.

“Oh, s-shit… fuck,” he groans, shifting his hips up into your touch. “Is this really happening right now?”

“You tell me?” you breathe, and then your tongue is dragging a slow stripe up the underside of his cock—from base to tip—collecting the pre that’s already dripping for you.

Satoru’s breath shudders. “Fucking hell…” he pants, head tipping back, fist curling into the cushion behind him like he’s hanging on for dear life.

And truthfully? He is.

Because as he’s looking down at you, legs spread on the couch, you on your knees for him, lips closing around his cock—fuck. It’s too much. You’re too much. Too good. Too goddamn much.

Your long lashes flutter as you look up at him, humming against him, dick jerking in your mouth while that skilled tongue laps and sucks him eagerly. He’s panting, mouth agape as he watches your head bob. You look so beautiful and filthy as the TV casts a blue muted glow behind you, and your hand strokes in tandem what you can’t fit in that pretty little mouth.

God, the warmth, the pressure, the sweet little hums and slurps dripping from your lips as you devour his dick—he can’t help it. He’s unravelling, needy, desperate moans spilling out of him as his breath shudders.

And the thing is, he’s biting his tongue so fucking hard right now he can taste blood. Because it would be so easy to say it right now.

 I love you.

But how the fuck could he say that right now? While his cock is in your mouth? What kind of dumbass confesses mid-blowjob!? And yet—how could he not feel it?

Satoru is cursing himself, because fuck… when the fuck is he supposed to tell you?! His mind is running a marathon, and his cock is throbbing in your mouth with the need to feed you every drop of his cum. The need to shove you down on his dick and paint that pretty tongue white. The need to bend you over, filling up your cunt with every inch of him, pounding that tight little pussy until it’s gushing and milking his cock, wringing out every sticky spurt of jizz until you’re filled to the brim. The lust, the passion, the love, he wants to give you everything,

You release him with a loud, wet pop, your hand stroking the mess he’s made of himself, each fap echoing in the quiet living room as your eyes flick up, searching his expression.

“You’re surprisingly quiet…” you murmur, rolling your thumb along his head. “Usually, getting you to shut up is the challenge.”

Now you’re looking at him all shyly again, and Satoru groans—deep and guttural, his hand scrubbing over his face like it’s the only way he’ll survive this.

“F-Fuck… y-yeah…” his breath hitches.

Tilting your head, your brow furrows sightly, but your hand keeps moving, massaging the weeping head of his cock with a slow, wet roll of your wrist.

“Is it… okay? Are you liking it?”

“W-What?! Of course I am. Are you kidding?” He blurts. “Shit—s-sorry, baby—I just… fuuuck—” another moan tears from his throat, because shit, forming words feels impossible. What the fuck is wrong with him? Bucking into your touch, his dick drools all over your hand. “Haaa…. ‘m just… t-trying not to embarrass myself…”

“…oh?” your lips curl with curiosity, your voice dipping into a smile as you press gentle kisses up the base of his shaft. “And… embarrass yourself how?” you murmur.

Satoru is whining, high and helpless as you find his head again, that cute pink tongue flicking out to tease the slit.

“B-Because I’m…” he grits out, voice cracking, “F-Fuck… s-shit… I’m just…” trying not to say something I’ll regret. “Nnnngh… trying not to cum in thirty fucking seconds. Fuck, you’re perfect—”

You pull off again, lips slick with spit, smiling all sweet and teasing as his cock twitches in your hand.

“Hmm…” you hum, pressing his dick against your cheek as you look up at him affectionately. “Thought you said you didn’t need perfect?”

God, but how are you so perfect? So his.

Inhaling sharply, he looks down, and he knows it. He’s so fucking gone for you. Loves you so much it’s stupid.

“I… don’t…” he breathes, fingers trembling as they brush back the messy strands of hair that have begun to cover your face, threading through your locks reverently. “But… somehow… I still got you.”

Nuzzling into the side of his cock, you’re grinning at him now, all smug and sweet. Fucking hell you’re going to ruin him.

“Then show me, ‘toru…” your lips brush his tip as you speak, “…how good I make you feel.”

And suddenly you’re hollowing your cheeks down on him, humming as he groans, instinctively gripping your hair as his head falls back.

“F-Fuuuck… oh shit…” he pants, voice thick and broken, cradling your head as you work his dick. “J-Just like that, baby… yeah, fuck… you look so fuckin’ pretty with your mouth full…”

His breath stutters, gaze dropping again to take you in—blue eyes glowing, watching you like he’s in a trance. He’s biting his lip so hard, trying to hold back all the pathetic moans threatening to rip from his throat.

Spit glistens on your chin, your lips stretch around him, gliding deeper—and fuck, it’s all he can do not to fall apart, watching every fucking inch of his cock disappear further and further.

It’s too good. He wants more. Needs more.

Groaning, his hips are twitching forward, shallowly thrusting, begging for you to take him deeper. He’s barely aware he’s doing it until you shift, adjust—and don’t stop him.

“S-Shit… can I—?” he rasps, gently tugging your hair. “Can I move? Fuck your throat a little?”

You nod without hesitation, eyes fluttering shut, humming as you reposition again in silent invitation. And that’s it. That’s all he fucking needs.

“Oh, fuck… fuck—okay,” he groans, cock throbbing, shifting his hips as he grips your head tighter. “Just… tell me if it’s too much, angel.”

He begins moving, rolling into your hot, wet mouth, and though his thrusts start slow, there’s nothing soft about the way he’s looking at you—jaw clenched, head tilted, snowy white hair falling into those pretty blue eyes. He’s whimpering, watching your lips stretch around his cock, spit stringing from your chin to his base as he feeds you more, more, more.

“Fuuuck—fuck, sweetheart—” Satoru’s losing his fucking mind, moaning whorishly, “That’s it… haaa… just like that,” his hips roll deeper, pace picking up. “Fucking hell… y-yes…your throat’s so fucking tight, baby—shit—”

Blinking, your hands brace tightly on his thighs, watching the way his abs begin to flex as he rocks into you. His dick is jerking, leaking sweet pre all over your tongue, holding your head as he thrusts deeper into that hot willing mouth.

“S-Shit…” he pulls you off, blue eyes blazed with pleasure, giving you a moment to breathe. “’m not gonna last much longer…” he murmurs, cock twitching up, soaked in front of your face. “Where you want my cum baby?”

Shifting, you pant, eyes flicking up at him. “My mouth…” you breathe, opening wide for him again, and Satoru’s cock jerks up immediately.

“Ohmygod…” he groans, shoving you back down on him, taking on a pace that’s anything but sane. “Yesss… haaa… good girl… hungry fucking girl…” he’s babbling now, thrusting faster, spit dripping outside the corner of your lips as you let him chase his pleasure. “T-Take it… nngh… fuck. I love…”

You.

Satoru growls, internally kicking himself, taking that frustration out on your pretty mouth.

“I… fuck… love your mouth so fuckin’ much…” he grits.

His cock is slamming into you again and again, and the sounds are obscene—wet, messy, lewd. His hips are unrelenting, but you brace yourself, taking him, eyes fluttering, tears building as you look up at him through wet lashes.

God, he’s panting, whining, whimpering, completely lost in you, looking down at you like you fucking hung the stars.

But the moment you gag, he immediately stills, stuttering. “S-Shit—sorry—fuck—you okay?” he pants, brows furrowing, looking at you like he’s afraid he broke you.

You pull back, nodding, giving yourself a moment, and then, just as eagerly, you’re pushing yourself back down on him, down to the hilt—and he swears you just ripped the air out of his fucking lungs.

“F-Fucking… god,” he chokes, watching with wild eyes as you take it again. “You’re… unreal. What the fuck…”

Whimpering, he’s desperate now, gripping you tightly as he thrusts vigorously. “That’s it… yes, baby… yes…” your throat is clicking, spit dripping from your lips, “Sucha good girl… take my cock… fuuuck…” he’s unraveling, cock so hard it hurts. “You’re too fucking good—‘m close—’m… fuckfuckfuck—gonna cum—"

And suddenly he’s burying himself deep, gasping and whining as hot spurts of creamy cum spill down your throat, fingers tightening as he keeps you there, hips stuttering with every pulse as the sticky thick mess floods your mouth.

And you takeit. All of him. Blinking back tears, moaning as you swallow every fucking drop. It’s only when he finally stills, that you pull back—his cock slipping from your lips with a lewd, wet pop.

He’s staring down at you, completely wrecked in the best way—chest rising and falling, mouth parted, eyes wide and glassy with awe.

“Wow, Satoru…” you hum, smiling all coy, licking your lips slowly as you breathe through your nose. “That was… a lot of cum.”

“Oh my fucking god…”

His voice comes out like a whisper and a whimper all at once. His brain is still buffering—trying to reboot after the holy experience you just put him through. Dragging a shaky hand down his face, he blows out a disbelieving laugh.

“You… wow. You actually swallowed… all of it.”

Giggling, you drag your hand up his thigh, fingers brushing, watching the way he twitches under your touch.

“I told you…” you smile softly, nuzzling against his thigh, eyes gleaming affectionately. “I… wanted to take care of you.”

And god—Satoru swears he might ascend. If only you knew how you make him feel. Huffing, he shakes his head in awe.

“C’mere you…” he’s tugging you up gently, urging you into his lag, and you go easily, straddling his thighs as his arms wrap around you, holding you flush to his chest.

You can feel his heart thudding heavy as you settle against him, and you shift, burying yourself against his neck.

“Feel better…?” you murmur softly, fingers combing through the soft mess of his white hair.

“Better?” a breathless laugh slips out, catching in his throat as he tries to collect himself. “Yeah… that’s the understatement of the century,” he exhales hard, then adds, “I think I might’ve just seen the face of God… with your lips.”

You snort into his shoulder, giggling, and he chuckles too—low and husky, the sound vibrating through your body. But even as he smiles, his grip on you stays tight. Steady. Anchored.

Because you don’t realize it—but this? This is everything. His expression softens, his heart aches so much as the thought replays over, and over in his head.

I’m so in love with you.

It hits him like a train—again, fresh and full and terrifying. Like it’s the first time he’s realizing it all over again. You’ve stripped him bare, pulled every shield from his body with a touch, a look, a laugh. He cherishes you so damn much.

And that’s the scariest, most beautiful thing of all.

“I’m so fucked…” he whispers, more to himself than to you.

“Hm?” pulling back slightly, you’re blinking up at him. “…fucked how?”

He meets your eyes—and for a second, everything softens. The whole world slows. He could say it. Right now. Just open his mouth and say it. But…

“Oh… y’know, just…” he exhales shakily, pressing a kiss to your forehead. “Really, really fucking into you…” he says instead.

And god, he means it.

“…yeah?” you whisper.

“Yeah…” he nods, sighing. “Like… no-coming-back, kind of into you.”

Your smile spreads, soft and full of warmth. And as you curl into him, your head rests against his shoulder.

“Me too…”

The moment quiets, settling between you in a hush of breathless heartbeats. And as he holds you close, arms protective and sure, pressing his cheek to the crown of your head, his mind begins to turn.

He’s going to do everything—everything—in his power to keep you safe. To keep you happy. To ensure, you are always here, in his arms. Because if he ever lost you…

No.

Shaking his head, he shoos that thought away, out of existence. He’s not even going to entertain it.

And then, after a minute, he begins to shift, murmuring low against your hair.

“C’mon…” he’s rising from the couch, lifting you up bridal style as he stands. “Let’s clean up… and head to bed.”

Nodding, you wrap your arms around his neck as he carries you away—your body melting against his. Neither of you say the words sitting unsaid in your chest. But that doesn’t make it any less true.

I love you.

a/n. hello my lovelies!! it's been foreverrrrr... i know. thanks for your patience with this chapter. i unforch had to go back to work full time, whilst still being in school 🤪 so it feels like i've had NO time. but, once this semester is over my writing should pick back up. this chapter definitely challenged me. i was worried how you guys would feel about the violence, but alas... that's what the yakuza do. all i can say is if you don't like it, you can chose not to read it! 🤷‍♀️ but as ya'll can probably see, this story is definitely taking a turn... the plot is heating up. nanami has joined the battle! he's so sweet with little haru. i'm gonna have so much fun with the plans i have for his character, hehe 🥰 satoru in the car with suguru... *sigh* 😌 this man is literally so smitten for reader it's too damn cute. my heart can't take it. i've decided to reopen this taglist! if you want to be tagged and you're not on it, lmk. i would love to hear all your thoughts and theories with this chapter, and as always, tysm for reading guys. i love you all sm 🫶🏻 → you are currently all caught upꨄ

taglist:

@geniejunn @fortunatelyfurrygiver @rosso-seta @acowboykisser @mikyapixie

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@saccharine-nectarine @ilianasau @pinksaiyans @gojoslefttoenail

Once upon a time,

Beneath the boughs where shadows creep, The lost-born heir in silence she sleeps. An omega child with ancient breath, Will rise again from hidden death.

Her scent will stir both fang and flame, And every pack will know her name. The wolves will bow, the ravens sing, For blood remembers its true king.

The crown once stolen, stained in red, Will crack beneath the sorceress queen’s dark tread. Her gilded halls will turn to dust, Her throne undone by greed and lust.

For when the moon burns silver bright, The hidden rose will claim her right. Old kingdoms broken, torn apart, Will mend beneath her beating heart.

You'll always remember how much your mother loved the gardens most in winter.

She said it was the only season that told the truth, that spring was too eager, summer too full of itself. Autumn too beautiful in the way beautiful things often are right before they die. But winter was honest, winter stripped everything bare.

Winter in the northern kingdom settled so heavily that even the castle seemed quieter beneath it. Snow covered the gardens in soft white drifts as frost climbed the windows in delicate patterns. The world beyond the walls looked pale and sleeping, wrapped in cold and stillness.

She stood in the snow with a fur cloak wrapped around her shoulders and her gloved hands tucked beneath her sleeves, walking slowly through the sleeping garden while servants followed several steps behind.

Your father watched her from the stone archway always with that look in his eyes, their color bright despite the clouded dim sky, like the world had become something softer the moment she stepped into it. At the center of the garden, tangled among frost-bitten vines, a single rose had bloomed.

Bright red against the snow.

Your mother stopped. The petals looked impossibly alive beneath the gray winter sky, soft and crimson and stubborn. She reached for it without thinking an the thorn pricked her finger. A sharp little breath left her as she pulled her hand back leaving three drops of blood to fall onto the snow.

You would always be told that was the moment everything began.

By the next winter, you were born. You grew up in warmth, but not because the kingdom was gentle, it wasn't. Winters were harsh in the north and the people were proud and loud and quick to fight. But you were loved.

You knew that even before you knew the words for it.

You knew it in the way your mother tucked blankets around you herself instead of leaving it to servants. In the way your father carried you through the halls when you were too sleepy to walk. In the way the castle dogs followed you everywhere, tails wagging wildly whenever you laughed.

You knew it in the gardens.

You spent most of your early childhood there.

Among roses and ivy and lavender bushes, with dirt beneath your nails and flower petals tangled in your hair. The gardeners adored you because nothing ever died around you. Flowers bloomed brighter where you stepped, wilted things straightened when you touched them.

The older servants would exchange glances when they thought no one was looking.

Magic, they whispered. The prophecy fufilled in flesh.

Your mother only smiled when she heard them.

"You were born from winter and roses," she would tell you while brushing your hair before bed. "Of course the world listens when you speak to it."

You grew up with nine springs of love. Nine summers of warm woven winds that howled against your windows, nine autumns of falling leaves that crunched under your boots. The morning of the winter solstice, your birthday, was the last day of peace.

By the time the sun had crested over the horizon, the sky turned black.

You remember standing at the nursery window in your nightgown, one hand still clutching the red ribbon your mother had tied into your braid the night before, watching smoke rise in the distance beyond the mountains. At first, no one understood what they were seeing, then the bells began. Servants rushed through the halls. Guards flooded the courtyards below in steel and furs. Somewhere deep in the castle, someone shouted for the king.

Your mother swept into your room moments later, pale-faced and breathless. She pulled a heavy cloak around your shoulders with shaking hands.

"What's happening?" you asked.

She cupped your face.

"I need you to be very brave for me."

You still remembered the way her fingers trembled as she took you down to the tunnels for safety, and the sound of the army reaching the outer gates. Glass soldiers, they said. Black and gleaming and terrible, moving like shadows over the snow. They poured through the lower villages first, leaving smoke and blood behind them. By the time they reached the castle, the world outside the walls was burning.

Your father rode out to meet them. You remember the roar of the gates opening, the thunder of horses, the smell of smoke drifting through the windows. Hours later, he returned.

Victorious, they said.

But not alone. There was a woman with him. Beautiful in the sort of way storms were beautiful, dangerous and eerie. Dark hair spilling down her back, pale skin untouched by cold, a white gown that looked too clean amidst all the blood and ash. She stood beside your father like she had always belonged there and your father looked at her as if the entire world had narrowed to only her.

Your mother knew immediately, could see something that most could not, could feel the sorcery that lingered around her in the air. You remember the look on her face when she saw the woman step into the ashen dimmed light. The woman called herself a queen from the southern kingdoms. Claimed her lands had been destroyed by the same army that had attacked yours. Claimed she had nowhere left to go.

Your father believed her and by dusk she was sitting beside him at dinner.

By nightfall, he had agreed to help her retaliate against the army that had crushed her kingdom. There was something glassy in his eyes, something smooth and too sinister to name. Your mother tried to stop it, tried to snap him out of the dark green glow that glossed over his eyes.

Everything moved too fast after that.

You remember waking to shouting somewhere beyond your chambers, doors slamming, footsteps running down stone halls. Then silence, heavy and wrong, lingering in the halls. Your nurse came for you past midnight. She wrapped you in blankets and carried you through dark servant passages beneath the castle, one hand pressed over your mouth to keep you quiet.

"Where's my mother?" you kept asking.

She never answered, only held you tighter as you ran. The castle sounded different when the moon lit the night sky, stars shining down. You could hear screaming above you, the crash of glass, the sharp clang of steel against steel. Somewhere, a man was begging for mercy.

Then you reached the hidden passage behind the kitchens and saw blood smeared across the stone floor. Your nurse stopped so suddenly you nearly fell from her arms. There your mother lay, glass shatters of a sword scattered around her. Your mind, as young as it was could still fill in the blanks for you. She ran. She fought. She died. You remember the pale blue of her dress first, then the blood, so much blood. Her eyes were closed, her dark hair spread around her like spilled ink. One of her hands still stretched toward the doorway you stood in, as though she had been trying to reach you.

Your nurse pulled you against her chest before you could see more, but it was too late. You saw enough.

You do not remember much after that, only pieces. Running through smoke-filled hallways, the castle burning, a loyal guard shoving a sword into your nurse's hands. The sound of the new sorceress queen's voice echoed through the halls, calm and cold and terrible.

"Find the girl!"

You made it as far as the stables to people waiting for you there. Men and women loyal to your mother, already bloodied from fighting. One of them lifted you onto a horse while another tied a cloak around your shoulders. Your nurse climbed up behind you. She was crying. You had never seen her cry before, it pricked hot tears at your waterline. As the horse started forward, she pressed her lips to your temple.

"You must listen to me," she whispered. "You cannot go back. Do you understand? You cannot ever let her find you."

You were crying too hard to answer. Soon the forest blurred in front of you as the horse raced through the snow. Behind you, the castle disappeared beneath smoke.

"Your mother knew," your nurse said, voice shaking. "She knew what you were. What you would become. She thought you would have more time."

You turned around toward her.

"What am I?"

She looked at you with tears streaming down her face.

"There is a prophecy," she whispered. "About the daughter born from winter and roses. About the omega princess who will rise again and—"

An arrow cut through the air with a silent hiss, cutting through the tip of your ear and buried itself in her throat. You screamed, your throat catching on a sound you'd never heard yourself make before, a sound that felt farm from human. Pain bloomed at your ear as hot blood began to trickle down, though you couldn't feel it. You couldn't feel anything. Her body jerked backward, blood spilling down the front of her dress and the horse reared you both off.

You hit the ground hard and for a moment, the world became nothing but snow and pain and the taste of blood in your mouth. When your head cleared you looked up to see a figure stood at the edge of the trees, tall and dressed all in black and still as the wind. A boy, not much older than a teenager with dark hair and a bow still raised in his hands. There was blood splattered across his cheek. And around his neck, something black glinted beneath the collar of his coat. He stared at you for one long moment, then someone shouted his name from deeper in the trees. He looked away. Only for a second.

But when he looked back, you were already running.

You ran until your legs gave out. Then you walked. Then you hid. And after a while, you learned how to disappear.

At first, it was easy enough. You were small. Young. Easy to overlook in the chaos left behind by the evil queen's rise to power. Villages burned every week, families were scattered, children lost their parents and never found them again. You just became one more frightened face among hundreds.

You stopped telling people your real name. Stopped saying where you came from. When people asked, you lied, you said your parents had died in a fever, said you had come from some village too far south for anyone to question. You said you were looking for work, for family, for anything.

Sometimes people believed you. Sometimes they didn't. But no one looked too closely at a ragged little girl with dirty hands and hollow cheeks. You learned quickly which villages were safe, which roads to avoid. Which people might offer you soup and which might sell you for coin if you looked at them too long. You learned how to sleep in haylofts and abandoned sheds. How to wrap your feet in cloth when your shoes wore through. How to steal apples without being caught and how to keep walking even when your stomach hurt so badly it felt like something inside you was eating itself.

The years blurred together after that. Summer heat. Winter cold. Autumn breeze. Faces you forgot almost as soon as you left them behind. You grew taller, hair darkened, eyes wider and alert. Your scent changed with age, becoming softer and deeper all at once. Richer in a way you did not understand but knew enough to hide.

People noticed you more as you got older. Alphas especially. You learned to keep your head down, to avoid looking anyone in the eye for too long, to never stay anywhere longer than a few weeks. But loneliness has a way of making people reckless.

You were fifteen the first time you reached the village at the edge of the northern woods. It was small and quiet. Tucked so deeply between the trees and mountains that it almost felt hidden from the rest of the world. You told yourself you would only stay for the night. Maybe two. Long enough to rest your feet and warm your hands and steal enough food to survive the next stretch of road.

You had not eaten in almost two days when you saw the bread. Fresh from the oven, still steaming in a basket outside the bakery window. You remember standing there in the cold, staring at it, at the golden crust, at the curls of steam rising into the winter air. Your stomach hurt so badly you thought you might cry.

You looked around once, no one was there, so you reached for it. Your fingers had barely closed around the bread roll before a voice snapped behind you.

"And what exactly do you think you're doing?"

You jumped so badly you nearly dropped it. An older woman stood in the bakery doorway, arms crossed tightly over her chest. She was broad-shouldered and flour-dusted, with silver threaded through dark hair and the kind of face that looked permanently unimpressed by everything around her.

You immediately shoved the bread back into the basket.

"I-I'm sorry."

"Sorry?" she repeated sharply. "You steal from me and your answer is sorry?"

Your face burned.

"I'm sorry," you said again, more quickly this time. "I didn't mean—I mean, I did mean to, but I wouldn't have if I had money and—"

"That is usually how stealing works."

You swallowed hard, your hands twisted together in front of you. Then, before you could think too hard about it, you dropped to your knees in the snow and bowed your head all the way to the ground. The movement was pure instinct, something buried so deep inside you that it happened before you could stop it. Your scent betrays you. It had been soft before, something steady and almost forgettable in its gentleness. But now it twists, curling into the air around you shifting into something like burnt sugar, bitter at the edges, like something left too long on the flame. Cinnamon, once warm, now biting—spiced too sharply, clinging instead of comforting.

It thickens with your fear, wraps around you, gives you away.

"I'm sorry." Your voice was muffled by the ground but it was shaking still. It was met with silence, only the brief wind through the bare trees could be heard. Slowly, you lifted your head. The woman's expression had changed, only slightly, but enough. Because now she was not looking at you like a thief. She was looking at you like she had just found something she was not supposed to.

You scrambled back to your feet immediately.

"I can go," you said too quickly. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean—"

"How old are you?"

You blinked.

"What?"

"How old are you?" she repeated.

You hesitated.

"Fifteen."

She studied you for another long moment. Your torn cloak. Your worn shoes. The way you were trying not to shake in the cold. Then she sighed heavily through her nose.

"Get inside."

You froze.

"What?"

"You stole from me," she said, already turning back toward the bakery. "Which means you owe me. You're going to work it off."

You stared at her.

"You mean... work here?"

"If you want somewhere warm to sleep tonight."

You followed her inside before she could change her mind.

The bakery was small. Warm in the way only bakeries could be. Everything smelled like flour and cinnamon and rising dough. There was a fire crackling in the back room and blankets folded neatly in one corner beside an old rocking chair. You nearly cried from relief the moment the heat touched your skin.

The woman shoved an apron into your hands.

"You can start by cleaning."

You worked until your hands ached. Sweeping floors, washing trays, carrying sacks of flour twice your size from the storage room. By the end of the night, your hair was dusted white and your arms trembled from exhaustion. The woman handed you a bowl of stew and half a loaf of bread. You ate it so quickly you barely remembered to breathe. She watched you the entire time, not suspiciously just with a careful eye, like she was looking for something that was already there and had hidden itself beneath the surface.

Later, after the bakery had closed and you had nearly fallen asleep sitting upright in your chair, she brought you a blanket.

"You can sleep by the fire."

You looked up at her.

"Thank you."

She grunted and you stayed the night. Then another. Then another after that.

You learned how to knead dough and braid loaves and wake before sunrise to light the ovens. The woman—Helena, she eventually told you to call her—scolded you constantly and fed you even more constantly. The bakery became something steady, something safe. And for the first time in years, you stopped running. Helena knew who you were almost immediately, not because of your face. Faces changed, time changed people. But scents did not lie. You smelled like old magic and winter roses and royal blood.

She never said it out loud.

Not for a long time.

But sometimes you would catch her watching you when she thought you were not looking. Especially when flowers bloomed too early in the garden out back. Or when birds gathered along the bakery roof in impossible numbers. Or when the old pack markings near the woods warmed beneath your hands.

She knew.

And because she knew, she kept you hidden for as long as she could, but nothing good lasts forever.

The village sat at the edge of the northern woods like it had been forgotten there.

Small and crooked and quiet, with smoke curling from chimneys in soft gray ribbons and fences half-swallowed by ivy, it tucked itself beneath the mountains as though trying not to be noticed. In winter, snow gathered thick on the rooftops and the whole place looked like something painted onto old parchment. In spring, wildflowers pushed through the frost in stubborn little bursts of color, and the river thawed enough to carry birdsong through the trees.

You stayed there almost ten years. Long enough for the bakery to become home. Long enough to stop jumping every time someone knocked at the door. Long enough for the ache in your chest to soften into something you could live around.

Helena never asked too many questions after that first winter. Not about where you had come from. Not about the nightmares that woke you crying or the strange way you looked over your shoulder whenever horses rode through town.

She simply made room for you.

At first, you slept by the fire with old quilts tucked around your shoulders and flour still dusting your hands from the day's work. Later, when you were older and taller and no longer looked half-starved all the time, Helena cleared out the little storage room above the bakery and let you make it your own.

It was small. A narrow bed beneath the window, a wooden dresser with one crooked leg, shelves lined with dried flowers and herbs hanging from the ceiling beams. It was the first room that had ever really belonged to you. Still, there were things you could never fully forget. A heavy fur cloak wrapped around you while someone ran through the snow, the sound of horses, the glint of torchlight between the trees. A woman's voice telling you over and over not to cry. You remembered cold fingers around yours and a lullaby you had never heard sung anywhere in the village, soft and low and old enough to sound like it belonged to another world entirely.

Sometimes, in dreams, you could feel it. An arrow flying through the air, the wind being knocked from your lungs as you hit the ground, a pair of pale eyes watching you from a distance. Helena never liked when you spoke of those memories. She would go quiet after, her mouth pulled thin as thread while she kneaded bread too hard or mended shirts by the fire with shaking hands.

"You were sick as a child," she always said. "Dreams feel real when you're sick."

So eventually, you stopped asking and Helena filled your mind with other things instead.

Small things. Somewhat strange things.

She taught you which herbs to hang above your bed when your heats started getting stronger as you got older. Which roots to boil into tea when your scent felt too rich, too noticeable. She taught you how to braid rosemary and cedar into your hair before going into crowded markets so strangers would smell the herbs before they smelled you.

"Never let people know too much about you," she would say while crushing dried leaves between her fingers. "People fear what they don't understand."

She taught you how to listen to the earth. How the woods grew quieter before a storm. How the birds disappeared when strangers entered the forest. How the roots beneath your feet seemed to pull you away from danger before your mind even understood it was there.

"The land will warn you if you pay attention," Helena told you once while the two of you gathered herbs at the edge of the woods. "The earth remembers things people don't."

You thought she was only being strange but over time, you realized she was right.

Animals trusted you in ways they did not trust anyone else. Birds settled on your windowsill in winter and stayed long after the seed was gone. Stray cats followed you home through the market, deer wandered close enough in the woods for you to touch the velvet of their noses.

Even the wolves never frightened you.

You saw them sometimes between the trees at dusk. Great hulking things with silver eyes reflecting the last of the daylight. They watched you quietly, never crossing the line where the woods met the village, waiting as if they knew you.

Then there were the flowers. You tried not to think too hard about that part but it was difficult not to when half the village had seen it happen. You would wake sad and find the flowers outside your window bent low toward the earth, their petals browned at the edges as though touched by frost. Other days, when you laughed hard enough to make your stomach ache, little white blossoms pushed up through cracks in the ground by evening.

Once, after Helena surprised you with a cake on your seventeenth birthday, flowers bloomed all the way down the path behind you. Neither of you spoke about it, but later that night, you found Helena sitting alone at the kitchen table long after the bakery had closed, staring into the fire with tears in her eyes.

The village talked anyway. The older villagers made signs against bad luck when you passed. Mothers pulled their children a little closer, the pack alphas lowered their heads around you without seeming to realize they were doing it.

And every so often, when they thought you couldn't hear, someone would whisper. Royal blood. Forest-born. Cursed. Blessed.

Helena always pretended not to notice. But sometimes, late at night when the fire had burned low and rain tapped softly against the bakery windows, she would tell you stories. Stories about the old kingdoms, about the northern prince whose land had burned beneath black magic and snow. About the lost princess hidden somewhere beyond the mountains.

"The stories say they'll find each other one day," Helena said once while the two of you braided herbs together by candlelight. "The prince and princess of the north."

You smiled faintly.

"And then what?"

Her hands stilled for only a moment.

"Then the evil queen falls," she said quietly. "And the land remembers how to heal again."

You laughed softly, thinking it was only a story.

Helena did not laugh with you.

Far beyond the village, beyond the trees and snow and mountains, the evil queen listened.

Not with her ears.

With the kind of attention that had kept her alive when kingdoms burned and men twice her size tried to break her. With the kind of patience that let whispers travel for months, years, until they finally reached her. An omega in the north. A girl with a scent that lingered too long in the air. Flowers blooming out of season. Animals gathering where they should not. The queen sat very still on her throne as the reports were read aloud. She had spent years erasing the old world. Every banner burned, every bloodline hunted, every child who looked too much like someone important dragged from hiding before they could grow into something dangerous.

She knew what it meant when something survived anyway, when stories refused to die. And this one had followed her for years. Soft at first, easy to ignore and subdue with the promise of fire and ash. Then louder. Then impossible to silence.

For when the moon burns silver bright, the hidden rose will claim her right. Old kingdoms broken, torn apart, will mend beneath her beating heart.

The queen had heard it whispered in ruined halls, in the mouths of dying women, in the quiet defiance of rebels who thought prophecy made them untouchable. She had killed every one of them and still, the words remained. She wanted to believe you were only useful once dead. A body buried beneath snow, a name erased cleanly enough that no one would dare speak it again. Another loose thread cut before it could unravel the careful order she had built.

But the north had always been stubborn, and so had its magic. The women in her court had warned her of that long ago. Ancient seers from kingdoms of old draped in silk and bone, their fingers heavy with rings, their eyes clouded but never blind. They had stood beside her throne since the beginning, whispering truths she did not always care to hear.

This time, they brought her proof.

A scrap of cloth, worn thin and stolen from a village no one had reason to watch. Still carrying the faintest trace of your scent. A broken necklace, dulled with age, its metal etched with a crest no one living dared claim. A dried flower that should not have existed at all—blooming in winter, found growing where nothing else would take root.

The oldest of them took it in her hands and held it over a bowl of dark water, then the petals bled. Red seeping into black. The room fell silent as the seer stepped back for the queen. The water rippled and warped, splashing up against the edges before falling still. The surface changed and went still as stone, morphing into the color of steel, like a mirror. Two guards dragged the cloth from it at her command, the fabric whispering against stone as it fell away.

For a moment, nothing.

Then the glass shivered. Not visibly, not quite, but something beneath it shifted, like breath beneath skin. The queen rose, each step echoed as she descended from her throne, the sound sharp against the quiet, until she stood before it—close enough that her reflection should have met her.

It didn’t.

Her voice cut through the room, cold and measured.

“Speak.”

The surface of the mirror rippled. Not outward, but inward, as though something behind it leaned closer to listen.

“An omega breathes beyond your reach.”

The queen’s jaw tightened.

“I know that much,” she said. “I asked for truth—not riddles.”

A pause.

“A line once buried has taken root again.”

The air shifted. Behind her, one of the seers made a broken sound in her throat, like she wished she hadn’t heard it. The queen’s eyes flickered just for a second, something older wrinkling across her face before smoothing into her young self again.

“Where?” she demanded.

The mirror did not answer her question.

“The north remembers her.”

The words sank into the stone like rot.

“The forests bend. The wild listens. What was scattered begins to gather.”

The queen’s hand lifted, pressing flat against the glass.

“And can she be killed?”

“Not yet.”

The queen’s eyes darkened, she then leaned closer to the mirror, her voice dropping, sharpening.

“What does she become?”

The glass rippled again, deeper this time. And when it answered, it did not sound like one voice—but many.

“A call.”

The torches flickered.

“A claim.”

The room felt smaller.

“The return of what you tried to end.”

The queen’s reflection fractured just slightly, her face splitting along faint, unseen lines before pulling itself back together. For a moment she said nothing, then her hand dropped from the glass. And when she turned, whatever uncertainty had dared to surface was already gone, buried beneath something colder. Harder.

“Then we do not wait,” she said. Her voice carried, sharp as steel. “We do not allow her heart to race. We make sure it stops before it ever learns how.”

Behind her, the mirror went still again, but the cold it left behind did not fade. The queen turned toward the shadows gathered at the edge of the throne room. Her lips curved slowly because at last, after all these years, the shadow at her back had stepped into the light.

"Bring me my huntsman."

He stepped into the room without a sound. Most people never noticed how large he was at first.

They noticed his eyes instead. Steel blue glinting beneath candlelight holding something close to a fury they've never known, silver scars flecked across his jaw and neck worn with years of violence. They noticed the coldness of him too. The way he stood too still. The way his face gave nothing away.

But the frightening thing about him had never been his size.

It was the emptiness. The sense that whatever part of him had once been human had long since been hollowed out. He wore black leathers darkened by snow and old blood, a fur mantle thrown over broad shoulders, his hair longer than most soldiers allowed, brushing against the edge of his jaw. A jagged scar cut across his face like a crack through stone.

Around his neck, hidden beneath his shirt, rested the talisman. A shard of obsidian wrapped in silver with talons stuck into his skin. The queen's leash.

Once, long ago, before the wars and blood and iron, he had been something else. A prince of the northern kingdom. An alpha born beneath snowfall and pine trees and towering white mountains. A boy with sisters who laughed too loud and a mother who braided charms into his hair before battle practice and a father who called him stubborn with too much pride in his voice.

But that kingdom had burned, his family had died screaming and the queen had found him in the ruins before the wolves could. Young enough to break, old enough to remember just enough for it to hurt. So she took his name first. Then his home. Then every soft thing left inside him until all that remained was the huntsman.

He remembered almost nothing now.

Only flashes of a woman's lullaby, snow crunching beneath boots, the smell of cedar smoke. Sometimes he woke with blood on his hands and grief clawing at the inside of his chest so violently he thought he might die from it. But he never knew why. The talisman made sure of that. When the queen spoke, he obeyed, when she ordered, he carried it out. He had hunted rebels through forests and dragged princes from hidden sanctuaries. He had slaughtered entire packs who refused to kneel. Mothers frightened their children with stories about him.

The queen's beast. The wolf with the fury of the old gods. The huntsman who never lost his prey.

He dropped to one knee before the throne. The queen descended the steps slowly, her dark gown whispering against stone.

"There is a girl in the northern woods."

The queen reached beneath his shirt and wrapped her fingers around the talisman resting against his chest and instantly, his jaw locked. Pain shot through him sharp and immediate, burning through bone and blood alike.

"You will find her," the queen said softly. "You will bring her back. Alive."

His breathing grew heavier. He could feel the magic taking hold already, sliding through his veins like chains.

The queen leaned closer. "Do not let her speak to you too long. Do not let her scent confuse you. Do not forget what you are. Who you belong to."

His eyes lowered. "Yes, my queen."

Far north, beyond the mountains, you sat beside the old stone at the edge of the woods with a basket in your lap and flower stems between your fingers. The wind shifted. The birds went quiet. The woods fall silent so quickly it feels wrong. Then the dogs in the village start barking, your hands still around the basket in your lap. Helena is hanging linens on the line when she looks up toward the trees and goes pale. You have never seen fear move across someone's face so quickly.

"Go," she says, and you just stare at her. "Go now."

The basket slips from your hands when you hear the tremble in her voice. Apples spill through the grass. "What is it?"

But she is already grabbing your shoulders, her fingers digging in hard enough to hurt.

"They found you. Go."

For one terrible second, everything inside you goes still, not because you understand what is happening. But because some deep, hidden part of you always knew this day would come.

You run before you can think about it. Through the back garden first. Past the rows of lavender and rosemary, past the fence your hands helped mend every spring. The hem of your dress catches on the gate latch hard enough to tear, but you keep going.

Behind you, voices rise through the village of men shouting, horses trampling against the cobbled stone. You hear your name once, then again echoing through the trees and you run faster until the woods swallow you whole.

Branches scrape your arms and face as you stumble deeper between the trees, lungs burning, heart pounding so hard you can taste blood at the back of your throat. Snow still lingers in patches beneath the pines, soaking through your shoes.

You don't know where you are going, only away. You make it farther than anyone expects. Farther than you expect. Miles, maybe. Long enough for the village to disappear behind you entirely. Long enough for your breathing to turn ragged and your legs to shake beneath you.

You think—stupidly, desperately—that maybe you've escaped.

Then you hear it.

A horse somewhere behind you. Steady hooves against the soft ground as though whoever rides it already knows you cannot get away. You break into another run yet your foot catches on a root. You hit the ground hard. Something like lightning strikes through your leg and you curl within yourself, biting into your lip to conceal an agonizing scream. Pain shoots through your bones, sharp enough to make hot tears spring to your eyes. Before you can scramble back up, a shadow falls across you.

You look up and there he is.

The huntsman.

He looks worse than the stories. Larger somehow. Broader. The fur over his shoulders is dusted with snow, his dark hair tangled from the wind, jaw shadowed from days without shaving. There is blood on one of his gloves you know is not his.

His face is hard in a way that makes him look carved from winter itself. There is no triumph in him, no cruelty. No satisfaction, only the emptiness that comes with having done this too many times to feel anything at all. That would almost be easier to bear. There is simply... nothing.

Your whole body goes cold because you know him. Not truly or personally, but everyone knows him. The queen's beast. The wolf with the dull eyes and deadly snare. The huntsman who drags people back to the capital in chains and leaves with less than he arrived with.

You push yourself backward through the dirt, leg limp below you.

"Please," you whisper.

He steps closer. You can see the scar across his face now. The line of exhaustion beneath his eyes. The way he moves like something permanently braced for violence.

"Please don't." Panic claws up your throat so fast it makes you dizzy.

He says nothing. His gaze drifts over you once. Torn dress. Mud-stained hands. Your bruised and already swelling leg. The scrape bleeding along your cheek. Then he reaches down, grabs your wrist, and hauls you to your feet.

You cry out at the roughness of it. "Wait—please, please, I didn't do anything—"

A rope appears in his hand, you try to scramble away but your leg can't bear any more weight than a feather and the moment you move his hands dig into your wrists so hard you fear he may snap them.

"Please." He binds your wrists without a word. "No, please—"

Your breath catches when he knots the other end to his belt. Like an animal. You hate yourself for the tears that rise so quickly.

"Please," you say again, voice shaking now. "I can pay you. I can—I don't have much but there are coins hidden beneath the floorboards in the cottage and my necklace and—"

Nothing, he just turns and starts walking. You nearly stumble because of how suddenly the rope jerks taut and cry at the pain that spreads up your leg with every step. He leads you back through the woods to where a small group of soldiers waits with horses.

They stare when they see you, you lower your head instantly. The huntsman unties the rope from his hand and secures it instead to the saddle of his horse. Then he climbs up and you stare at him in disbelief.

"You can't expect me to walk."

He looks down at you. Eyes cold and blank.

"You can walk."

Then he clicks his tongue to the horse and starts forward and you nearly fall over, forcing yourself upright and walking as to not be subjected to the beratment of being dragged behind the horse.

For three days, you limp after him through the woods and over frozen roads, your wrists tied, your ankle growing worse with every mile. You try not to cry though it spills its way over the surface, once or twice, when no one is looking. At night, after the soldiers sleep, you curl on your side and hold your breath against the pain throbbing all the way up your leg. Your ankle swells so badly you can barely fit your shoe back on by morning.

The huntsman never comments on it. He never slows. Never looks back. Only keeps moving, horse plodding steadily onward while you stumble after him through snow and mud and stone.

By the end of third day, your body gives out. You barely make it over a rocky incline before your injured ankle buckles completely beneath you and you hit the ground hard. The rope jerks taut and you can't stop the cry that tears from your throat this time.

One of the soldiers groans. "For fuck's sake."

You stay where you fell, hands pressed into the dirt, chest heaving with tears burning hot behind your eyes. You are so tired. So tired of hurting.

The huntsman's horse stops and for a moment, you think he will force you back to your feet. You anticipate it and slowly push up and your palms.

Instead, there is his voice.

"Make camp."

A few of the soldiers complain, but none of them argue. You don't look at him while they set up camp around you. You don't trust yourself to. As soon as the rope around your wrists is loosened enough to give you a little room, you limp away from the others toward the base of a tree.

You sink down into the roots with shaking hands and pull up the torn hem of your dress. Your ankle is awful, swollen and angry and purple around the edges, even the lightest of touches make you wince under your breath. You know you can't go on like this. You stare at it for a long moment before grabbing two fallen branches from the ground beside you.

You remember seeing the healer in the village do this once so you try to copy her. You break one stick trying to make it fit but the other slips from your hands. You hiss through your teeth and blink hard against the tears suddenly threatening again.

Then a shadow falls over you.

You look up to see the huntsman stands there holding a strip of cloth in one hand and you freeze. Without a word, he crouches in front of you. His hands are rough when he takes your ankle, but not careless.

You suck in a breath at the pain.

"I know," he says flatly.

It is the first thing you hear from him besides curt commands to stop crying or keep up. His voice is low. Rusted from disuse. You hate how relieved you are just to hear it.

You watch his hands as he works.

Large hands. Blood-stained and earth crusted hands. Steady hands.

He places the branches carefully along either side of your ankle before tying them in place with the cloth. Firm enough to keep it from moving, gentle enough that the pressure starts easing the pain almost immediately.

You blink down at it, the relief is so sudden it almost makes you dizzy.

"There," he says.

You look up at him.

"Thank you."

His expression hardens immediately.

"I only did it because you were slowing us down."

Still, you smile faintly.

"Thank you anyway."

Something strange crosses his face then, not quite softness, just a flicker of something unsettled. The slate grey of his eyes lightens into something almost blue. Like he does not know what to do with kindness when it is aimed at him. Instead he reaches for the water skin at his belt and holds it out to you.

You stare at it for a second before taking it carefully from his hand.

"Thank you," you say again, quieter this time.

He looks away before you can see whatever is in his eyes this time, then he stands and walks back toward the fire without another word.

Your fear is not yet washed away, despite his moment of brief kindess. You can walk much better, faster and for longer but every step that doesn't ache in your body aches in your heart. Wondering what lies in store for you at the end of this road. You don't admit it outloud, but deep down you know if the huntsman were here, for you, there's a finality to this that cannot be outrun.

It would see pointless to expect anything more, but you beg anyway. You tell him you will disappear if he lets you go. That you will run so far no one will ever find you again. You promise him money you don't have, horses you don't own, land you can't give, anything he wants. Anything any normal hunter would want.

"I don't want anything," he says once.

It hurts more than the rope burning at your wrists. At night, when he ties the rope around his own wrist before sleeping, you lie awake staring at the fire between you as your captor lays on the other side. You've been traveling with him for near a week now and don't know anything past his blank stare and occasional grunt.

He never sleeps deeply, you've notice that quickly. Every snapped branch, every gust of wind through the trees, every distant howl makes his eyes open instantly. Always alert, always waiting. He doesn't touch you more than he has to, doesn't look at you much either. Sometimes you think you see something in those slate grey eyes, something more. Something…

Maybe you're a fool. Maybe marching your way towards death has made you unreasonably optimistic. Maybe hope is just another thing that refuses to die in you, no matter how many times the world tries to beat it out.

Because something is there.

You see it in the way his gaze lingers a second too long before snapping away. In the way his hand tightens on the rope some nights like he’s reminding himself what you are to him. The way every now and then, you'll feel his gaze on you. But the moment you go to look he's turned away, hand brushing at his chest. There is something about him, and whatever it is, its begun to change.

Days into the journey, the herbs in your hair are begin to fail, they begin to wither.

Helena had always braided them carefully. Rosemary, cedar, crushed petals that dulled the sweetness of your scent, kept it quiet, kept it yours. You’d redone them yourself before you the night of your capture, hands shaking but practiced.

At first, you think it’s just the cold crisping their edges. Then you catch the smell. Faint rushes of a flowing river, warm bursts of lavender, and lingering drying linen. It's been so long since you'd known your natural unmasked scent, it almost felt right but you knew it was wrong the second it floated into the air.

You freeze mid-step. The huntsman doesn’t, making the rope jerk and forces you forward again. But it’s there now. You can’t ignore it, your scent bleeding through stronger than it should be, stronger than it’s ever been. You try to fix the braids that night, fingers clumsy as you twist dried stems back into your hair only for them to crumble in your hands. Dead and useless.

You don’t say anything but it's only a matter of time before someone notices.

Of course they do. The soldiers had been distant before. Rough, but uninterested, you were just cargo. Something to deliver, something to avoid, even. Now, their eyes linger. Too long. You feel it before you understand it. The way conversations quiet when you pass. The way their heads tilt slightly, like something instinctive is pulling at them. The way one of them steps just a little too close when handing you food, you shrink back and he smiles but it doesn’t reach his eyes.

By the next day, it’s worse.

You keep your head down and thread your fingers over the rope to keep close. To him. But even that doesn’t stop it. Their voices change around you, dropping into something lower.

"Didn’t think she’d smell like that."

"Queen didn’t say she was that kind of omega."

"Bet she’d be real sweet if she just—"

You don’t hear the rest, you don’t need to.

That night, you try to stay closer to the fire. Closer to him. Your skin shudders at the thought of finding comfort in the huntsman. But when presented with the alternative, being at the subjection to the soldiers… your mind makes the choice for you.

But he moves away from the group again like he always does, setting camp just far enough to be separate, not far enough to raise suspicion. You still follow because you have no choice, because the rope says you do. But most of all, because part of you is starting to understand he is the only thing standing between you and something worse.

You wake sometime in the dark, not because of a sound, the forest is eeriely quiet around you. Your heart jolts you awake because something feels wrong. The rope is slack, cut at the far end [and your stomach drops. You push yourself up, panic already clawing its way into your throat and that’s when you hear it.

Voices echoing too close. You turn to see two of the soldiers stand just beyond the trees, watching you. Your breath catches when they crush a twig in their stride.

"Easy," one of them says, stepping forward. "We just wanna talk."

You scramble backward on instinct, your injured ankle screaming in protest.

"I don’t want to talk."

They don’t stop.

"You smell good," the other one says, voice low, almost dazed. "Didn’t notice it before. Guess you were hiding it."

Your back hits the trunk of a tree, nowhere left to go. "Please," you whisper.

They step closer, hushing you softly and sickly. "Just let us—"

The cut end of the rope snaps taut, both men freeze and so do you. There’s a shift in the air. Heavy. It's not like the first time you saw the huntsman arrive, this time is sharper, dangerous in a way you haven't seen before. Coiled tight on the verge of snapping. You don’t see him through the tress but you can feel him. The huntsman steps between you and them like something pulled from shadow, silent and still.

His eyes flick between them once. "Back away."

One of the soldiers scoffs, trying to shake off whatever hold your scent has over him.

"She’s just an omega—"

He doesn’t get to finish. The huntsman moves. It’s fast and violent yet controlled. The soldier stumbles back, breath knocked from his lungs, a knife suddenly pressed just beneath his jaw before he can react.

The other one goes completely still.

"You forget your place," the huntsman says.

His voice is quiet, it's almost worse than shouting. The blade presses just enough to draw a thin line of blood.

"She’s the queen’s." A beat. "Not yours."

The words feel like a brand, ownership over you from a woman you've never met. It beads up nervous sweat at the base of your spine.

But the men understand. You can see it in their faces, fear replaces whatever had been there before and they slowly back off with their hands raised.

The moment stretches until they disappear into the trees back to their side of camp.

Only then does the huntsman move. He steps away from you like nothing happened. Like you weren’t just cornered, like he didn’t just almost kill someone for touching what belongs to the queen. Your hands are shaking, still bound together with the loose end of rope brushing your thighs.

"Thank you," you whisper.

He doesn’t look at you.

"Sleep."

You try. Laying your shaking frame against the moss covered ground, and shutting your eyes but you don’t sleep. Not really. And neither does he.

The next morning, everything changes.

There are no arguments, no explanations. He cuts the rope from your wrists, freeing them from their binds, mounts his horse then grabs your arm and pulls you up behind him before you can protest.

The soldiers shout.

"What are you doing?"

He doesn’t answer. Just turns the horse toward the mountains.

"We’ll lose time if you—"

"Find another way on your own," he says flatly.

Then he’s gone and he's taking you with him. Away from them, away from the road and into the cold, winding paths of the mountains where fewer people travel and fewer eyes can follow. You don’t understand it. The path narrows quickly, the ground uneven and steep, branches clawing at your sleeves as the horse pushes forward into terrain no caravan would willingly take. You almost slip but instinct takes over before thought and your arms come up around his waist.

You freeze the moment you realize what you’ve done.

Your hands press against his chest where his coat parts slightly, fingers curling into rough fabric and worn leather. You expect him to jerk away. To snap at you. To shove you back or tell you to keep your distance like he always does.

He doesn’t. He says nothing, he doesn’t even look back. But you feel it, the way his body goes still beneath your touch. Not tense, just aware, like the stillness you hold in your breath when waiting for a moment to pass. You should pull away but you don’t. Because something strange happens when you hold onto him. Something you can’t explain, you can feel his heartbeat steady and strong right beneath your palm. And it does something to him. Or maybe to you. The huntsman, the thing people whisper about in dark corners, the queen’s weapon, the man who dragged you from the woods without a second thought, feels… different like this.

Less distant. Less carved from something cold and unreachable. More… human. The rhythm of his heart grounds him into something that exists beyond fear, something warm beneath all the sharp edges, something that breathes and bleeds. Your grip tightens without meaning to. The horse shifts beneath you as it climbs higher into the mountains, the air growing thinner, colder and you don’t let go. Behind you, the world you knew disappears, ahead of you, only snow and stone and silence and between it all the steady beat beneath your hands.

The huntsman doesn’t speak. But something inside him twists. He can feel it where your hands press against him. Where your warmth seeps through layers he had long stopped noticing. It crawls beneath his skin, unfamiliar and unwelcome and… warm. He hasn’t felt that in a long time, not like this, not without pain tied to it. His jaw tightens with his eyes fixed forward. He says nothing. But he doesn’t make you let go either.

The mountains do not forgive weakness.

You learn that quickly.

The paths are narrower than anything you’ve ever walked. Jagged stone beneath the horse’s hooves, steep drops that vanish into white fog if you look too long. The air is thinner here, colder in a way that settles into your bones and refuses to leave.

He does not slow, of course he doesn’t, but he adjusts.

You notice that too. He chooses paths with more cover. Keeps to ridgelines where fewer of the already few travelers pass. Stops before nightfall instead of pushing through it like he did with the others.

You don’t comment on it. You’ve learned not to. Still, by the second night in the mountains, the cold becomes something else entirely. It doesn't just blow, it bites. Sharp and relentless, slipping through the seams of your clothes, curling into your lungs with every breath. The fire he builds is small, controlled, barely enough to push back the dark.

You sit close anyway. You watch him from across the flames, arms wrapped around yourself, trying to ignore the way your fingers have started to go numb.

“You should drink,” you say quietly, holding out the water skin.

He doesn’t respond, just stares into the fire like he didn’t hear you. You hesitate, then shift closer, the movement slow enough not to startle him, and press it into his hand.

“For your throat,” you add softly. “The air’s dry up here.”

His fingers close around it after a moment reluctantly, like taking something from you costs him more than it should. He drinks from it only once then hands it back without looking at you.

“Thank you,” you say anyway.

Something flickers in his expression and is gone before you can name it.

You lower your gaze—and that’s when you see it. A button from his shirt has come loose. You hadn’t noticed before, not with the layers of fur and leather, but now the fabric has shifted just enough to reveal the hollow at the base of his throat, the line of his sternum disappearing beneath worn cloth.

And there something lies. Something dark. Something wrong. A faint glow pulses beneath his the fabric and against his skin. It's near sublte and easy to miss if you weren’t looking for it, but once you've seen it there's no ignoring it. You don’t day anything, you just watch as it flickers once, then fades again like it was never there at all. You tuck the observation away quietly like everything else. Later, when the fire burns lower and the cold deepens into something unbearable, you move without thinking. You sit beside him instead of across from him, close enough that your shoulder brushes his arm.

He goes still instantly and you feel it. That same awareness from before. That same coiled, uncertain tension.

“You’re going to freeze,” you murmur, voice softer now. “I’m already halfway there.”

No answer, so you shift again, closer still. Until the warmth between you becomes shared instead of separate. It’s a risk, you know it is, but he doesn’t pull away. Doesn’t tell you to move. Doesn’t even look at you. And slowly, almost imperceptibly, the space between you stops feeling like a boundary. The warmth feeling less like a need for survival, and more of… just warmth.

The glow returns on the third night of traveling through the mountains. It was stronger this time, you wake to it. A faint, sickly light cutting through the dark. For a moment, you think it’s the fire, then you realize it’s him. He’s on his knees, breath uneven, one hand braced hard against the ground like he’s holding himself upright through sheer force alone.

The glow pulses beneath his shirt, that same place along his chest.

Your chest tightens.

“Hey—”

He jerks violently at the sound of your voice, like it hurt him, like it burned. His head snaps toward you, eyes wild in a way you’ve never seen before. Not the empty slate grey from the first day you met, something else, something fighting against itself.

“Stay back,” he grits out, but his voice isn’t steady.

You push yourself up anyway, slowly, stepping over to him.

“Is there something wrong,” you whisper.

“No—” His breath shudders. “Go back to sleep.”

The glow pulses again, brighter in the night sky. You see it clearly now, some sort of talisman. Not worn, not held, but bound. Woven into him in a way that makes your stomach twist, six legs of iron dug into his skin making it irremovable. And then you hear it, it wasn't words, none that you could understand at least. But something in the air shifts, like pressure building before a storm. Something unseen pulling at him, tightening, demanding.

His body responds instantly, spine straightening, shoulders locking. His expression empties into that cold, hollow stillness returning all at once like a mask snapping back into place. You start to understand, not fully, but enough. Whatever the huntsman has towards the sorceress queen isn't loyalty. It's control.

“Are you okay?”

The words slip out before you can stop them. You watch as he flinches, as the mask cracks just a little. Your heart stutters with fear and something else, but you move closer. Ignoring the warning in his posture. Ignoring the way his hands clench like he’s trying to hold himself together.

“There must be something I can do,” you say softly. “Just—tell me what you need.”

“Nothing,” he snaps, too sharp. Not out of anger, but of something close to panic, like he’s afraid.

The glow pulses again, stronger and he nearly doubles over, faint whispers and hushed lilts float through the air and you watch him coil against it. Without thinking you reach for him, settling your hand lightly against his arm.

And everything… stops, not completely but enough that the tension in him falters. The invisible pressure loosens just slightly, like whatever holds him didn’t expect resistance and his breath shudders. Eyes flickering back to you aren't empty anymore, the slate grey blurring into a pale blue.

You don’t move your hand. “Just breathe,” you whisper.

He does, slowly, his chest rising and falling with shaky breaths, each one deeper and smoother than the last. And the glowing begins to dim. Not fully gone, but weaker. Like something inside him is slowly rising back to the surface.

After that, things change.

Not all at once, not in ways anyone else would notice but they do, and you notice. You notice the way he finds you without looking. Even when you wander a few steps too far gathering wood or water, his gaze always lands on you first. Like he can track you without trying. Like your presence is something he can feel.

You notice how he positions himself on the road. He lets you have the horse the majority of the time, only riding two up with you to find camp when the sun starts to set and the path loses its visibilty. Even then he's always in front, always between you and what lies ahead. Like a barrier.

The first time wolves appear at the edge of the trees, their eyes catching the firelight, he’s on his feet before you even realize what you’re looking at. They don’t come closer, not with him there, not with the low, warning sound in his chest that doesn’t quite sound human.

You notice the way his scent changes too.

You hadn’t paid attention to it before. Not really. It had just been something sharp. Cold rye bread and dried blood. Now it’s different. Still strong with an air of danger to it, but there's something warmer to it. Cedarwood and rusted iron with the barest hint of something soft. Familiar in a way that settles something restless inside you.

You find yourself leaning toward it without thinking, trusting it, and the strangest part—he lets you. Even when he doesn’t understand why, even when it unsettles him, even when something deep inside him keeps pulling him closer without permission, without reason. Like something has already decided that you belong near him.

The trip back to the northern capitol typically takes a full span, but through the mountain pass adds on another halfweeks worth, amounting out to a full fortnight worth of traveling. And the mountains don’t stay empty forever.

You know it before he does. Or maybe you feel it before he lets himself admit it. The way the air shifts, it's subtle, but wrong. The birds go quiet first. Then the wind seems to pull back, like the world itself is holding its breath. Even the horse grows restless beneath you, ears flicking, muscles tightening with unease.

Your fingers curl instinctively into the fabric at his chest.

“Someone’s here,” you whisper.

He’s already slowing the horse, already listening. Then—movement, too fast to track. Figures break from the trees on either side of the path, boots crushing snow, weapons drawn. Not soldiers. Not the queen’s men, something rougher and hungerier. Bounty hunters.

You don’t even have time to think before he's moving. He shoves you down from the horse just as an arrow slices through the air where your head had been. You hit the ground hard, breath knocked from your lungs, snow burning cold against your skin.

“Stay down,” he snaps and you do, not by choice as your lungs are still trying to reinflate themselves.

Steel sings and you scramble backward, heart pounding, as the world explodes into motion around you. Blades clash. Boots slide across ice. Someone shouts. Someone else laughs. There are too many, you know it immediately. Three. No—four, all alphas. You feel it in the air, in the way their presence presses too close, too sharp, too overwhelming without the herbs to dull it.